A world away from the sprawling mass of mud, drugs and general insanity of Glastonbury, the Latitude Festival in Suffolk had the delightfully quaint air of a slightly oversized village fair. Middle-class and genteel, it initially struck me as V Festival minus the corporate branding, but in the end proved to be much, much more than that. It was interesting to read that Mean Fiddler were actually making a loss on Latitude; their intention being to make a festival they would want to go to themselves, rather than being concerned about how much profit it would make. It’s an ambition I think they successfully realised: relaxed, spacious and family-friendly, with a fantastic array of bands and perhaps even more significantly, just as strong a line-up of non-musical events. And the weather was great too, although I don’t think the organisers can really take credit for that.
Our motley crew gradually assembled over the course of Thursday afternoon; Alex (Jennywren), Andy (Phang), Dave (EvadBlack), David (Neon78), David’s mate Mikey, Fiona, Fiona’s mate Helen, John (John Gleeson), Mark (Wintertime) and myself. Cian (Rebel(Liar)) arrived on the Saturday, and the roster significantly expanded on Sunday with the arrival of Spidey, Don, Jules, PABBY, Dust and Carl (although they didn’t camp with us). Two flags had been brought to announce Camp UKK to the world; one a black-and-white England flag, the other being of my own design (which promptly got obliterated by the fickle gods of rain five minutes after it got erected.) A flag-pole was improvised from leftover tent stuff, and to be fair it held fast quite impressively, although it had to be tethered with so many ropes (attached to other people’s tents) than anyone walking through the camp after dark risked literally destroying half the camp, as well as decapitating themselves. But hey, we’re Arcade Fire fans- Health and Safety be damned!
The first thing that struck me when we ventured into the main arena was how close everything was to each other. No half-hour treks across countless fields at this festival; the two main stages were literally three minutes apart and even the outcast Sunrise Arena was a mere ten minute jaunt across the bridge. The much-vaunted multicoloured sheep turned out to have limited entertainment value, mainly because someone vetoed the plan to kidnap some and train them as mounts for our raids on other, lesser camps, but the insane milkshake stall, which blasely eschewed the typical British selection of vanilla and chocolate (plus strawberry if you’re in a particularly high-class establishment) more than made up for it. For the record, the strawberry cheesecake and Jaffa Cake varieties were excellent, although the Milky Way one was a less than stellar chocolate-bar-blended-with-ice-cream-and-milk experience. Thursday’s most enduring discovery however was the fantastic Robin Ince’s Book Club, a welcome and oft-employed source of entertainment throughout the weekend when good music wasn’t forthcoming. Stewart Lee’s remark that it’s just “people reading books in a sarcastic way” is technically entirely correct, but with the right material ("Crabs on The Rampage" being my personal favourite) and the right performers (Asher Treleaven and Ince himself) it could be consistently hilarious. These literary shenanigans were interspersed with comedy sketches of varying quality; anything with Asher was generally gold, but there was a lot of truly wince-worthy stuff in amongst the good. But any show that ends up with two grown men screaming, “WORMS!!!” “CRABS!!!” “WORMS!!!” “CRABS!!!” is quite frankly alright by me.
The festival proper kicked off on Friday, and first on were The Kissaway Trail who, as the first band on a weekend full of top-class music, I can’t remember all that much about, apart from they played their little Danish hearts out, and that I liked ‘em. Two Gallants followed, and I’m glad to report they didn’t disappoint- on such a large stage they couldn’t hope to be as visceral as their small-scale shows (which have the intensity of an extremely localised nuclear explosion) but they certainly gave it a shot. Singing along merrily to Steady Rollin’ (“we come from the old town babyyyyy, where all-llll the kids are crazy”) with my characteristic lack of dignity or respect for the sanity of my fellow man was one of the more satisfying moments of the weekend. Then off to see Emmy The Great at the wonderfully secluded Sunrise stage; a low-key set mainly showcasing new songs, her endearingly quirky lyrics compensated for her occasional moments of shrillness. Shame she didn’t play Secret Circus, but Absentee was beautiful as ever thanks to the strings provided by fellow anti-folk stalwarts Noah and the Whale.
