Leeds(Reading) ‘99
-
Saturday
Today I taste like:
Fruit Salad Chewits & coconut rum.
I wanted to go to Reading in Reading and V99 in Leeds, but capital
greed put paid to that, and so I went to V99 in Chelmsford and Reading in
Leeds, commuting to both under reasonable sunshine. T-shirt, trousers, jumper
around my waist - this is travelling light, particularly for me at a festival.
My only ‘luggage’ is my mogwai ( bag ), inside which I have managed to fit: my
umbrella ( just in case ), my dictaphone ( similarly ), four batteries ( all -
unintentionally & somewhat peculiarly - covered in chocolate ), body spray
( sweat ? no thankyou... ), my book ( a slim Kafka for moments of boredom ),
three bottles of nail varnish ( I like a spectrum ), my camera ( well,
obviously ), 2 spare films ( I’m economising ), notebook & biro (
indispensable ), a small Sailor Moon Manga man ( he just lives in the bag ), my
emergency rations ( Chewits ), and 
my 33cl Vittel bottle of Malibu ensconced
within my make-up bag ( niiiice ). Into this crowded melee ( ? ) I cannot force
my wallet to fit. I carry my wallet. And my newly-purchased ticket. And the
over-flowing bag ( water bottles, mostly ) of the struggling girl I over-took
& then backtracked to help on the path to the Entrance Gate. Which is, as
tradition dictates for festivals, NOWHERE NEAR the bus drop-off point. Instead,
it is, irritatingly, a fifteen minute walk around and down the grounds of
Temple Newsam. ( To enter & leave the site by the Main House, as was
universal last year, you need to be a Guest. ) Once the campers have arrived
& unloaded ( and forgotten how heavy their tents were ), the Entrance Gate
is reasonably convenient for them - if they’re pitched on that side of the
grounds of course. But for day-trippers...? It was, as Claire pointed out, far
enough down an unmarked path to leave you believing you had made a wrong
turning somewhere. ( Grrr. ) I had similar problems with ‘non-existent to
bogglingly small signs’ indicating the whereabouts of the toilet facilities...
As I wandered around the Main Arena site, trying to get my
bearings, I was also searching for the Portaloos. As I was now regretting my
having drunk a bottle of ( Queen Amidala’s ) Pepsi en route to the site... I
asked the Security, the people in the Strongbow tent, and the giant-Connect4
supervisor, and none could help me. Neither were there facilities in the
obvious places ( ie near the Beer Tents ). So. I was becoming progressively
more anxious. And more & more resigned to the fact that I would have to
leave the Main Arena to use the ones I’d seen outside. When... Walking towards
the ( only ) Entrance / Exit Gate, I realised that the area to its left with
the apparently bubble-wrapped barriers was concealing the apparently noxious
sight of the Portaloos ( presumably if they’re cunningly disguised as a large
parcel no-one notices they’re there, no-one is reminded of the word ‘sphincter’
or the baseness of their own bodily waste, and everything is so much cleaner in
appearance... ) They were very nice inside though ( on a Portaloo scale of nice ) - and clean. Which meant I could
put my bag down without fear...
And then, that desire sated, I set off once more to find out the
weekend’s listings. And whether or not there was a helpful board with
stage-times on ( in the paying customer’s section ). And no. There was no such
information available. Naturally. Instead, we were asked to pay SIX POUNDS for
a programme & listings guide. Which couldn’t be sold separately. SIX. A
price which can in no way reflect the manufacturing cost of four flimsy pieces
of cardboard, some string, and eighteen pages of glossy PR advertising. Tickets
for this three-day hill-fest were £78. Upon entry to the £83 Glastonbury,
punters are given free programmes. And necktie listings. And a plastic bag to
keep them in. Compared to Reading, for Glastonbury’s extra festival fiver, you
get all that, as well as another 65 bands playing, The Healing & Kids
Fields, didgeridoos, and ( perhaps more pertinently ) screens on either side of
the Mainstage. So that you can see what’s going on. Even if you’re more than,
ooh, twenty people back. Basically,
with some signs, some screens, free listings and a bit more flat, I’d have been
a lot happier. Still. The bands were good mind...
My musical start to the weekend was a journey undertaken
along with BELLATRIX, in the Radio 1 
Tent. Bellatrix being thoroughly
entertaining bubbly Icelanders, capable of a cracking crackling pop song or
two, and then going all weird and Tiny Too shouty on us. Imagine if The
Cardigans lost Peter, went in for bunches, and started playing childrens’
parties. And kept nearly breaking into some sort of Morris dance while onstage.
