Truck 2010 Sunday Pt 2

One thing we noticed at Truck is how many photographers there are nowadays. Impressed audience members come up to ask what lens a snapper is using, when once they would have been checking amp manufacturers or DJ set lists. Luckily, Trevor Moss & Hannah Lou have framed the pictures for them, by standing in the very centre of the main stage and singing into one microphone, which cleverly gives the impression that we’re all in some poky, cosy folk club. We only really love a couple of their songs, but you simply only see a duo whose voices complement each other like this once in blue moon: he is querulous and melancholy, whilst her voice is lucid and liquid, and when they harmonise it sounds like one astonishing folk organism. Joe Bennett turns up once again to play some rather nifty trumpet, proving their music is even better to share.

Nedry usher in the return of the epic reverb pedal, offering us icy clicks and cuts glitch ambience surrounding girl-lost-in-fog vocal mantras. The songs are something like the forlorn ghosts of Donna Summer tracks in some laptop purgatory, except the one that sounds like a dubstep Stina Nordenstam. Another wonderful Truck discovery a long way from the main action.

Unfortunately, lightning doesn’t strike twice and our next off-piste venture brings us to Summer Camp, who play something like late period OMD, which would be passable, if it weren’t for their horribly plastic wedding singer vocalist, who ruins any small chance their songs have of winning us over. The crass lyrics mostly boil down to “Ooh ooh, nice things are nice”. If you think it would be good if all towns were like Milton Keynes, this is the band for you; if you’re fully functioning adult, steer well clear.

No adults in Egyptian Hip Hop, they’re a band who are very young to have received the plaudits they have, but we shan’t let that affect our judgement. And it turns out they’re...alright. There are plenty of ideas in their songs, and they can chug through a slack riff like Dinosaur Jr before flipping out some cheesy Huey Lewis keyboards and throwing in some hi-life inflected jerky guitars that remind us of – oh, you know – FUCKING EVERYBODY! They sound more like a promising band than a good one, but that’s no crime; also, they’re less than half our age and we think they look bloody ridiculous, so they must be doing something right. Misleading name, however; someone should book them with Non-Stop Tango and try to start a riot.

We’re much more excited by the sounds of young Britain when we visit Unicorn Kid, and his hyper-active Nintendo toybox rave, in a style we christen “Arpeggi8”. “Where Is Your Child” and “Tricky Disco” would have come out a few years before he was born, which intriguingly means that he saw them the same way we saw The White Album. And, let’s be honest, they’re better. His music is also better than most on offer this weekend, and whilst it has its florescent charms, the material is strong because a lot of care has clearly gone into the construction, there are lots of interesting ideas in his Wonky Kong palette. Despite being one of the oldest people watching, we love it as much as the teenagers; although when there’s a stage invasion of day-glo youths, we do feel as though we’ve stumbled into the Byker Grove wrap party. Gigs are rarely this much fun.

We get our final Bennett-spotter points with Common Prayer, as they’re both present and correct, as is a French horn which would be brilliant if it were only audible. This is neo-country Truck mulch to a great extent, but the singer does have a lovely unhurried voice, so we end up in favour, even if we can’t sincerely say, “we’re loving it”.

Watching Blood Red Shoes we remember why we like Little Fish. Their guitar and drums business is all very well, and they have some decent rock tunes, but we can’t really get a grip on any of it. They do, however, have far superior stage banter to Little Juju, whose nervous ramblings can get pretty tiresome. There’s exactly nothing wrong with this set, but after two days of music we want something memorable nearly as much as we want a nice sit down.

We are a smidgen disappointed when we realise nervous_testpilot is going to play a straight trance set with none of the madness of previous Trucks (although we’re sure he sampled the Crystal Maze theme at one point), but then we decide that hearing truly exquisitely crafted music is enough, and begin to appreciate the subtly melancholic melodies hidden amongst the snare rushes and thumping vorsprung durch techno. It may be the end of the weekend, but the crowd are still eager to dance, one of whom has discovered some discarded fragments of the Keyboard Choir’s costumes, which brings The Beathive’s day nicely full circle. The set turns out to be an understated triumph, and Testpilot’s loving ridicule of the dancing crowd is fun to watch.

