A festival celebrating Canadian independent music produce in the unerringly picturesque, canal-infested Dutch haven that is Utrecht may seem somewhat bizarre, although there's a wealth of stuff on show to fuel credence in the somewhat crazed format of Le Guess Who? If creative directors Johan Gijsen and Bob van Heur have flung the doors of the city's various venues open to acts of all nationalities, it feels befitting on several levels that our adventures are initiated by Calgary's BRAIDS. Their debut record Native Speaker is a tour de force of the veritably avant-garde, and in comparison with my contemptible linguistic capacity, it's as if the people of Utrecht, Amsterdam, and the suburbs in-between are native speakers of Engels. BRAIDS' set is devastatingly short, yet as sweet as the most succulent peach to have ever danced harmoniously upon your taste buds: from Plath Heart, to Peach Wedding, to the fragile Glass Deers that midway through erupts in what sounds like the transparent creatures being shattered into smithereens, in a city filled with bikes, theirs is an accomplished show that runs like clockwork.
Even on a weekend over which the troupes of Canada relocate to this idyllic sanctum of the musically ingenious, there are still infinitely more bikes than bands and that's quite something as at least three tour buses linger vacantly on every street. At merely an hour away in a tin can aimed at aviation, Utrecht is not only a remarkable, but also highly reachable destination, and a break from Britain and its multitudinous festivals is most welcome. As the hum of lightbulbs bounces back off tranquil waters, the city looks overtly Christmassy without ever looking crap as you sense the lights were probably ignited by Dan Snaith, or Nick Cave, or Victoria Legrand, or someone deserving of equivalent kudos.
Myriad bands on the bill voice their admiration for and adoration of the gracious crowds that gather at the numerous sets of the weekend however notably, many frantically flout their merch, subsequently opting for new material in place of more dusty tracks from the annals of distant times perished. It seems sensical almost as if briefed, given the Dutch fascination with vinyl both new and old; knackered and unopened as many a swaying tote barely conceals the unwieldy figure of a 12". One band with nothing contemporary to stuff into 12x12 card slipcases and down throats are Endless Boogie, who relatively successfully emulate the sound of The Stooges with all its entailed derangement, incomprehensibility and all that, slurring and inviting us to go back and smoke at their place ahead of a typically riffling, riffing Smoking Figs In The Yard. Gap-tooth swagger and rusty string guitars contribute to the fashioning of an inimitable Midwestern ambience within Tivoli Oudegracht, Paul Major (aka "Top Dollar") admitting to "never know what's coming". Neither does anyone in attendance by the looks of it, and this aspect of the spontaneous adds substantial amusement. During extended jams thoughts meander off down nearby canals, and Major's garbling of it feeling like '72 seems inconsistent with the toting of a Blackberry although as Stephen Malkmus emerges to thrum the bass, there's ample evidence to corroborate his fondness for the NYC outfit as he personates a pretty cocksure cock rock bassist. Major then impetuously questions: "how high can you go?", it becoming none too difficult to envisage where the rest of their evening is to be spent. Odds on one of the city's many coffee shops devoid of caffeine?
Over in the industrial outskirts of the city stands sister venue Tivoli de Helling, where Shabazz Palaces reproduce choreographed moves atop processed guttural gurgle flecked with psych glimmers. Squint and you can make out Kanye and Lil Wayne and while the likes of Belhaven Meridian and Youlogy point to eminence within both hip and hip hop circles, it'd be good if ears could be similarly squinted. There's a fair amount of originality on display, if distinctly less ingenuity as tracks are replicated here and now; there and then via bongos, a MacBook, and keys. Then, come the witching hour, come Com Truise. Spasmodically witch house-ish, these polychromatic soundscapes are barely bewitching, if enjoyable to stumble about to 'til sunrise as bizarrely lecherous zomb-like characters lurch gruesomely.
Curled up on a sofa in a ground floor flat, drifting off to XTC's Black Sea, you could easily con the mind into believing you were down in Minehead and from BRAIDS through Com Truise, the eclecticism and eccentricity of an ATP evening is effortlessly crammed in.
