ATP Festival brings up an old question

The development of the lineup for this year's ATP Nightmare Before Christmas festival has been exciting. I've had tickets since pretty much Day 1, knowing that it was being curated by Mike Patton and the mighty Melvins, of which I am a huge fan. By and large and somewhat predictably (in a good way), Patton has been responsible for picking the more avant-garde acts and the Melvins have added the Punch of Punk Rock. First of all Melvins picked their buddies Isis, of which I am also a pathetically huge fan, alongside Torche (HydraHead's latest critical hit) and some others I'd never heard of. Patton waded in with his own Fantômas band, The Locust, Bohren und der Club of Gore (who I've seen supporting Isis on the Panopticon tour in '05, playing in near complete darkness), Dälek (the only hip-hop act I've ever truly enjoyed and one-time Faust collaborators) and some equally leftfield acts. Okay, I thought, this could be both the most experimental AND the most rock-oriented ATP I've ever seen, all in one festival.

Then came the additions of both Mastodon and Squarepusher at the same time, picked by the Melvs & Patton respectively. Holy fuck. It just stepped up a few notches in one go.

After that, the floodgates opened: J G Thirlwell (of Foetus), Mark Lanegan's band, a Stockhausen performance, Trevor Dunn's new band Madlove, Boss Hog (ft. Jon Spencer of Blues Explosion fame), the reformed Butthole Surfers, Rahzel and The Damned. And lots more names entirely new to me.

I only had time for a few days of over-exuberance at the inclusion of the Butthole Surfers before yet more esteemed musicians came rolling in - Lydia Lunch & Thurston Moore re-unite Teenage Jesus & The Jerks, the Meat Puppets and Joe Lally answered the Melvins' request, and Patton stunned me with his successful acquisition of the legendary Os Mutantes, who I never thought I would ever get to see.

For all the eclecticism on show here, and this can be said for most ATP festivals, there does seem to be something that ties all these artists together. For instance, I don't recall seeing anything on any ATP bill that's made me think "That shouldn't be there". Portishead, the Britsol trip-hoppers, curated the only other ATP I've been to, and they loaded the lineup with doom metal. The Mars Volta did one a few years ago that leaned towards the excesses of the Old-School Psychedelic, but they also booked ATP's first bona fide Metal band, High On Fire. After the first couple of years, you'd be forgiven for assuming it was something of a Pretentious Shoegaze-athon; even though great bands were present (Godspeed etc.), it appeared rather insular.

But the lure of recklessness could not be resisted. Tape loops now co-exist with downtuned riffs, Headbanging and Chin-stroking can be done simultaneously. The dust is settling and it appears that quite a few of these highly disparate styles can be collected together with the only common factor being Us, the Audience, the Fans - which, of course, includes Them, the Performers, the Musicians, because they are all Fans too.

What do Squarepusher and Mastodon have in common apart from my fanship and their inclusion in the lineup? Musical prowess, intensity of sound... But then we have Rahzel the beatboxer, a man whose lack of drums is as notable as Dale Crover's use of them. And then there's Joe Lally and Sergio Dias of Os Mutantes, whose music has been politically and socially effective on several levels, sharing a bill with King Buzzo, whose early lyrics were literally gibberish, and the Butthole Surfers, whose Grand Plan seemed only a ten-year blaze of hedonism and finely-wrought chaos.

I can't link them all up in any way, they come from different backgrounds and they create music from different angles. Some are straight-faced and others sly-grinned. They are all at the very least singleminded enough to be unmistakeable, and perhaps that's the common ground - individuality and authenticity. These traits extend beyond the festival itself and stretch out almost infinitely, dwarfing the numbers of those making derivative and dishonest music without flair or purpose. People seem to think I hate most music, but that just can't be true.

MadShit Weekender (September Chapter)

There have been many times I've questioned my devotion to the cause of Music and half-heartedly threatened to turn my back on it by just a few degrees, if only to be able to spend a little more time and money on other things both necessary and frivolous - replacement front tyres for my car perhaps, a new shirt, the repair of my digital camera maybe. Many people I know are at least as serious about Music as myself, most of them even more so, yet their lives seem ultimately far more multi-faceted than my own. Proportionately I'm about 80% music, with the remaining 20% shared between beer, Cinema, Indian meals and sleep.

