Download Festival - Donington Park - 31/5/03-1/6/03
1/5
By: Toby L
Festivals were never meant to be like this. Weather you can actually - wait for it - tan from; dodgems for the kids; empty bar-queues... In all, it's a nerve-wracking sight.
Yes, but if we're talking sheer scale here, then Download - the latest addition to the UK's booming outdoor-events market - has kicked off admirably. Just under 50,000 rawk enthusiasts of all shapes, ages and sizes (believe us when we say this) amount to this year's attendance at legendary home of British axe-wielding, Donington Park, a site that - for this weekend - plays host to true world-renowned legends of the highest order. And it makes for compulsive viewing throughout (in a headache-inducing, devil-horns declaring, noisy-type fashion).
Whether the first day playfulness of Violent Delight - a band that revel amidst an early appearance in the cavernous tent-space of the Scuzz Stage, all guns blazing and new single 'All You Ever Do' indicating a frivolous onstage assurance - or an ensuing Queen Adreena, dolled up, greasy, and sleazy in the way indie-Goths know best, it's a captivating entrance to proceedings.
Made all the more alluring following a demonic, Welsh battering from Funeral For A Friend when Amen step to the stage - the first truly great performance of Download's duration. Frontman Casey Chaos eyes his observers from the dreary heights of the stage's scaffolding after a bit of a climb. He mumbles about 'dole-queues' and 'social security' and the irrelevance of George Bush, and people scream a bit. It's completely epic, despite such simple, predictable components, the closing 'Price of Reality' a head-drillingly, near-perfect end to a set from a band whose luck seems set to change following label-switch-overs and the typical knock-backs this industry so willingly presents forth to its artistes... Go on, our sons.
By contrast, Murderdolls are a lot seedier at this sort of thing, smudged make-up and glam-tinged-metal colliding to impeccably rollicking standards, so much so, we almost forget one of 'em's in Slipknot... Yet it'd be cruel to ignore the straighter-down-the-line ferocity of 3 Colours Red, who are still with us - pummelling new songs as hard, firm justification of their recent return, whilst the eventual Hellacopters almost seem garage-rock in comparison, all turbo-charged riffs and Yank-evoking vox. How Swedish of them.
InMe are on a mission, seemingly. Their high placement today on the main stage proves testament to a blistering eight months for the Essex trio, a relatively modest period that has seen their star rise to 'Top Of The Pops' standards, and ensues their top-30 debut 'Crushed Like Fruit' to be exerted as only the second song of their performance this afternoon, a conscious endeavour to side with their spectators. The audience obliges.
Meanwhile, a triple-whammy of middleweights lines the Scuzz tent - the roaring grisliness of Soil, whose 'Halo' gleams in a respectably sultry fashion; pomp-rock melodrama and fantasy of Norway's HIM, who play a lavish cover of Chris Isaak's 'Wicked Game'; and post-Britpop survivors, Reef, a band confined to a thirty minute set of still-enticing festie-standards - but it's, predictably, Sepultura that thunder us into oblivion. God, what a joyous racket.
Deftones are on it, today. And, weirdly, singer Chino is in good spirits, despite the surging angst that erupts from the speakers. Much of the eponymous, new album is debuted - inclusive of a blissful 'Minerva' - but the odd trickle from 'Adrenaline' ('Engine Number 9') and a splatter of additional aspects of yesteryear colour the performance to a blinding shine; yet, there's still the nagging feeling that they're a year or two away from a fully explosive experience in the live-arena... Well, 'til then, we're happily willing to make do with this.
Marilyn Manson doesn't do anything by half measures, however. Falling off stairs before the gig has even got underway (bless him), he dutifully knocks through the rule-book of 'crowd-pleasing set', taking in a searing 'Tainted Love', plus diligent thrashings of 'Rock Is Dead' and spicy glam of 'Disposable Teens', whilst throwing forth a load of matter from the mixed-received newie, 'The Golden Age of Grotesque', that isn't quite as scary a prospect as once expected ('Mobscene' is a faultless addition to an already expansive back-catalogue). And as he bashes through an eerie 'The Dope Show' or a conclusive 'Beautiful People' (despite his performance being cut a touch short, some moments even with the accompaniment of two raunchy, nigh-on-stripped laydees), it's a typical, defiant Mazzer stage-show: outlandish, sensational, but never at the compromise of unabashed entertainment.
Quite like the headliners, then. Solo-twiddlers and all-round nutters Iron Maiden have had a resurgence of late, there's no denying it, perhaps in part spawned by two-hit wonders Wheatus and their ironic referencing to the band amidst one of their chart-successes, or even just the presently 'cool' trend of donning T-shirts featuring classic logos and band-images (remember Levi's purchasing the rights to the MC5's famous artwork...? Exactly).
But at least Brucie Dickenson and co. - amidst their triumphant, two-hour stand this evening, aren't to fall susceptible to trends. 'Sometimes bands get to be famous,' ole BD begins, 'but then the media choose to forget about them... Then something happens, and all of a sudden they're flavour of the month again. Then the journalists decide to start asking, 'So what have you been doing for the last ten years?' Well you know the answer to that - we've been playing rock-music to 'Maiden Fans!' The crowd roars, and thousands of hands are thrown in the air.
