Several weeks ago, shortly after my Northern Fever blog sprouted an offshoot in the shape of a podcast, I paused everything to focus on repairing my broken nervous system. For the first time in my life, I met myself with relatively little resistance, despite the long-standing fear that, if I wasn’t creating, I was an abject failure.
Instead of forcing myself onward when I encountered the almost physical barrier between me and the work I love, I listened to my body and, in what felt like a revolutionary act, backed down. It was time to rest, recalibrate and figure out what my capacity looked like after decades of crushing struggle and all-consuming episodes of burnout.
What my capacity looks like is something I’m still figuring out, but today I’m rested and somewhat recalibrated. I’m creating again, slowly, with a compassion for myself I didn’t know I could feel. I think being on the right medication is aiding access to that often-elusive self-compassion. After months of titration, I’ve found a dose of ADHD medication that doesn’t leave me feeling like I’m locked out of my own life, numbly watching it unfold from a distance.
If you’ve been following for a while, you may recall that I thought my festival days were done. Happily, I was wrong. Back in February, I attended Albion Dungeon Fest and at the end of May, took a train over the moors to Scarborough for the fourth year of Fortress Festival.
Mortiis was my main pull for the festival. Having not seen him since 2011, when I went to snowy Oslo to watch a show. In the week leading up to Fortress, I was teenage-level giddy, binging on his music, though mostly the 2001 album The Smell of Rain as well as Violent Silence and Ghosts of Europa, two tracks from his upcoming album.
Music hasn’t always been accessible during the past several years. Burnouts have left me easily overstimulated, and there are times I can’t tolerate noise of any sort. I’ve found myself slipping further away from the music scenes I used to be well-connected with. However, on some days, this new-ish medication clears enough space in my head for me to be able to briefly, but deeply, reconnect with music that made me, as well as make contact with new material.
Something that’s kept me coming back to Fortress is the assurance of a friendly atmosphere, with that friendliness extending to, importantly, the security and bar staff. Friendly security isn’t a guarantee at a metal festival. While attending Cosmic Void in London, the staff were so brusque and impatient that the threat of a panic attack loomed whenever it came time to enter a venue. In contrast, at Fortress, even the jumpiest of us can feel, more or less, at ease.
Friendliness wasn’t confined to the festival. The moment I walked through the door of the Almar B&B, my hosts asked about dietary requirements. When I told them I was vegan, they said they’d provide a vegan full English and that when I got back in the evening, my preferred choice of plant milk would be in my room. Readers, they were true to their word. A carton of oat milk was waiting for me.
I met two couples at the B&B, one from Denmark, the other from Manchester. Both were approachable, super easy to talk to and absolutely the sort of people I’d want to keep in touch with.
My medication provides me with some hours where I’m less afflicted with anxiety, and I felt comfortable chatting with the merch stall holders, something I’ve often found monstrously difficult. I was able to talk to people I’ve long respected, including the author Dayal Patterson from Cult Never Dies.
I was beyond thankful for the ready supply of cold water and good tea at the bar. ‘Breaking away’ for a tea and a moment with my book (The Plague Dogs by Richard Adams) when overwhelmed was part of my ‘sensory support system,’ along with my Loops, which were always to hand. Giving myself this permission to take breaks and the option to ‘lower the volume’ on the festival meant I saw both days all the way through.
At one point, I had the opportunity to speak with Mortiis and mentioned I’d found his music through KERRANG! For years, I’ve had it in my head that I’d seen a video on a free VHS, but no, it was through a compilation CD compiled by Casey Chaos from Amen. (I still have this CD in a folder in the garage.)
When I realised how mashed my memory of the early 2000s is, I almost cringed myself out of existence. I was more embarrassed with myself than when I realised that my mother wasn’t born the same year as Kurt Cobain, or that I’d been pronouncing Euronymous wrong.
Mortiis’s exclusively dungeon synth set was unsurprisingly my festival highlight. The minor downside being that he performed in the seated Theatre, and ho, how this fired up fidgeter, who wanted nothing more than to dance, struggled to sit still!
Vinterland (I broke my no excessive headbanging rule during their set) was another high point, as were Old Sorcery, Whoredom Rife, Midnight Odyssey and Gallowbraid, whose set I exited early thanks to the mortification of being shushed. In my defense, my friend and I were practically at the back wall.
Gallowbraid were the last act of the festival, and afterwards, I went to an afterparty with folk I barely knew but knew well enough to know I was in safe hands. The wearing of elf ears, talk of Lord of the Rings, and group admiration of the moon are all green flags.
It was at this afterparty, in a pub I can’t remember the name of, where I proceeded to have my second and third alcoholic beverages of the weekend, the consumption of which led to me launching into a conversation about the Second World War with a very forgiving German archaeologist, losing my phone (it was handed in) and (jokingly) asking a GP/Patch Creator to check the moles on my arms.
I couldn’t tell you any of the music that was played at the afterparty, but that doesn’t matter! The people, the generous, fascinating, passionate metalheads from as far away as Canada and as close as Hull created the final sparks of a blazingly memorable festival.
A Wyrd Of Her Own 