| Friday
Like we
should be surprised. The venue is, as always, The Great British Outdoors and then
there’s the added quirk of our quaint nationally-ingrained meteorological superstitions.
Of course August and its blessed bank holiday are opportune times for Mother Nature
to check the lie of her reservoirs, waterways and Cornish postcard villages! How
could we not know? So Crud begins its second festival of 2004 in much the same
way as the first, its cords tucked into its socks tucked into its Wellington boots
with mud all the way up both legs, dampened to the skin and a touch grumpy because
if it. So we join roughly 20,000 similar souls attempting to keep their shoddily
rolled joints dry in these adverse conditions whilst observing the nation’s No1
blow-endorsing novelty act be blisteringly entertaining for very nearly every
one of the 30 minutes handed to them this afternoon. GLC deliver. We crack
a smile for the first time in hours.
 Meanwhile,
in the Radio 1 tent, sheltering from the rain along with a nearer-capacity-than-you’d-rightly-expect
crowd The Open chop out their underexposed mountain-high indie cacophony,
which is a captivating companion to the unsavoury conditions and better than their
records, when they hit their stride. Sheltering under canvas need not always be
rewarding however, a lesson learnt bluntly from Do Me Bad Things who appear to
be The Darkness doing The Blues Brothers with Skid Row’s cast-offs.
One disappointment makes the next easier to take though, so Ikara Colt didn’t
ruin our day or anything. Dominic is possibly the mightiest drummer on the face
of this isle but might as well have been playing cereal boxes, Tracy may actually
have been playing rubber bands. The abysmal mix may be out of their hands, but
falling apart at the seams isn’t. Most disappointingly they looked lucid and thoroughly
sober throughout.
Pink Grease and their 70s slag rock are an improvement
on Do Me Bad Things, but we tire of their forced peculiarities quickly. International
Noise Conspiracy deal in much the same glammed up exhibitionism, only with
a sharper socio-political point, like Primal Scream had they not drowned
in futurism out on one of their daily struts. What they lack in anthems they make
up for in swagger, though the swagger quota is really well and truly bagged by
a surprising hit today. 1 part retro riffage, 1 part punk insolence, 2 parts Geordie,
lost rags-to-Brit-rock-statesmen The Wildhearts return to Reading after
a decade, sucking some overdue life from The Darkness’ exhaust fumes. The
newer songs flail around a bit, but ‘Greetings From Shitsville’, ‘Love You Till
I Don’t’ and ‘Suckerpunch’ are direct action of the most obviously covert kind.
See them blowing The Darkness out of a gaping arena near you this winter.
 The
Hives and Ash both satisfied even if they couldn’t quite thrill through
doing the usual to a fairly successful extent. We could spy The Hives on
the main stage from our spot in the Carling Tent, and we quietly wish they had
Living Things’ true, unforgiving passion in their bellies. But then
if Living Things had The Hives’ flair they might be so much more effective. They’ve
got a mere handful of people before them, yet are working to fuck them off before
they’ve played a note, but once the notes do come they don’t stop and you’re left
reeling. So Peaches probably wasn’t the best course of treatment for recovery.
Her seedy, sadomasochistic, surging euro-electro punk bondage thing excites, amuses,
twists and squirms and is immensely entertaining and completely unorthodox. Her
virtual Iggy Pop duet was single moment of the day.
Modest Mouse’s
blindsided indie worked as an incredible antidote to a day that wore its ironic
(or not ironic, that’s the question) rawwk patch on its sleeve. Playing songs
from their inspiringly adventurous ‘Good News..’ album their performance was everything
the recorded versions suggested it could be, Isaac Brock a would up ball of experience,
expelling it all like someone just cut the bottom out of his past. Previous MM
touring partners The Shins, co-headlining the Carling Stage, have a lot
in common with REM. From lovingly fashioned acoustic jousts to secret weapon
harmonies (especially the secret weapon harmonies) they function like the magician
with his sawing-the-lovely-assistant-in-two ruse, slicing straight through the
heart without pause for thought, leaving one beautiful whole and no visible scars.
