#I’m about to start wailing like a cat that got fed two minutes later than usual I want my nap!!!

[lovelyisadora]

why is it always my shifts where the second counselor doesn’t come in and I have to do two jobs I’m not being paid enough for, and also I’m left alone in a facility I’m not supposed to be legally left alone in

[i-ntrmission]

Nine (Van McCann)

Just a silly little fic where Van is sporadic regular at a coffee shop.

Part 1

Part 2 

Saturday morning.

You’ve already baked cinnamon buns and the peacan pie by time Carly officially opens up the café at 8. The smell of freshly baked goods circling the shop, Carly hums in appreciation, hovering in the kitchen to see what she can rob for breakfast.

Toby arrives at half 8, Carly all too gladly standing back from the coffee machine. He hovers by the kitchen door a few minutes later, thanking you again for last night while you’re pulling a tray of breakfast muffins out of the oven.

“Sure you didn’t lose something?” You ask him, he only blinks, a questioning ‘no?’, and you tug his keys from your pocket.

“Are they my- shit, where’d you find them?!”

Fragmented story telling about last night, about Van, between serving customers. You still feel a rush of lightheadedness when you think about last night, think about Van. Heartbeat kicking up in a weird little pitter-patter rhythm - something you only associate with kittens and Hugh Grant films. Toby listens with a knowing smile, which you choose to ignore.

“Oh, and guess who Julia got off with last night?” You say, maybe to change the subject off Van, after he’s handed a takeaway cup to the last of the customers. He raises a how eyebrows, looking at you with interest. Toby liked to act like he wasn’t interested in the gossip, stories swapped between you and Julia on long shifts - but you always caught him half listening, weighing in with his own comments if asked.

But before you can dish out the gossip on who you had walked in on in your kitchen this morning, Julia herself stomps through the door.

“Speak of the devil,” you mumble with a smirk while Toby playfully hisses at her as she walks past “Ey, what time do you call this then?”

It’s 9, she’s an hour late. She had told you this morning she’d cleared it with Carly, when you had brought her water and painkillers. More as a front to question her on who you had found in the kitchen than being concerned for her head. She’d seen through it and buried herself under her duvet when you entered her room.

“Piss off,” she hisses back, taking off her sunglasses. No makeup and too much perfume, the telltale signs of a rough night. “And don’t even start you!” Pointing her sunglasses at you, your smug smile. You only hold your hands up to with a lingering smirk. Toby’s eyes flickering between you both.

The bell hanging from the door rings, drawing your attention back to the till as two mums with buggies and toddlers make their way in, the screeches of excited children make Julia shudder.

“Jesus Christ, kids shouldn’t be allowed out in public until at least midday on weekends,” she huffs under her breath and makes a beeline for the staff room. A chuckle - calling after her, telling her you had left breakfast muffins in the oven. The perfect combination of savory and sweet - the best hangover cure. Apart from more alcohol that is.

You’re loading up a tray with hot chocolates and coffees for the mums and kids when Julia re-emerges from the back room, taking a bite out of the muffin in her hand with a groan of your name, telling you that you were a lifesaver.

“Sure you can manage these? No more bad luck leftover? Need a side of salt?” Toby teases while handing you the tray over the counter, you roll your eyes - telling him not to remind you of yesterday’s disasters.

“So, wild night at the pub quiz I hear,” you hear Toby turning back to Julia while you walk away, biting down on the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile. Recalling her texts.

You make your way out front to the terrace where the noisy kids have taken up residence at one of the tables, except now their shrieks seem to be in despair rather than delight. One of the women standing out on the path while the other is desperately trying to calm the boys, one already in tears. Inconsolable.

“Oh, what’s happened?!” You ask, a frown while setting the tray on their table.

“Pebbles ran away!” The older of the boys wail while pointing down the road. It’s then that you notice the abandoned dog leash on the ground beside your foot, one end under the seat of the chair, the other end clipped onto a collar.

“He must have wriggled out, a lad’s gone running after him - I hope-“ the woman is cut off by the younger boy’s screech of “There! Pebbles!!”

You follow his gaze, almost shaking your head and laughing - it’s Van, of course it’s fucking Van to the rescue. Sauntering back down the path with the runaway Yorkshire terrier in his arms, licking at his face.

You watch the look of adoration in the women’s eyes as he carries the dog back up to the table, the gleeful sounds of the kids. His smile widens once he spots you, hovering.

“Alright lids, see he’s fine! Just a little messer ain’t he?!” Van eases, dropping down on his haunches to hold the dog while the mum fiddles with adjusting the collar.

Ducking back inside while the chorus of ‘thank yous’ surround Van, grabbing a couple of chocolate chip cookies and pain au chocolats, sugar for the shock.

Once you set the treats down on the table, the boys wipe the end of their tears from their eyes. Sounds of delight resurface, something their mothers echo when you tell them not to worry, that the cookies and crossiants are on the house.

Van follows you back inside after high fiving the boys, winking at the women and blowing a kiss at the dog - who seemed rather taken with him. Holding the door open for you.

“You’re in early, thought rockstars didn’t get up ‘til noon,” you say as he follows you in. Eyes a little bloodshot, voice a little husky - but other than that he didn’t share any of Julia’s hangover symptoms. You wonder what kind of drinker he is.

“Eh, never been good at the whole rockstar thing me.” A lazy grin, reaching the counter where Julia stops mid rant about how bacon absolutely belongs in muffins. Their eyes lock, mirrored smirks - sharing the same secrets.

“Think you have someone that belongs to me, love.” He chuckles.

Julia hums in response, “think I’ll hang onto him a bit longer.”

You bite back a smile. This morning, walking into your kitchen at sunrise only to be greeted with a scruffy, bearded man. Vaguely familiar, from the countless interviews and live performances you had binged on YouTube. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, unbuttoned shirt and undone jeans, hand buried in his hair, staring blankly at the floor tiles. Clearly in the midst of a hangover from hell, possibly going through the fear. You could smell the stale alcohol.

“Er, morning?” You said quietly, blue eyes flickering up, a crooked smile, and a rasped “Mornin’, love.”

Like it was the most natural thing for him to be standing in your kitchen, like it was his kitchen even.

“Are you looking for sommat or?” You opened the fridge, glancing back over him. Hoping he wasn’t about to puke all over the place. He had that look.

“Yeah, just the last shreds of me dignity.. and anything.. cold, please... fuck,” he grumbles, pressing his head into his hands. You almost felt sorry for him, then you remembered the videos and messages from Julia last night and hide a smile by looking back into the fridge. Jug of iced water and a pint glass, handing him the full glass before rooting through the medicine drawer, painkillers.

