Carling Weekend: Reading Festival - Richfield Avenue, Reading - 22-24/8/03
1/5
By: Toby L
Location: Richfield Avenue, Reading.
Date: Friday 22nd - 24th August 2003.
Time: Music from 11:00am-11:30pm.
Bands: 130 + Live Acts - 15 + DJs - 25 + Cabaret Acts.
Stages: Six - Main Stage, Radio One Evening Session Stage, Dance/Concrete Jungle Stage, The Carling Stage, The Comedy Tent.
Prices: £95 for 3-day weekend pass with camping and car park access or £42:50 for limited availability day tickets (excluding camping and car park access)
Capacity: 50,000 people - SOLD OUT.
The Festival
The Reading Festival site is remarkably different to that of Glastonbury's. Well, in the sense that it's much smaller anyway. Just to give those of you that haven't attended this legendary festival a perspective of how large the main arena is, think the shape and size of the Glasto Pyramid Stage field and you're about right. And that's for all of the food and market stalls, every stage, plus the entire audience. However, when you're there, walking from stage to stage (or, most likely, bar, to stage, to bar, to stage, to toilet), it really does take it out of you. Before you know it, you're either watching hippies in tents use the largest bongs imaginable or getting shacked up with a mysterious, Swedish partner in your tent because you're just too knackered to continue walking around the main arena and surrounding campsite fields.
The Reading Festival, or now, the Reading/Leeds festival has, in recent years began shaking up its line up. Traditionally known as a rock festival since the Mean Fiddler took it over in the late eighties, 1998 saw the (hopefully) temporary demise of the Mean Fiddler's other festival, the Phoenix, based in Stratford Upon Avon (yeah, near Shakespeare's gaff). Despite boasting a line-up to feature exclusive performances from Ocean Colour Scene and the Prodigy, not to mention New Order's return to the live arena after too long away, tickets failed to sell. This led to organiser Vince Power cancelling the festival, which was famous for being the UK's only 4-day camping music outing. However, rather than letting those few thousand down that had purchased tickets who wanted to see their headliners, Power moved a couple of the main ones over to Reading in August, which had already promised headline appearances from Page and Plant, Beastie Boys and Garbage. This resulted in the 1998 Reading Festival being one of its most successful yet due to the exclusive booking procedure where bands playing the festival promised to avoid playing other English outdoor events during the summer. Keeping the formula for the following year, Blur, Chemical Brothers, Charlatans and Red Hot Chili Peppers were all reserved for special headline slots and the event was a roaring success, the line-up arguably eclipsing any of the other UK's summer events.
With 2000, however, things stepped up even more. The headliners included artists that just weren't booked for any other UK shows in the whole year, such as Pulp and Stereophonics, plus an appearance from Oasis, a band that vowed they 'needed two million reasons' for why they should play a festival at this stage in their career. In addition to that, shows from Rage Against The Machine, Limp Bizkit, Foo Fighters, Blink 182, Slipknot, Placebo and The Deftones would ensure that Reading's rock roots would remain firmly in place. 2000's event sold out in record time with the press reckoning that its line-up was the strongest in festival history - and rockfeedback agreed.
Last year saw a repeat in the formula adopted by the festival in the last couple of years. Once again, the headliners booked for Reading/Leeds 2001 wouldn't be seen anywhere else that summer - and sets promised from Travis, Eminem, Green Day, Marilyn Manson and Manic Street Preachers meant that the Carling Weekend had once again hit another line-up extravaganza. Plus, appearances from The Strokes, Ash, Fun Lovin' Criminals, Mercury Rev, Frank Black, Supergrass, Feeder, PJ Harvey, Oxide & Neutrino, D12, Eels, Run DMC and dozens more ensured the show to be the most powerful and diverse to that point.
... Well, indeed, until 2002. With The Strokes promising their last UK shows of the year, and Pulp, the recently-reformed Jane's Addiction, the revitalised Prodigy, and Muse, Foo Fighters and The Offspring all on offer, naturally, things were progressing as typically incredible as in prior events. Most notable of this year, however, was the quality of the new bands appearing; featuring every essential act for the year ahead, artists such as The Vines, The Libertines, The Kills, The Datsuns, The Polyphonic Spree and The Music battled out their musical-force against each other on stages to prove their worth for the future. Testament to the quality of recent musical-times, the Reading/Leeds 2002 bill was extraordinary.
