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Friday
There is a popular phrase, ‘save the best for last’.
There’s another, ‘start as you mean to go on’. And then,
the slightly lesser known ‘water your audience with
PASSIVITY and DISSAPOINTMENT and SHITE from the moment
they walk through the gate and siphon off all their
enthusiasm before lunchtime’. You will see as you reach
the bottom of this review, Reading 2003 ended
a lot better than it began. Meaning there was one phrase
the organisers failed to draw any wisdom from whatsoever.
And one they treated a little too much as gospel. Things
weren’t awful you understand, just that drifting from
middling to middling to unmentionable provides little
in the way of inspiration, which is always what you
hope such a gathering should provide.
 Then
there was the attention-repelling gutless metal and
kiddy-punk, nu and old, clogging up the main stage.
Bowling For Soup welcome us to the site, boiiinging
into action (yes, boiiinging, like an ugly glaring bouncy
ball that infatuates some spotty little oik – or 10,000
of them). Festivals have started better. Later on Less
Than Jake tweak the formula, or more accurately
the hairstyles, and carry this idiocy up the bill. The
Datsuns and The Darkness both party like
it’s Reading ’84, sharing intentions and excruciating
solos, but at least the latter made us laugh and got
50,000 sheep singing falsetto. We had the misfortune
to drift past portly solo Creed bloke on the
way for food. It’s like having anaesthetic syringed
into our ears. He sits on the face of Pearl Jam’s ‘Black’
at one point making us retch. We managed to steer clear
of the likes of Linkin Park and Blink 182,
though a less fortunate friend told of how he got trapped
in a bursting Radio 1 tent when the puzzlingly huge
Alien Ant Farm were pathetic all over a stage.
We feel for him.
Sharply dressed Scots Franz Ferdinand on the
Carling Stage were the first hit of the day (i.e. not
with projectiles) with a glut of sharp, cocky new wave.
Essentially The Libertines with a BA(Hons), and cleaner
veins. The only direct strike of the afternoon though
belonged to a man who couldn’t miss, frighteningly wholesome
Canadian hip-hop artiste Buck 65. “I’m here to
dance and play you some music, not sell you vodka,”
he says in a hick/camp drawl stood before the dance
tent sponsor’s throbbing projection. “I’ve covered up
the banners, but I can’t do the TV screens”. His act
is equally as righteous. He fans dry ice with a record
sleeve, simultaneously gibbering over a gutsy 4/4 beat
like Tom Waits on the wrong speed, plays air steel-pedal
guitar, does a lethargic body pop and paces around like
Tony Martin on E. “I should have warned you before,”
he purrs with a throat full of gravel, “that these new
songs are going to knock you flat on your arse, these
are adult portions”. We are left full to the brim.
Placebo don’t offend, they don’t even get under
your skin. But maybe that was one of the things they
had going for them anyway. They play too much new stuff,
the old classics are thin on the ground, and they get
overshadowed by the sonic boom of a passing Concorde.
Mclusky though laugh in the face of the sound barrier
and deliver the most adrenalised, tortuously intense
set of the day. Stood next to the majority of their
Friday peers this is Armageddon running around with
its pants down and a missing nuclear warhead up its
backside. All the crowd pleasers, the bassist on nutjob
setting 10 and some filthy new blasts from their current
recording session with Steve Albini. Awesome. To ease
us down Interpol get over their Glasto cramps
by lurching under the cover of darkness, or the cover
of a big tent at least. They’re sharp, solid, looming
and their bassist contorts like a bendy wire figurine.
Excellent. The hour of the bassist.
 It
was Elbow we’d presumed would take the night
though. But they didn’t. They were snuffed by the worst
festival sound Crud has ever experienced, without exception.
Four singers perch at the back waiting to fill the sparse
‘Ribcage’ with gospel magnificence. Except nothing happens.
They’re introduced to the mix with moments to go. Same
with ‘Red’s strings. And Guy’s soaring vocals at the
climax of ‘Bitten By The Tailfly. You can see their
superiority oozing its way out, a shockingly brimming
‘Grace Under Pressure’ steams in to save proceedings
at the end but it’s too late. It’s like buying an ounce
of the best weed in Berkshire only to light up and find
it’s a selection from Budgens’ herb rack. The omen of
the day reels back into view. Only the soundman suspended
by his flappy ears from the lighting rig could have
made up for this. Evan Dando went some way to
easing the pain though. Back on the smack maybe, poorly
finger definitely (apparently the reason he’s playing
more solos than usual), but that doesn’t stop him being
the most effortless, swelling, infectious approximation
of an icon. Giving a good name to the word shambles
and a reason to leave today with a smile on our face.
