An irritating tendency to shrink from new experiences meant that I didn't head to Belle & Sebastian's Bowlie Weekender with my mates in and around the band Black Nielson. The twee curators weren't at the top of my record pile, but multiple favourites were on the bill: The Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev, Mogwai, Jon Spencer and the like. When my buddies came back raving about it, I realised that I'd missed out, and decided not to let that happen again.
Bowlie was, at the time, a one-off. There was a Bowlie 2 in 2010, while at the time of writing, in 2019, Belle & Sebastian are looking forward to celebrating its 20th Anniversary with The Boaty Weekender, held on a cruise ship of all things. Let's hope they don't run into 70,000 Tons Of Metal or there'll be trouble...
Actually, the cruise ship idea just feels like an upgraded version of Bowlie's original setting, namely Pontin's holiday camp in Camber Sands, an idea I believe was drawn from Northern Soul weekenders of the past. Bowlie proved such a success that promoter Barry Hogan decided to use it as a template for a regular festival. I have it in my head that an initial attempt later in 1999 was cancelled, though for reasons we'll go into (much) later, Google searches lead to later troubles. From memory, it was due to be headlined (though not curated) by Stereolab and Tindersticks, and its failure prompted a snooty editorial in one of the music papers deriding the idea that such niche bands could successfully headline a festival.
The idea didn't go away, though, and Hogan presumably realised that what was missing from the aborted festival was the idea of a band curating the weekend. So it came to pass that Mogwai, at this point probably the most adored cult band in the country, readily took on the task of assembling one of the best line-ups in history. And then dressing up as Oasis for the programme cover, Barry Burns holding his flute like a guitar.
Obviously, this time I wasn't going to miss out. Two, or maybe even three, carloads of us ended up setting off from Southampton on the morning of April 7th 2000, and I'm pretty sure that whoever's car I was in started the journey listening to Clinic, who were due to play the next day. Needless to say, it was clear on arrival that this would be a very different experience to the outdoor festivals to which I was accustomed. Even the slightly down-at-heel chalets made for more comfortable accommodation than a tent. The festival's two stages were just a short walk up or downstairs from each other. The bands didn't start until 4pm, and if you wanted to you could spend the day up until then hanging out on one of the longest beaches on the south coast, just the other side of the road from Pontin's. And members of the bands would just be hanging out in the bar, or the arcade. ATP would become such an ideal image of a festival that I would never go back to Glastonbury, have only spent one day at Reading in the 21st Century, and have only camped at festivals twice since 2000.
Obviously this wasn't just about the event's environment; as hinted at earlier, ATP 2000 was a veritable Who's Who of the important underground rock of the day. And Snow Patrol. (Only joking, Snow Patrol, you didn't go shit until a few years later!) In fact, the bill was so strong that I ended up not seeing Stereolab, Arab Strap or Gorky's Zygotic Mynci because they clashed with other bands I wanted to see more.
That first day started with Hood downstairs on the second stage, followed by Radar Brothers. I was aware of this American bunch through some John Peel play (as was the case with most of this bill, clearly) and also because their records were being licensed in the UK through The Delgados' crucial label Chemikal Underground, though I only just learnt from their Wikipedia page that their frontman had previously been in Medicine and Maids Of Gravity, obscure musical knowledge that would only interest the sort of person who went to ATP. Speaking of The Delgados, they played on the main stage later before I headed back downstairs for the post-rock one-two of Labradford and Godspeed You Black Emperor!. Both of these bands felt semi-mythical to me at the time, and GYBE in particular would become huge favourites. Theoretically, I would have had time to catch the last 45 minutes of main stage headliners Super Furry Animals afterwards, but I have no recollection of doing so.
The next day involved heading down to the beach and jumping off sand dunes with members of Black Nielson. Heady times! I feel like someone found a stash of porn buried in one of the dunes, but can that really have happened? Either way, I dragged myself back inside to cope with that thing where you can't see properly after being out in the sun. The reason for this was to catch excellent grimy rock band Ligament, who would go on to evolve into Part Chimp a few years later but were already a crucial component of the London noise rock scene. They were followed on the main stage by ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, who were one of the two surprise hits of the festival. This was their first time in the UK, and they absolutely tore the place up with their Sonic Youth-meets-The Who rambunctious art-punk. In fact, though nobody would realise this for a few hours, they'd turn in a more satisfying set than ver Youth themselves. One of our party returned to the chalet afterwards to announce how impressed he'd been by Trail Of Dead, buying both of their albums from the merch stand. On discussing the set, however, it swiftly became clear that he had in fact been watching Slinty Scots Ganger on the other stage. On the plus side, he got to see Ganger's last ever performance, and on listening to his purchases he was also glad to have invested in some Trail Of Dead records.
