The word “progressive” makes house music enjoyable, as it refers to the fact that this genre is “progressing” past the usual shit that just doesn’t get me. Progressive house has the elements of trance that make it so wonderful (the euphoric swings, the melody, the thump) but without all the obnoxious bits that make it so….trancey.

My usual weekend hangouts play dnb or dubstep, with the odd bit of jungle thrown in, so I’m heaps keen to be heading into Chinese Laundry to see the Jody Wisternoff half of WOW for a nice change. As is so often the way, the Laundry room is a veritable meat market, packed out with people dressed in 90% the same vaguely expensive labeled outfit trying to have sex with each other without removing any of the aforementioned clothes or leaving the dance floor. It’s much more civilised in the Cave.

It’s just after 12 so things are kickin’ with Jaytech, and despite never having heard of him (I’m really not into house) I’m impressed straightaway. Call me a sucker, but I love DJs who actually look like they’re enjoying themselves, and I can see that this guy is grinning from ear to ear as soon as I get near the booth. His tunes are as endearing as his mannerisms, and the room is bouncing and signalling along. Once my surprisingly good pill kicks in, I shake off the slightly stunted moves of a person who’s out of their comfort zone, dance-wise, and am throwing shapes with the small pocket of fucking brilliant new friends at the front of the room.

Keen as we all are to see the headliner, we’re all a little sad when Jaytech ends his set laughing and shaking hands, but when the legend himself steps up to the CDJs, the former performer is all but forgotten. We’re here for him.

From the first second, Jody’s set is nothing short of breathtaking. He bangs straight in with a crowd-pleaser, and plays with the relaxed ease of a consumate professional. The man is a puppet-master; when his complacent playthings find themselves settling in a little too happily to a certain tune, he brings it back and explodes with a dirty bassline that filthies the whole thing up and recharges everyone yet again. He avoids the over-stimulation of constant vocals, but uses just enough to let you lift your face to the ceiling, eyes closed, and sing along to things you know. He brings it down when he needs to, throws you around, cuddles you if he plays too hard and gives you a 2 and a half hour wave of euphoria on which to ride. He hi-fives, moves, enjoys himself, and gives the impression that if it wasn’t for the small matter of supplying the tunes, he’d be on the floor with you revelling in the atmosphere.

As I roll pleasantly I dance with every smiling face around me, chatting, fetching glasses of water and promising to party with them again next week. There are some hardcore Jody fans here, some newbies, but everyone agrees that it’s been much, much too long since there was a progressive house night worth going to in this fine city.

I turn to my left to see Jaytech appearing next to me from the throng. It’s too rare that you see DJs actually getting onto the floor themselves, but after a few necessary hand shakes and gushing from his new fans, he chills and moves with us all. He avoids posing for photos and just enjoys the music - a true musician.

It seems like the set is maturing like a student fresh at uni; getting more and more rebellious, pushing the boundaries and generally forgetting to play by the rules. I worry that someone’s going to catch an STD just by listening, but the DJ has just enough self-restraint to keep it hygienic. It’s impossible not to throw your hands into the layer of flesh reaching for the booth as the last tune creeps ever closer, and the teasing git just keeps slamming down better and better sounds. The audience and their master are as one.

At 4am Jody is still going strong, as are his crowd, but the bleak reality of the security guys step up to demand that this song is the last, and some clever promoter announces that Jody will be playing at 3pm the following day at the Village Hotel for free. We hug, say goodbye, consider an afterparty, but ultimately shuffle home to put on some WOW mixes at an embarrassing volume and try to relive the past 3 hours.

Thanks Jody - you’ve given me faith in house music.

Hads

FRIDAY 30TH JULY is set to host the biggest drum & bass / dubstep party Newtown has ever seen.

Bursting back into action, having been much-loved as ‘Upstairs @ Newtown’ in a previous life, Sydney’s newest venue SHUSH throws open its doors to a hungry public with an opening party like no other.

CULTURED opens the venue’s first night with 11 of Sydney’s best DJs, 2 MCs, the DSS sound system and 6 hours straight of solid music. With the likes of Linken & Vertigo, Boot & Double Robin, Fire & Whitey and more, the 450-capacity room is set to go off in a big way.

