High Voltage is yet another addition to the burgeoning series of summer festivals currently plaguing London. Setting itself as a potential competitor to the global Sonisphere Festival which sits alongside the established Download and Reading Festivals, High Voltage boasts a simple three stages: Classic Rock, Metal Hammer and Prog Rock. Located in Victoria Park, East London, this festival of elders could potentially attract up to three generations of rockers.

A short walk from Mile End tube station leads to Victoria Park. En route, there is a pub carving up a whole, roasted pig for wandering rockers. The dress code for today generally includes men sporting black t-shirts with amusing slogans like ‘More rock than a crack house’ printed on the chest. ‘WALK WITH ME IN HELL!’ demands an average sullenly clothed posterior. If there’s an IT crisis somewhere in London this weekend, the experts are likely to be contained within these temporary, green walls.

On arrival, Orange Goblin are set about their closing numbers on the Metal stage. With a quick verbal tribute to recently departed rock legend, Ronnie James Dio, the band fire into ‘Cities of Frost’. Orange Goblin straddle the gap between metal and rock, coming on like a fuzzy hybrid of Pantera and Alice in Chains; but the riffs feel somehow staid and overly orchestrated. The band progress with the groovy ‘Cosmo Bozo’ before stealing out onto the stoner rock of ‘Some you win, some you lose’. On that suggestion, we depart for the Classic Rock stage, passing a busy Prog stage.

The sounds of Focus noodling away on Hammond organs and prancing over extended guitar solos echoes across the field, but the music lacks the necessary Siren-like charm to pull an excited writer to their set. There is a distinct lack of occasion this mid-afternoon. The Classic Rock stage is disappointingly peppered with fans of The Union who are swaying gently in the breeze of melodic rock. There’s not a mosh pit in sight – it’s more like looking at a posh pit. And, to be fair, it’s not everyone that can afford a steep £75 one-day entry fee.

Still, the PA systems are all functioning efficiently (probably turned up to 11) and there are a few funfair activities dotted around the site for those adventurous enough to partake in activities as thrilling as, er…dodgems. Not thrilling enough? Then there’s the waltzer. This is rock and roll living where a classic car show sits next to an osteopath: an osteopath that offers massages for £20. Oh and there’s an HMV where children play Guitar Hero and look at a selection of 22 CDs dreaming wistfully of the day when they can save enough pocket money to buy Foreigner classic ‘Agent Provocateur’.

But for those of us with no interest in childish things, there is always music. The atmosphere lacks the sense of grandeur implied by the presence of Rock Gods such as Toni Iommi, Phil Anselmo, Jimmy Page, Billy Gibbons and Tom Cruise wandering around backstage. But it is still early and the audience is restless – moving quickly from one stage to the next, inhaling dust, alcohol and ice cream along the way. It’s a bit like being at Guilfest. Not that I’ve been.

Irish rockers (no, not those ones) The Answer are on playing ‘Rock n roll’ outlaw’ and Cormac Neeson is playing the part of rock n’ roll frontman as he twirls around holding the mic stand at 90 degrees as if it had been plunged into his chest. Mercifully, it hadn’t, and the band pull together a convincing impression of The Black Crowes‘ brand of blues-rock twinned with the sounds of AC / DC (who they toured with in 2008). The band finish their bright set with “a little Irish swamp music”, ‘Under the sky’. As they leave, Neeson says the band will be signing in the HMV tent later on…

The roadies in the wings at the Prog stage are having a grand time. Bigelf are churning out electricfying ’60s inspired rock with twin guitar harmony licks. It’s like listening to King Crimson for Deadheads. Amusingly enough, the smell of patchouli mixes thick with the burning marijuana in the air to give a fair indication of audience make up and intention. Probably the most interesting band to have played so far, their hyper pantomime production is enjoyable to watch, though the lyrics fall limp in the afternoon heat. As the band play ‘Disappear’ – a track from the Hex album – people begin to leave.

