RIGHT ON TIME?
He’s a 21st Century Boy, but at by:Larm’s opening night Wyndham Wallace tumbles back in time…
So it’s true that outside the main by:Larm tent there was a giant screen ticking off the seconds until the start of 2010’s official music programme like some Cape Canaveral countdown, but I swear I walked in on foot. And yet, within minutes of The Megaphonic Thrift taking the stage, I’m looking for my silver De Lorean time machine. I feel like Marty McFly, blasted back in time to emerge in a familiar landscape that is still somehow alien. There are no fiery tyre trails behind me, and no madcap scientists played by Christopher Lloyd anywhere in sight, but this has to be the late 1980s, surely? Isn’t it?
ARSEQUAKE EXPLOSION
The Megaphonic Thrift trade in the kind of alternative indie rock that, back in the day, was comically known as “arsequake”. They arrive on stage carrying a metaphorical crate of records under their arm: Sonic Youth’s ‘Daydream Nation’, Dinosaur Jr.’s ‘Freakscene’ on coloured vinyl, My Bloody Valentine’s ‘Loveless’ turned up to 11. Like fellow by:Larm hopefuls Serena Maneesh, they’ve immersed themselves in what some would call the last gasp of genuine independent music, a time when experimentation didn’t stand in the way of marketing, a time when noise was medication for the mind. They’ve got a singer who’s perfected that trademark Thurston Moore “I’m-so-excited-that-I-just-can’t-hide-it-and-yet-I’ll-try” yelp, occasional female vocals from a Kim Gordon mimic, blurrily distorted guitars gliding over thunderous drums, and a finale which involves swinging their guitars round their heads before leaving the stage bathed in two minutes of howling feedback. It’s tremendous stuff, a suitably impressive beginning to three days of music, but it’s the end of the first decade of the 21st Century. Isn’t it?
Apparently not. Bergen’s The New Wine may not have been souping up their guitar pedals like Kevin Shields’ life depended upon it, but they too seem trapped in the 80’s, their tunes bringing to mind the likes of both China Crisis and Hall & Oates. There’s nothing wrong with that, some might argue, but the Erlend Øye endorsed four piece lack a little of the prerequisite soul necessary to carry it off. Their beats are funky and yet they drag their heels, as though they’ve worked out the formula but not how to put it into practise. The crowd are dancing, but somehow The New Wine make The Whitest Boy Alive seem rather tanned in comparison.
THE DATA TODAY
Datarock, on the other hand, seem to know exactly what they’re doing. Mere minutes into their set – minutes almost drowned out by the frantic screams of the fans packing out the front rows – they’ve hauled out a saxophone, and yet this terrifying indication that the 80s revival is picking up speed is in fact inspired. They draw on the same influences that James Murphy’s DFA Records have so radically overhauled, and like LCD Soundsystem’s simian cousins they know exactly how to throw down a party: rolling basslines, four to the floor beats, and a bare-chested tambourine player concluding their set by crowd surfing through the tent. (You didn’t get that with Spandau Ballet!) Like council estate superheroes, they’re still wearing the same tracksuits that they paraded at by:Larm in Trondheim three years ago – it’s a wonder we can’t smell them from the back, to be honest – but their schtick seems in little danger of getting tired, and it’s a mystery why they’ve not achieved greater international success. Someone, somewhere, has a duty to put that right.
WATCH ME
Casiokids give away their 80s inclinations before they’ve even taken the stage. Their name speaks of digital watches and cheesy keyboards, and their music lifts from early house and techno with the minimum of fuss. But they make it their own, adding vocals whose ghostly falsetto recalls Sigur Ros’ Jonsi, a sprinkling of Afrobeat, and – obviously – four dancing bears whose hallucinogenic presence suggests that there’s acid in the beer as well as on the stage. One song, I’m reliably informed, is a love song sung in Bergen dialect to a pet dog. It makes perfect sense in any language.
CUM ON FEEL THE BOYZ
If you lived through the 1980s the first time it’s often hard to take this revivification of that era terribly seriously, but tonight’s final act are far from a joke. This is important because the messily named Cumshots are fronted by Kristopher Schau, comedian and TV host, and it’s initially hard to know whether this is one of his jokes. But five albums in it would be a joke that’s wearing thin, and no one finds this funny. That’s because The Cumshots take themselves very seriously indeed, and rightly so. Schau has perfected that death metal roar pioneered by the likes of Napalm Death, and his band tear the tent at least a dozen new arseholes. They’ve got manically nihilist lyrics – “Fuck you all” appears to be the chorus to an early tune, while they finish with the entire audience singing along to “Why Drink Alone?” – and they rock so heavily that the tent sinks at least three feet into Youngstorget. Schau launches himself around the stage between cowboy-hatted musicians, pouring bottles of water over his head, eating his microphone, stripping down to reveal the massive “Guilty” tattoo that straddles his back, roaring into the audience’s faces from the photographer’s pit. It’s hardly original, but it’s breathtaking in its intensity, and after a night of 80s inspired nostalgia it feels good to be brought kicking, screaming and bleeding back into the 21st Century. It’s hard to know whether the gradual thinning of the audience is due to the need to work in the morning or simple, instinctive fear, but no one’s going to forget the night The Cumshots got in their face. Back to the future at last…
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