Dodgy spelling from the A Rum Do programme aside, there's nothing uncertain about Hereford's The Anomalies who kick the absolute arse out of anything we've seen all weekend. From the moment their beat boxer comes onstage and gets a decidedly un-hip-hop crowd screaming like schoolgirls (see our YouTube videos for evidence of his skills) to when rappers Mouth Master Murf and Goldseal dive into the audience and freestyle about whatever they see, they cut a path through a gobsmacked audience who've packed up all the chairs and tables just so they can have a dance.
DJ Mayhem and singers Chrissie Ego and Lo provide ample support for the inspired yapping of the three boys, Lo's soulful lungs in particular filling the Spiegeltent and adding shape to the raps. Either through artful bashfulness or genuine lack of tunes, the band haven't got an encore (hotly shrieked for by the Spiegeltent) so they do one of their songs again. Someone needs to get their sticky hands on this lot, they're bursting with talent and, lyrically, they're as sharp as knives.
From what we saw of it on Friday, Hereford hasn't done anything NEAR good enough to warrant keeping this lot locked there forever. Check them out at www.myspace.com/theanomalies.
Well, in other news we've packed up the tent and said goodbye to our plans for seeing Bugz In The Attic or Quantic just so's we can get back to London before we turn into pumpkins. Naturally, the sun is now streaming over everything. Bloody typical. See you next time A Rum Do...
We've just hit pie overload. Pieminister is now joining the Fine Burger Company as stalls we can't look at for at least six months due to a combination of greed and loyalty. You've served us well, O delicious purveyor of food, but we're going to have to start eating veg again soon.
Leeza Jessie start off promisingly - how does that hat stay on her head? - but don't deliver. The fourpiece are all beautifully decked out in fluorescent bow ties and the like, but the music's all over the place. Their singer's voice isn't strong enough for the rock numbers and not pure enough to match the skilful guitarist on the acoustic ones. Shame, her outfit is brilliant and she has tremendous false eyelashes.
Back in the Spiegeltent, this time for Australian singer songwriter Nicole Mcentyre. She's a bit like Tracy Chapman around the time she did 'Fast Car' and was still good.
There's a nice Sunday afternoon crowd in here, families and hungover musos cradling beers and pies. Oh god, pies. It's like being in a much better pub, sitting in a booth surrounded by the mirrors and with all the stained glass channeling the light into pretty colours. Yep, we're at the colours stage. There's only so much rain you can take before your brain turns into mush. Or mash. Damn, that pie smells good. Back to Pieminister we go...
Firstly, go to http://www.rebelado.co.uk and have a look at Rebelado's site. There is a vision called Militsa in the dancer's gallery who had every, and I mean EVERY man in the 300 capacity Spiegel tent on their feet agog with unadulterated awe.
I was among those slack-jawed neanderthals - and the image of her pert rear gyrating to those sweet samba rhythms will stay with me until my dying day.
Less exotic, and frankly, slightly less impressive than pure Brazillian sex, was Rodney P and Skitz, who played a blinder of a set in the Green Room. There was a heat of a different kind in this last minute replacement venue; the combined heat of dozens of sweaty bodies dancing to hip hop and jungle. Interesting to note, DJ afficionados, that Skitz played his entire set on CD, meaning the mixing was a bit choppy, but beat-perfect. Vinyl is dying, my friends, and I am less than happy about it.
The Extraordinaires deserve special mention (http://www.extraordinaires.co.uk) - these boys put on a show so good, the crowd literally would not let them stop. There were people jiving all over the shop, many showing a stunning disregard for the physical safety of their dance partners. Whilst jiving should probably not be attempted by blind-drunk amateurs, if you're having a mutually consensual fun, who the hell cares?
The Geisha Tent was the venue of choice for after-hours sleazy fun. My memories of this den of delicious iniquity are hazy at best, but, to quote Monty Python, "A nod's as good as a wink to a blind bat."
Oh, alright then... If my memory serves, a geisha in a betasselled dress was shaking her thang in the lap of a chap who seemed quite pleased about the whole affair, but the fancy dress theme of the festival meant that it could well have been just another festival-goer.
The tent was so packed, people were sitting in the raised pebble gardens. There was talk of a much-vaunted "sushi train", which was supposed to be the cat's miaow. But I saw ne'er a track or chopstick. People were probably sitting on it, or in it.
If you ever have the chance to experience the Geisha Tent at a future Rumdo date, it comes highly recommended by your Gallant Researcher. I brave this toil, gentle readers, so I can serve you better.
It's hazy this morning: people are already packing up to leave which is weird considering Bugz In The Attic and Quantic, arguably the two biggest names on the bill, aren't playing until later this evening.
