End of the Road Festival, 2008

So, as expected, End Of The Road at the weekend was all manner of awesome. So many of my favourite bands and artists played in such quick succession that by the end I was getting almost blasé about it. From my own personal POV, this was almost certainly the best British festival line-up of my era. I mean, look at it;

Equally predictable in its own strange way is the fact that despite all this, I didn’t find it quite such a revelatory / enjoyable experience of last year’s fest. Last year you see, I didn’t really have high hopes for the festival experience and was prepared to just drift around and see what happened, result being that much of it was rather like a relaxed weekend in the countryside where unexpectedly amazing musicians kept pitching up and singing a bunch of songs for me, resulting in a joyous time. This year, there was obviously a lot more forward planning involved, and a lot more expectation of MIGHTY FUN. The festival seemed bigger, more crowded (though not to an unpleasant degree), there were a lot more people I knew going, a lot more social shenanigans, a lot more “I must be in THIS place at THIS time to see THIS band” kinda manoeuvring. Also, my uncomfortable tent/sleeping bag arrangements and manly disregard for such niceties as a camping mat and warm clothing sadly rendered sleep near impossible throughout the festival, encouraging me to drink more and stay up later than last year, all of which contributed to me getting a bit flustered and exhausted at times, especially given the performances from various bands whose music, emotionally-speaking, tends to hit me like a ton of bricks.

But that’s nothing new – in retrospect, I always seem to end up feeling a bit survivalist at festivals, even nice comfortable ones where I have a bed. Over-stimulation, that’s what it is. 95% of the festival was still totally unspoiled enjoyment.

I’m not gonna do a big band-by-band write-up of everything I saw, partly because I saw so much bloody stuff that that would be a massive undertaking, and partially because for the most part I was watching bands with whom I’m already familiar, and whom I’ve (hopefully) oft mentioned on this blog before, so I don’t want to repeat myself.

Unlike last year, I didn’t really make many ‘new discoveries’, but it was wonderful to see all the acts I was discovering/championing on the festival’s smaller stages last year moving up to better slots and bigger audiences this time around - Congregation opening the big top tent, David Thomas Broughton headlining one of the other tents to a massive crowd. The Wave Pictures played in blazing sunshine on the main stage on the Sunday afternoon – almost exactly the same spot/situation as Herman Dune last year – and totally OWNED the place, not that I was in any doubt re: their ability to do so. Liz Green also played one off the best sets of the weekend to rapturous response in the big top tent. She’s so much more comfortable and relaxed on stage than a year ago, it’s a great thing to see, and, now fleshed out by some well-balanced accompaniment from a small band, her music seems more purely beautiful than ever – simple, dark, honest, upfront songs about stuff that happens to people in their lives, played with an unfettered emotion that stops the breath in my throat.

In a welcome change of pace, and volume, it was great too to see Dead Meadow putting in an appearance in one of the smaller tents late on Friday evening, playing one of the best sets I’ve seen them do in years. I mean, to a – ha! - outsider it must have seemed pretty much interchangeable with any of their other sets - they’re not exactly a band that goes in for surprises - and I’m well aware by now that the vast majority of my learned fellows are sadly blind to the abundant charms of The ‘Meadow’s timeless approach to things, but they can all go whistle down a mineshaft, cos on this occasion the band, and by extension myself, were IN THE ZONE, if you will, and, as they slip inside the ‘Sleepy Silver Door’ for the millionth time, the Dead Meadow Zone is one of my all time favourite places to be. You wouldn’t fucking believe how comfortable the seats are in there, or the things they do with the lighting.

Of the main stage stuff, A Hawk And A Hacksaw and The Dirty Three both kicked it pretty thoroughly on the Friday night too, although Low’s set on the Saturday night was actually quite upsetting. I’m not gonna talk about it here, because I’m sick of retelling the same story, but if you’re a fan of the band, or an avid music media/blog follower, you’ll likely have heard the gory details by now. Aside from all that though, let it be said for the record that they played one of the best sets I’ve ever seen/heard from them. That they were followed directly by Mercury Rev’s current pageant of simpering lunacy seemed… unfortunate scheduling. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m a big ‘Rev fan, I even dig ‘All Is Dream’, but when the band is reduced to Jonathan prancing like a tit amid dry ice and Grasshopper throwing shapes and making the occasional comedy skreeeee noise over a laptop booming out their Disney OST backing tracks, what can you do but laugh? Their bombast is writ so large it’s positively surreal, but any true feeling their songs might once have carried seems lost to the ravages of time.

Most of the best stuff for me though took place in the dark realm of the big tent, and I guess it almost goes without saying that Pete & The Pirates kicked ass, that Let’s Wrestle were fantastically enjoyable - geeky good fun, like the kind of band I’d always assumed I’d probably be in. Billy Childish and the MBEs went down a storm too, of course. Jeffrey Lewis played one of the most chaotic and enjoyable sets I’ve seen him do in recent years too, despite a few guitar malfunctions. He started off with a couple of really wonderful new solo songs, went through a few raucous psych/punk numbers with the band, Jack sang a fantastic Jeff-less song about attending Neil Young’s imaginary funeral. With near sickening inevitability, David Tattersall came on to play ukulele on a couple of selections from the Crass covers album, and, somewhat more surprisingly, John Darnielle made an appearance too, bounding on grinning like the easter bunny to sing the chorus do “Do They Owe Us A Living?”, briefly creating a ‘Last Waltz’-like personal best for the number of my favourite songwriters I’ve seen on stage at one time.

One of the best things about the festival actually was the unscheduled after-hours shenanigans in the couple of smaller music tents. It’s all a bit hazy, bit it seems like I spent several whole hours watching fresh-faced classic rock revival troupe The Young Republic soldier through sets of Dylan and Chuck Berry covers. Whilst their original material is – what’s a nice way of putting it? – only intermittently inspired, they’re certainly an accomplished and joyous bunch, much taken with the idea of reconstructing a careful approximation of that hallowed Big Pink / Basement Tapes vibe, with much good-natured, ego-free chooglin’ thrown in for good measure. And above all, they’re aware that there is much to said for the simple joys of some well-lubricated musicians belting out the singalong-ready goods to a well-lubricated audience by the light of a full moon in the early hours. Good times, as they say, pretty much defined.

Speaking of which, perhaps the best moment of the whole festival goes as follows; after midnight on the Saturday, and we’re all a bit flagging energy-wise (well, I am anyway), looking for something fun to keep us going… so we’re crammed into this packed tent where apparently some kinda (clearly not very) secret musical happening is going to be a-transpiring. So, hey, apparently it’s some guys from British Sea Power and some of their pals and, with no disrespect intended to them as a band, this does not really fill me with faith in imminent good times… BUT, they take the stage, and they say, hello, we’re going to be playing a set of Jonathan Richman covers. And they do!

