review: Primavera Sound 2008

Barcelona. The Catalan capital. Home of Gaudi, the Camp Nou, and a startling array of faux-Irish pubs. Roman remains, stunning Gothic architecture, the medieval feel of the labyrinthine streets in the Old City, the post-modern design of the post-Olympics waterfront. Pavement cafes and Estrella Damm beer. And, for a few days each year, Primavera Sound.

2008 is Primavera's eighth outing as an open-air festival and its fourth year at the spectacular Forum waterfront site. A vast concrete harbour, featuring two stepped outdoor auditoria, four additional stages (including a seated indoor venue), a gigantic solar panel structure, giant inflatable bottles, a covered food court and fabulous sea views. Minor gripes about the rather convoluted drink-ticketing policy and the over-priced, limited food choices aside, it sure beats a muddy field in Reading. Combine all that with arguably the best festival line-up of the summer and Primavera was nigh-on unmissable.

THURSDAY

With the hazy early-evening sun streaming out over the Rockdelux stage, it falls to Brooklyn's current NME faves MGMT to set the whole shebang rolling. Judging by their Oracular Spectacular debut, reports of their progressive/psychedelic experimentation have been greatly exaggerated; that said, it does have its moments, notably the indie-pop-Supertramp-meets-Flaming Lips-isms of Kids and Time To Pretend. Live, it all seems a bit more 'rock'; there's hints of Neil Young, early 70s Stones, maybe latter-day Mercury Rev's more classic rock moments in places, and there is a palpable sense of fun to proceedings, but ultimately, as explosive event openers go, MGMT are a bit of a damp squib.

Having wandered over to the ATP stage for the rather underwhelming finale of Phil Elverum's MOUNT EERIE set, it's time for the first 'must see' of the weekend...HEALTH. Shoe-horned into the skinniest jeans of the festival, HEALTH proceed to lay waste to the Vice stage, all flailing hair and limbs, convulsing bodies, squalls of noise and driving tribal rhythms. Yes, there's an air of pretentious hipster styling about them, but it's all so fevered and tumultuous and fun that I'm left grinning like a loon.

There's something I find inherently irritating about the current obsession with ATP's Don't Look Back series of canonical nostalgia fests but, what the hell, when it's PUBLIC ENEMY performing It Takes A Nation Of Millions..., one of the most important, mind-expanding and viscerally thrilling albums in my life, then I can cast my doubts aside. Having pushed anticipation levels through the roof with an interminable 'warm-up' DJ set from producers The Bomb Squad, Chuck and Flavour finally bound onto stage and the opening barrage of Bring The Noise induces pandemonium. That this material can still sound so fresh, so vital twenty years down the line is testament to its genius. Even with no Professor Griff, Terminator X now retired (lending an almost eulogistic feel to Terminator X To The Edge Of Panic), and the memory of Flav's cringeworthy pantomime performances on reality TV in recent years, side one races by in an ecstatic, celebratory blur. Disappointingly though, following a rumbustuous She Watch Channel Zero, time is up, so almost half the album remains unplayed, including Black Steel In The Hour Of Chaos and Rebel Without A Pause. But we do get possibly PE's finest moment to close and witnessing thousands singing 'Elvis was a hero to most but he never meant shit to me' during an incendiary Fight The Power is a joy to behold.

PORTISHEAD are undoubtedly the biggest draw of the night, yet the crowd are largely ambivalent towards the new material they open with, the band themselves appear restrained, possibly nervy, and it's all just too downbeat. I feel the need for ROCK, and fortunately BORIS oblige. With Michio Kurihara adding additional guitar, Takeshi, Wata and Atsuo shred the night sky with a searing bombast of gargantuan psychedelic rock. Man, they are LOUD! Almost tremor-inducingly so. I'm battered and buffeted by the tsunami of sound, wilfully submitting to the overwhelming intensity, transported to the outer reaches of the universe before the crash of Atsuo's giant gong brings me hurtling back to earth. Atsuo is thrashing at the gong like a man possessed before catapulting himself into the crowd where he's jubiliantly borne aloft. Boris exit as heroes, for tonight, at least, justifiably so.

And still there's more. CARIBOU's melody-drenched, helical, propulsive psychedelia and kaleidoscopic lightshow is just dreamy and perfectly hits the spot. Not so the rather predictable atmospheric post-rockisms of EXPLOSIONS IN THE SKY, although they're hardly helped by a crowd that, around me at least, seems intent on chattering throughout the quieter interludes. So it's off to check out PRINZHORN DANCE SCHOOL, whose monochrome post-punk minimalist grooves and shouty boy/girl vocal interplay sends us off weary but happy into the early morning streets.

FRIDAY

Day two, and a rather leisurely approach unfortunately means we miss Scandanavian anarchist-prog pioneers Trad Gras och Stenar. So we grab a beer and head off to chill out with MV & EE WITH THE GOLDEN ROAD. Bandanas are the order of the day here it seems...the stage is full of them. If dousing yourself in patchouli oil and hitting the open road in a battered old camper van is your bag then this could well be your soundtrack. Rolling country rock with a nod to Neil Young, veering into Lynard Skinnard territory at times, it's not without its charms but I'm just not really feeling their vibe, man.

