Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Latitude Festival review
the first Latitude Festival, Suffolk, 14-16 July 2006
When I set off, I know there’s a chance that the Mean Fiddler’s newest festival is going to be a bit too child-friendly, a bit too Guardian-reader, to scratch my dirty itches (and they’re not even that dirty. I like kids! I read the Guardian!). But while it is set in the grounds of Henham House, near cosy-posh Southwold in Suffolk, and while I do find a piece of apricot in one of my rather Fresh and Wild looking salads, my prejudices turn out to be exactly that. The Latitude festival managed to avoid being another Big Chill (the festival for people who don’t like festivals) because the music is better and you don’t feel like you’re surrounded by thirtysomethings from Stoke Newington. There is waitress service at one of the stages, but this is actually a brilliant idea on a hot lazy summer afternoon, and there is a poetry tent but, well, what’s wrong with poetry! (People keep calling Pete Doherty a poet: have they ever any poetry? Anyway.)
Patti Smith, on stage all powerful and sexy on Saturday, is the highlight of my weekend. She may be the highlight of my summer. She complains about the smoke machine (“We’re not a fucking heavy metal band”), talks about the just-restarted killing in the Lebanon, dedicates songs to Syd Barrett and Thomas Paine, and sings us an amazing acoustic set, with support from Lenny Kaye, including In My Blakean Year, Because the Night and, finally, the glorious, glorious Gloria. The next day she does a poetry reading, with her glasses on and a big grin, and reveals more of her political optimism and her imagination (“We could fight wars with guitars and huge amps. People would go deaf, but no one would die”), tells a Bob Dylan anecdote or two, and reads some of her poems.
I don’t see anyone else all weekend with Patti’s magic, but I find it hard to take my eyes off glowing, grinning singer Edward from Larrikin Love, and not just because he gets my paedometer twitching. The whole band look like Dickensian Club Kids, and Edward in particular seems delighted and slightly confused all the time. Their dishevelled, cheeky-chirpy, laidback songs are perfect for a pleasantly hungover sunny Sunday afternoon. They not only have a cowbell (there are always extra points for a cowbell) but a trombone. Lots of bands this weekend remind me of our beloved Dexys, simply by being a bit soulful and shambly, having a bit of brass and a sprinkle of Motown; Larrikin Love are one of them.
Not quite so suited to a sunny afternoon, but great all the same, are Lords. They play noodly dirty hard Led Zeppy rock, with lots of wobbly underwater-sounding oozing bass. They give the impression of just about managing to hang it all together (an impression that comes either from genuine shambolic playing or from lots of practice and being incredibly tight, I was too drunk to know which). They introduce their “bestest song” but don’t manage to say what it’s called. It is pretty bestest though, with some sax (it’s the weekend of brass!) that sounds how Lisa Simpson would if she’d spent time in Soho in the 60s experimenting with drugs and George Melly.
Lords’ touch-of-prog mates, Part Chimp, take themselves a bit more seriously, I think, although maybe my judgement is marred by the number of blokes at the front doing some very stern and oddly sedate headbanging (they somehow make it look a bit like chinstroking). Part Chimp provide murky nasty fug to wade about in, lots of aggressive lights and fog - in an 80s TV sci-fi style - so you can’t quite see them. They are almost pompous, but actually great.
Little Neemo are tucked away in the cool, dark film tent on the sweltering Sunday afternoon. Their songs on CD are dark, sad and lovely; live they are even more absorbing. Singer Gavin has a proper, old-fashioned, effortless, strong voice, honest and powerful and delicate. His two guitar-wielding wingmen harmonise and it’s great; one of them plays the accordion too, and is Gavin’s surly stooge. There’s some stage banter which sometimes becomes stage bickering, although it’s funny rather than uncomfortable. They don’t seem to have stage personas; they are here to sing their urban folk songs and they fancy a bit of a chat, too. The sweetly sozzled audience laps it up.