“Aye, you’re a fuckin’ godsent, thanks angel.” Taking the painkillers and water from you. “Can see why Van’s so fond of you, coffee girl.”

There’s a lot of unpack in that sentence, and it was way too early. So you simply blink and watch him take the pills.

“Coffee girl?” You question eventually, arms crossing.

His eyes drift back over to you, grimacing while he sips on the water. “Aye, you work down the café, wi’ Julia, reet?”

You knew you shouldn’t have, but when opportunity arises, you can’t help it. Winding him up. It’s a rare morning you’re in a good mood, able to communicate in more that one syllable words.

“No? Dunno what you’re on about mate, Julia works down the cafè.. heard her mentioned someone called Van a few times, seemed like they had a thing, yeah?”

A flash of panic in his eyes, practically hearing the flurry of curse words going through his head. The prospect of the fact he’s probably shagged someone his best mate is ‘fond of’. Quirking a brow while he stared.

“Nah, she said.. You.. fuck.. fuck me,” a string of grumbles, clearly trying and failing to get his head straight - remember what had happened last night, what Julia had told him. Hands patting down his jeans, pulling out his phone with a heavy sigh. He curses at the screen. “Fuck, Van’s gon-“

“Hey,” you decide to put him out of his misery. He was growing paler by the second, and you were getting more and more worried about the prospect of cleaning up puke. “I’m just messin’ with ya.”

Realisation hitting - eye narrowing at you, telling him your name, confirming that you were indeed the coffee girl who worked with Julia. He shakes his head, a gruff noise and crooked smirk.

“Jesus, threw me for a loop there... well played, my dear... I like you already,” holding out his first, “Am Johnny,” he says while you knock your knuckles against his. You refrain from telling him you knew that already.

“Well, he’s kinda crucial in our band and that, so afraid I get first dibs, darlin’” Van’s voice drags you back to the present.

“So you’re saying you’re going on tour again soon, eh?” Julia tilts her head.

A breathy little laugh - “Bands do more than just tour, yanno?”

“You do realise the internet is a thing, Van - we could literally google your tour dates right now and find out. So your mysterious bullshit ain’t flying anymore.” She rolls her eyes, another bite of her muffin.

Since finding out he was in Catfish, neither of you had ever thought about checking on the tour dates, when he came he came and when he left he left, and that’s that. No wondering if he’d show up when the tour was up. Simple, no attachments. You and Julia even named a local stray cat after Van who you fed from time to time when he came snooping around the bins outside, the easiness of coming and going.

So why were your fingers suddenly itching for your phone.

“Ah, love! Why ruin the little mystery that’s left then? Like I said - we do other stuff too, could have label stuff to do, graftin the next album... cheers, mate.” Trailing off once Toby slides his caramel latte over the counter, something he had got him hooked on a year or so ago. “Fuckin missed this.” He says as if every other coffee shop has yet to discover caramel.

“So yous are doing a new album then, that it?” Julia persists, rolling your eyes at her blatant attempts at winding him up. But he catches on, a lazy grin, licking his lips.

“Ain’t ya too hungover to be fuckin’ with us like this?” He calls her out, a smirk.

She shrugs while her eyes slide over to the elderly couple that come in every morning, sitting in their usual spot. Calling over to them that their tea and scones are on the way, fond calls back of ‘take your time, pet.’ telling Van she’s not finished with him before heading into the back to get a teapot.

“What happened last night anyways?” Toby interjects, bemused look across his features. Completely left out of the loop, obviously not getting anything out of Julia when you left them a while ago.

Taking the opportunity to pull up Julia’s messages - putting you phone down on the counter between the three of you. The video is obviously taken at the time of the night where all rational thoughts are lost to drinks. Loud music, girls screams - background static, Johnny Bond stood at the bar, downing three consecutive shots of what you assume is tequila, Julia’s giggles soundtrack while following him out the smoking area, turning back to the camera and taking off his cap with slur of ‘mind this for me, love’ before he proceeds to do a handstand against a wall for 15 seconds. Confused onlookers as Julia counts it out.

Amused sounds - Toby and Van, Julia passing back around the counter in search of scones for the couple, she glances over your shoulder at the video.

“Ey, anyone who does a handstand after 3 shots of tequila without vomming earns their space in my bed.”

There’s another video from about 20 minutes later of Larry stood on a table, Kylie Minogue blaring, and he’s doing an enthused rendition of the Can’t Get You Outta my Head dance mixed with a bit of the Macarena. Cheers erupting around him, wolf whistles.

Van - a rasped cackle, “send that one onto me, that’s too good! Never gon let him live that one down!”

You watch him while he watches the video again a few times over. His eyelashes nearly brushing his cheeks when he looks down, fingers restlessly tapping against his coffee mug, soft chuckles. Feeling Toby give you a nudge, a wink when you look up. Letting you know he caught you, shaking your head with your best ‘fuck off’ eyes.

“So why were you making the lads humiliate themselves for your entertainment then?” Toby asks Julia once she circles back around the counter

“‘Cause, the lads bet me that they’d beat us at the pub quiz,” she explains, helping herself to another muffin. “Johnny spent half the time outside smoking, and Van and Larry fuckin’ argued over every question and ended up writing down bullshit made up answers.”

Toby asks where Van’s forfeit video is, you’re only half listening now - taking orders of the few people who just came in, but you zone back in once you hear your name mentioned.

“-and after I told him she was workin’ late closing up, never seen anyone down their pint so quickly, what was the excuse again, Van? Jet lag was it?”

Glancing up at that to find him already looking at you, catching his eye, his lips tilt making his dimple pop out. It lasts less than a second, your eyes darting back down to the pecan pie you’re cutting. Feeling your cheeks warm up. He never mentioned that he had run into Julia at the pub last night, remembering how he just said he was on his way home. Although, you were half sure it did have nothing do with you, more likely he was just sick of Julia’s drunken bullshit.

“Nah, just quite like that pub and want to be able to show me face in there again, innit.” He tells her, a laugh.

You grab a basin and walk away to start to clear tables, not really wanting to hear anymore of Julia’s torments. You’re happier zoning out, getting lost in your own thoughts, smiling and small talk with a few regulars. On you’re way back to the kitchen when you hear Van again as you walk past, catching your elbow.

“You in then too, Glasvegas?”

“Sorry, what?” Turning back to him, you had been thinking if Julia would be up for getting chipper on the way home after the pub tonight. You were already craving garlic cheese chips.

“Coming down Cassidy’s tonight? Van’s buying first round for being a pussy last night.” Julia quips, and you look from him to her. Fuck, remembering Van’s confession about wanting to buy you a drink last night. Julia’s looking at with you a smug expression, knowing you can’t get out of this one. You and her always went out on Saturday night’s - either just the two of you, or a group of friends. But going to the pub with Van and his mates, your heart skips a few beats, uneasiness. You give her a look before letting your eyes slide back to Van, an expectant look, finishing off his cinnamon bun.

