Riverside 2009 Pt 3

Next up, Ginger Toddler Rucksack Headbutt. No, not the latest Poor Girl Noise booking, just a thing that happened whilst we were laying back watching Two Fingers Of Firewater. And, hey, it’s a festival, if you want to express yourself by bashing our bag about, feel free – decent soundtrack to do it to, as well. We could talk about Two Fingers’ dry humour, their contempo-country lope, their chiming pedal steel or their ‘60s rock touches (we heard the odd waft of Love in the climax), but all we can think about is their wah-wah mandolin.

The Epstein has long been a favourite of ours, and it’s been a long while since we saw them, but at first our rendezvous wasn’t too joyous. The opening two numbers just didn’t grasp us, and seemed overly polished and polite after Two Fingers. Thankfully, “Black Dog” gets things back on track, Stefan Hamilton’s electric banjo scuttles drawing us in, and Oli Wills’ easy, fruity vocal grasping us by the hand and leading us down some dusty mesa. Even if it’s not their finest set, their encore was the track of the weekend, despite an awkward false start, a monolithic sonic surge creating valleys in its wake.

And after that, Liddington were a disappointment, to put it mildly. All the things that have been alleged about Inlight, and against which we have (partly) defended them, ring clear and true of Liddington: empty, vacuous stadium pop, with no discernible character and a vocal that is drab and lifeless just when the music is crying out for something, anything, to lift it out of the slough of over-amped indie balladeers swamping our nation’s musical profile. And, yet again, we feel bored stupid by the giant gestures that the music is trying to make: what’s wrong with you lot? Are you so concerned that your point won’t get across that you have to make it as big and obvious as possible? What are you, a pop band or air traffic controllers? After all, you don’t find us standing dead centre of the stage miming an elaborately theatrical yawn to show how little we’re enjoying the set, do you? OK, OK, Liddington aren’t the worst band of the day (no kilts, see), and a few of the keyboard sounds were well chosen, but by this time we really need something to engage us, and not a whole bunch of vapid honks that sound like old Huey Lewis tunes left out in Chris Martin’s allotment for twenty years until every glint of colour has been bleached out, and nothing is left but the clumsy shell.

But, this brief concluding burst of rage notwithstanding, this has been an excellent festival. It’s our third Riverside, and the first at which we’ve felt that the two stages have been equally interesting. Once again, the effort of putting on this event for free is an astonishing thought to contemplate, and whilst we wish that the organisers could try paddling outside of their safety zones, we’re always happy to roll up our trouserlegs and join them for a dip. Book us in a Diplomat’s Coffee, we’ll be there as soon as the doors open in 2010.