The next morning, I took the train to the Bickershaw Festival in a field near Wigan, with just a blanket and pair of boots to protect me.
We’d all seen the film Woodstock, so we knew that girls ran around without their shirts on at rock festivals, a prospect nearly as exciting as seeing The Flamin’ Groovies.
The scene that actually confronted the latecomer looked like a slow day behind the lines on the approach to the Western Front. I remember seeing The Kinks wearing pastel suits and wondering how they could have remained so remarkably untouched by the filth. I wandered around dazed and damp until I quite accidentally ran into some friends who allowed me to curl up at the end of their tent in one of the human-size padded-paper sleeping bags that were being sold at a profit on the edge of the muddy field. Then I fell asleep, shivering.
I was awakened by the distorted voice of Captain Beefheart booming “I’m Gonna Booglarize You Baby.” I thought the Martians had landed.
The running order was in utter chaos by this time, and I think it was about three a.m., or maybe it just felt that way, but The Magic Band sounded perfect at that hour.
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