Fee Fie Foe Fum

Festive Fun with Mumford and Sons at Fee Fie Foe Fum

Fi Fie Foe Fum is an office party like no other. Everyone is dressed impeccably, the drink is flowing and people are dancing with abandon. But there are no po-faced managers or giggling secretaries in sight, just the elite of the UK's new-folk scene all in one room. This is a festive celebration of all the twee talents who have started making inroads into the musical landscape in the past year.

Cargo is already bustling as Jay Jay Pistolet plays his doleful, melancholy music. The understated singer-songwriter divides opinion with his nonchalant use of effects on his microphone. He conjures a tone similar to that produced on a creaking gramophone, but his songs have a depth and tenderness to match the antiquity of the sound. When he claims he has never heard any of the rest of the bill, but suggests the crowd enjoy them anyway, this masks the closeness of the artists on display.

Most of this bunch have been touring, recording and dating each other and there's an easy familiarity between the audience and artists too, a cosy, celebratory feel that culminates in Mumford & Sons' performance. While half of the four-piece are usually in Laura Marling's backing band, tonight they lay claim to the gig's most entertaining set, despite two acts being higher on the bill.

Singer Marcus has the giddy look of a man confident in his songs and his setting, blasting into the jostling folk of White Blank Page with aplomb. However, the swerving, cantering nature of Banjolin Song epitomises their performance, its soaring harmonies pitch perfect and snatching a jubilant moment from the raucous venue. They are strident but playful, clearly enjoying themselves utterly. As they depart after a set that is far too short, the wait for their debut album seems suddenly too long.

Laura Marling rightly receives adulation for her Mercury-nominated first record, but tonight she is content to play four songs solo, the first of which, No Hope In The Air, is new. There is a disconcerting rowdiness to her performance that isn't quite natural, the crowd roaring back delicate lyrics with endearing devotion, but stealing poise from them simultaneously. She is demanded back for an encore of My Manic & I, which has no chorus but becomes a terrace chant regardless. Well, it is Christmas.

Johnny Flynn manages to round the night up in jolly fashion, his boyish good looks and regular changing of instruments keeping the hordes swaying until the early hours. Next year could see one or more of these acts penetrating the mainstream, but for now, those present are glad to be in on the secret.

Field Day

Field Day
Victoria Park, London
Saturday 9th July

Being in Britain and at a festival, you’d think rain would be a given. But after sunshine at most of this summer’s musical gatherings, the sight of precipitation streaming down the cheeks of cold looking faces is about as welcome the cancellations that hampered this year’s event.

Yes, Mystery Jets pulled out due to singer Blaine’s ongoing illness, Dan Deacon cancelled after having his passport stolen, and the weather is more miserable than this review so far. But that’s as far as the negativity goes. Field Day, if not an indubitable success, is an amiable achievement, managing to keep thousands of indie kids entertained for, oh, a good ten hours. OK, there is a bit more pessimism, but if we’re talking about the weather we may as well embrace another infuriating English trait.

Noah and the Whale, current implausible chart darlings, begin the day on the main stage as an eager crowd waits to hear ‘Five Years Time’ and nod along to Charlie and the gang’s laudable lullabies. Sadly, ‘Shape of my Heart’ is struck by sound issues and the set never really recovers despite solid instrumentation and a heartfelt voice. It isn’t really their fault; it’s early and people are milling around on mobiles trying to find friends or gawp at Noel Fielding, but even the aforementioned single lacks a spark and this is an opportunity missed.

Howling Bells grasped what should have been their shot at the big time a couple of years back with a stylish, layered record and sultry live shows – but nobody really noticed. Now back with a new album to plug, the brooding, colourful melodrama of ‘Setting Sun’ and the ‘Broken Bones’ has been replaced with synths and attempts to find a hook the radio will play. This may diminish from the overall impact of Juanita and co, but the songs burn slowly, suggesting future promise.

This is all that many people are left with by mid-afternoon, as a lull in proceedings and a further downpour dampen spirits and leave many seeking shelter in tents playing electro and jolly disco thoroughly unsuitable for 3pm. Solace is found in the form of the British Legion playing shaky brass band covers of ABBA tracks on a bandstand under a tree. The feeling they are here every Saturday and the festival was merely placed around them brings a warming glow and before you know it we’ve won a coconut.

Suddenly, we’re back at a festival: the fact a few bands were mediocre is an irrelevance, there’s a man wearing a bin bag losing to a girl wearing a smile in a consuming carrot-consuming contest. Following this vegetable eating virtuosity, it’s back to the business of watching bands.


