The last time I was at an all-day gig, it was in Milton Keynes in the ‘80s, so perhaps I’m not the best commentator to pass judgement on Manchester Academy’s fifth annual 10 hour ‘Gigantic’ festival. Reuniting a clutch of beloved indie bands of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, the ones who may have been two hit wonders but whose devoted fan base (even despite some break-ups and reformations), their churning out of solid tunes and commitment to hard slog touring, kept them selling records and filling venues. Crazyhead, Jesus Jones, The Juliana Hatfield Three, Jim Bob (of Carter USM), The Wonder Stuff, The Bluetones - and the granddaddies of them all, Echo & the Bunnymen. Not exactly the bands that time forgot, but the ones that the charts no longer want or promote. Nowhere was this more poignantly encapsulated than in Bluetones’ frontman’s Mark Morriss’s repeated dry jibes about the evasion of chart success, over & over throughout their set.
Let’s get my old lady gripes out of the way first. First surprise is that on being searched, my laptop was commandeered for the cloakroom; the second surprise was that there was only one stage: unlike past Gigantic festivals, bands were scheduled one after the other in one big room with no time for encores – even though The Wonder Stuff in particular looked apologetic and rueful as they waved themselves off the stage.
It initially felt less like a free-movement festival and more like an internment camp. There were no muddy fields or distances to traverse, but we were effectively incarcerated in a human pig-pen courtyard as the only respite from bar & performance hall - hemmed in by metal barriers & wire mesh fences. There were roughly twenty seats in the bar, three food stalls, one craft beer & cider stall (not the tent, as advertised) & an ice-cream van; middle aged folk who couldn’t get a seat in the courtyard were sitting in the corridors or had dossed-down at the side of the performance hall.
What entirely redeemed this cramped and slightly-uncomfortable-for-the middle-aged-punter gig was the quality of the music and the performances; probably some of the most technically accomplished, assured and exuberant musicianship I’ve heard in recent years. The snob in me had already decided to give Jesus Jones a miss, but the performance audio was pumped through the bar stereo and they were immediately amped-up and arresting. Mike Edwards’ voice is stronger, bigger and more commanding live than anticipated, and the band sounded tub-thumpingly rich and raw when stripped away of gimmicky indie-dance novelties that clouded them in the ‘90s.
Keyboard player Iain Baker (out-Bezzing Bez), gurned throughout, tongue lolling and (as self- described), his role was to ‘move around on stage in an unconventional manner’; he also refused to allow the initially riveted and respectfully quiet audience off the hook, grabbing the mike stand and shouting “We’re making more noise up here than you are down there. C’mon, make some noise!” And so, given permission, the beardy, short-wearing 40-something fan-boys did.
I remember really disliking Jesus Jones in the ‘90s (dance music came too late for my ‘80s indie-honed sensibilities); I found their sound flimsy & tinny and any idea of what they could really do as musicians was lost in layers of production. They are now a born-again rock band, albeit keeping some of the more aggressive and clean hip-hop samples and brass – which sound fresh even now. The baggy dance club garb & bucket hats are gone, replaced by tailored floral shirts, cravats, waistcoats and long coiffured hair. Jesus Jones have gone devilishly dapper. They won me over at 'IBYT', played as the first track as a nod to indicate that they didn’t come to trade on past glories, so furiously got the big hit out of the way at the start. They haven’t had a charted album since 1997 – and they clearly don’t care. Their new album 'Passages' is out now.
Juliana Hatfield, looking skinny teen 18 but bringing her 51 year old wise head has such a musically illustrious and varied history – Blake Babes, Some Girls & The Lemonheads for a start - and for now is settling on what some have called ‘coffee-house grunge’ with her own trio. Her standout song was a mesmerizing, agonised slow-mo’, seductive version of Britney’s ‘Toxic’. I am going to cop out a bit here and confess I missed most of the set; I know Hatfield’s work – and it felt a bit strange to be watching here, with middle-aged, pierced men, chugging beer. I’d rather listen to her stuff at home, in my bedroom, as I would’ve done in my teens and twenties. A musical force-of-nature, as intimate and as raucous as you’d wish any icon to be. Highly recommended.
I apologise to the fans of former Carter USM frontman Jim Bob for my neglect; I dived out for wine & the loo and so only just caught the final number, ‘The Only Living Boy In New Cross’, as hundreds of fans, full-throated, joined the acoustic-punk troubadour. The warmth of that connection and the huge round of extended applause will send me to Carter’s & Morrison’s back catalogue for closer investigation.
