Night 3

Day three: midway and Midlake. My body is holding but I feel the schlep of getting out of bed and approaching the kettle. It’s going to be a long morning. I’m excited by the prospect of a beardier woolly-jumpered crowd tonight. Less Fearne types (I don’t hate Fearne, that emotion I reserve for Miquita Oliver, who shunned me in an elevator last week).

Tonight’s more of an out with the new and in with the old type of vibe; temporary respite from the histrionics of the battling newbies. I couldn’t have asked for a more peaceful, ambient halfway-point break in this journey. Except I don’t take advantage. The mission is spiralling out of control. Death Con 4. Aka Red Stripe. Unlike cheap cat-piss pinot, Jamaica’s finest can be guzzled like lemonade, particularly when chilled, and so it is. All bets are off. I will recount what I can.

The Kissaway Trail: Postal Service-esque/Sigur Ros with added (non-David Attenborough) vocals and minus polar bear VT. The Tabernacle becomes my synagogue as the lead singer invokes the spirit of God, known to many as Death Cab mastermind extraordinaire Ben Gibbard. I see the misty fog gathering around the stage, the exhalations marked by frosty breaths of CO2. Mmmmm. The chiming bells and harmonising vocals which speak of “Doing it for your motherrrrr, doing it for your sisterrrrr, doing it for your brotherrrr” are just the right side of Arcade Fire seasonal festiveness.

Speaking of misty fog, Midlake inhabit the album sleeve of Led Zeppelin’s IV, not that they would be aware of this: they look like they appeared from those very woods where they were reared by bears, only to discover the beauty of music after making instruments out of trees. Beginning with Stairway To Heaven 2010, a man moulded to resemble Peter Jackson conjoined with John Bonham announces his presence with a Werther’s Original smile.

With enough hair for a second coming of Christ (multiplied by the presence of the abominable Magic Number’s frontman Romeo Stodart) and the spiritual sanctum of The Tabernacle reeling with dedicated fans enthralled in some sort of medieval sex ritual near the front of the stage, I am taken back to the ‘70s when bands could actually play and guitar solos weren’t purely masturbatory. This guitarist is not afraid to get the Led out, or the Floyd. A proper band. At times a little too Greensleeves/Knights of the Round Table/Flutewood Mac (unfortunately not my words), I wonder whether they realise their too late to audition as the Merry Men to Russell Crowe’s yet-to-be-seen Robin Hood. Shame. They even have a lovely Maid Marianne to join them onstage… twice. Unfortunately Monty Python’s Knights of Ni were not present for an intermissive comedy break. Following an Albatross-like closing, they return for an encore I Blame Coco could learn from.

It’s the best pop album of all time and it’s the only thing I’m listening to as I fall about my bedsit at approximately midnight: Rumours. Oh Daddy… If there’s been a fool around/ It’s got to be me. Mayday, Mayday!


Jaz x

Night 2

I awake on day two, my cornflakes are dotted with the remainders of green neon etched into my brain but I think I’m in the clear. At Q the office stereo is playing a new record by Hurts – Savage Garden meets Duran Duran. If rumour is to be believed the Noughties were the time for revisting the ‘80s. We are now in mid-’90s revival territory. I sigh relief: one less band to take note of.

The clock chimes 6 and once more I Go West (Pet Shop Boys have plagued my mind since I spotted Neil Tennant in the crowd last night). Less attracted to the bar (admittedly due to sudden consideration for this gigathon’s budget) I enter to Alex Gardner, potentially spare member of The Script and hit factory Xenomania’s freshest product. Harmless enough, he probably still has pictures of the Sugababes adorning his walls – something he evidently practices his longing puppy dog-eyed breakdowns to in his bedroom. He fails, however, to set the world alight, apart from one noticeable dancing dad’s world – manager perhaps? I Blame Coco, on the other hand, uses her youthful 19 years to her advantage. Unlike her nepotistic nemesis (if the tabloids survive the recession) Lily Allen, Coco Sumner, daughter of Gordon Matthew Sumner aka Sting, hasn’t brought her “I’m already over this” attitude. In fact Sting-Spawn is rather endearing (though she’s slightly presumptuous with the encore): she sounds like Dad, looks like a hybrid of Mischa Barton and Dad (oddly with a transplant of Liam Gallagher’s hair), and appears to have raided Dad’s wardrobe for an oversized blazer (surely has-been Alexa Chung isn’t her muse). Most of all, however, her album demonstrates promise and as Plan B enters on special guest cue (incidentally contributing nothing except the prevention of a Police reunion publicity stunt), it’s clear she loves music. But don’t expect any “every little thing she does is magic… every breath you take” romantic tosh, she’s more concerned with her “party bag”, in which she keeps all her “fun”. I wonder what goodies line the insides of celebrity kids’ birthdays these days…



Headlining is Miike Snow, a band who long to mystify. First the dodgy spelling, then the lack of band member with said name and spelling, not to mention the moose yuletide branding – easily an advert for the Absolut Icebar or Val Thorens ski resort. They take to the stage in Phantom Of The Opera-cum-Michael “Halloween” Myers inspired masks. It dawns on me, maybe mastery of disguise is today’s Alternatives Against Manufactured Pop cause, and Delphic were ingeniously hiding behind the halogen. Whatever the reason, I have fallen down Lewis Carroll’s rabbit hole (to speak of rabbits again) into a blue-drenched secret rave. The album, a stellar magical record, is stripped bare on Cult Logic to start and the production builds slowly. Climactic electronic quasi-jams following Sylvia see the crowd display their signature shapes in appreciation. Oddly, instead of rising further to Animal they layer off. Rather than being pulled into a euphoric vortex, the suction jams like Han Solo’s failed ignition of the Millennium Falcon. My mood jabs back and forth accordingly until I no longer feel rhythmically connected and my contortion-like dance moves (owed to my jewish non-athleticism) become increasingly more dyspraxic. As the ending instrumental seems to have no end in sight and nature calls, I remember that age-old adage about too much of a good thing and leave prematurely.

In other news, my mate Fearne Cotton was in sight. I say “mate” because she took my number in her BlackBerry at the Q Awards a few months ago. Don’t be afraid to call Fearne… Employ The Tea-Girl Already!

Jaz x