And so to the last day of Latitude.
Departures
Dear mrs electrofried has already gone. She has to attend a funeral tomorrow, sadly an increasingly common occurrence of late as we enter the autumn of our lives. Teenygoth and I go our separate ways, she toward the Comedy Arena and me to the BBC Radio 6 Music Stage.
James are due to play, having had to cancel last minute on Saturday evening. The tent is already rammed by the time I get there and the crowd stands some ten deep by the exits, so I content myself with yet another nicely chilled festival cider as I take in the vibe at a respectable distance.
And arrivals
This sets me up nicely for the Atomic Bomb, a tribute band featuring a stellar cast that includes members of Hot Chip, LCD Soundsystem, the Beastie Boys and Scritti Politti. They're here to recreate the music of cult Nigerian funk artiste, William Onyeabor.
With the sun beating down once again on the Obelisk Arena the Atomic Bomb get to work and they are utterly, utterly fantastic - one of the real hits of the festival. The music captures the very essence of Onyeabor's electro-funk; sadly the man himself has been missing some thirty years from the music scene since embracing the Christian faith. Shame, he would have loved this performance!
Beating the retreat
After a glorious hour's worth of the Atomic Bomb my knees ache, so I buy a tastily priced Cormac McCarthy paperwork from the on-site book stall and retreat to the camper-van for a restful afternoon in the company of a full wine-box of cheap Shiraz and an i-pad logged into Master Amazon's finest musical emporium.
It proves an expensive combination. Before long orders have been placed for seminal works by the artists that have most taken my fancy during the last three days. In addition to the electrofried bank account, a significant dent is made too in the contents of the wine-box.
Suitably refreshed it's back to the music for the last leg of the journey.
Dying embers
I arrive in time to share with Teenygoth a box of the finest chips on offer at the festival, served from a bar constructed on the remains of a VW bus before catching a brief snatch of War on Drugs. They sound rather good but the main Obelisk Arena calls.
Tame Impala are very good, their light psychedelics accompanied by a tasteful screen projection. And before you know it, it's time for the last headliner of the weekend, the Black Keys. Sadly, despite high hopes they fall short of expectations. Somehow they just seem a little bored with proceedings, so I make my way across to the BBC Radio 6 one last time for Lykke Li who I'm pleased to report puts on a far more impressive performance.
Ears ringing, Teenygoth and I link up for the long walk back to our camper-van, and that folks was Latitude 2014!
Best acts:
Mogwai
Tinariwen
The Atomic Bomb
Unexpected surprise:
A fabulous night in the Film and Music Arena curated by the White Mink electro-swing club
Flop of the weekend:
Damon Albarn, by a country mile, bringing new meaning to middle-age angst
All in all … an enormous success!
Showing posts with label Tinariwen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tinariwen. Show all posts
Wednesday, 30 July 2014
Tuesday, 29 July 2014
Latitude - the play-out groove
Dear Sheddists,
you rejoin us as the sun continues to beat down on the dusty pollen fields of Latitude.
It's Saturday morning and yours truly is to be found lurking in the Comedy Arena listening to James Acaster. I've never heard of him before and am exceedingly unlikely to hear him again. Frankly, he fails to rock the boat.
On the money
I leave the tent early and follow, Pied Piper-like, a trail of grooves emanating from the Obelisk Stage. The impressive Ibibio Sound Machine lay down some mean West African funk beneath the soaring voice of their Nigerian songstress, Eno Williams. Before long she has the gathering crowd sashaying up and down in time to the music.
She sets the bar high as the Sound Machine make way for a group of Malian troubadours swathed in flowing robes and traditional taguelmoust headscarves. I've been looking forward for some time to seeing Tinariwen perform live and they are truly a joy to behold, delivering a mesmerising set that surpasses my expectations.
I'm particularly touched by a lovely older couple dancing next to me who clearly are lost in the music. I catch them to speak at the end of the set and they kindly agree to have their photo taken. I really must stop approaching total strangers and asking them their life story!
The legendary Booker T Jones is next up and it's hard to believe he turns seventy in November. Despite the blistering heat he is immaculately tailored, barely breaking into sweat as he delivers a tight performance that puts youngsters half his age to shame.
And so the baton is passed the men in black as the Afghan Whigs hit the stage. A middle-aged and somewhat substantial lady in front of me has been waiting in eager anticipation for her hero Greg Dulli. She lets loose a loud whoop to greet his arrival and proceeds to deliver what to all intents and purposes appears to be a horizontal pole-dance using the top-rung of the crash barrier. I leave soon after as her metallic pleasurings reach the inevitable climax, possibly the most bizarre act of the entire weekend.
