Reading Day One // The Great Ol’ Days Of Yore?

History hides a multitude of sins, and nevermore so than while contemplating the past with hushed reverence. “‘Twas always better in the olden days” or so they say, “they” usually being wizened old Luddites with rose-tinted specs firmly in place - and perhaps tongue firmly in cheek. Nostalgia is, after all, nothing more than the past in idealized form, detritus subconsciously filtered out of the equation. Noize pondered such issues as we approached Little John’s Farm for the Southern leg of this two-centre, Bank holiday party in the park(s).

Reading comes with plenty of history (and baggage), running as it has since, well, seemingly forever (1961 to be precise). Once regarded as the Mother of all Rock Festivals, the halcyon days of the 70’s and 80’s saw the likes of Thin Lizzy, Alice Cooper, and Black Sabbath headline this hallowed turf. An impressive pedigree, no doubt, but what of Girlschool, Saxon, and, err, Golden Earring (no, us neither)? Selective memory can be a powerful force.

Friday was Rock Day, at least on the main stage, with the PA assaulted by NOFX, Biffy Clyro, Queens Of The Stone Age and, eventually, Guns ‘N’ Roses. This we knew due to the army of bandana-clad mini-Axls swarming through the gates, at which Security barred our entrance…demanding a high-five as well as our (impeccable) credentials. Not exactly on a par with The Summer Of Love, but a welcome difference from the normally surly and serious walkie-talkie brigade.

Deciding that this would be a marathon not a sprint, and that steady and slow wins the race, we dipped our toes in the pool with the romantic indie-pop croonings of Frankie & The Heartstrings. Obviously excited to be there, they crammed eight songs into their short set, including Fragile, apt for those who’d been just a little to rambunctious the night before. Having settled in nicely, the Pavement-esque Surfer Blood were all the convincing we needed to stay put, cold cider in hand, and we were rewarded with stomp, vigour, and classic catchy indie - no gloom and obscure West African jazz rhythms here.

Suitably refreshed and imbued with confidence, we set our dials for the centre of Rock, but the squall of noise emanating from the main stage and some annoying guys in spandex hot pants forced our retreat into the arms (and tent) of Two Door Cinema Club, who repaid our attendance with tales of wanting it all and coming back home. “This is the best experience of our lives!” cried singer Alex Trimble, leading us to believe a Bangor upbringing can’t be all that. Uber-cool Parisian popsters Phoenix drew heavily from their latest album - no bad thing - in a politely rapid set before the James Murphy Farewell Tour crashed into view. No psychotic, albino ‘panduhs’ anywhere unfortunately but still we rejoiced and danced ourselves silly to Can Change, Drunk Girls, and Daft Punk Is Playing At My House, joining the mass singalong and moshing that accompanied each hit before retreating to our canvas home, intent of recharging our journalistic batteries.

And what of the night’s other “main” draw, we hear you ask? Well, we’re sure you know the whole sorry saga anyway, but suffice to say after turning up late, sort-of-playing a few hits, and then throwing all their toys out of the pram, we might just have caught the barely perceptible sound of a (former) legend losing the last of his fans and what remains of his dignity. Even $100 million can’t tempt Slash back to Paradise City, and it’s not very hard to see why.

Words by Derek Robertson and Julie Tanner

Photos by Danny Payne

Biffy Clyro play Leeds…no, Reading…no, Leeds

Gogol Bordello bringing slingshots back into fashion

Lostprophets attempt to foretell the future
L
Pheonix flying the flag for French Rock. It’s a small flag

Pulled Apart By Horses. Not literally, phew

The Big Pink play a colourful set…

…while The Sunshine Underground are in a monochromatic mood

Young Guns rolling out the classic rock pose