The Wonder Stuff, who boast that they never have the same line-up for each album – apart from lynchpin/songwriter Miles Hunt, joyfully banged through their 30 year old album Hup in its entirety. Almost a cartoon creation with their larger-than-life stomp-along jolly anthems, such as ‘Piece Of Sky’ & ‘Size Of A Cow’, they easily and gleefully whipped up the crowd to merriment & dancing - with the addition of some demonic fiddling. I wasn’t a fan before but their vibrancy & recklessness at least makes you want them at your next party.
So much enthusiasm and energy was pumped out thus far by bands who clearly loved performing – until The Bluetones appeared. Hounslow’s former Brit-pop darlings have endured, despite splitting for several years in 2011. (I saw them on their farewell tour in Liverpool, when Mark Morriss in particular was energised at the thought of pursuing a solo career). Now it’s 2019 and he’s more subdued – and although the band have had thirteen Top 40 singles and three Top 10 albums in the UK charts, Morriss peppers the between-song banter with references to their chart misses & I can’t quite work out if he’s being arch and playful or bitter and resentful. It didn’t really matter though as the band clearly warmed to the crowd’s enthusiasm. It was a strange role-reversal, the audience winning over the musicians. Bluetones are, performance-wise, at the top of their game; flawless playing, Morriss' voice is still childlike and beautiful & their songs charm, engage & acquire more poignancy as time passes. (“It’s all that I can do to sing these stupid songs to you…”) What started off as a bit of a weary Norman Desmond performance ended with amped-up energy as the love spread on stage to envelop the band.
If you were to venture outside to the courtyard, through the crowd, who were mostly being sensible and sipping their craft cider, ambling about, vaping and discussing their childcare arrangements, you’d notice that the DJ set was tenderly mindful of the target demographic - so Neil Hannon, Nick Cave, Richard Hawley & Beck played as the sun set, but not too loudly.
Post punk, new wave, Liverpool music scene royalty & uber-grandees, Echo & the Bunnymen quietly assumed the stage as headliners, with a mellow Mac in an uncustomary brown jacket (sorry if I was briefly reminded of Lewis Collins in The Professionals) – albeit wearing his standard Lennon dark specs. No grand gesture or flourishes, just a commanding stillness and self-possession – with Will Sargeant being equally compelling: the most unflappable & completely in-the-moment guitarist. At 61, he was probably the oldest person in the room but had just to pick out a few goose-bump seminal guitar notes to get cheers. The 40-year back catalogue brought shouted requests from the crowd; it seemed that everyone who had bought a ticket was in the room & knew all the words of all the songs as Mac just shrugged out the lyrics, sometimes hitting bum notes - but no-one really cared about that. The light show boomed deep purple, a thunderous blue & white light to underline the doomy and swirling grandeur of the music. Mac clearly had no need to impress, shuffling with hands in pockets, using two simple hand claps to start an audience response, with 'The Cutter' still getting a roar from its first evocative violin strains. Shouldering the frantic 'Never Stop' alongside the subdued 'All My Colours' even worked tone-wise because the band have long-standing fans with long memories. Whatever they did would have been just dandy.
It was a ‘best of’ day, an event calculated to leave a loyal fan-base sated with the hits and a satisfying series of sets by bands who are technically pretty perfect – and who sadly got left behind by an unfeeling industry. I came expecting to only like a couple of bands. I left loving every one.
Regrets, I had a few; missing half of Bunnymen’s set for fear of missing the last train was a low point. (I remembered belting down Oxford Road in the ‘90s from the Students’ Union building, drunk and panicked that I’d not get back to Liverpool. At least this time I wasn’t wearing heels.) I also missed the newly reformed (after 17 years) Crazyhead, who were first on set, and their ever-reliable ‘urban bastard blues’ garage-punk.
So, my initial grumpy, parochial crustiness at being deprived of my lifeline laptop & being hemmed into a small-ish space (I felt like Papillon) was replaced with a widening grin as the day progressed. There was an honesty, a simplicity and total lack of pretension here. These are bands who have survived the caprices of fate, the fickleness of the charts & music journalism, and changing indie/alternative tastes. It’s now all about the music for them. If you get a chance to see any of these bands individually, jump at it. Forget age-prejudice or worries about appearing unfashionable - or it being simply a nostalgia-fest for those trying to cling to their youth; this music has lasted, and is played with energy, passion & pure survivors’ joy. You can even dance to it. Big Love.
Reviewer - Tracy Ryan
on - 25/5/19
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