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It didn't even matter that she just couldn't remember the lyrics to Sawdust And Diamonds. Seriously
Joanna, when we woke up on Sunday morning we couldn't remember our friggin' name, so of
course you can be forgiven for misplacing some of the words to a 20-minute fairytale,
recounted while playing an instrument with more strings than a Tom Cruise pre-nup.
How do you follow a set like Joanna? Fields? Nah. Feeling the folk it was all about heading
to the Uncut Arena for Sam Isaac. It's happy-go-lucky, it's anthemic, uplifting and just
about right for the early afternoon. Spellbinding, inspiring and otherwordly it wasn't, but hey,
there's only one harpist in town today, right?
It was pretty hard to fathom why someone bothered to fly Satin Peaches from Detroit. Cod
indie in the mould of early Placebo duetting with The Feeling seems a hard sell, but
someone somewhere is picking up the tab (which includes time with Oasis producer Dave Sardy).
Those who recall drinking flat beer in empty student unions during a campus battle of the bands
would have identified immediately with this scene.
Thank the maker, then, for Jeremy Warmsley. Lose My Cool's processed beats and strong
melodies evoke memories of the best of Weezer and The Shins and, on the strength of
the new material displayed this afternoon, you get the impression things will start to happen pretty
soon for Warmsley.
These New Puritans still aren't tailoring their schtick for nobody. Bravely opening with
Navigate Navigate, their avant-garde and less-than accessible soundtrack to a Hedi Slimane fashion
show, they performed adventurously, but their spiky dystopian constructions didn't really fall on
interested ears.
Musically, the post-punkers were tight as ever, moving away a little from their guitar-led
album sound towards a harsher, more abrasive percussive and electronic dynamic, but frontman Jack
Barnett needs a few more hairs on his chest to carry off the Fall-esque declamations of the lyric
sheet: he still comes across as a stroppy teenager, lacking the authority to win over a sceptical
and sober early afternoon crowd.
Who probably should have gone to see Noah And The Whale instead. Their string section and horns
brought to mind My Latest Novel and Arcade Fire fused with country and rockabilly, and
was just perfect for keeping the mood upbeat as the songs drifted around the warm afternoon
air.
On a day dominated by black clad vampires from the east, Nada Surf brought a little west coast
cheer to proceedings. Their set belied their 16 trouble-filled years in the business, powering
through the chugging rhythms of Happy Kid and Always Love with a joie-de-vivre which should have been
sucked out of them years ago by record company mismanagement and unfairly poor sales.
Judging by the glazed look, sunburn skin pigmentation, vague mutterings about getting no sleep and
having just had a fist fight with John Lydon, not to mention the at-odds set, Foals need a
week off.
This was not the lucid, free-flowing band we've come to know; this was five young men battering and
shouting their way through their slot on the main stage. Red Socks Pugie is smashed out at 100 mph;
Cassius lacks its normal punch; Balloons spews out awkwardly. To their credit, they manage to mingle
between their thrashing to flicky, intricate jams but throughout they look ready to collapse in a
heap and probably do so once they depart.
Continued...
Latitude 2008:
Day 1 |
Day 2
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