I had some good times in the poetry tent, too, and not just with Patti. There was some awful awful shit in there, of course (and an astonishingly obnoxious compere whose nose I could very happily have broken) but a few damn goodies, too. Thick Richard are a pair of entirely guileless and very talented men from Manchester who are very funny and dark, in that funny and dark Manchester way. They are from the same fine stock as Hovis Presley and John Cooper Clarke who, as if by magic, comes on straight after them. By this time, it is the early hours and, rather than finding myself any good hard drugs, I am actually sipping some very nice, organic hot chocolate. Quite right too, as Clarke is rather like a narky old gran, and I mean that as a compliment. He is sharp and sharp-tongued, ageing without too much grace, occasionally befuddled and full of strange, entrancing tales that don’t go anywhere, and jokes and poems that tread a line I love, between funny and awful (You ain’t nothing but a hedgehog, lying all the time. You ain’t never pricked an enemy and you ain’t no porcupine”). I’ve never seen him live before, but I knew he’d be a legend, and he is.
Field Music are pointy, nice-suits, old-fashioned pop, the Rumble Strips add fuel to my Dexys-are-everywhere theory, with a saxy, soully sound, and the Soft Hearted Scientists soothe my sore head and nourish my soul with their electric folky goodness. But most of the rest of the festival feels a bit disappointing. Antony and the Johnsons have a whiff of Jazz Cafe about them, I Am Kloot sound like they’re being David Gray with a sprinkle of Madchester maudlin this weekend. Absentee, shambling and dirty like a sexy sleazy uncle, are a good band, but whoever thought they should play in front of a massive screen showing Pepé Le Pew is an idiot, and the singer needs to SING UP A BIT. Last Town Chorus have a lap steel and a collection of gentle, lonesome songs, but they sound like they belong on The OC. I don’t know why people love British Sea Power, they are dull as shit, blokey noisy chuggy shit. Maybe they’re like campari and olives and I’ll like them when I get older. The Morning After Girls are entertaining but by-numbers, totally uninventive skinny boys (and one girl: liars!) in black with yawn-rockstar hair and some reverb. I just want more Patti.
When I set off, I know there’s a chance that the Mean Fiddler’s newest festival is going to be a bit too child-friendly, a bit too Guardian-reader, to scratch my dirty itches (and they’re not even that dirty. I like kids! I read the Guardian!). But while it is set in the grounds of Henham House, near cosy-posh Southwold in Suffolk, and while I do find a piece of apricot in one of my rather Fresh and Wild looking salads, my prejudices turn out to be exactly that. The Latitude festival managed to avoid being another Big Chill (the festival for people who don’t like festivals) because the music is better and you don’t feel like you’re surrounded by thirtysomethings from Stoke Newington. There is waitress service at one of the stages, but this is actually a brilliant idea on a hot lazy summer afternoon, and there is a poetry tent but, well, what’s wrong with poetry! (People keep calling Pete Doherty a poet: have they ever
Patti Smith, on stage all powerful and sexy on Saturday, is the highlight of my weekend. She may be the highlight of my summer. She complains about the smoke machine (“We’re not a fucking heavy metal band”), talks about the just-restarted killing in the Lebanon, dedicates songs to Syd Barrett and Thomas Paine, and sings us an amazing acoustic set, with support from Lenny Kaye, including In My Blakean Year, Because the Night and, finally, the glorious, glorious Gloria. The next day she does a poetry reading, with her glasses on and a big grin, and reveals more of her political optimism and her imagination (“We could fight wars with guitars and huge amps. People would go deaf, but no one would die”), tells a Bob Dylan anecdote or two, and reads some of her poems.
I don’t see anyone else all weekend with Patti’s magic, but I find it hard to take my eyes off glowing, grinning singer Edward from Larrikin Love, and not just because he gets my paedometer twitching. The whole band look like Dickensian Club Kids, and Edward in particular seems delighted and slightly confused all the time. Their dishevelled, cheeky-chirpy, laidback songs are perfect for a pleasantly hungover sunny Sunday afternoon. They not only have a cowbell (there are always extra points for a cowbell) but a trombone. Lots of bands this weekend remind me of our beloved Dexys, simply by being a bit soulful and shambly, having a bit of brass and a sprinkle of Motown; Larrikin Love are one of them.
