Gillingham, Kent, UK (By Mikey)
Venue: Carling Weekend Reading
While most people are still sound asleep in their tents, recovering from the night before, a select few have ventured out into the morning sun for a bit of Main Stage action.
At this time of day, it's the perfect place to be - not many people around, litter-free enough so that lying on the ground is relatively hygienic, and - in this weather - pure heaven to take a dose of The Sleepy Jackson. Often criticised for not bringing the intricacies of their recorded sound to the live arena, Luke Steele and co are on great form today. The ever-changing line-up is totally unified in a display of Harrison-esque slide guitars and sun-drenched harmonies and the atmosphere appears to be that of quiet (and justified) confidence. There are no overtly thrashy guitar moments and Steele rarely displays his trademark 'kookiness', save a little bit of guitar playing with a knife and fork, naturally.
In fact, in most cases, silence punctuates today's set. As the band meander through album highlights including 'Good Dancers', 'Don't You Know' and 'Vampire Racecourse', Steele is low on banter and high on concentration. That's not to say he doesn't address the crowd, it's just that when he does, it's only with a mumbled, 'thank you' here and there. Rounding off the show with a theatrical group bow, The Sleepy Jackson saunter off the stage at around 1pm, a job well done.
Just like a hearty breakfast - a great way to start the day.
Judging by the amount of people crammed in the Radio 1 tent this afternoon, word must be spreading about My Morning Jacket. The audience starts off a mixture of the curious and the pre-converted but with a full-throttle set of flying hair and guitars, these Kentucky boys let nobody leave disappointed.
Regardless of how many times you listen to it, Jim James' voice never fails to send shivers down your spine. It is in equal parts broken, beautiful, rugged and worn and conveys a rare depth of emotion that constantly hits you where it hurts. 'Mahgeetah' is a perfect example of this and today's live performance is no exception - his timbre is perfectly suited to floating around in the upper reaches of this giant marquee.
There are a few points in today's set - the slow paced anthems - where attention wavers and the crowd begin texting their mates/rolling joints/checking their line-up times. Thankfully, with a set that includes the exhilarating 'One Big Holiday' and gems such as 'Dancefloors' and 'Golden', MMJ ultimately overcome such distractions with the kind of fervour their potential demands.
Take one look at Jet and you can more or less work out what they're about - loud guitars, lots of women, plenty of booze and aspirations of stadium superstardom. Which is why it comes as some surprise to see them beginning their set with the very mellow and very acoustic, 'Move On'. The tameness doesn't last long though - within moments, a bare-chested Chris Cester throws down his guitar and leaps on to the drums, announcing "thanks very much, we're here to fu*king party!"
There's a lot for Jet to prove today. Whilst there are probably some hardcore fans in the audience, it's also pretty likely that a high proportion of the people standing in this tent are here to judge whether or not these scruffy Melbourne natives are worthy of their questionable 'next big thing' tag. To be fair, they've got a lot of the right qualities - they're easily pigeonholed into a scene (see also Datsuns, Vines) they look good (if not a little bit lacking in the grooming department) and they have a knack of churning out catchy retro rock, but can they really cut it?
Jet certainly carry themselves with the confidence of genuine stars-in-waiting, relishing every second of their time on stage and whooping the front section of the crowd into something of a moshing-frenzy throughout. And impressively, after working through high-voltage tracks such as 'Get What You Need', 'Last Chance', 'Are You Gonna Be My Girl' these four twenty-somethings are still left with an unrelenting energy.
For all its worth, there are many, many things the Reading Festival lacks. Movement where that 'Suicide Is Not An Option. It Is The Only Option' T-Shirt meets a pair of three quarter length shorts, is one. Today, The Rapture go some way to bridging the gap, as the angst-ridden, whiter than emulsion crowd bids to engage head with feet at the table of the proto-punk-funk-digi-house-electro overlords.
While the polyrhythmic throb of 'Olio' doesn't exactly ignite a Hacienda renaissance in the Radio 1 tent, there is certainly a memorable moment when a sea of hand-claps is vaguely in unison. Elsewhere, jagged, piranha teeth riffs, bulbous, leaping basslines and wild slashing cymbal crashes and thumping fills trade blows toe-to-toe with Luke Jenner's yearning caterwaul and a desperate, orphaned saxaphone. It's an unlikely but fully successful combination, made good by the DFA-harnessed electronics. In such a rocked-to-the-hilt world, The Rapture are, consequently, absolutely essential.
