Micachu is a young 21 year old indie-punk gem.

From a young age, Mica studied the violin, viola along with musical composition; before being awarded a scholarship at the prestigious Guildhall School of Music and Drama.

Mica is currently making waves in the experimental and indie music scenes, along with her band the Shapes. Check out Gill’s exlcusive interview with Micachu and the Shapes here.

 Atop The Old Blue,  Shoreditch, Gill catches up with Micachu the unusual poptastic lady with her home made instruments- its a bit like a ukulele with a spare wire dangling down, hmmm, but pretty cool stuff…

Regular readers will be only too familiar with my shortening patience for the rash of poorly organised, brand rich, experience short festivals, so after the Lovebox / Latitude weekend I went through last weekend, I was somewhat nervy about hitting the secret garden festival in cambridge this weekend. I had actually attended before, and was astonished by just how mashed everyone was. Watching a stage crew member trying to load a bass drum into the wheel of a ford fiesta has been my ‘most mashed roadie ever’ story for a few years now, and one I hoped to top. Within 10 minutes of arriving on site, I had!

The guest list co ordinator ( I say this in the loosest possible sense of the word) had the shakes worse than Amy Winehouse after a meth binge, which we (most of the press corps attending) all guessed was the reason he couldn’t find any of us on the palm pilot he was juddering in his clammy paw. No matter, one of the upsides of this being such a charmingly scruffy festival was that the wrong pass rarely meant you couldn’t get to where you wanted to go. And go we did, in search of tents, stalls, welly chucking, cream teas, theatre, science camp, comedy, morris dancing (google it americans), sock wrestling, mud slinging, tractor tyre rolling and a few bands chucked in for good measure.

Suffice to say Grace Jones was the highlight of the weekend for many, although her smacky hi fashcamp persona and music isn’t really for me, I was certainly in the minority. It quickly became clear that this was not a festival for major labels to foist their bands upon, yet there were still some highlights. The wonderful Micachu gave, for my money, the set of the weekend which will be going in to the next show. We also grabbed some time with the up and coming Man Like Me ahead of his set promoting his spanking new single Carny before heading up to the Silent Disco (yes, it’s silent. You hear the music through headphones you are issued, and my top tip for fun is - grab some headphones then dance to a different beat to everyone else. They get very, very confused…) and finally turning in to our beach hut to sleep, which at the time seemed like a great idea, but come 7am with 27 degreee heat mercilessly beating down, seemed less so…

All in all though, an excellent alternative festival wit a high mashed up randomness rate and low score for current bands. But we soon came to realise, most of the kids had come for the giant pirate ship and cider stalls, not the breakout set from the Shortwave Set. We live and learn to fight another day.

 It’s time another quirky, left field pop princess graced our eyes and ears, I mean, let’s face it, Bjork’s finally crossed over into the land of the medical supplies supplement reader, so it’s only right a new lady should step up. In fact, Bjork thinks so too. She called Mica after one of her gigs and told her the crown was hers for the taking…OK, she did call her, but I don’t think a crown was mentioned…Suffice to say Mica writes left-field pop tracks as well as composing for orchestras including the London Philharmonic Orchestra. She’s got a debut album out in October, and whilst she’s a great producer in her own right, she’s been canny enough to get Matthew Herbert on board for producer help. With Bat for Lashes and Saul Williams already swooning, enjoy her current single now and start saving for October. It’ll be worth it…

Ooh, spot the odd one out in that title. We’re still a little tingly here after spending the other day holed up in a hotel room with the singularly talented Conor Oberst, a guitar, some red wine and a couple of cameras. Now that’s a guest list! So, er, yeah, you’ll be able to see and hear the exclusive results of that in the next episode of Flyposter, but suffice to say he’s on fire both vocally and conversationally. We manage to drift over to the subject of his touring with Bruce Springsteen and Barack Obama. Yes, the (fingers crossed) future president of the USA. That Barack Obama. It was possibly one of the most refreshing chats I’ve had in the past year, and not just with a musician, but anyone. Principally because here was a young man who was not afraid to air his views in an articulate, informed and impassioned way. Then play some songs about it. The tracks he played by the way, from his forthcoming album Conor Oberst (recorded in Mexico with the Mystic Valley Band) and were Lenders In The Temple, Milk Thistle, Cape Canavarel and a secret track

