V Festival 2006 - Hylands Park, Chelmsford 20-21/8/06
1/5
By: Thomas Hannan
The festival report. For us, it should be as much about the general experience of the time spent in these green and pleasant fields as the actual bands themselves - you know what they sound like, man grabs guitar, plays song about a girl, blah blah blah, seen it all before! As such, we tell you about one of the most important events of the weekend right away. Stood, we were, not knowing where the hell our mates were, where we were meant to be camping or what in flipping heck we were doing, all crowded underneath our Young Knives umbrella, within earshot of Daniel Powter poncing his way through the whole of his opening set. In the most torrential downpour we've experienced since... oh, that's right! Truck Nine! This was quite possibly the wettest, loneliest, most depressing moment of our young lives. So far, a 'Bad Day' indeed.
It gets better. Quick. Even someone who was going to this next show thinking 'I'll go watch that band who did the song about the woodshed' despite not claiming to remember any of their other material would leave saying 'they played all my favorite songs' - and that is what makes The Divine Comedy an incredible festival band - the remarkably strong back catalogue of songs.
They provide a cover of Nelly Furtado's 'Man Eater' far better than the original, retaining all the plusses of the initial grimy bass but without any of the pit falls of Nelly's annoying voice. Instead you have Neil Hannon keeping composure, projecting strength by the bucket load, instructing the crowd to move their bodies around like a nympho. He's amazing - the sort of person that you'd like to visit over at his gaff for a sandwich and a chat. Whilst you moved about like a nympho.
If people spent more time crediting bands that have been writing good music for ages and less time worrying about bands that won't exist in three years, then The Divvies would undoubtedly be further up the bill.
The Magic Numbers turn up, and I forget I was ever subjected to Powter (thank gawd I didn't actually have to look at him). Sometimes we host bands at the Basement Club, and later look upon them and wonder (with pride, of course), how it was they got so big, and are now so dear to so many. Sometimes, the leap in scale is baffling. With the 'Numbers however, it makes perfect sense. These songs work brilliantly on this mass setting, especially now that the sun's decided to shine, and nothing about the meteoric rise of the band seems at all peculiar. In fact, it's as natural as that ever present smile on Romeo's face. New material stays close to the sentiment of the stuff we're used to, refining rather than redefining their craft. 'I See You, You See Me', though - that's where it's at. Blimmin' gorgeous.
Being an open minded, multicultural kind of guy, I sometimes listen to hip hop (yeah! Out there!). And now and again, I even take its advice. I 'check myself'. It's advisable to do so at times like these, and also in situations like coming out of the toilet, or picking one's nose. Now, Jamie T - I love the fella. Having him sit down in front of me and rap his fingers over the four strings of an acoustic bass whilst delivering engaging little tales of London life is a pleasure. More than that, I really dig the beefed up Jamie, the calypso dabblings that sit atop the solid structure his song writing style provides to accentuate the eccentricities of 'Sheila' that little more. A full band set at V then is nothing to fear, and there he is, giving it some.
Stop! Check yo'self! Are you enjoying this merely because you know what its creator can sound like - a sound you admire - or because of the sound he's actually making, here and now? Because if you opt for the latter, it means you're not enjoying Jamie at his best - you're revelling in slightly uninspired, turgid, basic punk rock. If you enjoy it, good for you. We however know Jamie can be far more interesting.
People who wear plaid and have beards go to ATP, right? They want their sonic landscapes, swooshes and atmosphere rock, and that's the festival for them. So when Bloc Party came out and began all swooshy, Rockfeedback thought they'd really cocked up. This is 'Reasons Not To Trust Anyone Who Writes About Music #174 (i)'.
See, Rockfeedback hadn't noticed something, hadn't noticed that sparkle, the twinkle of something personal and priceless buried deep. So I hadn't noticed it, but the tens of adoring thousands had, and that delicious spark seemed to become more priceless and more personal and more obvious in every jingle of guitar in 'Blue Light', in the corner of every one of Kele's giant grins.
By the raucous, joyous 'Banquet', it had become blinding, and unfettered, ebullient and almost painfully bright light, banishing moody festival clouds, miserablist hangovers and the suffocating showers. But try as I might to avoid it, there's a niggle - why just the one new song? Why, when you've spent so much time recording this new record and talking to the press about how gosh darn superb it is, don't we get to hear a little more of it? Was it because you just wanted us to have a good time, rather than have to really concentrate? Well, I did have a good time. Maybe it was just to make that wait for the new album all the more torturous, but in the long term, all the more rewarding. I was never allowed to sneak a look at my Christmas presents as a child. Little has changed. Away! Oh downcast moods. Who'd have thought barely-lit up emo disco would be the perfect anthemic pick-me-up in the new-found sunshine?
