Green Man Festival Glanusk Park, Wales 21-23/8/09
4/5
By: Liam Manley
“Who the f**k is that onstage?”, I ask my companion. “Dunno,” he replies, “but it sounds like… The Cult”. Owing to NHS office hours and the legacy of rail privatisation, we’d arrived well into Friday evening and were now struggling to erect tents in fading daylight. Whatever that noise was, there’s no way it could be the main stage. Not at this time of night, surely? Tent pegs rammed in with whatever comes to hand, we set off in search of answers.
Scurrying up the incline facing the main stage, I’m shocked to discover that the noise is in fact original 60’s Acid Casualty™ Roky Erickson. In an effort to make up for time lost in the wilderness, he’s built a musical time machine. It would also appear the controls are currently stuck in ‘Chicago Hard Rock Cafe c.1988’ mode. “I walk with Zommmmmmmbieeees”, sings Roky. “Too right you do, mate”, thinks everybody else.
[FOUR TET]
Bumping into friends, I’m told that I missed a “really hypnotic” set from Wooden Shjips. United in frustration, we hustle, bustle and ultimately fail to puncture the throng that surrounds the tightly-packed tent holding Four Tet. Over multiple wizard hats, I can see Kieran Hebden’s joined by some fluorescent hula-hoopers. “We met the hula-hoopers earlier”, a friend informs me, “they’re really nice”. Taking a walk around, it dawns that everybody in attendance is nice. It's almost as if H1N1 has mutated into a congenial outbreak of good vibes.
[ANIMAL COLLECTIVE]
Escaping the lukewarm funk of the side tents, we’re heading back to the main stage in time to see Animal Collective being introduced by the bloke from the Carling Black Label adverts (perhaps he stumbled out of Roky’s time machine) and not “Rick Stein in chef whites” as someone repeatedly argues. From my seat at the top of the hill I see that AC’s drawn a sizeable if largely curious crowd. By the time Panda and co. begin the PA is so quiet I’m drawn to snatches of other people’s conversations: “Are these headlining?”; “Hmmmm, Ariel Pink”; “pfft, sh*t Orbital”; “Why don’t they play something I like?”; “I feel like I’m in Superman’s house”; “Am I part of the balloon scene?”
Their set’s so subdued, even somnambulant, we must be three-quarters of the set through before a man dancing with a blanket to ‘Fireworks’ creates something approaching a crescendo. I look around to see half the crowd heading back to the shisha tents to smoke molasses. “This is the bit where the fire jugglers come on. And that’s when I f**k off”, says a friend. I can only agree. I decide to end the night by grabbing some more elderflower cordial, but can’t help asking myself “Am I the only person at this bar not wearing a deerstalker?”
[THE PHANTOM BAND]
It’s Saturday afternoon and the sunshine seems to have led people to drop the Sherlock look and head in the Woody Allen in Bananas direction. Sitting down in the pub to watch Mississippi Witch, a quick scan through the guide tells me that they’re responsible for the “infamous birth of Horse Abraham”. To me they just sound like early ZZ Top. And I like it (in a three-out-of-five way). Sheep’s milk ice cream in hand, I stumble across The Strange Boys plying their trade in the Far Out tent. Tunefully ignorant of anything post 1965, their grit/frill-free early Stones crack and hop sees them easily aligned with other In The Red Records cohorts, but minus the rabble and the rouse. A halloumi bagel and a vegan brownie are ingested while I stare at The Phantom Band, trying to pick apart what I’m hearing. Is it Neu!? A bit. Is it The Normal? At one point, yes, but if they’d swapped JG Ballard for folk mythology. Is it The Waterboys? Definitely, but with a Moog on the ‘celestial’ setting. With a sound so muddled, I’m left undecided (just like them).
A cup of camomile tea or two later and I’m stood in front of Norman Blake and Euros Childs AKA Jonny. Like Creation Records own Simon & Garfunkel (except not cunts), their pastoral songs of crow fantasies and plant growth are simplistic and undeniable, with Gorky’s whimsy melting into Fanclub’s perfect harmony. Which is in stark contrast with The Aliens, who bust paraplegic moves to acid –funk synth and wrap themselves up in their own prog odyssey. It’s almost as confusing as the anecdote relayed by the frontman – did he really hit a child with a picnic table?