But the irony is that it's only during the musically barren times I'm so unsure of my convictions, when by all conventional logic it should be when I've been abused, deafened and beaten into submission and poverty by Music. Like the morning I was forced to awake after five hours of hung-over sleep on a sofa in Swindon just to move my car miles away to avoid a parking ticket. Or when I fell asleep outside Elephant & Castle tube station. And it really should have been during the four-hour journey back from Wales that began at midnight, with two gigs booked for the coming day.

Last Sunday night was another of these exhausted situations. Heading back along the A404 towards Wycombe, I could have sworn I began hallucinating new kerbs in the near-blackness.


Friday 26th September

My dad's 53rd birthday. I bought him a copy of "Death Magnetic" and a jokey card. The band had been working hard to find replacement drummers for this weekend's two out of town shows and it looked like we were all set to manage it. I arrived first at The Chichester Inn (in Chichester, yes), bought a 36-film for the old camera that I was bringing back into use and headed to the pub for drinks. I was meeting my old drummer James, who moved to the town two or three years ago, and staying at his house. Well, it's actually his girlfriend's house and he doesn't live there any more... that's insignificant anyway... The band themselves were stuck in traffic for some time due to their unwavering belief in the Sat Nav system's All-Wiseness, especially its Supreme Foresight in sending them towards the M25 at 6pm on a Friday. I was drunk by the time they arrived at 8pm and we took to the stage (a.k.a the floor) about half an hour later.


All was well, except for the high volume of the microphone and the alcoholic heckler. He made some comment about my personal talentlessness that rubbed me up the wrong way. I stopped the song and confronted him, hoping to raise an Ian MacKaye-esque moral high-ground objection to his behaviour, and remind him that he doesn't have to watch if he doesn't like me, and that I didn't come all the way here to meekly ignore his dickishness - I came to play our music. However, I ended up screaming at him as he stood up to leave, hurling obscenities at my highest volume until he got ejected by the kindly Belligerence guys. Apparently he fell over outside. Normal service resumed, we played the song and afterwards I apologised to the crowd for my anger. I later found out I was very close to being ejected too, mid-set by the manager himself, until he heard my general apology and decided not to pursue the matter further.

The wonderfully-named Alternative Car Park played next, who were all hair and riffs. Most excellent. I remember James and his friends, who are not rock- or metal-inclined, remarking at how difficult it must be to play the right notes while flailing around so much. I concurred. They are the local boys down there and played like it. They use their whole space collectively, whereas my band make a line, concentrate and play very loudly while I crouch and shout at the floor and stare at the ceiling, occasionally vacating the stage for the solo sections. Watching the interaction between the members of any band, with each other, the space, and the music itself, has become something of a fascination.


The band then said their goodbyes during the first or second Belligerence track and head home with a full car. I drunkenly thank Mike, tonight's drummer, and ask him if he would do it again for us sometime in a very long-winded, semi-coherant babble. I think he said yes.

By this time James and his friends had decided to make a night of it and I'd remembered that half the kit our drummer was using tonight belonged to someone else, my friend Sam who had generously subbed us his precious Breakables in the knowledge that I would return them to him the next day in Southsea, where he needed them to play with his band Action & Action at the Punk Rock Alldayer. Well, where the fuck was his stuff? James called me to the bar where he had bought me a Southern Comfort. I decided to neck it first, look for the drums second.

For at least half an hour I was convinced I'd lost them, or at best they had been picked up by someone else and could possibly be retrieved eventually. This was not good. I couldn't see any of it. As much as I enjoyed Belligerence, my cautious headbobbing was more of an excuse to look around the room frantically without drawing too much attention to myself. Fucking shitchrist, it's not here is it?? I had no intention of spending my inevitably hungover Saturday afternoon buying the best part of a grand's worth of drum kit to give to someone who was stupid enough to trust me with their possessions for one single day. Tossballs.

