High/Low: The Curious Case Of Reading Festival 2016
Wednesday, 31 August 2016
Written by Alec Chillingworth
Photo: Fall Out Boy by Jen O'Neill/Reading Festival
So, we’re back again. Back to Reading, a music festival that increasingly seems to be packed with attendees who don’t seem to be all that interested in music. Nothing on? Not to worry, someone will be wandering around in their pants and possibly selling something. But, amid all this, there are glimmers of hope. The sun is shining. There are some genuinely interesting bands on the line up. Let’s investigate.
Friday
It starts off well enough as Frank Turner & The Sleeping Souls provide the Main Stage with a deceptively positive start. It’s Turner’s 10th year on the bounce at Reading and Leeds and it’s fitting that he trots on stage backed by the Jurassic Park theme. He may be a dinosaur of the scene – it’s his 1,955th show overall, apparently – but it doesn’t look like it. He jumps, he smiles (a lot) and he still fancies himself a hardcore frontman at heart, legging it to the barrier and slumming it with the punters. We still believe him when he churns out the folk punk brilliance of I Still Believe and initiates the festival’s only ‘wall of hugs’. Four Simple Words ties everything up and that’s that. Overall, it’s lovely.
Our attention turns to another ex-hardcore frontman in the form of Frank Carter and his Rattlesnakes. You were expecting him to bust his head open and break someone’s nose, right? Nah. Carter’s having fun on what he dubs “the big boy stage”, taking innumerable selfies, leading a circle pit around the sound desk – “It’s further than it looks!” – and, to be honest, outgrowing his roots. All while rocking a full-on floral suit. Juggernaut is still disgustingly brutish, but Devil Inside Me, I Hate You and newbie Snake Eyes are all at home on the Main Stage. This bluesy, quasi-punk thing he’s got going on is way more palatable than Gallows and rubs people the right way, unlike Pure Love. This is just the start for Carter, who amasses an impressive horde for this time in the morning. Roll on that UK tour.
It makes no sense for pop-punk monarchs-in-waiting Creeper to be crammed into The Pit, aside from the fact that their new merchandise range is called ‘Enemies of Summer’. You know the deal by now: hulking My Chemical Romance levels of brilliance and lots of Misfits-esque “Woah-oah-oah!” moments. It’s a similar setlist to the one we’ve seen of late but, well, they’ve been a band for like two years and they only have three EPs, so give them a fucking break. Black Cloud makes a rare appearance and, as the king of all ballads Misery rolls through the tent, vocalist Will Gould and guitarist Ian Miles stand and stare. This is what they’ve been building towards, together, since they were teenagers. And, alongside Milk Teeth, Heck and Frank Carter, they’re dragging UK rock into a revival. What a time to have ears.
Photo: Die Antwoord by Kennerdeigh Scott/Reading Festival
“The fuck is that?” asks a bewildered woman. No, she’s not just had Game of Thrones spoiled for her. She’s watching Die Antwoord and it’s all a bit much. Which is fair. Like, it’s nearly 30 degrees and the thought of sitting through Disclosure is now very real. Die Antwoord’s Yolandi Visser is squealing through I Fink U Freeky and she’s just as high-pitched and deliberately antagonistic as she is on record. This band just shouldn’t work here – you’d think their trippy, abstract rave racket belongs solely in sweaty, underground venues. But it sounds huge on the Main Stage, with God’s mask scaring the piss out of casual attendees and Ninja’s volatile, pinpoint rhymes slicing through the earholes. There are a lot of costume changes and gyrating back-up dancers. It’s like the Wiggles directing The Purge.
Off to The Pit for a few slices of heaviness now. Hacktivist finally have an actual record, ‘Out Of The Box’, and it’s done wonders. The tech metal madness of Elevate has some guy climb from the audience and, er, elevate himself up the pole holding the tent together. Elsewhere, we’ve got a cover of Limp Bizkit’s Break Stuff, which proves that, when you’ve got two actual MCs rapping over it, nu metal sounds cool.
Crossfaith decide to confuse everyone and soundcheck with Ghost In The Mirror, full band and everything, and it kinda looks like they’ve started playing. A few tentative limbs are flung but then, five or so minutes later, the ridiculous rave metallers are back for real and it’s business as usual. Monolith is still the most wonderful opener and Skindred’s Benji Webbe drags himself on stage for future rock club anthem Wildfire. A touching tribute to late Architects guitarist Tom Searle is met with rapturous applause and then there’s a massive, meaty wall of death.
