This Is Not TV

Levis’ 5 Night Revue, Metronomy + Tubelord, Macbeth – Friday 26th September 2008

Tubelord kicked off proceedings on the final night of Levis’ five night stay at the Macbeth and did so loudly. Buoyed by plenty of local support the rock band that should have broke up and gone to university actually put on a set more than worth half an hour of anybody’s time. Post grunge it definitely isn’t and a 19 year old Thom York may welll be ashamed of that haircut but once you get passed these small details and let go 1991 doesn’t sound that bad. Not when you have had to listen to Snow Patrol on your office radio all day. As with every other night this week Levis’ had collected up two improbable team mates in a successful bid to put on an original show and open up peoples ears to new music. Their Ones to Watch brand has built up a lot of momentum in the past year, especially with the recent success of acts graduating from this stage 12 months ago and I can’t imagine that many would have arrived as fans of both bands, but the likelihood is that they would have definitely left that way.

Tonight’s headliners Metronomy have already had one album out, but singer Joseph Mount has since strengthened his line up by making former back ups the Food Groups full time members of his. This has turned out to be a masterstroke with Metronomy moving from that awkward position of timid critical acclaim to full on men of the moment. Their party of a live set still finds room for efforts from the first album, but with a new lease of life they could never go under appreciated. The funky bass riffs, light shows and dance moves have the crowd bopping away like the bar staff in some sort of funky house club. Crowd favourites such as the superb ‘My Heart Rate Rapid’, Radio Ladio’ and ‘Heartbreaker’ can’t fail to impress and by the time comes for the lights to be raised there is sweat dripping off the walls, surely everyone went home happy.

Popularity: 3% [?]

However much a mad front man may try and mar the evening with their own antics, when a band is on form you can’t always stop them. The second of Levis’ 5 Night Revue was undoubtedly the highlight as they pulled off another secret gig that had music fans salivating at the opportunity of seeing a big band in a miniscule venue. Foals made a name for themselves with spontaneous house party gigs and Hoxton Hall isn’t much bigger than that. More often than not evenings put together like this include a collection of copycat acts rather than an array of musical tastes and talents such as that which were on display tonight. Foals tied up the evenings proceedings with one of the most energetic sets you will see all year just yards up the road from the Macbeth were crowds had already been entertained by Micachu and Iglu&Hartly.

The bands from Levis’ 4 night revue this time last year have all gone on to make waves in their respective genres, with Foals being the perfect example, and openers Micachu have a lot of work to do if they are to get that far. That said there is no shortage of potential and with a few more songs like the ones they produced in the second half of their set and they would more than justify the hype that already surrounds them. They come over at 100mp like an electronic version of Jamie T’s ‘Pacemaker’ with added ramshackle, not exactly a sign of consistency, but one to watch out for either way.

Hollywood hopefuls Iglu&Hartly have already garnered huge publicity with their opening single ‘In This City’, which probably isn’t a fair representation of their sound. They manage to combine all the best bits of East coast America (I didn’t say they made sense!) circa 1982 with their own exuberant style and do it to great effect. ‘Violent and Young’ is a great live tune and would also make the perfect second single to show the public that whilst they made the place party like it had five more drinks than it actually had there is some hard rocking musical depth here even if it comes with a free slice of cheese.

As sweaty brows were wiped and drinks finished a few lucky fans made the short hop, skip and jump up the road to Hoxton Hall were Foals, on the back of one the years great albums ‘Antidotes’, were ready to send everybody home smiling, if not slightly battered and bruised as well.

A year ago the edgy Oxford rockers were one of the main attractions here, playing ‘Mathletics’ and ‘Try this on your Piano’, as a band very much still in their infancy. Since then with the confidence to leave those singles off the album they have gone from strength to strength and whilst any new material is still some way off they have honed their live show to anarchic perfection. They kick things off with huge semi-improv jam ‘XXXX’ and blend effortlessly into ‘French Open’ and ‘Olympic Airways’ to warm the crowd up. The old hall took a battering throughout crowd pleasers ‘Cassius’, ‘Balloons’ and ‘Hummer’ and then as the music tipped the scales in a grungier direction the lead singer decided to behave accordingly. There is no need to cover yet again the details of Yannis’ tantrum only to say that the band did a perfect job of stretching out ‘Electric Bloom’ without him.

Popularity: 9% [?]

I once had a friend who knew a dour New Zealand couple that were consistently and unwittingly hilarious. He would regale us with their favourite phrase and we would laugh, both at his accent and its absurdity: “How’s Ewan?” “Same as ever: unpredictable.” Pulled Apart By Horses are a bit like that. You know it’s going to get weird and silly, but that’s all you know. Therefore, this interview should be hoot.

