Wireless is The Festival For People Who Haven't Been To a Festival

Last year, after Wireless festival came to a close, Facebook timelines across the country were inundated with prophetic statuses that proclaimed, “This weekend was the best weekend of my whole life!!!”

It’s a pretty bold statement. I wondered, is Wireless the mecca of human enjoyment? A place free from the constraints of post-modern society where multitudes of people can get along, regardless of their echelon status? A Woodstock for the Capital FM generation? Or, is it just an alternative venue for the 24 year-old guys who still head to the Stratford Centre to chirpse girls? A human think-tank experiment, which will ultimately end in someone getting stabbed?

It turned out to be the latter. But we went along anyway.

This year, the Yahoo sponsored festival took up residency in Olympic Park, which gave use to what is ultimately a building site, if only the BBC cameras were allowed to pan out further than the Lower Lea Valley stadium.

The entrance to the event winded through Westfield, which meant that River Island bedecked self-proclaimed rascals could huff several nitrous oxide balloons next to a Jamie’s Italian.

We enter the festival to the sound of a triangulated ninja lady parading around on stage, who we later realise is Ke$ha, the originator of currency themed monikers. Ke$ha recently drank her own piss, and now she’s performing to pissed up teenagers, drunk on Glen’s vodka and warm coke. It’s hard to imagine people having fun while listening to this music. But it’s easy to see that they are, as they unite, like a pop culture army, fearlessly mouthing all the wrong words and putting their hands in the air when instructed.

Over the weekend, 155,580 photos with the #Wireless tag were uploaded to Instagram. It was easy to see why, as the backdrop of concrete and over-expensive eateries provided a perfect decor for amateur street style photography.

As we walked around, it became clear that #Wireless wasn’t just a hashtag. It was a belief. Lots of people were here, almost begging to be consumed by the festival experience. They’d bought inappropriate headgear, slushed a gallon of red wine, and one girl was even wearing wellies. In exchange they received a paper wristband and an arena made of fake grass, all amidst a bootleg recording of Capital FM’s A-list. It wasn’t a bad thing, though. It just meant that the whole event felt like a stretch toward something which was ultimately unachievable.

Next up was Miguel, who didn’t put his balls in anyone’s face. He did, however, play his most famous song “Adorn” for about fifteen minutes, which would have been fun, if anyone knew the words.

After Miguel, we decided to explore the site. It was easy to forget that there was music at Wireless Festival, when they had a zipwire that went from one side of Hackney to the other. However, while it was easy to escape the music, it was hard to escape the brands, who took over the entirety of the festival site like a Caldesene rash powder.

There was a tattoo parlour, which, after having seen a similar Kinder Egg themed venue in Poland the other week, seemed to be a fashionable attempt from the brands of tomorrow, keen to nurture their unwitted fanbase by giving them tattoos that they would regret the next morning.

I didn’t go to this place as I could already feel the pounds falling out of my pocket as I wafted closer.

Refreshment lifeguards were even giving out festival brand Tic-Tacs. In case you can’t tell from my really good photography, there’s a picture of one above. And in case you cared, they were giving out a month’s supply of the bastardised little pills over at the Tic Tac Tub stage, which was fronted by a blonde pool guard singing a clean version of “99 Problems”. Which one could assume went along the lines of “I’ve got 99 problems, but fresh breath ain’t one”.

However, corporate sponsorship at these kinds of festivals is something you just have to put up with. Without it, they’d never be able to afford a line-up of massive US acts and we’d be stuck watching Snow Patrol every summer from now until Gary Lightbody died of cirrhosis. So It’s not the sponsorship at Wireless that’s awkward, it’s the whiff of desperation. Britain’s third most popular mobile network, it’s seventh most popular website, it’s third most popular cola brand all desperately trying to hurl logos around the place in order to hoist up their sagging market share. In Frank Ocean’s set the Yahoo! logo flashed up in the middle of the screen during songs, as if the music was just a frustrating pop-up for the brand invasion.

That wasn’t the only bewildering thing about Frank’s set. Perhaps naively, we’d assumed that Channel Orange was a Guardian reader’s Sunday afternoon Gin and Tonic album. But having seen Frank a couple of times this week we now realise he’s basically Harry Styles to women in their late 20s. He came on stage to deafeningly shrill screams which refused to abide when he actually started singing. So Frank’s tender, stunningly crafted songs become glottal sing-alongs, an ASOS army screaming “IF IT BRINGS ME TO MY KNEEEEEEEEEEES, IT’S A BAD RELIGION”. Frank seems to take it all pretty well, grinning at the crowd and crip walking in the breakdown of “Sweet Life”.

