Les Transmusicales Festival, Rennes

With Europe collapsing around us, we hurtle to Rennes, via Paris, on the Eurostar. ‘TEN DAYS TO SAVE THE EURO’, screams The Metro, as we disappear under the English Channel through the Tunnel Formerly Known as Chunnel, towards Les Rencontres Trans Musicales de Rennes (or Les Transmusicales as it is more often referred), the annual music festival in the city situated in northern Brittany.

Word is the organiser Jean-Louis Brossard (who has personally chosen the line-up of the festival for the past 32 years) isn’t the most popular man among some folk in Rennes, who would prefer the city to be known for its culture, and the nice cobbled streets and absurdly quaint, wonky timber-framed houses which date back to the 15th century. Rennes is increasingly renowned for its rebel image that is partly a result of the influence of the festival — the party side of the town that sees its yoof still wandering the streets, bottle in hand, until way past dawn. The epicentre of the merriment is La Rue de la Soif — loosely translated as Thirsty Street. Down Thirsty Street, beer is half the price of other bars, so if you want to get sloshed it seems to be the place to head.

I suppose what was heartening about La Rue de la Soif was that, what with the vomit, it’s suddenly clear that the English aren’t the only ones who can fill a street with cheap lager and see what happens. After all, once the pitiful few miles of English Channel have been negotiated, an Englishman exhales and reverts to the default ‘abroad’ mode of moaning about the inadequacies of home. As soon as we reach the first opportunity to snack at the Gare du Nord it’s our diminutive cuisine (‘Why, you’d never get such delicately made baguettes at an Upper Crust!’) that receives our sudden thunder; when we start to quaff after arriving in Rennes, it’s on to our expensive and ignoble range of international wines which whither when compared to even the cheapo stuff en France.

But in Rennes, they wear their alcoholism more comfortably — take the cheeky name of Bar Hic!, where we’re packed in like sardines on the opening night. A sullen-faced barman pours strong liquor for some young female punks as I stand and wonder whether moving to Rennes and opening a bar called ‘Vom Lounge’ might be a step too far, and before we know it we’re confronted with Bordeaux’s Crane Angels. The band play pleasingly uplifting DIY folk rock, without the pretension that such a description suggests. It’s a whistle-stop clod hop — all bump, no grind — from eight musicians (sometimes more), who walk the deceptively small tightrope between loose and too loose, doing no more and no less than they should. They visit the chanting evangelism of Arcade Fire without the tiresome neuroses of the stadium stars. Give ’em time!

The next day, while wandering around a dead part of town, we’re ushered into an unmarked gallery to take in an exhibition. Upstairs is a rather clever sound installation — a webcam has been set up that senses movement, leading to the intense explosion of shards of noise each time someone turns, or thrusts forward or back. Bleached-out footage of burning cars at the Paris riots of May 1968 accompanies the sonic attack, playing on a screen that lies horizontally.

Late in the evening, we head 20 minutes out of town to Parc Expo, a collection of huge sheds next to the airport to attend Trans Musicales proper (the bar gigs are collectively known as Bars Trans). We arrive in time for Colin Stetson, who is wielding his gigantic bass saxophone. Pumping out an incredible range of noises, aided by his incredibly busy, tricksy fingers, he holds his great instrument, which he alternates with a smaller model, with mesmerising confidence.

Weirdly, it all starts to remind me of Rhode Island’s Lightning Bolt; maybe it’s the fact that this is polyphonic dance music born out of meticulous abandonment, from the strangest yet most inspired of sources. The 1,000-strong crowd laps up the iridescent sax flow. Using one instrument, he manages to create not just one thing or another, but something that contains a whole weave, from rave to hardcore. “Shit’s been ragged but spirits are high,” says a breathless Stetson of his recent global tour. It’s a statement that is as penetrating and universally applicable as his music.

SBTRKT sounds anaemic after being treated to Colin’s lungs of steel, so we head back to Hall 4 for Alexander Tucker who is affecting a vibe best described as “nicely toasted”, and who hypnotises with his piping vocal, which sails above a sea of noise and drone. Later in Hall 9, Mexican artist Silverio is a man in a wig who bounds around in his pants to what sounds like low-rent, drum machine versions of B-52 b-sides — except much worse. He kills the room before Factory Floor arrive with their ever-more fluid and connected arpeggiated body music. They struggle to fully connect due to sound issues, but who said that trying to fill a 7,000-capacity aircraft hangar with booming music at five in the morning was going to be easy?

Next day, we race to the market for last minute fromage et saucisson mission, walking back with our goods while scoffing galettes (the buckwheat pancakes that Rennes is famed for) wrapped around hot sausage. In the evening, a Mexican laptop duo known as Cubenx huff and puff and sweat and gurn, but don’t make much worth dancing to. Back at the still-heaving Bar Hic, Montreal’s Les Breastfeeders are a solid mass of sound ’n’ signifiers. As mop-headed and tight as Cavern-era Beatles or Ramones in CBGB, they get away with the temerity of their revivalism by doing it so well. It’s garage, but built from titanium breezeblocks.

On Sunday we head home to an island that will soon, thanks to ‘Veto’ Dave and his Septic Sceptics, seem suddenly much further away from the European mainland that we hover so precariously next to. On the train to Paris, the smell of camembert warming up in my bag that is above my head is really starting to hum; by the time I get to the Gare du Nord, people are edging away from the stinking sac. The bag is ruined — there’s no way I’ll get the smell out. But I’m not chucking it, as if Europe does become a distant memory, at least I’ll have that.

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