Come May, and with the first angel rays of sun follows the looming nimbus of guitar feedback, bottomless pints and callused feet that is festival season. We at So Young HQ wouldn’t have it any other way of course, so on seeing The Great Escape peek its little head from its wintery slumber, we know it’s time to catch some of the best and brightest new acts around. Across four days, hundreds of artists from London to LA to Tokyo to Melbourne wash up on Brighton’s rocky shores to prove their mettle to eager music lovers and lanyard toting industry bores alike. We consider ourselves in both of these camps, so obviously we had to get stuck in. Here’s how we got on.
After arriving in Brighton on Thursday morning, it was only appropriate to peek into the stacked Irish music showcase happening at the Prince Albert. First on my hitlist was Dublin’s Brooki who had quickly packed out the creaking floorboards of the pub’s upstairs gig space. While crammed into the doorframe of the pub’s corridor, I was able to get a glimpse into why Brooki are one of the most hyped Irish acts currently breaking. Heavy, groaning guitars and soaring 70s-rockstar vocal theatrics made for an agile take on 90s-inflected slowcore updated for a contemporary audience.
Brooki. Photo by Dan Lincoln
Following the scrum of Brooki was a break down to the beachfront in the Charles Street Tap and the first inhalation of eye-wateringly priced pints. This grumbling was quickly brushed away with the first piano chords and sax chirps from Cardiff’s casual smart. ‘Emily can’t be here today as she’s taking a physics exam’, pianist Peter Martin exclaims as they settle onstage – they certainly are a very young band, but this in no way counts for inexperience. The absence of their friend is not felt whatsoever in their execution, as they deliver a streamlined and homely set of colourful indie-pop evoking the gentle and ornate songcraft of Belle and Sebastian or The Clientele. casual smart are as warm and comforting as they are fun and bright – the ideal soundtrack to an imagined Welsh coming-of-age indie flick.
THEATRE. Photo by Anna Delf.
Just as quick as we slipped down to the beach we’re back trudging up the hill to the Prince Albert for THEATRE. On arrival the sweat and anticipation is condensing into the rafters of the pub and I am compressed into the corners of the upstairs bar to my utter dismay, as you can imagine. The Limerick unit arrive and immediately command the stage. Banshee vocals swirl over shimmering, chorus heavy guitars reminding me of Cocteau Twins but with a 90s alt-rock bite. The miasma of modulation and distortion surrounding the vocals is intoxicating – a stylish display from a group only just getting into their stride.
After peeling myself from the bar it comes time to settle into the grand theatre of Chalk for the next few hours as the So Young stage unfurls its wings for one of the best lineups of the weekend. Obviously I’m biased, but with the flow of Sylvie’s Head, little grandad, Madra Salach and Westside Cowboy back to back, I dare you to find me a better run than this.
Sylvie’s Head. Photos by Dan Lincoln.
The queue of both lanyards and real people quickly stretches well beyond the entrance. We scramble in and after settling into a decent vantage point, root ourselves into the ground as this will be our base for the next few hours. And good thing we’re situated because Gothenburg’s Sylvie’s Head emerge with guitars hung low and shades firmly kept on. They look like punk-rock gangsters, but this is slightly softened by the bass player hurling oranges into the crowd which are, to my surprise, deftly caught by members of the audience. Citrus aside, Sylvie’s Head are moody and murky. Over dubby bass and insouciant Happy Mondays-style vocals, the Swedish quartet deliver Big beat/baggy flavours through clipped guitars, drum machine breaks and warped samples.
little grandad. Photo by Anna Delf.
Following them is a change of pace in the form of little grandad – one of the fastest rising groups we’ve seen pop up in recent memory. ‘For the last Great Escape, we weren’t even a band yet!’ shares vocalist and bassist Jack Lower, gleaming as he looks into the rapt crowd. With such hype surrounding a band this early on, reality doesn’t always meet expectation. This couldn’t be further from the truth for little grandad this evening. Hearty and rousing alt-country in the ilk of MJ Lenderman pours forth from the stage, buttressed by crunchy guitars and some of the cleanest vocal harmonies I’ve heard in a long time. I see nothing but brightness for this quartet, watch this space.
