Call Upon The Author

Presumably, one has been here before. A year ago to the day (funny, being that it has become an annual thing) I was stood here, looking just as bemused as I did today. But a year has proven itself to be a long time in terms of social arrangement and within seconds I have met up with Edward Perry (The Boy I Used To Be’s lesser known band member) and I have mugged him for a Fest ticket and his camera. The first moments of the official day then begin wandering over the cables that litter the Wine Vaults and some punked up women swap my ticket for a wristband. They look unamused as Chris Psalia offers them beer, not pieces of paper. Suddenly I have become uninteresting.
It is just about 20 past 11 and I guess you can say Festival day begins now because the wristband is now on. About two and a half minutes in I notice the guys from Senator walk past who enthusiastically inform me that they are on at the Deco at half 4. I let them know in return that I already know because I wanted to see them anyway. They look surprised and I have to show them my timetable and their band name highlight for them to believe me. Unfortunately they ended up going on later, so I would have to let them down. Not long after that I get jumped by Huw Olesker who was just about to play his first of seven shows of the day. He’s basically the literal version of Tiny Tim for the uke-is-now-cool generation. This would be the third time I’ve seen him and, despite playing familiar material, I laugh my tits off.
Not long after I pop over to the Fat Fox. It’s still closed and would be for about 40 minutes but people start congregating around whilst Ally (the promoter for the venue) reminisces casually about how the Fat Fox was buzzing last year because this was where the wristband exchange was. After a while trendy people start smoking and talking about trendy things that, frankly, I don’t give a toss about. I zone out. I finally get inside to a wave of apathy. Ed’s inside strumming his guitar and I sit by him. He starts making up things with my name in it that are clever but often let down by the odd self-referential lyric. He’s a funny fucker I’ll give him that and I genuinely couldn’t wait for his set, which although I’ve heard a hundred times (on stage and myspace and whatever) it still sounds fresh and fun. But it is now 20 past 1 and I want to see Aeroplane Attack…
…who are half-way through their set in the sweaty Edge of the Wedge. I had the weird and wonderful opportunity to support these guys but fuck me if they were bigger and better than then. It was a very short ten minutes though before they finished, the wall of sound collapsing and leaving me uncomfortable with the thought of walking back anywhere. Ritchie from the Demons said he was popping to the loft to see the Confederate Dead and, being that it was my plan to do the same anyway, I followed. When I got there it was the unlikely formation of the Melodramas that made me take notice. They were interesting and doomy, drastically different to the sound of craptastic indie that I had associated them with. However, this kind of slid my mind cos I wasn’t here for them. WHEN the mighty Confederate’s started it was as if there was no other reason to go to the fest. Mind-blowing and quite sexual, I rejoiced at the entire band and their request for fuck loads of reverb. It was like fucking Hope Sandoval in a black hole. Only, I can only assume that would be slightly more memorable.
Next up was a quick jog over to LJR’s (a venue well-known for terrible sound) for the fantastic Deads. Heed the previous sentence though for the garage band were hindered with the crappy sound and the whole thing became muggy and fuzzed without sounding interesting. I knew the SONGS were there, but the sound was shite. No need to mince words. Don’t worry though, the B of the Bang sounded like this too. Anyway, next I wandered over to speak to Ed to tempt him into seeing Kill Kasper but he wanted to see a couple of crappy Joy Division sound-a-likes so I let him get on with it. After stopping several times on the way to the Wedge I finally got there and watched the majority of Kill Kasper. I’ve heard these guys before on t’internet but never really had been impressed by many of the things that they do. I was always under the impression the lyrics were lifeless and had no meaning other than the vapid imagery they conjured. Boy, was I wrong though. On stage the words seem to impact you like a mallet. The Kolonel looks sincere, pissed off and like he wants you to rock out. A woman starts dancing at closer ‘Get Out’ but she looks like the woman in the song. Suddenly irony overwhelms me.
I’m not a 100% what I did next. A bit more wandering I think, but The Demons were really only on my mind. I got to the Edge, thinking that I would be late for the start of the show, but I was only just appearing at the beginning of Dragon Eye Morrison, a group I never really cared for and the gig didn’t really sway me in any way. When the Demons did come on stage, I really don’t think I was ready for it. I’ve seen them quite a bit and I like all the lads (and Neil, their groupie) so it is always a pleasure to check them out. They were phenomenal. Ok, the vocals were a bit muddy and inaudible, but when does that factor in a pop underground show. That’s right, never! Just about as good as the Confederate’s and probably one of the best times I had seen them play. Next up I wandered to the Magick Bean to watch Le Plat Du Jour, who were kooky and reminded me of Devendra Banhart, the Velvet Underground and Cat Power without the star power. Ed, being the scenester fanboy he is, loved it though and got mildly offended to my text suggesting that “she’d get it”.
We got chips after that and started planning our next visits, but I was knackered and began to make my way home at half 7. A couple of goodbyes and second-thoughts plus ten minutes later I was on the train. I was asleep by half 9. What a wuss.