They are also, we believe the expression is, stoked to be here. “We did it!” exclaims
Dave Hernandez like he’s just graduated. Tonight’s one of those warming nights
when we all share the excitement.
Earlier on the same stage Pretty
Girls Make Graves were similarly snug, surprising considering the abrasive
reality of their blunt emo-indie. Andrea Zollo is beautifully bashful, happiness
soaked right through her. ‘This Is Our Emergency’ and ‘All Medicated Geniuses’
hit brilliantly on target, but it’s a new one that’s most divine, like Tricky
with a straight black fringe. 90 minutes on Mclusky are, in their own way,
divine too. Though clearly not bashful. Years of gritty slog have transformed
them from angry hit and overshot missives to consistently fulfilling titans of
post-grunge might. “This song’s the Belgian national fucking anthem!” dryly spits
Falkous before ‘To Hell With Good Intentions’. Belgium quakes. For 45 thrilling
minutes this tiny stage is bigger than any of your other fucking stages. Sing
it! “Everywhere I look there’s a Darkness” bellow they frantically in ‘Without
MSG I Am Nothing’. Frankly though, they’re wrong. A healthy number, Crud included,
exercise their freedom of choice and choose not to look at all.
 And
Graham Coxon, bless the scruffy comeback blighter, made that decision more
than valid. “Hiya!” he parps taking to the microphone with a Bash-Street-Kid-bounce,
throwing in a squeaky “thanks for coming” like the gentleman he is. He’s the most
adorable, unpretentious former AA regular, NW1 gutter resident, and A-list blur
with an F-lister’s haircut. “That one’s really nice to play” he says of ‘Spectacular’.
And it ain’t half nice to listen to too, Graham, thanks. The man has a loose orbit,
but it’s an orbit nonetheless, everything rebounds off him and his art-pop-hero-in-coy-indie-boy-frame.
His guitar playing is captivating and direct and his manner exquisitely welcoming.
If anyone was still wondering who came out of the split more convincingly intact
really need ponder no longer. The most triumphant and worthwhile of all the headline
sets this weekend.
Saturday
Yesterday, you could say, started
off on the wrong foot. But can there be a right foot when both are imprisoned
in ill-fitting water-resistant casings? Today things are different though. They’re
both still sheathed in precautionary green rubber, but the sun’s out, the best
the clouds could throw at us ain’t even worth a mention and the mud is of that
wonderfully squishy consistency that feels like you’re walking on deflating bubble
wrap. And we stroll into the Radio 1 tent just as Bloc Party strike
out the first arrow-headed chords of ‘She’s Hearing Voices’. If things were any
rosier I’d consider becoming a bee. It’s early, but the dynamic London foursome
draw a near-capacity crowd – sometimes word just gets around, and there’s been
much said about this lot, deservedly. Such a hungry, humble, hammering crash of
new-wave soul and alt.experimentalism goes down extremely well at lunchtime, if
you were wondering, and leaves us with a merry glow. Next year you can guarantee
we won’t be talking about them so early in the review.
Our freshly radiant
aura clashes allergically with The Bronx’s unsubtleties and we’re forced
to leave immediately and find something a little more compatible. Annoyingly nothing
makes the grade, music spilling from every corner of the site drastically fails
to reach a bar set unsportingly high so early on, so after an aimless wander we
simply settle down in the sun and await the arrival of Razorlight. We’re
not alone.
