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- The Libertines rekindle the good old days at Leeds festival 2010
If you've ever invested even a slither of emotion in the Libs, then this show paid you back ten-fold. If not, well, there's always Ash
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Guns N' Roses fail to rock ReadingThey don't half go on about Leeds at Leeds. You can't even sit in a long drop without someone shouting across the lagoon of human discharge how glad they are they're not at Reading. It's the only festival in the world plagued by sibling rivalry.
In fact, Leeds is almost exactly the same as Reading, just with better weather, worse clothes and more chips. Besides, it's not location that's setting the tone for today but the return of two bands who have a permanent place at the top of a generation's CD pile. For the Libertines, this could be the defibrillator that brings them back from the dead. For Arcade Fire, a headline slot provides the opportunity for them to take the next step to becoming a world-beating concern.
There's a whole day of delicious indie to be getting on with before that, with plenty of O2 Academy-type bands having their first crack at the big boy's stage. Mystery Jets do well in the lunchtime slot with hoedown set-closer Behind The Bunhouse achieving the difficult but hilarious feat of getting everyone dancing with a pint in one hand and a polystyrene burger box in the other. The Maccabees outshine them, though, their pained romance making girls throw their hands awkwardly around their neck and look longingly up at the stage like they've just felt love for the first time.
But best of the bunch were the Cribs, back with dad Johnny Marr after a few shows on their own. They play a brilliantly aggressive set on hometurf where we're reminded that Mirror Kisses and You Were Always The One are among the best songs of the 21st century. If only they'd smoked more crack, had dalliances with supermodels and spent a few months in prison, they'd be fully deserving of a slot higher up the bill.
For those who need a break from boys in shirts with the top button done up, UK rapper Giggs provides a powerful rest break. With a crowd who had quite possibly spent the earlier part of the day hot-boxing their sleeping bags, this was Leeds' Shaun Of The Dead moment as these zombie-like children from the suburbs were brought to life by the Peckham rapper's succinct, no-nonsense flows.
The Libertines are not initially as comfortable with the Leeds beast. In his ill-fitting suit and noticeably grubby face, Pete Doherty waddles on like he only found out about this gig 20 minutes earlier but was fortunately camping in a nearby forest. The first few songs clatter and crunch while the band remind themselves what it's like to be on a stage bigger than their combined homes. The pivot comes with the trilogy of Don't Look Back Into The Sun, The Good Old Days and Time For Heroes – the last of which sends people genuinely beserk, crying and screaming like they were trapped in a fire. Sure, if you'd come without hearing the music or knowing the back story, you might wonder if this dated-sounding guitar band who fudge every solo and talk nonsense inbetween songs had in fact lost their way to the BBC Introducing Stage. But then you were never going to get it. Those of us who've ever invested even a sliver of emotion in this band, however, were paid-back 10 fold, the willing of the crowd emotionally auto-tuning out the musical mistakes.
And after that, sacrilege as this sounds, we couldn't be bothered with Arcade Fire (Dave Simpson will be providing the low down on that in Monday's Guardian). In our post-Libertines glow the thought of sustained organ pedals and instrument swapping just didn't appeal. We've heard it was biblical, that they proved beyond doubt that they were deserving of the slot and that an actual shooting star fired across the sky during Power Out. But we went to watch Ash instead on the tiny Festival Republic stage. Joined by new guitarist Russell Lissack (him with the silly hair from Bloc Party), they're still about as much fun you can have with your jumper tied round you waist. Sometimes you just can't beat a bottle of warm Kirov, close proximity to the toilets and Girl From Mars. God this Leeds festival is so much better than that Reading nonsense.
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds
Переслать - Guns N' Roses fail to ignite Reading festival 2010
Axl Rose's band arrived late and turned in a dire performance. Thankfully, QOTSA, Biffy Clyro and Egyptian Hip Hop were here to rescue the first day of Reading
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The Libertines rock LeedsRock day at Reading will always be Rock Day at Reading. And since this is day one and it's muddy as hell, things feel especially "no surrender". So much so that you worry for the bloggy bands charged with warming up a field who have paid solely to see Guns N' Roses and are at the height of drunk paranoia that they won't turn up. So hurrah for a handful of winners. Antics-wise, the incendiary Pulled Apart By Horses steal the daytime show as they always do with their now-officially-cool turn as The Jesus Lizard reinvented with the pop nous of S Club 7. It's compromised only by the knowledge that Sunday's show in their heartland of Leeds will be five times as good. Manchester's Egyptian Hip Hop grow out of their lo-fi beginnings and bloom into a proggy, ravey, fantasy affair. And if Yeasayer aren't headlining the NME/Radio 1 tent by 2012, that will be ultimate proof that the universe is inexorably out of sync. Since their power-pop reinvention they efficiently churn out a series of singalongs, and it's frankly baffling so few people have caught on yet.
