Our Summer of outdoor gigs continued in July and August with this diverse line-up of bands: 1970s punks, 2010s indie kids and 1980s pop icons. Three days after roasting in a field in Cardiff, watching The Cure, we found ourselves in another field - this time at the Westonbirt Arboretum near Tetbury, for a very different gig experience. From the Gothic soundscapes of Robert Smith and chums to the Soul-inflected pop of THE Rick Astley. He's never gonna give you up, let you down etc. etc.
Sarah had been a fan of Mr. Astley back in the day ( waaay before "Rick rolling" ) but had never seen him play live so, when I saw he was appearing at the Pimms-on-the-lawn-tastic Westonbirt, I instantly snapped up some tickets. It was a lovely evening, as we were between heatwaves at the time, and the very relaxed journey up into T'Cotswolds ( compared to last Summer, anyway ) was welcome indeed. With no traffic chaos this year, we got into the site well on time to buy some drinks and food, and catch support band The Lottery Winners - no photos, unfortunately. They were a very positive, upbeat and bouncy pop combo - perfect for warming up the typically sedate Westonbirt audience. Frontman Thom Rylance hurled himself around the stage, like a pilled-up teddy bear, stopping frequently to take the piss out of the crowd, especially the deckchair-bound Radio 2 listeners near the front. Although he comes across as a potential CBBC presenter, Thom also has a couple of incisive songs about his struggles with mental health - Superpower and Letter To Myself - which add some depth to the poppier material on offer. Oh, and the rock chick bassist, Kate Lloyd, was simultaneously supercool and super hot. So, a fun experience, although maybe not a band I'd purposely seek out.
And then, who was that jogging out onto the stage? Why only Mr Rick bleedin' Astley himself!
Rick set out his stall straight away with the upbeat, handclapping pop/rock of Lights Out. This mid-paced, anthemic offering was just the ticket for the Westonbirt massive and could have easily slotted into the sets of The Script or Snow Patrol last year. He then whirled us back to the Stock, Aitken & Waterman days with the machine-tooled pop of Together Forever - a song *so* '80s that I could feel my T-shirt growing shoulder pads as the first notes rang out. With its seemingly inevitable melodies and lyrics, TF ( as nobody calls is ) is factory-produced pop at its finest and a reminder of just how unlikely a star this ginger-haired lad from Merseyside was. He looked ( at the time ) like the callow youth he was, with his pretty face and bouncy quiff, but sang with the deep, deep voice of a middle-aged Soul singer from the Deep South. He's now grown into that voice and left the fresh-faced kid behind but, bloody hell, he looks good for 60! I'm hoping I'll look that good in ( gulp! ) less than three months time. ( I won't. )
Rick was an affable, good-humoured presence, still slightly bemused that his career has had this late resurgence, happily trading banter with the crowd - and especially with a couple of female mega-fans down the front who were trying their best to get his attention throughout the set. And his voice was as strong and warm as ever, the deep baritone barely touched by the dread hand of time. Which was nice.
More '80s hits sashayed up to us in the form of She Wants To Dance With Me and Whenever You Need Somebody, while a slightly cringey cover of Roy "The Boy" Orbison's Oh, Pretty Woman prompted Rick to tell us a tall tale of not quite having a song appear in the Julia Roberts film of virtually the same name. Cry For Help was one of the highlights for me - a gospel ballad with real emotional heft and a perfect showcase for Rick's heart-on-sleeve, testifying vocals.
His band were excellent, especially the female horn section ( love a horn section! ) and his trio of backing singers. They came to the fore with a sassy cover of Raye's Where Is My Husband!, while Rick took a backseat and let their wonderful gospel harmonies and cool moves take over the stage. We were virtually in the front row, so had a great view of that stage, and could really appreciate just how talented this band were. And we were treated to some very closeup views of Mr. A himself, which certainly pleased Sarah ;-)
Near the end of the set Rick moved over to the drum kit ( he's always said he should really have been a drummer ) and the band kicked into a karaoke-krazy version of AC/DC's Highway To Hell. Really. And it was proper, head-banging fun with Rick drumming up a storm and the band all grabbing guitars to bust some Angus Young moves. He finished, of course, with
the hit - Never Gonna Give You Up - and, clearly, his audience haven't: they loved every minute and sang along to every song. It was a fine performance from Mr A - cheeky, heartfelt, occasionally soul-baring - and hugely entertaining. He didn't, after all, let us down.
Spin on a month and we're at a very different gig in a new-to-us venue oop North...
