A three-night crawl-style celebration of the best new music of Iceland, in Iceland – it was always going to be a magical weekend. To be an outsider welcomed into something as tight-knit as Reykjavík’s ever-blooming and perpetually-evolving independent music scene is an experience of immersion quite unlike any other and, over the three days and nights spent in the city, we find ourselves totally consumed by the indomitable grassroots spirit its creative inhabitants live and breathe.

Each evening of Music Mess - now in its third year – is split between two venues: for the most part, Volta – a fairly standard-issue club in the centre of the city with an enveloping downstairs bar – and the gorgeous vintage-swathed restaurant/bar/library of Kex – a hostel overlooking the breathtaking Mt. Esja that could easily, without hyperbole, be described as one of the hottest spots in Europe.

The weekend is sparked off by an opening party on Thursday night, for which all ticket holders have been invited to an open exhibition of exclusive artwork based on the mugs of the bands appearing over the weekend. Prints of the work hangs from strings through Kex’s enormous wooden-floored gym, where an enormous turnout makes short work of a gargantuan supply of complimentary Thule – a beer from an independent Icelandic brewery, responsible in part for the festival’s sponsorship – before gathering around to loosen their limbs to local heroes Boogie Trouble. The band’s line of pop-funk is all sung in Icelandic, which is refreshing, and features bass so fantastically frantic it could almost be described as disco. The rhythm is infectious, and the whole evening feels like what we imagine a show in an English village hall might feel like if an energetic crowd and a band capable of satisfying them filled it. As opening parties go, it’s massively enjoyable and relaxing.

Þorir Georg

On Friday evening the sonically diminutive Þorir Georg makes a quiet appearance in the library segment of Kex’s open-plan hang-out-and-be-merry space, where he plays to a small assembly and the buzzing restaurant behind them. We’re pleasantly surprised by his style’s likeness to midwest American emo-folk, bleating out lyrics like ‘I will die, you will die, and it will be alright’ – just the right balance of melancholic and heartfelt.

Þorir makes a sheepish departure from the floor after a murmured ‘takk’ and is followed by the first foreign-to-Iceland band of the festival – Edinburgh’s burgeoning Withered Hand, AKA Dan Willson, appearing tonight full-band and bringing a slightly muted Okkervil River/Low Anthem-style folk sound to the proceedings. The ardent folk-pop of ‘Religious Songs’ goes down a storm, as does the violin that spills out later in the set. This is the first of two appearances the band will be making at the festival, and we’re excited to see them spread out into the more dedicated Volta setting on Sunday.

Volta is exactly where we wander through the streets to soon afterwards, awed by the brightness of Reykjavik’s summer nights, and there we settle into a set opened by a band called Good Moon Deer – one of many Icelandic artists on the lineup that are totally new to us. The band turn out to be a two-piece comprising of a guy with a desk and computer and another behind a solid drum kit, and holy heck, it’s butter-wouldn’t-melt cool. We’re led in by a heavily electronic, avant-garde sound akin somewhat to Thom Yorke’s, which is suddenly blasted skywards by the implementation of monumentally resounding live drums. This is not, we hope, the last we’ll see or hear from this band (as it turns out, we’ll be seeing them again on Saturday night in Kex), for they have all the makings of being what Battles were to experimental alternative music in their early days and could happily floor certain subdivisions of alternative music culture in the UK.

Bloodgroup

The frantic percussion and dark electronica is continued by the arrival of Bloodgroup, whose sound tonight features an undeniably gothic element. Their dark set, which sees two of the five members become increasingly entangled in rolls of film hanging over stage (which is eventually torn down in a frenzy), is almost unbearably intense, and slips, in parts, into something touching on screamo – we’re totally hooked. As the congregation catch their breath after Bloodgroup’s departure, Australian experimental rockers PVT (once Pivot) set up. The band very much look the part to be cranking out ‘80s-esque alt-rock, and with the crowd now loose and limbered-up, their soaring, drawn-out vocals and deep, resonant bass (to which we can’t stop closing our eyes and seeing the opening titles of Drive) the atmosphere is milk-and-honey rich.

Sykur

Our evening is about to take a turn we weren’t expecting, however, in the form of Sykur – a young, largely-electronic four-piece who deliver one of the most mind-blowingly energetic live sets we’ve ever seen. Singer Agnes, who spends half the set belting huge vocal melodies and the other half rapping feverishly in Icelandic, is not a performer to be taken lightly, and as the front of the crowd fling themselves all over the place to the band’s unique and ear-splittingly loud sound, she leaps from the stage to join them. We leave feeling absolutely dazed – and of course, it’s still light outside.

Photo by Cara Robbins

Heading towards the burning hot Texan sun, Cayucas are armed with their cameras as they make the long, cross country drive down to the world’s most anticipated new music showcase, SXSW.

Of course, blazing heat isn’t anything that’s going to bother this bunch of Californians who are set to unleash their unique and completely irresistible sun-drenched melodies and pop-tinged tendencies upon a very fortunate Texan crowd. We asked Cayucas to document their trip, and to take a few photos to show us SXSW through the eyes of one of the festival’s most hotly tipped bands. And here’s what happened.

“Cayucas Leaving Los Angeles”

“Crossing SoCal Desert”

“Ben reading a magazine to pass the time crossing Arizona”

“Christian believing in the desert”

“Zach hanging outside of Juarez”

“Morning jam in the living room”

“Nap time is over. No show tonight means no holding back.”

“Cayucas minus Casey. Our set got cut short and the promoters are shoveling drinks tickets as an apology.”

“Tom, you’ll be awake in 2 hours. I’m going to be dead for at least 6.”

Some of the greatest rock ’n’ roll stories of all time were created ‘on the road’. Iconic histories of rockstars old and new are frequently heard recounted between music fans, who fawn over the mystique and freedom that life on tour seems to inspire.

Of course, musicians themselves would probably tell a different tale – one of broken vehicles, sleepless nights and bags of dirty washing. Regardless, life on tour has always and will continue to fascinate us music fans, so we decided to ask Communion Records’ Joe Banfi to shed a little light on what life on the road is actually like. Heading out into the wilds of the UK, the Northwich native here reveals his personal insight into his recent tour, featuring home taken snaps of the landscapes, landmarks and wolf-dogs encountered along the way.

Hello, Line Of Best Fit readers.

My name is Joe Banfi and I’m a musician signed to Communion. I released my debut record, the Iron EP, with them in September and followed this with the release of the Nomads EP on 04 March. This past week I’ve been travelling around the UK on my first headline tour. Joining me is my band:

[Me pointing at Annie and Sherman]

On the left is my bassist Annie. In the middle is my drummer Sherman. Also with me is my cellist Rosalind who isn’t in this picture because she was off buying some coffee for us all somewhere.

We had a final monster-long rehearsal last Sunday, and then went back to Sherman’s. We should have got some sleep but listened to Peter Gabriel with beers a lot of the night instead.

We set off for Manchester on Monday morning, got two hours north and then remembered we’d forgotten the drum cymbals.

So four hours later we were back at the same place with the drum cymbals and then we drove on to Manchester and played that night at The Castle Hotel. It’s a cute small room and the ceiling looks like it belongs in a little church. We were all so nervous because it was our firstshow as a full band, and we felt so grateful to the audience for packing out the room and making the whole set feel so easy and fun. “Family” especially went really well that night.

The next day we set off for Sheffield.

[Bending road in the Peaks]

The drive was beautiful and it was warm and sunny, so when we broke down it was actually quite nice.

[Me and Annie in front of the car with bonnet up]

We overcame this obstacle and got to The Harley in Sheffield and had a great sound check. Then the sound desk broke twenty minutes before the doors were due to open! So after Bret the sound guy pulled some of his hair out due to stress, he managed to get hold of another desk and we pulled off another really fun show. Bret was happy and so were we. Iused to study Philosophy at University of Sheffield and saw a lot of old friends from university too which was great.

We had to get to Newcastle early the next day because we had a few sessions to do which included a good long chat with Greg at Amazing Radio. I felt like the interview went really well so thought a pose of victory was appropriate.

[Joe in front of Amazing Radio]

David McCaffrey stormed it in Newcastle at The Head Of Steam. He joined us for the whole tour and was brilliant every night. There he is on the left playing Angry Birds.

[Me, David and Sherman on stage]

Hosting a festival in a Norwegian city when it’s guaranteed to be snowy, icy and atmospherically a bit tricky for music fans is a brave move – but that’s what Oslo’s By:Larm does year-in, year-out, to the acclaim of the festival’s many fans who battle such adverse weather conditions to return to this waterside haven again and again.

It’s not like one of those summer rave ups that we’ve come to associate so closely to the word ‘festival’, where girls and guys who’ve never listened to a record in their life don hot pants and a straw cowboy hat to stand in a pair of wellies in the blazing sunshine, holding a warm pint of Carling. No. This is a different proposition altogether.

By:Larm is a festival which presents an eclectic, dizzying line up in a host of beautifully suited venues. It’s a festival which offers true respite in the quiet moments, where wooden fishing huts play host to open fires, DJs and saunas (well, when in Scandinavia…). It’s a festival where post-show run downs are undertaken by the wooly-jumpered and pink cheeked rather than the sweat drenched and sallow faced. And it’s a festival that, in 2013, is presenting its sixteenth edition.

On offer in Oslo this year is a wide array of talent originating from the Nordic regions, with each and every genre covered in abundance. Be it in the tranquil, atmospheric hospitality of an age old church, or the futuristically lit, low ceilinged underground layer of Jaeger, the organisers have made sure to put carefully selected bands in all the right places.

We arrive on Wednesday to a stripped back schedule focussed around the WiMP tent in the Youngstorget square, found in Oslo’s city centre. It’s a fairly tranquil night, to ease gig goers into what’s sure to turn into quite a hectic event, so it’s there that we head to listen to Norwegian natives Young Dreams and their effortlessly cool take on tropical pop, closely followed by Retro Stefson who are not only in town to perform this weekend, but who are also contenders for the Nordic Music Prize (which is eventually awarded to Swedish sisters First Aid Kit). These hand picked bands have both performed energetic, welcoming sets and as we head off into the night, we’re sure that tomorrow’s going to hold some very special events indeed.

Young Dreams – by Tonje Thilesen

As Thursday’s shows begin to kick off, we find ourselves at Blå, a brilliant club situated in an old factory building on the edge of the town’s trendy Grünerløkka district. It’s here that a set by Hudson Mohawke is swiftly followed by one of Norway’s brightest and most interesting electronic artists, Cashmere Cat. Combining mellow electronica with the catchiness and cool of club anthems, Cashmere Cat’s an intriguing proposition, and proves himself to not only be an unmissable listen on record, but in the live arena too.

Next, we head up a slippery slope towards Crossroads (luckily, the festival organisers have sent us a handy email entitled ‘How To Walk On Ice’ to make this uphill ice trek a bit less dangerous) and we’re disappointed to arrive only in time to catch the closing notes of Billie Van’s set. Familiar faces grace the stage, with Mikhael Paskalev taking to bass duties for Billie Van, who we’re more used to seeing as Paskalev’s backing singer. From what we hear and from the reaction of the crowd, the set seems to have been well received, so we make a note to make sure to arrive earlier at one of her other scheduled performances this weekend.

Headlining the show at Crossroads tonight, and the man that’s caused a long line to form outside of the small, pub-like venue is Mikhael Paskalev. There’s a fair amount of hype around Paskalev at the moment, having just released his debut album in his native Norway and having been the name on everyone’s lips at this same festival last year. And just like when he headlined Ja Ja Ja last October, his set doesn’t disappoint at all. This boy can fuse blues, sublime harmonies and irresistible rock ’n’ roll hooks like nobody’s business, and as early as halfway through the first track, it’s abundantly clear to see why Paskalev’s doing so well. ‘Jailhouse Talk’ and catchy cult single ‘Jive Babe’ are particular highlights of the first of many sets for this sought after artist this weekend.

Rangleklods – by Tonje Thilesen

Friday’s festivities commence and it’s Taken By Trees that we head to see first in the centrally located WiMP tent – a spacious construction with remarkably high quality sound. Unfortunately, the sound quality does nothing to make this group’s set any more exciting, as the music doesn’t seem effortless for the artists so much as bothersome. With no time to waste, we head up the road to Jaeger to catch Best Fit favourites Rangleklods. It turns out to be a good move, as Ranglekods deliver an excellent set with a rendition of ‘Young and Dumb’ proving particularly rousing. This is a much more encouraging start to the evening than our previous selection, so feeling re-energised, we head down the road to Revolver to catch up and coming Swedish dream-pop group Colleagues.

Arriving towards the end of their set, we’re sad to not have had time to see more of the high energy, totally charming performance that has got the entire crowd bewitched. ‘Parents’ House’ stands out as a particularly strong track, with nonchalant yet endearing vocals partnered with 80s glancing tropical melodies. It’s a fun, completely packed vibe in Revolver for these guys, who we’re sure we’ll be hearing much more from in no time at all.

Pop quiz: name a band from Finland.

Remember The Rasmus, whose In The Shadows reached No.3 in the UK nine years ago? They’re Finnish. Lordi, The GWAR-like panto-metal band who won Eurovision in 2006? Finnish. Listened to John Peel in the 1990s? Then 22-Pistepirkko might ring a bell. Other than that, we were pretty stumped until a couple of weeks ago, when Music Finland invited Best Fit to the long-running Eurosonic Festival in Holland.

How could we resist when they offered space-rock, electro-soul, indie-pop, hip-hop and a 14-man drum machine orchestra? We couldn’t. And so we find ourselves packed off to the pretty city of Groningen, around 125 miles north-east of Amsterdam, which Eurosonic has called home since 1986 (OK, it really found its feet 10 years later). With the hulking great Martinitoren church steeple prodding the sky at its centre and a large, culture-hungry student population, it boasts enough music venues to satisfy the most rabid of fans – and it’s handily hard to get lost, despite our best late-night efforts.

A perfect spot, then, for hordes of booking agents, festival talent-spotters, managers (and a few journalists) from across Europe to descend upon for three days of mingling by day, music (and deep-fried noodles in breadcrumbs) by night. Every year, Eurosonic has a different focus country, whose musicians get to ply their wares in a more high-profile fashion than everyone else – a sonic leg-up, if you will. This year it’s Finland, hence our invitation, and hence why we’re grabbing the opportunity to interview most of the 16 Finnish acts here. We also manage to record sessions with a few of ‘em as well – indeed, you can barely walk 10 metres in Groningen without bumping into some band or other busking next to a bin in front of a camera crew.

And what bands! We arrive in Groningen on Wednesday, follow some fellow festival-goers – you could tell by their natty branded bags – to our hotel-ship (I’ll say that again: hotel-ship. A fantastic idea) and are almost immediately thrown into the first of numerous slightly surreal experiences: the European Border Breaker Awards. The EBBAs (as they’re known) celebrate Euro acts who’ve made significant inroads outside their own country; previous British winners include one Katie Melua, seen here crooning her biggest hit mere feet from our ears. Yes, since you ask, this is the closest (thing) to Katie we have ever been…

Katie Melua

This year’s UK EBBAs victor is Emeli Sande, but she’s not here and we don’t care anyway. What we do care about is that bouncy Swedes Alphabeat open the awards, and that the show’s presented by a BBC music telly veteran with a wry perma-grin who introduces himself with the words “Hello, my name is Holland” and nobody laughs. Other winners? Jangle-pop five-piece French Films win for Finland and bash out a tune; French DJ quartet C2C swap decks like they’re playing a filtered-disco edition of Find The Lady; likeable, quirky folksters Ewert and the Two Dragons take Estonia’s gong; and “Nederhop” (that’s Dutch hip-hop) denizens Dope DOD represent for the home team, while looking commendably daft.

Pascal Pinon

Whistles duly wetted, it’s time to get out there and pound Groningen’s streets. Only 10 of the total of 33 venues are open for Day 1, which makes our lives pathetically easy compared to the run-off-our-feet madness that’s to follow. We immediately thank our chosen deity that acts tend to play several times at Eurosonic, as getting in to see Northampton psych-poppers Temples downstairs at two-floor dive bar De Spieghel immediately proves impossible. Thankfully, there’s plenty of room on the top floor, where Icelandic sister act Pascal Pinon are here to calm everyone the fuck down.

I’m beginning to suspect British people are genetically predisposed to weaken in the presence of Icelandic cadence. No matter how much we’re exposed to the likes of twins Jófríður and Ásthildur, they never cease to appeal, even though under all that teen awkwardness and alveolar trilling lie a surfeit of half-songs and no excess of charisma. They know their way around a harmony but the lack of song structure leaves Pascal Pinon severely lacking in scope.

Pausing briefly at Vera (arguably Groningen’s most famed venue, having hosted early-career shows for Sonic Youth and Nirvana) to marvel at why anyone’s paying song vacuum Bastille any attention at all, we head to HuizeMaas for a quick one-two of Dutch bluesmen Birth of Joy and Finnish spacegroovers Death Hawks. The former leave us cold, but Death Hawks put on a hell of a show: not one but two of this band are wearing tassel-sleeved leather jackets. The drummer is one of them, and it’s the only item of clothing on his top half apart from a trilby. Three beards, one pair of unnecessary shades, and it’s clear this is head music for Beefheart fans. What starts as a reasonable retread of others’ glories swiftly becomes a kick-ass Can-ish free-Kraut wig-out workout of ZZ Top-ian proportions.

Mercifully, the universe senses we haven’t had quite enough brain-rearranging spacerock for one evening, swiftly serving up fellow Finns Siinai at the Grand Theatre. Sometimes the very fact four young men feel driven to show a crowd the fathomless expanses of deserted space between their well-chosen notes is reason enough to stick around. Siinai sound like they’re all in different bands and are getting to know each other by sound alone, and by christ what a conversation that is. We eavesdrop as the tension rises, palpably energising the keyboard player to flick his fringe like he’s in a TRESemmé ad. This particular strain of doomy shoegaze is compelling stuff, and makes Toy sound like One Direction.

Siinai

We end Wednesday with Fenster back at De Spieghel. Based in the creative hub that is Berlin, this experimental four-piece hail from Germany, France, Greece and the USA. But with a penchant for instrument-swapping, effects units made of Tupperware and a healthy unwillingness to commit to one time signature gives them a sort of loopy unity that’s impossible to fake. We’re talking Talking Heads-meets-Pram, as they tinker with gadgets and strings like they’re orchestrating Sunday dinner for 17. The noise they make is almost inconsequential, so engaging is the performance, but the results squiggle for themselves.

His long awaited second solo record Gentle Spirit finally dropped in the late days of summer last year, garnering praise from fans and musicians alike on both sides of the Atlantic. And with this praise tucked under his belt, Jonathan Wilson packed up his guitar and headed to Europe to perform the album’s acclaimed tracks to fans all over the continent, including a string of dates supporting the legendary Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers.

Accompanying Mr Wilson and band was Chiara Meattelli, an esteemed London-based photographer who captured some of the more intimate moments of life on the road. Have a look at a selection of her photographs here, in this exclusive gallery documenting life on the road with Jonathan Wilson.

Gentle Spirit is available now through Bella Union. 

Photos by Chiara Meattelli.

Boggy fields, endless cans of dry shampoo, a sea of happily gurning faces and getting sporadically showered with pints of piss. Ahh yes, the UK music festival is a national treasure with its own very distinct foibles and Leeds Festival has by now been established as one of the veterans. But just because it’s time-honoured doesn’t mean it’s part of the old guard and the ambitious line up attests to a festival that still keeps its ear very much to the ground.

Pulled Apart By Horses are the local boys blasting open the main stage on Friday and prove that if a band like PABH can shine through Simon Cowell’s music industry monopolies, the hideous genre incest that has resulted in homogenised pop by-products and the cracks of the mainstream then there must be some hope left for such fiercely independent outfits.

SCUM at Reading. Photograph by Burak Cingi.

Over on the Festival Republic stage, Deap Vally must’ve caused a bit of a stir judging by their very healthy turn out. Playing spirited blues against the unmatched yelping and hollering of Lindsey Troy, they pick up an incredibly warm reception from the crowd. Follically endowed Brisbane pups DZ Deathrays play their pumped up DFA 1979-lite to a curious crowd at the Radio 1 tent. It might not fire us up but at least they play with utter gusto, which can’t exactly be said for SCUM. Their gloomy atmospherics sound potentially enjoyable but fall flat in an afternoon set while frontman Thomas Cohen’s flailing wiry limbs and studied characteristics are without any of the desired intensity.

Colette Thurlow of 2:54 similarly dallies with stage moves that seem totally unnatural and the 2 men padding out the sound onstage seem entirely disengaged but thankfully this doesn’t much effect what is a beautiful set, played with charisma and dark focus. Tall Ships round off the day on the BBC Introducing stage, overcoming sound issues with a tightly wound, sharp set played with as much passion as precision and gaining even more momentum alongside cementing their flawless live reputation. We slink off to the main stage for a nostalgic and indulgent glimpse of the Foo Fighters’ show which, yeah, is deeply uncool and yeah, almost entirely predictable, but at least they play like their lives depend on it.

Savages at Reading. Photograph by Burak Cingi.

Saturday sees Future Of The Left open the Radio 1 stage with a thrilling assault that shows scant regard for the fragile hangover; aggressive as a punch in the brain but an entirely welcome one. Afterwards we head to the main stage where the equally boisterous Cancer Bats play a hairy, sweaty, throat-shredding set and win us over with their sort of adorable determination. Savages’ mid afternoon slot on the Festival Republic stage however blows everything else out the water effortlessly and with enviable style. Fast paced, ferocious and unforgiving, it is genuinely exhilarating to watch the four piece in action, raising the bar so high it’s a near impossibility for JEFF The Brotherhood’s minimal blues to reach it. Over on the BBC Introducing stage, Wet Nuns are another bluesy two piece, their singer Rob adopting a growl which doesn’t detract from the fact their music is pretty standard but their affable brand of rowdiness and the fact they’re clearly having a ball makes them a more than watchable prospect.

The Cure at Reading. Photograph by Burak Cingi.

We head over to the Radio 1 stage for everyone’s favourite ambling ex-Britpopper, Graham Coxon, who wisely relies on the livelier moments of his sizeable back catalogue for a punchy set. Battling through the swarms at the main stage who are gathered for the truly woeful Paramore we take our place for The Cure. They come on in a cloud of panto goth smoke and kick things off with an understated ‘Open’ which sounds utterly dreamy. However the crowd jam packed at the front is inexplicable in its desire to be there as it displays a level of apathy we find alarming towards a band that’ve been around for over 30 years and we have to battle our way out through sheer frustration. Standing at the back, whether deemed by volume limits or not, the feel and sound from the stage is distinctly muted. Though the band play a mammoth set that encompasses their singles as well as rarer treasures in note perfect fashion, it appears almost half hearted, especially when compared with the real magic of their slot at Bestival last year.

With our hearts a little broken we figure we may as well break our eardrums too and head over to the Festival Republic stage for Sleigh Bells’ headline set, delivering their reign of terror to an insanely youthful crowd. Blistering, robust and with the energy whirlwind that is Alexis Krauss it is near impossible to not love them. Come 11pm we head back to our tent in a shocking display of composure, fondly recalling our formative teenage Leeds festival experiences of daring our friend to put her head down the trough toilet for a pint of cider (she did), queuing for the signing tent in a fit of quivering hysteria at meeting –really not that famous or legitimately hysteria inducing- indie boys and drinking so much we passed out in the middle of the day. In your mid twenties you really do feel you are not the main target audience of a festival like Leeds and as we sit gingerly sipping our hot chocolate and tending to our sore backs, we’re okay with that.

Grimes at Reading. Photograph by Burak Cingi.

Getting over our quarter-life crisis we head over to the Festival Republic stage on Sunday morning. Now, bands on the last day of a festival have a pretty raw deal, contending as they are with collected exhaustion, a curious vinegar-tainted stench and probably thousands of fermenting organs in what will prove to be the tentative first stages of liver disease for a crowd that has largely survived on tepid beer for the weekend. With that in mind, our patience is a little stretched at this point and both Theme Park and Citizens are so bland and uninspiring that we give them a pretty short shrift. Grimes sound beautiful in the Dance Tent but her eerie beats would be much better suited to the night time and, standing behind a deck, there’s visually not much to engage with.

Santigold at Reading. Photograph by Burak Cingi.

Santigold does a far better job of pulling us from our Sunday funk on the Radio 1 stage, backed by 2 impossibly straight faced dancers, armed with glittering stage attire, oodles of charisma and an orchestrated stage invasion that inspires a dance-off of sorts with Santi at the heart of it. Next up is Azealia Banks in a rammed tent for the Dance Stage who draws on her modest arsenal of songs to an increasingly wild and enraptured audience. We end our day at the opposite end of the musical spectrum with The Cribs at the Radio 1 stage, who, along with Savages are our weekend’s highlight. They’re a sheer delight to watch; their strangely beautiful melancholy permeating the narrative crises in masculinity that set them far apart from generic indie peers. The Jarmans play with guts and real passion and are greeted with the kind of frenzy that convinces us they technically should be headlining.

At The Drive-In at Reading. Photograph by Burak Cingi.

However At The Drive In have been gifted top billing and everyone is poised to have them prove their place. The post hardcore band are met with a sparsely populated tent and despite the best efforts of frontman, Cedric, throwing himself around the stage, the rest of the band are defined by pure despondency. They sound unbelievably fresh and as relevant as ever but the palpable tone is one of lacklustre necessity rather than a true desire to be there and unfortunately the whole thing is marred by it.

2:54 at Reading. Photograph by Burak Cingi.

As Leeds Festival 2012 draws to a close it becomes obvious that a large amount of the palpable excitement has stemmed from the female artists on stage, from Savages and 2:54 to the likes of Florence Welch herself and thus it becomes impossible to ignore that the women on stage are met with certain depressing levels of chauvinist lechery from several Missing Links in the crowd. Meanwhile the ennui and despair that washes over the soul with the interjections of the “Tittycam” (this is what it is really, actually referred to as) displayed next to the stage is palpable, as girls, with dogged faithfulness to the traditions of generation Nuts unveil their breasts to the camera. Nobody is enjoying it, because nobody knows what enjoyment is anymore. It calls to mind a near future dystopia where all cameras and all reflective surfaces are “Tittycams” and all girls the joyless breast flashers to men who still try to stimulate their desensitised nerve endings and have forgotten what happiness is.

One girl in the crowd has had enough and, as the camera pans over her, lifts up her top to reveal “Fuck the patriarchy and your skewed, castrated perceptions of masculinity” and suddenly, the atmosphere changes. The whirring cogs of transforming minds spin around and she’s held aloft regally as the ape men in the crowd begin to apologise for years of subjugation and objectification. “HAIL FEMINISM” they cheer. A boy with a crudely fashioned cardboard sign that says “Get ur tits out” even rips it up in disgust and pledges his allegiance to Betty Friedan. And for one moment, all seems right with the world. But soon everyone remembers that it’s just top bants and the regime of the topless Emmeline Pankhursts continue. However we’re hopeful that soon not only the women on stage but the women off it will soon be regarded as fully formed humans who might be regarded with respect, judged on their ability rather than appearance and not necessarily greeted with demands of tit flashing. One day, eh

On the whole though, Leeds was ace. There’s still a sense of campsite community and still a real focus on music in between everything else. It would definitely benefit from more post-band activities- in the same vein as Glastonbury- and also from more cuisine options for vegetarians as we had to spend most of the time eating cereal bars and crisps and looking longingly at the whole mess of pig and cow meat flying around. After a long weekend we’ve got some amazing memories and new bands to fawn over too. The rest of the details are a little hazy, as of course we left a part of our brain somewhere, somewhere in a field in Wetherby.

With its convivial landscapes, strong cultural heritage and notoriously good weather (ahem), the proud idyll of Yorkshire seems like the perfect place to stage a large music festival. Yet the ‘Great British Summer Tradition’ has evaded God’s Own County, usually preferring to rest its wellies closer to London, often in the balmy climes of the Home Counties or the Isle of Wight. That is, apart from Leeds Festival, which as any previous attendee will be able to tell you is less of a music festival and more of a social experiment designed to see how long it takes 70,000 teenagers to regress into tent-burning animalism.

This sorry state of affairs was only compounded when last year’s Beacons Festival was woefully cancelled due to flash floods on the estate. Indeed, it was beginning to look like all attempts at staging a weekend with a decent line-up in the area were cursed. Consequently, it was difficult to get too excited about the event, lest some disastrous occurrence should make its mark on Skipton moor. But with careful planning – including moving the festival site to higher ground – along with a boatload of nervous hopefulness, the inaugural festival was a stunning success, well worth the bated breath.

Day 1

So who better to kick off the festival than a home-grown new band? Granted, southern accents may betray Antibang’s individual origins, but having formed at Leeds University seems qualification enough for them to be claimed under the banner of the White Rose. And claimed they were, wide-eyed in disbelief at the vast turnout for their percussive grooves (not to mention their hilarious get-ups) so early in the day.

Photo courtesy of Xander Lloyd

It’s always going to be difficult to follow a group that displays such captivating exuberance, and there was a remarkable dip when Veronica Falls failed to deliver anything nearing comparable enthusiasm, instead disinterestedly going through the motions of their C86-indebted set with frowns on their faces. It wasn’t until Submotion Orchestra’s rousing live dubstep (yes, that sounds like it has the potential to be the worst thing ever, but have faith, it works – kind of) that the proceedings acquired a feeling of impetus.

Photo courtesy of Xander Lloyd

After a brief foray to sample the delights the festival site had on offer (Giant Theremins! Neon Song lyrics! YouTube videos!), the Stool Pigeon stage’s evening entertainments beckoned.  Factory Floor brought industrial back to its Yorkshire roots, mesmerising the audience with some spectacular interplay between the synths and the drumming, all aided by a prolific smoke machine. Later on, the heavens opened and Mount Kimbie took to the stage. That is not to say they are celestial beings, but they did display divine qualities to a otherwise sodden, but profoundly entertained crowd. Their contemplative, bass-driven textures proved as clever as they are danceable, and as they got the crowd moving, they performed the miraculous feat of turning rainwater into, er, sweat. A decent preparation for the rest of the evening, as sweat would prove to be unavoidable.

Photo courtesy of Xander Lloyd

After enduring a relentless and brilliant half hour of Roots Manuva, it’s over to Savages, whose paranoid, black and white punk concludes the evening with a shot in the arm. Performing with a white-of-their-eyes intensity, most present found it impossible to resist giving their immediate neighbour a shove for the first moshpit of the weekend. Disappointingly, Julio Bashmore was forced to cancel his performance at the last minute due to an ear infection, but L-Vis 1990 very competently took his place, allowing people to continue dancing into the wee small hours.

Day 2

Photo courtesy of Xander Lloyd

The award for nicest performer of the festival weekend must surely go to Kwes, whose early afternoon set was littered with pleases, sorrys and thankyous. But while he displayed an apologetic on-stage demeanour usually reserved for only the twee-est of indie bands, his compositions leapt forward with quiet confidence as he showed us why he is one of the most promising producers and songwriters around at the moment. Picking up on Kwes’s personally sedate nature, Still Corners hazily continue the afternoon with a reverb-soaked set that sounds like The Cocteau Twins soundtracking Twin Peaks.

Ambling over to catch Grass House’s set was no mean feat given that the remarkably small festival site had already turned into a mudbath by this point, any misgivings to do with the heavy rain must pale in comparison to the disappointment felt upon last year’s cancellation. Grass House were nonetheless worth the trip (if only for their sharp outfits), though their widescreen wild west arrangements were slightly marred by the lack of audible vocals.

Photo courtesy of Xander Lloyd

Elsewhere, Ghostpoet brings out an energy from the songs off of last year’s Peanut Butter Blues & Melancholy Jam that weren’t immediately apparent on record. As he came out to sing in the front row, it was clear that this energy was more than welcome, and provided a worthy precursor to Junior Boys’ raucous electronica.

Photo courtesy of Xander Lloyd

Nervously excited, sweaty palmed, awkward skin contact – though these overwrought pre-coital allusions may seem like appropriate descriptions of the wait for Wild Beasts’ sensitively sordid set, the chants of ‘Yorkshire’ that rang through the tent as they took to the stage weren’t. Yet it’s certainly to be expected, given that this is very close to a homecoming gig for Wild Beasts, having cut their teeth in the nearby Kendal and Leeds, and now triumphantly dominating the stage with a confident presence. Their love of texture so well encapsulated on last year’s Smother never belies their ability to craft a decent pop hook, meaning their set was ever-engrossing. Quite simply, it was a sound you could bathe in.

Day 3

Photo courtesy of Xander Lloyd

Sundays at music festivals are often let down by the mass fatigue of every punter present. It seems that Beacons combated this by saving some of their heaviest-hitting acts for the final day. Willis Earl Beal took to the stage looking like the quintessential outsider in cape, leather gloves and blue jeans. Sure enough, his set did not let this image down. Kicking off a capella, he made us wonder why he didn’t do better on the American X Factor. As his set went on, he was accompanied by his tape machine band playing his own lo-fi soundscapes, though it was at times difficult to tell due to his ferociously powerful voice. Yes, his music did verge towards the side of outright difficult music – but isn’t that part of the charm of lo-fi performers?

Photo courtesy of Xander Lloyd

Following such an intense performance so early in the day was never going to be an easy task, but Willy Mason handled the situation charmingly enough, and his songs were elegantly accompanied by viola and autoharp. There was a surly undercurrent to his performance, perhaps a reaction to the disappointingly short allotted stage time. Still, hopefully he imparted a tender moment for those that only came out to hear ‘Oxygen’.

Cranking the day up a notch from acoustic balladry to cacophonic metal were Hawkeyes. It must be noted that I am something of a metal plebeian, and I am pleased to say that one of my virginal metal experiences was such a good one. Ludicrous but exciting, Hawkeyes bled every eardrum in the room dry, with lead singer Paul Astick even coming out to play in the crowd towards the end of the set. Following them were That Fucking Tank, who managed to produce a sound that was as fierce as anything else that was on all weekend, despite their ranks comprising only two members.

So if Sunday was the line-up that was all about lifting sodden, tired spirits, then Toots & Maytals were the perfect headliners. Proving to many members of the audience that they actually knew more of their repertoire than they had previously, they played the audience as well as they did their instruments. And this communal experience, rejoicing in ‘Louie Louie’ and ‘Pressure Drop’ with Toots, gave a satisfying sense of conclusion, and allowed the organisers to breathe a well-deserved sigh of relief that everything came off so well.

