I’m not sure whether calling a festival sponsored by Virgin trains, ‘Move’ is entirely appropriate (a point that Teenage Fanclub picked up on...) but never the less, the 3 day gathering attracted some half decent bands.
The Super Furry Animals are usually a safe bet, but stuck in a 40 minute slot, there was barely time for new single, ‘Golden Retriever’, ‘Rings Around The World’ and ‘The Man Don’t Give A Fuck’ was reduced to a mere 10 minutes. Pah.
Not to be confused with SFA, The Flaming Lips take to the stage accompanied by a menagerie of extras in animal costumes, and a jovial, round, inflatable sun (the rumours that this was an early appearance by Sean Moore remain unconfirmed...). Having stormed Glastonbury, The Lips are a band to miss at your peril with Wayne Coyne a natural front man, whether leading the crowd during ‘Yoshimi’ with a nun puppet or getting us all to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to a couple of punters while he covered himself, “in the blood of all your placentas.”. You just hope he knows a good dry cleaner... By the time ‘Do You Realise?’ comes round as the sun breaks through the clouds and over sized balloons fill the air, you’ve forgotten that this is only a support slot and the main headliners are still to come. Mr Coyne, I salute you.
So, The Manics...a band who I always go and see in the hope that this time I won’t be let feeling deflated by the end of the set. With the B-sides album due out on the Monday and with a back catalogue stretching 10 years, you would think that they’d be able to fill 90 minutes easily. Opening with ‘You Love Us’ and then hurtling through a selection of singles, covers and rarities ( You Stole The Sun, Tsunami, Everything Must Go, This Is Yesterday, Tolerate, Take The Skinheads Bowling, Judge Yrself, Prologue To History) the closing track ‘Design For Life’ comes about all too quickly and many glittery eyed punters are left hanging around for an encore with looks of , “was that it?” across their faces. For a band who seemed to have returned to glory with their greatest hits tour at Christmas, I can’t help feeling cheated. Yes, Nicky Wire still grins like the Cheshire Cat, James still rambles on and on between songs (tonight's rant was aimed at the Daily Star who announced that Richey’s body had last week been found) and Sean, well, he plays the drums. Spontaneity would be nice, but you feel like they’re going through the motions. I’ll still hold on to the hope that the next album will be the best thing since sliced bread in the same way I hope that Carl Barat will become my future husband. Deep down I know it’s not going to happen and the sooner I stop kidding myself the better.
It’s a sad day when Sooty and a nun puppet are more animated than the headliners but The Flaming Lips were worth the ticket price alone.
