V Festival - Hylands Park, Chelmsford - 20-21/8/05
4/5
By: Matt Tomiak
Day One
The V Festival is ten years old this year, and to celebrate we're being treated to a weekend of soundly dependable entertainment. Sure, there are more challenging festivals in existence; indeed, most of this bill could well have appeared at any point in the mid-1990s, but somehow the opportunity of confronting brave new musical worlds is better served at a time and place other than on a August weekend in Essex.
The festival series makes no bones about its high-profile levels of sponsorship 'But...but it's too corporate!' whine the naysayers. Balderdash, obviously - this is the 21st century, and commercial involvement in popular entertainment in western capitalist society is a given. And it's not as though Reading, T in The Park or even Glastonbury are potent breeding grounds for grass-roots Marxism, now is it?
And isn't nice to see The Bootleg Beatles here today? Oh, hang on it's The Stands. Kicking off the festival and the V Stage a good ten minutes early, the budding Liverpudlians knock out gorgeous three-minute tunes in a not-dissimilar manner to later heroes-reunited The La's. The mid-tempo stomps of 'Here She Comes' and 'When The Night Comes In' (the former surely being an answer to the aforementioned's best-known tune, both lyrically and in pop excellence?) typify the majority of their set... but it all ends in a glorious, ten-minute psychedelic jam. Which was really very good... it's nice to see the most melodic of Scousers still have the urge to make a bit of noise.
Over on the Channel 4 stage, is Tom Vek: a skinny fella, scraggly indie hair, thick-rimmed NHS specs and a skinny-fit leather jacket: a look which screams 'bully me, please' if ever there was one. He's charmingly self-effacing when faced with technical glitches ('Oh no! Loads of shit's going wrong!') and tells us how he was sick through his nose last night. On tracks such as 'A Little Word In Your Ear', he ends up sounding kind of like a British public school-educated version of Beck, without the emotional 'issues'.
Certainly without emotional issues of any nature - aside from perhaps a pathological infatuation with scatological humour - are Welsh comedy rap troupe Goldie Lookin' Chain. They do answer one very pertinent question though - how exactly do you follow a track called 'I Wanna F**k Your Sister?' With one entitled 'Your Mother's Got A Penis', of course...
On an entirely different stage (and, mercifully, a different note), Emiliana Torrini lulls the tented JJB Arena into beautiful submission. There's reminiscences of Kathryn Williams, or a female Tom McRae... but there's a touch of otherness in the vocals. The confused accent of an Icelandic-Italian presumably helps... and indeed Bjφrk's melodious ice-fields wail certainly seems an influence. Despite suffering similar first-few-acts-of-the-fest technical hitches to Mr Vek, they only showcase the amazing strength of her vocals; most in the audience assume the hums and crackles are an ethereal part of the first two tracks, only a slight tinge of annoyance on her face and frantic roadies give the game away. 'The Sunny Road' is a quietly exuberant highlight of the weekend, and as we leave the tent into V's dubious (although later glorious) weather, there's not a single cloud in our minds.
It's very exciting to see The La's together again, who dispatch one concise Mersey-pop gem after another with the minimum of audience interaction to interrupt. So many corkers - unadorned, ageless stuff - 'Way Out', 'Doledrum', 'Timeless Melody' and, of course, 'There She Goes' - Britpop before the term was ever invented. If we were more cynical chaps it might all seem a little soul-less, after all - it wouldn't hurt them to speak to us a little bit, would it? But all such thoughts are washed away by those spangling tunes being played by the hands that created them... gorgeous.
The broadest smile in the world on Romeo's face says it all: this is as much of a thrill to the Magic Numbers as it is to the arms-aloft ever-growing sea of devotees that swamp the Channel 4 stage. So massive is their draw, in fact, that the rest of the site is eerily empty, ensuring a beleaguered RFB photographer's unprecedented arrival at the stage on time... the only factor stopping the 'Numbers being the headliners-apparent is the blazing afternoon sun. Their magic melodies work their charm once more, assuaging the hottest of expectations from the majority who already know the tunes; whilst the unacquainted are turned instant convertees to the cause, walking away humming the catchiest tunes this side of musical MRSA, and feeling that good, pure, musical love.
She's been featured in every broadsheet's weekend supplement, and the articles are all titled 'the next big thing', and contain words like 'jazzy'. But, despite our immediate prejudices, she is not of Norah Jones' kin. Perhaps KT Tunstall's only similarity is in the blessing of what even the staunchest detractor would have to call a damn fine voice. Actually, damn-fine-ness seems to be quite important in general to those radio-friendly types, and we have to admit this is also true of the short-skirted, diminutive Scot. But still, Tunstall is beyond such comparisons. She experiments with looping her vocals, guitar parts and guitar-taps on-the-fly throughout her set, and is unafraid of resorting to shouting out her songs at the top of her remarkably sizeable lungs when V's pesky technical teething troubles result in a minute's powercut. And those songs she writes; as often acerbic as smoochy-smooth, and to complete the anti-comparison, one of them is in fact Cullum-baiting. So, lazy comparisons aside, we're left with a damn fine (take it how you will) songstress, whose soulful, throaty vocals send shivers down every straight male's legs, and leaves the gay ones and the ladies dancing with them.
