That title could be a reference to legendary cloaked doom-meisters Sunn O))), who performed twice at this marvelous event, but is actually a note about the curious preponderance of rather unappealing hoodies amongst the 5000 or so festival-goers. I know it's fucking December and therefore cold (so cold!), but surely tastes have not plummeted to the point that alluring polo-necked jumpers and woolen scarves have suddenly become obsolete? Yet, it would seem so, with every other hairy bloke sporting one such grimy, grey or black hoodie to rather gruesomely compliment their skinny jeans and scuffed converse trainers. It bemuses me, almost as much as the apparent lack of desire on the part of most of said hood-wearers to not shower, despite lodging in sodding Butlin's. It's not like you're camping out in a fucking field, stoners!! It's a holiday resort, with full amenities!! I may sound despairingly middle class by writing this, but at least I was the best-dressed person there. Being a rock fan doesn't mean you have to look like you were just dragged out of a fucking bin!
ATP is a wonderful concept for a festival - a three-day indoor rock smörgåsbord, with three concert halls, a plethora of bars and restaurants and on-site accommodation in cheap-but-cheerful cabins. In any other context I'd find Butlin's loathsome -it's so tacky- but when your senses are being gleefully assaulted but three days' worth of high-octane rock, blissful pop and fucked-up electronica, one can't help but ignore the surroundings, and indeed revel in them. Who needs to be in a gross, unhygienic and muddy field when you can have your own toilet? I know, that's an odd thing to worry about, but these issues matter to me!
Putting a little pressure on my three friends to hurry, I managed to get there in time for Bardo Pond, who were appearing at the ridiculously early hour of 4.30 on the first day! Ridiculous mainly because if ever there was a band whose music is best suited for the wee wee hours of the morning when people are drunk and more than a little bit stoned, it's Bardo Pond. Regular readers of the blog (I am aware there aren't any, but I can pretend, can't I?) will know the esteem in which I hold these Pennsylvanians and they did not disappoint, despite seeming a tad rusty (normal, given the hour - I'm guessing they flew straight in from the US that day). The highly saturated riffs, thumping bass and Isobel Sollenberger's stoned voice rang out strong and true, and pretty soon I was banging my head away like a 19-year-old at his first stoner gig. Isobel is a really excellent singer underneath all the effects and volume, and her dreamy swaying and garbled moans were the perfect introduction to my ATP experience. It was a sign: this festival would be marked by the dual forces of bleary mind-mashing and incomparable volume.As such, Pavement frontman Stephen Malkmus and his new band The Jicks were unlikely to impress. They were playing on the rather cavernous Pavilion stage and his songs failed to ignite any interest in me, being a sort of Neil Young / Uncle Tupelo rehash with few hooks or stage presence. Even worse were The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, who showed up late, insulted the crowd and then vomited out a set of rather dull electro-punk featuring some of the lamest post-Iggy moves that I've ever seen from tedious singer Karen O. Thing is, she has a decent-ish voice, in a raw scream kind of way, but everything they do seems contrived and facile, a truly banal excuse for a band. All hype and no trousers.
After a bite to eat, I caught the early stages of Mum, who are a rather trite Sigur Ros-only-cuter Icelandic outfit with two female singers and an unassuming, pastoral vibe. Not exciting, but cute. But my priority that evening was Ben Chasny's Six Organs of Admittance, who were the first great surprise of the festival. I had been expecting trademark drony folk and Appalachian influences, but was instead treated to barnstorming heavy psych in pure Bardo Pond / Heads style! Chasny is a master axeman, a super-saturated descendant of Neil Young and Jimi Hendrix, and he played LOUD. Caught in the front rows, I drank in the volume and the guitar pyrotechnics, and applauded loudly after the all-too-brief set. An added bonus was that I bumped into Bardo Pond's Clint Takeda after the set!
There was just time to dash back to the main stage to catch Fuck Buttons at 11.30. This was perhaps the most packed set of the weekend, with countless floppy-haired indy kids cajoling each other to boogie (showing my age, there) to the duo's blissful electronic soundscapes. As usual, the Bristolians were excellent, with "Olympians" a trance-inducing highlight, as loud sheets of synthetic noise showered down onto us grateful souls from their amps. Deranged vocals, hypnotic grooves and driving beats - these two have the lot!
