A glorious weekend spent in the midst of an empty industrial estate

Supersonic Festival 2010
The Custard Factory, Birmingham
22-24/10/2010

What is there to do in Birmingham? Or more to the point, why would any reasonably thinking person decide to go there? To see one of their average, uninspired football teams? To wander around aimlessly in the confusing town centre? Or perhaps to go and visit 'The Mailbox', which sounds mysterious but is, in fact just some over-priced, pretentious shopping centre.
No. You wouldn't, would you?

The good folks at Capsule, though, have given any discerning leftfield music fan one reason to brave the Brummie wastelands for a weekend, and that reason is:

Yes, Supersonic. England's premier festival for a number of things, including;

• Music, noise, distortion & feedback
• Beards
• Tea rooms
• Impossibly rude people
• Knitting
• A severe lack of seating

We'll start at the beginning, because that's where all things start. Except some films. But they are stupid.

FRIDAY
The first thing I noticed about Supersonic, was that it was quite far from where we we staying, and according to my phone, the only way to get there was down the darkest, most abandoned road in the world. The kind of place where you find things like this painted on the sides of buildings:

Fffffffuuuuuuccccckkkk.

Upon arrival at The Custard Factory the realisation dawns that this is about as far away from Reading and Glastonbury et al as it is possible to be. There are no fields full of people noisily tripping their balls off for a start.
In place of that there is a small, cordoned off street (with a newsagent and everything!) between some massive arches.

Alas, there was no custard in production.

Where the food stalls were. Obviously. Where else would they be?

The second thing I notice is just how damn cold it is. Due to it's layout the wind cuts through the site like some kind of knife. A knife covered in ice. In a freezer. In the snow.

The third thing I notice is this:

For those unaware, it's a giant man made of some kind of wood like substance.

Having settled in to the peculiar surroundings it was time to go and watch some bands. It was also time to go and watch some MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE.
In the Old Library, and opening proceeding are Necro Dethmort, whose droning opener seems to catch many idly watching off guard, as they proceed to launch into a set of distorted, noisy drum and bass. At least that's what they started to do, I got bored and wandered off. ADHD!

Necro Dethmort.

My wanderings ended me up at the outside stage, where Gum Takes Tooth are playing. With bags on their heads. Shaking percussive instruments and generally destroying the audience's collective head with their atomsmashing noise. It's beautifully heavy and seems to set the tone for the weekend to follow, that is; totally fucking barmy.

Gum Takes Tooth

Back at the Old Library, and Demons (Featuring Sick Llama, no less!) are (rather unsociably) huddled in the bottom corner of the stage. Perhaps they're shy? Perhaps it's a meditation on fame hungry X-Factor berks? Perhaps they want to let their massively absorbing drone do the talking? Perhaps it's none of these things and the MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE has overtaken my soul and turned me into a chin stroking dick? Anyway, whatever is happening, it sounds like the quiet moments at the end of the world when everyone stops and realises just how fucked they are. Mesmerising.

Demons (Feat. Sick Llama). Apparently.

A brisk jog back to the outside stage presents the opportunity to see Fukpig. Yes, Fukpig. Their grind by numbers proving fairly uninspiring, save for the odd Slayer-esque lead. Still they are called Fukpig, and do feature one of Anaal Nathrakh, so we'll let it slide and say their name once more. Fukpig.

Fukpig. YEAH!

Devilman aka DJ Scotch Egg is playing. He sounds quite interesting, but wading through a sea of people only to leave again in ten minutes seems slighty pointless. As such, watching his interesting take on dub from almost behind the stage, makes me realise how stupid an idea that is, and accordingly it's back to the (by now absolutely freezing) outside stage to bear witness to Drumcorps. On record his take on destroying classic noisecore tracks with bloody minded breakbeats works pretty well and there seem to be a good old number of people in attendence who agree. Live however he is slightly disappointing. Maybe I'm just to resolutely old school, but watching one bloke play with banks of electronics isn't quite the hugely exciting experience that you get when there are, say, two blokes playing with banks of electronics. Anyway, his dreadlocks are too long and probably smell, and he should never, ever be allowed to sing live, as it was horrible. "Botch Up And Die" was still pretty cool though.

Drumcorps. Take my word for it.

A little wander around the site, and some purchasing of beer later, and Birmingham grind veterans Napalm Death take the stage. It's quiet. Really quiet. In fact, despite Barney clearly screaming very, very loudly in to the mic, you can barely hear it. About 4 songs in the sound gets sorted out, a bit anyway and things start to pick up. Their set was culled from their entire career, and sounds pretty damn exciting, however, any momentum built up is dashed between songs when we are pontificated at repeatedly. I know Napalm are a political band and all that, but you're preaching to the converted, and most people here are drunk enough not to care anyway. Good stuff though, and a decent end to the day.