“Er, I dunno..”

“Dunno if you’re up for going to the pub? Like we don’t go out every Saturday night?” Julia tilts her head, feigning mock innocence. You knew what she was doing, and you glare. A non-verbal ‘you’re being a dick.”

“Well, er, it’s been a long week.. yanno. I’m kinda tired.. was thinkin’ of staying in and having a quiet one,” you’re backing slowly into the kitchen as you say this, feeble excuses. “And I’m.. I’m trying to save some and that.”

“So me and you will do pre-drinks at ours,” Julia pushes, entertaining your excuses to a certain extent, but not letting you get out of it.

“And I’m buying first round,” Van adds.

“So, it’s just one drink really.” Julia confirms.

“Jus’ one drink.” Van reaffirms.

“Just one drink?” You say, somewhat defeated.

Toby glances up from the coffee machine, a chuckle. “Now when’s the last time anyone went out and actually had just one drink?”

Van leaves a little while later, Toby giving him a tray of coffees for Larry and Bondy if he’d yet ventured back from your place, you sending him off with a bag of hangover cures in form of pastries and cakes.

He came back in a few minutes later, forgetting his stamp on his loyalty card.

“2 down, eight to go. Cheers, see yas later.” He walked back out, a spring in his step. You turned to Julia.

“What the fuck, Jules?! Will you leave us alone and stop tryin’ to setup me up with Van fuckin’ McCann!” Exasperated tone, she only shook her head and giggled. “S’not funny! He probably already has a girlfriend and you’re here makin’ us look desperate!”

“Dunno what you’re on about, babe!” She says while heading out to clean up the terrace, humming matchmaker matchmaker under her breath. She turns back to you as she reaches the door “Oh, and he deffo doesn’t have a girlfriend, found that out last night for ya. You’re welcome!” She beams, all but skipping out the door.

You somehow resist the urge to chuck the tea towel in your hands at her head.

[chiseler]

The Kitten in the Storm Drain

Yes, in retrospect it had all the makings of a bestselling children’s book, but in the midst of everything, before any end was in sight, it was more like one of those frustrating and hopeless nightmares where you need to do something important, but can’t.

It was about five or six Sunday morning. Shortly after we got up, my wife Morgan heard what could only be described as the piteous mewling of a cat in some kind of terrible trouble. After confirming none of our own cats were in any major distress, she threw on her coat and went outside. It may have been yet another standoff between a couple of the local outdoor cats, or maybe a cat in heat, but she just wanted to make sure that’s all it was.

It took a few minutes, but after zeroing in on the wailing across the street, she caught the glint of whiskers a foot or two below the grating of the storm drain. She came back upstairs and grabbed some cans of food, thinking that might lure the cat out, just so she could see it was safe. The food, however, was promptly eaten by the aforementioned street cats, and the wailing continued.

Once the sun came up and Morgan could see more clearly into the storm drain, she found a calico kitten, likely only a few weeks old, perched precariously on a short  concrete pipe two feet above the water running below. The kitten was on the street side opposite the wider opening on the curb, and there was no way Morgan could reach her. She couldn’t fit her arm through the grate. Even if she could, there was no way she’d be able to pull the kitten’s head through anything other than the wider curbside opening. It was unclear how the kitten may have found itself in that predicament, and we weren’t sure we wanted to know. Balanced on that short pipe it was clearly too terrified to make the jump to safety, and equally terrified of people.

Morgan called the city’s Animal Care and Control center, but they were closed. She left a message with all the pertinent details and a contact number, then came back upstairs to let me know what was going on.

I sent a quick note to a vet tech who’d helped us in the past, asking if he had any suggestions. Morgan, meanwhile, headed back outside to try and lure the kitten to safety. The cold rain had started to fall.

Not sure how long it might be before I heard back from the vet tech—it was early Sunday morning, after all—I called 311, New York’s all purpose hotline for non-emergency city agencies.

At this point, two parallel dramas began playing out—one outside in the rain, the other upstairs on the phone.

After sifting through half a dozen phone menus, someone from the sewers department informed me the problem at hand was beyond their jurisdiction. The grating over the storm drain was not theirs, and they were not allowed to touch it. After calling back and sifting through the same menu, the fire department—and this was shocking—told me they no longer rescued trapped kittens (so there goes that myth). I finally reached someone at ACC, who informed me they were not a city agency, and the sewer grating was city property belonging to the water department (DEP). What I needed to do, she said, was contact DEP and have them send someone out to remove the grating. The DEP workers would then contact ACC, and only at that point would ACC send someone out to pluck the kitten to safety. If it was still alive at that point, of course. So I called 311 again, where I was told there was no direct phone line to DEP, that pretty much my only option was to send them a letter requesting they, whenever they had the chance, send a licensed crew out to remove the grating.

In other words, I might expect the city to take some action on the “kitten trapped in the storm drain” front come around April, maybe June.

Meanwhile the rain was coming down harder and the water in the storm pipe was rising fast. The kitten was soaked and freezing and frantic, and there was nothing Morgan could do. A couple strangers stopped to see what was happening, and while they were sympathetic, there was nothing they could do, either.

When two passing  cops arrived on the scene, for just an instant it seemed something might possibly happen. If nothing else, they’d certainly know who to contact. It was a step or two toward rescuing the kitten. That instant passed quickly, however, as the cops merely stood around on the sewer grating for ten or fifteen minutes doing nothing, then told Morgan the cat was fine. It was an adult, they insisted, it lived down there, it knew what it was doing, so she shouldn’t worry about it. Then they went away. After they left, the cops apparently also called ACC and fed them the same line of bullshit, because when Morgan called again, she was told ACC wasn’t going to do anything about rescuing the kitten, based on what the cops reported.

So the city, in essence, refused to do anything to save a damned kitten, using byzantine bureaucracy and fuzzy jurisdictions as a cheap and easy excuse.

By this point things had been going on for three or four hours, and we were starting to run out of hope. Morgan used what she could find to try and construct a makeshift bridge to allow the kitten to cross over the rushing and rising water to the curbside opening. I still hadn’t heard from the vet tech, so, with few other options, I called my friends Daniel and Marilyn. I knew they’d had a number of dealings with animal shelters and the like, so figured it was a long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

After I explained the situation to them, they had a few suggestions, people and places I might contact, but at the top of the list was a man named Sean Casey, who ran an animal rescue and was known to handle cases like this on occasion.

