All Tomorrow’s Parties: The Fans Strike Back – 9th-11th May 2009

[ Good friend of TDP Shaun C Green trundled himself off to Minehead a little while back to catch the latest instalment of the All Tomorrow's Parties festival. We promised to abandon our jealousy and start answering his emails again if he supplied us an on-the-spot gonzo-style report of the proceedings; it's taken him this long to clear his hangover sufficiently and get the thing written. Enjoy! ]

DAY 1

As always it’s a brutal trek to get from Brighton to Minehead, but it’s a journey filled with adventure and discovery. For example, I discover that none of the lines I need on the tube are closed for engineering works, and adventure to a McDonalds stall to buy an Egg McMuffin. The train from London to Taunton is relatively painless, and getting from Taunton to Minehead is even easier. Domino Records sent a limo… okay, a friend of a friend picked us up and drove us the rest of the way, but he does work for Domino. Shortly after we arrive we spot our first celebrity of the weekend: self-appointed self-help priest of rock and roll Andrew W.K., who at this point is not partying hard. Chances are he is feeling a little partied out already. Does anyone ever not get drunk the night before a festival?

The first actual band of the weekend, for whom I fight my way out of a cosy chalet filled with pizza and cider, is Casiotone For the Painfully Alone, who I saw just a few weeks before at the Brighton Freebutt. The set is remarkably similar – no surprise there – but he’s playing on a far larger stage to a more distributed audience, and I have to say that Butlin’s Centre Stage and PA are a great improvement. It’s also good to see that for a lot of songs Owen Ashworth is joined by the rest of his band, which definitely helps his half tongue-in-cheek, half genuinely sombre songs of middle class confession and angst fill a room that last December even Mastodon seemed a little small in.

After Casiotone it’s necessary to take a break and power up with boozes before returning to the thunderdome. I’m not feeling all that recharged, though, because even the frenetic and angular art-punk stylings of HEALTH can’t stop my eyes from drooping. This doesn’t bode well. I try to keep myself awake with judicious application of applause, which seems to help. Afterwards, I inject Red Bull directly into my eyeballs and scrotum before heading to see M83. Admission: I’ve not seen them before, I’ve not listened to them before, and I know nothing about them. I can tell that they’re French because the female half of the outfit has a waistband that’s a foot higher than British fashion dictates necessary. So French. And the music is so very good. M83 appears to be about getting your groove on, which thanks to caffeine, taurine and nicotine I’m able to do. This is good.

Some time later we walk in to see Devo occupying the same stage, playing to a far larger crowd, and although the dancing amongst the audience doesn’t seem as stylish you can’t fault it’s enthusiasm. We’ve walked in on “Jocko Homo”, a foot-stompin’ geek-punk classic, and I’m instantly regretting missing the beginning of their set. I’d expected that Devo would be an entertaining diversion, a band who didn’t live up to their reputation or historical impact, but I am happily proven completely wrong. They are goddamn superb and you must see them live. That said I’m not sure that charging £20 for cheap plastic energy hats is particularly punx rok, but I suppose they are old now and have mortgages to pay. Perhaps they could pawn band mascot Boogie Boy, a gold-painted high-pitched dancing weirdo who looks like the misfit third Mario Brother or a retired Doctor Who prop.

What happens next? Honestly, I don’t remember. I’m too lazy to tote a notepad around with me, but like some kind of self-facilitating media node cunt I’ve been live-tweeting this event. Kill me now. From what I can gather I went straight from Devo to Fuck Buttons, except that there were many hours between these two. Well, whatever. I’m exhausted and drunk and about ready to collapse, but if there’s one thing that can keep me standing it’s being battered from every side for eight minutes by “Colours Move”. They also play some new material: it’s a soothingly abrasive aural death, just as you’d expect.

DAY 2

Predictably, the next day I’m grossly hungover. After seeing Fuck Buttons I spent several more hours dancing in the Crazy Horse (the hilarious Butlins ‘club’ that is a distillation of every school disco ever) so this is entirely my fault. I end up missing most of the early afternoon’s bands, but on the upshot I get to see The Tin Drum, a German film set before and during World War 2, in which significant events include a boy’s mother eating herself to death with raw fish, and a small boy who can’t grow up because life in the Free City of Danzig is kinda fucked. It was a pretty good film. Not as good, however, as Young Marble Giants, who perform their magnum opus Colossal Youth in its entirety. The effect is lessened by their awkward but unaffected stage banter and repeated requests for monitor tweaks, but hungover as I am it serves to make me smile between their minimalist and precise slices of post-punk rock. I’m not sure if the band intend to push ahead with a full reunion or write any new music; to be honest, I’m glad to see this performance but I suspect that any attempts at new songwriting would reveal how far behind they’ve been left.

Grizzly Bear are one of many bear-based bands I had not seen, and now they join the smaller collection of bear-based bands that I have seen. I find myself quite impressed by them: they’re less grizzly and more teddy bear, but their energetic performance and beautiful, foot-tapping indie rock is just what I need to hear as the afternoon moves into the early evening. I’d expected to be a little bored but I ended up having a lot of fun. This is in contrast to the crowd for Harvey Milk; I only catch the latter half of their set but it seems like the band have a dozen times more energy than the crowd. The band play cynical, bitter, grungy alt-rock but with an edge that’s indefinably modern. Okay, “indefinably” is a cop-out, but this review is based on fuzzy memories and notes sent to Twitter, so nyer nyer.

