Leeds(Reading) ‘99
-
Monday
Today I taste like:
Orange Chewits & Bacardi spiked
coconut rum.
D’you know, I was thinking about not going to this festival.
I wanted to go to Reading, to camp at Reading. I wanted a festival as good as
last year’s. I didn’t want to commute, to have to queue for at least an hour to
get a bus back into the city centre every post-headliner evening after which
I’d impinge on a friend’s hospitality for a weekend’s uncomfortable floorspace.
Looking at the prospective acts, it seemed as though most everyone whom I would
want to see play I had seen before. And there’s also the small matter of the
cost of the weekend. But then... it’s in Leeds. It’s ‘on my doorstep’. And if
about a quarter of any of that line-up were playing in the city centre, I’d
happily travel in for them. It’s time for my to stop drowning in apathetic
lethargy at home. And get on the bus...
And when I do, I find there’s a girl on the bus wearing a
Welsh flag. A girl on the bus with a Yorkshire accent wearing a Welsh flag. A
girl on the bus with a Yorkshire accent wearing a Welsh flag on a day where the
Americans on the bill outnumber the Brits, and there are no Welsh people
anywhere. AND it wasn’t the same girl as I’d seen yesterday waving at the FLC
with a similar flag. Which means there’s more than one of these nitwits out
there...
And from that, around the twenty-minute
ass-haul walk from the bus drop-off to the Mainstage, for the sake of the amyl
nitrate rock of the BACKYARD BABIES. Who make music with rocks in it. And sound
pretty much like Cartman’s rainbows*. All of
which proved mightily entertaining, before the time came for my to scoot off to
the Radio1 Tent. And from that - scary rawk muthas with jagged guitars and
poisonous hair - to, um, HEFNER. Who are more like a nice Penguin biscuit to
The Backyward Babies’ mouthful of sandpaper. Bless em. I arrive in the middle
of the first song, and know I’m in the right place, because of the singer’s
distinctive voice. But when I get closer to the stage,
I notice something disconcerting has happened. Contact
lenses. And time. Darren’s not wearing his glasses. Darren’s got ‘rock hair’ (
he said it, not me, I’d have described it as a fringe ). Darren no longer looks
like John Hegley. Aaaw. Shucks. The band still have that common-muck beauty
that we love though. Still sing fragile songs on fragile subjects. Still doing
the Beach Boy covers. And still as sweet as ever. ‘How much are fags here ? A
fiver ? We got ours at a petrol station - here, have a few of mine. You’ve got
to share them out between you mind...’ Bless ‘em.
And all the way through, I’m being haunted by the wafting
smell of frying potatoes wafting through the tent. Oooh, but I want chips now.
Hefner-time now means lunch-time, and I need those fries... ( They don’t call
me Little Miss Carbohydrate for nothing, you know...*
) So, set over, I walk up the hill, heading for the Comedy Tent. And a van that
sells chips to my standards ( thin & dry, not fat & dripping with it )
AND doesn’t feature a queue longer’n that for the Signing Tent. And on my way,
I found Fraser & Vicky & Daniel & Charlie. Again. ( There are
thousands of people here, and I keep on finding the ones that I know, all the
time everywhere all the time. ) A woman walked past with a hoover attachment.
As I was in mid-squeal about that, a man walked past with a hoover. Which would
be bottom of even my list of festival essentials. It wasn’t even a classy
hoover anyway, it was one of those squat little orange ones, one that used to
have a face but it has since been rubbed off by time and sticky children. One
of those... And after that, Fraser & Vicky went ‘shopping’ ( ie to look at
hooded tops and ridiculously expensive pasta dishes ), and I went off on a
mission for chips. Which were eaten, along with my chocolate pudding muffin, in
the company of Daniel & Charlie, in the Comedy Tent. Where we realised we
all knew the words to the Presidents’ ‘Peaches’. And were proud / shameless
enough of that fact to happily sing along in a public place. ( Thankfully I was
able to curb the urge I have each time I hear Republica to stand up and jump
around in a mock-cheerleader style-ee. ) And before any further evil
temptations could be flung our way, we were given MIKE WILMOT. ( ‘Ten women
together don’t talk, they download.’ ) Who is a fat thirty-
five year old Canadian. And not Simon
Bligh. Now I don’t know how happy that makes either of them, but I wasn’t best
pleased at the reschediling intricacies until I realised that, if a little
bodily function obsessed, he was actually a reasonably funny man. And that
Simon Bligh was stood above me watching him. So I accosted him. As is my wont.
