Feeling slightly amazed that I’ve already been up for 2 hours. On a Sunday morning.
Worrying about the weather.
Nipping round the Myspace pages of the acts which I haven’t heard before. Hmm. Really wish the Hold Steady hadn’t cancelled.
Heavy showers forecast. Packing lightweight waterproof, Gore-tex lined cap, fleece & mat into day-sack, along with optimistic sunglasses.
Still agonising about the one major clash in the Summer Sundae line-up: Fujiya & Miyagi versus Spoon. It’s not easy having leftfield tastes.
Questioning the purpose of wearing my “lucky pants”. (Olive green Aussie Bum, white piping, curiously flattering.) (TMI?) (TMI.)
Sunday drivers plus traffic jams equals missed train. It’s only a 30 minute wait though. And chill…
The Lea Shores. Jesus fronted post baggy/shoegaze, Ride meets Roses. With violin.
And that was our first mention of the word “shine”. With stuff like this, it’s a statuory obligation.
Now rhyming flyyy, hiiigh and “you’re my butterflyyy”. Time to move on.
Vetiver: a perfect sunday lunchtime band. Nothing to disturb the Observer readers mooching on the grass.
Foxy busty blonde lady, to me and Dymbel: “I fancy you. And you. It’s for a dare… but maybe I would have done anyway.” Oh dear!
Packed tent for The Strange Death Of Liberal England, possibly benefiting from We’ve Not Heard Of Any Of These People, So Let’s Go For The Ones With The Interesting Name Syndrome. Ooh, 10 out of 10 for youthful energy and exuberance…
Ben Taylor. Son of James. Similar lack of hair. Acoustic. Droll. Best so far.
Ben Taylor throwing out so many Myspace addresses that one wonders if he’s on a Murdoch kickback…
Cherry Ghost: the word “solid” could have been invented for him. Overly precarious trousers for a man in his 30s. Not his “lucky pants”, one feels. Earnest, mildly dishy supply teacher rock. All very 6music/word magazine. I’m not won over.
In the market area, resisting the urge for a Tracy from Big Brother makeover.
Stephanie Dosen: seen her before, supporting Tina Dico was it? Kooky and lugubrious. Cameron Diaz goes folk.
Koop: pleasant Gilles Peterson approved mellow jazzy funkiness. And still no rain! Result!
Mm, tinkly vibes. Rob is texting me crap jokes from the cabaret tent. I shan’t share.
Koop remind me a little too much of my snotty soulboy acid jazz years. I’d have loved them in 1992.
And the vibes tinkle on. Not the most emotionally expressive of instruments, are they?
Spoon: again, solid. Better than Cherry Ghost, but I am unmoved. Dymbel loves ’em though. Shall try Fujiya & Miyaji instead.
Spoon were improving as I left. But Fujiya & Miyaji are more my thing. Funky krautrock from Brighton.
People are dancing! And about time too. Young people are holding up cardboard signs. FREE ANAL HERE! (plus arrow) and GET YOUR OWL OUT! Surreal…
Fujiya & Miyaji deffo the best yet. And now, the generic & wildly popular indie sounds of the Pigeon Detectives. Hmm, Johnny Borrell lite, anyone? Yes Virginia, there is such a thing.
Aw, I shouldn’t be such an old curmudgeon. They’re the right band at the right time and they’re working it well. Cross generational respect!
Gruff Rhys of the Super Furry Animals: performing solo inside a giant TV set, with cartoon test card. Experimental!
K is stuck on the phone with my aunt (a chatty woman), and sending increasingly angsty text messages.
Gruff Rhys now joined by lady singer inside TV set, both seated behind desk, news reader style. Oh, and now there’s a band.
There’s a bit of a lull, so I’m relaxing in the run with a beer. Nice day, if a little short on epochal, life changing music. Pleasant innocuous vibe.
Cheerfully ignoring Echo and his Bunny Men, to whom I fell asleep at the London Lyceum in 1980. 40-something blokes with eyes half shut are gyrating drunkenly in the evening sunshine.
Ok, The Cutter, I’ll give them that. I was young once!
Polytechnic: competent guitar band, but I am developing indie indigestion. It’s been a long day.
Oh! This one sounds like Los Campesinos: “You! Me! Dancing!” I can get behind this.
Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline. As my friend says, perhaps I’ve never taken the right drugs. That said, their symphonic lugubriousness is appropriately crepuscular.
Ah, me old mate Duke Special, headlining inside the De Montfort Hall. Nice to be on familiar ground. As cosy and comforting as a steaming mug of cocoa, and hence just what these aching old bones are in need of.
Duke Special was a lovely end to 10 hours of good, if not often great music… and my first festival to boot.
Searching in vain for meteor showers on the drive home. 45 degrees south, if you’re looking…