This Is Not TV

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.

Popularity: 2% [?]

The dust has settled, the neoprene-polyester tent fires have finally been extinguished, the scrats have been disposed of in huge refuse pits, too drunk on casual violence and Stella to care… no, that was just one of my darker dreams… and a month-long clean up campaign will be underway from Festival Republic. The festival season is nearly over (Bestival is still to come for all you die-hards) and it has corporate rocked. By way of penance and payment for my place in the hallowed grounds of the guest area, behold! My long-winded review, précis, summary, self-indulgent dry hump lig fest. Enjoy!

Thursday 21^st August

And you all thought it started on Friday – wrong! For the last two years, Dance To The Radio have generously curated an evening of label/Leeds orientated entertainment for the festival early birds.

The guest entrance is closed due to mudding, so after a long trek and having to down my wine at the entrance gate, we manage to catch the last two songs of Wintermute, who seem to be owning the stage when we get there (please note: the Introducing stage has the best sound all weekend – natch). Dan is so in the zone that a can thrown at him is dodged ten seconds before it arrives. Yah boo sucks, you non-fan of nerd rock. Chris and Dave rock out regardless, prompting the mythical unprompted clap along; Ben is so surprised he misses a beat. Rounding off the set with ‘Jambon Jambon’ (it’s French) I get a slight lump in my throat. These boys have grown; soon they’ll be flown.

Dinosaur Pile-Up, featuring ex-Mother Vulpine frontman Matt, come as a bit of surprise – sorta like hearing Mars Volta after loving At The Drive In. They’ve got drop D pop down to a tee, but it sounds pretty standard and fairly pedestrian if well written. Matt looks all floppy fringed but the sound has gone more rawk… it’s satifying but shallow. I will need another band ten minutes later.

After a brief respite to smuggle more wine into the site and meet up with Adam TiNTV, we fight back through the mud to find that the Pigeon Detectives are playing next – a surprise gig from one of Leeds’ favourite bands. Unfortunately, they are not one of mine, though I must admit they have one or two good, albeit moronic, songs. Boy, that hurt. Having taken an age to set up (not really their fault) their sound is the worst of the evening (not really their fault) but Matt Bowman struts around the stage with arrogant flair, stirring up the now familiar chants of ‘Yorkshire’ and ‘Leeds!’ The wine is kicking in hard at this point and I am in danger of coming out the worst at the hands of Pigeons fans. Thank goodness Adam is still sober.

Broken Records, playing to a much depleted audience after the triumphant and magnanimous Pigeon Detectives leave the stage, have many players and many instruments. Violins, guitars, drums, keys, vocals… yep, it’s a bit Arcade Fire. Even more than that, they’re a bit Levellers and a bit Dexy’s Midnight Runners. Folksy and innocuous, they entertain without leaving the slightest imprint on my mind, though that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

What is a bad thing is the length of the Grammatics’ set. Three measly songs with Owen doing his level best to make the most out of a bad situation. ‘Polar Swelling’ is a great warm up, ‘D.I.L.E.M.M.A.’ is the best I’ve ever heard them do it and ‘Shadow Committee’ cranks up like a Bond theme should. They even make reference to Justice’s ‘We Are Your Friends.’ Then it is all over and the foppish four are no more. I am left with a semi-on and a rekindled hatred of the Pigeon Detectives. Rob is robbed.

Popularity: 2% [?]

Though for my money Wintermute are one of the best bands in Leeds at the moment, no-seems to have quite captured their tight as Russell Brand’s trousers live sound on CD or vinyl – it sounds good, but not great. Things might be different here, though. It’s produced by Duels’ James Kenosha, he of the barn out towards Whitby, and his recent work with This Et Al has been highly commendable, if final. Care to dance the math tango?

First things first, he doesn’t like to muck about with bands who like to muck about. ‘Bad Company In A Sauna’ starts halfway through a conversation and doesn’t stop to fill you in. David Hemmings’ guitar line bounces along like a Barnes Wallace bomb in miniature – small but devastating – dropping out occasionally to let Chris Newbould’s bass chat conversationally in the background. It is very Futureheads, that’s a given, but just heavy enough and erratic enough to prevent it from being labelled new rave pop. The production is crisp and tight, but effervescent and rich – like a sparkling white absinthe.

Essentially it’s just a warm up for ‘Dead Or Not He Was Wearing Sunglasses’ and ‘Spanish Girls,’ two mighty tracks. The first, riffing lightly on a Kyuss variation at double speed, jumps and starts, throwing in inspired half-riffs teasingly, putting Ben Johnson’s drumming skills to the test with it’s time changing antics and Fall-like shouts. Dan sounds more like a PiL era John Lyddon here than some kind of math-boy, throwing a healthy dash of punk into the mix. It’s one of those songs you’ll want to hear again immediately… almost like it was live. No time for that, though, as ‘Spanish Girls’ pirouettes up on spiked guitar phrases. The rhythms sound improvised, but it’s so tight that it just can’t be possible. It’s angry – David’s middle eight is shouted down continuously, but is finally allowed to escort you gracefully to the end of the song.

Unfortunately, ‘I Abandoned My Boy’ comes as a bit of a lull. It sounds too conventional, even though the guitars engage in a nice bit of counterpoint – Chris and Ben have nothing very interesting to do. Drink at the bar song. So ‘Emerald Zone Act 2’ (Sonic reference) will have you downing that pint and heading for the front again. The Ministry-like rim-tap of Ben and the coasting stoner bass of Chris give way to panicky cries from Dan and more fervent riffing from David as the swimming protagonist of the song tires. ‘Jambon! Jambon!’ rounds things off neatly, showcasing David’s finger picking and Chris’s bass chuntering, leaving Dan to scream about the ‘crackle of a cigarette’ amidst the flares and explosions of the resulting climax.

I could go on about Wintermute being a band of their time, but that’s a bit of a lame, pointless statement. They’re young, fired up and talented, playing with what they like and slapping riffs about until they fit. They’re fearless, and I think that shows on here. The vocals may be basic, but you will shout along with them; the titles don’t make any sense, but you will remember them; the boys may get compared to other bands… but they will bury them. Mark my words.

Popularity: 3% [?]