Y-Fronted

I was going to write a big intro to this post, but I've sprained my left wrist and typing hurts. Much of this review appears in this month's issue of Nightshift.

TRUCK, Hill Fm, Steventon, 20-1/7/12

You can never go back, ladies and gentlemen.  You can’t step into the same river twice.  Or the same rank slurry puddle, for that matter.  This year’s Truck festival, salvaged after last year’s financial shortfall by the people behind Y-Not Festival in Derbyshire, has taken a Back To Basics approach in its promotion.  There’s clearly logic to that, but can people stop talking about the triumphant return of the Barn, please?  We don’t mind the damp faecal reek so much, but the atrocious acoustics make it a poor place to perform live music; fine as a means to an end in a farmyard festival, of course, but hardly a selling point.  And this is our problem with back-harking halcyonism, it normally comes intertwined with a conservative outlook.  Of course Truck memories are about buying doughnuts from the vicar and singing along to Biffy Clyro and Supergrass, but they’re also about discovering such improbable wonder as epically plastic syngoths Motormark, recorder quintet Consortium5, maximalist hipsters Islet, homespun piano-tinkler Luke Smith and whatever the hell you want to describe Thomas Truax as.  The big question looming over the 15^th Truck festival was, could they capture the subtle magic of the event along with the broad flavours?

Steventon locals Lost Dogs make such queries feel meaningless.  Like ancient, stoic trees watching over human concerns and making them seem petty and ephemeral, their harp-blowin’ blooze-rockin’ songs about whiskey, devil women and problems with carburettor maintenance in the 1973 Plymouth Baracuda (probably) is the true sound of rural Oxfordshire, has been for decades, and shall be until the last trump, no matter how much we argue about Johnnies come lately like Truck.  It’s tempting to call Lost Dogs unoriginal, or even culturally negligible, but they’re simply good fun, and we’ll take that any day.

This year’s error-ridden programme makes a profound fluff by likening Gabriel Minnikin to Brazilian frazzle-heads Os Mutantes.  We later realise that the entire description has been accidentally pasted from that of a different act, but the damage is done, and we feel so deflated by the demure, Gram Parsons style Americana on display, that we find it difficult to engage with Minnikin, even though he’s probably not bad.

Ute might have had a clear Radiohead influence, but offspring band The Grinding Young have a less yearning sound that’s more like a British Pavement.  There are big gestures, some good ideas, and a clarinet on a display.  There are also some ill-advised bow ties, but they pale in comparison with other fashion errors we see round the festival, from mystifyingly prevalent woodland animal costumes to a very brave, and probably quite warm, PVC fetish cop outfit.  Special kudos to the cross-dressing pint-puller who is still resplendent in his glamour gown years and years after the other Truck barstaff gave up on the idea.  Keep living the dream.

And if you want to wear something unsuitable and parade round a field giving nary a fuck, you could do a lot worse than find Alphabet Backwards providing the fizzy pop soundtrack. Along with the slithery synth lines and the impossibly catchy vocal hooks, this year they also share with us the name of their favourite weatherman.  Then again, judging by the music, surely every second of their lives is glorious Bank Holiday sunshine, right?

The rough opposite of Poledo, whose club-footed grunge is dour-faced, and about fifty times less well played.  They whine and stumble their way through a few snot-nosed tracks on the Barn stage, and we suppose that they might have a petulant sort of power in a smaller setting, but we slip away to watch something more vibrant in the shape of Kill Murray, who aren’t afraid of a bit of toned rock musculature under their pop melodies.  They boast plenty of stadium endings and some vocal lines so vast and emotive you’re not sure whether they’re nicked from Pablo Honey or The Best Of A-Ha, making them an excellent band for a summer afternoon.

It’s always been a Truck trend to have epic, energy-laden bands in smaller tents, whilst grown-up, relaxed musicians while away the afternoon on the main stage, and Michele Stodart, formerly of The Magic Numbers continues this tradition.  Her songs don’t do much for us, but her voice is low and friendly, creating a warm zone like a fondly remembered teacher or Test Match Special.  She’s a bit like Tanita Tikaram without the A Levels.

Country duo The Hi & Lo have a pleasing sound of relaxed rustic simplicity at the Second Stage – it’s almost as if they’re inviting you to join in and hum your own parts – but it’s The Dead Jerichos whose sense of space is most telling.  In a way it’s sad that this is their final show, but parts of this set, all guitar delay and airy rhythms, remind us of how much they’ve changed since the whirlwinds of sweat and cheap lager at their early gigs.  We’re very interested to see where they end up next.

Vadoinmessico make a very pleasant summery pop music, but they’re the people who are actually supposed to sound like Os Mutantes, and they still don’t so we shut down in a reviewer’s sulk, only to wake up for the start of Federation Of The Disco Pimp, who threaten to supply that sought after experience, a good Truck funk act.  Despite a very sharp horn section, they still don’t have the scuzz and excitement we crave: great funk is like being given a mad drunken tour of a foreign city’s best, dingiest night spots, by a dodgy local you just met, and whom you're sure is your new best friend, even while you're wondering whether they’re going to stab you in the face down the next alleyway.