My Bloody Valentine
By the time you read this I will have seen MY BLOODY VALENTINE three times and having been lucky enough to see their comeback show at the ICA I was literally floored by the revival flavour of the month.  They’re doing “Slow” and somehow they have managed to make “Soon” sound even better, which is something I previously thought unimaginable.  Earplugs are for wimps (and those with hearing). [JGram]

Monotonix
I can’t remember the last time I saw a band where you would never buy a record but could never forgive yourself if you missed the live show when they rolled into town. At the Rose for England gig in  Nottingham they started their set by setting their drums on fire and finished by playing on the shelf above the bar. Absolutely bonkers. [Dave Stockwell]

The Night Marchers / Obits / Monotonix
Digging the post-Hot Snakes bands The Night Marchers and Obits a lot right now. The Night Marchers are far less immediate than Hot Snakes or even Rocket From The Crypt but reveal a more subtle, tuneful, hell – soulful side to things. Obits are awesome, matching Rick Froberg’s hoarse yelp to Creedence-esque riff-jams that bop along to the listener’s total satisfaction. Also liking new sounds by Broken Arm, Mob Rules, Helm, Awesome Color, Zun Zun Egui as well as some old sounds from Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Bo Diddley, Flower Travellin’ Band, Jimi Hendrix… Monotonix live were also an event that I cannot recommend highly enough. [Chris Summerlin]

Please
London 3-piece Please played an immense set in Oxford earlier this year; tribal riffs + messy Lightning Bolt-style yelps = MASSIVE TUNES. [Pascal Ansell]

Icebreaker International
Pretty much the only bonus of all the diskant reformatting work was re-reading some of the excellent and hilarious content from years long gone, and digging out the records for another listen. Icebreaker International are still one of my favourite interviewees – we went into it not having a clue about how much of what they claimed was truth and how much was audaciously ridiculous nonsense, and left in pretty much the same state. Their second album, Trein Maersk, was supposedly recorded on a container ship travelling between Yokohama and Halifax and is probably the only real musical documentation of globalisation. I’m a total sucker for lies, manifestos, uniforms and instrumental electro-pop so of course I love this. Sadly they never did much else after this and now seem to have parted company. Alexander Perls now writes Europop chart hits for a number of faceless acts. It seems right somehow. [Marceline Smith]

Shield Your Eyes
Very, very loud and very, very lo-fi brainchild of hairy maverick Steph Ketteringham (see Candles, Guns or Knives). Because I’m a lazy bastard, I’ll copy from my earlier review of them: “riotous, colossal noise… SYE employ the warped, reversible structures of Hella with the crunchy lo-fi sound of Lightning Bolt… Stef is an absolute maestro, teasing out grimy squeals with intricate fingerpicks and uplifting riffs aplenty” (Nightshift). Myspace. [Pascal Ansell]

Hot Club De Paris
Hot Club De Paris are only in their mid twenties but are at the core of Liverpool’s ever burgeoning musical output and exhibit an indefinable sound. If you had to try you might describe their work as two-minute tracks of elaborate quick-fire pop punk with American math rock tendencies, quirky barbershop style lyrics and racing harmonies. Their narratives often consist of surreal analogies and odes to inanimate objects.  HCDP are currently at the end of a nationwide tour promoting their second album ‘Live at Dead Lake.’ which was recorded in Chicago. From it comes the best song about a piece of masonry ever written, the single ‘Hey! Housebrick.’ Both are released on Moshi Moshi.  Highlights of the album include ‘Mr Demolition Ball’ with Soweto inspired instrumentation and lyrics as incisive as Billy Bragg, with odd stop start arrangements and chord progressions of the ilk of Field Music. ‘My Little Haunting.’  Is a ghostly tale ‘why do you wear these clean white sheets,’ their singer Paul Rafferty inquires. Imagine the scene, the suit of armour in the corridor; a skeleton tumbles down the stairs through cobwebs and over banisters – wooo hoo, spooky! ‘Boy Awaits Return Of The Runaway Girl,’ is about the boy with big ideas who sold them all for pizza and weed. Rafferty’s chanty chorus leapfrogs the fidgety guitars and tinkly keys. The two-minute tracks flow really well into one another and before you know it you’ve spent an enjoyable half hour getting re-acquainted with Liverpool’s hottest export. [Mandy Williams]

Sunnyvale Noise Sub-element
Because fuck it, it’s my band and we’ve got new product to sell. [Simon Minter]

Have you heard the new Errors album, It’s Not Something But It Is Like Whatever? It’s very good. It came out last week and they launched it with a gig at the new Stereo on Friday which I managed to drag myself out of the house to attend (and got the train in for free – in your face, SPT!)

