One could point out the irony of All Tomorrow's Parties celebrating a decade of pushing the boundaries by bringing back a bunch of bands that have already played before, but let's give the organisers their dues- this was one hell of a line-up. The discerning hipster's festival has had some strong rosters over the last ten years, but this arguably was the best of a lot- the crème de la crème of alternative music. Bardo Pond were a fine opener, perfectly epitomising the eclectic, challenging, revelatory ethos of ATP- at times droney, at others shoegazey, they were at their strongest when drawing upon Isobel Sollenburger's ethereal vocals with the final track particularly striking in its dreamy beauty. Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks' affable if unadventurous set passed the time nicely enough though their tendency towards overlong jams frustrated a little; J. Mascis and the Fog were considerably tighter, and had the advantage of Dinosaur Jr. songs to pad out their set. But the first true standout came from an unexpected direction...
“YOU SONS OF BITCHES, WE JUST GOT HERE MOTHERFUCKERS!” Such is Karen O's defiant introduction upon arriving on stage 40 minutes late to a chorus of boos from the audience. Many bands would be thrown by such a cold reception, but not the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Pulling out a bottle of champagne and spraying it heedlessly over the front row (probably causing several grands worth of camera damage in the process), she then launched into one of the most energetic, flamboyant and downright sexy performances this reviewer has ever seen. Playing “Fever To Tell” in its entirety was an enticing if risky strategy, given not all its songs fit the festival mould, but despite a slightly ropey sound mix it worked marvellously well, despite the occasional dip in energy levels. The audience responded to her vampish, irrepressible energy in kind, resulting in mass pogoing, crowd-surfing and caterwauling of various quality (especially during “Maps”), and the band's curfew-breaking encore including a superb “Heads Will Roll,” was simply the icing on this most delectable of cakes.
(Photo: Weilin Wang (Flickr))
If the Yeah Yeah Yeahs hadn't left me on enough of a high, the always entertaining Mum decided to raise their own game several notches, resulting in the best set I've ever seen them do. Striking the perfect balance between their more experimental, glitchy earlier stuff and the playfully effervescent chamber pop of new, they skilfully weave pristine harmonising with charming, rich instrumentation (including the most well-judged use of melodica ever committed to stage.) Tracks like Marmalade Fires and Sing Along sounded incredible and the rare airing of Green Grass of Tunnel complete with Sigur Ros style wall-of-noise ending was perhaps my single favourite musical moment of the festival. And if Tortoise were a little too cerebral to take the 1am Friday night slot by storm, that's no reflection on the quality of their performance. Their sound is hard to pin down exactly, a fusion of post-rock (a genre they were heavily influential in), math-rock and jazz elements, but it's delivered with rare flair and technical proficiency. A couple of songs were too noodly for their own good, but the likes of “Gigantes” with its rattling dual-percussion and electronica influences compensated for the rare moments of self-indulgence.
(Photo: Tismey (Flickr))
Papa M (AKA Slint's David Pajo) provided a mellow start to Day Two, with a stately set of unostentatious post-rock that lay easy on the audience's hangover-addled brains. However, the performance that followed could never be described as mellow. Or stately. Or unostentatious. What it could be described as is “fucking mental.” A potted summary of Afrirampo's set would run thusly: two Japanese ladies dressed like the dancing girls from Gogol Bordello make the audience scream weird, incoherent noises whilst contorting their body into letters of the alphabet; conduct a sing-along of “Happy Birthday” to ATP, talk utter nonsense in broken English, and perform some of the wildest, tightest off-kilter rock 'n roll ever seen in Minehead. Like Lightning Bolt-meets-Deerhoof-meets-an otaku wet dream, they may look and act shambolic, but there's real skill and complexity at the heart of Oni and Pikachu's rhythmic cacophonising- even Jim White, standing by the sound-desk looked suitably impressed. The standout moment of a set full of them was Pikachu's appropriation of Oni's guitar as part of her drum kit whilst Oni continued to play atop a bass drum- not only did it look cool, it sure as hell sounded cool too. Baffling, bizarre and utterly brilliant.
Energetic Ozzie instrumentalists Dirty Three always put on a good show, with Warren Ellis high-kicking his way through impassioned violin solos when he's not spouting hilarious improvised banter and Jim White effortlessly showing the rest of the world how drumming should be done. But having seen them deliver a similar set at the Southbank Centre earlier in the week, I left a few songs in to check out Shellac, who were as reliably entertaining as ever. For those who've never seen them live, they've a tendency to intersperse their sets with Q&A sessions, which never fail to deliver the lolz. This weekend's best question: “Do you ever masturbate over how brilliant you are?” Albini's answer- “No, I masturbate over the brassieres in the Sears Roebuck catalogue.”
