A second weekend at All Tomorrow's Parties then, already. This time, I got picked up in Rufus' car: Dean, Carolyn & Petra were already inside. We drove to Camber and into Pontins, Petra went off to find David, and the rest of us (sharing the same chalet) went to the main building to sort out our keys and wristbands. Lightning Bolt were due downstairs very soon after we arrived, so rather than get into the chalet we four went to find the band, meeting Patra, David and Rita in the second room. One thing that everyone knows about Lightning Bolt is that they don't play on stages, and this afternoon their gear was in the middle of the floor, facing the actual stage. The amps were already buzzing loudly, creating anticipation in most of us, bar Dean & Rufus, who wanted to sit down and rest (probably to continue recovering from the heavy party at Caroline's we'd been to the night before). Lightning Bolt were never likely to soothe anyone's hangovers, so the rest of us just gave ourselves up to the inevitable. The two guys plugged in and played to a very small early crowd, with the houselights on, which meant I got the closest view of them I'd seen yet (being a veteran of several Lightning Bolt gigs at ATP before, often with seething moshpits). I'd promised Dean & Rufus overdriven bass and drums, and this is what they got, but (even taking into account some early technical difficulties) it was mostly a relaxed set, with a few bars from Third Stone From The Sun played at one point. Though when they were loud they were very very loud... Got Jonathan Caouette's camera in my face again, and kept having to accomodate another camera-operator standing next to me: we could also see J Mascis observing from behind the amps. Afterwards, I found Carolyn (who'd hung back after the set begun) with my stuff, and we followed on out (passing a couple of The Chemistry Experiment on the way, who waved) to catch up with Dean & Rufus (they stuck the gig out, but it wasn't their thing) by the car to get to the chalet, ears whistling. We were still quite far from the venue this weekend, but in a far-easier to find chalet, with a better view of some trees and the entrance to the site. After a bit of unpacking, Carolyn & I headed back into the venue, bumping into Petra, David,Rita and their friend Leesey, before going upatairs to catch the latter half of The Lilys psychedelic-pop: Lightning Bolt had damaged our hearing enough for The Lilys to sound like they were playing with pillows for amps, but after a while our ears readjusted, in time for Nanny In Manhattan and the closing song, at least. We sat down for a short while with Petra's lot, before going on our way. The themes of the weekend were already being set by this point: Dean & Rufus amd Carolyn & I mostly saw bands in our seperate pairs, and the term 'psychedelic' to describe a band in shorthand would soon become overused. Downstairs for the distinctly not-psychedelic Mt Eerie/Microphones - the former being a gently pastoral band, the latter being mainman Phil Elverum's solo songs, to his very quiet guitar playing. They, and particularly he, were charming, and I inadvertantly made an audience/performer bond by stretching my arms up in a yawn, then turning them backwards before lowering them: Elverum had been watching me stretch, and copied my arm-movements after his song, like some Close Encounters/grebe-dance ritual. A short wander about and back to the downstairs bar, and Magik Markers were onstage, howlingly ragged tumbles of drums, feedbacking guitar and wailing vocals, asides and cursing, like the first time Lydia Lunch got drunk with Sonic Youth. We got upstairs in time for the closing bars of Dead Meadow's chiming psych, then went off for a refuel at the chalet. But we were soon back upstairs for the Bevis frond, who I'd been in a minority of actually looking forward to (only Carolyn, who'd been unimpressed by some lps she'd got out the library, had heard of them). It was teatime, and they only played to a smallish crowd (including, unsuprisingly, Stewart Lee), but the fellers seemed very happy and slightly-nervous to be there at all: Nick Saloman rambled amiable introductions to each song, which inclued such possible crowd-pleasers as He'd Be A Diamond (as done by Teenage Fanclub) and Lights Are Changing (ditto Mary Lou Lord), though the fairly-obvious Stoned Train Driver went down well for comedic value. During the closing Eyes In The Back Of My Head, Saloman let each band-member have a thirty-second solo: one of his guitarists took the opporunity to gurn through the opening bars of Voodoo Chile, to the amusement of the other guitarists (Saloman: "You might think he was being post-ironic. He wasn't"). Say it again: Bevis Frond - under-rated. I went off to find the others at the chalet, and we went back to the downstairs bar to buy drinks and catch the opening minutes of Mission Of Burma's solid, churning hardcore before doing what every punter and their dog had decided upon, and taking in the tuneful splendour of Broken Social Scene upstairs. A lengthy and rather-unrehearsed jam with Mascis mid-set aside, the group's varying numbers of guitarists, vocalists and horn-players were tight on every upbeat song, spreading much joy throughout the capacity-hall. Time for Teenage Fanclub then, and a properly crowd-pleasing set of popular classics, beginning with one of those Catholic Education instrumentals, then God Knows It's True and Starsign. During the mid-set of new and Grand Prix-era album tracks, I decided to give Brian Jonestown Massacre downstairs a go, having enjoyed a bunch of their songs on a sampler cd before. Though they had a mass of slowly-riffing melodic guitars, the multi-instrumental edge of some of their records was absent, and as soon as I'd recognised the amusing monkey-sideburned tambourine-player's moves as a Liam Gallagher Xerox, I returned upstairs for the less-affected sound of the rest of the Fanclub's set: The Concept, Sparky's Dream and Everything Flows, fine by me. We all went for a wander, and returned to the main stage to find a wall of Marshall stacks erected in two semi-circles (one smallish, one huge) at the front of the stage: time for Dinosaur Jr, and, to our joy, the Mascis/Murph/Barlow line-up. They wandered on, tuned up, and, fuck, were they loud! "Sorry, I couldn't hear the guitar" deadpanned Lou Barlow after an early amp-adjustment. I don't know enough music by the earlier Dinosaur to say much about what they played, but The Wagon was in their early, and Freak Scene arrived for one encore, Just Like Heaven for another. God, they were so good, again, after all this time (Reading 1991: The Year That Punk Broke, Rollercoaster tour 1992, if you wanna know). We all went down to our chalet afterwards 'cos we were all too knackered from late-night partying the evening before to do a tremendous amount back in the venue. We poured more drinks, though, and watched the four episodes of That's My Bush! that were on the ATP channel (nb: Trey Parker/Matt Stone White House comedy from 2001, really tasteless spoofing of the Bush clan). Dean was soon sparked-out on the sofa bed, and when Team America: World Police came on afterwards, I went to bed too. Although I turned in only 5 minutes before Rufus or Carolyn, I was still fast-asleep by the time they turned out the lights and went to their respective rooms.
