Review: Arcade Fire (w/Mumford & Sons, The Vaccines, Beirut, Owen Pallett), Hyde Park, 30/06/11

It's a frustrating fallacy that the best gigs to take place in the great outdoors are those in which the Heavens smile down on the collective masses, blessing them with clear skies, beating sunshine and nary a drop of precipitation in sight. While weather conditions can certainly play a part in one's enjoyment of the performance, more often than not, they accentuate rather than define it, adding to rather than setting the tone. Take the pathetic fallacy of Muse's triumphant Leeds Festival show in 06; 'Knights of Cydonia' would have been an appropriately apocalyptic opener without the on cue torrential downpour, but its presence became the delicious icing on an already scrumptious cake. And as it was for Matt Bellamy, so it is for Win Butler, Marcus Mumford and every other young pup lucky enough to grace the big ol' carnivalesque stage plonked in the middle of Hyde Park on this oh-so-fine June Thursday, the graciously scorching sun beating down on 60,000 extremely vocal Londoners, adding an extra dose of magic to an already extra special event.

But it almost didn't happen; 90 minutes after the doors swung open to reveal a cinematically-theme arena, complete with tent showing Arcade Fire's Suburbs movie and a stage with a cinema front and drape with bunting, the clouds took the sun from us and promptly took an extra vicious piss on our heads. To add insult to injury, the wind took it upon itself to blow said rain stagewards, prompting a flurry of activity as roadies and band members desperately tried to cover the precious equipment that had been left out in the apparent safety of the afternoon heat. More fool opener Owen Pallett's management but then, thankfully, it doesn't last long. It possibly cuts his all-too-brief set short by one or two songs but it's no matter; the few Pallett does play are received well, despite a few dodgy sound problems to begin, and London is sufficiently wooed by his decidedly sophisticated, and at times disturbingly sexual, violin playing to ignore any unfortunate blips anyhow.

It certainly helps that Owen has the fortune to be introduced by long-time friend and musical partner Win Butler, an honor sadly not bestowed upon The Vaccines, this afternoon's unquestionable black sheep, their proudly uncomplicated two chord indie rock palette standing out like a sore thumb in this multi-instrumental, muso rock jamboree. No matter, the boys don't let it phase them. Justin pulls shapes, strikes poses and shoves his band members around like a consummate rock professional, climbing atop the monitors, goading the audience into movement, whizzing around the stage on speed during an extra energetic 'Wrecking Bar' and getting the otherwise nonplussed in the audience to lose their inhibitions and dance along like loons to the very bloody daft 'If You Wanna', providing the first true 'moment' of the day. It's officially a success, even if they still really, really need to turn that bloody bass down in the mix. And play the uncensored version of 'Post Break-Up Sex', not the timid radio edit. Hell, if Mumford & Sons can whip out 'Little Lion Man', expletives and all, you can insert the appropriate 'fucking' into your most popular song, guys.

There are no such gripes with Beirut's very bloody lovely set, however; their brand of sun-tinged folk goes down an absolute storm this afternoon, desperate several thousand in attendance having absolutely no clue who they are. It's a shame really, especially as Marcus Mumford tells us all that they've been a huge influence on him since well before he even thought about forming a band. If there were any justice in the world, masterpieces like 'Santa Fe' and 'Vagabond' would be as ingrained in the public consciousness as the entirety of 'Sigh No More' but regardless, today's quite considerable exposure and triumphant performance should be enough to get them a few thousand extra record sales at the very least. And extra props for inspiring one punter to play - and bash - a green ukelele of his own throughout the show. When you bring out that kind of mad, you know you're onto a winner.

There's an entirely different atmosphere reserved for hometown heroes Mumford & Sons, however. In place of polite appreciation, we have a determination to tear seven shades of shite out of all of our vocal chords, London apparently hellbent on ruining its collective larynx, bellowing every last word like there's no tomorrow. For a fairly significant proportion of the crowd, this is the highlight of their evening, the performance they've paid their £48 to see. This is, of course, a terrible shame, since Butler and chums are about seventy times the band Mumford will ever be, but nonetheless, there's no denying the quite astonishing power of many of these humble, carefully crafted songs. 

