Friday at the races
Jun. 6th, 2005 07:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
perlmongerI've uploaded as much as I'm likely to of my photos from Friday at Wychwood Festival to flickr, starting here (the Värttinä picture is from Saturday).
Most of the images on flickr are annotated; but, largely repeating myself here, we heard:
A trio consisting of a Madagascan guitarist, a Zimbabwean bassist and percussionist from... somewhere else. They were a last minute substitute for the billed Candido Fabré y Su Banda who were a no-show for some reason - I don't know who they were, but the music was very fine indeed. And, as they started playing, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and a double rainbow arched right over the stage.
Into the big top stage where the Jim Moray 4 was setting up; it Boded, and when they came to play the Boding came into its full and foul fruit as the ego/emo collision slumped unpleasantly over the audience. It would be hard to imagine anyone further up their own bottom, frankly. Imagine Peter Hammill at his most maudlin with absolutely none of his lyrical, musical or performing saving graces. We slipped outside to find...
...Radio Tarifa, who could not in any way have presented a greater contrast. Joyous, sleazy Spanish noise, led by a guy with truly extraordinary stage presence. Terrific stuff. And they were clearly having fun: an antidote indeed.
Back to the big top after consuming some rather fine North African fud, for The Earlies. Oh dear. Think earnest early Floydrip offhomage, possibly mediated by Porcupine Tree along the way. They appeared utterly joyless, and what might otherwise have been (but emphatically wasn't) a charmingly vague grasp on playing as an ensemble. Enough. Out again to the main stage.
The Matthew Herbert Big Band. I really don't know what to say, except go and see them; certainly the high point of Friday, quite possibly (with Värttinä) the high point of the entire weekend. Insane mutant big band glory would easily have been enough to earn that recommendation, but when they used massed, synchronised shredding of copies of the Daily Mail as a percussion instrument I think my grin widened to the point of permanent damage to my facial infrastructure. I wish we'd seen the set from the start (we'll certainly be seeing them again at the next opportunity), and they were cut short far too soon by the 11pm curfew.
And so to bed (or sleeping bag, rather).
Our experiences on Saturday and Sunday will follow when I can find the time to type them and add the photos to flickr.
Most of the images on flickr are annotated; but, largely repeating myself here, we heard:
A trio consisting of a Madagascan guitarist, a Zimbabwean bassist and percussionist from... somewhere else. They were a last minute substitute for the billed Candido Fabré y Su Banda who were a no-show for some reason - I don't know who they were, but the music was very fine indeed. And, as they started playing, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and a double rainbow arched right over the stage.
Into the big top stage where the Jim Moray 4 was setting up; it Boded, and when they came to play the Boding came into its full and foul fruit as the ego/emo collision slumped unpleasantly over the audience. It would be hard to imagine anyone further up their own bottom, frankly. Imagine Peter Hammill at his most maudlin with absolutely none of his lyrical, musical or performing saving graces. We slipped outside to find...
...Radio Tarifa, who could not in any way have presented a greater contrast. Joyous, sleazy Spanish noise, led by a guy with truly extraordinary stage presence. Terrific stuff. And they were clearly having fun: an antidote indeed.
Back to the big top after consuming some rather fine North African fud, for The Earlies. Oh dear. Think earnest early Floyd
The Matthew Herbert Big Band. I really don't know what to say, except go and see them; certainly the high point of Friday, quite possibly (with Värttinä) the high point of the entire weekend. Insane mutant big band glory would easily have been enough to earn that recommendation, but when they used massed, synchronised shredding of copies of the Daily Mail as a percussion instrument I think my grin widened to the point of permanent damage to my facial infrastructure. I wish we'd seen the set from the start (we'll certainly be seeing them again at the next opportunity), and they were cut short far too soon by the 11pm curfew.
And so to bed (or sleeping bag, rather).
Our experiences on Saturday and Sunday will follow when I can find the time to type them and add the photos to flickr.