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Make sure you check these pages regularly! They are updated almost everyday! All reviews by Nick Peters unless stated otherwise.
It is time for the madness to begin. The sun is beating down as we arrive and there is a sense of real excitment in the air. Three whole days of the best music from the past year or two, including some of the most exciting and freshest bands to emerge in a long time. This year the bill is immense, ranging from the class of The Strokes to the psychosis of Aphex Twin through to the horror show that is Slipknot. Nearly all corners of rock are represented and there is relief from the power chords in the Dance Tent. Aside from the tremendous music, the festival does lack in after hours entertainment again, one of the many areas where Glastonbury kicks Reading's arse year in year out. The mindless vandalism that troubles Leeds and the closing night of Reading might be squashed in the future if more was put into keeping 60000 drunken metalheads quiet at night. All the same Reading rocked even more than usual. We were down te front reviewing as much as humanly possible in one weekend. Hope you had as good as time as we did.
Reading Friday
Mercury Rev The sweeping orchestration and unashamed pomposity of Mercury Rev is endearing, but probably best suited to a time when the stars are twinkling in the sky. Regardless, their set is a spine-tingling affair, with Jonathon Donahue gesturing to the sky with a mixture of doe-eyes innocence and pretentiousness. 'The Dark Is Rising' is beautiful and they leave having provided us with a genuinely emotional performance. It's a great start to the weekend.
Peaches Mixing some glamour into the otherwise dreary surroundings is the aim of Peaches. Crawling and writhing across the stage to an immaculate soundtrack of pervy electroclash, she is here to stir things up a little. Attaching a rubber penis to herself, along with her S&M cohort Minion, she orders us to "shake your dicks, shake your tits". This is a trashy, hedonistic sexathon with great pulsating tunes backing it up. The hairy arm-pitted PVC-wearing sex-maniac concludes with a crowd-surf that sees her fall on her arse and pour wine over a reveller. Has to be the most outlandish and thrilling set of the festival.
The White Stripes When the talk began about this flirtatious brother/sister duo it was hard to believe. How could such a small unit be one of the best live acts on the planet? Well, it seems to be about power and the unpredictable. This is the loudest set of the weekend, their sound and precision absolutely astonishing, the blues-punk tantalising and wild. Jack White is like an evangelist laying waste to his instruments, making a Bob Dylan cover sound spirtual, Meg gazing at her brother waiting to see where he will lead them next. Inspirational stuff.
Ladytron Although their sound is hypnotic, all Kraftwerk electronics and shimering pop melodies, the black-clad quartet from Liverpool look thoroughly pissed off today. Unable to hear herself the main vocalist looks angrily over at the flustered sound engineer every five seconds, desperately hoping they will sort things out. It is not the only set of the weekend hampered by a rubbish sound in the tents as Alec Empire and The Breeders will tesify. Is it really that difficult to sort out from set to set? Despite that, the dark robotic ones pull it off, with 'Playgirl' and 'I Took Her To A Movie' highlights.
The Vines There isn't quite the mad crush to see The Vines that was expected, but they perform with all the psychosis and reckless enthusiasm that they have already become renowned for. Craig Nicholls' spasmodic disregard might be mesmerising but sometimes they are a little too close to Nirvana for comfort. 'Highly Evolved' is one minute thirty seconds of spiky grunge and some of their more graceful numbers rival the Beatles for melodies, but there is still something missing. They will surely headline next year, all the same.
The Breeders The audience rapidly swells when the rain begins to hammer down, but The Breeders return from the wilderness is hampered by a terrible sound, and they will have won themselves no new fans. 'Cannonball' manages to impregnate that insanely catchy hook in the brain yet again, but aside from that, they are distorted and vague.
The Strokes Just last year, Julian Casablanca's was puking with nerves when faced with the prospect of headlining the main stage. Today he looks like it is his natural home, even though he is restricted to a stool due to his niggling knee injury. Presented with a birthday cake by Jack White, and seeming in good humour throughout, Julian seems like the coolest frontman in the world. They begin with 'The Way It Is', a new tune that sounds remarkably plain compared with the thrills of 'A Modern Age', 'Soma' and Hard To Explain'. 'Meet Me In The Bathroom', the track Courtney Love claims was written for her, fairs considerably better, having that vital edge and freshness that demonstrates just how well the band have got the knack for dragging retro sounds into the present and making them sound so alive. They know they are good, their beaming smiles and increased arrogance demonstrating that they realise they can become one of the biggest bands on the planet if they play their cards right. We'll be watching.
Aphex Twin We hot-foot it over to the dance tent to catch the remainder of what was apparently a tremendous set. The drum 'n' bass benders that were rocking the beginnings have turned into thunderous techno, so fast you fear blood will start leaking from your ears. The 'Twin has got his army of drug-munching mentalists just where he wants them.
Reading Saturday
Andrew WK Oh, go on, sneer away at Andrew WK making a show out of himself up there. Throwing his limbs around, the guy is all hair and beef. Though who is the joke really on, because this guy is having a heap of fun, and he fucking rocks. We arrive just in time to catch the dying embers of his set, and 'Party Hard' is immense, like Bon Jovi overdosing on speed in a techno club. He is the big, friendly giant and we love him.
Less Than Jake Usually any rock band with trumpets in their arsenal should be flogged mercilessly through a circle-pit until they are lifeless. Less Than Jake would be exempt from out frighteningly medieval puinishments however, thanks to their genuine ability to raise a smile and their commitment to the independent spirit. They rarely trouble the mainstream charts and sell little in their home country, but they have worked to achieve an enormous fan base in this country. 'All My Best Friends Are Metalheads' causes pandemonium down the front and their shit-eating grins and mad-hair makes them endearing rather than hateful. A ska-punk band it is OK to like? Yeah!
The Icarus Line The inept sound engineers strike again. Some serious thrash-punk is failing to circulate around the tent and we are forced to briefly admire their black shirts and red ties, then make an exit.
Alec Empire The frontman of Atari Teenage Riot changes everything after his set. Nothing seems quite the same, even though his mic fails to work for the first three songs. Even during this frustrating period, the leather-clad Berliner is on brutal form, with furious techno and razorblade metal spilling from the machines at a amazing speed. After Empire flicks the middle finger at the stage-side crew, and kicks his mic-stand over in irritation, we suddenly have vocals. The Reading organisers probably wish he'd never got the power back. A bitter verbal assault is aimed at the powers that be behind the festival, accused of being 'conservative', 'commercial' and lacking the true spirit of rock 'n' roll. "I don't care if they call the police" he declares when he refuses to bow to demands that they turn it down, before taking a swipe at a security guard. 'Addicted To You' and 'Everything Starts With A Fuck' are truly devastating and Empire underlines his importance in a music industry so saturated with the bland and soulless. "Wake the fuck up!" he screams at the baying crowd. People, it's time.
Sum 41 This is the type of shit that Empire is rallying against. Bland, uninspiring and with nothing to say, this is music for kids who have no idea what true punk spirit is because they are being denied the real deal and sold something that is acceptable to the conservative masses. Not to mention that they are a sub-standard Green Day who have none of the attributes that their heroes have. Only their Metallica cover impresses. Wake the fuck up, indeed.
(Spunge) These are much the same and it is enraging that someone like Alec Empire is confined to the Evening Session Stage whilst this lot are being sold as 'punk' in the Concrete Jungle Tent. It is hard to imagine why people aren't demanding more. When did the politics die in punk-rock? Depressing.
The Parkinsons Rather better are these Portuguese nutters who take their Clash rip-offs and stamp their anarchy all over the Carling Tent. They get completely naked, give security a bloody great headache and play their instruments so roughly they are falling apart by the time they stagger offstage. Their mics have to be switched off because they keep returning to the stage for more mayhem. Sleazy and happy to masturbate themselves with a guitar in your face, they are two fingers up at all the other bands in the tent today.
Sick Of It All These tattooed hulks are the best thing on the Concrete Jungle Stage all day. The emo of Thursday and Saves The Day has been enjoyable but this is the hard stuff. Raging at injustices the world over and interested in things other than girls and getting laid, they pack a punch as hard as Biohazard and as vicious as the Dropkick Murphys.
Reading Sunday
The Dillinger Escape Plan Listening to the DES is rather like having a drill shoved through your head and a battering ram shoved up your arse. They are brain-crushingly insane, spinning twiddly free-jazz with sledgehammer metal riffs, throwing about time signatures like they are dice. The singer is rippling with muscles and could probably take on the whole of the crowd in a fight and win. He throws faeces into the crowd and when it comes back at him he smears it over his shirt and gags. Then he rips off his shirt like a caveman and bolts down to the front to throw punches at an equally delighted and terrified throng. He is the guy who broke his two front teeth within the first five minutes of a recent London show. Extreme stuff.
Raging Speedhorn Looking like a pack of wild bouncers intent on pulverising your head to mash, Raging Speedhorn are sort-of our subsitute for Guns N Roses because Leeds don't have them. It's almost good enough, they rock so hard. They can be intimidating close up but here there is more room to absorb their gruelling hardcore which contains a surprising amount of melody at times. 'The Hate Song' inspires the most bloodthirsty circle-pits of the weekend. Respect, we think.
Amen The only unsigned band to appear on the Main Stage this weekend ,Amen are spitting venom and teeth as well. As Casey Chaos leaps from the speakers and bashes himself repeatedly on the forehead with his mic until he bleeds, he looks indestructible. As they riot through a deadly new track called 'Please Kill Me' and swell with anger when 'CK Killer' looms up, these guys look ready for the next level. Once they sort out their problems and get some financial backing, the wagon of reality will be steamrolling us into submission again. Much like today.
