THERE is one sign reading "to the festival" about four miles from the site for the complicated route to hidden Plumpton Racecourse. Thanks to brilliant navigation on the part of one of my esteemed fellows the 45-mile journey became a jovial 75-mile romp through the country, but we did manage to crawl in a little late and heard the screeches of horns from a stage off in the distance.

    Settling peacefully in the press bar, I awaited the arrival of the Blossom Toes while Paragon Publicity's Michael "Yuk; Yuk" Hales, who risked my life as a favour when he drove me down, tried to ensure we journalists would indeed relinquish our booze and watch during the Toes' spot. Noting the layout of the festival, it was easy to praise the direction of Harold Pendleton and publicity by Brian Sommerville. There were two separate stages in alternate operation at first, yet toward the second day, they began to overlap the acts, making it impossible to catch all groups .Seating for thousands was more than adequate since the turnout was smaller than last year with, I would estimate, about twenty to twenty-five thousand over the three days.

    The Blossom Toes opened to cheers with a number similar to Hard Meats version of "Rain", but it proceeded into their own rock-based style with relish. Lead guitar whined to a beat bass and heavy drums, while Michael Hales remained in the bar. The music reached one of their symphonic lulls and Hales, realizing his group were on, dropped his pint and ran. The Toes went into their lengthy saga, "War And Peace" to a vocal mike that lacked depth, but the song had much mood as it dipped and rose in intensity. I give them great credit for the set and the audience did as well when a great ovation was sent on the close of the sadly time-limited set.

      The raucous Village and the tuneful Junior's Eyes received admirable applause on the second stage while the Soft Machine prepared on the first. Minutes into the act, horrors occurred; something blew and everything went black. Soft Machine's drummer took one instant evaluation of the power failure, freaked, threw up his drums, collapsed and had to be carried off as the lone searchlight from the lighting tower swung round the black expanse in a German POW camp fashion. Pressmen and artistes stumbled for footing in the darkness of the bar and booze anointed the floors everywhere. Ladies found themselves in the gentlemen's and gentlemen couldn't find either convenience Torches shone in the distance and a curious hum arose from the crowd while frantic electricians tried to discover the fault that halted the proceedings .

     Suddenly, the lights returned. An ocean of hair became a mass of tanned faces as each camper looked up to see the Pink Floyd beginning their spot. Pressmen looked for lost change on hands and knees and fidgeting pop stars ambled off in pursuit of the correct toilets. Apologies for the delay rang out from the stage and the Floyd began the evening's last attraction. They produced the same atmosphere of mysticism that made them famous in the days of London's Middle Earth with droning organ wailing and hollow guitar chords. It became a cavernous drawl at times and extracted boredom instead of hypnotizing, but parts of the long "Cymballine" were pretty and inviting. The wistful piece conjured images of the sea shore and sweet communication with nature before building into heights of electricity as sharp as a stiletto. It then sank into unfortunate improvised effects which should have been confined to the recording studio and which only distracted from the whole presentation.

Saturday and Sunday were the long days and promised to be the classic line-ups. Sweaty campers queued into the grounds for the afternoon set around 2 p.m. and an early refreshment was the performance of acoustic guitarist Peter Hammill (ex Vandergraf Generator). Peter's voice reminded one of Roy Harper and Al Stewart, who often remind one of one another in pronunciation tendencies, He had fair control of the voice that seemed to be drifting just under that degree of training which marks an accomplished singer. Lyrics and tunes were in the folk vein and he looks to be one of the talents of the future.

Saturday and Sunday were the long days and promised to be the classic line-ups. Sweaty campers queued into the grounds for the afternoon set around 2 p.m. and an early refreshment was the performance of acoustic guitarist Peter Hammill (ex Vandergraf Generator). Peter's voice reminded one of Roy Harper and Al Stewart, who often remind one of one another in pronunciation tendencies, He had fair control of the voice that seemed to be drifting just under that degree of training which marks an accomplished singer. Lyrics and tunes were in the folk vein and he looks to be one of the talents of the future.

      Roy Harper himself was set upon by evil spirits when he was asked to go on earlier than billed. His hopes were sabotaged as the amplification went wrong and he broke two strings during his fuzz-wah commentary, "Hell's Angels", The blond bombshell had to go a little freakier than usual to make up for the missing strings and was allowed only twenty minuteS of his contracted forty five, Due to the catastrophe of the entire thing he could manage only ten minutes.

The ever hilarious and bizarre Bonzos

Breakthru

Moony and Larrry

      The Bonzo Dog Band took most of the afternoon's awards in conditions that really worked against them. At first, they didn't want the gig because their own unique comedy isn't usually effective to large crowds and loses power when seen from a distance. However, following Viv Stanshall's Presley routine on "Blue Suede Shoes", his camp self-love antics and Legs Larry Smith's pseudo-star act, the set won the response tally for the afternoon.