Young Bride and Roscoe were predictably the standouts of an accomplished, if brief set by earnest folk-rockers Midlake, whose mellow Seventies sound couldn’t have been more at odds with the heavy Arabic grooves and repetitive chants of Tuareg nomads Tiniwaren, who we saw afterwards. Their exotic attire didn’t disguise the fact that there was little variety to their oeuvre, but what they did have had a peculiarly mesmerising quality. Back on more familiar ground, Wilco were excellent; far better than I was anticipating, although I think I was less enamoured with them than some of my companions. Part of that was due to the terrible sound problems that wrecked the first couple of songs, including my personal favourite from Sky Blue Sky (“You Are My Face”) but also because their inability to rein in their overlong solos. There’s no denying they’re talented, fantastically tight musicians, but one suspects a bit of editing on their five-minute long outros would leave a far more favourable impression on an audience who were, in the event, getting a bit restless.
Nonetheless, they were still easily the second-best act of the Friday, pipped only by a glorious performance by the glittertastic Patrick Wolf. Most theories of logic state it should be impossible that this most unashamedly camp of artistes could inspire the formation of a moshpit, but it did actually kinda make sense at the time. Patrick was the happiest I’ve ever seen him, obviously relishing playing in such a great atmosphere, and from start to finish he had the audience wrapped round his (doubtlessly exquisitely manicured) little finger. Sunny Sixties stompathon The Magic Position was my personal highlight, but the whole set was of a consistently brilliant quality and was doubtlessly one of the top moments of the whole festival. We concluded the evening’s festivities with a truly eye-opening “Late Night” edition of Book Club, where our hosts attempted to unveil the worst examples of ‘erotic’ fiction ever to be granted an ISBN number. I hadn’t hitherto even conceived that there were people out there who actually spent their lives, and were possibly even paid, to write erotic Highlander fiction, but I was evidently quite wrong. And that was tame compared to some of the stuff they came up with; I’d love to reiterate some of the filthy, obscene and at times, probably illegal gems that scarred my consciousness that night, but alas, it wouldn’t be suitable for the younger, more impressionable readers of this blog. Or, for that matter, anyone.
Onwards to Saturday, where six-piece indie types Annuals put on another commendably enthusiastic performance; they still need to work on their rather-too-samey songs but there’s definitely a touch of class that hint towards better things in the future. More impressive were Swedish band Loney Dear, living up to their countrymen’s reputation for glorious bittersweet pop. Emil Svanängen may overdo the vocal gymnastics a little, but his lilting Scandanavian harmonies and masterful songcraft are a joy to behold. Then for that rarest of beasts- a band I hadn’t seen before. Perhaps subconsciously assuming Bat For Lashes were some sort of tweenage emo band, I’d until then avoided them but I was pleasantly surprised to discover they were in fact a lot more intriguing than expected. Natasha Khan is a beguiling frontwoman, she’s definitely got something of Bjork about her although unfortunately, at this stage, her songs ain’t much cop. But as a band they’ve certainly got a lot of promise, and I’d be very interested to see where they go from here.
The Hold Steady were up next, and put on what was easily one of the sets of the festival- they’d never be accused of innovation, but they’ve got damn fine tunes, great singalong choruses and more than their fair share of classic lyrics. Their keyboardist, a renegade ‘Allo, Allo’ extra, twirled wine bottles, hammered keys and sat on the edge of the stage with his harmonica and leadman Craig Finn beamed from the stage like a kid in the biggest candy shop in the world, often forgetting to sing into the microphone in his elation at being able to perform to so many people. They’re basically a bunch of thirty-something dads living out their childhood dreams of being Springsteen, and their infectious enthusiasm and obvious love of what they do carries over to an suitably appreciative audience. It’s the kind of charm that was noticeably lacking from the otherwise impressive Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, a band I haven’t listened to since their sub-par performance at the Leeds Faversham in 2005. Alec Ounsworth is still an awkward, uncomfortable performer, but I must admit he’s obtained a modicum of personality over the last couple of years (first time round, he had less charisma than the microphone he sung into.) Alas, his screechy, strangulated whine is still there in all its ear-grating glory; it somehow works on record, but live it often sounds like he’s in the throes of a particularly vicious bowel movement. Thank God then for their excellent songs; having not listened to them for ages, it was even more clear that the hype that surrounded CYHSY!’s debut was more than justified. Unlike the impenetrably murky mix at the Faversham show, the melodies were given a chance to shine, and I unexpectedly found myself with the desire to dig out their albums again.
