Dogsbody’s SoundCloud.

The post First Transmission: Dogsbody, Let It Die. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

If Arctic Monkeys somewhat disregard their audience, then unlike an improbably prompt Axl Rose, Lana Del Rey disrespects hers altogether the following evening, arriving 30 late for what is billed as a 75-minute set. “Fucking up big time,” indeed. It’s so poor – deplorably so – and she’s forced to cut away what few hits she has as her hair has ostensibly “take[n] so long to do.” Or her stylist got delayed. Or she was still in a huff for not topping the Pyramid. Or something… there’s always something with Lana, and will be until the music takes precedence over the surface aesthetic. Her “rush[ed]”, belated and ultimately curtailed time, which goes up in a plume of e-cig vapour, may not be the high drama she is shooting for but turns out to be highly dramatic all the same, and the dissonance between a committed a cappella Video Games and deserved booing rounds Saturday out in surreal fashion. The following evening, meanwhile, witnesses Queens Of The Stone Age fit their billing. “We have been hired to come here on Sunday, and give you all a fucking night you’ll never remember” quips Homme, admittedly more a merely bad arse of a bloke nowadays (with the questionable goatee to confirm it) than the ‘badass’ he’s been seen as for aeons. But they make for a memorable finale in exhuming much from Songs For the Deaf – No One Knows may well be the feel-good hit of this particular summer bash – as they seesaw from the serrated (Song For the Dead) to the smoother, more soothing end of other releases (Make It Wit Chu). Fresher cuts severed from this month’s In Times New Roman… (namely Carnavoyeur and Paper Machete) slot in neatly between these two extremities of the discography, although there remains an enviably liverish volatility to everything they do. A true show from a true showman in all honesty, even if ‘the art’ does need disentangling from ‘the artist’ needless to say.

Elsewhere, would-be and have-been headliners Foo Fighters have very much lost the art of keeping a secret, and turn up as ‘The Churnups’ to rip through the likes of All My Life and Learn to Fly. “You guys fuckin’ knew it was us this whole time,” Dave Grohl yowls and sure enough, a tweet from a few weeks ago extinguished any dimly smouldering hopes for Blur, Pulp, or any other resurrected ‘Britpop’ outfit. As has always been their way, though, they’re at their best when tapping into a more emotive vein, and there are glimmers of shoegaze greats hidden within Show Me How (featuring a star turn from Grohl’s daughter, Violet, in Hope Sandoval mode) while a closing, lachrymose Everlong is dedicated to the departed Taylor Hawkins. Which strikes a resonant [power] chord.

However, with those heading things up not really bringing a musical heat to match that which hums around Worthy Farm for so much of the weekend, it’s left to others that little bit lower down to hit some higher notes. Few do so as sumptuously as Jacob Lusk, whose Gabriels stitch together strings, classic soul tones, and style – Lusk sports the least-sighted black cloak, kilt, bowtie and waistcoat combo. Comparably black-clad in spite of the sweltering climes are Pale Waves, whose set is bookended by Lies and Jealousy – the pop-punk high points of yesteryear’s superlative Unwanted full-length. More from said release would have been most welcome, although Heather Baron-Gracie’s vocal – equivalent parts Avril Lavigne and Dolores O’Riordan – carries prior singles Eighteen and Kiss consummately.

Polymathic landed gent Fred again.. conversely shoehorns various conversations with acquaintances and sometime associates (such as 070 Shake, The Blessed Madonna, and Delilah Montagu) into his hour in front of an enormous mob, bringing a post-Bicep, pandemic-indebted ‘hype beast’-meets-‘softboi’ vibe to proceedings. His shtick can be a touch one-note though, and while the likes of Delilah (pull me out of this) and Marea (We’ve Lost Dancing) are self-evidently infectious, it’s telling that his biggest of beats comes from Moderat’s seminal canon.

From that of Max Richter, the esteemed composer flicks through The Blue Notebooks (2004), accompanied on The Park Stage by a string quintet and Tilda Swinton in a cloudless Uranian two-piece suit. Partly inspired by Kafka’s The Blue Octavo Notebooks, and in protestant response to the Iraq War, it was certainly worth setting an alarm for as elegiac keys complement plaintive violins, distant synths drift in and out, and more focal, warbling organs feature. A masterpiece of modern classical music, it’s brought to morning light beautifully, and vivifies more effectively than any coffee (plus associated queueing time) ever could.