First on were Gummy Stumps who I had not heard of before though I recognised their faces. By half way through their first song I hated them and wanted to kill them. By the third song I realised their frontman was the greatest loud drunken shouting man since at least The Magnificents and started to enjoy myself, People Being Loud and Ridiculous being one of my favourite genres. Their songs consisted of about 5 guitarists playing completely different things (impressive, as they only actually had one guitarist), some kind of groove, and aforesaid man shouting stuff off a sheet of paper he was holding. I’m not sure what he was shouting but he seemed to think it vital. He finished each song by bawling THANK YOU at us. I’m not sure I want to hear anything they might put on record, or even see them play again, but I’m glad they exist. I do think they have missed their point in time, which was surely to have a shoddily packaged 7″ out on Slampt but there you are. I’m not even going to look up any information about them on the internets because I DON’T WANT TO KNOW. THANK YOU.

After that were Copy Haho who are fast becoming my third, or maybe fourth, favourite band in Scotland. Hailing from my old neck of the woods in the North East of Scotland, they have that dogged will to succeed, or at least escape, that you often find in bands from small places. However, it’s coupled with youthful enthusiasm and a nice mix of self-assurance and humour that makes them very lovable. Oh yes, and songs. Really good wordy songs with hooks and noise and energy and structure (lucky you can listen to them on their Myspace). Despite a few sound issues, they were on good form and I hope to see them getting a lot more attention soon. Though not before I get round to sending them some questions for diskant.

After a short DJ set of bangin’ techno from Wee Stuart Mogwai it was time for Errors, who have definitely been getting a lot of much-deserved attention lately. I must have seen them play about 7 or 8 times over the last three years and it was almost like seeing a whole new band. Most of this was due to the excellent sound – 90% of Errors gigs for me have been spent wishing the soundman would turn ths synths up and thus feeling unsatisfied. This time it was perfect, making the songs sound as they should but bigger and louder and more fluid. The reason I like Errors so much that I turn into a girly puddle of goo is that they literally do sound like all my favourite bands squashed together into some kind of super-awesome ultraband. When I’m Evil Dictator of the World, Errors will be my kryptonite. They have the heart-swelling melancholy of Hood and Labradford, the dynamics of Mogwai and all the giddy joys of those random faceless techno mp3s I obsess over for 3 weeks and then drop. Not to mention synths that go URRRRRRR (my favourite sound in the world). Anyway, enough about me. Errors have been touring a lot and seem to have finally figured out this whole live thing, being both tight and fun to watch. The old stuff has been glitched up and strung out, and the new stuff worked in seamlessly and confidently. By the time they were dragged back on for an encore, the crowd were so delirous with glee, they jumped at the invite to come up on stage and dance and the whole thing ended in some kind of non-stop party wagon fun times orgy, soundtracked by Pump, a ridiculously amazing 7 minute showcase of everything good about electronic music, and the highlight of the album.

This is where I need a clever sign off. I don’t have one. Just get the album.

After 17 studio albums and having a foreign organism having fed off her food then forcibly left her poor body in a process known as ‘child-birth’, the Grammy Award-winning singer/songwriter Ani Difranco decided not to put her feet up. Instead she decided to make a live DVD of her band playing in a converted church in downtown Manhattan. It happens to be one she restored into the delightful venue Babeville, named after her record label, Righteous Babe.

