Ash in The Pan. Burnout Festival live review.

Burnout Festival (The Ashes)
The Anvil
Bournemouth Saturday 27th-Sunday 28th July

Right, let's get the grotty stuff out of the way first. The regrettable cancellation of what was potentially the UK's best small festival line up with around 80 bands over three stages over a couple of days at the seaside. A genuine tragedy for all concerned, the bands, the fans the organising team, and in particular Dom Patience the main man and brainchild behind the event. A more genuine man you couldn't choose to meet. And a genuine music man through and through. 

The reasons for cancellation were candidly and heartbreakingly broken by the team only 5 or so days before the event. Poor ticket sales being the premier spanner in the works. Maybe not totally unsurprising given the clash with relatively local Redfest with many of the bands due to appear here also on the bill in Redhill. Add in the almost uncontrollable heated bacterial growth of the number of festivals up and down the country at this time of year and things were always going to be tough.

That all said, it's to Patience's enormous credit that he rallied around and persuaded half a dozen bands on each night to heroically volunteer their services for free. So further big ups to all the talent who so generously put their shoulders behind Patience to make the weekend become unmissable.

Ok, that's the last time we'll mention all that malarky. So on with the shows.

But first a brief word about the Anvil. This is a small venue. Brilliant. But small. No, really small. Fritzl's dungeon small. It makes the Barfly look like Madison Square Gardens. But armed with a sizeable bugger of a front of house PA, what it lacks in size, it makes up for with balls. Anyway, onwards... 


Saturday

Shockmaster *****
Kicking off proceedings in the dungeon are the brain-wronged skate punk bin men Shockmaster with the ever-loveable and cheeky bastard Mike Foster driving the dysfunctional dustcart. 

A short, fiery, fun-filled bombardment including new fast ones and new slow ones and even a skirmish with death metal (which could have been lifted from The Hell's savage new album download it here) serve as a perfect appetiser for the good-sized sweaty crowd. Foster is in hilarious form. Witty, quick, endearing, ribald and always beguiling. And although I can't work out whether they're just a novelty act, they're really not bad. In a brain-wronged skate punk bin men kind of way. 

Have a listen to their latest Steve Sears Jr-produced  EP here and you'll get the picture.

Tasting notes: They remind me of that rotten pickled cabbage stuff that Koreans eat; Kim Chi. On the face of it, bloody horrible, but somehow irresistible.

Earth Eater *****
A right old interesting melange. Flash, heavy riffs, growly powerful aggressive vocals, big rhythm section. More Parkway Crescent than Parkway Drive, but energetic, tight and even throw in a solo. Had a few sound issues but brave and engaging effort.

Tasting notes: A hot and relatively subtly spiced, fiery bowl of devilled offal. A bit confusing but with enough difference to generate interest. Nothing too startlingly original but pretty tasty all said.

Emily Wilson ***1/2**
Next up on this mainly hardcore/punky/brutal evening is the diminutive but huge-piped Emily Wilson and her band. Anomalous and incongruous as though their blend of frothy pop rock is on a night like tonight, it's actually rather jolly good.

Cleanly sparkling in among the torn flesh, briars, napalm and vicious weaponry of the other acts, her voice is majestic; hitting every note and soaring above the chuggy Bon Jovi/Rainbow MOR dad rock her backing band thump out effortlessly. The songs are hooky, backed with laptop-triggered strings, harmonies and pads and despite a dreadfully out of tune acoustic guitar on a nostalgic pared-down number about being 17, the set is polished and tasty. Out of the same biscuit tin as Portia Conn and even slight hints of Paramore chocolate chips. Cracking voice though.

Tasting notes: Silky but not sickly. One of those enormous cartoon book ice cream sundaes, but spiked with sneaky bits of raw meat and the occasional shard of glass. 

Palm Reader *****
So, after the schmoove pop rock grooves of Emily Wilson, it's time to strip to the waist, don the war paint and get into some brutal hand-to-hand combat in the swampy dungeon. The AC unit is spewing out a stream of water to add to the steamy, brooding Louisianna backwoods Deliverance feeling. I fear for my anus.


Despite ongoing mic problems, front man man Josh Mckeown leads his horrible horde into a savage assault. The crowd move up a gear turning into a seething, boggy murky lake of sweaty humanity baying back the words and swallowing up Mckeown into its guts.

