- The 2009 Bloc Weekender, held in an all-inclusive holiday camp in Britain's southwest, was described in the program as follows: "A self contained city-state dedicated to the pursuit of hyperleisure, a soundtrack of the finest audio in the galaxy and thousands of your best friends to enjoy it with." Having never before braved the likes of a 72-hour indoor rave-up with apartment accommodation, your intrepid RA crew stepped off the coach in sunny Somerset filled with optimism. And a healthy measure of fear and trembling for just what hyperleisure in a Butlins might come to mean.
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As it seemed to do for everyone, check in to our impossibly cozy little flat went without a hiccup. Venturing beyond the apartment, however, things quickly began to feel pleasantly surreal. Butlins Minehead is a huge complex, with a glitzy central area enclosed under what looks like a huge tent, complete with a variety of large rooms converted for rave duty. Beyond that sprawl the chalets, water park, "English" and "Irish" pubs, and (for Bloc) the "Bob the Builder Alcohol Free Cosy-Zone." In many ways, the line-up was as daring as the setting, with almost no acts flown in from the continent. Instead, it was largely an English show, with a few American legends brought over for good measure.
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It was bass hats on for the first night. Peverelist started things off faultlessly, playing a superbly controlled set of precise, tech-flavoured dubstep, taking in tracks from Shackleton and RSD. Appleblim took up the helm next, in a characteristically bright style. Music from Martyn's upcoming Great Lengths got several outings, as did a more UK funky-oriented track by Geiom.
Barely off the coach, and still dazed and confused by the sheer disorientation presented by the festival's novel setting, your Bloc crew were considerably displeased to have their unfurling musical reverie interrupted by the unsubtle plaints of MC Dread. Appleblim's delicate music took on a new tone as it struggled to make itself known above Dread's witticisms, the most memorable of these being, probably, "Yo yo, yo-yo-yo, yo yo yo...Butlins!"
Pinch and then 2562 carried on the dubstep flag. (The MCing improved some.) Pinch rolled out the smooth bass pressure, which 2562 then counterpoised with his distinctive dry and airy sounds, with the always fantastic "Channel Two" providing the highlight.
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On the way to coming attractions, we caught the end of Rusko's first live set. He seemed to be playing some drum & bass that didn't captivate my ears or move my feet. Next, Kode9. His mixing stopped and started, in a way that clearly took a lot more work than he pretended. The off-kilter mixing put the UK funky he was playing in a very fresh light. Settling into the groove, the room became as excited for Mark Pritchard's "Wind It Up" as it had been for Rusko.
Joker, Hudson Mohawke, and Rustie represented "wonky," in various rooms, and they all played sets that, despite some unpolished moments, pushed a huge amount of air through the speakers in ways that were often wonderfully creative. Unhelpful drum & bass conventions—like murderously useless MCs rearing their heads at inappropriate times—seem to be seeping their way into the dubstep experience as the scene adapts to a suddenly large audience. The alt.dubstep crew at Bloc pointed out another possibility for the scene's evolution. These three showed just how good their music is in transmitting its brash charms in settings where the delicate atmosphere needed to make nights like FWD work is impossible to build. The ingenuity of Hud Mo's "Overnight," played by Rustie, brought the house down.
Directly following Rustie, fellow Glaswegian Jackmaster played a smoother variation in the same style. By now, the afterhours Jak:Bloc room was beginning to look thoroughly messy: We cut and ran, despite the tantalizing prospect of October and Emptyset going experimental until nigh on lunchtime.
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Saturday afternoon was consumed in a tangle of flat parties, arcade games and snatched hours of sleep, leaving us perfectly positioned to catch Lee Scratch Perry, who arrived a fashionable two hours late for his 6 PM slot. Perry, though diminutive, took on a larger than life presence, adorned in his signature assortment of buttons, pins and just about anything that would glint under the stage lights. His backing band, The Upsetters, was, as expected, made up of extraordinary musicians. Perry sang through a litany of perfectly composed tracks that avoided reggae clichés and his performance brought a beautiful atmosphere to the cavernous main room. It was a pleasure to be there.
In another room, Bass Clef kept things rolling nicely, laying out a framework of reduced stepping beats from a complex, purely live setup. His use of trombone, whistle and theremin over the top sat somewhere between melody and ornament. When the occasional inevitable glitch made itself known over the mighty sound system, Bass Clef shrugged it off with an inscrutable "It's all part of the act."
Back in the main room, Egyptian Lover lit the place on fire. Clad in leather head to toe, and with not a bead of sweat to be seen on him, he played a set of '80s electro garnished by a restrained brand of turntablism.
The queue to see Aphex Twin, unfortunately, stretched round the Bloc. We missed him. Through disorganization, we likewise caught only a few minutes of Rob Hall, who was sounding awfully nice.
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After these mishaps, we made sure to be installed back in Tek:Bloc for Rob Hood. He played off of a dizzying array of analogue gear. A big, uncompressed kick, and a few bits and bobs of synth, combined with impeccable drum programming, were enough to lull us into a tight hypnotic groove. The lightly tranced-up "And Then We Planned Our Escape" went down sweetly. As soon as we paused to ask ourselves if we were enjoying the act, Hood's all-too-short hour had somehow already gone, speaking to the power that his stripped down music exerts. Redshape, playing live off a laptop, was every bit as varied and involving as Hood.
From there, Saturday night's hyperleisure began to outrun its "serious musical appreciation," and, luckily for us, French Kriss and the rest of the Cliché London crew were one step ahead. They went all out on their cowboy and Indian fancy dress theme; everything from New Order to Black Box kept the ultrafun rolling to something o'clock.
In true Bloc style, as soon as we thought we really were too satisfied to party further, a group of rampaging Irish youths waylaid us with an endless supply of Ouzo. All the charm and danger of Bloc seemed encapsulated in those never-ending capfuls of spirits, and (by God!) it was well and truly time to get a little sleep.
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Sunday's programme promised a few jewels, although we started slowly. The Ceephax Acid Karaoke was exactly what it sounded like. Any lucky/foolish punters brave enough to get on stage were welcome to have a go at singing their lungs out to a karaoke standard, with a backing remixed in the style of classic acid house. Many thanks to the lovely lady who treated us to an especially soulful rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart."
Metro Area's unfortunate cancellation was suavely dealt with by Bloc's own Joe Hart and Agent B. Cybotron, "Clear" and Till West, "Same Man" kept things simmering nicely until Afrika Bambaataa took the stage an hour late. The idea for the set seemed to be hip-hop classics. Despite a few brilliant tracks ( Salt-n-Pepa's "Push It"), the main thrust of the selections ran from the passable (a Human League remix) to the utterly misjudged (Bob Sinclar, "Love Generation").
Carl Craig came on to a room that was perplexed, more than anything, but did a fair job of putting things right with a rapacious set that scurried from Detroit classics to Audion to Diana Ross. His set was never incredible, but, as always, Craig played with honesty and mixed with his ears. The creative selections lent a feeling of insight into the musical sensibilities that have shaped his production. Perhaps because of this, or possibly down to the sheer novelty and grandeur of the past seventy-two hours, many of us sleepy Bloc attendees, dancing or clumped against the wall, found just enough energy to break into a weary grin.