Latitude Festival 2009 - Saturday: Part II

That peculiar tension between rock’n’roll and the other arts is still happening. Listening to the Britten Sinfonia beneath an idyllic pastoral bower, closing my eyes to Bach and Reich, I hear harsh beats bleeding into the mix. I wander off into the forest, and stumble across an ethereal set by Evi Vine. I take in some art, see a spaceman mixing beats and notice how happy and friendly everyone else is. There is something magical about the casual juxtaposition of these events, and how charming and chilled the whole site has become. I stomp off in search of something to enrage my Presbyterian punk soul.

Bysshe Coffey describes his plays as “the uncensored thoughts of the bladder of my mind”. Had I read that particular boast before entering Catastrophic Sex Music, I might have decided that the poetry tent was a better bet. Mistaking a bit of swearing and dirty chat for an adult effort, this two-hander holds my attention for at least two minutes.

Usually, I would try to be a little sparing of a young author. Unfortunately, the program claims that Bysshe is "greatly influenced by, yet still challenges the great works from Joyce, Homer, Ovid and Shakespeare." No he doesn’t. He writes conventional dialogues with a bit of bad language. If you must name-check four Dead White Males, be humble.

I was then lucky enough to stroll past the literary tent, where Vivienne Westword was holding forth on the nature of art. I waited until she had said that Bach represented objectivity while science didn’t, and that abstract art was all rubbish before moving on. The poetry tent is getting more attractive, even though it seems to full of Kate Nash sound-alikes and cheeky estuary tongued geezers.

Having got myself into a good temper, I keep on walking, stopping at the New Age bookshop to browse the conspiracy theory lists, and catching fragments of bands on three stages. Grace Jones is hula-hooping through Slave to the Rhythm, Spiritualised are exploding in feedback to strobes. The site has lit up in the cool evening, fragmented discos and gatherings sheltering beneath abandoned tarpaulins and generous leafy trees. I amble back to the Theatre and Cabaret arenas.

Helix Dance is awkward. In the cabaret tent, their short solo about relationship misunderstanding is abrasive and personal, a sharp contrast to something like Revealing Eve, a striptease that takes on that Biblical female scapegoat, or New Art Club’s This Is Now, a history of a compilation album series. It is all trapped anxiety and painful emotions, mediated by the dancer’s fluid contemporary technique.

Eventually, I disappear into the forest, to find a comfortable front room with piano, rug and three walls and no ceiling. I sit a watch a female poet taunt and be taunted by a group of teenage boys, neither side quite realising how the other is mocking them. Chas and Dave- although apparently lacking Dave- are audible from across the river and the evening is winding down. The forest glade feels like an after-party, couples silent and immersed in one another, a security guard trying to look inconspicuous and the warring parties agreeing to take the party back to the campsite.