Features | Festivals
Electric Picnic 2006: The Boutique Music Festival
By Alan Baban | 1 October 2006
The plane is a stifling, sweat-soaked chocolate bar with wings. It looks like it’s about to melt onto the oozy asphalt tarmac -- I tread on the stickiness. Disconcerting looks quota up by three. I stuff myself into a mousy compartment. It smells of hay and talcum powder -- the unnerving, noxious vapours of impending migraine, of noisy jets and crumpled papers, of crushed sardine box leg space and a head like a cracked egg, frying in the air.
I’m awake in a Dublin “American Diner.” “Waterloo Sunset” plays over Andy’s dissertation on DJ Shadow. Andy’s a blast -- I haven’t seen him for five years, but the Warhammer eulogising cretin of my youth has metamorphosed into a gangly giant, arching eyebrows, and a booming, Indiana Jones voice; all grit and open plains, like the bastard spawn of Sam Cooke and Greece. He makes the search for camping space seem like some beleaguered quest for the holy grail. The holy grail, it turns out, is a dusty green plot of flat ground, fifteen yards away from a stone piss wall, and another twenty from a fireball-breathing metal contraption -- something or other to do with juicing smoothies. 10 Euros a pop.
Somehow, Devendra Banhart turns out more interesting than the smoothie machine. Kicking off the major main stage acts, he tells us not to be afraid of the rain, that it’s simply the aliens connecting. I regret not bringing waterproofs. A couple of hours later, I was witness to Mogwai beating Satan. Following this noise fest, five people independently asked me if I was Bloc Party’s drummer; I reminded them to come to the show tomorrow. I went to sleep, a dilapidated, bedraggled, unshaven mess, woven into a hermetical sleeping sack in the middle of the wild, the throttling calls of the early morning ravers reminding me that, yes, I was a long way from home. It thunders so much that I fear my tent to be ripped into the skies (a flight back home, maybe?). I consider booking out the Hilton. I end up refereeing a game of noughts and crosses, played out between my right and left hands. My left hand wins.
Broken Social Scene kill their set the next day, from Dave Newfield rocking out to the hypnotic bass rush of “Stars and Sons” to the band’s final rallying call, during the breakdown of “Ibi,” for the audience to join into a mass screaming session, a blindsiding cornucopia of catharsis, and they’re out, labelling Electric Picnic as the “light at the end of the tunnel of a very, very hard tour.” The crowd laps it up -- Bloc Party’s real sticksmith gives them a shout out during his band’s headlining set that night. It’s a sweet moment, and breaks the prudish, decidedly non-rock crowd banter of Kele Okereke. That said, the new song, titled “The Uniform,” is a highly energised mish mash of about four songs a la “Paranoid Android” (of course), and gives Russell Lissack a couple thousand chances to do his best Jonny Greenwood -- although the guy deserves props, he rips it on guitar, infusing the turbo-charged, hiemal sound of the Silent Alarm songs a wild, mercurial sway. The crowd laps it up.
Those who made the effort to sprint to see Yo La Tengo in the highly intimate setting of the “Foggy Notions” tent would have witnessed a band somewhat snobbishly playing out solely new material, but also a group crossbred out of the true spirit of rock and roll’s dapper dalliance with indie rawk. Kaplan throws his guitar around like he’s in a Verlainiac trance during the close of the epic, feedback quashed “Pass the Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind.” During the spontaneous segue between “Tom Courtenay” and “Little Honda,” a beguiling smile curls on James McNew’s face before the audience is floored. Baying for more, we’re treated to an unscheduled encore -- our request for “Sugarcube” honoured in ear-splitting fashion. Earlier, Tapes ‘n Tapes proved their worth, running through their album, and playing some typically catchy new tracks, something to do with icebergs -- they’re a rolling bundle of joy, and beaming, sunny expressions on stage, repeatedly thanking the packed tent for the mirthful reception before engaging us all in a mass sing-a-long of “Insistor.” Coming off a bout of prolonged touring, the band’s buoyancy is infectious, their songwriting lean and wayward, a mystery train running off the beaten road of stolid indie rock; so much more than just a buzz band.
The chill tent at midnight is not really chill. It’s sort of cold and wet, more than just a bit dark. But there’s something comforting about seeing hundreds of faces basking in the same prehistoric thump of whatever dance beats are being dropped. We returned here on the last night -- Andy kitted out in his fluorescent yellow jacket, almost always mistaken for a steward, clearing the path with the Diana Ross and Dylan vinyls he ripped, after some strained effort, from a barbed wire fence. Alex follows, taking every moment to lay down how Cut Chemist’s set, earlier that midnight, destroyed. It was definitely cool -- the part where he got down into the crowd and sampled our voices, cutting them up, and splicing them into beats displaying a far greater degree of crowd participation than the distanced presence of DJ Shadow. Nevertheless, limited edition copies of Endtroducing… were maniacally waved in the air like clubs and batons when Josh took stage on Saturday afternoon, obsessives crawling out of the pit in the deluded search for an autograph, before falling over and having their vinyls crushed beneath the monolithic grind of an army of jostling feet. Some weirdo was offering drugs to try and cop a place in the front row. You definitely don’t see this at Weezer gigs. Or Hot Chip, for that matter.
