Fleadh - Finsbury Park, London - 16/6/01
1/5
By: Toby L
'You're a great crowd... If there was any justice, there would be a roof over your head,' utters today's headliner Neil Young, secure in one of the few areas of dryness that the Main Stage can offer at this year's Fleadh.
Yes - you've already guessed it from the tone of the introduction; it rained this year. Well, what can you say? This musical event that celebrates all things Celtic, alongside the best new and established acts (organised by the equally-Irish Vince Power of Mean Fiddler), mightily kicks off the summer season of UK festivals galore, so one could say it's only appropriate that we got covered in mud. But - what the hell; with over thirty acts to be enjoyed on three stages, multiple food and clothes stalls and a fun fair, there's no insult to this year's event that can dampen people's spirits here in Finsbury Park, London.
What rockfeedback wanted to do for today was to investigate a diverse, hand-picked selection of the acts on offer, rather than providing snippets of who played where (we save that kind of ridiculously headache-inducing coverage for the three-day excursions). So, launching us all into today's proceedings is singer-songwriter/guitarist Richard Hawley, famed for his work with the Longpigs, Finley Quaye, Pulp and - bizarrely - All Saints. Dressed in a smart suit and donning sunglasses on a day which is so free from sunshine that it hurts, his dry commentary and repetitive swearing fails to affect his dazzlingly subtle set. Tracks such as 'Happy Families' set a poignant tone, his warm, northern vocals helping to brighten a grey and gloomy day. You even forgive him when his band make the odd blunder and listen on in intricate intrigue as he explains, 'I wasn't going to swear much today, but I thought f**k it,' or, when attempting a new tune, comments, 'This is a new one... We'll probably f**k it up.' Ah; how soothing. Still, with a half-hour set of equal mellow brilliance throughout, he's more than proved his worth; in fact, so much so that today's evidence of his talent is enough to desire his new eponymous mini-album.
What with the Gipsy Kings pulling out of the Fleadh at the eleventh hour, the main stage is able to provide different time-slots for each appearing artist, with the occasionally longer-than-usual gap between every performance allowing a suitable separation. This said because, what follows the indie-appeal of Hawley is the Alice Band; a one-third Glaswegian, one-third Dubliner and final third American girl group of chin-scratching, foot-tapping proportions. As their debut album is due out later this year, any reservations that their immediacy wouldn't come across are put to rest as they open their mouths to sing. Their melodic, country-tinged pop is delivered in a commercial styling that could very well see them breaking through on the other side of the Atlantic given the almighty push, which will no doubt serve to irritate and annoy rock fans that seek material other than easy listening.
And, continuing with the beyond-fathomable dosage of eclecticism that this year's one-dayer possesses, on walk Afro Celt Sound System. Now, I don't care what's said about this group, because anyone with a natural instinct for entertainment and a good sense of rhythm will be overcome with joy whilst witnessing this lot in concert. Strange-looking musicians, obscure sounds and bewildering vocals cement their indentation of 'crowd-pleaser of the day' on 2001's festival and the audience shows their love by disturbing movements in time to the music and mass clap-sessions. In fact, the only let down of the set is a hyped-up man that runs on to the stage and dances like a troubled dishwasher before disappearing back to the darkness of the side of the stage at random moments within their fifty minute show. However, the fusion of, expectedly, African and Celtic instrumental themes, is a compelling mixture of club-beats and phat bass, delivered with a slick and energetic live set which deservedly merits their attempts to plug their new album (out on Monday we're reliably informed twice).
The Mojo Marquee is compered this year by the hard-working TV comedian Phill Jupitus, who does his best to generate excitement to the masses that lurk within the huge tent as bands arrive and leave the stage. The early members of the performers list includes Alisha's Attic, who have made a name of themselves in the pop-world after a list of top-thirties dating back to '96. A run-through of the song they produced for 'Bridget Jones' Diary' ('Pretender Got My Heart') and renditions of their harmless, radio-friendly repertoire soaked up fond adoration from the crowd, though the performance that was to follow next was everything in comparison...
... Yes - just another day's work for Starsailor then. Opening with a storming version of 'Fever', James Walsh's claims that he was 'pissing himself' with nerves seemed like nonsense, for the lads are on fine form today. Then it rains as the song closes. Any other band wouldn't have been able to persevere, but this isn't just any other band. So, they ease their way into a collection of compositions of the most spectacular of arrangements, Barry on keyboards further showing off his skill to play any style with the utmost of ability. But James, oh, he's on it today: leaping in the air, providing plenty of crowd-interaction (finding time to hit back at Ash's Tim Wheeler, who had been insulting the group in various interviews lately) and allowing the 25,000 strong crowd to open mouths in astonishment at the unrivalled beauty of 'Lullaby'. However, all breath-taking things must come to an end, and that's what happens after a rapturously received version of 'Good Souls'. Main-man of the day, Young, certainly has cast his influence on this UK soulful rock act and there's little doubt that they won't be able to reach the dizzy heights of achievement his expansive career has seen... Rockfeedback looks forward to viewing them emulating such success.
