As Britain’s most reliably brilliant midsize festival, End of the Road has grown up by refusing to expand. Without bland corporate sponsorship or dehumanising big screens flanking its main stages, it is defined by its oddball community, a circus of hedonists, eccentrics and beleaguered parents whose buggies clog paths as toddlers gawp at the peacocks. Hidden sculptures and carved tree trunks give the small site an otherworldly forcefield; the stranger who held forth on avant-garde mixology around the campfire will unfailingly reappear one morning, perhaps during your recuperative stroll around the beekeeping enclosure. It is, for all its twee nooks and middle-class crannies, a winning mix of bacchanalia and earthy mysticism.
Therein lies the EOTR magic, but nobody told Yves Tumor, who prowls the fogged-out Big Top on Friday in a silk stole and…
Straight from The Guardian
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