Can't do without you.
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Friday, July 03, 2015
Monday, June 30, 2014
White people as far as the eye can see.
"We're Mogwai from Glasgow, Scotland." You only need hear Stuart Braithwaite say those words in his distinctive lilt, the way he always introduces the band, to know that for however long they play, everything will be all right. While the BBC were raving away about how heavy metal was taking over the Pyramid stage, agog at just how noisy and uninhibited the tossers who sued Napster were, away at the Park stage a group that know the quiet parts are just as important as the loud ones were in their element. They might not have played Like Herod, the version they recorded for John Peel putting anything by Metallica to shame in terms of sheer aural punishment, but Mogwai Fear Satan more than made up for it. Their thank you at the end of the set was both heartfelt and pointed, a barely veiled nod to the comments beforehand about the "shite" they were billed against.
Glastonbury was without a doubt better this year than last, in my obviously irrelevant view formed from sitting in front of a computer at home. At least it was so long as you ignored the main stage entirely, which is increasingly the best policy. Arcade Fire undoubtedly tried their best, but they're never festival headliners in a million years, however much I like them. It also might have meant something if Metallica had been on the Pyramid on Saturday night over 20 years ago; in 2014 it's frankly embarrassing. As for Kasabian, comparing them to Spinal Tap suggests a sense of humour they conspicuously lack. I understand Elbow's appeal (I bought the new album despite being deeply underwhelmed by Build a Rocket Boys!), it just increasingly leaves me cold, One Day Like This destined to become a song so overplayed any meaning it may have once had left as sterile as a hospital ward, while Jack White's histrionics were wearying rather than seductive. If nothing else, Lily Allen's performance conjured up a new vision of my own personal hell: forever condemned to relive a false experience of being trapped in the middle of the crowd for her set, surrounded by hipsters, trustafarians and tens of thousands of white people.
Which is something that has to be discussed: the whole weekend I saw more non-white faces among the security and on stage than I did in the crowd itself. You can't tell me the range of music on offer doesn't appeal across the demographics, so clearly there's something else at work. Whether it be the price, the way the tickets are sold or other factors, it ought to be something to worry the organisers and sponsors. If those on high are going to deliver lectures about culture and values to communities that supposedly want no part of modern Britain, we can't ignore how monopolised the events regarded as the biggest of the year are by the (white) middle classes.
Following on from last year, the live streaming of all the main stages, if not the dance tents as would help complete the picture of what the festival as a whole is like, meant you could dispense with the BBC's main coverage entirely. Not that this was wholly successful: at least my end the stream couldn't make up its mind the quality my connection could handle, constantly switching and so interrupting playback to the point of distraction (and much swearing). Thankfully, and as should be the case, the full sets for almost every act are now available to be replayed to your heart's content, at least for a month.
You can then watch the latest great white hype (surely hope?) for British indie, Royal Blood, delight an easily pleased John Peel tent. They're not bad, it's just I remember them from ten years ago when they were called Death from Above 1979 and they were better. Coincidentally (or not), the actual DFA 1979 have a new album coming out in September after reforming a couple of years back. More impressive were Wolf Alice, but you still can't see them making the breakthrough.
A further reminder of how far ahead the Americans have been of us Brits in the indie rock stakes in recent years came from Parquet Courts, whose spiky, idiosyncratic assault on the Park stage must have won them plenty of new admirers. The Park stage in general was the place to stick around for most of the weekend: apart from Interpol, the Manics and the Horrors, all of whom were reliable on the Other stage, with the latter surprising everyone with a gorgeous rendition of Jamie Principle's Your Love, not much came close to Four Tet's Friday night mix as the sun set. Kieran Hebden had more people dancing outside of the area dedicated to DJs than the rest of the acts combined.
The real highlight of the weekend though had to be St. Vincent. On before James Blake, who despite starting with CMYK failed to translate his stripped back sound in the same way as the xx did last year, Annie Clark stunned in absolutely every sense. Whatever drugs she was on, and she was so high she could barely stay on the ground, I could really do with some. As fantastic as Strange Mercy was, to see her perform the same guitar heroics live was to be reminded of how exciting rock can be when sonic experimentation meets great song writing. It ought to be a rebuff to conservatism in music in general at the moment, whether it be from the garage-house revivalists or the Kodalines of this world. Sadly, what sells matters more than ever.
