Indian Summer @ Victoria Park
At least the sun was out, right?
| 09 Aug 2007
Fuck me, screams The Skinny as it points to the sky like an overzealous astronomer riddled by apocalyptic nightmares. "There's some form of flaming sphere hurtling towards us at a million miles an hour that's sure to wipe out the human race in its entirety."
"Relax," says one of Victoria Park's distressingly calm security guards. "It's just the sun."
That's right folks, the sun's out and we're at a music festival in Scotland - wonders will never cease.
Still reeling from the shock of a rain free opening to this first day of Indian Summer, The Skinny ventures jovially over to the Main Stage where ex-Delgado songstress Emma Pollock's hazy tones are drifting blissfully out into the blue skies above. Sounding like she's been inflicted to a month of Phil Spektor's Greatest Hits, her vanilla-scented laments laced with that unnerving aura of a woman scorned makes for a wondrous - if overly polished - beginning to today's festivities.
Alas, such sunkissed merriment proves only fleeting as we head over to the BBC6 Music Hub Stage where Glenrothes quartet Sergeant are bouncing along to an underwhelming mélange of jangling guitars and straight-laced melodies. Granted, it's a poptastic performance but their undemanding 60s songsmithery lacks any urgency and pretty soon we're hankering for a pint and a bit of The Rock and The Roll.
Having made a brief refuelling detour for our first ale of the day, we quickly zip along to catch 'hot hot hot' LA hip-shakers Silversun Pickups belting out insipid wafts of pseudo-grunge-garage-pop that make Blink 182 sound like nihilistic punk pioneers. So, with this soul-shuddering aural filth ringing in our eardrums, The Skinny splits as abruptly as an All Saints reunion to find Alberta Cross paying their dues to the church of Neil Young in the bulging BBC6 Music Hub. Lacking a strong stage presence - frontman Peter Stakee is more tormented introvert than audience-baiting hellraiser - and boasting a set better suited to a late night slot, the bedraggled duo turn in a well-rehearsed recreation of debut album The Thief & The Heartbreaker without ever really combusting.
This distinct lack of spark is starting to grate on The Skinny's festival spirit and we're toying with directing our magnifying glasses at the sun to ignite some fiery passion into the occasion. But before we get tossed out for our pyromaniacal tendencies, Parisian fuck-mongers The Teenagers take to the Main Stage with a swaggering romp-le-monde of booty-grinding electro-pop. It's not exactly original but their crass 80s pastiche and lingering Velvet Underground throes – not to mention Homecoming's magnificently pitiful audience participation attempt – seems to have a rejuvenating effect on our wilting bones and we're soon licking our lips to the taste of more sun-scorched beer.
Well, at least some of us are.
One coffee-loving Skinny reporter has made haste to The Beanscene Tent for a Skinny-latte (what else?) and a sweet sprinkling of local stargazers Quinn. Adapting well to a scaled down line-up, Louise Quinn's voice is strong enough to hold her slight acoustic numbers together, despite the unimaginative arrangements. But after this fleeting moment of brittle acoustica we're transported to Optimo's Espacio Tent where Adult. offer a distinctly more rugged form of inner-angst. Pulsating to an onslaught of bumping beats that went out of fashion with the fall of the Berlin wall, the Detroit duo serve up a painstaking electro-clash parody that somehow has the tent's sweaty masses gyrating to, what is essentially, a glorified primal scream therapy session.
Trekking back to the Main Stage where Midlake are slowly setting up, we're bracing ourselves for another humdrum offering of MOR banality. Yet what transpires is nothing short of startling - the Texan quintet are utterly captivating. Conceptually and sonically preoccupied with bygone eras - exuding luscious fables of yore and warm, melodic 70s rock – the band traverse a myriad of emotion. We dance to Head Home's soul-sifting country rollick; sway with the sound of Roscoe's yearning acoustic paean; Christ, we even shed a tear as Young Bride's elegant viola (divinely executed by guest Andrew Bird) escapes into the early evening sky. This is Indian Summer's first great Festival Moment and as these tender troubadours traipse from view a strange feeling of romantic euphoria flickers through a bulging crowd that pays reverence to this truly breathtaking display of musical dexterity.
But as the most hardened festival-goers know, there's no time for reminiscing and so The Skinny sets off in pursuit of yet more glittering musical gems. When we say set off, we actually mean shimmy across to the BBC6 Music Tent to catch uber-cool Brooklynites Au Revoir Simone slow the pace right down with a clutch of wistful love songs crafted by bontempi organs and off-kilter harmonies. Casting a shadow of ironic distance over the clichéd rock-outs that pass for passion elsewhere, the all-female trio struggle to wring any emotion from their keys and the band's elegant lightness is soon replaced by monotony for the unconverted.
