Yip Yip Aliens Discover Techno

This is a scene that repeats itself up and down the country every week. Can we begin to class Jim Henson alongside Orwell as the true Nostradamus' of our time? Seems to be the case, ay...

Bring It On, In Retrospect

As a 14-year-old boy in rural Northern Ireland, before the age of the Internet, it’s fair to say my exposure to The Blues was limited. Sure, The Commitments was as hallowed in our house as any in Ireland, but The Commitments was a laugh. Nothing more. It was always going to take something unusual to spark an interest in the genre, luckily, that something came, and when it did, it took me and countless other barely-adolescents with it.

Gomez are, on the face of it, as unlikely bluesmen as you’ll ever come across. A bunch of student scruffs from Southport, emerging in the fallout of Britpop. Theirs is a tale that bears reflection. Their debut album is one that warrants revisiting. And when you do, there’s every chance you’ll find it every bit as good as you remember.

From the opening, grinding bars of Get Miles, to the now infamous skiffle riff of Whippin’ Piccadilly, to the soothing mariachi strum of Tijuana Lady (yes, I realise the song is a piss take, but it’s still a damn fine tune) and epic and bi-polar centrepiece, Here Comes The Breeze; Bring It On remains, for me, one of the best British albums of my time.

The album won the Mercury Music Prize at a time when it might have meant something, but there were greater achievements than that. Gomez showed at least one 14-year-old that you didn’t have to have a mop-top hairdo, didn’t have to owe an overriding debt to The Beatles, The Kinks or The Stones to make a classic album.

It seemed absurd at the time that these boys had the gall to take on The Blues, but face it; grizzled Louisianans hardly have a monopoly on money woes, boozing, run-ins with the law and tales of sexual triumph and despair. The shoe fitted for Gomez (and probably most students) and they took their chance in glorious style. I remember thinking that I must have unearthed a gem. Nobody else in my year had cottoned on to Gomez; most were still too busy with Be Here Now.

But in the years since, countless people have told me the album had a similar impact on them and their musical taste. Bring It On was my gateway album, encouraging me to listen to different things and not to trust everybody else’s taste. From here, it went OK Computer, Grace, The Sophtware Slump, The Beta Band and Deserter’s Songs, certainly not the most avant-garde of digressions – but some big steps in the right direction.

Unfortunately, Gomez were never quite able to match the high standards set by Bring It On and have become standard cannon fodder for the music press. Liquid Skin is a good album, with some excellent standout tracks (Rhythm and Blues Alibi and We Haven’t Turned Around spring to mind), but their collection of rarities and B-sides, Abandoned Shopping Trolley Hotline, is better than any of the proper albums they have released since then. Perhaps it’s been an albatross around their necks, but many bands would kill to have such a headache.

Here’s my favourite track from the album, Free to Run:

Video: Gomez – Free to Run

Secret Garden Party Preview

Whilst most festivals trade blows with the announcement of heavyweight act after act in an attempt to attract revellers in their droves, the people at Secret Garden Party prefer to do things slightly differently. Tucked away in rural Huntingdon (which graced the front cover of Boxtree’s prestigious Book of Crap Towns II and was once quoted by no less than Eamon Holmes to be the “most depressed place in Britain”) it’s billed as “a space for creative expression and thoughtful anarchy,” without major sponsors and with an emphasis on ethics.

So, yeah. Basically it’s a big hippy fest in the back arse of nowhere.

On a more serious note, though, Secret Garden Party is said to be the most chilled out date on the UK festival calendar. It started out in 2004 with only 2000 in attendance, in the backyard of local aristocrat Lord Ramsey. It aimed, and still tries, to provide an alternative to those who still wanted to get away for a weekend’s music without the hassle and stigma normally associated with the likes of Glastonbury, Reading or V Festivals. That in mind, 23% of takings goes towards improving facilities at the festival, compared to only 19% going on performers’ fees and a meagre 10% being paid out to the event organisers.

Reflectively, the line up isn’t spectacular, but there are certainly some standout acts. Jamaican ska veterans Toots and the Maytals, along with iconoclastic Pulp frontman Jarvis Cocker are undoubtedly the two most renowned names on the roster. Thereafter, things get a little more eclectic. Mexican duo Rodrigo y Gabriela will no doubt seek to capitalise should the sun come out, whilst acclaimed London anti-folkster Emmy The Great is a welcome addition.