Napalm Death. All blurry an' shit.

Saturday
After a morning spent visiting the awesome Dawnii at her tattoo parlour, Painted Lady, we head back to The Custard Factory.
Not only is it now light outside, but it is also twice as cold, the weather necessitating numerous trips to the tea room in search of tea and cake. As well as this tea room the market place has opened up, so if you want to buy some vinyl to carry around for 9 hours then this is the place.
First on today are Blue Sabbath Black Fiji whose scatter-shot noise would be terrifying if it weren't made by two grinning teenagers, having more fun than is strictly necessary. Occasional riffs pin down the distortion, and it's a jolly good show all round.

Blue Sabbath Black Fiji

Wild Horses Part Mane On Both Sides is the kind of name that gives the noise scene a bad, uh, name, and if they had concentrated less on coming up with a name so contrived and more on making their minimalistic, awkward noise slightly more interesting it would have made for a better experience. As it was, it was just just two bored looking guys playing off-kilter nonsense to a room of disinterested looking people.
It's free jazz time at the outdoor stage! Steve Tromans & Dan Nicholls duel it out on keyboards and it's a strange experience, not helped by the sight of giant, hairy metal fans bobbing their giant, hairy metal heads in appreciation. While in the right setting it has the potential to be utterly absorbing, here it falls short due in no small part to being in broad daylight. fair play to the organisers for bringing in some MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE though.

Steve Tromans And Dan Nicholls

Over at the newly opened Area 2 Gnaw were just starting to scream out of the speakers, as any band fronted by the horrifyingly-voiced Alan Dubin is wont to do. While they may not have the disgusting intensity of Khanate, they still pack quite the visceral punch, however in amongst artists so intent on bending rules, they sound almost safe. NOT MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE ENOUGH.

Gnaw

Up next is Dosh, some kind of one man trip-hop extravaganza, sitting behnd keyboards, electronics and a drumkit, he uses loops to create a funky, yet oddly downbeat collision. Sitting on the side of what appears to bea drained swimming pool and letting the beats float over my head made a nice change from being knee deep in distortion, and was suitably appreciated by apprently like-minded festival goers. His stage presence was terrible though. Stop talking about your dead friend!

Dosh. Minus dead friend.

Next it was the one and only Stinky Wizzleteat, whose sludgy Iron Monkey-isms went down brilliantly, the singer spending the entire set in the crowd, inciting the first bona-fide moshpit of the weekend. Heavy as a brick and twice as loud. Also, quote of the weekend, between songs;

"I'm just going to put my inhaler over here so I don't lose it".

Back in Area 2 King Midas Sound are taking to the stage. The guy behind the electronics looks like a lost tramp, and the fellow doing the vocals looks quite gentlemanly. The noise they create is both furious and funky, their industrial dub causing the room to turn into some kind of imprompteau, black-clad rave. So far easily the set of the weekend.
While waiting for Godflesh, many folk head over to the outdoor stage to see Tweak Bird pounding away, their grungy rock is pretty damn slamming, or some other description. They had a Saxophone player wearing a cravat. Tidy!

Tweak Bird

Godflesh are greeted like heroes, and as they open with 'Like Rats' it's not hard to see why. However it's all downhill after that. watching two guys on stage playing, admittedly impressive, industrial metal doesn't feel like quite the event it should be, maybe it's just because they have reformed and split so many times in the past decade that I'm slightly jaded. Or it might be that Melt Banana are about to take the stage over yonder. In fact, yes, that's it.
Melt Banana are, simply, fucking mental. Their day-glo take on noise-rock is so brilliantly insane that it's hard not to get sucked in, even when they are dealing out frequencies that would have most normal people hiding under a rug or something. It helps that they are fronted by a tiny Japanese woman who is so engaging that it's near impossible to take your eyes off her. Best way to finish the day.

Melt Banana. Not pictured: Total insanity.

Sunday
Sunday is traditionally a day of rest, if you are an idiot, so, deciding not to, we head back to The Custard Factory. First up are Health And Efficiency who's beardy post rock is largely indistinguishable from the hoards of other beardy post rockers currently doing the rounds, so it's off to the outside stage where Pierre Bastien is starting. A couple of things about Pierre;

• From a certain angle he looks like Jeff Goldblum
• He plays music using Meccano and other child's toys. As one does.
  

It's an odd experience, certainly, and starts off so quiet it's barely audible. however as more and more layers are added it becomes peculiarly engrossing and oddly compelling. To see him given a massive round of applause at the end of his set was heart-warming.

Jeff Goldblum Pierre Bastien

Back in The Old Library (where the only warmth is) hush falls for Peter Broderick whose minimal, heart-breaking folk is treated with the reverance it clearly deserves. A man obviously passionate about his music, it's as honest and human performance as you are ever likely to see. In a weekend blighted by idiots talking throughout sets, the Library stays absolutely silent. So silent, in fact that Broderick is able to perform one song totally unplugged from within the audience. Utterly beautiful, and unexpectedly one of the highlights of the weekend.

