V Festival 2007 Review

V Stage, Hylands Park Chelmsford

10. Goo Goo Dolls – Sunday, 1.25pm – 1.05pm.
Being past it is problematic, especially when you weren’t particularly great in your prime. However, Goo Goo Dolls don’t let this bother them as they entertain a swelling afternoon crowd with their meandering brand of inauthentic rock. They couldn’t look less cool if they daubed their heads in red bandanas and dyed their greying hair. Hang on – the bass player’s wearing a red bandana, while singer John Rzeznik has definitely been at the Just For Men.

But then, when you have a barnstorming, inexplicably epic anthem like Iris in your arsenal, nothing else really matters. Despite the rest of the set sounding like budget Bon Jovi, Iris transforms the lethargic audience into a huge, cheesy choir, screaming back the words with gusto and glee. In three minutes of infectious 80s stadium rock, Goo Goo Dolls become the perfect hangover tonic.

9. The Fratellis – Sunday, 4.50pm – 5.40pm.
Playing to one of the largest crowds of the weekend, the Scottish scallywags deliver what the punters want: scuzzy, gutter-dwelling geezer indie. The seemingly endless stream of big hooks and gibberish lyrics is gobbled up hungrily by the baying fans. While Henrietta is merrily disorderly, Creeping Up The Backstairs is riotous. While Dog In A Bag is a bawling brawl, Nuts From A Hippy is a bass-fuelled frenzy. Their amps are dubbed with the question “Nae Danger?” Well, there is nae danger of a song without a chugging riff and a shouted chorus.

Nevertheless, although all variety and subtlety are lost, the barrage of noise appeases the jumping crowd as it readies itself for the finale. When it arrives, riding on a tide of testosterone, Chelsea Dagger is the crown prince of bloke anthems. The band play it at double-time, moving the crowd from rowdy to rapturous and leaving even the most cynical doubter admitting The Fratellis know how to rouse a rabble.

8. KT Tunstall, Sunday, 3.35pm – 4.20pm
Dressed completely in angelic white, but sporting a punky streak of blond in her flowing mane of hair, KT Tunstall aims to bridge the often unbridgeable gap between commercial success and credibility. Blessed only with a hoarse, unremarkable voice, she pulls through on guts and hard work. Every stomp of her foot, wail of her accent and strum of her guitar seems an effort. But all this labouring produces a pleasant, likeable sound.It is inexplicably pop, but is also scented with heartfelt, folky lyrics.

The Other Side of the World bubbles with longing as KT delivers an earnest performance. Set-closer Suddenly I See is received most warmly; she does this brand of hand-waving sing-along fodder better than most. However, there is a resolute determination to her performance that raises it above the merely enjoyable, into the realms of the credibility she clearly craves.

7. Paolo Nutini, Saturday, 3:35pm – 4.40pm.
The only thing in more plentiful supply this weekend than average singer-songwriters is drizzle. Happily, Paolo Nutini is sufficiently superior to most of his soppy peers to make standing in said drizzle worthwhile. Although middle-aged women stand impatiently screaming “Play Jenny!” throughout, he resists the temptation to become a bland crowd-pleaser.

Unafraid to rattle into extended jams, he even spirals into a comical “I wanna be like you-ooh-ooh” ode to The Jungle Book. When he does play a ragged version of Jenny Don’t Be Hasty, it is a rollicking treat that is closer to Bruce Springsteen than James Blunt. Looking stylishly wasted, Nutini has grit and attitude to compliment his numerous chart-bothering, housewife anthems.

6. Kasabian, Sunday, 7.40pm – 8.40pm.
Having headlined the second stage last year, Kasabian found themselves shunted sideways to play penultimately on the main stage this time around. Opening with the electrifying groove of Shoot The Runner, they play with a fearsome intent that suggests they deserve a desired headlining slot sooner rather than later. Guitarist Serge is all verve and grace, while singer Tom stalks the stage with a rabid, infectious energy.