But yes, today is only really about the Main Stage. Now officially popular, Biffy Clyro have the chance for their finest hour and they almost make it. Simon, in a nod to Nirvana in '93, has bleached his hair and beard and, in a nod to Daphne and Celeste in '03, is wearing pink skintight trousers. Their show falls between the brilliance of both. Being at the height of their pop era, we get all the modern ballady ones (Many Of Horror, God and Satan) which alienate the old crowd alongside the old weirdo screamy ones (Glitter and Trauma, There's No Such Thing As A Jaggy Snake) which alienate the new Kasabian crowd. It's a fitting act of schizophrenia from our greatest, weirdest band – disappointing only because they sound oddly normal.
It falls to Queens Of The Stone Age to rock up the dish (and the dishes) of the day. Last time they played these sites they looked tired and sounded sluggish. Yet now, with almost the exact same set, they demonstrate the benefit of better living through reckless side-projects. This is a band revitalised on a nuclear scale. That they achieve it with what is effectively a heritage set makes it all the more remarkable. Having had what was effectively a sleazy affair with Them Crooked Vultures, Josh has reconnected with his marriage, and they tear through No-One Knows, Little Sister and A Song For The Dead. Whisper it, but they're as good as they were with Nick.
Now, the kind of journalist who makes it all about themself is of course objectionable, but these are objectionable circumstances, so forgive me. My first ever gig as a festival reporter was Leeds 2002, when Guns N' Roses turned up two hours late but smashed it out of the park nonetheless. I may have mentioned that Axl was "as big as a house." He may just have called me out onstage in London a few days later, naming me a "pussy" who owed him rent for "living in my ass for so long." It was a career high, yes, but those also feel like kinder, more innocent days. This was when Chinese Democracy was still an illusion we could all use. But now we've heard the dowdy reality, and tonight we got the worst of both worlds. The band took the stage just a measly hour late, had their set cut marginally, but not dramatically, and turned in a show that was the ultimate insult to the Gunners dream, in being simply unmemorable. True, the magic of hearing the likes of Welcome To The Jungle, It's So Easy and November Rain live cannot be diminished. But last night Reading was challenged to judge whether this was enough, and Reading judged "no". There was no charisma, no chemistry and actually, so little vocal that the rumour of the night was that Axl had drafted in Mickey Rourke as a body double. Certainly, the boos negated his vocals down to nothing. And when history is written, it shall be told that the GNR dream ended with an unedifying sit in - in which Axl tried to whip up a disinterested crowd into voicing outrage over the shortened set. After such a mess, it's perhaps not surprising that the rumour of the festival today is that the band were not paid for their performance and will not be appearing on Sunday for the Leeds leg.
And so after all that, it gives me no pleasure to diss GNR online for a second time. But rather than a boyish jibe about his girth, this was about insulting their fans and, worse, their legacy. So c'mon Axl. Bring it. Do your worst. Oh! You already did.
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More FeedsПереслать - Music Weekly: Notting Hill carnival special
This week, the podcast team have slapped on their baseball caps, William Hague style, and are sipping from a coconut in preparation for this weekend's Notting Hill carnival.
We meet DJ Norman Jay (MBE) who tells us about his favourite carnival memories and how his life changed after the riots in 1976. Then we take a trip down to Carnival Village to see how preparations are going. And we've got an exclusive track from the Jamaican mento band The Jolly Boys - you can watch their cover of Amy Winehouse's Rehab here.
On top of that there's Singles Club, in which presenter Alexis Petridis is joined by Emma Warren and Dan Hancox to cast their most critical of ears across records by JW & Blaze, Flowers & Sea Creatures and Ahu.
Hope you like the change of scene this week. We'll be back with more podtastic material next week. Until then feel free to friend us up on Facebook or follow us on Twitter. Bye!
