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Occasional sunshine was not the only tender mercy at Weston Park's V festival. Bolton comedy god, Peter Kay, yes Peter Kay, thrillingly turned up and introduced James, at the top of their game despite the trancy, rain-inducing dancing.
The Fratellis showed do-it-yourself cheap thrills really can work, and US punk hybrids the Goo Goo Dolls pleasantly surprised. Downhill from there though, the V coaster slowed as the Editors basically did one monotonous 40-minute song. Things barely trundled with, dare I suggest, burned out biggies Snow Patrol not quite pulling off the poignancy in the unforgiving broad daylight.
A dead stop came with a positively dreary James Morrison, many initially optimistic onlookers just wondering off or exploiting the lull to stagger to the bogs and the beer tent. But it really would be unfair to blame him alone for driving the 90-some thousand fans unashamedly to drink for the whole 48 hours—they were clearly hell bent from the start!
Somnambulance continuing, I couldn't have agreed more when my nine-year-old son, who, waking up fresh as a daisy after the first night festival, came innocently out with, "That band before the Killers was absolutely useless, they were on for ages, I think they were on about girls or something, and that guy's jumper was totally boring." I couldn't agree more, but fortunately for them, about 20,000 Kasabian fans could…
Rap star Dizzee Rascal didn't give a monkey's either and was a big hit with just about everybody. Just as unfazed and with a great big wodge of guaranteed niche fans were the Happy Mondays.
Incidently, the Kasabian-hating child liked Iggy sound-wise but I whisked him out when said veteran suddenly, inevitably, mounted the amplifier and began to gesture lewdly and pelvically on all fours while screaming obscenities. But what goes down fortunately must crank up, which brings me to the Killers and the glory that was V.
They were simply brilliant, their larger than lifeness looming as everything, even the I-just-didn't-know-they-could-rock-out-like-that Kooks paled next to their flaming star. The existential emptiness and the hollowness of the razzamatazz was made somehow bearable by the glambient honesty and utterly fabulous vocals of their haunted narrator, Brandon Flowers. The sound was diamond cut, the bedazzling lightshow prismatic. The rose and stuffed raven bedecked stage was fairy lit and totally un-ridiculous. Mr (white-shirted and English waist coated) Flowers made realism somehow mystic and sure made sure our hearts don't beat (quite) the way they used to… not yet awhile anyway.
Well spoken and well put together, uniquely at V, Flowers didn't swear once, and, unlike the charming, lovable and accomplished, Paulo Nutini appeared sober as a judge. Brandon is a man you can trust, even though to my personal disappointment, he didn't don his gold lame suit. Juliette Lewis sadly can't tell the difference between raucous and vulgar or cut it like Janis Joplin… but nice try.
Best single number of the whole festival if not the live year, was the Killers' not so much cover as quintessential rendition of Joy Division's 'Shadowplay'. Let's see if they can manage to make another great album.
Finally, as I complained that the whole V housekeeping side of things seemed a teensy bit disorganised—car parks, camping and all—my nine-year-old said, "That's because you're old, mum". In my defence, my rock-god-like 15-year-old told his little brother, "Fifty's not old, silly…" As my 25-year-old pal looked on, their 12-year-old sister politely agreed after complimenting a passing four-year-old on the coolness of his Kooks t-shirt. So there we all were, the faithful of all ages who'll probably be back for more next year – mud, pain and the sewers that were the toilets notwithstanding.
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