Festivals 2007: Underage Festival
It's nearing midday, Victoria Park is swimming with adolescents and boys and girls are split into separate queues...
It's nearing midday, Victoria Park is swimming with adolescents and boys and girls are split into separate queues. You can't shake the feel of a school disco as youngsters irk at the no drugs, no booze, no fags policy. So, as the first "credible festival for strictly under-18s" how is the day going to fare?
Johnny Flynn is one of the first to go on today, just as people are being sieved in and there's a considerable turnout for him. A good five or six rows front the stage while he timidly plucks away at his banjo. And if it weren't packed so tightly you'd imagine everyone would be barn-dancing - spinning around, skirts twirling.
Flynn brings a new take to mellow, country style qualities, accompanied by the Sussex Wit (his sister Lillie included) they create a sunny, danceable bunch of songs that haven't adopted the many blips and beeps that appear in so many new bands now a days.
Across the other side of the park on the Myspace stage The Metros gather a meagre crowd. They suffer continuous technical problems throughout, which does nothing to salvage their haphazard mess of musical clashes. The drums jet off at a speed, leaving the guitars confused and flustered behind, and as the singer twists his face in grimacing expressions his mouth dribbles a cockney drawl that sounds just about as good as his face looks. Kids sprawl out on the ground chatting amongst themselves and texting friends.
Assembled with essences of France and London, The Teenagers whisper their apologies for being late and their timid tones carry throughout the set to match the shy guitars. Like a more delicate Postal Service they're a pleasant sway-to band. Unlike the vigorous, grunge-pop of Blood Red Shoes of course. The crowd streams thick and strong when they step onstage. Numerous surfers go over the heads of everyone with their arms flailing in the air. The guitars ring fast and dirty while Laura (guitar / vox) daintily treads the stage and Steve (drums / vox) propels until his glasses fall off. Gestating the crowd for Late Of The Pier, who look like they've been attacked by toddlers with magic markers. Geometric shapes spread across their naked torsos, they subject the crowd to 20 minutes of madness. Tracks like 'Space And The Woods' and 'Bathroom Gurgle' convey deep, hypnotic Byrne-like vocals and a bunch of electronic whirring, bells and bleeps. The lyrics border arrogance: "I'm shit-hot so say what you think about me." But if they're slowly evolving into the next big thing then perhaps it's just.
Mystery Jets on the other hand have begun making their promising return by playing some low-key shows and now Underage festival. Of course they play their classics: 'The Boy Who Ran Away', 'Alas Agnes', 'Diamonds In The Dark'. But they also treat the audience to some new material and it's far more synth-based. The lyrics are heavier, the drums darker and the percussion dirtier.
Finally the end of the evening is drawing near, and by that we mean it's nearing 8pm. While the kids are phoning parents and organising lifts home, the 'grown-ups' who have been running the day are counting down the minutes until they can hit the pub round the corner. But there's one more act who cannot go a miss today, because his extravagance and ingenuity is far too captivating.
Dressed in a gold cloak that looks like lots of Ferrero Rocher wrappers ironed together, and a red two piece, Patrick Wolf takes to the stage to a wave of screams. His sleeves have been ripped off and gold leaf plasters his face. He ambles through 'Get Lost', which conjures the image of a hundred strong elephants celebrating with trumpets and trombones. The keys mimic mice underfoot, with scattering cymbals. And for old favourite 'Tristan', the crowd can be heard singing word perfect from outside the tent. Wolf breathes life into the mic, strutting the length of the stage and waving his long, slender limbs.
The booming of 'Accident, Emergency' fills the tent like a genial gas that everyone senses. As Wolf exhales heavily, sweat tears down his body but the glitter doesn't budge one bit. He runs through 'The Libertine' at a faster rate. The high hat taps shorter and the violin races ahead, while the pauses turn into mere breaths. The tension builds as it turns into a soundtrack for a gun draw. Stopping abruptly that could cause panic attacks to the faint hearted. Savouring the 'Magic Position' until last he leaves the audience with an image of magnitude. There isn't one person in that tent who didn't go home humming Patrick Wolf tunes tonight.
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