Reviews Updated 12/05/2005 All Tomorrow's Parties: Day 2 Patrick Whistler Ugh. I wake up, the inside of my eyelids feeling like sandpaper, and head hanging over the edge of the sofa causing a throbbing headache. After a few minutes of self-pity I get up, and the effect of my uncomfortable slumber mixes with a brutal hangover, completely flooring me. The taste in my mouth suggests that I spent the evening eating cotton wool and Rizlas, and to be honest, I might have. A plate of pancakes is pushed in front of my face, and I get up. A successful breakfast later, I head in the direction the Upstairs stage, to see Autolux. The weird thing about this festival is that it is completely the product of one person’s taste, which is both good and bad: some bands, like Vitamin B-12, are personal favourites, which cater to a personal taste and are lost on a crowd. But Autolux, fresh off a tour with the Secret Machines, sounding like a stripped down, more accessible version of Mogwai, are a great start to the day. Yet, this is but one of the many times when I get pissed off with the festivals merchandise facilities, which sell the absolute bare minimum of stuff, and crucially, not the band’s cd's, which in the case of Autolux is a loss indeed as the sound they create is simply stunning. If there’s any justice in the world, these guys will be huge. I go downstairs to see Women and Children who seem to be a more interesting version of Thread Pulls. They start off with the distorted intros, and then, lo and behold…it goes somewhere! Praise Jesus! And it goes somewhere good, somewhere very good. Piano, gentle percussion and excellent guitar work bleed into each other, creating an impressively unique sound, which sits comfortably alongside the lilting, Nico-esque vocals of Canadian singer June Serwa: a wonderfully charismatic frontwoman who maintains a musical proficiency, and a genuine personality, ditching the “I’m too moody to talk” rock-star attitude, and gamely interacting with a largely hungover audience; a brave move, which pays dividends. Again, another one to watch. The next gig is a personal victory for me, as I have been desperately trying to see Buck 65 for the past two years. I finally catch him playing on the Upstairs stage, and its well worth the wait. While I will confess to the fact that I have precious little knowledge of hip hop (I don’t even know whether to put a space between those words) I like what I hear, but that’s probably because this isn’t “bitches and ho’s” hiphop (better?). Buck 65 lists his influences as Johnny Cash, The Buzzcocks and Serge Gainsbourg, who are invoked in equal measures over the course of the show. To me, Buck’s delivery has something of the Zappa about it, and songs with names like “Corrugated Tin Façade” are related with unparalleled enthusiasm. To be honest, Buck 65 deserves a special commendation for the sheer number of words he uses, and does what those into their hippity-hop refer to as “busting mad rhymes”. And as he relates the last line of the final song from his static perch above what must be a stressed microphone, he is preaching to the converted. Kid Koala and Money Mark are on next, and as with Buck 65, it’s nice to hear something which isn’t solely focused on electric guitar. “Moon River” is requested via banana, and is simply stunning. Originally a plaintive, acoustic track it is smacked around by Kid Koala’s accomplished DJing, and emerges as a different animal, while Money Mark brings the edge he gave to the Beastie Boys to his own work, veering wildly over dozens of genres, ranging from traditional Hispanic rhythms to audaciously funky jazz as he runs around the stage, stabbing at Wurlitzer’s and instruments which I’ve never even seen before. And when the two collaborate, the music fulfils the envious task of getting a crowd composed of self-conscious music snobs to dance, a glowing endorsement to be sure. After the sheer brilliance of the previous acts, big things are expected from the double handed performance of Vincent Gallo and Sean Lennon (they even where the same suits), but they don’t do themselves any favours by turning up nearly a half hour late, and then forcing the audience to wait for another ten minutes. Why? Sean Lennon needs a pee. They finally start (45 minutes late) and the audience is instantly underwhelmed. The music is interesting, but much more suited to the studio then a live performance, and a rushed sound check gives the unhappy consequence of the band simply being too quiet. Songs are often drowned out by the irritable audience, whose cries of “Cheer Up” are killing Vincent Gallo on the inside, well…maybe. Yet, the truly great tunes shine through- Gallo’s understated “Honey Bunny” silences the raucous crowd, and commands the attention he deserves, while Lennon, the spitting image of his father, delivers a simple, yet exceptional solo track. And as the set finishes, I look around the now sparsely-populated venue and wish people had treated the gig with patience, instead of disregard. The same cannot be said for John Frusciante, whose rabid fans are coating the floor of the venue with a few inches of saliva in expectation of his performance. It soon becomes obvious that most people have forked out the rather steep admission price (£125) just to see him. I am a much bigger fan of his solo stuff then his work with The Red Hot Chilli Pepper’s, and if shows like this are any evidence, I don’t know how Anthony Kiedis still has a job. Frusciante (or “Jesus himself” as some refer to him) gives a solo show which is quite honestly unbelievable, in both execution and output- performing nearly 25 songs in a half and a quarter. Armed with an acoustic guitar and set list which runs over two pages, Frusciante perches on a stool and runs through tracks from his earlier albums (including stunning versions of “Untitled #11” and “Been Insane” from Niandra Lades and Usually Just a T-Shirt), Shadows Collide with People (which offers the highlight of the set, in the form of a stomping version of “Carvel” as well as material from his workaholic “6 Albums in 6 Months” (if you're a fan, check out the full setlist at www.frusciante.net). The tracks just keep coming; as if he’s trying to satisfy every fan who walks out of a gig saying “Yeah, it was great but he didn’t play ____”. So we get an unexpected and phenomenal “Dying Song” from the Brown Bunny soundtrack, and a couple of great covers including an unforgettable version of The Ramones’ “Havana Affair”. He is undoubtedly nervous, and makes a few mistakes, but these are accepted by a crowd for which he could do no wrong. As he strums the last few bars of “Will to Death”, the audience cries out in protest, desperately wanting more, but to me, he’s done enough, having played a set which was as self-contained and fragile as an egg. It is, in a word, perfect. I stumble upstairs to catch PJ Harvey’s set, which is difficult to fully absorb after the arresting performance by Frusciante, but still fantastic. Playing her first solo show in 12 years, Harvey is nervous, but turns in a great show. And having seen her with a full band, it’s nice to hear more stripped down versions of some of her (musically) big tracks- with “Big Exit” and “Dancer” proving that Harvey is much more impressive live, compared to her occasionally hit and miss back catalogue. Unfortunately, after the triple threat of Gallo/Lennon, Frusciante and Harvey, I really can’t devote much energy to Suicide; their purposeful angularity is a bit off-putting after the lucidity of the previous shows. It’s an impressive sound, but it doesn’t take much to deduce that this is one of those bands whose imitators often are more exciting then the band who influenced them in the first place. But, this just could be the drunken ramblings of a madman, and on any other night I’m sure they would have made a much more substantial impact, but for now, sleep is a necessity.