Hello.
It's been a while, sorry about that. I'm as busy as can be over here. I shall get this blog back on track hopefully in the enar future. Anway, here's the 1st part of my Truck review, elements of which appear in the current Nightshift.
TRUCK, Hill Farm, Steventon, 24-5/7/10
SATURDAY
In recent years Truck has been all over the national press, popping up in The Independent Magazine or The Guardian’s guide to festivals, but whilst this may be deserved none of these culture jamborees seem to capture what we think is good about Truck. Forget your indie cred and girls in fifty quid wellies, we adore the vicar frying donuts, the Round Tablers serving reasonably priced tea, the slightly makeshift feel of most of the stages, and – in short – the fact that it doesn’t look like something that’s ever likely to excite the staff at The Guardian. The other great thing about Truck, which is perhaps true of all good festivals, is that it always surprises you with great unknown acts. Openers Meursault aren’t a bad little group to stumble upon, volleying melodic laptop rock into the balmy afternoon. Their inherent drama reminds us of Witches, and our only criticism is that they come across as desperately earnest, as if they were pleading before a medieval ducking stool.
Something Beginning With L are a new name to us as well, and if their woozy cover of Whitney Houton’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” marks them out as hypnagogic trendies, the majority of the set is just good old guitar and keyboard rock music, finished off with a gorgeous plangent voice. At times they remind us of Texas – even down to the cowboy hat – but not in a way that is infuriating. “Lovely” begins with L.
It’s the same every year, we want to like the cabaret tent but never find anything good. We’re desperate to enjoy Jim Davies, who seems like he’d be a great man to share a few pints with, and who has a natural humour about him, but who must have left his punchlines behind in the rush to get packed. Sadly his tales of working as an advertising copywriter are good, but don’t really connect; it does, however, give us an excuse to pepper this review with idiotic promotional slogans.
In a swirl of NASA suits, bubble machines, theremin and stylophone Spaceships Are Cool prepare for takeoff. Their wonderfully tuneful music is akin to something on the Duophonic label minus the furrowed brows, and at least three tracks sound like White Town’s bedroom wonder “Your Woman” covered by a cheery Glaswegian indie band. They’re one of the best acts of the weekend, but if they have a Smile-Off with members of Alphabet Backwards stand well back, you might get caught in some hideous chirpiness crossfire. Put the freshness back.
They also give out tiny origami space shuttles to the crowd, which we find scattered around throughout the day; is subliminal craft merch a new sales concept? God knows Atlantic Pacific could do with some of that subtlety, they play a very dull yet not upsetting set, which is only interesting because it provides the first glimpse of a Bennett brother onstage. What do we win?
We were fervently hoping Thomas Tantrum in The Barn would be Thomas Truax going ape because all his machines had gone wrong, but sadly not. Nothing else about them is a let down, though. Get past the ultra-contemporary pared guitar sounds, and you find pop gold something like The Cardigans, or perhaps even The Cowboy Junkies, if they were cooked in a cutely effervescent pixie pie. It’s musically spotless and hugely enjoyable, at times reminding us of pretty 90s popstrels Tsunami (not the later Oxford band of the same name). Swiss Concrete don’t make shit smelling barns, but if they did...
The programme tells us “Luke Smith hasn’t missed a Truck Festival since he first played ten (??? citation needed) years ago”. How sweet, he’s so much a part of the scenery, they don’t even bother proof reading his write up. And as such criticising him would be like visiting Wiltshire and giving Stonehenge a bad review, but luckily we adore him anyway. We could ramble on about his intelligent lyrics and adept piano, the excellent growling John Harle tone of the soprano sax or the warm comic humanity of his delivery, but all you really need to know is that throughout the set the sound engineers were grinning like loons, and they’re a notoriously surly bunch. Smith is somewhere between Betjeman and Stillgoe, and is an English eccentric to be valued...and he does make exceedingly good tunes.
Active Child plays some lovely harp, but spoils it by covering the music with horrible Eurhythmics drum programming. The he stops playing the harp. Then we leave.
Boat To Row are likened in the programme to Stornoway and Bert Jansch, which is phenomenally generous and puts us off their folky pop at first, but eventually we warm to them, and we mentally file them alongside Sonny Liston as pleasing acoustic troubadours. Still, nothing here to get the pulse racing, so we let our fingers do the walking and pick something at random from the programme.
Fucking fingers. We’re back at the Cabaret tent, where two men (who may be Bishop & Douche, but we’re not certain) are playing the introductions to cheesy records to inexplicable applause. God, how we hate the Nathan Barley world we live in, sometimes, that equates recognising something with understanding it, and thinks quoting something is the same as criticising it. This is desperately unfunny and makes Boat To Row seem like a halcyon age, so we leave ASAP. Because we’re worth it.
Luckily it means we catch some of Mr Shaodow’s set from the door of a packed Beathive. Only a few years ago he was fumbling his way through a Punt set whereas now he (and battle brother LeeN, amongst others) has the crowd by the scruff of the neck, and is sending it, frankly, loopy. The only down point is the overlong freestyle section, where Shaodow starts asking for suggestions from the audience like a hip hop Josie Lawrence. The improv raps are good, but why try to impress on the fly when you’ve already written such astounding rhymes?
