I think there is very little dispute over the fact that Primavera is now the greatest festival in Europe, if not the world. Its line-up has been consistently mind-bending for years now, coupled with spending your days and nights on the beautiful coast of one of Europe’s most lively, scenic and culturally rich cities - it’s a marriage made in heaven. The timing of the festival means the weather is glorious but not stifling, and it also means you can spend your time as you please before the festival kicks into gear in the evening. It really is the perfect set-up.
The grounds this year have grown, even extending to two nights of entertainment either side of the three-day festival itself at the Poble Espanyol. The festival’s expansion has meant that it’s now really at the peak of what you want size-wise from a festival. In many ways it’s the antithesis of what we now expect from UK festivals; no mud, no legal high stands blaring out wretched techno, no novelty clothing stalls and no Kings Of Leon. Perfect.
Opening night, we saw almost the very opening act, Welsh weirdo collective Islet, who sadly were plagued with sound and technical hitches from the off, so while their enthusiasm was intoxicating the warbled mass of sounds was simply alienating, and we left for our first of many festival beers. Of Montreal: insane neon costumes, capes and a couple of lycra-clad Mexican-Disco-Wrestlers cavorting on stage, leaping through hoops and twisting together balloon creatures, eventually producing a seemingly endless stream of balloons (linked like sausages) which wove its way around the entire crowd, blurring the boundaries between stage and audience and creating a fantastically inclusive and interactive atmosphere. The camp extravagance supplied by Of Montreal was the perfect start to the weekend. After familiarising ourselves with the surroundings we found ourselves at The Fresh & Onlys, whose refreshing take on ‘50s/‘60s pop was a breezy and rambunctious way to spend the dying minutes of sunlight - especially during the wonderful Waterfall. Then we found ourselves at the Ray-Ban stage and caught some of the riotous Big Boi, who was a bounding and pouncing ball of energy that thrilled and ignited the stage. The collective nods that ensued in the crowd became an exhilarating synergy between artist and audience. On then, to Grinderman, who on the main stage exuded ferocious degrees of twisted angst. Cave’s wolf-like prowl never tires as he hunts on stage for his prey. For a band that started as an improvised, experimental side-project, they have become blisteringly tight and professional in their delivery. Jim pounds the drums with such authority and vigour that you at times fear the stage might collapse. At Cave’s instructions, we wonder over to Suicide, tackling their debut album in its entirety. Vega and Rev look tiny on the huge stage that engulfs them, but their sound compensates for this. The radiating, pulsating hum of Ghost Rider travels through the sultry Spanish air, and it is a weird and wonderful delight. We attempt to catch a bit of Interpol, but after the long trek to the far away stage and being greeted by some rather meagre new material, we wish we’d stayed put at Suicide, and wander on back for The Flaming Lips, who - opening with She Don’t Use Jelly and the “yeah, yeah, yeah” song - greet us with a refreshing and rampant burst of sing-a-long material. Sadly, I’m asleep on the floor by the end of it, not as any discredit to the band, but simply from being exhausted. The energy is still found to bounce our way out of the grounds as the sublime Race For The Prize ignites behind us. A glorious way to leave our first day.
