Download Festival - Donington, UK - 10-12/6/05
4/5
By: James Faherty
Download Festival: in its third year, yet already regarded by many as the definitive, metal-aping annual weekend-binge to revel amidst (at least on British shores anyway). Held at the legendary Castle Donington, 2005 sees Download upgrade to a three-day event for the first time. The site; a clean, very accessible, but noisy area (the festival is held almost metres away from a small airfield, with planes frequently taking off and landing very audibly - a novelty the first three times; absolute hell at 7am with a stinkin' hangover).
And this year's a touch different; festy promoters felt it necessary to mix things up somewhat, by adding a self-proclaimed 'indie-day'. Oops. Yet, kicking Friday's music off on the main stage is the regal filth of Queen Adreena, singer Katie Jane Garside's captivating body-bending and weird shape-throwing possibly a little too off-kilter for the early crowd, but warmly received nonetheless. Over on the Snickers Stage are Flogging Molly, the Irish folk-punkers still knocking it out. With no less than seven musicians performing, it's a stageful of rousing, craic-laden Irish charm. Chants of 'Y2J...Y2J!' heralded Fozzy's entrance to Download, their frontman being WWE superstar Chris Jericho. Fozzy's brand of fat, (very clichéd) wrestle-metal is a no-brainer, but goes down a storm with WWE and belligerent-noise fans alike.
Back on the Main Stage, and Wednesday 13's frightfully ghoulish solo outfit are beginning. After the underground success of the wonderfully monikered 'Frankenstein Drag Queens from Planet 13', and then the mysterious disappearance of the Murderdolls, Wednesday 13 have knocked their bollocks off to create yet another loyal band of followers, apparently present at this show. They all sing along to the punked-up glam schlock of 'R.A.M.B.O' and 'I Like To Say F**k' (really, boys). Sadly, following this are JJ72, who seem to have been forgotten in the mists of time, like one of grandad's old Werther's Originals down the back of the sofa. After the raucous noise of Wednesday 13, the sexy power trio seem a bit timid and sparse on the cavernous main stage.
More surrealness ahoy in the Snickers tent when Lordi take to the stage... Enter the bizarre carnival of grotesquery presented before you! Lordi, to the uninitiated, are a band who, for want of a better phrase, dress up like monsters and play rehashed 80's stadium rock, circa Bon Jovi. Now I am fully aware this may sound utterly ridiculous, to be honest it is, but Lordi rock our worlds - you barely notice how silly it all feels, even when Mr Lordi himself swaggers onstage wielding a circular saw spattered in fake blood. Wholesome, good fun. Flitting back to the Main Stage and we see The Others hovering into sight, a band who seem so cool they are unfettered by playing the Main Stage at Donington Castle. But when you look closer and actually listen, you realise it's because they genuinely couldn't care less. Their bland three-chord mockney street punk gets tedious after just one song, and the boys spend half their allotted set-time larking about flusteringly.
Things start hotting up (musically, at least; weather-wise, it's still bitterly autumnal) by 4pm, when in the Snickers tent the anticipation of Apocalyptica can be felt. Download regulars will remember back in 2003 when Apocalyptica were due to play the second stage, instead being greeted by a huge wall of Marshalls and the raucous roar of Metallica's 'Blackened' as Hetfield and co triumphantly strode onstage, the 'secret' band of the weekend. Well, this time we don't get America's no.1 heavy metal export, but Apocalyptica as billed, which in some people's eyes is even more of a treat. Switzerland's Apocalytica consists of four cellists and a drummer, but don't be deceived: they're as me(n)tal as any other band you'll see on this stage all weekend. They play seated on four, skull-emblazoned, baroque thrones and proceed to confound all preconceptions about how classical instruments are supposed to sound. Their flawless, lyric-less Metallica covers such as 'Seek And Destroy' and 'Enter Sandman' have the audience chanting along to every word and, even when they launch into their own songs, manage to keep the intensity and hold audience attention throughout (somehow). The cellos' morose wail is refreshingly different from the chugging guitars heard all weekend, and the band throw themselves completely into the clatter, windmilling their hair through every song and generally behaving like a metal band should with their metal hearts proudly worn on their collective sleeves.
