Truck 2015 Friday pt 2

Whilst the hordes are on the move, looking for a good spot for Clean Bandit, we’ve already found the best one: a long way away, watching Ghostpoet. He really is an impressive performer, delivering his vocals in a deep, authoritative sprechgesang which is half Harlem Renaissance and half Blue Aeroplanes, with occasional sidesteps into Isaac Hayes cream and honey or Jarvis Cocker’s dramatic gasps.  The band is top notch, but keeps to an approachable blues churn in the vein of mid-90s P J Harvey, to highlight the vocals but not at the expense of an immersive groove.  Add some liberal dubby FX and sweetly bitter backing vocals that bring to mind Martina Topley-Bird, and you have probably the most understated yet hypnotic show of the weekend.

Understated not being a term we’re likely to use in relation to Fat White Family.  The programme this year tries to triangulate all the acts on the bill against other bands, which is fine, but some of the choices are a bit odd – and, also, are there really people on site who have never heard of Basement Jaxx but who are au fait with the long and varied career of Audio Bullys?  Apparently Fat Whites are “for fans of The Wytches/ Hookworms/ TRAAMS”, which just about works, although we would have offered “Marc Almond/ The Country Teasers/ guilt and greasy residues”.  The show doesn’t come close to their infamous Bully outing a couple of years ago, but their wheedling, sleazy slow-burns please the crowd as much as their onstage charm alienates the security and engineers.  It’s also fun to imagine the hip young things going wild to “I Am Mark E Smith” reacting in the same way to the Mancunian goblin overlord himself.

Why does Tim Burgess look like your funny uncle who’s come to a family picnic disguised as Andy Warhol?  It’s a question that nags throughout The Charlatans’ set.  The band trudges a little, taking songs at a leisurely pace when some of them would benefit from a bit of fire: “North Country Boy” is a Madchester Dylan sneer, and “Just When You’re Thinkin’ Things Over” is imbued with classic Stones strut, and need to be presented with more vitriol.  It’s certainly not a bad set, and a long way from the lackadaisical effort by Evan Dando years ago, but it sends us into the night feeling quietly satisfied rather than electrified by rock ‘n’ roll.

Truckulence

A lot of this review is in the latest Nightshift, some of it is "previously unreleased".  You can decide whether the latter is Richard James Soundcloud or Mike Paradinas Soundcloud, can't you?

The Saturday half will be up in a few days.

TRUCK, Hill Farm, Steventon, 17-18/7/15

There are people who believe that Paul McCartney died in 1966 and was replaced by a lookalike.  The proof has to do with flowers and backwards records and the fact that “goo goo g’joob” is ancient Etruscan for “the bassist just snuffed it”, or something, but mostly because photos from 1967 look a wee bit different from photos from 1963.  But that’s how it works, isn’t it?  As time goes by, features shift and alter slightly, whilst the face remains recognisably the same.  And whilst Truck 18 is in some ways very different from Truck 8, it isn’t hard to see that it’s clearly the same festival underneath.  It may have got bigger in the past decade - haven’t we all? - and has clearly had a bit of cosmetic work done, but what is wonderful over these two days is the realisation that really not much has changed from the great Trucks of yore.

The biggest difference, of course, is that now Truck is part of a boutique festival circuit that it helped to instigate, and as such a third of the bill could have been predicted by anyone with an internet connection and a bit of nouse, but as ever the greatest discoveries are squirreled away on the smaller, more curated stages.  Take the first act we see properly on Friday, London’s Passport To Stockholm, who sing delicate melodies over icily precise electronic percussion, in a winning fashion that reminds us of defunct Oxford act undertheigloo.  Considering they are 40% down, and the PA is limbering up for the weekend by making some odd squeaks, it’s an impressive set.

We can imagine Sulky Boy checking their emails a few months ago.  “Hey, we’re going to play Truck! There’ll 6000 people and we’ll be supporting all these cool bands!”  What really happens is that they perform to a smattering of people, sitting in the Market stage, idly checking their phones and wondering whether it’s bad that there was an extra bendy pole left over when the tent was pitched.  Of course, they could make more of an impact by not playing floppy inoffensive pop that’s a bit like baggy with the attitude, swagger and drugs replaced by some horrible Hale & Pace dungarees.  Said dungarees are inexplicably popular amongst punters this year, only outweighed in oddness by the native American head-dresses that a number of independent people are sporting: it looks like some wires got crossed in the organisation of a Village People reunion.  Still, it’s better than the four guys in Charlie Chan villain get-up, one of whom has come in full yellow-face: Number One Cock.

