Leeds - Day 2

Even though the band I want to see the most are playing today, as well as the ‘Fucking Pixies’, I think Saturday may actually be the worst day, especially when looked at in depth rather than highlights. There is certainly very little I’ve been looking forward to in the afternoon anyway.
When we saw Cinerama in London a few years ago I thought it was cool that the audience was largely made up by excitable thirty-something bald men who loved the wedding present, a crowd made up of numerous examples of my mate Nige.
There were a lot at the main stage yesterday to watch the re-formed Wedding Present play an early afternoon set of their ‘fast indie’ as Nige calls it. I surprised myself with how much of the material I was familiar with; I thought I only knew about a dozen WP (no sorry) songs. Nice way to start the day.
I really wanted to like Graham Coxon, after all he was the coolest one in one of my favourite bands of the nineties. Some of his songs are okay, but it’s delivered with such an obvious air of intentional ineptitude that it’s hard to warm to him. That he spent the time in between songs talking in some sort of wet baby-voice started to put me off my moonmince and onion pie. Hmm, moonmince. Put yourself together Graham.
Marie’s sister Denise has heard of band called Mando Diao, that she stated to Marie that I would love. We were both curious about this band that were apparently made for me but not for Marie, so wandered across to the diddy tent to check them out. We thought it would be empty, yet it was packed for some band called The Paddingtons. Listening to them from outside the tent I deduced that they were fucking shit. Why the place was rammed with Doherty wannabes when it was barely half full for The National later on annoyed me somewhat. If somebody tells you to listen to The Paddingtons, please reply ‘Don’t talk to me, they’re fucking shit. You twat.’ That is the only suitable response.
Whilst I’m using unnecessary swear words, we wandered past the tent were Fightstar were due to come on. I thought I’d check it out as I heard they’d been bottled at Reading the day before. And they were again.
Okay, it’s not my bag, but why the fuck would you go out of your way to see a band that you hated so much that you’d chuck bottles at them? Stroppy fucking teenagers piss me off sometimes. I used to be a stroppy teenager and I was a conceited, idiotic little prick. I grew out of it as I approached adulthood (heh, maybe not), and I hope these people do the same. I’d never have chucked a bottle at someone though, and I don’t see the fucking logic in it. I went round scowling at emo foetuses for the rest of the day.
Anyway, Mando Diao were quite fun. They were a Swedish five piece, most of whom looked to be under the drinking age, and one who looked like Bryan Adams. They played (very) up-tempo guitar rock, with lots of choruses and a frankly impressive amount of energy. I can’t say it was 100% my bag, but the sheer energy and effort dragged me along and I found myself really enjoying them.
The National were on next and I became alarmed that there weren’t many people in the tent. It filled up a bit during the performance but these guys should have been on the main stage.
This is the band that I wanted to see most of all and I was in danger of over-hyping the whole thing in my head. It took about a second though to realise that what I was going to see one of the best live music experiences of my life. I don’t understand how I can be considering using the adjective moving for a band playing in a tent. But it was. It was so beautiful, touching, exciting yet moving that I wondered if I was going to embarrass myself in a tent full of strangers. Still, some people were also getting frightfully into it so I wouldn’t have been alone.
They only played for forty minutes, but that was enough to confirm that this was a new band like I haven’t had in my life for the last few years. Matt Berninger could quite be the coolest frontman I’ve seen. He spends most of the songs huddled next to the mic, arms pushed round himself for protection, staring into the middle distance as he chain-smoked his way through the set. Then every now and then he’ll seem to have a fit, screaming and jerking around the stage, something that got even the casual observers to my left looking at each other in a ‘what the fuck?’ way. Then he’ll stop, look like he’s just taken something out of himself and go back to hanging from the mic with another fag.
So much of music is overblown and obvious, here was something understated that was worth a thousand times as much.
We checked out The Killers next. They’re okay and I quite liked their album at first (even though I haven’t listened to it in a year), but I feel that I would have gone to see another band if there was one I really wanted to see.
I certainly don’t like The Killers enough to be squashed in close vicinity to smelly festival goers who scream tunelessly along to every word.
After a stop for more moonmince (hmm, moonmince) we settled down (though remained stood) for The Pixies. The Pixies surprised the hell out of me last year, but this year I was prepared for the fact that they’d be fantastic. And they were.
They played for hours, included all your favourites and were great. You would have loved them. Go and see them if you get the chance before they get expand so much that they can’t fit on the stage anymore. Or they start fighting again.