Sparta All emo-harmonies and sweet vocals, Sparta are the non-afroed members of At The Drive-In who look most likely to rise to glory from the ashes of such a great band. Eyes are shut tightly and fists are clasped high in the air as the emotions run high. Floating space-rock mingles well with sporadic bursts of grunge and spirits lift after all that aggression we have just absorbed on the Main Stage.
NoFX The Californian skate-punksters deserve applause for making such a success out of a once unlikely genre. What's more they have refused to sell-out to MTV and have never signed to a major label. Along the way they have also taken care of many great acts through their Fat Wreck Records company. Sadly, they seem to be pissed off their heads today, so much that they consistently fuck-up their songs. They also seem more interested in their kids at stage-side rather than the audience members in front of them. They calm irritation with a few amusing jokes and some well-chosen abuse for George Bush and Tony Blair, and they earn points for slating punk-rock for not being political enough these days, but aside from 'Fuck The Kids' they disappoint a little. Still, you can't help but like them.
Incubus These drippie-hippies might pretend they are all about the love but we are not convinced. This is awful, polished MOR rock bullshit which is all about the packaging. Mainly Brandon Boyd's packaging at that. The tiresome hunk peels his shirt off half way through the set as we all knew he would, and pauses for the delighted screams before pressing on with another three minutes of uninspired power-chords littered with some vaguely tribal percussion. They seem fake and we must not tolerate it.
Slipknot Much more exciting are the Iowa massive who lay waste to all around the moment they appear onstage, although to be fair they seem to have mellowed a little as their career has progressed. The violence from the crowd is scary and the masked henchmen are on form today, thrashing their instruments and scaring all witless with devilish renditions of 'People=shit' and 'Spit It Out'. The kid who braves to square up to Corey Taylor looks terrified by the time the fiend has finished screaming in his face. They are still one of the most capable metal acts out there.
The Streets Providing a welcome retreat from all the rock are the sensational Streets who seem to be speaking for a lot of people. They are a very English band as their lyrics constantly emphasise and they get the crowd fired up through their both humourous and serious documents of real life. 'Don't Mug Yourself' and 'Original Pirate Material' are electric with MC Karl looking like he has been doing this festival lark all his life. "Can someone turn the Offspring down?" Skinner jokes. No really, please!
Prodigy At first it looks very promising. Keith Flint looks appropriately stupid (and sounds it having now gone for a total copy of John Lydon's voice), Maxim is as buff as ever and Liam has his arrogant smirk firmly in place. The punk-electro-metal of the opening tracks are awesome, compromising of mainly new material. The big shock is that 'Firestarter' and 'Breathe' are the major disappointments. They just look like they don't care, like it is a hassle, like it's got boring. Things hit rock-bottom when they start the ska-punk Madness cover. It isn't until set-closer 'Fuel My Fire', even then an L7 cover, that things pick up again. Are the Prodge on the way out? It's starting to look like it.
The sweat is pouring from her brow, obscuring the view of her guitar. She is too breathless to speak in-between songs, apart from to dedicate the feminist celebration of 'Secena Falls' to the ladies in the house. The women thrashing about onstage, ignoring all stage-invaders that bounce into her, is Brody Armstrong, and she is punk rock.
It might be easy to get caught up in her gender, call her the next Courtney Love, but really there is no unnessary fuss to be made. She might be offering a resistance to the mainstream, opposing not only the contrived punk of her contemporaries but establishing her band in an often sexist genre and business in general, but Armstrong is really about the music, pure and simple. The only real comparison to Courtney is that she has a similar jagged rasp to her voice, and that is hardly surprising considering she grew up on a diet of early-Hole and seventies punk.
This is one of the sweatiest and shortest gigs I have been to in a long time. The tunes hurtle by, each one noisy and venomous, loaded with rage and tragedy. Brody might seem a little detached tonight but it is not wonder when the heat is so stifling. 'Sick Of It All' is still recieved thunderously, the refrain "We play punk rock 'n' roll, if we didn't we got no soul" sung like an anthem for punk youth. 'Sing Sing Death House' is hard and concise, apparently being a metaphor for Brody's colourful life. 'The World Comes Tumblin'' somehow manages to retain it's gorgeous melody despite being so fast and brutal.
The Distillers are shaping up to be an extremely exciting and capable punk band ready to give alternative rock the throttling that it needs. Once they have become a quartet again, as opposed to the trio as they are now, they will have the essential muscle to really get going. Come get your arse kicked. (8/10)
Glastonbury Friday
The sunshine is turning us into lobsters and the fence is keeping the scallywags at bay. The hippies are treating us to some manic bongo playing in the stone circle and some nutcase is wandering around dressed entirely in PVC. We are debating whether anyone will turn up to watch Rod Stewart. Michael Eavis is probably beaming at the success that Glastonbury 2002 is so obviously going to be. The line-up might be piss-poor but there is just about enough to satisfy the cravings of a music fan each day.
Punks need look elsewhere however, as the Dropkick Murphys have been replaced with the tedious art-punk thrash that is Ikara Colt . Several skinheads in leather jackets suddenly decide some magic mushies in the Avalon Fields are in order.
We seek out rock thrills elsewhere and somehow end up watching Bush . Although their stadium grunge would have Kurt Cobain turning in his grave they really don't sound that bad, executing the likes of 'Little Things' and 'Swallowed' with a dedicated precision. Over the years, Gavin Rossdale and his chums have improved immensely, even approaching something resembling a tune with the likes of 'The Chemicals Between Us'. Though when Rossdale abandons his guitar for a teeth-grindingly painful ballad, and milks the final song like a Eavis gone mad for cow's milk, you remember what a pretentious, irritating band they can be. You doubt that will ever change.
The first trip to the dance tent see Techno Animal provide a disappointing set. To be fair, we'd never heard of him and were only present because we were promised a sonic assault that would hurt so hard it would send us in search of a hippie with a head-massager. It certainly gave us a headache but only because it was an awful loud electro jumble. We leave the cyber-goths to it (how come cyber-goths came to Glasto?!).
They might look like the boy-band your mother wouldn't approve of but Lost Prophets seem to be gaining more venom every time I see them. Maybe the stint on the US Ozz-fest has given them more muscle but the set is distinctly harder and feister than usual. 'Shinobi VS Dragon Ninja' and 'Fake Sound Of Progress' are as neat and tidy as their hair-styles but delivered with a hyperactive zeal. If we are going to get all nu-metal about it they sound more Deftones than Linkin Park these days. The 'Prophets are shaping up to be an important rock band for the UK.
Much less conventional is the gothic drama of Queen Adreena . They are an awesome and frightening unit, although the more you see them the more contrived the performances seem. Their jagged goth-rock is floating and spiteful but Katie-Jane Garside, all innocence and self-loathing, makes the band what it is. Her angelic vocals could reduce you to tears whilst her screams make you want to take cover. 'Wasp In A Jar' and 'Pretty Polly' are genuinely affecting, both unhealthily flitting between serene beauty and outright fury. Yet it is her crazed theatrics that provide the real spectacle; the scratching and violent spasms, the head-banging and the self-choking and the vicious attacks on her guitarist who gets a split-lip, a stiletto heel in his hip and a smack in the head with the mic stand just for starters. Just after the fabulous glam stomp of 'Pretty Like Drugs', a security guard gets a glass of wine over her head. The band walk off stage laughing, suggesting Katie is only a possessed zombie when she wants to be, but still, she is a complete star.
We briefly catch Dave Grohl thundering down on the drums during another frustrating festival performance from Queens Of The Stone Age . As fantastic as the desert-rockers are, their atmospheric stoner-rock loses much of it's enchantment when played in daylight.
Glastonbury law dictates that one glamorous band a year must assume a position on the line-up which always constitutes a bunch of scruffy, dreary bastards. Three years ago we had Hole and this year we get two in the shape of Garbage and No Doubt. Somewhere along the way Garbage seem to have acquired a few enemies in this country but they are nothing short of incredible tonight. Shirley Manson is on top form, a mixture of cold and sweetness, doing her Mrs. Motivator thing with enthusiasm.
As it is, surprisingly, their first visit to Glastonbury, they seem content to play a greatest hits set rather than concentrate on the more schizophrenic recent material. Therefore, 'I Think I'm Paranoid' slams down like a ten ton hammer of confusion and 'Vow' is more spiteful than ever. 'Only Happy When It Rains' actually brings the first spots of rain of the weekend. They really begin to sparkle when they perform a faultless rendition of 'Cherry Lips (Go Baby Go)' dedicated as always to author and friend J.T Leroy and run through a vitriolic Ramones cover.
Shirley Manson might look more dressed for a Fischerspooner gig than Glastonbury but she is just what we need tonight. Garbage are an underrated band in this country and no mistake.
Glastonbury Saturday
A great proportion of today is spent avoiding horrendous bands and seeking solace amongst hippies, new age bearded folk and the odd happy-clapper in the Avalon fields. Ian Brown, Electric Soft Parade, Haven, The Coral... did anyone remember to pack the sleeping pills? Blimey, I'd rather have a cup of herbal tea than be bored senseless by those bed-wetter's. Nevermind, much fun to be had, dancing along with a gang of Hare Krishna's as they parade around the site, singing merrily and handing out food of love.
We manage to catch a bit of Glastonbury stalwarts Dreadzone who seem to have been playing here every year since 1978. You know the drill; trance-lite, reggae-tinged, messages of love and peace, dreadlocks flapping. It is all well-intentioned but just a little dreary.
More engaging is Ani Di Franco who looks like she is about to have a good cry at any moment. She reads poetry like Patti Smith and plays funk-folk, grimacing and belting her way through tales of disillusionment with society, heartbreak and not being pretty (she is actually very pretty). It's all been done before but she is so passionate, intense and desperate to provide faultless renditions of her unexpectedly charming tunes that you cannot help but warm to her. She looks like she is having a blast and we are too.
