Calling all quote afficionados!
Regular SWSL readers will know that I'm a sucker for quotations. Well, those of you who are equally fond of the well-wrought phrase or the good point exceptionally well-made need look no further than Quotes Du Jour for your daily dose of quotage. My favourite from today's selection comes from English philosopher, pacifist and Bloomsbury associate Bertrand Russell:
“Patriots always talk of dying for their country, and never of killing for their country.”
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Friday, July 11, 2003
Where's THEIR heads at?!!
OK, so I've just been giving the Mars Volta album its first spin, and here are some initial thoughts:
They've evidently decided that the material on last year's 'Tremulant' EP was too conventional... The LP is full of clanking, buzzing and bizarre syncopated rhythms that occasionally and suddenly coalesce and explode into real, genuine SONGS - albeit ones that sound nigh-on impossible, like someone's placed a fucking huge free jazz bomb under a hardcore band (well, that would go some way to explaining the hair, at least...).
Is it insanely ambitious, or is it irredeemably pretentious? Only time will tell. For the time being, though, I'm off for a long lie down.
(If you're wondering what this might sound like in concert, let Olav tell you.)
OK, so I've just been giving the Mars Volta album its first spin, and here are some initial thoughts:
They've evidently decided that the material on last year's 'Tremulant' EP was too conventional... The LP is full of clanking, buzzing and bizarre syncopated rhythms that occasionally and suddenly coalesce and explode into real, genuine SONGS - albeit ones that sound nigh-on impossible, like someone's placed a fucking huge free jazz bomb under a hardcore band (well, that would go some way to explaining the hair, at least...).
Is it insanely ambitious, or is it irredeemably pretentious? Only time will tell. For the time being, though, I'm off for a long lie down.
(If you're wondering what this might sound like in concert, let Olav tell you.)
The Moore the merrier
There’s some catching up to do – it’s high time I got round to writing about my personal impressions of reading Michael Moore’s ‘Stupid White Men’, a mere six weeks since I finished it…
Having bought the book back in January, and having read so much about it, it wasn’t until fairly recently that I picked it up and digested it for myself. It’s perhaps because it had been hailed almost universally as a brilliant piece of polemic that I immediately found myself looking for faults and weaknesses. Two things in particular struck me.
Firstly, at times I found Moore’s attempted satire too flippant. For instance, he suggests that the solution to the political and religious conflict in Northern Ireland lies in the conversion of all Protestants to the Catholic faith. Elsewhere, he encourages the people of the former Yugoslavia to attend self-help groups to deal with their addiction to violence, warning them “If you don’t do this, we are going to drop thousands of those shitty little Yugo cars from cargo planes high above your country. It will never be safe to go out of the house because you’ll never know when one of those 2000-pound lemons is heading for your head”. Admittedly these passages raised a smile, but the problem as I see it is that, while Moore writes disparagingly about the way the USA insensitively imposes itself upon the rest of the world in economic, political and cultural terms, he leaves himself open to a very similar charge – that in proposing flippant solutions to the world’s trouble-spots which fail to engage with the very real complexities of the circumstances (albeit in a way aimed at eliciting laughter), he is imposing what come across as his own arbitrary and ignorant ideas. On occasion I also had some difficulty in swallowing his reasoning: just because some states abuse the recycling system, for example, doesn’t mean that we should all just stop collecting and sorting waste for recycling – that’s just being thoughtlessly defeatist.
If I had to sum up, though, the main reason why I found reading ‘Stupid White Men’ a more underwhelming experience than I’d hoped it might be, it would be because I constantly found myself comparing it to books like ‘No Logo’, ‘Fast Food Nation’ and ‘The Silent Takeover’. In comparison, Moore’s book felt disappointingly shallow and superficial, with little real analysis and dissection of facts and events.
But, of course, the comparison is grossly unfair – ‘Stupid White Men’ is a completely different beast altogether. There’s absolutely no doubt that his heart is in the same place as those of Naomi Klein, Eric Schlosser and Noreena Hertz – he just approaches the same issues from a different angle. Consequently my criticisms could be accused of completely missing the point. Ultimately, there are at least three very good reasons to celebrate Moore’s achievement – firstly, the fact that it was written by a dissenting American; secondly, the fact that a major publisher felt the weight of pressure and released the book (of course, now it’s turned out to be a major money-spinner but its publication in the post-September 11th climate was initially a very risky business); and thirdly, the fact that the book has captured the public imagination, or more accurately, that it has voiced the thoughts and feelings of thousands across the world. What really matters is that these issues are being discussed and that these viewpoints are being aired at all.
There’s some catching up to do – it’s high time I got round to writing about my personal impressions of reading Michael Moore’s ‘Stupid White Men’, a mere six weeks since I finished it…
Having bought the book back in January, and having read so much about it, it wasn’t until fairly recently that I picked it up and digested it for myself. It’s perhaps because it had been hailed almost universally as a brilliant piece of polemic that I immediately found myself looking for faults and weaknesses. Two things in particular struck me.
Firstly, at times I found Moore’s attempted satire too flippant. For instance, he suggests that the solution to the political and religious conflict in Northern Ireland lies in the conversion of all Protestants to the Catholic faith. Elsewhere, he encourages the people of the former Yugoslavia to attend self-help groups to deal with their addiction to violence, warning them “If you don’t do this, we are going to drop thousands of those shitty little Yugo cars from cargo planes high above your country. It will never be safe to go out of the house because you’ll never know when one of those 2000-pound lemons is heading for your head”. Admittedly these passages raised a smile, but the problem as I see it is that, while Moore writes disparagingly about the way the USA insensitively imposes itself upon the rest of the world in economic, political and cultural terms, he leaves himself open to a very similar charge – that in proposing flippant solutions to the world’s trouble-spots which fail to engage with the very real complexities of the circumstances (albeit in a way aimed at eliciting laughter), he is imposing what come across as his own arbitrary and ignorant ideas. On occasion I also had some difficulty in swallowing his reasoning: just because some states abuse the recycling system, for example, doesn’t mean that we should all just stop collecting and sorting waste for recycling – that’s just being thoughtlessly defeatist.
If I had to sum up, though, the main reason why I found reading ‘Stupid White Men’ a more underwhelming experience than I’d hoped it might be, it would be because I constantly found myself comparing it to books like ‘No Logo’, ‘Fast Food Nation’ and ‘The Silent Takeover’. In comparison, Moore’s book felt disappointingly shallow and superficial, with little real analysis and dissection of facts and events.
But, of course, the comparison is grossly unfair – ‘Stupid White Men’ is a completely different beast altogether. There’s absolutely no doubt that his heart is in the same place as those of Naomi Klein, Eric Schlosser and Noreena Hertz – he just approaches the same issues from a different angle. Consequently my criticisms could be accused of completely missing the point. Ultimately, there are at least three very good reasons to celebrate Moore’s achievement – firstly, the fact that it was written by a dissenting American; secondly, the fact that a major publisher felt the weight of pressure and released the book (of course, now it’s turned out to be a major money-spinner but its publication in the post-September 11th climate was initially a very risky business); and thirdly, the fact that the book has captured the public imagination, or more accurately, that it has voiced the thoughts and feelings of thousands across the world. What really matters is that these issues are being discussed and that these viewpoints are being aired at all.
”Depression is to me what daffodils were for Wordsworth”
More catching up – this time, some thoughts on the Channel 4 programme ‘Philip Larkin: Love And Death In Hull’, which was screened last Sunday but which I’ve only just got round to watching on video.
I was well aware of the nature of Larkin’s character, and despite contributions by a number of literary friends and paramours, the programme was unflinching in its depiction of his vices. ‘This Be The Verse’ famously begins with the lines, “They fuck you up, your mum and dad / They may not mean to, but they do” – in these terms it seems Larkin’s own parents must have done a spectacularly if unintentionally bad job. He came across as relentlessly pessimistic, bitingly cynical, gloomy, “a grumpy old bachelor”, cruel, insensitive, racist, sexist, self-centred, simultaneously obsessed with and petrified of death, misanthropic, and – by the end of his life, at least – an alcoholic. In other words, thoroughly dislikeable.
This wouldn’t be a problem, of course, except that his poetry is almost unfailingly brilliant.
How, then, to reconcile love for the art and distaste for the artist? In Larkin’s case it’s even harder – because the poetry so obviously springs from personal experiences and thoughts. This was something I had to confront a few years ago. Not normally an avid reader of poetry, I became obsessed with Larkin and particularly ‘High Windows’. I’m not quite sure whether I ever resolved the issue – or whether it’s even possible. Still, I imagine I’m not alone – Anthony Thwaite’s edition of Larkin’s collected letters, published after his death, forced many of those who admired his wry observations on the minutiae of everyday life to re-evaluate their views of him. Particularly damaging were his numerous letters to Kingsley Amis – full of sexist and racist remarks, with coldly clinical references to pornography, characterized by a childish tone and toilet humour.
I have difficulty accepting his views on poetry, too. He was notoriously and stubbornly antipathetic towards the notions of experimentation and novelty – without which, of course, the art form would just stagnate and eventually shrivel up. Also, there’s a sense that in his attention to the everyday he is claiming to speak for everyone, when he and his poetry are clearly the product of a particular time, place and person. And in focusing on life’s mundane reality, he perhaps ignores or denies the imaginative power of art
In many ways, he is a fascinating enigma – the racist bigot who loved jazz, a predominantly black music form; the bachelor who preferred his own company and yet who was depressed by his loneliness; the poet who claimed our lasting legacy would be love but who only seems to write about it in terms of frustration, selfishness, self-deception and emptiness…
The fact remains, though, that I can’t help but love his morbidly bleak and blackly comical poetry.
As Larkin once said himself, “I rather like being on the edge of things”. Well, for me, he’s right on the edge of love and hate, somewhere between the two. A couple of years ago I got chatting to the guy in charge of the University’s libraries, and discovered he trained under Larkin at the Brynmor Jones Library at the University of Hull. I must confess to feeling a strange kind of thrill – here I was, speaking to someone who’d actually met the man. Even then, though, I was quite glad that I never met him myself.
(Incidentally the programme was also notable for the fact that Andrew Motion had the temerity to show his face – presumably it was recorded before the appearance of his risible commemorative rap poem for Prince William’s birthday.)
More catching up – this time, some thoughts on the Channel 4 programme ‘Philip Larkin: Love And Death In Hull’, which was screened last Sunday but which I’ve only just got round to watching on video.
I was well aware of the nature of Larkin’s character, and despite contributions by a number of literary friends and paramours, the programme was unflinching in its depiction of his vices. ‘This Be The Verse’ famously begins with the lines, “They fuck you up, your mum and dad / They may not mean to, but they do” – in these terms it seems Larkin’s own parents must have done a spectacularly if unintentionally bad job. He came across as relentlessly pessimistic, bitingly cynical, gloomy, “a grumpy old bachelor”, cruel, insensitive, racist, sexist, self-centred, simultaneously obsessed with and petrified of death, misanthropic, and – by the end of his life, at least – an alcoholic. In other words, thoroughly dislikeable.
This wouldn’t be a problem, of course, except that his poetry is almost unfailingly brilliant.
How, then, to reconcile love for the art and distaste for the artist? In Larkin’s case it’s even harder – because the poetry so obviously springs from personal experiences and thoughts. This was something I had to confront a few years ago. Not normally an avid reader of poetry, I became obsessed with Larkin and particularly ‘High Windows’. I’m not quite sure whether I ever resolved the issue – or whether it’s even possible. Still, I imagine I’m not alone – Anthony Thwaite’s edition of Larkin’s collected letters, published after his death, forced many of those who admired his wry observations on the minutiae of everyday life to re-evaluate their views of him. Particularly damaging were his numerous letters to Kingsley Amis – full of sexist and racist remarks, with coldly clinical references to pornography, characterized by a childish tone and toilet humour.
I have difficulty accepting his views on poetry, too. He was notoriously and stubbornly antipathetic towards the notions of experimentation and novelty – without which, of course, the art form would just stagnate and eventually shrivel up. Also, there’s a sense that in his attention to the everyday he is claiming to speak for everyone, when he and his poetry are clearly the product of a particular time, place and person. And in focusing on life’s mundane reality, he perhaps ignores or denies the imaginative power of art
In many ways, he is a fascinating enigma – the racist bigot who loved jazz, a predominantly black music form; the bachelor who preferred his own company and yet who was depressed by his loneliness; the poet who claimed our lasting legacy would be love but who only seems to write about it in terms of frustration, selfishness, self-deception and emptiness…
The fact remains, though, that I can’t help but love his morbidly bleak and blackly comical poetry.
As Larkin once said himself, “I rather like being on the edge of things”. Well, for me, he’s right on the edge of love and hate, somewhere between the two. A couple of years ago I got chatting to the guy in charge of the University’s libraries, and discovered he trained under Larkin at the Brynmor Jones Library at the University of Hull. I must confess to feeling a strange kind of thrill – here I was, speaking to someone who’d actually met the man. Even then, though, I was quite glad that I never met him myself.
(Incidentally the programme was also notable for the fact that Andrew Motion had the temerity to show his face – presumably it was recorded before the appearance of his risible commemorative rap poem for Prince William’s birthday.)
