Butlins' giant deckchair of joy
Oh, ATP. Site of a thousand half-remembered regrets and misdemeanors. So with the relocation of ATP from Butlins, Minehead, to Camber Sands, and the announcement of the first bands for Shellac ATP we though we’d share some of our most treasured memories of the festival.
Dawn
I always felt a little sorry for the residents, who had a whole host of insufferable indie prannocks (myself included) turfed onto their doorstep four times a year, emptying the local shops of aspirin, Guardians and beer. Minehead in the winter was brutal, though a walk along the sea could salve a particularly oppressive hangover.
The best thing that ever happened at ATP occurred in the pirate ship. Wandering around the site after a brutal Crystal Castles set, I saw a crowd forming around the pirate ship. Curious, I got closer, only to realise there were two men inside, in flagrante, either oblivious to the fact that everyone was watching and cheering, or as seemed more likely, carrying on regardless. It was even better than when a chalet party was interrupting by redcoats bursting in shouting “Are you doing drugs? Drugs are the opposite of everything Butlins stands for” Then making the pot smoker take off his shoes in case they had needles in.
Christina
I attended ATP vs The Fans in May 2007. Two things stand out about this festival for me. 1) It was the first time I’d ever seen R Kelly’s magnus opus “Trapped in the Closet” which led to me laughing so hard, I almost coughed up a lung, and 2) I got to play poker with Steve Albini.
Steve Albini has long been one of my musical heroes (if only because of the brilliance of ’1000 Hurts’), so when he announced during one of Shellac’s numerous sets that he’d be holding a poker game in his chalet later, only one thought went through my mind. I had to find it. Never mind that I couldn’t play poker, and had card skills which were remedial at best – this was a chance encounter that couldn’t be missed.
As it was, it didn’t take me and my friend long to find it. We’d idly been wandering back to our chalet when we saw a load of beardy Indie guys sat around a picnic table with a pack of cards. We put two and two together, pooled our (scant) resources together and – after a swift lesson in the logistics of the game from a beardy bloke wearing a Slint t-shirt – got ready to play some poker.
If you’re thinking that this story ends in a tale of triumph and hi-fiving my hero, prepare to be disappoined. It turns out that I’m really really bad at poker. After three games, Albini (a master poker player) and his ilk managed to rinse me of the mighty sum of £13. But it was worth it. Warm, effusive and dressed in a boiler-suit-and-NHS-specs combo which made him resemble an overgrown Harry Potter, he shared tales of life in a band, life as a record producer and how he’d basically record you burping into a microphone for £200. He was also a master-guffer, with a habit of repeatedly belching (and occasionally farting) and shouting ‘SAFETY!’ afterwards. Why, I’m not entirely sure, but seeing as he was allowing me and everyone in the chalet to drink his fridge dry of beer, I wasn’t really prepared to complain about a few table manners.
It was one of those situations you only ever find yourself in a festival – where time flows on its own terms and the bonds between reality and fantasy fray at the edges. By the time I left the chalet, I was drunk and skint, but at least I had a cracking anecdote to tell my grandchildren.
That was also the festival where I woke up one morning to discover that I’d spent £2.50 on having all of the words to top early 90s sitcom “You Rang m’lord?” texted to my phone. I still have no idea how or why I did this, but an informed guess leads me to think that alcohol was probably involved.
Vanessa
The thing I remember most, more than the bands strangely, is the wave machine. Just sitting, hungover, on Sunday morning, my bum through the centre of a rubber ring, bobbing with my friends and trying to make sense of the day before. Drifting around discussing Blade Runner, that girl with the lisp who insisted a holographic bear lived in the water flume, and Sonic Youth’s sound check which was better than the actual show. That feeling of utter leisure, of being away from tents and mud and people shouting “Araminta shall we have the hummous now or later?” at 4am which genuinely happened at Latitude, was what made ATP for me.
