millionreasons | Jay-Z in the rain, I'm crazy and deranged

I am against Hackney Marshes being turned into an Olympic car park; it seems a bit too Joni Mitchell ("paved paradise....") and it seems ironic in a specifically Olympian way that they are stopping people playing sport so that people can drive to watch people do sport (a bit like the irony that people won't be able to bring in their own healthy food - they'll have to buy stuff from the corporate sponsors, Coca-Cola and McDonalds). So maybe I'm a hypocrite in going to the Hackney Weekend on the marshes, but then again, fuck it, it cost £0 (+ £2.50 booking fee). When I registered my interest (and uploaded a photo, gave all my details inc. shoe size and bra size) in March, I thought: ah, late June, it'll be LOVELY, forgetting that it is Glastonbury weekend and since there was no festival for the rain to fall on, it would obviously have to fall somewhere else. Foolishly believing the BBC's forecast of cloudy sun, I wear a dress and trainers (like The Wee Papa Girl Rappers c. 1987), then freeze to death in the cruel winds coming off the river and the rain smatterings. At one point, I was so cold that I was seriously considering buying a onesie in the shape of a tiger. Every other woman there sports denim cut-offs and colourful wellies - plastic daisy chain head-gear optional; it pretty much looks like all of Glasto's punters were here, not very "urban" at all. After commonpeople's unpleasant experience at Lovebox, I was also worried about security, but it is fairly lax; despite having to be metal-detected and bag searched, there are no dogs or visible police and they don't confiscate my bottle of tap water. They don't even look in one part of my bag, so I could easily have smuggled in heroin or a flapjack. It's all very different from the Radio 1 Roadshow with Peter Powell.

Anyway, we get there in time to see Rizzle Kicks, whom I love for their youthful exuberance, their use of trumpets, bringing one of their mums with them to do a little dance in Mama Do The Hump, their white hi-tops, and their rapping about things that matter to them, not pretending they grew up in the Bronx.

After this, we do a lot of queuing, for the loos, for the bar, for a halloumi sandwich, for cocktails behind idiots who demand Jagermeister or a mojito without the mint, or someone who orders a Bloody Mary and then decides she doesn't like it and refuses to pay. We meet up with Rob and Aline and go to watch Eric Prydz do some DJ-ing in the dance tent. It's fun, but I find it odd that house music has not evolved since 1992; it's still Italo-piano Ibiza-y delayed anticipation then bang! bang! bang! Choon! I go out and have a little retro dance to the Human League and Lipps Inc at the mobile over 35s wedding disco, right next to the old-fashioned sweet shoppe.

We wander into the Vaccines, who I originally thought sounded like The Groove Farm. Rob thinks Benny Profane, but today, they're more like Status Quo - pub-rockin' 2/4 beats and the lead singer is wearing a denim waistcoat. Ew.

Scoot over for Nicki Minaj, but she's awful; she's doing her rapping live but all the singing is on tape and she's not even wearing a candy-coloured wig. It's a no from me.

Surprisingly then, I like Will.i.am who is good when he isn't sitting in a chair. All he does is rap over some remixed chart hits, like DJ Kool at Loughborough Echoes niteclub, but it works, he's fun and he should quit TV talent shows. We get some more food (Dave: black bean noodles, me: veggie burito - it's like a shopping centre "international" food court here) and do a little dancing to DJ Nihal's set in which he plays a song that I believe is dub-step. I'm not exactly sure what dub-step or how it differs from grime or UK garage is but I do like this style:

Meet R&A in the dance tent once more for Swedish House Mafia. Now it's much the same as what fellow Swede Eric Prydz was doing, but it seems to flow much better. Fireworks, smoke and lazer lights don't hinder the effect.

Then it's time for Jack ~~Black~~ White who has gone from just using drums and guitar to a whole band's worth full of kooky musical instruments - I almost expect a washboard to turn up. I also expect Tim Bruton to use Jack White in a film sometime soon, he already looks like Johnny Depp after eating all the grits 'n' eggs. Or maybe The Coen Bros, they like that kinda hokum pokum southern drawl y'all. Anyway, he mostly does solo stuff, with a few White Stripes songs thrown in, including Hotel Yorba, and finishing, magnificently, with a filthy, grungy, bassy version of Seven Nation Army. I did hope he would say: "And good luck to England United in the soccerball tomorrow", but he doesn't, just tells us to enjoy Jay-Z.

And we do. We attempt to see a bit of Sean Paul, but he's turned up late ("Fuck Sean Paul", says someone leaving in disgust) - I wonder if his tardiness was due to a wardrobe crisis; all his backing dancers are clearly wearing hotpants two sizes too small for him. Anyway, there're about 10 people watching because the rest of the remaining audience (a lot of people have left already, I guess it is a long trek back to Clapham) have gone to watch Mr Zed. I miss him performing with Rihanna because I have gone to queue for the loo again, but we do see his collaborations with MIA and (surprise guest) Kanye West, which makes Claire, who's just arrived, go mental. It's a very surreal experience, watching two of the world's biggest megastars performing in Hackney watched by a few thou other people in the rain. J-Z is a highly mesmerising performer, putting his all into a set that lasts over an hour, he doesn't just turn up half-heartedly, do a few whoops, collect his £100K and then go, (I hope they at least got him a mini-cab to Euston Travellodge), he is committed to the experience. He does the two songs I know (Empire and 99 Problems) and I find myself really admiring him, if not really digging the music that much (or doing the diamonds in the sky thing; this isn't the Nuremberg rallies) and feel quite sad when it's over. Then it's just the long walk home in the rain, enlivened by Dave lying to a policeman so we can do a shortcut through a Homerton back-street. Maybe next year, it'll be on Hackney Downs instead.