Liam Gallagher is a snarling, sneering bore. And his new band are just as objectionable. Shorn of brother Noel's wit and tunes, the latest incarnation of Oasis (an ever evolving cast that finally stopped pretending to be any relation to the mid-nineties Britrockers when they became Beady Eye)are little more than a pub band with an instantly recognisable frontman.
Gladly, Liam was not representative of the lead singers on show at Leeds Festival. The ever-affable Guy Garvey had the crowd eating out of his hands on a rain soaked Friday, Seasick Steve serenaded members of the crowd and even Noah & The Whale's Charlie Fink managed to plaster a smile on his normally dour face. Matt Bellamy rarely does bonhomie, but as Muse powered through Origin of Symmetry and a collection of their bigger hits it was difficult to care.
With the weather unpredictable, it fell to bands in tents to entertain the masses huddled inside against the elements. Whilst White Lies rose to the challenge admirably (focusing on their vastly superior first album rather than their very ropy follow-up), Beady Eye and Metronomy are unlikely to have made many new fans.
When the sun shone, the revellers decamped to the main stage where goodtimers Two Door Cinema Club and Madness helped keep people's peckers up with their party tunes and classic pop songs respectively: although Suggs did seem a little bewildered to be amongst so many youngsters. His younger counterparts revelled in the adoration to give one of the weekend's better sets.
Sunday night saw the dual treat of double headliners. After ending the night at Reading, The Strokes stepped down to let Pulp host a triumphant party on Yorkshire soil. It was certainly the right decision. Julian Casablancas did not seem delighted to be in Leeds - although a collection of excellent tunes ensured the New Yorkers kept their fans happy.
The undoubted star of the weekend was Mr Jarvis Cocker. In tweed jacket and glasses he looks nothing like a popstar but oozes charisma and charm. His Yorkshire brogue was thoroughly welcomed as he bantered and flirted with the crowd, writhed to This Is Hardcore, snapped his guitar strings and delivered hit after hit. Erstwhile Pulp member Richard Hawley provided some dirty licks, the crowd bopped to Disco 2000 and an awful lot of people were left with very wide smiles as Jarvis wiggled his bottom off stage for the final time.
Kendal Calling’s House Party venue is exactly that: a tent crammed with beds, sofas, dining tables and even the kitchen sink. And in the midst of this shabby chic was David McAlmont.
If ever there was a man at odds with his surroundings it was the flamboyant singer. In a crisp black suit, crimson shirt and tasteful bling, he looked every inch the star attraction. And so it proved as he cheerily posed for photographs with the fans huddled in front of the stage.
With no barriers or security guards, his set was an intimate affair: just McAlmont, his keyboard player and the fans at his feet. He gave them a performance worthy of their adulation.
A sensual cover of My Funny Valentine opened proceedings, accompanied by exactly the kind of theatrical eye rolling and gesturing one might expect from such a flamboyant performer. When the singer self-mockingly asked the audience, “Do you want some camp?” it was unclear quite where he had left to go. In retrospect it was obvious that Diamonds Are Forever would follow.
Clearly keen to dispense with ‘& Butler’, the 90s group’s biggest hit Yes was thrown into the set surprisingly early – much to the joy of the dancing crowd. It was followed by a touching tribute to Amy Winehouse: a beautiful acapella version of Tears Dry On Their Own.
With the short set of just eight songs drawing to a close, McAlmont toyed with the idea of playing another track and finally, like a kid with a secret he can’t keep, decided to announce an upcoming group featuring himself and keyboardist Guy Davies. As if to deliberately showcase his new bandmate’s skills they performed a cover of Tom Waits’ Grapefruit Moon which featured some trademark swooping vocals from the singer and some extremely impressive playing from Davies – keep your eye on David McAlmont’s website for an official announcement on their collaboration soon…
Non-camping festivals suffer in the rain. Without a tent-based community stoically braving the elements, Saturday’s Lovebox took some time to get into full swing. With ticket-holders staying at home or in the pub until the weather cleared up, the early stages were muted to say the least. Foster the People attempted to liven up proceedings but were stymied by a curtailed setlist: they were only allowed to perform three songs. It was a real shame – they sound like MGMT before someone sucked the joy out of them and are sure to become a household name.
