Haldern Festival Saturday - Dan Deacon / Sleepy Sun / Sophie Hunger / Bear in Heaven / Villagers / Blood Red Shoes / The Low Anthem / Nils Frahm / Moss / The Black Atlantic
Rees-Haldern, Lower Rhine Area, Germany
Article written by
Richard F - Aug 27, 2010
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Villagers
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The Saturday dawned hot and clear and the smell of charcoal and chemical toilets added their own unique flavour. We weren’t looking to hang out in the camping fields however. No, we were off to the village to see the first acts in the Haldern Pop Bar. The Black Atlantic kicked things off with a very pleasant set, country/folk-tinged, full of hope and reverent love for all Nature’s copious bounty. You know; all that gentle slightly sticky stuff that reminds you that you really should listen to “Pet Sounds” once in a while. To be honest we couldn’t actually see them, as the place was absolutely packed and any attempt at entering the bar to see the band would leave you no wiser but certainly sweatier so, as they’d opened the windows, sitting on the pavement in the sun nursing a beer seemed the best option. The name Black Atlantic would lead you to expect some gloomy introspection, but as we’ve said, this was reverence all the way, even down to the “hand drawn” record covers. A nice touch was when the band came out and performed a capella to the crowd outside. Nice stuff. Next was Holland’s Moss, whose records have failed to ignite real interest before. We weren’t expecting much but to say we were won over by the end of the gig was an understatement. There must be a couple of very astute people in this band, as Moss are adept at blending certain ideas into the music without their muse feeling stilted or compromised. (I couldn’t help thinking about Bob Pollard and Klaus Dinger at times during their set, but not in a bad way). And as a live band they display more grit, verve and sass than on their records, which always sound too crafted for my tastes, despite their way with a good melody. Maybe they should go and record on the hoof in a shed or something, Captain Bob style.
From here on in the day’s events became fractured to say the least. The Saturday became a day of meetings, missed bands and a lot of walking. Luckily the day also had two of the best musical moments we’ve ever witnessed so we can just about forgive getting completely lost in a village looking for Nils Frahm. Imagine for a second 20 or so sweating teenagers & assorted oldsters running round a traditional German village looking for a pianist. But that’s what happened. Ludicrously, laughably, annoyingly, it turned out that the home studio that Frahm was playing in was not actually in the village, rather in a house next to… yes the camp site. Once we’d found where the bloody place was and asserted that yes, Mr. F was indeed in there we had to wait outside the studio door, as the gig was being recorded. Oh and Neil had embarked on a 25 minute number... Once in we suddenly realized the temperature was something above body heat. And they’d closed the doors behind us... And yet, none of that mattered anymore, for as soon as Frahm began to play you felt as if you were in a completely different world. I’ve always had a soft spot for sensuous piano sounds especially the stuff by the likes of Harold Budd, and Frahm’s style isn’t a million miles away. What he does have that is entirely his own is a lightness of touch and an ability to spin the most delicate and elfin of sonic webs. More surprisingly he’s also a hell of a showman, and possesses a devil-may-care charm that would see him being a bloody good cabaret turn. On top of all this he possesses some stamina; because to listen, let alone play in that heat was pretty damned difficult. After two intensely beautiful and profusely sweaty numbers we filed out, light headed & listened in the foyer (which had an excellent view over the camp site), and as the early afternoon took its hold and the sun bathed the multitude of tents in an dazzling amber glow it seemed that Frahm was sound-tracking a moment of utter primeval stillness, a moment that made you realize that this earth is a lot older, wiser and more fearfully beautiful than any human intelligence could even begin to contemplate, let alone express.
After such an intense moment it was difficult to really pick up the threads, so this particular reviewer passed over the chores of reviewing music to a colleague or two and sat down & gibbered manically about beauty, primeval feelings and piano players in the press tent. So, personal apologies go to Young Rebel Set, Portugal the Man, everything everything, Fanfarlo and Helgi Jonsson. Once recovery was sufficient enough to continue doing what I was supposed to be doing we decided to take in The Low Anthem in the Spiegel Tent, who had just embarked on a series of folksy tunes. And oh bloody hell the girl’s got a recorder and there’s a man who has a trucker hat and a ‘tache that makes him look like a Mexican bus driver. Interest was waning it has to be said (despite the music which was, on reflection, excellent) only for it to be jerked back into life as the band, evidently tired of playing at a village fête, let rip with some excellent grumbly tunes that had a great Tom Waits / Bo Diddley feel to them. Why can’t they do this all the time?
