Is Reading still a rock festival? The last half decade has seen a slow descent into pop acts. The teeth bared by previous headliners have definitely been blunted and worn down. However, while Readingâs no longer snarling in your face, there are more than enough vicious acts lurking among the sequin-clad starlets to give you that vital adrenaline burst.
Words: Kate Allvey. Images: Abbi Draper-Scott
Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls
Tesco pilgrimages had long been completed by Friday morning. Those of us over twenty three, all wearing âFTHCâ t-shirts, emerge from the Taproom bar, ready to open ourselves to the conscious positivity of our favourite âskinny half-arsed English country singerâs two thousand, seven hundred and ninety eighth show. Over a decade of Reading appearances has led to his presence as a welcome fixture on the main stage. However, his skill at turning the mundane into the glorious is still present in each strum of his guitar. With only half an hour to fill, Turner focuses on his new material at the expense of his anthems, but the solo jigs still bubble to the surface when an intro resonated with the memory of your personal struggle. This set proves that Turnerâs fire still rages as ever, and with so many kids in the crowd his fanbase is sure to grow in the years to come.
You Me At Six
The sun beats down mercilessly, a rare moment during the weekend, but You Me At Six are so immersive that it became night during each song. In the breaks, you realise that it was still light, like the instant of confusion when you step out of a cinema. Their brand of catch and release, with claustrophobic buildups that throw open the windows to crowd-pleasing huge choruses, is just right for this moment. A man in a bright paisley shirt gives a chefâs kiss to his friends as âNo Future? Yeah Rightâ rings out, and heâs absolutely right to. As the eight-bit squealing fuzz of the intro leads into buttery soft vocals and stretching yoga bass, you ignore how much like Red Hot Chill Peppers they sound and bask in their beats. Vocalist Josh Franceschiâs vocal roll on the word ‘broke’ is stunning. Their lovely key changes bring home the glory on the bridge before we âgo absolutely feralâ forâBeautiful Wayâ.
Magnolia Park
As the day fades and Wet Leg’s grunge indie opulence gives way to Pinkshiftâs Rage Against The Machine exorcism on the Main Stage, over on the Festival Republic stage, Magnolia Park herald the start of a punk rock evening. The Florida punksâ crowd is much smaller than the masses who lounge by the main stage but infinitely more dedicated. By the time Magnolia Park drop âBreathingâ, the size of the crowd doesnât matter any more: the band are a fire hydrant, blasting roots refreshment over us all. They take technical difficulties in their stride (âItâs a punk show, shit is supposed to go wrong anyway,â laughs singer Joshua Roberts) before bursting into âLiarâ, the spiritual child of the Offspringâs nineties snark. Magnolia Parkâs cover of âSugar Weâre Goin Downâ launches into easy, relaxed, knee-bending karaoke. Their version feels more like a fly on the wall documentary than the original Fall Out Boy romcom. Magnolia Park are consummate professionals, snapping in and out of performance, their taut pop-punk energy filling us all with neon, lilac joy.
Knocked Loose
Sadly, their predecessors had summoned the rain, which had threatened all day. Hot pants are concealed beneath North Face jackets as Knocked Loose are unleashed on the stage. Never has a band been more aptly named; the fillings in our teeth and our expectations of rock at Reading are shaken and jostled. Youâre either in or out of their set. Their status as the heaviest thing on the bill is either the vitamin youâve been craving, or you’re looking on in bemusement and wandering over to the dance tent. An elderly couple sit amused on the floor, eating noodles, throughout their set. The tectonic bass and drums that sound like horsemen of the apocalypse whip the tiny but dedicated pit into a frenzy under acid yellow light. Knocked Loose are definitely a musical palate cleanser, but in the style of taking a spoonful of wasabi and thinking itâs guacamole instead of a mint sorbet.