Cutting a stark contrast to the dreadlocked hippie-mother look being rocked by Ani is the Valley-High/ Punk princess clash of Gwen Stefani. Wiggling her bottom teasingly, high-kicking and climbing on top of the speakers, she provides the perfect face for No Doubt and their sassy ska tunes. Having achieved something of a renaissance in this country on the back of the fantastic singles 'Hella Good' and 'Hey Baby' they continue to shock us by reminding us just how many songs we know by them. Remember 'Just A Girl', 'Spiderwebs' and the sappy 'Don't Speak'? They are all aired today. Barbie on speed she might be, but Gwen is an engaging, striking frontwoman who has the crowd in the palm of her hands. The sexiest performance of the weekend, no doubt. Arf!
Rival Schools are great on record but seem completely lost at a festival so we wait with eyebrows-raised and arms-folded for the hyped The Vines to come on. Yeah right, the new Nirvana, going to destroy Glastonbury, troubled frontman about to commit suicide, blah blah boring blah. Did they not say that about My Bloody Vitriol, ha ha! Oh hang on! The Vines rock! 'Highly Evolved' is a short-sharp-shock of devastating proportions, 'Get Free' is a garage-rock battering ram and 'Country Yard' is beautifully psychedelic.
Much like Queen Adreena's guitarist yesterday, singer Craig Nicholls ends up with a split lip, but his is through reckless abandon, his need to release pent-up emotion burning through his body. He pulls grotesque faces, swings his guitar about like an axe-wielding maniac and screams himself hoarse. It is like watching someone have a very embarrassing funny turn on drugs without having actually taken anything (to our knowledge). The man could become a hero, the songs are future classics and The Vines are going to prove to be a lot more than My Bloody Vitriol.
Less Than Jake might be doing their screwball-punk very well but we have The White Stripes to absorb. They should bomb theoretically. Two people, apparently brother and sister, playing guitar-blues dressed in red and white - sounds great, huh? At first suspicions become reality as wild histronics from Jack White threaten to render their garage-rock unlistenable. Soon things begin to fit and you realise that he is a master of the blues-garage thing. He throws himself around, performs a wonderful cover of 'Jolene' and when he and Meg trade vocals on an unidenitified track we realise we are in the company of a very special band indeed. They are threatening to call it a day soon. It would be a crime.
The bland drum 'n' bass of Kosheen might be suitable for businessmen having a rebellious phase but they fall flat on these ears. We hurry away and anticipate Orbital.
Their presence of Orbital as headliners on the Other Stage might reflect the suspicion that Glastonbury organisers are not quite up to scratch on what dance music is cutting-edge at the moment (a quick look down the dance tent line-up), but the techno duo are near perfect this evening. After so much meat-and-potatoes indie we are delighted to witness the bleeps and tweaks they admit accompanied by laser-beams and shimmering backdrops. Vastly experienced at this festival lark they know exactly what buttons to press. A comedy moment arrives when we are lying on the ground absorbing the sound like hippies, watching the lights hit the sky, only to shocked into sitting bolt upright when Bon Jovi's 'Livin' On A Prayer' bursts from the stage. That woke us up.
A perfect balance of chilled-out techno and full-on sonic terrorism is provided. We are dying to hear 'The Box', 'Chime' and 'Satan' and they eventually come, emphasised by the visual aids. Their last album might have been shocking, they may have resorted to Greatest Hits compilations and might seem a bit knackered in theory, but Orbital on their day are nothing short of amazing.
Glastonbury Sunday
Today sees possibly the worst ever festical line-up hit the main stage with all the rage of an angry ant. Rolf Harris, Isaac Hayes, Roger Walters and Rod Stewart are amongst the worst today. We start the day as far away as possibly, trying to find peace within by listening to Gringo Ska in the Avalon tent. They play flutes and jig lots and we immensely appreciate it in a strange way.
Good music is virtually absent until Hundred Reasons rampage away with the more melodic bits of emo. Even then, they are something of a disappointment, mainly because they are playing the majority of their lacklustre debut album. At the beginning Hundred Reasons were promising to be something jagged, edgy and playful, but they seem to have succumbed to playing average rock-pop with a tough backbone. It passes the time but they are no relief.
More eclectic is the free-jazz and hip-hop fusion of the enigmatic Mr.Scruff . He whips the dance tent into a frenzy with a daring set, but as his DJ appearances are few and far between, the reception was always likely to be euphoric.
Zero 7 might be lush if not a little bland on record, but they are a pleasant surprise live. Their set is genuinely affecting. A Greenpeace video plays over one of their sentimental tracks about love in the world and the images strike a chord. The short feature-films that accompany the chilled-out grooves are poignant and they leave something quite magical in the air.
More back-to-basics is the redundant beats of Groove Armada , swiftly followed by a surprisingly subdued Air . Their romantic proggy tunes fail to carry across the crowd and although 'Kelly Watch The Stars' sounds as lush as always the dreamy electronics are lost. You wonder if they would have been better off taking a leaf out of Orbital's book and giving their atmospheric tunes some visual aid because rather than a comforting Glastonbury goodbye hug, they sound more like they are going through the motions, refusing to play the majority of the classics, even boring us at times. It was a bland end to an appalling day for music.
Festival rating - 9/10
Music rating - 5/10
We have all heard and smirked at the tales of a pack of bands emerging from sleepy Suffolk. Heading the charge is the rather explosive Miss Black America whose moniker suggests they ought to be a lot more glamorous than they look. What we actually have is a three dullards staring at their feet and a singer who looks like he is coming off smack and having one hell of an anxiety attack. Jesus Christ, is he angry.
In fact he is so intense and furious that they are embarrassing to watch, like some pissed-up guy having a tantrum over a spilt beer, threatening to punch the culprit whilst his friends watch in ashamed silence. "We're here to make your day worse" he begins before hurling abuse at a bandmate who isn't quite ready to play. Once underway, people stare at them stony-faced, wondering what the hell the hype is about.
The tunes really aren't that band, drifting between standard indie, raucous punk and soupy guitar psychedelica, but the sound is awful and the singer attracts all the attention with his incredible spasms, deranged hair and incoherent screams. "Anyone here a Travis fan? Well FUCK OFF!!" he hollers at one point and we almost decide it might be worth seeing this through to the end. Then he starts fighting invisible men like Richey Manic gone psycho and we just cannot bear anymore.
They play in front of a banner that says 'Blank Generation'. Appropriate, as Miss Black America witness a whole lot of apathy tonight. (4/10)
'Love You Till I Don't', the opening number says it all really. When they start arguing, get too zonked on bad drugs or when they can't be arsed, The Wildhearts call it a day - then have a reunion a few months later. Now they have regrouped for the zillionth time, ditching whatever personal problems have dogged them, and are full of love for the game again. An embodiment of rock 'n' roll excess, rebellion and sleazy fun, they are one of the best and most underrated britrock bands we have had in recent years. How long it will last we cannot guess, so we're saviouring every moment.
What is immediately evident is that The Wildhearts appear to like each other again. They look at ease in each other's company and can play their instruments within close range of each other without scowling. Ginger is particularly effervescent, refusing to play until he has a cold larger in his hand and asks us to choose whether their new EP should be called 'Riff After Riff After Motherfucking Riff' or not (the vocal approval almost brings the venue down). They look the epitome of cool, all kitted-out in biker-jackets, Danny with his quiff and CJ like a scuzz-rock heartbreaker. Ginger reminds us of a younger Lemmy, his presence, confidence and arrogance an example to all rock frontpersons.
You could be forgiven for having given up on the band for numerous reason; the endless splitting-up, the constant controversy or the ill-advised industrial phase; but when they launch into 'TV Tan' and 'Suckerpunch', you remember just how deadly these guys can be. Their sound is immense and heavy, but always retains a healthy melody, drawing you right into the heart of the music only to smack you about a bit. 'Caffeine Bomb' is so fast it is almost breathless and b-side 'Zomboid' is all industrial clatter and muscle. 'My Baby Is A Headfuck' is just indulgent insanity that gives you a shit-eating grin. They seek to please and wheel out all the favourites. They also play 'Sick Of Drugs' in tribute to their friend Layne Stanley from the fantastic Alice In Chains who died from overdosing at the weekend. Only 'Anthem' and 'Urge' are criminally ignored.
So the saga continues, but judging by the sound of the new tracks, including a buoyant and anthemic 'Let's Go!', it is one persevering with. Ginger thrashes his dreadlocks about, promises we'll see them again and leaves the stage after a short and passionate set. It might have always felt like it was the earth versus The Wildhearts, but some of us will always be on their side. (8/10)
Night's like this offer an appropriate tonic for those becoming disillusioned about polished and polite nu-metal bands becoming increasingly unbiquitous. Sometimes you need reminding that metal can still be bone-shakingly intense, refreshingly off-kilter and charged with genuine anger and fury. Best of all, the audience here is as young as any crowd at a Sum 41 gig and there isn't a Limp Bizkit hoodie in sight. The cherub-faced gathering are here to see SikTh thank-you-very-much.
For starters, we have Fony . Youthful and energetic, they appear to be relishing their first major gaunt around the UK. Taking to the stage, and encouraging the crowd to be wayward about acquiring injuries in the mosh, they begin to breathe their fire. Like Pantera with a slightly more fashionable edge, they hurl out mammoth riffs with a groove. The vocals are hard and their tunes tight. It is a beginning accompanied by promise.
A band that have long failed to deliver upon early accolades are Janus Stark . They have ditched the pop-punk and switched to a more hardcore, New York underground thrash, and it is one that doesn't suit them. They play with vigour and intent, but vocalist Gizz Butt looks world's away from being the star that he was in The Prodigy. They have a song that maligns the lack of spirit and fight in people these days, but it falls on deaf ears.