Palm Reader force feed themselves on metal, hardcore, vicious punk, claymores, flick knives and caustic soda then bulimically vomit the malodorous and fiery fois gras gack all back into the swirling swamp; and they slurp up the unholy mixture greedily.

One of the human swamp actually gets stark bollock naked at one point; to win an anorak. Standard. Which sums up the stygian squalor of the set. Dark, fierce, mean and festering.

Tasting notes: a filthy but full-flavoured stew of red meat with bramble thorns, sharp gravel and bile reduced and enriched with chilli seeds and ear wax (and we all know how bitter that tastes don't we kids?). Disgusting, but bizarrely, hugely appetising.

Polar*****
Out of the same section of the illegal arms supermarket as buddies Palm Reader, Polar are the next nuclear fuel tipped into Fritzl's furnace. And they get things even hotter. Just when you think the level has reached its upper limit, the Guildford noseniks perform open heart surgery on the soggy, hyped up rabid crowd with a dirty crowbar, chainsaw and rusty razor blades. This is high energy, raw filth with big refrains and as near to hooks as hardcore can offer. 

The crowd, however do strangely start to wane a little as the relentless barrage continues and the mic, once more joins them in not getting fully involved. But Adam Woodford heroically powers on through, wringing what he can out of both the technology and the crowd. A full-on energetic set from one of the UK's most full-on energetic bunch of blokes.

Tasting notes: powerful and full-on chilli con carne with rusty tacks, rat poison and semtex served on a bed of mescalin infused maggots in a corroded jagged artillery shell casing. Fierce.

Heights****1/2*
Touring with both Palm Reader and Polar, Hertfordshire''s  brutal but quirky Heights are given the task of closing tonight's sweaty sodomy fest. There are obvious similarities to the other two bands, but their fare is more varied. More full of nuance and dare I say, subtlety. 

Their work appears more carefully crafted. There are more melodic moments. More light and shade. Don't get me wrong, they're still fearsome and dripping with ferocity but there are more textures. More depth. More intrigue.

The crowd are bullied back into life. Pyramids, circle pits, walls of death and general mayhem ensue with singer Alex Monty milking the adulation from the now dripping and wrung-out throng.

The classiest act of the night by a distance and set for bigger stages (although compared to here, that's not difficult). By the time the last bowel pummelling power chord and scream fades into the fuggy, humid haze there isn't an unsoaked shirt, an untortured limb or unhoarse throat in the subterranean reactor. Hot, heady and handsome stuff.

Tasting notes: On the face of it a what you'd expect deep brown, volcanic vindaloo-looking bowl of fire. But under the surface there's a huge variety of spices, colours and flavours. Quirky mixtures and brave juxtapositions of seemingly unworkable ingredients. But well fucking tasty.

Now for the after party...

Sunday.

Really glad I baled earlyish from on the after party. 

But still managed to appropriate a vast bin-shaped hangover.

Before I dive into today's bands, in keeping with last year's Burnout review where the mighty Shahi Raj got 5 stars, I thought I should run the rule over a local restaurant.

Dosa World *****
This year, it's the turn of Dosa World.

Clay oven-baked spicy fish. Think Tool. Sophisticated but big on flavour. With background quirky and original taste of Meet Me In St Louis. Mutton curry: deep, rich, delicious. Think Mastodon crossed with early Sabbath with a light sprinkling of Enter Shikari or At The Drive in. Devil potatoes: Definitely the Reuben of the meal. Like nothing else. Fiery but sweet in places. Merlot: think Chet Baker and Maybeshewill. Mellow with edge. Right that's quite enough of that, back to the real food...

Mike Foster*****
He's back. Flat cap 'n' all. But just with his acoustic this time and no fellow bin men. And funny as fuck. Skewy sidewipes at Nike dunk wearing hardcore kids, fun, wit, bant, sweat. Bin. Great start to the night.

Tasting notes: A zinger burger (remember them?) and a jumbo bucket of chicken wings. Served with spicy relish spiked with African Black Bush Giggle Grass or a Thai stick (ask your dad kids) oh, and some more of that Korean Kim Chi shit. Tasty fun.

Pump Action Radio *****
Next up we're treated to Fall Out Boy. Well, it might as well be. With perhaps a dash of Funeral For a Friend. Ok, maybe a bit unfair, but despite the apparent lack of total originality, these local lads bravely steam through a tight, drop tuned rocky punky set that showcases the singer's good, strong voice. Nowt too new but a good effort.

