FRIDAY PIXIES
VS. THE NATIONAL We can’t tell you how long we’ve been waiting for
this. Actually, it’s been about 18 months truth told. So we can’t tell you quite
how far there is to fall if things don’t match up. It wasn’t through lack of trying
though, every opportunity to see the Pixies on last year’s feverishly acclaimed
worldwide comeback jaunt was blighted at each turn. We were even prepared to go
to V – we were getting desperate – but that wasn’t to be either. But here they
are before us now, atop a festival more befitting their legend, stood on a stage
as iconically as age, respiratory difficulty and bad dress sense will allow, playing
*those songs*. And that’s enough, just.  The
character remains, enough for it to be accepted as credible despite blunted dynamics
overall, at least initially, whilst they work through the rust. They’re never
quite on fire, the only definite sign of life in the first clutch of songs is
the discomfort on Frank Black’s creased face. But there is a turning point, around
a playful ‘Tame’, when they work themselves up to be as inimitable and hugely
charming as expected. The words hang heavier in Black’s throat than they once
did, but he leads forcefully, and even goes so far as to strike up a cute rapport
with a gleeful and constantly beaming Kim Deal. Joey Santiago conducts electricity
with his guitar, Dave Lovering looks like he’s won every lottery draw ever. It’s
a rewarding show and it carries gold in the lining of its jacket. While it’s probably
a vastly lighter bag compared to their rabid headline slot 15 years earlier, the
world has a different relationship with the Pixies now. One that’s been well attended
to tonight.
And one that tears victory from the teeth of The National.
They’re actually unlikely inheritors of the Pixies’ ripped-ragged spirit themselves,
considering their archetypal collection of dense American melancholy. But tonight,
with the landscape-weaving fiddle player absent, they lean on the stiffer end
of their repertoire (‘Abel’, ‘Mr November’, ‘Available’) for comfort perhaps,
to devastatingly genuine, emotionally-strangling effect. And Christ, are they
on fire. The band are tethered up tight to each other’s effervescence, orbiting
a central importance in fiery circles, as Matt Berniger mines an otherworld of
emotion from underneath a frighteningly intense glaze. He’s so bound to his performance
that he seems no more than a couple of spat syllables away from paralysis most
of the time. It’s almost car-crash, and inevitably thrilling to take in. Measured
punctuation like the sublime, building ‘Cherry Tree’ adds a velveteen bow to the
beautiful carnage beneath. On any other day it would have been more than
enough. Too much, maybe. Winner: Pixies THE REST: Like last
year GLC kick things off for us, a spot further up the bill and going nearly
as far in our estimations (surprisingly)… The Wedding Present bundle forth
reliably like Stellastarr*’s great uncles… We Are Scientists, in the Tiscali
sessions tent, disappointingly aren’t. Scientists that is. But they are like the
Bunsen burner under a teasing brew of dirty spitting punk funk superiority… The
Roger Sisters make like Karen O fronting a trampoline full of nails… We wonder
whether Death From Above 1979 haven’t just miked up the freight line behind
the stage and got 2 cider casualties to pull their best Motorhead poses… Despite
being a rebounding quarter of one of the most important Britpop protagonists,
Graham Coxon seems like the boy next door done good this afternoon. Furiously
precise, genuinely sincere, a rusty cannon with perfect aim… the Dead 60s
show a frankly pornographic interest in The Clash’s back catalogue… Jovial melancholy
is order of the day as Elbow triumph with a confident, striding main stage
reading of songs old and new, battling against a ludicrously confused sound mix…
Kano is technically breakneck, playfully sparring, explosive, an inspiration…
The Cooper Temple Clause play an under-attended, mechanical comeback in
their own home town… Where we first stand, The Killers’ bass sounds like
a flat tyre, which didn’t help. They play a new song that sounds like The Strokes
by Erasure without the sexuality. S’ok... BRMC are on message, exactly
what one expects. Only a little more tender. Nice … SATURDAY THE
ARCADE FIRE VS. EVERYBODY ELSE  It
wasn’t like it was ever going to be a fair contest, it was barely even a contest
at all. But let’s play ball anyway. There are girls robot-dancing like their batteries
are leaking lithium. Cymbal stands are snatched from the drum kit and shaken inexplicably,
amongst other acts of random happy-violence from the spare-part over on the left
of the stage. They caress their guitars with verve, dissipate deliciously around
each others’ violins, and melt between their keys, wisping tiny independent melodic
sprites up into an angelic terrace wall of heated passion. Yes. We’re only minutes
in at this point, forging excitedly through second song, ‘Neighbourhood #2 (Laika),
in a set who’s ascent would, and possibly could, not falter, not once. It feels
like the biggest party in this field certainly, this county, this whole damn country
probably, right now. Until proven otherwise we’ll assume it to be so. They all
give 110%, and then some, and if that’s a tired old cliché then it became familiar
for much much lesser reasons.
