Upon Reflection, Don't Believe a Word

One of the downsides to watching bands perform at festivals is they have good reason to believe that, in all probability, you’re not there specifically to see them, with the result that they’re inclined to just go through the motions, plug the album they’re touring to promote, and avail of whatever VIP facilities are on offer. Only the bands headlining each day have to worry, you'd think; while they’re pretty much guaranteed a good-sized audience regardless of the other goodies on offer, word of a bad show will get around just as quickly as reports of a good one.

So you’d be right to expect the headlining acts to put on a bit of a show, to prove themselves worthy of the interest, whereas minor acts might provide spotty, less polished, and less enthusiastic sets. Well, none of that and all of that was true about Primavera, insofar as there were no totally incompetent sets, not that this attendee saw anyway, and nothing to go mad about, either, but there were some standouts. Here’s my highly subjective and impressionistic recollection of what went on (and what didn’t):

THURSDAY:

Xavier Baró

A local boy who’s been doing the rounds for some time, though I’d never heard of him. A pleasant enough, slightly exotic introduction to the festival that reminded us all we were in “abroad.”

Art Brut

Amusing and daft, the young and public-school-sounding Art Brut offered uncomplicated indie rock mostly on the subjects of being in a band and kissing girls. The disarming lead shouter had a habit of beginning each song by asking his band “Are you ready, Art Brut?” or “Let’s tell them about it, Art Brut.” A live act rather than a muso's fave.


Maxïmo Park

Sunderland’s finest Jam look-a-likes with Ralph Coates/Bobby Charlton comb-overs. As seen on TOTP. Angular sound and angular dance steps, à la Hazel O’Connor in Breaking Glass. Managed to gather a decent-sized crowd who’d heard of their up-and-coming status. Inoffensive poppy stuff, but very little that stood out. Shite Web site that doesn’t load easily.


The Arcade Fire

One of the highlights of the entire festival, let alone the first night. Played a fabulous set in front of a packed house. Really tight, passionate, exciting stuff. I know it’s turning into a bit of a trend to pack the stage with musicians—I think AF had nine up there—but when they mesh like this, the sound is overwhelming. Really pleased that I got to see them.


Los Planetas

More local lads (well, Spanish, anyway), whom most of the crowd seemed to know. Nothing inspiring, though, I’m afraid; sub–Echo & the Bunnymen bass-laden material. We stayed only for two or three songs, and the sameness began to wear very quickly. Besides, we were knackered. It was time for bed, at least for this bunch of middle-aged has-beens (not Los Planetas).


FRIDAY:


Micah P. Hinson

An unassuming Texan who lives in Manchester, young Micah Paul Hinson offers gothic tales belying his age. That’s the PR anyway. Mostly it was subdued melancholia preceding really shouty crescendos. Highly enjoyable if only because he looked like he could burst a blood vessel at any moment. Really gave it some welly and an exception to the rule about performers at festivals. He didn’t have a huge audience, but he still won them over with his commitment.


David Thomas & Two Pale Boys

Wasted on the majority of festivalgoers, who missed his set entirely. If you’ve seen or heard Pere Ubu, you’ll know pretty much what to expect. Innovation, experimentation, and weirdness that isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Trumpet player Andy Diagram at one point inverted his instrument and blew into it the way we used to with milk bottles when we were kids, but generating the ethereal sound of curlicue whistles. Reminded me a little of Andrew Bird. Without the violin. And with David wearing what I always think is a butcher’s apron, even though it’s just red plastic, not cloth soaked in blood.


Nouvelle Vague

Lounge music takes on the Dead Kennedys, Bauhaus, Buzzcocks, etc. Newish idea three or four years ago, maybe, but a bit worn now.


Sons & Daughters

Impressive Glasgow band launching their new album, Repulsion Box. Hadn’t heard anything from these guys beforehand, but they’ve worked with Edwyn Collins, so they can’t be bad. Catchy, boppy, foot-stomping songs that kept us there for the whole set even though we hadn’t originally planned to see them.


Sondre Lerche

Norwegian solo performer who’s recently been dragging an orchestra around with him, and good job too. Earnest and no doubt impressive as a songsmith, Lerche wasn’t striking enough to take our attention away from the most beautiful cellist we’d ever seen; golden curls, cute nose, and capable of moving herself to ecstasy as her playing became increasingly frantic and the instrument between her legs vibrated with greater and greater intensity.

I’m sure he was very good too.


Mercury Rev

Mercury Wank. At this point of the festival, the most pretentious band we’d seen and heard so far. Like a night at the Haçienda without the redeeming feature of drugs or Bez dancing.


New Order

Like a night at the Haçienda watching New Order. Miserable, morose. Some of their tracks are just brilliant, it must be said, but within five minutes of coming on stage, they’d managed to insult the audience three times; referring to Barcelona as Spain, apologizing for staying away for so long but one of the band “got the shits last time we were here,” which was reason enough not to come back, and then introducing the song “Crystal” by saying, “this one is from an album that you didn’t like in Spain, so fuck you.” And to add injury to insults, they insist on letting Barney sing. I’d rather they'd stuck with Ian Curtis.

