All You Need is BASS

#TBT: Outlook Festival 2015, DAY ONE

Outlook Festival 2015 began how any great festival should not. By getting heatstroke in a beautiful velvet and pearl pirate overcoat (thanks Neid Studio) while my purple Kat Von D lipstick bled across the cracks of my shriveling yet still sweaty lips. Under a blistering Croatian sun casting glances at my rosy cheeked and sweat soaked friends whom had just made the extra trip up the massive hill to the token booth, their pirate costumes slicked onto their heat stressed bodies, I thought to myself: How is anyone supposed to get drunk in this weather?

We were waiting in line for our first official Outlook Festival activity, the Mungo’s Hi Fi Walk ‘n’ Skank boat party, and we were fucking miserable. We did however look fabulous.


As a crew, we somehow managed to procure, organize, meticulously pack and carry individual pirate outfits across various countries to unite with one goal in mind. We would wear our finest pirate garb, and rape and pillage that boat as only a vicious six-pack of Canadian women could. We would turn heads, and win the rave. Once again, as the sailors of 2014 had done before, we would end up featured in the Croatian national newspaper – photographic proof of making that place our bitch.

Outlook2015pirates2Except now we were just dehydrated and testy. With no refreshment in site, we focused on the prize. Willing the staff to open the gates and start loading the boat for the next 30 odd minutes, we channeled every last iota of pirate grit in our possession, and showed those people what was up. I used every bit of restraint I had not to start face palming gentle reggae people out of the way as the boat was loading. Calculating how much damage my fake sword could provoke with just the right amount of pressure I wiled away the last painstaking minutes of the torturous wait enacting Troma-esque horror scenes in my heat-tainted imagination.

At last we were on, and the tunes were blasting. Cold drinks were in hand. The costumes were a hit. Life was good again. We lived out the rest of the afternoon bobbing our heads, sipping on cocktails, screaming aaargh at the top of our lungs and making terrible pirate puns. At some point during this time, a member of the Mungo’s Hi Fi crew came over with an offering to the pirates. Behold! A bottle of Bucky!

What is Bucky you ask? Well, it’s a Scottish standard, especially in the Mungo’s Crew. My best answer is that it’s reminiscent of port fortified with turpentine and obscene amounts of caffeine. Obviously, it’s the best thing a crew of rank pirates could possibly drink on their first official Outlook Festival voyage.


All I will say, is I blame my poor choices and that Buckfast Tonic Wine for missing the Levelz boat party later that evening. Apparently, I suck at telling 24-hour time. Especially after an afternoon of caning it and screaming aaaargh!!!!!! at people. My dreams of sidling up to Skittles looking all hot and talking in a sophisticated fashion about my love of grime while winning his ginger heart were completely over. I would not get the chance to strong arm Chimpo into letting me interview him while listening to that deep, deep voice. I would not get to link up with my favourite friend of Shambhala 2015, the man behind my favourite track, Biome. I would not get to hear said favourite track “Levelz 7” played at a festival, not ever. It was a sad moment of Outlook Festival 2015 when I looked out onto the Adriatic Sea and saw the boats waaaaaaay out in the water with their twinkling lights.


The only thing to do was move on.



Through a series of rapid and cataclysmic events, we found ourselves backstage at Mungo’s Arena in the midst of Deep Medi night. This was a serendipitous chain of events as I’d spent a frustrating week in August trying to track down the man himself, Mala, for a Deep Medi feature. Essentially Mala is elusive as fuck, and unless you like Google searches ending in black and white drawings of Deep Medi artists don’t even bother trying to track him down using lazy Internet methods (read: typing Mala into Facebook). Yes, I found his personal account. No, I did not wish to stalk him further through that avenue, but rather wished for the name of the person that does Mala’s bidding when it comes to Deep Medi and media, and the relationship shared between those two separate entities.

DeepMediLighterNow, here I was, miming penis extensions and comparing how big my lens was with the other photographers when a stranger approached me to give me the single greatest piece of rave swag from all of 2015 – a Deep Medi lighter with a bottle opener on one end. Good God, I’m so cool. As this stranger was showing me the merits of this particular piece of rave swag, or “flare” as I lovingly refer to it, it clicked. Mala was standing there giving me rave flare and pointing out the convenience of the bottle opener. I am SO COOL.

I wasted no time telling him I wanted to write some tings about Deep Medi. Strangely enough despite the fact I was miming inappropriate adolescent gestures just moments before his arrival, he conceded to chatting to me about Deep Medi sometime in the not so distant future. As life would have it, instead of getting my promised intro to his press guy for the label, I got to get embroiled in the drama of rolling with a big group, squabbling with the group vagabond and fulfilling earlier promises of meeting the rest of the rude gyals at the Harbour Stage. I didn’t even get to murk up Compa and hawk my photos to him in exchange for some type of exclusive interview. Could this day try staying on point??


From the Harbour Stage we went to Kasra at the Moat (which was sick), and P Money at the Clearing, yet, all I could think was ‘I wish I was back at Deep Medi night’. So off I went. By myself. Right into the midst of a cockblocking hour long line. Despite all the people turning back, I would stay the course. I had to get in and wait for my friends. If I turned back now I would never find them again. Also, I really wanted to find Mala again and hear that signature Deep Medi bass at my favourite stage, rinsing the drama of the day off my soul.

Nervously watching the power on my phone fade from 20% to 10% I began to wonder if I would ever see any of my friends again, what my address was, how much longer I would have to wait in the line and whether or not Mala was going to chill after his set. As I watched my phone go from 10% to black I realized something. I was screwed. I managed to get in, but now what? There’s no way my friends were going to face that line after the boat party heat stroke debacle. As panic was beginning to set in about how I was going to meet up with everyone and get home, something amazing happened. My bestie appeared at Mungo’s with a security escort! She somehow found a security guard willing to help her jump the queue, part the crowd like Moses parting the sea and pinpoint my exact location in the span of a few minutes. Sweet relief. Except now my friends were leaving the festival … As if!

Of course I was staying. This was not a question … But what to do?


The hour was growing late. It was about four a.m. by this time. It was choose your own Outlook adventure time. Stay at Mungo’s and catch Truth? Go FINALLY see Zed Bias? Or hustle over to the Fort Arena 1 to see the group I owed my love of Outlook Festival to while they closed down Thursday with Charlie P. I’m talking about Mungo’s Hi Fi of course. Twice in one day? Why not. Hopefully someone there would have some Bucky.

When I arrived at the Fort Arena stage, once again I was greeted with a massive queue snaking as far as the eye could see. God damn it! As I stood there wondering what exactly I should do, I felt a tap tap on my shoulder, and there was my old interviewee from last year, Doug from Mungo’s. What a site for sore eyes! He’d been missing from the boat party earlier, and now here he was to rescue me in my orphaned state – his specialty. One thing led to another, and I closed out my Thursday night of Outlook 2015 shooting photos of Mungo’s Hi Fi, Charlie P. and Shanti D at the Fort Arena 1. Absolute perfection. And to think, there were still three more days to go.

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