Primavera Sound 2008
Parc del Fòrum, Barcelona
Wednesday 28th May
Primavera Sound 2008 is an event marked this year round by things doing exactly what you expected, and things doing exactly what was unexpected. The weather was unexpectedly overcast and, on occasion, very wet. The music was, quite expectedly, mostly excellent. I am one year older than the man who attended last year, and as such feel at least two years more tired. I honestly cannot begin to work out how Hunter S Thompson and Lester Bangs kept it up for so long. This is not quite true (they're obviously both superhumans), but I can't remember exactly the HST quote about being too weird to live, so we'll leave it there. I am not too weird to live at all. I am, as expected, just a man. Here is the story of my Primavera Sound 2008.
After have sat for a full day on the verge of nodding off, I am unsure whether it would not be a better idea for me to ditch the quiet glacial folk of the Apollo line-up for England vs. USA, especially seeing as I'd definitely expect some shouting at the state of English football to be capable of rousing me from the pillowy depths of lethargy. Luckily I come to my senses early. I still have no idea who played or what the score was. I do know that inside the Apollo building smoking is very much allowed, giving the whole event the feeling of some kind of experimental theatre performance.
You forget, coming from Britain, that people on the European mainland love smoking, and no one more so than the Spanish. You're allowed to smoke in banks over here.
This hazy atmosphere is perfect for the music of Mi and L'au. An elfin Joni Mitchell singing beautiful fragile harmonies with a slightly (only slightly) more robust gentleman, which brings to mind Espers and Beth Orton, the vaguely beatnik coffee-house ambience suites them perfectly. I am not lying at all when I tell a disappointed blonde girl later that Mi and L'au were awesome, even when she tells me to lie. Following them, Matt Eliot weighs in with a set that departs from the singer-songwriter template in (what I admit) is starting to become a fairly predicable but not unimpressive manner. Armed with an acoustic guitar, an electric guitar, and a loop pedal, he builds a collection of songs crafted from his own raw materials. Harmonising with himself, Eliot's take on folk is rather technological, yet no less haunting for it, and his Morricone-esque guitar lines are well-suited to his Damon Albarn timbre.
The Clientele, unfortunately, don't continue this rich vein of form. They're a nice enough mixture of R.E.M and Crowded House-style sunshine pop, but they are very much a band that your girlfriend would listen to, and I'm currently in the process of growing a beard for a bet, so I'm masculine-to-the-max, hombre. La Orquesta Del Caballo Ganador are something of a departure in style for this evening of nicety. A seven-piece spazz-jazz-rock orchestra conducted by a lovely Spanish man with a beard (it's better than mine) who is intent on the audience fulfilling that classic sporting cliché of being the eighth man. I assume his direction makes more sense to those versed in the Spanish language, because at a series of pre-arranged signals and waves, we're expected to rattle our keys, whistle and cheer. This gesticulation is only part of the entertainment, because the man in question conducts his band with flamboyant intensity, commanding guitar riffs, bass solos and tin whistle etudes with equal panache. They reminded me of Fantomas, but with audience participation.
Thursday 29th May
Having seen Mi and L'au and Matt Eliot walking down streets adjacent to Las Ramblas, I set off to the launch of the festival proper. Security last year seemed very laid back, prompting me to attempt to smuggle two bottles of supermarket wine into the arena. Unfortunately, security this year is much tighter. "No beer?" The man rooting in my bag asks, and I assure him that there is no beer. Then he finds the wine. I thought he'd only get one, and then he found the second. The whole caper went off paced like an Elmore Leonard thriller, and I'm reduced to queuing for beer tokens with the plebs.