I’ve been sitting around waiting for something to happen and become too comfy to leave when Noah & The Whale arrive onstage. Not even the collective ire of my immediate company can force me out of my languor: “I envy the deaf”, says one. “Even my sperm hates these guys”, says another. My unreliable watch and lazy arse conspire to lead me to almost miss Beach House’s set. I manage to get there just in time for the final drops of their amber-tinged dream pop. So, considering her status as one of the finest bedroom pop dramatists around, why is Victoria Legrand dressed like Carol Decker from T'Pau? By the time she joins Grizzly Bear for the Dre-tastic anthem of day ‘Two Weeks’, though, she’s full on Molly Ringwald. Meanwhile, GB are so perfectly in control, they leave some people requiring inhalers to catch their breath.
[JARVIS COCKER]
A break from the main stage and I’m back in the Green Man pub, where the lowlights and walled surroundings are perfect for Golden Animals. Caught in the 60s pop-cultural moment where biker rebellion switched to Vietnam riverboat nightmares, their paranoia and cynicism is the most refreshing discovery of the weekend so far. GA and the much-loved Bon Iver aside, it’s still not quite enough to knock Jarvis Cocker out of his ridiculously lanky stride. He chucks lollipops (following a health and safety warning), struts, jerks and whips up an acrylic frenzy. Framing each song perfectly, his intros take off tangentially, mixing palaeontology, mythical creatures and snooker. With the fade of ‘Discosong’ he leaves us all to trip off into the night, googly eyed and bandy-legged.
If the last day on Earth were a Sunday, people would still sit around scratching their groins. Sundays are always Sundays, no matter where you are. Sat here surrounded by the Black Mountains, I try to envisage who would sit atop Green Man’s own version of Sugar Loaf mountain: John Peel? Mariella Frostrup? But my pondering has soon been disturbed by a sonorous female voice. Deeply disturbed. Onstage, Trembling Bells have gathered to coax us from our complacency. However, Alex Neilson’s latest endeavour does little to endear itself, due in part to the way-too-high in the mix vocals of Lavinia Blackwall. When not being operatically intrusive, they mix Anti-English sentiment (“a sceptic boil on the arse of Scotland”, says Mr Neilson) with what could be Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers. Thanks for that, Alex.
[THE DIRTY THREE]
It’s some time later and I’ve never been happier to see Camera Obscura waddle out to shake, shimmy and shimmer. Though dressed like bored porters on cruise of the North Sea, they illicit today’s first bout of crap dancing. I’ll sit down for Rodriquez, mind. I need to conserve energy, plus I’m interested to hear what other people have to say. “Why’s he dressed as Harvey Keitel in Taxi Driver?” one person asks. “Is this a Paulo Nutini song?” asks another. But I just ignore them all and get back to my bourek and tabouleh. Not long after the sugarman’s come and gone, someone decides this is the perfect time to crack out their power ballad compilation. A ‘Total Eclipse Of The Heart’ later and Dirty Three’s Warren Ellis is writhing and reeling on the floor, conjuring heaven and hell from his violin. Brutal, eviscerating, cathartic and incandescent with either glory or rage, they are nothing short of triumphant in every way.
Wilco have no choice but to be Kiss to DT’s Black Sabbath, prompting fist-pumping, mass-clapping and guitar-solo duels. Glenn Koetche almost steals the show hammering through ‘Via Chicago’, but tonight’s all about Nels Cline buzzing and spinning like an electrocuted Tom Verlaine. Thankfully, there’s just enough time to sprint to The Far Out Tent for Hawkwind. Trapped in their mammoth psychedelic bubble, the four HGV drivers of the apocalypse prog rock their way through to the cortex of my lizard brain. I’m stood dancing arm-in-arm with a tie-dyed halfwit, bedazzled by the lysergic Windows 98 visuals. It still doesn't explain why the synth player is dressed as Popeye the Sex Offender, ceaselessly molesting a keytar. However, seeing as they’ve fastforward to 1995 to drop their drum & bass direction on us, I think it’s time I left. But I leave enlightened, tripping across discarded tagine and cous cous, safe in the knowledge that it’s not entirely safe at Green Man. Thank the mountain gods for that.
Artists in this article: Jarvis Cocker, Animal Collective, Four Tet, Grizzly Bear, Camera Obscura, Noah & The Whale, The Dirty Three
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