So dangerously at risk of becoming the writing machine I say I am and very little else, I decided to take a couple of days off, and when Mrs Nosnibor suggested we check out day two of the Galtres festival just outside York, I jumped at the chance. There were some bands I was already familiar with and eager to see again, plus a handful of bands I had heard of but never seen. Better still, Galtres isn't a music festival with beer, but a full-blown beer and cider festival that's expanded over the years to the extent that this year it had four stages for music.
Sunday's lineup was infinitely better than Saturday's, and while I wasn't fussed about the main acts on either day (Lightning Seeds, preceded by Miles Hunt on Saturday, with Sunday's main stage featuring Dodgy followed by The Beat), the lower orders offered plenty of interest.
I vowed that this was a day off. No taking of notes for reviews, no real-time reviews via text on MySpace and Twitter, no texting friends to tell them what they were missing out on... and I managed. Old habits die hard, though.
There wasn't much interesting on band-wise for a bit, so we had a bit of a mooch and checked out the various tents and food stalls before settling down to the first band of interest, Lost From Atlas, on the main stage. During their set, it occurred to me that this is the fourth time I've seen these guys, and they just keep getting better, their sound leaner and rockier and denser. The gale-force wind didn't do them any favours, and some of the intricacies of their Battles-inspired jazz-infused post-rock math-rock got blown halfway to Northumberland, but still, they were good.
Mantra, who followed, replacing The Federals did good job, too, although I was - and remain - disappointed that the Feds had pulled out, as they had impressed me immensely when they supported The Officers a few weeks back. The next band had also pulled out, but were substituted by 98 Pages, and on this score I considered it a trade up. Despite the fact that a downpour, which lasted precisely the thirty minutes of their set, turned the stage into a paddling pool, they kicked out their low-down sleazy blues rock undeterred, and really put the power in power trio.
Next up, Glass. They were on my list of bands I was keen to investigate, and I'd actually made a deal about them beforehand to Mrs N. Apparently, they've been 'compared to Roxy Music, Wire, Editors, Magazine, The Cult, Interpol and The Cure among others' and 'deal in stark, powerful rock with surrealist lyrics and a highly theatrical live show,' representing 'the best of the classic post-punk and new-wave acts while tapping into the current vogue of dark rock (Editors, White Lies, Interpol etc).' Everything I like: what could be better? Holy crap, was I ever embarrassed: they were abysmal. Not on a technical level, but on every other level imaginable. We'd spotted them - in particular, their bassist - strutting round in a suit and shades like he was shooting a remake of Reservoir Dogs hours beforehand, and it was obvious that they thought they were the absolute business. Alas, their 'new-wave, post-punk' sound was no more than some bad pastiche of 80s AOR, complete with really, really bad posturing and displays of stadium-rock greatness that would have made the likes of Simple Minds and Big Country wince. I can't even make reasonable comparisons by suggesting they sound like Mr Mister or whoever, because they don't. They're the post-punk equivalent of Spinal Tap, without the irony, veering into the cornier end of bad early 80s goth in places (think Danse Society, only without the atmosphere or groove). Their sound is simply an amalgamation of every generic and (rightly) forgotten middling band of the 80s: Go West without the songs or the charisma (or the vests); Nik Kershaw minus the pop sensibility, etc., etc. I could even forgive that, were it not for the fact they have no idea. The drummer grins along to his click track, twirling his drumsticks like a lobotomised baton-twirler at a tickertape parade, while singer Alexander throws shapes and contorts his face from 'blowjob' to a bad take on 'blue steel' as he knocks out the same riff over the course of four or five songs. They are clearly convinced and certain of the fact that they are the epitome of cool, but are so far off the mark it's not true. Not to worry, they don't need fans: the self-love emanating from the stage was practically an orgy of onanism. Still, they gave us a ruddy good laugh.
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Moving to the second stage, we were promised rockin' riffs in the vein of Led Zep and QOTSA from We Could be Astronauts. We got that, and a whole lot more: bassist Mark was completely drunk off his noggin, and sunk a half bottle of wine in one go on stage seconds before the start of the first song. At the end of the first song, he mooned the crowd, and the japes didn't end there. Wild and entertaining rock 'n' roll antics aside - and I don't doubt that his presence was a major factor in the large crowd the band pulled - nothing should detract from the fact they delivered a full-throttle set of no-messin' rawk, delivered with swagger and panache, with 'The Catastrophist,' a paean of sorts to self-destruction and debauchery, being an undeniable standout. An absolute revelation, they stand as the highlight of the day.
That said, Tears of Ishtar, another band I had wanted to check out, gave We Could be Astronauts a close run, at least as far as I was concerned. Their brand of epic instrumental post-rock prog-metal doesn't readily compartmentalise the set into a series of 'songs,' instead segueing a succession of movements to form one colossal whole. The music ebbs and flows and builds and falls then build and builds, intricate guitar motifs driven by a thunderous bass and percussion that could shake the earth from its axis. The set culminates in a shuddering cathedral of sound, the likes of which I would never have expected from an outdoor show, especially from a middle-order band on the second stage. Yet, six rows and twenty or more feet from the stage, and with a howling gale to contend with, I find my ears are crackling in response to the sheer velocity of their megalithic sound. Awesome.
Thereafter, it's Dodgy on the main stage, who deliver a greatest hits and more se that's good clean accessible fun, albeit marred by the unremitting wind and rapidly plummeting temperature that compels us to take refuge in the beer tent for much of the remainder of the evening. No great loss: I'm not a Ska fan and can't be bothered with The Beat, or the cruddy Irish-style folk band who play after them on the second stage. All that widdly cack that gets people jigging like morons does nothing for me, but the range of real ales for sampling was outstanding. In all, a good day and a well-organised festival with a really good atmosphere, despite the difficult conditions presented by the weather.
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