Mexico City airport explodes into rounds of applause and cheering. A bit much for our post-border control strut, we think, until we realise that Carl Barat and Richard Ashcroft are right behind us, crew wheeling mixing desks and the like through arrivals to the sixth edition of Corona Capital.
All it takes is a taxi ride to get a sense of the British fetishisation in this part of the world. Radio playlists seem to consist entirely of Queen and The Beatles, while a glance at the festival line-up reveals many of our fellow countrymen occupying headline spots. The UK contingent consists of The Libertines, Ashcroft, Muse, Sohn, The Psychedelic Furs, Fatboy Slim, Primal Scream, The Charlatans, Circa Waves, George Fitzgerald and, of course, the jewel in our crown: Calvin Harris. One of the first questions we ask is: are there any local bands playing? The answer we're given is that there's a no-Mexican-band policy in place, since the majority of festival-goers are natives who want to see international artists. Fair enough, although we'd have lapped up some local talent.
A few amber-coloured tequilas help kickstart the defence against jet lag (and you're meant to sip not shot – we've been doing it wrong this whole time!), while a full Mariachi band serenades us sampling the cuisine – with delicious variations of mole and carnitas getting full marks. No escamoles, the traditional 'delicacy' of ants eggs, thankfully.
The city is one of the largest in the world in terms of population density, and nothing can prepare you for the levels of traffic you encounter while bumping through its pot holed streets (though an industrial strength sports bra is one idea). Our first morning is spent somewhere that could be a film set: just outside the city lies Teotihuacán, a 200AD Aztec settlement with two skyscraping pyramids: the Sun and the Moon. We vote to scale the former, the third largest in the world, and the steep stone steps are easily worth it once we can see the ruins of the abandoned metropolis for miles around.
While Mexico City itself sits at a casual 2,250m above sea level, so you're pretty high up – which is something we bear in mind for our alcohol intake that afternoon. If being brought ice-cold beers at a festival without having to lose your place in the crowd sounds like something you might enjoy, then Corona Capital is the place for you. Here the drinks are offered via wooden boards on people's heads – which is as precarious as it sounds, and some of the servers look like they're in a substantial amount of pain as they look around desperately for takers. Another great option is the mezcal ice pop; an ice cream tub of the agave spirit with a lolly as chaser. Just look for the man with the black coolbag.
We step onto the festival turf, also a Formula 1 racetrack that the riot police's horses seem to take pleasure in desecrating. Things kick off with the Kitsuné-hyped MOTHXR aka what's-his-name from that show, who take to the Doritos stage (everything here is branded aggressively) to perform their easy breezy hit 'Touch'. DrownedinSound's editor tells us that Pennsylvania band Title Fight have been lighting up their forums like no other, and we're grateful for the tip when we head to the Corona stage to see the post-hardcore outfit thrash it out. We're sold. Go get 'Hyperview', it's great.
It's easy to be put off by someone who goes by the name of Father John Misty, but the honest truth is the psychedelic troubadour puts on a pretty great show that we don't regret watching a moment of. Waltzing with his mic stand, he points to a giant, Corona-branded sea creature in the distance, going: "That jellyfish isn't cheap… we take it with us wherever we go". We pop our heads on sundown into Run The Jewels, where the pair are being inspirational as ever in between renditions of 'Lie, Cheat, Steal' and monologuing about Donald Trump (who seems to be the unlikely theme of the festival when Muse later blast his orange mug across their screens).
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As well as showing disdain for the presidential candidate, Muse – the finale of the night – choose to bathe their performance in the colours of the French flag in solidarity, and send us back to the noughties with 'Plug In Baby' and 'Supermassive Black Hole', which get huge receptions, though their 'dubstep' phase – 'The 2nd Law' – is best left forgotten. After that it's straight out to the 'zona rosa' (gay district) to swap sleep time for Korean karaoke.
Next morning in el Zócalo, the main square, we wonder if it's the Corona hangover that's making all the old buildings look like they're slouching, but it's not: Mexico City was built on a swamp, and the Cathedral is sinking at a rate of 15-20 inches a year. The earthquakes don't do much to help this, and the following day we actually get to experience a Richter 5.5 during lunch with the British Ambassador to Mexico. In between snacking on pumpkin flower and fried grasshoppers (spoiler alert: it's an acquired taste), a siren goes off that makes our guides turn white. Luckily it's just a mild shake that accompanies our meal – which is just as well, as the three flights of 16th century staircase don't look that appealing.
Back at the racetrack Shamir leads proceedings, getting the whole crowd with fists in the air to 'Call It Off' and funk-inflected tracks from his debut. He lights up a cigarette on stage, gets the party started, then skips off at the end. #casual. One band that we hadn't predicted being our highlight was Mew. The Danish outfit move through a set of classics new and old, 'The Zookeeper's Boy' right up to 2015's 'Water Slides'. They're helped along by some visuals that'd make the designer of Windows Media Player jealous, and a cat playing a violin (Mew… get it?) In the moment, it seems that the band's music was basically made for balmy Mexican evenings.
Our plane pal Richard Ashcroft is on the Doritos stage, yelling: "Who else has got the bollocks to stand up on this stage on their own, with only a guitar, and play it from the soul?" We opt to watch Fatboy Slim from a height, strapped into a 30ft tall contraption for a full view of the stage where he's mashing up Marvin Gaye with 'Eat Sleep Rave Repeat' for one leg of his Smile High Club tour. Back on solid ground, Norman Cook's whole show is a spectacle, complete with reachable lasers and giant smiley faces plastered everywhere. At one point Snoop Dogg makes an on-screen cameo, and it's all pretty silly and fun. Calvin Harris is meant to be the big finale of the festival, but every single member of our party chooses to get in the shuttle bus and listen to the Vengaboys instead (Mexican radio continuing to be a giant throwback). Sorry Calvin.
Our last few hours are spent at MUAC – the Autonomous University of the city, for a private viewing of the new Jeremy Deller exhibition – the first showing of his work in a Spanish-speaking country, and it's interesting to see his work on the miners' strike showcased in another environment. In other areas of the gallery, we transmit our heartbeats onto the lightbulbs that flickered throughout the building and breathe in a whole load of stale air from other visitors in a glass chamber, feeling a bit like a science experiment in the process.
Now it's time to say a sad goodbye to our wonderful guides from the embassy. They've spent the previous week showing Lewis Hamilton around, and the next week will host the remaining members of One Direction and Irvine Welsh, but jokingly insist that they're happier to have us. Maybe it's the constant stream of head-Coronas talking, but in terms of operation, the festival is possibly the slickest festival we've ever been to, with barely any queues and prompt starts for each stage. It's also been wonderful to get a quick but colourful snapshot of such a vibrant city, and as we check in at the airport next to Primal Scream and Tim Burgess, we realise that we've come full circle. Hasta luego, Mexico.
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2015 is the year of UK In Mexico, a year-long celebration of cultural, educational and business exchange between the two nations.
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Words: Felicity Martin
Photography: Press
