Such are the delights of Brighton – the jadedly faded former playground of princes – that despite the offer of an eclectically wonderful line-up of musical acts on show at Mutations Festival, I managed to mess up and miss out.
City-based festivals rely on proximity of an adequate number of venues, and Brighton fits this bill perfectly despite its steep hilly climbs. Drainage and sewerage are distinct advantages for multivenue indoor festivals over their rural cousins.
And like all festivals – there are plenty of distractions to be had. Unfortunately, this meant I missed almost all of the Friday evening line-up due to a rather decent pub and stalwart drinking companions.
What I did see, I am probably not qualified to pass judgment on, owing to the presence in my system of several pints of Harvey’s Sussex Best. While I can recommend this tipple, it rather undermined my enjoyment of Silverbacks, who were (consults notes) ‘fine’, and Horse Jumper of Love, who were ‘pedestrian lo-fi’ (something I happen to like).
Apologies to these bands. I promise to be a better reviewer next time.
So Saturday then, fortified by an hour in the pier arcades, and a lunch of chips on the beach, we headed to the agreeably snug Folklore Rooms to see Spielmann. Imagine a camply comic John Grant and you’re somewhere near the oeuvre and the brilliance of his too-early slot.
Instantly likeable, Spielmann took every opportunity to pursue musical self-sabotage and to engage in a continual hilarious ironic beef about later headliners Kneecap.
Spielmann
As a complete antidote to Spielmann, we popped downhill to Dust to see Quade. I have to say I bloody loved them, even if I said at the time that they (and this is a genuine quote) ‘sounded like Hans Zimmer composing the soundtrack to a documentary about a dying polar bear’.
Eschewing guitars for violins, with an avant-drone moon rock that was akin to God Speed You Black Emperor, I would put them as ‘critically acclaimed’ over ‘bound to sell out Wembley Stadium’. Absolutely fantastic music, but definite crowd-splitters.
A violin was again in evidence with hyped teen band Man/Woman/Chainsaw at festival mainstage, Chalk. I can’t quite say why I liked them: they were punky, vibey (if that’s a thing, I felt it was in the moment), and definitely at their best in the male/female duets.
They’re on their way, but I feel they’re yet to reach their full potential. Ones to watch.
Next over to the Brightonest of venues, Revenge, a neon Queens-of-Pop-themed basement bar to see The Disgusting Sisters.
Disgusting Sisters
I must admit I felt shortchanged though. I was expecting Wet Leg, but got The Cheeky Girls. I wanted more RiotGrrl and a bit less cheesey schtick. I didn’t stick around for the full set and headed back to Chalk to catch some of Gaffa Tape Sandy.
They were actually pretty similar to Man/Woman/Chainsaw so I struggled to be enthused.
The 5pm slot is hard for any band to fill, so props to them, especially as they managed to belt out the single catchiest song of the festival.
The late afternoon lull may have been sparked by nervous anticipation for seeing Mercury Rev, who despite being passingly fond of for around 30 years, I’ve never actually seen live.
Mercury Rev
Given that Mercury Rev have produced (according to the festival bumpf) possibly ‘the best indie record of all time’ I reckoned it should be good.
It was.
In fact, it was mesmerising. So much so I had to leave before the end because I was a bit overwhelmed. No, this wasn’t the hangover kicking in, but it may have been around this time that I contracted the covid that has delayed this review.
Anyway, they are brilliant and they knew it. As the set developed they bordered on pomposity, didn’t care, and just plunged on, flutes, keys, saxophones, and harmonicas blaring as they went. You kind of have to embrace that sort of thing. Go and see them if you can, you won’t regret it.
A slight fly in the ointment was the low volume on the vocals. And to be honest, the whole festival seemed plagued with minor sound issues – perhaps coincidentally, but it definitely took some of the lustre out of the overall performance
Could Mercury Rev be topped? Well, it was 7pm on Saturday night, so a festival should be just getting into its stride. Over to Patterns then, where we took a chance on seeing something different in the form of Scott Lavene.
He’s just some guy from Essex playing a guitar, right? Probably a bit like Billy Bragg? Wrong.
It’s hard to sum up how a poet of urban and personal decay can have you in stitches of laughter within seconds. Maybe take Jarvis Cocker out of Sheffield and make him grow up in a grimy part of the Thames estuary and you’re somewhere near the mark. Imagine the Phil
Daniels bit of Parklife but with the words written by the Irvine Welsh of Canvey Island. A tragi-comic and poetic highlight. Merch purchases were made.
With no way of topping that, but with nothing much else we fancied, we stuck around for the next act. The venue almost emptied out – a bad sign? No. It turned out the leavers were the losers: they didn’t get to see October Drift in their pomp, and we did.
October Drift
It was over too soon, but holy heck they were loud. So loud. And full of the fuzzy guitars and energy of early (British) Sea Power. And so good – the most exhilarating overall performance of the whole festival for me. I would say this is a band that you must see live, even if I’m less enthusiastic about their recordings.
With the train home beckoning, there was just time to slog back uphill to the conveniently station-adjacent Green Door Store to see recent Goo Records signings The Roebucks: a slice of countryish folkish pop-ish apple pie rock and very mellow to boot. They were an unexpected delight to cap off a fun festival – I will have them playing on repeat.
The Roebucks
Words and pictures by Rob Finch
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