Live review: T in the Park Festival 2011, Day 1 (08/07/11)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing, and we mean absolutely nothing, will ever dampen a Scotsman’s spirit. Regardless of how heavily the rain falls, how thick the mud is that he has to trawl through, or how fascistic the security that dogs his every move (retaining your ticket for the entire weekend, and having it scanned three times a day, as well as having a wristband, seems a LITTLE excessive, T), the Scottish reveller will always, and we mean always, make the most of his circumstances and have a doggarn good time. This determination, this passion, fire and spirit is what gives T in the Park its edge; the people make the event, and these folk are stark raving mad.


You need evidence? Check the hastily formed moshpit that confronts post-hardcore wannabes Autumn in Disguise within thirty seconds of their opening Red Bull Stage set. Seemingly oblivious to the depressingly formulaic nature of the music - quiet, loud, scream, sing, repeat ad nauseum - and the irritatingly choreographed nature of the performance - a star jump here, a “COME ON YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” there - Kinross goes characteristically mental, sending bodies flying everywhere and faces into the dirt. Sadly, the much more deserving Floods manage only a handful of nut-cases, their invigorating brand of post-apocalyptic, thrashy hardcore having not yet reached the lips and blogs of the cool kids. The Londoners try their damnedest, and the few interested parties certainly make the most of the space, but it’s hard to avoid the feeling that all the effort is ultimately rather pointless.


No such troubles for Los Angelenos The Airborne Toxic Event, however, whose ever-growing audience across the other side of the festival on the admittedly rather daunting NME (read: second) Stage is undoubtedly a mini-triumph. While Sometime Around Midnight inevitably receives the warmest reception, T also falls in love with the lesser known material from the band’s new LP, particularly the eight-minute, politically-charged behemoth that is The Kids Are Ready To Die/Welcome to Your Wedding Day, apparently too controversial for the more conservative American listener but going down a storm over here. And once the sharply-dressed Yanks have high-tailed it from the stage, it’s time for something more homegrown to enthrall the masses.


Initially, the mass exodus that accompanies the end of Airborne’s set threatens to turn Twin Atlantic’s most high-profile show to date into something of a damp squib. Thankfully, it transpires that their fans were just off to get themselves a few pints in preparation for the 40 minute headfuck to follow. When Sam McTrusty walks out on stage, clearly dumbfounded by the sea of faces before him, and strums the opening chords of a thunderous Edit Me, you just know this is going to be something special. And as the number of bodies increases with each successive blast of rock ‘n’ roll brilliance, and Scotland sings EVERY word back at him, it becomes apparent that this could be the band’s turning point, their crossover moment… the thrust they need to break the barriers of toilet circuit venues and achieve more mainstream recognition. A spine-tingling Crashland is particularly indicative of this, Sam actually taking cues from the Rock Cliche Handbook and letting the crowd sing the chorus.


Around an hour later, something similar, although slightly less high profile, greets Sucioperro as they prepare to tear the T-Break Stage a new one, although we put up with half an hour of White Lies’ occasionally brilliant, often lifeless, indie miserabilia first (that second album really doesn’t need any more airtime, guys…) Sounding positively gargantuan with the addition of an extra guitarist and a keyboardist/megalomaniac who takes the occasional break from bolstering the Perrio sound to stagedive and participate in the many and plentiful pits, their Heart String heavy set simply oozes energy, the band seemingly reenergised, smothering everything in a palpable sense of urgency. Good to see the iconic Pain Agency armbands back too… although, in terms of crowd-pleasing visual gimmicks, it’s no match for what British Sea Power concoct for all and sundry this evening. For all they dress rather stoically - besuited, no less - the unveiling of two life-size robots made out of tinfoil, paper plates and Tennants cans, who proceed to fight each other for the duration of the band’s final songs (and throw the remnants into the crowd), provides a grin-inducing talking point for the rest of the festival. Oh, and they play a blinder too.


And so to the headliners. Preferring not to endure 90 minutes of an elephant vomiting up its insides, we decide to eschew Pendulum and head over to the Main Stage where Arctic Monkeys are looking suave as fuck, Alex Turner sporting the coolest haircut and leather jacket in the country right now, and nonchalantly blasting through the really bloody massive rock monsters from new album Suck It and See. Problem is, this nonchalance quickly turns into indifference, the Monkeys lacking any semblance of stage presence; their attempt to fill the silence between songs with a ‘happy birthday’ singalong only makes the lack of rapport all too obvious. Without the ability to engage with the audience, you really need to pack your set as tightly as possible with classics and sadly, Turner and co play silly buggers, unleashing only two tracks within the first half of the set from Favourite Worst Nightmare and not a one from that multi-million selling, hugely popular debut. Fourteen songs in, we finally get Dancefloor and things pick up, but it’s quickly followed by some Humbug or Suck It bollocks and we, along with many others, give up trying and head out in search of something better instead.