I called Mr. Casey, told him what was going on, and asked for his help. It was apparently his day off, but he said he might come out. The best thing to do, he suggested, was try and flag down a couple passing cops (“They’ll never come if you call them”) and have them put in a call to ESU, which I took, perhaps erroneously, to mean the Emergency Services Unit.

I told him what happened with the earlier cops, and he suggested we try and flag down different cops. I thanked him and hung up the phone, still hopeless and still unsure whether he was coming by or not.

Between the two of us, Morgan and I had pretty much exhausted our options. We’d just have to wait and watch and listen to the screaming until the water rose high enough to wash the kitten away.

Then about fiftteen minutes later Morgan glanced out the window again and saw a white  truck out front.

“Animal Care and Control’s out there,” She said, before throwing on her coat and running downstairs.

Well imagine that, right? After all we’d been through with them, ACC came through after all.

But when Morgan got downstairs she saw it wasn’t ACC after all, but Sean Casey’s Animal Rescue van, and Casey himself.

Morgan explained the story again, and he assessed the situation. Then he asked her to stand back a ways, as he needed room to work. He also warned her, quite seriously that there was a chance there wouldn’t be a happy ending, that the kitten might slip away from him into the rising water. With that disclaimer, he set about his business.

Apparently unafraid of what this or that city agency might say about who it does or doesn’t belong to, Casey lifted the grating off the storm drain, lay down on his belly on the wet and filthy pavement, and, using two animal control loops, scooped the sopping, freezing and yelping kitten out of the sewer and dropped it safely into a waiting carrier, together with a towel Morgan handed him.

He replaced the grating, set the carrier in his van, and returned his new charge to the shelter where she (we learned it was a “she”) would be cleaned up and checked out. Later that night, pictures of Casey posing with their latest acquisition—now dry, clean and fed—were posted on the Rescue’s website. It was as happy an ending to the day’s story as we could’ve hoped.

So maybe it’s a story that’s a bit more softhearted, a bit less cynical and nasty than I’m used to, but we couldn’t just stand around and listen to that kitten die. Consider it a simple lesson in the uselessness of city agencies, and the value of individuals with the gumption to overlook ridiculous bureaucratic folderol in order to do what needs doing.

For the rest of that afternoon, Morgan and I found ourselves saying, apropos of nothing, “Fuckin’ Sean Casey, man. Fuckin’ Sean Casey.”

(For the record, less than 24 hours later, the list of people lining up to adopt the storm drain kitten continued to grow astronomically.)