Up in the woods
It's time to see what's down with the kids, so I make my way leisurely up the wooded hill on the opposite side of the bridge for my annual pilgrimage to the I Arena. As ever, the drinks are warm, the tent is rammed and there's sweat dripping from every conceivable surface.
I watch in short order Ry X, Mnex and Ghostpoet, all of whom put in spirited and well-received sets. A tinny or two of restorative festival cider and it's back down the hill for the headline act of the day, Damon Albarn.
Why, oh why …
.. did I bother! His, apparently, is the only act that requires formal introduction and the sycophantic compere who announces Mr Albarn's entrance duly sets the tone for what is to follow - a series of dull, miserablist dirges accompanied by a whining out-of-tune vocal.
Having earned a fortune estimated at close to £26,000,000 from his days fronting Blur the heavily-trousered scamp now feels free to indulge his sensitive side. Spare us the middle-aged angst, sir - we much prefer Parklife.
We make a premature exit, just in the nick of time. As we reach Veronica the camper-van the skies open and we witness the most fantastic lightening storm. Sadly it fails to drown out dear Damon, who continues to give voice to his mid-life existential crisis back at the Obelisk Arena.
Cheer up, lad - £26,000,000 should buy you a shed-load of pies!!
you rejoin us as the sun continues to beat down on the dusty pollen fields of Latitude.
It's Saturday morning and yours truly is to be found lurking in the Comedy Arena listening to James Acaster. I've never heard of him before and am exceedingly unlikely to hear him again. Frankly, he fails to rock the boat.
On the money
I leave the tent early and follow, Pied Piper-like, a trail of grooves emanating from the Obelisk Stage. The impressive Ibibio Sound Machine lay down some mean West African funk beneath the soaring voice of their Nigerian songstress, Eno Williams. Before long she has the gathering crowd sashaying up and down in time to the music.
She sets the bar high as the Sound Machine make way for a group of Malian troubadours swathed in flowing robes and traditional taguelmoust headscarves. I've been looking forward for some time to seeing Tinariwen perform live and they are truly a joy to behold, delivering a mesmerising set that surpasses my expectations.
I'm particularly touched by a lovely older couple dancing next to me who clearly are lost in the music. I catch them to speak at the end of the set and they kindly agree to have their photo taken. I really must stop approaching total strangers and asking them their life story!
The legendary Booker T Jones is next up and it's hard to believe he turns seventy in November. Despite the blistering heat he is immaculately tailored, barely breaking into sweat as he delivers a tight performance that puts youngsters half his age to shame.
And so the baton is passed the men in black as the Afghan Whigs hit the stage. A middle-aged and somewhat substantial lady in front of me has been waiting in eager anticipation for her hero Greg Dulli. She lets loose a loud whoop to greet his arrival and proceeds to deliver what to all intents and purposes appears to be a horizontal pole-dance using the top-rung of the crash barrier. I leave soon after as her metallic pleasurings reach the inevitable climax, possibly the most bizarre act of the entire weekend.
Up in the woods
It's time to see what's down with the kids, so I make my way leisurely up the wooded hill on the opposite side of the bridge for my annual pilgrimage to the I Arena. As ever, the drinks are warm, the tent is rammed and there's sweat dripping from every conceivable surface.
I watch in short order Ry X, Mnex and Ghostpoet, all of whom put in spirited and well-received sets. A tinny or two of restorative festival cider and it's back down the hill for the headline act of the day, Damon Albarn.
Why, oh why …
.. did I bother! His, apparently, is the only act that requires formal introduction and the sycophantic compere who announces Mr Albarn's entrance duly sets the tone for what is to follow - a series of dull, miserablist dirges accompanied by a whining out-of-tune vocal.
Having earned a fortune estimated at close to £26,000,000 from his days fronting Blur the heavily-trousered scamp now feels free to indulge his sensitive side. Spare us the middle-aged angst, sir - we much prefer Parklife.
We make a premature exit, just in the nick of time. As we reach Veronica the camper-van the skies open and we witness the most fantastic lightening storm. Sadly it fails to drown out dear Damon, who continues to give voice to his mid-life existential crisis back at the Obelisk Arena.
Cheer up, lad - £26,000,000 should buy you a shed-load of pies!!
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