They should take a listen to SikTh who are part of the solution rather than the problem. They make a truly unholy racket that is anarchic in the extreme, so brutal it rattles your teeth, so insane they could be committed if the wrong people heard this stuff. They are technically dynamic, a steamroller of irrepressible energy and extreme brutality.
One of the two vocalists constantly gabbles like Jonathon Davis does on Korn's track 'Twist' whilst the other lets out maniacal yelps and screams. There are actual lyrics in there somewhere but are totally lost in the pace with which they are delivered. The mosh-pit incites a constant circle-mosh and slam-pit, the young crowd totally lost in the crazed sound their ears are buzzing with. SikTh are hard to absorb but are fantastic. If you thought hardcore had long reached its pinnacle of madness, then try this lot.
We had to bolt for the train before headliners Vacant Stare, but SikTh were worth the admission alone.
(Fony - 6/10, Janus Stark - 4/10, SikTh - 8/10)
I don't think anyone was really convinced when the murmurs began. Hardly daring to even whisper it, the critics were speculating over whether grunge was truly resurfacing, concerned about the number of US acts that were holding the top of the Billboard charts hostage. First there was Creed, then Staind, Nickleback, Puddle Of Mudd..., surely it cannot be, not after all the innovation we had had in music of all kinds lately? You could hardly blame them for not being bowled over with enthusiasm however for a revival though: Grunge was one of the best alternative rock genres ever until it fell apart leaving many talented musicians in limbo and opened the floodgates for a wave of appalling post-grunge bands. It had to be stamped out for good. But, we must report, it is true: nu-grunge is blooming. Oh, hell.
Staind were one of the first acts to begin the process of dragging back the glory days of Alice In Chains. They also provided one of the clearest indications that nu-metal/grunge had arrived in this country when their 'Break The Cycle' album stormed unexpectedly to the top of out album charts just before their appearance at Reading last year. Misery is back, wearing a gloomy frown on your face is acceptable again. Dust down your copies of 'Prozac Nation' and slice up your jeans.
Or on second thoughts, don't. Brixton Academy really doesn't look like it is going to be much fun tonight. It might be the vile weather causing the assembled mass of people to be so passive, but I have never seen such a sombre looking queue waiting to go into a gig before. Even the usual swamp of discarded leaflets and rubbish has been kept to a polite minimum. And when the bands come on the moshing is not what you would call anarchic. Either these people are really in tune with the angst of their heros or they just don't know how to have fun on a Friday night.
Thank goodness then that Puddle Of Mudd are in lively spirits. Rather than using their pained lyrics about destructive relationships and self-esteem to beat the crowd down, they want to provide an old-fashioned set of relief through release. Wes Scantlin, who uncomfortably looks and sounds like Kurt Cobain, addresses his followers warmly, getting them to sing for him, acting like a true rock and roll star. It's grunge-fun-by-numbers and if we must have the rehashing of early-nineties rock then these are the best we are being offered.
The biggest cheers are reserved for the genuinely sweet 'Blurry' and set-closer 'Control', a smash hit in waiting. Sure everyone giggles when he sings "I like the way you smack my ass" with an expression usually seen when holding conversations about Afghanistan, but Scantlin has an inspiring faith in his songs. Being a nu-grunge band and being signed to Fred Durst's Flawless label meant hopes for Puddle Of Mudd were rock bottom, but it looks like the red-capped whinger has got something right at last.
The mood darkens as Staind shuffle onto the stage. Aaron Lewis is clutching his stomach as if he is about to wretch, and he begins to pace up and down the stage like a caged animal, something he keeps up for the duration of the show. He is quite a captivating frontman despite not really doing a whole lot. Troubled for sure, but there is something not quite convincing about him. He never smiles once, which is not surprising when playing songs like their's, but it all comes across as being a little contrived. "That was beautiful" he remarks in cringeworthy fashion after the audience are invited to sing a chorus of the pitiful 'Outside'. The band sit on stools for the slower numbers and it really makes for a horrible spectacle.
Yet in fairness, Lewis has a tremendous voice. Powerful and soaring, he can flick from graceful tones to death-metal cries of anguish with the greatest of ease. Tonight, it is best-suited to the crunchier material from their first album. 'Crawl' and 'Suffocate' are doom-ridden but melodic, creating a real sense of claustophobia, a credit to Lewis' bandmates. Yet the set is mainly comprised of the newer songs and it gets tedious, mainly because most of it sounds like Pearl Jam gone rotten. 'Waste' and 'For You' sound lumpen and repetitive, devoid of any real clarity. 'Ephinany', a truly moving account of depression on record becomes charmless and indulgent. It's a real shame.
Perhaps it is touring fatigue, but they seem to have lost the spite and edge that made their Reading set one of the best of the weekend. What we have just seen is no more than a handful of average tunes played with whole heap of misery. Maybe I am looking back a bit too fondly but I remember those other miserable grungers like Nirvana, Soundgarden and Stone Temple Pilots making me feel alive and excited - they sang about the darker side of lie and I felt it with them. Staind just seem bleak and jaded with little to say. Where's the attraction in that?
Staind - 5/10, Puddle Of Mudd - 7/10
This is not the sort of gig where people 'go' into the mosh-pit. This is the sort of gig where huge men with bodies like Dolph Lungren stand cross-armed at stage-side before yanking off their shirts, hollering 'HOLD THIS!' at a pierced and tattooed mate who weighs sixteen stone and then charge head-first into the pit screaming "GAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!". Then along with the other hardcore moshers, they beat the hell out of each other before emerging bloody-nosed and shaking hands with their abuser, saying things like "nice punch mate, just keep your hand off my arse next time you thrill-seeking nancy". Actually they don't say the last bit because it is all strictly heterosexual, masculine and testostrone-fuelled fun here tonight. What they really say is "nice punch mate - GAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!".
The mosh is active surprisingly early when relatively unknown Brooklyn bruisers Candiria emerge. They have supported their hometown buddies Biohazard over here, and recieved positive coverage in the metal press, but the crowd seems to know little about them. However, it is a mere two songs before the throng is heaving, the enthusiastic singer's energy proving infectious. He leaps up-and-down, like he has a pogo-stick stuck to his arse, and roars in all the right places. The riffs are meaty and the hollers blood-curdling. And they go on a bit if truth be told.
Clutch introduce a melodic sensibility to their heaviness which is entirely welcome. The bushy-faced singer looks like he is confused between feelings of glee and sadness as he paces back and forth, admiring his crowd for the evening. They hit hard and loud. And they go on a bit if truth be told.
"BLEEEGGGGHHH!!!!" goes one. "GRRRHHHAAAA!!!!" goes the other. Raging Speedhorn have taken the stage and they are immediately intimidating, the two beefy vocalists lunging forward, letting rip with some of the most astonishing guttural sounds. They demonstrate admirably how they are becoming known as one of Britain's most impressive (and heaviest) guitar bands, providing an uncompromising bone-crunching assault, whilst looking supremely evil and sounding like Iron Monkey having a bloody fight with Pantera.
'The Gush' unleashes the slight hint of a pop-melody that propelled them towards the Top 40 last year and is followed by the aptly-named 'Super Scud'. They thud, they punch, they scream and give it their all. What you wish most is that you never meet the band when they are looking for a fight. And they don't go on a bit at all.
Everyone seems happy. The moshers are flexing their muscles, the more delicate amongst us are nodding out heads in time to the incessant rumble, and the band are basking in their heaviosity. Nice one mate - GAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!! (8/10)
Katie Jane Garside lunges at her guitarist, grabbing his hair, hauling him down to the ground, belting him round the head repeatedly. She later does the same thing but with much more force. That is after she has almost strangulated herself with the microphone chord, almost fell off a chair due to her zombie-like spasms, and threatened to whip out the eyes of the front row with her thrashing hair. Not to mention the occasions when she throws her microphone down with all the strength she can muster or how she violently batters herself around her own head.
Miss. Garside has always been a somewhat, lets say, tempermental character ever since her days in Daisy Chainsaw (which, incidently, did her head in so much that she retreated into the hills of The Lake District and wasn't heard from for some time), but tonight's episode is actually pretty frightening. She is evidently furious to the point of violence, and although you suspect her drama might be chemically enhanced, she completely stuns an unsuspecting Waterfront. You could be forgiven for sneering at her tendencies for what often looks like amateur dramatics - the way she prods her face as if to say 'what is this?' and the whole 'Look at me'/ 'No, don't look at me' nonsense is somewhat patience-testing - but her stunning vocals are so dark and her mood so black that there can be no mistaking her for a fake.
A lot of what you think of Queen Adreena will be determined by what you think of the tortured-goth spectacle, but if you close your eyes and listen, you will hear something that can take you deep beyond what you can merely see. The haunting strains of 'Pretty polly' are genuinely creepy before they are interrupted by the maniacal violence of the guitars. The punk-goth pummelling of 'Cold Fish' is unnerving and psychotic. The numerous airings of tracks from the forthcoming second album are heavy and punishing. The band strike a balance between fragility and full-blown dementia in their songs perfectly, exploring one before the other and then colliding the two. It might be like walking a tightrope under which is a bottomless pit of despair.
As the cascading feedback is eventually switched off by a bemused stage-hand, Garside crawls to her feet, looking like Kate Bush emerging from a hippie commune, and staggers over to the microphone to deliver her last words of torment. She sings beautifully for about a minute before purposely dropping her mic mid-sentence and walking off. People glance at each other in disbelief, some look stunned, other storm to the bar muttering about 'bloody goths'. Queen Adreena, your throne awaits you. (8/10)
The angel-faced Gen Tusker looks like she should be drawing pretty Deftones logos on her pencil-case in the back of history lessons. Yet instead the diminutive singer is letting rip with one of the most ferocious roars in metal. Defenestration are Raging Speedhorn meets My Ruin and they are absolutely vital right now.
