All Tomorrow's Parties - Pontins Holiday Camp, Camber Sands - 2-4/12/05
4/5
By: Thomas Hannan
Day One
Just how many hours a week do you suppose our welcoming act Battles spend not jamming together? Probably allowed are breaks for the toilet and to play gigs such as this, but little else we'd imagine.
If there's ever been a more organic sound created by man we'd like to hear it, but whilst this rapturously free noise is indeed chained to nothing in convention, it's also remarkably tight and incredibly intricate. It almost borders on dance music at times, frustratingly staying just on the wrong side of body popping even when it's utilising all kinds of drum machines and beat boxing mouth trickery. What has us gazing on in admiration rather than moving limbs in rhythm is that it's difficult to know exactly what to concentrate on - whilst the alarmingly complex jazz-tinged drumming of course catches the attention due to its sheer skill, it's often one incessantly plucked guitar note or series of gently tugged harmonics that really carries the rhythm whilst all and sundry goes on behind it. It's as if it should all climax in a communal dance-off, the beat finally deciding to sit to a funky 4/4, and they'd become a party band. But whilst it's all too complicated for most of the converted masses to express visually, the band themselves move as if every joint in each of their bodies is reacting to a different song.
Downstairs, the unpronounceable Jai-Alai Savant are carrying the torch lit so adroitly by Battles but taking it into much more familiar territory. We're back from the future, returning to simple rock and roll played with honesty and unabashed enjoyment. Whilst it progresses with a nice grit for an opening few songs, there ensues a slight comedown by the time sections of drowsy, reverb soaked reggae are reached, where it begins to come across like UB40 attempting to tackle a particularly somnolent Fugazi number. Moments of such are something they slip in and out of as intermittently as our attention and enjoyment remains focused on their more exciting, gritty patches.
Back up towards the heavens and Jaga Jazzist are being meticulous in getting everything sounding just peachy - which wouldn't be such a hassle if their numbers didn't reach into double figures. As such, it takes an age, and whereas minds here should be open to all things bright, beautiful and new, it surely closes a few of the hundreds who stand in anticipation. As it starts, it seems everyone stands waiting to be impressed, thinking that with so many of them on the stage with instruments so voluptuous and shiny that the capacity for melodious exploration is huge, and one left bafflingly unexplored for a large part of the set. But patience, as so often is the case, comes with its rewards. Led, it seems somehow, by one single trumpet, the rhythm and the melody start to ponder going places until suddenly everything sounds so much more colourful and worthwhile. Why it took so long first to start and then to take off still remains a concern, but maybe the redemption of Jaga Jazzist today wouldn't have been such a gratifying one if it hadn't been one that triumphed over a little adversity. Deciding to leave on a high, a trip downstairs begins, only to be told later that the rest of their set sounded like 'a vacuum cleaner'.
Few witnessed with these eyes have ever seen someone concentrate more on how he speaks than Subtitle. He sounds like an incredibly interesting chap, which makes it all the more upsetting that it's so difficult to hear what in fact he's saying. When it does come over, his seven foot frame delivers the likes of the paean to exploration that is 'Leave Home' in a way that really connects, but in the times where it's lost amidst a slimy bass mire it's far less easy to enjoy. Various backing tracks - which may, for all we can estimate, contain their fair share of subtlety - are swallowed up into one whole, allowing the man mountain to only really shine when a real live human drummer sits behind a kit to accompany him. 'I'll pay someone £2 if they can tell me what I just said,' remarks the giant wittily and in conclusion.
Nobody's arms have ever moved this fast, and that could apply to at least three members of The Locust. The usual rule of escaping the photographers pit after a mere three songs isn't enforced here as it would have us leaving after a mere forty seconds. The Locust, in a half hour set, play twenty-two songs. An overreaching bracket they are all encompassed by is the one of utter brilliance, and within this there are two divisions - the momentary grind core exercise of rampant, concise instrument destruction, and on the other hand the comparatively epic (although they probably only lasted a few minutes) excursions into slow, droning sounds of disease. The latter feel like breaks for breath, the former like petite injections of all the drugs Keith Richards has ever taken / will ever take / is currently taking. Possibly the best thing about the Locust is the conciseness. The masks are part of it too. For the duration of the set, they are insects - but only then. Surely, nobody could live a life as intense as this sound?
