End Of The Road 2007

United Kingdom | by Daniel Pratley | 19 September 2007

The UK festival scene is somewhat overcrowded. From the eclectic (Bestival), to the musically appeasing (V Festival), some would say we have it all, including both quality (Latitude) and quantity (Glastonbury). So the introduction of one more ‘boutique’ festival into an already bulbous calendar could be seen as tiptoeing on someone else's lawn.

Yet one festival last year managed to eclipse all others by a bespoke lineup aimed at the passionate, quaint surroundings, and retentive detailing even Latitude would applaude. End of The Road was born. The festival with character.

The Larmer Tree Gardens provide the backdrop, an ‘Alice in Wonderland’ warren of hedged coves and twinkling passes, nestled amongst the Dorset downs, its certainly not the dusty arena of Reading. But alas, it’s the music we’re here for, nae the peacocks, nor the parrots and the pagoda’s.

First up on Friday is Stephanie Dosen, clearly inebriated by the subtle surroundings, or more likely one dragon short of a pie, she proceeds to tie herself in illogical quandaries, such as the existence of ‘StoneHedge’ and the like. Her ditsy ‘clueless’ demeanor isn’t transposed musically, where her grand Beth Orton style folk is mildly palatable.

A world away from miss Dosen, is Scout Niblett. Those expecting a cute little ‘Scout’ are greeted with a greased up tense ridden Niblett, a scary Niblett, an aggressive Niblett, not really what the name suggests, but great viewing. She’s overtly mental, but manages to channel all psychosis vocally, like a Cat Power for the out-patients, she can delicately plicate whilst still hinting at torture.

Saturday offers a less serious tone, and first to battle the balloons are Sweden’s Im From Barcelona. A brash blend of bizarre pop and comic genius, this rabble are an instant hit and pick up where they left off here last year, kicking off with the playground ‘anthem’ of ‘I Have Built a Tree House’, a childish chant that’s infectiously stupid. New single ‘Britney’ is Polyphonic Spree in temper, and paints them in more serious hues whilst still managing to tackle the ridiculousness of Spears’ downfall in a fun, cringey yet contagious way.

Which is more than can be said of The Concretes. Once a great force in the folky-pop world the Swedes have taken somewhat of a nose-dive since the departure of Victoria Bergsman, chief loon with the voice of an angel. Inevitable really, since it was her ethereal delivery that stabilised The Concretes as one of the greatest. Thankfully they choose only to butcher one old track. Maybe butcher is a little extreme? but what they have become is a lesson in mediocrity, and prove that their essence was in Bergsman.

Like so many ‘folk’ artists the temptation to inflate songs live is often too strong, and King Creosote is no exception. Ever the excitable child, Kenny leaps and bounds stage front and predominantly showcases tracks off his newly released album. But as always ‘KC Rules’ (his definitive album) rears for ‘6,7,8’ which is the King at his most delicate and touching. Watching Kenny in full band flow makes you realise how little his vocals need accompaniment. Less in this case is certainly more.

Saturdays headliners are the terminally productive Super Fury Animals, who, after their flirt with the majors, are back with album number 8 ‘Hey Venus!’ on the more suitable base of Rough Trade. As with the majority of Furry albums its received rapturous reviews, and their brand of psychobilly-pop will forever hold credence amongst both the casual and fanatical music lover. But tonight things are slightly amiss. Gruff appears awkward and nonplussed by both the surroundings and the performance, which in turn is reflected in the crowd. Where once they would have crowned anthemic sets, classics like ‘God Show Me Magic’ and the cyberbabble of ‘Ice Hockey Hair’ are somewhat lost in the leaden atmosphere. It’s a shame, and what's more the extra hour put aside for an encore is left as hollow as the set.

Sunday see’s California’s Port O’Brian take to the Garden stage with their eclectic musings. They're far from amazing but they do gamely attempt both sea-shanty style acoustica like opener ‘Five and Dime’, and a more grandiose Arcade Fire style cacophony, which we have to say stacks up weakly to the former. Maybe we've been expecting too much of artists to bare their soul openly with our E.O.T.R community, and deliver stripped down warblings worthy of their surroundings. Instead they do the reverse and beef up delicate tunes, into fleshy dynamics that draw from their original waif like intentions, and with that we feel a little cheated.

Nowhere more so is this apparent than with Jeffrey Lightning Lewis who, since his halcyon days of ‘The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane’, has employed a full band, cut his hair, and evidently swapped his urchin image for a more clean-cut approach. On the upside, there are moments of pure perfection, particularly the awe inducing 'Williamsburg Will Oldham Horror', where Jeff (alone with acoustic) rambles at rapid rate a drawn-out tail of woe in the most poetic and sardonic tone. Performance of the weekend is amicably split between the darkened drone of Archie Bronson Outfit who manage to offer respite from acoustic exaggeration, particularly with the pulsing ‘Dart For my Sweetheart’, and the rabid dog blues of Seasick Steve, who never fails to impress even if it is his 10th time festival appearance this year.

If its a painless festival. Without the pints of piss, without the endless treck between stages, the queues for bars and toilets, End Of The Road has no comparison. It’s a perfect festival in a multitude of ways, yet this time round the ambience and the setting seem to have suppressed the music by shear beauty and intimacy. It’s a difficult backdrop to bury, but surely there's bands out there capable of the task. Festival of the year 2006, setting of the year 2007.