As it turned out, I was being paranoid. I can't remember where I found them. In fact, I recall checking inside my car more than once, even though I knew I hadn't been near it for hours. Eventually I had managed to put everything on my back seat. The important thing is that no matter how many times I checked as the night wore on, all three bags were still there. Victory.

The rest of the evening is very sketchy. I'd been on the college campus earlier on with James and his friends, and we headed back there after it became belatedly obvious that we were the only four people left in the pub. We sat in the car for a while listening to quite bad drum 'n' bass, smoking cigarettes and drinking more beer we'd managed to find somewhere. People they knew kept coming up to us and talking. I felt like one of those dickheads that turn up to college campuses at ungodly hours and sit in their car listening to bad drum 'n' bass, smoking cigarettes and drinking. At this point, I could somewhat see the appeal.

I think we got a cab back.


Saturday 27th September

Awoke feeling dreadful and immediately aware that I lost my Neurosis hat. Bummer.

Their landing window has been smashed in. There was an amusing story to go along with that I think. Also I vaguely remembered something being written across my car bonnet in white stuff, which I then had to wipe off with my jacket sleeve. I took a picture of it, but can't remember what it said. This will be one of the many joys awaiting me when I take the film to the chemist for developing*.

We walked into town for breakfast, I remember saying something like "I don't know how many towns I've walked through carrying a sleeping bag and pillow. I must look like a fucking vagrant." There was a place called Chives Cafe in the middle of an indoor shopping parade. The breakfast was expensive but decent, and the place was full of old people. We were the only non-old-people in the entire restaurant. It dawned on me while queuing with at least five old ladies in front and behind me that I was wearing my Today Is The Day t-shirt, which has a picture of about a hundred sperm swimming towards a pentagram on the front, and "IT'S A SWEET RIDE, MAMA" on the back (I don't know what that means, but knowing Today Is The Day it's probably got something to do with rape and/or sodomy, possibly with your mother, probably involving the death of one or both of you in the process).

We split so they could go shopping and I went back to the car. Portsmouth is only twenty minutes away from Chichester and the weather was beautiful and clear all weekend. I impulsively decided to go to Hayling Island before Pompey, which is connected to the mainland by a bridge of only a few hundred feet. It's an entirely normal south coast small town except for the beach, which is large and full of pebbles and stones, and has a small amusement park and arcade as well as a cafe. There was the same palpable air of decline that can be felt at any faded British seaside town, perhaps more so considering how close the city of Portsmouth is to it. Still though, there was an old rollercoaster that looked abandoned at first, but I got closer to discover it was very much active and even boasted a small, tight loop and a steep, if short, main drop. Of course, hangover or no, I'd have to be a Serious Cunt not to go on such a dubiously constructed and potentially fatal ride. It was £2 and after a glowing review by some local kids, I went on it and got away clean, but mark my words: someone will be killed one day on that thing.

At The Fawcett Inn, the gig was yet to get under way when I arrived. L Morgan was there and Fij wasn't yet. There were a few people hanging around that looked like either faux-hippies, mid-life crisis PsyTrancers, or just plain cokeheads. When three men enter a toilet cubicle, there is left little room for doubt. One of them even had a two-year-old daughter playing in the garden outside.

The venue is very cool although it was never meant for live music when it was designed (probably 100 years ago). The band plays in the right hand corner facing towards the back door, the audience either crowd in that direction or are bottlenecked along the bar that's built into the middle of the pub. The mass of bodies can at least muffle the sound for the sake of the people at the other side, but that's probably the only redeeming feature of the set-up. The day starts with L herself, it is her birthday and she does a couple of duets with Kelly Kemp, who takes over the semi-acoustic and plays next. Crackhead #1 makes his presence felt by pulling out some stupid Tai-Che dancing bullshit directly in front of the mic stand, asking questions only an inane crackhead such as himself would ask and heckling unintelligible shite for far more than an hour. L eventually escorts him away. What Southsea Scummers keep giving this fucker booze??

