By Quirke, Antonia
New Statesman (1996) , Vol. 138, No. 4958
Radio 1's coverage of T in the Park (10-12 July, intermittent) was mostly preoccupied with establishing which of the presenters had had a "moment", and during which band's set.
Reggie Yates's moment came when he first saw Lady Gaga's silver moped. Edith Bowman's happened care of the ever-tender Doves. Nick Grimshaw's occurred out front, waiting for the Killers to start. The dogged Grimshaw even tried to get the Las Vegas-born Killers frontman, Brandon Flowers, to reveal precisely what kind of a moment he'd had up there in front of 80,000 people -these days they interview the big acts the second they come off stage, like it's Wimbledon--but Flowers, as tiny and pristine as a bellhop in a Disney Christmas special (OK, I may have had the TV on, too), demurred politely. At least he had some idea where he was. "Our bellies are full of haggis and Buckfast!" he'd shouted to the crowd, which means he'd definitely looked up Scotland on Wikipedia. Unlike Lady Gaga, who'd come out, considered the rolling hills of Kinross, and yelled: "HELLO LONDON!"
T in the Park is easily the best festival of the summer, attended exclusively by people who manage to convert the hours of monotonous waiting into what sounds like one long euphoric roar of truth, doubtless enhanced by the strong Glaswegian pills they just chonged back in the tent while listening to "Clutching at Straws" by Marillion. Then there are the compulsory feasts of burgers, fried on site in their delicious thousands, as though the entire US Marine Corps were attending, too, drumming their knives against tin plates and shouting, "MEAT MEAT!" All of which is heaven compared to, say, the dreaded Latitude in Suffolk, which hosts a zillion Islingtonians forcing Bugaboos past Elbow and goading each other to even greater suffering--such as hearing Mark Thomas talk about the exploitation of migrant workers as they stay oblivious to the herds of teenage Poles bussed in to patrol the rows of fetid loos. …