The Great Escape 2007

It’s five in the morning at Brighton Pier and a guy with an acoustic guitar has just pulled over a van, climbed on top of it and freed a seagull trapped on a wire using a knife procured from a shifty-looking stranger. Welcome to The Great Escape Festival 2007. Seagull saving aside, an enormous collection of new bands along with a smattering of established acts is the reason why 5000 people have flocked to the seaside. From Canada to Camden, France to Finland, an international melting pot of music is on offer.

Or maybe three days of queuing in the drizzle. Having enjoyed a soothing set of quaint folk from Dan Mangan in the shark pool of the Sealife Centre, spirits are high. But then, even with a magic press pass in tow, entry into Concorde 2 to watch CSS is impossible. Lines of people snake along the seafront looking disgruntled as they are turned away, so it’s off to catch 1990s instead. Inside the cavernous treasure trove of Audio, the Glaswegian three-piece sounds like a budget Franz Ferdinand. Shout-along choruses and choppy riffs dominate songs like You’re Supposed To Be My Friend. They contain the lyrical depth of a Nuts magazine subscriber and are sung by a man who looks like Johnny Borrell’s uglier, yes uglier, brother.

However, it is undeniably danceable and a great pre-cursor to Foals, Britain’s best new band. Dashing across to Komedia, rumours abound that Yoko Ono has been spotted watching The Gossip in the giant cow tent aptly named the Udderbelly; thankfully this frightful combination is nowhere in sight as Foals launch into a frenetic set. Electrifyingly frantic vocals dominate their layered sound, with a pulsating bass line during Hummer producing a euphoric atmosphere in the sweaty crowd. Funky yet edgy, this Oxford five-piece are inimitably fun and deserve your immediate attention.

Next up are Gallows, apparently rock’s new messiahs, here to breathe life into the stale musical climate. Actually, they’re all aggression and attitude with no substance. They may have a snarling frontman and a raucous live presence, but songs like Abandon Ship are basic and unimaginative. The crowd is manic, the guitarist slashes his face open with his instrument and utter mayhem ensues - but where are the songs? More disappointing than Brighton beach having sod all sand, this band is hideously over-hyped.

Waking up slightly dazed, still angry at Gallows for repeatedly calling the whole crowd c***s, a decidedly more relaxed day is planned. An unexpected afternoon treat is found at the Udderbelly as Emily Loizeau serves up some blissful balladry. Mixing between French and English, she strokes her piano delicately while delivering ethereal vocals. Shaun Ryder even waits patiently outside for her to finish, before giving a keynote lecture. This festival can be surreal.

More feminine songsmithery follows from Adele, a girl who talks like Lily Allen but sings like Dusty Springfield. Amy Winehouse comparisons are inevitable as Adele shares her soulful delivery, but couples this with an understated innocence. Kid Harpoon continues the barrage of unassuming talent onstage. He cajoles the audience with the sweetly melodious Charlie’s Dreaming before exchanging banter with The Kooks’ Luke Pritchard. The Red Roaster Café’s newly-acquired Greenwich Village feel is completed by Kid Harpoon’s impressive musical resemblance of Dylan circa 1963. It’s engulfed in a glow of camaraderie as The Mystery Jets, Hadouken and Scroobius Pip all gaze on.

Belatedly, it becomes clear that the only people in here are in bands. With just a 70 person capacity, it is strikingly intimate and each syllable uttered is much clearer than the crowds’ alcohol-affected heads. But the fans can’t get in! Several hundred stand outside in the cold, watching through the window. Everybody’s waiting for Jack Penate. The London troubadour bounds onstage as the window rattles dangerously. Eventually he is forced to turn sideways so those outside can see, such is the adulation. He melds contemporary lyrics with the timeless skill of sheer showmanship, sparking a mass sing-along with latest single Spit At Stars. Guitar held aloft, Penate dances like Elvis and sings with surprising range and expected passion. There’s a permanent contorted grin on his face - maybe he realises he’s on the cusp of success.

Smartly dressed gig-goers still wander about anxiously as the night draws to a close, desperate to get inside one of the 20 venues hosting bands. Many don’t end up where they wanted to, but The Great Escape has a habit of unearthing unforeseen delights. This is the case on Saturday when, following seemingly every man in Brighton descending in Walkabout for the F.A Cup Final, a man on stilts plays the A-Team Theme on a trombone. Then, a dash down to the sunshine-basked beach is interrupted by the spectacle of ridiculous Helsinki collective Eternal Erection playing aboard a vehicle called the Funky Bus.

But tonight is Brighton boys The Maccabees’ homecoming and the miniscule Honey Club is the setting. The Draytones warm up the already sweltering venue with a gritty half-hour of garage rock. Sounding like The View without the pop singles, there’s nothing to hate, but nothing to adore. Candie Payne then saunters into view. Atmospheric and brooding rock spreads under the low ceilings, drowning out Payne’s jazz-tinged voice. Strangely resembling a Motown singer fronting a rock and roll band, it’s interesting but doesn’t quite fit. Beautifully crafted songs are lost in a whirl of guitars, marking this as a missed opportunity.

The Maccabees have grasped their chance hungrily, as shown by the euphoric reaction when they emerge. Earlier, they happily posed for pictures in the bizarre setting of Harry Ramsden’s. Now, they’re in full-on indie icon mode. Blasting through Latchmere amid riotous crowd scenes, the local heroes jagged sound jolts even those cowering at the back into life. Stop-start time signatures breed a skittish atmosphere as the band manages to contain the adrenaline of their performance into short, sharp bursts. It seems The Maccabees are preaching to the converted as every word is screamed back at them by adoring fans. Singer Orlando Weeks’ warbled vocals – he sounds like he’s just been stung in the mouth by a wasp – fit with their fizzing style perfectly.

As the contagious First Love signals the end of both the gig and the festival, the beach is flooded with confused, but happy faces, looking for the next party to go to, the next memory to find. The Great Escape can be frustrating when venues reach capacity or when a band doesn’t deliver. But with an open mind and a bit of luck it can be spectacular. You might even save a seagull.