And we agreed I could steal some of his time for an interview once he’d been
on. Schweeeet... And then I settled back down into giggling along with the Tent’s
security guards at Mike Wilmot’s crudities. Daniel & Charlie disappear for
the sake of the Steve Tyler’d features of Buckcherry on the Mainstage, but I
have an appointment with the Etch a Sketch whimsy of SIMON BLIGH. Who, despite
tremendous wind-milling energy, seemed to be chugging away on auto-pilot; the
material became patter as his attempts at inter-action full on mostly sullen
festival ears. People , at least these people, seem to prefer to be entertained
than involved. So we were entertained. With talk of weebles, lesbian sex, and
playground divisions, as well as the lies of adverts ( tampax, take note - most
menstruating women do not delight in the freedom they have to do the splits
over a white shagpile carpet ) and the desperate edge the snooze button gives
you. And then, set over, I was found by the man himself, and escorted
‘backstage’. Which consisted of, essentially, some trailers. And spitting
clouds. 
So we went & sat in one of the
trailers. And chatted. And then he zoomed off to catch a train. And I ‘let
myself out’. And, having missed The Living End, headed for the summer-harmonies
of ROSITA. Who were, well, alright. Competant. Sweet. Nice. But not as sharp as
Kenickie, not as bouncy or funny as Kenickie. Emmy-Kate and Marie ( both of whom
are lookin’ gooood, by the way ) have succeeded in making fairly inocuous
pop-chart friendly Just17 music, and making me miss their past glories in a way
which I thought I was over. I only stayed for a couple of songs. Partly through
disappointment. But also because tent smelt very much like the jar of mulch I
used to keep garden-caught caterpillars in at the age of 10. Which was most
peculiar. Particularly when you’re trying to concentrate of the appearance of a
sailor onstage...
Heading down the hill towards the Radio1 Tent, I noticed
more people wearing those grinning-mouth stickers some company had been giving
out both this weekend and last. They have peppered my festivals, though I can’t
remember what they’re selling. The one on the shadowy head of the Mark
Morrisson silhouette poster I liked. The judicious usage of the smaller ones to
create ( Stones-esque ) jeans patches, I’m down with that. But on people’s
faces, particularly if on more than one person in a group... you feel like
you’re in some sort of horrible cartoon future. Or at the very least, a Skunk
Anansie video...
And then to THE AUTEURS. Who were a class act. As always.
Playing the best pop single of the 
year - ‘The Rubettes’ - to perfection,
and precursing the tip-top Lenny Valentino number with the words ‘this song has
the best riff in the world EVER... and I wrote it’. So that Mr. Haines does look an awful lot like
Sting - maybe mixed in with a little bit of Niles Crane. Don’t fret over it.
It’s the honeycomb music that we’re there for. And reeling around in.
Luvverly...
And then back up the hill - past Tiny, again - to the
Carling Tent. Where everything is running late. Which works in my favour. As it
means I get to see the tail end of JIM’S SUPER STEREO WORLD.
Who were intelligent & knowing & sample-crazy but
veering on the sharp edge of entertainment and always two-steps of
pseudo-bollocks irritants. They put on a show, they wear a nice suit, and they
do magic tricks. That the music is as dapper as the band seems almost an
afterthought. Recommended.
And then, that over, I decided to go shopping. ( ‘Been there
done that, bought ver t-shirt...’ ) Because the weather - ominously overcast
all day - was not getting any warmer. And because my day’s choice of artistes
was looking to continue as it has begun, without my coccooning in the bosom of
a field-wide cosy warm crowd. So I needed some sort of t-shirt. And I found
some sort of t-shirt. ( Pale blue & skinny fit, with a wide-eyed Manga fox
on the front. ) And then I wasn’t 
cold. Was just self-conscious about the
t-shirt constantly wrinkling & riding up my chest. And so it was with
re-straightening force that at 16:48 in the afternoon I sat myself down in The
Comedy Tent with time to kill and seconds to strangle. At this point, I noticed
Simon Munnery’s beaming full-focus face looming above me on a large screen. ‘I
wanted wine women and song. What I got was a drunk woman singing.’ And so the (
largely bemused ) tent were presented with interspersing snatches of The League
Against Tedium. And a woman with a furry bag*
beneath a screen wobbling over like a weeble with laughter. ‘Keep watching. You
are morally obliged to keep watching.’ Oh, but he makes me giggle. ‘Money
doesn’t grow on tress you say. ( pause ) Yes it does. It’s paper.’ And then,
that over, the entranced tent watched an episode of Bod. Entitled ‘Bod and The
Cherry Tree’. Featuring Bod. A cherry tree. And a policeman. Called PC Copper.
