FRIDAY: by Paul Nolan
Arriving on site on Friday evening, the Picnic is slowly but surely kicking into life. Revellers are getting into the groove in the Bodytonic arena and the Bacardi B-Live Bar, while the various clothing and accessory stalls in the centre of the grounds are attracting their fair share of attention. However, proceedings really kick off in earnest with Devendra Banhart on the main stage.
Alternating between laidback folk rhythms and uptempo, danceable grooves, Banhart and his band of merry men are the ideal opening act. Halfway through the set, Banhart offers his by now traditional opportunity for a budding songwriter in the audience to perform his own track. A songwriter named Liam duly obliges with – oddly enough – a tune about Patti Hearst. Surprisingly, it’s actually quite good. After an enthusiastic round of applause from the crowd, Banhart says in that inimitable hippy drawl, “That was Liam with a song about Patti Hearst...which is a first,” and, well, it’s just a very funny moment.
Later, the band are joined by what appear to be a group of extras from City Of Lost Children for a boogie, before Banhart concludes the set by announcing that he and his band now have a brand new collective name, First Woman Millionaire. Next up are Mogwai, who deliver a typically incendiary performance in the Electric Arena. In this writer’s estimation, Stuart Braithwaite and the boys are one of the top live acts around and they don’t disappoint, providing with us a powerful collection of space age guitar epics.
Mogwai, of course, have a track called ‘Stanley Kubrick’ and the interstellar overdrive of ‘Hunted By A Freak’ would have made an excellent musical accompaniment to the star gate sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey. They follow it up with the all-out sonic blitzkrieg of ‘Mogwai Fear Satan’ and for desert we’re treated to a stratospheric ‘Helicon 1’ from the Ten Rapid EP. Alternating between skull crushing heaviness and ethereal beauty, Mogwai continue to set the standard for live rock music.
A quick snapshot of the delicious incongruity of Electric Picnic: outside the Electric Arena after Mogwai, Devendra Banhart is chatting to one of his band members. A short distance away, a Garda offers directions to a disoriented punter, and behind them, a man with a ZZ Top beard walks by carrying a deckchair, quickly followed by three guys in Santa Claus costumes. I wander into the small Laundrettes tent (which has a clothes-line and a miniature picket fence outside), where a girl is having her hair worked on by two stylists. To her right, a girl is operating a bubble blower and on her left, a girl in suspenders is dancing to ambient house.
Expecting David Lynch to leap out and yell “Cut!” any minute, I take my leave and head back to the main stage to catch Antony and The Johnsons. That man Banhart is cited again in Antony Hegary’s introduction to one of his new songs, which he tells us was inspired by “a recent sojourn to Jamaica” (there was also a Caribbean vibe to one of the songs Banhart played in his own set). To be honest, 10 o’clock at night at a festival (with rain falling) probably isn’t the best environment in which to experience this particular band, but the new material itself sounds very promising, leading one to suspect that the group’s next record will build on the success of I Am A Bird Now.
It’s then time for the headliners, Massive Attack, who are playing the final night of their European tour. Unsurprisingly, the band are in the mood to go out with a bang and the set is a fascinating trip through the various stages of their career. At one point, Robert Del Naja announces that, “We have an angel here to sing with us tonight”, which is the cue for Elizabeth Fraser to come out and lend her vocal talents to a stunning ‘Black Milk’. It’s followed by the narcotised dread of ‘Karma Coma’, an exquisite ‘Teardrop’ (again with Fraser on vocals) and a searing ‘Angel’, before Del Naja, an inveterate anti-war activist, takes some time to make a few well-observed points about the recent carnage in Lebanon.
Arriving back onstage for the encore, Del Naja declares this “the best night of the tour” and the group then kick into ‘Unfinished Sympathy’, one of the finest singles of the ’90s and the perfect way to finish an excellent first day in Stradbally.
SATURDAY: By Ed Power
As the nation’s preeminent ‘restival’ – a rock festival with all the glassy-eyed teens and most of the mud exorcised – Electric Picnic raises the bar to a quite imposing level. Punters expect something beyond the usual hooey. There is an understanding that Electric Picnic will add up to a weekend greater than the some of its constituents. If not quite life changing, Electric Picnic should, we have come to believe, be a least life affirming. No pressure then, chaps.