by Jim Knipfel

Please donate to Sean Casey’s Animal Rescue 

https://www.nyanimalrescue.org/

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Knowing Not Knowing

"Early in the spring of 1997, singer and songwriter Jeff Buckley headed down to Memphis to begin pre-production on what would have been his second full-length album. A few weeks after Buckley arrived, his bandmates flew in from New York to join him. He was in high spirits: the songwriting was going well, and he was reunited with his group. The same night his band arrived Buckley went out for a late-night stroll to a Memphis harbor and waded into the river. He had always admired Led Zeppelin, and was singing "Whole Lotta Love" when a boat passed in front of him. He lost his footing, perhaps dragged into the water by the boat's wake, and was never seen alive again. He was thirty years old, two years older than his father, the folksinger Tim Buckley, had been when he died of a drug overdose.   "I first met Jeff Buckley and saw him perform about two years before he passed away. It was near midnight and Buckley was sitting int he back office of a Tower Records store in lower Manhattan. Buckley had become a scion of the Lower East Side antifolk scene, and was preparing for an in-store performance in support of his album GRACE.   "But first he needed to do something: he insisted on listening to a crackly old recording of "The Man That Got Away" by Judy Garland, in the pretext that he wanted the store manager, who had given the CD to Buckley, to understand how magnificent a gift it was. Buckley needed to demonstrate the album's beauty. He had also picked up gratis CD reissues of vintage Aretha Franklin and Nina Simone records, and two albums by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, who had a major influence on Buckley's singing. While Buckley could occasionally summon the same kind of ecstatic vocal power that was Khan's trademark, his singing had more in common with Garland's delicate, vulnerable warble.   "Buckley was an unglamorous star. That night he was wearing a wretched pair of weathered combat boots- the sort you occasionally see homeless men selling- a frumpy gray cardigan sweater, and jeans that hadn't been washed in a long time. Ditto his hair. In an oddly white-trash bit of accessorizing, Buckley's wallet was attached to his belt by a chain, in the style favored by motorcyle gangs. Three days of beard growth rounded out his anti-coif, but his sex appeal remained intact: a nervous girl approached to ask if, as she suspected, he was a Scorpio. Another pressed a poem she had written for him into his hand. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket, as though he would cherish it forever. Maybe he did.   Buckley was at an odd moment in his career when he died. Having moved to New York several years before from California, where he was raised by his mother, he crawled his way up through the ranks of teh insular lower Manhattan music scene. He had beome a mini-star in that highly circumsribed mircrocosm, perched on the cusp of national and international success. That night at Tower records the line between Lower East Side local hero and international stardom seemed pretty thin. On one hand, his debut album sold several hundred thousand copies (although more in Europe than America), and there was a trhrong of photographers and autograph-seekers pressing around him. ON the other hand, he wasn't above hauling his own gear onstage, more or less indistinguishable from the half dozen stringy-haired sound men and roadies who were putting together the sound system in the first place.   "Buckley had no video in heavy rotation on MTV, largely because he insisted that people judge the music on the way it sounded before supplying them with an accompanying image. For the same reason, he refused to even suggest a single to radio deejays. 'What I'd love,' Buckley said, 'is if a deejay had a lineup of songs, and he'd just use one of my songs as part of a really nice evening. But that's the way I would deejay, not the way they do it. They usually have playlists.'   "For a guy with folksinging in his blood, Buckley had assembled an arsenal of prog-rock guitar effects you'd expect at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer show and had set his amp at cat-spaying volume. (In fact, he had been raised on Led Zeppelin and Kiss.) Several dozen more stringy-haired people with assorted rings in their lips and noses (his fans) materialized. AS he stepped onto the makeshift stage, a grumpy security guard began clearing some fans from a stairway, but Buckley interjected: 'Wait! Those are my friends! Can they stay there? I give them special permission.' What started as dispensation for four friends ended up being extended to anybody who wanted to stay.   "The set began with a ghostly wail from Buckley, and a mildly Middle Eastern guitar line. He sang with a vibrato that quivered like the tongue of a snake. It was so atmospheric that you hardly realized his bandmates were rocking their tits off. That was the tension: Buckley ululating in sensual falsetto, the band churning out mid-seventies Led Zep knockoffs. He seemed a strangely ethereal cherub in the midsst of all that visceral thrash.   "After the show, Buckley signed autographs, taking several minutes with the thirty or so fans who lined up for an audience with the tousle-haired singer. Rather than just scribbling an autograph, he wrote a personal note to each person. Everything he did seemed to place poetry before commerce, but I couldn't help wondering if it was all an elaborate ruse, a crafty stance aimed at those disenchanted with the slickness of pop posturing. Didn't Buckley, after all, want to make a lot of money and sell records?   "'If it happens it'd be great,' he said later that night, over omelettes and wine at an all-night eatery, 'but we just play to express. I want to live my life playing music, so that we can be immersed in it. In order to learn how deep it goes, you have to be in it.'   "As to why he took so much time with each of the fans who asked for an autograph, Buckley articulated his basic anti-rock-star stance: 'The way I experience a performance is that there's an exchange going on. It's not just my ego being fed. It's thoughts and feelings. Raw expression has it's own knowledge and wisdom." He trailed off, as though humbled by the mere thought of his audience wanting to hear him play, or asking him for an autograph. 'I've been in their position before and all I wanted was to show my appreciation to the performaer. So I feel like it's kind of generous of them to even be asking me for an autograph.'   "'It's true that there's also the people who want a piece of you,' he conceded. 'But it's pretty hard to keep feeling protective all the time, because there's really nothign to protect yourself against. Sometimes people shout at me on the street, and they feel they know me through my music. But that doesn't substitute for a real personal relationship. I don't feel like people know me, I just htink we share a love for music in common, and for some reason they key into the way I play. I feel appretiative when people come up to me, and I feel good when we connect. Usually, it serves as a nice comedown after a performance. Any other conduct would bust the groove, because I'm buzzing when I get offstage, and I'm consciously protecting that connection because that's what got me through the performance in the first place. It's an invocation and worship fo this certain feeling, this direct line into your heart, and somehow music does that more powerfully than anything else. It's like ! a total, immediate elixir.'   "By all appearances Buckley conformed to the stereotype of the poetic artist: largely lacking the practical, thick-skinned psychic barrier that separates most of us from the harsh realities of life. With a rabbit-like nervous disposition and a hypersensitive vulnerability that bordered on the tragicomic, he looked like he was about to burst into tears at any moment. His face was contorted and slightly tortured-looking during most of the interview, though I got the impression it wasn't so much the experience of being interviewed that was torturing him but the pain of grappling with his own thoughts and the world around him.   "Relationships were at the heart of Buckley's world. Although he was marketed as a solo artist, the attitude he had toward his listeners mirrored the relationshiop he formed with his three-piece backing band. 'Playing with a band is all about accepting a bond, accepting everything the way it is. It takes a lot of patience and a lot of taking chances with each other. It wakes seeing each other in weak and strong lights, and accepting both, and utilizing the high and low points of your relationship.'   "It wasn't only interpersonal relationships that Buckley held sacred-- he was aware of making his music in relation to all the sounds around him. The environment was Buckley's co-composer: to his ears, no melody or rhythm was separate from the sounds going on in the background. 'It's not like music begins or ends. All hinds of sounds are working into each other. Sometimes I'll just stop on the street because there's a sequence of sirens going on; it's like a melody I'll never hear again. In performance, things can be meaningful or frivolous, but either way the musical experience is totally spontaneous, and new life comes out of it, meaning if you're open to hearing the way music interacts with ambient sound, performance never feels like a rote experience. It's pretty special sometimes, the way a song affects a room, the way you're in complete rhythm with the song. When you're emotionally overcome, and there's no filter between what you say and what you mean, your language beco! mes gutteral, simple, emotional, and full of pictures and clarity. Were you to transcribe it, it might not make sense, but music is a totally different language."   "'People talk all day in a practical way, but real language that penetrates and affects people and carries wisdom is something different. Mayve it's the middle of the afternoon and you see a child's moon up in the sky, and youfeel like it's such a simple, pure, wonderful thing to look at. It just hits you in a certain way, and you point it out to a stranger, and he looks at you like you're weird and walks away. To speak that way, to point out a child's moon to a stranger, is original language, it's the way you originate yourself. And the cool thing is, if you catch people in the right moment, it's totally clear. Without knowing why, it's simply clear. That sort of connection is very empirical. It comes from the part of you that just understands immediately. All these types of things are gold, and yet they are dishonored or not paid attention to because that kind of tender communication is so alien in our culture, *except* in performance. There's a wall up between people all day long ,but performance transcends that convention. If pop music were really seen as a fine art or if fine art were popular, I don't know what the hell would happen-- this wouldn't bee the same country, because if the masses of people began to respect and really open to fine art, it woudl bring about a huge shift in consciousness.   "'Music is so many things. It's not just the performer. it's the audience and the architecture of the song, and each builds off the other. Music is a setting for poignancy, anger, destruction, total disaster, total wrongness, and then- like a little speck of gold in the middle of it- excitement, but excitement in a way that matters. Excitement that is not just aesthetically pleasing but shoots some sort of understanding into you.'   "Buckley's songs were composed with made-up chords, bright harmonic clusters that seem too obvious not to have been written before, yet they rarely feel formulaic. There's a lot of open strumming, suggesting that the songs were written largely for the sheer physical pleasure of playing them. He and his band modified the arrangements during each performance, playing with an elasticity and openness typical of Buckley's personality. 'Hearing a song is like meeting somebody. A song is something that took time to grow and once it's there, it's on its own. Every time you perform it, it's different. It has its own structure, and you ahve to flow thorugh it, and it has to come through you.'   "Buckley's entire career reflected on his outsider's approach to the music business. When he arrived in New York, rahter than recordings a demo or finding an agent, he simpley began to perform for free. He palyed at a small cafe on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and before long, crowds were lined up out the door. As a result, representatives of record companies sought out Buckley, rahter than the other way around. 'There is a distinct separation of sensibility between art as commerce and art as a way of life. If you buy into one too heavily it eats up the other. If instead of having songs happen as your life happens, you're getting a song together because you need a cetain number of songs on a release to be sold, the juice is cuked out immediately. That approach kills it.'   "Still, it took a strong belief in one's art to sit in a small cafe and trust that the world's record companies would come calling. buckley palyed down his seemingly effortless approach to career as though it were common-sense. 'I just wanted to learn cetain things. I wanted to just explore, like a kid with crayons. It took a while for me to get a record contract, but it also took a trememdous amount of time for me to feel comfortable playing, and that's all I was concerned with. And I'm still concerned with that, mainly.   "'I don't think about my responsibility as a musician in terms of any kind of religious significance. I don't have any allegiance to an organized religion; I have an alligience to the gifts that I find for myslef in those religions. They seem to be saying the same thing, they just have different mythologies and expressions, but the dogma of religions and the way they're misusued is all too much of a trap. I'd rather be nondenominational, except for music. I prefer to learn everything through music. If you want divinity, the music in every human being and their lvoe for music is pretty much it. It's the big indication of their spirituality and their ability to love and make love, or feel pain or joy, and really manifest it, really be real. But I don't believe in a big guy with a beard on a throne, telling us that we're bad; I certainly don't believe in original sin. I belive in the opposite of that: you have an Eden immediately form the time you are born, but as you are conditioned by your caretakers and your suroundings, you may lose that original thing. Your task is to get back to it, so you can claim responsibility for your own perfection.'   "buckley considered the development of awareness to be the main goal of his life. 'I think of it as trying to get more aligned with the feeling of purity in music, however it sounds. I think music is prayer. Sometimes poeple make up prayers and they don't even know it. They jsuit make up a song that has rhyme and meter, and once it's made it can carry on a life of its own. It can have a lot of juice to it and a lot of meaning: there's no end to the different individual flavors that people can bring to the musical form.   'In order to make the music actual, you have to enable it to be. And that takes facing some ting sinsude you that constrict you, your own impurity and mistakes and blockages. As yo uopen up yourself, the music opens up different directions that lead you in yet other directions.'   "Asking most pop musicians if they're satisfied with records sales is liek asking moleds about the aging process: they say they don't care, but it's hard to believe. For commercial recording artists, sales are the only objective indicator of whether they're doing things right- that fans are sincerely motivated to walk into records stores by the tens or by the millions, pull out their wallets, and pay for the music. But with his quiet, unaffected boice nearly a whisper, Buckley steadfastly maintained tha the really didn't want to sell a million records- and it was strangely believable. When he talked aobut multiplatinum-selling bands who felt "disappointed" by a mere five million copies sold, the disgust he felt for commercialism was palpabale. 'The only valuable thing about selling records, the only thing that matters, is that people connect and that you keep on growing. You do many choices based on how many poeple you reach, meaning, now that I have a relationship with strangers worldwide, I have to try not to let it become too much of a factor and just accept it. The limited success we've had in the past is definately a factor, it's just there. It jsut is. The whole thing is such a crapshoot, you can't really control what your appeal is going to be. My music ain't gonna make it into the malls, but it doesn't matter. I don't really care to make it into the malls.   "'Whether I sell a lot of records or not isn't up to me. You can sell alot of records, but that's just a number sold- that's not understood, or loved, or cherished.   "'Take someone like Michael Jackson. Early on he sacrificed himself to his need to be loved by all. His talent and his power were so great that he got what he wanted but he also got a direct, negative result, which is that he's not able to grown into an adult human being. And that's why his music sounds sort of empty and wierd.   "'Being the kind of person I am, fame is really overwhelming. First of all, just being faced with the questions that everybody faces: Do I matter? Should I go on? Why am I here? Is this really that improtant? All that low self-esteem shit. Your'e constantly trying to make sure that your sense of self-worth doesn't depend on the writings or opinions of other people. You have to wean yourself off acclaim as the object of your work, by learning to depend on your own judgment and knowing what it is that you enjoy. Youhave to realize what the difference is between being adored and being loved and understood. Big difference.   "'I don't really have super-pointed answers to the big questions. I'm just in the middle of a mystery myself. I'm not even that developed at having a real psycho-religeous epistemology about what I feel. All I can tell you is that I feel. It's just the same old fitht to constantly be aware. It's an ongoing thing. It'll never be a static perfect thing or a static mediocre thing, it just has it's rise and fall.'" The following chapter has been transcribed from Shambhala Publishers' _Inside the Music: Conversations with Contemporary Musicians about Spirtuality, Creativity and Consciousness_, by Dimitri Ehrlich; ISBN #1-57062-273-6

