So, Andrew W.K. is in town – and you should all know the drill by now. Tall guy, white t-shirt, keyboard, backing track, songs about partying, having parties, partying till you puke, being ready to party…well, you get the idea. Tonight the few that managed to get tickets (and make it through the baffling support acts – which can simply be described as an oversized man with a giant balloon for a head and a Ted Danson lookalike starring in a budget vampire movie) and withstand the sweat-pit that is upstairs at The Old Blue Last were rewarded with a ‘Don’t Look Back’ style performance of the 2001 album I Get Wet and a particularly large dose of reckless abandon.

Andrew W.K. hadn’t even finished the first line of opening track ‘It’s Time To Party’ before the stage was invaded and the phrase audience participation was taken to new heights. The entire set was sung with his arms around fans, passing the microphone amongst the crowd, even leaving it with one guy so his hands were free to crowd surf across the room and back again. Despite being mobbed and pulled about the stage from start to finish, the grin never disappeared from his face. This is how he likes it – being able to spread his message of peace, love and happiness through rock and roll, stage diving and, not to forget, partying. An unforgettable night for those lucky enough to witness it.

Keep your eyes peeled for a rather special Andrew W.K. interview coming soon to ROTR.

xox

Opening the night were female duo PLUG, keeping it simple with drums, bass and vocals.  Really it’s slightly too simple, although the drummer/singer has a beautiful, haunting voice and some amusing lyrics involving ‘coma/comb over’ wordplay. LITTLE DEATH are part Cure on a happy day, part Pixes on an average day, but mostly Manic Street Preachers in the older days, mainly due to the Bradfield-style vocals.  They would have won the prize for most attractive band of the night – and I’m sure there were a fair few guys converted by the bassist’s stage outfit. 

Live, TITUS ANDRONICUS turn the already raucous yet catchy (and sometimes slightly shambolic-sounding) tracks from their album The Airing of Grievances in to, well, even more raucous and catchy, yet far from shambolic, ones.  At times it seems like Tim Armstrong has grown an impressive beard and stolen Andrew WK’s keyboard, and at others like The Jesus and Mary Chain have recruited a harmonica player and started writing songs about the American Civil War. In all fairness that sounds pretty dubious, but it couldn’t be further from it.

The set starts loud and fast, still managing to pick up pace as it goes on, and after a splash of 50’s surf and an energetic cover of The Modern Lovers’ ‘Roadrunner’, even the crowd stuck to back wall are moving. By the time they get around to playing the self-named ‘Titus Andronicus’, which has more than a ring of Nirvana circa ‘Molly’s Lips’ to it, people at the front have got the right idea and have start a riotous, if slightly sparse mosh-pit, that frontman Patrick Stickles is welcomed into during the closing minutes.  You can’t help but dance to this stuff, and more than that, you want to get covered in someone else’s beer, grab the person next to you, jump up and down and sing along like you’re listening to the Pogues.  Just as it should be.

ROTR were nothing short of jubilant when it was announced that the first of this year’s ATP weekends was to return to its roots at Camber Sands, after growth led the festival to the sprawling and soulless Minehead in 2006. Rather than doing a blow-by-blow run down set by set, ROTR have selected their highlights. Enjoy.

 Thrown in at the deep end on the opening afternoon, Memphis’ garage punk wunderkid (although he’s now 28) Jay Reatard’s set became instant legend among those there in time to catch it, and a sore point for those who were not. Ploughing through an album’s worth of material – which didn’t make for a long set given most of his tracks are around a minute long – he cut quite a figure, all long brown curls and thrashing flying V. Garth-a-like drummer Billy Hayes and  bass boy Steven Pope sealed the deal on this Bermuda-triangle of fast-forward Adverts-inspired punk noise, heavier in the flesh than on record, and over before you had time to wonder what he looked like under all that hair.

 The other day a friend asked me “Is it okay to like Vampire Weekend? I can’t work out if it is or not”. A few months previously I had faced the very same internal struggle when the band’s self-titled debut found its way on to my iPod. If they were from London I would hate them. I really hope they don’t wear trouser braces. Are they posh? There must be a reason for me to hate this band. All these issues scuttled through my mind.  The fact is that when I was asked the question, I didn’t even take a breath before answering. “Yes. Of course it’s okay. They’re amazing.”

And amazing they were taking to the main stage Friday teatime. Ivy League indie dressed in head-to -toe Gap (with the possible exception of the keyboard player – American Apparel til he dies) doesn’t look too good on paper, but in practice Vampire Weekend are nothing short of boy wonders – writing superbly crafted, catchy African-tinged pop songs  laced with witty observations of college life. Live the tracks are stripped back yet maintain detail where it is important, and a set that is essentially a shuffled run down of the album in its entirety falls together perfectly.

Yeah that’s it.