This Is Not TV

The Plight (DS) are old school metal complete with shorts and growls – this is hardcore, West Yorkshire style but Brazilian in ferocity. Make me proud, as do Middleman (FR), comeback kids in sportswear, still making songs to bounce to and smarter than they look.

Little Boots (NME); loath to say it, but she’s a lot more fun than I thought she’d be. More accessible than Goldfrapp, futuristic rather than retro and she gets her brother on stage for his Birthday. Bless. Read the rest of this entry »

Popularity: 15% [?]

I hadn’t come across Master Shortie (DT) before, but felt reckless so off I went. Imagine a band with a dub bass and drums, a hardcore DJ on synths and samples, a Credit to the Nation frontman and your dad on guitar. But the open with a song sampling ‘Prince Charming’ and close with grime epic ‘Dance Like a White Boy’ and get the almost exclusively white male crowd to sing non-ironically to the eponymous title so for that I am well pleased. Read the rest of this entry »

Popularity: 8% [?]

Opening the proceedings and keeping it local, Dinosaur Pile Up (NME) load up the riffs and let loose, nineties style. Matt is not holding back on the rock clichés and even though their peculiar brand of grunge rock is nothing new it makes for a lively start to the festival proper.

Lively, until you see Pulled Apart By Horses (FR). Wearing day-glo capes and crippled by appalling sound (nothing sounds miked up), they lumber belligerently into a set that is shout along fun and includes crowd surfing guitarists, semi-nudity and punches in the face. A typical satisfying PABH performance then. Read the rest of this entry »

Popularity: 14% [?]

I manage to miss Holy State (sorry) but arrive in time to see youngsters Airship working the stage. It’s noisy and… stuff. They’ve got a lot of guitars going on but little else. I guess I should have got there earlier.

Bear Hands start contentiously with their greebo front man Dylan Rau advocating widespread use of ecstasy (naughty) and follow it up with some fairly crunchy opening stanzas in an At The Drive In style, mixed up with a hint of Seattle sludge. Unfortunately after these strong initial impressions, songs get locked into an unstimulating riff loop. True, the sound is not great which doesn’t help, but they need a bit more trim and conviction to be convincing. Read the rest of this entry »

Popularity: 15% [?]

Ahhhhhhh festivals. To all those of you who are too squeamish to live beneath canvas, fester in your own filth and squat over a pit of ordure as your daily toilet for three days you really do not know what you are missing. No matter how bad things get, you will reach your festival peak, a moment when the sun shines, all around you sussurate in mellowed satisfaction and sweet music pours over you like maple syrup over hot pancakes; bliss out city. It will, more often than not, have less to do with who you are listening to at the time than it will to do with the general ambience of the whole experience.

So, to depart from the tried, tested and tired format of ‘this band that band, good band crap band’, I am going to approach the festival holistically and attempt to get down to the nitty gritty of Latitude’s three days of privation and ecstacy. In a less pompous fashion than I approached this intro.

Latitude takes place in the beautiful setting of Henham Park in East Anglia, close to the sea and far enough away from anywhere to make it feel like a proper discovery. This of course means that getting to there is not easy – probably not as problematic as Glastonbury, but most of the roads to it are titchy-tiny, touristy or indirect. You can avoid the queues if you time it properly though – thursday at ten o’clock was ideal. The location does have other disadvantages/advantages though, both of these covered by the weather. It can go from downpour to sunburn in a second and often did, with special mention going to the huge thunder storm that soaked me and Isaac (my three year old) shortly after we’d put up the tent.

Yes, we took a child; two in fact. One thing that Latitude does very well is accomodating the presence of families and junior festival goers. A seperate family site is provided, reasonably far from the maddening crowd, that has fairly decent toilets and a few hot showers (though the communal solar showers were missing this year – what, did some men find the idea of bathing together unsavoury? Never hurt the Romans…) – so few that queues were in evidence at 6 am. What they did get right was the laying on of children’s entertainments. In the campsite itself was a play area (with bats, balls, hula hoops, tug of war ropes etc.) provided by Leeds Met Playgroups, which was very handy for keeping certain people entertained until the official children’s area opened (at about 9.30). A meandering downhill path (yes, a bugger for getting pushchairs up at the end of the day)through the woods leads down to an area festooned with beach hut wendy houses, inflatables and tents providing all sorts of entertainment from junk modelling through wildlife spotting to pirate treasure hunts. Almost all are gratis (including the fruit, juice and hot drinks provided by the local church youth group in the under fives area) and run by cheerful, dedicated folk who are a) happy to be there and b) there to be happy. I cannot praise this area enough and more should be made of it, as I feel that more families would attend festivals if they knew that the children’s facilities were this good. But enough of my high horsing, you probably want to know about the rest of the festival and its location.