Saturday morning and Dean and Rufus were up and about unexpectedly early, cooking their breakfast, and then off out to the arcades. Carolyn & I took the morning slower, and sat in the chalet watching the TV hit of the festival: R Kelly's Trapped In The Closet, an R&B musical soap-opera, with tortuously ridiculous and juvenile plotting, all dialogue overdubbed in the R&B style by the R himself. Odd to think that the one financial beneficiary of this year's ATP may turn out to be Kelly, based on the number of people who decided that, once home, they were gonna order the dvd of the show. Didn't he film himself urinating on an underage teenage girl? Here's a few hundred extra dollars, courtesy of the ATP-going hipsters! Thankfully, that scene wasn't in Trapped In The Closet... When Rufus & Dean got back, we hung about in the chalet drinking Snoop Dogg's fave tipple of Gin 'n' Juice. I'd brought pineapple juice to stay healthy, Carolyn had brought gin to drink, after Lee had given us the taste for that alcohol last week - and it only took 'til the second day for us to decide to mix the two: delicious! Rufus & Dean agreed, and supplied more of both liquids from the Londis. As a result, this Saturday became my day of drinking too much... We watched a bit more tv (Hendrix at Woodstock, then the post-Woodstock Dick Cavett Show special), until there was some live music to see. First band of the day, eventually (as Lightning Bolt, scheduled to open proceedings every afternoon, postponed their early Saturday appearance) was upstairs, and the fabulous Boredoms. Three drummers formed three points of a compass, with leader Eye at the fourth point, conducting the circle of sound, with his own screaming and noise-making over the top. No other band in the world sounds like Boredoms, super-percussion heaviness, rounds of pounding, and (yes!) the occasional disco rhythm workout. Yoshimi (we presume) added a few songs of her own, amongst the continuing demands of her drumming duties. They were a mighty start to the programme, but there was a bit of a break for us to all catch up with our friends, before we sat in on a bit of Radar Brothers downstairs. It'd been a few years since I last saw them at ATP, and I couldn't really remember much about the previous time they'd played, but when I saw them again this weekend I concluded that that must be because their gentle songs may be softly pretty, but they're fairly unmemorably performed. After a while we went upstairs for a bit of Dungen (who we'd missed at previous ATPs), but their Scandanavian folk/prog (Jethro Tull, as Dean observed of their flute-enhanced jams) was rather dull. Still, it was then time to trot back to the chalet for the second-half of the Cybermen Doctor Who story, and by this time we were definitely getting pissed, 'cos the episode seemed to whip by in a bit more of a rush than usual. Back to the venue, passing through the downstairs where the 1990's were on (being a bit arsey, we decided that as they were partly ex-Yummy Fur, they were therefore no friends of ours...) and up for the final doomy chords of Black Heart Procession. More drinks and the first handful of dislocated rock songs from the excellent Fiery Furnaces (including Crystal Clear), before going down them steps once more and getting set-up with drinks ready for The Gossip's mighty-mighty soul-disco, a post-Riot Grrl ESG for the kids. I thinks we might've refuelled with more juice back at the chalet then, 'cos we got back to the downstairs again during Joanna Newsom's exceptionally still set of harp-songs, and I was steaming drunk, so much so that all I could think about was how she'd flogged a song to a mobile phone company's adverts last year. This was winding me up, and in my addled state I thought it would be a great idea to puncture the silent reverence with a few lines of that Brank Flakes jingle: "They're tasty, tasty, very very tasty" as if everyone in the room would know exactly what I was talking about. Fortunately, I kept quiet, thereby avoiding a surefire lynching, 'cos I got the impression that the couple snogging next to me were giving me the eye (I was very drunk...) Also I unexpectedly bumped into Rachel and her girlfriend there, who I didn't have any inkling were going to be at ATP at all, so that was a treat. I then bumped into Petra, Rita, David and Leesey, but my attempts to hold a conversation were a bit stunted by booze (reassuringly, they'd been more pissed than me earlier in the evening, so the conversation was probably failing on all sides). Carolyn & I went upstairs, again catching only the last moments of the band onstage (in this case Spoon, whose classic group songwriting may concievably be edging towards Wilco areas of experimentalism, but my critical faculties had evaporated). More drink, and finally David Cross (the stand-up comedian, signed to Sub Pop, who had been billed as compering the day, but had seemingly not been booked any stage-time to do so) finally got a chance to appear and perform some routines (to a chorus of "Fuck Off"s from some belligerent cowards in the audience: when challenged, the dicks responsible hid behind their fringes and looked down), before introducing Sleater-Kinney. The trio were taught as a wire, and super-adrenelined, but as I found myself paying more attention to Carrie's impressive fringe-shaking than their jangling guitar-stomps, my attention drifted to thoughts of, well, maybe I might make a new Myspace page after all, and why do so many 'alternative' artists (nb: not Sleater-Kinney), sell their music to the advertising industry, and... before I knew is, Carolyn was shaking me awake from my standing-up sleep, waving the chalet key in front of may face, and suggesting I took myself off to our rooms. I didn't disagree, and stumbled back to the chalet, but was disconcerted to find Dean & Rufus up and about and drinking. I couldn't wuss-out and turn-in, so I poured more drinks (not just gin & juice, but now Jack & ginger) and joined their party. Carolyn made it back later, buzzing from Sleater-Kinney's set, and grabbed more drinks too, and we all stayed up with the music on, gabbling away to each other, and we ate some stuff we possibly shouldn't have, and it all got a bit silly, and I made a new face out of two apples and some bananas, and had to trip off to bed eventually, whilst the others stayed up further or went dancing...
