Slam Drunk - words & pics from Slam Dunk South and more

Slam Dunk South ****1/2*
The Forum, Hatfield, May 23rd 2015
Pvris, Set It Off, Thy Art Is Murder, Shvpes, We Are The Ocean, Don Broco, Lower Than Atlantis, While She Sleeps, Architects, You Me At Six

Been a busy month. Many shows. 
Many bands. Many friends. Many cold frothy glasses of medicine.
Over the next 50 pages or so is a motley collection of iPhone pics from the pit and from the hip. Usually after many cold frothy glasses of medicine.
Along with the random word farts, hopefully the spirit, energy and joy of live rock music is captured. 

Well, kind of. 

Dive in...

So, to Hatfield. The second leg of what’s becoming one of the UK’s most important festivals. Definitely aimed at the younger end of the market, Slam Dunk has led from the front alongside other one-dayers like Hit The Deck, Takedown and a handful of others, but has grown a bigger beard and bigger set of danglers as it’s matured a little quicker than its notional siblings. The strongest line up to date boasts big names from just about every genre in  rock pantheon. From pop punk and ska punk to deathcore and pop rock, there’s a leader of every pack here today. While She Sleeps, Architects, YMAS, Don Broco, Less Than Jake, The Bronx...the list is as exhaustive as it is extensive, with the only problem of the day being who to actually watch and who to painfully forego. So, onwards and upwards...

Set it Off *****
Kicking off on the nightmare opening slot on the main stage are the frothy and teeny Set it Off. An impressively sizeable crowd has already gathered and dutifully loses its collective shit as front man Cody Carson leads the poppy, pleasant enough and creditably performed set of sing-a-long soaked, smile-inducing sass. A bit cheesy and high school-friendly at times but a tasty starter on the packed menu that gets the hungry young ’uns digging in greedily. As a starter, think prawn cocktail. But washed down with a Blue WKD. Burp. 

PVRIS *****
The hype around this lot is unrelenting and gathering considerable momentum. So, is all the fuss worth it? Well, if big power pop with an electronica-infused and a smattering of faux-heaviness is your thang, then it’s easy to see why all the column inches and pixelated prose have been spouted and expounded. They’ve certainly got the songs, the hooks and the energy. A feisty and charismatic front woman. And a fairly original sound. There are moments of Issues or AWOL Nation, but generally they’re on a path of their own. Pvs mvl. Vrviment.

SHVPES *****

Getting things started on the ‘heavy ‘ stage are another band with an oh so cvrrent vse of the letter V. Shvpes (formerly Cytota) And that’s pretty much all that’s terribly cvrrent. Their tuneful metalcore is far from unlistenable though. Ticks all the boxes. Well played, well put together and enthusiastically performed. A developing bvnd who will surely develop their sound as they continue to cook. Just need a bit longer in the oven. But palatably meaty.

Thy Art is Murder *****

Not really my bag. It may be deathcore. Or death metal. Or death of a salesman. Whatever it is, in reality, it’s little more than a bit of a din. Angry, gruff, sweary  ‘singer CJ McMahon has a go at pop punk (fair enough) , calls just about everybody in the world a cunt and wild boar  squeals, burps, roars, growls and screams through a heavy as a randy rhino’s balls set. There’s a lot of machine gun blast beats. Loads of downtuned riffage. Dollops of sub bass and a lot of finger pointing and of course, loads of cunting, fucking bastard swearing. As I say, not my bag. 

We Are The Ocean *****

So, it seems the former darlings of the post-hardcore/ladcore scene (if that was actually a thing)  from a few years back have been locked in a log cabin with a bong, an ounce of Lebanese or Moroccan resin, the complete works of Led Zeppelin, Free, Bad Company, 

Pendragon, Budgie and the odd T.Rex single. And, tell you what, the results are a proper grown up casserole of cock rock, prog, boogie, soul and good, honest hard rock. Led by gritty-voiced, snarling and sneering, gum chewing headbanging Liam Cromby, the Essex quintet produce a blistering, boisterous and big-balled set of proper bloody rock and roll. 

Not that most of the alcopop-swigging teenies gathered in front of the main stage seem to be totally captivated though. Nevertheless, a new found maturity, some sodding great tunes, smart grooves and frenum-tightening riffs hint that it won’t be long before this lot are headed for more grown up, and hopefully bigger, audiences.

Have no clue what an architecture of time is though. And certainly wouldn’t know how to build one. Pass that bong. Think we’re going to need it. Heady and hearty stuff.