They’ve slyly become one of the country’s biggest draws and
not exclusively because of the hyperbole, but because that’s really the only route
available to them. They’ve been upgraded to the main stage, and not since The
Strokes were switched 3 years ago has there been a more sensible scheduling
decision. But unlike the one-trick Yanks they take this opportunity and run with
it, literally, because in this kind of stand-off standing still would be like
admitting defeat. By their standards things are only predictably thrilling for
a while, but during new song ‘Keep The Right Profile’ something snaps inside Johnny
and he’s practically tearing around with an exclamation mark above his head for
the remainder of the set. While many live under its pretence (hello, The Libertines-lite),
Razorlight today give credence to the faith of living in and for the moment. “Two
years ago,” he says pointing specifically into the endless sea of people, “I was
stood there watching bands. Now we’re up here,” he adds with half a shrug and
a broken smile. That didn’t really need saying, but it’s the only time the facade
cracks this afternoon and it goes to put this complete victory into some kind
of context.
Racking up a fraction of Razorlight’s audience and some
über-mathematical multiplication of their combined age and experience, the reformed
New York Dolls are almost equal parts entertaining and endearing – if you
can read endearing as a kind synonym for pointless – and play like a decaying
Aerosmith. But this turns out to be surprisingly preferable to the watered
down, corporate, guest-fronted ‘tribute’ to Motor City 5 from the technically
titled MC5 (D,K,T). Rent-a-gob Lisa Bellray adds nothing but a sense that
this is an outfit straight off-the-peg. We’re sad to say that as lame as their
turnout (half a tent full, maybe), Stereolab pull even less punters despite
returning to the live arena with a fairly enchanting set of unmistakable lo-fi-tronica.
May we suggest that the dance stage may be a more suitable habitat next time?
Har Mar Superstar is today’s Peaches, only without the
extremes. But then saying that, with two albums under his belt (and there’s still
room for more, arf) his set’s an altogether more bearable experience, pushing
you through the cringe-barrier and towards participation. And his band make him
seem less like a lonely exhibitionist with a backing track to protect his modesty.
The man recommends The Duke Spirit too, which is a fine move in itself.
The London 5-piece are a heavenly premonition of The Kills slashing Jason
Pierce’s frantic dreams into thrashing slithers of resonance. We melt, completely.
Only for TV On The Radio to throw us straight back under the grill. They’ve
made the album of the year and they play it here with all its inherent qualities
intact. But this is something else, like every aspect is exaggerated into something
punishing without overwhelming it, like there was space left, which it seems there
was. Their vocals are on organic full-phase and the MBV fader is peaking up at
its limit. Breathtaking.
 We
see Franz Ferdinand take to the main stage on the screens from our vantage
point in the Carling Tent, on almost exactly the spot where we first saw
them 12 months ago. It’s an interesting juxtaposition, not least because they’ve
travelled a hell of a lot further than a couple of hundred yards in a year, metaphorically
or not. You know the tunes, everyone here does, even your mum does. Save for the
new ones, but you may as well know those. What strikes you isn’t just the power,
size and colour of their all-conquering ditties (and their backdrop for that matter),
but the stagecraft that’s barged in from out of nowhere. That stage is exactly
the right fit, when last year’s was still dwarfing them. That’s one hell of a
distance to travel. There will be awards for such rapidity and excellence, we
all know that too. And they’ll be richly deserved. We wish we could say the same
about The Libertines, but you wouldn’t go to the cinema and face the back, you
wouldn’t buy a book and rip out every third page. No Pete, half a story, half
the point and a band with no more than half a right to perform those songs. Sadness
prevails for The Libs, but for the wrong reason. Mind you, they were tight.
As if we didn’t already have enough of a beef with the MC5, they were also
the source of the delay that led us to miss Morrissey getting all game
and opening with the rarer-than-a-conscience-at-a-Republican-convention performance
of ‘How Soon Is Now’. But nonetheless it seems our decision to miss the great
man at Glasto in favour of saving him for Reading was justified. An icon in most
of the audience’s minds and an icon in front of our very eyes tonight, he proves
angst can age gracefully, croons choice cuts from ‘You Are The Quarry’ with a
heartened sparkle and even tells a few anecdotes. Really. He’s practically what
we’d call chirpy. ‘Shoplifters Of The World Unite’ and ‘There Is A Light That
Never Goes Out’ burn a gold seal on a performance we wish didn’t have to end.
