The Great Escape Festival 2016 review: An overwhelming feast of new music

Over 200 performances take place on the first day of The Great Escape.

Looking at the timetable puts you in the position of child-in-sweetshop, the whole thing is overwhelming – how the hell do you choose what to go to? – until it becomes a matter of shrugging and letting yourself get swept up in the crowds with the hope that you could get bundled into the Mystery Jets' gig at the Corn Exchange, or Stormzy at Brighton Dome on Day 3.

On Friday the sun decides to make a rare appearance, just in time for Dublin four-piece Otherkin who storm the tiny stage at the Prince Albert like wildling extras from Game of Thrones.

Frontman Luke Reilly has his shirt off in the first 10 seconds, and considering it’s 1.30pm they do a superb job of blasting away any cobwebs from the night before.

At the Mucky Duck it’s a squeeze past Royal Blood who are stood looking surly (what else is new?) near the door, and seem to know one of the fresh-faced acts being showcased by Next Buzz (presented by Hand In Hive and When The Gramophone Rings), before heading down to the Vevo stage, where everyone is buzzing about the artists who have performed there so far: Craig David’s TS5 nostalgia-filled set gets an obvious shout-out alongside fellow Wagner Hall performers Black Honey; over at Patterns Lady Leshurr has proclaimed Brighton "mad ting", Temper Trap’s secret show hints at a comeback later in the year, and the wonderful Loyle Carner attracts rave reviews.

Blossoms, who are probably one of the most talked-about new acts of this year’s festival, are following up a morning acoustic set with an 11.30pm slot; those happy to wait outside before their set nurse yet another whisky and coke while Declan McKenna’s performance is broadcast across a giant screen.

Immediately you’re taken aback by how different Blossoms sound onstage to the recorded material they’ve put out so far – the EPs are great but these guys are phenomenal live – then for another doubletake when it turns out guitarist Josh Dewhurst, who appears to be the secret lovechild of Johnny Marr and Matt Bellamy, is (according to frontman Tom Ogden), only 19-years-old.

They all look like Romantic poets – attractive, long-haired, dressed in black – and the music fits; 23-year-old Ogden slips cultural references into his lyrics like, "The stately homes of England/How beautiful they stand" for "Blown Rose" via 19th Century poet Felicia Hemans. Bassist Charlie Salt plays a thrumming bass line that’s pure disco and adds a completely new texture to their sound, while Dewhurst knocks out a fierce solo.

After the gig their dressing room is heaving, but Ogden manages to skip past crowds of raving friends and admirers and into a sort of back alley area with absolutely-no-lighting-whatsoever so we can have a quick catch-up.

"This is great," he says of TGE and Brighton in general. "There’s nowhere beach-y in Stockport… every time we come here on tour we always have a good time."

Blossoms are unapologetically, brilliantly ambitious but equally keen to remember where they come from; on Jools Holland the week before Ogden recounts how Iggy Pop and Josh Homme were in front of them before Holland announced: “And now, from Stockport…”

"We’re normal lads, we don’t take stuff too seriously… but we know what we’ve gotta do, we don’t get too fucked up," he says. “I think something feeds into you without knowing it – Oasis, Stone Roses, Arctic Monkeys – they’re all working class normal people and that feeds into your music."

Diving into a squalid student bar that seems to be the only place left open. Suddenly Friday is over; it’s 1.40am on a Saturday and now people are stumbling into Komedia to dance off any remaining energy, where the floor threatens to rip the shoes from your feet and French wunderkind Fakear sets up for his DJ set; straight into "Sheer Khan" with its eastern influences and a high-pitched whistle that recalls the chirp of some exotic bird.

Still hectic despite the threat of rain, cabs from the city centre are a nightmare and considering there are two festivals (Fringe is going on as well) the whole transport system seems ridiculously disorganised: hen parties draped in feather boas and stags in morph suits stagger past students screeching Tom Jones’ "Delilah" until finally a car draws up and carries you away from the centre and back to a creaky mattress at a last-minute Airbnb booking.

Recovery takes place out near the pier beneath the shelter of a flimsy umbrella (the sun has disappeared and the sky is a soggy-looking grey), listening to a band soundcheck drift out from The Hub and breathing in salt air; occasionally ducking when a seagull veers too close to the vat of black coffee you’re nursing ahead of the first pint of the day, when the whole thing starts all over again.