Hop Farm Festival 2008

Hello angels!

Before continuing on with Slowdive and the shoegaze movement, I would like to take a mini-detour to post my thoughts and feelings on the Hop Farm Festival, which took place on July 6 in a lovely corner of the Kent countryside. The bill was solid: Primal Scream, Supergrass, My Morning Jacket, Rufus Wainwright, and my own personal god Neil Young. How could I not attend?

Well, the weather would have been one reason not to. I guess it's all part of the Festival fun, but fuck me did it pour down. And personnally, I can think of a number of things that I'd rather do than spend nearly four hours getting soaked. I love rock'n'roll, but that's just taking the piss. And it just wouldn't let up! It was like the meteorological equivalent of Jim Davidson: unpleasant and relentless.

I had arrived early, to make sure I caught every act, and must first tilt my hat at the sterling organisation. A bus picked us up at the station, there was no queue to get in (the perks of getting there early, maybe) and every act was pretty much on time. Plus, the bars were nice, the food varied and interesting, and the sound was great for an outdoor venue. Thumbs up to the organisers!

But, by the time the first act, the pretty decent country-rock quintet Everest, came on, it was pissing down. Despite my hood and umbrella, and their excellent set (well, for a first band on, it was tight, smooth and melodic - can't really ask for more at 12.30 in the afternoon!), it was pretty dispiriting, so I went to take refuge under a tree during the second set, by folky 18-year-old singer Laura Marling.

So, it was on to Guillemots, an atypical "new rock" act, who have somehow managed to take the tired Franz Ferdinand - Razorlight - post-Strokes sound and inject a little originality by adding a sense of fun and wackiness most modern bands desperately lack. I can't say I like all their songs, but singer Fyfe Dangerfield is impossibly charismatic and funny, and they have a Flaming Lips-ish vibe and several lush, over-the-top melodies that worked like clockwork on my senses. Latest single "Get Over It" is a pounding, unrelenting, shouting bit of pure hard-pop energy, but it was the epic duo of "Trains to Brazil" and lengthy closer "Sao Paulo" that really got me going. The music is lush, with gently shifting and subtle rythm patterns, and an overload of bonkers sounds that at times even had me thinking of Roxy Music at their peak. No small compliment. Plus, Fyfe has a cracking voice, a bit like Thom Yorke, only madder and less overblown. "Sao Paulo" was actually stunning, as the band let rip, bringing on a bunch of roadies to bang away on random percussion as Fyfe punished his keyboards and the guitarist wailed away like an indy Kevin Shields. Shame about the rain...

Next up was Rufus Wainwright, after I'd refreshed myself with a surprisingly tasty burger (funny what seems delicious when yer knackered and cold!). He's always reliable to give a good show, even on his own, as was the case here. He played his most distinctive songs ("My phone's on vibrate for you", "The Art teacher", "I'm going to a town"...), in his glorious tenor, which is just as arresting live as on record, adding a little bit of camp glamour to the otherwise muddy event. And, just as he rolled through a gorgeous rendition of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah"... the sun came out!!!!! This prompted whoops of glee from the crowd and added a moment of simple poetry to the day, especially as it remained mostly clear until the end. Thanks Rufus, you bring the sunshine into all our lives!

At this stage, I have to admit to feeling butterflies in my tummy. The reason was that My Morning Jacket were the next act, and I always feel nervous when a band I love is set to perform, especially if it's the first time I'm seeing them. Will they deliver the goods? MMJ are also relatively under-appreciated in the UK, so I was willing them to kick off this crowd's introduction to them with a bang. Thankfully, I needn't have worried! Although I can't say I'm that keen on the material from their latest album Evil Urges (decent enough tunes, but not memorable, and a couple of them were too soul-inflected, never a good idea if you're a white rock band. Only Todd Rundgren and Antony Hegarty can really pull off white boy soul, guys!). But the tunes from Z, my personal fave by these Kentucky-ites, were just stunning when subjected to the live treatment. Here, Jim Jones fabulous high voice soared out on the wings of his superbly crafted melodies, drenched in reverb, but always powerful, whilst around him the whole band blasted out the album's thumping alt-rock with a fervour and energy that only Neil Young would surpass later. The guitars squealed and roared, Jones prowled the stage like Gary Rossington in his prime and the keyboardist ripped weird and wonderful noises out of his machines like Eno in full flight (ok, maybe not quite, but still). "Off the Record", "Anytime" and "Wordless Chorus" deserve classic status, in my books, and these guys proved just why rock remains the ultimate live music with this all-too-short high-octane set. Rock on!

And now, it's confession time. I have to admit that I had actually managed to confuse Supergrass with The Stereophonics! Either way, I had little interest or familiarity with the music that came next (collective gasp from Brit-pop fans, who supposedly look at Supergrass as legends). Instead, I took advantage of their set to catch up with some friends and have a wee and a pizza (not at the same time). I did bop away to "Alright", but, given how static these veterans were, I was quite happy to do so from a distance.