2003: ah, more of the same - albeit, with more rock, specifically via headliners Metallica, Blink 182, Linkin Park, System Of A Down, etc. - though the indie-counterparts are well-represented by a stellar new-bands bill (Har Mar Superstar, Longview, Hope Of The States, British Sea Power, Kinesis, The Raveonettes, The Thrills, The Kills, Biffy Clyro, etc.), and many premier-league additions: Doves, Beck, BRMC (in place of a sadly cancelled White Stripes), Primal Scream, The Streets and The Darkness. Unarguably ace.
Really, it seems that the Carling Weekend festivals have now gained a status so huge that Glastonbury's days may be numbered as the supreme UK festival experience. Ouch, it's been said.
Day One - Reviews
'Everybody jump!' yells jovial Bowling For Soup frontman Jaret Reddick, before delivering another piece of frivolous punk-pop (not counting a flash of their rotund guitarist's flabby tits), during one of the weekend's first performances. Along with like-minded ska-people Less Than Jake, who follow BFS on the Main Stage on Reading 2003's opening day, the 'Soup have no delusions. They are as sprightly and puerile as ever ('all the members of Less than Jake are circumcised!') and their mission is to make us pogo like crazy to hits not excluding 'The Bitch Song', naturellement, 'Girl All The Bad Guys Want', and a closing cover of The Ramones' 'I Wanna Be Sedated'.
Soon after, the salaciously-titled Carling tent comes in to its own. Not least aided by a bolstered-thrash of Johnny Borrell's spiralling punk-inferno Razorlight, or taut, tight 60s soul-punk of The Blueskins, it's really Billy Talent's set that serves as a perfect example of how unquestionably essential a new bands stage is to enjoyment of a festival: you visit to kill time, and end up watching something as utterly thrilling as BT playing their first ever European show.
Yet, if they didn't mention it every five minutes, you wouldn't have guessed this was the case - the result is fantastically accomplished, contagiously catchy, but still as edgy as a rucksack full of knives. 'Talent spend the verses of their songs jittering around with bursts of noise flying over their heads, then flick a switch in the chorus that sends them straight into chest-beating anthem-territory (see amazing current single, 'Try Honesty', and prepare to be blown away).
The splendidly-named Scottish quartet Franz Ferdinand follow, doing their grandiose, Human-League-fronted-by-Robert-Smith thang. They have a song called 'Bang Bang Gabriel Princip', a further homage to the political assassin who kick-started the First World War. And, like the rest of their irreverent repertoire, it's bloody marvellous.
Things take an altogether ragged turn with the arrival of foul-mouthed New Zealanders The Datsuns. Instantly staking the prizes for the hairiest, tightest-trousered and lowest-slung guitar band of the day, officially, All They Wanna Do Is Rock. And, indeed, they do; hard, heavy and very loud. With the sun emerging for the first time today to coincide with a raucous, screeching 'Super Gyration' or arse-jangling 'Harmonic Generator', Reading has truly arrived. Not dissimilar to Young Heart Attack earlier on, in fact - a clash of Austin, Texas rage and The B52s on a truck-load of E.
But how about a little good ol' fashioned indie in the face of all this rock? Can Mull Historical Society help us out? 'Course they chuffin' can. Mulls mainman Colin McIntyre really does seem to be enjoying himself, continually climbing atop amps, wielding his guitar in all manner of unseemly rawk motions and grinning like a loon. A gorgeous 'I Tried', a rollicking 'This Is Not Who We Were' and a joyful 'Final Arrears' all serve to confirm McIntyre as one of our finest, new alt-songwriters, despite the robbing of an audience-member's hat.
In a live-setting, something quite so ambitious as the work of Buck 65 (bafflingly-intelligent-20-minutes-a-song hip-hop) runs a high risk of either falling flat on its face or just going completely over everyone's heads. But in the middle of the afternoon in front of curious dance-stage onlookers, Buck (aka Richard Tefry) pulls it off incredibly. The way he works a set-up which consists of essentially a microphone and a turntable into instruments of almost classical beauty is beyond comprehension, somehow finding time to throw in some rather impressive robot-dancing along the way. He dedicates songs to Woodie Guthrie ('who invented music'), his shoes, and his surprise of a favourite pastime - fishing. Of course. And from the complexity of his marvellous records, you wouldn't have believed this could be quite so entertaining. But live, all the elements that shouldn't work about Buck 65 are just the ones that enthral the most.