Feel good hits of the 10th July
1. 'Beautiful Freak' - Eels
2. '2+2=5' - Radiohead
3. 'Girl, You Have No Faith In Medicine' - The White Stripes
4. 'Crazy In Love' - Beyonce feat Jay-Z
5. 'Just Because' - Jane's Addiction
6. 'Can't Get It Back' - Mis-Teeq
7. 'Losing Touch With My Mind' - The Icarus Line
8. 'Psychosis Safari' - The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster
9. 'What's The Frequency, Kenneth?' - REM
10. 'I Luv U' - Dizzee Rascal
1. 'Beautiful Freak' - Eels
2. '2+2=5' - Radiohead
3. 'Girl, You Have No Faith In Medicine' - The White Stripes
4. 'Crazy In Love' - Beyonce feat Jay-Z
5. 'Just Because' - Jane's Addiction
6. 'Can't Get It Back' - Mis-Teeq
7. 'Losing Touch With My Mind' - The Icarus Line
8. 'Psychosis Safari' - The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster
9. 'What's The Frequency, Kenneth?' - REM
10. 'I Luv U' - Dizzee Rascal
Quote of the day
"With this standardized railroading of the poor going on daily in every city in America, our justice system has nothing to do with justice. Our judges and lawyers are more like glorified garbage men, rounding up and disposing of society's refuse - ethnic cleansing, American style."
Michael Moore in 'Stupid White Men'
"With this standardized railroading of the poor going on daily in every city in America, our justice system has nothing to do with justice. Our judges and lawyers are more like glorified garbage men, rounding up and disposing of society's refuse - ethnic cleansing, American style."
Michael Moore in 'Stupid White Men'
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Meeting people is easy
Random thought of the day: how often must we come into close proximity with people who end up some time later becoming a good friend or an important part of our lives? In bars, in the street, probably even in motorway service stations. It’s weird to think that some of my best friends were at the same festivals as me before I knew them, and we probably passed each other completely oblivious. It’s as if we only ever come into existence for each other when something happens to make the relationship close in more than just spatial terms.
(Note to self: think out loud less, to avoid scaring off readers.)
Random thought of the day: how often must we come into close proximity with people who end up some time later becoming a good friend or an important part of our lives? In bars, in the street, probably even in motorway service stations. It’s weird to think that some of my best friends were at the same festivals as me before I knew them, and we probably passed each other completely oblivious. It’s as if we only ever come into existence for each other when something happens to make the relationship close in more than just spatial terms.
(Note to self: think out loud less, to avoid scaring off readers.)
Overheard
(I love eavesdropping, although this little beauty from today’s train journey north couldn’t really be regarded as the result of me actively listening in to a phone conversation – more a case of passively sitting there with my ears open as the woman in front of me blathered loudly into her mobile.)
“I’m glad to get out of that hospital. It was like Fawlty Towers. At one point they came in and asked him if the drugs had had any effect, but they’d forgotten to give him any!”
(I love eavesdropping, although this little beauty from today’s train journey north couldn’t really be regarded as the result of me actively listening in to a phone conversation – more a case of passively sitting there with my ears open as the woman in front of me blathered loudly into her mobile.)
“I’m glad to get out of that hospital. It was like Fawlty Towers. At one point they came in and asked him if the drugs had had any effect, but they’d forgotten to give him any!”
Text message of the day
“At the Mars Volta gig. Just seen the guitarist outside the Wedge. That’s HAIR!!!”
Cheers Leon – looking forward to reading a review!
“At the Mars Volta gig. Just seen the guitarist outside the Wedge. That’s HAIR!!!”
Cheers Leon – looking forward to reading a review!
Music Sounds Better With You #8
‘It’s A Motherfucker’ – Eels
(Neatly appropriate, given my recent gig-going exploits.)
There comes a time in every hardened rock fan’s life when sheer volume alone no longer quite suffices. When amps turned up to eleven is no longer a sure-fire way of getting the juices flowing. When what might at one time have been most likely regarded as a glorious racket is now more often perceived as an unholy din. (C’mon, get to the point, granddad.) When, y’know, your musical tastes might be said to deepen and broaden and – whisper it – mellow and mature.
Well, the third Eels album, Daisies Of The Galaxy, entered my life at just the right time. Before long, it had me eating out of the palm of its hand. “Who needs volume”, I scoffed, “when you’ve got warmth, charm and beauty in spades?”. The record is packed full of wonderful examples, but without doubt the warmest, the most charming, the most beautiful is ‘It’s A Motherfucker’. A wryly-titled attempt to come to terms with the loss of his mother, E’s masterpiece weighs in at just over two minutes in length but is inordinately heavier in terms of its emotional resonance, so simple and yet so phenomenally effective. Anyone wavering over or doubting the capacity of music to speak more powerfully than any other art form, I implore you – just listen to this song.
Inspired a love of: some of the mellower “indie” bands I used to recoil from instinctively and for whom craft and emotion are more important than volume, The Delgados, Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds, The Flaming Lips, PJ Harvey, The Coral, REM, Calla, Arab Strap, Wheat, Radar Brothers, Canyon, The Black Heart Procession, Bright Eyes…
‘It’s A Motherfucker’ – Eels
(Neatly appropriate, given my recent gig-going exploits.)
There comes a time in every hardened rock fan’s life when sheer volume alone no longer quite suffices. When amps turned up to eleven is no longer a sure-fire way of getting the juices flowing. When what might at one time have been most likely regarded as a glorious racket is now more often perceived as an unholy din. (C’mon, get to the point, granddad.) When, y’know, your musical tastes might be said to deepen and broaden and – whisper it – mellow and mature.
Well, the third Eels album, Daisies Of The Galaxy, entered my life at just the right time. Before long, it had me eating out of the palm of its hand. “Who needs volume”, I scoffed, “when you’ve got warmth, charm and beauty in spades?”. The record is packed full of wonderful examples, but without doubt the warmest, the most charming, the most beautiful is ‘It’s A Motherfucker’. A wryly-titled attempt to come to terms with the loss of his mother, E’s masterpiece weighs in at just over two minutes in length but is inordinately heavier in terms of its emotional resonance, so simple and yet so phenomenally effective. Anyone wavering over or doubting the capacity of music to speak more powerfully than any other art form, I implore you – just listen to this song.
Inspired a love of: some of the mellower “indie” bands I used to recoil from instinctively and for whom craft and emotion are more important than volume, The Delgados, Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds, The Flaming Lips, PJ Harvey, The Coral, REM, Calla, Arab Strap, Wheat, Radar Brothers, Canyon, The Black Heart Procession, Bright Eyes…
Monday, July 07, 2003
E is for excellent
The Birmingham Irish Centre is the most bizarre gig venue I’ve ever been to. For a start, there’s a carpeted area surrounding the dance-floor. The speaker stacks jut out into the room either side of the stage so you can’t see what going on onstage unless you’re stood almost right in the middle of the room. The stage itself has a proper arch, behind which the drumkit is set up and where, presumably, numerous amateur dramatic performances have taken place. And most bizarrely of all, one wall is covered with sentimentalized depictions of the Irish countryside and on another hangs a wooden clock in the shape of Ireland.
The mix of people assembled in the venue is almost equally strange – eyelinered teenage girls, portly white-haired fiftysomethings with Cure T-shirts, male indie obsessives in thick-rimmed glasses, soberly-dressed husbands and wives enjoying a night of freedom from the kids… They all have at least one thing in common with each other and with me, though – a love of the idiosyncratic genius that is Mark ‘E’ Everett.
For a man who looks as though he has serious issues just venturing out of his bedroom, E makes an incongruously grand entrance – as his band The Eels crank out the thudding riff to ‘All In A Day’s Work’, the opening track on new album Shootenanny!, a torch picks him out at the back of the room as he makes his way to the stage before ripping into three songs I’ve never heard before. When the familiar stuff hits, it’s evident that – at least initially – they’re in no mood for delicacy. 2001’s Souljacker LP (for the most part a collaboration with Koool G Murder, aka John Parrish, who plays bass tonight) revealed a new more sinister side to E’s songwriting, and it’s consequently unsurprising that the voodoo rock of ‘Dog Faced Boy’ and ‘Souljacker Pt 1’ is more satisfying than the likes of ‘Packing Blankets’. ‘I Like Birds’ and breakthrough hit ‘Novocaine For The Soul’ are both reinvented along the same lines as recent single ‘Saturday Morning’, as wired, upbeat pop-rock songs. Of the newest material, ‘Numbered Days’ and ‘Love Of The Loveless’ (with which they end the main set) sound particularly impressive.
The real gems, though, are reserved for the encores, of which there are three – E thanks us for playing the game of “celebrity cat and mouse” for applauding and encouraging them back on. It is here that the rock mask slips, to wonderful effect. In the first encore, sandwiched between ‘Rock Hard Times’ and ‘Grace Kelly Blues’, we get the one song I’ve been praying for, ‘It’s A Motherfucker’ from the Daisies Of The Galaxy album. Short, simple, understated and effortlessly heartwarming, it’s what E does best and what marks him out as quite such a talent. In the second encore, they finally play ‘All In A Day’s Work’ in its entirety with vocals, and then, with neat and effective symmetry, Shootenanny’s closing track ‘Somebody Loves You’. In the third we get just E and his keyboard for an unexpected rendition of the gorgeous and touchingly naïve ‘Beautiful Freak’ which somehow blows everything that has gone before out of the water.
The Birmingham Irish Centre is the most bizarre gig venue I’ve ever been to. For a start, there’s a carpeted area surrounding the dance-floor. The speaker stacks jut out into the room either side of the stage so you can’t see what going on onstage unless you’re stood almost right in the middle of the room. The stage itself has a proper arch, behind which the drumkit is set up and where, presumably, numerous amateur dramatic performances have taken place. And most bizarrely of all, one wall is covered with sentimentalized depictions of the Irish countryside and on another hangs a wooden clock in the shape of Ireland.
The mix of people assembled in the venue is almost equally strange – eyelinered teenage girls, portly white-haired fiftysomethings with Cure T-shirts, male indie obsessives in thick-rimmed glasses, soberly-dressed husbands and wives enjoying a night of freedom from the kids… They all have at least one thing in common with each other and with me, though – a love of the idiosyncratic genius that is Mark ‘E’ Everett.
For a man who looks as though he has serious issues just venturing out of his bedroom, E makes an incongruously grand entrance – as his band The Eels crank out the thudding riff to ‘All In A Day’s Work’, the opening track on new album Shootenanny!, a torch picks him out at the back of the room as he makes his way to the stage before ripping into three songs I’ve never heard before. When the familiar stuff hits, it’s evident that – at least initially – they’re in no mood for delicacy. 2001’s Souljacker LP (for the most part a collaboration with Koool G Murder, aka John Parrish, who plays bass tonight) revealed a new more sinister side to E’s songwriting, and it’s consequently unsurprising that the voodoo rock of ‘Dog Faced Boy’ and ‘Souljacker Pt 1’ is more satisfying than the likes of ‘Packing Blankets’. ‘I Like Birds’ and breakthrough hit ‘Novocaine For The Soul’ are both reinvented along the same lines as recent single ‘Saturday Morning’, as wired, upbeat pop-rock songs. Of the newest material, ‘Numbered Days’ and ‘Love Of The Loveless’ (with which they end the main set) sound particularly impressive.
The real gems, though, are reserved for the encores, of which there are three – E thanks us for playing the game of “celebrity cat and mouse” for applauding and encouraging them back on. It is here that the rock mask slips, to wonderful effect. In the first encore, sandwiched between ‘Rock Hard Times’ and ‘Grace Kelly Blues’, we get the one song I’ve been praying for, ‘It’s A Motherfucker’ from the Daisies Of The Galaxy album. Short, simple, understated and effortlessly heartwarming, it’s what E does best and what marks him out as quite such a talent. In the second encore, they finally play ‘All In A Day’s Work’ in its entirety with vocals, and then, with neat and effective symmetry, Shootenanny’s closing track ‘Somebody Loves You’. In the third we get just E and his keyboard for an unexpected rendition of the gorgeous and touchingly naïve ‘Beautiful Freak’ which somehow blows everything that has gone before out of the water.
Give ‘im enough rope
I finally got round to watching ‘Bernard’s Bombay Dream’ on video yesterday, and as I’d expected it really was a case of give ‘im enough rope – or, to be more precise, give ‘im enough camera time. Manning proceeded to do an excellent hatchet job on himself, making such pronouncements as “The world would be a much better place if everyone spoke English” and coming across as pathetically frail, absurdly egotistical and – in storming offstage when his jokes were falling flat and blaming it on a faulty microphone – comically unprofessional and thin-skinned. For perhaps the first time ever, I was pleased to hear a Daily Mail journalist – she managed to outwit and tie him in all kinds of knots (according to Manning’s bizarrely illogical logic when put on the spot, racial attacks really happen so they can be the legitimate subject of jokes, whereas Jo Brand and other female comics shouldn’t joke about menstruation because that’s “sick”, and presumably doesn’t really occur). Yes, “a joke is a joke”, Bernard, and that’s you all over. Channel 4 gave you the rope, and you managed to hang, draw and quarter yourself for the pleasure of the viewing public. Well done you fat wanker.
