Jamie T, Leeds Academy, 25/01/10
I meant to write a few things before 2009 was out. There was a mighty fine Florence gig in December, which along with a I Can’t Believe It’s Not A Shit Opening Act support from Temper Trap was probably the best all out show I’d seen all year.
Florence herself was holding back, it being the beginning of the tour I guess she’d implode if she belted it out every night. Still, we got Lungs in its near entirety (plus b sides!!!!!!!!!), fairy lights in the rafters and the mostly female, older-than-usual audience made a refreshing change from the Topman clad pricks I’m usually surrounded by.
I was also planning to write some review-of-the-year business, but the moment’s passed. Fuck that decade. To the future!
And we begin with a gig that should have taken place back in October. But as that fell two days after Bloc Party and all the antics that surrounded that night, my stamina was glad of the reprieve that came when Jamie T was diagnosed with laryngitis and forced to cancel his tour.
After what felt like an eternity, Kings & Queens was finally given to us in the latter part of last year. I’ll be lying if I said I loved it, but it faced impossible competition. Panic Prevention WAS my final year in Lincoln. The people I met. The days and nights we had. Nothing was going to come close, perhaps mainly because that chapter of my life is (happily, mind) over, and as nice as nostalgia can be, there will be none of this living in the past.
So a gig that leans more towards the album I feel little connection to was always going to be a more sedate experience. Refreshingly, I was in the minority, as the kids in attendance knew all the words that evaded me, and joyfully kicked the shit out of each other why I just stood back and admired it all.
However, it was one of the most controversial sets I’ve ever witnessed. I’ve seen Radiohead gleefully ditch Creep like it ain’t no thang, but tonight Jamie didn’t play Salvador or Shelia, arguably his two biggest tunes. Yeah we got a couple of b sides and that’s always a giggle, but for someone with only around 35 songs released, it seems odd to be shutting that door so wilfully. Chakka Demus and Sticks n Stones seem to be the replacements, and they have the blokey singalong bits and the scumbag lyric bits…but it’s not the show I’ve seen him deliver before. Sometimes that’s a good thing. On this occasion, it wasn’t.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s a fucking charmer that could cough his lungs up and it would still be entertaining as all sticky-floored hell, but almost three years to the day that I saw him do the most sensational of gigs, I can’t say this was the show I was hoping for.
After resorting to dancing in Revolution (seriously, don’t try going out in Leeds on a Monday night. One time I somehow ended up at this Minimal Techno evening. Terrifyingly vague music. The dry ice didn’t help matters) we went home and put on Panic Prevention. Cos really, nothing else compares.
Showing posts with label Jamie T. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jamie T. Show all posts
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
Monday, 6 August 2007
Lethal Drizzle
Moving house, lack of internet and general Stuff has kept me from posting this so far...
Glastonbury Festival, Worthy Farm, 22nd-24th June 2007
Watching Glastonbury on TV is like aliens looking at Earth from space. You get a sense of scale, it looks beautiful, confounding, like nothing else…but you really don’t have a clue what it’s like until you’re there.
It’s almost worth going just to cut through the mythology and cliché. In a way, after viewing what appeared to be a never-ending canvas metropolis on the small screen, it wasn’t long before it became A Festival Site, just like the others, with muddy paths and shit toilets. But of course this wasn’t like any of the others. This was the greatest festival on the planet, viewed from the sky or more traditional ground locations.
The bus journey down was a living hell. Cattle to the slaughterhouse get better rights than the eight hour journey we were put through. This was mainly down to “Steve” and his lack of festival site navigation. That and quite a few other people had heard about this little event and also wanted in.
To write a review about Glastonbury and only talk about the music would be repetitive and more than a little overdone. The following were seen, even in a vague context during some more comatose tent-based moments:
Reverend & The Makers, The Cribs, Modest Mouse, Good Shoes, Bright Eyes, Super Furry Animals, The Coral, Rufus Wainwright, Arcade Fire, Arctic Monkeys, Björk, Brakes, The Long Blondes, CSS, Klaxons, Pigeon Detectives, Babyshambles, Gruff Rhys (twice), Editors, Mr Scruff, The Holloways, The Enemy, Sunshine Underground, The Marley Brothers, The Rakes, The Go! Team, Jamie T, Chemical Brothers.
But some performances really need highlighting, and the finest was surely Arcade Fire. The matching uniforms, the bizarre swimming pool videos, the delicate apocalypse of instrumentation that completely hypnotised the audience into total devotion. Numerous biblical references that weave through their new album have turned Win Butler into a paranoid preacher, his wiry frame stuttering with fear and compassion. His band, his gang, fly and crash around him, with the percussionists losing none of their sense of self-mutilation. And the songs…being at the festival means I missed the television coverage, but if No Cars Go wasn’t used over the ending montage then something is wrong. Rebellion (Lies) can’t be put into words. And the closing chant of Wake Up was echoing around the crowd long after they left the stage.