Tasting notes: Sugar coated vanilla with a comforting familiarity. No real bite or spice, but ultimately reasonably satisfying. More McDonalds than Michelin star.

Yearbook****1/2*
One of the absolute highlights of last year's Burnout, there's a real anticipation in the bunker as the kings of librarycore take to the stage.

Unlike the similarly young Pump Action Radio, Yearbook truly are original. Totally impossible to categorise, they bestride bundles of influences but usually only fleetingly. For a nanosecond you're being Weezered. Then, there's a sharp veering towards the choppy math rock of Brontide. But the very next moment there's the powerful aroma of Sikth or Flood Of Red. And the resultant melange is wonderful, heady and spellbinding.

They're so tight and full of chops and groove. Bolstered by big sphincter-loosening bass drops and illuminated by what looks like wartime searchlights. This is a sensory overload. 

However, Andy Halloway's normally über-impressive vocals, which famously effortlessly switch between crystal clear almost soprano to spine-shuddering screams and even rock diva are unfortunately a little off kilter tonight as even the emergency vocal spray fails to fully oil his mojo. Nevertheless, the enthusiastic crowd sing just about every word of the older tunes and Louis Martin the bass player, backing vox, head groundsman, bottle washer and lighting controller manfully steps in when it's just too challenging for Halloway's howls.

Saying that, there's well enough of the crooner's range that remains unaffected so the overall output is only minutely interfered with. Hamish Dickinson's drumming is razor sharp throughout and with Brooker and Halloway's duelling guitars being so umbilically linked, the overall effect is as mesmerising as it is delicious.

A couple of new tunes are thrown in among the crowd-pleasing favourites Visionary, Art Student, the raw and brilliant All Squares and Circles culminating with the not too regularly aired 3s and 6s. And it's brilliant. Simply, well, not really simply at all, brilliant.

Tasting notes: more of a surprising and complex cocktail than something to eat. Sharp, multi-layered, sophisticated yet playful and laced with mind-altering elixirs, unctions and magical potions. Impossible to accurately describe but astonishingly intoxicating. Cheers. Hic.

Idiom ***1/2**
Hairy pop/alt metal next. There are moments of generic fare, but they're fully outweighed by the overall variety in the offering. Ranging from dubby/rappy interludes to Robert Plantesque vocal gymnastics from singer Matt Sharland, Idiom have bags of energy and aren't afraid to mix old with new, optimistic daylight with doom laden dominatrix dungeon gloom and even unsavoury fisting with passionate caressing. And all delivered with genuine and honest passion.

Think Terrovision and Bullet For My Valentine's bastard lovechild brought up by Korn and forced to listen to A and REO Speedwagon but with Dimebag on guitar. A fucked up kid maybe, but genuinely interesting and refreshing. 

Tasting notes: Beer. Cold, pilsner beer. But mixed with  a foaming hoppy old farty Scruttock's ale. Then topped up with spiced rum. And washed down with after shave. A bit weird but ultimately powerful and distinctive. 

The Smoking Hearts *****
Smoking hearts on sleeve more like. You always know what you're going to get from Ben Mills and his noisy bastard sidekicks. And honest, frenzied, genuine and full-on passion fest. Certainly not dimmed lights, nibbles on the neck and chocolates passion; more like a clothes ripping salivating, screaming, chandelier-swinging brutalisation jiz explosion kind of passion. With a ski mask and a butt plug. And, ladies and gents, that's what we get tonight. No respite, no tenderness, no time to catch breath or sip from the flute of love. A sound fucking. Even with a brutal Rolling Stones cover thrown in as lube. Ow.

Tasting notes: Impossible to equate with food. More like a Lemmy-esque menu of bags of speed, handfuls of amphetamines, gallons of Jack Daniels, lashings of poppers and a cherry Bakewell. Without the cherry Bakewell. 

Arcane Roots *****
For these boys to agree to do this show speaks volumes about their support, not just for Mr Patience, but for music itself. After recently supporting Muse in European Stadia, having produced what's already clearly the album of the year and rapidly becoming the musicians' favourite musicians and careering headlong for what looks like well-deserved superstardom, the chance to see them perform in something the size of your nan's under stair cupboard is to much of a mind fuck to contemplate. But here they bloody well are.

The hum that kicks off Energy Is Never Lost just Redirected has become a staple of an AR set starter now and fuels the heightened anticipation of a now packed under stair cupboard.