I finally got round to watching ‘Bernard’s Bombay Dream’ on video yesterday, and as I’d expected it really was a case of give ‘im enough rope – or, to be more precise, give ‘im enough camera time. Manning proceeded to do an excellent hatchet job on himself, making such pronouncements as “The world would be a much better place if everyone spoke English” and coming across as pathetically frail, absurdly egotistical and – in storming offstage when his jokes were falling flat and blaming it on a faulty microphone – comically unprofessional and thin-skinned. For perhaps the first time ever, I was pleased to hear a Daily Mail journalist – she managed to outwit and tie him in all kinds of knots (according to Manning’s bizarrely illogical logic when put on the spot, racial attacks really happen so they can be the legitimate subject of jokes, whereas Jo Brand and other female comics shouldn’t joke about menstruation because that’s “sick”, and presumably doesn’t really occur). Yes, “a joke is a joke”, Bernard, and that’s you all over. Channel 4 gave you the rope, and you managed to hang, draw and quarter yourself for the pleasure of the viewing public. Well done you fat wanker.
The Silent Words Speak Loudest Glastonbury 2003 Rock ‘N’ Roll Diary
Sunday 29th June
13.20, Other Stage
It’s always a great delight when you take advantage of a festival’s extensive line-up to check out a band out of sheer curiosity and find yourself overwhelmed by how good they turn out to be. Of course, this delight is also always tempered by the feeling that there must be dozens of these undiscovered gems performing unseen and unheard by you; every time you choose to see one band, you’re letting others slip through your fingers. But hey, let’s not dwell upon these negative reflections, but upon the positive and, more specifically, upon Kentucky’s MY MORNING JACKET. I have no idea what these guys sound like on record, but live it comes across as dense and expansive Southern stoner rock – Fu Manchu do the complete works of Lynyrd Skynyrd, perhaps. Having championed Cave In, it seems Dave Grohl has found another cause worthy of his support, and Kings Of Leon really should have been there taking notes. With his long hair, beard and flying V guitar, grizzled and barefooted frontman Jim James looks to have stepped straight out of some Neolithic metal band. At one point, he asks, “Do you guys have Smarties candy over here?”, before going on to announce, “Well, I’ve got a Smartie stuck to my foot. I have no idea where it came from” – to which some pissed-up wag in the crowd shouts, “Only Smarties have the answer”… Sadly their set overruns and some burly jobsworth stage-manager pulls the plug. That won’t stop me from hearing more of them, I can assure you of that.
Sunday 29th June
13.20, Other Stage
It’s always a great delight when you take advantage of a festival’s extensive line-up to check out a band out of sheer curiosity and find yourself overwhelmed by how good they turn out to be. Of course, this delight is also always tempered by the feeling that there must be dozens of these undiscovered gems performing unseen and unheard by you; every time you choose to see one band, you’re letting others slip through your fingers. But hey, let’s not dwell upon these negative reflections, but upon the positive and, more specifically, upon Kentucky’s MY MORNING JACKET. I have no idea what these guys sound like on record, but live it comes across as dense and expansive Southern stoner rock – Fu Manchu do the complete works of Lynyrd Skynyrd, perhaps. Having championed Cave In, it seems Dave Grohl has found another cause worthy of his support, and Kings Of Leon really should have been there taking notes. With his long hair, beard and flying V guitar, grizzled and barefooted frontman Jim James looks to have stepped straight out of some Neolithic metal band. At one point, he asks, “Do you guys have Smarties candy over here?”, before going on to announce, “Well, I’ve got a Smartie stuck to my foot. I have no idea where it came from” – to which some pissed-up wag in the crowd shouts, “Only Smarties have the answer”… Sadly their set overruns and some burly jobsworth stage-manager pulls the plug. That won’t stop me from hearing more of them, I can assure you of that.
14.30, Main Stage
In many ways the Main Stage at Glastonbury, with its Oxfam and Greenpeace banners, is the natural habitat for ASIAN DUB FOUNDATION, the perfect platform for their righteous musical polemics about everything from Dubya to asylum seekers. It was here in 2000 that I first saw them in action. The intervening three years have done little to change the bhangra Rage Against The Machine – in performance they’re still vibrant and buzzing with belief and well-directed vitriol. The backbone of the set seems to be comprised of old favourites – ‘Free Satpal Ram’, ‘Naxalite’, ‘New Way New Life’ and ‘Real Great Britain’. ADF’s problem, though, is that they’ve been allotted a huge time slot when their style is surely more ideally suited to short sharp sets. Consequently after a while the energy the band generates and the crowd’s interest begin to waver and wane, and what is initially direct and arresting about their approach gradually becomes rather laboured and unappealingly preachy. A shame, because for 45 minutes or so they’re great to watch.
In many ways the Main Stage at Glastonbury, with its Oxfam and Greenpeace banners, is the natural habitat for ASIAN DUB FOUNDATION, the perfect platform for their righteous musical polemics about everything from Dubya to asylum seekers. It was here in 2000 that I first saw them in action. The intervening three years have done little to change the bhangra Rage Against The Machine – in performance they’re still vibrant and buzzing with belief and well-directed vitriol. The backbone of the set seems to be comprised of old favourites – ‘Free Satpal Ram’, ‘Naxalite’, ‘New Way New Life’ and ‘Real Great Britain’. ADF’s problem, though, is that they’ve been allotted a huge time slot when their style is surely more ideally suited to short sharp sets. Consequently after a while the energy the band generates and the crowd’s interest begin to waver and wane, and what is initially direct and arresting about their approach gradually becomes rather laboured and unappealingly preachy. A shame, because for 45 minutes or so they’re great to watch.
16.20, Main Stage
Glastonbury’s Sunday line-up for the Main Stage is usually an eclectic mixture of the weird and wonderful, perhaps best exemplified in my experience by the wonderful sequence of 1998 – Tony Bennett, Sonic Youth, Bob Dylan, Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds and finally Pulp. So it’s no surprise to see SUGABABES popping up between ADF and Macy Gray. It is a surprise, though, that they get only a lukewarm response from the normally charitable and enthusiastic Main Stage crowd (although, of course, were they to show up at Reading or Leeds they’d be bottled off stage by pimply teenage meatheads in Slipknot hoodies, just as Daphne & Celeste were in 2000). It’s all rather disappointing: they’re slick and sexy, without doubt the finest pop act we have, and yet it seems few people can muster the energy to show any appreciation for what is a capable and classy demonstration of what they can do – and yes, that includes singing live. ‘Overload’ and ‘Stronger’ drift by without much acknowledgement, and unfortunately by the time the tremendous singles ‘Round Round’ and ‘Freak Like Me’ (the latter being my favourite single of 2002, dontcha know) put in an appearance, I’ve left in search of The Raveonettes on the Other Stage. Even more unfortunately, the Swedes’ stupendously short set means they’re gone by the time I arrive. Arse. Foiled again by the festival gods.
Glastonbury’s Sunday line-up for the Main Stage is usually an eclectic mixture of the weird and wonderful, perhaps best exemplified in my experience by the wonderful sequence of 1998 – Tony Bennett, Sonic Youth, Bob Dylan, Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds and finally Pulp. So it’s no surprise to see SUGABABES popping up between ADF and Macy Gray. It is a surprise, though, that they get only a lukewarm response from the normally charitable and enthusiastic Main Stage crowd (although, of course, were they to show up at Reading or Leeds they’d be bottled off stage by pimply teenage meatheads in Slipknot hoodies, just as Daphne & Celeste were in 2000). It’s all rather disappointing: they’re slick and sexy, without doubt the finest pop act we have, and yet it seems few people can muster the energy to show any appreciation for what is a capable and classy demonstration of what they can do – and yes, that includes singing live. ‘Overload’ and ‘Stronger’ drift by without much acknowledgement, and unfortunately by the time the tremendous singles ‘Round Round’ and ‘Freak Like Me’ (the latter being my favourite single of 2002, dontcha know) put in an appearance, I’ve left in search of The Raveonettes on the Other Stage. Even more unfortunately, the Swedes’ stupendously short set means they’re gone by the time I arrive. Arse. Foiled again by the festival gods.
17.20, Other Stage
THE RAPTURE are dizzyingly disorientating, and present me with a whole host of questions. What, for instance, is the appropriate behaviour for a member of their audience – should you just nod your head, or should you go the whole way and actually dance? Can I make sense of what’s going on? And, most importantly, do I even like it? Just as I’m beginning to get my head around it all and come to terms with their “standard” fare, skronky post-punk-influenced funk with saxophone lines scrawled all over the top, they chuck an incongruous yet very fine slice of thumping house into the already complicated equation. By the time former Happy Mondays dancer and legendary pillhead Bez appears for set-closer ‘House Of Jealous Lovers’, I’ve pretty much written them off as the sort of band destined to remain forever the darlings of the too-cool-for-school set and very unlikely to ever touch the lives of anyone else. This infectiously thrilling single may suggest otherwise, but there’s also no doubt whatsoever that it’s far superior to anything else they’ve played today. A bit of a conundrum, to say the least.
THE RAPTURE are dizzyingly disorientating, and present me with a whole host of questions. What, for instance, is the appropriate behaviour for a member of their audience – should you just nod your head, or should you go the whole way and actually dance? Can I make sense of what’s going on? And, most importantly, do I even like it? Just as I’m beginning to get my head around it all and come to terms with their “standard” fare, skronky post-punk-influenced funk with saxophone lines scrawled all over the top, they chuck an incongruous yet very fine slice of thumping house into the already complicated equation. By the time former Happy Mondays dancer and legendary pillhead Bez appears for set-closer ‘House Of Jealous Lovers’, I’ve pretty much written them off as the sort of band destined to remain forever the darlings of the too-cool-for-school set and very unlikely to ever touch the lives of anyone else. This infectiously thrilling single may suggest otherwise, but there’s also no doubt whatsoever that it’s far superior to anything else they’ve played today. A bit of a conundrum, to say the least.
18.20, Other Stage
GRANDADDY are also something of a conundrum. Often bracketed in with The Flaming Lips and Mercury Rev, they’re evidently not in the same league – and neither do they really want to be. Sporting a fine array of beards in what seems to be some kind of weird tribute to the festival’s organiser, they blend together chugging riffs and swirling electronic effects in a way that is somehow both unremarkable and thoroughly agreeable. Stand-out tracks include ‘Sumday’ and ‘The Crystal Lake’ (sadly minus the dancing bear of the video), which form an arresting opening salvo, and recent single ‘Now It’s On’. Between songs Jason Lyttle eulogises about the festival and, more specifically, the ready availability of illicit chemical substances on site, and the large crowd departs glad in the knowledge that they’ve just spent the best part of an hour in the company of a bunch of drug fiends who also happen to know their way around a tune.
GRANDADDY are also something of a conundrum. Often bracketed in with The Flaming Lips and Mercury Rev, they’re evidently not in the same league – and neither do they really want to be. Sporting a fine array of beards in what seems to be some kind of weird tribute to the festival’s organiser, they blend together chugging riffs and swirling electronic effects in a way that is somehow both unremarkable and thoroughly agreeable. Stand-out tracks include ‘Sumday’ and ‘The Crystal Lake’ (sadly minus the dancing bear of the video), which form an arresting opening salvo, and recent single ‘Now It’s On’. Between songs Jason Lyttle eulogises about the festival and, more specifically, the ready availability of illicit chemical substances on site, and the large crowd departs glad in the knowledge that they’ve just spent the best part of an hour in the company of a bunch of drug fiends who also happen to know their way around a tune.
19.40, New Stage
From drug fiends to songs about drug fiends. Yes, it could only be THE DELGADOS. As if to emphasise that they feel far more at home in their own world of junkies, depravity and grim concrete tenement blocks than in a field in Somerset, Emma Pollock complains about the quality of the strong cider available from the beer tents: “It’s warm, it’s flat and it’s pish” (she does say more, but as it’s in nervously mumbled Glaswegian it remains incomprehensible to the vast majority of the audience, including yours truly). Meanwhile, fellow vocalist / guitarist Alun Woodward looks, as usual, like a startled rabbit who’s been let out of his hutch to play on the motorway. What feels like a deceptively short set starts off in grand fashion with ‘The Light Before We Land’, and takes in all four singles from their last two LPs – ‘American Trilogy’, ‘Hate Is All You Need’, ‘Coming In From The Cold’ and ‘No Danger’. The highlights, though, are the sinister yet beautiful nursery rhyme from Hate, ‘Child Killers’, and The Great Eastern’s ‘Thirteen Gliding Principles’, with which it is juxtaposed and which surges and rages to force home the point that The Delgados can and do rock. I’m reminded to thank once again the friend who strongly recommended that I see them in Birmingham back in February – that gig marked the start of a blossoming relationship.
