V Festival – Main Stage

Chelmsford – Main Stage
V Festival
16-17th July 2008

With the second stage looking like Smash Hits came back from the dead and threw up on it, the main stage has a lot of pressure on it this weekend. Luckily, V spends more on their line-ups every year than an average country does on food. This guarantees a stellar - if top-heavy - line up, brimming with potential headliners throughout the bill and aging rockers tempted out of retirement by one more shot at big crowds and bigger paychecks.

It’s a band that has recently rejected the arguable merits of corporate endorsement, not entirely through choice, that kick-starts the main stage on Saturday. The Futureheads look to have a hunger back following the release of third album ‘This Is Not The World’ and manage to provoke an impressive amount of crowd interaction considering the early hour. Predictably, ‘Hounds of Love’ is the main thrill for most, with singer Barry Hyde stating “we’re gonna drag this out for 15 minutes”, self-deprecatingly noting the disproportionate reaction the song receives. Still, new tracks like ‘The Beginning of the Twist’ are delivered with verve and it’s never less than solid.

Alanis Morissette is a less obvious billing, but draws a large crowd for her crass set of sun-kissed nostalgia. Her voice is pretty remarkable, almost as notable as the shaggy mane of hair she carries around with her as she writhes around like a stoned Bon Jovi fan circa 1986. It’s rather dull, besides the hair-shaking, with ‘You Oughta Know’ coming across corny rather than potent and even ‘Ironic’ sounding dated rather than defiant. Her backdrop of a dove and clenched fists behind a barbed wire fence says it all – it’s supposed to rouse protest and togetherness, but ends up just looking a little bit silly.

Of course, much of the audience laps it up, as is the case as major-league indie returns with two bands suffering from second album syndrome up next. Maximo Park save themselves the indignity of a patchy set by sticking to first album tracks and the odd choice cut from ‘Our Earthly Pleasures’. They throw in a new song, ‘The Kids Are Sick Again’, maintaining their energetic, jerky blueprint. With Paul Smith oozing outsider charm, encouraging the crowd to make V signs and referencing Curb Your Enthusiasm, it’s harmlessly entertaining.

The Kooks are simply dull. Despite every person in Chelmsford seemingly knowing the words to every song, the novelty of ‘Ooh La’ has gone, the allure of ‘Naïve’ seems juvenile and the new songs sound plain tripe. Even a guest appearance from Kinks legend Ray Davies on ‘Victoria’ can’t save them (especially as most of the audience don’t know who he is) and the inevitable massive sing-alongs acquire an emptiness that isn’t solely down to the need for a trip to one of V’s hundreds of food vendors.

Though not exactly fulfilling, The Stereophonics then put in an exemplary display of festival know-how. Expertly pacing their set, the Welsh band intersperse a few new songs that continue their signature stadium sound into a solid 70 minute show. Tracks from classic album Performances and Cocktails are scattered throughout, with ‘Just Looking’ heralding a particularly rowdy response, drowning out Kelly Jones’ vocals. His strained, scathing voice is utilised best on more mellow moments such as ‘Maybe Tomorrow’, but it’s ‘Dakota’ that prepares people for the onslaught Muse are preparing backstage.

Armed with more eye-catching onstage paraphernalia than the entire bill put together, including six gigantic satellites that bring a Dalek-like sense of chilling campness to the gig, the intergalactic agitators take to the stage. Ripping through a marathon set including ‘Bliss’, ‘New Born’ and ‘Starlight’, their back catalogue is raided as they dredge every inch of enthusiasm from the rapt audience. Rumours of collaborations and UFOs fail to take off, but the likes of ‘Plug In Baby’ and ‘Knights of Cydonia’ contain riffs bigger than any set-piece and the show is an identikit of how to headline a festival.

The Stranglers are equally adept at their own role the next day. Heavy-eyed boys and girls blunder their way past the all-engulfing advertising that overwhelms on the walk to the main stage, only to find the punk veterans are not going to allow them a lazy lounge in the sun. The filthy blast of ‘Peaches’ is a wake-up call, ‘Golden Brown’ a darling, morose lullaby that seeps with intensity and ‘Whatever Happened To Leon Trotsky’ a cracking blast of stripped rock.

They show that reformed bands, despite bad clothes and worse teeth, can be worthwhile. Squeeze display why they should be outlawed, along with the fake tan that is plastered like war paint on almost every girl present, both band and beauty product looking embarrassingly novice and past their sell-by-date.

Mentioning fake tan may arguably be more apt as Girls Aloud strut onstage, but they actually look rather good, certainly interesting enough to have men sprinting from their stations at bars for a clearer viewpoint. Though aural delights are less frequent than visual ones, it’s flashy and fun, with the five black-clad ladies prancing their way through favourites like ‘Love Machine’ and ‘Biology’. The painful sound of Cheryl Cole rapping as they butcher Salt n Peppa and Run DMC verges on unbearable, but the many youngsters in the audience lap it up and Girls Aloud justify their festival stature with ease.

Lenny Kravitz does likewise, so cheesy he’s cool as he blasts through ‘Fly Away’ and ‘American Woman’. Garnering considerable affection for his cliché-ridden act, complete with Flying V guitar and the Fonz dress sense, he takes the opportunity to preach for world peace when all the crowd wants to do is hear ‘Are You Gonna Go My Way’. It’s worth the wait when they get their wish though, as the US rocker nails himself the right side of the novel/drivel divide.

Bridging the void with a display of real class is not expected to occur next as Amy Winehouse totters into view. Then, contrary to all expectations, she produces a show as tight as it is incident-free. A few expected rambles about her husband aside, she tackles the sizeable task of filling an hour without making a tit out of herself almost admirably, sounding in control and comfortable as ‘Back To Black’ and ‘Rehab’ resonate. Unpredictable in its professionalism, with her stunning roaming range intact, it hints at hope of a return to permanent form.

