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| The Carling Weekend, Reading. Friday. The Moldy Peaches Main Stage Singer Adam looks like Roger Daltry’s bastard son in a really nasty tassled top. And other singer Kimya looks, well, like the bastard daughter of a North American grisly bear. Thus the Peaches get the party started at Reading with the sound of gloriously fucked-up sing-a-longs about dicks and crack and the bizarre underbelly of the Big Apple. And there are members of the Strokes watching in the wings, so it must be cool, right? The Von Bondies Evening Session Stage The Von Bondies are one incredibly sexy band. They may not have the immediate pop songs of the Hives, but at least they give the feeling that you are watching a genuine mean and dirty garage band, not some squeaky clean kid in a tie who’s probably never seen the inside of a garage let alone spent long greasy nights fixing up his dad’s old station wagon. Lead guitarist and vocalist Jason oozes cocky charm, the rougher and harder Detroit cousin of Tim Wheeler, and Marcie and Carrie add sophisticated girl cool to the scuzz drawl. ‘It Came From Japan’ and a spunked-up cover of ‘Rock n Roll Nurse’ prove there’s more to them than just a tenuous Jack White connection. The BellRays Evening Session Stage They dispense the burn in hell roll of ‘Fire On The Moon’ way too early, and as a result seem to fizzle out by the fourth song or so. They bring out the slowies and despite the scary fierceness of Lisa’s vocal abilities the crowd is left more interested in the cups of water being thrown about the tent. Dull and disappointing. Interpol The Carling stage It’s obvious that this band are being ear marked as the next fashion-genic NYC media darlings due to the hundred odd photographers and journos crowding the pit. It’s not that they don’t deserve every bit of press attention they get, because they fucking do with über-cool sunglasses on. Interpol are one special band. Songs like ‘Stella…’, ‘NYC’ and ‘PDA’ clang and rattle like a silver train speeding through the dark void of 80’s miserablist indie, piercing through the other side with a blue -eyed blinding light. The Datsuns The Carling Stage The Datsuns look like they are living out every big haired rock n roll dream ever dreamt by a kid in his room with a tennis racket and an AC-DC record. More octane fuelled and heavy of riffage than their New Zealand peers the D4, the tent is packed with all those eager to catch a band currently riding high on the wings of hype. And that’s not a dismissal, because they really do rock hard, ‘Like A Mother Fucker’ says it all really. The White Stripes Main Stage The Stripes are one of those bands that work best within the confines of a cupboard sized-venue. Jack tries hard to translate the band to the big arena but without the intimacy of a small venue the songs fall a little short. A twisted cover of ‘Jolene’ and singles off the last album provide the crowd pleasing sing-a-long moments, but the set remains heavy of the first two albums, which unfortunately not a lot of people seem to have bought. The greatest amusement comes from the band toying with their game of incest. “This is my big sister Meg on drums” drawls Jack, before proceeding to flirt dangerously with said sibling, prompting cries of “fuck, that’s sick!” and “URRGH! that’s his SISTER!”. Despite the distance, songs like ‘Jimmy The Exploder’ still rock like the corpse of a long dead Alabama blues hick, just in a remote need-a-pair-of-binoculars way. The Vines The Evening Session Stage Things have been moved round so the Stripes no longer clash with the Vines, and on reflection maybe not such a good move as everyone floods from the Main Stage into the decreasing lack of air-space Evening Session tent. As the stupidly named ‘Rock God Of Our Generation’ takes his first mashed step on stage, the crowd struggle over each other to get a fleeting glimpse of his unwashed hair. As first song and current single “Outathaway” kicks the fuck off, it gets scarily Roskilde like. The initial crush is rectified by the band’s decision to slow the pace down with semi acoustic lament ‘Autumn Shade’ and the infamous Outkast cover ‘Miss Jackson’. The tent thins out when those purely there on NME’s ejaculations get bored and leave, and empties further when Weezer start on the Main Stage. Although the majority still can’t SEE Craig Nicholls and his onstage antics, by the halfway point there’s at least room enough to breathe and move about a bit. Singles ‘Get Free’ and ‘Highly Evolved’ get a roaring response and are well worth missing a bunch of geeks for. Despite the absolute criminal decision not to play ‘Factory’, the set ends on a screaming high with newie ‘Fuck The World’. The Strokes Main Stage It’s not clear whether Julian’s limping on-stage is because of his previously injured leg or his impressively mushroomed ego weighing him down, but as it’s his birthday we’ll be nice and say the injury is still causing grief. It’s really impossible to find fault with the Strokes. Made by Japanese robots they don’t fuck up once, and of course they still look shrink-wrapped GM cool. To their credit, it’s a vast improvement on the previous year’s shaky performance where they nervously edged onstage, stood rooted to the spot and pelted out a handful of songs as fast as they could. A crazy by any human standards year later they stroll unfazed onstage, knowing for the moment the music world is eating out of the back pockets of their ripped jeans. Tonight is their party. They bounce their way through ‘Someday’ and ‘Last Nite’, pose through ‘Is This It’ and ‘Hard To Explain’ and glide through newies ‘The Way It Is’ and ‘You Talk Way Too Much’. But despite good intentions and some rock n roll posturing, the set never really lifts off. That is until they take a break after ‘Barely Legal’ to bring on a cake and involve the audience in a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ for Julian. And then suddenly it's like the Strokes are taking a step down off their lofty pedestals to a mortal level. As Jules announces the final song, ‘New York City Cops’, raven haired madman Jack White races across the stage to plug in and trade licks and attitude with Albert on the drum riser, creating a pure perfect Strokes moment that vanishes any bad feeling you had about the band. Rachel. |