Saturday 12 December
2009 – ALL TOMORROWS PARTIES DAY TWO
This morning I wake up
around 8AM and immediately head off in search of the Saturday
newspapers. As ever there are no
copies of The Guardian to be found
onsite so with a heavy heart I find myself trawling myself over to the Tesco
far enough away from the complex to cause annoyance in my tired legs. When I finally get there I consider getting
myself a treat of a chocolate bar or something but for some reason this morning
I feel delicate and unhealthy, not quite wheezing from my walk but not having
aced it either.
By the time I return
to the chalet people are up and surprisingly full of beans all gearing up to go
for a swim and ride the space toilet.
Call me Scrooge but this is an activity far removed from my idea of
fun. Perhaps it comes from my school
days hatred of swimming and how every Friday morning almost my entire class
would head off to Clacton
swimming baths while I would stay behind with the a few stragglers and the kids
in the year below me.
On ATP
TV there are
slim pickings although I do happen across Wizard People,
Dear Reader which is a strange kind of commentary over the first Harry
Potter movie. At first I reject it but
as it proves never-ending (such as the original movie) eventually I find myself
sucked into the spectacle and I see the gold that is on offer within it.
From 12PM onwards
slowly people begin returning, some declaring an interest in seeing the CRISPIN GLOVER show being held in the
cinema at 1PM. As we all sail out the
remainder of Wizard Story, Dear Reader gasping in the strange genius of it I
find myself waiting for people in order to head over and catch CRISPIN GLOVER
at 1PM. Then the sucker punch occurs
that nobody is now going and I have been waiting around for nobody. Staunchly I quickly storm over the complex
where, a few minutes after 1PM, I find myself confronted by a long line of
people being denied entry. To say this
hits me hard would be an understatement, especially in the light of it not
being my fault.
It shocks me just how
I react to this, which is with almost tears.
Rather than waiting behind in the hope of getting in as people exit
immediately I stomp (storm) back to R2 in record time where it would appear I
feel the need to display my distaste at other people causing me to miss
something I really wanted to see.
Not long after I
arrive back absolutely everybody in the chalet makes moves towards the complex
in order to see PAPA M perform his Live
From The Shark Cage album. I begin
to wonder just where they are suddenly finding this enthusiasm and energy from.
As I leave with them Matthew begins chatting
with me asking me if I am disappointed about missing CRISPIN GLOVER. It would seem I have made my point. When we get to the complex I split from
everyone else with view to trying to get back into the cinema where CRISPIN
GLOVER’s movie is now playing. Once
again I am denied entry as the security guard informs me that there had been
people waiting at 11.30AM for the 1PM performance. This doesn’t placate me any and as I see a person leaving the
cinema in the background I gesture as if to say “he’s leaving, can I go in for
him?” My ESP doesn’t work.
Feeling still
disappoint, now with an air of defeated, I decide to make the most of things
and catch some of the PAPA
M set even though I figure in my mood (grump) it is best to now spend a day
on my own. As I enter upstairs however
I bump into Matthew at the bar and we set about getting a good spot to watch
the remainder of Dave Pajo’s set.
I’ve never really got
into PAPA M. Indeed like a prick I used
to large the fact that I thought his solo stuff was boring even though the few
times that I met him he was a true gent of a person. The problem was I always felt there was a true fakeness to his popularity. My friends at the time (the Gringo Records crowd) would applaud
the most minimal of musical movement and I could just not see it as he would
suffer from what I describe as Morrissey
Fan Syndrome.
Today in many ways
though the PAPA M is the perfect way to open proceedings and under different
circumstances I feel I could lose myself in this music if I wanted to but
instead as one delicate post rock instrumental melds into another my boredom
gene just kicks in causing obnoxion in my mind. The set ends with a song that sounds to me exactly like the
Hamlet advert from years ago, the classical piece of music and with it a kind
of ironic theme is given to my moment, my day.
I point the similarity out to Matthew with the disclaimer “am I being
cynical?” to which he responds “not if you’re right.”
Once done we reconvene
and head downstairs in anticipation of AFRIRAMPO. At this point I remain a frosty flavour of
stoic, not really wanting to speak to anyone in our crew. So perhaps this was not the best of times
for the pirate gypsy to comment “you spend a lot of time on your phone don’t
you.” What the fuck is the point of
making a statement such as that?
Especially when coming from a person that has already proudly proclaimed
this weekend that he does not own a telly. I don’t take the bait though and scrape off
some politeness.
