Carling Weekend: Reading Festival - Richfield Avenue, Reading - 26-28/8/05
4/5
By: Thomas Hannan
Day One
The deep end, that's where it's at, and that's where we'll throw ourselves in, letting The Blood Brothers act as the introduction to our return to this spectacle of annual chaos. Ah, Reading, good to be back! You're looking well, I must say. Especially the part of your line-up that lets this frenzied, frantically rasping collective spin and scream around a stage. It's the kind of stuff that somehow makes it seem as if the blood in your veins is suddenly moving a little bit quicker, perhaps in an attempt to keep up with it. It's stupidly noisy and won't stop shouting at us, but still feels rather comfortable, perhaps only because occasionally, segments of killer tune arise from underneath it all. It's necessary - there needs to be something communally anthemic about it, otherwise it'd just feel like being blindfolded, spun around and then told to go and watch a rock gig. Instead of that happening prior, The Blood Brothers make you feel like that's happened after the event, the genius of it lying in the fact that you'd happily let them do it again.
There's a lot of the 1980s still refusing to lie down and die amidst this line-up, but where some of its finest contemporary names will take us back in time quite gloriously in sets to come, Performance sound like they should have been at the peak of their powers a couple of decades ago instead of able to claim that era as a date of birth. It sounds like a more earnest Human League, and could be considered a little cold and distant if it wasn't for the spectacle of microphone stands being passionately hammered in to the floor and a face that looks as if tears are imminently going to mix with the copious amount of sweat on it, forming some grotesque but sincere sheen, merely a few verses in to an opening song. It's pleasing if relatively standard, nostalgic electronica, but you let them off because they mean it.
Another one of those groups spotted by Bright Eyes for sounding uncannily similar, Two Gallants justified their existence this weekend, following a beautiful acoustic in-store at Rough Trade earlier in the week. Battling against the appalling sound system they had the balls to bring the mud to alt.country's honey. Cleverly, they capture us most when at their most quiet - it's the kind of thing where you move closer (even when you're already pretty near), just a few steps, in the hope that you might be able to listen more intently. What's that lumber-jacketed fellow saying? What yarns is he weaving? Hang on, it's gone too quiet to even hear at all now, and I've worked my way up so that I'm standing next to his guitar. My ear is next to the pick-ups. BANG! A vocal howl, a thwack of a snare drum, and it's anxiously strumming itself in to something brilliant that you'll want to shake your head to. I retreat, so I can feel like part of a crowd. As a songwriting technique it's one of the oldest in the book, but when executed quite so brilliantly, and with rough diamond tunes like these to use it on, it works to full effect. They do it over, and over again, and each time they're on the money. I've learnt my place though. I stay where I am. I know it's coming, and I know how good it is when it arrives.
Back to what it's all too easy to still call the Evening Session stage (though it's now the NME Radio One stage, clearly), and everyone, band included, seems to be in some kind of trance. The Dead 60s are completely lost amidst some thick, rambling dub piece, one carried off so well that surprisingly the satisfyingly large crowd are going all the way with them. Then, just when the tent begins to gain the familiar smell of something that it has been made quite clear won't tolerated either on or off site, a change of direction happens. A subtle one at first, only a little step up, but then a full on plunge in to the brazen ska bounce of 'Riot Radio' occurs and the swell of the audience is quite incredible. Just when they were feeling comfortable, now they're feeling rowdy. We always knew the Dead 60s would be fine so long as their enthusiasm could transform in to that of an audience. Today, they did just that.
Somehow, the noises Death From Above 1979 make are catchy. Not the notes, not the lyrics, the noises. Today, they make the following excellently - the superlative, screeching little squeaks and grates that crop up in each song that you repeat to yourself for days even though you have little idea what sound you're actually making. Yeah, so it's just a bass player with a load of pedals and a singing drummer. Big deal! It's been done! All that malarkey is nothing if there's no tunes, or in their case sounds, to throw yourself into. Here, there are hundreds of the things, wholly unfathomable but sufficiently belting. A crowd is never quite this appreciative, nor a band this rampant, over just a gimmick, you know.
