Day1.
Aquaserge
The Telescopes
Songhoy blues
The KVB
Tom and I departed from the gray and dreary atmosphere of Manchester that carried with it the apprehension we held in tight in our lungs corked breath, Eagerly awaiting our arrival to the eponymous Liverpool psyche fest. Having been swallowed by the train we found a stillness in the air to collect our thoughts and prepare for the insanity hidden behind the factory walls of the Liverpool dock we would call home for the next two days.
As Tom reached for his sketchpad and ink the gravity of what we were about to undertake hit me between the eyes with the dull thud of reality.
Of course, we had several friends attend prior and they had plenty of anecdotes and stories to tell, but they all seemed so ethereal and other that they hardly rang true. This was our festival and with it just over 40 minutes away I could taste the acrid sweat of memories yet to be formed. We set out our plans and packed them tightly into our minds. Come dear reader, join us as we prepare to enter the point of entropy.
Exiting our tin can to Liverpool a clacking parade of suitcases belonging to those ‘fresh’ from the airport. Having been spat out we meandered through the thick cut of the city centre to the Baltic triangle. As we drew closer to the space itself bemusement set in as we searched for the gates until we found our first calling card: a trickle of funk by the way of a dapper and grizzled older gentleman wearing a white and black geometric shirt, we turned to each other and the music in the distance pulled ,into focus. The bass churning in muffled tones the pedestrians suddenly growing more eccentric and outlandish. Pacing quickly down Joy street, We had arrived.
Naturally, the first port of call was collecting the drinks to lubricate the gears and oil the joints, in lieu of joints, we made haste to the bar. There we found the most peculiar of creatures: ‘the squib’. Dear reader, is a harmless albeit unnerving creature, characterised by looking so out of place and arriving already seven ways to Sunday on pills in spite of the fact it’s only 3pm on a Friday. We went through the motions of exchanging overbearing pleasantries, ducked and found the bar With our priorities met in a plastic cup we found our friends, of which, Callum, had attended the festival four times prior and as such I gave him the moniker of the ‘Stache Sherpa.
Together we made our way to the District stage to find Aquaserge finishing sound check. All dressed resplendent in black robes intricately embroidered with silver stitching their disjointed jazz punk 5 piece sounded every bit as chic and disjointed as one would expect. Melting into their set with the dulcet understatement “Okay this is the beginning” Julien Gascs voice fell away to a sound emanating equal parts large, reserved and subtle. With Audrey Ginestet’s bassoon massaging our brains gently against the sweet taste of the first beer.
Tom left to sit down in the courtyard to reel the film in his camera, an old Olympus Trip 35, only to find the latch wasn’t catching. After attempting several times to no avail our attention was stolen by the words “are you alright? We looked up to find a man, elegantly clad in a blue suit and carefully twisted mustache. Both bemused, he followed up with “May I try, it’s from my generation!” Tom tentatively handed him the camera only for the dapper dressed gentleman to take one look at the old camera and with one elegant brush of his hand found the catch of the clasp we failed so miserably to mount without so much as a noise and returned it.
After expressing our gratitude and talking cameras for a short stint we parted ways and shuffled to the furnace stage to experience The Telescopes who stood to be the methodical shot of adrenaline to usher in the encroaching debauchery of the early evening. Casting away the pleasantries of the afternoon for menacing distortion; strained vocals dragged through a several acres of broken glass, bleached in droning bass all galloping to the percussion section, courtesy of Dominic Dillon, that I can only described as a Norse god hammering away at his drums with unlit torches sat loftily above the band and crowd.
As the evening drew in thick the timbre of the roads shifted and throbbed to the cadence of the dream machines We took roost in front of. The ambience accented by the muffled re-verb of the music echoing into misty street. The cool night air drifted and carried the espousal of warm emotion and reflection.
At 20:25 the teddybears took hold and ushered us to their picnic. We returned later to the furnace stage to catch Omni. Unfortunately, everyone and their hopped up grandma had the same idea. Dismayed as we were from being turned away by the bouncer, we could only empathise with the man as he explained that if he let us jump the queue he would be murdered by the mob that ribboned out long from Omnis call.
Nonetheless, mischief and fun was to be found all around us and it wasn’t long till we found ourselves in the excellent company of a couple by the name of Adam and Larice who owned one of the bars just outside. The warm light and soft furnishings all sheltered by a white marquee proved all to irresistible amidst the drizzle. Conversation began to flow as easily as the drinks we imbibed heartily.
After indulging in a short pause from the chaos, we made our way away from Adams pop up bar/lounge once again to the furnace housing the venerable Songhoy Blues. Just as we nested among the sea of people Garba Tourés voice pattered like rain on a warm summers night among the idle chatter with “are you feeling good” The enthusiasm and joy on their faces bled out of the stacks infecting the crowd against the epileptic tapestry of patterns and colours flickering frenetically, captivating the minds eye.