Inspired entertainment for this tent - so many of those who find their way into
the Comedy or Cabaret units of festivals are casualties of such events. And
v...e..r..y s..l..o...w cartoons from the Seventies seem to be about the level
they can function best on. Although, that said, PETER KAYE did go down quite
well too... Northern. Beaming. Confident. Cheerily chirpy to be onstage,
chirpily cheerful to be jocose* for us.
He tells some jokes - ‘How does Bob Marley like his doughnuts ? Wi’ jam in...’
He tells some stories - ‘Shining your watch at teachers, trying to blind ‘em,
d’you ever do that ?’ And when he breaks the microphone, he turns the
reconnection testing process into a version of Queen’s ‘Flash Gordon’. This we
like. Though this we can’t stay for. As we have to leave - taking my smiley
face and my damp arse ( how is it damp ? I was INSIDE a tent... ) off to be
awarded a smashing pink helium balloon in 
the Carling Tent, courtesy of the YOUNGER
YOUNGER 28’S. As is the band’s wont, such glorious gifts are distributed
immediately prior to their set. One or two fights are noticed brewing. There’s
a clamouring for the balloons along the front row of the crowd. Most of the
winners have theirs tied to their wrists - if not, they are likely to be
snatched. Or join the lonely floating fools trapped in the tent’s peaked ceiling.
I love this. And not just because I love balloons. It makes us all look like
party-goers. Or refugees from a themed wedding. And it brightens the place up
some. Good call, that band. And then I’m set a pondering... Do the YY 28’s just
appeal to the sort of folks that love balloons ? Or do they love the balloons
because they love the band ? ( I know that the egg came before the chicken - in
evolutionary terms - so surely I should be able to winkle out an answer to
this... ) And then the beginning children’s chant loop to ‘Sweet Dreams’ (
sugar sweet dreams ) kicks off, and I’m distracted from my thought-train for
the sake of dancing. And watching the seemingly undistractable keyboard Brains
for any sort of flicker of life. They didn’t seem particularly happy with the
onstage sound. But I didn’t care. Sounds alright to me down here, and besides,
I have a balloon. And, as I realise with glee, they’re the only band that I
have seen at every ( major ) festival I have attended this summer. Maybe that’s
why I’ve picked up so many of the words... So my balloon wound up slowly
deflating during the set - it looked astonishingly depressed ( for an inanimate
object ). At least I’m floating by the set end...
[And moving swiftly on before you have time to register that
reasonably appalling play on words...]
So now what ? Well. Don’t want to see Arab Strap ( because
that will mean I can see the band and I don’t like that for them, they dinnae
look how they do in ma heed, ken ? ), and forego the pleasures of the ( late on
anyway ) Dawn of the Replicants for ( the sake of the other funny man 
whose surname rhymes with ‘urn’ ),
BRENDON BURNS. Who was too self-conscious of his own PC-ness. And far too loud
for a young lady sitting uncomfortably close to the speakers. But still. He
came in on Green Day. ( Not literally. That would have been fanTAStic though. )
Another top notch in my comedy pole. ‘Chickens. What kind of animal doesn’t
know it’s dead when you cut it’s head off ?’ Marvellous.
And then, that over, it’s off down the hill again, trying to
avoid the thought of food... I came upon LUSCIOUS JACKSON during the delectable
‘Naked Eye’. Watched a bit standing up, watched the rest sitting down, alla
time swaying happily with the mogwai dandied ‘pon my knee. ( Unsurprisingly ) I
was left untroubled by passers-by. And
then no to Dark Star on account of my being a lazy-arsed bastard ( and not
wanting to schlepp up the hill to see ten minutes of their set before haring
back down to get a reasonable place for Sparkleyhoss. No ta. I’d rather sit on
the floor with my back to the barrier in a manner which worries passers-by, and
then when the band appear, reel my way upwards ( v.hard to get up in a cool
groovy manner when you’re surrounded by people, can’t put your hands down, and
have lost your centre of balance to the demon drink ). And then the magical
SPARKLEHORSE. Who are worth hundreds of sparrows. Because of The Voice. The
xylophone. And the way the songs pin me through the heart like a butterfly in a
case. My homecoming queens...