There is nothing capricious about Kings of Leon’ set. They walk on, say ‘We’re Kings of Leon’ a lot and leave as the highlight of the weekend, without an attitude or a satellite in sight. It’s ‘Knocked Up’ that connects tonight, its marauding refrain of ‘Oh, wooah wooah, woah oh’ reverberating around the blustery air long after the song ends as the Followills perform a masterful collection of blues-soaked rock. New single ‘Sex on Fire’ sounds a behemoth in waiting, while ‘On Call’ and ‘Four Kicks’ spit with rage and satisfaction. Their unfussiness, barnstorming self-confidence and sheer musical nous leaves them untouchable at present. As they thank the UK for “making them the kings” and celebrate “with a little drink and a little fun”, they cement their standing as rock’s premier performers.

The Verve have to follow that, plus it’s started raining, so they sharply slip in a colossal croon through ‘Sonnet’ to instantly appease a crowd getting soaked for the first time all weekend. Starting strongly, Richard Ashcroft sounds roguish but commanding and the band appears together despite reported unrest. With a new album on the way, fresh songs such as the revved up ‘This Is Music’ and an Isaac Hayes-dedicated ‘Rolling People’ are up-tempo and possess a certain drive. However, this tenacity is lacking in the main, with ‘History’ and ‘Life’s An Ocean’ sounding languid and lifeless.

After an unsatisfying half-hour, the cavalry arrives in the form of ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ and ‘Lucky Man’. Both are melodic colossuses, digging into the band’s brooding undercurrent and recapturing past glories. ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ follows to scenes of united exaltation across the field, but it’s almost backwards in its dominance. Though the new stuff sounds listenable, it mines much-travelled avenues and the reliance on Urban Hymns’ majesty to get them through makes for a disjointed set.

Though not a disaster, it’s not a festival-defining performance. Still, V is more about glossy excitement than revelatory affirmation, which is just as well. Little means much here, but this allows genres to intersperse and diversity to flourish. If that dilutes the impact somewhat, most people are having too much fun to notice, let alone care.

Peggy Sue, Slow Club, Scroobius Pip - Live

Peggy Sue, Slow Club, Scroobius Pip
The Windmill, Brixton
Thursday, August 7th.

When you turn up to a gig expecting to be on the guest list, only to find you’re name isn’t down, the bouncers generally look at you as if you just asked to borrow their wallet. Or their wife.

At the Windmill, the staff run around trying to sort the problem out while you prop up the bar. It’s all ridiculously friendly, which fits with the atmosphere of tonight’s show. Peggy Sue decided the best way to promote their new EP was to play four gigs on consecutive nights in London’s four compass points, tonight being the southern section of said mini-tour. With musical friends joining the fun, it feels so much like an indie birthday party you half expect organic cake to be handed out.

Scroobius Pop is the evening’s first big draw with a short set of spoken word showcasing the lyrical prowess that is sometimes lost when he teams up with Dan Le Sac’s backing beats. ‘The Physical Embodiment of Music Part Two’ proves a highlight, mingling couplets of menacing bile with snippets of chortle-inducing drollness.

With lines about beatboxing with Jacques Chirac sharply following meanderings regarding the criminal activity of the Post Office, he’s as irreverent as he is charming. Ending on album title-track ‘Angles’, complete with glasses, ties and caps for props, the acute appeal of this talented wordsmith shines through the gimmicks and the beard, revealing social perception deserving of a far grander soapbox. Perhaps, though, it’s flourishing because it isn’t yet receiving the attention it warrants.

Next, Slow Club are far less challenging. A boy, a girl and a smattering of smiley songs, they’re more twee than a lumberjack with a speech impediment. The tag has been a sticking point with many bands, but their Tilly and the Wall-esque tales of quirky quarrels and incidental incidents almost define the term.

Beautifully stripped melodies and relaxed personas add to the appeal of ‘When I Go’, with chuckles as regular as missed notes and neither detracting from the overall effect of vacant loveliness. The watching hordes, hand holding aplenty, are gently cajoled into approval by sneakily catchy choruses and an overall carefree sense of fun. They sound one hook away from being memorably good, but tonight settle for being quietly impressive.

Peggy Sue move swiftly into their giggly, giddy set, commanding attention with an array of tinkling, swaying ditties. Their pop sensibilities override, but intertwine with mild eccentricity, the overriding sensation of onstage enjoyment diffusing into the crowd situated just inches away.








‘Superman’ manages to be almost poignant despite being an ode to a comic book character who only wishes “to have the right to wear my pants underneath my tights”. Ok, it’s verging on silly, but there’s a sensitivity seeping through too, underpinned by Rosa Rex and Katy Klaw’s secret self-awareness that they are talented. A solemn take on ‘Escargot’ from the Body Parts EP adds depth, but soon the duo are joined by more members of their revolving backing line-up and celebratory mood returns.

How a whole album of material would hold up remains a mystery; the balance between stylish songwriting and throwaway pleasure is nailed at this welcoming pub, but is untested on a larger scale. Nevertheless, while they remain on their current level, such uncomplicated loveliness is easy to embrace.

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?

Simian Mobile Disco - Sample and Hold

Simian Mobile Disco
Sample and Hold – Remix Album


Remix albums. Usually, the only people who buy them are obsessive about the band in question to the point of knowing the bass player’s pet rabbit’s middle name, and are going to love whatever drivel they stick an extra trumpet loop on.

Mostly, they’re little more than the bits that fell on the floor while the proper music was made, then got scooped up and stuck together when the act became profitable. Generally, they’re ego trips where every whim an artist thought was a good idea, but was actually as relevant as U2, gets brought back because all remix record songs must last 8 minutes and it’s hard to fill that time when you only have one musical idea.