Now come Dublin’s Madra Salach, sitting close to the front of the stage and armed with an arsenal of harmoniums, mandolins, tin whistles, and the vocal might of singer Paul Banks. The air in the room cracks and Madra Salach scream into life with their foreboding shroud of contemporary Irish folk. Heavier and more distorted than their recorded output, the group carry a punk energy that is both defiant and full of humour in equal measure, as they say big fuck you’s to the Catholic church, the imperial British, and the ‘lizards networking’ across all the venues of Brighton this weekend. Nowhere is this evident more than in their blinding interpretation of trad classic, ‘Tunnel Tigers’ which Banks introduces with a dedication to ‘all the Irish men who died building London city.’ Venom, vitriol and heart make up this group, translating into one of the weekend’s finest sets. As they close their show with future classic, ‘The Man Who Seeks Pleasure’, the crowd is entirely rapt. A champion performance from one of the best groups in the world.
Madra Salach. Photo by Anna Delf.
How can a set like this be followed? Well with the zeal and energy of Manchester’s Westside Cowboy, I think we are in good hands. Lots of bands playing this weekend have been spotted wearing Westside Cowboy shirts and the heaving crowd is very much here for them, it appears. Road ready and experienced, the quartet glow with confidence and life. Masters of light and dark, each song provokes big wiggling and bigger singalongs. The band destined for greatness are certainly proving their mettle at the So Young stage, and it is a sight to behold. A perfectly balanced band maturing in front of our eyes into world beaters. Everything is left out on the stage. Every song is live-or-die. Chants of ‘WESTSIDE COWBOY’ reverberate throughout the room as they leave the stage sweaty and triumphant.
Westside Cowboy. Photos by Anna Delf.
In need of a short break we grab some food and prepare ourselves for what is destined to be one of the festival’s most intense performances in the shape of Vancouver’s PISS. On arriving at Green Door Store, the queue is already a mile long and fears of not getting in are chattering through the air. After twenty minutes we squeeze into a throng of bodies. No one can move and the piercing scream of both vocalist Taylor Zantingh and the noise-rock guitars and drums that whirl around her, ricochet off the brick walls in a cacophony of pain and anguish. Verging on poetry, harsh noise and sound collage at points, PISS are as heart-wrenching in their lyrics and samples as they are in their sonic heft. I don’t believe I have seen a performer quite like Zantingh. Her balance of power and tenderness is otherworldly and the band’s performance of ‘blocking a scene you can’t remember’ brought me to tears.
After emerging from such an experience you think a break was necessary but there is no time as we must haul whatever we have left of ourselves to Dust for Bathing Suits’ midnight set. How thankful we are for pushing through because we are treated with a rib-tearing cut of noise-inflected dance punk from the Leeds quartet. Squealing and bellowing, the set is cathartic and uplifting, pumping and ecstatic, sexy and glitchy. EBM and techno grooves are met with pneumatic-drill bass. By the end of the set, vocalist Freyja Blevins is hanging from the rafters of the ceiling and SPRINTING through the crowd at breakneck speed. The crowd is reduced to ash. What a day.
PISS. Photo by Anna Delf.
Bathing Suits. Photo by Anna Delf.
After a sleep, a fry up and a few warm up pints we’re back at it on Friday morning with MORN playing one of seven shows this weekend at the church-cum-venue, Fabrica. Tight and snappy with endless fury and bite, MORN are undoubtedly one of the finest post-punk acts to emerge in recent years. Showcasing newer material, they are every bit as wiry and immediate as their ‘earlier’ work but with a more conscious, darker turn. ‘Modern Man’ is sharp and acerbic as is ‘The Standard Model’ despite their angular grooves getting a bit washed out in this boomy venue.
As though we hadn’t gotten enough fury from MORN we scuttle down to Charles Street Tap to catch Dutch trio Fellatio who are already tearing the place down with meaty and direct dance-punk on arrival. Heavy, groovy and reminiscent of the more synth-based work of Fat White Family or Warmduscher, the singer is commanding the room, circling punters and staring into their eyes while pulsing synths and drums thrum behind. A great insight into how post-punk does not need a guitar to be cutting and effective.
MORN. Photo by Anna Delf.
My feet had taken a battering the day previously, so the short walk down to The Hope and Ruin was a relief well needed. We were in for a treat this afternoon as upstairs we had Leeds’ the north followed by longtime faves big long sun playing an Alt Escape show in the bar downstairs. Upstairs the north have completely filled the place to bursting, with infinite excitement bubbling for this group in smoking areas and online comment sections alike. Snappy, slippy drums are met with classic indie rock guitars and vocals reminiscent of a young Julian Casablancas if he was from Northern England.
