Paperjam

V Festival 2006: Part Two

Gigs // Jim // 7th September 2006

Sunday

After having kip interrupted by a bunch of nearby Australians singing Oasis songs, we loudly speculate that they are celebrating of the Holy Aussie Holiday of Hutchence Day, this involves all manner of ritualistic auto-erotic asphyxiation banter which they take fairly well.

After yesterday’s shiny toilet experience I virtually skip up the hill to drop the kids off at the pool, toilet paper fluttering in the breeze. My word, the first toilet I go in is an absolute nightmare – how on earth did they get shit on the ceiling? Fortunately the one next door is fine, clearly my theory of toilet karma is working in some cosmic manner.

This is not the only kind act of a benevolent universe this morning. The sun is shining and it is nice and warm. Everyone cheers up immensely, not that there was a great deal of miserablism going on, despite two hours of Morrissey action the previous evening. Stripped down to a t-shirt (albeit with precautionary shirt in tow) I join the others to wade through the not-quite-a quagmire to the arena, which has been all tidied up and is surprisingly dry. Noting that all the women at the festival now seem ten times more attractive in the sunshine we head towards the booze heaven/corporate hell of the Bacardi tent for a complimentary Cuba Libre courtesy of some tokens that Paul picked up in a pub some time back. Rum in the system, the women all look fifteen times more attractive and I take my happy mood into the union tent to grab a beer while the others go for a nutritious milkshake.

First up today are The Milk Teeth, an indie three-piece making a pleasant enough racket involving one of those big retro guitars (that I always associate with PJ Harvey) and a song with a superbly slowed down chorus called Go Faster Stripes. Before long they are playing their last single which is called Cold Climate and they are off, leaving us to comment that while they weren’t up to The Dodgems from yesterday, they weren’t at all bad and the last few songs were great.

Hang around for another drink in the Union tent while the next band set up, they are called Director and are fronted by a bloke who looks a bit like Harry Potter. Director embark on a not all that great song with some crazy heavy metal style guitar antics at the end.

Fortunately they rescue things with a much better sort of disco tempo song with a chorus about being “Hung like a superstar” (is this a Hutchence reference by some strange astral coincidence?), which it turns out is called Come With A Friend. There’s another one called Reconnect, which one girl in the crowd whoops loudly for and gazes longingly at Harry. I’d hate to see the sort of fan mail he is getting. Still they aren’t bad really and Craig comments on how good all the opening acts have been.

Legs are getting a bit tired already so we head out into the sunshine. Is that Doherty again? No, just some geezer having a really good go at looking a bit like him. A variety of food is purchased and we sit at the back of the crowd and enjoy a bit of The Dead 60’s. This is absolutely perfect, the sun is shining, I’m slightly drunk, the smell of jazz cigarettes fills the air while a bunch of quality retro two-tone sounding stuff is blaring out. They play one that sounds just like Madness (Ghostfaced Killer) and then one that sounds like just like The Specials (which I think is called No Good Town) I am doing a sort of sitting down dance and am gutted when it transpires that The Dead 60’s are just finishing off. We all have a go at doing that chh-chh-chika-chh-chika-chh ska thing – I am fairly shit at it but never mind.

There is a kind of divergence at this point, due to the weather there is a move to go and change into trainers. Rich persuades me to go and check out Phoenix in the JJB tent, we get a pint and hang around for a bit – it transpires that Phoenix haven’t turned up and that ageing scouse troubadours Shack are coming on early. People walk out in fucking droves, which can’t be much of a confidence builder. Then Shack start playing and even more people walk out, its highly retro stuff, not awful but just a bit dull really. We hang around for a couple of tracks to be nice and then do one (as the band themselves would probably say).

Meet a freshly shod Malc and Craig outside the Strongbow stage, inside we can hear The Dub Pistols with their guests Rodney P and Terry Hall doing a belting version of The Stranglers Peaches. We queue up for a bit and then get into the bustling cider reserve to see The Dub Pistols tearing the place up just a bit. The crowd are getting well whipped up, starting to bounce around a bit to the punk/hip hop/shouty noise coming from the band, who manage to incur the wrath of the bouncers by enjoying themselves too much and standing on the railings by the stage.

We don’t get to see Terry Hall who has, it seems, naffed off after his bit. Never mind the rest of it is fantastic – really wish this was on a bit later and in a bigger venue, it would be great.

The Dub Pistols finish off and DJ Krafty Kutz turns up, has he got someone with him? No it seems the scary MC voice is actually on a record. Fucking hell - some reeeaaallllyyyyy scary people have turned up behind us. I leave to grab some food while the others hang around.

