The ‘Out There’ Festival, Ceauce, Normandy, 1996

I’m currently staying near Royan on the west coast of France, specifically to see Crescendo, an international progressive rock festival which, amazingly provides free music for any who venture to see it (or stumble upon it, as had some spectators last night, for the opening of this 3-evening event). At the end of a 4 week stint travelling round France with family, we’ve primarily ended up here because it’s a chance to see Zopp but being at a festival in France got me reminiscing: the last time I saw music back in France was at a very different music festival.

‘Out There’ was a 3 day event which took place in Ceauce at the bottom end of Normandy in 1996 (and I believe had had other incarnations in previous years). I’d been drawn there by the billing of various personal festie favourites such as Ozric Tentacles and Here and Now and had taken the rather unlikely decision to cycle there directly from the previous week’s WOMAD festival, then at its riverside site in Reading, at the last of 5 consecutive visits there from 1992 onwards. I’d gone to WOMAD with a number of Manchester friends, as much to see the Whirlygig ambient dub sideshows featuring the likes of Banco de Gaia, Time Shard, Tribal Drift etc, as the undoubtedly excellent main world music events, which I’d probably appreciate a lot more now… WOMAD at that site was great – there were regular trips to the Thames through the festival fence for a dip (probably somewhat unwisely, given now-known pollution levels), and at one point you could have campfires on site, but gradually this wilder side of site got reined in, no doubt not helped by a friend who at a previous edition had had a flip out at the increasing pruriousness of the audience, downed the best part of a bottle of whisky and left a Black Sabbath tape on repeat booming from his hire van. Other skinter members of the group shared tickets through an elaborate exchange scheme where wristbands could be loosened once inside the inner security enclosure and shuttled back to others back in camp – the most innovative variation of this was where the orange bands, secured by a metal tag, was syndicated (successfully) through the use of a long strip of carrot peeling bound together with tinfoil!

For this edition I’d arrived at Reading on train with my bike, had had the foresight to pack a passport and on Monday afternoon had left site bound for the south coast and beyond it to France. A camp overnight somewhere in the UK, probably near the ferryport of Portsmouth and by Tuesday daytime I was making my way down through France, finding the familiar rhythm of my regular bike trips away at that time: where the only pressures of the day were to navigate in roughly the right direction, stay hydrated, pick up a baguette, cheese and tomatoes en route for lunch, maybe quaff a patisserie (purely for energy, of course), and find some fresh veg to fry up alongside some rice in the billy tins on a small camping gaz stove for dinner. And of course be able to pitch up somewhere in the evening, probably camped at that town’s economically priced ‘municipal’ campsite.

I think I’d picked up details of the Out There festival from a newsletter somewhere on the internet, I can vaguely recall some brief information in courier font downloaded and printed, probably from a computer at work, and stuffed somewhere in the bike panniers for when it was needed. I do remember avoiding main thoroughfares and very much pootling down Normandy’s D and C roads and ending up eventually somewhere very much ‘a la campagna’, probably on Thursday afternoon. The price of the festival seemed ridiculously cheap, perhaps 30 pounds or 300 francs (one of the first things that struck me was that you could pay in either currency, more of which later…) and there was a designated camping area – I locked my bike up to a tree, pitched my tent and had a good look around.

The site was pretty big and several things became obvious. Firstly, even though it was only Thursday evening, the organisers seemed to be expecting far more punters than appeared likely to arrive – there were food and clothes stores galore in particular with practically no-one in attendance. Secondly, the predominance of dance tents (with only 1 outdoor live music stage) and the various signage around the site (along with the dual currency policy) illuminated the fact that this was very much a London ravers’ away day event. Thirdly, the ‘freeer’ aspect of the festival seemed to be mainly evident that this point through the presence of a large pack of untethered dogs running hectically through site, presumably mainly interested in the one which was on heat – her owner somewhat disengagedly chucked a bucket of water on it when it got irretrievably ‘attached’ to its suitor. And then the whole process repeated itself.

I spent the Thursday evening wandering around site, had pitched up in a fairly quiet spot and so got a reasonable amount of sleep, then awaited Friday’s events with anticipation. There must have been programmes or at least billboards knocking around as I knew the Ozrics were headlining that day with Here and Now the day after. The area in front of the main stage was vast: so much so that when some of the afternoon bands were playing it seemed like I was witnessing almost a personal performance – I felt bad for the musicians at the lack of apparent interest. Keith Bailey from Here and Now recalls ‘it was on a weird, spongey feeling reclaimed waste tip as I recall – like a sprung dance floor underfoot ‘. Watching one band during Friday afternoon I remember looking behind me and seeing Ozric Tentacles having an impromptu game of football of notably good quality (it was only many years later I found out about ‘Jumping’ John’s sporting prowess – he apparently had trials with Queens Park Rangers). The music was pretty good, although I can’t tell you whether I saw Mandragora or not, who I would certainly have been aware of, but I do remember a most glorious Ozrics performance, set against wonderfully clear night skies, with what may have been a full moon illuminating proceedings. I associate this performance and line-up with the marvellous extended Arabic wig-out ‘Vibuthi’ from ‘Become The Other’, Jon Egan’s flute weaving up and down in front of him, and Ed Wynne’s blistering guitar solos. For me this was probably the last great Ozric Tentacles line-up in a perfect setting.

My other main memory of this night was of the on-site circus – it was called Baobab and even as a seasoned circus-goer was like nothing else I’ve witnessed before or since – from memory, I think it was partly opened to the elements, unlike the enclosed tents one normally views performances within, was based around a fairly monstrous and quite trippy alien invasion theme and featured the heavy use of motorbikes – it was anarchic and an assault on a multitude of senses.

I think the circus probably followed at the conclusion of the live music for the evening, and for me probably seemed like a reasonable way to bring down the curtain on a pretty full day – when you are travelling on your own days seem so much longer, with every thought and experience amplified. What I found however, on returning back to base, was that my tent had become the epicentre of an entire circle of London ravers, just ‘coming up’ and about to embark on their own evening of frivolity. No issue with their intentions, their attitudes (they seemed friendly enough) but the vibe was not for me, and somewhat freaked out I slunk off next morning, long before any of them resurfaced, in the direction of Brittany. A little myopic perhaps, as I’d end up missing Here and Now, plus a band I’d subsequently grow to adore (The Egg), but the time was right for me.

A couple of postscripts: whilst travelling through one town on the way to my next port of call, I popped into a local music shop, discovered and purchased a CD by Rachid Taha, featuring lavish credits to Steve Hillage – ‘Ole Ole’ became a favourite album on my return to the United Kingdom and a nice bridge between his solo guitar work and his newer work with System 7. Secondly, on a campsite in Brittany, I met some fellow cyclists, one of whom slipped me my first smoke of the trip and talked to me enthusiastically at length about a book called ‘Fierce Dancing’ by journalist and author CJ Stone, a fabulous autobiographical piece which starts off searching for the underground, and ends up almost accidentally in a confluence of rave culture and the road protest movement. Stylistically it remains a major influence on my own writings and coincidentally Chris now lives in Whitstable, birthplace and place of death of Hugh Hopper, whose biography I am currently researching. I’ve also recently been made aware of some of Hugh’s own cycling diaries (we talked about some of his trips the last time I saw him at the Marsden Jazz Festival with Soft Machine Legacy) and so, although I didn’t make any notes whilst in Normandy (I did on later cycling trips) it’s good to be able to recall some of the details now so clearly.