Our Orbital reviewer, Tom, is right - the courtyard of Somerset House is a great place for a concert - especially when the weather's nice (gloat, gloat).  And it's with this general feeling of goodwill that I tried hard to warm to Hawksley Workman, the Canadian who's attracted numerous comparisons to Jeff Buckley.  I can't really vouch for that, but between less than endearing attempts at whimsical banter, the tendency for his songs to drift into operatic glam rock and (horror) West End show-tune territory didn't really hit the spot.

The Tindersticks however, in front of a very international crowd even by London standards, were impeccable.    Backed up by a good-sized string section (whose purpose appeared to be to provide Wall of Sound substance rather than more complex arrangements), they gave us an hour and a half of what they do best, smokily emotional mumbling ballads.  On record their songs sound best suited to dingy smoke-filled back rooms, and indeed when he wanders on stage, Stuart Staples appears to be turning into the reincanation of Serge Gainsbourg, one of the prime exponents of that sort of thing. But, with the extra accompaniment, the music swelled into the stately setting, reinforcing how the band have slowly and quietly evolved into indie-royalty.  So quiet have they been in this change, I realise that, despite owning all their albums, I can't actually remember any of their song titles - so I'm afraid set list fans will be disappointed.  Suffice it to say that the songs played went back across their repertoire and showed up the surprising range of what they can do, with ebbs and flows of flamenco tinged noise backing up the exquisitely mournful vocals - though sadly, from my point of view, there were no backing singers drafted in to deliver some of the poppier moments of Simple Pleasure.  As the sun finally set and the last seagulls swooped away to roost (or whatever), the Tindersticks had transformed the courtyard into the most intimate of settings.  All of which  gave a rather unreal air to when we all turned round to leave, to see that the rumbling double deckers and the bustle of the Strand had been overlooking us all along.

Reviewed by SPT
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"Ask not what your audience can do for you, but what you can do for your audience." Good start, Anthony Kiedis. Build up a nice rapport with the crowd early on and they'll be kind to you. As it happens, there was no need for the Red Hot Chili Peppers to muster up any sort of atmosphere at Lansdowne Road, as by the time Mr. Kiedis, Mr. Frusciante, Mr. Smith and Mr. errrrm...Flea (?!) took to the stage last Tuesday night, the highly anticipative audience, (admittedly made up mainly of adolescents in Green Day/Linkin Park shirts- (bleurgh)) had worked themselves into a near frenzy.

Not surprising really, considering that support came from the seminal New Order, who were fan-fangin'-tastic, and who, like the Chilis, made the best of the rather poor acoustics that Lansdowne has to offer. Opening with "Crystal" from last years "Get Ready" album, they played a tight set littered with several Joy Division songs (She's Lost Control, Transmission, Atmosphere, Love Will Tear Us Apart), a gorgeous "Bizarre Love Triangle" and of course the classics, 'Regret' and 'Blue Monday'. Brilliant. Unfortunately, many of the aforementioned adolescents failed to recognise that they were in the presence of demigods and "Ze Order" received a lukewarm applause.

Or perhaps the crowd were reserving their energy for what was yet to come. If the reception that New Order received was lukewarm, then the RHCP got an "oh bugger-I've-put-my-hand-in-the-fire"-type one. Taking the stage at about 9.30, they opened their set with superb new single "By The Way"-absolute classic Chilis. We got a taster of the forthcoming album with the one or two new songs that popped up throughout the evening, but this evening was mostly Californication territory. And you could tell it what was the vast majority of the crowd wanted. Drawing on earlier material, they threw in stuff like "Give It Away", "My Friends" and encored with the sublime "Under The Bridge". Everybody, now..."I don't ever wanna fee-eeeeeel like I did that day...." Er....okay then, you don't have to.

What a very tight band; and what very energetic live performers. I was fairly happy with their performance, but with their back catalogue, coupled with the fairly expensive tickets, they could have played for longer. However, the stature of the support act more than compensated for that.

The Chili Peppers may not be the best band in the world right now- but they're probably the coolest. And Dublin loved them. Flea loved Dublin. "You Irish are fucking amazing. You have a beautiful country and beautiful people".

Expect to hear of an Irish granny anyday now.

