Live review: T in the Park Festival 2011, Day 3 (10/07/11)

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.

Classic album review: Weezer: 'Pinkerton'

That ear-shattering squeal of feedback. Those disturbingly discordant guitars. Rivers's uncharacteristically gutteral yelps. Less than a minute into 'Pinkerton' and it's quite apparent that this is a very different Weezer than we're used to. Gone are the endearingly nerdy paens to Buddy Holly and Mary Tyler Moore; the dumb fun college rock of tracks like 'Surf Wax America' and 'My Name Is Jonas' has fallen by the wayside, replaced instead by something far darker, far more abrasive and far, far less inviting. It's hardly surprising, then, that this sophomore record was met with howls of objection from fans and critics alike upon its original release, way back in the Britpop and pop punk-tinged summer of 1996. The world just wasn't quite ready for the emo boys to grow up. Which is a pity, really, because with the right musical climate and enough support, this veritable masterpiece could have been Weezer's stepping stone to superstardom.

Bearing the hallmarks of an 'In Utero', this initially difficult and uninviting record slowly reveals its true genius upon closer scrutiny. For all Rivers's laments on opener 'Tired of Sex' may at first seem to be the self-serving moans of a man far too immersed in the spoils of fame, the brutal honesty of the intimate lyrics position the listener as an uncomfortable voyeur. It's an arresting formula and one that makes the album such a starkly fascinating listen. The fuzzy guitar chops and crashing drums that topple their way through 'Getchoo', 'No Other One' and 'Falling For You' are a far cry from the melodic riffs and see-saw harmonies of 'Holiday' and 'In The Garage'. The beauty, however, is that, even here, the album retains the irresistible sparkle of 'Blue'; in fact, at times, its masterful grasp of the mechanics of pop even manages to surpass the band's debut.

'Pinkerton's lightest moment, 'Pink Triangle' - an ode to the perils of discovering that the object of your affection swings the other way - has a hook to die for, as well as a backing medley that manages to be unashamedly good fun and unusually melancholic at the same time. And then there's 'The Good Life', the greatest single Weezer have ever written. Its bittersweet retelling of a mid-life crisis is set to the most masterfully simplistic chord progression in the Cuomo arsenal, producing a track that is effortless in its brilliance. 'El Scorcho' is almost as good, a romantic paen that morphs from creeping dirge to all out punk monster at the two minute mark... and then promptly switches back again, refusing to play ball.

If you prefer your Weezer with a generous portion of pop and a second or third helping of glitzy three chord power rock, you may wish to stay well clear of the abrasive, unfriendly stylings of 'Pinkerton'. You'd be a fool, of course, since this is the most rewarding listen the band have ever produced. Hidden beneath the brusque, angst-ridden surface is a record of great beauty, marrying melancholy and pain with some of the most sumptuous melodies you are likely to hear. 'Blue' may have the immediacy, but 'Pinkerton' has all the longevity. (9.5)

Review: Weezer Memories Tour (Gibson Amphitheater, Universal City, CA: 26-27/11/10)