You know that feeling, when you’re in a situation of some kind – in this case, an unknown musical unit setting up to play - and you think ‘who knows, maybe something fun will happen here – prob’ly not, but you never know’, and then the universe knocks you flat by presenting you with something so, so, so, so, so much more fun than you could possibly have expected? Like, the absolute PERFECT thing you want to happen at that moment? – well it was a bit like that. They mostly did stuff of the first couple of post-Modern Lovers solo records – ‘New England’ and ‘Ice Cream Man’ and ‘Government Center’ and ‘The New Teller’ and ‘Important In Your Life’ and ‘Abominable Snowman In the Market’ and ‘Martian Martians’, as well as ‘Cornerstore’ and ‘The Girl Stands Up To Me Now’ from later in the great man’s career, and probably a bunch of others, I forget. ‘I’m A Little Airplane’ went down a storm too – I mean, it’s never really been a favourite of mine on record, but the appeal of getting drunk and yelling along at the top of your voice to a song that mostly goes “WANGITY-WANG!, WANGITY-WANG!” is never to be underestimated. And, moving from the ridiculous back to the sublime as only Jonathan can, they did ‘The Morning Of Our Lives’, absolutely note/word perfect to the version on ‘Modern Lovers Live’! I could have wept. I think I probably did. I think I might weep again now, just writing about it.

Go and do whatever you do, British Sea Power guys – even if you release twenty six albums of fascist speeches and reversed dog barks, I’ll love you forever for pulling this one out of the hat.

The other highlight was, of course, the privilege (and it really is a privilege for us in the UK) of getting to see The Mountain Goats on two consecutive evenings – first at the festival, then at their London show the following day. Strangely perhaps, the crowd for their festival slot seemed to be a lot more psyched (read: fanatical) about things than at their headline date, but who knows. They were both great sets, obviously. The new three-piece Mountain Goats with Jon Auger on full-time drums seems like a far more straight-up ‘rock band’ kinda proposition than when there was just the two of them, with a pretty fixed night-to-night setlist and little room for digressions. So at EOTR they gave us all the ‘hits’ from the 4AD albums in short order, no older songs or obscurities whatsoever. Which, seeing as how those albums comprise the best body of original song-writing of the century thus far, is clearly TOTALLY GOOD, however much a little bit of me might be silently yelling for ‘Going To Cleveland’ or ‘Going To Bristol’ or ‘Alpha Sun Hat’ or ‘Downtown Seoul’ or whatever else. Hearing a hushed take on ‘Have To Explode’ on both nights is beautiful, and maybe the most poignant moment for me was getting to hear ‘Hast Thou Considered The Tetrapod’ during the EOTR set – hammerblow obvious though it may be, I’ve still got no words for that song. John Darnielle seemed to get pretty worked up on both nights playing Heretic Pride’s brilliantly odd ‘Sept. 15th, 1983’, and it’s not until afterwards that it’s occurred to me – Sept. 14th/15th 2008 – 25th anniversary. Somehow, I was actually unaware up until this point that the song is actually about the death of reggae star Prince Far-I (perhaps making it a good companion piece to The Sunset Tree’s ‘Song For Dennis Brown’?), and I think maybe I actually preferred it as a completely mysterious tale of some kind of baffling secret society assassination, but no matter. Similarly, John’s spoken introduction to ‘How To Embrace A Swamp Creature’ really clicks the song into place – I’d previously been sorta quite struck by it, but unable to get an angle on it’s full meaning. Narrative context explained, the song means a hell of a lot more to me, and its live rendition scratches and pounds my heart just like it should have done the first time I heard it.

As an aside, it occurs to me that this rather oblique approach to context/meaning and heavy reliance on outside reference points has become a pretty constant motif in recent Mountain Goats material. I can’t help but wonder what, for instance, audience members unfamiliar with the song’s title, never mind the cultural significance of the ‘Halloween’ franchise, make of ‘Michael Myers Resplendent’, which opens both of these sets. Similarly, John treats us to a couple of new songs in Monday’s set, and I can well see ‘Sarcofago Live’ becoming a bit of a puzzler for those unfamiliar with the finer points of the early Brazilian metal scene. The other new tune rejoices under the name ‘Wizard Buys A Hat’, by the way.

But thankfully, the emotional half-nelson of The Mountain Goats best material transcends any such need for contextualisation or personal identification, and having drilled even the slightest of them deep into my mind via years’ worth of solitary, pavement-pounding walkman time, it was strange and unnerving and delightful to be there at End Of The Road, doggedly holding on to a good spot at the front as fellow devotees crowd around in advance, and watching apparently happy couples yelling along in tandem no ‘No Children’ and guys who probably had comfortable middle-class upbringings raising their fists and singing every word to ‘This Year’. Myself, I refute such accusations by closing my eyes and smiling and singing along to absolutely everything.

Actually, I seem to have ended up doing my whole ‘singing along’ thing quite a lot throughout this festival. I know it’s weird, and obnoxious, and almost unbearably nerdy… so I’ll end by apologising to anyone I irritated.

I was only going to do a quick festival summary, but it’s near 2,500 words already, so.. END!

If you’ve kept reading this far, you deserve some Mp3s. They are good ones, so treat them well.

The Mountain Goats – Sept. 15th 1983
The Mountain Goats – Going To Bristol
Liz Green – Hey Joe
Jonathan Richman – The Morning Of Our Lives

Labels: Dead Meadow, End Of The Road, festivals, Jeffrey Lewis, live reviews, Liz Green, The Mountain Goats

End Of The Road: SUNDAY
(better late than never..)

Proceedings on Sunday begin pleasantly around lunch time with sunshine, a free ice cream, a free copy of Mojo magazine (whose seemingly endless supply of turgid prose about Pink Floyd provides a bit of a god-send on the long journey home), and an unexpectedly intense conkers tournament in the shade of a pagoda (no less) at the back of the main stage field.

So as strings are slung, as conker smashes against.. um.. other conker (thesauri ain’t worth a damn round here) and the tension mounts, I get to hear, if not exactly see, Port O’Brien, who ply a rousing, rootsy take on contemporary indie-pop conventions with some success, and The Young Republic, who have keyboards and violins and backing singers and shit, and do a real yawnsome post-Arcade Fire type morass of blah, with what I would judge to be considerably less success.

But enough shilly-shallying! My watch says it’s time to run over to the circus tent to see Pete & The Pirates! Admittedly, I don’t know them, but… they’re called ‘Pete & The Pirates’! What can possibly go wrong?