Lower Than Atlantis *****

A hugely busy schedule for the always entertaining and über-honest pop rockers seems to have blunted Mike Duce’s normal spit and spite this afternoon. Although they manfully plough through the prime fillets from their fabulously catchier-than-chlamydia eponymous last long player, something doesn’t appear to be turned all the way up to eleven. Saying that, the biggest crowd of the day so far has gathered in a drooling and enthusiastic throng doesn’t seem to give a rodent’s anus. All the biggies from the album are given an outing and the adoring crowd, bounce, mosh, jump, jiggle and sing back just about every syllable. Duce’s radio pick up on his acoustic fails during an aborted attempt to perform the always goosebump-inducing Another Sad Song from among his fizzy-drawered  acolytes, but he brushes it off and the deservedly popular boy-next-door band crack on with a couple of old faves (Beech Like A Tree and the S.T.D. paean Deadliest catch)

before ending with the brilliant Here We Go. For clearly tired lads, they do a bloody good job. 

Don Broco ****1/2*

Next up on the main stage are the loveable perma-grin wearing and inducing Beds bad boys Don Broco. And from the off, it’s clear they’re here to party. Aren’t they always? Having been largely locked away for aeons concocting the next chapter in their manual of how to take over the world by seduction and being just bloody nice blokes, they’ve emerged on the run-up to the launch of their long-awaited new album Automatic to start the foreplay. And a typically boisterous and beautifully played set hints at what’s to come. New choons, Automatic, Fire and What You Do To Me from the album that are already out in the public domain are smoothly assimilated into the bill of fare alongside all the existing party tuneage with a wildly moist and aroused young crowd already fluent in the lyrics (albeit nowhere near as clever, smart or neat as their previous librettos). There’s even room for a Bad Rabbits/Hot Chocolate/RHCP soul explosion mash up new tune Superlove which is about as far from fan favourite Thug Workout as spit is to lube. We get the walk, the wall of death, the sass, the sing-a-longs and more bouncing than a fat lass’s buttocks on a trampoline before the final call to arms of You Wanna Know wrings the last energy and drop of Jager bomb infused sweat from the spellbound and smiling masses.

Architects *****

Closing the ‘loud’ stage tonight are Britain’s very best heavy band. Architects. Having seemingly finally to have found themselves after wrestling with demons, identity issues, cancer and crises of confidence, the Brighton quintet, tonight are bringing down the curtain on the most successful stanza of their career so far. The absolutely spellbinding Lost Forever//Lost Together album chapter is coming to an end. But this evening, in front of thousands of baying and loved-up apostles, it feels as far from a wake or a pyre-lighting as one could imagine. In fact, it almost feels like the launch of a new ship before the old one has even been brought into dry dock. The ever-articulate, ingratiating and charming Sam Carter leads the ‘celebration’ from the front. A totally controlled, powerful, but expressive and emotionally charged set truly sets them apart from the chasing pack. It’s raw, challenging, visceral, thought-provoking, testicle twisting genius. A good handful of tracks from the last album are interspersed with older favourites, prompting frenzied sing backs, collective shit being not just lost but sent into orbit and, of course the bizarre nihilistic but neck hair erecting sights and sounds of thousands of collective throats roaring YOU FUCKING PIGS in unison, unity and unbridled affection. What a band. What a show. What a way to start the next chapter.

The rest 

And so it ends. And what a day. The vibe couldn’t have been better. The rain more or less stayed away. Of course, there weren’t enough bogs; it wouldn’t be a proper festival if there were. I got to see most of the bands I wanted to. Caught some I didn’t expect to. Missed some I’d really wanted to (couldn’t get near the attic for either Baby Godzilla or Fort Hope). Drank far too much cider. Danced too much for a man my age. Met up with so many great buddies and bands and met some new friends too. All-in-all, a total triumph. And a marvellous celebration of everything that is right about rock music and the wonderful, weird, whacky and whacked-out people who love it. Long may Slam Dunk continue to support, celebrate and inspire the musicians and fans alike.

PS. Knuclepuck were alright. But although While She Sleeps were immensely popular and their set was tight, explosive and raw, poor Loz’s vox were really straining and just hope he regains some of the napalm-soused face-melting power he used to possess. Missed The Bronx, Gallows and a bunch of other great bands. Caught about half an hour of YMAS and must admit, did mouth along to more of the words than I’d ever admit to knowing. And I’m going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning. Cheers.

Arcane Roots *****
Oslo, Hackney, Friday 22nd Saturday 23rd May 2015

First Night
Hackney is a shit bunker. Let’s be honest. No amount of pop up shops, fixed gear bikes, no-socked  beardies and pho bars will ever make it anything else. It’s rubbish. There, I said it. However, it is the setting for two hugely important nights in the career of one of the very best bands in the land. Two nights to round off an intensive and gruelling UK tour. Two nights with two different sets. On the Friday, pretty much a run through of the astonishing Left Fire ‘mini’ album from 4 or 5 years ago cut with quality cuts from the equally brilliant Blood & Chemistry album and a couple of new ones thrown in. From the off, Andrew Groves and co tear the place apart. And the enthusiastic, appreciative and sweaty crowd love every second. The band are note perfect but this is no slavishly dot-for-dot, indulgent muso fest; oh no, this is raw, emotional, important, soulful, joyous, integrity-drenched genius. Simultaneously ripping the flesh from our faces and caressing our soft bits. The perfect balance between technical virtuosity and heartfelt expression. There are few bands who can amalgamate the raw power, the fragility, the melody, the bombast, the light, the shade, the tightness and the expression in such a spellbinding way. Very few indeed.

