Pixies @ Leeds Festival 2005
By Lauren Strain
Aah, Ali Whitton. Complete with band and an adoring banner held aloft in the crowd, the smiley cherub began to play a nigh-on perfect cluster of gentle, isolated islands of songs, doing admirable battle with The Bloody Nokia Phone Tent blasting out the sounds of drunkards roaring "Foooooooooo Figgggghhhhhhhteeeeeeearrrrghhhsssss" as lions may well do during the mating season. All very well and good, but not so tolerable when you're trying to hush for the sweet, humble 'Poet And A Spaceman'. Ali can kick up a few thunderbolts of his own, though, with that sudden transformation of 'The Storm' via an escalating, rapid drag of the bow across the viola's strings, scratching and squealing its way up and down the fretboard. The moody beauty and alluring midnight duskiness of 'Heavy' showcased his scenic voice rising and falling in lapping waves of volume and tone. Hearts melted; contented early-afternoon grins appeared on faces. Lovely.
The compere for The Blood Arm is a funny, funny man. We told him this. He smiled meekly and thanked us. Onstage, he's not so modest; neither is Nathaniel Fregoso, the dark, hairy, lusty frontman who indulges in embracing audience members, stroking their barnets, scaling tent poles, and wiggling those hips like only a man wearing an unbuttoned shirt with a tanned chest and such feline languor is allowed to do. They're a novelty band but a sexy, camp, swingy one; the flashing petals of keyboard showing through the dirty clumps of basslines should get you hula-ing around the tent in a bikini top and a grass skirt at the very least. Or, y'know, a t-shirt and wellies. Mee-ow!
Tom Bellamy is singing main vocals for The Cooper Temple Clause's first song tonight. And then, for a bit, so is Kieran. And another one. Ben's on the synths. They're all swapping. What in the lord's name is going on?! Well, folks, like BRMC after them, it looks as though the Reading men are heading for new horizons, unveiling new material which experiments with softer palettes, adopting a changing, more obviously melodic tone and twinkling, sparkling atmospherics. But don't be fooled. For every spinning, twirly bleep-box exploration akin to 'New Toys' there's an animalistic, 'Been Training Dogs'-esque cannibal chant and brawl just around the corner to empty your guts to. Quiet crowd, though. Anyone would think people didn't know what a panzer attack was. Honestly.
Lastly, you can't help but empathise with Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. The poor boys always have sound issues, but tonight greets them with an especially raw deal. Peter Hayes lilts and yowls his way through a heartfelt, barland 'Complicated Situation' to find that his harmonica isn't being picked up; then, after Nick Jago and Rob Turner arrive looking suave under the red, steamy ceiling and ice-blue fairy lights, during the knees-up that is 'Ain't No Easy Way' not one but two of Peter's guitar strings snap and smack him on the nose. These dark-eyed men of the west are never intimidated, however, and they go on to deliver a mesmerising clutch of old and new, contrasting the smouldering 'Sympathetic Noose' from LP 'Howl' with 'Spread Your Love' thumping about like a horny dinosaur and welding the unifying 'Whatever Happened To My Rock N' Roll' into its twin track, 'Six Barrel Shotgun', to form one long, trippy, murky, delicious dirge. Mmm.
So, what else? iLiKETRAiNS = had to be seen to be believed. Suited, booted and hypnotising to the point of satanic ritual; joyous, viscous, slyly wicked, darkly ethereal. The apocalypse occurred at 16:30 on the unsigned stage, I tell you. Tofu burgers = small doses of heaven in a bap. Pixies = fantastic, coughed-up, phlegmatic. Shame the entire world went to see Kasabian prance about instead. Nits.
