Saturday

Whether it’s because of the washout and hasty enforced rescheduling of Truck last year, or the spate of festivals cancelled or criticised beyond any hope of recovery this summer already, more than usual seems to be riding on 2008 as a critical year for Truck - and by extension for local music, such is the shadow cast by the festival over bands and venues across Oxfordshire. The first critical test is meteorological, and thankfully the festival passes with flying colours - for the most part, the weather is glorious, and few places look better in blazing sunshine than the cornfields of Hill Farm. The second test, rather less prosaically, is musical - previous years have treated us to incredible sights like Battles, Regina Spektor, or a host of as-yet-unheard new favourite bands, so it remains to see how a lineup that looks at first sight not exactly enthralling translates over the course of the weekend.

An inauspicious start to the festival for us, as we take what’s unfortunately the first of many mediocre guitar bands in the form of Lovvers, who are spiky, angular, jerky and all those other adjectives that get used on flyers for the kind of awkward guitar bands listened to by awkward boys. Unfortunately they couldn’t see their way to being remotely interesting.

Having charmed all those who saw them at this year’s Punt, it’s little surprise that Alphabet Backwards are repeating their success at Truck. Playing to a nearly packed Barn (which is unheard-of this early on a Saturday) their cutesy indie pop gets a rapturous reception. Dancing breaks out, as does a flurry of clap-a-long moments and the band are flying.

In diametric opposition to their look-at-me name, Holton’s Opulent Oog supply us with an untroubled, unobtrusive country lope.  Pliant and friendly, perhaps, but with all the chutzpah of a shy 7-year-old forced to recite in Sunday school.  Of course, complaining about country pop at Truck is like shouting for “Born To be Wild” at Glyndebourne, so we’ll just edge away, quietly. 

Over on the main stage, Little Fish are winning a small army of new fans.  Aside from being musically spotless, Juju and Nez are rare in looking as though they were born to be onstage - even on the main stage, it’s rare to see an act that you can’t tear your eyes from.  But, would it be terribly party-pooping of us to suggest that they write some more songs?  There’s some padding in their repertoire, and the world doesn’t need another rock twopiece unless they’re very, very good.  Worries for another day, perhaps, for now it’s another Fish victory.

Martin Simpson treats us to an etymology lesson as he’s tuning up. He explains that “bucolic” literally means “pertaining to cows” and “crepuscular” comes originally from the Latin for “dark” or “obscure”. But, as he points out, both words sound like nasty complaints. So it’s fitting that his first song, murder ballad Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard, is bucolic, crepuscular and thoroughly horrible.

Thankfully things lighten up after that. The rest of the set is a joy to hear and watch. Simpson’s guitar-playing skill has to be experienced live to be believed; his dextrous fingers turn the one-man acoustic set-up into something richer, almost as if the guitar was at times a second human presence.

The blues and rock numbers draw cheers and whistles of appreciation, but the highlight of the set is a note-perfect, emotional rendering of Never Any Good, the song that won him one of several prizes at the BBC Folk Awards this year. Martin Simpson is that rare creature: a technically gifted musician with the charisma to make even his soundchecks entertaining.

There’s nothing precisely wrong with Green As A Primary’s melding of Mogwai and Prefuse 73, but this downtempo mood music is so fussily exact that it reminds us of bad cappuccino, polished foyers, overpriced theatre bars and aging bachelors trying to look urban and sophisticated in Stoke Newington.  Could well sell millions, then…

The Family Machine have always looked to us like lovable scamps in a 90s British romcom, around whom everything goes wrong, but who come up affably smiling.  In the midst of some random sound engineering, the unflagging cheeriness of the band makes us assume that Hugh Grant is taking notes in the wings.  After all the problems, it’s a glorious set from some of Oxford’s best songwriters, all lachrymose acoustic laments undercut with a plucky determination - we imagine a video of slow motion clips of missed penalities, fluffed catches and other sports failures to “The Do Song”, intercut with footage of Jamie Hyatt winking from the bleachers.