One genuinely feels for the teams behind the UK’s aesthetic-driven independent festivals; enormous, painstaking effort is typically put into creating a true escape from the suffocating rat-race of the attendees’ day jobs or university degrees, and in the blink of an eye the whole thing can be irrevocably dampened (har har) by the arrival of enough rain to turn a once-gorgeous site into an impassable quagmire. Such was the sad truth of the tenth Green Man Festival, which was pelted with enough rain on its first night to mean that by dawn on the first day the luscious greenery of Glanusk Park, nestled between the breathtaking slopes of the Black Mountains, was given a miserable brown hue. Aside from a few disgruntled families loudly announcing that they were going home on Friday morning, however, the general spirit of the stalwart stewards and 13,000+ attendees was infectiously, miraculously cheerful.

Stomping back across the rolling site, the sun breaks out for the first time all day as the hopelessly upbeat sound of King Charles rings out across the festival from the Mountain Stage, where the weekend’s biggest acts are set to appear surrounded by a huge semi-circle of tiered grassy slopes, creating almost an awe-inspiring natural amphitheatre – one of the festival’s most unique assets. The sun doesn’t last, however – before we know it, the skies have cracked once more as we drag ourselves back up the slopes for an appearance from Heavenly darlings TOY on the Far Out stage, whose apocalyptically loud, grungy act is eyebrow-raisingly similar to that of Sonic Youth or My Bloody Valentine. It’s certainly enjoyable, however; the band’s energy is not to be sniffed at, with hair and sweat flying in all directions from the word go.

TOY by Merlin Jobst

Back at the bottom of the site, Slow Club appear almost meekly on the Mountain Stage to a crowd grateful for a set of real down-to-earth-ness after what could certainly be described as a rather intense morning – one that included watching a ten-piece band perform a set powered by an audience on bicycles. The pair’s set is lovely and chilled, and inspires an exasperated ripple of laughter as they coo the fitting line “You’ve got to be outside to get caught in the rain”. We stick around here to catch a truly joyous interlude from The Felice Brothers, whose booming, accordion and violin-heavy American folk-rock seems almost responsible for keeping the rain at bay as the ecstatic audience are bathed in colourful lights whilst daylight slips away behind the mountains.

Slow Club by Cai Groves

As the darkness sets in, Lucy Rose takes playfully to the Walled Garden stage – a small outdoor space nestled towards the back of an enclosure of high stone walls, complete with colourful streamers, a bar and a place to get the best venison burger you’ll ever taste – and what an atmosphere she creates. The crowd collectively holding their breath at the fragility of Lucy’s voice is a strange juxtaposition against how completely believable she is. We’re pleasantly surprised; live, the typical comparisons to Laura Marling simply do not apply – the diminutive singer-songwriter persona that comes across in her studio recordings is complimented by layers and layers of fundamental energy and assuredness, along with an underlying delicacy that feels as though it could be shattered by a butterfly flapping its wings. Magical.

Lucy Rose by Cai Groves

We haven’t really seen magnificence today, though; not yet. “You’re about to see a legendary band” says the hilariously excited announcer on the main stage, as he introduces the four greying Scots that make up Mogwai, and, well, he’s pretty much spot on. Somebody seems to have gone to the ends of the earth to ensure that the predominantly instrumental powerhouse are louder than anything else we’ve seen all day – hell, maybe even ever – and it shakes the festival down to its very core. From muddy catchiness of ‘Rano Pano’ to the delicately initiated ‘I’m Jim Morrison, I’m Dead’, it’s a hell of a spectacle. There’s nothing quite like seeing a few thousand people jump a foot in the air after the cruelly long buildup of ‘Mogwai Fear Satan’ drops without warning into the loudest, most blinding display of the weekend.

Mogwai by Cai Groves

Come Saturday morning, we traipse through the ever-thickening mud to see a smorgasbord of folky loveliness from The Staves, who work around cooed three-part harmonies in a style that’s altogether more velvety and welcoming than their peers. The crowd loudly belt out a ‘Happy Birthday’ for the drummer, and laugh easily at the effortlessly funny monologues the girls engage them in.

The Staves by Merlin Jobst

It’s a brilliant start to the day, and is the perfect warmup for one of the most outstanding performances of the weekend – Scottish solo artist RM Hubbert. The bear-like guitarist sits astride the Walled Garden stage with a Spanish guitar and leads a deathly quiet and transfixed audience through a set that feels like watching the first time you heard a teacher at school talk about something they loved that you knew was really damn important. For the most part, the pieces are instrumental – that is to say, they’re complex and beautiful, but unaccompanied – but occasionally the man sings or speaks a story in his gruff Glaswegian voice that could bring tears of both joy and sadness to anybody’s eyes.

 

As the first true sun of the day breaks out, the dulcet tones of Dark Dark Dark drift from the Mountain Stage to a crowd that, for the first time all weekend, is willing to risk sitting down and getting comfortable. The sound is slow, warming and, well, dark, and the audience lap it up. Surprisingly, our next stop is in Einstein’s Garden  – a section of the festival dedicated to activities, books, educational stalls and enormous hula hoops, which is all looking ravishing in the warm evening sun – for an appearance by Emperor Yes, a collaboration between members of Summer Camp and Three Trapped Tigers. It’s quite a fascinatingly scientific sound – as if drummer Adam Best’s noise-rock three-piece were jamming with Sunny Day Real Estate – and it suits the Garden right down to the ground. Certainly an outfit to watch in the future.

Photograph by Merlin Jobst

Van Morrison’s appearance is enormously good fun. The 66 year-old singer and saxophonist draws hordes of sun-kissed festival-goers to the Mountain Stage, as children and adults alike take part in mud-sliding at breakneck speeds down the tiered slopes that surround it. Van and his band are everything you’d expect – professional, clean and incredibly danceable, and believe it or not, the man himself is leaving the festival in a helicopter before an incredible rendition of ‘Gloria’ is finished – one hell of a ‘because I can’ moment.

Van Morrison by Cai Groves

Back in the Walled Garden Laura J Martin appears with her flute and mandolin to wow a small crowd with some of the smoothest looping we’ve ever seen. Stealing Sheep return the favour by appearing alongside her briefly to accompany a wonderfully playful set that feels rather like watching a Disney cartoon as a child.

Laura J Martin by Merlin Jobst

You never know quite what experiences will stick with you, but of one thing we’re very sure – we won’t be forgetting Yann Tiersen’s explosive set in a hurry. The prolific French composer – famed predominantly by his Amelie and Good Bye Lenin! soundtracks - leaves jaws hanging with a set boasting blistering progressive folk rock and more unusual equipment between himself and his five-piece band than the average musician would begin to know what to do with. “Here’s a love song” he says with a grin. “It’s called ‘Fuck Me.’” He looks wonderfully ‘the part’ of the scruffy French genius, sporting a horizontally striped shirt and a rather ruffled appearance, as he practically tears his bow to shreds on the strings of his violin and smiles sheepishly at the gales of rapturous screams and applause he musters.

Yann Tiersen by Cai Groves

One man, however, draws the true focus of the crowds tonight; The Tallest Man on Earth. Everybody, from the fans in tears against the barrier to the starry-eyed photographers in the pit, is openly moved by Kristian Matsson’s animalistic solo appearance on the Far Out stage. It brings light to the moniker; he manages to appear giant-like despite, as many will joke, his ironically average height, leading the packed-out tent in exhilarated singalongs of ‘Where Do My Bluebirds Fly’ and ‘King of Spain’.

The Tallest Man on Earth by Merlin Jobst

The enigma that is Alt-J is unraveled on Sunday afternoon. The four-piece are completely suited to a live setting, and draw a crowd to Far Out that fills the marquee and spills out onto the surrounding field that is swathed in the hottest sunshine of the weekend so far. Coupled with the warm, note-perfect tones of the band, this feels finally like a moment of pure summer.

Alt-J by Cai Groves

There’s a lovely treat in the Walled Garden next from a nervous-looking Paul Thomas Saunders. He’s young, impossibly fresh-faced and, once he starts to sing, spellbinding. It’s another refreshing take on the standard singer-songwriter formula, with an equipment-heavy backing band and a mournful yet undeniably pretty sound that is surely destined for far bigger stages.

Three Trapped Tigers seem slightly out of place amongst the folk and indie-heavy lineup, but their set on the Far Out stage is as impressive as ever. A scorching rendition of ‘6’ leaves the small crowd reeling, and whilst it’s an unfortunate truth that the sound balance towards the end of the set was horribly in favour of the bass, the band prove once again to be one of the most jaw-dropping British artists of recent years.

Three Trapped Tigers by Cai Groves

As afternoon turns to evening, euphoric feel-good brilliance is delivered by tUnE-yArDs, with a jittery and super-cool set of fast looping from frontwoman Merrill Garbus and chaotic saxophone jamming. The whole thing is infuriatingly upbeat behind Merrill’s deliciously distinctive voice, and the vast, adoring crowd are treated to the encore they call out for. It’s another colossal win for the women on the lineup as darkness falls, with a show from the illustrious Daughter in the Walled Garden, who deliver the sweetest, most melodic indie-folk we’ve heard all weekend. It’s charming, grown-up and full of both incredible grit and exquisite delicacy.

Daughter by Merlin Jobst

We make one last trip to the Mountain Stage in a lethargic state of exhaustion and witness the big closer; Feist, who sports a band that fills the whole stage and a banner behind her emblazoned with ‘FREE PUSSY RIOT!’ The legendary singer’s set is not quite as grand as we would have hoped, but her efforts to involve the crowd by, for example, assigning harmonies to those camped in red tents and those camped in blue, make for a rather surreal experience that epitomises the shared festival spirit. Her rich voice is simple and effective, and the higgelty-piggelty mass of equipment on stage gives the performance a very laid-back 70s vibe – in fact we hear a voice next to us exclaim ‘Christ, I feel like I’m watching Fleetwood Mac’.

Feist by Cai Groves

The night isn’t quite over, however – not before the festival has had his last hurrah. Thousands traipse up the slopes as Feist closes with an oddly subdued number for the yearly fireworks display and spectacular burning of The Green Man to mark the closing of his tenth birthday, which quite literally inspires ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ as the monstrously high flames lick the sky against a backdrop of dazzling explosions. As the mammoth frame crashes slowly to the ground the majority of the festival-goers head back to their tents for one last night of damp sleep while the more energetic attendees filter into Chai Wallah’s gorgeous marquee to dance into the wee hours.

Burning the Green Man by Cai Groves

Green Man Festival 2012 has been as it always has and always will be – a hugely memorable experience. It’s a testament to the event’s outstanding organisation, and intrepid spirit of those responsible for keeping it going, that despite mud, you would struggle to find a face that wasn’t about to crack into a big ol’ smile.

Over the last week we’ve been catching up with luminous singer-songwriter Lucy Rose as she tripped around the UK from festival to festival. In the final part of her video diary, we find Lucy playing – rather alarmingly – with knives and trying on some incredible boots…

Lucy’s new single ‘Bikes’ is out now and her debut album Like I Used To is released at the end of September.

In her third exclusive festival video diary, Lucy Rose takes us through her pre-stage routine while her band molest some ostriches.

Come back tomorrow for the final part, where Lucy hits the capital for the Southbank Festival.

In the second part of her video tour diary, we get a look at life backstage for popstar-in-the-making Lucy Rose as she turns in a killer set at Hop Farm festival – despite a guitar tuning problem….

Over the next week we’ll be hearing from the luminous Lucy Rose. The video for her new track ‘Bikes’ dropped yesterday and the hotly tipped Southern lass has had a festival filled summer on the road.

In the first part of her tour diary, we catch up with Lucy at Blissfields, basking in hyperactivity and tussling with a rather deadpan hair stylist.

Come back tomorrow for Part 2 where Lucy and her band take Hop Farm by storm.

Given the much-publicised financial meltdown that hit Truck Festival last year, new organisers Y Not had a challenge on their hands as they planned this summer’s fifteenth anniversary comeback. In line with these belt-tightening times, their decisions involved cutting the event back to two days, reducing capacity to around 2010 levels. In a merciful break with austerity metaphors, the weekend also saw a ticket price cut and a continued lack of overt sponsorship. The result was a sold-out and stabilising return to a classic Truck: compact and family friendly, slightly quaint and still able to attract big and quirky names alike.

A good omen came early on Friday with Barn stage openers Lost Dogs, who as a group of middle-aged cock-rockers (plus harmonica) simply had no right be as entertaining as they turned out to be. Especially when compared to Michele Stodart, who looked hopelessly lost on the main stage without her Magic Numbers bandmates and dampened spirits with a set of the most maudlin and lyrically bitter tunes. Much better suited to the larger arena were Vadoinmessico, their multi-national freak-folk drawing on a huge range of influences and coalescing into something surprisingly different. Even when he was milling around pre-set John J. Presley looked like he meant business, and when he starting playing his ominous “delta blues rock” it became clear that there was more to the man than sharp threads. Weighty, unsettling stuff.

Given their well-deserved reputation as musical innovators an early 5:30pm slot would seem to do Oxford psychonauts Fixers a disservice; as it turned out, it was the other way around. The otherwise talented local outfit produced a truly shambolic excuse for a performance which involved a heavily inebriated Jack Goldstein throwing equipment around, hurling abuse at everyone and no-one, and rendering his own songs unrecognisable. A tiny free show at Oxford’s Truck Store on 28 July will provide the band a scant and possibly final chance to redeem themselves.

Theme Park by Joe Collins.

To a festival still reeling from such a disappointment, a solid performance from The Dreaming Spires was a relief, Robin and Joe Bennett clearly relishing a new opportunity to play the festival they ran until recently. Theme Park were also paragons of professionalism, playing their eminently danceable soul-pop to a packed and appreciative Second stage. On the main stage Conor O’Brien’s folk outfit Villagers also played an impressive set laden with cerebral and unsettling new work.

When it came to the heavy-hitters at the end of the night, Future of the Left took to the Barn stage and emphatically outdid both a long-winded Tim Minchin and the less-than-spectacular Mystery Jets. “Beneath the Waves an Ocean” was likely the standout in a set from Andy Falkous and friends which at least matched their 2010 Truck appearance and represented the night’s real climax.

Early on Saturday afternoon, the loop-based one-man rock of Robots With Souls and the earnest youthfulness of Yellow Fever provided a pair of pleasant wake-up calls on the Second and main stages respectively. A little later, the straightforward three-piece rock coming from Black Hats was great fun even before the Truck monster made a surprise appearance on stage and visibly shocked them mid-set.

Emmy The Great by Joe Collins.

The ambient dream-pop of Flights of Helios has become a little over-familiar to this correspondent of late, but the band still had plenty to offer a gradually growing crowd in the Barn stage come mid-afternoon. At a festival arguably featuring a few too many exuberant young guitar bands, Dog Is Dead stood head and shoulders above many of them with a confident and crowd-pleasing performance on the main stage. By contrast Emmy the Great looked significantly less comfortable there, although new songs such as the fast-paced and cynical “Violet” did hit the spot.

Perhaps the ultimate Truck veterans with ten years’ experience at the festival, Sheffield post-rockers 65daysofstatic had the crowd at their beck and call on the main stage. Their explosive and justifiably self-assured set was truly a sight to behold and in all honesty, was never in danger of being bettered by those higher up the bill. The agonisingly po-faced The Low Anthem were a draining experience and in an otherwise reasonable set British Sea Power indulged in one of the most unwarranted acts of three-songs-in stagediving in recent memory.

The Mystery Jets by Joe Collins.

Although Three Trapped Tigers and The Temper Trap put in enjoyable sets as they headlined the Barn and main stages respectively – the latter holding off on “Sweet Disposition” for as long as they possibly could – it was the memory of the mercurial 65days performance stuck in the mind on the drive home. It seemed appropriate, really, that such festival stalwarts should be among the crowning jewels of a Truck which was not so much storming forward as getting back on its feet. With renewed confidence and a little bit of luck ,this year’s event will have laid the foundations to fully reinvigorate Truck for 2013.

Photo by Christian Roth Christensen

Sunsets, stunning scenery and a pretty eclectic line up. That’s the name of the game here at Slottsfjell Festival, an event which revels in mixing the soft with the heavy, the new with the classic and the sublime with the absurd (and by absurd, we’re referring specifically to the set of Norway’s gold jump-suited Bare Egil Band). Three days of music, merriment and late night entertainment have been lined up for the festival, held in the oldest town in Norway, the port of Tønsberg, and we’re very excited to get started.

Thursday

Arriving on the sun-drenched site, we make our way to the Baglerscenen to catch a bit of Gabrielle. It’s not Gabrielle of ‘Dreams’ fame, but what we are greeted by is one of Norway’s hottest pop stars. An enormous crowd has made its way to this, the second stage to check out Gabrielle’s feisty brand of power pop, which provides an extremely bright opening to the day.

Feeling pretty pepped up after such an energetic performance, we mount the steps which climb to the top of the hill at the back of the festival site, leading us to Kastellscenen, a stage with possibly the most beautiful outlook of any festival stage ever. Placed on top of a hill, looking out over a Fjord, a castle and a setting sun, there’s a special feel to the shows on this stage and it’s here that Friendly Fires will be entertaining the crowd for the next 45 minutes. Staring out into the sunshine while the crowd dances and sways in front of them to tracks such as ‘Jump in the Pool’, ‘Blue Cassette’ and ‘On Board’, Friendly Fires appear to be enjoying themselves just as much as the crowd are. Vocalist Ed Macfarlane relishes the moments where he’s able to bound into the crowd, and swagger amongst his listeners, inciting a true party atmosphere in this outstanding setting. The only downside to the set is that it clashes with that of  Charli XCX, so after rushing down the cliffside staircase, we land back at Baglerscenen.

Having made her way over to Tønsberg from London, Charli XCX is already underway when we arrive, performing tracks which have helped her make her name in the UK, such as ‘Nuclear Seasons’ and ‘End of the World’. Although the crowd’s reaction is fairly tepid, Charli XCX and her accompanying musicians throw every ounce of themselves into the performance, with a cover of Echo and the Bunnymen’s ‘Killing Moon’ providing the opportunity to best observe Charli’s sultry, dynamic vocal style.

Back over on the main stage, there’s something akin to a West End production starting up. A plethora of musicians adorn the set, shuffling to dramatic intro music as three hooded figures make their way to the centre of the stage. A few more minutes of this anticipatory movement pass by, before one of the hooded figures throws off her robe, unveiling herself to be Janelle Monae, complete with unmistakeable locks and howling vocal. What arrives next could have been lifted from a Hollywood musical, as Monae and co. launch into dance routines, complex vocal journeys and mesmerising theatrics. Boundless energy is unleashed upon an audience that Janelle Monae has wrapped around her little finger, so that when she tells them to sit, they sit. When she tells them to jump, they jump. And when she ends the set by launching herself into the crowd, she’s caught with open, adoring arms, her soulful power jams having well and truly won the audience over.

After catching Suicidal Tendencies and Sandra Kolstad, the time is nigh to head to the after parties. The venue of choice for this evening is Kastellnatt where the likes of Autolaser and Canada’s A-Trak are helping to turn the vast industrial venue into a hive of excitable activity. The venue is outstanding, a large disused factory which has been lit, dressed and adorned to host revellers and close each night of Slottsfjell festival, so it’s here that we decide to dance the night away before heading home for some rest, and to prepare for what Friday will bring.

Friday

Day two of Slottsfjell is certainly not blessed with good weather. As the music begins, the heavens open, the ponchos are unwrapped and the wellies are given their first airing of the event. Things brighten up a bit for She Keeps Bees, who take to the Tårnlunden stage and enchant with songs from 2011′s Dig On with new track ‘Counter Charm’ going down particularly well. The sound is sumptuous and the audience appreciative, getting day two of Slottsfjell off to a very promising start.

After heading over to Bagelscenen, we await the arrival of Wild Beasts and reflect upon the advantages of seeing the performances of home grown talent in different countries. The crowd pulled by the band in Norway is nowhere near the size they’d attract in the UK, allowing us long standing fans the opportunity to see the band in a much more intimate setting that we’d be able to find in the UK. As the sun breaks the clouds again, Wild Beasts work their way through the like of ‘Albatross’ and ‘Hooting and Howling’, winning over the Norwegian crowd with every note and utterance. It’s a sublime performance from the four piece, undoubtedly one of the UK’s most accomplished bands at the moment.

Next is a trip up the hill to witness the rousing metal efforts of Cancer Bats, the only band of the festival who will incite a circle pit, before catching the quiet and gentle folk musings of Benjamin Francis Leftwich and a couple of the ‘hits’ from Australia’s Wolfmother.

An unfortunate clash arrives when we have to pick between ex-Gallows man Frank Carter’s new project, Pure Love and a performance from Oslo’s 120 Days. We choose to see the latter however, relishing the opportunity to catch one of Norway’s finest electronic acts perform one of their final shows to a home crowd. Playing our favourite stage atop the hill, the band pull the biggest crowd we’ve seen up here so far at this event, powering through carefully selected tracks from their back catalogue, with ‘Dahle Disco’ and ‘Osaka’ proving to be particular highlights. It’s a fond farewell from us when they depart the stage, off to pursue new ventures, but leaving a truly outstanding legacy behind.

Saturday

Changeable weather has become a running theme at this festival, the day starts out bathed in blinding sunshine but as Best Fit favourites Team Me take to the stage, the sky once again darkens, and it’s not too long before the main stage’s audience is soaked through. Luckily, we have one of the most uplifting bands of the Norwegian scene on stage in front of us, so songs such as ‘Dear Sister’ and ‘Show Me’ successfully distract from the rain and exhibit Team Me as a highly accomplished main stage proposition. As the band’s colourful balloon stage decorations make their way into the crowd, listeners forget about the atmospherics and indulge in the soaring harmonies and twinkling melodies of this Oslo collective.

Sticking with the main stage, it’s Stockholm’s Ane Brun who’s next, adorned in a white gown and unleashing her powerful vocal compositions and gorgeous orchestrations upon an enormous and expectant crowd. No one’s left disappointed, as ‘Do You Remember’ melts even the hardest of hearts into submission, a rousing and welcoming appearance from a very special performer.

Mounting the stairs up the hill for the final time this weekend, the suited and booted Noah and the Whale await our arrival, as they chime into ‘L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N’. The waving of a Norwegian flag throughout the show well and truly appeases the crowd, as we remark on how many teenage girls seem to have suddenly appeared at the event, and funnily enough, this stage. As the sun sets, we depart to make sure that we get a good spot for the final and most anticipated act of the festival, who are about to begin on the main stage.

Making our way back to a sun drenched Kongescenen, it’s time for the last act of the festival. And what an act is is. New Order have been selected to close 2012′s Slottsfjell festival, a legendary band in many respects who start as they mean to go on by powering through ‘Crystal’ on a stage dressed with an immense screen showing the iconic video to the track (and incidentally, the video from with The Killers took their name – fun fact for you). New Order classics such as ‘Blue Monday’ and ‘Ceremony’ are mingled with anecdotes from Bernard Sumner (“Apparently we haven’t played in Norway since 1980… but we only formed in 1981, so i’m not sure what happened there…”), before unleashing an encore which brings the Hus down.

Ending the set with a rendition of ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, each member of the crowd stares transfixed at the stage, enjoying hearing such an iconic track be performed live on such a beautiful evening. Special moments like this don’t arrive too frequently as festivals, but Slottsfjell seems to manage to produce them consistently. A special location, a unique line up and a friendly atmosphere on a beautiful site, Slottsfjell has proven itself to be one of the warmest, most promising and most inspired festivals that Norway has to offer.

“If you needed an example of British stubbornness in action” said the closing lines of a blog post from Ben Marwood this Sunday morning, “2000 Trees this year was the place to be”. As many of you back home in your nice warm beds over the weekend may have heard, the weather from Thursday 12 to Saturday 14 was, well, more than a force to be reckoned with – it was something you either had to accept, and essentially embrace, to survive, or simply throw in the incredibly soggy towel and go home. ‘We will enjoy this’, was the mentality of the five-thousand-odd people in attendance. ‘We will, whatever England throws at us’ and, in shared feats of incredible organisation, endurance, camaraderie and sheer determination, we bloody did.

Tall Ships

The skies break over us as we arrive on Thursday morning – treading along the long, sodden queue of intrepid ‘early birds’ to eventually reach the wristband exchange gate which, even at this ludicrously early stage in the game, is paved with thick mud – with such intensity that we aren’t ready to even think about watching music until the late afternoon. The day is set off for us perfectly, however, by why-the-hell-aren’t-they-more-famous-yet indie stalwarts Tall Ships in the dark and cavernous secondary stage of the festival – aptly named The Cave. The three-piece deliver a note-perfect set that includes the rarely-seen ‘Ode to Ancestors’, showcasing a vast improvement in the stage’s sound over last year. To follow up are Tellison, whose infectiously catchy blend of pop and emo is more than welcome to the audience.

Three Trapped Tigers

Headliners Three Trapped Tigers close the short first day for us on the same stage – at a point at which teeth are starting to chatter and general good-feeling is wearing very thin. As the band step up to the plate with their opening number, ‘6’, however, all such worries are resolutely trodden into the ankle-deep mud. The set is monumental – from the heart-stopping drops that lock ‘Cramm’ together, to the furious abandon of closing number ‘Drebin’, the gloriously hectic roar that is Three Trapped Tigers’ live sound is nothing short of extraordinary.

Jack, Kev and Simon – label heads of Alcopop!, Big Scary Monsters and Blood and Biscuits

After a night spent amongst the sodden fellow inhabitants of ‘Little Lebowski’s Urban Achievers’ – the festival’s social hub/bar, and in the day home to a utopia of Big Scary Monsters/Alcopop!/Holy Roar merch flogged by the label heads themselves – Friday is opened on the main stage by Oxford’s Gunning for Tamar. The four-piece do an admirable job of filling the enormous stage with their polished alt-rock, and exude an indefinable air of being rather lovely chaps.

Run,WALK!

We stomp back over to The Cave for one last waltz with the ever-impressive Run,WALK!, who have heavily publicised the fact that today will be their last ever show. The two-piece, made up of drums, vocals and potentially the most gargantuan bass tone in recorded history, deliver a gritty-as-hell and truly unforgettable show. What a way to go.

After a ridiculously catchy set of electronica-laden instrumental rock from Gallops, who possess a sound that could have been squeezed out by a teaming up between Battles and Adebisi Shank, our next port of call is over at the main stage for instrumental power-rock titans Maybeshewill. “Why don’t these guys just soundtrack a film already” we hear someone say in the wake between songs, and they’ve got a point – the sound, resplendent, and complete with both cello and violin, is as vast and burnished as the music present in modern Hollywood blockbusters. They’re really the first act of the weekend to successfully ‘fill’ the main stage and its surrounding swamp.

Lanterns on the Lake

For thirty minutes, there’s bliss in the main arena as Lanterns on the Lake take to the stage. The mesmerising four-piece incorporate, in a manner akin to Sigur Rós, bowed electric guitar, as well as an accompanying violin and softly-struck percussion. The otherworldliness of their sound is coupled with a hugely believable helping of British folk and the results are quite unforgettable, if, unfortunately, a bit on the quiet side.

In the afternoon, a real treat is found in The Leaf Lounge – the smaller of the three ‘big’ stages – in a set from the fabulous My First Tooth. There’s something really special here – the infectious rock n’ roll undertones of live American gypsy punk, in places not unlike those of Titus Andronicus, but alongside the clean and loveable brilliance of modern alternative indie – definitely one to check out.

As the evening begins to fall, there are two words being shouted here and there across the site – ‘Computers!’ – who are taking their vicious show to The Cave – and ‘Jetpacks!’. We opt for the latter – the heavily Scottish We Were Promised Jetpacks on the main stage, and what a show we’re rewarded with. It’s everything you’d want to hear from alternative rock at this stage in the game, really – thoughtful, yet simple, full of melody, and as huge as a weathered landscape stretching out before your eyes. As the band approach the end with closer, ‘It’s Thunder and it’s Lightning’, ecstatic vocals ring out all around the arena in a throaty howl along with the band, whose indefinable energy is infectious despite them barely moving.

If anybody had any reservations about Gallows’ ability to ‘bring it’ without Frank Carter – which, admittedly, it would be untrue to say nobody did – a glance at their set in The Cave would leave even the most cynical punter in no doubt; Gallows can still bring it, and then some. After opening with ‘Misery’, new frontman Wade MacNeil, Canadian-born and almost frighteningly aggressive, leaves the stage in what appears to be a strop over not feeling welcome. He returns, minutes later, shirtless and dripping from head to toe in wet mud, and, looking remarkably like some sort of furious golem, leads the band and audience through one of the most intense rock shows we’ve ever seen. In fact, aside from a mortifyingly embarrassing moment when Wade introduces a song called ‘A.C.A.B.’ with a roar of “ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS”, Gallows are a real stand-out act this weekend.

For all, it’s tough to choose which headliner to see tonight; on the one hand, the magnificent 65daysofstatic are taking to the main stage, but on the other, the rain has reached an almost biblical proportions and The Xcerts are playing under the covers. However, the hope of keeping even a little dry is abandoned by a small, adoring crowd who brave the torrential weather to see 65daysofstatic, and boy, are we glad we made that choice, for it’s an experience like no other. The band are, thankfully, gloriously loud and beyond note-perfect, creating noises that make staring into the hundreds of blinding lights behind them – lights that illuminate the crowd around us whose faces all share an expression that’s somewhere between disbelief and ecstasy – feel like something almost holy. “We’re going to try and make this as fun for you guys as we possibly can”, professes a voice from the stage, “but if you have any drugs, I’d recommend you eat them now”.

Saturday is broken into by Brother and Bones, a band who could quite easily have come out of Nashville, Tennessee. Their deliciously simple and badass rock n’ roll style makes a perfect opener to a day.

Brontide

Sadly, a set from Hymns in the Cave later in the day is somewhat lacklustre in comparison to their excellent studio recordings, but they are followed by what could possibly compete for ‘best set of the festival’ – the illustrious Brontide. The three piece’s joint delivery is frankly nothing short of flawless, although you could call watching any of them play their instruments entertainment in itself. Guitarist Tim Hancock seems as blown away with the audience as we are with him, and spends a good 30 seconds simply gazing out at us, and as the band close with the title track from their album ‘Sans Souci’, a wild roar of approval is emitted from the exhausted crowd.

VerseChorusVerse

There’s a nice interlude here in the form of ex-And So I Watch You From Afar guitarist Tony Wright – or, as he likes to be known professionally, VerseChorusVerse – in The Greenhouse. It’s clear to everyone just minutes into Tony’s set that he’s simply one of the nicest guys in British music; taking time to chat with the audience members between songs, making jokes about his grand departure from Terrorvision (the singer for whom shares Tony’s name) instead of ASIWFA (shh), and giving us an exclusive announcement of an upcoming covers EP he’s self-producing to raise money for Action Cancer and First Fortnight – two charities that are very close to his heart. Before the set is over Tony delights the closely-huddled audience with a cover of Sonic Youth’s ‘100’ and leaves everybody with a smile on their face.

Hundred Reasons

It takes guts for the audience to leave the tiny stage at the top of the hill, but the communal experience of seeing Hundred Reasons is something we won’t be forgetting in a hurry. Surprisingly, the band look utterly approachable – as if we could simply nip into the pub with them after their set – and yet today they sound like the biggest band in the world. To pre-empt the play-through of their debut album, starting with the anthemic ‘I’ll Find You’, Colin Doran takes a step back and shouts “shit – the sun’s out!”, as warm evening light breaks over the arena. Frankly, it’s one hell of a moment and it’d be fair to say that everyone present felt it.

Future of the Left

Post-Hundred Reasons, it’s time to have one last glance at the site in all its warmly-lit glory before the festival is closed by an astonishing set from punk outfit Future of the Left, who leave The Cave in ruins as they play through to the last breath they have in them. The sun is, for once, blinding, and the atmosphere is like that of one big family, who have all undergone the same ordeals and come out the other side happy. Really, that’s the loveable brilliance of 2000 Trees – it’s created by a group of people who adore music for a community of people who adore music, and who therefore relish being in the same place together.

It’s hard not to notice over the course of the weekend that people don’t just smile awkwardly at one another when they meet eyes at 2000 Trees; they beam. And well they should, because thanks to the exceptional organisation and beautiful location, among many other factors, there would be no breath of overstatement in saying that 2000 Trees is quite possibly the finest small festival in Britain, and it’s a treat to be here.

For those concerned that Glastonbury’s absence this year would deny British festival goers the opportunity to enjoy a host of musical, cultural and culinary wonders amid acres of godforsaken mud, rejoice, for Latitude took up the mantle and did it proud . Touting itself as “more than a musical festival”, the three day event in the picturesque Tudor estate of Henham Park has become an annual institution, famed both for its inexorably middle-class leanings (overheard quote from ’08: “No, Indira, that’s Daddy’s Yakult!”) and its eclectic cultural roster. Indeed, a punter could conceivably spend the whole weekend partaking in comedic, theatrical, literary, cinematic, poetical or alcoholic pursuits without experiencing a single semi-quaver of music, although they’d be foolish to do so. For if there’s one thing Latitude does extremely well, it’s bringing together golden oldies, bright new hopes and everything in between to deliver a musical line-up that has something for everyone, year after year. And 2012 is no different, even if enjoying said line-up involved conditions akin to the aftermath of the Somme.

Janelle Monae

Friday’s proceedings aggressively kicked off with a raucous set by Danish punk rockers Iceage that, if nothing else deserves some kudos for instigating an honest-to-God circle pit at 11 o’clock in the morning. For some of us though, such confrontational antics were a bit much before lunch so thankfully Louisiana’s Givers were on hand to deliver forty minutes of afrobeat-tinged indie pop both beautiful and joyous in its exuberance. Down in the woods, Cold Specks’ soulful croon impressed much more than her songwriting, whilst Punch Brothers were a surprise highlight despite looking like the grumpier cousins of Mumford & Sons. Their stylish reimagining of traditional bluegrass was delivered with élan, not to mention dazzling fiddle playing, and their set proved an invigorating antidote to the bastardised ersatz folk peddled by their UK counterparts.

The War on Drugs

Over at the garish Word Arena big top,Canadian cult figure Destroyer played an absolute blinder of a set, Dan Bejar’s unruffled stoicism a striking counterpoint to the dense intensity of his sax-drenched epics. The War On Drugs and The Antlers were less impressive with uncompromising, even workmanlike performances (why, oh why won’t you play songs from Hospice, Peter Silberman?!), but these slight dips were counterbalanced by fantastic crowd-pleasing sets from the endlessly stylish Janelle Monae, and Dexy’s Midnight Runners, who managed to stretch out ‘Come On Eileen’ into roughly 563 hours.