Sunday morning brought hangovers and an inability to speak in full sentences. Tarnation was on ATP tv again, so I filled in the gaps in the film that I'd missed the previous weekend. Dean & Rufus played some air-hockey in the arcades, then made it back to the chalet for us all to catch Buckshot Boys again, which got truncated near the end in favour of R Kelly's Trapped In The Closet again, which Carolyn & I made the others sit through (I think they enjoyed it..), followed by a South Park double bill of the contentious Scientology episode and the subsequent Isaac Hayes- quits episode. Dean & Rufus chose not to experience Lightning Bolt downstairs again, but Carolyn & I went for it, and the guys played a loud, clear and fearsome set to a huge number of onlookers, in a slightly-different place on the floor than Friday's gig (variation!). We caught up with Petra's chalet crew straight after, and watched the beginning of Triangle's set there, but their motorik FM wasn't much cop (compared to Lightnin Bolt's freshly ringing in the ears set), so Carolyn got some food from the shop and we went upstairs to where Destroyer were onstage, with a set of pleasant Grandaddy/Elton John melodics. We sat through 'til the end of the set on the floor with Petra, David and Rita, then made the correct choice of opting for Big Business downstairs: probably the suprise great-group of the weekend. One poundingly fierce drummer, one seriously loud (in both aspects) bassist/vocalist, playing a crushingly intense early-Seattle sound. And when they frequently busted their gear, the very tall, very curly bass/vox dude filled-in with some proper-funny banter/whistling/bass solos/crowd walkaboutsanything. A guitarist from The Shins helped out on their final devastating track, and we were, like, Wow! We found Dean & Rufus, and all went upstairs for some of The Drones (who everyone had seen last weekend, and were raving about), and they were amiably Australian, in a desert Sonic Youth style. We went down again for a bit of Elf Power: once in the right position (facing the stage, anywhere else and all you got was bass-fuzz) their 12-string led whimsy was tuneful and charming. But we had to get some food in at the chalet, and get back downstairs, and down the front with drinks, for the long awaited ATP appearance of Electrelane. I was writing about them in the 'zine I did for ATP back in 2000, and the band seemed to feel they were a bit overdue for an appearance there themselves. In fact, this was Electrelane at the most chatty and crowd-friendly I'd ever seen them (at The Crypt and the Freebutt), enjoying themselves, interacting with the crowd, experimenting onstage (Mia Clarke, also the focal point for every man in the audince with a camera: and I say this as an observation, rather than an endorsement, of such behaviour, had particularly developed her role from static guitar player to such devices as sawing her instrument over the tops of the amps), and playing what Verity Susman admitted would be an 'oldies' heavy set (most of the early singles in amongst the most recent album tracks, and - happily for me - a final surge through Blue Straggler. Why aren't they curating? Why didn't they curate five years ago? Too British and female, would be the evident answer. Next on the same stage you gotta stick aroud for Clinic: I'd seen them several times a few years back, but not at all recently, but the wait was worth it for the evening's full surgeon's outfits, and nugget after nugget of concise organ-cushioned guitar pop, Walking With Thee and The Return Of Evil Bill included, tune upon tune. The downstairs was at total capacity for them, and got way hot, so afterwards I tracked the others down upstairs in the main hall, and we slumped by the walls for the early part of The Black Keys, who did an admirable job of sounding like a two-man Led Zeppelin, but were hamstrung by, well, sounding like Led Zep. So it was time to make the intelligent choice of going back downstairs for The New Pornographers, finding Rachel and her pal there once more (Lisa Tsk Tsk! was there too, but I didn't get a chance to say hi). The few New Pornographers songs I'd heard had been all fine, but I still wasn't quite expecting just how shiny and happy every single track (sometimes aided by the guy from Destroyer) was gonna be: so cheery, so tuneful, so life-affirming! What a group! After which, The Shins upstairs (who I'd not really connected with last time I saw them there) were a bit of a comedown: sure they payed similarly upbeat and clappy pop gems, and they had (for the first time I recall at ATP) a full audience for the greater part made up of young women, but their songs didn't win over my crew as instantly as the New Pornographers had done, and soon the chalet-mates were tiring (energy or interest-wise) and we collectively agreed to head back to our chalet, where we had a few more drinks, and Dean & Rufus at last broke out the acoustic guitars for a run through one another's songs. I could've stayed up, but I was facing an early start back to work on the first bus the next morning again (and I did make it, by the way), so eventually I turned in, leaving everyone to finish off the night at their own pace. Beauty.
