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All Tomorrow's Parties - Pontins Holiday Camp, Camber Sands - 26-28/3/04 & 2/4/04

1/5

By: Thomas Hannan

Location: Pontins Holiday Camp, Camber Sands, Nr. Hastings.

Date: Fri 26th - Sun 28th March & Fri 2nd - Sun 4th April 2004.

Time: Music from 1:00 PM - 5:00 AM.

Bands: 90 Live Acts - 20 DJ Sets.

Stages: Two.

Prices: £110.00 per person (to stay in a chalet).

Capacity: 3,500 People - SOLD OUT.

The Festival

Five years of All Tomorrow's Parties. Also known as: enlightenment and bemusement for a half-decade; the former term for ATP's unparalleled genius to provide us with the next ground-breakers before anywhere else (... Trail Of Dead; Sigur Ros; Belle & Sebastian; Boards Of Canada), not to mention the legends (Public Enemy; Television; Sonic Youth), and the latter due to the sheer bloody weirdness the whole thing usually entails.

Yes, ATP is famed for its 'diversity'. Truly, you're as likely to hear in one room Steve Albini bellowing his guts out over the nature of squirrels as you are to approach an arena where Godspeed! You Black Emperor are knocking the living bejeezus out of their worryingly ample guitar-collections.

So what better way to mark the weekender's 5th birthday than to re-invite previous curators of the festival to once again awaken their musical nous and present line-ups across two weekends ranging in the immediate and classic (The Shins, Love With Arthur Lee), avant-garde (A Whisper In The Noise, Jackie O Motherf**ker) and downright f**king noisy (Envy, Lightning Bolt).

With an ethos to pull out all the stops and make this their finest event yet, Barry Hogan and Helen Cottage of Foundation succeeded. Here's the story. Don't forget your ear-plugs and anoraks.

Weekend One/Day One - Reviews

So much for a warm welcome. Screaming and wrenching like an animal in pain, Todd's bawl seems somehow more dignified than your run-of-the-mill, thrasher metal men. The electro-slash keys and female backing introduce us into the new mysterious, idyllic world of ATP as it should be.

Much like Envy - an overpowering Japanese fusion of ferocious, teeth-grinding, screaming hardcore and reflective ballads: think somewhere between Yaphet Kotto and Mogwai, at their most extreme. A true mouth-drying delight, in all fairness; or: a very loud, shattering and toe-nail crumbling growl-a-thon.

It doesn't stop. Part Chimp too make an ugly mess of a sound: heavy, but never bordering on metal; and angry, but not once self-important (how could it be with flairs like those?).

Where the preceding Envy leave off, Part Chimp race onwards - there still sounds as if there's something genuinely wrong with every ached note emanating from singer Tim Cedar's mouth, quite so much that when he bends double on the floor for the duration of an entire song, summoning demonic noise from his guitar, it looks as if the very weightiness of his own music is too much to carry. But what makes their set such a belter is that this intensity seems to be coupled with a wry grin and comforting frankness, and although there's little in the way of band/audience banter, there's undoubtedly a strong connection. They're a sludge, yes. But today, Part Chimp were the sludge that loved you.

Sonic Boom isn't, purveying as he does an hour of rasping noises, bleeps and drones, his ass remaining to the audience throughout the whole set. (Very toned it was too). But Converge connect with all in a different way - by pummelling their audience into submission and then, with all the sincerity they can muster, thanking them for their time.

It's an unrelenting barrage of sound, thick and often impenetrable, but mesmerising if only for the way it's executed with such fervour. In terms of building a rapport with a crowd, they seem to propose only 'beat us or join us', and seeing as the former just isn't a viable, logical choice, the alternative suffices more than adequately. Battling against Converge is a hassle, a waste of valuable time when you could be fully enjoying one of the finest heavy acts to grace the stage all festival. If any preconceptions about some long-haired, tattooed rock existed at the beginning, by the time of a rare outing for the closing, severely ace 'Jane Doe', they're either gloriously abandoned, overcome or simply deafened into irrelevance. Resistance, then - not entirely futile, but just a little stupid.

So far, we're traipsing through one dark, dank, sticky little tunnel of noise, and it has to be said, loving it. But salvation from the tyrants of grand old guitar squall comes in an unlikely guise - that of Trans Am. Although melody still would have few friends to talk to at this party, it's the first time we get to shake some arse, the first time bass and sheer funk take prominence in this cauldron of the sinister.

Maybe it's frivolous, but hardly anyone else makes as convincing a case for fun being as relevant in alt-music as gutsy passion. This enjoyment is reflected on both sides of the metal barrier between the audience and artist, although the Trans Am boys up stage seem to be laughing at not only the lovable twists in the sound that appear unannounced every few bars, but seemingly each other's very appearance. Those orange outfits and dodgy moustaches were cause for conversation amongst us too, but come on, guys: they were your idea, after all. So, whilst they continue contemplating quite how ridiculous they look, we dance onwards, enjoying what was so far an indisputable highlight.

Silly us to think this would plateau out into an evening of intelligent punk-funk, as Isis clearly have other ideas. It is indeed time to revert to frantic noise mode. The sound-equipment, however, seems to retreat at the prospect, deciding that midway through their fine set, it'll give up the ghost - either that or it simply couldn't hack being the medium through which the Isis machine chose to transmit its throng. Isis pedal a strange brand of intensity, one in which no matter how heavy or soft their playing is (and they control some subtler, sparse moments with considerable aplomb), the volume remains at the same crushing high - proof that distortion isn't the only ingredient in the rock canon that can shock. Loud rock made by big, butch, crew-cut sporting men is rarely ever so tender.

Papa M, ex-member of the following day's curators Tortoise, carries out a very touching, gentle gypsy folk set of his own, meanwhile. Jaded love, sympathetic amour-related whinings - it's all satisfyingly harmless and tingly. Yet the anticipation of Norwegian painted sailors mildly overwrought it.

Yes, Turbonegro are upstairs, y'see. And, hmm, what more could a knackered rockfeedback writer want than bad metal-pop and a writhing, pasty belly a foot from their face in the first evening of a festival? In the four years since their disintegration in an Italian psychiatric ward, the 'Negro have grown from just another cult favourite to a full-blown, worldwide, er, cult. In fact, their official denim ladies skirts with 'property of Turbonegro' sprawled across the buttocks are reaching hefty heights on Ebay. Simply in the case of the North-East European lot, you either get it or you don't.

