So then, turning to face the music and dance (or not as the case may be, what with this being Shoreditch and whatnot. Periodically there is however discernible head bobbing, which makes for something of a change around these parts). Souf Londoner Halls is the first course laid on for digestion, or the first to be served by the time we arrive at the fully-laden table. The gangly producer's clicking, clacking, and vaguely awkward demeanour make for an intriguing half hour that's imbued with a greater sense of optimism than envisioned. Not so much the sound of the future but very much of the here and now, effortless appeal is commanded with minimal exertion. Mafia Lights are up next, and petulantly demand there be light: "it's kind of our thing. We're called Mafia Lights." Being in no way divine however, their wish is not to be the command of the needlessly lambasted sound engineer, and the sound the trio engineer with their array of extravagant gear is one redolent of Atlas Sound at his most naff, as their conjoining of clunky bass and twinkling Jaguar guitar wafts away beneath tacky samples and flimsy drum machine. Their stint is worsened further by the fact that aesthetically, they bring to mind the insufferable brats of The Midnight Beast, and that they've brought something of a teenage fan club along with them to whoop and wail, decked out in dubious merch. It feels a little like a show at a sparsely attended school disco. And we Brits don't cross off the days in our calendar in eager anticipation of school discos now, do we? Newport's Jewellers meanwhile are a rather more pleasurable proposition. Comprised of Gareth and Gareth, not only do they share the same Christian name, but they're also flaunting eerily similar, nondescript hairdos. They also bob their uniform dos in complete synchronicity to what sounds like a sky of glistening stars that's bashed out on a sampler and a dismembered drumkit. It's rudimentary (as to be expected for the duo's live debut), but it incontrovertibly works, fitting right in with their ambient, gently humid Gold Panda-esque atmospherics, sometimes stained with the celestial twang of a single guitar. The sound conjured occasionally employs harsher rhythms than those that Derwin grazes, while their more racy moments recall Star Slinger at his most slinky. Tape sounds like your spirit drifting in and out of consciousness, and as daylight beyond double-glazing diminishes, it's time to drift off.
What with Binnacle being situated slap-bang in the centre of Shoreditch, nigh on harrowingly accurate parodies emerge continuously from the rickety swinging door that opens out onto the artificial gloaming bred upstairs. Tasteless tattoos; non-prescription, non-purpose eyewear; shorter than short shorts; t-shirts considered ironically cool because they're cool because they're ironic, and the like. Perusing the line up several monikers are similarly suspect and, moreover, attempting to even locate, let alone listen to the likes of Loved Ones, Amusement, and Secret Diaries via a certain popular web search engine is somewhat problematic. Anyhow, onwards, and on to patten. If his latest LP GLAQJO XAACSSO proved confounding, if initially all but entirely confusing, live he manages to untangle knots of glitch to provide a lucid experience that flows and floats like water rippling down a stream atop a bed of smoothed pebbles, all vocals remaining aptly incomprehensible. The Telecaster that dangles behind his MacBook is all but a gimmicky prop for the most part, although when he throttles its neck, he's at his most majestic. Had Ghostpoet spent his youf ingesting chlorine down the local Coventry lido before toddling off to reenvisage Cosmogramma through bloodshot eyes when not splitting chins on the bottom of the shallow end, he may have wound up sounding this wondrously warped. And lo and behold, order is restored, what with ambient electronica being the order of the day, or indeed the two days. However when Sunday's bands buzz forth, revelations occur, matching totes that jiggle off nigh on every shoulder swaying to scuzz. Childhood set the estival sounds of Real Estate springing to mind, their joyous, carefree vibes infused with Cure-like guitars smothered in chorus, beefed up bass lines, and bad vox. Beneath blood red spotlights that glint off unique features, it's Carousels, performing live for the very first time, that really work a practically unworkable audience, whipping up mild frenzy. They request their vocals to be all but obscured by ambiguity with Nick Benton's woozy, whammy bar whirr reminiscent of MBV at their most uproarious burying lyrics in the mix. They're apparently nervous, yet with the likes of Here To Me to bolster a frighteningly accomplished debut, they needn't be. And for the first time today there's people congregated within a three metre radius of the stage. As formidable a first showing as feasible, they're a delight to gaze upon, even though attempts to incite a clap-along do seem rather ill-advised thus however soon now may be, Carousels ought to be installed as its soundtrack. We're then left with Weird Dreams who, despite being at their most beguiling when decelerating the tempo, opt for an affably jaunty pop approach and who, despite the name, aren't to be considered particularly abstract. With Acid Glasses having been turned away at customs for carrying inappropriate visas, it's left to Active Child to wind down the inaugural Binnacle with their idiosyncratic, truly weird amalgamation of the traditionally orchestral and the contemporarily sensual, rhythms evocative of witch house tendencies underpinning Pat Grossi's spectral wail. Commencing to the dying strains of The Weeknd, the denouement to the bash is operatic, enchanting, and exquisitely so when Grossi turns to his finely tuned harp. While many may have spent the weekend grinding up against the bland bluntness of a Top 40 that features the damnable Ed Sheeran not once, nor twice, but thrice, ours was spent severing skin on the bleeding edge, and for several of the acts witnessed, it's surely merely a matter of time before A&R sharks come circling...