We stop by the production office in the hopes of sneaking some toast, where we're greeted by some white faced creatures who used to be Vashti and Dan, two of the organisers. Jim, having crawled back to Camp Aloud at gone six this morning, looks alarmingly healthy by comparison. We'd feel crap about being in bed by one, but if Aloud doesn't get their eight hours, Bad Things Happen. So we eat some pie instead.
Having booked our tickets for the A Rum Do cabaret at the first possible instant on Friday, we were looking forward to some nonsense and some glamour all wrapped up in a haze of red wine and moustaches. Instead, we stood for ages in the rain while the world's most glamorous queue became increasingly irate as the show gets pushed back and back.
Everyone's patience gets stretched to molecular levels when the door staff start rather nervously calling out for everyone to shunt across to the left (the pushing in side) and that no tickets were given out for those who'd reserved. "Chairman Miaow is not pleased!" barks a woman in a Marilyn wig, clutching a toy cat. This is the sort of crowd you don't want to get mad. They'd probably lipstick you.
Inevitably, security gives up and opens the doors to the masses, which pisses everyone off even more but as we're all finally indoors this is promptly forgotten in favour of grabbing seats. The Splott Brothers kick everything off brilliantly, swinging full pint glasses around their heads and proving that a dotty looking man in a fez and another one armed with a piano will make everyone happy. That aside, acts tonight had a cranky audience, and repeatedly shouting for everyone to shut up didn't endear any of them any more. Jewish comedian Sol Bernstein makes a few close to the knuckle jokes which go well, but then spends the rest of his act going "I'm old!" and "Shuddap you f***ermothers!" when heckled by the front rows for not actually telling any gags. Oh well.
The Extraordinaires, set for a full-length gig later, enchant everyone with their tight harmonies and beaming grins, in stark contrast to Jokate Benson's earlier anti-man ranting which palled after one song. Blues good, bad songs, bad. Lord Velvet And His Dangerous Snake make some mad noises with drums and a keyboard. It's utterly bonkers and strangely brilliant. A stag and hen dance on tables cheered on by their Moulin Rouge buddies, then what looks like a school drum troupe comes on. Oh wait, it's the finale and in addition to the Girl Guides onstage there's a lady in some sparkly bits of nothing grinning and jiggling her bits in envy-making fashion. "I might buy one of those glittery thingies," says the old lady next to us, angling her camera to get a close-up. Rock on missus.
Raucous applause, then the tables are shoved back and everyone starts dancing. Aloud shake our moneymaker to 'Superstition' then our eyelids fall over our chin and it's time to go to bed. We're passing the baton to Jim. Snore...
Kid Carpet and his cherished Casio keyboard have managed to draw the most varied dress we've seen all day. From the ringmaster flogging laughing gas from the canister in his pocket to the Top Gun graduation day sailor, everyone who's been lurking in their tents during the rain has emerged clad in, well, everything.
Carpet's trademark bouncy pop, Fisher Price samples and complete lack of regard for time and cool go down like cider. It's batty, brilliant and almost makes you feel like you're not about to die of cold. Bless him.
With the Geisha tent pushed back til 9 we catch some rather yawn hip-hop on the outdoor stage before diving into the A Rum Do Spiegeltent for the Victorian delights of Come Into My Parlour. Maybe it's the chaos of mirrors but it's hard to keep up. More like 30s night at Cafe Rouge, only nobody's drunk enough to find it any fun.
Earlier we tried to persuade two of their men to go and freak out some blokes tripping on acid. In exchange they showed us their "lady pleasurers": a tickler made from the pubic hair of 3000 flamingos (or five quids worth of Claire's Accessories) and something that apparently requires a drill to make it work. "It requires a delicate hand," said its inventor, resplendent in white face paint and funeral dress. "Lady or gentlemen, we don't generalise." Either way, Aloud runs far, far away before we get introduced to Messrs Black and Decker.
A cluster of mournful soot-coated children are now handing round lavender. We're getting horrible flashbacks to our brother's school version of Oliver Twist. Better that than The Water Babies. Oh god, The Water Babies...
Hip hop trio Lower Case are brightening up the gloomy day considerably. It's either that or the energy injection of several cans of red bull.
Major kudos to them for their encore. After freestyling for a bit, they started rapping the words to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme, over what i'm relatively certain the kids would refer to as a "phat beat".
Not to sound panicked or indeed alcoholic but we're running out of vodka. This wouldn't be a problem if the rain hadn't started up again with all the enthusiasm of a toddler at Christmas, and unless we want to risk pneumonia we're confined to our tent.
We're cheered by a text from our mate at Slashmusic: "I hope that where you found yourself this weekend you are not at the monsoon disaster that is V." Hurray! At least it's not just Wales being screwed over by Mother Nature. Let's hope Aloud's James isn't too shell shocked to file his V report on Monday.
We're off to the Geisha tent at four. Please heaven let the weather be slightly less apocalyptic by then. Either way, there's only a blueberry pie and some Golden Graham cereal bars lying between us and scurvy.