As I suspected they might be, Pete & The Pirates are indisputably ace. Pete & The Pirates are four blokes with messy hair flailing around with guitars, and a really kick-ass drummer who looks about thirteen, wears a spiffy cowboy shirt and has immaculate hair. Pete & The Pirates! Their songs splutter and bang along like a teenager’s first VW Golf at breakneck speed, with mucho clean-toned thrashing and jangling interspersed with unexpectedly ambitious Television/Only Ones soaring dual guitar leads. They holler heartily and with no shortage of wit about girls and, well, I don’t know, maybe some other things, but mostly girls, and why not, eh? Pete & The Pirates! They all look like they could have been in Blur when they first started. They probably weren’t picked last for games in school, but they definitely weren’t picked first either. Pete & The Pirates! You can tell how much I enjoyed ‘em, cos I’m saying their name a lot.

I’ve been thinking about why I liked (and shall continue to like, god willing) Pete & The Pirates so much, and have reached an odd conclusion: they are refreshing. Yes, an eternity after any hope of a group of young men playing guitar-based ‘indie’ music being deemed relevant or exciting has been snuffed out by successive generations of deadening music press conservatism and reduced to a readymade set of clichés, clothes and aesthetic signifiers, somehow Pete & The Pirates effortlessly bypass the whole sorry mess, emerging fresh as a bunch of gawky kids back in 1981, falling off their BMXs, walking into lampposts and wondering how they can take those three punk records that make their heads feel funny and turn it into something relevant to their lives.

Yes, in an era when seekers after more interesting or fulfilling music are generally pushed in the direction of any number of pretty-faced, over-precious art studenty bands, ostentatious self-proclaimed ‘outsiders’ and gimmicky avant-backstabbers, it is, bizarrely, SUPER-REFRESHING just to see a bunch of everyday fellas up there blasting out the kind of cheap, stoopid, uncool guitar pop that comes naturally with enthusiasm, book-smarts, a love of racket and a sense of humour. Can I say their name one more time? Well it’s my blog, I can do what I like. Pete & The Pirates!

Hmm.. maybe got a bit carried away there. Apologies to all you avant-backstabbers in the audience, but y’know what I mean. I don’t even know who I’m referring to really, I’m just irresponsibly over-generalising to make my point. (You damn back-stabbers! Why, I‘ll…)

Anyway, moving on, I’ve been watching Jeffrey Lewis play live at every possible opportunity over the past five years, and whatever he’s up to, it’s always been a good bet that it’s going to be tons o’ fun. So when friends unfamiliar with Jeffrey’s work ask me what I reckon is worth catching at the festival, “do you know Jeffrey Lewis? Well you should see him, he’s terrific” comes up as a pretty automatic reply.

I should have thought on. I mean, I was already familiar with the concept behind Jeff’s new album, but I have an uneasy feeling that a hefty proportion of the audience must have been feeling like they’d missed a pretty heavy–ass meeting when the guy best known for his goofy comic book story-telling and songs like “The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane” and “I Saw a Hippie Girl On 8th Avenue” opened his set with a solid block of nine Crass covers.

Now I like Crass, and I like it when Jeffrey sings Crass, and I can really dig the elements of their song-writing that he’s seeking to bring to light, stripping them of their hardcore baggage to reveal fiendishly smart, cyclical mantras of free will and personal liberation. But the unease of the crowd and the possibility of an unbridgeable contextual gap between singer-intention and audience-understanding makes it a hard set to enjoy, and I can’t help but picture the folks whom I earlier recommended Jeff Lewis too standing somewhere behind me scratching their heads as this weird-lookin’, over-serious dude stands on stage mumbling on endlessly about fucking the system, jackboots to the face, tearing down society’s bars, fighting for autonomy etc. I mean, we’re here at End Of The Road in our capacity as comfortable, affluent, white 20-somethings who reckon we’re a bit different, a bit more gentle and open-minded and into free expression and sticking up for the underdog etc: decadent fuckin’ hippies of worst possible kind in other words. So what is this? 1983? Like, whatever: save it for the miner’s strike dude, we’ve got jobs and credit cards.

Crass, lest we forget, were fuckin’ hippies of the BEST possible kind – mean ones who get stuff done – and on a certain level, I have nothing but admiration for Jeffrey Lewis for quietly throwing a sweet, psyche-folky half-brick through the greenhouse of our collective self-satisfaction. But getting lectured is always a grim business, even when the lecture is righteous, and standing through all these damn Crass songs makes me itchy; rather a similar feeling to when your doctor friend comes back from Bangladesh and regales you with how many lives she’s saved and how many babies she’s successfully delivered whilst you were busy drinking beer, listening to garage bands and working shitty office jobs.

The seismic change of tone when Jeff, Jack and friends flick the switch for an obligatory closing rush through “No LSD Tonight”, “Williamsburg Will Oldham Horror”, “Something Good” and an ace new(?) punky song about a band being too young to tour is subsequently pretty hard to take…. It’s tons o’ fun of course, as promised, but the comfort bubble is burst, the damage is done.

Mp3 > Jeffrey Lewis – End Result

But ANYWAY, time to put all this self-doubt back in its box and get back to the love-in, cos we’ve got a lot of good stuff coming up, and, quick! Only five minutes to get across to the main stage to see Herman Dune!

International rock stars Herman Dune

As shall swiftly become clear, Sunday at EOTR was very much the Day of the ‘Dune, and, to me at least, their main stage set was a reaffirmation of everything that makes the band so great and special. As much as I’ve learned to appreciate the unwieldy “Giant” as a laudable step forward for the band and a great record, and as much as I’ve enjoyed the accompanying live shows, I have still felt a shadow of apprehension hanging over the past 18 months or so of ‘Dune activity.

Are they really the kind of band who are going to be able to benefit from a major label deal? Are they really the same band without the vital presence of Andre on stage? Can adding bass and backing singers and adding trendy ethno-rhythms and trying to go for a big Dylan/Band kinda sound really ever be an effective substitute for the simple beauty of the classic guitar/guitar/drums line-up? Can the untouchable, spontaneous magic of earlier eras be maintained now that David and Neman are fully-fledged indie-pop poster boys playing festival stages and thousand-plus capacity venues instead of empty working men’s clubs and the upstairs rooms of suburban pubs?

The answer to all those questions, I’m finally happy to report, is YES. With the new incarnation of the band settling into itself and throwing out confidence and good vibes from every angle, Herman Dune are becoming goddamn rock stars, in the best possible sense. David HD has always been an amazingly charismatic performer, and he is really able to come into his own in the context of a big, impersonal festival stage, rocking the hits from ‘Giant’ and ‘Not On Top’ and sending as-yet-unrecorded-but-already-familiar songs “My Baby’s Not Afraid Of Sharks” and “You Don’t Know Where I’ve Been” straight to the audiences hearts in a style half Jonathan Richman, half Bruce Springsteen.

