Saturday, 21st July 2006
Arrive. Set up the standard issue green tent amongst the sea of
awkward constructions of protective membrane and apply
suncream liberally to protect oneself from the sun, so as not to
gain anything more than a sexy shade of skin cancer. Allow all
sense of excitement, anticipation, awe and perhaps, child like
wonder to dissipate with the first drop of what ensues - a
thoroughly demoralising and downright ruddy rotten three hour
deluge. Mother Nature dealing her most morbid hand; the trinity
of lightning, rain and almighty thunder sets the Truck festival
experience off with aplomb. A turn of events unforecasted; if not
like a nightmare then not exactly like a dream.

Adjusted to the underfoot conditions and at ease with the now transparent state of my ill chosen apparel, it is time to take in a few bands at Truck Nine, this quaint and unfettered festival on a farm in Oxfordshire. Walking into the main arena (A misnomer of sorts), the audio fallout of Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly leading the amassed proles in a ‘lala’ sing-along during a rousing run through of current single ‘iSpy’, descends into the background of passive hearing. Stepping into the rather crowded Trailer Park tent, the prospect of taking in some 8bit emo goodness from colonopenbracket : ( is taking a hold of those who have read the hype, seen the quirky emoticon on the running order or are friends/fans/family of the band. They sure have a good gimmick going on, no guitars, just dilapidated QWERTY keyboards pressed at seemingly random instances guiding the blips and bleeps set to an industry standard screamo vocal and tight live drumming. Satisfaction guaranteed with a blast of ‘Cute’, a crowd favourite and one of the most anticipated acts of the festival pull off a boisterous 30 minute set that induces dance and facial expressions of a colon close bracket nature, if not the whole colon ‘D’.

Between : ( and the utterly astounding Battles, who perform the most intricate math rock polyrhytms a-go-go, there is a chance to sample the cuisine of the festival. A burger cooked by a troupe of volunteers from the local Rotary club is well received by the stomach and accommodated there for the duration of the digestive process. A visit to the barn to take in a few of the chirpy pieces of wit and repartee that MC Lars has achieved notoriety for round these parts, sees one of the first queues to get in to a ‘venue’ at the festival. After a short wait, the, erm…reward, is the Yankee yokel chirping his rhymes over riffs ‘borrowed’ from the likes of Iggy Pop (Passenger riff on ‘Download This Song’) and some riffs from a bunch of emo bands for any number of songs about emo, Edgar Alan Poe and much more. A novelty that soon wears off and grows tiresome but a Truck “must see” can now be crossed off the list.

Into the accepting fall of dusk and to the Main Stage/back of a truck contraption to see iForward Russia! who for the next hour will chaotically wreak a beautiful havoc on the ears of those there to witness: Tom biting into the cable of his microphone looking for that extra surge that is more than palpable in the throbbing hustle and bustle down the front. A defining set of realisation that they are loved, needed and relevant, even with lyrics such as “you took my heart and built a supermarket on it”. The dual vocal tag team of Katy and Tom on ‘sixteen’, a standout point of the set is a stunning flipside to what Forward Russia do, as breathe is regained from the previous pogo-ing and all-out-mentalness that accompanies the brash punk dressed as enticing dance greatness. The stand out performance of Truck is theirs and theirs alone, tight and humble and just generally pleased to be where they are. Appreciation returned in equal measure from the crowd when the glorious delicate riot of ‘nine’ kicks off.

An opportunity to regain composure is a welcome opportunity to miss Hundred Reasons, who are a prime example of good debut then alarmingly downhill thereafter. Suitably replenished with tea from the Rotary Club, it is time to settle in for a headline set from The Futureheads. Sadly, the set leaves you feeling incredibly under whelmed. The singles are all great and the crowd respond accordingly and of course there is THAT Kate Bush cover they do but between the known stuff is filler, average, samey, repetitious bland XTC-lite rock. The band seem to be enjoying the whole experience and the crowd take in the performance but it just feels like there is something missing from the band to make it a stand out classic headline set. The main stage all done and dusted for the day and it is off into the night to enjoy some “Mind numbing Gabba”…

Sunday, 22nd July 2006
SUNDAY morning is brought to us courtesy of birds larking and the sun penetrating the green veil of the tent at an hour best described as unwelcome. As stories of tribulations and frivolities of the night trickle through it is apparent that music must be the redeeming order of the day and to the main stage again for a chance to see Truck Records very own whiz kid Chris McMath complete with backing band. The bleary eyed performance starts off tentatively with Chris on his own before the glitchy laptop sounds from the gratuitously named Andrew Valentine are brought in to beef things up. The set is a beautiful car crash of under-rehearsed bedlam to the point of being a majestic and polished performance that splits the audience 1 to 99 percent: 99% loving it, in awe, appreciating, confused and 1% a citrus fruit launching heckler who comes up to the front to berate Chris McMath with THE-WORST-HECKLE-EVER! Dealt with courteously and bemused by her lack of appreciation for an At the Drive-In cover first thing in the morning, Chris McMath and his band of merry music folk HAVE to make a return next year. A cracking start to the day: Musical goodness with added Vitamin C.

