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So previously, Glastonbury had proven itself as great,
worthy and now as secure as it was claiming to be, following
a year confined to event boot camp. Festivals 1 - Bureaucracy
0! But as a late entrant, Leeds' post-festival bad behavior
in 2001 caught up with it as officials politely told
organisers Mean Fiddler to fuck right off as far as
their license application was concerned. So of course
they groveled, made a bundle of promises and swore an
oath on a copy of 'Is This It' (possibly) that they'd
be really really good this time, honest. Which they
were, through and through, largely. Until, that is,
the now ritualistic mass Roman-esque sacrifice of the
final night groaned into view, kids rampaged for whatever
reason in most directions, pushed over what they could
and set fire to what they couldn't while spectators
chewed on meat and gristle, blood dripping down their
chins (possibly). But alas we were asleep - the small
mercies of intoxication.
All of this spare directionless testosterone only soured
the mash more when it came at the end of a weekend charged
with some of the most passionate and focused music we've
seen together in one place, probably since we started
coming to these big fieldly gatherings. So this year's
Leeds Festival was mostly brought to you by The Big
Comebacks, the return of garage rock (in association
with trashed equipment) and lovely glorious sticky sackloads
of hype. Some sacks made an unfortunate mess, some spread
seeds of inspiration and well-being far and wide. Some
comebacks ruptured Leeds' cranium with the planting
of their territorial flags, some forgot all about the
ceremony. Some things amazed, some things disgusted,
some things inspired, some things brought tears, some
things made us wish we hadn't left our army waterproofs
in the soddin’ tent. Such is life. Now we sure as hell
can't think backwards in a straight line, so we'll just
start with the best and see where that takes us.
The best was, perhaps not coincidentally, in the furthest
space away from Sunday night's juvenile tantrum. Out
there, up there, in a place all of their own, it is
hard to find the words for The Polyphonic Spree.
And as much of a cliché as that might be, they are not,
so the feeling stands. 20+ people, theramin craziness,
horns in excelsis, chiming guitars ebbing smiles across
faces, an angelic choir with stimulation in their eyes
and rainbows practically cascading from their bellies.
A little too perfect? As the natural chemicals continue
to cartwheel through your pumped up arteries you guess
so, but when was the last time you gave quite this much
genuine happiness to yourself? You can scramble for
comparisons and references if you must – they're not
exactly hidden away, think Jason Pierce actually getting
all that salvation he craves – but they're unimportant.
Emotionally nothing is on a par, and that is important.
We look up during the extended finale and see a man
wrapped in leaves waving a branch from the top of the
tent. We are delirious. Everything's going to seem a
little soiled after this.
And to summarise, leaving The Strokes for the
'Spree was the best thing we did all weekend. Then again,
when they played 'Alone Together' what were they expecting
us to do? It's not that New York's privileged sons disappointed
exactly, kicking off with a sprightly 'New York City
Cops' is as good a way to start as any, but neither
did they excite. They looked like they belonged up there,
but it is after nightfall and looking so lame mid-afternoon
last year it was always likely they would. Julian slumped
up on a stool (not even offering a limp shake of the
healthy leg) is hardly the best introduction to headline
status though. We wanted to like them, and we did, but
not like we should have done.
But when the opposite was quite true for Pulp
they had no chance of following them. Jarvis is still
unequivocal master of seizing the moment, possibly more
so than ever now. With an arrestingly involved performance,
a uniquely sharp wit, shocking dance moves and a greatest
hits set that just has to raise its eyebrow to make
other greatest hits sets hyperventilate, they surprise
and conquer. Were it not for 20 white-robed gems from
Dallas, Pulp really would have taken the weekend. And
as he enunciates the line “just give us a kiss to celebrate
here today” in ‘Something Changed’ a random passing
man stops a random passing girl and kisses her on the
cheek before continuing on his way. And that is what
makes moments like these special. The peak of their
career to date, ‘Sunrise’, was still yet to come at
this point.
Maybe all The Strokes were missing all along was fireworks.