The Subways are the most unfettered fun these kids will have all weekend. Knackeringly, unpretentious home counties punk-rock with melodies that serenade and zap across the gaping arches of the Radio One tent to rapturous receptions from crying, open-mouthed kids, over and over. 'Oh Yeah' is a mental mosh-a-thon; 'Mary' is a guilty, twee tea-making pop fetish; and the final 'Rock 'N' Roll Queen' sounds bloody, bloody loud. Vocalist Billy Lunn was born for this; his pipes are deafening.
Might Graham Coxon finally be where he wants to be? We're not just talking about the Main Stage at Reading; we're talking spiritually, metaphysically, creatively. Keep up. Somehow, years of listening to Coxon records can give you what you hope is quite an accurate picture of the guy's personality, sonically at least. What's great about today is that every facet he's hinted at previously, or merely just dabbled in, is explored rather outstandingly. And to think, we were worried he wouldn't pull this Main Stage thing off. There are new songs which, although lacking the immediate punch of the singles from 'Happiness in Magazines', are certainly stronger, fuller efforts; dips in to marvellous squall for the likes of 'I Wish', and of course a proper, made for a festival anthem like 'Freakin' Out' to ensnare the casual listener. Come to think of it, that must have been us, once...
Elbow and The Coral fulfil the double-backing indie take-over on the Main Stage. And both garner a fine job - 'specially the former, who allow us to take part in an upcoming new video, where we all do a strange Monk-like bowing gesture. Odd. But 'Red' and 'New Born' tug at the soul so slickly, we're prepared to do anything in Guy Garvey's favour. James Skelly and his early-twenties backers, meanwhile, peak abruptly in opener 'Goodbye', which sounds gargantuan, but who cares when wizard-pop treats 'Don't Think You're The First' and 'Pass It On' soon follow as the sun sleekly dips out of view.
Dance Tent, mate. Kano's pushing the beats out of the flailing system like an Ailurophobe would force a moggy through a cat flap. Just ask Saul Williams (photo below) - he's standing next to us, nodding rather fiercely. We request some songs for his set later which he says he probably can't remember, but will do his best. He doesn't play them, but we're still rather taken with his vibrant and, crucially, musically thrilling way of preaching to us over a beat. Vitally, he's got some great songs, the creepy childhood reminisce of 'Black Stacey', or the thumping, pinpointed anger of 'List of Demands (Reparations)', but the voice they're told (yeah, told, they're stories as much as tunes) in is one you could listen to ad infinitum. Talk to us, Saul. Heck, wouldn't it be great if he did a poetry set on Sunday...?
I miss Nick, OK? Dammit, I didn't want to, but I do. I miss his cackling, his funny little beard, his tawdry todger only occasionally being shielded by that battered bass guitar he carried around. But enough speaking about him as if he's dead (though that would make a rather queer eulogy), the ever dusty looking Queens of the Stone Age seem to be over him, so it's only fair we go with them on it. Thankfully, every great song they wrote without him as an essential component is here, and there are a surprisingly large number, dating back to the wonderfully murky 'Regular John', moving to a stomp through 'Go With The Flow' and making only fleeting stops at more recent, Nick-less material, of which 'Little Sister' is actually pretty fun and 'In My Head' certainly sounds better than it ever has on my little radio, at least. Perhaps only seven of the twelve minutes of 'No One Knows' are entirely necessary, but it's all in good fun, isn't it? Not as fun as a naked bald man smashing his 'instrument' over an undeserving amp to close of course, but seemingly you can't have everything.
Inarguably, some of The Killers' finer songs have so rapidly become part of the international subconscious that they deserve their place quite so high up the bill on this most renowned of rock and roll shindigs. But the problem is that only three (four at a push) of their tracks deserve such an accolade. When they're played, of course, they go down a storm. You know which ones they are; you dance to them every single time. I sang along to 'All These Things I've Done' and so did you. But the problem is twofold. Firstly, the rest of their material is either for the most part inoffensive but mediocre, or in the case of 'Glamorous Indie Rock & Roll' simply awful. Really, it's unspeakably bad. SO bad. Secondly, there's just not enough of it to warrant a set this long, nor one this prominent. General consensus, then? It falls flat. Come back in a few years gentlemen, you'll likely have numerous songs grand enough so as never to consider having to play 'Glamorous...' any more. 'It's indie rock and roll for me!!!' Oh, bloody hell...
