Knowsley Hall Music Festival 2007 - Saturday

United Kingdom | | 23 June 2007

“GROWN MEN!” spits our unsolicited dining companion. “Drinking PIMM’S!” We nod sympathetically. It is a curious state of affairs… and in Liverpool too! The queue for the Pimm’s bus is growing at a rate of knots, a two-fingered salute to the beer queue which quite literally spans the entire length of the field.

“Are you not even stopping for The Who?” we gingerly enquire. A volcanic flash of anger glazes his eyes as he reaches for his contraband hipflask. “Not bleeding likely! I’m off. I tell yer… Hell’s Angels wouldn’t put up with any of this SHIT. They KNOW how to organise an event!” Eyebrows raised we continue to probe our insipid noodles as another passer-by drops in. “D’ya wanna pill? I’m not charging. Can’t be bothered dropping it… I’ve got work in the morning!” Our blood runs cold. Is Knowsley THAT BAD that even the cainers can’t be arsed?

It’s fair to say that the inaugural festival is experiencing the tell-tale twangs of a gob full of teething problems - and we’re only a quarter of a way through the first day. In a bid to actually spend our cash, we head for the hospitality tent where punters have dropped a cool £188 to avoid the proles. And yet even HERE, we’re wedged in ten people deep.

“Just keep breathing,” an ashen faced, sharp-suited fella advises us as the pre-death tunnel they speak of begins to take hold. We haven’t felt this ashamed at impending doom since the great Bloc Party crush of Leeds 2005. Reeling out, even the hired goons manning the door are quite literally at each others’ throats. “Does it FEEL like a festival?” my learned, festival-veteran companion enquires.
We can’t quite decide. Is it because we’ve not carted a tent and a 24-crate of Stella that long that our arms are beginning to assume the ape-like gait of a Gallagher? Or is it simply because Knowsley is only up the road?

Well the line-up certainly ticks the right boxes - even if all-out war is destined to break out between the Main Stage and the MySpace Stage. They are in a ridiculously close proximity to one another - so much so that all the Main Stage acts throughout the day proceed to drown out their lesser-known counterparts. Still, if you can actually bring yourself to bend your ear, the up-and-coming talent on the MySpace Stage is worthy of note. The standout act for us on Saturday are Delta Fiasco - a three-strong outfit clad in leather and specialising in dark synth-driven rock. These self-confessed ‘plastic Scousers’ hail from Potteries counties and their sound is as far removed from the ‘Cosmic Scouse’ or ‘Shroomadelic’ (or whatever scene you want to label it as) movement as you can imagine. As front man Nathan Walczak explains to us backstage: “Our sound is designed to polarise opinion. You’ll either love us or hate us… and that’s a good thing.”

Their ‘take us or leave us’ demeanour contrasts sharply with the ‘mad fer it’ persona of homegrown lads The Quarter. Peeling off his baggy white shirt to reveal a torso that has scarcely seen the sunlight, singer Ant Godfrey regales us with his cartoon-esque Scouse observations - most notably that: “Liverpewl has da best team in the weerld, da best supporters in da weerld, da best music in da weerld… it’s da best city in da weerld!”

Ironically, Godfrey’s stagecraft is pure Manchester. With mannerisms showcasing a clear Ian Brown/Liam Gallagher influence, his ginger-haired cohort makes for a perfect foil akin to Bez. With the strains of The Thrills enticing us to the Main Stage after having wrapped up an interview with cheeky scamps The Rascals, we wade through the mounting mud to take up a stage-left position for the night’s ‘Crucial Three’ acts - The View, The Coral and The Who.

Exposing his gently bronzed nubile belly, The View’s Kyle Falconer works the denim look in a way B*witched can only dream of. This is a good thing - counteracting the effects of his ‘Proclaimers on speed’ Dundonian accent. The guy could be a comic genius but with every utterance battling to break the boundary of his incessantly bopping bouffant, it’s a bloody good job he can sing for his supper.
“Even if you’re only waiting for The Whoooo, you should know this one!” Kyle self-deprecates - breaking into ‘Same Jeans’. Mucky little pup! He’d fancy a change of togs if he were us, as the clouds darken a shade or two. Cherry-picked tracks from ‘Hats Off To The Buskers’ mean that no one wants to be encumbered with a brolly as your feet start to move confusedly. Is this Oasis, The Libertines, The Clash… or just a smart-ass combination of all three?

Could there have been a Knowsley without posh Scousers The Coral? Hmmm… probably - but we’d be poorer for it. As reliable as a good dose of Immodium, The Coral come on stage to flush away any lingering bad feelings in the belly about this newbie on the festival circuit. Reeling off what now sound like genuine classics such as ‘Dreaming Of You’, ‘Don’t Think You’re The First’, ’In The Morning’ (they got in there first Razorlight!) ’Pass It On’ and ‘Goodbye’ The Coral remind us of just how good they are. OK, so there is no crowd interaction and their stagecraft is nothing especially exciting but just close your eyes… You’re transported to a cosmic world where we’re all setting sail for the Spanish main and men turn into plants without explanation. It’s a wonderful place to visit and these other-worldly images are conjured up so vividly by The Coral’s retro-styled guitar twangs and shuffling skank rhythms. And then it’s over. As if awoken from a trance (and no, no herbal medicines figure into this equation) we are informed that The Who will be shortly gracing the stage.

As if on cue the heavens open as Roger Daltrey emerges in a questionable neck-scarf, though it has to be said, he does look terrific for his age. Peeking out of his tinted spectacles, he surveys the masses and announces: “It’s great to be in Liverpool - one of the greatest cities in the country.” It’s an intro by numbers - as is the ensuing set - but God we couldn’t ask for more. This is classic Who with Pete Townshend playing with conviction and Daltrey delivering Townshend’s lyrics like his life depends on it. With his trademark windmill strum, Townshend shows the new breed of George Formby-alikes (just look at Arctic Monkeys and The View and you’ll know what we’re getting at) how to rock out old-school style.

Have the organisers been validated in their decision to bring these dinosaurs out of extinction? A sweeping glance of the crowd says an unreserved ‘yes’. From watery-eyed nostalgists reliving a youth long gone to wide-eyed pups grateful for the action replay, The Who touch base with all serving up classic after classic with a few new twists. ‘My Generation’ gets an extended makeover and Pino Palladino’s virtuoso bass playing throughout more than does justice to John ‘The Ox’ Entwhistle‘s signature track.

Choosing a ‘song of the night’ is too much as we are treated to the likes of ‘The Seeker’, ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’, ‘Who Are You’, and our personal favourite ‘Baba O’Riley’. The show is slick and immaculately paced with a beautifully rendered backdrop which features archive footage of the band in their pomp as well as the ubiquitous target ‘Mod’ symbol they became forever associated with. As they leave the stage after a rapturously received encore featuring ’The Kids Are Alright’ and ‘Pinball Wizard’ they clamber into the comfort of brand-spankingly new silver Audis.

Those of us who are left behind - still stunned by the sheer power of The Who’s performance - gather our thoughts in preparation of the mile-and-a-half-long hike across unlit rain-dashed farm track with jeans soaked and shoes soiled, but our heads positively buzzing. Not the greatest festival we've attended, but it was all about one band, one truly worthy of greatness. 

Michelle Corbett & Christian Ewen