They throw the house lights up and encourage
all present to give them a wave. We oblige. Manically. Win Butler complains: “Sorry
you’re all like 500 miles away”. In this little tent? Ordinarily that would be
a feigned mainstage protest from a waxed rock star attempting to connect with
their demographic to pump up merchandise sales. But here is a band that obviously
take the greatest comfort in blinding intimacy. They are so very bright in themselves
though that they attain that regardless. And they burn over an orgy of entwined
exhilaration. Nobody else in this field today, or all weekend, has the
same enduring spirit as The Arcade Fire. Nobody else can tease the emotional
faders up so high without collapsing under a welter of feedback, welcome so many
to a truly shared experience or devour melody so voraciously, so mysteriously.
It was frankly offensive that they had to precede Babyshambles. The result is
ergo a foregone conclusion. Winner: The Arcade Fire THE REST:
Anyone fancy Editors doing a Bloc Party for next year? Judging by this
showing they’ve got the pedigree. He clutches his guitar to his forehead repeatedly,
like some sort of nervous protection, and unfolds vibrant, blinding depression…
The Longcut might steal, but they steal so damn much, and they sound like
a thunderstorm in a washing machine and twice as heroic… The Cribs look
just like Busted from this distance and their set refuses to revoke that impression,
the communal aggro of the album is AWOL…Mystery Jets enthral with tenfold
peculiarities, quaint prog eclecticism, many many ideas and a line up that still
amazes… And so a tent fills itself near to the brim to see a film star thrashing
around in her undergarments. Juliette & The Licks are 1 part punk, 2 parts
soft rock. She is no PJ Harvey… Dinosaur Jr make guitar solos essential
for 5 minutes, then wear the privilege out… So we amble off to see Dogs
look after themselves much better than anyone, save themselves, would have predicted.
But it is all bubblegum… Be Your Own Pet are like fried Subways on toast,
with extra Tabasco, and an afro. She shimmies like a voodoo doll on a rope in
a furnace. It’s all good sustenance… And it’s just as well we filled up, Razorlight
can’t even blow much of a bubble with their gum. A massive letdown after last
year’s mid afternoon scene-stealer… Talking of let-downs, of course Babyshambles
can’t follow The Arcade Fire, Doherty can’t even follow a straight line most of
the time, but blow me and break into my flat if he doesn’t turn up and just about
save his band from absolute ruin… SUNDAY BLOC PARTY VS.
SONS & DAUGHTERS You can practically taste the air during these two
sets. The tension, the snap-brittle angst, the hunger, the taut psychosomatic
trembling, all palpable. And sweet. Like fried doughnuts. Only of course there’s
less chance of breathing it in comfortably during Bloc Party’s set, as while Sons
& Daughters may come to butcher, rally and stomp as far as they can with their
contradictory Scot folk-bashing, Bloc Party have strolled up to the manor
with conquering in mind, brandishing lengths of delayed guitar (© Johnny Greenwood),
post-millennial discontent and one immaculate indie fringe as tools of persuasion.
No negotiation, however, is required. A foregone conclusion for such a young headline
act would, you’d think, dilute the excitement, but the context isn’t lost. One
year ago, today, they played all the way down at the other end of the bill, in
the same tent. Now they own it. It would definitely be something to celebrate,
if you could move.  The
reaction is almost second to none – don’t go forgetting The Arcade Fire, now.
One lad with admirable upper body strength, for the third day especially, scales
a tent support and the gig is halted till the “wanker! WANKER! WAAAAANKEEEER!”
has slid back down to earth (scenes reminiscent of Foo Fighters’ oversubscribed
debut here 10 years ago), which only really serves to focus the pandemonium. This
simmering fever meets the virulent tangle of wired guitar and bundling beats head
on and it’s as if they feed off each other. Conversely there seems to be a much
more serious edge to their performance this year than last, coming more in line
with the album, maybe taking into consideration what they’ve become in 12 months.
