scans.
READING, WRITHING AND RIFFMATIC
Sun, sweat and soiled underwear. Yup, another sweltering and smelly READING FESTIVAL! Three days of junk food, overflowing urinals, queues and, erm, some bands. This year's festival brought the American underground together for a stunning Friday grunge frenzy, headed by grandfather IGGY POP. Saturday's bill took top honours with JAMES and Festival hits CARTER USM while Sunday had the group with the most T-shirts, NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN, giving the SISTERS OF MERCY a run for their money. Re-live the agony and the ecstacy over the next three pages.
FRIDAY
IT WAS obvious, really - he had to say it. Who better than His Supreme
Iggyness Of Pop, the Godfather of (s)punk rock, to sum up Day One of
Reading '91, a day of quite magnificent interstellar services to righteous
guitar grappling? None better. Say it, Jim. . .
"Can we do one more? C'mon, let us do one more! Let's do 'Louis
f—in'Louie'!"
Oh yes! After so many thrills over the previous eight hours, the assembled
masses quivered at this moment of unbridled rock 'n' roll genius. Grown
men were reduced to gibbering fools. A large, flat, slightly soggy field
full of atheists were instantly converted to Popism. . .yep, rarely
had Iggy been so, well, Iggy.
The Man was, however, the beneficiary of some considerable help. For
sheer consistent top notch quality, Reading has surely never seen a
better line-up, and by the time Iggy Pop was handed the blazing torch
- the same one he'd first brandished over 20 years ago - his spiritual
children had already dazzled the huge crowd into a state approaching
blind delirium.
The crusade to rock Valhalla began with BABES IN TOYLAND. While their
last two London shows had suggested that the Minneapolitan mamas' resolve
had been blunted by a seemingly endless Euro sojourn, this was a virulent
rendering of a by now familiar set, rekindling the fond memories of
two months ago when every stamp of Kat Bjelland's immaculately shod
feet sent a shiver down the spine. 'Ripe', 'Catatonic', laugh My Head
Off. . .each one a lullaby snatched from a never-ending nightmare, and
a welcome early blast for the already sizable throng.
"F—, it's like speed being up here." So enthused SILVERFISH's
Lesley, sporting her elegant summer wardrobe. Rest assured, the mighty
'Fish proved themselves a tasty addition to the stadium set, as they
revelled in a gig where there was no need to compete with the audience
for stage space. Lesley treated the Reading boards to her finest bootgirl
stomp routine, spitting out some cool fembo did-you-spill-my-Babycham
treatises along the way, while Chris, Fuzz and Stu weighed in with their
impeccably gnarled groove.
NIRVANA, after a two-date limber-up with Sonic Youth in Ireland, were
primed for some serious gesture politics. Spicing the hardy perennial
'Bleach' material with their stunning new pop nuggets, Nirvana crunched
the mosh-pit into the danger zone for the first time that day. 'Smells
Like Teen Spirit', 'Come As You Are' and 'Breed' were each eagerly embraced
by the thrilled crowd before things just got silly... Hell, a killer
pop triad of 'Silver', 'Molly's Lips' and 'Love Buzz'. During the latter,
Kurdt leapt 15 feet down into the photo pit and then into the crowd.
Here was anti-rock god posturing at its most thrilling.
All that remained was for Chris to hurl his bass at the startled drummer
Dave Grohl - a sobering prospect, for sure - and then Kurdt clinched
the issue by vaulting into the kit. Nirvana? This came pretty damn close.
Almost inevitably, a mid-afternoon lull set in as folks groped around
for what was left of their senses. CHAPTERHOUSE flopped around in their
well mannered way - one found it difficult to equate the anaemic guitar
sound entirely with the temperamental PA. Still, they could bask happy
in the announcement by compere John Peel that they are his son Thomas'
fave group of the moment.
It's doubtful that Ravenscroft Jr reckoned much to DINOSAUR JR, though,
and truth be told this was J Mascis & co at their most wilful.