Next, everything you ever wanted - a set that starts with 'U-Mass' and still somehow gets better with every track. In heaven, everything is fine. In around an hour and a half, the Pixies play approximately sixty three perfectly trim examples of primal, earthy rock and roll (and a couple of spacey numbers for good measure), and for the first time that we've witnessed at least, look like they're actually really enjoying it. Kim's smiling, sure, but she always smiles. God though, couldn't you stare at it forever?
What's different is that here, we have banter. We have Frank Black / Black Francis / Charles Thompson IV (the greatest split personality ever) turning Dave Lovering's hi-hat twinkling intro to 'Broken Face' into an extended mini drum solo because he fancies a chat with Ms Deal, Joey 'Rock me, Joe' Santiago hammering away at his Les Paul with a drumstick which he then throws back to Dave, who catches it without missing a beat, and a host of other little hints that this band actually might be human after all. They even take turns to say goodnight to each other! It's so cute! But, because it's the Pixies and this is what they do, at times it also feels like the most evil music you'll ever hear. 'Tame', 'Gouge Away', 'The Sad Punk' - heavy metal has never written anything quite as scary as these, nor could even the Beach Boys manage something quite as wistfully tuneful as 'Here Comes Your Man'. However, it's the closing duo of a deeply powerful 'Hey' and Deal's beautiful, croaky-throated run through of 'Gigantic' that will have us singing this band's praises until the world stops spinning. Take note, new pretenders. It's the same songs they've been playing for 18 years; nothing gets smashed, no fireworks are set off, but still, it's probably the greatest end to a set you'll ever see.
It's the afternoon, but hey, we got up pretty late, so the Editors still feel like our morning's dew - a little damp, but suitably sparkly in the right light. Nothing's ever done beyond necessity with these guys, the lyrics often number just a few repeated, ambiguous phrases, the musical craftsmanship revolves around finding something that sounds great and bashing it out until just before you start to think they're going to carry on doing so forever. And every guitar part sounds like a whizzing ambulance siren, a la the intro-musique to 'Casualty'. They move just like you want them to, also - flailing and gawping, sounding as if every word they utter is done so accompanied by a heavy sigh. True, at points, you do feel like you're listening to 'Unknown Pleasures' - but man, that's a great record. One day, the Editors might make one too. They're pretty close.
I think Clor might still be on a mission to prove me wrong. OK, I didn't think much of the first EP. But I loved the album, I really did! I thought I made that clear! As if just to rub salt in to my wounds of embarrassment and misjudgement it seems they also want to get the point across that they're bloody good live, too. And boy, are they - everything's played with a relaxed nature that would border on nonchalance if it wasn't full of such bouncy happiness and knowing grins. The music's still joyously silly and invigoratingly fresh, and it matters not one bit that the band look like such a bunch of misfits whilst they're throwing it our way. They've found a home with people who love them. That's me, Clor. You got that?
Surrealism has always been their forte, but the sheer classiness of having a tent full of black and white Mystery Jets balloons is breathtaking - and, in a shrewd marketing move, it'll surely piss off every other band that grace the stage for the rest of the evening. The day after completing the recording of their debut LP the Jets take the stage an entirely sleeker machine, but still with all of the heart and charm they always had, and avec more tunes - more specifically, the sweeping 'The Boy Who Ran Away'. The only band of the weekend to really get to grips with the flailing sound-system and transport their audience into a romantic atmosphere full of the possibilities of life.
Any band that can, at the impeccably, embarrassingly modest time of 3pm, make a tent of thousands bellow 'MON-KEYS! MON-KEYS! over and over until the squashed teens at the front full giddy and flat on their faces must be worthy of some holy conjecture. For Arctic Monkeys are tuneful, pummelling and lyrically ebullient - theirs is the sort of righteous, fantastical, infectious and sturdy every-man art-punk that could supercede Franz and claim National Treasure status. A bloody, bloody good rock 'n' roll band. 'I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor', and the sludgy, opening rhythmic turbo-charge of 'Fake Tales Of San Francisco' sound massive already; 'Wonderwall' big. And the crowd en masse, spilling to the outside of the tent, has already made the effort to buy a T-shirt, download every mp3 online and service their heroes with a drunk response fit for Bon Jovi. We're smitten, with good cause.