From drug fiends to songs about drug fiends. Yes, it could only be THE DELGADOS. As if to emphasise that they feel far more at home in their own world of junkies, depravity and grim concrete tenement blocks than in a field in Somerset, Emma Pollock complains about the quality of the strong cider available from the beer tents: “It’s warm, it’s flat and it’s pish” (she does say more, but as it’s in nervously mumbled Glaswegian it remains incomprehensible to the vast majority of the audience, including yours truly). Meanwhile, fellow vocalist / guitarist Alun Woodward looks, as usual, like a startled rabbit who’s been let out of his hutch to play on the motorway. What feels like a deceptively short set starts off in grand fashion with ‘The Light Before We Land’, and takes in all four singles from their last two LPs – ‘American Trilogy’, ‘Hate Is All You Need’, ‘Coming In From The Cold’ and ‘No Danger’. The highlights, though, are the sinister yet beautiful nursery rhyme from Hate, ‘Child Killers’, and The Great Eastern’s ‘Thirteen Gliding Principles’, with which it is juxtaposed and which surges and rages to force home the point that The Delgados can and do rock. I’m reminded to thank once again the friend who strongly recommended that I see them in Birmingham back in February – that gig marked the start of a blossoming relationship.
21.00, Other Stage
Sometimes SIGUR ROS appear to me to be one of the most ridiculous bands on the planet. I mean, singing in a made-up language? Insisting on playing guitar with a violin bow? Listen to Agaetis Byrjun or ( ) in a certain frame of mind and it seems so excessive and prog-rock indulgent that it becomes impossible to imagine how you could distinguish a parody from the real thing. At the same time I’m often struck by how distanced and emotionally frigid their music can seem. Tonight, though, these thoughts are very far from my mind. Everything – the sense of a gathering storm presaged by a few large raindrops, the falling dusk, probably even the leylines of legend – is in its right place so that it all makes perfect sense. As on ( ), the songs seem to flow seamlessly into one another, less discrete stretches of music than the constituent parts of a much larger whole. Consequently the performance itself seems to trace a narrative progression, starting slowly but gradually and gracefully building up through successive songs to a climactic peak, the final track from ( ), which erupts with volcanic passion to stunning effect. Comparisons with Mogwai – who, through their curation of the 2000 All Tomorrow’s Parties festival, introduced the UK to the band (and vice versa) – are not only inevitable but also, it must be said, favourable. As good as Braithwaite’s bunch of Buckfast-swilling noisemongers were, on this occasion they can consider themselves overshadowed and outdone: this is even more wondrous, even more awe-inspiring, and – crucially – even louder.
Sometimes SIGUR ROS appear to me to be one of the most ridiculous bands on the planet. I mean, singing in a made-up language? Insisting on playing guitar with a violin bow? Listen to Agaetis Byrjun or ( ) in a certain frame of mind and it seems so excessive and prog-rock indulgent that it becomes impossible to imagine how you could distinguish a parody from the real thing. At the same time I’m often struck by how distanced and emotionally frigid their music can seem. Tonight, though, these thoughts are very far from my mind. Everything – the sense of a gathering storm presaged by a few large raindrops, the falling dusk, probably even the leylines of legend – is in its right place so that it all makes perfect sense. As on ( ), the songs seem to flow seamlessly into one another, less discrete stretches of music than the constituent parts of a much larger whole. Consequently the performance itself seems to trace a narrative progression, starting slowly but gradually and gracefully building up through successive songs to a climactic peak, the final track from ( ), which erupts with volcanic passion to stunning effect. Comparisons with Mogwai – who, through their curation of the 2000 All Tomorrow’s Parties festival, introduced the UK to the band (and vice versa) – are not only inevitable but also, it must be said, favourable. As good as Braithwaite’s bunch of Buckfast-swilling noisemongers were, on this occasion they can consider themselves overshadowed and outdone: this is even more wondrous, even more awe-inspiring, and – crucially – even louder.
23.00, Other Stage
Of course it’s inevitable after Sigur Ros have redefined epic, but DOVES can’t help but taste like weak tea. My appreciation of their set is also hampered by the violent intrusion of techno terrorism as well as the screamed and not-so-polite requests “COME ON YOU BASTARDS!” and “MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE!” coming from The Glade, where Squarepusher is hard at work splitting skulls. At several points I’m on the verge of joining ‘em, being unable to beat ‘em, and on occasion Doves are only a hair’s breadth away from becoming a little bland. That’s not to say, though, that they’re a disappointment overall: a poignant ‘Satellite’ is dedicated to Marc-Vivien Foe and his family, and triumphant tunes from The Last Broadcast like ‘Pounding’ and ‘There Goes The Fear’ bring what has been a superb festival in all respects to a highly satisfactory conclusion. Jimi Goodwin expresses his gratitude at having been here, and so – quietly, to ourselves – do I and thousands of others.
Bands or artists I would have seen in an ideal world but missed due to clashes / rearranged running orders / excessively packed tents / my own sheer laziness or stupidity: Manic Street Preachers, Hope Of The States, The Raveonettes, The Streets, Squarepusher, Beth Gibbons
Of course it’s inevitable after Sigur Ros have redefined epic, but DOVES can’t help but taste like weak tea. My appreciation of their set is also hampered by the violent intrusion of techno terrorism as well as the screamed and not-so-polite requests “COME ON YOU BASTARDS!” and “MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE!” coming from The Glade, where Squarepusher is hard at work splitting skulls. At several points I’m on the verge of joining ‘em, being unable to beat ‘em, and on occasion Doves are only a hair’s breadth away from becoming a little bland. That’s not to say, though, that they’re a disappointment overall: a poignant ‘Satellite’ is dedicated to Marc-Vivien Foe and his family, and triumphant tunes from The Last Broadcast like ‘Pounding’ and ‘There Goes The Fear’ bring what has been a superb festival in all respects to a highly satisfactory conclusion. Jimi Goodwin expresses his gratitude at having been here, and so – quietly, to ourselves – do I and thousands of others.
Bands or artists I would have seen in an ideal world but missed due to clashes / rearranged running orders / excessively packed tents / my own sheer laziness or stupidity: Manic Street Preachers, Hope Of The States, The Raveonettes, The Streets, Squarepusher, Beth Gibbons
Friday, July 04, 2003
The Silent Words Speak Loudest Glastonbury 2003 Rock ‘N’ Roll Diary
Saturday 28th June
12.20, Other Stage
THE 22-20s hail from Lincoln, and they’re doing their darndest to disguise the fact. That means studied insouciance, leather jackets, grubby raw stompalongs and lyrical references ripped straight out of the book of blues clichés. There’s nothing inherently offensive in what the precocious foursome do, but they allow interest to wane and songs to drift on past their optimum cut-off point and into a superfluous third or even fourth minute. It all seems a bit lacklustre, and that’s mildly criminal. Put simply, of the bands who are roughly following in Jack White’s footsteps, The Black Keys and The Kills (who sadly fail to appear at the festival) could eat this bunch for breakfast and still have room for a full English, toast and tea. This may well be an off-day, sure, but what the incessant buzz that has surrounded The 22-20s suggests about the mainstream music industry is, of course, that it’s as myopically obsessed with a quick buck as ever, lazily backing those who follow in the wake rather than actively seeking out and putting faith in those who stand at the vanguard. Given a straight choice between this lot and The Futureheads, I’d take the latter every time.
Saturday 28th June
12.20, Other Stage
THE 22-20s hail from Lincoln, and they’re doing their darndest to disguise the fact. That means studied insouciance, leather jackets, grubby raw stompalongs and lyrical references ripped straight out of the book of blues clichés. There’s nothing inherently offensive in what the precocious foursome do, but they allow interest to wane and songs to drift on past their optimum cut-off point and into a superfluous third or even fourth minute. It all seems a bit lacklustre, and that’s mildly criminal. Put simply, of the bands who are roughly following in Jack White’s footsteps, The Black Keys and The Kills (who sadly fail to appear at the festival) could eat this bunch for breakfast and still have room for a full English, toast and tea. This may well be an off-day, sure, but what the incessant buzz that has surrounded The 22-20s suggests about the mainstream music industry is, of course, that it’s as myopically obsessed with a quick buck as ever, lazily backing those who follow in the wake rather than actively seeking out and putting faith in those who stand at the vanguard. Given a straight choice between this lot and The Futureheads, I’d take the latter every time.
14.20, Other Stage
On a day of hip and furiously hyped bands, SPARTA are the unfancied underdogs. I’m sincerely hoping and praying that they can not only make up for their frustrating showing in support of Hundred Reasons at Rock City in November, but more importantly steal the show from under the noses of those around them on the bill, afforded column inch upon unjustified column inch. From the very outset, though, it’s clear that it’s just not meant to be. Perhaps it doesn’t help that molten anger, which is at the absolute core of Sparta’s sound, is an emotion simply not naturally welcome at Glastonbury. Even still, the songs sound leaden, all the subtleties of their recorded counterparts buried and lost beneath the sludge. Vocalist / guitarist Jim Ward confesses that the band are coming to the very end of a 16 month period of touring, and they do look exhausted and desperate to escape into the studio to record the follow-up to last year’s fabulous Wiretap Scars. The devastatingly melodic ferocity of the LP begins to swim into focus with ‘Assemble The Empire’ and ‘Echodyne Harmonic’, but not even these nor a rousing finale of ‘Cut Your Ribbon’ and ‘Air’ can save the set. This is now the third time I’ve seen them, and I’m left having to face up to some unpleasant truths: guys, I adore and will continue to adore your record, but somehow you (or these tracks) just don’t quite cut it live. A crushing disappointment.
On a day of hip and furiously hyped bands, SPARTA are the unfancied underdogs. I’m sincerely hoping and praying that they can not only make up for their frustrating showing in support of Hundred Reasons at Rock City in November, but more importantly steal the show from under the noses of those around them on the bill, afforded column inch upon unjustified column inch. From the very outset, though, it’s clear that it’s just not meant to be. Perhaps it doesn’t help that molten anger, which is at the absolute core of Sparta’s sound, is an emotion simply not naturally welcome at Glastonbury. Even still, the songs sound leaden, all the subtleties of their recorded counterparts buried and lost beneath the sludge. Vocalist / guitarist Jim Ward confesses that the band are coming to the very end of a 16 month period of touring, and they do look exhausted and desperate to escape into the studio to record the follow-up to last year’s fabulous Wiretap Scars. The devastatingly melodic ferocity of the LP begins to swim into focus with ‘Assemble The Empire’ and ‘Echodyne Harmonic’, but not even these nor a rousing finale of ‘Cut Your Ribbon’ and ‘Air’ can save the set. This is now the third time I’ve seen them, and I’m left having to face up to some unpleasant truths: guys, I adore and will continue to adore your record, but somehow you (or these tracks) just don’t quite cut it live. A crushing disappointment.
15.40, Other Stage
And so, head cowed, I accede once more to the jibberings and yabberings of the hipsters and hypesters, and dutifully catch the end of THE THRILLS. But – ha! – the hipsters and hypesters are wrong again too! By contrast with Sparta, the joyous sun-worship that seems to be their raison d’etre should by rights ensure that The Thrills and Glastonbury go together perfectly, like Michael Eavis and his Amish beard – and perhaps they do for most onlookers. However, the band go together with me more like Andrew Motion and rap, Liam Gallagher and humility, David Gray and entertainment – I could go on, but you get the picture. ‘Santa Cruz (You’re Not That Far)’ and ‘Don’t Steal Our Sun’ sound to these ears like a bad Britpop hangover – slight, undercooked and downright bland tunes idly dressed up with a few references to that wondrous life-giving golden orb in the sky and selected mythically idyllic places on the American West Coast in order to masquerade as summer anthems. Well, I’ve seen through your little scam, boys, and I’m not falling for it.
And so, head cowed, I accede once more to the jibberings and yabberings of the hipsters and hypesters, and dutifully catch the end of THE THRILLS. But – ha! – the hipsters and hypesters are wrong again too! By contrast with Sparta, the joyous sun-worship that seems to be their raison d’etre should by rights ensure that The Thrills and Glastonbury go together perfectly, like Michael Eavis and his Amish beard – and perhaps they do for most onlookers. However, the band go together with me more like Andrew Motion and rap, Liam Gallagher and humility, David Gray and entertainment – I could go on, but you get the picture. ‘Santa Cruz (You’re Not That Far)’ and ‘Don’t Steal Our Sun’ sound to these ears like a bad Britpop hangover – slight, undercooked and downright bland tunes idly dressed up with a few references to that wondrous life-giving golden orb in the sky and selected mythically idyllic places on the American West Coast in order to masquerade as summer anthems. Well, I’ve seen through your little scam, boys, and I’m not falling for it.
16.20, Other Stage
THE EIGHTIES MATCHBOX B-LINE DISASTER: just what the doctor ordered. Although, I hasten to add, if your doctor really did prescribe The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster, you’d have to be concerned for his professional capabilities and mental wellbeing. Ugly and blunt, the Brighton oiks put in a performance that chews up The Thrills and spits them out into the beaming faces of anyone else whose set automatically benefits from the good weather and the cheery vibe – hello there The Polyphonic Spree, who are on the Main Stage at the same time shooting fish in a barrel by singing more songs about the sun. Taking to the stage with a giant flag that reads “I want to fuck your mother” (smaller flags have been distributed to members of the audience), Guy McKnight proceeds to rip out his lungs in the name of entertainment. And then the second song begins and he does it again. The set is a thrashy take-no-prisoners pillaging of their psychotically unhinged debut LP Horse Of The Dog. The first genuinely electrifying band of the day, The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster are a wild and truly idiosyncratic proposition – please, please, please, let them be spared from being tamed at the hands of a major label.