Dalek are as close as hip-hop has come to an equivalent. Their beats are blanketed with an infuriating hiss, a sound that nobody else has ever accomplished or will probably ever attempt. Unique though it may be, if anything, it's a little too reminiscent of the last time your scribe laid eyes on these formidable figures around three long years ago. For such obvious sonic pioneers it didn't seem too much of a demand to require something of a progression, given the time in which we've been apart. A duo instead of the three-piece last witnessed, their thick crackling still sounds like no other and ensnares any who hadn't fallen into their trap prior to today. And whilst I wouldn't like to bump into either of them in the confines of a dark alley, if I had any guts, whist there I'd suggest running with their fine idea instead of waiting for the rest of the game to catch up with how far they are ahead of it.
Upstairs, bar abandoned at her request, Diamanda Galas sits covered in smoke, wailing in a world of her own and hammering at an innocent piano as if she has little respect at all for its well being. How, you wonder, did anyone ever conceive of banshees and sirens before this woman had been born? The idea surely has been derived from these tones. Whilst it's difficult to tell if this is dangerously heartfelt or just striking showboating, that her incredible range (especially at its peaks) is the finest, most inimitable that could possibly be on show is, by the end of an at times uneasy set, utterly without doubt.
'I know you read I was doing a spoken word set,' announces Saul Williams swaggering his way on to the stage. 'But consider this the remix,' he utters as he introduces his DJ. Just as we'd lowered ourselves to a level where some poetry would have poured into our ears like literary honey, Saul decides to kick off a party. A short moment to adjust our demeanour and it's exactly what this needed, as we remember that, intrigued and astounded though we have been, it's not since Battles right back in the comparatively early hours of the afternoon that we actually wanted to shake some part of us. And even then we struggled.
So, The Nightmare Before Christmas 2005 properly begins here. In fact, you can pinpoint the exact moment, which is the chorus of an almighty 'Grippo', where things finally go stellar. Whilst mostly amplified to the heavens, Saul still manages poetry both in his music and his between rap, flowing prose patches. So literary and preacher-like is he that these sections are just as astounding as anything you're more likely to find on his LPs, but it's when he switches in to his more recognisable tunes that we're able to enjoy this most communally. That we haven't heard someone speak like this since Bill Hicks and haven't witnessed it put to music so winningly since Buck 65 is cause for one almighty party, and that's exactly what goes down - 'Black Stacey' is a tale so personal and yet so personable, 'List of Demands (Reparations)' so much easier to dance to because it has a message and therefore there seems some kind of point in the whole debacle. When it comes to the likes of 'African Student Movement', Saul announces himself as perhaps the most thought provoking musician since punk, and whilst the content of his lyrics is something the subtlety of which many will struggle with or even be offended by on some kinds of misreading, you get the feeling that they whom it clicks with could just become politicians and actually change the f**king world.
Apologies. I don't usually get like that. But as Billy Connolly said, sometimes 'go away!' is not enough. No such need for vulgarity in emphasis when it comes to Blonde Redhead, however. They sound lovely, but then we always expected they would, and you would have predicted us saying exactly the same. Predictability needn't be a problem though when it's in relation to expectations being met rather than numbingly underachieved yet again. Their best parts happen when things are most delicate, with her on the keys, him on a guitar and like a lot of bands today not a cumbersome bass guitar in sight. These parts, truly, are beautiful. Their heavier sections are most welcome as they persist, but it's only really when they dissipate that you realise their true power has been not to amplify as such but to emphasise the fragile parts to a point of wonder. It's the epitome of what so many bog standard indie bands aim at and yet do very, very badly. But genuinely pretty people look so much prettier when surrounded by relative ugliness.
