Dot To Dot, Nottingham
It's a long day of rushing here and there, but so worth it.
Nottingham's Dot to Dot has expanded to include Bristol from 2007 onwards and debuted in Manchester this year, but it's the sixth year running for the source. Event director Anton Lockwood has cited Texas' internationally renowned SXSW as the inspiration behind the festival, and Nottingham's abundance of venues in close proximity to each other make it easy to see why it was the obvious choice.
On a glorious, though very breezy, Bank Holiday weekend the first order of the day is getting wristbands from the Royal Concert Hall. Handy pocket-sized pamphlets on the front desk show the full listings for all the artists across the half a dozen or so venues (and it's disappointing to note that Fionn Regan and Late of the Pier, who've been publicised as playing, are nowhere to be spied on the bill). Venues are several and artists are many, but time is limited, so for reasons of timetabling, Stoke-on-Trent's New Education are first to be sampled. Despite it not feeling at any point during that the festival veers close to its 4,500 person capacity – except for with the headliners, things are pretty spacious, and there aren't any massive queues or gangs of marauding gig-goers roaming the streets – Rock City Basement suddenly fills up just before the band takes to the stage. Four lads who look fresh out of school, they appear reserved initially, but settle in quickly. Kind of Stone Roses at best, they're unremarkable but solid, and likely to find favour with those who want a new Oasis/Kasabian hybrid to follow, despite the fact they lack the loutish swagger of both bands and haven't found anything to replace it with. Sunny and inoffensive, there's nothing wrong with them, but neither is there much to rave about.
Then it's a brisk walk around the corner to Stealth, which turns up a valuable find in Sunday Girl. Three guys and a girl, all impossibly attractive – if there was an award for best looking band at the festival, they'd be a sure thing – their moody and pulsating alternative pop is on the one hand electro-savvy, and on the other hand anchored by pounding beats and slick bass. The sultry, coquette vocals of the lead singer, who's equal parts waif model, Andy Warhol muse, and private school prefect, gives an alluring finish to the whole package, and though the crowd is on the modest side, they give an impressed flourish of applause at the end.
Afterwards it's onwards to Trent Uni's Students' Union, where incongruous-looking Americans White Hinterland hold forth in the main hall. Swathed in fuzzy darkness and purple spotlights, the guy is a tall hoody- and baseball cap-sporting dude, twiddling the effects gizmos on the table in front of him, whilst the girl is half his size, alternating between ukuele and keyboard, warbling mostly incomprehensible non-verbal sounds; when overdubbed with multilayered vocals, she sounds like her own isle of Greek sirens, tempting sailors to wreckage. Velvety and ambient, it's also sparse and unstructured, less distinct songs than connected movements in a minimalist orchestra.The unorthodoxy has some audience members grumbling impatiently, but the whole effect is hypnotic and they do a chilled take on, of all things, Justin Timberlake's 'My Love'.
A quick dash to the Rescue Rooms sees a packed-out space for Kirsty Almeida, so cue an escape to the balcony, where there's breathing room and a panoramic view. Touted in the promotional press as folky-girl-with-guitar, the reality is a little more suprising and a whole lot more interesting, having an pleasingly ramshackle gypsy feel about it. Supported by a seven-piece band, including a brass trio who move comically in sync, Kirsty's vocals are soulful, reminiscent of Morcheeba's Skye Edwards, and she grooves and gildes through a set that wears its funk and jazz influences more proudly than any folk ones. The backing band are as enthused as the main lady herself and it acts as a contagion, infecting the crowd, who get thoroughly into it.
