Takedown, deeper and down. Review of Takedown Festival 2013

Takedown 2013 *****

IDivide, Hey Vanity, Marmozets, Subsource, Max Raptor, Affiance, Closure In Moscow, The Algorithm, Sonic Boom Six, Burn The Fleet, Arcane Roots, Don Broco and more

Southampton University 11th May 2013

After last year's tour de force, Takedown 2013 has a lot to live up to. But today's line up looks, if anything, even stronger than last year, so the signs are good.

Anyway, wristband on, cider in hand, let's do this.

I Divide ***1/2**

First up Exeter boys I Divide on the Big Deal stage. Well, in the SU bar really. And, bizarrely with the footie on the telly throughout the set. A scary and daunting slot to be first up on such a huge day, but the lads produce a crackling set of tuneful alt rock to kick things off with aplomb.

Front man Tom Kavanagh is a lively ringmaster with a big voice and he leads his circusmen from the front with real energy throughout. It's easy to stick them in the same box file as Mallory Knox, WATO and even Hey Vanity, and similarly (and mercifully) there's a decent amount of difference between them and the many other me-too post-hardcore, alt pop/rock bands up and down the land. And on today's performance and in front of a decent sized and enthusiastic crowd, they look destined for bigger things. 

Hey Vanity ***1/2**

A wander over to the Smalltown Records stage next, stuck uncomfortably in a foyer/corridor area wedged between another bar and a garden area. And well worth the wander. Essex lads Hey Vanity are making some real traction in the biz at the moment with their intelligent, Thrice-like, downtuned melodic and sophisticated blend of melody and meat.

There's a good sized gathering considering the earliness of their slot and they're rewarded with a slick, strong and stylish set. Having recently come off tour with Don Broco and Mallory Knox, Hey Vanity have garnered a decent amount of recognition and airplay, and with songs like Wading Through Dreams and the extremely classy Bleed, Breathe, Grow it won't be too long before they step up and take the bigger headline slots themselves. 

Slightly surprised they didn't do their brilliant cover of Outkast's Hey Ya (Seems like perfect festival fare), but all-in-all a top performance from a seriously top young band.

Affiance *****

Into the gloom of the 'second main stage' Cube next for some Metalcore from Ohio. Metalcore doesn't always tickle my bits, saying that, when it's done well at the hands of KSE et al, it can be magnificent, challenging and even moving. This afternoon however, Affiance are only some of the above. Plagued by technical problems before they even start, you can't help but feel deep sympathy for Dennis Tvrdik and his Ohian noiseniks as they have their set cut short having schlepped all the across the pond. What they do produce though is strong enough to get the crowd involved and Tvrdik's voice is right up there at the top table of metalcore crooners. 

Max Raptor *****

Time for the first trip of the day to the main Rocksound Stage for outré, fucked-up punk bombers Max Raptor. Led by chief rebel rouser Wil Ray, the midlanders tear the walls down and instigate the day's first serious crowd movement. 

Their intelligent, original and cock-eyed sardonic punky vibe mixes up heavy chugs, massive sing-a-longs, witty and clever lyricism, bile, aggression, humour, smiles and semtex. This is heady, brilliant stuff and the crowd glug it down greedily. Favourites like The King is Dead and the ever-wonderful Patron Saint (of Nothing) are slotted into a mesmerising set spiced up with new material kicking off pits, mass gang vocals and probably the odd leaky bladder.

Absolutely loved it. 

Marmozets *****

Staying on the main stage, next up are the remarkable Marmozets. All math, mayhem and massive noise. While it's often easy (and lazy) to file Marmozets alongside Rolo Tomassi, (mainly due to the fact that a hugely noisy and often scary but diminutive female fronts both), there is no one truly like these northern noise machines. 

Their crazy time signatures, huge riffs, technical arpeggios and noodlings all provide a delicious sauce with all the trimmings for the staggering power and charisma of Becca Mackintyre (whose voice has never sounded better) to be plonked on top like some 3 Michelin Starred molecular gastronomic mouth fuck.

There are pure hints of the mighty DEP, but the overall dish is an original melange of quirk, dissonance, heat, power and contrast. Delicious and challenging.

