End of the Road: Friday: Dead Meadow / Dirty Three / Young Republic / Cate Le Bon / Laura Marling / Devon Sproule and many more…
Larmer Tree Gardens, Dorset
Article written by
Various Writers - Sep 28, 2008
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You can’t accuse End of the Road of not having variety. We stayed offsite but still spent 12 hours a day in Larmer Tree Gardens and always had a decent choice of bands to see on the various stages, so much so that SXP writers had to split up to cover the full range, sending us off strutting among the peacocks in front of the main stage or cosying up to a transvestite barmaid in the Bimble Inn.
Young Republic
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Only one album in, The Young Republic may have already suffered some personnel (and hometown) changes, but this second incarnation looks and sounds even better. The relocating from Boston to Tennessee has only bolstered their ‘country n roots’ sound, with the new songs flexing even larger Dylan/ Hank/ Band-esque muscles. That said, they also manage to belt out some fine indiepop too, with the gloriously catchy ‘Idiot Grin’ and even have time to throw in a self-described “doo-wop” tune. As fine as the band’s own material is, however, the highlight is a rollicking rendition of Dylan’s ‘Isis’; when singer Julian screams “that’s the best news I’ve ever heard”, you almost believe he did indeed ride through those devilishly cold canyons. A supremely confident performance from an immensely entertaining band.
Laura Marling is a Mercury-nominated media darling right now, but her performance is rather dull and uninspiring. Marling could well produce beautiful, sombre melodies and refreshingly insightful lyrics but you’d be hard-pressed to hear them today. That’s maybe due to the songstress being drowned out by the pissing rain and the increasingly restless audience. Twenty minutes in and the majority of the crowd are chattering amongst themselves. It seems the rotten weather (and maybe a touch of media hype) is the only thing keeping a fair chunk of ‘em here. Shame.
The rain has gone but the mud’s here to stay; as your feet sink ever deeper into the brown goo you may be forgiven wishing for a lousy act to appear on the Main Stage - the perfect excuse to grab shelter and a warm cider. On step The Dirty Three, and within seconds you’ve surrendered all thought of shifting a mere toe for the next 75 minutes. With sunset approaching, there’s nothing better than the trio’s atmospheric, part triumphant, part melancholic (and even occasionally danceable) noise to see us through to nightfall. Warren Ellis declares his delight at playing the “end of the earth festival” in “Belgium” before an explosive version of ‘Everything’s Fucked’, and you kinda get the feeling he may actually believe he’s on the continent. But who cares? With legs (and violin strings) flailing all over the place, he truly is an exquisite performer, and along with his equally talented companions, creates a mighty fine racket tonight.
Last on the official bill at the Bimble Inn is Devon Sproule and her delightful country pop. Sipping wine straight from the bottle and bemoaning an ex-boyfriend for inspiring her to write only one song, the between-tune banter is as entertaining as the tunes are wistful. The warmth from the stage is a much needed antidote to the cold (and mud) outside. (Pete W)
Is “boutique festival” derogatory? I prefer human-scale, eclectic or laidback as a description of End of the Road. There’s no advertising and plenty of organic food, ale and cider. The only downside is a tent which seems to pump out 72 hours of rhythmic (and highly irritating) conga drumming and, of course, the mud, which turns from dirty water to claggy gloop in the course of the weekend. And using the urinals is a challenge in itself as trampled-in mud creates mountains of piss-perches that eventually threaten to overturn the urinal wagon and drown people in their own cider-rich micturation.
Cats In Paris
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You always try and cram in too much on first arriving, so we dash into the Bimble Inn to watch the Sylvias, a Mancunian country-folk outfit with twin sisters combining to produce honeyed harmonies, but it isn’t novel enough to keep us there so we shoot off to Gossamer Albatross. This is our first brush with bands deploying multiple violins, violas and a cello (there will be lots this weekend) and they’re one we note to see again: a passionate conflation of the Magnetic Fields and Arcade Fire. Cats in Paris perform in the Big Top Tent as the first large downpour makes it unwise to venture outside but it’s a very confusing experience: shouty electropop, extended salsa rhythms (bass player and drummer could seek asylum in Miami Sound Machine), some experimental indiepop and a fat blast of Yes-style prog rock. Not quite what I was expecting and not entirely welcome (especially the Yes). It starts drizzling again as A Hawk and A Hacksaw start playing, and they can’t raise the spirits. I admire their technical ability and Jeremy Barnes’ splendid Balkan style moustache but, unlike the day, they’re very dry. Imprisoned by the format, they appeal to the intellect rather than to the heart. Maybe the music would be better as an accompaniment: a wedding or bar mitzvah perhaps.
Cate Le Bon
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In a late-running tent, I catch Clare and the Reasons almost by mistake. I like their red outfits, Clare’s falsetto and her infectious humour but the music is so floaty and insubstantial that, if it wasn’t in the tent, it would have blown away. There’s a diet version of ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’ and then she sings “O-ba-ma” to the tune of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. This is sweet but hopelessly naive and irrelevant – is Senator McCain soiling his Tena pants because some cider drinkers in England prefer his opponent? By contrast, Cate Le Bon, who follows, is superb. Maybe it’s the funereal subject matter – the runaway dog that dies, her interest in digging up dead goats – but she and her band are weirdly watchable, like the Velvet Underground telling ghost stories to granny, and ‘Mas Mas’ is a stone classic. Robyn G Shiels is introduced in the Local tent as a man with “the finest collection of porn in Northern Ireland”. We have to take that on trust as he’s just a solo guitarist playing death-obsessed blues (sample lyric: “hello, Death, my old friend”), with songs that have a power in their delivery that's in inverse proportion to their complexity. A few notes wrung from his guitar can be filled with a lifetime’s sadness.
Dead Meadow
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The evening ends (for us) with Dead Meadow, a magnificently energetic psych-rock band who fuck with your head with their out-there explorations but never forget that there are songs amid the solos and the multiple effects. And buoyed by that superb performance, we slip away (literally, with that mud) to warm beds, hot showers and dreams of sunshine…(Ged M)
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