T In The Park @ Balado
Thank you Glasgow, utters a poker faced Brian Wilson. And just so we know he's not joking, he says it again.
| 09 Aug 2007
T In The Park 2007 had the potential to be a total disaster. The rain had fallen throughout the preceding week and come Friday evening Balado was a washout.
Car parks were filled prematurely and any other vehicle-owning punters were being turned away at the gates; people who had travelled for hours in some cases, with the understanding that by buying a ticket they'd perhaps be entitled to park at the venue. A huge cloud (both metaphorical and physical) hung over the weekend, and for some it seldom lifted.
Nevertheless, ever the troopers and being the tolerant souls we are, it didn't take long for The Skinny to decide that, despite any misgivings, T In The Park 07 would be three days of fun, filth and sonic frolics worth persevering with...
Friday
Having nabbed the last pair of wellies (albeit two sizes too small) from Millets on Friday lunchtime, it's easy to smugly waddle by the unfortunate souls traipsing through the ankle deep mud on Friday evening in sandals and trainers. Falling over themselves, each other and their cargoes of booze to catch a glimpse of the Arctic Monkeys - yet, as we take a perch at the main stage, it's unclear whether the Sheffield tribe were really worth the effort. There is no question mark around the talent of the band, but Alex Turner's cocksure disposition suggests he would rather be somewhere else. "Alright then, suit yourselves," he shrugs as the early bird camper crowd go off on one through When The Sun Goes Down. With only a handful of acts scheduled for Friday, it's more of a warm up than anything else, even if it does leave the main arena resembling Plough Lane.
Saturday
No doubt the alien presence of a sun in the sky has a sobering impact on those caked head to toe in muck from Friday's escapades, the main arena being littered with cold-light-of-day frowns and cringes. The Thrills, however, can't believe their luck. Taking an early slot on the NME stage, their tales of Santa Cruz and Big Sur wouldn't have been half as welcome had it still been pissing down. As it happens, the crowd lap it up. The Skinny basks in the long overdue sunshine and with strict instructions to "float about, catch as many bands as you can" ringing in our ears, make buoyant tracks toward The Pet Sounds arena to catch a Strokes-less Albert Hammond Jnr. turn in a hugely impressive set. Despite the mixed opinion surrounding his début solo effort, Hammond's performance is self-assured, confident and not bad for a second job.
A not so brief quest to seek out some beer tokens, and a personal pledge to "stay off the Tennents this weekend" are timed to perfection as Black Rebel Motorcycle Club strut on-stage at King Tut's, with the bespectacled Peter Hayes bearing some strange resemblance to Ian McCulloch. "The last time we played this stage", he informs the clearly impressed legions, "Joe Strummer shook my hand backstage and said you were one of the best crowds he ever played to." Nowt like a bit of name dropping to win over the masses, but rousing renditions of Ain't No Easy Way Out and Spread Your Love won't hurt either.
Voyeuristic instinct strikes (not for the last time today), and it's full steam ahead to Sinead O'Connor. Catching her mid Nothing Compares 2 U doesn't quite make up for the distinct lack of torn-up effigies. An unforgettable voice singing largely forgettable songs is a decent summation of her set, and come to think of it, the last ten years of her career. The itch has set in at this stage, and "car crash syndrome" ensures there is only one direction The Skinny's beady little eyes are looking, Pete Doherty is due on the NME stage in ten minutes. A brief sojourn at a burger van and frantic scramble through the myriads later, and Babyshambles are nowhere to be seen. The virtue of patience isn't long deserting.
The Arcade Fire are about to start on the main stage and a worse-for-wear, freshly liberated Doherty has just slurred his way through one too many tuneless tracks to warrant further listening. The sprawling Montreal outfit, on the other hand, aren't big on anti-climaxes. They continue their fine form at T In The Park. They just about fill the main stage and whereas a cosy slot in King Tut's would have been preferable, they seem neither bothered nor daunted. "You guys sure know how to play a snare drum here in Scotland," Win Butler remarks, having seen his first pipe band parade in Glasgow the previous day. Obviously inspired, he leads his troops in a barnstorming rendition of Power Out. They leave the stage covered in glory, their uniquely unabashed enthusiasm thankfully a given for each live performance.
In pursuit of a change of scenery, a dose of Shadow and Cut Chemist seems in order at the Slam Tent... only briefly mind, we're standing on Beats' toes! A bizarre yet entertaining setlist (Foo Fighters, Jefferson Airplane and The Doors all get thrown into the mix) draws a lukewarm response from the crowd, and so to a deserted Futures Stage.
