Saturday 23/07/05 Wakestock Festival @ Pwlhelli, Gwynedd

July 27, 2005 by Gill Ripley

Gigwise packs its dog tags, goggles and designer boardies for a stroll down to Wakestock 2005.The consequence of attending an event described as a haven for ‘young, trendy affluent consumers’, is there's a dubious feeling of inadequacy floating around everyone, as folk tentatively scruff up their hair and loosen their waistbands in the hope of achieving Bondi-urchin nonchalance.

The first night was dedicated to the usual commercial DJs. Jon Carter swapped out to Seb Fontaine, bringing birds in metal bras onto the stage. As they buffered sparks of their bits à la Motley Crue, fire dancers tried in vain to stop their batons blowing out in the nippy Welsh wind. When asked about his choice of dancers, Fontaine looked puzzled, asking "What? Do women not normally spark like that? I think I've been married for too long". You're words Seb, not ours... After egging and stomping, gyrating and thrusting, the crowd is teased into a mild frenzy shouting for more, only to face a 1am curfew and begin the hacked-off traipse back to the campsite.

Next day down at Pwlhelli Marina, professional Wakeboarders show off an impressive array of cunning stunts in water cold enough to cause hypothermia. Nonetheless, the Aussie roadshow whooped on the wakeys as the poms tentatively clapped, shivering slightly in their Billabongs. Luckily, the sun eventually got his wraparounds on and took the crowds into the evening acts.

It became obvious that Wakestock is more about the sports than the acts. The sea of blonde locks and golden tans didn't seem to mind though, as they loitered around the second arena watching Welsh homeboys, Camera. Performing their new single 'There's No Other Way', they're very much your typical, nice boys. A spicier version of your archetypal Keane or Bell X1, the lads show promise through their soaring guitars and anthemic choruses. The crowd is thin though, and legs are getting itchy.

Poking a nose into the Dance Tent, the ever-zany Bugz In The Attic fill the big screens with psychedelia. Shouting to the swelling crowd in their best gruff ragga voices, more bikini clad girls clamber on stage to shimmy and grind their booties to a bass line so jammy, it might just blow the speakers up. Pissed off girlfriends drag their men away and onwards to Thirteen Senses. Bathed in their ubiquitous low lights, the mood is swiftly changed to melancholy. Crowd surfing and clothes ripping looks unlikely, but ballad 'Thru The Glass' rises through the tent thanks to beguiling Will South's powerful voice and piano. Thankfully, the band enjoy rapturous applause. In the true fashion of their inspirations such as Coldplay and Elbow, they roam, peak then dip, yet fail to twist the nuts off the sprightly surf crowd.

Next is the turn of rent-a-fest good guys, The Ordinary Boys. Standing in for Hard-Fi, the stampede to the front was quite scary as the youths powered to see the clean cut dreams churn out another set. Far from awful, yet light years from inspiring, Preston does the same bounces to the same songs and the chances of him having a concealed mirror on his person are increasing, as he preens and pouts to the girlie boppers. As 'Talk Talk Talk' makes its zillionth appearance this summer, Festivalwise grabs an ice cold Stripe from the bar and looks on in boredom alongside a few hardcore surf dudes waiting for a real band.

They need have looked no further than next act, Hundred Reasons. The discerning ripcurler's dream, Colin Doran won the Festivalwise big wig prize and the emo punk went down a storm. For the lack of people at the festival, the barriers were rammed as teens locked braces to the beautiful 'Oratorio'. More cheers and chanting as they play 'No Pretending', which has already gained the title of mosh mantra in the alternative scene. As they leave, so do the kids in a stampede to pull their newfound squeezes away for a tent session. The few who do hang around though get a dose of Million Dead. Think Jackass grunge at 2000 BPM and a rawking Jesus who screeches as loudly and coherently as a pneumatic drill. Nobody knew what to do with themselves, apart from the front row of die hard fans who miraculously banged along to every word.

As if set to a Stalin timer, up pops the lights and people scramble to grab the last half hour in the Brouhaha Tent. Norman Jay was banging out some seriously weird house shit, but nobody cared and arms and legs flew in a bid to release some energy pent up through the night in the main tent. All too soon, it's over and people saunter off to bed.. well, via an all night car park party hosted by a bloke with decks by his car (hats off to you love, you were ace).