The Wickerman Festival (Friday)

So another year and I’m back at the famously friendly festival. This weekend is always one of the highpoints of the summer for me. So who do we have kicking off the proceedings? First cancellation’s replacement are Rodan [Solus Tent], a band that seemed to have yet to decide on who they were last year. The good news is that have found a firmer personality sine then, plumping for the Rocks-Scream boogie band version. And, they’re pretty damned accomplished at it. There’s perky ska-tinged punk pop from Barrow-in-Furness’ The Moon Cats [Scooter Tent]. TBH, a band with charm and vim is could really be opening the main stage. Although, this opinion might be tainted by the dreadful Class-tribute act it transpires The Common Empire [Summerisle Stage] are. Although, they do let us know that if we came see them at a ‘proper’ gig they might not be shit. Which is nice of them.

First real Wicker-moment comes in the shape of Yahweh [Solus]. Their opening number builds on a wonderful folky groove, both toe-tapping and kinda dreamy at once. Yes, they could easily be lumped together with a lot of the new-folk types of the moment. But, they do it in precision formation. Like My Latest Novel with all the flab trimmed away – and in training for a marathon. Cello, fiddle, guitar, drums. That’s it. A proper four piece band. Showing many of their more ‘known’ peers that to build music of such a scale you do not need to co-opt your grannie’s budgie in on bell and mirror.

But, there’s more. None of the epic bellowing that can ruin this type of thing, nor the introspective mumbling. What’s really at the heart of this is an set of crafted (fair catchy) tunes with a some seriously intriguing lyrics. Tales of catching the wrong train home late at night, inter-band rivalry, and one called Glasgow Smells Better. (OK, research has shown this not to be the case, but I’m sticking with the mishear.) First on the when-they-next-playing? list. (Note to prospective festival bands – these guys played early enough in the day to get an appreciative audience with some money still in their pockets. The albums were flying out.)

Delight is not the word to describe just how happy I am to see that Annan’s finest More From Jim [Scooter] are back this year. The memory of them bringing the sunshine out with their unbridled-joy version of ska (a genre you will experience lots of at any festival) has us rushing to catch them again. They do not disappoint, in fact they’ll be playing another set over the weekend! FTW!

Just Tourist [Souls] are very young. They only have ‘samples’ of songs on their MySpace page and are selling t-shirts not CDs. I’m sure they’re derivative of someone I’ve never really paid attention to, but who cares. Their mix of post-punk angular guitars and funk-metal works surprisingly well. OK, it’s not going to change anyone’s life. Well, not yet.

There’s a band called Party Horse [Summerisle] playing that I’m so convinced are Adrian Edmondson and Jennifer Saunders on their holidays that I need to take a closer look. They aren’t. But, they are unfortunately are dreadful and (unintentionally) hilarious as that would’ve been. I’m sure in their mind they’re cruising the same streets as the Ting-Tings. Unfortunately they seem to be walking-the-walk of a working men’s club circuit Dollar.

This is the first time I’ve seen The Amphetameanies [Scooter] in a number of years. It’s great to see them on the bigger stage. They sure know how to fill it. They get us jumping, they’re that kind of band. But, after a bit something starts to bother me. We’re losing the songs. This band have some really great songs. Not just the stonking tunes. I find myself wondering if maybe they should be reaching for something else. If not a Dexys-like genre realignment then at least to be the Ska-52s; the smartest dumb party band in the house. There’s nothing wrong with a bunch of musicians with so much collective experience getting together and just forming a great fun band (because they just want to) – and they sure are that. But, when the talent starts to shine through more than they’re achieving, perhaps it’s time to move on up a level.

I count 18 people on stage as The Second Hand Marching Band [Solus]. In a weekend full of stages creaking with massive ska bands, hopefully this will be an interesting alternative. Ha, if only. What we actually have inflicted upon us is a bunch of half-baked indie-schmindie snippets (nae hooks, nae tunes) of the most anaemic type. They could be more effectively fired out by, let’s say, five of them.

Oh, it goes down well with the crowd, but y’know 18 folk can drag a lot of sycophantic mates along with them. And, to be honest, that’s the point. You’re either part of the pretension or you’re the kid telling them their nekkid. By the time there’s bloke playing a solo on a banana (cuttlefish next?) I’m wishing I’d brough the fetid corpse of Steven Wells with me to throw the stickiest bits at them. Even the hellish Babygod [Solus] (like some minor Gun side-project) don’t get me as riled as this hipster circle-jerk.