Laura Marling doesn’t disappoint. Beginning with ‘Ghosts’, the sound problems that haunted last year’s event return and Laura’s ephemeral spurts of lyrical prowess are lost in wind and bass. Nevertheless, she plays with such quiet disregard for crowd reaction that any response is irrelevant and ‘My Manic and I’ plunders into ‘Cross Your Fingers’ with delicate power. There are lots of pretty young things who can hold a tune, but Marling sounds like she needs to sing, a few evocative moments lingering in the drizzle long enough to make the lulls immaterial.

Then it’s time to race around the site as the thought of the day disappearing becomes perceptible. Tunng thrill with a gangly version of ‘Bullets’, all arms and ahs, sound effects aplenty. Then Of Montreal fail to translate to a muddy field, despite theatrical stage-play, so it’s back to the tents for the Mai Shi to bemuse but delight with a contorted set of strangely engaging noise. The guitarist loops around the stage, the singer takes to repetition and attempts to obliterate rhythm, but, secretly, there’s melody in there, chuckling as it hides behind squawking guitars and Jack Black poses.

Lightspeed Champion is pretty definitive of this place. Thoroughly engaging, quite amusing, ostensibly confusing and pretty unsure of exactly what he wants to be, this is the only festival even verging on being as indie as him. So it’s only right he’s bumped up the bill to replace the Mystery Jets, noting their absence with apologies and a short cover of ‘Alas Agnes’. He’s soon spurred into extended versions of album cuts ‘Dry Lips’ and ‘Tell Me What It’s Worth’, the longer time slot giving him chance to arse around a bit with extended guitar solos. However, the core spirit of Hoxton Americana remains, gashing guitars and bittersweet melodies competing for attention. It’s all very loveable, with a Star Wars introduction into epic closer ‘Midnight Surprise’ characterising the niche appeal of this congenial chap.

Sometimes festivals dip for an hour or so, but there’s always adventure lurking for those inclined. Here, as evening creeps into darkness, there doesn’t really seem to be. Confined into mass huddles in cramped tents, toilet queues and, in many cases, exits for early trains home, the appeal of this well-intentioned affair dwindles as nothing truly attention-grabbing leaves hordes just hanging around for headliners or kicks. The sack racing antics of the afternoon feel a daydream as a skip in the step becomes a trudge and murmurs of discontent flood the field.

A show-stopping headline performance is required to salvage the evening. Foals await, not the most likely candidate considering their tendency to ignore regardless of how much they are adored. However, this stand-offish style bubbles into a potent truce between band and fans, the jerky music mixing with reflexive audience reactions and brewing into an atmosphere of tangible tension.

Guitars held high, drums tight and choruses now known, Foals look solid; they’re more comfortable with their position as an act people want to see but still calculatingly deprecating of the whole sham. Yannis looks positively menacing during ‘Cassius’, while dropping other singles ‘Balloons’ and ‘Hummer’ early smacks of buoyant self-belief. By the time the marauding, glazed attack of ‘Mathletics’ bleeps by, everyone present is converted to Foals’ mantra, even if they want you to think they don’t want you to be.

Field Day could be brilliant: better scheduling; reliable sound systems; more toilets - we aren’t asking for The Beatles. Nonetheless, a few eccentric little twists and choice performances from artists make it a satisfactory if not unforgettable day. With better weather it could easily move from one to the other, but then what would we have to moan about?

How to get a Whale out of a pigeon-hole

How to get a Whale out of a pigeon-hole

Noah and the Whale. They’re a folk band, right? All tweed and fiddles with twee little fiddly bits. “We want to get to a point where people are so confused about what we are that we can’t be pigeon-holed,” claims Charlie Fink, leader of this bespoke, ramshackle contradiction of a group. “I don’t know what kind of band we are, so how does anybody else?” Ah. Well, they’re Laura Marling’s side project then. No? “Earlier, a journalist said to me: ‘You’re album Alas, I Cannot Swim just came out, how does it feel?’ Sorry, that’s Laura’s album. We’re a separate band. Obviously that annoyed me.”

Right, let’s start with what we do know then. Noah and the Whale are a London collective who sing songs about death and love and time and just when you think they’re taking themselves far too seriously, they throw in a Temptations cover. Charlie, fresh from a UK headline tour, explains their sound. “It’s strange. I feel like our sets should be split in half sometimes,” he murmurs, eloquent but understated. “People latch on to the upbeat parts, but there’s lots more to us than that. Sometimes we’re a party for the uninvited, a celebration of loneliness.”

