Becoming my own 14 year old icon: A revelation. or An Education in Blagging it.

I'd like to think I've done a lot since moving to London. I've served the president of China a fish course wearing shoes that my mum bought from Sainsburys in the 40% off TU sale. I've dug myself into an unimaginable pit of monetary debt, I own a basil plant now, I'm a vegetarian, I've developed an intolerance to whiskey. And, to go on, as of the previous night, I witnessed a collective of my 2009 indie icons snort cocaine from a Soho bar to the professionally glazed eyes of the staff. Is this truly the climax of my adulthood? Is this making it?
Tuesday afternoon, with less than 3 hours notice I made the impromptu decision to drag my miserable body to a ~hip #music gig, following a mutual friend pulling out last minute and as bid for myself to procrastinate further the impending 3 essays I have due in for the next few weeks. This is not a pastime I have participated actively in since I was about 14 and an acne ridden resident of Brighton with a paper round and an unquenchable desire to fit in. So I ambled to Brixton with 2 cans of K cider stuffed into my trouser band and some sleek white cotton trousers [I purchased myself for a meagre £3 from the M&S Bideford outlet] we flitted between support acts and labyrinth-style smoking decks till the headline act; my ethereal puberty pinups graced the stage and I felt a sweeping hormonal déjà-vu.
The group I had been with had all shared a similar musical/maturation experience fixated round this band and we stood in a small ring for the encore and held hands in a strangely ritualistic manner. G had a lot of feelings and had a spontaneous sob to one of the more down-tempo numbers.
The hilarity-cum-internal screaming did not unfold until the gig was over, following a hapless and cripplingly awkward scene of events with a corner shop owner, lemonade, my insufferable pedantry and an unforeseen sexual remark. I screamed in the gentleman's face, holding up a stern finger and sharply threw the can back on the shelf before marching off into the Brixton night in a trail of enraged feminist fury. As fate would have it, this would lead us to the local pub, an upmarket French establishment at around 11:45pm was unremarkably heaving and upon purchasing a more expensive and non-sexist lemonade, we found ourselves a tiny booth already occupied by three unassuming young men, one clutching a tote bag brimming with records, all sporting various degrees of facial hair.
Whilst drinking this delicious lemonade we mused over the night thus far, our past experiences of live music and where we would go on from this quaint French affair. The men next to us finished their drinks and we shuffled along to allow them to exit. They filed out until the first member of the troupe was out the door, when gentleman number three dashed back to our booth, leant over and into my ear he whispered: "the after party is one 100 Wardour Street, Soho". Our heavenly hairy godmother in a paisley shirt and an earring. It was henceforth that a 2009 Indie mirage unfolded into a miraculous overdraft fuelled blur of teen heroes and free Peroni.
Following an additional misogny fuelled encounter with my fantastically resilient companion (see mid image) and a bored Brixtonian we eventually wriggled into an uber; the tax-free/mass-corporation-guilt leaving a sour taste that was distinctly obscured by the circus of butterflies in my stomach.
Living in the South East of London, it's not all too often I head into the centre of town. When I do, mostly for work purposes, I am consistently cycnical and frequently glower to myself over:

•  tourists
• literally anything in a suit,
• imposing buildings
•  people who have clearly spent more than they would have done on a book on a handbag
• anyone who looks remotely like they might have voted Conservative in the previous election.