There must be something in the water, (or at this V maybe dehydration: how many days to the next water pump?) 'cos The Zutons are sporting the second petite bundle of energy wrapped in a flimsy black number we've fallen in love with today. Not that we're complaining.
We actually caught sight of them before, waiting in the wings at The La's, enraptured by their Scouse forefathers. The Zutons themselves have written songs that have become firmly ingrained in our collective consciousness over the past eighteen months. Today, they're on perfect form. The moustachioed guitarist is practically foaming at the mouth in his frenzied, writhing concentration, whilst Abi Harding cavorts across the stage to Dave McCabe's bluesy, growling vocals. More new material would have been a nice bonus, but with songs as good as these, and as compellingly performed, there's really no room for complaint... there's barely enough room to dance.
Nor is there room on the JJB Arena stage, as The Polyphonic Spree are cramped so close together, the corners of their spaced-out smiles are touching across the stage. From the town-caller introduction instructing us in the 'spree motto: 'together we are happy' (or is that 'hippy'?) to the beaming be-robed masses, wielding all things from guitars to harps and Theremins, this is classic 'spree stuff. It's a two-song set, of which the first lasts over 20 minutes, comprises of at least 3 key changes by RFB's count, and stops for over 30 seconds twice before exploding in joyous abandon once more. And we do leave the gig happier, and with the slightly disturbing feeling that should The Polyphonic Spree be a cult (a doubt which Tim DeLaughter's constant crucifix-position on the stage monitors does nothing to allay), we'd definitely feel an urge to join. The hippies.
It has come to rockfeedback's attention that The Kaiser Chiefs are really quite ace. Tonight's Channel 4 stage set is, as the lads might have it themselves, brilliant. Bounding on-stage with the wholehearted enthusiasm of a particularly energetic border collie, Ricky Wilson knows how to work a crowd. Despite the fact he's got his leg in a plaster cast, an injury acquired, typically enough, after falling off a stage at a prior festival. They've got all the best bits of all the best British bands of the last decade - Gallagher-ian, populist sing-a-long flair, Blur's quintessentially British knack for observational songwriting, and Pulp's witty political soapboxing. Opener 'Na Na Na Na Naa' (or something) is a dazzling slice of dumb glam, 'Everyday I Love You Less And Less' rocks as hard as ever, and the re-released 'I Predict A Riot' is a fine a state-of-the-nation address as has yet been written this century. Suffice to say, pre-Oasis sing-a-longs don't come much better.
Meanwhile in the JJB Arena, Sonic Youth are holding their own against all these sprightly youngsters. Any review of this gig will have to make mention of the curious fact of their appearance at a festival as 'mainstream' as V, so we too will. It's f**king bizarre. That aside, then, and this was one hell of a gig. Perhaps it's just that stark contrast with the rest of the fest that made it so vital. But there's a tightness to all the parts that SY rarely achieve, perhaps today conscious that their less concise efforts might not be so well received.
But this is Sonic Youth we're talking about. Thurston's feedback solos wrench the audience's earlobes into beautifully painful new shapes, the guitar literally screaming under his masochistic grasp; and whilst this is a pop-concert by SY standards, more than a handful of punters make hasty exits with the first feedback squeals. For those that do persist, their melodious side shines as never before, on tracks both new and old, whilst Kim Gordon sees off any whimsical memories of those short black skirts by simply being one of the most amazing ladies of rock.
And over at the tent of branded mineral water once more, we're welcomed by Super Furry Animals. We say welcomed, but for the first 20 minutes of their set, it's glittering hoodies over heads, hunched shoulders, spaced-out nonsense. SFA obviously warm to their game, though, and the tunes move out of the murky and the crowd start to shuffle their musically stoned feet, whilst 'Juxtaposed With U' gets us all onto that natural high that comes only with anthems of the highest quality (sic.) And to make absolutely certain there's no coming down, Goldie Lookin' Chain are recruited to liven up the already pummelling 'Modder-fokker'. A similar, traditional show of Welsh bonding is made on set-closer 'The Man Don't Give a F**k' (obviously GLC prefer those songs with expletives), which brings the SFA's brief and trippy tenancy of the stage to a caterwauling, cacophonous end.