Formed from the choicest cuts of Concentration Champ (drummer Lee Vincent), It Take Bridges (guitarist James Brown), Mother Vulpine (front man Tom Hudson) and Monster Killed By Laser (Robert Lee), PABH (as they shall be known for the duration) first came into being at a ‘secret gig’ on 13^th February, with guests being invited by text message. Their pre-gig birth is, however, up for interpretation. “It was a bloody mucky mess,” says Rob, getting weird, “there was hay everywhere, I put my arm up the wrong hole first…” getting weirder, “but I held it in my arms and it was a beautiful moment.” James (a self-confessed ‘fucking idiot’) turns on him with a look of puzzlement on his face. “What, were you dying?” he says, “our band started…” followed by a drawn out death rattle. Yep, things have degenerated pretty quickly. Good. “It’s really boring actually,” says Tom soberly, “It started on the internet with James getting a bit bored and sending some emails.”

“Yeah, it’s not very exciting,” admits James. “ I heard Lee had left Concentration Champ and I was like ‘He likes Jesus Lizard, I like Jesus Lizard, let’s start a Jesus Lizard band,’” he drops the Alfie Noakes voice for a moment. “But that’s the complete opposite of what happened.” What actually happened was that Lee, James and Rob started rehearsing in a room in a less than salubrious area of the town before realising they needed a singer. James from Napoleon 111rd was considered for a while, but it was Tom who stepped manfully into the breach, turning up to a rehearsal “AND THAT WAS IT!” shouts James indignantly. It could have all gone wrong, though. Tom had met Lee once before at the Library… and been a bit scared of him. “He had a stocking over his face and was pounding the crap out of drums,” Tom says in his defence. “And he had just finished having a wee.”

Okay, so if they don’t sound like the Jesus Lizard, what do they sound like? Everything else, apparently. Everything good. “I always have lots of trouble trying to describe in interviews ‘so what does your band sound like?’” Says James putting on silly voice no. 3, “but I think it’s because we’ve all come from totally different bands and it’s just one big melting pot and the end product is… one big mash-up.”

“I think you can definitely hear stuff like Nirvana and RATM coming back in,” says Lee, “not because we sound like them, but because it’s stuff we’re influenced by, it becomes part of how you play music, and when you try to play naturally, everything that you’ve been brought up on comes out again.” But it’s not just about the bands you listened to, is it? There’s a whole teen culture with games and silly jokes coming out too. The Super Hang On thing?

“It was Paul Marshall’s birthday,” says James grinning, “and he really liked the game when he was a kid; he wrote some lyrics to the theme tune and used to sing them all the time.”

Lee nods, smiling. “He wants to sing the intro to that song when we do an album or something.”

“A lot of it’s based on a silly sense of humour that we all share rather than…” Rob trails off, making shapes, “and it turns itself into music.” Yeah, those titles certainly reflect a silly sense of humour. Part Chris Morris, part Peter Cook… part Richard Attenborough.

“I didn’t realise ‘til the other day,” says James, wide eyed, “I was sitting on the train, and I’d written out a set list in a book and I remember reading ‘I Punched a Lion In The Throat’ and I thought ‘what the fuck is that?’” the rest of the band explode into giggles. “My mum originally thought the title of that song was ‘I Punched My Girlfriend In the Throat’” says Tom. James calms down for a moment. “She was really upset by it…”

But the musical and humorous influences are linked intrinsically to and by the overriding philosophy of PABH: have a good time, all the time. “When we started doing it,” says James, “it was for fun. I think that’s when those influences from when you were a lot younger would come out… we are a serious band, but if we were a band trying to sound like the Arctic Monkeys, I think it wouldn’t be as much fun and everything about it, about us going out for drinks or doing a gig… it’s just about enjoying ourselves. It comes out in the music… you think of happy times and you end up playing a Nirvana chord…” So it’s a bit of a crisis thing? “It is for me,” says Lee gruffly, “I’m old.”

If you haven’t tagged on to the element of fun when listening to their recorded stuff, full of sound and fury signifying… well, lion abuse for a start, going out to see them drives the point home more thoroughly than embroidering with a pile-driver. Rob, Tom and James throw themselves about the stage like it was electrified and by the end if someone is not in casualty, projectile vomiting or stark bullock naked, it’s been a quiet night. “Tom keeps throwing up on stage,” jokes James, “it’s turned into our gimmick.” Tom quite infamously emptied his guts on the Introducing stage at the end of their set at Reading this year. “It’s happened three times in the past four gigs,” says Tom, “although Reading Festival was from pushing it too much and going all out… but I didn’t mind it then.”

James leaps in to defend Tom. “But with Tom,” he says, “out of all of us, he’s the one that’s screaming and jumping and playing guitar at the same time and, outside of that, he’s the one staying up ‘til four in the morning doing the artwork.” So he’s the pusher?

“When you’re playing it live,” explains Lee, “there’s no effort at all because you’re having such a good time… I think on the… admin side of things, the things you do outside of playing live, James is definitely the guy who pushes us all and sorts everything out. I’m not saying that he’s good or anything…” he quickly adds.

“You never want to say that,” says James.

“But you’re an eager bastard,” says Tom, finishing him off.

