Paperjam

Godiva Festival 2008: Six By Seven, The Displacements, Glasvegas and Art Brut

Gigs // Jim // 11th July 2008

The road signage for getting into the memorial park is somewhat hit and miss to say the least, so Tom and Nick are both a bit Victor Meldrew as we stroll up past the funfair to the Green-Zone-esque arena area where the bands are playing.

Arriving at the top entrance we are confronted by what seems like a fairly big queue. Everyone is being searched on entry. They really weren’t joking about the booze embargo. We jostle for position and exchange some friendly banter about illicit drink and knife crime with some young ladies behind me – this stops once I turn to deliver a particularly witty riposte, good god - I’ve got stuff in my fridge older than these girls.

The bald, heavily pierced bouncer gives me quite a prolonged search, this might have been because I said “oooh! Tickles!” in a squeaky little voice when he started patting down my legs. He asks to see my keys. I am confused.

Into the main area and food and beer are immediate priorities, grab a pork batch – which is fairly naff and stroll down to the beer tent to procure a pint of dodgy Carling in a squidgy plastic cup – the type that deposits beer either side of your mouth every time you stop sipping.

I have persuaded the chaps to join me to watch Six By Seven, a favourite band from my late youth, one that for various reasons I never got to see, despite The Things We Make being the soundtrack to at least a year of my early twenties. They’ve been around for a while, split up, regrouped, pursued solo projects and got back together again. If you like your music dense, atmospheric, with plenty of sinister chord changes and pounding drone rock interludes Six By Seven are going to be right up your dark, foreboding alley.

“So, err, not really like the Dandy Warhols then?” enquires a worried looking Tom, seemingly not a fan of sinister chord changes. He lights a cigarette to calm his nerves. Nick lights a cigarette because his last one has just gone out.

Six By Seven take to the stage, a mature, imposing group of gents and pound straight into the funeral piano intro of So Close. The song reaches the point where everything is really meant to kick in, which it does, but the somewhat lightweight PA isn’t really helping. Still I’m happy enough, particularly with the arrival of the cheery, mechanical vibe of Ten Places To Die – always been handy at titles Six By Seven, the last album was the Adam Curtis inspired If Symptoms Persist Kill Your Doctor.

“They’re making a fantastic noise”, says Nick, “But it just ain’t loud enough”. Which it really isn’t. In fact it is so restrained that a particularly fucking nasty, shaven-headed section of the, frankly, unpleasant crowd can be heard chanting abuse at the band and in particular front-man Chris Olley. This seems a strange thing to do, especially considering the proximity of some scary looking bouncers and the fact that Olley himself has an imposing, take-no-shit sort of presence. Hmm, it’s all turning a bit wrong. Things are being thrown. “Had a drink have we? Had a couple of pints?” Asks Olley, he gets a load of abuse back - “So nice to be back in Coventry”. We spot Eddie Argos at the side of the side of the stage - he’s wearing a cardigan - he may be a bit concerned.

All this is put behind us though as the band commence the twiddly guitar bit at the start of Oh! Dear. I gush in the general direction of anyone nearby about what a great song this is – which it entirely proves to be. Tom dashes off and re-appears with Mark who has bought his none-more-cute little girl to say hello. For a one-year-old she seems remarkably chirpy about the whole atmosphere. She gives us a big grin but after laughing at me for a little while the bottom lip starts to wobble and she is all upset.

Mark dashes off to do some parental placating and Tom says, “Turns out she is scared of beards”. I stare pointedly at Nick’s chin. He stares pointedly at mine.

Oh! Dear is calming down and the natives are getting restless again. SBS launch into a song that I don’t really know, but seems instantly familiar. As what seems a bit of a fuck you to the chav throng before them it mutates into a Spiritualized-style pounding, droning, din. Nick and I agree that we need to go and see them somewhere dark, smoky, crowded and loud – it would no doubt be marvellous.

Six By Seven finish up, they seem a bit fed up and I can’t blame them, despite this a fair smattering of the crowd seemed to enjoy it and clap them off. Even Tom “A bohemian like me” Henderson states himself to have “warmed to them” by the end of their set. They are supporting Swervedriver (yes, Swervedriver) down in London at the Scala in September – I’m likely to be there and hoping that they do any of Candlelight, 88-92-96, Speed Is In Speed Is Out or All My New Best Friends – which if I was you, I’d get on the internet and have a look for right now.

