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
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