Album Review - Matt Stevens: Lucid

Last summer, I saw Matt play live down at the Peel where, a bit like a substitute teacher, he was covering for Simon Godfrey - in fact, very much like a substitute teacher, in that he had a beard and a cardigan, and refused to play by the rules, even his own.

Having taken the guitar loops to their illogical conclusion with a Mahavishnu Orchestra cover, and then gone on an insane odyssey of self exploration and guitar abuse in his 30 minute set, which went down an absolute storm (and not just because he was sandwiched between two bands which were, er, 'not aimed at me'), he afterwards appeared to be decidely not ok. Backing this up with social media posts which suggested that he was worried about some of the dark places he'd gone in his set, it's therefore probably not surprising to find that 'Lucid' breaks some pretty serious new ground, and that, in his words, it's “inspired by a bit of a dark time.”

Matt is one of the most visually exciting performers I've ever seen, and his live looping acoustic sets are always the stuff of wonder, as I've mentioned a couple of times before. I can't say I've always been in the mood for putting on his solo CDs at home, however all that changed with the release of 'Relic', which introduced some exciting new aspects to the acoustic looping sound - and 'Lucid' takes it several steps further, round the corner, down the street, hops on a bus and thumbs you a lift to Mind Blown central.

Opener 'Oxymoron' is a pretty good statement of intent, kicking things off with a nu-Crimson-esque driving riff over some heavy drumming from The Fierce and the Dead's Stuart Marshall, with barely recognisable violin playing from Chrissie Caulfield and some screeching electric guitar from the main man himself. The chiming guitar patterns of 'Flow' introduce some familiarity, but with a different twist brought along by TFATD bandmate Kev Feazey's percussive programming loops, and 'Unsettled' actually isn't a million miles away from their work on the day job.

'The Other Side' brings with it the most acoustic guitar we've heard so far, and is also the most cheerful thing on the album, with a jaunty little 'chorus' (as much as an instrumental album has any choruses), played by Matt's guitar and Knifeworld's Charlie Cawood on pipa, which is apparently a type of Chinese stringed instrument. See, it's educational, too, this album. And then we come to 'The Ascent', a real 'Larks' Tongues in Aspic' moment, as befitting a track which manages to persuade legendary ex-Crimson drummer Pat Mastelotto to pop in and have a whack at everything in sight – and not only that, but that insane noise which sounds like a frantic Fripp-esque guitar solo turns out to be a widdly-widdly fest from Frost* main man Jem Godfrey on keyboards, as well.

By this point, even if you're enjoying the album, your head is probably spinning and you feel like nails are being driven into your cranium (or maybe that's just my hangover), so it's just as well that 'Coulrophobia' (fear of clowns: useful to know for your next pub quiz) is up next to soothe you with its gentle vibraphone over chiming piano motifs, as supplied by Chrome Hoof's Emmett Elvin. And then there's 'KEA', which is one of only two guitar-only tracks, starting out all Steve Howe before heading off somewhere a bit Oldfield-y and taking a left turn into Fripp-riff (Friff?) Parkway, and then 'Street and Circus' which is probably the most traditional Matt Stevens solo album track you'll find here, with its furiously strummed motif giving way every so often to echoey, spooky sustained notes and finally a looped and layered playout.

Right, are you nicely chilled out? Jolly good – because here comes one of the best things you're likely to hear this year, and coincidentally the one thing you already can hear, on Soundcloud...



My friend Tim described this track as “A volcano erupting in slow motion”, which I wish I'd thought of, frankly, but it's spot on. Explosive and powerful, but subdued and stately, 'The Bridge' doesn't give away its treasures in a couple of minutes like most of the tracks here – rather it takes its time creating a scene of epic devastation, pausing for acoustic reflection in the middle to set up one of the most beautiful repeated chord patterns since 'Shadow of the Hierophant' or the end of 'Gates of Delirium'. And then, just when you feel all comfy and cosy, it wallops you over the head, bringing the full on post-rock assault to massacre the motif until you can't take it any more, at which point everything breaks down gradually into noise before returning for an ear-buggering coda when you least expect it. It's pretty much the album in microcosm, and it's the highlight of Matt's career to date.

Wisely, he doesn't really attempt to follow this, but final track 'A Boy' is just as good in a different way – a gentle acoustic guitar lullaby, it's recorded in a way that puts you right there in the room with him, the visceral and physical experience of his live sets finally making it to record. (At least that's my explanation for why you can hear him breathing all the way through, and I'm sticking to it.)

Make no mistake – a nice little acoustic album for background listening, this certainly is not. Powerful, challenging, and daring, it might not be what you expect from Matt (although expecting the unexpected is always a good idea) - but it's certainly a statement you can't ignore, and it's the best thing he's put his name on. (So far).

Rating: 4/5
Buy: Oxymoron / Flow / The Other Side / The Ascent / The Bridge
Stream: All of the rest of it. And then buy the whole thing.
Avoid: Nothing, of course...


'Lucid' by Matt Stevens is released by Esoteric Antenna on March 31st. Preorder it here.

11th January 2014: The Fierce and the Dead / Thumpermonkey - New Cross Inn, London

Ladies and gentlemen, I have failed you. I've just checked and it has been at least a year since I wrote anything about Matt Stevens, which is both sad and slightly worrying. What if I've fallen out of man-crush with the Giant Cuddly One?

Fear not- the love which has far too often spoken its name is still as strong as ever, on tonight's showing; as I bring you my first gushing tribute to The Fierce and the Dead, the band Matt plays in when he's not doing things to an acoustic guitar which are probably illegal in 37 states.

"These are small, and those are far away..."

Tonight's gig in New Cross is a bit of a bastard to get to - hardly surprising since it is in the London area on a weekend (gee, thanks, TFL.) It's therefore heartening to see the place rammed when I arrive, with people who've come all the way from Catford and Stroud- rock on.

Unfortunately my travel woes cause me to miss all but the last song of the Mayors of Miyazaki's set - but what I do hear reminds me a bit of Everything Everything. And the Cardiacs, surprisingly enough for a band playing a gig with bands from the sort of Knifeworld scene. Oh look, there's Kavus. Mind you, Kavus is everywhere, as he should be for the good of our planet, a bit like Nitrogen.

The New Cross Inn is a pretty cool venue - it's basically a pub with a largely empty floor space and no regular tables and chairs, although there are a few outdoor picnic tables at the back, in case anyone's brought a hamper and fancies a scotch egg or two. Actually the need for a sit down is much less necessary than usual as tonight's crowd is definitely younger than the usual prog rabble, although two guys near me as I wait are having a conversation about Stonehenge so perhaps it's not so different. A couple play pool in the corner all through the night, and over the other side there is a lady in a little black dress, wearing a long blonde wig with bits of tinsel in it. I like this place.

The Fierce and the Dead finish setting up and start off a pretty funky jam which may or may not be the start of the set; but apparently not, as they soon give up on this and kick off with opening track 'Part 4' from the new album 'Spooky Action'.

Buy. Buy album. Buy album NOW!