Charlie revels in these oppositions, happy to teeter on the peripherals of pop but still cite Bonnie 'Prince' Billy as a major reference point. “I think where we take our influences from gives us more options and more depth,” he asserts. “Now is the best time ever to be making music. As an industry now, because of the internet, Myspace, blah blah blah. But, creatively, the main thing is the hindsight we have now. All these incredible artists to influence us, all the things you can do with sound now, it’s quicker and better.

This is not a modern band, yet they could only exist in the current musical climate, breathing in contemporary issues but telling tales of old-fashioned romanticism and hazy detachment. “A lot of this social commentary stuff doesn’t appeal to me, but I understand where it comes from. For example, I think Jamie T is a brilliant lyricist. What we do is different though. I don’t think either has more relevance than the other, but I could never imagine myself writing songs like that, or wanting to.”

Regardless, an ability to connect with a modern audience is definitely present. “Half the energy is from the band, half is from the crowd, one doesn’t come without the other,” he explains. “If we’re ever feeling dead, sometimes the crowd will get energy from nowhere and lift us.” Live listeners range from ragged old men shuffling in the corners to starry-eyed girls and boys staring at Charlie’s vulnerable virtuosity. He’s all eye contact, a shy, secret showman quietly itching for attention.

The same stumbling articulacy of tracks like ‘Mary’ and ‘Rocks and Daggers’ is present in each stammered, considered answer. He’s keen to stress Noah and the Whale are a band not a vehicle for his own ambitions. “I don’t know if I’d go solo. The best thing about the band is I feel we could take it wherever we want, and they share my vision. I don’t think we ever want to tie ourselves down to any direction or decision.”

An ambiguity to concrete resolutions surfaces again when Laura Marling’s departure from the band inevitably crops up. “I think she’s played her last show with us, but I don’t want to make it too formal.” Slow Club singer Rebecca and Soko have been filling in, but there are no plans to replace Marling, who is achieving considerable praise as a solo artist. “I’m very proud of her; it gives me great joy to see how well she’s doing. As long as people understand that what each of us do are different and valuable things.”

Charlie and Laura seem inextricably linked, the former even producing the latter’s album. “Obviously we’re both heavily involved in each others projects, but it’s important for both of us that they’re kept separate. The album is finished now with Laura on it. I feel that chapter is done, we’ve achieved what we’ve wanted from that,” he states, with finality. “The next move for us might not even require her. I want to let things evolve naturally, see what happens.”

Yes, but most singers say that and are actually plotting a Borrell-esque attempt to become Sting before they hit 30. Charlie disagrees. “It honestly doesn’t bother me how well our songs do. Our ambitions are artistic, not commercial; every band needs to evolve constantly.” Considering they recorded a punk album recently for no particular reason, his declaration is probably sincere. “We always try new arrangements; otherwise you’ll lose the passion or the drive. If you want to be an artist you have to challenge yourself and your audience.

But with people used to the likes of next single ‘Five Years Time’, a flowery pop gem as joyous as it is throwaway, how can all this talk of artistic merit be justified? “That’s just one side of us that people pick up on. But it’s so refreshing to do things differently, when nobody expects it.”

Let’s face it though, Noah and the Whale aren’t Radiohead, if they withdraw into obscure genres and experimentation, the fans won’t follow. “Sure, if we change too much, it’s a risk we will lose what people like about us now. But it’s very weak to pander to anyone.” The irony of this admirable statement isn’t lost as he’s ordered by to run off to soundcheck.

However, the unique position of the band is clear. “This summer, we’re doing Lollapalooza, then heading straight to Cambridge Folk Festival. To have that range, it’s a brilliant and rare position to be in.” They’re just big enough to grasp such opportunities, eclectic and talented enough to pull them off and still small enough to do what the hell they like. It’s very difficult to pigeon-hole that.

Laura Marling Live

Laura Marling
St. James’ Church, London
Wednesday 11th June 2008


This whole playing in a church idea is fraught with some major problems. Creating an atmosphere resembling a standard gig is not only difficult, it almost feels wrong. The acoustics, as The Arcade Fire found last year, can be pretty dreadful. There is no bar. Plus, nobody goes to church these days, do they?