We're now going to do some art " says Viv in his BBC announcer's voice. 'That's art with a capital 'F'." Unexpectedly a masked drummer (The Lone Ar-Ranger) replaces Legs Larry, who takes to the foreground. Two or three bars of "Pinball Wizard" ring out and the mask is whisked away to reveal none other than madman Keith Moon from the Who.Legs prances on in revealing falsies and the "Urban Spaceman" rolls while Keith attacks loveable Larry's drums "That one's going to put us in the charts and into your hearts," announces Stanshall. Keith continued drumming through to the encore or "The worst rock and roll song ever recorded" . . . the "Monster Mash". It was a racecourse smash.

    Best from Dry Ice was their version of Hard Meat's "Walking Up Down Street", which I hear will be their coming single. Other groups also had problems on the small stage, conflicting with the wailings of a Hare Krishna troop near the stage — which had also been supplied, like the bands, with Wem amplifiers.

    Aynsley Dunbar's wild drumming and the blues organ patterns restored enthusiasm in the ranks. Yes, with jazz singer Jon Hendricks did much of what they have been playing for years, only better with the expert vocals by Jon. West Side Story's "Something's Coming" and the Rascals' number "It's Love" were the best of the jazz harmony set. Once Yes were the predicted thing to happen, but the happening has been somehow delayed.

     Chicken Shack with Stan Webb in full red riding gear and black boots were held back while an amp was repaired. The spot wasn't as colourful, musically, as the Shack usually are probably as a result of the temporary setback which destroyed the spectacle of their arrival.

     The moment half the merrymakers pelted to Plumpton for was at hand. John Gee introduced, in his invariably distasteful manner, Britain's pride and joy, The Who. In a spectacle unequalled Roger Daltry floated host-like on stage in his suede and white leather tasseled outfit that was an ornithological study in itself. He threw the hand mike at the audience, retrieved it in a swinging arc and leapt into song as Pete's arms flew at his guitar, Keith's hair flew at the air and John Entwistle stood stone-faced with his bass.

 Townshend's wit between great numbers like "Can't Explain" and "Fortune Teller" increased the already monumental attraction to the act. "Keith", he announced, "had to be dug up from a trench somewhere on the borders of the festival because he arrived too early and had too much . . . fun." Referring to Keith's guest spot with the Bonzo Band.

    Cackles from "Mad Mooney" and they fly into the long cavalcade of songs from their pop opera, "Tommy". The acoustics were perfect and coupled with the presence of the incredible quartet, the impact of their delivery was doubled. Daltry like a martyr, crucified himself mythically in his solo glory while Pete's arms swept the face of his guitar.

    Moon crashed and contorted, beating his drums to a pulp, drenching his hair with sweat and wrinkling his face with strain. Roger whittled two tambourines to splinters and tossed them to the crowds as Townshend knelt tearing his strings from their ~ sockets. "21 Is Gonna Be A Good Year" i and "Gypsy The Acid Queen". Roger stood statuesque as if carved of rock during the quieter moods, then exploded into fury for "Pinball Wizard". After three-quarters of an hour with "Tommy", the applause would not cease, though Pete announced more to come. A girl crept on stage and jived for a full minute before she was escorted off in convulsions when Townshend started ''Summertime Blues".

    After "Substitute" and "Shakin' All Over", there was jiving in the masses and Townshend said: ''We don't like to go on and off and on again, so you're going to get an encore whether you like it or not, ho. ho." With that, Roger fell into lunatic screaming, Keith's sticks flew miles into the night, Pete literally attacked his guitar and the old Who destruction was born again for the occasion.

The Who © Random Punter.

 Sunday afternoon began with a surge of heat and hot dogs. Everything looked the same, other than for the increased output of litter of last nights ravers raved on and the Press bar was slowly refilling again. So I joined the file and had my liquid breakfast.

    Jo Ann Kelly followed with what was the best female guitar styIe I've seen. Most women are clumsy players or awkward in what they can do, but Jo Ann clearly had control and knowledge of the instrument. Very masculine in voice and a fair imitation of black blues accent made a fair combustion and that was improved by the addition of two musicians. one on Piano and another on acoustic guitar. Best was Muddy Waters tune .'Catfish Blues ".

    Pentangle were better amplified than ever before. At last, one could hear Bert Jansch's guitar and thus received the full potency of the intricate scales played between he and John Renbourne. Danny Thompson's bass could have been louder. but all was very presentable. Jazz-based folk reigned on numbers like "Sweet Child.' and 'I Got A Feeling' Jackie MeShee's steady flawless notes were the backbone melody for the rest of the band in the usual free verse.

     Keel Hartley threatened to bore us for a period but was saved by his lead guitarist who livened up the spot with some clever patterns. Hartley himself, compIete in Sitting Bull outfit, isn't the best drummer in the world but he got by thanks to the rest of his band. Blodwyn Pig next and not a second too soon. Blodwyn's exceptional rhythm sound and stylish lead pulled heavier applause than anyone earlier and also secured an encore from the hungry hordes. They played their excellent "See My way,' and usual "Catsquirrel" to volumes of cheers. Encore on .'Summer Day" finished a marvelous set.

    Chris Barber did an amazing set that must have pleased the jazz buffs. Much brass and experimentation. Hard Meat got vast applause and were urged to do another number, but time didn't permit Their version of "Most Likely You'd Go Your Way Aud I'll Go Mine", is a good exampIe of their unique ability to extract the most from a song.