Second Night
Surely they couldn’t? Could they? It is too much to ask to improve on what, last night was nigh-on live perfection. Well, they’ve only bloody gone and done it. Seriously. Publicising tonight’s menu as a fans’ special, Messrs Groves, Burton and Wrench (the amazing last minute stand in sticksman for this tour) put together a set that is seriously from another planet. No, fuck it, from another parallel universe. Everything is, well, just perfect. The playing, the interplaying, the vocals, the emotion, every squealy and pinch harmonic, every razor-sharp time signature diversion, every missed beat. Everything. Groves even treats us to a beautiful homage to BB King, further cementing him as one of the great contemporary  guitarists who’s not afraid to play his instrument rather than just use it a s a blunt downtuned riff cudgel. An impassioned speech half way through proceedings confirms that the lads know they’re in the midst of something pretty special too. And they proceed to shower the heaving crowd with gifts aplenty in the form of coruscating new tunes, slotted into a mesmerising and masterful collection of almost embarrassingly perfect contemporary rock music.Tonight, Arcane Roots have produced, not the nigh-on perfection but absolutely stunning, engaging, bowel-shifting, heart-melting genital stirring perfection.

Sweet Billy Pilgrim *****
Hoxton Bar and Kitchen, Thursday 28th June 2015

They don’t get out much. But tonight, Sweet Billy Pilgrim are out and proud to support their dazzling latest long player Motorcade Amnesiacs with a show in the bowels of Hoxton Square. A decent sized crowd of industry types, accountants, not-so-young professionals and serious looking discerning, beard-stroking musos are gathered to worship at the pulpit from where garrulous, deliciously dry and ever-charming front man Tim Elsenburg conducts his preaching to the largely converted.

The new album is given a fair airing and the new songs, although shorn of the studio layers, instrumentation and massive production, sound absolutely bloody splendid. Wearing their multi-inflences clearly on their wizard’s sleeves, the six piece live line up counjor up Steely Dan, Captain, The Kane Gang, Prefab Sprout and even moments of Tool: the result is a refreshing, comforting but wonderfully original creamy cocktail with traces of raw, powerful spirit not far form the lips. Elsenburg seems to be enjoying himself throughout and shows genuine emotion at the spine-tingling, tear-jerking  multi-harmonic crowd participation in the spellbinding Blue Sky Falls. A truly gorgeous evening in the presence of a truly gorgeous and clever genre-defying band. Amen.

Rolo Tomassi *****
Our Black Heart, Camden, Tuesday 2nd June 2015

Let’s keep this brief. No one does what Rolo Tomassi do. No one. Their fucked up, thought-provoking, intelligent melange of metal, jazz, neo-classical, ambient, experimental, mathrock, mathcore and electronica either flicks your switch or it doesn’t. For the record, I’m firmly in the flicked switch camp. And tonight, I’m not alone. 

A sold out Black Heart fan oven is absolutely rammed with fellow supporters and followers of the oft weird but always wonderful Sheffield five piece. Tonight is the second date on a four date dart around some of the capital’s smaller and sweatier venues to get behind the launch of their stunning new album Grievances. And although short and sweet (if you can call being eviscerated and having the top of your bonce brutally drilled into sweet), the gathered disciples are treated to a perfectly balanced set of mayhem and melody, brutality and beauty, vitriol and virtuosity. And, in short, it’s brilliant. 

Now, here's what the blog would look like if it wasn't designed in shitty HTML in Blogger:

Take Me Down. Review of Takedown Festival 2015

Takedown 2015
Ft. Black Peaks ***1/2** Hawkeyes***** InMe***** Rolo Tomassi ****1/2* Arcane Roots ***** And more
Southampton University, Saturday 7th March

Well, It's been a while since I've pulled the quill out and emptied my brain bin's foetid and oozing contents onto the page in celebration of live rock music (other ongoing but exciting music projects have got in the way). But, I'm glad to be out of the enforced semi-retirement to be back at Southampton Uni for what promises to be a splendid and diverse day.

However, true to form and due to the tardy arrival of certain colleagues, I'm a bit late starting, so sadly miss the playful and always good value Zoax.

So, cheap Cider in hand, it's into action and into the Stygian gloom of The Cube...
Black Peaks ***1/2** 
A cracking start to the day. A grungy, dirty, hugely enjoyable, twisty and turny journey through post-rock forest, mathy meadow and heavy hollow. So many influences and reference points. Think Bovine and Mastodon chucked into a silage tank then mixed with a good sludgy dollop of Intronaut and more than a whiff of Katatonia and Karnivool with surprising traces of Mogwai and even Blakfish. 

