Thursday
Hands blistering from our ridiculously heavy bags, the last two of us finally discover our mates, who set up camp yesterday, near the rave-in-disguise that is the Duracell tent. It’s been a pain in the arse so far, with queues for shuttle buses snaking half way around
Putting our gripes aside, and with our tent precariously fastened to a fence in the seeming absence of its pegs, we set about our Clear Spirit (apparently, Tolstoy isn’t actually vodka) and I eventually end up drink driving (in a dodgem, I’m not that daft).
Friday
A combination of whiplash from last night, and a load more alcohol, means that I’m carried back to our tent shortly after Jamie T’s energetic set. I can remember that Sheila goes out with her mate Stella, and that I quite enjoyed myself, but that’s about it. If you were around the NME Tent today, I was the one trying to walk at a 45 degree angle.
I also saw the Sunshine Underground, or so I’m told.
Saturday
Attempting to make up for yesterday’s lack of music, I’m at the main stage for 12 for the Pipettes. Glorious summer music will always work better in glorious summer, and thankfully that’s what we’ve got, as the do-wop trio, all hand claps and polka dots, coyly work the crowd. With perfect tunes, fashions and live voices (though their dancing becomes disjointed), it’s unfathomable why they aren’t massive.
Equally glamourous is the Long Blonde’s Kate Jackson, and they’re next up for me, again on the main stage. A few surprising omissions (there’s no Separated by Motorways or Giddy Stratospheres) don’t detract from a solid set. They’re a band that always seems better than the sum of their parts, as
A few pints, then its time for Maximo Park, who appear somewhat workmanlike in a disappointing set, which is also let down by poor sound quality. All of the hits are there, and Paul Smith is his usual star-jumping self, but something’s missing (not his bowler hat though, obviously).
It's sweltering by now, but Interpol are way too cool for any of this sunburn lark, a typically gloomy set played impeccably, their stage presence derived from the fact they barely bother to move at all, bassist Carlos D underlining his status as the coolest man in rock. Its dark, brooding stuff, and you couldn’t have it any other way.
Kings of Leon are more forthcoming, and are simply stunning. Tighter than their famed jeans, they tear through one of the longest sets of the festival with barely a pause. Proving their worth as musicians whilst still managing to entertain a massed crowd, they are one of the weekend’s undoubted highlights.
Having been split up from everyone else during KOL, I pop in on Brand New in one of the tents. After two songs they appear to me as they are on record; equal parts visceral energy and introspective shoegazing. The latter bores me horribly after the highs of the Followill lads, so our tents and the remainder of tonight’s Carling seem a better option for now.
Johnny Borrell’s Ego is headlining, so we’re off to wander aimlessly around camp sites instead.
Sunday
Crystal Castles are first today in the Dance Tent, their entertaining electro brushing away the hangovers, their frontwoman scaring us witless in the process.
Brakes’ variation of pop-punk, country, indie-rock and the tune-and-a-half that is All Night Disco Party is enjoyable enough to begin with, but when its coupled with the world’s shortest and bluntest protest song (“Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, STOP BEING SUCH A DICK!”) and some pineapples, it becomes the hidden gem of my weekend.
Criticised in the past for lacking presence in smaller venues, I’m apprehensive as to how the Shins will transfer to the vast open spaces of the main stage. I need not have worried, as they produce a stellar performance, helped by the continuing sunshine. Its about this time that we began to think we may actually melt.
Bloc Party are a massive letdown; dull in the extreme. Fans blame the sound set-up, but their insipid 45-minutes is soulless and tuneless, and an awful way to prepare for what many say should be the headliners.
The best band in the world.
As mental and multi-instrumental as we’ve come to expect, Win and Reg busting guts with their vocals as every member scampers about the stage with abandon, their myriad equipment used to full effect. The sun sets as they rise, with even weaker album tracks becoming central parts of the set, and closing track Wake Up (apt for the assembled Chili Pepper fans trying to look disinterested) is an out-of-body experience. Sell your granny to see them live.
The furious, frenetic Chk Chk Chk are our last band of the weekend, and there are far worse ways to bow out as they ensure there’s no way we’re about to tire at this late stage. Mixing their shorter, more punkish singles from last release Myth Takes with more sprawling efforts, they tear the dance tent up in a way that would put many rock bands to shame.
Once that’s over, and after more have spilled out from RHCP’s mammoth two-hour slot, the traditional/inevitable carnage ensues. Tents are torched, fences are trashed, and I start to count down the days until I next see Arcade Fire.
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