Download Festival: Fear, Loathing And Phantom Lemonade Stands

Photograph: Slipknot by Gobinder Jhitta/Download 2015

The sun is shining, the drinks are flowing and there’s an elderly woman drunkenly wrestling with a teenager. She’s winning. Welcome back, Download. We’ve missed you.

Friday

After a hearty breakfast of Mr. Kipling products and Budweiser, we trot down to the Zippo Encore Stage, where a troupe of Māori dancers are having it large. Their moves are hypnotic in their aggressive slappiness, but it turns out they’re an intro to Rival State’s set. Despite the build up, they churn through some pretty bland alternative rock before disappearing.

All That Remains are on the Main Stage and aren’t faring well at all. The budget Killswitch crew draw a baffling amount of punters as frontman Phil Labonte serenades Donington with the cheese-laden stinker What If I Was Nothing. We can’t hack it.

Having fled, we arrive at the Maverick Stage and get our faces slapped about by Krokodil. The band’s treacle-thick, early Mastodon-tinged rumble is fronted by the formidable Simon Wright, a man whom you'd congratulate on the way he punches you just so he won’t do it again. It’s great to see Lags concentrate on playing guitar instead of flailing around like a carp in an asylum, while Daniel P. Carter smashes at his guitar and screams at the crowd. It’s something you’d never see other Radio 1 presenters doing.

Next, we hunt for lemonade. Last year, there was a stall that sold the tastiest lemonade known to man. During the course of the festival, they harvested around £30 from each of our wallets. There is no lemonade stall, but there are some tears.

Deprived of sugar, we sulk to the Main Stage for At The Gates. They’re meticulously tight – obviously – but something's wrong. Tomas Lindberg holds his microphone to a surprisingly thin crowd, mouthing along to Death And The Labyrinth and Slaughter Of The Soul. This crowd is so fucking stoic.

​Photograph: At The Gates by Danny North/Download 2015

It's At The Gates – you should be losing your mind. Lindberg doesn’t catch on, powering through supreme comeback tune At War With Reality like he’s headlining Wembley Stadium, not realising that he’s playing to people who, for some absurd reason, don’t know his music. Blinded By Fear incites some movement, but it’s just not good enough. At The Gates are among the founding fathers of melodic death metal and – by default – metalcore. A little respect would be nice.

Hiking up the hill and catching the end of Blues Pills makes us feel a bit better, though. These young rockers have amassed a sizeable horde, Devil Man is a certified tune and Elin Larsson wails away like Janis Joplin is still with us. Bring on album two.

Instead of watching Defeater, we see Lacuna Coil. And thoroughly regret it. Every time the goth metallers get a decent groove going – we're all suckers for Cristina Scabbia's chorus in Spellbound – Andrea Ferro pipes up, sounding like Roz from Monsters. Inc. Oh well. It's Clutch next. And Clutch are the best band on the planet.

Everything from Neil Fallon's opening declaration-  “Let's pour some gravy on these biscuits” - to the fact that most of the setlist hails from their latest LP – the rock 'n' roll masterpiece that is 'Earth Rocker' – affirms Clutch's status as the kings of everything, ever. They play a new song and it's so good, a guy next to us does a backflip.

To describe Five Finger Death Punch as a future headline act two years ago would have resulted in hilarity all around. No longer. They look, sound and act like absolute rock stars. No matter what you think of the band's music – Pantera for dummies – it hits so damn hard. Lift Me Up, The Bleeding and Burn MF are genuine headliner material, and they’re executed with a brash, undeniably confident demeanour to rival Slipknot. Five Finger Death Punch are playing Wembley Arena this November and don't be surprised if you see them topping the bill at Donington in a couple of years.

In true British fashion, the clouds have unloaded a bucket of piss all over us. For this reason, the Maverick Stage is heaving when Dragonforce arrive. It's business as usual – songs about hammers, glory and fire delivered with the required amount of camp and technicality – but a surprise appearance from Babymetal takes the guilty pleasure aspect to a completely different level. What's worse? Fully grown men singing about quests or Japanese girls banging on about chocolate? Either way, it's tremendous fun. 

Photograph: Danny North/Download 2015

Braving the torrential downpour, we row our way through seemingly endless waves of mud, beer cups and (probably) human faeces to secure a decent spot for Judas Priest. The show and sound is spectacular – the band are on unbelievable form and Richie Faulkner's youthful shredding injects new life into the leather-clad legends – but Rob Halford's having an off day. Sorry, Metal God. We love you, but to hear Painkiller butchered is heartbreaking. Although, we approve of the multiple costume changes and the motorbike during Hell Bent For Leather. 

