Way Out West 2018

So here we are again at Way Out West. Every year I feel a little more like Statler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show, watching from the balcony, muttering at the youngsters while wondering when exactly the world stopped asking my opinion.

The average age on the lineup posters keeps getting younger than me, and every year there’s at least one headline act that leaves me genuinely puzzled. Kendrick Lamar? I gave him an honest try, but after five minutes I found myself silently screaming in agony and desperately looking for the nearest exit.

Fever Ray at Way Out West.

The highlight for me was arguably Fever Ray, with Karin Dreijer stepping out once again from the long shadow of The Knife and other bands. The first time I saw her solo act was inside the Apollo tent at Arvikafestivalen in 2009, where green lasers carved geometric patterns through the darkness and everyone looked as if they’d accidentally wandered into a science-fiction cult. This time the stage drew heavily from the Bollywood-inspired madness of Shaking the Habitual tour, which I caught in Munich a few years ago, but twisted it into something stranger, darker and deliberately uncomfortable. Exactly the kind of performance that refuses to become background entertainment.

Torsten Quaeschning from Tangerine Dream at Way Out West.

Then there was Tangerine Dream, a band I have been listening to since 1990. This was their first Swedish concert. Edgar Froese has been gone since 2015, leaving Torsten Quaeschning to carry the torch of a group that has been drifting through electronic music since 1967. Purists will argue about lineups and legitimacy until the end of time. I couldn’t care less. Torsten has been the de-facto leader since 2005, and when the opening notes of Stratosfear rolled across the forest, any doubts quickly evaporated. Goosebumps don’t concern themselves with personnel changes.

Iggy Pop at Way Out West.

The veterans reminded everyone why they’ve earned the right to occupy festival posters for half a century. Thåström remained gloriously uncompromising, Iggy Pop still possessed more raw energy than performers half his age (and twice his shirt budget), Patti Smith radiated effortless authority, and Charlotte Gainsbourg proved once again that understated can be infinitely more powerful than loud.

The newer generation held its own as well. Arcade Fire delivered exactly the kind of communal euphoria they’re famous for, Bonobo built hypnotic grooves that seemed to float over the park, while Dirty Projectors, Arctic Monkeys and Fleet Foxes all made convincing arguments that maybe the kids are going to be alright after all.

So yes, I’ll keep complaining about the ticket prices. I’ll continue grumbling about artists I don’t understand. And I’ll almost certainly be back next year anyway. Some habits are simply too good to break.