And then for something completely different, in the form of I’m From Barcelona, a 20-strong army of disconcertingly happy Swedes led by impressively mustachioed joy-pimp Emmanuel Lundgren. Simple, relentlessly cheerful pop with Sesame Street lyrics performed by the low-budget love-child of the Polyphonic Spree and the Flaming Lips, huge balloons (“your mission tonight is to get that balloon off the roof- it was very expensive!") confetti and a hell of a lot of jumping around was the order of the day. Yet despite enjoying the show immensely, I couldn’t help feel a little disappointed. The length of the show was a let down for a start (35 minutes!), but I think what got to me was the lack of the anarchy that typified their club shows, which weren’t so much gigs as big crazy parties of PURE AWESOME. Add in an unforgivable lack of kazoo action (I wanted to get on stage, dammit!), and an absence of their more restrained numbers and you get a show that failed to live to my obscenely high expectations. But I complain too much; it was still fantastic, just not as deliriously sublime as their ULU show. And if you didn’t leave the tent humming at least one of their songs, you’re dead inside. DEAD.
We subsequently retreated camp-wards to rest before jaunting off to see Rodrigo y Gabriela, but it soon became apparent that we were far too tired/lazy/useless to move. Instead, arch-arsonist Fiona decided to get a campfire going, and we soon discovered the truth in Mark’s maxim “fire is Nature’s television.” Providing almost limitless fascination throughout the night, we made a number of valuable discoveries, including: Cadbury’s Twirls are essentially invincible to flame, Jaffa Cakes are most certainly not, and Dime Bars are a desperately rare resource in the wilds of Suffolk, much to Cian’s regret. Alex’s slavery to the nicotine resulted in some classic quotes, mainly courtesy of Andy who, singularly unimpressed by Alex’s offer of a touch of her ‘baps’ in exchange for a ciggie, declared that it was "like asking someone to come over and look at your bread." And A-Ha’s “Take On Me” took hold as the unofficial camp anthem, mainly because no-one could get it out of their head.
After watching Louis de Bernieres faff about with a mandolin in the Literary Tent, we inaugurated Sunday’s musical proceedings with the musically ace, if somewhat pompous The Strange Death Of Liberal England. Big fuck-off percussion and lots of passion, and although they occasionally slipped into outright ludicrousness, they reminded me a lot of Hope of the States which made me happy. Plus they filled the tent with black balloons emblazoned with “REPENT! REPENT”, with which I was intending to brutalise people who planned to skip AF for the Gotan Project (but I got bored by the time the next band came on so I chucked them away.) Must admit Smashing Pumpkins-alikes Silversun Pickups weren’t really my cup of tea, but I’ll give them their dues- they’re evidently going places. They’ve got talent, a genuine, easy-going charm and a knack for solid songwriting; as long as they resist the temptation to go all po-faced on us, they’re a group with a bright future ahead of them. We then moved onwards to the main stage for Au Revoir Simone, who were (in the words of PABBY) “Electrelane without the depression.” Pleasant enough electro-pop, with the added bonus of all their members being REALLY ATTRACTIVE. Ahem.
Providing less eye-candy but far better songs was the multitalented musical ubermensch Andrew Bird, employing a multitude of instrumental skills to impressive effect. His songs could do definitely do with a couple of minutes lopped off the end (see also: Wilco, this review), but the man’s bonafide genius made up for his moments of self-indulgence. Plus, he single-handedly redressed Latitude’s shameful lack of whistling solos, an act for which I’m eternally grateful. But even he couldn’t hold a candle to the mighty The National, who delivered yet another blinding performance. Start A War was a bit of a dubious choice to start a festival set on, but from then on it was a non-stop blast through their strongest songs. Mistaken For Strangers, Apartment Story, Secret Meeting, Abel, Mr. November all made welcome appearances but for me the standout was Fake Empire, to which they finally did justice. The only criticism really was the subdued audience, but to be honest that’s not really a surprise given their relative seriousness compared to the other bands that day. What was a shame was the better reception given to Cold War Kids, the one crushing disappointment of the weekend. A plodding, half-arsed set, marred by bad acoustics, Nathan Willett sounded whiny rather than bluesy and I found myself drifting off on more than one occasion. Which, given how genuinely superb they were at Glastonbury, is a real shame.