Imelda May’s funky Tainted Love cover is initially a promising prospect, although it quickly becomes apparent that she has no other tunes, so we pay the T-Break Stage another visit, where Glaswegians Otherpeople are dazzling fifty or so rabid devotees with their angular indie punk theatrics. It’s a far better experience than The Alex Turner Pisstake and even provides the festival with its unofficial anthem, a delightfully catchy little ditty called Acoustic Guitars about the proliferation of MOR dadrock. It’d probably have more potency tomorrow, when Coldplay are covering Travis, but we get the picture. A fitting end, then, and a perfect reminder that more often than not, the real treats are the ones you have to work a little harder to find.

Album review: White Lies: 'To Lose My Life'

WHITE LIES: 'To Lose My Life' (Fiction)

In case you hadn't noticed, White Lies have a bit of an obsession with death. It may have escaped your attention in amongst the sunny, blissed-out dreamscapes and chirpy harmonies of their mega hit singles but, honestly, if you look hard enough, if you plough through the dense metaphors and potent subtleties of their work, before long, you'll come to realise that... oh who am I kidding, it's fucking obvious, isn't it? White Lies' major thematic proclivity is about as well hidden as the punchline to an Andy Parsons joke; the red flags are everywhere. In fact, the word 'death' alone, never mind the countless synonyms for it, appears a whopping 3,964 times on 'To Lose My Life', or at least it certainly seems to once you've managed to scrape your forlorn, depressed carcass off the ground after listening to its decidedly morbid tales about humanity's mortality.

Fortunately for White Lies, while close scrutiny of their lyrics may make you want to reach for the nearest razorblade, simply listening to the music, letting the album wash over you per se, proves to be a far less hazardous and distinctly enjoyable experience. It's little surprise that the nation has taken the band to its collective heart, and this record to number one no less, when you consider that their sound marries the universalist catharsis of Glasvegas with the 80s synth stylings of the Killers, stopping off at Joy Division's miserablist boutique and Editors' angular, wiry guitar store along the way. With such big name influences, it's hard to go wrong; the resultant hybrid is one that transforms delicate melodies into explosive rhythms, firing huge choruses and memorable hooks left, right and centre. 'Death', the album opener and tone setter, begins softly enough, but before long, the quiet bass drum is joined by an almighty crashing snare, giving a sense of the gloriously loud indie beast that is to come. Cleverly, the band refrain from playing their ace too early and return to merely the bass drum after a quiet run through the chorus; it takes no less than three minutes for the track to unleash its full energy and it's all the better for it, as its power is fleeting but memorable. 'Unfinished Business', the debut single, adopts the same strategy and sounds colossal as a result.

This, without a shadow of a doubt, is an album of singles. Just about any one of its ten gorgeous tracks could feature on Jo Whiley's lunchtime show and get away with it, plugging into the hook-led palates of the average listener. Effectively, White lies have written ten decidedly dour pop songs, and that's certainly no small feat for a band with little history to speak of. 'To Lose My Life', the song, is a wonderfully anthemic piece, its chorus of 'let's grow old together/And die at the same time' sounding remarkably life-affirming. For all its morbidity, you want to follow his instruction, for its delivery is so impassioned and well meant. 'Farewell to the Fairground', meanwhile, sounds like New Order would had they not chosen to abandon the clinical sound of the Joy Division records - around a 'Blue Monday' drum beat, the singer laments the loss of a 'dead town' and invites the listener to 'keep on running!', away from this place and towards somewhere more like home. The refrain is repeated continually as the track explodes into a massive finish and it's damn well epic.

If 'To Lose My Life' has one flaw, it is that it is somewhat monochrome. The band rarely deviate from their admittedly successful formula and it does begin to wear a little thin towards the record's climax ('From the Stars' and 'The Price of Love' feel rather less impressionable). In a way, this is to be expected; as a debut, this has a very strong sense of purpose and a distinct concept. The band will grow and develop over time and their sound will surely expand. As an initial statement, however, 'To Lose My life' is a thoroughly impressive piece, managing to make the bleakest of subjects an accessible and enjoyable listen. With melodies this delicious and choruses this big, it should be many, many more years before White Lies pass on. Let's grow old with them, shall we? (8/10)