Ziggy Marley already has quite a name to trade on, but reggae is best enjoyed in the sunshine and his set had very little of that. Perhaps a Bob cover might have warmed the audience, but he (perfectly justifiably) ploughed his own furrow.
Further up the bill, Katy B endured arguably the worst of the weather. This seemed entirely fitting given that she delivered the worst set of the day: utterly uninspiring music in torrential rain. The Joy Formidable fared much better, filling the Gaymers stage with some powerful chords and unexpectedly fine harmonies.
Santigold promised much but delivered little. Expecting a pulsating performance, a decent crowd gathered around the main stage only to be disappointed by a lacklustre set which lacked the colour and vitality expected. She at least looked pleased to be there – after a late call up to replace ankle-knack victim Jessie J, De La Soul turned up late, ambled half-heartedly around the stage and had their set cut short. When will hip-hop acts get the message about their terrible timekeeping?
Thankfully the day’s true star arrived bang on time. The artist formerly known as Calvin Broadus brought the full Doggystyle entourage to Victoria Park and delivered a set worthy of any festival headliner. With stars like Dr Dre and Pharrell Williams starring in video idents, a trio of scantily clad dancers and a microphone dripping in bling, Snoop gave a consumate and charismatic performance. Somehow that half-smile which plays on his lips and his pair of girly pigtails seem to undercut any misogyny in his lyrics, and the rapper manages to get the ladies in the audience onside by constantly asking them to identify themselves.
Classics like Gin n Juice and Gs & Hustlaz get an airing alongside newer tracks and House of Pain covers, Warren G pops up to give Regulate a thoroughly welcome outing and the entire audience enthusiastically remind Snoop what his name is. It's a tour-de-force of a performance and one which fully justifies the decision to allow the strangely loveable 'gangsta' back into the UK - and which saved Saturday at Lovebox from becoming a damp squib.
After a spate of gigs and festivals from the likes of Arcade Fire, the Black Eyes Peas and the Chemical Brothers the corner of Hyde Park hosting the Wireless event resembled a dust bowl. Shorn of rain, the ground was brown and dry with the only moisture seeming to be in the urine-soaked swamp around the gents' urinals. Down either side of the venue catering vans laboured under the misapprehension that adding the word 'gourmet' to their signage would make their grub anything other than bog standard. Coupled with an almost forensic search of my pockets, wallet and person, things had not started brilliantly.
Happily, the first band was in full swing as I arrived and aided by two complimentary glasses of vino I made my way to the front. Vintage Trouble were a lively (if unoriginal) start to the day - and their lead singer had one of the finest sideburn/teeth combos I’ve ever seen. Better still were Devotchka - a stylish bunch of multi-instrumentalists whipping up a fusion of mariachi and gypsy-punk which went down extremely well indeed. Any band with a moniker inspired by A Clockwork Orange commands attention - and I fell further in love when they cracked out an accordion and theremin. Metronomy were quietly impressive, although the huge caricatures hanging behind them had disconcertingly scary eyes.
The Horrors and The Hives shared little other than alliteration as they took turns to take the stage. The former's My Bloody Valentine-esque wall of sound was extremely impressive and engaging, but they're probably not exciting enough for a slot on the main stage. The Hives, on the other hand, are simply made for this kind of gig. Spurred on by the faux-machismo of one-man-ego-machine Howlin' Pelle Almqvist they absolutely ripped up Hyde Park. In their dandified top hat and tails they romped through their greatest hits, begged for the crowd's adoration and slipped their hands into a few punters' pants. It was an awesome set which left large swathes of the audience with huge grins on their faces. Sadly, TV on the Radio didn't quite achieve the same effect. Despite a brilliant back-catalogue and an excellent recent album they seemed slightly lacklustre and probably didn’t convert too many potential fans.