Glastonbury was without a doubt better this year than last, in my obviously irrelevant view formed from sitting in front of a computer at home. At least it was so long as you ignored the main stage entirely, which is increasingly the best policy. Arcade Fire undoubtedly tried their best, but they're never festival headliners in a million years, however much I like them. It also might have meant something if Metallica had been on the Pyramid on Saturday night over 20 years ago; in 2014 it's frankly embarrassing. As for Kasabian, comparing them to Spinal Tap suggests a sense of humour they conspicuously lack. I understand Elbow's appeal (I bought the new album despite being deeply underwhelmed by Build a Rocket Boys!), it just increasingly leaves me cold, One Day Like This destined to become a song so overplayed any meaning it may have once had left as sterile as a hospital ward, while Jack White's histrionics were wearying rather than seductive. If nothing else, Lily Allen's performance conjured up a new vision of my own personal hell: forever condemned to relive a false experience of being trapped in the middle of the crowd for her set, surrounded by hipsters, trustafarians and tens of thousands of white people.
Which is something that has to be discussed: the whole weekend I saw more non-white faces among the security and on stage than I did in the crowd itself. You can't tell me the range of music on offer doesn't appeal across the demographics, so clearly there's something else at work. Whether it be the price, the way the tickets are sold or other factors, it ought to be something to worry the organisers and sponsors. If those on high are going to deliver lectures about culture and values to communities that supposedly want no part of modern Britain, we can't ignore how monopolised the events regarded as the biggest of the year are by the (white) middle classes.
Following on from last year, the live streaming of all the main stages, if not the dance tents as would help complete the picture of what the festival as a whole is like, meant you could dispense with the BBC's main coverage entirely. Not that this was wholly successful: at least my end the stream couldn't make up its mind the quality my connection could handle, constantly switching and so interrupting playback to the point of distraction (and much swearing). Thankfully, and as should be the case, the full sets for almost every act are now available to be replayed to your heart's content, at least for a month.
You can then watch the latest great white hype (surely hope?) for British indie, Royal Blood, delight an easily pleased John Peel tent. They're not bad, it's just I remember them from ten years ago when they were called Death from Above 1979 and they were better. Coincidentally (or not), the actual DFA 1979 have a new album coming out in September after reforming a couple of years back. More impressive were Wolf Alice, but you still can't see them making the breakthrough.
A further reminder of how far ahead the Americans have been of us Brits in the indie rock stakes in recent years came from Parquet Courts, whose spiky, idiosyncratic assault on the Park stage must have won them plenty of new admirers. The Park stage in general was the place to stick around for most of the weekend: apart from Interpol, the Manics and the Horrors, all of whom were reliable on the Other stage, with the latter surprising everyone with a gorgeous rendition of Jamie Principle's Your Love, not much came close to Four Tet's Friday night mix as the sun set. Kieran Hebden had more people dancing outside of the area dedicated to DJs than the rest of the acts combined.
The real highlight of the weekend though had to be St. Vincent. On before James Blake, who despite starting with CMYK failed to translate his stripped back sound in the same way as the xx did last year, Annie Clark stunned in absolutely every sense. Whatever drugs she was on, and she was so high she could barely stay on the ground, I could really do with some. As fantastic as Strange Mercy was, to see her perform the same guitar heroics live was to be reminded of how exciting rock can be when sonic experimentation meets great song writing. It ought to be a rebuff to conservatism in music in general at the moment, whether it be from the garage-house revivalists or the Kodalines of this world. Sadly, what sells matters more than ever.
Labels: Glastonbury, miscellany, music, non-politics
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Tuesday, July 02, 2013
Glastonbury: the view from at home.
There is but one thing everyone knows about Glastonbury. Every year, regardless of the weather, regardless of the quality of the music, regardless of how many people have their possessions stolen and regardless of how long it takes for everyone to first reach the site, and then when the time sadly comes, to leave, it's The Best Festival Ever. Michael Eavis himself says so. Every Saturday night headliner is the best ever. Ever John Peel stage line up is the best ever. Every section of fence that keeps the hoi polloi out and the gathered white, middle class masses in is the best ever. Every Lauren Laverne appearance is the best ever. And so on.
I speak, naturally, as someone who has never been and has no intention of going. I simply don't understand how amazing an experience it must be to stand in a field with approximately 100,000 other people, barely being able to move, hardly being able to hear the Rolling Stones and also barely being able to see them, when I could instead be sitting at home, able to go to the bog at the moment of my choosing, and both hear and see the band better than practically anyone who's there. I also won't have paid a small fortune for the privilege, nor should it have been a wet year will I have experienced conditions that could pass for the Somme during one of the lulls in fighting. For every account of how wonderful Glastonbury is, how spiritual it is, and how if you want to you can go and not even see a single band and have a great time, there is someone who will have had an experience akin to the one Stuart Campbell did back in 1998. Doubtless, things probably have improved since then. Probably.