Review by Neon
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New Order  /  Air  / Super Furry Animals  /  Echo and the  Bunnymen  /  Cooper Temple Clause /  Hanky Panky  (London Finsbury Park)

The minute we got off the bus and headed to Finsbury Park it started to rain and did not f*****g stop until Air appeared almost five hours later. This had an effect on the day’s atmosphere, muting early proceedings and turning the arena into a mud-bath by the time New Order appeared.

The early crowd headed towards the shelter of the trees as Hanky Panky appeared playing their sub standard Northside tunes and we did not give them much attention, trying to keep dry instead but to no avail. By the time Cooper Temple Clause appeared the disposable rain-mac sellers were doing a roaring trade and soon the venue resembled a teletubbies convention with the various colours on offer! Huddled under the tree I thought CTC sounded like Jesus Jones. The weather prevented me from viewing them as I was unwilling to give up my sanctuary under the trees although those in our group who caught them thought they were OK with the crowd enjoying themselves.

At this point the weather, not content with soaking us, decided to freeze us to death as well. With the overpriced and watered-downed Grolsh in our hands (and with this weather would it be anything else?!) we headed to the stalls to see if we could find anything to wrap up in. Salvation was at hand with a garish woollen Peruvian jumper that will only see the light of day again at Christmas if it’s lucky. Then "Lips like Sugar" suddenly kicked in with Echo & The Bunnymen taking the stage. They were as glorious as ever running through their back catalogue with ease, cheering up the drowned hordes. Highlights for me were all the tracks of Ocean Rain (how apt) and "Heads Will Roll". Top stuff.

We were in a good mood now but this was not to last thanks to the Super Furry Animals. After hearing some of their stuff and reading their great press I was looking forward to them playing but what a let down. Rather than play some fast paced tracks to keep our spirits up they played the slowest ones they own – they sounded so much like Yes today I expected them to cover "Owner of a Lonely Heart" at some point. Even "The Man don’t give a Fuck" sounded like flogging a dead horse. I must be missing the point with this lot somewhere. In any case we were still waiting for Noah and his sodding Ark to go pass – here were some animals he could leave to drown.

Suddenly a cheer went up, not because Air were taking the stage, but because the sun broke through the clouds. They opened up with a track that sounded Death In Vegas-ish but reverted to their mellow sounds soon after. This would have been ideal on a nice summer’s day but as the skies opened for the worst downpour of the day, finally destroying the last remnants of grass, chilling out was the last thing on my mind. However the crowd were getting the most boisterous that it had been all day and "Kelly Watch The Stars" and "Sexy Boy" were winners, setting up New Order nicely.

As New Order came onto stage the sun came out, the rain clouds bogged off leaving a clear blue sky. It soon became apparent that they had been at the backstage rider all day. Hooky greeted the "cockney wankers", Barney couldn’t stop yapping, the sound was appalling and they were constantly out of tune but were still bloody entertaining. Tracks from Get Ready were jettisoned in favour of Joy Division material with the crowd singing and sliding about all over the place. You never knew that "Love Will Tear Us Apart" was a karaoke sing-along did you? "This is my song" Barney declares as "Temptation" kicks in. The rest of the band taking his word for it, deserted the stage only coming back as he pleaded for help. John Simm, who played Barney in 24hr Party People, was press-ganged onto stage for "Digital" as Barney announces "that we haven’t played this song in over twenty five years" and they proceeded to knock out a cracking version..

For the encore Barney started to give the audience choices of songs "hands up in the air for Blue Monday or your cocks out for Rock The Shack" – I did not ask for a recount – Blue Monday pounded in whilst behind me, one drunken bloke becomes mud diver, repeating his belly flops into pools of the stuff for the benefit of the photographers everywhere. He nearly took out some of the crowd like ten pins as he slid past! Bet he felt like a twat in the morning.

The highlight of the night was "World In Motion" with the whole crowd joining in, with the euphoria of the victory over Argentina a couple of days earlier still apparent. "Ingerland" was still being chanted as they eased into "Your Silent Face" which was the final song with the band apologising for the rain as if it was their fault. This was fantastic, good-humoured entertainment which more than made up for the miserable day both weather wise and through the mostly lacklustre support and judging by the crowd’s reaction I was not the only one who thought so. C’MON NEW ORDER, C’MON INGERLAND!!!

