End Of The Road

If we agree that curiosity is essential to fully enjoying music, then it's easy to understand why, after four editions of End Of The Road, one might feel the need for a change, even while suspecting - having only tried one other, the Route du Rock - that it might be the best possible festival for one's own needs and tastes, at least on this side of the Atlantic.

As the years go by and the surprise at how the music manifests itself at the festival - the stages, the crowd, the surroundings, including the weather and the obligatory camping if you don't have a car - fades into mere anticipation of the line-up reveal, you start wanting to discover other wor(l)ds, to step outside the narrow orbit of genres the festival usually touches on, which, given its growing fame, is starting to (dangerously?) flirt with the mainstream, as shown by the Sunday double-bill of Graham Coxon and Patti Smith.

This is an essential premise for understanding the faint disappointment lingering after this fourth edition of the festival. Not so much because of what happened on stage, but rather because of the sharp anti-climax that marked pretty much every day of the festival, which closed with bitter disappointments on two occasions (Midlake and Villagers) and with a feeling somewhere between dazed, self-satisfied and drowsy on another occasion (Grizzly Bear).

In both cases the disappointment stems from a deflation of inspiration, with both bands playing a good chunk of their forthcoming album. Things took on almost tragic tones with Midlake, who were so delighted by the crowd's response - as usual, mainly to the songs from "Van Occupanther" - that they said: "you're making us go back to work on the new record with a smile on our faces," gushing with flattery toward Simon Raymonde, the Bella Union boss spotted by their side all day long, practically glued to them. But while the songs of "The Courage Of Others" could at least be said to exist, however trapped in their limbo of mossy forests and hopelessly outdated wrappings, the new ones simply never take shape, left hanging on some vague harmonization, prematurely drowned in cacophonous endings, in an emptied-out lament.

Villagers, on the other hand, have few ideas, and confused ones at that, trying everything at once for the new record: from Wham!-style b-sides to post-rock à la The Band. Only the attitude of Conor O'Brien and his band has changed, as they seem to genuinely believe in this new creature, the deformed sibling of the perfectly proportioned "Becoming A Jackal," with its twilight, enchanting folk-pop.

As for Grizzly Bear, it's hard to speak badly of them. But what's left after one of their shows, besides Rossen's guitar work, Droste's voice soaring, and "Two Weeks"? A mosaic of disjointed impressions, impossible to piece back into any clear, precise message.

But of course, an anti-climax also implies a high point, and the first to deliver one is Jonathan Wilson, who also deserves credit for "opening" the festival, which matters when you've only just arrived and have already sat through a couple of so-so sets (Lawrence Arabia, whose repertoire is unfortunately rather flimsy, pleasant as it may be on a surface level, and Hannah Cohen, so green and awkward that she forgot whose cover she was performing; a shame, but given her age and the quality of her record, there's no need to make a fuss).

Almost a one man band (if not for a few interjections from the "organist"), Wilson is a great musician and, to a lesser extent, a composer; his songs flow along as if charged with tantric energy even during ten-minute stretches, propelled by his vast knowledge of the hidden corners of harmony and the remarkable skill with which he steers its course, without ever turning it into a display of technique. That said, while his show is well worth seeing for anyone, Wilson still can't quite shake the sense of being, above all, one of the most skilled craftsmen of contemporary retro-revivalism, extremely adept - brilliant, even - at recreating an atmosphere, an imagery (the mystical transfiguration of landscape, pantheism, and so on). But will he ever manage to offer something that truly sounds like his own?

Well, before diving into what is surely a much-anticipated discussion of the difference between artist and craftsman, another, lesser anti-climax delivers the festival's true highlight: Roy Harper, linked to Wilson not just by the fact that he had just performed and thus invites an easy comparison - though by no means a generational one (just look at Patti Smith's performance at Sanremo, even if perhaps we Italians are hopelessly stuck with the endlessly recycled image of the cursed rock star, etc.) - but also by the collaboration that will see Wilson producing Harper's new album (according to Jonathan himself, due out next March/April).