After Trail Of Dead/Ganger, Snow Patrol's set gave us a chance to chill away from the main building. (Only joking, Snow Patrol, you didn't go shit until a few years later! But we still didn't watch you, sorry.) After that, it was back over for Pan American, because this was the kind of weekend where you could watch a Labradford side project. Then it was upstairs for arty, surgical-masked Scousers and in-car entertainment favourites Clinic before heading straight back down for The For Carnation, something of a festival must-see as What Brian Out Of Slint Did Next. Afterwards, rather than doing those stairs again to see Arab Strap, I opted to stay at the second stage for my first ever encounter with Shellac. Their 1994 debut At Action Park was already a firm favourite, and finally getting to see them was comparable to seeing Fugazi a couple of years later. Definitely my set of the weekend, which was something very few people were saying after Sonic Youth's main stage headliner. At the time, their decision to play an improvised set didn't go down tremendously well with a boozy Saturday night crowd wanting to hear the hits; in some ways, an encore of Sunday only compounded the issue, as if contemptuously tossed off after over an hour of, well, tossing off. Someone famously yelled "Justify your air fare!", indie rock's closest analogue to the Dylan Judas heckle. Eight years later, part of their performance would be released as J'Accuse Ted Hughes as part of the band's limited SYR series. It actually didn't sound too bad.
The last day started with a choice between SY drummer Steve Shelley's country side project Two Dollar Guitar or stray New Acoustic Movement types Alfie; it probably says it all that I can't remember whether I saw either. Choosing between Bardo Pond and Plone would have been somewhat harder, but for some reason I went with the latter, possibly fancying a rare bit of plinky-plonk electronica in a rather guitar-dominated weekend. Along with Trail Of Dead, Sigur Ros were the other bolt-from-the-blue smash, still in the purple patch before everything went a bit too nature documentary. Such was their ascent from here on, this was likely the only time they appeared below Papa M on a bill. The latter, the brainchild of David Pajo, was the second post-Slint band on the bill - well, half the bill was post-Slint, but you know what I mean. This was shortly before Pajo took the project firmly in a slowcore/country direction, so at this point they were still doing post-rock with elements of 60s guitar heroics. Pretty sure they covered Turn! Turn! Turn! by The Byrds, in fact.
As far as I can recall, after Papa M I missed both Wire and Laika, possibly getting food or something. Which means the only set left was Mogwai's festival-closing headliner. Along with predictably cataclysmic versions of the likes of Christmas Steps and Mogwai Fear Satan, I think this was also the first time they played My Father, My King, a 20-minute piece based on a Jewish hymn which would be released as a single over a year later. Mogwai were perhaps my favourite band at this point, and this was still very much in their imperial period.
By 2001, I was going out with Anna, but for some reason didn't accompany her to the following year's Tortoise-curated ATP. We did, however, make what was for me a return trip to the Oxfordshire countryside's No.1 indie festival, Truck Fest.
This was still at the point where Truck was pootling along under its own steam, if that's not too much of a mixed transport metaphor. In 2018, by when the festival was admittedly under new management, one of the headliners would be George Ezra, the best-selling artist of the year. Back in 2001, it was headlined by local post-rock japesters The Rock Of Travolta, who I suspect didn't trouble that year's chart compilers too much.
Those of you who can recall my blog about The Gilamonsters might remember that this was a festival at which we were briefly going to appear. Perusing my copy of the programme, it would appear that we made it into print, albeit styled as Gula Monsters. Sadly it wasn't to be.
Looking at who actually did play, it would appear that Saturday in The Barn was a haven for people who liked scratchy indie, with x-1, Finlay, KaitO, Meanwhile Back In Communist Russia... and Mo-Ho-Bish-O-Pi amongst the bands doing crazy shit with guitars and punctuation. Over on the Truck stage, there was a succession of venerable Oxfordshire bands: The Samurai Seven, Four Storeys, Dustball, festival founders Goldrush and, as previously reported, headliners The Rock Of Travolta. Also nestled in there were Brighton's Electrelane, big favourites at the time. Sunday saw Black Nielsen ascend to main stage status alongside the likes of Fonda 500 and Seafood, although it would be Six By Seven who proved the biggest draw. Like ATP, Truck was the sort of festival where the bands freely mixed with the paying customers, and our friend Sarah fully lost her shit when tall 6x7 frontman Chris Olley was stood near us during the day, breaking off mid-conversation to jabber excitedly at him. Their set was pretty great too.
The following year, in what was effectively a massive fuck you to the guy who'd mocked the idea of cult indie bands headlining festivals, ATP got Shellac back to curate their 2002 edition. Though I don't recall this, according to the internet it was also the first year they took over Pontins for two consecutive weekends, on this occasion with the same acts apparently playing both festivals. Attendees also received a three-disc CD compilation featuring all the bands on the bill, which was a rather lovely touch.
An oddity of Shellac's curatorship was their decision to open the smaller stage each day of the festival. I don't recall whether this was explained at the time, but I imagine this was a way of getting people up so that there'd be an audience for the weekend's less well-known bands like Three Second Kiss or High Dependency Unit. It wasn't an entirely egoless move - after all, it still meant they played the festival three times over the weekend. But they made sure to vary their set each day, which meant I got it in my head this was the only time I was likely to hear them play their cover of AC/DC's Jailbreak, as released on a compilation 7" on Skin Graft back in 1995, proceeding to loudly request it on occasion during their sets. When we saw scary-looking drummer Todd Trainer sometime during the course of Saturday, Anna prompted a drunken me to approach him and ask whether they were gonna play it the next day. He assured me that this was not gonna happen.