By and large, they’re remixed by a bunch of superstar DJs you think you should know but won’t ever get round to checking out because you’re too busy listening to the National. Sometimes, though, they’re quite good. Well, if they’re not good, they at least include a purpose at no extra charge. Maybe even sound a bit purposeful.














Simian Mobile Disco’s Sample and Hold does, admittedly, include intentions, ideas, even innovation. ‘Wooden’, remixed by Danton Eaprom, is a stylistic take on the original; minimal but attention holding, tickling synths and uninterested bass hold together a quiet, mellow stroll through the song.

‘It’s The Beat’ is all a bit crass and reeks of trying very hard, with lyrics like “one for the treble, two for the bass” veering the cheesy side of chic on this version. The record has its moments though, it ebbs and flows with flaws and showy flourishes of excitement, notably on old single ‘Hustler’, complete with a wonderfully needless eight second orchestral intro.

It all goes on too long though. You soon realise you’re not in a seedy club at 4am, where this should be heard, and concentration dips. This can reach the extent when you perk up, intrigued that a bonus track is sampling ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, before realising the album has finished and Simon & Garfunkel comes after Simian Mobile Disco on your iPod.

Whenever this duo has altered other people’s tracks, notably Klaxon’s ‘Magick’ and The Rapture’s ‘Whoo! Alright, Yeah...Uh Huh’, it’s gave it an edge, a difference. Here, while allowing some musical contemporaries to tamper with their own tracks, it is unclear whether the songs simply aren’t strong enough or the DJs brought in are not inspired enough. Either way, it’s another one for super-fans only.

Wireless Festival 2008 - Jay-Z

Wireless Festival 2008
Day One
Hyde Park, London

After the controversy of Glastonbury, Jay-Z arrived in London to headline the most uncontroversial event in the music calendar. Wireless is the festival for people who don’t like festivals; with mud replaced by sponsors and organisation so regimented you feel artists will be struck down by some omnipotent overlord of the telecommunications world, should they have the audacity to be three minutes late for their timeslot.

Yet it’s all rather fun. Hot Chip get the crowd moving following earlier sets from the likes of Wiley and Lethal Bizzle, their latest single ‘Little Thoughts’ a bubbling, building slow-burner that displays the band’s status at the classier end of electro. The set lags at times; often the overriding feeling is that a DJ set would suffice, as the minimal stage presence of the uncomfortable-looking collective adds little to their overall effect. However, the gargantuan closing duo of ‘Over and Over’ and ‘Ready For The Floor’ heralds the arrival of the sunshine and illustrates just how good Hot Chip would be in a filthy little tent instead of a spacious stage.

Mark Ronson is far more suitable for this type of crowd, many arriving late after long days at work filled with hearing ‘Valerie’ on Radio One ten times a day. He’s as self-righteous as ever, orchestrating affairs from his post on bass, introducing each special guest with smarmy charm and mutual back-scratching. ‘Just’ is horrendous – if Radiohead didn’t think there should be trumpets on it, there shouldn’t be trumpets on it. Other tracks from his debut album ‘Version’ shine, notably when Tim Burgess takes to the stage for the Charlatans’ track ‘Only One I Know’. He’s all floppy hair and careless cool, while the track is a real departure and the alterations are worthwhile.

More collaborations ensue, with Wiley racing into view for a hyped-up rendition of ‘Wearing My Rolex’ working well, plus appearances from Candi Payne and the Rumble Strips singer Charlie. Then, it all goes terribly Lily Allen. Strolling onstage with pink hair and leopard skin bottoms, she proceeds to come in at the wrong time on her own song, ‘Littlest Things’ before blaming Ronson in an excruciatingly chummy rapport. Next, Kaiser Chiefs’ ‘Oh My God’ brings a rabble-rousing response, but Allen forgets the words.

Daniel Merriweather closes the show with a playful version of The Smiths’ ‘Stop Me’, as the whole cast joins him. Ronson, who had continually referred to Jay-Z during the gig, sets up the rapper’s arrival well, a flawed mix of inspired cuts and thoughtless, throwaway tracks.

This mirrors Jay-Z’s set well. Though the setlist from Glastonbury has changed, not much else has. Talk of special guests is thwarted, with only Memphis Bleek joining him, but it’s still wholesome entertainment. This isn’t the edgiest festival anyway, and Jay-Z’s intertwining of numerous crowd-pleasing samples keeps it that way. ‘Rehab’ is given a mischievous slant, ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ is all too brief, even ‘Back In Black’ sneaks in during ’99 Problems.’ The songs race by with ferocious pace, but there is no element of danger – he’s playing safe.

A skit on George Bush and Hurricane Katrina showcases his political conscience, with the President’s face garnering boos, which chance to cheers when it morphs into Barack Obama. Mainly though, there’s ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ and ‘Show Me What You Got’ and an atmosphere of passive enjoyment rather than intense engagement. There is a pleasant sense that it’s not all choreographed to within an inch of its life when Jay-Z cuts ‘Excuse Me Miss’ after one verse because he senses it isn’t working.

There’s falseness when he asks the crowd a carbon copy of his Glastonbury questions. “London – they say you don't want me in London...where's the love?” However, it gets the right reaction, with hands in the air and all manner of bouncing as a speedy version of ‘The Blueprint’ classic ‘Heart of the City’ signals the end of the set.

The final act of ‘Encore/Numb’ is a joyous affair, the perfect mix of bravado and skill and one of the few tracks everyone knows the words to. There’s nothing to grumble about here, everything is done professionally, but the spark is missing. Far from disappointing, it’s also far from life-affirming. Which is exactly what Wireless is too.

