Indian Summer (Saturday) @ Victoria Park

indie kids are playing croquet

Article by Billy Hamilton | 13 Oct 2006
Beer, burgers, mud and music: Indian Summer's just another generic festival, yeah? Well, as The Skinny drags its saturated ass into Glasgow's Victoria Park, it seems so. But, as our bleary eyes widen in anticipation of Saturday's spiffing line up, we're met by a startling realisation - indie kids are playing croquet. And not just playing it; fucking loving it. Something says this isn't going to be an average weekend after all.

Mildly confused and exceptionally curious, we venture over to the main stage to catch the 1990's kicking things off with their barnstorming brand of new wave power pop. Sounding a little submerged in such sparse surroundings, it's still a furious fist shaking start to the day's rain-soaked proceedings.

This frantic opening is instantly diluted by the jingle jangle floundering of Scissors For Lefty, who resemble a substandard Pulp without the irony. Quite frankly it's dull, so we head over to the ABC tent to find Flying Matchstick Men cooking up a synth-driven storm. Ridiculously over the top, it's a whip-cracking display of rapturous eighties disco-punk that gets the blood flowing with its feet-shuffling vibrancy.

Having gawped at the sight of Aiden Moffat slumming it with us mortals, we leave the tent's arid confines to check out the much lauded Ben Kweller. Almost immediately we realise it's a mistake. Over-hyped and underwhelming, his lame Springsteen-isms are a verbatim reflection of the drab sky that threatens to souse us with its aqueous content.

Retreating once more to the ABC tent, we find Mother & The Addicts cranking up the heat with a jerky, stellar performance that overcomes a distressingly ambivalent audience. Whether it's the rain or just the piss-weak beer, the crowd lacks any spark as Mother rips through a demonic 'Fuck Me Mummy I Feel Ugly '. But as the riotous Oh Yeah You Look Quite Nice comes to an end, the East-coast quartet triumphantly batter a sweat soaked tent into submission

Buoyed by this atmospheric revival, we trek off to the main stage to see media darlings of the month The Guillemots strutting their stuff. And really, it's difficult to see what all the fuss is about. Devoid of emotion, they lack the range or confidence to grasp the attention of the dwindling masses. Granted, the shoegazing misery of Train To Brazil perfectly captures the fluctuating weather, but this is a putrid performance of uninspired anonymity.

Swiftly moving on from this stoic display, The Pigeon Detectives are filling the ABC Tent with their MySpace marketed, cock-sure punk pop. Resembling a more spasmodic Razorlight, the band engulfs the congested venue with robust riffs and fervent hooks. It's basically bog-standard thrashing, but the effervescence of tracks like You Know I Love You fits perfectly into the festival's spontaneous spirit.

Meanwhile, back on the Main Stage, Hot Chip are bringing warmth to a cold synth sound and slowly winning over the small and inattentive crowd. It happens in instalments: there's almost a sing-a-long to "it's going 1, 2, 3, tch"; heads are turned by "sounds like New Order, dun't it?"; and Over and Over finally brings enthusiastic cheers, from some at least.

You never know what you're going to get with The Fall so perhaps a relatively professional performance is a disappointment to some expecting chaos. To most though, it's just rewarding to see such a vital band in the history of modern guitar music still alive and kicking, and spitting, and rambling. Theme From Sparta FC is a highlight amidst a set with no lowlights, 'cos it's The Fall, and we fans are shamelessly awe-struck.

As light fades, it's Yeah Yeah Yeahs time, which means a kitchen-foil and red tinsel clad Karen O bounding on stage. Jumping and pirouetting, leaping and twirling, spitting fountains of water - we're suckers for her. With a minimal sound that includes one-handed drumming, throaty yelping and garagey riffs, tracks like Miles Away and Y Control are greedily consumed by the rotund crowd. However, it's the sumptuous rendition of Maps that threatens to draw tears to the eyes, especially if, like many, you've had a few.

And as 'Hurricane Karen' eventually blows itself out, The Skinny leaves the idyllic Victoria Park drenched and dazed and ready for bed. But in just over 12 hours we'll be up and raring to go for yet another day of Indian Summer's musical mayhem – and with any luck a spot of croquet. [Ali Brown & Billy Hamilton]
http://www.indiansummerglasgow.co.uk/index.asp