For this first night Launch Party, entry is just $5 on the door.

Don’t miss CULTURED @ SHUSH – Friday 30th July, 9pm – 3am at 52 Enmore Road, Newtown.

For more information visit www.shushnewtown.blogspot.com

Please contact Heather at Burgess Bookings on +61 2 9519 3978 or via email at burgess_ventures@bigpond.com

After the excesses of Saturday night, barely a couple of hours kip (no chance of getting any more in the heat of the tent) was not enough to keep me fully charged. A lot of sitting, wandering round, and a bit of forced food somehow rolled me into the afternoon - the Bees were on top festival form as always but I was more comfortable in the Left Field tent listening to the Another World Is Possible Debate with Tony Benn and other prominent lefties. Michael Eavis in the crowd was a welcome sight. It’s nice to know he’s not rushed off of his feet for the whole festival, and gets time to see some things that he enjoys.

We spent a lot of time wandering the site to try and watch the England game, as the first field we went to was full, and only after walking across the entire site we were greeted to the top of a screen halfway up a hill. After catching the end of the first half and the beginning of the second I think we realised it was not to be, and like all good sports fans who know their team isn’t going to make it, we left early. On the plus side, thanks to England’s ineptitude we managed to catch a few minutes of the inexplicably attractive Dobby from Peep Show being very inappropriate in front of parents and children.

An attempted rest at the tent followed, and when the sun went down I even flirted with the idea of sleep. However, lying unstirring in my plastic house for 20 minutes either recharged me enough to continue, or provided the rocket of information that I was at Glastonbury. It was the last night! What was I doing in a tent on my own?!

I bounded down to the Other Stage to catch the start of Brooklynites MGMT. I really enjoyed Oracular Spectacular but was positively underwhelmed by their rigid and dull performance, so a few of us decided to head to Cube Henge to check out Craig Charles and his DJ set. He might be most famous for playing a hygienically-challenged space traveller or hosting Robot Wars, but his set was one of the highlights of the weekend for me. Everyone was smiling, Craig was busting out the best dance moves this side of Studio 54 and the tunes were funktastic.

Craig Charles: mad man.

A quick Caribbean curry later and LCD Soundsystem were on at the Other Stage. I have always found them a bit hit and miss, but live they are superb: great basslines, weird noises and upbeat rhythms. They set the stage nicely for the Sunday’s headliners Orbital.

I have wanted to see Orbital since I realised that electronic dance music was my thing when I was about 12 years old. When they stopped performing in 2004 I thought I had missed my chance for good. Their reformation in 2009 and announced presence at this year’s festival was definitely one of the motivating factors behind me purchasing my ticket on the third release (deciding 30 minutes before they went on sale that I was going to try and go!). They didn’t disappoint. Not for a second. The bulk of the group (about 15 of us) that I had camped with over the last few days had managed to find each other amongst the throng, turning up for this final show on the final night. I felt like a spaceship had arrived and transported us to another world. Updated and remixed versions of all of their classics (including Satan, Halcyon, The Box and Doctor) took over my senses and made my head feel like it was about to explode. Interspersing strange male vocals and weird visuals predicting the end of days made this dystopian display haunting, dark and mysterious.

The crowd were collectively stunned after witnessing a truly great end to a truly spectacular festival. We heard word that the Chemical Brothers were set to play a secret midnight gig at The Park, so with the regret of missing Thom Yorke the previous day fresh in our minds we tried to chase the buzz. Alas The Park was being dismantled with neither Tom nor Ed in sight.

The majority of my group then decided to head to bed, the sleepless nights of the last few days and the creeping reality of normal lives too much for them. Still lost in the musical utopia, I headed to the Glade with 4 of the group, 3 of whom I’d only met at the festival (one of the many things I love about Glasto). We had a brilliant time, getting given a bag full of white wine before raving to Psy-Trance in the Glade Lounge, then heading over to Arcadia to Bez’s Acid House to see Bez chucking shapes. The night was rounded off by this unlikely crew dancing to drum & bass outside an armoured truck with a giant spider over our heads. Trippy, surreal and unbelievably fun.