Ah yes, standard Stevens loopy, jangling guitar riff... Except- hang on a beard-wearing minute- it's electric. And Matt's not even playing it. Yes, without hearing them it would be easy to imagine that the Fierce and Dead might be a kind of full-band version of Matt's solo acoustic looping albums. Perhaps the opening deliberately plays on this for as long as it takes to lull the unsuspecting listener into a false sense of security, before smashing them over the head with a grungey riff which gives way to spacey sounds and feedbacky, distorted guitar.

In truth, it's fair to say that TFATD (as all the hip kids call them) bear little relation to Matt's solo stuff - his contribution here being largely more "soundscapes" and "what the bloody hell was that noise?" than "rhythm and loops", leaving Steve Cleaton to play a lot of the recognisable chiming guitar patterns.  In fact, anyone from the little prog community that's taken Matt's solo looping work to its heart so warmly might be forgiven for assuming that it's very much Matt's band and all the others in it merely players- but nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, Mr. Stevens is quite some way from the loopy-dancing, pedal stomping, guitar trashing dervish of his solo sets, taking a side stage role and never hogging the limelight, which means there's plenty of eye-capacity to enjoy everyone else on stage.

Or, indeed, off-stage, as bassist and geographical frontman Kev Feazey abandons his microphone and jumps down the few centimetres off the platform at a few points to rock out down the front and watch what the rest of the band are up to. Pretty cool idea - especially since he's not actually using the microphone. Yep, The Fierce and the Dead are an instrumental rock band - get over it. Rather an instrumental band than one with a shit vocalist.

I insert this picture here for no reason at all.

Anyway, who needs a singer at all? Certainly not me: all I demand is a tight and entertaining rhythm section, and this band deliver in spades - Kev being a mesmerising bass player, who sets up some fearsome grooves in amongst all the distorted, noisy bits everyone else is bashing out. He even manages to sound like a squelchy bassoon on 'Let's Start a Cult', the surprisingly chirpy little number which starts with the kind of "wah waaaaah" riff that ought to accompany someone falling down some stairs, goes through a deceptively catchy and rocking dual guitar solo, and ends up in a kind of stoppy-starty Knifeworld-ish exploration before coming to a close in a blaze of feedback and distortion which recalls My Bloody Valentine.

The other half of the rhythm section, drummer Stuart Marshall, is no less essential to the set - in fact he's possibly the closest thing I've found to Tinyfish's Leon Camfield out in the wild - an extremely visual drummer, commanding your attention and making you marvel at just how hard he can hit everything in sight in such a short space of time. And he doesn't just deal splendidly with the stop-start, time-sig shifting nature of much of tonight's music, no, he drives it forwards, making it possible for the songs to turn on a dime, and for Tinsel-wig woman to dance her little dress off like a gogo dancer for the entire set.

And she's actually not the only one - there's also long hair rock guy in front of me who sways from side to side in time to the music, meaning that his head is only in my way 50% of the time, which is actually a perfect solution which should probably be adopted by all gig goers henceforth. Yes, I made some comment on Facebook before this gig about the probable lack of toe-tapping and chorus humming, and yet by the time they arrive at 'Chief', I am indeed grooving along to the beat - not as musically as Kavus, mind you, who finds some kind of impossible syncopated off-beat to clap along to.

It's all over far too quickly, which is probably because they've written the setlist on a dolls-house sized post-it-note, but the set finishes up with an absolutely blistering 666...6, by which time my digiti pedis are most assuredly moving about in a way that could be described in some alliterative fashion which slips my mind right now. Well, until the rollicking 6/8 pattern that drives the song along breaks down into an echoey, comtemplative section anyway. Tinsel lady is a tad confused - but never mind, they're soon back with a giant riff which wraps things up rather nicely, thank you very much, and then they're on their way.

As must I be, before too long, but there's just time to berate Matt for not playing longer (something which will be rectified at their Camden Barfly gig on Feb 2nd - stick it in your diaries), catch up with frequent gig buddy Alison, who's been hiding in a corner, and visit the gents to find out what the Mr Men look like when you've taken LSD.

I also stick about to see my second helping of Thumpermonkey, who are great and supremely engaging to watch again, if only for the sight of their back-to-back guitar duelling stance at the end of the first number, which is wonderfully at odds with their seemingly deliberately low key appearance. Yes, some of the band look like a little like maths teachers, but then that's perhaps fitting, since it seems that some of the music was possibly worked out using quadratic equations.

There are heavy riffs and time signature changes, alternating with catchy, funky sections, some vocals which are almost like rapping, and choruses which go  "Put it right back where you found it". Whatever you say, guys. Then there's a song about body modification ("YEAH!" shouts someone) - "Seven seconds of Firth of Fifth"  from Rael on the keyboards, (whose name is apparently not Graham), and just as I have to get going, the singer launches into a remarkably Sherlock-esque spoken word narrative containing the immortal words "When we were introduced to each other it became quite clear that we were at the institute of incendiary morphology for quite different reasons."

Bonkers, brilliant, bloody difficult to get your head around, that's Thumpermonkey.

But I will leave you with my favourite image of the evening, which is the sight of our friend in the dress coming to the end of her rapturous dancing to TFATD, looking about, not quite knowing what to do, heading over to the nearest table, taking off her wig, giving his thinning scalp a good old scratch, sighing and picking up his pint of bitter for a gigantic swig.

24th May 2013: Rush - The O2 Arena, Greenwich

Part one of ‘James attempts to write a normal amount’. 

Rush are surely the biggest band that most people have never heard of, aren't they? Ultimate proof of this comes a few days after this gig when on round one of daytime quiz show par excellence "Pointless" (what can I say, I work from home…) it's revealed that only 3 of 100 people surveyed could identify the name Geddy Lee as a member of the band. Still, you wouldn't know this upon arrival at the O2, as hordes of middle aged men and the odd outlier like gig buddies Tim and Karin queue up for nigh-on 45 minutes to buy T-shirts at £25 a pop. “No T-shirt is worth queuing for 45 minutes for,” says Karin. “Not unless when you put it on, Peter Hammill magically appears in front of you.”

Actually there's a lovely, chilled atmosphere in the queue – a chap in front of me and Tim joins in with our banter, we all roll our eyes in mock scorn and secret jealousy at the blowhard behind who is proclaiming loudly about having seen the ‘Hemispheres’ tour at the Southampton Gaumont, and we have a good old snigger at the £400 Rush leather jackets. “Who would pay that much money to look like that much of a knob?” I say, a question which is answered on the way to our seats as we spy two gentlemen proudly wearing the said matching garments in a way which Karin likens to teenage girl BFFs.

Photo: Tim Lawrie

Arriving in our seats, the PA keeps us entertained with selections from Crimson and Genesis, and the gods of fate and coincidence throw a complete curveball as I suddenly realise that the chap standing in the aisle by our block looking around for his gig buddy is my cousin Adrian, who I haven't seen in possibly years. “Adrian! ADRIAN!” I shout repeatedly, in an unintentional homage to both Rocky and Alan Partridge. He doesn't run up any steps to come and meet me, but to be fair the poor guy's just had a baby, so I'll let him off.