The band releases the same feelings of fervent masculinity as The Fratellis, but everything seems multiplied in scale. The hooks are huger, beats meatier and vocals more snarling. Processed Beats reverberates inside the chests of the sweaty hordes as Tom triumphantly knights them, bellowing “you lot are Empire.” There is even time to showcase a more delicate side on Me Plus One, before the festival-slaying refrain of L.S.F confirms Kasabian as Britain’s premier lad-rockers.

5. Rodrigo Y Gabriela, Sunday, 12.30pm – 1.00pm.
This Mexican duo doesn’t use flashy stage sets and gimmicks. Or drums. Or bass. Or even vocals. Relying purely on their ability to play guitars in a rapid, sunshine-tinged manner, they hold onlookers spellbound. With cameras stuck onto their instruments to allow the audience to glimpse their extraordinary musical prowess, Rodrigo Y Gabriela open the V Stage on Sunday with a delightful set of Latin-laced, toe-tapping numbers.

A cover of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here sees many of the crowd fill in the words as Rodrigo encourages the nodding heads to join in. There is a curiously contained atmosphere, possibly explained by the peculiarity of festival-goers witnessing such original music gracing the same stage James Morrison would soon be playing on. But the quality of the finger picking – at one stage becoming so intense Gabriela’s strings break – and improvising is undoubted. Different and exhilarating, Rodrigo Y Gabriela are a surprising pleasure.

4. Editors, Saturday, 2.30pm – 3.10pm.
Having been handed an afternoon set-time, thankfully the weather holds out long enough for Editors to play in suitable conditions. This means the expected sun doesn’t arrive; instead the band’s uncompromisingly atmospheric rock is allowed to flourish in a fittingly overcast gloom. Tom Smith’s gothic, almost operatic vocals dominate over soaring riffs that agitate the feet and stir the brain.

As All Sparks sizzles past, replaced by the blistering attack on the senses that is Bullets, you realise Editors have secretly amassed a back catalogue of brooding hits capable of altering an indifferent gathering into a swaying mass. Their spiky rhythms and haunting melodies conjure images of Joy Division sound-tracking a Dracula film. Who knew afternoon sets at V could be so darkly engaging?

3. Foo Fighters, Saturday, 9.20pm – 10.50pm
Dave Grohl surveys the crowd like prey, a crazed tribe leader with a hungry, maniacal glint in his eye. He had cajoled fans over to the V Stage (away from The Kooks, headlining elsewhere) by serenading them with a secret acoustic set earlier on. Now, he makes his intentions clear. Touching opener Everlong is quickly dispatched as the high-octane rock marathon begins. Breakout, Monkey Wrench and a brutal rendition of Stacked Actors all fly by in a blur of scorching guitars.

Soon, Dave finds time to banter with the crowd, giving a nod to “a band I used to play drums in….” No, not Nirvana – Juliette and the Licks. In these moments, he steers Foo Fighters with trepidation between seriousness and slapstick, unsure whether to remain menacing or mischievous. Best of You’s dangerously gruff roar restores the tone as the satisfied crowd repeat its refrain; finally, the band blast through closing number All My Life. They can roll out festival-pleasing sets like this with ease, but the intensity they achieve marks every one as memorable.

2. The Killers, Sunday, 9.20pm – 10.50pm
A British festival this summer just wouldn’t feel complete without Las Vegas’ finest bringing a dose of powerful glitz to the proceedings. So it is no surprise that this festival-ending set is a set to end all festivals. For a crowd that demands more hits from its artists than Pete Doherty does from his dealer, The Killers are ideal. Every single song seems cosily familiar as the band manufactures a togetherness that includes the whole audience. Brandon pouts and poses, guitars and jackets shimmer, the jumping throng below them laps it up.

Somebody Told Me is expertly executed, its bass line whirling over expectant faces. Numerous tracks from latest album ‘Sam’s Town’ keep the atmosphere frenetic. Bones sexily combines glam with danger; Read My Mind confidently pacifies those hoping for a dash of sensitivity amongst all the hedonism. Then it was left to the heavyweight combination of universal favourites Mr. Brightside and All These Things I’ve Done to complete the festival. While the former even made a girl cry, the latter made every attendee cry out joyfully; this was a masterclass of rock showmanship.