You see, Guns 'N' Roses brought fireworks. Big
bags of fireworks. By the ton. And probably a few more
stuffed down where customs wouldn't probe. It is scientifically
proven fact that rock fans react better to nothing than
a combination of loud guitars and fire. And they had
the sparks, the small country engulfing fireballs, the
biggest damn Catherine wheels we had ever seen and your
average front of stage explosions. We got all a bit
giddy if truth be told. It was PYRO-FUCKING-MANIA-A-GO-GO.
And those opening wibbles of ‘Welcome To The Jungle’
still light up a fire of their own. They were – sorry,
he was – out of this world, really. Back in another
one, the Eighties. As it was he looked like he’d walked
out of storage, the highest quality nostalgia you could
imagine. At points it was like we’d found ourselves
right inside a big budget rock vid bubble. During ‘Knocking
On Heavens Door’ 3 girls clamber onto a truck behind
the stage and dance silhouetted against a lit tent as
the heat of fires distort their image and more lighters
than we have seen in our lives pepper the crowd. Pure
magic. Seriously. Any idea or personnel introduced post-1991
however stunk of whatever we were getting a whiff of
during Buckethead’s perplexing, never ending axe solo
/ hippie juggling / interpretation mime segment. Where
the fuck is Slash when you need him? “He’s up my ass.
That’s where Slash is. Go home!” Oh. So they turned
up 90 minutes late, played 2 hours beyond curfew – still
smashing local residents’ best china at 1am – made a
big stinking hoo-ha about it all (“I didn’t come all
the fuckin’ way over to fuckin’ England to be told to
go all the way back fuckin’ home by some asshole!”)
and acted like they were the festival. Far be it from
us to suggest they engineered the whole episode. Hell
no.
Preceding them The Prodigy tried for a similar
attitude, sans the explosions and arsey timekeeping,
and almost pulled it off. Though belief in that does
rely on accepting where they’re coming from now – big
stages, grooming, etc. Numerous new songs hint at a
bigger homage the Pistols, Keith believing he is Rotten
to the core, and it was just enough of a step to keep
us interested. Though on the day of the big shorts and
big ego, when anything less than owning your audience
to the point of physical branding is failure, they naturally
lose out to Slipknot. Still the best show on
earth, regardless of any other more reasoned opinions.
Slipknot: “We wanna hear you SING, Leeds!” Leeds: “WRROARSPLATTEREEPROARUGH!”
Then #3 wanks off his nose. And that you can’t argue
with. After an evenhanded pummeling though we seek solace,
antithesis and shelter with Haven and against
some reasonable odds find it. You know that occasional
warm and fuzzy flurry of loveliness that absolutely
all the bands you love give you at some point? Haven
prove themselves to be that single feeling personified.
And today they are exactly what they say they are.
But we really came in search of noise, self abuse and
sonic excess this weekend and had little trouble finding
it. First up, ex At The Drive Ins Sparta “from
El Paso, motherfuckin’ Texas” could have gone either
way but pretty much strolled right down the middle,
being ATDI but much easier on the palette. Better were
The Pattern, first up on Sunday, keeping the
weekend’s standard up with some jagged angles. We were
a little worse for wear during The Datsuns and
out memory doesn’t serve us well, but our notebook simply
reads “Whoooof! Stop that rock ‘n’ roll train! we’ll
have a bite of that”. We rolled up to the new bands
tent expecting D4 but got The Beatings due to
stage time fuck ups (down to the Ikara Colt sized hole
in the bill, banned from playing Leeds after tearing
Reading apart the night before) and they ruled on all
the levels D4 didn’t last time we saw them. Detroit’s
Von Bondies were excellent, good old-fashioned
hold-onto-your-daughter r’n’r and had us thrashing our
head about in a somewhat electrified fashion. Icarus
Line wear sharp matching attire and spit on The Hives.
They distortedly spasm, fuck over an amp or two, put
a hole in the audience’s ear and spit on Sparta. They
gape wide-eyed, gasping for breath and spit on just
about every-fucking-body. Blistering.
Icarus Line weren’t the only ones to spit on
The Hives this weekend though. International Noise
Conspiracy, the back leg of a trio of bands that
made the new tent so vital, are very much The Hives.
