Like Amsterdam’s answer to Bestival, Lowlands is a place where hedonism is king. Under the kind of blistering sun that very obviously sets apart the locals from the few pasty, suffering Brits abroad (unlike European counterparts such as Benicassim and Primavera, the event hasn’t quite established a reach far outside its own country yet), you’re welcomed onto the site by a painting of a giant, boggle-eyed robot bearing a Hunger Games-style, passive aggressive warning of “good luck”. A faint smell of marijuana lingers permanently, techno sets and banging beats rule the nocturnal airwaves and – we’re informed by some regular attendees – there’s a patch of forest in which you can shout “bop” and a man will appear and furnish you with class As.
It is, essentially, a sweaty, messy, joyous Lord Of The Flies re-imagined for the EDM generation. But while you’ll be hard-pressed to find anything post-midnight that doesn’t require day-glo rave paint, the day’s offerings are a far more eclectic affair.
Friday’s treats come early. Burger Records-signed soul man Curtis Harding is all sultry croon and effortless cool, with the rootsy, gritty groove of ‘Keep On Shining’ and ‘Next Time’ providing an aural balm against the sunshine, while Slaves are unsurprisingly less forgiving. Having honed their two-man punk assault over a relentless touring schedule this past year, Isaac Holman and Laurie Vincent are tight enough to work any crowd. No matter that ‘Cheer Up London’ and the Tunbridge Wells-citing ‘Where’s Your Car, Debbie?’ are rooted in areas a whole sea away – Lowlands thrashes along like they’ve just been released from a four-hour delay on the Central Line. Ty Segall’s Fuzz deliver the day’s finest set, the Californian wild-eyed and panting behind the drumkit like a next generation Jack White as his band deliver gargantuan riffs.
On Saturday the weirdos rule the field. FFS‘s main stage performance is essentially a knowing wink played out over 40-minutes, with its two protagonists (Franz Ferdinand and Sparks) delighting in the silliness away from their day jobs. When Sparks’ permanently po-faced keyboardist Ron Mael manages to stay stock still for the entirety of Franz’s ‘Take Me Out’ as the entire tent erupts, it’s clear that FFS are fully in on the joke.
Hot Chip pull in a sadly minimal crowd for their second stage headline set; although their geek disco is still as ebullient as ever, you sense that their peak has almost certainly passed. Father John Misty, however, is striding confidently into his prime, kissing it passionately on the mouth and leaving it gasping for more. Suited and wearing sunglasses, his afternoon set is glorious. Between delivering note-perfect renditions of ‘I Love You, Honeybear’ and ‘Bored In The USA’ while dropping to his knees and flinging his arms in the air salvation-style, Misty (aka J Tillman) spends his time recording clips on crowd-members’ phones and half-jokingly declaring his own brilliance.
Come the final day, the majority of punters may be flagging and The Maccabees are right there with them. “It’s Sunday and you might be feeling a little fragile,” intones frontman Orlando Weeks. “We’ve done four festivals this weekend so we’re feeling a little fragile too.” Not that you can tell, mind. Guitarist Felix White roars his way through the beginning of ‘Marks To Prove It’, while ‘Spit It Out’ is an emotive peak that proves the quintet have come miles since singing about wave machines in their local lido.
It’s left to Tame Impala to close proceedings. Strangely, Kevin Parker and co choose to rely heavily on their older material. Save for a giddy ‘Let It Happen’ – one of the few songs that can hold a festival audience rapt for nearly nine minutes – and ‘Cause I’m A Man’, the Perth boys return largely unchanged, despite the recent release of ‘Currents’, their much dancier third album. Although the setlist is risk-free, Parker’s performance is masterful, and as his mellifluous vocals and guitars dance around the tent, Tame Impala emerge from the weekend victorious.