Human League

Great fun. Didn’t try anything too difficult, just ran through their greatest hits: “Don’t you want me,” “Mirror Man,” “Electric Dreams,” “The Lebanon,” etc. And decent enough to take the piss out of themselves; at least, I think they were. The brunette backing singer wore a basque (not a Basque) that revealed thighs like piledrivers, and the blonde was happy to show us her twiglet-like legs with chewed-up centre-half’s knees. Phil Oakey surrendered to middle-age long ago and tried to pass off his shaved head as cool when we all really know it’s because he couldn’t manage the old wedge without revealing a bald patch.

We met one of the band in the hotel lift after the gig. “Not a bad one,” he said. “Well, considering it was Spain and Phil kept forgetting the words.” We didn’t notice. And subsequent discussion with other bands stopping in the hotel suggested the whole festival was a well-organized affair. So he was just a twat.


SATURDAY:


Grabba Grabba Tape

Looked ridiculous. Sounded worse. Two-person speed electronica. Like Rolf Harris having a fit.


Dogs Die in Hot Cars

Can’t say I recall all that much about these guys, another Glasgow band, I understand, but then we only stayed for a couple of songs before wandering out to find


Steve Earle and the Dukes

Another of the highlights. Mostly played material from Revolution and had the courtesy to congratulate the Spanish people on the quality of their democracy (all democracies are imperfect, he conceded, but at least the Spanish version worked) before dedicating his next song to the American troops in Iraq: "Rich Man’s War." Straightforward country rock, and every one a gem on the night. He was joined on stage for a couple of songs by the excellent Alison Moorer.

Would have been a tad strident and didactic if the music hadn’t been so brilliant.


Television Personalities

Cancelled due to illness. A real low point for me.


While most of the other punters predictably headed off at this point towards Sonic Youth, we few brave contrarians headed for the “Danzka Drome,” where a number of cutting-edge French artistes were being showcased. We were thus among a minuscule number of non-Gallic witnesses to a performance by

Françoiz Breut, a chanteuse in the style of Françoise Hardy from whom we learned that “cutting edge” in France means singing a few songs in English. At the risk of sounding sexist let me once again state how physically attractive I found this singer (look, some of the male singers didn’t even have that going for them), although she reaffirmed the predominance of the lounge aesthetic seen earlier in Nouvelle Vague.

The other French cliché to hand was that of the Gitane, the flowing-skirted gypsy singer with the tambourine. Her name was

Helena

Think bohemian plus bossa nova with a louche, lethargic version of Kylie’s “Can’t Get You Out of My Head,” which made the non-Gauls laugh but was treated as a serious homage by everyone else, and you won’t be far off (And I knew I’d get “homage” in there somewhere).


Garage rock band The Dirtbombs were a real find for me, even though they’ve been going over 12 years, I think. A Detroit band with two drummers and two bass guitarists, one of whom was a crazed Asian girl who came close to having a Spinal Tap moment when she decided to stand on the drum kit. The third of the real standouts from this festival, like the Arcade Fire, they were unorthodox, unusual in their sound, and sincere in their passion. If you get a chance to catch them in your town, do.

Next up were

The Weddoes, who managed to give us a handful of their greatest hits (“Kennedy,” “My Favourite Dress,” etc.) combined with several from the new album, Take Fountain, and a couple of songs from David Gedge’s other band, Cinerama. Gedge was no more cheerful than usual, and even his sarcastic witticisms failed to hit the mark, (To those shouting requests, he replied, “I’m so sorry I wrote so many fantastic songs.” Smartarse.)

By contrast, the lads from They Might Be Giants were a breath of fresh air. They commented, apparently, that they’d eschewed festivals until now, and I think they were surprised to find themselves holding court to a crowd of perhaps 10,000 people. John Linnell, the unnaturally ageless keyboard player, grinned throughout the entire show, both, I suspect, from delight at the reception and disbelief at having passed up such opportunities in the past. They gave us “Birdhouse in Your Soul” and “Boss of Me,” the Malcolm in the Middle song, and generally pissed about and had a great time. A co-blogger who’d never seen them before leaned across and commented to me in his best Catalan-inflected English, “Bonkers. They’re totally bonkers.”

For this blogger, the festival concluded with the

Gang of Frauds

Imagine your most repugnant teachers from school: the bullying, didactic ones. Aggravate the chips on their shoulders by proudly wearing a Mekons t-shirt for their gig. And then picture them pompously fretting around the stage, trying to smash up their instruments.

Yes! They tried to smash up their instruments. And with no trace of irony.

Not only that, they treated the Catalans and Spanish to ridiculously mordant songs about H-Block and power cuts. Like any of these kids were even alive back then.

Well, okay, some of these issues are always with us, but Steve Earle wiped the floor with guys in terms of contemporaneity. And at least he didn’t come across as a posturing, self-important buffoon.

Exactly like watching schoolteachers rock out.

Schoolteachers from Kes.

As I was leaving, at 3.30 a.m. with a flight at 11.45, The Go! Team struck up their first tune, and I saw them the next morning in the hotel lobby, so they’re better men than I am, that’s for sure. But I shall have to leave any reviewing of them to my co-bloggers, who at least stayed for a few songs; similarly, they have the responsibility for reporting back on Echo & the Bunnymen, Sonic Youth, and Anthony & the Johnsons, the last of whom’s performance it would have been craven for me to have attended given the disdain, mockery, and scorn I have poured upon their work in moments and postings past.

Prepare yourself for photos.