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So the festival winds down on Sunday night under a
metaphorical mushroom cloud of blistering white noise,
unsteadiness, verve, carnage and calm courtesy of the
mightier-than-thou Mogwai and some surprisingly
pleasant back-catalogue pillaging from the Manic
St Preachers. The kids diffuse contently into the
campsite, drain their last few tins of piss-weak lager
and then proceed to kick the unholy fuck out of anything
not pinned down too tightly. And those things that are
soon enough find themselves burnt to an inconsequential
pile of ash. Amateur anarchy ahoy!
Flames reach ridiculous heights, the sky gets choked
with the quite real mammoth mushroom plumes of retching
chemical-toilet fumes and the riot police show their
highly protected faces, run about for a bit, have things
lobbed at them and then piss off. The fire brigade reportedly
refuses to come out. People run for their lives (or
at least trundle homewards a tad disgruntled). It's
somewhere between Apocalypse Now, the May Day riots,
medieval war and Friday night in Bradford. Entertaining
enough if you were out of the danger zones, and full
marks to the man pitched by Crud who slammed 'Firestarter'
onto his stereo the moment the first toilet block went
up. Show your face man, we want to buy you a pint.
 As
utterly overshadowing as this was though we never feared
for our lives watching the likes of PJ Harvey,
and for that at least we shall remember the music. Not
that we'd have probably minded going during the West
Country goddesses' slinky clutch of sparse 'n' dirty
groves, performed as though she felt at least as sexy
as she clearly looked. And following Iggy Pop,
a man who must feel little more than a slight pulse
these days and looks little better, but still manages
to put on the punk gig of the weekend, had to make for
pairing of the festival. And hey, both managed to take
to the stage after The Strokes, so life must
go on, yes?
Incidentally, The Strokes - granted promotion
to the main stage following the ridiculous media frenzy
of the past few weeks - started off shaky, finished
a lot better, impressed a few people, but not once looked
like the future of rock 'n' roll. Much better were acerbic
London four piece Ikara Colt who themselves packed
in the thriftstore cool and new-wave jaggedness, along
with the bluster of The Fall and the single most frantic
shit-kicking mental drummer of the festival. NYC's other
must-have-a-peep of the weekend, Moldy Peaches,
in contrast didn't really falter, making you giggle
like a child to their unashamedly adolescent humour
delivered in the style of Kevin 'Bloody' Wilson via
Kim Deal. Cute. On the comeback trail a couple of men
whose back catalogues undoubtedly feature in collections
of more than a few acts on this weekend's bill fare
rather differently. On the main stage Frank Black
may display an ever expanding girth, though that's not
to say he's making any more room for rock in there.
Sounding like 4th-on-the-bill-at-the-Bell-&-Whistle-Sunday-night-blues,
even a strained 'Gouge Away' isn't enough to keep us
there. And when King Adora grab the Pixies blueprint
a day earlier, throwing it at Slade with a fistful of
sexually ambiguity and sounding completely fucking nuclear
for it, the artist formally known as Black Francis should
feel very pathetic indeed. On the second stage however
Evan Dando refuses to do anything other than
shine. All the classics tumble forth, he's retained
his cool, looks healthier than ever and still possesses
a voice that could turn a Papa Roach fan to the light.
And the new songs breathe with all the harmonic comfort
they deserve. Though Marilyn Manson may have
put on the rock show of this particular scribe's life
and Papa Roach somehow pulled off looking credibly
scarred for about 5 minutes, Run DMC ruled, Xzibit
pulled the punches (despite constantly referring to
us as "London!") and Eminem hit the spot with
his D12 rabble regardless of playing it disappointingly
straight himself, the real gems were found nurturing
their strikes with much more elegance.
 Mercury
Rev brought the first day to a close with the most
otherworldly grandeur imaginable, soaring through the
dream-world showcased on the new album, drizzled with
emotional peaks and troughs, all directed by the demonic
conducting of Jonathan Donahue. And 'Goddess On A Highway'
still just can't be beaten. Up on the comparatively
microscopic Carling Stage, former 'Rev keyboardist Justin
Russo steered Hopewell to more familiar but worthy peaks
with an impassioned cry. Lowgold made a tatty but welcoming
run through the gentle melodic pop of their 'Just Backward
Of Square' album and as a reminder that twee indie never
dies Teenage Fanclub proved that while they may
not be going up anymore, they certainly ain't going
down.
But it was Elbow that stood arms and shoulders
above all else. Manchester's driving atmospheric youngblood
pack out an early evening second stage and reward with
the sound of belief, confusion, anger (and that's anger,
not teenage angst), ecstasy and completion finding its
slipstream. Guy Garvey swings from serenity to force
ten emotion with a voice so powerful and genuine you
never question a word that falls from it. As the horns
join the furious march at the end of 'Coming Second'
it's overwhelming and 'Newborn' climaxes like it could
never be followed. As Crud finally settles down with
the sound of war cries and the world crackling around
our very ears there's at least the memory of that sound.
And the two compliment each other beautifully.
In Brief… Queens Of The Stone Age did what they
had to do… Lo Fidelity Allstars pumped their
dirty big beats with intensity, but on the main stage
in daylight (?)… Gay Dad seem to have fought
out of their over-packaging and turned up the heat…
The Cooper Temple Clause were a bit tidier round
the edges than usual but still gave it in spades…
Terris returned with their chaotic punk drive refusing
to wane… Voy's bomb-laden intrinsic indie blew
away the cobwebs with might… Vex Red, Ross Robinson's
Brit nu-metallers, took all the hype and actually made
some sense of it… Boyhitscar and Hed (PE)
suffered terribly from trying to make nu-metal funky…
Staind were, well, they don't really deserve
the words… Supergrass are about one of the greatest
pop bands we've ever spawned, and that didn't change
here… Ash were Ash, only with dancing girls,
which was probably a good thing… Ad Rock's BS2000
lifted the roof off the second stage with retro electronica
Beastie style… Mull Historical Society grated
where they could have flown… Folk Implosion,
with a restrained but tetchy Lou Barlow, were warm and
fuzzy and lovely… Trail Of Dead thankfully brought
the tunes to match the drama… Travis, with that
special Fran Factor, rolled out the rockers and went
for it, in a nice way… Eels swung all over the
place but a creeping cover of 'Get UR Freak On' dragged
in the points… Fun Lovin Criminals did what they
had to do…
Official
site - www.leedsfestival.com
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