Throughout, mustachioed charismatic front man Will Gardner impressively growls, cajoles, spellbinds and assaults ears and arseholes alike cutting sharply across the deep and involved grungescape.

A curious but surprisingly original and very fertile mixture. Can't wait to see how it matures and develops.


So, a quick waddle over to the main stage in the scout hut to see Alt metal spacey, fantasy-soused genuine top geezer legends playing their seminal masterpiece Overgrown Eden.  

InMe***** 

A surprisingly early mid Saturday afternoon football kick off slot hasn't stopped the punters careering through the turnstiles and a packed, sweaty room welcomes the Essex lads with the fervour normally reserved for a lager-pickled home end at Upton Park (or whatever the fuck it's called these days). Mercifully without bubbles - but with huge swollen rock God balls in their stead.

The set is delivered perfectly, energetically and with huge clown-face grins. So stunning to think this record was produced so long ago. And it hasn't aged a bit. Still sounding fresher than a newly baked baguette smothered in that delicious French butter (never tastes the same over here). The playing, as one would expect from such sensational musicians is note-for-note perfect even allowing for Dave's mildly anachronistic flabby phased, flanged guitars on the slower ones. Just splendid though. Splendid.

And to top off the loveliness, as an extra treat Mr Mikey Chapman from the fenland parish of Mallory Knoxville joins the boys on stage for a rip-roaring canter through Faster The Chase. Pure, timeless class throughout and an appetite whetter for the forthcoming tour and imminent epic triple long player. Brilliant stuff.

Hawkeyes*****
I fucking love these bums. Unreconstructed, straight up and down, honest genital furtling and squeezing ballsy rock and roll. Massive riffs. Just massive. A truly dirty, filthy, hairy, sordid and brutal onslaught but with the heart the size of a watermelon.

Playing the Obsidian stage rather than a more apt dingy, Jager-soaked hovel may not be the greatest venue for this blend of filth, but the boys manfully career through their canon of huge riff bombs with the new material off the sublime Everything Is Fine album regardless of the brightly lit, 'oh-so-funky' student bar setting.

Honest and truthful brilliance. Oh yus.

Rolo Tomassi ****1/2*
There's nobody on the planet that comes close to this crazed, mashed-up, amalgamated and generally fucked-upness of this oh so special quintet. Seamlessly mixing mathcore, noise rock, jazz, screamo, metal, (and its core cousin), industrial electronica, brass band, kazoo orchestra and roadworks, the Spence siblings front up a truly original and breathtaking and magical melange that has to be on everyone's bucket list.

The tiny and hyperactive Eva quacks, barks, roars and seduces as she almost epileptically spasms, contorts, flounces and hurls herself around like a crazed acrobat full of crack and speedballs being repeatedly stung up the arse by killer hornets. All backed with such tight and surgically sharp heaviness and power and mind melting electonic beeps, farts, burps and pads.

New drummer Tom Pitts ably takes over the reins from the departed Ed Dutton and pilots this fucked up tossing and turning heavily armed Hadean torpedo boat  through the tumultuous and brilliant set. The new tunes aired, serve only to whet the slavering appetite even more for the next stage of this truly unique band's sensational career. Amazing stuff.

Wow.

Arcane Roots *****
Next in the main stage scout hut are the incredible Surrey shredders Arcane Roots and they've come armed with an arsenal of new claymores, IEDs and napalm cluster bombs to launch into the packed hall alongside their tried and tested weapons of choice from the remarkable Blood & Chemistry and its equally incendiary predecessor, Left Fire.

And what results is just ridiculous. Carnage. Destruction. Sodom and Gomorrah. But laser guided, precise and flawlessly executed destruction. Not random bomb tossing. Oh no. The playing, is, as always, flawless; as are Andrew Groves' searing and razor wire sharp vocals. 

All the way through, from the chugging splendour of Resolve through to the brooding malevolence and brilliance of Million Dollar Que$tion, the set is so beautifully and cleverly constructed. The pits open up, the bodies gyrate and contort: like Picasso's Guernica, there's a distorted, abstract, challenging  and chaotic discomfort but the overall effect is mesmerising and, frankly,  just remarkable.

And if the hugely anticipated new album is even one iota as brilliant as the freshly baked genius of If Nothing (Breaks Us, Nothing Moves), then the very cream of British rock music will be giving birth to one of the greatest rock records imaginable. I can't bloody wait.

Seriously, live rock music doesn't get any better. Any.

So, That's the main stuff that I have managed to see. I must admit after the total splendour of Arcane Roots, everything else is going to suffer by withering comparison. But Moose Blood**1/2*** and the always beautifully harmonised Decade***** strut their pop-punky, alt-infused rifftastic stuff with aplomb. The Blackout***** emotionally do their thang for the last time at a festival. Charlie Simpson***1/2** strums and croons through a typically melodic and mellow collection of niceness and I'm sure the always fabulous Mallory Knox slay it with their classy brand of pop rock - but by this time I am otherwise involved with beverages and chats with other boozers, losers and jacuzzi users and frankly too pissed to care.