And then to Oasis. Ah, Oasis. Save for Liam's impenetrable leering, there's nothing particularly surprising, or indeed wrong with their performance tonight. An efficient, no-nonsense 75 minute set, replete with many of the classics, but shouldn't Oasis gigs be an event? The lads are not assisted by perhaps the most lifeless festival crowd they've ever performed for. Come on, people! If you can't get moved by bloody 'Live Forever' you shouldn't be watching live music. It says much that the lethargic crowd only truly comes to live for the grand finale of 'Wonderwall' and 'Don't Look Back In Anger', the biggest, best-known hits, but fail to get properly excited by 'Morning Glory', 'Cigarettes and Alcohol' and 'Rock N Roll Star'. We should all know better than to call time on the Oasis saga just yet, but Knebworth, Maine Road and even Finsbury Park all seem a long, long time ago....
Day Two
Opening the Volvic Stage are Bronze Age Fox, a peculiar lend of fey Pet Shop Boys vocals, bleepy Air bits, Gorky's Zygotic Mynci folk and svelte Bluetones-style polish. Confusing? Not really, actually... they blend the above into really rather clever little indie-lite numbers, just clever enough to keep you interested, but they never push the envelope as far as their fellow Bristolians, Chikinki. The suits, t-shirts and haircuts seem a little over-trendy, and as a band they're overly reliant on pre-recorded samples and lacking in stagecraft; for a keys-driven band there should really be a keyboard on-stage... there's little difference here between the band and a few awkwardly suited CD players. The music's great, but it'd be so much better if they were actually playing more of it.
Idlewild are lumbered with an undesirable main stage hangover slot, just as they were back here in 2001, a performance characterized by a tangible, half-hearted indifference. Only difference is, since then the 'wild have learned to write Proper Songs, loads of the buggers, and bolstered by their new members they sound biiiiig. It's an oldie, that kicks things off, a purposeful 'Little Discourage', followed by 'You Held The World In Your Arms'; bigger, beefier and grungier than ever it was, singer Roddy Woomble's cryptic lyrical mumblings are drowned beneath the incessant roar of guitars. It's not a total rawk fest, though, as the lovely 'Welcome Home' - surely THE hidden pop gem of 2005 - and the lilting 'Live In A Hiding Place' attest.
Tony Christie is the proud porter of the only non-indie suit this weekend: this one's got cuff links and everything. Whoever booked the man certainly had a good idea of what the nation wants to hear: whether the crowd is here with their tongue in their cheek or not, they're all loving it immensely. In a 40-minute set he manages to delay the inevitable until his closer, but to his credit keeps us entertained admirably until then, with swinging croons and crooning swings. The penultimate number takes the form of a sprawling, crowd-teasing Beatles medley, and we walk the Road to Amarillo with everyone else, feeling rather confused by the genre shifts entailed this V around.
To prove the point, I Am Kloot are up next, playing outdoors at 3pm on a warm Sunday afternoon, and would at seem at first to resemble an MOR wine bar in-house band. Singer John Bramwell's proclamation that their repertoire consists largely of songs about 'sex, f**king, death and disaster' puts paid to that as the three-piece launch into a prickly half hour of Mancunian Tom Waits-isms.
Over on in the JJB-arena, Duels have found their way around that most central (and currently resurgent) of ideals: pop sensibility. This particular brand has got balls, guts, and lots of other body parts too we're sure; but the basics of melody, harmony, and above all catchiness are present in abundance. Victorian toyshop organ parts duel with precision planted guitar riffs and half-shouted refrains, leaving you with the most glorious, ephemeral, and slightly trippy afterglow of the fest.
Thirteen Senses are feeling much less vital; the Gary Linekers of contemporary British indie - unthreatening, presentable young men about whom it's hard to get particularly angry. 'Into The Fire', their attempt at the hallowed Big Anthem is decent enough, but over the course of the set 'soporific' is one of the nicer words we could use to describe them.
Similarly singing us to sleep in the boring way, Athlete take to the V Stage. But their fare is soothing enough. They're still not quite sure how to produce the sounds that come at the ends of words, but that ensures the audience have to put in some effort (to finish the words off for him). The hits are out in abundance, and the set is staid and solid, reassuring (or perhaps worrying) us that Athlete are set to remain firmly rooted in their comfy aural surroundings as long as we'll let them.
Rather different are The Ordinary Boys - and where better for them to peddle their boisterous lad-pop in front of an increasingly beered-up bunch of sun-baked Essex boys n' gals? Leaping around like a Ben Sherman-wearing gazelle, frontman Sam Preston leads crowd-pleasing versions of 'Boys Will Be Boys', 'Talk Talk Talk' and the highly apt (?) set-closer 'Seaside' - a tune tailor-made for this occasion.