Monday (Is everything cool? Alright, what happened?)

It’s all over. I bid farewell to the people I’ve laughed, walked, smoked, drank, smiled, shroomed, snorted, inhaled, danced and conversed with over the past 6 days. I’ve had an incredible time that could never be completely repeated, but then that’s part of the appeal isn’t it?

I leave a land where I blend in to the dirty, dusty, sunglass-wearing mass, and into a world when I stick out like a sore thumb from people living a “normal” life. 

See you next year?

Yaffle

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From there the heat was getting to us all, so off to the Stone Circle we went to find some shade. Samosas, beer and watering cans of heavenly H2O were all entrepreneurially delivered to us up the hill by helpful festival goers. This is what is great about the Glasto vibe.

Suitably revived I set off to see Seasick Steve at the Pyramid stage. Steve’s a bit of a gimmick act; his instruments comprise of a 6 string guitar with 3 strings, and an electric guitar made out of 2 hubcaps and a broom, bloody good fun though. He’s highly entertaining and a man who obviously loves what he does; when his set finished he ran down to the crowd at the front and spent several minutes shaking hands and posing for pictures. Nice to see.

Next up was The Orb. I had loved some of their tunes back in the 90s so was cautiously optimistic; unfortunately I don’t think they knew what they were doing. Random noises and erratic starting and stopping of samples. It was all over the place, and, very disappointed I left after 15 minutes or so.

In a quest to see someone a little different I made my way back to The Park to see Candi Staton. Lots of funky soulful covers helped to continue a fairly mild day, Glastonbury-wise.

Jody Wisternoff never fails to impress. He played his solo set down at The Glade Lounge, but bewilderingly only about 20 of us decided to make the trip to see him. Loads of room to chuck ourselves about and thoroughly enjoyable as always. Legend.

Muse on the Pyramid Stage

I cut Jody’s set a bit short so I could go and check out Muse, my rationalisation being that I would see Jody again at some point, and as I have never really thought that much of Muse I would probably never get a chance to see them again. Their apocalyptic majesty cannot be denied, but in all honesty I felt like I could have been listening to a CD as they didn’t bring anything different to their performance.

A hot cider and a bit of a wander later saw me waiting for the Craig Charles Fantasy Funk Band. By the time they turned up I was tired and they didn’t do much to get the (probably quite demanding) 1:30am crowd going. Saturday night at Glastonbury was no time for sleep, so off we went to the stone circle for chemical pick-me-ups, random conversations and a beautiful sunrise. Magical.

Yaffle
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When I recovered from breakfast it was off to Common Ground, stopping off for a hippy coffee en route - with the music starting at midday I’d formulated the genius tactic of loading up on food so I didn’t have to miss too many acts. We had a quick rest at the tent before a walk to the Pyramid Stage to see antipodean idol Rolf Harris. Walking past the Other Stage allowed me to hear the Magic Numbers starting the weekend, and as the opening chords of This Is A Song started I felt myself well up; after so much waiting it was finally here. It was beginning.

Rolf played a typical crowd pleasing set; Waltzing Matilda, Two Little Boys and a British version of Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport - not bad going for an 80-year-old who seems to have built his whole career on novelty songs and a large bit of hardboard. We had a bit of a gap after Rolf, and so clomped over to West Holts for some pear cider and a pie, where we were serenaded by a stage literally full of Mathew Herbert’s Big Band. Perfect upbeat summer music.

An hour or so chilling in the sun put me in the mood to up the tempo, so after a quick stop back at the tent for a dab of speed we rushed over to Dance East, only to find that Roger Sanchez was running late due to “illness”. Consoling ourselves at the bar we caught a bit of Boy 8 Bit (minimal, which I wasn’t really in the mood for) in Dance West and Mammy Rock (69 years old! Funky but cheesy) at Cube Henge.

By the time Mr Sanchez emerged from his (surely self-induced?) illness we only managed to catch a tune or so before Bombay Bicycle Club got peddling at John Peel. I had only listened to a couple of their tracks previously but found them very wooden with no stage presence, so at risk of not seeing more than 3 tracks of anyone we actually wanted to see, we made our way back to Dance East to catch some more of Roger Sanchez. He played a party set, with lots of well-known, classic tunes (Around The World, Hey Boy, Hey Girl) and employed quick mixing so no-one got bored. Very upbeat and fun.

