V Festival 2008

6th April: The Esplanade, Perth, Australia

No one digs playing the moribund early afternoon shift, except for Hot Hot Heat who cheerfully inform us that any excuse to get drunk by 2pm is good. Its a barely ready, self conscious, aimless rabble which they endeavour to perk into action with waves of synthpunk riffing as the singer leaps from speaker to speaker, exhibiting such a bounty of fun, you get the feeling they'd relish playing anytime, anyplace, any circumstance. Perth's not often the most vivacious audience and it takes the introduction of Bandages to motivate them out of their lethargic head-nodding. An attractive devotchka in a black and white striped top and a red neckerchief offers me some chewing gum and I make a complete hash of it by being completely incapable of grabbing less than six sticks at a time.

In between holding his keyboard at a jaunty angle and whacking it; the singer runs about as if stung by a bee. Whilst that's engaging, it's the drummer who's the engine, pulling off an array of breaks and a circus of rock faces. The singer might be gallivanting the stage and cajoling us into action with sly hand signals, but its this whirling hive of animation at the back that's keeping them honest. They play Middle of Nowhere, which I thought most Perth-ites would be able to relate to, and a livewire Talk to Me, Dance With Me which should get a few telephone numbers exchanged. Goodnight Goodnight staggers their set to a conclusion and there's a tangible sense that all four members just want to keeping bashing whatever's in front of them, if only for a little longer, an insatiable desire to keep playing - they just have to keep playing. Starting their set with a semi-interested crowd of not much more than a hundred they've finish with a throng of six to seven hundred yipping rabidly. Top work.

******

I've inadvertently positioned myself nicely so that when the opening bass drum of Cut Copy announces their arrival I can feel it trembling all through my innermost organs. And from this serendipitous beginning, its all downhill. The crux is; they're just ordinary. The sound is quite polished. They've got reasonable compositional sense. But there's little originality and no sign of personality. Not least, I think it's egregious, nay, damn insulting when the band asks us to "go crazy" then fail to do so themselves, and nah, I don't regard some lank chaos box action as your multi-instrumentalist hits the an extra cymbal once or twice every couple of bars as a worthy substitute. Despite the lifestyle, there's a few bands out there I'm really glad not to be a part of. Cut Copy are one. No fun at all.

******

The Jesus & Mary Chain were like an atom bomb on my youth. I discovered them at just the wrong time and never witnessed any of their reputedly dangerous performances. Subsequent visions of Godhood built up in my mind, during those formative years, and it's taken a non-event like this to question whether I was deluded.

Jim Reid's vocals are almost inaudible, I don't think it has anything to do with his mic, he's got nothing left in his guts. There's a photo of an early Mary Chain gig he's stood about four feet from the base of the mic stand but his mouth is almost next to the mic itself as he execrating everything in one crippling scream. I know all of these songs well and have to sing the vocals in my head so that I can pick up the words. They barely acknowledge the crowd, appearing completely disinterested in the whole debacle. Two dreadlocked crustoodniks pogo out of time a couple of spaces in front. Cracking Up begins with ominous intent but fails to deliver its full deadly payload. There's a genuine dearth of excess. William Reid generates a few momentary squalls of feedback, over which he seems to possess no control. After all this time, I really had no real expectations, but I expected more than this. Even a leathered up Roisin Murphy drifting in to do backing vocals for Just Like Honey can't set the pulse racing. Far Gone and Out, Sidewalking, April Skies, Taste of Cindy, Head on; they murder them all. Perhaps they all want to get back to their East Kilbride boozer and loved ones / drugs. I'll have to listen to Metallic K.O. when I get home to truly remind myself what this shit is all about, or do something radical to shake the feeling that someone's just erased a part of my childhood.

******

Chris, Mac and I decamp to chow down on ludicrously priced kebabs / Chicken Treat and determine tactics with Modest Mouse chugging merrily away in the background. I doubt I'll be converted. In fact I always assumed you have to be American to get their patented kookiness. I'm proved wrong as the local hordes frot wildly. Its a muscular sound that reaches us even at the back of the ground, spliced up with horns and occasional glimpses of Johnny Marr on the enormo-screen.

Instead we snatch good early spots for Roisin Murphy of whose band I'm marrying at least one backup singer. Dood, I'm totally bewitched. Enchanted. My extensive research has completely failed to uncover a name, but she will be mine. I have an unshakable assuredness that not even reality can interfere with.

I haven't heard any of her recent material and the pulsating deep house slant of her opening number not only sets up a blissful, emphatic vibe; it's a surprise. Dolled up in some serious apparel Roisin makes her dramatic entrance, swooning and reaching out to our rising hands. She executes playful little dance steps with her underlings in between lavish before diving into the wings for new threads. It's pure theatre, and unlike Cut Copy, I can't think of many other bands I'd rather be in.

