London has its own ambience at the best of times. It’s an endlessly fascinating series of differences, a complex mixture of just about every type of person you could possibly hope to meet. It is the ideal venue, therefore, for a festival at pains to push itself as far away from the mainstream events which permeate the British scene. You are unlikely to see Snow Patrol at this.
The organisers deserve credit for the lay-out in the lovely environs of Victoria Park. There is a main stage and four tents of varying sizes, but all within a walking distance unlikely to trouble even the most vituperatively lazy. It’s a long day ahead, and in keeping with this most British of summers, it’s grey and muggy. As inevitable as a tube delay, the rain will come. It’s just a question of when.
On the Eat Your Own Ears main stage ignoring the threat and providing a wonderfully sunny start to proceedings are Fanfarlo. They’ve been compared to a cross between Belle and Sebastian and the Arcade Fire, but it’s a little unfair to pigeonhole them in that way. They make lovely, post-folk pop which absolutely reeks of class. Their songs don’t so much arrive as glide into the ether fully-formed. Luxurious violin and trumpet occasionally remind you of ‘Sound’-era James, but their ear for the subtler nuances of their ideas keep them on their own path.
‘Drowning Men’ is the highlight, and a previously somnambulant crowd are raised from their early afternoon daze by the end of a really rather sweetly triumphant set. Fanfarlo’s biggest problem in moving forward is that they are a slightly colourless bunch; they lack the theatrics of the afore-mentioned Montreal act, for example. But the songs themselves are strong enough, easily so; hopefully this will be enough to see them climb bills in the near future.
The Village Mentality tent is all but empty for Wet Paint, which is a shame as their poppier-Pavement alt.rock really isn’t bad. It’s a dreadful name for a band, which reeks of studenty in-jokery and will instantly bring anyone who’s ever had a proper job out in hives, but that apart, they deliver a strong set and make a few friends. If it all sounds slightly redolent of other people, then so be it. They seem to be having a good time and so are those watching. Pretty much all you can hope for if you are on at this stage at this time.
Bugged Out has been designated mainly a dance tent, but Delphic get in on an indie-rave tip. Yes, yes, the Klaxons; let’s get it out of the way early. There is a similarity, but possibly because of their Manchester roots, there is a much cheekier aspect to their songs. The spirit of the Hacienda is evoked, though whether that’s because it’s actually in there or because every music journalist is contractually obliged to mention that place when anything vaguely danceable pops out of the North West is open to question.
In simple terms, it’s huge looping keyboards snaking round tourniquet-tight indie rock. It’s very good, though it does tend towards samey by the end, but we’ll forgive them that at this early stage. Certainly, do not be surprised if they find themselves selling serious amounts by the end of the year.
The Temper Trap have been gaining a bit of a reputation, but on this form it’s not easy to see why. ‘Science of Fear’ could have come from ‘The Joshua Tree’ and, as Eddie Argos said, why would you want to sound like U2? By the mid-point of their set they actually begin to resemble Orson. One senses the faint but unmistakeable air of a band who want to play arenas.
The XX are in the teeny-tiny Blogger’s Delight tent, but the buzz around them has ensured the hipsters have packed in. Honestly, there are more Urban Outfitters t-shirts in here than in the average branch. It’s certainly not an Oasis at King Tut’s performance, mind. Their skeletal, brittle guitar lines recall very early Joy Division and occasionally the Cure, but it’s nagging in the mother-in-law sense rather than insistent. On this evidence it’s all mouth and no trousers, and frankly there are better bands out there doing similar things better. Hyped they may be but file next to These New Puritans and move on.
But they are like the Velvet Underground compared with Micachu and the Shapes. The only possible explanation for the size of the crowd they play to is that it is now liberally pissing down outside. They start with a big, siren-like keyboard noise; that’s the highlight. From then on it’s jaunty, shouty, tuneless sub-Late of the Pier rubbish. Whether or not you care for LOTP or Metronomy, what is undeniable is that they sound like they sound because it’s real. This is sheer copyist artifice.
It’s difficult to comprehend just how unambitious and ordinary this is. Each song seems to whither going up the leads to the mixing desk, before being vomited out to an increasingly tetchy crowd who suddenly find God and pray for the rain to stop. It is, simply put, bad music.
Which is how we would have described the Horrors two years previously. They seemed like a joke; the stupid names, the pretence, the dire albums. Indeed, on the NME Tour in 2007, I actually thought they were a comedy act, a brilliantly incisive goth-pastiche. When word reached me they were actually trying to be a proper band, the emotion I felt was pity.
The world was therefore slightly surprised when they produced ‘Primary Colours’, an album which was actually all right. Live, they have improved true. Yes, I defy anyone who has heard ‘Faith’ by the Cure to listen to them without thinking of it, but they have an energy and a thundering boom of a noise which actually makes them engaging. It’s as if they’ve dropped the overweening archness and are all the better for it.
Little Boots is obviously a can’t-miss for many, and she delivers. She’s more pop than electro, but that’s not a bad thing. She has a stage presence reminiscent of Alison Goldfrapp, but less calculated. ‘Meddle’ and ‘New Hands’ are delivered and greeted with rapture, but it’s ‘Remedy’ which will probably catapult her to La Roux levels of fame. Let’s hope she doesn’t develop into such an all-round arsehole though.
The one negative about her show is the large collection of inebriated women in stupid hats dancing round their handbags. This may not be Chigwell, but you know these are the type of people who would wear leggings and would go ballistic if Whigfield came on. So if you are heading to a Little Boots show this year and she does indeed rise to Radio One prominence, remember your satchel of hand grenades; the Moyles generation seem ready to pounce on her.
Santigold is due on but hasn’t appeared some 40 minutes after her show is scheduled to start. This may be to the main stage being in genuine peril of closure due to rain which is bordering on comedy. It is absolutely biblical now. The insistent call of a miserable bastard from Falkirk becomes too much and suddenly, a tent full of drowned rat-like punters stand gawping at Malcolm Middleton.
Simply, he’s brilliant. Kicking off with ‘Red Travellin’ Socks’ he’s a lot poppier than he was in his Arab Strap days – by which we mean tunes abound – but no less lyrically incisive. And there is no better way to enjoy him than being soaked on a day you should be basking in the sun. The thing about Middleton is that people stress the down and ignore that, buried very very tightly, is a shining sense of optimism. He’s a heartbreaker, but he’s always offering hope. And he remains one of the UK’s best kept secrets.
So Field Day enthrals and appals in about equal measure, but that’s a good thing. Today it’s been possible to fall in love with something new, which is surely more fun than simply confirming what you already like. A schizophrenic show for a schizophrenic city. It couldn’t be more apt.
Filed under: gigs Tagged: | fanfarlo, field day, field day 2009, little boots, malcol, Malcolm Middleton, Metronomy, santogold, the xx