I have struggled greatly with the food at the festival so far, while I am by no means the healthiest person in the world when it comes to eating it is nice to have something that:
- hasn’t been sitting on a hot plate for twelve hours
- involves some sort of vegetable
- hasn’t been deep fried
- you can actually recognise.

After an agonising food outlet search I settle on pizza, decide to go for ham and mushroom. Really not that bad at all – but then I haven’t eaten in sixteen hours or so, roadkill hedgehog on toast would probably be good now.

Stagger manfully into the union tent with pizza all over my face to catch the end of The Upper Room. I might be feeling a bit uptight, but this lot are awful - really generic, boring, indie-guitar music. To be fair a large female proportion of the crowd absolutely love it. I imagine their Myspace page is clogged up with girls called Lucy who write terrible poetry and are considering a bit of extravagant self harm in an attempt to impress all the other girls that they used to go horse riding with.

At this point I realise that I am becoming a bit of an unpleasant person and go to the bar to get a drink. I note that The Upper Room don’t get any better while I am doing this.

In the gap between bands, Craig, Rich and Malc appear as the place really fills up in anticipation of The Young Knives. I know very little about this lot except the odd bit picked up here and there, probably in the NME. Rich describes them as “jaunty” and “humorous”, doesn’t sound all that promising does it?

When The Young Knives appear, it looks like a bunch of middle managers from a particularly dull actuarial office have shambled onto the stage. They launch into a song called Part Timer, which is not half bad. Another song kicks off, this sees the exit of Craig and Malc; “That bloke looks like Ronnie Barker, this is shit”, is the general summation of their comments. They are desperately wrong – and the laws of musical karma demand that they will therefore stand in a queue for the cash ponts for a few hours. The Young Knives are the absolute dogs bollocks, after a song called Weekends and Bleak Days the bass player is introduced as “The House of Lords”, now that’s a nickname.

The music is a vaguely punky affair that somehow makes me think of The Buzzcocks in that it is a bit noisy, has great choruses and is unmistakeably English. A song called Loughborough Suicide with the refrain “I’ll never go down fighting” is one of the best things I’ve heard all weekend (or perhaps even in the last few months). At the end the band give their real fans down at the front the choice of final song, they choose She’s Attracted To, which means that The Young Knives get to finish by yelling “You were screaming at your mum and I was punching your dad”. I am impressed almost beyond words. But only almost.

Out to the food bit near the Channel 4 stage for a drink and a sit down, Oh that’s good, the cramp along the bottom of my right foot slowly calms down. While we are sat there, those crazy, crazy Swedes The Cardigans are not quite tearing up the stage. Eventually they do some stuff off Gran Turismo, notably Erase/Rewind followed by the most depressing inter-song banter I’ve heard, well at least since I went to see fellow Swedes laugh-merchants, The Concretes.

Now that I am refreshed and I have done some hamstring stretches it is time to get back to see the magisterial Art Brut. The crowd is fairly paltry but they are already chanting “Art Brut – Top of the Pops!” over and over. I persuade Paul to join me down the front for a spot of physical exercise, he is sipping from a miniature wine bottle (looks just like a bottle of Worcester sauce) and seems a bit doubtful about the whole thing. Art Brut take to the stage to the kind of welcome that you only get from really devoted fans, even if there aren’t many of them. They kick of with Formed A Band and everyone starts jumping around a la their appearance at the Carling Academy Bar last year. The bouncers aren’t too happy about this and a couple of stern looking women stand on chairs at the front pointing at anyone having a particularly good time and tell them to stop. Bollocks to that.

Art Brut do a couple of new tracks which go down pretty well. Eddie Argos is on fantastic form, he introduces Modern Art as the song that is number one all over the world, just not here. During each song we get a sort of extended rant/discussion/lecture, during Bad Weekend the audience is set homework, including the challenge to write a sitcom that Eddie actually wants to watch. There are Radiohead jokes in My Little Brother, then during Emily Kane, the whole thing stops halfway through so that we can be told that if you have split up with someone then it wasn’t meant to be and we should all move on – not write incredibly catchy songs about it.

By now the bouncers are getting a touch heavy handed, dragging people out at a fairly steady rate. I see Paul is now bouncing around in front of me, giving security a load of stickand generally having a great time.