Half way through each song, David manually whacks up the knobs on his amplifier, just like in the old days, and strides in front of the stage monitors to deliver a blinding hair-blowin’-in-the-breeze solo before giving the crowd a big grin and heading back to the mic for the next verse. What a band! That Herman Dune write so many tremendous songs and play their instruments so effortlessly well is great and all, but it’s always been their spirit that sets them apart, and it’s still there. (They also make me incredibly happy by throwing in a take of one of my favourite Dune songs ever, the horror movie-tinged “Sheer Wonder”.)

Mp3 > David Ivar Herman Dune & Lisa Li-Lund – Sheer Wonder

According to my notes, there now followed a period in which not much music was watched. I did catch of a few minutes of someone who I THINK might well have been Johnny Flynn, who was top – a rockin’ folk band (and how often do you see one of those these days?) blasting out spirited, original tunes with cello and violin, and a guy seated at the drum-kit playing slide guitar whilst working the bass drum and hi-hat. Nice!

I also spent some time in the darkened and well-hidden cinema room, and watched the last hour of ‘Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid’. Also nice!

Hanging around near the main stage, I decided I may as well catch a bit of Seasick Steve. Actually, I was expecting to really enjoy his set; I know he has connections with all those fucking awesome Fat Possum blues guys like T-Model Ford and R.L. Burnside and I've heard various reports of how much ass he kicks etc. Sadly though, it was pretty underwhelming stuff. I mean, he seemed like a pretty cool guy and he played some truly wild slide guitar, but he was working the whole "I'm just a simple ol' down home dungaree-wearin' redneck dude" cliché pretty hard, and had a bit too much lumpen hard-rock shtick to his sound for my taste. His songs are all of the repetitive one-lyric, one-riff North Mississippi blues variety, which is fine, but unlike the other guys mentioned above, he didn't have either the emotional intensity or the groove to pull it off, and as a result the songs dragged like a fucking anchor. The crowd seemed to love it though, so hey, what do I know.

Anyway, the hell with this: I’ve received a tip-off that David Herman Dune is going to be playing some songs in the little clearing with the piano at six o’clock, so let’s get over there…

Thirty or forty people slowly assemble, huddling and whispering as the sun begins to set and the echoes of Seasick Steve still thundering on drift through the trees. A passing hippie guy in a caftan takes the opportunity to seat himself at the piano and whack out random notes for a few minutes. David turns up with his guitar case, accompanied by various other Dunes and Wave Pictures, and the assembled folks are so hushed and polite that not even the traditional ‘murmur’ goes up.

So yeah, David gets up and says ‘hi’ and starts strummin’ through a few songs for us. His semi-acoustic is kinda quiet in the open air, and we’ve all got to strain a bit to hear properly, but is it ever worth it. He does his great song about the violin teacher – if you’ve seen the band live recently, you know the one - and a couple of other new ones and… man, I don’t know how many times I’ve seen them, but I continue to be awed by how both Herman Dune brothers are able to just pull a seemingly endless supply of astonishing new songs out of thin air. If even half of the new stuff David performs over the course of this weekend ends up on the next Dune album, it’s going to be a very special record.

A few folks shout out requests, and Dave Tattersal of The Wave Pictures joins David as they stumble through a rendition of first-ever-Dune-single “Shakespeare And North Hoyne”, remembering the words as they go along. And then they do “Stepped On Sticky Fingers” and “Going To The Everglades” and.. wow. I never expected to hear those older songs played live again. Dave does a Wave Pictures song, and it is fantastic and riotous and faintly crazed, and reminds me I should really take the time to find their record. Current ‘Dune bassist and roaming ‘60s West Coast fanboy troubadour dude Turner Cody gets his turn to do a few numbers too. He dresses like one of the Fabulous Charlatans, and doesn’t sound a million miles away either. His songs do tend to resemble formal song-writing exercises, but are nonetheless wry and smart and pretty and damn enjoyable. Things reach a natural conclusion when it gets too dark to see properly and the main stage starts making noise again, and everybody disperses with scarcely a word.

Mp3 > Herman Dune – Shakespeare & North Hoyne

It’s nighttime now, and the main stage really looks kinda cool with the stage-lights reflecting on the pagodas and the collective shadows of a five hundred middle-aged parents in their lawn chairs and so on. Ol’ Howe Gelb is back again, Giant Sand in tow, meandering his way through an odd series of sticky, insubstantial swamp-ballads. Hang about, he’s started trying to call on the guests again… I swear, it’s like some pathological condition the dude’s got; “Robyn? Robyn are you out there? Come on again and play piano! Hey Lorna, why don’t you come and do a song? Is Emma there? – hey, why don’t we get ALL the girls on? Hey Kurt, you wanna come and play guitar?” Some of them must be cursing the day they ever made friends with this guy.

Back to the circus tent now, and despite starting late on a rescheduled timeslot, Josh T. Pearson is in fine form, his voice stronger than I’ve heard it since the days of Lift To Experience, his guitar tone dense as a typhoon, splitting the difference between white light and a rain of brimstone as he fights on alone beneath weird canvas heavens. “Heavy shit”, my friend says. Well.. yeah. In person, Josh Pearson is as affable and lovable a guy as you could ever hope to meet, but when he’s standing on a stage with a guitar, he doesn’t KNOW any other kind of shit.

Josh T. Pearson

It actually hurts to tear myself away from Josh’s set after two songs, but… well, guess which band are due to be playing a celebratory extra late night set over at the Local tent..? Got to get there in advance to ensure we get in. As such, we and the other gathering ‘Dune fans are treated to a few songs by Manchester(?) singer/harpist/guitarist Nancy Elizabeth, who is really excellent, if that glacial, note-perfect, hermetically sealed lady folk singer type world is a place you like to be.

So; tent is packed to capacity; everybody stands up and pushes forward as the folkies shamble off home. We’re quite near the front, which is great. Soon, Herman Dune are playing again. They’ve got backing singers The Babyskins on stage with them, and Jack Lewis and the drummer from the Jeff Lewis Band going for it on hand percussion and bongos and bass and yelling, and a couple of other people too, and best of all, Dave from The Wave Pictures on lead guitar. He may look like a nervous A-level student, but this guy is a CHURCH KEY guitarist (see The Captain’s 7th Commandment); nothing more than a quick “you know this song? It’s, like, lots of F and, uh, G#m I think and C and stuff..” from David, and he’s there on cue after every chorus with a fucking perfect, nuanced, applause-demanding solo. Yeah!