The chaotic Rapture-on-crack tinged performance of Blood Brothers' effeminate frontman is in direct contrast to the tidy structure of the band. It's a juxtaposition that works, just a shame there was nobody there to see it. The realisation that Bright Eyes has been and gone sees us cursing all the way to the bar, in need of a good sit down. A cool pint of cider ensures the earlier pledge remains intact.
Where to now? King Tut's is full, The Klaxons obviously a beacon for numberless neo-glow cyber kids. Disappointment is quickly allayed, a brief glimpse at the schedule has us wondering what the fuck we were thinking... Rufus Wainwright takes the stage in Pet Sounds. Wainwright obviously never counted on the weekend's mudbath, kitted out in his finest white suit. His attire is unfortunately the most sparkling aspect of a slightly subdued set, perhaps accounting for the easily accessible status of the tent.
The final installment of our Voyeurism at the Festivals feature brings us to the Pet Sounds Arena, to see the guy it was made for. "Thank you Glasgow," utters a poker-faced Brian Wilson. And just so we know he's not joking, he says it again. Sitting mostly motionless, stage centre, Wilson is a tragic sight. The music and the band, however, are second to none. Barely a note goes amiss, and when it does Wilson launches a dagger-like look at his guitarist, proving he hasn't left the building just yet.
By the time we stagger off the Waltzers, the sun has set and all pleads for a soft bed to lie in fall on deaf ears. Bunk beds in Hospitality next year, please.
Sunday
In decidedly good spirits and with creak in our neck acquired from a night under the stars, The Skinny hurries along to the T-Break Stage to catch Glaswegians Take A Worm For A Walk Week. The mood is slightly tarnished when the band exit stage right just as we reach the tent, all that exertion for nothing!
A quick scout around the arena suggests that Saturday night in the camp-site was a heavy one. The Cribs are playing to a sparsely populated Main Stage and the water stall is the most popular attraction. Figure 5 take the T-Break Stage just as the tent fills up. Attempting to bridge the gargantuan divide between the Kaiser Chiefs and The Clash, they do a decent job in shaking off the cobwebs from the night before and as they leave to rapturous applause it becomes time for a toss up. Avril Lavigne or The Hold Steady?
The Minneapolis rockers come out on top and so to King Tut's to run the rule over a band given wholesale blessing at Skinny Towers this year. What ensues inspires equal measures of disappointment and sympathy as a clearly embarrassed Hold Steady turn up half an hour late, having to play acoustic for an increasingly agitated crowd. In normal circumstances, the opportunity to catch such an impromptu unplugged set would be one to relish, but given their quota of three tracks, the abiding sentiment is of anti-climax. Sometimes it's better not to have a high expectation of a performance, so as to avoid the sometimes inevitable let-down. Which is why The Goo Goo Dolls on the main stage don't inspire any such feelings.
The sun is getting hotter and has parched the arena into an easily navigable format. A green faced Skinny laments scoffing at those desperately wading through the marshes on Friday, given the present level of discomfort caused by these here two-sizes-too-small wellies. As we valiantly struggle on in the face of gangrene, all round crazy bas Anton Newcombe and The Brian Jonestown Massacre draw us to the Pet Sounds Arena. In the flesh they are an unlikely bunch. All eyes are fixed on Joel Gion: a Frankenstein-like creature dancing gaily with his tambourine at the front of the stage. He's an unlikely asset, albeit with minimal participation. The set of psych rock itself hits the spot and the crowd of devotees in attendance seem to agree.
Flipping a coin and missing The Vivians as we keep the faith that they're laying down their dirty brand of punk rock drool on the T Break stage, a hefty traipse across the sea of bathing bodies and discarded ice cream cones to the Slam Tent is rewarded with a rare full strength performance from the Wu Tang Clan. Having berated one over zealous fan for flinging something onto the stage, they soon remember the party line: "Wu Tang Clan ain't nothin' to fuck with," they warn the perpetrator. Doling out perennial classics like Protect Ya Neck, 4th Chamber and a forever mandatory ODB tribute, their slot is more of an opportunity to enjoy their all too rare collective presence rather than a chance to judge each on their individual merits, but worth it all the same.
