Make Like a Banana

Apparently the Saturday leg of the Split Festival was a huge success. Dizzee Rascal killed it and the weather was glorious. Naturally, thanks to Hurrican Bertha, when me and wor lass showed up for the Sunday leg, it was pissing down. However, because we are not only culturally voracious young things about town, but also well 'ard, we were never going to let such a small thing as a little precipitation deter us. Review below.


We squelched in, fashionably late, just in time for a set by Cohesion. They were good, in a kind of jangly, indie, Death Cab for Cutie type way. I'd probably say they were competent rather than amazing, although the fact that the full to capacity tent meant I had to watch them while being rained on probably hampered my enjoyment. I've added video below (not from the festival) so feel free to decide for yourself whether I'm talking balls and they are in fact the best thing since cheesy chips/worse than scrotal fungus. For most of the set I was stood next to Barry Hyde of The Futureheads fame. I didn't say anything to him, but he's taller than you'd think.

After a  quick jaunt to grab a beer and listen to a few songs from a band called Lilliput on the main stage (pretty harmonies. Twee as fuck) we returned to watch Mr Hyde's solo set. The guy's a local lad and is one of the organisers of the festival, so there was a lot of good will for him, helped along by the fact that he comes across like a fairly pleasant and personable guy. The set was performed on an unaccompanied piano and comprised songs from his unreleased solo album and covers of Tom Waits and Prince. I'd love to say I enjoyed it, I really would, but with the exception of the covers and the closing number, Thundersong, it really didn't work for me and at times bordered on the self indulgent, which is a shame. Still, it's his party and he can make as much of a mess as he likes and there were others there who seemed to be feeling it, so maybe it was me. I'd include a video, but as the album's a work in progress, none exist.

Boy Jumps Ship on the main stage are far more conventional, right down to their verb noun verb band name. From Tyneside, but desperately trying to give the impression (sonically at least) that they're American, I would have probably thought they were the tits when I was fifteen. As it is I find them very good at what they do, it's just that what they do is also done by about fifty other bands, none of which are a patch on Jimmy Eat World.

Nobody  had really knocked me or the other half's socks off yet, so give a hurray and a blast on a teeny tiny trumpet for School of Language who are great. The band are a sort of side project for the marginally more famous Field Music. You get the impression that they listen to a lot of Peter Gabriel and 80's period David Bowie, which is just fine and dandy by me. If you'll allow me a bit of tenuous name dropping of people who are in no way in the traditionally understood meaning of the word, famous, wor lass is on instagram friend terms with the dude who directed the below video. True story.

Food and shelter at a nearby pub took precedence over staying for Frankie and the Heartstrings, who are one of those bands I've tried to like, but never been able to get away with. We were back in time for The Cribs though, who make an enjoyable clatter and look the part.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like the Super Furry Animals and Neon Neon plenty, but for some reason I really wasn't expecting much from Gruff Rhys's set: wheel out a few hits, one or two quirky solo numbers, cue applause, bow, back home, tea and noodles, bed. I was very wrong. Mr Rhys's set was better than blow jobs and cake. It consisted entirely of tracks from his latest solo album American Interior, a concept album built around the travails of John (later Juan) Evans, here played by a muppet, who travelled into the then unmapped American interior in search of a lost tribe of Welshmen, only to defect to the Spanish, unwittingly pave the way for Lewis and Clarke and did I mention he's played by a muppet. In between songs he made use of powerpoint and cue cards, because of course he fucking did. If that all sounds self consciously quirky and mannered, you'd be wrong. Oddball framing aside the concept is played with complete sincerity and the sound is wide and mesmerising.  Gruff is enough of an old hand that he can switch between genres as easy as breathing and his singing and playing is as effortless as if he were ringing a bell. I really cannot recommend it enough (cue the reader, interest piqued, playing the video below, nodding their head and deciding it sounds like a load of old bollocks)

Coming out into the night, the second wonderful surprise of the night was that the rain had stopped, just in time for Maximo Park's headline slot. If somebody in a laboratory made use of dark science to create a band specifically for me to like, that band wouldn't be a million miles from Maximo Park: romantic, bookish, northern. Imagine The Smiths if Morrissey wasn't so discophobic and occasionally got laid. I've heard it said (though I personally disagree) that on record, despite lovely lyrical vignettes of fraying relationships and words left unsaid, the band struggle to distinguish themselves from the general uninspiring mush of English guitar rock, but live they're a much more forceful presence, bouncing round the stage, making an almighty clatter and generally coming across like they're having the very bestest of times. To be honest, it was never going to be a tough crowd. The fact that Maxi P are A) unapologetically North Eastern - and b) reasonably successful, meant they could pretty much count on a warm reception, but you still get the impression they're taking nothing for granted, sweating their balls off, singer Paul Smith careening round like the Teesside* accented love-child  of Buster Keaton and Jarvis Cocker.  The greatest hits set culminates with Girls Who Play Guitar and Apply Some Pressure and then we're done, our breathing and heart rate slowing our hands grasping for metaphorical post coital cigarettes as Chicago's If You Leave Me Now plays over the PA.

So a good time was had. Beyond the weather there were the usual annoyances at these things, such as the man who is so munted he cannot stand, who suddenly decides that, come what may, he must dance the dance of his people right in front of where you're standing, or the lady who inexplicably decides to bring her tiny and quite clearly terrified  puppy dog to a music concert. The emphasis on local rather than established talent might not please everyone, but if we don't have events like this to take a punt on new acts then we might  as well just give up, slump down in front of Now That's What I Call X Factor  or whatever and clap like seals as Jason Derulo and Pitbull repeats their own names like the world's shittest pokemon. The ethos behind the festival is admirable, I hope it continues to go from strength to strength and everyone involved needs to be awarded an extra ration of jelly babies. Plus, it took me, like, five minutes to get home.

Love and Fishes

Dave D

*Not Geordie, as reported by every single musical journalist ever