2010’s Lounge On The Farm festival took place on a weekend so hot that I was forced to wear a vest in public. This is not something I make a habit of, and is, in fact, not something I’ve ever done before. No one needs to see what I have to offer. This is one gun show that can go unknown and unappreciated. Yet there I was, stumbling around like a strategically covered piece of raw chicken, albeit a piece of raw chicken that was managing to both sweat and complain. Couple this with the fact that I was covered head to toe in Factor 50, and thus had the texture of a condom, and you’ve got quite a disarming mental image. In addition to the searing heat, there was apparently some music on offer, but it would be remiss of me to not make mention of the general feel of the festival first. Of course, I wouldn’t be reviewing the venue were I seeing Diana Vickers play at the Koko, but festivals these days, as we are so often told, are about more than just the music. And so…
Lounge On The Farm takes place on a farm just outside the city of Canterbury, and is decorated to loosely resemble, yes, a lounge, in as much as there seem to be a lot of sofas around the site. It is run by the same people that opened the highly successful Farmhouse restaurant/venue in the town a couple of years ago. It’s remit, like the venue, is one that emphasises the boutique nature of itself, trumpeting the locally sourced food and entertainment as a calling card of sorts. As is the custom for these sorts of festivals these days, there is comedy, performance spaces, arty bits, and a bloody creche. In fact, the new, huge Farm Folk field, provides ample space for families, seemingly designed to safely remove them from the dilated pupils of the masses. This is an obvious contradiction at the heart of the festival, and one that is apparent over the course of it’s three days. Given the lack of outlets for an alternative culture in Kent, something as relatively high profile as Lounge attracts pretty much every person in the county interested in such things. As a result, the clientele is made up of a bizzare mix of psuedo hippy and psuedo hipster families, local sportswear scallywags and apparently most of the students from the three uni’s in town. Were this Glastonbury of Reading, such a mix would be par for the course, but at a festival of comparable size and stature to Truck or Indietracks, it’s unexpected at most.
That was all apropos of nothing really. Important stuff now; the food. My reviews are as follows:
Noodles – Lukewarm, but still tasty. Fresh ginger a welcome presence.
Paella – Undercooked. Not enough chorizo. Back of the class.
Halloumi and Bacon Bap – A middle class cheeseburger, and therefore obviously brilliant.
Hopefully that provides ample illumination of the general festival character. And now the music.
Friday:
First up is the majestic Cats and Cats and Cats. In a show of spite, defiance, or perhaps just sheer masochism, they wear shirts, waistcoasts and woolly hats. They somehow manage to not only make it through their set, but prove to be one of the highlights of the day, their bright and hyper-taut brand of post-pop providing a glorious mix of the heavy, the danceable and the melodic. New song “Return To Danger Castle” amps up their finest attributes, the compositional restlessness and keening melodies, to winning effect. Ben George’s cooing falsetto is particularly affecting here, given his usual approach to pitch, which could perhaps most diplomatically be described as “non-traditional.” “What’s with all the sadness?” he sings. Sweet.
A swift amble to the Farm Folk tent quickly turns into a mad dash for cover from the sun’s cruel and unforgiving rays. Lucy Kitt’s traditional rootsy Americana is a fitting reward at the end of said dash. While earnest and well intentioned, Lucy’s tales of dusty highways and lonesome roads seem somewhat incongruous for a Kent native. There’s little romance in the A2 to Dover. As a result, Kitt’s music is a kind of Americana karaoke.
Similar conclusions can be drawn for her stage successor Alex Quaye, though the furrow he has chosen to plough is that of the most standard Brit-Folk. Again, the delivery is that of a devotee, but there’s already a Frank Turner/Beans On Toast/Chris T-T/Jam On Bread, and so the world probably doesn’t need another, especially one with less life experience. He introduces one song as being “about a girl he knew,” which is fine if you’re a grizzled troubadour with a litany of Woman Troubles, as opposed to a 20 year old student who’s singing about a girl he made doe eyes with over a £1 bottle of blue WKD.
