Leeds Festival 2008

And so came to be that, in a muddy field somewhere outside Leeds, West Yorkshire, a 23-year old innocent (in the ways of the music festival) was, finally, deflowered. Perhaps the virginity metaphor is a little tenious, even unedifying, but it seems appropriate to me given the circumstances. Anyway, more of that in a future post perhaps. Maybe.

This year's Leeds Festival (running simultaneously with it's sister site in Reading, which boasts exactly the same advertised line-up, shifted around by day) is second only to Glastonbury in terms of scale, and has moved away from its hard rocking roots in recent years, a move no more evident than in this year's high-profile appearances by East London boy-done-good Dizzee Rascal, achingly hip The Ting Tings and Brazilian electro-rock five-piece CSS. As if to balance this out, and appease the die-hards in the 75,000-strong audience, the weekend also saw rare UK appearances from Metallica and (I got so excited by this prospect I nearly wet myself) Rage Against The Machine.

I arrived at the site with a few preconceptions still swirling around my head. Would the sheer scale of the operation mean getting around to see who I wanted, when I wanted, a thankless task? Would the effect of a captive and largely intoxicated audience mean the prices of food and beer had been inflated to wallet-tightening levels? Would the presence of so many lagered-up, hell-raising revelers mean I never got any sleep, and be forced to enjoy/endure the weekend's performances in a sort of sleep-deprived daze? My concerns, in hindsight, were toally unfounded and I returned a convert to the joys of a festival.

Friday didn't start too well, however, as I arrived at the mainstage during Feeder's set. Not my idea of an entertaining rock band, they did give a committed performance. Slipknot's cancellation at the last minute hardly left me disappointed, as it meant that my highlight of the first day, rock band/comedy duo Tenacious D, were next up.

Their set was the expected blend of trademark humour and deadly accurate rock song pastiche, which buoyed the crowd up nicely for the evening headliners, Metallica. While not really to my taste, these legends of rock leave few in doubt as to why they have inspired, endured and cultivated such an ardent following over the last quarter of a century. Their concise, tight and furious thrash mental sound was given substantial room to breathe on this biggest of stages, with complementary vertical flamethrowers at key moments and fireworks at the show's end.

Where Leeds really competes with Glastonbury (and stands head and shoulders above the over-commercialisation of the likes of V Festival) is the lack of any significant curfew, and the after-hours fun is a big part of the draw. Sure, the stages all adhere to an 11pm light-out but the night remains young, with one tent given over to showing short films, another becoming a cheesy student disco. Outside the main arena, each campsite has its own DJ stand of varying size, sending out thumping dance tunes into the night and another fairground equal in size to the one opposite the main stages hurls small numbers of booze-soaked folk around in circles well into the wee small hours. Our tent was situated on a pitch about as far away as the confines of the site would allow. As we settled down to a our first nights sleep (and my first under canvas for some years) we were in close enough proximity to feel part of the action, but far enough away to rest up undisturbed, readying ourselves for Saturday when things really kicked off.

Bow's finest Dizzee Rascal lit up a sunshine-bathed main stage at lunchtime on Day 2, bowling around with his arse hanging out the back of his baggy jeans, and the huge screen astride the stage blending clips of his videos with close-up live action. One thing his performance did highlight was how commerical his recent sound has become, which he acknowleged by 'biggin' up' Calvin Harris for helping him stay in the number 1 slot for a month, before launching into the Harris-produced 'Dance With Me' to close his set. His first album was, even to a deeply uncool suburban white boy like me, one of the most exciting things I'd ever heard, and I confess to being a little slow on the uptake of his subsequent material. Catchy little choon though it is, 'Dance With Me' does come off as deliberately chart-friendly, something which grates on my inner purist. All power to him for becoming a high-profile success, as this is surely responsible for his excellent performance at Leeds, but one can't help but hope he doesn't become that most disreputable of things in the urban music world - a sell-out.

Up next was Serj Tankian, who fell a little flat. All the imaginative power which informed his work with System Of A Down seems conspicuously absent, and all that remains is his distinctive voice (a result of his mixed Armenian-American heritage). Following Serj were Biffy Clyro, and while I'm totally unfamiliar with their material I, like much of the rest of the crowd, got quite a kick from their raw, unapologetic power and rock sensibilities.