Lana Del Rey

Attracting the biggest audience of the day to the shock of absolutely no-one, was blogosphere hype-magnet Lana Del Rey, whose tuneful syrup was actually more palatable than the dull hipster nonsense of Alt-J (despite the collective shriek at the beginning of ‘Video Games’ doing more damage to this reviewer’s eardrums than the time he went to a My Bloody Valentine gig without earplugs.) Indeed, she probably obtained a more passionate response than top-billed Bon Iver, who despite the care clearly lavished upon his performance, including some stunning set design, just didn’t connect with the audience as much as he might have hoped. Such delicate, emotive miserabilia would doubtlessly work at the likes of End of The Road, but when you’re surrounded by Tuborg-swilling teens chatting all the way through the songs they don’t know (i.e. everything but “Skinny Love”), one’s susceptibility to impassioned by heart-stirring balladry is severely reduced. So it goes.

Bon Iver

Whilst Saturday’s line-up appeared the weakest on paper, it did yield some very pleasant surprises. Bwani Junction’s socially conscious, Scottish take on Vampire Weekend started the day on an enjoyable if rather earnest note; Sharon Van Etten’s passionate folk-rock confirmed her status as one of the most compelling singer-songwriters around. Deap Vally’s no-nonsense hard blues won’t win any awards for originality, but they’re up there with Two Gallants for sheer kinetic energy. The hotly tipped Icelandic six-piece Of Monsters And Men elevated spirits and inspired mass hand-clapping with their twee take on Arcade Fire anthemics, and Los Campesinos’ near-perfect greatest hits set resulted in the most energetic, good-natured pogofest of the whole weekend.

Deap Vally

The day ultimately belonged to Elbow, who nailed their headline slot in a way Justin Vernon so conspicuously failed to do. Some may accuse them of being a safe, middlebrow choice, but the charismatic Guy Garvey sure knows how to work an audience and there’s few songs that can match ‘One Day Like This’ as a big old ‘Hey Jude’-style singalong, especially when you throw a firework display into the mix. They may not reinvent the wheel, but that night, they were very much the right band at the right time.

Elbow

Sunday morning brought two wonderful and rare events to Henham Park- a brief spell of genuine sunshine, and a magical lunchtime performance on the lake by virtuoso Chinese concert pianist Lang Lang. Across the bridge in the i Arena, Liz Green blew away all and sundry with her darkly comic songs and a voice that belongs more on a 1920’s gramophone rather than this era of iPods and TOWIE, whilst Bristolian greats Zun Zun Egui  melted minds left, right and centre with their experimental tropical-noise-funk fusion. St Vincent’s sultry shimmy as she shredded her guitar like the wrath of the Gods made a thousand hearts swoon; her near-flawless performance only faulted by its brevity.

Battles also suffered a curtailed set (in their case due to technical hitches), but John Stanier’s obvious displeasure only accentuated his unyielding assault on his drum kit/absurdly high cymbal – and as the dog-collar-clad vicar grooving next to me would attest, ‘Atlas’ remained an absolute beast of a song. M83’s electronic dream-pop sounded typically massive, although it was a shame half the audience absconded after ‘Midnight City’ (more fool them, as ‘Couleurs’ is a hundred times better), Herman Dune was very…Herman Dune and Berlin electronica outfit Apparat wrapped up the weekend perfectly with a beguiling mix of live strings, techno beats and ambient soundscapes in the darkness of the woods.

True, some of the scheduling was a nightmare – pitting SBTRKT against Zola Jesus AND Los Campesinos was simply sadistic. Sometimes the desire to apply a crowbar to the collective larynxes of banterific LADs and shrill, disinterested scenesters became almost irresistible. The i Arena was too small to accommodate the fanbases of many of the bands playing, and the proprietors of one of the burger vans should be prosecuted for crimes against my tastebuds (however, the Halloumi and Chorizo guys should be given a knighthood). But that doesn’t detract from what was an exceptional weekend, full of incredible music, wonderful discoveries and unanticipated delights (the acrobatic spectacles above the lake at midnight were truly breathtaking.) After several years of threatening to drift towards appeasing an affluent Radio 2 crowd at the expense of more innovative and outré bookings, it is really heartening to see a return of the diversity and quality that made Latitude such an appealing prospect in the first place. Let’s just hope there’s slighty better weather next year.

Photo by Geert Schäfer

Ferropolis. It sounds like the setting of a futuristic film, where machines develop minds of their own and try to usurp human power to become the ruling, master race. Well, in this instance, the thought conjured by the word isn’t too far from the fact, as in there are almighty machines to be found in Ferropolis, but not evil, power mad ones. Ferropolis, situated near Dessau in Germany is in one way a place of innovation and celebration, in another, a graveyard, a place where enormous, retired coal excavators have been laid to rest. It’s a kind of industrial museum, a landmark featuring some of the most incredible machinery that mankind has created, and it’s also the site chosen to host Germany’s Melt! Festival.

At the foot of these gigantic, imposing machines are 20,000 festival goers, all turned out to experience a fusion of rock and indie music in this unfamiliar, yet completely spectacular setting. Once the site of an open mine, the machines which adorn the festival ground were once employed to tear into the ground to extract coal. Now they stand solidly and firmly next to the stages erected for the festival, a remarkable feature and an industrially beautiful attraction, with flame throwers and smoke machines atop of the diggers making them seem all the more lifelike.

Arriving at the site in the early evening, the festival is opened for us today by The Rapture who, bathed in sunlight, serenade the audience with a collection of tracks from their 15 year spanning career. Particular highlights include recent single ‘How Deep Is Your Love’ and of course, the best track to have been released in 2002, ‘House of Jealous Lovers’. On the one hand, it’s a shame that they were selected to play so early, but on the other, the New York four piece provide a bright and powerful introduction to what will be an consistently upbeat festival.

Photo by Geert Schäfer

Rushing over to the Beach stage, we’re just in time to catch a bit of Berlin’s Brandt Brauer Frick who, sporting their smartest shirt and tie combos, are completely mesmerising. As the sun sets over the festival site, the collective’s self styled form of ‘emotional body music’ is irresistible, as is the energy with which the trio interpret tracks from 2011’s Mr Machine.

The next stop is at a tent named after one of the diggers gracing the festival site, the Gemini stage where M83 is whipping his spectators into a frenzy. As we arrive, the opening tones of the hit, recent single ‘Midnight City’ fill the air, inciting a riotous hysteria from a crowd who have clearly been anticipating this moment. When the sax solo hits, the crowd’s excitement reaches fever pitch, and it’s a true pleasure to be part of such a high energy vibe. However, as soon as the track ends, the crowd thins, meaning that the rest of M83’s set feels like a bit of a downhill slide.

Elsewhere, Swiss/German duo BOY are wooing an adoring crowd with their gentle and entrancing songs of love, life and longing. A charming and warming proposition, the duo prove to be a hit with their spectators as rapturous applause intersperses the set, single ‘Skin’ proving to be a particular favourite. A laid back and enlightening set from the pair, it’s time to head back to the main body of the festival to prepare for one of the most anticipated acts of the festival to take to the stage.

Photo by Jan Kapitän

As the opening notes of Caribou’s ‘Kaili’ commence, there’s a notable surge as people rush to the front of the main stage arena, including ourselves. Moving seamlessly into ‘Leave House’, the excitement builds and builds, proving that even though Dan Snaith and co. have been touring latest record Swim for almost two solid years now, they’re still as passionate and as energised as ever, reproducing their acclaimed tracks in front of an enthralled audience. Closing the set with a hypnotic rendition of ‘Sun’, Caribou leave the stage safe in the knowledge that tonight, Melt! Festival has been well and truly won over.

After (for some reason) deciding to check out a few minutes of Bloc Party, we’re quick to realise our error and rush towards the Beach stage, constructed along the banks of the vast man made lake which lines the festival site, in order to catch Hudson Mohawke’s set. Driving beats and hammering melodies greet us, a joyful counterbalance to the laboured notes emanating from Bloc Party’s rain soaked speakers on the main stage. After dashing between stages to catch snippets of Dave Clarke and I Heart Sharks, it’s time to call it a day. Queuing up next to the diggers, which are currently throwing flames into the air, we take a moment to ponder the spectacular setting of Melt! Festival before heading off to sleep and recharge, ready to return for the next day’s music.

Arriving at Ferropolis on Saturday evening, it’s the sounds of Blood Red Shoes that greet us. The duo work their way through tracks from latest album In Time To Voices as well as breaking out some of their earlier tracks such as ‘This Is Not For You’ from debut album Box of Secrets. Today, however, the duo’s trademark nonchalance feels a bit off-putting, so we head off for a closer look at the magnificent machinery adorning the site before making our way to the Intro tent to catch the performance of Niki & The Dove.

The most confident we’ve seen the group to date (and as big fans of theirs at this site, we’ve seen them a fair few times) the Swedish group’s performance is more playful, engaging and involving than ever before. Tracks such as ‘Mother Protect’, ‘The Fox’ and ‘The Drummer’ all receive rapturous receptions, as singer Malin Dahlström cavorts about the stage, as eccentric, pitch perfect and loveable as ever.

Passing by The Gossip, we head to the Beach stage to check out the closing sounds of Lazer Sword before Los Angeles producer Gaslamp Killer takes to the stage. The man’s hair and moves are as entertaining as the sounds emanating from the stage, as Gaslamp Killer, aka William Bensussen writhes and headbangs his way about the stage, his token blend of hip hop, psychedelia and full powered rave proving to be a hit with the Saturday night crowd. Unfortunately Scotland’s Rustie, the next act we’d planned to see, had to cancel his performance this weekend, so we make our way back to the main stage to witness the band which will close our Melt! Festival experience this year, Berlin’s very own Modeselektor.

Photo by Jan Kapitän

Arriving at the main stage, we’ve bowled over by a truly mesmerising sea of lasers, spotlights and graphics as the Berlin duo make the most of their headline slot back on home turf. Tracks from latest album Monkeytown provide the backbone of the set, as the pair unleash the unadulterated power and passion that seeps through their back catalogue. Their audience embraces every shifting tone, and as the bass throbs through the air, there’s a sudden melding of all of the elements of Melt! Festival. The scenery, with the imposing, gigantic diggers mixes with the industrial nature of Modeselektor’s highly refined brand of electronic and techno. The flashes and sparks of the main stage’s lighting are mirrored by the flames shooting up from the top of the diggers, and the glittering glow from the gigantic disco balls which dangle from the rigs.

It’s a festival packed full of details, and one which celebrates its setting as much as it does the music filling it. Remarkably good sound, a veritable party atmosphere, reasonable prices and a brilliant line up all combine in this spectacular location to make Melt! Festival one of Germany’s most promising festival propositions.

All photos taken from the Melt Festival website.

Warpaint

The Maccabees were next up and the crowd was now packed tight even several metres outside the stage’s space. The band have grown hugely in presence and skill over the years and are a rousing and assured force on stage. The set was peppered with songs from all three releases with ‘No Kind Words’ and ‘Can You Give It’ sounding truly anthemic. There was a sweet festival moment midway as the mostly Portugese crowd sang Happy Birthday to bassist Rupert Jarvis.

Caribou

Walking back towards the main stage area a palpable tension was rising as the main musical event of the weekend, and for many the main one of their musical lives approached. Caribou were the perfect act to gently build suspense. The delicate, funky tracks from Swim were particularly delicious in the dying sunshine.

Radiohead 

Very soon the entire festival crowd was assembled and the atmosphere electric. What was to follow did not at all disappoint. Radiohead’s set began with ‘Bloom’ and already it felt sublime. The blistering ’15 Step’ followed before the rest of the set which was comprised of almost all tracks from King Of Limbs with a couple of additions from In Rainbows. It was the most magnificent show I have experienced and the end came all too soon even with an epic encore that included ‘Paranoid Android’. The band sounded faultless throughout.

SBTRKT

Even though I was briefly tempted to leave straight afterwards and stay in the Radiohead bubble, the rest of the night’s line up was more than appealing enough to keep me on site. Sadly SBTRKT who had been denied a soundcheck to not encroach on the headliner’s show, weren’t on stage for long and all I caught was the end of ‘Red Light’ before they were forced to halt as their drum kit was falling apart.

The Kills

The Kills who have bloomed to be able to comfortably entertain an arena size audience were on next. Older hits such as ‘Last Day of Magic’ went over brilliantly. Alison Mosshart was as captivating as ever prowling over the entire stage space as Thom Yorke watched from the side of the stage.

Metronomy

The last band of the night, Metronomy, were slightly daunted by the size of the crowd prior to playing but this wasn’t at all apparent in their set and the roaring applause after each number showed that they had won thousands of new fans as well as delighting previous converts. The inclusion of older material brought a clubbier feel which was perfect for a set that ended after 4am. All too soon the site was flooded with light as Optimus Alive shut down abruptly.

Looking back over the entire weekend, Optimus Alive was a huge, basic and rather corporate affair with little additional soul to be drawn from the event itself however slickly produced, but it was filled with a music hungry home crowd who got really involved in most performances and therefore created a festival feel within the stage areas themselves.

Radiohead

Optimus Alive also clearly has the cash to bring in major headliners and a very decent line up of smaller acts, even if they are programmed a little bizarrely at times. The festival was wholly coloured by Radiohead’s magnificent show for me, but that would have been enough reason for me to go in the first place. If you’re looking for a festival to chill out at and find non-musical entertainment at times this might not be the one for you, but it is also very important to note that it’s held in the very vibrant city of Lisbon with the music beginning late enough to take advantage of the welcome sunshine during the day.

Crystalline blue skies over the Optimus site were a welcome change on Saturday. The atmosphere seemed lighter and a real festival vibe took hold, prevailing over yesterday’s niggling thought that this was really a large gig in a carpark.

One of the musical high points of the year let alone this festival The Antlers played a rather early set on the second stage, although what time and where became irrelevant as soon as they began; their set was truly transcendental. Opening with the heart-wrenching ‘No Widows’ they had the crowd captivated immediately. The lush, hazy, more spacious new tracks from Undersea were threaded through a set otherwise composed of songs from Burst Apart. Despite the band having stated they found it a little trickier to bring these new songs to life, live all four came across very well, with ‘Crest’ and ‘Drift Drive’ being the most enjoyable last night.

Throughout the set Pete Silberman’s vocal prowess was sublime and the strength of Darby Cicci’s complimenting harmonies live were a pleasant surprise. Although both men also almost nudged the shimmering, blissed out majesty into comedy at certain points with their synchronised erotic microphone caressing. Darby attacked his keyboard and synths more impressively than I have witnessed on a stage in recent months, and drummer Michael Lerner’s timing and touch was impeccable. The Antlers felt like a band on the verge of true lasting greatness, one that should soon be on main stages around the world.

Meanwhile the act that was actually on the main stage as the sun set over Lisbon was Mumford and Sons. From what I caught they seemed proficient enough but their musical offerings just served to bring the brilliance of The Antlers’ compositions into starker relief.

Next up is Art Department. Jonny White and Kenny Glasgow are two of the most respected house DJs on the circuit and you couldn’t fault their skill but as I put it in my notes to myself, “prog is just prog”: progressive house is always going to be a little dull and even then you might struggle to really feel anything.

The Cure were the headliner last night, and although I didn’t catch all of their three hour performance, what I did hear was quite brilliant. Robert Smith’s rich, warm voice carrying through the night with the band on top form as they played their many, many hits to a packed arena during this marathon set.

Next up we find the unilaterally well liked Katy B. Her vocal performance was impressive and her stage presence has benefited from last year’s touring experience, the inclusion of live sax and trumpet was a nice touch too. The set was slickly performed and packed full of hits from On A Mission. Just a couple tracks in Katy got a rave atmosphere going in the previously sleepy stage area but the show still felt a little too contrived at times such as during the fake DJ battle medley half way through.

Katy also played a new song, which to be honest to me was musically indistinguishable from the rest of the set, though this is not necessarily a bad thing for her fans or her career. It was a really fun show all in all but a thought I couldn’t shake despite the bouncing crowd and party vibes was that whilst Katy’s singing voice is superb and she now really can work a crowd, there is still something missing, an underlying artistic voice with a little more personality showing through perhaps.

Strolling around the site briefly before turning in for the night the prevailing feeling away from the stages, as it was yesterday and even with the extra bodies now carousing around, was still one of being rather relentlessly advertised to in an overly corporate arena.

My first impressions on entering the site hosting Optimus Alive threaten to dampen my festival spirit: it’s a car park with an enormous hulking main stage, two smaller hooded stages and more branded eateries and stalls than I’ve ever come across in one place.

The home crowd are already queuing in abundance for dubious branded freebies, with the biggest line of all for the experience of sitting in a basket attached to a crane which is slowly winched towards the darkening sky as it fast becomes a mirror of the concrete below.

But first impressions aren’t everything and the site is redeemed by the kind of features you’d expect from the Portuguese equivalent of Live Nation. The sound is perfect in all three areas and the crews and security carry out a fine job – which is reassuring after the calamity of last week’s Bloc.

Refused

The first act I catch on the main stage are reformed Swedish punks Refused. They play with impressive conviction to a small grouping that barely fills a fifth of the main stage area. Tracks like ‘Faculties of the Skull’ sound strong, with front man Dennis Lyxzén strutting, leaping and gurning around the stage. His stage talk is filled with gratitude at the opportunity to hit the road and play to much bigger crowds than before the break up. One lone group of Portuguese moshers go crazy whilst the rest of the crowd are pretty apathetic and swiftly turn back to their respective queues.

LMFAO

Next up, by unfortunate unavoidable circumstance, I’m affronted by LMFAO on the second stage. They draw the biggest crowd of the night up until Justice close things later, with their puerile, misogynistic, nonsensical lyrics and stage banter backed by a perfunctory mash up of soul destroying sounds. The Portuguese, however, go insane for it, shouting back the words to the band.

The Stone Roses

While The Stone Roses plod through their main stage set – with Ian Brown’s vocals flatter than ever and the arena still at much less than full capacity, Santigold takes to the second stage. Her hyping stage talk is lost a little on the crowd, consisting of more than “sex”, “party” and “rock” – but through the big beats, ace choreography, eye catching costumes and a splash of familiar fare like ‘Big Mouth’ dotted into her set, she turns the arena into a proper party.

Planningtorock and Zola Jesus are both pitched against headliner Justice. The former valiantly struggles to keep even thirty people in the confines of her arena although her delivery is on form and the beats remain as  hypnotic as ever. Still, it’s a set marred by the cavernous space in front which bars any extra energy being fed back into her performance.

Zola Jesus

Zola Jesus on the other hand is captivating, powerful and quite magnificent. A tiny white hooded figure, she transfixes the audience as the stage is flooded with a dark, booming repertoire that draws a sizable crowd. The fuller, dancier sound of Conatus is interpreted fluidly live, with new single ‘Seekir’ a personal highlight – unlike the homecrowd, who clearly preferred the (bizarre) LMFAO.

Photos by Ruben Viegas

Country road and motorway lane closures, predictions of the whole of July’s average rainfall in 24 hours, Environment Agency warnings of rivers and brooks bursting their banks in the area… for an event that thrives on its friendly, open community-like atmosphere, the sixth Indietracks Festival loomed like a oncoming battle. Thankfully, in the end, little of that came to pass and with just three or four heavy showers over the weekend The Midland Railway Centre’s status as an independent state of indie-pop was comfortably reclaimed.

Everyone says it about their favourite festival but Indietracks really isn’t like other festivals: vintage steam and diesel trains ferry attendees from central station to the rolling Derbyshire countryside location where bands play in real-ale serving tram sheds, a recovered deconsecrated church and a handful of acoustic acts get to play in the goods wagon of a moving steam train. Increasing numbers of foreign visitors are drawn into this peculiar, laid back slice of affected Albion by its uniquely peaceful aura and spirited community. This, combined with the local parrot and owl sanctuary owners that can be found wandering the site with the birds on their arm, really does transport you to another world.

Things kicked off inside the shed on Friday evening, Vermont bubblegum stalwarts The Smittens and Cardiff girl group pop manque The School turned in fine sets but it was headliner Darren Hayman, with his band The Secondary Modern, who really impressed. Cherry picking songs from his increasingly prolific back catalogue, Hayman’s set featured tracks from two albums yet to be released, one of which is a take on lounge music from a forthcoming instrumental album inspired by London lidos. Tackling ‘A Hymn To The Postal Service’ and ‘The Sad Witch’ from Hefner’s now fourteen year old debut album Breaking God’s Heart, Modern Lovers and the Bee Gees’ ‘I Started A Joke’, Hayman reminds us of his careful lyrical touch and musical awareness whilst delighting in keeping his audience on their toes.

Saturday’s first real standouts were Evans The Death, whose eponymous debut album has been one of the lower-key highlights of the year so far. Transferred to a live sound with an extra dimension, the shoegaze-inspired guitar  rallies against Katherine Whittaker’s adaptably raw vocal style, channelling the Primitives and Long Blondes through distortion pedals. Meanwhile the much discussed Colour Me Wednesday mine the fields of agitpop-punk, tweepop and ska rhythms to as close as is likely to come to rabble rousing effect.

The first of the heavy showers commenced right near the end of Tender Trap‘s set, Amelia Fletcher & co pre-occupied with previewing a new album that in its girl group melodies and sharpened up janglepop harks back to her days fronting Heavenly inventing a lot of what’s around us this weekend. The downpour forces plenty of people under cover to see The Rosie Taylor Project‘s lilting, lush chamber pop, before Tigercats staked their claim as the scene’s potential next breakout band with their rapturously received set of awkwardly infectious danceable nuggets of choppy Orange Juice-derived guitars and offbeat lyrical concerns delivered in Duncan Barrett’s knowingly off-key vocals.

“Hello T In The Park, we’re the Stone Roses!” The Just Joans lied before delivering as an opening trump card a cover of Kenickie’s ‘Come Out 2 Nite’. Their own material continues the overhanging feelgood air in stark contrast to its content of emotional unsureness and outright bedroom failure, tweepop in its finest form in thick Scottish brogues and with the odd steal from elsewhere.

Photograph by Jason Williamson.

Meanwhile word gets around of a storming set in the church from Urusei Yatsura-like noiseniks Joanna Gruesome, the queue outside precluding any chance of finding out personally. Instead, we and about as many as will turn up for an indoor set all weekend watch Standard Fare deliver their quietly magic set. The three-piece, with the occasional guest musician, are in the habit of turning such gatherings into temples of temporary worship, such is the level of dancing and singing along at the front, much to Emma Kupa’s evident stupefaction.

People seemed less sure about Summer Camp, as the back end of the shed slowly emptied over the first half of their set, not helped by a number of new songs. Those who remained at the front enjoyed a band who are growing in live confidence all the time, ‘Ghost Train’ and ‘Better Off Without You’ resulted in some serious shape throwing before Elizabeth and Jeremy made their way into the audience for an unplugged acoustic cover of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Everywhere’. That did have the effect of slimming numbers even further as most who couldn’t hear left to watch headliners Veronica Falls, who seemed in a good mood, showcasing some new songs and inserting extra punch into their fuzzy, knowingly C86-like sound.

Sunday greets us with Edinburgh’s far too young The Spook School, like the Popguns going properly punk-pop, before we decide to take a trip on the train to witness the lovelorn bathos of acoustic duo The Sunbathers, who had the best merchandise of the weekend, handing out free sticks of rock – proper rock, with their name through the middle – with a download code for a new song on the inside of the label. Leeds-based trio T.O.Y.S formed from the remnants of various local indie-noise outfits, most notably the Manhattan Love Suicides, are up next and can best be summarised as lo-fi motorik inhabited with fuzzy bass lines and droning keyboard patterns, bringing an intensive psychedelic sweep much like early Stereolab in garage rehearsals.

Soon Belle & Sebastian‘s Stevie Jackson and two sideman embarked upon a set of his solo careful vignettes, a measured contrast to This Many Boyfriends who are playing under the safety of the tram shed roof. The Leeds band come down on the unashamed side of ragged but spirited shambling tracks from their forthcoming Ryan Jarman-produced album possess an exhilarating smartness and charm of their own. Frontman Richard Brooke is evidently shocked at how many people have turned up and know the songs, the set consequently turns into a mini-party of its own, an associate taking up Bez’ duties for the last two songs.

Following the lively surf and shoegaze-inflected lo-fi noise of Girls Names, The June Brides made a reappearance. On a day that saw a number of reformed bands playing, including the C86-era psych-pop of 14 Iced Bears and Belfast’s mid-00s janglers Language Of Flowers, the recently reactivated mid-80s Morrissey favoured, NME cover star nearly-weres played a taut, economical set almost entirely of the fast strummed, trumpet laced jangling with which they made their name. Openly tempting fate, they finished with ‘In The Rain’. It didn’t just in case you were wondering.

If a spirited but uneventful indoor headline slot from The Monochrome Set proved underattended it was because some scene heroes were overlapping on the main stage. If, given both events are happening on the same weekend, Indietracks is the specialist T In The Park, Allo Darlin’ were its Kasabian. Only in stature and line-up position mind, the charm and connective warmth of their songs feeding the crowds energy. Elizabeth Morris smiled broadly and thrashed away at her ukelele as bassist Bill Botting bounced around like Tigger. Their upbeat songs already seem like indiepop standards. Inexplicably they’re told their set has to end twenty minutes early, only for the crowd uproar to have the decision reversed so they can end on a cover of The Just Joans‘ ‘If You Don’t Pull’ and a triumphant ‘My Heart Is A Drummer’. The real moment of the set, and perhaps festival, was still to come yet, as Morris re-emerged on her own as the light faded to perform ‘Tallulah’ with just uke accompaniment as a final song, to an absolutely silenced field. More than one person was observed finding something in their eye at its end.

It might have been near impossible to follow that convincingly, but The Vaselines gave it a very good shot, aided by Frances McKee’s reliably potty mouth. Two songs in, she’s promised personal services to anyone who can guess how old she is. Five songs in, she’s claimed to have given Jesus a blow job the previous night (Eugene Kelly: “that wasn’t Jesus, that was just some tramp”). The two and their bandmates, including Stevie Jackson, blast through songs from their heyday, including ‘Molly’s Lips’ and their regular cover of Divine’s ‘You Think You’re A Man’.

And with their disaffected melodies ringing around the countryside, the sun sets for another year on the railway stock. Indietracks seems to become more popular as it gets bolder every year but feels like it will never loose touch with its DIY roots or the implicit trust of its patrons. Long may it continue on its singular way.

Photograph by Jason Williamson.

Though much has been made of the painful decline of the music festival, conspicuous this year with a number of black spots across the festival calendar, there’s no doubt that they cater for more diverse crowds than ever. While the raveheads and electronic aficionados mourn the implosion of the inaugural Bloc London following overcrowding, Saturday finds Hyde Park shaken by more Pro Green undercuts, fake tan and triple-layer lashes than this esteemed London park has ever seen, as a selection of chart titans take over for Wireless.

Everything at this festival is upside down. Girls hold their boyfriends aloft on their shoulders, shiny-ponytailed X-Factor starlets are seen being hauled by minders to the toilets and headliners play in daylight, finishing just after 10pm. Drake is Saturday’s sole headliner, with the other stages winding up before he starts. Even the top billed acts on the surrounding stages don’t get more than 35 minutes; it makes for a hectic experience if you’re used to picking and choosing your headliners as darkness falls.

Rihanna comparisons come thick and fast when Rita Ora’s early afternoon set begins to play out. Hailing from the Roc Nation stable, sure enough she works a similar image, but her music is more turbo-charged, the distinct flavour of a London girl bred (if not born), belting out earworm choruses over manic drum ‘n’ bass beats. Many of the charts’ R’n’B and rap superstars currently sound like they got asked to MC in Ibiza 15 years ago, but Jay-Z’s protégé pursues a sound that is altogether fresher and younger; it’s a perfect start to the afternoon.

Contrary to expectations, Professor Green is rather good; an unashamed crowd-pleaser, his instant hits bring the sun out. In a way he suits Wireless perfectly; he’s not big on substance but if you plug into the atmosphere from the beginning, he’s arresting and enormous fun. You don’t get the sense that the Hackney rapper-made-good will command attention for years to come but he makes the most of his turn in the spotlight with aplomb.

By mid-afternoon, the herbal force is strong for Wiz Khalifa’s party hip-hop, settling over the crowd like a comforting extra layer of ozone. Pinging onstage like an overjuiced furby, the rapper heavily channels Snoop Dogg’s chronic-friendly hip-hop; if his lyrics are anything to go by, the man is stoned 24/7. ‘Taylor Gang’ slams and swings, and the bombastic ‘Black and Yellow’ is satisfying; though the drugs/girls schtick really wore out its creative welcome in the rap world a long time ago, Khalifa’s poppy take on it is strangely charming and it’s difficult not to warm to him.

Six months ago, Canadian Abel Tesfaye, aka The Weeknd, was giving his album away for free. Today the crush to see him is so bad that you physically can’t get near the tent, let alone the stage, and disgruntled fans complain about crowd control. The singer and producer’s downbeat, unsettling r’n’b and his work with Drake have catapulted him to the top of the tree, but his liquid vocals are only really audible to those who manage to cram themselves inside. Outside all you can hear is the vague crunch of the bass; arguably he should have been on the main stage this evening.

Nicki Minaj, the amazing inflatable cartoon rapper, is the second biggest draw of the day. She’s a walking Manga cartoon, a cyber explosion of hype and attitude; this is what would happen if you genetically spliced Lil’ Kimand Dolly Parton. Rumours of her rapping skills have been greatly exaggerated but her flow isn’t what’s got her this far; there’s something mythological about her. Like Gaga, even if you don’t like her you can’t stop looking at her. The girl who declared she’s got bigger balls than anyone knows how to clutch the crowd, and even fans in the crowd discussing her weak points still holler and bounce on cue, responding with affection to every hook.

By 9pm Drake is holding court over Hyde Park. His low-key, self-assured songs are pumped up for the stage; inevitably the quiet studio details are lost in the mix, replaced by several thousand voices in unison. His whip-smart lyrics become mottos for this audience, “YOLOing” their hearts out and hyped up by another walk-on from Nicki Minaj partway through. The world is his for the taking. But the glistening, pinpoint perfection of his recent opus, Take Care, is never going to sound its best re-enacted in a swampy open-air setting with the night not yet upon us, blasted out of speakers over the heads of the crowd. Drake’s best moments sound like dark corners, sideways looks, bliss and revenge, and as loved as he is by this crowd, as much as he laps up the adulation, this isn’t the prime setting for him.

Friday

Lianne La Havas.

As the punters nurse sunburnt shoulders, the first day of Hop Farm begins with blue skies and wide eyes as Swedish-Argentine; Jose Gonzalez graces the Main Stage. Mimicking the appearance of a gentle, bearded Italian rugby player, Gonzalez is left completely isolated onstage bearing nothing to hide behind as his continental, ringlet locks are swept by the tender Kentish breeze. Dressed all in black, Gonzalez leaves nothing to the imagination as the crowd are silenced in awe of his warm vocals and skilful guitar, especially during his first single and penultimate song in his set ‘Heartbeats’ followed by intriguing Kylie Minogue cover, ‘Put Your Hand in Your Heart’ and Massive Attack cover, ‘Teardrop’.

Walking over to the Big Tent, the epic hollering chorus of Lianne La Havas’ ‘Forget’ completely engulfs and obliterates any other sound from the other competitive stages. La Havas uses the festival to tactically promote her debut album, Is Your Love Big Enough? (released within the next week) by showcasing her diverse talent and soulful potential throughout slow, melodic songs such as ‘Don’t Wake Me Up’ juxtaposed against playful hard hitters ‘Age’ and ‘Is Your Love Big Enough?’

The Futureheads

“We’re playing this song because there’s a verse about Kent!” yells a sweaty Barry Hyde of The Futureheads in a strong, bellowing Sunderland accent, playing their impressive cover of Richard Thompson’s, ‘Beeswing’ from their latest acapella album, Rant. Following the acapella route, the band play their cover of Kelis’ ‘Acapella’ later on in the set, after a warm welcome of indie favourites ‘Beginning of the Twist’ and ‘Heartbeat Song’. The crowd ranges from penguin-onesie-wearing teenagers to toddlers smothered by aluminous ear protectors. Even Lianne La Havas pops out into the crowd for a beer and a quick listen.

Ray Davies

Just in front of their iconic backdrop in black and white, The Stranglers take to the stage with poignant, crunchy bass lines accompanied by the confident as ever vocals of ‘Nice N’ Sleazy’ and ‘Hanging Around’ before expressing that “it’s nice to be doing a British festival with decent fucking weather for a change!”  The harpsichord riff of ‘Golden Brown’ produces an animalistic roar from the Big Tent crowd as the 1970s punks then conclude their set with ‘Peaches’. A short walk to the main stage reveals a disappointing performance from Ray Davies as iconic Kinks hits ‘Sunny Afternoon’ and ‘All Day and All of the Night’ lack the energy, power and seduction that they once had.

Peter Gabriel

Headliners, Peter Gabriel & The New Blood Orchestra, Nitin Sawhney and British Sea Powerdivide the Friday night crowd with sets that could not be more different. On one hand lies Peter Gabriel complete with a gigantic and majestic orchestra (as well as ridiculously tacky illustrations projected) behind him, yet on the other is the well respected, Nitin Sawhney with very little to hide behind combining Asian influences with an interesting fusion twist.

Saturday

Slow Cub

Walking past the main stage before Slow Club’s set I catch a quick glimpse of Joan Armatrading on the main stageperforming a stunning guitar solo. Energetic as ever, Slow Club emit just as much chemistry performing as a four piece, as they do when Charles Watson and Rebecca Taylor take the stage as their usual duo act- finishing their set with fan favourites ‘Two Cousins’ and ‘Giving Up On Love’…before telling everyone to take their tops off. And no, Daniel Radcliffe wasn’t there.

Patti Smith

A seated Lucy Rose pulls the crowd into the Bread & Roses tent, giving a pitch perfect, gentle rendition of ‘Middle of The Bed’ with a full band before reassuring the crowd that “I don’t mind if you need to leave, I know I’m clashing a bit with Patti Smith!” Indeed up on the main stage, Patti Smith exhorts her raw dominance and authority like a hunting lioness amongst her band (with a certain Patrick Wolf on the violin), giving an unrefined and emotionally strong vocal performance throughout ‘Because the Night’.

Bob Dylan

The excitement and joint cynicism is contagious as the time for headliner, Bob Dylan, approaches. When Dylan finally did plonk onto the stage, his performance was what can only be described as very, very odd. Murmurs of “is it the one with the big hat?” and “which one even is he? Do you know?” were whispered amongst the confused crowd as the headliner apparently ‘refused’ close up shots on the large screens. The crowd began to scatter to other parts of the festival to watch the magnificent Primal Scream as Dylan’s voice became unrecognisable and almost slurry.  If Dylan made half the effort as his support acts (Smith and Rice), it would have been a captivating and memorable night instead of a disappointing end to a wonderful day of music.

