BY TOM RUDD
The night began not with basslines but with theatre. A slow, ceremonial procession of dancers and actors marched the catwalk toward the pyramid, while the first half-hour unfolded as a kind of biblical/sci-fi parable. It was light on music, heavy on mystique. Some in the crowd fidgeted, clearly eager for a beat to drop, but the staging kept them rapt, casting Victoria Park in the haze of a myth.
The evening’s shape-shifting continued with Chronixx, who swapped between guitar and mic as easily as he slid between reggae and rap. His set, powered by a full band, gave the staging something earthier: rhythm and sweat. Then came the shock cameo – Yasiin Bey (Mos Def, if you were burning CDs in the early 2000s), who emerged like a memory jolted to life. His Brooklyn drawl cut through the theatrical haze with raw nostalgia, a reminder of how rap can command a stage even stripped of ornament.
The night stretched open as Sault launched into a sprawling five-hour set, bending their usual soul and funk into a kind of summer-long groove. Cleo Sol floated in and out, her appearances causing surges of energy, and when she closed the night with a solo performance, it felt like the entire show had been designed to orbit her voice.
By the end of day one, what began as an acted-out myth had evolved into a festival in full swing. The staging, the shifting genres, the dune-like visuals – together they turned East London into someplace else entirely. Not quite Arrakis, not quite Brooklyn, but a dream-state somewhere in between.
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