A resolutely un-crowd-pleasing set combined with the PA vagaries to
pitch the unique Mascis brand of fret beauty into a sorry mire. 'Freak
Scene' was acclaimed with relief as much as any real enthusiasm, and
J's lethargic tones set a certain mood.
But woo, POP WILL EAT ITSELF would make things alright, no?! Well, sorta,
as Mr Mascis would say. Like an illicit kebab at two in the morning,
the Poppies were nourishing in a wholly bogus sense - enjoyable in a
debauched kinda way at the time, but later only the foul after-taste
remains. One has to admire their tenacity for plugging away - though
quite where they can go from third top of the bill at Reading remains
to be seen - and the blithely appalling attempts at humour display a
perverse genius. Yup, definitely kebabcore.
In comparison, SONIC YOUTH are a new age banquet - undoubtedly the most
rewarding all-round mindf— available right now. There's an air
of relaxed contentment about them now, as if they've nothing left to
prove and can concentrate on wiping the floor with all the young pretenders.
Two new songs, 'Sugar Cane' and 'Chapel Hill', demonstrated an as-yet
undiminished skill for dissonant groove logic, while oldies suggested
the Youth are no longer uneasy about their illustrious past. They offered
two classic festival moments; first when Thurston halted the intro to
'Mary Christ', walked over to his new sampler and ushered forth the
"wanna stay high to the day I die" refrain from Primal
Scream's new single, mouthing the words approvingly. Then, for a goodnight
gross-out, he lowered his guitar into the crowd and trawled it along
the front. Yes, children, you too could have been in Sonic Youth that
night.
Leaving only THE IG, although this was by no means a vintage Iggy performance,
packing rather less of a punch than his indoor shows at the beginning
of the year and throwing away a couple of classics - notably a rushed
'I Wanna Be Your Dog'. The spectre of cabaret occasionally lurks too.
But anyone who can, A) start a set with a song called 'My Baby Wants
To Rock & Roll', and B) claim to have "been put here to rock
this shit", is still worthy of anyone's awed respect.
So Friday at Reading'91. . .it was sunny (in the end), it was funny,
it was. . . yeah, it was 'Louie F—in' Louie'.
Keith Cameron
SATURDAY
THERE ARE eight Carter T-shirts whichever way you look. This Is a scientific
FACT (I checked all day). Thus, Reading '91's official Best Day had
a very clear head on it, waiting to be burst. . .
A female Crusty with pink rat's tails dabs some Factor Ten on the shaven
pate of her beefy boyfriend. Huge cauldrons of veg chilli are stirred
Into crowd-pleasing life. The Psychedelic Supermarket (true) lifts Its
bleary tarpaulin for the sale of Everything To Do With Drugs Except
Drugs, and, to the inevitable midday sit-down that James will fail to
Inspire ten hours later, US shoegazers MERCURY REV put the 'amble' into
Saturday's preamble.
Much-touted by magazines now defunct, the Rev created a similar opening
atmos to Galaxle 500 at Glastonbury '90. This ain't getupandgo music,
more laydownanddie, as two or three guitars stumble about with a definite
view to lurching. The Fat One (who looks like Tad after a year as a
hostage) sits out most of the set, legs dangling over the edge of the
stage. This is good rock behaviour for someone not playing. He also
does it when he's playing. 'Frittering' (from the 'Harmony Side' of
MR's 'Yerself Is Steam' LP) Is a glorious, stretched-out treat (and
Reading Moment Number One).
So, the yawn-and-stretch is over; now for a workout. "F—
me, It's KINGMAKER!" yelps singer Loz, of said Hull-y Gully merchants.
And it is. The Front Row suddenly expands from within, as baby and cat
T-shirts sprout from nowhere. Kingmaker have a fan base! How exciting
is that? Their tight, thoughtful (New Cool) Rock
Music Instigates the day's first crowd pyramid, the first community
pogo, and the colour-coded forestage security gents make with the first
free cups of coolant. Three songs in, and 'When Lucy's Down' creates
minor mayhem (Moment Number Two). This band can have me for a slave.