Necessarily renamed as a stage and rejuvenated as a general area, ‘Woodsies’ springs to real life on Saturday, as Wunderhorse gallop through a grungy stint with a four-pronged musical proficiency matched by few throughout the weekend. Jacob Slater’s vocal occasionally recalls that of Jimi Goodwin, but their sound harks back more vividly to the time of Sub Sub than Doves, firmly rooted in an American ’90s. It’s Leader of the Pack which Ronseals it, even with the odd note of chicken pickin’ à la Sweet Home Alabama, before a new one named Superman hints at a widening of their sound and expanding of potential scope. A wild ride, but less so than the subsequent Working Men’s Club, as Syd Minsky-Sargeant’s band of sullen allies utterly bludgeon through the mangled acidity of Valleys; the ascending, synthesised maelstroms of 19; the throbbing, grizzled Mark E. Smithery of Teeth. They’re a breath of freshest air on a day of still, close heat; albeit one which was first kicked up and spat out long before Minsky-Sargeant’s d.o.b.

But The Park calls and masses respond, as Jockstrap belt up. I Love You Jennifer B is one of, if not the album of this year thus far, and Georgia Ellery and Taylor Skye have little trouble in translating its merits to the stage. Dressed in gold, it’s the former who makes it, floating atop a distorted, trashed drum track on Neon, strapping on an acoustic for a joyous Glasgow, and grabbing a violin – a busman’s holiday of sorts – for the transcendent ending to Concrete Over Water. Her onstage fluidity is their greatest strength, and her voice never better than on Greatest Hits, but Skye’s productional nous – taking cues from PC Music, and transposing these from esoteric curios to eminently accessible, electronically altered pop – is similarly remarkable. A new one, Red Eye, may lean too much into gimmickry, as Skye contorts and warps Ellery’s largely imperceptible lyrics of “plastic dishes” and “four eggs in a big, black frying pan” over rudimentary Aphex Twinned squelching, but it’s a sole misstep before 50/50 brings everybody 100% back on board. A blinding, golden moment.

Back in the tented shade of Woodsies, shame are having theirs in the proverbial sun too. Charlie Steen is surfing the throng – as is so often his wont – when he clocks a pink acoustic, takes it away with him, and duly obliterates the thing once returned to the photo pit. It’s quite the sight to match the more chaotic Food for Worms, from which Fingers of Steel is the highlight. That same decapitated headstock is later toted like some totemic shrunken head in what little pit there is for a visceral Faster, the Manic Street Preachers mercifully reincorporating chapters and verses from The Holy Bible into their setlist. More surprising still is the return of 1985 from chronically neglected 2004 full-length Lifeblood, a long-overdue reissue of which is, at long bloody last, mooted.

‘Muted’ is certainly not an adjective you’d deploy while discussing Måneskin, although their rendition of Beggin’ is one you’d dial right down to zero given half a chance. But they go full tilt and, for Eurovision and/ or X Factor alumni or otherwise, I’ve got to say they’re immensely entertaining. It may be lyrically vapid, the posturing contrived and the profanities frequent, but they’re visibly not bothered about public opinion. And when taken at face value – not something I would dream of paying away from a festival setting, their 60 minutes seem to evaporate. Additionally, it’s I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE which I have stuck on repeat in what little is left of my brain on the drive home come Monday. Zitti? Not so much, but buoni? Much more so than anticipated.

As is a seemingly ageless Sophie Ellis-Bextor, who bashes out timeless classics between aptly mumsy patter as a number of her brood watch on proudly from the side of the stage. But it’s her own (or those she was at least involved in) which shine brighter than any sequinned garb or cover version, with Groovejet (If This Ain’t Love) – now a vintage 23-year-old disco-gilded Boeing of a thing, showing precious little wear and tear – and a concluding, gyrating Murder On the Dancefloor her enduring finest.

