Latitude 2007 - Immersed In The Music

Like a tramp in a tea shop, we will pillage the sweetest delicacies, or more likely just scrabble for the closest bun, in the knowledge that this is not Branson’s V, this is not a lineup crafted out of placating every person, it a bold list that defines the state of music in 2007.

Music aside, the effort and attention to detail, not only demonstrated in the line-up is mirrored in the beautiful surroundings. It couldn’t be touched, it wouldn’t be dreamt and is the most magical site to embrace such an event.
  
'Electroma', Daft Punk's second stab (or maybe ‘poke’ adjectifies the pretentious drab a little more effectively) at cinematic glory is the basis for the early mornings witterings. Having witnessed it last night in one of the tents, the general consensus is that its overblown egotism that should be transferred to their records instead of them fannying about with cameras. Get back to your day job boys!

Musically, The Kissaway Trail are our first port of call on the main stage and these five Danish lads aren’t half bad, mixing Americana with Mercury Rev may stand them in good sted. It certainly does them more favours than the MOR drivel eminating from Grace playing the Uncut stage.  Two Gallants open with the glorious ‘Seems Like Home To Me’, perfectly poised between an unplugged Cobain and a Gaelic Jig, an anthem. Tipped with Adam Stephens' bottled aggression their opening gambit is a great introduction, shame it all turns into a Morris dancers ball towards the end. 

The Magic Numbers as always, end with their own inane hoedown, but thankfully demonstrate how they managed (albeit for a short period) to win praise at both ends of the music spectrum. 'I See You, You See Me' is particularly special, with Angela’s angelic intonation and its wonder why it never peaked at number 1. One band we love to hate are New Young Pony Club, who headline the Sunrise Arena (undoubtedly the most beautiful stage ever created) with their kitch nasal drawlings. However Tahita’s balls out performance and the shamelessly addictive 'Ice Cream' cant be ignored. Which is more than can be said for main stage headliner Damien Rice, who is better left to his lily little ways.

Day two kicks off with the disturbingly offensive Sarah Millican who’s cutesy face defies her want for rape, yes that’s right…oh and sex with gorillas. The buzz and frenzy surrounding Seasick Steve stinks of media hyperbole but the old hobo plays blues in the most dextrous and articulate way. His funky deep-south mumblings feasibly conceal his true identity, but this is one tramp you’d not avoid on your way home.

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah are an acquired taste, indeed the Brussel Sprout of Latitude. Those with young, malleable minds will learn to love such a thing, however, those without will continually moan and gripe about frontman Alec Ounsworth's incessant whine or the band's inability to conform to an immediate pop-tune. To be honest on first inspection they are a difficult prospect, but as Alec’s voice begins to calm and the band deliver the cathartic party of ‘Satan, Say Dance’ and the timeless sway of ‘The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth’ a slight murmur of appreciation begins to absolve some of the detractors.

Expectancy is high as ms petite chunky Lovefoxxx of CSS takes to the stage in a multi-layered leotard. Its not the best performance and in parts comes across a tad contrived with routines and a small scale party that doesn’t quite transfer to a main stage. Fun yes, but all a little bananarama, which is a far cry from tonights headliners. For a band who are yet to publicly name themselves and are far removed from the two outputs of their visionary master (if Albarn could be titled as such), The Good The Bad And The Queen have, in their primal years, received more praise and aplomb than when Tetris first broke. Tonight, the 'supergroup' deliver their ambient, lush soundscapes with great verve. Maybe its the sardonic wit of Albarn, or Simonon’s presence that defines the importance of the Good The Bad and The Queen, or maybe its just the former's alchemic touch.

Latitude’s final day is where the real meat is. Kicking off with The National, a band much banded about but never witnessed, they're one we’re unlikely to miss again. Swathes of Interpol decked in the eclectic shuffle of British Sea Power, these honorary New Yorkers are brilliantly astute and have the tunes to back it up, one band that we are late to jump onto their wagon but more than happy to take the ride with. The assent of Cold War Kids has been a turbulent one. Any band who embarrassingly release a single uncountable times must be missing something, yet one listen to ‘Hang me Out to Dry’ will have scenesters hooked. So whats gone wrong? Certainly not todays performance which is both edgy and uplifting. Previous occasions they’ve tended to slip into piano led Starsailor-esque balladry but today they sound awesome.

The mid afternoon dance slot is filled by more NYC boys The Rapture, who are the best DFA has to offer. Latest and arguably greatest singles ‘First Gear’ and the smarting ‘Pieces Of The People We Love’ are perfect pinches of their androgynous rock. Since Jarvis has pulled his pop Pulp pants up and gone solo he has become a little ball-ache. Spending the majority of the night chatting shit to a largely impatient crowd is hardly a way to follow the upbeat Rapture, but he does and he does it badly.

The essence of Latitude is embodied in who are described, and rightly so, as the greatest band in the world today, Arcade Fire. Anyone who hasn’t been infected by their gothic pop must be practically dead and their live performances are something to be marvelled at. Tonight, the energy is there but something seems lacking. Maybe it’s the back breaking touring schedule or the complacency towards adoration, but the sense is they're firing on half cylinders. Maybe its our fault, the crowd were unable to lift the performance above average, but that’s just what it is… average. Still the crux of any Arcade performance is borne out in the Rebellion / Power Out medley, which as always touches the viewer in awkward places.

Latitude. It’s the location, the people, the ambience, but fundamentally it’s the music that holds this festival head, shoulders and hips above any other. Latitude, if this is what year two feels like, lets not change.

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