So almost a month to the day a new festival was born out of the
success of End Of The Road - No Direction Home at Welbeck Abbey,
Nottingham. I was fortunate enough to work for this humble festival. Yes that's
right, I was offered the position of labourer/builder/handyman erecting heras
fencing, lighting, stages, and picnic benches. Considering I was under
the impression before entering the festival grounds that I was to work as an
artist liaison, the dream was surely shattered when a pair of builders gloves and
a spanner were handed to me shortly upon my arrival. At what point prior to No
Direction did I come to believe that I was to be liaising with the likes of
Andrew Bird, Richard Hawley and the artists crew is beyond me. Of course my
role as labourer/builder/handyman severely hindered my enjoyment and free time
during the festival. I had succumbed to the fact that I am a total wang and will never be "one of the lads" nor would I ever be able to understand or partake in "DIY banter", so I snook off on a number of occasions to case out some of the No Direction talent. I was pleasantly surprised.
Andrew Bird
I have been and Andrew Bird advocate since 1973.Getting the
chance to finally see him live was worth more than any pay
packet I was to receive at the end of the festival. Playing the main stage on
the Saturday night, Bird stole the majority of the festivals audience making
for a jolly exciting, pleasantly middle class moment in middle-class festival history. Bird worked his way through an array
of songs old and new, all the while appearing monstrously pissed off whilst on
stage, pulling faces and furiously indicating sound adjustments to his crew on
the side of the stage. It was almost a little awkward to watch, as if unfortunately
sitting next to a bickering middle aged couple in a restaurant #thediningdead. If
anything it made me like him all the more, giving a humanistic perspective to a
long awaited dream. And boy can the man hold a whistle.
Slow Club
Austra
So what did I learn from No Direction Home:
1) Firstly, it is called No Direction Home not One Direction Home. Ever so embarrassing letting slip that you actually like those primordial wankers.
2) Secondly, middle class festivals are very 'pleasant' for want of a better adjective.
3) Thirdly, Canada could dominate Sweden in the pop synth arena.
4) And finally, my penis is just an oversized clitoris. Never again will adopt a virile alter ego nor pretend or attempt to be a builder/labourer/handyman. I'm sticking to the kitchen.
Andrew Bird
 |
| Me andAndy |
Slow Club
A new discovery was made in the form of Slow Club. Born and
bred in Sheffield, Charles Watson and Rebecca Taylor are perhaps two of the
most effortlessly cool people I have ever seen grace a stage. Having not even recognizing
one tune during their set I still felt that fuzzy, warm feeling watching them,
as if remembering a childhood memory. When they wapped out a beautiful trumpet I became
weak at the knees and bubbly in my stomach, as if experiencing the early
symptoms of a ladies menstrual cycle, only far less messier and more pleasurable.
I’m such an indie Cindy. What made Slow Club so memorable was not that these
guys are incredibly talented musicians, but simply that they seemed to be
having so much fun on stage. I was left with conflicting emotions. Part of me
was head over heels with this discovery. The other part of me saw green,
wishing I was either one half of Slow Club. #Dreamer
Austra
The only band that managed to totally distract me from the
fact that I was at work were a cheeky electronic band from Ontorio, Canada
called Austra. I had only ever heard of their name in passing but had never
heard any material. I guess you could compare my excitement when watching them
at No Direction to that illustrious moment when discovering The Knife as a
prepubescent, sexually baffled, frigid teenager. Before the big reveal that
these electronic angels were in fact Canadian, the natural assumption was that
they were of course Swedish. How could it be possible that such perfect synth and
wailing, sheep like vocals accompanied with a distant drum beat not be born out of
a Scandanavian hovel. I was almost sick. Bewildered. Confused. Could it be that there is music out
there to be discovered beyond my Swedish safety net? Evidently! One final note;
Austra’s choreography was simply outrageous. Mama Kate Bush would be proud.
So what did I learn from No Direction Home:
1) Firstly, it is called No Direction Home not One Direction Home. Ever so embarrassing letting slip that you actually like those primordial wankers.
2) Secondly, middle class festivals are very 'pleasant' for want of a better adjective.
3) Thirdly, Canada could dominate Sweden in the pop synth arena.
4) And finally, my penis is just an oversized clitoris. Never again will adopt a virile alter ego nor pretend or attempt to be a builder/labourer/handyman. I'm sticking to the kitchen.