Herman Dune, with Dave Tattersal (far left)

The set-list here is a breathless A to Z of fan-pleasing ‘Dune wonderment, from “Suburbs With You” to “You Could Be A Model, Goodbye” to “This Will Never Happen” to “Enemy’s Gone..” and “Walk Don’t Run”, all jammed out with extra room for solos, ad-libs, sing-alongs, the works. Everybody on stage is having a ball, the crowd is clapping, singing, cheering, dancing, passing round drinks precisely the way bands must always hope audiences will be. Fresh night air blows in from behind the stage, and positive energy is just dripping off the walls. It’s just an amazing, amazing, joyous blast of music being done the way it should be done, and enjoyed the way it should be enjoyed. With LIFE. They could have (should have?) gone on all night.

And you know what? I’m not going to say any more, because when you love a band, or enjoy a show, this much, everything just comes out as gushing and aimless song-title listing anyway.

I guess this post must have been hard work for anyone out there who doesn’t like Herman Dune. But then, Christ, life in general must be too. My apologies.

Mp3s (all from a 2005 BBC Radio Session) >

Herman Dune – Suburbs With You
Herman Dune – Orange Hat
Herman Dune – You Could Be A Model, Goodbye

Lying awake in my sleeping bag later on, I listen to some disco party in one of the big tents. Some DJ is playing a set of really sweet soul tunes. At 3am, s/he plays Winston Churchill’s ‘Never Surrender’ speech, follows it with a slow Stevie Wonder jam, and End Of The Road is over.

The only music I hear on Monday is one of the Oxfam stewards playing Hendrix and De La Soul on her iPod for us as we wait endlessly for the long-promised coach to the station. Across the road, somebody rearranges the festival’s giant ‘WELCOME’ letters to read ‘OWL WEE’. Josh Pearson poses for photos next to some wooden animals, then hitches a ride back to London on a flatbed truck loaded with antique tables and chairs. It starts to pour with rain, and the tables and chairs get wet. Word arrives that the driver of this legendary coach has “taken the wrong road”. Shrug.

End Of The Road = GOOD TIMES.

Next year let’s all go.

Labels: End Of The Road, festivals, Herman Dune, live reviews

End Of The Road: SATURDAY

Fleeing some heinous MOR emo gak on the main stage early in the day and retreating into the woods in search of respite, the true beauty of End Of The Road is revealed to me for the first time as I stumble into a clearing and see before me a small, wooden, construction rather akin to a garden shed with the front wall removed and a small stage added. It contains an upright piano, a rug, and mock-up of a Victorian living room has been created on the back wall. Within this curious construction I recognise esteemed magazine editor Everett True, aka The Legend!. He is singing impassioned, desperately sad ballads with piano accompaniment to an audience of five curious passers-by and a toddler waving the remains of an ice cream.

Previous Legend! Performances I have witnessed have been delirious celebrations of non-musical, exhibitionistic chaos, and I have never before realised what a fine singing voice Mr. True possesses. His sombre tones hang heavy in the air, his songs simple and dignified enough to provoke silence and hidden tears from a drunken lynch mob. Amazing.

Head still spinning from this surreal encounter, it’s back to the circus tent to catch new Rough Trade signings My Brightest Diamond, who comprise a striking looking Canadian(?) lady and her two-man backing band. Her songs aren’t too bad, although rather too overwrought for my tastes. Y’know, Kate Bush sort of stuff. She’s got a great dramatic style on the guitar though, and there is much radical power-trio rocking out to enjoy, rather akin to PJ Harvey circa ‘Dry’. Yeah! After the set, I am enthusiastically informed that her album is “far more orchestral, less guitar”. Oh well, can’t win ‘em all.

My Brightest Diamond

Surprisingly, I’ve never seen Darren Hayman play live before, despite the best part of a decade’s love/hate relationship with the work of his band Hefner. So I can’t really comment re: whether he has always been this good on stage, but good he is, house(or tent?)-rockingly good in fact. Having drifted through a period of questionable lo-fi electronic messing about during and after the demise of Hefner, Darren is back on guitar here leading a five piece band incorporating fiddle and banjo, belting out such solo career highlights as ‘Gabriel At The Airport’ and ‘Porn Shoes’ with a boisterous brevity well befitting the three-sheets-to-the-wind urban folk spirit that Hayman’s best moments have always grasped at, complete with some startlingly red hot instrumental showdowns, perhaps reflections of Hayman and his bandmates’ new bluegrass side-project.

Whilst Hefner’s relentless pursuit of the grimmer aspects of 20-something relationship angst might have led us all down some pretty unsavoury avenues from time to time, few would deny Hayman’s status as a truly kick-ass songwriter, and witnessing him gradually ditching the hard-drinkin’, self-hatin’, girlfriend-cussin’ approach of old in favour of some defiantly 30-something Kinks-esque character studies in suburban boredom is, well, a pretty satisfying process, all things considered. Much the sort of thing that may prompt patronising broadsheet journos to harp on about “maturing”, “discovering a wider vision” etc, by way of deeming Hayman newly suitable for consideration by their ever-so-sensible readership. Mercifully though, the lusty enthusiasm kicked up by band and audience alike for an encore of ‘Hello Kitten’ and ‘Pull Yourself Together’ puts the kibosh on THAT line of thinking.

I may have spent a few years back there purposefully ignoring Hayman and Hefner, but hey, it seems now I’M a grisly mid-20s screw up, and…. suddenly I’m thinking that the whole ugly business makes perfect sense, and this show only confirms my suspicion. It feels good to have this man and his killer tunes and nasty, desperate, hilarious words back in my life.

Mp3 > Darren Hayman – Gabriel At The Airport

Sweden’s Frida Hyvonen presents an... interesting.. presence on stage. In lengthy gaps between songs, she takes time out to curse the crappy piano she has been assigned to play for us on, to tell odd, pointless anecdotes about Cormac McCarthy books and wanting to punch pregnant friends, to parade around the stage absent-mindedly posing for photographers, and, most enjoyably, to kick the crap out of the wooden penguins that have been lurking in the corner of the stage for the festival’s duration. Surprisingly, such behaviour comes across not as ostentatious, but as guileless and funny, treading a thin line between being entirely unself-conscious and being, well, MASSIVELY self-conscious. It’s hard to really get an angle on which side of this line Frida Hyvonen falls, but either way, she seems intent on doing as she pleases, regardless of mere on-lookers and their expectations.

The strange, fragmented energy of Frida’s persona is reflected in her songs, which stack up lyrical non-sequiturs with a perplexing dream logic and a fierce emotional intelligence, crow-barring the results into musical settings evenly divided between ‘icy’ and ‘jaunty’. Hyvonen’s eccentricities appear to lack any pre-planned theatrically, instead seeming as natural as breathing, and it’s hard not to get caught up in these puzzles of intriguing imagery and stiff, thudding piano chords.