It appears they do if Laura Marling is around. In this resplendent setting, she glows with youthful vitality and distinctive tones. The peculiar Piccadilly setting is full hours in advance, with Marling flittering around the pulpit and people settling in the pews which line the hall. Arriving in front of the seated audience, she begins with a soft murmur through ‘Shine’. It’s playful, but delivered with purpose, each syllable concentrated.

Soon, her band joins her up front and she visibly alters, at ease with the physical support of her accomplished company. A few numbers pass uneventfully, competent yet uninspired. ‘My Manic and I’, played suitably subtly yet prickly enough to build a welcome tension, raises the intensity. At her best when not entirely comfortable, she mistakenly repeats a verse here, but remains viscerally in control.

Songs from debut album ‘Alas, I Cannot Swim’ dominate the set, with new tracks ‘Blackberry Stone’ and ‘Rebecca’ breaking the show up, the latter a startlingly simplistic acoustic lullaby. However, older tracks from previous EPs remain highlights, notably a spine-tingling ‘Night Terror’, its violin piercing through the wall of beautifully gloomy lyricism, conjuring a rich, sorrowful sound.





















The building, built by Sir Christopher Wren no less, adds to the misty romanticism of Marling’s craft, its high golden arches and intimate quirkiness ideally blending with her soft strumming style. The sound is stunted when sat in the sides beneath low ceilings, but if positioned on the balcony or centrally, it soars with echoic resonance and archaic significance. ‘Old Stone’ benefits from this powerful clarity, Marling’s petite but captivating voice filling the venue and fulfilling the absorbed onlookers.

There is a distinct sense that Marling desperately wants to be, and succeeds in being, different from the hordes of other young, female songwriters. Sure, she’s giggly and nervous, and her songs consist almost solely of laments to loves lost or labouring. But there’s substance; this isn’t primarily crowd-pleasing stuff, it’s resolute, tinged with darkness and reality.

Moving in a more standard direction is a possibility, as the joyful shanty sing-along encore illustrates. All the same, new single ‘Cross Your Fingers’ has a few too many death references to interest Duffy fans, despite its twinkling pop sentiments. She still stubbornly refuses to play the much-lauded ‘New Romantic’, but the set is memorable enough to convert those inside the church to her charming talent, if nothing more spiritual.

The Great Escape Festival 2008

The Great Escape
Various Venues, Brighton
Thursday 15th – Saturday 17th May 2008

Festivals don’t have to be about mud, tents and seeing recently reformed groups picking up paychecks almost as big as their egos. The Great Escape takes one city, throws hundreds of new bands into dozens of venues, adds thousands of punters and conjures millions of magical moments, all in three hazy days. On arrival in Brighton, a stroll down the beach seems the natural choice, so it’s off to Concorde2 with high hopes and a metaphorical bucket and spade.

FrYars are first on; they have a capital letter in the middle of their name so must either annoyingly pretentious or some cutting new electro act. Ah, it’s both, but with enough Talking Heads vagueness in singer Ben Garret’s curt brogue to engage as the fuzzy gloom of ‘The Ides’ booms around. School Of Language wander onstage next, telling the swelling crowd: “Thanks for coming, even though you’re only here for Vampire Weekend.” They may have a point, but as they struggle through the mediocrity of ‘Rockist’, the audience can be forgiven for not showering them with adulation. This is the current plaything of Field Music’s David Brewis, and reeks of side project cosseting. The drummer looks like he’s been in about 17 bands, waiting for a break that isn’t likely to materialise.

Vampire Weekend’s break may have arrived prematurely, but their unadulterated brand of kitsch pop impishness is far too genial to dislike. Sadly, most Escapees miss the show, as the first instance of queuing difficulties surface. As the Ivy League quartet begin with a looping rendition of ‘Mansard Roof’, scores of fans wait in vain outside. Nevertheless, those within are treated to a refreshingly tight as well as suitably enthusiastic set. ‘Campus’, an idyllic ode to adolescent apathy, is ready-made for festival frivolities, with The Kooks’ amongst those moved to move by its sheer catchiness. Luke Pritchard’s questionable dancing is again witnessed as ‘A-Punk’ provokes revellers to climb poles and generally run amok. Before closer ‘Oxford Comma’ combines grammar and giddiness, singer Ezra Koenig proclaims Brighton as his favourite place. Right now it’s easy to agree.