With the nu-metal onslaught not looking like relenting in the immediate future, Defenestration might soon be challenging the genre's exclusionary attitude towards women. Yet this is not feminist metal, just brutal hardcore by a band that happens to be fronted by a female, which is perhaps far more effectve in terms of getting some much needed female representation back into rock than endless preaching. The dynamics of Gen's voice might be limited to two extremes - the primal yelps that punctuate each bombardment and the floating moments that offer respite from the heaviosity, but the repetitive nature of the vocals are generally welcome. She hardly looks like she has to try her lungs are so powerful and suited to the twisting, intelligent riffing that recalls Speedhorn's intimidation. Glorious noise with a bit of thought.
More endearing of all is the enjoyment Defenestration seem to be getting from their gradual rise up the ranks of British hardcore. The lads in the band divide their time between heads-down serious rocking and pratting about a in mock-theatrical manner, quite aware of both the ridiculousness and sheer greatness of metal. 'Under Locks' is so familiar by now that they can perform tongue-in-cheek grinding of the hips over the monsterously heavy groove. Watch them rise.
Long over is any chance of a resurgence in the popularity of Therapy?. Yet there is something heartening about Therapy's stubborn commitment to greasey rock 'n' roll. Long gone are the days when they almost ruled the rockworld with goth-pop melodies and drove the "screw that/ Forget about that/ I don't wanna think about anything like that" refrain into the brains of spotty metal kids and ageing bikers. Now they fire out their dirty garage rock with little regard for the people's choice and continue to tirelessly tour the same venues they always have, hoping to entice enough loyal followers. They play music for themselves and great if you like it. Therapy? were once of Top Of The Pops once? You what?!
What must be disconcerting is that whilst the crowd are polite during the more recent material they only really go nuts for the 'Troublegum' tracks. This couldn't be more underlined more than when 'Knives' is played without Andy Cairns bothering to sing a single word, merely turning the microphones around to face the crowd and letting them get it all out of their systems. You could see it as somewhat of a celebration of the times that the fans remember most fondly, but it smacks of desperation when Therapy? start lambasting garage music, claiming that rockers must stick together to "keep this shit out of the charts". You may have not have noticed boys but people are buying So Solid Crew records, they aren't buying yours. Go figure.
Yet whilst it seems a shame the highlight of the gig is, duh, 'Screamager', the band seem utterly at ease with their current status of languishing dangerously near the void of nothingness. Cairns barely stops grinning all night and it is infectious, the passion that they still have not expressed better than during a vitriolic 'He's Not That Kind Of Girl'. Bassist Michael McKeegan is as friendly to their faithful as he ever was, his face beaming as 'Teethgrinder' is belted out at breakneck speed.
The more things change the more they stay the same. Not for Therapy?, they just stay the same. But they don't care, they are in it just for the rock 'n' roll. And is that not what it should all be about? Defenestration - 8/10, Therapy? - 6/10
Even the shoes fit in with Polly Jean Harvey's rejuvenation. High-heeled and sparkling with a multi-coloured gleam, those silver shoes beg to be taken notice of, so glamourous they just cannot escape attention. Gone are the frumpy black goth frocks of the early-nineties when Harvey sounded like an emotional cripple that had immense personal troubles. Today, Harvey strides out smiling, meeting the eye of her audience, modelling a sophisicated black outfit that says 'content' rather than 'depressed'.
The music has gone somewhat of a transformation also. In replacement of those angsty, avant-noise confessions are confident and positive tales from the countryside of Dorset and the city of New York. This of course was recognised by the Mercury Music judges just a month ago, bringing her music to a wider audience - the 'Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea' album already her most successful and commerical to date. The time is now for Harvey and she seems appreciative and glowing towards the crowd this evening, dancing in front of a small mosh-pit and covering all areas of the stage, making sure she has got as close to each area of people that she can.
Yet this is no deliberate swing toward the mainstream. Polly has always shuddered away from the limelight no matter how happy she feels and no matter how melodic and universal her Patti Smith-meets-pop offerings have grown to be. You feel her next record could well be a retreat into the dark side again, new song 'Will's Song' hints at that, but it seems unlikely that there will ever be a return to the painful aching of 'Mansize' or 'Dry'. Those numbers are aired tonight but complete with a renewed power, the hurt in the lyrics sounding defiant rather than destroying this time. 'Rid Of Me' becomes more punk poetry than ripped-to-shreds torment, her voice soaring around the venue, astonishing everyone in ear shot, the applause that follows thunderous.
The new album is played almost in its entirety, every song a platform for that incredible voice to impress, with inspired additions to the accompaniments giving new dimensions to the original versions. 'Big Exit' becomes slightly psychedelic but as bold as it ever was; 'The Sky Lit Up' is manic and consuming; 'Down By The Water' menancing and strangely sexy. The set is virtually faultless, only 'Horses In My Dreams' plods along at a tiresome funereal pace, which could have been replaced with say, 'Send His Love To Me'.
That Harvey is on fire is undeniable. Her career is at an all-time high, the adulation is coming from the record-buying public just as much as the critics. Taking it all in her stride, she has proved beyond all doubt she is worthy of this unexpected praise. As a year long tour draws to a close tonight, Harvey leaves the stage beaming. We flock into the windy night smiling even harder. (9/10)
The Music for the future is by The Music, some are saying, not least the band themselves. Announcements like this are begging for the knife drawer to be thrust open, the instruments to be sharpened and the death penalty awarded to them faster than you can say Terris.
This time is feels different though. As you watch these four northern lads burst into the astonishingly energetic 'The Dance', you notice the crowd are silenced, utterly transfixed by the sight before them. Painfully spindly frontman Robert Harvey goes bananas, dancing like he is doing the washing-up on speed, thrashing limp wrists out in front of him, already lost in the psychedelic, manic indie. His voice is also extraordinary. Powerful, rasping wails echo around the hall, leaving you in absolute awe.
His fellow musicians are more grounded, their movements only slight, but the music emanating from their instruments is as impressive as the unintentionally entertaining frontman. The noise is terrific and is sustained throughout, 'Human' and 'You Might As Well Try To Fuck Me', punchy and constantly spiralling up into new highs. The grooves are funky, the drum-beats almost hip-hop-lite now and again, and the melodies just sublime. It is a sound that evades that irritating writer desire for classification or a pigeonhole, and should be applauded for it, though elements of bands ranging from The Stone Roses to Mogwai to The Verve can be detected.
As the spine-tingling, melancholy instrumental 'Walls Get Smaller' rounds off an hour of startling intensity, you begin to get that excited feleing that something truly special is on the stage. Even though The Music need to release a debut album and get some of the lesser tunes up to the standard of the majority, you suspect these guys will soon be shining in a bigger setting. This is it. This is The Music. (8/10)
Normally when anticipating the arrival of a supergroup you might prepare yourself for some cheery shouts of approval at the faniliar artists. But when these Glasgow indie-types emerge, we realise we don't actually recognise a single bloody one of them. Some supergroup, it could be the venue's cleaners or Adam Rickitt in drag up there for all we know. So much for any X-list celebrity spotting then.
When considering that The Reindeer Section is comprised of so many brilliant and bad bands who are utterly faceless and let their music do the talking (perhaps with the exception of Mogwai, who do a lot of talking, and slagging people off), it isn't so surprising however. With members of Mogwai, Belle And Sebsatian, Snow Patrol, Astrid, Arab Strap, Eva, Mull Historical Society, V-Twin, Hercules and possibly some random fruit-loops thrown in to bump up the numbers further, the results of this ambitious and exciting unison were always going to be diverse, lush and occassionally very odd.
Onstage it looks as disjointed and crazy as it all sounds. You have Snow Patrol frontman Gary Lightbody (or was it the Arab Strap chief) cracking jokes aplenty ranging from threats to piss himself onstage to stooping as low as to attack the easy-target that is The Vegaboys; some flame-haired, violin-playing woman from Eva yawning and scratching furiously at her head like she is trying to fend off a case of severe nits; and various other indie-boys looking like they are lost in the wilderness. One minute they are perched on stools, creating waves of Bright Eyes-lite indie-folk and then bashing the fury out of their instruments for a sonic, thrilling finale.
'Raindrop' is the highlight of an often beautiful set, the drum-machine pumping away under some assertive lo-fi and we get some swoon factor when Lee Gordon from Alfie performs a soulful drone over acoustic prettiness. The songs are surprisingly short at times, and seldom a little bland, but there is enough emotive power wafting from the stage to entrance us with images of love and longing. Mournful but affectionate all the same.
It might be hectic and non-cohesive onstage, but it all comes together when the music really starts to flow. (8/10)
Friday - Reading Festival
The festival with the best soundtrack is experiencing the hottest weather it has seen for ten years. We emerge from our tents smelling of bonfire smoke, ready to join in with taking the campsite madness to new extremes later, but first things first. The music gets underway today, and curiously, judging by the bill this year, there is somewhat of a nu-metal and old indie invasion here this year. So who are you watching? Alien Ant Farm or Supergrass?! Er...
The comedy tent has also returned this year but it is The Donnas creating the earliest chuckles. The feisty foursome are hell-bent on waking up the half-dead still recovering from booze abuse in their tents and take to their mission by providing a punky rock 'n' roll onslaught. The singer sounds woeful however, and fails to hit a single note. You admire their obvious spirit and zeal, and have a dance to 'Hyperactive', but we are successfully allured away by the still fresh and clean toilets in the corner.