It did sound great at the time, but even so it's taken a few days for it to sink in how much Dinosaur Jr's set meant to me, and how much a part of me wants every song written from here on in to sound a little like one of theirs. The best bass sound ever - Lou Barlow thwacking away at fuzz-drenched chords so hard you think his knuckles are about to fall off, and that acting as a backing for someone who I now believe to be the sound of one of the greatest guitarists ever to hold a plectrum - J Mascis - struggling to keep his worryingly long, grey hair from out of his pickups long enough to play some of the utmost, noisiest, heaviest solos you'll ever hear. But they give this treatment to pop songs. The finest of all pop songs - 'Freak Scene', 'Let It Ride'. They're classics, and this was immense. The saddest thing of all? The crowd being only around a quarter of the size they deserved.
So, we'd done a silly thing and had already decided that The Arcade Fire were going to be great. But the best thing a band can do when confronted with an audience all making a similar prediction is not to screw with their expectations, but to exceed them. That's how people really fall in love. We swoon when they're being quiet, shout along when they're being loud and feel terribly out of place when they're just bashing the hell from out of any old instrument (and each other) lying around the stage to create such a glorious rumpus because, like idiots, we didn't bring anything along to hit ourselves. It still feels like we're part of it though, and that's the magic. 'Laika' passes like a monolithic choral stomp and 'Crown of Love' gets grown men swaying to and fro without them even realising. Even so, we're told we've been a little too polite so far (perhaps 'in awe' would be a better way of describing it) and asked to amend the situation. So the place goes truly rude for 'The Power Out' and throws itself headfirst in to 'Rebellion (Lies)' to close. Fear not, every good word you've ever read about them was not only justified, but probably an embarrassed understatement.
There are many layers to Sleater Kinney. Not sonically - it's just drums and two guitars. But boy, do they look cold. Why the need for such a large coat? It's still just about summer, after all. But the sound, thankfully, is as warm as they're probably feeling tucked up amidst those many levels of fabric. It still seems to follow the old sparkle then shriek rhetoric they mastered years ago, only honed down into better songs. A prize also goes to them for being better even than any hip hop band of the weekend for using their arms as a means of emotive expression.
So Razorlight Vs Kings Of Leon. It's the latter that peg it. Alarmingly soulful and impassioned, old Caleb chucks the mic-stand at the end of the Leon set in a manner that suggests genuine angst. We're surprised by how much this churns, gurns and rocks, but it's certainly worthwhile - not least the splutter-punk of 'King Of The Radio' or a still-yearning 'California Waiting', sung by thousands in tipsy unison. The 'Light punk up the ending of 'Golden Touch' and proffer a Phil Collins loungecore rendition of 'Somewhere Else', meanwhile, and because it's so sunny, we're happy to oblige a hearty grin.
Babyshambles don't like photographers. We send in one of ours; she gets kicked out. We send in another. She, too, gets exited quite raucously from the photo-pit. And, why? Because the first half of this is tearfully bad, most probably, an abomination not to be replicated at a latter date - falling apart at the seams, the 75%-full Radio One Tent is being made a mockery of, stodgy punk-noises with little cohesion or tune spiralling in all directions, and Pete Doherty looking very, very misplaced as ringleader for it all. It tightens slightly, towards a climactic, 'struments-in-the-crowd finale, but we're still waiting for something quite important in one of our country's one-time brightest talents and his latest venture: soul. And maybe a pinch of sobriety for good measure.
The Tears aren't blurring our vision. Everybody can see exactly what they're up to. Just because you've reconciled, reunited and released a new record doesn't mean we can overlook the fact that you still sound exactly like Suede. Suede today however, probably wouldn't have got this slot, headlining opposite the Foo Fighters. Maybe that was your plan? But alas, people seem to have cottoned on to the game, and comparatively few people actually turn up. Those who do, like us, don't stay for long. Brett and Bernie, the Indie kids don't swoon as much as they used to. Instead of this all-too-pleasant tapping of the feet, there's a feeling of kicking against something now.
