It all looks rather strange from where I'm standing.
Okay, well that might just because I'm not very tall, and consequently can't
see very much.
On the other hand, what I CAN see looks worryingly like some very odd chaps
from Bristol dressed up like yer average skate punk crew.
With fishing hats. Throwing shapes. Who by weird accident just happen to sound
very much like a synth pop band.
Yes, indeed, Mesh are notoriously fond of eschewing the traditional leather-n-dayglo
industrial look in favour of looking like your dodgy trendy brother.
They're actually rather brilliant, as I'm sure you've been told.
They play that one that sounds like Depeche Mode, followed by that one that
sounds like Depeche Mode, and top it off with that one that sounds like that
band Dave Gahan fronts.
Still, it all rocks in a kind of pleasant, synth poppy sense.
Mesh are superb at writing ridiculously memorable choruses and incredibly enjoyable
melodies. 'Trust You' and 'I Don't Think They Know' are just two highlights
of a spectacularly engaging performance that justifies the incredible reputation
this band have gathered from one or two sell-out shows.
Of the current crop of post-DM electro bands, Mesh come very highly recommended.
You'd be well advised to catch them next time they play... provided you can
get a ticket...
PIG / PULKAS [co-headline]
Garage, Highbury N1
As the opening bars of 'Serial Killer Thriller'
fill the air, a venue that a second ago seemed almost empty seems suddenly almost
full.
Abandoning all pretence of dignity, I've thrown my freshly-cleaned jacket into
a corner and raced to the very front.
I am not disappointed.
In true showman style, Raymond Watts is the last to enter the stage.
He looks absolutely fantastic - a gorgeous purple cowboy hat, sunglasses, red
velvet trousers and silver boots - not to mention the trademark fluffy jacket.
The sheer confidence with which PIG take to the stage is breathtaking.
They radiate the precision and excellence of a band who are used to playing
a venue ten times that of the Garage.
Pig charge through a list of remarkable songs from their most recent albums
- 'The Only Good One's A Dead One'; 'Everything' and the title track from 'Wrecked',
plus the earlier 'No-One Gets Out Of Her Alive' and 'Ojo Por Ojo' from 'The
Swining'.
Raymond draws his act from the old Jim Morrison sex-machine routine blended
with the dark mischief of the Cardiacs stage show.
By combining mock-arrogance and playful aggressiveness with something approaching
a strip tease, he manages to provoke the audience into a state of near-frenzy.
Peeling off the layers ever-so-slowly to reveal a finely-toned physique, he
manages to stop just shy of actually being in danger of getting arrested - but
it's enough to seriously fuck with the hormones of every female member of the
crowd - and lots of the males too.
One teenage punk is getting rather overexcited, and this isn't helped when Raymond
messes up the boy's carefully-developed Mohawk and rubs the ecstatic lad's face
into his crotch.
Said boy then proceeds to attempt a crowd surf and manages only kick Yours Truly
in the face. Ouch! Still, by this point I am enjoying the gig so thoroughly
that I barely even notice.
The girl next to me has hold of Raymond's leg and is now massaging his knee
for him.
Eventually such unrestrained hero worship gets too much for Watts and he lapses
into an enormous ear-to-ear grin.
By now he is decked out in an ankle length red PVC mac and not a great deal
else - and cheerfully screaming his way through a new track called 'FleshFest'.
Musically, there isn't a lot to say - every song is performed expertly, the
vocals are fine and the sound from the monitors (which is what we at the front
can hear) is perfect.
It is an appalling shame that Pig don't play more often in England.
They are an astonishing live act and judging by the response they got, it would
only take a couple of shows and a bit of promotion to bring them to the same
level as their peers - playing the Brixton Academy for a start...
They finish on fine form with 'Hot Hole', and leave the stage - refusing to
capitulate to requests for more.
PULKAS come on stage next, but it would be inaccurate to describe them as 'following'
Pig. You simply couldn't follow that show.