Kingmaker can congratulate themselves on a watershed gig. "I'M
IN A FOOKING BAND," shouts guitarist Miles' T-shirt; "Anybody
here fail any 0-levels or A-levels?" Inquires Loz, "Well tough
shit, you thick bastards!" F— me, It's Kingmaker alright!
The New Wonder Stuff. Magic.
"I rather suspect that this will be another moment to treasure,"
speculates MC John Peel, as he Introduces TEENAGE FANCLUB, and retires
stage left to home-video their set. Right enough, TFC perform similar
miracles on the sardine-sandwiched hardcore and the cross-legged, Worker's-Beer-swigglng
periphery to Kingmaker, except with less tunes and worse drumming. Their
songs, scuffed and fizzing, are persuasive only as a total experience;
they need each other. Individual instances of unfocused sterility
are enveloped by the magnificent whole, where everything, erm, flows.
Between-song banter Is a tonic. "Perfect, Norman, absolutely perfect!"
Intones Brendan, jauntily. TFC's star drummer is the only member of
any band to leave the stage via the audience, carried away like a hero.
Moment Number Three!
I really want to dig BLUR (I have nothing against them, see), but they
make it very difficult. Their live sound is abysmal; the good songs
sound dragged through a hedge backwards; and Damon's anti-frontman stance
veers from snotty "This song was written because. . .because it
was.") to captivating. During 'Oily Water' he spins and spins like
a child until I'm convinced he's going to be sick. I have hope for this
boy. He's a time-bomb.
DE LA SOUL are rubbish live - an observation that isn't going to win
me any prizes for journalism. Two blokes walking up and down shouting
is not top entertainment and, when they descend into a ghastly hip-hop
panto, dividing the crowd into two 'sides' and seeing which one shouts
"Asshole" the loudest, I'm off for a potato curry.
Notebooks out, plagiarists! It's Saturday's first and only adult attraction,
THE FALL. Mark E's studied arrogance/nonchalance is in full effect,
a refreshing change from the Your-Mates-Are-Onstage nonsense that now
pervades modern music. The slimmed-down Fall are, even without trying
very hard (which I suspect they are not), wonderful. Sticking closely
to the 'Shiftwork' set, they let rip hardly at all, and tell us nothing
we didn't know already. But they are still mesmerising and untouchable.
The rousing 'New Big Prinz' is Moment Number Four, and when, during
'Edinburgh Man', Smith sings "How I wish I was in Edinburgh",
I am drowning in irony!
Evening sets in, the gaping whale's mouth that is the Reading amphitheatre
lights up, and a plumplsh chap dressed as Minnie Mouse rolls onstage.
Many thousands of children Joyfully chorus "YOU FAT BASTARD!"
at Jon Beast and the idea that this festival was once a degenerate wee-throwing
contest for pig-men is difficult to grasp. CARTER USM are easily top
of tonight's bill for the majority. That they summon up such vast showbiz
fun with a tape and two guitars is testament to A) their indefinable
presence, and B) the quality of what's on the tape.
Next single 'After The Watershed' is propped up by such oldies (ha!)
as 'Second To Last Will And Testament', 'Anytime Anyplace Anywhere'
("for all the elder drinkers!") and ruined-by-understated-volume
'Sheriff Fatman'. Carter are the very spirit of The New Reading-rising,
fresh, clever, appreciative, punk, just far-out enough to Not Be Your
Mates. Moment Five!
And, sadly JAMES cannot top them. Especially not by playing loads of
new, unfamiliar material, and being as nervous as I'm told they were.
After 'Sit Down', Tim blows it forever by saying, "Well, you've
heard the hit single now, you can all go home." Cynical sod! I
am severely let down by this, as I believed James to be among the top
five live bands in the world. I'm going home.
"They're like U2 on acid!!" enthuses a small dancing man with
Red indian warpaint on his face next to me. But then again, he is
on acid.
