16th Ypsigrock

Is there a better festival than Ypsigrock in Italy? In its provocative naivety, such a question is meant to spark reflection: is it really possible that an event run on a volunteer basis by a few dozen young residents of a town of just a few thousand souls in the heart of Sicily, with scant funding and low expectations of economic profit, manages to be a model of hospitality, logistical efficiency and quality? One need only compare the partners and patron organisations of this event with those of the other summer festivals dotting the national landscape, pale by comparison, to get a rough idea of how far passion alone can go toward achieving great things. The festival's main stage, set in a striking square dominated by the Castello dei Ventimiglia — built under Aragonese rule and boasting a disarming stylistic eclecticism (Arab, Norman and Swabian tastes coexist within it) — has over the years hosted artists such as Blonde Redhead, Motorpsycho, Patrick Wolf, Ulan Bator, Bonnie "Prince" Billy, Rother & Moebius, Mouse on Mars, Dinosaur Jr., Gang of Four, These New Puritans, Kula Shaker, Pere Ubu and Mogwai. The overwhelming success (sold out) of the fifteenth edition, which featured — among others — the last two artists on that mouth-watering list, has set the kids of the "Glenn Gould" Cultural Association a categorical imperative: to make the sixteenth edition a memorable one.

Of Montreal

It falls to Kevin Barnes' men to open the bill of headliners (first, though, there's room for two young Italian bands, Gentless3 and Altre di B, winners — along with VeneziA — of the contest the organisation runs for emerging acts). Having played a few tracks from their latest work, "Paralytic Stalks", the American band lingers over the material from what is probably their best-loved album (even if probably not their best), "Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?". They amply confirm their reputation as great live performers, with a set in which Barnes' glam sparkle — Steve Harley-style — merges with bursting disco grooves tinged with psych-funk. It's on the closing track, the kraut-tinged "The Past Is A Grotesque Animal", that the crowd's involvement — loudly demanding an encore that never comes — reaches its peak. Fun, in full command of their means and their aesthetic, and instrumentally flawless.

Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks

Disappointment over their performance was foretold. Finding yourself in the presence of what is probably the greatest composer and performer of the entire American indie-rock scene of the Nineties is always a thrill, but expecting the magic of Pavement to live on through the sonic weave of Malkmus's Portland-based project is, at the very least, presumptuous. The band plays well, its leader seems in great shape, but the crowd's engagement is slow to arrive, and not even snatches of New Order's "Age Of Consent" and the Doors' "LA Woman" tacked onto the tail of "Us" manage to hold the attention of a crowd that has already spent all its energy during Of Montreal's explosive set.

They close with "Summer Babe". The front rows appreciate it and sing along by heart — proof that SM's absolute authority is still universally acknowledged — but the band decides not to grant the (scheduled) encore. "I just didn't feel like it, I'm too tired," Malkmus mutters backstage. "I don't think it makes sense to carry on," his contrite eyes seem to say.

Shabazz Palaces

After a solid set from Turin's Did, it's the turn of the authors of one of the most interesting hip-hop releases of recent years. Seemingly thrown into the bubbling cauldron only because they're signed to Sub Pop, the American duo immediately prove only partly out of step with the festival's aesthetic. Despite the grumbling of purists unwilling to get their flannel shirts dirty, the leaden, clattering afro-hop of Ishmael Butler and Tendai Maraire proves stimulating and engaging. The possibilities offered by laptop, sequencer and percussion seem endless, and the expectations raised by "Black Up" — much lauded on these shores — are duly met. What doesn't quite convince is the pair's attitude toward the crowd, perhaps perceived as too distant from what's on offer musically.

We Were Promised Jetpacks

They respond well to the disbelief sparked by the less-than-memorable "In The Pit Of The Stomach", released by Fat Cat in 2011. The four young Edinburgh lads, authors of a post-punk that's fashionable but at times bland and at times rhapsodic, immediately impress the crowd with an opener of unmatched epic drive. It's "Keeping Warm", the surging track that opens their debut album. The rest of the set certainly can't be said to live up to that majestic overture, but the band plays superbly, and Adam Thompson's thick, imposing voice — backed by Michael Palmer's guitar drive and Darren Lackie's percussion — wins over the crowd.

Fuck Buttons

Fans of the Bristol duo (whose new album is now imminent) should brace themselves. Everyone else should keep a safe distance from the product. Yes, because during Power and Hung's set a couple of hundred people left the square, worn down by the din. As understandable as such a reaction might be, credit must go to Fuck Buttons for delivering a set that was memorable, however exhausting. The volume is extremely high, almost unbearable, and the pair unsheathe from their strictly analogue setup an unbroken hour-long anthology of the most energetic, noise-drenched ambient-techno. Coming out unscathed from such a whirlwind of tribal-kraut charges, deafening drones and manic sampling was no easy feat — credit to Fuck Buttons for unleashing such a sonic catastrophe.

