Festival Diary: All Tomorrow's Parties curated by Jeff Mangum

Best Fit’s Will Fitzpatrick heads to Somerset for a weekend of cult status bands, Bill Murray rumours and ear splitting noise for the Jeff Mangum of Neutral Milk Hotel curated All Tomorrow’s Parties. With photographs by Tim Ferguson and Daniel Mackie.

Friday, 9 March

We get underway courtesy of Elephant 6 Holiday Surprise, a 12-headed beast comprising members of Elf Power, Neutral Milk Hotel and various less-celebrated acts from the titular psych-folk collective. Largely playing the hits (such as they are) of their main bands, the set alternates between jaunty melodicism and wonky beauty, and by gosh, it looks like they’re having fun. Climaxing with a gleeful Sun Ra cover, their winning enthusiasm spreads across the possibly-too-sober ATP crowd, making for a thoroughly pleasant means of warming into festival mode.

Veteran performance artist Charlemagne Palestine follows – opening with some heavily-treated electronic drones, his grinning visage lit up by the glow of the laptop screen (insert your own ‘just checking his Facebook’ gag here). A grand piano bedecked with stuffed toys looming ominously on stage left. It’s his second trip to Minehead, but his first on a bigger stage – “I’ll do what I can,” he promises, before howling eerily into the mic whilst rubbing his finger along the rim of a wine glass. It’s unsettlingly sparse, but utterly beautiful. In what looks likely to be a recurring theme of the festival, the strains of the second stage thump through the floorboards from the room below. But rather than detracting from the performance, it forces us to concentrate harder, making the experience even more rewarding. You could theorise wildly for months on end about Charlemagne’s bizarre, fractured journeys into repetitive minimalism (incidentally, he prefers the term “maximalism”) and still not come close to describing the strange exhilaration of his music. Its peaks are as thrilling as any fully-charged punk band, and as heartbreaking as the most fragile ballad. Admittedly, watching him play a series of piano intervals for fifty minutes gets a little draining, but fuck man, what a ride.

The annual ‘Bill Murray is at ATP’ rumour is already ping-ponging across the Twittersphere by the time festival curator Jeff Mangum makes his first of two appearances. He’s understandably one of the most eagerly-anticipated performers of the weekend, as indicated by the near-religious fervour which greets his entrance. ‘Two-Headed Boy Pt 2’ is first outta the cage, and the audience watches in rapturous silence. Everyone’s favourite resurgent reclusive doesn’t really attempt to engage with the crowd, although you could argue that the sheer volume of willing hearts held out before him means he doesn’t really have to. In any case, it’s ok – we’re only just getting reacquainted, after all. ‘Holland, 1945’ and ‘Song Against Sex’ provide some jauntier moments, while all three parts of ‘The King Of Carrot Flowers’ inspire a spine-tingling singalong from the transcendently-happy congregation of fuzz-folk fans. There are cameos from Scott Spillane and Julian Koster, prompting the possibly-irrelevant question of why they didn’t just go ahead with a full Neutral Milk Hotel set. All in all, though, it’s hard not to go along with the crowd’s devotion to those wonderful songs, and indeed the reluctant genius singing them.

We pop our heads round the door for Joanna Newsom, whose ethereal charms still hold sway over the affections of the male-heavy crowd. Love her or hate her (and most here seem to be in the former camp), she’s pretty darn captivating. Young Marble Giants’ post-punk jams are as menacingly brooding as ever, although the effect is tempered slightly when their computer-generated backdrop crashes, leaving them to play in front of a rather less impressive Windows menu. Luckily, The Raincoats are on fire, tearing through what seems like their entire recorded output with inspirational levels of energy and zeal. They’re just about trumped by a triumphant set from Half Japanese – Jad Fair beams throughout, clearly thrilled to be here, while the band raise the rowdiest of ruckuses behind him. Sumptuous pop hooks, thunderous strafes of Some Velvet Sidewalk-style axe heroism, and an irresistible rendition of old favourite ‘Red Dress’ – this, kids, is how you play a rock show.

There’s slightly less fizz during Thurston Moore’s hour on the main stage. As ever, it’s impressive – would you expect anything less from the Sonic Youth guitarist? – but it never quite topples over into ‘incredible’. There are nice outings for old friends like ‘Ono Soul’, alongside the Red House Painters flavour of his recent material, but we’re left feeling like a kid who was promised a day at the ice cream factory but had to spend the majority of it in the packaging room.