Rockfeedback has always had a soft spot for We Are Scientists. Yeah, they're discogeek genius, but I remember more fondly an incident from last year when, employed by a certain North London toilet venue, WAS saved my evening by sharing a bottle of red wine with myself whilst complimenting my cravat. Ever since - smitten.
So - guilty rushing from backstage having sacrificed the first two songs in order to ogle Girls Aloud - it genuinely pained Rockfeedback to come upon the sight of those elegant chaps cutting three dashing, rocking figures across the Channel 4 Stage, belting their delectable, danceable tunes right over the heads of the apparently disinterested hordes.
Out of a sense of loyalty, we threw ourselves in deep in the hope of flailing as rhythmically and infectiously as possible, like some kind of dancing Moses. But lo! Still only the barest twitch of a hip or sympathetic shoulder shuffle! When the stunning back-to-back of 'Nobody Move...' and 'Lousy Reputation' still barely managed to get more than a quarter of the crowd dancing, Rockfeedback was compelled to leave, mumbling something bitter about plebians.
It's not that V is devoid of rock, but parts of Art Brut's set are really rather exciting, and exactly what the festival needs. Some good old sloppy small tent action is what the people are crying out for, and Art Brut deliver it.
To look at them , you wouldn't think that this group of people are in the same band - they're all wearing different clothes, they're different sizes, and they appear to be playing different types of music. When it works it's brilliant, especially with Eddie Argos's sloppy, somewhat drunken sounding vocals sliding all over the top of the sound (funny - this is one of the few bands you'd see and wonder whether the singer would actually be better even more drunk). It's when they're playing fast that they're at their best, but sometimes this mish mash of sound puts you in mind of a local band playing at a wedding. They'd do well to embarrass themselves more.
Resisting the voice of our inner Sybarite (for once) by ignoring the tantalising promise of Girls Aloud's superpop flesh and dance routines, we proudly stood waiting for Regina Spektor with the slightly smug assumption that she'd be too acquired a taste for this most notoriously MOR-ish of festivals. Er...that would be 'Reason Never to Listen to Anyone...#174(ii)'. Glance around yourself at any moment and as broad a diaspora as one can find at V was visible, and ecstatic.
The choicest reaction was reserved for 'Us', and rightly so: Regina's distinctively undulating, plunking piano punctured fine, infinitely delicate stars in that voluptuous and galaxy-smotheringly smooth voice of hers. Genuinely, utterly sublime - and also capable of holding a tentful of couples (more likely to be bestially, desperately copulating to the senuous showtune schmaltz) in a rapturous state of chastity, side by side.
On being informed by a friend considerably more experienced with her shows that Regina, apparently, "wasn't at her best", Rockfeedback's response was - well, let's say both astonished and unrepeatable.
If you're going to have a gimmick, make sure it's the gimmick to end all gimmicks. Do something like Beck does - have a band of puppets dressed up as yourselves playing behind you, in perfect synchronisation thanks to the talents of their puppet masters, for the entire set. Even have them start the set for you, with you nowhere near the stage. Have them play 'Loser'. Have their actions look so convincing and make people laugh so hard that they won't care that they've stood on sodden ground for ages waiting for their hero to appear only to have him replaced by puppets because the puppets are so bloody good that it doesn't matter. Then come on a verse through 'Loser', kick in with your live band to take over and make Chelmsford go totally spare. That's a gimmick.
The rest however you can enjoy on an entirely serious level (despite the puppets being ever present), because Beck delivers a set that is so strong that my position in later arguments that this is the best of the weekend is really a very easy one to defend. We've been partying all day, so it's a delight to hear things from 'Sea Change', B-Sides and old favourites like 'Clap Hands' and 'One Foot In The Grave' respectively played on a dining table (OK, two gimmicks, but two fantastic gimmicks) - things where we have to concentrate a little bit. But there are few better party bands than Beck in the mood, and with 'E-Pro', 'Devils Haircut' and a sun soaked 'Girl' all making appearances, we got everything we wanted. And puppets.
So: you already heard Radiohead finished with 'Creep', right?
To set some kind of record straight: the ground did not tear asunder to reveal a giant staircase bathed in golden effervescence stretching up into the clouds which parted to reveal St Peter, open-armed, awaiting Radiohead's ascension. They played 'Creep', noodled around a bit, waved and walked off while we all clapped and cheered until it began pissing down and we fled for cover.