But, once again, Takedown have produced, curated and delivered a spectacular day. The feel-good vibe here is like nowhere else. Brilliant diversity. Good friends. A top, top day. Oh, and did I mention how bloody amazing Arcane Roots were.

Now, if only they were doing a 30 odd date UK tour soon....

Arc the herald angels don't usually sing. Arc Tan Gent Festival Live Review

Arc Tan Gent Festival *****
Fernhill Farm Somewhere in the bowels of Somerset 29-31st August

So it's finally here. A festival for all the weirdies. All the unclassifiable ones. All the ones who can clap in time. The ones with beards. And plaid. 

Joking aside, since it was announced by the good people behind the mighty 2000 Trees, Arc Tan Gent has been one of the most fiercely anticipated and important festivals in years.  

It's a collection of off-beat, alternative (in the true sense of the word) diverse, challenging, brilliant, quirky and outré acts (mainly from our sceptred isles) that forms the perfect antidote to the banal and predictable gruel served up at most of the myriad of carbon copy corporate calamities crammed to the gills with Clapham-dwelling, Bulmers drinking, flowery wellie-wearing, Kings Of Leon-listening, Superdry-sporting, faceless, tasteless ISA investing, BMW-driving dicks. And it's here. Thank the fucking lord.

In keeping with the slightly off-beat theme, things kick off a day early with a limited line up culminating in a fan-voted set from Leicester's post rock dahlinks, Maybeshewill. And the crowds have poured in for the warm up day, filling the verdant Fernhill fields from the word go.

THURSDAY

Before we tumble into the music on offer, it's worth pointing out just how brilliantly this festival is set up. It's quite small but doesn't feel pokey. The vibe is fantastic. Über-friendly in and laid back in the extreme (aided by THC no doubt). Everyone is here for the music. Not a right of passage, a gap year gas or bucket list box ticking exercise.

The layout is well thought through (with the possible exception that the impressive main stage may have been slightly better placed in the bowl of the natural amphitheatre rather than perched atop its side - probably drainage issues to be fair). But the food concessions, merch, other stores and stages are perfectly appointed. Could have done with a few more bogs though.

Right, music. Given the daunting task of opening the whole junket are local trio Memory Of Elephants ***** and they do a sterling job. A tremolo-infused post noise rocky din switching between two guitars and a bass and guitar and serving up the already packed tent a great aperitif.

Obviously, even with the best intent in the world, it's impossible to catch every act, but from the snippets I catch, ensuing (and from what I can glean, also local) acts Flights and Falling Stacks seemed to continue the vibe to an equally packed tent before Alright The Captain ***1/2** (replacing POHL) take to the boards. And they deliver a jazzy/mathy/proggy/post rocky/jagged and boisterous fusillade with wit, energy and spice. Tasty.

Next up are Hereford tribe Talons***1/2** violin and all. Which affords the band a bit of space between itself and some of the other post-rock acts around. And mercifully is used differently enough from tune to tune; not just as a pad or stringy fill. Stabby staccato and pizzicato, frenzied, almost Paganini-like cadenzas and melodic ersatz-vocal work sit happily above the intricate soundscapes provided by the more traditional instruments. A heady and interesting mix.

Talking of traditional, next up are the stoner, spacey, proggy, monged Amplifier *****. Dressed like something from a 70's Saturday night end of the pier spectacular or golf club dinner dance - resplendent in black shirts with snazzy matching amulets and serious faces, they (eventually, after starting 10 minutes or so late - TCH? Surely not) kick off into a set with the bong water infused with everything from Into The Void era Sabbath, Intronaut, A Perfect Circle, Uriah Heep and even touches of The Buggles if they were backing Tool. 

Occasional big-arsed half time riffs and repetitive, head bobbing inducing chuggy bombs rear their alien heads from forgotten decades and Sel Balamir's spacey lyrics provide a sprinkle of even more mind-altering weirdness to proceedings. An often bizarre and somewhat uncomfortable, but not wholly unpleasant, trip. Man.

So, next up and now in front of a fully rammed and overspilling tent it's the turn of the delicious Maybeshewill****1/2* The fan-voted set throws up few surprises and every riff, passage and melody is fervently sung back by a baying, salivating crowd. The spine-tingling Red Paper Lanterns and melodic hook overloaded I'm In Awe Amadeus are personal high spots, but the set is jammed with beauty, depth, goosebump-inducing progressions all  delivered with wonderful craft and genuine enjoyment. 

The love in the tent is just huge and serves as a great big good night snog and a hug for all the happy campers (despite not quite reaching the vinegar stroke of the last number due to the over-running of the bong-water drinking Amplifier). Awesome stuff indeed. And so to bed. Well, after a bit of a party.