As well as playing the Leeds and Reading festivals, PABH have also signed with alternative noise merchants Big Scary Monsters, home of Tubelord, Blakfish and Itch, to release their first single, ‘Meat Balloon’. With James running his own label, it does strike me as owning a dog and barking yourself, but what do I know? “I think when you have your own label,” says Lee, “it just seems so easy to do that yourself. I think if you find other people who you respect and will make it good and are willing to put money and time into it… you just know they’re going to do a really good job.” In answer to my previous question about my personal knowledge, apparently very little. “We did have a couple of offers at the start,” adds James, “some in Leeds, some other people – but I think with [Big Scary Monsters] it’s based on the bands and stuff that are on the label… there’s some really good stuff, so I think we’re suited to do a release with them.” Professional in operation but DIY in attitude, Big Scary Monsters may not make hod loads of cash, but their collective heart is in the right place. “They’re bang into it,” says Lee, “not because they think ‘we can make a bit of money off the back of these guys,’ no, they really like the band… they’re just really nice people to work with.”

Rob rouses himself from a moments alcoholic musing. “The thing with releasing it through On The Bone,” he says methodically, “is that it would have been too easy. We wanted to wait for some outside enthusiasm.” The rest of the band sit back looking very satisfied with this answer, so I move on… to Spain!

The concept of these guys abroad is a frightening one, even more so when it transpires that it wasn’t their idea. “It was really early on actually” says James, “they asked us. We’d had these songs up (on Myspace) for about two months when we got this message saying, ‘come to Spain to do a tour,’ and we thought what’s this gonna involve? Are we gonna have to pay for it all blah blah blah, but basically they said ‘we’ll do it all for you, we really want you to do it.’”

Lee nods in agreement. “It’s a testament to the music scene in mainland Europe – you don’t get that over here. There’s no DIY Spanish booking agent that will go to a Spanish band and say, ‘do you want to come over to the UK and we’ll sort you out a tour.’ It’ll never happen. But I think they’ve got much better attitude to underground bands over there. Any promoter in the UK could learn a lot from Europe. There’s still good places in the UK, but they go above and beyond, they look after bands so well and people over there seem to be a lot more into going and seeing bands they’ve never heard before.”

“I think the main reason we were asked to play there was because we sound remarkably like the Gypsy Kings,” says Rob sensibly.

So to recap: in eight or so months they’ve played two of the biggest festivals in the UK, got themselves signed to a label and agreed to tour Spain. Swallowing my justifiable envy, I ask them what they put their success down to. As a group they shrug. “I can’t fathom it,” says Lee, “don’t get me wrong, it’s really cool and really exciting but I don’t have a fucking clue.”

“I guess some bands come along at certain times and it’s what people want to listen to.” Rob tails off, shrugging. “I dunno, I’d like to think that’s the case for us – I hope it is because that’s literally the only explanation I have. Other than that… I think it’s quite evident that we enjoy ourselves when we’re playing and people just want to have a good time too and get involved with it.”

Tom picks up on this. “I think there’s so many bands now that are just going for the big goal and they’re trying so hard and are so serious about it… I don’t know, I think it’s refreshing to see someone doing it because they’re enjoying it… a bit of a party.”

From what I’m hearing, all of them have been in those serious bands and have seen what can happen. “You get to a point when you’re in a band,” says James, “and you play a gig and you’re quiet and you’re really pissed off and don’t play properly and your hearts not in it… I think that’s the point where you should start questioning why you’re doing it. Because I think, not to be big headed, we’re doing it for all the right reasons. We love it… that’s all.”

And so, it would appear, do a lot of other people. Especially the naked guy who gets up on stage with them an hour later. And with horrified realisation, I knew where they’d got the title of their debut single from.

‘Meat Balloon’ is released on 27^th October on Big Scary Monsters and it isn’t named after what I thought. They will be returning from Spain to play the Brainwash Festival on 18^th October unless they get sold into arse slavery. Oh yes, and in case I forget: spatchcock!

Popularity: 8% [?]

Though the album has been out for a couple of week’s now, this launch party has a second cause for celebration: surviving Bestival. I suppose you could call this a homecoming but… that term’s rather overused, dontcha think? Whatever. The audience is friendly, the bands climactic and the beer cheap – all is looking very good.

7 Hertz, for all those not in the know are/is a) collaborators with David Thomas Broughton, b) the frequency of the brown note and c) an experimental classical/jazz quartet. Comprising of upright bass, two violins (one could be a viola) and various wind instruments, their look is Pimms on the lawn but the sound is anarchic, disturbing, fluctuating from funereal be-bop to Purim jigs and whirls, form Charlie Parker to Bartok. Not an easy listen and tricky to get an angle on in the circumstances, but an interesting gateway to contemporary jazz and ‘classical’ music.

Brontide are a small package providing a small but perfectly formed packet of joy. Led by ex-I Was A Cub Scout William Bowerman from the rear… actually, forget IWACS, that will only distract you. William is the perfect rock drummer, playing the part and laying down some serious beats. Timothy Hancock and Nathan Fairweather are no slouches either, wowing with their twin tapping technique and providing the best of riffage throughout. Mathy, rocky and focussed, this is how you make catchy songs without words – like Battles meets Iron Maiden, but without cheesy lyrics.