Luckily Mike Watt and George Hurley are here to ensure the day doesn’t end on a downer. It’s commendable that they opt to perform a set of Minutemen classics as a duo, rather than hiring some unwanted fanboy lunkhead to fill in for the much-missed d. Boon, and even if the songs seem a little more empty than usual, they’re no less powerful or downright awesome than you’d hope. The reunited Jon Spencer Blues Explosion feel a little extraneous after that, although the leather-trousered frontman still conjures up a good sweaty party. He doesn’t seem to shout ‘BLOOZE SPLOSHUN’ as much as TLOBF remembers, but even so, it’s been a pretty fucking solid opening day.

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Saturday, 10 March

Those Bill Murray Twitter rumours – the ATP equivalent of shouting ‘bollocks’ at Reading, as one wag eloquently puts it – now claim that the deadpan maestro has been joined by Ryan Gosling, and they’ve been planning a DJ set for later that night. In-joke or not, everyone prays this is true whilst trudging over to watch A Hawk And A Hacksaw. Their majestically tragic folk will be played as a live soundtrack to the Russian director Sergei Parajadnov’s seminal work ‘Shadows Of Forgotten Ancestors’. Sadly, everything is positioned so that it’s difficult to see the screen, let alone read the subtitles, so the effect is lost a bit. Still, it’s all rather lovely.

Things get an awful lot louder after that. Osaka noise veterans Boredoms have come up with some batshit concepts in their time (the 77 and 88 Boadrum shows, to name but two), and their current setup makes the most pulverising din of the weekend. Over the course of an hour, their 5 drummers and 14 guitarists take us on a dazzling journey of atonal cymbal-drenched swells, swathes of terrifying white noise and finally a tumultuous descent into ambient-washed motorik beats. Meanwhile, Yamataka Eye conducts proceedings with wild-eyed lunacy, leaping from bass drums and attacking his own 7-necked guitar with a staff. It. Is. Incredible. Thereafter we’re treated to some more familiar numbers from their redoubtable back catalogue, climaxing with a rendition of ‘Acid Police’ that leaves everyone visibly astounded, and Best Fit desperately choking back tears that we simply cannot explain. It’s both physically and emotionally exhausting to watch – fuck knows what it must be like to play – but there’s no doubt that this is going to be the set of the weekend. Relieved that there’s a bit of a gap before the next set, we head back to our chalet for a bit of a lie-down. No? Oh, ok then, we head to the bar.

There’s only one thing that could possibly follow that, and it’s party music. Robert Schneider from The Apples In Stereo is possibly the cheeriest man in existence, and his infectious enthusiasm is therefore exactly what we need. Their disco-inflected powerpop feels worlds away from the Beatles-tinged jangle they mastered in their Elephant 6 heyday – slicker and somehow more refined, but without losing any of the addictive sugar rush that made them so adorable in the first place. They bop and bounce with absolutely zero let-up from start to finish, and a rousing ‘Can You Feel It?’ is so goddam euphoric that we may as well just cancel all future deliveries of serotonin – it ain’t gonna get happier than this.

No, actually, put the deliveries back on. For now we enter a lengthy period of downer bands, and by god, we’ll need some cheering up. First of all, we dip our toes into Yamantaka/Sonic Titan’s set, which promises monochrome costumes and mini-operas, but actually just sounds like ‘Hocus Pocus’ by ancient Dutch proggers Focus. Only without the killer riff. And the yodelling. And the fun. Ah well. Low don’t pick up the pace, but after a thoughtful dedication to the people of Syria, they do have the decency to be utterly gorgeous. Slow and miserable his songs may be, but Alan Sparhawk actually seems to be enjoying himself, even inviting us all to join them for a jog the following day. It’d be rude not to go! Er, not that we actually will. They’re followed by Fuck Buttons side project Blanck Mass, whose shimmering bleepery feels like a video game soundtrack in search of a video game.

A trip to Mount Eerie follows, with Phil Elverum determined to not to play the populist card when he could unveil tracks from his forthcoming new record instead. They’re murky and mysterious – fragile stick figures of songs, as glimpsed through dense, misty foliage. All very pretty, although it doesn’t exactly scream ‘party’. Yann Tiersen’s lush compositions fare a little better on the fun scale, if not the ‘I can’t imagine my life without this’ scale, while Earth’s skeletal instrumentals seem to be extremely lengthy intros for songs that never actually happen. With all of these bands it’s probably worth bearing in mind that context isn’t everything, but it’s still rather important.

