Wrong Festival @ Invisible Wind Factory, Liverpool, 22 Apr

It’s clear what sort of day we’re in for from the moment we arrive. Widnesian sludge trio Mums are so loud that their every note is not just audible from outside the Invisible Wind Factory; it’s clear as day. Power, volume, riffs… oh, and great songs, of course… they’re all on the menu for today, and from the off we’re thankful that we remembered earplugs. The inaugural Wrong Festival is underway, and it’s gonna be noisy.

Onto something more tasteful next, though: Rongorongo have been steadily making a name for themselves since their emergence in 2015, and from this performance it’s quite easy to see why. Not woozy enough to be shoegaze, nor tripped-out enough to be psych, nor motorik enough to be krautrock, they nonetheless pull from all three of those sounds and more besides. Meanwhile, frontman Mick Chrysalid gyrates, pouts and generally does his best to ensure that all eyes are on him at all times. The mysterious-sounding Faster/Rots is the winner in their set thus far, but their other cuts all cast similarly bewitching spells. Over at the DROP the Dumbulls stage, Glasgow’s Kapil Seshasayee doesn’t quite engage in the same way, but his drum machine-powered racket (think Big Black with the tension turned down and the melodies turned up) certainly isn’t without its charms.

Local heroes Pocket Apocalypse bring their Oceansize-esque alterna-rock to North Shore Troubadour next, all giant riffs and shimmering, extended codas – but the next band to truly leave jaws dropped are Manchester’s False Advertising. Anyone who’s been paying attention to The Skinny North over the last two years will surely have noticed that we’re kinda smitten with this grunge-pop trio, but dammit, we’ve got good reason to be. They’re reminiscent of mid-to-late 90s bands like that dog. just as much as contemporaries like Kagoule, but they always feel like a band in charge of their own destiny, rather than one in thrall to others. Jen Hingley and Chris Warr take turns behind the kit, and both reminds us how capable they are as songwriters with some squalling bursts of hard-edged pop – they have the songs, the ideas and the telepathic understanding required to go way beyond even these impressive beginnings. Great stuff, with extra emphasis on great. 

In fact, that performance essentially sets the standard to which the rest of the day must match up, and Leeds’ Cattle do their damnedest with a blistering set of sax-laden skronk and whooshing roars of processed atonal noise. Sounds unlistenable, you say? Quite the opposite; it’s viscerally powerful and hugely addictive, made all the more compelling with the help of a hugely infectious rhythm section that knows how to get all hips present a-swaying.

Then it happens: the reunited Part Chimp may not be Wrong Festival’s headliners, but they turn in the day’s genuinely monumental performance. Cuts from new album IV mingle easily with old favourites, as slab after slab of metallic, Sabbath-tinged drama collides with a songwriting panache that’s a cut above virtually everyone else on the bill. Drummer Jon Hamilton is as muscular in his playing as he’s inventive, and he propels the band towards sonic Valhalla as a rapt audience stares on, dazed and open-mouthed. Welcome back, Chimps; we may not have realised how much we missed you, but this hammers the answer home in some style.

Speaking of headliners, The Wytches have a knack for grunged-out mayhem and blown-out psych, but our post-Chimp comedown is still in full effect and they don’t quite hit home like they have done in the past. Still, their reception from a packed IWF feels like something approaching hero worship. Instead we wander over to catch some of Housewives’ post-punk scree, and we’re bloody glad we did. Textured, mechanistic and somewhere between gritted-teeth rage and ice-cold sang-froid, they’re a no-wave wonder – a band deserving of far more attention than has been lavished on them thus far.

Cowtown also meet that criteria; they’ve been making Devo-lved post-pop for over a decade now, and just keep on getting better all the time. Everything about them makes perfect sense, even the mixture of John Dwyer-esque garage rock and jerked-out new wavery that seems incompatible in principle. Somehow they make it work; a symbiosis of sound that recalls other bands without ever quite resembling anyone else on the planet. Songs like Monotone Face feel like a unique musical illustration of what fun is supposed to be, and the Dumbulls crowd reacts accordingly by dancing and whooping away to the very last. The hypnotic riffs of ultimate headliners Bo Ningen are lined up next, with more treats to come until the early hours, so we take some time out to reflect on what a special event this has been. We can’t wait for next year – Wrong just feels so right.