Saturday
We awake, not suffocating under grubby canvas as would
be usual, but bringing into focus the suit and tie hanging
at the end of the bed. Yes, a bed! And yes, a suit!
For we have taken the day off from Reading to attend
a wedding. And in the interests of review continuity
this is something we feel we should detail. As far as
opening acts go the ceremony was clearly the best of
the weekend, pulling us in with a kaleidoscope of acoustic
guitar, definitive trumpet and choral singing (almost
like a Spiritualized album really) and rounded off with
a congregation-supported run through classic childhood
hymn ‘If I Was A Fuzzy Wuzzy Bear’. Magic, clearly.
They were also married by the groom’s father,
which we imagine created some lovely celestial feedback.
The speeches were humbling, touching and side-splitting
in equal amounts, keeping up the mid-day momentum. And
the long wait for the vegetarian buffet was ultimately
rewarding, only marred by our friend Dave taunting
us with his full plate while we remained at the back
of the queue. The git. A strong Irish contingent
meant the fridge remained well stocked with Guinness
and to be honest this coloured most of the day’s proceedings.
A pretty bitchin’ Irish quartet took the headlining
slot, banging out the likes of ‘Dirty Old Town’ as night
fell, and there was dancing and high spirits and spillages.
Somewhere in the far distance Damon Albarn fell
off a stage. Like a twat. Frankly we were glad to be
elsewhere. And you should be glad to hear about it.
Sunday
This is more like it. Sun out, breeze in our beard,
best weed in Berkshire (literally today) and a muddy
wall of grunge. A muddy wall it may be, and of a consistency
which probably muddied these stages good and proper
a decade ago, but it’s Biffy Clyro and they have
a lovely habit of lurching out with a shiner of a tune
every once in a while. Kinesis do a similar thing
on the Radio 1 stage afterwards with a much rougher
sound, but grim guitar and feedback suits us just fine
right now, even if they aren’t quite living up to their
revolutionary promise. The most revolutionary, nay punk,
thing we did see all weekend didn’t even have a beat.
Comedian, activist, all-round top fucker Mark Thomas
arrived like an aid parcel and had a heaving comedy
tent eating out of his rough palm. Not the most graceful
eating natch, considering the inevitable laughter, but
such blunt reasoning, immense common sense, unfaltering
belief and incessant humour bubbling through everything
is so very convincing, and so eat you must. A modern
social evangelist. All that was missing was the chance
to tap your foot.
Of course Primal Scream have got the tunes, but
all Bobby found to revolt against today was the rest
of the bill. And the entire audience. “You’re all a
bunch of slaves, here to see Metallica and all those
other shite bands. You’re all just fucking spectators,”
he dribbles, maybe having half a point. But then your
patience has got to take a beating stuck between the
lamentable Sum 41 and Good Charlotte.
Their set of sonic righteousness is rather diluted under
daylight and protests no doubt fall on deaf ears (or
at least those with ‘Master of Puppets’ on a tinnitus
cycle). But the day’s biggest rushes came from those
who snubbed revolution for escapism, taking you somewhere
bigger and brighter entirely, starting with The Raveonettes
who shone all manner of yellows and reds, with an icy
blue sheen. They might have just the one, going on one
and a half, song. But what a joyous fucking blast of
a pop song and a bit it is. Besides, such rigorous discipline
is commendable. Like the Jesus and Mary Chain having
their serious nipples licked by Aqua in a Tate & Lyle
factory.
Things certainly took a turn for the better in the final
straight, as if the festival had winked at us, whispering
“I was toying with you all along”. And thus began maybe
the greatest succession of music this scribe has experienced
in all his years of festival frequenting (it’ll be ours’
and Reading’s 10th anniversary next year). Hot Hot
Heat might have a full tent hanging on for ‘Bandages’
(radiantly delivered at the end), but being the musical
equivalent of bubble wrap it’s impossible to tire of
them. The strain of touring seems to have taken its
toll, there’s an unsatisfying mid-patch with tune deflating
all over the place, but they can’t help but snap back
into place. System Of A Down are a different
proposition entirely, and not nearly as cuddly. Theirs
is a military bout of precision, with an adrenaline
surplus and man smoking napalm at the controls. So heavy,
so effective and so very ginourmous, they make most
of their contemporaries look about as threatening as
a box of matches in a birdbath.