Переслать - Music video exclusive: Watch Rose Elinor Dougall's Carry On
Betting shops, industrial estates and plenty of sultry looks ... we're as far away from the Pipettes as possible
Two years ago, Rose Elinor Dougall was one third of 50s throwbacks the Pipettes. Having ditched the polka-dot dresses and arched eyebrows, Dougall is readying her charming debut solo album, Without Why, due for release on Monday. While most of Without Why finds Dougall showcasing her smoky croon on songs about heartbreak, Carry On ramps up the guitars to create a rollicking tribute to keeping a dying relationship alive. This exclusive video trades the bright colours and sense of fun of her former band for moody shots of betting shops, industrial estates and sultry looks from beneath a swept fringe.
Carry On is out now
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More FeedsПереслать - Readers recommend: songs with jokes
Last week was all about being caught in the sniper's crosshairs. This time we want songs that feature a set up and a punchline
It's OK, you can put the gun down now. Unscrew the telescopic sight. Put your garrotte wire back with the cheese. Last week's exploration of traumatic moments in history, with an added tour of the darkest recesses of the human psyche, is now at an end. If you wish to continue the research in your spare time, please stay safe.
Next, nos 1 – 10 with a bullet (aka the A-list, which you can read about here: Loudon Wainwright III – No John; Marvin Gaye – Abraham, Martin and John; Peter Gabriel – Family Snapshot; Paul Simon – The Late Great Johnny Ace; Charlie Poole – White House Blues; Tinariwen – Mamo Dayak, Mahalia Jackson – In the Summer of His Years; Black Star – Definition; Awadi – J'Accuse; Phil Ochs – Crucifixion.
The B-list
Pharoahe Monch – Mayor
I presume the imagined target is Rudy Giuliani, hardly a favourite of the NYC hip-hop community. The tune may be nothing to write home about, but the conceit is original: "If I'm gonna die at least I shot the mayor!"
Jerry Lee Lewis – Lincoln Limousine
Another JFK tribute that was perhaps superseded by others in the A-list, but it has a directness and a simplicity that makes it distinctly touching.
Stone Roses – Elizabeth My Dear
So short it's almost a vignette or, to be more accurate, a nursery rhyme. To the tune of Scarborough Fair, Her Maj gets one from a silenced revolver. And that isn't innuendo.
Bill Drummond – Julian Cope is Dead
This tickled my funny bone (I may not be right in the head), both in its choice of subject matter and its form; a folk ballad that might be more suited to tales of derring do than the unlamented passing of a rock iconoclast.
Ravi Shankar – Raga Mohan Kauns
An instrumental tribute to Gandhi that may or may not be anything to do with his death, but is certainly beguiling.
Spencer Davis Group – Waltz for Lumumba
An instrumental tribute to Patrice Lumumba that may or may not be anything to do with his death, but is certainly funky.
The Fall – Hey Luciani!
I struggle to understand the Fall sometimes. Their rough, blustering music, Mark E Smith's elliptical lyrics. But this certainly fits the rubric while also discussing Vatican politics, so it deserves inclusion.
George Perkins – Crying in the Streets
Was perhaps too similar (both in style and structure) to Abraham Martin and John to make the A-list, but this is a stirring song that also remains resolutely danceable.
The Isley Brothers – Ohio
Not an assassination, but certainly a cracking tune that swells and recedes across its nine minutes in a dramatic, theatrical style that I find compelling.
Rage Against the Machine – Wake Up
Kashmir-referencing, conspiracy-theorising, rabble-rousing power rock. And why not?
This week, then. Some of you may remember that I have been (and still am, in fact) at the Edinburgh festival watching more standup than is really advisable. I have, therefore, jokes on the brain. And that's the qualifying criteria for this week's topic. Not "funny" (we had that topic many moons ago), but containing a set up and a punchline. For those unclear as to what that constitutes, here's an example:
A horse walks into a bar.
Ouch, says the horse, I must use the door next time.
Yes, I just made that up.
The toolbox: Archive, the Marconium, the Spill, the Collabo.
The rulebook:
DO post your nominations before midday on Monday if you wish them to be considered.
DO post justifications of your choices wherever possible.
DO NOT post more than one-third of the lyrics of any song.
DO NOT dump lists of nominations – if you must post more than two or three at once, please attempt to justify your choices.
Finally, let this young fellow be our guiding light.
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More FeedsПереслать - When did Guns N' Roses become so fashionable?