Normandie
The boys from Stockholm compressed an entire festivalâs strength into a micro space. before making the smallest tent in the arena huge with their deep underground celestial chords. Just when you appreciate the bass, your perception is sliced in half by the guitar. The empty backing vocals on the song ‘Jericho’ are accompanied by yellow balloons with smiley faces dropped on the audience. We bat them around playfully, like a cat with a toy mouse. Normandie announce that their upcoming album, âDopamineâ will arrive in February, with a single released each month. âIt feels like the futureâŚâ says vocalist Philip Strand with an easy grin before premiering new song âBlood In the Waterâ. Itâs a moody whirlpool that emerged from a stony drop, sending ripples through the crowd, with its mixture of tissue-sensitive lyrics and gutsy bass, and a vocal rawness on the finish that betrays sincerity from the band. âGive me life, give me fire,â they sing, summarising exactly what Normandie served with the booming, vintage club tension of âHoly Waterâ. Yes, some may consider their sound formulaic, but Normandieâs equation is one that will solve any problems in your life. Especially if they’re caused by a lack of metal drops and atmospheric sampling.
Yonaka
Barely can we recover from Normandie’s set before Yonakaâs nu-wave punk speed energy slams into the night. Vocalist Teresa Jarvis is like Karen Oâs bratty stepdaughter who rebelled by turning to metal and using her ethereal Kate Bush voice for evil instead of good. Theyâre a circus of genres, with thin guitar threads typing hip hop beats and thrashing chords. Two teens in football shirts skip merrily into the pit just before the start of standout song âCall Me A Saintâ. The deep-water chords of the first few seconds crumble into iconoclastic rubble with the force of demented sampling and rage-spitting vocals. âI Want Moreâ is the soundtrack to a horror movieâs scene in a cannibal nightclub. However, it would also be the breakout single from that movie with its aggressive drumming and brain-cramping guitar. The crowd split into halves, ravenously calling âI want moreâ like attack dogs. The Shakespeareâs Sister energy of âOrdinaryâ lulls two girls to sleep in the dewy grass to the side of the stage. They dream briefly of intellectually and emotionally challenging rough punk rock.
Palaye Royale
Fifteen minutes before Palaye Royal appears, the huddle towards the front of the stage intensifies. Clouds of dust and dry ice float in the air, wafting burnt matches and anticipation smell. The Canadians are a solid choice to finish the day with. They look and act like the image you picture when you hear the phrase ârock starâ. Remington Leith has the voice of Pete Wentz and Steven Tyler combined and the body of a Hot Topic mannequin. He climbs the lighting rig like a gremlin mid song to gaze down on us. Theyâre the nineties and the seventies at once, their grunge Hollywood energy tinged with metallic blood. âBlack Sheepâ is elevated metal and gets Yonaka, who sneak into the crowd silently, moving their feet and grooving innocuously. Yes, the band think theyâre playing a festival called âReadingandleedsâ, which they call out repeatedly. However, when youâre a poster pullout from a vintage rock magazine made flesh you can be forgiven. Their cover of White Stripes’ âSeven Nation Armyâ is pure filth with a guitar that sounds like murder and a deliciously dirty descent on the outro. A second cover, The Doorsâ âPeople Are Strangeâ, is so self aware, a modern update on the sixties shaman image. Thereâs no stage chat, but there are some subtle clues as to their next plans in their set. Leith asks if anyone is from London, and their banner has the word âWembleyâ in blood red spray paint over their logo, so based on these stealthily hidden Easter eggs itâs reasonable to assume they will grace us with the capital with their presence in the near future. They finish relatively early, and leave us empty. Sure it must be 2am in the Viper Room, not pre-midnight in an ever-muddier field in the home counties?
The first day of Reading was a charcuterie board of tempting acts from across the alternative spectrum. With each brain cell lighting up with joy you also feel a sense of hope. While chirpy Sam Fender leads the crowds on the main stage, thereâs so much to enjoy in the side tents. There’s also the promise of future tours and releases to sustain us. For now, freezing tents and late night chips await before the Reading mission continues.
KATE ALLVEY