We finish our festival away from headliners Teenage Fanclub, with The Epstein, stars of many a bygone Truck. They play a beautiful set, the jewel in the crown being a glistening “Leave Your Light On”, and we realise that whilst Truck may have got bigger, louder and – let’s not skim over it – more expensive, it still feels very much like it used to a decade ago. As ever there have been surprises, charming atmospheres and far too much rubbish country, and we relish the fact that Truck can hold on to this frail ability to welcome everyone, yet not blandly smooth itself out to try to please them all. The programme’s editorial might be written as an embarrassing cross between Mr Motivator and Jack Kerouac – “this movement that says no homogenous same-old phoney crap but new real expression” – but there is something in it, and Truck realises that being professional is great, but treating people like profit units isn’t. There’s still a natural, unforced wonder about Truck, and no glib corporate slogan is ever likely to encapsulate that feeling.

Truck 05 Sunday Cont.

If someone unearthed some footage fo Alec Empire's 6th form revue, I'm sure it would look just like a gig by The Walk Off. As they generally consist of a bunch of people arsing about and screaming over a breakcore backing track, it's tough to say whether this is a good performance or not. All I do know is a) it's jolly good fun, and b) whatever they pay that dancing bear, it ain't enough.

The Rhonda Valley are alright if you want a slightly sloppy, slightly out of tune version of The Epstein. I'm sure they'd fare better if they weren't clashing with The Magic Numbers and we weren't all victims of Sunday evening exhaustion.

nervous_testpilot has been making music for a computer game. I suppose this explains why this year's set is straightforward and foursquare compared to others. Still, if you're going to hear some banging acid trance, best have it made by a master craftsman, I say.

This is dance music in the truest sense, and a packed Lounger Tent is on its feet and frugging furiously. If the unwelcome ghost of Josh Wink's "Higher State Of Consciousness" was raised one moment, this was more than offset by the happy memory of The Scientist's "The Exorcist" the next. Sadly licensing restrictions meant we were denied the encore for which we bayed, but what better way is there to end a great festival, than to leave wanting more?

See you next year, then.

Truck 2006 pt 2

Of course, the upside is that we get to catch the end of Luke Smith’s set, and the Truck without Luke would be like Christmas without It’s Wonderful Life. As ever he’s heartwarming, hilarious and cosy, even with his new rock (ahem) trio, but the best part is watching the joyous faces of Smith neophytes. You can almost see them thinking, “a cross between Richard Stillgoe and Eddie Izzard with his Dad on drums, who’d have thought that would work?”.

Chris TT has been described as the indie Luke Smith, but he has weightier subjects to pursue than tea and girlfriends, touching on ecology and politics in simple acoustic thrashes. If you can envisage an English Hammell On Trial you may have the right idea – the tunes aren’t quite as good, but he manages to attack his songs with the same vigour, and throw in serious issues without coming off as a facile rock preacher. It’s no mystery why Chris is a Truck mainstay.

It says a lot about the eclecticism of Truck that we can rush from one festival favourite in the form of Chris, to another in the shape of nervous_testpilot. Truck without Paul Taylor would be like Christmas without “It’s a Wonderful Life”, played backwards in Satan’s breakcore bass palace. This year he’s married the thumping beats of last year with the sample heavy gabba mash up of previous incarnations, into a surprisingly coherent half hour. Truly wonderful, but are we the only ones to slightly miss the elegiac melodies of his first …Module… album? Checking the mosh happy Trailerpark, we guess the answer’s yes.

Dancing of a different sort over at The Epstein’s place. Getting more elaborate and noisier with each gig they do (this set features The Drugsquad’s Stef on guitar/mandolin/banjo and a searing mariachi brass section) they still manage to retain the untroubled country lope at the heart of the songs. They rightly go down a storm, bringing the crowd to a rousing finish with a great country tune called “Dance The Night Away”. Well, it makes up for the rubbish one, doesn’t it?

