As usual, we at Middle Boop are going ATP mad. Here is the second review in as many weeks for The Breeders atp.
My unwavering adulation for atp had taken a bit of a stutter in the past few months. First off the tickets for atp NY went on sale before even the curator was announced and then the poster for atp vs the fans part two was unleashed. I still have nightmares about the awfulness of the design concept for that title and artwork. A Star Wars reference? Had I really underestimated the artistic sensibilities of the average atpendee so? On top of my fears that the festival bigwigs had gone a bit off-message, when I arrived at Minehead for the Breeders-curated weekend there was a noticeable chunk of me that couldn’t help thinking I’d picked the wrong weekend, and I whinged to myself about not getting to see M83 or the Retribution Gospel Choir. Or Casiotone or Beirut or Future of the Left. And our four person chalet only had three plates. As the festival started the perennial criticism of Minehead not being as good as Camber reared its head when Giant Sand and then Throwing Muses were lost and drowned by the shit, shit, shit Pavilion stage. And the Centre stage stank of hot dogs. Fetid, fetid hot dogs.
It was seven forty-five on the Friday evening and I was beginning to feel like any fun to be had over the weekend was going to be in spite of atp rather than because of it. Of course I was wrong and it took Yann Tiersen to show me for why. The beauty of atp is the treasure hunting, the panning for gold. I had never heard of Yann Tiersen before but halfway through the set I was ready to quit my job and follow him around the World. The six person harmonies, theremin and fiddle lushness was marred only by the knowledge that they wouldn’t sound this good on record, and that to recreate the experience I would have to kidnap the whole band. A plan I seriously considered implementing.
So I was back on track. Bon Iver proved that it wasn’t the Pavilion Stage’s fault that Giant Sand were boring or that the Throwing Muses’ back catalogue is so samey by filling the space admirably, with a much more involved live sound than I was expecting.
Saturday’s highlights were Shellac, whose nine-hour rendition of End of Radio was phenomenal, and Tricky. Yes, Tricky. Possibly as a result of skewed expectations, Tricky felt surprisingly relevant to a 2009 audience. He performed with a fluid, shirtless and snake-hipped-bordering-on-scoliotic devotion to his craft that I couldn’t help wondering why he has fallen so far out of fashion. The Breeders headlined the Saturday night, opening with No Aloha which had been stuck in my head since the day I’d paid for my ticket. Kim and Kelley looked a good yard mummsier than the last time I saw them play together (at atp a full seven years earlier), and that was no bad thing. They looked like a band doing something they love, who had outgrown any affectations that may come from playing in a rock band. Being, as it is, the perfectest indie pop song of all time, Cannonball can’t quite live up to its own legend when played live. That didn’t matter though as the Deal sisters had more than enough other gems to cement together a great set in front of the sort of appreciative audience that any atp curator can expect to receive.
On Sunday Melt Banana served as my own personal cobweb extractor, Kimya Dawson twee’d herself inside out and the Foals held my attention. The last act of the festival was my second big discovery of the weekend. tUnE-yArDs (aka Merrill Garbus) was, infernal capitalisation to one side, a looping, drumming, ukulele-ing, yodelhouse of a one-woman show whom it was impossible not to believe when she told the audience that she was having the best show of her life, and the audience, clearly all loved her nearly as much as I did.
Written by
Philip Sharman
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