This was the 25th of July and we'd travelled up to Leeds, a city I'd never visited before, and specifically to the lovely
Kirkstall Abbey to see the long-awaited return of The Sunshine Underground. Sarah and I had seen them a couple of times before ( although she can't remember them ) and, when I heard last year that they'd be reforming for a one-off gig in their home town, I snapped up some tickets. I was really looking forward to this one, after not seeing the band for 10 years or so, but it didn't quite work out as I'd expected.
After cheekily parking in a residential area ( and ignoring the "residents only" signs lol ) we walked down to the imposing ruined Cistercian abbey and joined the throng of punters heading towards the bars and fast-food trucks. After a quick comfort and refreshment break, we caught the first band of the day... well, our first band of the day, as The Whip ( who? ), The Futureheads and The Twang had already played in the afternoon. ( I would have liked to have seen the last two, but we have caught them before. Hey ho. ) Anyway, the first band for us were actually
Hard-Fi...
This bunch of urchins were a band I was vaguely aware of in the 2010s but never really engaged with. Their debut album, Stars of CCTV, is now a staple of charity shops, part of that Great Unloading when thousands of people binned their CD players in favour of low-fi ( ironic! ) streaming services. You've probably seen it: it's got a yellow cover and is usually adjacent to Music by Madonna, or any number of Take That or Coldplay albums, somewhere at the back of Oxfam or the PDSA. But I digress. Of course.
It turns out that Hard-Fi excel at bouncy, street level indie - some very strong songs, especially opening number and probably their best known song, Cash Machine. This tale of tough times on sink estates loped in on a reggae beat and instantly got the crowd dancing. "I scratch a living, it ain't easy, you know it's a drag" sang frontman Richard Archer, and you got the impression that this band actually knew what it was like living hand to mouth and day to day. Other working class indie bangers followed with the likes of Hard To Beat ( with its Clash City Rockers-like riff ) and Living For The Weekend, a lairy anthem for disaffected youth. Of course, Hard-Fi aren't exactly da yoof any more but they can certainly kick out a punchy, tight set of top tunes as if they were still lager-swigging teenage tearaways. A great way to start the evening and a band that I'd definitely like to see again.
By this time we'd positioned ourselves fairly near to the front, at the edge of the crowd, with some of the abbey ruins right behind us. We struck up a conversation with a couple from Blackpool and their teenage daughter - they were there mostly for the next act,
White Lies, and were very excited for this section of the gig. I suspect this all-day lineup benefitted some of the bands, who would probably struggle to draw a crowd this large on their own, but not White Lies, who could easily have headlined and certainly drew a huge reaction from the crowd. Their combination of gloomy lyrics, intense vocals ( despite singer Harry McVeigh apologising for his sore-throat-stricken voice ) and pyrotechnic guitar sounds put me in mind of Muse or even The Twilight Sad who we'd recently seen supporting The Cure. Again, a band I'll have to check out again in the future... and Sarah liked them too, which is always a bonus. Speaking of which...
The next band on were the eagerly-awaited ( by some ) headliners. We'd first come across The Sunshine Underground near the end of their original incarnation, when they were creating a joyous mixture of indie and rave, a very danceable, positive, keyboard-orientated splurge of colour. This gig, however, was billed as a 20th anniversary celebration of their debut album, Raise The Alarm. I bought said album earlier this year, to do some homework, and discovered it was very different. TSU sounded back then like a scratchy, angular, often quite angry indie band, very guitar-based with barely a keyboard to be heard. So, almost like a completely different band. I was hoping their set would be a mixture of both styles. Oops.
We got down the front, only about 10 rows from the crowd barrier, and stood with some very enthusiastic fans. Then the band came on stage and it totally kicked off. The crowd went absolutely nuts, jumping around, shouting the lyrics and throwing beer around. Sarah instantly took umbrage to all this, especially the being showered by beer part, and legged it as best she could out of the crowd, with me in tow. I'm slightly more used to crowd reactions like this, after years of Punk gigs, but Sarah really isn't, and she was Not Happy. We then watched the majority of the set from our previous vantage point, with Sarah now in an extremely bad mood. The band continued playing their scratchy, angular stuff ( after I'd been bigging up their more ravey style ) and she emphatically didn't like it, saying it sounded like any other indie band...
