This new film about Oasis’s glory years is rousing, heart-rending and really f**king funny
Live Review: ATP
Butlins, Minehead, May 13th-15th
On one hand, there’s Big Boi, whose presence alone should’ve sold the rest of the tickets. He shouts out to us “wild Bristol motherfuckers” and fires through a thrilling hip-hop show, rapping quickly and lithely, and swinging between OutKast hits and tracks from his surreal gutter-level report, ‘Sir Lucious Left Foot’. Big Boi’s flow is as easy as his smiling presence, and when he begins waving his mic like a cock, it’s just right: he is the big willy and the buzz continues to reverberate through a set from ageing chief of minimalism Terry Riley.
On the other hand – and several universes away from Southern States hip-hop – there’s Wet Sounds, a sonic installation in the pool. Rake-thin indie kids shiver through a two-hour delay, and above the water the rumbling noises mean nothing. But below, it’s like listening to Burial, all bleeps and woozy ambience that make fragile minds ponder sonic science before giving up in befuddlement.
In fact, forget counting the different elements; there’s too many. Up there with Big Boi are The Frogs – the scourge of American censors in the ’80s thanks to song titles like ‘Hot Cock Annie’, beloved of Kurt Cobain and, after a full band set and a solo show from Jimmy Flemion when Zomby fails to show, this corner of Somerset. Little drummer Dennis is dressed as Patti Smith, Jimmy is in his glam-rock-on-K bird costume and songs about dropping the soap and a “lovely little crippled boy” are both hilarious and grimly foreboding.
In the end, it’s not really about Animal Collective. You must understand why they were booked to curate – in 2009 they headlined O2 Academy Brixton, but two years spent teasing audiences mean they’ve lost fellow travellers. They do ramp it up with two sets of bubbling improv that explode into 30 minutes of cosmic rave, yet they play second fiddle to psych-cadets hitting higher peaks, such as Gang Gang Dance and Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti; to a more colourful and skewed Micachu And The Shapes; to a more blissful Oneohtrix Point Never. If Animal Collective can channel all this taste into a new album, the naysayers will kick themselves for staying away.
Delving into the murk and noise of their past, the Boston veterans’ second post-reunion album is a superlative indie rock collection
Two kings of the indie dancefloor unite for a warm, timeless take on 20th century pop and rock
This unruly second album delivers a sucker punch to anyone who had the Kent duo down as a novelty act
Justin Vernon’s third Bon Iver album is a weird and wonderful thing