Cuddly atmospherics have, in previous years, gone to the heart of Electric Picnic’s distinctively batty charm. This time the story is no different.
A mild inclination to zaniness, in fact, seems encoded into the DNA of the festival. Fluttering in the breeze like intimations of a group hug, pink and canary-yellow flags cheerfully pepper the site; alongside the familiar smattering of stages are a deluge of quirky sideshows: hot air balloon, burlesque house and a ‘Pussy Parlure’, the purpose of which we daren’t ask (crushingly, it turns out to be a knowingly cheesy disco).
Against such a background, Gary Numan’s mid afternoon set resonates like a lead pipe across the skull. Playing the Electric Arena, Numan appears to be sound-checking for the apocalypse. Feted lately by the industrial set, Numan has repaid the compliment by releasing entire albums of marrow rattling grindcore. Keen to show he’s moved on since the early ‘80s and his stint as the high priest as mildly ludicrous synth opera, Numan assails the crowd with grim, dense hardcore before relenting at the death and dusting down ‘Are Friends Electric?’ Steeped in frowning guitars, it suggests Sugababes playing over a steel mill tannoy. And maybe that’s a good thing.
Should the apocalypse arrive any time soon, there’s a fair chance Jim Noir will still be in bed. A trafficker in ‘60s whimsy, Noir scored a minor summer hit in the shape of ‘Eanie Meanie’, a snoozy ditty about childhood delinquency that mysteriously cropped up on a World Cup commercial. In the flesh, Noir and his band are less relentlessly, wearingly, wholesome, and their set has an unexpected bite. Still, in order to amount to anything more than a kooky diversion, Noir and his jolly troupe will have to get past their Syd Barrett/early Stone Roses infatuations.
News of their imminent long-term hiatus still ringing in our ears, we investigate Broken Social Scene with a degree of trepidation. By all accounts, Kevin Drew and Brendan Canning, the ensemble’s curators, feel no longer able to cope with the logistical nightmare of leading a 20-strong collective of musicians. As with all farewells, Broken Social Scene’s is freighted with sadness: during sadcore standout ‘Anthems For A 17 Year Old Girl’, vocalist Lisa Lobsinger coos as if her heart is about to splinter. At the end, Drew tells us he will never forget the devotion of BSS’s Irish fanbase and, weirdly, sounds as though he means it.
By contrast, Super Furry Animals are in no way on the brink of imminent meltdown. More than a decade into their career, the Welsh freak-folk institution have settled into a comfortable midlife groove. With no new album to promote, the Furries embark on a meandering tour of their back catalogue which, though a little lacking in focus , is perfect mid-afternoon fare. Quite why front-man Gruff Rhys feels compelled to don a Power Rangers helmet must, as always, remain a mystery.
As darkness drives the rain-clouds away, audiences encounter a dilemma: whether to investigate post-punk revival crew Bloc Party or go back to the source and check out Gang Of Four. Of the two, Bloc Party, provide the greater spectacle. Flooding the main stage with pulsating squalls of art-rock, the London four-piece suggest they have to potential to grow into nothing less than a frown-free Radiohead for the bebo generation. Gang Of Four meanwhile cut a ragged swathe in the Crawdaddy stage. Fifty years old he may be, but Andy Gill can still holler like a petulant adolescent, electrified by the certainty that collectivism is the answer to 90% of the world’s woes.
No less gnarly are New Order, whose transformation into the grumpy godfathers of disco-tinged new wave is almost complete. Mid-way through the set, frontman Bernard Sumner announces that he has a cold; thankfully Peter Hook’s Wagnerian bass is on hand to carry the night. Before the encore, the grizzled Mancs deliver the deathless anthem ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, and all of Stradbally seems to mouth the chorus in unison.
SUNDAY:
Ominously, there’s a heavy drizzle falling on Sunday afternoon, but it soon clears off and makes way for the sunshine as Alabama 3 take to the stage. The band’s mix of acid house, country, gospel and blues really vibes up the crowd, with the two Loves, Larry and the Very Reverend Dr. D Wayne, working the stage in energetic style.