Well, as we happily peer and nod heads away, the blubber and Scandinavian sweat droplets did wobble and spray, only topping the spectacle through a soaking of all our clothes in red dye and a dousing of feathers that made us collectively look like a den of chickens. So what, we had red asses for the rest of the weekend. All together, kids: 'I GOT ERECTION'...

Mogwai have had a good day. They've caught a hell of a lot of bands, watched Celtic beat Rangers 6-2 on their own personally scheduled Pontins television channel, and have had the pleasure, in the true ATP spirit, of putting their record collection on a set of stages for everyone to drool over. To top it off, they throw in a marvellous headline set to boot.

Great as the rest of the bands have been, there always seems a tendency to Mogwai shows to precede the closing act with some varying degrees of musical slush - but there's a very clever reason for it. Mogwai themselves, as is well documented, are prone to their noisy outbursts. But after what's just gone, they sound like the cleanest, most calculated, sumptuous band imaginable.

It can still be devastatingly massive (even when you know the loud parts are about to arrive, they're so brutal that it can't help but catch you off guard), yet this is a far more grown-up, studied band we're now presented with. And what impresses as much these days as their previously infamous confrontational nature is the fashion in which they can still be as unnerving when supplying melody, tonight's brilliantly skewed 'Hunted By A Freak' perhaps the most poignant example. We're also given a rare chance to hear Stuart Braithwaite sing, in a hushed voice that's frankly distressing. Did you really expect it to be anything but?

Mogwai's commanding presence onstage, coupled with the near-cinematic stature of the tones they're now producing, suggests a band in their absolute prime. Not growing old, not doing anything disgracefully, perhaps even a little less urgent than before, but one thing's for sure - they look more indestructible than ever.

Their set ends with a warning. Stuart takes the mic and announces, 'We're off to get drunk and watch Kid 606.' He's a man who keeps to his word. Barely ten minutes into the Kid's set, Braithwaite stormed the stage, to a massive hug from the DJ himself. 'Did you hear this guy sing?' 606 shouts. 'F**king terrifying!' The Mogwai man tries to sneak off, only to be forcibly held back and coerced into taking part in the show. Granted, his only contribution is shouting abuse at the crowd, but it's an amusing one. Kid 606 himself, however, is on absolutely incredible form - throwing vinyl all over the place, grating needles along all manner of grinding bass-lines and disconcerting dance music. Half the sounds are completely unfathomable; and every single one the work of a man completely at the top of his art.

An hour before, John 'doctor' Peel is really everyone here's spiritual dad, dancing away through his DJ-set, erm, notably rather like 'a dad' - but then the music interrupts and halts this illusion: for, we get everything from happy hardcore to Kongo Bongo Man and, naturally, 'Teenage Kicks'. Even after all these years, can't say 'eclectic' ain't his bag.

Reviews/Pix: Samantha Hall

Weekend One/Day Two - Reviews

Plaintive musing and whines in (presumably) neither their native Japanese nor English, The Boredoms instead provide fanatical, mythical groanings, and, of course, their niche: three-way rhythmic drumming that grasps and rattles your backbone before gnawing it away.

As the trip continues, the cartilage fragments soar around the room and overhead before burying deep into your belly; electronic screeches and this phenomenal tribal-esque rumble that's seemingly endless. Static, bright lights and audience addiction were all integral in The Boredoms' lunchtime performance. Magnificent.

The Seconds - now where have we heard that name before? Sounds very New York. Looks very New York - especially that drummer.

Then, it clicks; none other than Brian Chase from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs trying out his stick-work with a band who, get this, actually have a bass-player. In fact, it's a veritable super-group - frontman Zack has also served time in the Ex Models, and bassist Jenny has lent her skills to bands with names as politically correct as The Strap-Ons and the High School Hell C**ts.

It's to their credit that this link isn't one made instantly, as there's enough individual merit to this three-piece to judge them off their own backs - and a very rousing reception they receive. No, it's not a world away from that YYY sound, aside from the aforementioned inclusion of a four-string clanger, but where it does differ is this is a band with a much darker undertone: less of the pop and frivolous dancing; more rich, thick, riff-led ideas and angular but nonetheless rock-star shapes to be thrown around the stage. Despite remaining firmly behind the skins, there remains an air of it being very much Chase's project - although Zack is a fine in-song frontman, it's Brian who does the talking, and seems to dictate the musical pattern simply by way of rhythmic twist. Remind us never to write off a drummer...

Karl Marx crooning Johnny Cash could be Lungfish; staggering, spitting, flinching and seemingly twitching, while striding across the prog-rock stage like an old-school master. Yes, the Dischord signings are surprising, tantalizing yet f**king A-class.

And to repeat a phrase coined by Shellac's Steve Albini on the Sunday, 'ATP 5 is the year of the beard.' If that's the case, 'beard of the year' award definitely goes to the frontman of the 'fish. It's impossible to take your eyes off the guy, for one thing because he seems to make eye-contact with every single member of the audience within a reasonable distance and holds it for a good thirty seconds. Everyone sits there mesmerised waiting their turn. The music is also rather hypnotic, not in an atmospheric sense, but in the brooding repetition of a simple riff and rhythm for four or so minutes in each piece - the juxtaposition of both the visual and audible appearance works wonders. Somehow, it's just totally captivating.

Pink Grease for an older audience - minus the fart jokes, double the funk, and a slight bend on sexual agitation. But, are Bobby Conn & The Glass Gypsies sexually agitating, or the result of sexual agitation? Maybe the bassist could answer that question - he did seemingly pelvic-thrust, dip, grind and generally rub himself up against his guitar throughout the whole set.

So, the Conn Crew, despite being clone-clad and uniformed in matching fur-trimmed denim, is the format of several very independent, unrelated characters, who in turn all stand out individually, grotesquely even. Although the focus is always on frontman Daddy Bob, the other constant attempts for attention or mass audience interest from other members of the ensemble are rather distracting and - again - agitating. However, limelight-hogging aside, their odd pop-noise messiness is rather appealing, charming even - a bit like the allure of odd socks. 'Midnite Vulture'-era Beck without the horn. Conn, then: the ethos and principles of Kool and the Gang with the awkwardness and frustration of Wham!. Hate to think what their groupies would be like.

