Doune The Rabbit Hole

“Take this,” offers the girl at the check-in tent. It looks awfully like a piece of string. Is it perhaps some tangential reference to last year’s headliner, the Incredible String Band’s Mike Heron? Or could it have some mystical qualities, if smoked or otherwise ingested? Could I find myself taking a trip Down The Rabbit Hole?

Well, no. It’s just for tying to my wing mirror, to indicate that I’ve paid my parking at the festival, which this year has moved from the titular Doune Castle, to the Carron Valey, a woodland trust area with limited parking on the forest roads that criss-cross the site and which, ultimately, lead to the medieval fort where the main event is taking place.

The string doesn’t as expected attach any car pass to the car. It’s just string, emblematic of the ‘relaxed’ nature of the festival – a free’n’easy approach that could be exploited by any unscrupulous reveller who happens to have a brown paper package in their boot.

As it turns out, the laid-back attitude runs through Doune the Rabbit Hole, now in its third year, though the first in its new home. There are plenty of stewards to guide us to parking places and the site itself, but there the organisation seems to end. As a reviewer, and inde e d as a music fan, the biggest challenge is the lack of stage times. The programmes drawn (apparently) by Plimpton Adam Smith, are in short supply, so a helpful chap in the artist caravan lets me crib from his own running order.

Though to be honest, I might as well not have bothered. The programmes, I’m told, come with a substantial disclaimer – “time is an illusion” or similar, so band timings, and indeed appearances, may be subject to change, or entirely random.

So, guided by a very rough idea of who is where (my ‘map’ is also a hastily-copied scrawl) my day becomes something of a lucky dip, made luckier (or dippier) by the fact that the Tenement TV stage is on top of the fort, the main Jabberwocky and Baiano tents are in the main arena – rather close to each other – while the Inspire and Fruit stages are a winding walk down the hill that the fort is perched upon.

Things started off dry and sunny and my random (i.e. unidentifiable) first encounters included an acoustic girl, some blusey guys, then some old-school rockers, all on the Fruit stage, which I seem to arrive at several times in my scoping out of the site. The tiny tented stage is situated beside a curry stall which doubles up as an exotic greengrocer, in a leafy glade. Oddly enough there are no midges around, but plenty on the main stage, which is out in the open colder air, which does raise fears that some sort of cold-hardy version has evolved in time for the Scottish winter.

The hike uphill to the main stage, the first of many, yields a semi-acoustic trio who, we assume, are replacements for someone else. They’re ok – acoustic and a bit laid-back, they fit in with the festival’s vibe.

As do the act that follows them, Dead Oceans – we reckon – as opposed to Dead Saint’s Bones, or the similarly-named Cosmic Dead, all on the Saturday bill. The latter are, it seems, a top Hawkwind tribute act. It could, I suppose, be them onstage just now, doing a set of b-sides as it’s fairly psychedelic stoner metal (also fitting in with the festival’s theme) but as they complete their set without a version of ‘Silver Machine’, we strike them off the list. Like many acts they go straight from soundcheck to main set, with the early part of their set having a Siouxsie & the Banshees vibe before settling on a My Bloody Valentine / Kyuss combo.

The Plimptons were the first identifiable band encountered. As ever they put on a show with a capital ‘S’ – top hats (for ‘Top Hat’, natch) and a plethora of soft toys. They’re a band who have a reputation for being a bit of a novelty act but given that they excel at snarly cartoon punk, have a shedload of Proper Tunes in their locker, all delivered in, whisper it, a thoroughly professional manner. Rather than get too rock’n’roll, they end with a vaguely Rabbit Hole-connected piece with ‘Realm o’Magick’ with swords and Viking helmets pulled out of the prop basket.

It’s a meander out of the fort and down into the shady dale where Blank Canvas sound great, even in their soundcheck. Or have they started? I’d always thought they had a keyboard in their lineup but no, it’s just the guitarist who spends most of his time staring at his effect pedals rather than his shoes. I used the adjective “great” and will do so again as it applies to the vocals – actually, hell, to the performance overall which culminates with a big double drum finale. Their slightly retro indie rock brightens up skies which are becoming darker…

Teen Canteen are next up on our musical mystery tour – up being the operative word, as we wind round the hill to the main arena. They’re advertised as being with or part of Neu Reekie, an Edinburgh-based spoken word, er, ‘thing’ which definition is rather belied by the Secret Goldfish-esque sounds coming from the Baiano tent. A foursome with pure female vocals (and a Sleeperbloke on drums), there’s an air of the Partridge Family about them for some reason (don’t ask…)
They throw in a Kylie cover at the end, just to counfound our view further.

