Those who donned crochet crop tops had evidently missed the geographical memo – Tramlines Festival 2015 was held beyond Sheffield’s Crookesmoor, not Coachella. Members of the Forever 21 tribe were however, few and far between with the more common sight at this year’s Tramlines being local families and anorak-clad thirty-somethings. I am an ardent supporter of the lesser-known festival; it all feels so much more relaxed. With the sole aim of fun to be had, there is neither the desire nor the need to impress. This is true for artists and audience alike. So, from 24th-26th July, with no hope of starring roles on BBC coverage, all crochet-anklet fantasies were ditched.
Tramlines, now in its seventh year, used to be free, but £30 was really a bargain considering the sheer number of venues and the promising line-up over the weekend. The Charlatans, Basement Jaxx and Buzzcocks headlined, but Ezra Furman and Wu-Tang Clan cancelled last minute. They were swiftly replaced by De La Soul however – heroes considering the panic prompted by this tragic twist in line-up.
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The Charlatans, the first act I saw on Friday, obviously need a mention. These relics of the ‘Madchester’ scene rocked out all the classics, and with the hypnotic hair-swishing of Tim Burgess, the anthemic ‘The Only One I Know’ had a mesmerising effect. It was charming to see kids on their dad’s shoulders, blissfully unaware of the resonance the band – with their psychedelic guitars and Britpop whine – continues to hold for many. Other legendary acts lingered on the horizon and the Queen of Motown herself, Martha Reeves, took to the main stage with her Vandellas on the Saturday.
My summer officially commenced with the jingling bells of ‘Heatwave’, but the real wave was one of pseudo-nostalgia for the sixties I’ll never know. Martha’s god-sent lungs flooded the heart of Sheffield with pure joy. The reverberations of her rich voice and the jubilation of the brass section had the whole park groovin’; it was hard for the residents of nearby blocks of flats not to poke out of windows. An invitation across the nation indeed. Whilst we all shimmied, I realised that Martha makes it all ok; I want her to sit on the UN Security Council and hold my hand during finals. ‘Dancing in the Street’ was even more fantastic than you’d imagine and had me calculating, between soul-boosting verses, on what planet I could fund either tickets to New Orleans or the construction of a time-machine.
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Basement Jaxx were up next and the energy radiating from the stage was nothing short of thrilling. A trippy display of ballet dancers, gorillas and gymnasts fuelled the already high crowd. ‘Red Alert’ and ‘Where’s Your Head At?’ were insane, but to complete the throw-back binge, I wished they’d played ‘Raindrops’. At one point, we were told to sit on the ground, and in defiance of all physical laws, the entire park was able to jump to their feet once more for the drop. Felix Buxton’s DJ set later at Sheffield O2 was far less entertaining, I suppose because I’d had an intense Basement Jaxx session only hours before and visually, the O2 was never going to rival the carnival of the main stage. Buxton followed Mike Skinner’s set which was pretty damn good, but I found this ‘chirpy chappy’ of The Streets had got a bit too cool for my liking. Then again, biting ordinariness and candid colloquialisms have no place in pounding club remixes. He did play ‘Fit But You Know It’ though, which provided silly relief, albeit briefly. I always find DJ sets very weird. You want to be dancing like you’re in a club, in groups, but everyone rigidly faces forward, staring at a rather dull technical show and a shadowy DJ bobbing about in the gloom.
Speaking of gloom, the evening before played host to the most bizarre band I’ve ever seen. One of Sheffield’s favourite night-bars, West Street Live, a magical place of 50p shots and toilet graffiti by people called ‘Bryony’, was hijacked by the blaring uniqueness of Def Goldblum. I’m normally fairly laid-back with the whole tinnitus thing, but Def Goldblum struck a chord, or more likely, an auditory nerve. An alarming fusion of metal and hip-hop (deemed an historical, “inconceivable and never-before attempted” feat by the band) tore through the crowded, unprepared bar. Front man Duke01’s bulging eyes and his band’s SlipKnot-esque masks are still seared across my memory. Duke01 asked the pub how much we’d paid for entry. We yelled back -almost in unison and rather smugly- that it was ‘FREE!’ Def Goldblum then declared they were going to give us our money’s worth. Bemused by thoughts of Duke01 and Martha Reeves performing duo, I was surprised to hear Duke01 champion similar community-spirit vibes. Denouncing “all the shit and war on Facebook”, Duke01 declared West Street Live a strictly ‘good news and good vibes’ zone, so long as he reigned on stage. That, however, signals the end of my comprehension. I couldn’t tell you a single lyric beyond the bellowed “FILTAR DAH SPECTRUMMM” – not that you’d be able to hear me even if I could. Just listen to them…you’ll get what I mean.
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Now, after researching the Nottingham-based band, I realise I missed a lot in their performance. When the Jeff Goldblum pun clicked, shortly before I unearthed an Annie Hall reference in one of their interviews, I suddenly realised this witty Public Enemy-inspired band thrives on popular culture. “How would sir like his mistakes this evening?” in ‘Eat your Mistakes’ is just one of the many examples of pun-rich lyrics. The tribute, of the band’s name and album title, to the queasy horror sci-fi 1986 remake of The Fly is also apparent in their cover art. And yet, thinking of the performance, there was very little in the way of metamorphoses. The noise was relentless. I can only describe the experience as being wedged beneath the underground tracks while the Morden-bound train storms over you for all eternity. Then again, a stultified Kafka has never been so therapeutic. Those who attempted to dance (all 6 of us) really let off some steam with the 50p shots proving superfluous in loosening inhibitions – Duke01 took care of that. In retrospect, Def Goldblum succeeded: I got the queasiness, the horror, and the sci-fi sense of impending doom and Duke01’s premonition was realised when I stepped out onto the Friday night Sheffield streets. I was met by apocalyptic scenes of strewn polyester chip containers as far my scorched eyeballs could see.
We soon sought refuge in another bar – Bears and Bungalows. It was absolutely rammed full, with this pealing but tingling music playing; the sort used on the soundtrack in arty movies for the bedroom scenes. After Def Goldblum, it was the equivalent of an iced jug of Evian water following the cinnamon challenge. Edging nearer to the bar, I was taken-aback to discover the powerful voice was being produced live by a very petite woman. What I caught of Butterclock’s performance was glittery, like her elbow-long gloves. With the titillating combo of experimental electro baseline and stridently seductive vocals, Laura Clock’s stage name makes perfect sense. There is the regular beating of the clock with the soft echoes of her voice melting like butter into the strong synth beats. There are wisps of Lana Del Rey’s second album ‘Ultraviolence’ with that cute, Lolita-like caterwauling and a lurking darkness behind the sweetness. None of it is very distinctive, but like I said, great background music.
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I was gutted that I had to get home and miss the Sunday line up but I’m comforted to hear that the queue for Billy Bragg was impossible, and I saw the Buzzcocks the weekend after anyway. I’m also miffed that The Sugarhill Gang somehow escaped my radar. Then again, with countless venues (including the city’s cathedral) and my hell-bent mission to sample some new sounds, I’m not too disappointed. A great place to discover fresh acts or long-forgotten ones, I’ll be returning to Tramlines next year when I become tired of my playlists once more.
