Latitude 2016: Part the fourth

First on the Obelisk Stage on Saturday lunchtime is Sturgill Simpson, championed by Americana devotees for his contemporary twist on traditional country themes.  At Latitude he opted for a more traditional set -no Turtles On The Way Down - songs where train rhythms, white lines and cheatin' were featured prominently.  Cultureberg had two preconceptions confirmed, and was pleased to be thus affirmed.
First, that the most perfect song is not a folk song, heavy metal anthem or soul stomper, it is a country song.  His set was littered with songs whose chord progressions and structure had an inevitability , an essential rightness, whereby the audience witnesses an alchemical or rhetorical inevitability.
Second, that American musicians, even if they are not Nashville Cats, play like they've been playing since they were babies.  Sturgill's band -trombone,sax and trumpet augmenting guitar, bass, drums, guitar and steel -played like they could stretch out to the horizon or bend and drop on a nickel, effortlessly inhabiting the country soul stew that is the quintessence of American music.  Plus, there was a synth solo.
Sturgill ended on his best song, his "feel good, anti-war hit of the summer", cranking the band up with his rhythm acoustic.  Class act.


The diligent visitor to Cultureberg may have read the piece on Father John Misty at Leeds, and the Saturday teatime show was the fifth time I've seen him since vacating the Fleet Foxes drum stool for centre stage, and this was the biggest stage thus far.  Was he at home on the big festival stage?  Does a Casanova betray his lovers?
The large screens hugging the stage actually give FJM the medium to exhibit nuance and gesture in a way often difficult in a darkened auditorium, and the crisp sound when added to the visual bonus brought out subtleties sometimes difficult to spot from row WW.  FJM is as much a character as Bonnie "prince" Billy, Bono or Bonnie Tyler, a character who appeals to his congregation with both his canyon lothario persona and it's heartfelt suitor counterpart.  He operates a hinterland previously inhabited by Leonard Cohen circa I'm Your Man and Death of A Ladies Man, a greasy haired, black haired  screen for hipster projections.  The beard, long hair and black uniform is ubiquitous; on more than one occaissioned I swore I saw FJM queuing for cheesy chips and artisan pizza (ready in three minutes).
FJM revisited his customary moves - collapsing to his knees in supplication, climbing the drum riser, strolling the stage confiding in his microphone -and to those who this was new it was exciting.To those who had seen him before it was interesting and actually brought out the humour - messing with his mobile during Bored In The USA or entreating on of Two Virgins to keep moving.  We replay records, why not replay live shows (with a twist)?  FJM understands the need to transcend monotony more than most. So, was he at home on the huge stage?  Of course.  He filled the field like he fills an arena, the very epitome of the new traditional rock star.