As a bit of a taster here they are on Jools Holland about ten years ago...

The weather has gone from sunny and a bit stuffy to cold and rainy, Tom decides that he is definitely “going home to watch Doctor Who” – I shake my head for at least ten minutes. The next band isn’t on for a while so Nick and I have a bit of a stroll round, there isn’t much to see, apart from one stall selling cool Cov-centric t–shirts.

The Displacements arrive on stage, heralded by the emcee as being the next big thing.

They start. They are just terrible. We decide to go and get something else to eat.

The sausage stall has many, many different types of sausage, I’m fairly sure that after a minute or two the girl behind the counter has sussed my ruse of asking for a detailed description of each variety in order to stay out of the driving rain, so I go for the plainest one possible and we head outside to hear The Displacements doing a song that sounds almost exactly the same as Dancing In The Dark by Springsteen. Ugh.

Disgusted, we go and try on some hats, Nick nicely rocks a “Jesus at the Rodeo” vibe, while I am informed that I look like either a career criminal or an in-bred west-country simpleton dependant on my choice of head gear. So a step or two up the social ladder then.

The reggae tent has a very nice cover version of Buffalo Soldier seeping out, we hang around for bit and then grab another squidgy beer before taking in the BEST NEW BAND IN BRITAIN, Glasvegas. I have already warned Nick that this is likely to be something of a Jesus and Mary Chain tribute. I wasn’t expecting to be quite so right.

Glasvegas ain’t really all that bad, they have got a great sound and the singer has a properly fantastic voice – but it is all just so JAMC; samey and incredibly, incredibly serious. I’m quite bored even though they do Geraldine, the relatively jaunty one about the social worker. I know at least seven people who, if they were here now, would be lecturing me about how the drummer should treat herself to a bra that offers some proper support. I fill Nick in on this and he fixes me with an expression that perfectly balances query and pity.

Worthy and serious Glasvegas may be, entertaining they are not, so after a bit we go and hide under the cover of the Smirnoff Ice vending trailer. Easily the most attractive woman at the entire event is rebuffing endless 15 year-olds with fake ID’s. Nick grabs a couple of bottles for himself, do I want one? No thanks, what with being in possession of the Y-chromosome Smirnoff Ice isn’t really my bag.

It is absolutely lashing down now, but paper-jam heroes Art Brut are due on stage shortly so we go and stand among the “When the fucking fuck are the fucking Enemy coming on?” crowd.

We are both very intrigued as to how this is going to pan out – usually for an Art Brut soiree it is straight down the front for all sorts of jumping around, but in this company and this weather discretion (fear) is the better part of valour (drunkenness) so we hang back at a safe distance.

They arrive and kick off with AC/DC riffing kicking into Formed A Band and rather brilliantly the crowd seem to love it. The PA that seemed so naff earlier seems to have been cranked up a bit and it is all crunching guitars and rambling, seemingly improvised vocals from a fairly goth-looking Eddie Argos. He bravely launches himself into the crowd during Modern Art and seems to come out fairly unscathed.

They play all the classics, plus a couple of new songs, which once again seem to be eerily reminiscent of my life; it’s a cavalcade of bad hangovers, sexual awkwardness, wry jokes and excuses for being late to work in the Art Brut songbook.

The highlight of the set is during Moving To L.A. “I’m having Hennessey with Morrissey, I’m having Long Island Ice Tea with Jay-Z, I’m having Stella with Paul Weller and I’m having half a Stella with… The Enemy.” The crowd don’t know whether to be insulted or not. Nick and I chuckle like villains in a Victorian melodrama.

After a bit more in the shape of My Little Brother and Good Weekend (with slightly fractious audience participation), they conclude with Post Soothing Out; “We’ve been Art Brut, You’ve been….. Coventry”.

They are still my favourite live band at the moment and if you’ve never had the chance to see them I whole-heartedly suggest that you remedy this as soon as possible: absolutely the only act that I would stand around waiting for in the rain, for hours, in Coventry. Well, unless Animals That Swim reform.

I’m afraid can’t say the same for The Enemy, so we dash off to the station with great haste.