Leeds Festival 2

It’s over. Which is sad, but probably lucky as it feels like there’s an army of rats living in my throat. The Killers were the last band of Leeds Festival, and though I only went to watch them due to lack of options – it was them or the Manics (haven’t written a great song in twelve years), or Gallows (can’t fit in the tent with them thanks to the huuuuge chip on their shoulder), or Elliot Minor (the singer only has one expression and it freaks me out) – they proved the perfect ending to a sunny weekend. Their albums may make for lightweight listening, but this live performance was fuelled by a seemingly endless torrent of choruses everyone in the vast crowd knew the words to. The sense of unity, combined with half a bottle of tequila, nearly brought a tear to my eye. It was good to be in touch with my human side again. The festival this year has been dominated by dance-influenced acts, and the noise of robots insisting ‘we are your friends, you’ll never be alone again (‘We Are Your Friends’ by Justice Vs Simian) has sent me half-demented with pleasure. The Whip, Santogold, Justice and Digitalism made sure that in the war between electronica and more organic music, the ground-shuddering synths won the weekend. The guitar acts were let down by Rage Against The Machine and Queens Of The Stone Age – who just sounded old and crusty – and Avenged Sevenfold, who cried about having flu all the way through their fifteen-minute set and just sounded pathetic. Full marks, nonetheless, to the girl who they pulled up to sing ‘A Little Piece Of Heaven’ with them. She somehow fought her way through waves of uncontrollable sobs to become the star of the show. Less successful at impressing were the most over-rated bands around at the moment. Foals and Vampire Weekend are good, even possibly the best, at what they do, but to mention them in the same breath as bands like Radiohead is insane. Foals were less boring this year at
Leeds than they were last, and it was enjoyable watching them refuse to get off stage at the end of their set, but they’re just a scene band. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The Gaslight Anthem are further evidence that the Springsteen-influence scene in the States is slowly building. Like The Boss, they’re from

New Jersey, and like The Hold Steady mixed with Alkaline Trio, they deliver rousing good times with panache and personality. I, unfortunately, have now drowned any vague slithers of panache or personality I may have ever owned in a flood of alcohol. I’ll probably never recover. But, hell, it’s been worth it.