Though maybe Grandaddy have news for them. “We’re
punk rock,” professes Jason Lytle as we join him in
the midst of a placid abbreviated rant against the credibility
of the day’s bill. “We don’t wanna be, we just are,”
smirks he. And next to their lethargic Astoria showing
earlier in the year they do seem it. Light-footed, sure
and direct, this is lazy grinning hour. ‘AM 180’ and
‘El Caminos In The West’ shine and even manage to raise
our pulse-rate. And they have a rodeoing pig on the
screen at one point. This we like though we’re not sure
why. Hope Of The States provide no such questions
though, we know exactly why we’re dribbling ecstasy
at the sight of their red-light bathed aural expanse.
They are warm and contagious. They are post-rock in
spirit and classically anthemic in body. They pull you
up and leave you floating there, propel you through
several gale forces, and then set you down gently. Then
they thank you! Frontman Sam Herlihy sits at his piano
swaying, nodding with a wonderfully numb gaze, soaking
up the arms-in-the-air appreciation being blown back
at them. Blissful. Powerful.
 There
is quite the atmosphere preceding the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
The audience give a note perfect rendition of the “ooo-ooo-ooo-oo-oo”
segment of The Darkness’ ‘I Believe…’ which almost endears
us to the song. Then they enter, introducing us immediately
to a pair of new dirty rock creepers, electronically
laced, almost to a Soft Cell degree in fact. But we’re
with them, they remain i-fucking-conic. It just goes
OFF for ‘Rich’. Then ‘Pin’ phwoars the tent right off
its hinges. ‘Maps’ is the most drippingly raunchy moment
of the weekend. “Ba ba ba ba ba bah bah fiiighhurrYEAH!”
as she puts it. We, for one, agree. Three times over.
We can see Metallica’s audience steaming on the
big-screens, and judging by the riff thick ‘Sad But
True’ stomping out by the time we join them every byte
of anticipation is met. They might just be an off-the-conveyor-belt
product these days, the antithesis of fan-friendly and
hypocritical to boot, but they’ve got one hell of a
back catalogue, which they play with oomph.
But British Sea Power have a titillatingly magnificent
debut which they play with chutzpah, and that’s too
great a pull to ignore. Yan: “This guy’s got a great
voice”. A man walks to the microphone and performs the
acapella Dance of the Yelping Chaffinch. Match that
San Francisco metellers! ‘Carrion’ blossoms into an
incredible ethereal wig-out and ‘Remember Me’ extends
to epic proportions. When they start ‘Lately’ with 25
minutes to go we wonder where this is going. Of course
we know. And, boy, are we still left staggered. Corking
I believe is the word. Or mind-squelching possibly.
And so it ends at the polar antithesis of the start.
With an encore of ‘Enter Sandman’ on the way out it
gets a little too cherry-on-top. All is forgiven Reading.
In Brief… Ok Go, we take their advice.
Bubblegum pop without the flavour… Razorlight open
out fairly promisingly with a ballsy 60ft Dolls/These
Animal Men tribute that seems like it belongs here…
Chungking unfurl their spiky lounge with more
pizzazz than the record… The Vue are battling
with The Darkness so play to about 20 people, but cushion
our ears with a more humble breed of rock ‘n’ roll…
White Light Motorcade have a bassist in Ramones
shtick, a guitarist rocking the Keith Richards look
and a frontman in the Tim Wheeler lineage. They end
up being the Droning Stones, in a not awful way… Keane
do Electric Soft Parade covering Elton John with anthems
a go-go and are better than they sound, especially since
we can hear James Walsh weeping in the distance… Radio
4 like at Glasto are direct groovesome swine, but
Christ! Those bongos... Ladytron are refreshingly
electronic, cold, bass heavy and striking… Polyphonic
Spree are exceedingly late so we piss off to Evan
Dando, but not before we’ve seen Tim Delaughter bouncing
up and down on the spot amongst the roadies for 20 seconds…
Finch are just a nu-mess… The best thing Good
Charlotte did was encourage the audience to shower
them in debris, it was beautiful…
Leeds
Festival Review
Photos courtest of James Berry and Shot2Pices.net
Relevant Sites:
www.readingfestival.com/
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2003©
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