 When we got out of the uber in Soho, in a similar manner to my experience of offering canapé’s and serving plates to women legitimately wearing tiaras to show their wealth at the China State Banquet, I felt like a Soviet spy.
We slipped into the after party, guilt-free greeted by an entourage of 30-40 folk, huddled round a private table with waiters in grey suits and dull eyes who offered us vodka with cranberry/soda and called you ‘madam’ like a Victorian lady. In the smoking area we bumped into the men we had briefly met at the pub- it transpired they had names- Ollie Tao and Cozzie, who looked genuinely pleased to see us. We were without a doubt the only members without a direct link to the band, three thirsty and clueless young women following our noses to watch our teenage idols dissolve their septums.
I come back to the question, if my fourteen year old self could see me now would she be jumping for joy? Texting all her pals on her Nokia smart phone? I’m sorry to break the illusion Elinor but they’re really not all they’re cracked up to be, these are a gang of men in their early 30s, who probably have wives and a mortgage.
For those of you who are as ill-informed as I was, it turns out- what you do at after-parties is mingle and people ask you ‘what you do’ whilst they stare at your breasts for the response. Generally you repeat this about four times, mid-transition your previous converser will glare at your new chat mate and so the process continues.
To be brutally honest with you Martin, I still don’t really know what I’m doing, both here and in the grand scheme of my life, but once the housing bubble bursts I doubt you’ll know what you’re doing much anymore.

Cynicism triumphs again!

 

 

An Ode to Barnstaple

A parting partial ode to the town of broken dreams and stagnant hopes. I have wandered through each chartered street. The estuary acting as a reminder of the enclosing rurality, this; a sweet concrete haven from the stale muddy fields and damp cottages.
Glide down the high street and avert your gaze as you brushing shoulders with every sexual encounter since aged 14. Nobody ever leaves this town. They enroll on a woodcraft course then advance to a bedsit by the bus station.

And to the library! An imposing brutalist literary safe space, do not try and engage in small talk with the women on the counter. They know of your £30 card fine and thus will never let you loan A Vindication of the Rights of Woman til this is respectfully wiped. Upstairs smells faintly of urine but you find your habitual corner and try to absorb as many books as is humanly possible til closure.

Newly sprung Vintage shops line the side lanes, self aware pretension with an air of celestial condescension on the Adidas mortals. Why pay £80 for a dress you could have bought for pittance at a a neighbouring charity shop? Funding a charity? It probably won't smell of lavender and the women serving you probably won't have a fringe. But this is a Hit New Sensation! The North Devon Journal produce a glossy two page spread on the Aspirational Entrepreneurs. Slow and aged disciples of the Shoreditch mass. Barnstaple is a 24 month time-warp. The seeds of the hipster are freshly sewn and bleed tentatively through the fabric of the high street. Swathes of 60s Swedish fabric, draped in the window display amongst über-chic mannequins and redundant whicker baskets. Aesthetics.

A little walk further, and you may stumble into Green Lanes Mall. Mighty 70's institution. Shelter for the New Look honeys. I tend to shuffle my feet past River Island after an unfortunate job interview, superficially unpleasing or something, not in line with the brand ethos or something.

In the population of 31,000, few go unseen. Foreign blood is clocked and logged and remarked on and slandered. That tart from Appledore. Archaic slips, adorable ignorance; homophobia, racism, transism, UKIPing fascists. You'll find yourself regularly wincing. "The only black girl at school", this is how she is primarily identified by peers.

And should you find yourself, unflinching explorer, in the realms of Fever, or The Rising Sun do not hesitate in smiting down any man who non-consensually gropes you. You may be the only female not donning heels, instead in a particularly unenticing pair of DMs but the sheer fact you (may) possess a vagina is incentive enough for these rapscallions to dive into a soirée of molestations. Watch you back as you walk swiftly down the high street back to your getaway car in the old cattle market car park. In the hours of darkness there is an ilk of man who revs his wagon, in convoy with his pals, full speed down the pedestrian only street. Don't go weak at the knees for a wink and a growl.

Amongst the misogynist japes and lecherous outbursts, the Barnstaple realm also homes the only women’s refuge in the entirety of Devon, homing between 50-60 families per year. A service recently jeopardized by drastic funding cuts of £2.4 million meaning the charity is now heavily reliant on it’s two charity shops operating in the town. Devon County Council have oh so much to answer for.

Birthplace of Katie Hopkins. Resting place of tedium and all that is bleak and retrograde and mundane. I'm outta here.