... Now, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, the moment you've all been waiting for: The Darkness have come to conquer Reading. And, in spite of rather gruelling sound-troubles, it's exactly what the punters want - a tight fury of undesirable jump-suits adorned via the wafer-thin Justin Hawkins and a smattering of festie-worthy bouts of applause: a closing 'Love On The Rocks...', Maiden-esque 'Best Of Me' and a hormonal 'I Believe In A Thing Called Love'. The same tricks as we've seen before ('Show us your thumbs!'; 'Give me a D... Give me an 'Arkness!'), but performed so enviably that repetition is the last reservation in heart.
Danger! Danger! The Radio One 'Evening Session' Stage is packed in honour of the sharpest-dressed men on site, Detroit's Electric Six! Rock's answer to 'American Psycho's Patrick Bateman, E6 frontman Dick Valentine saunters on stage and launches into a mosh-pit inducing 'Naked Pictures (Of Your Mother)'. Call it 'high-camp cabaret' if you will, but it's still damn entertaining. Highlights a-plenty: Dick's hilarious pelvic gyrations during 'Improper Dancing', a delirious 'Gay Bar' and a cover of Queen's 'Radio Ga-Ga'. Band of the day by a country mile.
Since we last saw Mclusky, they've jetted off to the US of A to spend some time with the recording-mastery of Steve Albini and returned with a soon-to-be-released new record. Third album in, they should have returned wiser, calmer, an all-round more refined rock and roll machine. But on the Carling Stage today, they're still as obnoxious as they ever were. That's right; you can breathe a sigh of relief. Little has changed in Mclusky land, apart from the fact that they seem to just keep getting better - faster, heavier, ever more surreal and screwed up. And why a band who write such simple, stupid songs seemingly about nothing at all ('To Hell With Good Intentions', a manic 'Alan Is A Cowboy Killer', well... pretty much every damn tune) are so fantastic is just beyond human-logic. Mclusky rock with all the subtlety of a car-crash and long may it stay that way.
There's no shortage of young Blink 182 fans here today, all piling down the front as the mega-selling, juvenile trio play their first UK shows since performing at Reading three years ago. The music isn't that bad - the Blink boys have some (almost) poignant teen-angst anthems in their canon ('Adam's Song', 'Going Away To College'), but their moronic between-song toilet-humour and adolescent obsession with rude words gets irritating very quickly, as does guitarist Tom DeLonge's voice - one of the most annoying in the history of recorded music. Not that the converted seemed to notice.
Though, amidst all the fun and frolics, spare a thought for Sparta, please (though, by the looks of the fourth-stage beginning to resemble a tin of sardines (albeit smellier), a couple hundred of you did at least). What with At The Drive-In becoming so highly regarded they're more than likely on the Pope's list for canonisation and The Mars Volta so loved that they can play two songs in forty-five minutes and still be lauded as the future of rock, it's tempting to say that Jim Ward (himself an ATD-I ex-employee) and Sparta, with their comparatively basic three-minute rock songs, are struggling to find as big a place in people's hearts.
Tonight's set, impressive by anyone's standards, should win some of them over. We get new songs, old songs, a heartfelt tribute to tonight's headliner Evan Dando and some tracks that come cuttingly close to genius - 'Vacant Skies', or the ever-thrilling 'Cut Your Ribbon' for starters. Perhaps not now, but Sparta will have their time. And when it comes, the queue of people apologising for not subscribing to the cause earlier will be a long one.
It's been rumoured that Interpol gigs up 'til now have had a feeling of a potentially great band coming to terms with having to find their feet publicly. If that's so, then such a baptism of fire method should be used on every promising fledgling act. Words simply cannot describe how unnervingly accomplished New York's most miserable sons sound tonight, such is the immense grip they seem to have over all who gaze upon them. It's just simply note-perfect regardless of what style they're forging, the opening, haunting plucks of 'Intro' mutating throughout the twilight into an almost rabble-rousing finale of 'Obstacle 1', comparatively punk energy of 'Roland', or just the unfathomable beauty of 'Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down'. The fact they all look like the most reluctant rock-stars ever only adds to their appeal. Interpol have found their niche. Now form an orderly riot.
