As Field Day draws the country’s scenesters to the capital
like moths to the proverbial flame, England’s ‘other’ musical cities
(Bristol, Nottingham, and Manchester) are left blissfully alone to swap
cutting-edge acts in an incestuous three day love-in.
What starts in an excitable mugginess in Bristol soon breaks into a
downpour of biblical proportions. Punters find themselves swept along on
a tide of rainwater and cider, paddling down Bristol’s sidestreets
between venues: holey daps, sea-shanties, and high-spirits pitted
courageously against the elements.
In such conditions, it’s no wonder that iconic boat venue and
festival epicentre, the Thekla, becomes the logical place to be,
doubling as a Noah’s arc. Across its two stages, it hosts a diverse
programme of emerging talent that would have no trouble repopulating the
post-flood world with the full gamut of genres. There’s everything from
the angsty post-rock of Deaf Club to the fragmentary beat-poet blues of
Willis Earl Beal via the sprightly vaudeville folk of Pearl and the
Beard.
The Thekla’s mighty hull also welcomes Odd Future’s warped nu-soul
outfit, The Internet. Fronted by Syd tha Kyd and her impressive
falsetto, their computer soul is fleshed out to something resembling
Erykah Badu. Unusually for an Odd Future act, it’s fairly predictable
with each slow jam rising and falling within the classic soul canon
(think a young MJ performing Innervisions-era Stevie Wonder) and there
is little to grab the attention.
A far less slick but arguably more exciting prospect is Montreal’s
Doldrums. Just like their battered and bruised equipment, all snapped
cymbals and duct tape, the trio are rough and ready. Rather than
building a beat and then dropping it, it is actually the process of them
finding (through trial and error) the beat at the same time that
provides the musical suspense. As frustrating as this is at times, the
combination of Madchester swagger, psych overtones and sample-heavy DIY
electronica shows some serious potential. Tonight, their set lacks
fluidity but delivers heaps of lo-fi charm and youthful recklessness, a
soiled euphoria.
Elsewhere, other acts also fall a little short. Californian
scuzz-poppers the Wavves lose their carefully-engineered distortion to
the O2 Academy’s cavernous space. Their reverb-heavy garage degenerates
into fairly generic thrash-pop-punk, not dissimilar to early Greenday.
It is, however, suitably scrappy with enough tempo for a healthy
mosh-pit to form.
Headliners The Drums also fail to overcome the limitations of the
O2′s fairly anaemic sound, appearing foppish and a little contrived.
Despite playing the hits, they seem to lack the necessary conviction to
elevate their songs above casual pastiche. None of this matters to the
crowd who are in fine form, lapping up frontman Jonathan Pierce’s
Morriseyisms and singing along contentedly. Ultimately, The Drums do
little to suggest that they are anywhere near as good as the bands they
rip off.
There are two acts, however, that truly deliver. Both Beth Jeans Houghton & the Hooves of Destiny, and Islet, are superb.
Taking to a sweaty Fleece stage, Beth Jeans Houghton & the Hooves of Destiny open with Atlas.
With a killer guitar hook and a rousing folk swell, it is deliciously
busy with ideas yet still manages to retain the impact of the finest pop
music. With Yours Truly; Cellophane Nose, Houghton has made an
album of complex textures that is highly listenable, endlessly
interesting, and in a live environment, distinctly danceable. The half
hour set is a triumph, a colourful and carefully-woven tapestry threaded
with eccentricity, flare and incredible tunes.
Just like their name suggests, Islet are a small island of unfettered
originality in what, by midnight, is a West Country Atlantis. They hit Start The Bus with an uncompromising balls-to-the-wall bonkers blend of post-punk rhythms, Kraut-rave, and rampant exhibitionism.
It’s impossible to convey quite how barmy Islet are: the Welsh
quartet are vessels, allowing ideas and influences to pour through them.
At one point, guitarist and drummer, Alex Williams, shoots off into the
audience to nuzzle in their armpits, to inhale their unease and worm
around in the confusion he has helped create.
The sense of spontaneity and wild energy are infectious, contributing
to the success of their unique post-modern collage. The fresh chaos of
their sound is as tight and as funky as the mosquito’s tweeter: it is
exhilarating, it is new music pushing boundaries, it is Dot To Dot at
its very best.
______________________________________________________________________
Author: Tom Spooner
Source: Spindle Magazine
Date: June 11, 2012
Original article: HERE
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