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Lounge On The Farm - The S.G Review

21st July 2008 | by Don Blandford

Hold a music festival in Kent? Just one week after the truly detestable debacle at the Zoo? Are they mad?!

They've certainly got some bollocks! There are girls selling their cherries too as the corn grows tall in the sun. The cattle have been evicted from the cow shed and the turkeys have plucked off. This weekend the two-legged Converse kids are good and four legged beasts are bad and, quite frankly, a bit smelly. There's also a whiff of patchouli in the breeze so let Lounge On The Farm begin.

Friday

It's Friday and on Merton Farm there's so much to see. Irish charmer Kal Lavelle has already pitched her tent and is playing the Farm Folk area. She's in very fine voice indeed.

In the Sheep Dip tent a bikini-clad hula hooping groupie gyrates away to Official Secrets Act. Like everyone here she's getting hip to their erratic new wave pop. She distracts vocalist Tom Burke so much that he ends up over the barrier leaving the mic hanging for some local toddlers to make their babbling broadcast debut.

The sardonic Subliminal Girls follow. The spirit of Carter USM is reborn. Supping value lager Jim Rhesus slates indie kids in skinny jeans while playing to an audience of erm... indie kids in skinny jeans. A posse of fans chant "Do Wolf, do Wolf" - a reference to the band's cover of Hungry Like The Wolf - but the band doesn't relent. Instead they twist the knife deeper with their anti-cool anthem Burn Koko.

Outside there's real ale, venison burgers and game pie but nobody's leaving. Glam Chops are coming. Well some of them have arrived anyway. Seems like Eddie Argos is stuck in traffic. The shambolic super-group need to stick to the schedule and so start without the Art Brut man. The Panthergirls pull shapes and David Devant and co do their best but the crowd shuffle nervously and await their uber-hero. It's like waiting for the bride to arrive. Finally a red-faced Eddie arrives and bundles across the stage to take over vocals on Don't Be Glum Be Glam. The glam sham of a marriage gets consummated with a stomp of platform shoes and glitter. Everybody wants to be in their gang.

The Cow Shed stage has only just warmed up but a huge crowd has gathered for Lightspeed Champion. Such support is baffling. I'm sure Dev Hynes is an ace fella and all that but his music is so tediously dull and it's hardly bouncy festival fare. Still the punters seem happy to the point of delirium so perhaps that's all that matters. Me, I'm off to blag a back-stage cuppa.

The hype machine has been overheating for Black Kids this year. The Florida five-piece has a lot to live up to down on the farm. Reggie Youngblood isn't the most charismatic of front men and appears distant throughout. After the nervousness at Glastonbury his vocals are faultless while sister Ali on the keyboards beams enthusiastically through every song. It's the most effective sibling partnership since The Magic Numbers. The happy upbeat mood hits a high on the crowd-pleasing "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance". Yet a jaded air mysteriously hangs over Black Kids. Maybe they've come too far too soon? Whatever the issues they have a dozen more festival performances scheduled this summer so they'll need to get their zest back soon.

Art Brut have no such problems. Eddie Argos is ready and able to deliver some fun to the festival. As usual they attract the floating voter. Nobody can resist the mix of observational wit and guitars. Formed A Band, yes he formed a band and a bloody marvellous band they are! Early into the set Eddie takes requests but the band are really sticking to their set-list. Blame The Trains gets an outing and Direct Hit really does get everyone moving around like their "shoes don't fit". Who'd have thought that watching a clumsy chap skipping with a mic lead would be such fun! Argos is a star, a slightly wonky star that a six-year old might draw, but a star nonetheless. Later he asks if anyone caught the Glam Chops set, adding, "I only just caught them myself". They manage to segue a little of There Is A Light That Never Goes Out into the rousing rendition of Emily Kane. After an exuberant crowd surf, Argos ends the set bemoaning record shops, which now sell computer games and DVDs, and pleads, "Go out and buy records!" Art Brut: every festival should have them!

The dictionary definition of anti-climax is: "A decline viewed in disappointing contrast with a previous rise" but at Lounge On The Farm it can be distilled down to two words 'Holy Fuck'. The Canadian band played progtronica so bland it made Hot Chip seem revolutionary. Counting the rabbit droppings on the campsite would be more exciting. Making music by yanking tape out of a strange mechanical device is arts centre fare and Holy Fuck is an odd choice for first night headliners at a festival.