Reviewed by Tom
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Somerset House, it has to be said is a great setting for a concert but in the open air there was not much protection from the downpour which lasted pretty much the whole Orbital set (and with me just having dried from the recent New Order gig!). The rain however contributed to the friendly and good natured crowd which gathered to see the first of two gigs arranged for the Weekend.

Having just released their "Works 1989-2002" collection, which was disappointedly let down by the inclusion of 7" mixes rather than the full versions, Orbital came on to much aplomb and hit cruise control. Starting with "Remind", a track which started off as a Meat Beat Manifesto remix, they then slowed it down with "The Girl With The Sun In Her Head". The following tracks continually merged becoming a blur and your correspondent was dancing away, which is a very rare and sometimes unpleasant sight, and must have been due to the copious amounts of Golden Glory consumed in a nearby pub prior to the gig. The rain did not have an effect on the swaying crowd who were loving every minute of it. New single "Frenetic", a rework of their Golden Girls "Kinetic" track, closed the pre-encore set with the crowd baying for more.

Apart from the customary Hartnoll Brothers headgear the famous Orbital lightshow was a more sedate affair but that too kicked into life as they opened the encore with Impact. A 2300hrs curfew was in place but that was forgotten as a cracking version of Doctor (Who) blew it away. They closed their set with a stunning version of the old favourite Chime. No "Midnight" or "Omen" which are personnel favourites but I was more than happy. Gig of the year by a long shot. Oh, didn't we lose a football match today?

Reviewed by Tom
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An exercise in history but not a night for nostalgics.  There are 60s, 70s and 80s cash-in tours but there’s no chance of karaoke tonight even though we’re along to hear Arthur Lee and his backing band, Baby Lemonade, play 30 year old (and some!) Love and Arthur Lee songs.  There’s too much history in the Arthur Lee story and too much passion in Arthur Lee for the old songs not to have a new impact.  True, Baby Lemonade are note-perfect on the songs but that’s out of respect for the man and his band’s compositions.   (The one concession to that revival tour mentality is the merchandise stand on which the biggest seller seemed to be Love panties).  Love songs, rather than some of the band, have made it from the 60s to the 00s in far better shape than their contemporaries.  Maybe it’s because they were always out of time and we now recognise in their songs the odd juxtaposition of ‘Summer of Love’ myth with the reality of Watts, Vietnam, etc – what the MC5 called The American Ruse. Love always reflected that.  They had a most inappropriate name anyway for a band haunted by hard drugs, early death and prison and whose songs have a paranoid, doomed centre within their sweet candy coating.  That spooky magic still works.  

Support is from Stew, a friend of Arthur’s, who plays witty little songs accompanying himself with sparse guitar.  Imagine Victoria Wood built like a brick shithouse and singing about drugs and shagging and you’ll get the idea.   Amusing the first time you hear the songs but I’m not sure they’d survive repeated listens.  

Arthur comes out and receives a standing ovation from the Love-struck crowd.  He opens with My Little Red Book, followed by Orange Skies, on both of which his voice is shaky, missing some of the high notes.  We’re temporarily reminded that Arthur Lee is a 57-year old bloke who’s been involuntarily off the scene for some time.  But a few songs in, his throat is warmed up, his confidence is high and getting higher in the delirious reception each song receives, and the old voice comes back, hitting every note.  It kicks off with a great version of Live and Let Live in which he mimes shooting a pistol, which is ironic given that he spent his last prison time (“locked up tighter than a gorilla’s nuts”) as a result of being accused of waving a loaded pistol.   He plays a wonderfully soulful Alone Again Or and a blistering 7 And 7 Is, one of the greatest and most furious two and a half minutes ever pressed on 7” single.  Signed D.C. is the loneliest drug song ever and perhaps the finest rebuttal of the false cool of hard drugs.   What’s sweetest about him is that he sings with such passion and belief words like “I think people are the greatest fun” and the lyrics of Everybody’s Gotta Live.  Knowing he was locked up until fairly recently, to hear him chanting “freedom” in a sad-but-celebratory way, is incredibly moving.   Then he finishes his main set with a wonderful sad-sweet A House Is Not A Motel and people go apeshit (the bloke next to me has been doing sat-down dad dancing all night and by now is doing the stood up least funky version of the funky chicken ever).  Arthur, the soul of politeness, goes off but it’s not long before he has to answer the clamour for an encore.   He offers one song but relents with a laugh when someone begs for two and we get ¡Que Vida! and a rumbustuous Singing Cowboy. 