Her Name Is Calla at The Brudenell can be… not so good, and with Tom’s under-amped vocals, I am worried that we are going to get the first lacklustre performance of the evening. Fortunately what Tom lacks in vocals at first is made up for in sheer fury by the rest of the band. As the sound warms, Tom’s voice shines through, a ray of darkness, as he bends almost double in pain and frustration. Sophie now adds vocals as well as trumpet to the mix, giving the set an emotional high register to Tom’s middle and Thom’s uncertain low. Before ‘New England’ closes an exhausting set, Tom expresses his gratitude to Vessels for being allowed to play. “ We thought they didn’t like us,” he says incredulously. No, but it’s hard to show enjoyment when your heart is being broken by such accomplished musical anguish.

When Vessels set starts, it is more by intimation than announcement. Slowly, the melody lines emerge, suffuse, bind and explode. Or, put another way, it’s an underplayed opening. No matter, ‘100 Miles…’ really sets things off, with Tim and Lee mirroring each other on the drums and Tom and Pete similarly mirroring each other on vocals – it is a masterful display of musical symmetry. Of course, that’s only half the fun of watching Vessels – the other is watching things fall apart spectacularly but somehow hang together. Watching Martin Teff immerse himself passionately in guitar while all band hell breaks out behind him is hilarious. The result of such chaos is worthwhile as the sound obtained by careful tweaking strikes your sternum and stops your heart… just enough to allow ‘Yuki’ to creep inside and warm it. ‘Happy Accident’ eases a smile across my face, which stretches to breaking point as Pete Wright name checks my moustache. Bless. Breaking tradition, ‘Two Words’ comes early, leaving the coveted closing spot for ‘Altered Beast,’ which roars with triumphant complexity. True, there are some slow spots and the overdubs to get a bit… overdubby at time, but you could not ask for a better evening of cerebral melodic entertainment. And I didn’t mention the genre once.

Popularity: 19% [?]

After an eventful night (the three word vocabularists throw a can of Stella at a fellow festival goer resulting in a cut eye, security intervention and the offer of a bribe to ‘keep the police out of it’) Sunday rolls around all too soon. My booze supplies are dwindled, my money supplies swindled and my capacity for guitar-based indie rock… not doing too bad, actually. This time last year I was considering burning every Fender replica I saw for the sake of humanity. Plus ca change.

I have heard from reliable sources that Tim Hann, i concur’s disciplinarian front man, has been keeping the rest of the band on a short leash this weekend. I also have it, from the same source, that he tied a serious one on the previous night. Naughty Tim. As a result, his performance is somewhat reserved. The music is sound, though. Daringly airing mainly new wares, the ‘tween song silences (Tim is of few words today) only serve to emphasise the heaviness of the new material, especially ‘Captors’. The crowd is middling but attentive, like a posse of eager students. When Tim scolds Chris Woolford for tuning up before applying his capo, this impression is only heightened. But Chris is such an easy-going fellow that it doesn’t stop him from achieving guitar nirvana, eyes closed, mouth open, by the close of play. ‘Oblige’ and ‘Build Around Me’ round off a set that has not been their best yet but still provides ample rich food for thought to a hungry audience.

Leeds’ Kid Id are a lively, fun loving bunch in funny outfits and with too much brass. They play a fair few catchy riffs, jump up and down, throw inflatables into the crowd and party like its 1999 but don’t quite achieve that ignition point – they lack a decent chorus. Hopefully they will find one, but in the meantime they do a fair impression of a young Loqui. Make of that what you will.

I swore I wouldn’t do it, but I find myself being drawn inexorably to British Sea Power on the main stage. That’s three times this year, but each time they have produced admirably. Their songs remind me of Sunday afternoons with an Airfix model and fish paste on toast – an utterly British pleasure – and their epic anthems to drinking and, er, matches bring a smile to my face. As does the man offering his wine skin freely to anyone who will partake. I told you resources were getting low. No Slav chorus, but violin and brass add that subtle post-rock touch. On the whole quite a relaxed, by-the-numbers performance from a band who are getting very good at this, but enjoyable nonetheless.

When I listened to Fucked Up’s recent album, I thought their performance might be quite a pronky affair. What I get is an impenetrable wall of post-hardcore noise. Still, you lose, you gain. What I gain is the inspired ‘low self-esteem’ performance of frontman, Damian Abraham aka Father Damian. Looking like the man who ate the great dane to the rest of the bands Scooby gang, he drops his shorts and tucks his tackle by the second song and is up against the barrier, helping with crowd surfers, by the third. Crushing cans on his head and crowd surfing for songs, he is the living embodiment of Bluto and a big figure in every way. Shame the rest of the band are so static and the sound is so muddy.

If Fucked Up are about as marketable as shit soup, Attack Attack! are celebrity-endorsed sliced bread. Hailing from South Wales, they produce pitch perfect indie rock in the Foo Fighters/Lost Prophets vein without breaking a sweat. The songs are poppy and predictable, the boys are likeable and smart and they do have a lot of sellable potential, which is probably why they have such a sizeable crowd that even breaks into moshing. They also produce the funniest moment of the weekend. “After me say ‘Hey!’ – 123…” says frontman Neil. “Hey 123!” shout back the crowd. Classic. The end is reassuringly angry though, so perhaps they’re not as shallow as they sound.