Had we known it was one of their last ever gigs we might have pushed to the front for Suitable Case For Treatment’s set, but instead we give up on the crowds and pop along to see Trademark. Whilst their new album is an adventurous step forward, the songs don’t come across so immediately in a live setting (excepting the monster that is “Over And Over”), so it’s the older tunes that fare the best. But no two Trademark gigs are really the same, and this one ends with a massed choir and an inexplicable Genesis cover.

SUNDAY

Since Mackating sadly lost their lead singer they’ve turned into a bit of a reggae revue, with featured vocalists of different styles on every tune. Whilst this can make for a bit of a mish mash it keeps things chugging along nicely. Best track in today's tasty set is a dancehall tinged tirade, apparently aimed at Fifty Cent, advising “don’t be a gangster, be a revolutionary”. Sage advice, but it’s Sunday morning, so you’ll understand if we just pass on both options for now.

It’s easy to be critical of performance poetry: 2D politics, bad gags and consonants lots in the sound of spit flecking against a mic. But, we haven’t given up on punk rock just because loads of bands are rubbish, have we? Oh no. Hammer & Tongue have done wonders in Oxford – come on, a spoken word gig at The Zodiac that gets better crowds than most bands, who’s not just a little impressed? – and we’re happy to come and support them briefly over at the Performance Tent. Today’s prize really goes to Sofia Blackwell, who’s always had a little more poise than some of the verbal cowboys, who rounds things off with a neat little piece about how she’ll never write a love poem, which of course turns out to be a beautifully honest little love poem.

This year has really been the coming of age for the acoustic tent, now bigger, better and rebranded The Market Stage. Proof of this is the enormous, attentive crowd for Emmy The Great, which is so big they have to take some of the walls down to let people see. As she snaps at each line like a tiger tearing meat from a carcase (albeit an ever so slightly cutesy tiger) many in this crushed tent decide they’re seeing one of the best shows of the festival quietly unfurl. There are any number of lovely images, but one sticks in our head, “You’re an animated anvil/ I’m an animated duck,” not least because it reminds us of an old Prefab Sprout lyric, “God’s a proud thundercloud/ We are cartoon cats”, and Paddy Macaloon is one of the 80s most under-rated lyricists. Oh yes he is.

Rachel Dadd has a wonderful folk voice, and is ably accompanied by two of her old Whalebone Polly pals, but her set doesn’t seem to have the assurance or character of Emmy’s. It’s mostly pleasant, with everything good and bad that this term conjures up.

When we first saw Captive State, a few Trucks ago, they were a firy jazz hip hop ensemble. Sadly, they soon decomposed into a benefit gig rap band: worthy, summery and mildly funky. Thankfully, they seem to have regrouped somewhat, and have come back fighting. The new material actually seems a bit Massive Attack, with paranoiac queasy bass synths cutting through neat vocal melodies and old fangled dance rhythms. Even the older tunes seem to have been tidied up, and are looking leaner than they have for years. A warm welcome back, though we do think that they could do with a proper singer for the melodic parts, excellent though the frontman is as an MC…oh, and a load of trombone solos.

If Thomas Truax looks a tiny bit tired today, his mechanical bandmate Sister Spinster must have been partying in the Barn till the wee hours, as she sputters, wobbles and eventually cuts out. It may not be the best set he’s ever turned in, but with his homemade instruments and downhome narratives he still holds the crowd in his skinny hands. He’s even commanding enough to do a number unplugged. We don’t mean acoustic, we mean literally unplugged from the PA and wandering around outside the tent. Admit it, we wouldn’t sit there patiently waiting for many other performers, now would we?

Since we last saw Piney Gir she’s inexplicably started looking like Brix Smith and playing light hearted Ernest Tubbs style country. It may not be a very challenging proposition, but her breezy vocal can carry anything – even a duet with charming but tone deaf Truck organiser Edmund, who brought us to tears of laughter with one misplaced “Shoobydoowop”.