Sunday

Finally the showers show their mischievous face and let loose on the last day of Hop Farm. First to Robert Pattinson’s best mate, Marcus Foster i.e. beautiful-voice-squinty-eye-man-extraordinaire. Pulling in an impressive crowd, the Londoner merges Jeff Buckley with Tom Waits as he charms and seduces the crowd’s ear drums. All day the weather had been switching the ‘rain’ button on and off like a disobedient toddler, but during Jonquil’s set the scurry of the drenched, rat-like crowd into the Bread & Roses tent (whilst they gave an average performance) reflected the poor weather…not the amount of fans they have.

With the drunk, embarrassing mothers cultivating a successful rain dance, the bad weather held off for 1970s legends, Kool & The Gang with a mesmerising showcase of musical precision and nostalgic positivity. Dance routines, horns and matching leopard print shirts and hats ahoy, the funk band were surely one of the highlights of the weekend. An hour later and surprise, surprise the sun was out again just to confuse everyone once more as Thomas Timothy Vernon-Kell AKA Tom Vek took to performing with his belly dancer-come-rapper dance moves. The two bass guitars used during ‘C-C (You Set The Fire In Me)’ gave the performance a poignant groove as Vek wormed his way around the stage with the bright red instrument just before crowd favourite, ‘Aroused’.

As a bunch of beer drinking lads watch the Euro 2012 final on one large screen in the middle of the site, Suede closed down this rare festival of high, nostalgic quality with a smorgasbord of greatest hits from ‘Animal Nitrate’ to new track ‘For The Strangers’. As Brett Anderson dived into the crowd urging to be smothered and adored, this low-key festival ends on a triumphant, supernatural high of festival uniqueness and quirkiness. Hop Farm doesn’t conform into any old bullcrap and it doesn’t care who’s the ‘in’ thing.

A daunting yet thrilling programme of events begins with the peripheral off-site Sala Apolo show on Tuesday – a Memphis Industries label spotlight with Hooray for Earth before Chairlift capture our attention on Wednesday. They’re a finely-tuned outfit with a handful of pop gems but most noteworthy is focal point Caroline Polachek, a performer so captivating that you’d suspect she was in stage school were she fronting something less artistically valid than this. A day of community-appeasing freebie activities at Arc de Triomf precedes, with The Wedding Present (a Seamonsters album set) and The Walkmen being the major attractions: the latter’s effortless super-cool attitude more apparent than ever.

Archers of Loaf

Thursday opens a triple-salvo of main site thrills; for the uninitiated this means the enormo-complex at Parc del Forum turns into a hive of activity, with seven branded stages of note supplemented by smaller arenas; all somehow co-existing yet never infringing. With the impossibly fabulous billing line-up clashes are unavoidable, though the late withdrawal of El-P rescues us from our first dilemma, giving a free run to reformed indie-rock icons Archers of Loaf, who seize their moment with a spiky sun-drenched set on the Ray-Ban stage.

Grimes

From there it’s to Pitchfork and to Grimes, a prodigiously-talented young lady who has seemingly occupied column inches in every music mag this year – and justifiably so based on this triumphant and compelling performance alone. Back to Ray-Ban and to perhaps Grimes foremother – in terms of allure and even record label – in Mazzy Star. An untouchable for a whole generation of indie boys, the years have been kind to Hope Sandoval, and even more so to her timelessly affecting music.

Already in the early hours of the next day and Dominant Legs are on the boards at Vice; relative unknowns but not for long judging by the splendid jerky guitar efforts displayed here. Over on the main stage Franz Ferdinand, revitalised and as thrilling as ever, play all the storming crowd-pleasing hits before we hop back to ATP for supreme riff-heavy metal from Wolves In The Throne Room, with native John Talabot’s stadium-sized euphoric electro-house over at the Ray-Ban rounding off a frenetic day. And this is merely an hors d’oeuvre…

Friday’s main stage opener arrives courtesy of Other Lives, throwing in encouraging newbies alongside the meat from last year’s superlative Tamer Animals debut and revelling in their slow-burn mass appeal. Over to the ATP for Constellation folk-poppers Siskiyou, who possess the tunes and a refreshing touch of humour to separate them from their tiresomely-earnest peers. Rufus Wainwright then takes centre stage, or rather that once-in-a-generation voice of his does. Flamboyant yet sincere, he’s the most natural of stars on show this weekend, and seemingly a man who’ll never make a bad record.

It’s then the turn of The Cure, in what is perversely the headline slot (10pm, main stage) regardless of what follows. Milking the billing they play for three hours, we’ll not pretend we stood there for all of it, but what we did catch sounded pretty bloody good, even with the occasional psych jam thrown in.

Sleigh Bells

Having had our fill it’s over to Sleigh Bells – clashing with Napalm Death – but one of the weekend’s non-negotiables. It’s blistering stuff, Alexis making the stage look small with her overwhelming presence while puppetmaster Derek provides the sledgehammer beats’n'guitar screech. Still incredibly exhilirating no matter how many times we’ve seen them.

Taking the energy levels back into negative equity are revived slowcore types Codeine, and it’s hard not to feel totally immersed with their subtle grace; a welcome antidote perhaps, but a thing of extreme beauty whatever the setting.

A couple of stellar tunes from The Drums on Ray-Ban then a trek to the Mini stage – so named due to the unsettlingly blatant sponsorship rather than size – for M83, a band who’ve implausibly become stadium-sized contenders in the last year or so, but who seem to have found their calling, as once more they’re an irresistible force and maybe the band who best summarise this year’s Primavera.

A nightcap at the Pitchfork stage with Matias Aguayo and Rebolledo, the former delivering the party electro while the latter occasionally chips in vocally to effect.

Sharon Van Etten

The final day in real terms is Saturday, and we’ve just about reserved enough energy. Hopefully. Sharon Van Etten presents a relatively light starting point, delivered with verve and assurance; indeed, it’s live when her recent album Tramp really blossoms.

Following Shaz we’ve one of the pre-festival highlights in Kings of Convenience, and how they justify the anticipation; Erlend Oye takes the lead in the duo whether deliberately or otherwise, as a man who would quietly draw all of the attention in any circumstance, you suspect. Musically it serves as a reminder of the countless truly classic songs in their armoury, and why their wit and style has endured way beyond the stool-rock non-scene that accompanied their arrival.

Real Estate

Back over to the Mini, and Beach House underwhelm, falling short of the dynamism required to translate their recorded output to such a vast arena. Conversely, Real Estate make it look very easy on the Pitchfork stage; much like the album you can’t put your finger on what marks them out as more than your standard indie-rock band, but something most definitely does – and that’s where their magic lies.

Now, Shellac, on the ATP stage as we approach the final straight, are one of the aforementioned truly unmissables. While Off! would otherwise present an attractive proposition, Weston and Albini are peerless, and it’s no exaggeration to describe tonight’s show as life-affirming. It’s powerful stuff, understated yet considered, and razor-sharp musically, socially, politically and in any other way a band with purpose should be. Yet it’s also frequently funny. The complete package, an honour to witness.

How can we improve on this? This is how: LFO different proposition but as intense an hour of live music as anything we’ve seen, here or elsewhere. It’s Mark Bell flying solo, with startling visuals and a fearsome display of blistering, relentless techno, taking us through over 20 years of LFO and leaving us exhilirated yet thoroughly exhausted.

And we’re done for, well and truly, but it’s a festival that rivals anything before, and one that will provide vivid goosebump memories for a long long time…

Photo by Florent Giffard

A region famous for delicious cantal cheese, Volvic water and a rather impressive range of (apparently) dormant volcanoes (although one nice old lady I was chatting to told me they’re a bit livelier than people might think), it’s in Clermont-Ferrand that we find ourselves this weekend, heading to the annual celebration of European alternative music culture that is Europavox.

Friday

Friday is the first day of Europavox, providing a handful of specially selected acts before some of that famous French electro fills the evening air. It’s also the perfect time to explore the site, which turns out to be a very nice set up indeed. The event is based in and around the Cooperative de Mai, Clermont-Ferrand’s cultural hub and home to four of the festival’s stages, with two more stages placed in the tree lined courtyard and adjoining gardens. After travelling down from Paris, we arrive at night fall when the festival is already underway, so we rush over to catch Woodkid, who will open our musical Europavox experience.

Woodkid

Photo by Florent Giffard

Occupying La Cooperative de Mai is France’s Woodkid, a man who provides a tale of two sets tonight. The first half of his show is set at a slow, dark and dramatic pace, showcasing brass compositions, maudlin lighting and Woodkid himself, standing centre stage, waving his arms as if conducting the crowd. During the second half however, the tone lifts completely. Electronic beats are mingled with powerful thumps from two drummers, providing a sense of rhythmic symmetry and an almighty, booming bass tone. It’s during the latter half of the set that it feels as though Woodkid has managed to really connect with his audience, who are revelling in the dramatic rises and falls of tracks from album Run Boy Run. Woodkid is certainly at his best during this second half of the show, but that’s not to write off the power and intimacy of the slower tracks he chose to open with which, in the right time and setting, could have been equally as stirring as his heavier songs.

The Shoes

French duo The Shoes leave their guitars and indie-pop persuasion behind tonight, as they take to the decks to provide the Friday night party tunes. It’s a night of indie slanted electro that’s fired through the speakers, as the Parisian pair do what they do best – get a crowd going – and have a pretty good time themselves while doing it.

Saturday

We Trust

Making sure to arrive early for Saturday’s music, the artist that will commence our evening is Portugal’s We Trust, who entrances from the get-go with what We Trust mainman (and notable film maker, we might add) Andre Tentugal describes as ‘Free Pop’. Sweet and groove laden basslines are combined with tales of space and time, providing a bright and melodious introduction to the festival’s second day.

Django Django

Photo by Juan Alonso

It’s already been well established that Django Django are an outstanding live band. Signed to French label Because, the band have worked and toured hard in France and have achieved an exceptional reputation as a result. So that’s perhaps how Django Django have come to find themselves on the immense stage of this daunting arena, the Forum, bringing their fusion of tropical melodies, ringing synths and hypnotic rhythms to this crowd of thousands. Rather than feel intimidated, the London based four-piece embrace the energy of their audience to provide one of the most captivating performances we’ve seen from the band yet.

1995

France is traditionally best known (in wider circles) for producing two kinds of music: electro, and rap. We sampled some of the finer points of French electro last night, when dancing about the Palais Des Glaces for the packed out Shoes DJ set, so now it’s time for a bit of the latter. 1995 (pronounced un-neuf-neuf-cinq) are one of France’s most touted rap/hip-hop acts of the moment, hailing from Paris and gaining their reputation through a few key releases, but primarily, from their highly charged live performances. What’s impressive tonight is the use of vocal tone and harmonies within the spoken word, as the collective charge about the stage, stirring the crowd and dancing to their 90s tinged backing tracks. A highly enjoyable performance from the Parisians, who are ensuring that they keep that French rap crown polished and shined.

Photo by Juan Alonso

A Classic Education

Next, we return to the Palais des Glaces, or the Spiegeltent as many a British festival goer will know it. A Classic Education from Bologna, Italy are already underway as we arrive in the packed tent, and we quickly see why. The stage is full of band members, spilling from the stage onto the dancefloor and emanating from the speakers is a lush, guitar and vocal led trail of melancholy and musings. The music is truly beautiful, hinting at influences from Arcade Fire and Beirut, with irresistible cadences backing sublime vocal harmonies. We’re just sorry we didn’t arrive on time to hear the whole thing, but from what we did hear, we can safely say that this young band were the unquestionable discovery of the weekend.

BRNS

A Belgian act is the next to greet us, going by the name of BRNS and conjuring an engrossing blend of rousing beats, vocal repetitions and guitar led build ups and breakdowns. It’s a pretty inspiring mix that gets the crowd well and truly moving, as the four piece fire their way through their repertoire, with single ‘Mexico’ proving to be a particular hit. There’s dancing, jumping, consideration and nodding happening all at once in the Palais des Glaces when BRNS are on the stage, proving themselves to be an appealing live act as well as a rousing one on record.

Photo by Juan Alonso

Sun Glitters

One of the most highly anticipated acts of the weekend, for The Line of Best Fit anyway, Sun Glitters is charged with closing the club stage tonight. And what a party he provides. Completely entrancing, the Luxembourg-based producer is captivating as he leans over his host of equipment, mixing, producing and triggering his way to a euphoric set climax. It’s not always easy to transfer such ambient electronica to a live setting, but Sun Glitters manages it with ease, completely lost in the music himself, and inviting all spectators and listeners to join him and do the same. So we do, until the dying seconds of his set when we’re forced to come back to earth and get a bit of shut eye for the festival’s final day which is fast approaching.

Viljasoit Rohelisse by Birgit Pauklin

And so, back to the beautiful Estonian capital of Tallinn with it’s stunning Old Town, it’s peaked medieval towers and winding cobbled streets, vaulted concert halls, bustling bars and basement rock clubs, for all the wonders on offer at Tallinn Music Week 2012.

The city’s history is visible in buildings like the Sõprus cinema: an imposing piece of Soviet architecture that houses a fantastic converted film auditorium with the original screen still in place – a vast wall, flickering with patterns of light, that sets the mood of the Friday night party of choice hosted by Odessa Pop.

Candy Empire open, playing stylish retro guitar-pop. The band was started by one member of now-defunct breakthrough Estonian indie band Opium Flirt, but this project treads a more stylised path, with a vintage feel to their look and artwork as well as their sound. Candy Empire’s remixes reveal a dance sensibility underlying this early incarnation: as a young project, you get the feeling they have potential they are still discovering. But for now, Candy Empire make quite light songs with the charm of early Blondie, and their aesthetic is seductive.

After four days of trying, I think I’m getting close to being able to say Valjasoit Rohelisse (pronounced Val-Ya-Sweet Ro-Hell-Ease). This enthralling four-piece started slowly, drowned the swaying audience with swathes of echoing noise and passages of hypnotic minimalism, disappearing behind a wall of swirling smoke and emerging as their throbbing, dark repetitions slowly chased it away. Their compositions ebbed and flowed invitingly, pushing their persuasive, teasing tendrils through the crowd and making the air feel thick with sound. Like Kreatiivmootor last year, this is a band that emerges fully formed, and could hold their own on stages around the world; in fact, with a new album on the way, it feels necessary that they do exactly that.

Zebra Island by Birgit Pauklin

On Saturday, Zebra Island open proceedings at Von Krahl, the central theatre of the festival, with their dreamy pop-sound, like a Baltic Beach House perhaps. We then embarked on a whirlwind trip across town to the underground Rock Cafe for Russian five-piece Motorama. In front of a whooping crowd, they played an impassioned new-wave-inflected set with a lack of pretension that stretched to an accomplished (irony-free) cover of Althea and Donna’s Uptown Top Ranking. Andres Lõo followed, playing exciting, intense electronic pop with crooned poetic non-sequiturs and bringing to mind Bryan Ferry, as produced by Ariel Pink and styled by Daniel Agust. But time was tight, and with a packed schedule of performances happening all over the city, we reluctantly left mid-set.

Back at Von Krahl, Talbot are whipped up a thunderous sound. The drum kit took up half the stage, behind them sitting heavily tattoed, utterly solid percussionist Jarmo Nuutre, who beat his instruments within an inch of their lives with pummelling brutality and an almost balletic grace. Distorted basslines form their blunt, powerful tunes, and a dual vocal played a melodic rock vocal off against Nuutre’s guttural doom-metal roar. Talbot marry bone-crunching force with dextrous musicality.

Kreatiivmootor were a clear highlight last year, creating a new problem for me: a sound so utterly vivid and vital it’s difficult to portray it in words. True to form, they’ve moved on in the last twelve months: from a set built on a base of a pounding 4×4 techno rhythm, they’ve decided to explore abstract improvised melody with the same adroit experimentalism. Roomet Jakapi is a live-wire frontman, not still for second, rocking and twitching his way around the stage, getting into an improvised in-depth discussion with a saxophone, or gripping his effects table with white knuckles and vibrating as if electrocuted. Few bands can keep speed with the vast imagination of Japanese rhythmic-noise collective Boredoms, but this is one of them. Kreatiivmootor are lightning in a bottle – teeming with energy, truly unique and utterly special.

Kreatiivmootor by Birgit_Pauklin

These are just highlights amongst the many other bands that could have been mentioned, like the triumphant pop sound of Rubik, the odd electronic pop constructions of ÖÄK and the promising shoegaze-inflected guitar music of The New Tigers. But it’s a testament to the quality on offer at Tallinn Music Week that of the ten bands mentioned in this piece it seemed there were ten more I wanted to see but couldn’t, ten more I got recommendations for, and ten more after that.

Estonia’s mingling of Russian and Nordic cultures is a widely held perception, but after this mind-blowing display of the experimental eclecticism and joyfully creativity of the Tallinn scene, the comparison starts to seem irrelevant. Estonia has just been clearing it’s throat these last few years, and now this little country is singing with a distinctive voice all of it’s own.

Tallinn Music Week

In the aftermath of SXSW, Canadian Music Week provides a mixture of the old guard (with a line-up including Slash and a keynote from Free/ Bad Company/ Queen frontman Paul Rogers, as well as reformations from the likes of I Mother Earth and Treble Charger) and some of the country’s newest talents as it takes over the resolutely unseasonal city of Toronto for a week of shows and award ceremonies.

Wednesday:

The balance of old and new is in full effect at CMW’s opening event at the CN tower. Confused tourist mingle with confused music fans at the bottom of the tower before taking the glass elevator up the 30+ floors to the CN Tower restaurant where Nova Scotians Ben Caplan and The Joel Plaskett Emergency were waiting. You can insert your own “highest band in the world” jokes here – you wouldn’t be the only one. Joking aside, the tower has got to go down as one of the most spectacular venues to play, and both relative newcomer Caplan and the much travelled Plaskett clearly raise their games for the show. Despite the early start, the prodigiously bearded Caplan manages to engage the crowd in some rousing sing-alongs, performing with a relentless energy that captivates the audience. Its an energy that seems to carry him around the city all week, as one of the festivals most active artists – Caplan seemingly appears with his guitar around every corner of Toronto, catering his numerous sets to the specific environment, be it the rowdiness of the bar or the more restrained environs of a radio live room as part of the conference element of the festival.

Plaskett, on the other hand, is a seasoned and well-beloved performer. While on UK shores he has tended to play with a more stripped down restraint, here with his band the Emergency at his side he positively tears through a set composed primarily of his latest album, while throwing in some memorable moments from past records for good measure. Plaskett has a knack for writing crunchy, feel good power-pop, a perfect fit as the sun pours in through the windows, and across the city.

Thursday:

Like Joel Plaskett, John K Samson also stands as a much loved flag bearer for literate, thoughtful rock music with a particularly Canadian context. Where Plaskett’s songwriting is often laced with references to his Nova Scotian home, Samson’s homage to his home is even more overt – The Weakerthans frontman’s solo album, Province deals with stories and tales inspired by and about his Manitoban home, taking in tales of cruising up and down Portage and Main in Winnipeg, researching in the Manitoba archives and petitioning for membership of the Hockey Hall Of Fame for “The Riverton Rifle” Reggie Leach. While one could fear that such an academic and geographically specific approach to songwriting may exclude many, any such fears are delayed the moment Samson steps onstage to a packed Great Hall. With “The Provincial Band” consisting of Shotgun Jimmie (who opens the evening), Doug Friesen of The Bidini Band and Doug MacGregor of The Constantines, Samson gleefully delivers a set that draws heavily from the Provincial record, the grins of the the delighted faces in the crowd matching those onstage. Samson’s way with a melody and pop-hook is as evident as ever, the set perfectly balanced with dynamic highs and lows, while some of the most affecting moments were those of silence: the crowd hushed, beer bottles aloft as he recites “Elegy For Gump Worsley”, and again for Weakerthans favourite “Virtute The Cat Explains Her Departure”, for which Samson takes to the front of the stage and sings unplugged and unmic-ed before the whole crowd joins for the chorus.

Friday:

Having caught a couple of more established acts (all be it performing new works), Friday starts early with a showcase presented by Kelp Records and You’ve Changed at Saving Gigi’s coffee shop, a place that seems to act as a cultural hub for the Bloor-Ossington area of the city. As we arrived, Ian Kehoe’s Marine Dreams were taking the floor with their finely constructed lo-fi. Despite playing with a stand in drummer (who, to his credit, underplayed his parts and therefore fitted in perfectly), Kehoe’s fuzzy-pop gems are delivered perfectly, allowing the subtlety of his writing to shine. Adam and The Amethysts follow, marking the one year anniversary of meeting their label in the same venue. Now performing as a two piece, with guitar and cello or piano, the songs take on a more understated tone. The Weather Station brings the afternoon to a close with a solo performance, her delicately fingerpicked melancholic melodies delighting the assembled crowd.

If Saving Gigi was a haven for caffeine fuelled folk melancholy the unfortunately named Bovine Sex Club is not. Yet to the Bovine it is, to witness a performance that couldn’t be further from the afternoon’s understated nature if it tried: Toronto’s own Biblical brought forth old-school stoner rock riffs; heavy, loud and melodic, with plenty of moments of rock posturing to boot, their frontman careening into the crowd with his bass, standing before the gathered throng in wide legged pose. Whether driven by pummeling bass, soulful organ or a guitar workout the music shifts and evolves throughout, providing the perfect aural palette cleanser. A short walk up Spadina takes us to the upstairs of Rancho Relaxo in time for a set by Montreal power trio CTZNSHP. Although the band has only a small crowd at the start of their set, it’s not long before the fuzzy, charging songs have people gathering around the stage. For a band with just one self-released EP to their name so far, the 40 minute set is impressive, with atmospheric and fuzzy guitars building on a taut rhythm section, frontman Jesse letting out the occasional larynx shredding yelp. Having already landed support slots for the likes of Yuck and Here We Go Magic, and with an album in the works, it will be interesting to see how their sound develops over time. Following their set there is just time to get to El Mocambo, where DZ Deathrays are playing what seems to be their 100th show of the festival. Unfortunately for them, a post 2am timeslot + Multiple showcases doesn’t equal a huge or active crowd.

Saturday:

Having missed their set at the Arts and Crafts showcase the night previous, we head to Sonic Boom Records for an In-store from Zeus. With mirrored walls, aisle upon aisle of new and used vinyl, cds and retro hifi-equipment, a visit to Sonic Boom’s new location feels a little like stepping in to the set of Empire Records. Except with Damien Abrahams as Jack Black. And indeed, sure enough, over in the corner is said gentleman, enthusing over his latest purchases. If he had announced that it was Rex Manning day, I probably would have believed him. Despite the resolutely rainy afternoon Zeus showcase tracks from their sunny sophomore record Busting Visions, as well as a few old favourites. The band have clearly honed their songwriting, with each track having an easy familiarity. With rotating frontmen and songwriters, there is plenty of variety, and no shortage of classic rock hooks- the standout track being album opener ‘Are you going to waste my time?’, which seems destined to be played repeatedly over the course of many long hot summers to come.

With band reunions an increasingly common occurrence these days, it is little surprise that there are a number of reunions at CMW. The Inbreds reunion show that closed CMW on Saturday night however feels different. 14 years after the band originally folded, there is no tour, and no record to promote (other than some original 7”s that seem to have emerged from under a bed and onto the unmanned merch table). However, there is a real sense of community for both the band and the audience, some of whom were evidently seeing each other again for the first time in about …14 years. Even singer Mike O’Neil seems bemused by the enthusiasm shown for the band, asking “Why are you all paying so much attention?”. But paying attention they are, and the Bass and Drum duo waste little time in mining the melodic, crooning alt-rock that makes up their back catalog. In one of the week’s unlikeliest moments, the encore saw drummer Dave Ulrich and O’Neil trade instruments, with varying levels of success. Luckily, Ulrich’s decision to come on for the encore dressed as 70’s Elvis replete with golden cape more than made up for any technical shortfalls. It seemed a suitably light-hearted way to end a festival that managed to bring out the best of both the old guard and newcomers to the Canadian music scene.

Photo by Jason Williamson

Ever wondered what life on the road’s really like? Is it quite as Spinal Tap as we all hope it’s going to be? All freaking out about small bread and whacking things up to 11? Well wonder no more, as Theme Park share a video diary and some choice snaps of their recent UK tour to enlighten us on what’s it’s like to voyage across the UK in a splitter van, and to find out about some of the shenanigans that ensued. All we’re going to say is that this band has got some sweet moves. Some sweet, sweet moves.

“So we’ve been playing shows around the UK for a few weeks now. We’ve had a great time playing our joint headline tour with The Cast Of Cheers and we finished the tour supporting Florence and The Machine at Alexandra Place which was pretty ace! Anyway, we put some photos and videos together for people to see what we’ve been up to, hope you enjoy… and thanks to everyone who came to see us!”

Marcus hanging by the splitter.

King of the tour…

Oscar warming up before our show at Birmingham HMV Institute!

Late night service station fun.

Oscar being casual.

Castle Hotel in Manchester.

Ric and our guitars.

Little Chef breakfast!

Miles eats a banana next to tour manager AL.

Hanging out at Stone Henge.

Chilling by a fountain in Bristol.

Friday, 9 March

We get underway courtesy of Elephant 6 Holiday Surprise, a 12-headed beast comprising members of Elf Power, Neutral Milk Hotel and various less-celebrated acts from the titular psych-folk collective. Largely playing the hits (such as they are) of their main bands, the set alternates between jaunty melodicism and wonky beauty, and by gosh, it looks like they’re having fun. Climaxing with a gleeful Sun Ra cover, their winning enthusiasm spreads across the possibly-too-sober ATP crowd, making for a thoroughly pleasant means of warming into festival mode.

Veteran performance artist Charlemagne Palestine follows – opening with some heavily-treated electronic drones, his grinning visage lit up by the glow of the laptop screen (insert your own ‘just checking his Facebook’ gag here). A grand piano bedecked with stuffed toys looming ominously on stage left. It’s his second trip to Minehead, but his first on a bigger stage – “I’ll do what I can,” he promises, before howling eerily into the mic whilst rubbing his finger along the rim of a wine glass. It’s unsettlingly sparse, but utterly beautiful. In what looks likely to be a recurring theme of the festival, the strains of the second stage thump through the floorboards from the room below. But rather than detracting from the performance, it forces us to concentrate harder, making the experience even more rewarding. You could theorise wildly for months on end about Charlemagne’s bizarre, fractured journeys into repetitive minimalism (incidentally, he prefers the term “maximalism”) and still not come close to describing the strange exhilaration of his music. Its peaks are as thrilling as any fully-charged punk band, and as heartbreaking as the most fragile ballad. Admittedly, watching him play a series of piano intervals for fifty minutes gets a little draining, but fuck man, what a ride.

The annual ‘Bill Murray is at ATP’ rumour is already ping-ponging across the Twittersphere by the time festival curator Jeff Mangum makes his first of two appearances. He’s understandably one of the most eagerly-anticipated performers of the weekend, as indicated by the near-religious fervour which greets his entrance. ‘Two-Headed Boy Pt 2’ is first outta the cage, and the audience watches in rapturous silence. Everyone’s favourite resurgent reclusive doesn’t really attempt to engage with the crowd, although you could argue that the sheer volume of willing hearts held out before him means he doesn’t really have to. In any case, it’s ok – we’re only just getting reacquainted, after all. ‘Holland, 1945’ and ‘Song Against Sex’ provide some jauntier moments, while all three parts of ‘The King Of Carrot Flowers’ inspire a spine-tingling singalong from the transcendently-happy congregation of fuzz-folk fans. There are cameos from Scott Spillane and Julian Koster, prompting the possibly-irrelevant question of why they didn’t just go ahead with a full Neutral Milk Hotel set. All in all, though, it’s hard not to go along with the crowd’s devotion to those wonderful songs, and indeed the reluctant genius singing them.

Joanna Newsom

We pop our heads round the door for Joanna Newsom, whose ethereal charms still hold sway over the affections of the male-heavy crowd. Love her or hate her (and most here seem to be in the former camp), she’s pretty darn captivating. Young Marble Giants’ post-punk jams are as menacingly brooding as ever, although the effect is tempered slightly when their computer-generated backdrop crashes, leaving them to play in front of a rather less impressive Windows menu. Luckily, The Raincoats are on fire, tearing through what seems like their entire recorded output with inspirational levels of energy and zeal. They’re just about trumped by a triumphant set from Half Japanese – Jad Fair beams throughout, clearly thrilled to be here, while the band raise the rowdiest of ruckuses behind him. Sumptuous pop hooks, thunderous strafes of Some Velvet Sidewalk-style axe heroism, and an irresistible rendition of old favourite ‘Red Dress’ – this, kids, is how you play a rock show.

There’s slightly less fizz during Thurston Moore’s hour on the main stage. As ever, it’s impressive – would you expect anything less from the Sonic Youth guitarist? – but it never quite topples over into ‘incredible’. There are nice outings for old friends like ‘Ono Soul’, alongside the Red House Painters flavour of his recent material, but we’re left feeling like a kid who was promised a day at the ice cream factory but had to spend the majority of it in the packaging room.

Elephant 6 Holiday Surprise

Luckily Mike Watt and George Hurley are here to ensure the day doesn’t end on a downer. It’s commendable that they opt to perform a set of Minutemen classics as a duo, rather than hiring some unwanted fanboy lunkhead to fill in for the much-missed d. Boon, and even if the songs seem a little more empty than usual, they’re no less powerful or downright awesome than you’d hope. The reunited Jon Spencer Blues Explosion feel a little extraneous after that, although the leather-trousered frontman still conjures up a good sweaty party. He doesn’t seem to shout ‘BLOOZE SPLOSHUN’ as much as TLOBF remembers, but even so, it’s been a pretty fucking solid opening day.

We sent news editor Lauren Down over to Texas for this year’s South By Southwest festival – the annual showcase of everything new and wonderful in music, film and interactivity. Over the next few days she’ll be bringing you the highlights of the musical portion of the festival.

Dipping my toes into the SXSW pool before diving in head first, Monday night finds me at Mohawk listening to the visceral, scuzzy, surf pop anthems of Wavves. Every tier and balcony is rammed, there are a few people who look like they are moments away from diving into the crowd below in the frenzied hope they will be crowd surfed to the front. Helping my jet lag fade into obscurity the swirling mosh pit and the distinctive pop-punk leaning of opening track ‘King of the Beach’ could not be a more perfect welcome to Austin, Texas.

Before you can say “tequila shot” it’s Tuesday and the streets are swarming with Interactive Badge holders talking about Jay Z’s show the night before, but as the Interactive portion of the festival comes to end it is music’s time to shine and this evening offers the first official batch of performances.

Teengirl Fantasy

Kicking things off early, Pitchfork are helping celebrate the interactive side of things with their showcase at Mohawk with performances from Teengirl Fantasyand Shlohmo. Merging rich atmospherics, heady beats and a gently drifting ambience Shlohmo has pulled in most of the crowd while Amsterdam’s Teengirl Fantasy snaring drums and bedroom sounds cling to the air.

Dustin Wong

Can’t stay too long though, Dustin Wong is playing at Swan Dive. A founding member of Baltimore’s Ponytail and responsible for their incredibly intricate guitar lines Wong cuts a humble, unassuming figure as he steps on stage. With only one electric guitar in hand (and about 10 different effects pedals) the virtuoso live loops just about everything he does: creating the most complex, layered, vibrant and dense sound. Every guitar note is distinguished, everything is deliberate and the results are pretty mind blowing.

Ume

Taking a very different approach are Austin’s very own Ume who we dash over to see at Bat Bar. Front woman and vocalist Lauren Larson looks pretty stressed when we arrive, but it’s ok, whatever was going wrong with the back line during their soundcheck she channelled the frustration into her incredible performance. Thrashing around stage, swinging her guitar around like a veritable rock star she gives it everything she has got; the bold bravado of her stage persona carrying the howling guitars and tight drums beats through a set that includes highlights from last year’s Phantoms LP ‘Captive’ and ‘Hurricane II’.

Waving goodbye to any chance of remembering the rest of the evening with any clarity we head through the ever busying streets to see Tame Impala side project Pond at Club de Ville.

Photographs by Lauren Down

Fanfarlo recently played a special show in South Korea, and have sent The Line of Best Fit some of the snaps and stories from along the way.

A couple of weeks ago we headed 12 hours and 9 time zones to the east to play a show in South Korea. It’s a bit of a long way to go so we decided to stick around for a couple of days and take it all in.

After playing in a building shaped like a ski slope on our second night, we were free to go off and spend the next 3 days drinking soju, eating kimchi and climbing to the top of a very tall and beautiful tower -all life enhancing stuff, except possibly the 3 hours Justin spent getting excited about, looking for and then eventually walking around, the ‘cheap clothes market’.

But the highlight of the trip was undoubtedly the day we spent at the DMZ, the demilitarised zone, peering over the border at North Korea, thinking about that awesome DVD collection. Justin even managed to grab a pic of this mysterious and sinister place (see below), risking his life in the process, as photography was forbidden and all the dudes there had guns. Alas, only two days later we were back on British soil, with our own comparatively small dvd collections. We’re not worried though, we know that many more strange and wonderous adventures await us on future exotic trips: Leeds, Liverpool, Manchester, Bristol and Brighton and your respective slightly out of town Travelodges, here we come!

Fanfarlo silhouetted against North Korea.  To take this picture you have to stand behind a line painted on the floor some distance away so as not to photograph militarily sensitive areas. You can look at them but not take home evidence.

Justin contemplates his next tattoo.

Amos plays hide and seek in the Royal Palace.

Big pagoda on a boracic afternoon. Seriously it was -11c.

Ah! Princess Cathy.

That alignment of angle betwixt roof and mountain is no harmonious accident. They thought about this shit!

Oh yeah, we played a show too!

The venue might have been a little bigger than we were used to…

View from Joint Security Area.

Guard at last station before border. The line has been built anticipating a reunification that so far remains elusive. Dude was cool.

 Fanfarlo will release their new album Room Filled With Light through Atlantic Records on the 27 February, and can be caught at the following dates: 

22 Feb – The Wardrobe, Leeds
23 February – Stereo, Glasgow
24 February - Cluny, Newcastle
25 February - Static Gallery, Liverpool
27 February – Thekla, Bristol
29 February – The Blind Tiger Club, Brighton
01 March – Scala, London

Mesparrow by Ro Cemm

Brighton’s Vive La France! festival celebrated its fourth anniversary this year, and invited some of France’s newest and brightest talent to hop across la Manche and to show England’s south coast what our Gallic neighbours are made of.

