I just wanna relax
DAY ONE
Most often I find myself horrified at festival line-ups. However, this time, I just couldn’t avoid the fact: the line-up was amazing. As pointed out by Wayne Coyne during the Flaming Lips set (“We’re so proud to be playing this festival”), whereupon he listed all the bands I’d just been to see myself… great minds and all that.
We had a couple of lucky breaks upon arriving. Firstly, our PayPal tickets meant we miraculously joined a different, and much less ‘Star Wars’, queue and secondly, we weren’t sucked into Primavera’s preposterous notion that you can get Group 4 to run your automated BoozeUpCard system and not piss a whole lot of people off when said system becomes drunk with power and promptly dies of gout about three hours into the start of the festival.
I JUST WANNA RELAX! I JUST WANNA RELAX!!
BIT late to see much of Of Montreal, but the last three songs were fantastic – and I love a man in a wrestling uniform.
Missed the first ten minutes of P.I.L. (where they played Public Image, probably), but upon arriving some boring old fart stood there huffing and steaming in a puffa jacket while some smacked out tramp stood there playing a banjo with abandon and making it sound EXACTLY like the demented guitar of Keith Levine (although I’m reliably informed that it wasn’t Keith Levine). And said boring old fart… sounded just like John Lydon. That’s one of the all time great voices that is, fact fans.
P.I.L.’s set was incredible. They played loads of hits – Poptones, Chant, Public Image (probably), Rise, even OPEN UP, plus a seventeen-hour-long prog version of This is not… and a version of Flowers Of Romance that had me shaking it wildly whilst picturing VERY angry punks going to see P.I.L.’s first shows and crucifying this revolutionary punk rock outfit. P.I.L. are quite clearly more punk rock than the Sex Pistols ever were. There, I’ve said it. For me, certain phrases (‘pop music’, ‘rock and roll’, ‘punk rock’) have sod all to do with describing the sound or type of music, except in the way that intention affects the way we play.
Then we have about ten minutes to attempt to buy beer again before the Suicide Promotional Service begins, and whaddya know? Grinderman turn it out like mythological gods. Despite a lack of Evil and Go Tell the Women, Grinderman do THE THING, as is their wont. WTF else are they going to do? Especially with that sexy midget maracas player, legs open wider than Mary Millington or Peter Hook, shirt open lower than that and perceived morals even lower. Do you think Warren’s balls are really that huge? Probably. But YELLOW?? As for Nick – he just wants to relax – but how many people DIDN’T go “oooooooof!” when the camera cut to an extreme close-up of his face just as he gobbed onto his own chin? POP MAGIC!
So, after watching The Greatest Pop Group Ever (more of them later), it’s time for the Flaming Lips. Weirdly, though, the world’s most funnest don’t do it for me this time. I can’t tell if it’s just that WAYNE COYNE IS DRUNK WITH POWER or if it’s because I’ve been to the Flips “it’s the end of the world and isn’t it great to be alive?! Let’s have a party!!!” party so many times and the whorl didn’t end, but somehow I felt cheated. I think maybe it could be the way they re-recorded Dark Side Of The Moon (yuk) – the most horrible album EVER – with Henry Rollins (more yuk) and Peaches (even yet still more yuk). Or it could be the last album, with its…total lack of songs or lyrics. No. I can forgive them that, but calling a FLAMING LIPS song ‘Is David Bowie Dying?’ and not delivering…
But then they played Do You Realise, and, well, you can make as many mistakes as you like, can’t you? It’s on everyone’s funeral song list and I do feel great to be alive!
after that we saw bits and pieces of things…We RAN to El Guincho, but seems Primavera had a very bad habit of putting acts on early, so instead of missing 10 minutes, that 10 minutes was all we got. It was a grrrreat 10 minutes, though, semi naked ladies rolling around in feathers on stage and a nice open happy feel in the audience. We twirled for awhile, but we needed space in the soul…unfortunately we got too much of this on….
DAY TWO
I JUST WANNA RELAX!
For some fucking stupid reason the idea that The National were popular made me think I’d like to go and have a look. Eh? Seems that day one was so good I’d forgotten that John and Jenny Punchclock have got such shit taste in music, because they don’t actually LIKE music, they like going out and getting drunk and dancing and meeting fellas and making love and doing the hoovering and shopping for MP3s. Anyway, maybe you’d like them if you like UGLY MIDDLE AGED OFFICE WORKERS WITH GREY HAIR GREY CLOTHES GREY VOICE GREY MIND AND GREY SOUL. As the world’s most unimaginative bass player (quite a feat given what most cunts pass off for bass “playing” 99 percent of the time) plays THE SAME INDIE LANDFILL BASSLINE OVER AND OVER AND OVER WHILST SOME FAT CITY BOY WITH THE SAME LACK OF STYLE CREAMS OFF THE PROFITS FROM YOUR GULLIBILITY THEN GOES HOME AND LISTENS TO (the infinitely superior) ROBERT PALMER. Fucking kill ‘em. And yourself if you like them.
I JUST WANNA RELAX!
I JUST WANNA RELAX!
Mainly day two was shit. Not quite, but almost. Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti actually sounded as strange and ancient as their records, Half Japanese were just fat, and that band from Sheffield… oh yeah, they were QUITE GOOD. There was a man near us that had obviously left his T-shirt in the washing machine a few days too long. We kept trying to dance away, but his smell kept re-appearing. A very Pulp detail.
