Sziget Festival

The first impression of the Sziget festival is terrible. People running in every direction, paths that don't match the map at all; and above all, stalls, chaos, and a total inability to get your bearings. Where on earth is the main stage in all this mayhem? And the other stages? On Óbuda Island there's no such thing as hierarchy; people eat constantly, at all hours, and chase after fairground rides like kids: everyone drowns in a mix of concerts, theatre and everything else. And yet everything is run with strict precision - the shows start on time, and aside from Gomez and Coldcut dropping out (stuck in England), it all went off without a hitch.

Little by little, you recover from the shock; the festival is chaotic, but certain events create a perverse hierarchy among things. The Radiohead show, midway through the week, was one of those; it gathers around itself memories and sensations - far too many for a single week of thunderstorms and non-stop madness. What follows is a parade of performances that all blur together in the mind. Under a leaden sky, which stayed that way for the whole week, Sons and Daughters warmed things up with a dirty, cutting rock'n'roll; with Bob Dylan in their hearts and a good dose of anger between their teeth: a fine wake-up call, just before Deus. Amid the applause, Tom Barman appeared like a dandy from another era; glass of red wine in hand, Fender slung over his shoulder. The dancing lasted a good fifty tense, jagged minutes; between old songs, mostly pulled from "Worst Case Scenario", and new ones from "Pocket Revolution".

This, more or less, is the appetizer before Radiohead, who put recent rumours of a crisis to rest with almost two hours of music. Thom Yorke dances and plays around with the crowd while Johnny Greenwood has fun and fumbles his way, quite charmingly, through the opening of "2+2=5". Radiohead have never been a band built on technically flawless performances, yet they manage to create a blend of sounds with a uniquely emotional impact, one that slowly worms its way into the listener's heart. It's hard to shake off the guitars of a gorgeous "Fake Plastic Trees" or the falsetto Thom weaves over the notes of "Nude", an unreleased track the band has already been playing for a few years now. The setlist draws heavily from "OK Computer" and features at least three or four tracks from their other albums (excluding "Pablo Honey", as usual).

But alongside the big names, there was no shortage of surprises; Sziget has plenty in store for anyone willing to explore its winding paths. This writer, for instance, stumbled upon a genuinely remarkable local scene. Aside from Heaven Street Seven, purveyors of a forgettable British soup, it was a pleasure to discover the Hungarian-sung alternative rock of a band recalling the sharpest edges of Noir Désir: Kispál és a Borz. It seems the singer-bassist András Lovasi is one of the country's most respected writers; obviously you can't understand a word he's saying, but his raspy voice and the bristling sounds of his language still manage to captivate listeners. A fine show, theirs, alongside that of Kiscsillag: a side project of Lovasi's that delivers the main band's singer-songwriter rock in a more direct form.

That last show was held on the Wan2 stage, the same tent that had hosted the Orb’s hugely packed dj-set. That is, a damp magma of rhythmic pulses and sonic hazes; an underwater ambient set, accompanied by purplish lights and abstract visuals, that for an hour turned the tent into a psychedelic sauna where “dancing” was, to put it mildly, tough going. The only ones actually moving, hopping from one laptop to another, were the Orb themselves. The avant-garde, especially after midnight, is the daily bread of the Wan2 stage; among the many acts seen there, it’s worth remembering at least Màsfél, somewhere between funk and convulsive jungle, and Mouss et Hakim, members of ZEBDA, who mix rock with French hip-hop.

Then, on the very last day, they arrive. A tough, unyielding milestone that towers over every other memory: ladies and gentlemen, the fuckin’ Stooges! These sprightly sixty-somethings (aside from the younger Mike Watt, the only one not part of the classic lineup) spit blood through their instruments just like forty years ago: songs like "TV Eye", "I Wanna Be Your Dog" and "Fun House" land like napalm bombs on the crowd’s heads. Meanwhile the Iguana was staging his own show of provocations, half his backside on display along with assorted contortions. During the stage invasion, egged on by that lovable devil Iggy, security stepped in, and it took the band’s roadies a while to make it clear that everything was fine: that this was a script to be respected, and that no one was going to get hurt.

Meanwhile the days go by, the streets and routes become familiar as you grow attached to this or that particular spot. So it becomes a habit to spend the early afternoon in the jugglers’ area, lying on the grass while street performers do their thing for a crowd that, a few hours later, will catch a (blistering) Living Color show. Midnight, on the other hand, is the ideal time to dash over and peek under the Teather Tent, where people huddle together sitting on the ground to watch performances by all sorts of European companies. Anyone who was at the Giant Street stage, meanwhile, will struggle to forget those pyrotechnic shows that sent the crowd scattering in every direction, overwhelming them with lights, visions and tactile sensations like nothing else.

But there are so many concerts, and every one of them stakes a claim to a special place in the memory. Franz Ferdinand didn’t disappoint: they may well play the same song over and over, but they know how to get people dancing and having fun. Placebo, on the other hand, delivered a set as flawless as it was devoid of feeling or emotion. And then there were Therapy?, covering Britney Spears and Joy Division; Ministry, who are terrifying yet win over metalheads and non-metalheads alike; and Leningrad, whose Russian-language punk-ska took home the prize for the most fun, most ridiculous act of all…

And so it’s already the last night; the to-do list is still overflowing, because time has slipped by and you were so caught up in the island’s rhythm that you forgot to sample a little bit of everything. Amid a thousand scents and sights, with its labyrinth of streets and stories, the Sziget festival bids you farewell with the sly look of someone who knows they’ve won you over, and who’s pretty sure you’ll be back next summer for another taste.

Ride the wave of great music

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