The Great Escape Festival Review

It’s five in the morning at Brighton Pier and a guy with an acoustic guitar has just pulled over a van. He’s then climbed on top and freed a seagull trapped on a wire using a knife procured from a shifty-looking stranger. Welcome to The Great Escape Festival 2007.

Seagull saving aside, an enormous collection of new bands along with a smattering of established acts is the reason why 5000 people have flocked to the seaside. From Canada to Camden, France to Finland, an international melting pot of music is on offer.

Or maybe three days of queuing in the drizzle. Having enjoyed a soothing set of quaint folk from Dan Mangan in the shark pool of the Sealife Centre, spirits are high. But then, even with a magic Press Pass in tow, entry into Concorde 2 to watch CSS is impossible. Lines of people snake along the seafront looking disgruntled as they are turned away, so it’s off to catch 1990s instead.

Inside the cavernous treasure trove of Audio, the Glaswegian three-piece sounds like a budget Franz Ferdinand. Shout-along choruses and choppy riffs dominate songs like You’re Supposed To Be My Friend. They contain the lyrical depth of a Nuts magazine subscriber and are sung by a man who looks like Johnny Borrell’s uglier, yes uglier, brother.

However, it is undeniably danceable and a great pre-cursor to Foals, Britain’s best new band. Dashing across to Komedia, rumours abound that Yoko Ono has been spotted watching The Gossip in the giant cow tent aptly named the Udderbelly; thankfully this frightful combination are nowhere in sight as Foals launch into a frenetic set.

Electrifyingly frantic vocals dominate their layered sound, with a pulsating bass line during Hummer producing a euphoric atmosphere in the sweaty crowd. Funky yet edgy, this Oxford five-piece are inimitably fun and deserve your immediate attention.

Next up are Gallows, apparently rock’s new messiahs, here to breathe life into the stale musical climate. Actually, they’re all aggression and attitude with no substance. They may have a snarling frontman and a raucous live presence, but songs like Abandon Ship are basic and unimaginative. The crowd is manic, the guitarist slashes his face open with his instrument and utter mayhem ensues - but where are the songs? More disappointing than Brighton beach having no sand, this band is hideously over-hyped.

Waking up slightly dazed, still angry at Gallows for repeatedly calling the whole crowd c***s, a decidedly more relaxed day is planned. An unexpected afternoon treat is found at the Udderbelly as Emily Loizeau serves up some blissful balladry. Mixing between French and English, she strokes her piano delicately while delivering ethereal vocals. Shaun Ryder even waits patiently outside for her to finish, before giving a keynote lecture. This festival can be surreal.

More feminine songsmithery follows from Adele, a girl who talks like Lily Allen but sings like Dusty Springfield. Amy Winehouse comparisons are inevitable as Adele shares her soulful delivery, but couples this with an understated innocence.

Kid Harpoon continues the barrage of unassuming talent onstage. He cajoles the audience with the sweetly melodious Charlie’s Dreaming before exchanging banter with The Kooks’ Luke Pritchard. The Red Roaster Café’s newly-acquired Greenwich Village feel is completed by Kid Harpoon’s impressive musical resemblance of Dylan circa 1963. It’s engulfed in a glow of camaraderie as The Mystery Jets, Hadouken and Scroobius Pip all gaze on.

Belatedly, it becomes clear that the only people in here are in bands. With just a 70 person capacity, it is strikingly intimate and each syllable uttered is much clearer than the crowds’ alcohol-affected heads. But the fans can’t get in! Several hundred stand outside in the cold, watching through the window. Everybody’s waiting for Jack Penate.

The London troubadour bounds onstage as the window rattles dangerously. Eventually he is forced to turn sideways so those outside can see, such is the adulation. He melds contemporary lyrics with the timeless skill of sheer showmanship, sparking a mass sing-along with latest single Spit At Stars. Guitar held aloft, Penate dances like Elvis and sings with surprising range and expected passion. There’s a permanent contorted grin on his face - maybe he realises he’s on the cusp of success.

Smartly dressed gig-goers still wander about anxiously as the night draws to a close, desperate to get inside one of the 20 venues hosting bands. Many don’t end up where they wanted to, but The Great Escape has a habit of unearthing unforeseen delights.

This is the case on Saturday when, following seemingly every man in Brighton descending in Walkabout for the F.A Cup Final, a man on stilts plays the A-Team Theme on a trombone. Then, a dash down to the sunshine-basked beach is interrupted by the spectacle of ridiculous Helsinki collective Eternal Erection playing aboard a vehicle called the Funky Bus.

But tonight is Brighton boys The Maccabees’ homecoming – the miniscule Honey Club is the setting. The Draytones warm up the already sweltering venue with a gritty half-hour of garage rock. Sounding like The View without the pop singles, there’s nothing to hate, but nothing to adore.

Candie Payne then saunters into view. Atmospheric and brooding rock spreads under the low ceilings, drowning out Payne’s jazz-tinged voice. Strangely resembling a Motown singer fronting a rock and roll band, it’s interesting but doesn’t quite fit. Beautifully crafted songs are lost in a whirl of guitars, marking this as a missed opportunity.