Things you should absolutely definitely not do on your Gap Year

Dear Me,

Intrepid 18 year old; would be voyager, fresh from the gates of sixth form. You've already torched all your unit 4 past papers and squeezed a fake plastic tear for the circumstantial friends from your form tutor you'll probably never see again, with good reason. You're drunk, both literally and figuratively; on the prospect of 12 months of self discovery and hedonism, slinking off to a foreign cave for a few weeks in late November perhaps. You don't a clue what you're fucking doing.

So here, in a insipid bullet-pointed manner is a list of non specific things you should absolutely definitely not do on your Gap Year.

• Firstly, you should certainly never make yourself an internet vow that you will capitalise on one day each week by posting a blog article. This will fundamentally never happen and you shall again find yourself stuck, ironically, back in the ritual of never actually writing.

• Get a job at a sexist dive bar called 'Fever', to which even the name connotes a hangover/venereal disease. Work this job for 3 1/2 hours in an XS t-shirt. Earn £18. Spend it on something illegal.

• Fall in love with somebody you initially met on Tinder. Immerse yourself in their life, read extensively on Socialism and Post Modernism and watching three seasons of their favourite American sitcom on Netflix. Subsequently break your own heart when they flit off to various Nordic countries for the next 15 months. They're better at writing than you will ever be. Swear profusely at your iPhone.

• Cheat on them with a tiny Italian man in an outdoor Cuban nightclub on the West Coast of India. You're a fucking idiot.

• Think that the journal you keep whilst traveling, nay, the Facebook album, nay, every hilarious hostel memory is poignant. It's not. It's eye-wateringly narcissistic and if you keep beleaguering your nearest and dearest with South East Asian anecdotes they are going to write you out of their lives.

• Attempt to keep up every single college friendship. You're doomed to failure. As you slowly watch the decay of the HASHTAGGALS group chat, jump the sinking ship. You don't like somebody? Delete them. You disagree with someone's opinion? Articulate your criticism. Life is too goddamn short to pretend to like people. Embrace the decline of cool. Listen to precisely what pleases your ears. Stop caring about music festivals. Their primary purpose is telling people you are going to this festival, their secondary is actually going.

• Promise yourself that you'll finish reading Ulysses by the end of the week. You won't do this. You'll get depressed that you didn't. Start with poetry and work yourself up from there.

• Dye your hair 'Tangerine Dream' the day after Halloween, unintentionally. You are not punk rock. The Doctor doing your travel vaccinations will laugh at you.

•  Inadvertently volunteer at an Arts Centre with over 20 men and women between the ages of 50-85. You thought you'd be helping the woman on the Media desk. Instead you're licking stamps and stuffing envelopes with the Christmas catalogue in exchange for piss warm milky tea.

• Buy a scooter. Learn to ride this scooter. Crash this scooter on a rainy afternoon skinning your ankle, heavily bruising your right elbow and unable to use the push clamp because you were riding in heels. 

• Keep smoking. You are living at home. Who are you trying to impress? It is a counteractive activity that literally burns your money. I appreciate you are depressed. It's inevitable that you are going to have low points but utilise your new found maturity and pour your air into a more constructive hobby. Take up the flute again. You used to be so good at the flute.

• Inaugurate a babysitting business in the local village. Put pastel coloured bunting on the poster to appeal to the middle class mothers because Bitches Love Bunting. Accept the friend request of one of the dads who liked your post on the local village Facebook page. This dad is a racist and you know it. He's shared 14 Britain First photos. Accepting money from racists is morally wrong.

• Take that booty call. Even if he's moving to America.

• Do not NOT spend your days in the local library researching Middle Eastern countries you have never heard of but feel like you probably should because you heard about them on Radio 4 and your stopover was in Qatar.  You'll later be approached by a man in a knitted hat whilst on a train to Exeter who'll swear blindly he spied you from behind a book last Thursday and ask what you're doing tonight. Deny all knowledge, but continue your studies.

