Primavera Sound (1) 2007
Barcelona
31/05/07 to 02/06/07
Introduction
I know, I know. I promised this'd be up in daily updates from last Monday. And I've been home a week before I start typing. I'm a bad person. But I am good looking and charming, and therefore all blame can be laid at someone else's door. I have tried to tell women both of these irrefutable truths this week on separate occasions, and nobody seems that convinced. Regardless of this, here's the first instalment of my Primavera Sound report. The second should appear later in the week. Don't hold your breath.
Many thanks to our Editor-in-Chief Dan Westerland for his pass-acquisition skills; Melanie and all staff at Primavera for their kindness and hospitality; all staff at Ideal Hostel, Barcelona for their breakfast and bed linen; the inhabitants of Room 108 for discussions on Steve Reich and the awesomeness of Melvins; Hannah from Nottingham and Pat from The Daily Star, two lovely people who proved that not all journalists are fat men lacking social skills; Easyjet for not being able to find stairs to get us off the plane, but for arriving on time nonetheless; Dr Elle Smith who waited an hour to pick me up at Newcastle Airport while Easyjet found stairs; Dave who drove The Smashing Pumpkins' crew bus; Newcastle College for providing half term at just the right time; Slee FC for doing without my 5-a-side skills in the final few games of our push for second-bottom place in the 3rd Division; Nathan and Jill Hall for waiting until 08-06-07 to get married (congratulations guys) and Damon Albarn for being the only famous person I got close to all weekend. Without all (well, some of you) of you, most of this would not have been possible. Obviously, I'm the one with the mercurial talent, but it's nice to seem gracious, isn't it?
Part One: It is far, far (30-05-07)
There must be something about me and airports. My mere presence in the terminal throws security staff into a frenzy of excitement. I have never once stepped into the departure lounge without (at least) a friendly pat-down or some kind of unpacking of my (generally full-to-bursting) hand luggage. That isn't a euphemism, by the way, it normally does happen.
Normally I set the metal detectors away early on, just to give them an excuse to touch my bottom (more than once per visit). En route to the United States a few years ago, French airport staff discharged the entire contents of my rucksack onto the examination counter and asked me some very difficult questions about the tube of Salt and Vinegar Pringles and the condoms I'd foolishly packed in there. They were mainly difficult because aside from the functional-at-best "Pere Noel il y a mort" that I remember from school, I can't speak French. This time around, bound for Barcelona, I'm subject to a random security check. On reflection, I'm vaguely reassured by this, as it implies that it isn't just skinny brown men with beards who are randomly checked. If nothing else, myself (white and beardless, looking better acquainted with packets of freedom fries than cells of freedom fighters) and the red-haired yummy-mummy who also enjoyed the search prove the diversity of the modern security threat.
Far from being the only switched-on character in Newcastle (were you ever to actually have considered me a switched-on character, or used it as a description of anyone not circa 1966) the Newcastle-Barcelona flight is populated with more than a fair number of hipsters and heads. A girl with studs in her face and tattoos on her feet stands talking to her considerably more conservative friend about the midnight start time for Isis (despite the fact that its actually 10.30, timetable nerds). A few other groups of alternative-looking kids, some beards, a girl who I knew years ago in Whitley Bay whose younger sister looks like her twin, some haircuts, a few members of Newcastle-based post-rockers Seafelt with whom I'm on nodding acquaintance and with whom I have festival previous (Leeds 2001; All Tomorrows Parties 2004). Don't I sound like the perfect scenester? I would, were it not for the fact that our nodding acquaintance is an uncomfortable one that wouldn't go further than a brief ‘Hello'. They will be in Barcelona for Slint. I know this much. Mainly because I have spoken to them before about Slint, and they've revealed that they would go anywhere to see them live, which they will be, performing their influential Spiderland opus in full. I doubt (at this moment in time) how much of Slint I'll see, due to their potential clash with Melvin's performance of Houdini. Interestingly enough, these two bands, along with Sonic Youth and The Fall, make up the primary influences for my band. Perhaps I should view Primavera as some kind of Bulk & Skull training camp (we're at www.myspace.com/bulkampersandskull, should you be interested).
"It is far, far. Past the two towers, and then a long way along the beach. To the end. Then is The Forum." These are the words of direction to the Primavera site from a helpful Spanish policeman. Very helpful, very friendly, but no less intimidating than the rest of his associates, all of whom seem to revel in that special sense of inapproachability that comes with being fully uniformed and armed all at once. There are a lot of them too. Very helpful all the same. He's right too. It is far. I give up the idea of walking there, and sit by the water for a while.
The main problem with travelling on your own is that for a lot of the time you're on your own. There are many ways of making friends, many ways of enjoying one's own company, but you are, at the end of the day, travelling on your own. Sometimes this is an advantage. Especially if you're an overweight misanthrope who quite likes being on his own. But not all the time. If Rockbeatstone were ever to take a more philosophical bent (Sisyphusrollstone perhaps) I could suggest that aren't we all on our own, one way or another? And in fact aren't we all just series of random proteins and electrical impulses without any guarantees that we're really here at all. How do I know my impulse is the same as yours? Who cares, Descartes? True Brit that I am, it's much easier for me to converse to friends in English speaking countries. Europeans are wonderful, mainly because they've learned English so I can shout for egg and chips in comfort of my own language. This is a lie, obviously. I'd love to be able to speak confidently to someone in their own language, but as it stands I'm stuck talking to Americans, Australians and other Brits. Today, I've barely spoken to anyone. My best friend in Barcelona is probably an American girl who asked to borrow my copy of The Guardian Society supplement, although I warned her it was full of jobs and not much news. Although there is a crumpled prostitute caked in make-up who's been on the corner next to the theatre since about four, but I think her interest is nothing if not professional.
Enough setting the scene methinks. How about some music reviews? It took me a few hours to remember the showcase events happening pre-festival, and as such I missed Gnac. Apologies to them.
La [2], Nou de la Ramblas, 111, Barcelona
At Swim Two Birds do a great job emulating the rickety but muscular folk traded by M. Gira's Angels of Light. With a band comprising drums, cello and acoustic guitar, they sounded as menacing and as fragile as an unplugged Mogwai with a broad Mancunian Johnny Cash on vocals. Lyrically they're full of the quiet and cynical dignity you'd expect from hard line drinkers the morning after the night before. I'd have bought their album had I had more than six euros in my pocket. I advise you look for it and purchase it.
Øslo Telescopic on the other hand, couldn't have sounded that classy if they'd tried. Opening with a (admittedly quite impressive) Swans-esque repetitive bass line, dressed in Invisible Man masks, the intensity dropped as they removed the masks to reveal zombie masks and some LCD Soundsystem style dance beats. I hate bands with gimmicks, and masks are among my top pet hates within that subgenre. Mainly because it's NEVER about the music and ALWAYS about the gimmick. If you don't want people to talk about your image, wear your civilian clothes and get on with it. The eternal law of diminishing returns means that two thirds in, we're subjected to a show of Bloodhound Gang dance moves, dancing on the bar and general clichéd rock and roll shenanigans. They close their show with a punk rock version of Britney Spears' ‘Toxic'. How subversive. The rest of the crowd seemed far more impressed by their puerile antics than I was.
Continue reading Keith's thoughts of the Primavera Sound festival
by Keith Patterson
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