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V2005
Chelmsford, Sat 20 Aug – Sun 21 Aug

My birthday week and that can only mean two things: a slightly rubbish cake presentation ceremony in the 6 Music “Hub” and the V Festival. I’m slightly alarmed to learn that this is the tenth V in Chelmsford and even more alarmed to realise that I have actually attended every single one of them.

Which therefore means I am disqualified from taking the usual music journalist stance ie sneering that it’s “not a proper festival” because… well, actually I’ve never been able to work out why people say that. Is it because it has non-disgusting toilets? Because they book the odd naff pop act (this year: Tony Christie, Joss Stone)? Because lots of girls go? Or what?

Whatever, V – like the fancy wellies/denim mini-shirt “look” sported by so many of the young ladies at this year’s event, it works for me. You can knock its corporate sponsorship but – hey! - everyone else does that nowadays anyway, and at least V have put the cash into making sure the festival-goers are treated like human beings rather than say, slightly irksome cattle, like at some so-called “proper” festivals. At V everything runs smoothly, everyone’s in a brilliant mood and the press people are so lovely they’ll even store your daughter’s milk in their fridge for you. Bless.

I notice the criticism doesn’t stop music journalists from enjoying the hospitality in the Virgin Mobile Louder Lounge hospitality area, but then that’s because it is frankly the best thing ever invented. Essentially, it’s where you can go when the festival becomes a bit much and you need some free booze, barbequed food and the chance to stand next to the likes of ex-Holby/Brookie fancy piece Lisa Faulkner in the chip queue.

The celebs – and there are hundreds of them, from Big Brother types to Mickey Rourke and Gavin Henson - even get out amongst the kids, braving an endless queue of people who would rather have their photo taken with them on a mobile phone than, say, watch Athlete. Most tolerate this with a well-worn smile, others positively encourage it – like Abi Titmuss, who I spot doing a Conga through the crowd during Embrace’s brilliantly uplifting set on Sunday. No, really.

It’s that sort of festival – slightly surreal, but full of genuinely memorable moments. Like watching the mighty Idlewild sandwiched between Rooster and Tony Christie and rising to the occasion with a blistering Greatest Hits set. Or wandering into the tent to find The Chalets playing perv-pop to two dozen people, with the lasses dressed in nurse/army uniforms while the blokes hammer out squelchy noises like electroclash really did happen after all.

Franz Ferdinand sound great (even if new single Do You Want To is dangerously close to becoming their Country House), The Hives are back on form, The Magic Numbers and The Ordinary Boys draw encouragingly big crowds (no offence intended, Romeo) and the Scissor Sisters are frankly far too dull for those outfits (although the shared finale with Franz on Bowie’s Suffragette City is, to purloin my daughter’s description of The Zutons, “very jolly”). A career on the NME surely beckons. (For her, not the Scissor Sisters. Although …)


Weezer
London, Mon 21 Aug

But if V always provides a zillion reasons to be cheerful, there’s nothing like a Weezer gig to keep you coming back year after year. Anyone who’s ever listened to The Music Week, or indeed met me for more than one minute and 17 seconds, will know of my love for this band and on Monday night at the Hammersmith Apollo, that faith was repaid in full.

If you’re a fan, there’s no such thing as a bad Weezer gig, if only because you never know what Rivers is going to give you. But of all the shows I’ve seen, this was possibly the best ever.

In stark contrast to the June show at Brixton, when Rivers didn’t speak, barely moved and concentrated only on hurtling through the hardcore’s favourites as quickly as possible, this was a pop extravaganza, with Rivers finally re-locating his inner showman.

He told jokes! He rocked out ironically down the front (and, like Les Dawson’s piano playing, you have to be a very good guitarist to play bad solos that well)! He even appeared alone on the balcony for a solo version of Island In The Sun, and played drums (rather well) while Pat sang Photograph – Scott also sang Fall Together while Brian got to croon a real treat – Why Bother from their seminal Pinkerton album.

Oh and they played My Name Is Jonas, Say It Ain’t So, Surfwax America and – ye Gods! – El Scorcho. Utter, utter genius and anyone who says otherwise doesn’t deserve to call themselves a music fan.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, I manage to blag a big 6 Music exclusive interview with them backstage – the normally reclusive Rivers included. He’s intense, but not half as strange as people imagine, and happy to talk about everything from his own enigma to football (or “soccer” as they insist on calling it). Result!

All in all, then, as Ruddy Marvellous Weeks In Rock go, “very jolly” just about covers it. Avanti!