Primavera Sound 2012

A festival, a microcosm

Born initially as an electronic music-only festival and later reshaped and expanded to embrace much of the world's alternative rock scene, now in its eighth edition and, starting this year, followed by a second leg in Porto (a kind of encore/appendix), San Miguel Primavera Sound 2012 takes place within the sprawling backdrop of Barcelona. The central events ran from Thursday 31 May to Saturday 2 June, but other introductory dates, from live shows to conferences, had already kicked off earlier in the month. Every event of the festival seems to serve a precise introductory function, as though building a path through time toward the heart of it all, like a kind of constellation, a microcosm.
One of the most important series of events takes place at the Arc De Triomf, where a colossal half-dome stage was set up, which this year runs right up to the eve of the main events. Walkmen (highly emotional) and Black Lips (pyrotechnic and unruly) thus fired up the tensest, most packed appetizer of the festival. As if that weren't enough, the same stage brings things full circle by also hosting the closing acts on Sunday 3 June, headlined this year by Yann Tiersen, caught between subtle minimalism (and very little "Amelie") and a wealth of folk-rock eclecticism, Balkan and ethnic flavors, and at times pure muscular post-rock. That's more than enough, in any case, to introduce the audience to much of the atmosphere they'll breathe over the following three days: technology, crowds, tension and positive vibrations.

A brief diary of stages and artists

The heart of the festival's events takes place at Parc Del Forum, a vast area bordering the sea right in the middle of Diagonal Mar, able to host as many as seven large stages (Main, Mini, Rayban, Atp, Pitchfork, Vice and Adidas Originals), two smaller ones for preliminary or acoustic shows (Rayban Unplugged and Smint), as well as the equally sizeable Auditori Rockdelux space, the Redbull Bus, plus stalls, areas for press and industry professionals, and food stands of every kind. The whole setup is nothing short of imposing, a sort of self-contained microcosm whose crowd flow is managed through electronic badges handed out before the shows.
The Auditori, access to which requires a dedicated pass and which often clashes with other acts across the three days, hosts shows such as the commemoration of Big Star's "Third", the returning Jeff Mangum and Buffy Sainte-Marie, Michael Gira and Marianne Faithfull.

From a thematic-stylistic standpoint, the division between stages seems clear, almost to the point of taxonomy: the Auditori hosts the "adult" shows, the Mini and Rayban host the old and new, small and big confirmed names, the Pitchfork stage hosts artists sponsored by the famous webzine (by now a world unto itself), the Vice stage covers the angrier side of alternative rock (mostly punk and metal), the Main stage gets the obvious big names, the Atp handles the experimental dimension, and the Adidas stage is reserved for niche artists. Pitchfork is the stage with the most fragmentary lineup, almost a festival within the festival; Rayban is the most flawless and powerful-sounding; Vice comes closest to something raw and visceral; Atp is the hardest and purest – perhaps the best of them all.
But overall, the flawless organization and the jaw-dropping technical quality of the sound systems manage to turn every single show into an executional masterpiece, an hour-long acoustic delight (plus a half-hour break between artists), perfectly balanced between bass power and treble purity, distortion magic and the total absence of reverb – something that, on its own, is worth half the ticket price.

The three no-shows, a couple announced days in advance (Bjork, Death Grips), one announced the very same day (Melvins) and one nobody saw coming (Sleep), did little to dent the turnout, the spirit or the enthusiasm of the thousands in attendance. What follows is a selection, in chronological and daily order (with stage specified), of the acts we consider the most important of the whole event.