Other highlights include Canadian electro popster Caribou, all female Swedish twee outfir Those Dancing Days, Icelandic songstress Emiliana Torrini, hotly tipped soul diva VV Brown, critically acclaimed Brooklyn band Chairlift and fellow New Yorkers Au Revoir Simone.

The capacity for the event has doubled from 6,000 to 12,000 but organisers assure us the ambience will remain. The non musical acts account for about 30% of the overall entertainment. Piggy back assault courses, dancing nuns and giant water slides have in the past proved highlights and revellers are encouraged to come in fancy dress. But make sure you give your bedsheets a wash before deciding to come as a ghost for the fourth year in a row, eh?

Written for The Skinny

Meet E: A Werewolf in LA

Life rarely rained for Mark Everett, but it frequently poured. The man known as E has spent the past four years searching for answers from his heartbreaking past. Now he tells Finbarr Bermingham that he just might have found them

Mark Oliver Everett’s 46 years on earth have rarely been described as ‘lucky’. Which is why I fear the worst when he calls me from his Los Angeles home. A state of emergency has just been declared in California, as the deadly swine flu continues to bleed over the Mexican border. Given his tragic history, one surely would have had the Eels frontman down as a prime candidate for infection.

“Well, my beard does make me very susceptible,” he muses, unreassuringly. “Floating germs just attach themselves to it. It’s a real health hazard.”

Everett - E for short - has spent the five years since his last album writing a successful autobiography and making an inspiring documentary about his father. “I guess I’ve exorcised a lot of old demons,” he says. “Swine flu isn’t worrying me so much right now.”

The demons E speaks so matter-of-factly about are, in reality, anything but. As a 19-year-old, he was the one to discover the father he barely spoke to lying dead in his favourite suit. His sister, Liz, killed herself in 1996 after battling with schizophrenia. Two years later, his mother died from lung cancer. His cousin and her husband were both working aboard doomed American Airlines Flight 77 that plunged into the Pentagon on 9/11.

It’s little wonder he spent ten years in therapy. Speaking to him now, though, there’s a sense of renewal in his voice. He tells me he feels “more comfortable” in his own body than he has done in a while. Could he possibly be happy? “Yes, definitely. That’s hopefully how things turn out! I guess I’m growing and changing all the time, but I’m certainly not my old self.”

The documentary, Parallel Worlds, Parallel Lives, saw E make a “fantastic journey into his father’s brain”. He speaks with immense pride about the film, which gave him an insight into the mind of a father he’d never known.

“It really made me understand him,” he says, “and it led to me being able to forgive him for his shortcomings as a father. It wasn’t necessarily an easy thing to do, but I’m really glad I did it.”

His father, Hugh Everett III, was a quantum theorist, whose many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics - in which quantum effects spawn countless branches of the universe with different events occurring in each - was only truly appreciated after he had died an alcoholic recluse. “He was too smart too soon,” E says thoughtfully, “and came up with this amazing theory. But nobody paid him any attention or gave him credit for it. He knew he was a genius, but the rest of the world didn’t.”

When I tell E I have heard and enjoyed his new album, he seems genuinely pleased. Many rockstars are preoccupied with playing it cool. E just sighs and says he “feels lucky to get some sort of positive reaction.” Again, it goes back to his father, who spent his life craving approval that was seldom forthcoming. “I think that was a massive factor in the tragedy of his life.”

E’s frankness and enthusiasm in conversation is surprising. Whilst his music is unflinchingly honest, he is frequently portrayed in the media as a dour and often obstinate character. “Maybe you caught me on a good day,” he suggests with a wry chuckle when asked if it’s an accurate depiction. “I guess I can be that guy, but with the new album and all, it’s nice to be in the here and now. It feels good after four years of living in the past.”

The album in question is called Hombre Lobo: 12 Songs of Desire. It’s a concept album, written from the point of view of a werewolf, an idea that came to E, bizarrely while brushing his teeth.

“I was working on some other music, and when brushing my teeth one morning I looked in the mirror. I saw my beard and thought: ‘Hey, this beard doesn’t really suit the music I’m working on. Maybe I should get rid of it.’ I was just about to get cut it off and then it occurred to me: ‘Well, why don’t I make an album that suits the beard?’”