Slightly flatfooted by this banality, we venture to the Main Stage to uncover just who today's special guests are. Now, with rumours abounding that the mighty Animal Collective may just grace us with their head-shattering sonic sheen it's a tad dispiriting to find Roddy Woomble and his effervescent Idlewild cohorts taking to the fore. Ripping into anthemic staples like Roseability and When I Argue I See Shapes, this greatest hits set has the crowd geed up like a Z-list celebrity at a Starbucks opening. Yeah, the musicianship's impressive and they push all the right buttons but the sheer scale of the show outweighs the depth of this band's talents - especially with Womble's recent forays into the folk/literary cross-over suggesting he's ready to adopt a more intimate approach.
A Little Discouraged, we traipse over to the BBC6 Music Stage once more to catch sprightly Manc upstarts Polytechnic bashing out robust indie rock rhythms like the nineties hadn't cowered back into the god-forsaken cavern it came from. Judging by the tent's sparsely filled confines, we should have known better; this band's jitterbug strum-a-longs are at best happy-go-lucky, at worst excruciatingly mundane. Needless to say, we're out of here – The Rapture are on at the Main Stage and they've got tunes, effects boards and fucking cowbells. Our brains razzle/dazzle/frazzle to the sound of relentless bass and deafening riffs as the NY hipsters move from House Of Jealous Lovers' shrieking discord to the full on funk-tip groove of Woo, Alright-Yeah…Uh-huh. Every one of these shape-shifting tracks shit upon any one of today's neo-tribal, glow-stick waving, nu-rave troupes like an incessant electro storm of disco diahoerrea and as it escalates into a frantic synth-screaming finale we're left contemplating what the fuck has just happened to the past 45 minutes.
With all this limb flailing, we're knackered, but not quite as beat as the visibly exhausted Andrew Bird after his fidgety stint at the BB6 Music Hub Tent. By recording violin loops and whistles throughout the set, he ingeniously creates the meaty illusion of a full band. What's audible is fine - with Heretics being the highlight - but vying uncomfortably with the Main Stage, Bird's tender paeans are drowned out by a wail of bass and synths which, unfortunately, says more about the site's organisation than the performance.
With the end in sight, we take one final trip to the bar before finding our spot for today's illustrious headliners: the irrepressible Wilco. It may be our brains resetting from The Rapture's mind obliterating euphoria but the Chicago sextet's performance seems strangely bewildering tonight; sifting from staid Americana without the redneck fire before nodding along to sombre experimental guitar. For the first thirty minutes it's almost as if they transformed into a Steely Dan for the Sonic Youth generation. But as the solos gradually extend, the band hit their space-rock stride before a prolonged instrumental finale approximates a polite version of psychedelic ecstasy. Wilco are hardly the wildest of bands, and they lack the knack of a good tune, but this was at least a satisfactory climax to a slightly lacklustre first day.
Still, at least the sun was out, right?
"Relax," says one of Victoria Park's distressingly calm security guards. "It's just the sun."
That's right folks, the sun's out and we're at a music festival in Scotland - wonders will never cease.
Still reeling from the shock of a rain free opening to this first day of Indian Summer, The Skinny ventures jovially over to the Main Stage where ex-Delgado songstress Emma Pollock's hazy tones are drifting blissfully out into the blue skies above. Sounding like she's been inflicted to a month of Phil Spektor's Greatest Hits, her vanilla-scented laments laced with that unnerving aura of a woman scorned makes for a wondrous - if overly polished - beginning to today's festivities.
Alas, such sunkissed merriment proves only fleeting as we head over to the BBC6 Music Hub Stage where Glenrothes quartet Sergeant are bouncing along to an underwhelming mélange of jangling guitars and straight-laced melodies. Granted, it's a poptastic performance but their undemanding 60s songsmithery lacks any urgency and pretty soon we're hankering for a pint and a bit of The Rock and The Roll.
Having made a brief refuelling detour for our first ale of the day, we quickly zip along to catch 'hot hot hot' LA hip-shakers Silversun Pickups belting out insipid wafts of pseudo-grunge-garage-pop that make Blink 182 sound like nihilistic punk pioneers. So, with this soul-shuddering aural filth ringing in our eardrums, The Skinny splits as abruptly as an All Saints reunion to find Alberta Cross paying their dues to the church of Neil Young in the bulging BBC6 Music Hub. Lacking a strong stage presence - frontman Peter Stakee is more tormented introvert than audience-baiting hellraiser - and boasting a set better suited to a late night slot, the bedraggled duo turn in a well-rehearsed recreation of debut album The Thief & The Heartbreaker without ever really combusting.
This distinct lack of spark is starting to grate on The Skinny's festival spirit and we're toying with directing our magnifying glasses at the sun to ignite some fiery passion into the occasion. But before we get tossed out for our pyromaniacal tendencies, Parisian fuck-mongers The Teenagers take to the Main Stage with a swaggering romp-le-monde of booty-grinding electro-pop. It's not exactly original but their crass 80s pastiche and lingering Velvet Underground throes – not to mention Homecoming's magnificently pitiful audience participation attempt – seems to have a rejuvenating effect on our wilting bones and we're soon licking our lips to the taste of more sun-scorched beer.