Rumours abound as Megadeth take to the main stage for what the Chinese whispers are deeming their 'last ever UK show... EVER'. Either way, they play as if it's their last show on earth. Dave Mustaine and co rip wordlessly through classics; 'Skin of My Teeth', 'Hangar 18' and a monumental set-closer 'Holy Wars', before Mustaine eventually utters his first words to the loyal crowd, being genuine words of thanks and appreciation. It's over all too soon, but we are left by the rumour-quashing suggestion of a return to UK shores. Let's hope he keeps his promise.
A focussed and dynamic set from a reformed Dinosaur Jr keeps the punters happy, despite the crowds dissipating considerably after Megadeth. Hot emo band of the moment My Chemical Romance work their (black) magic on the Snickers stage, playing a relatively short set (too short for many), but obviously in jovial spirits throughout. Garbage, after what seemed like a very long absence, return with a revamped image and big sound, very ably ploughing through 'Stupid Girl' and newies such as 'Why Do You Love Me?'. Unfortunately, they are plagued with PA (and lipstick) problems, but Shirley, ever the feisty frontwoman, takes it all in her stride, which we must say is a jolly feisty one. A pleasant surprise from the Scot and ageing producers.
Solidifying their status as England's angriest band, Corby's finest, Raging Speedhorn take to the Napster Stage like rabid pit-bulls, fired up and gnashing gruellingly to the max, and ready to unleash their collective fury. The sonic mayhem shows no signs of letting up, until they have a 30-second break to announce and welcome new axe-man Jamie Thompson, 'from that crap band Defenestration you might have heard of.' And then back to the aural pounding. There is so much blistering hate here, it actually seems a wise idea to stick an '18' certificate outside and prohibit naïve nippers from entering.
Headlining the Snickers tent is Billy Idol, with a somewhat unexplained revival, but argue ye not, for his followers have come in droves. And quite rightly so, all are impressed by Mr Idol's youthful exuberance (he's no spring chicken); he is very adept at whipping up the cosy crowd like they are clotted cream, and when 'White Wedding' comes on the wrinkly one rips off his shirt revealing an Iggy Pop-esque body (i.e. WAY too toned for someone his age - it puts young'uns like me to shame).
Trundling back over t'main stage and the nice boys of pop, Feeder, are getting into gear. Unfortunately their warm, summery tones didn't influence the weather, which - by this point - had gotten even colder, which may or may not have explained the lacklustre turnout. It's always nice to see and hear Feeder at festivals because they are the epitome of 'festival band'; fun, sing-along power-pop-anthemery. Just a shame they couldn't shift the meteorological prospects.
SATURDAY
Anyone taking even a cursory glance at the main arena today will notice the huge turnout compared to Friday - everywhere we look there is black... hoodies, trousers, dresses, make-up, nail varnish. That can mean only one thing... OZZFEST HAS LANDED!! Yes, it's true, the Download organisers have played their trump card and billed the Saturday of Download as the 'Ozzfest Day', which means automatic ticket sales of an extra coupla thousand by default. Branding, kids.
It's 11am and already Trivium have amassed a crowd easily three times that of Feeder's paltry turnout the night before. A lot has been said about this band who play very straight-up heavy metal, from the so-called New Wave of American Heavy Metal, and - credit to them - they put on a blinding display, with some meaty hooks and intricate duel guitar action. These boys should go far. Hang around a bit longer and the psycho-circus freakshow that is The Dwarves rolls into town. Fronted by a loudmouthed-swearing idiot who calls himself Blag Dahlia, with a guitarist under the moniker 'He Who Must Not Be Named' who wears only a gimp mask (and yes, you do see EVERYTHING) and with QOTSA legend Nick Oliveri playing bass, you'd think these boys are a hoot and a holler. But they're not. They come across as arrogant, talentless fools who are more interested in their own status and egos than playing a good show; this point is accentuated when the power plug is pulled because they refuse to come offstage. Take the hint, chaps.