The rest of the week played out with little let-up. Tuesday was Revolver time: Carolyn came over, and we went along George Street to the bar for Dean's session. He was playing with Jim this time, once again in two sets. Hayley Savage was out for a rare set of her heart-stopping acoustic songs; Rufus got up for a bit of his full-throated soul-blues; and, for a change (as Bonj was absent) Dean backed Matt on some Regular John tunes, successfully too. Kim sat down with us and Reuben; Caroline and Michael discussed her recent party with Lisa and Helen; Christa and Alice did a fine job of adding the "Whoooos" to Matt's rendition on Mexico; we chatted about ATP with Marcus; other friends turned up; Dean & Jim played sets now made up for the greater part of new, non-second album Rumiko songs (maybe for the Dean & Jim album?); the bar stayed open later than usual; drink was drunk.
On Thursday, I started this blog entry with a pint of beer at home: then Jamie texted me down to the Gritti Palace for a drink. I met him and Reuben en route, outside Reu's house, and once there we hooked up with Wookie and Kim, and sat down with Maya and her friends. Pretty much the first thing Maya asked me was if I was Dj Indie Stu (doh!). She'd remembered there was an electric cellist playing at Poor Boy's Cafe in Queens Road that evening, which jogged my memory into realising Bela Emerson was playing in town tonight, so I helped her insist we all go. We wandered up there, gaining and losing friends on the way (and passing Jonathan and his pal going in the other direction); paid Erika on the door, and fitted ourselves inside (it was busy!) what turned out to be a superb venue. We were quite late arrivals, and had missed the opening act, and Bela was onstage, creating intricate but edgy sound pictures from her electric cello, saw, and myriad loop and effects boxes. I knew of her work via Chris Cook and the Spirit Of Gravity collective, and was very pleased not only that she was playing in Hastings, but that I'd coincidentally been given the chance not to miss the gig. Kath was amongst the crwod, and Step strolled by walking his dog: he seemed pleased and suprised to briefly witness the live music - surely (literally?) right up his street. Richard got to the venue after Bela had finished, but we were all very refreshed and very happy that he made it at all. Being vibrantly drunk, I was happy to (re)introduce myself to both Erika and Bela (and other, random, people), and eventually we all headed out back down Queens Road into town, improvising chirpy couplets of song in a 60's/Christian style ("Steve Marriott/Judas Iscariot!" etc). Oh, my!

Rushed round in a panic on Friday morning, trying to get myself ready for All Tomorrow's Parties. Dragged self and bags to Hastings Station and joined Lee and Carolyn on the train. Took a while for me to relax, but by the time we were waiting for the 711 outside Rye Station on a scorching afternoon I felt much better. Down to Camber, I sorted out the wristbands, we bumped into Rufus (their chalet already settled in with beer and cake), then got ourselves sorted in our rooms (which I reckoned to be possibly the most distant chalet from the auditorium there is). Headed over and into the Downstairs stage, catching David Dondero and his death-filled yet rather twee songs of life around different cities in the States. We went Upstairs for Country Teasers, who Lee had been looking forward to, but they were too nihilistic for us to really enjoy (and not as clever as they thought they were: I was reminded of the guys holding court in Student Union bars with their 'controversial' opinions). Good mid-80's Fall sound though, opening cover of All Tomorrow's Parties itself (does some act or other always play this? I remember Violent Femmes having a go on the Chapman Brothers' Nightmare Before Christmas, and read that Lou Reed himself played it at one of the US events). Ah, they were quite funny, but had seemed to take as their primary Fall influence the opening lines of The Classical, which leads to dangers of easy misinterpretation. So we went back Dwnstairs again for Mark Pickerel, about whom I know nothing, but he did have Bruce Brand filling in on the drums for the jaunty country/power-pop sort of songs: plus the weekends' unexpected guest (very unexpected!) Wreckless Eric, coming onstage at the end for a run through of (what else?) Whole Wide World, with Pickerel taking over the drums, due to Brand's upcoming Upstairs commitments. Wreckless Eric struck me as the Melvyn Hayes of New Wave, but I was still made-up that he was there. Upstairs, and Brand was onstage again in Holly Golightly's band (ATP finally getting some Kent, well, Medway, action). I didn't really get into her set though, which was a shame, 'cos I'd been quite looking forward to it, but it just came across too mannered and dispassionate. Oh well, time for some dinner and chalet-drinks. At last, the Scilly Isles contingent (Paula, Dolby and Clare) arrived, so there was some inital socialising to get sorted. Back later, and The Scientists are on Upstairs: the bands' solid sound churning along over post-Suicide simplicity. Good enough, but we were going back Downstairs for Comets On Fire's all-out guitar/echo-loop psychedelia. They weren't quite as full-on as whenever it was I last saw them at ATP: there's more variation in sound and