1234 Shoreditch 2011

12.20pm: Shoreditch Park. It’s time for that yearly 1234 extravaganza, clearly the best excuse you’ll find to leave the house dressed in a pink jumpsuit that your mum would’ve considered “a bit much, love” back in the 70s. There’s fifty (count ‘em) bands laid on today in this urban playground, which surely means an almighty amount of running around and potential clashes. Not forgetting last year’s attempt to rival the toilet queues at Field Day…

So, as some sort of prize for being one of the first people through those gates, we get clean, queueless toilets, and the chance to have our ears abused by a band so bad, even the sound man turns them down. I knew there was a reason no one else turns up early for these things. It’d be a world of mean to name and shame them, right? Suffice to say, Chapter Sweetheart appear to be having an off day. Truthfully, we came here early to check out Hold Kiss Kill, on a friend’s recommendation. Turns out, they’re an improvement certainly, but probably more suited to a dingy Hoxton bar, and perhaps a little too influenced by My Bloody Valentine for their own good.

Next up, Advert are taking over the mainstage, with some kind of epic Floyd-esque instrumental work. It’s proficient, good, even, right up until the point where three little words are uttered; “more vocals please”. So, what seemed like an interesting psychedelic wig out, spontaneously combusts into a band desperately seeking a singer. We’ll blame the monitors for how gloriously out of tune these boys are. Three bands in, and it’s going to take a lot more hard liquor to make this palatable. Fortunately, there’s a stall selling that alcoholic ginger beer, which is no doubt going to provide us with all our nutritional requirements until the regulation falafel at tea time, at least.

Our salvation is found in the form of Novella, a three piece girl band who are also apparent disciples of the sonic cathedral of sound. Fresh from recording with Rory Attwell, they’re a joy to behold, all Lush distortions and harmonies, and a welcome relief after our distinctly dodgy start to proceedings. And from here onward, it gets better and better, Echo Lake impress with their dreamy pop, Chapman Family rip a metaphorical roof off Shoreditch Park, and Fair Ohs trip gloriously barefoot around the Rough Trade tent, like a punked up Paul Simon. One of the day’s highlights, A History Of Apple Pie, are clearly indebted to the C86 era of bands, which is by no means a bad thing, and vocalist Stephanie Min has one of the sweetest voices we’ve heard in a while. We catch the end of Lydia Lunch, who is both terrifying and clearly nuts, in a good way of course, as we enjoy the sunset in the park and await Tim Burgess’ dj set.

But wait, unless I’m mistaken, that’s not an insanely ridiculous haircut spinning those discs! Burgess is no where to be seen, sadly, and we were promised he’d play ‘Paris Angels’ as well. Instead, we’re getting some strange dubstep number, which seems like a fairly inappropriate way to lead us into one of the day’s heavyweights, The Raveonettes. To be fair, the fact that they’re playing in daylight at all seems a little odd, we expect light shows and a shedload of smoke machines and/or dry ice, all of which seems far more likely to work under the cover of darkness. Mixing up older tracks with a smattering from latest album ‘Raven In The Grave’, Wagner and Foo, with their twin drum attack, prove themselves to be the best export from Denmark since sliced bacon. Highlights include ‘Heart of Stone’ and ‘Attack of the Ghostriders’, but it’s set closer, ‘Aly, Walk With Me’, with it’s prowling bassline, that really steals the show.

Too late for the Raveonettes, darkness falls in time for the day’s headliners, The Black Lips, a band who’ve previously managed to entirely pass me by. Having had their most recent album Ronsoned (I’m fairly sure that’s the official term), I’m not expecting huge amounts (except maybe a horn section). But as it soon transpires, they’re some sort of punked up American version of a Mersey Beat band, who steal the hearts, minds, and the ability to stop yourself from crowd surfing from all the audience. Kicking off proceedings by throwing their rider into the crowd (thus soaking everyone at the front with beer, cheers), and finding the ungrateful Shoreditch crowd only too happy to chuck the half empty cans back at them, they attempt to mop us all up, first by throwing a mass of apparently dirty towels, before going all Budget Flaming Lips, chucking literally dozens of toilet rolls at us, when everyone knows you’re meant to use confetti and balloons. And who would have thought that fifty years later, a band sounding so indebted to early Beatles could still incite a near riot? That’s one way to make us all sit up and take notice. Bravo, indeed. We’re off to our local independent record store, first thing Monday morning.

With that, we spill out on to the mean streets of Hackney, wide eyed at the things we’ve seen (that pink jumpsuit, my eyes, my eyes), brimming with tips of ‘what not to wear’, grateful that last year’s toilet queues are consigned to history, and literally covered in toilet roll. Good night Shoreditch, you’ve been totally Mexico.