RockFeedback

V Festival - Hylands Park, Chelmsford - 21-22/8/04

1/5

By: Thomas Hannan

Location: Hylands Park, Chelmsford, Essex.

Date: Saturday21st August - Sunday 22nd August 2004.

Time: Music from 12:00pm-11:00pm.

Bands: 84 Live Acts - 12 DJ Sets.

Stages: Five.

Prices: £98:50 per person (weekend ticket, including camping).

Capacity: 62,500 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 change of agenda. Rather than merely taking place on just one site in the country, V96 occurred on two - each 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 quite 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 finer; 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, unless they were pissed and homeless all weekend.

And, with V2002, the event 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.

2003, although susceptible to criticisms of line-up repeats (the headliners Coldplay, Foo Fighters, Red Hot Chili Peppers each appearing only two years previous), the newly-named V Festival sold out swifter than before, while '04's event is officially the record-breaker - all tickets bought up in advance prior to what was the most fiercely competitive outdoor-events season in living memory. And, would you believe it, even Pixies and The Strokes wanted to co-headline such a bash. In one night. May the games begin.

Day One - Reviews

Keane What is it about the English summer festival that brings out a desire in so many bands to attempt oh so witty, ironic cover versions? Usually, you'll savour the jape for the duration of the song before it dawns on you how much the whole affair reeks of trying that little bit too hard to impress, but still days later we're sure that amidst this weekend there were two notable exceptions - The Strokes' inspired attempt at The Clash's 'Clampdown', which closed the event magnificently, and, really, The Divine Comedy's take on the Queens of the Stone Age's 'No One Knows', which opened it up in just as fine a fashion.

For our latter, bass solos are replaced with banjo plucks, chugging guitar riffs with staccato string sections, and the brutally cool delivery with something far less violent, but arguably much more stylish. Perhaps poking fun simultaneously on the festival's 'safe' image (there's a separate entrance to the site fronted by a sign which proclaims 'celebrities only'...) and their own unfashionable nature, The Divine Comedy win a lot of fans, compelling them to stick around for the rest of the similarly tongue-in-cheek performance, which unsurprisingly climaxes in a rousing 'National Express'. 'It's a silly song, but we like it.' introduces Neil Hannon. It could be applied to the whole affair, really; The Divine Comedy - a silly band, but we like them.

We want to adore The Killers. But we can't quite see them. This, friends, is called 'humble billing'; you can guarantee that, each year, one or two acts booked early on in the foundational steps to assembling a festival line-up will have grown substantially prior to their appearance. Thus, once they finally show, demand exceeds space - we could be watching them in another county for all we know. Hence a stupidly rammed 'NME' Stage set from Brandon and co. that's met with as much elation (just listen to the distant massiveness of a showy, camp 'Indie Rock & Roll', or 'Mr Brightside' - one of the pop hits of recent years) as frustration from those that don't have vision and hearing equal to that of He-Man or, similarly, David Dickenson.

Keane 'suffer' such overcrowding issues, as well as a male streaker that waves his tackle and sack about the place while aloft a mate's shoulders - and all during a more poignant blaring of their vastly awaited showing. Surreal. Best is 'Bedshaped', the epic closer and latest chart-assault, or 'Sunshine' which we swear provokes the sky to twitch a bit in the trio's favour. 'Thank you from the bottom of our hearts!' Well, still some work to be done on the image front, but as for epic-scale, timeless songwriting, they're light years ahead of affirming the grade.

Then, for the decidedly earnest alt-pundit, it goes a bit awry. Not least because we hear of Thirteen Senses having pulled out due to illness, let alone news of Jet's being replaced later on by indie comebackers Embrace (who eventually play a pre-headline set on the second stage with remarkably brave stature, and to hefty applause), but also because of a glut of shamelessly accessible acts appearing next. Just count 'em: the Brit-hop of Big Brovaz; salacious agro-pop of Pink (pictured below, 'socking it to 'em'); and - for God's sake - Dido. It's just good news Jamie Cullum isn't in sight/on-site 'til tomorrow.

Pink. Eeek. But, probably, V isn't for the insatiable grassroots purist. And, perhaps, that's its charm; a two-day escape which constitutes getting loaded in a field with lavishly tented neighbours that are probably accountants by day, middle-ageing rockers-in-earnest by night. All this, we must assume, deduced from the sheer levels of nostalgic reverence afforded to Manc legends The Charlatans. Even though the predictable close of a rapt 'Sproston Green' and timeless set-staples such as 'The Only One I Know' and 'How High' sound completely vital at not even 7pm in the day, newer material such as 'Try Again Today' - the band's ambient, most recent hit - still manages to charm with the sheen of ebullience, and to welcome, tiring arms.

