Way Out West 2019

Here we go again. Another August, another pilgrimage to Way Out West. By now the routine is almost ceremonial. First walk into Slottsskogen. Then question whether the lineup is getting weaker or I’m just getting older. Ignore the fashion parade. Find something decent to eat. But above all, focus on the music.

There were a few new distractions this year. The Wine Garden turned out to be an oasis hidden from the perpetual festival buzz, or at least as hidden as anything can be with a Red Bull karaoke tent belting out drunken pop anthems somewhere beyond the trees. I shared a glass of orange wine with my favorite Basque bartender. Another new addition was the Chef’s Market section, where I found delicious bao buns. For a moment I briefly entertained the fantasy that this was a civilized festival.

My secret garden.

I walked past Blood Orange without breaking stride and claimed a spot on the front row for David August instead. No pyrotechnics, no gimmicks. Just elegant electronic music delivered with enough confidence to let the songs do the work.

Neneh Cherry followed, as dependable as ever, although her band somehow managed to dismantle Buffalo Stance and rebuild it into something far less interesting. A decade ago I had an unfortunate encounter with her siblings, Titiyo and Eagle-Eye Cherry, at Berns while attending another Neneh show. I doubt they remember me. I sincerely hope they don’t.

Then came Spiritualized. Twenty-six years earlier they had opened for Depeche Mode in Gothenburg. Back then the audience treated them with all the warmth of a tax audit. The band abandoned the tour immediately afterward, citing “downright hostile reactions”, and were replaced by Swedish band Cane’n’Able. We devotees have long memories. This reunion did little to repair the relationship. They stared dutifully at their shoes, ignored the audience from first note to last and disappeared without so much as pretending to enjoy themselves. Some grudges deserve to live forever.

As evening settled over Slottsskogen, twenty-five thousand people drifted through the forest like a slow-moving migration of lemmings. I noticed an unusually large crowd around the karaoke stage and dismissed it with the contempt of Statler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show before wandering off in search of food. Only later did I discover the excitement had been caused by Johanna Söderberg of First Aid Kit making a surprise appearance. I’m still convinced my chestnut falafel was the better experience.

The reason I came here this year was The Cure. Robert Smith looked genuinely happy for once. He laughed, shuffled across the stage in those unmistakable little dance steps and seemed to be enjoying every minute of it. Quite possibly aided by chemistry, but who’s counting? Whatever the explanation, this performance easily eclipsed their infamous marathon show in Scandinavium back in 2016. The version of Burn alone justified the ticket.

Robert Smith and The Cure.

Twenty years ago I saw the English band Fosca. Their main hit is called It’s Going to End in Tears. Around here, it could just as easily have been called It’s Going to End in Rain. Way Out West and rain are locked in a relationship more dependable than any headline act.

Saturday delivered exactly what was expected. The skies opened, the paths dissolved into mud and every newspaper warned of weather chaos. I came prepared with enough waterproof clothing to survive a small expedition into the Mariana Trench.

First stop was a hot coffee at Höjden, then I was ready. I passed the horrible Stormzy after only a brief encounter and ducked into the Linné tent for Maribou State. Holly Walker’s vocals transformed the place into something warm and hypnotic while the rain hammered the canvas overhead. Surprisingly it turned out to be the performance of the day.

Stella Donnelly at Stay Out West.

Eventually the forest surrendered to the mud. Slottsskogen is magical in sunshine, but after hours of relentless rain it becomes a beautifully landscaped swamp determined to keep your boots forever. So we did the only sensible thing and abandoned the battlefield, caught a tram to Pustervik and found Stella Donnelly instead. The Australian songwriter delivered sharp songs, sharp wit and enough profanity to wash away a weekend’s worth of corporate festival messaging. Looking around the room, everyone wore the same uniform anyway: soaked jackets, muddy trousers and the satisfied expression of people who had made the right decision.

Sometimes escaping the festival turns out to be the best part of the festival.