Primavera Sound (3) 2007
Barcelona
31/05/07 to 02/06/07
Part Three: The long and good Friday
Today I made a special effort to get to the site early (thus avoiding the queues for beer tokens) in order to take in as many bands as I could. Unfortunately, this is the British mentality in everything: Get there early; stay as long as you can, and take as much as you can while you're there. Kind of binge enjoying. What this meant was that I had a very long day in the very warm sun, drinking little but Estrella Damm beer, running from stage to stage with my schedule clutched firmly in my hand. As a result of this, I was red and feeling poorly by the end of the day. This also is characteristic of the British.
At or around four, little was happening. I sat for a while watching Kiev Cuando Nieva play novelty indie pop to a crowd of their friends, who clearly relished the giant cardboard and shambolic antics onstage. I moved then to a warmer spot by the ATP stage. Death Vessel bore what I think is least appropriate moniker I've seen in a good while, being one long haired skinny boy singing wet folky rubbish. Even in the sun I could feel my will to live slowly being drained by the depressive mopery being traded onstage. Unfortunately, Brightblack Morning Light provided little in the way of contrast. I think their droning contemplative sound might have faired better a little later when it got dark, but in the afternoon, they're rather anonymous. How Dare You! on the Vice stage were much more upbeat in their all-girl Slits-esque post-punk. They certainly aren't pushing many boundaries, but they did a good job of bringing the party to the eleven or twelve spectators. Back over on ATP, Black Mountain are another band ridiculously mis-scheduled. Playing in a similar, although slightly more refined ballpark as (current band of the festival) Comets On Fire, their sophisticated brand of stoner rock was never given a chance, thanks to the sunlight. "We should have been on later. Imagine it's dark," says Stephen McBean quietly after ‘Druganaught.'
One band certainly not mistimed were The Rakes. Admittedly, they would have fairly snugly into the afternoon/ early evening slot at any indie festival the world over, but they worked. They managed to convincingly play the songs Bloc Party could have written if they'd gone all-out for the post-punk-pop vote on their last album, with Alan Donohue exhibiting an excellent range of Jarvis Cocker dance moves. You can't help but thinking that what they really need is a band with a bit more personality (or maybe just Bloc Party's rhythm section) though, rather than the generic 00's indie sidemen they're currently sporting. Blonde Redhead similarly failed to make an impression in the personality stakes, playing a set of fairly nice, but fairly anonymous floaty alt. rock.
Which brings us to The Fall, who I am unlikely ever to say are short of personality, Mark E Smith having enough attitude to keep the band average at a steady 8.7 throughout. This is the fourth time I've seen The Fall, and the third different line-up. What is clear is that these boys (and Elena) know what they're onstage to do: Do exactly as they're told. Opening with ‘Fall Sound' from their latest record Post Reformation: TLC, Mark enters the stage with all the swagger of that bloke who spends all day at the bar in your local, too tight to buy a paper and asking for a shuftie of your racing pages. Bemoaning the revolving door of "Fall Motel" and taunting "I've seen POW's less hysterical than you", he stalks the stage and his band mates with equal contempt. This, and ‘Reformation' which is played later, are among some of the strongest they've done: The double-bass line-up filling out the dense groove, the band locked in with military precision. James Brown used to fine his band for messing up; you get the impression Mark E Smith might haul you in front of a firing squad. Other songs from the (fairly disappointing) album are revitalised, so even the drab ‘The Wright Stuff' (with Elena-as-Mark (but far, far sexier) on vocals) becomes engaging and interesting. Mrs E Smith even scolds her errant husband late into the set for taking a swing at one of the cameramen whilst playing around with her keyboard. Moving into the twilight hours, Band of Horses played a set of countrified rock beset with microphone and equipment malfunctions which dogged the ATP stage for the rest of the day.
Maxïmo Park are a band who continue to annoy me to this day. It may be some kind of hometown envy, or merely a fact that their music and my personality are at odds with one another, but the two references that kept springing into my head as I watched them were Top of The Pops footage of Sparks, and Eurotrash footage of Belgian new-wave punk Plastic Bertrand. You won't be surprised to learn that neither is especially complimentary. Paul Smith clearly loves his own music far too much, and his hyperactive scissor kicks speak to me of trying too hard to be entertaining. He wears his literacy and intelligence like a desperately unfunny ‘witty' t-shirt slogan, and as a result sounds like he's showing off. And his constant references to being from the North East made me cringe (introducing ‘Russian Literature' with the words "This one's about taking the Trans-Pennine Express..."). Given the band have the odd great song (‘Apply Some Pressure' and ‘My Velocity'), but I'm stuck with the feeling that I'd rather watch a band who don't feel the need to create a spectacle to impress.
I move towards the ATP stage in order to see the Johnny-Marr-enhanced Modest Mouse. Unfortunately so did almost every other festival patron. And they're excited too. Modest Mouse appear to be another of the bands this weekend that have come packed with audience expectation, mainly in my case down the presence of The Smiths' legendary guitarist. I'm struggling now to work out the appeal. The seating around ATP is packed. The standing area much more so. There is an Irish girl standing just in front of me on the steps who is quietly trying to find someone with some more Ecstasy. Her gentleman friend is slightly more vocal, dressed in silver trousers, berating those around him for not dancing, muttering about how awesome the whole experience is. But I don't know why. I don't think Modest Mouse are all that special. It was nice to see Johnny Marr out and about, but I struggled to hear what he was bringing to their sound that any other bog-standard guitarist couldn't have. Maybe I'm missing something (and that really is just my way of trying to tactfully say I thought they weren't any good) but from where I was sitting, Modest Mouse came across as being some fairly dreary American indie.
Last set of my day (now the morning) came from Girls Against Boys, who were (at least to me) a slightly odd choice to be headlining the main stage. As good as they were in their Touch & Go days; it's been several years since they were anything close to being small stage headliners, never mind main stage. And as great as it was to hear them play a great wedge of material from their seminal Venus Luxure No 1 Baby album, it was massively disappointing to see a band I'd always imagined being ridiculously hip and sexy trying so ridiculously hard to be hip and sexy. Scott McCloud's between-song banter leaves much to be desired. Aside from the vaguely forgivable "Muchos Gracias", he unleashes a depressing blinder from the Bon Jovi School of introduction: Introducing the moderately electronic ‘Basstation' from the band's 2002 album You Can't Fight What You Can't See with "Here's the Dance Section." The song isn't dance music unless you're on your way to middle age, and following that with ‘Kill The Sexplayer' which is only marginally more danceable than the new Shellac record.
My batteries fully drained, I headed towards the queue masquerading as a stampede for the night bus home.
Read Keith's final installment of his Primavera diaries.
by Keith 'My Shoulders are Red and Sore' Patterson
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