"I'm coming for.. you" This guy thought he was going to a Slipknot gig, but wound up here instead Credit: FIB Heineken

Two of our esteemed freelancers braced the wind and sand storm to attend Benicassim festival, headlined by Oasis, Franz Ferdinand and The Killers, in Spain this year. While Alasdair endured the wrath of Noel Gallagher and was genuinely surprised by the togetherness of Pete Doherty, Ivy found herself physically exhausted by the unpredictable weather conditions and genuinely surprised about the relatively mainstream line-up.

Here’s Ivy’s first-hand account.

Ivy Broadhead

One of the big draws of crossing oceans to get to a festival is surely to escape the mud slides of Glastonbury and generally unreliable English weather, or so I’d thought while packing my shorts and bikini to head to Benicassim this weekend. But no. The mighty god of music festivals had other plans for us.

I didn’t head out to Spain until Friday, which meant missing Oasis (worth seeing, according to my campmates, even with Liam Gallagher as punchably arrogant as ever). Instead I rolled up on Friday evening all set to see Paul Weller and the Kings of Leon, and even managed to get a spot where I could see over the massive crowds. After a kind of second-rate Spanish version of himself called Cooper, Mr Weller graced the stage and played a set of obscure solo material before instantly redeeming himself with a rendition of ‘Eton Rifles’.

So far so good, but by this point it was starting to get rather windy. Really very windy by the time the stage was being set up for the next act with speakers swaying ominously, and after lots of waiting around and grumbling it was announced that the night would be rescheduled, with the Tom Tom Club playing instead of Kings of Leon. Cue lots booing, hissing and general pantomime reactions, with the poor Tom Tom Club in their sparkly dresses failing to impress. Eventually the wind got so strong that even they had to give up and the audience was left to make a horizontal walk back to camp. Assuming they actually had a camp to go to. Some poor souls ended up being evacuated and wandering around the site clutching blankets and valuables, with no idea where to go and with little help from equally confused stewards. We huddled in our tent drinking warm sangria and hoping it wouldn’t blow away.

It didn’t, and although we woke up to a sea of food, clothes and bits of tent that had been blown away in the night, the sun was shining and it seemed like the weekend might be looking up. There was sangria to drink and a beach to laze around on, and a whole evening of music to look forward to.

We kicked off Saturday night watching Maximo Park, who had been hastily rescheduled from Friday, which took the edge off the news that Lily Allen and Foals had both cancelled. The real star of the show was Peaches, and I decided to shun Franz Ferdinand to catch the whole of her electro-filth spectacle. There were just as many gloriously garish costumes as expected, including a flesh coloured cat-suit with a light in the crotch. Nice. The DJ sets that followed didn’t quite measure up to such a show stealer, but it was a good second night nonetheless.

Sunday night brought us the Killers, who played a decent set with rubbish sound that was impossible to see, and a surprisingly healthy looking Pete Doherty, where at least there was room to dance.

So far so mainstream I’m afraid, and although a fun time was had by all, that might have been more to do with the company and the sangria than the life-changing live performances and discoveries of new favourite bands. The sprinkling of Spanish acts tended to be on too early or too late, so for the most part I found myself watching UK and US bands that all fit a pretty middle-of-the-road indie mould. And since apparently even jetting off to Spain doesn’t guarantee you decent weather, maybe next year I’ll stay a little closer to home.

By Ivy Broadhead