So it’s safe to say Richard Ashcroft had a questionable time at this year’s Splendour in the Grass festival. Going head to head with Pixies was always going to be about as appealing as deep vein thrombosis. But evidently being sideshafted to headline the third stage, also up against local boys Empire of the Sun and their feathered headresses, was too much for the ‘Mad One’ who stormed abruptly offstage during United Nations of Sounds’ first song, leaving bewildered bandmates and fans in his wake. The story from those in the know is that Ashcroft’s voice died halfway through ‘Are You Ready?’ causing him to abdicate him frustration. But the pure diva-ness of the situation suggests to us that it was more to do with a small turnout and his placing on the lineup. Whatever the case though, the stunt ensured he was the only thing anyone talked about the ride home, upstaging Francis Black and co after all. You devil you Richard.
However some bands did turn up. The Joy Formidable break the morning calm by destroying our ears early-on with their heavy slabs of fuzzy rock and huge soaring choruses, while in contrast, School of Seven Bells gracefully weave shimmering intricacies inside the Mixup tent. ‘Windstorm’ and ‘Half Asleep’ stand out from the wooze and fug, but at times their ethereal nuances do seem to amalgamate into one.
The real bastard though is choosing between Yeasayer and Foals who pose an excruiating clash. We opt for Yeasayer on the amphitheatre-style main stage, and they don’t let us down, ending their set with a technicolour double of ‘O.N.E’s and ‘Ambling Alp’s giddy tribal rythmns in the blistering sunshine.
Later Hot Chip‘s geek-electrofunk slays a crowd that spills out of the tent and stretches across to nearby food stalls. They’ve been touring Australia with LCD Soundsystem who take to the stage after them. But whereas Hot Chip warm our hearts with the stratospheric choruses of ‘I Feel Better’ and ‘Over and Over’, James Murphy eschews interaction to fuck with our retinas in an hypnotic, blinding hot-white set including the fizzing ‘All My Friends’, the restless groove of ‘Daft Punk is Playing At My House’ and a skittering ‘Drunk Girls’.
Saturday, and proceedings are focused inevitably and entirely on one band. Beforehand though, Florence Welch puts ‘shouty’ memories of Latitude behind her with a note-perfect performance. In the UK her bohemian schtick may be well and truly worn however the Aussies are absolutely enchanted; with so many people turning up that the festival organisers have to get the police in to control the crowds.
But as her bird cages and flower pots are steadily replaced by speaker stacks and The Strokes saunter onstage and break into the frazzled bounce of ‘New York City Cops’ with more vigour and ferocity than they’ve had in years, the main arena literally goes into orbit. Body parts are strewn across the field during a greatest hits set that could make grown men weep and in fact … it does. ‘Soma’, ‘Someday’, ‘You Only Live Once’ and ‘Last Night’ are thrown triumphantly and nonchantly out by the band, fully aware of the batshit effect they have. And at last they truly seem to be enjoying themselves, feeding off mutual energy – hell they’re even smiling at each other. Mr Eavis – take note for next year please.
Sunday though brings the most drama. Early on, Surfer Blood are a mashup of Vampire Weekend meets Weezer jukebox-diner anthems while We Are Scientists prove why after two rather poor albums we still love them. They joke about Prince of Persia-style spikes at the bottom of the ampitheatre hill and demonstrate how the rabid dancefloor edge of ‘Inaction’, ‘The Great Escape’ and ‘Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt’ could get the legs of a waxwork moving. Ash haven’t released an album since 2007 and their set is very much geared towards oldies like ‘Oh Yeah’ and ‘Girl From Mars’. But it’s like eating your mam’s Sunday dinner for the first time in ages and realising you’d forgetten how great it tasted.
How a band who sound like they’ve been named after a fucking bakery and who released the most snoozetastic similar-sounding, coffee table folk album of 2009 managed to bag the honour of opening for Pixies is unfathomable. Yet Mumford and Sons are here and they’ve also drawn one of the biggest crowds of the entire weekend. The mind boggles.
But while Richard Ashcroft is taking a quick sharp harp across the site, Pixies are working their way through a shitload of songs from ‘Doolittle’. ‘Debaser’, ‘Wave of Mutilation’, ‘Here Comes Your Man’… they’re all here and like, awesome…but as the band conclude on the obligatory ‘Where Is My Mind?’ maybe it was more a case of where the fuck were Pixies? Francis Black can still shriek like a cat being ironed but there’s a distinct sense that the band are just going through the motions here, seeming bored and offering either tired banter or none at all. On the other hand, they could have rocked up, kicked your girlfriend in the fanny and played 3OH3! covers and we’d have still lapped it up. It’s Pixies for Christ’s sake. Ashcroft, consider yourself shamed.
Words by Dannii Leivers