It would be like Nine Inch Nails co-headlining with Cyclefly.
Cyclefly are a great band, but... To be fair, Pulkas do put in a fine and energetic
performance. The start of their set is comparably bland, but each song is an
improvement to the point that nearing the end, they are playing an atmospheric
and intriguing range of songs.
Sadly, by this point, most of the Pig fans have already left - over 100 people
left the building after Pig came offstage - so Pulkas are unlikely to win any
converts from this admittedly very competent show.
Unlike Pig, who prompted teenage girls to spend the interval fixing makeup in
the washroom, asking "Who was that band? Their singer was gorgeous, and the
music was just brilliant..."
PITCHSHIFTER / RADIATOR / TRIBUTE
TO NOTHING
Norwich Waterfront
Tribute To Nothing have changed dramatically between the first and most recent times I have seen them live. As one of the most popular teen rock bands in the country, they have emerged from punky excess to hardcore noise terrorism. Unfortunately, they haven't got any better. As I am so tired of repeating, it's not the sound that's important, it's the songs. When TTN write a memorable chorus, I'll pay more attention.
Meanwhile, that is a problem Radiator will never have to face. This is a band who have taken the trad KISS-style metal sound and stuck a few breakbeats in to make it more contemporary. What it sounds like, is KISS with breakbeats. It's big, meaty big chorus rock and roll. Strangely, or perhaps not, this does not diminish its appeal. Despite their utter lack of innovation, Radiator are still hugely fun to watch. They have the kind of songs that are hard to forget, and obviously inspire warmth from the enthusiastic crowd. They may have the Right spiky hair and the Right clothes and the Right token drum and bass element to their music, but they are a good old fashioned rock band at heart. In five years' time, Robbie Williams will make records like this. And we won't be complaining, either.
Pitchshifter are tired, ill and patently too poorly to play this show. So they go ahead and do it anyway. Jon begs the audience's forgiveness, and invites them to fill in the words when he loses his voice (as he does throughout the show) but the poor lamb perseveres anyway. They blast their way through incendiary renditions of material from "Infotainment" and "www.pitchshifter.com", and despite their obvious physical distress, manage to inject a superhuman energy into each song. They scream, they bounce around and they deliver all the Jello Biafra-style PC-rants at the end of the show. They even have leaflets to dish out at the end of the gig, with suitably sociopolitical messages on them. Someone once asked Ghandi what he though of Western civilisation. "I think it would be a wonderful idea," was his wry response.
The highlights of the show were, as usual,
"Genius" and "Please Sir". Jon remains professional throughout the
gig, keeping the crowd enthusiastic but not riotous. When things
threaten to turn nasty with security, Jon handles the situation intelligently
and diffuses the tension, preventing OMS-style chaos. The night is
enjoyable, good old fashioned fun. Pitchshifter at number one?
I think that would be a wonderful idea.
PLACEBO / ULTRASOUND
Brixton Academy
Ultrasound were, it has to be said, pretty damn good. It surprised me as I had no idea that I liked them until the last song. Then something got through to me. Ah yes, can't say what it was. Just liked it. They have a subtle charm, but as I'm having to regretfully say, believe the hype. The L'oreal band. Because they're worth it. Singer Tiny's an oddball though. No taste in clothing.
Placebo have been coasting for a long, long
time. So much so that I was actually dreading this show. They
just haven't been trying, ever since that double show with dEUS a couple
of years back. This performance started painfully slowly, with the
first song sounding tired and lazy. By the second song, a slight
shift had occurred, where it was a little less like Brian Molko is just
going to mumble a couple of words into the microphone whilst he's waiting
for the bus home. But only a bit. The third song was a significant
improvement and thus it continued until the haunting "My Sweet Prince"
from the above-average second album "Without You I'm Nothing". Many
of the tracks had been played live many times before, but it was interesting
to see how they'd developed. As the set neared its conclusion, we
were suddenly aware that Placebo had been weaving their tiny magic onto
the crowd. The inescapable sparkle of a thousand smiles spread out
from the stage. This was about glamour and excitement. This
was a band that could make you have fun. If tonight ever threatened
to be a disappointment, it was only to pleasantly surprise us as Placebo
danced through their catalogue of hits and dazzled us with perfect renditions
of "Bruise Pristine", "Nancy Boy" et al. Tonight, the Big Girl's
Blouse is sparkling.