Joe Lean Glastonbury Interview

Joe Lean Keen On Glastonbury Festival Crowds

And Lily Allen's keen on him...

by Greg Rose
27 June 2008
Photo by: Nathan Gallagher

Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong played the biggest gig of their lives and described it as “the best experience we’ve ever had. It was bonkers, it blew my mind.”

Joe Lean was eager to tell Gigwise in the Orange Tent how much he loved the festival crowd and admitted his shock at the number of punters who saw his Other Stage set.

“We were really surprised the crowd was so big,” he said. “When I come here as a punter I stay in the little tents during the day, so I was amazed how many people turned up and were into us.”

The much-hyped band are desperate to show they are worthy of the attention, with Joe admitting it can cause him problems. “We’re still a new band, we’ve only played 100 gigs.

“All the hype is a blessing and a curse. We’ve had a rough time, but we’re trying to justify the faith people have in us, and having a great time too.”

Amongst the backstage mayhem, the singer claims he gets overawed by celebrities, but has admirers of his own. “I get starstruck all the time meeting all of these brilliant artists.

“Not quite the same thing this, but Lily Allen has been winking at me.”

Explaining his hectic schedule, he said: “We’ve had three days off in four months. I don’t even have a home, it’s a strange life, but I love it.”

Stay tuned to Gigwise for more Glastonbury gossip.

Glastonbury - Day One Review

Glastonbury 2008
Friday 27th June

At most festivals, you’re pretty sure of what is going to happen. You’ll see some bands, drink some beers and be saturated with tiredness, happiness and grubbiness by the end of it. At Glastonbury you get the above, but you might also chance upon a cult pondering in the woods, a dwarf dancing with a cow, a White Stripe playing with an Arctic Monkey, even a rapper playing to hundreds of thousands of middle-class white kids.

On Friday, things get off to a more conventional, if equally exciting start. Ida Maria performs a stellar set of theatrical, hard-edged rock. Resembling a clown lost in Shoreditch, she struts about the Other Stage with a feral sense of instability, the raciness of ‘Better When You’re Naked’ standing out.
















The Rascals look desperate for recognition. In the Last Shadow Puppets, Miles Kane is lauded; as frontman of these run-of-the-mill chancers, less so. However, it isn’t that clear cut; he sings ‘Freakbeat Phantom’ with spite and bile, a trippy, distortion heavy alarming alarm. Their songs of whores and settling scores are certainly flawed, but at least touch adventure, packed with snippets of lyrical bite.

Lightspeed Champion is similarly uncomfortable in the Guardian Lounge, if less arrogant. Soon though, Emmy The Great is serenading people lolling on sofas at the back while Dev Hynes filthily elegant alt-pop threatens to sum up the festival. It’s mixed, strange, tuneful, welcoming and finishes with the Star Wars theme.


We Are Scientists, whose comedic charm masks a terrible new album while old songs such as ‘This Scene Is Dead’ slay those waiting for The Enemy, draft Dev in for an amiable rendition of ‘After Hours’. It’s a sign of the numerous collaborations the weekend has in store. The band though? They’re tremendously amusing, but past it after two albums.

John Cale is still going after 37. He’s terrifying. Melding rickety blues with electronic occultism and sunshine melodies sounds inexplicably fruitless, but then you remember the Velvet Underground, so dropping other-worldly vileness in amongst heavenly gorgeousness is as natural as it is exquisite.

To headline Glastonbury, you generally need something different. Kings of Leon don’t have it. They’re like the other 400 indie bands here, but just irrefutably tighter and indisputably better. Belting out ‘On Call’ is genuinely anthemic, cavorting through a penetrative ‘McFearless’ is gripping, traversing into ‘Trani’ is grittily moving. A new song falls flat, Caleb gives a ‘speech’ consisting of two sentences, but it’s all extraneous. The Kings crown a stunning set with the rollicking mayhem of ‘Charmer’ and it’s off to Shangri-La to see a fat bloke from Bristol play Spice Girls and Motorhead hillbilly covers, while the aforementioned dwarf and cow run amok. Ah, Glastonbury.

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.

Noah & The Whale and Soko Live

Noah And The Whale, Soko
Scala, London
Wednesday 4th July 2008

Believe it or not, but a folk band could be about to get big. Noah and the Whale not only pack out this ample venue, they fill it with more woozy, swaying fun than can rightly be expected from a band that just lost their most-lauded member.

Tonight, Noah are sans-Marling, but another sprightly songstress is here. French performer Soko has garnered a sizeable reputation with some teasing, petite performances of late. Her formula of Parisian cutesy-pie unawareness mixed with endearingly raw songwriting raises smiles, despite dreadful guitar playing.

However, having gone about half hour playing novelty songs like ‘Peanut Butter’ – guess what that one’s about - she is joined by Peggy Sue & The Pirates’ Katy Klaw who is asked to meow like a cat for an entire track. While attempting to be kitsch, it’s just plain atrocious.

Just in case she seems too sweet and innocent, a song called ‘My Wet Dreams’ is chucked in. The audience laughs, but the musical merit of the show is non-existent. Most exasperatingly, she ends with ‘I Will Never Love You More’, a wonderfully candid, thoughtful lullaby. It utterly outshines the rest of the shambolic set, leaving many wistful wonders of what might have been.

Though the crowd lap up Soko’s gimmicky dross, when Noah arrive onstage it only takes a few notes of Charlie Fink’s yawning, yearning voice to improve things considerably. They play ‘Mary’ early, its balancing beam of lovelorn pondering and fiddle jiggery an uplifting sign of the set’s direction.