Back to the tent for a solemn Budweiser and a little cry. It is royally pissing it down. The guy ropes are flapping about like willies in the wind and we're just waiting for the water to start seeping in.

Soon, everything is better as Slipknot are playing. Packing a similar show to their recent arena trek, the Iowan juggernaut tops Download for the third time, bringing fire, fury and some of the finest tunes to ever grace this stage. (sic) is the heaviest thing to emerge from a headliner of this size and Slipknot remain a complete fluke. Although their show is orchestrated chaos rather than proper insanity nowadays, you cannot mess with Duality, Psychosocial and Surfacing.

Saturday

For fuck's sake. The tent's flooded. Most of our stuff is irredeemably ruined. At least the Mr. Kiplings are still dry. The sight of damp goths is always a funny one, but Heart Of A Coward don't crack a smile as they unleash slabs of prog-tinged hardcore upon an annoyingly sparse mass of drenched heads. A new tune, Hollow, is massive, the shout-along to Shade is life affirming and we're left feeling thoroughly peeved that more people aren't here to see this.

Hollywood Undead: zero stage presence, borderline homophobic stage banter and enough vocalists to assemble the shittest West End musical ever. A performance damper than a mermaid's fart.

If we're talking about farts, Upon A Burning Body sound like Godzilla's emissions after he's been to Wetherspoon’s curry club. It is just brutal. Savage shots of deathcore from the heart of Texas pulverise the Maverick Stage, with tunes like Sin City reaping quite ridiculous singalongs. The suited and booted Danny Leal is the coolest motherfucker on the planet, and their take on Turn Down For What is monumental. Yes, Upon A Burning Body.

Photograph: Upon A Burning Body by Giles Smith/Download 2015​

Jesus Christ, X Factor runner-up Christopher Maloney's changed his tune a bit, hasn't he? Oh, wait...doesn't matter. It's Winston McCall fronting Parkway Drive, and they're getting some mighty fine circle pits going during Karma over at the Main Stage. Their cover of Bulls On Parade almost pips Upon A Burning Body's Turn Down For What. Almost.

“They can't be that good. They're wearing flares,” mumbles some dude upon seeing Carcass walk on stage. Flares or no flares, Carcass kick arse. Venomous, vitriolic and other things beginning with the letter V, the Liverpudlian titans spend half an hour making the Zippo Encore stage feel extremely dirty. Cuts from 'Surgical Steel' are still making our knees weak and the twin-harmony bliss of Heartwork gets us right in the feels duct.  “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” concludes Bill Steer. “Not that we care. We won't be here.”

Excitement for Dub War can't be contained, so we trek to Jake's Stage early so as to get a decent view. There's a band on and the lead singer is deeply annoying, strutting around like a hybrid of Mick Jagger and Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Not in a good way. Everyone leaves the tent afterwards. Front row for Dub War. Success.

In a live setting, Dub War overpower Skindred in some ways. There's no twerking or dicking about, so we're left to focus solely on Benji Webbe's phenomenal vocals. Guitarist Jeff Rose signals the start of Psycho System and we're treated to a salvo of unique ragga punk gems – no frills, just straight-up music from the 'eart. Enemy Maker is still a rager and you shouldn't trust anyone who says otherwise.

A Day To Remember seem like an interesting prospect, but we arrive to Jeremy McKinnon singing out of time. We go to the hog roast instead. It's delicious. We then excitedly bounce up and down for Faith No More. Motherfucker kicks things off. It's a slow burner, with half the crowd loving it and half just looking confused, wondering what five middle-aged men dressed in white on a stage adorned with flowers are doing at a rock festival. About half of comeback record 'Sol Invictus' is aired tonight, and Mike Patton completely rocks the tambourine during Black Friday.

They're a sarcastic bunch, constantly taking the piss out of the crowd, themselves and anything else worth poking fun at. Roddy Bottum eggs the crowd on and Patton climbs from the stage and demands that a man on a stretcher sings a line of Easy. It's mental, it's perfect and it's undeniably Faith No More.

Photograph: The Darkness by Danny North/Download 2015

We quickly pop into the Maverick Stage to see a tent full of people go absolutely bonkers for Andrew W.K. and Party Hard. It's good, but we're dying to see Marilyn Manson. 'The Pale Emperor' is his best release in over a decade and recent reports of his live show have been promising.