It’s a cheap shot, but not worth avoiding: The Xcerts [Solus] look like the cast of The Inbetweeners (they should co-opt 17c’s trumper for the full set). And, they pack as much charm and exuberance as their telly dopplegangers. They handle the quiet-loud-anthemic chorus-LOUDER thing brilliantly. You can’t help but get swept up by this. First stage diving of the festival too! Exhilarating stuff. I’ll even let the singer off with having a haircut so styled for rocking out it probably cost as much as his guitar.

In the Fall-slot this year: Billy Bragg [Summerisle]. If you don’t like Billy, then you’re just wrong. The sun’s out, he’s got tea and is just the way we like him; alone with a guitar (what appears to be a Billy Bragg signature tele, seeing as you ask). After having put on the curry, I miss the first few numbers. This is annoying as there are tales that his version of Greetings To The New Brunette reducing a certain be-mowhawked radio chap to tears. I nearly join him when I find out he played it.

Of course, Bill on his own is a chatty fella. He regales us with tales of Woody Guthrie coming to him in a dream and wondering what the hell we’re playing at voting in the BNP before blistering version of All You Fascists Are Bound To Lose. Always positive he takes comfort in the fact their vote dropped it was just no-one voted for the other parties. There’s a fantastic anecdote about meeting Alistair Darling in the Green Room of the Andrew Marr Show and him asking if he’s still gigging. Then it’s George Osborne’s turn to not just know that he is but to try cadge tickets for one of his shows. “Go figure”. Ah, but William we did, and that’s why no-one was voting for the other parties. Yay! Ideology with suitably update lyrics.

It’s a testament to all those years of hard work that Bragg can get so much good feeling from the crowd. There’s serious affection in the…erm…field. Never hectoring, preferring his good-natured bonhomie. He’s also, frankly, stunning. I’m already promising to go to every gig he ever does again and listen to nothing but his records for the next few weeks. And, when he gives us a version of Marley’s One Love complete with Singing Kettle style actions (“let’s drop the debt…”) I’m waving my arms and screaming along at the top of my voice. Just like everyone else.

More from the new-folk army. And, why not, some of the best music in Scotland in the last year or so has come from this stuff. And, The Seventeenth Century are another fine addition to a list of very fine bands. On a similar scale to Broken Records but without the pomposity. They can build a wave of shanty-style sound that picks you up and carries you along. And, it’s very lovely. Upon Our Knees in particular; a hook-laden round of something approaching majesty. Always a sucker for a clappy bit, too.

It may be my age (most things are at my age) but it strikes me that 17c (as they shall be known form now on; I’m sure it’ll annoy them) are still very much a young band. A damn fine one. As soon as they can break the thrall with Arcade Fire they will shape-up as something extra-special. The evidence is there in the bits they obviously like the most (and so do we).

For reasons I can’t work out, I’m about the only person who’s never seen We Were Promised Jetpacks [Solus]. Not by design, been wanting to see them for ages. And, I really enjoyed them. And that’s about it. Much as I can see the appeal of their hard angles and driving pace, I don’t really see myself seeking them out to listen to. This is purely a subjective thing for they are thoroughly enjoyable tonight and I’d like to see them again (and, no doubt will). Again, I find myself in the minority. They rock this tent and are near carried shoulder high from the place as conquering heroes.

Anyone that remembers Stiltskin should be well aware that tunes used in adverts are often no indication of how a band will be. But we head along to catch Pearl & The Puppets [Solus] in the hope of a set of quirky little songs. We get the usual singer-songwriter thing. It’s been a long day I manage about two before deciding it’s not worth me persevering. Yes feeling tike a taitor to my ITM? responsibilities I slink off to catch The Human League [Summerisle].

Dare is one of them albums (Blondie’s Parallel Lines springs to mind as another) that if you played it to anyone unfamiliar they’d assume it was a greatest hits album. It site very interestingly in the League’s works, the bit between Sheffield-bound electro pioneers and bog-standard pop band they ended up as. And, by god, it is marvelous. So, it is for the stuff off this that I’ve a hankering to catch this (no doubt) cheesy revival show.

While, yes, the Dare stuff is amazing (that verse on Open You Heart, the rap on Love Action) what really surprises me is the fact that I’m finding myself so open to the lesser stuff. Fascination gets cheered. The Lebanon (why no Louise?) gets sung along with. What we’re seeing here is an object lesson in living off your back catalogue. And the crowd are loving every minute. They’ll do an Empire State Human when the girls need a costume change. We’re pushing closer and getting more worked up. By the time Don’t You Want Me? there’s a field full of former cocktail waitresses hollering accusations.

A very welcome encore of Being Boiled followed by Electric Dreams. After which, I’m near hoarse. There aren’t superlatives for this. I’m kicking myself for not having hung about The Big Day when they played. Unexpected and monumental triumph of the festival.