FESTIVAL REVIEW + PHOTOS: 2000trees Festival 2024 – Saturday

Want more 2000trees? Check out our full review and galleries of Thursday and Friday.

Wakey, wakey! Time to get your head beaten in by ‘68! In what feels like a deliberately scheduled booking to brute-force away the past night’s hangovers, volume is the prized possession here, to no surprise. Riff-rock borne from Josh Scogin’s past life in mathcore brutalists The Chariot could only go that one way, as seen in the complete dismissal of rock duo stoicism and firmness. The demeanour is erratic and the vocals are screeching and shabby, the sort of thing that might want to break back into its hardcore roots if the riffs weren’t so slab-heavy. Scogin and Nikko Yamada in their matching tuxes is a visual that’s completely at odds, as is the cover of the Beastie Boys’ Intergalactic, but it really is the point. ‘68 are quintessentially loose and scabby in ethos and execution, and nothing else would suit them better.

---

In the convergence of punk and trad-metal that they occupy, HAWXX have found a spot that turns out some pretty decent work for them. It helps that no one on the bill sounds exactly like them, allowing them to flourish in the riffage department as well as a staunchly progressive angle. They’re bold and identifiable in both aesthetic and speech, the kind of band that exudes presence greater than the fairly conservative stage they’re given. And while a washier-than-preferable mix leaves the cleans a little impotent, it’s almost too fitting when a screamed repertoire proves exponentially more formidable. Not only is that true of vocalist Anna, but the exercise break for bellowing stands out as a moment unto itself. One way or another, HAWXX are making some serious noise.

---

It’s not unusual—or unexpected—to have a band like Indoor Pets get lost in the shuffle. They’re a single piece of a sprawling undercard, and the must-see highlight of the day for maybe a single-digit number of people. But they’re also really fun in what they’re doing, casting back to spry Britrock deeply rooted in the 2000s and comprised exclusively of insta-earworms. The foundations are unshakable, regardless of the lack of elaborate architecture built on them. Hi and Stink Eye do the job perfectly well on their own as smaller-scale but irrepressible outings. So don’t unduly dismiss Indoor Pets based on a perceived lack of magnitude; they’ve still got exactly what they need to hit.

---

After a headlining set from The Chats last night, the baton is passed to Dune Rats for another batch of fried, rowdy Aussie punk.

---

You might as well just build a little house on Upcote Farm for The Xcerts to live in; if it meant they could play every year, no one would object. Like, they basically do already, but the guarantee of one of Scottish pop-rock’s finest is just too sweet a prospect. When Gimme comes first, it feels like a formality, getting it out the way early to let the superior stuff shine through. And shine it does, from a catalogue constituent of such Britrock diamonds as Daydream and Shaking In The Water that are pitch-perfect for a mild afternoon such as this. They’re so good at this now, and Murray Macleod as the ever-affable mouthpiece ties it all together. When he dedicates the acoustic Aberdeen, 1987 to his father who’s now free of cancer, you feel the ripple of warmth and plain joy that spreads out. The final big push to the close comes on Feels Like Falling In Love, with an assist from You Me At Six’s Josh Franceschi as almost a torch-passing moment, from the departing stalwarts of Britrock reliability to one whose star is still fiercely alight.

---

Their new album Afraid Of Tomorrows saw The Mysterines open up and slink into new worlds of gothic, evocative indie and post-punk. Now, that’s all channelled once again on the main stage.

---

Remember when Angel Du$t were just a weird alt-punk side-project, generally side-eyed as the apparent reason for Justice Tripp to shut down Trapped Under Ice? Yeah, you wouldn’t think it now when crowds are spilling out the Cave by multiple rows. Now, removed from any errant ‘controversy’, there’s just a solid act to dig into here, no less because Tripp still has the physique and willingness to throw it around of your average hardcore bruiser. The music itself might be a little more melodic in places, but the spirit of full-fat hardcore hasn’t left it. A clout to the jaw from an audience this game transcends genre, and Angel Du$t barrelling forward in exceptionally solid stead makes that all too well known.