1. Kanye West, Saturday, 4.50pm – 5.40pm.
The fact a rapper could represent the spirit of a festival in such all-encompassing terms speaks much of V Festival’s nature. Including a greater range of ages, outlooks and styles can lead to a more saturated, somehow diluted weekend. But in Kanye West’s genre-ripping, convention-defying set, the principles of V come together seamlessly.

With eager fans donning his trademark slit sunglasses he blitzed the stage with current Number One single Stronger. Merging his signature cheek with the brash sound of Daft Punk, it signalled for a sample-heavy set combining energy with wit.Amy Winehouse, The Verve and Timbaland all receive the West reworking treatment as his disjointed but enthralling show continues. On Through The Wire, he sings less “about coke and birds, more like spoken word.” His reluctance to purely rely on rap clichés, instead embracing music rich history, moves Kanye from average to astounding.

He races exuberantly across stage while his string section delivers Touch The Sky. Fans here for MOR acts join with indie scenesters in reacting to the infectious American. The brilliance of the 50-minutes, mirroring V itself, is in its diversity, its inclusiveness and, ultimately, its sense of fun.

Stinker: Pink, Saturday, 6.10pm – 7.10pm
Pink is the scariest woman I have ever seen. Scowling and grunting, she owns thighs capable of crushing every indie twiglet in attendance like a particularly irksome insect. This alone doesn’t lower her further than the soppiness of James Morrison, or Snow Patrol’s bland soullessness. It doesn’t even induce wretching like Just Jack’s corny Mike Skinner impression does. What makes Pink the weekend’s stinker is her self-appointed status as preacher to the masses.

Whenever a singer states they are going to get serious, it’s a cue to run. When Pink says “I wanna get political with y’all,” it’s a cue to chop your ears off with the nearest blunt object. After playing the mundane drawl of Dear Mr President it’s unlikely Mr. Bush will be seriously considering major policy changes. The accompanying images of dead soldiers and crying children don’t exactly ignite the festival spirit, so it’s back to plastic punk.

There is time for a cover of What’s Goin’ On, which convinces middle-aged flower pop fans to attempt hitting notes higher than their IQs. Finally, Get The Party Started is mutilated by a combination of Pink’s voice – too wavering be punk, too barking to be diva-like – and Brian May’s evil twin plodding out an excruciating electric guitar solo continuously. This butchering of music may be fine for teeny-bopper-filled arenas. But please keep it out of our festivals.

Kate Nash - Made of Bricks

The melodious melancholy of her first hit may have enlivened the charts, but Kate Nash’s debut album doesn’t quite surmount the hype built up around her.

Made of Bricks has been rushed out following the refreshing, massive success of ‘Foundations’. The track is a tantalizing pop creation; a distant hopefulness simmers in the twinkling piano while disillusionment is gradually nurtured with each awkwardly candid line. It sounds almost naively mature, charmingly mirroring its clumsy yet accomplished writer.

‘Foundations’ neatly encapsulates the album as a whole. The bits that sound sincere and fresh are here, but so is the cringe-worthy bluntness and misplaced social commentary. While the defiant ‘Mouthwash’ contains driving drums and fervent vocals, ‘Dickhead’ resembles the results a bored schoolgirl would achieve in a double GCSE Music lesson.

Lyrically, Nash is more Peggy Mitchell than Joni Mitchell. Simplicity and straightforward storytelling replace any deeper meaning in the music. For a generation that loves Big Brother but hasn’t heard of George Orwell, this is effective.

Why dress up feelings in metaphor and characters when stating “I like to play,” or even “I’m sitting with my friends getting drunk again,” will suffice? “I” dominates the record, yet it remains only superficially personal.

However, occasionally the Londoner makes peculiarly quaint observations on turbulent young love that both endear and enthral. ‘We Get On’, a Motown-influenced tale of unrequited devotion, carries heartbreakingly ironic satire such as “I don’t even have an opinion on that tramp you’re still seeing.” In these inspired snippets, Nash merges warped introversion with the pizzazz of a truly individual artist.