Thursday, May 31

One of the first shows on Thursday the 31st is by Friends, a new outfit with all the credentials to break through the hype machine (even if, in practice, they're still struggling), but underneath it all radiating a thoroughly retro, Motown-steeped taste, reaching the pure percussiveness of a Bo Diddley facing off against Diana Ross of the Supremes era. On stage, the band, still largely unknown, is infectious in just the right way.
Iceage, at the Pitchfork stage, sound more than ever anchored in a blind hardcore fury, at times pummeling and almost devoted to chaos, forgetting the catchiness and singability of the record. Right after (despite a few technical hitches) comes the Grimes show: true to the record, it's a triumph of remixed dream-pop, English retro-futurism and bubblegum. With a full-on stage invasion (planned and controlled), in Claire Boucher's live show the container matters more than the content, just as in the musical flesh of albums like "Visions" and "Halfaxa".

The Afghan Whigs at the Main stage, in an expanded lineup, deliver an intense reworking of the classics, with a setlist cleverly balanced between furious, cathartic, restless, engaging and almost ecclesiastical registers. Greg Dulli is in fine form, after a run of lackluster performances, confirming the lesser status of his post-band projects.
Lee Ranaldo, at the Atp stage, opts for a near-John Denver singer-songwriter approach, only to then replicate the noise improvisations of his former Sonic Youth bandmates (Steve Shelley on drums is no coincidence), though by now caught up in a Lou Reed-like song form, mass-arena hard rock, acrobatic bursts, and Hawkwind-style space excursions (Hawkwind). There's no trace of research or avant-garde here, but that's probably the whole point (a happily aging kind of set).

The Mazzy Star set at the Rayban stage, predictably, centers on the magic that Hope Sandoval exudes alone, almost detached from what's happening behind her, but the skill of her bandmates is remarkable, lost in an aura of otherness and high professionalism.
Wilco, no less than at the Main stage, sound experimental just enough and well integrated, almost a different beast compared to their easy-going recent studio output (plus the privilege of watching Glenn Kotche's grace on drums). Beirut's set (six musicians on stage, plus Condon), on the other hand, is generalized old hat, stiffened into limp muzak-crooner performances (already noticeable starting with "The Rip Tide"), aside from the ace-in-the-hole songs. Still, the rapport with and response from the crowd is enviable.

Thee Oh Sees faithfully and relentlessly carry on the path laid out by their latest EP "Carrion Crawler/The Dream". Even in their poses and stage presence they alternately mimic old-school garage-rock outfits and the B-52's grappling with the most unstable, harsh lysergic digressions, with a more significant electronic contribution pushing things to the edge of psychedelic delirium. The live renditions stretch on endlessly, like one single, continuous trip.
Opened and closed by an electronic drone, Refused (at the Rayban stage late in the evening) come across as true stage animals, striking poses like genuine comeback-tour stars, buoyed by a great rapport with the (delirious) crowd. Musically speaking, they retain an unchanged punk spirit that literally detonates into grinding riffs with fearsome punch and drive, more focused on fractures than on an electrified avalanche. Theirs is also a form of civil-protest angst, as suggested by the singer's frequent between-song harangues.

The humble, static, three-in-one set by Xx (where Jamie xx is the "Father" of the situation) is perfectly faithful to the sober, quietly danceable aesthetic of their debut. The ambient electronics, though quite rave-oriented, and the languid, well-highlighted guitar place them in a metaphysical balance between a dance event and a noisepop-shoegaze act.
Naturally placed on the Main Stage, Franz Ferdinand surprisingly radiate full-throttle positive vibes, starting and ending with a bang built on hit after hit, following a brief theatrical intro.
Spiritualized, in the vast Mini Stage area late at night, favor the easy part of their career (the most recent one), complete with gospel backing singers, essentially a revival of themselves, only to then tear it apart with bursts of pure feedback (though rare and clearly outnumbered compared to their glory days). Their show opens with "Hey Jane", which live becomes even more their own hypnotic "Hey Jude". An angelic, white-clad Jason Pierce indulges in sweeping, grateful vocal runs, probing the spiritual side of space-rock.

