Photo: Jules Annan
No tents at a festival generally means one thing – no hangovers. On day two the only remnant of day one that’s still visible is a thick layer of debris stagnating on the surface of the backstage Jacuzzi courtesy of Little Man Tate. They might not have left an impressionable performance but they certainly left a mess.
As festivalgoers return to the site for another day of beer-fuelled, sun trenched partying, the benchmark for all the band’s playing the main stage today is set by The Pigeon Detectives. It’s not even 4pm but the Leeds band draw a crowd worthy of a higher slot. With a summer of destructive festival performances tucked under their wings, they should probably launch a campaign to rename themselves The Golden Eagle Detectives because they really have matured into one of indie’s best live bands. With the Pigeon’s you just know what you’re going to get - from frontman Matt Bowman doing that a clever trick his microphone while singing the chorus to, ‘I Found Out,’ like an overcharged rampant rabbit to the constant threat of a stage invasion from the crowd...yes, even in ‘royal’ Jersey. “Make sure you fucking catch these – I don’t wanna get sued,” frets Bowman, before the band launch into ‘Take Her Back.’ He’s right to be concerned, come set closer, ‘I’m Not Sorry,’ girls are keeling over left, right and centre, and not just because of the band’s revealing drainpipes.
Now the Super Furry Animals have always had something of the nonchalant about them. They turn up, they play, the crowd cheers, they go. Today the ethos is no different of course, except the playing is even more spaced out than normal. If Gruff Rhys isn’t sending a text message during opener, ‘Slow Life’ then he’s eating a packet of ready salted crisps whilst singing, ‘God! Show Me Magic.’ Could he look anymore disinterested? Pointing to a giant pair of hand’s situated at the festivals entrance before launching into ‘Show Your Hand,’ he says in his best muffled Welsh: “They actually modelled those on our drummer’s hands. You can win them in a competition if you enter in the t-shirt stand over there.” The crowd smile, Rhys turns away. The set's only highlight comes when the band blow the sound system at the end of ‘Receptacle For The Respectable’ after Rhys, guitarist Huw Bunford and bassist Gutos Pryce clash guitars like the three musketeers. Following a delay to restore power, the finish with, ‘Man Don’t Give A Fuck’ – an all to appropriately named song to sum up their attitude today.
Thank you to the festivals booker for booking The Rakes next – they must have seen SFA’s ‘show’ coming. There might be nothing in Jersey that reflects The Rakes native east London, indeed, during our four days on the island the most Shoreditch thing we saw was a cricket shop, but that’s of no concern as they plough through a typically breathless set. With frontman Alan Donohue sporting some longer locks, The Rakes sound dynamic during, ‘We Danced Together’ and virtually unstoppable as they thrash, ’22 Grand Job,’ wildly – with Donohue flapping his arms like a one winged duck. The only groan from the crowd comes when Donohue dedicates, ‘Work Work Work (Pub, Club, Sleep)’ “to anyone who has work in the morning.” Frustrations of the impending working week are soon forgotten however, as the band wrap up their set with, ‘The World Was A Mess, But His Hair Was Perfect.’
Now what exactly the Audio Bully’s are doing at Jersey Live we don’t know. Sure they pieced together a beatsy interpretation of Nancy Sinatra’s, ‘Shot You Down,’ but that’s just their career in three minutes – a cover of a classic. As a result, we deviate from the main stage and find Tim Deluxe Dj’ing in the dance tent where revellers have now merged after an earlier display of school disco awkwardness.
After finally getting access passes to the main stage at the festivals this summer, Kasabian have certainly made the most of it. Now, the tunes, of course, have always been there - from the ‘techy’ sounds of their self-titled debut to the more recent and expansive, ‘Empire’ - but it’s only now they’ve got the arenas to perform them in. Tonight may be one of the smaller crowds of their summer, but the intention – as they launch into ‘Shoot The Runner’ – is no different. They’ll play until they get made rulers of the Island.
Looking like an indie Austin Powers with a pair of black-rimmed glasses, Tom Meighan and guitarist Sergio Pizzorno, who is sporting his familiar crocodile hunter tribute hat, command the stage. “Let’s fucking have it Jersey,” says a reserved (err, not) Meighan, as Kasabian unravel festival slaying hit after hit. “Jersey, God bless you, thank you,” he adds before handing the floor to Pizzorno. The band’s songwriter and construction guru gives it his all as the spaced out, ‘Brown Acid,’ morphs into, ‘Me Plus One.’
Germany’s occupation of Jersey lasted five year’s during the second world war. Tonight, Jersey has been captured once again. Only now it’s by five guys with more swagger than a solider with trench foot swigging whisky on the frontline. Ironically, witnessing Kasabian close with, ‘L.S.F.’ is probably a bit like being down in the trenches. Only Kasabian aren’t firing bullets at tonight’s crowd, their firing singalong refrain after singalong refrain with more venom than a python. “Jersey. That was fucking Empire,” declares Meighan in one last moment of reserved proclamation. Indeed it was.
As 10,000 begin to disperse into the dark, sticky night, the only problem with Jersey Live strikes home – the inevitability of having to leave after it’s finished. We have a feeling that come next year, to avoid the festival saturation of the mainland, a few more people will be scrapping for a ticket to this intimate event. When the sun is shining and the music’s like an assault to the senses though, who can blame them?
Pictures courtesy of Jules Annan/Concertphotography.co.uk
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