We'd heard the rumours, spreading like filthy whispers around the site. There was some danger brewing, some edge to the whole proceeding that had yet to fit into place. In what guise would it arrive? Well, a man in a green mask, a battered drumkit, a bass-guitar with three strings and a carpet of pedals. Lightning Bolt, people.

Completely, utterly, mind-blowingly ferocious. Who needs a stage when you can set up by the bar, scare security to the point that they request fresh underwear and completely obliterate all barriers between audience and band? This is one hell of a communal event. Drums are hit at such a speed that every strike of the snare is reminiscent of machine-gun fire. Even at this ridiculous pace and force, the bass (and, more to the point, that pedal-collection) is played with such skill that it compensates for the lack of any other instrument more than adequately. Never mind the incredible heaviness of the riffs herein (please, check out 'Dracula Mountain'; you will be slayed), you know a band really mean it when just a look at their eyes can frighten you. Via LB, ATP had been well and truly obliterated.

Everyone arrives with a reverence for Tortoise. Perhaps not an in-depth understanding or appreciation, but as the reputation of these unlikely heroes precedes them everywhere they go, a reverence none the less.

Even if one hasn't a wide knowledge of their back-catalogue, they'll have knowledge of the wideness of it, their influential nature, their cult-status; their curators of the day status in fact... Come to think about it, Tortoise have so much to live up to, they could even be rightly nervous.

To be at ATP 5 and be able to hold a conversation with strangers, you need to at least pretend to like them. And it's this air of respect that spurs on what can come across as a slightly tense performance, especially in the early stages. Whilst not the most confrontational of bands on the bill, they're certainly not the most instant, and at times it's a trying listen even if it's attempting to caress more than abuse your ears.

So it requires a change of mindset, to a state where multiple drummers, xylophone and vibraphone players and intensive use of keyboards are commonplace. You have to snap out of the rest of the day and click into Tortoise mode, a transition that can only be rewarded. Once it's happened, conveniently, the combo hit full stride, becoming a band grinding out proper grooves rather than just intriguing meddling. The complexity of their sound suddenly dawns on you - at no point is any member left wanting of something to do, even in their most delicate moments; there's a sound being made from every quarter. What's most impressive is that each and every note is vital to the overall effect; take but one of even the merest elements away and you'd be left with something that couldn't allude to anything near as complete. There's no need to pretend to like Tortoise. There's definitely a reason to put in the effort.

Reviews: Samantha Hall

Weekend One/Day Three - Reviews

Oh ATP, with this alternative rock, you're really spoiling us. Honestly, where else in the world will you get to witness not one, but two whole sets from the awesome Shellac in the space of ten hours? Nowhere but here. First, something must be noted. DJs to the calibre of Stereolab go on 'till 5am, so 12.45pm is very much still the morning in Camber Sands. So in one sense, the fact that the smaller stage is completely packed this early is a surprise. In another, it's to be expected. It's Shellac.

This first outing of the day is very much a warm-up, and an absolute treat for the large number of Shellac/Steve Albini geeks that populate the chalets. It's possibly the only place they could get away with playing all 12 minutes of 'Didn't We Deserve A Look At You The Way You Really Are?', a largely spoken-word composition based around just two bass-notes, and have it received rapturously. It's not the tightest they've ever been, but as Todd Trainer pointed out on a trip from behind the drumkit to the front of the stage, 'Steve's girlfriend says mistakes are sexy.' So, Shellac are bloody gorgeous. Because, in the first set at least, they do make mistakes - they're human, thank God. But they also play some awesome, primal rock and roll; nothing does scathing quite so nonsensically as 'Canada', or unlikely riff-mongering quite to the brilliance of 'Ghosts'. They're a treasure whatever form they're on, and when they finish, everyone's left gagging. 'You want to hear some more songs?' asks bassist Mr Weston, teasing about an encore - 'Come and see us tonight.' We'll be there, Bob.

French Toast are as dirty, and certainly intimate - though more like burnt, butter face on the floor, toast, than fresh breakfast 4-stars rack loaf. Breathy, grasping vocals, twangy guitars and a dubbing French disco-beat. This is perfect dance pop; no beat-box, real drums, and few signs of that pre-packaged Safeway's Economy Grooves sheen which so many employ.

Like soda water between a hefty evening on the old Pinot Grigo, A Whisper In The Noise prove to be an essential if not liberating detox period. Their delicacy, subtlety and general lack of compulsion proves, like the soda, to be almost a de-fuzzer; a refreshing hydration to the rambling of warped musical minds.

But that by no means ensures that AWITN are mere 'dampeners' - their vastly effective yet surprisingly minimal use of horn, violin and cello peak emotive long musings to their extreme. The dip in pace and tempo for us proved that nostalgic festi-reflection point; exhausting, warming, but beautiful and hugely sought after.

Goth pop-rock with bad hair, bad boots, and dodgy struts... Oh, but they recorded with Steve Albini, don't you know... Yes, it's the day of silly names (let's recap those last two - A Whisper In The Noise? French Toast?!), and Atombombpocketknife are staking a fine claim for the title. In fact, they win.

Bizarre to look at, they're a mix of rock that has elements of both mathematical precision and glamorous but messy technique, ultimately making them very difficult to place. The sound could slip into indie-schmind one minute or fall by the way of post-hardcore the next, but treads a fine line between these and many more genres precariously. It's this reluctance to admit to reference-points that should enthral but instead slightly annoys, as whilst individuality should of course be admired, this isn't one that at this time sounds quite as good as it could get. It rocks, very hard. But to their disadvantage, so do a lot of people here this weekend.

What of Dead Meadow? Amidst the bill, they're rather unique. They combine three things that aren't difficult to find elsewhere, yet in such a way one can't help but set them apart. To be heavy, atmospheric and undeniably psychedelic at different times is admirable enough, but to pull off a culmination of the trio is a trying task that the Meadow boys accomplish most admirably. They install a haze in the audiences' minds, a collective sense of there being something really rather intelligent going on amongst the oft oppressive mire of the tone to the sound, but whatever that is, it takes a very clear mind to pick it out - they don't shock; they unfold.

Onstage, they're drowned in misty yellows and oranges, silhouettes occasionally giving way to reveal the look of a band whose young age defies their thick, studied roar. Today, we aren't left with a lasting impression of any particular instinct of Dead Meadow, but just gifted an unforgettable notion of the band in their entirety.