Much better is Natalie Evans, whose finger picked pastoral English folk fairs better than the casual strumming of her predecessors. A distinctive presence, her wirey, feline vocals carry the melodies with confidence. On the evidence of the swarm of punters that descend on her after her set, it would appear she wins few fans too.
Back at The Sheepdip, local chaps (and chapette) Delta Sleep win the prize for band at the festival most accurately described as “Spazz Jazz.” Their take on math-rock is a giant flexed bicep with a Black Flag tattoo, the head spinning tempo changes and tricksy percussion the cherry on top. In amongst the staggering blitzkrieg of guitars and screams, there’s some taut funk basslines (really!), and a lovely sequenced section, where a looped keyboard pattern provides a period of respite from the vigour elsewhere. Basically; adrenaline, thy name is Delta Sleep.
Brighton stalwarts Pope Joan open The Cowshed this year, and do so to a dispiritingly small crowd. In spite of these shortcomings, they deliver a set so committed to it’s own heightened sense of drama, it’s impossible to not be won over. Singer Sammy Aaron Jr is a manic presence, all preacher-like earnestness and horseshoe moustache, a perfect human foil to the barn shaking dual synth bass assault of their nu-new wave dancey post punk thing. It’s a bit 2007 really, but without all the “angular” shit.
In spite of my curiosity, I miss The Others, as I’m busy doing literally anything else. This means I get to see Tunng with a clear head though, and they’re clearly worth it. Their stompy folk n’beats goes down very well with the assembled throng, the biggest cheer going to their guitarists’ donning of pair of distinctly “Elton” sunglasses and busting out some serious guitar chops. Foot on monitor and everything. It’s good, funny, and exactly what I wasn’t expecting.
Taste buds of rock adequately whetted, it’s left to Male Bonding to sate the lust. And sate they do, delivering the majority of album “Nothing Hurts” in their thrilling and distinctly Husker Du-esque manner. It’s exciting, full pelt stuff, yet becomes wearing over the course of the set, as, with the exception of “Franklin,” they have only one speed, and pretty much only one beat. The sound is fully realised, but until their compositional ability catches up, they’re definitely more “Land Speed Record” than “Zen Arcade.”
That just leaves Hercules & Love Affair. I’m still sweating, which is quite something for about 11pm, but goes some way towards making the experience more New York disco and less Kentish cowshed. Can I remember it particularly well? Not really. Was Antony Hegarty there? Definitely not. The three front women’s choreography makes up for this deficit though, and the set is robust, funky, and fairly heavy on the new stuff. I enjoy it. Here’s to Saturday.
Saturday:
This was a heavy day. Musically speaking of course – drinking heavily in this sort of heat is inadvisable at best.The two dudes I see asleep against various fences in about four different locations around the site clearly didn’t think so. Excuse the brevity of the following; there was a lot on.
First up is Jeremy Warmsley and Elizabeth Sankey’s “project” Summer Camp. Previously only a mysterious blog presence of sepia tinged polaroids, they are now a genuine, actual, proper band, and a very good one at that. Their gorgeous, harmony led pop, “Ghost Train” and “What Is It Worth It?” in particular, manages to conjure a particular summery “vibe” without resorting to the route one approach (Phil Spector beat, lyrics about beaches, verse-chorus-verse-chorus-BLOG ACCLAIM) favoured by certain other West Coast influenced bands. If Warmsley’s previous life as a solo artiste is now permanently on hold, this is more than adequate recompense.
Following Summer Camp on The Sheepdip stage is First Aid Kit, who are Swedish teenage sisters. AS IF THAT MATTERS. Their harp laden folk is accomplished and appealing, the lilting melodies a calming foil for the rapidly escalating temperatures on the farm. Shockingly, it stays (mostly) the right side of twee, thanks to the sisters dry wit and confident stage presence. If you have a natural tendency to under rate juvenile Scandinavians, you were proven TOTALLY WRONG.