We return to find Australian rockabilly punks The Living End thrashing out 'Roll On'. "Are you pissed yet?" hollers punk-rocks Mr. Motivator. "Well, that's the English for you", he cries, but judging by the brutal thrashing the double bass is recieving on stage we suspect that these lovable noise-mongers have downed a few tinnies as well. Less a performance, more than a punk-rock shagging. Thanks guys!
The Lo-Fidelity Allstars would be considerably moe charming if their singer didn't sound like he has been stalking Liam Gallagher for the last six years. Dance distinctly flavoured with Manchester indie swagger, we return to the toilets to find them somewhat desecrated.
Attracting the biggest audience of the day, Run DMC have us in their sweaty, influential palms. Scratching, rapping and grooving to the point of hip-hop ecstacy, they prove themselves well worthy of their legendary status. More interested in the crowd then any other act of the entire weekend, they ask for a peace-sign but recieve a frenzied freak-out from their faithful followers and new converts. We could faint from the heat and still be bouncing.
Completely in the opposite mood is Bright Eyes , a young man so miserable but so passionate about his music it is almost cringeworthy. He shakes and screams and whispers, delicately strumming through a defeatist 'Something Vague' and then gets cut short by the organisers who have fucked the times up. We are left astonished and frustrated.
The Eels keep the misery flowing, but it isn't due to their downbeat but superb songs, more the utter boredom of their set. Looking like a serial killer who can't be arsed with performing a decapitation, singer Mr. E mumbles, shrugs, plays some keyboards and then walks off.
Anything but disappointing are The Strokes who live up to the hype that could have so easily have smothered them. Promoted to the main stage without having even released a debut album, the buzz is electric, much like their tunes. They look nervous but cool, Julian grasping the mic sexily as they fire into 'The Modern Age'. Like The Velvet Underground embracing indie, they sound retro yet original, simple but intense, pop yet garage. After eleven sublime offerings they drop their equipment and walk without saying a word. We hated the Eels for it but the Strokes just seem even cooler.
We then take a stroll to the Evening Session Tent which has been depressingly proving that dullard indie isn't yet dead all day. Rammed with people the tent has either provided the other relief from the blazing heat on the site or the polite indie boys still have some attraction. Interrupting their party rather rudely is the Amen fans who send floppy haired acoustic lovers fleeing by starting a massive bottle fight. Soon Casey Chaos and friends arrive, the singer leaping from the drum-kit, charging around like a punk-rock warrior possessed and pausing only to verbally excite the audience mindless. It's all devastating and crucial.
Not as relevant as PJ Harvey though, who strides out in a short PVC skirt and black bra, and proceeds to play an absolutely amazing set. Her voice soars angelically on 'The Whore's Hustle And The Hustler's Whore', breaks hearts during the crippingly emotional 'Rid Of Me' and commands obedience with 'This Wicked Tongue'. Dramatic and inspirational, she is a talent to behold and is not bettered throughout the entire weekend.
Rounding off the day (sorry we couldn't be arsed watching Travis ) was a surpisingly excellent and entertaining Green Day . Running through the majority of their best-seller 'Dookie', it was non-stop surprises. Look! A trumpet player in a bee costume! Three kids taking over from the band to perform perfectly! The setting alight of the drumkit whilst Billie Joe performs solo! In addition to that and the camp-punk for kids comedy, they riot through 'Minority' and cause the biggest mosh of the day. Evidently aware that their audience is mainly sixteen year olds and lower who are obsessed with hair-dye and speed-freak guitar, they direct their efforts straight to these people. As a result, they are brilliant.
Saturday - Reading Festival
Oh hell, it's indie and ska-punk day at Reading. Nurse! Bring the metal forward a day! All is forgiven! The task of finding sweet relief from horrible overweight men playing trumpet and anorexic, well-meaning dullards playing acoustic proves difficult but not impossible, even if the heat adds extra discomfort. Fear not, for their is alcohol and a handful of great bands!
We stumble into the arena to find Public Domain possibly E'd up and thowing happy hardcore at us with all their muscle. 'Operation Blade' creates mosh-pit mayhem and the frontman rolls around manically on the floor. Excuse me Sir, could you be a little bit fucked?
Ross Robinson's British metal darlings Vex Red are rapidly proving they are right to be blessed by metal's best and most credible producer. Today they rock hard and look moody, the ideal combination for rock massiveness.
You can always rely on ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead for instrument destruction on a nuclear scale but in the way of coherent performance the are somewhat lacking. Unfocused and sounding well, shit, they are so hit and miss they might as well hand out darts and ask us to treat them like a giant dart-board. 'Mistakes And Regrets', a mighty tune if ever there was one, is reduced to average indie-fodder and 'Mark David Chapman' seems deflated.
Momentarily, The Godfather Of Grunge cheers us up with some Pixies clasics, but when Frank Black starts up his solo efforts the interests soon evaporates. Jesus, we actually go to watch some indie to escape!
Why we tormented ourselves further by trundling into soporific indie territory we can only explain by blaming the heat. Halfway through Gorky's Zygotic Mychi I turn around only to find the four people in my company have fallen asleep. No wonder, Gorky's usually inspiring hippie lushness sounds languid and dreary today, only the ridiculous 'Poodle Rocking' reviving the senses. Better suited to a starry night sky, surely.
At last we get some traditional Reading craziness when Rancid thrust us back to the old-skool punk days. The most violent mosh-pit of the weekend begins as the mohicaned mentalists rocket through the majority of 'Lets Go!' and we suddenly feel alive. They might be simple and unimaginative, but give us 'Ruby Soho' and a slam-pit over Gorky's anyday.
And give is Gorky's anyday over Mad Caddies . It's all horrid skate-punk with added damned trumpets and skanking. Party music for people who can't dance properly, rock for people who are afraid to rock, trumpets for people who are very irritating. Ugh.
More attractive is the evening ahead in the Carling Tent. Teenage thrash metallers Defenestration are like a slower Raging Speedhorn fronted by a female who looks like Barboe gone metal. Her voice is excellent, all gutteral growls and heavenly highs with a deathly racket accompanying her. They thunder down upon the mass assembled and leave everybody utterly breathless.
Equally hardcore are Nebula but their thing is more stoner and retro. With lank hair and an appearance from another age, they are as unaffected by recent developments in heavy music as it is possible to be, meaning their strident rock 'n' roll is beastly and huge. Brilliant bygone stoner-metal that seems lost on some.
Which just leaves Reel Big Fish to piss us off so much we head back for the campsite to find mischief and forget to watch Mogwai . Attracting a massive crowd they do everything the Mad Caddies did, only louder, faster and with more fucking trumpets! They sing 'Everything Sucks' which sums up the majority of the music on offer today but the crowd go bananas. Inexplicably.
Sunday - Reading Festival
So here come the heavyweights, in the noise stakes anyway. As is usual for Reading, Sunday opens the gates to the pierced and mosh-hungry hardcore metalheads, and they scream and roar with all their might today. They even flick the devil-sign. Mummy! What happened to The Strokes!
More of an explosion onto the stage than an entrance, Boy Hits Car grab the devil by the horns and give him an exhausting ride, such is their enthusiasm and rage. 'The Rebirth' retains it's melodic tribal influence but sadly this pans out across the entire set meaning we feel we have just heard one very long song by the end. Still, much promise on display.
Too depressed to get truly angry is Aaron Lewis of Staind . Not even a glimmer of a smile, the band looks and sound utterly defeated and desolate throughout. Their rapidly growing popularity is blatantly obvious as they mix Alice In Chains grunge with nu-metal quirkiness for an commercial but slightly alternative sound. Lewis' voice is faultless and powerful, dripping with woe and sadness. Begrudgingly, for a band so unoriginal and moany, we admit they were very good.
"If you have a girl, grab her by the uterus" shouts the charming Jared from funk-punk rockers Hed-(pe). Clearly influenced by the Chilli Peppers melodies and the attitude of punk, they try sexing it up and even have a surfer playing on the bass. You so want to hate them because of their dubious attitude towards women and for peddling a type of music that often sounds souless, but 'Killing Time' and 'Bartender' rock, pure and simple.
Needing some relief from the barrage of heaviness, we enter the dance tent and locate Kosheen who are surprisingly impressive with their dark and unmenancing drum 'n' bass. 'Hide U' gets a rapturous reception and the singer looks like she is having the time of her life.
Back in the grease and sweat area, Fear Factory are blasting out their apparently futuristic metal, which basically means a few heavy riffs with some drum 'n' bass and bleepy bits. They are geuninely fearsome at times, particularly during 'Replica' and 'Descent', but when they forget where they are even playing, they reveal their attention is wandering as much as ours.
Much more beastly are System Of A Down . The Armenian metallers as a high as a kite, screaming like they are being tortured and knocking seven shades of shit out of us. Energetic, mad and looking ten times as committed as Fear Factory they air several deadly new tunes as well as 'Sugar', War' and 'Suite-Pee'. Politics is on the back-burner today as they sing new, much heavier tracks about junkies and fucking. Fantastic.
Another visit to dance-land and Freestylers are much more polished and mainstream than we had hoped for. Big-beat sung by shameless crowd-pleasing garage poshos. We realise we had got them mixed up with the Bomfunk MC's.
About as posh as a junkie in the circus are Queens Of The Stone Age . Nick Oliveri is playing completely naked, Josh Homme is trolleyed and his girlfriend Tobey Torres from Snake River Conspiracy runs on, whips off her bra, sings a bit and legs it. The stoner-rock grinds and occassionally lets melody flood through, and although their music is superior to any other band's on todays bill, their poisoness, narcotic sting is lost in the daytime.