It is clearly time for a bit of guitar wankery – sorry – mastery, as the paunch of Gary Moore dominates the Classic Rock stage and he launches his Les Paul immediately into ‘Over the hills and far away’. Today Gary is wearing a purple and black paisley shirt with requisite blue jeans. His hair is still the same as it was three decades ago. Speaking of three decades ago, ‘Thunder Rising’ is next, but its chorus provides something of a challenge for Gary’s aging larynx. Somewhat ironically Gary’s new song is called ‘Days of heroes’ – a time where “only the strong survived”. It seems a somehow apt notion for this stage where rock dinosaurs – I mean, legends, roam. As the guitarist plods through more new numbers that no one really has an interest in, we mystically transport ourselves back to the Metal stage for the cathartic doom of Cathedral. Though playing to a sparse crowd, the music is inordinately heavy and sodden with groove. Singer Lee Dorian dances a little like Ian Brown and frequently moves menacingly towards the crowd, stretching the mic cord taut high above his head as though he were ready to skip the audience to the death. ‘Utopia Blaster’ and ‘Cosmic Funeral’ positively shake the ground and ‘Funeral Dream’ causes fluid from the inner ear to shift.

Dizzy from the crunch of Cathedral, it’s on to Dweezil Zappa whose band is outplaying everyone else with numbers from Frank Zappa’s back catalogue. The mix of time signatures and styles assures Dweezil a good audience, and tracks like ‘Beat Swifty’ give the band a chance to show off. A lounge glockenspiel solo brings an air of calm to proceedings and we could almost be in Charlton Park at the WOMAD Festival. Dedicating ‘Easy Meat’ to the groupies in the audience soon puts paid to that fleeting feeling. ‘Latex Solar Beef’ and ‘Keep it greasy’ all come wrapped up in jazz, funk and samba flair and Dweezil closes with the demanded ‘Peaches En Regalia’. After such a tremendously vibrant show that positively lifted the spirits, calling in to see Foreigner and Saxon results in an immediate and painful grounding.

A number of Black Label Society patches stitched to denim have been visible throughout the day, so we make the concerted effort to see the band that have persuaded their handicraft obsessed crowd to don this skull-based logo. A huge banner obscuring the stage is tugged off by the roadies to reveal a row of identical amplifiers. Zakk Wylde’s mic stand has a series of skulls attached to the base of it. He’s like Predator, but in the Homo Sapiens form of a bearded Brett Michaels wearing a bowler hat. Wylde shreds up and across the neck of his custom guitars and is forced to change guitar after just one song – he must have worn it out already. With pyrotechnics shooting out of the amps, it’s all very clichéd, and sort of fun. The songs, however, mostly remain the same.

And so, it comes to headliners ZZ Top to bring the day’s festivities to a close. With a shining, green drumkit on stage – built to resemble a deconstructed truck – team ZZ saunter on and get straight into ‘Got Me Under Pressure’. Both Billy Gibbons and Dusty Hill look and sound way beyond cool. “We’ve been coming over here for 40 years,” sighs Gibbons. “Same 3 guys, same three chords”, and the band start ‘Waiting for the bus’ which segues into ‘Jesus left Chicago’ just as it does on debut record, Tres Hombres. The speed hasn’t totally gone from the aging Gibbons’ fingers (he was once Jimi Hendrix’s most favoured guitarist), and he’s still a complete original. The group plough through their discography, smashing out hits that include: ‘I can’t tell my future’, ‘Cheap sunglasses’, ‘Gimme all your lovin’’, ‘Sharp Dressed Man’ and, of course, ‘Legs’. The trio pay tribute to Jimi Hendrix with their cover of ‘Hey Joe’ and High Voltage’s aspiration to book Rock Royalty is finally tangible. ZZ Top’s encore is ‘La Grange’ and it’s completely evident why Jimmy Page is watching, grinning from the wings.