Soon after, Kings of Leon take to the Main Stage. Despite the fact they don't look like Lynyrd Skynyrd's offspring anymore, Kings can still rattle out Southern Rock par excellence and in the aftermath, vox populi would have them as one of the weekend's highlights. The brothers Followill actually seem excited to be there, in stark contrast with their compatriots Interpol on the NME Stage who we soon catch a glimpse of after wading through what feels like an infinite sea of Scissor Sisters karaoke jammers. "This is what we do, it's our job," guitarist Daniel Kessler begrudgingly tells The Skinny through fits of sneezing shortly before they take the stage. For all their past accolades, on record, Interpol can after all come across as a cold entity. In person and on stage today they appear no different. This perceived lack of emotion is the very core of what Interpol is, as they gaze preoccupied upon the stupefied masses to produce a strangely brilliant and mesmerising effect.
An entirely emotional character by contrast, Tori Amos holds a crowd in awe of the fruits from her rockiest album to date and goes so far for her theatre that she takes out 10 minutes to costume change during a 45 minute set. Her assured band, joined by ubiquitous sessions percussionist Matt Chamberlain (one time player with heavyweights ranging through Pearl Jam and the Finn Brothers to Bowie and eh...Shatner) rise to the challenge of filling any lull by slapping down a mind blowing space jam. Soon enough, the Cornflake Girl is back, proclaiming herself a MILF and trying on another of the cooky personnas she moonlights with on American Doll Posse. Bizarre, yes, but Amos proves that motherhood has lost her little or none of that famous edge.
With the sun rapidly fading and a chill in the air, most folks have already decided where they will finish the weekend off. The Skinny has been sold on Queens of the Stone Age in King Tut's, and they round things off in style, hurtling their way through old favourites like Mexicola and Feel Good Hit of the Summer as well as a few choice cuts such as Sick, Sick, Sick and Misfit Love from their new album. The main highlight, however, is when part time compatriot Mark Lanegan (who we shamefully missed while we blethered to Interpol and tryed, in vain, to get a date with Tori Amos earlier in the day) suddenly appears amid the smoke to tear it up with Song For the Dead. "Everyone that dances tonight, is gonna fuck tonight," Josh Homme announces. A worried look appears on his face as the place erupts through No One Knows... he's going to be a busy man tonight.
And that was that - a rollercoaster weekend in every respect. What to look forward to now but a week of blistered toes and ringing ears?
Car parks were filled prematurely and any other vehicle-owning punters were being turned away at the gates; people who had travelled for hours in some cases, with the understanding that by buying a ticket they'd perhaps be entitled to park at the venue. A huge cloud (both metaphorical and physical) hung over the weekend, and for some it seldom lifted.
Nevertheless, ever the troopers and being the tolerant souls we are, it didn't take long for The Skinny to decide that, despite any misgivings, T In The Park 07 would be three days of fun, filth and sonic frolics worth persevering with...
Friday
Having nabbed the last pair of wellies (albeit two sizes too small) from Millets on Friday lunchtime, it's easy to smugly waddle by the unfortunate souls traipsing through the ankle deep mud on Friday evening in sandals and trainers. Falling over themselves, each other and their cargoes of booze to catch a glimpse of the Arctic Monkeys - yet, as we take a perch at the main stage, it's unclear whether the Sheffield tribe were really worth the effort. There is no question mark around the talent of the band, but Alex Turner's cocksure disposition suggests he would rather be somewhere else. "Alright then, suit yourselves," he shrugs as the early bird camper crowd go off on one through When The Sun Goes Down. With only a handful of acts scheduled for Friday, it's more of a warm up than anything else, even if it does leave the main arena resembling Plough Lane.
Saturday
No doubt the alien presence of a sun in the sky has a sobering impact on those caked head to toe in muck from Friday's escapades, the main arena being littered with cold-light-of-day frowns and cringes. The Thrills, however, can't believe their luck. Taking an early slot on the NME stage, their tales of Santa Cruz and Big Sur wouldn't have been half as welcome had it still been pissing down. As it happens, the crowd lap it up. The Skinny basks in the long overdue sunshine and with strict instructions to "float about, catch as many bands as you can" ringing in our ears, make buoyant tracks toward The Pet Sounds arena to catch a Strokes-less Albert Hammond Jnr. turn in a hugely impressive set. Despite the mixed opinion surrounding his début solo effort, Hammond's performance is self-assured, confident and not bad for a second job.