Gill and Lydia journey down to the Isle of Wight Festival, to give a little insight into the resurrected legendary festival of 1969, ‘70 and ‘71. We bump into The Hoosiers and the Joel from JK and Joel, the son of a Sex Pistol and a few unique punters onsite… Hark, we got a little boozed up listening to the Kaiser Chiefs and N.E.R.D. and the rather fabulous Wombats, who we hear will be doing some studio time with Sir Paul Mccartney…  

Now there are many folk whose love for the sainted MBV knows no bounds….And then there are the fans who combine this love with an equally OTT love of loud music….Sadly, when these two loves combine, as they did for many at MBV’s recent gig at London’s Roundhouse, you witness the evolution of a phenomena unique to the Shields’ followers and children at the scat stage of their development…For so loud was the sound coming from the stage at the gig, that its properties were loosening every spare screw, bolt, filling and, er, sphincter in the house.Yet, such was the rabid devotion of some fans that despite the sonic vibrations emanating from the stage serving as a bowel loosener, and its’ inevitable effects, most of the fans chose to stay put for the whole gig, merely frugging at their baggy arsed jeans uncomfortably until the very last song of the set before dashing out to the toilets to try and claw some dignity back from the bomb blast in their trousers.Those fans who weren’t reduced to retching, gurning freaks by the sheer scale of Kevin Shields’ sonic vision were happily reduced to the same status thanks to what is now known as ‘the brown noise’……

Well, we made it down and back in one piece, which judging by the nick of Ian Brown as we left the VIP area, is a feat unattainable by other sons and daughters of Manchester. What did we see whilst there? Well, for a kick off the one thing we hardly saw any of was any bleedin’ taxis. I know it’s not the most Keef thing in the world to moan about, but in the name of Drew if you’re gonna put a festival on, put some bloody transport on too. Minor, slightly uncool whines aside, IoW wasn’t half bad. Apart from the fact that there is an increasing number of folk who, like me, are slightly grossed out by Iggy, who still don’t get the fuss about The Zutons and who could go the rest of their born days without hearing another spew of spittle soaked mockney bile from Lydon and his deeply un Sexy Pistols. Yeah, apart from THAT, the festival wasn’t half bad. Now it may have been the liberal jugs of Pimms available on site, but we found ourselves actually enjoying a NERD set, with Pharrell managing to inject some humour and charisma into his tiny unsmiling frame, and at least four recognisable from the original songs making their way over the heads of the arena. Oddly, The Wombats also managed to reach the increasingly rowdy fans (I blame the free drink pavilions that looked over the arena crowd) whilst as usual The Kooks succeeded in taking an open and happy crowd and sending them all off to the burger stands during their set. One thing - if you’re the headline act who’s taken the lucre for an appearance, and justified it in some convoluted inversion of your original manifesto, surely you would at least repay your loyal fans by spending some of the fee on a few lights and a bit of a show? Given your vocal performance and staged bile no longer cut the mustard, a few strobes and bit of dry ice wouldn’t break the bank would it? So why did Lydon and co ask us to crown an otherwise great days’ music with lukewarm delivery and 8 60 watt bulbs framing the stage?…something to dwell on as you wait on your bus home….

You have to love this band. That’s not an earnest entreaty, it’s a downright, titsout, nail chewing, hand wringing, penny dropping, eyes scrunching demand. Coming on all Conor Oberst with Jack White’s swagger (a match made in indie rock and roll heaven?), this San Franciscan duo will change the way you look at the dynamic of two guys and guitar. Catch them live, and you’re going to get an even better spectacle as they veer from bucolic, idyllic guitar pluckery through crazed afrobeats before landing hexagonally (these fellas will never do anything squarely) in the land of guitar licks and frenzied, guttural breathing. I know, i got caught up in it. You will too……Buy the album Visiters. Go on….