Downstairs the room is equally filled for one of big long sun’s many hometown shows they’re performing this weekend. While a lot of the music I’d heard so far had been noisy and full of attitude, big long sun’s serene, 60s-inspired psych pop was a welcome breath of fresh air. Richer than on record, big long sun are wholly confident and slick this afternoon, electrifying the material from their recent LP into singalong cuts of delicious psychedelia. It is such a joy to hear this new record brought to life, with the planing melodies of ‘heavy (on your mind)’ and ‘my stars aligning’ being an utter treat this afternoon. If you missed big long sun this weekend then that’s on you, I’m afraid.
the north. Photo by Dan Lincoln.
big long sun. Photo by Cameron JL West.
A short stop-off at Chalk for LA’s Jawdropped and their 00s inspired power-chord-pop and we’re shuffling up the road to the shelter of One Church for COMPOST COMPOST COMPOST. With dubby electronics, splashy jazz drums and choir-boy vocals, COMPOST COMPOST COMPOST are a unique and excitingly original prospect. Gossamer textures of ambient synths and muted acoustic guitar plucks chime and shimmer, utterly perfect for the church we’re situated in. At times reminiscent of James Blake, but with a 2010s indie layer akin to Adult Jazz or even Radiohead, COMPOST COMPOST COMPOST are dreamy and expansive but brimming with complex structure and intricate shape.
After getting caught in the rain we crowd into Dust for a slower and darker turn from Tommy Barlow. Spacious, ambient field recordings are met with sparse bass and drums, before Tommy’s low, gravelly voice breaks and moans into something both cathartic and forlorn. Rising synths brighten up the textures and provide something open and moving with chiming slowcore guitars moving in between. A haunting and introspective set, equal parts bleeding heart catharsis and equal parts ghostly flashes of sound.
Compost Compost Compost. Photo by Anna Delf.
Tommy Barlow. Photo by Anna Delf.
While most of the days have gone smoothly and without a hitch, Gently Tender’s set at the Prince Albert was not the case. We arrived early to catch them and on entry we were met with chaotic scenes. The band’s set had been delayed twenty minutes due to their bass player being stuck on a train due to a fire, and the crowd of IPA’d-up Radio 6 dads was not best pleased. ‘Play a fucking song!’ one shouted as he laughed at himself for being a big man in front of his visibly embarrassed girlfriend. Despite an increasingly hostile and puerile crowd, Gently Tender were able to rise above the bullshit and produce a collection of hearty, and at points, moving pieces of Blakeian electrified folk.
After being rudely rushed off the stage by the venue owner shouting and clapping in the band’s faces, pollyfromthedirt calmly ascended the stage, plugged in his laptop and set the room to rights. Lysergic and sparkling with chittering samples and Beach Boy vocals taken far out with thick reverb and hocketing delays, polly’s set was psychedelic, dubby and full of bass weight all at the same time. With a broad and experimental delivery, pollyfromthedirt presented a shade of bedroom pop that had been dropped in a rainbow puddle of petrol to this now hushed Prince Albert contingent. Dark, introspective and wholly spellbinding.
pollyfromthedirt. Photo by Anna Delf.
It’s at this point where me and Anna on photography have really hit a wall. Our patience had been thoroughly tested for the last two hours by shocking crowds but bolstered by excellent performances. Last push for the day was The Gnomes back over in Dust. Major queues snaked around the streets in anticipation for the Melbourne quartet, and after finally being let in, we could see why. Over Mersey-beat inspired pub rock, The Gnomes delivered one of the most fun and invigorating sets of the weekend. In many ways, The Gnomes are the archetype of what you think of as both a rock band, and a rock band made up of Aussies. Back-to-back guitar playing, tongues out, nuclear grade mullets, and enough vigour to wake the dead. With songs about the price of cigarettes, guitar wizardry and every rockstar move in the book pulled out front and centre, The Gnomes are electrifying dad-rock for a new generation.
The Gnomes. Photo by Dan Lincoln.
As though The Gnomes reinvigorated us, we are full of beans for the last day of The Great Escape with a lovely bit of weather shining down. After guaranteeing generational wealth for my lineage on the tuppenny nudgers, we’re settled in at Horatio’s for Manchester’s Truthpaste. ‘Put this in your morning cornflakes’ calls out singer Esmé Herbert – prepare thyself for the sweet, friendly sounds of Truthpaste. Meme heavy samples introduce each track before spindly Richard Dawson-esque acoustic tracks dance around drum machines, silken vocals and planing strings. For The Great Escape, Truthpaste have recruited a live drummer and the performances as thus are full and energising while maintaining the whimsical, folktronica stylings the band has become famed for. ‘Bleary Eyes’ is particularly stirring, with the bridge swells on ‘I have my fork and spoon’, welling something up within me. They close their set with a twee-grime fusion, not outside their wheelhouse, featuring the lyrics: ‘I’m serenading you – aren’t you lucky’. We certainly are.