A not so brief quest to seek out some beer tokens, and a personal pledge to "stay off the Tennents this weekend" are timed to perfection as Black Rebel Motorcycle Club strut on-stage at King Tut's, with the bespectacled Peter Hayes bearing some strange resemblance to Ian McCulloch. "The last time we played this stage", he informs the clearly impressed legions, "Joe Strummer shook my hand backstage and said you were one of the best crowds he ever played to." Nowt like a bit of name dropping to win over the masses, but rousing renditions of Ain't No Easy Way Out and Spread Your Love won't hurt either.
Voyeuristic instinct strikes (not for the last time today), and it's full steam ahead to Sinead O'Connor. Catching her mid Nothing Compares 2 U doesn't quite make up for the distinct lack of torn-up effigies. An unforgettable voice singing largely forgettable songs is a decent summation of her set, and come to think of it, the last ten years of her career. The itch has set in at this stage, and "car crash syndrome" ensures there is only one direction The Skinny's beady little eyes are looking, Pete Doherty is due on the NME stage in ten minutes. A brief sojourn at a burger van and frantic scramble through the myriads later, and Babyshambles are nowhere to be seen. The virtue of patience isn't long deserting.
The Arcade Fire are about to start on the main stage and a worse-for-wear, freshly liberated Doherty has just slurred his way through one too many tuneless tracks to warrant further listening. The sprawling Montreal outfit, on the other hand, aren't big on anti-climaxes. They continue their fine form at T In The Park. They just about fill the main stage and whereas a cosy slot in King Tut's would have been preferable, they seem neither bothered nor daunted. "You guys sure know how to play a snare drum here in Scotland," Win Butler remarks, having seen his first pipe band parade in Glasgow the previous day. Obviously inspired, he leads his troops in a barnstorming rendition of Power Out. They leave the stage covered in glory, their uniquely unabashed enthusiasm thankfully a given for each live performance.
In pursuit of a change of scenery, a dose of Shadow and Cut Chemist seems in order at the Slam Tent... only briefly mind, we're standing on Beats' toes! A bizarre yet entertaining setlist (Foo Fighters, Jefferson Airplane and The Doors all get thrown into the mix) draws a lukewarm response from the crowd, and so to a deserted Futures Stage.
The chaotic Rapture-on-crack tinged performance of Blood Brothers' effeminate frontman is in direct contrast to the tidy structure of the band. It's a juxtaposition that works, just a shame there was nobody there to see it. The realisation that Bright Eyes has been and gone sees us cursing all the way to the bar, in need of a good sit down. A cool pint of cider ensures the earlier pledge remains intact.
Where to now? King Tut's is full, The Klaxons obviously a beacon for numberless neo-glow cyber kids. Disappointment is quickly allayed, a brief glimpse at the schedule has us wondering what the fuck we were thinking... Rufus Wainwright takes the stage in Pet Sounds. Wainwright obviously never counted on the weekend's mudbath, kitted out in his finest white suit. His attire is unfortunately the most sparkling aspect of a slightly subdued set, perhaps accounting for the easily accessible status of the tent.
The final installment of our Voyeurism at the Festivals feature brings us to the Pet Sounds Arena, to see the guy it was made for. "Thank you Glasgow," utters a poker-faced Brian Wilson. And just so we know he's not joking, he says it again. Sitting mostly motionless, stage centre, Wilson is a tragic sight. The music and the band, however, are second to none. Barely a note goes amiss, and when it does Wilson launches a dagger-like look at his guitarist, proving he hasn't left the building just yet.
By the time we stagger off the Waltzers, the sun has set and all pleads for a soft bed to lie in fall on deaf ears. Bunk beds in Hospitality next year, please.
Sunday
In decidedly good spirits and with creak in our neck acquired from a night under the stars, The Skinny hurries along to the T-Break Stage to catch Glaswegians Take A Worm For A Walk Week. The mood is slightly tarnished when the band exit stage right just as we reach the tent, all that exertion for nothing!
A quick scout around the arena suggests that Saturday night in the camp-site was a heavy one. The Cribs are playing to a sparsely populated Main Stage and the water stall is the most popular attraction. Figure 5 take the T-Break Stage just as the tent fills up. Attempting to bridge the gargantuan divide between the Kaiser Chiefs and The Clash, they do a decent job in shaking off the cobwebs from the night before and as they leave to rapturous applause it becomes time for a toss up. Avril Lavigne or The Hold Steady?