After a lengthy sound-check, the Mad Capsule Markets sheepishly arrive onstage, but as soon as they hear the rapturous cheers they lap up every second of it. And who can blame them, with pit-storming monsters like 'Bit Crusherrr' and 'Fly High': this is down-tuned, caustic electro-nu-metal unlike anything else present at the festival. This works to their favour; after an empowering set they subside backstage grateful and triumphant, affirmed in the notion that they must be one of the most refreshing outfits operating in the genre today. Domo arigato!
In the Snickers tent the hazy fuzz of Open Hand is revving up, lashing out big, loud, stomp-worthy songs for the crowd to absorb, with a trippy subtlety that drifts through the ether. The weekend's 'dose of happiness' comes courtesy of Bowling For Soup, whose in-between song banter and jokes about piss and dick cheese are actually more entertaining than the music itself. Tragic. Fans of Creed (the fools) may recognise Alter Bridge, aka 'those guys from Creed with a new singer', but Download inductee Myles Kennedy holds his own, his soaring vocals sounding pleasantly soothing compared to most other acts' raspy yells. Meaty wedges of stadium rock is the dish of the day for these boys, with a rather uninspired cover of 'Kashmir' to close.
A bit of a treat for die-hard thrashers is next; Anthrax performing as the original line-up for the first time in twelve years. Vocalist Joey Belladonna looks older than that lost Werther's Original, and sounds a bit weird too, his distinctly old-school vocals from the Bruce Dickinson hallmark of singing sounding well out of place. The songs themselves are frenzied and fairly technical, but the archaic vocals make the whole show seem a bit too stuck in the 80's. Still, guitarist and thrash legend Scott Ian plays it like only he knows best, hyping up the crowd into two massive circle-pits, and the spirals of dust that ascend in two columns are a sign of some form of crowd-batter-y triumph.
But it's soon time to concentrate, because at 4:20 in the Snickers tent, the five-piece math-metal onslaught of Meshuggah are unleashed, and for the next thirty minutes create some of the most fiercely inventive and technically intimidating music of the weekend. Frontman Jens Kidman stalks up and down the stage like a malevolent android, wild-eyed and furious, while an eight-string guitar maelstrom rages behind him. With barking vocals and staccato rhythms, the Swedes power through a flawless set that leaves you with a creeping suspicion that there is still a force of originality and innovation in the death-metal ranks.
HIM step up next, sounding like the highly-polished professional stadium act we thought we'd never see. I can even imagine my dad liking this, and he listens to Phil Collins. Ville Valo, Finnish idol for teenage goths everywhere slinks around the stage nonchalantly, sporting a new haircut but not without trademark fag in mouth.
Time for the hyped-beyond-reason media darlings Velvet Revolver to show us what they're made of. Ten minutes in and I'm already wondering A. How many different types of class A is singer Scott Weiland on and B. Is Slash the only good thing about this band? This noodley, poodley cock-rock is rather samey, but G'n'R fans will be pleased with the covers of 'It's So Easy' and 'Brown Stone', and they also feel obliged to destroy Pink Floyd's 'Wish You Were Here' unsuccessfully conveying the intricacy of the song. We think this may well be a case of hype over matter, but no doubt they will still do favourably considering the (too) loyal Roses fan-base and continuing media support.
The skies darken, the air is hushed, all are anticipating the band that gave the world Heavy Metal over 30 years ago. Out of nowhere we hear the strained Brummie accent of Ozzy himself, goading the crowd: 'Come on, is that the best you can do? I can't fookin' hear you!' and a flurry of lights later the band emerge.