Blistering, un-punk, not rock... just smash-up/throw-up... raw Welshmen... wrenching and guffawing. How come Mclusky are so massively danceable this eve, despite bearing not so much as a shred of popular airplay about it all? Whatever, what a band. Tonight, 'Alan Is A Cowboy Killer' and 'Lightsabre...' are degenerate anthems. Indeed, our own 'admirable' enthusiasm was demonstrable after all the photographers had been scurried out of the pit; rockfeedback's Sam Hall was allowed to stay on the account of her over-eagerness and general demented, fit-like moves. No paramedics were called, but the jittering, possessed love for Mclusky was clear.

Reviews: Samantha Hall

Shellac Vs Lightning Bolt: An ATP Essay By Tim Dellow

A big black. The aural equivalent of anal rape. They went where they shouldn't and left you throbbing with pain, feeling soiled and sick. Lightning Bolt were just the sort of band to kick it to the pricks and play a guerrilla-style outside gig, stealing the thunder of Shellac, the artifice-led ego's who thought the only band worthy of kicking off and wrapping up their festival, the only band who deserved two sets, who everyone couldn't get enough of were... Um. Themselves.

Big Black burnt out faster than a millionaire smackhead, and only the magnificent Lightning Bolt had the balls to shun their burnt-out corpse (the old man cuckolds that were Shellac) by waving their young, nubile dicks at them, by playing outside the venue when Albini and co were due to take the stage.

Back in the Big Black daze, Steve would have been proud, heck, he'd be out there, jamming along with 'em against the fat dinosaurs that should have done the decent thing years ago, Cobain-style.

So Lightning Bolt. That's where it's at.

But Shellac's first afternoon-set at ATP 5? What were they like, you ponder. Ask anyone who's seen em, ya get some shit like: 'best live band ever... so much better than on record... man, so tight and what a show!' F**k off.

I was so excited. I stood there shaking with an aura of homoerotic love for the man Albini. My hero. My buttocks spread, I bit my tongue and prepared for the barrage that would change my life. Sure, it would be uncomfy at first, take some getting used to, but this set was all geared up to be the best f**k of my life. That soon changed. Old gits couldn't get it up. And they moaned. Christ, did they moan.

Todd. I love ya. Spasticated, drooling, drumstool sticklicking. You pass.

Bob. Fat. F**k. No. Beard. Can't. Play. You. Fail.

Steve. Moan. Moan. Lightning Bolt 'stole our thunder'. Fail.

Their screw-up may have been 'cos they started with the song that goes dum ba da dum ba da for twenty odd minutes, you know that one off 'Terraform' which drummers love, quoting subtle differences in tom-tone.

Or it may have been the lacklustre hangover-led bludgeoning of 'Canada'. It may have been the performing monkey 'we do this out of obligation' closer, where they all stand in formation smashing the cymbals on Todd's head (oh WOW! How I wish I'd thought of that). But I think it was mainly due to the old man bitchiness.

'No, no, no...' I hear all you brown-nosed f**kwits whine in response; 'That's Steven's humour, you just don't get his humour.' I saw his eyes, man. I saw his f**king eyes. And he meant it, all the bitter and twisted animosity he normally saves for his ex-wife, thrown at a duo consisting of two guys named Brian. And they would not let it rest.

So then, after they'd finished, I went off and played with a group of decent bands I know in our chalet and the bar. Safe in the knowledge that Steve would not be impressed by us missing his carefully curated line up (aka, the last ten bands he recorded), or by us playing without his permission. Did we give a f**k.

Later, and mellowed by mushrooms, hashish, champagne and Jack D (it was my birthday for crissake) I prepared to watch Shellac's second set. The 'shrooms had worn off enough for me to take my fingers out of my mouth, but I was sceptical to say the least. I was prepared for another let-down. Then the best two hours of my life happened.

On the surface. Separated. Sober. You need to know:

The band was rested. The sound was better. No twenty-minute curmudgeon. Greatest hits set ('Squirrel Song'; 'Prayer To God'). Tight. New tracks - best yet.

[Actually, pause for a second, let me elaborate on that one: the new songs; flamenco vibe tunes, yes, tunes - the natural progression for the kings of rhythm; raise the stakes, piss all over second-rate contenders such as Ship's A Going Down (ahem, my band) by, wait for it, adding a tune. Stick in charisma - beautiful false starts with Stevie yelping like a eunuch chiwawa, 'Go, go, go - no, wait: stop,' arms flailing, Todd's stupid f**king grin all the while.]

Add question-time. Asking the audience (on two occasions), if they have any questions. Answering them. Good-naturedly. Add sweat dripping off the ceiling. In the mouth of an octopus (i.e. Stage One).

Is this dejected thirty-something with the stapled-on glasses and surprisingly muscular physique, in fact, God?

Then, the music. Tears welling up. 'Yes, yes,' I cried to the heavens, to the munificent Albini. 'This is it, this is the song!'

That moment after he cries, 'This is a sad f**king song,' when the rhythm jolts your brain to the front of your head haemorrhaging in an explosion of sexual mush, then a pause before they tease out the Shadows' best ever riff before banging your head between your legs in an attempt at self-fellatio.

This was it. An end to the sexual metaphors. An end to the Secular. 'Goddamit, THIS IS REAL.' And I feel, for the first time since I learnt to speak, my true self. I watched my hands, raised before a benevolent Thor, thwacking his thudstaff with controlled, kingly grace. I saw what they had given me. I was saved. Thou shalt not worship false idols. F**k off Lightning Bolt.

Reviews/Pix: Samantha Hall

Weekend Two/Day One - Reviews

Whomsoever you first see at ATP is going to be incongruous. Think this: as you walk into the main building you have to choose between one of two stages. The main stage is accessed by walking through a giant octopus, whilst the second stage is guarded by a small cut-out, demanding (via speech bubble) that you be at least 'this high' to enter.