Sunday

The strange thing about Wireless is that both headline acts - Justin and Jay Z - played on all three nights, with both artists guesting in each others separate sets, before playing their Legends Of The Summer finale on the Sunday. This meant that those with tickets for all three days, had three doses of two of the biggest artists of the summer. We didn’t want to overdose on the “Suit & Tie” partnership, though, and opted to head back on the Sunday, missing Saturday’s shenanigans.

We arrive to the sound of CBBC presenter themed hip-hop group, Rizzle Kicks, who play a new song, which sounds exactly like the rest of their songs. Mid-way through the set, they mix in what are meant to sound like ad-libbed versions of “Killing In The Name Of” and “That’s The Way I Like It”, which, to their credit, sound incredibly well rehearsed. The main stage at any festival can be a tough crowd, but Rizzle Kicks, who are designed to fit somewhere in between an episode of X Factor and TOWIE, go down like a tropical VK after a half an hour queue at a bar.

After Rizzle Kicks came A$AP Rocky. He put in a good performance, opening with “1Train”. But, the crowd looked bored, facilitated by West London girls who were sunning themselves like they were mid-way through a SPF 50 aided catch-up session on top of Parliament Hill. As opposed to, you know, watching one of the most exciting hip-hop artists in years.

This trend continued with Joey Bada$$, who played to a smaller crowd than he deserved. It seems strange, that other hip-hop artists, E.G, A Tribe Called Quest, would play their only UK date at such a commercialised event. But, after watching several performances today, it’s clear that the fundamental motive of Wireless is the large amounts of sponsor paid money behind the event, or the chance to play to a mainstream crowd above which each artist is capable of handling.

It doesn’t matter though, as both Joey and Tribe do the important bit and play two of the best sets of the weekend, even if their audience are too busy to notice. In between the two, we also catch a bit of Katy B, who managed to sound like all of the best bits of Rinse FM made for the people who don’t know what Rinse FM is. Which is a really back-handed compliment, but it was the best that I could come up with.

At times, it wasn’t clear what was going on at Wireless. When we discovered that their unattended cash machines were out of order, it was if they didn’t want us to spend any more money on branded merchandise. Which was a really great perk in between the-dearer-than-glastonbury eight pound burger stand, or the four pints for 20 pound bar.

However, the best part of the weekend, and how could it not be, was The Legends Of Summer finale. Opening the first ever date on their first ever joint tour, Justin sang on the right side of casual lothario, having both the girls and the boys debating who they would really be leaving with once the night was over, while Jay Z stood at the back, contemplating just how much money he’ll be pocketing. However, although he felt the need to fade down the straight thuggism of “Dirt Off Your Shoulder” to appeal to the White Converse crowd, by intersecting it with the much more radio friendly Jackson 5, Jay generally proved his stand-point of being perhaps the best live performance rapper of the generation. Even if he’s too calculatedly modest in real life to admit it.

When Justin’s on stage with Jay he looks absolutely thrilled to be there. Being allowed to utter little “uhs” and “whats?” next to an IRL hip-hop superstar is all he wanted since he first shaved off his Jewfro and started befriending Snoop Dogg. After a decade he’s finally been accepted as one of the lads. He loves being with Jay so much he spends half the set just playing third guitar or plonking a bit of piano. It’s really cute.

It’s also worth saying that in a field where Hollister shorts and rapey aviators are basically uniform, Justin is still the worst dressed man at Wireless by a mile. He’s got a kind of weird heart t-shirt and a fedora, like someone who hangs out at those bars on Greek Street where it’s always happy hour.

None of that is particularly important when he’s singing “Cry Me A River” or “Mirrors”, two of the best songs ever written, in pitch-perfect performances that make you question why any other pop stars even bother showing up for work in the morning.

Meanwhile Jay-Z’s crowdpleasing new material turns out to be unsurprisingly crowd pleasing, with “Tom Ford” one of the big hits of the night.

But the pair are at their best when they’re at the soppiest, and Justin’s two verses of Sinatra’s “New York, New York” into Jay’s pean to the same city is about as soppy as hip-hop can get. Rihanna pops out to do “Run This Town” after, while Justin reminds us of that time he once brought sexy back, and before you know it everyone’s weaving between the Yahoo! Flags trying to get home before the Overground stops running.

Essentially, at Wireless you get what you pay for. Even if that meant paying more for a VIP ticket which catered to Very Imaginary Players among the crowd. In between all the expected commercialised adverts, however, seeps a trickle of really good music. It’s not enough to entertain the more leftfield festival goer, but when the majority genuinely think that watching will.i.am is the best thing to happen to them, it’s hardly surprising. Instead, the bill is packed with a who’s who of the pre-drinks playlist, and for that reason, the Yahoo Wireless Festival really is the best event out there for people who don’t really care what they’re listening to, so long as they’re getting fucked, and the next day, can tell all their mates about it via a social network status sent out to no one in particular.

Follow Ryan and Sam on Twitter @RyanBassil @SamWolfson

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