Then you’d be about there...
During their set,
I’m found by Ellen & Jen, and then Daniel & Charlie ( ‘How did you know
it was me ?’ ‘We know you. ( pause ) And the bag kind of gives it away...’ ).
Which was unarranged. Simply fortuitous. And proof of our collective good
taste. Further evidence of which can be gleaned by our then all scooting off to
the Mainstage to see APOLLO 440. Who rocked. As only funk-meisters on in the
sunshine at 13:05 can. Oh, and... Not only did their ‘skanking song’ features
the words ‘squiddly-bop boing-boing’, but they also managed to get the entire
crowd singing along to a chorus of ‘squiddly-bop squiddly-bop squiddly-bop...
boing’. Which we need far more of. In any environ. Same for CLINIC. Really.
Clattering rollicking bouncing beaming Tottie Apple music. With bells on and
everyfink. Absoloodle fantabulous. Each sunburst song seems to come equipped
with little sticky pollen feet, which then enables them to cling to you all day
long. Smashing.
And then back off to the Mainstage, for the growling
delights of the JON SPENCER BLUES EXPLOSION. Whose set was as tight and shiny
as their trousers. Say yeah, my brothers...
And then back to the Radio1 Tent - I feel like some sort of
human ping-bong ball 
bouncing between these two stages - for
the effervescent ADD N TO ( X ). Who are, I am assured, hardly Arthur
Dreyblatt. But, never the less, they manage to pull that metal finger out. And
fry our senses in the process. There’s a man in a fishing-net ensemble before
me, a woman with wig-sharp hair wielding a moog in the centre of the stage, and
another piercing tweaker on the right. There’s little eye-contact, a lot of
hair movement, and at least nine keyboards & moog droog outfits to play
with. At the salad bar of life, these people are the proton croutons you can
overload on & drown in. Fffst, quark, beep-beep. Here’s to nodal
excitation, and all whom fall prostrate before it...
Oh, and then leaving the tent, I saw Dave. From college. Who
basically just kept telling me that he knew he’s see me here. There for the day
for The Charlatans, there in the tent for fun. Much like [ ooh, watch the
smoothness of this link... ] THE SPACE RAIDERS in the next-door Dance Tent. [
Smokin’... ] I enter, and am confronted not only by great bouncing beats and
ingenious samples, but also a, um,
dancing storm-trooper onstage. Light-sabres. A spinning robot on the
wheels of steel. Comedy glasses. A man singing into a trumpet. Oh my lord. If
ever Alice booked DJ’s for the Mad Hatter’s tea-party...
And then off to GENE, soaring their way into the afternoon
on the Mainstage. I arrived full of good intentions - I’ll catch the first half
of the set, and then nip off to see Indian Ropeman en 
route to the Carling Tent. But, sad as it
may seem, when it came to it, I couldn’t tear myself away. ( How can I leave if
they’re playing ‘Olympian’ ? Or ‘Fighting Fit’ ? Or... oh, oops, I’m still
here, aren’t I ? ) Big summery hale & hearty sing-alonga pop-songs. They’re
like a four-year-old hug. And we love them. Lots and lots.
And then I have to pelt up the hill towards the Carling
Tent, for the sake of MUSE, and their beaming power-pop warblings. I say ‘have
to’. There was no physical grip leading me onwards. More a gleeful curiosity.
Which turned out to be really rather well-founded. As this three-piece have (
as I’ve said before, somewhere ) got A Voice, and songs to back it up. The
singing style might come close to Thom Yorke’s but The Unbelievable Truth these
boys are not. First-rate. They’re going to be huuuuuuge...
And then I think I saw Ellen & Mary
& Wilson & Phil. Think so.