Thursday 26 January

Kicking off our evening on the first night of Vive La France! is Mesparrow, whose opening song leaves many in the crowd gathered at Brighton’s Green Door Store with an open mouth. While by now we may all be (over)familiar with loop pedals being used onstage, the Tours based Mesparrow dazzles with her vocal dexterity – while her Billie Holiday infused tones are a delight in themselves, she breaks off mid song to record a loop of outstandingly realistic mouth trumpet, adding bird calls and saw to the mix as well. Throw in some beat-boxing and it is quite the show opening. While using pre-recorded vocal samples as well as live-looping the textures Mesparrow creates are impressive. However, as can often be the case, the logistical implications of building layers in the live environment do cause the momentum to drop at times during the set. Closing with a of cover of Cole Porter’s ‘My Heart Belongs To Daddy’, Mesparrow skips from vulnerable chanteuse to a full on bluesy foot stomper and back, before closing her set by standing at the mic, swaying in and out of phase and repeating the song’s title like a skipping record.

François and the Atlas Mountains by Ro Cemm

While Mesparrow may have been a minimal affair, the same cannot be said for the Francois and The Atlas Mountains approach: with two synth players playing from the floor (the stage not being big enough to hold either them or their choreographed dance moves), two drummer/percussionists and Francois himself presiding over a hazey, woozy pop sound that suggests that both he and Dan Bajar have been sipping from the same cup. Elsewhere there are healthy helpings of lo-fi, afrobeat and the occasional percussive workout that sees Francois head out into the audience with his glittering microphone. So often language is held up as a barrier to ‘getting’ artists, but as Francois himself states from the stage: “Most of the words to the next song are in French. But don’t worry, they are all good words.” What really speaks volumes here is the quality of the music – while it may be his debut for Domino, E Volo Love is Francois’ fifth album, which has given him plenty of time to hone his knack for a melody.

François and the Atlas Mountains by Ro Cemm

By Ro Cemm.

Friday 27 January

Friday kicks off in much the same manner as the evening before, by heading down to the deepest underbelly of Brighton’s train station, to The Green Door Store. Awaiting us there are spritely Toulousain four-piece Sing Sing My Darling who are making a great job of warming up the evening’s crowd. Championing a brand of guitar led rowdy indie with a pop persuasion, the band power through a short but sweet set, announcing themselves to the UK scene as a colourful, vibrant and highly energetic live proposition. Although a very young band, there’s no lack of confidence and the enthusiasm emanating from the stage is contagious enough to get the early arrivals at the venue shuffling contentedly.

Next, it’s a quick sprint down the road to make sure that we arrive at the festival’s other venue, The Hope, in plenty of time to catch arguably the most hyped of all of the bands on the festival’s billing, Concrete Knives. Hailing from Caen and having spent their week in the UK impressing the likes of Steve Lamacq and crowds in London, Bristol and all along the south coast, the band are now charged with the responsibility of wooing a Friday night Brightonian crowd.

The hectic week has unfortunately taken its toll on vocalist Nicolas Delahaye’s throat, and although managing to convincingly make his way through the group’s set list, also very convincingly demonstrates the state of his shredded vocal chords during inter song chit-chat. Despite illness in the ranks however, the show is thoroughly enjoyable with the band’s highly charged live presence sweeping through the venue and menacing everyone in it’s way. Vocalist Morgane Colas enchants the crowd as the rest of the group throw every last ounce of remaining energy into the mix, ensuring that although sonically slightly blighted due to a heavy working week, the show is nothing less than excellent.

Photo: Sebastien Dehesdin

As Concrete Knives draw to a noisy and elated end, we hot-foot it back to The Green Door Store to catch the last couple of tracks from Phoebe Killdeer and The Short Straws. With a sound that would nestle itself somewhere between Juliette and the Licks and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the show is well and truly in full swing as we arrive. Inciting a constant stream of audience participation, combined with a fantastically rousing energy, the show is extremely lively and musically, it’s pretty damn good too. The live show adds a power and spark to the band’s songs that doesn’t necessarily translate upon a first listen of the album but which, on stage, proves to be riveting, evocative and exceedingly entertaining.

Photo: Sebastien Dehesdin

The final act of the evening comes courtesy of Paris’s Turzi who, for the next hour shall entertain the crowd by using his vast array of electronic knick-knacks and super-processed vocals to conjure up sweeping soundscapes and the best of very modern, very involving Parisian house music. The songs are intricate and carefully constructed with Turzi (aka Romain Turzi) concentrating solely on the production elements of his show. This doesn’t make for the most riveting of on-stage performances, but the music soaring from the PA is well worth the stationary presence on stage.

As Friday turns into Saturday, only one performance remains and that’s a closing show from the sumptuous Mélanie Pain of Nouvelle Vague. Taking place in the plush surroundings of the Duke of York’s cinema, Mélanie and her two piece band enchant a captivated audience with hushed folk melodies with adorable pop vocals, the chanteuse whispering sultry French musings to the sold out crowd. Bringing the festival ever so softly, ever so gently to a close, Mélanie has been a vital player in a festival that has succeeded in transposing some of the brightest Gallic talent from our nearest neighbours to the palettes of England’s south coast. Vive la France? Vive la musique française! Et à la prochaine édition!

By Francine Gorman

Photo Credit: Ro Cemm

While Les Rencontres Trans Musicales was taking over every other corner of Rennes last weekend, a plush theatre by the city’s airport was playing host to a rather special event. Kütu Folk is an artist led record label based in Clermont-Ferrand, and is the home to such delightful acts as Kim Novak, Soso, St Augustine, Evening Hymns, Leopold Skin and The Delano Orchestra. It’s a label renowned throughout France not only for its consistent output, but also for the care and attention attributed to the creation of its physical products which appear in hand embroidered cardboard sleeves. To celebrate the work of the label, Les Rencontres Trans Musicales invited a whole host of acts from the Kütu Folk family to take over an extremely comfortable theatre, L’Aire L’Ibre.

The Delano Orchestra

Each night began with two sets from artists on the label, before all of the bands took the stage to form a ‘Kütu Folk supergroup’ who would then reproduce a song from each artist in the catalogue.  Incorporating like-minded artists from France, the US (former Minus Story and Shearwater man Jordan Geiger) and Canada (Evening Hymns and SoSo) the shows truly felt like a family affair. A five day run in the same place clearly created a special bond between the artists and their energy, engagement and enthusiasm most definitely transferred to the audience. Once St. Augustine had brought the crowd to their feet to sing along to his sprightly indie-pop workout, the audience remained standing for the rest of the set, with the joy of the artists lending the show a feeling of communal catharsis.

One of France’s most successful and original indies, Kütu Folk are more than worthy candidates to have hosted this special series of showcases at this highly prestigious event. With the new year promising a whole heap of new releases from the label’s outstanding roster, it’s only a matter of time before the name ‘Kütu Folk’ becomes as celebrated here in the UK as it already is in France.

Have a listen to what exactly it is that this marvellous label produces either by downloading a free sampler or by listening to the stream below.

By Ro Cemm and Francine Gorman

Photographs provided by Les Rencontres Trans Musicales.

SBTRKT at Trans Musicales

Over the past few years, France has made a name for itself as the place to be for autumnal/wintery music festivals. Pitchfork decided to hold an October edition of their festival in Paris this year, the brilliant French music and culture mag Les Inrockuptibles takes over a whole host of Parisian venues for a week every November before Les Rencontres Trans Musicales, one of France’s longest running new music festivals moves into the Breton city of Rennes for one very busy weekend each December.

Now into its 33rd year, Les Rencontres Trans Musicales has become not only the musical highlight of the Brittany calendar, but also one of the most important places for new acts to be heard and seen in France, alongside the seminal new music festival Printemps de Bourges. The city is well and truly taken over by the festival, with bars, clubs, cafes, theatres, book shops, venues, airline hangers and exhibition spaces being filled with a vast selection of artists from all over the place. The whole town embraces Les Trans Musicales festival which brings around 10,000 music hungry spectators to its boundaries every year. It first began in 1979 from the mind of Jean-Louis Brossard, an inspiring character who has organised and programmed Les Trans since its very beginning. He picks the bands, he invites the bands, he puts the bands in front of huge audiences – essentially, he is Les Rencontres Trans Musicales and he’s prepared quite a line-up for the 2011 edition.

Thursday

The festival begins in a variety of venues around the centre of the city on Thursday night. It’s a similar set up to The Great Escape or Camden Crawl, with every corner being taken over with the intention of uncovering new music and packing out the venue. It’s the place to create a buzz about your band, and one group which has clearly managed to do this is La Femme, a bleached blond troupe of feisty young musicians who play in the sweaty downstairs of a packed bar, Le Sambre. Braving the heat and close confinement of the venue for a few minutes, most of the band’s spectators are soon forced to return to the upstairs bar for air where fortunately, the band’s music is still extremely audible and the concert is shown on TV screens. The band impress with their pop hooks, synthesized melodies and spritely, energetic show, ensuring that although their concert is one of the first of the festival, it won’t be easily topped.

One thing that will prove to be problematic throughout the festival’s in-town events (a kind of Fringe festival known as Les Bars en Trans) is the scheduling of the shows. All of the concerts take place at the same time, meaning that in order to try and catch a glimpse of the distinctive blonde mops of La Femme, we had to pass up the opportunity to witness Montreal’s sumptuous Monogrenade. Likewise, Mister Heavenly were sacrificed (not literally) in order to catch the much talked about Crâne Angels in a bar across town. Getting wise to how this would work, we arrive at Bar’Hic much earlier than the allotted time slot for Crâne Angels, in the hope of being able to see and hear a bit more successfully than at the previous show. Mission accomplished and although the bar is still full to bursting, we’re able to fully experience the ‘choral pop rock’ advertised in the programme. The music provided by the Bordeaux collective is highly enjoyable, at times echoing the soaring pop vocals of Treefight for Sunlight, at other times conjuring massive chants, carefully placed over the top of lively, chaotic arrangements. It’s a great show, and well worth the hustle and bustle of getting to the venue.

Friday

Hanni El Khatib at Trans Musicales

Friday is when the hardcore music watching activity begins. Concerts are plotted at venues throughout Rennes from 2pm right through to 5am Saturday morning, and after struggling to see who we’d intended to last night, we’re on a mission to catch everything we want to today. The day begins with another ‘listening experience’, as crowded conditions prevent us from actually entering the room to see Renne’s very own Juveniles, one of Kitsuné’s most recent squeezes. Hanging around though, we are gifted with the synth-pop sounds and visions of Splash Wave, a colourful, energetic, double denim sporting French duo. As first they confuse, then they entertain and although the music might be a little bit too ‘euro-electro’ for this reviewer’s taste, the show is very enjoyable.

Next on the Trans Musicales tour is a 20 minute bus journey out of town to Le Parc Expo – a series of great halls which, from the size of them, you’d imagine are normally reserved for events such as the Good Food Show, or Gardener’s World. These vast aircraft hangers are taken over for the weekend to host bars, stages, DJ booths, food stands and of course, a whole host of bands. The length of journey to reach Le Parc Expo means that all inner city shows for the evening must be sacrificed, so again this issue of having to miss bands is raised but the line up awaiting us at Le Parc Expo is far superior to that found in town tonight. As we arrive, Hanni El Khatib is warming up one corner of an immense hall. The space is a bit big for his guitar/drum sound so the setting’s not ideal but unphased and as unabashed as ever, Khatib goes about his business transforming the cool, sterile air of the vast room into a buzzing, rowdy space.

Breton at Trans Musicales

The first act to tickle our fancy at Le Parc Expo is Breton who play a startling show on what must be the largest stage they’ve ever graced. Working their way through tracks from their forthcoming debut album due out next year through Fat Cat, the London five-piece fill the stage with remarkable ease. ‘The Well’ is a stand out track, as is latest single ‘Edward The Confessor’ and the accompanying films projected on a huge backdrop make the show not only musically impressive, but visually brilliant. It was a big ask for this young group to play such an important spot in such an immense venue, but it worked perfectly well.

Crossing to the other side of Le Parc Expo, we spend a few highly entertaining minutes with Norway’s Kakkmaddafakka before stumbling upon a great discovery – New Zealand’s Orchestra of Spheres. New Zealand is making some great music at the moment, and this band typifies the sort of off-the-wall, wandering, colourful musical messiness that the country seems to make so well. The music is bewildering yet catchy, engaging and strange, but all the while completely delightful – a definite highlight of the festival so far.

Orchestra of Spheres at Trans Musicales

After catching a few minutes of Colin Stetson‘s saxophonic musings, it’s off to hear the last rumblings of Norway’s Todd Terje before SBTRKT takes to the same huge stage earlier occupied by compatriots Breton. Having brought along main collaborator Sampha, the pair manage to whip the massive crowd up into a frenzy with tracks lovingly reproduced from the eponymously titled record. The stand out song of the set is most certainly ‘Wildfire’, and although a bit of the top end magic of SBTRKT’s music is lost in the vast space of the hall, the concert is still extremely memorable.

Next comes the inevitable lull, which is unavoidable when you started watching bands at 2pm and look at your watch to realise that it’s now 2.30am and the next band you want to see starts at 4am. After pulling ourselves out of this mood however, we manage to catch a bit of Motor City Sound Ensemble before heading to get a good spot for Factory Floor. Upon arrival, the previous act is still on stage – Mexico’s Silverio, who, whilst sporting nothing but shiny red undercrackers on this very nippy December night, is hitting himself around the head with a synthesizer whilst being chased off stage by the venue’s sound engineers. Needless to say, this injection of slapstick comedy certainly wakes us up! Factory Floor then take to the stage and unfortunately, the sound gets lost somewhere between the concrete floor and the rafters towering 30 metres above the crowd. Although the music of Factory Floor is great, the wishy washy sound means that it’s just not an engaging enough show for this time in the morning.

Rounding off the evening/night/morning is a stunningly lit show from Oxford’s Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs playing a sublime set which dazzles this far-flung corner of Rennes until the festival shuts down at 5am. Dancers and lit up fan tunnels (similar to those seen in this classic video) accompany tracks such as ‘Household Goods’, ‘Garden’ and ‘Trouble’. The set goes down a storm, the room is packed out despite it being well past witching hour and the Bretons present in the room (including organiser Jean-Louis Brossard) are feeling pretty pleased with the show that their festival has rounded up with.

Saturday

It’s all very well and good this staying out lark, but making it to the early shows on Saturday proves to be much more difficult than yesterday. We do manage to catch the superbly named Jesus Christ Fashion Barbe however, a fairly local group (Caen) who conjure up very pleasant, very charming pop melodies with a vocal featuring just a smattering of new wave influence. As was the issue yesterday, due to the distance between the main event at Le Parc Expo and the shows throughout the city, the decision is taken quite early on that tonight shall be the night we check out the music in the bars in town. This unfortunately means that there’s no Zomby, no Galaxie and no Wolf People for us tonight, but the acts that we catch in town more than make up for this.

Click here to view the embedded video.

The evening commences with a rather ill-fated concert from the immensely talented Mina Tindle. Very much reminiscent of a Parisian Feist, Mina Tindle combines delicate, heart wrenching vocals with gentle, touching melodies – an altogether too quiet proposition for the bustling atmosphere of Le Papier Timbré. Granted, it’s bustling because so many have turned out to see her, but listening conditions aren’t ideal and even more unfortunately, the power soon cuts out bringing her serene, gorgeous songs to an untimely end. Next up are the beach-side, summer sounds of Golden Age of Yachting who hail from Ivry sur Seine. They provide a charming, sun glazed brand of light-hearted, quick tempo pop which is at times reminiscent of a glossed over Pete and the Pirates. It’s all very nice, but it’s time to head off and catch some good ol’ French electro.

Next up is a rather laid back DJ set from Kitsuné’s Jupiter followed by a show from the much hyped College, with whisperings of “T’as vu Drive, toi?” (Have you seen Drive?) filling the venue in a variety of languages. Having provided the soundtrack to one of the year’s most talked about films, College has been earmarked by many as a ‘one to watch’ at this festival, and the music is very accessible. It does, at times, feel a little too much like a soundtrack and not enough like a live show however, and many remark how the music would have been better suited to a club atmosphere rather than the busy bar in which it is heard tonight. That said, that’s also the beauty of festivals such as this one – being able to catch artists in improbable venues and spaces.

All photographs provided by Les Rencontres Trans Musicales.

Way back in the jangly indie-pop depths of 2005 Ryan Jarman lyrically vilified his home town’s scene and the temporary love affair that foam-mouthed music journalists had with the unassuming Yorkshire city with the words “Your precious Leeds is dead”. Indeed, while identikit salt-of-the-earth lad rock bands with catastrophic names continued to flourish like a particularly aggressive venereal disease, the press buzz quickly died down and hipsters sort of forgot about Leeds.

But Leeds didn’t forget about music and kept chipping away at the Manchester-centric scene north of London. Five years later, Constellations was born, a celebration of far-flung bands with far-flung influences that illustrated the city still had its finger firmly on the pulse. Now in its second year, Constellations returns to Leeds University and I’m here to take it all in.

After an unrivalled sense of direction that sees me get spectacularly lost while literally a few hundred yards from the union, eventually I find my way there and head down to “Mine”, a venue which would feel very intimate were it not for the sunlight pouring through the windows that serve to uncomfortably remind me that I am drinking spirits at 2 o clock in the afternoon. But this is the price of an all-dayer and Fear Of Men won’t let it put them off…or maybe they will.

Having heard their demos it’s an understatement to say I’m really looking forward to their gorgeous lo-fi pop that sounds like it wears an over-sized cardigan and came straight off a C86 compilation. Suffice to say, they could not be more up my street. The half-boy/half-girl four-piece take to the stage with meek politeness and play an underwhelming set, with all traces of delicate shoegaze replaced by loud guitars that swamp the vocal. And while they’re lacking something in stage presence, surely things will change once they’re out of their infancy and find a way to make the charm of their recordings translate in the live environment.

On to Big Deal, the trans-atlantic duo who have generated a lot of industry excitement over the release of their beautifully simple debut album, Lights Out, and are subsequently are playing one of the larger upstairs venues, which starts off surprisingly empty. Alice informs the- quickly expanding- audience they’ve just got back from Amsterdam and are in “a bit of a daze” but there’s no need for apologies as this is completely imperceptible through their set.

Playing most of their album with an effortless delivery, their “buzz band” status manifests itself with the appearance of a cluster of photographers who remain at the front throughout. While the band remain unfazed, the constant flash from the cameras marrs the atmosphere a little, as do the tuning issues that have to be corrected after most of the songs, but the exchanged glances and Kasey’s crowd banter woos the room, making the other distractions irrelevant.

I find my way to the main venue to wait for Manchester indie band Dutch Uncles, who’ve been labelled math rock, art pop and countless other genres but who render categorisation pointless by sounding like absolutely nothing else in music today. While I’m only familiar with a few songs, they quickly win me over with their sheer gusto and refusal to pander to either the conventions of pop music or the arsenal of postured stage moves that indie boys like to employ. Singer Duncan and one of their guitarists – dressed in chinos and brushed silk shirts – look like they belong to another band and it’s fair to say their aesthetic is as erratic as their jerky sound, which channels Devo and Talking Heads. A lot of their set is slightly too mid paced and ‘Dressage’ is the highlight of the set because of its thumping fast pace and manic vocals, but they’re still a brilliant live prospect, thanks in part to Duncan’s gloriously unhinged dance moves that are truly all his own.

Up next are Spector, a London five piece who stride onstage with sharp suits and perfectly coiffured fringes. They’re the kind of band who wear glasses that force me to ask whether they need them, as a person whose ugly childhood was bitterly suffered through NHS jam jars. They are a very pretty band who make very pretty music – a balance of synths and guitars that’s exceptionally polished and showcases their grasp of melody and proper chorus. Though the notion of “guilty pleasures” is absurd, the fact they’re bringing nothing new to the table makes me feel as though I shouldn’t like them as much as I do, but I don’t have much time to dwell on this, leaving after a few songs so I’m in time to catch Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks.

The low placing on the bill seems weird when the room is packed out but I suspect that most of my fellow gig goers are waiting for Pavementsongs too. While Malkmus doesn’t oblige, The Jicks remain a tight live unit. There are a few too many noodling wig-outs courtesy of Malkmus which draws the energy out  but the band’s dynamic is strong enough to pull it off. While I want more electricity, perhaps I was willing too much from a man who is basically the head of the slacker rock movement and, as a performance in itself, it will undoubtedly satiate fans of Malkmus’ solo material.

Yuck are next to follow, a band who feel like the descendants of a brand of Pavement-style rock and the natural choice to follow. Following the first song, everything goes awry and the mics cut out. Leaving the stage while the technical glitches are ironed out, the crowd grows impatient but they return to the stage to a heroic welcome and joke that this will be their longest ever encore. For a band who at times can seem somewhat lofty, their shaky start has rid them of any pretensions and they seem a lot more open and amiable because of it. ‘Get Away’ is a stand-out track, cut straight from the remnants of Dinosaur Jr and played note perfect, while ‘Suicide Policeman’ allows them a more tender, vulnerable moment. They are absolutely my day’s highlight, a beautiful whirl of feedback and gorgeous waves of noise drenched melody and while I loved the album before, it makes even more sense now.

I have to leave after this, missing the likes of the brooding magnificence of 2:54, the eccentric charms of Wild Beasts and a whole mess of partying but after a day of amazing music there’s no need to sulk. Leeds is always adding to its own-home grown musical tapestry but today it proves it also has its ear to the ground for fresh blood from further afield.

The one criticism I might level at Constellations is the setting. The confines of the union venues are oddly clinical and the feeling of being at a gig is interrupted by the impersonal surroundings which means the crowds never really let loose. I can’t help thinking that things might have been improved by taking advantage of the immeasurable number of venues Leeds has to offer (in the same style as another of the city’s annual staple, Live at Leeds).

This is a minor quibble – Constellations is definitely worth paying attention to and will hopefully be given the chance to grow. While the Kaiser Chiefs may nowadays be way past the boundaries of the interests of most, their infamous slogan provide the most fitting riposte to the likes of Jarman, cemented by the growth of grassroots festivals like Constellations: “Everything’s Brilliant In Leeds”. Go find out for yourself.

As Oxford’s strongest sons Chad Valley and Stornoway make waves around the country and beyond, the city’s music scene is undergoing a period of profound change. Most significantly, the collapse of Truck Festival over the summer and the loss of its investment into Cowley Road’s Truck Store will once more leave Oxford temporarily without an independent record shop until new premises are prepared. Also occurring on Cowley Road on the same weekend as Truck’s “Not Closing Down Sale”, Ley Lines is a new festival which comes with a reassuring sense of ambition and renewal. Moving from venue to venue in Oxford’s cultural hub, it feels like things are on the up; drawing bands from around the country to a varied set of venues, this is surely the most exciting new live event the region has seen in some time.

We begin the day in the Bullingdon Arms watching almost deafeningly loud post-rockers Vixens. These local boys have vocals which still leave much to be desired but they’ve come some way since they supported Golden Animals over at the Jericho Tavern some years ago. A move down the road to the downstairs part of O2 Academy Oxford puts us before The Great Hereafter, who possess an almost disturbingly polished rock sound, to the end that it is hard to believe their song ‘Life With the Lions’ was written only yesterday.

Additional post-rock comes from Listing Ships, who prove to be a minor revelation. Vaguely reminiscent of similarly relentless Factory Floor, they are bursting with exciting ideas which makes the presence of a lone lightbulb on stage all the more appropriate. Their seemingly unending and coruscating guitar lines and superb drumming are the foundation of a superb set; indeed, we’re so stunned at the conclusion of the songs that in one instance the bassist must remind us that the tune is over before we clap. The mawkish acoustic mewling of Adam Barnes upstairs does not keep us away from such prowess for long.

After our swift dinner break the Bullingdon draws us back into its small, dark music room with the promise of an appearance by Blackpool pianist and singer-songwriter Rae Morris. Her shy, girlish exterior and a vast mop of curly hair conceal a tremendous voice and songs which impress even as they sometimes tip into Vanessa Carlton territory – there is talent to spare here. Back upstairs at the Academy, Secret Rivals are a very different prospect. Their slapdash dance-punk is a bit of a shambles, frankly, and the minimal attention they pay to the audience makes for an alienating set.

Returning to the Bullingdon for another piano chanteuse in the form of Catherine A.D. could have brought on some Rae-ja vu, but the addition of a three-piece string section makes this one of the festival’s most distinctive sets. A heavy cold does little to dampen Catherine Anne Davies’ syrupy voice or her gothic stage mystique, even if the songs from new mini-album Communion are crying out for more variety. Also in the wars is electro crooner Jamie Woon, who must sit down for his O2 Academy appearance owing to a recently broken leg. While this does not help the lack of visual element to his set, the bigger problem is the fundamental tedium of his songs, which seem to leave everyone more baffled than blown away. Confusing also are guitar/drums duo Beta Blocker & the Body Clock, who look and sound like half of a poor Nirvana tribute. It’s grim.

Fortunately next up at the Bullingdon, Alt J are the real deal. This much-discussed Leeds group are a devastatingly innovative unit and a true pleasure to watch. Sounding like a group of centuries-removed Chinese peasants asked to form a rock band, their warped and alien compositions bewilder and beguile as they skirt around the edges of expected practise. Dominated by “Tessellate”, their set is simply the strongest of the whole day until…

Theme Park are just phenomenal. Given a hard task to follow they step up on stage just beaming with enjoyment of what they do and bursting with confidence in themselves. This short set by a young band takes in everything they have released and more, including an irresistible outing of their single “Wax”. Tight and practised and a huge leap on from their recorded work, their live performance provides a fantastic party atmosphere. Some of the many who start dancing will carry on by watching Hyetal, Toddla T and Melé later on, but while we must go, this set will stand for us as the perfect ending to a mixed but encouraging entry by Oxford into the burgeoning city festival market.

All photographs by Stevie Denyer.

Oh, the high life of an indie music writer. One minute you’re rubbing shoulders with your favourite bands (not literally, unless they’re into that), then the next you’re bumping into fellow journos in Chicken Cottage or on Cardiff’s St Mary’s Street with a bag of chips in hand, having just visited the city’s infamous Caroline Street while desperately trying to hold to scraps of remaining dignity in a tug-of-war of professionalism. But there are obviously the major perks, as this very photo shows. Oh the life of an editor must be a cruel one.

Trying to find the right balance between work and play at festivals is always a tricky one. You start off walking around with all the speed and urgency of a banker during lunch hour, trying to get from stage to stage without bumping into anyone you know who will only waste your valuable set interlude time, and sooner or later you’ll find yourself stood at a bar drinking on the job, trying to convince yourself that the headline band you’ve been going on about all day will be too busy to get into anyway just so you can slump into a corner with a drink.

Saturday was one of these aforementioned days. Theoretically the longest of the four days, a damning combination of a terrible hangover, needlessly staying up until near dawn procrastinating sleeping by reading the entire previous day’s worth of #swn tweets and striving to convert caffeine into comprehensible words and sentences. You see, I didn’t take any Science-based subjects past GCSE so I don’t know what the easiest way of chemical conversion is – but there must be a way surely. My strive to scientific breakthrough means that I miss a chaotic set from DFA-esque punks DZ Deathrays – ironically one of our pre-festival ones-to-watch.

Thus once I get my act together, it’s already getting dark and Summer Camp are the first band I catch at 5pm. What happened to our twee darlings Elizabeth and Jeremy, eh? They’ve gone and grown right up. Their set shows them as bonafide popstars, but with a sinister edge. The duo start in the audience, kicking off with an acoustic rendition of ‘Better Off Without You’ – a perfectly brash number about a needy ex. It’s a totally crushing blow to anybody who’s ever drunkenly cried down the phone to a past girlfriend – which is, of course, every single one of us. Gone is the coy shyness that made the group pretend to be a bunch of Swedish teenagers – now, backed by a live drummer, Elizabeth struts in and out of the crowd, luring and unnerving the audience, even inviting one person up onto the stage with her. Set closer ‘I Want You’ ends on a suitably dark note, emphasising how much the group have come from the sunny bedroom pop band they formerly were. Shockingly this is the first time I’ve seen the London couple in action, only now losing my Summer Camp virginity –  a late bloomer as it were. But by the end you can bet that my cherry is good and popped and like the formerly-innocent protagonist at the start of a 80s coming-of-age movie, I’m totally spent.

We head over to Undertone, the rock club-esque basement underneath the parent venue Ten Feet Tall to catch Mammal Club, who I had heard a fair few mumbled words about over the weekend. Soon it becomes apparent why people had been talking about then, as we’re met by the news that the band had to cancel their performance at the festival. While it seems quite rude to walk straight in and out of a place, but when that place merely consists of bar staff idly checking their smart phones and event organisers seated doing likewise – all of which to the soundtrack of The Postal Service- it seems to be the only viable option and we quickly flee upwards before our buzz is killed for the entire evening.

In this SWN chess game we’re all playing, we’re strategically pinpoint Clwb for Gallops as our next move – talking into consideration that it leaves us enough time to get a pint in during the interval. Bladdy lovely. But by the time we finish our drinks and move onwards to North Wales’ Gallops!, they have already started and have seemed to have somehow acquired a Bez-like dancer. That would be good fun and all except that I don’t actually think he’s part of the band, instead he just appears to be a jaw-clenching weirdo who’s had one too many but damn, can he throw some shapes. As for Gallops!, despite fulfilling one of my major pet peeves in music, and that is unnecessary (read alternatively as “post-modern” or “just annoying”) use of grammar, they are still, however, pretty! damn! good!

Next up is Esben & the Witch, and if you wanted a witch-based pun, you could say this is pretty SPELLBINDING stuff. Oh, you didn’t ask for one? Well you got it anyway. The threepiece is much better than anything that’s ever been labelled witch-house, 10x more haunting too, and their music too pure to be compared to MBV or J&TMC as per. Instead, they transfix the entire crowd with their hour-long enslaught that features a neat little trio-drumming session interlude and their heavy guitars and feedback make the floor shake continuously, repeatedly making me mistakenly check if my phone’s been vibrating.

Just as Esben comes to an end, our very own editor arrives in town which only means one thing: shit is going to get #messy. You’d think that your boss would encourage you to stay on course, to look down on you for craving a beer, to make sure that you see every band possible – but on this instance, this isn’t the case. Instead, within around 12.5 minutes of arrival shots and Jagerbombs are already mentioned, which means everyone’s quietly aware that everything is about to fall apart altogether.

We do however, manage to drag ourselves from the cosy wranglehold of the Buffalo Bar and head across town to see the hotly-tipped Zulu Winter at the ever-brill upstairs at Dempseys. I can’t pinpoint the exact reasoning but somehow the band don’t grab me. Maybe it’s that their brand of alt-but-accessible anthemic indie is not really my cup of coffee, or perhaps it’s just simply that I already got getting pissed firmly in my head by this point. Sorry, Zulu Winter, but everyone else thought you were great. I promise to see you again, another time, at another place, perhaps with a closed bar and an open mind.

With all of the TLOBF staff phones quickly dying in unison, we work out a plan for the rest of the evening so we know where we’re going to be and when, knowing that we’ll soon be without the breadcrumb trail that is Twitter. We plot Y Niwl / Ugly Duckling  as our remaining destinations but then almost like destiny, everything takes a turn for the weird. Technical failures, electricity cuts and temporary blackouts mean that a number of venues run late. At Dempseys, the tills aren’t even working to serve alcohol! So instead of sticking around to catch amazing North Wallian surf-rockers Y Niwl (who play on three separate occasions over the weekend, none of them I get to see) Team TLOBF alternatively opt for a bag of chips each and the Silent Disco – basically the ‘When in Rome’ motto appropriated to a Cardiff night-out. After a darkly comic stroll around the city centre (highlights including two men urinating up against a bin and one onto the other, women trying to put the “sex” back into “war” and “death” in the form of army-themed miniskirts, and drunken steroid-pumped lads kicking crates and proceeding to fall over onto their 50p-shaped faces), we’re finally at the Student Union for the silent disco. Outside there’s already two Freshers throwing their little guts full of former hopes and previous dreams up, splattering all over the pavement. So it’s pretty safe to say that by this time we’re all feeling pretty awful. Luckily Jen Long, pictured above with her band Effort, is on hand with a gem-case full of 90s and 00s pop-rock hits. We all know we’ve reached the Catch 22 of our lives when on one channel is Kanye and the other Katy Perry. Every decision will be a piece of piss from the day forth.

Sunday comes, with another headache attached, and we decide to meet at Spillers Record store because that’s the type of indie site we are. All the others buy vinyls and the like, but I do not have the cash – making me appear a complete phoney. Record store browsing faux-pas out of the way, a couple of us head over to pub/small venue ‘Gwdihw’, which – we later find out –  means owl in Welsh. Good music tip-offs and linguistic facts, oh we do spoil you lot. The first band of our last day happens to be Mechanical Bride, who are utterly pleasant on record but to an empty midday pub (to the extent where the singular handful crowd are hesitant to whom will be the first to clap at the close of each track), the atmosphere subdues a slight rather than energising for us for the day ahead.

We tiptoe out halfway through, hoping that nobody will take it as an insult, and head to see the first of our lovingly-curated The Line Of Best Fit Stage, taking place at the recently-refurbished (and sadly Legowall-less) Arts Institute. The premier act is Dancers, another band from North Wales who vary between the numbers of 1 and 10 depending on the gig. While nothing wholly original in terms of the muzak – influences can be clearly heard from Titus Andronicus, Pavement, Elliott Smith and someone else said Los Campesinos! but I think that’s just because there’s a girl with a violin involved – it’s singer Dafydd Myddleton’s raw sincerity that sets them aside from any cover-band types.

The second act of the line-up are a name that any blogger would recognise – Copenhagen’s Battlekat. Don’t recognise them? Well, they were briefly known as the mysterious ‘Just A Number 05272011′.Yep, now you’ve got it. The blogs go silent and the internet must run itself for a brief while as everyone congregates to see what is the Danish group’s first UK appearance – and one of a fair few over the coming week. It’s not everyday that you see a popstar in a pub – unless you count catching a glimpse of Pete Doherty through the grubby windows of the Hawley Arms – but Battlekat are bonafide popstar and if there was any justice in this world then they would be huge and the Rasmus would have never existed. Their set is a spooky one, with singer Matilde’s robotic dances backed by a dreadlocked dude in the back playing with static feedback of 80s mobile phones, sucking a florescent tube that changes the pitch of the music and generally staring at the audience very eeriely. These are definite 2012 Ones To Watch.