There’s a reassuring constancy to Ellis-Bextor, but the same cannot be said about Black Country, New Road’s path thus far. More turbulent than any whiz on Concorde ever was, they’ve lost Isaac Wood and with that, his quick wit, wry quips and, most importantly, his songs. A radically different band operating under the same moniker therefore, it seems an odd decision to stick with it. Up Song, with its capricious saxophonic motif, appears to reference his departure, as Tyler Hyde opens: “Look at what we did together,” before a reprised choral refrain of “look at what we did together/ BC, NR friends forever” rings out. Musically, it’s slightly ‘Glee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra’ with instruments chopped and lead vocalists changed from one song to the next, and ultimately lacks the more erratic timbre of either Ants From Up There or For the First Time. (A compare-and-contrast would of course be completely pointless, were it not for the name.) Ellery also feels underused in light of her golden hour the day before, with her restrained Horses among the better numbers. Hints of sardonic humour do remain, Lewis Evans preceding the uncharacteristically peppy Across the Pond Friend with the witticism: “My name’s Alex from Glasto, and this song’s called Thiago Silva.” But they’re too few, with too far between, even if Nancy Tries to Take the Night – akin to a concertinaed Music for 18 Musicians – implies brighter post-Wood work is still to come.

Given that Slowdive’s perceived heydays were decades ago, kisses – from a forthcoming fifth album, everything is alive – suggests they’ve a whole load still to give. Alas, it’s a lone new one, although the delay-laden Souvlaki Space Station and a driven When the Sun Hits provide astral highs all the same. It may not quite be all-change for Alison Goldfrapp either, but without the otherwise ever-present Will Gregory, début solo album The Love Invention hears her throw it right back to the hyper-polished synth-pop of Black Cherry, Supernature or, more recently, Head First. She doesn’t look to have aged a day in the intervening time, and the 57-year-old is positively immaculate in every sense. She pleases with a few hits sprinkled in (a strictly motorik Ride a White Horse gets us into the groove, while Strict Machine bucks right back and forth), but she needn’t as solo material is (whisper it) among her strongest material to date. Digging Deeper is as well suited to Ibiza as Berlin, and should be played daily and nightly across both for the foreseeable, while a one-two of In Electric Blue and So Hard So Hot goes to show that Goldfrapp is as finely attuned to and in tune with heartfelt balladry as she is foot-stomping pump-and-thrust. A real, and really underrated, national treasure.

The best may be saved for (second to) last though, as Caroline Polachek’s show – played out before a puffing volcanic cut-out, in reference to a magnificent Smoke – is just like perfection, needs no correction, proves absolutely flawless, and so on. Boasting the sort of production that’s rarely seen beyond the Pyramid, it’s a supreme left-of-centre performance: her choreography is iconic, while her voice gymnastically scales the uppermost echelons of the tent effortlessly to extend above and beyond. More importantly, she has the songs to match and much like Jockstrap, eccentric production is repurposed and put to more readily digestible song. (A belting take on I Believe even goes out to the late SOPHIE.) Welcome to My Island is an inevitable fist-thumper; Bunny Is a Rider a pulsating trip, with its propulsive bass part and hip, popping vocal delivery; Sunset the best “football anthem” still to be adopted by terraces or, more relevant to its Hispanic flavour, gradas. Unfortunately neither Dido nor Grimes show up for Fly to You, but Weyes Blood does on a heightened recital of the Glastonbury-appropriately pagan Butterfly Net, before the Holy Trinity (namely Caroline Shut Up, Smoke, and So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings) sees us home. As was with Phoebe Bridgers’ set in this same tent twelve months previously, the prevailing impression is that Polachek’s star is on the cusp of ascending and quickly, with her headlining bow at May’s Wide Awake increasingly obviously the first of many.

As for the festival itself, well, there can be no better party, nor any better place for one… not that that’ll come as news to anyone. And in terms of high-contrast programming, I don’t know of many, if there are any others where you would be able to indulge in both Måneskin and Max Richter on the same day. Four stars out of five therefore, headliners aside.

The post Review: Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts 2023. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

It begins with a guitar track evocative of Messrs Smith (Robert and Zachary Cole) in equivalent measure, before Jonas Schmidt limbers up for a typically gymnastic vocal performance that’s as well suited to this musical curveball as their repeatedly Cocteau Twinned previous. Taut drums rattle it along, Søren Buhl Lassen lending vernal spring to its proverbial step, with this more simple (if no less striking) musical palette complementing the song’s tender lyrical sentiment perfectly. “I don’t care if no one knows about us/ Your kiss is enough to know it’s a crush,” sings Smith in accordance with immortal popular song lore passed down since time immemorial, and this unanticipated triumph sounds entirely likely to inscribe itself into similarly illustrious histories.