• Let your work mate Tony think you're really Wiccan and into Tarot. You're not, you're just being polite and didn't want to discourage him when he told you he'd cast a spell for a good KPI score this morning. Click 'maybe' on his Tarot evening Facebook event. 

• Decide to change your UCAS confirmed option university mid June having had 10 months of seeming contentment and applied for accommodation and/or finance. Address your doubts. Change your course.

LOVE YOURSELF. Stay cynical xxx

Finding your Feet

Bloody hell.
There was a good period of time where I forgot clean about ever having participated in any form of amateur journalism.
If there's anything I've learnt in my 3 month writing hiatus it's that's I'm exceptionally good at procrastinating things that I enjoy doing with shittier insipid activities; such as, becoming assistant manager of a luggage shop, losing my iPhone and making a fresh post-it every morning for the past 12 weeks pledging to myself a fresh blogpost.
Your find yourself in a vicious cycle of promising yourself you will endeavour to produce a piece then finding a seemingly more important task (mine ranged from knitting a long mint coloured scarf, bumping into Matt Bellamy on a south Devon beach, gutting my bedroom, cutting my hair, painting the spare room, the list goes on) and losing faith in yourself upon the failure of completing the task in the back of your mind grinds you down. As a result you ultimately lose the passion for what you were doing in the first place which is weird, because I sure as hell enjoy the act of writing. It's odd, you just find yourself totally slumped at the though to of sitting down at the computer, and every time I saw another published article go up I just think 'what's the point?', a sickening sense of inadequacy at the inability to even produce a few hundred words. I suppose in essence I lost track of what I wanted and people took priority.
Yet we persevere, life is swimming merrily along and months have sailed away. I find myself in the gap year rut of working, soon to be, three equally dissatisfying jobs in pursuit of a month volunteering in Kerala, Southern India in February followed by some weeks of aimless wandering. Then to Sweden? It's all rather vague. Roll on Goldsmiths.
I guess this is quintessentially part of the entire 'finding yourself' cliché. A kick up the arse and a stern 'ELINOR GET BACK ON THE HORSE' because I'm telling you now, I'd hidden the goddamn saddle.
Here's my pledge of a piece a day, let's see how it goes.

Heineken Open'er festival: The Far Out Stance

Bustling with flocks of fellow pundits, the Gdynian festival opened it's doors on Tuesday to swells of avid European muso's. Now in it's 12th year, the 2014 edition of the Heineken Open'er festival has earned a reputation as a staple in the musical calendar as well as a beery affair. With early bird tickets to the four day shenanigans equating to around a modest £90, the festival comes at a snip of many traditional UK festi's and with a lineup ranging from Pearl Jam to Foals to 90s throwback Faith No More, well, you might as well nip over?

Far Out; swept along on the Tuesday morning arrived to the sparsely green former airstrip, pitching up to a questionable soundtrack of Estonian bred Mockney rap, with the backdrop of (subtlety put) interchangeable weather. 

Wednesday

Wednesday's night kicked off with alt-rock lords Interpol christening the Open'er stage for 2014, rousing the throngs to old favourites such as 'Say Hello to the Angels', addressing spectators with a dumbfounded 'SHIT!' charming them with signature ballads from times long before Far Out’s conception, lending to an feeling of distance.

Next we made our way to an ingeniously named Tent Stage to sample the glorious electro popping Metronomy. Ditching the white blazer formalities and adorning instead co-ordinating denim jackets, they administered a delectable measure of old and new stretching  the bands three albums, Love Letters to Radio Ladio, culminating in a stirring rendition of The Bay, monumentally foot-tappingly good, embellished with neon lights and evoking hearty hip swings. As my fellow Devonians shimmied their appreciation, the enjoyment was asserted as lead singer Joe declared the crowd 'absolutely wonderful', we were left blushing.

