Saturday
A game of Face On, Face Off from the Bearded Kittens
When did seeing bands stop being important? I remember going to
festivals when I was 16, armed with a checklist of at least 12 acts per
day that I simply had to see. Ah, those blissful days of youth when
checking out the latest mediocre indie band mattered more than getting
pissed, or indeed having a piss? As if to ward off the disapproval of
my adolescent self, I am compelled to head for the main stage to see Florence and the Machine.
Various overheard mutterings and hyperbolic journalism suggest that she
may well be the weekend's first must-see performer, and I am intrigued.
Bounding
onto the stage in a black strapless playsuit and peacock-feathered
boots, Florence Welch certainly looks like a star, and she has the
songs to match. Nimbly navigating the subtle melodies of her debut
album 'Lungs', her voice veers from delicate whisper to desolate howl
within the space of a few bars. As she darts from one end of the stage
to the other, her luxurious auburn locks flowing behind her in the
wind, the comparisons with a young Kate Bush seem unavoidable. However,
to damn her for being derivative would be a great injustice. Yes, she
wears her influences on her sleeve – but crucially, she wears her heart
there as well, if you will forgive me the unwieldy double-idiom. Her
whimsically eccentric stage persona belies an artist possessed of a
raw, emotional power.
Tellingly, she is at her weakest during
'Kiss With a Fist', a charming yet ever so slightly cloying paean to
domestic violence re-imagined as a cute courtship ritual. It's when she
transcends this Topshop territory that things start getting exciting –
the ethereal, shimmering 'Rabbit Heart' in particular seems to
captivate the audience, and mundane things such as rain cease to
matter. The final, rousing rendition of Candi Staton's 'You've Got the
Love' emphatically confirms what I've been suspecting: Florence is a
bona-fide soul singer masquerading as an indie princess. 'This is our
first ever performance on a festival main stage', she declares,
mid-set. On this evidence, the first of many.
It's over to the Gaymers stage next to see the legendary Gang of Four,
whose taut white funk has provided a blueprint for a thousand 'angular'
careers. Sadly, their influence doesn't seem to have translated into
record sales, and so a whole new generation of listeners is treated to
their jagged riffs and political rants as they push on towards
retirement age. Despite having replaced the rhythm section with younger
models, the primary source of energy remains 54-year-old singer Jon
King, who catapults across the stage like someone's dad harbouring a
malevolent demon. Roughly shoving his bandmates out of the way, jabbing
his finger at the audience and fixed with a maniacal stare, he is
everything a good frontman should be. Opening with the abrasive,
amelodic 'Return the Gift', he drags us through a brief history of his
band's impressive back catalogue. 'We Live As We Dream, Alone' stands
out, a Marxist-inspired exposition on the alienating effect of
late-capitalist society. His lyrics have lost none of their relevance,
his delivery retains the passion and eloquence of his punk heyday. So
what has changed?
It's us, the audience. We are jaded,
apathetic and cynical. The sight of a middle-aged man pummelling a
microwave with an iron bar beneath a cider advertisement no longer
provokes righteous anti-materialistic sentiment. Instead, we just
shrug, smile and revel in the awkward spectacle of it all. Removing his
shirt, King momentarily has the hunted look of a veteran boxer
returning to the ring for one last fight. The dignified pathos of his
performance is grotesquely undermined by the scenesters next to me, who
have their picture taken in front of the band and leave immediately
after their most famous song, 'Damaged Goods'. They don't know what
they're missing.
Mark Hann
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