The same kind of goes for Primal Scream. I know they are the darlings of the UK indy scene, but (second confession), I'm not that fussed. They have some good tunes, but few that have ever stood out in my mind, and like their predecessors, I found them rather static. I know that this means they supposedly exude an overwhelming sense of cool-ness, but for me there's a fine line between seeming cool and seeming bored. So, I was happy to focus most of my attention on the vodka jelly shots a charming chap was selling at 5 for £5. If the band I'm watching seems bored, it tends to make me feel bored as well. Having said that, the rest of the audience was loving it, which meant for a great atmosphere, and I was very pleased to head towards the front of the crowd for "Rocks" and "Movin' on Up", which were actually better live than in the studio, and really had everyone jumping. Again, I won't be listening to either track at home, but I did enjoy hearing them belt out from the stage to the roars of thousands of adoring fans.

And so onto the big one. The Loner. Shakey. The Godfather of Grunge. Again, I could feel the butterflies. How would my idol hold up to the scrutiny of this youthful (ok, there were some oldies in there, but more than a few scrawny indy kids too) crowd, many of whom I suspected were mainly there for Primal Scream? The massive crush to get to the front suggested at least that he had a loyal following in there, and of course, I needn't have worried.

To put it succinctly: Neil. Young. Fucking. Rocks. I am beginning to think there is no-one quite like him out there. I'm pretty sure they must have been able to hear this set in Calais! He kicked off with a beyond-grungy version of "Love and only love" and never looked back. Old Black, his trusty Gibson Les Paul screamed, roared, squealed, moaned and howled over nearly ten minutes as the old fucker stamped around the stage, his face screwed up in an expression of sheer, what? Anger, hurt, delight? It's hard to tell with old craggly-face, and it doesn't matter. What matters is that no-one, not Elton, Macca, Dylan or Prince, plays with such fire and rage in their bellies as Young. And this was just the first song!

The stage set up, identical to the one from his Hammersmith Apollo show of a few months ago, had me wondering if I was going to get the same set. Again, why was I worrying? Have I no faith in the man? After all these years? What a cock! Some songs were the same, but there were enough surprises and jolts to have me grinning like a teenager whose just got laid for the first time and is about to tell his mates. "My My, Hey Hey" came next, and, if possible, things got louder. The feedback roared out of the speakers like a monstrous sonic kraken (a pretentious metaphor, I'm aware, but sod it), and I was half expecting earthquake reports this morning. These were My Bloody Valentine-worthy noise levels. We then got the first surprise in "I've Been Waiting For You", a song that goes back 40-odd years and still sounds like it could have been written by, oh, My Morning Jacket. Or Guillemots. Or fucking Primal Scream! Then came "Spirit Road", which continues to grow on me, especially when watching Neil, all of 62 years old, jumping up and down like Pete Townsend circa 1978. I can't enumerate all the delights. We had pure grunge, of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. intensity (only better than both) with "Fuckin' Up", a superb acoustic set (maybe slightly more predictable - "Old Man" and "Heart of Gold" are the only songs I believe he has played in all three gigs of his I've seen), and then a heart-rending finale.

I''ve seen Neil three times. Each time I've cried. And I was at it again as the thundering riff of "Words" rang out across the crowd. Who were enthralled - talk about blowing away the competition! I could actually see several jaded twenty-somethings turn and gaze goggle-eyed at their friends, stunned by the intensity and power of this old fogey and his equally ageing mates. They were like a gang, and his guitar was the gang-leader, exhorting its cohorts with each screaming solo or driving riff. And, y'know, it may not be what it was in 71, but Neil's voice still rings out strong and true, and "Words" was the perfect demonstration. It stretched out for over ten minutes, but even that didn't compare to what came next: his rousing new set-closer, "No Hidden Path", easily the stand-out track of Chrome Dreams II and of his live show. It just goes on forever! Each time you think the latest solo is the last one, he suddenly leaps back for more, dragging more and more notes and noises from his protesting axe. At the end, it had become a raging, boiling mass of feedback and squalls as Neil raged, "Ocean skies/Sea of Blue/Let the sand wash over you" over and over as the rain and wind battered at the stage and us poor souls, who couldn't give a care in the world, such was the trance he had us in. And yes, the tears flowed down my cheeks as the joy gripped my heart and I was yet again reminded of why Neil Young is the most important living music artist today.

His encore song, a ragged version of The Beatles' classic "A Day in the Life" that out-did the original in terms of sheer intensity and power, and even managed to be more psychedelic, as Young once again abused poor Old Black, and more and more twisted, elegiac notes sounded out across the Kentish valleys. He ended up ripping the strings off the neck in a possessed rage and pounding the poor axe on the floor to drag out even more feedback (as guitar tech Larry Cragg looked on in obvious horror), before storming off with nary a glance at either his beleaguered (but ecstatic) audience or his bandmates. Punk still lives! It's 62 years old and it's name is Neil fucking Young!

Afterwards, I wandered in a daze for a few minutes, still stunned, still overjoyed. Then it was time to pile into coaches and head back to London and normality. As we cruised past dark fields and empty office buildings, I put my iPod on and tuned into "Down by the River". To keep the dream alive a bit longer. Seeing a true rock legend, an icon, a legend, a hero, will do that for you. You just don't want it to end. Despite the ringing in your ears...