Blaue Blume’s SoundCloud.

The post Blaue Blume, Crush. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

O. Girdler’s SoundCloud.

The post O. Girdler, Death Spin. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

O. Girdler’s SoundCloud.

The post First Transmission: O. Girdler, I Want You (Say So). appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

Of course, this year’s festivities are prefaced by the doings – or undoings – of the US Supreme Court, which casts quite the umbra and causes much shade to be very understandably directed stateside from onstage. The topic becomes quite difficult to forego, as it should be, as many festival-goers – myself included – may well have done had they found themselves elsewhere over the course of the weekend. It feels quite fitting, therefore, for many powerful female-led performances to shine brightest on the Friday, and kudos is due Glastonbury’s bookers for bringing about #TheNewNormal without the showboating, hashtags, and so on seen elsewhere.

English Teacher’s studied dissections of post-punk twist and turn, ricocheting in irregular directions repeatedly, prior to the taut R&B schooling a very attentive John Peel Stage. Elsewhere, Wet Leg pack out The Park, kicking off with a giddying Being in Love, before arriving home and hosed with a frenetic take on Chaise Longue. The Isle of Wight duo’s superb breakout hit takes some beating, and the likes of Too Late Now and Wet Dream run it close; Ur Mum, with its larynx-wrecking climax, provides the first so-called ‘Glastonbury moment’ of ’22. Yet somewhat worryingly, more recent material falls a fair way short, with the plodding, simplistic I Want to Be Abducted (By a UFO) failing to lift off and the lullabying Obvious precisely that, lacking in the lyrical quips and musical quirks of much off the eponymous début. But that being said, the successes of Rhian Teasdale and Hester Chambers stem from their close focus on fun – something that has been markedly absent from many of our lives for some while, and they bring this in abundance regardless.

As do Ellie Rowsell’s Wolf Alice, although that was up in the air – or not – for a little bit. Never did the Delicious Things lyric: “Would you believe I’m in Los Angeles?” ever carry quite the gravity it does today, with the four-piece having been grounded in California 24 hours beforehand. The relief is palpable, and their opener Smile pulsating. The rest of the set leans heavily into last year’s superlative Blue Weekend, with both Lipstick on the Glass and the eternally stirring The Last Man On Earth lent further gravitas by a string ensemble. Although the delirium seen onstage is most clearly mirrored off it by a breathless run of Play the Greatest Hits, Silk and Giant Peach, all of which inspire pandemonium. It makes for a perfectly composed set, delivered in a loveably dishevelled manner, meaning “a shot for the spot at the top” of the Pyramid is surely locked and loaded.

So far, so female-led; and exemplarily so. But it’s only when the Americans come into play that the ramifications of the aforementioned decision are felt as intensely as they should be. Phoebe Bridgers, who’s spoken out previously about abortion rights, strikes a solemn note amid some more uplifting tones before her, as she deems her Glastonbury début the “shittiest day,” and condemns “all these irrelevant, old motherfuckers, trying to tell us what to do with our fucking bodies.” For a foremost exponent of an Americana renaissance, “fuck America” cuts to the quick, her despair writ large. It’s a stark, telling insight from an outside standpoint, and songs from Punisher are no less impassioned. Following on from a comparatively upbeat Motion Sickness, and a rare number subtracted from its predecessor Stranger in the Alps, DVD Menu – lugubrious and ominous in equal measure – rolls on into Garden Song, and Kyoto, and a harrowing title track in loyal keeping with the album’s track listing. But it’s the brilliant Moon Song which elevates the tent, before the bipartite I Know the End (featuring Arlo Parks) tears it to shreds, leaving not a solitary eye dry. It’s so rare for songs of disheartenment to hearten in the way Bridgers’ do, yet hers truly is an inimitable talent, and her voice ever more relevant.