The underrated set by Wolves In The Throne Room at the Atp stage finally lays out the paradigm of the new drone-black metal, appearing far more old-guard, almost nostalgic and reactionary (both in their poses and in their avalanche of malevolent distortion) than expected. Japandroids, at the Vice stage (instead of Pitchfork), open with a broad, calculated intro, with expansive instrumental passages that sound almost avant-garde simply for having no vocals, and even though it then turns into perpetually two-voiced pop-core, they sound more thoughtful live than the record suggests. The one flaw: they lack the production, the layering, the studio's electronic spark.
Field, at the Pitchfork Stage, are a trio on stage; besides Axel Willner there's a bass and drums that are fairly inconsequential. But the set's substance is all there: Willner discreetly sets aside the loop-masturbation and, for much of the time, lets the moorings drift off into the ether.

Friday, June 1

Right in the middle of a late-afternoon Main Stage slot, Other Lives deliver, even more and better than on record, a strikingly evocative auteur folk-pop. Vocal harmonies, Morricone-esque passages, fatalistic soundscapes, full-band crescendos, with an excellent rural-traditional streak in the instrumental passages and loose interplay. Mid-2000s weird-folk has finally come full circle.
Shortly after, at the small but no less important Adidas Stage, it's time for an all-Italian set, one of the two artists presented by the Trovarobato-A Buzz Supreme tandem: Boxeur The Coeur. Live, Paolo Iocca's project is a schizophrenic beast steeped in the mood and poses of a thoroughly respectable electronic act. It starts as a warm-up techno-rave mix locomotive, then – after tossing a handful of gold glitter at the crowd – launches into the songs from his debut "November Uniform", always fluidly and without a break. Translated to the stage, the album's tracks shed much of their Brian Eno-esque metapop and give themselves over to an infectious, fun danceability.

Dirty Beaches, at the Pitchfork stage, come across as loud and noisy (and Puerto Rican-looking), but it's all a bit misleading and not very consistent with what follows. At first they sound like Suicide copyists with two guitars, backed by an unspecified, atmospheric electronic void. Then they pair it with Elvis Presley-style spleen, in which the thundering guitars sound rather underused, merely carrying overwhelming yet gratuitous layers of electrification. Their formula is cleverly cunning: matrix first, content second. Orthodox, at the Vice stage, win the battle of appearance and stage presence though: hooded and with nooses around their necks like death-row inmates, they launch into a doom-sludge full of broad, theatrical, almost operatic openings, like System Of A Down lost in the underworld.
Rufus Wainwright's band, rightly placed on the Main stage, is an entertainment machine: sax, backing vocalist, guitars, ukulele, rhythm section, a combo that shares the singer's elegiac, now languid and self-absorbed intonations, his placid serenades sung with sweeping, warbling flourishes. Girls, at the far end of the Mini stage, sound even more engaging live than on record, with three backing singers and a band capable of rattling off power-pop melodies as danceable as they are melancholic. Among the relaxed pop acts of recent years, this is the most cultured, polished and enthusiastic. The range of past styles (bubblegum, powerpop, brill building, doo-wop) that the group folds into its show takes on a radiant significance.

At the Pitchfork stage, shortly after, it's Lower Dens's turn, with their dream-pop-wave sound (and a few shoegaze touches). Very young, as if they'd missed out on emo and were now taking a few steps backwards. Still, it's a solid outfit with more convincing instrumental input than on record, and less beholden to vocals and song form. Harvey Milk, not far away (Vice Stage), come across as a shadow of themselves, with few ideas beyond sheer amplification and their typical late-career formula.
The Pitchfork stage also hosts the War On Drugs show. The space-rock opening and the relentless, pronounced motorik pulse pick up right where Spiritualized left off in their recent output. The long, lysergic pauses of pure timbral spectrum are pure indulgence, but above all they create a jovial atmosphere that charms the crowd.