It still surprises me that Seasick Steve, a Mississippi bluesman well into his sixties at least, should be so popular with the ‘younger generation,’ but after seeing him live, I’m starting to get it. Playing raw hobo delta blues from a mock up his porch, he is by no means re-inventing the wheel, just making it out of bits of driftwood and packing case. Songs are instantly infectious, punkily pugnacious and his hillbilly raconteur persona is disarmingly amiable – it’s impossible not to like him. When a girl is brought up on stage for one song, she is clearly overwhelmed and swooningly flattered. Of course we get the three-string guitar and one-string Diddley Bow, but we also get a true gentleman in dungarees and one of the highlights of the festival by a long shot. He got a better deal at the crossroads than Robert Johnson.

Still amazed at how good Seasick Steve is and slightly footsore, I find myself in the middle of a full on techno hoe down. Newcastle’s Razzmatazz Lorry Excitement are tearing up the introducing stage and I am hugely surprised. His sixteen note sequences are fluid and varied enough to keep things interesting, his voice is im and compelling, the beats are big and shapes are thrown. Less disco than Justice, but a good warm-up and, dare I say it, dance done with feeling.

My encounter with the Raconteurs is brief and from the wrong angle, but I will say this: why bother spending a fortune on Led Zeppelin reunion tickets when you can go and see these guys? No, I have bigger poisson to fry. Justice are on.

When I get to the NME stage, I manage to fight my way down to the first barrier. Good viewing county. On stage, two huge stacks of fake Marshalls flank a façade of flashing lights, wires and an illuminated cross. Shadowy hirsute figures shuffle into place and ‘Genesis’ blasts for the PA. At first, the performance is uneven, unmatched, sloppy – I must admit to feeling disappointed – but as the momentum gathers, the various parts fit into place so by the time ‘D.A.N.C.E.’ permeates the tent, everything is in the right place. Xavier and Gaspard look like two men trying to prevent a starship crashing into the sun as that cross flashes on and off, fading then growing faith. This is the sound of the apocalypse, but it is a good thing, as thousands of voices scream “we are your friends!” One figure stands out front and as they raise their arms simultaneously, everything stops. The crowd roars as everything is on hild for one… two… three minutes. Then the world comes crashing down and the audience hit frenzy point. Lights dazzle, strobes addle and sounds confound; all I think is ‘oh me of little faith.’

Sheffield’s Skeletons are last to play the Introducing stage and they end proceedings with a whimper not a bang. The set is Kaiser Chiefs-esque indie fluff, with a lead singer displaying aspirations of Ricky Wilson. Maybe I’m tired, but it totally fails to light my fire, so I go to find someone else’s.

After spending a pleasant hour sat around a fire with various peeps, I sally forth to make my last musical pilgrimage of the day to see Killers. I manage to miss a few favourites but do manage to catch the core of the performance. Unfortunately, the Killers don’t seem to have their eart in it. Again, the sound is partly to blame – you can hear the general crowd hubbub more than the band – but Brandon appears to stomp about the stage in a state of agitation around the hotel lobby stage rather than excitement – it’s like watching a Las Vegas version of Basil Fawlty. ‘Sam’s Town’ material still doesn’t feel familiar enough to embrace, even though it is two years old, though ‘When You Were Young’ gets a bit of a sing-a-long. A shower of sparks from the stage ceiling marks the home straight, providing such crowd pleasers as ‘Mr Brightside’ and ‘Smile Like You Mean It,’ but their departure is swift and even though the crowd saunter off arm in arm singing the closing bars, it feels slightly hollow and begrudging. Unfortunate really.

So there you have it. Four days, one box of wine, one bottle of brandy, thirty-eight bands and sixteen hours sleep. The three-word vocabulary idiots wrecked their own tent and cried about it, the site looked like a bomb had hit it and in some places that wasn’t too far from the truth and I had had an excellent, if sonically restrained, time. More volume required and, definitely, more cowbell.

Popularity: 14% [?]

I wasn’t certain what I was going to think of this 20 track compilation. Goldoolins are a folk trio from Israel who’ve released two albums since 2004 and this, their third, is a mixture of new songs and tracks from the two preceding albums. Quoting influences that include The Beatles, The Band and Fairport Convention didn’t entirely fill me with anticipation though. Isn’t there something a little less obvious happening around the Goldoolins campfire?  One quite definite inluence whose name isn’t on the press release is Arthur Lee: second track ‘Be My Friend’ and instrumental ‘Twlight Queen’ each owe something to Love’s intricate guitar mastery, in fact ‘Be My Friend’ has quite similar chordage to ’7 & 7 Is’.  And Goldoolins could easily rename ‘Ocean Song’ as ‘Beatle Song’ without raising any eyebrows, sounding as it does so much like an omission from the ‘Help!’ soundtrack, and other names possibly missing from the Goldoolin list of inspirations might include Scott Walker, Tom Lehrer and Alanis Morrisette, such is the range of abilities and styles on display here.  And while the trio might present themselves as an entirely acoustic group, some of the album highlights occur with the additions of other instruments – strings, horns, harpsichords, and while Goldoolins don’t stint when expanding on their basic format, the most effective moments on this compilation are entirely their own. The two longer songs on this album - ’I See Horizons’ and ‘The World Is Somewhere Else’ (eight and ten minutes respectively) are remarkable displays of form and improvisation that show the trio’s abilities in some depth and, drawing fully on the range of influences open to them, result in songs which reach way beyond the categorisable.  Certainly, describing these as Folk is less than half the story.  So, plenty going on and a range of serious talents make ‘We B Goldolins U B U’ a near perfect album for those long summer evenings; if we’d only had a summer this year, that is .