First impression is that it is remarkable clean. Door security is tight, so discarded bottles and cans are a rarity; teams of litter pickers work constantly, flitting around the festival like a team of pilot fish cleaning a whale; waste bins are divided into landfill, recycle and compost. It’s an effective way to deal with festival grub. The soil is also very sandy, so mud is almost nonexistant (though I did see a group of lads that found a solitary puddle of mud and proceeded to have a mudfight) and regardless of the weather the ground is never sodden. All good considering the capricious nature of the weather. Roads are also well kept if rudimentary, making this that rarest of things: a festival that doesn’t need wellies.

So now you are inside, have chuckled at the multicoloured sheep, cooed over the cleanliness – time to get a spot of food and drink. Meals can cost anywhere between four and ten pounds, which is a bit steep for a three day festival but isn’t bad considering the size of the portions (apart from the Posh Burger Company, who charge like manic street bulls for a simple cheese burger) and the variety on offer. Blimey, some of it is even vaguely fresh.

Variety is also present in regards to the bill of fare entertainment wise – ah yes, the bit you’re actually interested in. As well as the obligatory music, you’ve got theatre, poetry, comedy, film, literature, cabaret and bizarre one off artistic projects (The Tree of Lost Things was my favourite this year), all of which go towards making the festival feel nice and rounded, small town cosmoplitan if you will, but the emphasis is still very much on the music stages and the bands on offer there.

First off, don’t expect the major names this year round; Latitude has gone indie with a capital ‘I’ save for the headliners and a couple of support slots – even those are a bit quirky. The headliners (Pet Shop Boys, Grace Jones, Nick Cave) do have that ‘catering for the middle aged’ feel, but if bands like Of Montreal and Patrick Wolf can make the main stage, you know that the thinking is well and truly outside the box. And the quality of the music production is plain outstanding – there are venues that would kill for the clarity of the sound in the Uncut tent. I don’t think I have ever heard Spiritualized sound so good and as for iLiKETRAiNS… phenomenal.

It’s not perfect – the information staff seem fairly bemused, the catering a bit monopolistic and the whole thing a bit too nice to be a threat to Glastonbury but hey, it’s a friendly festival, a smart festival. Let’s face it, it’s a festival full of Guardian readers – smart, informed but very middle class. Guilty!

Popularity: 31% [?]

To drag me away from the Brainwash festival it would take something pretty bloody spectacular. A trip to Nashville, courtesy of Jack Daniels, falls into that category. Hey, they might not be able to buy me, but I never said anything about them renting me for a while. I am a whore.

But amidst the corporate hurly burly, which I must confess was very good (JD do good hospitality; so good parts of my body still ache after a month), and the good-natured channelling and itinerising, a small group of independent minded media types… and me managed to tunnel our way out of the prescribed entertainment enclosure (strawberries do not, repeat, not make a relish; it’s wrong in so many ways) and head for the wilds of Nashville, beyond the bluegrass and cowboy boots; the real Nashville; the dive bar.

A ridiculous statement, I realise – even by turning up in what might be described as ‘the genuine article,’ we’re making it touristy, unreal – like Heisenberg’s theory, where the very act of observing effects the outcome. That said, Springwater (the oldest Dive bar in Nashville) was certainly as real as you could get without being born and bred in Nashville from a long line of Nashvillites.

It’s not my idea though, I can’t claim that. Tom, a guy immersed in the spirit of things from the tips of his cowboy boots to the top of his ten-gallon hat had had the place recommended to him by… someone at the Nashville Hilton, I think. Showing my intimate knowledge of things in general, I ask what the hell a dive bar is anyway. “It’s a bar where all the money goes into the beer and none goes into the décor.” Finally, a place where my shabby style might fit the surroundings. Only I’m dressed in a suit and trying my darnedest to look like Nick Cave. For the first time in my life, I might be overdressed.

On the trip over (crossing to the other side of the tracks, I kid you not), we see an 18-foot high cut out of Joe Elliot advertising a forthcoming bill featuring the legendary Def Leppard, which leads to a heated discussion about favourite Def Leppard lyrics and America’s continuing love affair with 80’s AOR. In fact, America is a country that was so comfortable with the eighties that, for the most part, it has decided to stay there. Only the technology has advanced… it’s like being in a Glenn Larson series. I’m expecting the sleek taxi to do a 90-degree turn at any moment, leaving us pressed against the windows in an hilarious mockery of inertia.