All those of us back home can judge the festival on then is the music, the way the BBC deigns to showcase it, and how the rest of the media hype the whole thing up to the point at which it isn't just a festival in Somerset, it's the Greatest Weekend of the Year. This year at least the BBC finally realised that this internet thing means we ought to be able to choose what we'd like to see, so you could watch the West Holts stage all day if that's the sort of thing that floats your boat. This also meant you could dispense entirely with the BBC's hosts, and so I succeeded in going the whole weekend without once seeing the aforementioned Lauren Laverne. Sadly, I did still encounter Jo Whiley and the "presenters" on BBC3, but at least Whiley was alongside Mark Radcliffe.
The only problem was that the site was temperamental at best, and delighted in repeatedly locking Firefox up. It worked slightly better in IE, but still wasn't perfect. It would be remiss though not to comment on the main nightly show, and the BBC still insists on the same practice year in year out of having "up and coming" bands and artists playing live in the studio. If there is a single person watching outside of their friends and families that wants to see them rather than a few more highlights from the day itself, I'd really like to meet them.
The other obvious flaw with the BBC's offerings was that while most of the stages were represented, apart from the Essential Mix on Radio 1 on Friday night there was no coverage whatsoever of the dance tents. Considering this is the year when it's been decided that the likes of Disclosure are the New Big Thing and when house in general has made a resurgence, this is baffling at best. True, it would mean more expense, and DJs aren't always happy to have their sets live streamed if they play new stuff which then instantly gets put up on YouTube, but when the Beeb can pay out £50m to former managers it can surely afford to spend a bit more on Glasto.
That we can also now choose not to watch the Pyramid stage was a very good thing considering the line up and also, sadly, some of the performances. With the exception of Nick Cave, and the Stones towards the end of their performance, the main stage was a bit of a horlicks all round. Very little needs to said about Mumford and Sons, while it continues to astonish me how Primal Scream continue to get to headline festivals despite having only produced one decent album, and that was 20 years ago. The Vaccines are equally perplexing: how does a band that sounds like the Cribs did on their terrible first album without having any of their charm receive such adulation?
Arctic Monkeys were also disappointing, but then the crowd were easy enough to please, singing Yellow by Coldplay when Alex Turner jokingly played the first couple of chords. What it did bring home was just how ghastly their debut is: I wasn't completely won over by it back in 06, but with the exception of When the Sun Goes Down and Mardy Bum it's now all but unlistenable. I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor sounded like what it is, one of the first songs written by a young band who would go on to much greater things. That it was probably the best received track they played was rather sad.
Away from the Pyramid, there was some great stuff amongst the dreck. Portishead were, as they always are, incredible, all the more so for coming on after a tepid showing by Foals, who I really like, and the depressingly average Alt-J, who somehow won last year's Mercury. Crystal Castles on the Peel stage were promising, until either they or the BBC decided it was time to cut the stream; that the cameramen seemed to be trying their best to point their lenses up Alice Glass' skirt might have had something to do with it. Continuing tribute as it is to John Peel to have a stage named after him, it's more than slightly incongruous when he would have never played some of the bands scheduled to appear on it; while you can quite easily imagine he would have stuck on James Blake, Crystal Castles and Odd Future, he's probably turning in his grave at how Tom Odell and the ghastly Courteeners were also plying their turgid wares there.
Only the West Holts stage seemed to get the headliner right each night (although the Park stage came close, Fuck Buttons' intensity not coming across, at least not at home): Chic, Public Enemy and Bobby Womack providing the antidote to so much of the tosh on the bill elsewhere. The xx also defied expectations: their intimate, stripped back sound, not instantly translatable to festivals, was the perfect contrast to the self-aggrandising of the Mumfords and they seemed genuinely overwhelmed by the way they were received.
It was hardly then what you would call a classic festival, and it's likely to be remembered only for the Stones, regardless of how they could never live up to the hype and didn't seem to try. That they probably had the biggest audience ever at the festival seems more down to the fact you have to pay close to what you would for a Glastonbury ticket to see just them than anything else. And as this seems to be pay the way concerts and festivals are going, there's likely to be many more of us watching from home.
