IX FESTIVAL DE BENICASSIM - 2003
Europe is drowning in its own sweat; forest fires rage across Spain as
temperatures reach 40 degrees, decide its not enough and push the mercury up yet
further. A sign next to me points to a desert. There’s no sign of Queens of
the Stone Age, but someone put a music festival here. The other direction
points to shade, pools and beaches. This had better be worth it.
The Festival Internacional de Benicassim, now in its ninth year, pays little
regard to the conventions of what you or I would regard as a festival. The
artists and freeloaders love it because there’s a swimming pool and free
cocktail bar backstage. There is no mud, saving the long-baked variety. Music
runs from late afternoon to the early hours of the morning and some crazy souls
keep the party running for the whole weekend by bussing the drug-addled and
superhuman to beach parties somewhere on the horizon. There’s a touch of the
corporate about it, but it comes mixed with a small-town quaintness which
occasionally wavers beyond the realms of belief. Richard Branson is nowhere to
be seen. A solitary relic of the steam age stands at the train station proudly
displaying his unfamiliarity with the English language as thousands of weary
individuals queue in the still-unbearable heat to be told that all trains were
booked months ago; as the sun rises at the festival-desert border, a hippy drags
a stuffed dog on a chain through stalls selling piles of brown unrefrigerated
animal products. We repeat: this is not a V festival, kids.
A
quick glance at the line-ups bobbing through the site on the backs of t-shirts
would certainly appear to suggest otherwise, however. Blur, Travis and Moby are
among the headliners, and moving a little down the bill we hear whispers of
Brian Molko, Mark Greaney, and… bloody hell, Crispian Mills. The discerning
music fan raises a bemused eyebrow and begins to turn on his heels and head to
the beach. In doing so, he denies himself the pleasures of one of the most
intriguingly crafted festival line-ups this summer. The FIB may lack the
big-hitters and bewildering variety of Glastonbury, but in providing a
satisfactory alternative to the teen-oriented Readings of Europe, and building
its own unique atmosphere, it is unrivalled. It’s a mission that we’re used to
in the UK, but at each step where V would go hopelessly wrong, the FIB builds
itself up, arranging its disparate pieces into a mystifying yet heartening
unity. The first steps into the aircraft hanger-like tents are an escape from
the heat in so many ways. Vacaciones provide everything you could want
at that precise moment in time, after your trek through the desert. Less an
oasis and more a light, refreshing, unexpected shower, it’s still sunny, but
instead of stultifying its now invigorating. The warmth and loveliness brings
home your arrival, finally, and the geek-chic Spanish girls seem to be coyly
welcoming you to their country, to their festival. Immediately everything pans
out to the international: Beth Orton provides the first glimmer of
star-factor of the weekend, in her own unique way. It’s folky strumming at its
most basic, but you can’t help but be carried along by Beth’s shy smile and
breezy tunes. And, of course, there’s the voice… A brief glimpse of Daniel
Johnston provides a bit of a talking point for the weekend. A large,
unfashionable man, covering weird songs on his own with an acoustic guitar.
It’s weirdly, weirdly charming. The Delgados feel like something
of an event. It’s only early evening, but due to the staggered stages, we
already have a headliner in front of us. The sun sets outside, and inside the
music shifts from the pleasant to the truly affecting. From ‘Accused of
Stealing’ through ‘All You Need Is Hate,’ the set is packed with contemplative
gems, and slowly a shivering electricity pervades the audience, culminating in
the ecstatic finale of ‘No Danger,’ an early and lasting highlight of the
festival. Somewhere across the festival site Erland Oye is setting everyone
talking with his new project The Whitest Man Alive. Such things can wait, I
reason.