CARDIACS / WILLIAM D DRAKE / MONSOON
BASSOON
Garage, Highbury
The Monsoon Bassoon have been playing so well for so long that there's scarcely any point in seeing them. Oh, apart from that minor point of being transported to another world, tripping out on a blissful adrenaline and being generally dazzled by several odd people in glittery clothes playing Killing Joke-style trip rock infused with wibbly jazz. They're like a non-Belgian dEUS. What an odd idea.
William D. Drake is a very strange bloke who used to be in Cardiacs. He takes the stage with an electric piano and plays deranged, if talent-fuelled, Music Hall to people who would thoroughly hate it if they weren't his best friend. Only at a Cardiacs gig.
Cardiacs themselves would be thoroughly hated by anyone who isn't already a Cardiacs fan. It is the sheer gratuitousness of the 30,000,000 time signature changes that occur every seven and a half bars. They're quite clearly barmy and play on that fact with a chilling tweeness that leaves you always feeling rather unsettled.
Tim Smith is a great big child. He has that innocence, that optimism. And that flippant cruelty that defines childhood and leaves adults cooing over their freckled baby whilst he pulls the pigtails of the other little girl simply because he can. Tim Smith has a dark side and it doesn't really suit him.
Is it that which compels us to watch them time after time? Why does Jim Smith put up with ritual abuse that pans back 20 years or more? Why do we, the audience for that matter? Tim baits us, taunts us and ultimately rewards us with the collossal brilliance of a generation's-worth of achievement.
Cardiacs are life-defining. They have influenced all from Blur to Levitation to Octopus to Monsoon Bassoon. Which, if you think about it, is four rather odd bands that all happen to sound like Cardiacs. Who in turn sound a lot like Sparks. Still, I digress. Cardiacs are the best band you will ever see live. They are pantomime and fairytale. They make you a part of it and tease you until your barriers fall down. Then they ram their particular brand of psychedelic punk thrash pop down your throat with a little chocolate minty bit on top because a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. Or didn't you remember?
You either love them or hate them. I happen to love them. I happen to love that big tribal industrial thing they start the show with. I happen to love "Joining The Plankton" that sounds so much like "Dizzy". I happen to love the big rock epic that is "Is This The Life".
Cardiacs. Mad as a bucket, but bloody
good fun.
GRANDADDY
HQ Club, Camden
Grandaddy are an unusual lot. You're used, of course, to the numerous descriptions of them as weirdy, beardy ballad boys. You're not used to quite how lilting, how entrancing their particularly mellow blend of space rock and blissed out crooning can be. You melt. You swoon. You float away on a pillow of sparkling ethereal trippiness. For Grandaddy are far too stellar for this tiny, undeserving little patch of Camden. Grandaddy are woven from your dreams.
STONY SLEEP
Barfly, Camden
What can be said that hasn't been said before? They're absolutely, gobsmackingly, mind-bogglingly, bring-a-lump-to-the-throatingly thoroughly fucking ace. Three young pups with more panache, more pizzazz and generally more oomph than any other the miserably fucking weak brats peddling fiftieth rate sub-Oasis shite out there. Stony Sleep have dreams, they have ambition, and they have the innermost secrets of your soul at their disposal. All those dark desires, those secret longings lie exposed and eviscerated, and Stony Sleep clamber on and over it all. Darker, louder, brasher, sexier, harsher, tighter, more insistent and more urgent than ever before - this is the best I've seen them and I make a point of seeing every damn show of theirs I can. Stony Sleep are incendiary. They are absurd. They are the greatest. They should carry a fucking health warning.