The lead-vocalist of Deerhoof might actually have problems filling that demand. Framed by three, tall, head-banging, axe-wielding men, the diminutive stature of Satomi Matsuzaki is only heightened ('scuse the pun), and her bemusing lack of motion or obvious emotion is puzzling. Whilst the band plunges headlong from riff to riff, Satomi stands stock still, with the occasional one-armed robotic gesture. Bizarrely, it makes for very entertaining stage-craft, especially when such props as two large fruit made from foam are added to her hands, that seem to mock any and every artist that ever tried to connect to the audience through dance (encompassing Madonna's 'Vogue' at one point). Behind this cold precision of their frontgirl and her grrlish vocals, however, there is a gloriously shambolic appeal to the band. Staccato rhythms are given just the right edge to make this rock 'n' roll with a sourer twist; majestic and yet almost unplanned, Deerhoof manage to become ATP's first surprise discovery (for, oh yes, there are more to come).

Cass McCombs, however, we've been hearing from for a while. The first big waves he made this side of the pond were this time last year, playing sessions via John Peel and XFM. And the slow return of the '80s finds a resting place here in the pondering synths and Cass' hair, aslant as it is over his right eye. The band themselves are evidently very close, grinning silently to each other when they appreciate some subtle twist another member brings to the tune, Cass himself occasionally bursting out with a little yelp of enjoyment, that breaks the otherwise enraptured reverie of the audience. These are simple, lullaby melodies, sung with the eyes closed, but Cass is not aloof, even with his back to the audience, as proved by his invitation for the audience to come join him afterwards in 'the chalet of love - number 67.'

From such mellow croonings, it's onto the main (octopus) stage for some sibling dissonance, not from the Whites, but from The Fiery Furnaces. Capable of switching mid-song from a two keyboard, drums and vocals line-up to a three guitars and drum instrumental, without you even noticing, it's obvious that we're in the presence of true ingenuity.

It's worthwhile mentioning at this point that the Furnaces are the first band to treat us to a set without breaks, so instrument changes happen every five minutes throughout in a constantly evolving audio kaleidoscope. Modest brother Matt plays his keys with a sound that can only be described as a demented Victorian clockwork organ, whilst his sis Eleanor rocks the rhythm guitar, with vocals ranging from humour to anger to deranged, with a lot of nonsensical brilliance in-between. 'Tropical Iceland' has the crowd bouncing as it's merged into the tuneful cacophony. And whilst they don't have the dress sense of Meg and Jack, they more than prove their rock credentials given the sweat and grins on their audience's faces.

You know you've been away a long time when proclaiming from the stage that the new song you're about to play will be from your 'first record in 259 years' doesn't sound like that much of an understatement. Yes, post-punk forefathers Mission Of Burma are making a convincing return, and whilst not looking particularly sprightly, they certainly sound it. They're sonically challenging, thrashing at guitar harmonics over a perfect bass sound, but some may question the punk credentials of using drum screens and headphones nowadays - could there be a lack of edge? Perhaps the fact that producer of their upcoming, two and a half centuries in the making record (a certain Bob Weston, no less) is doing sound for them today explains the somewhat polished feel, but in fact, edge isn't lacking in the slightest - they still leave a ringing in the ears. They often retreat into their love of a good anthem, and snatch arguably the song of the day in an astounding rendition of 'That's When I Reach For My Revolver', or as they put it 'in other words, f**k Bush!' But is it punk? Well, who cares to even answer that. A great band? Damn right it is.

The Shins, however, have reached a stage where they're almost writing songs so glorious they could be hymns, except with one vital difference - hymns are no longer this communal and universal.

You have to wonder at the mentality of someone who doesn't find this utterly glorious, who refuses to be touched by the delicacy of this music, someone who isn't knocked off their feet by the unexpected bursts of 'Kissing The Lipless' or warmed to the core by how much it seems they're enjoying playing. True, a precursory listen to their material will enhance enjoyment of the set, some such pieces ('Mine's Not A High Horse' in particular) rely on their subtlety, not the punch they pack, but it's a joy all the same. They get most rowdy on a closing 'So Says I', most beautiful on 'Saint Simon', but their main contribution to the event is nothing but this - simply folks, there's life in a good song even after all these years.

The cult of Modest Mouse probably won't have gained many new paid-up members tonight, which will matter little, as the subscribers-list is already mammoth anyway. They treat us to an unconventional set for an unconventional festival, one which isn't particularly designed to convert those sitting on the fence - it seems to be the case with the Mouse that if they haven't taken you under their wing already, they'll please the ears but not enthral. Saying that, the airing of '3rd Planet' is a fine example of songcraft in anyone's book, but in numerous other instances, MM will not stun; they will draw you in slowly, if at all. However, if the latter is indeed to be the case, by the looks of things there haven't been many who have been in any rush to leave.

Stephen Malkmus looks as Stephen Malkmus ought to look. Kind of normal. And that's how his performance with backing-act The Jicks feels for a little while.

And it's possibly because we've already been treated to his music-tastes earlier (he's the day's curator), and some of these coincide aurally with his own melodic inclination (take Cass McCombs and The Shins as particular examples). Whatever the reason, The Jicks start off slightly awkwardly. But as you may have guessed, things start to soar.

Here, for once, it's all because of the influences. To digress: Malkmus defines a 'Jick' as 'J from Jagger, plus Mick minus M'. And it's about five songs in that he finally settles into the stage and, appropriately, starts up with the blues. The band are sounding refreshed; as Steve sings along to his guitar-solos note for note like an indie Rory Gallagher the bass and rhythm pick up in vitality; the whole thing is a positively spiralling circle. Where faces were non-plussed, the most reserved are tapping their toes, and the least are jiving frenziedly. He often musically hints at a brief return to the Pavement mantle, especially in 'Witch Mountain Brigade' or a pleasing 'Dark Wave', but there's more than enough in here to package off the first night with some good old fashioned songsmithery.

Reviews/Pix: Kevin Molloy

Weekend Two/Day Two - Reviews

God only knows why F**k chose their name (and they themselves probably). Maybe to make it difficult to get press. Maybe just so that this kind of comment was even made.

Whatever, we can assure you that they do not merit it. This is l*ve-m*king. The attention they give the audience throughout is huge, especially in comparison to the bands at the other end of the spectrum, who play the entire gig with their backs to the audience. Starting a gig with choreographed dancing is a little unusual, but using the last half of your set as a magic show for lead member, 'The Amazing Ted', is even more-so. Ted's magic tricks are received with childlike excitement from the audience, as he karate-chops/kicks/head-slams his way through Osama, Evil and Acne respectively (the words are written on pieces of plasterboard), before breaking through 'Wood' with what Tenacious D would call 'mind-bullets'; all of this to the theme of 'Eye of the Tiger'. As you can tell, this left little time for the music, but what there was happened to be pretty damn sterling; simultaneously melodic, amusing and heartfelt (take 'George W Hitler' as an example of all three). F**k are definitely the jokers of this festival, and they more than confounded, which - for them - is probably most of the point.

