Monday, July 12, 2004

TAKE ME OUT... TO T: Is it just us, or were Franz Ferdinand on ridiculously early for the second day of T in The Park? In fact, the whole bill seemed to have been arranged more or less at random, with The Strokes headlining over the Pixies and people just popping up in random slots. Whatever, Franz did sound like headliners, confident, assured, dressed as Interpol for some reason. We appear to have got carried away to the point where we've written "definitive live reading" in our notes.

During Goldfrapp's set, my wife points out that she's not actually as sexy as she wants to be - "she's too stiff in the boots." And she's right - she's trying to slink, but her feet are glued to the floor. Everyone knows that thirty five per cent of your sex appeal comes from how you move from the hips down. They sound a lot better than they did at Glastonbury; maybe the grey clouds help. But, bad news Tubbs, Alison has become a Notail. And she seems to have already gotten hacked off with people mentioning the way she had a pony tail coming out her butt a fortnight ago.

The BBC's coverage doesn't seem to be quite as well paced tonight - the first half hour seems to be weighed down with a lot of chattering, and not all of it featuring Gill. But you've got to love the team, who are clearly freezing to death; Gill performs a reverse striptease during the course of the three hours of coverage, starting out in short sleeves and shorts; ending up wrapped up like a McDonalds Happy Meal.

Jake from the Scissor Sisters had no worries about the cold, though, taking the stage dressed in a kilt/toga outfit which Ana revealed to be a tablecloth pressed into the service of preserving his modesty. You could tell from the nervous direction that nobody was entirely certain his manhood would be contained by this get-up. The trouble I'm having with the Sisters is less about the chances of seeing a rogue bit of flesh, more that whenever they play Take Your Mama live, I find myself lost in a reverie about whatever happened to Mungo Jerry. Comfortably Numb just doesn't work live for them, but the oompah band take on Laura finally sees it all coming together. The world would be a slightly darker place without them.

It might have been an act of gentle cruelty to cut from the Scissor Sisters to Electric Six (we half expected them to then go on to show Fischerspooner). The Six did Gay Bar, and a large caption reading "The tide of history has left us" hovered over their heads.

You could have made an effort, The Thrills - a quick shave wouldn't have hurt. Mind you, the version of Santa Cruz was equally just tumbled-out-of-bed and that was wonderful.

Polly Harvey topped the Spice Girls dress from Worthy Farm by wearing, um, a Polly Harvey dress, which looked uncomfortably home-made, as she tried to hoik it up and keep it over her breasts. Amy Winehouse was also having trouble keeping her tits in line, spending most of her interview slot fiddling with them. Mind you, at least she engaged with something in the time they allotted to her - her only indication she was even awake during the chat was when she got a chance to moan about how the critics don't really like her. Then they played two, or possibly nineteen, tracks from her demonstrating clearly why the critics don't like her - whether her voice delights you or not, you can't ignore that she appears to have no connection at all with the songs she's been given to sing. There's no emotion at all.

What are the Kings of Leon for, exactly? They're not unpleasant, but we just can't quite work out what their function is in the modern music scene. At T, they had their band logo stuck sloppily on a drumkit in white sticky-tape, and that lo-tech solution seems to sum them up quite well. But doesn't explain the why.

Black Francis now has no eyes. But The Pixies are still great; apart possibly from Franz Ferdinand, none of the other acts on tonight have got any songs to challenge the likes of Debaser. We worried a reunion might have been a bad move, but it seems to be working for them.

There's someone on stage with little lights on his glasses - ah, it must be another Orbital farewell show. They're proving harder to get rid of than holiday guests in the Algarve. Is that your taxi outside now, boys?

Julian Casablancas looks about twelve right now - both in the face and the really bad skin. Kudos to The Strokes for allowing their set to go out live. Even although it's not especially exciting. Turn up, play songs, go backstage and continue snogging Drew Barrymore.

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