Among the most anticipated, and the only ones granted more than double the standard hour-long slot, Cure nonetheless disappoint with an unfortunate setlist, showing little verve, or a composed stasis typical of seasoned session players. Robert Smith, bloated and reduced to a wax-figure mask of himself, still stands out for his poses and stage presence, and for a voice that's almost unchanged, perfect for a self-celebratory concert. Near-flawless classics.
Sleigh Bells at the Pitchfork stage are, on paper, a bomb of tectonic vibrations and cascades of distortion, an exaggerated amplification of the songs from their two studio albums. In substance, they're a celebration of bombast, kitsch, bad taste and thin substance: there's no trace of a producer's touch, which then has to be papered over with an inelegant backing track, while Alexis Krauss's overtly sexualized moves tumble into embarrassment.

At the Atp stage it's time for Dirty Three: Warren Ellis introduces every song like a narrator, making up for the absence of vocals in their music with a kind of spoken caption, described the way his bandmate and "director" Nick Cave would describe it. The music is a shower of chills built on skillfully constructed textures, free counterpoint, improvisation on dynamics and pure tonal color. Ellis, who wanders into the crowd toward the end, is the magnificent showman who carries himself like a true prophet, astonishing with his monstrous versatility.
Right after, on the same stage, it's the turn of another monster of 90s alternative rock, Codeine. The intro is minimal, as minimal as the set, the sound and the almost timid stage presence. If the start is a bit muted, the trio quickly finds the right sensitivity and handles the performance in an almost expressionist way (staying, of course, subliminal, subtle, silent). A moving concert, with just one flaw: the trio, helped along by the presence of Doug Scharin (another gem of the show), favor songs from "White Birch" over "Frigid Stars". But the set-opening "D" shines bright in the Barcelona night.

M83, at the Mini. The stage, awash with light shows, matches the sonic games at every turn, and the whole thing is set up like a vintage sound carousel reshuffled into a strange kind of revival, to the point that the songs and their body — especially those from the latest album "Hurry Up, We're Dreaming" (which dominates the set) — end up taking a back seat. The crowd's involvement is a story of its own, and is genuinely one of the biggest of the whole festival: the right union of listening and dancing, of atmosphere and body.
The Men at the Vice stage impress with their extremely high chemistry and dazzling interplay, as sharp as veterans without losing an ounce of instinct — an instinct straight out of the Sex Pistols playbook of all-out disintegration. The rhythm section is raw but perfectly locked in. A form of garage-punk that tries to break through perceptual barriers into intriguing trips.

Explosive and hallucinated, Sbtrkt's late-night set at Pitchfork is a show built almost entirely on physicality, with drums at the ready. Aaron Jerome's freestyle, beautifully blended with the syncopated backing, creates, between voice and beat, something unsettling and sticky at once. One of the best live sets, at least in terms of the level of attention it captured.
The Rapture's knack for convoluted-rhythm jams lets them stake everything on danceability, to the point of sounding almost accommodating. Thanks to an extremely tight rhythm section, they shake the entire Main Stage crowd. Alongside a few forays into vintage funk, there's even a psychotic detour into the modern dances of Pere Ubu: essentially the opposite of what's found on their latest studio efforts. Finally, Araabmuzik at Pitchfork, just before dawn, presents himself as a beatbox virtuoso, capable of sustaining an hour-long tour de force of stylized hip-hop rhythms, barely flecked with a few dissonant samples, wonky base sounds and little else. One of grime's possible DJ Shadows.

Saturday, June 2

After a taste of Sandro Perri at Pitchfork, working in a classic Pedro The Lion style (with electronic gear added), the last day at the heart of Primavera Sound 2012 brings Sleepy Sun to the Atp stage, in a form of psychedelia even more retro than expected — shoegaze but with a keen eye on the vintage, trance-rock aided and abetted by the singer's incantations. At times it's simple brit-pop balladry that takes over in the second half hour of the set, however lavishly arranged.
Back at Adidas, it's time for the second Italian act under the Trovarobato-A Buzz Supreme banner. Like Iocca, King Of The Opera — the new project from Alberto Mariotti (formerly of Samuel Katarro), here making his absolute debut — is pure pride. His is a lopsided singer-songwriter craft that shines in an upside-down, free-form folk-blues song structure, with grand, even atonal instrumental parades, stops and restarts, manic pauses, clattering phrasing. There's also room for light ballads, which serve as a solemn counterweight to the singer's lo-fi experimental Babel. Above all, there's tremendous eclecticism, even a raga moment à la Velvet Underground, spilling over into spiritual registers. One of the most original sets of the whole three days.

