Prologue

It’s Friday, midday, ish. I’m chasing up links and I’m digging out stage times and devouring all the sounds I can find in a bid to decide who to see. Two days and two nights of live music lie ahead in a fistful of Swansea’s best venues, and there’s only one name I recognise in the line-up. I got homework to do. I got acts to discover. I got a city that’s about to get noisy and a military-tight schedule to make.

Now it’s Friday, sometime early evening. Nicotine; check. Timetable; check. Gig boots (the ones with the holes in but still well-pointed enough to kick shins with), notebook, pen and a hipflask fulla something; check, check and once again check. OK so there’s multiple band and timetable clashes but I’ll make those choices later on when I get there. Right now it’s time to hitch a ride into town and the first stop is the closest to home.   

Macy @ Elysium

With all the noise and the speed that’s looming large and lined up, I got seduced by their bubble gum pop. In all the weekend’s pre-listening I’d been assaulted by sound while making the choices I swore that I’d stick to. And amongst the bands that I’d nominated for my upcoming ear-splitting was a selection of softer and more subtle things. And Macy were at the front of that handful.

I can’t help it, I’m a sucker for clean clever pop just as much as I am for dirt and scuzz… and this is dirt and scuzz’s polar opposite. Damn. The music they produce is almost 80’s honey homely and disarmingly sweet in delivery.

Who can say if it was nerves, or older songs Vs newer, or a shift toward the inclusion of some meticulous hi-sheen backing tracks to compliment the line-up on stage, but something seemed to happen mid-set onwards. The pop of retro twee-indie that had so far filled the speakers gave way to a string of uber-confident crowd-rousers; Macy’s natural sweetness butted up against a fledgling brat ‘tude and all the signs of a trajectory turned neon. In no way at all was this any kind of bad start from the first band on at any venue for the weekend.

Sister Envy @ The Bunkhouse

From bubble gum pop in the light of Elysium to the shoegaze grunge dark of The Bunkhouse; it’s a hell of a trip and transition. Sister Envy weaved out their sprawling scrawls of thick textures to the tune of the Verve’s ‘Northern Soul’ and occasionally the very earliest of Pavement. Volume here is the guest of all honour, with guitar pedals being the cooks of all meals. There’s a rough sheen of intent in their post rock machinations with that most important mantra of all; two good ideas, or even one, is enough for a song when the focus is on big textures and change.

When there’s a break out and a flourish of rhythm, when there’s a lookup from the pedals and when attack comes from laying into their instruments, when these things collide with the sonic manipulation there’s a call to get on board with the grandeur. The impenetrable, in these places, becomes penetrable and those rough sheens of intent turn fully tangible. And dare I say it, in all the scrawl, almost intimate.

Papa Jupe’s T.C. @ The Bunkhouse      

Well holy smokes and jee-wizz Sharline, if my cat cream grin didn’t stretch ear to ear. I might have figured I might like them on first listen before the weekend, but I wasn’t expecting to want to throw them my panties in a sign of applause and approval. Brass, synth, guitars, bass drums, and a duet of vocals that somehow managed to pair up a very boyish Mark E Smith with Poison Ivy had she led B52s.

The whole spectacle is a cartoon spectacular but not the kid friendly CBBC shows. This is an occasionally atonal, more than occasionally arhythmical, in zero way a-political, freewheel through everything from proto punk to pure silliness. And every bit of the above was accessible, even to those who don’t know who the hell Crack Cloud, XCT, The Fall or A Certain Ration are. But while there’s probably a pretty good age based reason for this, what’s important was there was no hint of in-joke.

Until that is, a chant was started profane and anti-tory in (earned) sentiment. C’mon Swansea, why didn’t you join in?  

The biggest scribbled note that stands out from my attempt to write and dance simultaneously is as follows. And etched in like it’s chipped into headstone: “this kicks the shit out of Echo & the Bunnyfucks”. I’m not sure any more needs to be said.

ANGHARAD @ Elysium

OK so I lied at the start of this piece. Strictly speaking, Macy wasn’t the first band I saw. I arrived unfashionably early as my hitch to town, in my surprise, actually worked. What can I say, my thumbs must work some kind of magic. But between getting there and Macy, running late with easy time due a band drop out later on, I saw Angharad set up and sound check. Angharad was the other in the tiny handful of soft and subtles that caught me and grabbed my attention. It was just a shame they were clashing with Panic Shack.

But when I saw them set up and lay out the keys and violins, the vocals and the backbone of bass and drums and guitars, I did wonder if that’s a schedule plan worth breaking. An earthy – and very soundcheck jackplug crackling – show of song craft had me wondering, should I break the rules and make an exception? After all, Panic Shack were the only band I knew. But once I was told, in strictly trade secret terms, that a choir would be joining Angharad later… let’s say the decision was made.

So I clopped my Cubans quick back to Elysium and clumsily burst through the front door mid set. Band to the left of me, audience in front. Here I am. Angharad’s politest of nods granted me entrance and I can assure absolute that I made the right choice to head over.

It felt like walking straight into community, a community made from the stage and sent outward. Fragile sounds in the most gentlemanly way gave permission for the next instrument to join. There were honest legitimate swells of emotion to which the crown responded in instinct and command. We lurched between folk pop and raucous, between honest and ‘ain’t life ridiculous’. And through it all, in its bones, was identity; the pride of womanhood and the destruction of its ideals, the good, the bad and the graphically ugly of motherhood, and the pride of being, in the most non jingoistic way possible, Welsh. From sunrises to star shines to mucus to bellyaches, with postpartum thrown in with paganism and a national pride, this was more punk than the punk band I’d skipped. I’m just gutted I was late and missed the choir.

Next time maybe I’ll catch the full show. And thank you Angharad for the community.

Swansea Fringe Part 2 will land ASAP.