The Pit is lucky enough to harbour Thrice tonight, but everyone’s being shit and watching Disclosure, so the post-hardcore heroes play to a handful of devotees. The sweeping, grandiose nature of tracks from their new record, ‘To Be Everywhere Is To be Nowhere’, is completely hypnotic and Black Honey, in particular, arguably steals the limelight from the more frenetic, ‘classic-era’ tracks. Disclosure, meanwhile, perform with the enthusiasm of a wet tea towel so it’s an early bedtime for us.
Photo: Creeper by Kennerdeigh Scott/Reading Festival
Saturday
Ah, Saturday. The ‘rock’ day. The day when it all kinda falls apart. When the cracks start to show. Basically, there’s fuck all interest in Clutch on the Main Stage, save for a throng of fans down the front, and this is absolute bollocks. J.P Gaster is the best drummer to ever grace this stage and today Neil Fallon’s on form. The bluesy rock ‘n’ roll splendour of cuts from ‘Psychic Warfare’ should be massaging the ears of everyone who has a ticket. But no, they’re probably comatose in their shit tents with their shit friends. The shits.
Skindred fare a little better because, well, they’re Skindred. Their reggae-punk-metal-electronica mash-up works every time, with Benji Webbe’s ridiculous banter reeling in those who don’t like guitars or long hair or whatever. DJ Dan Sturgess is rocking frosted tips and drops in a few impromptu scratches through Kill The Power to add even more flavour; the Newport Helicopter takes off during Warning. Oh, and a Justin Bieber snippet is played, too. Skindred are the ultimate festival band but, once again, Reading’s is a letdown in terms of attendance.
But then we hit the apex of Main Stage ignorance. The straw that breaks the camel’s back. Parkway Drive deliver one of the weekend’s most concise, crushing sets. Not a second is wasted. And the only people who give a shit are already Parkway Drive fans. Winston McCall amps up the boys and girls in the pit, getting that sing-along to Vice Grip going amid fireworks, dry ice and the like. Bottom Feeder’s “Now snap your neck to this!” is genuinely brutal and, while kinda-oldie Karma is a welcome treat, it’s the straight-up, anthemic metal tracks from last year’s ‘Ire’ that stand out. McCall describes his band as “an alternative to the alternative” at this festival, and he’s not wrong. Reading used to be a breeding ground for the weird. Now it’s just filled with a mixture of Made In Chelsea and Shameless extras, it seems.
This thought is reinforced by a massive crowd going batshit for a lacklustre secret set by You Me At Six over at The Pit and Slaves losing what little charm they originally had on the Main Stage. A dose of rock ‘n’ roll raunchiness from the Eagles of Death Metal fares better, with Mastodon’s Brent Hinds playing with them for I Only Want You before disappearing. No explanation needed or given. David Bowie’s Moonage Daydream is aired to rapturous applause, but maybe only because frontman Jesse Hughes dons a Bowie jacket to let the audience know that it is, in fact, a Bowie number.
Photo: Eagles of Death Metal by Marc de Groot/Reading Festival
The Pit is the place to be, once again, as the sun slithers away. Giraffe Tongue Orchestra’s live debut is witnessed by a modest crowd, but they have a lovely time. Hinds unleashes his inner rock star, pulling ridiculous moves he’s not really allowed to in his day job and jumping towards the barrier. Ben Weinman seems somewhat restrained and it takes a few of these grunge-tinged metal stompers to loosen him up and get his limbs flying at unusual angles. Of course, William DuVall looks cool as he leads us through pure metal like Crucifixion and the proggy, plodding title-track for the band’s upcoming debut, ‘Broken Lines’. Very exciting.
Kvelertak’s black ‘n’ roll mix suffers a little from the addition of tracks from their new record, ‘Nattesferd’, taking away from the innovation present on the band’s first two records. Still, Kvelertak don’t do bad shows and the new stuff isn’t terrible. It’s nice to have a bit of frostiness.
And then it happens: the Dillinger Escape Plan. Greg Puciato spends the first few songs reclined on a sofa, paper in hand and sipping on a nice cup of tea. Why? Dunno. But the almighty, inimitable show put on by this band is still as potent as ever. Weinman lets rip and nearly whacks some photographers with his guitar and Puciato, away from the sofa, fancies lobbing a mic stand into the audience.
This mathematical, intricate hardcore headfuck is always a pleasure, but it’s the melodic stuff that really takes off tonight. A rousing Milk Lizard sits perfectly alongside Nothing’s Funny and One Of Us Is The Killer. This is 50 minutes of perfect, unadulterated artistic expression from all involved, and this band is going to be sorely missed when they leave us. But hardly anyone saw it, because they were too busy watching the Red Hot Chili Peppers murder their legacy instead.