Only with an injection of CBGB’s glam, more spunk, better
tunes, better clothes and just really fucking good with
no let up whatsoever. And when earlier in the day
The Hives were the best band on the planet for about
15 minutes before they fell over the very fine line
that the whole cumbersome joke was balanced on – essentially
the summer festival equivalent of the novelty wind-up
Santa you wheel out at Christmas – INC take a deeper
thrilling hold on you by the minute. British Sea
Power however go for a more awkward thrill, though
no less gripping, Swathed in dry ice, the stage lined
with leafy growths, antlers, stuffed birds and four
boys with a bolt hanging loose, out of time and place
and with ‘kill’ in their eyes, they take all before
them. A gloriously etched out cacophony of Joy Division
atmospherics, Echo & The Bunnymen melodies and driving
new-wave, in the fog, with a short temper. A temper
however that can’t possibly match that of 80s Matchbox
B-line Disaster, an awesome hulking machine firing
sparks from joins other bands don’t have. A disappointing
turn out and a lacking start, but you really don’t imagine
their cylinders ever stop ticking over. A wall of jarring
sound and a fire hot frontman that is convinced you
WILL connect with him. We do.
If there was one grumble we had it was that some epic
bands, capable of great things given a little patience,
were forced down the bill, possibly due to the swell
of hype at the top. The Dandy Warhols were one
such band, sprawling across an early afternoon that
can’t quite make its mind up. The mellow psychedelia-scapes
for monging and the up-tempo open-roaders for joy suit
perfectly. Lows, highs, cracks of sunshine, they level
out on a high. And then Mercury Rev who last
year inspired devotion at the top of the second stage
bill amongst lights, smoke and Jesus Christ poses, looked
more like the nocturnal beast awoken, squinting and
bewildered, the boulder rolled from their front door.
It takes a while to adjust but they do leave a sepia
gleam across the site. But when the White Stripes
take Saturday afternoon for their own, where anyone
else is or may have been is irrelevant. They trip over
the start of their set, but pick themselves up and almost
make it look intentional. You gasp. He carries on being
heaven-sent. She soaks it all up. Just divine.
Not only do they come back EVERY SINGLE TIME with a
chart-shagging, scuffed-up beastie of a pop single,
Ash have practically dragged themselves back
from the dead to play these two gigs against doctors
orders, following a mutha of a crash on tour in the
US. Rick, practically held together by sticky plaster,
plays on pure adrenalin and drives them to the best
gig we’ve ever seen them play. ‘Envy’! ‘Angel Interceptor’!
‘Kung Fu’! ‘Oh Yeah’! ‘Burn Baby Burn’! They’d show
Julian Casablancas a thing or two about (oh lord, whimper)
hurting his leg. Just try and hold these fucked up little
bunnies back. Now, we were getting a little weary of
Muse’s hi-fi prog fumbles, but strike me down
with a burning portaloo if they weren’t born to fill
stadia. Matt Bellamy blasts the stage with spasms from
the NASA controls at his feet and then spruces it all
up with some ridiculously glamourous wailing. We never
thought a Queen reference we made in a Muse review years
ago would grow so rampant and take over the show. The
only true rock stars of the weekend.
We tried to give the Foo Fighters a look, but
despite an early airing for ‘This Is A Call’ we were
far more interested in the Brazilian Doughnut stall
we’d just discovered. So we headed straight down the
hill for the only proper way to finish the festival,
under a fug of white distortion and battered and bruised
feelings courtesy of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
Playing their last show “for a while” to a second stage
audience going, for want of a better phrase, absolutely
nuts, there was more than a hint of celebration in the
air, mixing in furtively with the dry ice. See Robert
Turner lurking in the shadows, ripping apart his bass
completely to and for himself, stumbling forward into
the glare of the lights, catching our eyes and giving
a brief sheepish furrow of well-being and glimpse the
dirty purity rock and roll is capable of. ‘Screaming
Gun’ is sullen and magnificent, ‘Whatever Happened…’
is utterly frantic and ‘Salvation’ is so many emotional
loose ends packed into an all-too-brief 15 minutes.
And then they are gone as we hear people stumble off
promising to get rat-arsed and/or start a fire.
Erm, same time, same place next year then?