Camera Obscura also underwhelmed; not only were they were stiff and uninspiring (unlike the charming Koko show), but they they still lack a violinist, which is a bit of a bugger when wistful folk provides the basis for at least half their bloody set. Perhaps they could have borrowed the absurdly talented Owen Pallett A.K.A Final Fantasy, whose short, but incredibly sweet set was well worth risking my place for Arcade Fire for. Classics like CN Tower and This Lamb Sells Condos continue to be amazing, the new material sounds as good as anything he’s ever done before and even though he made a couple of mistakes, he didn’t let them detract from what otherwise was a virtuoso performance. If only he’d played for longer, then I could have avoided the end of Jarvis’ pedestrian set, the only moment of note being when he tantalised the audience with hints of ‘a song he’ll never, ever play again’ before launching into Eye Of The Fucking Tiger. What a bastard. Then again, my anticipation for what was next meant I soon forgot about Cocker cruelly raising my hopes- until I realised I was stranded alone in the midst of people who, crazy as this sounds, didn’t really care about Arcade Fire. I can’t even start to describe how depressing that was. It became even more depressing once the show had started; apart from a bit of half-hearted movement during No Cars Go, no-one around me seemed to be getting into it at all. The last straw was having to put up with chatting idiots talking through In The Backseat; at this point, I just thought to myself "bugger this for a lark, I’m going in!" So, through a combination of polite persuasion, mild jostling and straight-out pogoing I managed to fight my way forward, slowly moving towards the mass of enthusiastic jumping folks near the front who I surmised, correctly as it turns out, were my fellow UKKers. Took me a while, and I missed all the action on stage, but it was well worth it just so I could go crazy to Tunnels, Power Out and Rebellion without being glared at by apathetic Damien Rice fans. Best of all though was Wake Up; not only did it live up to its reputation as one of the best festival anthems ever, but we also got fireworks! Cheap, shitty Poundstretcher fireworks to be sure, but hey, it looked good anyway!
Then back to the camp once more to indulge in the only thing that comes close to the buzz of an Arcade Fire show: low-level pyromania. Even more things succumbed to the Fiona-spawned flame this time round; a spree of box-burning led one of the Festival wardens to give us a ticking off as the flames were actually higher than our tents. The ceremonial torching of a magazine with Keane on the cover was particularly satisfying; Tom Chaplin’s curiously babylike face melting away like the stability of a man forced to listen to “Hopes And Fears” on perpetual repeat. Less successful was the Mail On Sunday, which, infused with the dark and twisted souls of a thousand angry middle-class Little Englanders, refused to burn with quiet dignity, instead spreading its flaming ashes alarmingly in the direction of my face. But most memorably, an experiment to ascertain the truth of the thesis “glow-sticks aren't flammable!" resulted in said Nu-Rave accessory exploding its fluorescent purple innards over Mark, leading to the creation of ass-kicking Geordie super-hero "Rave Man." Or a bloke whose brand new Neon Bible hoodie was now covered with neon violet goo. Whatever. Oh, and how could I forget the Win Butler Memorial Barbershop Quartet and their glorious performance of their smash hit “Box, Box, Box, Box (Box, Box, Box Box)”? Kicked Arcade Fire into a cocked hat, that’s for sure.
And that, as they say, was that. Monday morning came round, and this fantastic weekend, with its fantastic music and fantastic company finally came to an close. I reckon the last words should belong to Fiona’s friend and non-UKKer Helen, who came up with a quote which I think summed us up quite nicely:
"It was only when they started talking about making effigies of Win that I got worried."
Same time next year, I guess. :)
No comments:
Post a Comment