We were actually beginning to doubt The White Stripes’ ability to carry
the expectation home, but as per usual their entrance is so instant, decisive
and uncomplicated it can’t fail to send a shiver down the spine. Not sure about
Jack’s facial hair, mind, though Meg’s bouffant is pristine. It’s not their best
UK performance, his voice seems a little reedy and his playing less meaty than
we’ve known it, but he remains full of character and they hold their own. Either
way, victory is stolen out of indifference’s teeth by a jagged, shrieking cover
of the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s ‘Maps’, turning the song from dazzlingly beautiful
angel to unconventionally-off-centre-but-still-kinda-pretty-Billy-Goat-Gruff.
Sunday
If you could just grant us a moment’s indulgence,
today is a very special day for Reading Festival and myself. Our relationship,
which began with an eventful one-day baptism in ’94 at the dusty alter of RHCP,
The Wildhearts, Therapy? and Henry Rollins, is ten years
young this very day. Give or take a brutish corporate makeover and spending less
time browsing at the t-shirt stand, things haven’t really changed. Steve Lamacq’s
voice still booms from the main stage between bands and The Wildhearts are
here again for a start. Both are strange comforts. But what kind of atmosphere
is this for a celebration, huh?! Isn’t everyone looking tetchy today!
The Futureheads are a damn fine way to start any party though. Woo, they’re
professional! There’s nary a tighter band on site all weekend. Ahoy, they’re a
spectacle! They pile their rough tugboat-vocals up on a knife’s edge, high enough
we reckon for a clear Guinness World Record claim (and try clearing that, Knievel!).
Cor, they’re petty thieves! They’ve stolen just about every tune anybody’s recorded
ever and they’re throwing them around all willy-nilly. And by God, they’re Geordies!
We’re not entirely sure how that helps, but it does. Then, trying to travel from
one end of the gamut to the other in the least time possible, we stride purposefully
over to the Carling Stage for some enchanting Scandinavian plated-mood-blues courtesy
of Madrugada – it’s our party, we’ll sit in the corner and weep dramatically if
we want to. On devastatingly vivid form they beat up a storm on the fringes of
the idea of Armageddon. It’s tough love with all its swings and roundabouts on
arty slow-mo, The Doors vs. REM vs. Iggy in deep tantric battle.
Sadly
though Reading’s preference seems to be good old-fashioned war, y’know the sort
that optimises used plastic coke bottles and bags of your mam’s sarnies as deadly
weaponry. Rumours filter through that the main stage audience has just turned
on the corporate machine with chart-toppers The Rasmus being buried alive,
beaten and throttled. Turns out they were just pelted off stage under a hail of
bottles, but still. On one hand there’s proof that the kids won’t be dictated
to, on the other narrow-minded pack mentality. Half of them head to the bar to
buy another Carling.
Every party has to take a dip though, cue the Fiery
Furnaces and the Kaiser Chiefs. The former play chicken with innovation
on one side, oversight on the other, and lose, while the latter depress with a
flat tour of Britpop in a much less digestible manner than the majority of the
current renaissance. Seems today’s pacemakers are entirely Sunderland born and
bred then, as it’s an invigorating set of ribbed pop from the Golden Virgins that
pushes today truly out of the slow-lane. ‘Songs Of Praise’ as an album, it now
seems, fails where it has to cage up such an enthralling front-chap in Lucas who
brings much life to tales of lust and loss and desperation in this setting. And
that’s not to mention a band that knock out their fat new-wave country anthems
with an almost old-fashioned sense of pride.
The Stills are,
you think, a pleasant enough product of the American College Rock grinder, this
year’s Interpol (at least for a couple more weeks anyway) if in a more
superficial way. And you’re right. The Stills are, you’d think, just going to
turn up, stare at their shoes, wear inoffensive shades and provide festival filler
until The Streets are on. You’d be so very wrong. Fluent in emotion and
texture, friendly with feedback and the rock-shape and not short of dynamics,
it may not be the sort of shock that jump-starts your colon, but it’s enough to
fight the call of the noodle stall round the corner.
