Justice, Jamiroquai and alt-J burn it up on an industrial scale at this beguilingly photogenic Czech festival

Don’t worry – until a fortnight ago I’d never heard of Ostrava either. Let’s learn together. Straddling the historic provinces of Moravia and Silesia, the Czech Republic’s third-largest city traces it’s history back to the middle ages, but only properly came into its own during the 19th century, when hyper-abundant coal reserves made it a hotbed of the Industrial Revolution.

Bear with me, this is worth it.

Despite Ostrava’s charmingly-restored baroque centre, the skyline is still dominated by heavy industry. Soaring chimneys, mighty engine houses, dinosaurian gantries, sinister pipework. In parts it resembles a dystopian fantasy painting, or an especially eerie level on Call of Duty.

The most striking concentration of gigantic hardware is at Lower Vítkovice, just outside the city centre. This looming, brooding former ironworks, coal mine and blast furnace complex ceased operating in the late ‘90s. Canny locals made the most of its mesmeric scale by taking over the country’s largest music festival – Colours of Ostrava – when the event outgrew its former home in 2012.

So is the festival any good? Absolutely. While 2017's lineup lacks the molten core of some continental rivals I could mention, the real headliner is unquestionably the venue itself. It’s so fucking stunning. If you’re a photographer, or you’ve ever taken a photo, or you simply have eyes it’s worth hopping on a Ryanair flight just to goggle and gape at this rusting colossus, this mammoth tribute to mankind’s ferocious thirst for energy.

Similarly – sorry, but it’s true – the crowd itself is by far the prettiest I’ve seen at a festival. Anywhere, ever. For a nation whose diet appears to consist entirely of meat, dumplings, pilsner and fags, the sheer number of statuesque, glossy-haired, high-cheekboned punters frankly defies all reason.

Anyway, to the music. alt-J were an opening-day triumph, proving their brand of cerebral art rock is amply capable of holding thousands in raptures on a main-stage scale. Birdy charmed all and sundry with a light-touch, cover-leaning set. Ferocious Dog unleashed an explosive fusillade of Celtic folk-punk which sat just right with my bellyful of Radegast beer, post-sunset, day one.

My only gripe with the music programming is Colours’ tin-eared choice of main-stage closing acts. Though not my cup of tea, I don’t deny Imagine Dragons deserve a huge crowd. But why put them on after alt-J? They came across lightweight and juvenile by comparison. Similarly whoever plonked lounge chanteuse Norah Jones on last – after the excellent, hypnotic Michael Kiwanuka – should be bricked up in a mineshaft, or at least made ‘International Buzzkill’ magazine’s man of the year, 2017.

Mustn't grumble though – there’s plenty to keep one amused after-hours, from the reliably thumping dance tent (big shout-out to frenchman Fakear on Saturday) to the shameless cringe of the corporate zones. Yes, we’re all too cool to admit it, but sometimes prancing about with a sticky cocktail and a Captain Morgan tricorn is utterly appropriate.

You can camp, but honestly – speaking as a sturdy veteran of countless nights under canvas – both sites are a bit of a trek across town. Sure, you can hop on a regular, reliable, cheap tram, but we opted to crash at Harmony Hotel, just 25 minutes stroll from the main gates. Ostrava is well worth spending time in before things really start popping off onsite. Canoeing on the Ostravice river is diverting, you can explore a real-life mine at Landek Park or – when you really need to clear your head – a romantic chairlift can whisk you up Pustevny mountain resort, about an hour out of town. They’ll even (for a modest fee) let you glide down winding wooded backlanes to base camp on this weird bike-scooter contraption they apparently think is cool here.

What else? Bolt Tower – named for sprinter Usain, who adores Ostrava, apparently – is a postmodern glass marvel perched atop an old blast furnace, perfect for grabbing a hard-hat selfie with a glass of red, some 78m above the hurly-burly of the festival. Czech crowds, if you can believe it, have even shittier rhythm than British crowds, which is hilarious when a tune they like comes on. It rained once, for about an hour, on Saturday night (sucks to be you, Laura Mvula). I had a bash at VR in the Google tent. There’s a whole bunch of lectures happening, if you’re into that sort of thing. And a jumbo-sized family zone if you’re lumbered with sprogs.

On the last night, for better or worse, I was stoked to see Jamiroquai. As a child of the ‘90s his agile jazz-pop stylings enhanced many an over-long car journey. Yet the slippery old tease delivered a moribund set, unforgivably light on hits. I was crestfallen, until two hours later when electronic duo Justice appeared. It was my first time.

Ye gods, Justice kick ass. Co-opting indie-rock iconography with rows of Marshall stacks – just for show apparently, but whevs – I didn’t know a single tune but danced like a muppet anyway.

And perhaps that’s the essence of this festival. New life emerging from the dregs of the old order. A young, free party spirit reinvigorating a decrepit, rusting corpse.

So fuck you Jay Kay. At least do Deeper Underground next time you play a coal mine.

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Words: Andy Hill