MGMT, despite their status as being one of the more hyped bands around, are good. Very good, in fact. Their Flaming Lips meets Pink Floyd gone pop sound is exactly what you want to hear on a warm sunny Barcelona evening. They're clearly having a ball performing guitar solos through clouds of dry ice, and as the set ends with two Management mainstays being joined onstage by a dancing child, we can hear the gleeful statement-of-the-obvious "Hey! We've got a kid onstage!" Wacky and magical, but most of all, great fun. New York's (where else?) Enon sound like Sister-era Sonic Youth without all the guitar FX and trickery. They're a compact punk-rock trio making full use of the boy-girl vocals on offer, like a more epic but no less energetic Ikara Colt. HEALTH, on the other hand, are a spectacle without many points of references. My original notes on them read: "Drums and drums and drums and drums and drums." I'll admit they're probably better in some tiny sweaty club, but the tribal noise rock carries pretty well outdoors, and they're pretty jaw-dropping (jaw-breaking?)
First timetabling clash of the weekend came as Public Enemy went head-to-head with Dr Octagon aka Kool Keith. Theoretically, I could catch half a set of each, and walk away happy. In practice, I'm forced to fall back on my old prejudice about live hip-hop being all mouth and no trousers. I sat for twenty minutes as The Bomb Squad played some homemade dubstep to warm the crowd up, itinerantly shouting about how the crowd had to give love to Public Enemy. Being from a rock background, I like to think crowds come pretty warmed up by opening acts and the fact that they've come to see live music, and this inane hollering puts me off rather than turns me up, as it were. The Rolling Stones would be mid-way into 'Under My Thumb' by now. After said twenty minutes, I gave up on ever seeing Public Enemy, and moved to the ATP to (hopefully) catch the Kool Keith set.
What I saw, was Kutmasta Kurt (Keith's tour DJ) playing the crowd a selection of his greatest hits (complete with director's commentary), "to get you warmed up." By this point, the only thing warming up was my piss, and it was pretty much boiling. Kurt was joined onstage by some no-mark rap sidekick in a tracksuit who shouted "Yeah!" for too long and told us to get up for Keith. Admittedly, most of the potential audience had been stolen by Public Enemy (and thus needed to make some noise just to register their presence), but eventually, when Keith does make his (less-than-grandiose) entrance, he could be any other rapper in the world. The whole this was so lacklustre that after so much talk of throwing down and getting up, I get up and go looking for food.
En route, I catch two songs from (former Rodan members) The Shipping News who convince me that any band who accept the math rock tag are going to be boring. A string of time changes and gentle playing, I'd like to hear some rocking out please. Public Enemy (on the other hand) are now in full swing. I think what Keith was probably missing from his live show (aside from material of the strength of songs from It takes a Nation of Millions...) was two performers with the charisma and chemistry of Chuck D and Flava Flav. Rocking out to their hardest on 'She watch Channel Zero' (sampling Slayer's 'Angel of Death' on record), and playing their greatest hit 'Fight The Power', it might have taken time coming, but Public Enemy (if you'll excuse the cliché) fully brought the noise.
Where does one start with Portishead? The new songs from their tremendous new album Third sounded titanic and tragic, and older classics (like 'Glory Box' and 'Sour Times') slotted in seamlessly too. Proof, perhaps, that the new album wasn't as much of a departure for the band as for the critics. Beth Gibbons sounded utterly glacial, save for her warm but awkward between-song thanks. It's touching to hear a performer sound so genuinely pleased that an audience has stuck by them. Highlight of the evening was probably 'Machine Gun' with its addictive and anthemic ‘Blue Monday' drum crashes and a freestyle appearance from Chuck D, although the taut 'We Carry On' came close.
Something of anticlimax then, to see Explosions In The Sky, a band whom I'd been lead to believe were rather adept at the climactic. Post rock played without any real direction or volume. I know they come highly rated, but I can't really see the point. And then Vampire Weekend... Twee indie-boy reggae-lite. I can barely put into sentences how furious they made me. For a band based in New York, they strike as having never been further than their dormitory laundry room. I wasn't over keen to see them anyway, but I do these things to provide you (my readers; my fans) with the best informed opinions that the internet can provide. And I'm fuming at the complete lack of any edge they displayed. Vampire Weekend are a Care Bears Summer Special of a band, they're Simply Red for the iPod Generation, and (I'd hope this goes without saying) nothing worth getting excited over. Good Night.