Merely by virtue of the live instrumentation and subsequent sorting out of the downstairs sound difficulties, rapper Beans and his backing troupe Holy F**k manage to edge ahead of Subtitle in today's hip-hop hierarchy, but due to the fact this lad is the one most likely to end his prose with a 'bitch!' rather than the conclusion of some kind of manifesto he still remains slightly tailing the almighty Saul. Today's certainly given a room full of middle class white kids the opportunity to indulge in a genre they did little or nothing to help create, but one wonders due to the muted reaction whether anyone's really getting in to it, or just gazing on out of interest. If they were to throw themselves in, Beans is a good diving platform. The music's much freer than most hip hop displayed to day as it's able to self apply the kind of liberty in variety that comes from being backed with actual human beings rather than the rigidly pre-determined path of a machine. If you remember, Prefuse 73 pulled off something rather similar last time we descended on Camber Sands. Why it can't be done more often is a mystery, as when it is, it can triumph.
Seeing as most people throughout the course of the day have sounded unnecessarily sludgy, The Kills should revel in it, being as they are basically sludge with a haircut. And for a good while, they go about just that - the chemistry between VV and Hotel is plain to witness in how much each enjoys the task, but of the two, it's probably her antics that capture the eye most frequently, to the point where you start to wonder if the show might actually be rubbish if she hadn't a hair on her head. That, of course, would be ridiculous. What certainly would act to their detriment would be the loss of songs like 'Cat Claw' and 'F**k The People', diamonds amidst the roughest of surroundings the demise of which would leave the duo with merely a mire in which to sweat. However, they're jettisoned in to the set so rapidly that once such highlights have been waved on their way you're left with two figures obviously still revelling in being onstage but, due to what remains being a nigh-on indistinguishable slime, an audience enjoying themselves a little less. VV ups her game, clunking around and elaborating her every gesture as if in knowledge that the tunes have been laid to rest and now she really does have to do something interesting with her hair. They return for an encore that even they seem unsure as to whether anybody else is still paying attention to.
Given that monstrous taxi queues at Rye station prevented many from getting here on time for their full set, Battles certainly deserve the chance to play again downstairs. And as far as many are concerned, they therefore headline. Compared to this afternoon, the sound seems slightly freer, but seeing as we've already paid homage to it the once and have had drops poured in to our third eyes to tease them open by the rest of the bill, maybe it just sits more with the mass indulged in, current mental state. Either that or repeat trips to the bar have really helped. Never mind whose fault it is, this becomes their dance set. Once admirers, we turn into revellers. If there is such a thing, the sound and sentiment is much more typical of ATP than much that preceded it, and as such they not only open the show but close the day in an utterly fitting manner - namely one that's both excellent and completely bloody strange.
Day Two
The heavens open at midday, and through the mist one can make out the four horsemen of the apocalypse roaming the grounds. Ominous? In any other UK festival perhaps, but nothing can destroy the cosiness of this lovely chalet we've been provided with. As you pity anyone currently outdoors and not at ATP, you think to yourself - time for a shower. Then maybe some home-cooked hot food and a movie. Note to self - must book tickets for the next one. The only thing the rain ruins is our planned excursion to the beach, which proves nature is always capable of letting you down. Rock music, however...
In the case of JR Ewing, doesn't disappoint in that it does exactly what it does, namely rocks. Alas, it does little more, but in that it promised us nothing there's little point in getting too angry with it. The band have been travelling for twenty-four hours prior to the show, which might explain a certain lackadaisical quality to their stance, but despite such excuses they're still pretty good, and border on being very good. What's alarming is how much it shares in common with popular emo music, so much of the melodies and structure hinting that this could all go very FM friendly, but instead remains exactly what every true music lover wants those bands to be doing and yet never has the guts to go slap them around the face and demand that they get on and do it. Downstairs, all we see of them is silhouettes, through a thick smoke that infects both the vision and the hearing. Again.
