V Festival - Hylands Park, Chelmsford - 16-17/8/03
1/5
By: Toby L
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Location: Hylands Park, Chelmsford, Essex.
Date: Saturday16th August - Sunday 17th August 2003.
Time: Music from 12:00pm-11:00pm.
Bands: 54 Live Acts - 10 DJ Sets.
Stages: Five.
Prices: £90 per person (weekend ticket, including camping).
Capacity: 75,000 People - SOLD OUT.
The Festival
The V Festivals have been in existence within the UK since 1996, when the inaugural V96 event took place. However, this was clearly a festival with a difference. Rather than merely taking place on just one site in the country, V96 occurred on two - with one located in both the north and south of England, the line-up swapping venues across the weekend. This gave festival-goers a chance to see their fave artists parading around gigantic stages without having to travel so far to witness it occurring.
The first year boasted a stellar line-up as well; Pulp - fresh from wowing the previous year's Glastonbury Festival audience - performed a dazzling set of classics that many deemed to be their finest show up to the time. In addition, a rich variety of artists such as Elastica, Gary Numan, Paul Weller and Supergrass made a showing, providing a suitable pre-cursor to the superior V97, whose headline slots of Blur, The Prodigy, Beck, Foo Fighters and Ash sparked even more of a reaction, the event going on to sell out faster than the prior year.
Since then, V has been getting bigger and better; two performances from James Brown in two consecutive years cemented its reputation as a festival that could attract the most exclusive of performers, and 2001's bill was no exception to V's constant strive for diversity and quality throughout. The sure-fire highlights? Clearly, a headline appearance on the second stage from the vastly-talented Muse, as well as a one-off performance from Red Hot Chili Peppers, not to mention festie-friendly sets from Coldplay, Starsailor, Ed Harcourt, JJ72, Idlewild, Divine Comedy, Avalanches and countless others, ensured that no one could leave V2001 with a single disappointment, music-wise.
And, with V2002, the event has entered into yet another new league. Even when headliners Travis pulled out at the eleventh hour, organisers quickly found an equally-valid replacement - the Manic Street Preachers, who were a part of the festival's most eclectic bill to date, parading on stages alongside the likes of Stereophonics, Doves, Idlewild, Alanis Morissette, Primal Scream, Basement Jaxx, The Chemical Brothers and legions more.
Come 2003, and although susceptible to criticisms of line-up repeats (the headliners Coldplay, Foo Fighters, Red Hot Chili Peppers each appearing only two years ago), testament to a strong supporting-cast and the thriving live-music circuit of '03, the newly-named V Festival sold out swifter than ever this year.
Day One - Reviews
At least some have an urge to do this with class. Barely midway up the bill of the main stage, yet The Cardigans are treating rural Essex to a display of true, majestic scope - chandeliers hanging in the upper echelons of the cavernous performance-arena, and front-bird Nina Persson eyeing us with Scandinavian allure. If it weren't already for the burning ball in the sky toasting our soggy undergarments, we'd have fainted then and there, amidst a rippling puddle of perspiration.
And since this is (ahem) hot hot heat, yes, we must be back in Chelmsford then for V2003... Oops, that should read the newly re-branded V Festival, kids: the summer's token, 'posh' outdoor-event (in the holy Dave Grohl's own words, no less).
So it's the former-mentioned act that have the great honour of providing the weekend's first signs of crowd-movement - a ringing 'Erase/Rewind' morphing into their trademark 'Love Fool', whilst, soon after, a grisly, steely 'Hanging Around' or ever-frolicking 'My Favourite Game' hover in the humid air and threaten to explode to nigh-on, mosh breaking-point. Sadly, they don't... Everyone's much too dehydrated for that.
Not that The Hives care - this is their show in each band-member's wildly cold eyes. Contortions abound, the band flail across the stage with the prowess and lunacy of Jagger fronting The Polyphonic Spree, Howlin' Pelle still belching, 'DO YOU LOVE THE HIVES?' with frantic abandon, whilst kicking into two, kick-ass new songs and the likes of 'Die! All Right' and a back-to-back outing of their signature 'Main Offender' and 'Hate To Say I Told You So' singles. Twenty minutes of their stage-time still remaining - not that they care; rock 'n' roll is swift, not stiff, man - the quintet rip into a raging 'Supply & Demand', hand-claps and pogoing in force. Compulsive - and in matching-ties as ever, too.