FRIDAY

So, thanks mainly to Cotswold Cider and Montepulciano, Friday shuffles into focus shrouded in a hazy fug and the impressive main stage crackles into life for the first time. To be honest the delicious locally smoked bacon roll and coffee accounted for missing most of the openers The Naturals, but they seem to draw in a reasonable crowd from the rapidly swelling day one proper numbers. 

But it's Baby Godzilla***** who really shake off the collective post-party torpor with a fantastic, aggressive, mayhem-strewn kick in the face set of punky, hardcore-hued anthemic, grizzly and uplifting noise. This lot look like the band that a family in Shameless would have been. You know, the noisy bastard neighbours with overgrown front garden strewn with rusty car parts, old bikes, piles of pizza boxes and beer cans who spend the day just shouting at each other.

The two feral front men spend more of their time off the stage than on it taking instruments and mics into the throng. Climbing gantries, using crowd members as mic stands, throwing guitars around, even - and quite brilliantly - giving a guitar to a member of the crowd to play through one song. And - remarkably - it hangs together. A shell shocked early congregation enters fully into the spirit and they really have set the bar high for the day. 

And by the time the last guitar makes its way back onto stage, shorn of strings and looking like most people's hungover heads, the fug has truly been lifted and smiles have replaced any dehydrated downturned mouths. Brilliant stuff.

Right, hangover confined to history, time to properly ease into what's going to be a long day. Over to the second stage for Leeds-based stoner psychedelic progmeisters Humanfly*****

A reasonable early crowd has gathered by the time the interstellar overdrive button is pressed and our trippy journey begins. 

What follows is an eye-closing, mind expanding, head bobbing voyage of wonder. So many influences could be cited from Floyd to Greenslade, Caravan to Return To Forever. But, the bizarre thing is, that despite the rock, jazz, fusion, prog and stoner lineage, it still feels kind of fresh. Even original. 

John Sutcliffe's light and ethereal vocals struggle a tiny bit this early but the band are tight, sharp and totally loving it. There's a comfort and warmth; almost a nostalgia in the air as they power through lengthy, multi-layered and faceted spacey flight. And I can't get the grin off my face. Can't wait to see them in a dingy late night sweaty room with a proper lightshow, Just what the Doctor Seuss ordered. 

So, feeling as metaphorically stoned thanks to the Humanfly big fat human one, it's time to return to some mathy, post-rock. And who better to ease the come down than East Midland scene stalwarts You Slut!*****

Their poppy, dancy undercurrent is supported by choppy, techy, intricate time signature noodling and syncopated polyrhythms but the overall effect is far from inaccesible; in fact the opposite. Despite the counting and the oft complex constructs, this is good time fuck yeah fuel. And the tent knows it. A packed Bixler tent laps it up greedily and the affable quartet seem humbled by it. But the adoration is fully deserved with early afternoon perspiration and dopamine levels soaring off the chart. Bloody marvellous.

Following on from You Slut! on the Bixler stage are Brighton-based trio Physics House Band ***** A beautiful and stealthy start with a duel between keys and bass, refereed by an inquisitive drummer suddenly blossoms into a set of true majesty. 

Adam Hutchison's mesmerising bass playing is the glue that holds the amazing tour-de-force together. I have seldom seen such brilliance from one so young. It's impossible to cast aside comparisons with a young Stanley Clarke: this guy is the nuts. However, in fairness it's not all about him. He's abetted by the multi instrumentalist  and wonderfully monikered Sam Organ on guitar and various keys and noise making rigs and the sharp drumming of Dave Morgan provides a remarkable trellis for the music to climb all over.

This is top drawer music. In any category. Flying wildly between genres, taking in jazz fusion, funk, prog, mathcore and general neo-classical modernism, it's quite simply astonishing. 

shoe gazing. man.

Back to the main stage for a much needed post-Physics House Band coital chill at the hands of kentish soundscapers Yndi Halda***** I love this lot, but (my fault) they've dropped off my radar a little recently, so I don't know what they've been up to since the last time I saw them supporting the mighty and much missed Oceansize. 

Their magnificent album Enjoy Eternal Bliss is right up there on my most played list and thankfully they soothe us with works culled  from it this fine afternoon. But, dammit,  there's a load of new stuff on show that I'm unaware of. And it mainly includes vocals. Not that that's a bad thing by any means. It's just caught me off guard. But the vibe is, as always beautiful and mellow without being soporific. A perfect late afternoon balm. Eternal Bliss indeed.

Complete change of pace needed. Prescription: 

Sheffield's mighty noise canons Rolo Tomassi ****1/2* 

I'm beginning to fall deeply in love with this festival. While, on the face of it, there appear to be a lot of very similar bands on the bill, it's dawning on me that there's such staggering diversity and startling cleverness in the curation that any initial apprehension or preconceptions were as specious as they were misplaced. Proof, if needed is delivered in spades by the Spence siblings and their noisenik crew. 