Ensuring that rockfeedback receive their daily head-over-heels today is Alison Goldfrapp, providing the most libidinous and debauched spectacle this side of the stage. The animal lust is given an even more lascivious face by the customary bikini-clad, writhing dancing girls and their fox(y) masks. But all of this is side-show spectacle, next to the actual music. Alison's angelic tones, at once sensual and disconcerting, pull the rest of the oddball crew into a hedge to make frenzied love to the pulsing keys with a pummelling rhythm. She was evidently dragged out backwards, but with both the image and the music, she pulls it off with all the 80's chic of the frizz.
Over on the main stage, Embrace's Danny McNamara is exuding Brian Wilson-sized Good Vibrations that can probably be felt all the way down in London's West End - he's surely the happiest man on the entire site, gleefully, giddily excited at his band's return to prominence. 'The common northerners have invaded the main stage!' he bellows before a frantic 'New Adam New Eve', whilst Embrace's comeback hit, the Chris Martin-penned 'Gravity' is cheekily heralded as the 'song that stopped me having to work in Burger King.' Yes, he knows they've been fortunate - but, as the rousing, festival-perfect material from their first album proves 'All You Good Good People', 'Come Back To What You Know' and - providing the grandest of finales - 'The Good Will Out', Embrace could write whopping great, emotionally-charged, life-affirming anthems when Martin and co. were still in short trousers and could only dream about marrying Hollywood A-listers.
Live, we still can't understand a word this boy says. Not that it matters with Dizzee Rascal; what's important is how he's saying it - to the rapturous attention of an insanely packed JJB Arena. Or at least the response would be rapturous, if it wasn't rampant, frenzied and raucous. Dizzee, with the aid of his DJ and a co-MC (basically relegated to rhyme-emphasiser) produces a giddy (dizzying, surely?) stream of words that turn into verses, verses into songs, and before we know it we've grunted and grinned our way through a whole set. 'Jezebel' was an early standout, but his vocal is splendid throughout: acerbic, incisive and unique - even if we can't quite get our heads around the speed at which it comes.
This time two years ago, Franz Ferdinand were performing mid-afternoon slots in the New Bands Tent at Reading. Virtual unknowns in 2003, national institutions in 2005. It's been quite a ride: the opening triumvirate of 'Michael', 'Tell Her Tonight', 'Jacqueline' excel and propel, and newer matter from impending, second opus 'You Could Have It So Much Better' proves the conveyor-belt isn't slowing.
And then it's on to the cabaret. The Scissor Sisters explode onto the stage dressed as the cast of Aladdin, with all the theatre-lovie swaying, spangles and smiles. Musically the set is eye-opening - their debut was packed with songs that are generational anthems - and live they're even brasher, and one hell'uva good time. The only problem is that Ana Matronic insists on encouraging us to have a good time. All the bloody time. She can't leave a decent five seconds silence between songs before she's asking us to love each other, to howl at the moon, to buy charity bracelets, to shake a stranger's hand... she's more than a little annoying. We wouldn't normally dream of asking such a thing, but what the Scissor Sisters need to do is to actually tone down their stage show. It's fine to love each other - the 'Spree showed that amply yesterday... and we're all up for a bit of on-stage campness and pantomime. But tonight's set was literally spoilt by being sorely over-done - even the potentially festival-defining set closer of Bowie's Suffragette City, in collaboration with Franz Ferdinand, is marred by giant fluffy animals. Again, the music is extraordinary... it's just, well - they're being muppets.
Ooh, Ian Brown, you are a tease, aren't you? There you were at Glasto earlier this summer, opening with 'I Wanna Be Adored' and then rolling into one Stone Roses song after the next. But tonight, in a packed, sweaty JJB Arena where the anticipation is tangible and with the crowd repeatedly chanting your name, you insist on ploughing through an hour of solo material. And you're wearing a pink shellsuit. Not that the likes of 'My Star', 'Keep What Ya Got' and 'Dolphins Were Monkeys' aren't entertaining, of course - but it's clear why most of us are here. And then - with that sanctified, unmistakable bass line, it arrives. 'She Bangs The Drums'. Sheer, undisguised joy. Groups of shaven-headed lads hugging, dancing, celebrating. A quick cover of the Sex Pistol's 'Submission', and then, to end V in quite glorious style, 'Made Of Stone.'
And so this year's V-festival bows out on a peculiar mixture of highs and lows, but given the tired smiles on our faces, evidently many more of the highs. We get up to a few more lows trying to out-limbo some rather flexible VIPs in the backstage bar; luckily the beer was flowing freely, and so our failed attempts resulted in only minor injuries to ourselves and the surrounding. And as we sit there nursing our backs and our over-priced beer we decide that yes, this festival indulges more than most in the delights of mainstream and pop. But the only way it's a sell-out is by having no tickets left for sale. Drop the cynicism. Fun is fun. That's that.
Photo-Credit / Reviews: Kevin Molloy
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