Pulling up outside the bar, I start to get a bit scared. The complimentary booze in my system is starting to wear off, and chicken wire seems to play an eminent role in the décor of this place, as do surly-looking men standing on a ramshackle ground floor balcony affair designed for smoking comfort. I giggle a touch hysterically and mutter “we’re going to die” under my breath. It is unclear how to get into the place – no brightly-lit porch, no ‘entrance’ sign – when we do find the door, it is almost indistinguishable from the wall, decorated with the weathered legend ‘Springwater.’ With Tom leading the way, we step into…

… one of the nicest bars I have ever been in in my life. It looks like shit; Tom wasn’t lying about the no décor budget policy. But it’s a good kind of shit. The walls are covered in gig posters, layer upon layer that you could probably date the bar by, the bar has four taps, no liquor, and stools occupied by slumping clientele who have been taking advantage rather heavily of the cheap local beers on offer (not just Bud; proper American dark and pale lagers like Dos Peros). The centre of the bar room is dominated by a pool table, ruled by amiable shark Bob, who’s relaxed attitude to pool rules doesn’t conceal the fact that he could and does wipe the floor with all of us (“we don’t have too many rules,” he drawls, “that’s how fights start”). Over in the corner a juke box whose eclectic selection includes the KLF is momentarily silent as the bands rock up room 2.

This is a dimly lit, open sided affair with a mix of booths with slashed chairs and wobbly circular tables, surrounded by equally wobbly chairs, where grungy kids roll cigarettes or pop pills, medicinal or otherwise. A blues-country combo plough their way through the standards, the frontman your traditional pub chanson bonhomie, the bassist a relic feeling his way around the familiar and unfamiliar. Figures skulk and nod appreciatively before returning to their pitchers and self medicating to obscenity; at one point I am approached by a muted but amorous drunk who can only manage the words “I’m your sister… I ain’t seen you for a while,” before being escorted to a taxi by her friend. This is grubby hedonism at it’s best.

A third room abuts the second, which is open on all sides for, again, the comfort of smokers (though the no smoking inside rule is pretty relaxed throughout Nashville in general) with windows made of chicken wire. Pretty chilly, but I’m sure I can see a bridge in the distance across a car park, but details are sketchy as the beer is kicking in.

Traditional blues country gives way to post-country, closer to Earth’s latest work than Hank Williams, and we all wander throughout engaging in our own little adventures: Suzannah gets chatted up by an arborealist enforcer and a prison designer; Tom gets called ‘a wanker’ and has to explain to the good humoured gentleman about British swearing; Bob hands us our asses at pool and I indulge in a cigar that looks like a whistle and tastes like a peach. It’s weird but not threatening (not the cigar); authentic but not forced. Post-country gives way to grunge-country, performed by the woman who was popping medication like M&M’s and is now droning on the edge of hearing with occasional bursts of enlightening tunefulness.

It’s funny that such a monumental genre as country is so maligned and misunderstood. Like rock or metal it has it’s sub genres, fusion points, costumes and customs. Only in the UK we stand and mock it while committing ourselves to the same crimes we accuse country of. In that grotty, magnificent venue I got an inkling of the vastness of country. Plus the beer was really cheap and the natives friendly.

To complete the night, we say a fond farewell to Springwater and return to Broadway to have a second bite of the tourist cherry. Dozens of bars play various genres and sub genres of music – Nashville isn’t just about the myriad variations of country, but if you’ve got a steel guitar it helps. Tootsies (the famous) buzzes with booze and bravado, so we dive in, mingle with the crowd and make our way to the stage, obtaining tequilas and beers on the way and tossing spare change into the frequently touted tip buckets – wages are below minimum for workers in these establishments, so any coming, glad of it. An acceptable covers band is blasting out pop country and MOR for the pleasure of the assembled and when Def Leppard comes on, I am a man possessed: to beguile the times, look like the times. It’s less laid back here though, a miasma of fights waiting to happen and southern fried lust fills the air – I narrowly avoid being the dish de jour for a pumped up pilgrim with fists a-primed on the dance floor. Thanks Tom.

This is the Nashville you expect, complete with Stetsons and Sheryl Crowe, but it’s more of a stereotype for fellow Americans than visiting, ahem, dignitaries. Us ‘sophisticated’ European types find ourselves seduced more by the simple heritage of the dive bar, closer to venues like the Brudenell Social Club or the Freebutt and closer to the heart of any thriving local scene. I only wish I could find out more, stay longer, chat, drink, assimilate, but for now I shall be satisfied.

I manage to stumble back to the hotel in one piece to rest my weary spinning head; spinning not just from the booze. Nashville, I love you; America, I love you; beer… we shall probably fall out in the morning…

Popularity: 20% [?]

After an eventful night (the three word vocabularists throw a can of Stella at a fellow festival goer resulting in a cut eye, security intervention and the offer of a bribe to ‘keep the police out of it’) Sunday rolls around all too soon. My booze supplies are dwindled, my money supplies swindled and my capacity for guitar-based indie rock… not doing too bad, actually. This time last year I was considering burning every Fender replica I saw for the sake of humanity. Plus ca change.