Oh, and there was even a dude in a wheelchair in the middle of the circle pit. All round mouthwatering madness.

The Algorithm 

Can't give any stars. Not because they were shite. Far from it. It's an old rant, but I just don't get this lot live. It's a French dude on Ebay or checking his Facebook on a laptop and a brilliant drummer. The music is a dot-for-dot-quantised-programmed-spliced & diced-insanely clever spiky, technical, heavy, wobby jiz bomb. BUT it's not live. While Remy would contest that he's doing something valuable on stage; he's not. He tweaks a few buttons, smiles like a kid on a Sunshine coach on the way to Southend and that's it. He might as well just press play and have a fag and a cuppa. 

The crowd are strangely subdued this afternoon too, which doesn't help matters. The only real sanity is the incredible stickmanship of Mike Maylan (Monuments) who impeccably and hypnotically keeps up with the MacBook Pro's digital, dubby, djenty, mathy bleepy ridiculously complex midi burps.

Nah. Not live. Brilliant, brilliant record though.

Subsource *****

Back over in the SU bar, this is happening. You know those films that were made back in the eighties (Things like the terrible Streets of Fire) portraying the future as a dark, post apocalyptic, unruly, choatic place? That.

Picture an unholy modded industrial Magimix or fucked-up steampunk cement mixer full of barbed wire, shrapnel and boiling fluorescent robotic rats piss. Throw in chunks of metal, wobs, subs, brown notes, riffs, soaring vocals, Slipknot's ball sack sweat, a crazy futuristic stand up bass that looks as though it's been fashioned out of timbers from the Mary Rose, your nan's kitchen chair and Mad Max's hatchback and you're getting close to whats occurring.

This is the most ludicrous but delicious post nuclear cocktail. Thrilling musicianship, sphincter-prolapsing beats and Shikariesque subsonic whale farts, venom, energy, grit and raw power. Speechless. Breathless. Peerless.
  

Arcane  Roots *****

Main stage. Pretty full room. Lights down. Loads of the other bands and industry bods looking on. 'That' hum. Anticipation. 

Gulp. From the very moment Mssrs Groves, Burton and Atkins take to the stage, the game has changed. What is happening here is something very, very special. 

World class is obviously an over-used football pundit and chav on the bus cliché. But on a Saturday afternoon, in a sweaty super-sized school hall three normal looking blokes from Kingston are quite simply that. World bloody class.

Opening with the stunning Energy Is Never Lost Just Redirected from their recently released masterpiece Blood & Chemistry this is music (and a performance) from another world. The predominantly young crowd are clearly stunned as the set gathers pace and bombast. 

Groves' incredible and almost soprano voice is on top form as they rip faces off with a ferocious and fiery set taking in the joyous You Are and ferocious Million Dollar Que$tion from the stunning mini album Left Fire interspersed with a cleverly curated heavier festival selection from the new album including the sublime Sacred Shapes, The Rifftacular Resolve and the gut-punching, arse-kicking firepower of Second Breath.

Groves cajoles the crowd which gradually gets more and more involved and a decent sized and transfixed pit loses its shit and inhibitions as the glorious set develops.

There's genuine sophistication in Arcane Roots' music. But it's never self important or indulgent. While there are complex, choppy time signature mash ups and spectacular, bewildering riffs, runs and cadenzas, there's fantastic song craft on display. Perfectly balanced melody juxtaposed with exquisitely placed aggressive barks and stresses. Huge hooks. Delicious harmony and counterpoint. It is pretty close to genius. No, fuck it, it is genius. And even the very best of today's other bands are given a lesson by these magnificent maestros.

As I say world bloody class.

BurnThe Fleet *****

One of rock's unlikeliest but most likeable frontmen is the next ringmaster on the long and thin Southampton Music Stage. 

Andrew Convey leads out local boys Burn The Fleet for the very last time in its present incarnation. A genuinely sad moment for British Rock, but spiced and tempered with the anticipation of what the next chapter is going to hold for this talented bunch. 

A vast throng has crammed itself into the 50's vintage-styled bar area to give these salty old bollocks a fitting send off. And as send offs go, this one goes off.