Next on Wednesdays agenda was The Black Keys. The duo, drenched in monochrome graphics flashing with lurid colours summoned tempestuous Blues Rock.  they nonchalantly blasted crowd pleasing Old School Rock, Wednesday headliners injecting a fresh performance to faces less so, with Preprassams' aplenty amongst smiling spectators. Haim’s gracing of the Tent Stages week after their Glastonbury performance left one with the taste of being somewhat second rate though still a triumphant and multifaceted performance, Este delivering characteristic bass-gun and dubbing us the ‘best fucking crowd’. Jamie xx concluded the evenings revelry, taking to the Beat Stage; almost reminiscent of a budget hall of mirrors with drapes of silver reflective ribbons clinging to the walls. With an aura of effortless cool, xx drops his own remix of ‘Sunset’, lovingly lapped up alongside new track ‘all under one house raving’ clinching the set as a resounding booty shaking success, despite Far Out wilting somewhat. 

Thursday

Thursday’s second day shenanigans were tenderly opened by MGMT with a 7:00 slot . Warped and jaunty trip inducing graphics complemented the laid back display though a little prematurely psychedelic for well behaved observers. Smile evoking ‘Time to Pretend’ was a heady voyage through the absurdly addled realms of narcotised minds and splayed with harpsichord and synths, backdropped by the image of a scantily clad flexing blonde kaleidoscopically contorting through distinctly Yellow Submarine stylised images merged with pixelated digital birds. Hallucinogenic lullabies aplenty, ‘electric feel’ predictably threw arms and minds back to fond flashes of 2007. Before making a tactical dash to Jagwar Ma, ‘Kids’ saw formerly static collective thawing upon the removal of the lead singer Andrew VanWyngarden’s sunglasses and taking a leisurely stroll along the front row during leading to him acquiring a garishly coloured tie dye jumper that we slings merrily over his shoulder. Alt Stage victors Ma claimed it as their own, oozing Ozzie eccentricity from the electro-psych-indie trio, favouring ‘Man I Need’ ‘The Throw’ and ‘Come Save Me’ lovingly lapped up by a haze of dazed and happily glazed expressions. An exemplary performance and definitely one of Open’er 2014’s finest.

Pearl Jam soundtracked our eve of woozy hedonism as we stocked up on Heineken given the veritable cubic white palace embellished with the logo conveniently alongside the main stage though sadly forcing customers to a separate fenced district making the humble pint seeking brit feel a little like a raging alcoholic for merely seeking a simultaneous shimmy and sip. Glancing the hoards of giggling middle aged men Far Out made a hasty amble to the silent disco, located in an intensely atmospheric disused airplane hold (given the festival is held on a former airport) and was delightfully dingy mainstream interlude, the Black Eyes Peas wriggling down your cochlear providing a light relief from the gruelling looking PJ troupes congregating. After all, who can last four days without a shamefully shitty binge? Wince inducing Rudimental were swiftly avoided in favour of Maya Jane Coles who whilst relaying a dance safe set, failed to recreate the bliss of Jamie xx’s initial night.

Friday

Day three was ignited on the Open’er stage by the enticing equestrian ensemble Foals and saw a classic single spanning setlist of ‘My Number’ ‘Blue Blood’ and no frills, evocative simplicity was the order of the day for a naturally harrowing rendition of Spanish Sahara; producing the curious effect of half the crowd sitting down mid-mosh cross legged, much to the confusion of the remaining half. ‘Inhaler’ erupted in a fist swingingly raw Math Rock riot before a predictable concluding ‘Two Steps, Twice’ saw the infamous solo stroll, nevertheless not failing to produce a satisfying finale of Oxford intricacies, crowd pleasing, though with an element of the formulaic. 

Wild Beats next toasted a hearty looking glass of Red to expectant onlookers who they quickly deemed ‘FIT’ with vocals from Tom Fleming annoyingly reminiscent of Dry the River, the new material shone through with the initial ‘Mecca’ and Jools favoured ‘Simple Beautiful Truth’.