THE EIGHTIES MATCHBOX B-LINE DISASTER: just what the doctor ordered. Although, I hasten to add, if your doctor really did prescribe The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster, you’d have to be concerned for his professional capabilities and mental wellbeing. Ugly and blunt, the Brighton oiks put in a performance that chews up The Thrills and spits them out into the beaming faces of anyone else whose set automatically benefits from the good weather and the cheery vibe – hello there The Polyphonic Spree, who are on the Main Stage at the same time shooting fish in a barrel by singing more songs about the sun. Taking to the stage with a giant flag that reads “I want to fuck your mother” (smaller flags have been distributed to members of the audience), Guy McKnight proceeds to rip out his lungs in the name of entertainment. And then the second song begins and he does it again. The set is a thrashy take-no-prisoners pillaging of their psychotically unhinged debut LP Horse Of The Dog. The first genuinely electrifying band of the day, The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster are a wild and truly idiosyncratic proposition – please, please, please, let them be spared from being tamed at the hands of a major label.
17.30, Other Stage
Thankfully, the mood is now far removed from the jaunty optimism and misty-eyed nostalgia of earlier, and in that respect at least the stage is set perfectly for the arrival of INTERPOL. The clement weather, though, is rather less conducive to their appearance, and it’s no wonder that vocalist / guitarist Paul Banks, suited and booted like the rest of the band, complains about the heat. In fact, it’s almost surprising he doesn’t go on to complain about the exposure to sunlight… Nevertheless, ‘Untitled’ kicks things off in fine fashion, the gloom descending metaphorically if not literally and transporting us away to the dimly-lit streets and subways of New York. They plough on through the majority of fantastic debut album Turn On The Bright Lights – the likes of ‘PDA’, ‘Obstacle 1’ and ‘Roland’ all masterful slabs of Joy-Division-meets-The-Strokes near-perfection. But it’s album highlight ‘NYC’ that perhaps inevitably steals the show – dramatically grandiose and elegant in the way it unfolds, the song comes across rather like a slightly darker OK Computer era Radiohead. Like Mogwai a day earlier, Interpol triumph in spite rather than because of the circumstances.
Thankfully, the mood is now far removed from the jaunty optimism and misty-eyed nostalgia of earlier, and in that respect at least the stage is set perfectly for the arrival of INTERPOL. The clement weather, though, is rather less conducive to their appearance, and it’s no wonder that vocalist / guitarist Paul Banks, suited and booted like the rest of the band, complains about the heat. In fact, it’s almost surprising he doesn’t go on to complain about the exposure to sunlight… Nevertheless, ‘Untitled’ kicks things off in fine fashion, the gloom descending metaphorically if not literally and transporting us away to the dimly-lit streets and subways of New York. They plough on through the majority of fantastic debut album Turn On The Bright Lights – the likes of ‘PDA’, ‘Obstacle 1’ and ‘Roland’ all masterful slabs of Joy-Division-meets-The-Strokes near-perfection. But it’s album highlight ‘NYC’ that perhaps inevitably steals the show – dramatically grandiose and elegant in the way it unfolds, the song comes across rather like a slightly darker OK Computer era Radiohead. Like Mogwai a day earlier, Interpol triumph in spite rather than because of the circumstances.
18.30, New Stage
Scurrying over to the New Bands Tent as quickly as possible pays handsome dividends as Interpol’s fellow New Yorkers RADIO 4 are still on stage. They might well share geographical origins, but this fivepiece showcase an entirely different side to the city to Banks and co. Upon arrival the dancing, good-time vibes and party spirit demand more than a little mental and emotional adjustment, but once I step out from underneath the dark cloud it’s evident that there’s a great deal to recommend Radio 4. Hell, they must be good – final song ‘Dance To The Underground’ features an extended bongo solo, and if I heard that kind of thing in any other context at Glastonbury I’d be rather less inclined to nod and applaud as I find myself doing here and rather more inclined to embark on a homicidal spree around the Stone Circle with Primal Scream’s ‘Kill All Hippies’ reverberating around in my head.
Scurrying over to the New Bands Tent as quickly as possible pays handsome dividends as Interpol’s fellow New Yorkers RADIO 4 are still on stage. They might well share geographical origins, but this fivepiece showcase an entirely different side to the city to Banks and co. Upon arrival the dancing, good-time vibes and party spirit demand more than a little mental and emotional adjustment, but once I step out from underneath the dark cloud it’s evident that there’s a great deal to recommend Radio 4. Hell, they must be good – final song ‘Dance To The Underground’ features an extended bongo solo, and if I heard that kind of thing in any other context at Glastonbury I’d be rather less inclined to nod and applaud as I find myself doing here and rather more inclined to embark on a homicidal spree around the Stone Circle with Primal Scream’s ‘Kill All Hippies’ reverberating around in my head.
19.00, New Stage
There’s something about THE WARLOCKS that grates on me, and I can’t quite pin it down definitively. Is it the fact that for the most part they look so damn perfect on stage, black-clad and the (engineered?) epitome of drugged-up and blissed-out cool? Is it the fact that, while playing guitar, eyeliner-wearing frontman Bobby Hecksher has an irritating habit of bobbing up and down and gurning like Ozzy Osbourne trying to force out an especially troublesome shit (this, I should add, is not the epitome of cool)? Is it the fact that they have two drummers who, because they play exactly the same drumlines, just seem like an attention-seeking gimmick? Or is it the fact that there’s the nagging feeling that, while songs like ‘Hurricane Heart Attack’ and ‘Shake The Dope Out’ are certainly decent, this sort of narcotic rock has been done earlier and better by The Velvet Underground, Spacemen 3, The Jesus And Mary Chain and even Black Rebel Motorcycle Club when they’re in the right frame of mind? Needless to say, I can still see myself getting a copy of Phoenix. Am I a sucker?
There’s something about THE WARLOCKS that grates on me, and I can’t quite pin it down definitively. Is it the fact that for the most part they look so damn perfect on stage, black-clad and the (engineered?) epitome of drugged-up and blissed-out cool? Is it the fact that, while playing guitar, eyeliner-wearing frontman Bobby Hecksher has an irritating habit of bobbing up and down and gurning like Ozzy Osbourne trying to force out an especially troublesome shit (this, I should add, is not the epitome of cool)? Is it the fact that they have two drummers who, because they play exactly the same drumlines, just seem like an attention-seeking gimmick? Or is it the fact that there’s the nagging feeling that, while songs like ‘Hurricane Heart Attack’ and ‘Shake The Dope Out’ are certainly decent, this sort of narcotic rock has been done earlier and better by The Velvet Underground, Spacemen 3, The Jesus And Mary Chain and even Black Rebel Motorcycle Club when they’re in the right frame of mind? Needless to say, I can still see myself getting a copy of Phoenix. Am I a sucker?
20.10, New Stage
And then, once The Warlocks depart, all hell seems to break loose. In a short space of time the crowd swells dramatically, doubling, trebling, quadrupling in size. Whereas the reception afforded to The Warlocks was modest and polite rather than feverish, there’s suddenly a buzz of expectation and a frisson of anticipation in the air – and the next act haven’t even appeared yet. When KINGS OF LEON finally do walk onstage, there’s an almighty cheer. And then they start to play. And my heart sinks. It’s pretty clear that, despite being hyped to the heavens – especially by NME hack Imran Ahmed, who seems incapable of finding fault with anything, least of all bright young things with guitars – they’re nothing particularly special. So, they play a bit of Southern boogie stuff and look just right with their tight jeans and eccentric facial hair arrangements – am I supposed to fall fawningly at their feet? Read my lips, hypesters: I ain’t doin’ it, I tells ya. I’m long gone by the time they saddle up and leave town.
And then, once The Warlocks depart, all hell seems to break loose. In a short space of time the crowd swells dramatically, doubling, trebling, quadrupling in size. Whereas the reception afforded to The Warlocks was modest and polite rather than feverish, there’s suddenly a buzz of expectation and a frisson of anticipation in the air – and the next act haven’t even appeared yet. When KINGS OF LEON finally do walk onstage, there’s an almighty cheer. And then they start to play. And my heart sinks. It’s pretty clear that, despite being hyped to the heavens – especially by NME hack Imran Ahmed, who seems incapable of finding fault with anything, least of all bright young things with guitars – they’re nothing particularly special. So, they play a bit of Southern boogie stuff and look just right with their tight jeans and eccentric facial hair arrangements – am I supposed to fall fawningly at their feet? Read my lips, hypesters: I ain’t doin’ it, I tells ya. I’m long gone by the time they saddle up and leave town.
21.05, Main Stage
Now THIS is what excitement is all about. Three years ago, THE FLAMING LIPS headlined the New Bands Tent. This year, they’ve brought their technicolour magic show to the Main Stage, and, from the glorious opening headrush of ‘Race For The Prize’ to the very last strains of Pink Floyd cover ‘Breathe’ (dedicated to Thom Yorke), it’s fabulous. Close your eyes for a second, and then open them – you feel as though you’re on a serious LSD trip. Accompanied by numerous 6ft animals and two “permanent suns”, Wayne Coyne – white-suited and face covered in fake blood – is stood centre-stage leading a field of thousands in an impromptu version of ‘Happy Birthday’ for the five-year-old daughter of one of the T-shirt vendors. While the setlist is by and large a foregone conclusion (I know we’ll get ‘Waiting For A Superman’, ‘She Don’t Use Jelly’, ‘Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots Pt2’), we’re treated to projected footage of a man snorting part his own brain through a banknote followed by the onscreen warning: “Don’t snort your own brain, just enjoy The Flaming Lips”. Sound advice, of which everyone (at least, as far as I’m aware) takes heed. I have to confess, though – it feels rather strange singing the chorus to ‘Do You Realize??’, “…that everyone you love someday will die”, with a huge grin plastered across my face.
Now THIS is what excitement is all about. Three years ago, THE FLAMING LIPS headlined the New Bands Tent. This year, they’ve brought their technicolour magic show to the Main Stage, and, from the glorious opening headrush of ‘Race For The Prize’ to the very last strains of Pink Floyd cover ‘Breathe’ (dedicated to Thom Yorke), it’s fabulous. Close your eyes for a second, and then open them – you feel as though you’re on a serious LSD trip. Accompanied by numerous 6ft animals and two “permanent suns”, Wayne Coyne – white-suited and face covered in fake blood – is stood centre-stage leading a field of thousands in an impromptu version of ‘Happy Birthday’ for the five-year-old daughter of one of the T-shirt vendors. While the setlist is by and large a foregone conclusion (I know we’ll get ‘Waiting For A Superman’, ‘She Don’t Use Jelly’, ‘Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots Pt2’), we’re treated to projected footage of a man snorting part his own brain through a banknote followed by the onscreen warning: “Don’t snort your own brain, just enjoy The Flaming Lips”. Sound advice, of which everyone (at least, as far as I’m aware) takes heed. I have to confess, though – it feels rather strange singing the chorus to ‘Do You Realize??’, “…that everyone you love someday will die”, with a huge grin plastered across my face.
22.55, Main Stage
How do you follow that? Simple, really: by turning in the best performance of the festival, bar none. The reason tickets sold out in record time, RADIOHEAD could have ambled onstage and farted and still drawn a rapturous ovation, such is the esteem in which they are held by adoring fans and bands alike. This is being billed as a homecoming, after the spectacular triumph-over-mud that was 1997. Thankfully, though, instead of opting to thrill the crowd with their trouser trombone techniques, they sweep through a wonderfully majestic set that cements many times over their status as our most valuable national treasure. The set is predictably heavy on material from Hail To The Thief – ‘There There’ and ‘2+2=5’ get things underway in fine style, but the real pleasure is that less remarkable album tracks like ‘Sit Down, Stand Up’ and ‘Where I End And You Begin’ suddenly start to make a good deal more sense. There’s also plenty of room for older material, too, particularly from OK Computer – ‘No Surprises’ is radiant and ‘Lucky’ is dedicated to Thom’s longtime friend Michael Stipe, sat with his band at the side of the stage, just as spellbound as the rest of us. The twin pillars of the show, though, are ‘Fake Plastic Trees’ and ‘Idioteque’, the former inducing thousands of voices to join in and the sensational latter inducing an outburst of schizophrenic dancing. Having never seen the band live before, it strikes me that for a supposedly difficult and troubled artist Thom appears to be grinning to himself rather a lot, and at one point completely loses track of the setlist, sitting at the piano only to be told by Colin that he should have picked up his guitar. Might Mr Yorke have sampled some of the festival’s traditional chemical fayre before the show? The clue is there in his repeated between-song mumble of “Hash for cash”. On his way offstage once ‘Karma Police’ has finished, he pauses at the microphone and sings the line “For a minute there I lost myself, I lost myself”. Unaccompanied musically, it’s not long before he’s accompanied vocally. A Very Special Moment indeed.