I overhear most of Beirut’s set whilst sat in Pizza Hut, eating the closest thing to food that I’ll manage all weekend. Put generously I consider Beirut’s music not to my taste. If I’m uncharitable I think his music is painfully dull, and his decision to name himself after a city he knew nothing about the height of coddled arrogance. After this it seems like the music hits a bit of a lull, with Errors putting on a solid but unremarkable set (so unremarkable, in fact, that I remember nothing of it) and I catch a couple of Sleepy Suns songs that leave me feeling… kinda sleepy. That’s probably not intentional. I’m just full of pizza and cider and sleep deprivation.

After a brief nap I’m back in Reds watching Marnie Stern. Initially I’m blown away; this girl can shred. I don’t mean, like, she can shred “for a girl”. I mean she can fucking shred. But unfortunately after a while it becomes more apparent that all this virtuosity hasn’t translated into more than a few good songs, with too many feeling like a vehicle for her licks. It might be that her tunes are growers, but it’s hard to tell today. The valley-girl schtick hardly helps, either; perhaps some audiences find it cute, but for me and probably others here today it’s merely annoying. This isn’t helped by Marnie’s bassist covering up some technical difficulties by telling a pointless story about John Cusack hitting on a 17-year old Stern. The punchline turns out to be ‘girls should fuck John Cusack because he’s rich, and famous, and John Cusack.’ Uh, perhaps the valley girl thing isn’t merely an act.

I never thought Spiritualized would be a band that caught my imagination but at my first ATP I got drawn into Wooden Shjips who are not incredibly dissimilar, so I decide to give the bigger name a go. The themes of the weekend – proving myself wrong, and finding more bands that I like – continue. I’m not sure I’d ever care to listen to the band outside the festival headliner context, and perhaps drinking for a solid 12 hours has had some sort of effect on me, but this is perfect. The band slays. I celebrate this discovery by killing skeleton army guys in a game with the ridiculous moniker WARZAID. I’m sure it’s exactly what Spiritualized had in mind.

Later that evening a very loud band called Bad Guys try to play outside a chalet, but they’re shut down within five minutes – literally, just after they start their second song. The next day I heard that they played a chalet party a few hours later but by that point I was well and truly passed out. Bummer.

DAY 3

ATP TV, which is as charmingly inept as ever (a great selection of material played over the weekend, yes, but you’re often left staring at placeholder animations for ten minutes or watching people fiddling with DVD menus), is playing the first season of The Thick Of It. What the hell. I’m watching this. Up until about 5.30, at which point I’m out of the chalet like a shot, because it’s time for Future of the Left. I’ve seen them a few times before so they’re a known quantity, and part of that knowledge is “absolutely blinding show”. Every tune is tight as fuck and every between-song witticism is as acerbic and amusing as we’ve come to expect from the trio. Tonight is the first time I’ve heard many of the songs on their forthcoming second album. The staccato guitar and violent bass riffs of “You Need Satan More Than He Needs You” are a standout, as is recent single “The Hope That House Built”. Why more people don’t like this band I don’t know, and as far as I’m concerned today’s performance finally puts the shadow of Mclusky to bed.

Ordinarily I’d skip out on a band early to move on to another stage but I can’t bring myself to miss more than the last five minutes of FOTL. As a result I only catch a few tunes from art-punks !!!, but it’s a fun ten minutes spent alternately watching the band’s antics and the cute indie girls dancing around the room. The dancing girls don’t distract me for long, though, because before long I’m heading back to the Pavilion Stage to see Parts & Labor, another band whose presence on the bill originally drew me to the festival. Unfortunately they prove to be a little disappointing; they lack the energy that infused their performance on tour earlier in the year. It might simply be that the cavernous central hall of the Butlins dome is too large, and that the crowd they draw looks comparitively small. Still, it’s an entertaining set that includes hits like ‘Nowhere’s Nigh’, and at one point I actually see guitarist Sarah Lipstate crack a smile (something I believe is extreeemely rare).

By this point I’m feeling like a wreck. Too much drinking and not enough sleeping; sometimes I think I’m getting too old for this festival shiz. Fortunately the Mae Shi are on hand to prove me wrong. Early on in their set, as they kick into ‘Run To Your Grave’, I catch myself thinking “this is the best song I’ve ever heard”. Yes, I’m drunk, and it’s not really the best song I’ve ever heard, but these guys are amazingly good fun and the closest thing to riotous we’ve had all weekend. I’ve never heard the band before today and I love them; thanks, ATP, for a set full of synths, bleeps, off the wall ideas and horseplay.

I missed the Jesus Lizard on Day 2 due to a clash, but it’s alright because they’re back again today. Unfortunately they decide to kick off their set with some homophobia – “yesterday’s set was for the gays. Today is gonna rock” – which, you know, kinda sucks. I guess in more ways than one they’re a relic of their times. Whatever; they’re also the motherfuckin’ Jesus Lizard and when they promise rock, they deliver.

Late, late, late in the evening I collapse my failing body onto a stool, lean back, and let the soothing instrumental post-rock of This Will Destroy You wash around around and through me. I already feel destroyed, so the threat rings hollow. Ha! Take that! My one regret is that TWDY didn’t sell the greatest tshirt ever in my size (youth sizes, since you ask, for I am a very skinny man despite my bear-like post-rocker face rug). But regardless this is a perfect end to a brilliant weekend.

Except that, actually, it’s not the end, because then comes the Crazy Horse bar once again, with a set of classic indie and alt-rock and other tunes from Mike Diver and subsequently more hangovers and throwing up outside train stations and trying to get back to Brighton in time to pick up my amp and guitar and play a show of my own. And this, really, is an entirely appropriate coda to a superb festival.