[thatfestivallife]

Girls all in independent designers: Kokomo Design perspex dress, Palace Flophouse skirt & Duvet Days trousers & Rosa Bloom top!

Delicious music, culinary delights, more than a dollop of cultcha and an escape to the far-flung deserts of Morroco at the end of miserable March?? I didn’t need much persuading to ‘buy the ticket and take the ride’ to the innaugral Beat Hotel festival, in Marrakech.

The Beat Hotel was already well known to me for their big venue near Glastonbury’s pyramid stage – but apart from a few showers of rain over the weekend, this offering, couldn’t have been much further from its Pilton partner…

Those Festival Facts

What? Beat Hotel Marrakech “A long weekend of live music, DJs, one-off culinary collaborations and a talks programme featuring some of today’s great minds and voices.” Inspired by the ‘Beat Generation’ of poets and authors.

Where? The Fellah Hotel, a 20-minute drive outside of Marrakech in Morrocco…. my first festival in Africa! (ticked that off the bucket list!)

When? This year it was the last weekend of March – 2020 festival not confirmed yet. It ran Thursday through Sunday with music and wellness programming from 9am – 4am.

Who? Organisers are Brits and the audience (in my experience!) were mainly from the UK with a smattering of locals and attendees from across the globe to make up the neat 2000 capacity. 

Set in the Fellah Hotel, a 25 minute drive from the outside central Marrakech, the festival site was a resort made up of winding paths lined with rosemary and cactuses, cosy bedouin tents decorated with golden lamps and opulent Moroccan textiles, shimmering swimming pools and hidden indoor rooms. Within this paradise, the programming blended together the worlds of art, literature, wellness, and music.

“Follow your inner moonlight”

Skip straight to practical tips for attending Beat Hotel next year!

Undoubtedly ’boutique’ (whatever that even means any more!), this isn’t a trait I’d usually be mega keen on but here it came with the territory, a festival held in a 5-star resort is gonna have a 5-star feel! The resort setting reminded me a little of beach festivals I’ve been to in India like Sunsplash but 20 times more lavish…

What was best about this boutique-ness was the size. Apparently, a compact 2000 revellers attended Beat Hotel, which was super intimate compared to Oasis, a techno festival on the same site which has a cool 8000 guests! Whilst having the classic where have we met before / have we met before? chat with a fellow dancer on the first night…. he hit the nail on the head when he said it was the best festival he’d been to in years because it recaptured a feeling “like someone had put on a party for you and your mates”.

Thursday Opening Concert

After a day of taking in the gardens and museums of the festival’s culture-rich neighbouring city (stay tuned for my Marrakech itinerary!) we headed for our first evening at the Beat Hotel site just in time for the magnificent red and pink clad Deep Throat Choir in the ‘Interzone’, a beautifully dressed clear marquee that served as the festival’s main stage.

I’d wanted to catch them for ages after seeing their live session video from Greenman festival…  the combined raw power of their amazing voices singing original material and choice covers like Little Dragon’s Ritual Union was such a perfect opening to the festival. 