I have heard from reliable sources that Tim Hann, i concur’s disciplinarian front man, has been keeping the rest of the band on a short leash this weekend. I also have it, from the same source, that he tied a serious one on the previous night. Naughty Tim. As a result, his performance is somewhat reserved. The music is sound, though. Daringly airing mainly new wares, the ‘tween song silences (Tim is of few words today) only serve to emphasise the heaviness of the new material, especially ‘Captors’. The crowd is middling but attentive, like a posse of eager students. When Tim scolds Chris Woolford for tuning up before applying his capo, this impression is only heightened. But Chris is such an easy-going fellow that it doesn’t stop him from achieving guitar nirvana, eyes closed, mouth open, by the close of play. ‘Oblige’ and ‘Build Around Me’ round off a set that has not been their best yet but still provides ample rich food for thought to a hungry audience.

Leeds’ Kid Id are a lively, fun loving bunch in funny outfits and with too much brass. They play a fair few catchy riffs, jump up and down, throw inflatables into the crowd and party like its 1999 but don’t quite achieve that ignition point – they lack a decent chorus. Hopefully they will find one, but in the meantime they do a fair impression of a young Loqui. Make of that what you will.

I swore I wouldn’t do it, but I find myself being drawn inexorably to British Sea Power on the main stage. That’s three times this year, but each time they have produced admirably. Their songs remind me of Sunday afternoons with an Airfix model and fish paste on toast – an utterly British pleasure – and their epic anthems to drinking and, er, matches bring a smile to my face. As does the man offering his wine skin freely to anyone who will partake. I told you resources were getting low. No Slav chorus, but violin and brass add that subtle post-rock touch. On the whole quite a relaxed, by-the-numbers performance from a band who are getting very good at this, but enjoyable nonetheless.

When I listened to Fucked Up’s recent album, I thought their performance might be quite a pronky affair. What I get is an impenetrable wall of post-hardcore noise. Still, you lose, you gain. What I gain is the inspired ‘low self-esteem’ performance of frontman, Damian Abraham aka Father Damian. Looking like the man who ate the great dane to the rest of the bands Scooby gang, he drops his shorts and tucks his tackle by the second song and is up against the barrier, helping with crowd surfers, by the third. Crushing cans on his head and crowd surfing for songs, he is the living embodiment of Bluto and a big figure in every way. Shame the rest of the band are so static and the sound is so muddy.

If Fucked Up are about as marketable as shit soup, Attack Attack! are celebrity-endorsed sliced bread. Hailing from South Wales, they produce pitch perfect indie rock in the Foo Fighters/Lost Prophets vein without breaking a sweat. The songs are poppy and predictable, the boys are likeable and smart and they do have a lot of sellable potential, which is probably why they have such a sizeable crowd that even breaks into moshing. They also produce the funniest moment of the weekend. “After me say ‘Hey!’ – 123…” says frontman Neil. “Hey 123!” shout back the crowd. Classic. The end is reassuringly angry though, so perhaps they’re not as shallow as they sound.

It still surprises me that Seasick Steve, a Mississippi bluesman well into his sixties at least, should be so popular with the ‘younger generation,’ but after seeing him live, I’m starting to get it. Playing raw hobo delta blues from a mock up his porch, he is by no means re-inventing the wheel, just making it out of bits of driftwood and packing case. Songs are instantly infectious, punkily pugnacious and his hillbilly raconteur persona is disarmingly amiable – it’s impossible not to like him. When a girl is brought up on stage for one song, she is clearly overwhelmed and swooningly flattered. Of course we get the three-string guitar and one-string Diddley Bow, but we also get a true gentleman in dungarees and one of the highlights of the festival by a long shot. He got a better deal at the crossroads than Robert Johnson.

Still amazed at how good Seasick Steve is and slightly footsore, I find myself in the middle of a full on techno hoe down. Newcastle’s Razzmatazz Lorry Excitement are tearing up the introducing stage and I am hugely surprised. His sixteen note sequences are fluid and varied enough to keep things interesting, his voice is im and compelling, the beats are big and shapes are thrown. Less disco than Justice, but a good warm-up and, dare I say it, dance done with feeling.

My encounter with the Raconteurs is brief and from the wrong angle, but I will say this: why bother spending a fortune on Led Zeppelin reunion tickets when you can go and see these guys? No, I have bigger poisson to fry. Justice are on.

When I get to the NME stage, I manage to fight my way down to the first barrier. Good viewing county. On stage, two huge stacks of fake Marshalls flank a façade of flashing lights, wires and an illuminated cross. Shadowy hirsute figures shuffle into place and ‘Genesis’ blasts for the PA. At first, the performance is uneven, unmatched, sloppy – I must admit to feeling disappointed – but as the momentum gathers, the various parts fit into place so by the time ‘D.A.N.C.E.’ permeates the tent, everything is in the right place. Xavier and Gaspard look like two men trying to prevent a starship crashing into the sun as that cross flashes on and off, fading then growing faith. This is the sound of the apocalypse, but it is a good thing, as thousands of voices scream “we are your friends!” One figure stands out front and as they raise their arms simultaneously, everything stops. The crowd roars as everything is on hild for one… two… three minutes. Then the world comes crashing down and the audience hit frenzy point. Lights dazzle, strobes addle and sounds confound; all I think is ‘oh me of little faith.’