Eventually, with only 135 words remaining, the gig starts. (This is going really well, isn't it? Perhaps I'll reset the word count now we're talking about the actual thing.) Now, here's a confession, in case you're expecting the kind of gushing eulogies I sometimes dole out to my most favouritest bands – I like Rush, I'm on the way to loving Rush, but I am basically quite a noob compared to everyone else I meet this evening. The problem is, it took me until 2009 to start listening to them at all, and at that point I ended up picking up all the albums pretty much at the same time, and in case you hadn't noticed, there are quite a lot of them.

'Subdivisions' - Photo: Tim Lawrie

Whilst this means I don’t really know anything apart from "The Hits" very well, it does basically mean that I don't care what they play, as I sort-of-know it all to about the same degree. Which is just as well, since they've decided that this tour is to be a kind of “80's to present day” tour, with lots of selections from albums like ‘Power Windows’, ‘Grace Under Pressure’ and ‘Signals’. Kicking off with one of my very favourites, ‘Subdivisions’, is a good move on their part as this completely partisan crowd goes completely batshit crazy and doesn't let up for the next 3 hours. ‘Big Money’ is up next, not a song I know that well but it's ok, a thoughtful fan directly behind me sings the lyrics directly into my left cochlea in exactly the same register, pitch and accent as Geddy - to his own beer-befuddled mind, anyway. Nobody can sing like Geddy, let's be honest. And thank goodness for that – even Geddy can't actually sing like Geddy half the time, although he's in fine voice this evening, hitting a higher percentage of the high notes than in 2011 and commanding the stage and everyone's attention more than anyone who yelps for a living ought to.

Photo: Tim Lawrie

And over the course of the evening, the band give us a master class in how just 3 men can keep a giant arena audience entertained for the whole evening whilst playing far from their best known material. Geddy switches between bass, pedals, keyboards and bad jokes all evening (“We've got about 60,000 songs for you tonight…”) and makes it all look effortless, Alex Lifeson runs the full gamut of guitar techniques from the Police-esque strumming of ‘Grand Designs’ to the far more rifftastic display of ‘Far Cry’, and Neil Peart proves several times why he's widely regarded as the best drummer in the business, not least on his two solos, the second of which breaks new ground in having his kit trigger notes and samples to create a surprisingly electronic atmosphere, continuing on into a fantastic reading of ‘Red Sector A’.

'The Percussor' - Photo: Tim Lawrie

The songs and the playing are enough for me, but then again, if you're going to play a giant dome like the O2, then why not use its capabilities? Hence there are giant screens showing both impressive modern graphics and wonderfully vintage animations for songs like ‘Force Ten’, there are fantastic light shows, and there are even giant pyrotechnic explosions which literally make me jump out of my skin. Ok, not literally, that would be disgusting. There's even a man who runs on stage in a chicken suit and throws things around, some guys with traffic cones, and a giant popcorn machine. No, me neither.

'Force Ten' - Photo: Tim Lawrie

But for me, the highlight of this evening is the second half of the set, when the band bring out a wonderful string section to accompany them for the vast majority of new album and probable personal favourite ‘Clockwork Angels’. I'm still inordinately annoyed about missing the Yes Symphonic tour in 2001, but this nearly makes up for it. Exquisite string arrangements for heart-rending new songs like ‘The Wreckers’ and ‘The Garden’ and the old classics like ‘YYZ’ cause Karin to wonder whether the band will ever sound the same again without their new wooden friends. (She might not have put it quite like that, mind.) And the best bit about this whole thing is that we can actually hear what they're playing thanks to a great sound mix– adding sumptuous harmonies here and biting riffs there.

'The Wreckers' - Photo: Tim Lawrie

For fans of classic (i.e. pre-1982) Rush, it might have been a long old, synth-and-new-album-heavy slog for the main part tonight, but not to worry, there’s still 30 minutes of the gig remaining, and following “the best instrumental ever to be named after an airport apart from perhaps ‘Heathrow’ by Level 42 – oh dear lord am I going to get it from certain people now” , the show ends with the “feel-good classics”, the closest Rush have to “hits”. ‘The Spirit of Radio’, ‘Tom Sawyer’ (sadly with real, non-South Park lyrics), and a nice chunk of ‘2112’. Who can argue with that?

Certainly not any the people we meet up with afterwards, including Bob "Top 5 gig of all time” Hodds, Matt “Loopy” Stevens, and Paul “Vitamin P” Tippett, who's even managed to catch one of the T-shirts fired from cannons on the stage.

They love lamp, you know. Photo: Oh, me!

Like much of this evening, it doesn't make a lot of sense to the uninitiated, but for those who are fully paid-up members of the clandestine society of Rush, it's the icing on the cake. Let's just say I may have learned the secret handshake this evening…


1209 words. That's actually not bad for me, honest, and I think Rush deserved it. Will try harder next time.

Rush Setlist

Subdivisions
The Big Money
Force Ten
Grand Designs
The Body Electric 
Territories 
The Analog Kid 
Bravado 
Where's My Thing? (Including drum solo)
Far Cry 

Set 2: (with Clockwork Angels String Ensemble)

Caravan 
Clockwork Angels 
The Anarchist 
Carnies 
The Wreckers 
Headlong Flight  (Including drum solo)
Halo Effect
Seven Cities of Gold 
The Garden 
Manhattan Project 
Drum Solo (The Percussor)
Red Sector A 
YYZ 
The Spirit of Radio (Without String Ensemble)

Encore:

Tom Sawyer 
2112 Part I: Overture 
2112 Part II: The Temples of Syrinx 

2112 Part VII: Grand Finale 

8th July 2012: Celebr8 Festival (Day Two) - The Hippodrome, Kingston

Oh, hello. I knew there was something I was supposed to be doing. I have a sneaking suspicion that this is now about as relevant as a review of Bergerac, but literally three people asked me where it was so I thought I'd better. It'll probably be rubbish though. I wouldn't waste your time on it.

Do you remember back as far as July? Pre-Olympics, when we were all bitter and cynical and sneered at everything and everyone, and took every opportunity to disparage everything our country stood for? Well, back in those hazy, crazy days before we discovered that sport could unite rather than divide us, two noble men were on a crusade to cheer us all up. That they were trying to achieve this through the medium of Progressive Rock music was brave enough, but that they chose to facilitate it by means of shoehorning 600 of us into a sticky Kingston nightclub in the middle of July surely puts them in line for next year's honours list along with Uber-Lord Coe and Sir Wiggo.

Come with me, then, as I transport you back to a simpler time, when a "Mobot" was something gentlemen used to trim their facial accoutrements, and none of us had seen David Cameron and Boris Johnson dancing to the Spice Girls.

Haha! Now you've all seen it. Bad luck.

Like the day before it, the 8th of July begins with sore heads and a general lack of desire to move, but the three of us are made of stern stuff and are soon up and about and getting ready to face another day of quality proggage. However, we can't eat our Rice Krispies in silence, so I take the opportunity to let Mr. Lawrie sit in the Sweet Spot (not the sweat spot, as I just accidentally typed), whilst his favourite album of all time plays in 5.1 Surround. And then, when we're done with "Have a Cheeky Christmas", we decide we'll give "Wish You Were Here" a little spin too. 