The Minneapolis rockers come out on top and so to King Tut's to run the rule over a band given wholesale blessing at Skinny Towers this year. What ensues inspires equal measures of disappointment and sympathy as a clearly embarrassed Hold Steady turn up half an hour late, having to play acoustic for an increasingly agitated crowd. In normal circumstances, the opportunity to catch such an impromptu unplugged set would be one to relish, but given their quota of three tracks, the abiding sentiment is of anti-climax. Sometimes it's better not to have a high expectation of a performance, so as to avoid the sometimes inevitable let-down. Which is why The Goo Goo Dolls on the main stage don't inspire any such feelings.
The sun is getting hotter and has parched the arena into an easily navigable format. A green faced Skinny laments scoffing at those desperately wading through the marshes on Friday, given the present level of discomfort caused by these here two-sizes-too-small wellies. As we valiantly struggle on in the face of gangrene, all round crazy bas Anton Newcombe and The Brian Jonestown Massacre draw us to the Pet Sounds Arena. In the flesh they are an unlikely bunch. All eyes are fixed on Joel Gion: a Frankenstein-like creature dancing gaily with his tambourine at the front of the stage. He's an unlikely asset, albeit with minimal participation. The set of psych rock itself hits the spot and the crowd of devotees in attendance seem to agree.
Flipping a coin and missing The Vivians as we keep the faith that they're laying down their dirty brand of punk rock drool on the T Break stage, a hefty traipse across the sea of bathing bodies and discarded ice cream cones to the Slam Tent is rewarded with a rare full strength performance from the Wu Tang Clan. Having berated one over zealous fan for flinging something onto the stage, they soon remember the party line: "Wu Tang Clan ain't nothin' to fuck with," they warn the perpetrator. Doling out perennial classics like Protect Ya Neck, 4th Chamber and a forever mandatory ODB tribute, their slot is more of an opportunity to enjoy their all too rare collective presence rather than a chance to judge each on their individual merits, but worth it all the same.
Soon after, Kings of Leon take to the Main Stage. Despite the fact they don't look like Lynyrd Skynyrd's offspring anymore, Kings can still rattle out Southern Rock par excellence and in the aftermath, vox populi would have them as one of the weekend's highlights. The brothers Followill actually seem excited to be there, in stark contrast with their compatriots Interpol on the NME Stage who we soon catch a glimpse of after wading through what feels like an infinite sea of Scissor Sisters karaoke jammers. "This is what we do, it's our job," guitarist Daniel Kessler begrudgingly tells The Skinny through fits of sneezing shortly before they take the stage. For all their past accolades, on record, Interpol can after all come across as a cold entity. In person and on stage today they appear no different. This perceived lack of emotion is the very core of what Interpol is, as they gaze preoccupied upon the stupefied masses to produce a strangely brilliant and mesmerising effect.
An entirely emotional character by contrast, Tori Amos holds a crowd in awe of the fruits from her rockiest album to date and goes so far for her theatre that she takes out 10 minutes to costume change during a 45 minute set. Her assured band, joined by ubiquitous sessions percussionist Matt Chamberlain (one time player with heavyweights ranging through Pearl Jam and the Finn Brothers to Bowie and eh...Shatner) rise to the challenge of filling any lull by slapping down a mind blowing space jam. Soon enough, the Cornflake Girl is back, proclaiming herself a MILF and trying on another of the cooky personnas she moonlights with on American Doll Posse. Bizarre, yes, but Amos proves that motherhood has lost her little or none of that famous edge.
With the sun rapidly fading and a chill in the air, most folks have already decided where they will finish the weekend off. The Skinny has been sold on Queens of the Stone Age in King Tut's, and they round things off in style, hurtling their way through old favourites like Mexicola and Feel Good Hit of the Summer as well as a few choice cuts such as Sick, Sick, Sick and Misfit Love from their new album. The main highlight, however, is when part time compatriot Mark Lanegan (who we shamefully missed while we blethered to Interpol and tryed, in vain, to get a date with Tori Amos earlier in the day) suddenly appears amid the smoke to tear it up with Song For the Dead. "Everyone that dances tonight, is gonna fuck tonight," Josh Homme announces. A worried look appears on his face as the place erupts through No One Knows... he's going to be a busy man tonight.
And that was that - a rollercoaster weekend in every respect. What to look forward to now but a week of blistered toes and ringing ears?