Sheffield’s Skeletons are last to play the Introducing stage and they end proceedings with a whimper not a bang. The set is Kaiser Chiefs-esque indie fluff, with a lead singer displaying aspirations of Ricky Wilson. Maybe I’m tired, but it totally fails to light my fire, so I go to find someone else’s.

After spending a pleasant hour sat around a fire with various peeps, I sally forth to make my last musical pilgrimage of the day to see Killers. I manage to miss a few favourites but do manage to catch the core of the performance. Unfortunately, the Killers don’t seem to have their eart in it. Again, the sound is partly to blame – you can hear the general crowd hubbub more than the band – but Brandon appears to stomp about the stage in a state of agitation around the hotel lobby stage rather than excitement – it’s like watching a Las Vegas version of Basil Fawlty. ‘Sam’s Town’ material still doesn’t feel familiar enough to embrace, even though it is two years old, though ‘When You Were Young’ gets a bit of a sing-a-long. A shower of sparks from the stage ceiling marks the home straight, providing such crowd pleasers as ‘Mr Brightside’ and ‘Smile Like You Mean It,’ but their departure is swift and even though the crowd saunter off arm in arm singing the closing bars, it feels slightly hollow and begrudging. Unfortunate really.

So there you have it. Four days, one box of wine, one bottle of brandy, thirty-eight bands and sixteen hours sleep. The three-word vocabulary idiots wrecked their own tent and cried about it, the site looked like a bomb had hit it and in some places that wasn’t too far from the truth and I had had an excellent, if sonically restrained, time. More volume required and, definitely, more cowbell.

Popularity: 14% [?]

I wake up feeling surprisingly spry on one of the two nice days in August, take a deep breath and prepare myself for day three in Bramham Park. My body has moulded to the lumps in the ground (though my pillow keeps deflating) and I have even tuned out to the three word vocabulary idiots camped beside us. Time to treat myself to some nice gentle trad folk, LS6 style.

Fran Rodgers has been breaking hearts with her beautiful voice for several years in Leeds now, so it is a long overdue event to see her reach a wider audience on a bigger stage. A much bigger stage. In fact, it swamps her. Then she opens her mouth and the tent fills with her rich, clean, heart-rending tones, augmented with acoustic guitar and lap dulcimer. She buries the needle. Harmonies loop and fold like musical origami as she overwhelms and is in turn overwhelmed. Then, the moment of truth as a security guard wipes away a tear. Result. Meanwhile, a member of These Monsters is in floods. I come close when she dedicates ‘This Is Dedicated…’ to her parents. The French bit breaks me. Beautiful, simply beautiful.

I roll in a daze to the Introducing stage – Dave from Wintermute has suggested I check out the Situationists – and catch the Tripwires from Reading. It is a competent performance but fades into the melange of Stereophonics/Kaiser Chiefs emo-laced indoe rock. I’m sure they are lovely lads… maybe that’s part of the problem. It’s okay for an innocuous scribe like me, but a band needs to be… striking.

The Situationists are living proof of parallel musical evolution. Four nerdish, self deprecating young men playing angular but poppy math music that is so tight you could serve pear cider in it and not spill a drop. Sound familiar? Okay, I’m referring to Wintermute – bit obscure, but if you read the previous paragraph you might have a giggle. The crowd are lapping it up and rightly so as this fare has an undeniably catchy indie groove riffs threaded with some neat fills from drummer Ralph. Fidgety Futureheads/Foals rock that is almost as good as their Leeds counterparts, Wintermute. Almost.

I have only one sentence written down for Henry Rollins: See fucking awesome. A mite trite, but perfectly justified. His delivery is constant but well paced, his humour self-deprecatingly charming, his passion palpable, his content hilarious, anecdotal and frank… he is the sort of person you could listen to all day and, considering the man’s penchant for work, the sort of person who would talk all day. And night. It dawns on me that this is Bill Hicks true heir without the drug references or perverted sex fantasies. So not perfect, but still… fucking awesome.

Unlike Be Your Own Pet. Considering that this is one of their last gigs, Jemima Pearl looks and moves like she can’t be arsed anymore – it’s a far cry form the band I saw two years ago. It’s a shame, because the material from the new album is so… crispy. ‘Valley Of The Dolls’ should be spat out like bad seed, not mumbled. The smattering of audience look pretty disinterested too. Such a pity.

Sheffield’s Darlings of the Split Screen are stirring up the mid-size crowd at the Introducing stage with an electro ladle of samba. Terrible imagery, but good music and very zeitgeist. Kid Faces bops the synth, throwing out the sounds Hot Chip/XTC/Friendly Fires style and it is good n infectious. In fact, I wish I hadn’t bothered with Be Your Own Pet now. Catching these guys full set would have been better.