tempo, and pauses between songs now, but it was more than enough to twist some of our friends' mushroom-addled brains. Upstairs, Black Mountain were churning out heavy riffs of Sabbath rock, with some lightness provided by the occasional addition of some Pink Mountaintops players not otherwise in both groups. They did it for me far more than The Flesh Eaters were doing it ramalama style for a thin crowd Downstairs, so I stuck around up there, and got the drinks in in time for Mudhoney. Oh God, they're so on it still! Just an absolute fury of guitars, hair and energy; and pretty much a blast through anything you could hope to hear, including virtually all the great singles (well, I'd have liked Let It Slide, but nearly there..). And how's this for an encore: a rumble through When Tomorrow Hits, the Mark Arm throws in a Wire line "That's a Lowdown" and it's a pumelling In 'n' Out Of Grace, complete with way-extended drum solo (the world's only worthwhile drum solo, as you know). And then, just 'cos they've got a minute or two, Hate The Police. I'm not an American, but I still say Fuckin' A! Pub, then chalet, and time to crash.
Saturday morning, and we're all watching Tarnation on the ATP channel in the chalet. It's creator, Jonathan Caouette, is onsite filming an ATP documentary: we encounter him in passing several times over the weekend - hope we make the cut! Bands aren't starting for a while, so I take a trip over to the others' chalet, where Rufus, Deano, Tom, Matt and Plum are pulling themselves together from the exertions of last night's Mudhoney mosh-pit, except for Bonj, who's still out for the count. Go back, and our fantastic friends from Scilly have dragged the table out into the sunshine and prepared a load of pasta for everyone. Time to start drinking again! Off back to the Auditorium, and Downstairs we go see Imaginary Folk, a quartet playing very quiet, probably improvised, instrumentals for strings, trumpet, electronics and samples (the whole of Ain't No Sunshine got in there at some point). They found a fan in Paula at any rate. A complete contrast next, and Services: two men, some old-school synths and drum-programs, and much jumping and yelling from the singer. Punk Sparks. Their finest moment came at the very end of the set, after the music, when the excitable singer left the stage and 'the quiet one' stepped forward, put his foot on the monitors, and took a sip of tea out of a Pontins-chalet teacup. That's rock 'n' roll. We went Upstairs, and Hundred Eyes were falling completely flat: their singer's sub-Corporal Klinger, fake-sheik outfit prompting audience scorn, and distracting from their rather pedestrian rock theatrics. The band all seemed to know it too: "This is our last songs, it's called White Supremacy", oh whatever. Still, time for Ex-Models Downstairs: true inheritors of that much-abused (currently in the UK) post-punk sound: compacting the nuances into extending threshings of jagged rhythms and noise. All back to the chalet for a drink and some Doctor Who, then back along and Upstairs for Oneida. I'd been looking forward to them on the basis of many glowing CTCL/PlanB write-ups, and they didn't disappoint: drum-heavy and crushing art-rock, and that much-anticipated "LightLightLight..." (repeat for the next fifteen minutes) song as a finale. Downstairs for Blood Brothers, mewling and yelping like a newborn puppy on a hot tin roof. Their ferocious hardcore whistled through me and syringed my ears, making TV On The Radio back Upstairs a rather duller band than I expect they'd have been in another context: their widescreen reaching (in that Dave Fridmann vein) being acceptable rather than mind-blowing. So it's back Downstairs for Liars, and yet more drum-heavy action: luckily I was in the mood for rhythm, and their occasional doubling-up on two kits, along with the shapes thrown by that Angus singer guy (I didn't expect it, but he really, really is exceptionally tall - you may have heard!) were the whirl and flash. And Blood Brothers jumping back onstage for an unexpected nuclear-assault on Territorial Pissings: yes! Could've been a fine full-stop to the evening's music, but there was still Yeah Yeah Yeahs Upstairs, and, sorry though I am to bring you the news, they were a total damp squib. So many indicators in the last year (dalliances with the fashion industry, time-out to soundtrack adverts, that hugely disappointin comeback single), but yeah, they've lost it. The new songs are all plodding and lifeless, the older songs (Pin, a particularly irritating Art Star, and - the final straw for me - Miles Away) were overplayed for maximum stadium-rock, Karen O-as-icon, effect. And there was at least one extra session musician stage-left filling in gaps in the sound (gaps would have been good!) with more guitars, keyboards etc (at least, he seemed to be, but of course Yeah Yeah Yeahs are supposed to be a three-piece band so, unlike the Talent, he suffered without his own spotlight, banished to the wings. It takes a lot of the wrong effort to make a band hate them even when they're playing the songs from when they were good, but the Yeah Yeah Yeahs (despite putting on the best line-up of the weekend) pulled off that unfortunate feat. So it was down the pub way before the end, and conciliatory beer and dancing, and a trip to the Regular John/Rumiko Jr chalet before bedtime.