And yet, and yet… Walking away, knowing I’ve just witnessed pure brilliance at work, I can’t help feeling, well, a tiny bit disappointed. It seems hypercritical and absurdly churlish to gripe, but… Curiously, for instance, there was absolutely nothing from Amnesiac. I mean, don’t get me wrong – I love ‘Climbing Up The Walls’, and tonight it sounded out of this world. But isn’t it quite a strange decision to play that and ignore ‘Pyramid Song’, ‘Knives Out’ and Amnesiac altogether? Reading the setlists for their recent gigs, I’d got my hopes up that we’d get one or possibly even both of ‘Subterranean Homesick Alien’ and ‘Exit Music’. I also can’t help thinking that the two most wired guitar songs, ‘Just’ and ‘Paranoid Android’ (still a remarkable single six years on) sounded a bit, I don’t know – rushed and ragged? It’s at this point, contemplating and reflecting out loud, that I’m told to shut up by friends, so let’s leave it like this: Radiohead were the best – but, from a personal perspective, they could have been even better.
How do you follow that? Simple, really: by turning in the best performance of the festival, bar none. The reason tickets sold out in record time, RADIOHEAD could have ambled onstage and farted and still drawn a rapturous ovation, such is the esteem in which they are held by adoring fans and bands alike. This is being billed as a homecoming, after the spectacular triumph-over-mud that was 1997. Thankfully, though, instead of opting to thrill the crowd with their trouser trombone techniques, they sweep through a wonderfully majestic set that cements many times over their status as our most valuable national treasure. The set is predictably heavy on material from Hail To The Thief – ‘There There’ and ‘2+2=5’ get things underway in fine style, but the real pleasure is that less remarkable album tracks like ‘Sit Down, Stand Up’ and ‘Where I End And You Begin’ suddenly start to make a good deal more sense. There’s also plenty of room for older material, too, particularly from OK Computer – ‘No Surprises’ is radiant and ‘Lucky’ is dedicated to Thom’s longtime friend Michael Stipe, sat with his band at the side of the stage, just as spellbound as the rest of us. The twin pillars of the show, though, are ‘Fake Plastic Trees’ and ‘Idioteque’, the former inducing thousands of voices to join in and the sensational latter inducing an outburst of schizophrenic dancing. Having never seen the band live before, it strikes me that for a supposedly difficult and troubled artist Thom appears to be grinning to himself rather a lot, and at one point completely loses track of the setlist, sitting at the piano only to be told by Colin that he should have picked up his guitar. Might Mr Yorke have sampled some of the festival’s traditional chemical fayre before the show? The clue is there in his repeated between-song mumble of “Hash for cash”. On his way offstage once ‘Karma Police’ has finished, he pauses at the microphone and sings the line “For a minute there I lost myself, I lost myself”. Unaccompanied musically, it’s not long before he’s accompanied vocally. A Very Special Moment indeed.
And yet, and yet… Walking away, knowing I’ve just witnessed pure brilliance at work, I can’t help feeling, well, a tiny bit disappointed. It seems hypercritical and absurdly churlish to gripe, but… Curiously, for instance, there was absolutely nothing from Amnesiac. I mean, don’t get me wrong – I love ‘Climbing Up The Walls’, and tonight it sounded out of this world. But isn’t it quite a strange decision to play that and ignore ‘Pyramid Song’, ‘Knives Out’ and Amnesiac altogether? Reading the setlists for their recent gigs, I’d got my hopes up that we’d get one or possibly even both of ‘Subterranean Homesick Alien’ and ‘Exit Music’. I also can’t help thinking that the two most wired guitar songs, ‘Just’ and ‘Paranoid Android’ (still a remarkable single six years on) sounded a bit, I don’t know – rushed and ragged? It’s at this point, contemplating and reflecting out loud, that I’m told to shut up by friends, so let’s leave it like this: Radiohead were the best – but, from a personal perspective, they could have been even better.
Bands or artists I would have seen in an ideal world but missed due to clashes / rearranged running orders / excessively packed tents / my own sheer laziness or stupidity: The Coral, Super Furry Animals, John Cale, The Libertines, Jimmy Cliff, The Polyphonic Spree, The Bandits, DJ AFX, Bill Bailey, Simon Munnery
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Blogwatch
I hope you're enjoying the day-by-day Glastonbury diary postings, but if you want more or a different set of perspectives then allow me to direct you to the following: David has written about his own personal experiences down on Worthy Farm, not solely confined to the music (thanks to Mike for pointing me in this direction), while there is also much of interest about this year's festival on Wisdom Goof, Parallax View and No Rock 'N' Roll Fun, all written from the perspective of those who missed out on tickets / made a conscious decision to avoid the mud, stench and hippies and watch events on TV in the comfort of their own home.
After weeks with very little change to my blogroll, I suddenly seem to have come across several excellent blogs in the last couple of days - check these out:
Casino Avenue
Creepy Lesbo
MarkCity
Master Of The House
The latter is of particular interest to anyone who's fond of that great British institution, the public house (ie everyone).
Gig reviews: Alex went to see Arab Strap at the Cottier Theatre in Glasgow, and suggests Aidan Moffat and co might even be lightening up (God forbid!); and Matthew saw Sonic Youth do their thang in New York's Central Park. Not only did they play new songs 'Peace Attack' and 'Mariah Carey And The Arthur Doyle Hand Cream', but golden oldies like '(I Got A) Catholic Block' and 'Making The Nature Scene' were dusted down and given an airing.
Elsewhere: there's been a sudden explosion of posting activity on Badger Minor, where you can find discussion of such bands / artists as Dizzee Rascal, LCD Soundsystem, Radio 4, The Darkness, British Sea Power and The Futureheads, as well as some welcome anti Ann Coulter vitriol; Kevin has been noting the striking similarities between the covers of albums by Marilyn Manson, ARE Weapons and Mogwai; Invisible Stranger has described his experience of being on a Gay Pride march in Berlin; Troubled Diva has moved, and Mike is inaugurating the new site by attempting to constrain himself to precisely 100 words for each of 100 consecutive posts (best of luck, mate!); and Ian Penman seems to be having the same difficulty with the new "improved" Blogger as me, finding himself no longer able to post long pieces. I'm reserving my judgement on the changes for the time being.
And finally... if you're a "cakey person" you might like to take a peek at Not So Soft. The discussion of the precise classification of a Jaffa Cake (biscuit or cake?) is surprisingly fascinating and very well-informed.
I hope you're enjoying the day-by-day Glastonbury diary postings, but if you want more or a different set of perspectives then allow me to direct you to the following: David has written about his own personal experiences down on Worthy Farm, not solely confined to the music (thanks to Mike for pointing me in this direction), while there is also much of interest about this year's festival on Wisdom Goof, Parallax View and No Rock 'N' Roll Fun, all written from the perspective of those who missed out on tickets / made a conscious decision to avoid the mud, stench and hippies and watch events on TV in the comfort of their own home.
After weeks with very little change to my blogroll, I suddenly seem to have come across several excellent blogs in the last couple of days - check these out:
Casino Avenue
Creepy Lesbo
MarkCity
Master Of The House
The latter is of particular interest to anyone who's fond of that great British institution, the public house (ie everyone).
Gig reviews: Alex went to see Arab Strap at the Cottier Theatre in Glasgow, and suggests Aidan Moffat and co might even be lightening up (God forbid!); and Matthew saw Sonic Youth do their thang in New York's Central Park. Not only did they play new songs 'Peace Attack' and 'Mariah Carey And The Arthur Doyle Hand Cream', but golden oldies like '(I Got A) Catholic Block' and 'Making The Nature Scene' were dusted down and given an airing.
Elsewhere: there's been a sudden explosion of posting activity on Badger Minor, where you can find discussion of such bands / artists as Dizzee Rascal, LCD Soundsystem, Radio 4, The Darkness, British Sea Power and The Futureheads, as well as some welcome anti Ann Coulter vitriol; Kevin has been noting the striking similarities between the covers of albums by Marilyn Manson, ARE Weapons and Mogwai; Invisible Stranger has described his experience of being on a Gay Pride march in Berlin; Troubled Diva has moved, and Mike is inaugurating the new site by attempting to constrain himself to precisely 100 words for each of 100 consecutive posts (best of luck, mate!); and Ian Penman seems to be having the same difficulty with the new "improved" Blogger as me, finding himself no longer able to post long pieces. I'm reserving my judgement on the changes for the time being.
And finally... if you're a "cakey person" you might like to take a peek at Not So Soft. The discussion of the precise classification of a Jaffa Cake (biscuit or cake?) is surprisingly fascinating and very well-informed.
Monkey business
Last night I think I had the pleasure / misfortune of watching 'Ed', quite possibly the worst film ever made(although I confess to having not seen '2 Fast 2 Furious' or 'Biker Boyz' yet). As I sat on the sofa open-mouthed at the movie's unprecedented levels of awfulness, several questions troubled me.
Firstly, who in their right mind could possibly come up with the following equation: chimpanzee (or, more precisely, bloke in chimpanzee suit) + 'Friends' star (Matt LeBlanc) + baseball + vague love interest + bad guy whose toupee keeps coming off with hilarious consequences + soundtrack by the likes of Meat Loaf and Dire Straits = artistic triumph and box office paydirt?
Secondly, who at ITV thought that 11.20pm on a Wednesday night was the ideal time for the premiere of a "family comedy"?
And thirdly, which braindead hack at The Sun found it in their heart to award the film a three-star 'Good' rating in the paper's weekly TV guide?
The basic plotline involves a chimpanzee (the Ed of the title) becoming a minor league baseball team's mascot and rooming with one of the team, played by LeBlanc. It then transpires that the chimp is in fact an excellent fielder and he helps the team to success. I was willing the film to follow a 'Boogie Nights' style trajectory, and depict Ed's new-found fame going to his head, his unique talent wasted and his personal and professional life spiralling down into the depths of crack-and-whores depravity, leaving him destitute and working as a rent chimp blowing old men for cash - but, sadly, there was a happy ending. I did, however, like the intimations of bestiality in the "special relationship" between Ed and the young daughter of Matt LeBlanc's lady friend - underneath all that monkeying around (arf arf), there was evidently a simmering sexual tension. I swear it.
Essentially, though, the film was just an excuse for lines like the following: "I'm going to spank the monkey", "Why not hang out with your room-mate?", "He's not an animal, he's a ball player", "He's a VIP - very important primate". I'm sure the line "You've made a monkey out of me" was in there somewhere, but I must have missed it.
Last night I think I had the pleasure / misfortune of watching 'Ed', quite possibly the worst film ever made(although I confess to having not seen '2 Fast 2 Furious' or 'Biker Boyz' yet). As I sat on the sofa open-mouthed at the movie's unprecedented levels of awfulness, several questions troubled me.
Firstly, who in their right mind could possibly come up with the following equation: chimpanzee (or, more precisely, bloke in chimpanzee suit) + 'Friends' star (Matt LeBlanc) + baseball + vague love interest + bad guy whose toupee keeps coming off with hilarious consequences + soundtrack by the likes of Meat Loaf and Dire Straits = artistic triumph and box office paydirt?
Secondly, who at ITV thought that 11.20pm on a Wednesday night was the ideal time for the premiere of a "family comedy"?
And thirdly, which braindead hack at The Sun found it in their heart to award the film a three-star 'Good' rating in the paper's weekly TV guide?
The basic plotline involves a chimpanzee (the Ed of the title) becoming a minor league baseball team's mascot and rooming with one of the team, played by LeBlanc. It then transpires that the chimp is in fact an excellent fielder and he helps the team to success. I was willing the film to follow a 'Boogie Nights' style trajectory, and depict Ed's new-found fame going to his head, his unique talent wasted and his personal and professional life spiralling down into the depths of crack-and-whores depravity, leaving him destitute and working as a rent chimp blowing old men for cash - but, sadly, there was a happy ending. I did, however, like the intimations of bestiality in the "special relationship" between Ed and the young daughter of Matt LeBlanc's lady friend - underneath all that monkeying around (arf arf), there was evidently a simmering sexual tension. I swear it.
Essentially, though, the film was just an excuse for lines like the following: "I'm going to spank the monkey", "Why not hang out with your room-mate?", "He's not an animal, he's a ball player", "He's a VIP - very important primate". I'm sure the line "You've made a monkey out of me" was in there somewhere, but I must have missed it.
Quote of the day
D H Lawrence, writing in the Introduction to his volume of poetry 'Pansies':
"I am abused most of all for using the so-called "obscene" words. Nobody quite knows what the word "obscene" itself means, or what it is intended to mean: but gradually all the old words, that belong to the body below the navel, have come to be judged obscene. Obscene means today that the policeman thinks he has a right to arrest you, nothing else."
D H Lawrence, writing in the Introduction to his volume of poetry 'Pansies':
"I am abused most of all for using the so-called "obscene" words. Nobody quite knows what the word "obscene" itself means, or what it is intended to mean: but gradually all the old words, that belong to the body below the navel, have come to be judged obscene. Obscene means today that the policeman thinks he has a right to arrest you, nothing else."
Kill all Henmaniacs
"Am I the only one who is praying for Little Timmy Boy Henman to get his skinny arse kicked at Wimbledon, so we can enjoy tennis played by skilled, charismatic foreign players and not endure hours of hero-worship of a dull, over-privileged Home Counties washing-powder salesman?"