If you took the Butthole Surfers and removed the jokes, what would you get? Other than a band without a name, the sound would probably be similar to the one being hammered out by 400 Blows one storey above. In its aviator shades and black clothing restrictions, it's rabid and raucous, but although each song seems to contain one singular, distinctive idea, they all seem to end up at exactly the same place, namely one where you can't figure out whether this sewage is the work of brilliance or just accidentally tolerable.
Kill Me Tomorrow are more like it, coming across like Gang Gang Dance but without the Dance. Most things laid on the table so far today have been very hazy and KMT follow suit, but unlike the easily misunderstood drone possessed by others here there's an essential rhythm to proceedings which falsely suggests that this is at all like other music when in fact it really isn't. Great. This is an audience that loves being misled. What it doesn't do is exactly exhilarate, but credit to them for engaging parts of a tired brain that had previously lain dormant from a hangover induced in equal measure by cider, hip hop and incomprehensible murmur-rock.
Just then, there's a fire alarm. At first there's no stampede for the exits as people seem unsure whether this is in fact an evacuation siren or just another part of the song. As death threatens us, chalets are retreated to and cheese on toast is made.
Thankfully, it was only the pre-planned stage times that went up in flames. On return to the Pontins Fun Factory we find that The F**king Champs didn't start the fire, rather they claim it was always burning since the world has been turning. I'll keep an eye out for anyone looking shifty. This is investigative journalism, after all. The Champs are the first in a slew of technically brilliant but melodically apathetic guitar bands to grace the two stages. Everything here, both strung and skinned, is hammered precisely but with the meanest of glares. If yesterday were the day for hip hop then Saturday is the day where mean rock reclaims its crown. Compared to what follows this lot do not make the most convincing of title challenges. Engaging as they are, they are nowhere near as offensive as the name, nor sadly as champion.
OK, scrap the previously mentioned endeavour, everyone looks shifty. Lydia Lunch perhaps shiftiest of all, but I'm damned if I'm questioning her as to her whereabouts around an hour prior. You get the impression she'd kill you. Certainly striking an impressively dominant figure and furrowing a sound impossible to ignore if you are in its presence, there's still the wonder whether there really was that much love in the room for Lydia's last set at ATP to warrant not only a return appearance but a stage upgrade. Unlike as was the case with Battles last night, cast your gaze and focus your lugholes on to Lydia Lunch twice and even less makes sense. As the crowd disperses from her free jazz spoken word rant-odyssey, you begin to wonder whether there's something you're failing to get, and if there is, whether you actually really want to try that hard to 'get it' at all.
Don't be fooled by her luminous dinosaur dress, maracas and Kathleen Hannah impersonating vocal style, of each of Mr Quintron and Miss Pussycat it is he that sits in the driving seat - quite literally, given that his set up lays hidden behind the dashboard of a massive car towards the front of the stage. Her dancing's pretty, though. And this is something really rather refreshing to witness - an act who, given not only their sound but their appearance of fancy dress shop regulars, couldn't possibly take themselves very seriously. Behind the façade relatively straightforward electro pop is what is to be found, but there certainly hasn't been a lot of that on show recently. Toes tap.
Joe Preston, once of Melvins fame and a man many consider to be that band's finest, most sorely missed bass player, is reportedly upstairs as part of High on Fire. Anyone familiar with his previous work and unfamiliar with his current employers would be slightly taken aback to find him playing quite so, well, fast. Neither he nor High on Fire (part two of Saturday Mean-Rock) being known for their love of speed over demolition inducing, sluggish weightiness, something about how they sincerely enjoy playing their metal manages to translate in to the movement of their fingers and makes the whole experience, heavy though it certainly is, something decidedly positive. One does start to wonder what it is about bands who stick so rigidly to one style of music, why there's no desire in them to try everything, or at least no desire that comes across. You conclude that perhaps they're trying to perfect something. High on Fire are well on their way.
Minds buzzing, impermanent attention deficit disorder has set in. Whether this is the work of Weird War or everyone's finally having woken up is a tough one to call, but either way something about this is proving very difficult to devote a large amount of time to. You neither get the feeling that they know where they're headed nor are revelling in having lost the map. The only thing to latch on to seems to be some bizarrely sixties R&B influenced bass playing, but the curiously directionless but confined rock and roll that happens atop it struggles to grab us by the anything or take me to the anywhere.