For Atlas Sound, at Pitchfork right after dinner, things get complicated. Loops, distortion pedals, effects and guitar, plus a few technical hitches. His songs, once performed solo with no arrangement beyond his own inspiration, take on hallucinogenic overtones and often drift into ethereal, dynamic codas that, truth be told, aren't all that far from a typical set by his colleague Lockett Plundt. Here, though, there's perhaps more precision, more melodic talent.
For Bradford Cox, everything is organized as a continuum that reveals genuine ambition, but also his typical excess, which scatters the intensity into simple strumming and basic motifs better suited to an after-party, a post-high gathering around a fire. Through an arsenal of electronic sounds, Cox tries to explore what Barrett theorized, and above all continues the search interrupted after the pop adjustments of "Parallax". Live, his songs become a matter perpetually swinging between egocentrism and metaphysics, as if the bedroom had turned into a literary café.

Beach House, three on stage (besides Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally, there's a drummer added), open with less-than-memorable songs from their recent dream-pop output. Is that telling of the show? Yes, the band favors the last two albums, as expected. The performance is nearly flawless, hovering between fidelity to the studio recordings and a gentle but heartfelt, almost improvised variation, with Legrand in fine form finally showing off her real vocal chops.
The only hitch: they're not quite calibrated for the stage hosting them, the Mini (which, despite its name, is the largest in the whole Parc) or for the crowd it draws, who are basically after dancing, getting high and moving. Almost at the same time, Real Estate at Pitchfork show a greater focus on their songs, with a touch more ambition.

Off, at the Vice stage, sound far more Dead Kennedys (and Fear) than they do on record; their resident Biafra is a veteran who never tires of haranguing the crowd, even without the great Jello's manic edge, and he's hired crack sidemen who inject real credibility. Their real problem, though, is no small one: hear a couple of songs, and you've heard them all.
Saint Etienne, the emergency stand-ins for Björk called up at the last minute, offer a restrained stage set with striking images of soul and black-music artists. Sarah Cracknell, backed by a co-vocalist and a dark-haired backing singer, is visibly moved (standing in for Björk is, indeed, no everyday task) and greets the crowd after every pause, introducing every song and even specifying which album it's from. The two producers behind her shrewdly pick the most techno, most impersonal tracks (though very professional, seasoned choices) — and perhaps the least successful ones. Little room for the old glories, aside from a lackluster "You're In A Bad Way".

Chromatics, down at Pitchfork, make for a perfect counterpoint to Saint Etienne on the Main Stage: atmospheric techno-pop that, once hooked up to the stage's excellent sound system, lets you appreciate and discover details the album keeps hidden from the listener. As with Beach House, here too the scale and importance of the stage feels wasted on a band that is, at the end of the day, just electro-pop, with old-fashioned sounds and harmonies, only timidly updated for the digital age.
For Shellac, by now true festival regulars, there's the practically evergreen thrill of watching and hearing Steve Albini's abrasive distortion technique, plus the surgical precision of the rhythm section (and their relentless drive that leaves no escape). They don't settle for mere self-celebration, which would already be enough of a draw, but also generate tension, spectacle, engagement, showmanship, little theatrics. Perhaps another dimension of Albini's art. During the proverbial bass-drums breakdowns, the guitarist and celebrated producer strikes almost priestly poses. The comic grand finale, with Albini and bassist Weston setting down their instruments and dismantling Trainer's drum kit piece by piece, draws fresh waves of applause, setting an absolute attendance record for the Atp stage.