No, Darryl, you're certainly not the only one who wishes nothing but misfortune for Tim Henman. I for one am most definitely not a Henmaniac. He's a spoilt little Mummy's boy whose parents always look smug-ugly and who's become the acceptably clean-cut and charisma-free pin-up for Daily Mail reading Middle England.
Incidentally, we were having a conversation the other day about how inappropriate the nickname he's been ascribed is: "Tiger Tim". Surely some other species of animal would be more fitting? I was thinking along the lines of woodlouse or gnat. Any other suggestions?
"Am I the only one who is praying for Little Timmy Boy Henman to get his skinny arse kicked at Wimbledon, so we can enjoy tennis played by skilled, charismatic foreign players and not endure hours of hero-worship of a dull, over-privileged Home Counties washing-powder salesman?"
No, Darryl, you're certainly not the only one who wishes nothing but misfortune for Tim Henman. I for one am most definitely not a Henmaniac. He's a spoilt little Mummy's boy whose parents always look smug-ugly and who's become the acceptably clean-cut and charisma-free pin-up for Daily Mail reading Middle England.
Incidentally, we were having a conversation the other day about how inappropriate the nickname he's been ascribed is: "Tiger Tim". Surely some other species of animal would be more fitting? I was thinking along the lines of woodlouse or gnat. Any other suggestions?
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Techno-problems
Below is the first installment of my Glastonbury diary - Blogger, it seems, does not take kindly to long posts, so I've had to break it down. The next two installments should hopefully be appearing over the next couple of days or so. Thoughts / comments from anyone who went or watched on TV are very welcome - just email me at the usual address.
Below is the first installment of my Glastonbury diary - Blogger, it seems, does not take kindly to long posts, so I've had to break it down. The next two installments should hopefully be appearing over the next couple of days or so. Thoughts / comments from anyone who went or watched on TV are very welcome - just email me at the usual address.
The Silent Words Speak Loudest Glastonbury 2003 Rock ‘N’ Roll Diary
Friday 27th June
10.15, Main Stage
The whole festival is just awakening from either a fitful or a drugged slumber to discover that the valley is suddenly alive with the sound of Guns ‘N’ Roses circa 1987 as THE DARKNESS take to the stage with some slick uber-camp cock-rock gems. Naming a song ‘Love On The Rocks With No Ice’ is a sure-fire way to garner yourselves a support slot with Def Leppard, as this lot have done. They prove that winning over a dead-headed early-morning crowd is simple provided you have in your arsenal a song like ‘Get Your Hands Off My Woman’ and a spanking cover of Radiohead’s ‘Street Spirit’ (in their hands it somehow becomes a lost Iron Maiden classic). Frontman Justin Hawkins, clad in the requisite spandex suit, plays guitar behind his head, charms the crowd and struts the stage with a presence that belies his band’s currently lowly stature. The whole set is a bold, wild and tremendously entertaining attempt to stick a flag in the festival and claim it as their own. It’s little to do with irony, and everything to do with having a fucking blast – and that’s Glastonbury all over.
Friday 27th June
10.15, Main Stage
The whole festival is just awakening from either a fitful or a drugged slumber to discover that the valley is suddenly alive with the sound of Guns ‘N’ Roses circa 1987 as THE DARKNESS take to the stage with some slick uber-camp cock-rock gems. Naming a song ‘Love On The Rocks With No Ice’ is a sure-fire way to garner yourselves a support slot with Def Leppard, as this lot have done. They prove that winning over a dead-headed early-morning crowd is simple provided you have in your arsenal a song like ‘Get Your Hands Off My Woman’ and a spanking cover of Radiohead’s ‘Street Spirit’ (in their hands it somehow becomes a lost Iron Maiden classic). Frontman Justin Hawkins, clad in the requisite spandex suit, plays guitar behind his head, charms the crowd and struts the stage with a presence that belies his band’s currently lowly stature. The whole set is a bold, wild and tremendously entertaining attempt to stick a flag in the festival and claim it as their own. It’s little to do with irony, and everything to do with having a fucking blast – and that’s Glastonbury all over.
11.10, Other Stage
All of which leaves HAR MAR SUPERSTAR rather surprisingly upstaged, even though he’s accompanied on this occasion by his scantily-clad female dancers from Ibiza club Manumission, where he has a residency this summer. To his credit, though, his sweaty gyrations and sleaze-hop tales of seduction and furtive sexual encounters (see ‘Power Lunch’ and ‘No Chorus’ in particular) prove to be rather more appealing than they were when I first witnessed them in the, ahem, flesh (when he supported Yeah Yeah Yeahs at Rock City back at the end of February). The cover of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Sir Duke’ is still strained and terrible, but in ‘Brothers And Sisters’ he’s got a genuinely fine pop song and bonus points also for donning over his trademark Y-fronts a pair of ladies’ knickers that had been thrown on stage for the finale. Hanging out with the cream of New York cool, writhing around with beautiful women despite his pie-fetishist’s physique in front of thousands of people – this guy’s got it good, and doesn’t he know it.
All of which leaves HAR MAR SUPERSTAR rather surprisingly upstaged, even though he’s accompanied on this occasion by his scantily-clad female dancers from Ibiza club Manumission, where he has a residency this summer. To his credit, though, his sweaty gyrations and sleaze-hop tales of seduction and furtive sexual encounters (see ‘Power Lunch’ and ‘No Chorus’ in particular) prove to be rather more appealing than they were when I first witnessed them in the, ahem, flesh (when he supported Yeah Yeah Yeahs at Rock City back at the end of February). The cover of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Sir Duke’ is still strained and terrible, but in ‘Brothers And Sisters’ he’s got a genuinely fine pop song and bonus points also for donning over his trademark Y-fronts a pair of ladies’ knickers that had been thrown on stage for the finale. Hanging out with the cream of New York cool, writhing around with beautiful women despite his pie-fetishist’s physique in front of thousands of people – this guy’s got it good, and doesn’t he know it.
12.15, Avalon Stage
And down comes the rain, barely an hour and a half into the festival proper. Taking shelter in the Avalon Tent I have the misfortune to witness THE FABRICS. At first I’m prepared to be charitable – after all, the friend of a friend is playing guitar – but it soon becomes clear that all diplomacy and tact will have to be jettisoned. They are shite. Individual members of the band may well be talented (especially the drummer), but the end product is an unholy, gruesome, free-jazz-funk slop. The saxophonist has got a goatee and a leather waistcoat, for fuck’s sake. Although The Fabrics make me feel quite nauseous, in a way I owe them a debt of gratitude – their performance serves as a reminder of the dangers of straying from the main music stages in search of what dewy-eyed hippies are inclined to call “the real Glastonbury”. This is it, my friends, and it fucking stinks. I vow never to venture so afar astray again.
And down comes the rain, barely an hour and a half into the festival proper. Taking shelter in the Avalon Tent I have the misfortune to witness THE FABRICS. At first I’m prepared to be charitable – after all, the friend of a friend is playing guitar – but it soon becomes clear that all diplomacy and tact will have to be jettisoned. They are shite. Individual members of the band may well be talented (especially the drummer), but the end product is an unholy, gruesome, free-jazz-funk slop. The saxophonist has got a goatee and a leather waistcoat, for fuck’s sake. Although The Fabrics make me feel quite nauseous, in a way I owe them a debt of gratitude – their performance serves as a reminder of the dangers of straying from the main music stages in search of what dewy-eyed hippies are inclined to call “the real Glastonbury”. This is it, my friends, and it fucking stinks. I vow never to venture so afar astray again.
14.25, New Stage
And now, a bombshell: I think I could grow to love Sunderland, in a very small and specific sense – for giving me and the wider world a cracking new band. Now, just pause for a moment. Those of you who are regular readers will know of my affiliations to Newcastle Utd and corresponding antipathy to all things Mackem. So you are right to assume that this is a painful thing for me to acknowledge, and that THE FUTUREHEADS must be a very special prospect indeed. Taut sinewy songs that sound something like The Clash and early Jam and jab you repeatedly in the chest, accompanied by wonderfully choreographed vocal gymnastics. Tracks from their recent ‘Carnival Kids’ EP are superb, and in a short, electric set we also get fine covers of Kate Bush’s ‘Hounds Of Love’ and The Television Personalities’ ‘A Picture Of Dorian Gray’. Their album, when it hits, should be very good indeed.
And now, a bombshell: I think I could grow to love Sunderland, in a very small and specific sense – for giving me and the wider world a cracking new band. Now, just pause for a moment. Those of you who are regular readers will know of my affiliations to Newcastle Utd and corresponding antipathy to all things Mackem. So you are right to assume that this is a painful thing for me to acknowledge, and that THE FUTUREHEADS must be a very special prospect indeed. Taut sinewy songs that sound something like The Clash and early Jam and jab you repeatedly in the chest, accompanied by wonderfully choreographed vocal gymnastics. Tracks from their recent ‘Carnival Kids’ EP are superb, and in a short, electric set we also get fine covers of Kate Bush’s ‘Hounds Of Love’ and The Television Personalities’ ‘A Picture Of Dorian Gray’. Their album, when it hits, should be very good indeed.
15.25, New Stage
The first of very few disappointments of the weekend. As things currently stand, just over half way through the year, MEW’s ‘Comfortable Sounds’ is my favourite single of 2003 – nine minutes of chiming, towering shoegazery wonderment. Naturally my interest was aroused – is this sort of thing their stock-in-trade, or is it a momentary lapse into brilliance which stands out like the sore proverbial on their debut record Frengers? Unfortunately, it seems to be the latter. Gorgeous vocals aside, there’s little to merit anything more than a slightly disheartened shrug of the shoulders. Impelled to leave for the Main Stage by the imminent appearance of a certain Glaswegian fivepiece, I miss ‘Comfortable Sounds’ itself. The upshot of it all? Sorry lads, but your album’s off my shopping list.
The first of very few disappointments of the weekend. As things currently stand, just over half way through the year, MEW’s ‘Comfortable Sounds’ is my favourite single of 2003 – nine minutes of chiming, towering shoegazery wonderment. Naturally my interest was aroused – is this sort of thing their stock-in-trade, or is it a momentary lapse into brilliance which stands out like the sore proverbial on their debut record Frengers? Unfortunately, it seems to be the latter. Gorgeous vocals aside, there’s little to merit anything more than a slightly disheartened shrug of the shoulders. Impelled to leave for the Main Stage by the imminent appearance of a certain Glaswegian fivepiece, I miss ‘Comfortable Sounds’ itself. The upshot of it all? Sorry lads, but your album’s off my shopping list.
16.00, Main Stage
God proves Himself to be a man of impeccable taste: whereas he had eloquently passed comment on The Fabrics with the downpour, by the time bona fide post-rock legends MOGWAI shuffle out in front of probably their biggest audience yet, the skies are blue and the sun is baking hot, so much so that I can literally feel my neck burning during the opening song, ‘You Don’t Know Jesus’. Mid-afternoon on the Main Stage was always going to be a challenge for Mogwai, but they cope with the adverse circumstances admirably – and then some. Several tracks from recently-released fourth LP proper Happy Music For Happy People get an airing - the likes of ‘Hunted By A Freak’ and ‘Kids Will Be Skeletons’ billow up from very little, spreading and spiralling majestically, while album centrepiece ‘Ratts Of The Capital’ ascends to a Sabbath riff that pounds down on the already sun-beaten heads of the assembled masses. There’s also room for old live favourite ‘Summer’, which soars and swoops like a jetplane. But then what was already great becomes instantly magical with the opening chords of ‘My Father My King’. Almost 23 minutes of the reworked and instrumental version of the Jewish hymn later, and having taken the song from the brink of silence to the outer edges of the sound barrier, the band’s diminutive and moustachioed genius Stuart Braithwaite is rubbing his guitar on the edge of the stage and then pushing it up and down the tracks fitted for the moveable cameras. Awesome. The title of the new album might be ironic, but they leave happy people everywhere.
God proves Himself to be a man of impeccable taste: whereas he had eloquently passed comment on The Fabrics with the downpour, by the time bona fide post-rock legends MOGWAI shuffle out in front of probably their biggest audience yet, the skies are blue and the sun is baking hot, so much so that I can literally feel my neck burning during the opening song, ‘You Don’t Know Jesus’. Mid-afternoon on the Main Stage was always going to be a challenge for Mogwai, but they cope with the adverse circumstances admirably – and then some. Several tracks from recently-released fourth LP proper Happy Music For Happy People get an airing - the likes of ‘Hunted By A Freak’ and ‘Kids Will Be Skeletons’ billow up from very little, spreading and spiralling majestically, while album centrepiece ‘Ratts Of The Capital’ ascends to a Sabbath riff that pounds down on the already sun-beaten heads of the assembled masses. There’s also room for old live favourite ‘Summer’, which soars and swoops like a jetplane. But then what was already great becomes instantly magical with the opening chords of ‘My Father My King’. Almost 23 minutes of the reworked and instrumental version of the Jewish hymn later, and having taken the song from the brink of silence to the outer edges of the sound barrier, the band’s diminutive and moustachioed genius Stuart Braithwaite is rubbing his guitar on the edge of the stage and then pushing it up and down the tracks fitted for the moveable cameras. Awesome. The title of the new album might be ironic, but they leave happy people everywhere.