Finally during Good Weekend, Eddie leads an extended “Art Brut – Top of the Pops!” shouting session where a number of the other acts on the bill are championed, when he shouts “Bloc Party – Top of the Pops!” with something of a sneer the crowd all boo appropriately. Finally they are off one at a time after a big, big finish where the drummer gets to be the hero and drain the last bit of energy from the hoarse throated, sore legged, sweaty crowd – which to be honest hasn’t really got much bigger than half the tent.

Still, as I suspected it would be, that was absolutely fucking amazing. Art Brut manage to pack more energy, personality and songs into their thirty minutes than almost any other act we have seen so far. Paul is most impressed “They are my new favourite band,” he croaks.

Sweaty but happy, we stroll out to the Channel 4 stage where We Are Scientists are well underway. They are modelling that Steven Spielberg when he was making ET look and are banging out some fairly dull stuff. It turns out that The Ordinary Boys have failed to turn up so they get to be on for twice as long and play prior to Editors which they are rather happy about as they tell us at great cheesey length.

After the entertainment overload of Art Brut this lot are boring as fuck. What’s that they are on about now? Oh, they have had to borrow Editors guitars or something and they are, “like, totally psyched”. Next they bring on someone out of Bloc Party to play on the next song, much celebrity love is spread. Jesus, this is turning into Live Aid or something. Even Rich, who is something of a fan, really can’t be arsed and we make our way back to a crowded Union tent to catch a bit of home taping geezer Jamie T.

He’s on stage with a band - which we weren’t really expecting. Still this is great, the crowd are fairly into it. He does the one called Sheila with the catchy chorus that we all recognise to some extent, after this the final song which I don’t get the name of is really good and I’m feeling a bit gutted that we didn’t get to see more of him. Even if he does look about twelve or something.
We steel ourselves for some Main Stage action; it is time for the eclectic charms of musical genius and possible scientologist Beck.

The start of Beck’s act is overshadowed by possibly the best on-stage gimmick since Stonehenge was nearly crushed by a dwarf. In the middle of the stage is another miniature stage featuring puppets of Beck and the rest of his band who do almost exactly what their real-life counterpoints are doing at any given time, they even have their own video screen and a puppet-cam. Absolute quality.

A mostly full bottle lands on my head and its yellowy content splashes all over the white trousers sported by a lady in front, oh no, I’ve got a haircut full of piss. Wait a minute. It smells of Orange. Rich evaluates the situation and assures me it is only Bacardi Breezer, not sure if that is better or not – decide it probably is.

Suddenly there is an ear-splittingly loud noise and Loser kicks off - the crowd go moderately mad in the evening sunshine. The set is a mix of the hits and some new stuff, we get the bleeping intro of Girl and the groovy likes of Devil’s Haircut and Where It’s At. This is really cool, the tunes are great and the puppets are in danger of stealing the show. Beck is employing a Bez type bloke in a shirt and tie to get the crowd going and play the odd bit of percussion – he’s got some moves, but I have to say he can’t compete with the two blonde birds dancing near us. My word.

The band troop off and the giant screens show a sort of Team America short film starring the puppets cavorting around the festival site and trashing Radiohead’s dressing room (which, the rumour is, Art Brut have actually done). Its really, really funny and makes me forget about the muscular atrophy creeping up my legs.

Now Beck is back with an acoustic guitar while his band are sat at a table having a bite to eat. He strums away and it turns into Creep, the whole crowd sing along perfectly, the cheeky scamp. Then he belts out Do You Realize? By The Flaming Lips, I am so happy I could weep, which of course I don’t. Regaining composure I realise that we have moved on to a new song and the band are providing accompaniment using the cutlery and crockery they are eating with. This goes on for a while and I should find it appalling but I’ve given my cynicism the evening off and I decide that it is great - hang about, the bloody puppets are playing cutlery as well. How cool is that?

Unfortunately it is time for Beck to finish but as a consolation he absolutely unleashes a monster, riff-tastic version of E-Pro which is so loud that I can feel the inside of my throat vibrating involuntarily.

Having made the decision to watch Radiohead rather than mouthy Leicester baggy merchants Kasabian we go for a slash and then jockey for a bit of position waiting for what I am expecting to be a very, very serious musical experience.

Standing right in front of us are a bunch of strange women in cowboy hats with what appear to be their chav’d up, asbo case boyfriends. They keep yelling “Spring Break” and cheering and then singing songs like “Michael Finigan” in a manner that is both surreal and deeply, deeply annoying. They are still whinging on as Radiohead kick off, they are here for Creep and nothing else. Wankers, one and all.

Still they are easily ignored as Radiohead begin in an epic, serious manner with Airbag and the big scary CCTV-esque stage set is revealed. We had been speculating before-hand as to whether this would be a greatest hits kind of affair or a hardcore, difficult and very serious event. We get the former with a variety of stuff from across their entire career.