Then a contradiction. Dead 60's: not quite the case. Ska was born in the 60's, kids, and it continues to thrive thanks to this most Liverpudlian of quartets. While The Coral and The Zutons jingle-jangle away, this bunch have started at the other end of the musical spectrum, slowing t'ings down, and in the process emulating the likes of The Selector and The Specials. Who's to complain. The dark two-tone grapple of 'You're Not The Law' and 'Cold Soul' exudes the ice-cool rebellious nature of these scallies. Good to hear something 'new' once in a while.

Whoever started the myth of Elbow being miserable has a lot to answer for. What with having to overcome that ever-present untruth as well as some technical difficulties, there's an initial feeling of the band really having to work to impress tonight's sizeable 'NME' Stage crowd - not to work them up, but to level with them on an emotional plain, one that whilst being admittedly melancholy at times reveals itself to be anything but despondent.

Their personal mood, however, seems quite jovial, making fun at other band members' expense, introducing the peculiar funk of opening number 'Any Day Now' as 'this first song is really good' (Guy Garvey's right - it was), and it helps a lot of things about Elbow to make much more sense. Each instrument seems to adopt a similar softness to Garvey's voice, and from the ethereal beauty of 'Fugitive Motel' to the epic abandon of a stirring 'New Born', every moment was, somewhat unpredictably, quite joyfully treasured.

Yet, you know when the lone figure of a pork-pie hatted Dav Ford of Easyworld takes to the stage, for the haplessly untrendy indie-kids, it's gonna kick off. Big time. As he thunders eagerly into the oft solo-performed 'This Is Where I Stand', the crowd rise from their afternoon's nap (commonly the hardest part of a weekender) and join in harmoniously. As the number closes, bassist/vocalist Jo Taylor and drummer Glenn Hooper join their comrade in amassing a set made up from both their previous long-players (though all highlights prove first rekkid 45s, 'Hundredweight', 'Bleach' and an eloquent, mandolin-tinged 'Junkies & Whores').

Crowds Are Good When it comes to setting the scene, Hope of the States, soon after, don't waste any time. Within their introduction, a grand icebreaker involving perpetually meandering, devastating guitars, strings and anything else they can make sound like war ('Black Amnesias'), minds are blown, ships are sunk, great nations (and festival audiences) brought to their knees, and destruction, in general, is abound. Then 'George Washington' pops up and soothes us back into trusting them not to treat us quite so roughly again, before they stoke up the fire once more and reportedly break all their kit. That'll teach 'em. Oversized, novelty military hats off to them, though, as they refuse to stop there, treating devotees to a make-do set in the car park involving acoustic guitars, a loud hailer and a good couple of hundred converts in fine voice. That's the spirit.

Lesser bands would have cancelled. Lesser bands could be in hospital, lesser bands could be exhausted, lesser bands could perhaps even still be in mourning. But as tonight's set proved, few bands are as brave as Muse. Chris Wolstenholme's contribution on backing vocals, one-handed keyboards and, well, props (he threw some gigantic balloons into the crowd which kept us busy during their mammoth piano interludes and Rage Against The Machine-style jam sessions) may not have been pivotal to the sound, but it was to the experience; you still felt like you were watching a Muse performance, not the Matt Bellamy Show, not a stand-in band (although for your bass performance at such short notice, Morgan Nicholls, you deserve a medal - ignore Dom Howard's jibes about the 'few bum notes').

And what a Muse performance - for a good few songs, because these boys know how to work the casual festival crowd, they don't play anything that isn't a single. After that, there's nothing that isn't a potential single, from the old, bizarrely structured but effortlessly crafted angst-fests like 'Muscle Museum' and an overwhelming 'Showbiz', through 'Plug In Baby's Bach-meets-Rage pomposity and an astonishing rendition of 'Butterflies and Hurricanes'. Normal sounding, goofy guys putting on an abnormally grand, first-rate spectacle of music, they make us feel part of something. We unflatteringly ape the falsetto parts, go 'ooh' at the pyrotechnics and fittingly gaze on in complete wonder.

Reviews: Toby L, Andy Willson / Photo-Credit: Sharon Alboni

Day Two - Reviews

Kasabian White-shirted, snotty-nosed swagger with a hankering for some Death In Vegas-bombing-Primal Scream resilience?

The gesture of Kasabian opening the 'NME' Stage on a Sunday morning is as welcoming a prospect as inciting a pick-axe to the forehead (and for some with hangovers, that's how thunderous the ordeal appears to feel), yet those at the front are relishing this neo-21st Century, via the '90s, visceral assault. Tracks such as 'Reason Is Treason' and a pummelling 'Club Foot' are crossover matter for hooligans and indie-tramps alike, and, for many here present, the trauma of having their complimentary Kasabian flag-posts confiscated by security moments before the Leicestershire combo's set begins is freshly escaped (no messing, bamboo sticks can make for some dangerous shit, peeps).