Deep Throat Choir

In homage to the festival’s home, The Master Magicians of Jajouka were next… which was an experience. They are a legendary family from rural Morocco who play some of the oldest musical styles still preserved on the planet! At first we thought the complex rhythms and the loud wail of their instruments (imagine the sound of 20 bagpipes, if they were Morrocan?!?) was a pretty strange choice for a 2 – hour – booking when this was the only stage open….!

BUT we decided to get stuck in at the front of the crowd and actually it was amazing… to punctuate the 4000-year-old music a small man in a fur-covered costume came onto the stage (basically their hype man) and had us totally transfixed. apparently, he was the fertility goat and everyone he hit with his stick in the crowd would soon be with child!!! Queue side eyes for two of our mates who got a solid smack…

Closing was Awesome Tapes from Africa – and he did not lie, they were awesome tapes! If you have never heard of this selector and label owner, he mixes only on cassette and has a huge collection of rare tapes that he has found from all over Africa ranging from traditional music to African disco and pop, which were all blended seamlessly and left us at the end of the night with sore feet and raucous shouts of “one more cassette, one more cassette!”

Friday Photo Tour

On Friday I headed into the medina for a tour with “conscious creative collective”; Patternity.  I’m not usually one for guided tours, preferring to get to know a place myself, but with limited time for exploration this was actually a perfect opportunity to be spoon fed a speedy introduction to the city and connect with the area we were in before fully submerging ourselves into festival fun… and a nice chance to meet fellow festival goers!

View from the carpet shop roof…

Two of many cats on the Cat-ernity tour

Touring the beautiful tiled Dar El Bacha museum

We met at a beautiful palace turned museum for some tile goodness, wandered around souks, got a tour of a carpet shop, gathered on rooftops for mint tea and enjoyed a demonstration of Moroccan tinctures in an apothecary… Anna from Patternity was a wonderful host and it was definitely one of the best decisions I made on the trip – all festival should have a local tour on the first day!

We finished up with cocktails on the rooftop of some fancy riad and then I hopped in a taxi to site with some girls I met on the tour just in time for sunset over the pool… 

Malika & cocktails by the pool

Zac in the lazzzers

The Friday headliners were Maribou State who were extreme levels of lush as always, a more intimate version of the magical first time I saw them, dragged to the front row of the main stage at Secret Garden Party… 

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                  🌞 @mariboustate at @beat_hotel with all my gorgeous pals 🌞 #BeatHotel#ThatFestivalLife

A post shared by Dulcie Horn (@du1cie) on Apr 17, 2019 at 11:00am PDT

Later on, we headed through the winding paths to a tucked away stretch tent that housed the second stage ‘San Remo’ which was absolutely bouncing for Andrew Weatherall. We drank ‘Ballantines Moroccan mules’ from the sponsored bar next to the stage –  there were plenty of brand partners on site but luckily it was done in a classy not overbearing way (reminding me a bit of Magnetic Fields festival actually).

The interzone adorned with Morroccan lamps.

Closed the night dancing to Hunee from the pyramid stacked next to the main stage, reminiscent of the Glastonbury Beat Hotel…  Made it home and had an impromptu house party (riad party?) with a group of our lovely neighbours.

Saturday Showers

Saturday evening started with some torrential downpour and classically getting to the festival later than we meant to meant we missed a talk from Irvine Welsh (the Irvine Welsh!!) and ‘disco naps yoga’ in the wellness area Spiritlab which sounded like just what I needed tbh…

Speakers Corner

Luckily we hadn’t missed all of the non-musical entertainment and popped in to listen to a bit of a talk in the Speaker’s Corner from Scottish writer John Niven and a lounge on the luscious Morrocan rugs in the space… 

The skies cleared so we headed to the San Reo for some reggae by the pool… Shout out to the best food on site, the Berber and Q stall by the San Remo bar, I had a DELICIOUS mezze plate which was 1 zillion times more amazing than the photo shows… plus top marks and bonus points for silver plates and real cutlery – the rest on site is plastic, unfortunately.

Steph by the pool

Berber & Q Mezze DELICIOUSNESS

Emma’s nailzzz

Full of food and heavy with last night’s excesses we sheltered again in the Speakers Corner for a really interesting discussion on “Music, Fiction and Mythology” from another Scottish Author (the theme of the day!?) David Keenan and last night’s best DJ Andrew Weatherall.

As the lamps were lit and the sun went down the rain came back with a vengeance (go to Morrocco for your holiday they said!) and Friday night was still taking its toll so I went for dinner #2, a veeery delish lentil, beetroot and goats cheese salad with sautéed potatoes… and then just as everyone was discussing calling it a night I decided to book a tarot card reading for 1.30am…!!

San Remo closed due to the rain and the terrain so all of the programming was moved into the pool / bar building to make a club-esque setting.  As some of our pals went home we stayed for an amazing night of dancing at the Ransom Note takeover, punctuated by a couple of intense tarot card readings with David Keenan – our third Scottish from earlier!

Tarot Reading with *** in the beautiful Beat Hotel Tea Room

The last dance

Got to site late again… the problems of having your own super luxurious riad and a fridge full of food and booze!

I would have loved to have caught the writing and drawing workshops in Speaker’s Corner – but that is my constant refrain at all festivals… I always wanna do all the workshops in the morning but unfortunately, I also wanna party all night and these things don’t always go hand in hand! We got there just in time for an incredible, intense set from Young Fathers who totally blew me away.

Young Fathers

Beat Hotel

With San Remo back in action, we danced to whoever the excellent Dj was there around midnight and settled into the best night of the festival… 

Me and my friend Amie stumbled on the secret room, which was above the pool bar – but apparently had moved from underneath the San Remo building into the pool bar when it rained which was originally where the cinema had originally been (wrap yer head around that)…

My favourite set of the festival was from another unknown DJ in the secret room who opened with Bronski Beat and later played a timely Prodigy track to a wild crowd (of about 30) and two tracks of the drum n bass I’d been hoping for all weekend… someone put a star sticker on my face, someone else gave me a branch of rosemary to brandish like a shaman… it was so great.

The rest of the evening included a lot of cocktails, rolling around on the beds beside the pool and disappearing for an hour because I was learning Arabic and chatting football with the medical staff…

Amie in her Duvet Days halter

We found the full crew at the main stage for the close and danced for the rest of the night (to Gerd Jansen? Maybe? There’s a theme here…) The night ended in a stage invasion and us enveloping each other into a giant group hug – bringing that proper festival flavour I have mainly only experienced in UK fields 💖

San Reno vibes

It was wonderful…  so smooth for an inaugural year in a very culturally different country.  They obviously cared about their audience, all the staff were lovely – for example, there were plenty on hand at the end of each night checking if people could get home okay.  You could tell they’ve done festivals before, accreditation was soo smooth, the info point was informative, it rained but the stages were all undercover and any hiccups that came along (unavoidable in a festival first year) were dealt with really well.