Then it kicks off. The best part of an hour of total, unmitigated genius. The big numbers from Blood and Chemistry are given airings including the searing Sacred Shapes, the mega-chuggy half time infused Resolve and the delicious single Slow (sadly no Triptych as yet, but Mr Groves did promise to unveil its live glory at the fabulous Arc Tan Gent festival later this month). Old favourite You Are brings the house down as tapped riff as it lurches its head from the dreamy loch of Andrew Groves' improvised noodlings.  

Groves' incredible voice has never sounded better. The highs almost dog-whistle range and the control and soul is peerless. As always it's wonderfully counterpointed by Adam Burton's canine barks and growls. The hypnotised crowd lose their collective shit pretty much constantly throughout the set generating a superheated sweat box with cider and Sailor Jerry infused condensation dripping from the ceiling. And just about every word is sung back  passionately. What an end to a phenomenal and breathless weekend.

Arcane Roots are, without a doubt one of the very finest bands in the UK, no, fuck it, the world. After decades of going to literally hundreds, if not thousands of shows, I find it hard to recall anyone better. And on the strength of tonight's amazing performance, they're managing somehow to perfect perfection. Astonishing. Simply Astonishing.

Tasting notes: the finest hand-massaged fillet steak sizzled in the finest vintage Grand Cru Pauillac prepared by the finest chefs and served with the most piquant and eye-watering reduction imaginable. All class. But this is no languid, indulgent and gluttonous bacchanalian or sybaritic vulgar orgy; nah, it's psychopathically fucked up with meth, fire, brimstone, weapons grade uranium and so much scotch bonnet spice it makes your nob throb even without  touching it. Masterful.

So, that wraps up what was left of Burnout. I can't stress enough how amazing it was of all the bands to put their hands up to play over the weekend. Their selfless, ego-less support truly marks them out as genuine and remarkable human beings. The same obviously goes for Dom Patience and his small but dedicated team. 

Let's hope that he doesn't lose the faith that so many brilliant (and some shit) bands have benefitted from over the years. I know he has plans and dreams for next year. Let's hope they come true. For all our sakes.

In the meantime, here's a pissed up iPhone video thingy of the weekend.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

Small wonder – Burnout Festival

Burnout Festival*****

The George Andover

July 27^th-29^th 2012

Right, let’s get the scale thing out of the way first. The George is no Hammersmith Odeon. Or Knebworth Park. It has no portaloos. No asian noodle stalls. No fairground. No mud. It does have a fireplace though. And is about the size of Katie Price’s walk in wardrobe.

This is no ‘normal’ festival. And thank the lord for that.

Nearly 30 bands over a weekend in the bucolic surroundings of sleepy market town of Andover. It’s in Hampshire apparently.

The George...Venue of leg ends

Small in scale though it might be, it makes up for it in the grand scale of ambition and vision. And pretty much down to the cojones of one extraordinary bloke. Dom Patience is the Michael Eavis of the underground and alt scene. And has curated one of the most staggeringly exciting casseroles of noiseniks, ne’erdowells and new talent imaginable.

Before I kick off, a brief confession: I didn’t get to see all the bands. There, I said it. What a pussy. But my advancing years, over-burdened liver and need for the odd afternoon nap meant that, sadly, some of the acts would go unseen.

So, many apologies to the acts I didn’t get to haul my arse in front of, it really is no sleight or snub, just a failing, aging body and a pitiful withering of stamina. I can’t even blame any clashes, as the military-like precision of the organisation meant that there were no overlaps between the main stage and the acoustic stage.

Friday.

Anyway, the scene is set. The cider poured. The earplugs inserted. Let’s do this.

First up are Treasures*****

A fairly generic sounding tuneful bunch. Nothing too challenging as a starter. Prawn cocktail rather than snail porridge. Not dissimilar to Futures or Natives and even imbued with traces of Canterbury. There are bucketloads of tidy, competent bands like this lot and, to be honest, they’ve got their work cut out to compete with some of the already more established bands cluttering up the genre. They weren’t helped by technical difficulties either, but an SG was rushed to the accident scene to save the day, and, ironically probably helped beef up the sound compared to the omnipresent Telecaster-tinged sounds. A good start though. And a bloody good drummer.

Next up were Natives***** a really tidy, slick set of big tunes, exuberance and energy. Not going to set the world on fire but continued the good work of the recent tour with Futures and Don Broco. It’ll be really interesting to see how they develop and create a sustainable difference in a crowded niche. A really decent bacon sandwich.