The central character first appeared on the Souljacker album in 2001 as the Dogfaced Boy – the last time E sported what he describes as a “very full beard”. Indeed, facial hair is a topic never far from the conversation. “It’s sort of like talent,” he beams when probed further about his weakness for beards. “Either you’re born with it or you’re not. I was actually born with a beard, I had so much testosterone. It scared my mother.”

Hombre Lobo draws parallels between traditional werewolf life in literature and “what it’s like to be an isolated weirdo in society today”. While E says he feels affiliated with both factions, the album is his least personal for a long time. Electro Shock Blues, with songs such as Cancer For The Cure, is a stunningly intimate account of his mindset at the time. On the last Eels album, Blinking Lights and Other Revelations, and strikingly earnest lyrics like “Daddy was a drunk/a most unpleasant man”, the ghosts of the past were still looming large on his psyche. Now though, he seems to have put them to bed.

“The one thing you don’t feel like doing after years of writing your autobiography, making a film about your father and putting together a retrospective collection of your band’s last ten years,” he says, “is something autobiographical. You really wanna go somewhere else, you know? But that said, I often think I’m doing something in the voice of a character and years later I look back on it and it’s exactly something I was going through in my life. But for some reason, you are unaware of it at the time. So check back with me in a few years on this one!”



The aforementioned Electro Shock Blues, bleak as it may be, offered E an outlet for his misery. “I know it sounds melodramatic,” he states, straight as you like, “but I think I’d be dead by now if I hadn’t had music.” It takes little intuition to deduce that Mark Everett rarely goes for sensational scoops. “I think that if my sister was able to make music in the way I am, then she wouldn’t have committed suicide. It’s as simple as that.”

His sister, Liz, took her life after a long, torturous struggle with schizophrenia and drug addiction, evidently unable to cope with the loss of both of her parents. Her suicide note said that she was “going to meet Dad in a parallel universe”. Some have speculated that Liz may have had more of an idea as to where her father’s train of thought was leading than most. Others shrug and say: “Nobody really understands quantum mechanics."

These days, E tries not to trouble himself with such conundrums. “I’m not a scientist, that much I know,” he laughs, unwilling to so much as guess at where his own parallel lives might be headed. “Man, I’ve got enough trouble trying to keep the one I’m living under control.”

Originally written for The Skinny

Great Escape 2009 Review

Written for The Skinny

The Great Escape: billed by organisers as “Europe’s leading festival for new music”. 300 bands, 34 venues, 3 days (well, it’s really nights – most venues don’t open ‘til 7pm). Sounds like hard work, doesn’t it? The Skinny, though, has long since thought nothing of slumming it up on the frontline of festivals and obliged as we are to bring the best in new music to the good folk of Scotland, we were rubbing our hands in glee when we caught a fishy whiff of this seaside bonanza.

Alas, any ambitions we might harboured about injecting our well-slapped cheeks with a much needed bit of colour were, sadly, misplaced, with swirling winds and driving rain providing the majority of the weekend’s weather. But having braved trench foot, ingrown toenails, telecommunication meltdowns and late-night vehicle breakdowns on festival duty in the past two years, we laugh in the face of a measly shower. Besides, there’s not a campsite in sight and we have the alien concept of a festival bed to look forward to…

Thursday – a gentle introduction:

Despite its self proclaimed status as the ultimate stage for up and coming acts, we find ourselves served with something of an indie-supergroup as a starter. Stephanie Dosen (whom you may recall from your sister’s Dawson’s Creek soundtrack album) and Bella Union owner / former Cocteau Twin Simon Raymonde are Snowbird. Dosen, decked out in angelic white, has a voice to match her appearance: crystalline and heavenly. Raymonde’s gentle key tinkling is subtle but effective. Combined, they sound like a more soothing Tori Amos. Cornflake girl, but with smoother edges. (FB)

The Handsome Family on the Mojo Stage are a less serene, but no less beguiling prospect. There’s a hint of Johnny Cash or The Silver Jews about their songs tonight, particularly with the booming delivery of Brett Sparks (whom we can only assume is the daddy) so prominent on the live stage. “You know what this is?” asks Rennie, the obvious June to his Johnny, as she lifts a harp-like device before Weightless Again, “Yeah that’s right, it’s a machine gun.” One of the weekend’s highlights. (FB)

With many of the revellers arriving late on Thursday, it’s very much a warm-up to the weekend ahead. It perhaps explains why hotly tipped The Acorn have attracted a crowd of little over fifty at the Pavilion Theatre. Duty bound to attend having heard them described as “2009’s Fleet Foxes”, The Skinny is quietly impressed, but also sure that we prefer last year’s model better. Anyway, we’re not sure the Fleet Foxes know how to plug in an electric guitar, let alone make a bit of a racket. (FB)

