Primavera Club Review // A Town Past Indie
“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth”. Well, judging by the queue for one of the most desired wristbands this side of the Pyrenees, Matthew was just one letter out – swap the “m” for “g” and he’d have been spot on. We’re all familiar with the rise of the hipster – you’d have to be Osama not to be – but seriously, when did everyone start dressing like the weedy kid you used to beat up at school? My original suspicion that whole swaths of East London must be like some Wild West ghost town, abandoned flat caps fluttering forlornly in the shadows, was only assuaged when I realised that not everyone was poking away on an iPhone 4.0 or taking photos using Hipstamatic. At least everyone had good shoes.
Lest you be confused, this is no mainstream, indie landfill lager-fuelled singalong. No sir, you won’t find the likes of The Kooks or Razorlight clogging up Primavera Club’s schedule (although I did see one poor chap try to rock pearls – it’s not big and it’s not clever). Instead, try to imagine Camden Crawl curated along the lines of ATP. This is indie indie, made by artists who are passionate about what they do and couldn’t give a hoot about Coca Cola jingles. Even us at Noize, finger on the pulse, fully committed musos, were left scratching our heads at some of the bands on the bill, but intrepid as ever, we took a deep breath and dived right on into the sea of flannel.
We started slowly on day one, allowing the gentle crooning and wispy melodies of Wild Nothing to ease ourselves into the fray. Despite an illness, Jack Tatum still sounded magnificent, if a little quiet, as their tunes washed gently over us. Epitomising a study in not moving much, they nevertheless seem to have grasped that it’s all about the music, giving each tune, each note, exactly the space it needed to breathe, and not over complicating matters with fussy arrangements. Fussy is not something likely to ever be associated with Male Bonding either, whose whirlwind, 35 minute set arrived like a tornado, and caused just about as much destruction. Pausing only for some weird, on stage banter about the size of Spanish bananas (no, us neither) they ripped through most of the tunes from debut LP Nothing Hurts. Except something did. Our ears.
Day two saw us shuffling around, trying to find the club due to host Frankie Rose & The Outs, and judging by the meagre crowd who joined us, perhaps we weren’t the only ones getting lost amid the back streets. The 30 odd present were in for a treat though – standing practically amongst the crowd, we imagined that this is exactly how fuzzed out garage-rock and girl-group harmonies should be experienced. It was hot, we got sweaty, we even danced around a bit. And despite losing various bits of equipment, Frankie and the girls just carried on with a casual confidence unusual in such a novice band. When your audience is close enough to pass you drinks – some shots were shared, sadly not with us – you can’t give off any fear, but they just carried on rocking away, leaving us, and no doubt a few others, very smitten indeed.
The undoubted highlight of the whole shebang was Teenage Fanclub, and they more than lived up to their reputation as the band who inspired a thousand kids to pick up a six string. They were tight, they were focused, they were simply awesome, every bit the living legends that they are. Playing a range of material from their first album to their last, it made you feel sorry for anyone due on at the same time, if only that they didn’t get to witness this. Later on, electro boppers Small Black did their best to keep the energy levels high with a set that, even though it sounded good, looked suspiciously like four dudes standing around pushing buttons. At least singer Ryan Heyner had the decency to, firstly, wear a comedy beanie hat and secondly, invite a stage invasion for closer Photojournalist. At least 40 people took up his offer, happily bouncing around and hugging the various band members, much to the chagrin of security. Not exactly Woodstock, but nice to see nonetheless.
Strangely, instead of serving up something easily digestible, the last day – a Sunday to boot – saw two of the more “challenging” acts take centre stage. Having been described as akin to “sonic Armageddon”, we can only add that if you haven’t heard Zola Jesus in the flesh yet, you should add it to your bucket list pronto. Nika Danilova’s voice is a thing of astonishing power and beauty, and with only some simple backing tracks for company, she knows how to use it. It soared, it rumbled, and wading into the crowd during the last track, everyone slowly parted, as if making space to worship some alien she-devil. How to follow that? Well, we went with Holy Fuck. And all we can say is, holy fuck! Like Fuck Buttons but using normal instruments, they were tight, focused, and full of energy. It’s just that theirs is a very particular niche, and their swirls of aggressive noise are probably more suited to a Friday slot at midnight than the graveyard shift on a Sunday. In need of a very dark, very quiet room in which to recover, we bade adieu and stumbled out into the cold night air. So long Primavera. It’s been emotional.
Words by Derek Robertson
Photos courtesy of Primavera Club
Beach Fossils prove that acid wash and denim jackets are back, big style.
Edwyn Collins and his pork pie (hat, that is, not savoury snack).
Holy Fuck look, well, pretty fucked.
Wavves - doubt he rocks that outfit down at the beach.
Zola Jesus’ Niki Danilova during one of her more serene moments.
