Field Day – Victoria Park, London

And so we limber up once again and sprint upon Victoria Park for Field Day, set in the salubrious surrounds of Hackney, where a united community cherishes the prospect of an Olympics here this time next year. All is well in east London, the weather teases with the odd trickle but behaves itself, and a sense of optimism is shared by one-and-all. As we enter the park, hipsters race each other friskily with egg and spoon, and the Farnborough Concert Band of the Royal British Legion pump out a rousing rendition of ‘Born This Way’. Made up mostly of septuagenarians, you hope for their sake that this isn’t true.

Faust makes a suitably malignant din for starters, though we’re on the hunt for S.C.U.M. Where are S.C.U.M., and why have we got this inadequate excuse for a map back to front and upside down? Confusion causes us to alight upon Willy Mason, the meandering troubadour who has presumably been enjoying his royalties given his sudden, unexpected swell around the solar-plexus. This is music to listen to in sodden underpants, whilst cranking in a pit of empties with your ex’s Facebook page open.

Given the sporting theme of the day, we bestow our first spurious award on TOY, who win gold, silver and bronze in the Best Keith Chegwin In His ‘Cheggers Plays Pop’ Heyday Lookalike Contest. For a moment we’re wondering if we’ve wandered into one of those information videos from the ’70s and are waiting for someone to scream out “JIMMMMMY!” at the top of their lungs as someone gets electrocuted by a frisbee, but the goth in the middle drags us back to reality. Their performance becomes more noise-driven as the set unfolds, with a song called (maybe) ‘Kopter’ sounding spacey and expansive. After a false start, we’ve found us a winner.

We stumble upon affable Kiwi Connan Mockasin, resplendent in pink shirt and wild, unkempt blonde hair, looking like the wild son of Tarzan or a chemistry student who has discovered the dubious benefits of lysergic acid. Without putting too fine a point on it, Connan is shitting himself. We know this because he keeps telling us. For whatever reason, he seems to go through drummers like Spinal Tap, and his new one announces confusingly in broken English that they’ll be playing ‘a tribute to Elbow’. This doesn’t settle Connan’s nerves any, and he ’fesses up that he hit the red before the set. He needn’t have worried. The show, albeit short, is a triumph over adversity. It’s unconventionally melodic, veering on occasion into the ethereal, with Connan dropping in stabs of crunching guitar and off-kilter vocal hooks as well as some Rolf Harris-style larynx percussion. An unexpected triumph, then.

Over at the Laneways tent and the Hall & Oates Award for indecent attire worn in a (possibly) unironic fashion goes to Matthew Dear. The white suit. The jet-black quiff. The shirt cleavage line lurking indecently just above bellybutton level. This is not a look to be worn lightly, and Dear’s get-up is sadly more Stringfellow than Scarface, leaving us to ponder what exactly that strange glint was in the avant-pop producer’s eye, and whether he might have slipped something unspeakable in our drink beforehand.

Time for some free-jazz madness with the incorrigible loons from the Sun Ra Arkestra. Wild bassoons and squealing trumpets are occasionally brought to heel for moments of trad jazz. But are they trad? Is anything real? It’s four in the afternoon and already I’m too far out, man. In order to restore our sanity we head over for some Ariel Pink, who win The xx Award For Most Lauded Band It’s Difficult To Get Excited About. It would appear the Chegwin look is de rigeur in east London right now, while musically this jumps schizophrenically from the odd very good moment to the patently ill-advised. That one sounds like Emerson, Lake & Palmer if Elvis Costello had joined the band. That one sounds like ABC with bad white boy rapping. Points for effort I suppose. Next!

The hipsters are dancing now, and Konono #1 take it up a notch. To ears unaccustomed to the sounds of central Africa, the Congolese septet bring butt-shaking intensity to the terminally disinterested of Dalston and beyond, combining the restless spirit of jazz with the circling euphoria of techno. The crack and spit of Konono’s rhythm section, in particular, sound like flames dancing unpredictably off the fire. Awesome.

Over on the main stage, Villagers’ hymnal folk rock seems a bit sedate, though they’re not just the thinking man’s Mumford & Sons you know. We’re lulled into a false sense of security, and just when we think we’ve got them pegged they suddenly get all edgy and bombastic and stormy on us. Dynamism aplenty.

The former Brightoners may now boast members strewn across the all corners of the globe, but Electrelane’s performance is a casually great show of togetherness, making us remember everything we loved about them in the first place. At times scratchy and borderline shambolic, at others riding almighty waves of sound with frontwoman Verity Susman’s vocals sweetly pirouetting on top, the band are one of a select few capable of indulging in minutes-long flights of instrumental fancy and keeping their immaculate punk credentials intact. Let’s hope some new material emerges in the not-too distant future.