There are three acoustic acts, not particularly Punk Rock in sound but certainly in spirit. Then bands take over. We are treated to You, Me and The Atom Bomb, Apologies I Have None (whose guitar got stolen by Anonymous Crackhead Presumably #2), and the very excellent Attack! Vipers! (in anything but that order).

The real reason I went is of course the music, but some of it happened to be played by friends of mine. Action & Action came down and were billed quite late in the day.

Beat The Red Light were supposed to be playing before Attack! Vipers! but they got delayed by yet more absurd suicidal M25 drivers causing a pile-up. At the very beginning of A!V!'s set, their vans finally arrived and Pook, their singer and trombone player, walked in. It was immediately apparent that he was shitfaced, and he explains this away as a result of boredom while waiting in the traffic jam. They had decided to have "a reggae party" in the middle of the jam, during which he got out and starting bumping and grinding against people's cars.

Pook's general high spirits can be held responsible for much of the crowd-surfing during Attack! Vipers!'s vicious hardcore punk set. Guitar pedals were uplugged, much sweatiness was had, beers were Fallen, and great joy was felt by all. Sam Barry, Fij, and the band's vocalist were all lifted, as were a few more folks.

Beat The Red Light are now an eight-piece band including four trumpet and trombone players, and two excellent guitar players. They play a surprisingly coherent (considering) mixture of thrash metal, hardcore and ska punk with all the force of eight men including what I call the "Offensive Brass Section" - this is basically Pook, Bill and Rob running into the crowd while playing their parts, often ending up somewhere unlikely like on the bar or in the garden or something. I'm never sure. There's too many of them to look at anyway, and they played brilliantly.

The night wore on and I found the strength to drink again, mainly as a result of a random bout of record shopping in SoundZ (Rush - 'Hemispheres', Simon & Garfunkel - 'Wednesday Morning 3am', Iron Maiden - 'Powerslave', Van Morrison - 'Veedon Fleece' and The Cure - 'Faith'. All very good.).

We were then treated to OK Pilot and Action & Action, who intensified their performance to match those of the other bands. A&A's music is less full-bore than most of the stuff we heard throughout the day although it has its frenetic moments. Everything went up a notch for them and the "It's a fiasco!" moment (see 'Reflective Clothing') was one of the loudest. We had been joined by another dancing random by this point - a very short man with glasses whose signature move seemed to be 'hunch over and rock up and down at odds with the rhythm of the song'. This disappointed me because up until then, I thought I had invented that one.



There was some savagery after this with Crazy Arm and Gramercy Riffs, and from that point my memory is muddled. Mike 1, Henry, Gemma and SamStock had arrived earlier and seemed very serious about the idea of a late-night drunken curryhouse visit. Southsea is home to the very excellent Bombay Express and it seats until way past Chucking Out Time at the pubs. The kicker is that it's also BYOB. Armed with Many Liquors, we sat the fourteen of us down and gorged. At one point, the waiter had to ask us to stop banging the tables in unison (apparently by theatening us with another party's bill on top of our own), and I also politely confronted the staff asking why the Jalfrazi and the "Chicken Zelfarji" on two different menus are actually the same thing, thinking it was some kind of Foul Play. I can now understand neither their decision to do this, nor my own decision to object to them doing this. The food was wonderful as usual, my only regret being that I had no space left inside to help SamStock's friend (who was considerably hammered) finish his meal. It looked awesome and I wanted it, in fact I still want it. I can imagine myself eventually reminiscing about it all misty-eyed, forever wondering what became of The Uneaten Portsmouth Curry**.

Culinary romanticism aside, I think we staggered back to meet Fij outside the lock-in at the Fawcett and went back to his. I vaguely remember dropping a can of Cobra and kicking it across the road thinking that was an awesome thing to do. What a dick. I fell asleep on the floor and apparently people tried to watch Commando for a while. I doubt anybody got to the end.


