Carling Weekend 2007: Main Stage (Leeds)

United Kingdom | by Ruth Booth | 29 August 2007

Friday

Despite its status as Britain's premier rock festival, the Carling Weekend has always held a reputation for eclecticism. So even though it's hard rock day on the Main Stage, things kick off with the soulful pop groove meets hip hop - with a dash of emo - of Gym Class Heroes. With tunes nicked from your favourite cheesy seventies hits, and laid back rhymes, they ease the day in nicely - though that's not to say they don't put themselves wholeheartedly into what they do. Or at least plaster casts of themselves, as Travis McCoy doles out as cast of "little Travis" made by the legendary Cynthia Plastcaster to one lucky member of the audience. Hellogoodbye don't need such symbols of devotion, however, treating the crowd to more soulful, almost Muse-like new material, alongside the older (and still more popular) dance pop of 'You Are The One'.

Billy Talent seem a little misplaced on the main stage when their old school punk would fit quite snuggly over on the Lockup Tent, though 'Try Honesty' gets a decent sized pit bouncing. It's tame alongside the incendiary 'Take It Away' by The Used, however, the manic figure of frontman Bert McCracken looking more and more like a psychotic Kurt Cobain by the day. On the other hand, it's Funeral For A Friend who can claim the first proper circle pit of the day, accompanying the old school post-hardcore of 'This Year's Most Open Heartbreak'. Whether this has more to do with their storming anthemic rock, or their choice of matching 'Never Mind Reading, Here's Leeds' shirts, VF couldn't possibly comment.

No matter what your opinion of Fall Out Boy, you can't say they don't know how to put on a show. With cracking versions of 'The Takeover, The Break's Over' and 'This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race'; guest spots from members of Gym Class Heroes and Municipal Waste; covers of 'Beat It', 'The Power Of Love' and hip hop hits; and even going as far as encouraging fans and non-fans to bottle them, few people could have walked away from that set saying there wasn't something for them. If they were aiming for the showmen of the day crown, though, Lostprophets put up some stiff competition, getting kids up onstage and even covering 'Blue Monday' as a segue into 'Last Summer'.

The gloves are off. Clearly, by no stretch some significant debts are owed to Trent Reznor for Nine Inch Nails' impact on industrial and electronic music that still haven't been paid after all the acclaim they've been given. After a slow start, their live machine cranks up and starts churning out sweet dischordant noise, ranging from the almost unbearable and frustrating moments of instrumental abuse silhouetted in neon, to the triumphant 'Head Like A Hole', and a heartbreaking rendition of 'Hurt', Reznor backlit against a wall of stars. For sheer emotional highs and lows, NIN will be matched by few others this weekend, and quite rightly so.

Including, unfortunately, tonight's headliners. The Smashing Pumpkins have a hell of a lot riding on these dates, amongst their first in the UK since the band's reformation. And initially it seems little has changed. All the hits are out, from the twinkling simplicity of 'Today' to the bouncing 'Zero', all as glorious as they originally were. If you sort of squint a little, it's almost as if former bassist Melissa Auf der Maur and guitarist James Iha are both back with the band... but mainly because their replacements look pretty much identical to the members they've replaced. And this is how the whole set seems. For all the crowd-pleasers, performed perfectly yet somehow soullessly, there's the dull new material, seemingly churning out the same bland riffs intercut with marching bands and national anthems done to whale noises. It's Pumpkins-lite, all by numbers right down to Corgan's "grunge-kooky" attire. After the visceral rawness of NIN's empassioned set, no amount of ironic references to tea and black pudding can save the Pumpkins set from being something of a let-down.

Saturday

It's hard not to go all gooey when Saturday's main stage openers The Pipettes hit the stage, all cutesy dresses, synchronised dancing and sweet harmonies, perfect for the time of day when most people are still stuck in their tents. Little Man Tate in the meantime are desperately trying to "do a Fall Out Boy" and get the crowd to throw things at them, but since they seem to be confining their generic indie mumblings to a tiny space in the centre of the main stage, they're really too easy a target. Instead, VF is off for a quick trip to see Hooks For Hands, aka Kaiser Chiefs, blast out a 30 minute set of hits in the tiny Carling tent to an enraputured hometown crowd; a set that sees hundreds stuck outside the hastily erected barriers outside with only strains of 'I Predict A Riot' and 'Ruby', as well as constant shouts of "Yorkshire!", to keep them company.

Back on the main stage, things have picked up. Gogol Bordello prove it is possible to crowd surf to accordion music backed by the percussive sounds of a fire bucket; the first band to bring some punk spirit to the larger stage. Meanwhile, The Gossip prove that the age of larger than life divas has not faded into the past just yet, Beth Ditto's stunning vocals just as impressive amongst the mud and sweat as they are on record; no mean feat amongst today's pro-tools pampered female vocalists.

"Anyone from Arizona?" Jimmy Eat World seem to feel every inch of their odd position in the line-up, but their placing on the main stage (ahead of tonight's headlining slot on the Lockup Stage) is recognition of something the States have known for years. While their faultless power pop is a little strangled through the main stage speakers, it's backed by a punching heart that transforms 'The Middle', a simple tune that could so easily be a lifeless dirge, into a field-wide karaoke session. No wonder it's a beaming Jim Atkins who triumphantly high fives the front row at the end.