18.40, Other Stage
It’s ELECTRIC SIX, and everyone is here for one reason: ‘Gay Bar’. This year’s late-night chant of choice amongst the great unwashed, you see, is not “I’m Tiger Woods!” or even that perennial festival favourite “Bollocks!”, but “Gay bar!”. They eventually play it, and it’s very well-received. As is previous chart-bothering single ‘Danger! High Voltage’. As is the cover of ‘Radio Gaga’ by Queen with which they close – complete with a bloke in a silver spaceman’s suit encouraging the crowd to clap along in time. These are – predictably – brief periods of respite from the rest of their set, which consists of unimpressive dreck culled presumably from new LP Fire. To be honest, to these ears they’re fighting a losing battle from the moment they step on stage – when it comes to the honour of the festival’s most absurdly entertaining band, how were they to know that The Darkness had already got it sewn up?
It’s ELECTRIC SIX, and everyone is here for one reason: ‘Gay Bar’. This year’s late-night chant of choice amongst the great unwashed, you see, is not “I’m Tiger Woods!” or even that perennial festival favourite “Bollocks!”, but “Gay bar!”. They eventually play it, and it’s very well-received. As is previous chart-bothering single ‘Danger! High Voltage’. As is the cover of ‘Radio Gaga’ by Queen with which they close – complete with a bloke in a silver spaceman’s suit encouraging the crowd to clap along in time. These are – predictably – brief periods of respite from the rest of their set, which consists of unimpressive dreck culled presumably from new LP Fire. To be honest, to these ears they’re fighting a losing battle from the moment they step on stage – when it comes to the honour of the festival’s most absurdly entertaining band, how were they to know that The Darkness had already got it sewn up?
20.00, Other Stage
IDLEWILD seem destined for a life of being perpetually yet frustratingly consistent. They’re always good but never great. Tonight is effectively a celebratory run through an array of splendid singles – of the twelve singles on their last three albums, eleven are aired – and yet somehow it never quite ignites. ‘American English’, which last year sounded radiant and anthemic, fits into place neatly, suddenly nothing special. There are few surprises, either – nothing from noisy debut mini-LP Captain and, despite it being over a year since The Remote Part was released, no new material. Roddy Woomble – definitely the best-named man in rock – still ruffles his hair between every song, and Rod Jones still leaps around like he’s got a firecracker up his arse. Allan Stewart and Gavin Fox seem to have slotted into the line-up without much fuss. However, we do get ‘Tell Me Ten Words’, almost a pre-emptive tribute to REM’s performance later on, and ‘The Remote Part’/’Scottish Fiction’ makes as good a set closer as it does an album closer. It’s still not quite happened for them, though, I don’t think. Forever the bridesmaids, never the bride.
IDLEWILD seem destined for a life of being perpetually yet frustratingly consistent. They’re always good but never great. Tonight is effectively a celebratory run through an array of splendid singles – of the twelve singles on their last three albums, eleven are aired – and yet somehow it never quite ignites. ‘American English’, which last year sounded radiant and anthemic, fits into place neatly, suddenly nothing special. There are few surprises, either – nothing from noisy debut mini-LP Captain and, despite it being over a year since The Remote Part was released, no new material. Roddy Woomble – definitely the best-named man in rock – still ruffles his hair between every song, and Rod Jones still leaps around like he’s got a firecracker up his arse. Allan Stewart and Gavin Fox seem to have slotted into the line-up without much fuss. However, we do get ‘Tell Me Ten Words’, almost a pre-emptive tribute to REM’s performance later on, and ‘The Remote Part’/’Scottish Fiction’ makes as good a set closer as it does an album closer. It’s still not quite happened for them, though, I don’t think. Forever the bridesmaids, never the bride.
21.30, Cabaret Stage
A carefully-timed trip to the Cabaret Tent to see ROSS NOBLE, planned so as to avoid the merest hint of a juggler – but disaster strikes! Jeff Green is just finishing up with a long anecdote about the inept sexual fumblings of the average drunken male, and we have to endure – yes – a juggler before welcoming the Geordie loon to the stage. Being restricted to around half an hour means that there’s no time for Noble to really delve into any prepared material – if you’ve seen him before, you’ll know the way he works ie very randomly, feeding off morsels offered to him by unwitting and often inebriated members of the audience. His one completed anecdote is about a female friend of his who had a one-night stand with a bloke who shouted “Show me where your mother lives!” during sex – he’d meant to say “Who’s your daddy?”… Somehow at one point he gets so waylaid and distracted that he’s talking about the fact that he went to a nocturnal school with a group of badgers, and Bill Oddie had to coax them out for lessons by placing meat between his teeth. The man definitely walks the tightrope between genius and insanity: Beethoven, Einstein, Noble.
A carefully-timed trip to the Cabaret Tent to see ROSS NOBLE, planned so as to avoid the merest hint of a juggler – but disaster strikes! Jeff Green is just finishing up with a long anecdote about the inept sexual fumblings of the average drunken male, and we have to endure – yes – a juggler before welcoming the Geordie loon to the stage. Being restricted to around half an hour means that there’s no time for Noble to really delve into any prepared material – if you’ve seen him before, you’ll know the way he works ie very randomly, feeding off morsels offered to him by unwitting and often inebriated members of the audience. His one completed anecdote is about a female friend of his who had a one-night stand with a bloke who shouted “Show me where your mother lives!” during sex – he’d meant to say “Who’s your daddy?”… Somehow at one point he gets so waylaid and distracted that he’s talking about the fact that he went to a nocturnal school with a group of badgers, and Bill Oddie had to coax them out for lessons by placing meat between his teeth. The man definitely walks the tightrope between genius and insanity: Beethoven, Einstein, Noble.
22.50, Main Stage
Glastonbury, more than any other festival, is about communality. And that’s precisely where REM come in. With a set-list spanning well over a decade and encompassing the likes of ‘Imitation Of Life’, ‘Daysleeper’, ‘What’s The Frequency, Kenneth?’, ‘The One I Love’ and ‘The Great Beyond’ in addition to a smattering of new tracks, Michael Stipe and co provide the perfect excuse for thousands to stand together in the dark in a field and just sing their hearts out. This communal thrill is felt most intensely during the first song of the encore, the Automatic For The People classic ‘Everybody Hurts’. It’s a very special feeling. And this despite the actions of an extraordinarily drunk friend who shall remain unnamed, who attempts to spoil the ambience by repeatedly shouting “Gay bar!” throughout the set and accidentally pisses on his own shoes while trying to fill a paper cup. But hey, I can forgive him: after all, REM are spreading peace, love and happiness, and leaving everyone with an ear-to-ear grin – isn’t that what Glastonbury’s all about? ‘It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)’ very aptly brings the curtain down on the first day, as I think to myself that I’d be quite happy for the world to end at that moment – if it weren’t for Radiohead playing the following day…
Bands or artists I would have seen in an ideal world but missed due to clashes / rearranged running orders / excessively packed tents / my own sheer laziness or stupidity: Primal Scream, Death In Vegas, The Cooper Temple Clause, Nada Surf, Echo And The Bunnymen, Yo La Tengo, Tom McRae, Black Box Recorder, De La Soul, Stewart Lee, Ed Byrne
Glastonbury, more than any other festival, is about communality. And that’s precisely where REM come in. With a set-list spanning well over a decade and encompassing the likes of ‘Imitation Of Life’, ‘Daysleeper’, ‘What’s The Frequency, Kenneth?’, ‘The One I Love’ and ‘The Great Beyond’ in addition to a smattering of new tracks, Michael Stipe and co provide the perfect excuse for thousands to stand together in the dark in a field and just sing their hearts out. This communal thrill is felt most intensely during the first song of the encore, the Automatic For The People classic ‘Everybody Hurts’. It’s a very special feeling. And this despite the actions of an extraordinarily drunk friend who shall remain unnamed, who attempts to spoil the ambience by repeatedly shouting “Gay bar!” throughout the set and accidentally pisses on his own shoes while trying to fill a paper cup. But hey, I can forgive him: after all, REM are spreading peace, love and happiness, and leaving everyone with an ear-to-ear grin – isn’t that what Glastonbury’s all about? ‘It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)’ very aptly brings the curtain down on the first day, as I think to myself that I’d be quite happy for the world to end at that moment – if it weren’t for Radiohead playing the following day…
Bands or artists I would have seen in an ideal world but missed due to clashes / rearranged running orders / excessively packed tents / my own sheer laziness or stupidity: Primal Scream, Death In Vegas, The Cooper Temple Clause, Nada Surf, Echo And The Bunnymen, Yo La Tengo, Tom McRae, Black Box Recorder, De La Soul, Stewart Lee, Ed Byrne
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
Normal service is resumed
And lo I return - sunburnt, bearded, wearied and dazed but very happy indeed. The Silent Words Speak Loudest Glastonbury Rock 'N' Roll Diary will be making an appearance here soon. In the meantime, though, thanks to Simon for keeping me on his Christmas card list and here's a special extended FGH as a taster of who I'll be writing about...
And lo I return - sunburnt, bearded, wearied and dazed but very happy indeed. The Silent Words Speak Loudest Glastonbury Rock 'N' Roll Diary will be making an appearance here soon. In the meantime, though, thanks to Simon for keeping me on his Christmas card list and here's a special extended FGH as a taster of who I'll be writing about...
Feel good hits of the Glastonbury Festival 2003
1. 'Idioteque' - Radiohead
2. 'Untitled #8' - Sigur Ros
3. 'Race For The Prize' - The Flaming Lips
4. 'My Father My King' - Mogwai
5. 'Everybody Hurts' - REM
6. 'NYC' - Interpol
7. 'Thirteen Gliding Principles' - The Delgados
8. 'Get Your Hands Off My Woman' - The Darkness
9. 'Cut Your Ribbon' - Sparta
10. 'Carnival Kids' - The Futureheads
11. 'House Of Jealous Lovers' - The Rapture
12. 'Celebrate Your Mother' - The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster
13. 'Naxalite' - Asian Dub Foundation
14. 'Dance To The Underground' - Radio 4
15. 'Gay Bar' - Electric Six
1. 'Idioteque' - Radiohead
2. 'Untitled #8' - Sigur Ros
3. 'Race For The Prize' - The Flaming Lips
4. 'My Father My King' - Mogwai
5. 'Everybody Hurts' - REM
6. 'NYC' - Interpol
7. 'Thirteen Gliding Principles' - The Delgados
8. 'Get Your Hands Off My Woman' - The Darkness
9. 'Cut Your Ribbon' - Sparta
10. 'Carnival Kids' - The Futureheads
11. 'House Of Jealous Lovers' - The Rapture
12. 'Celebrate Your Mother' - The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster
13. 'Naxalite' - Asian Dub Foundation
14. 'Dance To The Underground' - Radio 4
15. 'Gay Bar' - Electric Six
Everything changes - for the worse
Fellow Nottingham bloggers may know of a very fine public house near the canal called The Lock and Lace (formerly The Navigation Inn). This particular pub has been the venue for many an enjoyable night for myself and my associates, and has become one of my favourites in the city. Perhaps the main reason for this was its extraordinarily good jukebox, which featured - amongst many, many other things - such fantastic tracks as Sonic Youth's 'Teenage Riot', The Jesus And Mary Chain's 'April Skies' and Dinosaur Jr's 'Freakscene' (note the use of the past tense - the observant amongst you may have noticed where I'm going with this...). Well, in the course of renovating and refitting the pub, the owners have tragically in their infinite wisdom decided to dispense with this 'box of delights. This may seem like a minor gripe, but quite frankly I'm gutted. How often do you find jukeboxes of a really good standard these days?! Perhaps, though, I should be thankful for small mercies - as, far as I can tell, it's not being transformed into a chain pub or theme bar or anything fuckawful like that. Still - sigh.
Fellow Nottingham bloggers may know of a very fine public house near the canal called The Lock and Lace (formerly The Navigation Inn). This particular pub has been the venue for many an enjoyable night for myself and my associates, and has become one of my favourites in the city. Perhaps the main reason for this was its extraordinarily good jukebox, which featured - amongst many, many other things - such fantastic tracks as Sonic Youth's 'Teenage Riot', The Jesus And Mary Chain's 'April Skies' and Dinosaur Jr's 'Freakscene' (note the use of the past tense - the observant amongst you may have noticed where I'm going with this...). Well, in the course of renovating and refitting the pub, the owners have tragically in their infinite wisdom decided to dispense with this 'box of delights. This may seem like a minor gripe, but quite frankly I'm gutted. How often do you find jukeboxes of a really good standard these days?! Perhaps, though, I should be thankful for small mercies - as, far as I can tell, it's not being transformed into a chain pub or theme bar or anything fuckawful like that. Still - sigh.
Shameless self-publicising
You can read my Stylus review of Canyon's Empty Rooms LP here, if you're interested or (more likely) bored and trying to fritter away time on the net - in which case, you might also like to take a peek at reviews of Hate by The Delgados and Antenna by Cave In.
You can read my Stylus review of Canyon's Empty Rooms LP here, if you're interested or (more likely) bored and trying to fritter away time on the net - in which case, you might also like to take a peek at reviews of Hate by The Delgados and Antenna by Cave In.
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