The real masterstroke of this event is its spontaneity. Somewhere, deep inside Great Escape HQ, an omnipotent being armed with only a headset and a contract phone frequently beams titbits of gigging gold out to eager recipients. In text message form. The simple idea of letting people know an obscure Icelandic bassoon player is about to play on the carousel ensures the day can be as exhilarating as the more rigorously organised evening. It is this service that leads to a capacity crowd filling Audio at 3pm, to see the elfin charm of French singer Soko. The quirky soloist strums her ukulele and spouts stories of peanut butter and other childish delights. ‘I Wanna Look Like A Tiger’, complete with elaborately appropriate headwear, continues the loveably novel atmosphere, before she shows depth with a piercingly fragile version of ‘I Will Never Love You.’ Soko is the find of the festival, popping up everywhere, leaving fresh devotees in her wake.

Earlier, Vinny Vinny played a midday set at Barfly showcasing their Sixties style, a foot-stomping melding of Motown with mod that references The Temptations as much as The Who. It’s all a tad too retro to be successful, but bracingly agreeable nonetheless. Another daytime session continues on Virtual Festivals’ very own stage on the pier. My Federation have borrowed Kasabian’s swagger and riffs, but are as pointless as building a sandcastle on the pebble-covered beach. Still, there’s an amusements arcade next door – you can’t play Air Hockey at Reading can you.

With over 200 bands playing, clashes are as inevitable as they are frustrating. Eventually Crystal Castles get the nod and the sweaty confines of Digital become base for Friday night. After a bitterly underwhelming performance from George Pringle, the headliners crash onto the tiny stage in an incursion of colour and intent. Incessant, loud and contagiously energetic, the duo rage into the pulsating blur of ‘Crimewave’. It’s intentionally unsubtle and structurally questionable, but their allure is insatiable. Front-woman Alice Glass is relentlessly suspended in transition between stage and crowd, much to the security team’s displeasure and the audience’s joy. She’s a buzzing ball of alacrity, never still and never clear. Crystal Castles set whizzes past, completely unoriginal but enthralling regardless. Speaking of fun but derivative bands, The Wombats then arrive on the decks to entertain the throngs of hyper revellers.

After the carousing of the night before, sanctuary comes the next afternoon in the form of three sultry tunes from Ida Maria, strumming atop the balcony of the Theatre Royal. The Swedish songstress stops pedestrian traffic with a racy acoustic run through ‘Better When You’re Naked’; her set is gloriously casual and far too short. Then, inexplicably, a string ensemble starts playing in the street. A cup of coffee and shot of Mozart and we’re back in business.

Lightspeed Champion plays three shows on Saturday, so catching him early may have been a misjudgement. A far cry from his imaginative, melodious album, his Old Market gig is a disaster. Playing solo, his electric guitar is abrasive and sketchy, burying his strengths of twisted lyricism and dazzling harmonies. Appearing uncomfortable throughout, he races through the likes of ‘Midnight Surprise’ and ‘Dry Lips’ without pausing between songs. The only respite for the perturbed crowd is a few licks of Weezer’s ‘Buddy Holly.’ At his later Barfly set, he apologises for this earlier performance. It was different, but ultimately plain shabby.

Over at the sumptuous setting of the Sally Bennis Theatre, Noah and the Whale play the gig of their lives. With a sympathetic audience, the seven-piece soothe with ‘Shape Of My Heart’ and thrill with the folk jiggery of ‘Mary’. It’s vulnerable but intense, the group dynamic cultivating a full, organic sound bereft of pretence and glimmering with emotion. The reasons for the affecting nature of the performance become clear as they announce the departure of Laura Marling from the band. As peculiar as it is warming, it’s a fitting send off.

When Marling returns, this time solo and centre-stage, it is clear her talent is thriving on its own. ‘Shine’ is a display of vocal range, while ‘Ghosts’ is almost painfully quaint. She is soon joined by her band, who add a more up-tempo drive to ‘Cross Your Fingers’ and a jubilant interpretation of ‘You’re No God.’ She is reluctant in the face of worshipping fans, her doe-eyed shyness appearing in every fiddle with her sleeves. Yet, mid-song, she’s assured, confidently aware of her ability. Every song is lapped up, before a sing-along encore of ‘Alas, I Cannot Swim’ cheerfully signals the end of another triumphant Great Escape.

The sheer volume of bands makes catching somebody startling a certainty, while Brighton’s festival feel gives the event an individual air of excitement. There is the possibility of spending large chunks of time standing in queues, unless you have a far more expensive delegate pass. Still, it’s all the positives of festivals, with fewer irritations. What better way to escape.