Starters and sarnies consumed. Time for some red meat. And Burn The Fleet ***** offer the perfect sizzling sirloin with all the trimmings. Andrew Convey, resplendent in hideous Hawaiian shirt leads from the front, gurning, grimacing and growling through a mesmerising and brilliant set. The guys really look as though they’re having fun and it’s infectious; the packed pit shaking their collective wobbly bits and joining in with hearty sing-a-longs. By the time the anthemic Handfuls of Sand brings the tragically short set to a close there’s not a brow without a bead of lager-infused sweat or a face without a giddy smile. Yummy stuff.

Mallory Knox***** are next on the menu and judging by the outstanding single Death Rattle, their sound has filled out, been polished and perfected (thanks in no small way to the Jesus-like genius of Mr Daniel Lancaster’s knob twiddling and guidance) and they are emerging as a fully developed masters of the pop rock alt vibe.

Mikey Chapman, their beguiling and affable front man looks and sounds the part and ably supported by great harmonies, cracking tunes and a big, ballsy sound. Definitely more towards haute cuisine. A really decent fillet steak.

The crowd are certainly enjoying the fare and are gorging themselves in the hot kitchen and there’s a definite buzz building before the mighty Bedfordshire Brocan army invades the room.

By now the bijou venue is rammed to the rafters and salivating in drooly anticipation for tonight’s main course. The present darlings of the britrock scene Don Broco***** stride on stage and own it. And I mean totally own it.

There’s a swagger and a confidence about these boys that lights up the place. It appears to be so far from arrogance though. Thankfully. Rob Damiani makes every bloke in the crowds’ dicks shrink and wither like a salted slug. He’s impossibly cool, hench, good looking and probably hung like a hoover. But the collective jealousy is fashioned into a joyous adulation. There can be no finer feel-good band in the land at the moment and their tight, catchy, joyful blend of heaviness, harmony and technical excellence puts them so far ahead of the chasing pack that they genuinely are in a class of their own.

The new tunes sound huge and if the rest of the highly anticipated Priorities album lives up to the title track, Actors and Fancy Dress, then it will surely become album of the year. Their set is perfectly balanced and it’s a genuine pleasure to witness a full headline set rather than the standard support slot half an hour.

There are walls of death, push ups in the pit and general mayhem as everyone gets involved raising the already sweltering temperature and oozing out more sweat than Gary Glitter in a wendy house.

These lads work their toned arses off (#nohomo) and all the toilet venues and dingy cellars will soon be a thing of the past. They are destined for hugeness and tonight that’s exactly what they were. Huge. Fucking huge.

I just hope Rob’s actually got a dick like a sardine.

Saturday.

I’ve got to admit, I do struggle with the ongoing obsession with catergorising or pigeonholing bands down to micro genres. The needless clamour for creating complex phylums, species and genuses for music is as pointless as it is fucking annoying. Whether something is hardcore, post rock hardcore, post hardcore, metalcore or rotten fucking applecore is just so irrelevant. If it’s good, it’s good.

So, with that in mind, if you’re one of those nerdy, anal, sad bellends who gets hung up on the tribal taxonomy, then I’m sorry for offending your compulsions when I try and describe the bands on what is ostensibly a heavy Saturday.

I’ve also got to say, despite loving the heavier side of things from time to time (DEP, Architects, KSE and Parkway Drive being particular faves), dirty metallic stuff is not really totally my thing. So today was potentially not going to be too comfortable.

Add in the mutha of all hangovers and it was potentially going to hurt. Undeterred, I finally haul my rear end out of bed and dive into Death of An Artist ***** As I said, I’m not one for genres, but I suppose it’s relatively safe to call this lot metalcore. A classic (if not surely passing its sell by date) combo of clean vox and growly, grizzly shouty stuff accompanied by big riffs, spectacular breakdowns and blast beats. That said, they are pretty good at what they do. And an energetic and surprisingly tasty looking pit broke out for the last song. There was even a very heavily inked diminutive guest screamer for one song who I’m sure I’m supposed to know which other band he’s from. But I didn’t. Sorry. A pretty good start to the day though.

As the beer sweats and general queeziness ramped up, I have to admit, I retired to the acoustic stage for a wee while. I propped myself in the corner with restorative boozy tinctures and was treated to a mixed bag of strummers, singers and, well, non-singers.