Likewise, in an additionally even more dramatic sense, it took Elbow some time to get this right - eight years, to be precise, until the British music-industry realised just what a prized-asset was in sight. Thank our lucky stars - for, this evening, Guy Garvey and band are achingly sensational: passionate in the right doses (a dreamy 'Red' or hammering 'Fallen Angel') and captivatingly epic without pretension (a heart-rending close on 'Newborn'). Admirable, untraceable, gritty elegance.
Is there a better way to introduce a band than via the medium of a town crier? In a word - no. And, after witnessing this set, is there anyone who doesn't want to don a robe and run off to Texas with a harp? We're beginning to doubt it.
And anyone who doubts the authenticity of the pure happiness that The Polyphonic Spree bring after seeing them live is a bitter, cold person not worthy of your time. They have a song that goes as follows - 'Hey! It's the sun! And it makes me smile!' which is probably the best without a care in the world declaration of joy you'll ever hear. For those who've never seen or experienced the 'Spree on record, they can be assured that their current unfamiliarity with the band matters little. Every single song has some kind of huge anthem quality ensuring you'll be reaching for the skies and shouting at the top of your voice within the opening minute. You can only imagine what a packed Radio 1 Stage looks like when they play the ones people know - if they announced that they were indeed a cult and space-ships were all due to take us away to a better land during 'Soldier Girl', only the people left watching Linkin Park tonight would dare to stay behind. Poor buggers.
Reviews: Tom Hannan / Matt Tomiak
Day Two - Reviews
It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it (not discounting the merits of The Sleepy Jackson, Cave-In or a very Swedish Junior Senior somewhere else on-site). The Futureheads have been lumbered with that 'hangover slot', first band appearing on the Radio One stage on the second day when most people's mouths still taste like sandpaper.
Quite unfortunately, it makes many afraid to move quite too frantically to the jagged guitar contortions where, by rights, limbs should be flying all over the place in twisted adoration. It's easiest to draw comparisons with bands such as The Jam, but The Futureheads are what Weller and co. would have sounded like if they were full of as much angular bite as they only ever suggested they were. But far from being stuck in the past, the sound is forward-thinking and effortlessly cool, displaying an obvious love of pop-hooks (as 'Robot' displays; if you've got four singers, damn well use them) and the work of more up-to-date, noise-purveying friends (look Mum, he's got a This Ain't Vegas shirt on...). If the first band on every stage were this good, Reading would be an entirely teetotal festival. (Stellastarr* don't half follow up badly, however - a gleaming set of Pixies-ravaging pop-ditties, encapsulated by dreamy debut-45, 'Somewhere Across Forever', or the pictured-below, country/stoner-nuances of My Morning Jacket).
Even still, rockfeedback is feeling more than just a little groggy this morning, but a stellar line-up should go a long way in alleviating that morning-after feeling. Sans Pete Doherty, all eyes are on The Libertines. And happily, it's a confident, 'what the f*** was all the fuss about?' kind of performance, with a topless Carl Barat taking on lead-vocal duties, smashing through a whole host of faves - present top-20 hit 'Don't Look Back Into The Sun'; a perennial closing 'I Get Along'; snarling b-side 'Skag & Boneman; and the gritty magnitude of a sing-a-long 'Time For Heroes'.
Jet are getting better at this thing - the swagger thing, that is. Vocalist/drummer Chris Cester lurches across the platform with a 21-year-old protrude that belies his years, whilst brother and guitarist Nic harmonises on a keyboard-tinged 'Move On'. As soon as they batter expectations with a whole host of riff-rioted rock 'n' roll nuances - 'Cold Hard Bitch'; 'Get What You Want'; 'Take It Or Leave It' - the thousands gathered are considering a wholly new proposition: to try and break into London's Pentonville Prison during the ensuing week - where the Aussie foursome are to play an ultra-secret gig. Never before has the prospect of becoming a gravel-chewing in-mate seemed so alluring.