A brisk and wonderful set shows off the delicious Eva Spence's baffling Jekyll and Hyde Schizophrenia: on one hand delightful, seductive, ethereal chanteuse - on the other: a rusty box of napalm stuffed with tacks, shards of glass and fuck-off thorns and thistles with a sonic output like a Superbike with a knackered silencer.

But, as always, it works. A good range of old favourites and the newer, slightly more sophisticated work from the stunning Astraea spellbind the crowd. And the band look as though they're thoroughly enjoying themselves too; bopping, writhing, jumping, looning and grinning their way through their jazzy, alt, mathy, poppy melange. 

Because of bill congestion and slight overlaps, it all gets a bit frantic for a bit, but I do manage to grab a solid earful of the ever-brilliant Brontide***** on a rammed Bixler stage complete with Nathan Fairweather making the same dash from Rolo Tomassi's main stage triumph to take up the four strings for the post-rock kings. They truly are leaders of a very talented pack and tonight they cement themselves into that position with the adoring masses.

Back on the main stage (or was it before - all getting a bit much thanks to Jager, Cider, the last of the Montepulciano and 'Humanfly'), it's time for Maybeshewill ***** again. 

This time a slightly different set, but delivered with the same passion and pleasure to a much bigger crowd than last night's intimate kick off.

The neck hairs are up again. The collective goosebumped flesh makes the crowd look like a Bernard Matthews plucking shed and the thousands of doe-eyed faces must hurt from smiling. This is just wonderful. And as the sun is setting in the heart of Somerset, there isn't a dry eye in the field as the monumental shimmering beauty of some of the world's finest melodic post-rock enraptures and mesmerises. It truly doesn't get much better than this.

So, still bathing in the total beauty of Maybeshewill, it's time for yet anther change of stage and mood. Quirky Londoners Public Service Broadcasting***1/2** are headlining the Bixler stage with their kooky audio visual, post Kraftwerk, automaton triggered, Orwellian/Kafkaesque prole-tertainment smorgasbord. And the gathered citizens and denizens tuck in greedily. There's a dry humour thoroughout with even the 'banter' between tunes synthesized. But the overall effect is one of energization and this is as near as Arc Tan Gent has got to a rave yet with lots of lost souls losing their collective shit; albeit in a slightly controlled and middle-England kind of way. One imagines the smartly turned out band members would approve of the restraint and decorum. 

I'll be honest, Much as I love 65DaysofStatic***** I only manage to stay upright for a portion of their stunning set before needing a late evening safety nap. But the light show and huge crowd do their best to keep me together enough to get stuck in to the vibe for long enough to crack my face from smiling yet again. I'd be lying like a cheap korean watch if I could remember exactly what they play. But it is, as always splendid. I think. Oh fuck it. Time for another Jager bomb and  the silent disco.

The Silent Disco*****

if you weren't there, I'm not going to even begin to explain. Just, fuck.

SATURDAY

Oh god.

No, really. Oh God.

Right, got to man up. There's heads to nod. Beards to stroke. Shoes to gaze at. Coffee to be drunk. Bacon to be gobbled. Hmmmm, bacon.

So, after, what can only be described as a 'sketchy' night, it's time to start all over again. And what better way to ease away the toxins than with a saunter down to the sun-soaked main stage for some soothing tunes. 

Things kick off with a space psych noodling and pleasant enough wake up at the hands of ANTA***** who draw a surprisingly healthy (in numbers not physical condition, clearly) early crowd who bob along to their mashed up time signature other-worldly din.

Hot on the space winged heels of ANTA are Delta Sleep*****

And this eclectric crew move things up (and pace wise, down) a notch or two. A sophisticated cocktail of post-rock vibes with towering repetitive, hummable passages that would grace an early Radiohead long player set to an, at times almost jazzy rhythmic backdrop with inevitable alt influences swimming to the surface. 

Think Colours or Tubelord (without the hysteria) mixed with moments of Reuben but with a Brontide-like modular construction. God, that sounded pretentious. Sorry. Anyway, heady and fabulous stuff. And the perfect companion to more yet more Cotswold cider. 

Continuing with the laconic, spiritual and glorious sunny morning vibe, next up are the cello-driven Pirate Ship Quintet***1/2** And they continue the group seduction with a chilled, multi-layered and textured blanket of loveliness. Hmmm.

Vessels***** do their Vessels-like thing next and manage to hold on to what's becoming a nomadic crowd while entertaining them with a splendid tapestry of big harmonic and melodic huggery.

But it's TTNG***** who really get Saturday smiling. And, indeed, probably the whole weekend. A totally spellbinding and magical smirkfest beguiles and stupefies the huge crowd. They are in their own perfect bubble. Not rushed, phased, worried or seemingly aware of what's around them. But not in a distant or an aloof way. In fact, completely the opposite. They are charming, engaging, enthralling and delightful. Tim Collis's legendary and peerles tapping, sliding, intricate and totally effortless brilliance on the guitar provides the canvas on which his brother Chris's sublime drumming and Henry Tremain's delicious vocals and equally majestic fretwork paint masterpiece after masterpiece.