If art really means having understood something about life and feeling the need to give that small store of wisdom, along with yourself, to others until the very end, then Harper stands as one of the finest examples of what we commonly mean by "artist." His set on the Woods Stage, the largest of the six that afternoon, has all the makings of the heroic, a word almost as overused as "genius." The crowd's affection for one of the most important - and least recognized - figures in the history of singer-songwriting is palpable, and Poseidon-like Roy conducts its waves with his relentless, booming voice (closing with "Me And My Woman," a moment that will linger in memory), and with the metallic pull of his guitar - a true tectonic force of the soul, released in an unstoppable, torrential flow. It's not often you leave a stage with a lump in your throat. That emotion slowly dissolves thanks to a "new" John Grant, who almost entirely abandons the trusty synth with which he had upended the heartbreaking songs (the title track overflowing here too) of "Queen Of Denmark" last year, returning instead to a more fitting "voice and piano" setup, accompanied by violin and drums. Unfortunately, the songs from his new record, currently being recorded in Iceland, got lost in the overlap.

Saturday opens instead with Deep Dark Woods, who don't particularly benefit from the biggest stage (especially Ryan Boldt's booming voice) but still hold their heads high above the sea of journeymen of the genre that crowds End Of The Road. Dark Dark Dark, on the other hand, stand out as something of a crossover between the festival's genres: on one side, frontwoman Nona Marie Invie's melodic sensibility and sense of drama, reminiscent of Legrand; on the other, arrangements built around accordion and trumpet. The result, a decidedly tricky chamber-gypsy pop, still proves captivating live, where Invie takes an even more central role in the band's sound, perhaps a bit too much so.

After Sigur Rós doing piano-bar impressions - which is basically what the Antlers have become, not even attempting to reproduce the muffled atmospheres of "Undersea" on stage - comes the festival's only (half) surprise, which is scarce partly because the average quality level is far higher than in the past, so there's almost always something worth seeing. It's French artist Yann Tambour, aka Stranded Horse, who finally ventures into a European folk digression from the Americana that otherwise reigns supreme. It's hard, though, not to write off his performances on the beloved kora, the Malian string instrument that also graces the cover of "Humbling Tides," as a bit precious (much like his music in general, if we're being harsh), especially when his guitar-based pieces prove far more incisive, evocative, and even engaging.

After an evening closed out by Grizzly Bear and preceded by a set caught from a distance by Alabama Shakes, one of the festival's most anticipated bands, known to everyone by now for their fiery live shows and so on, plus a quick stop for the start of Tindersticks, who confirm that the spoken-word piece is the best moment of their latest record, gorgeous live too, a rather intense Sunday begins - though, unexpectedly, its best moment turns out to be the very first: Doug Paisley, a fine entertainer and heartfelt songwriter, ready to make the most of the smooth tracks from the latest "Constant Companion," steeped in their own lonely humanity, if only somewhat reluctantly.

Next up are the widely and repeatedly recommended Shivers, who nonetheless don't stray far from the gut-driven, gravelly country-blues of Deer Tick, with whom they have in fact collaborated. A far different impression, as expected, comes from the towering Richard Buckner, backed by a surprise Italian band - whose name we manage to piece together after careful spelling out, Sacri Cuori - who deserve plenty of credit for the collaboration, apparently set to culminate in the recording of Buckner's next album. His set isn't exactly the freshest, not easy to fully appreciate after a few hours of concerts already, and he seems to mask some vocal trouble through sheer interpretive skill, while the lead guitar contribution feels a touch too conventional compared to the jagged, purely gothic impressions of "Our Blood" - but here we're still in Harper territory, so to speak.

After a couple of misfires (Willis Earl Beal, only really worth watching from a purely athletic standpoint, and Justin Townes Earle, another journeyman) and the solid Porcelain Raft and Woods (who have dropped their krautrock excursions), it's time for Nick Talbot's Gravenhurst (who you'd expect to have more stage presence, for some reason), playing a set that lasts just half an hour, unfortunately cut short by a broken string on the acoustic. Great moments though on "Saints" from "Western Lands" and on "In Miniature," even if Gravenhurst could use a bit more live embellishment (a lead guitar, maybe?).

It ends this way, an experience that's always great, full, and worth recommending to everyone, even to those who aren't particularly into music, one you'd wish to have right around the corner – not for convenience, but as a sign of a shift in how music is conceived here.

Photo contributions by Francesca Baiocchi.

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