I didn’t get to stay until the end of his set as I decided to make the solitary trek back to the John Peel stage to catch one of my most anticipated acts of the weekend: Kele from Bloc Party, at his first solo Glastonbury performance. He didn’t disappoint, throwing out lots of energy and crowd interaction, topped off with a 4-track Bloc Party medley of some of their older tunes. I managed to get right down the front and went nuts.

Way Out West.....wicked.

After Kele it was back to the tent for a bit more powder, then on to The Glade to see Way Out West play a live set. The Westcountry lads never disappoint and had the crowd going bananas. The Gift, Mindcircus, and Domination might all be standard classic tracks, but I can’t imagine ever getting tired of them. Listening to such epic tunes in a magical wonderland with some of your favourite people and the sun beating down? Absolute bliss.

Ultimately, chucking myself about in the heat caused me to be a bit knackered, which I really should have seen coming. Manchester’s Delphic provided a suitable contrast to my excess with some lovely chilled out beats, and thankfully there was enough room to lie down and enjoy Counterpoint, Acolyte, Halcyon and other hits from their recent album.

Rejuvenated from a much-needed rest, I was back on form, attempting to impress a barmaid with my wordplay when denied a chance to buy a large bottle of coke. Amazingly, the phrase “You’re not going to budge on the big bottle?” didn’t get me a large beverage, or even raise a smile. Little did I know that I was about to be outdone by the most impressive display of alliteration I’d ever laid ears on.

I’ll admit that things go a bit blurry here. I have a note that I saw the Flaming Lips, caught a bit of Fatboy Slim, then spent time in front of Sasha at The Glade. I definitely remember Sasha’s light show, the impressive V_rtek LED that I don’t think anyone saw coming, but I can’t recall much else.

Sasha and his light show

We missed meeting up with one of our friends at Sasha. When describing to him where we had been standing, Andy came out with the unbeatable “we were where we were when we watched Way Out West”. It made perfect sense but I was in awe. The ley lines at Glastonbury obviously favour wordplay as well as spiritual power.

Sasha’s crowd was a bit too cramped for me, and I wasn’t feeling his beats as much as I would have hoped, so I took a trip around the camp to meet up with some other friends, then headed to the industrial wonderland of Arcadia. Before long we were being herded into Trash City, a junkyard of delights including a 5-storey dilapidated building with a car through it.

I may have been slightly the worse for wear brain-wise, but days later, I still find myself thinking “How did they do that”?

Yaffle
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There’s nothing that illustrates modern progress quite as well as the Glastonbury Festival. Since the first 1-pound-entry-and-free-milk Glasto entertained 1500 people way back in 1970, it has come through flash floods, gatecrashing, and every crisis in between to become one of the best-run events in the world, and the undisputed highlight of every British music fan’s year. With a temporary population of almost 180,000, for a week the festival site is busier than some UK cities, and prides itself on the breath and magnitude of its 700+ acts. Even those who don’t make it down south crowd round their TVs every night to watch catch some new, some not so new and some very surprising performers, and for weeks in advance the British press goes mad on whether or not the rain will render the site a mudfest, yet again.

However, there’s also nothing that puts progress in such a positive light. There’s a reason that tickets sell out within hours of going on sale, crashing websites and slowing servers in the process. The lasting hippy ethics of Glasto’s farmer king, Michael Eavis, means that this is not your usual LiveNation money-making melee, and though punters might hand over a fairly hefty sum for their 5 days of participation, the overwhelming joy of the carnivalesque truly captures those lucky ticket-holders and brings them back year after year.

As Professor Yaffle can confirm in this 4-part series, once you’ve gone Glasto, you never go back.