Friday:

Connan Mockasin, at The Volks, resembles a particularly fragile Gus Van Sant character: complete with crimson cardigan, waif-like features and wispy blond hair. Words spoken into the microphone between songs give no indication of the oddity of his singing voice. He plays a seemingly helium-induced cover of The Teenagers’ Starlett Johansson (who are, incidentally, playing elsewhere at the festival at the same time). An eccentric pop elf, Mockasin is enjoyably upbeat and unusual. (AS)

His set blends seamlessly into Skinny favourite Liam Finn’s, with the pair easing the changeover by playing together briefly. A relatively successful exercise in harmonisation is surprising, given chalk and cheese combination of delicate wisp (Mockasin) and imposingly bearded (Finn). The talented son of Crowded House frontman Neil Finn makes his lyrically poignant and understated songs sound effortless. (AS)

We Were Promised Jetpacks have been making waves on the blogosphere and their show on the Drowned in Sound stage is, resultantly, a huge draw. They come over a little like Frightened Rabbit’s wee brothers: less neurotic and more likely to given themselves a hernia. Their set is impressive, if a little uncomfortable. Quiet Little Voices seems destined to become their signature tune and it’s delivered with due fervour and aplomb. (FB)

Quiet rumours have been circulating that Dark Horses at St George’s Church are not to be missed, despite being an unpleasantly cold walk from anywhere else. But their reason for being in a church becomes abundantly clear when Brighton/Stockholm favourite Lisa Lindley-Jones and band unveil their new guest vocalist, Emiliana Torrini. The pair’s harmonies hang in the air of the smoky, celestial setting like ghosts with stories still to tell. (AS)

There’s little ghostly, though, about Indian rockers Indigo Children. They take to the stage in unassuming, polite manner, and so it’s a little surprising when they start dishing out the Slash-sized riffs. The frontman’s voice grates slightly when compared with the slick licks, but my first exposure to Indian rock music is ultimately rewarding. (FB)

Wintersleep aren’t an innovative band by any stretch of the imagination, but the Nova Scotians have an infectious sound, built on dense, rhythmic post-rock structures. They start off loud, then go soft, then go fucking ballistic on an irresistible crescendo-led finale of Weighty Ghost. They may not have the emotive draw of compatriots Arcade Fire, or the devastating live show of Holy Fuck (who we unfortunately missed at TGE due to a scheduling error), but Wintersleep show that Canadians can do straight rock pretty well, too. (FB)

Speaking of Arcade Fire, Broken Records have been threatening to capitalise on that particular zeitgeist for what feels like years. Now signed to 4AD, their debut album is due in the next month, but whether they will ever be able to capture the energy of their live-shows on wax is questionable. After an initially indifferent reception from a tepid crowd in the Old Market (not The Skinny, of course), The Slow Parade, If You Don’t Like The News…, and new single Until The Earth Begins to Part see them exit stage left to rapturous applause. (FB)

If there is a polar opposite to Broken Records at TGE, it’s Polly Scattergood (apparently the Pet Shop Boys turned down a slot at Hector’s House). The lead singer, let’s call her Polly, prances around this spit n sawdust tavern as if it was a headline slot at G.A.Y., but they end up sounding like a lukewarm Moloko. The crowd have gathered for Crystal Antlers, and the half-hearted response is just about right, for what is a distinctly average performance. (FB)

The evening ends with a walk back into town to Sallis Benney Theatre – appropriately stuck onto the back of the University of Brighton’s art department - to see the always excellent FOUND. Regular Skinny readers won’t need any introduction to the art-pop collective, and their show is as idiosyncratic and technically impressive as ever. Incorporating an array of bespoke guitars, synths and melodica, their high energy set is unaffected by a diminutive crowd. The highlight of the set is the climactic When You Fall. Brighton doesn’t know what it’s missing. (AS)

Saturday:

Playing the Artrocker Matinee show at The Hope are the incongruously named Chapman Family, whose particularly hardcore brand of punk takes in dead babies, swearing angrily about technical hitches (all before lunch) but some delightfully watchable showmanship. Vocalist Kingsley Chapman wraps the microphone lead around his neck countless times, choking the words out of his throat. Their energy never dwindles as they convince the crowd that this is a dirty night out full of dark promise, not a sunny afternoon by the seaside.(AS)