There are slow, solicitous songs of brooding hopefulness, like ‘Two Bodies One Heart’ and ‘Peaceful’; then there are jumpy, joyous numbers like ‘Five Years Time’. Often, they flit between the former and the latter in a matter of syllables, such as on new single ‘Shape of My Heart’, a delicately poised blend of lyrical perturbation and harmonious elevation. They are assertively delivered, the seven-piece clearly elated at the reception they receive, with coy little dance routines even springing up in the audience.

Without Laura Marling, Slow Club’s Rebecca fills in, but fails to make much of an impression, flittering uncertainly in the background. Still, Charlie’s piercing stare and sensitive strumming hold the attention, while even a replacement drummer cannot deflect from the taut togetherness of the group.

Nevertheless, meaningful this isn’t. While the lyrics have poetic leanings and the music lofty aspirations, some songs are pure throwaway pop. The choice of covering The Temptations’ ‘Don’t Look Back’ typifies this; it’s a jubilantly played, bubblegum moment. They are lured back for two encores of toe-tapping pleasure, even playing ‘Five Years Time’ again with a cut of The Drifters’ ‘Sweets For My Sweet’ tagged on the end. Despite the fiddle and fiddly arrangements, Noah and the Whale are no folk band. Just clean good fun.

Jarvis Cocker - Saying The Unsayable

Jarvis Cocker gave a lecture on lyrics at Brighton Festival last night.

Special praise was singled out for the lyrics of Amy Winehouse’s track ‘Me And Mr Jones’, with Cocker stating: “Amy just makes words up. What kind of fuckery is this? I dunno, but I like it.”

Babyshambles ‘Baddies Boogie’ was also commended, as Jarvis – famed for his own unsubtly sexual songwriting - explained: “Anyone who writes ‘He’ll bum your wife then shake your hand’ is alright by me.”

The Pulp frontman showcased his PowerPoint skills in the rapturously received presentation, called Jarvis Cocker on Song - Saying the Unsayable. He also found time to debut a new track as well as give a rendition of his first ever songwriting attempt.

The new song is titled ‘Girls Like It Too,’ while Jarvis’ earliest song, written in 1978, is called ‘Shakespeare Rock.’ He played it solo on acoustic guitar and squirmed at lyrics including: ‘Got a baby, only one thing’s wrong/She quotes Shakespeare all day long/Said baby why don’t you ring me/She said to be or not to be.’

Jarvis discussed such songwriting greats as Leonard Cohen, The Velvet Underground, The Beatles, The Fall, Scott Walker and David Bowie. Contemporary acts such as Rihanna, MGMT and The Last Shadow Puppets were also praised.

The likes of James Blunt and Phil Collins didn’t fare so well, with Cocker complaining most music now has the air of sophisticated shopping lists. He justified his authority on the subject by saying: “This is all based on my subjective opinion, but I’m always right.”

Elegantly strolling about the Brighton Dome stage with a cane in hand, he admitted to being nervous and apologised for running over time by an hour. “Sorry, I’ve not done one of these before. Nobody needs to catch a bus home do they?”

In a question and answer session at the end, Cocker heralded Jimi Hendrix’s version of Bob Dylan’s ‘All Along The Watchtower’ as the greatest cover of all time, while confessing his affection for William Shatner’s attempt at ‘Common People.’

With regards to Pulp’s biggest hit, he clarified how the lyrics came about: “The girl from Greece with the thirst for knowledge was real….But she never wanted to have sex with me.” His own writing process was defined as “just stumbling along, the way I live my life. That’s why I’m carrying a stick.”

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.

The Raconteurs Live

The Raconteurs
Hammersmith Apollo, London
Wednesday, 14/05/08

“I’m not sure if there’s a point to the story, but I’m going to tell it again,” preaches Jack White in his distinct primal squeal, beginning The Raconteurs final song. Yes, we’ve heard it all before, but that doesn’t make White and company any less electrifying. In fact, the back story makes their current glory all the more alluring.

The phrase ‘side project’ usually signals self-indulgence, obscure artist referencing and a horn section. In White’s case, his hobby has snowballed into an accomplished live force. Tonight they showcase the melodious blues of second album ‘Consolers Of The Lonely’, but also affirm affinity and mutual admiration for each other. They are absolutely elated onstage, oozing even more enthusiasm than an audience that isn’t exactly apathetic.

A charged charge through the new record’s title track sets a ferocious pace, before ‘The Switch And The Spur’ brings a grandiose flavour to the band’s rough and ready style. ‘You Don’t Understand Me’, with White on piano, sounds a little too close to Elton John for comfort, but ‘Old Enough’ is a delightfully dulcet ditty. Joined by a 5th band member on fiddle and White on acoustic duties, there is a delectable playfulness to the track.

The affable atmosphere persists as old favourites ‘Level’ and ‘Steady As She Goes’ are aired. The former sees White and Brendan Benson trading rapid-fire lyrics; the latter gives the crowd chance to test its voice. There is a solid platform built on Little Jack Lawrence’s sedulous bass playing that gives the guitarists freedom to experiment. One moment Benson leads, the next White is soaring into a trademark puissant solo.

There is a darker element to the show though, with the tenebrous background, complete with overhanging tree branches, casting the band – all clad in back, waistcoats aplenty - as shadowy puppeteers orchestrating the throngs below. After a stripped thunder through Charley Jordan’s blues staple 'Keep It Clean', they are in their element as the sullen smokiness of ‘Blue Veins’ gives way to an extended jam. White’s microphone is distorted heavily, adding to the inscrutable tension, until release arrives with a towering solo and the band exit.

On return, news of Mick Jagger and Ronnie Wood’s presence has spread. The Rolling Stones are teased with a short blast of their own ‘Little Red Rooster’, then new single ‘Salute Your Solution’ is delivered at apoplectic pace, Benson’s snarl competing with White’s wail. The exhilarating, breakneck performance is confirmation that this isn’t a mere plaything, their hearts are in it. Benson’s dripping with sweat as White regales ‘Carolina Drama’s urban legend, the sold-out Apollo hanging on every syllable.