Chikinki, next up, are the Kasabian who couldn't ever have a top-ten hit - the tunes take too much time, the ideas too unpredictable, the subjects too controversial, as yet, for anything of that commercial a scale. Precisely then, why they're the far more intriguing proposition. They do have tunes, they're everywhere - 'Assassinator 13' and its excellent, uneasy grooves, 'Sacrifice a Child' arriving like an awakening punch in the face - and we're treated to them all today. The crowd could be blessed with it if only they were paying attention, but you can almost feel the whoosh as it goes over most people's heads. And that's the biggest shame, to go along with one of the most silently compelling performances of the day.

Just what we needed now arrived in the form of an unscheduled performance from a dozen Welshmen in leisure suits - some tasteless humour and choice lyrics on the subjects of chips, Ford Capri's and housing benefits. And draw. Lots of draw. Goldie Lookin' Chain may still be a novelty act, but one like you've never seen before.

Snow Patrol We could sit around waiting for the joke to get tired, or just involve ourselves in singing along with 'Guns Don't Kill People, Rappers Do' because we really, really enjoy doing so; as it is, we choose the latter. The tunes, and laughter, are kept coming thick and fast throughout, and the ones granted the honour of having functioning microphones woo us with magnificently 'romantic' R&B (a closing 'You Knows I Loves You'), and the rest amble pointlessly around the stage, beer in one hand and fag in other, looking like they can't believe they're getting away with it. Neither can we really, but long may it continue to be this infectious.

Justly, Snow Patrol prove masters of the appreciative smirk. Singer Gary Lightbody seems more shocked than we all are that his Irish contingent have scaled the ascent they have in recent months after being previously written off as mere late '90s hopefuls. So it's all the more rewarding a sight to behold a solid 50,000 bellowing along to every syllable of 'Run' in genuinely unifying awe, while more robust airings - inclusive of a scintillating 'Chocolate' - purr along with understated, wistful grit. They and we can't believe, but commend, their newly found, privileged status.

Then, surprise-one: Fountains Of Wayne avoid the tabloidial tackiness of having been the official bearers of A Novelty Single ('Stacey's Mom') some weeks prior to their V set, by throwing in loads of credible oldies and a feelgood thirty-five minutes that confounded and trounced wobbly preconceptions. Didn't see that coming. Then, that second shock. They let Badly Drawn Boy loose on V.

... Can you believe it? We half expected a three-hour set comprising of Springsteen covers and part-finished sketches ('The Pixies?! Pah, do you know who I am?!'), but this has to be the slickest Damon Gough has ever been. Single after single, it's enthralling - few people write pop music this honest, from the lyrical starkness of a stripped-back 'You Were Right' to the touching Hugh Grant dedication of 'Silent Sigh', it just serves as a reminder of an all too overlooked talent. Of course, there's a little cheekiness, finishing on the obscure personal favourite 'How' rather than anything anyone would have picked from a list for him to close on, but even when he's indulging, or just getting his band to jam whilst he 'freestyles' over the top, addressing the crowd with - 'V Festival, you're waving your hands, and I'm talking shit...', you can't help but love the guy.

Anyone with a decent guess as to why The Zutons deemed it a good idea to come on in bright yellow, Uma Thurman-if-she-was-a-Scouser-style jumpsuits should send us their answers on a postcard, but here's one attempt - simply just to make everything about this most bright, quirky of bands seem that little bit more like sunshine.

Finally out of the shadow of everything else good that's come out from Liverpool in the past few years (must be something in the Mersey), and thanks in no small part to some incessantly catchy, would be annoying if they weren't so ace singles, The Zutons really do need a live setting for full appreciation. This is simply because there are parts in 'You Will, You Won't' that need to be clapped along to; bits in 'Remember Me' that must have this many people attempting to do some slight variation on the twist; and parts of a closing 'Zutonkhamun' that will cause saxophones and melodicas to sell out in every Chelmsford music emporium within a few hours after the finish of what was a blistering set.

Van Morrison made some great use of 'Sha la la's, The Beatles mastered the 'Na na na' outro and The Ramones adored their 'Gabba Gabba Hey', but the rock and roll book of nonsense verse had another admirable new entry today in the form of The Thrills and their 'Girl, I said oooh!'