Glastonbury 2010: Wednesday (I bet she enjoys a bit of revelry)

This is not my first Glastonbury Festival, and I am over 15 years old, but you’d have been hard pressed to believe either of these things if you saw me waking up last Wednesday morning, beaming like a kid at Christmas and so enthusiastic that I almost relived the particularly memorable moment a few years ago when sheer excitement saw me puke up a recently-eaten burger. A last minute change of plan saw me taking an extra day off work and surprising my friends with an early arrival. As you’d expect, the special Glasto service train down was rammed with backpack-wielding people, smiling in a manner that told me I wasn’t the only one having trouble keeping my breakfast down, and one very awkward-looking man in a suit who probably thought the hippies were finally about to take over. At 10am the alcohol was already flowing, and I took a drink of some white wine from a group from London and got chatting. As veritable veterans of the event, we swapped stories about old Glastonburys, and tried pointlessly to fully explain to the Glasto virgins quite what they had let themselves in for.

It was my first time catching the train and it wasn’t as painful as I had imagined, as the group spirit (and the wine) made the time fly by. The main problem was waiting at Castle Cary for the bus for about an hour while the unrelenting sun giving us a taste of what was to come over the next few days.

Arriving at the site later than planned gave me little time to dump my stuff (at my already erected tent - thanks Dan & Andy!) before heading to the Pyramid stage to see England beat Slovenia 1-0. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so English as I did watching the effervescent Brian Blessed rouse the England team on the big screens at the main stage. Bloody lovely.

100,000 people watching the football at Glasto. Could you get more English?

After the game I helped some friends with a food and booze run, before taking a trek of to The Park hill to relax and watch the sun go down.

Glastonbury 2010: Thursday (Shrooming)

Thanks to an early night and some boisterous camp buddies I was up very early on Thursday. I finally rolled out of bed at 6.30am and made my way over to the Kids Field for a shower. Returning an hour and a half later I was greeted to the news that two of my posse had gotten a bit frisky and treated everyone in a 2-tent radius to the slapping sounds of an airbed being put to coital use. This provided lots of comedy ammo against both parties for the remainder of the festival.

The rest of the morning was spent on a mammoth trek around the enormous site, during which we watched a man make fire with a bow, stick and stone (I wish I’d have had a picture of him with his hands full of burning straw), drank nettle tea, found a lovely young hippy called Emma who made a mean cup of coffee, and discovered the high-quality foodie goodness that is Common Ground; absolutely lovely people and the best croissants I’ve ever tasted. Regular morning visits to their temporarily erected wooden home were to become a staple of our Glastonbury experience.

A quick visit to the West Holts (formerly Jazz World) field yielded the customary Pie Minister and Brothers Pear Cider meal - surely the most satisfying combination ever invented. The Brothers bus more than made up for the lack of acts on stage with some funky pop tunes to get us all in the mood.

It couldn’t be put off for long - following this a group of us got stuck in to some mushroom tea, again returning to The Park Hill to absorb the sights and sounds of a festival almost, but not quite, in full swing. I’ve not shroomed exclusively outside before and it was a very pleasant experience. Vivid colours and a good few laughs thanks to Ryan and his “manufactured blackness” of £1 Malibu Babes sun cream.

The shrooms didn’t last too long and by 7pm we were pretty much back to normal. Some more grub and cider got us in the mood for a planned mini-rave in the Pussy Parlour to drum & bass stalwarts Drumsound, DC Breaks and Nero. However it was not to be, as the gigantic queues (100,000 people into a small tent just doesn’t work) meant the majority had to wait until Friday for our aural fix.

Tons of happy people. A nice change to the 9-5.

Yaffle

Here’s the newly-released video for their thumping Rom Rebellion, directed by Leslie Marsh.

About to break the barriers of thrash folk, or destined to languish in much-loved obscurity? You decide.

Hads

So I would have thought, but apparently not: there are about 80 people in the Phoenix tonight to see Cause4Concern, and even in such a small venue, its embarrassingly noticeable.

It’s a shame too, because I like the Phoenix. My heart lies in dirty dive bars and clubs where you go in clean and stumble out covered in unidentified black shit several hours later, and even if the Phoenix isn’t actually this dirty, it looks like it should be. Perhaps it’s the psychological aspect of having to go downstairs into a basement to a club, but it just feels filthy in a nice way.