More chameleonic, if no less consummate, is St. Vincent whose set – ‘a brief but beautiful respite from the anguish and disbelief’ of the day, according to a subsequent Instagram post – totters from contoured balladry (New York) to ecstatic club bruisers (Fast Slow Disco) without missing a step. Material taken from her faintly pastiched, funkadelic latest Daddy’s Home makes itself if not an integral part of the furniture, then a comfortable one. And in keeping with the record’s looser sounds, the joints of Annie Clark’s signature robotic stance have been well oiled, resulting in an onstage relish never previously witnessed. Pay Your Way in Pain is the louche highlight, riffing on Nikka Costa’s Like a Feather; which, in turn, rips off George Harrison’s I Dig Love, of course. It’s the grandiosity of Cheerleader which gesticulates more wildly than any other though, and gets a perplexingly sparse (if unsparingly spirited) Other field going in a way few others can quite like Clark.

Could Billie Eilish reach such heights one day? Maybe, but not tonight with sufficient hits sorely lacking from her discographic arsenal, and those hitting the mark too few, with far between. (Additionally, it’s drastically back-loaded.) All fire and brimstone and bass, the opening bury a friend does so, but it’s then a lengthy spell before a neat segue from bellyache into ocean eyes picks things back up again. Your Power, an acoustic interlude on a “really, really dark day for women in the US,” doesn’t so much nod to, as shake a despondent head westwards across the Atlantic, with she and Finneas sat up front. Which shakes things up nicely. Thereafter, what Getting Older lacks in Damon Albarn it more than makes up for in unanticipated maturity; everything i wanted makes for her most formidable vocal performance; bad guy is fucking great. But it’s ultimately a more entertaining than essential headliner.

Unlike Eilish’s set, the weekend’s programming is quite front-loaded, with Friday far and away the most impressive of its main three. Saturday thus sets off on a fairly leisurely footing, with Holly Humberstone a sure foothold from which to begin the ascent. Firmly in the ascendancy herself, she pulls from what is already an enviable catalogue, and the addition of live drums adds a genuine rigidity to the likes of Overkill and Sleep Tight. Of those songs on which she decelerates the bpm to a plaintive 70-odd, London Is Lonely towers well above several others, but propulsive singles are really the order of the afternoon. Scarlett, with its barbed synth part, is one; Falling Asleep at the Wheel another; The Walls Are Way Too Thin the one. She confesses to feeling nervous, frequently, but she needn’t – we’re all well aboard, particularly for those racier numbers.

Inexplicably playing the Pyramid Stage in spite of the tepid reception to last year’s Flu Game full-length, Ladbroke Grove lad AJ Tracey seemingly neglected to get the proverbial memo, and gets off to a groggier start. The Nightcrawlers-sampling Dinner Guest is the first to have the field stepping, while Little More Love keeps pace. Aitch is wheeled out for Rain; alas, Dave is not during Thiago Silva. Ladbroke Grove remains the most involving from the self-proclaimed “microphone champ”, but this may be a step or two too far at this stage.

There is a sense that, given what’s gone on over the past few years, this summer’s festival is that bit more reliant on British artists than it might’ve otherwise been. Hence some more prominent billings for slightly lesser names, maybe. But mercifully, numerous Americans made the pilgrimage to Pilton, and if anything, Olivia Rodrigo is billed too low for so high-profile a star. The Californian is in scintillating form, flooring it through brutal, before flooring all with drivers license. The proficiency of her band of fluorescent post-adolescents is to be expected; hers is less so, and the Disney alumna flits niftily from acoustic guitar to grand piano with seamless poise. Perhaps more accomplished still is her decrying the Supreme Court and calling out the five justices who voted to overturn Roe v. Wade, before inviting Lily Allen (and not “Billie Eilish”) to the Other Stage to rattle through a rendition of Fuck You. But it’s testament to Rodrigo’s songwriting (as well as that of co-writer Dan Nigro, and Paramore) that this is totally eclipsed by both deja vu and good 4 u, the latter a future pop-punk classic, no question.

Plundering the past to create a sonic pathway which is both nostalgic and novel was once the preserve of The Avalanches, although the Melbourne duo have come to rely less on samples and more on collaboration, without compromising on their most singular of sounds. It makes for alluring contrasts, with their latest – We Will Always Love You – layering the familiar, relatively modern vocals of Wayne Coyne, Rivers Cuomo, Devonté Hynes and Andrew VanWyngarden over timeless musical accompaniment. Live however, quite unlike their last performance on the farm, Robbie Chater and Tony Di Blasi are firmly lodged behind a bank of decks, et cetera and revert to interpolating tracks by The Beach Boys, The Carpenters, et al. Perfectly staged for a few sundowners up at The Park, and precisely what Saturday night calls for, of course.

