Those were the first words out of Trish Keenan’s mouth, well, right after “fuck off then, go home”. I kind of have to agree with her, I’m not feeling this festival - oversold and built to milk money as efficiently as possible. I completely missed Caribou due to the venue being crammed full of people. Crammed as in I couldn’t get close enough to even see the band, and I’m well over six feet tall. Instead I checked out the robot exhibits (which admittedly were pretty cool) and showed up an hour before Broadcast began to claim a space and sip my tiny beer.
Barcelona at night makes me terrified of ever being trapped on Ibiza. Machismo is obviously the game du jour, and it all feels quite testosterous. It’s a shame the day and night feel so drastically different. This is one of those cities I really wish I had a local to prove things aren’t what I see.
Also I think the Scots and Irish are both on the American team. No self-respecting European will accept a swig of my contraband whisky, and I’m starting to get offended.
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