Way Out West 2017

After last year’s biblical mud bath, I boarded the tram expecting another weekend of damp boots, expensive food and the slow surrender of dignity. Gothenburg weather has a habit of treating Way Out West less like a music festival and more like a survival exercise.

Then the impossible happened. The sun came out. I made straight for Höjden, where Annika Norlin and Säkert were already reminding everyone why understated confidence beats stadium theatrics every time. A quick stop at The Radio Dept followed before I found something edible and settled into the grass in front of The Shins. It’s one of the festival’s enduring pleasures when thousands of strangers quietly share lunch while excellent music drifts across Slottsskogen.

Annika Norlin, Säkert!

Refueled, I wandered into Dungen, where the air had become thick with smoke, bass and people dancing as if Monday had been permanently cancelled.

Flume and Tove Styrke served as pleasant detours before I squeezed into a good spot near the front for Pixies. Hearing those songs again felt less like nostalgia and more like catching up with old friends who had aged surprisingly well. Afterwards, I skipped the boring Frank Ocean in favor of local band Graveyard, a decision I never regretted.

MØ.

Danish whirlwind MØ exploded onto the stage wearing the classic Joy Division Unknown Pleasures T-shirt, radiating enough energy for half the festival. At one point she even disappeared into the crowd behind the barrier, trusting the audience more than the security guards probably did.

Another tactical food stop later, it was time for Feist. Having only just returned from Toronto, hearing Leslie Feist’s unmistakable voice felt like carrying a small piece of the city back home.

Ryan Adams (not Bryan, as he has patiently reminded the world for decades) delivered a perfectly respectable set beneath the afternoon sun. Yet it was impossible not to think back to seeing him at Draken in 2002, when the merchandise cheerfully proclaimed “Ryan Adams Sucks”. Some jokes somehow survive.

The xx were exactly as hypnotic as expected. When Major Lazer (still one of the more questionable band names in modern music) turned the neighboring stage into an EDM battlefield, I retreated from the ruckus to the sanctuary of Dungen, where dancing felt considerably less compulsory.

Finding shelter from the rain.

By the final day, the weather remembered where we were. Way Out West once again became Rain Out West. Wrapped in a raincoat that could generously be described as “functional”, I shuffled from stage to stage trying not to tilt my head high enough for the rain to find its way inside the hood.

Conor Oberst, Tycho and Frida Hyvönen all delivered fine performances, but London Grammar owned the day. Hannah Reid’s deep smoky voice somehow cut straight through the downpour, and their haunting version of Kavinsky’s Nightcall became one of those festival moments you’ll remember long after you’ve forgotten what you had for breakfast. Even when part of the stage surrendered and a soaked keyboard nearly met its watery end, the spell remained intact.

Lana del Rey.

Lana Del Rey entered the main stage in a pristine white dress and brought the festival to a close with a polished, elegant performance that delivered exactly what everyone expected. No more, no less.

Bring comfy shoes to the mud.

Leaving the forest, I caught my reflection in a shop window under the yellow glow of the streetlights. I looked like I’d spent the weekend wrestling wild boars. My shoes were coated in mud and my trousers weren’t much better. Somewhere behind me a group of teenagers pointed in my direction. “Holy crap, look at his dirty shoes.”

I laughed to myself and kept walking. Dirty shoes are rarely a fashion statement, but sometimes they’re proof you’ve been exactly where you wanted to be.