Maybe it’s odd eulogising a bloke who was the definition of cool in the 60s but currently has no new product to offer.  And it’s strange to go gooey for a late middle-aged man who’s got spirit and passion but obviously not the energy he once had (he’s protected by his backing band, who take solos to give him a break and help him change guitars when he busts a string).   But you look around at Bobby Gillespie, Mani, Douglas Hart, Embrace, all of whom are in the audience to worship one of the last people it’s fair to call a genius, and you know he’s someone very special.  This is a night when saying ‘I’m in love with Love’ makes perfect sense.

Set list: My Little Red Book/ Orange Skies/ Your Mind And We Belong Together/ Live And Let Live/ Bummer in the Scene/ Alone Again Or/ You Set The Scene/ The Red Telephone/ Maybe The People Would Be The Times Or Between Clark and Hilldale/ 7 And 7 Is/ Everybody’s Gotta Live- Instant Karma/ Signed D.C./ My Flash On You/ The Daily Planet/ Stephanie Knows Who/ She Comes In Colors/ A House Is Not A Motel.  Encores: ¡Que Vida! / Singing Cowboy   

First up a remarkably honourable mention for Florida – who managed the unenviable task of winning over the small, somewhat dour, group of hardened CC fans who’d ventured out to East London on a Monday night.  Despite the fact that their front man resembled a Lou Reed-fixated music journalist on the make, they served up a fun and  engaging set of the sort of witty, literate pop produced by the Magnetic Fields, St Etienne and the Divine Comedy.  Both singers, male and female, held a mean tune, backed up with a range of instruments (including a lovely bit of trumpet) and a muffled electronica soundtrack, courtesy of a bloke in a woolly hat.  Worth a trip out if they crop up in your area.

As for the main man, well you can’t help feeling times ought to suit Cathal Coughlan.  We’ve Marines crawling round the shattered remains of a war-torn country, digging holes to look for long-gone or long-dead terrorists.  There’s two newly tooled-up (made in the UK!) nuclear powers itching to tac-nuke each other into oblivion while the world looks on aghast.  Middle Eastern youths are being sent to kill each other in the streets and bars of Israel/Palestine, while their ancient leaders blame each other.  Nearer home we have hordes of asylum seekers clinging to the sides of trains for the privilege of being rounded up into camps on old military bases and a self-righteous Government cheering as parents are locked up for not sending their kids to school.  The fondly-remembered (by this crowd at least) Fatima Mansions documented the seedy details of similar confusion in the late 80s/early 90s when a disintegrating Tory party stumbled through a world coming to terms with the collapse of the Eastern Bloc.  Where are their equivalents today? (This is a genuine enquiry.  Answers to the message board.  Please).

Cathal Coughlan though has moved on. Instead of fantastic ranting rock noise, he now produces sardonic, misanthropic folk, backed with cello and double bass as well as the more familiar guitar and piano.   But his passion hasn’t gone and his voice still packs a huge punch as he stands confined on the small stage like a caged tiger.   There are still links to the past – the occasional revamped oldie like the Loyaliser, transformed from a searing blast on techno-metal to a sinister, slinking beast.  And new songs, such as the Drunken Hangman, still tell the tales of the broken fringe characters in which he excels – though more perhaps in sorrow than in anger now.  But generally the new songs focus more on the personal (though the reprise of Begging Bowl from the Microdisney days, points to how far back that goes too).  Musically, my preference is for the more stripped-down songs.  Black River falls is near-perfect, stunning a restless room into silence.   Some of the other songs though drift off into the “rhythmic excursions” threatened on the flyer.  But this hardly matters – there’s no better tour guide to the deepest, darkest recesses than Cathal Coughlan – to provide the essential counterbalance to the excellent, but essentially fluffy stuff that’s finding its way into all our record collections at the moment.

