There is something wrong with me. I don’t really like festivals. Or massive gigs. Or any type of event which involves thousands of people gathered in one place. Being a lifelong Stoke City supporter, this isn’t something that I have had cause to deal with in the past 15 years or so. Yes, I’ve been to all the big festivals before, I’ve enjoyed myself too, but there is always something within me that dampens the experience – for some reason, the notion of all these people there for the same purpose unnerves me. Some might say that this coming together for a common cause is something to be celebrated (the term ‘band of the people’ is one that is thrown around quite frequently these days, not always deservedly so). It is exactly this which doesn’t sit right with me.
Maybe it’s because I’m a self-satisfied elitist twat and when you’re watching a band in an arena, it generally means that said band have conquered the mainstream. It might be because that if you are a smug arse-piece like me, you may feel aggrieved that all these folk are getting the reward without putting in the hours, just because they didn’t see them supporting some godforsaken indie-shitters at Northampton Roadmenders on a wet Tuesday night back in ‘98 or whatever. Or maybe it’s because I have other deep-seeded psychological issues. Either way, the choice of venue means that I cannot fully enjoy the experience.
I’ve always been of the opinion that Stadiums and Arenas are for Football, Ice Hockey and Crown Green Bowls (and possibly state executions if you happen to live in the Middle East). They are not intended for use as a vessel for the delivery of musical performance. There’s something odd about standing in a humongous structure with 20-odd thousand other folk staring blankly at a video screen relay of the spectacle that is happening yards away from you. Pedants out there will point out defining moments in musical history which happened to take place in this type of setting (The Beatles at Shay Stadium, Live Aid at Wembley, Oasis at Maine Road and Bryan Adams at The KC Stadium, Hull), but I reckon it should be made mandatory for all gigs to take place in stinky sweat-box venues where there’s piss on the floor and beer dripping from the ceiling. Rant over.
Having got my personal agenda out of the way, I suppose I’d better tell you about the gig, after all, its all about the music as they say. The original gig scheduled before Christmas was postponed an hour before kick-off due to Serge’s supposed illness, leaving a fair few disgruntled punters who had made the trip to South Yorkshire. It must be pointed out however, that Kasabian had played a sell-out Earls Court the night before where the after-show shenanigans were alleged to have cost the chaps from Leicester a fair few quid in damages! The rearranged date at Sheffield’s gigantic Hallam FM arena meant that support The Fratellis could not make it and were replaced with almost forgotten riff-merchants The Music. So not all bad news then!
The sheer size of the stage area (coupled with their feeble-looking set-up) dwarfed Leeds boys The Music, giving them the appearance of four Lego men standing on a snooker table. Despite this, they proceeded to knock out a sturdy set with the standout tracks being live favourites Take the long road and walk it and The People. Singer Robert Harvey (sporting a new skin-head) wasn’t his usual energetic self until the last couple of tunes where the full force of his Robert Plant impression was unleashed, much to the delight of the sizable throng who had assembled to watch them do their thing.
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After a brief interlude to allow a squadron of techs and roadies to transform the bland stage, Kasabian sauntered into view to the accompaniment of a pounding electronic break-beat backing, (minus frontman Tom who arrived as the extended jam reached its ear-splitting peak). The bass riff from Shoot The Runner fills the arena as the building anticipation of the crowd breaks and turns into a mass of pulsing bodies, bobbing up and down like corks in the sea. From this point on, the lads rifle through the set as if their lives depended on it (perhaps their tea was in the oven or something?), stopping only to thank the massed ranks of fans for their recent best live band award from the NME.
Favourites from their debut such as Processed Beats, Club Foot and Reason is Treason were littered throughout the set and sat nicely between newer material like the chugging Empire. Pizzorno’s acoustic rendition of British Legion was perhaps the low point in the set - needless poignancy which just broke up the relentless throb of the aircraft-hangar rave-up. The connection with the audience was slightly lacking and was clearly something that the band noted with Tom trying just a little too hard to endear himself to the crowd at times (I lost count of the amount of times he bellowed the word ‘Sheffield’ - perhaps he was getting paid commission or something?). Although not as incendiary a performance as they’d have hoped, they did rise above the workman-like on a few occasions – the fizzing extended version of LSF at the end of the encore being a standout moment.
As the crowds snaked out of the venue towards the Supertram terminus (how many times do I have to use my Supertramp joke before someone will laugh eh?), they were still singing as their ears battled the onset of tinnitus and their booze-soaked brains began to realise that in the previous two hours they’d bought 12 bottles of warm lager at £3.80 a pop…
Big gigs eh? You love ‘em.
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