In Brief… Perry Farrell was back, pompously leading
Jane’s Addiction with a suspect collection of
hats, Dave Navaro noodled himself to heaven and back,
but while we didn’t catch anything quite like it all
weekend they didn’t play ‘Jane Says’ or ‘Been Caught
Stealing’ and we weren’t left begging for more… The
Breeders shirked urgency and played a set perfect
for sparking out in the sun, shame they were in a darkened
tent really… Missed most of Moldy Peaches, but
‘Who’s Got The Crack’ was warm and strangely heartening
and they were like little pets we wanted to hold to
our bosom… We had it on good authority that The Libertines
with their limp Jam pastiche were so chaotic they practically
split up on stage at Reading the day before, but if
they can’t keep that up for just two days then frankly
we’re not interested… Six By Seven were solid,
loud and reliable, finishing with ‘The Way I Feel Today’
was immense…Spiritualized were as sublime as
ever, back to basics, but we left to watch G’N’R’s roadies
set up for an hour… For the post-grunge, hardcore, Idlewild/Nirvana/Pearl
Jam/Mudhoney racket Biffy Clyro make they do
it with some fucking balls live, especially the brilliant
closer ‘57’… Simple Kid, simple pop, very nice…
New wave shoegazers Longwave still manage to
nip past the New York City Hype Cops, allowing themselves
to humbly shine every bit as much as they deserve… Sahara
Hotnights amounted to more than one of the Hives’ other
half & her girlfriends… 100 Reasons were painfully average,
damp like the afternoon, lost in the breeze… Hell
Is For Heroes made a generic noise… The annoyingly
lovable Ben Kweller played some gripping warm
songs full of the energy that his mentor, Evan Dando,
was always too stoned to muster & whitered on about
playing here with Radish may moons ago… Rival Schools
did what they did… The Cooper Temple Clause were
more rounded than we were expecting, but there’s still
a missing link in their wired cross-references and singer
Ben can never be half the frontman he thinks he actually
is... The Shining are the Verve’s tired engine
room stuck in 3rd gear with Gary Stringer’s vocal ego
thwacked onto the front, one song even sounded like
Reef’s lumpy ‘Naked’ progged out a bit… Andrew WK,
ha ha, bless him… Weezer made us smile briefly…
An exhausted James Berry for Crud Magazine©
2002
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| 08/02 Beachwood Sparks Interview
08/02 Coldplay - A Rush Of Blood To The Head
08/02 Goldrush - Don't Bring Me Down
08/02 Montgolfier Brothers Interview
08/02 Wilco - Interview - Jeff Tweedy
09/02 Apples In Stero Interview
09/02 Audio Vent Interview - Band Of Brothers
09/02 Beck - Sea Change Listening Party
09/02 Bon Jovi - Everyday
09/02 Peter Gabriel - UP - Signal To Noise Ratio
09/02 Ikara Colt - Live - 100 Club, London
09/02 Joy Zipper - Ron
09/02 Kathryn Williams - No One Takes You Home
09/02 Carling Weekend Leeds Festival
09/02 Noise Therapy - Interview - Ron Thiessen
09/02 Splender Interview
10/02 Dragpipe Interview
10/02 Foo Fighters - One By One
10/02 Goldrush - Live - Camden, Dingwalls
10/02 Hell Is For Heroes - Live - Brixton Academy , London
|  | 10/02 Jetplane Landing - Live - Grage , London
10/02 Kinesis - Live - Grage , London
10/02 Ladytron - Seveteen
10/02 Longwave - Live - Water Rats, London
10/02 My Computer - Live - Camden Monarch, London
10/02 Polyphonic Spree - Tour Dates
10/02 Silvertide Interview
10/02 Simian - Live - Bethnal Green Working Men's Club, London
10/02 System of A Down - Steal This Album
10/02 Talib Kweli - Quality
12/02 A - Live - Brixton Academy, London
12/02 Audio Bullys - We Don't Care
12/02 Aurelius 7 Interview
12/02 Burning Brides Interview
12/02 D4 - Live - Mean Fiddler, London
12/02 Kickrollers
12/02 Top Ten Albums 2002
January 2001
July - August 2001
September - October 2001
November - December 2001
January - March 2002
April - July 2002
August - December 2002 | |
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