What's particularly enthralling is the versatility and depth at the core of the New York four-piece's sound and vision. For a band so immersed in the ideas of demented sonics, grooves and club culture, they boast notably measured, understated personalities - Vitto Roccoforte has never lived up to his name, according to his mother - and big, bulging, busted hearts are broken over their music. It's in Jenner's tale of a tramp threatening to "drink myself to death' on the stealthy magnificence of 'Sister Saviour' and the Bowie steal and compassion of 'Open Up You Heart'. Oh, and they played 'House Of Jealous Lovers' and God was truly in his Heaven.
In profoundly morbid British tradition, The Libertines are on the verge of a crucial breakthrough just as they've lost a key member to acrimonious circumstance and crack addiction. Arguably, they've lost some of their magic minus joint-frontman Pete Doherty. But then it's difficult to replicate the thrill of a drunken shambles taking beautiful shape in a bar backroom when your playing the Main Stage of the Reading Festival.
Alternatively, you could say that The Libertines are going 'pro', moving up in the world. Carl looks hungry enough for it and not a bit like a man who is going to let an opportunity like this pass him by without a good fight. Shambolic charm is written into the songs on the band's occasionally wonderful 'Up The Bracket' album and, to be honest, a little more charge of those instruments was never going to hurt. 'Death On The Stairs', 'Time For Heroes', 'Boys In The Band' and the gloriously pop new single 'Don't Look Back Into The Sun' are all hammered out with intent. It's not too late to turn this around.
Ever introduced a small household object, gardening implement or, perhaps, a missile, into the boudoir, to the aghast horror of your partner? Ever thought about it? How about a whopping great guitar, hot notes sparking across the bed? Well, if Hotel and VV from The Kills aren't 'together', they should be, such is the electricity between them. At least it explains why the Iraqis can't spark their cookers.
These two rock'n'roll casualties stand eye-to-eye, Hotel violently spasming his axe against VV's buffeting crotch in a feast of quite extraordinary lewdness. It's an impressive, captivating sight, black-eyed with menace and lashed in sweat. There's a feral snarl to their masochistic, primal sound as well, despite the apparent limitations of a two-piece.
Armed with the occasional tick-tock, clang and crash of a prehistoric, fading drum machine, The Kills need little more for their filthy tales about how they like to"f*ck and fight in the basement", fried brains and "stabbing your kissy mouth". Hotel's serrated, abrasive blues riff attack and VV's frenzied, on her knees lust excel on the likes of 'Cat Claw' and 'F*ck The People', while you can only imagine what happens when the amps finally explode.
Lesson one - when attempting to play live at a major summer festival in front of 50,000 people, remember to prepare thoroughly. This groundwork for a trouble-free show should include, where possible, double-checking that your microphones are on at all times when trying to sing and replacing dead batteries in your ear monitors so you hear the track you're singing over. That's assuming your mic is on in the first place.
These are a few simple things that can help you avoid the kind of excruciating start that Mike Skinner and The Streets suffered. If the earth had opened up and swallowed the Main Stage whole, you'd have still been able to hear Skinner cursing this show. Yes, it was that bad.
Never the most confident of live bands to start with, The Streets spend the first twenty minutes massacring their 'Original Pirate Material' album to deathly silence and puzzled stares. Suffice to say they never fully recovered. Like 'Pop Idol' car-crash TV, it's painful to watch and you know you shouldn't but you can't resist.
Genuine attempts to reconcile the false start fall on deaf ears. Still, credit where credit's due, Skinner does his best to hold things together but ultimately ends up trying too hard. That is until he starts to lose his voice during 'Stay Positive'. Despite all that, it's blindingly obvious that new material can't come quick enough to preserve the legacy of his truly brilliant debut album. Maybe he should just rethink the live band routine? Time to push things forward again.
There's a school of thought that says bands like the Doves should never be given a daylight slot at a festival. It doesn't do them, or their ilk, any favours. Anyone who witnessed the band excel during their second stage headlining slot at Glastonbury and toil away during today's late afternoon will no doubt concur.
The problem is, Doves are too big to ignore now or palm off with a stint in a tent. Their unlikely progression to mainstream staple is by no means a bad thing or unwarranted but means they face the glare of the August sun stripped of any kind of safety blanket that their music was tailor-made to reside under.