Ignoring the pseudo-angst of Papa Roach we return after an alcohol expedition to find goths have flooded the field. Look stageward and the explantion is there, Marilyn Manson , the man on stilts, attired in a leather jock-strap with his arse out. Rocking back and forwards like a mechanical mannequin, the God Of Fuck batters 'Irresponsible Hate Anthem', 'The Fight Song' and adds extra bile and fright to 'Sweet Dreams'. Things are reassuringly usual though. The Stageshow is ace, Marilyn's voice is poor and a band with such an immense reputation can never live up to the infamy when the time comes to shock. Oh well.
Ditto Eminem . Or more like D12 featuring Eminem. They stride out one by one and it seems an age before they eventually get through 'Shit On You' and the rest and leave Marshall do his solo firing. Yet there is a ten-minute animation film before he finally gets round to performing the hits. It is almost as if he is aware of falling to the same fate as Marilyn (who he later sings 'The Way I Am' with), his notorious reputation comdemning him to averageness. He seems afraid to get out there on his own, but once he does, and performs 'Criminal' and 'Marshall Mathers', things pick up. He becomes subdued again later, perhaps due to the tragic death of r'n'b queen Aaliyah earlier in the day. Whatever, the set lacks in something, but Mr. hip-hop babe pumps out his quality hip-hop fairly. But where were the thrills?
Parents, do you know what your kids are up to? For tonight they are in the hands of some wild, deranged men who want to consume lots of pills, smoke lots of dope and get glammed up to the hilt. All three bands playing are intense and bruising in different ways and all very exciting. They have come for the children and will succeed in making them beautifully demonic.
Goatsnake are the first to tighten their fingers around our necks as well as their fretboards. Their spirited stoner-metal is massive and noisy, pounding down upon the brain like a hundred sledgehammers. They look keen to entice an unresponsive gathering into the fray but fail. Yet the strong guitar assaults do all the talking and Goatsnake are clearly a beast not to be messed with.
More melodic and glamourous are King Adora, sexing things up with their glitter-drenched combination of early Manics and New York DOlls. Sticking a shot in the arm of all present, the band burst into 'Bionic' and 'Suffocate', and proper glam behaviour begins. The singer might look lkike a try-hard, in mix match Nancy Boy outfit, but the tunes certainly work as well as you imagine the drugs probably are.
The Queens have always been about drug-fuelled, good-times no matter how cliched or excessive. Yet there was an early incubation period where this lust for life was more stoner tedium than ecstacy mentalism, believe it or not. When they supported Hole at Brixton Academy in the Summer of 1999, they were languid, lazy and dull, for example. The transformation from then to now is incredible. "Nicotine, valium, vicodin, marijuana, ecstacy and alcohol" says it all. The Queens are fucked, probably on the lot, and ready to dement our bodies just as much.
Joining this completely psyched band is ex-Screaming Trees frontman Mark Lanegan, who lends his lovely, cigarette-choked vocal chords to the soaring come-up that is 'Autopilot' and a trashy cover of ZZ-Top's 'Precious And Grace'. He stands black clad and hunched over the microphone between a thankfully fully clothed Nick Oliveria and a buzzing, menancing Josh Homme. His presense appears to stoke the fire burning in the hearts of the band and consequently we are treated to ninety minutes of grunge-metal magic.
So far gone is Homme, stabbing violently at his guitar, he accidently introduces the wrong song as 'In The Fade'. Every song is re-christianed the same therafter, but there is no mistaking the smoky 'Better Living Through Chemistry' or the powerful 'The Lost Art Of Keeping A Secret'. It is the energetic vigour with which these superb tracks are delivered that makes them extra special and so uplifting. The band are nothing visually exciting to look at, but the precise execution of the chords and the spirit within the lyrics gives them a raw, spell-binding quality.
By the time Lanagan has contributed to 'You're So Vague' and the Queens alone have pounded us senseless with 'Monsters In The Parasol', the reason that the crowd shows such adoration is obvious. For these desert-rockers, angst is restrictive, redundant and pointless. Roll out the good time and crush jocular angst. There is drugs to be consumed and great music to make your ears bleed. Enough said.
Goatsnake - 7/10, King Adora - 6/10, Queens Of The Stone Age - 8/10
At first it looks like a Beautiful South gig full of hippies. The ageing process has seen many of the crowd tonight turn from rockers to peace-people and they march stageward with their classic mullets and beaten dreadlocks. The average age is around one hundred and forty two and some look like their mid-life crisis' are turning them to drink. And the youth? Well, what are we doing here exactly?
At first we temporarily forget. As the Ozrics walk onto a heroes welcome, they don't look like they have the same agenda. We have a scary looking wizard man tripping his head off on vocals, a guitarist who could fret-masturbate comfortably in Iron Maiden, a gorgeous drummer who could be a Kerrang! pin-up and an Indian bass player who initally looks half-dead. Above the expensive looking keyboards is a huge white screen, soon to have colourful, dizzy images projected onto it to send our heads spinning. Yet as the men launch into a surprisingly noisy opener, it soon becomes apparent why the Ozrics remain as relevant to young and old, rather than being a musical relic dragged out in the Healing Field at Glastonbury each year.
The music does all the talking. The two-hour set is entirely instrumental, moving gracefully from raucous brain-drilling rock to psychedelic, trippy musical shapes. Music to take drugs by it might be, but even with an entirely clear mind, these intelligent waves of sound absorb you right into them. The flutes add ambience to the heavy guitar, the keyboards spew forth some hypnotic, arresting noise whilst the bass simply melts into the rhythms. It gets folk dancing, forgetting all their cares, whatever age, making them young and spiritual.
Yet as uplifting as the music undoubtedly is, when a shout or a particularly loud drum stirs you from your tranquility, the boredom does creep in before you get taken away again. As captivating as the singer may be, as beautiful as the sounds are, when the attention begins to wander it takes some particularly enchanting moments to win you back.
It is however a set of virtual perfection musically. yet when a drunken reveller attempts to get heard on the mic, the frontman seems visably shaken and angry. It seems this hippie is not totally chilled.
A night of spirtual, musical bliss from some old hippie-rockers. Who would have though, eh? (8/10)
It is an eclectic bill and an unfashionable one if the not entirely fantastic turn-out is any indication. Here we have some bands well acquainted with awkward, strange but inspirational sounds, but is anybody really listening in our current musical climate that is saturated with cutting-edge hip-hop, adrenaline-driven nu-metal and pathetic pansy pop?
Only a few with sense it would seem. Conor Oberst settles down on his stool and says "This is the bit where you talk over us" with a slight grin, but London is soon silenced with some alternative folk that is both painful and beautiful, unable to avert their gaze from a twenty year old sensation almost in tears. Shaking with passion, Conor's voice swings between soothing serenity and angry screams of bile during 'The Calendar Hung Itself', a song of jealousy, longing and love. The acoustic guitar is fondled more gently during a mysterious 'Arienette' whilst 'Drunk Kid Catholic' almost has the folk pin-up falling off his chair. Such is the honesty and openness of Conor, powered by musicians just as focused and involved in the depth and feeling of the songs, he recalls a young Jeff Buckley, making sounds exciting from a genre that is so usually pretentious and dull. The criminally short set ends with Conor leaping onto the drum-kit, falling over into his drummer's instrument and walking off whilst throwing his microphone and guitar to the ground. Anarchy and beauty all in a folk set? Awesome.
Just as surprising are Bis, best remembered for the retro-kitsch of 'Candy Pop'. Once trumpetted as the best young indie band in the Kingdom, Bis are now experiencing indifference and the shame of being known only for just one suspect tune. Yet the biggest crime is that Bis and their creative revolution are not now recieving the high-profile of their early years. Having evolved into a grand retro-Eighties, techno, goth synth-shagging monster, they might not look any different, but the material is just devastating.
Though when some guy mumbling drunkenly, incoherently and plain boringly over a standard drum-beat headlines over two amazing acts, you know something is very wrong. It may seem seem unprofessional to leave it at that, but Arab Strap really offer little more than vaguely abstract vocal meanderings about great shagging and Big Issue sellers. Hang on, that sounds great, but trust me, these Glasgow dullards and entirely sexless.
The band are preceded by a song over the PA by Pharoche Monch called 'Simon Says'. It goes "Get the fuck-up" - great tune, but "shut the fuck-up" would have been more appropiate. Bright Eyes - 9/10, Bis - 7/10, Arab Strap - 2/10
PJ Harvey - Live at London's Shepherd's Bush Empire
Whatever happened to the woman that we used to imagine residing on a desolate, lonely hilltop somewhere, broken by her crippling inner torment? She ain't in the building tonight, that's for sure. Polly Jean stomps out, brimming with purpose and confidence, glammed-up in a sparkling red dress and choker, and confirms herself as comfortable as she sounded on the recent 'Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea' record. London isn't used to experiencing PJ in such boyant mood, but the days of gothic atmospherics and wailing pain have made the Big Exit. Judging by the rapturous applause throughout, it is one the people are overjoyed to see. She is back, rejuvenated and ready to astound.
PJ remains playfully private with regards to the specifics of why she has suddenly discovered such unexpected cheer and enthusiasm, and you could be forgiven for thinking the recent cold weather has been her summer. She beams at the crowd, often establishing eye-contact, dancing is jerky posh PJ style to 'Good Fortune'. "My bad fortune slipping away" are the most telling words that gives us the suspicion she is most probably in love. At the conclusion of a beautiful 'One Line' she turns away grinning after hearing herself singing "keep this feeling safe tonight". 'A Place Called Home' is sung with celebratory zeal, and wherever this place is, we would like to book a vacation there please. Even a brief mistake and tantrum from her guitarist Maggie, complete with camp pink cowboy hat, is brushed aside with wit and a grin.