In all seriousness, this vies for highlight of the weekend, as the little scamp sits there with a broad grin for the entire duration, only stopping to look shocked at certain bits he's never heard before, or jumping up and yelling out, a bit like Father Jack (or maybe I'm not remembering it properly - it was a long time ago). Regardless, I've rarely seen anyone get so immersed in music and it reminds me of a glorious time when there were fewer distractions and I'd actually sit and listen to an album instead of having it on in the background whilst watching TV, surfing on my laptop and texting at the same time. Or blogging, mostly.

There's no time to dilly-dally, though, as we once again need to deliver our guest to his Evil Merch Overlord before doors open, so we briskly make our way out and retrace our steps from last night in rather drier fashion. Stepping over the residue of last night's food accident, we hop on the bus and are soon back at our new favourite venue.

Amazing how dissolved those fries are, isn't it? I'm not convinced potato is meant to do that.

Having got the measure of the security at the Hippodrome the night before ("What's that you say, you're the roadie for Gandalf's Scrotum? Ok then..."), I decide that we'll try to deliver Tim right to the desk - and sure enough, we manage to sneak in through the doors and hide away at the back of the venue without anyone noticing apart from Twang and Geoff, who seem glad of another pair of hands and soon put us to work fetching and carrying.

Gee, thanks for the photo, James Allen. No, really.

In this fashion, we manage to avoid the queue chaos of yesterday, we get to watch Dec Burke taking a soundcheck, and we manage a bit of hanging about and catching up with Bob and Jacqui (of the famous Leamington Curry Incident), who are also inside, sipping coffees emblazoned with their new nicknames of 'Stinky' and 'Normal'. Nobody seems sure which is which.

Come on, it does look like 'Stinky'. If you squint.

We're also there for the arrival of various musicians, including bassist Paul Worwood and his wife 'Helen Tinyfish' (yeah, I can see why she didn't want to give up that maiden name), as well as Simon Godfrey, who announces his presence by creeping up behind me and pinching my arse, as is customary at these things (or that's what he keeps telling me, anyway. That, and to keep it our little secret.)

Not only does our subterfuge afford us such Rock and Roll opportunities as mentioned above, but it's also rather handy for getting a nice spot. Having learned yesterday that good spots, once found, are to be guarded with one's life, we decide to take our places right in front of the stage before the doors even open, and we're therefore in prime position when people start flooding in and eventually MC Bert (in da house) introduces...

Thanks again to Mike Evans for the 'proper' photos here!

Dec Burke Band

...who absolutely storm the place with by far and away the best performance I've ever seen from them. Yep, this is, I think, the fourth time I've seen the ex-Darwin's Radio / Frost* frontman's solo band (if you can have such a thing), but frankly it may as well be the first. Right from the off, something new clicks into place - perhaps it's new boy Steve Woodcock on Bass duties, or perhaps it's Dec's sparkly new in-ear monitors, but they tear through many great tracks from "Destroy All Monsters" and "Paradigms and Storylines", bringing them to life in spectacular fashion. 

All vocal demons from their last gig are completely banished, and Dec nails the high notes with ease, commanding the audience but still finding time for those epic guitar battles with his right-hand man Hywel Bennett. Paddy Darlington keeps those pounding electronic beats coming, giving something of a Depeche Mode vibe to a couple of the tracks, and drummer Tim Churchman (now freed from his TV role as Dr. House) proves, as always, why he's in such great demand on the scene.

There's even time for a Darwin's Radio track ('Breathe it In'), which slots in so nicely to the rest of the set that I don't even twig it's not a solo song until someone else mentions it later. I love every minute, and so do many others, judging by the queues afterwards at Dec's Merch stall, manned (sorry, womanned) by the lovely Catherine. I'm chuffed to bits for Dec and can't wait to see what he does next (new album in the planning phase, folks...)

Unfortunately, I don't make it to Dec's Merch stand, or to any other Merch stand, for that matter, nor do I make it to the acoustic stage on this occasion to see Matt Stevens, who by all accounts has performed musical CPR on his guitar after last night's exertions and is back to entertain those who missed him yesterday.

No, on this occasion, I am most definitely not losing my spot, because it's time for the (probably maybe) very last full gig by...


Tinyfish

... and this has to be experienced from the front row. In addition, hanging about at the main stage whilst more devoted music lovers are lost in acoustic-y goodness means that we get to witness the band soundchecking - normally a very drab affair, but then there's nothing drab about Tinyfish (apart from bass player Paul's khaki trousers perhaps.)

Thus we are around to witness in-band fighting (surely the real reason for the gig hiatus), as drummer Leon, and then lead guitarist Jim beg for less of singer Simon in their monitors - followed by what fellow fan Pedro describes as "clown sex", as Leon tests the odd sounds on his drum pads, shouting "More! MOOORRE! LOUDER!" between each squeak and honk whilst glaring at the poor soundman like a death row executioner.

And then, the fashion moment of the entire weekend, as Simon takes to the stage in one of Nellie's fabulous 'Prog Princess' T-shirts, which of course is far too small and keeps riding up until roadie Andy R runs over to sort it out, proving yet again that there's nothing that gaffer tape can't fix.

Eventually the band stop laughing for long enough to play something, and at this point I put my phone away, I stop thinking about what I'm going to write in my review, and I just listen. (In fact I manage to do this for the rest of the day, which is a refreshing change, although it does mean that anything you get from this point on is entirely a result of my 7-week old memory...)

I'm not convinced that the world needs another full Tinyfish review from me (you can check out a proper one here and an improper one here), but I can't let this set go entirely without comment.

As I mentioned in Friday's review, Simon has intended for this gig to be a little more professional and serious, and it is (to a degree). The playing of the songs is utterly faultless  - the best I've heard them, and the sound from the Peel desk guy Tim is amongst the best I've ever heard at a live gig. It's so astonishingly good that I hope and pray after a couple of songs that someone's plugged a laptop into the desk to record it (they haven't.) 

The band give definitive renditions of the highlights of the Big Red Spark album, including the title track, lit in beautiful red (see what they did there?), spoken-word-nutter Rob Ramsay auditioning for a part in Friday night's Punto incident during 'Refugee', and another blistering guitar solo from Jim during 'Wide Awake at Midnight'. And no Tinyfish gig would be complete without some of the classic early tracks like 'Motorville'.

It's a classy way to go out, all round, but that's not to say that it's boring and humourless, oh no. Although Simon's trademark changing of lyrics to take the piss out of audience members is not in evidence this afternoon, there's a touching moment where during 'Wide Awake at Midnight' he sings "You are tired of me..." before quickly interjecting "no you're not!" - no, we really aren't. There's also the opportunity for some physical comedy as Simon tries to act out Rob's monologue through the medium of mime, prompting death glares from Rob before a resigned grimace takes over when Simon decides to plant a smacker right on his cheek.

But it's during 'Nine Months on Fire' that perhaps my favourite Tinyfish moment of all time occurs. Always a favourite track in any case, the band are delicately making their way through the quiet acoustic section in the middle when Leon appears to be fiddling about with something on his kit. Leon being a fiddly kind of person, this doesn't attract much attention until the loud section kicks in with its thundering toms, and clouds of what appear to be smoke rise into the air with every beat (and Leon being the drummer that he is, there are a lot of beats...)