Quick frankly and
thankfully AFRIRAMPO make it impossible to miserable at this time, at this
festival. Bringing real colour to the
weekend they jump onstage literally screaming and spend the opening moments of
their set basically arsing around pretending to speak pigeon English and oozing
charm in the process. This turns out to
be a defining moment in the music schedule of the weekend, perhaps the one and
only truly fun act that resides on the bill.
Cheekily I make
comment at this point of “oh to be a drum stool at this time.”
There is something
about Japanese noise acts that will never get tiresome. Perhaps it is the way that the noise
conflicts with high pitched voices and people of smaller stature. As soon as their set kicks of proper, with
their guitar and drums two piece meal it all becomes obvious that this is the
band the White Stripes can only dream of being.
There is nothing
subtle about this act. Big blocks of
noise channel through their paws as two sweet things attempt to wreck the
joint. It all feels about malfunction
and dysfunction. If its not their
wardrobe fouling up, it is the drum kit fouling up. When however the set comes to an incendiary conclusion of Oni
jumping on the bass drum and strangling her guitar the heights that she is
reaching for feel beyond those of any Jimmy Page attained. Without missing a beat Pikachu then rises
from her drum stool to join her as lights sparkle and a person just might think
they are seeing God.
Shortly after this still
wanting to play more songs AFRIRAMPO get informed that their time is up much to
mass disappointment but huge applause from the audience. This was exactly the set that was required
to rejuvenate proceedings, to kick some life back into the day.
From here we head
upstairs in preparation for the SHELLAC
set. At the bar we got some drinks
while the band soundcheck on stage doing much of the work themselves in true
DIY fashion. Then as they look ready Steve Albini makes an
announcement to the crowd: “there was some guy emailing me asking about Malort. I have a bottle with me would he please make
himself known to me. If it turns out to
be not real I will be sad.”
This was Pauly. In the run up to the event he had been
emailing Albini about the apparent hard liquor and now typically just as the
call rings out for him Pauly is nowhere to be seen.
Swiftly our band of
merry men go running to the stage in a vain attempt to snag his gift but all
attempts fail as the band long since disappear backstage in preparation for
their set. With this a sudden
air/element of excitement attaches itself to proceedings as we convene at the
barrier in the hope of later getting an introduction to SHELLAC and Albini.
When SHELLAC return
they promptly tear into their set and slay all in the way. Early on we get “My Black Ass” and suddenly
I feel reminded of just how loud guitar music should sound. From our vantage point we get good view of
the poker face intensity that the band thrives in, what is their stock and
trade which makes them stand out head and shoulders over any other musical act
within a hundred mile radius.
It is a real treat
when they do “Killers” from that Lounge
Ax compilation from a few years ago, it is the first time I have ever seen
the band do the song and it fails to disappoint. I side the defendant.
From here it quickly turns into “Wingwalker”
where the band tears into probably the largest gem of their collection. Every time they perform this song it feels
different, longer and nastier, caked in more cynicism and dark laughter than
previous. As the song breaks down and
Albini despatches his logic he appears to resign himself to the conclusion that
all the woes of the world are too often blamed on the “plane”. Eventually the song begins again and
proceeds to steamroll all that lay in front of it.
With a fair bit of
energy having been exuded from here they broach “The End Of Radio” which
appears to be the modern equivalent of “Didn’t We Deserve” these days, a track
that offers up the opportunity for a frisky piece of vocal and lyrical
reinvention. As the thudding pulse of Bob Weston and Todd Trainer endeavour to
induce some kind of mental seizure of the listener Albini begins winding up
before unleash more spite and bile into the air, not necessarily aimed at the
audience but all the same these are the people that are in the way and
catching/subjecting it. The song feels
as if it lasts forever, feeling like father delivering a harsh lecture and that
doesn’t arrive with amusement.
At the close of this
endurance another call out is made to the person that has been emailing about
the Malort. Thankfully by now Pauly has
turned up and excitedly like Beatles fans we begin jumping and making noise to
get their attention. In honest fashion
the audience quickly points in our direction and soon Albini has staring at
us. Initially Albini plays coy,
questioning the honesty behind Pauly’s claim.
For some degree of authenticity he begins a question (what is Pauly’s
surname) which he promptly shouts out before Albini finishes his question
prompting him to snap “I haven’t finished the question yet.” For a few moments he fakes belief, pulling
one of his classic expressions in the process before handing the bottle to a
member of security to pass on.
Unfortunately being professions they will not allow this so Albini says
to “meet us at the mural afterwards.”
Incredibly at first I have no idea what he means by “mural”. I have been told I am slow a few times in
the past.
SHELLAC end their set
with “Watch Song” which busts the evening open like a boxer’s eye and eventually
concludes with the band stamping on the stage destroying mental ants it would
appear they are experiencing. This is
the way to conclude a set.