Reviewed by SPT
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Since quitting touring with The Beach Boys in the mid-sixties Brian Wilson¹s live appearances have been sparse, but this is his second trip to the UK this year, following a recent world tour. I was lucky enough to be present at one of the January dates and it was obvious how much respect is bestowed upon him by both fans and musicians from all generations. His sixties back catalogue speaks for itself, listen to ³Pet Sounds² and the ill-fated ³Smile² project and you can understand why his work has influenced so many of today¹s artists.  It is this work that we are celebrating tonight and the fact that Brian Wilson is here at all. Since the problems with obesity and drugs Brian has brought himself back from the brink of self destruction to a creditable performing artist again. The voice might not be as pure but his willingness to put on a good show is still there. The support from his band is immense, during the two and half hour set. Brian has surrounded himself with musicians and vocalists worthy of any Beach Boys record. Brian sits in front of a keyboard, only attempting to play it for one song. He¹s more relaxed than the recent Queen¹s Jubilee Concert and gone is the formal suit that he wore for the occasion.

The opening songs were WONDERFUL - CABINESSENCE and SAIL ON SAILOR. WONDERFUL a brave opener, perhaps exposing the frailties of Brian¹s voice while the latter demonstrated the vocal capabilities of the whole band. Other highlights of the first half included DARLIN¹ OUR PRAYER, HEROES AND VILLAINS and SURF¹S UP. After a break we are introduced to the whole of Pet Sounds, together with the albums lyricist, Tony Asher. Brian sits out on the instrumentals,  turning his back on the audience to watch the band. He struggles vocally on some of the high notes, they were hard to sing in the sixties, let alone now, but the band are always there to support him. There¹s a couple of moments where he restarts the music, perhaps showing his growing confidence in performing live. Also worthy of some note is the use of the the original lyrics to I KNOW THERE¹s AN ANSWER, using the original lyrics that Mike Love objected to - HANG ON TO YOUR EGO. GOOD VIBRATIONS follows, then a collection of surfin¹ hits that gets the audience out of their seats. Brian stands up and plays bass for BARBARA ANN , but the bassist in the band also continues playing. FUN FUN FUN ends the set and LOVE AND MERCY is the only encore.

Overall a great night but perhaps the original excitement of seeing BW for the first time in January overshadowed this gig, that and the price of the £45 ticket.

Reviewed by Ken Tuckie
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It’s 20 minutes into the Radar Brothers set, and I’m happily chatting away to my partner in crime up on the balcony. It’s not that they are bad or lack talent, but just the fact that by 3 songs in they are boring me senseless with what sounds like the same tune over and over again. Maybe I was feeling a tad too rock tonight, but when I saw that there were 2 keyboards set up at the front of the stage I just knew what to expect. Lush soundscapes, moody vocals, and little to get the heart racing were on the agenda, and they didn’t disappoint. Totally un-offensive but unlike say recent Mercury Rev or Radiohead releases just not enough hooks to keep me interested. Just one power chord could have rescued them but it wasn’t forthcoming. They probably sound magnificent recorded, but I wouldn’t cancel a dentist appointment to see them live again.

Then the Breeders.   What is there left to say about the Deal sisters that I haven’t raved on about before? Last time at ATP they were fantastic, this time they were better and tighter as a unit than I’ve ever seen them before.

To see a band whose members have all been there, done that, go on stage with the whole intention of just having fun without the stigma of pretending to perform is so refreshing in the current indy-rock moodiness climate. They laugh and banter, drink copious amounts of lager, smoke a continuous chain of cigarettes and all have grins on their faces that wouldn’t look out of place on a Cheshire cat. What’s more they can actually pull it off without making the audience feel like they’re not part of some private joke.

As far as the set goes, it’s a mixture of all 3 albums, with rarities and b-side thrown in for good measure. An amazing version of Oh! leads into Saints, into Little Fury, that tests Kim Deals’ chocolate coated voice and doesn’t find it wanting. It’ amazing just how fine a vocalist she is, and how easily she can switch from East Coast rock drawl, into emotive breathy atmosphere at the drop of a hat.

Since drafting in 3 former members of West Coast punk band Fear, and allowing them to take on the duties of keeping things rolling along, the Deals have been left to do what they are good at, being out front harmonizing both their vocals and guitars, free to bounce back and forth off each other almost telepathically. Cannonball steamrollers in to a thunderous cheer, and the girls smile in unison. I Just Wanna Get Along gives Kelly the chance to lead the crowd in the singalong, as Kim squints though the smoke of her own perma-fag hanging from her lips. Due to the atmosphere they exude this is almost like watching a band of friends doing a gig in your local (only this time they’re actually able to play!).