Then for some unknown reason I pushed against the crowd for half an hour to go see Arctic Monkeys. Yes, the songs were all present and correct, but something was very unremarkable. Dizze Rascal’s appearance would have been a highlight had his microphone been switched on. So it was back to the Other Stage where I managed to catch the last five songs of Björk’s set, and wished I’d stayed for the whole thing. She is without comparison. Hyperballad never sounded more beautiful, and everyone left wanting to get hold of one of those electronic Tetris block tables that was abused during Declare Independence.
And thank fuck for The Go! Team, the one band that made me forget the rain, mud, piss and shit that surrounded me and, with the help of quite a bit of cider and gin, made me dance like a twat. With only two bands above them on the Other Stage, Ninja appeared truly humbled in front of the huge crowd that had gathered before them. Inexplicably sandwiched between (ugh) Mika and (ARGH) The View, it was fantastic to see the energy and bounce supplied by the shed load in the Arts Centre was switched to IMAX-sized enjoyment.
Honourable mentions must also go to Good Shoes, Pigeon Detectives and The Rakes for tight performances, to Jamie T for being as charming as always and to Gruff Rhys to admitting he was in a worse condition than anyone watching him.
Disappointments have to include Rufus Wainwright and the Chemical Brothers. Rufus was on fine banter form, but just playing his new so-so record in its near entirety isn’t the festival way. 14th Street and The Art Teacher were the only old songs we were treated to, but he does gain point for providing the first “moment” of the festival. He brought on Martha to perform a under-rehearsed yet sublime rendition of Hallelujah. And the Chemical Brothers not playing The Private Psychedelic Reel is just pointless.
A quick paragraph about the weather. Now I realise Dot To Dot’s winter conditions were just toughening me up for the main event. There was a imbecilic piece in the NME that basically said “why was there mud?” You’re in a field. It rained. That makes mud. And really, you’ve got a waterproof, you’ve got your Wellington boots, you’ve got a shitload of booze, what’s the problem? I can’t say I noticed it after a few cans. For the first few days we were lucky, only in the sense that after it shat it down for half an hour it was then dry for the rest of the day. Only Sunday was a downer with its unrelenting drizzle. The worst came on Monday, eviction day, when the showers just wouldn’t stop. The muddy path that had doubled in size since I pitched my tent next to it had formed a free flowing river of shite. I left my tent behind. I regretted this decision halfway up the M4, but there you go.
Glastonbury, so They tell me, is in danger of losing touch with its roots. It has sold out. According to NME, it’s in danger of “pricing out the real fans”, and that there was a “noticeable lack of young people” present. Bollocks. Every walk of life was fully represented, and by the looks of the flags many nations were there as well. It was refreshing to see bands and not be surrounded by teenagers. Although as I write this, Michael Eavis is dismissing this year’s crowd as “middle aged”, not “up for it” and will be targeting a younger crowd next year. So maybe I’m wrong. That statement will do nothing to quash the “sell-out” naysayers, and perhaps it is a little disappointing. But nothing can stay in the past. Longevity is only guaranteed if you can adapt and move on. Unfortunately, in this instance it appears that this just means letting in more youth.
How many would show up if it was just half a dozen bands and a pint of milk? And how many would show up for the Greatest Show On Earth? The answer is clear. Glastonbury cannot sell out or conform, because it is Glastonbury. It is imitated but never bettered, it exists on its own and nothing else will ever come close.
There are countless things I could go into more detail about…the flags around the Dance Village, being constantly asked for a lighter or pills, the greatest baguette in the galaxy (The Growler – chips, cheese and bacon, doesn’t sound like much but it was beautiful), the new Park area that was a festival within a festival, the atmosphere of the Stone Circle…but words and hyperbole only go so far. Some things you have to experience for yourself to fully appreciate.
Glastonbury Festival, Worthy Farm, 22nd-24th June 2007
Watching Glastonbury on TV is like aliens looking at Earth from space. You get a sense of scale, it looks beautiful, confounding, like nothing else…but you really don’t have a clue what it’s like until you’re there.
It’s almost worth going just to cut through the mythology and cliché. In a way, after viewing what appeared to be a never-ending canvas metropolis on the small screen, it wasn’t long before it became A Festival Site, just like the others, with muddy paths and shit toilets. But of course this wasn’t like any of the others. This was the greatest festival on the planet, viewed from the sky or more traditional ground locations.
The bus journey down was a living hell. Cattle to the slaughterhouse get better rights than the eight hour journey we were put through. This was mainly down to “Steve” and his lack of festival site navigation. That and quite a few other people had heard about this little event and also wanted in.
