Melt!
Ferropolis, Germany | 18 – 20th July
We’re sitting at 4am on Monday morning, 24°C, spectating from afar as the immortals vibrate under the infinite pulse of the Sleepless Floor stage, discussing what exactly we’ve just witnessed.
According to the Melt! chaps, the Aristotelian model of the four balanced elements (Fire, Earth, Air, Water) might help sum it up. The homeostasis of the festival is closely refined and meticulously considered, with regard to both the setting and the musical timetabling. The explosive adrenaline of Gesaffelstein is followed by the cathartic morphine of Portishead. The days are spent floating on the idyllic lakes of the camp, regaining the feeling in your heels – and the nights are spent replacing the damage. Beneath the hellish behemoth machinery that loom over the ex-mine of Ferropolis levitate giant disco balls. This is no throw-together. Smart guys are those Modeselektors.
It was very hot. 35+ at times, and relentless. This must be mentioned because it often dictated the path of your day and you’ll only dream of waking up later than 10am. But if there’s a festival for melting, it’s Melt! The recovery ritual is truly bliss for those mornings where you can’t quite brave the Sleepless Floor. Inflatable mattresses-turned-lilos and empty cans-turned-boombox buoyancy aids scatter deep into the lake. You don’t not go in the lake unless you’re not a human. When that’s done, you sleep in the shade. Until 3pm there’s nothing else you can do, and nothing else you’d rather do. Shade is good. You hop from naked stomach to nacktem bauch like lines of cartoon crocodiles until you settle for leaning against a portaloo. I once resigned myself to chancing the underside of a lorry and was presented with a tin of snoring sardines. Shade quickly became a commodity. As a short guy I got off lucky and could pay big guys four euros an hour to let me accommodate their shadows for the few walks I made between the festival and the campsite.
Yes, it did get pretty delirious at times. But the regular shuttles meant the walk was rare. The organisation was faultless and the sun was tamed … almost. Clean Bandit’s drum kit melted (or something like that) and really cut their set drastically short. Pantha Du Prince lit one of the first sparks on the Friday night at Resident Advisor’s Big Wheel stage as the dry ice diffused during glittering opener The Splendour to reveal a spectacular LED display and an excitable crowd who cherished the deep, gentle push into the ridiculously booked next few hours. Jackson and his Computer Band, Fuck Buttons (which, following a back injury to Ben Power ended up being solo DJ set from Andrew Hung), Erol Alkan and Daniel Avery, Âme, Actress, Darkside all overlapped in about four hours. Because of the clever dipping landscapes of the site, the acts can all be in close proximity without too much sound bleed. Jackson’s signature set up matched his cutty thud as well as it did the industrial surroundings, Darkside evaporate minds in the sweltering Intro tent and reinstate the significance of the guitar in late night music. The live show really brings new significance to the neo dusty trail narrative of the album and here it was honestly spectacular. Spaced-out and half-boiled from the sauna tent that was Intro (which looked like a dance tent but hosted mostly bands and was usually slightly too big for its acts), we left for the beach to wring the sweat out of our socks. Before suddenly – oh. L-Vis 1990 and French Fries are playing Freak by LFO from Modeselektor’s hand reared Melt!Selektor stage. Brodinski, Fritz Kalkbrenner, Boys Noize follow … this does not look promising for the Slazengers.
We opted not to wear socks on Saturday as they didn’t seem to work in this strange, foreign place. Of Montreal screamed their super cheesy and intelligent disco spiel early on Saturday into the main stage arena, marking one of the highlights of the bands on show. Sleigh Bells’ authoritative lead-girl Alexis Krauss crashed out old school hard rock, erupting the emotion of the show effortlessly. A painful hole in the current live electronic performance system is the death of the quintessential frontperson. Although, still, this was notably a day for emotions and humans. Panda Bear wailed out his warped synth lullaby, and later Metronomy enjoyed another unhindered success in a year which has truly marked their growth into the colourful suits of the ‘Headline Band’. Omar Souleyman weirdly fit, once again pressing pleasing twangy buttons that we didn’t know we had at this time of night. The singers eventually retreat though, and Modeselektor, on their beach home, stretched their techno legs with the freer license given by a b2b with Patrick Pulsinger.
But the Melt!Selektor stage disappeared on Sunday, and the line-up, too, is much less densely packed. If there is a criticism, perhaps it’s that the festival may not be able to fully endure three proper complete days quite yet. John Wizards jollily shone and Jagwar Ma broke through to a truly raucous Gemini stage. Moderat emerged, representing the same hybridity of bold emotion and heartfelt feeling that fuels Melt! Gita appeared in the encore as the mood began to softly dampen as the vocals decayed into a close. Gesaffelstein played out way over his end time and the excruciating roar of Pursuit quickened my amble to a sprint into a totally different world of raw electro anarchism. It’s here, under the hood of the Gemini stage, that things can really implode, out-of-body-experience style. And, finally, Portishead howled their gauze of sweet industrial dread and hip-hop which has never and maybe will never be touched. Gibbons sounded like a séance’s medium in this mechanical graveyard, before John Talabot played out on the Big Wheel stage, steadying those ready to leave and just warming up the rest.
Melt! straddles the balance between wild and peaceful as well as any festival possibly could. I’m thoughtful and invigorated as the wiggling of the Sleepless Floor 24/7 stage that is the beating heart of Melt! disappears behind me whilst its body settles down to recuperate in sleeping bags a mile nearer reality down the cooling black road.
– – – – – – – – – –
Words: Henry Johns
Photography: Melt!
CONNECT TO CRACK