Sadly, by then, I was pretty much on the way to being well and truly twatted, plus the early start to get from Cambridge to Minehead was catching up with me, so I missed Tortoise's late-night set. Luckily, I had seen them in November (playing with Cluster, if you please!), so wasn't too fussed. Those guys can be trusted to deliver a great show, and I've no doubt they did, if The Royal Festival Hall on the 22nd of the 11th is anything to go by...
I awoke the next morning refreshed, if not really rested (those cabins are a very good excuse to prolong boozing into the early hours without fear of catching a cold or disturbing anyone). After a very late breakfast / lunch, I raced over to the main stage for one of my favourite bands of the moment - the mighty OM. I can't stress enough how much I dig this band / duo. Despite my love of many types of trippy music, I actually hate weed and pot, so am never stoned. But if I did like it, OM would be the soundtrack to my trips. It's heavy, but beautiful, graceful under all that volume, and Al Cisneros' mystical lyrics speak to me despite being very hard to comprehend. So, I was really looking forward to seeing them and, despite a ludicrously short set (45 minutes!!), they did not disappoint. A third member has joined them, at least for gigs, and he added wild tambourine crashes, plus layers of synth and guitar to Cisneros and Amos' bass-and-drums stomp. Live, the primordial vibe of their music is even stronger as they thump out their sky-sailing anthems, taking listeners to the astral planes and back again. I banged my head back and forth so much my neck was aching for days, and the set (comprised mainly of tracks from their recent album God Is Good and sounding even better live), for all its brevity, was a true highlight of the 3 days.After OM came Shellac, another pleasant surprise. At times their music veers a bit towards juvenile, Sum 41-ish hardcore, but mostly it was heavy, heavy math rock of the most righteous, mind-assaulting kind. They also intersperse their sets with hilarious Q&A sessions and banter, making them an engagingly off-beat act, very much in tune with the spirit of the event. A quick break for one of the many hot dogs that would be consumed over the course of the weekend (notwithstanding the fact that they were vile!) meant I missed Porn, but got to rest my wearisome ears during Battles' set. They were on the Pavilion stage, very much like an outdoor one, so there was less chance of them deafening me, although I did find the cold a bit wearing. They are energetic and quirky, with some great grooves - surely a band going somewhere. However, I had to scatter half-way through so I could catch the second half of Melvins' drum-heavy set. The veterans, like Shellac, occasionally wander into dull Californian hardcore, and I will always pine for the full-on sludge of albums like Lysol, but there is no denying the charisma of King Buzzo and his cohorts, and their finale was a kind of fucked-up mess that I couldn't help but love. So, again, a very pleasant surprise!
In a pattern that would come to define the weekend, I then took a bit of a break, even missing Modest Mouse and The Breeders. I think the sheer volume of a lot of the acts, combined with the out-of-synch lifestyle (up at 12, lunch at 5, dinner at 10.30, bed at 4am) and the copious amounts of beer consumed made it hard to sit through act after act without losing the plot a little. Certainly, by the time I pitched up in front of the stage at the Red's club to see Apse, I was pretty tipsy. But I was yet again treated to a very pleasant surprise. I like their debut, Spirit, but had yet to hear their latest album, nor did I know anything about their live persona. Turns out, they are excellent, scattering strident guitar lines and thumping bass over glistening synths and pounding drums. Their new sound is less tribal, or even spiritual, than on their debut, but it carries definite bite and their intriguing use of multi-layered vocals is a novel touch in these days of tiresome, shouty Brandon Flowers-styled vocalists.
The lure of a party back at the cabin dragged me away from the bands and into the arms of even more booze, meaning that by the time I got back to the main stage for SUNN O)))'s first performance of the weekend, a full representation of their debut, The Grimmrobe Demos, I was well and truly soused. With some shame I have to admit to not recalling much of it, other than that it was LOUD. Gut-pummeling loud. The kind of volume that could make people sick. The massive crick in my neck come the next morning also suggests I was well into their ferocious guitar riffage, and I do recall annoying the people around me by trying to join in on the show on harmonica. Ah, the joys of vodka and tonic...
Sunday would in many ways be even more of a write-off, but in an even more satisfying way! The previous night's excesses meant we lurched out of bed and gobbled down a hearty hangover breakfast just in time for Deerhoof at 3.30pm. There is certainly something arresting about these peculiar New Yorkers with their pretty and high-pitched Japanese lead singer. Their sound is angular, with effects-laden guitars and jerky bass. They also had the novel knack of getting their least-confident member, the drummer, to introduce the songs, which he did in an endearingly gauche manner. Several tracks were powerful and grooved hard, but at times I found their forced quirkiness a bit contrived. You're weird - I get it. But they at least are original, and I intend to check them out in further depth. I also caught a bit of Devendra Banhart on the big Pavilion stage, who wasn't great -too derivative- but managed at times to unleash some excellent folk-blues stomps nonetheless, a pleasing, if slight, soundtrack to the Liverpool-Arsenal match playing on the telly (2-1 to the Gunners, up yours you scouse bastards!!!).