You know you're not going to have to worry about the standard of that tricky second album when something of such quality as 'Whatever Happened To Corey Haim?' precedes it, and the rendition today is one that thousands more would have 'ooh!'-ed along to if only they'd heard it previously. That shouldn't take long. The Thrills this afternoon look like a tidy rock machine, effortlessly cool, suave and now full of experience, but most importantly still singing cracking tunes, and that goes for pretty much every single one of them. 'Don't Steal Our Sun' comes across as a plea for some clarity to the weekend's changeable weather, and a closing 'Santa Cruz (You're Not That Far)' a wonderful escapist anthem delivered to a crowd of people who didn't really want to be anywhere else.

After the perhaps over-reactive response to their self-titled debut album, expectations are rife for camper-than-a-row-of-pink-tents NYC poppers Scissor Sisters, yet it's soon made clear that no-one will leave this stage dissatisfied. With the panache, charisma and understanding of Jack & Meg, Jake Shears and Ana Matronica trigger the crowd into a frenzy, buzzing around the stage like demented bluebottles. The jury is still out as to whether Pink Floyd's 'Comfortably Numb' was butchered by the pair, but it's a festival, so no-one truly gives a shit. Another reason why, the sun is still shining.

Unlike other unflattering reviews of BRMC at V, we'll stand by them and give them the thumbs-up. Despite having a disagreement with a large inflatable penis (in the signing tent) earlier in the weekend, they predominantly roll out the songs that have put San Francisco firmly on the map; the sheer magnitude/pounding of 'Stop' and the blues-fury chaos of 'Whatever Happened To My Rock 'N Roll' confirm their place in the echelons of modern guitar music.

BRMC

But where's that one, tokenistic hip-hop act that caps a weekend at the summer festies each year? You know, the one that's OK for the masses to like because they don't swear that much and also bear more than a partial pinch of dripping sexual tension? Oh, that'd be N*E*R*D in '04, and, boy, we're not complaining. Via the likes of second LP title-track 'Fly Or Die' and the percussive lurch of 'She Wants To Move', Pharrell Williams and partners have mustered the ultimate Cuban-come-Latino-via-rap hoedown of the new millennium, and the laydees are f**king loving it.

Pixies Kim Deal was the only one with any hair left on this Pixies reunion, and now she's gone and lopped most of it off. Looking less like a hedge, now more of a tidy shrub, she ambles over to the microphone and lets out that voice. 'In Heaven...', she begins, '... Everything is fine.' We know, Kim. We're there with you.

It's the pinnacle of the weekend, and for most people here, the most important musical event they will witness. We say most, because given the amount of attendees, there is just a small, piffling chance that one of them just might have seen The Clash. At the 100 Club. In 1976. But we doubt that. And we also doubt if it would have been that much superior.

Pixies Because we couldn't really have planned this better - second song, bang! There it is - 'Where Is My Mind?', previously omitted from a couple of set-lists on this most welcome of cash-in reunions, but included here in ragged glory, sets the tone for the rest of the night. The Pixies are here to enjoy themselves, and let us do the same. There are points where it borders on the spiritual, be that devilish for 'Cactus' and the soul-enriching 'Debaser', or thoroughly wholesome 'Gigantic' and the good-time jangling of 'Here Comes Your Man'.

Come to think of it, bar 'Velouria' perhaps, there's little more on show to smile about, even though a large-scale environmental disaster would still find it a job to wipe the grin from our face. If the Devil's got the best tunes, the Pixies wrote most of them for him. And even he would have found the force of tonight's closing 'Tame' difficult to stomach. But regardless of the bizarre sentiments of the songs, the questionable motives for even being here, or the dodgy eye make-up (goodness, Charles, what were you thinking?), the Pixies cannot be praised highly enough.

For most other events, that'd be it. But, nah. The Strokes cap off two days of desperately eclectic, triumphantly aligned musical revelry. Drunk, they are, but we don't care - 'Last Nite' arrives within twenty-odd minutes, Julian is wearing sunglasses and slurring wearily, the drumkit is eventually trashed, and otherwise humble set-outings such as 'Automatic Stop' and 'The End Has No End' become arm-stretching anthems. How'd you like them apples?

And communal as it is, there's a sense of quasi-spiritual appreciation granted to the forefathers of everything that's, erm, the last three years in music - truly, it was them that re-inspired the disenchanted masses, let's not forget/dismiss it - and that's why we grin inanely right until a bruising finale of 'Hard To Explain', The Clash's 'Clampdown' and the still-stinging 'Take It Or Leave It'.

Trail of Dead - 'Mistakes & Regrets', 2000: 'There is nothing left to say... That has not been said.' Pretty much - apart from: V Festival, in 2004, you've really, really exceeded yourself.

The Strokes