The Bends and My Iron Lung are much better than I remember them from my student days, really angry and spiky. The National Anthem is just as sinister as you would expect it might be and completely drowns out the twats in front, which is a plus. Quite possibly my favourite song of theirs, Just, gets a triumphant airing, which should keep the NME readership happy as they voted it the ultimate Radiohead anthem lately.

Now we are getting a couple of new tracks which are in a fairly low-key milieu and don’t really go down all that well with everyone. This crowd wants the hits Thom, just the hits.

They get cracking on a thumping There, There and crank out the morbid Fake Plastic Trees, which I’ve never liked and I still don’t get now. Still the majority of the crowd are singing every single word, and in reasonable tune too.

One of the scrubbers in front has had enough and spins round rapidly looking to make a quick exit, she catches me smack in the bollocks with a flailing arm and I nearly go over. Radiohead are halfway through Paranoid Android. Thom is doing the emotional “Raaaain doooownnn on meeee” bit and I am sobbing like the goth-looking girl nearby in the Pablo Honey t-shirt, although for entirely different reasons.

The pain in my testicles is subsiding and my brain returns to noticing the cramp in my legs as Radiohead troop off for a bit and then back for a reasonably storming encore consisting of You And Whose Army?, the fantastic Karma Police and a jaunty Everything In It’s Right Place.

The “will they/won’t they” speculation is put to rest as they re-appear once more and perform Creep, the crowd go into some form of collective orgasm of musical joy, which is odd when you consider what a miserable fucking song it is. Oh well.

It takes ages to get out of the arena, we grab a lukewarm burger and wait for the crowd to subside a bit. Once back at the campsite, the relief of finally sitting down is comparable to a three-minute piss. People are clearing out already and the campsite is abuzz with people shouting “BOLLOCKS” over and over while all around stuff is getting burned at a prodigious rate. A police helicopter shines its scary searchlight at us.

Get into tent, when suddenly Craig and Malc appear back, they finally managed to find Gary and are very excited about it. Then they have a slight domestic regarding who has the key to their tent, the funniest bit is a now-not-all-that-amused Craig: “Honestly, Malcolm. I am not messing about now. Where. Is. The. Key?”

Craig retires for the night and Malc stays up to shout abuse at the Aussie tent and the Police helicopter. Fairly soon, the weather breaks and it starts to hammer down, which kind of forces everyone to go to sleep.

Monday

After a surprisingly good nights sleep I wake up with damp hair from where my head was touching the side of the tent. The others are already up and about but I can’t jump up and join them because I’ve got one of those pesky erections that just won’t quit. Staying in my sleeping bag for a bit, I jot down a few notes on Radiohead from the night before and things calm down in the trouser department – must remember that.

After two days of (reasonably) hassle free toilet experiences, this morning is absolutely minging. I retch like a supermodel during the whole thing and quietly thank the toilet god that this is the last time that I am going to have to do this. I stumble out, eyes stinging and clean my hands using half a pack of wet wipes.

Strolling back through the deepening mud to the tent, we notice that a pre-eminent music critic has left his opinions on Simple Minds for the world to enjoy. I am impressed; pithy, yet concise.

The place has cleared out fairly rapidly and the carnage left behind is absolutely shocking. Taken as a microcosm of the human race, the V festival crowd illustrate quite nicely why the whole planet is fucked.

Fortunately the rain has let up a bit so we get some breakfast (I’m really going to miss paying five quid for manky bacon rolls) and then go and pack things up. Being a conscientious sort of bunch, we put all our rubbish into bin bags.

Round to the holding area where mouthy students have been employed to shout out the destinations for the waiting busses. Everyone waiting appears to be either deaf or irretrievably stupid. Birmingham is called out about twenty time before a bunch of girls next to us start asking when the bus for Birmingham is coming.

I decide to use the time waiting to canvass opinions on what we all thought were the highlights of the weekend. A highly scientific approach leads me to conclude that the best things on show were, in reverse order:

3rd Hard Fi
2nd Beck
1st Jim Noir

Congratulations Mr Noir. You are the King of V 2006

The journey home is slightly delayed but otherwise uneventful. I keep spirits up by telling some of my very best jokes. Everyone is highly entertained, as usual. Hardly anyone tells me to shut up.

Back home I groan manfully while enjoying the greatest shower and shave ever, put my washing on and set about illegally downloading all sorts of music.

So the V festival, will I go next year? Quite possibly.