Blues Festival

Another weekend going down like a fine wine into Gorbachev's gizzard. Boy am I loving this city.

I was flathunting in Acton, looking for the perfect house, which I might well have found, to share with a new cohort of potential housemates. While I was left waiting in the estate agent's office, I picked up a paper which had an ad for the Ealing Blues festival. It was going on all day, but I would have enough time to attend when the flat visits were over, since one of my friends bailed on me for dinner that evening (not mentioning any names, Kades).

So here was some of the result. The sound is pretty awful on this because it was so loud in the tent, but I've rarely come across a band as good as this one. Funkydory, they're called. They rocked the funk out of the whole funking audience. I like saying 'funk' as a euphemism, you'll observe.

This festival is the closest the English get to the big Mediterranean musical gatherings like those you get in Andalucia or Marocco. Babies potter about your legs, and drunken granddads dance unabashedly as you order your beer and your burger just outside the tent. It feels like a giant family holiday with really good food and music.

I'm hoping the afterlife is something like this. There's an episode of Six Feet Under where Claire visits her dead father in a dream and they end up in a sort of festival like this one, to represent life after death. If only...