Middle of the afternoon and quite unintentionally, we're getting to see a different side to The Rapture. It's a problem that will befall numerous bands this weekend, but in true Reading tradition, the sound-quality of the second-stage is frankly appalling. And though it makes a band that are usually ear-splitting and booty-shaking sound oddly quiet and subtle (for large parts they may as well not have a guitar-player, he's that hard to hear), this isn't something you can blame on The Rapture.
In fact, they even manage to pull it off amazingly well, because they have one weapon that overcomes all technical difficulty - The Rapture bring the funk. Its plain just from the lyrics, nigh on every song mentioning the word 'shake' at least once (and in the case of a brilliant 'Out Of The Races & Onto The Tracks', many many times), that this is a band who just compel you to dance. With the addition of a saxophone player adding some necessary colour to the mix and a solely keyboard rendition of 'Olio', it's obvious that ideas are not something the band are short of - in spite of the PA-troubles.
Then palpably cool, sexy duo The Kills, with their first UK show for what seems an age. They've been doing the US touring-malarkey for yonks, and a lot's left to prove - not that efforts are unrewarded, nor for that matter, half-delivered. In spite of broadcasting a set that's beyond a year ancient, VV and Hotel exude the same chemistry and perky arousal that made this game so enticing in the first place - a purring 'Superstition', growling 'Cat Claw' and gestating finale of Captain Beefheart's 'Dropout Boogie' the classiest porn-show this side of Annabel Chong's synonymous, 251-man gang-bang in the 80s.
Mike Skinner's The Streets only made their live-debut at last year's event, so we shouldn't be too harsh about a series of embarrassing technical hitches that plague the start of their set. However, add to this an unusually subdued audience, and despite a midway-rally via 'Let's Push Things Forward', The Streets' elevation to the Main Stage doesn't quite yet work this time around.
No such worries for the Doves, who in the sweltering late-afternoon heat, storm us with a massiiiive set. As opener 'NY' gives way to an all-embracing 'Pounding', we know we're in for a treat. Soaring gracefully throughout, 'There Goes The Fear' was always going to be the pick of the bunch, but it's an excellent set all round.
The Thrills are hopelessly prepared for the occasion, having warmed up for today following a compelling Thursday night this week at rockfeedback's own Basement Club. Vocalist Conor Deasy emits a low-key croon, yet one almost impossibly dismissive throughout - fittingly to the tunes, of which they have a treasure-trove: the opening clamour of newie 'Tell Me Something I Don't Know', chipper spark of 'Whatever Happened To Corey Haim', and vivid, sky-eyeing texture of 'Don't Steal Our Sun'. Paradise in a rammed tent.
It's ridiculous that the now peroxide-blonde Beck is only third on the bill, but he's a lot of fun, even at 6.30pm. Cavorting around the stage like a hyperactive kid but still cool as hell, a supremely funky 'Mixed Business' animates the crowd before a harmonica n' ballad interlude, comprising an accordion-dosed 'Nobody's Fault But My Own' and 'Lost Cause'. But it's a slowed-down, bluesy 'Loser', sassy 'Beercan', riotous 'Sexx Laws' and a pop-medley including a take on Nelly's 'Hot in Herre', Justin's 'Rock Your Body', Beyonce's 'Crazy In Love' and Tatu's 'Not Gonna Get Us' and a mini-synchronised dance-routine during a closing 'Where It's At' that cohesively ensure we're all still smiling by the time Black Rebel Motorcycle Club skulk on stage.
A little of Mr Hansen's playful spark must have rubbed of on them: look! They're actually TALKING TO THE CROWD!! They're late additions to the bill (Jack White's injured hand and the White Stripe's cancellation freeing a vacancy beneath Blur), but extremely popular nevertheless - for good reason, blending a cover of the Stripes' own 'The Hardest Button To Button' with the anthemic 'Whatever Happened To My Rock 'N' Roll' and a still-glimmering shut-down on 'Salvation'. They may have headlined the Radio One tent last year, but there's no doubt that the mighty BRMC of 2003 are deservedly main-stage material.
Elsewhere noteworthy is, particularly, a defiantly compulsive set from Reading locals, The Cooper Temple Clause - who, creeping on set through a fitting mist of dry-ice and blaring, red lights - are today compelling. Maybe via the opening-stomp of 'Panzer Attack'. Or claustrophobic drama of 'Who Needs Enemies?' Or dashing of killer, latter-day tuneage - 'New Toys'; a slicing 'Promises, Promises'. Or, quite likely, all of the previous..?