Saturday

Taking a detour from the campsite I end up in the Further Field. It's a Camelot for Crusties. Many of the dreadlocked rural rastas don't make it beyond this field. Why would they? Choosing instead to juggle, smoke, swig tea from china mugs and chill at the solar cinema or catch a psychedelic jazz band in the Further Tent. I leave the fire-eaters behind and pass by The Sheep Dip tent where very harmonious Scousers The Loungs are providing the fun. Elsewhere the acoustic loveliness of Island Line floats out of the Farm Folk arena.

Back at the Sheep Dip all the members of Wave Machines plunge into more Hot Chip influenced beats and keep the lunchtime crowd entertained for half an hour.

New hopefuls The Magistrates are disappointing. Their blend of soul-funk blandness is drawn from all the wrong bits of the Eighties. A very Essex sound from the Essex band.

The weather's been fine up until now but here comes a tornado. Hello Johnny Foreigner. They blast off and don't really rest through their frenzied set. Lead singer Alexei does pause to ponder farm life, "We're now getting used to the smell of horse-shit or are we just city people?" Kelly is looking (and probably feeling) hot in the packed tent and falls to her knees and incites yearning looks from the indie boys watching. All that shouty indie takes a toll on Alexei and he's a sweaty wreck by the end of the set. Just before departing he still manages the quote of the weekend "This is the BEST job ever!!"

Like most festivals many of the female performers are concentrated in the folk and acoustic areas. This isn't the fault of LOTF they just reflect the industry bias. So it's great to see Those Dancing Days take their place on the main stage. The Swedish girls are chuffed to be on the farm. "This is our first ever UK festival!" announces a proud Linnea. The curly-haired singer adds soul to the swirling indie-pop while guitarist Rebecka never ever stops smiling! Linnea glances knowingly at her band like she's communicating psychically. Clever these Swedes. A gorgeously slow introduction to Hitten builds into the Hammond-heavy delicious pop riff and Linnea lets rip with her surprisingly mature soulful voice. The security guys were so impressed they called over colleagues to check out the young Swedes and the compere called them back on for an encore!

There's no time for a hog roast and the supply of Enzo's delicious cakes are sold out. I could eat a horse, or one of those well-endowed bulls I saw in the shed. Food will have to wait because Los Campesinos! are playing at the Sheep Dip. The self-styled "second most punk rock band in Britain" are fresh from T In The Park where front man Gareth had apparently been punched in the face. At home in the rural indie idyll the Cardiff seven piece literally threw themselves into every song. Gareth was later so comfortable he launched himself into the crowd and got lost in a sea of button badge-wearing friends. The faithful LC! fans mouthed every single word. Someone threw their bra at the stage and Gareth - with the help of other band members - wore it for the remainder of the set. The energetic gig finally finished with Gareth and Aleks climbing on the monitors. Magnificent!

Back in the barn the boy band are late. The Mystery Jets are backstage doing an interview and are keeping the full barn waiting. The biggest teenage gathering of the festival is impatient. Suddenly the screams start. It's not quite Beatlemania but the crowd are worryingly ecstatic. The lads from Eel Pie Island are barely audible by the time they play thanks to all their screeching fans. Blaine is the main object of their affection. The adoration may be bemusing but The Mystery Jets did play a strong yet short set. A young journalist who happened to be passing beautifully provides the female vocals on Young Love whilst Two Doors Down is the perfect excuse for a stomp in the hay. Later the boys are mobbed backstage and fans breach security to get shoes and shirts signed. Rock 'n' roll indeed.

So to Saturday's big headliners The New York Dolls. Some wag in the press pit joked that the lights would be kept low to keep the veteran rockers from showing their true age. But hell! they look good and play well too. It's all so effortless for David Johanson who rocks the rural retreat like it's 1972. It's easy to see where The Ramones, Bowie and The Sex Pistols drew their inspiration. Okay so some of the tracks veer towards country rock but they can be forgiven such aged diversions. The cover of Piece Of My Heart by their "Cold friend" Janis Joplin is simply sublime. Not sure what the Mystery Jets fans made of it though - they're probably all tucked up in bed with their milk and cookies.

Sunday

Sunday morning brings the dawning of a final day of fun on the farm. Most festivals would by now be litter-strewn scenes of devastation but not Lounge On The Farm. Oh no. They have recycling bins galore, a plentiful supply of toilets and a whole host of traders delivering their wares in recyclable or biodegradable containers. Festivals used to be this way. One day all festivals will be like this again.