It used to be that you'd never admit to liking Axl Rose's gang. But their appearance at this weekend's Reading and Leeds festival proves they stand alone as hard-rock hellraisers
There was a time in the early 90s when nobody liked Guns N' Roses. Well, obviously some people did, on account of the millions of records they sold and hundreds of arenas they filled, but it was a bit like weeing in the shower; no one ever admitted to it (aside from Manic Street Preachers, but let's face it, back then they'd have admitted to shooting JFK if it put them on the front of music papers).
So what changed? Perhaps it's the absence of St Cobain, Axl Rose's greatest sparring partner (sorry Slash), and the void created by the demise of the heavy-rock template which saw Nirvana demonstrate that the genre could be visceral and dangerous without having to write a song slagging off "immigrants and faggots".
Perhaps time is a great healer – it's easy to forget Bowie's Nazi salute, Eminem's Tom and Jerry take on domestic violence and Macca's The Frog Song as the decades roll by – especially when Axl Rose has spent the last 15 years essentially saying, "about that homophobic stuff? I was a prick".
But I'd hazard it's more to do with contemporary hard rock being so insipid and mumsy – a place that is significantly more boring without an insane ginger tyrant screeching about snakes and guns and making clumsy metaphors for heroin use. In such company, Foo Fighters don't really cut it.
The recent internet hoax that appeared to suggest Guns N' Roses would not be appearing at Leeds and Reading festival this coming weekend was an effective gauge in measuring the change in attitude towards the band. Many friends I wouldn't have thought of as metal fans seemed genuinely upset they might not get to see them play; when festivals offer the opportunity to see a zillion bands you've seen a zillion times before, a Guns N' Roses headline set is the sole moment of risky programming within a format that so rarely books anything that isn't Kasabian or Kings of Leon.
There are plenty of reasons to celebrate the modern Guns N' Roses ("modern", because one look at the lineup will tell you this is not "the classic" GN'R). Firstly, they're not a nostalgia act – if you've got a ticket, you're going to get Welcome to the Jungle, yes, but you're probably going to get Chinese Democracy's gleefully lunatic six-minute pseudo rock-opera This I Love too. And anything that reinstates proper rock shows to festival headline slots (not two hours of getting foot rot in a grassy puddle while listening to a Greatest Hits CD) is just fine with me.
Secondly, there's a chance they may not even turn up, or at the very least go onstage late, like they did at Leeds in 2002 – which is disrespectful to fans, sure, but it approaches the thrills and chaos you should demand from rock'n'roll bands (besides, what kind of person complains about going to bed late at a festival?). But it's not even that they may not turn up. It's that they may turn up and machine-gun everyone in the first 100 rows! Or set themselves on fire and play Chas and Dave songs! Or arrive via helicopter, descend to the stage on a rope ladder and just stand there sucking mints for two hours! They probably won't, but they could, and in a world where even the Libertines play a comeback show and turn up on time, I can't think of another touring band with such potential to surprise.
So if you're wondering why you're so excited about seeing Guns N' Roses play Reading and Leeds, try asking all the modern hard-rock bands who made the genre so boring.
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More FeedsПереслать - New music: Robbie Williams feat Gary Barlow – Shame
They're back together again ... and in the era of the Brokeback Coalition, here's a homoerotic take on Robbie and Gary's patched-up relationship
It's the moment some feared would never happen while others feared it would. Gary Barlow and Robbie Williams are singing together on a song taken from Williams's forthcoming Greatest Hits, due in October. A preamble to Take That's reunion in November, think of this as a country-ish amuse bouche before the Stuart Price-produced, electro-tinged main course.
Shame has an arresting line about posters on the back of Toys R Us, but all attention will focus on the video, which sees the two men gaze lovingly into each other's eyes, strip to the waist and fall in love all over again. It's like Brokeback Mountain – but without that bit in the tent.
Robbie and Gary play the Heroes Concert at Twickenham Stadium on 12 September in aid of Help for Heroes
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More FeedsПереслать - Video exclusive: Sage Francis – Love the Lie
The indie-rap raconteur tries his hand at rock with a track co-written with the late Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse
Heralded by some as the godfather of "indie rap", Sage Francis recently made the leap into rock with his recent album Li(F)e. Featuring former Grandaddy frontman Jason Lyte and Death Cab for Cutie's Chris Walla, Li(f)e combines political rhymes with American alt-rock, which is more refreshing than just walloping a Timbaland beat on it. Love the Lie was co-written with the late Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse and boasts this fairly depressing – but brilliantly animated – video telling the story of a lonely (robot) man who creates a female companion ... only for her to run off with someone else. Who hasn't felt that pain, right?