To be honest, I did enjoy a lot of TSU's set, particularly the few songs I actually knew well, but it's always difficult to fully enjoy yourself if the person you're with isn't having a good time. The band themselves, however, were clearly having a great time, and seemed overjoyed and slightly humbled that so many people had come to see them play this hometown gig. And their performance and sound was faultless. The one-two punch of the singalong, anthemic Borders and the glow-stick-friendly Start were fantastic and reminded me why I liked the band so much in the first place. I did leave Sarah for the last few songs ( she was fine with that ) and insinuated myself further into the crowd, where it had calmed down somewhat, and I actually managed a spot of dad-dancing. Which was nice. So, it had been a frustrating experience with more troughs than peaks but, as they say, you can't win 'em all. Luckily, Sarah and I spent the next day in Leeds and had a great time - what a cool city!
Aaanyway... on to the next one. And it was back to good ol' Cardiff. Always a pleasure. Specifically, Cardiff Castle ( as seen below ) on the 1st of August to see the renewed, reinvigorated Sex Pistols with "guest" ( actually, probably permanent ) vocalist, Frank Carter.
This was a long overdue catch-up for me and my old friend Glenn ( Borrowed Time superstar ) and the third time we'd seen the Pistols together. The first time was at the short-lived Phoenix Festival waaay back in 1996, when the band ( with Lydon of course ) were an absolute revelation, while the second time we saw them, at Crystal Palace a few years later ( Lydon still hanging on, but wasting his time ) they were shockingly poor. I hadn't bothered to see any of their subsequent reunions, but this new lineup - with former Gallows frontman Carter on vocals - looked interesting and we thought we'd give 'em enough rope. Sorry, wrong band...
After the usual tortuous drive into a grid-locked Cardiff, we headed for the Castle and got ourselves amongst the throng of old punks, some gamely sporting some hilarious haircuts - honestly what do these people do with their mohicans the rest of the year? We'd missed the first ( and youngest by a mile ) band of the day - local tearaways Panic Shack - but got there in time for the first round of Punk Karaoke with The Undertones. ( All of the three 1970s-vintage groups were performing without their original lead singer. I'm still not sure if I was breaking my self-imposed "no tribute bands" rule. Okay, it's more of a guideline than a rule. Sue me. )
The 'tones, as I'm sure nobody calls them, were actually great fun. Their "new" singer didn't sound remotely like Feargal Sharkey but had a perfectly fine voice and a very bubbly, camp stage presence. The band have, of course, many classic punk-pop songs, most of which got an airing: it was good to hear My Perfect Cousin, Here Comes The Summer and the inevitable, inimitable Teenage Kicks, although I was hoping they'd play Wednesday Week, which they sadly didn't.
Next up were The Stranglers, a band I never really liked, even with Hugh Cornwell in the lineup, and this incarnation ( with JJ Burnell being the only original member ) mostly left me cold. My fave Stranglers song, Duchess, sounded great and No More Heroes was, of course, a highlight. But then, if The Stranglers couldn't make a decent fist of that song, who could?
And then it was Anarchy time! Well, middle-aged anarchy with a side order of Sanatogen. The resounding power chords of Holidays In The Sun rang out across Cardiff as The Sex Pistols & Frank Carter took the stage by storm. Carter introduced the rest of the band and told us how privileged he was to be performing with his childhood heroes - Jonesy, Cooky and Matlocky. ( Okay, that last one doesn't really work. But, you know, anarchy and all that... )
After the dull, lazy and uninspiring show the Lydon-fronted band had put on back in 2002, this was a vast improvement. Carter ( aged 42 but looking 10 years younger ) adds a youthful vitality to the band, and he certainly seemed to inspire the others to raise their game. Matlock, as suave as ever, played with all the determination of a seasoned boxer, Jones belted out *those* huge guitar riffs with sleight-of-hand dexterity, and Cook... well, he was just extraordinary, keeping the beat and powering the engine of the band like a man half his age. Carter himself prowled the stage, baited the crowd, and sang his lungs out to those iconic songs, obviously having a whale of a time.
They played a relatively short set for a headlining band ( I really would have liked to hear Satellite or Did You No Wrong ) and the Carter-showcasing My Way was too cheesy for me, but otherwise they were excellent. All the fan-favourite Never Mind The Bollocks tracks like Bodies, No Feelings and Seventeen sounded sharp and powerful, while the Stooges cover, No Fun, was an epic of self-loathing with some monolithic guitar work by Steve Jones. The iconic singles, Pretty Vacant and God Save The Queen, may have dated in their details, but the anger and energy ( anger *is* an energy, right Johnny? ) still shine through and Carter was totally convincing in his take on these classic Punk texts. He isn't trying to be or sound like Lydon: he's his own man and he puts his own stamp on the material. And it sounds fantastic.
They finished, of course, with Anarchy In The UK ( well, what else? ) and made thousands of old punks ( and the rest of us ) very happy. What a gig!