At this hour we are transported far from the rains of Liverpool to somewhere far more vibrant and earnest joy clinging to the corners of the mouths of everyone present, or so I was led to believe. A man, possessed, throwing himself from one side of the sage to the next. Garbas expressed more joy performing than any other act I would see for the rest of the weekend. Unfortunately, our mustached psyche Sherpa rolled his eyes and grumbled that the four piece reminded him of a wedding band.
In a reluctant turn of events, our psych Sherpa escorted us away from the funky wedding band to the trance rock styling of the K.V.B, quipping among the noise, “It’s very Berlin.” By this point of the night, lights streaked and pulsed and my step grew loose. I submitted myself to the moment but the shift in tone proved all to jarring for the rest of us. The hour long and consciousness teetering. We peeled ourselves away to the taxi outside.
DAY 2:
Gulp
Elephant stone
Guatanamo baywatch
Holydrugcouple
Witch
The blackangels
Forlorn from the events of last night, with the sounds of Sabbath blasting out of the taxi home still ringing in my ears. We roused ourselves at the crack of 10 am had breakfast, walked the ‘stache Sherpas springer spaniel, Misch, while finding just enough time to endure an outer body experience, watching Babarella . Once we regained our basic motor functions we headed back to the festival, the promise of a burrito left unfulfilled.
Upon arrival our group, having grown several deep, migrated to the camp stage just in time ( just hung over enough as well) to truly revel in the rich textured bass and jaunty guitar tones courtesy of Gulp. Each note acting as a subtle Defibrillation to our numbed hearts, willing us back into animation. It was then it dawned on me that whomever arranged the line up was something of a genius, the whimsical guitar dancing to the beat of [lead singers] stretched, gravelly tones, almost wringing hoarse, nurse my compatriots and myself back from the sober reality to a trance like state drip ed by the flowering large riffs.
We stuck around, retreating to the bar briefly for just a moment to double back and catch Elephant Stone. Dear reader, I could tell you all about how lush and rich their set was and how wonderful it was to catch them in that moment, but I pride myself on brevity. All I need say is this; Rishi Dhir pulled out a sitar mid-song, MID FUCKING SONG. It was incredible and easily one of the highlights of the weekend.
The evening knocked on the doors of dusk and Tom messaged me to meet him urgently at the blade factory, Guantanamo Baywatch were just pulling the crank arm of their siren. I walked into the smallest of the venues I visited today to find tom clung to the side wall, unable to see the band the reason being the crowd wrapped around the ‘L’ shaped venue. There was no chance I would allow us to groove facing little more than dry wall and pillars. I grabbed Toms arm and ushered him into the thick of the crowd finding space right in the middle where the mob could be found thrashing, there was a selfishness in this act as it proved almost impossible to take legible notes but the insatiable strut of their surf punk stylings (think Gang of four by way of The Beach Boys with healthy lashes of garage grime you’d come to expect by now from the Burger records family) proved all too irresistible to be anywhere but front and center. Like a gnat to a campfire I marched one step closer to the beat of Chris Scotts drum solo. The four walls drew in packing us in, the lines separating the crowd and the band bleeding into each other, courtesy of Chevelle Wisemans bass.
After returning to Liverpool from the cement beach by way of Oregon. We Took a trip to Chile entering through the camp terminal to find Ives Sepúlveda and Manuel Parra otherwise known as: The Holydrug Couple. The two piece Cresting a wave on the horizon of the crowd ready to crash over us and cast us away in its ethereal surf expansive soundscapes opening up like the eye of the dream pop hurricane allowing us to catch our breath before enveloping and washing us up like driftwood onto the shores of 70’s Zambia.
Heat now rising from the furnace, W.I.T.C.H left no doubt in the minds of the crowd as to why they have such a storied legacy. Marking an ochre malaise that was the’introduction’ of the end. Emanuel Chandas voice carried with it all the years of experience stories of love, joy and pain reminding us The end was nigh but the party marched on and there was one small matter to attend to.
The Black Angels. The perfect end, the high watermark, saved like an ace up the sleeve saved as the last bottle of champagne popping the cork and closing out the perfect weekend. There is nothing more that needs to be said if you’re reading this you know and if you don’t look them up The group from Austin prepared our group for that long night with a 5 piece psychedelic salute.
The night drew long, Sunday mumbling in its sleep. Tom and I strolled down and around the street corner for one last time with Black Angels still humming in our ears. The festival and ourselves departing with a kiss goodbye and a knowing grin leaving us by the gates in the the night. Friendships forged and others deepened,by the intimacy, atmosphere and character oozing from every inch of the brickwork of these hallowed spaces. The freaks found home, scattered by the wind like dandelions carrying with them the oscillations of the weekend for others to indulge armed with our own stories.
Having woken up in our own beds, the next day, Tom and I sat in the lounge, elated, wrapping our minds around just how great this weekend was. The bands we listened to, the people we met, each more stellar than the last. We thank you all for having us. And, to you dear reader, should we have the privilege to come back next year:
We hope to see you there.
A. Youngblood, T. River Walmsley.