Saccharine Trust prove to be a bit of a let-down after such displays, possibly because they try to match F**k's frontman with their own camply-clad Jack Brewer. The music has a feel of the talking blues, or of voodoo rock (whatever that means), with an air of discordance that makes some categorise them (lazily) as art-punk. Yet punk this certainly isn't, and whilst it's inoffensive enough, it almost needs to affront a touch more if the band is to succeed. We'd be the last to ask a band to be obnoxious, but with the 'Trust they seem to be trying too hard without a very compelling result.

Black Dice are an intriguing proposition, and in post-set chatter, are revealed by many attendees to be a highlight of the entire weekend. It's an admirable stance by some thick-skinned individuals, because this is difficult stuff. The stage is a mess of wires and youthful sideways glances at colleagues, a sole guitarist in the centre of it all providing the most interesting touch, a playful, melodic background of gently plucked strings to underpin noise that can either be frightfully confrontational or indicative of birdsong. There's nothing here to either grab or irritate, but it's a disappointment when the less developed heads of the subtler sides to Black Dice are reared. It pointed in all the right directions, but for some, it ultimately just sat still.

With a chill wind seeping across the floor from the vents, the second stage becomes eerily silent. But no, this isn't silence. That low, unearthly rumble that puts you in mind of graveyards at midnight is Double Leopards. The self-described 'quartet of improvisers' are crouched over their instruments like sacrificial priests, plunging wires between the keys of their boards with a kind of depraved calm. Their sound is concertedly disconcerting, let alone the fact that they share the same animal and initials as some certain AOR rocksters pass you by, these guys are far more fitting to that prowling, deadly beast. Concrete proof that sounding like a submarine about to cave in under the pressure of the sea can be spine-tingling, soul-wrenching stuff.

Our first introduction to the feminist band tonight, Ooioo are disappointing, but only because their name isn't pronounced 'ooh-wee-ooh' as it so rightly should be, but 'o-o-i-o-o'. Of course. We forgive them however; we have to, because they're ace. Both weekends of ATP 5 have been a fantastic advert for Japanese music, and this is no exception. It's a sparkling, summery break from all the noise, quirky enough to suggest mischief, but not ridiculously paced or full of in-jokes, meaning it's far easier to take this pint-sized, all-female four-piece seriously. Sure, it can be repetitive, but never annoying - simply, few other people have refrains this good to repeat.

There's a rumour that Thurston Moore and Jim O'Rourke are setting up some kit downstairs, so Stage 2 has a sizeable audience for the otherwise unknown Dream Aktion Unit, led by drummer supremo Chris Corsano. Onstage, Chris apart, there's also the off-kilter bleating of a wandering, superbly bearded sax-player, and yes - rumour-mill, you do us proud - the aforementioned Sonic Youth duo are hear to wreak some jazz terrorism after all.

Jim makes a fine racket, but Thurston is on incredible form - bent over bashing his guitar on the floor, climbing on his amplifier and sticking leads into anywhere that will cause disruption. He's having the time of his life, and watching him 'play' the six-string is an absolute honour. He's certainly enjoying it - perhaps even more than the audience. If this wasn't Thurston and Jim, would we be this enthralled? Who knows. Do the people on the stage even know what the other ones are playing? Beats us. Do they even care? We hope not.

Erase Errata open with the hammering, percussive bass of 'Marathon', and your attention is immediately pulled towards their combat-wearing, sunglasses-toting bassist, and her prettily knitted guitar-strap. The collision of these two stylistic choices sums Erase Errata up quite well. They write both bouncy pop and confrontational rock, sometimes together. What's for sure is that these rhythms are body-jerking for those both on and off the stage. Strangely, vocalist Jenny Hoyston is shunted somewhat to one side of the stage; one gets the impression this could be stage-fright, as she also seems to feel the need to play the drums, in addition to their actual drummer backstage, with little additional benefit, but this is countered by some excellent trumpet work on the side.

And then, as if they'd not been legendary enough already, the band leave the stage only to come on, temporarily, as a sloppy blues band, but with one vital difference: this line-up features Kim Gordon on guitar. The songs are messy, but well meant; the three or four improv's they play about 'how it feels to feel a feeling' are a good preview of the aural pyrotechnics that will ensue when Gordon returns to her own band later tonight. And best of all, they're having a laugh, which makes everybody else in the room feel pretty good about it too. If only everybody else could spontaneously jam this way.

Being a bloke watching Le Tigre is a strange sensation. This isn't because there's any anti-machismo feeling emanating from the stage (these girls are clued-up on their politics and realise this gets feminism nowhere), but very few places have this sort of amazingly unifying, positive female atmosphere about them.

Critics could have a field day, there's enough lesbian politics being shouted out to warrant this to be called a rally, but the crucial, most fabulous element is the absolutely corking tunes - new effort 'Visability' (introduced as 'about butch lesbians', naturally) is a sign they've not let go of the knack of a perfect pop record - every track is gutsy, catchy and ridiculously loud. They manically dance about as if in a playground, relying rather heavily on a backing-track, but the passion is so evident that, honestly, nobody could care. The brilliant closing trio of 'Hot Topic', 'Decaptacon' and a killer 'Keep On Livin' are, like everything else about this band, both onstage and on record: immense.

There is little in this world that can incite a London drinker to rage on the topic of over-pricing. But Vincent Gallo has successfully managed to do just that. Whether through arrogance or sheer greed, the man priced his t-shirts at £70, yes seventy pounds, in the official merchandise-stall, merely for the benefit of his signature and stitch-work. We wouldn't mention it normally, but given the minimalist performance he gives tonight as second only to Sonic Youth, it seems obscurely relevant. Whilst no big deal is made of the fact that John Frusciante (a Chili Pepper) is the guitarist in this instrumental triplet (Gallo plays bass), he's the sole thing that holds the night together. Gallo himself plays little more than a root note to the noodlings of Frusciante, whilst the drummer simply attempts to give the session some form. And all this would be more forgivable if it was actually great. Enough said.