The Enemy followed, and for all the annoying oik swagger of their lead singer (with neither the charisma or good looks to conduct himself in such an arrogant manner in front of so many people) the quality of their songs and their tightness as a band shone through, making for a great performance, albeit with some unwelcome chuntering in between numbers. The Fratellis came next: rarely have I felt such a loathing for such a seemingly inoffensive band, as I made a bee-line for the Radio 1/NME tent to catch MGMT's much-anticipated set. The first part of half seemed lumpy and directionless, but once their more recognisable tracks came to the fore and the band seemed to find their mojo the crowd seemed to agree, bouncing along to the 'Electric Feel' and Flaming Lips-a-like 'Time To Pretend'. Not what I had hoped for but, in comparison to hearing one of my least favourite bands belting out 'Chelsea Dagger' it was infinitely preferable.

Back to main stage for Queens Of The Stone Age, who were largely underwhelming the last time I saw them supporting Foo Fighters in Hyde Park a few summers back. This time they did not disappoint in the least, with frontman Josh Homme staggering on-stage and declaring that he had been drinking since 6am that morning "to be ready". While his demeanour in between songs supported his assertion that he was three sheets to the wind, his guitar playing and vocals showed no signs of intoxication, and the band played a riotously good set. The perfect set-up for what followed.

Rage Against The Machine have acheived that rarest of things, at least with this music-lover - they occupy a mythic status inside their own lifetimes, albeit one which has seen them disband and reform on at least one occasion. Their appearances in the UK have been limited in the last few years to say the least, and my familiarity with the seminal, unsurpassed brilliance of their first album (attained at the expence of my listening to the rest of their releases more than just a handful of times each) meant that by the time they finally, after some 30 minutes delay, I was unfeasibly excited.

A good friend (in whose estimation I had gone down a notch or two when I told him I had only seen the first 30 minutes of Metallica's set in favour of CSS) assured me that his brother had reported RATM as being 'amazing' the night before at Reading, and to look out for their entrance. When it came, minus the orange Guantanamo Bay-referencing jumpsuit and binbag-obscured heads of the the previous night, it still sent the crowd into a frenzy. "We are Rage Against The Machine from Los Angeles", as if any one of the tens of thousand of people in the audience needed to be told, before ripping into their incendiary opening riff of 'Bombtrack'. We went, quite literally, wild. I wished I had the moxy to remove my camera from my bag to record the event, especially seeing as the world's most politically-conscious (and active) band had asked that no official photography or video footage be made by the media at any of their UK performances, but something told me this would not be an event I would forget in a hurry.

The giant glowing red star burned out above the heads of this most exciting four-piece, just as unremitting and brutal a symbol of the band's take on the world as any of their lyrics. It was a headline set to remember, despite including a delay of several minutes as the band stopped playing and asked the crowd to take two steps back from the stage. "We'd hate to have to stop the show 'coz of some bullshit", vocalist Zach de la Rocha told the assembled masses, "we just came to get down". Given the political polemic and overt symbolism of their entrance during last night's Reading appearance, compared with the complete absence of any such content tonight, showed the band were prepared to put aside their uncompromising views for one final night of unadulterated partying at the end of their European Tour. Perhaps they've mellowed since their mind-blowing debut some 16 years ago, but on Saturday at Leeds they did what they do best - take people's breath away.

The last day of the festival promised to be the best. The first act we saw on the main stage was The Subways, a British three some with some of the most exciting modern rock sounds to come out of this country in years. "We're so excited to be here, playing Leeds for the fifth year in a row!" said lead singer Billy Lunn after their first track, and it's easy to see why - their cult following has spilled over into a full-blown festival-based adulation, and it might well be their second release All or Nothing which brings them the commercial success their critical acclaims rightly warrants. Before their set Colin Murray said they were some of the nicest people in rock and had a exceptional interaction with the crowd.

The latter was evident from the start, as Lunn and Cooper explored the full latitude of the stage as they gee'd up the whooping crowd, and at one point the former dropped down into the no-mans-land between the stage and audience, who he whipped up to even more of a frenzy as he stood, shirtless and dripping in sweat, at the front barrier. Perhaps the atmosphere disorientated even the security team, who tried to prevent him returning to the stage before realising he was 'with the band'.

