Day 3 at T finally sees the Main Stage casting aside all bubblegum pop pretenses (that honour is shifted to the unsuspecting NME Stage, where Tinie Tempah, Bruno Mars, Professor Green and euck, Youmeatsix bump manufactured uglies) and taking up its well-earned mantle as bastion of the finest quality indie rock known to the good people of these United Kingdoms, delivering a line-up fit to burst with the legendary, the stupendously talented and Cast. Frankly, the less said about John Power the better, and his successors All Time Low for that matter, although a surprise guest appearance from Rivers Cuomo at the very least raises an eyebrow or two.
No, it’s the return of everyone’s favourite punk-pop pioneers Blondie that’s the catalyst for the stage’s redemption, Debbie Harry still looking like the coolest fucker in the world, resplendent all in white (yes, even her hair) and effortlessly crooning her way through every last one of her band’s timeless, instant, life-affirming hits. With an Atomic here, a Heart of Glass there and the occasional Maria thrown in for good measure, this is the kind of set that most bands would sell their grannies to be able to play, jam-packed with tantalising singalongs and ridiculously addictive melodies. And so what if Debbie forgets a few words here and there… having paid her dues a million and one times over, she’s allowed the odd slip-up. Or three. Bless her, it’s all in good fun, right?
Rivers Cuomo certainly seems to think so. As the heavens open and the rain proceeds to lash down on everyone’s heads, the Weezer frontman takes it upon himself to lighten the mood and bring smiles back to our faces by continuing the midlife crisis he began at last year’s Reading and Leeds Festivals and being, quite simply, daft as a brush for 45 minutes. In a hit packed set that takes in covers of Teenage Dirtbag and Paranoid Android, the bespectacled one clambers down into the quagmire, getting up close and personal with both his audience and the mud, spending five minutes trying to figure out how to don a T in the Park poncho during the Undone intro before ultimately giving up and and wearing it as a cape. He high fives everyone, wears our hats, takes photos of himself with our cameras and occasionally, when he feels like it, plays a little bit of guitar. It’s a deft move, accurately judging the mood of the crowd and giving them exactly what they need to take their minds off the fact that they’re drenched from head to foot; by the time an extra-bouncy Buddy Holly rolls around, no one really gives a shit anymore. A triumph all round, then.
And while the precipitation withers and the sun breaks through the clouds for My Chemical Romance’s return to these hallowed shores, this doesn’t make their job any easier. Faced with a withering crowd and an air of palpable disinterest, MCR have everything to prove and by gosh, do they know it. Striding onstage with guns blazing, looking every bit the cartoon characters depicted on their most recent LP, Gerard, Mikey, Frank and Ray storm through a visceral speed-punk set, mixing the finest cuts from their colorful 2010 release Danger Days with the usual Three Cheers and Black Parade classics. This is no nonsense, four-to-the-floor stuff, an attempt to showcase the talent at the heart of the often image-conscious band and it works. The effort is commendable: Ray works more spidery wonders than usual, delivering guitar riff after guitar riff after guitar riff, Gerard finds whole new rock star poses to pull and shapes to throw and Frank nearly breaks his neck in the process of losing himself in the music. By the closing Famous Last Words, the crowds have doubled, the moshing has multiplied and the victory is assured. A job very well done.
There’s just enough time between the smoke settling on MCR’s blistering set and Jarvis Cocker strutting suggestively onstage to hot-tail it over to the BBC Introducing stage to catch Beth Jeans Houghton dazzling twenty or so mud-splattered individuals - one dressed in a crocodile onesie - with her quite remarkable voice and unique blend of traditional folk and softly-spoken indie. If there’s any justice in the world, she’ll be a household name in a year or two; Pulp, on the other hand, have been a household name for nearly twenty years, but one that was barely spoken for over ten, until Cocker and co did the admirable thing and found each other again. Sensibly, they trot out a greatest hits set, opening with a beautiful Do You Remember The First Time? and finishing on a glorious, celebratory, rip-roaring Common People. Unfortunately for Pulp, the section in-between, with the exception of a cathartic Sorted and a bootylicious Disco 2000, falls a little flat… although through no fault of Pulp’s. This certainly isn’t for lack of trying - Cocker is an instantly likable, extremely engaging frontman, telling stories, cracking jokes, handing out sweets and wiping his arse with the last ever edition of the News of the World, but sadly, this simply isn’t Pulp’s crowd. These rabid, rock-starved individuals are here for the Foo Fighters and this hour of terribly twee indie seems out of place on a day characterised by the heavier end of the guitar based spectrum.
Alas, no matter. Pulp are delightful anyway, and Dave Grohl and his band of merry men certainly surpass everyone’s expectations, delivering an appropriately apocalyptic two hour set to accompany the torrential downpour that resumes in full force. The show is essentially a downscale version of their Milton Keynes Bowl extravaganza, but the Scots love every whirlwind, rip-roaring moment… probably as much as the hundred or so devotees who make up the T-Break Stage audience for Kilmarnock’s finest Fatherson, singing every last word back at the three-piece, a shockingly young bunch to be peddling such obvious talent. Thankfully, the band respond in kind, blowing the roof off with their Manchester Orchestra-esque alt rock stylings and proceeding to experience, in their own words (or thereabouts) “the best thirty minutes they’ve ever played”.
There’s a similar situation taking place over at the Red Bull Stage, where the tent is packed to the rafters for Noah and the Whale, indie kids, pop freaks and alt-leaning chin-strokers alike uniting under a common, heartfelt love of the band’s really quite lovely new record. These are the kind of singalongs that beget headline slots; indeed, it’s arguable that these guys should’ve occupied that hallowed position on the bill this evening based purely on numbers alone. However, although less people seem interested, that honour deservedly belongs to Eels who tonight, play a 16 track, 50s-inspired rock-soul-and-roll bonanza, each band member dressed up to the nines in waistcoat, tie and suit pants, the brass section swinging into overdrive and E on uncharacteristically jovial form, barking bizarre adjectives at his audience and telling us all that he’s glad to be “fighting Foo”. Every track is shot through with an extra layer of urgency and a healthy dose of fun, Flyswatter developing a whole new lease of life with extra guitars, I Like Birds sounding like it’s on crack and Fresh Blood quite literally scaring the bejeesus out of everyone. For all the Foos got the numbers, Eels gave us the surprises, delivering one of those sets that you just WISH you’d been at. It’s a fitting end to a rich three days, demonstrating that more often than not, you just have to look a little harder to find the real magic. More T next year, vicar? Don’t mind if we do.
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