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I went to see Australian ‘jazz’ trio, The Necks on Saturday night. It was, without doubt, one of the greatest live performances I’ve ever seen. For a trio equipped with traditional acoustic instruments normally associated with jazz, they produced some of the most inspiring and intoxicating music I’d ever heard in a live environment. Not only that – but they made it up as they went along. For a detailed review, check out the report on Mapsadaisical’s site or this one by Adam Wood.

Such is the irony, that the people that call themselves ‘music fans’ and went along to the 40th anniversary of the Glastonbury Festival Of Contemporary Performing Arts and completely missed this should be kicking their sunburned arses for the remainder of the year.

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On the final night of the Meltdown Festival (curated by Richard Thompson), Broken Bells make their European live debut. A giant screen dominates the stage at the Royal Festival Hall: a screen that will host flickering abstract images of warm technicolour magically rendered to look like nostalgic footage captured in the late ‘60s on Super 8.

A meandering clarinet line reminiscent of Nino Rota’s ‘Speak Softly Love’ sounds from the PA, Munch-like colours flash out from the previously blank dominatrix and the band stroll casually on stage. Tonight the writing duo are part of an expanded seven-piece band that includes three guitarists, two keyboards and a Fender Rhodes. Anyone who’s heard Broken Bells can rightly assume that the reason for the extravagance is down to Mercer littering the album with sweet and corpulent vocal harmonies.

Burton begins on the Rhodes while the band open out on to a intergalactic instrumental before switching to drums for first full song, ‘October’. Though intent on capturing the Beach Boys’ ebullient harmonies, the sound coming from the stage is thick with mud. The supporting electric guitars all thrum dully around the lower-mid range and Mercer’s acoustic is no more attractive.

Second single ‘Ghost Inside’ sounds next and, with its hip-hop beat, it’s the closest Broken Bells get to Gnarls Barkley smash, ‘Crazy’. The screen beams out an image of the Broken Bells album cover – perhaps to remind us of whom we are watching – before a shrill solo trumpet and its vibrating treble frequency drags our attention centre stage. An extended jam to ‘Ghost Inside’ is underway: needlessly orchestrated, it falls hopelessly flat -- detracting from its supposed impromptu delivery.

Much like Jack White’s Raconteurs on their debut UK tour, Broken Bells’ one album setlist is bolstered by a dusting of cover versions. Tommy James and the Shondells’ oft-covered ‘Crimson and Clover’ is next and is mostly faithful to the original. Before breaking into ‘Trap Doors’, Mercer engages the audience with a cryptic quip about skating at South Bank before proceeding to  jokingly claim that the gig is a ‘homecoming’ for him. The use of a drum machine means that the audience finally hear a balanced kick and snare combination, but the bass honk from the stage washes out any dynamic light like a chamois leather dipped in black paint.

Though Burton flits between drums, guitar and Rhodes, the sound remains the same. That, sadly, seems to suggest how anonymous the investigation of the instrumentation actually is. With such great affection for the precise sound of the instrument, it no longer matters who is actually playing it. Single ‘The High Road’ gets a solid response and ‘Vaporize’ follows precisely as the album order dictates. The pedestrian plodding pace is frustrating. Boring, even.

As the band saunter off stage, some audience members stand, applaud and scream for the group to stay. When they eventually return, it’s Smokey Robinson’s 1962 hit, ‘You really got a hold on me’, that gets the Broken Bells treatment. Ultimately, it’s a pub-rock version as played by top-flight session musicians with the desperate, agonizing passion that inhabits the original sucked from this sterile, carbon copy. Appropriately enough, Broken Bells round things off with ‘The Mall and Misery’.

Mercer and Burton exit stage left, abandoning the band to their psychedelic space rock noodling and the audience give the pair a thoroughly deserved standing ovation for so precisely exhibiting their tintinnabulation of absolute mediocrity.

**~~~ (2/5)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GEetoKBdTU

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I went to see Paul McCartney last night, and it was fab. North Greenwich is playing host to a German Christmas market at the moment (are the Germans better at Christmas than the British, or something?) and I enjoyed the overpriced smoked sausage and Glühwein on offer with a couple of cold cigarettes.