Of course, ‘Woke Up This Morning’ goes down a storm, bringing a touch of New Jersey mafioso menace to Stradbally, while the electro-funk reworking of John Prine’s ‘Speed Of The Sound Of Loneliness’ is a delight from start to finish. The set concludes in suitably uproarious fashion, with a stage invasion from a group of burlesque dancers.
Grandmaster Melle Mel & Scorpio in the Electric Arena are next on the HP itinerary, performing a phenomenal hip-hop revue. ‘The Message’, ‘White Lines’ and ‘Rapper’s Delight’ are all greeted euphorically, while the closing DJ triptych of ‘I Can’t Go For That’, ‘Holiday’ and ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ is nothing short of sensational.
Later in the same arena, we’re treated to a one-two of pulsating electro-rock courtesy of Hot Chip and The Rapture. The former outfit, performing behind a bank of keyboards and looking for all the world like Kraftwerk in casual clothing (one band member even wears a Rush t-shirt – nice to see Geddy Lee getting his due!), are sure to have attracted a few new fans with their set. It finishes in a scintillating dance work-out that proves that DFA - who recently signed the band in the States - still have their finger firmly on the pulse of the underground.
Speaking of DFA-mentored acts, here come Luke Jenner, Mattie Safer, Gabriel Andruzzi and the man whose name suggests he really should be in either The Strokes or The Sopranos, Vito Roccoforte. Earlier in the HotPress chatroom, Jenner told your correspondent that The Rapture now have audience members brandishing “More cowbell!” banners at gigs, thanks to the Saturday Night Live sketch with Christopher Walken producing Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear The Reaper’ (you’ll find it on YouTube). Said percussive instrument certainly takes some punishment during a ferocious ‘House Of Jealous Lovers’, the song which first garnered the band serious attention internationally and which continues to be a highlight of their live performances.
In the Bodytonic tent, Coldcut are in the middle of an excellent set of electro and hip-hop. Featuring some nice Burroughs-style cut-up visuals (including an hilarious clip of Prince Charles busting out moves on the dance floor, as well as a collage of ’60s nuclear paranoia footage), their turn elicits a hugely appreciative response, which Matt Black and Jonathan Moore are clearly chuffed with, if the “Thanks Stradbally!” message (with shamrocks) on the screens at the end is anything to go by. Shortly after, Layo and Bushwacka embark on a hypnotic electro/house odyssey in the same arena that I enjoy so much I’m genuinely sorry I have to leave, but alas, Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs is beckoning us, siren-like, to the main stage.
Backed by Nick Zinner’s virtuoso guitar work and Brian Chase’s powerhouse drumming (with one arm!), O struts and preens, jumps and dances like the lovechild of Iggy Pop and Patti Smith. Her performance reaches it apex on ‘Phenomena’, the chorus of which (“Baby you’re something like a phenomena”) is incredibly resonant, invoking everyone from Grandmaster Flash to LL Cool J and De La Soul. Throw in the wailing ‘Pin’ (with those electrifying bam-bam-bams) and a gorgeous ‘Maps’ and this really was a performance to savour.
It’s then onto the Electric Arena and the duo I’ve been waiting for all weekend, the Pet Shop Boys. Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe really know how to put on a show, compensating for their own natural self-containment with an imaginative stage set (a big screen which divides into three parts) and backing singers and dancers. Tennant, wearing a top hat and long black coat throughout, is in fine voice, with ‘Always On My Mind’, ‘It’s A Sin’, the evergreen ‘West End Girls’ and ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’, which so cleverly interpolates Andy Williams’ ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’, proving particularly popular. My only complaint was Chris not performing ‘Paninaro’ (sob).
Still, the Boys depart with an anthemic, celebratory ‘Go West’, a climatic ending and a fitting finale to a wonderful weekend.
THE BIG TREE STAGE: By Kim Porcelli
Hats off to Damien Rice and his big idea: to throw a festival with the best of everything, where no corners are cut and everybody – performers and audience alike – is treated to the gig of a lifetime. For The Big Tree Stage, essentially a second mini-festival within what is already one of the best festivals in Europe, is offered with such imagination and everything-is-possible aplomb it makes any other way of putting on a festival seem half-baked, half-hearted.