If Half Japanese presented us with a lesson in performance on the Friday night, the reunited Scratch Acid give a fully comprehensive course in noise rock tonight. David Yow launches himself into the moshpit with scant regard for his or the audience’s well-being, growling every feral lyric with rabid fury – a neat counterpoint to drummer Rey Washam, who appears to be playing in a neckbrace. There are riffs and crowdsurfers galore, as we allow ourselves one last pummelling for the day, and by god it feel worth it. By contrast, Oneohtrix Point Never’s set of glitchy Tim Heckerisms seems positively relaxing.

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Sunday, 11 March

Our final day begins with a sublime set from the American Contemporary Music Ensemble string quartet. At once sombre and reflective, yet quietly uplifting, they perform four pieces over the course of an hour, including a hypnotic arrangement of Gavin Bryars’ ‘Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me’ featuring tape loops and Julian Koster (who else?) on the musical saw. Modern-day classical music is often unfairly overlooked, but they’re a superb introduction for a curious audience – not to mention a perfect fit at ATP. For some reason we decide to follow that up by checking out Boredoms’ second set. It is just as wondrous yet punishing as the day before, and we emerge feeling worn out and hollow. Seriously, what a fucking band, although there’s no way that any of their records can possibly be as good as that live show. There’s no way that anything can be as good as that live show.

Lost In The Trees inevitably fall a little flat after that (there’s that context thing again). Their campfire folk-pop should leave us feeling warm and our lungs filled with smoke, but instead it wanders a little too close to ‘OC’ incidental music for comfort. Obviously there’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not such a thrilling sensation when you’ve just had your innards rearranged by a twenty-strong group of description-defying experimental rock lunatics. Twitter advises us that Bill Murray feels similarly. We (and presumably Bill) head off to catch The Magic Band, hoping to have our minds messed with as well, but their demented demolition of the blues feels disconcertingly polite tonight. Maybe it’s the sound, maybe it’s the setting, maybe it’s Rockette Morton’s ludicrous novelty hat that makes their wonderfully horrible noise seem uncharacteristically self-conscious, but dammit, something feels wrong. It’s a problem that The Olivia Tremor Control just about manage to fix, incorporating virtually the entirety of E6’s ATP contingent to construct the weekend’s most delightfully catchy sprawl. Will Cullen Hart literally shouts himself hoarse whilst attacking his guitar with a tambourine, suggesting there’s more than enough heart left in this band for that mooted new album to pick up where they left off in 1999.

If it’s life-affirming displays of irrefutable splendour that you’re after, Sun Ra Arkestra are exactly what you need. Dressed in their usual spangly garb, and in some cases very clearly loving every minute of it, the ageing jazz-skronk virtuosos take us to Saturn and back with their joyously off-kilter dismantling of the swing band set-up. 88-year-old band leader Marshall Allen guides proceedings with equal disposition to steady discipline and reckless abandon, affording saxophonist and de facto frontman Knoel Scott the opportunity to clown around with some pretty stellar dance moves. You couldn’t really ask for much more. New York fuzz-rockers Versus are always going to feel insubstantial by comparison, although their knack for both riffs and melody inspires audibly heartened sighs from the watching faithful. Meanwhile The Magnetic Fields opt to perform their deliciously wry chamber pop rather more quietly, dropping the synths of their recent Love At The Bottom Of The Sea album for lush acoustic arrangements. Punctuated by the dry, guess-you-had-to-be-there wit of Stephin Merrit, the set’s chock-full of old favourites, but it’s the recent cross-dressing anthem ‘Andrew In Drag’ that sets off the biggest outbreak of audience participation. They really should come here more often.

The vast queues to see Jeff Mangum’s second set make it rather more difficult to see him at all – thankfully we manage to catch him in time for an impressively-wracked ‘Two Headed Boy’. Jeff seems rather more up for it this evening, thankfully, and as that song’s final notes ring out, he’s swiftly joined by a full band for the closing instrumental ‘The Fool’. Ok, it’s not quite Elvis Presley’s ‘68 Comeback Special’ in terms of spectacle, but rest assured there’ll be some satisfied folk in their chalets tonight. There’s just time for Sebadoh to bring the weekend to a thrilling conclusion, drawing almost exclusively from their ‘Bakesale’ and ‘Harmacy’ opuses to a relentless wave of crowdsurfers – tonight they’re the bona fide rock stars they always should have been. A showstopping rendition of ‘Brand New Love’ sends us dizzily into the night, smiles indelibly etched on our faces and wondering why it all has to end so soon.

Bill Murray would be proud.