Up next were Dirty Pretty Things, who leave me entirely cold (despite oft-repeated assurances that Carl Barat is a lovely fella, which I don't dispute, their music only makes me think of The Libertines stripped of the showmanship and the zing, if not of the song-writing element of the former band). But my attention to the main stage returned as We Are Scientists, one of my favourite bands, took to the stage. Their well-known on-stage banter, while rumoured to be scripted, is just as entertaining as their fantastic material. "Just a word for any of you who were thinking of throwing a bottle of piss at us", bassist Chris Cain interjected mid-set, "I can tell you that, on average 85% of the piss tends to land in the mouth of the throw-ee...I shit you not". A missile, perhaps an empty bottle of water, then flew its way vaguely toward the stage from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Cain was quick on the draw: "That was a burrito, as near as I can tell. They tend to hit home around 50% of the time", before talking was put aside in favour of action as the band launched into another live favourite. One of the best value bands around, they kept the crowd nicely hyped-up as the evening approached.

I used to like Editors, but I now see them as a band that have grown so samey that their place in such a high-profile slot on the last day of the festival left me a little bemused. This gave us, however, the chance to head to the NME tent to catch The Ting Tings, who might have been the best thing about the entire festival. Their sound is so now, so up-to-date that in 6 months time they might be able to get arrested, but no-one in the packed tent could have cared less as their set, a series of quirky, endlessly catchy upbeat pieces of electro-rock, built towards the crescendo of 'That's Not My Name'. After returning from the festival, I saw television coverage of their performance the night before at Reading. There was all manner of shennanigans on-stage, with skipping ropes and the like. At Leeds, none of this was necessary - quite simply, they sounded better. Again, I apologies for the lack of photographic evidence. At the time, plucking my camera out and snapping away was the last thing on my mind. I was that excited.

Literally buzzing, we returned to the main stage to catch Jack White's current concern The Raconteurs. While not particularly familiar with their material, the band were entertaining enough, but the engagement of the crowd was fairly low, due mainly to the natural ebb and flow of things (and possibly the fact that they were following the aforementioned Editors) and they received only a lukewarm reception. Jack White, however, cast a captivating figure onstage, clearly enjoying an understated camaraderie with his group of troubadors, as they propelled us into the late afternoon.

If music, whether it be a song, an album or a band as a whole, can transport you back to a specific point in space and time, then my first year at university could very well be soundtracked by the next band to take the stage: Bloc Party. Their first LP, Silent Alarm, was received with critical and commercial success, and their subsequent releases have pushed their sound to places no-one could have imagined, with it's edgy, dance-inflected elements and broad lyrical scope. This being the second time I have seen them in concert, it is clear how much they have come on as a live act.

The first time was in the comparatively tiny Octagon centre in Sheffield, and in the intervening period I saw footage of them in an afternoon slot at Glastonbury. They looked tentative, failing to fill the vast space and dominate the occasion. A few years later, here at Leeds they were not found wanting, marching on stage as lead singer Kele Okereke asked of the crowd, not without rhetoric, "Who wants it?!" before launching into the first of their razor-sharp, post-punk numbers. The fading light gave scope to red flood-lit smoke to pour across the stage, a fittingly dramatic backdrop to Okereke's scorching vocals and Tong's robotic beats. The earlier material took me back to my days as a Sheffield Fresher, and their more recent offerings excited in prospect of what we might expect from their imminent third album.

And so, with the warm afternoon sun now a distant memory, the vast crowd became eager in anticipation of the festival's conclusion from The Killers (once called "the best British band to come out of America", in deference to the majority of their influences). A nervous-looking Brandon Flowers seemed to continually risk eschewing the crowd, but nevertheless delivered a rich, warm vocal performance to match his band's confident swagger. The set included all the favourites from the band's first two albums, as well as their B-sides and rarities collection Sawdust, with the stage adorned with several oversize pot plants, their speaker stacks drapped in fairy lights, and the word "Welcome" spelled out in foot-high neon lamps, on which the camera came to rest in between songs. Before the band had even departed the stage for the first time, the crowd were already singing for their encore of 'All These Things That I Have Done'. When it finally came, after Flowers had joked "It's coming, it's coming, but we've just got one more song to do", the effect was pure catharsis as, in unison, the assembled thousands yelped out the stirring refrain "I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier" at the very top of their lungs. It was as if each, for each and every audience member, it held its own, very personal meaning and investment of emotion.