And then back down the other-side of the hill for PURESSENCE
in the Radio1 Tent. Who are also blessed with a singer with A Voice. And ( cursed
with ? ) Radiohead comparisons. And who have seeped into my mind by osmosis /
some peculiar diffusional practice invlving molecules of music. I know the
words. I like them. But I’ve never made the effort to see em before. A decision
which in retrospect today turned out to be moderately foolish. As they are as
powerful onstage as on record. They’re not going to change anything, or break
any barriers, but they will wrap around you like a gentle rainbow mist if you
get close enough... As will [ oooh, another fantastic link impending ] ED
BYRNE. Just with more jokes. And less songs. ( Though he does usually attempt
the Backstreet Boys at some point. ) Ah you know...? Ed Byrne. That long-haired
Irish comedian that I keep on banging on about. Yeah, him, the new face of
shoes*. The one who knows that stealing Royal
Mail post is technically treason and that you are only legally allowed to go
around a roundabout three times. The one who’s wary of having sex with skinny women
in case their two twig-like bodies start a fire. The one who reckons that
anyone who tries taking 12 E’s in one night because ‘rat boy from East 17 told
them to’ deserves everything they get. Yeah him. So he wasn’t as nattily
dressed as we have grown accustomed. But no matter. ( A nice velvet suit might
be asking for trouble at a festival.... ) And I’d heard half to two-thirds of
his material before ( last tour, TV slots... ) which always gnaws at my will to
live. It was all very tight, very polished, very smooth. “I haven’t seen any
jugglers today, which I’m very proud of. If you want to keep three things off
the ground at once... put ‘em on a shelf.” Very nice...
Giggles subsided, set over, I found quite a few people I
knew. Who’d been in the tent because they wanted to. And not just because I’d
said so. And after a quick pause - festival exsploit update & photo
opportunities - I hared off towards the Radio1 Tent. Again. But this time, 
actually running down the hill. At speed.
And because it’a steep hill, and gravity was on my side, I was going
considerably faster when I reached the bottom than I had been when I had
started. Which is why it was fucking stupid for a group of oblivious skaters to
decide they wanted to step into my path. Injuries & law-suits narrowly
avoided, I race into the tent, and to the front of the crowd. With just enough
time to hear the last three seconds and dying chords of GUIDED BY VOICES,
before they left the stage to cheers from the adoring crowd. Aaaaaargh... ( And
also... bugger. ) And so I crawl back up the hill. To where I started. To the
Carling Tent, which is situated a maximum of ten seconds walk away from the
Comedy Tent. Aaaaaargh... I stayed for three songs of the shyly endearing
SEAFOOD - who sound like a chocolatey grin from a wide-eyed toddler - and then
hurried off back down the hill. Past Tiny from Ultrasound. ( Gold teeth
glinting in the sunshine like some tartan-trousered pirate. ) Who was rushing
to see the band I was just rushing away from, so neither of us had time to stop
to chat. Not when THE DANDY WARHOLS are impending. Not when you can be exposed
to some fantastically good hair, songs as big sloppy kisses, and a generous
slice of trashy music made by trashy people. Ah, but I’m missed them. ( And from
the amount of 
gift-detritus hurled at the stage - gum,
fags, love notelets on paper plates - I don’t appear to be the only one... )
Even so, I still have no desire to be crushed before them ( their crowd was the
first of the weekend which descended into a mosh around me ), and so I escaped
to the fringes to gaze. They ripped through the audience-incentive singles (
Junkie / Holiday ) fairly early on - which meant there was then more room to
breathe. As people a) left, b) stopped jumping. And those whom remained were
offered a glossy platter of old ( I loved ‘I Love You’ ) and new ( that Texan
smash-stomp was good ). As well as the chance to see Courtney play with Party
Poppers, and the audience-flung lighters smashing around Zia’s head. My notes
from the day say simply ‘foxy’. I think that about covers it...
And once the set was over, I moved my insidious way into the
crowd, to a more central position, and then stayed put. On the floor. Back to
the barrier. Saved from a dusty bum by sitting on my glossy programme. ( Mmmm,
dusty bum... ) And waited for the pop gnome himself, Mr. Mark E. Smith. To
womble his shuffling way through vitriolic classics, as it happened. THE FALL
were 
the last band I saw on Saturday - I
stayed for the glorious ‘F-folding Mahn-ay’ number, and then left. I couldn’t
be bothered with waiting for anymore treasures ( as they would no longer be
treasures ) anymore than he could be bothered about them, us, anything. He
wandered off with the cymbal stand, started decorating the roof-support poles
with posters, and knocked over microphones with bored abandon. There was no
soul there. Just some shambles. So I went home. Via the Record & CD tent.
Couldn’t be arsed wi Stereolab. And if I wanted to get the last train back to
Ilkley, I would have had to forego Elastica. Anyway. And my knees were too
tired to be bothered. Besides, I’ve now seen more acts than I had over the
entire V99 weekend. And still with two days left to go... So I went home.
Writing out the next day’s band schedule as I went. Sorry. Maybe if I’d found
some candy-floss today I’d have been more perky. I’ll have more energy
tomorrow. Promise...
>>> Sunday
Last
revised: 27/07/01