So, basically, we get told the title of the band's new studio-LP - 'Dance Of Death' - before the hacks, and ripples of excitement elongate across the mighty attendance.
It's a greatest-hits furore - an opening of 'The Number Of The Beast'; gallivants through rapturous versions of '2 Minutes To Midnight', 'Fear Of The Dark', 'Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter', latter-day IM via 'The Wicker Man'; and, of course, a rousing finale in the shape of 'Run To The Hills'. The audience beckons, hollers and yells uncontrollably. It's cheese-fuelled delirium.
''SCREAM FOR ME, DONINGTON!' So we scream. And can't help laughing at such an enduring batch of legends able to cast such an impact after all these years.
Then, all of a sudden, somehow, we're back in our tents. It's the next day - morning has broken and we're caked in the dried yeast from prior-consumed alcohol. Ouch, heads hammer. But there's more of this yet.
Instruction keep things stirring despite their first-on status during Sunday. 'Your Punks Sucks', 'Great', and others showcased from their howling debut-EP are exhilarating - post-hardcore drenched with snappy appeal and buzzy charm, and a wake-up call to anyone still encrusted in last night's vomit and undercooked hot-dogs. Raging Speedhorn are similarly relentless, and the field fills instantaneously; they give us a mock, Maiden-esque 'Scream for me, Donington,' though it equates to lesser than that of the previous evening's delivery. But at least 'F**k The Voodooman' gets played, in all its kick-up-the-backside inanity.
Then it's one of the weekend's highlights - provocateurs of the most amusingly stadium-rock kind: The Darkness. Singer Justin has his act honed to a fair bout of genius these days - him and brother Dan both play an implausibly complex and dashing, entwining solo between them during b-side 'Best Of Me', and give each other a high-five following its flawless delivery, whilst new single 'Growing On Me' is basically arena-shaking. You'd anticipate that it couldn't get better, but then they hit us with a brooding, metal cover of Radiohead's 'Street Spirit' - and it's f**king outstanding, bettered only by a wondrous rendition of falsetto-tinged, debut-single, 'I Believe In A Thing Called Love', cat-suit adorned and all. Their fate as music-world leaders is increasingly a glaring prospect.
It's a tough act to follow, but a conservatively-dressed Mudvayne do a fair job (but where're the costumes, guys?). The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster though are a far more alluring invitation, all drowned-out guitars, Guy McKnight's demented warble and pounding drums, escalating 'Celebrate Your Mother' and 'Psychosis Safari' to blaring echoes of the genius that inspired their own inception. Ones to watch and trust even more-so than ever.
And what comes next was the exact moment of uncertainty. Metallica were categorically denied to be appearing this weekend, yet - here they are - within the second stage's reasonably low-key surroundings ('low-key' at least for the 'Tallica anyway...), performing an ultra 'secret' set. The four-piece - complete with new bassist in toe - introduce themselves one by one, and generally assault their back-catalogue with pleasing astuteness, amps decked to the higher tiers of the stage to deliver such classics as 'Master Of Puppets' and 'Sanitarium' to hysterical applause. With two sledge-hammering palpitations from genuinely decent, new 'n' full-on LP, 'St. Anger' - inclusive of the aptly-titled 'Frantic' - it's an undoubted must-see of the weekend: legends in (reasonably) close proximity. Surreal.
The whines of Stone Sour's Corey Taylor suddenly seem drastically sedate, a penultimate 'Bother' instantly so tame following what was just witnessed, but Disturbed give it a fair bit of welly, and Apocalyptica bring the house down with a celebration to their previous performers, covering 'Enter Sandman' to astounding aplomb. Less Than Jake, elsewhere, provide some of the few ska-punk thrills to be found outside of the Deconstruction array of acts featuring in the Scuzz sector, causing a fair daze in the dominant field with the ever-infectious 'All My Best Friends Are Metalheads' (how fitting, considering the attendance).
Then it's own-up time for Keith Flint of The Prodigy; just where have you been, fella? Honing this latest outfit by looks of things - his debut-set with a new band: a blend of all-out rockers and set of metal-nuts happy to reside under the banner of Keef's surname. It's shouty, entirely agreeable to the rest of the weekend's hi-jinks, yet, woefully, not a patch on the dance-punk crossover ravings of his day-job. He's still got balls, though.
What with all the morbidity of the weekend's performers, hell finally strikes. The wistfully distorted-pop of Billy Corgan's Zwan follow, but they make it piss down disgustingly. Shame - the soundtrack of such summery chimes as 'Lyric' or debut-hit 'Honestly' should make for the perfect backdrop to a scorching summer's night. But, this evening, they're the soundtrack to a raging storm - thunder, lightning, torrents of rain: big, dripping, pelting, damp, wet, flooding, cold and savage. People flock to the (partial) dryness of their soggy tents, and many flee the site in fear of their lives.
Audioslave headline, and - from all accounts - it's a blistering set, inclusive of all major blasts of sound from their competent debut. Just a nightmare rockfeedback had to jump into a getaway car and miss it - the climactic extremities laying claim to an early entrance from what had been an engaging two days of solid, sordid and ardent showmanship.
On secondary appraisal to the initial thought - perhaps festivals were always meant to be like this.
Your Feedback
Login to post your comment