Asking a friend what she made of all that, the concise verdict is “Tori Amos”. It’s a fair cop I suppose. The tyranny of global music crit comparison-law claims another victim. What can I say? I likes her songs.

Mp3 > Frida Hyvonen – The Modern

The ‘Local’ tent at End Of The Road (so-called who the hell knows why, as I doubt many gracing the stage are native to the middle of the Dorset countryside) is a wedding reception-sized marquee hidden in the darkened woods adjacent to the main stage, which plays host throughout the day and evening to open mic hopefuls, folkies of all descriptions and so on. It’s really rather lovely, and turns out to be home to one of the most unexpectedly moving moments of the whole weekend. Well several of them actually, but we'll do this one first;

So it is this tent that we find ourselves randomly wandering into next, for a sit down and to escape the cold as night falls. It seems we’re not the only ones with this idea as the place is absolutely packed out with people huddled in groups, chatting, sipping hot cider. Looking up briefly, we can see a small, pale woman with an incredibly sad look in her eye walk on stage and stand expectantly in front of the microphone. Consulting the festival programme, we reckon she’s probably Liz Green.

Liz Green starts clapping her hands and singing, quietly. It sounds like some kind of a-cappella gospel round kinda singing. Some people stop to listen, some people keep on chatting. Her voice catches in her throat, and her singing grinds to a halt. She kind of half-laughs, half-cries and admits that she’s “..absolutely shitting herself”, and steps back as if to leave the stage. The crowd make encouraging sounds, some general hushing is done, more people start listening, and the tent is silent. So Liz Green starts again, and some people clap along. For her second song, she picks up a guitar, and it’s very, very quiet. She admits she’s having “technical difficulties, by which I mean I forgot to plug it in..”, and everybody laughs.

So things get underway, and it soon becomes clear that Liz Green is brilliant. I mean, really brilliant. She sings in a voice that resembles a Northern English Karen Dalton. I could clumsily elaborate, but nuff said to anyone who’s spent quality time with Karen Dalton’s first record. It’s… it’s one of THOSE voices, y’know? Accompanied by tough, efficient finger-picking that foregoes the flourishes of British folk tradition in favour of sticking hard to the rhythmic lessons of Mississippi and Chicago, Liz Green’s songs are simple, beautiful, resigned blues that recall Holly Golightly or Billy Childish’s Chatham Singers, respectfully adapting the universality of black American blues to British climes, imbuing elemental tales of loves lost, grey lives, chances missed and time spent alone with humour and quiet dignity more poignant than any amount of thunderous emotional exhibitionism.

Once she hits her stride, Liz Green seems perfectly comfortable on stage too, seeing through problems with low volume, fireworks and bursts of feedback from the band sound-checking on the main stage with laughs and great, self-effacing ad-libs, fingers scarcely missing a note. A pal comes on stage to accompany her with finger-clicking and a bit of rudimentary accordion, then a few more friends come on to do some harmony vocals. For her final number, the self-explanatory “Goodbye Booze”, a guy hops on stage with some big placards outlining the lyrics, and the whole tent roars along to the ‘all-together-now’ chorus, before cheering up a storm and being rewarded with a few more runs through. Liz’ pals give her big hugs, and that’s that… just a beautiful, brave, triumphant performance that brings a tear to the eye.

A bit of subsequent internet research suggests that Liz Green is actually far from a stranger to playing to big audiences, having recorded a session for BBC Radio 6 and won some kind of talent contest that saw her open one of the big stages at Glastonbury this year! It’s a cheering thought to reflect that whoever was in charge of that contest actually picked someone with real talent, and it’s amusing to think of all the dull career-conscious rock bands scowling as humble Liz beat them to the prize. Would it be too much to hope that somebody quietly making undeniably beautiful, heartfelt music all on their own might actually get some success? Here’s hoping. Her debut single is out soon.

Mp3 > Liz Green – Midnight Blues

Now, those frequenting music websites, forums and the like in the past year or so, may have noticed a fellow called David Thomas Broughton has been picking up a considerable cult following. I listened to a few tracks by him a while back, and was fairly non-plussed as to his appeal. So what’s the deal, I enquire of a few trust-worthy sorts who have enthusiastically recommended I catch him at this festival. It’s hard to explain, they tell me, but for christ’s sake DON’T MISS HIM. So I don’t. And now I pass the same advice on to you, readers, should David Thomas Broughton ever stage an appearance within travelling distance of where you live. Seriously, this guy is something else.

I know before I even start that words won’t really convey the qualities of his live performance any more than studio recordings do, but nonetheless we must try, so here goes; David Thomas Broughton essentially uses loop pedals to build up repetitive webs of melodic acoustic guitar picking and other stock avant-folky sounds, over which he sings meandering songs comprised of odd, symbolist zen koans in a high, affected and purposeful voice, somewhat akin to Tim Buckley or Scott Walker. So far, so what you’re probably thinking, but, but… how can I put this? What immediately sets David Thomas Broughton apart is that he is HILARIOUS; members of the audience are doubled up with hysterics almost as soon as he starts singing, and it’s a very peculiar feeling that leaves me uneasy at first. DTB’s delivery obviously betrays a very serious and sad emotional intent, and, I mean, are we supposed to be laughing here? Are we actually being really cruel to this guy as he sings his sorrows? And yet, and yet, how can we help it when every stumble he takes, every pause to stare into space, every exaggerated hand gesture is just… so fucking ridiculously funny?

As the set goes on, as DTB strides and poses like a tranquilised rock idol, as he loops a rhythm track of his own startled coughing, as he slowly removes hi,s jacket with the solemnity of a bishop preparing for mass, as he staggers into the centre of the seated crowd trailing cables to do battle with a feedbacking practice amp, all the whle with a look of stony determination, it becomes clear that comic intent is definitely intended. Broughton moves with the charisma and clumsy grace of a classic physical comedian, and raises odd, unnameable feelings within spectators by vestige of that rare virtue: the ability to recognise that the funniest jokes are deadly serious, and that the most serious things in the world are funny, and to reflect this in his art at all times.

Admittedly, there are moments of are deathless self-indulgence within Broughton’s lengthy, ostensibly aimless set, as his reliance on looping technology sees him absent-mindedly wandering the stage and beyond, contemplating which object to make a funny noise on next as a single guitar figure drones away. But there are other moments – MANY other moments - which simultaneously manifest more kinds of spell-binding genius than could ever be named within my mere music crit vocabulary.

“What kind of apples, could make a pie this sweet?”, Broughton croons repeatedly, arching his back and perilously waving the neck of a guitar against the roof of the tent, lost on a sea of love. “You fool!” he answers himself, crouching as he switches instantly to a reproachful anger, “Can’t you see it’s the sugar??”