After Macca’s X-Factor performance, I wasn’t expecting too much, but opening the show with ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ helped strip some of that cynicism away. Much of the  set was par for the course with the exception of ‘Mrs Vandebilt’, ‘Wonderful Christmas Time’,  ‘Paperback Writer’ and ‘Mull of Kintyre’ which featured the Balmoral Highlanders complete with all necessary wailing accoutrements. It’s not a favourite song of mine by any means, but it was one hell of a spectacle.

So, yes, McCartney was worth that hefty £137 price tag. Would I do it again? On the strength of this performance, I probably would. Overall, the set was his strongest yet and the band were exact. The only letdown came from the audience who, around my area at least, were the most reticent, miserable bunch of rich, middle-class fuckwits I’ve ever had the misfortune to come across – well, since WOMAD anyway.

It wasn’t all good: he played some stuff from The Fireman; a couple of duff solo tracks surfaced; ‘Helter Skelter’ is now a bit of a pastiche; ‘Live and Let Die’ is only explosive if you’re a Macca concert virgin; and ‘A Day In The Life’ is really not what it should be without John.  

For a more detailed review, check out Caitlin Moran’s, cos I’m too tired to get into it fully.

****~ (4/5)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwaJ3ihV-Wk

Setlist:

‘Magical Mystery Tour’

‘Drive My Car’

‘Jet’

‘Only Mama Knows’

‘Flaming Pie’

‘Got To Get You Into My Life’

‘Let Me Roll It’/'Foxy Lady’

‘Highway’

‘The Long And Winding Road’

‘I Want To Come Home’

‘My Love’

‘Blackbird’

‘Here Today’

‘Dance Tonight’

‘And I Love Her’

‘Eleanor Rigby’

‘Leaning On A Lamp Post’/'Something’

‘Mrs Vandebilt’

‘Sing The Changes’

‘Wonderful Christmas Time’

‘Band On The Run’

‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’

‘Back In The USSR’

‘I’ve Got A Feeling’

‘Paperback Writer’

‘A Day In The Life’/'Give Peace A Chance’

‘Let It Be’

‘Live And Let Die’

‘Hey Jude’

‘Day Tripper’

‘Lady Madonna’

‘Get Back’

‘Yesterday’

‘Helter Skelter’

‘Mull Of Kintyre’

‘Sgt Pepper’/'The End’

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Living Colour have, ironically, achieved a semblance of cult status in the UK. MTV hit ‘Cult Of Personality’ (from 1988 album, Vivid) is part of the Guitar Hero franchise; their single ‘Love rears its ugly head’ broke into the UK charts and the album of the same name went on to win a ‘coveted’ Grammy award. It was ‘Love rears’ that suckered the 15 year old me into buying a Living Colour album and I can still recall wandering into Woolworth’s to pick up the tape for £5.99. ‘Time’s Up’ was the second album to change my life (the first was Public Enemy’s ‘It Takes A Nation Of Millions’). But ‘Love rears’ is not representative of ‘Time’s Up’. The album is a sprawling fusion of shred metal, funk and hip-hop, positively laced with pro-black messages. Shocked by the metallic screams of Vernon Reid’s guitar, I unspooled the tape, crumpled it with my fist and went back to the store hoping for an exchange. But the store assistant just reached back into a grey drawer labelled ‘A-L’ and pulled out another copy of the album. I was destined to own ‘Time’s Up’, and it is the album that convinced me to pick up the guitar and want to be a professional musician.

Living Colour’s latest album, ‘The Chair In The Doorway’, is their least accomplished, so fans of the band’s twenty year career were probably hoping for a set of classics with a few new songs thrown in to provide sufficient time for bathroom and bar breaks. Judging from the audience demographic, this assumption played about right. Living Colour are no longer attracting a new, young audience – their new album is not winning new fans, so the band find themselves playing to long time fans with unwilling, yet gracious partners.