Ani plays a sophisticated strain of acoustic pop; intelligent, tasteful and shrewdly put together. Her music resembles a toned-down and less bloody-minded Alanis Morissette, but not without a terrific bite to the lyrics. They concern a few main topics: politics, activism, identity; a good number of songs sketch out the ‘get-out-of-my-house-and-my-life’ scenario, or the pursuing of a successful relationship and the inevitable pain of it never succeeding. And how bloody awful men are. Hmm. Ani’s a long-suffering activist and outspoken critic of, well, lots of things, evident in this gem of a justification:

Every time I say something they find hard to hear / They chalk it up to my anger / And never to their own fear

As she begins her set, Ani tells the crowd that “I hope you feel photogenic” as 6 cameras dart around the hall, her drummer, percussionist and bassist retaining poise as they poke around their unmentionables. The percussionist, Mike Dillon, is Difranco’s discreet but remarkable bandmember, who warps his vibes through a delay pedal, squashing the signal about the tall church walls, with some delicate tabla tapping to compliment the mix.

While trying to avoid, avoid, avoid the irresistible cliché, (her lyrics are so clever that it will out anyhow): every song is a story, an argument. Let’s not forget the magnificent lyrics to her latest song ‘Present/Infant’ – (very touching considering the arrival of her child): “I would defend to the ends of the earth / Her perfect right to be”. The sight of a parent moulding their young to an ‘ideal child’ is always worrying – Ani’s artistic and maternal dignity is sealed in a sentence. I think I love her.

Pascal Ansell

http://www.righteousbabe.com/

“Pride”, Phosphorescent’s most recent recorded work, isn’t buried under thick swathes of overproduction, but there is a certain? wooziness to it.? The mournful country-tinged songs are complimented rather than smothered by this, but in the cramped and sweaty confines of the Captain’s Rest, overlooked by the slightly sinister waxwork of the eponymous Captain himself, the atmosphere is very different.? The crowd are sympathetic enough, but I’m sure any musician would like to keep a little more distance between themselves and a Glasgow audience given the chance, no matter how confident they may be feeling about their abilities or the goodwill present.?? Stripped of any backing save that which he builds himself with a loop pedal, the quality of Matthew Houk’s songs and the fragile ache of his voice are laid bare, and prove themselves, thankfully, up to the task.? Much of “Pride” is just as effective in this simpler format, his guitar and vocals loops providing texture when necessary.? Words tumble and fall over one another, lines accomodating far too many syllables than they rightfully should be able to, TARDIS-like, suggesting an off-the-cuff ramble that’s also effortlessly poetic.? He even manages to find some beauty in mawkish Dire Straits number “Close To Me”.

I used to live just along the road from the Captain’s Rest.? I never went inside until tonight.? It appeared to be your typical Glasgow “old man’s” pub, and I must admit that the nautical theme didn’t exactly appeal.? I was surprised when I heard that Phosphorescent were playing there, but this appears not to be a random aberration but the first of many forthcoming shows at the ‘Rest.? Certainly Phosphorescent were a welcome and appropriate debut act for this tiniest of venues that could actually become a favourite if the quality of booking remains as high.

SEVEN FUCKING YEARS?

You’re shitting me?

Seven years and a week in fact. That’s how long I have lived in Nottingham. I moved here on Saturday November 19 2000. I know it was this date because I moved all my boxes in, unpacked nothing and then sprinted down to Rock City in town to see Queens Of The Stone Age on the Rated R tour. They started with Feel Good Hit Of The Summer. It was like burying your head in a speaker cabinet.
I really and sincerely love QOTSA. The first 3 records are up there in my favourites. The first song I heard in the 21st Century was Regular John, played to me at midnight on New Year’s Eve 1999 for the first time by a friend who couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard it. We listened to Rated R a lot in the bus on the first Gringo Records tour with Colin from Eska leading the air guitar activity too. Good times.
The only time I ever went on a “band outing” with the members of the first band I was in was Queens in Birmingham the day before we were due to go on tour to Holland. They were amazing. Goatsnake opened. King Adora played in the middle. The first thing Josh Homme said when he walked onstage was “The King is dead, long live the Queens”.
After enduring King Adora, I dug that muchly.

