Sex, Money and Hinterland

From the outset Hinterland has an air of excess, the product of pre-recession economy multiplied by a post-recession target audience. There are bonuses (bonii?) for the punter: a chance to see some heartstoppingly good bands in venues that aren't even touching capacity, plus half of us, it seems, got in for free. However, when you consider the financial privations the bands might be experiencing for a possible mention in the Daily Record, it leaves a sour taste in the mouth - the credit crunch finding its newest casualty.

There's always music to sugar the pill, though. Wandering around the festival, I begin asking myself questions. The first of which being: why haven't Y'All Is Fantasy Island got big yet? It seems like The Skinny has been banging the YIFI drum since I was in petticoats, but to little avail; the four lads from Falkirk(ish) are still stuck in the graveyard 6.30 I'm-still-having-my-dinner Arches slot. They work up their flurry of glacially beautiful indie rock for a crowd of sorts, but I can't help but wonder what it's going to take before the breakthrough. Maybe they just aren't sexy enough.

No one could accuse Miss The Occupier's singer-bassist Roz of not being sexy. She's hot enough to make up for her two sidemen and everyone else in the Classic Grand. Question number two: is sexiness relevant? Well, in this case, it only helps. The band's stop-start bubble-punk is enhanced by her onstage glamour, though when you close your eyes it's still capable of fully blowing your mind. Just my type.

Sky Larkin's singer Katie is a different prospect, finding her ancestor in Kristin Hersh, with her earthy, almost possessed joy in performance. Musically, the band is redolent of late-period Throwing Muses, wringing a powerful sound from three instruments. Although Octopus '08 threatens to swallow the tiny Sub Club, fans of the album might find themselves occasionally unsatisfied by the setting. You still would, though.

One problem with Hinterland's haphazard scheduling is that it has everyone running like eejits between venues. An epic Sleazys fail on Thursday which saw me bolting to Sauchiehall St from Argyll and back in 25 minutes (for those unversed in Glasgow lore, that's roughly the length of Edinburgh) means I'm keen to stay in one area and actually see some bands tonight. So I end up back in Classic Grand for a set by the woefully-named Ming Ming and the Ching Chings. It's an apt moniker: the percussion is chinging and the band is, well, minging. The Glaswegian five-piece are unrefined, but close your eyes and their multi-instrumental attack fucks with your perceptions (pardon the phrase) and, more importantly, makes you dance. Let's just hope the percussionist keeps his shirt on next time.

Planning problem #283: who decided Sons and Daughters could headline a festival? Ten minutes into their set in the cavernous Arch 2 and I'm bored already. There's no spit and sawdust, but the venue could be to blame. Disappointment number two comes when, having trekked to the Flying Duck to see them, I discover that the magnificently-monikered Ou Est Le Swimming Pool are a sort of comedy Balearic act, like Empire of the Sun with worse clothes. And we out.

The Art School serves up my last disappointment of the night as pervo-disco quintet My Tiger, My Timing prove frustratingly clumsy. Maybe I should just stop judging bands on their names; I don't have very good form. Nevertheless, there's a good band in there dying to get out, but I haven't the patience.

Luckily I stick around for local art-rockers Isosceles. They appear at the ungodly hour of 12.10am and don't disappoint. This is a band with potential. They actually look comfortable performing, for one, with onstage personality that marks them out as no mere Franz Ferdinand copyists. Although the new songs they unveil tonight veer dangerously close to Bricolage-lite (if such a thing exists), Kitch Bitch (nah, they can't spell) is a cast-iron classic of its genre and they had the Art School's sparse crowd dancing like I hadn't seen either night. To paraphrase the song, they've got sex, and if things go alright, pretty soon they should have money too.

I leave you with my quote of the festival, which I think sums up proceedings. It came from Isosceles frontman Jack Valentine when he spied fellow Hinterland act Pooch in the front row. "I believe Pooch are in the audience! Did anyone see them play yesterday?" The silence was deafening.