All Tomorrow's Parties 2/4

Day two began with a hangover, front and vice. We managed, with herculean effort, to lift our leaden heads off our pillows and out the door for the weekends most bizarre spectacle: Sun Ra Arkestra. An amazing array of sparkly outfits and free form calamity jazz with truely interesting results, they had to be one of the highlights of the whole weekend for me. Some impromptu break neck speed charleston-esque dancing from one of the sax players, who could easily claim a pension or two, made for a jaw dropping visual metaphor to the impressive set. Afterward we sought out two friends who had also made the epic journey down from Leeds in search of some beautiful noises; mike and teresa. We once again sought out some food from one of the nearby vendors, this this time plumping for some Finnigan's fish and chips which were revolting. Soggy batter, dry fish, shit chips and expensive... you may be wondering what happened to the pasta, so did we! It wasn't going well for our epic tubs o' carbs and the concept of eating them was dropped on this, the saturday, due to the funky odors and worringly tangy/sour tastes arising from our plastic nosh mountains. With a poor excuse for fish and chips in my belly and other food options looking increasingly insane price wise we landed upon a heavy and fateful decision. Do we go to Tescos and buy some cheap grub or stay and try and enjoy the Horrors? I voted for the faceless corporate monster that wanted to assure me that "...every little helps!" ...they do cheap sandwiches.

Poverty and hunger beget principles.
We trudged home with biscuits and joyous things, dumped them off at our temporary chalet home and headed for a little known act people were calling SONIC YOUTH!
Their set was stripped of oldies and it wasn't a live showing of a greatest hits collection but why should it be? Sonic Youth are not a past it nostalgia act (read: Rage Against The Machine), they're still a working band and their set, filled with newer material, illicited a few groans from the sections of the crowd that had turned up to be 15 again which was unfair. I thought they were faultless and put the efforts of other big hitters, My Bloody Valentine, to shame. Sonic Youth lapped up every second of their performance and squeezed out every ounce of power and passion available to them. Maximum satisfaction.

Once again we hit the burger king next door to the stage but this time holding hotdogs from another food vendor. They were still nasty but cheaper than a BK and not full fishAIDs like Finnigan's. Maz and Seymour fled to the arcades instigating the first battle of flashing LEDs and coin-ops of the weekend. After a few races and shoot outs we marched off to Lightning Bolt. Rob snuck off and suited up to become a man sized banana yet again, and could be seen floating over the assembled masses that stood by for a drilling from the mighty duo. They did not disappoint. However you expect them to sound on record, live they just blow you away. The intensity was there and so was the power ...and, surprisingly, the celebrities: Colin Greenwood of Radiohead fame, Faris from The Horrors and James from Rolo Tomassi. Exciting stuff! We all left cradling our poor mangled bodies with several new arseholes ripped out of us.

More Rob in a banana suit from youtube. Check from 2:32 to 3:15... From MBV to Lightning Bolt!



We headed for Bar Russo in search of a coffee shop chill out to discuss life, the future and everything. We decided we're all too northern to be cutting edge writers, with too little smack in our veins and not enough squats on our CV. We missed No Age, something i now regret but damn it was a good coffee.

Now cast your mind back a good few paragraphs: Fucked Up. They were on the second stage and we were off to watch. My expectations were zero, my anticipation for something shoutey and gnarled post-Lightning Bolt = high! But first, a half-funny Canadian comedian they'd brought over with them called Henry. His interlude was, thankfully, short lived but it whirled the crowd up into confrontation mode. Perfect.

They opened with Son The Father and never once let up. Mr. Damien, aka Pink Eyes begun things, smashing a can and cup into his forehead which happily stayed, plunged into his skull for the entirety of the set. They were as tight as a cliched poultry backside, ripping through their set, the stage, the security and the crowd with Pink Eyes diving into the melee and charging through the pit and up to the sound desk. I happily swirled around with everyone else, heaving everyone forward and back. Security jumped in and it almost became a mass brawl. You actually felt like you were at a gritty hardcore gig, a massively welcome surprise for ATP. No pretentious pricks, they didn't stand a chance and maybe that's why they were pulled. The sound was cut and they were ordered off stage. Classy. Best set of the entire weekend right there and i had the cuts and bruises to prove it.

Drowning in sweat, i headed back to the chalet with my comrades for a pit stop before Crazy Horse round 2. Skinnys and t-shirt off... shorts, plaid and hoodie on!

We hit Crazy Horse and so had most of the Fucked Up crowd. Mr. Damien was there, we said the usual thank yous and pleasantries and headed inside. What we found was a weedy DJ in his late 50's antagonizing the security guards on stage. It seems things had kicked up a notch and the gorillas had been placed on the edge of the DJ riser, eyeballing all like some mini martial law. All it took was something ripped from the most feeble of guardian comments pages and some childish gay jokes and they relented, giving the DJ his ego boost and us a few laughs. We soon wished he'd been dragged off kicking and screaming. Terrible excuse for DJ with nothing but cheese and Killing In The Name Of. It's ATP for christ's sake. They can do better than that! Poor, poor form.

Heading outside to free ourselves of the dreadful noises some 40-something knocked my drink over me. I, being the charitable peace loving soul i am patted him on the back and continued on my way. Smile on my face and not a care in the world. The prick spins round, stares me out and snarls something unintelligible. If ever there was a time for all the daily mail's fears to come true would be now. My imagination ran wild with a crowd of midget chavs slaughtering him with baseball bats and hockey sticks. Oh well. One can dream.

Fuck this. I'm heading home. Crazy Horse fails once again. I picked up a Relentless Berry Juiced along the way. Awesome drink. The endorsements in the post.



I wandered off somewhere after that, i think to get more drunk. My only memory is who i would put on if i curated ATP, something that is now comic gold with my friends. Who did i pick? Let's just say, my capacity for remembering hardcore and screamo bands does not diminish with my sobriety but my ability to assemble a festival line up containing anything else, besides Animal Collective, does. Oh dear...