Despite a higher than average preponderance of outfits from the Chicago area, this ATP was a far more varied experience than the Mogwai one a couple of years earlier. So you could catch the likes of Threnody Ensemble and Rachel's, essentially playing classical music for the post-rock era, and then go and see The Upper Crust, a band whose delicious gimmick was playing AC/DC-style originals while dressed as (and singing from the perspective of) 18th Century French aristocrats. Years later, I would briefly consider using their Eureka, I've Found Love as music for our wedding, before thinking better of it.
David Lovering of the Pixies did a magic show, while comedian Fred Armisen was called on to introduce some of the bands. Japanoise types Zeni Geva played and reminded me of the sort of skewed arthouse metal Soton types like Clive Henry and Mat Sweet were playing in those days. Nina Nastasia was incredible. Yer American post-rock type stuff was well represented by the likes of Dianogah, Shipping News and Consonant, whose Clint Conley also performed with his seminal 80s band Mission Of Burma. Speaking of legends, The Fall played the smaller stage and I was in the front row to watch MES fiddling with the amps but otherwise turning in a surprisingly coherent set. Dead Moon's garage racket was similarly enlivening, while Melt-Banana's alien noise terror would see them become firm favourites. The same was true, albeit in a very different sonic sphere, of the magisterial Low. Constellation labelmates Do Make Say Think and Godspeed You! Black Emperor staged what was in effect a takeover of the second stage, with the former's set bleeding into the latter's in an extended session of wintry Canadian musical excellence.
Yeah, it was a good weekend.
On the way back to Southampton, Anna and I stayed over at her folks in Haywards Heath so we could see Do Make Say Think play in Brighton with Hood on the Monday. It helped get over the realisation that I wasn't gonna be able to watch Shellac every morning any more.
2003's ATP happened just a couple of months before we moved to Brighton, and would be the last one we'd attend for a few years. Markedly different again, this one was curated by experimental electronic godheads Autechre. Not only was the general tenor of the music rather different, with synth-wielders and knob-twiddlers outnumbering guitarists to an incredible degree, but Autechre opted against Shellac's daily residency by not playing at all. And while one of the snooty pleasures of ATP has always been watching the reactions of the holiday camp staff, plunged from the regular Pontins or Butlins entertainment into a vortex of weird and frightening music beyond anything they'd normally experience, this one probably took the piss.
This time, we were sharing a chalet with my work buddies Kev and Emma, though I'm pretty sure Anna's friend Emmanuelle and her then-boyfriend Tim were also in attendance. In what became a running joke for Anna and I, Tim would be slightly sniffy about anything he'd seen with us (a reluctant "It was OK"), while reserving gushing praise for anything he'd been to see on his own.
The smaller stage downstairs was commandeered by Skam records, and amongst the skewed electronic delights I sampled down there were Alder & Elius, Bola, Gescom and Meam. In the main room, the programme was all over the place. Firstly, there was hip hop from Thirstin Howl III, El-P and Murs, at least one of whom seemed to believe that Camber Sands was in fact London. Most significantly for me, this was my first chance to see Public Enemy, who I'd been listening to for about fifteen years by this point. I hadn't counted on them now having a live band in the mix rather than just the old school barrage of sampled sound, but if things occasionally got a bit funk jam, it was still a ruddy treat to hear their classic tunes being blasted out loud.
Another surprise came with Disjecta, whose 1996 Warp album Clean Pit And Lid had been an idiosyncratic fave of mine. I'd somehow never clicked that this had been a solo project from Mark Clifford of Seefeel, so rather than the expected two or three blokes with laptops we got a solitary bloke with a bass guitar. As I've said, guitars were at a premium, so I gravitated a little towards the bands that had them, even if we spent The Fall's entire main stage performance chatting at the back in an inversion of my previous year's stagefront devotion. Not sure any of my comrades stuck around for all of Sunn O)))'s set with me, but their extreme drone doom struck a chord with me that would keep on ringing down the years. The Magic Band, meanwhile, initially seemed just a little lacking with Drumbo standing in on vocals for the irreplaceable Captain Beefheart. In a touch right out of Southampton Uni gigs of the mid-90s, a fire alarm went off during Moonlight On Vermont, sending us out into the early April evening. When we were finally readmitted, the band were already playing, as if they'd just carried on jamming along to the alarm. "I think someone's been smoking something," suggested Drumbo. Weirdly, they were much better in this second half.
The other band who left a big impression were Coil, who remain to this day a band I'm aware of more than familiar with. I have an idea of how they sound and have probably even used them as a comparison, but their sprawling discography and forbidding image has perhaps held me back - despite this set at ATP being a clear highlight of the weekend.
I forget which night it was, but Venetian Snares was playing in the small hours, so I decided to have a power nap before getting back out to it. Needless to say, I awoke in the slightly larger hours having completely missed him. "Venetian Snares power nap" is another one of those running jokes Anna and I have.
Well, on that note of sleepy failure, it's time to put what this blog's many devotees are calling The Southampton Years to bed. Next time, we'll wake up to a new beginning in Brighton...
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