Every Truck throws up something wonderful and unexpected. Maybe it’sthe direct sunlight, but this year we find ourselves falling for something that we feel ought to be terrible, in the shape of Babar Luck. He’s a Pakistani Eastender with a line in simple acoustic punk reggae with a “heal the world” type bent, which is the sort of thing we’d normally find painfully trite but Babar’s delivery is so perfect we actually start to believe we can change society with a song. We recommend this heartily, but we’ll never be able to explain what was so good about it. And he has cool mad eyes too. My God, we must be getting old, we’re hanging out at the acoustic stage (oh, alright, we couldn’t be bothered to queue for Chicks On Speed).

Crepuscule's Out

Sorry, I'm busting for the loo, got to go.

THE EVENINGS – LET’S GO REMIXED (FREEDOM ROAD)


Local remix projects: collaborative fruit of a fertile scene, or the tarnish on the gate of the clique enclosure? Discuss with reference to the new Evenings remix album.

OK, we’ll spare you the sophomore essay for now, but it is a vexed question, as remix LPs rarely have any internal logic and often come with the lumpy, lopsided feel of a bootleg rather than the balanced, polished heft of a proper album. Most don’t even have the curatorial input of a compilation, as tracks are accrued at various times from disparate sources, which is especially true in the case of this CD, which was a few years in the making. But, despite the imperfections of the form, this is still an intriguing record, and even if it can’t claim to be as successful as Smilex’ recent mixfest, there are still some gems to be discovered.

Not least the very first track, which could well be the best on the entire album. King Of The Rumbling Spires takes “PA” and lays it out on a warm afternoon to meditate as a cowpoke ambles by at a country lope. It brings to mind long forgotten ambient “supergroup” FFWD (which consisted of members The Orb with Robert Fripp and Thomas Fehlmann) and even blissed out Sunday tea new agers Channel Light Vessel. Other successes must be Boy With A Toy’s ruination of “Golf Audience Reaction To Missed Putt” to a hellish miasma of loops (and if you think that’s a criticism, you don’t know us very well!) and nervous_testpilot’s Hammer House Of Hardcore cheap gothic remake of “Pink Breakfast”. The most conceptually intriguing selection is Wendy And The Brain’s take on “SHRR001”, a jokey spoken word interlude on the original album - the string of chopped samples and FX may not be entirely successful, but it’s a darn sight more amusing than the original flat gag.

At the less enticing end of the spectrum, Oliver Shaw doesn’t do much more than play a bit of guitar over the top of “Harness The Yearn” and Smilex don’t make a vast impact on “Lee The Way”, whereas the second mix of “Let’s Go” is…well, put it like this, we listened to this CD without checking the tracklist, so as to be completely impartial in our response, but it didn’t take us long to work out that this was Twizz Twangle’s effort. Huge chunks of the original are brutally intercut with uncomfortable loops from some 80s soul tune and what sound s like it could be R.E.M. Full marks for audacity, but you’ve got to conclude that this is a failure. Perhaps it’s inevitable that a man who’s gloriously incapable of playing a song the same way twice can’t grasp the idea of the remix?

Between these poles there’s much tuneful techno of a diverting nature, which is well worth a listen, even if it’s fails to live up to The Evenings’ wired wonder. Perhaps it’s because there’s a certain undertow of cheap cabaret about the band. From Mark Wilden’s original dream of a supper band called Tony Fucker & The Evenings to their occasional nod towards phone hold muzak melodies, there’s always been a ghost of some Murph & The Magictones monstrosity behind The Evenings’ music. It could be that upsetting the balance of the original material gives this cheese factor a little too much prominence, and thus the lovely “Minerals” finds itself transformed into two forgettable pieces of synth twiddle. Or it could be that in general remixes are on a hiding to nothing, as they either sound too much like the original to be worth it, or too much like the remixer to make much sense. Maybe only someone who’d never heard of The Evenings could give an honest appraisal of this record. Or The Evenings themselves, of course…

Truck 07 Part 3

Piney Gir’s girl pop ensemble The Schla La Las are basically a joke, and like most jokes, they don’t work a second time. Apparently this is their last ever gig – hark to the rustle of a thousand Truckers shrugging.

