Oh yeah, it was the start of the summer
Twitter started texting my phone last night, like it used to. You'd feel a certain responsibility composing a message that you knew was going to spam your friends; maybe this is why Twitter didn't take off in the UK until after phone notifications were stopped.
I used it at Glastonbury in 2007, in principle to broadcast my movements to other people whose movements I could in turn track, but in practice simply to amplify the experience. My phone still isn't smart, so the revived SMSes came one day too late for me to have the same experience at Truck this weekend just gone. That didn't stop me using it as a write-only medium, though:
Saturday
The Scholars: look like Joy Division in their school ties; sound like Editors. Well, I like them.
From Light to Sound: more shoegaze than mathrock. Three guitars = almost enough.
Dear Reader: not as twee as the singer's voice suggests.
Disasteradio: one chap and his chiptunes. First act to provoke dancing!
Mr ShaoDow: taut rap with a sense of humour. Would go down well in schools.
Jeremy Warmsley: British Standard anti-folk.
A Place to Bury Strangers: Wall of Sound! Like the Jesus and Mary Chain, only twice as ferocious (and half as melodic).
Errors: Mogwai.
Ash: hit after hit after... the same hit, to be honest. Bless.
Sunday
Alphabet Backwards: innocent jangle pop. 'Can we save the polar bears?' But this sound deserves sunshine.
Telegraphs: crisp, martial, with a bouquet of mathrock; exhilarating.
The Epstein: lowkey country without irony; the Broken Family Band without sarcasm.
The Long Insiders: noir. Making the most of the main stage instead of a dive bar.
Sportsday Megaphone: a young man appears to be playing guitar through a synthesizer. Earnest songs made bleepy.
The Joy Formidable: white noise and a female singer. They can't fail and they don't.
Pulled Apart By Horses: 'melodic hard rock' specifies my companion. I suppose metal can't be this crunchy.
Chew Lips: the singer looks like Annie Lennox, sounds like Karen O, and she's just got a high score.
The Original Rabbit Foot Spasm Band: they call themselves 'chav jazz' but to me it's a pretty classy sound.
YACHT: black and white costumes, repetition, stylized dance moves. In the words of Björk, fuck dance, let's art.
I'd been describing Truck to anyone who asked as an indie retreat with a sideshow of singer-songwriters. This year, though, I shunned the folk tent entirely in favour of the ungainly bleeps of Disasteradio and Sportsday Megaphone and the white noise of A Place to Bury Strangers and The Joy Formidable; and if those all sound ordinary to you, the YACHT art-rock experience might be just the thing. Thanks to sillage, invisiblechoir, juggzy and crouchinglynx for looking after me!
I used it at Glastonbury in 2007, in principle to broadcast my movements to other people whose movements I could in turn track, but in practice simply to amplify the experience. My phone still isn't smart, so the revived SMSes came one day too late for me to have the same experience at Truck this weekend just gone. That didn't stop me using it as a write-only medium, though:
Saturday
The Scholars: look like Joy Division in their school ties; sound like Editors. Well, I like them.
From Light to Sound: more shoegaze than mathrock. Three guitars = almost enough.
Dear Reader: not as twee as the singer's voice suggests.
Disasteradio: one chap and his chiptunes. First act to provoke dancing!
Mr ShaoDow: taut rap with a sense of humour. Would go down well in schools.
Jeremy Warmsley: British Standard anti-folk.
A Place to Bury Strangers: Wall of Sound! Like the Jesus and Mary Chain, only twice as ferocious (and half as melodic).
Errors: Mogwai.
Ash: hit after hit after... the same hit, to be honest. Bless.
Sunday
Alphabet Backwards: innocent jangle pop. 'Can we save the polar bears?' But this sound deserves sunshine.
Telegraphs: crisp, martial, with a bouquet of mathrock; exhilarating.
The Epstein: lowkey country without irony; the Broken Family Band without sarcasm.
The Long Insiders: noir. Making the most of the main stage instead of a dive bar.
Sportsday Megaphone: a young man appears to be playing guitar through a synthesizer. Earnest songs made bleepy.
The Joy Formidable: white noise and a female singer. They can't fail and they don't.
Pulled Apart By Horses: 'melodic hard rock' specifies my companion. I suppose metal can't be this crunchy.
Chew Lips: the singer looks like Annie Lennox, sounds like Karen O, and she's just got a high score.
The Original Rabbit Foot Spasm Band: they call themselves 'chav jazz' but to me it's a pretty classy sound.
YACHT: black and white costumes, repetition, stylized dance moves. In the words of Björk, fuck dance, let's art.
I'd been describing Truck to anyone who asked as an indie retreat with a sideshow of singer-songwriters. This year, though, I shunned the folk tent entirely in favour of the ungainly bleeps of Disasteradio and Sportsday Megaphone and the white noise of A Place to Bury Strangers and The Joy Formidable; and if those all sound ordinary to you, the YACHT art-rock experience might be just the thing. Thanks to sillage, invisiblechoir, juggzy and crouchinglynx for looking after me!