LES VIEILLES CHARRUES FESTIVAL – CARHAIX, FRANCE
It's Day 4 of 4, and even though the sun is struggling plenty to crack through the ominous clouds overhead, there's a sense of anticipation in the humid air. Any music festival will be showing a crack or two on its final day, and after showcasing Bruce Springsteen, the Killers, Birdy Nam Nam, and, um, Lenny Kravitz over the past 3 nights, Les Vieilles Charrues is showing its. There's rain, lax security, drunken Frenchmen stumbling by in the early afternoon, and that garbage smell that somehow finds its way into every fibre in every tent camped around the grounds. But hey, who gives a shit, right? It's a music festival!
Around 9:30pm Jules de Martino, one half of British duo the Ting Tings, struts out on stage. With trademark sunglasses on (strange, considering by now it's pissing down rain), he get sampling on guitar, keys & drums. We Walk is the opening track, with singer/instrumentalist Katie White immediately whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Despite the obvious language barrier, everyone has a great time as the duo pull out a surprising amount of familiar tunes. Great DJ, Shut Up and Let Me Go and audience favourite That's Not My Name all get a good going over, and de Martino's sampling of Aerosmith, Queen, and the Ghostbusters Theme Song give the briefest taster of what's to come for the next band.
2MANYDJS. Ghent, Belgium has a lot to answer for. Not only have these guys, under the moniker Soulwax, produced some pulse-bending albums over the past decade, but brothers Stephen & David Dewaele show tonight that they can truly shed some vinyl. The duo, dressed immaculately in tuxedos that 007 would be proud of, work up something of a sweat as they pound their way through 90 minutes of soul-shaking tunes. Everything record they touch, from Bowie (Rebel Rebel) to Beethoven (5th Symphony), the Gossip (Standing in the Way of Control) to Guns'n'Roses (Welcome to the Jungle), has the kids in front of the Kerouac stage busting moves not yet experienced by us mortals in the southern hemisphere.
The loudest cheer of the night, however, was for Michael Jackson, and Don't Stop til You Get Enough & Billie Jean. Which says a lot for the stature of the recently departed, considering the quality of the set's outro, featuring Sgt Pepper, Fire Starter and last but not least, Smells Like Teen Spirit. The French know good DJ's, but it seems the Belgians have it better.
Headlining the final day is none other than the bald dance legend that is Moby. Backed by a six-piece band featuring soul sensation Joy Malcolm on vocals, Moby himself rocks out on a Black SG Gibson, with unsurprising enthusiasm. Pulling tracks from his entire back catalogue, especially 1999's hit-riddled Play, his entire set rocks from start to finish. With a light show to support the most sonic of sounds, it's a true festival set filled with little new stuff, and a real emphasis on the tunes that Moby's fans want to hear. He throws in Lou Reed's Walk on the Wild Side as the penultimate song of the encore, and to hear 20,000 French people sing the “do duh doo's” that Reed immortalised in 1972 fills the soul with more warmth than the constant rain can dampen.
No matter where in the world you are – from the heat of a 36 degree Big Day Out dustbowl to a rain-sodden patch of ground in western France – music takes no prisoners. And there is no greater example of this than a festival where everyone has a great time. No cares, no inhibitions, no showering. Just amazing bands, sensational DJ's, and a bitching good time.
- Dylan Stewart
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Cardiff. July. Ashes. 8 Men. 1 Town. Brilliant... (DAY 1)
Day 1
of the first Ashes test started early, with a French wakeup call designed to wake us up in France. The call was successful, and we arose at some ridiculous hour before most sparrow's had begun to fart.
The lovely Tash stumbled out of bed to drive us (Dan & I) to the train station, where we arrived by 6:30am, Australian flag in tow and toenails on our toes. Handy start. Of a footy start, it's quite irrelevant. We both drifted in and out of consciousness while we rocketed towards Paris in our overgrown bullet of a train. We followed our toe-riddled feet through the Parisian metro system, morning peak hour on a Wednesday. Still running on adrenalin, it wasn't until we threw back a couple of coffees at Gare du Nord along with a butter croissant. In hindsight, this may have been the healthiest meal for the next 5 days.
Kronenbourg and cards, conversations with a family from Epping, a lot of shit-talking and 2 hours later, we were in London. The initial destination was Temple Walkabout, and after some Northern/District Line love, we walked in the door with the Poms batting. Poorly. Alistair Cook (AKA Alistair Cock) was already gone, Ben “Hirsute” Hilfenhaus had been picked over Stuart Clark, but more importantly, Dan's mate was working behind the bar. 1 quid beers, cheap burgers, and the day got slowly whittled away. Before we got on our bus to Cardiff, we met up with up Liam at a pub near Victoria, and had a Guinness and a Peter Siddle (piddle) before jumping on.