Saturday Mean-Rock part three has its coronation in Mastodon, the quintessence of any kind of heavy metal on show today. They technically excel both in their posturing and riff work, but that latter half of their game is what's most incredible. It's bafflingly fast without bordering on shredding, crucially losing not one of the notes along the way and so remaining hugely impressive with is precision even to one of the many present not accustomed to so much in the way of metal being offered in their direction. For those who admire both the technique and what it delivers, a treat has been offered. For so long, people have been seeking for a metal band to sound like this and have only been confronted with either dreadful musicianship, unnecessary costumes or a pompous self importance. Remove all of that and in Mastodon you have the essence of the game for which you search.
Suddenly, there's a curvaceous, bald, bearded man dressed as a cat pouring red wine down my neck (without my asking), attempting to steal my camera and succeeding in thieving the infinitely more expensive photographic equipment of many others before running off to the fried chicken emporium around the corner and spending most of the allotted set time singing either from there or from behind the bar stage right. We can only be watching Les Savy Fav, a band whose brilliance is constantly asserted by people whose opinions you are never sure you should quite trust and yet only when you witness this madness live do you finally realise that not only were they right all along, but their rampant adoration was actually nowhere near exuberant enough. LSF are tight, taught and itchy, dance music for people who only really love guitars because it's cooler to stand behind one of them than it is a turntable. Moving your body to every last beat of it seems to be the desired reaction and it is the one they deserve and you crave to partake in. They have a frankly incredible song entitled 'The Sweat Descends', the gist of which defines the entire set. Les Savy Fav are loved where every other band in comparison this weekend so far have just been tolerated.
And from there it goes completely intergalactic planetary, planetary intergalactic. Why so? Because, far from the threatened three hour improvised jam as scheduled, The Mars Volta are actually playing their own songs, properly, in an order, exactly as they should be played. This isn't to say that they don't take time to let the songs grow and to breathe, but when improvising they at least know where they're going this time. And when it reaches these points it sees God. It's as if they've been hanging around watching so many of their hand picked bands out do themselves that they'd decided they really needed to up their game if they were to steal their own show. Due to that pesky fire alarm we're down to two hours of their success in that endeavour, drawn heavily from the recent 'Frances the Mute' LP, which really, truly, makes no sense until you let them present it for you live. How can you tell it really works? Because far from sitting in admiration and a little toleration as we'd predicted so many would opt for, there's a hall full of people dancing like maniacs to one of the shows of their lives.
As if they felt we still hadn't quite latched on to the hip hop yet, the boys Volta provide us with a whole night of it. Total immersion treatment, I think it's called. So the boys from Stones Throw records, bless them, really try their hardest. But everyone's just too reserved for the whole call and response line thing attempted resiliently by the opening J-Rock to really work. We just aren't that cool, hence coming to places like this for a weekend where nobody has to pretend that they might be. Those who do join in do so almost out of what seems embarrassment on his part, giving it as he is his best shot. But if he is disheartened (not that we imagine this is so, he looks like he's faced tougher things in life), he needn't be, as the quieter of us are nonetheless impressed or spellbound by it all. He's backed as all others are by the moody, studied beats of DJ Peanut Butter Wolf and followed by the renowned Madlib, who has a stare as bewitching as his flow, which is one that would probably be much more interesting if he had something to say on topics other than weed. The music here is removed from any of the pomp and pretence that surrounds so much of its mainstream relatives, and the joy of watching real, believable people outplay the superstars is probably the most rewarding thing about the night. None bring that feeling across quite so well as the slight frame and cheeky grin of Dudley Perkins, who also gains the lyric of the night accolade with 'I got a sixteen year old daughter, which means I'm a grandfather in two years...'