Love 'em or hate 'em, you cannot escape the spine-tingling beauty that is 60,000 voices singing the 'Roll Away Your Stone' and 'Little Lion Man' refrains in unison, a spectacle that brings embarrassingly cheesy grins to the faces of the band members, prompting each and every one to bring their A game, Marcus screaming words rather than singing them, Ben hammering away at his keyboard, stomping a mudhole in the stage. There are new songs - several, actually - and they are all received like long lost friends, London even learning the choruses during the songs and singing them back at the band. Mumford have Hyde Park eating out of the palms of their grubby hands and by the time gargantuan closer 'The Cave' rolls around, even the most stern of critics is forced to admit that this cannot be considered anything other than a glorious, well-deserved success.

And for a moment, this almost threatens to overshadow Arcade Fire's performance. Despite a suitably mood-setting introduction, in which a movie screen shows clips from The Suburbs film, when the opening bars of 'Ready to Start' begin, they don't quite have the rabble-rousing power that they should; sound problems blight the track. Its dark, angular stabs fall a little flat, failing to ignite that much-needed spark. Fortunately, this is a very temporary blip. By the next song, things are back on track as the band unleash a gigantic curveball in the form of 'Wake Up', their usual set closer, brought forward this evening so the band 'can see everyone's faces while it's still light'. It's a risky move but one that pays dividends. In the wake of 'Ready to Start's disappointments, it's a much-needed breath of familiar fresh air, invigorating the masses and producing the first of many bone-chilling, butterflies-in-stomach moments as the power of 60,000 voices bellowing the song's brilliantly simplistic, euphoric chorus is truly, truly astonishing. This wave of heartfelt emotion kicks the band into gear too, Richard Reed Parry sending drumbeats crashing around our ears with extra vigor, Will rolling around the stage like he's committed and Win so overcome with adrenalin that he throws his much-loved tambourine into the audience at song's end, with some lucky punter either having something to cherish for the rest of their days or one gigantic, percussion-shaped bruise to remember the evening by.

And the moments just keep coming: there's Regene looking and sounding like a Goddess, shimmying and shaking her way through an utterly gorgeous 'Haiti', a vision in a multi-colored dress and later, with similarly shaded streamers, dancing seductively to funky-as-hell closer 'Sprawl II'. There's the Chinese lantern propelled through the sky and over the stage as the band kick into the first bars of 'Keep the Car Running', Win directing all eyes skywards to gaze at the beautiful sight. There's the stunned, humbled, ecstatic faces of every member of the band as Hyde Park sings all the words to 'The Suburbs' in perfect harmony, the sight of the pom poms handed out before the show held aloft and glistening in the night sky; Win provoking the crowd into making as much noise as possible to annoy the rich neighbours, whose apparent objections have led to a turning down of the volume and a fairly early curfew. And of course, there's the undeniable beauty of the crowd singing the instrumental parts of 'Power Out' and 'Tunnels', overpowering the music.

The highlight, however, is undoubtedly the mid-set chaos caused by the trifecta of reckless abandon that is the messy, uncontrollable 'Month of May', the anthemic 'Rebellion (Lies)' and the jagged, abrasive 'Laika'. Pits open up, bodies are shoved in all directions and crowdsurfers make their way stagewards, all caught up in the unrelenting energy emanating from the stage. 'Month of May' in particular is a monumental piece of primeval, sprawling musicianship, threatening to fall apart at the seams with every passing moment and eventually doing so under the weight of Win's uncontrollable guitar chops, Parry's sporadic ad-libs and those bloodcurdling screams. And as it descends into a mess of glorious noise, the band having pummeled their audience, Win perched on the barrier, goading the sweat-drenched masses, the song morons into the opening drumbeat of 'Rebellion' before anyone's noticed, catching us all unawares and sending further shivers coursing down the spine.

By show's end, and the heartwarming, seemingly never-ending applause and chants that make their way from field to stage, causing the band to linger longer than expected, it's apparent that this really is Arcade Fire's night, their moment, their triumph. Those that come before do an admirable job and, in some cases, almost manage to match their masters, but in the end, the genius of the Fire's set, the power of their performance and the devotion of the crowd win out. With a little help from some spectacular weather and 60,000 beautiful voices, Arcade Fire pull off the biggest gig of their career with suitable aplomb. "We will never forget this night", says Win, beaming smile etched into his face. Nor will we Win, nor will we.