The music is almost incidental. There's so much love in the room. Every word is sung back like shanties in the Saloon bar in The Old Sailor's Dong. Huge choruses, rousing refrains, pile ups, pits, mosh and mayhem. Even Bobby D from Don Broco gets seriously involved in the melee, throwing himself around like a hyperactive toddler after mainlining Gatorade spiked with meth and dutifully singing along.

By the time the majestic and anthemic Handfuls Of Sand comes to an end, there isn't a dry eye or a moist throat in the room. It's a genuine privilege to have been lucky enough to have had my heart stolen by Barnacle Bill and his band on the many occasions I've seen them live. And this evening's emotional adieu will go down as something extra special.

If the new venture/incarnation is only a fraction as good as BTF have been, then the world's in for more delicious treats.

INTERMISSION AND CONFESSION


Before I wind down with the last two acts, I just wanted to give a hearty thumbs up to the whole team behind Takedown. A truly brilliant day, with precision organisation, vision and ambition. Judging by the acres of smiling faces and general love vibe around the place, I don't think I'm alone in saying this is one of the very best 'pop up' festivals out there. Along with Burnout, it really is a joyful class apart. Ok, there were some 'orrible mean spirited bastards who apparently jacked some phones, but that apart, Takedown has been a total triumph.

On such a busy day, it's inevitable that you're going to miss some acts because of clashes, so today's casualties for me included WBTBWB, Palm Reader, Natives, Dance Gavin Dance, JCQ, Hacktivist and TesseracT. Which was a real shame, but there'll be other days.

Ok, this is where I fess up. I didn't get to see full sets from Mallory Knox, WATO, WSS or The Blackout. Not because I didn't fancy it. Or I think they stink. Nothing could be further from the truth. And the bits I did catch were,as expected of the highest order. Nope, the truth is, I peaked too early and by the time all of the above were on, I needed a bit of a chill. And a G&T. And a lie down. Ok, I admit it, I'd overdone it. Shocking confession. But being of a certain age, a whole day of drinking and moshing (well as much as bumbling around energetically(ish) clutching a cider, Jager or Sailor Jerrys counts as moshing) has well and truly taken its toll. So I slid back to the SU bar for Sonic Boom Six.

Sonic Boom Six *****

All froth and fun. Even the 'aggressive' bits. There's a poppiness and a radio-friendliness to Laila, Barney et al that seems to go down smoothly with the enthusiastic mob who are hiding from the main stages late into the evening. 

Laila K is in sprightly form as she flits around, all sex, sass and shimmy leading the ska/rock/dub/whatever mash up. I'm never sure whether we're meant to take SB6 seriously. Far from a novelty act, they mix up genres and styles for fun. Sometimes to brilliant effect. Other times a bit, well, meh. But I don't know where they truly sit. Perfect for festivals or support fluffers, I'm not sure they've got quite enough armoury for bigger, headline sets. 

However, there's nothing meh about tonight's performance. Dancing. Grinning. Skanking. Moshing. More drinking. Enjoying.

Don Broco *****

Right we're getting towards the top of the bill. In fact, arguably the Beds boys should have been at the very top, but a packed out sweat bunker of a main stage doesn't really give a toss about what order things are served up in. 

Anyway, the present dahlinks of the British Rock scene fresh off the back of their triumphant two part Priorities headline tour (Underworld review here> KOKO review here>) are here to entertain. And that, my friends, is exactly what they do. And some.

From the familiar opener Priorities to the frantic set closer Fancy Dress, it doesn't stop. The jam-packed crowd are taken on a thrilling and grin-packed adventure ride, expertly guided by Rob Damiani, the ridiculously hench and knicker-fizzing master of ceremonies.

The set is rammed full of sing-a-longability with the adoring crowd beating Bobby to just about every note and word. The Whole Truth, Hold On, Yeah Man, Dreamboy and Beautiful Morning (complete with now standard but never anything less than thrilling segue/drop into Thug Workout) and Actors are all set to stun. Theres no fucking about. Just party time. It's all slick and polished but still full of charm, personality and honesty. Shoulder riding, push ups, pyramids and good old fashioned dancing. You 'eard.

Ok, they're not on the same sophisticated or grown-up level that Arcane Roots are on, but I challenge anyone in the world whether they're a doom metaller, stepper, nihilistic death core addict, prog shoe gazer or a joyless self-loathing indie twat not to tap a foot, nod a head or bust out a ridiculous grin as these boys ply their trade.