For sure, it is a genuinely remarkable and awesome feeling, watching these four guys from Birmingham churn out some of the best riffs ever written. The set-list plays like a definitive 'Best Of...', we hear 'Paranoid', 'Children of the Grave', 'Iron Man', 'The Wizard', and an incendiary 'War Pigs'. Ozzy's voice occasionally cracks, he sometimes forgets the words (always helped by an onstage autocue monitor), but you simply cannot fault the gall and pure passion for being the Prince of Darkness. He wheels from one end of the stage to another like a toddler on a sugar high, splashing buckets of water on the crowd, doing his inane leapfrogging and even showing a bit of arse. The set closes with a rendition of 'Black Sabbath' that is slower than a dead snail in a time-lock. It is so life-affirmingly bleak and immeasurably heavy that underpant-soiling may have just occurred to a couple of thousand people. And when Tony Iommi cracks open the solo, all hell breaks loose, whilst he coolly struts across stage. They may be all over 50, but they prove that the Ozzfest crown still belongs to Ozzy et al. And no-one else.
SUNDAY
The sun rises to reveal another dry but still bitterly cold day. Luckily for us Napster tent aficionados, we get some humour to warm us up in the guise of Henry Rollins (now a bit of an international superstar). The half-hour set is spoken word, so people expecting Rollins Band may be disappointed, but fans aware of his commanding politi-satire are treated to thirty minutes of avid spleen-venting, largely of the Anti-Bush variety (meaning the President of America; not the pubic fashion statement). He may not be the funniest stand-up, but, by golly, does he know what he hates, and his scathing political references keeps things fresh.
Possibly the youngest band to ever play Donington are DV8, with an average age of 15. You gotta hand it to the wee tykes, it's no mean feat playing the main stage in front of potentially tens of thousands of people, but the crowd seem unaware they're even performing. A brave deed nonetheless.
Those of you who are squeamish, skip this paragraph now. Society 1 are rigging things up for their show where frontman and former porn stud Matt Zane will be trying to break the world record for the longest flesh-hang ever... Which is where four metal hooks are pushed through the skin in the performer's back and he is hoisted above the stage supported only by these grotesque piercings. The whole event is filmed up close and shown on the big screens either side of the stage, and the amassed awe-struck crowd have trouble keeping their jaws off the ground. It is without doubt the most horrifying yet strangely entertaining thing to be seen all weekend, a fully grown man swaying 20 feet above the stage suspended by four meat hooks in his back. The whole spectacle is maybe hiding the atrocity of their musicianship; the band spew forth a cacophonous dirge that is sub-nu-metal fodder. With song-titles like 'Sex Man' and 'Hate', and chorused chants of 'F**k F**k F**k' this is perhaps the lowest form of rock music out there.
Mudvayne next with their new no-nonsense image; after all, they have ditched the silly face paints and clown outfits, opting for a more mature persona instead. They sound like the bastard child of Disturbed and Stone Sour, but are apparently too self-involved to carry off any original ideas themselves. It's clear pretty much everyone is waiting for their clanging mosh-anthem 'Dig' to be played, and when they finally play it, a muddy PA sound fails to carry across the ferocious dynamism of the quartet's studio sound. Killswitch Engage continue Sunday's largely (and unashamedly) nu-metal bill, the Connecticut 5-piece churning out a thick, syrupy clatter and pounding their way through chugging riffs and unbridled guitar histrionics, ending with a note-perfect version of 'The End of Heartache'. Beautiful.
With Helmet, it's all about the big riff; vast, dirty, pummelling blocks of sound, whose sheer precision and muscle leave you reeling. Page Hamilton's crew jovially announce themselves as 'Velvet Revolver from LA' and that's about as far as the onstage banter goes for the rest of the set. Without pretence or gimmicks Helmet then set about punishing the audience with brutal slabs of focussed metal, sneering vocals and fractured rhythms instantly converting any non-believers for the second time this weekend (they also headlined the Napster stage on Saturday night). They exit the stage and leave Shadows Fall with the daunting task of daring to follow them.