Following the mass exodus from the venue, and walking right past Blaine of the Mystery Jets without realising, the next and final stop is Rock City Main Hall. Blood Red Shoes are the first of the headliners, and play one hell of a half hour set. It isn’t just a case of that already tired ‘for two people, they make a lot of noise' deal, but that with just the two of them, they have an impenetrable, surround sound, executing song after song with the deadly skill of trained assassins. But with just 30 minutes to hand, there’s only so much they can cram in. From 'Box of Secrets', the spiky, brattish malevolence of ‘It’s Getting Boring By The Sea’, and the machine-gun drumming of ‘I Wish I Was Someone Better’ ricochets like bullets off the walls, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Material off new album ‘Fire Like This’, which Steven Ansell heartily plugs a couple of times, is similarly enjoyed, if with less recognition. Of the highlights, 'Don't Ask' is frenetic and relentless, the vocal atmospherics and bass-heavy dynamic of 'Keeping It Close' sound incredible, and set-closer 'Heartsink' is gleefully exuberant, ending their segment on a raucous high.
Anticipation starts building quickly for Wild Beasts, and when the Kendal four-piece appear, they're treated with a level of reverence ususally reserved for cult religious figures. Genre-defying and almost impossible to describe ('tribal funk' is the closest this reviewer could get), considering they occupy such an intensely niche sound, it's ironic they've garnered such a following. They're a highly acquired taste, with the falsetto of main vocalist Hayden Thorpe a case in point; the wailing can quickly become an irritant, so it sounds best in small doses, as on the delicate and aerial 'We Still Got The Taste Dancin' On Our Tongues'. The deeper vocals of bassist Tom Fleming help in some measure to balance out the higher notes, and helm the marching rhythms of the slightly barmy 'All The King's Men', and on the meandering and grandiose 'Two Dancers (i)' they out-noise every other band of the day, each sound reverberating through every nerve. When they finish with a flourish, they're treated to thunderous round of applause, and must feel like conquering heroes as they walk off.
Next up on the bill is songbird of the moment, Ellie Goulding. Armed with an acoustic and looking radiant with long, blonde hair, in a yellow smock, she looks every inch the polished bohemian, providing an equally flawless set. Her otherworldy vocals are stunning, full of a precocious innocence that's embodied in the lyrical content of her songs, often delivered with an impish glint in the eye. 'Under The Sheets' sweeps every girl in the room up into doing her best karaoke impression, and the sparkling, uptempo 'Starry Eyed' gets people's feet dancing. But the stand-out moments are the epic and swirling 'The Writer', which is sung with heart-clutching sincerity, and the folky electro-pop aesthetic Ellie's known for is at its most sublime on 'Guns and Horses', with its evocation of dreamy sunsets and westerns.
But finally, at 10:15pm, we reach the top of the billing and those purveyors of technicoloured indie, Mystery Jets, come on to charm us with their quirks. The shimmering intro to the first song turns into 'Flash A Hungry Smile', a new cut off their forthcoming third studio album, that features some sweet whistling and hints of psychedelia, which co-vocalist William Rees sings over with teasing warmth. Another summery slice, 'Young Love', is aired from the back catalogue and is feel-good from start to finish, even without the Laura Marling vocal. Somewhat predictably, it's the singles that get the most attention - like the fabulous 80s-pastiche of 'Two Doors Down', that elicits a party feeling even from those of us who've been standing for nigh-on ten hours, and the sprightly, energetic 'Half In Love With Elizabeth' causes a flurry of activity in the mosh pit. But brand new stuff, like 'Serotonin' and 'Dreaming of Another World' is liberally sprinkled throughout, proving that they've still very much got it. Blaine Harrison, sitting centre stage and switching between keyboard and guitar, commands attention with his fragile vocals as much as with his bird's nest 'do; the faux-menace of 'Hand Me Down' is greeted with cheers of recognition, and the pretty, angsty 'Flakes' becomes a tender anthem, complete with the biggest sing-a-long of their set. Quitting the stage before the obligatory encore, defiant chants of “we want more!” resound through the hall for a few minutes, before they grace us with their presence for two last songs. Grinning like Cheshire cats, the band exit the stage, confident their presence has been missed.
Tired, sweaty and dehydrated, revellers trudge out of the main hall and it's time to look for the night bus. It's been a long day of rushing here and there, from dot to dot, but so worth it for the magic moments.
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