From here we head straight
down to the Todd Trainer mural and wait for Albini and his bottle of
hooch. It turns out to be quite a wait,
one that sees several recognisable faces pass by and even a few to join us in
anticipation of the arrival of greatness.
Just before Albini
turns up I spot Nichola who I used to dog sit for in Harlesden
when I lived at that scary house. This
is the first time that I have seen her since Latitude last summer and she
appears surprisingly happy to see me.
As ever she can talk for England and seems very happy when I am able to
present her with the copies of the keys to her house and car that I still
possess (those have sat on my key ring for over four years now).
When Albini emerges
(with Trainer) she is chewing my ear off.
He comes with Malort in hand and clocks that security is likely to kick
up a fuss if one of us tries to take it out of the complex so he admirably
sticks the bottle down the back of his pants.
What a trooper. It goes without
saying that we swan past security and once outside the venue he hands over the
bottle to much gratitude from Pauly. It
doesn’t look like Albini or Trainer are into any chit chat (I guess there is a
poker game somewhere) but he just about poses for a presentation photo.
For a while Nichola
and I hang back and chat as she tells me that her company have just taken on a
qualified accountant in her twenties who is being paid £50K which invariably
results in she and I comparing salaries (she wins but she is almost ten years
older than me).
Eventually I get back
to our chalet where Pauly has torn into the Malort and is now serving up
shots. I take a hit and the stuff
tastes OK, nowhere near as disgusting as I was imagining. Also it doesn’t taste too potent to me but
then again what do I know?
On ATP TV is 77 Boadrum which is the
movie of the Boredoms 77
drummer gig. It features many beautiful
Japanese ladies.
No sooner have I
returned to the chalet then people are once more heading off to check out BATTLES.
At this time the band doesn’t really float my boat but as I eventually
wind up being the last person remaining in R2 I suddenly realise that I am
missing the MELVINS upstairs.
Without missing a beat
I stomp straight back to the complex bypassing BATTLES winding down their set
with silly beats and straight upstairs to where the almighty MELVINS are doing
their punk meets sludge thing with their trademark ferocity.
By the time I arrive
the place is rammed and there isn’t much chance of my getting much of a decent
view so I just hit railings by the side of the stage and hope to slope closer
to the band as people head off. For
most of the set all I can see is King Buzzo who is dressed
like a wizard with what appears to be a crucifying turtle neck. That guy is hot, no doubt.
There is something
mystical about this performance but then the illusion gets smashed as somebody
appears to kick a drink into my legs.
It doesn’t matter as after a sustained onslaught of thunder I manage to
catch the band kicking into “Hooch” which will always be a song that does not
fail, possessing the fattest and most levelling hook in the land.
At the end of the day
this band is just weird. There is
definitely something bipolar about the MELVINS and there is by no means any
promise in their being that they are going to be good (or even
listenable). Tonight however I think we
catch them in a good way.
From here I head
downstairs where I meet up with a couple of people for THE BREEDERS. When I eventually regroup with faces I am
feeling uncomfortable. Unfortunately
when one joke too many gets made at my expense something in me comes crashing
down and I have to concede/admit to getting the arse with those around me. I’m a miserable cunt sometimes.
Suddenly with downtime
comes misery, the most rubbish example of shark syndrome and wilting/dying from
not moving. We sit outside the coffee
bar watching people queue to get in upstairs to see MODEST MOUSE. Suckers.
I recognise a few people I know but rightly or wrongly I’m really not in
the mood to speak to anyone at this time.
This is the ATP lull which if you are not careful can eventually lead to
Blair
Witching later on in the evening.
Soon we reconvene with
other people where nobody appears to be acknowledging me as my Mr Grumpy act
royally takes over. Where are the
answers?
The crowd for THE
BREEDERS is very sparse as it appears that MODEST MOUSE prove more of a
draw. Tonight thankfully THE BREEDERS
set has more Last
Splash than when I last saw them at Shepherd’s Bush Empire which makes for
a far better set even if Kim
Deal continues to look like she has forgotten how to play. Frustratingly Pod
is represented only by “Iris” and “Happiness Is A Warm Gun” when realistically
this is the album the band should be performing as a Don’t Look Back set.
They open with an Amps track and all feels in
Amsterdam. These days there is an
overriding sense of the laidback attached to the band, a mature plough that
lacks urgency and snap. Fortunately
it’s a cuddly thing carried by the Deal sisters’ charm, a band that actually
talks onstage, to both the crowd and one another. It’s the small touches.
Eventually they do
their usual great version of “New Year” which promptly turns into “Cannonball”
as Kim always panics when switching to the strange distortion microphone. As ever the place goes off as one of the few
ever bonafide hits that ATP has ever housed gets drilled out.
