It might have been a bit chilly at times but that wasn’t going to stop the party. BrisFest 2010 had everything from acapella singalongs and fragranced gardens to delicate folk-pop and ear-shredding breakcore. Adam Burrows, Kid Pensioner and Mike White were there. Pictures: Joao Barata.

A new name, a new layout, more stuff. BrisFest 2010 was another unqualified success, and a big improvement on the first two years. The layout of the main festival area changed the game completely, offering clearly defined ‘zones’ (in keeping with their Brystal Maze theme), each with their own stylised atmosphere.

The Lab Stage and perma-rammed Fenchurch Dome formed a bijou dance village, while the middle of the site was dedicated to live music, dance and street theatre. There was also a miniature village fête, complete with a test-your-strength machine and a football punting game.

A chill-out area of sorts was provided by the Wandering Word stage and beer garden, which felt a lot like Glastonbury, only colder. At one point its compere noted that the Lloyds building had “stolen our sun” (as always, bankers have a lot to answer for). Sales of warming beverages from chai tea to strong cider were bullish.

The turfed area in front of the Lloyds building was another welcome innovation, bringing a revolutionary sitting-down dynamic to the festival experience. This ersatz meadow was a magnet for punters with young children and/or takeaway curries. Oh, and on the subject of grub, the Weirdest Foodstuff Award goes to Pies Cream, a cornet-shaped meat pie crowned with a scoop of mashed potato. A steady queue suggests it’s better than it sounds.

The kids’ area was closer to the main music stages than in previous years, which kept families together and lawyers out of the picture. There was paint and glitter everywhere, exactly as you’d hope. Someone made a crustacean out of cardboard and painted the word ‘Footcrab’ on it in lurid yellow, presumably in tribute to Addison Groove’s bonkers club hit of the summer.

With countless fringe concerts, boat parties, workshops and general mayhem taking place all over the city, like all good festivals, everybody will have a different BrisFest story to tell. Here’s ours… 

FRIDAY

A dubby throb beckons from across the water as wind-whipped clouds race before a huge, pale moon. Maybe it’s the cold or the threat of rain, but for the first two hours, it’s as though everyone’s forgotten that Bristol’s biggest community festival is even happening. Ticket booths stand queueless and quiet; burger van chicks text and yawn and text some more. But the show must go on. In the BrisFest Live Tent, acapella trio Lace on Lipstick swoon through ‘Sweet Dreams Are Made of This’, battling with the superbly muscly thrash of Hope Remains Lost thundering from the all-metal Croft Tent across the way. Cunning AV art stuff flickers unwatched nearby before The Lab Stage wins the night’s first proper crowd as Royal Gala’s breaks-heavy ska ’n’ soul sets pints vibrating along the bar at the back. They’re a sassy eight-piece with full brass section and lots of low-end wobble, fronted by a bodacious blonde in a leotard and not much else. Onwards we bimble – The Fenchurch Dome’s 360º projection packs proper wow-factor: stand dead centre and stare straight up for maximum disorientation. Outside again, and boy, it’s cold, but the warmth of Monkey Chuckle’s JB-channelling funk soon thaws the BrisFest Tent – seven-strong, infinitely tight and good-humoured to boot, with plenty of banter and almost-choreographed dancing. On the Mr Wolf’s-endorsed main stage, Dizraeli draws a delighted congregation. His is a rare mix of evocative instrumentation and sweetly syncopated rhyming, blending flute, violin, acoustic guitar with bouncealong beats. It’s less rap, more storytelling; performance poetry without the wanky factor, bubbling with humour and wry optimism. “This one’s Noel Coward meets Sizzla,” he says, dropping ‘Engurland’, an anti-national anthem that deserves an airing at every school assembly in the country. He raps about bombing Tesco, NYE parties in Easton, Brizzle’s endless drizzle – and from the head-nodding cops at the back to his proud-beaming parents in the front row, there’s nothing but love for the Diz. He encores with triumphant city shanty ‘Homeward Bound’ and many take that as their cue to split, but those in the know are queuing at an anonymous Portakabin, donning chunky headphones and gleefully bouncing into the crowd to rhythms unheard – the silent disco is the place to be ’til bedtime. There’s all the familiar fun to be had: removing your cans and listening to everyone else howling unselfconsciously along; flipping between channels and trying to guess what everyone else is dancing to. There’s dubstep and quickstep, psytrance and soul. It’s Busta/flip/Bee Gees/flip/Boney M. And so a night that began quietly ends silently – but boy what fun we had in between. (Mike White)

SATURDAY

The Oompa Loompas are here, and they’re hula-hooping to drum & bass. This must be Bristol! Fleeing the Making Music Jazz Jam on the Mr Wolf’s Stage, Venue crash-lands in The Lanes tent, where the exuberant guitar ’n’ brass racket of The Relay Rips is topped with the wryest lyrics this side of Jonathan Richman. An early afternoon wander yields a ghost-masque from Audacity Dance Crew, a troupe of skittle-juggling waiters and the scruffily righteous ska-grunge of Coxon’s Riot in the Teenage Rampage tent.

