Go For Broke, Liverpool Psych Fest

Joseph Viney samples the broad church of psych at Liverpool International Festival of Psychedelia, and wonders whether expansion and relocation should be on the cards…

With 2015 being its fourth year of existence, and yours truly never actually having attended any of them, it made sense to use this year’s Liverpool International Festival of Psychedelia as the one to break this rather unenlightened streak.

Psych Fest has ballooned from an ambitious, unique and relatively small Liverpool-based project into something that has garnered lavish amounts of love from mainstream press (The Guardian declared Liverpool as ‘the great psychedelic capital of Europe‘) and accolades (named as NME’s Best Small Festival earlier this year). The festival signposts the revitalised growth of a genre that — like prog rock — can labour under the weight of past indiscretions, stereotypes and the fact that, frankly, it’s just not that palatable to the majority of people. But hey, when has that ever stopped anyone or anything from forging forward?

And indeed, when rocking up to the pop-up psych village that constituted last weekend’s festival (namely the Camp and Furnace, Blade Factory and District venues in Liverpool’s Baltic Triangle area), I did wonder just what lay in store. Would there be half-naked, saucer-eyed men and women spinning toward freedom with tie-dyed scarves billowing on the light winds of an Indian Summer? Burned-out acid heads grabbing you by both shoulders and jabbering ceaselessly, like some shell-shocked Vietnam veteran (“I’ve seen some things, man…”)?

Erm…well, no, not exactly. The irony of Psych Fest 2015 was that — far from the perceived expectations of wasted nights and misfiring synapses — people by and large attended to simply enjoy the music, sunshine and grab a few beers while the going was good. Thankfully, it wasn’t the wearily expected cavalcade of would-be space cadets. It was a mixed bag of genders, creeds and ages; from your 20-something Topman loyalty card king, to out-of-towners looking for an actual triangle, to that one drunk guy who told me he’d “accidentally” ended up buying a ticket, wandered over to me, asked for my phone number and if I wanted to get dinner with him. Life’s rich tapestry.

The first viewing of the weekend set the bar high enough. German quartet ZHOD (aka Zentral Heizung Of Death Des Todes, fact fans!) sit very comfortably in their role as an exemplary example of psych-surf (or would it be surf-psych?) with tunes that make you want do that 1960s shimmy thing, where you grab your nose and bop up and down. The Blade Factory — already jam-packed for the early mid-afternoon sets — appeared to feel much the same. Crunching chords, sultry vocals and crafty little noodles à la surf king Dick Dale, ZHOD were good enough to make you want to blow the dust off that classic Superman II reference. Kneel before ZHOD, indeed.

Away from German ingenuity and onto British steel (that’ll do for national stereotypes though) with the demonic and destructive Evil Blizzard. The five-piece must have finished their education with the latter halves of their dictionaries missing, because the word ‘subtle’ is missing from their collective vocabulary.

Wielding four bassists and a drummer that sings (take THAT, Phil Collins), Evil Blizzard combine aural doomscapes with masks and clobber that make them look decidedly similar to Leatherface’s family from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Dog will hunt!

Despite some early sound problems — inasmuch as nothing happened for the first five minutes — Blizzard went on to smash the eardrums and cortices of those mad enough to enter their domain. Aided and abetted by a cast of supporting characters — Mop Man with a Scarecrow-from-Batman aesthetic, and a Pig Man wielding two meat cleavers — they went on to ask their adoring audience a number of pertinent questions. Specifically — as their set closer had it — “Are You Evil?”. If evil if this good, then hand me the pitchfork and goat legs, because I’m going in.

The fittingly-named The Ganjas hailed all the way from Chile and wasted no time in turning up the heat (sorry!). The Ganjas’ grooves are as old as time and well-worn, but there’s a major reason music like this has endured… because it’s bloody good. Winding solos straight from the Jimmy Page Play In A Day book, a veritable buffet of power chords, momentous fuzz and all the long hair you can grow. Rock and roll will never die.

One of the weekend’s main attractions lay in the form of Anton Newcombe. The head honcho of the Brian Jonestown Massacre had not only been chosen as Psych Fest’s very first Artist In Residence, but in between flying the flag for psych, chatting with hundreds of eager fans and well-wishers (like this starry-eyed reporter) and just generally being an icon about town, Anton found the time to take to the stage with Tess Parks, his latest collaborator, as both spun out one of the weekend’s best sets.

Backed by a kaleidoscopic big screen at Camp, Parks, Newcombe and their musical cohort let the tunes drift out like rich, golden butter mixed with velvet. A teeming crowd took note and paid tribute.