Day Three
The day of rest begins in a fittingly relaxed fashion as The Cinematic Orchestra provide the soundtrack to an arty piece of Eastern European movie-making. On commencing, it's as relaxed as its audience, taking its time to indulge in calmly engaging string movements and things that make noises of the general plink and plonk variety. Crucially, at this point it's fitting the bleak but unhurried imagery of the film like a glove. If all music can be counted as art, art itself being an umbrella under which all creative endeavour can be found, then you begin to wonder why it is all bands don't consider visuals. If it's all about getting across a feeling, concept or idea, isn't everyone being simply small-minded in only engaging one of the senses to reach that point? Or if everyone did heed that advice, would it all go the same way as it did for our Cinematic Orchestra, building themselves up only to a plateau where it all becomes a little bit coffee table jazz or, heaven forbid, Morcheeba? Where they really fail isn't so much that the music becomes tiresome, but that now it's divorced from their subject matter, namely the film, which looks far more interesting than the sound of the band accompanying it. If only they'd stop getting so busy over the top.
As anyone who's ever investigated the life of Mark 'E' Everett from the Eels knows all to well, there's been some pain in that boy's life. But he's still capable of writing something quite as jaunty as 'Mr. E's Beautiful Blues'. The Gris Gris are not. If E had never overcome sadness, he might make music that sounds a little along these lines. It'd still mean he'd be making really rather great sounds, as these guys have an art which produces some crackly, quirky but uncomfortably dark rock and roll of the highest calibre. There's a sludge to it again, yes, but as a consequence of their enterprise rather than a pre planned destination. The capacity to be deftly tuneful and unnervingly upbeat with it hides just around the corner of every sonic path they take, but is as yet unexplored. Great then, you think - a new band to love both on face value and for the places they could go. What more can you ask for?
Hella, that's what! Now these guys, a newly beefed up four piece sounding like if Joe Satriani was a guest on the new Shellac LP (where is that bloody record?!), have something about them that suggests they could be one of the really important underground bands of our time. Why, you wonder, has nobody told me about them before? They're good enough to warrant up bringing up in conversation, and especially in the kind of conversations I tiresomely have time and time again with everyone I meet. But we've finally met. Whilst they all are capable of playing faster than light travels, these bits aren't actually the most impressive capacity Hella posses. That would have to be the bizarre, chunky, playful, almost silly riffs that everything sometimes falls in to, if only for a few tantalising bars. The relaxed one on keys, the half nude one on drums, the bearded costume adorner on guitar - they don't even look like they'd be friends, let along a bane. But thank Santa they are one.
Michael Rother is the guitarist for cult rock band Neu!, who everybody here knows but very few have probably ever heard. Letting the music do the talking quite literally (for all we know, he may be a mute), he cuts a calm figure against some red smoke and plays music that could count as relaxing if it weren't so partially ill at ease. The kids he plays with certainly get the heavily ambient vibe, all working together to ensure that they soothe you to sleep but guarantee the dreams you have will not be entirely pleasant ones. Like so much of this festival, constant visual attention towards it comes with little reward. But whilst you needn't actually be watching it, you certainly should make sure you hear it. Eventually, he says a few difficult to decipher words. How out of place language sounds in the surroundings he's created, you wonder.
Members of legendary bands revealing to us their current endeavours can be found not only upstairs currently but downstairs too, with Can's Damo Suzuki and his new colleagues Jelly Planet strutting their long-haired stuff for an expectant crowd, one they keep waiting with seemingly endless sound problems. When they arrive, given the magnitude of the man and the guest appearance of Omar from The Mars Volta on guitar, the sound eventually made is met with a disappointed sigh from more than a few members of the audience. Suzuki gives the impression of a genius simply settling for being pretty good, whereas Omar gazes on, thrashing away at his guitar, wondering what it is he's exactly meant to be doing. Unlike The Mars Volta's improvisational sections yesterday, this has less of an idea of where it should go, and as such doesn't really visit many pastures new. If they had a map, it was like they were just spinning it around in their hands. Perhaps this had something to do with how encaged it was by a bizarrely structurally normal rhythm, or perhaps they were loving the freedom of how directionless it was. In which case, it shouldn't have been a performance - each and every member of the audience should have at least been given a bongo to thwack so they could have felt a part of it.
