Miscellaneous - Camber Sands Holiday Centre, 22/4/2005-24/4/2005

  by Anthony Dhanendran

published: 24 / 4 / 2005

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Article

The Pontins resort in Camber Sands does not resemble Glastonbury, even in the rain. Driving in past the Londis mega-mart, the words "gulag" and "prison" can be overheard in the mutterings of the people who will be the resort’s residents for the next three days. All Tomorrow’s Parties will be described on Monday in 'The Daily Express' as an "ultra-hip" rock festival, in its piece devoted to the fact that – shock, horror – Yoko Ono has performed at Pontin’s, the long-time home of cheesy end-of-the-pier cabaret shows down the years. But we are getting ahead of ourselves, and Yoko isn’t on for another two days. All Tomorrow’s Parties , as every ultra-hip music fan knows, takes place on two or three weekends a year at Pontins in Camber Sands. Being in a holiday camp, with its 'chalets' providing accommodation, there’s no need for camping, or in fact for any rolling around in the mud at all. The entertainment, such as it is, takes place in the large main building in the middle of the site, which hosts three venues – the large main room which will be graced by Ms Ono, the smaller second room, and the Queen Victoria, a mock-olde-English pub tucked away in the corner. Each All Tomorrow’s Parties is "curated" by a person or a band – past hosts have included Mogwai, Shellac, Tortoise, Simpsons creator Matt Groening, and, earlier this year, Slint. It should be admitted, there was a slight sense of disappointment when All Tomorrow’s Parties announced that the curator for 2005’s second event would be self-styled film bad boy Vincent Gallo. Having made one good film in 1998’s 'Buffalo 66', Gallo proceeded to use up his Hollywood auteur-credits by making a particularly bad film, 'Brown Bunny', in 2003, as well as two albums most notable for being pretty poor as well. His festival includes a smattering of heard-it-here-first new acts, some check-this-out underrated older acts, and Yoko Ono.. Having checked in, and been directed to our chalet, which, by festival standards, isn’t bad at all, we make our way over to the main venue in time for the last few songs by I am Kloot. Possibly the most mainstream indie act on over the three-day festival, the band are on form, and Johnny Bramwell’s elegiac lyrics are a good way to ease into a weekend that promises to get more avant-garde as the days go on. A quick dash downstairs to the smaller second room (sandwiched between the amusement arcade and the fried chicken bar) exposes us to the delights of Lydia Lunch, who sounds tired and emotional, peddling her schtick. Japanese noise-terrorist Merzbow follows her on stage, and dares the audience to stick it out through an almost beat-free set of ear-bleed white noise and found sounds. It’s painful, but it’s art, which is more than can be said for what’s going on upstairs. The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion sounded brave and energetic ten years ago when they were the only band making the blues-punk noise. Now, with the whole blues-revival thing going on, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion sound tired and (whisper it) mainstream. Spencer is too much the showman, and the band seem to drifting too far into the middle of the road for them to be of interest today. Then again, perhaps it’s just that they had to start their set at 7.15, rather than a more rock and roll time of day. Afrirampo know how to drag things back into the present, kicking and screaming, throwing shapes and making unholy sounds. The Japanese girl-rock thing is fun for a few songs, and they’re better at it than the hyped-5678's, but there isn’t much of substance there, and the audience begin to drift away. They return for Peaches, the Kitty Yo ‘artist’ whose act seems to consist of talking about sex, acting out sex, and then singing about sex. It works, too. The audience is pretty much rapt, and Peaches takes the opportunity to execute a bit of neat crowd surfing, being carried aloft across half the cavernous room, on hand after raised hand. The bouncers aren’t too happy when some of the fans try to execute similar manoeuvres, and Peaches is forced to strike a deal with them from the stage before she sings any more. As her show goes on, it’s apparent that hardly anyone knows more than a couple of her songs, and most are waiting for her hit (of sorts), 'Fuck the Pain Away'. When she leaves the stage without playing it, the disappointment is palpable, but it is assuaged minutes later when she returns, to perform said hit to the cheers and yelps of a satisfied crowd. The following day begins at the decidedly un-cool time of 3pm, which sees up-and-coming noise-rockers Youthmovie Soundtrack Strategies perform to a crowded Queen Vic. With no spotlights and