Warped instrumental, WTFF, sounds from of the PA and singer Corey Glover bounces out from the wings. Warming our hands to his presence, the remainder of the band follow. Glover sports a curious outfit: the combination of heavy yellow apron and goggles lends him the appearance of an aquatic car mechanic. The first two tracks (‘Ignorance Is Bliss’ and ‘Which Way To America’) zip by, and the sound – the sound – is simultaneously crisp, full and crunchy. The muddied production of the last two Living Colour albums is replaced by the relatively melodic overtones of ‘Stain’. From that album, a fantastic rendition of ‘Auslander’ follows, and then a handful of tracks from the new album of which, in fairness, ‘Decadance’ fairs well. The noticeable drop in enthusiasm pushes the band to play ‘Go Away’ and ‘Funny Vibe’ with great aplomb but, suddenly, the quality tails off.

Aside from asking fans to vote Labour at the next election, one of the quickest ways to dampen an audience’s spirit is to dedicate a song to victims of terrorism. If that’s not enough to flatten the mood, give the drummer some and let him solo for 10 minutes while the rest of the band take a break. It’s 2009 – not 1989. No one with ears cares one jot for a drum solo mid-set (rock drummers don’t have ears – that’s fact); no one particularly wants to be reminded about tragic events when paying to have a good time. No one wants to vote Labour…

Thankfully, Living Colour aren’t overtly pro-Gordo, but their anti-terrorist spiel implies some tacit affection. With no fans in the room, winning the audience back would be a Herculean task. As if sensing this, the band play ‘Cult Of Personality’ and even the walls seem to sing along. It’s ridiculous how quickly we, the audience, forgive artists – because it’s this impetuous forgiveness that inhibits artist development. The longer fans continue to forgive and fawn over favoured artists, irrespective of clanging, heinous, cringing callousness; we can expect to see less of the genuine artist we fell in love with as they slip away, drowned in a sea of forced solipsism.

The rising cult of Living Colour should not usurp their natural growth or stop them taking their place in the pantheon of Black Rock. A mostly enjoyable night for the fan, Living Colour can – and should – be far more popular than they are. It is on occasions such as this, when it becomes apparent why they are not.

Personal reflection is probably frowned upon in what should really be objective journalism, but so entwined is my musical development with Living Colour’s career that I couldn’t help but speak to Reid at the end of the show. Shaking hands, he embraced me after I told him my story. Emotional, there was no way I could explain to him what I have written here, and before I could even think to, the friends vying for his attention won before I could gather my nerve. Nonetheless, I will forever have the solace of that moment.

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It’s a wet evening for a party. For Warp Record’s 20th anniversary, the label have selected Broadcast, Plaid, Battles, Flying Lotus and new signing Nice Nice for the Coronet’s main room. DJs EASE (Nightmares On Wax), Strictly Kev (DJ Food) and Winston Hazell (Forgemasters) are amongst the names programmed to keep the dancefloor busy. The Coronet is neither a warm venue, nor is it particularly well laid out. With right-angled bottleneck corners at the end of the corridor between the two arenas – which, incidentally, also host the toilets – we guests of Warp, we Warpees, seem destined to spend the evening acquainting ourselves with battery farming and the smell of stale urine. Nevertheless, the rush quells and the audience settle as Broadcast take to the stage in the main arena. Taking my place, I hear a young man behind me whisper to his friend. “This is, like – proper distorted stuff.”

Armed with the first of many Macbooks on show this evening, the quirkily attired duo’s set gets off to a tentative start. Trish Keenan asks the audience to hold the applause as she fumbles with a video camera onstage, frantically asking bandmate James Cargill, “Why isn’t it working?” With the sensibility of every I.T. support desk in the land, he replies, “Is it plugged in?” I find the loose end of the cable caught in a mesh of black metal and pass it up to Trish. Black and white film, ‘Winter Sun Wavelengths’ (from the Ghost Box label) starts up and the band are away. With the musicians swathed in darkness and divided by a large screen, attention is naturally drawn to the mysterious, yet typically Julian House created images as they flicker, hover, and vanish. Cargill generates arpeggios from his Korg synthesiser whilst Keenan holds a pair of microphones to her lips emitting ethereal ‘Aaahs’ through a rack of effect pedals. The haunting soundtrack accompanying the trippy visuals is childlike in both construction and delivery with Broadcast themselves resembling children in a music room; locked in – late after school on a rainy afternoon.