Breaths are genuinely taken away and a hazy mass delirium settles on the bucolic Saturday afternoon pastoral scene. An absolute privilege to be here and one of the most genuinely memorable and beautiful experiences imaginable. Genius. Just genius.

Now this is the only major clash bummer of the weekend. Who, in their right mind wouldn't want to see the incredible and other worldly majesty of Nordic Giants? Who? Well, no one. But a major gaff on the line up meant that I only catch the merest whiff of the moving brilliance which is a real sickener.

So, sad, but undaunted, I reach for one of the best possible cures: the ever-brilliant Arcane Roots****1/2* Now, the clash gods have also been unkind to Kingston's world class trio and the Bixler tent is not as full as they rightly deserve. 

Unbothered, Mssrs Groves, Burton and Atkins climb into a fizzing and aggressive set which gets the pits opening up and arms and legs flailing like a speed dictation exercise at a sign language conference. All hell breaks loose and the huge-bollocked riffology of Resolve, the visceral madness of Second Breath, the sing-a-long glory of You Are and the utter arrhythmia-inducing set closer Million Dollar Que$tion are among the highlights of the whole weekend. Amazing stuff, amazing band. Slightly out of water among the post rock math fish in this particular lake, but a fabulous and engaging performance. As always.

Another traipse back to the main stage, this time to be wowed by the ever-sensational Three Trapped Tigers*****

It's always tempting to put  fantasy supergroups together when you see so many brilliant bands in such close proximity. But, despite there being such an embarrassing wealth of amazing drummers on show (however expected that might be at such a tech/prog/math event) Adam Betts will always be first on the team sheet. He is, to put it mildly, one of the most incredible dummers on the planet. 

It's as disingenuous as it is unfair to label TTT as Bett's band, but he is the prima ballerina. The controlling genius midfielder. The general. The showy-offy, better than everybody else, goody two shoes, creepy bum-lick bastard. And what a show he and his two buddies Tom Rogerson and Matt Calvert put on.

Putting the noise into noise-rock, they assault every organ. Overload every sense. Hyper-excite every nerve ending. Huge sub bass growls, brown-notes, spiralling arpeggios and thudding, teeth-rattling riffs completely captivate and seduce the bewildered but beguiled crowd. It's not the stuff you put on the hi-fi at a standard semi-detached house party, but man, it rocks and given the adoration and adulation it engenders this evening its certainly a party starter in this part of town. Er, country.

A quick mention again about the festival in general, but mainly the food. As already mentioned, the organisation and layout is bang on, but I just want to run the rule over the spectacular food: Dorset Smokery ***** amazing bacon Pie Minister***** pies don't come much pie-ier. Delicious. The Fernhill Farm Outlet ***** Honestly, the tastiest shoulder of lamb I've ever tasted. Sublime. Glastonbury Wood Fired Pizza Van Thing ***** Pizza From a wood burning oven. Say no more. Apart from Pepperoni. Hmmm. Cotswold Cider ***** Hic.

On the home straight now. And what better way to start winding things up than with Ulster's triumphant instrumental legends ASIWYFA*****?

Right from the off, there's a super-special vibe in the absolutely crammed main stage. Barriers are broken down (and lovingly restored by the terribly well-behaved but seriously rowdy crowd) as the human remains in this Somerset field collectively lose their shit.

The band look as though they've never been happier as they stride through a masterful set jammed as full as a bull's bum with explosiveness, joy, vim, power, passion, energy and bucketloads of fun. As atmosphere goes, this is the one this weekend. There is a telepathy between the crowd and the band. It's like the masses of gyrating, thrashing and whirling bodies are sync-linked to the sound output. It's truly awesome to be part of. Pits, moshing, dancing, gay abandon. Heavenly oneness. A true musically and heart-driven shared experience never to be forgotten. World class.

Well, that's me done. Try to get into a rammed tent for the always excellent Tall Ships***** but have to settle for watching them from afar (see what I did there?). They're bloody good to be fair. Have a look at Bo Ningen***** Nah. Not happening. Go to see Fuck Buttons***** Not my kind of thang. Too many computers. Not enough real. But impressive light show. But, after ASIWYFA, nothing is going to work. Even a Zeppelin reunion. So to the Shisha tent. Hmmm. Humanfly.

Crashed. Burned. Staggered. Astonished. Spellbound. Fucked. What a totally amazing weekend stuffed with some of the very best music one could ever hope to be exposed to. 

A total triumph of curation, organisation and delivery. Need to recover before next year. Can't wait.

Bring it on.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Pictures and shit: Because my phone ran out of charge earlier than expected, I've had to 'liberate' some of the pics used in this post from other sources including screen grabs and stills. I hope you don't mind. Would have been even duller without them. Don't send me to jail. I don't want to shower with Mr Big. Or play mummies and daddies.