Sunday 07/08/05 Day 3 @ Benicassim Festival (by Gigwise)
Inviato: ven ago 12, 2005 8:13 amSunday 07/08/05 Day 3 @ Benicassim Festival, Spain
by Gill Ripley More Festival Articles...
It’s hot enough to roast a Chihuahua and everybody looks suitably minging. After much confusion, press conference cancellations and lashings of sun stroke, the pups are straining at the front barrier again, much to the amusement of the sauntering hippies. The last night in the FIB arena begins.
Hot Hot Heat bemoan their 35 hour voyage to play at this festival. Perhaps they wanted a trumpet to flourish in dedication to them, but they made do with a few nods of appreciation from the crowd and pushed on with the show. Steve Bays gave hope to the campers that their hair is really not that bad. Think of your dad pissed and doing air guitar at a wedding, whilst dribbling over a slice of quiche and manhandling someone’s sister. Your Dad probably would like this band. The frizzy dude is a true showman, yelling to the crowd like Bon Jovi circa 1981, encouraging then to freak out to a set which is energetic, but a far cry from anything remotely rock n roll.
Alas! A song every indie kid knows. ‘Bandages’ produces pogo’ing and mullet shaking as best as the heat can afford. The band note it is ‘hot hot hot’. We never would have guessed. A stagnant pause after their crap joke is filled with ‘Middle Of Nowhere’, a song that smacks of Bryan Adams with his quiffiest centre parting. The Victoria boys are showing their indigenous soft rock roots and a heap of laughable naffness. All the folk can do is wanly wave their buckets of ale.
Despite the melting, dribbling crowd, Bays remains amenable, wrapping up with a cheery singalong to ‘Goodnight Goodnight’. Incessantly nice, they leave and a breeze sweeps through the arena, inspiring the purchase of yet more drinks tickets and a chat with some random Spaniards. As the sun sets, so does the atmosphere in anticipation of Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. The gangly goth that is Mr Cave strides onto the stage and looks more swish than scary. In good humour, he sweeps across the audience, stooping and serenading the front row. With all the mesmerising broodiness of The Doors and the charm of Peter Sutcliffe, it's difficult to establish whether Cave is bizarrely sexual or whether the litre beers are taking effect. Lithe and oozing pretentiousness, the yuppiness stings in modern tragic ‘Lyre of Orpheus’. Anybody who gets ‘frappucino’ into a song lyric should sort themselves out and join the nearest book group.
The Cure do little to lighten up the mood. Robert Smith looks every inch the plank in his usual make up and hair spray. It’s midnight and still 28oc and he must be suffocating underneath all the black garb. The strain shows in their Curefest marathon set, which must have gone on for twenty years, and even major fans were heard complaining about the shiteness of it all. Gigwise sidled off to check for hair lice and munch a half time kebab. Along the way, Roisin Murphy has started in the Moto tent. She wiggles trendily in a backless cape and is the envy of every shit encrusted female present. A polite bop is brewing to her WASP house beats. This type of music is only good for shagging to or having colleagues round for narcotics. The drums, salsa beats and weird flutes have no lift, and people look bemused as they veer towards the booze tent.
Back at Verde, it’s packed like tinned boquerones in anticipation of Oasis. 7500 Brits are attending Benicassim this year, and without a doubt every single one of them is squashed in here. "This is not a drill" states a robotic voice. Whoops and smoke clouds give way to a flourish and our old Liam in his finest holiday Lacoste. Sporting an impressive pair of bitch tits, he makes no introductions and launches into ‘Love One Another’. It’s as stale as a warm Cruzcampo, and the resonant belch after it includes something about Old Trafford. The wanky snarls of ‘Lyla’ get the sunburnt bald patches nodding emphatically, thought they don’t really know the words. Nice bro Noel takes the lead for ‘The Importance Of Being Idle’. Acoustically, the song sounds outstanding live. His modest energy surpasses the dandy Liam seen in the video. The lights change to Pheonix Club tack, with glitzy strips and bare bulbs. Whether ‘Manuel’ is the guy who keeps climbing on stage or Liam’s generic knowledge of Sapnish culture, nobody knows, but they get the a dedication of ‘Monkey Fingers’ anyway. The lesser known track receives a roar, but maybe Manuel was insulted and went to the dance tent for a boogie. The saving grace came in their take of ‘My Generation’. Liam could snarl away to his delight and not sound like a tosser, sending them off the stage with a ferocious stomp.
It seems that in their leap from Leicester social club to main stage, Kasabian have developed Tourettes. Calling the British "bastards", press "fuckers" and Spanish "cunts", the boys are having a pop at rock n roll. It’s cute to witness, as Sergio wavers and look around uncertainly from underneath his hat. The festy songs roll out one by one, finished by meaty 'Club Foot' and a bolshy exit.
LCD Soundsystem finished the show. Akin to Stavros from the local chippy, James Smith makes no attempt to move, standing super cool and blasé infront of the nutters at the front. It tailed into a disappointing, version of ‘Daft Punk is Playing At My House’. Rushed like he couldn’t give a toss, Murphy fills his nonchalant reputation perfectly. ‘Yeah’ extends into a half hour funky jam and the crowd loses it, banging and jumping on each other, suitably fuelled for a penultimate night of raving at the Costa Del Fest.