Numerous sloppy songs threaten to send Made of Bricks crumbling into mediocrity. Nevertheless, catchy hooks are frequent enough to satisfy the mainstream interest. More importantly, there are sufficient smatterings of brilliance to suggest Kate Nash is a real talent.

Interpol - 'Our Love To Admire'

If you’re still searching for the sun-kissed soundtrack to your summer, this isn’t it. If you crave something with a little more substance, Interpol’s haunting third album is more refreshing than sipping Pimm’s in a paddling pool.

After moving to a major label and witnessing Editors find considerable commercial success by plundering their sound, Interpol could be forgiven for trying to appeal to the masses. Instead, they’ve turned inwards to generate eleven songs that gnaw themselves into your consciousness.

Previous album ‘Antics’ hinted at a more mainstream direction; bringing in Franz Ferdinand producer Rich Costey did nothing to dispel this. However, ‘Our Love To Admire’ actually revisits seminal debut ‘Turn On The Bright Lights’, with darker melodies and fewer pop hooks.

‘Pioneer To The Falls’ is a masterful statement of intent, building into an eerily epic opener. Next, ‘No I In Threesome’ demonstrates the band’s dark sense of humour with sneering lyrical suggestions of “Baby it’s time we give something new a try.”

Not likely to be heard on Hereward FM anytime soon.

There are exceptions to this. New single ‘The Heinrich Maneuver’ grooves to a throbbing bass line, while singer Paul Banks delivers a hook just aching to be screamed back at him in sweaty venues worldwide. ‘All Fired Up’ even comes complete with clapping.

But it’s the unusual ability to carve an entire album without throwaway songs that is refreshing. Although standout tracks are sparse, a sense of progression and craftsmanship encompasses the music. Despite lacking immediacy, this is worth investing your time and energy.

Banks’ vocals still set the band apart; his brooding drones perfectly compliment the atmospheric arrangements. Dark, twisted lyrics of lost love soar over the textured rhythm, creating an urgent yet delicate sound. This won’t top the charts, but should be in your collection.

Greg Rose

Festival International De Benicassim 2007

Spain: sun, sea, sand, sangria…..and The Stooges. Benicassim’s heady mix of Mediterranean hedonism, blissful beaches and a high class line-up allowed thousands of Britons to swap their wellies for flip-flops and escape to paradise.

Arctic Monkeys and Muse topped the bill admirably, ably backed by the cream of international indie bands, superstar DJs and a smattering of Spanish artists. But it is the sheer audacity of the surroundings that make this event peerless. Imagine a festival with no fighting, no mud and, wait for it, no rain. Oh, but there was Peaches Geldof – some things never change.

Four days of music ran from mid-afternoon through the night until 7am, meaning festival-goers could avoid the heat of the day. The event was shrewdly organised; afternoon sets consisted of chilled out acts, headliners appeared at 1.20am and DJs closed each night for those who could last the pace. This reduced chances of fans collapsing from heat exhaustion and allowed the action to build up, simmering before exploding into a frenzy of revelry.

Mando Diao kick-started proceedings with a raucous collection of rasping three-minute pop blasts, before Iggy & The Stooges arrived to thrill and disgust in equal measures. Watching a 60-year-old, half-naked man gyrating on a speaker while screaming I Wanna Be Your Dog isn’t exactly family entertainment, but is gripping nonetheless. The band maintained the vitality to match Iggy’s outrageous prancing, while tracks like 1969 inspired the crowd, ordered by a wild-eyed Iggy, to storm the stage. Comic, scary, but also musically accomplished, they threatened to steal the festival at its very beginning.

Bright Eyes couldn’t reach the same heights, with an exasperating set of inconsistency. Although First Day Of My Life was spine-tingling and Four Winds was a rollicking country romp, too often tracks petered into nothingness. Dressed all in white, Conor Oberst strangely resembled Roger Federer at Wimbledon. Sadly, every ace track was followed by double-faults of folk meanderings and whiny vocals.