Popularity: 4% [?]

I wake up feeling surprisingly spry on one of the two nice days in August, take a deep breath and prepare myself for day three in Bramham Park. My body has moulded to the lumps in the ground (though my pillow keeps deflating) and I have even tuned out to the three word vocabulary idiots camped beside us. Time to treat myself to some nice gentle trad folk, LS6 style.

Fran Rodgers has been breaking hearts with her beautiful voice for several years in Leeds now, so it is a long overdue event to see her reach a wider audience on a bigger stage. A much bigger stage. In fact, it swamps her. Then she opens her mouth and the tent fills with her rich, clean, heart-rending tones, augmented with acoustic guitar and lap dulcimer. She buries the needle. Harmonies loop and fold like musical origami as she overwhelms and is in turn overwhelmed. Then, the moment of truth as a security guard wipes away a tear. Result. Meanwhile, a member of These Monsters is in floods. I come close when she dedicates ‘This Is Dedicated…’ to her parents. The French bit breaks me. Beautiful, simply beautiful.

I roll in a daze to the Introducing stage – Dave from Wintermute has suggested I check out the Situationists – and catch the Tripwires from Reading. It is a competent performance but fades into the melange of Stereophonics/Kaiser Chiefs emo-laced indoe rock. I’m sure they are lovely lads… maybe that’s part of the problem. It’s okay for an innocuous scribe like me, but a band needs to be… striking.

The Situationists are living proof of parallel musical evolution. Four nerdish, self deprecating young men playing angular but poppy math music that is so tight you could serve pear cider in it and not spill a drop. Sound familiar? Okay, I’m referring to Wintermute – bit obscure, but if you read the previous paragraph you might have a giggle. The crowd are lapping it up and rightly so as this fare has an undeniably catchy indie groove riffs threaded with some neat fills from drummer Ralph. Fidgety Futureheads/Foals rock that is almost as good as their Leeds counterparts, Wintermute. Almost.

I have only one sentence written down for Henry Rollins: See fucking awesome. A mite trite, but perfectly justified. His delivery is constant but well paced, his humour self-deprecatingly charming, his passion palpable, his content hilarious, anecdotal and frank… he is the sort of person you could listen to all day and, considering the man’s penchant for work, the sort of person who would talk all day. And night. It dawns on me that this is Bill Hicks true heir without the drug references or perverted sex fantasies. So not perfect, but still… fucking awesome.

Unlike Be Your Own Pet. Considering that this is one of their last gigs, Jemima Pearl looks and moves like she can’t be arsed anymore – it’s a far cry form the band I saw two years ago. It’s a shame, because the material from the new album is so… crispy. ‘Valley Of The Dolls’ should be spat out like bad seed, not mumbled. The smattering of audience look pretty disinterested too. Such a pity.

Sheffield’s Darlings of the Split Screen are stirring up the mid-size crowd at the Introducing stage with an electro ladle of samba. Terrible imagery, but good music and very zeitgeist. Kid Faces bops the synth, throwing out the sounds Hot Chip/XTC/Friendly Fires style and it is good n infectious. In fact, I wish I hadn’t bothered with Be Your Own Pet now. Catching these guys full set would have been better.

More festival lard n sugar premium mix from a sensibly priced vendor. I overcome the gag reflex and get back to the Introducing stage just in time for Leeds’ rock phenomena Pulled Apart By Horses, the yin of post-Mother Vulpine to Dinosaur Pile-Up’s yang. I hear that on the previous day, when they played Reading, Tom went to say “Cheers Reading,” and instead vomited for three minutes. He then wiped his mouth and said “cheers Reading.” Hence, a rock phenomena. Their five song set is baggy, ridiculous… and magnificent. Guitarists Tom and James leap off stacks, dive around the stage, play the theme from ‘Super Hang-On’ and spaz out to the extreme and the whole thing culminates with Tom singing on his back whilst being carried by the audience. Fellow ex-Mother Vulpine Lins takes over from Tom for that, setting in my mind the most beautiful rock n roll tableau of the weekend. Fellow writer and Leeds legend Sam Saunders comes striding out of the mosh pit and sums it up in two words: “Fuck indie.” Amen.

For some reason I miss about half of the Maybes?’ set – look, I’m being honest here – and when I return, I’m thinking they sound like your average indie electro band sporting just the right amount of plucky arrogance. I shrug. Then for their finale they embark on what can only be described as an ambient indie post-rock extravaganza. I didn’t see that coming. I’m intrigued. It’s like Aerogramme gone ladsy, Mogwai gone Liverpudlian. It’s about two minutes too long, but I am fair impressed and totally fail to secure an interview with them. I am nothing if not amateur.