Well, at least some of us are.
One coffee-loving Skinny reporter has made haste to The Beanscene Tent for a Skinny-latte (what else?) and a sweet sprinkling of local stargazers Quinn. Adapting well to a scaled down line-up, Louise Quinn's voice is strong enough to hold her slight acoustic numbers together, despite the unimaginative arrangements. But after this fleeting moment of brittle acoustica we're transported to Optimo's Espacio Tent where Adult. offer a distinctly more rugged form of inner-angst. Pulsating to an onslaught of bumping beats that went out of fashion with the fall of the Berlin wall, the Detroit duo serve up a painstaking electro-clash parody that somehow has the tent's sweaty masses gyrating to, what is essentially, a glorified primal scream therapy session.
Trekking back to the Main Stage where Midlake are slowly setting up, we're bracing ourselves for another humdrum offering of MOR banality. Yet what transpires is nothing short of startling - the Texan quintet are utterly captivating. Conceptually and sonically preoccupied with bygone eras - exuding luscious fables of yore and warm, melodic 70s rock – the band traverse a myriad of emotion. We dance to Head Home's soul-sifting country rollick; sway with the sound of Roscoe's yearning acoustic paean; Christ, we even shed a tear as Young Bride's elegant viola (divinely executed by guest Andrew Bird) escapes into the early evening sky. This is Indian Summer's first great Festival Moment and as these tender troubadours traipse from view a strange feeling of romantic euphoria flickers through a bulging crowd that pays reverence to this truly breathtaking display of musical dexterity.
But as the most hardened festival-goers know, there's no time for reminiscing and so The Skinny sets off in pursuit of yet more glittering musical gems. When we say set off, we actually mean shimmy across to the BBC6 Music Tent to catch uber-cool Brooklynites Au Revoir Simone slow the pace right down with a clutch of wistful love songs crafted by bontempi organs and off-kilter harmonies. Casting a shadow of ironic distance over the clichéd rock-outs that pass for passion elsewhere, the all-female trio struggle to wring any emotion from their keys and the band's elegant lightness is soon replaced by monotony for the unconverted.
Slightly flatfooted by this banality, we venture to the Main Stage to uncover just who today's special guests are. Now, with rumours abounding that the mighty Animal Collective may just grace us with their head-shattering sonic sheen it's a tad dispiriting to find Roddy Woomble and his effervescent Idlewild cohorts taking to the fore. Ripping into anthemic staples like Roseability and When I Argue I See Shapes, this greatest hits set has the crowd geed up like a Z-list celebrity at a Starbucks opening. Yeah, the musicianship's impressive and they push all the right buttons but the sheer scale of the show outweighs the depth of this band's talents - especially with Womble's recent forays into the folk/literary cross-over suggesting he's ready to adopt a more intimate approach.
A Little Discouraged, we traipse over to the BBC6 Music Stage once more to catch sprightly Manc upstarts Polytechnic bashing out robust indie rock rhythms like the nineties hadn't cowered back into the god-forsaken cavern it came from. Judging by the tent's sparsely filled confines, we should have known better; this band's jitterbug strum-a-longs are at best happy-go-lucky, at worst excruciatingly mundane. Needless to say, we're out of here – The Rapture are on at the Main Stage and they've got tunes, effects boards and fucking cowbells. Our brains razzle/dazzle/frazzle to the sound of relentless bass and deafening riffs as the NY hipsters move from House Of Jealous Lovers' shrieking discord to the full on funk-tip groove of Woo, Alright-Yeah…Uh-huh. Every one of these shape-shifting tracks shit upon any one of today's neo-tribal, glow-stick waving, nu-rave troupes like an incessant electro storm of disco diahoerrea and as it escalates into a frantic synth-screaming finale we're left contemplating what the fuck has just happened to the past 45 minutes.
With all this limb flailing, we're knackered, but not quite as beat as the visibly exhausted Andrew Bird after his fidgety stint at the BB6 Music Hub Tent. By recording violin loops and whistles throughout the set, he ingeniously creates the meaty illusion of a full band. What's audible is fine - with Heretics being the highlight - but vying uncomfortably with the Main Stage, Bird's tender paeans are drowned out by a wail of bass and synths which, unfortunately, says more about the site's organisation than the performance.
With the end in sight, we take one final trip to the bar before finding our spot for today's illustrious headliners: the irrepressible Wilco. It may be our brains resetting from The Rapture's mind obliterating euphoria but the Chicago sextet's performance seems strangely bewildering tonight; sifting from staid Americana without the redneck fire before nodding along to sombre experimental guitar. For the first thirty minutes it's almost as if they transformed into a Steely Dan for the Sonic Youth generation. But as the solos gradually extend, the band hit their space-rock stride before a prolonged instrumental finale approximates a polite version of psychedelic ecstasy. Wilco are hardly the wildest of bands, and they lack the knack of a good tune, but this was at least a satisfactory climax to a slightly lacklustre first day.
Still, at least the sun was out, right?