Despite a sterling performance, it took the caterwauling disco of the Rapture to inject life into the crowd of the Electric Tent, people prematurely singing along to “House of Jealous Lovers” during the incipient rush of other songs. Busting out a generous helping from the forthcoming Pieces of the People We Love, as well as a spooky rendition of “Olio,” and finally, the inevitable cock-eyed dance Armageddon of “Jealous Lovers,” the band forgets to not, like, make every song bleed into each other and sound exactly the same and their set dragged on somewhat -- but, whatever, they were definitely better than Anthony and the Johnsons. Not sure about you, but “I fell in love with a dead boy” doesn’t exactly set the late night party on fire. Neither, come to think of it, did Massive Attack or Groove Armada, who both delivered yawning theses on plebeian setlists, and a stereotypical, prosaic, bar by bar re-hash of the album cuts. The same could be said of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were it not for Karen O’s barbarous stage antics, a rampant curveball of feral histrionics in the face of Nick Zinner’s sledgehammer guitar riffs. It was an enjoyable performance, slightly marred by a minor altercation with a drunk Irishman beforehand. Trust -- we didn’t know he was being serious about “respecting his heritage” until he spat on the ground at our feet. The Irish ground, but still…
The last night was a revue of tent-hopping, stand up artists jousting with laughable boomtown bands, like Bill and Ted covering the Blues Brothers, or the rejected gangster no-line roles on The Untouchables kitted out with guitars and horns. “We are now in Boomtown,” I’m told, and our “minds are about to be blown.” Having eagerly anticipated the promised “blowing of minds” for a good twenty minutes and concluding that maybe, like a bad magic eye illusion, this was something I just wasn’t going to “get,” I promptly got lost.
And that was it, really. Electric Picnic is definitely one of the better festivals, harbouring an innocent, un-tampered atmosphere, unlike the promotions-laden fiascos of Readings, Leeds, and Glastonbury. Almost totally centred on the music, and situated on the picturesque, intermittently dry pastures of Stradbally Hall, dotted with all sorts of foodstalls and circus attractions, whether it be an African drum workshop, independent DJ stalls or Henna tents, the Picnic comes off as one gigantic funfair. Next year, I’m petitioning for the clowns.
I’m awake in a Dublin “American Diner.” “Waterloo Sunset” plays over Andy’s dissertation on DJ Shadow. Andy’s a blast -- I haven’t seen him for five years, but the Warhammer eulogising cretin of my youth has metamorphosed into a gangly giant, arching eyebrows, and a booming, Indiana Jones voice; all grit and open plains, like the bastard spawn of Sam Cooke and Greece. He makes the search for camping space seem like some beleaguered quest for the holy grail. The holy grail, it turns out, is a dusty green plot of flat ground, fifteen yards away from a stone piss wall, and another twenty from a fireball-breathing metal contraption -- something or other to do with juicing smoothies. 10 Euros a pop.
Somehow, Devendra Banhart turns out more interesting than the smoothie machine. Kicking off the major main stage acts, he tells us not to be afraid of the rain, that it’s simply the aliens connecting. I regret not bringing waterproofs. A couple of hours later, I was witness to Mogwai beating Satan. Following this noise fest, five people independently asked me if I was Bloc Party’s drummer; I reminded them to come to the show tomorrow. I went to sleep, a dilapidated, bedraggled, unshaven mess, woven into a hermetical sleeping sack in the middle of the wild, the throttling calls of the early morning ravers reminding me that, yes, I was a long way from home. It thunders so much that I fear my tent to be ripped into the skies (a flight back home, maybe?). I consider booking out the Hilton. I end up refereeing a game of noughts and crosses, played out between my right and left hands. My left hand wins.
Broken Social Scene kill their set the next day, from Dave Newfield rocking out to the hypnotic bass rush of “Stars and Sons” to the band’s final rallying call, during the breakdown of “Ibi,” for the audience to join into a mass screaming session, a blindsiding cornucopia of catharsis, and they’re out, labelling Electric Picnic as the “light at the end of the tunnel of a very, very hard tour.” The crowd laps it up -- Bloc Party’s real sticksmith gives them a shout out during his band’s headlining set that night. It’s a sweet moment, and breaks the prudish, decidedly non-rock crowd banter of Kele Okereke. That said, the new song, titled “The Uniform,” is a highly energised mish mash of about four songs a la “Paranoid Android” (of course), and gives Russell Lissack a couple thousand chances to do his best Jonny Greenwood -- although the guy deserves props, he rips it on guitar, infusing the turbo-charged, hiemal sound of the Silent Alarm songs a wild, mercurial sway. The crowd laps it up.