Wild Beasts, on the mighty Rayban stage, show off their percussive chops, going well beyond singer Thorpe (who nonetheless blends in nicely here), though the confusion between styles remains: Smiths and new romantic, danceable grooves and Arcade Fire, guitar-driven wave and languid songs. Not far off, The Weeknd's set is fearless, but the band tries to keep any potential rhythmic explosions within studio-recording bounds (the same goes for the inert live show by Washed Out).
Back at Atp, the resurrected Godflesh (just the two of them: Broadrick and Green) sound more monolithic than ever, dug in behind a wall of industrial distortion, between colossal doom riffs and the sparse, boulder-crushing accompaniment of a drum machine. Very little showmanship and almost nothing but punches to the gut, making it one of the few sets that sorted the crowd by who had the guts to stay — much like the Wolves — confirming this as the most uncompromising stage of them all.

Class, style and feeling remain unchanged for Yo La Tengo, along with a great ease in not straying too far with their song choices, evenly split between searing noise and elementary melodicism that oddly but perfectly go hand in hand. Catching the New Jersey trio live is a great chance to admire excellent musicians at work. Their tribute to their heroes Big Star (the by-now popular version of "Take Care"), coming after witnessing the full performance of "Third" at the Auditori, is genuinely moving.
Justice on the Main Stage are, of course, the most danceable moment of the three days. Besides brazenly channeling Daft Punk, they're also megalomaniacs, with a stage decked out in eighteen Marshall amps. Their long mixtape, while it gets bodies moving, is also one long yawn if judgment is based on original ideas and consistency.

The Pop Group's set could have been the masterpiece performance of the whole edition, but the band can't quite shake off the passing years. Mark Stewart brings plenty of enthusiasm, but he also looks tired. The performances, by contrast, are in flux with a vintage funk-rock band, yet there are glorious, freshly reworked free-jazz moments, especially within their great anthemic songs. Credit is due for this not being a sterile reunion, but instead resting on free reinterpretations that are stretched, distorted, breathless. A few technical hitches.
Neon Indian, one of the festival's final acts, backed by the Rayban stage's sound system, is — among the methods known to humankind — the best way to listen to him. Electronic jagged edges emerge, along with a lively groove and sprinting energy.

Conclusions

Primavera Sound isn't just one of the most important festivals of independent rock in Europe, but is also, and above all, an all-encompassing experience. It's a swarm of events and resonances that bond deeply with the city, resonating with it both subliminally and tangibly; a sort of biennial (only annual) of alternative, independent rock music, whether in vogue, riding the hype, cult status, and so on. Being part of it means not just staying current, but also getting a wide-ranging overview of the main movements of the hemisphere, both present and past, both the established ones still needing fresh validation and those from the recent and distant past.
And, ultimately, it means feeling wrapped in a great embrace full of grand emotions, available equally to the seasoned listener and, even, to the novice.

To wrap up, a few notes for newcomers or for anyone wanting to become part of it. It's often said that the flip side of events like this is seeing a lot of things, but few of them with the attention they deserve. We beg to differ: every live show at Primavera Sound, from the smallest to the most imposing, is by definition a magnet for attentive focus.
Every concert is a one-off event that could stand as a story in itself, as if the whole and the sum of its parts had become interchangeable. So you need to train, get some practice, and not give up on covering — even at a run — great distances, blending in with huge migratory flows, at times genuine mass exoduses of crowds moving from one stage to another.
It's also said that the risk is losing, through sheer bad timing, two or more interesting shows at once. That's not quite true either; rarely do two hugely important live shows actually clash. You need to prepare an attack strategy, a plan of things to see, based on the previews of bands and events that trickle in from the official website, and based on the stage-ranking criteria laid out above (that is, personal taste), and try to stick to it as closely as possible.

If the secret of the avant-garde is a mix of precise rationality and unbridled madness, then that also serves as a key to understanding an avant-garde festival like Primavera Sound. Until next year, then, for a potentially even more imposing edition.

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