Andrew Collins
SUNDAY
THE HAZY hangover from Saturday soon dissipates. Memories of enraged
townspeople radiating hate at intruders and The Fall casting an incredibly
black cloud over the occasion are quickly replaced by a serious love
vibe. Dance music mightn't be adequately represented on the menu, but
the spirit is abroad, as normally uptight indie-kids shake loose and
forget their collective prejudices. When you gape in admiration at THE
FAMILY CAT you know something's changed for the greater good.
If you still think of them as cartoon Dennis The Menaces, jangling their
way into obscurity, you're bound to be startled by their unbridled lack
of self-effacement. Wimping out is no longer the modus operandi
as a big, bruising rock element creeps into crowd-pleasers like 'River
Of Diamonds'. And beat me senseless if someone hasn't been studying
the Sonic Youth guitar manual.
All things considered, SCREAMING TARGET should cook like no-one's business,
but the most they can manage is an OK approximation or urban melting-pot
dance which leaves the fired-up hordes somewhat nonplussed.
The bobbing heads and the belly-floppers, the navel-gazers and the painted
crazies gear up for SWERVEDRIVER's not-so-languid propulsion and there
are few faults with their soul-food for crusties, except nagging worries
about the lack of projection and intimacy. Crazily enough, remoteness
actually suites KITCHENS OF DISTINCTION, as the red-raw emotions they
tap scrape uncomfortably close to the bone. Drifting off into space
to the strains of of the anguished 'Railwayed' seems and enjoyable reverie,
and its attendant close relations pursue intensity with a vengeance,
especially when framed by exquisite guitar harmonies.
Hyper-reality comes crashing back with THE SENSELESS THINGS, whose low-key
modernisation of hoary old punk gestures is not inoffensive when the
sun's burning hot, you keep stepping over prone bodies and capitalism
has gone haywire. Surprisingly, their mix of not-so-serious politics
and serious love-songs only serves as a taster for NITZER EBB, who are
the closest today gets to the Technicolor noise 'n' excess of Heavy
Metal.
Rather than work themselves up to a polished Teutonic sheen - all glacial
backbeats and even colder electronics - the bards of Chelmsford show
off a few tricks learned in American stadia and raise your body temperature
with ease and finesse. The sight of the twin drumers pounding away in
some arcane ritual while the front-person exaggerates his every move
is quite fitting, and it would be lazy to mention 'post-industrial DAF
derivatives' when the beats'n'colour are this hard to avoid.
Clueless souls run away to avoid GANG STARR's separated hip-hop, but
those who remain stay enraptured through laid-back and seemingly friendly
versions of 'Who's Gonna Take The Weight?' and 'Jazz Thing'. Pity MC
Obnoxious develops verbal diarrhoea between songs and rants about 'pussy',
thus putting off the wiser revellers and striking blows against himself
and his cut-up happy DJ. Even more trying moments surface when THE GODFATHERS
offer up some perfunctory rabble-rousing. Not even a curt 'Unreal World'
and an endless trawl through 'Blitzkrieg Bop' can allay the fears of
complacency and a curious smugness.
The love vibe is back in full effect for NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN with a
bewildering variety of T-shirted youths flocking to worship people who
started out as Wonder Stuff fans like themselves. There's energy galore
and they acquit themselves well, but I find myself somewhat unmoved
by all but the most pop-friendly offerings ('Happy', 'Kill Your Television').
Would it be bitching to call 'em three-minute wonders?
Which is something you can never label those grossly epic merchants
of doom, gloom and parody, THE SISTERS OF MERCY. While black-clad Goths
are sparse on the ground, self-styled Dark Lord Eldritch is in glorious
form, and his sidekicks aren't that far behind. Critical faculties don't
have to go out the window for you to realise that this is the most gaudy
concession to showbiz all weekend. Hams to a man, The Sisters are affecting,
even when offering up still-born duds from the last LP, let alone when
stomping on mini-classics like 'Alice', 'Lucretia (My Reflection)' and
'Dominion' with over-sized Doc Marten boots. Rather than wax and wane,
the stadium mentality has made these rogues stronger. You don't believe
me? An open mind is a terrible thing to waste.
Dele Fadele
'RIOT' SAID ED...