It's an overwhelmingly metal-orientated festival this year and it's making the Indie Kids feel a little suffocated. But when the distortion lets its strange-hold grip off for a second, something all the more subtle is allowed to shine. Blur, it's your time for the spotlight. For reasons that will follow, this is about to become one of the most monumental Blur performances of their time - savour every moment, tell the grandkids kind of stuff.
You can sense it before they've even played a note, such is the air of anticipation in the air tonight. The first sign of difference between this and a normal Blur show is the normally deathly professional Damon Albarn's six-foot fall off the stage during 'Beetlebum', followed by a little speech about how he's 'never been cool'. There you are - Damon Albarn, modest after all. Told you it was a weird evening.
It seems after then they've just given up on this being a professional performance and replaced it with a touchingly human one. Blur treat us to a mammoth twenty-five -song set covering their entire career (apart from 'Leisure', but that was so long ago, darling) and containing quite simply some of the finest songs to come out of England in the last twenty years. 'For Tomorrow' and a whole crowd singing along to 'Tender' are hauntingly beautiful, whilst more upbeat classics like 'Girls and Boys' or a frantic 'Song 2' (far out-rocking it's lesser spotted cousin 'Crazy Beat') prove that suits and receding hairlines are not obstacles in the path to making tens of thousands of people jump up and down like idiots. On the whole, the reception is rapturous, only lapsing when the less familiar 'Think Tank' material (all twelve tracks of it) hits an unsuspecting crowd, all intricate rhythms and bass-heavy introspection.
But when you've got a back-catalogue containing at least two-dozen compositions that can define time-periods, you know you've never completely lost a crowd. Blur play on this and start experimenting; Phil Daniels makes an appearance for a perplexing run-through of recent LP secret-track - 'Me White Noise' - but, whilst there, they duet an off-the-cuff, acoustic version of 'Parklife' and the place goes absolutely spare. Only the return of a certain bespectacled guitarist could have made this any better, but regardless, they've still touched a colossal amount of people on a deeply personal level. Everything we've ever loved about them is still there, only more affirmed than ever.
Reviews: Matt Tomiak / Tom Hannan
Day Three - Reviews
Seemingly, nobody's told caustic Bolton tykes Kinesis that it's only 1pm on a very early Sunday afternoon. The young quartet provide a furious welcoming for the bleary-eyed with a brutal '... And They Obey' and riotous closer 'Everything Destroys Itself', guitarist Conor 'the bastard' McGloin managing to twat rockfeedback's snapper purposefully during an opening 'Zyklon B' following a nasty dive into the photo-pit. As the front-rows will account, we pushed the f**ker over. Blinding - and we have the bruises to prove it.
There aren't many things that are particularly striking about The All-American Rejects, but the size of the crowd in front of the main stage for a band who, remember, have only ever actually had one song out is something to marvel at. And when they play that one song, the hard-to-repress 'Swing Swing', the crowd take it to their hearts. The rest of the time they're tolerant, if not entirely enthusiastic. So the AARs simply work like dogs to get a reaction, putting a startling amount of energy into their short set and even daring to have a pop at tonight's headliners Metallica, ranting, 'Here's something you won't see with them - a band who rock with you; they just stand there and let you rock,' before running into a now-almost adoring crowd. A job well done.
Quite a contrast somewhat to the soothing, gentle lullabies of hotly-tipped Fierce Panda-cum-Island Records recruits Keane in the Carling Stage. It's Starsailor-y, piano-pop they do (no guitars, nor bass) - and competent, alas pretty MOR, truth be told, although the radio-friendly chirpiness and vigour of 'Everybody's Changing' and 'This Is The Last Time' simply can't be denied.
Meanwhile, ever-entertaining, ghoulish Brighton noiseniks The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster are creating the unholiest of rackets back in the Radio One tent. Sludgy rockers 'Celebrate Your Mother' and 'Psychosis Safari' are great as always, but can anyone remember a moshpit as large, as sweaty and as full of crowd-surfers as the one that greets Hell Is For Heroes? Rightly promoted after packing out the Carling Tent last year, HIFH sling a couple of new tracks at us: fortunately every bit as beefy and intense as the likes of 'You Drove Me To It' and today's national hymn (save for 'Slow Song'), 'I Can Climb Mountains'.