Ida Maria, Norway and womankind’s answer to Pete Docherty actually deems to turn up today, wearing a battered top hat, a short dress and a leather jacket. Her make-up is Alice Cooper circa ‘Flush The Fashion’ and she is flanked by two Kens (Stefan Tornby and Johannes Lindberg). Looking slightly tipsy, she wades through the majority of her set with some half-hearted enthusiasm while her cohorts look on unimpressed and the audience wait for that song. In short, it’s one of those “come on, play the hit” gigs and I am personally a bot nonplussed. When the songs do come (‘Stella’ is sorta familiar) there is a cheer of relief from the audience and Ida, feeding off the response, ups the drunken antics a notch, flirting with the crowd, and generally selling ‘I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked’ like she should have done the rest of the set. Flash in the pan minus the nudity.

Friendly Fires follow and fortunately a good number of folks remain, because, though the dancing girls aren’t present, the carnival is coming to Leeds today. Showers of ticker tape herald their opening and Ed MacFarlane struts around the stage like a techno Mick Jagger, arse wiggling joyfully every time he pokes emphatically at his synth. Candy Staton sticks out like a glitter covered thumb – in fact, is celebrated exuberantly. Only problem is that the sound is so muddied that it doesn’t quite ignite. It gets pretty damn close when Jack Savidge and Edd Gibson hit the drums, turning ‘Paris’ into a Rio de Janeiro carnival, the air now thick with confetti and passion. Okay, it’s bloody good. I’m convinced.

Boogeying off to catch my breath and chat to the BBC, I am just about prepared for the double whammy of the weekend: QOTSA and RATM. Two great acronyms, two great bands. For some reason, though, Queens are a bit down beat tonight. The set is eclectic, featuring tracks from all five albums, but Josh Homme looks like a man going through the motions. Plus, the whole thing is still not loud enough! Whoever decided the sound on the main stage (i.e. some noise abatement official) should be held accountable for kicking the heart out of the speakers. Still, despite the lacklustre performance and poor sound, it’s nice to hear in the open air.

A lot of people have been waiting a long time for this. You can sense the anticipation in the air. Or it could be the damp. When the lights finally come up after an unwelcome delay, the stage is dominated by a large red star – and that’s it. The emphasis is on Rage, not gimmicks. When the band arrive, a huge roar goes up and the ground shakes as tens of thousands of bodies jump up and down in unison. Zack de la Rocha strides purposefully about the stage laying down hardline after hardline, only letting up form the music to tell the crowd to move back. No lectures or protests tonight, just dissident anthem after dissident anthem. Tom Morella uses his guitar like a set of decks, unplugging and tapping to get that distinct sound and I swear never to mock him about pedals again. Tim Commerford, in a full torso tattoo and little else, holds down the tune and the rhythm on his bass – for me the great unheralded hero of Rage. ‘Bulls On Parade’ detonates, ‘Bullet In The Head’ fragments and ‘Renegades of Funk’… funks, but the noise is never quite enough. The second half of the set, unsupported by volume or fusion bangers sags a bit, so I am almost twiddling my thumbs by the time ‘Killing In The Name Of’ kicks off. Then they are gone, without fuss or fanfare. It’s worth it, but I can’t help but feel that it could have been more. Rage, for sure, but contained. Like the metal.

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After a night spent quite vocally berating the shabby treatment of the Grammatics and drowning sorrows on their behalf, Friday morning finds me in a delicate state. It would also appear that a small bear decided in the night to relive itself in my mouth. Coming across some unknown deranged teen complaining about ponies to her laptop on the alternative stage doesn’t help either. Bad to be a bad uncle.

Fortunately at around midday the perfect hangover cure comes along in the shape of four impeccably dressed men on the Introducing stage. By way of distraction, the unsigned stage used to be sponsored by Top Man and curated mainly by Radio Humberside’s Raw Talent. With a new policy on new music, Radio One have, ahem, muscled in on the action and now wholly sponsor the stage, leaving Radio Humberside rather out in the cold, though Alan Raw still gets to present. Anyway, back to the music. The four gentlemen in question are Eureka Machines, Chris Catalyst’s (aka Robochrist, Sisters Of Mercy) latest and possibly greatest project. Their six song pop rock set, filleted from the new album, fairly cracks along, garnished with boy-band tight choreography, drum stool gurning from Wayne Insane, bass showboating from Steve Morricone and back flips (rolls) from Chris himself. It looks fun, sounds fun and carves a heart-shaped window in my skull-threatening headache when I scream “Eureka!”

Which is promptly filled back in by Mighty Boosh name droppers Robots In Disguise, three girls dressed as mimes who pretend to play instruments and sing over a Crystal Castles-lite techno track. It’s like Daphne and Celeste all over again – where’s a bottle of urine when you need one? Very disappointing and it is only the bizarre cardboard box robot porn that holds my interest long enough to get through the set.