Yet Harvey hasn't quite forgotten those days of sadness. 'Dry', 'Angeline' and 'Mansize' are delivered with a shudder, the demons of old fresh enough to unsettle. The aching passion of 'Send His Love To Me' also remains somewhat raw, "Dear God I've served my time" she snarls. It is the opener 'Rid Of Me' that truly devastates with it's hysterical loneliness however. PJ performing solo, her amazing voice powers through the venue, transfixing her devoted. Yet any revisited moments of fragility are cast aside when a manic 'She-na-gig' provokes a largely conservative crowd to go crazy.
PJ Harvey remains are mysterious as ever, having transformed from a dark princess to jubliant Queen. But two things that have not changed is that incredible voice and those magical songs. (9/10)
King Adora/ Crackout - at the Norwich Arts Centre
Like you always wanted Placebo to be, King Adora are a striking sight. Clothed in fake-fur, tight shiny shirts and wearing more eyeliner than Marilyn Manson, it is no secret that Adora are trying to liven up a faceless, if intriguing, British guitar scene. The problem with such an arresting image is that people assume that its the passion for (anti) fashion that is doing the talking rather than the tunes.
No such worries for Crackout, who are like a less-stylised Feeder but with a rocket up their arses. They explode into life the moment they hit the stage, the singer staggering wildly back and forth. lashing viciously at his guitar. It's pop-punk with a razor-edge, the kind that altogether shuns innovation in favour of loud and proud melodies. Just drop the silly American accents, you are British, you know.
Superbly arrogant and strangely sexy, King Adora attend to areas which Crackout have no concern for. Camper-than-thou, pouting like four David Bowie's during his glitter-era and belting out their emotional and haunting glam-indie tunes like they are the most important social commentaries in the world, King Adora are looking exciting. 'Big Isn't Beautiful', about male anorexia, is full of rage and bile whilst 'Suffocate' is a touching obsessional love song for Valentine's Day. Puke. Yet suddenly, after just thirty minutes, it's all over. The band throw down their instruments in a pretend strop and disappear.
An easy target for cynicism they might be, but for a relatively new band, they make Suede and Placebo look remarkably sexless. (7/10)
Considering this is the most talked about tour to hit these shores for some while, Eminem gets the privilege of two reviews. One from Manchester, one from London. One who thought it was crap, one who thought he rocked. Dish the dirt, ladies.
Reviewed by Chloe Hall - guest contributor. Edited by Nick Peters.
"How many of you girls in the house tonight would like to go back to Eminem's hotel room with him?". The response is deafening, from female and male. Thanks for that Tim Westwood. But there may be no groupie action of Marshall Mathers III tonight. The last leg of Eminem's 2001 European Tour is here and tension is high as countless policemen reportedly wait in the wings to arrest the Peroxide King if he incites drug-taking again this evening. HOwever, pill-popping is the last thing on most people's minds right now, as giant screens descend from the ceiling to show a film a la Blair Witch Project - featuring Em as a chainsaw wielding maniac who chops two kids into bits when they break into his childhood home (however the sound was up so high most of the dialogue was unintelligible). Then the curtain goes up and the most 'controversial' man on the planet bursts forth from his "house", complete with hockey mask and chainsaw. Sparks fly and temperatures run high as he open's with 'Kill You'.
His own strident voice is joined by 12,5000 others as he belts out 'Criminal', running around the stage like a crazy person, leaping onto the speakers and runnign rings round Proof, his hype man from D12. He then brings on D12 for twenty minutes to perform someof their tracks but the voices wane, confronted with this largely unknown material including 'Purple Pills'. He also does some of Dr.Dre's tracks ('What's The Difference' and 'Forgot About Dre') which the hardcore fans can enjoy, but they lack Dre's input. Luckily, 'I'm back' and 'Amityville' back to back revive the crowd to full-throated enthusiasm.
"Tell them what my fuckin' name is!" order Em of DJ Head and he starts to play 'My Name Is' but clearly this is wrong. "NO! You fucked up, tell them what my name is you fucking alcoholic!". This time Head plays an N'Sync track and Em obliges. "Tearing up my ass when I'm with you" he parodies, and we realise that the boy can actually sing, and dance to boot. It's quite an hilarious sight to witness six hip-hop gangsta dudes getting jiggy with it to a boyband track. We also learn that "Christina sucks, Britney swallows" courtesy of Proof's t-shirt. Oh and "New Kids On The Block sucked a lot of dick/ Boy/Girl groups make me sick" thunders Em on 'Marshall Mathers'.
Halfway through we get an interval during which we are treated to "Slim Shady World" - an animated film which centres around Marshall saying no to drugs and meeting his moral demise at the hands of Slim Shady. When the curtain rises again the house has been replaced, inexplicably, with a medieval castle. Centre stage is Em strapped to an electric chair! Oh no! But relax, the volts aren't real either, and our hero leaps out of it to perform 'Brain Damage'. Very clever.
A highlight of the show has to be 'Stan' where he is joined by the Queen of coffee table ballads, Dido. This number one is performed with style - but it is cut short, spoiling the tragic message somewhat. Then there is a fair amount of clowning around from him and D12. Em gets chased around the stage by a huge rubber penis which doesn't seem to phase him at all, even when he is prodded in the backside with it. "Hate fags?", I think the answer is no. He's feeling talkative and instructs the audience "Don't do drugs...let me do them". He later asks how many present do take drugs. He and Proof then proceed to take what they claim is ecstacy, but the whole thing is merely a charade. The only illegalities I witnessed the whole night were crimes of peroxide abuse amongst the crowd. There are drug references aplenty in songs like 'Under The Influence', but that is where it stays - in the rhymes.
In Eminem's own words, you can't deny him, and you really can't. He's talented and intelligent, he knows which buttons to push to get media attention and how to please the crowd. His show is worth every hour spent waiting in the blisterin' cold.
After an hour and three quarters the show is over and there is no signs of arrest. I wonder where the queue for the groupies starts... (8/10)
Reviewed by Debbie Sulman - North corrospondent. Edited by Nick Peters.
Metallers, goths, trendies, scallies, kids, parents...grandparents. This mixed crowd goes to show exactly what Eminem has achieved over the past year. Marshall Mathers (as he is formally known) seems to have single-handedly united all spectrums of the music world. Credit is due. But can the man who writes about killing his wife and causing his fans to commit suicide really live up to the hype?
The anticipation can be felt throughout the entire venue. After a short clip, which resembles a piss-take of Blair Witch Project, where fans try to smuggle themselves into Eminem's house and end up dead, Eminem strides onstage in his now legendary 'Friday 13th ' attire, brandishing his chainsaw and mask. A dramatic entrance, to say the least. Introducing his back-up homies D12, they burst straight into 'Kill You', but this and what is to follow, does not match up to his quality records. Stand out tracks include 'The Way I Am' and 'Stan', although the latter ends prematurely with the final verse being discarded, a repeated format on many songs. It is not entirely clear why this is. Perhaps to fit more tracks into this one hour and forty-five minute show? Who knows.
So what about the hype? Could the bleached-blonde one really match it? No. In fact, Mr. Mathers attempts were pathetic. His 'gay-bashing' amounts to the fat one out of D12 running around with a giant blow-up dick and pretending to have anal intercourse with Eminem. Very funny and shocking, I must say. Worst still is when they break into an inaudible song where the only words that can be heard are "pop those pills!". Following this a band member (don't ask which!) brings out what they claim is ecstacy and ask the audience to encourage him to take it. After a universal "pop those pills!" chant, he swallows it. Mr Mathers providing his twisted motivational encouragement for the kids once again! Bravo! Hmm.
Entertaining though it may be, it is far too rap-pantomine. The guy does allow a girl onstage so he can hug her, though. Awww, the man does have some soul. More hype than talent, but an attempt at a decent show.
Reviewed by Debbie Sulman - North corrospondent. Edited by Nick Peters
Getting inside where it's dry is all anybody wants. Oh, and to see the latest nu-metal crew invading our shores. The queue stretches into the distance down Oxford Road and many have only cardboard boxes as shelter from the lashing elements. Yet hoping to become comfortable is somewhat ridiculous at a Papa Roach gig. You get drenched due to other means. Sweat.
Meanwhile, inside, Apartment 26 take to the stage almost immediately with their blend of drum 'n' bass, rave beats and raw metal. Hinting not so subtly towards the sound of Pitchshifter - they aren't all bad. If you like that sort of thing. And if you don't? Well, the inger is cute. Despite the embarrassing shouts from pre-punescent teens who find him extremely attractive, their set was far from unpleasant.
Next up are Hed(pe) or Hed(Planet Earth) as they like to be called, the band many are sorely here to see. As they explode onto the stage the crowd all seem to rise as one. Singer Jared stares through those contact lenses while joking about "shagging lots of birds" and being "mad fer it", before promptly launchign into "Killing Time". Underated by the music press, (Hed) Planet Earth's mix of funk, hardcore and metal leaves us gasping for more.
Which brings us to Papa Roach. What is left to be said about this band? Unimpressed with debut album 'Infest', I was challenging them to prove my cynicism wrong. They failed.
Beginning well, they burst into 'Infest'. One of the stronger tracks on the record it is aired with energy and enthusiasm. However, it soon becomes clear that the lack of substance on the album is all too present in their live reportoire. Songs such as 'Dead Cell', 'Between Angels and Insects' and 'Blood Brothers' blend into each other with no real distinguishable differences. Despite 'Broken Home', 'Never Enough' and a wonderful cover of 'The Gentle Art Of Making Enemies' by Faith No More redemning them somewhat, even these lack true passion.
Maybe it has something to do with men in their thirties singing lyrics which sound like they have been written by a teenager (back by sub-standard musicians). Or maybe it's the fact that every other word out of Coby's mouth oozes 'band-wagon jumper'. Dedicating