While Parks and Newcombe traded in the more subtle fashions, Arizona’s own Destruction Unit did exactly what you’d expect them to do. Even being a good distance away from their Furnace stage wasn’t enough to block a bombastic strafing of noise and hellfire. And that’s not a bad thing. Each member was fully animated and watching them crash, clatter and career their way through a mini apocalypse was enough to make you think: ‘How do you even begin to craft something like that?’.

Speaking of food for thought, the Pzyk Prism installation buried deep in the cranium of Camp and Furnace was the place to be for some colourful, entrancing relaxation. Well, perhaps not relaxation because after a short while it just seemed to hurt the eyes and brain. Imagine if retro arcade game Asteroids had been dictated and designed by a child, subsisted on nothing but strawberry laces for the past six months. Now add that to tired minds, legs and souls. Philip K. Dick’s Black Iron Prison might not be the stuff of science fiction after all.

And so Friday night slid from this wave of near-nausea to the ultra-disappointing Blanck Mass who — much like Destruction Unit — did everything the name implies. That is to say, congregate people with blank looks on their faces. Some pulsing beats and a hint of that classic drrrrrrrrrrone were present, but it was so unremarkable that you could overhear a number of people asking whether this was the right act, or if something had gone wrong. As B*witched — who were definitely NOT scheduled to play — would have said: C’est la vie.

As sure as Saturday follows Friday, the following day’s festivities were a tad busier, the food stalls going like the clappers and the Red Stripe flowing. It was this swelling of the crowd that preceded the weekend’s biggest disappointment; not being able to catch either Hookworms or Spiritualized. Festival goers had to queue for at least an hour or so before the Hookworms set (playing the same stage prior to Jason Pierce’s psych legends) in the increasing cold.

Is there a head to lay the blame on for this turn of events? Not particularly, no. Although the festival dealt with the spaces of the mind — or at least purported to — physical space is only finite. Perhaps this is something the organisers can have a look into for next year; especially in regards to making sure all ticket holders get to see the biggest acts of the weekend.

But as any bindi-wearing, headdress-sporting, tight-jeaned festival goer will tell you — repeatedly, until death is a plausible option — ‘it’s about more than just the music, maaaaan.’ Time spent outside catching up with people not seen in many moons, drinking, taking in the atmosphere and the smell of over-cooked meat, as well as stopping for a brief chat with Anton Newcombe and Will Sergeant about pretty much anything that came to mind. Looks like the festival bores have been right all along.

The busier second day, and desire to just take it all in at a leisurely pace, meant less bands were seen. So praise be then that the two full sets seen on the second day were absolute stormers. First, Leeds’ own Menace Beach are the psych-pop equivalent of the gang from Scooby Doo. Young, energetic and markedly different from one another, the quintet delivered cuts from this year’s excellent Ratworld LP. With songs of high and addictive quality, like Elastic, Lowtalkin and Fortune Teller, the future is a long and open road for Menace Beach.

One minor point of complaint. As a personal choice, Honolulu is their best song, yet they raced through it like they either hate it or somebody lit a fire on stage and they wanted to finish before putting it out.

Hailing from Sunderland, Slug are a high-quality and engaging act who left a trail (SORRY!) in and around the crowd. Twisted rhythms, similarly styled outfits and a sneaky sense of humour, they were one of my weekend’s highlights.

So… another successful year for Psych Fest, but one must wonder what the next step is? Some have grumbled over the years that a number of acts haven’t been ‘true’ representatives of psych. But come on, it’s a broad church. Define rock music. It’s much the same thing.

But it’s still a point worth making. Like any business endeavour, you have to temper the needs of the people against the needs of the investment. Sure, the ‘true’ psych-heads would probably love to get that band they saw playing in Swindon in 1994 to 13 people on a wet Wednesday up as headliners; but if you know the Young Knives — yeah, I was surprised too — are going to draw more money, then so be it.

From this perspective, Psych Fest may have found itself at a crossroads. The potential for further growth is there, but within the confines of the Camp & Furnace/Blade Factory/District festival village? Most likely not. Do they go for broke and take a leaf from the Sound City manual? Or do they maintain the status quo? Given the aforementioned international attention, it’s quite the quandary. Maybe some mind expansion is needed after all. Hey, pass the sunshine tabs, will you?

Joseph Viney

More at liverpoolpsychfest.com

Images, from top: Tess Parks and Anton Newcombe; festival goers; The Ganjas; Human Soup psych installation; Menace Beach; venue shot. All images courtesy Keith Ainsworth for Liverpool International Festival of Psychedelia