If Scots orchestral melancholy harks back to a recent past, a swift move over to
The Postal Service provides an almost seamless link to an imminent
future. In this band, the festival finds itself in microcosm. They are a
combination of everything that seems destined to be short-lived and unsatisfying
– the ingredients are inconsequential emo and fidgety electronica: the
terminally uncool, and the resolutely too cool. Yet somehow, against
expectations, like the festival itself, the fusion is effortless. If you’re
wandering in the sea of new bands looking for a lasting love rather than setting
yourself up for heartbreak, The Postal Service are a serious contender, and one
to be sought out immediately. ‘Such Great Heights’ was a predictable anthem of
the festival, gracing the main stage video screens as often as it did, but no
less stunning on stage for this. Sparks flew, hearts melted. For all the
Spanish indifference to be encountered later, I have never seen a festival band
with a crowd so firmly fixed in their hands, hanging on their every move. A
band to treasure, but they won’t be yours alone for long now…
Ian MacCulloch, with typical pomp, announces ‘The Killing Moon’ and ‘The Cutter’
as the two best songs of all time. For a few minutes we can suspend our
disbelief and side with Echo and the Bunnymen, as they belt out the hits
– forgotten eighties classics, ‘Nothing Lasts Forever’ and no filler – in
an utterly exemplary lesson in how to play a festival set. One again,
effortless. Maybe it’s the laidback Spanish temperament rubbing off on
everybody… even Placebo manage to impress, despite utterly ignoring
their adored debut album in favoured of entirely appropriate sounding new
material and ignored classics from their maligned previous albums – ‘Pure
Morning’ towers, as ever, but it’s the simple aching thrills of ‘This Picture’
and ‘Black-eyed’ that really lift the crowd. Brian wears white, doesn’t play
‘Nancy Boy’, and continues perversely to prove that the old can more than face
up to the new. In this respect, the tension that precedes Blur’s set is
palpable. Unlike the preceding duo, Damon and the Coxon-less boys have
everything to prove. Think Tank has laid to rest the messy days of 13,
but how will they stand up live? An inanimate Verve-reject and a few gospel
singers can add little to the gaping void of innocent genius to the left of
stage. Musically, too, the opening does not bode well. The Spanish crowd
shuffles uncomfortably to the brace of new songs punctuated by a perfunctory ‘Beetlebum,’
and even a soaring version of golden oldie ‘For Tomorrow’ fails to revive them.
Slowly, however, the picture starts to assemble. ‘Girls and Boys’ gets people
moving, and ‘Out of Time’ shines like the classic it surely deserves to
become. ‘Crazy Beat’ and ‘Song 2’ are delivered back to back, with a
tongue-in-cheek frenzy which provides a brief reminder of the glory days, before
a glorious climax of ‘Tender,’ ‘Battery In Your Leg’ and, crucially, ‘The
Universal’ sends the set into instant classic territory. What comes in the
encore is irrelevant, already the memories of the 1999 shambolic Blur show at
the FIB have been erased. Only the perfectly judged inclusion of ‘To The End’
upon return can bring it home any further. The shuffling away of ‘On The Way
To The Club’ is a welcome respite, and the closing ‘We’ve Got a File On You’
shouts at you in no uncertain terms: this has been a classic festival set.
Once again, the perfect fusion of old and new. Far from effortless this time,
but then Blur have rarely provided such convenience. The effort is,
unquestionably, rewarded. And as we struggled into the day we struggle out of
it, our tired English souls unaccustomed to such late night revelling. Still
the music reflects the mood: Adult. are punishing, relentless,
belligerent, and, for all their attitude and modernity, very very tiring at such
an hour. Respect is certainly due to the Ersatz Audio crew, who have been
shaking their collective ass throughout the night to the sounds of Magas,
Kitbuilders and assorted dark electro cool. Sometimes, however, despite
all indications to the contrary, even at Benicassim its best to pretend you’re
at a ‘normal’ festival, and let the headliners do their job. It helps keep
effort off the agenda. Tiga does his DJ thing at some ungodly hour and
we try our hardest to be impressed. For anyone who’s spent rather too long
hanging around the London electro/trash club scene it’s all rather too
familiar. He plays ‘Seven Nation Army’ in the midst of some fairly predictable
electro. For anyone encountering this for the first time, a transcendent
experience, we would venture. Unfortunately, we are jaded old souls and need
some kip. Night then…
Hopes for Saturday were low, perhaps justifiably. Few personal favourites and
little in the way of dramatic excitement, but feeling slightly revived, we head
back into the desert at a much more civil time of day and thus save ourselves
the risk of sunstroke. Our punishment for this is that we miss The Thrills.
In substitute for having seen them I offer this summary: nice, jangly indie-pop.
Tahiti 80 provide the same sort of thing, but slightly more French, so we
didn’t really miss much. It’s all vaguely uninspiring so we bum around for a
bit at the lovely market and the lovely internet place with its cold coldness.