ROSETTA STONE / SUNSHINE BLIND
Camden Underworld
I know this was a while ago now, but Uncle Nemesis wants his bands reviewed, and by Jove it shall be done. Sunshine Blind are from the States, and they sound a lot like Curve. Beautiful, breathy female vocals are accompanied by a whisper of chiming flanged guitars and pounding percussion. Rosetta Stone do as they always do, and are the professional entertainers. They play a rollicking riot of the fans' favourites, and all are delighted by the awaited rendition of "Adrenaline". Rosetta Stone are as much a tradition of the Goth scene as the panto is to Christmas. An occasion when we can all have unabashed bloody fun. Not quite in the only-going-for-the-memories league of the Sisters of Mercy - Rosetta Stone still have a few years of creativity left in them yet. So, another year, another Rosetta show, that is a joyous ramble through that glamorous pastiche of ghoulishness. It is splendid. Oh no it isn't... Oh yes it is...
INERTIA / LEECHWOMAN / GNA
King's Head, Fulham
Grrrrrr.... Yet another Brian In Rock is stomping all over the stage in big boots, looking as scary as he can. Global Noise Attack aren't famed for their Boyzone covers, let's face it. Three rejects from Ministry form the rest of the band, but hey - no-one's looking at them, are they? It's the big muscly mad bloke prowling the stage like a panther released on Care In The Community that's holding our attention. They have the one that goes duhduhduhduhGRRRRRRrrrrr and the one that goes duhduhduhduhGRRRRRRRrrrrr, but really it's the site of Big Man In Tight Leather Looking Scary that is GNA's main appeal. Oh, and that one that goes duhduhduhduhGRRRRRRrrrrrrr.....
Leechwoman have the one that goes CLANGCLANGCLANGBANGBANGBAMGRRRRRrrrrrr! (As opposed to the one that goes BANGBANGBANGCLANGCLANGGRRRRRRrrrr). Leechwoman have three (and occasionally four) tasty-looking blokes with muscly chests shouting obscenities over distorted bass guitars and (literally) bits of metal being banged together. I adore both of these bands. They are exhilarating live performers, giving spectacular and memorable shows - bands you want to see again and again because they are fun and innovative, and very, very noisy. Just one word though: Melody. >>frightened gulp<< just a concept...
Finally, Inertia deliver a powerhouse performance loaded with drive and confidence. Shrouded in smoke, the twin effects of vocalist Reza being backed by percussionist/vocalist Alexys was quite striking. Elements of drum and bass appear to have infiltrated the Inertia machine, and a new era is dawning for these Darwinian industrialists. Still the Skinny Puppy-style vocoded voice, and the relentless electronic pounding, but the syncopation of the breakbeats adds a new dimension to the sound. Melodic and menacing, Inertia fill the tiny venue with a towering inferno of sound. One highlight is when Alexys emerges from behind her percussion kit and joins Reza out front for a darling duet. Not quite Kylie and Jason, methinks - more cyanide than syrup here. Breathtaking.
RACHEL STAMP / STIMULATOR
Garage, Highbury
Stimulator were not a name I'd heard before, but suddenly I am confronted by an awesome industrial outfit who have taken me - and evidently half the crowd - by surprise. Blue haired and punk in attitude, their vocalist stalks and struts across the stage, leaning tantalisingly out towards the crowd. Synthy metal in the White Zombie remix vein, Stimulator blend a hardcore funkiness with seriously riffed up guitars. Brash, ballsy and unapologetically noisy, Stimulator are the last word in ace entertainment.