Appropriate and well planned stage effect, or clinically insane drummer's idea of a practical joke? It looks like the former until Jim, who has his back to Leon, suddenly sniffs something afoot and turns round to see what the heck is going on, before a gigantic chuckle and an exasperated and weary headshake as he spies yet another drummer prank. (You can even check this out on video here.)

The set draws to a close with 'Motorville', the first track from their first album, and now the last track to be played live. Allowing myself to become briefly distracted for a moment I take a look around the venue - every floor spot, every staircase, every balcony position (including those two storeys up behind the stage in the VIP area), is absolutely rammed with people completely engaged with the amazing music and the crazy, one of a kind band who've produced it. It's a fitting way to leave the live arena.

As the final song draws to a close, we expect a cheeky smile, a joke, or a wave from Simon, but instead he tears off his guitar, flings it to the ground, and disappears moodily off stage, leaving it to forlornly feed back as the rest of the band follow him. What a closing statement - a 'fuck you' to the frustrations Simon feels at having to stop gigging at the height of their success?

I'm welling up slightly at this most unexpected end to their last gig, and marvelling at the poignancy of it all, when they all come bounding back on stage with Simon leaping about like a puppy with his tongue hanging out, waving and sticking his fingers up - and I know that all is right with the world again. I suspect we shall see them live again in some guise, but if not, it's been a fitting way to end.

After all this excitement, I desperately need a break (and to be honest, I'm not sure I can cope with hanging about and dissecting what we've just seen with my fellow fans just yet) so Karin and I slope off quietly for a bit of lunch.

Unfortunately, this means that...

Touchstone

... become the second casualty of the no-lunch-break schedule. Hopefully they aren't too hurt by this since I've seen them live 4 times now - and in any case we do manage to catch the very end of their set when they're joined on stage for a cover of Tears for Fears' "Mad World" by Kerry Chicione, bounding about like a mad person and showing why he will be so sorely missed in Mars Hollow.

On this showing, the boys (and gal) are rocking as hard (and as loud) as ever and I look forward to seeing them again soon.

After an afternoon of standing up, there's nothing better than heading to the acoustic stage for...

Kerry Chicione and Matt Brown (again)

... and it's at this point that the beauty of this acoustic stage really becomes apparent, as we head for the sofas at the side of the bar and flop out completely whilst basking in the summery glow of the guys' songs. 

I've no idea what they play today, but it's just as much fun as yesterday, and it's exactly what's needed for a warm Sunday afternoon ahead of the full prog onslaught that is...

Magenta

... who have a little bit to prove for me this evening. I first saw them at Summer's End in 2008 and was utterly blown away by the energy coming off the stage - the music itself was (and indeed still is) absolutely first-rate prog, channelling everyone from Yes to Mike Oldfield - but the sheer joy being experienced by everyone in the band set them head and shoulders from most of what I saw that weekend. Fast forward to Summer's End 2011, and I was a little less enthusiastic. With a couple of very new (and very young) band members, I felt they were still finding their way a little, with the new guys looking a little worried on stage. 

(I think I was so confused by the new and very young additions to the band that I may even have compared them to a prog Von Trapp family, with Christina Booth as the scatty governess, Rob Reed as the serious father and Chris Fry as 'Cool Uncle Chris' - but luckily that was only in a post on the Tinyfish forum, which nobody reads anyway...)

Altogether now, "Eidelweiss..."

Anyway, everything changes as soon as I hear the opening notes of 'Glitterball' from last year's "Chameleon" album, and the packed venue goes crazy for the band. Youngsters Dan Nelson on bass and Steve Roberts on drums exude confidence from the off, and look utterly relaxed and at home with the music. Guitarist Chris Fry gurns as he is supposed to, singer Christina Booth is mesmerising in centre stage, and even main man and keyboard whizz Rob Reed raises the odd sardonic eyebrow in approval at the proceedings.

All thoughts of lonely goatherds banished, I'm taken away on a prog adventure in Magenta's own inimitable style. Short, concise, almost indie-ish numbers like 'I'm Alive' and passionate, intense tracks like 'Red' (lit in, um, red - see what they did there?) nestle alongside retro-prog monoliths from the 'Revolutions' album - amusingly including the section from 'Man the Machine' which contains the lyric "Internet and Email, let us worship you and praise", delivered by Christina directly at uber-fan Pedro - either recognising the importance of their internet fan base, or... a giant flaming coincidence. 

I also take a glance to my right during this track and spot Tangent main man Andy Tillison looking directly over Rob Reed's shoulder from the gallery next to the stage, whilst what can only be described as "rocking out" to one of his keyboard solos. It's great to see some of the weekend's musicians hanging around to support and enjoy the other bands, and he's not the only one.

90 minutes pass in a flash and highlights are many - Chris Fry's face throughout the entire gig being one of them, but I'll pick out two - first up, 'Demons', with its epic instrumental section, which features Chris jumping up on his stack for maximum axe-wielding rock godness...

... and secondly, tonight's longest track - the title track from 2008's "Metamorphosis" album (my favourite of theirs - no I know you don't care), where the entire band comes together to give one of the performances of the festival, the new guys prove why they're absolutely the right fit, and everyone has as much fun as one can have whilst playing a song about a serial killer.

It's the last song of the set, or is it? They disappear offstage seemingly for good until Bob comes back on to whip up another cheer from the crowd and, frankly, demand that they come back on and carry on playing. (He tells me later that the encore is all his doing, although it seems very well rehearsed, so I'm not convinced.) But a quick lap of honour with 'Pride' from the "Seven" album, and it really is all over.

Frankly, the first two sets today would have been enough excitement for one day, but having already had 3 and a bit superb full electric sets and a lovely acoustic one, I'm seriously starting to flag by the time the Magenta-high wears off a little. I'm just about to go and find somewhere to sit down and watch the always-excellent Alan Reed at the Acoustic Stage, when I notice that a nice gap's opened up down at the front and that there's a prime opportunity to get in pole position for the festival closing set, so I sadly choose to forgo Alan's set but hear great things about it, and if it's anything like as good as the ones I've seen previously I know I'll have missed out. If you're an idiot like me, make sure you get yourself down to the Peel on the 15th of September and check him out (again)!

Soundchecks are evidently less of an occasion to piss about if you're...

It Bites

... but then, if you're It Bites, you've had several top 40 singles in your nearly 30-year history, and you have people (well, Paddy Darlington, in his third role of the weekend) to do that kind of thing for you.

Yep, It Bites are that rarest of creatures, a prog band who've broken through to the charts, albeit playing what frontman John Mitchell describes tonight as "Cheesy 80's pop", but I prefer to think of as intelligent pop/rock music with a progressive slant. He almost has a point though, in that tonight's set is weighted slightly in favour of 'The Hits', from early anthem 'All in Red' (see if you can guess what colour lights the lighting team go for), to fan-favourite tracks from the comeback album "The Tall Ships" like 'Ghosts' and 'Oh My God' (tonight's opener, which sees Paddy leaping over the front barrier quicker than an Olympic hurdler to try to fix a dodgy cable on founder member and keyboard legend John Beck's rig).