We think that Y was on our bus, trying to impress some 15 years olds and telling a dizzy girl she was psychic; on Sunday he’s refusing to leave the tiny Rapture Records stage whilst he slurs non-sequiturs and plays fudged arpeggios on a weeny keyboard, like a horrific cross between Suicide and John Shuttleworth. Somewhere in the middle of this embarrassment, though, he put a tiger in his tank and churned out a steaming wall of psych rock noise, along with an ace jamming band (double Bennett score!). Imagine all the great sounds that influenced Spacemen 3, and then put them together replacing the narcotic mope with a Watney’s Party 7 barrel of fun, and you get a set that might not be complex, but is exactly what is needed as the afternoon tails away. Some toddlers are also going nuts for it, alternately dancing crazy and running their fingers through the pebbles in the Village Pub tent like people on their first acid trip. “Dude, my hands are so big. For a three year old”.
Showing posts with label Y. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Y. Show all posts
Sunday, 29 August 2010
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Truck 2008 Pt 2
The Family Machine have always looked to us like lovable scamps in a 90s British romcom, around whom everything goes wrong, but who come up affably smiling. In the midst of some random sound engineering, the unflaggable cheeriness of the band makes us assume that Hugh Grant is taking notes in the wing. After all the problems, it’s a glorious set from some of Oxford’s best songwriters, all lachrymose acoustic laments undercut with a plucky determination – we imagine a video of slow motion clips of missed penalities, fluffed catches and other sports failures to “The Do Song”, intercut with footage of Jamie Hyatt winking from the bleachers.
Was it really less than two years ago since we saw Rolo Tomassi at The Port Mahon as part of a single figure crowd? In a packed Barn they get a heroes’ welcome. This is, of course all good and proper, because their maximalist metal constructions are simply amazing, with intricate drums, throat shredding screaming and even more buzzy keyboards that are only a curry away from being Rick Wakeman, which seems to be a theme of the Barn today. The dexterity involved in the performance is incredible, but it doesn’t get in the way of the riotous passion on show. They do a track that sounds like “Eye Of The Tiger” remade by Napalm Death and Goblin. If you want more than that in your life you are greedy beyond belief.
Having read some embarrassing nonsense following Jay-Z’s Glastonbury booking that music festivals aren’t the place for hip hop, it’s a joy to see the Beat Hive jam packed fro Mr Shaodow’s frenetic set. He’s clearly happy too: much as we love his music, we’ve always felt that his shows can be somewhat nervous and twitchy. Clearly the adoring reception has pushed him to greater things, as he prowls the stage, ranting into two mikes simultaneously and generally sending a tent full of dancers insane, whilst never missing a syllable of his excellent lyrics. Asher Dust helps out with the odd piece of singing and a nice red hat, but this is Shaodow’s hour, and he deserves it.
When you see someone in a scarlet astronaut suit playing limp, Bowie-ish country songs out of tune and saying garbage like “I fell in the whoop-de-doo” and, “show me love, you kitty cats”, you begin to think that it must be an elaborate musical prank. We still don’t know if Y is a serious musician or a practical joker – either way, it’s a shit way to spend your life.
“Next on ITV3, When Irony Goes Bad, this week featuring rubbish band Dead Kids”. The spectacle of men dressed like The Quireboys who play songs that all sound like Van Halen’s “Jump” without the subtlety, and smothered with crap synths and tinny guitars is enough to sap the strength. Dead Kids look like something that was cut from Nathan Barley as being too awful to even satirise. Terrible shouty singer too. OK, we’re prepared to believe it’s a bit of harmless fun; but if anyone over the age of 14 tries to tell you this is punk attitude, kill them. Kill them, for they shall never know better.
Martin Simpson has a taste for language, introducing his set with a discussion of the adjectives “bucolic” and “crepuscular”, and clearly relishing the visceral imagery of his opening traditional ballad, lingering over the phrase “the bloody steel”. He also languidly enjoys every line of a bottleneck tune, which reminds us that the blues is an intelligent narrative music, not just an excuse to show your beery market town mates how fast your left hand can go. Of course, Simpson’s guitar playing is also phenomenal, varying from lutelike delicacy to swift percussive passages via sleazy Chicago blues, but he never milks it, always letting the song lead the way. He was playing The Albert Hall for the Proms the day after, we feel lucky to have caught him somewhere so intimate. Not to mention bucolic.
Some competent folk rock from Texas’ Okkervil River, who know how to do lush and full blooded, their line up including two keyboards and occasional trumpet. At times they resembled The Arcade Fire without the Biblical bits, but far too often they just passed the time. We asked three people in the crowd who they sounded like, and nobody could actually come up with a name; this means either Okkervil River are trailblazing geniuses, or forgettably generic. Make your own minds up.