I speak, naturally, as someone who has never been and has no intention of going. I simply don't understand how amazing an experience it must be to stand in a field with approximately 100,000 other people, barely being able to move, hardly being able to hear the Rolling Stones and also barely being able to see them, when I could instead be sitting at home, able to go to the bog at the moment of my choosing, and both hear and see the band better than practically anyone who's there. I also won't have paid a small fortune for the privilege, nor should it have been a wet year will I have experienced conditions that could pass for the Somme during one of the lulls in fighting. For every account of how wonderful Glastonbury is, how spiritual it is, and how if you want to you can go and not even see a single band and have a great time, there is someone who will have had an experience akin to the one Stuart Campbell did back in 1998. Doubtless, things probably have improved since then. Probably.
All those of us back home can judge the festival on then is the music, the way the BBC deigns to showcase it, and how the rest of the media hype the whole thing up to the point at which it isn't just a festival in Somerset, it's the Greatest Weekend of the Year. This year at least the BBC finally realised that this internet thing means we ought to be able to choose what we'd like to see, so you could watch the West Holts stage all day if that's the sort of thing that floats your boat. This also meant you could dispense entirely with the BBC's hosts, and so I succeeded in going the whole weekend without once seeing the aforementioned Lauren Laverne. Sadly, I did still encounter Jo Whiley and the "presenters" on BBC3, but at least Whiley was alongside Mark Radcliffe.
The only problem was that the site was temperamental at best, and delighted in repeatedly locking Firefox up. It worked slightly better in IE, but still wasn't perfect. It would be remiss though not to comment on the main nightly show, and the BBC still insists on the same practice year in year out of having "up and coming" bands and artists playing live in the studio. If there is a single person watching outside of their friends and families that wants to see them rather than a few more highlights from the day itself, I'd really like to meet them.
The other obvious flaw with the BBC's offerings was that while most of the stages were represented, apart from the Essential Mix on Radio 1 on Friday night there was no coverage whatsoever of the dance tents. Considering this is the year when it's been decided that the likes of Disclosure are the New Big Thing and when house in general has made a resurgence, this is baffling at best. True, it would mean more expense, and DJs aren't always happy to have their sets live streamed if they play new stuff which then instantly gets put up on YouTube, but when the Beeb can pay out £50m to former managers it can surely afford to spend a bit more on Glasto.
That we can also now choose not to watch the Pyramid stage was a very good thing considering the line up and also, sadly, some of the performances. With the exception of Nick Cave, and the Stones towards the end of their performance, the main stage was a bit of a horlicks all round. Very little needs to said about Mumford and Sons, while it continues to astonish me how Primal Scream continue to get to headline festivals despite having only produced one decent album, and that was 20 years ago. The Vaccines are equally perplexing: how does a band that sounds like the Cribs did on their terrible first album without having any of their charm receive such adulation?
Arctic Monkeys were also disappointing, but then the crowd were easy enough to please, singing Yellow by Coldplay when Alex Turner jokingly played the first couple of chords. What it did bring home was just how ghastly their debut is: I wasn't completely won over by it back in 06, but with the exception of When the Sun Goes Down and Mardy Bum it's now all but unlistenable. I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor sounded like what it is, one of the first songs written by a young band who would go on to much greater things. That it was probably the best received track they played was rather sad.
Away from the Pyramid, there was some great stuff amongst the dreck. Portishead were, as they always are, incredible, all the more so for coming on after a tepid showing by Foals, who I really like, and the depressingly average Alt-J, who somehow won last year's Mercury. Crystal Castles on the Peel stage were promising, until either they or the BBC decided it was time to cut the stream; that the cameramen seemed to be trying their best to point their lenses up Alice Glass' skirt might have had something to do with it. Continuing tribute as it is to John Peel to have a stage named after him, it's more than slightly incongruous when he would have never played some of the bands scheduled to appear on it; while you can quite easily imagine he would have stuck on James Blake, Crystal Castles and Odd Future, he's probably turning in his grave at how Tom Odell and the ghastly Courteeners were also plying their turgid wares there.
Only the West Holts stage seemed to get the headliner right each night (although the Park stage came close, Fuck Buttons' intensity not coming across, at least not at home): Chic, Public Enemy and Bobby Womack providing the antidote to so much of the tosh on the bill elsewhere. The xx also defied expectations: their intimate, stripped back sound, not instantly translatable to festivals, was the perfect contrast to the self-aggrandising of the Mumfords and they seemed genuinely overwhelmed by the way they were received.
It was hardly then what you would call a classic festival, and it's likely to be remembered only for the Stones, regardless of how they could never live up to the hype and didn't seem to try. That they probably had the biggest audience ever at the festival seems more down to the fact you have to pay close to what you would for a Glastonbury ticket to see just them than anything else. And as this seems to be pay the way concerts and festivals are going, there's likely to be many more of us watching from home.
Labels: Glastonbury, miscellany, music, non-politics, TV review
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