MEAN FIDDLER TENT
WHAT TENT? What tense? Past, present or future? The Mean Fiddler Big
Top (c'mon, how many of these bands have been to Harlesden, let alone
played there?) had all of them and more. A veritable mixed bag of the
holy, the hopeful and the downright hopeless. The ambitious beggars
and the atrocious buggers and . . . RIOTS!
If the main stage is for the Premier Division elite (in theory) then
this is the B-team arena, with a suspiciously large contingent of major
label investment (Rain, Real People, Five Thirty, Milltown Brothers,
JJ (??), Hollow Men) tussling with a bevy of indie stalwarts/starlets
for promotion and thus maybe a slice of big time stage action in 1992.
Taking the lead earlier in the day THE ROCKINGBIRDS took the 'try' out
of Country. Young, gifted and tassled, they bring the style bang (in
the soft sense) up to date whereupon the pre-pubescent RAILROAD EARTH
take it several stations further down the line. Miles Hunt meets Johnny
Cash, forces him to swop a Western suntan for tacky tartan, and the
future of C&W suddenly looks brighter than the average belisha beacon.
If Mark Eitzel were into Country, no doubt it would be as cold and barren
as an Alaskan Bank Holiday. Going on the basis that anything goes but
always comes home at the end of the day, his AMERICAN MUSIC CLUB are
the hangover breaking out before the party has even ended. More tearful
than cheerful, singer and self-confessed geek Eitzel rambled through
the gamut of emotions from pain to, erm, agony. 'Gratitude Rocks' is
a grapple of passions set to music, where Nick Cave plays table tennis
with Cathal Coughlan and AMC go careering down the Middle Of The Road
firing broadsides at fellow travellers. In short, as comfy as a pair
of slippers. Stuffed full of scorpions.
On a fresher front, REVOLVER are the angelic upstarts, perpetuating
the Ride/Boo Radleys school of sound and consequently struggling to
find their true identity. However, this doesn't seem to matter tremendously
as long as the threesome persist in churning out diamonds like 'Heaven
Sent An Angel', even if they are mining other peoples' creative seams.
Following similar accusations of generic fallibility, CATHERINE WHEEL
play like men (re)possessed by a particularly intolerant council. Freshly
signed to Fontana, they're a fierce fist-in-the-face for the current
noisy pop spectrum and a fine candidate for the play-offs, if not automatic
elevation. Guitars chew up casual observers and spit them back out to
the psy-ker-dellic stalls, while 'Black Metallic' lasts a thoroughly
mesmerising 27 hours and flaunts the most emotive, explosive climax
since Chernobyl blew its top.
Fellow On tips of'91 THOUSAND YARD STARE face one
of the most fanatical crowds of the weekend, having drifted casually
towards cult status. Heartily fortified by Slough FC's victory earlier
in the day, TYS are on a roll up the table, with a baggy (but not saggy)
backbone bolstering some of the crispest guitar moves yet seen on the
stage. With a mood and sheer zestful exuberance matched only by the
later performance of the New FADS, the Thames Valley quintet prove themselves
to be The Likely Lads of Saturday, departing with the genuine feeling
that they'll be in the top league come next season.
Other bands weren't so convincing. RATCAT - after a promising arrival
- are turning out to be Aussie's answer to a question that should never
have been asked again after New Wave died in Britain. LOVES YOUNG NIGHTMARE
try to fox everyone by turning up in new hairstyles but we'd recognise
those strident yearnings and impassioned hook lines at any Then Jericho
gig. JJ meanwhile wear shades indoors and have a female 'chanteuse'
who persists in whispering breathlessly. Uh huh.
As for THE MILLTOWN BROTHERS. . .well, when they played in front of
ten people at the Powerhaus they were great - impeccable popsters with
everything that entails. But give them a big, boisterous crowd and they
seem to come across as being slicker than a Greek oil tank leak and
irritatingly squeaky clean. Maybe that's just an overall perception
addled by months of seeing their 'product' (man) being plastered over
every retail outlet in the country for what appears to be marginal commercial
gain. Frankly, they deserve better. Given space and a bit of dirt they
might get it.
