A few years ago the Electric Picnic went badly wrong; the bands were brilliant and atmosphere great, but thanks to an overly enthusiastic night in Dublin (and the need to buy wellies) I found myself picking coins from the floor, pitifully trying to garner enough to buy food to go with my free samples of iced tea (like tea but cooler). Four years on; I'm older and wiser (and I own wellies). Four years on and I was determined my Electric Picnic would be foolproof: ney, it would be nothing short of triumphant! Waterproofs, camping stove for morning brew, air beds for old bones, sun screen, anti-histamines, enough plasters to bandage a mummy, eye masks, ear plugs, warm clothes, sunny skirts... the list of was endless, it would make everything perfect - and I took it all, as my now strained back can testify.
And yet it still went wrong - I forgot to pack a spare tent.
To say the tent leaked gives the impression of the odd few drops tattooing an unwelcome wake-up call on a partied out sleeper. The tent did not leak - the tent streamed water in order to give a reproduction exact in its verisimilitude to the lashing storm outside. There was no sleep, no sleep at all, only sopping wet sleeping bags, drenched clothes, floating air-beds and hunched figures huddling over a dying lamp holding umbrellas in what was technically indoors. I blame Dublin Gospel Choir and their quite frankly unnecessary, though funky, prayers for rain earlier on the Sunday. And the tent. I hate that tent. And I hate the bus that made me late for my flight back; so late in fact that I had to fork over more precious euros for the pleasure of waiting 8 hours in Dublin airport in bone-chillingly wet clothes, getting steadily drunk, sleep deprived and maniacal.
As for the Picnic itself, well, it's changed a lot; the crowd is now young, drunk, and not too interested in music, or maybe I'm old, grumpy and fed up of being barged into by festival zombies smacked out on the thrill of underage booze and cigarettes. It did seem a shame to be surrounded by solipsistic youngsters, flush with a sense of self-entitlement, wrists wrapped in special wristbands denoting access to the poshest camp sites that their parents' money could buy; most of whom were content to swig jelly shots and scream at each other rather than listen.
It wasn't all bad though; alongside the youth, the poets trying out sex noises as performance pieces, fire-dancing hippies and the over-priced cartons of noodles there were still some decent acts; I wouldn't have missed Seasick Steve's gurning or Marc Almond putting his heart and soul into his set for the world. Not to mention the sheer joy of looking on as a 55 piece orchestra was upstaged by a spoon wielding tramp, though oddly enough he wasn't advertised in the line-up.
The outstanding band was undoubtedly The Low Anthem; easily one of the most impressive and diverse musical outfits I've seen for a good long while. Their second album, the self-released 'Oh My God Charlie Darwin' drew high praise, signings with the Nonsuch and Bella Union labels, wider re-release and then even more critical acclaim and as much wealth, sex and beardcare products as the band could want. Not content to rest on these laurels Ben, Jeff, Jocie and Matt have also been touring heavily, including some new material rumored to be from a forthcoming album, currently somewhere in the works.
The band is unashamedly talented, with members frequently swapping between the harmonium, oboe, drums, mobile phones, "singing" saws and some weird bell like contraption (crotales - thank you wiki), whilst blending their voices in perfect folky harmony. There wasn't a single trace of the ennui that seems to riddle other indie-folk bands, you know, the ones where members project so much artful disaffection that they can't even to be bothered to sing their own turgid songs.
The Low Anthem played like they meant every minute, their songs rang clear with skill and care, whilst Jocie Adams' voice couldn't be more beautiful if it tried. Also, one band member looked a lot like an incredibly smiley Asian Robert Winston, which was just the icing on an already very well iced cake. Highlights included the post-apocolyptic, but "now performed as a love song" 'Ticket Taker' and 'This God Damned House' accompanied with melodic mobile phone feedback.
The gig was a tad spoiled by the dull bass of the stupidly positioned 'Electric Arena' stage, and by the brusque time-keeping due to the damn schedule. Still, if I should die of galloping influenza it'll all have been worth it thanks to these tip-top folks. I'll be seeing them again as soon as I can. Assuming of course that the galloping influenza thing doesn't happen....
Have a wee listen...