Friday 30th May
Do you think Ryan Jarvis of The Cribs cultivates his village-idiot chic on purpose? He is, admittedly, a little too cool for the classic village idiot, but I have my doubts whether he could spell either ‘cool' or 'idiot' unaided. Mr Kate Nash does a fantastic job of auditioning for the Yorkshire remake of Nathan Barley, whilst his brothers (I'll bet their family tree goes straight down) make some kind of no-mark messy post-Libertines racket, and I (you'll be surprised here) don't see anything worth writing home about. I've been assured since arriving home that fans of the band admit it takes a while before they stop grating on you, but I haven't the patience.
Pissed Jeans on the other hand, despite their rubbish name and the fact that they've been described to me as "The Stooges for the 00's" by my guitarist, are fantastic. They use the classic formula of having a crazy-drunk-sounding front man backed by a rock-steady band, except the singer isn't that crazy-drunk, and his band are a little too close to crazy-drunk to be rock-steady. All in all it makes for an arresting performance, if a little one-paced at times. No Age threaten us with some volume (another all mouth, no trousers situation), but I'm struck again by an intense lack of interest and leave early. They were, apparently, better later in the set, but they sounded like a watered-down Dinosaur Jr. to me.
The Strange Death of Liberal England were interesting, playing a British version of Arcade Fire's puritan bluster, possibly with Billy Bragg instead of Bruce Springsteen's influence. Six Organs of Admittance continue the folk-volume axis with an impressive set that sounded at least partially improvised, and were all the more thrilling for it. Their set also sound-tracked the first J. Mascis spotting of the weekend, although I did seem to see him constantly hereafter dressed in a green hoodie and big glasses. Another survivor of the USA DIY hardcore explosion, Bob Mould sounds like a much younger man than he really is. Daniel Johns from Silverchair, in fact. I'm not sure if it was nostalgia, but the Bob Mould Band weigh in with a decent, if unspectacular, set of songs. Man Man are set up in a huge round onstage, and play some crazy dance music, complete with bells and whistles. There's lots of shouting and drumming too. On the Rockdelux main stage, Lou Barlow's Sebadoh play some lo-fi sounding US indie that I was neither enthusiastic enough about to pay much attention to, or offended enough by to leave. That could be taken as either a compliment or a criticism, but they were alright, and I've seen much much worse.
Devo: Possibly the strangest band I'll ever see. The best thing about Devo is that they don't look like they've ever fitted in. They looked and sounded weird back in 1978, and even today in 2008, the sight of fat accountant-looking men in yellow boiler suits and funny hats march-dancing onstage and singing songs that sound like cartoon futur-musik is still pretty odd. I'm not entirely sure what their stick is (are Devo robots? Aliens? Human-Potato crossbreeds?) but visually and musically they're a whole lot of fun. Considering they've been going for thirty-plus years, their New Wave sci-fi synth pop still sounds fresh. This is a performance that could have helped you party in 1979, 1999 or 2099. From the fun-filled Devo to the reformed (of sorts) Polvo who are as far from being fun as you can get. It takes me ten minutes to realise that their math rock version of The Eagles is not at all what I need at that moment in time. And neither, unfortunately, is Cat Power. She does have a great voice, and she does have a certain cool swagger (stagger?) as she moves across the giant stage, but it's all a little too Norah Jones for my taste. It would be easier to feel an emotional connection in a tiny bar somewhere, but she's stretched beyond hope in an area the size of this one.
Whoosh! Boom! Wham! This is kind of what Fuck Buttons sound like. Only in a really good way. At one point during this set, I almost burst into tears. There is actually water in the corner of my eye, and I can feel that bruised lump of wailing grief moved up from my stomach into my mouth. And I'm such a grey dead man that I haven't cried properly in years. For all of the grinding, gurning, battering electrical noise that's going on, there is also a real emotional heat (and heart) to Fuck Buttons. What with the lights the way they are, I'm reminded of the opening to Stanley Kubrick's 2001. You can heard paradigms shifting and splitting, and for a second, believe that evolution is happening RIGHT NOW. I think I might have seen God, but I don't think he saw me, so we didn't get to chat. It's sexual and passionate, and save for an occasional burst of distorted gibberish, totally instrumental. For an act I'd expected to be a series of fairly boring bleeps and hooms, Fuck Buttons are (and I'm aware of how often this phrase gets misused) a revelation.