But it was still pretty special though. All of it.
I-don't-know-how-many tens of thousands of people in a field, expectant of something brilliant from a band whose career has been, to say the least, all over the place. And we get all of it. We get to dance un self-consciously to the eccentrolectric treats of 'Idioteque' and 'There There'. Then, we're a community, fists raised, shouting to anthems like 'Just', or 'Karma Police' - and suddenly we're all alone, all eyes closed in the solitude of paranoid lullabies 'Street Spirit (Fade Out)' and 'Pyramid Song'.
Then, all happy, all having got what we wanted, they play 'Creep' and we realise that now we've had all we wanted.
Not, then, a transcendental moment - just so f**king special.
During those lazy adolescent summers, Rockfeedback used to consider the various noble professions he might pursue. One which always lingered in the forefront of our mind was that of General Practitioner: every morning, on getting up, we would don a stethoscope, a cheap nylon shirt and begin by practicing our best look of contempt for the degraded specimen of the human body we imagined spread out before us. We would then consult various text books and journals, making diagnoses.
The high watermark came when we realised a gap in the annals of Medicine: nowhere did we come across the deadly "Second Morning of a Festival" Syndrome. Quickly, we dashed off a paper to correct this oversight - which, sadly, was roundly scoffed at by all in the profession. To this day, Rockfeedback refuses to speak to Doctors.
We're sure that you, too, have succumbed to this debilitating affliction, however, and so we would like to suggest the remedy we ourselves pursued at V on Sunday.
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Awake blearily and painfully, in accordance with every music mag report of a festival, ever. Stumble into the main arena, avoiding friends and companions who may wish to converse. Find a shaded area - say, the Virgin Union Tent.
The first band one watches should not be good, as you are not yet ready to appreciate anything. What is necessary, however, is a spadeful of volume and something derivative: loud enough to banish cobwebs and familiar enough not to surprise one into thinking something dreadful is good, just because you haven't heard it before.
God bless The Dodgems, straight outta Dr Feelgood's pool hall via Camden '02. Leatehr'n'grease'n'booze is a surprisingly palatable concoction first thing in the afternoon when it has been through a Poptones generofilter and then disguised by a splash of Sheffield hype spice. 'It's Alright' is the title of a boring Stone's song that no one ever listened to and...well, remember Jet? Sheffield's a dump anyway.
So, now you're awake, you hurt and the tent smells. Get some sun! Shuffle through the overwhelming masses of tan and beef and belly towards an open-air stage. Dodge any conversations lurking nearby. Sit on a hill overlooking the Channel 4 Stage and consider it your ivory tower, preparing to cry and laugh at an old enemy.
Yes - Dogs! God they suck, like an inflatable Borrell doll. Begin weeping in bemusement at the cheering, braying hordes of proles before you, and suddenly remember the indifference that greeted the spectacular Scientists yesterday.
You're hurt, and you're bitter, and now you're angry. Something needs to break, and not your spleen. Fortunately, God will take pity on you. Dogs are ripping through some dreadful, polished, sub-Libs mess, and then...HA! The sound cuts out! Laugh! Laugh until you puke. Things are looking up, so leave quick before the sound gets fixed and that turgid, torrid noise fills your ears again and so ruining your cleansing, cathartic moment.
You now need to re-affirm your love of humanity, so seeing something you actually like might help. Rockfeedback decided to go back to the VU Stage, which, jarringly enough, suddenly appeared to be a crèche: filled with obscenely bright blue, pink or yellow balloons.
Now, hey! What's that bouncing over the stage? Is it a Tigger? (Yes! Finally got my 'Monster' gag badge in the Hack scouts now)
At this stage in the regenerative process, falling in love can only be a good thing; et voila! Patience Hodgson has never more beautiful or (shudder) less Grates-ing. Following what has undoubtedly been the most misanthropic morning of your life, the sight of all the Antipodes' naivety and enthusiasm personified in one brightly-coloured little explosion of energy is enough to make even the most nihilistic of us come over all Greenpeace.
The Grates rattle off those power-pink punk-pop songs like Riot Grrl played by Barbie Dolls, and Patience won't stand still and you don't want her to even though its making you sick. Rockfeedback is sure all that innocence and charm belies a dark side - listen, you can hear it in the rich, saucy growl that sometimes appears in her voice. If you're recovery is progressing well, you will now desire to be her 'Rockboy'.
