OneFest 2012

You can gauge a lot about your company on a bus by those who’ve gravitated to the back seats. They’re the cool kids, they’re the rock’n’roll kids. They freakin’ own the bus. We’re on the shuttle bus from Swindon to OneFest. The backseat kids are discussing brioche and the relative merits of Monty Don. Turns out the cool kids love Monty Don.

OneFest is not the Reading Festival scuzzpit, OneFest makes Latitude look like the last days of Sodom and Gomorrah getting it on with The Human Centipede. First impressions, with storm clouds gathering above and cloying mud underfoot is that this is going to be a pathetic fallacy goldmine. You want weather as mood analogy buddy? You’ve come to the right place. It doesn’t take long though, surrounded by polite cheer and Wiltshire countryside, to come around. This all works here. The setting is stunning; funnelled into a valley that forms a natural, intimate, amphitheatre around the tiny site. You feel isolated from drab suburbia. Swindon is a distant memory. Beyond that though, beyond politeness, beyond hills, even beyond the life-saving chorizo pies, OneFest gets the most important element right; OneFest gets the bands right.

Okay, the majority of main stage acts play safe and gentle folksiness to a crowd of safe and gentle folks. Okay, of the mid-afternoon acts, only Rae Morris offers even a glimpse of edge (and a guided tour of Blackpool chip shops). And yes, at other times we’re subjected to the instant no-no of novelty banjo act and Nick Harper murdering Blur’s ‘Out Of Time’, but it’s alright. It’s keeping other people happy and it drives us to the second stage tent where unexpected treasures are unearthed.

A Genuine Freakshow get us off to a suitably noisy start; trading in epic rise and fall, trumpet blast, cello and violin squall. You kinda wish they’d let go more, totally commit to the cacophony, but when the strings slice through the din it’s a beautiful racket.

Odd Colours are more straightforward, possibly too straightforward; all blue moon Kentucky country twang prettiness enriched by keyboard partyparty. It’s only their third show, but there’s a moment during the last song when the tension tightens, the mood darkens and you’re left thinking, ‘yes, maybe, just maybe there’s something real promising here.’

Young Blood give us our first dose of four pretty boys in an indie band and, God knows, there will always be a place in hearts and spaces on bedroom walls for four pretty boys in an indie band. Especially those that trade in stirring three part vocal shout, hint at Frankie And The Heartstrings type passion and are this pumped with charming braggadocio. You can see it in their eyes; bursting with hope, loaded up on dreams of small-town escape. They absolutely own the tent. A lot of people are going to hate Young Blood, but there’s a chance, as long as they keep hints of laddishness in check, that a whole lot more people are going to love them, and in the anthemic vibrant stomp of ‘Bad Words’ they’ve already got a song ready to go toe-to-toe with the world.

Gaz Brookfield walks on stage and a dog leaves the tent. Somehow the animals are always first to know. He sounds like a bad Levellers solo project. But worse. We watch two songs of feeling-sorry-for-myself acoustic dross and follow the prescient mutt outside. Where he went we don’t know, but we go get pies and beer.

Okay, Crash & The Bandicoots, what’ve you got, what’ve you got? They’ve got 1994 indie DIY trash aesthetic, they’ve got a Furby onstage, you’re worried they’re going to sound like a Dweeb b-side. But, whilst there’s plenty of playful bleeping twee riot, there’s also a gallon of heart and versatility here. ‘Plug Me In’, especially, demonstrates a surprising vulnerability; the singer with arms folded, forlorn and defensive, intoning “I stay away from this and that” whilst electropop deathnoise kicks fall apart around him. An utter blast, and ones to watch, for sure.

After that Jodie Marie fails to capture the imagination. There’s an air of red wine and Radio 2 about her, you could imagine Wogan going ape for this. This is the sound of Katie Melua with even less demons. And that’s a fact, that’s a fact.

Right, we’re outside, it’s mainstage time, it’s Dry The River time. Let’s be honest here, they’re pretty great, but they are not The Sound Of 2012, they’re the sound of a million other hairy boys who gathered in a garage one day with just a single intention, ‘let’s do some of that rock.’ There’s enough about them though, enough convincing channelling of Southern US bluesy gospel, enough intricacy in the harmonies to make them stand apart.

The greatest compliment you could pay Onefest is to acknowledge the eclectic nature of the bill, and nothing epitomises that more than having Damon Albarn headline the festival, playing his Elizabethan folk opera ‘Doctor Dee’. The band takes the stage, carrying instruments that are beyond unrecognisable, they’re plain indescribable. As birdsong chirrups and solemn bells toll, it’s immediately clear that ‘Song 2’ this ain’t. What it is, though, is warm-hearted, inclusive and utterly captivating. It’s all overseen by Damon and he looks genuinely thrilled to be on stage with these musicians, just about keeping the show under control, swaying away behind his piano, making the band play the one vaguely fast song twice, just to keep warm. “Sorry” he says, grinning, “it all slows down again from here.”

Without knowing the Doctor Dee story the narrative is rather lost, but this is dextrous, texturous music which few other people would have the pop suss to make seem so immediate and recognisable. It finishes with a single record player crackling music hall melancholia into the night sky and there’s a sense that this is where Damon really wants to be right now. That compared to this, the Hyde Park Blur show really is Just A Job. So kudos to Onefest for giving us the chance to see this, for having the imagination and faith that it could work. We’ll be back next year to see what treats they have for us. Now, about Monty Don…