Flying into Los Angeles at 6.30 in the evening, coasting lightly over neon lights, skyscrapers, palm trees and baseball stadiums, you could be forgiven for thinking this is the most beautiful place in the world. The self-professed city of angels offers its three million residents cloudless skies, glorious weather and spectacular views even his deep into November, making the Christmas jingles and Black Friday Yuletide sales that dominate the local media seem colossally absurd. On the star-studded, sun-kissed streets of West Hollywood, Winter is an alien concept; the Walk of Fame is baking, and the creative types that linger around the bustling coffee houses and independent venues that line the Sunset Strip adjust their shades and reapply their lotion accordingly. There's no end of opulence here; no expense too grandiose, no venture too OTT. Celebrity is just another fact of life, as commonplace as the likelihood of being knocked on your ass by oncoming traffic, whose disregard for your right of way is legendary. Fancy meeting Will.I.Am? Just pop into your local Burger King. Want a few words with Jessica Albert? Hop on the Metro Rapid service and alight at Santa Monica and Elm. The affluence that courses through the city gives it its lifeblood, and perhaps that what makes it so appealing. It's also what makes the place such an unnerving experience, as the many and varied boulevards are littered with the homeless and the destitute. Hollywood's wealth and materialism contrasts starkly with the sheer number of men and women lying sprawled on street corners and offering locals and tourists alike the opportunity to taser them or 'kick [them] in the ass' for five dollars. It's a sobering juxtaposition and one that exposes the real unpleasant underbelly of this otherwise mighty fine city. It's likely that Rivers Cuomo would rather you didn't dwell on such unpleasant facts. It's no coincidence that the first two dates of Weezer's Memories tour, the dream concerts that fans of the band have been praying for since 2001, are taking place in the relative seclusion of the Hollywood Hills, amongst the self-indulgence of the rich and famous. For the man who once wrote a paean to Beverly Hills (played on the 'Blue' date in all its self-referential glory), this is probably second nature; hell, why would you want to hike your gear to the ramshackle pseudo-squat stylings of The Viper Room or even the House of Blues when you can set up shop in the middle of Universal Studios, just north of Mullholland Drive and the infamous Hollywood sign? It certainly makes for a spectacular journey to and from the venue, as fans and celebs alike are forced to navigate the deer crossings and absurd, mind-of-their-own sprinkler systems that flank the gargantuan entrances to the various million dollar hotels of Universal City. Essentially, attending a show at the Gibson is like showing up at a C-list star's garden party, complete with the extortionate drinks prices, impressive memorabilia (Billie Joe Armstrong's electric? Paul McCartney's acoustic? Anyone?) and exploitative gimmicks: not satisfied with the prospect of watching Weezer perform two of the greatest records ever written? Why not have your photo taken 'on the cover of Blue or Green'? Or, even better, 'make a wish' that might just possibly, you-never-know, be granted and get yourself a free pair of imitation Rivers specs? It's all fairly pointless fluff, feeling a little like garnish added just for the hell of it, much like a great deal else in this bizarre city. But then, for all cynicism is tempting in this ludicrous environment, there is another way of looking at all this. When you're charging upwards of £50 per ticket, and offering the hardcore the opportunity to stand in the very limited pit, attend an acoustic set and meet the band for a heart-stopping $300, it would seem rude not to go that extra mile and offer your now bankrupt punters an additional incentive. For all the venue is teeming with celebs on both nights - the drummer from No Doubt, the aforementioned Jessica Albert, Nicole Richie, erm... Good Charlotte - there are just as many, if not more, hardcore fans for whom this is quite probably the highlight of their lives. And indeed, that isn't to say that the celebs aren't any less devoted: members of Australian power pop funksters The Wellingtons have forked out over a grand each for the opportunity to stand on the barrier and bellow the words to 'The World Has Turned And Left Me Here' so really, Weezer, we kinda expect you to do something a bit special. Suffice to say, they don't disappoint. The garnish brings a smile to the face, sure, but it's the meat of the performance that really shines and there's very little distinction in quality over the two nights. Contrary to pre-gig advertisements, the 'Greatest Hits' portion takes place before the main attraction and perhaps unsurprisingly, it isn't 'completely different' on the Friday and Saturday. There's enough of a variety in the ten song soiree, however, and an overwhelming sense of fun to proceedings. The 'Blue' date features more of a standard set, running backwards in time from the straightforward pop-rock absurdity of current single 'Memories' to a sneak preview of Saturday's delights with a quick run-through 'Pinkerton' classic 'Falling For You'. Along the way, we're treated to a cameo from Jorge Garcia - for the uninitiated, Hurley himself - who fumbles his way through an infectious 'If You're Wondering' and subsequently reappears on Saturday for the infinitely superior 'Perfect Situation', storming renditions of 'Red' album singles 'Troublemaker' and 'Pork and Beans', during which Rivers roams around the venue, running up and