The one act of the day utterly unconcerned with winning over people to their cause was, of course, Pulp. With no plans to record new material and only a few more live dates lined up, they came to perform for existing fans and hoped not to sully their reputations. And they did not disappoint.
Jarvis Cocker may be bearded and older, but he's still a snake-hipped charmer with a neat line in betwixt-song-banter and a back-catalogue of belting tunes. Launching into Do You Remember The First Time? saw the band immediately grab the audience by the balls - and they didn't let go until their impressive performance was over.
A set largely culled from His & Hers and Different Class saw Cocker scissor-kicking, guitar-strumming and outrageously flirting with the crowd. He's lost absolutely none of the gawky charm which saw him worm into the affections of the nineties indie crowd - despite the fact that his lyrics often contain some pretty biting comments on society. A surprise rendition of Mile End was a clever sop to the London audience and Jarvis asserted that Pulp belong as much to the capital as their native Sheffield – but this buttering up of the crowd was merely icing the cake. With singalong anthems like Disco 2000 and Sorted for Es & Whizz, Pulp’s material was the star – not least the show stopping finale of Common People.
A good proportion of the audience left an important part of their brain somewhere in a field in London. I suspect a few left their hearts too.
Every year I swear that I’ll never attend Leeds Festival again. Last year, with my eyes and lungs burning from the acrid fumes of burning tents, I really meant it. But then the opportunity to work behind one of the bars arose and I decided to see if things on the other side of the fence made it a more pleasurable experience...
It was with utter dismay that I realised my shifts (three six-hour stints of charging extortionate prices for pre-poured pints) were scheduled to coincide with almost every band I was interested in going to see. All of a sudden the free ticket didn’t seem such good value. But with free meals, free drinks and splendid camping facilities it would be churlish to complain. We plastered brave faces on and amended our plans, bouncing into the sun-drenched arena for a Friday afternoon of cider and song.
I imagine it can be a thankless task opening a festival. Playing to fans that aren’t necessarily your own must be fraught with difficulty and the contrasting sets from The Futureheads and the Mystery Jets were testament to this. With their catchy choruses, bouncing rhythms and singalong anthems, The Futureheads were an excellent advertisement for themselves – they’ll have won themselves some new fans and deservedly so. The Mystery Jets, on the other hand, arrived looking sullen and subdued. They threw away their biggest hit, Two Doors Down, midway through the set and with it went the crowd. It’s a shame as they brightened up slightly with a bouncy rendition of Behind The Bunhouse, but it was too little, too late. The Futureheads saved Hounds of Love for last, kept the crowd onside and sparked debate amongst my friends about whether anyone could even remember Kate Bush’s original version of the song.
After the Gaslight Anthem powered through their back catalogue (with some aplomb) Modest Mouse were the first victims of the weather as a torrential downpour sent the crowd scurrying for shelter. Luckily the weather perked up in time for the arrival of The Maccabees. Playing their first ever slot on a festival main stage they delivered a great set of melodic pop which was perfectly suited to a sunny afternoon.
The remainder of the day’s music was witnessed from the wrong side of the bar. Luckily it was the one closest to the main stage and enabled us to catch snippets of Dizzee Rascal and The Libertines, both of whom delivered rollickingly good sets. The real treat for me, however, was sneaking off to watch Arcade Fire as their army of musicians filled the main stage prior to them filling the arena with their unique sound.
Any band with two drummers gets the seal of approval from me, but Arcade Fire go one further by constantly switching instruments between songs – it seems that everyone gets a go at everything and that level of talent is a joy to behold. Their rendition of No Cars Go was absolutely thrilling – the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and stayed erect for the rest of their set. As always, they finished with the epically euphoric Wake Up – a song designed to close a festival if ever there was one.