Everything, it seems, is now OK. Two hours ago, death couldn't come quick enough - even though it seemed just seconds away. You've been consumed by your bile and now it's flushed from your system. You've been reminded of both the most vile and the most beautiful sides of humanity in music (though mostly the former). Summon your friends to your triage tent, and share a perfect moment with them by enjoyably sneering at an American imbecile you've never heard of before.
Butch Walker and his band are, emphatically, not Primal Scream circa 'Rocks'. Even if every song sounds like a variation of 'Rocks'. You know the kind of American rocker who, though devoid of talent, fame or, especially, the ability to rock, is certain that people will adore him and his band because he is an American who rocks? Yeah, he's one of them. We thought they'd died out, too; I mean, at least Axl actually rocked.
Bond with your friends by playing one of the following malicious entertainments as you complete your recovery:
a) Debate who has the pleasure of using the stage passes to run on stage and scratch the eyes out of the two female backing singers. There they are, standing pretty with their goddam sassy dance moves (all shoulders and breasts). How can they be so smug and self-assured when, despite their obvious belief to the contrary, they are in no way sexy because of the fact that they are so certain of it?!
b) Take turns to shout "Get your rocks off Bobby!" at the idiot;
c) Try to steal the bass player's over-sized hat;
d) Plot Butch Walker's death;
e) Weep communally as he ends his set with a cover of 'Crazy'. To the tune of 'Rocks'.
Rockfeedback sincerely hopes this works for you, as it did for us. Step out into the sun amongst lovely company. It's like the first day of your life.
The JJB tent is predictably totally packed for Lily Allen, so much so that many can't squeeze inside. It seems no one predicted quite the extent to which Allen would explode into stardom.
On stage with Lily is a trombonist, a trumpet player, a drummer and a bassist, though she has also chosen wisely to have some backing track. There seems to be more snobbery towards people who use some backing track than all backing track, though we've got no problem calling people like that idealist and wrong. The backing allows Lily to be faithful to the album whilst the live performers deliver aspects which make it worth seeing the live show. Where's your problem, hey?
One of the concerns when seeing someone like Allen is whether she'll be able to sing, and whilst she doesn't have the voice of an angel, she can indeed sing to at least the extent of hitting all the notes and carrying the whole charade off well enough. The worst thing about it all is her stage presence, wandering up and down looking mildly bored, but those actually in possession of and in love with the album would probably revel in it.
One cannot help but notice the visuals for The Dandy Warhols, especially if you're male. Sex sells, but somehow it's hard to associate these oddly arousing images with the Warhols' set. Possibly they're being clever, but you can't help but think that here they are, with their giant projections of breasts, shooting themselves in the foot.
It's true that the mix of a trendy, drab performance and knowingly sexy visuals makes them somehow all the more cool, but they would probably do well to stop being so aloof and to start putting a little bit more gusto into their set. Through the lack of excitement, the audience is left doing the work.
Of course the real shame is if you concentrate hard enough there are some good songs here, and they are at least playing them accurately. If only they would do more to let people know it.
He wasn't always a crooner like this, but it's clear from Richard Hawley's set today that this isn't a 'project' with an end goal in mind. This is just him playing music that he loves, and once you've heard his fantastic croon it seems wrong that he would begin playing in any other style. A big difference between this and a lot of similar projects is that there is not a hint of pretence here, and regardless of the music itself credit is due for a man making nothing but the music he wants to make.
Get us not wrong, nobody's saying that this music is going to make you jump out of your seat and dismiss all other types of music - it's much more likely to make you just want to sit down and listen. But for those of us who are standing up in this tent it does take a bit of readjusting to relax into, but once you're in there you realize that all the people on the stage are performing with great care and sensitivity.
When he finishes with 'The Ocean', you stand thinking how stupid it would be for Richard Hawley not to write a song about something as majestic as the sea.
Parts of Imogen Heap's set were amazing. The Kate Bush comparisons are obvious, but the times when she sounds best are when she comes across more like the Cocteau Twins, building up layer upon layer of vocal melodies in an interesting and intelligent way. You're left wondering precisely how she does it.
But that's OK! Half way through she shows and tells you all the equipment she is using, which at first comes across as a direct, simple way of dealing with the problem of using a lot of complicated equipment but wanting to let people into the performance. Unfortunately, it ends by her being a bit smug and showing off, and as the set continues the equipment she is using seems irrelevant. She creates the single 'Hide & Seek' entirely out of her own looped vocals, which may have deserved a little more praise if the lyrics weren't so rough around the edges.