To 'round things off, a big rock and roll extravaganza by way of a hardly-reluctant legend figure backed by guys who, even after all these years, still feel a little bit like session musicians. Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters, then, do have a monopoly on the accessible but still considerably rasping end of the rock and roll market, but there's an inescapable lack of occasion or real surprise to it all tonight. A big deal was made about Dave getting behind the drumkit, but hey, he is a drummer, after all, surely it's hardly the most surprising thing imaginable, is it? It's not quite the moment that was the Pixies here for the first time in decades, nor as exciting as Iron Maiden (whose performance the next day brings rockfeedback editor Toby L to tears - literally; 'Number Of The Beast' is enough to wallop a whole countryside's worth of ostrich into burly extinction) and a pantomime pyromaniac metal show will be. It's just inescapably standard - but at least they can slip in to a formula well, it being one they helped to define. Admirably tuneful, heavy songs delivered with a still wonderful Grohl growl emanating from that ever one foot in front of the other stance is never going to make for a bad show. Sadly though, it just didn't make for a particularly special one. Even for meaty, try-hard renditions of normally-ace anthems - 'My Hero'; 'Monkey Wrench'; 'All My Life' - apart from the rabid deserved's at the front, everyone just seemed, well, knackered.
Day Three
Art Brut might make for easier listening if they didn't have quite so many embarrassing references to masturbation. Their extrovert delivery, more than occasionally charming way with the most run-of-the-mill of words (praise 'em for making 'I've seen her naked - twice!' almost euphoric and not seedy) and place amongst what seems to be quite a friendly and not at all cliquey inter-band scene at the minute are all to be lauded, but just fewer mentions of you as an early adolescent being more comfortable under the sack with your right hand than the time you failed to lose your virginity to a girl in a tent at the Glastonbury Festival and I might actually be able to get through your set clapping rather than intermittently cringing. (Though there's virtue in both).
Turbonegro are bloody terrible. And are brilliant at it. 'This one is called 'Wasted Again'.' They don't offer solutions; just problems. Musical problems. They're also supremely ugly. But when clad in sailor costumes, mock-Goth facepaint and delivering the most OTT solos to be thrashed out all day (seriously - on a line-up numbering the 'Maiden, that's some doing), and the backdrop appears to have fallen down mid-set, we find there's very little to hate here.
Super-groups (photo above) are for wussies and careerists. Unless your vocalist is ill and you need to do a cunning repair-job in order to avoid cancelling a gig to thousands. Step in, The Rakes. A genius effort they pull off, too, by allowing members of Towers Of London, Maximo Park and Bloc Party to aid their set, when singer Alan Donahue is too ill to perform. As such, 'Work Work Work...', an opening 'Retreat' and closing, Live Aid-style bark-along of '22 Grand Job' miss nothing, bolstered by the Britpop Mk II backing of the band's chums. It's a shock highlight of the weekend.
And Paul from Maximo Park certainly made an impression with that Rakes super-group, but he didn't steal the show simply because those weren't his songs. Now he's back amongst his own crew, he seems determined on stealing the entire day. Crucially, he's now belting out his own tunes, and comes across as a man who lives his entire life through the lyrics of 'A Certain Trigger'. The nice thing about determination (or should that be arrogance) like this, from their point of view, is that if you're convincing enough, you get followers. There are already hundreds of them here. You can tell when they sing along just as loud to things that aren't the singles. Screw it, I'm joining them. It was 'The Coast Is Always Changing' that did it. Sign me up, get me a badge, come on. Just don't let me down.
Test-Icicles stood out amongst the pretty boy poseurs, not because they're ugly, far from it, but because they were more worried in taking the piss out of the scenesters checking for mud on their converse than trying to get their suits pressed in the tourbus. 'How many of you are on my friends list on Myspace?' asks the fluorescent guitarist, about ten eager fans proudly raise their hands... 'Well, after the show...' he suggests, only to watch their little faces light up in anticipation of backstage treats, '... I want you to all f**k off home and delete me from your contact list, you pricks!' Ohhh... crushing the hardcore fans just after releasing your first single. Now that's middle class punk-rock. And I love it. As do I love the way they taunt two confused metallers (sample line 'where's the drumkit, and the bass?') into creating a circle pit with their infectious art-punk splaffing over metal rhythms. Band of the weekend. At least I think so, I couldn't hear a thing.
Anthems this big don't deserve to fall on deaf ears. And certainly don't deserve the filthy sound-system of the Carling Stage on a Sunday. So, although the sheer scope and magnitude of modern-day hymns 'Children' and 'Tendency' may get mashed up, not so marvellously, certainly the beauty and general endeavour doesn't - Battle conjure epic, lush aids to modern-living. The sooner you learn this, the more fulfilling your life will become.