Many have questioned the validity of a band such as The Killers closing a festival of this scale. Certainly, they may lack the brutal power of RATM or the electrifying speed-thrash of Metallica, but as a completely partisan fan I can say that when it comes to sheer, emotive power then Las Vegas' finest suffer not shortcomings, delivering as they did a triumphant, truly rousing performance. At the end the feeling was of euphoria, and exhaustion. Thank you Brandon, Dave, Mark and Ronnie, for ending such a memorable festival on a real high.

Leee-eeeds!

As this blog post goes live, I shall probably be just arriving somewhere outside the charming northern English city of Leeds, about to enjoy its annual festival. Those that know me know I don't really do camping. But I'm also enough of a music lover to not let 3 days of mud, burger van food and 'baby-wipe showers' ruin my enjoyment of what promises to be a pretty epic weekend.

Watch this space for photos and gushing about a reformed Rage Against The Machine soon.

...and another thing

One of my other passions aside from sport, namely film, has been consumed this month by the achievement that is Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight, easily the best film of the year. As an ensemble piece, it moves beautifully, and while the plot isn't perfect and the action occasionally a little far-fetched, such is the quality of the overall package you find yousrelf sitting in the cinema thinking "I know this shouldn't be plausible, but damn it, I'm enjoying myself so much I want to believe!" Such is the brilliance of the picture.

Beyond any doubt the finest element in all of this Heath Ledger's vast, commanding performance as The Joker. Amidst all the incessant, wearying grinding of the rumour mill about the circumstances surrounding his death and much pontificating about whether his inspiring dedication to fleshing out such a challenging role lead to his psychological decline, his work in The Dark Knight stands as a brilliant, unforgettable tribute to a great talent taken from this world on the verge of greatness.

It's been a while...

I know, I know. I'm sorry. You're right, I've neglected you. Although I know you're not interested in excuses, I have been pretty busy. Yes, I understand, "all the more reason to post a few things to tell the world about it", that's true enough.

Okay, enough of that. In the nigh-on month since I last threw together a few haphazard thoughts on this very blog, I've mainly been revelling in the wonder that is Beijing 2008. Not the event itself, of course - I don't buy into the idea that a country's human rights abuses, denial of democracy and free speech and the wholesale social cleansing of its own people can be overcome by a really, really good sports tournament. I am, of course, talking about Team GB and their unparalleled success.

As I write this, what might be called a relatively mediocre day for Britain’s sportsmen and women has come to a close in the Chinese capital (1 gold, 2 silver, if memory serves, such is the height of the team's achievement in the velodrome and on the water over the last week or so). Some of the outstanding competitors our country has produced have bettered their already excellent records this time around, such as Chris Hoy’s fourth Olympic gold and Ben Ainslie’s 3rd. Even the athletics has provided some highlights, not least Christine Ohuruogu, who seems to have shaken off any dark clouds resulting in her missing 3 drugs tests prior to being banned for a year, and in the swimming pool Rebecca Adlington became Britain's most successful female swimmer ever.
What's more, this Olympics has seen two of the greatest individual sporting performances the world has ever seen. Michael Phelps's unprecedented achievement of winning 8 gold medals at a single meet (with records being broken left, right and centre in the process) is something truly exceptional. And the 91,000 spectators in the Bird's Nest Stadium were privileged enough to an awe-inspiring display from Jamaica's Usain Bolt, as he won gold and broke the world record in the final of both the 100 and 200 metres. Both men has legitimate claims as being the greatest Olympian of these games (to my mind Phelps has the edge) and both have cemented their place in the annals of sporting history. I would even go so far as to argue achievements of this kind, and the manner in which they were accomplished, transcend sport itself and stands within the grand narrative of our contemporary times.
Glad I got that off my chest. More soon folks.