At a summer festival in a tent, Jim Noir is wearing a woolly hat. He must be sweating buckets, but somehow remains composed and comfortable. At worst this music can be cutesy, at best it creates a real feeling of comfort and maybe even mild euphoria, something the musicians in Jim's genuinely talented backing band do manage now and again. They seem really in to what they're doing, throwing in a charming melody every so often in to the foreground to give the sound the little bit extra that saves it from being dull. Though they don't quite do it often enough, chiefly when the keyboard player introduces a more prominent melody or goes off on a solo, the band sound pretty good.
The most impressive thing about the set is the incredibly well sung harmonies between the two guitarists, both singers creating an amazing glowing sound between them when singing in tandem. There are a lot of bands this weekend much higher up the bill that should go and watch Jim Noir and his crew and learn how to sing.
Rufus Wainwright... The sophistication of this man is impossible. I'm not talking about his dress sense, or even the way he seduces the audience into a cerebral orgy just for him. I'm talking about the way that he can be essentially, a kitsch cabaret singer, playing for laughs, yet still infuse his performance with earnest passion. Yep. A contradictory chap.
Take his breathtaking cover of Cohen's 'Hallelujah'. Knowingly similar in vocal style to that of Buckley Jnr, to which this song has been eternally tied to and sunk down the bottom of some murky lake, he announces it as "helluva jew ya?", nodding to Cohen's brilliance and his own camp audaciousness at slaying such a sacred cow. And then he straight faced performs the song with a style that surpasses any previous version. Then effortlessly follows it with casual throwaway pieces about vibrating phones and chocolate milk and cigarettes that say more about humanity in our time than a thousand paeans to lost love. His representation of a new and complete human entity pushes the boundaries of songwriting and performance to deistic heights. Untouchable, hilarious and suffocatingly beautiful, lead by a voice of pure smoked honey. The man is a legend.
Legs planted firmly to the floor, slightly apart - one twitches, and the heel beats the rhythm out on the ground. Eyes closed, but if they were open they'd be staring far off above our heads. No theatrics, no posturing - just intensity and a careworn voice. Murray Lightburn could be busking on the street and you'd still be captivated.
Here stand a lucky few, brave enough to forsake the joys of Morrissey and rewarded far beyond our expectations. The faint sounds of 'Stop Me If You Think...' reach us from the V Stage, but we don't care - this is transcendent.
Maybe it's Canada's epic, wide-open spaces that give her bands this sense of scale and depth. Rockfeedback really doesn't know. The Dears are oft called Britpop revivalists, but the tag never did do them justice. Murray Lightburn's voice pierces every heart, and the Dears' playing penetrates every soul before together they combine to lift us up higher and higher. We're the damned and dirty of the turn of the century deep south, and the Dears are leading a euphoric revival for our salvation - and it's working.
Again, much like with Bloc Party's reluctance to play new songs yesterday, please judge a set on what you're given rather than what you would have hand picked. Don't argue with Morrissey for only playing a handful of Smiths songs - when you get 'Panic' (so good I actually dance down the hill to get as close as I can to it), 'Girlfriend In A Coma', 'Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before' and a closing rendition of 'How Soon Is Now' that sounds so otherworldly you're momentarily unable to remember the existence of any other song, only the most cantankerous of fellows would complain.
Now, many at Rockfeedback are cantankerous fellows, and violent debate rages to this day about the true worth of Stephen Patrick's set. For the sake of fairness, that they hold that position should be mentioned. Much like the BNP, they're entitled to talk their nonsense, but - ah-HAH! - I'll shout the sods down, because that's the best form of getting them to shut up. Morrissey isn't just adored tonight because so much of the rest of the bill owes their career to him, it's on his own merit, not that of his influence or the persisting strength of the Smiths songs, that I'm so compelled. It's when his finest moment is the epic 'Life Is A Pigsty', from his most recent album, no less, that you being to realise why that is. It's superb - a protracted, pompous moan from a rich man adored by millions with very little to complain about other than how Virgin Radio won't play his new single (you can text and download the following live version of it, he says, cringing at his own words), but he's the only person in the world who I can witness doing just that and still feel completely gripped by the grim loneliness of it all. He takes his shirt off, and I consider ringing my girlfriend to tell her it's over.
Reviews: Michael Lewin, Charlie Potter, Tom Hannan, Tim Dellow
Photo Credit: www.joshhallphotography.co.uk
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