Gliding past the whirl of stripy Polish enigma that was ‘Mela Kotelek’ whilst stocking up on the eve’s liquid fuel, Far Out wandered adamantly over to Friday’s headliner, the hugely anticipated Jack White.

After the pretentious move of the pre-gig ‘no images to be taken it detracts from the performance yada yada’, one is left a little with a somewhat bitter taste and the feeling of daylight robbery of a deserved Instagram post, but hey, it’s Jack fucking White. He does what he wants. 

‘High Ball Stepper’ was a superlative opener and saw White brandishing a rather questionable white hat, though in fitting with the look of recent album ‘Lazaretto’. ‘Hotel Yorba’ and ‘You Don’t Know What Love Is’ played an important reminder of reminding revellers of White’s exceptional career involving himself in The Raconteurs (‘Steady as She Goes’) and current solo work. ‘I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends’ is a sweet and amorous acoustic number that sees a Meg doppleganger assist on vocals. Despite White’s apologies for his poor vocal quality given his recent run of dates he delivers an almighty, phenomenal rendition of ‘Icky Thump’ brazen with the sticky, seductive unapologetic Rock of ’07’s Stripes. 

White concludes thanking God, Lykke Li, Pearl Jam and (amusingly/awkwardly) The Black Keys who appeared two days before on the same bill. Proceeding the recent controversy of leaked emails between White and his former wife, he appears courteous, alluding to his recent divorce with ‘My mother says not to come home unless I have a Polish wife!’.

Fleeing still in a fog of fondly prepubescent anthems, Far Out made a hasty dash to the Tent Stage for the much hyped BANKS. Majestic and sultry, the LA vocalist growls over thudding electro, praising the art of catharsis in ‘I want everyone to feel like a goddess’ preceding the track ‘Goddess’ as she empoweringly flits over the stage. 

Friday night is finally closed with Lykke Li on the Open’er Stage, the notoriously melancholic Swede, swathed in a silver bat wing number. ‘Dance, Dance, Dance’ and ‘Little Bit’ help to break up the bleak heartbreak depression of Li’s set, even strangely interspersing the beginning to ‘Drunk In Love’ between songs to stimulate a slow dance. A bleak spectrum, Li’s stage was hung with translucent grey drapes and a somewhat fatigued crowd merrily obliged to ‘No Rest for the Wicked’ welcoming the heartbreak hymns and mourning melodies of failed romantic endeavours. ‘Get Some’ was a triumphant finish, though marred by the couple alongside Far Out who wholly misjudged the song’s intent, choosing to repeatedly lock lips in the least romantic gesture since the dawning of time on the line ‘I’m your prostitute, you gon’ get some’.

Saturday

The fourth and final day of the four day festival saw The Horrors claiming the Open’er Stage, a jolly looking Farris sporting a stripy T-shirt and characteristic black jeans, as parodied by the Mighty Boosh, it was nice to see that despite the addition of recent 80s influenced ‘Luminous’ tracks, some things never change. Stand out ‘Sea Within a Sea’ and the penultimate belter ‘Still Life’ defined the experience, a tirelessly euphoric and uplifting track that may have done better to conclude the set. Void of the punk-ish brashness of first album ‘Strange House’ it clearly defined the constant progressive, evolving nature of the elusive band.

Glancing only the first few minutes of the Saturday headliners ‘Faith No More’ (who bedecked the stage in all white and potted plants) in favour of Daughter on the Tent Stage for a foreseeably emotive and delicate state of affairs from Elena Tonra, lighters in the air, handkerchiefs on standby.

The real anticipation however was for Warpaint who put on the most emancipating, triumphant spectacle of unapologetic female ferocity from the all girl troupe, hailed on tumblr as iconic (see ‘fuckyeahjennylee.tumblr.com’). Moody, captivating and tenaciously, murkily, fightingly punk, despite technical hiccups that resulted in the mid play re-start of opening song ‘Keep it Healthy’, submerged in teals and reds. The new album is disparate from the subtle acoustic delicacy of the first’s ‘Billie Holiday’. Instead, ‘Love is To Die’ and ‘Disco//Very’ shone through, the latter seeing guitarist Emily Kokal take a lengthy gander into the swarms before an encore of ‘No Way Out’ and ‘Elephants’.

