Fleadh - Finsbury Park, London - 20/6/04
3/5
By: Toby L
Bloody Britain. The UK must be the only sodding, rain-sodden piece of salaciously shameful, sadistic rock in the world to assemble such veterans as today's fixtures at the 18794th Fleadh in London's Finsbury Park and then disrespectfully chuck it down all over them.
Oh well. Anyone wont to attending the annual (bar last year's hiatus), loosely Irish-themed hoe-down will know that weather and Guinness don't make a decent couple. Nor, for that matter, does a classic back-catalogue matched with Jools Holland-worthy boogie-woogie re-interpretations, Dylan (more of which later).
We arrive on-site to a heaving, grey mass of cloudy hell above us, a true taunt with its overweight wispiness, an overbearing threat to quite literally piss on our parade. So far, The Stands have opened the main stage with a half-hour outing of Young-Byrdsian stomps, the alluring likes of Polly Paulusma and Laura Viers have serenaded us in the Borderline Stage with emotive, howling and introspective, self-penned blarings and Billy Bragg is doing his typically humdrum soldier-next-door routine to middle-class approval. Not a bad start by all means.
Then, something surreal - during the sparkly, 'ethereal' and sublime 45 minutes of pop that Delays showcase - undoubtedly, one of the day's greater performances - we see a brawl break out: between a teenager and a fifty-something. Brilliant. It erupts when said-pesky youngster lobs a pint of water up at Southampton's finest and said-pensioner gets riled by the lack of appreciation - he grabs the wee nipper at the neck, pushes him over a poor innocent woman that's trying to serve herself a cuppa'tea from a Thermostat, and then eventually makes a small girl cry by pulling an evil face. The pesky rascal runs away, and the ole' grinner, well, he starts grinning.
Musically, during this showing, the soundtrack couldn't have been any more inappropriate; how anyone would be inspired to embrace a cross-generational wrestle during steel-drum doused opener 'Wanderlust', the searing bliss of 'Nearer Than Heaven', an electro-stomping new single, 'Lost In Melody', the almost-dark 'Stay Where You Are' and soaring, sing-along closer 'Long Time Coming' is truly beyond us.
Then, during the opening seconds of Christy Moore, the rain occurs. In buckets. It'd have been admirable to stay around and report on every soul-churningly epic turn of phrase and chord-persuasion that Moore and guests inflict on us, but we'd forgotten our umbrella, and we don't fancy another festival-related night in casualty.
So, for now having escaped pneumonia, we re-emerge in time for The Charlatans. And it rains again. Bollocks. Well, we're not wussying out this time, for Tim Burgess has finally axed that greasy new barnet of his, and gone back to the days where Britpop hair was something not to be sneezed at/on. He leads his band through an hour's worth of classics and new'uns, most of which from latest exhibition 'Up At The Lake' bearing the same organ-splashed panache and swagger that we've always adored. Also thrown in - a splendid 'Love Is The Key', and another onstage guesty with insatiable Grandad-rocker Ronnie Wood, who graces 'Just Lookin' and 'Stay With Me' with some fine old-skool gurning and bluesy licks. Still vital.
Naturally, we miss Counting Crows, yet are able to catch an eyeful of the compelling, winsome matter of Kathryn Williams in the snug, cosy Borderline Stage (sheltered from the chaos in the skies above), and then align ourselves for some pre-Bob Dylan prep (namely, a few more ales).
Fortunately, the grey skies have trickled further down the road, and a clear blue replaces them. It's an idyllic setting, a reward after a day of climate-dodging. Then, the rusty old legend himself - Dylan and his backing-band line the stage, and the thousands go wild. Strutting all the while is Ronnie Wood, back again, on guitar, while Bob parks himself behind a pedal-steel and lets rip. One trouble: we recognise the songs - 'Maggie's Farm', 'Highway 61 Revisited' - but not like this.
After years at the top of the solo singer-songwriter category - having virtually invented the bracket - Dylan's clearly attained that understandable muso-kudos that says, 'Let's do something different,' which thus entails in almost two hours of plodding, overly bluesified, reworked renditions of classic material (save for ever-distinctive closer, 'Like A Rolling Stone' - Wood notably gleaming throughout for an apparent, very literal meaning), and more recent fare. Add to the equation Dylan's customary lack of audience-acknowledgement, and it's quite a trying experience.
But what more to expect? To suggest he's had his time would perhaps be but to cut short any future potential (which is always a silly thing to do; if music's taught us one thing, it's that the unthinkable more often than not occurs), but after years of religious touring as if it's soon to become illegal, and inspiring millions, it just seems there's little left to achieve, anything in comparison to such an illustrious past a mere, pale disappointment.
Thus, we leave today with mixed feelings - mostly positive, naturally, after experiencing a commendable full day's worth of such a rare array of true musical-assortment - but with a nagging, guilty doubt in our minds as to the relevance of one of modern music's most substantial of icons. Well. At least we saw a fight.
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