Things are much less worn in than they used to be, don’t you
think – is anything treasured anymore (and are we sounding any more like our parents
yet?). We’re fairly convinced the footwear we see today is predominantly younger
than 12 months old. Bedraggled war-torn Doc Martin’s and threadbare biro-customised
Converse are in the minority certainly. You can take that, if you wish, as a metaphor
for the accelerating disposability of the bill too, and in particular as some
kind of explanation for the Arctic ‘bloody’ Monkeys’ curiously rampant ascendance
and premature main-stage slot last night. It’s up to you. But society’s modern
values (or absence thereof) rubbing off on its biggest rock festival aside, Reading
is as familiar as it has ever been. Walking through the gates on Sunday
afternoon it’s like we were only here yesterday. And for once we weren’t. Yeah,
sorry, we’ve gone part-time on you. What can we say, we sometimes have a life
outside telling you about bands we saw in a field. But as we were saying, everything’s
in its right place, from the stages, to the general temperament, the food stalls,
and that bloke over there in the Iron Maiden t-shirt sparked out in some kind
of inverted advert for the sponsor. In fact, in spite of 15,000 extra tickets
sold this year things seem exactly the same, save for a bulky new barrier
halfway back from the main-stage (arriving the same year as the safety-conscious
Pearl Jam can’t be a coincidence, but it’s a welcome precaution nonetheless).
This means the smaller stages are more rammed than ever, but unless you’re some
kind of lemming – and there are admittedly all sorts here – there’s nearly always
a way in and it keeps the atmosphere simmering nicely.  For
all the criticism it attracts (umm, including from us back there in paragraph
1) you can’t really knock Reading Festival. It never had lofty ambitions and ergo
could never fall short of them. There have been superficial alterations, but it
still remains the only festival if all you desire is a concentrated skip-load
of bands, guitar playing bands of boys mostly, one after another, just a staggered
triple(ish)-jump apart, in a field. And if there’s one trend currently amassing
it’s that everyone has a profile these days, living in Myspace valley as we all
do, from the bottom of the bill upwards. And excitement abounds.
So there’s
this noticeably appreciative enthusiasm bubbling under for Tapes ‘n’ Tapes
when we walk in on their elastic alt-hillbilly US indie. The impressive winding
they dole out in a small room is absent, but their giddy spirit cuts through even
if they don’t quite take your breath away, this time. That could however simply
be because ¡Forward, Russia! have a monopoly on that sort of behaviour
before tea time. The Leeds-based emo-in-a-blender shrapnel scatterers have the
muscles of a band made purely of titanium and complex-hydraulics and never fail
to detach your jaw from your face. In this setting things also seem peculiarly
anthemic, which had never crossed our minds before. Following the exclamation
marks over to the Carling tent we find ourselves in the company of You Say
Party! We Say Die! Their name is the most exciting thing about them, but that’s
not necessarily an insult, their name is pretty fucking exciting. They sound like
Pretty Girls Make Graves on a spring. Bouncy. Repetitive. Squeaky. The
Dresden Dolls – complete with an exaggerated camp-cabaret possession by Sabbath’s
‘War Pigs’ – give the most staggering performance of the day, exclaiming wildly
without the aid of punctuation. But that was already a certainty and doesn’t need
dwelling on. Not when we inadvertently find ourselves taking in Hope Of The
States’ partially-tumultuous last ever gig (plenty to dwell on here). Not
that you’d know it. It’s puzzling how much of a premeditated non-event
it is. We’d seen the messageboard rumours and BBC3’s unofficial announcement,
but it’s only a touching grip on Sam’s shoulder from guitarist Anthony, departing
as Sam continues to massage his keys and emote alone at the climax to ‘Enemies/Friends’,
guitar feedback spiralling around him, that brings even a hint of significance
to the set. And it deserved more. If anything, this afternoon proves what a decisive
set of songs they carry with them, how potent and dirty-orchestral they can be
when they come together. It’s a more than satisfactory showing, but a wholly inadequate
full stop. They owed themselves a little more. But you can take that lingering
feeling of dejection and flip-reverse it (oops, wrong numbersome faux-rap rabble)
– Goldie Lookin Chain might essentially be no more than 40 minutes of excitable
arm waving, cheap tracksuits and stoner knob gags, but so what? It makes us giggle
like we’re drunk for the first time again, back before we’d learnt to dwell. Dumb
entertainment and not a millimetre deeper – guaranteed! Broken Social Scene
are kind of the negative impression of that and nudge our temperament safely back
into kilter, though it’s hardly like they’ve thrown the humour to the dogs. They’re
an overflowing cache of fun, only wearing old Converse (figuratively anyway, we
can’t see their feet). It’s just there’s depth, so much depth, and craftsmanship.
The multi-member hyper-indie Canadian collective prove to be as flawless as ever,
packing in fervour from every angle and giving a surprisingly rounded set considering
they usually take about another 2 hours to get to the point. The 16 year
old in us has been waiting for the headliners since he can remember. Since he
were still in dodgy Doc’s and knew every anguished holler from ‘Jeremy’ backwards.
He’s anticipating it so much in fact that when The Rakes turn out to be
empty shells of what they think they are he even stands through a snatch of Placebo’s
sterile set. And for this wait Pearl Jam turn out to be everything he’d
hoped, and quite a few things we’d feared. Tonight’s long awaited set sees them
as both an impulsive phoenix of riotous, sashaying emotion and just as often as
indulgent, drudging musos. I mean, come on – a drum solo in wailing grunge-classic
‘Even Flow’? You don’t put a drum solo in ‘Even Flow’. You just don’t. And the
stodgy jam that an otherwise raucous set-closing ‘Rearviewmirror’ turns into?
And my, don’t they look old. It has been clear for many years that
Pearl Jam the long-term proposition were quite different to the Pearl Jam that
the majority bought into with those first era-solidifying albums. Their appearance
and endless rock posturing (not to mention the solos, oh, the solos) only underlines
that. And whoever that is on keyboards makes Ian McKellen in prosthetic wizard-skin
look like an Oil of Ulay ad. Eddie Veddar is of course, beneath an entire
hectare of flowing mane, the reason for current fascination outweighing mere nostalgia.
He seems genuinely humbled by the reaction they receive, he seems open, intent,
sometimes you feel you can read every line in his creased brow. He’s engaging.
He plays a damn ukulele, cracks a smile, plays tribute to The Who. He’s very good
company tonight. And he’s barely changed, he seems more or less the same
from his hair down to his shoes, a bit more lumbering perhaps, but he still eyes
up the stage-scaffolding at one point mischievously, even if he doesn’t follow
through. Which is a strong counterweight to the impression left by the rest of
the band, and it pulls them all through. Drawing heavily from the early career
that made their name and scattering with palatable post-‘Vitalogy’ choices, the
set leaves a lasting impression in spite of its many dips. And they get one over
on their disposable counterparts simply by feeling deeply lived in. You might
have doubted at points, depending on the length of your patience, but Reading
did just witness something special. Relevant sites:
http://www.readingfestival.com
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2006© |