“Well now you heard another side to the story, but you wanna know how it ends,” he howls, drained but exuberant as the song, and show, climax. Hopefully these tellers of tales have many more yarns to spin and many more years to span.

The Maccabees and Good Shoes Live

The Maccabees and Good Shoes
Concorde 2, Brighton
Saturday 3rd May

A summery, seaside stroll down to the secluded setting of this secretive gig is strikingly fitting for this showcase of two sun-kissed bands that really should be a lot bigger.

While Scouting For Hoosiers Only continue to brainwash a nation with saccharine tripe, The Maccabees and Good Shoes have released two of the most accessible yet credible pop records of recent years, yet can still amble into their hometown Harry Ramsden’s unnoticed.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The bands have been left alone to write the follow-up albums, tonight giving a glimpse of their efforts to an adoring audience. Good Shoes begin with a well-received newbie, mainly due to explaining it’s about Brighton. The unheard material is greeted with toe-tapping and hand-clapping, often adopting a cleaner, less stop-start style than in the past.

In playful mood, the band whet appetites with the opening riff to The Maccabees track ‘Tissue Shoulders’ before racing through the spiky blitz of ‘Ice Age.’ The last new song repeats the pointed refrain of “The more I want/The less I need,” all splintering immediacy, continuing the jerky realism that typifies their sound. Then they’re gone in a whirr of ‘All In My Head’ paranoia and the faux-epic urban despair of ‘Morden.’














If Good Shoes are likeable, The Maccabees are loveable; a heady mix of nervousness and assurance, watching them is comforting but never comfortable. Long-time closer ‘Lego’ is unleashed early, raising the already sweltering temperature in a clash of competing guitars and storybook lyrics.

There is a harder edge to the new material, singer Orlando playing guitar regularly to create a thicker sound. However, the melodious purity of ‘Toothpaste Kisses’ and giddy gaiety of ‘Happy Faces’ is still present. Whenever they dip into their back catalogue the venue is a riot of smiles, but the new songs stand up well, a freshness and intensity attached.

The exception to this is the peculiar choice to stick guitarist Felix on lead vocals and give Orlando an accordion. The sound of the instrument, if not the novelty, is lost amongst the clanging of guitars and unnatural singing.


It’s only a blip, but a revealing one. Orlando’s wonderful resistance to theatrics, an anti-frontman who holds attention through original delivery and understated presence, contrasts strikingly with Felix’s grinning desire for centre-stage. The chemistry between the two is captivating, but most effective with Felix playing second fiddle (not literally) however reluctantly.

It’s back to business with a hectic ‘Latchmere’, then a strident encore of a Strokes-referencing new song and the rapturous sing-along of ‘Precious Time.’ It’s furiously played, the gig showing an impatience to release the tension and music of a busy break. Still sounding slick, but adorably flawed, expect them to return with songs the radio will play to death, as well as you.

The Postelles and Cage The Elephant Live

Thursday 24th April
Proud Gallery
Camden Town, London

There are about six bands on tonight, but the ones worth mentioning are inconveniently placed at either end of the bill. Both are very young, very American, and very good in very different ways.

The Postelles are a stylish four-piece from New York that dress, sound and act like The Strokes. They have even got Albert Hammond Jr. to produce their new single. Their debut EP hasn’t quite garnered the same acclaim as ‘The Modern Age’, but is promising nonetheless. ‘White Night’ is an uncomplicated jig filled with Kooks-borrowed wails and catchy couplets, jerky enough to tease a few people away from their stables.

Oh, I forgot to mention: Proud has moved to a former horse hospital, so all the seating stalls are actually stalls and the concept of grazing by the bar has taken on a whole new meaning. The sheer novelty of this perhaps contributes to the thinness of numbers for The Postelles sharp set. They continue with the afore-mentioned single, ‘123 Stop’, a tighter, teenage romp about hating goodbyes that snaps past with a chart-friendly fizz.

Their five-song set ends with another toe-tapping burst of duelling guitars, likeably loose lyrics and grinning gusto from the group. There is a thrilling abandon to their appearance, looking unwaveringly unconcerned about the sparse crowd. After their show they proceed to get merry, confident that their songs – or if not then their outrageously drunk bassist - are exciting enough to eventually gain exposure.
Cage The Elephant have already captured that elusive buzz thanks to first single ‘In One Ear.’ They stomp onstage with a purposeful swagger, making their set seem an event rather than another interlude between beers. Singer Matt Shultz has an unruly manner on the mic, spitting aggressive lyrics with attractive arrogance. They sound ready for the adulation likely to come their way.

It sounds chaotic but tight, especially on the stop-start signatures of ‘Lotus’, a bright cut of pop punk that is brimming with oomph. Soon Shultz is in the audience, spreading the vigour that typifies the performance. This is essential, as the songs aren’t particularly inspiring and the vocal delivery, more a brash half-rap than singing, soon begins to grate.

Deciding not to play the only song most people know last is a daring move, but intelligent. ‘In One Ear’ sounds gimmicky and bland after being overplayed everywhere for the past few weeks, its repeated refrain sounding juvenile rather than anarchic. However, not relying on their hit suggests there may be more to the band than a cheesy chorus.

This proves true as they rip through ‘Tiny Little Robots’, a frenetic rush of Hives riffs building to a crushing climax of rolling drums and verbal ferocity. They have the attitude and energy to be successful, if not the effortlessness of The Postelles. Still, there’s enough space for both of them in a stable tonight, so your record collection should have plenty of room.

Tindersticks - The Hungry Saw

The luxurious sound conjured on Tindersticks’ long-overdue return appears to justify the frustrations and convulsions of an eventful and painful five-year-long disappearance. The record is a simply sumptuous effort, leaving the listener bathed in the opulence of a band clearly thrilled to be making music again.