The Barn, the main “indoor” stage is the location for another hotly anticipated set, Youthmovies take to the hazy smoke filled stage and gently prise their way into the awe of the audience with a new song that has no apparent title, except to those in the know. The flood of melancholy from opening line “It’s not going well, it’s not going badly” delivered with a devastating ache of emotively strained vocal from Andrew Mears is tangible and soothing and the BEST-TRACK-YET-TO-BE-RECORDED. The rest of the set is a mix of new and old post rock brilliance that erects the hairs of Man, Woman and Cattle. Classics such as the dazzling jerks and syrupy moments of ‘A Little Late He Staggered...’ complete with Trumpeteer (All round good public school boy egg Sam) and a shameful lack of audience participation in the shouty breakdown, are exhilarating but not quite flawless. A performance of splendour and variety and Whiskas from Forward Russia, because you just can’t have too many layers of guitar in a wall of noise finale can you?

The Electric Soft Parade take us on a journey of good old fashioned English indie without playing a single track from their first and best album, a nice semi-passive set to take in sitting back with eyes shut in the baking afternoon sun but with the lack of familiarity, it is mildly disheartening not to hear a band that once meant a fair bit to neglect an entire albums worth of songs, good songs at that.

The second half of the day is linked with yet another burger and an ice cream from the local parish church stall, a church that earlier held a Sunday morning service set to the music of the Eurhythmics. The Research are all set up and ready to bring the tent down with their simple Casio keyboard, basic drum kit, bass guitar, effervescent vocals and cheeky smiles combo. There isn’t a single soul in the tent that isn’t smiling or throwing shapes that fit the songs of this sunshine band. Fun and funner! ‘She’s Not Leaving’ is tub thumped and chirped through with gusto and instantaneous recognition. Had it been raining, The Research would have been the band ordered to drive the misery of precipitation away.

Having been in considerable anguish for the previous few days trying to navigate the feelings of heart doing almighty battle with those of the head and the prospect of the Achilles heal of every festival, the clash of one act’s stage time with another, it is with the sight of a half mile long queue to get in to the Barn to see Regina Spektor that eliminates one candidate and leads to me making the decision of going to the undersized Lounge tent to witness a band in order to secure position for Seafood afterwards. The band in question that have to be endured are Manic Cough, a bunch of teens in a standard bass, guitar, drummer, dancing singer formation all bedecked in Majorettes outfits, an Orwellian nightmare meets Britney Spears. A noisy punk-pop racket is their MO and a gobby; David Walliams sound-alike meets the aesthetics of Pam Ferris, guitarist lady who talks utter rubbish between one song and the next is the visual manifestation of doom and bewilderment. Thankfully, Seafood come on and absolutely blow away the amassed and are so brilliantly loud that earplugs are rapidly fashioned out of grass to prevent prolonged damage. The set list is a mixture of violent cacophonous old, ‘Folksong Crisis’, ‘Cloaking’ and ‘Heat Walks Against Me’ through to the equally energetic newer material including latest single ‘Little Pieces’. For a band that have been besieged with such problems, not to mention David and his collapsing lungs, this is a return to form, older, wiser but youthful and energetic as ever, this should be their time.

The end of the festival is iced by those pesky Mystery Jets and their brilliance, rich tapestry of instrumentation layered with vocal harmonies to die for. A rousing encore featuring friends and family of the band armed with cowbell and more is a lovely hyperactive end to a glorious weekend of live music in a totally relaxed and accommodating environment. All that remains is to see how long the japes and whimsy can last through the night with makeshift acoustic performances and derivative camp song sing a longs with the likes of Forward Russia, Get Cape, Wear Cape and many more. As football matches alongside brimming portaloos descend into good natured anarchy unlike the warfare of a Carling festival, it is to the tent we return to hear the vocal orgy of truth from self proclaimed God of Words and Editor of a leading music website-MC Crabby Crab, who spits lyrical jollyment of the weekend’s events and simultaneously proves that it is not a crime to easy rhyme. Truck may be over for another year but the moments and memories forged in the last 48 hours will be quite the indelible mark on time. LEAVE.

Written by James Ainsworth