Not quite so suited to a sunny afternoon, but great all the same, are Lords. They play noodly dirty hard Led Zeppy rock, with lots of wobbly underwater-sounding oozing bass. They give the impression of just about managing to hang it all together (an impression that comes either from genuine shambolic playing or from lots of practice and being incredibly tight, I was too drunk to know which). They introduce their “bestest song” but don’t manage to say what it’s called. It is pretty bestest though, with some sax (it’s the weekend of brass!) that sounds how Lisa Simpson would if she’d spent time in Soho in the 60s experimenting with drugs and George Melly.
Lords’ touch-of-prog mates, Part Chimp, take themselves a bit more seriously, I think, although maybe my judgement is marred by the number of blokes at the front doing some very stern and oddly sedate headbanging (they somehow make it look a bit like chinstroking). Part Chimp provide murky nasty fug to wade about in, lots of aggressive lights and fog - in an 80s TV sci-fi style - so you can’t quite see them. They are almost pompous, but actually great.
Little Neemo are tucked away in the cool, dark film tent on the sweltering Sunday afternoon. Their songs on CD are dark, sad and lovely; live they are even more absorbing. Singer Gavin has a proper, old-fashioned, effortless, strong voice, honest and powerful and delicate. His two guitar-wielding wingmen harmonise and it’s great; one of them plays the accordion too, and is Gavin’s surly stooge. There’s some stage banter which sometimes becomes stage bickering, although it’s funny rather than uncomfortable. They don’t seem to have stage personas; they are here to sing their urban folk songs and they fancy a bit of a chat, too. The sweetly sozzled audience laps it up.
I had some good times in the poetry tent, too, and not just with Patti. There was some awful awful shit in there, of course (and an astonishingly obnoxious compere whose nose I could very happily have broken) but a few damn goodies, too. Thick Richard are a pair of entirely guileless and very talented men from Manchester who are very funny and dark, in that funny and dark Manchester way. They are from the same fine stock as Hovis Presley and John Cooper Clarke who, as if by magic, comes on straight after them. By this time, it is the early hours and, rather than finding myself any good hard drugs, I am actually sipping some very nice, organic hot chocolate. Quite right too, as Clarke is rather like a narky old gran, and I mean that as a compliment. He is sharp and sharp-tongued, ageing without too much grace, occasionally befuddled and full of strange, entrancing tales that don’t go anywhere, and jokes and poems that tread a line I love, between funny and awful (You ain’t nothing but a hedgehog, lying all the time. You ain’t never pricked an enemy and you ain’t no porcupine”). I’ve never seen him live before, but I knew he’d be a legend, and he is.
Field Music are pointy, nice-suits, old-fashioned pop, the Rumble Strips add fuel to my Dexys-are-everywhere theory, with a saxy, soully sound, and the Soft Hearted Scientists soothe my sore head and nourish my soul with their electric folky goodness. But most of the rest of the festival feels a bit disappointing. Antony and the Johnsons have a whiff of Jazz Cafe about them, I Am Kloot sound like they’re being David Gray with a sprinkle of Madchester maudlin this weekend. Absentee, shambling and dirty like a sexy sleazy uncle, are a good band, but whoever thought they should play in front of a massive screen showing Pepé Le Pew is an idiot, and the singer needs to SING UP A BIT. Last Town Chorus have a lap steel and a collection of gentle, lonesome songs, but they sound like they belong on The OC. I don’t know why people love British Sea Power, they are dull as shit, blokey noisy chuggy shit. Maybe they’re like campari and olives and I’ll like them when I get older. The Morning After Girls are entertaining but by-numbers, totally uninventive skinny boys (and one girl: liars!) in black with yawn-rockstar hair and some reverb. I just want more Patti.
