The Human Organs were out in Ulverston last weekend for the Lantern Procession. There have been 30 plus years here of making and lighting and marching, and many more of fireworks and noise but you can still find conflicting accounts of what the event is and what it should be, of the clash it delivers between expectations and fears engendered when we gather in the dark.
We were in town for the finale this year. We began at the end of Market St in near daylight. We were discreet; two debutants meant a steady fade in was necessary. Every corner seemed to have a stall in place from about 5pm, their dayglo automata had cooed and whistled at each other across the streets as I came out of Tesco. We had a bit of mouthing off, done from a distance; easily dealt with, an ice-breaker really..a few little kids came up for a parp, another decided to conduct us. Older kids demanded Beats; ("We are doing Beats. We can't do anything but Beats.") We got into our stride and ended up accompanying a Silent Performance of Melie's Journey To The Moon and wandering back to our spot via the empty paths alongside the A590 before finishing up downwind of the mainstage and the firework finale.
No -one knew quite what to expect this year; the usual finale venue, a large park under Hoad hill withdrew amid questions about access and restrictions related equally to safety and (further) building on the site. A stage went up in a town centre carpark, other performance sites were established, costumed stewards gently nudged and coaxed and the procession had made its looming, flickering way. It was good. Ulverston is well used to this and to the woozy herd instincts of the procession and the sharper edges of its' flanks ; any town with a history (however short) of self-supporting, autonomous quasi-carnival should be familiar with the buffoon-ery that accompanies the main event. The lads from the distant settlements making their way into town, the underage drink on the train kicking in early; the temporary license bestowed by darkness, colour and crowds, and the seemingly upturned consensus on excess. A Fairground a few yards from the route provides a locus for first-goes at the rituals of display; bottles and piss streams glint at its boundaries.
There were complaints. Not many. Online mutterings that once wouldn't have made it out of the taproom; Didn't like the finale band. ( Laptops, beats, masks, Haribo fuelled K-Pop rather than our so-and -so knocking out Wonderwall.) (Kids loved it.) Didn't like the site. Didn't like the inconvenience. (why cant I drive through this crowd of candlelit paper lanterns and park my car?) Most of all, didn't like the kids. Drunk kids. Out of town kids. Noisy, sweary kids. non-decorative, unaccepting, un-co-optable kids. Trying it on. Pushing and shoving their way out of one life and into another.
It seems some of us now write the story on sunday that we want to read on monday. The local paper picks up the lead from the social media winge, Grey heads are shaken. A few even greyer heads note that 'twas ever thus, that absent from the old kodak photos and Super 8 is the sound of glass underfoot.
Spectacles, firefests,The Wakes, Lanternnight, AFF's all- inclusive multi-platform reboot of the old carnival night buzz , these allow the creation of liminal spaces and interzones, not always pretty, but valuable. And look at the rest of the year - not just here but anywhere where the bought-in and chucked-up arrives for the weekend and leaves with a couple of local caffs' takings under its belt. Where, on the crowded cobbles and around the 5-star streetfood kitchens, where amid the tophats and goggles, the bonnets and cemetery photo-ops and alcohol-free mulled wine is the artful dodger?
There's no room for such a being, and if there were room there's nothing in the assembly instructions that will tell you what it wants.