There are some bands we catch at Truck that we are certain we would hate in any other setting. Dead Kids are one of those bands. Led by Mike Title, a frontman for whom exuberant is not a strong enough word, they grab the attention from the off. Musically, it’s nothing to get to excited about, as they’re an unremarkable kind of disco punk affair (think Black Lace discovering crack), but they are eminently watchable. Lovvers may have scaled the PA, but they weren’t wearing a single black leather glove, a cape and trying to snog the face off a security guard were they? Like most bands where the spectacle is the most important thing, Dead Kids soon outstay their welcome but at least they were amusing for a while.

Was it really less than two years ago since we saw Rolo Tomassi at The Port Mahon as part of a single figure crowd?  In a packed Barn they get a heroes’ welcome.  This is, of course all good and proper, because their maximalist metal constructions are simply amazing, with intricate drums, throat-shredding screaming and even more buzzy keyboards that are only a curry away from being Rick Wakeman, which seems to be a theme of the Barn today.  The dexterity involved in the performance is incredible, but it doesn’t get in the way of the riotous passion on show.  They do a track that sounds like “Eye Of The Tiger” remade by Napalm Death and Goblin.  If you want more than that in your life you are greedy beyond belief.

Some competent folk rock from Texas’ Okkervil River, who know how to do lush and full blooded, their line up including two keyboards and occasional trumpet.  At times they resembled The Arcade Fire without the Biblical bits, but far too often they just passed the time.  We asked three people in the crowd who they sounded like, and nobody could actually come up with a name; this means either Okkervil River are trailblazing geniuses, or forgettably generic. Make your own minds up.

We’re in the last days of a sleaze-ridden Tory government, university education is free and only total geeks use email. Yes, it’s 1996 again; how else do you explain the fact that Dodgy are performing in front of such an adoring crowd?

The chirpy trio are back, and it’s as if the past twelve years never happened. The tent is surrounded by the hordes of fans who arrived too late to squeeze in. The audience are clapping and cheering, and - please tell me I’m imagining things - there is at least one lighter being waved in a non-ironic manner. (Of course, I forgot that we’ve all been transported back to a world where the smoking ban is just a crazy dream.)

The set is shambolic, but the band’s enthusiasm is infectious. They’re obviously delighted to be touring and writing music again. The new material is slower than their early stuff, but the audience seem to enjoy it anyway. They end with Good Enough, which is all over the place musically as well as missing the lift that some live brass would provide. But the rapturous audience cheer all the way through, except when singer Nigel holds the mike towards them and they oblige by singing the chorus. As we shuffle out, I get a hint as to why Dodgy are still so popular. The girl in front of me says to her friend, “They remind me of when I was, like, fifteen.”

As soon as The Lemonheads‘ Evan Dando throws on his guitar you get the feeling he’s not too bothered about turning in a good performance. In fact, this trot through the whole lot of ‘It’s a Shame About Ray’ is barely a performance at all. Omitting ‘Rocking Stroll’, Dando seems to be oblivious to the concept of playing an album in its entirety. Noticeably rolling his eyes, he doesn’t seem remotely interested. Still, it’s great to hear the songs he does deign to play, and that in itself is worth hanging around for.

Back in the tent and it’s fucking cold. So cold in fact we consider going home. Just as we decide to stay, someone breaks out a bull horn right next to the tent. They decide to save some of it for the morning - which is something to look forward to. Elsewhere as the bass from the site rumbles through the ground, revellers are declaring themselves to be Spartacus. What’s that sound? It’s a car door slamming as we head off home to a nice warm bed. We love local festivals.

By David Murphy, Stuart Fowkes, Sam Shepherd and Kate Griffin

This entry was posted on Friday, August 1st, 2008 at 11:42 am and is filed under gig review, review. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.