Auto Festival - Magna Science Park, Rotheram - 14/12/02
1/5
By: Toby L
A fond farewell in the least traditional sense of the arrangement, Pulp's Steve Mackey and his instigation of the Auto Festival - located at an archaic, former steelworks-turned science-park - marks the end of the line for his full-time, musical main-interest - in addition to an inaugural show-casing of the finest, obscure live-acts presently existing on the planet.
... But why does something that should prove so dishearteningly tragic feel so celebratory; for over more than a decade, Pulp's existence within the UK alt-pop scene has spawned fashion-clones, thousands of fans, plus classic, timeless records - and yet they're choosing to leave us? Well, to quote Oasis' Noel Gallagher on advice some might say that his own act never took, arguably, 'It's better to burn out, than fade away...'
Yet we cannot focus too far on such a topic, as we are insistently informed that this evening is 'not a Pulp concert'. So, to enter the moody, darkened premises, we find ourselves discovering that maybe the official-statement is correct; for, on first glance, this seems a true event of sorts: a venue that mirrors the eeriness of aged, medieval dungeons, or - more accurately - the 'Industrial Zone' from Brit-TV's 'The Crystal Maze'. Certainly, walking around all four arenas proves a humbling experience, the cascades of specially-commissioned visuals and avant-garde imagery casting a spectacularly modern spin on such an ancient location.
Indeed, the only room we find ourselves likening to almost a traditional concert-environment, is Auto 3 - the main-hall within which we view one of the first on-stage acts, James Yorkston. Grinning wildly, and bizarrely making references to various meat-products, we find Yorkston and his fellow co-horts drumming up a stone-washed, stripped-back affair, concocting wistful, balladry-based tales amidst a backdrop of resonant double-bass and JY's own endearing croon...
Yes, all quite a pleasing pre-cursor to the dynamic flawlessness of Baxter Dury's dreamy psychedelia and introspective melancholia; with a live-set which showcases Dury's high-points from debut-LP 'Len Parrot's...' - inclusive of an opening chill from the epic, understated 'Beneath The Underdog' - his casual and cocky demeanour, let alone such random sentiments as 'I'm from Chiswick,' is hardly accountable for such brooding matter, but proves a welcome contrast. Singing with a smirk, 'Gingham Smalls' similarly proves triumphant, squealing guitars and firm vocals transcending the piece to a graceful finesse; appropriately enthralled, watching on by the wings are two members of tonight's headliners - Richard Hawley and Jarvis Cocker.
Capitol K and Leafcutter John are somewhat less easy-going within the rustic backdrop of Auto 2, an arena which features more blaring television-screens than it does an above-zero temperature, but the icy nature of such grounds is hardly enough to condense the heat mustered in front. Spine-tinglingly bleak, blue lighting corrodes the stage and its performers, whilst its entrants craft a noise which, at best, can be depicted as unholy, with huge, surging electronica interspersing with screeching guitar and a turgid Arp Odyssey synth, altogether made the more haunting via habitual, howling vocals. Intrinsically head-grinding, this justifiably deserves to form the gritty underbelly of the underground in 2005.
The entrance-lobby, meanwhile - AKA, Auto 1 - is heaving. Within seconds, Lemon Jelly emerge, and the applause is deafening; wasting little, precious time, Nick Franglen and Fred Deakin's blend of terribly pleasant, calculated dance exerts itself to the masses, 'Lemonjelly.ky's 'In The Bath' launching proceedings, and recent top-40 'Spacewalk' furthering their hour-long excursion to a crowd-pleasing riot-feast. Particularly when additional musicians present themselves, the common coldness of such a decks-based act loses itself to a warm merging of intimate, jazzy-electro. Expectedly, it climaxes all too sublimely - 'Closer', next single 'Nice Weather For Ducks' and 'Staunton Licks' rounding the set off more than prevalently.
Things don't run quite so smoothly for Kieran Hebden, i.e. Four Tet, next door, who spends the first embers of his set, in which he should be performing, ensuring that the left speaker-stack of his stage is actually operating. After some tinkering, it fortunately does, the present spectators let in for a laptop-tempered treat of stodgy bass and textured loops, the accumulative ricocheting of frantic sounds more than accountable of the mind that created the ambient mind-warp genius of 'Pause'; fayre that's hardly set-list applicable, pinpointing individual highlights attests a tricky business, though the overall blend is still wayward enough to confound the notion of 'predictability'. Challenging? You don't know the half of it.