The main non-singer culprit being Ben Mills from The Smoking Hearts who along with guitarist Paul Barrow formed Cynics Don't Build Pyramids *****manfully rambled their way through a chaotic set including a Bronx cover, forgotten lyrics and probably about 2 of the 2,000 notes actually hit by Mills. Painful at times but gameful stuff. (As an aside I saw a slice of the Smoking Hearts***** later when Mills, much more comfortable with hardcore screaming than louche melodic crooning actually took his mic into the alley outside the main room to scream his spleen out to the surprised smokers and suppers enjoying a sunny Saturday afternoon).

In contrast, Mark Betteridge *****(From Death Of An Artist) seemed much more comfortable acoustically, and although I didn’t manage to catch the whole set, his more melodic and plaintive sounds seemed to go down as well as the chilled mid-afternoon beverages. Nice.

A pillar. And Mike Foster.

Next up in the acoustic sanctuary is Mike Foster***** a larger than life, fun-filled cheeky chappy who, by his own admission, is too pissed to remember his set list and many songs. No matter, he cruises through half an hour of light-hearted crowd participatory fun and adds a sea of smiles to a good sized crowd’s collective fizogs. Especially his pointed and hilarious piss-take of the omnipresent Frank Turner. And he even did a Dopamine cover (whatever happened to them?)

It was becoming more and more apparent that I wasn’t going to get involved in a lot of the heavier goings on in the main room but I did regularly pop in to check on the noisy bastards and caught slices of who I think was Agitator, Heart in Hand and Hang The Bastard. All energetic, filthy noise and bloody loud chest-thumping stuff. But, to be fair it’d be disingenuous to dole out reviews as my stays in the bowels of the hadean pit were fleeting and a bit like ‘spotting’ through a vinyl longplayer (ask your dad kids).

And now comes the shocking bit. I’d been looking forward to seeing TRC as one of the potential highlights of the weekend. But I bloody missed them. Due to a cock up on my time planning and a desire to stuff my face with Lamb Hariali (prepared perfectly at the wonderful Shahi Raj***** and washed down with lashings of Mateus Rosé – all class!). A complete shambles. Missing TRC – not the curry, clearly.

So, crest fallen and full of lamb and fizzy 70s Portugese wine I plonked myself in front of a cut-down Evarose***1/2** in the acoustic room. And I have to say, the spacey, chilled vibe appealed to me much more than their normal Paramore-esque pap punk. Dannika Webber can really sing and the set was a every bit as much of a surprise as it was a triumph.

So, still pissed off at missing TRC I steeled myself for the last act of the day. Localish metalcore darlings Bury Tomorrow*****

And I was blown away. As I say, the whole metalcore formula does little for me, but this lot have got it nutted. At the core of their success is the thing that many bands forget – tunes. They’ve got IKEA shopping bags stuffed full of them. 

Yes, there’s a screamer, but Daniel Winter-Bates is an engaging, aggressive, and charisma-steeped screamer (who, since cutting his Bullet for My Valentine chip pan grease-soaked locks looks like Brad Bloody Pitt) and leads his fierce orchestra through a powerful set including the two massive crowd pleasers Royal Blood, and Lionheart dovetailed with older stuff and some new top tunes like An Honourable Reign from the excellent recent album The Union Of Crowns. Impressive stuff.

Let’s not talk about the after party….

Sunday

Shouldn’t have gone to the after party. Uuuurghhhh.

Anyway, restored by a fine Sunday lunch and a bottle of Chianti, time to get involved in the last day of what was rapidly becoming one of my favourite festivals ever.

Daylight Fireworks***1/2** were my first selection from the pick and mix and were pretty sweet. The trio produced a set built on an indie skeleton with impressively buff rock flesh on its bones. Decent tunes, performed with verve and punch and even swapping between bass and guitar. A darned fine start to the day.

Next were Coastlines**1/2*** and they served up a pleasant enough buffet of harmony-drenched pop rock hewn from the same base stone as Canterbury, Natives, Futures et al. Nothing startlingly original but genuinely well played and some great melodies. Too many Telecasters though (personal gripe, but there don’t seem to be enough double coiled planks being spanked these days, the Telecaster with it’s uglier than Simon Cowell’s arsehole headstock is taking over the world. Nyah ha ha.)