Ash are similarly garnering that 'seasoned-pro' look ever-more as time drains, especially notable at such bashes. Singer Tim Wheeler lifting his Flying-V geetar to lofty heights above, 'Girl From Mars' and 'Shining Light' are dispersed before anyone's had so much as a chance to check for any possible gusset-shots from a skirt-bearing Charlotte Hatherly (mmm...). Almost contradictorily, however, to the relentless firing off of their equally relentless greatest-hits catalogue, Wheeler steps forth and bravely mumbles, 'It's not about where you've been...It's where you're going...'
And so they fire into the first of three really-rather-rollicking blasts of Neanderthal pop-rock, all not dissimilar from the past, save for a grisly rumble missing in parts from last, safer-playing, studio-LP, 'Free All Angels'. Then, what with such an arsenal behind their 'struments - and the ever-savoury 'Burn Baby Burn' to define final proceedings - yet again, they slay us.
The second stage is more sporadic, however - whether the jump-start-punch-fight-brawl of The Futureheads, skiffly, pithy shuffle of The Basement, Isle of Wight-induced grooves of The Bees or demented melancholy of Damien Rice, it's all a treat... One capped off mid-afternoon by the Mercury-nominated Athlete, who may on occasion border too worryingly over the 'safe' edge, but restrain themselves from a nasty fall by the employment of some satisfyingly summer-friendly faves - 'El Salvador' backing into 'You Got The Style', or a dirgey 'Dungeness' serving as the lead into a sunny 'Westside'.
The Super Furry Animals, however, and testimonial to their rep. of obscure genius, are playing the 'peculiar' card, wandering onstage to the sample-driven, strings-soaked flourishing of 'Miami Nice' and swiftly embarking into a growling '(Drawing) Rings Around The World'. It'd be relatively accessible, if it weren't for the arrival of a yeti onstage during a glorious, extensive 'The Man Don't Give A F**k', or Gruff-Rhys' briefly-adorned space-helmet. Not that you'd ever desire them to veer too close to the borders of convention - their charm is that of freakish eccentricity, one ever-progressively enviable to cherish in the live-arena - even after all these years.
A sleekly placed military-cap, a low-cut dress and a smattering of blonde hair and siren-like vocals... Gee, no wonder Goldfrapp have drawn a crowd. From the orchestral swirls of their avant-garde verdant-pop (an opening 'Human'), or on to the sleaze-pummelling dance-anthems ('Train', recent-hit, 'Strict Machine'), Alison and co. enrapture, enlighten and ensconce, whilst make us enticed in the process within the shady confines of a dance-tent (a tough feat, by all means).
Ole' Grohl additionally enthrals during the rapt, taut and massive set that the Foo Fighters today grace us with - so fast, hammering and joyous that they can afford to slam into hairs-on-end, gigantic renditions of 'All My Life', 'Times Like These' and 'My Hero' within the first ten minutes and not succumb to that of emerging tedious. The following hour is just as frantic, however, Dave's fond recalls to prior performances at V provoking a soon-emerging, mass sing-a-long of 'Breakout', whilst a searing 'Everlong' rounds off play to a legion of unison-claps.
Somehow, you envisage, Turin Brakes' brand of thoughtful indie-musings aren't to rub off to as ecstatic a grandeur as the one just experienced - yet a loyal gathering in stage-two zone maintains an intimate, watchful ambience, one where 'Mind Over Money' and an intense 'Long Distance' come off with rewardingly more aplomb than one would hasten to gamble on. Lest, for those in attendance, the bet paid off... As it does for the day's most obvious triumphs - Coldplay
gt;, who smack us in the face with a moving, ninety minutes, a set which hits pay-dirt upon a four-song whammy of the timeless 'Trouble', chilling 'God Put A Smile Upon Your Face', and compulsive intricacy of 'Shiver', sewn up with a beauteous 'The Scientist'. Come the instant 'Yellow' or 'Clocks' hits the site, ladies and gentlemen, we're officially floating in space, whilst a finale of 'What A Wonderful World' is enough to bring us back begrudgingly down to ground-level... On a par with no other.