In what must be the ultimate juxtaposition, Felix Fables’ singer Michael Baker manages to embarrass his mum in the sweetest way possible, pointing her out in the crowd as he acknowledges her influence on a song (about, um, rabbits). Their magical folk-pop fills the huge and bizarre medieval-themed King and Queen with mature tales of heartbreak, elegant optimism and naïve ballads. A Saturday afternoon soundtrack to rustic romance, complete with heavenly boy/girl vocals. (AS)

David Kitt unfortunately cried off this weekend with a throat problem, but his slot at the Music from Ireland Showcase is filled ably enough by Iain Archer, half of whose show we catch. A history of affiliation with Snow Patrol left me wary of Archer, but his acoustic set this afternoon is light, enjoyable and thankfully harmless. (FB)

The people behind the showcase are an independent, Irish version of The Scottish Arts Council, it was explained to the Skinny over a Guinness or two. To celebrate their appearance, they’ve even brought their own version of We Were Promised Jetpacks, in Angel Pier! They’re equal parts joviality and intensity with a lead singer boasting a hugely impressive vocal range. As with Jetpacks, there’s an ever-so-slight whiff of EMO, but they, too, seem to have enough substance in their armoury to get away with any perceived over-earnestness. (FB)

At Hove’s Old Market, the tiny early evening crowd welcomes Switzerland’s Julie Hunger. With her strong vocals and natural and clearly at ease demeanour, she could well have been born with an acoustic guitar in hands, singing beautifully in both French and English. Possessing a quiet charisma, she entertains the small gathering with stories of naked septuagenarian artists. (AS)

Having seen their label’s head honcho play a set with Snowbird earlier in the weekend and been impressed with stablemates The Acorn, we make tracks to see Bella Union’s Ohbijou. Formerly a solo act, Casey Mecija now has the backing of violins, mandolins and cellos and more – forming an impressive seven-piece folk pop orchestra. Mecija’s songs weave tales of urban longing; of doomed love set against the backdrop of the big city. The audience may be sitting down, but they’re listening. (AS)

After being frustrated by an unexplained (and pretty substantial) delay at The Parlure, we had to give up on Deer Tracks and see A Sad Day for Puppets, a Swedish outfit who have digested the Twee for Dummies bible they evidently hand out in the schools of Stockholm, but seem to have cut a few corners on the way. They’ve got the blonde female – indie pop guitar dynamics bit, but with said female being completely drowned out by said guitars, it’s a shame they don’t know how to set up their equipment. (FB)

Joe Gideon and the Shark are an unlikely duo. Gideon isn’t an obvious frontman, with his plain outfit and unassuming demeanour. But by some voodoo he fills the role just fine; his words sharp and biting. His sister, The Shark, is oddly glamorous and eternally excited, backing him with her salient drumming skills. Unfortunately they’re forced to cut their set short due to technical difficulties, again highlighting the difficulty in such an event – timing is everything at Great Escape, one delay can throw your whole night into disarray. (AS)

VV Brown isn’t the obvious choice to precede Gang of Four, as though Mojo chose the line-up for their stage by picking names out of a hat. Prime Sunday supplement fodder of late, Brown outstrips expectations by actually being as good as they claim. Her voice is perfect for the music - vintage 1950s-style soul combined with sounds from some distant future. “Have you ever been in love?” she asks the crowd. They don’t seem too eager to share their pain. But VV’s been heartbroken plenty of times, and she’s not afraid to sing about it. (AS)

And so, much to the delight of the packed crowd, Gang of Four finally take the stage. Vocalist Jon King is nothing if not a showman, and one of the most sinister of his kind at that. He eyeballs the crowd, lurching his sweating body over the front row and diving around like a rabid wolf to the tune of the band’s visceral post-punk. The audience hopes for a heaving moshpit, a post-apocalyptic atmosphere and the destruction of a microwave with a baseball bat. Gang of Four don’t disappoint. (AS)

Unfortunately, things are a little less dramatic at the Prince Albert. Canadian folkies Woodpigeon (former Edinburgh residents) have written some of the most exquisite songs of the last few years. In the live arena, they can be entertaining, affecting and unmissable. Not tonight, though. After grappling with technical difficulties, the band’s performance is decidedly flat. Lead singer Mark Hamilton is visibly disheartened and the crowd are unimpressed. (FB)

It’s an indifferent end to an indifferent weekend. The Great Escape is, on paper, a fine idea. In practice though, it falls down in a number of key areas which need to be addressed before it can be even considered as the UK’s answer to SxSW. As mentioned previously, most of the venues don’t open until after seven and the bands, mostly, end between eleven and twelve, leaving festival-goers four hours to catch a night’s worth of music. Much of the weekend is spent in an uncomfortable rush – constantly checking your watch for fear of missing a timetabled band.