Saturday was a strange affair. I spent the afternoon trapped behind the bar listening to relentlessly dull American ‘rock’ and sulking badly. The only relief came from an outburst of ska-punk from the reliably raucous King Blues – definitely the only band to pique my interest all day.
Sweet release came after my shift with a set from Shooting Stars’ Angelos Epithemou. In twenty minutes he provided more entertainment than I’d had all day. That this was achieved with a set made up of just three (terrible) jokes, a sweeping brush transformed into a flute and a telescopic blind man’s stick in a bag is testament to the strength of the character.
Band of Horses were my band of the weekend. Combining lush harmonies with lush facial hair, their set was a splendid run through material from all three of their albums. It’s a good job they were visible on stage or the audience might have thought someone had just sneaked a CD of the band on – I’ve rarely heard a group reproduce their studio sound so adeptly. Brilliant stuff from a band who deserve to be much, much bigger.
With no real agenda, the rest of the evening was spent flitting from stage to stage. We Are Scientists provided little of interest except a drummer who looks remarkably (and presumably deliberately) like John Bonham. Caribou were more intriguing: a tightly grouped quartet of musicians who played for each other rather than their audience and yet still managed to hold the attention thanks to their atmospherically laid back sound. There’s something warmly melancholic about them and they’re certainly worth checking out. A brief visit to the Klaxons revealed that little has changed in the years between their first album and last week’s new release Surfing The Void: if you liked them before, you’ll like them now. Unless you’ve matured more quickly than them.
For the first and only time we ventured into the public campsite following the end of Saturday’s on-stage entertainment. Festival Republic have certainly learned their lessons in recent years when it comes to providing late night entertainment and it seems that there was more to keep people occupied in 2010 than ever before. Unfortunately Leeds Festival still lags some way behind in many other respects: the catering is terrible compared to almost every festival I’ve ever been to; the site is homogenous and boring; information about stage times and line-ups can only be bought at extortionate prices. A little more thought about the way the site is laid out, a separate food area serving ‘proper’ grub and a few signs with timetables on would cost very little and contribute greatly.
Another person with a few gripes about Melvin Benn’s handling of the festival is Axl Rose. After throwing his toys out of the pram at Reading, rumours swept Bramham Park that Guns n Roses were not gonna turn up. Ozzy Osbourne and Arctic Monkeys were being touted as replacements and confusion reigned supreme. Sadly, the organisers did little to dispel these rumours and the crowd were left wondering...
Despite an uninspiring afternoon line-up I still managed to miss the only band I wanted to see on Sunday – I was bopping along to Two Door Cinema Club at the NME stage when Gogol Bordello were delivering their gypsy punk to the main stage audience. I was furious with myself and my mood only darkened watching The Big Pink later on – having liked their last album I was astounded that they’d made such an interesting record seem so turgid when performed live.
Later, Mumford & Sons drew the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen at the NME stage. It was impossible to get into the tent and as such the acoustics were dreadful. Quieter songs were drowned out by the nearby dodgems and it was only The Cave and Little Lion Man which got much of a reaction from the hoards of fans. That’s not to say that the band played badly – far from it. But it’s perhaps time to think about introducing an element of flexibility into artist contracts at events such as these. No doubt the group were delighted to have secured the deal they did, but since they signed up to Leeds/Reading their career has gone through the roof and it seems strange to see a band like Phoenix playing after a group who stand on the brink of winning the Mercury Music Prize. It’s fair to assume that one of the two will spend next summer playing on main stages. I’ll leave you to work out which...
Back behind the bar and bitterly cold, we drew our collective breath and waited for the arrival of Guns n Roses. And waited. And then 35 minutes later than billed they made it into the stage. Axl Rose looked like a futuristic version of himself. His bloated face looks increasingly like Mickey Rourke’s, his bacofoil jacket looked like he’d stolen it from George Jetson and his teeth glowed so violently under the UV lights I thought I was caught in the headlights.
