29/05/2008
‘Twas that time of year in the middle of May for some Great Escapism. Over 200 performers graced more than 30 musical lairs in Brighton, all set against the backdrop of the Kooksian seaside. Londoners left the forts of Camden and Shoreditch to join their sexually adventurous cousins in Brighton for the poor man’s Benicassim: The Great Escape Festival. A chance to scavenge through the rubbish and pebbles for hidden treasures that, come next year, will be smothered by pages of music magazines and violated by Mark Ronson. Missing the headliners (Vampire Weekend, The Tings Tings, Late of the Pier) because you’re too smashed or sick of queuing - and settling instead for some unknowns in a cubby hole, may have just been the ticket to future smugness. That magical self-satisfying phrase: “I saw them before they were big.”
Thursday 15th
Beer in left hand, pen in right, I was led directly to the Ocean Rooms where I enter a hazy atmosphere, complete with coloured lighting and psychedelic scenery. Almost like an extension of the venue are Post War Years, with their ambient and synth sounds, simultaneously soothing and rave-inducing. The four young lads shuffle elegantly and awkwardly to some complex syncopated rhythms as if performing a choreographed epileptic fit. They’re so enthusiastic and energetic that they appear to have more fun than the crowd; surprising considering that their music is such a seamless mix of rave, dance and Indie - lacking the pretentious distorted-electro elements that so many possess. An instrumental swap-o-rama takes place throughout the gig with all members, bar the visually entrancing Animalesque drummer, showing how amazingly multitalented they are.
Next I head down to see The Futureheads at Digital, which boasts the best soundsystem in the country but still hasn’t mastered the art of air-conditioning (lead singer Barry Hyde would later announce:“I think this is the hottest gig we’ve ever done”). I enter to the crowd trembler of ‘Decent Days and Nights’, a fierce opening that harks back to a time of originality; when bands weren’t just replicas of the Arctic Monkeys and skinny jeans the uniform of the Indie masses. There’s a constant dialogue of friendly banter that tenderly narrates the anthems ‘Hounds of Love’ and 'Skip to the End’; ewer singles ‘The Beginning of the Twist’ and‘Radio Heart’ thrown into the mix. The band succeed in nostalgic value only.
Stumbling across the seafront I head to Barfly, to catch much-hyped pop-duo TheTing Tings. I’m met by a ridiculously long queue akin to Thorpe Park on a boiling-hot bank holiday. After a delayed start due to technical difficulties (sound problems remained throughout) the band kick-off with ‘Great DJ’, ending the set with number 1 single, ‘’That’s Not My Name’; the rest of the set a stodgy filling of forgettable and irritating songs.
Friday 16th
As I wander around the seaside town, with its fish and chip shops and arcades, I wonder where all the chavs have gone. I needn’t have worried, as I soon discover they’re all at Concorde 2 waiting to see The Wombats. The band’s introduced as  a “goofy-arse three-piece” by We Are Scientists frontman Keith Murray, who earlier played a secret gig at an intimate outdoor BBQ. Unfortunately, all of The Wombats’ songs seem to mesh into a droney scouse dialogue of “woah woahs” with cheesy topics of romcoms, strippers and discos thrown in. Yet another boring mainstream Indie band that have had one good catchy song.
Feeling slightly short changed, I head to the Barfly. I learn a valuable lesson; there are certain things that should be seen and not heard. Children, for one, Scarlett Johansson for another, and... Ipso Facto. For a painful 20 minutes I watch four somnambulist relatives of the Addams family ‘perform’ to a bewildered crowd. An echo permeates the venue, not just due to the poor sound quality, but the jeering of the masses. The music, contrary to their sixties haircuts, is distinctly shoegaze; that genre where ultra-cool scenesters shuffle and stare lovingly into their footwear. This poses a certain dichotomy, because you cannot help but look at these four attractive girls yet you are unable to move to such stiff soulless music. They apologise for it being such a short set (thank god!) and are met with absolute silence in place of applause.
Saturday 17th
I attempt to catch Wiley who is supposed to be playing at the gayer-than-gay club Revenge. Did the promoter acknowledge the irony of putting all the grime artists in this incongruous setting? Especially when you consider that much of this style of music has been chastised in Brighton over homophobic connotations. Perhaps Wiley wanted to maintain his macho reputation because for whatever reason, he failed to show.
After the disappointing events of yesterday and today, I’m in need of a musical messiah to restore my faith. It comes in the form of the angelic Laura Marling who performs within the church-like acoustics of the Sallis Benney Theatre. A delicate young girl enters the stage who, as her intense lyrics suggests, appears to be carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. A full band including a violin and xylophone make a powerful majestic entrance, during the beginning of ‘Ghosts.’ A young Joni Mitchell belts country and folk from her fragile soul in fast-paced catchy songs, such as; ‘My Manic and I,’ recent single ‘Cross Your Fingers,’ and new song ‘Rebecca.’ Her awkwardness translates to the audience who are too embarrassed to sing along and the silence is broken only by male fans screaming, “I want your babies.” What is notably missing is her popular cockney-infused song ‘New Romantic;’ a smart move as she attempts to move away from Kate Gash comparisons. Overall Marling is a worthy saviour of a bland music scene, and it is no surprise that she is touring in churches next month.
Next I’m led to the not-so-hidden gem of Crystal Castles at Barfly. Initially I had my doubts as I thought they were an over-hyped band who sounded like white noise from a bad Super Mario soundtrack. I was wrong. You truly have to experience them live to understand the uniqueness and power of their music. The crowd is bursting at the seams and, above them, an ethereal figure is suspended (by a very unlucky and confused security guard) - shrieking with intensity - it’s their front woman Alice Glass! Despite what her name suggests, she is anything but fragile. This girl has balls, sustaining the crowd as they gently pummel her head and attempt to grab her mic. The frantic crowd is panting in the chaos, to music that is the pure expression of their anger. The grime equivalent was when Bizzle’s ‘Pow’ came out and got banned for causing too much  aggression in clubs. There is one significant difference; the Indie-electro fans aren’t violent, but unite in their aggression. The crowd join in with Glass’ frenetic behaviour, crowd-surfing alongside her as she’s repeatedly plunged back and forth. Her vocals suffer from the turmoil and are barely audible as she screeches through tracks such as ‘Air War’ and ‘Courtship Dating.’ A bruised but breathtaking finale to my quest of seeking out the gems amongst the musical rubble.
The wistful darkened eyes of the seagulls fluttered in unison to bid farewell to their fellow scavengers. My basket of gems remained light, my ears less than satisfied, but my soul had been well fed by the friendliness of the festival goers, the electrifying atmosphere, and that indescribable buzz that ran through the veins of the town they call Brighton. Overall the festival was without doubt an experience, an expedition, and a true escape from the monotony of our musically insufficient lives. Words: Martha Kinn
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