Garlands of flowers ring the marquee itself; performers’ stage times are listed at the side of the stage on chalkboards, like an endless menu of blue-plate specials; as elsewhere at the Picnic, the food and wine is ludicrously good and surprisingly inexpensive; and if you don’t fancy lolling on the grass in front of the stage, round the back of it a kind of forest glade has been devised, with art installations hanging from the trees, hilarious little footstools covered in moss, tepees suitable for, variously, chatting, snogging and nap-taking and, not least, that perennial forest-dwellers’ essential: an excellent coffee shop.
As such, along with Body and Soul, Big Tree ends up being the discerning Picnicker’s default hanging-out place in between availing of the festival’s manifold other delights.
And then there’s the music. The weekend bill offers a nicely balanced mix of solo outings from well-known frontmen (Mundy, Paul Noonan); straight-up acoustica (the bitterness-spitting, quixotic Fionn Regan; the spooky, beautifully dolorous Gary Jules); encouragingly good early-days gigs from relative newbies (the gypsy-orchestra bluster of Emmet Scanlon); mavericks using the opportunity to try something new (violinist Cora Venus Lunny, who roves from solo Bach to jazz to hillbilly drinking songs); side projects from some of Irish music’s leading lights (the utterly exquisite The Swell Season, co-fronted by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova) and, simply, great bands doing what they do best (the rock-god annihilation of The Redneck Manifesto; the deranged blues-disco party of Jerry Fish and the Mudbug Club).
We also get career-best performances from two performers in particular who, for our money, were the undisputed king and queen of Big Tree. Having long threatened via the sly cover version here and there to be a great frontperson in her own right, Vyvienne Long is today joined by a full band, plus several extra cello players; we’re at first given an impression of breathy Nouvelle Vague girliness, but it soon develops into something much weirder – if anything, she’s a kind of cello-playing, book-reading, boy-fancying Eartha Kitt.
A song apparently called ‘She Can’t Wait To Get Her Hands On The Inheritance’ (chorus: “ it’s mine it’s mine it’s mine it’s mine it’s mine”) is the eccentric goddaughter of the surreal posh-Anglophile pop The Divine Comedy used to produce; a cover of ‘Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots’ is delivered tenderly, with mournful piano, as if in sympathy for the Japanese superlady and her Kill Bill-style extreme workouts; and a satisfyingly arse-shimmying take on N.E.R.D.’s ‘She Wants To Move’ grooves like a motherfucker and also offers us the opportunity to hear Vyvienne growlingly enunciate the line “His ass is a spaceship that I’d like to ride” in her plummily perfect diction, like Audrey Hepburn after several cases of champagne.
And then there’s the mentalist one-off that is Tim Donovan of Neosupervital, who has imported nearly every good idea electro-pop has ever had in the service of his own deeply demented muse, and who brings to this miniature marquee a raucous, deliciously nerdy sound-and-vision extravaganza very similar in spirit, if not in size, to Electric Picnic 2005’s bravura performance from The Flaming Lips.
In a skintight suit and huge glasses, variously commandeering a beatbox and, marvellously, a synth-guitar straight off of Top Of The Pops circa 1985, he is accompanied by two women in sequinned tube tops – sunglassed, ponytailed, red-lipsticked and impassive as mannequins – who play bass and keyboards, and who unsmilingly, urbanely frug on either side of him during ‘Rachel’ and ‘Alternative Day’ like the women in the Robert Palmer video; and a man later introduced to us as ‘DancinVin’ – Tim’s doppelganger in every way, down to the glasses, the too-tight suit and the shaggy bowl-cut – spends the set doing nothing but throw shapes, coattails flying, like a Secret Service agent having a Disco Inferno moment. Following a spot of two-way audience participation (revellers invited onto the stage, as well as Tim himself in the audience, breakdancing), the spectacle is then ratcheted up several lunatic notches by the arrival of glitter-costumed flag dancers Tim apparently ran into “last night, in the forest”, who spin pennants above the stage in silvery circles and gyrate as if possessed; and the otherwise mute Dancing Finan is given the last word, falling to his knees in the gig’s final moments in an electro-pop ecstasy and tearing off his clothes to reveal a Neosupervital T-shirt. We’ve already bagged our spot on the forest floor at Big Tree 2007.