(Photo: Tortilladc (Flickr))
Then for my most anticipated set of the weekend- the mighty Battles. Showcasing mostly new material, there's little doubting that the next record is going to split opinion in a big way- those expecting Mirrored Part II are going to be disappointed. Much more reliant on Tyondai Braxton's distorted vocals than before, there's a strong Animal Collective-ish vibe to some of the tracks; what's even more pronounced is a new-found sense of vaudeville lighthearted-ness. But if the jauntiness of the likes of Ice Cream confound initial expectations, the bedazzlement they evoke with their technical brilliance remains undiminished. The irregular math-rock time signatures, the sense of experimentalism and John Stanier's ground-sundering percussion are still there, but they've been packaged in a (comparatively) more immediate form, and on the strength of the material here that's no bad thing. That said, it's pleasing they still found room for slightly reworked versions of Tonto and Atlas, both rapturously received by the Pavillion crowd- whilst it's good to keep moving forward, it's unwise to entirely eschew one's past.
After catching the tail end of the Melvins' blistering, tinnitus-inducing set- involving no less than FOUR drummers- it was time for an band who have historically disappointed me terribly. Modest Mouse are a very hit-and-miss live act, and personal experience has tended towards the latter but to their credit they were on sparkling form here, despite Somerset's Arctic conditions causing Isaac Brock to lose his voice. To be fair, he was never the most tuneful or accomplished of vocalists in the first place, and his vocals were actually lent a rough-hewn edge that worked rather well in the circumstances. Ditching Johnny Marr was the best thing they've ever done- they appear to be a functioning, multi-faceted entity again rather than a mere extension of the former Smiths' guitarists' ego- and the vastly expanded range of instruments gave a fuller and more varied sound than before. A balanced and commendably unobvious setlist (no Float On!) was another nice touch in a set that consistently impressed and entertained, even if it never threatened to truly astonish. Then to Apse, who passed the time nicely enough- the falsetto vocals are remarkable, their songs sometimes less so. Dancier and less experimental than on record, I was also suitably impressed at the singer's five hundred layers of clothing in a venue where I was sweating in only a T-shirt.
(Photo: Soulsick (Flickr))
Saturday's final act (for those too wussy to stay up for Sunn O)))) were The For Carnation, whose sombre, downtempo material would have been better placed in an earlier slot. But despite the unhurried, drone-like grooves producing a soporific quality that ultimately defeated the less hardy of us, there was no denying the beauty of it all, especially with Brian McMahan's deep, characterful half-spoken, half-sung vocal delivery.
Three ATP's have taught me that there's no better wake-up call than Shellac, so I was glad to begin my Sunday with the fourth performance of “The End Of Radio” that's graced the Centre Stage this year. For the first few minutes Todd Trainer appeared to be AWOL, which seemed slightly odd until the sudden report of a snare drum alerted me to the gaunt but oh-so-cool drummer standing a few feet away from me at the back of the room. I was also confused to see least two infant children present, although I have no doubt those babies are going to grow up to be AWESOME.
(Photo: Smokingdrum (Flickr))
If I'm ever reincarnated as a diminutive Japanese woman, I'd quite like to be Satomi Matsuzuki. Small in stature, massive in charm and energy, the star-jumping, nonsense-yelping Deerhoof guitarist is one of the most endearing performers of the festival, although her flailing, remarkably talented drummer husband Greg Saunier gives her a run for her money. Endlessly inventive, technically dazzling and always slightly tongue in cheek, they're one of the best live bands around, and they don't disappoint here, rounding off their cover-heavy set with the Velvet Underground song that lent the festival its name.
It's a shame that Explosions In The Sky were selected to perform the Pavillion. Despite the “veil of stars” that turned the soulless food-court into something much more magical, the sound simply wasn't loud nor sharp enough to do their soaring crescendos justice. That's not to fault the band themselves, who played little, post-rocky hearts out but they never sounded as all-encompassing as one would have hoped. Fuck Buttons on the other hand rocked Reds to its foundations with their unscheduled early-evening performance, the fuzzy, eardrum-obliterating peaks of Surf Solar and Olympians as euphoric as anything as any grandoise post-rock climax you'd care to name. They might not be the most interesting act to watch visually, but any band that can spark a rave atmosphere at 8pm in the evening is totally alright by me. To appropriate a quote overheard earlier in the day, “it was like a full-on sonic massage, mate.”
(Photo: Belkus (Flickr))
Having once endured a Stephen O' Malley set that involved three notes being played over a period of half an hour, my expectations were set low for SUNN O))) . But my interest was piqued when I discerned through the fug of a hundred overdriven smoke machines that the band appeared to be fronted by Sauron, who seemed to have a penchant for shooting lasers out of his fingers. Their doomy drones were as heavy as they come, with the subterranean bass reverberating through every fibre of my body, and although the sinister, cultish chanting towards the end was 100% pantomime, it was undeniably effective. Then for another round of Apse, before I failed as a man and returned to my B&B without seeing Lightning Bolt tear apart Reds with Afrirampo. I will never, ever forgive myself for this.
This year, I've been lucky enough to attend Coachella, Primavera, Pitchfork and both the May ATP's and these were all excellent in their own ways, but Ten Years of ATP was by some distance the best of the lot. Indeed, for sheer consistency- I didn't see a band I disliked all weekend- I'd actually say it's the best festival I've ever had the pleasure of attending. So let's raise a well-deserved toast to All Tomorrow's Parties- thank you for the music, and to another Ten Years! (Beyond that, I'll probably be too old and decrepit to care.)
(All photos: Leah Pritchard unless otherwise specified. Check out more of her brilliant photography here)
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