---

Let’s not dance around it—Death From Above 1979 were the zero year for loud, groove-heavy rock duos, and they can still run circles around basically all of them. This is already a rare showing, but as a chance to pay respects to You’re A Woman, I’m A Machine 20 years on…yeah, there’s a reason the Axiom is pretty packed out. The fact that, beyond that, there’s nothing too ceremonious just feels right. They ram into Turn It Out as if it were the most natural thing in the world, sounding enormous from every angle and fielding just how much raw mass Jesse F. Keeler’s bass carries. Even if you’re not a dyed-in-the-wool noise-rock / dance-punk junkie for whom this is biggest score of your lifetime, you can’t help but respect how much further ahead DFA evidently are than the swathes the came after. There’s more texture and sonic sources in the added synth, doubling as percussion when Sebastien Grainger steps away from the kit to sing. The transitions between monstrous riff-rock obelisks and sweltering dance-punk aided by cascading synth abrasion are seamless. If you’re going to juice nostalgia and deliver a compelling reason for why that’s necessary, this should be the blueprint.

---

It’s show 2,915, and probably about half of them were at 2000trees. The obscene number of road miles that Frank Turner has clocked up always seems to bring him back to Upcote Farm—playing the very first year in 2007; headlining outright multiple times over; having an entire campsite here named after him. He and The Sleeping Souls might not be topping the bill today, but a hero’s welcome and a crowd fully aware of how deep the kinship runs ensure this is far from a humble affair. And as you’d expect from a man whose live résumé is close to noting its 3,000th entry, there’s not a speck of rust to be found. The punk in the repertoire is leaned on much heavier the folk, incited by No Thank You For The Music and Girl From The Record Shop as appetisers for the knees-up being cultivated. Even as a pair of newer songs, the enthusiastic crackle is just as potent as ever. Well, maybe not quite that much, when the rippled shoutalong of “We’re not dead yet!” on Get Better’s hook is one of the most life-affirming demonstrations a crowd as delivered all weekend.

At the centre of it all is Turner himself, who continues not to buckle under rockstar aspersions or expectations. Here of all places shows the humanity of a guy who could very well buy into his own myth, and doesn’t. He’s warm and uplifting, and feeds that into the atmosphere for a song like The Next Storm. Most of all, the ties to his roots remain firmly intact. He speaks fondly on being asked to play the first festival nearly 20 years ago, and gives a solo rendition of Worse Things Happen At Sea at the request of organiser James Scarlett. For someone so intrinsically linked with this festival—arguably more so than anyone else—they’re choices and actions that ring out for miles; again, it’s not a headliner performance, but it has all the reverence of one. And for all the criticism that’s been thrown at Turner’s way, he’s never stopped delivering the very thing he’s best at. Even as the rain begins to come, spirits stay high through Recovery and I Still Believe and especially Four Simple Words, the set-in-stone anthems of an unmistakable performer at an equally unmistakable place.

---

So Creeper are still phenomenal, eh? Must be a day that ends in Y. Truth be told, that reputation proceeds them so far that the Axiom almost seems like a bad choice to house them. It’s rammed, wall-to-wall, shoulder-to-shoulder, where movement is borderline impossible in places. It’s obviously supposed to be some special thing, but even then, they’ve outgrown these confines by a spectacular degree. It’s not hard to see why; it never has been. They open with Further Than Forever, a nine-minute song that’s the most grand, opulent thing this field has heard all weekend by a ludicrous factor. And that’s the opener. Look, Creeper have always had that shock of larger-than-life about them, but now, in a post-Sanguivore era that’s turned them into muscle-bound, denim-and-leather hellions, they’ve never felt bigger. If the scrappiness of their punk roots continues to beaver away at the core, it’s encased in the form of the biggest band on the planet.

It’s probably relevant to note that the vast majority of this set is taken from Sanguivore, too. It’s where Creeper have hitched themselves for this performance, where they can get the most from duelling guitar solos and flagrant camp. For the latter especially, when Will Gould is cloaked in red light and smoke for the creaking murder-ballad The Ballad Of Spook & Mercy, it’s where the flair for the dramatic and cinematic reads the most plainly. It’s like if you had Meat Loaf playing a festival set; it’s almost alien to the environment, but so brilliant in how little is lost in translation. Likewise, the mid-set drum solo from Jake Fogarty isn’t the shoehorned annoyance it could be, by any stretch. It’s a wonder that Creeper haven’t wheeled it out more often, in fact, because they might as well. It’s just as titanic a beat as Lovers Led Astray with its whip-cracks and vamping flamboyance, or Cry To Heaven as a closer that would feel bigger than literally any environment that tried to contain it. And that fact that that’s just the norm for Creeper these days is mind-boggling. They should be headlining this thing. They should be headlining everything.

---

Words by Luke Nuttall

Photos by Faye Roberts (Instagram)