Things improve as the visuals change to warm Technicolor and Cargill picks up his Fender Precision bass. The cunning shift into a less amorphous realm is a welcome relief from their earlier spell: a spell that could have been conjured by the incantation, ‘Anticlimax!’ With the sound at the front swamped by a huge, thudding bass drum, it’s difficult to discern any lyrics. Sadly the set becomes as fractious as a shattered crystal ball – and equally as confusing.

New signing Nice Nice are next, and a drum kit is neatly placed centre stage. Adjacent, a keyboard stand and the entire output of Roland Corp’s Boss guitar effects pedals. Wondering how to get signed by Warp? Buy lots of effects.  If Nice Nice are attempting to double up on Keith Emerson’s prog-rocking The Nice, they’ve some way to go. Awaking a crowd zonked into stupor by Broadcast’s drone party (partly by having a drummer), Nice Nice are effectively a two-man Battles without the Math. Heavy psychedelic rock powered by loop pedals fizzes inoffensively from the PA and, like Broadcast, the duo fiddle around with the myriad of boxes and triggers they’re buried amidst. Nice Nice: ridiculously named; the musical equivalent of Ross Noble, but with no sense of irony at all.

On the journey out of the main room, it’s impossible not to overhear snippets of conversation, “I feel ripped off,” and “Broadcast were amazing” suggest the opening act made an artistic impact of the Wildean sense. Upstairs and DJ EASE is mixing dub classics for an audience in search of discernible rhythms. The soothing beats provide welcome relief from the screeching awkwardness of Nice Nice.

Re-negotiating cattlegate back to the main arena, it is now Battles that prepare to make their assault. Dave Konopka wanders around the stage in a red-checked shirt playing a repeated riff on his fancy Gibson guitar. Looking a little lost (like a man that’s walked into an audition for an aspiring band of lumberjacks), the rest of the band eventually meander on to rapturous applause before creating a heck of an exciting noise. Photographers flock to photograph drummer John Stanier and his absurdly raised cymbal; the twin guitar licks surge with trademark squeals and yet there is something lacking from the set. Building and dropping in and out of deliberately syncopated arrhythmia is something Battles are unequivocally adept at, and yet not even an extended version of ‘Atlas’ can save the show from its interminable lack of whelm.

And so it comes to Flying Lotus, who’s been especially flown in to ‘cold ass London’ (from FlyLo’s own Twitter account). The sight of one man and yet another Macbook can rarely be said to be inspiring, but on this occasion, and for those of us fortunate enough to bear witness, FlyLo is a truly engaging sight. Flipping between his own remixes and material – his flesh quivering mix embraces hip-hop, drum n’ bass and dubstep which finally affords the main arena an opportunity to dance. Mashing up artists such as Squarepusher, Radiohead and Burial with jaw-juddering basslines earns FlyLo an encore – the first of the night.

After such a heavy, successful set, Plaid take to the stage with a specially prepared ‘Classics’ set. Now some time after 3am,  this is really an opportunity for the spaced to come up to trance out. Plaid’s music can also suit tired legs and drooping eyelids but, as The Coronet empties, the venue becomes increasingly inhospitable. With the running order already behind by at least 45 minutes and astronomical bar prices that seem to keep rising – the invitation to stay through Plaid for Rustie is not enticing enough.

Warp20 was not the celebration it could have been purely because it never really promised to be; and there was only ever a vague possibility of it being even slightly representative of this eclectic label. Overall, Flying Lotus was the only artist that offered up enough of himself to provide cause for celebration and that, for some, was enough.

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