Mad
dogs and indie kids come out in the midday sun in a laid-back summer’s
day in Victoria Park. The inaugural year if Field Day holds an interesting
prospect. Billed as “A psychedelic village fete” it boasts
a line up of lesser-known but still high quality acts, mostly fitting
in the ‘art rocker’ category, which would explain the abundance
of the nouveau-indie in vintage dresses, skinny jeans and a vast array
of fringes.
The incessant
drumming coming from the Adventures in the Beetroot Field Tent draws
me to the first act I see of the day. I join the congregation watching
Florence and the Machine, sat on the ground captivated
by her soaring vocals like schoolchildren at assembly. She’s joined
by Test Icicles/Lightspeed Champion’s Dev, filling in for a tardy
Kid Harpoon who deftly takes up guitar and piano duties on his arrival.
“I love sitting down gigs. They’re the best kind,”
she says. We’re inclined to agree.
At times
Flaming Lips, at times Brian Wilson, at times Pink Floyd, yet always
unique,
Caribou welcome in the stragglers with their double
drum-kit madness pounding into the crowd’s collective chest and
dreamy, psychedelic vocals taking hold of their hearts.
A slight
problem of vocals cutting out has no effect on the happy vibe Goodbooks
create in the AIBF tent. “I want you to walk with me” they
chant during a rambunctious ‘Walk With Me’, though the tent
does much more than that, clapping their hands raw during the boys’
kinetic set.
The happy
vibe is continued by 1990s
on the Eat Your Own Ears stage, with their summery indie pop perfectly
encapsulating the mood of the day. Unconventional-looking lead singer,
Jackie McKeown, announces at the start “My amp’s just broke
so this may sound a bit shite.” It didn’t. An already receptive
crowd is won over further and the applause grows ever more rapturous
until they announce their last song. The disappointment is tangible.
If we liked them before then this must be love.
The
Concretes draw a solid crowd, but their set is unimpressive,
and abandoned on favour of the cake being sold at one of the stalls.
This too brings disappointment as it’s all gone by now. On to
The
Aliens, then, who attempt to bring some stadium flavour
to the low-key proceedings with their unique brand of electro-prog,
but like all prog throughout time it’s overindulgent. And while
front man Gordon Anderson keeps the audience amused, leaping and body-popping
all over the stage, the stage manager is not quite so happy as they’re
forced to curb their enthusiasm and wrap it up quick smart. A cheeky
drum solo is still shoe-horned in, though.
The crowd
congregates early for Foals,
the media darlings of the day. The army of photographers storming the
pit is testament to their burgeoning fast-track to fame, though they
seem to approach it with trepidation as Lilliputian lead singer Yannis
starts off slightly intimidated. “There’s a lot of you out
there,” he says. “It’s terrifying. Like a sea of marshmallow
men or something.” This coupled with a side-on performance highlighted
a disconnection from their audience, who by the end were baying for
stand-out track Hummer. “Play the hits,” shouts one wag.
Some bands are born great, and some have greatness thrust upon them,
and despite the crowd clapping, singing and bouncing along, it seems
Foals are reluctant heroes of the indie dance scene. Perhaps this is
why the Prince-a-like front man had left the stage even before the feedback
had faded.
After this
I find myself wandering with no real agenda, and find myself in the
midst of Fanfarlo for Electrelane,
who have garnered enough of a fanbase to spill out of the AIBF tent,
but fail to impress. A less pretty but much more hairy – sorry,
fulfilling – prospect is Archie
Bronson Outfit who have the Homefires Stage crowd finally
on their feet with their dirgey, insistent and captivating sound.
From them
it’s past Jack Peñate – not playing today, just walking
about with the Young Turks collective – to the hairier still The
Earlies. A quick look around the audience shows much grey
hair and bald spots, showing why I’ve always found them unremarkable
and middle-of-the-road.
The reason
I’m among them is to snag prime position for Battles’
set – my earmarked must-see of the day. I’m obviously not
the only one as an impressive crowd gathers early bringing with it a
palpable sense of anticipation. An impressive reception rips up as a
powerful Race:In starts as they mean to carry on. Drummer John throws
his full force into the pounding rhythms that are the backbone of Battles’
sound, drenched with sweat through storming renditions of Tonto and
the rest of the set before that damn half-hour stage time threatens
to cut them short before the crowd get what they really wanted. A cheeky
appeal for “five more minutes” gives them the breathing
space they need to launch into a rapturously received Atlas so formidable
that the only one left disappointed is that fussy stage manager again.
Another huge ovation as they leave the stage marks Battles as a band
on the rise and today’s performance shows their reputation as
an astounding live act is not undeserved. Truly mind-blowing.
Judging
from the swarm of people heading away from the Homefires stage I’ve
just missed Bat
For Lashes, but am in plenty of time for Gruff
Rhys’ affable performance of uplifting electro folk
as dusk descends behind.
All that
remains then is for the darkness to be broken by the light shining from
that cross, centre stage for French funksters Justice
to round off a long day on a high before allowing folk to make the last
train home.
As a whole
Field Day has potential, but are tea, tarts and tug o’ war enough
to compete in a saturated festival market? The touted “Village
Fete” vibe is nigh-on non-existent except for scale, highlighted
by the serpentine queues for toilets and the wine tent (which ran out
early on). The championing of lesser-known acts should most definitely
be encouraged, but more consideration should be taken regarding those
damn restrictive set times – when a band like Battles can only
squeeze three or four songs into their set, everyone loses out.
by
Phil Dixon