With his collection of glorified session musicians behind him Axl launched into his set. Unfortunately, it never really took off. Whether the singer is physically unfit or just determined to allow his new bandmates time to showcase their ability is unclear, but the set repeatedly lost any momentum it had gathered due to Rose’s insistence on changing costume three times in just over ninety minutes. During his enforced absences we were ‘treated’ to instrumental versions of Bowie and Pink Floyd songs and a bizarre version of the Theme From Pink Panther. Whilst there are some decent musicians in the new set-up, it’s difficult to avoid the fact that whenever Axl wasn’t on stage you weren’t actually watching any of the original line-up.
There were some great moments – it’d be a shock if a back catalogue like theirs didn’t contain some gems. Watching Sweet Child O mine from the top of a van-mounted generator gave us the best view in the house of the main stage (and warmed our feet wonderfully) and November Rain made my heart thud in my chest. Sadly a droning version of Knockin On Heaven’s Door almost bored me to death before they encored with Paradise City and stomped off after moaning that they hadn’t been allowed to play for longer. Frankly, I’d had enough by that point and so had Axl’s voice.
I woke up dishevelled and disorientated. My brain felt like it was trying to climb out of my skull and my liver had been replaced with an alcohol-soaked sponge. The events leading up to this point have been erased from my mind, but miraculously I seem to have managed to find my way back to my tent in one piece.
I vaguely recall seeing a bit of the Dub Pistols - the band I was probably looking forward to most - but having consumed gargantuan qualities of sherbet lemon vodka and numerous cans of cider my brain seems to have gone into survival mode, concentrating on keeping me alive rather than committing the evening to memory. I’ve been assured that I watched Calvin Harris, and through the recollections of others I have managed to piece together an idea of my itinerary: essentially I just drank from a catheter bag and stumbled around sending incoherent text messages to people back home. Sorry Nyah.
Saturday was a more sedate affair. Having wet-wiped the grime from my face I skipped merrily into the arena to meet my friends and eat the most awesome meat pie I’ve ever had the pleasure of ramming into my face. The New York Tourists woke up the Lake District with their brash pop before my appointment with Howard Marks later in the afternoon. Eager to secure myself a seat at the feet of my favourite dope-smuggler I arrived extraordinarily early and plonked myself at the base of the great man’s microphone stand. And there I sat. And sat. And sat.
The first thing I sat through was a pub quiz conducted in the style of Shooting Stars. The compere was not quite Vic or Bob, but questions such as ‘Harold Shipman and The Yorkshire Ripper: who is better?’ were always likely to get an inebriated audience chuckling. With news that Howard was running late, Danny Mahon took to the stage with his sardonic brand of Mancunian wit (and lots of songs featuring the word ‘twat’). By this point my bladder was achingly full, but I was determined I would not move – even if it meant urinating in my pants. Thankfully it didn’t come to that – as Danny Mahon exited a foppish young magician appeared with a top hat, a collection of coloured scarves and the news that Howard couldn’t make it. I’ve never seen so many disgruntled punters leave a venue so quickly.
At a loose end and with my friends spread over the entirety of the site I decided to check out some tunes and found myself getting shot by OK Go’s confetti cannon. They were enormously pleased to be there, bantered wittily between tunes and were extremely good fun.
The Wild Beasts were next to take the stage. I want to like them, I really do. Whenever I’ve listened to them at home, though, I’ve found the vocals to be aural nails on a metaphorical blackboard. In the open air, however, the voice was more mellow and muted and they were agreeable background music as we quaffed our 2010 vintage wine from salvaged plastic cups.
