ArcTanGent is the slightly smaller in size sister festival of the award winning 2000trees, currently in its second year running. It’s a unique event, holding the title of ‘the UK’s only festival dedicated to the very best music from the worlds of math-rock, post-rock and noise rock.’ The line-up this year showcased some of the giants of these genres, ranging from intricate, innovative and bold twists on classic styles to the more experimental and avant-garde. It’s a festival that aspires to be different in more ways that just the bands on the bills though. Like 2000trees, ATG aims to be an unforgettable and intimate experience, avoiding all the shitty aspects of the big name festivals, for an unbeatable ticket price of just £70 for Friday and Saturday. Thursday tickets are just £15 extra, with a single stage of acts that now I oh so wish I’d been there for.
Friday
ATG is set at Fernhill Farm, somewhere just above Cheddar Gorge. It was about a fifty minute journey from Bristol Temple Meads by an old and battered red London double decker that served as the shuttle bus, which took us past a rich landscape of rolling limestone hills, wooded combes and picturesque farmyards. Our destination felt like it was some sort of Mecca, a place of pilgrimage for a few thousand devoted fans of a couple niche, alternative and underground genres music. When me and my friend Drew arrived we were whisked through a surprisingly short queue for wristbands after a ham-fisted fumble for our A4 print out tickets. We confronted by a campsite that mingled with stages, bars and traders, hemmed in by wire fence and woods. Bixler stage and its next-door bar lay a couple of steps to our left, with cream picnic benches and camping chairs dispersed around its packed edges. A mass of tents, gypsy caravans and a channel of flags fluttering in the wind sat in the center of the field. We’d only just managed to catch the end of Olympians’ set, and neither I nor my friend Drew knew any of the other bands playing that afternoon, so we figured we’d do some drinking, have a gander around and see something new.
First up on our itinerary was checking out the bar. Rather than paying out the nose for a warm pint of piss, ATG sources locally brewed lagers, ales and ciders and charges a wholly reasonable price comparable to that which you’d find at a pub on a Friday night. Cotswold Cask ale became a staple of my diet for the next two days. You don’t even have to get drinks at the bar. As there’s no arena area, you’re free to bring your own booze around all day. ‘Arts and Absurdities’ littered the way, a collection of installations: shipping crate murals, spray painted pieces employing the ATG ram skull logo and a massive, tree-like iron structure in the centre of a bonfire enclosure, draped with glitter balls. Later on in night this made an atmospheric set piece, surrounded by sodden campers with a hexagonal ring of drenched multi coloured hammocks besides it. From there we went on the Arc stage and the other camping field to see Human Pyramids, an Arcade Fire-esque ensemble with a whimsical sound and a folky, summertime vibe, who put on an uplifting performance.
We moved back to the tent to catch a couple of g&t’s and check out the bands on at Bixler while the weather was going tits up. Tellison were defined by sweet, shoddy lyrics and warm fuzzy hooks while Cleft, well, I don’t really remember much of Cleft. A couple of g&t’s had turned into a bottle and by then, I had ended up tumbling into my sleeping bag and nuzzling a saturated pile of towels and tshirts with my face. I woke up sometime about an hour later. I’d missed This Will Destroy You and the drizzled had turned into a deluge and some time ago I’d lost Drew. I stumbled along in a hurry, Maybeshewill were just about to start, and I didn’t want to miss a single thing.
The energy inside the Yohkai stage tent was incredible, it was electric. I ended up with a bloody nose and surfing out of the pit. As their set came to a close the crowd surged through the torrential shower towards Arc for the day’s headliners, Russian Circles. The wide, open edges of the Arc stage were great for sitting at the back earlier in the day, but as the monsoon around us crept further and further inside and sparks of lightning flashed across the sky, I realised it wasn’t all that practical. The weather provided a perfectly fitting backdrop for what was to come though, with an apocalyptic feeling behind it. The Chicago instrumental trio burst into life with a heavy, operatic set, putting on the most dramatic experience of the weekend. Upon finding Drew we banded together with a group of guys sheltering under the roof outside the Halls Dorset Smokery stall, drinking whiskey and pestering the staff to play Fleetwood Mac on their speakers.