The day starts well. Over in the Cow Shed there's good old-fashioned R 'n' B from The Draytones. Meanwhile at the Sheep Dip tent Gravesend's finest Letters from London do their loveable rakish indie-pop thing.

It's lunchtime and the legend has arrived. Kevin Rowland! I've been searching for the the young soul rebel and I found him in a loud shirt and hat wandering around the festival site getting ready for his DJ set in the Hoedown tent. The former Dexy's man coyly spins the discs and plays some Marvin Gaye, Eddie & The Hotrods and the gorgeous Walk Away Renee. He gets more confident later and embellishes some of the soul tracks with his trademark crooning. It's a rare and unexpected treat.

Just when the vibe couldn't get any easier along comes Natty. The chilled-out reggae groover slips on to the main stage announcing "Hello...it's coooool on the Farm! When I was here last year it was just me and him and about twenty people watching." What a difference a year makes! This guy oozes cool and mesmerises everyone with his Trojan summer sounds cut with social comment.

There's a lull before The Shortwave Set play so I sneak a can of corporate bitter from my rucksack. Two swigs later and the security bloke is shaking his head. My boldness is most courteously scolded and I'm almost happy to surrender my brew. Anyway, The Shortwave Set are on. They're clad in yellow overalls like weird science nerds. Andrew Pettitt chats about the excellent festival food "rabbit pasta: so wrong but it tastes sooo right!" They've delicious hints of sixties psychedelia; like a more fun Broadcast. Ulrika Bjorsne sings sexily on Sun Machine with its nod to Incense And Peppermints. It's an acid-pop trip and I can almost smell that patchouli again.

The evening is closing in. In the main field the fancy dress shop is flogging everything for a fiver. Back in the barn The Bees are blessed with the penultimate slot on the main stage. I reckon the Isle of Wight boys have led a charmed life. Their success is intriguing. Who buys their stuff? Ageing Oasis fans desperate to fling their finger on some sort of pulse, perhaps! Whatever. They're playing to a packed shed and it's not raining so they must have some appeal. Back in the field the dress shop has everything going for two quid now. Meanwhile in the barn The Bees still haven't buzzed off. How long do they need for gawd sake! Back at the bargain boutique all the punk wigs have gone and the remaining stock is being sold for a quid. So it's back to the main stage area where nothing has stirred in the Cow Shed - The Bees are STILL playing.

Respite comes from an unlikely source. Terry Hall is doing a DJ set at the Hoedown. The strains of Stereolab and Grandmaster Flash bring welcome relief. Terry Hall's grumpy demeanour hardly fits the festival mood but he sure knows a good tune.

Scouse scamps steal Sunday's headline slot. The Coral have enough cheeky tunes to round off the weekend in a suitably jaunty manner. Front man James Skelly is so pleasant and polite it's like he's swallowed an etiquette thesaurus "Nice one", "cheers", "thank-you", "thanks a lot", "ta", "thank-you very much". Bless him! On their new single they sound like The Searchers covering Love. The sea shanty element to their sound is still there of course. In The Morning inspires a hand-waving frenzy whilst Careless Hands gets the kids doing a conga through the cow shed. Things are more subdued through a succession of new songs but the upbeat mood returns for Dreaming Of You. They're worthy headliners.

Ah but there's still time to squeeze in one more band over at the Sheep Dip. Lupen Crook & The Murder Birds. Tonight they sound part Hefner, part Go Betweens. Good then. I hang on to every utterance that Lupen Crook spills. It's enthralling stuff. The biggest cheer comes later when Shark Fight is dedicated to the organisers of "Zoo8 and all the beautiful c*nts!" before adding, "actually they're not beautiful they're just c*nts!"

It's a timely reminder of the disastrous festival held in Kent over the previous weekend. Lounge On The Farm couldn't be more different. Everything has been as smooth as the lime and pear smoothies being sold in the field. The organisation has been strong. Communication clear - it's amazing what the addition of a simple chalkboard can achieve! Prices were competitive and the staff always informed and helpful. The environment has been respected without compromising the enjoyment of anyone. Every single act has been happy to play to such a cool crowd.

This third outing for the Canterbury-based festival had much to prove to cynics expecting another flop. In the end it was a simple tale of country folk knowing their audience and giving festival fans what they wanted. Kent has got its pride back.