the weak sun attacking them through the pub’s large windows, Youthmovie Soundtrack Strategies could be forgiven for not going at this one at full pelt. They don’t let anyone down, though, performing a full set and full pace, with all the noise they can muster. First up on the main stage are Autolux who, let’s face it, sound like the Pixies. In a good way. They have the verve, they have the choppy rhythms, they have the shouts and yells, and they have the songs. They don’t have any Pixies songs, but they can’t help it. It’s a fantastic show, frankly, and they manage not to sound dated, while at the same time closely resembling one of the bands that defined the 1990's in America. Buck 65 has been to the UK quite a few times over the last few years, bringing his unique charms to ever-wider audiences. His act consists of rapping over pre-prepared beats, occasionally scratching records on the one turntable by his side. It sounds like a recipe for disaster, and would be if it wasn’t for the fact that his beats are superb, his voice has enough of the old-West preacher about it to be able to sustain your attention, and his lyrics are, well, interesting. They veer from almost nonsensical whimsy about how to tie a shoelace to profound (well, as profound as you can get while it’s still light outside) musings on the meaning of life. It’s captivating. In a cruel piece of scheduling for the hip-hop-heads, Money Mark and Kid Koala are on downstairs straight after Buck 65 finishes. Mark is all effortless Californian cool, while Kid Koala is still one of the world’s best turntablists, even when the rest of the world is no longer looking at turntablism. It’s a dirty word, almost, conjuring up images of geeks in bedrooms poring over obscure breaks, as far from hip-hop as you can get. And this isn’t really hip-hop, but it is good music. Kid Koala uses samples and scratching as a tool to create soundscapes, stories and new songs – his opening gambit is a plaintive, scratchy and affecting reworking of 'Moon River'. After Mark and the Kid, it’s time for Vincent to take the stage, and he’s brought a friend along. Sean Lennon, son of John and Yoko, was regarded as being distinctly un-cool throughout most of the 1990s, but he’s been undergoing something of a renaissance over the last few years. Tonight, he and Vincent perform a series of acoustic and lo-fi tracks that aren’t all that bad, to be honest. They just aren’t that captivating, particularly with a pounding bass-beat coming through the floor from the room above. John Foxx, formerly of Ultravox, could almost be the joker in tonight’s pack. His set consists of several hi-NRG numbers that are probably better suited to a club. It’s hard to know what to make of him – what people there are seem to be enjoying it, and there is a hardcore of Ultravox groupies furiously getting down at the front, but most seem bewildered by the performance. From the ridiculous to the sublime, Polly Jean Harvey takes the stage once Foxx has finished with it. She informs the crowd that she’s nervous, because this is the first solo gig she’s played in 12 years. She needn’t have worried – her name was enough of a draw for most people, and it’s pretty much a home crowd tonight. She plays songs from throughout her career, and the set is undeniably good. Harvey is a performer on top of her craft. Some of the newer material, which was clearly written with a band in mind, doesn’t come off quite so well when performed by one woman on her own, and it helps in those cases to already be familiar with the songs. But all in all, this would be a fine way to end the evening. That’s not quite it, though – there is still Suicide. And downstairs there’s John Frusciante, the Red Hot Chilli Peppers guitarist, whose solo albums are fairly decent. On stage, though, he can’t seem to shake off the ghost of Chilli Peppers singer Anthony Kiedis, which hangs around him Jacob Marley-style, shaking his chains at Frusciante and forcing him to sound like a second-rate funk-rocker. But back to Suicide, “one of the most innovative and influential acts ever”, according to the press release. While that may be a little over the top, there’s no denying that Suicide have certainly influenced more than one generation of musicians. Tonight, though, they’re a bit of a novelty act. Alan Vega looks a bit too much like Roy Orbison for his own good, but their stage posturing is impressive and a bit threatening. Between that and the music, which is a run through their material down the years, they are quite an act. It’s still a bit like watching an aged member of your family – a talented one, nonetheless – prancing around on a stage. Sunday’s line-up, which started off promising not very much, turns out to be the highlight of the festival. Jazz old-timer Ted Curson’s song 'Tears for Dolphy', appeared on the soundtrack to Vincent Gallo’s 'Brown