The distance between stages is laughably insignificant with one able to stage hop in simply a couple of minutes. Taking advantage of this I insert a good dose of Queens of the Stone Age tearing up chumps with their brand of deviancy. The drummer, holder of the toughest job in the music industry (ie, you're not Dave Grohl so you're not good enough) thrashes out with a primal fury usually only found in toddlers. "This one's for all you beautiful ladies out there", charms Josh as the TV screen shows beefed up bogans punching the air in readiness for whatever Homme is about to do to them. It's a brief stay but I catch some straight-to-the-jugular pop numbers Little Sister, I'm Designer and a spiralling The Last Feel Good Hit of the Summer (the co-co-co-co-co-co-cocaine song) which mutates into a slithering slide guitar solo and Homme protesting "they tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no". If I'd have
a) stuck around
b) got a decent position
c) actually watched the whole thing
this could have been the best set of the night. There's slick cohesion to match their aural assault. Normally I'd deem it cruel to have two splendid acts playing simultaneously, but being able to splice them up like this (and these two are about as different as humanly possible) is a blast.

I find Roisin wearing a hat that appears to have been modeled from the white wire base of a hanging basket. There's a sweet-ass vibe going around and I find myself dance-walking back to my abandoned chums. As we approach the climax, like so many doomed revellers on the last manic Masque of the Red Death, the mood turns sinister. The siren-like backing singers falls to the floor. Roisin who with her hat in front of her face, looking like some tragic horror mask, blindly staggers, raging against the final curtain as all manner electronic warfare is unleashed. It's not unlike the closing scene of Yeux Sans Visage, as I half expect dogs to burst from the wings and rip her to pieces. Frightening? Maybe, but through some chemical imbalance that occurred in my brain sometime around 1988 the ferociously overdriven 303 sounds like the warmest instrument in the world to me. The blind frenzy peaks, Murphy collapse to the ground, and I'm compelled to revive them with the kiss of life, but alas they recover in time to receive whole-hearted applause. Curses.

Back to Queens of the Stone Age, who are freaking the house out with the high-pitched coral apocalypse of Someone's in the Wolf. They're looking pretty greasy now. Make it with Chu slimes out on us and Sick, Sick, Sick brings the house down. Foxy and gruesome in equal measures.

******

There's a jungle of red balloons onstage and even the soundcheck is deafening (although part of that could be our positioning) as its like sampling all the ingredients that will go into baking a delicious cake later. There's some doe-eyed young socialites looking elegantly wasted and one chick clamouring for water. No stamina or preparation. Cansei De Ser Sexy storm out like petulant, tyrannical brats with no regard for common sense. We're all encouraged to get inebriated, make love, unite in synchronised arm-wave dances and all manner Dionysian behaviour. Lovefoxxx bounds around like a hyper-active kitten in a lycra jumpsuit, featuring a large, red mouth across the lower midriff, her half-Japanese side manifesting in fits of boisterousness. The bass player somehow achieves heart-attackingly provocation simply by slouching in a knee length skirt. There's a cover Missy Elliott, a riot-inducing version of Pretend We're Dead and a couple of new songs that are lapped up just as easily. They're an out and out party band. They started that way and ain't nothing gonna change them. Their energy is commendable. Their grasp of English is charming. Writing a lengthy thesis on these guys is impossible - they're simply entertainment.

The closing Let's Make Love and Listen to Death From Above is prefaced with Lovefoxxx's command "Let's make love, and catch the end of Duran Duran". They finish their set bang on the hour (impetuous and punctual) so maybe they are hell bent on catching the archaic arch brums of disco-pop. Its a song packed with so many hooks, and that taut little bassline that keeps the feet constantly moving, resistance is futile. There's a frenzied cocktail of moshing, proper side to side dancing, snogging and open smiles all round.

******

Jettisoned from the CSS mob we wash up like so much hapless flotsam on the periphery of the unashamed orgy of Duran Duran revellers (incidentally Chris Irvine remarks that if he ever owns two dogs he'll dub them 'Flotsam' and 'Jetsam', or Flo and Jet for short - sounds like a winner to me), licking up the climax of Girls on Film. Whilst never a band I'd actually pay good money to see its hard not give in just a little. Their sound has been tweaked and hardened into a stadium shaking menace, culminating in the camp classic Wild Boys, which through some bizarre mental mechanics I can't fathom, I can remember all the words for.

Next morning: we head to Cottesloe Beach with the hot intelligence that most of the stars will be there. Who could resist the opportunity to witness Simon Le Bon's bloated white corpse. Possibly being examined by Josh Homme, poking at it with a stick. Not to mention my future wife. Alas we get distracted by breakfast. Bloody Mary's on board, with invigorating lashings of Tabasco.

Transcribed by ReverendChris

Postscript: following a highly informative chat with, well, lets call him the music industry Mole, prior to taking the stage Billy Corgan was observed to be sat in a foetal position, hands clasped behind head, slowly rocking backward, forward and shaking, completely incommunicado for a not insignificant period of time. Potential reasons for this symptom have been discussed without any real evidence to identify one specific cause, although it would go someway to explaining what was witnessed. In contrast it should be noted that Jimmy Chamberlain (the Pumpkin's drummer) was polite and mainly lucid before and afterwards.