Those who made the effort to sprint to see Yo La Tengo in the highly intimate setting of the “Foggy Notions” tent would have witnessed a band somewhat snobbishly playing out solely new material, but also a group crossbred out of the true spirit of rock and roll’s dapper dalliance with indie rawk. Kaplan throws his guitar around like he’s in a Verlainiac trance during the close of the epic, feedback quashed “Pass the Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind.” During the spontaneous segue between “Tom Courtenay” and “Little Honda,” a beguiling smile curls on James McNew’s face before the audience is floored. Baying for more, we’re treated to an unscheduled encore -- our request for “Sugarcube” honoured in ear-splitting fashion. Earlier, Tapes ‘n Tapes proved their worth, running through their album, and playing some typically catchy new tracks, something to do with icebergs -- they’re a rolling bundle of joy, and beaming, sunny expressions on stage, repeatedly thanking the packed tent for the mirthful reception before engaging us all in a mass sing-a-long of “Insistor.” Coming off a bout of prolonged touring, the band’s buoyancy is infectious, their songwriting lean and wayward, a mystery train running off the beaten road of stolid indie rock; so much more than just a buzz band.
The chill tent at midnight is not really chill. It’s sort of cold and wet, more than just a bit dark. But there’s something comforting about seeing hundreds of faces basking in the same prehistoric thump of whatever dance beats are being dropped. We returned here on the last night -- Andy kitted out in his fluorescent yellow jacket, almost always mistaken for a steward, clearing the path with the Diana Ross and Dylan vinyls he ripped, after some strained effort, from a barbed wire fence. Alex follows, taking every moment to lay down how Cut Chemist’s set, earlier that midnight, destroyed. It was definitely cool -- the part where he got down into the crowd and sampled our voices, cutting them up, and splicing them into beats displaying a far greater degree of crowd participation than the distanced presence of DJ Shadow. Nevertheless, limited edition copies of Endtroducing… were maniacally waved in the air like clubs and batons when Josh took stage on Saturday afternoon, obsessives crawling out of the pit in the deluded search for an autograph, before falling over and having their vinyls crushed beneath the monolithic grind of an army of jostling feet. Some weirdo was offering drugs to try and cop a place in the front row. You definitely don’t see this at Weezer gigs. Or Hot Chip, for that matter.
Despite a sterling performance, it took the caterwauling disco of the Rapture to inject life into the crowd of the Electric Tent, people prematurely singing along to “House of Jealous Lovers” during the incipient rush of other songs. Busting out a generous helping from the forthcoming Pieces of the People We Love, as well as a spooky rendition of “Olio,” and finally, the inevitable cock-eyed dance Armageddon of “Jealous Lovers,” the band forgets to not, like, make every song bleed into each other and sound exactly the same and their set dragged on somewhat -- but, whatever, they were definitely better than Anthony and the Johnsons. Not sure about you, but “I fell in love with a dead boy” doesn’t exactly set the late night party on fire. Neither, come to think of it, did Massive Attack or Groove Armada, who both delivered yawning theses on plebeian setlists, and a stereotypical, prosaic, bar by bar re-hash of the album cuts. The same could be said of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were it not for Karen O’s barbarous stage antics, a rampant curveball of feral histrionics in the face of Nick Zinner’s sledgehammer guitar riffs. It was an enjoyable performance, slightly marred by a minor altercation with a drunk Irishman beforehand. Trust -- we didn’t know he was being serious about “respecting his heritage” until he spat on the ground at our feet. The Irish ground, but still…
The last night was a revue of tent-hopping, stand up artists jousting with laughable boomtown bands, like Bill and Ted covering the Blues Brothers, or the rejected gangster no-line roles on The Untouchables kitted out with guitars and horns. “We are now in Boomtown,” I’m told, and our “minds are about to be blown.” Having eagerly anticipated the promised “blowing of minds” for a good twenty minutes and concluding that maybe, like a bad magic eye illusion, this was something I just wasn’t going to “get,” I promptly got lost.
And that was it, really. Electric Picnic is definitely one of the better festivals, harbouring an innocent, un-tampered atmosphere, unlike the promotions-laden fiascos of Readings, Leeds, and Glastonbury. Almost totally centred on the music, and situated on the picturesque, intermittently dry pastures of Stradbally Hall, dotted with all sorts of foodstalls and circus attractions, whether it be an African drum workshop, independent DJ stalls or Henna tents, the Picnic comes off as one gigantic funfair. Next year, I’m petitioning for the clowns.