Review: NME Awards Tour (Crystal Castles/Magnetic Man/Everything Everything/The Vaccines), Newcastle O2 Academy, 07/02/11

Another year, another NME Awards Tour and another round of much-heralded wannabes from the indie Zeitgeist, clawing to translate the magazine's excessive cock sucking into actual record sales. To be fair to the commendably diverse bunch on tonight's bill, they're all on the cusp of greater things, having wormed their way into the alternative consciousness by virtue of either a few undeniably catchy indie/electronica-pop ditties or the helping hand of the well-oiled hype machine. The question, of course, is whether they can earn their stripes and convince the rabid masses that they're worthy of their time, effort and download limits.

Unfortunately, things don't go too well for The Vaccines. Crippled by an atrocious sound guy, who seems determined to project internal organs out of mouths by turning the bass up to life-threatening, their four-to-the-floor indie scuzz gets lost in a sea of overbearing distortion, leaving the first half of the set pallid and lacking in character. The band seem acutely aware of the problem, going through the motions for the majority of the performance, and only really coming alive when 'Post Break Up Sex' wakes everyone up. Unfortunately, the three minute exercise in relentless drone-making sounds even worse live than on record, but nevertheless, the boys, girls, mums and dads in the audience get themselves all excited and, you know, jump up and down a bit. 'Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra)' very nearly saves the day, sounding positively invigorating for its wonderfully brief one minute and twenty-four seconds, but sadly, the set doesn't end here and the Vaccines continue for a further ten minutes of incomprehensible caterwauling.

Local heroes Everything Everything suffer too. Lead singer Jonathan Higgs' vocals are too low down in the mix and their uniquely intricate, delicately flavoured sound becomes lost in translation in such an imposing venue. All is not entirelyn lost, however: 'Schoolin' and 'MY KZ YR BF' sound thrilling and 'Photoshop Handsome' is one of the evening's undeniable highlights, giving the crowd the first excuse to shake their asses in fantastically embarrassing fashion. And the Devo-esque full body uniforms are pretty nifty too.

Magnetic Man is essentially an exercise in pantomime, with hired hand Sgt Pokes proving a most effective showman, adept at working this bounciest of crowds (incite a repetitive action, praise the crowd, crack a terrible joke/pun and repeat ad nauseum). However, he does seem a bit of a waste: there's no actual skill involved here, no rapping and barely any MCing. The DJs don't really do much either, essentially playing a bunch of records for half an hour, while Newcastle goes ape shit. This might as well be a Friday night at Digital, for which we'd all pay a hell of a lot less. It doesn't help that every song sounds the bleedin' same: take one grime/dubstep-influenced 'dirty' beat, add a few vocoder effects, sprinkle with some keyboard wizardry and hey presto, you've got yourselves a hit.

Crystal Castles suffer from no such problem; their undeniably varied palette is every possible shade of shite imaginable. The aural equivalent of a prolonged enema, these guys are an excruciating migraine of a band, whose primary remit appears to be to spew as much pretentious wank as possible on an unsuspecting public before imploding in a haze of their own bullshit. Unfortunately guys, a load of incomprehensible screaming and a Spectrum ZX81 do not a good record make.

And yet, strangely, there's something undeniably captivating about their live show. Like all good car wrecks, it's just impossible to look away; Alice Glass cuts a mean, imposing figure stood atop the monitors, perched on her broken ankle (now there's a commendable feat... performing with such a painful injury and jumping up and down on it), beckoning to the crowd, goading the masses, looking like the coolest fucker in the world. And then there's Ethan Kath, silent as a mouse, face hidden by his hoodie, quietly ushering those otherworldly noises out of his CASIO keyboard (or whatever the hell it is). They're shrouded in darkness of course, punctuated only by the myriad strobe lights that threaten to blind the pill-happy audience. It's an arresting visual and one that ensures you won't take your eyes off the stage. Now if only we could press the 'mute' button.

So, the verdict? The jury is well and truly out. There are no legendary moments, no game-changing, once-in-a-lifetime performances, but there are no unmitigated disasters either. The Vaccines come closest to disappointing us, losing their oomph thanks to some very poor sound decisions, but even these guys have their ace in the hole. Everything Everything have moments that impress, Magnetic Man steal the audience's hearts despite sounding somewhat monochrome and Crystal Castles achieve the unenviable feat of convincing even the most vehement of haters that they're at least worth watching. Not quite the well-rounded success story these bright young things would've wanted but hell, it's a start, eh?