Fantastic - Sonic Youth look just like Sonic Youth should look like. That's one less thing we have to worry about. Now we just have to hope we're not treated to a two-hour set of dirge and new material - which doesn't happen either.

Lordy, it's almost perfect. Of course, we get new stuff. - a lot of new stuff. But this is one of the world's most innovative bands we're talking about; as great as hearing the hits is, for them not to challenge us just a little would be somewhat criminal. The fresh 'Sonic Nurse' material isn't actually a challenge in the slightest. It's a treat to hear one of the first airings of what might be their finest, harshest work since 'Washing Machine', some confrontational but entirely adorable work - 'Stones' and 'Paper Cup Exit' being particularly astonishing.

Kim Gordon, when not playing or whispering seductively, jumps and twirls around like a schoolgirl with a skipping-rope. It's delightful to watch her enjoying herself (although her face remains almost glum the whole set), treated as she is to two undeniable highlights, a brilliant 'Plastic Sun' focusing their ability to still get a tune out of screeching noise, and an absolutely devastating rendition of 'Drunken Butterfly'. Thurston too also shines, 'Murray Street's 'The Empty Page' given an early airing to remind us why it's one of the Youth's best ever pieces, and 'White Kross' (yes - they played 'White Kross') dusted off to a rightly euphoric reception. Even when clobbered by a stage-diving fan that somehow made his way on to the stage, Thurston is a gentleman, hugging and even presenting the tearaway with his guitar before the boys in black do their jobs. You've gotta love the guy. You've gotta love Sonic Youth.

We'll forgive them the discourtesy of interrupting Sonic Youth as they were about to enter the third song of their encore. And that is one huge amount of forgiveness. All for one reason - Lightning Bolt are positively phenomenal. Imagine, if you will, two men (both called Brian, one in a fabric mask), a small drumkit and a guitar with amplifier, crammed into the corner of the room simply by the sheer pressure of people expectantly waiting to witness music at its rawest - and they are not disappointed.

The melody (and there is melody) is of demented nursery rhymes, the sound is of pure anger and energy hurled through a speaker-cone, whilst the tempo is, well, ummm... imagine an old steam train, and now firing a gun forwards on that train. It's the speed the bullet's going at.

The crowd is the mosh-pit; if you're not getting bruised, you probably can't hear it. This is punk at its core, they're in the crowd, and they are sticking it to the man in the only way they know how. It's interesting to see that they possess subtleties that, on first glance, aren't that visible. There are songs, and any duo that can play a three-stringed bass and drums this well are surely deserving of a 'genius' tag. But it's the point at which they make everybody in the audience sit down (and that even includes members of Sonic Youth), concerned for their safety, that marks them apart from most bands, content to let the excitement of the crowd buoy their efforts. Even seated, the Bolts are just as vital and compelling, and provide perfect, deafening closure.

Reviews/Pix: Kevin Molloy

Weekend Two/Day Three - Reviews

The Vibra Cathedral Orchestra, bless 'em, aren't much to look at, which for a band of so many on such a range of instruments is a surprise. Their main trick is one that uses lots of very slow droning (it's one of those common improvised ATP sets that go on for the entire allotted time playing just the one piece), where instruments such as saxophones, flutes and various percussive tools seem to be picked up at random to add texture. It's certainly out of the ordinary, but sadly hardly particularly exciting, save from the moments where tribal rhythms subtly appear unannounced - one of the few instances where there's something definite in the sound to grab a hold of. In essence, its manifesto is one of slowly building up, all well and good, but if only it moved enough to keep its own slow pace, it could have been much more of a prospect.

Delicacy and beauty of the order that Ella Guru displays are rare things. Their fragility is demonstrated in a single instance of unfortunate sound-engineering (otherwise a thankful rarity at ATP) in the middle of the set, whereupon the aural tone lost its magic, but the remainder is sublime.

With eight members, two of whom play bass (electric and double), you might expect the sound to be restlessly OTT, or at least overly produced, but in fact the opposite is true. With a lead male vocal reminiscent of a melodic Knopfler (don't shy), and a second, husky lead vocal from a girl by his side the sound is of close-knit harmonies, melodically enchanting and honest. The musical backdrop is beautiful, with an understated lap-steel lazing throughout, and gently plucked acoustics gently bringing the sound to fruition. Whilst Ella are capable of more up-tempo numbers, complete with Neil Young style mouth-organ, it is in their softer side that the radiance resides, and where they thankfully place their set. As compelling and heart-warming as they come, it would be an injustice to the nation's enjoyment if this latest Liverpool has to offer doesn't find a wider success.

Jackie-O Motherfucker improve the template set by the Vibra Cathedral Orchestra earlier in the day, primarily by just being a lot more weird and wonderful with it. By the way they treat their instruments, you get the impression that this is a band who, as kids, would gain hours of endless pleasure pulling the wings off insects. They certainly enjoy making things torturously howl. Anything that isn't percussive or a record-deck seems to be played with a violin-bow - and that includes cymbals, guitars, and even a saw. For a band with such a rock and roll name, they couldn't be less rocking - even their amount of stage-presence is only remarkable because there are so bloody many of them. For each member, however, even when they're least involved in the sound, everything about this is performance. And everything about the sound made, is thoroughly, supremely, confusing.

Explosions in the Sky couldn't cut a more different mettle, meanwhile. They are, on occasion, megalithic titans, contorting the air with their stringed instruments of power; at others, splendidly melodic, but always bearers of the same intensity. Without pretensions, and without vocals (are they the same thing?), they structure the kind of majestic soundscape Mogwai have mastered, but with a more straight-ahead, inviting soundscape. They are also unafraid to indulge in gadgetry; looping guitar in a number of sections to build them to their climactic conclusions. Post-rock this certainly is, but forget the genre and be swept off your feet by the euphoria, and whilst comparisons to Godspeed... would be easy, Explosions are not merely a guitar band; the drums are just as important. In sections both gentle and riotous the rhythm wields dominion, holding down the kind of strength world-leaders long for.

Between songs, Arab Strap are quite talkative, comical chaps. 'I never realised how miserable that song was before this weekend,' says Aidan Moffat after a grand 'Who Named The Days' has sucked the life out of everyone. 'We need to cheer the f**k up.'