Mmm, cold. This is why The Raveonettes are such a relief. Their first
short release, Whip It On, was a slightly disappointing affair –
initially exciting, but a little samey. Live, the momentum is sustained
throughout a fairly lengthy set. Another band that, despite being so far away
from any of the other great bands of the weekend, still seem to perfectly
reflect the mood of FIB ’03. Hazy, dark, swampy, but with a core which is
irresistibly loveable. Coming on stage to a Buddy Holly cover wrapped in
screaming feedback and smoke, they’re like nothing else all weekend. When
‘Attack of the Ghost Riders’ emerges from the fog the cool factor of this band
is firmly hammered home. Their lasting appeal appears open to debate until they
rocket through a set of new material which is great. Wonderfully,
unexpectedly great. It takes many of these garage rock types two or three
albums to produce a couple of decent tunes, but it really looks like the
Raveonettes’ first full length will be packed with them. It all comes full
circle with a devastating ‘Beat City’ collapsing in on itself and leaving the
set to return the opening cover for a few electric moments. Unity, once more,
is what shines here. A bit of Electronicat allows us a little dance to
a strange man standing on a keyboard before the weariness sets in, and we even
find time to spy a few minutes of the curious legend that is Donovan. A
brief jaunt over to the main stage finds The Coral surprising everyone,
particularly me, by being highly entertaining despite not playing
‘Dreaming of You.’ ‘Pass It On’ is a particularly charming highlight, although
the closing ‘Goodbye,’ as is customary, far outstays its welcome. It’s still
going on some 15 minutes later as I amble over to the FIB Club tent.
Nothing can prepare you for Louie Austen. Not even a cheap promo of his
album, whose cover features a puzzled looking Louie, with his sixty plus years
and ill-fitting tux, standing in a dingy looking toilet. He shares a label with
Gonzales and Peaches, despite being an aging cabaret-style crooner. The joke is
on us, you’d think. All the talent on offer here and we’re watching a slightly
tragic figure warble over a backing tape. It should be pathetic. At best, it
should be hilarious. But this is the desert, and normal rules don’t apply.
Louie comes on in a snappy white suit and sings ‘The Lady is a Tramp’ in the
manner of a cruise entertainer. Then the beats kick in and he plays ‘Amore’ and
‘Easy Love’ and the crowd loves every second. We’re dancing. Like
fools. Maybe he’s laughing at us, maybe Chilly Gonzales is backstage
cackling manically as we love Louie’s finale cover of ‘My Way.’ It
doesn’t matter. An undisputable highlight of the weekend which really defies
analysis. It just works. This is Benicassim. Effort? The grins on our faces
carry us, optimistically, over to the end of Travis. Anything can
be fantastic in Benicassim, we are now trained to think. ‘Why Does It Always
Rain On Me?’ Now, I’m sorry, no. Unacceptable. We were having fun until we
caught wind of this drivel. Ah well, at least they can’t get any worse. “This
one’s about the war. It’s called ‘Peace the Fuck Out!.’” This idiocy must
stop. Piss the fuck off and leave us alone, you useless individuals. Now look
what Travis made me do. Not even Beck can redeem the situation, no
matter how hard he tries to be Prince and even obediently leaves out the boring
acoustic songs. It’s all a little flat and a lot predictable. He does,
however, manage to cover Beyonce, Nelly, Justin and Tatu in the space of one
song, for which he must be applauded. Well done that man. Now, I’m standing in
Spain at 3am watching Mark Greaney and his slightly reorganised JJ72
workers whining for their dinner. Utterly unforgivable wrongness, you would be
right in thinking. He even covers ‘Wicked Game’ acoustically, for fuck’s sake.
But he plays ‘3am’ because it’s 3am and lots of ‘hits’ and some passable newies.
As you’d expect, it’s unspectacular. But it’s strangely pleasant, in its way.
We’re too tired to dance – blame Louie – but swaying to minor indie tunes from a
few years back seems quite acceptable. Certainly more so than the
International DJ Gigolos Night which we try to get into, but just can’t
stand the aural battering being dealt out in an irritatingly persistent manner
which smells rather badly of mouldy German techno. And so we get to bed
before the sun starts to threaten us with its presence, which is something of a
relief. A difficult but ultimately rewarding day littered with unexpected
triumphs.