More conventional but less alive are The Eternals, who when playing some grimy funk overlaid with unhurried rapping should have at least made a bit more of an effort to be not quite so sloppy and hazy as they come across. Perhaps it might just be that the setting is wrong, as if presented to a packed room this might have been a sound large enough to ensnare a hefty audience, but as it is with us being thin on the ground, it falls on somewhat deaf(ened) ears. Whilst inoffensive, it's not as fun as eating crisps.
Coco Rosie don't just make the day, but possibly the entire weekend. Arrestingly fragile folk music, purveyed delicately on harps, guitars and pianos, backed with the gentle push of a lady beat boxer and crowned with two voices, one the with a grittiness that would border on whining if it weren't so unique, the other the most pure and delicate high notes to emanate from anyone's mouth on the bill, they're probably the only band that each and every girl who turned up to this festival of boy rock genuinely really liked. It has similarities to Bjork at her most scowling, or Regina Spektor in mid-character mode, but other than that is completely exceptional in all it attempts. The songs are marvellous, from a bewitching 'Beautiful Boys' to a lilting 'K-Hole', but apart from the music everything about the performance is to do with bringing each and every person on to their level of ghostly splendour, not only in what you hear but in what you see and how you feel. There's a queer creepiness to it, made even stranger by the juxtaposition of this with the cuddly cartoon images flashing around the stage. It's like everything pure and everything dangerous colliding in song, part angelic but part demonically possessed. Whether aiming for heaven or hell, the trick is how every person here would by the end of it blindly follow.
The funny voices don't end there, as the one presented next is arguably the most divisive in current musical debate. One has to wonder though, if someone such as Antony Hegarty, Diamanda Galas or either of the ladies from Coco Rosie is doing something that perhaps only they of all people are capable of, does that not contain some inherent merit and therefore deserve a degree of adulation, regardless of whether the sound produced is a comfortable one? Perhaps it just has to do with how you greet the weird and the wonderful. Some advice - embrace difference like it yearns to embrace you. The Antony is of course Antony & the Johnsons, who you imagine would give you a huge hug if you'd only let him. He writes songs about how much he loves his sister, and giggles his way through how bizarre it must be telling that to so many people at once. He's surprisingly chirpy, not only mid-tune when 'Today I Am A Boy' reaches levels of tantalizing euphoria, but full of curious banter once even culminating in him providing an improvised a capella rap about fish and chips. Seeing two sides to someone really makes them all the more likeable, and this addition of a new laugh a minute Antony really fills out his character beyond the peculiar artist we've only read about. But the power of his art is in how these smiles can be turned so quickly in to tears, as 'Hope There's Someone' brings the room crashing down in a beautiful morbidity, but one none of us would have chosen to shy away from. He's a fine joker. But the real magic happens when the laughter stops.
It couldn't and didn't end there. Due to the second stage mid way through the day deciding that it was its party and it would cry if it wanted to, Acid Mothers Temple's set was pushed back right to the end of the day, as such allowing many more people to get a glimpse of some proper rock and roll weirdness. We had to go out on a bang, and the AMT are a repeated series of small detonations happening after minutes of what seems conventional, almost tuneful rock music, in which the band seem to have a spontaneous, simultaneous brain spasm in which they then go on to explore every idea they currently entertain in musical form, culminating in a sound which knows no boundaries in space or time. It whirls, rises like a beast and gets to be a noise so intense that it buckles under its own weight, returning momentarily to the cute little passages of normality that make the transfer to manic musicianship all the more engrossing. It's either brilliance or hippy noise nonsense, and probably both. This is the kind of mind altering sound that has you questioning reality, for a moment seriously entertaining the idea that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. But if that were true, one wonders, how come there is nobody outside Japan making music that even remotely resembles something this outrageous? The rest of the collective brain has some catching up to do, maaaaaaan.
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