End of the Road
September 11-13, 2009
I’d been searching in all the usual places; that drawer in the kitchen that holds all those random useful things, in between the sofa cushions and of course under the bed but I could have saved myself a lot of time if someone had told me that Summer was hiding at End of The Road festival. Not a drop of rain, barely a whisper of wind; we couldn’t have asked for better weather throughout the whole weekend.
After some tent difficulties (we seem to pitch in the area with the highest rock to earth ratio) we sadly miss the first three acts of the day but manage to get in position at the stunningly beautiful main stage area for David Thomas Broughton. Broughton is a kind of one man band, sampling and looping himself as he goes. It’s interesting enough I suppose but I don’t see a great point in the looping technique as he doesn’t do anything remarkable with it. Add in the forced, croony vocals and insipid lyrics and you have yourself a very inauspicious start to the festival’s output.
Things get better quickly with Spokes. They share the twinkly slow build post rock sound with today’s headliners, Explosions in the Sky and also remind this reviewer of Youthmovies (when they still had the Soundtrack Strategies suffix).
Shearwater next but unfortunately for me, I’m suffering with a thumper of a headache from the day’s exertions and though I just about manage to make it through Jonathan Meiburg and co’s excellent set (new tracks sound great), I retire back to the tent for a couple of hours of drug induced sleep.
Is there a more fitting name for a band than Explosions in the Sky? They thrill and mystify the packed crowd with their beautifully controlled crescendos of melody and power and in this setting, under a pitch black star filled sky, they make all the pain go away (mostly).
Herman Dune couldn’t sound more American if they tried which is odd considering they’re French. This is not a criticism you understand, more an observation as there’s very little to criticise in the duo’s toe-tapping output. A fun follow up to the more straight laces of EITS. Sadly, Beth Jeans Houghton takes away the fun with an oddly tetchy performance. Her huge feathered headdress evokes Vaudeville era good times but from the moment she opens her mouth telling us that going to the loo at the festival has been the worst moment of her life, followed by calling her violinist a wanker for not fulfilling a dare (with tongue firmly out of cheek) backs are notably up. After a third exchange with a member of the crowd ends with a ‘Whatever’ from Houghton, we make our way out of the tent.
Time for sleep, though it’s a long time coming. Not content with merely pitching our tent in a rock quarry, we’re also right next to the Tipi Tent which (unbeknown to us at the time) hosts surprise slots of the weekends acts until 3AM each morning. Thankfully, we’re not here to sleep!
We’re here to rock and Motel Motel start Saturday off very nicely thank you. Their indie folk rock catches the attention of the packed Big Top Stage and I mentally add them to a list of bands to investigate further when I get home. The Low Anthem go on the list too. It’s been some time since I’ve been part of such a large crowd who are to a man, woman and even child, fully hypnotised by the sheer beauty of a band. This is a big crowd to hold in open-mouthed rapture but the Low Anthem manage it despite playing the slightest set of the weekend.
It’s difficult to describe Dent May and His Magnificent Ukulele without sounding a tad shallow: the man looks odd. If Bill Gates ever decided to start a band, fronted by himself on a tiny guitar, this is what he’d look like. There’s also very little that is magnificent about May’s ukulele. He plays it much like a rhythm guitar, barely even heard in most songs. I suppose the name Dent May and His Underused and Drowned Out Ukulele doesn’t sound quite so good but perhaps I’m being harsh; the music is fine and it fits the general happy vibe of the festival so I happily let these obvious flaws go.
We manage to listen through the walls of the always packed Tipi Tent to Peter Broderick (gentle and lovely) and then First Aid Kit (bit Bright Eyes, bit Rilo Kiley) and both seem to be improved by our weekend compadres, beer and beautiful sunshine.
We risk Mr Misery Guts himself, Malcolm Middleton in the Big Top, hoping that his wrist slashing indie will not put a dampener on the day. But to give the man his credit, he tries his very best to do just that. Now, I’m all for downbeat music. I find the more negative emotions infinitely more interesting than the positive ones but I just cannot hack Middleton today. As the Manics once said “You stole the sun from my heart”. As my heart dims, I dive away from the Scot and head towards The Acorn on the main stage. They restore the light perfectly and I’m back to full strength by the end of their pleasing set.
Efterklang are an absolute, unbridled joy. The two ‘Klang virgins in our group are instant converts and it’s easy to see (and hear) why. There’s such great care, craft and passion about everything these wonderful Danes do. An undoubted weekend highlight. Sadly, Efterklang overlap with Okkervil River (pretty much the only real timetable hiccup of the weekend) and we only manage to catch a few tracks of their impressive indie folk shtick.
I just don’t see what the fuss is with The Horrors. I don’t see it because sadly, they pull out of the festival at the last minute. A real shame as their set was one of my most anticipated of the festival.
So to Saturday’s headliners, Fleet Foxes and their shot at taking Explosion’s ‘headliner of the weekend’ trophy. They do just snatch it but this one went all the way to penalties. During their set, I gaze up at the full HD clarity of the night sky and my eyes latch on to a couple of satellites travelling the same parabola. Their pathway is interjected by another satellite travelling the opposite direction and I find myself almost totally lost in the moment, backed magnificently by Robin Pecknold’s awesome voice. I’m brought back to Earth by a highlight from earlier in the day; the spicy jerk chicken sauce which has just repeated on me with some gusto!
We finally manage to make it into the tiny Tipi Tent on Sunday to catch the day’s opening act, Bear Driver. It takes them a couple of songs to really find their feet but when they do, their psychedelic pop fits perfectly with the slowly revealing sunshine.
A surprise festival highlight next in the form of Joe Gideon and the Shark. At first, I wonder why it’s Gideon’s name that comes first in the band’s moniker as it’s the Shark (Joe’s sister Viva) who takes the full brunt of the crowd’s gaze and rightly so for she is absolutely magnificent. Her showy drum style is captivating as she thrusts her arms defiantly in the air between each beat lull but it’s the precision and imagination of her beats that gets my attention. Not content with stunning us on the drums, she shows David Thomas Broughton how self sampling should work, looping layers of her own backing vocals (whilst drumming). But wait, her talents don’t end there as she also plays keyboard and glockenspiel (all at the same time in one song). Nearing the end of the set, I’ve totally warmed to big brother Joe too. His mostly spoken narrative songs drip with warmth and wit and sound surprisingly unforced. Outstanding.
Bob Log III is absolutely ridiculous. Adorned in crash helmet and gold jumpsuit he provides one of the more entertaining sets of the weekend. His quick’n'dirty blues are nothing out the ordinary but it’s how he plays them that makes it all work. His banter (which causes a few mothers to cover their kids’ ears) is genuinely amusing; filled with ‘yee-haws’ and plenty of self promoting immodesty. We get more blues from the Pack AD, an all female drums and guitar duo. This is a more garage rock blues sound, less traditional than Mr Log and also not quite as interesting. The only thing that really sets them apart is the power and quality of Becky Black’s vocals, all the more surprising considering her tiny frame.
Dan Michaelson and the Coastguards take the award for worst band name of the weekend but this is a lesson for never judging a band by their name. Michaelson croaks out gentle folk, backed by a band clearly having a great time.
I split my time evenly between Neko Case and The Dodos but it’s a decision I later regret as I’m surprised to find myself thoroughly bored by the Dodos’ set. The first five songs they play sound virtually identical and the sound quality is really murky, totally washing out the giant xylophone being apparently played. Neko Case on the other hand is class personified. Her crisp, powerful voice soars and there’s plenty of amiable banter which seems mostly focused on teasing The Hold Steady. … Continue Reading
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