Complete change of pace and vibe next. Like a flaming rusty bucket of meths and absinthe spiked with Quaaludes being served at a Chateau Margaux wine tasting, hunk rockers Real Adventures***** are next. And the ragamuffins only go and blow the bloody doors off. Like pissing on a high voltage electric fence or using jump leads on your nob, this band of miscreants wake up the crowd on a sedate Hampshire Sunday afternoon with a full-on blitzkrieg assault of every orifice. 

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing this lot several times, but this afternoon, they reach a new level. The electrocuted, meths/absinthe/Quaalude intoxicated crowd throw themselves about with singer Lewis Reynolds in the rusty bucket alongside them even forming the weekend’s first human pyramid. On a sodding Sunday afternoon. Brilliant, raw, indigestion-giving splendidness.

Another act I’d really been looking forward to seeing were Yearbook***** After hearing a fair smattering of their oeuvre on Alex Baker’s magnificent unsigned show on Kerrang! Radio, I was desperate to hear more stuff and to see if they had the live chop I hoped they had.

And I wasn’t disappointed. A crackling, searing, surreal set seduced, assaulted, violated, intrigued and dumfounded the packed room. Thankfully impossible to categorise, they bestride chasms between Weezer, Manchester Orchestra, Tool, Frank Zappa and leak out traces of Mars Volta and Reuben with mathy passages Dillinger would be proud of. One of the absolute highlights of the weekend. Geeky, emotive genius.

In between all the pop 'n' roll, I headed back to the acoustic stage for a wee break to catch a young, inked girl and an acoustic guitar player*****. I'm fed up I didn't catch her/their name. But they were blinding The wee girl's voice was absolutely huge. They re-appeared later in the evening to play the same set again and with equal brilliance. I'd love to know who she/they were/was as I was blown away. (I've just found out they're called Checking Pulse. Wahey!)

On the home straight now. Welsh wunderkinds Straight Lines***1/2** are next to entertain. And they serve up a table groaning with tuneful meatiness. Tom Jenkins’s original and brilliant voice soars over a well-executed and big-boned backdrop. They remind me a little of an early Lost Prophets if they’d had a real singer instead of a vain, image obsessed twat. Good stuff all round.

I sadly missed Sharks. Italian food and a delicious Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc did for them. But I was back to catch the lion’s share of Canterbury***1/2**And, despite a worry that they were going to meld seamlessly into the pop rock flavours and essences of the others of similar vibe (Nativefuturetreasurecoastlines) I was pleasantly surprised at the gap between them and the others. Seriously slick, tuneful but meaty pop-flavoured rock delivered with an adroitness Coldplay would be proud of. Far more energetic than on record, I’ll definitely give them another go as soon as poss. Not world lighting, more of a substantial roaring campfire. With sausages.

To be honest, my age and Olympian booze consumption wads getting to me now and crisp sheets were beginning to beckon me in a whisper at the back of my music-filled bonce. But I couldn’t bow out until I’d seen one of my very favourite live bands on the planet. The Xcerts****1/2*

Murray (The bastard by product of a petri-dish experiment involving Sam from Architects, Tom Petty, Cobain, A Jacamo shirt and an Afghan hound) Macleod leads on his road warriors to a rapturous welcome and drops straight into Do You Feel Safe. And kills it. As always.

Ok, I’m biased, but quite why this trio aren’t more widely successful and huge is beyond me. Their sound is totally original, fusing indie, grunge, pop and proper stand up rock and roll. And live they produce such a massive, arse-wobbling din spiked with beautiful soft cadenzas and fragile, plaintive gorgeouseness. The set had a tooth removed tonight due to Macleod’s trademark Marshall cab having a minor breakdown (replaced by a stonking sounding Blackstar cab) but the overall bite was as classy and fulfilling as ever.

And it wasn’t going to be topped by Futures.

So the allure of the crisp sheets won out and via a minor diversion to see the delicious and stunning Portia Conn***** deliver a delicious and stunning set in the acoustic room I headed back to my hotel. Emotionally and physically spent.

Before I piss off, I’ve got to say Dom Patience deserves the biggest of all big ups. Along with his brilliant team of helpers, aides, security guys and gals and staff at The George, he has served up three of the most incredible days I’ve ever had the pleasure of being involved with. His vision, drive and commitment to emerging British musical talent is as laudable as it is impressive. Despite missing too many bands and consuming more booze than is scientifically possible I struggling to think of a better weekend I’ve ever had.

So he’d better fucking do it again next year. Genius stuff. Genius bloke.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!