While Poppy & Friends’ cutesy cod-folk is unsavoury, the Ovi Music Tent offers genuine sweetness – Countryside’s soaring harmonies and playful electronic embellishments deserve a much bigger audience. There’s proper folk at the Wandering Word stage from Welsh singer Catrin O’ Neill. Accompanying herself on guitar and bodhrán, O’Neill puts so much of herself into the performance that it’s hard to tell which songs are traditional and which are her own. Equally spirited, My Own Flag’s last ever show is a testosterone-fuelled smash through their repertoire of Faith No More-meets-Shellac fighting music.

The day’s first crowd – shirtless lads and all – greets The Siddy Bennett Band (Mr Wolf’s Stage). Siddy’s frothy tributes to chemical and interpersonal disarray have a natural constituency – punters who look like they see as much festival action as the band. Meanwhile, Central Spillz (Lab Stage) cause an outbreak of infectious skanking with their riotous, often funny, take on grime. Their Joker-produced, cider-fuelled ‘How We Roll’ is a contender for anthem of the day.

Bizali’s genre-mashing pop shares ground with Moloko and Goldfrapp, although they don’t quite have the tunes to match. For every transcendent moment like ‘Tears Spark The Flames’, there are two or three songs in which engaging frontwoman Blythe is let down by quirky but bloodless backing. They’re a talented bunch – it’s hard to shake the impression that they could do better. It’s A String Thing (Wandering Word) trigger Glastonbury flashbacks with hypnotically duelling guitar and mandolin, followed by performance poet Malusi, whose meat-grinder approach to the world order is a recipe for sensory overload.

Tin Pan Gang are unintentionally hilarious, oafishly referencing late Stone Roses and early Verve, with the vintage scowls, haircuts and muppet-dancing to match. They’re like a spoof tribute to the baggy 90s – This Is Spinal Scream. We’re rescued by Aquasky & The Ragga Twins (Lab Stage), whose thundering drum & bass and breaks channel the spirit of those halcyon days in a more gratifying way. Jazz-rockers Get The Blessing (Wolf’s Stage) are predictably fantastic. Led by the driving, post-punkish bass (and terrible jokes) of Jim Barr, their blistering horns and tricksily danceable rhythms bring a welcome current of heat to an increasingly chilly evening. ‘Speed Of Dark’ sees formidable sticksman Clive Deamer playing the traps with a pair of maracas. There’s just time to catch John E Vistic’s apocalyptic jerk-blues mangling of ‘John The Revelator’ (Lanes Stage), before we start getting to grips with where the hell we go from here. Consider us blessed. (Adam Burrows)
 

RAVE-ON-AVON

Is it possible for one reviewer to sum up the Saturday night monster that is Rave-on-Avon? It’s a colossal beast, with tentacles probing eleven of Bristol’s top nightspots. An all-night clubbing extension of the geographically saner BrisFest, nobody in their right mind would attempt to do all of it.

Well, Venue tries, and fails, but we get to see some wonders along the way. It’s pretty much business as usual in The Lab, although a handful of very silly hats is a reminder that there’s still a festival on. Downstairs the Fresh DJs peddle a cheery line in studenty breaks and electro, including a possibly ill-advised mash-up of the theme tune from ‘Cagney & Lacey’. Meanwhile the upstairs room plays host to the primitive breakbeat trance of Sinewinder. Big Jeff seems to be enjoying it.

Over at The Croft, we’re treated to a thrilling set from Hyetal and Julio Bashmore, blending post-grime rhythms with synth-pop textures, and sounding a lot like the future. They’re followed by unannounced special guest Appleblim, who eschews the slow-building tension he’s known for in favour of smashing the dancefloor in directly, with enough bass to rupture a rhino.

It’s kicking off at Blue Mountain, too, with classic-era drum & bass from Svengali, including Ram classics ‘No Reality’ and ‘Valley of the Shadows’. Upstairs, Blunderphonics’ Breakwhore & Gizmode conspire against our mortal souls with the kind of gory, metal-referencing breakcore that skins rabbits alive just to watch them die. Punishing by most people’s standards, Scheme Boy, who follows, sounds quite chummy and polite in comparison.