Trumpet-parping, folk-rock: light your fire? If so, then the perplexing ensemble marking The Bees are socking it to 'em, only to stop sporadically for playful comment-intermissions... But being the last act on before the occasion's main-happening isn't an easy feat... The hall is filling, and the air of anticipation is rising. Rewardingly, by the time Pulp are in view, the thousands assembled are locked in hysteria - only exemplified with a grand opening of '94's archetypal 'Do You Remember The First Time' and a spruced-up 'Lipgloss'. The band comment nervously in between such airings, revealing an artistic contempt for the renditions performed, but - for the rest of us - this is just how it should be: immediate, enthused, and entirely nostalgic.
Our leggy leader, Jarvis C, is in typically frivolous mode too, name-checking the perils of strip-joint Spearmint Rhino and tossing out nuts ('Close your mouth if you're allergic to them') and Haribo Supermix kiddie-sweets in between rapturously performed and received hits - inclusive of a woeful 'Something Changed', and even the rarely-aired 'Razzmatazz' - whilst hurling in old b-side '59 Lyndhurst Grove' for the devotees. But it really soars when it fully engulfs the senses - as demonstrated on the gigantic 'I Love Life', or a compelling 'This Is Hardcore', let alone the elevating head-rush of 'Sunrise'.
A brief encore-interlude later, and any lagging suspicion that this is really the end is confirmed with a performance of 'Happy Endings' from the 'His 'N' Hers' LP, suitably followed by the band's two signature-anthems - 'Babies' and an elated 'Common People'. The audience is beside themselves, and the band look out towards us all in their own sheer disbelief that this is it - the final leg... But never once does it feel a time to be teary-eyed; after servicing music since 1978, it's about right that the new breed now take over, to make their mark. Although Pulp's days may be seemingly behind them, there's the future to look towards - hopefully comprising of talent that has once at least been vaguely inspired by the vision and integrity of such luminaries as these... If we're to consider all the potential outcomes of selling out and embarrassing reunions, this was the perfect way for it to end.
Anything else, after all that, should be an anti-climax - but it ain't; consequentially, The Kills shine over in Auto 1 - despite the fact that their set is dogged by technical-failures others would crumble amidst. Instead, VV and Hotel provide a defiant nonchalance, an onstage slick and cool that never seems contrived nor pathetically subtle. From the opening tremble of 'Suspicion', grisly notes and distorted-to-f**k rhythms paralyse the ear-drum, VV's sultry shake-up-and-down-the-mic-stand and Hotel's rigid, stand-still pose as hypnotic as their own blues-rock thundering anthems, of which 'Cat Claw' and 'F**k The People' may seem the most obvious, whilst the aching 'Monkey 23' and trembling 'Kissy Kissy' prove additional fields of minimalist, stylised intrigue. By the edgy exit of 'Dropout Boogie' - complete with an angrily discarded instrument - there's little confusion over who prevails as the insatiable King and Queen of cool this evening.
With a climactic finish to the day from Royksopp in A3 - a cascade of crowd-exciting Norwegian silhouettes amidst voodoo-orientated dance-dub and freaky screens, collectively more fulfilling than their native Abba and Aha - only Chris Coco can conclude matter quite so extravagantly, with a marathon two-and-a-half-hour DJ-set in room 4... Tiring stuff.
Before long, though, the inevitable chuck-out hour is upon us (2am), and rockfeedback manages to stumble into a beaming Mackey, the man behind Auto, and the character partly responsible for such a fervently accomplished performance as part of Pulp; aptly proud with such an achievement, all that's left now is to reminisce on a show that brought about a unique union of characters, intent on indulging in the festivities that only an event as eclectic and broad-minded as Auto could substantiate.
Naturally, in an era of the expected and easy-going, it's a comfort to acquaint that something so awkward as Auto is here among us to question the confines of conventionality; should we return in 2003 to Magna with the same intent to submit ourselves to the unknown, next time, let's endeavour that it can match its landmark predecessor.
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