Rufus Wainwright, then Antony & The Johnsons continued this frustrating singer-songwriter theme on Friday. Both are prodigiously talented, but neither created any intensity despite passionate audiences. Wainwright’s voice wavered self-satisfyingly, while Antony Hegarty chose to play an embarrassingly sluggish cover of Beyonce’s Crazy In Love. Ambitious, but far from bootylicious.

It was left to the old and new guard of danceable rock to ignite the evening. The Rapture ensured everybody crammed inside the huge oven masquerading as a tent got even hotter as they grooved to the infectious Get Myself Into It. Classic single House Of Jealous Lovers sparked riotous scenes, while the pulse of every spiky riff reverberated inside the elated masses.

Klaxons entered this electrifying atmosphere and spiralled it higher. Moving to a later slot due to a 20-hour flight delay, their midnight show wasn’t polished – bad acoustics were accompanied by woeful singing – but was exhilarating. Neon lights blazing overhead, sirens booming and anthemic tracks from Golden Skans to Magik stimulated a feeling of sweaty euphoria. This was less a performance, more a musical assault. Their audience was left to dance until morning to The Presets and Digitalism, energised and excited.

By Saturday, sleepless nights and several San Miguel’s could be seen taking their toll on Benicassim attendees. Instead of hitting the beaches, exhausted, bleary-eyed people appeared to inhabit every speck of shade. While Jamie T bolted through a triumphant set in his oblique style, mixing new tracks with enthusiastically received hits like Stella, many sought solace on top of Portaloos.

Some soothing relief was required; it came in the hairy form of Albert Hammond Jnr. The Strokes guitarist treated the main stage to some exquisite guitar work and dreamy melodies. In Transit sounded like The Velvet Underground would have if Brian Wilson was their frontman, while gleeful whistling accompanied Call An Ambulance.

Then, disaster struck: the soundsystem exploded. A winding sprint to the tent CSS were playing confirmed the problem was festival-wide. The impossible was happening – people looked grumpy. Thankfully, the whooping return of singer Lovefoxx signalled the problem was fixed. While she bantered with the crowd, their set of bouncy, foot-stomping dance sizzled past, taking in the funky bass line of Let’s Make Love and the very persuasive lyrics of Alcohol.

The anticipation for Arctic Monkeys led to ticket-less hopefuls packing the hills surrounding the festival site, while even The B-52s pathetic set of dated disco couldn’t dampen the mood. Subtly siphoning away sloppier tracks from their debut album to be replaced with choice cuts from their latest record created a rounded set from the Sheffield boys. A venomous rendition of Brianstorm was striking, while their numerous bona fide festival anthems were devoured. However, the understated 505, including Alex Turner playing keyboard with great aplomb, highlighted the sense of progress – and fun – Arctic Monkeys now possess.

The progress of Amy Winehouse was highlighted by her actually turning up on Sunday. When she did, the silky sounds of lesser known tracks like Wake Up Alone allowed her to showcase her vocal prowess, after Rehab had appeased the crowd. Looking sultry and accompanied by her stylish band, she seemed in her element as much as the hordes of bopping fans below her.

Kings of Leon made little attempt at crowd-pleasing, filling their set with plodding tracks from their latest album while discarding older gems. New single Fans sounded smooth and likeable, while On Call was boisterous and angry. Nevertheless, generally they sounded tired, with a bemusing uninterested manner. BRMC opposed this, playing their pounding, dirty rock as if their careers hung in the balance. Wearing leather jackets in blistering heat summarised their gutsy, carefree attitude just as well as the thundering blues of standout track Spread Your Love.

Then, Muse were Muse; now so incredible live, listening to them on record is obsolete. New Born sounded ferocious, Starlight boundlessly addictive and Feeling Good haunting. Matt Bellamy basked in rock showmanship, before sunburnt faces brimming with happiness slipped away, satisfied.

Yet, despite scores of bands delivering memorable music, the all-encompassing, uplifting spirit of this festival is its most prominent feature. 65% of tickets were bought by Britons (according, probably inaccurately, to Jamie T,) but the diverse and cosmopolitan nature of Benicassim is still arresting. Take every positive aspect of British festivals; add beautiful weather and a sense of adventure. And, undoubtedly once tasted, repeat annually.