Back when I was working in a sports bar cleaning ashtrays and pulling tricks out the back for slovenly, unshaven men in Hackett tops, Lady Gaga would show regularly on the big screens with the sound turned down. Imagine my surprise when I actually finally heard her and she sounded nothing like the Lady Gaga I was expecting, but instead like an oompah Eurodisco version of Pat Benatar. There I was thinking she’d sound a bit like, well, like Zola Jesus… and lo and behold, it’s Zola Jesus! Selling a fraction of what Gaga garners in units, Zola Jesus is the manifestation of the goth opera I hankered for when making ends meet amongst boxing-obsessed miscreants. Nika Roza Danilova is the walking embodiment of what it means to be powerful and fragile at the same time, ballsy-yet-breakable, her voice demanding the attention of this small area of Victoria Park, while the men in black flanking her almost demand to be ignored. After about three songs it’s all a bit too much, so we oblige.

It’s time for a lie down on the grass, and the award for Token Legend Nobody Is Really That Fussed About If We’re Honest goes to John Cale, who fights the good fight regardless of apathy. Some of the set is forgettable but most of it is surprisingly vibrant, and he makes a decent stab at reimagining Elvis’ ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ in a Waitsian, gritty blues stylee. Whatever the reception, Cale has made records people will cherish long after he’s gone.

Hysteria mounts as Syrian dabke don Omar Souleyman takes to the stage in a traditional robe, red checked keffiyeh and aviator shades. With only the briefest sign that he’s acknowledged this crowd of sweaty, grinning Westerners, the inscrutable fellow launches in to the frenetic, adrenalised, hybrid of Syrian folk-pop, traditional Arabic vocals and synthesised beats that has made him a musical legend in Syria and spawned over 500 live and studio-recorded cassette albums. He is accompanied by a mighty Korg, which provides an entire backing orchestra of oud, reeds, baglama saz and percussion, all of which conspire to enter the brain, mainline down to the feet and cause this audience to dance like its collective pants are on fire.

Anna Calvi is great as ever, though her set is not conducive to pissed goons nattering and gurning. Winning Worst Fucking Sound Of The Day doesn’t help, though her composure remains intact throughout, and the quality of the songs is not lost on an eventually appreciative audience, even if her vocal mostly is. The intimacy of the smaller shows is sorely missed, though the band have the chops to carry it through in a bigger environment, just about.

And the Hearts And Minds Prize For Soldiering Bravely On With Only Your Rhythm Section Audible goes to The Horrors. With this year’s largely dance-oriented line-up reflecting changing mores in the indie community as whole, the band does much to shoulder expectations among those openly pining for a return to skinny boys throwing shapes with an electric in hand. As such it’s a trifle disappointing to hear ‘Who Can Say’ robbed of its organ-drenched mystery and ‘I Can See Through You’ similarly relieved of the dizzying high-end that gives it rattle and thrum, but to their credit The Horrors cope admirably, looking every inch the annoyingly talented mirror-kissers as they sprinkle magic dust on recent numbers like ‘Still Life’ and ‘Moving Further Away’.

Factory Floor shake things up this evening, and is this new material I’m hearing? Hearing is all we have to depend on, as a rammed gazebo not really designed for massive swathes of drunkards means the chances of actually seeing Factory Floor are nil unless you’re one of the six people crushed in at the front or Krist Novoselic. Still, it’s a more dance-oriented set befitting the occasion and sashaying breaks out all around as it all uncharacteristically goes a bit Josh Wink.

And finally, the Award for Consummate Festival Etiquette goes to Wild Beasts. For many, these city-bound sons of pastoral stock must have seemed an odd choice as festival headliners, what with The Horrors stuck playing a marquee slot further down the bill. But they play an absolute blinder of a set anyway, giving insight into a band both committed to their eccentricities and equally determined to bring them to as broad an audience as possible. Make no mistake, this is a Wild Beasts greatest hits set just three albums into the increasingly slick tyros’ careers, and sounds remarkably cohesive for it — ‘Bed Of Nails’, ‘This Is Our Lot’ and the evergreen ‘Devils Crayon’ all receiving workouts before ‘End Come Too Soon’ provides an earned finale to what feels like a much longer set. “We could get used to this,” grins Hayden sheepishly, barely managing to contain his delight at being afforded such an unaccustomedly large platform. If they never headline another festival in their lives, they should know at least that they totally bossed this one. Jeremy Allen, Theresa Heath, Alex Denney

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