Wave Pictures are their usual dependable selves (i.e really quite good and really very likeable), so to disect their performance would be a waste of all our time. Shall we review the banter? Yes we shall. On this appearance, David Tatersall burnishes their performance with a brilliant (and extensive) anecdote about the quality of the catering available backstage, namely the bangers and mash, or lack thereof. Comedy is extracted from the mundane in a manner that combines ironic outrage and a healthy dose of self deprecation. The crowd roared, and a slot at the Royal Variety must duly await. Chucklesome.
Slow Club, previously seen on site sampling the wares of the Pizza Express van, take the stage to a huge crowd. My word, these popular London types. Engagingly raw in the flesh, “Giving Up On Love” is a highlight, and bar a bizarre moment involving a boo-ing heckler, it’s well received. The same is true of Hot Club De Paris, whose jerky, twin guitar math pop gets a lot of very sweaty people even sweatier.
Moving into the tail end of the line up, Saturday gets it’s highlight in the form of the brilliant Silver Columns. Mining a similar, if less consciously kitschy, vein to Hot Chip, the duo add soul and R&B aping vocals to their melodic and groove heavy disco, playing through a majority of this year’s “Yes And Dance” album. Yet if the thought of two dudes cowering behind a bank of sequencers isn’t your thing, fear not. Towards the end of the set, Adem (yes, that Adem) runs into the crowd with a floor tom, and duly gives it hell. You don’t get that from The Chemical Brothers.
Gold Panda is definitely less of a visual draw, being as he is a man in a hoodie bent double over a lot of blinking lights. He plays fairly straight interpretations of his recorded material, adding the odd scratch, wiggle and screech here and there, but it all seems mostly cosmetic. Regardless, the music is great, like Anticon’s Odd Nosdam with stronger melodies. “Mayuri” in particular inspires a good deal of zoned out swaying, some of it even time to the music.
Like any boutique festival worth it’s locally sourced organic produce, there’s the aforementioned comedy stage, headlined this year, by one Howard Marks. I haven’t read “Mr Nice,” though of course I’m told I should, but the announcement of his presence at Lounge allowed me another excuse to avoid this commitment. He starts his set by bringing a plastic carrier full of paper on and fannying around with the mic stand. An inauspicious start, but despite this, and an long held ambivalence towards stand up comedy, I quite enjoy his rambling anecdotes. They mostly concern drugs. Well, that’s perhaps a little unfair; they only concern drugs in the sense that he talks about the aspects of drugs relating to the procurement and consumption thereof, and the ensuing shenanigans inspired by said consumption. In conclusion, I had no idea that Howard Marks was Welsh. Saturday is over.
Sunday:
I’m a populist really, so I can’t pretend there was a lot that appealed to me about Sunday’s lineup. This unashamed populism is also why I’m going to devote this segment of the review to Toro Y Moi’s set, his first European show.
It’s chillwave bro, but not as we know it. Over the course of the last, much publicised year, Chaz Bundwick has gone from unknown, to blog darling, to pioneer of nonsense genre, to genuine promising talent behind one of the year’s best albums. Until a few months ago, he had barely played live. Now, he is clearly making up for lost time, playing a raft of US dates prior to this European jaunt, with a full band and all the trimmings. Brilliantly, he doesn’t simply recount the constituent parts of “Causers Of This” note for note, instead using segments from the record as a dropping off point for a sort of future funk work out, with his watery, Streets Of Rage keyboards taking centre stage. It’s unexpected, certainly, and at a point that use of the term “chillwave” is approaching its most homogenising, it’s a savvy move on Bundwick’s part to refit his music for the live arena in such a way. It’s not all great yet though; the drumming is particularly uninspired, the loss of the record’s effects saturated drum machines making parts of the set, most notably “Talamak,” way too straightforward. Of course, the group have time on their side, and as their collaboration evolves, so too will the music. From a purely self involved perspective though, it’s still my high point of the festival.
To all intents and purposes, that is the end of my festival. I take this opportunity to slope off, relieved at the prospect of finally being able to wash the 15 layers of suncream off. Happy 5th birthday Lounge On The Farm. See you next year, naturally.
Posted on 23/07/2010 by Andrew Valentine
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