Rachel Stamp tease as they please. The implausibly-named David Ryder-Prangley is a glorious glammed-up mess of pink pigtails and furs. The Most Glamorous Man in rock grins coyly as he purrs "Your kisses are deadly poison" and giggles seductively at his enthralled audience. Eat your heart out, Mr Molko - this is sheer excess. Excess of metal, excess of talent and excess of glitter, at any rate. That infamous Geddy Lee pitch-perfect singing voice. The Spinal Tap-style raaaawk ballads. The bloody ridiculous lyrics, all coquettishly crooned with tongue placed perfectly in cheek. This is more fun than a weekend in Disneyland - and just as deliciously innocent. Ryder-Prangley's hinted-at naughtiness is no more seedy than a double entendre from Carry On Camping. This is fun, dammit, and quality fun at that. The inbetween-song banter focusses on what we had for tea (how thoroughly English!) and whether a Jaffa Cake is a biscuit, or a cake. Good question, methinks. It's infectious, all this frivolity, and soon Zoe from Dyslexics Untied has dragged me - all dignity flung to the back to be collected later - down into the moshpit, to bounce the night away and scream along at the top of my lungs. Ahhhh bliss, what joy is a gig like this. One to take the kids to - but don't let them have all the fun. Rachel Stamp, the finest of the furry. Fuck Robbie Williams, let them entertain you.
SWERVEDRIVER / ADDICT / CYCLEFLY
LA2, Charing Cross Road
Fronted by a flame-haired boy who looks like a girl, Cyclefly crash in on a supercharged wave of angst, with their David-Stampy-with-PMT vocalist screaming of love or hate or whatever takes his fancy. It's all good stuff - very good indeed. I imagine in fact that in not much time at all, Cyclefly will be soaring along the dizzy heights of the very famous. Don't forget where you saw them first.
Addict, of course, did what Addict always do. There isn't anything wrong with them. On the contrary, they are all obviously very talented, very thoughtful musicians who have taken time and consideration in the construction of their songs. It's just that they have an effect on me. I don't know why, or how, or what it is. It's just a strange reaction I have to their music. Some bands, like Aqua - however bad they are, you can't forget them. For months later, you'll be humming their songs and you'll hate yourself for doing so. Some bands, like The Bluetones, write dull, inexpressive songs that you have forgotten all about approximately five minutes after hearing. Addict do not fit into either of these categories. Addict have one feature that is, at the moment, unique. You forget Addict's songs whilst they are playing them. You'll be watching them for about ten minutes, and if you turn away, and then look back at the stage, it takes you by surprise. What? They're still playing? How strange. I'd forgotten. Now where was I?
Swervedriver are a band that few people will forget. Circa 1991, in the midst of the "shoegazing" scene, the Swervies were that band who, like, moved. A little bit. When they were on the stage. Seven years later (nearly four since their last UK show) and Swervedriver are back from the States and playing tonight. Not that it really makes much of a difference. You see, unfortunately, much as we loved Swervedriver when their fabulous "Mezcal Head" came out, they're just not very good tonight. It's horrible, really. I spend half the time trying to work out if it's just my imagination. Then somebody else comments "It's just not happening tonight". It isn't happening at all. They were a good band, they really were, but there's just no energy, no spark to tonight's performance. They're just going through the motions and many of the people in the audience just look bored. They play a mixture of the duller new and greater old material. There aren't any flaws in the actual playing of the pieces, it's just... not a performance. Such a shame, too...
INERTIA / NEW MIND / CHAOS ENGINE
HQ Club, Camden
Chaos Engine ought to be called Caustic Nailbomb or suchlike. Their singer probably calls himself dArrin and doesn't eat meat. In short, they are industrial. They are so industrial, that not only do they read and obey every single one of Kenny J's 55 Signs of Overindustrialisation, but they've probably got it tatooed somewhere. The singer's got red dread hair extensions and growls a lot. Surprisingly, he's got a very nice singing voice too, when he utilises it. They play noisy techno metal and look really hard. They perform exuberantly in a room that hasn't filled up yet - in fact, it's pretty empty, being early yet. In fact, I'd probably buy all their records if they weren't so damn funny.
