In the kind of logjam typically experienced at festivals, the
majority of the WHP was spent futilely trying to free arms,
desperately trying to maintain balance and buffeting against angry,
tousle-haired little nuisances who blindly, insistently and repeatedly
barged their way through invisible space.
But it wasn’t overcrowding – as always the WHP organisation
was largely impeccable – that undermined most of tonight, Caribou
it was the unfamiliar, sullen air of impatience that characterised the
majority of the crowd. Rising Caribou
above the sweaty agitation, Caribou proved why they’re almost peerless when it comes to explosive live shows.
Billed as Caribou X, their amalgamation of live band dynamics and a thumping re-channelled DJ tweak dispelled much of the vitriol,
reducing the crowd to wide-eyed, exultant sky-reachers happy to create just enough space to hit their laconic groove.
Playing out the majority of ‘Swim’, an album emphatically designed to be played live, the anthemic repeat of ‘Sun’ is given a new booming resonance;
the surround-sound twinkle of ‘Bowls’
almost distracts from the rumbling bass thunder and ‘Niobe’ sings out like it could end the world.
Staggering on record; superlative on stage: tonight is confirmation that 2010 was the year of the Caribou.
If the milieu of centuries-old Gallic customs gets daunting, refamiliarise yourself with your contemporary, disposable existence. Grab a ‘Subway’, buy Call of Duty: Black Ops at Game and head to the Melody Maker
Bar to drink under a large pop-art Union Jack.
They’ve got everything we’ve got in England! And for all
those who won’t eat McShit abroad on principle…
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