Lastly (for this weekend anyway) and we reached Sunday, still bearing up. The weather had finally started to turn a bit greyer, but we all did the right thing and trotted down to the beach in the morning for a stroll right along towards the estuary, cutting back inland near the end, and hiking ourselves over the dunes, back to Camber. Settled ourselves back indoors for The Big Lebowski, then everyone except Clare and I went out for swimming, strolling etc, whilst the two of us caught the genius of the Buckshot Boys Go To ATP (Slint year) comedy show. I texted Rufus a heads-up, 'cos it was so their humour, but when I went over to their chalet straight afterwards, they'd missed it, due to hungover inertia. Stuck around for the tail-end of Sun Ra's Space Is The Place movie, then got back to mine for more generous pasta meals courtesy of the Scilly mob. Today was finally a let-up from the hardcore thrills of the preceding days, and a heavily folk lined bill. We went along Downstairs for Danielle Stech-Homsy: pretty-enough music-box melodiousness, but a bit vapid really. Upstairs for Tarantula AD's instrumental soundtracking: again, it was ok but not much memorable. Bat For Lashes came on Downstairs, and were pleasant enough, despite obvious Bjork and Catpower overtones (sorry, but those influences hadn't been transcended yet). We stopped off for a quick ub drink, then were swiftly back Upstairs, where Metallic Falcons were a bit more interesting in that they reminded me very much of Cranes, so that was at least a suprising sound to hear again. Espers followed, and I think I was getting a bit out of it by then, 'cos their shoegazey-psychedelics didn't really connect. Time for time-out back in the chalet, and an attempt at finishing off some of that extra food and drink, before returning for more music. I opted for Jandek out of real curiosity, and got rigourously improvised, loose and harsh songs from the (on this occasion) three-piece. All those years of seclusion seemed to have been spent honing the main man's avant-garde ear and guitar-playing: I was absolutely riveted, finding occasional ways in to the barbed soundworld. Back Upstairs afterwards, and the folk was back in full, faint effect. I could barely hear what Vashti Bunyan and her group were performing from the back of the hall, so eventually I stopped chatting and headed stagewards, in time to hear some gorgeous chiming tune, which turned out to be the final song, a wave and they were gone. By this point, another unexpected visitor, Paul (sneaked past past-caring doorstaff at Plum's suggestion) had turned up, and everyone gave Ramblin' Jack Elliott a go Downstairs. I was restless though, and there was too much rambling, not enough song for me, but then I'm not big on trad folk anyway. So I went back Upstairs and had lengthy chats with Carolyn and Clare, until it was time for Devendra Banhart's band. I was expecting a quiet end to the day, but the group went for a joyous upbeat sound, generously dragging a punter out of the front row to sing his own song for everyone (made that feller's weekend, no doubt), at which point we decided to join our friends by the bar to the right of the stage, and experience the rest of the gig side-on. We drunk a lot, Devendra stripped off (he's a sexy whippet of a hair-bear), most of us cut the rug too, and cheered our fine weekend's adventures. We all decided to continue to spread the love outside the auditorium afterwards, cheering and applauding the punters as they filed out the building (poeple really seemed to be into that!) before we got a bit clapped-put, and headed back to the boys' chalet of music, where Deano, Bonj, Rufus and Paul passed the guitars round and played their own songs instead. Lee and Clare had both knocked it on the head already, but me, Carolyn, Dolby & Paula sat and drank and cheered them on, 'til we felt too tired to stay too, and had to eventually stumble chalet-wards ourselves.
And once again, it was first bus back to Bexhill and work for me.
Little time to rest-up back in the Old Town afterwards though, 'cos Tuesday evening quick;y brought most of us back together for Bonj's birthday celebrations at Smugglers. I headed down with Paula, Dolby and Carolyn, and Carrie and Tom followed-on as soon as they were ready. The bar itself was short-staffed and a bit short of all the necessary beers, and Simon reluctantly had to put hmself behind the bar to keep things going. A shame for him then, but otherwise it was a packed and good-natured night. We hooked-up with Crystal, and chatted to the various Regular/Rumiko boys milling around. Deano & Bonj took the stage first, with an acoustic run-through several of Dean's newest songs. Bonj stayed on, and was joined by Adam (the latter-Heaters guitarist) for a few tunes (including covers of, um, Howard Jones and Gomez!), but with the crowding it was difficult to work out who was playing what when. Adam finished the set solo though, I think, and then I was massively pleased to find The A Team were setting up. Loads more friends were arriving all the time, some of whom were totally unexpected (Reuben - who's got me a Mumm-ra 7" - a few of them made it too, Murray, Richard Hart, Christa & Paul, Heidi, Helen Driver, Helen & Caroline, Plum, Sarah Evans, Alice, Jamie, Rob, Joe & Kate, the Gorilla crew, Wookie, Chuckie, Jonny, it was that kind of night). The A Team's schtick is TV/film themes, and so the band (Rufus, Pablo, Bill, Matt Jukes) made varyingly successful stabs at Knight Rider, Mindar, Ghostbusters, Cagney & Lacey, Thundercats, Grange Hill etc: good plan! Rumiko Jr came on for what felt like a lengthy set of popular favourites - I jumped up and turned the bloody telly off halfway through, and got Simon to dim the lights, 'cos the atmosphere up 'til then had been getting too distracting. Leaving a friend or two to try their chance of pulling that evening, I headed down the front and up onto the pool table in time for a thrashing Regular John set, which struck me as containing several songs I'd not heard ever before. But also by this time I was jabber-jabbering away to Crystal, Carolyn, Reuben et al, so things gradually began to escape me. Tim, eventually in the early hours, to take our leave in the end, and get people back to out current near-Guesthouse for sleep. Soon be time for more ATP too...

