Pointu Festival
Dates: July 7, 2023– July 9, 2023
As every summer makes way for yet another heatwave summer on our slow-cooking, dying planet, old habits kick in to remind us of our own fallible, stubborn human condition.
Photo: Robin Ono
Leaving the crummy comfort of our miserable nest, our Parisian rat maze, is a vital albeit terrifying yearly undertaking. Half the comfort of our cosmopolitan condition comes with not having to deal with how awfully we compare to our neighbours. With its killer line-up and heavenly setting at the far end of France, Pointu Festival’s seventh edition seemed a fitting destination to question my life choices.
Photo: Robin Ono
I made my grand escape in the streetlit hours before dawn, armed with a camera bag and more spirit than sense. A belly full of instant coffee, store-brand energy drinks and a generous minibar’s worth of cocktails kept my mind alert and my body upset throughout my long winding journey. My senses reawakened to a heavenly panorama of balding green hills overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. A trail of smiling faces led the way to the festival grounds and a coastal breeze gently nudged me in the direction of the mainstage.
Photo: Robin Ono
North London’s Sorry had just gotten into position and kicked things off with some hip and mellow indie rock numbers. The band’s nonchalant, preppy coolness proved a perfect fit for a late afternoon. Lead singer and guitarist Asha Lorenz delivered a strong, melancholy-filled performance with a fair dose of 90s angst, complemented by a thick, vibrant live sound.
Photo: Robin Ono
Following the short trail around the island, I made my way over to the back section of the island where Marseille’s Avee Mana were about to inaugurate the festival’s second stage.
Set up in an enchanted clearing overlooking the sea, La Pinède awakened to a whirlwind of smooth cruising desert rock. The groovy, trance-inducing riffs were working their magic. Masses of sweaty bodies started swaying like trees amongst the trees, mingling as they danced to the sounds of electric bliss seeping into their very being.
Photo: Robin Ono
For the last remaining heavy sleepers needing a wakeup slap, Frankie & the Witch Fingers followed up, charged up as if hooked up to a car battery. Styled like a teenage punk band straight out of an 80s horror B-movie, these wildcats sent shockwaves across the island, electrifying all within ear-reach with their zany, fuzzy, slimy garage fury from Planet Mars.
Photo: Robin Ono
Frantic guitar solos wailed to rhythm and Gatling gun drums fired through the speakers in a cathartic frenzy of pure uninhibited decadence. In the eye of the storm, lads and dames were beginning to levitate out of the crowd, drawn to the stage by an otherworldly gravitational force. The band blasted away as if determined to outdo every other band on the bill and left triumphant to a thunderous roar of cheers.
Photo: Robin Ono
The evening started to settle in and every corner of the island was bustling with radiant life. Excitement and joy were palpable as the night settled back into a softer mood for Kurt Vile‘s grand entrance. The curly-haired singer-songwriter delivered a solid hour’s worth of soaring folk rock with the irresistible charm of a loving storyteller. Spellbound and captivated, the crowd hung unto the singer’s every word, with only a few people taking notice of the majestic starlit skies that had settled above them.
Photo: Robin Ono
As the night neared its conclusion, The Brian Jonestown Massacre stepped to the stage for a grand display of old-school esoteric psychedelia, officiated by the mystical figure of Anton Newcombe and his trusted tambourine shaman Joel Gion. Flawless in its execution, the band delivered a hypnotic, smooth-sailing performance, closing the evening a tinge of the uncanny.
Photo: Robin Ono
Fatigue eventually got the best of me and the great crash that I had been dreading for the past twenty-two hours was but mere moments away from knocking me out. It was time to wrap up for the night. I rushed from the festival site to my accommodation, crashing not a second too soon unto a couch, into a comatose-like slumber.