To write a review about Glastonbury and only talk about the music would be repetitive and more than a little overdone. The following were seen, even in a vague context during some more comatose tent-based moments:
Reverend & The Makers, The Cribs, Modest Mouse, Good Shoes, Bright Eyes, Super Furry Animals, The Coral, Rufus Wainwright, Arcade Fire, Arctic Monkeys, Björk, Brakes, The Long Blondes, CSS, Klaxons, Pigeon Detectives, Babyshambles, Gruff Rhys (twice), Editors, Mr Scruff, The Holloways, The Enemy, Sunshine Underground, The Marley Brothers, The Rakes, The Go! Team, Jamie T, Chemical Brothers.
But some performances really need highlighting, and the finest was surely Arcade Fire. The matching uniforms, the bizarre swimming pool videos, the delicate apocalypse of instrumentation that completely hypnotised the audience into total devotion. Numerous biblical references that weave through their new album have turned Win Butler into a paranoid preacher, his wiry frame stuttering with fear and compassion. His band, his gang, fly and crash around him, with the percussionists losing none of their sense of self-mutilation. And the songs…being at the festival means I missed the television coverage, but if No Cars Go wasn’t used over the ending montage then something is wrong. Rebellion (Lies) can’t be put into words. And the closing chant of Wake Up was echoing around the crowd long after they left the stage.
Then for some unknown reason I pushed against the crowd for half an hour to go see Arctic Monkeys. Yes, the songs were all present and correct, but something was very unremarkable. Dizze Rascal’s appearance would have been a highlight had his microphone been switched on. So it was back to the Other Stage where I managed to catch the last five songs of Björk’s set, and wished I’d stayed for the whole thing. She is without comparison. Hyperballad never sounded more beautiful, and everyone left wanting to get hold of one of those electronic Tetris block tables that was abused during Declare Independence.
And thank fuck for The Go! Team, the one band that made me forget the rain, mud, piss and shit that surrounded me and, with the help of quite a bit of cider and gin, made me dance like a twat. With only two bands above them on the Other Stage, Ninja appeared truly humbled in front of the huge crowd that had gathered before them. Inexplicably sandwiched between (ugh) Mika and (ARGH) The View, it was fantastic to see the energy and bounce supplied by the shed load in the Arts Centre was switched to IMAX-sized enjoyment.
Honourable mentions must also go to Good Shoes, Pigeon Detectives and The Rakes for tight performances, to Jamie T for being as charming as always and to Gruff Rhys to admitting he was in a worse condition than anyone watching him.
Disappointments have to include Rufus Wainwright and the Chemical Brothers. Rufus was on fine banter form, but just playing his new so-so record in its near entirety isn’t the festival way. 14th Street and The Art Teacher were the only old songs we were treated to, but he does gain point for providing the first “moment” of the festival. He brought on Martha to perform a under-rehearsed yet sublime rendition of Hallelujah. And the Chemical Brothers not playing The Private Psychedelic Reel is just pointless.
A quick paragraph about the weather. Now I realise Dot To Dot’s winter conditions were just toughening me up for the main event. There was a imbecilic piece in the NME that basically said “why was there mud?” You’re in a field. It rained. That makes mud. And really, you’ve got a waterproof, you’ve got your Wellington boots, you’ve got a shitload of booze, what’s the problem? I can’t say I noticed it after a few cans. For the first few days we were lucky, only in the sense that after it shat it down for half an hour it was then dry for the rest of the day. Only Sunday was a downer with its unrelenting drizzle. The worst came on Monday, eviction day, when the showers just wouldn’t stop. The muddy path that had doubled in size since I pitched my tent next to it had formed a free flowing river of shite. I left my tent behind. I regretted this decision halfway up the M4, but there you go.
Glastonbury, so They tell me, is in danger of losing touch with its roots. It has sold out. According to NME, it’s in danger of “pricing out the real fans”, and that there was a “noticeable lack of young people” present. Bollocks. Every walk of life was fully represented, and by the looks of the flags many nations were there as well. It was refreshing to see bands and not be surrounded by teenagers. Although as I write this, Michael Eavis is dismissing this year’s crowd as “middle aged”, not “up for it” and will be targeting a younger crowd next year. So maybe I’m wrong. That statement will do nothing to quash the “sell-out” naysayers, and perhaps it is a little disappointing. But nothing can stay in the past. Longevity is only guaranteed if you can adapt and move on. Unfortunately, in this instance it appears that this just means letting in more youth.
How many would show up if it was just half a dozen bands and a pint of milk? And how many would show up for the Greatest Show On Earth? The answer is clear. Glastonbury cannot sell out or conform, because it is Glastonbury. It is imitated but never bettered, it exists on its own and nothing else will ever come close.
There are countless things I could go into more detail about…the flags around the Dance Village, being constantly asked for a lighter or pills, the greatest baguette in the galaxy (The Growler – chips, cheese and bacon, doesn’t sound like much but it was beautiful), the new Park area that was a festival within a festival, the atmosphere of the Stone Circle…but words and hyperbole only go so far. Some things you have to experience for yourself to fully appreciate.
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