All this means there's less time than I'd personally like for the amazing new concept album 'Map of the Past', of which I slightly expect them to play the entirety - but the highlight of the set comes with a medley of 'Send No Flowers' and 'Meadow and the Stream', the latter being perhaps the most overtly proggy song on the album (in a 7/8, "yeah this is a bit like Cinema Show isn't it but nobody will notice" kind of way).

We also get latest single 'Cartoon Graveyard', a song which they're trying to get onto Radio 2 as we speak - although this only seems possible by editing it down to 4 minutes which surely means missing all the best bits. The new album also provides the day's most emotional moments when John Mitchell dedicates the haunting 'Last Escape' to one of the participants in Terry Pratchett's 'Choosing to Die' documentary, who was a big fan of the band.

Not that there's any lack of prog really, as the main set finishes with the one-two of 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley' and 'Old Man and The Angel' - both fan favourite singalong tracks. And surely this is the point of tonight - it's a closing night headline festival set, designed to give everyone a feel-good, singalong ending to the weekend. It Bites deliver in absolute spades.

As the set closes and once again I glance around at the balconies rammed with people singing along to top 10 hit 'Calling All The Heroes', there's a bit of a spine tingle.

Twang and Geoff have absolutely pulled it off - a weekend of superb, superb music, something for everyone's tastes (not to mention a flipping bucketload for mine), and a place for people to meet other fans of this odd music we call progtacular - assuming we can actually make it across the toffee-coated floors to get to them, that is.



Postlogue

When it's all over, there are literally hundreds of people to wish farewell and to exchange Facebook details with, but we're not really in any rush to go anywhere, so it gets to the stage where we are once again in the venue after hours, getting in the way of actual important work. A bit of light roadie-ing takes up some time and then we get the chance to have a chat with some people who really are supposed to be there.

We're standing talking to Jim and Paul from Tinyfish when Andy Tillison comes over to congratulate the band on a wonderful gig - praise indeed. He chats to Jim for a little bit and then turns to me. "And you, I'm sure you were in Tinyfish too?" Ah, no, I say sadly, unfortunately not, I'm just a big fan. "Well, cheers anyway!", he says and shakes my hand before walking off out of the door, leaving poor Paul pondering why it's always the bass player's fate to be forgotten. (Even now I'm going back through this review making sure I did actually put his name in somewhere other than here...)

Looks like I did, but I forgot to include a picture.
No wonder Andy was confused. Here he is.
Have you seen this bass player?

It's another fantastic moment to add to the weekend's list, and it probably signifies that I've been a hanger on for too long, so it's time to head home. In fact, everyone else has had the same idea so we actually end up being the last ones standing outside on the pavement with Twang, whilst some young Scandinavian girls try to chat him up (for some reason he doesn't appear to be interested, perhaps it all seems like too much hassle after the weekend he's had...)

And bizarrely enough, this tale ends exactly(ish) where it began - with me sitting opposite Twang on a bus, talking about Celebr8. I ask him how I think it went.

"You know what mate, at the end of the day, everybody said it wouldn't fucking work, they said it couldn't be done. And it did - everyone's been fucking impressed with the way it's gone..."

Everyone's absolutely fucking right. Celebr8 has been an unmitigated success down to the hard graft of Twang and Geoff and Bob and Nellie, and everyone else who gave up their time to make it work - their efforts being rewarded with an event to remember, and one which is destined to become an event on the prog calendar that no fan will want to miss.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to practice my vocals for the next Tinyfish tour...

7th July 2012: Celebr8 Festival (Day One) - The Hippodrome, Kingston

Prologue

Some months ago, I was heading back from something in Central London (a gig, maybe?) when I came across something rather odd. Making my way down my train at Waterloo, I eventually found an empty seat across the way from a quiet looking chap, studiously reading a book which he’d produced from his man bag, and keeping himself to himself. It looked rather a lot like promoter, DJ and all-round rock legend Jon ‘Twang’ Patrick (aka Twitch, apparently), but obviously it couldn’t be, since he appeared to be sober.

I sat down opposite anyway, if only to study this doppelganger Twang from over the top of my Evening Standard and see if I could get a subtle photo to stick on Facebook. (I had much more luck with the Dwayne Dibbley-alike I’d spotted a few months before.) Eventually, after much unsubtle fake text reading, he clocked me – “Alright mate?”. Apart from the fact that there were no words beginning with ‘f’ in the sentence, this was good enough confirmation that it actually was him, so we settled down for a good old chinwag.

“Mate, keep the 7^th and 8^th of July free, alright? There’s something really big I’m working on.”  I sounded intrigued enough to be trusted with a little more information. “Right, you mustn’t tell anybody. This is top secret…”And so began the story of Celebr8. To start with, it sounded like an extension of the yearly Mattfests at the Peel, a few Peel regular bands all on the same bill, only this time over a whole weekend.

The train journey wasn’t really long enough to find out much, but it sounded both ambitious and exciting. The House of Progression was spreading its wings, with a bigger, more impressive venue, better access to food not consisting completely of stray vermin, and a cracking line-up of the top progressive bands who’d started out at The Peel. “It’s going to be massive, mate.”

I pencilled it in.

Saturday 7^th of July

After the previous night’s fun, nobody’s really in the mood for getting up early, but our rodent visitor needs to be delivered to the venue ahead of doors time to go and take up his position as Nellie’s Biatch at The Merch Desk stall. (Yes I know I just said both desk and stall, deal with it.) The best thing to clear the cobwebs is clearly a blast of 5.1 Genesis, and as the bass pedals on ‘Squonk’ loosen up any last traces of last night’s excesses, we consider ourselves suitably progged up and hop on the bus for the epic 15 minute journey to the venue.

With Tim safely delivered to his new owner, Karin and I join the slowly growing crowd and there’s plenty of time to chat with pretty much everybody we’ve ever met, whilst watching hordes of middle-aged men in black band t-shirts filling up the square between the Kingston Hippodrome and the Post Office. The locals (I say that like I’m not one) are bemused. “Wosson ‘ere today then?” Erm, a music festival. “Anyone good playing?” Nah.

Doors time comes and goes, and then a rather stressed looking Twang appears from the door to announce that there’s been a slight delay, “As will be familiar to anyone who’s ever been to a gig at The Peel… And now I’m going to have a fag.” Fair enough. Eventually the venue is deemed safe for the general public to enter (co-organiser Geoff Banks’ beautiful shorts notwithstanding), and we all file in for a weekend of wondrous musical delights. Slowly.

Ah yes, this being a town-centre nightclub, the staff are rather more used to dealing with, shall we say, a less refined clientele than your average prog fan. After each of us file past and collect our wristbands from Twang and Geoff (and have to fit them ourselves, which is an interesting test of manual dexterity), we’re shuffled along to the security search, where the staff are determined to put all of us and our bags through the metal detector before we can be allowed in. This lasts as long as it takes for them to get everyone in once, at which point it’s switched off and put to one side so that anyone coming and going later can bring in whatever munitions they desire. It’s discrimination against early arrivers, I tell you.