Pull Tiger Tail are definitely the best high energy indie rock band we’ve seen this weekend, and we’re impressed by the vocal space they manage to find above the rubbery bass and clattering drums. Yes, we’ve seen it all before, but we’ve seen The Rotary Club’s tea tent before too, and that’s looking like a temple at this juncture.

The unwritten rule of Truck is that you’ll find your favourite act when least expecting it. We were thinking time was running out for this epiphany, when we stumbled on Italy’s Disco Drive. There are three of them, but sometimes two of them play drums. All their songs sound like Q And Not U playing along with a car alarm. We can’t get enough of it, frankly.

Exhaustion and fear of losing our lift home means we stay in the Trailer Park tent for the rest of the day, which is no chore at all when Rolo Tomassi take to the stage. Their preposterous maximalist metal marries a Zappa complexity with a Napalm Death vigour. The most obvious reference point is The Locust, but Rolo are more like a suburban thrash band playing Melt Banana. Plus they’re all about twelve! Obscenely good stuff.

Despite some promising synth sounds, Metronomy are deeply annoying. With their rinky dink melodies, their lacklustre robot choreography and their crappy light bulb shirts, they’re like some sort of Playschool take off of Kraftwerk; except at least Cant and Benjamin were professionals, these guys don’t even look like their hearts are in it.

Whilst nervous_testpilot is essentially just a funny little man playing prerecorded music and doing a silly dance, he’s still a cracking end to the festival. High points on his hardcore odyssey were when he (ahem) “dropped” "Apache", and the brilliantly original sound of a squeaky toy making an acid house riff: all hail breakbeat Sweep! Standing at the back of the tent watching the weekend’s casualties trying to dance to music that is officially too fast provides the most wonderful memory to take home from the festival.

It wasn’t the best lineup Truck’s ever had, we’ll admit, but we’re still glad that the festival managed to claw itself from the brink of its demise. We wonder what next year shall bring…

Stompin' At The Sav(el)oy

Hello, dear friends, valued strangers and evil spam spewing web-bots, and welcome once more to the David Murphy archives. Here's a review of Top 20 botherers Hot Chip from way before they were famous and the miniature monkey was yet to be wound. They were...quite good. Worth waiting for that verdict, I think you'll agree.

PS Although the BBC editor at the time published this claiming it was a gig at The Bully, this was incorrect. Also, I'm sure I originally indicated in thge copy who promoted the gig, and I think it may have been Vacuous Pop, but I'm not certain enough after all these years to say for certain.

HOT CHIP/ PINEY GIR/ NERVOUS_TESTPILOT, Wheatsheaf, 8/04

Anyone who says electronic music is always the same has got nervous_testpilot to answer to. Not that this would be too frightening as the pilot is quite small and, err, nervous, but the point is that Paul Taylor has the itelligence and musical imagination to make every performance completely different, in a way no supposedly exciting rock band could dream of.

After the tympanic scouring doled out at Truck, tonight he's gone for the danceably melodic. God, give some of those tunes a remix by Fatboy or Sash! and they'd be Top 10 material! Highlights are a crisp "Raiders Of The Lost ARP" and his trademark Queen-mangling gabba finale - OK, it's obvious, but it's so damned well done.

Speaking of doing things well, let us consider Exhibit B, Piney Gir. In lesser hands her kindergarten Korg schtick might wear thin, but underneath the playground melodies reclines a vocalist of great ability and discipline. Add to this A Scholar & A Physician's incisive and elegant production, whicc resists the urge to be too silly (except on a punk "My Genreration" cover, which palls on the second hearing), and everything in Camp Gir looks rosy. Having said this, I can imagine many people being left cold by tonight's textbook performance. I just can't imagine it would be much fun being them.