Since the Nottingham collective last recorded together, the line-up has been trimmed to a core of three original members, while singer Stuart Staples now has two solo albums under his belt. There is a reinvigorated comfort and togetherness to the sound, shown in the steady progression of ‘Boobar’, with its wounded harmonies and circular structure.

The focal point of their compositions remains the dreamlike, smoky vocals of Staples. His injured utterances shape and match the understated gloom and glory of the expert playing. He appears, triumphantly desolate, in every melody. Having begun with a lengthy, plodding instrumental, the album is shook into life with his velvety moan on ‘Yesterday Tomorrow’, the most instantly accessible track on show.

The break seems to have enriched the group with an uncomplicated ease that ensures their seventh album, which includes lavish strings and long instrumentals, isn’t (too) guilty of posturing. The delicate acoustic strum of ‘All The Love’ is a ballad relying on nothing but a few simple chords and that hollow, anguished voice. They aren’t trying too hard, but equally aren’t burying any half-baked idea into the songs.

Nevertheless, at times ‘The Hungry Saw’ is exhausting. Admittedly, three instrumental songs will grate on an audience used to immediacy and laconic, audible rewards. However, the tantalising allure of the title track’s jerky shuffle, or the gruelling splendour of ‘The Other Side Of The World’, lies in a reliance on tensions constantly built and overlapped but not always fulfilled.

A few numbers miss; too elaborate and drifting into pretentiousness, or not doing enough and becoming tedious. Still, the effortlessness with which Tindersticks re-emergence sails past is testament to its consistency and quality. It washes over, growing richer in texture with each listen. If every band was certain to return from lengthy hiatuses with comebacks like this, they would all be advised to take a rest.

Benicassim

Waking up at festivals isn’t fun. Your head hurts, mud has miraculously seeped into your tent, you’re thirsty but all there is to drink is a half-empty can of Carling, and you smell like you haven’t washed for three days – because you haven’t. There is no remedy for this, other than to jet away from this meteorologically-challenged isle to Benicassim, where a beach situated five minutes away makes returning to consciousness that much easier.

Benicassim is Spain’s premier festival, a veritable feast of sun, sea, sand and sangria. It contains all the usual festival ingredients, but has the added advantage of guaranteed great weather, a stunning setting and the opportunity for a holiday.

It has been at the forefront of the growing trend for Brits to head abroad for festivals since its inception 14 years ago. Situated between Barcelona and Valencia, many opt to visit either of these cities before heading to Benicassim. It is only a small town, without the tourist trappings of other Spanish destinations. This leads to delightful linguistic difficulties when attempting simple tasks like ordering food, but the atmosphere is relaxed and friendly. Around half of the festival attendees are British, but there is still an interesting mix of nationalities and outlooks.

On the music front, the usual huge names mix with a delectable selection of up-and-comers, forgotten gems and fascinating unknowns. Last year the big hitters included Muse, Arctic Monkeys, Kings of Leon, Klaxons and Amy Winehouse. Iggy & The Stooges, The B-52s and The Human League were amongst those displaying endurance, while interesting obscurities like Devo and Kiko Venuno also graced the stages.

This year the likes of Sigur Ros, Gnarls Barkley and Babyshambles will be entertaining the 35,000-strong crowds. The line-up is receiving criticism for a lack of firm headliners, but this is typical of Benicassim’s alternative attitude in comparison to its UK equivalents. Bands begin playing at around 5pm, continuing past 6am. The headliners don’t appear last each night, instead arriving around 1am, when the temperature is dropping and enthusiasm peaking. Afterwards, dance acts continue in tents with water refreshingly sprayed from the roofs, until the indefatigable crowds finally leave as the sun is rising.

The musical element of the festival is not its defining factor; it is merely the thread on which a holiday hangs. With no aural pleasures until evening, daytime dalliance is essential. Escaping the blistering heat of your tent is recommended, with most heading for the idyllic salvation of a beautiful beach. Other options include heading to the water park, where racing down slides like you’re seven again really is as much fun as it sounds. There are also dozens of atypical eateries for savouring local cuisine and downing sangria. Stay off the main strip to find restaurants and bars where the service rises above uni canteen standards and the prices below overdraft-inducing level.

When flights and travel are taken into account, Benicassim isn’t cheap. However, the festival ticket is reasonable at £128, you can camp for nine days including the four when the festival is on, plus Easyjet ensure planes aren’t too expensive. The best way to reach the town from the major airports is train, which should be booked in advance to avoid sweltering stampedes mid-hangover on departure day.

On arrival, the first decision is where to stay. Some choose to rent private pitches or studios, but there are three sites your festival ticket qualifies you to camp on for free. Of these, Bonet is the liveliest but furthest from the festival, CampFIB closest but quietest, and Mercat in between the two both geographically and in terms of commotion. If you opt for the bustle of Bonet, a bus service to the festival is provided, but it’s only a twenty minute walk, relatively safe and lots more fun.

Benicassim doesn’t suffer from as much violence and rowdiness as British festivals, probably because of the heat and blissed-out attitude it creates. If drugs are your thing, they’re as available as anywhere else. To avoid queuing for drinks inside, grab tokens from your campsite beforehand.

The festival’s uniqueness lies in the feeling it generates through its environment, musical variety and attraction of like-minded people out for fun and frolics. It’s all the positives of British jaunts, heightened by the glistening sun, with the negatives washed away on sweeping waves and buried under sandy beaches.