Nah. Nope. Sorry. As soon as the dramatic intro and worrying amounts of dry ice are dispensed with, Manson saunters on stage and wrangles with Deep Six. It isn't great. The band behind him are superb and he remembers his lines this time round, but that's not saying much. He’s slurred and monotone, his screams are inconsistent and his stage banter is like a William Burroughs novel being read aloud by a man with no teeth. The setlist is incredible, mind. Angel With The Scabbed Wings and Tourniquet both make an appearance, while Manson seems a lot more engaged than he has done in ages. But this is by no means the God Of Fuck back on top form. Hopefully, though, these are the baby steps to a full-blooded comeback in the live arena.

Sunday

Been wearing the same pants since Friday. Ran out of Mr. Kipling. Peperami sticks for breakfast. This is the final stretch. Let's do this. Cavalera Conspiracy share our enthusiasm. Max is growling into his microphone through Babylonian Pandemonium, unaware that his guitar isn't working at all. We take shelter in the Maverick Stage once again, which is a sea of crab claws and people doing the robot. Yeah, it's time for Evil Scarecrow.

Call them gimmicky all you like, but it's a bloody good gimmick. Having the entire crowd scuttle during Crabulon is a magnificent feat for an unsigned band. The music isn't bad either. Imagine old Cradle of Filth without the dual harmonies, and with lyrics about robots and aliens instead of poems about vampires.

Tremonti are doing an ample job on the main stage, but it's all a bit too Alter Bridge. That's not a bad thing, but we've got The Darkness soon and Tremonti's bringing the mood down. Packed into the Maverick Stage like a crowd of sweaty sardines in ill-fitting t-shirts, we patiently wait for Justin Hawkins and pals. The band arrive, minus frontman, and start playing Barbarian. They're still playing the intro. Maybe Justin's asleep? Maybe he got lost?

Ah, he's being led through the audience in a Viking style procession. Shields, flags, the lot. Then it's just forty minutes of rock 'n' roll excess. One Way Ticket, Growing On Me, Get Your Hands Off My Woman and other spandex-clad classics shake the tent. I Believe In A Thing Called Love has every throat ripping itself apart, but The Darkness are so much more than just that one song. They’re super tight, Justin's voice is better than it is on record and they're still the most gleefully enjoyable rock band out there.

Photograph: Lamb of God by Derek Bremner/Download 2015

Slash and Myles Kennedy then take the Main Stage by the bollocks and pull for all they’re worth. Night Train rears its head early on and Kennedy sings a note in Paradise City that lasts longer than a Lord Of The Rings boxset. The extended one.

Madball crush the Maverick Stage, unleashing hardcore chunks of bile such as DNA with the vigour of bands half their age. We wish In Flames would do the same. They're on the Zippo Encore Stage and while Only For The Weak and Take This Life are absolute tunes, the rest of the setlist is a tad dull. The excitement of old songs shines through in a few newbies...but it'd be better if they stuck a few more classics in there, right?

Lamb Of God aren't fucking about. Largely a repeat of their 2012 performance, with new tune Still Echoes added to boot, the groove metal goliaths put on one of the most captivating sets of the weekend, tapping into the raw, pissed off energy of the crowd and creating humongous cirlce pits. The chant to Redneck is something you'd expect from an arena band and Randy Blythe's dedication of Black Label to Daniel Nosek – who died at one of the band's gigs in 2010 – is a touching, humble moment. They're heavy but they're human too, and Lamb Of God just get better and better.

The beardy types swiftly exit and the drunken teenagers make themselves known. It’s time for Enter Shikari. There's a lot of scepticism surrounding this band, but they've cut, smashed and reinstalled their teeth on the live circuit over the past decade or so and now pack a light show to make the The Prodigy doubt themselves.

Some of the earlier cuts lack direction, but when you get to The Last Garrison and Anaesthetist you can't go wrong. Rou Reynolds has transformed from a snotty little bastard to a main stage-worthy frontman, switching from rancid raver to Liam Gallagher impersonator in a second. Enter Shikari are down to earth, funny English blokes and they've worked their arses off for this. The arena tour next year will determine if they can take it any further.

The Kiss show looks exactly like every other Kiss show there's been in the history of Kiss shows, so we beat the crowds. Donington, it's been a good one. We're knackered. Goodnight.

Alec Chillingworth writes about metal. Find him on Twitter.

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