Unfortunately our chatting outside places us squarely at the very back of the queue, and the queue moves very slowly, so as a result, we miss the vast majority of…

Sean Filkins

 …who has no choice but to start his set before most people are inside, otherwise it’ll be cut so short he’ll have to head home before he even starts. It’s the first gig for Sean’s band, who span quite a variety of age ranges, and they play several tracks from last year’s “War and Peace and Other Short Stories” (an album I’ve bought and enjoyed.)

It’s a great start to the festival, setting the quite ‘Neo-Prog’ vibe for the Saturday, and what I do hear sounds good. There are the typical first-ever gig / first band of the day gremlins, and Sean often pushes himself to the very limits of his vocal range, but in general it goes down very well, the two guitarists make their mark duelling across their frontman, and they pull off one of the album’s great epics impressively well.

Some of these photos were not taken on my phone - thanks Mike Evans!

As the set comes to a close, I expect a stage announcement to let us know where and when the next dollop of quality entertainment will be taking place, but nothing is forthcoming. The day’s programme shows a 5 minute gap before the first act on the acoustic stage, but nobody’s quite sure where the acoustic stage actually is. Luckily Karin’s been on a quick recce during the last song and found that just along from the vomit-zone around the CRS Merch table, there’s a well-hidden portal to the unplugged dimension, so we make our move along with around 5 other punters.

Kerry Chicoine and Matt Brown

… are all set up and ready to go, but rather lacking in people to play to. Never mind, Matt gives us a quick rendition of Genesis’ ‘Mad Man Moon’ on the piano, which gets a hearty cheer from, um, me. Eventually it fills up enough for them to start their short set, and they take us on a little tour of the world from sunny California (via Kerry and Matt’s own, excellent songs) to deepest England, with a popular XTC cover.

Kerry had been due to play the festival with his band Mars Hollow, however when the band broke up shortly before, he quickly recruited his buddy Matt to come over and play these slots with him – and frankly, I’m glad he did. Who needs yet another prog band on the bill when you can break things up with a laid back set of summery songs from two superb performers? Kerry thrashes his guitar and sings with gusto while Matt hammers his keyboard so much that it threatens to fall off the stand.

The only unfortunate thing is that nobody has told them when they need to finish so as to allow everyone to get back into the other room for the next act, so they’re in the middle of a song when we suddenly hear the unmistakeable thumping of…

The Tangent

… who kick off their set with Kool and the Gang’s ‘Celebrate’. (See what they did there? Good, that makes you more intelligent than at least two other reviewers, who questioned why on earth they thought it was a good idea to play this song at a prog festival.) Suitably warmed up, they kick right into ‘The World That We Drive Through’, the first of the tracks loosely beginning with ‘W’ that comprise this afternoon’s set.

We join proceedings 5 minutes or so in, as the band’s latest line-up (the smallest and easily the best of their history, fact fans) are heading off into the first of many extended instrumental jams. The Tangent’s set at last year’s Summer’s End festival was one of its big highlights, and today is no different, in fact they easily walk ‘band of the day’ for me. With the injection of young blood in the form of talented gits Luke Machin and Daniel Mash (from the band Maschine, formerly Concrete Lake), not to mention powerhouse drummer Tony ‘Funkytoe’ Latham, main man Andy Tillison plays keys like a man possessed, and sings his heart out in his own inimitable style (think a Yorkshire Roger Waters and you might not go far wrong.)

In fact it’s great to hear Andy handling all the vocals on this early track- having got into the band properly after the Flower Kings had taken the road back home to Sweden, it always jars a little to hear Roine Stolt’s voice on what is very obviously Andy’s music. In this pared-down, home-grown line-up, it puts the focus rightly on Andy himself and takes them way beyond the undeserved ‘spin-off band’ status they’d initially inherited.

20 minutes into the set and the first proper song comes to an end, whereupon Andy announces their intention to “do a Transatlantic” and play “nothing but fuckin’ epics!”.  Fairly safe move for a prog festival. And epics they do play – their 70-odd minute set consists of 4 songs, including highlight of last year’s ‘COMM’ album ‘The Wiki Man’ with its dissection of internet culture, and my own personal favourite Tangent song ‘Where Are They Now?’ which prompts a crowd singalong of the spine-tingling main riff (or maybe that’s just me).

With the music taking turns from straight-up prog to fusion, to Canterbury, to electronica, there’s plenty for the incredible band to get their teeth into, and what’s more they seem to have an absolute blast doing it. (I say ‘they’, I can’t actually see drummer Tony since the extended stage demanded by IQ’s Subterranea show seems to leave all today’s drummers stranded on a separate drum-island some miles offshore from their bandmates.)

The energy coming off the stage from the four performers, especially chief gurner Luke Machin, is infectious, and they go down an absolute storm. Unfortunately Luke’s efforts go a little bit too far during ‘Where Are They Now?’ and he ends up playing the last couple of minutes of the song on 5 strings only - what a pro.

Thanks to the band not taking a proper soundcheck, the day’s running order is back on track, although I can’t help feeling I’d rather have had another Tangent song and lop the time off elsewhere. But I’m awaken from this most important of thoughts by a sudden unexpected presence on the stage – it’s Celebr8 website guru, chicken farmer and supreme podcaster Bob Hodds of the Dead Nobodies show. “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Tangent!” At flipping last – I whoop and holler even more, as much at Bob’s initiative at getting up there and making the day look organised, as for the Tangent. What’s more, he even directs people towards the acoustic stage, where Jadis’ Gary Chandler is about to play.

We’re back on track timing-wise, people know where to go when, and people finally know what Bob looks like (although he cunningly doesn’t introduce himself) – so for the first time I relax on the behalf of those of who have put so much into this event. I’m not quite sure why I’ve been so worried, apart from knowing some of those involved and really wanting them to make a go of it, but from here on in, it’s plain sailing, at least as far as the paying public (i.e. me) are concerned.

There is now a brief lull in the review as Karin and I take a break from standing up to go and get some dinner (yes, dinner, not tea). Unfortunately, the very nature of the day’s non-stop musical agenda means that something has to give if we’re to eat anything more than the crisps that the venue are selling. We therefore end up missing most of both Gary Chandler (although what I do hear is quite intriguing- some Oldfield-ish guitar playing over an electronic-ish backing track) and Pallas. Again, the songs I do see towards the tail-end of the set sound good, and the rest of the crowd certainly lap up their brand of heavy-ish neo prog, with new frontman Paul Mackie making a big impression on the room.

We therefore resume with…

Matt Stevens

… who is waiting patiently in the acoustic bar for Pallas to finish. He treats us to an impromptu rendition of some Metallica, before asking ‘Is it rude of me to start?’ – to which, given that Pallas are already overrunning their slot and have just started another song, the answer is a resounding ‘No!’

I won’t bore you yet again with why Matt (and his ‘one-man guitar orchestra’) is such a great performer (you can read all about a very similar set here if you like)- but suffice to say that this performance, supposedly his last of the ‘looping’ tour, is up there with the best of them. Melodic, rhythmic and cacophonous by turns, he builds up layers upon layers of riffs and harmonies on his acoustic guitar to produce the biggest sound in the side room all weekend. Jumping about the place and thrashing his axe in the process (hmm, sounds like a nasty euphemism for something but I’ll leave it in), the poor guitar is in a serious state by the end of the 30-minute set, as is Matt himself, who I’m rather concerned is about to collapse.