I'm uncertain about Hot Chip. They look like a mixture of The Beastie Boy's younger brothers and Cabaret Voltaire's chemistry teachers, and they sound like The Bloodhound Gang playing Prince's songs on Chicory Tip's keyboards. Their fiveman wall of electronic funk resembles a Benny Hill sketch about electro.

Trouble is, their suburban sleaze entreaties are sometimes full of wit, and sometimes and overstretched joke; some of the parping synth textures are clever and outrageously funky, whilst some are thin and annoying. Still, I'll be there to watch them next time, and I suppose any performance that leaves an old cynic like me so intrigued must be counted as a victory.

Yo, Goldrush The Show!

So, here's a sad day - the very last of the reviews I wrote for OHM. Admittedly, I don't own every issue, so I may have missed one. If you think there's a review from the OHM days I should post, get in touch. Thank you for flying Porcine Airways! Anyway, this is from the very best OHM issue, where we managed to review very nearly every act on the Truck bill in a madly choreographed dance of the notebooks. Sadly, not every act I reviewed is here, since there were some acts that were reviewed by more than one of us, and I've long since lost my original copy (so has Dan the editor) so all you'll get are the bits that saw print. The only good bit I can remember on the discard pile was a review of Red Star Cycle, but I'll keep that to myself as I might use the same gag for some other act in the future! Always recycle, kids!

TRUCK FESTIVAL, Hill Farm, Steventon, 6/04

Heavy rock is more about phrasing and tone than composition, and Days Of Grace are experts. Think the melodic end of metal. Think soaring vocal lines. Don't think emo, no matter what images I'm creating. Think QOTSA play Pantera. Think, "that singer needs to wear a belt".

Developing in oddly contradictory directions, Trademark continue to produce ever more theatrical and elaborate stageshows, and ever more honed and elegant songs. Like breaking your heart whilst appearing on 80s teatime BBC fodder The Adventure Game.

Charming, talented, summery, melodic, the men behind the festival itself - Goldrush are in some ways the best band in Oxfordshire. Yet sadly they bore me rigid. That Travis and The Chills are household names and Goldrush aren't is an injustice; that I'm even mentioning them in the same sentence illustrates the problem. Still, they couldn't play a bad set at Truck if their lives depended on it.

Lucky Benny sounds like a bizarre sexual position, but is actually a jazz-funk outfit. They're sometimes stodgy, sometimes firy. The bassist is good. Err, that's it.

Some huge voiced, super-sincere Dubliner is singing folky dirges about the poor and paeans to positivity, which must be rubbish, right? So why am I almost crying? Either I'm incredibly tired, or Damien Dempsey is a huge talent. Or both.

Tabla? Hurdy-gurdy? Politico-poetry? Some rainy mid-eighties GLC fundraiser is missing Inflatable Buddha! When they get abstract ("Fat Sex") it works wonderfully, when they play straight songs ("White Rabbit") it's flat hippy mulch.

Bert Kampfaert gabba - get in! nervous_testpilot provides the second great performance of the weekend, mangling samples and rhythms into a sproingy tech-tapestry. Slightly too irreverent for me (last year's set had subtle melodies hidden away), but his "action-packed mentalist brings you the strawberry jams" approach satisifes. Bloop.

One year on, Captive State kick even harder. The warm jazz rhythms are bolstered by the meaty horn parts, and draped in fluent rhymes and zig-zag scratch patterns, and the crowd responds rapturously. Forget the slightly crass lyrics, this band is delicious.

Even though they're a pop band, undertheigloo remind me of electronica. Their brittle cramped songs are like the raw material from which Boards Of Canada distill their tunes, or the base ingredient to Four Tet's organic shuffle. Pity they play so clunkily. Maybe next time...

Beware of geeks bearing riffs! A Scholar & A Physician have brung the noise, toybox style. Cutesier than a Puzzle Bobble marathon in a Haribo warehouse, they somehow manage to convince us that if enough people play enough crappy instruments, then even stupid music is a glorious victory. Clever.