Li(f)e is out now. Sage Francis begins his UK tour in Bristol on 15 September.guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More FeedsПереслать - Inky Fingers: Maggoty Lamb fails to climb the Times paywall
A barrier has been erected between music fans and the writings of Pete Paphides. Is this the future? Or the equivalent of a polythene wrapper? Plus, we take a walk along the Wire
In recent months, much has been made of Times Newspapers' pioneering erection of a pecuniary barrier between a worldwide online audience and the writings of Peter Paphides.
In fact, the Murdoch Empire had already laid the groundwork for a similar Berlin Wall of the mind some years previously, by the dastardly and unenvironmental expedient of enrobing the Sunday Times Culture section in a sturdy polythene wrapper.
Those unwilling to make even a co-incidental contribution to the upkeep of AA Gill – but still eager to find out if the comedian Stewart Lee's response to the new Giant Sand album was as favourable as they had suspected – were thenceforth left with no option but to head to the internet. At a stroke, a whole vibrant culture of negotiation between the individual consumer and the corporate monolith was obliterated. Never again would due consideration be given to such important ethical questions as "For how long is it morally acceptable to stand reading an admiring profile of Evan Parker at the Tesco newspaper rack on the basis of a projected shopping-basket of a litre of semi-skimmed milk and a packet of Oatibix?"
But where the ancient regime of supermarket-sponsored contemplation automatically imposed its own system of time-discipline on the idle reader (three glances from the security guard and it's time to head for the vegetable aisle), the brave new world of pay-as-you-go internet consumption has quite the opposite effect. Those who have stumped up a full pound sterling in return for a single moment of journalistic enlightenment inevitably feel compelled to get their money's worth from the 30 days' free access to the Thunderer's capacious archive this substantial investment has bought them. While it's too early to say how much damage the ensuing cycle of binge and purge may do to the neurological equilibrium of the cash-strapped punter, the traumatic impact of The Times' paywall on the professionals incarcerated within it can already be clearly seen.
A media source sufficiently well-embedded to have access to Caitlin Moran's Twitter feed reports the most alarming increase in traffic since they started closing the Blackwall Tunnel at night. Such is the former presenter of The Naked City's determination to remind the world beyond the charmed circle of her regular News International readership of her continued existence that followers are now being kept in touch with the progress of Ms Moran's every individual breath.
This month's exceptionally informative and entertaining edition of the Wire attains a far happier balance between unfettered egotism and actual content. Beyond a more Old School kind of paywall – the not-insubstantial but in this instance definitely worth-paying £4 purchase price – this particular September issue corrals a superbly grizzled posse of sonic renegades. The names of one-time Roxy Music bass-player Graham Simpson, Bow Gamelan founder Paul Burwell and Mordant Records mainstay Ian Hicks (referred to here by the substantially more grandiose pseudonym "Baron Mordant") may not be exactly of the household variety right now, but by the time you've finished the magazine, they'll feel like old friends.
Stephen Trower's troubling but dramatic encounter with the unarguably out-there Simpson makes for especially compelling reading. From astute critical analysis of Simpson's still-stunning contribution to the first Roxy Music album ("bass notes appear like ink-drops in water") to sympathetic consideration of the ill-advised attempt at a new career in safe-cracking that landed him in a Moroccan jail, it provides an object lesson in how to give a seemingly marginal figure a well-deserved moment in the spotlight without recourse to either condescension or hyperbole.
This month's broader theme of "Retroactivity" – "how the past percolates through the sounds of now" – actually represents something of a departure for the magazine. Previously the Wire has sometimes taken a commendable determination to define itself against the more nostalgic inclinations of rivals such as Uncut and Mojo as the cue for a Captain Oates-style sacrificial voyage into what Chris Bohn's editor's note terms "the barren zones traversed in pursuit of the eternally new".
The unusual – and bracing – note of self-criticism in Bohn's introduction perhaps suggests a new-found willingness to reach out beyond the distinct but compact audience whose ears automatically prick up at an introductory standfirst such as: "Simon Reynolds salutes the Creel Pone imprint's samizdat musique concrete facsimiles." But the editor's mea culpa does have its limits, as Bohn ruefully recalls his 1980s NME alter ego Biba Kopf jumping to inaccurate conclusions about Bow Gamelan "in the spirit of true ignorance that only the idiot ideological positions then adopted by the music press would let you get away with". I love the way he writes "you", when really he means "me".
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More FeedsПереслать
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