Just look at Beck, a man whose career started with shambolic charm - mashing together delta blues with hip hop and folk - and who today glides effortlessly through a set diverse enough to take in everything from 'Sexx Laws' to 'Lost Cause'. It's still coherent and has never before been so utterly convincing, so assured. With a new band - significantly slimmed down from the excesses of the touring 'Midnite Vultures' revue - Beck never invites us to question the sincerity of his musical cut and paste. As he delivers a North African accentuated 'Nobody's Fault But My Own', playing only an accordion, it feels like he's the first artist since Dylan to so consistently and restlessly reinvent such perfect structures in live performance.
It's slick, of course, and the new songs may prove that bit too 'sincere' for those grown accustomed to the tongue stuck in Beck's musical cheek but there's no faulting the orchestrated melancholy of 'Lost Cause' as the sun sets on the Reading dust bowl. And if you thought it was getting dangerously close to 'serious', well there's always a medley of Nelly, Beyonce and Justin Timberlake hits and some belly skating across the stage for light relief.
They're's something not quite right about this. It's not the frustrating absence of The White Stripes, or that Beck has somehow - an act of God perhaps or, more likely, a fat cheque with the words 'Virgin' stamped on it - been billed below the Black Rebel Tricycle Club. Clearly, it's just not dark enough. As Jago, Hayes and Turner loom into view, you fear they may melt from the sun piercing their dark armoury. Daylight, you presume, is not a phenomenon they have been introduced to. How will we distinguish the menacing smoke drifting across the stage and the pack of wolves who accompany them as they slay Reading with their righteous death rock and dangerous-to-know agenda? Perhaps they should have headlined instead of Blur.
It's not so much that the BRMC are boring. The likes of 'Punk Song' and 'Six Barrel Shotgun' have a vicious whiplash to match their kicking against the system manifesto. There is even an element of humour from the band - who go about their work with the sort of robotic precision you'd more readily associate with hypnosis - as they pay tribute to the missing Stripes family.
However, the commendable cover of 'Hardest Button To Button' amplifies the dank, limited appeal of the group. There are no thunderbolts here, only rain, and the only thing the Black Rebel Motorcyle Club appear to be rebelling against is freedom of speech and the right to smile and expose your soul. Which are, surely, all among rock'n'roll's ten commandments.
It's telling that Blur choose to take to the stage with the statement of intent that is writ large in opener 'Ambulance'. "I ain't got nothing to be scared of," urges Damon Albarn uncertainly, looking mildly petrified and, dare we say it, more than a little drunk. Rumour has it that, not only is Graham here but Justine is knocking around backstage. Add to that The Media and most of our declining record industry and it might appear that Reading is out to get the pop genius that everyone loves to hate. At least, it might appear that way to Damon Albarn. Perhaps that explains the drunken flailing...
Coo in disbelief as our hero lurches around the stage and inadvertently smashes an acoustic guitar. Marvel as he actually falls off the front of the stage, landing painfully on his knees and then thrashes awkwardly at his guitar with his back to the audience. The pitch perfect choreography of the Beck show this ain't. But, remarkably, some kind of triumph is yet to be snatched from the jaws of disaster.
And all despite Albarn's uncharacteristic sentimentality. Throughout the long two-hour show he alternately breathes deep the love beaming back from the festival crowd, hands aloft urging away the insecurity that dogged his uncertain appearance onstage, or dribbles like Fran Healy and Chris Martin combined about how lucky he is to be here. Honestly, we think that we preferred the Albarn that came out tonight with snide asides about "this country we call England."
The everyman symphonies of 'For Tomorrow', 'End Of A Century' and the beautifully inevitable closer 'This Is A Low' provide Blur with a catalogue of songs that stir as much affection in this crowd as the heartfelt working class laments performed here over the years by Pulp. But elsewhere there's the omnipresent sneer of the educated, of the aesthete. It's a contradiction exemplified by the two songs that special guest Phil Daniels delivers. On the one hand, the brilliantly dramatic and satirical snarl of electro resentment embodied in 'Me White Noise'. On the other, the undeniable charm of the impossibly twee 'Parklife' - apparently performed ad hoc on account of Albarn's sentimental mood.
Along the way there are songs as ethereally beautiful as 'Caravan' and 'Out Of Time' all delivered, entertainingly, by a suited bloke that looks like a pissed uncle at a wedding and ably assisted by a band that appears to have as much interaction as inmates of a maximum security prison. It may well be the last time that Reading sees them all onstage together - God knows, Albarn certainly can't handle this on a yearly basis - but they've more than earned a lead role in the history of the British music festival.