And to Sunday. Again, something of a mixed bag, to be exemplified by the
headliners’ set. Black Box Recorder are a truly wonderful band. Luke
Haines is a very smart man. They’re fighting sound problems up there though,
and their reluctance to employ a live keyboard wizard means that the songs from
their recent Passionoia album are either neutered (‘The School Song’) or,
more annoyingly, absent (‘These Are The Things’). If you listen hard enough,
there’s beauty in there, but as an introduction to the band, it can’t have
worked for anyone. Hoggboy are an utterly useless band. But they
supported the Libertines on their European tour, so somehow they’re opening the
main stage and obtaining some sort of respect. Inexplicable. Still, it’s nice
to hear a Sheffield accent up there, even if it belongs to a daft bollocks like
Hogg. ‘Don’t Get Lost’ leaves you thinking for literally a few seconds that
they’ve inherited some of the true Sheffield way with a pop tune, but a brace of
new tracks which sound like the Stereophonics at their worst dispel any such
illusions. They cover a mouldy old garage rock song which sounds fresher than
most of their set and close on ‘So Young.’ It’s not good enough, though.
Super Furry Animals, then. Could go either way, unpredictable beasts that
they are. Luckily, they’re on form. ‘Golden Retriever’ sounds miles better
than the recorded version, and we get a bit of ‘Hermann Loves Pauline’ and
‘Juxtaposed With U’ is just grand. The yeti costumes get a predictable airing,
as does relatively obscure b-side ‘Calimero,’ as it’s a little bit Spanish.
Success!
Suede are one of Benicassim’s permanent fixtures. Before their show they
tell the press to expect something a little different, and as they come on stage
to a soaring, spectacular version of ‘Europe Is Our Playground’ that’s what they
give us. As it’s followed by early singles ‘So Young’ and ‘Animal Nitrate’
we’re watching a band that appear not only hugely entertaining and special, but
even relevant, which is a word that hasn’t been used in connection with
Brett’s boys for donkeys now. Sadly, it can’t last. Decent enough runs through
‘Filmstar’ and ‘Can’t Get Enough’ please the faithful, but they falter mid-set
by following a limp run through worst single ‘She’s In Fashion’ with an utter
atrocity of a new song called ‘Attitude.’ Hopefully it will go the way of early
Head Music demos and be moulded into something approaching listenable,
but the cod-reggae rhythm and squelching pseudo-modernity do not bode at all
well. It seems a baffling step backwards, as the tracks from the commercial
disaster that was their last album sound utterly charming, notably ‘Lost In
TV.’ If they were going to look to the past, they could at least have drawn
from the assortment of classics which litter the rest of the set and elevate it
into a defiantly impressive festival show. ‘The Drowners’ and ‘Metal Mickey’
complete the surprising quartet of Suede singles in style, while
‘Beautiful Ones’ and ‘Trash’ conclude the set in predictably rousing style.
Another new track shows a flicker of promise, but the release of Singles
looks set to mark a difficult crossroads in the band’s career. Once again they
look unlikely to recapture the glory days of the debut album or Coming Up.
A return to the ‘What does this button do?’ days of Head Music in a
futile search for a hit is surely not the answer. An attempt to transfer their
electric live talent on record might be. It’s all in the air at the moment,
but let’s hope for our sakes early indications prove wrong.
Despite its obvious flaws, it’s hard to imagine a better set with which to have
closed the festival. Benicassim still has hours to run, however, so for those
of us who would rather drown in our own vomit than endure Moby, it’s off
to the smaller stages in search of a last few thrills. Chicks On Speed
are fantastically entertaining. Fact. Hyperactive, full of energy, and
generally mental. ‘Glamour Girl’ is pure fun. After Suede, however, I’m in
search of tunes rather than sass, so I leave mid-set and head over to Client.
Another band with a bit of a buzz about them over here, and it’s justified. A
painfully short set, but full of gems. Ladytron-ish, but with nicer tunes.
Northern, too, so it would appear. Bonus. 2manydjs killed me. Well,
almost. Chucking in the obvious (The Rapture, White Stripes) and the less
obvious (Prodigy, Nirvana) in the early part of the set was just too much. I
just could not stop moving… until I did. And then I couldn’t start moving
again. By the end of their evidently brilliant set, I was utterly zonked out on
the floor outside. Somehow, it seemed like an appropriate end to the festival.
Tiring, at times difficult, but an experience nonetheless, and one which will
undoubtedly have to be repeated, with a few lessons learned. A nice mix of
classic (who said dated?) indie and some newer sounds, all working together to
create something totally unique. There really is nothing like the FIB. They
celebrate their tenth anniversary next year, and a particularly special line-up
is planned. It really has to be done…
Martin V