We’re slightly suspicious of the Don’t Look Back movement in which acts perform their pivotal albums. When it was announced that The Lemonheads would do the excellent It’s a Shame About Ray at Truck, the first thing that sprang to mind is that it’s 27 minutes long: in their billed show they could have played it three times, and left space to mime turning over the record. As it is, they crack through the album, minus a couple of tracks, in record time, and it feels something like a contractual obligation. After a couple of minutes, Evan Dando comes on for a solo reading of Smudge’s excellent “Outdoor Type” and “Being Around”, before the band return in a seemingly much more relaxed frame of mind for another thirty minutes or so of superior playing. The problem is that these were never main stage songs, they’re vulnerable, retiring, lovable (and probably stoned) little tunes that are most likely happier out of the limelight: as is Evan, who seems unappreciative of the crowd and mutters barely a word. Not really a disappointment, then, but great as these songs are, the show added nothing to them.
Was it really less than two years ago since we saw Rolo Tomassi at The Port Mahon as part of a single figure crowd? In a packed Barn they get a heroes’ welcome. This is, of course all good and proper, because their maximalist metal constructions are simply amazing, with intricate drums, throat shredding screaming and even more buzzy keyboards that are only a curry away from being Rick Wakeman, which seems to be a theme of the Barn today. The dexterity involved in the performance is incredible, but it doesn’t get in the way of the riotous passion on show. They do a track that sounds like “Eye Of The Tiger” remade by Napalm Death and Goblin. If you want more than that in your life you are greedy beyond belief.
Having read some embarrassing nonsense following Jay-Z’s Glastonbury booking that music festivals aren’t the place for hip hop, it’s a joy to see the Beat Hive jam packed fro Mr Shaodow’s frenetic set. He’s clearly happy too: much as we love his music, we’ve always felt that his shows can be somewhat nervous and twitchy. Clearly the adoring reception has pushed him to greater things, as he prowls the stage, ranting into two mikes simultaneously and generally sending a tent full of dancers insane, whilst never missing a syllable of his excellent lyrics. Asher Dust helps out with the odd piece of singing and a nice red hat, but this is Shaodow’s hour, and he deserves it.
When you see someone in a scarlet astronaut suit playing limp, Bowie-ish country songs out of tune and saying garbage like “I fell in the whoop-de-doo” and, “show me love, you kitty cats”, you begin to think that it must be an elaborate musical prank. We still don’t know if Y is a serious musician or a practical joker – either way, it’s a shit way to spend your life.
“Next on ITV3, When Irony Goes Bad, this week featuring rubbish band Dead Kids”. The spectacle of men dressed like The Quireboys who play songs that all sound like Van Halen’s “Jump” without the subtlety, and smothered with crap synths and tinny guitars is enough to sap the strength. Dead Kids look like something that was cut from Nathan Barley as being too awful to even satirise. Terrible shouty singer too. OK, we’re prepared to believe it’s a bit of harmless fun; but if anyone over the age of 14 tries to tell you this is punk attitude, kill them. Kill them, for they shall never know better.
Martin Simpson has a taste for language, introducing his set with a discussion of the adjectives “bucolic” and “crepuscular”, and clearly relishing the visceral imagery of his opening traditional ballad, lingering over the phrase “the bloody steel”. He also languidly enjoys every line of a bottleneck tune, which reminds us that the blues is an intelligent narrative music, not just an excuse to show your beery market town mates how fast your left hand can go. Of course, Simpson’s guitar playing is also phenomenal, varying from lutelike delicacy to swift percussive passages via sleazy Chicago blues, but he never milks it, always letting the song lead the way. He was playing The Albert Hall for the Proms the day after, we feel lucky to have caught him somewhere so intimate. Not to mention bucolic.
Some competent folk rock from Texas’ Okkervil River, who know how to do lush and full blooded, their line up including two keyboards and occasional trumpet. At times they resembled The Arcade Fire without the Biblical bits, but far too often they just passed the time. We asked three people in the crowd who they sounded like, and nobody could actually come up with a name; this means either Okkervil River are trailblazing geniuses, or forgettably generic. Make your own minds up.
We’re slightly suspicious of the Don’t Look Back movement in which acts perform their pivotal albums. When it was announced that The Lemonheads would do the excellent It’s a Shame About Ray at Truck, the first thing that sprang to mind is that it’s 27 minutes long: in their billed show they could have played it three times, and left space to mime turning over the record. As it is, they crack through the album, minus a couple of tracks, in record time, and it feels something like a contractual obligation. After a couple of minutes, Evan Dando comes on for a solo reading of Smudge’s excellent “Outdoor Type” and “Being Around”, before the band return in a seemingly much more relaxed frame of mind for another thirty minutes or so of superior playing. The problem is that these were never main stage songs, they’re vulnerable, retiring, lovable (and probably stoned) little tunes that are most likely happier out of the limelight: as is Evan, who seems unappreciative of the crowd and mutters barely a word. Not really a disappointment, then, but great as these songs are, the show added nothing to them.
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