Glenn Tilbrook & 'the best band in the world' (in Glenn's words) The Party, are next on the beefy line-up, kicking up a shindig with covers of his old band Squeeze and Jimi Hendrix amongst others. However, quite often the set suffered from a tendency to point towards the cheese of the past, in not so much a celebratory performance as a nostalgia-trip. Jason Downs, however, is an artist that can't get more contemporary if he tried. Merging genres such as rock, hip hop and soul into one blob of a sexy sound, the US star's deep and rich singing-voice heavily complements female backing vocals against country guitar and pre-programmed beats. Compared to Beck due to, well, being from the States and having a distinctly unusual sound, Downs can lay claim to being of a completely different sort. For starters, does Mr Hansen have his own rapper, in the form of Milk? Does he bear shoulder length hair? Plus, does he own such a darn, fine cowboy hat? Hell no to all three! Jason Downs almost has us believing that it's all over at one point, commenting, 'That's it - we're done,' but the rest of his band reliably inform him that they aren't yet and go on to close this three quarters of an hour triumph splendidly, climaxing in a stellar version of his breakthrough hit 'White Boy With A Feather'. He takes a photo of us, the crowd, and then disappears backstage to ecstatic applause, allowing us to linger on thoughts of his soon-to-come stardom.
But, until that happens, there's the classic song writing of Teenage Fanclub to enjoy - or endure rather. Not that they played a poor show - in fact, several parts echoed genius - but it's the crowd. Packing such a well-established band into the tent was not a good idea; people push and shove rather than listen and watch, meaning that some of the simplistic splendour locked within such gems as 'The Carriage' gets lost. However, after half an hour of such hassle, the harmony-brandishing, twiddly-guitar merchants allow all to forget such woes or worries and stage a show of old faves and newies before people wade over through the mud to view such artists as Gary Moore or The Waterboys. The former - once a member of Thin Lizzy and Skid Row - plays guitar as if the instrument had been made solely for him, hitting the high notes in solos without sounding too high-pitched while driving licks and riffs into your head, setting us all up quite nicely for the latter. The Waterboys' driving force Mike Scott baffles all after playing a blinding 'The Whole of The Moon', going on to recite lines of poetry that seem so forced it void the words' sentiments. Still, extra points in their favour for an excelled and experienced display of musical competence - and producing synth-noises that resembled the sound made when an alien takes a crap on a spaceship.
Ex-Lemonheads frontman Evan Dando is a real highlight of the day, whipping through indie classics such as 'Into Your Arms' and 'It's About Time', to which the crowd assembled in the Mojo Marquee Tent sing in total unison. Dando - and just co-guitarist - onstage, alone, puts a new spin on his usually full-band efforts, allowing every track to serenade our senses exquisitely and pleases the audience in a way that only an ex-grunge hero can. In fact, there may not be a band, but what the two performers did was enough to be worthy of both touching grace and acclaim, proving his comeback to be something that we should thank our lucky stars for. However, it's for this reason that it seems his set should be free from irony, but, no, it isn't; perhaps this is best shown as he soothes into the microphone, 'Forget my past,' taken from one of his popular oldies. The trouble is, Evan - how can we forget a past that's too good to dismiss?
Wait - though, because this is it. The main event. The man. But, waiting is something that we all had to do, until, suddenly, almost quarter of an hour late, on he walked - yes, Neil Young (& Crazy Horse). It's just a shame that - on striking the first chord - down came the rain. Again. But then, who cares?! This is a rare sight on British shores and something to cherish - all two and a half hours of it. Playing solos with a wobble in his step and tossing his hat-adorning head side to side uncontrollably throughout the performance, Neil Young's physical onstage presence represents similar movements made by a man riding an untamed bull. It's this energy which helps to propel his songs - new or old - above the stratosphere, especially when lethal legends such as 'Hey Hey My My' and 'Piece of Crap' (which he affectionately dedicates to George W Bush) are unleashed on to a hungry crowd. At times, the only thing which seems to plague his set are the moments when the downpour from above is so considerate that the sight of hundreds of umbrellas is all that certain members of the audience can see.
For the best part of his show, the set is loud, punchy and sturdy, with hooks towering above the surrounding city-buildings of the Finsbury Park area and inciting people of all ages to jump up and down like children that have been deprived of candy. Amongst all this, Young still manages to find time to be muso-y and artistic, going on to play piano, harmonica and guitar all by himself during a twenty minute solo performance, relieved of the tensions of being around a Crazy Horse. It even gets to the extent as if he can do more, shown by the way he speaks, 'If you don't like this music, I'll change! That'll stop f**king around!' It's only when a ripping finale of 'Like A Hurricane' hits you that you realise the privilege you're in of being in the presence of a natural born star, a true inspiration for rock 'n' roll, whose influence is eternal.
It may have been a cold and damp day at the time, but the truth is that many thousands of people here today have never felt warmer inside.
Neil Young Photo-Credit: Virtual Festivals
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