I got our housemate Kirsty to come down to Revolver with us on Tuesday, for the first time, to see Dean & Jim play. We bumped into Jamie outside: she remembered him from when he used to be in Catnip, which was impressive (she recognised Bill for the same reasons when he arrived later). Lou & James were there, and I gave her the Star Wars Spudtrooper Mr Potato Head I'd picked up at work earlier: he funny. There was a few other irregular friends of ours turned up that night too: Caroline was there with her friend Becca; both Socky & Harry Holmes came along too, on a visit, so we caught up on all the latest Militant Minds news (fortunately, there was some). Christa, sitting with Helen, was being uncharacteristically quiet, but I didn't ask why: mind you, I was sitting with Carrie & Tom a lot of the evening, and didn't get much chance to talk to them either. Kim turned up with a friend or two, but I think he felt he'd got off to a bad start socailly with us, 'cos he led a bunch of our mates off to Gritti Palace fairly soon (to Mr Twangy's open-mic night, I expect). It was a rare evening in that only Dean & Jim were playing, but they still split the gig up into two lengthy sets of old and new and very new songs and a handful of the usual covers too. Marcus, with Lisa, and Rufus were holding up the rest of the Rumiko social end, and Michael made it down eventually. Rob Sample and Sarah were celebrating, I think, finishing work at Revolver, and had made face-masks (of Sarah's eyes) to distribute amongst the crowd, which got a bit MalkovichMalkovichMalkovich surreal (see photo on Dizzy Tiger Message Board) at times. Joe and Kate turned up, and I think managed to get some "Monkey!" (ie. The Basement Song) action going. Reuben, Chuckie, and many other familiar regular faces, made it along during the evening, and I think I finished up redistributing the contents of Kim et al's abandoned drinks into my & Wookie's glasses (mmm, class). The next day I was sick as a dog full of phlegm, but there you go.

Though I was fairly tired, I still went along to Brass Monkey last Friday, 'cos I had quite high hopes for the Kubicheck!/Motorettes/Regular John gig there, having read a fair bit of good press about the former in the NME this year. The evening wasn't particularly well-attended, which may have been 'cos people were saving their energies for the Bank Holiday ahead, or maybe it just wasn't much of a draw. Carrie & Tom were on their way back from London on the train, with the intention of coming along, and they'd bumped into Reuben on it, though he failed to make it along to the Monkey in the end, for a change. I was quite enjoying the djing, and was able to identify the occasional song (such as Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues by McClusky, though by the end of the evening I'd heard that particulary track 4 times, so there obviously wasn't much effort going on there), and chatting to various members of the John, along with their friend Tom, Del, Rufus etc. Regular John played a mostly fierce set quite early on, going down pretty well with the crowd (most of whom were friends anyway). Tom & Carrie and Marcus managed to make it along towards the end of the set, at least. I wasn't expecting a great deal from The Motoretts 'cos I didn't like their name, so when we got some fairly posed, sub-Maximo Park, polished-up post-punk, I wasn't massively suprised, or particularly disappointer, though their version on I'm On Fire was utterly unnecessary (compared to many superior covers: The Guana Batz and, especially, Electrelane, come to mind). But I did start getting a bit sulky (we all did) by their assuming of particular sounds and poses as an act, rather than as a genuine activity. Unfortunately, Kubicheck! were not much more impressive, definately attempting to pull similar moves in a hope of jumping on the post-Futureheads (whose album has been oout for a good couple of years now...) bandwagon. I'm not saying either group was rubbish, and at least they seemed friendly, happy and funny (Kubicheck! calling themselves "GeorDie-vision" was pretty self-aware), but the realisation that a label/locality/scene I'd read-about as being exciting/independent/DIY etc was just another bunch of styled gravy-train chasers was a massive disappointment. I had a great evening, but when I got home I deleted my Myspace page to keep myself out of the homogenously bland social club that the post-Myspace 'Indie' scene has become.