Bunny', but we mustn’t hold that against him. The tribute to jazz legend Eric Dolphy is the highlight of a revelatory set, in which Curson plants his feet firmly in trad jazz while remaining just free enough to make the set fascinating. Three trumpets by his side, he introduces himself as “Ted Curson, the bad mo’fucker,” and heads straight on in. Upstairs at the same time Jayne County, who was famously formerly Wayne, brings her deranged country rock to the main stage. Like the Blues Explosion, though, it’s an idea whose time has come. Although, talking to jaded old-time scenesters who were there when Jayne was peddling the same deal round London’s punk clubs, “she was always crap”. So maybe nothing has changed. She seems very fond of Vincent, though. Back downstairs another highlight of the day, the superbly named Gang Gang Dance, are setting up. They play a set of gloriously punky world music set to a new wave beat, with a few synths and electronic effects thrown in for good measure. Their recordings have had mixed reviews in their native America, but the live performance is altogether more impressive. They tend to go on a bit, admittedly, and more than once the band don’t seem to know how to finish a song. But once they get going and before they run out of steam, it’s a sight and sound to behold. The Magik Markers, on after Ganf Ganf Dance, attempt the sultry, punky girl-act so beloved of Courtney Love, but, having little in the way of charisma, the lead singer just comes across as spectacularly petulant. It’s not a pretty sight, and it’s a reminder that if you’re going to do the punk diva thing, you’d better know how to play first. This band don’t. Prefuse 73 manages to rescue things in impressive style – with ten people on stage at times, and a pair of drummers up front, Scott Herren’s band shocks some of the crowd, who were expecting a laid-back electronic affair, but instead are served up a slice of live funk and hip-hop. It’s quite different to Herren’s recorded music, much more lively and much more soulful. It still captures the essence of Prefuse 73’s albums, but the electronic experimentation from the records is transformed into confident, cocksure live hip-hop. While it’s all going on on the second stage, upstairs things are drawing to a close in a more sedate manner. Well, after James Chance has finished, anyway. James Chance and the Contortions have been playing since the late 1970's – at one point Chance was a member of Lydia Lunch’s Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. His sound melds free jazz with the punk ethos that was shaking New York when he first arrived there nearly 30 years ago. You wouldn’t know from his set that he’s been doing this that long – it sounds fresh and youthful, and wouldn’t be out of place on a punk bill in this day and age, although the sax-playing might get him some funny looks. Finally, the moment no-one has been waiting for, when Yoko Ono comes on to close the show. She’s being backed by Gallo, Sean and Frusciante – a supergroup of sorts, at least. Few people in the crowd are particularly interested, and most seem to be there solely to see what the grande dame of avant-garde art and music can pull out of the hat at the age of 71. The crowd’s expectations are not subverted, however – Ono performs a strange and largely tuneless act that seems to consist largely of squawks and a few sung bits. It’s certainly listenable, but it’s not particularly grabbing, either as a gig, or as the theatrical piece it’s meant to be. Some of the trickle of unimpressed people heading out of the back doors is diverted back into the second room, where old All Tomorrow’s Parties hands Belle and Sebastian (or at least, members thereof) are supposed to be playing records. Instead of them is a sign on the stage, informing punters that Youthmovie Soundtrack Strategies will be coming on at midnight. They don’t disappoint – having played a pretty good set in the pub yesterday afternoon, they are in their element playing to a nighttime crowd of revellers. Word has clearly got around, because the place is packed by the time they take the stage. It’s the same set, roughly, as yesterday’s, taking in ear-bleed metal and, well, ear-bleed metal. By the end, ears are duly ringing and the crowd reluctantly makes its way back to the chalets, to prepare for Monday morning’s early start. Predictably, when Monday comes around, it’s raining, having stayed pretty much dry until Sunday night. If not the perfect end to a festival, it certainly suits the surroundings. For their part, the staff of Pontins, impressively, take the whole thing in their stride, as if it’s perfectly normal for hordes of music fans to descend on the place for the weekend. “I don’t mind it, really,” says the lady in Londis. “I didn’t think much of Yoko Ono, though.”

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