After last night’s misbehaviour, things have settled down in the Prince Albert leading to a more welcoming environment for Brighton locals, Goodbye. Hazy indie pop but with serene textures and rising choruses, the group are lush and airy, unafraid to add experimental flourishes or odd metres to freshen up a timeless indie sound. Spidery and shining guitar writing weaves through the songwriting, while newer tunes are faster and more propulsive with puckish Kate Bush style vocal yelps. Lovely stuff all around and a great start to settling in here for Manchester’s Shaking Hand.
I run out for a spot of fresh air and by the time I’m back the room is heaving once more for the post-rock trio. Firm and oblique, they are Slint-esque but with much more confidence and intricacy in both their songwriting and playing. Taut and tight, the power coming from these three is almost confusing, with the bass sounding full and spanky as the chiming guitar weaves melodies within. The group have reportedly been delivering strong sets throughout the weekend culminating here with one of the most interesting and competent imprints of contemporary guitar music around at the minute. Shaking Hand are not pretenders but inheritors to the post-rock throne.
Tony Bontana. Photo by Dan Lincoln.
At this point my energy levels are peaking after such a masterful showing, which is only fitting as it’s time to finally see one of my current favourite artists, Tony Bontana. We arrived at Patterns downstairs to be met with horrific news: They’ve run out of beer. That’s… fine. OK. No problem. We’ll find our energy elsewhere. Tony seems to know this already and walks out to death metal playing before a sample of a voice performing the 20th Century Fox theme. After this, it’s pure chaos. Heavy warped samples swirl over breakcore beats and chopped vocals. Tony is spitting bullets into the crowd at breakneck speed which is appropriate as he is met by a garrison of gunfingers from the baying audience. Synths are contorting over each other with delayed samples, muscular 808s and Tony holding court from the front. The crowd is pumping and swirling as Tony shoves the moshing crowd. ‘What level of energy are we at?’ he screams and a punter replies ‘Top’. Tony laughs and shouts ‘LET’S GO’ and the chaos begins again. Unreal energy from an individual that truly encapsulates what it means to be an artist.
I am wiping the sweat from my face before I see Tokyo noise-rock act bed replacing Tony. Each member is decked out in leather jackets, small vests and Matrix shades. They look hard. Thankfully their tunes match their aura once they begin the onslaught of their set. Dense sludge metal bass tones are met with screaming noise-rock guitar textures while snappy techno hi-hats build beneath. The entire set moves more like a DJ set than an indie show. Perpetual builds of intensity and noise before chanting vocals and eye-watering bass drops split the crowd. Members of the crowd are pogoing, hardcore two-stepping and spinning over themselves in the pit. I drop my phone into the mire and it is lost to the world for the next 40 minutes. I look to my left and a bloke is missing a tooth. Once the maelstrom ceases the crowd are born anew and the majesty of bed is cemented.
bed. Photo by Anna Delf.
August. Photo by Anna Delf.
Now that my demons have been exorcised I leave the underground bunker of Patterns downstairs to be met with rain. Steam is escaping from my shiny noggin and I turn towards the beach for the final sets of my week: August and Tooth. While initially pleasant, the sea breeze combined with the rain quickly becomes a slog, so we seek shelter in the capable Southern indie rock inspired embrace of August that is both rich, firm and warming in equal measure. The time is coming near to say goodbye to Brighton and The Great Escape and take my soggy posterior back to London, but not without a final shot from Tooth for good measure. While alt-rock is very much in vogue, Tooth’s blend of emo-inflected indie is agile and comfortable within the large stage of The Deep End – a talent to watch as they rise.
Tooth. Photo by Anna Delf.
As I slog back to the station I check over my notes, trying to recap everything I’ve seen. The Great Escape remains one of the few festivals where genuine discovery still cuts through the industry churn. For every overcrowded delegate queue and every conversation shouted over warm lager, there’s still the possibility of stumbling into a room and witnessing something genuinely transformative before the rest of the world catches up. That feeling – sweaty, cramped and slightly chaotic – even twenty years on is what keeps people coming back.
Header photo by Dan Lincoln.
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