Sonar 2012: Day Two

Given that you could choose, if you so wished, to catch around 14 hours of live music – Friday being the first SónarNight – it’s no surprise that a 1pm slot is a bit of a graveyard. No queues and empty bars lend a surreal feel to the site, and those who have dragged themselves out of bed are busy scurrying to the subterranean Hall. It’s not just to escape the madness of the midday sun; rising local stars Stand Up Against Heart Crime draw a sizable and knowledgeable crowd including, so it’s rumoured, several label scouts. It’s been a while since we spoke to them last, but they’ve been busy boys – an album is being mastered, a tour being plotted – not least in updating their sound. They still trade in whimsical, Cure-era synths and the bittersweet limits of kraut-wave, but they’ve beefed everything up; shards of noise from Alex Izquierdo’s guitar and the motoric beats of Arnau Obiols see them aim straight for the heart of the dancefloor. It’s a beguiling mix, and with the cool panache of frontman Josep Xorto holding court in the eye of the storm, their confidence and swagger are deserving of bigger and better things.

One of the joys of SónarDay is being turned on to acts you knew nothing about, which is how I end up being serenaded by Katie Selmanis & Co. I’m not sure how the warm, hazy shades of Austra passed me by last year, but they do a stellar job of preaching to the unconverted. Admittedly, they don’t possess a huge variation in sound, but when you can nail a feeling with such accuracy there’s not really a need to broaden your horizons. It’s pretty and bright, with synths floating over us in waves of colour. Shorn of archness – imagine Chromatics on valium – it’s interesting to see this type of music embrace joy and hedonism which, on record at least, provides a nice counterpoint to Selmanis’ icy, deadpan delivery. Sadly, sound problems mean we barely get to hear it. Pleas to turn up the vocals go ironically unheard, prompting one punter to hold up a hastily scrawled placard declaring ‘We can’t hear you!’, a frustrating aspect of an otherwise stellar performance.

The most interesting venue is the Complex, an ancient chapel that more frequently finds service as an art gallery. The acoustic qualities of churches are well known, but they were obviously never designed for the sort of booming, dub-heavy bass’n’reggae that Peaking Lights have made their trademark. An unseemly echo plagues their sound, with the low end bouncing around in confusing waves, drowning details such as Indra Dunis’ maracas. It’s a shame, as their mesmerising, hypnotic drone, perfected on new tracks such as ‘Cosmic Tides’, sounds amazing coming from the PA. It’s even more remarkable to watch Aaron Coyes frantically loading actual cassettes into his bank of equipment before chopping and screwing the results into the mix. They certainly justify their status as hot property, although I wonder how much mileage their sound will actually have – there was more than a few drifting away five songs in.

Almost all big-name festivals tread a fine line between progression and populism, but this dilemma is felt even more acutely at Sonar, whose raison d’être is, lest we forget, ‘advanced music’. Needs must I guess, and while flying in scores of artists from around the world doesn’t come cheap, there’s also the small matter of 80,000 tickets to be sold. Still, the presence of Lana Del Rey is a baffling anomaly, a move that doesn’t really make sense – on paper at least – for either party. Shoehorned into a bill bursting with scratchy techno and various strains of EDM, she’s as much a curiosity as a highlight, someone to watch just to declare ‘I was there!’ There’s fervent discussion as to whether she’ll repeat the stunned, rabbit-in-the-headlights nerves that so badly affected her on both Later…with Jools Holland and SNL and, let’s be honest, if you were still getting to grips with performing, you wouldn’t thank your management for booking a headline gig in front of 20,000 raveheads – a sink or swim moment if ever there was one. Backed by just a guitarist, her trusted pianist, and a four-piece string section, the bombast and lavish production of much of ‘Born To Die’ is conspicuous by its absence, leaving her voice front and centre to carry the songs. It’s a brave move and one she pulls off, revealing the melancholic tenderness at the heart of her stories. A massive video screen replays the by now familiar retro montage of Sinatra, Elvis, and the faded Hollywood glamour she’s so completely adopted as a motif. Fittingly, at one point Jessica Rabbit appears, life imitating art as Del Rey struts around like a sexual predator, exactly the spark and passion that her previous ‘performances’ lacked.

Once famously described as a ‘gangster Nancy Sinatra’, she seems far more at ease playing the wounded ingénue, the shy girl that just wants to be loved who forms the basis for two of her best songs, ‘Blue Jeans’ and ‘Video Games’, both of which are spectacular. During the latter, the crush at the front lose their shit, the type of adulation normally reserved for Bieber, Rhianna, or, well, Elvis. She’s genuinely moved, descending to the pit and spending a good 5 minutes shaking hands, kissing people, and posing for pictures. Maybe it’s relief more than euphoria, but by the time she’s cooing through ‘Million Dollar Man’, she’s visibly grown in confidence, and really starts to hit her stride. Her voice is magnificent, and despite the bad taste of signing off with ‘National Anthem’’s capitalist refrain ‘Money is the anthem of success’ – guess she doesn’t read The Economist – the greatest compliment is that she never looks out of her depth, or out of place.

Friendly Fires are on much surer ground, being exactly the type of indie-dance crossover that thrives here. They were a highlight back in 2009, and with last year’s ‘Pala’ continuing their indulgence in tongue-in-cheek neon pop, their songs find a perfect home here. With singer Ed Macfarlane bounding around to the funk-heavy groove of opener ‘Lovesick’, it’s clear they´re out to have just as much fun as everyone else – which when ‘Jump In The Pool’ and ‘Paris’ are aired, is a lot. Of course, there’s some serious musicianship behind it all, and it takes a lot of work to sound this effortless. Three years can be a long time, but they haven´t been resting on their laurels; the newer songs sound like Friendly Fires-max, a purer distillation of what makes them so loveable. The crazy breakdown of ‘Live Those Days’ and jittery guitars of ‘Pull Me Back To Earth’ sound ready-made for a stage like this – it’s their spiritual home, and one they’re comfortable inhabiting.

Light shows here generally err on the side of incredible, something that some acts are more adept at exploiting than others. Simian Mobile Disco have always been as concerned about the visual aspect of their live show, keen to push the boundaries of what’s possible, so it’s somewhat surprising to be confronted by a rather Spartan set up. They’re still trying to bed in new material from recent LP ‘Unpatterns’ of course, and given that this is their first live outing of the year, it’s understandable that they’d rather play it safe. Sónar is not the place you want to fall flat on your face and, aside from several LED towers, James Ford and Jas Shaw spend much of the set shrouded in dry ice, beavering away around a table laden with blinking boxes and miles of cable. Ford in particular, with his Leo Sayer-esque hair, resembles some mad, musical alchemist, conjuring sounds and beats with mere twiddles; all that’s missing is a lab coat and goggles. Live, they mine their trove of euphoric house and dance, not quite as reliant on low end as their albums would suggest. Avoiding some of their most recognisable, and best, material – no ‘Hustlers’, no ‘Audacity Of Huge’, no ‘It’s The Beat’ – it’s more akin to being at a club than a concert, something I’m sure is a conscious decision. With the clock pushing towards 4am, the highs are starting to kick in, with a steady beat the only thing people need to carry them on towards a dawn finish.