Saul Williams, merely speaking, turned the comedy tent into a church of enlightenment on the Sunday morning, spitting venom from silver Mt. Zion at all bigots in an attempt to force open the minds of the complacent audience. Topics of choice - why is the Christian holy trinity not a father, son and mother instead of a father, son and, erm... ghost? Makes more sense, surely? Also, the meditation that comes from hip hop ('and the beat goes 'ommmm...'), and a wonderfully chatty relationship with God - 'grant me wings, for I am too fly not to fly...' Listen up, you just might learn something.
Four Tet, bent over behind a couple of laptops and smiling contently to himself, is nothing short of brilliant. Where this can have periods of both bizarre, unsettling noise and segments of slowly developing and all-encompassing melodic intelligence sitting next to, near to and often on top of each other, what's most incredible are these beats, the consecutive but unpredictable thuds and clicks that get people who usually wouldn't even consider dancing rushing in to a crowd of strangers simply so they can follow the instructions given to the rest of their body by their feet, telling it to move in rhythms it may not have even considered existing before. It's a proper party, dragging even us who only came to stand at the back and pay attention to its complexities into the crowd for a damn good time - where we belong.
Iggy Pop's made a fine career for someone who's never written a decent tune (nor it seems worn a shirt) in his life. The tunes, you could successfully argue, Bowie wrote for him. But the really exciting stuff was all his, with The Stooges, and they're making it sound just as exhilarating today. It remains coming across as the work of people who might not have known the intricacies of how to write a song, but bloody hell, they know how to perform one. So 'TV Eye' is frightening, prickly and primal rock and roll, 'No Fun' an example of how playing the same riff over and over again is absolutely fine if you put more effort in to each and every note each time you play it. Iggy, you're 58 for God's sake. Don't ever grow up.
Please Incubus, become a Prince tribute band. The note-perfect rendition of 'Lets Go Crazy', complete with the preaching at the beginning (which I thank you for paying close attention to) was one of the best moments of the day. The rest of the set just had us wondering why we knew so many of your songs, and why we were staring at another half-naked man on the main stage for the second time in a day. In short, it got a little tedious. Why there was a feeling that there was something worth waiting for was unclear until the words 'Dearly beloved...' happened. For a minute, we thought you were joking. Sadly though, it doesn't make you yearn to see Incubus again, but swear that you will see Prince before either you or he dies.
I've been sent on a weird treasure hunt. My list - a beautiful British guitar band, some shrubbery and, for a few closing minutes, a giant black furry bear. British Sea Power fulfil all my needs, and seem to think nothing peculiar of it at all. 'This is our giant bear,' they say, before he comes out looking eerily calm. Why aren't they finding this really funny? Why is everyone holding branches? Why is the sun shining on us in such a way that it looks as if we're about to be beamed to a better place? No answers, only quiet, brilliant confusion. It's the perfect balance between visual and sonic spectacle, they write tunes that do nod towards the ways of others but execute them uniquely, something which even the pomp and circumstance of their live show can't take away from. In other hands, these songs could be normal. In BSP's, they're electric. In our band, a giant bear would have us in fits of giggles. For BSP, it just fits. They're not like you and I.
M.I.A. - that's where it's at. Inviting the largely female crowd to jump on the stage, mixing your beats with Sierra's to create a Cuban-tinged Grime Sri Lankian mash-up. It deserves a medal, along with The Go! Team yesterday, for making us think for a few short minutes that we were not in a skanky field with a bunch of 15 year old stoners intent on starting fires. They don't get anything 'urban', you see.
They 'get' Marilyn Manson, though. He's going to change the world. This is it. Slate - you're about to be wiped clean. Make way for a new world order. Governments will crumble. God will die. A new religion will form. George W Bush will be listening carefully, and have a sudden realisation of all his shortcomings. 'Oh, I never thought of it like that, do accept my apologies.' he'll say as he resigns. Marilyn Manson. It's year zero, it's the real rain to wash the scum from the streets. Alas, no. It's a middle-aged man peddling teenage angst back at those whom he feeds off, a not so vicious circle when you analyse it closely. It can't be - it's just rock songs. And for what we see of it, a third of them are awesome ('Tourniquet', 'Disposable Teens'), another third mediocre ('mOBSCENE', for example), and the rest just in-between, like his 'Personal Jesus'. You knew it wasn't going to change anything. We didn't even see him get his bum out. But it's fun.