Day two greets us with some West Coast pop in the form of Avi Buffallo, who normally would be the prefect accompaniment to sitting stretched out, beer in hand in the blistering sun, but something just doesn’t quite click tonight. Avi’s vocals are a little all over the place, often becoming grating, but thankfully the closing moments of Remember Last Time are enough to make any miserable bastard grin from ear to ear. A brief moment with The Monochrome Set was a delightful one, as they executed their idiosyncratic and often overlooked brand of post-punk-pop. Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffitti creates lusciously thick four-part harmonies and overlays crisp guitar, live brass and sweeping keyboards with funky grooves from a seriously solid rhythm section. I hope you’ll accept my heartfelt apology for the use of both the words “funky” and “groove”. I think it’s part of the mystical appeal of Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti that it can evoke both of these frankly deplorable words and yet somehow weave them together into something that feels so modern.The National draw a huge crowd tonight and the audience is theirs for the taking, but something is somehow lacking - the sound, sadly. Perhaps somewhat lost in the vast space of the Llevant stage, it becomes difficult to make an attachment to the goings on, as though we were watching through a window in a far away house. Perhaps this was more down to position than performance, but what I craved to be tangible was barely audible. Deerhunter are staggering tonight, just mutating into one of the most perpetually rewarding live bands on the planet - very few can play at such length and inspire the desire for more. They make being a festival highlight seem like the easiest thing in the world. Pulp then… did anyone really expect them to be bad? Anyone who has seen Jarvis in recent times will have no qualms about his ability as a leading frontman still, he exudes a magnetism and affability that are utterly inescapable. From opener, Do You Remember The First Time, it’s clear from the off that we are in for a treat. ‘Different Class’ is drawn on heavily, and while there are personal omissions that I would have craved for (Lipgloss, in particular) it is undeniably a Greatest Hits. Whopper of a show. The back-to-back of Babies and Sorted Out for E’s & Whizz was simply sublime. Come the end of the show with potent Spanish MDMA gushing through your brain, the collective unity experienced during Common People was a truly magic moment, and the crowd seemed fit to burst.
On the final day, the hangovers have increased and a few people are not quite as bouncy and full of energy as they were two days ago, but regardless, there is a huge offering of bands on today. Starting with John Cale in the auditorium, he is accompanied by an orchestra and humbly steps out in a kilt and waistcoat and begins to play, his vocal delivery soft and dreamy. Nine songs go by and so does Paris 1919, as quick as that. The performance was seamless, if at times feeling a little obligatory, I sense these shows won’t go on for too much longer. The new material he presents to us, is of a poor standard and makes the transition an all the more awkward one. But seeing Cale in all his glory and experiencing songs of such divine beauty was mostly a pleasure. Catching Fleet Foxes in the background was a welcoming way to take you from the darkness of the auditorium, the band sounding remarkably rousing. The very brief snapshot of Einstürzende Neubauten we encountered was more than enough to wish we’d captured every last second - simultaneously frightening and exhilarating. Dean Wareham Plays Galaxie 500: it’s just after 11pm, night has fallen and I’m sat drinking a cold beer on the stepped seats along the side of the hollowed out valley of the ATP stage, nestled at the far end of the festival site. The stripped down yet expansive sound of Galaxie 500 is a faultless fit, with Wareham performing to absolute perfection. Opening song Flowers is almost a spot on recreation of the recorded version that opens Galaxie 500’s debut album ‘Today’; Wareham’s slightly weary singing is backed up by dissonant reverb-drenched female vocals, and the bass and guitar interact like old lovers, entwined in a familiar embrace. It’s awesome to be able to see these songs recreated live, and they sound so contemporary it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that most of these songs are as old as the average audience member tonight.
Hopping over to someone who also transcends time, PJ Harvey was breathtaking this evening, aesthetically and sonically; she stood draped in white, angelic, clutching her auto-harp to her chest with a giant spotlight upon her and flowers running through her hair. The band, perched on the other side of the stage, are just as beautiful (at least sonically). Her voice flew out of her throat and floated through the dying hours of the festival with a clarity and emotion that supersedes that even on record. Angelene from ‘Is This Desire?’ cementing the festivals most truly beautiful moment, never has a main stage act sounded so intimate. To the antithesis of intimate then, Odd Future greet the stage in a whirlwind of energy and screeches and shouts. However, perhaps in my naivety, I had expected a Jimmy Fallon-like performance, which featured live drums, keys and even a tuba that amalgamated in a penetrating, frightening and sonically marvellous performance. Instead tonight they have only a laptop to accompany the many members of them on stage, and one can’t but help feel underwhelmed and a little short changed. Animal Collective does their usual job of making everybody around me look dumbfounded and a little pissed off at them. Their uncompromising nature and unwillingness to relent with their experimentation is of great worth artistically, but for those wanting the last headline band of the festival to go out with a bang, it seems of little importance there and then.