Although the Pyramid is calling, alluring more or less all with a playlist of wall-to-wall you-know-who. Paul McCartney hadn’t topped the bill here since 2004, when he played a celebrated 33-song set. This time, he clocks in at 38 some three hours subsequent, with 16 of those songs crossing over. Not that much has changed then, but nobody – not one solitary bod – cares. Because he’s Paul McCartney; because even at 80, he still looks and sounds the part; because the likes of Dave Grohl and Bruce Springsteen themselves care enough to fly in to do no more than two songs each. Frankly, it’s the fucking best thing I’ve ever seen, from a real one-off. We get Can’t Buy Me Love and Got to Get You Into My Life; Let Me Roll It and Let ’Em In; a wonderful throwback to the very beginning, and a campfire singsong for tens of thousands in In Spite of All the Danger, and nothing much that’s any newer than NEW. But it’s during the mandolin-led merry jig that is Dance Tonight that I turn to the stranger beside me, and say: “Can I go on your shoulders when he does Blackbird?” He agrees and incidentally, seconds later, I’m sat atop a limitless cloud of faces – most smiling; many sobbing – as McCartney soars on some vast plinth, the evening elevated to legendary realms. Another ‘moment’ as it were.

Get Back, backed by technicolour footage from Peter Jackson’s recent production, has terse bite to it; Band on the Run, featuring Grohl, gambols from one genre to another, decades ahead of its time; Glory Days is far from Bruce’s finest hour, or few minutes, but it’s Springsteen… onstage with McCartney… racking up another huge fine. For fuck’s sake, on nights like tonight, even Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da sounds like a classic. Live and Let Die really is mind, and is fired up accordingly with the kinds of pyrotechnics which once charred Roger Moore’s smarmy mien. There are reminiscences of, and aural memorials to, George Harrison and John Lennon (the latter a slightly odd virtual duet of I’ve Got a Feeling), and there is then Hey Jude. Britain is often derided and ridiculed, and rightly so, for its jingoistic tendencies and general flag-waving. But overall, we’re all too quick to dwell on negativity, as opposed to relishing positives. Tonight, both McCartney and Glastonbury cannot be seen as anything but honest national treasures, and monuments to an international significance on a night witnessed and doubtless savoured worldwide.

As all Glastonbury Sundays invariably do, this is the slowest start of all, although AJIMAL is on hand to ease us in. Having reached the final of the Emerging Talent Competition in 2020, Fran O’Hanlon has had to wait his turn interminably, yet his soothing afternoon slot in the pub-like Bread and Roses sees patience repaid. Above All Else, Be Kind remains his most startling, and is recited supremely and deferentially received. A quick hop up the hill to the Acoustic Stage later, and this year’s winner Lewis McLaughlin is finishing up with Summer – an extraordinary piece of music, and an example of contemporarily reconfigured folk music at its finest. That so many entrants can be seen over the weekend’s duration serves as proof of the competition’s increasing quality, and is quite inspiriting to see.

With Herbie Hancock impenetrable by contrast, and Nightmares On Wax implausibly late to West Holts, respite and cider precede what may well be the worst clash of the weekend. For pitched against one another are Diana Ross and Fontaines D.C. The former takes it, for reasons of perceived exclusivity, and starts off well enough with I’m Coming Out preceding a solid run of Supremes revisits. But with her voice strained and suffering from Chain Reaction onwards, and a slew of new ones along with a few covers taking precedence over the likes of It’s My House and My Old Piano, the lukewarm ‘Teatime Legend’ disappoints terribly. Grian Chatten’s vocal is as pitchy as that of Ross, but that’s par for the course when it comes to Fontaines’ live shtick. And from what little I see (Boys in the Better Land and Jackie Down the Line), those who pitched up at the Other Stage had a far better time of it.