This crowd, however, wants blood, and Matt willingly gives it to them, with a seemingly unplanned encore which finishes off both player and instrument. I’m assuming neither are permanently damaged (since he turns up to claim the ‘TBA’ slot tomorrow morning), but there’s no time to worry about that, as it’s nearly time for…

IQ

… who tonight are playing their magnum opus ‘Subterranea’ (essentially the neo-prog version of ‘The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway’ with more up-to-date effects.) Karin heads off for a chat with some friends and I jostle myself into a good viewing position (or, as the guy next to me correctly surmises, ‘The least worst position’.) Ah, yes…

The Venue

…shall we take a minute to have a chat about that?

When Twang first told me about the Hippodrome, he mentioned the different levels and floors and viewing galleries and seating areas, and it sounded flipping marvellous. And it is, mostly. There are banks of sofas and tables and chairs round the back of the main room, where tired feet can relax and bored partners can play Sudoku on their phones. Which is ace, except that they’re all sunken down from the main floor and tucked away behind pillars and staircases and fixtures and fittings which seem to have been taken from a Miami Vice-meets-Innerspace themed pinball machine. Plus, all the upper floor galleries are cordoned off to mere mortals such as us.

Then there’s the problem that IQ’s stage show is a bit too big for the venue, meaning that some of the equipment obscures large bits of the stage from certain viewing points. And that the PA for the whole weekend is right in the way of the right hand side of the stage from the steps at the right hand side of the floor which would otherwise have been perfect. All of this means that, unless you’re in the first couple of rows of the floor, or the first row of the raised back section of the floor (or you arrive very early and bag one of the stools by the bar at the back left) you’re not going to see a lot. Which is not an awful lot different to The Peel, if I’m honest.

Also, once you’ve picked a spot and stood in it for a few minutes, you’re pretty much stuck with it, because, well, you’re stuck to it. Both the wooden floors and the carpets throughout the venue may as well be made of fly paper. (Now, that would have confused the night-time clientele, arriving to find us prog fans rooted to our spots around the place, waving frantically for help.)

But let’s not moan. The staff are lovely, especially once they realise that we pose no immediate physical threat to them (“unlike the fucking animals they have to deal with normally”, says Twang later), there are some decent beers on sale, there are lots of toilets, unlike at the Peel (although the soap runs out by about 3pm on Saturday), and the acoustic area is a lovely chillout zone for when you can’t bear the twang of another Rickenbacker.

Sorry, where was I? Ah yes…

IQ

… so, yeah, I find the least worst spot and wait for something to happen. I like IQ a lot and this will be the third time I’ve seen them live, but the first time seeing the Subterranea show. Some of the band are already on stage and they do a quick warm up with a little bit of ‘Frequency’ (“Don’t look at or listen to this bit”, says guitarist Mike Holmes…), before a screen rolls down at the front of the stage, the band launches into ‘Overture’ and a video starts of Pete Nicholls being chased through what looks like Lakeside shopping centre (ok, not really, but to be honest I’m so close to it, they could be in the Bahamas for all I know…)

It’s very clever – the video of Pete cuts out at the end of ‘Overture’ and the screen goes translucent to reveal Pete himself behind the curtain to sing ‘Provider’, after which the rocking title track kicks in, the curtain comes up to huge applause, and the projections move to the back screen. (Hang on a minute, did Steven Wilson get the entire idea for his solo show from a late 90’s IQ production?) And so it continues, with the entire of the Subterranea album being sung and acted out note-perfectly by Mr.Nicholls, ably assisted by the innovative lighting and video effects, and even more so by the band, including “new boy” Neil Durant on keyboards, “new old boy” Paul Cook back on drums and “even newer even older boy” Tim Esau back on bass.

I rather hope that the stage show will make some sense of the story of this concept album (which, actually, ‘The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway’ almost does), however a combination of poor visibility and tiredness force me to retreat about halfway through to enjoy the rest of the music from a more comfortable spot. It’s at this time that I actually spy Steven Wilson, and what’s more, I witness him using his phone to take a picture of IQ on stage.

Steven Wilson. Taking a photo of IQ. This is how you know your event has arrived. (As it turns out, Steven saw IQ at the Marquee in the 80’s and has been asked by Prog magazine to do a review for the next issue. Or at least, this is what the gossip in the house is. For all I know, he’s just looking for some more stage ideas to steal.)

As the band finish up the Subterranea set with ‘The Narrow Margin’ before a couple of crowd pleasing encores of ‘The Wake’ and ‘Frequency’ (oh, who saw that one coming?), I reflect on what a great day it’s been. A variety of acts, all of which have been hugely popular with the crowd, and a huge number of fellow fans coming together in one place for a bit of a chat and some real ale (until it runs out.)

I’ve spoken to many new and lovely people, none of whom I would have met if it wasn’t for this event (some from as far afield as Washington DC, Rio de Janeiro, Japan and Hull.) And, yeah, the music’s been pretty first rate too. I’m bursting with pride for the chaps who stuck their necks out to put on the festival that nobody thought would work.

Postlogue

When IQ are done, most of the crowd file out to get their trains (or queue back up again for the Pyjama Party, which starts at 11), but since the Merch Boy is still in our custody, we have to hang about and wait for him to be ready, which basically involves being roped into stuffing boxes of T-shirts into a cupboard and then doing some proper roadie-ing when it becomes apparent that there is a whole load of gear in the venue which absolutely has to be out by 11 so that the local kids can get down in their PJ’s where all IQ’s stage equipment is currently standing.

It’s not exactly fun, I’m not gonna lie to you. It’s hard to strike the right balance between helping and getting in the way, and nobody seems exactly sure what needs to go where- but eventually after about 45 minutes of lugging, everything’s outside. Everything, that is, except the screen from the front of the stage. There’s a fraught-looking man up a ladder desperately trying to get it free from its fixings, to no avail, as the 11 O’clock curfew comes and goes and Twang starts pacing in the street outside, chain smoking… Eventually it becomes apparent that there is literally nothing anyone else can do, so, in typical Twang style, he says, “Fuck it, let’s go to the pub.”

Arriving at the Druid’s Head, a spontaneous round of applause breaks out amongst the remaining festival goers, as Lord Jonathan of Twangshire enters, upon which he is bought several beers and the night continues for as long as is possible, with tales of rock, Robert Fripp, and other stories completely unfit to print (because I’ve forgotten them.)

When we're finally chucked out, we decadently jump into a taxi home, or rather to McDonalds (again - I promise I don't just eat McDonalds, honest.) Suitably laden with inedible food, the three of us step out into the night just in time for the heavens to open in quite spectacular fashion, soaking us and our takeaway bags, which disintegrate, causing Karin to lose chips all over the stairs at Surbiton station.

Eventually we get in and and sit, dripping, in shell-shocked silence munching on what purports to be food- it's blooming lovely, actually.

And tomorrow, we do it all again...