They were QUITE GOOD. Quite good, as in perhaps the best pop group to ever escape from the UK. Russell was there but you couldn’t hear him. So was Cocker, but you could barely hear him, either. To be honest you could barely hear owt apart from Nick on the ones and twos and about sixteen billion people singing every word. I’m still reeling from missing Pulp at Glastonbury ’95, but between this and Cocker’s sublime festival appearance at Secret Garden 2009 I’m slowly coming to terms with it. Basically, I am very very very very happy that it is ON again, even if it’s just for cash or because collecting antique glass just ain’t as good as rock and roll. I bumped into Candida in the street last year, training to be a counsellor. Christ, imagine going to see a counsellor and it turns out to be Candida. What would you tell her???!
Anyway, LOOK, PULP ARE/WERE/WILL ALWAYS BE A M A Z I N G. You don’t need me to tell you that. If you don’t get it, you don’t like pop music.
DAY THREE
Upon arrival we thought that eating a ‘Jon Spencer Blues Explosion Burger’ (at the stand that also sold HOT SANDWICH PULP!) might help. Maybe it did. Either way, day three was almost as good as day one.
Wasn’t really feeling the Warpaint thing. That wasn’t one of the few good things about the eighties, kids, it was all the bad things. Not sure if Einsturzende Neubauten were either, but they certainly weren’t one of the bad things here. We foolishly skipped the second half of their set to see Money Mark, but he wasn’t up to much. We also went to see about five minutes of Gonjasufi, who weren’t so hot either, but made us laugh because mister damp T-shirt was playing bass. In a smelly T-shirt way.
Then the evening took an unexpected turn. I was dragged to see PJ Harvey. And whaddya know? Unbelievable. Some of it was definitely a sex appeal thing – she is almost unbearably cute, but the whole thing rocked, definitely helped by…Mick Harvey being in the band?!?! Really?! Ouch! Half expected to see Blixa do a guest spot, maybe a cover of People ain’t no Good. Either way it was pretty funny as well as being all rocking and that.
Then another strange turn. I lost my girl, wandered past some racket and found myself drawn into… Swans. I have always HATED Swans. YUK. But… wow! just… wow! Nasty white angry dirge turned into… nasty white angry dirge, but with such a funk I couldn’t believe it. There were moments when they were the nearest thing I’ve ever witnessed to how I imagine those Can shows must’ve been. Intense and wild and… groovy? Really? Jesus. Anyway, I found myself running forward and dancing my tits off.
This left me SO READY for Animal Collective like you wouldn’t believe. Seems everyone but me reckons that they’re crap live, but surely after this there can be no more debate. They were almost the best thing at the festival. Almost.
The best thing happened right after Grinderman, and cutesy fanboy Nick Cave knew it before it even happened…spent most of his set telling everyone to go see them (“they’re the greatest, just the greatest, they’re the reason any of us are playing rock and roll in the first place”). I too am about to gush my face off here, but for those of you that already love this band just the one word will do, and that word is Suicide. SUICIDE. SOOO-I-CIIIIIDE. I have seen this band over and over and over since I was sixteen, and every time it’s the same. I laugh, I cry, I shake, I dance, I scream with joyful abandon. I swear that this is the best gig I’ve ever seen them do. And tonight at Primavera they are ON FIRE and I’m shaking to the most delirious rock and roll since Jerry Lee. I’m laughing at that acid fried tramp – seventy fuckin’ two years old – being the most inspirational singer alive, I’m crying big gloopy tears all the way through the most HOLY HOLY version of Che, keyboard chops going all funky at the end and all, dancing like an animal to a super-sexy Girl, screaming uncontrollably when Marty’s high keyboard part burns its way into the call-to-arms that is Frankie Teardrop. As Suicide always point out to the deaf ears of the goths and the Rock’s Rich Tapestry box-tickers , they’re called Suicide because they wanted to recognise LIFE. Come on get up! COME ON GET UP!! We’re all Frankies! COME ON GET UP!!! I swear that this was the best gig I’ve ever seen them do, again.
So it’s the last night and we’re all just about still standing. Although the concrete has taken it’s toll on the legs, we all amble up to see the other Rev. They were my favourite band on earth for about five years until they got ‘goooood’, but tonight it’s easy to remember why they were my favourite band on earth. Deserter’s Songs – not even their second best album – is still beautiful. Jonathon Donahue is scary as all hell – I think he finally read the ‘how to be a rock star’ book that someone gave him as a leaving present, but something about him is kind of phoney, not quite real, and I can’t be sure if it’s the bottles of wine that he’s freely swigging from or the tablets he looks like he’s on (prescription), or that he’s discovered Jesus, or just that he’s quite, quite insane. Whatever it is, he’s fascinating to watch, and Mercury Rev… they SOAR. Sorry, but it’s what they do. And it’s not even their second best album.
Trying to squeeze the last nuggets of joy from what has basically been the best music festival I’ve ever been to, I manage to convince a few of the gang to head over to the big party, promising that Declan Allen will probably play a bunch of Motown. He doesn’t play any. He DOES, however, treat us to the best indie disco most of us have never been to, songs we never thought we’d get to rage to again – Teenage Riot, Boredom, Shot By Both Sides – we careen happily around the room, and I’m reminded why I ever bothered in the first place. Nothing else is as good as music is it?