I do hang around the dance tent for The Whip though, for which I will be eternally grateful. The beats are hard as nails, with each song rising to a Josh Wink crescendo while the bass pummels your internal organs aggressively. Through the blue mist on stage, Lil Fee plays drums that don’t quite match the beat as Danny Savage stalks the stage, rousing the rabble to frenzy for ‘Trash.’ Filthy stuff, so ideal festival music.

Holy Fuck are… different. Two guys (Brian Borcherdt and Graham Walsh) playing ancient synths face off, chucking mangled genres at each other until one flinches. Arcade thrash collides with jazz dance in an 8-bit Art of noise fashion. It’s compelling, watching these two techno boffins go at it, but lacks the focus and charisma of the Whip. Good for shoe-gazers who like to dance.

Intent on a double fuck fest, I dash over to the Introducing stage to catch Leeds’ duo That Fucking Tank play as the surprise band of the day. Andy Abbot is pulling porn faces and dropping to his knees on the stage in full rock god mode and James Islip won’t stick with a rhythm for more than two bars. It’s a fantastic confusing noise and many heads are nodding arhythmically in the audience trying to keep up. Throw in a cheeky Springstein for luck and you’re there. James gets up from his stool to announce the band: “We are that fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking tank.” That might upset Radio One but do these rock god porn stars care? Not one jot.

After gorging myself on fat-rich, heavily-salted festival fare (oh the suffering for my art), I stave off immanent coronary failure and stagger back to catch the closing moments of Solus Locus, four smart young lads who made the switch from prog metal to post rock to lure in the ladies… because the ladies love post-rock. The sound is good, old fashioned PR, the way the canadians used to make it, but fair spirited despite the failing equipment, and the Yaffle-like synthesist Mike Jones even goes so far as to crowd surf in the closing feedback of the final song. Good to see that dour can be fun.

A huge crowd gathers and I have a horrible sense of foreboding as the people crowding around me start to mutter things about ‘Franz Ferdinand’ and ‘Foo Fighters.’ When a young attractive girl in a tight red dress (that sort of fits) and not a grizzled old rock veteran or Glaswegian indie fashionista strolls into the stage, the crowd are most disgruntled and start booing and exodising – rude idiots. Regardless of the battering to confidence, the show must go on and go on it does in a noisy, crass, riotous yet unusually static fashion. Like a blend of Babes In Toyland, B52s and Korn, it starts well but goes a bit one paced after Kate announces that they better than the Foo Fighters. Doesn’t go down well, but nice n noisy.

I lose track of time for a bit and the next thing I know I’ve missed a band entirely and find myself watching These Monsters – I’m finding it increasingly difficult to pull myself away from the Introducing stage; I tried to go to Pendulum, but so did everyone else. Still, These Monsters can be entertaining. Unfortunately, today they seem even more lost it than usual and though the sound is pristine (you can even hear the sax) they all seem to be playing different songs at the same time while drifting around the stage in a general daze. A bit disappointing.

A comedy band in support? Recipe for disaster in my books, but fortunately Jack Black is on stage doing what jack black does best… being Jack Black. In fact, it’s hootful stuff; Kyle dressed as a green furry dragon (“Wizards you idiot, not lizards”), a synchronised dance with ‘the metal’ and a songs whose sentiments are ‘ I really fucking miss you.’ Touching. Musically, it will never set the world alight, but for gosh darn entertainment, it’ll do.

Loqui are also in for gosh darn entertainment, though the two parts Richard O’Brien one part Willy Wonka figure of Rob Paul Chapman is a bit… disturbing. Fortunately, he is countered by the curiously alluring Sarah Niven as mistress of the night. I say nothing as I am standing next to her beau. Musically innocuous but performed with gusto, songs are pretty dad rocky with punk pretentions… pretty broad really. They are, however, enjoying themselves, as are the two top-hatted fans behind me and the guitarist appears to be on fire. Music, meh, performance gooood.

Which brings me to Metallica, last up on the main stage. I meant to go and see CSS, but something about these crousty ole red necks is more compelling than the concept of nubile female Brazillians. I must be losing it. Metallica, however, have got it back. Plundering and thundering through their back catalogue (‘Ride The Lightning,’ ‘Sanitarium,’ ‘Justice For All,’ ‘Master of Puppets’ – mmmm good), staying light on the new stuff and looking like they actually like each other, the set is more incandescent than the flame throwers belching over the crowd – Robert Trujillo has definitely brought something back to the band. ‘Enter Sandman’ is of course a huge crowd pleaser (duh), ‘One’ is air guitar mosh heaven and though it isn’t loud enough (the crowd at the front look strangely still) it does remind me what it was like to be sixteen and alienated again, especially when a whole side of metal fans sing ‘Nothing Else Matters’ – it fair brings a lump to the throat. As a gift to fans they encore with ‘So What?’ ‘Last Caress’ and ‘Seek and Destroy,’ a song that reminds you how great a riff can be. No ‘Unforgiven’ or ‘Battery,’ but I think that their set could quite comfortably be called a triumph, albeit a quiet one.

Popularity: 12% [?]