We drop by on THE CRIBS but soon tire of their uninspired, workmanlike punk-pop. PISSED JEANS, on the other hand, are far from workmanlike. Their set is unsurprisingly based around last year's fine Hope For Men album; scathing, bluesy hardcore-punk that's so lowdown & dirty it could crawl under a snake's belly. Add a front man who strikes a perfect balance between passionate intensity and posturing self-parody, throw in a ten-minute improvised noise assault mid-set after a snapped guitar neck leads the guitarist to totally trash his instrument in frustration and disgust, and you've got yourself a pretty damn enjoyable show.

NO AGE are one of the bands I've been most looking forward to. Last year's collection of single and EP tracks Weirdo Rippers and new debut album proper Nouns are both excellent records; frenetic DIY punk-pop tunes aligned to experimental noisescaping. A band most definitely in the ascendancy right now, the guitar and drums duo seem relaxed and confident and their set is a joy. Sleeper Hold, Cappo and Teen Creeps rattle by in a fuzzed-up, furious, adrenalin-rush. Boy Void dropkicks my ass into the middle of next week, Neck Escaper is irresistable. Yeah, No Age's natural home is probably a dank, dark, DIY basement club but hell, a dusky open air harbour will do just fine for now thanks very much.

THE SONICS sound like a wedding band. Probably the best wedding band in the world granted, but a wedding band nonetheless. Shorn of the feral punkish vigour that permeates their 1965 Here Are The Sonics album, all that's left in 2008 is goodtime rock'n'roll that far too often veers into self-congratulatory, Jools Holland bar band boogie-woogie territory. I guess some stones are just best left unturned.

LA trio AUTOLUX never really deliver on the promise of their kosmische-tinged motorik opener, lapsing into pleasant but unremarkable post-shoegaze pretty indie soundscapes. SEBADOH may be feted as lo-fi indie gods, but they never did much for me first time around and a brief stop-by at Rock Delux does nothing to encourage me otherwise. So it's back to Vice to check out MAN MAN. And boy, did that punt ever come in...Man Man are probably the revelation of the weekend. Pushing the fun factor off the dial, Man Man are a heady whirl of unrestrained vivacity, taking in clanking, experimental percussion, mediterranean gypsy folk, dark cabaret, Zappa's playfulness and Rain Dogs-era Tom Waits. Looking like he's just stepped off court at Wimbledon in 1975, the hyperactive, jack-in-a-box, gravel-throated singer tops an exhilarating performance by rushing from the stage and diving headfirst into the sea during the closing number! Fabulous.

How to follow that then? Well, to paraphrase, are we not Man Man, we are DEVO. (Sorry!) Yep, it's time for America's futuristic, theatrical new wave pioneers and they totally steal the show. Banging out classic after classic...Jocko Homo, Freedom of Choice, Whip It, Mongoloid, Gates of Steel, Satisfaction...it's a relentless barrage of post-punk, proto-electro-pop gems that whips the crowd into a whirling, bouncing frenzy. The yellow contamination suits and 'energy dome' hats make way for rather fetching tight black shorts and knee-high socks mid-set...even the Booji Boy mask makes an appearance. Revisiting the past may not always be advisable (see The Sonics above) but tonight, for pure audio-visual entertainment, Devo are untouchable.

I have a soft spot for CAT POWER but Chan Marshall arguably hasn't made a truly good record since 2003's We Are Free, and I'm in no mood for her current, grown-up, soulless balladeering. Certainly not when FUCK BUTTONS are playing. I had my suspicions that the scale of the ATP stage may have dwarfed Fuck Buttons tonight but, if anything, it seems to suit their salvo of experimental electro noise to a tee. Mixing psychedelic drone with distorted vocals, dreamy melodies, shearing noise and propulsive, tribal rhythms, Fuck Buttons demonstrate that they're far from the 'noise' band some have painted them as...yes, they are noise elements but it's their ability to mould those to danceable beats and repetitious melody that makes them such an interesting, and pleasurable, proposition.

SATURDAY

Saturday starts early with a luchtime trip over to Parc Joan Miro on the other side of the city. The reason? HEFNER. Or at least 'Darren Hayman and Jack Hayter play Hefner' which, let's face it, is pretty much the same thing. And seeing Mr Hayman performing a magical set of Hefner's finest moments up close and personal among the palm trees is a rare delight. A perfect start to the final day's entertainment.

