Nothing Proves How Fun Bloc 2015 Was Better Than These Appalling Photographs

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Nothing Proves How Fun Bloc 2015 Was Better Than These Appalling Photographs

Bloc 2015 was too good to worry about taking photos.

At the tail end of my Saturday night I found myself in a red and white deck chair, swilling the final dregs of an hour old pint as stretches of sunlight began to work their way under the arches of Butlins' watchful white top. Around me there was the energy of a circus suffering from sunstroke; those wonderful, droopy smiles that can only come from relentlessly amazing music and hours of constant partying. Three girls were searching for somewhere to keep dancing, a lone bucket-hat wearer stumbled back to his chalet, and two blokes from Newport couldn't work out why Pizza Hut was closed at 9AM. A hole had been torn in the cartoon landscape of Butlins, and through it the great and the gassed had spilled through.

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I like writing about festivals. I always feel I can legitimately lose myself in proceedings, only to get all reflective between naps in the back of a car on my way home. Unfortunately, when I got a call from my editor telling me our photographer was no longer joining me, I had to think on my feet and leave my comfort zone with haste. I didn't have a DSLR, but I did have an idea. Butlins via Boots, I picked up a disposable camera. What better way to capture the moment than through a lens that will barely survive the night? Armed with 27 shots and the best of intentions, I went in.

When I left Snappy Snaps this afternoon, and began filing through the processed leftovers of my disposable camera, I couldn't believe my eyes. My weekend had been without a doubt the best party in Butlins since I saw Atomic Kitten go b2b with A1 aged 9. Yet crushingly my photos looked like they had been taken by a pigeon. They sucked in the most tasteless, uninspiring way possible. Then I remembered why. I was absolutely on one mate. Mind-blowing sets from the likes of Rødhåd and Hudson Mohawke were far too engaging to worry about photo-journalism. How can I start thinking about the press pit when I'm sitting in a chalet, sipping a tinnie, getting giddy at the prospect of 4am Robert Hood slot? With a line up featuring close to every current master, of every corner of dance music, it was hard enough work deciding which act to see next, let alone how to photograph them.

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That being said - it is sort of my job. So here, without any further introduction, are my terrible photos of Bloc 2015, that prove just how fun it was.

Look at that shitty photo of some green lights. I must have been having such a mint time.

Who is that guy? Why is he staring at me? Maybe because of the fuck off grin I had on my face all weekend.

Only in the aftermath of a life affirming/mind-warping techno masterclass from Jeff Mills could you be non-plussed enough to take a photo of a cup.

It is testament to the fantastic curatorial insight of Bloc's organisers, and the tireless efforts of their entire staff, that I have no idea who any of the people in this photo are. Especially the guy who looks like he is imagining a yoyo.

In the build up to the weekend, Bloc had premiered a documentary with Carl Craig, exploring Detroit's techno legacy, titled Detroit Love. As I stood in awe before Craig, the love was with me as well. I too felt the need to document the Detroit scene, as it briefly graced the time-warped sandy shores of Minehead. So, in order to effectively express my appreciation for a moment in music and time, I took the same photo of Carl Craig five times.

Probably would have kept on going if I hadn't been having such a good time.

Ben UFO's closing jungle set was such a bold exercise in re-enlivening the genre, that the thought of taking time out from listening to get a half decent photo seemed completely out of the question.

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I saw this photo of Dean Blunt and was pretty pleased with myself. Then I remembered my mate took it.

Bloc was a strange, transient paradise where we sidestepped from jungle to techno via a stuffed crust pizza. Sticky carpets and bingo halls hosted the past, present and future of all that is a credible and a groundbreaking in the world of dance music. Then it was over. The crushed plastic cups were swept away, and as we scattered ourselves up and down the nation's grey motorways, somebody plugged in the waltzers.

Thanks for having us Bloc. Big up the big top. I'm going back to sleep.

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