The reason I am reminiscing so much is not that I’m getting to that point in life where that’s all I do: though after 3 beers it’s a safe bet that this might happen. No; it’s that I’m trying to tell you I’m not a fair weather fan of this band. I genuinely love them. Really.
I am a sucker for a band thrust into the limelight who are happy to fuck with their position a little. Around Rated R and then through to Songs For The Deaf, that seemed to be their entire mission statement. If ever a band looked able to match the way Nirvana were successful but were still glorious fuck-ups then it was them. When other bands get known for ‘outrageous’ antics it’s usually as a giant polyfilla-type cover-up for a serious lack of anything that’s good when you get down to it. What made Queens different was that the songwriting was insanely good, creative and strange. Whereas most of their peers were still in debt to Kyuss and were interested in stretching their music in length and heaviness, Queens went the other way – compacting and editing their form into great songs and albums that sounded as fat as can be while simultaneously having no fat (filler) on them. Watching a band play a song as heavy and bizarre as Tension Head or something as basic and garage rock as If Only to huge crowds felt like the world was turning for the better.

I think if you don’t like this band you’ve probably stopped reading this review by now so I can assume if you’re still with me then you’re a fan of sorts at least and therefore you think you know where I am going with this. You think I’m going to bemoan the absence of Nick Oliveri and how the band sucks without him.

I’m not though. Not yet.

I love the first Queens record and Oliveri’s not on that (despite the photo on the sleeve). And to me Queens is as much about that monstrous guitar as anything. As someone who is sick of seeing ‘guitar’ bands where all you can hear is the fucking bass drum, seeing Queens play was always like some supreme relief. Josh Homme is one of the most creative guitarists I’ve ever seen/heard. Also, I saw one of Oliveri’s last shows with the band at the monstrous aircraft hangar that is the Horden Pavillion in Sydney, Australia. It was a good one, though I remember thinking then that maybe this ‘cult band with a big following’ had become something else. I guess playing to about a million people in a shed does that.

So, when I heard Oliveri had been sacked I figured it’d work out. I especially figured this when I heard Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top was playing on the next record (Lullabies To Paralyze). It looked good.
But then the record came out and it was…OK.

I wanted to love it because this guy is right in my book but there was something missing. I am not a musicologist so my best explanation is “the weird shit had gone”. Sorry, I said I am not a musicologist. That 60s garage rock feel, the randomness, the songs that sort of sound like the Kinks a bit, or Elvis Costello or The Sweet or just that sense of them coming from somewhere you’re not sure of. That lovely fresh feel that something like No One Knows had. The idea that every other band dealing in ‘heavy’ was just chasing this band’s heels. What you’re left with when you take the weird out of Queens is basically just alternative rock.
And those, “aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh” ghostly-moaning harmonised vocals. It suddenly got a bit Alice In Chains. A bit ‘angsty’. In other words, things I don’t relate to this band were suddenly part of it.

So, anyway, this year the new record comes out. I was hugely impressed by the collaborations with PJ Harvey on the Desert Sessions record. If Lullabies lacked something startling then a song like Make It Wit Chu and it’s Marvin Gaye-isms brought that back. I could handle and relate to that. Everything back on track.
Guess what? It’s the best thing on the new record by a mile. Everything else seems like a great intro but the song never happens. It’s like Homme’s natural ability to just shit riffs out of his ass is still present but no one has thought to shape them into anything that is exceptional.
I think I get what’s meant to be happening, that minimal motorik groove that the band are famous for seems to be the basis for the record with simple riffs pounded on and made huge. It’s a formula that seems to be the basis for the last Bjork record and the 2 are strangely similar. But whereas with Bjork she just records things in such a strange way that you’re thrust out of understanding the process and all you have is the song to digest, the Queens record just seems like a band trying to force a round peg in a square hole. As a rock band, if you fuck about with sounds and get a bit techno on your audience the potential for doing something genuinely new is heightened. Simultaneous to this, unfortunately, is the likelihood that what you end up with sounds like Nine Inch Nails or Marilyn Manson and I don’t give a fuck how nice those guys are and how cool it is to mince around in the desert with them, if you want a record to be good you keep any sign of them away from it. Don’t even mention their names as a joke in the studio or you hex the whole thing.

Still, at least the Bulby character adverts are funny as fuck. “Check my shoes, I think I just stepped in HIT!”.
But despite this, I still love this band. I am on their side.