It's glorious, celebratory, intelligent, inclusive good time rock and roll. And tonight Matthew,  I fucking love it. 

IN SUMMARY
Festivals can't and don't get much better than this. The odd thieving bastard notwithstanding, Takedown 2013 has been an absolute triumph. 

A brilliantly arranged, curated and organised grin fest from the moment the doors opened til the end of the punishing UPRAWR after party with Alex Baker and Tek-One delivering the happy finish everyone deserved (although the first DJ was just a self-indulgent dance-mixed-up joyless bellend who didn't play a single tune just wobs, bleeps, Protools generated midi farts and mash ups that none of the assembled rock crowd gave a shit about. Ok, over it now. Still a bellend though.)

The breadth and depth of talent from across a wide range of alt/underground/punk/metalcore and just about any other core you could mention, on show today is simply breathtaking and a wonderful indicator of just how healthy real live music is in the UK.

Amazing day. Amazing people. Amazing bands. Amazing hangover. Can't wait for next year.

Special thanks to Dwoooarf for helping out with the photos. Cheers mate.

The best gigs of 2012. Honestly.

A vintage year. Well, sort of.
A review of 2012.

Over 70 gigs attended. Over 300 bands seen. A decent sized lake of cider downed. At least a Renault Scenic full of Jagermeister seen off. 4 sets of very expensive attenuated earplugs lost. Lots of lovely people met. And some bellends. Tears shed. Trousers soiled. Overall, face hurts from smiling. What a year.

Anyway, no public votes. No democracy. No real point. But, bollocks to it, here’s a brief run-down of my favourite top gigs, releases and other stuff of the year. Can’t be arsed to write too much about the shows, but because of the time of year, I've done it as kind of tasting notes for vino. But there are links to the original reviews if you really are that bored.

Gigs of the year.

10: Skindred at Brixton Academy. Mr Webbe and the boys serve up a powerful but playful offering to  a packed Brixton academy. Hints of nettles, brambles, molten titanium, barbed wire with top notes of mary jane. The best showman in the land puts on one of the very best shows. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? REVIEW >

9: This Town Needs Guns at The Borderline - Wow. A smooth but enormously complex blend of headiness, blissful character and almost scientifically created perfection. But with real soul and a gentle aftertaste. Technically unparalleled but the new line-up takes things to new levels. Not to mention their space-aged cuboid magic sound boxes. REVIEW >

8: Hundred Reasons at The Fighting Cocks - Raw, beautiful home-grown genius. Fizzing with vibrancy, energy and power; an old favourite that's aged splendidly and excites the palate like an angel cumming on your tongue. 10 years on. A secret intimate sweatfest in downtown Kingston. Ridiculous. Privileged. REVIEW >

7: The Xcerts and Yearbook at The Borderline - A weird but wonderful blend. All edgy and fierce with an underlying beauty and complexity. At times like a fine premier cru but delivering the wit, verve and impudent kick in the cock of a case of something deliciously nouveau. Or some shit like that. All kooky, edgy, nerdy, sassy, library. You ‘eard. An absolute pleasure to be there. Two of the very, very best around on the same bill. Bonus. REVIEW >

6: Lower Than Atlantis at The Garage - Maturing nicely but not losing that rough, venomous, gall-tinged edge, Chateau LTA is becoming a classic. Big hearted, full bodied but with traces of napalm and brimstone still not far behind the surface. All bound together by Mike Duce's deep burgundy melancholia. Big drinking beauty. With gravel in the glass. And a whisky chaser.The night they celebrated their well-deserved signing to Island. An emotionally charged and fantastic show.The show later in the year at The Electric Ballroom was also right out of the top drawer but, for me, the Garage show just shaded it. REVIEW >

5: Enter Shikari at Hammermith - Incomparable fusion of everything. Impossible to work out every ingredient, taste, top note and big sub-bass infused bottom note. Like a fine zesty young white with Thunderbird and fine dessert wine mixed in. But when you think you've got it nutted, huge power, body, reckless confusion and intoxicating strength of a dark, bastard red. One of a kind. What a show, What a spectacle. What a shit Mexican meal afterwards. Genius stuff with a Hertfordshire accent. The band, not the Mexican meal. REVIEW >