True, they could do that - there's enough musical inclination and potential in a string-section and even some trumpets to make some gloriously uplifting music, but in Arab Strap we have possibly one of the best depressing bands of all time. Watching them isn't fun in the slightest, it's agony at times. Even when they slap on some electronically generated beats for their most light-hearted section, it's still largely bitter - and we wouldn't want it any other way. Some people can connect on an emotional level and stir your soul. Arab Strap are magical at convincing you there is no good in the world, other than their own ability to do just that.

Cat Power wants to turn ATP and Camber Sands into 'a retirement home for musicians. They could call it 'The Ruins'.' She's drunk, bless her cotton-cult-alternative socks; she means no offence to the venue nor towards the more aged musicians of the event, we're quite sure.

In fact, she's particularly ready to apologise to a certain rockfeedback photographer, when, he looking slightly disgruntled, she tells him, 'If you're not laughing, you're not in it!' He doesn't understand that this comment is aimed at him, and continues to look despondent, at which she coos, 'It's only a joke,' until he realises what's actually going on.

Relevantly, her first comment is the most poignant. If you're not laughing with Cat, you're almost certainly not getting it. She finds it hysterically funny that it takes her five minutes to tune at the start of her set, forgetting which song she's going to play, while slurring nearly every word spoken. But, in song, this seems to disappear; she's a female Ryan Adams, only more searching. She holds one of the largest audiences of the day absolutely silent, save for rapturous applause, applause that seems never to stop, given the intensity of Power's simple songwriting - using only a guitar or piano with voice. She's as unreliable as Badly Drawn Boy on the stage, but all the more compelling for that human error, and the manner in which she wants to be as close to her audience as possible, demanding the house lights be turned on so she can see them only one song in. Power certainly comes across as more than slightly unstable, and might be telling herself this helps her songwriting. The impression is, however, that brilliant though this is, it could be phenomenal beyond measure if she only decided to cut down to a reasonable number of bottles of spirits per night.

The smell of weed floats in the air like a second oxygen, and four young men walk casually onto the stage, to very little applause. The reason is soon apparent; a few seconds later none other than Arthur Lee himself stalks forth, bowing to a football chant of his name by certain members of the crowd, ready to kick-start an all-new Love into festival mode for another season.

Lee himself is on top form despite his years, kicking and yelling, pretending to chat up girls in the audience before 'noticing' their big boyfriend - this is the kind of entertaining you learn on the circuit and that never leaves you, a polished showmanship. The youthful co-members also seem to bring a vitality with them. Yet there is a problem in handing complete control over to Lee, in that the music is very, very polished; he's hired Mike Randall on guitar, and his guitar-solos (which he gets about every other song) owe much to 80s rock with their screaming but oh-so-clean harmonics and super fast runs. But, in some ways, that's all part of the appeal. This is a party, and the man is a living legend; had he turned up with an acoustic guitar alone he would have enthralled. As it is, he chooses instead to please, and he's loving every minute of it (so much so that he overruns by half an hour), as do the crowd.

In introducing the classic 'Red Telephone', Lee tells us that he isn't timeless; it's simply that time is repetitious. The comment makes you realise quite how much we owe to the melodies of this man, and also how wrong he is. Whilst his song is still relevant, it's the hippie ideal, and the dexterity of it all that makes it classic. Lee only serves to make us smile all the more as he leaves the stage (after a full band run-down, with solos from each), and you only wish you could take that smile home with you, without any irony attached.

'Can I ask you guys a favour?'

A small murmur ensues from the crowd.

'Say, 'Yeah!'

Yeah!

A brief pause.

'Love one another.'

(Exeunt)

We're an optimistic bunch, so we still think that there is some justice in the world. In that case, you can expect LCD Soundsystem to be having hits as prominent and seminal as their frontman James Murphy has produced as part of The DFA. Every track here is a potential 'House Of Jealous Lovers' - come on, with two bass players, keyboards and a truck-load of cowbells, it can't be anything other than uber-funk, can it?

An opening 'Beat Connection' (sing it, kids - 'it's the saddest night out in the U-S-A...') and an awesome rendition of the should-be-classic 'Losing My Edge' ('I'm losing my edge, to your friend, with a laptop, who's actually pretty good...') are just the stuff to make the pale indie-kids dance again, and boy did we need that. There's sincerity in Murphy's shouting and yelps - unlike the last time we got something this danceable, it's not off its face a la the Happy Mondays, but enjoyable in whatever state of mind you find yourself in. This party needed to dance. We got our opportunity.

Thirty minutes on, Dizzee Rascal's talking to the room about the streets. To this audience, the streets are a suburban, semi-detached, two-garage 'neighbourhood watch' kind of place. To Dizzee, they're full of poverty, violence, back-stabbing and little hope. There could be something of a connection problem here, and in a way there is.

Dizzee is appreciated here for his fine tunes and rapping skill (his a capella's are something to behold), not the content of his rhymes. But the fact that the crowd can recognise only two phrases of his repertoire (those being 'fix up' and, well, 'look sharp') matters little, as he still goes down a storm, despite numerous mistakes such as the mis-start of the aforementioned hit. For one of his earliest live-shows, he's pulled it off a treat. But you get the impression that if you were searching for the ideal setting to experience this talent, this wasn't quite it.

The Tindersticks, headliners of the Foundation promotion-team's day, find time to be more uplifting than Arab Strap whilst still reminding us of the more sour things in life, but it's this latter quality that caused most contention. Don't get us wrong - these are some fine, worthy, living legends to close an awesome festival. But we've just been Soundsystemed, Rascalled, and, well, Love-d to delirium, and for many of us here tonight, the sombre state of the music isn't matched by our hyperactivity. Yet it's testament to The Tindersticks then that they're so good at what they do that they actually manage to knock us down a few notches on the mindless happiness ladder, and we stick around to the fittingly bitter end.

And as if we hadn't had been overjoyed already, Har Mar Superstar is suddenly in control of the stage, producing about the best karaoke show rockfeedback has ever seen.

The man really is pure sleaze; for once, you can believe what you've been told. Yes, he indulges in revealing his flesh, and actually, for some bizarre reason you enjoy it. The same goes for the fact that the only live instrument, save for Har Mar's voice, is occasional bass from a rather attractive young lady. To be fair, we don't mind - all we know is that isn't what puts the Superstar in Har Mar. Alcohol certainly helps, along with the glo

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