Blood Red Shoes gave an energetic performance on the main stage and had enough sass about them to get a crowd going on a hot afternoon. The band is quickly becoming a cabaret act though – maybe through the sheer mental weight of touring? - and they need to get that weird, haughty “otherness” back that made them so appealing and inspiring a few years ago. Then back to the Spiegel Tent beer garden to watch Ireland’s Villagers on the big screen (fresh air and unrestricted access to the pissers now being the priority over any questions of watching bands in the flesh). Villagers have a fair bit of whimsy about them, and there’s also that wistful melancholy in their music that hints at their extreme youth. They all look like they’re playing hooky from college too, and the singer had moments where his demeanour of wide eyed innocence could also be taken for complete stage fright. No matter, the band possesses some powerful tunes, which have enough clarity and simplicity to make them a big act, (if they so wish).
Interviews meant we missed Efterklang again and only caught bits of Bear in Heaven who were really great if a tad academic at times, and Sophie Hunger, who I really wanted to see. Hunger is interesting. To this day I still don’t know whether I like her record, listening to it more out of an appreciation that there’s a restless intelligence and forceful personality at work somewhere amongst the sometimes perfunctory electronic sounds. The same could be said for the snatches of the gig we witnessed. It was at one level unappealing and also pretty mesmeric, like an inspirational maths teacher giving a lecture to a bunch of drama students. About Sleepy Sun, however, there were no doubts. This lot are pretty bloody inspirational, possessing a real burnt out cool that it is impossible to manufacture. In an age of “authentic” folk rock their nihilist dusty blues is the real deal and they know it. Another plus is that they are loud to a satisfying level and aren’t too reverent with their music, kicking it about the tent as if it was a football. The last track “Open Eyes” was stunning; their massive sound swallowed the tent and spat it out. They’re a million times better live than on record and that is quite something given the brilliant nature of their debut. The Tallest Man on Earth and Yeasayer were both pretty damned good on the main stage, but after Sleepy Sun it all seemed a bit of a let down, both just needed a bit more presence. Back then to the tent for Dan Deacon, who’s LP “Bromst” is a veritable love-in of daft ideas. We were expecting big things, and we weren’t disappointed. The sound-check was mental enough and Deacon (wearing an Iron Maiden tee-shirt, three quarter length shorts of the most unattractive cut, and large glasses that either once belonged to Deidre Barlow, or Christopher Biggins, or both), requested a little “funky music” to further excite his impressionable followers on. Off he went, only to return to a tent that was packed with people seeking release in the dark from both the memories of a hot sun and the overload of high quality reverential folk rock that had been the day’s sonic diet. Deacon, playing on the dance floor behind a makeshift booth - as is his wont - began to build up a crowd that soon just went completely utterly berserk. Dance-offs, saluting the glitter ball, hands in the air, talking about the Lion King, all that cheesy stuff that normally has me running for the hills took on an aspect of something more akin to a punk gig. German kids went bananas, and near enough wrecked the place with a display of remarkable good humour. What makes this slightly unprepossessing fella’s show irresistible? Whether it was the good natured orchestration, pre-determined signal to expect the expected between performer and crowd, or whether Deacon plugs into an essential element of Modern Youth’s psyche (longing for release in a safe environment?); it’s hard to say. No matter it worked 100% and by the end we as a bunch of thirty-forty somethings were screeching, laughing and hugging and caring not a jot about anything, just like back in 1988. Wonderful. After this it was impossible to watch anything, and even though the National did play a great, angry euphoric set it just felt like showbiz reasserting itself. Better to sit round the roaring campfire backstage and chat with the old & new friends that this remarkable festival has a knack of bringing together.
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