Lunch then beckoned, and I was done in time for one of my guilty pleasures, Explosions in the Sky, who were simply excellent. Post-rock snobs can go get fucked, these guys are experts at crafting beautiful, melancholic instrumentals that soar on wings of emotion. The Pavilion became a sort of indy cathedral, their dream-like guitar solos drifting upwards, lifting the audience with them. Although I maintain that this particular stage was too cold and cavernous to really capture me, EITS did the best job at overcoming this, and should be saluted for it.
But it was all about SUNN O)))'s second set from then on for me. I was determined to be completely alert for this, a full rendition of their latest -and best- album Monoliths and Dimensions. The album has seen them take their demonic doom to a new level, with hints of jazz, musique concrete and classical music tinting their heavy sludge. Their reputation for extreme volume, coupled with what few memories I had of the previous night, had me feeling an uncharacteristic sense of trepidation as I took my place just opposite centre stage and gazed at the wall of amps that lined up behind the sole microphone. Above all, I knew that they -and OM for that matter- sat a tad uncomfortably alongside some of the other acts of the weekend. How would the lanky-fringed, be-hoodied youfs around me take to what was about to descend upon them? Already, I overheard a veteran of the previous night mutter darkly to his mates, "I hope you've done a shit!"Then the lights went out and a pall of smoke billowed over the stage, obscuring everything from view. Peering through the gloom, I saw three hooded, cowled figures stride onstage, disappearing in and out of the fog. A couple of guitar necks reared up and then - BOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!!!! The loudest, most ear-shattering riff I have ever heard. SUNN O))) were everything I expected and more. Beyond loud. Each shuddering note hit me right in the gut, pummeling my intestines and making me glad I'd taken that man's advice! As Greg Anderson and Stephen O'Malley riffed away and a third hooded figure extracted sub-atomic bass notes from some machine I couldn't see, another man walked slowly onstage - Hungarian singer Attila Csihar, one of the most singular vocalists in modern metal.
Also wearing a hooded robe, he strode up to the mic and, oblivious to the audience, began what can't really be described as singing, but rather an incantation. Deep, dark and growling, his voice sounds like the echoes of an underground earthquake coming up from a well patched into the heart of the world. As he roared and moaned and chanted and grumbled, grasping the air with his fingers like an opera tenor, I became aware that this was not a normal concert. Not a concert at all. This was a ritual. The other guys barely moved, O'Malley remaining statuesque behind the fog, right up against his amps, whilst Anderson's only concessions to rock "attitude" were occasional waves of his guitar. At one point, a strident trombone pierced the noise, but the player was invisible. The focus was Csihar, the high priest of doom, whose body seemed to be producing the fog and whose voice was shattering my nerves. He then strode off stage, returning only after much more demented, saturated riffage, this time wearing a black suit covered in flashing silver and a monumental metal crown adorned with spikes! Clutching a cast-metal model of a human face (what the fuck? I hear you asking - you had to be there), and with lasers shooting out of his fingers, he continued his screaming incantation, apparently in Latin, coming across as some warped high priest of an old religion, or an overlord of the underworld. I have literally never seen anything like it in a rock context, and between the sheer volume of the guitars, and the hallucinatory nature of Csihar's performances, I was left physically and mentally drained, but so exhilirated. There is only one word for the experience of seeing SUNN O))) live - unique.
But the joy came at a cost. The experience was so overpowering (and loud - seriously, next time I'm bringing earplugs!) that the idea of then rushing off to see the end of The Mars Volta, or any other band, was inconceivable, so I headed back to the cabin, to wax lyrical about what I'd just witnessed and wash down the memories of the last 90 minutes with lashings of beer, whisky and gin.
In my defense, I did try to go and see Lightning Bolt at the death, but couldn't get in due to the crowds, so had to leave my first ATP experience at that, and in many ways it was perfect. The best gig I'd ever seen at a festival that, for all the dress code flaws of some of its participants and general aura of indy arrogance, remains unique. All hail the dark Gods of rock!!!
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