One of Al's lengthy accounts...
The vibrant hum of Tarantism and Root at Club 85 on Friday night was more of a dribble than a punt in kicking off the event. No bad thing - the chilled community vibe is what this Rhythms is about. It brings out both the too-trendy and too-strange to a great venue they'd not normally visit - girls with horribly bleached-blonde hair (try their best not to) mingle with the sort of bald men in bandanas that haunt every free event round here. I'm glad to see those types once a year, so I know they've not died. Saturday's outdoor stages bring even more: the car park, the market square and all around transformed by people and their music. Rhythms is a total local fixture that just gets bigger and bigger. I remember when you could escape the crowds (and indulge your illegal dinking habit) by hiding in the churchyard; now even the church itself is full of the festival crowd. There's all the atmosphere and sound of any major festival you'd pay £90 for, and in places it's as crowded as Reading fest gets between the Gents and Herbal Highs stall when everyone just wants to get to a different stage, but imagine that huge crowd made up of all types of music fans and the occasional random just trying to go shopping. And wandering through, I'm hit every minute by a brand new sound.
From the mature songwriting of Alan Cowley, through the churchyard shaking to its bhangra soundsystem and booming over the river; a jazz duo around the corner and couple of MCs bigging up each other, then to the Town Hall to a school band who can't decide whether to be Blur or Pearl Jam, so cover both.
It's so hot outside that the tobacco from fag-ends is melting under my feet while I watch Robb Johnson. He's a funny guy; bittersweet songs about himself, whoever; marching against the war, or, "supporting Chumbawamba / at Whitehaven Civic Hall." He reminds me of that cheery scourge of the toilet circuit MJ Hibbett, but with more of a wink in his eye and less interest in his accent. So maybe I'd like him more if he was from the Midlands, but still I stood to watch him with sticky soles and sweaty brow.
Some Dogs have some big hats. I could do with one of those. They play country-&-western standards in a punk style - fun, for a while. The Desoles, in the Town Hall, don't rely on such gimmicks to make an impression and sadly are hard to remember, but I'd like to see them indie-rock out again. The biggest memory I have from once my eyes accustomed to the indoor light was the sight of kids in front of the stage with their fingers firm in their ears, like they'd never heard anything louder than the PA.
Next there are some bands I'm practically timetabled to see! First up, longtime spacerock explorers Martha or, as they're now called, 'the Righteous Ones of the Rockets'. I like the new name more than anyone I asked about it, and I hate it! But it would be very easy to mock them (I swear I saw one of them wearing shades indoors) when they should be slapped on the back and not the face. These boys have the odd vocal (occasional/barking) but are mostly concerned with their lengthy instrumental passages, and very good they are with 'em too.
There's one song that just builds up with ever so much tension, and each bar that's gradually let go from these guys' guitars is eagerly lapped up as they let each out more slowly; and it's easy to see how much the band enjoy this playing, throwing evil grins across the stage as if they plot to make the kids' My First Gig a special one. I saw a similar thing watching Mogwai play with 'Christmas Steps'. But, y'know, probably no-one's gonna know what I'm talking about unless they were there and standing next to me at the time while I was banging my hairy old head. From this non-formula it's easy to tell that they listen to a lot of Sonic Youth and Shellac; they could do with listening to a bit of Cuban jazz - tighten up! - but only a little bit.
I can't always follow it and I like that.
One other moment worth recalling is the singer's discussion of the "good cop, bad cop" routine. I'm not sure if it was a joke, or an introduction to their next song, but at any rate the band had no time for another track - after that little chat they were ordered off stage.
More bands should
replace the big finale with a little chat - well, unless they're really
good at it. Like heavy/prog band Insomnia, for instance, whom I arrive
late for - and it's not just three drummers in a row who are getting
down to their rhythm! I had to skip most of their set to catch Restricted
Hours. If I'd remembered how every festival stage is almost contractually
obliged to run late, even an acoustic stage where you'd assume it wouldn't
take so long for soundmen to set up, then I wouldn't have been in such
a hurry. All I had to occupy myself with was fifteen minutes of Chris
Ripple's poetry. He's pretty funny, actually, but he always seems so
miserable. Maybe a "punk poet" should sound pissed off, but
he's just… incessant.