But we still get ‘Little Thoughts’, one of their brightest moments and a sad omission
from ‘Silent Alarm’. It makes up for the lacklustre new track ‘Two More Years’
and shines, as do they, like a rough diamond.
Which is just what Sons
& Daughters didn’t do hours earlier. None of it! Shining’s for bloody Jessies!
Though having said that they don’t scrub up too bad at all. And like a rusty meat-hook
through your cheekbone, once they’ve got you there’s no turning away. In an ocean
of boys and guitars they’re a cabaret clash of the sexes balancing on a wobbly
tin tray in a gale. It’s the sound of traditional Scotland, from folk to the Fannies,
pumped full of industrial chemicals, turned up to ten and left to clatter away
in the dark until it’s sorted out its issues. It’s like they’ve just snorted the
seven deadly sins before they came out. Daylight doesn’t suit them so well, but
tucked away in the second stage tent they’re strong enough to block out any chinks
of light. ‘Johnny Cash’, ‘Dance Me In’ and ‘Hunt’ are unforgiving, uneven and
uniquely grand. Winner: Bloc Party THE REST: Art Brut
clearly don’t see this time of day usually, there’s even a new song about it.
The art rock synchronicity does crash-bang into place eventually though… Davey
Crockett rides the same passive/aggressive twitch he always did, now with The
Crimea, only now he’s like Bright Eyes with horns, guaranteed to have never
seen a loft apartment in his life… The Rakes manage admirably with singer
Alan on the bench, roping in members of Bloc Party, Maximo Park and Towers of
London to help out, and make an event where there probably wouldn’t have been
one… You barely know Hal are even on, could be the sound-guy’s 70’s megamix
spinning for all we know. Which is a compliment of sorts… It’s easy to get carried
away on the excitement sometimes, and you may as well, it’s the right thing to
do. Maximo Park are serious, sincere, buttoned-up pop rascals… With every
reformed band (and they’re barely guaranteed minority status this weekend) the
question is can they can re-ignite the old flame? With Iggy & The Stooges,
there’s no question. Iggy is the light that never goes out, and if the same can’t
be said for his band it doesn’t matter. You can’t hear old age. And besides, who’s
looking at them… The Duke Spirit we knew before the album came out and
simplified the whole proposition show their face. They’re still not as good as
Leila thinks they are and some gestures fall flat on the meagre crowd… The foliage
waves wildly in the wind for British Sea Power. There may be police patrols
in all nearby open spaces. But it makes things more homely, the perfect setting
for a faultless greatest hits set… We arrive in time to see Amusement Parks
On Fire bleeding distortion together pleasingly… We raise a disapproving eyebrow
for a polystyrene Marilyn Manson sterilising ‘Tainted Love’, then run for
cover… Engineers are the perfect antidote. Despite being as inspiring on
the eye as Athlete in a beige cardie, they forge clouds of driving noise, metaphorically
chasing homegrown twisters and marvelling at the chinks of sunlight breaking through…
Iron Maiden. Ha ha ha ha ha. Brilliant. Relevant sites:
http://www.readingfestival.com
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2005©
 |
|
| 04/05 British Sea Power - Live - Scala, London
04/05 Eels - Live - Royal Festival Hall, London
04/05 Doves, Elbow, Longview - Carling 24 , Manchester
04/05 Joy Zipper, ICA London
04/05 The National - 100 Club, London
04/05 Redjetson / Liberez / Twentysixfeet - Marquee, London
04/05 The Warlocks - Bethnal Green Working Men's Club
12/04 Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - ULU, London
12/04 Elbow - Live -Brixton Academy, London
12/04 Franz Ferdinand - Live - Alexandra Palace, London
12/04 Morning Runner - Kings College London
12/04 Carling Weekend Reading Festival 2005
12/04 Sigur Rós - Brixton Academy, London
12/04 Crud Top 20 Albums 2005 |  |
January 2001
July - August 2001
September - October 2001
November - December 2001
January - March 2002
April - July 2002
August - December 2002
January - March 2003
May - August 2003
November 2003
January - March 2004
April - September 2004
October - December 2004
January - March 2005
April - December 2005
January - August 2006
September - December 2006
January - September 2007
October - December 2007
January - May 2008
| | |
| |