Someone's learnt to be a frontman. Look at James Murphy now - he's got moves! He's shaking it, baby. He's no longer looking like a misfit front to some incredible music. He's now the full on funkadelic embodiment of some incredible music. LCD Soundsystem play the kind of grooves so marvellous that you carry on dancing to them even when they've finished. These can have one note ('On Repeat'), two notes (the unquestionably excellent 'Losing My Edge'), or heck, even three ('Daft Punk Is Playing At My House'), but rarely any more. It's difficult to get people to appropriately react if you confuse them with any superfluous parts to the tune. Hypnotise them in to submission with a form of repetition which somehow works a charm and they'll eat out of your hands.
Back in 2003, The Futureheads played in this same tent in the middle of the day. The set was, as you can now imagine, pretty corking. But in that early stage there was a feeling that everything about it was a little too jittery, a little too regionally true to itself, to find mass appeal. So record-buying public, we salute you for embracing this band. Apart from a huge growth in stage presence, they've not changed much, but you've changed the climate to one where this is not only accepted but lauded. Good on you. When you do things like it, you get bands (and sets) like this one - elated AND musically interesting, you lucky things! That they've got some great tunes is common knowledge, 'Decent Days & Nights' provokes a tent-wide dance off, 'Meantime' shimmers with beauty and 'He Knows' is melodically strong enough to hide the pretty disconcerting tale within, but there's not enough chat about how delightfully the quartet sing. The last of that trio has such a deftly accomplished harmony to it you could close your eyes and assume you're listening to a choir rather than a rock group. Our attempts at it aren't quite so harmonious, but the audience participation routine is appreciated - half of us taking the 'OH oh oh's and the other the 'oh OH OH's for the beginning of 'Hounds of Love' doesn't make for particularly accurate singing, but it's enough to make it the feel-good hit of the weekend.
Whilst it's one of their biggest, visibly most nerve-racking shows to date, Bloc Party pull off this headlining lark so successfully that it's probably the last time you'll have the chance to see them anywhere quite so small. Just by walking onstage the crowd are impressed, but when they kick in to 'Like Eating Glass', they're overjoyed - singing louder than even Kele's peerless vocals can manage. It's carried off with both note-perfect professionalism and a welcome humility. It's not a set played by rock stars for a distant audience; it's miraculous music made by people you can believe when they tell you that you're loved. Of course, we dance (how can you not when you're given the violent disco of 'She's Hearing Voices' as a soundtrack), and jump around like idiots (hey, 'Helicopter' was playing), but what's special is that Bloc Party have never tugged at our heart-strings quite so much. When some idiot climbs one of the pillars keeping the tent up and refuses to come down even after pleas from the band not to ruin the biggest show of their career, everyone jeers and because this is as much our moment, and something we were a part of, as them. And to create that moment is quite a craft. Of course, wooing us with songs like 'This Modern Love', a breathtaking 'So Here We Are' and covering us in confetti is a big part of it. But somehow, something here happened that made everyone like Bloc Party for being the people they are as much as for the incredible band they're in.
Some new bands witnessed this weekend, in a word: We Are Scientists: noisy; Rogers Sisters: sexy; Be Your Own Pet: underage; Yeti: jangly; Dogs: hoarse; Youth Group: aww; Engineers: stoned; Komakino: acerbic; Young Offenders Institute: arrestable; Every Move A Picture: passé; The Crimea: wonderful; !Forward Russia: delirious; The Rifles: The Jam; Beautiful People: Scandinavian; Hot Chip: barmy; VHS Or Beta: 80s; The Blood Arm: frenetic; Fightstar: bottled; Yourcodenameis:milo: overblown; The Black Velvets: no!!!; The Cribs: bleeding; Nine Black Alps: better; The Longcut: crazy; Juliette & The Licks: Hollywood; The Others: *cough*; The Duke Spirit: fuzzy; Sons & Daughters: barndance; Boy Kill Boy: Lamacq; Charlotte Hatherley: mmm...
Reviews: Tim Dellow / Toby L
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