Next up, a civilised pair of poetry readings. Well, not quite. First, Mickey P Kerr took to the Soapbox Stage in a somewhat ‘altered’ state. Despite being drunk and possibly off his tits he delivered a fantastic collection of hilariously deadpan diatribes about the state of the world. He was followed by the inimitable Bard of Salford, John Cooper Clarke. Looking like an emaciated version of Russell Brand’s father he creaked onto the stage with a plastic Sainsbury’s bag filled with new material and proceeded to charm the pants off the audience with his sneery Manchester accented poetry.
Despite thoroughly enjoying the poetry i needed to get centre stage for Doves, so took my leave and mooched to the front of the main stage. I slipped in surprisingly easily and grabbed the front barrier as they launched into Kingdom of Rust. I’ve definitely seen Doves play better sets, but an encore including There Goes The Fear and Space Face is always gonna be a winner and the crowd went home happy.
Happily, i didn’t go home. Thanks to Kendal’s spiffing licence things run until late in the night. An appointment with Evil Nine awaited in the dance tent and with Adam, Zoe and our new friend Dee Dee we had a bounce around, a late night trip to the welfare tent for a sit on some comfy sofas and then got our heads down ahead of Sunday shenanigans...
After rounding up my new crew – Dee Dee, Nuts, Harriet, Ray and the rest, we just about caught the end of Kid British before i scuttled to the front for a skank to the magnificent King Blues – a riotous wake up call if ever there was one. I absolutely loved every second of their show – from the singalong chorus of One Love to the ‘fuck the BNP’ messages, everything was performed with passion and as much arrogance as a singer with a tiny ukulele can muster. They deserve to be much, much bigger.
Badly Drawn Boy was up next looking shockingly grey. But despite the hair, Damon Gough has aged well. Whenever i’ve seen him before he’s been overly fussy about tuning and retuning his guitar and smoking furiously. Now, the cigs have gone and he seems much more relaxed as a performer. With a set culled largely from his wonderful album Hour of Bewilderbeast he was charming and humble – none more so than when his eight year old daughter Edie joined him on stage to tinkle the ivories and provide backing vocals. A lovely moment.
It’s a lovely festival altogether. Kids are well catered for with giant games of pass-the-parcel at the main stage and face painting and circus workshops for free. The food is a cut above standard festival fare and the real ale bar is cracking. I’ve heard complaints about the security being over-zealous, but never saw any bother myself – just lots of happy faces and colourful headgear (including a splendid Indian headdress and a frightful green wig).
A more memorable meeting with Mr Marks next - he actually turned up on Sunday night, but my recollections of his set are hazy. I do remember a tale of being arrested at airport security and him calling someone a 'cunt' in heavily accented Welsh, but the rest remains a mystery.
Unfortunately i misplaced the Mancs ahead of The Coral but managed to regain G-Dog, Chris, Sarah, Helen and Andy. We had a chill on the hill whilst watching a largely underwhelming set from the Scousers. Although they have some lovely tunes they seem to lack a bit of charisma and a bit of oomph! Pass It On was probably the highlight but it’s noticeable that they really seemed to take off with Dreaming of You – a much more up-tempo song.
Suitably rested we took our positions in the Kaylied Tent for some Lancashire Hotpots action, some hip-hop from The Mouse Oufit and a top DJ set from Red Dwarf’s Craig Charles. Bouncing around like a grinning Energiser bunny he delivered what we were promised – his Funk & Soul Show. I had a funkin’ good time, but one by one the effects of the weekend took their toll as the runners and riders dropped out of the race. Eventually, with heavy legs and tired eyes i tramped to my tent for the final time and immediately fell asleep in a puddle of white wine. Ace.
The journey home was arduous. An accident on the motorway led to a diversion we could well have done without – five people and their camping gear crammed into a car is neither comfortable or pleasurable: especially when JLS are providing the soundtrack. But we got back safely (via the Burger King at Scotch Corner) and have lived to tell the tale of a wonderful weekend of making friends, making shapes and making merry in a big park in the Lake District. See you next year in the fields...