You know what, I had heard a little snippet of boy-girl duo Big Deal beforehand and to be quite honest I didn’t know what the, wait for it, BIG DEAL WAS. But easy punning aside, as I sit at the back of a mellowed-out Arts Institute waiting for the London-based pair to start, surrounded by repeatedly overheard Slow Club comparisons lingering in the air, I’m getting ready ready to rip them apart limb by ever-so-pretty limb. Metaphorically-speaking of course, I’m cynical – not homicidal. But don’t you just love it when you’re pleasantly surprised and your preconceptions are totally thrown out the window? It makes you feel a whole lot better about the state of humanity, like in Uni when I used to leave my laptop idle in the library thinking that if it got stolen then my thoughts on human beings would hurt a lot more than the few hundred pound spent on replacing it. The band’s modest set-up consists only of two guitars – one acoustic, one electric – completely juxtaposes the surprisingly bulkiness of their music. But it’s their honesty and down-to-earth nature that truly impresses, as everyone sits and listens, absorbing all for a good 45 mins.

Deciding to venture elsewhere, bringing free from our own stage having a monopoly over my day – I decide to check out glitchy, bassy producer Dam Mantle who I’ve seen many times but every single performance having been brilliant. I guess this is why people watch re-runs of TV comedies like Friends, because they know what to expect and they are guaranteed a laugh or two. This is what I expect from this outing – but sadly, and not to any of the Glaswegian’s own doing, this is not the case. I arrive to a completely empty dancefloor, with Marshall (REAL NAME DROP ALERT) about to step up to the decks. The subsequent performance is peerless but it’s a bit like watching a sitcom without the laugh-track, which is a damn shame as the newer tracks from the WE EP would have sent any crowd into a shuffling fit.

So as the night and weekend comes to a close, I decide to tone things down a little –  my head is too weary for any more electronic music. Instead I find in the programme that American folk-punk singer and ‘Conor Oberst’s Favourite Songwriter TM’ David Dondero is about to begin at Ten Feet Tall. I’ve liked Dondero for a long time, and am adament that his song ‘Rothko Chapel’ is one of the most beautiful ever written, from around the same period that my Bright Eyes fandom reached pathetic heights, leading me to listen solely to anything linked with Conor or Saddle Creek – Cursive, The Faint, Son Ambulance, even Maria fucking Taylor for crying out loud! So standing in the Cardiff cold, you can bet I’m pretty psyched to see the songwriter, but it seems nobody else really knows who Dondero is, thus explaining the sparse crowd. But as the set, comprising of anarcho numbers and some heart-wrenching others, progresses, I guess word has spread – god bless the internet – and Dondero finishes his specatular set to a room twice as full as when he started.

So there you have it, my weekend at SWN in diary form – or a series of articles loosely pieced together by combining the old tweets with “and”s and “then”s in between each. The festival is rare for its sheer community nature, a line-up that treats the bigger name acts just as equally as those starting out, a layout that means no transport needed between each venue and no dreaded nightbuses at the end of the night, enabling you to have a royally good time with no transport worries hanging over you; and one that you can find the organisers in the queues and at the back, trying to worm their way to the front just like the rest of us. Same again next year, SWN? What? You’re gonna make it even better than this one? You crazy, guys. But see you then!

Photos by Luke Morgan Britton, David Breese, Lauren Down and Laura Snapes.

Birmingham-based alterno-noise-dance-avant-garde-rock-fest Supersonic is now in its ninth year. Based once again in the Custard Factory – a collection of spaces from Zellig’s art galleries and sound-installation rooms to The Old Library with its vaulted ceilings, the Theatre complete with heating and comfy seats and the two warehouse-style larger stages (Boxxed and Space 2) – organisers Capsule have once again conspired to put together a programme that every bit as much of an assault on the senses as on the ears, with a selection of music that’s inspiring, challenging, entertaining and baffling in equal parts. Jude Clarke reports.

Friday

The first two bands alone served as a neat summary of the extremes that lay in store for the rest of the festival. a.P.A.t.T., as daft and confusing as their name, appear on stage in all-white garb, complete with their own crest on bright-white blazers and proceed to befuddle us with the rag-bag mix of taut kraut, gypsy-polka-punk and heavy riffing guitars that ensues. Very much playing to the crowd, with a sense of theatre that incorporated “hand-jive” movements and an extensive range of different faces being exaggeratedly pulled, we classified them under “unclassifiable”, and moved on to Slabdragger. This band, too, were a neat reflection of their name, being a huge slab of sludgy, swampy metal, boggy and luxuriating in its own sheer volume. As remorseless as the horrifying, massively magnified spider attacking a fly that provided the projected backdrop (as last year, each band that played was accompanied by an excellent, appropriate, array of visuals), this arachnophobe could soon take no more and had to duck out before the set’s end.

Part Chimp were always going to be one of the first day’s main draws, and most certainly didn’t disappoint. Like a beefed up, augmented college-rock band, this was an exhilarating blast of always coherent noise. The sweet, distant quality to the vocal – singer Tim Cedar dapper and overdressed against the so-far-not-manifesting-itself Birmingham chill – competed with the blast and crunch of the guitar and bass, lending it much of its appeal, along with a sense that this is a band always very much in control of their music. With a grunge-like edge to their noise, and the occasional snarl, the band nevertheless maintained a very human, emotionally-continent feel throughout their set. This is a band (currently doing the rounds of their “farewell tour”) that will leave a great hole when they go, as they did in Space 2 when their set ended.

DJ Scotch Egg, though, more than filled that gap. Friday’s second highlight, his driving noise-electronica, manic beats and astringent light show were a welcome visual and auditory assault to the senses. Chanelling everything from arcade games to machine guns, and weaving patterns as he went, the artist also known as Shigeru Isahara was as maniacally entertaining to watch – leaping onto speakers to lead the audience like a crazed conductor – as his music was to listen to.

The evening ended with the impressive and frequently forbidding wall-of-bass rumble from Cloaks. Beats this deep and murky made for a dark and mysterious set, if a little slow-moving for this stage of the night. Our hotel beckoned, we responded to its call.

Saturday

Before the bands started on Saturday was the best time to take in some of the festivals many other activities and offerings. The Grindcore Cut ‘n’ Paste exhibition was a fascinating, nostalgic yet often still frighteningly relevant, collection of fanzine memorabilia from Nicholas Bullen and Miles ‘Rat’ Ratledge of Napalm Death; much of it angry and political from the early 80s (Class War, anyone?). The SOUNDkitchen collective brought their “cinema for the ears” installation to the Custard Factory. Running all day on both the Saturday and Sunday, the part that we dipped into had a pervasive, soothing, watery feel, cleansing to the ears and restful for the body, particularly if you were able to bag a space on one of the beanbags provided.

The first live music of the day beckoned, though, so it was off to Berg Sans Nipple, whose echoey, queasy and desultory vocals layered over bassy judders and skittering synths conjured up a mystical and intriguing world. The occasional live drum rhythms added drama, and overall the band came through as a much more appealing prospect live than they did on record with their slightly underwhelming Built With Erosion release of earlier this year. Next, we caught Nathan Bell, for an extraordinary set of one-man-band style banjo, harmonica and rattling Heath Robinson-style percussive rig-up. With cyclical, repeating banjo melodies and the harmonica almost serving as a drone backing, this was an engaging, intricate and nicely complementing collection of sounds with a feel that was somehow both timeless and old-fashioned.

Band-of-the-weekend contenders Teeth of the Sea were next. One of those bands whose members don’t look like they’re in the same band, and who, collectively, don’t look the way they sound (both of which are always promising indicators) the set opened with a melancholy trumpet refrain over musical chatter-and-drone, soon launching into stabs of noise that jabbed and retreated, ramping up as they went along. This is a band that perform as well as simply play their music, which is a full, rich rhythmic mix of apocalyptic drumming, synths like sirens, and big big guitar noise. Dramatic and uncategorisable, this was a gripping, unmissable performance.

Moody, grave and dark psychedelic rock from Bardo Pond followed, managing to even somehow make the flute sound heavy, Isobel Sollenberger’s alto, echoed vocal melding with the stoned guitars to mesmerising, murky, haunted effect. Kogumaza‘s song patterns were also hypnotic, in a different yet no less entrancing way; with long yet still urgent and to-the-point rhythms, rumbling, barrelling percussion and guitars like angry wasps.

Lucky Dragon brought some interactive fun to proceedings, with a – literally – “hands on” approach that saw them invite audience members to create sounds by pulling a piece of lined musical sheeting across a mic-ed up board, generating different noises as different interlinking patterns were made by the intersections of the black and white lines. Playful and entertaining, this resembled a kind of less-serious musical Ouija board ritual and was one of the festival’s more enjoyably “light” moments.

…. which is certainly not how anyone could describe the set from Wolves in the Throne Room: a great impenetrable slab of heavy that nevertheless gradually deconstructs in the listening until it begins to make some kind of magnificent sense, mid set. With Electric Wizzard not quite living up to the programme’s claim for them being “perhaps the heaviest band in the world”, or even in Birmingham this weekend, it was left to the brilliant Skull Defekts to round of Supersonic’s first full day with a flourish. One of the finds of the festival, this Swedish post-punk(ish) outfit were gloriously ebullient, with danceable spiky rhythms, taut but funky, quirky and with a lovely lightness of touch to counterbalance the heavy-precise-math-rock moments. Sometimes recalling Shellac, sometimes The Fall, they provided a real sense of occasion, with admirably daft jerky stage dancing and between-song banter to further endear them to the crowd. This was a wonderful, invigorating performance with which to end (our) Saturday.

Sunday

The festival’s final day had the most promising-looking line up of all, so it was with some relish that we started our day to the doom-tuba sounds of Ore! The “doompah” two-piece created some authentically unusual sounds from the deep, resonant depths of their instruments, almost pulsing at times as they generated a marvellous, foghorn-deep drone, punctuated by snatched breaths, like hissing gas or the wind’s whistle. The primordial noises were somehow more impressive for being organic in nature and all the more so when you consider that this was the duo’s first public performance.

Pekko Kappi deployed his Finnish-Karelian bowed lyre to intense effect, telling folk tales (helpfully explained in English before being sung in their original Finnish) of demonic wives being consigned to hell and “beating up” all the demons on arrival. The sawing, almost grinding sounds wrought from his instrument augmented the impact of this tortured wyrd folk music, although something of the storytelling element, clearly key, was definitely lost to those of us who don’t understand Finnish. The Mike Hurley Ensemble, lead by one of the co-founders of the Birmingham Improvisers’ Orchestra, were a collection of 10 free-jazz musicians who brought their cross-generational improvisations to the Old Library stage. Thought the music generally melded and intertwined freely, it seemed nevertheless a little bit like cheating when Hurley took to the front to “direct” its ebb and flow for the last number. This was a stage crammed full of clearly crazy-talented musicians, from saxophones to keyboards to percussionists, bass clarinettists, melodicas, double-bass players and more, so it was a shame that this was the only act not credited in the festival programme.

The mystical, spell-weaving Eternal Tapestry, another of the festival’s best performances, entranced us, next. With their extended flights of fantastical guitar playing, repeating motifs and occasionally showcasing solos; the mournful echoes and flight-of-fancy solos of the saxophone (once it was sufficiently amped up, after an inaudible start to the show); the consistent sense of melody around which all the riffs and improvisations were anchored, this was psychedelic music with a grace and delicacy, despite the occasionally shredding guitar breaks: more a delightfully buzzy trip than a dark, morphine-drenched nod. Front man Nick Bindeman (also guitarist with Jackie O Motherfucker) solicitously asks, at one point if it’s okay to play a slow track now: “Can you guys handle it? It won’t, like, bum you out?” To which the answer can only be the two-part: “Yeah, bring it on” and “I’m sure it won’t, dude”.

Barn Owl were a much heavier drone-soaked proposition this year than in 2010′s gentle performance in the Theatre. Their performance, in the harsher surroundings of the warehouse-like Space 2 was cacophonous and intense, but with humanity and heart very much still layered in between the drones, hums and auditory scree with which their set was dominated. The gradual, stately way that the pieces evolved, evoking a wind-blasted post- (or even mid-?) apocalyptic landscape of big skies and blasted deserts out of noise, rumble, throb and twang was quite something to behold.

Cut Hands combined loud, percussive, rhythmic music with an aggressive, threatening edge and disturbing visuals seemingly documenting scenes of ritualistic intoxication and madness in an unspecified African country from colonial times. These ran on a loop, interspersed with large, gnomic phrases that ran across the screen: STABBERS CONSPIRACY, or SHUT UP AND BLEED or RAIN WASHES OVER CHAFF. The impact of the music here was definitely augmented and lent an even stronger “edge” by the visuals – something that repeatedly happened through the course of this multi-media weekend.

Cult act Silver Apples, now just featuring “The Oscillation Man”, Simeon, brought a gentle oddness to their Boxxed Stage set, with gentle pulsations, unassuming (yet strangely reminiscent of Jim Morrison) vocals – deadpan and declamatory, and quirky half-beat “skips” in the rhythm to playfully unsettle and disconcert.

All this was a beautiful contrast with ENVY, who followed. Masters of eliciting gently delicate emotions with soul-aching post-rock, then WALLOPING the listener with intense hardcore riffs and vocalist Tetsuya Fukagawa’s terrifying, visceral roar, this is a trick that never gets less impressive or genuinely gut-wrenching. One of the truly astonishing live bands of our day, to witness an ENVY set it to experience extremes not only of volume but of feeling as well; the sweet interludes genuinely hooking you in each time so completely that every ascent into hardcore noise seems like a fresh surprise, a thump in the face, a cathartic wake-up call of the most dramatic kind.

Alva Noto’s smart electronica, the clicks and hisses sounding both electronic and mechanical, the beats strong and murky again brought brilliant visuals to his incisive deconstruction of branding, logos and acronyms. While Hills closed our evening with a glam take on a big sound; with touches of psych throb but a mainly driving, hard rock set.

The festival once again this year more than fulfilled its remit, bringing ample big, wild, serious noises to the “Home of Heavy Metal” but also much much more. It is this inventiveness in the programming, this mixing of the avant-garde with the joyfully mindless, the arty with the grungy, that genuinely makes Supersonic one of the most accessible ways to experience one of the most diverse range of music that you could hope to encounter of the course of a weekend.

I shan’t bore you with some little anecdote of what I was doing between this piece and the first day’s segment but it basically consists of me sitting in other people’s houses, outstaying my welcome, totally contradicting my living-out-of-a-bag status by asking for an iron to de-crease shirts and generally just seeing a few bands and stuff. Which, luckily, is what I’m now supposed to actually talk about. So without further introduction-filler delay, I bring you some snippets and sentences on the bands we caught on Day 2 at SWN.

We arrive at Clwb for noise-rock duo Run, Walk. There’s no drum kit in sight yet and considering the outfit consist solely of bass and drums, that means they’re probably not about to launch into song any time soon. We settle into a beer with the journo contingent and discuss the Welsh Music Prize – the ceremony to which just ended and was attended by a few around the table. We’re informed by our good friends at the NME that Gruff Rhys has won for his album Hotel Shampoo. So you can count this as your third-hand account of the awards.

Run, Walk kick into gear after a good half-hour delay, but by golly do they make up for lost time. Once everything is set up, soundcheck seems as swift as a Ramones intro as the band plunge into a deep surge of feedback and distortion. Sadly the delay has meant that we have to leave to head upstairs after a few songs, but we’re ensured by those that stayed put that the band’s stride continued to the last.

While a few of our team head off to see Brandyman, who I’m later told was their highlight of the night, I decide instead to cut my journey a bit shorter and venture just up the Clwb steps to catch Gross Magic. If you’ve heard Gross Magic (you know Gross Magic, the band from out of the Eighties films, seemingly with access to a time machine) before then you probably have your own firm opinion of them, as their recorded material varies from the brilliant to the downright unlistenable. But live, they totally outdo expectations that even firm fans would pre-empt. Sounding like the bratty Stifler’s brother of Ariel Pink, the baby-faced fourpiece are considerably easier on the ears live – but it’s their youthful exuberance and unashamed enjoyment that make them so captivating in a gig context. And despite his John Hughes cast attire, be-capped-frontman Sam McGarrigle somehow manages to steer clear of any pretence and merely comes across as damned cool.

We’re definitely going to have much argument about this back at HQ (which could be deemed by some as a hostel room) with one editor possibly choosing Beardyman and another likely to push for Niki & The Dove, but these kids in Gross Magic were definitely this writer’s highlight of the day.

Heading over to the Irish-pub-by-day-super-awesome-gig-venue-by-night Dempseys, Breton are about to start. Feeling a bit parched and with a water bottle emptied, I decide its the right time to start the night’s irresponsible drinking on the job. The band begin as I work my way to the front of the bar, providing me with an excellent sideview of the set. Multi-tasking to the max, right? Musically, Breton are good – but sadly nothing engrossing despite hearing great things about them (including recent studio time at Sigur Ros recording complex in Iceland). A highlight instead comes in the form of a remark from a certain electronic musician playing later in the evening who says that they “look like early 2000s Lostprophets”, the first overheard and clichéd Welsh analogy of festival. Luckily he was stopped in his tracks before he could utter a comparison to Feeder.

If you were wondering, a ‘brontide’ is a “sound like distant thunder, due to seismic causes”. Yep, I just googled it because this was puzzling me all evening after seeing London band of the same name but with a capital letter and all that, Brontide. But how they plucked that name seemingly out of thin air seems to all make sense now as it’s exactly how the instrumental guitar-heavy (drums-even-heavier) trio. In this respect they could so easily just have picked any synonym of “huge”, “colossal” or “catastrophic” from the thesaurus, but all those would sound a bit shit – so I guess they should stick with what they got.

After the tour-de-force just witnessed, indie-rock revivalists Veronica Falls provide the perfect tonic to our previous straight-gin. After taking a few snaps (the above photo being the only one that didn’t feature a backdrop advertising a rival publication), I had to put my writer’s cap on. But it’s hard when staring through a lens at people for several minutes uninterrupted to then not dwell on appearance. And Veronica Falls – just a matter of fact – a very good-looking band, making you wish that all Shoreditch dwellers looked like they are from early-2000s Brooklyn rather than late ’80s Detroit. Oh and I’d like to point out that drummer Patrick resembles a celtic Sufjan Stevens, just another of the oh so astute observations that these diaries have come to offer. With all seriousness though, Veronica Falls are just sublime – well-crafted pop songs with a delightful do-wop feel. ‘Wedding Day’ in particular is sensational live, with the crux of the chorus “You don’t look at her like you’re looking at me” hitting like a crushing blow to the chest.

As Niki & The Doveengage in some very comical, but nonetheless frustrating, language barrier exchange with the sound guy, those able to get in to see the Swedish duo are idly checking their tweets and texts in what was definitely a not full-to-capacity O’Neills pub. After waiting twenty minutes on the stairs queuing, I ponder make shirts with “I Got Into Niki & The Dove, Swn 2011″ across the front – who wants one? I’m not sure if it was a dispersal ploy or just some misunderstandings, but the night seemed to feature a lot of bouncers telling little white lies about how full venues actually were: a prime and shocking example was a Clwb bouncer telling an acquaintance of mine that he wouldn’t be letting anybody else in for the rest of the night, no matter how many exited the place. This was at 10pm.

But as the Scandi pairing of Malin and Gustaf, equipped avec une drummer, eventually dot the i’s and cross the t’s of their extensive display of keyboards, pedals and mic, everything goes a bit quiet on the Twittersphere. If you’re keeping up with our #swn coverage at home and were wondering why suddenly your news feed looked empty, well it’s because Niki & The Dove were just that damn good. Malin pulls off her killer signature moves, which seems a little out of place in a pub context, but the music sounds huge and even attracts the attention of a drunk rugby fan who has been drowning his sorrows since Wales lost a good 16 hours ago and decides to sit at her feet like a cat whose had too much catnip at the foot of the bed. Our special guest leaves before the last song, but not before putting his headphones in and laying back on the floor beneath the feet of the audience, allowing Niki & The Dove to go out in true theatrical style.

After some more queuing, we finally make it into Clwb for a DJ set courtesy of Ifan Dafydd. The Welsh electronic artist dropped on the scene under an air of mystery and rumours of him being a back-to-the-bass(ics) moniker for James Blake. This was kind of like speculating that some new shoegaze band is actually My Bloody Valentine reforming, the only common thread between the two being a R&B infused dub influence. But we’re glad to announce the breaking news that Ifan Dafydd is not actually James Blake. Shock horror.

Next on isStay+, an electronic group who’s name nobody was wholly confident of pronouncing outloud. You’d assume the + sign stood for “positive” right, like a battery, and that it was a nice, quirky warm-hearted name. But no, supposedly the proper way to say it is “Stay Plus” – which is a terrible name. But I guess it’s for the best really because – and I know SWN isn’t a place for outright negativity – but Stay+ is simply a terrible, terrible band. Earlier in the evening, queuing for in one of the numerous lines of the night, I overhear conversation that the group started “as a joke” and I really have to hope that this is true. But joke or not, when your entire set involves the overuse of a smoke machine to uncomfortable breathing levels, a topless man throwing a crutch at a fellow “band member”, a backdrop of Nathan Barley-esque visuals, flaccid drone music that sounds like Prodigy never happened, and a tendency of clearing an entire dancefloor altogether, it’s just not really that funny is it. The atrocity of a performance (which makes you wonder what Midas-like PR group are doing their publicity) is made worse by all my friends leaving me with bags and coats, making the 25 whole minutes that they outplay their designated time slot an entire lifetime. But really, we try not to be a negative site here at TLOBF – if we don’t like something we will just normally walk away, but when you feel like the punters, promoters, festival and fellow musicians alike are all being taken for a ride then we alter our ethics accordingly. Life, at the end of the day, is too short for shit music. So if you’re thinking of seeing them, by all means go ahead if you wish – nobody should take another’s opinion as gospel – but be warned, you may suffer a similarly agonising fate.

But, got to stay positive right? And on next to by this point an admittedly quarter-filled Clwb is Seams – a firm favourite here, that much you already know. But despite his fringe-flicking intensity, even his superb newer material sounds a bit flat. A fellow muso remarks that maybe we’ve just invested too much emotional attachment to the guy and this is definitely the case. It’s just a total mood killer to see a great act perform to a lacklustre crowd. But those who were in attendance replied with their feet and a nice little dance to ‘Focus Energy’ is a good way to close any evening and raises our spirits to end what was largely an excellent SWN night.

Photos by Luke Morgan Britton.

It’s always been a great embarrassment to me as a Valleys boy how little I know about my home city of Cardiff. Sure, I’ve lived in Wales all my life, I’ve been a season ticket holder at Cardiff City from the age of nine and only live a £3.60 (with a Young Person’s Railcard, of course) train journey away from the Welsh Capital. But alas my knowledge of Caerdydd is limited to Queen Street and the surrounding street of a radius to about St Mary’s.

Cardiff has a great music scene and night life, I should know more than most because I keep getting people telling me that when they find out I was born and bred nearby. But in my formative teen years, I was never the type to go to clubs and gigs were few and far between because the Treherbert train stopped at 11pm, which meant that I could only really attend the “big ones” at the Great Hall rather than late-nighters at Clwb or Ten Feet Tall.

Then when I was 18, the age of finally legally being able to drink, I moved to Bristol, another great music city, for University – which meant that Cardiff had merely been demoted to the position of a stop-gap between my two homes. Now graduated, I guess it’s probably the right time to reacquaint myself with my hometown, before heading off to London to get lost in disgust and my own self-pity at the swarms of Hoxton hipsters and Shoreditch scenesters. There’ probably no better time to experience my first SWN. Get the Brains SA in and I’ll pretend I like it.

Arriving as the day becomes dusk, I pick up a press pass at Full Moon, opposite Clwb Ifor Bach. Strangely I’m handed a wristband that says “Artist”. Baffled, as well as deciding on a fake band name I can drunkenly pretend I’m the keyboardist of for the weekend, I head over to Dempseys – home of the night’s most impressive line-up. When there, I find a band really going for it – truly intense stuff. I’m surprised to see nobody else in there, so I slink to the back and take a seat in the corner. After 45 seconds, and frantically trying to work out from the seemingly wrong set list I have in mind who the band are, the music suddenly comes to an abrupt halt and the singer asks the sound technician if the guitar sounded okay. I catch a glance from another punting standing across the way, both of our gazes seeming to say “If you don’t say a word, I won’t say a word – this a truce”. We both realise our rookie mistake and nonchalantly make for the exit.

After walking around in the cold for a while (I’ve realised that the next band I want to see is back in Dempsey’s but feel that to save face I should leave it a while before returning), turns out I’m missing out on Charlotte Church‘s secret gig at Clwb. To keep the promoters appeased, I’ll pretend like I’m disappointed at this. I nervously check my Twitter for some sort of company before heading back in. The first band on are London-based duo-but-sometimes-trio Elephant. They take their positions on the stage with an air of effortless cool; their outfits agonisingly hip – from their American Apparel cottons to gold chains, burglar-chic wooly hats and the singer’s silver pendant of a certain zoo animal. No prizes go to the first correct guess of what zoo animal that is. The Memphis Industries troupe impress with their dark and seductive electronica in the same vein of Zola Jesus, but maybe without the so well-crafted songs. Singer Amelia compliments the Welsh audience on their accents and, you know what, she has a pretty decent voice too, so everyone is happy.

As Elephant’s set closes, everyone swiftly departs and commutes just next door to Clwb where crazy French folk Herman Dune are about to headline the early-starting upstairs billing. The crowd is uncomfortably claustrophobic, to the point that you’re just thankful that the band you’re watching aren’t the type to whip up a mosh pit, or we will all be in for a lot of bruising. I leave halfway through, but it’s not your fault Frenchies, it’s mine. Bizarro folk is definitely not what I need right now, when in such close proximities.

Back to Dempseys, Yaaks are on next. To anybody who haven’t seen them before –  they are like a mental Foals, just infinitely better than that sounds. With two drummers, a trumpet and so many freakin’ guitar pedals, they’re probably the band of the night and totally kill it. RIP it. As the set comes to an end, the members go all crazy like and throw their equipment around before exiting through the crowd. Their keyboardist heads straight my way and I decide to swiftly moving out the way, lest I ruin their departure completely.

After neither Huw Stephens nor myself being able to get in to see Aidan Moffat (a great instance of SWN democracy), it’s back to Dempseys again – our residency for the evening, it seems. While waiting, I sit on a table sticky from spilled beer as the next band hand vitamin water around themselves. Rock n roll. Alt-J start, coming off kinda like Cardiff favourites Future Of The Left, so they’re pretty much guaranteed a warm response here, right? I decide to take a few snaps and soon realising that my inherent politeness and unwillingness to kneel down is going to hinder me in any future photographic career.

Fixers headline the stage to pretty much everyone who hasn’t called it a night yet. The lights are turned down and the disco ball is brought out for the band’s psychedelic offerings. There’s dancers in the crowd, and Dancers – who plays on Sunday and is stood to my left. But for me, it’s a bit too late for dancing – so I save myself for the rest of the weekend. Sorry Huw Stephens spinning discs at Propaganda and the 2am Disclosure DJ set but it’s a Thursday night and I’m just not a Fresher anymore.

Photos by Luke Morgan Britton.

The festival is brought serenely into life by the young, diminutive and wonderfully fresh-faced Kitten & Bear. The young duo is made up of an acoustic guitarist and a female vocalist, both of whom look no older than sixteen, the latter of which employs an utterly serene falsetto among her heavily contemporary-influenced vocal. Whilst the pair are clearly still developing as both writers and performers, they are overflowing with promise and potential.

The first act we see on the BBC Introducing stage are The North Ship, who bear an inexplicably awkward reminiscence of the more ballady side of the Rolling Stones. Although incredibly suited to the small, intimate stage, the band have a slightly less-than-impressive live sound and could certainly do with paying some more attention to their timekeeping, despite their admirable commitment to their performance.

Next we see the first full band to play the main stage so far; up-and-coming modern glam rock band Dive Bella Dive. Although their attire collectively spans the last few decades, with the guitarist bearing more similarity to The Sex Pistols-era punk than The Sex Pistols, there’s unexpected overkill in their set. However, their performance and communication with the audience is incredibly admirable and the crowd of young teenagers are openly adoring, even if their generational gap leaves them somewhat nonplussed at the sample the band use from the original Pokémon Game Boy games.

Polarsets then deliver a stunningly tight and utterly mesmerising set on the same stage, blowing us away with some of the most enormously thick textures we’ve ever heard from a three-piece. Following this is New Carnival, who carry out a vast, bass-driven and synth-laden set of indie gems, bearing great similarity, at times, to Tall Ships.

Changing things up from the predominantly ultra-modern bands so far, The Great Hereafter offer sweet, sleazy, bluesy tones to the small crowd gathered at the Risk & Consequence stage, vamping enjoyably on a Johnny Cash song towards the end of their set before it all gets wonderfully ‘Freebird’ for the outro. Next, however, we are rushed fiercely back to the present by a staunchly commanding set from Dirty Goods. Sweet jesus, if these guys play their cards right they could go far. Blending alt-rock with gritty electronic elements and some of the most heart-pounding bass we’ve ever heard to create a sound that genuinely echoes their name, these guys have a vast sound that could comfortably rival that of The Joy Formidable.

Sadly this is the last band of the day for us, save for a few marvellous minutes with upcoming indie-folk band Dog is Dead, but returning on Sunday morning we are greeted by Tess Beighton, an acoustic singer-songwriter with absolutely pitch-perfect live delivery. Tess suits her style, and the festival, better than many performers we’ve seen. Delta Alaska then kick things off on the main stage for us, and perform a greatly memorable set featuring huge and expertly layered modern rock sounds, although for one reason or another the drums consistently slip out of time with the very syncopated rhythms of the rest of the band.

Following this, however, are the famously vibrant Stagecoach, who live up to their reputation magnificently. Although the size of the stage may be intimidating to many artists who are used to more intimate shows, Stagecoach are absolutely built for this, and their collective performance and sound is utterly outstanding. They certainly do their best to involve the crowd, even to the extent of briefly gifting their mandolin to a thoroughly bemused girl in the front row and placing the microphone over barrier alongside her. The band heartily thank the audience for attending while Luke Barham’s sweaty fringe hangs over his face as they close what will be their last show of the year.

If we’d thought, however, that Stagecoach had pushed the boat out with performance, they were dwarfed by the chaotic and utterly savage behaviour of Exeter-based hardcore punk four-piece The Computers. Dressed all in white and sporting fringes, tattoos and a very different vibe to what we’ve seen so far, The Computers bring an attitude that only the best hardcore bands manage. Whilst the band are both tight and aggressive in their own right, the vocalist spends the majority of the set moving around the floor, guitar and mic stand alongside, giving the bouncers a run for their money and involving the audience in his throaty screams as often as possible.

The next band we see, Harbours, could go a long way in the tortured indie-rock world. The impossibly young band balance soft and heavy dynamics brilliantly, and apply just the right amount of force to the snarled vocals that lay alongside cooed harmonies.

Young Legionnaire now assume their position on the main stage and crank out the most obliterating and muscular guitar tone of the weekend, taking their cutthroat math-rock sound to a level that their studio records don’t display in quite the same way. It strikes us, however, that these three would be far better suited to a smaller stage that lands them right in front of their audience, as they have a hard job really filling the vast hall.

However, on the BBC stage next door, Nicholas Stevenson casts a spell over the floored audience with one of the most genuinely heartfelt sets we’ve ever heard. It’s a restful 45 minutes, as the indie-folk singer’s velvety melodies ebb back and forth through a tide of soft acoustic tones and evocative rhythms, taking to the twinkling stage as if it were designed for him.

After a glance in at Blitz Kids on the main stage performing a set of blistering modern rock with astounding energy, we return to our patch on the dimly-lit floor to be cast blissfully back into a state of happy disbelief by Big Deal. The boy/girl duo utilise gorgeously sweet octave harmonies for the most part of their set, and often unison guitar lines. The combination of warm electric and muffled acoustic tones make for a thick and somewhat lethargic timbre, reminiscent in parts of She Keeps Bees, minus the drums and darker, bluesier quality. It strikes us how remarkable it is that something so incredibly simple can be so incomparably effective.

The evening is closed by headliners Francesqa, who perform one of the most comparatively clean and album-like sets of the weekend. Both rhythm and note-perfect throughout, the band deliver a collection of dreamy modern rock ballads, staged more as if in a music video than a live performance. The sound balance is perfect, and although not a set that steals the show, Francesqa bow out the proceedings brilliantly.

We leave in the wake of an immensely satisfying weekend. Still, there are points about the festival that could be added to, of course, like more activities in the relatively unused room between the BBC and Risk & Consequence stages. On many levels, however, the organisers must be commended for what they have achieved this year, such as the superbly coordinated stage times that kept clashes of similar bands to an impressive minimum, and the brilliantly diverse lineup. Whilst Underground Festival is still developing – as all great annual events must – it has enormous potential to do even greater things in coming years.

All photographs courtesy of, and exclusive property of Alice Muir.

For 364 days of the year, Albert Road in Portsmouth would appear to be nothing more than a long and very standard stretch of English tarmac. For just one day in mid-September, however, the street does not so much come alive as as brim with an effervescent love for music for the annual Southsea Festival.

Bringing a sensational and very unique insight into the vast brilliance of the modern underground music scene, the day-long festival utilises fourteen different stages and venues along its long, windswept road, which boasts affordable cafés and vintage shops that would rival those of Camden Market.

Kicking off proceedings are the young and ridiculously fresh-faced Apollo’s Arrows in Southsea Social Club, which boasts a far more impressive stage than most pubs. The band merge a modern and experimental math-based sound with what can certainly be described as above average rock vocals, and whilst it’s a cliché these three are, without a doubt, ones to watch. Their frontman in particular displays incredible prowess in the perfect execution of his incredibly intricate tapping whilst belting very counter-rhythmic vocal melodies.

After this I head up to the BSM/Alcopop! stage at The Edge of The Wedge to see Hymns, but am disappointed to see their name crossed off the bill and replaced by Katie Malco, a wonderfully Lucy Rose-esque folk singer who’s buttery English voice is a perfect fit for the festival.

After investigating the street a little further, we find ourselves wandering into the breathtaking King’s Theatre for The Miserable Rich. The band fill the vast and exquisitely beautiful space with their genuinely intriguing brand of ‘chamber pop’, and whilst Will Calderbank’s almost inaudible murmurings between songs are slightly disarming, his vocals – not unlike those of Michael Stipe’s  - soar gloriously over the encapsulating blend of modern folk and strings with brilliant confidence.