Saturday
I awoke the next morning feeling like a dead weight, my stomach unsettled and with a head that span like a merry-go-round. Later, after lifting my sorry, soggy self-up from my tent I began to regret only bringing with me a tent, a sleeping bag, a single change of clothes that were now soaked and a fuckload of gin. Everything I had was dripping wet and caked in mud. Drew lent me a clean and dry grossly oversized shirt and I hung my soaked possessions out to dry on the wire fence behind us. I dreaded venturing to the toilets sober, yet I was pleasantly surprised to conclude that the loos at ATG really were the pinnacle of festival shithouses, about as clean as could ever be possible as far as festivals go. Unfortunately, the tapped drinking water tasted like it’d come straight out of the end of a welly boot, having somehow developed a strange, grubby taste overnight which would only get worse the next day.
First up on Bixler was Samoans, a band with an introspective, chilled out math-rock sound, making an ideal, relaxed way to start the day. We went back to the Smokery stall to get breakfast. One of the girls remembered me from the night before, pointing out my terrible singing and dancing along to ‘Go Your Own Way’. The bacon and brie baps were to die for. By this point I must have had at least 4 of them since Friday afternoon. We went back to Bixler and the picnic benches beside the bar to see Adding Machine, No Spill Blood, Codes In The Clouds and AK/DK while hitting the hair of the dog. We then visited PX3 for the first and only time of the weekend for Karhide, a guy called Tim who resembles a plumber, then Yohkai for another one-man-band, Mylets. Both made impressive feats for a lone musician to pull off with loop pedals, samples and drum machines galore. Tall Ships put on an upbeat, low-key and charming set laced by sing-alongs and apparently even an engagement. Post-metal behemoths Year Of No Light wholeheartedly lived up to my massive expectations, leaving me dumbstruck and slightly deaf, while God Is An Astronaut’s appearance was a captivating, ambient affair. We were faced with the appalling choice between LITE and I Like Trains. The line-up was carefully constructed by the organisers to minimise competition between stages to most feasible extent, limiting clashing to between Arc and PX3, Bixler and Yohkai. We’d ran out of fags and wine, so we headed back to our tent, and to Bixler. Saturday had now taken a nosedive from an energetic thing to something eerily calm and serene. We chatted with our neighbours Ailie and Declan. We got a couple of dinky polaroids taken at the free photobooth and went to see the last act of the festival, Mono. I can’t think of a possible better band to round off the weekend, putting on an orchestral and epic performance.
A musty wooden framed wire wall draped in sheep’s woollen fleeces surrounded several benches at the Fernhill Farm Foods stall. We’d just managed to get there in time for the last dinners of the day, with a limited, but pungent selection. We went for lamb chop and pork burgers. Some time ago, Drew had found an abandoned jetpack made of card, duct tape, loo roll tubes and string. It proved quite the conversation piece. We moved on to collect our headphones and went back to the Arc for the silent disco. As a small, intimate event, at ATG the silent disco is a much bigger deal than at other festivals, with the stage just as packed out as it was an hour or two earlier for the headliners.
Conclusion
I’d lost my voice a long time ago by this point, but that didn’t stop me attempting to join in belting out Baba O’Riley by The Who. I didn’t want this to end. ATG delivered the perfect festival experience for me: an impeccable lineup and an amazing atmosphere set in tranquil and gorgeous location. It’s a coming together of bearded music geeks, arty types and generally the most chatty and easy going crowd I’ve ever had the pleasure of being a part of. While the food and drink was top notch, first and foremostly, ATG is a music festival that’s about the music. You won’t find much else to do there besides seeing bands, lacking all the trinkets, craft stalls and gimmicks that characterise boutique festivals, but it’s a beautiful thing. The stages will always have your undivided attention. Like Drew, if you haven’t a clue about the bands playing, all of this might still be for you, if you’re open minded and feeling up for something truly different. Otherwise, 2000trees would be probably more up your street, which would still make a brilliant choice. But for me, it’s ATG.
See you next year.
Photo credit: Stuart Alexander Rees
Related festival: ArcTanGent