More toilets would have been great – and compost loos would be even better,  I would have liked it if they had booked a few more females across the programming… and I would have liked to have dipped my toe in some more of the wellness and Speaker’s Corner, but that might be my own fault for not getting out of bed sooner! Attention to detail like secret rooms and offsite activities meant it was so much more than just a music festival…. can’t wait to relive it at the Glastonbury version in a couple of months!! 

Top tips for Visiting Beat Hotel Festival in Marrakech

Getting to the Beat Hotel

There are loads of reasonably priced flights into the local airport Marrakech (RAK) – I flew from Stanstead and then returned to Bristol. Getting from the airport to your accommodation might not be quite as easy though – we’re pretty sure everyone in our group got separately mugged off for our taxi fare… to top it off, we didn’t even have the right address for our riad, doh! Our driver did give us oranges and play some bangin Arabic tunes in the taxi though so all was forgiven…

Where to stay in Marrakech

So, we booked a couple of months in advance as we were out there for a mate’s 30th… we struck gold on our accommodation and had an incredible riad, 11 of us with a huge pool, massive kitchen and a gorgeous rooftop overlooking the Atlas mountains! And it was just over £100 each for 6 nights… If you’re in a big group I would highly recommend hunting on Airbnb to see what comes up. Most of the accommodation in town wasn’t as private as this was so it was worth being a bit out of town – it was about half an hour drive South of the city but only 10 minutes South of the festival site. 

Tricky to leave your hotel when it looks like this…

If you’re on your own or in a pair it would probably make more sense to stay in town because of traveling into the festival each day, which leads me on to… 

Getting around in Marrakech

This bit is important! We struck gold with our riad location and the fact that it came with a driver. We got one free return ride into town / the festival a day and then could book later pick-ups with our legendary taxi driver Ismael. 

Top tips for getting around the city and getting to the festival:

Do a bit of research on how you’re gonna get in and out of the festival, see if your accommodation can recommend your transport.

Make friends with people staying close to you and buddy up to make it cheaper. It could be a pain in the butt and really sting you for cash if you haven’t organised it properly.

The festival did put on a shuttle which you could buy a wristband for – I didn’t get it myself so can’t really feedback but speaking to people it was apparently quite sporadic and only stopped at a few places so depending where you were staying you’d probably have to find a taxi to get you through the middle of town.

Getting around town itself whilst sightseeing is pretty easy as long as you know the names of the places you’re going.

Make sure you haggle with your taxi!

Taxis can’t go down most of the winding souks and streets (but watch out for mopeds!) so download Marrakech onto the HERE we go app and mark all your landmarks on it before you’re out of wifi – this top tip courtesy of Sophie from Saints on a Plane!!

I had a couple of experiences when I was stopped in taxis from the city by a police blockade at the end of the road to the festival – the driver was made to get out and once I was… Still not entirely sure what it was all about and it felt really sketchy. 

What to bring and what to wear

Weather-wise you can expect temperatures in the 20s but dropping down to about 10 at night so come prepared for both! If you’re unlucky like us it could also be a wee bit rainy… 

I packed one small sized cabin bag for the duration of the trip and brought the following stuff to Beat Hotel: 

Modest clothes for exploring the city – Morrocco is a Muslim country so keep your legs, shoulders etc covered when wandering the city.

But less modest clothes/bikinis etc. totally acceptable for the festival site, like Lannah’s Kokomo ‘Sunset Boulevard’ perspex dress above! 

Swimwear.

Light jacket for the evening – I brought a denim jacket which was enough to keep me warm in the chillier nights but I could have done with a scarf too.

Bumbag for the festival – I brought my trusty tasseled Beksies Boutique Bum Bag.

What to Eat and drink

The food offering is not mega veggie friendly but there were a few good options which I’ve mentioned above! The stalls were run by the popular Marrakech restaurants Nomad, Cafe De Espices & Le Jardin and there was also the Berber & Q stall running int the day time. You should expect to pay UK festival prices for meals. As well as the stalls Beat Hotel also curated a series of pre-bookable banquets but at £80 a pop these were a bit out of our price range. 

The Beat Hotel bars were plentiful but did run out of stock a few times and the cocktail bar staff had noooo idea what was going on for the first few days!! Was kiiind of funny being brought the wrong drinks three times in a row until I remembered I was paying a tenner a go… you aren’t allowed to bring your own supplies in so we spent a lot on the bar… 

Also worth noting that Morrocco is a Muslim country so there aren’t a huge amount of places in town that serve alcohol. As we were in self-catered accommodation we bought all our food and drink from a local Carrefour which did serve booze.  

Money! What to bring and what you can expect to spend… 

The festival is totally cashless, my first experience with RFID wristbands! It was actually really smooth and pretty nifty but I did spend a lot, especially considering I was having most of my meals and drinks back at our accommodation. I topped up on site but the wristbands could be pre-loaded before the festival which meant you got a bonus and the chance for a refund.

£1 = 80 dirham

It’s a closed currency in Morroco so your best bet is just to get your ‘dirham’ for the ciy and taxis etc. from an ATM when you get to the airport – bring emergency cash to exchange in case your card doesn’t work or that ATM’s at the airport are out of use!

Personal Safety

As with all other festival travel – be extra careful if you’re indulging, keep your passport, spare money etc. safe at your accommodation. A good idea is to whatsapp your friends a scan of your passport and your flight ticket details and make sure you get travel insurance!!

Some specific advice to Beat Hotel Marrakech:

As explained above, get your taxis sorted, watch out for getting scammed – haggling is a part of life here don’t be shy to walk away if you don’t think the price is good, it will usually be agreed to if it looks like you’re leaving! 

Cover up – there were a lot of similarities between the covered streets of the souks to the winding markets of India, but in India it’s just never-ending staring, in Marrakech it was lewd words muttered by most men we passed and swear words shouted at us down the street when I glared at them… not pleasant!

Be careful in the Medina at night time – I only went in the day and I don’t think I’d be comfortable on my own at night at all. 

Similar to the urchins at Love International festival… this time watch out for the spiky cactuses!! If you do get some in your leg/arm/butt just pop into the lovely friendly guys in the well equipped medical room, they’ll have it out in a jiffy and if you’re lucky like me they might give you an Arabic lesson in the meantime! 

Some more general Marrakech tips coming soon in a separate post… you can find more festivals around the world here! xx

Beat Hotel Festival, Marrakech Morocco '19 Delicious music, culinary delights, more than a dollop of cultcha and an escape to the far-flung deserts of Morroco at the end of miserable March??