Alt-J

"We've never played anywhere so beautiful, I'm still buzzing," Joe Newman, singer-guitarist and spokesman for the young British outfit, candidly lets slip once he's off stage. The Arab-Norman-style castle, the packed square, the starry sky over the Madonie mountains, the strobe lights chasing each other between stage and crowd — an atmosphere that would move even the least sentimental of souls. An atmosphere made even more enchanted by the dreamy musical textures skilfully woven by this extraordinary young band. They play the whole of their "An Awesome Wave", trapping the listener now in the folktronic claws of "Matilda", now in the enveloping arrangements of "Breezeblocks" and "Fitzpleasure". They close with the magic of the ethnic-tinged "Taro". Flawless in execution — the only thing one could ask of them is to work on their stage presence and impact, still a touch weak.

Django Django

Honest standard-bearers called to march ahead of the national heroes. They come from Scotland's other metropolis, Edinburgh, but aren't fazed by the fact that Primal Scream will take the stage right after them. They handle technical hitches well, win over the crowd with their slightly freaky immediacy, and keep things fun and danceable amid multicoloured detours through Beta Band whimsy, Morricone-esque western flourishes and Yardbirds-tinged garage turns. On "Waveforms" and "Default", the cobblestones seem to vibrate.

Primal Scream

They're the headliners of this edition of Ypsigrock, but they'd probably be the headliners of any music event. That's because when Bobby Gillespie, Martin Duffy, Andrew Innes, Darrin Mooney and Debbie Googe (of My Bloody Valentine, standing in for Mani, who's on tour with Stone Roses) take the stage, it's rock'n'roll itself that takes the stage. They are its latest and most convincing incarnation, the band that more than any other has managed to reinvent and modernize its codes, keeping its poses alive without ever slipping into nostalgia and without ever catching a reactionary fever. Born as some of the finest exponents of the C-86 gospel, they went on to become undisputed masters of acid-house and the whole baggy scene, passed through blues-rock territory in the mid-90s, and then again stood as standard-bearers of the "chemical generation" with the psych-rave masterpieces of the early 2000s. They take the stage duly dolled up and immediately warm up the crowd with a new song ("2012"). They carry on with a devastating "Swastika Eyes" and a spine-tingling "Movin' Up Now" - preceded by an adventurous dedication to Pier Paolo Pasolini: around two thousand five hundred people sing along to "My Life Shines On". Bobby G looks in dazzling form: he sings, screams, dances, moves the crowd and gets moved himself (stumbling on stage), graceful in his dark suit and striking poses worthy of peak Jagger.

They mainly play tracks from "Screamadelica" (no "Higher Than The Sun". As compensation, a heart-melting "Come Together", "Slip Inside Your House" and "Damaged") and "Xtrmntr" ("Accelerator", "Shoot Speed, Kill Light"), guaranteeing a live show with no dip in tension, even during the inevitable - in the repertoire of true rockstars - "ballad moment". It's the wild, driving rhythm of "Loaded" that sublimates the peak of excitement, when the barriers refuse to stay put and even the security staff struggle to hold back the dancing urge. "Do you want a rock song?", Gillespie asks the ecstatic crowd, who answer "yes" three times over. The grand finale with "Rocks" duly follows. Primal Scream thus leave the stage, but not Sicily: in fact, they trade part of their fee for the rental of a lavish villa near Palermo, where they stay with their respective families for a week, almost as if to recall the summer of excess the Stones spent at Villa Nellcôte in 1971.

However curious it may seem, the magic of Ypsigrock is far from over here. When the gates of the square close, those of the camping area open. Here, showcases (Boxeur The Coeur, Everybody Tesla) and dj-sets (the much-loved Shirt vs. T-shirt) take place, running well into the morning. Dj-sets that go on almost as long as the queues at the bar in the amenities area, where a few coins won't get you the usual festival-stall trinkets, but rather parmigiana, caponata, local sausage and other regional delicacies. It's precisely the location that is one of the festival's strengths: spending three days in Castelbuono, the ancient Ypsigro - a charming medieval village in the Madonie mountains just a few kilometers from some of Italy's most beautiful seaside spots (Cefalù, Sant'Ambrogio, Finale di Pollina, Castel di Tusa, literally overrun by festival campers) - means spending three days away from the sweltering heat plaguing the rest of the country in the first half of August, at a low cost, in a pleasant setting, with the chance to catch top-tier concerts. It's for these and a thousand other reasons that, amid the balsamic scents of pistachios and peonies, on the road back, lined with prickly pears and almond-pear trees, a question naturally arises: is there a better festival than Ypsigrock in Italy?

Ride the wave of great music

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