New Mind are the "main" project of Jonathan from Hexedene. He's also in a lot of other bands including Cybertec/C-Tec and other such arch-industrial sideprojects. Starting with that Offbeat compilation thingy they pound their way through a blistering array of technicolour noisefests. Their singer is a fine example of The Industrial Frontman - all hair, snarls and bitter screams. The band themselves come across as a techno version of GNA, and in all, Inertia are quite right to describe them as "the best live industrial act in Britain".
Inertia themselves deliver their usual set,
and do it very well indeed. There really isn't any need to
say more - they're just as blinding as they were last time, and I've run
out of superlatives to use, so suffice to say, they're bloody ace and you
ought to see them. Nuff said, really.
Bloody festivals, eh? Spending half the time trying to get the bloody tent to stay put, and the rest of the festival trying not to miss all the bands. Tsk! Oh well, these are the ones we caught:
Lodger were the first band we saw, either out of negligence or laziness. Prior to that we were in a pub in Reading town centre, if you must know. Lodger are cool and collected, with Pearl (Powder) Lowe's sophisticated torch singer act offset nicely by Neil (Delicatessen) Carlill's louche lounge lizard appeal. Charming and delightful, the piano-and-song band are destined for big things. Afghan Whigs have been ringing pretty much the same bell for years, and it hasn't done them any harm. Girl backing singer has a feather boa. Loungecore covers of obscure and classic songs. Lovely.
Mansun were an absolute revelation. The first time we saw them play live was several years ago, and already they were itching with potential. Now they own the stage, promising today, 150,000 festivalgoers, tomorrow the world. Their confidence is matched only by the awesome power of their material. Virtually the whole of "Attack of the Grey Lantern" is played out, and each track stands alone as classic except, oddly, for "Stripper Vicar" which sounds weak and fragile amongst the colossal epics such as "Naked Twister". Maybe it was a little rushed? Who knows - this is mere nitpicking. As the Manics and Radiohead proved a few years back - some bands were just born to lead.
Ash on the other hand have all the ideas, but just not the ... the thing ... that something that sets them apart from everyone else, they lack it. They have one or two great songs, such as "Girl From Mars", but really they can never really hope for more than second best. Pitchshifter, glad to say, have the thing in huge dripping quantities. Although I might deduct a point for shouting "I want to see you move" when Yours Truly has just been rescued from the moshpit fearing for her life. The punk-and-bass group are well suited for a festival crowd, recreating the intensity that Senser, at their absolute peak, used to inspire. It's the same melting pot of the new and the classic - the innovative and the incredible. "Subject to Status" is dizzying, and "Microwaved" incendiary, but that compares little to the sheer might of "Genius". Blimey!
I might have appreciated Plant
and Page if I was twenty years older. But I'm not so I didn't.
I spent a while just waiting for the drum solo, and then thought, bugger
this for a game of soldiers and went to bed. Arse.
Saturday began for me with the sunny delights of Asian Dub Foundation. The multicultural and eclectic groovers ran through class tunes such as "Free Saptal Ram" and "Naxalite". Men with a mission (and a sampler or two), ADF are good, wholesome (and worthy) fun. Supergrass followed, lightening proceedings further with not only material bouncy enough to match their polyethnic predecessors, but with no message more demanding than "We have teeth, nice and clean". Indeedy.
The Prodigy were the
penultimate performers, and they revealed that they had been asked by headliners
The Beastie Boys not to play "Smack My Bitch Up", and promptly played it
anyway. Hmmmn, Punk Rock Against Censorship? Irresponsible
Behaviour By Shocking Delinquents? To be honest, I think that only
one thought passed through anyone's head at the time - how to dance without
getting squashed. The Prodigy, in short, are exactly
what you would expect them to be live - sophisticated and energetic entertainers
with a nifty tune and a mischievous smile to boot. The
Beastie Boys couldn't possibly live up to this, and although they
played a well delivered set of fine music, I just wasn't in the mood, and
slouched back to my tent after about the third song.