Raleigh Ritchie are an unpleasant melange of Wham! and The Streets and they sound like Bicester Village, so we scoot over to see Gorwelion Horizons.  This turns out not to be a lost Autechre EP, but a special stage solely featuring young Welsh performers, a line-up addition as lovely as it is unexpected (and, down a little passage, hard to find), and a place we retire to regularly whenever the crowds or predictable main stage gestures are getting too much.  They also have a giant wooden ghetto blaster, which wins them points, as does Hannah Grace, a singer who edges towards blues fire and soul sultriness, but without losing sight of the bullseye of good tunes.  She would do well at Cornbury.

We shy away from the Most Improved award here at Nightshift, as it either looks like a snide backhand or a sop for rubbish musicians who don’t have the decency to give up and concentrate on procreation or move somewhere else.  Praise is deserved for Orange Vision, though.  When we first saw them they were trading in pseudo-baggy and infuriating wackiness, but nowadays they use driving indie-funk basslines as the jumping-off point for woozy, reverb-drenched flights which send half the crowded Virgins stage into a misty reverie and half into a dancing trance.  A satisfying set that has nor pop nor psych, but as it were an after dinner sleep, dreaming of both.

We love Truck, and we’re as nostalgic as the next old deaf rocker, but, really, isn’t it time to retire the Barn?  Surely it has the worst acoustic of any festival stage in Europe, and is a pain to get in and out of, meaning that we miss a number of acts over the weekend.  When it was less busy, there were some fun, unpretentious rock bands on display making it worth the effort to listen through the echo, such as Bloody Knees, whose last tune sounds like “Come As You Are” sung by gibbons, which is just fine and dandy by us.

Going to festivals always makes us feel old, but it’s amplified by Ags Connolly’s good old days number, “When Country Was Proud” which starts with someone holding a CD.  CDs still few new-fangled to us, godammit!  Mind you, in the chorus poor old Ags tries to put his CD “on the turntable”, which can’t have gone well.  Still, this lyrical slip is the single criticism we can make of an excellent set by a naturally gifted musician, who knows exactly when embellishments get in the way of a song, and when to give his rich melancholic voice space to communicate.   Truck has had its fair share of Americana over the years, but Ags’ country isn’t alt or nu or avant, it’s just fantastic.

Keeping the local flag proudly aloft on the Virgins stage are Death Of Hi Fi, who have tempered their dark and brooding hip hop with some lighter, slinkier songs, pick of which is “Roses And Guns”, wherein punchdrunk electro synths stumble through the picture window of Portishead’s refined drawing room. Top cabaret marks for featuring a lightning quick costume change on a small stage, and throwing flowers to the crowd with download codes attached.

We’ll sadly probably never see (m)any metal bands at Truck again, so having played the other day at Download, Beasts are probably as close as we’ll get.  Big drums, big chords, big soaring vocal lines, a slightly more aggressive Foo Fighters?  Check.  A little bit boring after a while?  Check.

In the past, the main stage at Truck has featured some surprisingly slight acts.  For every Fixers or Bellowhead, there’s been some wispy indie band or subtle American strummer who, although sometimes good, have got lost on the breeze.  This year, the promoters have worked out just what people want, rightly or wrongly, from a festival main stage.  Take The Bohicas.  Nobody knows who they are, we suspect, but they go down a storm with their broad-stroke thumping pop, and chunky melodies that seem to fall somewhere between XTC and Bryan Adams.  The power goes off mid-song, and everyone hangs around cheering till it’s back on, which is as much evidence of winning the crowd over as we can imagine.  They’re quite good.  Pity, really, we were hoping we’d be able to just say they were Bohollocks.

After buying some food from the ever-lovely Rotary Club, we are accosted by a wandering woman from the church snack stall: “You know what goes really well with chips?  Sweets!”  Full marks for dedicated sales patter, dear, but you don’t have to be Jay Rayner to know it’s not true.  Her culinary error comes back to us for Neon Waltz, who are the musical equivalent of a Haribo melting over a spud, having ill advisedly taken the harmonies, the electric piano and the rootsiness from The Band and melded them with Flowered Up’s brash proto-Britpop.  How on earth is this any good?  Nay, rather delightful?  Perhaps because, in pop, character and ideas trump showing off and artisanal moustache stylists every time.  We especially love the singer, a vat-grown Micky Dolenz mini-me who looks as though he literally just got out of bed...and that his bed was made of temazepam and dumplings.