A treat for the burgeoning unsigned stage is a set from Huw Olesker and the Barebackers, who take all the best bits of Imperial Leisure and The King Blues and combine them with a ukelele to create a fun and summery set of sing-along tunes. Huw raises an audience unlike any sixteen year-old I’d seen manage before, enticing many punters off the street to come and dance with the rest.

A grand highlight of the day is found in the other half of The Wedgewood Rooms where the Club NME stage is hosting the heavily anticipated Bear Cavalry. The rock four-piece are easily the most energetic act we’ve seen yet, and fill the comparatively enormous stage and floor with far more presence than I would have expected for a band their age.

Back to the Kings Theatre and Kill It Kid - a four-piece blues-rock group with more sleaze in their sound than Jack White. Whilst sonically the set is magnificently genuine, the band don’t do a lot to fill the room in quite the same way previous acts have.

As evening begins to fall on the festival, we sit in the warm and blissfuly calm Magick Bean café and sip cups of delightfully strong black coffee, listening to the soothing sounds of Beau Brummel, a remarkable Justin Vernon-esque acoustic singer who manages to put us into a near-fatal state of drowsiness.

No amount of warning, mental preparation or even past live experience could have prepared anyone for the ferocious set executed by Talons. Utilising a blend of painfully admirable professionalism and raw, gritty animalism, the post-something-or-other sextet deliver a set that genuinely steals the show. In a tiny room that can barely contain the euphoric crowd, the band opt not to squeeze all six members onto the miniature stage and the two guitarists play on the floor with us, leaving the two violins, drums and bass a foot or so higher than them.

Talons tear without fault through a monstrously impressive and vicious set, and by the time it’s over – with a roaring  ’Commiserations, Buff Orpington’ – the room is entirely without air; sweaty and dizzying. If I’d thought it was the heat making the packed audience sweat, it’s nothing in comparison to the band, who drive themselves into the ground to deliver the most intense and jaw-droppingly splendid set I’ve ever seen from an instrumental band.

It’s back to the Club NME stage next for an outstanding closer from Bleeding Heart Narrative, another English six-piece clearly incredibly aware of the texture of their sound. Utilising structures reminiscent of Mogwai blended with the grand vastness of The Joy Formidable, watching Bleeding Heart Narrative could be compared to standing over a precipice and trying to get blown off by a howling wind.

We head over to The Edge of the Wedge stage and honour the ‘one out, one in’ policy, finally getting  in to see a good half of The Xcerts outstanding set. The heartfelt and vigorously delivered ‘Aberdeen 1987′  is a glorious high point of the whole day, with the sweaty audience bellowing along with the equally exhausted band.

Although we’re completely torn between heading down to the One Eyed Dog for Attack! Vipers! and staying at the same stage for Johnny Foreigner, we opt for the latter mainly due to the sheer amount of time it had taken to get into the room.

The tales of Johnny Foreigner’s hellish journey to the festival has spread throughout the attendees by now, and as a result of what sounds like the most stressful day of the band’s year so far, their usually impressive performance is sadly lacking. After starting a good thirty minutes late due to technical problems, their sound is ear-splittingly piercing and painful to listen to, and whilst the band do their very best to deliver, they’re  obviously utterly worn out. However, a huge majority of the crowd stick around to give the three-piece the support they deserved, dancing, singing along and earnestly cheering Alexei Berrow’s appreciative acknowledgement that they’ve pulled a thicker audience than the enormous Club NME stage next door.

Sadly there’s a rush to the train station necessary – although time is taken nonetheless to have a quick chat with The Xcerts about their upcoming tour with Manchester Orchestra outside their bus – and the last few festival hours escape us.

We are incomparably satisfied with the experience so it’s hardly an issue. Southsea Festival is one of many festivals this summer to resolutely prove that small events like this are on the rise in quality and not in price. I take my hat off to all involved for putting together one of the most unique and genuinely unforgettable experiences of 2011.

All photographs courtesy of, and exclusive property of Richard Heaven.

“Here I can breathe freely and I feel happy”, King William II is proported to have said of Tilburg, a town situated in the south of the Netherlands, close the Belgian border. A city keen to promote itself as forward looking and dynamic, it plays host this month to the  week long Incubate festival. With a theme of Independent culture and DIY spirit, the town is filled positive energy and musicians from around the globe and musical spectrum giving their all. King William would no doubt have approved. Ro Cemm reports from Tilburg.

You can usually tell a good festival by the reactions of those playing and the number of artists who pin Incubate as being different is noticeable. This may come in part from the diversity of musical styles on offer: on arriving in Tilburg we stumble in to 013 (a venue that, from the outside, resembles a giant Chesterfield sofa bedecked in shiny CD’s) to witness Norwegian Black Metalers Obliteration bringing the heavy riffs from a smoke-filled stage. Just a few minutes walk away are Anne Frank Zappa, a trash-garage-punk outfit whose scrappy punk is great fun despite losing a little momentum during the elongated pauses every couple of songs.

Closing the night are Screaming Females, whose frontwoman Marissa Paternoster wrangles all kind of fuzzed out tones from her guitar, tearing up and down the fret board with ferocious energy while the bass holds down low and heavy churning riffs, part stoner rock in its downtimes, part explosive, exhilarating adrenaline fueled grunge-pop.

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About 7 hours later (and with a few heavy heads obvious in the audience) the one day D.I.Y conference kicks off with a keynote speech from Michael Azzerard, author of Our Band Could Be Your Life. Drawing heavily from the book, he argues that, now more than ever, the DIY ethos is necessary: arguing it is so easy to be passive and accept everything. Perhaps due to it’s focus on the time period of the book, and the limited time of the speech there was little for those wishing to apply the DIY principles today, or indeed on DIY approaches in other musical genres, or the role women have played in the scene. However, it could be said that omission from the speech itself made those more prominent in the multiple conversations that fill the halls of the Midi theatre throughout the day.

Indeed, many of the conference panels go on to display how DIY methods have spread, with panels on DIY Media, Bass Culture mash-ups and more. Despite the idea of “Independence” being a key concept throughout all of these talks, it is a sense of the need and desire to feel part of a community that appears time and time again. That sense of community also plays a vital part in the festival itself – at what other festival would  a farmer come up to the organiser and ask to collaborate? Having invited Dan Deacon to make a film at the farm last year, this year the same farmer plays host to Peter Broderick for three weeks. Broderick returns to the farm to play a special lunchtime session this year.

Speaking to the director of the festival afterwards, its clear that local community involvement is a key element that they try to incorporate: see also the “Play Me, I’m Yours” pianos scattered around the town for anyone to play, and the after-school improv sessions.

Miracle Fortress

Friday evening begins in an electro-pop vein, with Miracle Fortress and Austra both building on eighties influences in their own ways. We’ve praised both in recent weeks on the pages of this site and justifiably so.

Austra’s performance follows a  flight which saw their bass and effects ‘delayed in transit’ so there’s time to catch Berlin by way of Canada’s Nadja’s brooding experimental ambient doom, which reverberates the packed house, and then see that band’s Aidan Baker also play with Picastro. There’s also time for a quick jaunt in the direction of Ninja Tune artist Daedelus, whose set includes elements of tracks produced with students in Tilburg each day this week, all triggered by the constantly twitching, finely mustachioed electronic impresario.

Daedelus

With the largest amount of shows taking place on Friday and Saturday the most frequently heard complaint is that there simply isn’t enough time to see everything. Even the artists are keen to get around and see some shows -Little Scream’s drummer expresses unlikely regret at missing Black Metalers Aura Noir while frontwoman Laurel Sprengelmeyer tries to repair a string broken in a smoke machine fueled rock-out. Battling the same smoke machine later that day are Esben and The Witch, whose skittering electronics and minimal percussion draw in a curious crowd, to whom they’re veiled by an impromptu mid-song dry ice explosion.

Esben and the Witch

“My two favourite creatures are MORTAL ENEMIES” Baby Dee announces with a wry smile as a mid-set segway between songs about slugs and robins. While her songs may not have the same lyrical content as some of the more hardcore bands present at the festival, there is an equal amount of theatre to their performance with Dee channelling classical knowhow, ‘Nawlinz Jazz and music hall in equal measure. Her beautiful piano playing is perfectly augmented by sensitive drumming, upright bass, flute and the occasional burst of musical saw.

The rest of the festival is about getting a little taste of everything- so there’s time to see Dubstep meet Zimbabwean Mbira, Monsters of Moombahton, Detroit legend Theo Parish, embrace the energetic madness of Man Man and the high kicking, falling over, heart-on-the-sleeve moments of Handsome Furs.

Elsewhere there’s free jazz from Chris Corsano and Mats Gustafsson, a show in a natural amphitheater by Battles and performances from punk heroes Crass’ Steve Ignorant and The Fall to round things off.

Man Man

In the early hours of Monday morning, sitting in front of a family tree of metal bands while watching musicians of different musical persuasions dancing along with the crowd to Plastic Bertrand’s one hit wonder ‘Ca Plane Pour Moi’, it strikes you how well the community ethos works at Incubate. It’s truly a place where you’re invited to participate and explore the music, given impetus and energy by those who are willing to embrace a different way of doing things. Long may it continue.

“Is this the way they say the future’s meant to feel or just 20,000 people standing in a field?”  16 years ago these words rang out across Leeds’ Roundhay Park as Pulp headlined the hottest day of the year at the forwardly optimistic, brit-pop oozing Heineken Festival. On Sunday night in 2011, in a field down the road, Jarvis sings out those same words to a sludgy field as a near climax to the retrospective, heritage weekend that was the main stage at Leeds. Was this really the imagined future? Mainstream guitar bands clinging on to any credibility they once had?

Friday

The guitar may currently be the dirty old man of music, lurking sinisterly against the bedroom walls of teenagers, tempting them into a dark, post primary school world. But on Friday at Leeds Festival, it’s a machine which still kills fascists. The day starts with real ale and Danananakroyd who appear not so much anarchic as polished. Gone are the wall-of-hugs mosh pit and the second drum kit, and what emerge are near anthems and screamo showmanship. Next, Fucked Up play the set of the weekend. Despite being early on Friday, it’s clear it won’t be bettered. Pink Eyes’ stripping semi-naked and his spending all but the first song with the crowd is inevitable, but the ferocity of their hardcore was excelled by even their own standards.  ‘I Hate Summer’ becomes an appropriate anthem for this soggy day, and as Pink Eyes tells the tent, “Every one of you in this tent could be in a band,” we don’t believe him. No one could be as good as them.

Disappointingly Best Coast’s Californian dream-fuzz is an uninspiring follow up, coated in too much distortion and sounding frankly awful. A trip to the main stage for Frank Turner’s desperate balladeering sees the crowd cruelly urged to sit down on the swamping ground during the sing-along cliché of ‘Photosynthesis’, a gimmick which even indie-folksters James stopped enforcing years ago. Luckily Dutch Uncles bring some much needed angular quality to a rammed Festival Republic stage for a set which they are visibly glowing through. Back in the NME/Radio1 tent Warpaint exude warmth and hazy days, so as the weather deteriorates, their set provides a summer shimmer and warm cidery embrace. As ‘Undertow’ and ‘Billie Holliday’ breeze across the wild flower crowd as they have done throughout the festival season, we are gifted a rare glimpse of genuine musical beauty at Leeds, before Warpaint flutter back across the Atlantic.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Friday’s real excitement is aimed at Death From Above 1979’s frightening return. Although their backdrop gives the dates 2001-2006, this is no nostalgic reunion, this is unfinished business. They are a band of legend, of obtuse infamy, which took noisecore-electro and played it live with drums and ravaged bass, but split after concussing and confusing the adoring hipster minority. Tonight Jesse F Keeler and Sebastian Grainger are frankly pummelling, yet teetering close to nova as if it’s only their own momentum keeping it together. Starting with ‘Turn it Out’ sets the precedent for heavy piercing distortion, but even the slower ‘Black History Month’ has enough rough dirge to propel it to epic depths.  During ‘Romanic Rights’’ extended bass crunch Grainger stalks the stage before his drums set the feral pit loose. A set filled with crowd pleasers like ‘Little Girl’ and rarer tracks ‘Do it’ and ‘You’re Lovely (But You’ve Got Lots of Problems)’, it is a monstrous spectacle worthy of their return.

After enduring Muse widdle and whine in front of cartoons and tinfoil sticks until they do ‘Plug in Baby’, Descendants are a welcome relief.  Although they seem like five dads who play punk in a back room of a provincial boozer, their angular Californian hardcore sounds as relevant as ever. Thirty three years in the making these icons, which influenced Black Flag, Rival Schools, Fugazi and every kid with a guitar since, show a sincerity in melodic, poppy punk rock which lesser bands mass-marketed and belittled.

Saturday

Saturday sees mud lakes turned into sludge dunes, and the punk aimed Lockup Stage morph in to a Tribal Gathering halcyon. D/R/U/G/S start the day with the sweeping bleeps and veering beats of Orbital whispering in one’s ear. Next, a quick trip to see Frankie and The Heartstrings reveals them as superstars worthy of a much higher billing, with Frankie Francis prowling the NME/Radio 1 stage and laying his scent in declaration of ownership. Mount Kimbie need no such raw animal energy; the numbers in the dance tent say it all. Crowds gravitate toward them, magnetised by their rolling rhythms and building ambience with precise layering.

For a dance stage show, Crystal Fighters’ set up seems awfully band like: guitar amps, keyboards at the back, drum kit and bongos galore, and with the audience swelling, a tingling atmosphere develops.  This potential is swiftly ignored by Crystal Fighters by being too quiet and threadbare, a basic volume problem which isn’t fixed in the mix- a problem Grandmaster Flash would no doubt be appalled at. The music is there and a sub-bass wobble can be detected but none of it deployed with the energy needed to bring their excellent and exciting album to life. A trio of ‘Swallow’, ‘I Love London’ and ‘I Do This Everyday’ should be an epic highlight but simply sounds lacklustre.  A diversion to see Naked and The Famous provides the opposite experience, a clean cut, corporate electro suitable for a car or tampon advert, but at a volume to get the tent truly energised.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Patrick Wolf doesn’t need to worry about fickle aspects like atmosphere and volume, he has perfect pop song writing on his side. An effortless multi-instrumentalist, Wolf is comfortable with a ukulele, violin, piano and swooning vocals. ‘Bermondsey Street’ in particular propels him into the 80s with its  Talk Talk and Aztec Camera pop, with the rest of the set veering from the soaring sound of The Associates to the melancholia of The The. Katie Sky Larkin also makes a guest appearance in this wistfully soaring show, but it’s all been a bit too pleasant, so a visit to Henry Rollins is in order. This bison man stands centre stage with a microphone held solidly and appears to own the fulcrum of gravity around him. The fifty-year-old delivers his vivace critique of his time in Black Flag with a literally eye popping anecdote, buying ladders in Costco and war, and it’s objective fact rather than merely a man’s opinion. Rollins is the voice of authority – if he says jump, you run away because he will jump higher, onto you.

The trio of great men concludes with Tom Vek’s phenomenal live return. Although he’s promoting new album Leisure Seizure the electro Darren Hayman starts with the familiar ‘C-C (You Set the Fire in Me)’ assumingly by way of apology for a six year absence. As he moves into ‘We Do Nothing’ the fruits of this absence are apparent – intricately crafted electro pop with slacker drawl. The gentle rave of ‘Someone Loves You’ uncovers the key of what he’s been doing, sitting out nu-rave’s glo-stick obsession until a time when innovative electro was in charge.  Old songs ‘If You Want’ and ‘I Ain’t Saying my Goodbyes’ sound like classics alongside new epics ‘ A Chore’ and set closer ‘Aroused’ in an exquisite performance from a true innovator, which makes next act Digitalism now sound dated. Their lazy Trash electro hasn’t aged well since their mid to late noughties peak and harks back to a time when people still gave a shit about the Klaxons.

The Horrors’ Festival Republic headline slot is a comfortable place for them. Opening with ‘Changing Rain’, it’s clear that they have a classic on their hands. With its reverberating bass and krautrock tinklings, it’s a long term indie disco stand out tune. It’s appropriately dark in the tent, and with the stage backlit in purples and greens, we see Farris Badwan’s silhouette eagerly skulking around the stage – and he’s relishing it. The tent is being swept away in blissful nu-gaze, but during a potentially career defining performance of ‘Still Life’ there’s a sudden power cut. Seizing their chance to show their adoration the whole tent repeatedly sings back the chorus of ‘Still Life’ while the band, sensing this is the career defining moment, remain on stage bathing in arguably their first rock-star sing-along moment- something Jim Kerr will never again receive. After what seems like an eternity, and to a power surge roar, The Horrors valiantly complete ‘Still Life’ and Badwan towers triumphantly, thanksing the tent for being the best crowd they’ve ever played to.  They leave the stage and Saturday’s true headliner has been revealed.

Sunday

Sunday has the feel of merely killing time until Pulp headline, with a main stage line up seemingly cobbled together from a shit iPod on shuffle – why else would the Pigeon Detectives be playing?  Especially above the blisteringly phenomenal Joy Formidable who turn into fully fledged rock royalty before Leeds’ early risers. This Welsh trio make a big, big sound and Ritzy Bryan has the rock kudos to control any crowd. ‘A Heavy Abacus’ batters any post Horrors fuzziness out of the assembled brains, and the already classic ‘Austere’, wins them sing-along points. But it’s ‘Whirring’ which proves they’re not afraid to rock-the-fuck-out more than any other bands on ‘rock’ day.

Photo by Jodie Sims

In 2011, it can’t be right for Seasick Steve to still be peddling his hobo gimmick – he tours the world, hangs out with Dave Grohl in VIP bars and even brings his rock behemoth John Paul Jones on as special guest bassist. ‘Diddley Bo’ is still a great song but the novelty wore thin in 2007 and has been degraded to a Radio 2 jingle. Madness’ gimmick has been ground for much longer but theirs is tolerable up to a point. They are the consummate professionals, starting with two biggies, ‘One Step Beyond’ and ‘Embarrassment’ but then sedately meander through lesser known and unenthusiastic ska-pop leaving their remaining classics until the end. However, they maintain a huge bounding crowd throughout, and essentially, isn’t this what festival bands should do?

Sunday’s indifference continues with a tiring set by Cults who only muster a modicum of the enthusiasm felt around their emergence. Brian Oblivion still has energy and Madeline Follin’s voice can always woo the coldest of hearts, but a mid-afternoon set in a half empty stage was the wrong slot. Finally a much needed boost comes from Jimmy Eat World who surprise with their alt-emo. They’ll never be as hip as Death Cab for Cutie nor as big as Weezer, but in ‘The Middle’ and ‘Sweetness’ they’ve produced some indie classics as recognisable in the disco as ‘Cannonball’ or ‘Debaser’. Today from the main stage they declare ownership Bramham Park.

As evening starts to draw in, the mood tenses as The National settle into their recently acquired penthouse. Third on the bill at Leeds and headlining Latitude, these lofty heights are well deserved by these New Yorkers.  It’s not a huge crowd (by Madness standards) but those here know it’s a major event as soon as Matt Berninger’s bar room croon on ‘Start A War’ echo’s into ‘Anyone’s Ghost’. But it’s an early appearance of ‘Bloodbuzz Ohio’ which sends Leeds into a spin and becomes an unexpected sing-along as the battling drums and milling guitars cascade relentlessly. It’s a set which honours all their albums, not just the breakthrough ‘High Violet’, with the same debonair gratitude. During ‘Mr November’, the bar room chic descends into a gentleman’s brawl with grappled agitation and sharp bursting hooks. Berninger’s composure returns as he dusts down for ‘Terrible Love’ which is delivered as an impassioned epitaph to tragedy and hope. With that The National leave, knowing that although they may have been preaching to the converted, the gospel will be spread.

Leeds festival has already provided many sing-along anthems from the likes of Fucked Up, The Horrors and The National, showcased enigmatic frontmen with Tom Vek and Henry Rollins, and celebrated reunions with DFA 1979, but they were all strategic- warms ups for this. Windy and synthesised voices are audible as neon letters reveal themselves one by one from behind a curtain. As the curtain falls Pulp are revealed and expectedly delve in to ‘Do You Remember the First Time?’ and it sounds as perfect as ever, before Jarvis Cocker greets the crowd with “We are Pulp, you are Leeds. We are here to keep you warm”.

Click here to view the embedded video.

The magic within Pulp’s comeback shows lays with their set lists. There is a core set of songs but the opening quarter, bar ‘Do You Remember the First Time?’, are interchangeable, indicative of the quality of their catalogue. Tonight’s second song is ‘Pink Glove’ – one of their best, then ‘Razamatazz’ – the pre His ‘n’ Hers epic and then into the voyeurism of ‘Pencil Skirt’. This is wonderful for the aficionado, but it’s ‘Disco 2000’ where the wind is ignored and Leeds is truly propelled upwards. Amongst the mesmerising set, Cocker’s charisma is constantly prevalent as he relays tales to those who choose to ride the twirly fairground, about how they could have the honour of throwing up during a Pulp show, and later nearly choking on a mid-set pear.

Cocker brigadiers Pulp through their set, straddling monitors and letching over his microphone as he writhes across the stage. It’s awe inspiring and exactly what we want. Pulp are outclassing everyone who’s been on this stage as they punch ‘F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E’ and seduce with ‘Babies’.  Former Pulp touring guitarist Richard Hawley joins the group for the ever seedy ‘This Is Hardcore’ – a song with the puissance to make hardcore bands, punk or digital, doubt themselves. Hawley remains on stage for the remainder of the set in which ‘Sunrise’ sounds more Ibizan rave than indie anthem.

Of course it’s ‘Common People’, which Cocker claimed in 1995 was, “An anthem for the Netto Generation”, that instigates the greatest serotonin hit of the whole weekend. It closes the set with its euphoric yelps and pleads, and its place as the UK’s unofficial national anthem is secure.  With the wealth gap widening back in the real world, ‘Common People’ is as relevant as ever, a timeless statement of social division. But delivered at a festival in 2011 where young and old can be hypnotised by the simplest of things – a man on stage – it proves Jarvis Cocker was right. 16 years ago just down the road, when he sang, “Is this the way they say the future’s meant to feel?”, he knew Pulp’s songs were meant to be heard en-mass with gusto and joy, forever. Whether it be in a field in Hampshire, Yorkshire or Berkshire, Pulp’s songs belong here, and after tonight’s show, let’s hope they stay.

For many reasons, 2011 has been a very good year for music. Several long-awaited albums have been released, many artists have finally toured, more exciting announcements have been made than many would have dared hope for and if we can momentarily forget about the destruction of the PIAS stock and death of Amy Winehouse, we can safely say that it has been a year of strong musical progression. However, it is for music festivals that this statement is particularly relevant, as 2011 has been the year that brought to light the indisputable realisation that the monopolising reign of the ‘festival giants’ is well and truly over. Nation wide, small and medium festivals have thrived beyond all recognition this year and The Green Man Festival, now in its ninth year and named ‘Best Medium Sized Festival’ at 2010′s UK Festival Awards, is a pretty perfect example of just that.

Green Man itself is nothing short of idyllic. Discreetly nestled in the Brecon Beacons at Glanusk Park, the festival features one gargantuan campsite that runs in a parallel curve along the side of it, and one or two little features that make it stand head an shoulders above the rest, the foremost of which being the most immediate section of the arena. The Main Stage is set at the bottom of what can only be described as a green colosseum, circled by tiered grassy slopes, with trees dotted around the lower tier and around the back of the stage – a set-up which is breathtaking when illuminated from behind at night. A large pond overlooked by an enormous inflatable elephant – returning from the previous year – sits by the side of the main stage and the ‘wishing tree’, where throughout the weekend people hang wishes on small coloured pieces of paper and tie them to the branches.

Up the slopes sits phase two of the festival; a vast selection of food stalls, two of three real ale and cider bars – thank christ, at least one festival has realised that Tuborg is bloody awful – the Rough Trade tent, the magnificent Einstein’s Garden, in which the science and workshop stalls are situated, and the Comedy & Literature tent. All of the above are spread over a vast maze of grass and stone and trees, using far more space than is usual for a festival, which is an absolute blessing, for it means no angry crowds or rotten festival stink of piss and litter. However, it doesn’t end here. Walk up one last slope and you reach the final major tier of the festival, on which is situated the Far Out stage, the enormous handmade Green Man statue which is ritualistically burnt on the Sunday night, Chai Wallahs’ famous chillout area with drinks, shisha pipes and a small stage – this year split into two tents – more food and trinket stalls and, making its first appearance at Green Man, a very merry-old-England-looking ferris wheel. At night, the festival becomes nothing short of a haven, with lights and fire at every turn and people overjoyed at the quality of the food, alcohol and music.

In an unusual and pleasantly surprising move, the festival kicked things off on Thursday night with a special treat for the early birds – an appearance from modern musical comedy legend Tim Minchin, who played a set comprising some wonderful and disarmingly controversial comedy. The encore was another unusual one, however – a cover of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’. Admitting to us that he realises that the vast majority of his fans are atheists, Tim stated that he enjoyed the ‘sweet irony’ of making a few thousand people sing this particular lyrical content in unison.

The festival really started, however, on the main stage on Friday morning, with the winners of the Green Poll 2011, Will and the People. Glorying in the blistering sunshine, the band opened the festival with their smooth and sleazy yet mournfully bluesy sound. For a band of their age, Will and the People displayed excellent attention to dynamics and attack, and I found myself impressed in particular with the feel exhibited by the guitar and drums. The underlying indie tones and surprisingly natural tempo changes made the set ridiculously danceable, and somewhat reminiscent of The Stranglers. Coupling all this with upbeat, wailing vocals and delightful harmonies, the understated and wonderfully melodic set was a perfect opener.

Heading over next to the Far Out stage, I slipped into the comparatively calm atmosphere for a set by Admiral Fallow, who opened with a relaxed and slightly Justin Vernon-esque guitar tone and solo vocals. Live, there was an intensity in the Glaswegian indie-folk band’s delivery that either doesn’t come across or simply isn’t present at all on the record. I was struck by the quality of sound during this set, especially considering the group features two wind instruments. After a few choice songs from their debut album, Boots Met My Face, the band treated us to two new songs, both of which went down an absolute storm and hinted at a new, more experimental and frankly gutsier direction. Laughing off a horribly tuned guitar after a few bars of ‘Old Balloons’, the band closed with massively powerful doubled-up toms and crashing cymbals, and a hearty smile from the usually sombre frontman.

Walking past the main stage towards the tents, we were lucky enough to see a very amusing moment from Danish four-piece Treefight For Sunlight‘s set. Asking the crowd to promise to stand up if they recognised the next song, the band tore into a delightfully brave and surprisingly accurate cover of Kate Bush’s ‘Wuthering Heights’. After a few hours of rediscovering the festival’s layout, a jam in the bookshop/banjo workshop in the surreal Einstein’s Garden and a pie from the infamous Pieminister, it was time to head back over to the Far Out stage for one of the weekend’s most exciting acts – Irish singer-songwriter James Vincent McMorrow. Pulling the largest audience we’d seen yet, James delivered a charmingly honest set, standing on his own in the spotlight on the large stage and holding the crowd’s attention brilliantly. Live, it’s very hard not to fall in love with James as his timid and almost bewildered speaking voice floats over the audience between songs and without fail rendering every member of the audience dumb with shimmeringly beautiful and confident pieces. The man’s falsetto and microphone technique is as impeccable live as it is on the record, and the crowd roared with approval as he closed with the announcement that he is working on a new record.

It was then back over to the main stage for more Irish folk – Conor O’Brien’s Villagers. Although incredibly tight musically, the first few songs of the band’s set were a little bland, and failed to capture the raw brilliance found in Conor’s solo shows. However, towards the end of the performance, the band gained significant momentum as the sound’s intensity doubled, and gained a sense of real folk grandeur. The crowds for Villagers were a sight to behold from the surrounding slopes, gathered in their masses in the twilight, red light spilling onto them from the stage. After this, we stuck around the main stage for forty minutes to see contemporary folk legends Bellowhead absolutely outdo themselves. Although many bands across the weekend successfully packed out the main arena to full capacity, the eleven-piece band had every audience member dancing, linking arms and jigging with one another, and the sound, coupled with the beautiful surroundings, grand lighting and cool evening breeze made for a completely unforgettable atmosphere.

It was now time for texas-based instrumental post-rock legends Explosions in the Sky, the first headliners of the weekend, to grace the main stage with their crescendo based guitar symphonies. Having to follow the tone set by Bellowhead meant the band took a little time to reach their stride – indeed, the first few numbers in their set were somewhat insipid, and lacked the sonic presence needed to create the encapsulating experience they are known for. However, as the ninety minute set reached its halfway point, the crowd’s concentration became more focused and the band delivered. Favorites such as ‘Your Hand In Mine’ were noticeably executed with more conviction than on the record, and as the rain began to fall during a stirringly intense build-up, the momentary dipping of the lights and sound seemed to utterly black out the senses before the band thundered into a giant cacophony of sound, making one of the most memorable moments of the weekend.

Saturday morning was another few hours spent enjoying the atmosphere of the festival, reading in the sun by the enormous Green Man and sampling a mouth-watering smoked bacon and brie bagel from the Dorset Smokery, before seeing the magnificent 9Bach on the main stage treat the sun-soaked audience to their haunting, simple and somewhat medieval sound. Following these on the main stage were Brooklyn-based blues-rock duo-turned-trio, She Keeps Bees. The band’s sound was as raw live as on the record, but displayed a charm and sense of real enjoyment that the studio recordings don’t. Slipping in cute, hilariously funny and interesting banter between the intensely powerful songs, and lacing in heartfelt screams and rustic acapella throughout the set, singer Jessica Larrabee’s commitment and appreciation of the audience were real highlights.

Heading over to the Far Out stage after this was a good move, for 2:54 offered a set of spacey, driving alt-rock, with apparent nods to Sonic Youth and Queens of the Stone Age – or maybe more specifically the Desert Sessions – and the brilliantly powerful vocals from the Thurlow sisters made a refreshing change of pace from the general calm of the festival so far. After this, we stayed put for a stunning set from Ellen and the Escapades, who were obviously somewhat overwhelmed by the size of the crowd. The band played a heartily gratifying set of songs practically dripping with poppy modern folk credibility, and Ellen Smith’s admirable vocals were some of the best I heard all weekend.

After catching the last few minutes of an incredibly intimate acoustic session with She Keeps Bees in the Rough Trade tent, it was back up to Far Out for one of the most talked-about artists of the festival – bearded singer-songwriter Josh T. Pearson. While Josh played passionately and drew an enormous crowd, the sound was inexplicably piercing, which made the usually encapsulating performer’s set literally too loud to bear. Afterwards, the decision was taken to remain in the tent for the brilliant contemporary-jazz complexity of Polar Bear. Rhythmically the band bear a great similarity to Mouse on the Keys, and boasted the finest drum sound of the weekend. The band were an immensely interesting live experience, with the guitarist adding ambiance by letting air out of a balloon into a a delay-laden microphone.

Next on the Main Stage were the American Avett Brothers who, on appearance, looked like another harmony-laden, dreamy folk band. However, they were surprisingly and wonderfully energetic, with raw screams laced in with the rest of the beautifully smooth vocals. After this set, night began to fall and the crowds started to fill out the main arena for Noah and the Whale, who delivered one of the most interesting and enjoyable introductions of the weekend. Leaving the stage empty and playing an instrumental brass version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ over the PA, which the audience quickly began fervently singing the words along with, before sidling onto the stage, striking the snare at the last beat and blasting into a song of the same key. The lighting for this set was absolutely incomparable, and the coupling of the band’s smart appearance and the warm evening air created a very memorable atmosphere. The violin and backing vocals were almost completely lost in the mix, however, and the tight delivery did not quite mask the fact that the delivery was in fact, somewhat lacklustre, with next to no communication with the adoring audience.

The crowd hardly separated during the 45 minute break before headliners Fleet Foxes came onstage to thunderous applause. The band’s strikingly heartfelt set was completely true to the record, and somehow even more captivating. Lying on the slopes surrounding the stage with the content and sleepy audience around us, feeling the rain patter down and enjoying the mesmerising view of the lights spilling onto the vast audience, it struck me just how unique this festival experience is in comparison to being crammed into a crowd all desperate to get a peek at the band they’ve been waiting to see. Fleet Foxes surpassed all expectations, and the captivating set was seemingly equally enjoyed by both the band and the audience.

Sunday was kicked off for me by Thomas Dybdahl, and his rich, buttery voice. The set opened with surprisingly frantic drums with appropriately summery instrumentation floating over them. The reverb-laden guitars were played with flawless technique, and Thomas led the crowd in a hearty singalong of his song, ‘Cecilia’ before thanking us and making way for James Blake. Having never seen the man perform before, I was unsure what to expect. I was, in many respects, utterly blown away. The live sound was physically heart-pounding, and seemed to make the very air around my head thicken and go still. James’ voice was wonderfully clear above the captivating bass, and even live, his use of a vocoder and looping was without fault. The synth sound was somewhat akin to Kid A-era Radiohead, and whilst there is a very obvious overall likeness to Bon Iver, there is also a hint of Imogen Heap and early Battles in the sound. James remarked that this was his favourite place. The comment ‘I know we’re in Wales, but this couldn’t really feel more English’ caused half the crowd cheer and half boo, although after he professed his joy at playing the same stage as Laura Marling after watching her from the audience last year, the majority of the audience roared with approval.

Next, I left the vast crowd that was gathering for Laura Marling‘s Main Stage appearance for what was, for me, the most exciting and anticipated moment of the whole weekend - The Antlers, another Brooklyn-based band. The word ‘ethereal’ is thrown around a lot when it comes to the widely respected four-piece, and whilst this is very true for their records, the band went above and beyond this live. Playing easily one of the most captivating sets I’d seen not only all weekend, but possibly all my life; there was an intensity that was almost palpable, with the audience standing frozen and in absolute awe of what they were witnessing. The live delivery of the stirring song ‘Kettering’ differed greatly from the quiet, composed album version, with ambient noise tearing through Silberman’s exquisite vocals. Closing with the tear-jerking ‘Putting The Dog To Sleep’ and thanking the crowd vehemently, the band left a deeply satisfied audience, with various iterations of the sentiment ‘oh my fucking god’ to be heard on all sides as they left. I quickly ran over to the Main Stage to see the last few minutes of Laura Marling’s set and was, of course, a little disappointed to have missed it. Her voice, as always, was immaculate, and she seemed very touched at the turnout. The crowd was vast, silent and respectful while she played, and the view from the top of the bowl was breathtaking.