An hour and twenty minutes, plus 2 encores later, it’s all over, and you’re discussing how great they are, and whether you can get tickets to tomorrow nights show, and I can’t say that I do that very often. Having seen them in shoddy form in the past, this was almost like seeing a completely new act. On this form, The Breeders could just conquer the world, and believe me that can only be a good thing for music.

This was supposed to be a joint headline show with The Music but a sore throat to the lead singer of the Leeds band put paid to that.  On the way out everyone was given two pounds refund to “get a drink on the Coral”.  They obviously haven’t experienced London prices but to be honest the two quid was about £1.99 more than I think The Music are worth anyway.

The Coral are an odd kettle of kippers.  As unorthodox as a baboon on a bike, they don’t fit easily into any category you may care to name.  The Liverpool six piece perform an eclectic set of styles from Yiddish folk songs to sea shanties and some of the bands who may have influenced them are not your average everyday listening for a young band: The Teardrop Explodes, The Doors, the Inspiral Carpets and Ye Gads, Iron Butterfly!  And this swimming against the tide goes some way to explaining why some people appreciate them so much.  However it’s a cover of the Teardrop Explodes’ ‘Reward’ that proves a highlight amongst the wigged out, reverb heavy psychedelic rocking.   Their album is out on the 22^nd July and it’ll be interesting to see how it all sits together.  At the moment their unusual styles may may be refreshing but personally I’m not sure it totally quenches a musical thirst. 

Reviewed by mawders
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Festivals? Camping in a field with 20,000 other unwashed people, up to your knees in mud drinking over priced lager from a paper cup. Balancing 6 inches above a chemical toilet seat then realising there’s no paper. Standing half a mile away from the stage unable to either see or hear what’s happening, as 14-year-old Slipknot fans try to convince you just how good this latest nah-nah-nah nu-metal band is. Festivals? Sounds like great fun doesn’t it, yet we all do it year in year out, and come back saying how much of a great time we’ve had. Let’s be honest, festivals on the whole are pretty horrible affairs, but they do have the ability to give you moments of sheer un-adulterated fun whilst allowing normally sane individuals the chance to become Stig of the Dump for 3 days. Then of course there’s ATP.

ATP has for some people become a bit of a pilgrimage. You get a mixed bag of people attending from student types in T-shirts with band names on that I’ve never heard of, to 50 year olds with beer bellys who’ve forgotten more about alternative music than I know. It’s a nice atmosphere as everybody is there to hear music, drink beers and chat away to like-minded people. Relatively warm chalets with proper beds and hot showers, 2 sizable indoor stages that you can actually get close to, good sound, reasonable priced food and drink, bars that stay open all night. In a word civilised.

This is a festival for people who like music, ran by people who like music. It’s all very smooth and professional without having to resort to corporate sponsorship, and I’m going back next year, that’s for certain.

There were 3 days of music on 2 stages, so I didn’t see everybody, and by the time the headliners came on I was much the worst for wear after 10 hours of power drinking, so if my memory of some of the acts is a bit fuzzy, I apologise!

Friday (Guinness then Vodka / Red Bull day)

The Ex-Orkest are from Amsterdam, and have an array of instruments from strings, brass and percussion that they play by standing in a semi circle in the middle of the stage. There’s about 20 of them and they all join in at some stage with vocals that you don’t need to understand to enjoy, except for the second trumpeter from the end whose mic had been turned down. Obviously there’s nobody with the heart to tell him he can’t sing. They make an unholy racket that just works. Weird as hell but a sheer wall of sound, and a great way to start the weekend.

Flour was a long haired chap with a bass guitar and a drum machine. From wandering around over the next couple of days, it’s a line up that many bands seem to use. There must be a drought in the world of quality tub-thumpers.

All fine and dandy, but the first of many a chin scratching moment that was to occur of the next couple of days. Went to the bar half way through and didn’t go back.