Hours before, a dual-fest of The Raveonettes - with their pouting, Danish charm (and a noise/sleaze/feedback-strewn set breaking into 'The Love Gang', trademark 'Attack Of The Ghost Riders' and 'Evil LA' in the first eight minutes, and culminating in a succulent 'Beat City') - and NYC's Radio 4, prove easy high-points, the latter grooving and hammering a social-political boogie whilst fending with their equipment against, again, an unflattering aural-representation (even though the bass-chug of 'Save Your City' sounds ingratiatingly joyous, no matter the context).
Angular geek-punks Hot Hot Heat are also a big draw; recent single 'No Not Now' prompts a mass sing-a-long, but it-s obvious that inevitable set-closer 'Bandages' is what the people have really come to hear, especially given the (welcomingly - for a change) repetitive nature of much of their keyboard-doused splicings. Though as the sun sets on Reading 2003, there could hardly be a more suitable band than Grandaddy to ease us into the dusk-drenched hours. Sure, they may resemble burly, surly truck-mechanics, but their music -including crowd-pleasing old favourites ('Summers Here Kids; 'AM 180'; an entrance with 'El Caminos In The West') and a shimmering version of 'The Crystal Lake' - is just gorgeous. Dreamy, celestial alt-country: absolutely lovely stuff.
Primal Scream are simply mean, though. Displaying none of the immediate charm of their Oasis support at Reading/Leeds back in 2000, tonight, Bobby Gillespie and Mani are rife with angst. 'This is weird playing at daylight,' mouths the ex-'Stones bassist, eyeing up the distinctly 'Tallica-adorers. 'I never realised what a bunch of ugly f**kers you all are.' It'd be tragic if they couldn't follow up the rock 'n' roll remarks - but they do: partly by deluging us with a whole heap of ugly new songs and a pitifully enjoyable climax with 'Swastika Eyes', 'Rocks' and 'Movin' On Up'. It's nastily perfect - for all the most unconventional reasons. Like the 'Scream themselves.
Whether it's just their strong reputation, or the rumours of a no-show circulating around the site that leads to such anticipation for tonight's Yeah Yeah Yeahs set is debatable, but for whatever reason, without a question of a doubt, this is their night.
They're in brave mode too, daring to start with a duo of crushing new songs and omit previous signature-tunes (the scandalously decent 'Bang' is nowhere to be seen). No matter, because the YYYs in courageous form are possibly more devastating than any other act on the bill this year. Musically, considering the stripped-back nature of the way they choose to do things, it's stupidly intricate and deafeningly powerful. Visually, it's also something of a head-trip - that blue blur whirling around the stage is Karen*O. Catch her if you can. She only stops to talk to stuffed bunny rabbits before an amazing rendition of 'Art Star', stand dead still as 'Pin' gets an extended introduction and dedicate a truly beautiful 'Maps' to seemingly every person she's ever met. 'I just love so many fuckin' people, dude!' What we'd give to be on that list.
Often, you form images of bands in your head before you've seen them, and in your mind, System of A Down do not look like this. They simply aren't this hairy, this boggle-eyed and this... old.
Thankfully, they sound exactly as you'd like, deathly heavy in places, sweepingly operatic in others, incredibly accomplished musically at all times. But pay closer attention and it'll hit you - System of a Down, political purveyors of heavy metal and prog-beards, have some ridiculously silly songs. 'Bounce' - that's the one that goes, 'BOUNCE-pogo-pogo-pogo-pogo-pogo-pogo-pogo' - gets exactly the reaction it's intended to get, heads flying and circle-pits spinning tornadoes of dust into the air. What also becomes apparent is that lead-singer Serj Tankian is not, as expected, the SOAD overlord. No, this show belongs to crazed guitarist Daran Malakian, both taunting and doing stand-up comedy to his adoring crowd. In fact, come to think of it, he talks way too much. But when they're getting down to the business of actually playing, System of a Down are everything that's ever been good about the real end of nu-metal.
