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| Eugene Hutz of Gogol Bordello - Photo by Ella Biddlecombe |
On Sunday night at Womad with baited breath we, my twelve-year old daughter, my wife and myself, awaited the arrival of Gogol Bordello on stage. Arriving a good hour before they were due on, we had thereby secured a spot right at the very front, in the middle. All seemed well, until a thirtyish looking man with dreadlocks came over and started talking about how rough it can get at a Gogol Bordello gig and how a mosh pit develops and how he didn’t want any Daily Telegraph readers to get hurt. Although unnerved by his talk of gigs in Brighton that just went completely mad, we felt happy to stay where we were. Anyway, why should anyone listen to a middle-class white boy with dreadlocks who has just insulted everyone around him by referring to them as ‘Daily Telegraph readers’, twit.
It is getting closer to the start of the set, and the area around us is filling up; dreadlock boy has abandoned his efforts to scare people into giving up their place at the front, and the tension is starting to increase as the press photographers are allowed into the small gap between stage and audience. They come out with most of them wearing false moustaches in honour of Eugene Hutz, leader of the Gogol Bordello madness.
The band hit the stage, Eugene is wearing a T-shirt that says ‘No Human is “Illegal”’ and tartan trousers rolled up to his knees, and they launch into a set of great dynamic tunes, ranging from the sweetest melodies played on violin and accordion that could gently rock you to sleep, to heart-thumping, full-speed-ahead punk rock tunes that engage your whole being in motion. It is rough, with lots of pushing and shoving, and I am thankful for the moments of peace and relative tranquillity, like the beginning of ‘Start Wearing Purple’, it allowed some breathing space before the madness begins again.
All is going fairly well until Eugene decides to bring himself, his bottle of red wine and his microphone into the audience, right in front of us. This is an interesting development as suddenly all the people who were previously happy to dance and sing along, now want to reach out and touch Eugene, perhaps share some of his wine, but generally be a lot nearer to him. The crush that develops means that I am forced away from the barrier and back a couple of places into the crowd. This means I no longer have a secure barrier to hang onto and as the waves of people are carried back and forth, so, to some extent, am I. Eugene goes back up on stage and the pushing and shoving subsides. But then they play ‘Immigraniada’ and the pit reaches a crescendo of craziness. Some guy wants out, and instead of trying to push his way through the crowd asks to be lifted up so he can crowd surf to the front, only a few feet away, and be taken away from the action by security, lazy sod.
At Womad they run a very tight ship, each stage has a clock visible to the performers, and everyone has to start on time, because they will be finishing on time. This means that I can see the minutes ticking away, and although I was having an absolutely fantastic time there came a point when I just wanted the physicality, the struggle to stay on your feet, and the effort required not losing your shoes, to end. After one encore it did.
It felt like I had survived a battle, and shared a happiness and exhilaration with all the other survivors around me. We were amazed at the energy and wonder that had been created on stage and in the audience. The singing, the head-banging, the pushing back and forth, the elbows, the straining forward to get nearer to the star, the getting splattered with red wine and the tension and danger all combined to make it a really intense and exciting experience.
But please don’t ask me to do it again, I will be fifty years old in three weeks time and I think dying trampled underfoot in a mosh pit might not be the best way to go. Although of course it depends whose playing, if it’s Gogol Bordello then perhaps it might be a fitting end for an old punk.
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