Though literally underground, the Phoenix isn’t quite figuratively so, as it still has those massively over-dressed women and people just wanting to make out on the dancefloor, but its fairly awesome nonetheless; low ceilings, great sound, and a tiny club. The guys playing before C4C are just about good enough for that prime spot, and the changeover is barely noticeable as whichever C4C member it actually is takes the decks (aren’t there 4 of them?).

Heavy, grimy, mostly vocal-free beats make a pleasant change from the house-influenced liquid dnb of last fortnight’s show, and of the scene in general at the moment (I’m looking at you, Netsky), and the sound makes my legs permanently bent and my hands unable to keep from throwing shapes. My head keeps getting internally doofy, which is excellent, and one up-side of the sparse crowd is that there’s actually enough room to dance in a fairly hectic style without knee-capping the group of Italian guys to your left, or getting too friendly with the guy who’s very happily off this planet and struggling to stay on the ground.

By the time the main guy passes over control to the closing act at 3am the audience has halved – another strange habit I’ve noticed of d n’b audience in Sydney. Perhaps its an effect of living in a country where good drugs are hard to come by, but the vast majority of people don’t really go all night at these things.

Actually, maybe its because there’s actually something worth getting up for in Australia – in the UK, C4C’s crowd would be still going strong at 4am then grouching round for an afterparty to give them an excuse to stay in bed the next day and ignore the shit futility of living in a country that’s grey, rainy and mostly miserable.

Then again, its these conditions that give rise to such great music in the first place.

Hads

Talking about Africa and the vast range of music and events that goes in throughout the continent would take days. I decided to cheat a little and pick some of my favourite West African music from the last 40 years or so, the majority of which is from the small but significant Malian capital Bamako which punches well above its weight in the West.

One slight problem with this is that Mali didn’t even qualify for the World Cup! Poor Mali. Still at least they can console themselves with a wonderful music heritage and a contemporary scene that is increasingly being given worldwide exposure. One of the great pioneers of this popularity was Hugh Masakela, who is also a legend in America for his sweet trumpet skills, and the door opener for the future tours of such bands as Tinariwen and Amadou et Mariam in the developed world. A revolutionary strain exists in all of these bands – Tinariwen are persecuted nomadic ex soldiers who taught themselves to play guitar from old cowboy flicks, and Amadou et Miriam are the blind iconic prophets of the Café Bamako genre.

Nevertheless these are enjoyable and relaxing tracks to chill out in between cheering on the underdogs at this year’s World Cup or just to take a break from the manic Vuvuzela supported atmosphere in the stadiums. Enjoy something different today.

Amadou & Mariam ft. Manu Chao - Taxi Bamako

Probably the most famous act from Mali (if not West Africa as a whole) join up with the massively prolific Manu Chao to create a surprisingly oceanic ode to a landlocked city. The lazy sinuous horn and a nautical beat combine to create a striking cityscape of bustling taxi vans and shaded cafes acting as little islands of calm.

I Ka Barra - Habib Koite

Disorientating and engaging, this song wakes up and stretches out just to get up and go dancing towards the end of its five minute span. With a guitar line dripping notes onto the drums and a wonderful Malian Bamako breakdown that pierces the surprisingly smoky atmosphere of the track.

Zap Mama - Brrrrlak

Acapella and playful music are always colliding together with hit and miss results – this is definitely a hit with me as the massively talented wind instrument that is the human voice dominates this song in 2 second bursts of harmony and rhythm. Great fun to listen to.

Tinariwen - Cler Achel

Powered along by that filthy bassline and a surprisingly isolated and uninfluenced sound for such guitar heavy songs, this pogos and drawls at the same time. A mass of contradiction but what a mass it is.

Ali Farka Toure & Toumani Diabate - Ai Ga Bani!

What list couldn’t find space to include this intimate little gem which never feels the need to get out of its low gear. I can imagine listening to this a couple of tables away from the stage sipping on some cooling bissap as the night wears away and the conversation begins to ebb pleasingly.

Amadou & Mariam - La Realite

Twice? Maybe its cheating but I rather enjoy this song and I think you will too. Never has social realism ever been so far removed from that stupid kitchen sink rubbish, as these upbeat fatalists philosophise over an urban soundscape of cheers and sirens.

Better than Fog On The Tyne, eh?

Barchester