And if SOAD are 'the real end of nu-metal', then where does that leave Hope Of The States? 'The new Radiohead'? Er, despite what's touted, no. Have you even heard this band? Sure, embers of Yorke and company's spanning outlook exist for all herein that's both irreverent and beautiful, but there's little so far in the way of an actual radio-single. Not that they need one - the tinkering likes of 'George Washington' or a chilling opening instrumental - 'Black Amnesias' - simply enough to invoke and inspire wayward-obsession.
Via such distractions, it's easy to forget just how good a line-up the dance stage has been blessed with this weekend. Squarepusher, Warp Records' other drill and bass-noise monger (Aphex Twin being the alternative), is one of the brightest highlights. On this evidence the 'pusher, aka Tom Jenkinson, is a man of split personalities. One minute, he's hiding his face behind a laptop, twiddling away on a bass-guitar trying to bring some funk to the ensuing electronic dissonance. It's as if nobody else is in the room. Then, meer cat-like, he raises his head above the computer screen - look at all those people! A smile takes over his entire body and he starts to look tearful whilst shaking his fist in the air and mouthing 'thank you, thank you' to the audience. Squarepusher is capable of dishing out marvellously enjoyable ear-torture and still coming across like a nice guy without saying a thing. Perhaps there is a hidden-message amongst all that deafening fuzz after all...
The Stills, some time before, some place else, are simply frightening: a collage of meandering, dirgey hooks and creeping, spiralling bass and shady guitars, entwined somehow with a kudos-seeking pop-sensibility. It works. 'Killer Bees' buzzes with cheeky-prowess, 'Lola' follows with even better infectious-acumen, and humming feedback accentuate an ending 'Ready For It' or debut-single 'Still In Love Song' with the gently urgency of the revered, current-day trend. Magically, these are just the early days.
Meanwhile, the grand old mean of sweaty grunt-rock Metallica might be well-represented in the T-shirt stakes today (not to mention a stonking greatest-hits comprising all sectors of their career, inclusive of - blessedly - just two new songs, in addition to a fireworks-aided finale of 'Enter Sandman' and a lengthy, tearful goodbye), but we'll take the chance to fully worship the latest chapter in the meteoric rise of The Music.
A unifying, almost rave-like atmosphere exists here tonight, and it's testimonial that the young Kippax foursome are finally playing to the size of audiences their massive songs deserve. Newie 'Come What May' merges the prior-performed 'Human' and 'The Truth Is No Words', but it's a riotous airing of 'The People' that provides the moment of their hour-long slot.
But hats off to British Sea Power. They claim the weekend's finest performance by a desperate unwillingness to do anything ordinary. First, they perform the strongest set-list of the whole affair - encompassing the punk-addled new-wave of 'Apologies To Insect Life', quadruple-barrelled, melodious, Smiths-Pulp hammering of 'Spirit Of St Louis', eerie 'Fear Of Drowning', intoxicating 'Childhood Memories' and clambering hysteria of 'Remember Me'...
And then it's strange. Member-changes; instrumental rock-outs; and the frightful acknowledgement of a series of plastic-animals onstage, each nesting aside piles of twigs and branches. And a resplendent, fifteen-minute 'Lately', with added 'Rock In A' outro - topped off by a full tent crowd-surfing and pogoing to every breath and guitar-strike, until vocalist Yan tears his trousers off - exposing a pair of modest, sweaty underpants - keyboardist Eamon running into the audience to hand out complimentary BSP Kendal Mintcakes from the enclave of a bass-drum, and guitarist Noble assaulting - for our second time today - a rockfeedback photographer. It's glorious, challenging, hilarious and bold in the same breath. With timeless tunes to boot... The world, or - at least - the UK, will be theirs.
... So, by the time of the hallowed, drunken tent packing-up: a resoundingly flourishing weekend? With full, justified profanity in force - c**ting right.
Reviews: Tom Hannan / Matt Tomiak
Scrapbook
THE PEOPLE'S VERDICT
(based on over 75 opinions)
Best Band Of The Weekend?
1. Metallica
2. Blur
= Beck
4. The Darkness
5. Linkin Park
= Blink 182
7. System Of A Down
8. Electric Six
10. The Polyphonic Spree
Electric Six - Friday
Interpol - Friday
The Polyphonic Spree - Friday
Turbonegro - Saturday
British Sea Power - Sunday
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