So, Rock City, Sunday night, 3 albums and 7 years later.
80’s Matchbox B Line Disaster opened, taking full advantage of the age of the fanbase in the venue not being old enough to remember Livewire by Motley Crue. Both guitarists may as well have gone home. In fact they could have saved on van hire and just brought the bass drum, a bass with one low string on it and the vocalist for all I could hear out of the PA.
Rock City isn’t the nicest place to see a band though. It’s horribly designed, almost impossible to go for a slash or get a drink if it’s busy, the beer pumps never work (or if they do they figure the profit margins and time benefits of selling cans is better) and it often sounds crazy in there. All these regular problems were multiplied by about 50 by it being so oversold that every set of steps or walkway was rammed with people meaning any movement on your part was pretty much guaranteed to end in a fight. As a recent recipient of a new knee ligament, it was all a bit Bambi On Ice for me. It was like an obstacle course.
Also, it seemed like a more mainstream rock crowd. Queens in the past used to be a good place to meet your friends, my friend is strictly punk rock in the best sense but yet loves Queens and in fact emotionally refers to Homme as “The Ginger Elvis”. He wasn’t here. Instead it seemed like a lot of regular johns. Excuse the pun.

I saw the first 5 songs before my middle aged man-bladder got my attention and that was it. It took me 10 mins to go for a piss and then I couldn’t get anywhere where I could see. Not that I seem to have missed much. The sound was good but it didn’t sound like Queens anymore, the guitars sounded regular. It was all very normal sounding. No songs off the first record – and when the intro to a song like Misfit Love lasts longer than the whole of If Only then that’s a tragedy – and any older songs seemed to get fucked with until any feeling that they ever rocked had been sapped out of them.
Homme had a Discharge shirt on and the bass drum had a Black Flag logo on it but this was about as far from a punk rock show as you could imagine, it was a band running through the stuff they need to sell to a bunch of people who had paid so much money to get in that any feeling of objectivity had to have been removed. If I hadn’t been stuck next to the bar after having a wizz allowing me to at least get drunk, I think this gig might have just broken my heart.

I had to admit, after years of saying the opposite, that Queens without Nick Oliveri just isn’t as good. Maybe his role in the band was to stop Homme from doing anything that was bullshit, it certainly seems that way. I don’t miss the nudity, the (alleged) spousal battery and wackiness (I guess he was a member of The Dwarves, probably the shittiest band to ever get mileage out of playing with their cocks out) but I think what I miss is the feeling that it isn’t just another gig or just another album or that I’m a consumer. I miss that feeling of making things special and this being a band I would stand by no matter what.
Bang goes the job playing second guitar I suppose.

I had hoped to write something about Prinzhorn Dance School today, after seeing them play last night but I am off to Japan tomorrow and I haven’t found the time. I am slightly obsessed with the album so, if this continues, I will likely write something on my return. I would just like to say that of all the band combinations I have ever dreamt of, mixing up The Fall and Skinned Teen was not one I ever imagined actually happening. I am still not sure if this is a good thing.

Anyway, I am OFF and I hope the good people of diskant will keep you entertained in my absence. As mentioned in my babblings on the homepage, there will be no-one answering general diskant mails and no review CDs being passed out to reviewers for the next two weeks. Somehow, I doubt this will cause any huge problems in the real world.

See you in a fortnight!

So, yesterday was Hey You Get Off My Pavement, the annual alldayer by the lovely folks at Mono. The concept: a festival-like atmosphere in the city centre with awesome local bands, shopping, the wonderful Monorail, vegan foods and of course plentiful alcohol. Your ideal Sunday in Glasgow really.

The reality included all of the above but with constant pouring rain. Normally this would kill off a festival but luckily this one is held in a courtyard with concrete underfoot and sheltered areas all round so it only dampened the enthusiasm a little. The line-up was pretty fantastic already and the secret surprise guests turned out to be Franz Ferdinand which made us all feel a bit smug. Yes, we may be standing around in the rain like losers but you’re missing a tiny gig by Franz Ferdinand.