You know how sometimes
you find yourself at gigs with a person annoyingly stood behind you talking the
entire way through songs but then still applauds and vocally celebrates the
song at its conclusion? Hey suddenly
I’m hanging out with that guy.
Onstage THE BREEDERS
keep on going as “Saints”
gets churned out. More successfully
comes newer material such as “Night Of Joy”, (as gorgeous as ever) and
“Istanbul” which just sounds spooky.
These are songs that you feel better suit the Deal mindset of now.
Happily they do “Safari”
which is always a song that will pick up their set before it all comes to a
ramshackle ending seeing Kim on drums and the eventual surprise they have
teasing with that turns out to be the unveiling of a huge fuck off birthday
cake. This is not a metaphor, the
powers that be wheel out a literal cake shaped like Minehead Butlins which
prompts some kind of universal chorus of “happy birthday” before various
recognisable faces begin cutting the cake and handing it out to the crowd. Unfortunately amongst our gang cynicism prevails
regarding the gesture.
From here we get a
fish and chip supper before heading back to the chalet. With food in hand I cheer up somewhat and
once back in our room I make a point of flipping on the series finale of The Thick Of It which ends with
Malcolm Tucker back in control and the introduction of Tom Hollander as “The
Fucker”. Its an exhilarating end to
proceedings.
By now our chalet has
picked up a few stragglers along the way and as Conquest
Of The Planet Of The Apes plays out on ATP TV we indulge in an extended
spell of chalet action.
Briefly I flag beyond
healthy and turn in for a nap but the sound of strangers having fun beckons me
back into proceedings. By now our good
friend has turned up with lines of something.
This stuff turns out to be something called Mephedrone.
Returning to Conquest
Of The Planet Of The Apes as it reaches its conclusion I compare the big speech
of Caesar to that of Glenn
Beck, much to the apparent confused amusement of a guy called Tim with a
spiv moustache.
By now we have reached
the stage of asking “can you feel anything?” before five minutes later we find
ourselves in the next door chalet singing “happy birthday” to a complete
stranger. Finally I have some pep as this
turns out to be quite literally the friendliest state I have been in years.
We head over back to
the complex where I now happily have some life back. Upon arriving back at the complex despite our high morale there
does not appear to be much to do. For
an extended period we wind up sat outside the coffee place seemingly scratching
our heads wondering what to do.
By now despite being
on an apparent upper there is now the promise of weed somewhere and despite my
plastic empathy while the others head off in search of social activity and need
friends I find myself heading back with this Tim dude to chalet K103. Along the way we talk the usual
bollocks/bullshit as invariably we get lost on the way (in the dark Butlins can
look very samey).
Eventually we get to
his first floor apartment which appears to be one of those nightmares that does
not have a kitchen or living space (which takes me back to the abortion that
was the Explosions In The Sky festival).
Upon arrival his roommate is already back sat on his bed reading into
the early hours. I cannot help but feel
I am imposing but Tim says it is cool as he unwraps some stuff.
It all plays out
pleasantly as we exchange nice nice as I admire the guy’s John Maus t-shirt. As ever though I sense a vibe from being in
a stranger’s chalet and eventually it gets suggested that we head back to our
chalet R2.
When we step through
the door Racton and Paulina are staring at the TV watching Phantasm. Racton appears to be really into the movie
although I can’t help but identify it with the kind of schlock I would watch as
a school kid at the weekend in the eighties.
I quite possibly have even seen this movie and long forgotten about
it. Also he does not appear keen on Tim
as he rolls a joint and begins to make faces as a definite atmosphere engulfs
proceedings.
Before long we step
outside when it becomes apparent that smoking is most definitely frowned upon
and not tolerated in R2. Outside we
discuss movies and it turns out that this guy works in videogames. Whether this is to be believed or not is
another thing.
With the chilly
December night royally beginning to cut in we step back inside and resume
watching the silly soft horror movie amidst a remaining atmosphere. Again Tim begins making faces and gestures
towards heading back to his chalet for more good stuff but by now I am toasted
and comfy so when he soon sets/heads off I remain home.
At this point Racton
chills out slightly, declaring “not a fan” which prompts us both to laugh. Phantasm plays out as he declares a real
desire to search it out on DVD when we get back to London.
When it eventually
finishes there are slim pickings elsewhere on TV and we find ourselves starring
at the original version of The Time
Machine starring Rod
Taylor. This does not feel
appropriate.
By this stage a number
of our fellow chalet mates are still out/about and we can’t help but debate
their demise.
Finally we turn in
around 4.30AM. This was a long day.
