Dot To Dot Festival, Manchester

Dot To Dot

The premise for Dot to Dot is as simple as it is effective: by holding a festival where the stages are the city’s pre-existing venues, a remarkably meaty line-up can be offered for a fraction of the price of any similar outdoor event.  My beloved home city of Leeds has been pulling an identical trick for the last couple of years with its imaginatively titled Live at Leeds event but it, in its infancy, pales slightly in comparison to the more powerful sway of Dot to Dot. It was excellent news for me, then, when Dot to Dot announced an inaugural Northern event in Manchester.

Dot to Dot has garnered a reputation for producing line-ups with perfect blends of high-profile bands and unknowns fluttering on the cusp of serious acclaim (indeed, the organisers’ ability to predict the pulse of next-year’s trends in their line-up has always seemed uncanny to me; I’m often struck, when I look over previous years’ line ups, at which then-unknown-now-huge bands my unforgiving eye had completely overlooked at the time). This in mind, I am willing to leave my decision making process in the early afternoon to blind chance. White Hinterland are my first act of the day and provide a pleasant (candle lit, no less) introduction to proceedings with their breathy, female vocals swimming through layers and layers of loop pedal whilst, soon after, Small Black’s thick electronic pulses provide a similar level of unassuming entertainment.  Only time will tell if these bands will be any of this year’s Dot to Dot fledgling success stories (my gut reaction says probably not; but then I’ve always considered myself more of a taste-taster than a taste-maker) but, from then onwards, we are verging more and more into the ‘known’ portion of the line up.

This begins with Washed Out, who provide gorgeously thumping, thick beats for several songs before being joined onstage by a full band to provide even more gorgeously thumping and thicker beats for the second half of the set. Musically, it is hypnotic whilst begging to be danced to. Vocally, it sounds weak, but luckily, the non-melodies are usually buried by the ever-increasing volume of his hazy textures and thudding bass. The Ruby Suns have the misfortune of playing in one of the two venues some distance from the three main venues, as well as having to play in a room where skylights flood the place with pale light, draining the place of atmosphere. Accordingly, they seem a little jaded as they ploughed through a mixture of the new electronic material (severely underrated, as it goes) and the more well known tracks from their previous record. Perfectly competent, but the setting means that the band fail to evoke much enthusiasm in either the audience or themselves.

The rest of my day is thankfully spent back at the main complex where Liars are able to bring momentum back into the event. Their newest single ‘Scissor’ acts as a microcosm for the band’s sound as a whole, providing examples of the two modes within the band works: haunting minimalism and punishing riffage. As the band crash into the distinctive, punching riff of ‘Scissor’, the crowd erupt into the first movement I have seen the entire day – a momentum the band is able to maintain as they move through material primarily from their last two records culminating in the intense ‘Plastercasts of Everything’.  I manage to catch a few songs of the ever-rewarding Wild Beasts, whose textures come across even more deliciously (and more dance-friendly) in the live setting before ensuring a good spot for Beach House. I adore Devotion and so was thrilled when this year’s Teen Dream managed to keep their distinctive mood intact whilst moulding their sound into more focussed songs. In the live setting, I find them equally mesmerising. The slide guitar sounds like it is being played by Nostalgia herself (especially during the almost unspeakably aching Gila) and Victoria’s husky vocals are as sexy as on record as she shakes her hair around in what seems to be slow motion, like a flickering candle.

I am able to catch a few songs at the end of Mystery Jets’ set; the whole affair seems boring enough – big radio choruses that slipp in one ear and straight out the other while people take photos of themselves with the band behind them. A lot was made this year of the fact that Primavera coincided with Dot to Dot, leading to what was branded a “weak” line-up (it would be far more accurate, of course, to call it “weaker than usual”) but my only real gripe with the bill this year is the dreary prospect of the Mystery Jets headlining again. However, just as I think the event is suffering from anti-climax, The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster are like a knife to the guts. The band, clearly intoxicated and unaware of their own ferocity, absolutely pummel the late-night crowd who enthusiastically respond to the high tempos and face-tearing riffs. For an hour, the band tear through their brilliant old material (‘Celebrate Your Mother’ being a definite highlight) and newer gems like ‘Mission From God’ with a flair they have never quite captured on record. For me, they are the true headline band of the night; a brilliant climax to an unfairly criticised line-up.

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