Anyway, I was doing a little stall inside (thanks everyone who stopped by!) so I was nicely sheltered but also cut off from the bands. I did see bits of Dananananaykroyd (riotously fun as ever) and The Twilight Sad (one of those bands who definitely have something and will probably do well but just don’t hugely appeal to me. You know?). Sadly Part Chimp pulled out but De Salvo seemed to be doing a reasonable job at trying to break some sound barriers in their absence.

Once I had packed up my stall it was time for Franz Ferdinand and it was still pissing it down but we are from Glasgow so we had hoods and hats and umbrellas. I haven’t seen Franz play since way back at the beginning so I was quite looking forward to seeing them. And thus quite surprised to discover they were really dull. I kept thinking they were playing new songs but then I would slowly recognise them as album tracks played in a rather lacklustre manner. No hits and nothing much particularly exciting. Very disappointing.

I might have blamed it in some part on the rain or the sound but Errors were on after and sounded immense. They managed a bigger moshpit than Franz and in more rain as well. Errors have been playing all over the place recently and have quite obviously grown more confident in their talents. They may still look like they’ve wandered in off the street but they’ve lost a lot of their previous rabbit in the headlights nervousness, and their onstage banter is even almost decipherable. But none of that really matters when you have a synth that goes URRRRRRR and you play it very loudly alongside those chiming guitar lines and the relentless drumming. By the time they pulled out a glitched-up extended Mr Milk people were punching the air and dancing in the rain and Franz Ferdinand were all but forgotten.

I love Glasgow. I really do.

(I love Mono too. Thanks to everyone for such a fun day.)

Chris S appears to have the proper-review-with-photos-and-everything side of things covered for last weekend’s Primavera Sound, which quite tidily leaves me a small window for a few thoughts (which at present is the best I can muster).

Arrive on Thursday, am reminded just how excellent Dirty Three are after many years of completely neglecting them. Warren Ellis has turned into an old man since last I saw them. Run off to catch Melvins play Houdini, which is absolutely joyous. Impossibly loud rhythm section. By the time they get to Going Blind, I am taking a severe pummeling to the kidneys from an assortment of idiots behind me, and slink down to catch the start of Slint. Third time I’ve seen them, just as great, and just as wrong as ever. Leave after Washer and miss the new song (?!) to catch Comets on Fire. They have started playing and roughly ten people are watching. By the end of The Bee and the Crackin’ Egg it is packed and they are melting eyeballs left right and centre. Various technical difficulties do not stop me having a one-man boogie against the barrier (oo-er). Completely miss Smashing Pumpkins who I was kind of looking forward to seeing, but do catch Mike Patton and Christian Fennesz being weird and loud and great. By this point I have drunk my body weight in Estrella Damm and am absolutely steaming. See the White Stripes play Hotel Yorba and Jolene and it is excellent. Get down the front for Justice, take one look at their stage setup and am reduced to a squealing adolescent. They provide bangers the likes of which I have never before known, and Girl Talk, and in fact the next 36 hours slides past me in a haze of broken sofa beds and apocalyptic headaches.

Forward to Saturday, when I am fully refreshed and generally feeling like a new man. Roll down early on the advice of my friend Barney to see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, who are totally great. Always someone I’ve managed to overlook, but this is totally joyous, uplifting, classic indie rock with a Daft Punk cover, in the sun, with the ocean a few metres away and I am made up. See a bit of the Long Blondes but they’re not up to much. Likewise The Durutti Column. The sun goes down and Pelican are pretty good and play the first song from Australasia as I am hanging over a wall watching boats and things go past. Straight after them is Isis, who are somewhat surprisingly one of the best bands of the weekend. Or maybe even ever. The rubbish songs off the rubbish new album sound great, The Beginning and the End is so heavy I fear my eyes are about to get sucked out of my head, and my neck and shoulders are extremely painful for the next two days. Third time seeing Sonic Youth, absolute gash as always. Go and have a bit of a dance at the Vice stage to R Kelly and things. Is amazing. Thanks to a few one euro Jagermeisters I am once again completely buckled and am forced to have a bit of a sit down. Go to see Grizzly Bear, fall asleep on the grass at the side of the stage within 23 seconds of them starting. Wake up freezing but not needing to vomit nearly as much. Grizzly Bear have finished. Hang around and watch a bit of Mum who always seem to pop up at exactly the right time. Go and watch Battles who are boss. Dance to Atlas on my own at the back like a massive chump. Go and lie on some grass. See the start of Erol Alkan‘s set, and decide that the new stage layout, coupled with the fact that he appears to be exclusively playing extremely bland house, make the likelihood of a recreation of his slot last year seem impossible. Go get the metro.