Feeder snatch the last shout, however, in a nearby field. Slaving away at their indie-rock with fervent passion, frontman Grant Nicholas is seemingly the bumbling showman, humbly, and repeatedly, thanking all for our presence and launching into an opening 'Come Back Around' and then 'Insomniac' and then 'We Can't Rewind' with estimable urgency.
When it inevitably slows down for the lighter-wavers, that's when the new four-piece line-up soar - 'Forget About Tomorrow', and - specifically - 'Just The Way I'm Feeling' bolstering the band's epic-credentials tenfold, without once smacking the off-putting cheese-department. Come a diligent 'Buck Rogers' and encore-closing 'Just A Day', although Nicholas and bassist Taka Hirose may often be brushed with the tarnishing coat of 'straightforwardness', quite evidently, it's this accessibility that endears them to their thousands. A mutual perk, is that they just happen to advance upon closer analysis time and time again - as particularly demonstrable, applaud-worthily and emotionally tonight.
Day Two - Reviews
Upon the removal/peeling off of beer-bottle labels and wet-wipes from foreheads, The Zutons prove our opening salvation - all pleasingly wishy-washy sound-shifts and grooves, evoking Cash clashing with this evening's ensuing The Coral, and never once seeming wilfully copyist. Frontman Dave McCabe croons and wails his heart out on the sleek, subtly protruding 'Gotta Keep The Feelin' and a sultry 'Creepin' An' A Crawlin', whilst 'Zuton Fever' is the greatest single never released this year (for now, anyhow).
Also Scouse, the Gallagher-approved The Stands then emerge - jangling, 60s rhythms and nifty arrangements, donning not much in the way of eccentricity - rather more, joyous, timeless odes invoking yesteryear, inclusive of recent top-40 debut, the Dylan-y 'When This River Rolls Over You'. Let alone an instrumental-climax of grabbing proportions: a fulfilled freak-out of solos and slicing guitars, cutting drumming and intense bass-dominance. Tunefulness balanced with accomplishment, The Stands and leader Howie could be massive.
Morcheeba are distinctly less chomping-at-the-bit, though. Having amounted enough tuneage across the years to lay claim this year to one of the chillout, 'greatest-hits' packages of 2003, they prove inherently pleasing, as most of their known-work is exerted hazily in a dreamy set today, one so ambient and docile that it'd send a snail to sleep... for all the right reasons - as 'Part Of The Process' and 'Rome Wasn't Built In A Day' are stoned righteousness in their purest musical form. Only perhaps, in hindsight, more stoned.
You know something's right when Mick Head of Shack is looking relatively trendy for a change - stark, black sunglasses clinging to his chunky scalp as he knuckles under for a set of classic Liverpudlian flair, from new album-bites (namely, 'Soldier Man', or the mighty throb of 'On The Terrace'), to prior faves, not least 'Comedy', or a stonking 'Pull Together', complete with audience-outbreaks of sheer shrieking and faithful word-by-word singing. It's a reaction even the band themselves concede as surprising - despite it being no less than deserved.
Unlike what PJ Harvey goes through - modest, polite pitter-patters of applause hardly justifiable to one of the day's finest performers. Part of a slimmed-down three-piece, our Polly is dark, bluesy and quietly commanding today, laying down filthy guitar-shudders that The Kills would fawn over. Opening with 'To Bring You My Love', she hotchpotches across all sectors of her career - inclusive of particularly pouting excursions of the recent-ish, upward-looking 'Good Fortune' and 'Big Exit' - whilst newer material reveals much of the initial, stark panache that warmed all to her inaugural entrance all those years ago: brooding, but with a melodious magnetism as engaging as her quietly assured, sensuous demeanour.
Less daunting and more focal on cardigan-bearing indie, is the not-so-savage Evan Dando. His niche today - not for a change - is to prove the eternal, earnest songsmith, blending his tamely embracing, melodic imprint of The Lemonheads' classic embers, with latter-day remnants of work, namely from return-LP, the gently addictive 'Baby I'm Bored'. Unassuming, but abrasively lo-fi when the necessity arises, Dando today fulfils his marque of the endearing, personable host without losing panache.