Time for sustinence. Sadly, the choice is a bit limited, and what there is to eat seems to fall into the Man vs Food category (or possibly roadkill) – boars, pigeons, locally-sourced sheepdogs – and, in what seems like a highly inappropriate bit of catering – rabbit.

A suggestion box can’t be found, so we may not get that mung bean tent next year, but my other thought (never actually expressed out loud) that the organisers should put updated running orders on blackboards outside the tents – is, I’m told, implemented on the Sunday. Sadly for now, I have no idea who the accomplished acoustic bloke in the tent is, though he’s strangely familiar, and his tune about the “Queen in London” (or similar) I have heard before. It’s entirely possible that Doune acts as a wormhole rather than a rabbit hole, and our paths cross every year at Doune.

Like the white rabbit himself, or possibly Steven Hawking (when not doing Paralympics voiceovers), I probably ponder too much. Particularly on the subject of time. Here, even without a Comedy Tent, timing is everything. For example, if they’d had the festival a week earlier they’d have had nice weather rather than the monsoon that is beginning to envelop most of the Carron Valley.

And if they’d had it just an hour earlier (or even kept to the running order, or my version of it) then I’d not have missed half of Withered Hand‘s set. Despite that it’s still a high point of the day – partnered by a sizable part of the Second Hand Marching Band, does ‘Religious Songs’ and the audience goes from muddy moshpit to a giant communal waltz that almost chases the clouds away.

I said almost. The rain sees the audience dive for any available cover, despite a curious situatuion where all three hilltop venues are devoid of performers at the same time. And yet, with the rain approaching biblical levels, the punters remain undercover, staring at empty stages.

The more intrepid festival goers (er, that’ll be me, then) venture down the stream, that once was a path, to Un Cadavre. Psychedelic rock is their trade of this Glasgow three-piece, like many on the bill. Presumably inspired by the hippy ethic, there’s plenty of folky influences to be heard, and the rock tends to be big on flange’n’phase. There’s little that could be described as punk rock, which maybe goes with the stereotype.

Although, what’s more punk than Crass? Jeffrey Lewis reprises something from his covers album (‘Big A, Little A’ if memory serves, feel free to dispute) as well as ‘Don’t Let the Record Label Take You Out to Lunch’, and as ever he broadens our life experience via music and cartoons – this time it’s alien invasions and a crash course in 18th century French history. He’s the top attraction, for reasons unknown, in the Tenement TV tent rather than on the main stage – so it’s crowded to the gunwails with a mix of Lewis fans and those attempting to stay dry. In fact, we can only see the top of his trucker’s cap, so either we’re sinking or the entire band are sitting down. I know what I’d bet on…

Here my notes, or maybe just the festival itself, get a little random. Kochka go down very well with a tentful of semi-soaked revelers, as their eastern European stylings make for a very danceable set, while the singer wanders around with megaphone in hand barking out distorted orders.

A bit of timetable implosion means that by the time we career down the scree to the main stage, King Creosote is banging out a version of ‘Space In Jerusalem’ which has a very end of set feel to it. Happily, it’s just that Kenny and pals are in playful mood – a full band rockout on ‘No Clue’ becoming presumably over-energetic as he requests a belt to hold up his trousers.
They lurch into a coda that sounds not unlike ‘That’s Entertainment’ while KC offers to take requests – a front-row punter asks for ‘John Taylor’s Month Away’, offering to punter offers to strip off as some curious kind of payback. I’d rather be me, not him,” responds the singer. As night starts to descend – and it becomes clear that stage lights were a bit iof an an afterthought – the band fniish with what has become their signature sign-off, a cover of The Aliens’ ‘Happy Song’. “We’d love to stay but we’ve got warm dry homes to go to,” Kenny goads the crowd as he signs off.

Tell you what, we join him not long afterwards. Ted Milton and Blurt along with Glasgow noisemongers Fur Hood was a potential high point of the weekend for some but instead, we get live karaoke featuring, well, who can say. With the rain off it’s a surprise that anyone stays in the tent but there are people – presumably having imbibed on the 7.2% cider – enjoying the version of ‘I Will Survive’ being belted out. For this attendee it does put a rather unneeded dampner on proceedings. For many here the Somme-like conditions are standard festival fare while the haphazard organisation is endearing and part of the character. For others, it’s a sign to head for the hills, and the car park, as our survival instincts kick in.

It’d be unfair, given past experiences at the likes of T and Connect, to lay any real blame on the organisers for the weather experienced at Doune this year. And festival-goers are pretty resilient types anyway. And hopefully they’ll let that hippy ethic go just a little and embrace evil corporate concepts like running orders, and maybe some more covered areas. They’ve got a great festival that can only go from strength to strength.

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