Photo: The Vaccines by Jen O'Neill/Reading Festival
Sunday
Maybe it’s the toll of three days at a festival. Maybe the audience apathy is spreading. Or maybe the idea of life after Dillinger is just too hard to deal with. Anyway, we don’t get into the arena until Five Finger Death Punch take to the Main Stage midway through the afternoon and this booking just doesn’t make sense. This band’s meat-headed, thuggish approach has nothing to say to people who don’t like metal. With Parkway Drive, Skindred, Clutch and Frank Carter, that crossover appeal is prevalent. With FFDP, it’s more an affirmation of any preconceptions outsiders have of rock and metal: beer-chugging riffs, ridiculous costumes and a frontman in Ivan Moody who’s unable to grasp that, well, most of the people here probably don’t like Five Finger Death Punch. Their Pantera/Disturbed hybrid finds itself playing the role of the underdog for the first time in ages.
Pop-punkers Roam ram The Pit full of devotees, pulling off a similar trick to Creeper on Friday. They only released their debut LP this year, but these Eastbourne newbies are onto something. Acoustic ditty Tracks is hurled right back at them by the audience and inflatable sea life is unleashed upon the crowd. Gotta love a bit of sea life.
The antithesis of this set lands on the Main Stage in the form of A$AP Rocky. After pulling out of Leeds fest due to ‘travel issues’, Rocky has a lot to live up to and he just doesn’t deliver. Technically, he’s perfect. You can’t fault the man. But he has no fucking enthusiasm for the task at hand. There are lots of giant inflatable wads of cash on stage. A big butterfly up top. Some sort of crustacean, maybe. But calling “hands up!” way too many times and shouting “mosh pit!” doesn’t mean people will listen to you.
By comparison, the Vaccines look like Bad Brains. Vocalist Justin Young is wild-eyed yet weirdly friendly, leading the Main Stage crowd through a Ramones-lite singalong session. New drummer Yoann Intonti kills it behind the kit, Post Break-Up Sex is a guaranteed banger and the Vaccines play to one of the biggest crowds of the weekend.
Photo: Biffy Clyro by Marc de Groot/Reading Festival
But it’s all been boiling towards the moment when darkness falls. Well the sun sets, so that counts. A video plays on the Main Stage screens, depicting a woman punching some concrete until flowers bloom from it. Ah, yeah, ‘cause all of Fall Out Boy’s latest merch has ‘Bloom’ emblazoned across it. See what they did there? Gates adorned with flowers are suddenly revealed. Women with fire spouting from their fingers rock up. Then Patrick, Pete, Joe and Andy. The Phoenix. Fall Out Boy have a lot to prove this evening. While this is billed as a co-headline with Biffy Clyro, it isn’t. Biffy are headlining. Also, off the back of ‘American Beauty/American Psycho’, they need to show us that those bloated, slightly lacking songs can translate to a festival set.
The usual, bombastic pop-punk glory of Dance, Dance and Sugar, We’re Goin Down are guaranteed winners, but the ‘American Beauty/American Psycho’ tracks hold their own. Irresistible lubes up the lungs, as does the earworm within the title track. Even if you’re not a fan of the band’s post-reformation material, Patrick Stump is having the time of his life here, even treating us to Disloyal Order Of Water Buffaloes on the piano before the band swoop in and add a spoonful or seven of epic to the mix. Centuries is fucking huge, too. Sure, drummer Andy Hurley clearly wants to be playing hardcore, looking like he’s about to shit himself if he can’t sprinkle some double kick on Fourth Of July, but he’s a beast nonetheless. Stump’s voice is on it, Pete Wentz continues to deliver convoluted similes and, despite a focus on latter-day material, tonight’s a triumph and a half. Fireworks. Applause.
Biffy Clyro are always good, but compared to a shockingly great outing from Fall Out Boy they seem oddly pedestrian. It’s cool to see this weird band from Scotland rip through 57 and Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies in front of a headline crowd but, unlike Fall Out Boy, Biffy’s new material doesn’t stand up terribly well live. Wolves Of Winter opens things up and it’s fine, but hold that against Who’s Got A Match? and it becomes middle-aged and beige. In The Name Of The Wee Man, meanwhile, should never have been a bonus track, proving as it does to be better than any album tracks from ‘Ellipsis’. The three-dimensional, immersive spectacle backing the band provides entertainment for anyone who can’t get with Simon Neil’s deliberately animalistic vocals.
It’s been a right pain in the arse, but it’s over now. Fall Out Boy somehow spanked every other Main Stage headliner and we’re left to ponder the future of this behemoth of a festival. Once a breeding ground for alternative culture and innovative artistic antics, Reading has cemented itself as the ultimate post A-Level piss-up. And that’s not going to change, because it sells tickets. Which is fine. But, based purely on this weekend’s audience, fans of alternative music are going to have to search elsewhere. Otherwise you’ll find yourself turning into a pretentious prick and screaming “YOU HATE ART!” at everyone.
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