The Snickers tent, which by now reeks of stale beer, dust and sweat, is preparing for the onslaught of the eight-legged beard machine that is Mastodon. Mastodon have received some pretty definitive critical acclaim in the last 18 months; now it's time to see if the boys really can deliver the knockout punch at a festival setting. Straight away they shoot from the hip, thundering into 'Iron Tusk' at breakneck speed. And there's no sign of letting up as they plough through the twisted, meandering 'Aqua Dementia' with the same vitriolic force. There's a surprising amount of joy to be had listening to songs from a concept album about Moby Dick, and this is a genuine treat for all who get close.
Nightwish, Finnish chart-superstars, grace the main stage over 30 minutes late due to luggage mishaps, but continue to blast out their infectious camembert with salacious aplomb, even if it does sound about 10 years out of date. Slayer, on the other hand, play a thorough and uncompromising set, injecting a lethal dose of hatred into tracks mainly from their extensive back catalogue. Bassist/vocalist Tom Araya is clearly enjoying himself, Cheshire Cat grin spreading across his face as he asks, 'Do you wanna die!', then after positive roars from the crowd, quipping, 'You don't wanna die, I can see you're lying.' The whir of flailing hair and limbs behind the drumkit is long-time tub-thumper Dave Lombardo, defying belief by generating some impossibly fast and meticulous drum-fills, and seminal thrash guitarist Kerry King having a blast too.
Slipknot are only a meagre 16-legged hate machine today, due to Shawn 'Clown' Crahan suffering family problems. There's still too many of them on stage for my liking anyway, 'percussionist' Chris Fehn twatting about like an incessant toddler, occasionally smacking an oil drum with an aluminium baseball bat... is that music? Really? Anyway, the 'maggots' young and old are loving them, and drummer Joey Jordison's rotating drum-riser solo never fails to entertain. Though you just can't help but wish they'd update the format a tad. There's promises of such when they remove their masks, only to revealed blackened faces. Bastards.
As the sun begins to peep from behind the vast obsidian wall of cloud above (for the first time all weekend), Chino Moreno's post-rock side-project Team Sleep arrive onstage in a half-full Napster tent. Their ambient, slow-burning rhythms and off-time beats should provide the perfect antithesis to the pop-metal farce raging on the main stage, but much of their subtleties seemed lost in the mix and often the self-indulgent meanderings bore rather than captivate. The brooding atmospherics coupled with Moreno's soft croon often evoke the softer side of 'White Pony'-era Deftones, but Team Sleep's strength lies in their ability to create soaring crescendos which are both beautiful and uplifting. These moments, however, fail to ignite an audience whose senses have been pummelled by metal all weekend and whose attention is on the fact that System Of A Down will be playing shortly. One has the feeling that on their own bill, and their own terms, Team Sleep would be a different prospect entirely.
So, SOAD. Biggest, wackiest, hottest, most important metal band currently playing? Well, since their belter of a debut, 'Toxicity' reaching out further afield, and newie 'Hypnotise' solidifying their mass appeal amongst metallers worldwide, this has to be one of the few bands that really are worth the praise. Ignore the hyperbole at your peril. Despite looking slightly uncomfortable during the first couple of songs, Serj and (motley) cru(e) revel in their politically charged, Armenian-tinged metal with exactly the right balance of musicianship and showmanship. It's easy to forget how many cracking tunes System have penned, but when they rip through dynamic party anthems like 'B.Y.O.B', 'Forest', 'Needles' and 'Sugar', you realise the next stop after they release 'Mesmerise' this year will surely be a 'Best Of...' celebrating their unparalleled, schizo genius.
After razor-sharp renditions of 'War?' 'Mr Jack', and a bizarre acoustic version of 'Cigaro', they close with MTV favourite 'Toxicity'... the euphoria can be felt throughout the amassed thousands. There is no encore, but their set is such a complete and satisfying spectacle, there is little need. A truly cascading, magnificent musical entity, and a pummelling end to a brutal weekend. And, somehow amidst all this darkness, it didn't rain.
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