More festival lard n sugar premium mix from a sensibly priced vendor. I overcome the gag reflex and get back to the Introducing stage just in time for Leeds’ rock phenomena Pulled Apart By Horses, the yin of post-Mother Vulpine to Dinosaur Pile-Up’s yang. I hear that on the previous day, when they played Reading, Tom went to say “Cheers Reading,” and instead vomited for three minutes. He then wiped his mouth and said “cheers Reading.” Hence, a rock phenomena. Their five song set is baggy, ridiculous… and magnificent. Guitarists Tom and James leap off stacks, dive around the stage, play the theme from ‘Super Hang-On’ and spaz out to the extreme and the whole thing culminates with Tom singing on his back whilst being carried by the audience. Fellow ex-Mother Vulpine Lins takes over from Tom for that, setting in my mind the most beautiful rock n roll tableau of the weekend. Fellow writer and Leeds legend Sam Saunders comes striding out of the mosh pit and sums it up in two words: “Fuck indie.” Amen.

For some reason I miss about half of the Maybes?’ set – look, I’m being honest here – and when I return, I’m thinking they sound like your average indie electro band sporting just the right amount of plucky arrogance. I shrug. Then for their finale they embark on what can only be described as an ambient indie post-rock extravaganza. I didn’t see that coming. I’m intrigued. It’s like Aerogramme gone ladsy, Mogwai gone Liverpudlian. It’s about two minutes too long, but I am fair impressed and totally fail to secure an interview with them. I am nothing if not amateur.

Ida Maria, Norway and womankind’s answer to Pete Docherty actually deems to turn up today, wearing a battered top hat, a short dress and a leather jacket. Her make-up is Alice Cooper circa ‘Flush The Fashion’ and she is flanked by two Kens (Stefan Tornby and Johannes Lindberg). Looking slightly tipsy, she wades through the majority of her set with some half-hearted enthusiasm while her cohorts look on unimpressed and the audience wait for that song. In short, it’s one of those “come on, play the hit” gigs and I am personally a bot nonplussed. When the songs do come (‘Stella’ is sorta familiar) there is a cheer of relief from the audience and Ida, feeding off the response, ups the drunken antics a notch, flirting with the crowd, and generally selling ‘I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked’ like she should have done the rest of the set. Flash in the pan minus the nudity.

Friendly Fires follow and fortunately a good number of folks remain, because, though the dancing girls aren’t present, the carnival is coming to Leeds today. Showers of ticker tape herald their opening and Ed MacFarlane struts around the stage like a techno Mick Jagger, arse wiggling joyfully every time he pokes emphatically at his synth. Candy Staton sticks out like a glitter covered thumb – in fact, is celebrated exuberantly. Only problem is that the sound is so muddied that it doesn’t quite ignite. It gets pretty damn close when Jack Savidge and Edd Gibson hit the drums, turning ‘Paris’ into a Rio de Janeiro carnival, the air now thick with confetti and passion. Okay, it’s bloody good. I’m convinced.

Boogeying off to catch my breath and chat to the BBC, I am just about prepared for the double whammy of the weekend: QOTSA and RATM. Two great acronyms, two great bands. For some reason, though, Queens are a bit down beat tonight. The set is eclectic, featuring tracks from all five albums, but Josh Homme looks like a man going through the motions. Plus, the whole thing is still not loud enough! Whoever decided the sound on the main stage (i.e. some noise abatement official) should be held accountable for kicking the heart out of the speakers. Still, despite the lacklustre performance and poor sound, it’s nice to hear in the open air.

A lot of people have been waiting a long time for this. You can sense the anticipation in the air. Or it could be the damp. When the lights finally come up after an unwelcome delay, the stage is dominated by a large red star – and that’s it. The emphasis is on Rage, not gimmicks. When the band arrive, a huge roar goes up and the ground shakes as tens of thousands of bodies jump up and down in unison. Zack de la Rocha strides purposefully about the stage laying down hardline after hardline, only letting up form the music to tell the crowd to move back. No lectures or protests tonight, just dissident anthem after dissident anthem. Tom Morella uses his guitar like a set of decks, unplugging and tapping to get that distinct sound and I swear never to mock him about pedals again. Tim Commerford, in a full torso tattoo and little else, holds down the tune and the rhythm on his bass – for me the great unheralded hero of Rage. ‘Bulls On Parade’ detonates, ‘Bullet In The Head’ fragments and ‘Renegades of Funk’… funks, but the noise is never quite enough. The second half of the set, unsupported by volume or fusion bangers sags a bit, so I am almost twiddling my thumbs by the time ‘Killing In The Name Of’ kicks off. Then they are gone, without fuss or fanfare. It’s worth it, but I can’t help but feel that it could have been more. Rage, for sure, but contained. Like the metal.

Popularity: 15% [?]

After a night spent quite vocally berating the shabby treatment of the Grammatics and drowning sorrows on their behalf, Friday morning finds me in a delicate state. It would also appear that a small bear decided in the night to relive itself in my mouth. Coming across some unknown deranged teen complaining about ponies to her laptop on the alternative stage doesn’t help either. Bad to be a bad uncle.