Back to the Forum and Ohio trio TIMES NEW VIKING are having 'technical problems' involving a broken string. Guitarist Jared Phillips is not happy. Which is a shame coz when TNV do snap into the groove their lo-fi, fuzzed, garage band version of bubblegum indie-pop induces smiles all round. Wandering over to the Vice stage, there's the hooded figure of Deerhunter's beanpole frontman Bradford Cox fiddling with electronics, emitting some gorgeous, dreamy waves of psychedelia. This is ATLAS SOUND, Cox's solo project, seemingly a vehicle for him to allow his creative imagination to run free. Cox undoubtedly owes a debt to Animal Collective, and Panda Bear in particular, a fact he himself acknowledges from the stage, but it seems more driven by love than larceny. The lysergic langour created by the layered loops, gentle melodies, woozy calypso stylings and reverberating vocals is the perfect antidote to the first rain of the weekend, which soon dissipates, as if embarrassed at dampening Cox's parade.

Time for a confession. I've never really understood the fuss about SILVER JEWS. But then I've never tried that hard, cursory listens to Starlite Walker and Natural Bridge that left me largely nonplussed aside. But David Berman attracts such adulation I must be missing something. Forty minutes of admittedly enjoyable alt-country Americana later though, I'm still none the wiser. Maybe it's just not my bag. Or maybe, and I suspect this to be the case, Silver Jews are a band you need to immerse yourself in fully, rake over with a fine toothcomb, before you truly uncover their treasures. And I don't have the inclination. My loss perhaps, but I can live with that.

Especially when DIRTY PROJECTORS are up next. Man, I love this band! Dave Longstreth's distinctive prodigious vocal acrobatics. The celestial harmonies. The depth of ideas and their visionary, technicolour conceptualisation. The progressive structures, bouncing polyrhythms and joyous highlife-meets-mathrock guitars...yet for music so staggeringly complexed, Dirty Projectors remain surprisingly accessible. Some of the most innovative, spellbinding, life-affirming sounds around. The set closes, as usual, with a rousingly beautiful rendition of Rise Above and I'm left floating on air.

DEERHUNTER, in comparison, are disappointingly flat. I want to like them...there's an appealingly enigmatic, ethereal darkness to their Cryptograms album. But it's all too much of a plod tonight; the band are subdued and the songs fail to ignite. So we cut our losses and race across the site, chasing thrills, heading for MISSION OF BURMA. And, putting my cynicism at punk reformations aside, we certainly get some fire in the belly. The seminal, forward-thinking, early 80s post-punksters are taut and wiry, cranking out their unruly anthems to a smallish but devoted audience. All very enjoyable, but I can't shake the feeling that the 80s live footage on their recently reissued Signals DVD is probably a better representation of Mission Of Burma's legacy.

Heading back over to the ATP stage, there's little doubt who wins the 'Most Oversubscribed Show of the Festival' award. It's SHELLAC. With no chance of fighting through the massed hoardes, we're forced to clamber up the steep grass bank and virtually cling onto a tree to get a view. But it's worth it. Shellac are so much better than their latest album, Excellent Italian Greyhound, had suggested...The End Of Radio is restored to its rightful place as a harrowing live epic, Prayer To God is sensational...when they hit their stride there's still nobody who sounds quite like them. They're having fun too; Scout Niblett is brought out to take questions from the crowd, and the finale sees Albini and Weston dismantle Todd Trainer's drum kit piece by piece while he plays on, ending with them carrying him from the stage on his stool, arms still flailing away at thin air.

No surprises here, but the 'Entrance of the Festival' award goes to...LES SAVY FAV. Singer Tim Harrington arrives dressed as a palm tree. There are so many costume changes it's near impossible to keep count...a truly hideous multi-coloured leotard, a judo suit, a gigantic purple cloak. The band around him get on with the business of churning out kick-ass angular punk-pop melodies, but there's only one focal point with Les Savy Fav. Like a child with ADHD, Harrington is humping the monitors one minute, disappearing into the crowd the next. He's dragging a roadie out from the wings and riding him across the stage, back in the crowd engulfing members of the audience in a sweaty embrace, backstage again. Sure it's a show, and very entertaining for a while, but eventually it starts to become a bit grating. Time to move on...

You're never sure what to expect from ANIMAL COLLECTIVE. Except the unexpected that is. As their influence grows so too does their rate of evolution. Having distilled their more freeform freak-folk tendencies into the magical sugary pop rush of last year's Strawberry Jam (prompting a backlash from some of their more 'cooler-than-thou' devotees, the fools!), Animal Collective have already moved on again. Their latest three-piece, electronic incarnation (no guitars, Deakin on a year-long sabbatical) sees Avey Tare, Panda Bear and Geologist reaching new levels of hypnotic, entrancing brilliance. Psychedelic loops, tribal dancebeats, beautiful melodies, trippy harmonies...songs stretched to breaking point in a disorientating, transcendental euphoria. There are new songs aplenty and they're up there among Animal Collective's best; there's a couple of Panda Bear tracks from his phenomenal Person Pitch album; older Collective songs are reworked and segued together into wonderful lengthy medleys. Defying categorisation, challenging preconceptions, Animal Collective remain peerless, a treasure of forward-thinking psychedelic pop invention. A fitting end to a fabulous festival.