Well maybe you had to be there. True originality may be little more than a fading rumour in today’s oversaturated artistic landscape, but, well, ladies and gentlemen - David Thomas Broughton.

Mp3 > David Thomas Broughton - Ambiguity

Back to the Local tent, and if you scroll back up to my thoughts re: Liz Green and the adaption of blues into a British context, those observations apply doubly to one of my favourite new groups of the year, South London’s own Congregation. Probably most of the same adjectives too, so I’ll try not to repeat myself.

Congregation

Benjamin Prosser is a shit-hot rhythm/slide guitarist, playing consummate electric blues and boogie that raises the spirits of Bukka White and John Lee Hooker, recalling just how propulsive, spine-chilling and flat-out awesome this sound was before the late-‘60s generation drove it headfirst into formalised, shrieking self-parody. Victoria Yeulet sings sweet, subtle and impossible to ignore, with the commanding authority of an Irma Thomas or a Bessie Smith. A bass drum thump and Victoria’s leg bells bring the mama-heartbeat. Basically, Congregation jam together some of the best elements of some of the best fucking music ever made, and bring it straight back to us in 2007, ragged and powerful in a way that never goes out of fashion. In a profound sense, it does the trick.

I still don’t have any Mp3s by Congregation, but check out the tunes on their Myspace, and try to tell me this is not some seriously fine stuff.

A remarkable change of pace next in the Local tent, as party-ready anti-folk fanboy kids throng to the front, and Zombie Zombie, Neman Herman Dune’s ‘other’ band start to set up. ZZ are a startling different prospect from either Herman Dune or anything else or the End Of The Road bill. Firstly, we’ve got Neman on hyperactive motorik drums, yelping wordless exhortations into a distorted/echoed mic and generally rocking the crowd, in the spirit of Brian Chippendale. Then we’ve got a dude in a hoodie and beer bottle glasses looking like he raised in a dank basement being forcefed Devo and The Residents. He is leaping back and forth like a man possessed behind a precarious, towering rig of analogue synth equipment, jerry-rigged casios, a theremin and a rack-mounted space echo unit that threatens to topple into the front row at any moment. Behind them, David Herman Dune adds to proceedings, coaxing shrieking feedback tones from his Gibson Thunderbird-shaped electric ukulele. Yes, it’s undead krautrock party-time as frothing at the mouth gallic lo-fi apostles drag Goblin, Neu!, John Carpenter, Ash-Ra Tempel, Kraftwerk and all your other fave analogue synth abusers from their graves and force them into a ghoulish St Vitus frug to the rhythms of a dayglo 21st century hipster disco party. It’s obvious, it’s dumb, it’s ill-considered and in it’s reckless application of necromantic science it shows little concern for the safety of anyone, but…. it utterly rules! I mean, obviously! Look at ‘em go! I bet you wish you’d thought to start this band first; given current cultural obsessions, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve conquered the world, or at least the sections of it that go to art college and wear orange, by this time next year.

Exhausted but too buzzing to go to sleep after a day so overloaded with oddball musical wonder, there little left to do after filing out into the darkened woods except stagger my way back across to the circus tent, where headliners British Sea Power are concluding what I assume must have been their set.

I don’t hear a note of music, but I do see a thick haze a smoke and flashing lights, Macbeth-like forest of moving greenery, a twelve foot high black bear stalking the stage, a small army of Knight Errant trying to subdue it with halberds and flowing banners, a solid wall of feedback, men sacrificing electric guitars with mic stands, possibly some maurading robots too, I’m not sure… Christ these guys get four times as ridiculous every time I see them, and I think I actually preferred them back when they were an austere, serious sort of band. But I mean, the smoke, the fighting, the bear… what’s there to do but applaud?

Now it really IS time for bed…

Labels: End Of The Road, festivals, live reviews

THE END OF THE ROAD FESTIVAL
Larmer Gardens, Dorset, Sept. 14th – Sept. 17th 2007

I’ll admit I’m not generally an outdoor festival guy, and I’m also somewhat suspicious of the whole ‘summer-festival-as-easygoing-weekend-break’ concept that’s led to a glut of new festivals such as this one scattered across the British countryside, and the middle pages of the weekend broadsheets, in the past few years. So, although there were enough good names on the line-up and enough pals in attendance to persuade me to lay down the cash for a ticket to this one in the hope of some good times, between you and me, my hopes for full-scale awesomeness weren’t high.

Well if I wore a hat, I’d be eating it, because End Of The Road was an absolute blast. Undoubtedly the most fun and idyllic music-related weekend I’ve spent in a long, long time. The festival as a whole was extremely well-organised, with a small enough number of attendees to ensure comfort, personal space and decent facilities at all times, moderate crowds for even the most popular acts, manageable queues for food/toilets and, best of all, a friendly, relaxed atmosphere that equalled good fun and mutual respect for audience and performers alike.

Yeah, there were loads of kids and weekending families all over the place, but in a way this worked to the festival’s advantage, encouraging the young folks in attendance (and we’re mainly talking mild-mannered 20-somethings such as myself rather than rowdy teenagers) to behave nicely, not get too wasted or make a mess etc., which is fine by me.

The festival site itself is beautiful; genuinely remote from any human habitation and encompassing early morning vistas of mist-shrouded farmland, odd pagodas and architectural follies left over from the stately home era dotted around the place and a whole maze of secluded forest groves, perfect for stumbling through at any hour of the day or night in search of privacy, secret get-togethers and acoustic hoe-downs.

The festival is run without corporate sponsorship, and all food and merch outlets on site are small-scale enterprises of an organic/hippy variety, and generally of surprisingly good quality. Falafels, chi tea with brandy, stir fry, flapjacks, real ale etc. are all in steady supply, but if you’re looking for a snickers bar or a coke, well good luck. Nice!

The four music stages/tents are also set-up real nicely, generally running on schedule whilst allowing enough flexibility for last minute extra sets, jam-fests etc., and the organisers have made special effort to balance out the often dreary, family-friendly stuff on the main stage with a winning array of genuinely great performers and rocking bands filling out the rest of the line-up, allowing punters to randomly wander from one kick ass performance to another almost all day long. Sound quality on all stages it should be noted was EXCELLENT – hands down the best I’ve ever heard at a festival.

Even the weather was great – a brief spot of rain on the Friday, followed by the fading summer’s last day or two of blazing sunshine.

But enough blather. In short: End Of The Road was ACE.

The only major downer of the weekend was the thoroughly FUBAR coach service from Salisbury Station, which saw us arriving on site an hour behind schedule, and stranded in a muddy barn for two and a half hours after our planned time of departure on the Monday. I’m sure they’ll manage to sort things out a bit better for next year and no hard feelings, but still, word to the wise: take a car.

