V has lost its crown as the nicest of festivals. In comparison to the pampering available at Leicester’s Summer Sundae it is like the reenactment of the Somme. But, despite these privations, I’m once again prepared to go over the top, in the name of rock and roll.
First up is the latest band off the Liverpool production line, The Stands. Delivering perfect 60s tinged pop with an air of impending greatness, reminiscent of The Coral’s early shows. It makes you wonder whether Dylan and The Byrds form part of the national curriculum in Liverpool.
Over on the Main Stage, the Inspiral Carpets have lumbered back into action (spurred on by rising school fees perhaps). The past 10 years have not been kind. Slower, fatter (too much dairy no doubt), and considerably duller. In their prime, the opening bars of ‘Joe’ would have seen the first 15 rows erupt. Today it can only muster a gentle sway from the crowd. I head off to see if Michael Franti has aged any better.
Personally I would have preferred a smattering of ‘Television: Drug of the Nation’, but if he wants to get all KC and the Sunshine Band on our assess, who are we to complain. Franti closes the set with a dive into the crowd. 30 minutes later he’s still pressing the flesh with whoever wants to chat. Good work fella.
Sandwiched between The Stands and The Coral on what is now known as the Scouse stage, are Shack. Michael Head’s band is a cautionary, and quintessentially Mersey tale of drug abuse, bad luck, and missed chances (The Stands take note). Which means England’s most underrated songwriter since Robyn Hitchcock, is virtually unknown.
Today’s performance of beautifully crafted songs gains the approval of the crowd, and the nodding acknowledgement of Noel Gallagher at the side of the stage. Yet it may be time for Michael Head to acknowledge that ‘Comedy’ is his ‘There She Goes’, and go off and make his fortune penning hits for boy bands.
On the Main Stage PJ Harvey seems to be wearing Kylie’s dress from the Brit awards. Which is good. The set is even better. Polly Jean is rock. It’s a joy to hear her delving into the back catalogue to deliver such gems as ‘Rid of Me’ ‘Man-size’ and ‘50ft Queenie’ to counterpoint the more accessible later material.
With time to kill, I wander back to the NME Stage to catch Evan Dando. Is the sun shining brighter? Do the birds sing sweeter? Is this burger edible? – everything seems better with Evan. Apart from some disingenuous comments about Virgin’s transatlantic service, Dando delivers a breezy performance which reminds us why we loved the Lemonheads.
Sadly the same cannot be said for Tim Burgess. Sans Charlatans he’s limp and directionless. I make my excuses and leave, taking the hike over to the JJB Arena.
Is it hot in here, or is it Appleton? Perhaps somewhat unjustly tagged as the less talented liggers of All Saints, the Appleton sisters are busy carving out their own career since the split. This performance will do nothing to dent their ambitions. They arrived on stage bang on time; shook the required amount of booty; and delivered the hits and filler over an entertaining 30 minutes.
With a number 1 album in the charts I revisit The Coral with a slight sense of trepidation. Has success changed them? Will we find them bloated with corporate excess, phoning in a performance before waddling back to their Winnebago to be sated by armies of groupies?
Happily not. Hoylake’s sons have fulfilled their promise and matured into a group of outstanding performers. We may well be watching next years headline act.
The latest tracks may have an easy listening sheen, but ‘Skeleton Key’, ‘Simon Diamond’ and the stunning set closer ‘Goodbye’ blast out across the crowd. To think that there are people at the Main Stage watching David Gray…..
Day 2
Opening the bill are Eisely, "that's E-I-S-L-E-Y, checkout our website at eisely.com, that's E-I-S-L-E-Y", obviously well aware this is their 35 minutes. Pleasant enough stuff, unlikely to cause Sixpence Non The Richer many sleepless nights.
I head off to check out the latest mancunian candidates I Am Kloot. Being savvy operators, Kloot clearly realise that it is becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between the various melodic guitar bands riding in the Coldplay/Travis slipstream.
A point of difference is obviously required. Why not try a troupe of dancing girls, dressed as flappers, doing the Charleston. Memorable yes, but it is doubtful whether they will trouble Keane as candidates for the next big thing.
I stay in the JJB Arena for the first of a hat trick of great performances. David Holmes, obviously suffering cabin fever cooped up in the studio, is taking his music on the road with The Free Association. It’s a winning combination. Take a quintet of brilliant musicians; a production genius; and sprinkle with muso references. Mix to perfection, and stand back to take the applause. The thinking man’s Fatboy Slim.
Next up is Goldfrapp. Since no coffee table in 2000 was complete without a copy of Felt Mountain, it’s a mixed crowd. Since V is the most family friendly of festivals this also includes a fair portion of pre-teen munchkins peeking over the crush barrier. There may be trouble ahead…
Alison arrives on stage dressed like an S&M girl scout, in patent leather thigh-highs (I’d imagine she’d sell a hell of a lot of cookies). She eases us in gently with a few tracks from Felt Mountain, before moving on to the new material.
We’re pre the 9pm watershed but Goldfrapp clearly doesn’t give a damn. I suspect there will be some awkward conversations in the Renault Megans on the way home:
"Mummy what was the scary lady doing?"
"She was fellating a Theremin dear"
Those who deride electronic music for having no soul have evidently not heard the piercingly terrified scream of a Theremin disappearing up Alison Goldfrapp’s miniskirt. Voice of an angel, arse of a podium dancer.
Whoever scheduled the running order in the JJB Area evidently had a sense of humor when they put Moloko on next. To imagine that Roisin Murphy would let anyone upstage her in the barking blonde stakes. She does not disappoint, opening the performance by breastfeeding a bouquet of flowers. She’s ably assisted by Brydon’s uncannily accurate impression of Keith Moon’s Uncle Ernie, on keyboards.
Theatrics aside, Moloko deliver an absolutely stunning set. A group completely on top of their game, with sufficient command of their material to totally reinvent it in front of the audience. ‘Sing it Back, ‘The Time is Now’, and ‘Pure Pleasure Seeker’ have never sounded less like their album tracks, or better.
I pass on Lemon Jelly. Inoffensive stuff, soon to be featuring on a chill-out compilation near you, but people are literally falling asleep in front of the stage. I fear if I stay any longer I may wake up Monday morning packed up in a giant marquee, not to be found until V2004.
I head out into the fresh air, to check out Coldplay on the main stage. It was one of those faintly unnerving festival experiences. Standing amongst a crowd of 30,000 people, really not getting it. They’re singing along to tracks that are note perfect reproductions of the CD copy in their Mondeos. It displays all the artistic talent of a Xerox machine.
Coldplay’s subsequent announcement of a break from touring is no surprise. If being in Coldplay is a tenth as boring as watching them, I’d cut my ears off.
Chris Martin is the Tim Henman of rock n roll.
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