After a hearty bite to eat from Flaming Cactus, I strolled back to see an enormous audience spilling out of the Far Out stage for Suuns, who delivered a set of trancey, driving alt-rock. Eerily affected and sounding slightly industrial, the band played beneath lighting that was as magnificent as any I had seen on the Main Stage, and suited their sound down to the ground. Outside, night had now fallen, and settling on the hills around the Main Stage once more, we were greeted by the soothing Western sounds of The Low Anthem, who’s mesmerisingsly modern, bluesy folk-rock set was somewhat reminiscent of the Grateful Dead and James Taylor, with a little bit of Physical Graffiti-era Led Zeppelin thrown in. As the line ‘first she shot me with whiskey and chased me with gin’ floated over the illuminated masses, the three foremost band members gathered around the far left microphone and displayed a staggering level of sincerity. Completely honest in their delivery, the band’s set was one of the most enjoyable moments of the whole weekend, with the song ‘This God Damn House’ standing out as being particularly stirring. As for the announcer asking us to “give it up one last time for the Low Theory”, well, that was just hilarious.

No-one was going anywhere now, for it was time for the final headliner – Sam Beam’s infamous Iron & Wine, which sadly clashed with the magnificent Alessi’s Ark on the pub stage. The audience had relaxed by now, after three days of drinking and enjoying themselves, and Sam Beam’s arrival on stage was warmly greeted. Opting to remain on the slopes and view the last hurrah from a distance, I was struck by how much more energetic Iron & Wine is live in comparison to the relatively muted records, and by the surprisingly electric sound emitted. A rendition of ‘Wolves (Song Of The Shepherd’s Dog)’ went on for at least ten minutes and included some real performance, solos and fascinating build-ups. Although Sam Beam is famously a bit of a gamble live, and his solo shows are often more highly rated than the group, it paid off marvellously and rounded off the main entertainment better than anyone could have hoped for.

However, the night was far from over. For the first time all weekend, I felt crowded as the entirety of the festival moved up the slopes to the highest tier of the festival to watch the Green Man burn amidst fire performers and fireworks. As the flames licked around the tall, grand flammable monument and the first fireworks blazed into the sky, the crowd cheered, clapped and catcalled into the night, rejoicing in the shared atmosphere and the dizzying sight of the flames against the illuminated sky. After this, and the families had returned to their section of the campsite, the only place to really be was Chai Wallahs, where The Correspondents played an upbeat, sweaty and utterly entertaining set of their own brand of electro-swing, involving the audience brilliantly, and with Mr Bruce including his famous treadmill in the performance. For the first time ever, at least as far as I know, The Correspondents included two live brass players in their set, which brought such incredible life to the performance that it’d be very, very surprising if it isn’t something that they continue. After this, it was finally time to stumble back down the slopes and through the campsite – which, by the way, was close to immaculate even by the time I departed the next day – and eventually, to bed.

Last summer, I spent most of Green Man Festival 2010 saying over and over again that if we’d had sun and blue skies as opposed to the solid rain that was literally crushing our weaker tents into the ground, then it would probably be, on all counts, one of the most perfect festivals in the country. I’m delighted to say confidently that my hypothesis was absolutely spot on. Never has a festival provided such seclusion from everyday life (in such a positive way), or surrounded us by as much genuinely loveable music and such like-minded, decent people. All things considered, Green Man absolutely delivered in every respect, and so here’s to the small and medium sized festivals of Great Britain – may they continue, remain at affordably priced and not outgrow themselves.

All photographs courtesy of, and exclusive property of Lee Fryer.

To read Part One, which sees an Odd Future-Steve Albini moment in a taxi with a certain South London grime act, click here.

The next morning my film marathon antics are upstaged by my press compatriots, all with a different story to tell about how their nights unravelled. Key highlights include a certain writer from a certain webzine being accosted by a fat, racist prostitute and taken to Burger King to meet her pimp. Another entails one particular Scottish writer getting back to his en-suite blind-drunk and drawing a few crude and/or offensive images on the god awful photographic print that hung above his bed. I consider top-trumping them all by conjuring up a fake love affair with Susanne Sundfør, in which I seduce her by showing her a selection of my latest tweets and providing a play-by-play account of why each is really funny, but eventually decide against it. It wouldn’t have convinced anybody anyhow. I’m far too needy for fake love affairs.

Our afternoon sees us taxied back and forth like some yuppie blaggards, as we go from festival to the Norwegian Museum of Rock Music – or Rockheim, as the punned name has it – and from here to an advertising party in a plush, white, open-plan modern office in the city centre. We are greeted with beer and nibbles on entry and the orphaned side of me shows through, as I punctuate each sentence of a conversation with a huge gulp or bite.

Saturday

Several free beers later, we finally arrive on-site to catch Trondheim trio Pelbo open the main stage for the festival’s second day, operating more as elevator music for the most punctual of their neighbours with an enigmatic helping of percussion and electronics. Sadly today the sun doesn’t grace us, and the band may as well be Elbow for all most care right now as they delve in their bags for umbrellas and waterproofs. Alcohol seems to have lowered my self-restraint and I decide another drink is needed.

Taking refuge under a light covering of trees, mainly to keep my beer from being watered down by the rain, Sweden’s The Tallest Man On Earth serenades me and those sheltered nearby with a set of Dylan-esque acoustic numbers. If the weather had been different then Kristian Matsson’s wispy voice could have fallen on deaf ears, drowned out by a sea of idle conversation, but with the rain heavily pouring there’s little else to do but sit and listen, and we all feel the better for it.

Lissie

We turn our heads a little to the right to cast our eyes upon folk-pop singer Lissie, who can be seen a little in the distance on the main stage. The American beauty woos the audience with repeated declaration of her love for the country, which does much to warm the shivering crowd to her. But it’s all pleasantries and a little lacking in substance as the singer comes across like a female Ray LaMontagne, it’s a shame she’s been too forcefully and strategically marketed as the polish masks and marrs the possible depth underneath.

Jamie Woon, whom a colleague remarks makes James Blake look dangerous in comparison, suffers from the same sort of fate. Surrounded by endless numbers of dedicated fans who have taken to their feet to see the swoony London smoothie, it’s hard to see how music that enlists such a passionate response from its fans and that takes a lot of inspiration from soul can somehow come off as a touch contrived and even heartless. Sorry, Woonie, but this just sounds like Q Magazine’s take on dubstep.

Håkan Hellström

Neighbouring Nordic hero, Sweden’s Håkan Hellström raises my otherwise bleakly cynical spirit with his brand of jolting Scandi-pop, but a chance encounter with Autolazer (no prizes to whom the name – and indeed sound – is a crass imitation of), and his attempts are all in vain. They’re an electro trio, although only one of them (a man stood behind some decks wearing a hockey mask) seems to be doing anything musical as the other two (presumably friends, although I got here late so they could well have been audience members that took things too far) dance in front of him, trying to drive the crowd into a frenzy. And a frenzy they do create, with everybody dancing away, making me feel like a right Scrooge. But then just at the close of the set, the masked performer runs to front to join the other two, leaving the music to somehow play behind him, rendering the whole live set pointless. The rug has been pulled from under us and nobody seems to even care as the crowd dances away on a bare and vacuous floor.

But thank the lord (or should that be thank the Lordi?) for The Roots, come to raise spirits after a lacklustre few hours, which could have dampened what had been a pretty bloody good first day. The larger-than-life US group and Jimmy Fallon’s backing band swagger on stage, providing blast after blast of cool and intelligent hip-hop/soul hybrid. As the festival comes to a close and I join the swarming masses on the walk home, I can’t help but notice the localised and insular nature of Pstereo, unlike Oslo’s Oya, making it akin to Britain’s Green Man. Walking past the local cathedral and the wartime draw-bridge, I’m buoyed by the physical beauty that surrounds.

The Roots

I get back to the hotel room and the setting of last night’s existential crisis, where everything comes in individual single packaging and where everything is so tiny. Hotel rooms are sometimes as if you’ve walked through the looking glass and into a world where social norms and etiquette are twisted or disregarded altogether. Who needs one pillow when you can have about a million? Who needs a small version of a bar in their room? Everyone! And who needs manners when you’re actually encouraged to throw your towel on the floor and wait for the maid to clean up at your Do Not Disturb-sign whim? Nobody! I think I could get used to living in a hotel after all, I guess. Although as I settle down to a thing or two from the mini-bar (this could just be poetic license, really – don’t send me the bill), I get a twinge of homesickness and thank my phone’s lack of network coverage saving me from tweeting or texting something melodramatic like “This is just me in another place”.

Up at 5 in the morning, I expect to cross paths with DFA still partying from two nights before at the reception, but sadly do not. I also get excited at the prospect of, as I am told by the festival representative who meets me at this unflattering hour, sharing a taxi to the airport with the girl from Glasser. This, to my fanboy-ish dismay, falls through also. And so I’m back in the taxi with my Nordic adventure well and over, keeping my eye on the red-eyed driver who keeps nodding off and drifting the wheel to the right, frighteningly close to a sign that says Rosenberg (who I know from my geographic/footballing knowledge have a football team). On the plane I try in vain to block out the noise of three babies simultaneously crying as we take off. I give up trying to read a Sunday paper within the radius of an economy flight cabin as it seems I still cannot manage to read broadsheets without causing a crumpled mess. I’m obviously not quite a true man yet, three days and still no facial hair either. I open my laptop, load Football Manager and wonder who I should manage.

Photos by Jannica Honey.

“Nah, bruv. He’s got beef with the guy. I think he’ll ghost him, you know, but he may just mug him instead” is a snippet of a conversation I didn’t think I’d hear in the middle of Norway, as I carpool from Trondheim airport to a luxury hotel in the centre of the country’s third largest city, with three South Londoners talking about things that I would need to look up on Urban Dictionary to ever understand.

Cooped uncomfortably in the back of the 8-seater, I’m next to another muso with a first name exactly my own. My namesake counterpart is larger than I am, with a beard too, juxtaposing my weedy posturing and complete inability to grow any excuse of post-pubescent facial hair. We look quite ridiculous – like a farcical comedy duo – as we try to dodge the bullets of social awkwardness and maybe even the grave matter of becoming accomplices to some future gang crime.

Pstereo is a strange foreign festival excursion and an unlikely choice for my first continental writing job but Norway and I, well, we’ve always had a special bond really. By this, I mean that it’s an imagined relationship based solely on my adolescent (sometimes creeping into adulthood at times of weak-willed relapse) Football Manager addiction.

As a young ‘un, you see, I was a Manchester United supporter – which I think was the cause of my complete and utter attention-seeking and self-obsessed nature later in life. And so my favourite players included a whole host of United’s Norwegian names – Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, Henning Berg, Ronny Johnsen, Erik Nevland…etc Fergie must have had a mistress based in Norway, right? Or at least a scout. This fascination with our Nordic neighbours culminated in my proud managerial stint of the international team on the 2010 game, qualifying and progressing to the semi-finals of the World Cup and in the process making Norway a defiant Stoke City-like, lump-it-up-there-and-hope powerhouse. Sadly just weeks after this legendary achievement, my laptop was stolen and with it the saved game and our fond memories were all gone. My honorary citizenship was lost forever.

I still like to think that in some alternate universe there is a statue erected of me in the capital, so I prepare to be greeted by my trusty captain John Arne Riise waiting at Arrivals with a sign that reads “Sjefen”, or “The Gaffer” in Norweigan, with big John Carew by his side to take my bags. I think of my defensive midfielder Alexander Tettey teary-eyed, still haunted by that penalty miss against Portugal, with my promising centre-half Vadim Demidov there to comfort him. “There, there”, Demidov would say – but in Norwegian, “There, there”.

Instead as I step outside into the crisp Nordic breeze, there’s no Carew, nor Riise, just a runway and some conifer trees. So I cast my daydreaming aside, leave my disappointment at Departures and continue my advance to Trondheim.

Honningbarna

Friday

Western necessities and my complete unsuitability to jet-setting means that I take a lengthy shower at the hotel and miss openers Norma Sass. But press accreditation sorted and wristband donned – which, incidentally, remained on my wrist for another nearing on two weeks afterwards, causing me to develop a nervous tick of playing with it when confronted with an awkward situation that lasted even days from when I finally took the thing off – I arrive just in time to catch the latter half of local favourites Kråkesølv’s set. They get a warm reception except from the person to my left, who goes to the local college – which is actually in sight from the festival’s grounds – and tells me that the band are quite big in Norway but that he doesn’t see why. I’m with him and deciding that I’m not going to gain much from what seems to be a bit too generic-rock-by-numbers, I abandon my cross-armed posturing and decide to get a drink.

Having been forewarned that most things in Norway are hella expensive, alcohol seems one of these “most things”. So I look at my wallet and the feeble amount of Krone I exchanged back in England and then again at the price signs, trying to work out the exchange rates in my head like I’m taking a Mental Maths test at a house party as someone holds a beer to me, encouraging me to chug. It depresses me that I can’t afford an alcohol habit. These two things should come together: the depression and unemployment brought on by recently graduating and an increasing alcohol dependence. But seemingly not. With my stay appearing beerless unless the beer becomes free, the festival’s handy bar system provides some comfort of interest as I stand there empty-handed, showing off the Scandis’ ever-efficient way of living. With tents split into those selling beer coupons and those selling the beer, the system means that there’s no queues in sight and your order is pre-empted as you walk near the tent, leading to a swift exchange of token in one hand and receiving of a pint in the other, like a drunken relay race.

Susanne Sundfør

Fed up of being tempted by all the beer and tokens from baiting festival workers, I wander over to the second stage to catch Honningbarna, the locally-sourced punk heroes who I’ve heard be compared to Frank Carter-era Gallows but whose name conversely translates to the much less harsh-sounding “Honey kids”. The baby-faced six-piece enter the stage, looking young enough to be refused entry to any of the festival’s late-night after-parties. Well, at least someone else is sober too. Their appearance totally juxtaposes the crowd of largely bearded metal and punk types. Then they play and their unbridled onslaught of yelping punk rock proves my initial prejudgement as ignorance. Singer Edward Valberg, dressed in a sweater-and-tie combo like he’s playing a high school concert, has the stage presence of a psychotic Scrappy Doo, who has been chained to the fence outside Tesco while Shaggy has popped inside to stock up on some Scooby snacks, snapping at passers-by.  Every couple of songs, he pulls out a cello; but these interludes don’t subdue the frenzied atmosphere one bit as Valberg hacks at the strings in a way that would make his music teacher’s skin crawl.

Taking a breather at the press lounge, I monitor the Scandi spread and consider breaking the unspoken code of buffets and banquets – only take a little. Luckily Larry David isn’t around to stop me, so I fill my plate to bulging levels. Sat on the outdoors decking I hear, and vaguely see the top of the head of Therese Aune on one of the smaller stages. Sadly her wafer-thin acoustics are completely drowned out by obnoxious blasts of bass from the tent adjacent. Trying to hear Aune is a pointless cause, even after strategically working my way to the centre of the tent, so I give in and head to see where all the noise is coming from. If I am being forced to hear it, I may as well see it too.

The hoopla happens to come courtesy of London’s Newham Generals, whose UK grime is met by a boisterous response from the Nordic crowd that sits ambiguously somewhere between novelty and mockery. The song on arrival is ‘Bluku! Bluku!’, I know this because the track is largely them just repeating those words over and over. These are also words which seem to be the group’s catchphrase, meaning “bang bang” in the same way that Odd Future’s “Swag” means “cool”. The new single features none other than Dizzee Rascal and the group’s shout-out to him invites an overly-optimistic response from a few locals to my right, obviously hoping the UK star had travelled all that way and would jump on stage any second,you know, just for a few minutes. Dizzee never does come and neither does the material that must possess to have gained them an obvious cult following. Instead the Generals just come off as regurgitatory, out-of-touch and quite clearly out of place with the rest of the festival.

Washed Out

Following a last minute cancellation from LA’s Best Coast, another Norsk native Susanne Sundfør fills in at the 7pm slot. The Oslo songstress, whose intimate solo albums have seen her commonly compared to Joni Mitchell, is supported by a backing band and the expanded result comes off something more in the region of White Hinterland. It’s a spellbinding performance but the kind of set that transfixes you with some sort of magic in the moment but that you may forget all about afterwards.

Washed Out, the touring band of which I was actually asked to join this weekend, is up next on the secondary stage. Well, I say “asked to join” when I really mean that a case of mistaken identity with a confused member of staff at the hotel(which involved the two of us getting deeply lost in translation and then resorting to a frustrating game of multi-lingual charades) meant that he repeatedly tried to give me the keys to the band’s room. Once there, I’m pretty damn sure they’d respond to a total stranger walking into their room by asking that person to join the fold. I’m sure of this, I have seen many rock biopics in my misspent lifetime.

The show, while absent of one potentially brilliant member (the fools!), is enticing enough to make me forget all about my intention to leave halfway to catch Team Me. But Ernest Greene repays with a performance that perfectly soundtracks the mood as the sun sets behind the conifer-clad mountain tops that surround the park. The set features a mix of both the old, the new, the borrowed and despite my memory failing me, at least one of his live band must have been wearing some item of blue, right? Alas, Washed Out’s earlier material, from when the performance consisted basically of Greene and his backing band of a laptop, still appears to me more interesting than the newer tracks showcased from recent album Within and Without.

Jump to 9pm and Santigold can be seen strutting around the main stage, flanked by a set of twin female dancers. Her kooky stage presence is not something totally definable and extinguished as uniquely her own but rather assembled of borrowed bits from Gaga and Minaj both. Nonetheless it’s thoroughly entertaining and gripping enough to hold your attention for a good 45 minutes plus a seemingly-impromptu encore. Her 2008 hit ‘L.E.S Artistes’ remains the biggest crowd-pleaser, kick-starting the party for this increasingly tipsy audience. She even managed to coax an awkward two-step or two from this old sober grumpy guts, which – I feel – is the biggest compliment of all.

Death From Above 1979

With the sun well and truly set and dusk turning into pitch darkness, Glasser rounds off the Basstionen billing. The singer captivates the understandably sparse crowd; the few that have risked the prospect of being left with a terrible view for the looming headline act. For me, it’s totally worth it as the artist otherwise known as Cameron Mesirow shimmies and shakes under intense red lighting . For any equally red-bloodied male, what’s not to like?

Turns out I am indeed left with the prospect of viewing the recently reformed Death From Above 1979 with the help of binoculars, as I try to find a dry patch of grass to rest my tired limbs in front of the main stage. DFA are kicking up a ruckus as ever, that’s clear as hell from here, which if you somehow worked your way into the mosh pit centre of the crowd would have a stimulating experience, but here is a bit marred by the sound of the wind and the natterings of the bored few and tired many leaving. That said, they still get some good ol’ seated headbanging from me – which looks quite ridiculous but roughly translates to a thumbs-up.

Getting back to the hotel I’m disappointed to see there’s no rockstars partyin’ it up in the bar. Where’s Santigold and her two twins? I mean, I do have a double bed and there’s only one of me. Also, where’s the Newham Generals? We could close all the windows, spark up a doobie and stain the walls a murky shade of green. Oh and where’s those pesky kids out of Honningbarna? I thought they’d be here sniffing lines of sherbet right off the counter. But no, I enter the lift and resign myself to sleeping alone tonight. Norway isn’t that different to the UK after all. Getting into bed I decide to flick on the TV and watch a whole host of weird, but when deprived of sleep wonderful, foreign films. I may even throw the TV out the window after I’ve finished – rock ‘n’ roll! But probably won’t.

Read Part Two here, including an imagined fake love affair with Susanne Sundfør and even more self-reflection in hotel rooms.

Photos by Jannica Honey.

Aphex Twin - Photograph by Nicolas Joubard

Festivals have come in for a bit of a bashing this year. Apparent over-saturation, date clashes and too much choice regarding events are some of the factors which have been blamed for poor ticket sales, and sadly, in some cases, the cancellation of events. As such, we’re venturing to Saint Malo in Brittany, to La Route du Rock festival where the organisers have stripped the festival formula back to its bare bones, and left it to the music to do the talking. No gimmicks, no comedy or cabaret, no shopping area serving up the best of local fodder, just one very large stage and a pretty special line-up.

Friday

Anika - Photograph by Nicolas Joubard

It’s Anika that welcomes us to the gloriously sunny festival ground, which is set in the Fort de Saint-Père, an 18th century fort built by Louis XVI to guard against attacks from the English. Not very effective, as there are plenty of rowdy Brits that have made their way to the festival this year – a fairly easy trip, as Brittany ferries offer a deal on travel and tickets. But back to the music, and Anika greets us with a demure set, dead pan, new-wave, static – but captivating, none the less as she and her band make their way through tracks from last year’s Anika. As her set draws to a close, it’s the moment to wander off to check out the rest of the cosy festival site, as the next of the bands prepare for their turn on the massive, imposing stage.

After a well-received, set from Sebadoh, it’s the turn of Electrelane. This is a band with an enormous following in France, and the anticipation for their show has been apparent ever since our arrival on site. The audience space is filled to bursting in the moments before their show begins, and when it does, the sense of adoration in the air is so strong, it’s almost visible. From the first note struck to the closing resonances, Electrelane entrance and woo their audience, proving beyond any doubt that their comeback has been a resounding success.

The ever mighty Mogwai are next up, delivering a precise and perfect set and sound, which has been extremely well rehearsed during the solid 8 months that the band have spent on the road since the release of Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will. This stage was made for this band, with a rendition of ‘Rano Pano’ proving exactly why this group are so worthy of such a high billing on such an expansive stage. They’re powerful, completely entrancing and put on a show that’s so technically masterful, that we can’t help but wonder where they could possibly go next.

Mogwai - Photograph by Nicolas Joubard

Suuns from Montreal are a little disappointing. The band seem a little immature to be playing such a high ranking spot, and although musically, the show is good, it’s a long way from perfect. Their singer, Ben Shemie is so uncannily similar in both vocal style and movement to The Servant’s Dan Black (incidentally, another act which has enjoyed much more success in France than in his native UK) that more time is spent concentrating on this comparison than on listening to the music.

The first night is rounded off by a highly anticipated set from Aphex Twin. It’s a visually spectacular performance, with lasers, intricate graphic projections and colours shooting from the screens in all directions. But as for the music, there’s something about the show that doesn’t quite gel. There’s no question about the fact that Richard James is the master of his craft, but with the visual decoration adorning the show and the driving, battering relentlessness of his synth constructions, we could easily be standing in some derelict warehouse of the early noughties. It feels a little dated, and the attention required of an Aphex Twin show doesn’t feel as though it’s rewarded.

Saturday

There’s no way of pussy-footing around this, there’s no nicer way of phrasing it – on Saturday, it’s pissing it down. All day long. And it’s not ‘that fine rain that soaks you through’, it’s huge drops that penetrate any layer of protection you might have donned and soak every single by-stander to the bone. It’s in these conditions that Still Corners take to the stage. Although well known to The Line of Best Fit, the band are fairly fresh faces on French territory, and despite the torrential conditions, are very well received. There are mutterings of “Broadcast…” to be heard throughout the crowd, as French spectators attempt to figure out where to place the band’s hazy brand of dark dream-pop.

Low are also faced with the battle of keeping a soddened crowd entertained. Not an easy feat when your band is called Low and all of your songs are slow, building tales of tragedy and heartache. That said, if the rain did anything, it was to separate the wheat from the chaff, with the respectable sized crowd embracing and adoring every second of the smooth, haunting and unfathomably beautiful music emanating from the stage.

After a fairly tepid performance from Cults, it’s time for Blonde Redhead. Still battling against the beating rain, Kazu Makino, alongside band mates Simone and Amedeo Pace manage to entrance, and incite breathy sighs of contentment from pretty much everyone gathered to watch them. Visually, the stage looks beautiful – illuminated by sparking, glowing light bulbs as the group offer up tracks from 2010′s Penny Sparkle, amongst other gems plucked from the bands 15-year-spanning back catalogue.

Blonde Redhead - Photograph by Nicolas Joubard

The Kills are the next to take the stage, and it’s unclear whether this is something that the duo have engineered or if the festival Gods have a particular penchant for Alison Mosshart, but The Kills stop the rain. Incredible. From the size and reaction of the crowd gathered, it’s pretty evident that this is the band that most of the festival goers have come to see, and to be fair, they put on a decent show. Their set is frenetic, moody. It’s just so ‘rock n roll’. But it’s also quite transparent, with Mosshart’s ‘edginess’ feeling a little contrived at moments. All in all, it’s an enjoyable show, and we’ll be forever grateful to them for making the weather turn.

Dirty Beaches have been invited to fill the spot in between the last two bands on the main stage, and as much as we try to concentrate on their set, the cold has forced a move towards buying anything edible and hot, before firmly taking up position to see the band that we’ve endured rain, mud, the threat of hypothermia and the potential downfall of a seriously old fort for, Battles. From the moment that Battles take to the stage, the atmosphere lifts. Older tracks are slowly but surely appearing in the set, and the apparition of ‘Tonto’ and ‘Atlas’ alongside newer tracks ‘Ice Cream’ and ‘My Machine’ are a complete treat. As is the predicted, but very welcome on stage collaboration between Battles and Blonde Redhead’s Kazu Makino for a mesmerising rendition of ‘Sweetie & Shag’. We may end up in hospital with trench foot, we may never recover to feel the comfort of warmth again, but Battles, as always, have played a mind-blowing show and are completely worth the torrential conditions endured earlier in the evening.

Battles - Photograph by Nicolas Joubard

Sunday

While activity at the festival site doesn’t kick off until the early evening, the pretty, coastal town of Saint-Malo is overtaken for the weekend to provide day time entertainment for the hoards of  ‘festivaliers’ that have descended upon the region. A stage is erected on the beach, and Le Palais Du Grand Large is taken over to host the likes of Josh T. Pearson, who made a name for himself at the festival following an impromptu performance from the Fort’s walls at last year’s event.

Returning to the main festival after a pleasant stroll along the beach, and rest in the comfort of the theatre, we prepare for the days music. After the heady musical heights that have been hit over the last two days at La Route du Rock, Sunday’s line up provides a welcome slowing of the pace. Here We Go Magic and Okkervil River both provide pleasing sets, on a day which is, weather-wise, treating us much more kindly than yesterday. Okkervil River in particular, having suffered the rainy traumas of Saturday themselves, put a huge amount of effort into making their set as enjoyable as possible and they succeed, with ‘Wake And Be Fine’ taken from their latest album, I Am Very Far being a particular highlight.

A feature that has been unfailingly good throughout La Route du Rock so far is the quality of the sound from the stage – one of the benefits of the organisers having only one stage to coordinate. This, however, isn’t the case for Cat’s Eyes, who suffer from a trebly sound which wipes a lot of the more mysterious, haunting tones that fans were hoping to hear from the mix completely. It’s a disappointing set, and not necessarily any fault of their own, but Cat’s Eyes don’t inspire as had been anticipated, and make way for Fleet Foxes.

Fleet Foxes - Photograph by Nicolas Joubard

Due to the fairly late nature of the schedule at La Route du Rock, Fleet Foxes would transpire to be the final band of the weekend for many of the festival goers. The top notch sound quality has certainly returned for the Seattle troupe, who enthral with renditions of ‘Mykanos’, ‘Lorelai’ and ‘White Winter Hymnal’. Having had the good fortune to have seen Fleet Foxes on numerous occasions this summer, the most remarkable feature of their set is always the power that they transmit from stage. The incredible richness of the vocal harmonies and vast musical talent on display turn the show into a memorable, impressive set, and for those who had to leave after their performance, is a staggering close to the festival.

For those with the stamina, it’s Dan Deacon, followed by Mondkopf who tie up the festival – a festival that had proved to be quite the test of character. It’s a shame when atmospheric conditions detract from the musical experience, but La Route du Rock took it all in their stride. The line-up was spectacular, and the simplicity of just having one stage made a the festival feel laid back and comfortable, removing all of the ‘rushing around fuss’ that tars so many events. With a proven track record of outstanding line-ups and good atmospheres, we’ll certainly be checking La Route du Rock out again next year.

Country-wide riots that threatened to spread to Leicester; talk of folding festivals due to an over-saturated market; bands left unpaid for performances at earlier events struck by financial turmoil – this year’s Summer Sundae was preceded by a flurry of bad news. However, with a passion and verve typical of one of the nation’s most celebrated small festivals, Leicester’s premier music event was able to overcome the atmosphere of unease and deliver another quality weekend fueled by performances from both experienced heavyweights and promising new bands playing across four stages.

On Friday afternoon, Glasgow’s Admiral Fallow are an early highlight on the indoor stage, more than earning a rapturous response with their soaring, emotive and unquestionably Scottish roots pop; they are undoubtedly ones to watch. Shortly afterwards on the main stage, much-discussed Louisiana outfit Givers make up in verve and enthusiasm what they lack in songwriting experience. With much of her band’s UK tour cancelled owing to the London riots, Tiffany Lamson’s heartfelt declaration that it was not the unrest but Summer Sundae that would be their abiding memory of this country goes down as well as you’d expect.

It would be difficult to conceive of a better introduction to the weekend’s performances in the venerable Last.fm Rising Stage than the set put in by Wolf People. The comparisons to the likes of Led Zeppelin are understandable but simply don’t do this London four piece justice. The exhilarating tightness and sheer power of their precise, pummeling sound demands to be experienced in order to be understood. Found in an early evening Musician stage slot, Raghu Dixit proves to be another good discovery. Fronted by his easy charm and good natured humour, Dixit’s band combine sweltering Indian sounds with universal songwriting smarts and deservedly pack out this smallest of stages.

The idea of hearing ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ covered by Osaka’s all-female punk heroes is an alluring one – and apparently it was quite something – but getting TLOBF’s photographer through the gates sadly means missing Shonen Knife. This gives us extra determination to stick with far-traveled music and catch Jamaican reggae legends Toots & the Maytals, who are preceded by a slightly bemusing covers set by ‘Toots’ Hibbert’s daughter. At 65, the man himself doesn’t get around quite like he used to, but his voice is undoubtedly still up to scratch and to hear the likes of ‘Bam Bam’ and ‘Pressure Drop’ in the intimate atmosphere of DeMontfort Hall is a rare and special pleasure.

On Saturday morning word spreads around the site that we could expect improving weather for the rest of the weekend, and this further buoys spirits as the musical quality remains high into the second day. Local Leicester trio We Three and the Death Rattle, and especially their mesmerizing lead singer seeth punk fury and throw out free T-shirts on the Last.fm stage, while indoors The Heartbreaks somehow squeeze real rock cool from a youth spent in rainy Morecambe.

Benjamin Francis Leftwich

Earnest but ordinary singer-songwriter Benjamin Francis Leftwich will need a more varied and less glum set to elevate himself above the seemingly endless ranks of thoughtful young men with acoustic guitars, and leaves us unconvinced. Kissmet are a better gamble, and in many ways fulfilled the East/West fusion role Raghu Dixit had done on Friday. Although the band’s Happiness Police tactics are a turn-off – they all but refuse to play until all the main stage audience was stood up – theirs is a thrilling and infectious sound fusing bhangra, rock, reggae and almost disturbingly well-executed dance moves.

A little later, rub-board-wearing Swiss zydeco trio (!) Mama Rosin show off a knack for making incredibly thrilling music look effortlessly easy. “Now this is our only slow, sad song”, they warn in charmingly broken English, before tearing into their roughest, fastest number. The devious sods. 11-piece folk extravaganza Bellowhead make no secret of their plans, Jon Boden gleefully leading this staggeringly polished group of musicians on a rampage through centuries-old, morbid and wonderful tales. ‘Cross-Eyed and Chinless’ and necrophilia love fable ‘Cold Blows the Wind’ are the highlights of what was perhaps the festival’s best set.

Playing to a packed Last.fm stage, Pete and the Pirates are disappointing, not only in comparison but in their own right, lacking the excitement their set put across a few years ago; theirs are ordinary rock songs played competently and little more. Next, Newton Faulkner headlines the main stage still in debt to ‘Dream Catch Me’, and while he plays his hit in some style, the set is padded out with a lot of chit-chat and sketches about love-struck dog food tasters. Given the task of closing the indoor stage I Am Kloot put in a sober but entertaining set, dominated by songs from last year’s Sky at Night record.

Everything Everything

After a slow start Sunday, would soon grow into the festival’s climax in quality as well as chronology. A performance by Brooklyn’s The Antlers goes a long way to wake up audiences on the indoor stage come early afternoon, their emotive songs an invitation to think as well as feel. Clashes are mercifully rare all weekend – a blessing of Sundae’s modest scale – but we can see only half the sets by Scotland’s The Phantom Band and fey Netherlands folksters The Black Atlantic, who impress over and above the somewhat lazy Fleet Foxes comparisons they’ve endured.

Apparently Young Knives are still around, and though they draw a sizable audience for their main stage appearance, Ashby-de-la-Zouch’s finest just don’t seem to have the songs to justify such a high billing. With as few members, London’s post-industrial trio Factory Floor make a lot more interesting noise, and even if they offer very little in the way of visual spectacle, their performance briefly transforms the indoor stage into an underground club that the very hippest would be glad to be seen in.

After two days of family-friendly festival entertainment on the main stage, someone had to lower the tone and The Cuban Brothers step up to the plate on Sunday afternoon. Their close-to-the-bone jokes would grow tiring if they didn’t have the tunes and dancing to complement them, and the cover of N.W.A.’s ‘Express Yourself’ with heavy Cuban accents is… an experience. In their own way Warpaint are just as idiosyncratic, two members of the California band turning up in voluminous shawls before shedding them to let selections from The Fool slowly unwind on the indoor stage. Even if to these ears their sunny dream pop doesn’t quite match that of Cliffie Swan – also all-female and from Los Angeles – the set is still a beguiling listen.

Warpaint

Clinical white lighting, a precisely synthesized sound and matching grey boiler suits make Everything Everything look very serious indeed when they take to the stage, fronted by a Jonathan Higgs giving the set his absolute all. There’s a unity of purpose about this band that makes them compelling, and it shows through in a set which takes in all their major songs so far. Intent on avoiding McFly, a sizable crowd gather slowly but surely for Blood Red Shoes, not headliners per se but entrusted with the task of closing the entire festival. A heavy weight for just four shoulders, but Laura-Mary Carter and Steven Ansell take up the challenge with vigour and put in a thunderous and literally room-shaking set which proves to be one of the festival’s best. Blood Red Shoes put in some of the best evidence yet of how compelling a duo can be and bring to a close another comfortably well-run and consistently entertaining year for one of the UK’s best small festivals.

Blood Red Shoes

All photographs courtesy of Stevie Denyer.