The bus trip was unremarkable. I sat next to a fat man and was squashed. When I went for a Siddle, that was the most exciting part. 'Nuff said.
By the time we wandered into Nomad Hostel – cash for comments? - it was ten'o'clock. And the original quartet was completed. Sam was waiting for us, as he had been all day. Lucky bastard scored a seat for Day 1 of the Test, and more impressive than that, he managed to refrain from getting rip-roaring drunk in the process. Having not eaten since sometime earlier that day, Liam was hungry, so before we had time to think, we were back out the door and hotfooting it towards the pub. Of course, by this time we were too late to get a meal, but a wise man once said that Guinness, like milk, is digested as a solid, so we ate a couple of those instead.
Exploring the Cardiff nightlife is a risky proposition. On one hand, you have some belting bars and clubs, that only locals know of. On the other hand, you can sample some of Britain's most boring chain pubs (think Wetherspoon's, O'Neill's, etc). And on the third hand, you have FLARES. Now growing up in country Australia, I've sampled some pretty rubbish establishments to enjoy a tipple. But never in my life have I been so offended by the patrons of a bar. Fat old women were publicly mauling disgusting, drunk middle-aged men, and even with drinks at lower prices than that granny's cleavage, we were out after one very quick drink.
Now well after midnight and sated with a dirty chicken burger and fries, we were ready to call it a night. But the best turns of a night out are unexpected... None of us will ever know the name of the club, but the music was great, the drinks were decently priced, and the dancing Pakistanis went down a storm. Flashing lights and crappy breakdancing (by us – despite the fact that we're full-on homeboys) saw us pass four hours in what felt like 20 minutes, and we finally hit the pillows around 5am.
STAY TUNED FOR DAYS 2-5...
of the first Ashes test started early, with a French wakeup call designed to wake us up in France. The call was successful, and we arose at some ridiculous hour before most sparrow's had begun to fart.
The lovely Tash stumbled out of bed to drive us (Dan & I) to the train station, where we arrived by 6:30am, Australian flag in tow and toenails on our toes. Handy start. Of a footy start, it's quite irrelevant. We both drifted in and out of consciousness while we rocketed towards Paris in our overgrown bullet of a train. We followed our toe-riddled feet through the Parisian metro system, morning peak hour on a Wednesday. Still running on adrenalin, it wasn't until we threw back a couple of coffees at Gare du Nord along with a butter croissant. In hindsight, this may have been the healthiest meal for the next 5 days.
Kronenbourg and cards, conversations with a family from Epping, a lot of shit-talking and 2 hours later, we were in London. The initial destination was Temple Walkabout, and after some Northern/District Line love, we walked in the door with the Poms batting. Poorly. Alistair Cook (AKA Alistair Cock) was already gone, Ben “Hirsute” Hilfenhaus had been picked over Stuart Clark, but more importantly, Dan's mate was working behind the bar. 1 quid beers, cheap burgers, and the day got slowly whittled away. Before we got on our bus to Cardiff, we met up with up Liam at a pub near Victoria, and had a Guinness and a Peter Siddle (piddle) before jumping on.
The bus trip was unremarkable. I sat next to a fat man and was squashed. When I went for a Siddle, that was the most exciting part. 'Nuff said.
By the time we wandered into Nomad Hostel – cash for comments? - it was ten'o'clock. And the original quartet was completed. Sam was waiting for us, as he had been all day. Lucky bastard scored a seat for Day 1 of the Test, and more impressive than that, he managed to refrain from getting rip-roaring drunk in the process. Having not eaten since sometime earlier that day, Liam was hungry, so before we had time to think, we were back out the door and hotfooting it towards the pub. Of course, by this time we were too late to get a meal, but a wise man once said that Guinness, like milk, is digested as a solid, so we ate a couple of those instead.
Exploring the Cardiff nightlife is a risky proposition. On one hand, you have some belting bars and clubs, that only locals know of. On the other hand, you can sample some of Britain's most boring chain pubs (think Wetherspoon's, O'Neill's, etc). And on the third hand, you have FLARES. Now growing up in country Australia, I've sampled some pretty rubbish establishments to enjoy a tipple. But never in my life have I been so offended by the patrons of a bar. Fat old women were publicly mauling disgusting, drunk middle-aged men, and even with drinks at lower prices than that granny's cleavage, we were out after one very quick drink.
Now well after midnight and sated with a dirty chicken burger and fries, we were ready to call it a night. But the best turns of a night out are unexpected... None of us will ever know the name of the club, but the music was great, the drinks were decently priced, and the dancing Pakistanis went down a storm. Flashing lights and crappy breakdancing (by us – despite the fact that we're full-on homeboys) saw us pass four hours in what felt like 20 minutes, and we finally hit the pillows around 5am.
STAY TUNED FOR DAYS 2-5...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)