There's an angry little New Yorker smoking furiously and telling awful jokes like it's The Improv in 1986; now he's singing a flacid relationship revenge song. Right, I'm off. Hold on, that last bit was funny...now he's singing something incredibly touching. Lach is ultimately moving, likable and acidly funny, but, man, he started badly.

Damn, Thomas Truax is too popular for this tiny acoustic tent. Damn, they're running late. Damn, MC Lars is on in a minute. Let's assume Truax is as much a damn genius as ever.

Truck 03 Continued

TRUCK, 2003: SUNDAY

Start your day the broken machinery way! nervous_testpilot is one man and a lot of wiring, making fine noises in the venetian-aphex-pusher-ziq jittercut style, and finishing with a gabba mix of Morrissey and Queen.

Anyone who thinks that electronic music is easy should see this man's fingers fly around the machines, like Ruben Gonzalez as court stenographer. Wonderful and sometimes slightly frightening sounds.

Lo-fi? God, Lesbo Pig make Vic 20 look like Pink Floyd! They're three girls, a guitar and some toy percussion, none of which are played with any noticeable ability. Add some half remembered, flat vocals about fauxmosexuality and labial discomfort and there you have it.

Very endearing, in an infant nativity sort of way, but, ultimately, a load of old nonsense.

Live hip-hop troupe Captive State give the tent soundperson some trouble: they're far too big for the stage, and have more equipment than you can imagine. They also have trouble with distorting bass, which turns summery jazz-hop into a ribb-shattering womb of J. Saul Kane dirt.

No matter, though, because the music is superbly executed, with a fantastically punching horn section and great MCing. Plus, it's their first gig, which can only bode well.

More horns from Misty's Big Adventure. In fact the whole band are tight, but almost indescribable. Imagine some parlour song pianio, dissonant backing vocals and random keyboard sounds underneath silly, childlike soungs about biscuit tins and the like. Imagine Rod, Jane & Freddy infused with the spirit of The Mothers Of Invention round at Viv Stanshall's house. Oh yes, and imagine a man in a big suit made of gloves who does approximately nothing.

Perhaps it wouldn't work in a dank club, but in the glorious sunshine, who's to complain?

I don't think Vera Cruise would work anywhere, for me at least. There's nothing wrong with them, and they're tight and well-rehearsed but the slightly grunge-laced rock songs don't find anything new to say.

A man next to me in the crowd says, "They sound like loads of bands whom I can't even be bothered to remember," which probably sums it up. Foursquare harmless rock with plenty of pedal stamping. Ho hum.

If Captive State gave the soundman a hard job, Thomas Truax steals the prize, playing homemade instruments built from scrap with occasional guitar and keyboard. These go through a giant fx/delay pedal, to build queasy, lurching soundscapes, atop which Thomas recites some odd vignettes about a fictional place called Wowtown.

I'm not even going to begin to describe the hornicator, part instrument, part sculpture, part headgear, but suffice to say this is the most unpredicatble set seen all weekend.

Musical ineptitude? The Zoltan-Kodaly School For Girls make Lesbo Pig look like Pink Floyd...which must make Vic 20 look like...oh, never mind.

Four women in school uniform play pop songs on the recorder. Badly. They are later joined by someone playing headmaster for a seeedy "Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus". A lot of people enjoyed this hilarious set. Then again, alot of people enjoy anything that features four women in school uniform...

Not sure about Meanwhile, Back In Communist Russia on the main stage. Full marks for their audacity, playing if anything more delicately and quietly than usual, but I still would rather have seen them in a dark, damp place.

You probably know the score: woman recites bleak poetic fragments whilst the band chug through the chords, throwing in odd noises occasionally. It seemed harder to build an atmosphere in the evening sun, as MBICR have a fundamentally claustrophobic sound, and some of the keyboards sounded light and airy, trather than menacing, but a good gig all the same.

However, my dear, smoking is bad for you; and affected smoking is very lazy stagecraft.