Just one thing
strikes us as untoward about The Streets this afternoon – why for 8 Stella’s
sake are he/they so far down the bill. You could criticise the Reading crowd for
being perennially stuck in the mud, the tetchy terrors are on litter-tossing duty
again later for designer chart-hop target 50 Cent, but try and explain
away the weekend’s biggest daytime draw for an off-kilter hall-of-mirrors UK garage
lad-a-thon. But then are the Streets not just a Carter USM for the Noughties?
Whatever he is and they are, Skinner with his cunning anecdotes and bloody cheeky
cheekiness connects like nobody else, maybe because he’s a better mate in many
ways than the ones you’ve gone with. He’s a stereotype, obviously, an omnipresent
caricature, but he’s better than the real thing. He’s also off trying to bridge
the gap between rock and dance via an olive branch ‘rock dance’, something like
Suggs pogoing to Green Day with his shoelaces tied together after 13 Aftershocks.
Well, someone had to try. His band are on the same tip, and morphing a boisterous
‘Don’t Mug Yourself’ into Kelis’ ‘Milkshake’ would have wobbled off with honours
had ‘Dry Your Eyes’ not been the most euphoric lump of sadness, and even more
honest in the flesh. It’s a rare moment that you can literally feel touching everyone
around you individually.
 As
if to reinforce the feeling that it’s just no good trying to follow that, Belgian
indie-misshapes dEUS see fit to cancel their anticipated return entirely.
Hmph. We’re unsure of specific reasoning, but we blame Mclusky (see Friday). What
seemed like a damn fine opportunity for British Sea Power to extend their
set by 50 minutes was sadly left unseized. What we did get from the Brighton indie-misshapes
though was an unparalleled and focused show of strength. Their Glasto set fell
out with Ma Nature, clashed with the elements and got blown to buggery, but today
they nestle in a haven of melody, noise and dancing foliage. And they’ve reached
a point with the none-more epic ‘Lately/Rock In A’ where they make an impressively
studious sense of the unfolding carnage. You know the rest by now. We didn’t even
miss the bear.
It’s hard to take such a serious woman seriously. We
have this thing called parody y’see, and my God is Melissa Auf Der Maur
like a total cartoon parody of Kim Deal. She is so, like, totally pleased to be
here. And she’s so totally in love with the music and the people and, like, totally
thankful for the support. When she shuts her mouth we kind of agree with her,
to an extent, though the earnestness does carry over to like everything she does
(how she flicks her mane, melodramatically plucks her bass, etc). There’s no time
to consider such things during the Von Bondies mind, thankfully, it all
tears past in a furious vintage blur, like clockwork. But if they’re like clockwork
then we’re timepiece enthusiasts and that’s something to be proud of. They shake
off all their baggage in the process and are thrilling and unhindered. Which also
rounds up The Others nicely, causing carnage on the Carling Stage when
we pass with their excellent, raw, incendiary ‘This Is For The Poor’. They’re
a band who live for moments and they’ve just christened yet another right there.
As an epitaph it’ll do for Supergrass too, who barely need mentioning because
you already know how pristine they were. You’re right.
“This is either
going to be great, or it’s going to be crap,” laughs granddad Armstrong, “either
way it’s going to be awesome!”. He could be talking about the whole Green Day
experience, but no, he’s referring to their recurring and still electrifyingly
awesome jape of forming a band live on stage. It could be the funniest and most
exciting 10 minutes of the festival. Then they play ‘Basket Case’ and ‘2000 Light
Years Away’ and everything else we expect them to. It’s exactly the same drill
as when we saw them at the Leeds counterpart a few years ago, with a couple of
new ones thrown in, but they don’t trouble us. Showmen to the extreme, doing it
their way.
Actually, he could have been referring to Reading Festival.
Not the best festival in existence, but to be fair nothing compares. Relevant
sites:
http://www.readingfestival.com/
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2004©
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