All Tomorrow’s Parties started as it didn’t mean to go on: with disasters. We couldn’t find a taker for our two spare tickets. Butlins apparently hadn’t informed the bus company that we were coming, so for three hours on Friday afternoon I sat in a car park as one bus after another turned up with room for about half a dozen people, while the other end of the queue was slowly eroded by the departure in taxis of people who had been waiting the least amount of time. Max couldn’t make it.
Only the last of these broke my heart.
Even once I’d arrived, and we were settled in to our chalet, things didn’t immediately improve. This is because we decided to watch The Only Ones and outside the “hit”, The Only Ones are a bland, average rock band with an incredibly annoying frontman. Who, incidentally, was the only artist all weekend expressing a hope that we were all on drugs, which was a welcome improvement on TNBC last year.
Saving the day came the Dirty Three. Opinion seems to be divided as to whether Warren Ellis was funny or “impressively dislikeable” but I liked his song intros, and the music. The music made me genuinely consider learning to play the violin, even though I’ve never played an instrument in my life. It fixed everything.
Then there was food, and then there were Devastations, who seemed terribly keen for us to know that they were Devastations. Unfortunately, I consequently can only remember who they were (Devastations!), not what they were like. They were pretty polite about it though, if earnest, so I’ll endeavour to check them out when I have a minute.
Josh Pearson rounded off Friday night. Mumbling to us at the start of the set, people shouted for the vocals to be turned up. He laughed. Ten minutes into his set, his voice filled the room. Tremendous. Towards the end, when he’d already overrun his slot, I thought it was the stage manager whispering in his ear to finish up, but apparently it was just some guy. The devil’s on the run, let’s have some fun.
And then I went to bed, because that car park had really taken it out of me.
Saturday started on the beach.
Mark and Chris talked about architects while I watched a boy and a girl be rubbish at cricket, and four nerds be equally rubbish at football. It was sunny and not too windy and generally altogether lovelier than, say, Minehead beach in December.
For some reason, they wouldn’t let us in to see Félix Lajkó. There was no queue, the doors were just closed. This was and is pretty fucking annoying, because a) Félix Lajkó was literally the only thing at ATP that I hadn’t seen before and really wanted to see and b) we had to watch Magnolia Electric Co. instead. I don’t want to be too hard on Magnolia Electric Co., because I absolutely might just have been in completely the wrong mood to appreciate them, but they definitely, totally didn’t come anywhere close to making up for missing Félix Lajkó.
After Magnolia Electric Co. we had a choice of any band we liked, so long as it was a female singer–songwriter. Which is really no choice at all. Shannon Wright won by dint of watching her not requiring us to move. And that we didn’t have to move is the nicest thing I have to say about her music.
Low’s set was, depending on where you were standing, either awesome or not. From the front, it seemed like the entire crowd fell silent for songs like (That’s How You Sing) Amazing Grace and Laser Beam, and it was beautiful. Apparently, at the back, it just seemed loud and everyone was talking. I was at the front and frankly couldn’t give a shit about the back of the room. It was awesome from where I was standing. Murderer sent a chill down my spine on a sunny day.
After Low and in the interests of not spending all weekend in the Pavilion watching the biggest bands, I watched Mick Harvey. I hadn’t heard any of his solo stuff before. He had some sweet songs and is possibly the most self–deprecating artist I’ve seen at an ATP yet.
Yann Tiersen demonstrated that sound checks sound better in French, that he has not turned into U2, and that he and his band are pretty fucking incredible. I particularly liked the bits with the power drill and the accordion.
Neither The Drones nor Nina Nastasia could demonstrate anything other than that I don’t really like The Drones or Nina Nastasia.
After Nina was done, I met up with Ste and James and James and Gill, who seems sweet once you get past the skanking. We listened to Einstürzende Neubauten for a bit which was, y’know, okay, and then spent the night drinking and wandering until I was called away with a server emergency. It is loads and loads of fun trying to read account numbers and passwords at 4am when you’re drunk and have only a mobile phone web browser.
Sunday started, sensibly, with a lie–in. Followed by A Silver Mt. Zion tuning up, of which more later. And then Papa M, which was beautiful and another fine example of what a largely respectful and lovely crowd had come to ATP this time. People were quiet for quiet bands. I think I used a lot of words like “nice” and “pleasant” after David Pajo’s performance, which maybe sounded like faint praise. But it’s not and those words are appropriate.
Rather than anything more adventurous, I watched the Dirty Three’s second performance. They were good but I’m not sure anyone is good enough to astonish twice in one weekend. A Silver Mt. Zion’s set was scheduled for a two hour slot, so after getting a few photos in the first ten minutes I headed for the back to sit down. In December, there was basically nowhere to sit in any of the venues, except the raised areas at the back of Centre Stage, unless you wanted to sit on a carpet soaked with sticky, congealed beer. This was something Camber Sands did much better. The new arrangement in the Pavilion has plenty of beer–free carpet to sit on though. And brilliantly, if you sit at the back you can awkwardly divert a queue full of Joanna Newsom fans in interesting directions, because they’re all too polite to suggest you move. That the only queue all weekend was made of Joanna Newsom fans is the funniest thing.
I didn’t watch Joanna Newsom, obv. I mean, jesus. Even if there had been no queue.
Anyway, I went to get something to eat after another an hour or so, intending to head back to catch the end of A Silver Mt. Zion’s set, only to find they’d finished after an hour and a half. Somehow I preferred their performance when they were tuning up anyway. There was something a little magical about it, with only a couple of dozen people milling around and wondering if they’d stumbled on a surprise Lightning Bolt–style gig. While waiting for Cat Power, I met Merideth. And by “met” I mean “was kicked by”.
Merideth was the best thing.
Cat Power was louder and happier and more together than I’ve seen her in the past. Nick Cave and Grinderman weren’t quite a finale but had they been, they would have been fitting. A sweet Scandinavian girl dealt with people pushing in while Cave sang Red Right Hand and Tupelo and apparently rather too many of his softer ballads and also too many songs that he’d already played in his first set. But that was okay because I hadn’t seen that and, look, I quite like The Ship Song. Grinderman were immense, Go Tell The Women narrowly edging out No Pussy Blues as my favourite song, and we fought the small but disruptive mosh pit.
And that was almost it. We drank and wandered a bit more with Ste and Lisa and James and James and Gill, and talked about pork gelatin and artificial sweeteners and gin and sugar and a plan for arousing your neighbours, and listened to JC Chasez and Avril and Guns n’ Roses.
We caught a bit of Tren Brothers. They were dull. We caught a bit of Secretary. She was good when she was making typewriter music. We left when she started with the saxophone.
Thanks to Chris’s foresight in booking places on the bus, the journey home was faster and easier than the journey there. I kept falling asleep and nearly missed Birmingham, but not quite. If you were there too, I was (and am) the spiky–haired nerd with the unwieldy camera. I took some photographs with it: photographs of ATP Weekend One on flickr.
And that really was Weekend One. We’ll be back for Weekend Two. See you!