Zeni Geva were 3 Japanese guys who went to work on the riffs and didn’t stop for 45 minutes. These power packed metal monsters were fantastic, hovering somewhere between mental rock and garage punk. Not much in the way of vocals, but what were there sounded very angry. They seemed like such nice boys too. A definite highlight.

Mission of Burma was one of the bands I wanted to see, and they didn’t disappoint me. Their career was short and often overshadowed by the bigger and more famous new wave bands of their era, but their influence over a collection of bands since 1983 should not be overlooked. They play a varied set, from lush and moody tracks, to all out power pop without becoming either boring or formulaic. To think they only made one album, and REM went on to do ten. Now to me that’s inexplicable!

Cheap Trick headlined, and made a pretty good fist of it. Just as you remember them, they are tight and surprisingly bright even if the hairlines are now nearer their collars than their eyebrows. All the old classics came out and were warmly received. Got a bit bored by the end and retired to the bar.

Saturday (Snakebite and Black day)

After a long lie in finally got to the venue to see the end of Consonants set. Basically half of Mission of Burma, they are ok, if a bit oblique with their lyrics. Not as poppy as MoB they tend to veer towards art rock at times. I scratch my chin in time with them, but I’m not disappointed about staying in bed late.

Rachel are another band who use a lot of strings and keyboards. A bit Belle and Sebastian on one hand, then Sigur Ros on the other. It’s all very pleasant and occasionally gets sonically angry when the guitarist is let of the leash. Again I’m glad I haven’t shaved, as it gives me something to twiddle with.

We adjourn to the bar for a while before dashing downstairs to see Arcwelder. Having never played the UK before, the world and its’ mother is there to see them. The influences are there to see in the set. Husker-Du anybody? Cheap Trick Sir? Garage Rock? They do rock it though, and my chin becomes un-stroked for the first time today. We stay for the whole show, and all give each other knowing nods during particularly impressive songs.

Wire had already started when we finally made our way to the other stage. They are another band who have had a big influence on many an up and coming group, and are so much more than the art-punk outfit that most people think of when they are mentioned in conversation. They are quality live and round the evening off perfectly, but saying that a troop of baboons on bongos could have entertained me by that stage of the evening, so maybe I’m being a bit flattering.

Sunday (Alco-Pops day)

Having beered my brain into submission over the last 2 days, I make a gargantuan effort to fall out of bed early enough to get to see Shellac. They’ve opened every day, and this is the last chance to check them out. They’re relaxed, funny and very polished, only becoming slightly up their own bums during their closing 10 minute long song, but even this isn’t a bad thing. A pounding 3 piece that makes more noise than it has the right to.

Mark Robinson followed, and I returned to chin-scratch mode. Drum machine, couple of guitars, and vocal harmonies are ok, but do tend to get a tad tiresome after 20 minutes. More personnel might save them from being the band that could be B&S poor little brother, but I guarantee that they would employ a violinist before a drummer.

Now along came High Dependency Unit, which is a ludicrous name for a superb band. A basic 3 piece that makes such a wall of sound deserves a better name than that. Think Radioheads’ My Iron Lung sonic assault, crossed with Chemical Brothers Private Psychedelic Reel with a dash of Muses Sunburn thrown in for good measure. Absolutely breathtaking. If they find a Thom Yorke-a-like to write and sing some decent lyrics, Oxfordshire’s finest should start quaking in their boots. Could be massive, but probably won’t.

Bring on The Fall. There’s still nobody better in this country at doing a Mr. Smith than the man himself. He’s collected a tight band together and is on top form. I have to admit that I’m not exactly that up with the extensive back catalogue of material that he has, but I recognise more songs that I think I should. The purist Fall fans in the audience are raving about the set afterwards, so I guess they must have been good by their standards.

Closing off the weekend are The Breeders. I’ve seen them on bad nights and good, but this is the best I’ve ever seen them perform. From the opening of No Aloha through to a fierce closing of I Don’t Care About You, they are frankly magnificent. They grin and joke, and totally enjoy every minute of their set, even allowing each other’s mistakes with a knowing smile and wink.

Funniest moment in the set is when they start to play a song and Kim has to stop the band to ask what key it is in, only to be answered by the whole band falling about in laughter. Just terrific, and the only time in the whole weekend that I get the opportunity to get up the front and give it some mosh!