Sunday 28th September

The day was beautiful again but I felt awful when I left at 9.30am. After swearing at myself and others (I am not a morning person), I took off to Henley to pick up today's drummer for the show at the Purple Turtle in Camden Town. He had first heard us a week before and rehearsed with us only once. I met him a couple of years ago in a motor home out the back of the bass player from RBAP's house, attending a rehearsal for their new band Fist For A Beard (which I was, and still am, due to join), and was impressed. We had only the afternoon when I got back from Portsmouth to cram another practise in, so from midday to three we returned to Chiltern Studios and bashed out a couple of successful half-hour sets. I said, "Even though that went really well, I still wish I was in bed."

After discussing with Sam W (from Stone Baby and more) the relative merits of the current Dillinger Escape Plan drummer versus the original one, the new Metallica record, how Jon Theodore was great but Thomas Pridgen is insane, Meshuggah riffs etc., we set off for London. I played Sam the latest Psyche Out EP as we came down the Westway and arrived early in Camden where as it turns out I'm boring enough to be made happy by free parking. (It's down Bayham Road behind the Koko, parallel to Camden High Street up to the tube station and free after 6pm Monday to Saturday, all day Sundays and Bank Holidays. Never tell me I don't help people out). We waited outside with the window cleaner. Rock 'n' Roll sure is glamorous.

The venue itself was excellent, with the highest stage we have yet been allowed to grace. The bass bins sat directly underneath stage front, vibrating the feet. There was a small upstairs area with sofas and a booth some feet away from the balcony with a pole in the middle. Reproduction B-Movie posters adorned most of the far wall, alongside three very average paintings of Johnny Cash giving the middle finger, Mick Jagger, and some anonymous burlesque dancer between them. We immediately set to work insulting each other as usual, and as the rest of the bands filed in we went to eat. When we returned, Sam W soundly beat us all at Table Football, gloating as he did so, the bastard.

It originally looked like we had been shoehorned onto a Cock Rock bill, but mercifully this was not the case. Red Thirteen were a decent rock/grunge/stoner act with a superlative, even tasteful virtuoso guitarist, and Men & Gods looked the epitome of Pomp & Posture before their Rock 'n' Roll Righteousness became apparent. The frontman mastered some classic moves and looked like he was born with Russell Brand's hair and a Telecaster strapped to him. They closed with a sumptuous cover of Bowie's 'Life on Mars', although unfortunately most of the clientele looked like they'd have found more emotional resonance in 'Girls Girls Girls'.

At some point we wandered north towards the Lock Market and had a beer (although I opted out for the sake of my sanity), where we were faced with the tricky social dilemma of whether it's okay to think somebody in a wheelchair is fucking annoying when they insist on singing at the top of their voice for half an hour on a very crowded rooftop terrace.

We got onstage late and played well - Sam W stepped up his game and hit with force and I somehow managed to squeeze one last half hour set out of my throat. Stu's amp continued to explode into Merzbow-esque noise at will, but this was dealt with fairly well. During the solo section in 'Wisdom Received' I sat on the stairs that descended the edge of the stage and watched Stu and Big Dave trade off against each other, hidden from the audience by a PA stack. It was a perfect climax to the weekend, and I thought "I could do this a million fucking times and never get sick of it."


Which brings me neatly back to the beginning of this entry. I could hardly breathe, was soaked in sweat, hung over and clad in the same underwear as three days before, and it was at that exact point that all the effort became worth it. Music beat me again - we share something of a sadomasochistic relationship.


Post script:

*Here is what was written on my car. I still don't know who was responsible.


**I later found out The Uneaten Portsmouth Curry was doggy-bagged by Sam Luck and enjoyed later.

Also, the live photos were taken by Thom the Photographer who was generous enough to grace us with his company and regail us with Fresher's week tales of alcohol and sexual deviancy. Two other punters supposedly attended the Purple Turtle and gave my band's name on the door, which led to this brief but exemplary exchange between myself and the lovely barmaid/money-taker:

Me (looking at the tally sheet): Is that two people down there or is that, like, some punctuation marks?
Lovely barmaid: That's two people
Me: Two people came to see us?
Lovely barmaid: Yeah
(Long pause)
Me: Who the fucking hell was that??
Lovely barmaid: Er... I don't know


P.S. God bless you if you got all the way to the end of this shit.