Leeds Festival - Friday 22nd August

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.

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