Girls Against Boys started Sunday, and much to my disappointment failed to play "I Don't Got A Place", or for that matter, anything off their seminal "Cruise Yourself" album. Still, they are a mighty fine band, and the addition of a DJ did nowt to hinder their ultracool appeal. Superheavy basslines still chugged below cast iron guitar riffs, and Scott McCloud still has the perfect gravel-filled drawl. Drugstore can't sing, are awful live and why they have suddenly gained such a huge audience can only be attributed to Thom Yorke's ill-advised patronage of them. They are sub-Country indie bollocks and frankly, their success disgusts me when infinitely more talented acts, like Lodger or their component parts, garner a fraction of the recognition. Audioweb at least have the courtesy to have one memorable song - their infuriatingly catchy cover of "Daddy Was A Bankrobber". According to those in the know, it's a pale comparison to the original, but not having heard the former version, I can scarcely complain. Audioweb are acceptable purveyors of dub, in a year when, no doubt, Adrian Sherwood was otherwise engaged.
Monaco sound more and more like a pastiche of New Order (or sub-Joy Division) every day. One fair single, followed by self-indulgent dross from a bunch of people who, let's face it, were past their best fifteen years ago. Gene didn't play, although I am reliably informed that Martin Rossiter's new seven pound-weight baby is sufficient compensation for a missed gig. Soul Coughing were a thrilling blend of funky drum and bass, and soulful half-sung, half-rapped weirdness. Throwing acoustic double bass and lush guitars into the mix is a splendid idea, and Soul Coughing were every bit as fabulous as we'd come to expect from them. Unfortunately, theaudience failed to match the expectations we'd had of them, when they delivered their weak, twee set filling in for a mysteriously absent Curve. And I'd gone to the effort of gothing up, too... The Divine Comedy ably passed the time with a brilliant, inspired performance. Neil Hannon is the illegitimate offspring of Rex Harrison and Noel Coward, and his deadpan witty asides only complemented his deadpan witty lyrics. Lacking the full orchestral backing, The Divine Comedy nevertheless managed to successfully recreate the lush sounds from the past five albums. Their set focussed predominantly on the new "Fin De Siecle" album, starting with "Sweden" and including "Generation Sex" and "Thrillseeker" amongst others. After these, it might be said that "Tonight We Fly" (from 1994's "Promenade") was an anticlimax, but as Neil would say, it would be churlish to complain.
Shed Seven are the
most inexcusable pile of pants ever to dare to show their disgusting faces
in public, second only to The Bluetones for sheer
awfulness. Go away! New Order really ought
to be considering the retirement package as, let's face it, they're long
past their best. Someone ought to warn Hooky about overdoing it with
two gigs in one day - and that's just as far as the bored audience is concerned.
It wouldn't be so bad if they were any cop live... Still, Garbage
were on hand to salvage the evening, and salvage it, they did. Shirley
Manson was every inch the star, with her glittering, unfathomable, insane
and in-yer-face total stage presence. She swanned and swooned, wiggled
and writhed, screamed and soared and had a terrifying habit of rocking
back and forth like, well, a mad person does. I worry. Their
material was effervescent and visceral, with great big thumping drum beats.
A grungy-industrial melting-pot of guitars, loops and loopiness.
Bewilderingly, they played their obvious encore material mid-set, with
rousing renditions of "Stupid Girl" and "Only Happy When It Rains", plus
almost-newies like "I Think I'm Paranoid". Passionate and wild, Garbage
are little short of magnificent live, and I cannot recommend seeing them
enough. They took to that stage like a duck to water, and if you
can excuse the self-indulgent, Oscar-acceptance-speech-style between-song
banter ("I really want to thank our fans for all your support"), you're
in for a treat. One thing, though - when will that girl learn
to sing..... ?