Primavera Sound (2) 2007
Barcelona
31/05/07 to 02/06/07
Part Two: Queues. Glorious Queues.
Primavera Sound: The Festival that loves to queue. I remark upon this to Hannah, a young lady working as a photographer for ATP as we wait for our press passes. For two hours. Obviously, we Brits love to queue, and love to complain about it, so we stood, happily bemoaning the heat, the stand, the late opening of the office. Later, in other parts of the festival, queues for wristbands, chocolate, buses (although the queue for the night bus home is really more of a riot), beer tokens, entrance into different part of the arena all developed. This having been said, Primavera is easily the best organised, and possibly the friendliest festival I've had pleasure of attending. I've missed bands at Leeds as a result of badly organised security and ended up standing in the rain at ATP as a result of things not opening when they should. At least this queuing was in the warm sun and a good four hours before any bands were due to appear.
Later, after finally getting a beer, my new-found Finnish hostel buddy and I catch about 15 minutes of Za (www.myspace.com/putosza) whilst en route to Melvins. Jana is the first woman I've met who liked Melvins, and we both agreed that it was a shame the two clashed, as Za's crazed spazz-rock would have definitely found fans in Melvins' crowd. Imagine a three-piece Mars Volta playing At The Drive-In songs, vocals replaced by odd loops of chanting.
Houdini is Melvins' best known album, mainly due to the involvement of one Kurdt Cobain. I'm of the opinion that it isn't their best, but the chance to see the new double drum Big-Business-Melvins line-up play what is still a great album is not to be missed. King Buzzo and burly bearded Big Business bassist (say that quickly) Jared take to the stage in black robes, Buzzo resembling The Cure's Robert Smith before he gets his face on, with his grey hair and beer belly. They plug in, and I'm suddenly aware of the fact that I've never been to an outdoor gig where the volume made the floor shake. By the time the drummers appear, I'm convinced of the fact that the feedback may have shaken one of my contact lenses out of my eye, shortly to be followed by the eye itself. From the punishing super-slow-motion of ‘Hooch' to the revised ‘Spread Eagle Beagle', a tutorial in intelligent stoner is delivered with precision and sludge in equal measure. Melvins haven't changed their sound in years, but they've refined the art of musical strangeness, antagonism and sonic bombast almost to perfection. When Buzzo leaves the stages after the final shreds of ‘Pearl Bomb' creep into feedback, Jared takes the mike to lead a spoken word finale ("We're all going to die!") over (originally instrumental) ‘Spread Eagle Beagle'. I take my cue, and walk the short distance over to the Rockdelux stage where Slint will play Spiderland. In this crowd, I will hear the second woman I've known like Melvins say (slightly surprised) to her boyfriend, "That was alright, wasn't it?"
And him reply (clearly surprised), "Who? The Melvins?" I'm glad I'm not the only one finding out new things.
One of the best things about Primavera and The Barcelona Forum site, is how close the stages are. You can walk from one end to another in five minutes which means you don't miss much. Occasionally you get a bit of leakage from one stage to another, but when bands are generally as frustratingly punctual as these (I normally assume 10.00 means at least 10.15 in festival time) it's a distinct advantage to be close by.
Almost every person I've spoken to so far is here to see Slint, and they're performing on the largest stage. As seminal and influential as Spiderland is, I don't think that they're a big stage band, and by the looks of them, I don't think they do either. Slint come onstage ten minutes late, running through four songs without much flourish at all. I'm reminded of how claustrophobic ‘Breadcrumb Trail' is, and of how lovely ‘Washer' is, but the band may as well be in a rehearsal room for all they use the stage. I wasn't expecting fireworks and underwater drum solos, but without something else, it's just a little boring. So I leave to watch Comets On Fire.
Luckily, as I descend the hill to the ATP Stage, Comets On Fire have just unleashed the first barrage of feedback in introduction to their Blue Cathedral opus. And it's like the Eighties and the Nineties had never happened. I've often said that if I had a choice, I'd travel back to somewhere in Southern California or Texas in the mid-seventies. Essentially, I'd like to be in "Almost Famous" or "Dazed and Confused" if I could. And Comets On Fire sound like they'd like to be too. Fuzzy facial hair, even fuzzier guitars, dry ice. They produce the performance of the day, no questions. From the storming ‘The Bee and The Cracking Egg' to the psychedelic grunge of ‘Whiskey River', every moment was thrilling, every guitar lick (much like Stillwater) incendiary.
After this, I stay long enough to catch some of Fennesz & Mike Patton, long enough to realise that I'd rather I hadn't. I'm sure the droning clicking laptop electro was worthy enough, but I'm not that interested in what amounted to the aural equivalent of watching a man eat his own shit. Indulgent way beyond dull, Patton should realise he's much more interesting working in rock bands than with obscure electronic Belgians.
The Smashing Pumpkins, dressed all in white, produce what would have been a spectacular performance, had it not been for the stench of schmaltz and commerce which lingered over the stage. Billy Corgan's messianic posturing aside, there's something really unsettling about watching stadium rock with added angst being rehashed, revisited and resold back to people who should know better. Yes, they run through the hits; and yes, ‘Bullet With Butterfly Wings' still reminds me of being 14; and yes, ‘1979' is still a wonderful driving song, but I'm appalled at how vapid and mock-dramatic these words sound (especially on the slower ones like ‘Disarm'), especially now I'm 25. The songs are great, but looking at Corgan/ Jesus onstage, one can't help but think he's started believing that the band should have been Billy Corgan & The Smashing Pumpkins.
I know this may be against every word of the Rockbeatstone style guide (I'm being a little facetious, no such thing exists, at least to my knowledge), but The White Stripes are wrong. Watching them from almost the outer edge of the Rockdelux amphitheatre, I'm struck by the fact that, much like Slint, they don't seem onstage at all, but like they're playing at being in a band in their playroom at home. The stage is set up in red and white, with a variety of microphones and instruments scattered across, as is left there from the last time they played with them. And I don't feel entirely right being here to watch. Opening with ‘The Dead Leaves and The Dirty Ground', everything they do in terms of performance is done right, Jack shimmying and shaking like a skinny white blues hound, squealing solos and yelping like libido personified; Meg battering away in her trademark minimal style. What I can't help think is wrong though, is the weird chemistry between Jack and Meg. I don't truthfully know what their relationship is, despite Jack introducing Meg as his big sister, but watching Jack directing all of that skinny white sexual energy in her direction feels wrong. Every time he approaches the mike near her kit, I can't but feel like I'm watching something going on that I really shouldn't be. I feel uncomfortable watching it here, so what Mrs Jack White must feel like must be unbearable. This said, there's a streak of consummate showmanship here, and hearing new material like the Zeppelin-esque ‘Icky Thump' from the new album of the same name alongside older classics like lo-fi ‘Hotel Yorba' is an electrifying show in any situation. I just feel a little dirty afterwards.
by Keith Patterson
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