4: Deaf Havana at Shepherds Bush - Bubbly and bright (unusual for JV-G) celebratory, astringent and sharp. But with a beautiful mellowness, soul and hint of sadness. That said, drinkable by the gallon and becoming more and more widely appealing now that the initial battery acid sharpness has (to some, lamentably) waned. Incredible, emotional, joyous and jubilant. Those fenland fellas have certainly come a long way. REVIEW >

3: Don Broco at their album launch show at The Barfly - On the face of it a screw top cheap and very cheerful Lambrini or Cava. But on further tasting, there's a genuine sophistication and ridiculously mature massive brilliance in there. Big flavours, addictive fruit and raw power. Not overly-complex but delicious and fruity. Wonderful with a bit of cheese.  Ok, I didn’t actually review this show, but having seen the Beds boys four or five times this year, this one really took the biscuit (see what I did there). Closely followed by their amazing support slot for LTA at the Electric Ballroom and their absolute sweat-fest at Burnout Festival. Hic.

2: Dillinger Escape Plan at The Garage - Fiery, stupidly impenetrable complexity. But so ridiculously satisfying. Thunderous body with searing acid shards and acrid spikes. Spine-tinglingly perfectly served. Aggressive, outré, challenging, mad. Bewildering. Just fuck. REVIEW >

1: Arcane Roots at The Old Blue Last - Like a new world arriviste that's just so much better than the motherland original. Multi-layered, smooth, spiky, classical but challenging, rough but silky. Full bodied but zingy. Strong and intoxicating. Truly the most wonderful of mixes which will only get better with age. Set to be a world classic. Yum. And indeed, yum. Too good. Seriously. Too good. Britain's best band. By a distance. This lot must be huge next year. A free show at an absolutely rammed OBL was the absolute highlight of an absolutely fabulous year. Darling.
REVIEW >

Disappointments of the year: 
AWOL Nation - pretend, ersatz, frothy, unsatisfactory. >
Dry The River - well-prepared, well-executed but monotonously dull and lifeless. >
Rob Lynch - fiery but relentless. Too much. Needs laying down to mature. >
Marines. - predictable, watery, unfulfilling and unexciting. Needs fizz. >
Deaf Heaven - Beautiful, well-considered body but bitter waspiness ruins the potential. >

Revelations of the year: 
Subsource - crazy, mixed up flavours. Huge body, massively satisfying. Boiii. >
Yearbook - insanely quirky. Dances all round the palate but delivers beautifully. >
Gnarwolves - rough, lusty, fiery, raw, fun and spicy. Party in a bottle. >
Oathbreaker - the heaviest, most massivly robust and doom-infused brew imaginable. >

Top blokes of the year: 
Burn The Fleet.
InMe. 
Real Adventures. 
Gnarwolves. 
Don Broco.
The Xcerts.
Midgar.

Festivals of the year: 
The year of the smaller fest. With highlights being: 
Takedown. REVIEW >
Banquet’s Big Day Out. REVIEW >
Burnout. REVIEW >

Albums of the year.

10: Iron Lungs - Polar
9: Ideas - Hawkeyes 
8: This Is The Six - While She Sleeps
7: Koi No Yokan - Deftones 
6: Astraea - Rolo Tomassi
5: Changing Tune - Lower Than Atlantis
4: Fools and Worthless Liars (De Luxe Edition with the brilliant re-works) - Deaf Havana
3: Daybreaker - Architects
2: Priorities - Don Broco
1: A Flash Flood Of Colour - Enter Shikari

Who’s going to be the big old bollocks next year? 
Don Broco. 
Arcane Roots. 
Yearbook. 
Mallory Knox.

And that's it for the year. Just want to thank all of you who've painfully struggled through my waffly, farty, verbose prose. I've had nearly 20,000 visits to this silly, mid-life crisis, self-indulgent blog in the last year, which, to me is unbelievable. 

Almost as unbelievable as the quality and breadth of amazing live music in the UK. Here's to another year of sticky floors, Jager-fuelled sweaty mosh mania, hangovers, ringing ears and brilliant fun.

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!