The lights are up and litter pickers scurry about. Gigwise is knackered, sunburned and satisfied, but in need of one just last Red Bull with that hippy over there…
Photos by: Dan Pratley
fonte:gigwise.com
by Gill Ripley More Festival Articles...
It’s hot enough to roast a Chihuahua and everybody looks suitably minging. After much confusion, press conference cancellations and lashings of sun stroke, the pups are straining at the front barrier again, much to the amusement of the sauntering hippies. The last night in the FIB arena begins.
Hot Hot Heat bemoan their 35 hour voyage to play at this festival. Perhaps they wanted a trumpet to flourish in dedication to them, but they made do with a few nods of appreciation from the crowd and pushed on with the show. Steve Bays gave hope to the campers that their hair is really not that bad. Think of your dad pissed and doing air guitar at a wedding, whilst dribbling over a slice of quiche and manhandling someone’s sister. Your Dad probably would like this band. The frizzy dude is a true showman, yelling to the crowd like Bon Jovi circa 1981, encouraging then to freak out to a set which is energetic, but a far cry from anything remotely rock n roll.
Alas! A song every indie kid knows. ‘Bandages’ produces pogo’ing and mullet shaking as best as the heat can afford. The band note it is ‘hot hot hot’. We never would have guessed. A stagnant pause after their crap joke is filled with ‘Middle Of Nowhere’, a song that smacks of Bryan Adams with his quiffiest centre parting. The Victoria boys are showing their indigenous soft rock roots and a heap of laughable naffness. All the folk can do is wanly wave their buckets of ale.
Despite the melting, dribbling crowd, Bays remains amenable, wrapping up with a cheery singalong to ‘Goodnight Goodnight’. Incessantly nice, they leave and a breeze sweeps through the arena, inspiring the purchase of yet more drinks tickets and a chat with some random Spaniards. As the sun sets, so does the atmosphere in anticipation of Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. The gangly goth that is Mr Cave strides onto the stage and looks more swish than scary. In good humour, he sweeps across the audience, stooping and serenading the front row. With all the mesmerising broodiness of The Doors and the charm of Peter Sutcliffe, it's difficult to establish whether Cave is bizarrely sexual or whether the litre beers are taking effect. Lithe and oozing pretentiousness, the yuppiness stings in modern tragic ‘Lyre of Orpheus’. Anybody who gets ‘frappucino’ into a song lyric should sort themselves out and join the nearest book group.
The Cure do little to lighten up the mood. Robert Smith looks every inch the plank in his usual make up and hair spray. It’s midnight and still 28oc and he must be suffocating underneath all the black garb. The strain shows in their Curefest marathon set, which must have gone on for twenty years, and even major fans were heard complaining about the shiteness of it all. Gigwise sidled off to check for hair lice and munch a half time kebab. Along the way, Roisin Murphy has started in the Moto tent. She wiggles trendily in a backless cape and is the envy of every shit encrusted female present. A polite bop is brewing to her WASP house beats. This type of music is only good for shagging to or having colleagues round for narcotics. The drums, salsa beats and weird flutes have no lift, and people look bemused as they veer towards the booze tent.
Back at Verde, it’s packed like tinned boquerones in anticipation of Oasis. 7500 Brits are attending Benicassim this year, and without a doubt every single one of them is squashed in here. "This is not a drill" states a robotic voice. Whoops and smoke clouds give way to a flourish and our old Liam in his finest holiday Lacoste. Sporting an impressive pair of bitch tits, he makes no introductions and launches into ‘Love One Another’. It’s as stale as a warm Cruzcampo, and the resonant belch after it includes something about Old Trafford. The wanky snarls of ‘Lyla’ get the sunburnt bald patches nodding emphatically, thought they don’t really know the words. Nice bro Noel takes the lead for ‘The Importance Of Being Idle’. Acoustically, the song sounds outstanding live. His modest energy surpasses the dandy Liam seen in the video. The lights change to Pheonix Club tack, with glitzy strips and bare bulbs. Whether ‘Manuel’ is the guy who keeps climbing on stage or Liam’s generic knowledge of Sapnish culture, nobody knows, but they get the a dedication of ‘Monkey Fingers’ anyway. The lesser known track receives a roar, but maybe Manuel was insulted and went to the dance tent for a boogie. The saving grace came in their take of ‘My Generation’. Liam could snarl away to his delight and not sound like a tosser, sending them off the stage with a ferocious stomp.
It seems that in their leap from Leicester social club to main stage, Kasabian have developed Tourettes. Calling the British "bastards", press "fuckers" and Spanish "cunts", the boys are having a pop at rock n roll. It’s cute to witness, as Sergio wavers and look around uncertainly from underneath his hat. The festy songs roll out one by one, finished by meaty 'Club Foot' and a bolshy exit.
LCD Soundsystem finished the show. Akin to Stavros from the local chippy, James Smith makes no attempt to move, standing super cool and blasé infront of the nutters at the front. It tailed into a disappointing, version of ‘Daft Punk is Playing At My House’. Rushed like he couldn’t give a toss, Murphy fills his nonchalant reputation perfectly. ‘Yeah’ extends into a half hour funky jam and the crowd loses it, banging and jumping on each other, suitably fuelled for a penultimate night of raving at the Costa Del Fest.
The lights are up and litter pickers scurry about. Gigwise is knackered, sunburned and satisfied, but in need of one just last Red Bull with that hippy over there…
Photos by: Dan Pratley
fonte:gigwise.com