Then Queens Of The Stone Age vehemently tear us all a new collective arsehole; how they muster such a sound is beyond any mortal, but when the likes of 'Lost Art Of Keeping A Secret' and 'Go With The Flow' are thrown towards a rampant pit just a manner of seconds following hitting the stage - quite frankly, assessing their genius is the last thing in mind.
So we get messed up - grappling, assaulting, badgering, beavering, and the such - but the previous notion of their enigma still nags, and then it hits us during a thunderous 'No One Knows': Queens are built of a body of the world's finest players, creatives and performers - combined, they create just that natural sum of their counterparts - i.e. one of the finest live-acts presently swaggering in existence. And the best of the weekend - wild, yet tight; tuneful, yet uncompromising; and immediately embracing, yet intricately complex. In essence: the best confrontational contradiction you're ever likely to experience in the confines of rock 'n' roll.
Meanwhile... Synonymous with the brutally memorable anthems of The Charlatans, today, Tim Burgess faces his most daunting prospect yet - a debut of solo material. Sadly, and comparatively to his main day-job, it doesn't quite rank up there - instead Burgess seeming unfavourably bedraggled, a mane of lank, dark hair trailing from beneath a cowboy hat, stubbled cheeks covering an area previously reserved for a hungry, cheeky grin. But, now, that early hunger has resulted in a pungent melting-pot of his own, personal influences - some devoid of the tunefulness and justified cockiness upon which he built his near-iconic status, a cover of Marley's 'Who The Cap Fit' and a West Coast breeziness the saving-grace for an otherwise blinkered cool. Early days, mind.
Surely, déjà vu... but didn't we watch the Red Hot Chili Peppers headline V last year on a Sunday? Oh, the year before? Right. Gotcha.
And, like before, there's nothing wrong with the Chilis tonight - in fact, almost all aspects are perfectly right: the tribute to The Clash's 'London Calling' during an intro of 'Right On Time'; Flea's genuinely touching trumpet-solo; or the crushing, crashing opening of 'By The Way' and 'Scar Tissue', whilst the intensity stakes are raised via a stirring 'Otherside' or main-set conclusive 'Give It Away'. But, trouble is - if you saw the epic close of 'Under The Bridge' or a shimmering 'Californication' just two years back in the exact same setting in a picturesque, sold-out sea of thousands, then you can't help but observe an element of duty over bold, artistic endeavour - i.e. repetition.
The blood really starts palpitating during a set-closing 'Me & My Friends' - but, even then, the audience, perturbed largely by a knowledge of only the band's past two, commercial-hit studio-albums, fail to arouse a deserved response. Commendable throughout, however, are the band themselves - tireless showmen, at the top of their game, and - sweetly for this adoring crowd - unrelenting to the inevitable lure of self-indulgence.
But, the real clinchers are The Coral, whose (almost) headline appearance in the second arena not only triggers one of the largest draws of the day, but justifiably wreaks of the stuff of legends, marred only by the news that their breakthrough 'Dreaming Of You' is to be exhibited for the last time in a considerable age. Shame - it sounds boss, la, as do a following collage of anthems - 'Don't Think You're The First', 'Skeleton Key' and a 15-minute 'Goodbye', complete with hippie trip-out ending. Euphoric. And that's not even referencing James Skelly and co.'s run-through of the Doors-tastic 'In The Forest', wistful 'Simon Diamond', harmonic 'I Remember When', opening stomp of 'Spanish Main' or entwining chime of 'Pass It On' - prime evidence, alongside Skelly's continually evolving charisma, that this northern sextet are, no kidding, the finest UK band presently in operation. For the interim, too - it seems difficult to imagine a time when this is no longer the case.
Then we glance at the programme and discover that our time in a park has once again passed. Disappointing - for, in 2003, V was a blissful marriage between the contemporary and corporate, and one whose climate and quality sets a standard and precedent near-impossible to conquer. F**k clearing up all that litter afterwards, though.
Scrapbook:
THE PEOPLE'S VERDICT
(based on 75 opinions)
Best Band Of The Weekend?
1. Coldplay
2. Red Hot Chili Peppers
3. Foo Fighters
= Queens Of The Stone Age
5. The Coral
6. The Hives
7. Ash
8. Super Furry Animals
9. Underworld
= PJ Harvey
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