Shout Out Louds - Our ill Wills

Sometimes an album sounds fun on first listen, and then repeated plays reveal a previously hidden ripe underbelly of symphonic treats and aural pleasures. ‘Our Ill Wills’ doesn’t. It’s rather nice, but there are puddles with more depth. The darling harmonies and summery arrangements that typified debut album ‘Howl Howl Gaff Gaff’ are present and correct, as is the endearing lyrical optimism and naivety. Shout Out Louds know about heartache, romance, that indistinguishable period between the two, plus the bit before and the time after. And they’ll be damned if they are going to write a song about anything else.

Just in case the band weren’t twee enough, they rope in Bjorn again – the Peter, Bjorn and John member and long-time Shout Out Louds producer, not the Abba tribute – to sprinkle the catchy stardust of ‘Young Folks’ onto the likes of ‘Impossible’ and ‘Tonight I Have To Leave It.’ These added pop sensibilities ensure the songs are never less than listenable, but they rarely rise to include anything remotely affecting.

The record was actually released last year in most of the world, and appears to have been astutely held back to wait for the sunshine months. Songs such as ‘Suit Yourself’ and ‘Normandie’ owe much to The Cure’s blueprint of probing pop mystery, all uplifting vagueness, bouncy bass and handclaps.

The most sparse, remote song on show is ‘Meat Is Murder’, not a Smiths cover, but a homage including lines like “Everything sounds miserable tonight.” Another dark moment arrives with ‘Time Left To Love’, but the tale of loss is still sparkling pop. “The rumours said it was a serial killer/but they got hit by a caterpillar,” wins the Lou Reed Award for throwaway lyrics to deal with serious issues, and by this stage the vulnerable vocals and sheer musical gaiety is really grating.

Strangely, the album-defining moment comes courtesy of keyboardist Bebban Stenborg’s only lead vocal. On ‘Blue Headlights’ her dainty, rosy voice sails over a delicate little acoustic loop, spinning tales of “surprising eyes,” “ladybirds,” and “frozen hearts,” before gently asking “come on everybody, take your love to town.” The song is drenched in heartfelt, but ultimately trashy, loveliness; it’s so sweet it’s sickening.

This is a petite piece of pop, delightfully delivered by a harmless, charming collective. A daydream, it may attach you like a flower in your lover’s hair, but fall out of your mind just as easily and insignificantly. It’s an album to fall in love to, but not with.

Festivals

You used to know where you stood with festivals. Go to Glastonbury if you want mud and majesty, head to Reading for rough and ready rocking. Chance V for the clean and commercial, or try T in the Park if you can be bothered to trek to Scotland. Now things have changed, with renewed interest in live music heralding a new golden age for festivals.

As the season approaches, it appears there are more festivals than fields. Whether it’s independent jaunts in unknown corners of Britain, marauding trips to European hotspots, or corporate events in the capital, there is something for everyone. So why have they got so popular?

“Festivals? They’re a place to escape control,” mused Jarvis Cocker at V last summer. “Everyone comes together, and makes something different. It can be brilliant.” They are a chance for a break from reality, where mini-civilisations are created with little more than tent pegs, narcotics and common musical tastes. The stress and strains of daily existence can be forgotten in a haze of alternative music and alcohol.

The feeling of community that springs when thousands of people are lumped in a field together is a particular sensation. With no opposition, the mob mentality that can be generated at sporting occasions is replaced by a collective identity that is built on shared experiences, be it cheering a headliner, or bemoaning a portaloo.

“But then, every day should be like that,” continued Cocker. “A festival of life. Yeah…Although, festivals aren’t always like that even.” This paradoxical statement highlights how festivals aren’t necessarily sunshine and smiles; they’re often warped, intense representations of life, with the lows included alongside the highs. You might see Muse one minute but Mika the next, make a friend one day yet end up lost and alone another.

The ideal experienced by many seems mythical to others, with rising prices, increased commercialism and growing numbers of people out for trouble as much as fun. Tents can be set on fire, valuables may be stolen - it can even rain. That all-for-one, one-for-all spirit can be easily extinguished by thunderstorms or theft. Nevertheless, attendee numbers continue to rise, as people treat festivals as replacements for holidays, or even head abroad and combine the two.

As they grow in profile, the cultural influence of festivals could be growing. Cocker was equally ambiguous on their merits in the mid-Nineties. On classic Pulp track ‘Sorted For E’s and Wizz’ the bespectacled singer questioned: “Is this the way they say the future’s meant to feel/Or just 20,000 people standing in a field?” It is difficult to decide whether they are important phenomenon, or purely business-savvy organisations cashing in on media-influenced people buying in.

The impact of festivals may be exaggerated; could it just be a bunch of kids with nothing better to do? We may be being manipulated into giving huge corporations lots of money to see short, sub-standard sets from bands simply after big paychecks and boosts in record sales. We are simply consumers buying well-produced, superbly marketed products.

Festivals can be highly-controlled hedonism, with restraints as unassuming as stage times and the price of beer, plus more obvious ones like stewards and laws, contributing to what you do and when. People head to festivals to go wild for a weekend and flee their routines, but they dive straight into another – it’s just this routine is probably a lot more fun. Yet the anarchy is drip-fed, in confined spaces; there is an order and a protocol to everything, often designed to ensure minimum fuss and maximum profit.

Of course, this extremely cynical view doesn’t account for the life-affirming experiences many people find. There is now an event to suit every taste, so as long you do your research you should end up somewhere suitable, or at least know what to expect. The key ingredient to all festivals remains people, all crammed together, idiosyncrasies and ideologies mingling and altering, with the hassles and delights that entails.

“We claimed the very source of joy ran through,” sings David Bowie, summing up the subject on ‘Memory Of A Free Festival’. “It didn't, but it seemed that way/I kissed a lot of people that day.” While you’re there festivals may feel like they mean the world, but even if they don’t, they can be incredibly enjoyable. Anyway, what else are you going to do with your summer?