The Maccabees have grasped their chance hungrily, as shown by the euphoric reaction when they emerge. Earlier, they happily posed for pictures in the bizarre setting of Harry Ramsden’s. Now, they’re in full-on indie icons mode. Blasting through Latchmere amid riotous crowd scenes, the local heroes jagged sound jolts even those cowering at the back into life.

Stop-start time signatures breed a skittish atmosphere as the band manages to contain the adrenaline of their performance into short, sharp bursts. It seems The Maccabees are preaching to the converted as every word is screamed back at them by adoring fans. Singer Orlando Weeks’ warbled vocals – he sounds like he’s just been stung in the mouth by a wasp – fit with their fizzing style perfectly.

As the contagious First Love signals the end of the gig and the festival, the beach is flooded with confused, but happy faces, looking for the next party to go to, the next memory to find. The Great Escape can be frustrating when venues reach capacity or when a band doesn’t deliver. But with an open mind and a bit of luck it can be spectacular. You might even save a seagull.

Review - Cat Power

Right...I'm taking a considerably more gonzo take on this reviewing lark today. Seeing as it's been a difficult few weeks and the amount of work i've got done ranges from managing to get out of bed to buying bogof pizzas at the repulsive sainsbury's down the road, I'm amazed I'm doing anything mildly productive. Do forgive me.

Anyway...this gig happened in lovely Kentish Town not eleven days ago. It was ten days ago. I wasn't going, I had two enormous law exams the following day. But Cat Power does own a voice so hauntingly soothing I thought it could be therapeutic.

Having met my brother's charming fiance in a place called Harrow-On-The-Hill...(I know, I didn't think that was a real place either) I trundled alone down the Tube to meet Mr Sean. Durkin, fellow connoisseur of Cat Power's blissful blues.

Upon arrival a young lady from Brooklyn, New York decided to engage me in conversation. It was fun, she talked funny. Then, to our amusement, the back door opened where three groupies (men groupies exist and are definitely worse than their female counterparts) were met by a buck-toothed beauty. Said beauty told two that they could come backstage. Third, bespectacled, whiney, groupie was told "She doesn't remember you, you can't come in." He got all grumpy and had to stand in the cold. Oh how we chortled.

Once inside, we sat, we drank (well, Sean did) and we saw a support act whose name evades me stumble about the stage, fall over and act, to steal a lyric, like Oliver Reed at an Irish stag do.
Then came Cat. If you haven't heard her last album, 'The Greatest', then stop reading and go get it. Sounding a cross between Joni Mitchell and a less-shouty Karen O, singer Chan (said 'Shawn', not like Jackie Chan) Marshall is both husky and heavenly. She covers Sinatra's 'New York New York' and oh do we wanna be a part of it.

Now, my only previous viewing of Cat Power live was on Jools Holland. Her angelic tones were matched by a striking femininity - white dress, pale skin, Dusty Springfield without the heartache, Marilyn Monroe with a singing voice.

Tonight though, she's dressed in jeans. She dances like a student, sauntering around, sipping from a coffee cup and smoking a cigarette. By the way - smoking is only cool when Chan Marshall is smoking. She could probably make being an RE teacher cool, mind. But some of the other-worldly, ghostly aura of Cat Power is lost by her dressing more like Gabby Logan than the Angel Gabriel.

However, when she sings Empty Shell it doesn't matter if she looks like Mel C. An achingly beautiful melody is accompanied by painfully bruised lyrics, as sorrow is encapsulated with every syllable. If you ever want to break up with someone, play them this song - they'll understand. Okay, no, they probably won't, scrap that. If you ever want to break up with ME, play me this song - i'll understand. That may be the most obtuse advice ever given. Use it wisely.

The band wind up playing a medley of The Stones, Otis Redding and Cat's own piercingly moving classic, Lived In Bars. Put those in a sandwich and no board is needed, they'll sell themselves. Although selling songs via sandwich boards is an interesting proposition. I'd be more likely to invest in them than anything Unicef are trying to flog.

On that bombshell, as a fictitious Norwich-based character once uttered, that will do for this rant. Oh, no, wait. Liverpool played Chelsea in the Champion's League the same time as the gig. Sean (big Liverpool fan), upon hearing Liverpool have won on penalties, gets up and shouts "Fucking get in there" and does some macho posing at the exact moment Cat Power is singing a delicate ballad. Surrounding crowd are not happy, Sean exits stage right. I stay seated, embarassed but jubilant. Sean returns, we celebrate secretly, then the gig continues. And that is all.

If you've read this, don't worry. I'm acutely aware this is drivel and it won't happen again. If it does, i'll be out of a job and my planned summer shifts at BeerSeller will become altogether more permanent. If that isn't motivation I don't know what is.

Tell me if this amused you or informed you in any way. If not, I just wasted, ooh, a good 12 minutes of my life. As Paul Smith said, I didn't even check the spelling.


Word Count: go on, I dare you...