Speaking of character, back at Gorwelion Horizons a trio called HMS Morris provide one of the best sets of the weekend, despite not actually being sailors waving hankies.  Their synth-based pop is held together by charm and Blu Tack, and provides warm fuzzy memories of vintage bookings on the old Trailer Park stage.  One of them is a cute pop powerhouse, what you’d get if Gwen Stefani had been given away free with Coco Pops; one of them is a keyboard player with a croupier’s hat, a bushy beard and a glorious falsetto; the other is a drummer tight enough to keep it all together, but sensitive enough to keep the songs bubbly fresh.  A highlight is a gorgeous plinky skank with lashings of twangy guitar, like Vienna Ditto in dub (and in Welsh), but it’s all wonderful.  Swnami who come afterwards were pretty good, too, in the vein of early Foals, and it’s a pity that so few people see it. 

Mind you, perhaps they were all just queuing for the toilet.  What happened, Truck, has Steventon been hit by Dutch Bog Disease or something?  The only downside to a lovely festival is the acute lack of portaloos.  At one point, we take a walk along the entire length of the campsite to try to find a short toilet line, and it can’t be done.  Mind you, one in five tents have a bunch of Truckers sitting outside, and a bit of eavesdropping reveals that lots of them are planning on sitting about killing time until Clean Bandit come on.  That’s the spirit, kids, stick to bands that have been on telly adverts, otherwise you might see something new and exciting, which would hurt your little heads.

You know a band are pansy-arsed panty-waists when they set up the drums and keyboards side on.  It’s a just a fact. But here at Nightshift we like bands who iron their socks as much as bands who lose their clothes each night fighting drunken tigers, so long as they’re good.  William Joseph Cook and his band are good, for the most part, especially when he edges towards strength-in-delicacy Jeff Buckley territory.

We’re not sure whether Aberystwyth’s Mellt have an infuriating Google-maximising spelling, or whether it’s just Welsh, but they’re worth a visit, with strong basslines pulling sweetly against bookish new wave vocals, something in the ballpark of The Lemonheads, with Sebadoh as jovial groundskeepers.  They’re good, although may not have quite found that magic ingredient to be truly special.  Speaking of ingredients, beware of the coffee stall, where an espresso is a pound, and an Americano is two; just to check, the difference is still some water, right?  Thank Christ they don’t sell squash.

The Moog In June

I'm giving up on wirting introductions to these.  Let me know if you don;t like that idea.

WILL GREGORY MOOG ENSEMBLE, Pindrop & OCM, St John the Evangelist, 10/6/15

By coincidence, the BBC’s science and technology show Tomorrow’s World went off air only a few months after the digital channel that would become Yesterday was launched.  And today, the idea of prime time telly devoted to explaining gizmos seems itself astonishingly old-fashioned , so embedded has hard- and software become in our lives.  Tonight’s gig is a smiling nod back to a faded future, (dis)played on a selection of historic, clunky and primarily monophonic synths - not all Moogs, but all far from their circuitboard salad days - more fitted to a loving museum than the rough sticky gig circuit.  Goldfrapp’s Will Gregory is the charming host and ringleader, with a whispered avuncular air like a trendy supply teacher filling in as Jazz Club presenter, but despite a few light chuckles and cheeky nods to baroque classics, the show mostly avoids middle-brow novelty, and gives us excellent musicianship couple with intelligent composition and arrangement.

Perhaps in honour of Wendy Carlos, the first half centres on classical pieces.  There’s never a bad time to hear the snaky glory of JS Bach’s third Brandenburg Concerto, and the Moogs’ farty portamento brings out the rolling melody beautifully, whilst a burst of Handel has a burnished elegance, like robot knights tilting in some cyber-tourney for the pixellated hand of Princess Peach.  However, it’s the new pieces that truly excite the ears.  “Snow Steps”, based on material from Debussy, is a breath of hyperborean sobriety, whereas “Swell”, by ace composer and ensemble member Graham Fitkin, lives up to its name by taking a tumescent tip from Godspeed! You Black Emperor.  The pinnacle, though, is “Noisebox”, a hissing web of sound that uses the instruments’ ability to generate white noise.  Over a Kraftwerk train rhythm hissing blocks are pushed about and tweaked in a manner that recalls minimal dancefloor overlords Ricardo Villalobos and Porter Ricks – like the trombone we associate vintage synth sounds with vaudeville and pratfalls, and can forget what subtlety they can achieve.  A few people near us leave in the interval.  We’re not sure whether they hoped to hear “Ooh La La” or a Klaus Schulze prog epic, but for us the charmingly warm programme features the best of both man and machine.