Giving Phoenix a wiggle to final track ‘Entertainment’, the French squad lifted the spirits of the fourth night with a nutritious little dose of Indie-Pop that merged into the last act Julio Bashmore on the Beat Stage. We danced, then fled into the night after the final ‘oh baby’ of ‘Au Seve’.

WORDS OF ADVICE:

• It’s a real smorgasbord of talent with a long standing history of bagging some big old headliners. There’s art installations and more eateries than you can shake a stick at on site as well as a theatre and a runway in the Fashion Stage. Prepare yourself for some exceptionally suave looking contemporaries.
• Impeccably polite and accommodating locals. The security guards even zipped our bags back up after ransacking them for contraband. Adorable.
• Don’t cast yourself as the classic ignorant tourist. Go the extra mile and learn some Polish.
• For the love of god, bring water with you. 80p for half a litre is definitely not ok, particularly when it’s 6AM and you’re feeling a little worse for wear.
• On a health basis this is probably not going to be your finest hour. Beautifully cheap vodka and cigarettes are easily sourced, at the consumer’s peril.
• Hot showers, like, every day. That’s all I need to say.

Blaenavon, Prague Track Review for Far Out Magazine

Comprising of Ben Gregory, Frank White and Harris McMillan all a tender 19, Blaenavon categorise themselves as ‘ghost jazz’ group, which certainly rings true with an near morbid tone on track ‘Prague’. ‘They’ll steal you soul and turn the men to gold’ Gregory solemnly assures you, delivering lines that depict ‘blood red skies’ though lulled with dulcet vocals.

A band emerging as part of the seemingly swelling Brighton music scene, Blaenavon command stirring lyricism alongside melodies forged by the generation influenced by the The Maccabees and Bombay Bicycle Club. ‘Prague’ is plucked from the polished KOSPO EP put out last year on transgressive recordings and is a golden, swelling anthem brushed with an air of sadness. Angst driven, Prague paints almost a dysptopian lyrical landscape and upholding musical simplicity to a commanding effect, bubbling to a fierce climax at 4:20.

The three piece are scheduled this summer for Warlingham based ‘Leefest’ as well as the the ‘Iceland Airwaves’ festival and a one off date at ‘Le Travendo’ in Paris in late July.

And as they so charmingly proclaim, Blaenavon do indeed prove to be ‘3 boys with a story to tell’, with ‘Prague’ asserting this first chapter as one not to skim over.

http://faroutmagazine.co.uk/blaenavon-prague/

Open'er Festival preview for Far Out Magazine

Starting today, Gdynia’s own ‘Open’er’ festival is a polished Polish gem and a penny pleasing Glasto alternative for pleasure seeking, financially savvy Brits.

Set on Kosakowo Airport, Open’er boasts six stages and is a four day pledge of ferocious musical energy with the allure of (equally?) satisyingly cheap beers. This years lineup presents an array of potential headliners in their own right with Foals, The Horrors, Jack White, Metronomy, The Black Keys, Pearl Jam and Warpaint, spanning the genres with the likes of Jamie xx, Julio Bashmore and Mary Jane Coles taking to the Beat Stage.

Open’er presents a plethora of best UK and US Indie/Alternative artists whilst simultaneously showcasing the best of the Polish music scene with artists such as Król and Pablopavo i Ludziki sharing stages with the quintesentially British Ben Howard.

A lynchpin of the emerging European festivals scene and putting many back home to shame, Open’er 2014 sets expectations suitably high.

You can expect a comprehensive review of Poland’s prime beersmusical party in the coming days. Eyes peeled.

http://faroutmagazine.co.uk/opener-festival-gdynia-poland/