And then back up the hill. For - hey -
the last time. I was going to just check on whoever was playing in the Carling
Tent ( make sure it wasn’t Subcircus, and so on ), but then I heard the choral
wails of ‘she’s French’ coming from the Comedy Tent, and had to dive in there
first. Ickle BINGO aren’t quite so ickle anymore. Bless ‘em. Between comedians
in the UK Play sponsored tent, local bands are hosted. Local bands like these
fellas. You’ll already know Gaz, he’s had fifteen minutes of ( proper-telly )
fame already as the Stars in Their Eyes Jarvis. ( And no, sweet-pea, you are
never going to shake that legacy. As the organised hecklers behind me proved. )
But the rest you should get to know too. Don’t be put off by the masks. Chris’
shorts. Or Gaz’s jokes ( in French, the weirdo ). Or even the fact that every
time I see them, they seem to have more people onstage with them. ( Even a
saxophonist today, ladies n’ gennelmen... ) They’re lovely lovely people and
they make top class music, and just the fact that they’re here is enough to
make me happy. Grin.
And then back to the Carling Tent. Once
more. Where I saw a louche & lurking PB Jnr around the edges of the tent,
and that gurning man from the YY28s ( less worrying in person than onstage,
lived in Harrogate & likes my mogwai ), and then dived in to the front of
the crowed, post-Cornelius. Where I found Claire. And was found by a girl who
has apparently seen me at every gig she’s been to this weekend. We decide we
both have fantastic taste, and settle down in anticipation of the fantabuluous.
Here’s to the divine SUBCIRCUS and all who sail in her... Liquid pearl vocals,
diamond driller guitars, glistering drumming. Bang on form. As always. ‘Rent’,
‘Filthy Fucker’, ‘U Love U’. Sparkling. Every one. Ooh, but I’ve had a fucking
good evening...
And after, I am found by Alice. In a Spice Cows t-shirt (
I’m looking at it, thinking ‘that cow has a perm... oh, it’s Mel G’ ). We chat
about the Green Pajamas. As you do. And then go our separate ways... She back
to her friends. And my off on an exploratory wander...
D’you remember, in ‘Labyrinth’, the seemingly impenetrable
wall which Sarah walked through sideways under the direction of that blue
haired caterpillar ? ( Don’t worry if you don’t. Claire 
didn’t. It’s just a visual aid to the
ridiculously lengthy approaching scene-setting. ) The backstage entrance in the
Carling Tent was like that. One black cloth fence stretching out from the
barrier, positioned about a foot in front of another stretching out from the
side of the tent, forming a passageway unseen if approached in a perpendicular
fashion. Over the entire weekend, this entrance has been guarded by someone
meriting the adjectives ‘burly’, ‘surly’, and ‘vehemently orange’. But now, it
appears to be un-manned. So I explore. All of 3 metres. After which point the
‘passageway’ comes to an end, and I find the alas not-so-elusive Security. I
ask them if Subcircus are coming out as promised, or busying themselves loading
up their equipment. We talk for a moment or two. And for some reason (
generosity / trusting nature ) they wave me on through. ‘As it’s the last
night’. I dive behind the stage, and find a similar set-up to that around the (
back of the ) Comedy Tent - a large bald man with a very heavy box, and a
semi-circle of six or seven trailers. No beer tent, no hob-nobbing, no
fireworks or jugglers or inflatables or rampant lewd illegal behaviour. Just a
large bald man and some trailers. All of which, thankfully, have helpful
band-name posters in the windows. Which is how I found myself in a very small
plywood room with the beaming Subcircus. During which time one of the most
important parts of the conversation was my telling Nikolaj to stop falling off
things and succumbing to illness. Squeezy-hugs ahoy, and then I’m zooming off
into the darkness in speedy anticipation of the last train home, with a grin
fair set to split my face and sudden burning desire for toast. Woo-hahaha...
Here’s to next year...
Last
revised: 27/07/01