Goldfrapp - Electric Picnic, Stradbally, Ireland
WOOOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOO-HOOOO-HOOOOOOOOOOOO!! (Well, you try spelling out a whistle) As Lovely Head tiptoes through the air, Alison Goldfrapp offers a cold hand, leading us to tread softly and quietly across the dawn horizon with her. The icy chill of the Morricone meets John Barry moment melts away, finally revealing a pulsing mechanical heart; throbbing louder and louder. As an electric grind oozes out of the speakers, pursued by a Glitter Band stomp, we're teleported in a split-second from a stark winter to the Red-Light District of the future via Strict Machine. This is the moment where Goldfrapp swapped their avant-garde archness for disco-glam sleaze n' tease, where Alison shed the snow queen cool in favour of 'look, but don't touch' provocateur and where the band left the margins of the style mag mafia for top billing in the charts. In the Main Tent at the Electric Picnic festival, strobe lighting renders us sightless, the rest of our senses victims to an electro-perv assault. And tonight it feels marvellous.
From the pomp and frazzle of Train and Ooh La La's disco thump, we're no longer straining our trainspotter ears to hear how university art kids make those clever-clever, bizarre whistling noises of Felt Mountain. We're having them pinned back by the flirtatious, static ripple of Ride A White Horse or the starry-eyed wonder of Black Cherry. Throughout our eyes remain fixed on Alison; part Cabaret sexual allure, part Thin White Duke alien grace. The opening track now a charade; an elegant toe dipped into the icy waters of their past, before realising that there's more fun to be had indoors, in the bedroom. Filthy gorgeous indeed.