Peter Broderick

Being so enamoured with Broderick meant missing half of Voice Of The Seven Thunders set. On record their spaced out, psych-tinged world folk (MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE) is a joy to behold, but here it felt lacking. Probably because walking in mid-set is never a good thing to do. Still, at least they tried.

Voice Of The Seven Thunders

Ruins have absolutely packed the Library, and from a distinctly terrible view-point, behind a massive pillar, it's a bit confusing as to why. Their prototype spazcore isn't half as interesting as the program notes make out, and as far as I can tell, it's just one bloke behind a drumkit. Perhaps I'm missing something. Nice use of classical pieces in amongst the mire though.

A pillar. Possibly with Ruins behind it. Maybe.

Following my nose towards current musical favourite 'Japanese Noise-Rock made by petite girls' ends us back up outside watching Nisennenmondai. Their set is amazing, the rhythm section is absolutely brutal, and the guitarist adding in strange squeaks and squeals creates an almost trance like vibe, that is until the climax when the drummer goes absolutely ape, and everything goes to noise hell. New favourite band.

Nisennenmondai

Khyam Allami & Master Musicians Of Bukkake are evidently trying to take us on a Middle-Eastern, musical journey, their droning, slow burning melodies washing over the audience, however, after Nisennenemondai it all seems, disappointingly, rather lacklustre and the warmth of The Library is calling. Inside, Mugstar are on and, I'm sure you'll agree, that's a shocking name for a band. The music they create, however isn't that bad, and despite the guitarist looking like he was kicked out of Mudhoney in 1992 for being too lame, he pulls out some pretty cool riffs. Not 'riffs that make you throw yourself around', but 'riffs that make you nod your head', which is obviously better than 'riffs that make you contemplate suicide' or 'riffs that abused your cousin as a child'.
Deciding that moving from Area 2 is for squares and geeks, a space sitting against the wall is hastily aquired, and we await Black Sun Drum Corps. When they arrive, they are all face-painted, wearing kilts and strolling through the audience. MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE. A circle of useless junk is set up so that a chosen few may beat out a tribal tattoo upon it, and the effect is actually quite glorious. Backed up by guitarist and bassist on stage, the noise they create is genuinely affecting. Extra points for waving around a skull on a stick.
Penultimate band Zeni Geva are a massive draw, and get a massive cheer for telling the lighting guy to stick it. "I don't need that light in my face!" Awesome. heavier than expected they pile riffs down on the audience and are uncompromising in their brutality.

Zeni Geva

A band that know a thing or two about brutality, Swans are closing the festival. It was difficult to tell what kind of performance we were going to get from Gira and company. A return to the disgusted, belligerant Swans of old, or the more laid back (musically, if not lyrically) later period.
As it turns out we get a mix of both. After a fifteen minute static intro, they finally walk onstage to a hero's welcome. The noise they create is both massively loud and truly intoxicating. Gira, as ever the focus, but to say it's all about him would be disservice to the rest of the band. Each song is built up, until wave after wave of dissonance pour out of the speakers. at their peak, there may as well be no other band in existence, no other music at all, such is the total immersion this deserves. When Gira's voice is left alone to tumble out into the darkness it's one of the most harrowing things I've ever witnessed, musical or otherwise. The timbre and volume are shocking, and sound more terrifying than a thousand death metal singers all growling away together.
Amongst others we get a re-working of 'Beautiful Child' which nearly , nearly manages the close to impossible feat of being heavier than the original, and an extended, louder 'Eden Prison', which ends in a frenzied cresendo that sounds like the sun imploding.
When it comes to superlatives, Swans used them all up aeons ago. There is no way to describe this. Simply one of the greatest live acts I've ever seen.

Swans

It's not really got much competition, but Supersonic was easily the best festival I've ever attended. It was well organised, friendly and MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE. It was refreshing to see such a lack of ego among the performers, as they routinely set up their own equipment, and wandered casually around the site (Seeing Michael Gira in a cowboy hat on Sunday morning was one of my undoubted highlights), and the quality, as well as the disparaty of acts was a joy to behold.
In amongst the joyous fun, though, a couple of things became quite a nuisance.

• I wanted to sit down sometimes. As most people do. Two sofas and a few chairs doesn't really cut it.
• Some of the walkways were quite a squeeze, especially when most of the clientele are stood in them looking dumb.
• People talking through bands. FUCK OFF! JUST FUCK OFF!
• The one, seemingly brain-damaged man who managed to find me wherever I was to dance like a fucking div in front of me, while turning around and making 'amusing' faces.
• A stout woman who looked like an uglier Jimmy Cranky.
• Beards.

In conclusion:

CAKE MAN!