Dirt is one thing FIVE THIRTY don't lack and it's smeared all over their
Jam (circa 'Modern Worlds)/Who confrontational, contemporary sound.
Tara Milton is the male equivalent Major Label Rock Bimbo, pouting,
strutting and baring his nipples for the chicks. High kicking their
way through 'Abstain', 'Supernova' and '13th Disciple', Five Thirty
win a few fans and split a few seams. Rock Gods are made of less.
DR PHIBES AND THE HOUSE OF WAX EQUATIONS are groovier and riding an
even more ancient gravy train. If any 'contemporary' band is more suited
to the vacant vigours of festival land than a wired-out threepiece with
spooky passages and anvil-heavy rhythms then frankly we're not here.
This is bloody Woodstock reincarnated, a sound so immersed in history
and drug culture that everyone in the tent starts reminiscing about
how they tore their conscription papers up for the 'Nam call up. Probably.
At least WELFARE HEROINE gives the Phibes a run for their money in the
weirdo stakes. Singer Dele tells us that 'Euphoria' used to be called
'Starve The Eagle' and it's about "Accumulation of sexual energy".
Everyone nods wisely, as though they've just fathomed out precisely
what Welfare Heroine's dubby manoeuvres and stunning deployment of effects
means in global terms. Whatever they're on we want some now. On second
thoughts, judging by Dele's dancing, maybe not.
More bands come, more bands go. Some stay where they are. THE POOH STICKS
play slabs of fuzzy pop and tell us this is their last ever gig. But
they lie a lot, so we'll see them when they play London next month,
probably. Singer Hue sports his anti-fashion Radio 1247 T-shirt, sharing
vocals with Heavenly's Amelia Fletcher, for a set that marks a Revenge
On Indie-Pop. Crowd-surfers go into overdrive as they launch through
new single 'Young People' and the traditionally lengthy set-closer 'Im
In You'.
CAPTAIN SENSIBLE is even noisier backstage than he is in front of the
crowd, despite playing 'Smash It Up', but even the Captain is outdone
in the nostalgia stakes by EDWYN COLLINS: incurring a partisan reaction
from people old enough to remember when Postcard was a definitive record
label rather than something you scribble bollocks on in Spain. When
his cuddly, coffee-table set is
curtailed after a happy half hour there's a near riot from frustrated
punters who tug up the tent pegs and kick up a stink of egg-bomb intensity.
The kids are united. Almost.
Outside the tent it's Gothic city. A pasty-faced couple wander the field
in full wedding gear. Inside the tent Cathal Coughlan of FATIMA MANSIONS
is conducting his own Sunday sermon, a ceremony far too sick for Satan's
children. The gospel according to Cathal is blackened by religious indoctrination
forcing itself out so vehemently it makes the exorcism in the Exorcist
look like an Andrex advert.
As Sisters of Mercy drone towards oblivion, THE BLUE AEROPLANES bellow
their way back into the scheme of things. With rock's entire history
being condensed into one set, they seem the ideal choice to wrap up
the present (arf) in a welter of guitar-terrified chords. True, the
minimal swoon of 'Cardboard Box' is forced to battle against the Sisters'
cistern-shuddering beats, but 'Streamers' is a dream, '. . .And Stones'
|is a hip-wobbling delight, and after the disappointment of their Underworld
gig recently, Reading sees the Aeros bubble back to full, crowd-frothing
throttle.
Yet even this return to form is overshadowed by NEW FAST AUTOMATIC DAFFODILS.
If Carter lifted the main stage trophy then the NEW FADS undoubtedly
swipe the gold medal in tentdom. Despite a badly organised set list,
opening with an unknown track, the FADS create a whirlwind of bongo
bashing brilliance which blows through 'Partial' and 'Fishes Eyes' and
tears off the tarpaulin for 'Big'. The kids frug like crazy, the tent
poles shake sympathetically and Reading comes to a funking full stop.
Right. Makes no tense at all.
Simon Williams and Gina Morris