Kacey Musgraves has also, when she first rolled into town and was roundly proclaimed ‘conscious’ country’s sparkling crossover hope. Yet as she herself sang, “It is what it is ’til it ain’t any more,” and the Texan is scarcely recognisable from the days of Same Trailer Different Park. It’s a record which is totally neglected tonight, as is the musically comparable Pageant Material, in favour of the more straight-up pop flavours of Golden Hour and star-crossed. It’s fine – she’s totally entitled to “follow [her] arrow wherever it points,” of course – although the days of the Dime Store Cowgirl are very evidently numbered, with the Pageant Material lyric: “I’d rather lose for what I am, than win for what I ain’t” seemingly disremembered altogether. Because so much of the show is just generic, lacking in any kind of real character, with breadwinner the most stale of the lot. There remain glimpses of her bygone self, in High Horse with its Deep Southern subtleties and French house soupçons, or the Sufjan Stevens-evoking Slow Burn, but they’re ephemeral as she barely skirts the fringes of country as she once did. When she’s playing a lachrymose Rainbow, dedicated to those affected by Friday’s ruling, this doesn’t matter so much – it’s an exceptional piece of music, capable of transcending genre confines and with a planetary emotional pull of its own. But unfortunately, it’s a rare moment of gold during her hour.

Sporting newfangled flaxen locks, Lorde may be more regularly linked with more verdant tones, although the New Zealander really coruscates in this final night’s fading sunlight. Performing in front of an oneiric set, and probably the weekend’s most impressive as a thinning ladder swivels on a circular seat-type thing, it perfectly fits with the preternatural feel of The Path. Stoned at the Nail Salon, also lifted from divisive latest Solar Power, features both Clairo and Arlo Parks (who’s seemingly as omnipresent as Chris Martin tends to be), and resonates naturally with the weariness. Perhaps expectedly, it’s songs from said record which best suit the show, and Secrets from a Girl (Who’s Seen it All) sees its usual outro replaced by a potent monologue honing in on abortion rights in another visibly indignant moment. In terms of those of a more musical lilt, Green Light and Royals obviously lend greater vitality to what proves an unanticipated high point.

And then for the finale: Kendrick Lamar. The concept of ‘hip hop’ artists topping the Glastonbury bill remains a relatively new one, beginning with Jay-Z (2008), and continuing with Kanye West (’15) and Stormzy (’19). Having had the privilege of experiencing all four, the shows themselves may trace unpredictable trajectories, but they’ve been reliably brilliant throughout this short history. And tonight is no exception. Kendrick’s is both the best entrance, emerging from a mêlée of impeccable choreography, and the best exit in a mantric blaze: “They judge you, they judge Christ! Godspeed for women’s rights!” It ain’t too bad in-between either, with a largely chronological setlist evidencing the strength of his catalogue.

Subjectively, good kid, m.A.A.d city is still his finest (if not necessarily his defining) oeuvre, meaning the opening is everything: Backseat Freestyle, Bitch, Don’t Kill My Vibe, Money Trees, and Swimming Pools (Drank) are dispatched early doors with both alacrity and composure. A m.A.A.d introduction, indeed. Similarly electric is his To Pimp a Butterfly segment, with King Kunta and The Blacker the Berry robustly bookending the record’s more socially conscious chapters. With untitled unmastered. untouched, it’s then on to DAMN., songs from which – HUMBLE. notwithstanding – land on shakier ground. But tonight is as much, if not more about the show as a whole than the songs therein, and for so collaborative a recording artist, it’s commendable that he – much like Shawn Carter before him – opts to go this one alone with no guest spots whatsoever. (A trope that is becoming too commonplace at Glastonbury, perhaps.) The dance troupe that swarms him at times, warmly huddles round him at others, and flickers torchlights as though frantically scouring the site for a late-night long drop is as fundamental an element to it all as any. And as they surround him as though figures in the most beautiful fresco, fake blood pouring from his diamond-encrusted crown while he pleas during Savior: “Show me you real, show me that you bleed,” the imitative boundaries separating art from life and life from art dissolve altogether.