A very excellent time indeed. Justice were worth the air fare alone. As if all this weren’t enough, I then spent a few rather massive days in the lovely, if stinky, city of Barcelona.

Had really forgotten just how dismal England is.

It really has been a while. I last saw Trail of Dead live maybe two years ago (maybe three!) and this was a bit of a come down for both of us. They had been downgraded from the QM to the much much smaller Oran Mor and I was reduced to standing on a chair at the back of the venue rather than stageside. They are so much more suited to smaller venues though that it was more of a treat then anything. But first there was Forget Cassettes, the other band of one of the new TOD guys (I keep getting them mixed up…) who had so many technical difficulties that they only got to play about 4 songs. With retro grumbly keyboards, strong female vocals and swathes of guitar noise they were a bit like a noise goth PJ Harvey, the singer similarly striking. I was not in good shape though so they mostly gave me a sore head. Later I managed to totally bash my head in and have a nice bump to show for it. In the olden days this would have been due to excessive fun, these days it is because of tiredness and not looking where I’m going. Sigh.

So, Trail of Dead. The first two songs were utterly atrocious, so much so that I actually almost left. Relative Ways has never been in my top 100 TOD songs and I don’t think Conrad has ever managed to hit those high notes so it was all quite painful. Surprisingly, it was another song I never liked, The Best from Worlds Apart, that turned things around and had them back at what they do best – riot action prog rock. A few Jason songs with him careering around the place like the mentalist he is ( in the audience, up the speaker stacks) got everything properly started and from then on it was all good, if a bit ragged round the edges. Never having been the biggest followers of professionalism or, well, being in tune, they just pulled out all the old stuff and had fun with it, the new guys helping free up Conrad and Jason for more audience interation. Totally Natural, Richter Scale Madness and, of course, A Perfect Teenhood all got the extended fervoured spoken word extended middle treatment and were triple the fun. It all felt like a celebration, like those early days of mayhem and over-excitement. I felt quite nostalgic really. They may have never fulfilled their potential or made their millions but they still know how to work a crowd and how to entertain and how to make me laugh and that’s good enough for me.

The Good

The new site at Butlins in Minehead features clean, well appointed chalets with widescreen-TVs and DVD players. You didn’t see that at Camber Sands.

Meeting fellow Diskanteers who had previously just been names at the bottom of reviews.

Alexander Tucker’s wonderful folky-melodies, which are looped and layered and looped again until building to a wonderful and soothing drone. I’m keen to check out some of his recordings, none of which, sadly, could be found at the merchandise table.

Decent weather for the first couple of days.

Lots of friendly folks who are happy to chat to you even when sober.

David Tibet and Nurse With Wound in hip-hop collaboration shocker!

Getting in to see the Stooges on the second day (despite not having the “correct” wristband). This was the last band of the festival for us, and after three days of chin-stroking, some all-out rawk showmanship was the perfect closer.

The Bad

Lengthy queues to get into the two main venues at any time after about 8pm. You didn’t see that at Camber Sands. The best tactic seemed to be to pick the stage which featured the most acts you were interested in, find a comfortable spot, and stay there. Gone, sadly, are the days when you could flit from stage to stage and potentially catch every band of the festival.

The mad crush to get on the coach to/from the nearest railway station. On the way there we opted to avoid the crowds and get a taxi, only to be scalped £45 for the privilege. On the way back we had a lengthy wait in the rain in order to have a reasonable chance of getting a seat on the first bus, and there was plenty of pushing and shoving in the scramble to get on board.

Jackie-O Motherfucker cancelling.

Third-day noise fatigue.

Our neighbours inviting the whole camp back to their chalet for a party at four in the morning.

The Ugly
Dead Machines’ samey noise and urine-popsicle story.