Friday
June 8
A
race-track, clouds of dust, sweltering heat, and tens of thousands of
drunk metal fans – it must be Download time again!
Buckcherry’s
balls to the floor, rifftastic, sleazy rock n roll is a foot-stomping
pointer to AC/DC and is exactly what is to be expected at Donington,
unlike This
Et Al.
Epic in ambition, and sound, the Leeds four piece blast unexpectedly
from the Tuborg stage with their post-millennial collision of frenetic
post-punk rhythms and soaring MBV-esque walls of noise, pumped through
some beefy heavy-rock riffs. This Et Al produce wonderfully controlled
mayhem, which is so good that I am pained to leave before the end of
their set, but over at the DimeBag Darrell Stage there is something
not to be missed.
This is
frickin’ ridiculous, I think to myself as Norway’s
Turbonegro
take to the stage – but that’s what make’s them pure
rock n roll brilliance. Turbonegro are cool, despite looking like the
campest, quasi-Clockwork Orange, biker gang in history it is their overt
eccentricity that makes them stand out in a sea of mediocrity. Front-man
Hank Von Helvete bounds on-stage, like an over-weight, warped reject
from Easy Rider sporting what seems to be a rather large dildo and the
band rock into opener “All My Friends Are Dead”. Helvete
offers everyone in the audience a ‘fuck’ especially anyone
with a tight ass in tight denim, most people seem repulsed and excited
in equal measure.
Their rather mundane blend of punk, hair metal and thrash aural clichés
alone isn’t enough to impress but their ‘rock-as-gay-cabaret’
stage persona is pure car-crash entertainment. Performing with a knowing
smile they are a twisted parody of hard-rock’s homo-erotic side
(see Judas Priest) turned up all the way to 11.
You expect
to see Megadeth
at Donington, and they provide exactly what is expected – thrash-metal-by-numbers.
After so many years they have developed little and perform a lack-lustre
set that shows exactly why they have never gained the critical acclaim
of their contemporaries. I’d say that turning thrash into nothing
more than background music is a crime and Megadeth should definitely
be doing time.
Strangely
enough this is Wolfmother’s
first appearance at Donington, as they blast out the hall-mark sounds
of classic rock that hit the stage at the first Monster’s of Rock
festival. Psyche-organ floats above Sabbath-esque riffs played at almost
punk speed and stripped of the over-whelming pomposity of their influences
– this is back-to-basics classic rock. Full of energy the band
speed through tracks from their self-titled debut of which ‘Woman’
is an obvious highlight, as a frantic ode to the legends of rocks formative
years. Wolfmother are unashamedly retro, but when a band steals with
this much style who can complain.
Velvet
Revolver, should just stop……………….forever.
Bluegrass
versions of rock and metal standards sounds like a really bad idea,
and the kind of novelty that would wear thin in the blink of an eye.
This fact is not lost on the large crowd assembled to witness redneck-rockers
Hayseed
Dixie, who seem to be mainly here to point and laugh.
That is until the truth is unveiled - the Dixie are astounding musicians
and the ultimate good-time party-band.
Four-guys, a bass guitar, acoustic guitar, banjo, mandolin and fiddle
are all that is needed to turn the Tuborg stage into a heaving knees-up.
Speed-wise they give Slayer a run for their money, comedy-wise they
could pull-off a stand-up set playing no music at all. Their version
of ‘Ace of Spades’ is as good (and as hard-rockin’)
as the original.
Even when performing their own material the good time vide is relentless.
They play a song about women who get fat once you enter a relationship
with them and as if to balance the debate burst straight into Queen’s
‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ (which is better than the original).
As a finale, and a poke at their heritage, they battle it out through
‘Duelling Banjos’ and run straight into AC/DC’s ‘Highway
to Hell’. ‘Hallelujah’ exclaims front-man Barley Scotch
– well I’ve seen the light.
Amen.
The tabloid
‘War on Emo’ tonight has a new front, as scene torch-bearers
My
Chemical Romance bask in equal measures of pure-love
and pure-hate as they questionably headline the day’s events.
A tirade of bottles (full of water and piss), apples and any other projectile
that can be found fly at the stage as Gerard Way and the band play their
opening chords. ‘Did you miss us’, screams Way ducking the
bottle-blitz descending upon him.
I can admit it – I simply don’t GET MCR, their pop sprinkled
with punk riffs and woeful teen-angst lyrics don’t speak to me
or move me in anyway. Their music, their image, their message is all
old hat. But then again they aren’t for me, they are a band for
teenagers to believe in and feel affinity with, and as usual the ‘new’
pisses the old purists right off.
In the face of such adversity you can’t help but admire their
bottle and the way by their fourth song the bottles have stopped hitting
the stage. MCR have stood firm and shown they aren’t going anywhere.
Aside from this their set is, to my mind, lifeless and the impressive
Black Parade stage-show we were promised doesn’t materialise leaving
me, for one, feel that we have been short-changed on the headliner front.
by Chris Marks
Saturday
Sunday