So to pilfer a line from Stormzy, on its overdue 50^th anniversary, “a happy belated one” to Glastonbury. With its headliners the youngest (Eilish, 20) and the oldest (McCartney, 80), and perhaps the most relevant of any this summer (Duckworth, 35, presenting Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers), the festival incontrovertibly finds itself in a fine bill of health. Whether or not that can be said for those departing come Monday, coughing and spluttering towards Pedestrian Gate A, will be left to the LFTs. We may well be riding another wave of this virus, but for all of a few days, we forget it exists. With everything in its right place, as was three years prior and for umpteen more before then, it’s easy to forget that COVID ever did. For beneath the hum of pylons overhead by day, and amidst the squawking of innumerable gulls squabbling over the previous evening’s detritus come daylight, this truly is the greatest show on Earth, set in the best space on Earth. Until next time…

The post Review: Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts 2022. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

Used To It is available now via Jagjaguwar, while Sharon Van Etten plays the O2 Academy Brixton on June 17^th.

The post Sharon Van Etten, Used To It. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

Georgia Harmer’s SoundCloud.

The post First Transmission: Georgia Harmer, Austin. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

Porta is available now via Jagjaguwar, while Sharon Van Etten plays the O2 Academy Brixton on June 17^th.

The post Sharon Van Etten, Porta. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.

Yet, the consummate professional, the show must go on. And indeed it does, with the otherwise towering Orwellian hampered by poor levels. Alas, it’s not solely Bradfield’s vocals that suffer this evening, as more often than not his exemplary fretwork is left to languish much too low in what can be a dubious mix. As such, it takes for the tremendous melodic impact of The Secret He Had Missed – an ABBA-infused instant classic, and irrefutable future mainstay – and an incendiary rendition of the evergreen You Stole the Sun from My Heart to jolt the night into life.

Admittedly, it does take some doing, even without the flu-like symptoms: there is a predictability to many of the Manics’ setlists – especially in an arena setting – with these more often than not bookended by the aforementioned Motorcycle Emptiness and A Design for Life. Die-hard, barrier-hardy acolytes can therefore be left a little disappointed by a lack of discographic colour in the interim volumes, so the inclusion of a vibrant Enola / Alone is certainly a welcome one. It’s not quite the curveball that would be a Firefight, or a 4 Ever Delayed, or a Found That Soul, or even a festive visitation from Ghost of Christmas, but it’s something. Less so? The black-or-white contrast between the two albums which flank their catalogue – Generation Terrorists, on which much of the evening perhaps inexplicably hinges, and this year’s similarly dominant The Ultra Vivid Lament – is too stark.

The brash glam of the former rubs up the latter’s introspective hypnagogia in the wrong sorts of ways, much as a leopard-printed Richey Edwards might have done a ’90s hack way back when, with the likes of Afterending and Happy Bored Alone more in keeping with the sublime This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours than You Love Us (admittedly, decidedly likeable tonight) and the like. Love’s Sweet Exile for example, back from an ostracism of its own, lacks both thrust and the unrelenting thrum of impertinent youth. At best, Generation Terrorists material sounds a somewhat mothballed product of its time; at worst, a thing of the past. That Bradfield’s guitar is totally lost to The SSE Arena’s cavernous nooks and crannies really hinders Slash ’n’ Burn, but you’re left wondering why The Holy Bible has been slammed shut while their début escaped that same fate. Left to wonder, and ultimately rue the decision as, Steve Brown tribute or otherwise, you’d take She Is Suffering over a serviceable cover of The Cult’s She Sells Sanctuary without question.

Similarly unquestionable is the forceful majesty of Still Snowing in Sapporo – their finest opener since Elvis Impersonator: Blackpool Pier – yet tonight, in spite of comparatively virtuosic bass parts and delicate keys, it never really lands. Given the band’s usual reliance on backing tracks, their reluctance to deploy one here leaves Bradfield to deliver rushed a cappella renditions of both verses, the first of which is, incidentally, seen not so much “through a video camera filter” as a smartphone screen.

And many are held aloft once more for the ageless If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next but even then, backing-tracked to the hilt, it decelerates over the bridge and threatens to come unstuck before yellow and blue streamers bring its widescreen, shiny finish back in. Having contracted the grim lurgy that’s currently doing the rounds not once but twice already, there’s no way I would be able to even so much as murder as vocally athletic a track as La Tristesse Durera (Scream to a Sigh), but it’s saddening in itself to see this overshadow and undersell the Manics on this occasion. Kudos to Bradfield for sticking it out of course, although this one wasn’t quite the triumphant finale it could, should, and quite likely would’ve been otherwise.

The post Review: Manic Street Preachers; The SSE Arena, Wembley. appeared first on Dots & Dashes.