"You know when you're hungover and you've made a decision..." and with that, Paul Smith apologetically removes the flashy white jacket he's been wearing over his all-black outfit, before leaping into yet another frantic dancing session for recent single 'My Velocity'. It's Maximo Park all over; Smith may still have his bowler hat, but their status as stylistic indie darlings doesn't stop him dancing like an agitated chicken while keyboardist Lukas Wooller climbs all over his keyboard; a refreshing lack of pretension in an uptight genre.

Rather that just revelling in their contradictions, however, Interpol use them to their advantage. Dressed scruffily compared to his immaculately suited bandmates, Paul Banks gruff vocals are the marmite to his bandmates' butter smooth sonic output on record, but live the combination of scarred voice and tender guitar subtlety works like a charm, serenading the early evening sun as it heads towards the trees.

The youth of Kings Of Leon has always belied old heads on young shoulders; so much so, it's almost shocking that they've come so far so early. The broken gruffness of Caleb Followill's vocals live speaks of times few could relate to, yet their hip-swinging southern grooves have an allure that's universal, whether it's the funky rabble-rousing 'Molly's Chambers' or measured unlikely crowd-pleaser 'On Call'.

Unfortunately, whatever their secret is, Razorlight have yet to uncover it. Oh yes, fans of Johnny and the big white hype machine rejoice, for the kings of British garage rock, aka most indie output for the last two or three years, have returned to Leeds and Reading and you can expect a similar set to every one they've done for the last few years. Yes, there'll be that triumph of Borrell's rhyming dictionary 'America' and the prescient 'In The Morning'. And what's this? Surprise surprise, Borrell has removed his top, the official sign that the soulful part of the evening has begun, and we can all bask in his cod gospel side, which must be accompanied by his scrawny frame squeezed into a pair of white skintight trousers, and much running about the stage. Erm, nice?

Don't get me wrong; Razorlight have reached the top of their game, perfecting the current indie trend to trans-oceanic level. The thing is, Razorlight don't really have to care. The field is mostly full, the fans are out in force. However, the fact remains that while Razorlight seem to be aiming for a wider audience, there's little tonight's set does to further that back home. And sadly, they don't even seem to be trying to.

Sunday

After 'hard rock day' and 'indie day', Sunday's hangover finds itself under assault from 'however-many-genres-we-could-squeeze-in' day - or to start off with, Paramore, pumping out pop punk gems (plus a few At The Drive-In lyrics thrown in for good measure) for a small yet vocal section of the crowd clearly too young to have truly overdone it last night. They make the Dead 60s look like grandads, despite singer Matt still just the ripe age of 25, although the older Liverpudlians have technically been peddling their post-psychadelic, post-The La's pop for a few years longer.

No, the first band today to truly get your panties wet over comes with the arrival of the Eagles Of Death Metal, who rather sweetly seem stunned that anyone even turned out to see them, let alone that its such a raptuous response that greets their good ol' fashioned, bad taste, scuzzier 'n' a biker's three week old grundies rock'n'roll. From playing the crowd noise with their hands to slamming a knife down in the amp in-between songs, they pull every cliché out of the book, give it a quick twist and a once over, and pull it back again. "The best set rock'n'roll has ever seen"? Damn, that was close to it.

After that, The Shins more mellow stylings pass by like background music. No, it's Angels And Airwaves who are the much more intriguing proposition, the more serious project from Tom 'Blink 182' DeLonge. And for those who've finally been waiting for him to crack and unleash the "your Mom" jokes, well, there's partial relief at least - DeLonge will make a heartfelt plea to his audience that he's still the same guy, and then spend the rest of the set making cracks about his reading ability, how awesome his band are, and the idea they have self-help tapes playing during the set - the latter possibly the most believable, given the uplifting nature of the average AvA (as they like to be initialed) set. However, that doesn't stop the fact that Angels And Airwaves' epic unifying rock has still to find its own place in the world, ascending a little too far too fast to stadium status right now to sound like anything less than hollow substandard U2. Good hollow substandard U2, though.

Bloc Party mark the last of the Brit contribution to the main stage this weekend, and to their credit, they hold their own, a workman-like rendition of 'The Prayer' shifting feet... but little else. Yes, that group bow at the end was deserved, but if this is the best that Britain can come up with, it's something of an anticlimax. Even the less conventionally "rock" Arcade Fire manage to muster more passion; the velvet curtain, projector screens and organ say understated music hall, the battered percussion say pure rock'n'roll. Yet for all this abandon, it's remarkable how uncluttered their ethereal sound comes out on recent single 'Keep The Car Running' and by the time 'Wake Up' hits its singalong finale most mouths are on the floor. They just don't play bad. 

However, Red Hot Chili Peppers don't fail to disappoint. Things begin anticlimactically enough, with a ten minute jam from the band's instrumental core, and slowly go downhill from there. 'Dani California' feels limp and sluggish, 'Otherside' drags. Kiedis for the second night in a row mixes up the lyrics, this time to 'By The Way' as opposed to opening number 'Don't Stop' at Reading, and when he's not stood stock still, his dancing to an otherwise haunting 'Don't Forget Me' seems almost desperate. The only bit of the evening that arouses some passion and doesn't reek of artistic self-indulgence is a classic 'Give It Away', a set staple they've been churning out for over fifteen years. And whoever decided to not only let Frusciante have free reign at the start, but at the END of the set as well, is either an evil genius or has some secret vendetta against newly formed event organisers Festival Republic. Kiedis' final words "thanks for sticking around, thanks for being there for us" aren't nearly sincere enough to compensate for it. A disappointing end to a frankly mixed weekend - and sadly one that seems almost fitting.