Fortunately at around midday the perfect hangover cure comes along in the shape of four impeccably dressed men on the Introducing stage. By way of distraction, the unsigned stage used to be sponsored by Top Man and curated mainly by Radio Humberside’s Raw Talent. With a new policy on new music, Radio One have, ahem, muscled in on the action and now wholly sponsor the stage, leaving Radio Humberside rather out in the cold, though Alan Raw still gets to present. Anyway, back to the music. The four gentlemen in question are Eureka Machines, Chris Catalyst’s (aka Robochrist, Sisters Of Mercy) latest and possibly greatest project. Their six song pop rock set, filleted from the new album, fairly cracks along, garnished with boy-band tight choreography, drum stool gurning from Wayne Insane, bass showboating from Steve Morricone and back flips (rolls) from Chris himself. It looks fun, sounds fun and carves a heart-shaped window in my skull-threatening headache when I scream “Eureka!”

Which is promptly filled back in by Mighty Boosh name droppers Robots In Disguise, three girls dressed as mimes who pretend to play instruments and sing over a Crystal Castles-lite techno track. It’s like Daphne and Celeste all over again – where’s a bottle of urine when you need one? Very disappointing and it is only the bizarre cardboard box robot porn that holds my interest long enough to get through the set.

I do hang around the dance tent for The Whip though, for which I will be eternally grateful. The beats are hard as nails, with each song rising to a Josh Wink crescendo while the bass pummels your internal organs aggressively. Through the blue mist on stage, Lil Fee plays drums that don’t quite match the beat as Danny Savage stalks the stage, rousing the rabble to frenzy for ‘Trash.’ Filthy stuff, so ideal festival music.

Holy Fuck are… different. Two guys (Brian Borcherdt and Graham Walsh) playing ancient synths face off, chucking mangled genres at each other until one flinches. Arcade thrash collides with jazz dance in an 8-bit Art of noise fashion. It’s compelling, watching these two techno boffins go at it, but lacks the focus and charisma of the Whip. Good for shoe-gazers who like to dance.

Intent on a double fuck fest, I dash over to the Introducing stage to catch Leeds’ duo That Fucking Tank play as the surprise band of the day. Andy Abbot is pulling porn faces and dropping to his knees on the stage in full rock god mode and James Islip won’t stick with a rhythm for more than two bars. It’s a fantastic confusing noise and many heads are nodding arhythmically in the audience trying to keep up. Throw in a cheeky Springstein for luck and you’re there. James gets up from his stool to announce the band: “We are that fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking tank.” That might upset Radio One but do these rock god porn stars care? Not one jot.

After gorging myself on fat-rich, heavily-salted festival fare (oh the suffering for my art), I stave off immanent coronary failure and stagger back to catch the closing moments of Solus Locus, four smart young lads who made the switch from prog metal to post rock to lure in the ladies… because the ladies love post-rock. The sound is good, old fashioned PR, the way the canadians used to make it, but fair spirited despite the failing equipment, and the Yaffle-like synthesist Mike Jones even goes so far as to crowd surf in the closing feedback of the final song. Good to see that dour can be fun.

A huge crowd gathers and I have a horrible sense of foreboding as the people crowding around me start to mutter things about ‘Franz Ferdinand’ and ‘Foo Fighters.’ When a young attractive girl in a tight red dress (that sort of fits) and not a grizzled old rock veteran or Glaswegian indie fashionista strolls into the stage, the crowd are most disgruntled and start booing and exodising – rude idiots. Regardless of the battering to confidence, the show must go on and go on it does in a noisy, crass, riotous yet unusually static fashion. Like a blend of Babes In Toyland, B52s and Korn, it starts well but goes a bit one paced after Kate announces that they better than the Foo Fighters. Doesn’t go down well, but nice n noisy.

I lose track of time for a bit and the next thing I know I’ve missed a band entirely and find myself watching These Monsters – I’m finding it increasingly difficult to pull myself away from the Introducing stage; I tried to go to Pendulum, but so did everyone else. Still, These Monsters can be entertaining. Unfortunately, today they seem even more lost it than usual and though the sound is pristine (you can even hear the sax) they all seem to be playing different songs at the same time while drifting around the stage in a general daze. A bit disappointing.

A comedy band in support? Recipe for disaster in my books, but fortunately Jack Black is on stage doing what jack black does best… being Jack Black. In fact, it’s hootful stuff; Kyle dressed as a green furry dragon (“Wizards you idiot, not lizards”), a synchronised dance with ‘the metal’ and a songs whose sentiments are ‘ I really fucking miss you.’ Touching. Musically, it will never set the world alight, but for gosh darn entertainment, it’ll do.