It almost makes us yearn for muddy wellies of yore…

Thanks to Alexis Somerville (AS)

Eels - Hombre Lobo: 12 Songs Of Desire

Mark Everett’s back catalogue as Eels is, on the whole, a heart-on-sleeve collection - from the trauma and desperation of Electro-Shock Blues, to the epic introspection of his magnum opus, Blinking Lights and Other Revelations. Although Hombre Lobo is a concept album, Everett’s troubled psyche is rarely far from the surface. The protagonist’s (Hombre Lobo means ‘werewolf') self-appraisal oscillates from world-beater (Prize Fighter) to deadbeat (What’s A Fella Gotta Do) at the drop of a hat. Alongside E's penchant for mood swings, he retains an ear for devastatingly simple, charming songs (My Timing Is Off). Gone are the sweeping strings of Blinking Lights; sometimes Everett sounds like he’s singing from under his bed. There are few bands that could make such a “regression” successfully, but the lo-fi production amplifies the childlike marvel in Eels' songs. And while it may not scale the lofty heights of its predecessor, Hombre Lobo is an endearing addition to the archive.

3/5

Diary of a Great Escape - Day Three

In the cold light of day, the inevitable festival analysis ensues. With Great Escape it’s a little different. Its structure distances it from the likes of T in the Park and Reading / Leeds and in theory, it works a treat. Yesterday I got up, had a shower and a cooked breakfast and made my way to the bar to see a couple of bands. It’s exactly the lack of a routine like this that puts so many off the ‘traditional festival experience’.

But in my opinion, the festival falls down in a number of other areas that cancel out the bonus of having a clean bonce and a full belly. Some of the venues have got appalling sound quality. Last night I went to see Woodpigeon, a Canadian folk rock band I had been really looking forward to. The Prince Albert venue was packed out, but the sound was shit. The band were visibly annoyed and the set was flat. Having seen them play Edinburgh’s Queen’s Hall a few months back I knew they had the potential to be a cracking live act given the tools.

Before that, I had hit the Parlure, inside the Spiegel Tent (Brighton Fringe Festival is on at the moment, too). Again, the sound was appalling. I had gone along to see Deer Tracks but a huge delay meant the venue was two acts behind what it should have been. In a festival like this, scheduling is imperative. Everybody has their own timetable of what they want to see and given the need to move from venue to venue, even the slightest stoppage can have a knock-on effect.

In the end, we were able to catch Swedish band A Sad Day For Puppets. Their set was beset with difficulties. The female lead singer’s voice was completely drowned out by the guitars. It took some heckling from the audience before they changed it. The vacuous arena swallowed up the band – they were doomed from the get-go.

Yesterday’s highlight came early in the day. I was disappointed to find David Kitt had withdrawn from Great Escape because of a throat complaint, but Iain Archer’s acoustic stand-in set was more than adequate. The Reindeer Section alum was just the tonic for a slightly foggy headed Saturday afternoon crowd.

His appearance was part of the Music From Ireland showcase – an independent organisation that are similar to the Scottish Arts Council in nature has arranged for a handful of Irish acts to play eight festivals in the UK and abroad, including TGE and SxSW. Angel Pier were an earnest lot, visibly pleased to be playing and keen to take the opportunity. The lead singer had a mighty impressive vocal range, shooting from a Paul Banks style baritone to an urgent yelp in one verse. They reminded me of We Were Promised Jetpacks and the set was well received by a sizeable Irish contingent.

Fight Like Apes followed them onstage and provided an altogether more leftfield set. It’s a name I had seen bandied about in music press before the show and was pleased to see there was some substance to the hype. As mentioned in the last blog TGE prides itself on showcasing new music and should be commended for doing that relatively successfully. But there is definite room for improvement.

A tip to those thinking of attending next year: get to a venue with a decent line-up and sound setup and stay there.