By the time we get to Mr Wolf’s, it’s too full to breathe comfortably – we barely make it to the bar. Dancing is out of the question, although the Pick Up The Pieces crew ensure that those who can, do, with a fine selection of classic funk and hip-hop. Mercifully close at hand, Timbuk2 is heaving too, though it’s possible to tunnel between its rooms with a little patience. It’s the most eclectic party of the night – a purist’s nightmare. The dizzying cocktail includes throbbing electro from Waysandmeans, the twitchy breaks of Kingpin’s Kraymon and progressive house from Way Out West legend Jody Wisternoff. By the time Task steps up with his profoundly funky stew of mashed-up everything, the dancefloor is in serious trouble. Room 2, meanwhile, is techno heaven thanks to the residents from Headrush.

It’s around this point that Venue’s legs start to give way – it’s been 16 hours and we’re not getting any younger. The lure of the kebab shop is becoming irresistible. Regrets? Hell, yeah. We didn’t make it to Warehouse for Doc Scott. And, disappointingly, we didn’t catch KOAN Sound at Basement 45. We missed Phaeleh and Randall and Diss Miss. When they start handing out superpowers, the ability to inhabit two spaces at once is going to be pretty high on your correspondent’s wish list. Nice work, Bristol. So much love, so little time. (Adam Burrows)

SUNDAY

This year’s genius innovation is Astroturf, creating a sward of welcome green amidst the cobbles. The Aztec Zone plays genial host to tap dancing, open mic singing, massed hula-hooping and a squad of little girls dancing dressed as pianos. In the Medieval Zone around the corner, lilting Spanish guitars issue from a flowered bower scented with chai and incense. “It’s like a pub garden,” says Venue’s glamorous assistant admiringly. Over in The Lanes tent Fair Weather Fiends, all fuzz bass and flying vees, churn out QOTSA-flavoured rawk while a shared drum kit cymbal slowly peels steel like an unwinding onion after hours of relentless punishment. John The Mod, manning his clobber stall inside, bears the stoic expression of a man who has heard a great deal of music over the weekend. Up to the Lab Stage for the ever-dapper DJ Derek and his sunshine-enticing reggae. To his obvious delight, a young lady is cajoled on stage to dance with her hula-hoop. “I feel like a magician’s assistant, but where’s the fishnets?” The old rascal. Big In Lights (Mr Wolf’s) present a conundrum. “I can tell by your faces, you can’t decide if we’re serious. We’re deadly serious,” explains the chap on the vocoder. The singer meanwhile, is called Brock Freeway. Smart and slyly funny did Was (Not Was) no harm. It’s wrong but we like ’em. Out at the Anchor Stage, Daisy Chapman (“I can’t feel my hands”) oversees a little oasis of cobbled frozen calm. Armed with a piano and deftly looping her voice, ‘Run For Cover’ is superb, as is a masterfully fragile reading of Rihanna’s steely ‘Umbrella’. Unreservedly recommended.

Each time we dip into the Teenage Rampage Tent a rotating cast of teens with artfully sculpted hair are playing variations upon the Arctic Monkeys oeuvre. Currently, it’s The Darlingtons. Outside, belly dancers shiver as they wait their turn on the Aztec Stage. Up to the Fenchurch (RFID) Dome for Wedge b2b with Appleblim. At least, we think it’s them, amidst a tangle of iPod chargers and flatscreens. There’s a Planetarium vibe as the surface of the dome above streaks with scribbled light synched to sternum-rattling bass. There’s good, strong fizzing pop from Camera Culture (The Lanes), opening with a song The Strokes really need to get round to writing. Their excellent singer seems to have a whole stack of them. Bath’s Kill It Kid (Mr Wolf’s Stage) raise an enormous Dad Rock noise. The singer sounds just like James Morrison and sings proper rock lyrics (“the stars shine like switchblade silver”) with conviction. Back at the Dome they’ve hit a glitch as “status message; searching for source” blinks above us. Out on the water a solo rower glides past, his running light LEDs winking silently. Finally, The Heavy (Mr Wolf’s Stage) storm through a rampaging set, singer Kelvin working the crowd like a Vegas veteran. Highlights are many: the slamming hip-hop rock of ‘No Time’, the panther musk lust of ‘Sixteen’ and the show-stopping ‘How You Like Me Now?’ Awesome. (Kid Pensioner)
 

Text copyright Adam Burrows, Kid Pensioner, Mike White 2010; pics copyright Joao Barata 2010

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