Loqui are also in for gosh darn entertainment, though the two parts Richard O’Brien one part Willy Wonka figure of Rob Paul Chapman is a bit… disturbing. Fortunately, he is countered by the curiously alluring Sarah Niven as mistress of the night. I say nothing as I am standing next to her beau. Musically innocuous but performed with gusto, songs are pretty dad rocky with punk pretentions… pretty broad really. They are, however, enjoying themselves, as are the two top-hatted fans behind me and the guitarist appears to be on fire. Music, meh, performance gooood.

Which brings me to Metallica, last up on the main stage. I meant to go and see CSS, but something about these crousty ole red necks is more compelling than the concept of nubile female Brazillians. I must be losing it. Metallica, however, have got it back. Plundering and thundering through their back catalogue (‘Ride The Lightning,’ ‘Sanitarium,’ ‘Justice For All,’ ‘Master of Puppets’ – mmmm good), staying light on the new stuff and looking like they actually like each other, the set is more incandescent than the flame throwers belching over the crowd – Robert Trujillo has definitely brought something back to the band. ‘Enter Sandman’ is of course a huge crowd pleaser (duh), ‘One’ is air guitar mosh heaven and though it isn’t loud enough (the crowd at the front look strangely still) it does remind me what it was like to be sixteen and alienated again, especially when a whole side of metal fans sing ‘Nothing Else Matters’ – it fair brings a lump to the throat. As a gift to fans they encore with ‘So What?’ ‘Last Caress’ and ‘Seek and Destroy,’ a song that reminds you how great a riff can be. No ‘Unforgiven’ or ‘Battery,’ but I think that their set could quite comfortably be called a triumph, albeit a quiet one.

Popularity: 12% [?]

The dust has settled, the neoprene-polyester tent fires have finally been extinguished, the scrats have been disposed of in huge refuse pits, too drunk on casual violence and Stella to care… no, that was just one of my darker dreams… and a month-long clean up campaign will be underway from Festival Republic. The festival season is nearly over (Bestival is still to come for all you die-hards) and it has corporate rocked. By way of penance and payment for my place in the hallowed grounds of the guest area, behold! My long-winded review, précis, summary, self-indulgent dry hump lig fest. Enjoy!

Thursday 21^st August

And you all thought it started on Friday – wrong! For the last two years, Dance To The Radio have generously curated an evening of label/Leeds orientated entertainment for the festival early birds.

The guest entrance is closed due to mudding, so after a long trek and having to down my wine at the entrance gate, we manage to catch the last two songs of Wintermute, who seem to be owning the stage when we get there (please note: the Introducing stage has the best sound all weekend – natch). Dan is so in the zone that a can thrown at him is dodged ten seconds before it arrives. Yah boo sucks, you non-fan of nerd rock. Chris and Dave rock out regardless, prompting the mythical unprompted clap along; Ben is so surprised he misses a beat. Rounding off the set with ‘Jambon Jambon’ (it’s French) I get a slight lump in my throat. These boys have grown; soon they’ll be flown.

Dinosaur Pile-Up, featuring ex-Mother Vulpine frontman Matt, come as a bit of surprise – sorta like hearing Mars Volta after loving At The Drive In. They’ve got drop D pop down to a tee, but it sounds pretty standard and fairly pedestrian if well written. Matt looks all floppy fringed but the sound has gone more rawk… it’s satifying but shallow. I will need another band ten minutes later.

After a brief respite to smuggle more wine into the site and meet up with Adam TiNTV, we fight back through the mud to find that the Pigeon Detectives are playing next – a surprise gig from one of Leeds’ favourite bands. Unfortunately, they are not one of mine, though I must admit they have one or two good, albeit moronic, songs. Boy, that hurt. Having taken an age to set up (not really their fault) their sound is the worst of the evening (not really their fault) but Matt Bowman struts around the stage with arrogant flair, stirring up the now familiar chants of ‘Yorkshire’ and ‘Leeds!’ The wine is kicking in hard at this point and I am in danger of coming out the worst at the hands of Pigeons fans. Thank goodness Adam is still sober.

Broken Records, playing to a much depleted audience after the triumphant and magnanimous Pigeon Detectives leave the stage, have many players and many instruments. Violins, guitars, drums, keys, vocals… yep, it’s a bit Arcade Fire. Even more than that, they’re a bit Levellers and a bit Dexy’s Midnight Runners. Folksy and innocuous, they entertain without leaving the slightest imprint on my mind, though that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

What is a bad thing is the length of the Grammatics’ set. Three measly songs with Owen doing his level best to make the most out of a bad situation. ‘Polar Swelling’ is a great warm up, ‘D.I.L.E.M.M.A.’ is the best I’ve ever heard them do it and ‘Shadow Committee’ cranks up like a Bond theme should. They even make reference to Justice’s ‘We Are Your Friends.’ Then it is all over and the foppish four are no more. I am left with a semi-on and a rekindled hatred of the Pigeon Detectives. Rob is robbed.

Popularity: 7% [?]