The programme tells us that things have
“been a bit quiet” on the King Charles
front between the execution of the English king and the arrival of the singer
of the same name, which would be some of the worst promotional writing we’d
ever read even if there hadn’t actually been a second King Charles to
invalidate the point. Still, we won’t
hold that against him, as his set is good dumb fun. His music is one of instant gratification, a
melange of “Eye Of The Tiger” rhythms, huge vocal lines like protest chants,
pseudo-Prince gestures, and hilariously awful hair. Can’t argue with that.
All sadly unlike British Sea Power, who always offer a heady mix of classic indie,
literate lyrics and performance art, but always actually deliver a bunch of
hollow anonymous songs, drably inflected vocals and some onstage shrubs. Still, we’re bet they could do the Guardian cryptic.
Into the home straight with Three Trapped Tigers, and even as
exhaustion kicks in, you can’t argue with a trio that sounds like a cross
between Aphex Twin and King Crimson.
Using some serious chops to make music along classic IDM lines could be
a vacuous muso exercise, but when there’s such elegance in the melancholic
Plaid keyboard lines, such invention in the live drums, and a guitar pedal rack
the size of a suburb, it’s futile to argue.
What’s great about the band is that, far from being some rockers who own
a couple of techno LPs, they clearly understand the melancholy beauty of a Selected Ambient Works style synth line,
whilst knowing precisely when it’s time to drop a fast clattering beat all over
the top. If they’ve never played on a
bill with Squarepusher, somebody should rectify the fact, pronto.
The festival officially ends with The Temper Trap, but we find their show
all puff and bluster, so we prefer to imagine otherwise. They sound a little like Echo And The
Bunnymen having a crack at Chaka Khan, and we feel as though it ought to be fun,
but it simply isn’t. It’s flat, and
empty, and crass, and can we go home now, please? So we do, and later, back in Oxford, on the
night bus home, we hear two blokes talking about their plan for the summer.
“I’m not going to go to some festival where I’ve never heard of the
bands”, claims one. We would write him
off as an fool, if he didn’t come up with the genius line, “The Red Hot Chili
Peppers just remind me of washing up”. But, the point is, that Truck isn’t
aimed at people like him. The new
organisers have done an amazing job of capturing the atmosphere of the best
Trucks in years past: the crowd is friendly and varied, the site is perfectly
balanced between intimacy and breathing space, and even the weather is about
right. Next year, hopefully they can
capitalise on this success - and a sell out crowd, need we mention? – and take
a couple more risks with the lineup. At
the very least, they could find someone, somewhere to make music whilst The
Temper Trap are on, surely.
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