down the stairwell between blocks, having the time of his life, and a triple threat 'Green' album bonanza as Rivers humps, groans and mid-life-crisis' his way through the superlative 'Photograph', 'Island in the Sun' (featuring Bethany from lacklustre support Best Coast on guest vocals) and a beefed-up 'Hash Pipe', ending proceedings by accidentally smashing his acoustic guitar in a moment of impromptu excitement. Saturday is even better: Rivers leaves Scott to slay a riotous 'Dope Nose', which he does with suitable aplomb, while 'The Greatest Man That Ever Lived' provides a much welcome surprise early in the set, Cuomo singing the bulk of the track while perched precariously on Josh Freese/Pat's drumkit. It's a mere taster of treats to come, however, as Weezer whip out a once-in-a-blue-moon 'Suzanne' and, even better, 'You Gave Your Love To Me Softly', two 'Blue Album' B-sides that have the hardcore salivating at the mouth. Of course, the real reason we're all paying the bulk of a month's wages to be here is the second half of the set and quite frankly, it's worth every last cent. As a precursor to the main attraction, long-serving guitar tech Carl runs us all through a series of album-orientated slides, showcasing his memories of the 'Blue' and 'Pinkerton' eras, and while that may sound a little dry on paper, the never-before-seen shots of the band in the studio recording 'Blue', flyers from early performances at the appropriately named Club Dump, bastardised setlists from 'Pinkerton' shows and photographs from long-lost superfans Mykel and Carli's fanclub Christmas party set the tone for the nostalgia fest that is to come, helping to further whet the already insatiable appetites of the 7,000 devotees in the audience. And when the band walk out on stage, decked in the gear from the respective eras each night and flanked by a huge version of the respective album cover, excitement reaches fever pitch. The opening bars of 'My Name Is Jonas' elicit a roar of appreciation that threatens to blow the roof off the Amphitheater, while the ear-piercing squeal of feedback that precedes an absolutely note perfect and deliciously aggressive 'Tired of Sex' quite literally sends shivers down the spine. It's impossible to determine which night is the superior: these songs are every bit as outstanding as each other, and the performances are flawless. There's no time for between-song banter, Rivers choosing to leave the crowd-baiting to the opening part of the set, and it's a wise decision. The music essentially speaks for itself, and anything less than full band renditions, with Cuomo concentrating on both vocal and guitar, would somehow seem like a cheat. This is how 'Buddy Holly' is meant to be played, not halfway up the lighting rig with Pat forced to play Rivers' parts (as fun as that may be). Perhaps predictably, it's the less-aired tracks that provide the biggest thrills. For all 'Say It Ain't So' sounds massive, the 'Blue' closing trio of 'In the Garage', 'Holiday' and 'Only In Dreams' is the equivalent of a wet dream, feeling like we've all been transported back to Club Dump in 1994 and seeming every bit as intimate. 'Dreams' in particular is phenomenal, marrying Cuomo's delicate vocals with a closing four minute rifffest to die for. 'Pinkerton' is no less spectacular. 'The Good Life' and 'El Scorcho', two of the greatest singles ever written, have lost none of their immediacy in the years since they've received a live airing, and the standing ovations that greet them speak volumes. It was always going to seem like a dream come true, but 'Getchoo', 'No Other One' and 'Across the Sea' are just fantastic, as faithful to the recordings as we could possibly hope for, and infused with an intensity that has the Amphitheater's seated contingent dancing, moshing and emoting in the aisles, while the hardcore faithful down the front stare on in awe, barely able to believe they've been lucky enough to witness this in their lifetime. Inevitably, it's all over far too soon: before long, the band leave Rivers alone with his acoustic and as he strums the opening chords of an eye-wateringly beautiful 'Butterfly', the stage's back wall retracts, opening up the venue to the outside world. It's a brilliantly tender moment and an utterly gorgeous rendition... and Cuomo knows it. He remains on stage for minutes after the final notes, soaking up every last ounce of adulation fired his way by the delirious crowd. As he shuffles quietly off stage and the lights come up, the mood is decidedly ambivalent, the audience wrestling with dejection at the fact that it's all over and the sheer joy (and perhaps relief) that them boys did good. Are these the best gigs of every Weezer fan's life? Well, frankly, yeah. At Universal City, at least, there were no disappointments, no major fuck ups, no half-assed renditions of any of the tracks we've all paid an arm and a leg to see. 'Pinkerton' and 'Blue' in all their note-perfect, raw, untarnished glory piss all over just about anything else you could ever have a hope of hearing, and the bonus of a couple of fairly different greatest hits sets just adds to the feeling that yup, this is about as good as it gets. The choice of venue may be a concession to the more affluent of the state's population and the opulence of the surrounding area may make an uneasy contrast to, say, the more independent areas of the Sunset Strip, but there's simply no denying that these are two truly amazing shows. For the Los Angelenos lucky enough to get a ticket and the fans who've travelled the world for the privilege, the memories alone make every cent worth it. Now let's see if they can do the same with 'Green' and 'Maladroit', yeah? Um....