Credit: Simon Green

Most of us here at Music Towers are like the Wicked Witch of the West – the prospect of going out in the rain makes us curl up and melt. So when the weathermen predicted dark clouds over London last Sunday, step forward our new guy, Tom Gibbons, for the Love Music Hate Racism Carnival:

Despite a stinking hangover, yours truly dragged his arse to Victoria Park in London on Sunday, to check out the 30^th Anniversary of Rock Against Racism – an Anti-Nazi League ‘music festival’ which has renamed itself Love Music Hate Racism.

Upon entering the regal gates we were aurally assaulted by some ANL activists with megaphones, and handed a year’s supply of roach material, cleverly disguised as ‘Vote For Me’ flyers. On May 1^st, Londoners will elect both the Mayor of London and the 25 members of the London Assembly, and what better way for ‘Red’ Ken Livingstone to finish off his campaign than with a rally….err….music festival.

It seems that a large proportion of London was camped just outside the entrance to the festival, drinking their cheap booze and such, and after negotiating our way through the midday mayhem we found a friend covered in mud, grinning like a mad man. He’d just been ejected for doing a running ninja slide under the gate, armed with enough booze and drugs to knock-out a small elephant. Surely that’s par the course for a music festival? For an Anti-Nazi League music festival in London, the security were going about their business in an ironically fascist manner. After some full-cavity searches were done with, it was over to the main stage for some music. Except Ken was talking – we were his “brothers and sisters” – and he only just stopped short of “I have a dream……”

When the music did arrive the acts on the main stage didn’t last long. It was one or two numbers and on with the next, and no-one in the crowd had a clue who was playing. So we bought a programme, which gave you a nicely illustrated line-up…but no stage times.  Most performances - particularly from The View - were lacklustre and there was a less atmosphere than the aroma of one of Neil Armstrong’s farts trapped inside his spacesuit – mainly down to the bizarre and short performance arrangements, which were interspersed with political sound-bites from Ken and co. Just as the procession of politicos was becoming tedious, it started to rain.