So endeth the weekend, with ears ringing, liver failure close, a throbbing head and a big smile. There were good “old” acts (Breeders, Fall, MoB, Shellac), “new” acts (HDU, Zeni Geva), and some disappointments or frankly poor acts, but on the whole it’s been fun and we’re already making plans for next year, so maybe ATP is no different to any other festival. Don’t be put off by the elitist image that this seems to have inherited, and book your ticket now. It could be alternative music’s best kept secret at the moment, but don’t expect that to last for long. 2 years from now we’ll all probably be standing in a field in Hampshire, watching S Club 7 on a video screen, longing for the time when this was a proper festival for proper fans. Just remember that I told you so when it happens!

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The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster play a super-amplified rockabilly swamp-rock, very dark and brooding.  It’s part Siouxsie and the Banshees and part Birthday Party (especially where he screams “I am the Son of God!”), which is appropriate because it’s the Ashcroft-lookalikey singer’s birthday tonight and he celebrates by wailing his heart out and stalking through the crowd like a deranged evangelist on a mission to convert the unbelievers.  Live, they make more sense than on their recent single; the buzzsaw guitar sound and the passion come together to create something quite thrilling.  At the end of the set, we’re breathless, a little scared but queuing up to go on the ride again.  

Half-time lets us admire this excellent new venue, laugh at the tits in the crowd (bloke dancing around in back to front shirt and too much make up, the guy who looked the spit of Julian Casablancas if JC had been cloned from a potato, and some bloke with obviously dyed black quiff and ginger sideburns) and cringe at a solo performer who would get bottled off while busking in the underground.  When, mercifully, at the end of his second song he stood up and said “thank you and fuck off” he was reading the minds of everyone in the crowd.   The biggest waste of space since Eva Braun knitted Hitler a pair of bollock warmers. 

The sound of The Libertines is defiantly English, or more accurately London, unlike the mass of their peers who ape American music, dress and ‘style’.  The Libertines have a hint of Supergrass and shades of early Jam and Clash, Who and Kinks.  It’s the sound of urban punk rock, energetic and full of balls, nous and attitude, with a slightly grimy edge.  It looks and feels authentic; unlike an emo band, you can’t put it together from a catalogue.  There’s no angle to them: they get on stage, play loud, knock over the mikestands, sweat and go off.  What makes the difference is the quality of the songs.  “What a Waster”, released on 3 June, could possibly be the greatest song you’ll hear all summer, as simple and direct as The Jam’s “In the City” and probably as memorable.  Its B-side, “I Get Along” sounds almost as good live.  If you’re sick of bands who promise and don’t deliver, or who spend more on publicists than studio time, then let yourself go with The Libertines on their new tour.      

Reviewed by Ged
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Back in 1977, The Damned were one of the first punk bands I went to see play live. Now, 25 years on, would they be any good? The answer is a resounding YES!!!!!. Before the gig I went into the local Weatherspoons pub to have a few drinks, at the bar was a character with a Luton town FC logo tattooed on his arm and wearing a nose ring. Yes, he was on his way to the gig as well, in fact, there were quite a few old punks and goths like myself who had crawled out of the woodwork for this one. Dave Vanian, the Singer hails from Hemel, so it was bound to be a good one. Into the Pav by 8.30 and even more familiar faces from yesteryear, but with a suprising amount of younger folk, all dressed in black of course.

The Damned came on stage at 9.00 and launched into Plan 9 Channel 7 with a wall of sound. Only two original band members were left, Dave Vanian, singer, and Captain Sensible, now playing lead guitar. Patricia Morrison, from the Sisters of Mercy was drafted in on bass guitar, drums and keyboard were filled by persons unknown to me. They played a fast paced set with songs from their first 4 albums prominent, New Rose, Smash it up, Neat Neat Neat, Fan club and many more. The music was much richer and more polished than the old days and played with obvious enjoyment to a very buoyant crowd, the mosh pit being very active. The only annoying thing was the end, as the pav staff put on all the lights straight away and put on music, so there was no obvious indications of an encore.  In the past, pav audiences would have reacted to this differently, but we all have put on a few years since, so many in the crowd just drifted away into the night... only for us to discover too late that they did come back on and do two encores.

Reviewed by Deadly Doug
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