Saturday brought the grass-roots entertainment of Alfie Bernardi's birthday at Smugglers: the annual event that is Neil Young Day. When I got there, Felix was onstage, with an accurate Neil Young vocal pastiche, a bass player, and a very young lad on impromptu-drumming. During the evening I thought I'd be able to remember who played which songs, but even by the next day this memory was eluding me, though Felix certainly did My My Hey Hey (Into The Black), or whatever it's called. A few of our friends were amongst the large crowd (Reuben, Jonny Russel, Rufus, Christa, the Regular John/Gorilla crew), though they were ahead of me on drinks, the day having kicked-off during the afternoon. One or two other blokes did a song or two, and Paul Phillips made a great stab at drumming for one of them (not his usual instrument at all). Tim Hoyte turned up in time for a couple of songs (Harvest, Old), but the main portion of the evening was for the grouping of Alfie (vocals/guitars), Paul (vocals/guitars/pedal steel), Rufus (bass) and Leicester Ben (drums), thrashing out all the songs you'd know (Cinammon Girl, Cortez The Killer, Don't Cry No Tears, et al), sometimes really-focussed, sometimes suitably ragged. Caroline, Lisa, Marcus, Helen amd Deano turned up late, having been doing the 1940's dance thing in St Leonards, and in (approximate) period clothes too. Dean (in his airline pilot's uniform, which is a bit more 60's BOAC, I reckon) was able to get up onstage for a bit of Neil-action too, though even-later arrivals (Jonathan Martin, Richard Hart etc) were just too-late to play. The night really slid-away from that point, with lots more drinking, play-fighting and horseplay, photos of which are making their way all over the internet this week.
Sunday's lone musical moment came unexpectedly courtesy of recent Univeral signings Wild Designs (formerly Lazycreek) who turned out to be playing The Cutter during the afternoon, when I'd gone out for a quick pint with my ex-Council colleagues Roschenda and Carolyn. Though we only really heard the soundcheck and the start of their grunge-rock set (though the 2nd song was a cover of Eight Days A Week..), before the women moved on to The Standard, and I hung out at home ' for Crystal to arrive, before popping back to the FILO in the evening.
Bank Holiday Monday started with pissing rain, dampening the Jack In The Green procession, which me, Carrie & Barney, Kirsty & Ben, watching from our yard. Fortunately the weather cleared-up to bring another glorious day of sunshine, in time for the festivities on the West Hill. Carrie & Barney went up there, but I hung-on at home for Carolyn and Lee to get over from Brighton. By the time they arrived, it wasn't worth going up to Hastings Castle (first time I've missed that for years), 'cos there was an afternoon gig at Smugglers to attend (there was also a laudable anti-BNP gig at Heroes that same afternoon & evening, but we couldn't fit this with our timings, unfortunately: sticking mentions of it on the Dizzy Tiger sites was the best I could do). Regular John had first turn at Smugglers, and it was odd seeing them rocking-out in the bright daylight, but they really went all guns blazing at their set, which was good, 'cos Lee and Carolyn hadn't seen them play before, and had come from Brighton specifically 'cos they knew they'd get the chance to catch them at last. Everything was extra-energetic (the soloing, the feedback sections), though Pete was slightly hampered by a borrowed kit. Gorilla came next, dressed the part for 1972, as were their freinds who came in during their set, which impressed our visitors (Gorilla and their gang can't be accused of faking or irony, they really live this life 24/7). So, of course, it was Sabbath stoner-rock power-trio power all the way! The third form of rock for the afternoon (file under Punk) was courtesy of Trenchfoot UK, who may have played the "No-one likes us, we don't care" card too-early, as they did lose a fair few crowd memebers before they'd managed to start playing. It's an odd juxtaposition: belligerent punka attitude coexisting with real 'Spread The Peace' musical intentions. Their version of Gangsters has been mentioned previously, but I was stuck when they announced a song as a Sex Pistols cover, 'til they got to the chorus and I recognised it as Silly Thing (don't get that many post-Rotten Pistols covers around these days)! It was all a bit too comical this time, the afternoon pub audience not being up for the pogo-polemic, but Trenchfoot seem to thrive on audience-antipathy, so they probably had a fine old time regardless. Towards the end, we headed round the corner to Scoffers for much-needed veggie burgers and chips, and then stayed out accumulating friends, first at the Pig In Paradise, then eventually down the Basement for another messy drinking-session... There's a pattern emerging here!
A little later in the week, we briefly noted how fine life in town can be sometimes, when Carrie, Tom, Caroline & I made the short walk across the Old Town towards The Stag for Jamie's birthday, passing by Lianne Carroll in Porters, more jazz from a group in the Jenny Lind, and into bluegrass-folk in The Stag itself.
Finally, it was Other Words in Bar Blue last night, which I went along to even though my involvement has lessened now that Tara's been able to source better gear for the performers. Tim and Richard (also compering, of course) supplied some of the music (Tim fitting covers of For The Benefit Of Mr Kite, Harvest and Alabama Song between two originals, as well as backing Caragh breifly; Richard performing a couple of his songs with guitar, but also reading the lyrics to one good new song as poetry rather than singing them - they worked well that way too). A handful of regular poets and rappers took their turns too (I don't tend to know the names), to mixed effectiveness, and I was glad I made it along again this time, though I mostly sat and watched, rather than socialise (though Reuben, Wookie, Helen and Jamie all made it down). but my money ran out as the poetry came to an end, so I said my goodbyes at that point, and stepped out into the exaggerated orange of the streetlights.