Saturday 31st May
I spend an hour before Bon Iver in a nearby shopping centre looking for some new trainers, as the ones I'm wearing have given up on me big-style. My feet feel like they are made more from blister than skin. Luckily the Auditori is a seated indoor venue providing rest for a weary pedestrian and shelter from the rain. Bon Iver (the band) are far less stripped down than I'd imagined, performing as a three-piece band rather than a solitary bearded woodsman. They are, fortunately, no less affecting for it. In near darkness, we see the band play songs like 'Skinny Love' and 'The Wolves' and draw the crowd into their warm embrace. Australia's Devastations are amiable before their set kicks off, and throughout it, but their arty punk-rock is a little bit too studiously cool-for-school to really attract interest.
Deerhunter's Brandon Cox, on the other hand, is both amiable and entertaining. Performing early in the day as Atlas Sound, his homemade laptop pop is very pleasant, but it's his gossipy between-song banter that really wins me over. Telling a delightful story about a castle in Malaga and watching, "this girl getting fingerbanged like she was in carpark of KFC in New Jersey," I'm unlikely to pay money for his music, but I'd pay to see him live again. Okkervil River are unlikely to get the same level of support, playing, as they are, that same brand of earnest alt-country that I'm fairly sure I saw at around this time last year. Silver Jews sound like a Chicago Pulp, which is never a bad thing, although I'm (again) not sure if I've the patience for more literary and clever indie-rock. Similarly, Lightspeed Champion might provide some interesting conflicts in terms of dress and influence, but their music isn't anywhere near as engaging.
I saw Dirty Projectors supporting Battles a few months back, and was more confused than pleased by their avant-garde take on afro-rock. This time around, they're no less confusing, but somehow much more engaging. There is enough percussive bombast and skin-tight vocal harmony on display to satisfy all but the most narrow-minded of music fans here though. Not wanting to sound narrow-minded here though, I didn't like Rufus Wainwright at all. Admittedly more talented than Will and Grace's Just Jack, his camp interludes between songs are irritating, and the songs themselves are pretty dull. He starts on some story about how much he loves Spain and guitars, and I leave to watch Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks, who don't provide much more entertainment than Lightspeed Champion did. They sound like Pavement, but I was never much into Pavement. Deerhunter weren't as good as I'd hoped either. Neither as enthralling and mystical as they're supposed to be on album (I have been, again, pretty disappointed) or as warm and entertaining as Atlas Sound were. The sound was pretty messy too.
Luckily, the festival highlights were just around the corner. For a band who clear know how to play their instruments, it's refreshing that Shellac can clearly have so much enthusiasm for the stagecraft side of performance. You won't often see a band so critically loved and ethically sound pretending to be aeroplanes as they do at the end of 'Wingwalker'. To be honest, you won't often see such a serious sounding band singing songs about squirrels. You will rarely see a group of such talented musicians pissing about with such childish glee. The other times I've seen Shellac, I've been too hungover or drunk to really appreciate them. Here, they're fucking awesome.
Are Les Savy Fav the best live band in the world? They're pretty close. And this is mainly as a result of Tim Harrington and his Will Farrell style audience excursions. He enters the stage dressed in leaves that he's harvested from around the ATP stage. He then strips down to a multicoloured leotard. At one point, as the man himself is knee-deep in the audience getting to know his congregation, he troops through the entire crowd meeting people. Not just "Hey, how are you?" either. He's having real conversations with people around the crowd. The music, I'd like to add, is great too. Inventive post-punk, but with just the right amount of noise rock and new-wave slipped in to keep things fresh. They even play 'We Got Boxes'. If you're given the chance to see LSF ever, snap off the hand that's offering to you.
After the breathless fun of Les Savy Fav, I stuck around for Awesome Colour, who didn't deliver the volume of the punk rock I'd hoped for, but were at least chatty and enthusiastic.
Another year, another Primavera. Another top quality weekend of music. Cheers to everyone who's involved.