So this is the first of what will be three posts on End Of The Road I’m going to publish this week, and I’ll throw in some Mp3s of some particularly great songs that were performed during the weekend too. By which I mean previously recorded versions obviously, not bootlegs from the festival or anything. (Just thought I’d make that clear.) I also managed to take a few photos on a little disposable Kodak I borrowed, and I'll share some of those with you too.

End Of The Road : FRIDAY

Howe Gelb has been charged with selecting the acts playing the Big Top Stage (weird memories of childhood circus trips..) on Friday evening, and the first thing we catch after getting our own tent sorted out and having a nose around is John Doe. Yes THE John Doe, formerly of X.

John Doe

These days John is rocking a persuasive take on country singer-songwriter tradition, one which is crucially still informed by the immediacy of punk rock. Telling big-screen tales of junkies, losers, rockers and the like, his songs are straight-up, open-hearted blasters knocked out with an intensity that occasionally recalls the Mountain Goats, particularly when he gives the c’n’w the heave-ho and switches to electric guitar, the froth of some chugging overdrive instantly rendering things a good 50% gnarlier. The current line-up of Giant Sand mosey on to accompany John toward the end of his set, and holy moly, do they ever rock it, stretching the songs out into thunderously righteous triple-guitar Crazy Horse jams of the kind old dudes do best. High fives all round! What a great way to start the festival! It’s this performance that seals the deal re: my decision to catch Giant Sand instead of Yo La Tengo in tonight’s headline slot clash.

I’ve got a lot of catching up to do when it comes to Scout Niblett. The first time I laid eyes on her was as a strange, shy girl coaxed on stage to sing a song by Herman Dune back in, ooh, 2002 I guess..? I subsequently caught her doing a few support slots on her own and found her performances utterly intolerable – grim, masochistic and self-indulgent in the extreme. Whilst I’ve subsequently had my attention focussed elsewhere though, Scout has gone on to become an underground heroine of sorts, picking up the enthusiastic support of just about every music writer/fan I respect, so…. maybe I could have been missing something? Let’s find out…

Well Scout is certainly a hell of a lot more confident and focused on stage these days, and the hulls of her deceptively simple, introspective songs are armoured with the spikes and barnacles of heavy usage picked up via touring, recording and surviving the criticism and indifference of dullards such as myself, and her performance carries the kind of spell-binding quality usually reserved for the card-carrying ‘greats’ of modern music. Distinctive enough to sidestep the more obvious Cat Power and PJ Harvey comparisons, her onstage presence recalls nothing so much as a female Kurt Cobain. Take that as you will, I doubt she could give a damn. The music she makes is non-negotiable self-expression, as close to the ground as the hearty fare the hippies are cooking up for tea outside. Seems I was indeed missing something. Oh, and I know it was posted on every blog going months ago, but I’m a bit behind, so: that song about the Dinosaur Egg = genius. (It sounded a lot more urgent that the version I’m about to post here, for the record.)

Mp3 > Scout Niblett – Dinosaur Egg (live)

After Ms Niblett’s reiteration of the ‘less is more’ principle, Robyn Hitchcock’s performance, accompanied by John Paul Jones on bass and mandolin, adds up to less than the sum of it’s parts. I mean, if I tell you that one of Britain’s great eccentric song-writers was up there banging through selections from his back catalogue, with the guy from Led Zeppelin rocking out on a stupidly over-sized acoustic bass, that there’s a woman playing the saw, and Howe Gelb over in the corner playing piano with his feet…. sounds brilliant, doesn’t it? Alas, not so.

Hitchcock seems on poor form, his playing mechanical and his selection of material focussing on tunes that, for all of their intriguing post-Syd lyrical digressions, never really blossom into great songs. JPJ plays along competently enough, but it doesn’t seem as if the pair have practiced much in advance, and he’s too busy trying to stay in key to really live up to the expectations of his rock legend status, whilst Hitchcock’s between song banter seems pre-scripted, lacking any of his characteristic wit or spontaneity. It’s not a bad performance by any means, and there are some enjoyable moments where things gel quite nicely, but let’s just say that when my friend leans across to tell me “I think this guy’s a bit of a git”, well, I know Robyn Hitchcock isn’t a git, and maybe you know it too, but this particular appearance offers little evidence to support such a conclusion.

Robyn Hitchcock & John Paul Jones

Sadly, Giant Sand’s headlining jam-fest fares little better. After knocking out great, brooding takes on his trademark ‘Shiver’ and a couple of other ‘Sand classics, Howe Gelb deems it time to launch his own low-budget version of The Last Waltz and starts dragging guests on stage with the fervour of Moses leading the Israelites across the desert. Only with considerably less success. Lambchop’s Kurt Wagner shuffles around at the back of the stage for most of the set, dying on his arse with absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to be doing, and no use looking to Howe for guidance, as he looks like he doesn’t have much more of a clue. A young Arizona singing lady is wheeled out like a homecoming prom queen for a so-so stumble through a few lugubrious numbers before the actually-quite-great Jesse Sykes and her guitarist reluctantly come on to take part in the most shamefully shamble-assed take on The Flying Burrito Brothers’ immortal ‘Sin City’ ever attempted. “Well, that was better than the last time we did it!” says Howe… yeah dude, who knows, maybe the next time you inflict it on a paying crowd you’ll actually find the right chords and pay cursory attention to the melody. I mean, Christ, it’s a three chord Gram Parsons tune, and you’re a revered alt-country luminary - sort it out! But no time to dwell on such matters, because here comes Robyn Hitchcock again – oh my god, he’s singing “Kung Fu Fighting”! It should be noted that the rhythm section and guitarist of the resurrected Giant Sand are obviously fine musicians, and it is largely thanks to their efforts that this shit is kept somewhere in the region of ‘together’, despite their leader’s clowning around. Gelb announces it’s time to wrap things up, promising us a monster finale, as the band launch into a swinging “Who Do You Love” groove. Alright! Howe responds by spending a few minutes mucking about with his guitar cables, before reciting the lyrics to “Ring Of Fire” for no apparent reason. Then he starts singing “Hey Jude”, of all fucking things, and calls proceedings to a close.

It must be the nightmare of all musicians embarking on this kind of “hey let’s do the show right here!” style hoedown that the ‘all-the-one’ spirit and unexpected inspiration you’re expecting to manifest simply… won’t be there. I saw Howe Gelb play an absolutely stunning show a couple of years ago, alone with a piano, so I know he’s more than capable of pulling great music out of thin air, and you’d hope a damp squib of a show like tonight’s would provide a lesson to him: turning up on stage without the faintest idea what you’re going to do isn’t ALWAYS such a great idea. He’ll probably just keep right on doing it though, contrary bastard that he is.

Mp3 > Giant Sand – Shiver

Labels: End Of The Road, festivals, live reviews