Bizarre: The Loreley Festival
May 1989 by
unknown
Melody Maker
Last Week the European festival season kicked off with
The Cure, The Mission, The Sugarcubes and The Pixies playing in Germany. Ted Mico
reports on the miracles, madness and mayhem.
"It's going
to get hot today", says The Pixies
Charles. "Very Hot". Ninety-three degrees Fahrenheit is the
temperature most feared by police. At that temperature nerve endings explode, tempers
fray and the murder rate triples. Below that figure, people are too cool to
care: above it, too hot to do anything, but at 93 degrees, people loose
control.
Europe's summer festivals began in Germany with
Bizarre, which boasted a line-up strong enough to bring a lump to the throat of
the most discerning thrill seeker, and although not all the acts could reach
the critical temperature all the time, the event soon swamped the individual
performances, and 93 became the order of the day. A tall order for some
bands...
Eat are a band
who's progress has been slow, largely due to their unnerving knack of being in
the right place at the wrong time. The last time I saw them, they were
headlining at the Boston Arms, with The Sundays as support. There, through no
fault of their own, they were forced to suffer the indignity of half the
audience leaving straight after The Sundays' revolutionary set. Since then
things have changed. This time half the audience hadn't even arrived. Two in
the afternoon is no time for a rock 'n' roll band to whip up hysteria, and
they're struggling hard to fan the embers of enthusiasm.
Only their
clamorous version of The Lovin' Spoonful's "Summer in the City"
bulldozes through the debris and sweeps the German crowd off their feet. By the
time they leave the arena, Smith and The Cure entourage have arrived backstage,
sending The Pixies' bassist Kim into immediate palpitations. "There he is,
there's Robert Smith!" she screams. "I've just got to say
hello." Kim babbles hello and is about to tell Smith how much The Pixies
admire The Cure when a voice from another caravan bellows, "My God, this
festival is full of fucking hippies!" Einar steps out of the caravan and
punches the nearest table. The bench Björk was sitting on collapses, leaving
her silver tights dangling in mid-air and blue glitter hair gel trailing over
the grass. The Sugarcubes have arrived. Björk's three-year-old races away from
the scene of the crime and shows Robert his latest crayon sketch of The Burning
of Atlantis. Smith is the only other person who understands such primitive
wonders. He looks on amused and slightly bewildered. It's not the last time
today he'll wonder what the fuck's going on.
Einar offers The
Cure some of their lethal Icelandic liquor--the rocket fuel Icelanders aren't
even allowed to export for fear of the mass destruction it would cause. The
gesture is Icelandic hospitality, with a hint of mischief thrown in. The
Sugarcubes hate playing festivals. The only thing they hate more than festivals
is German hippies. Today they've hit the jackpot.
During the same
festival last year, they managed to ply The Pogues with their fiendish elixir,
with quite dramatic results. Shane passed out before he'd even reached the
stage. The Sugarcubes are half-hoping The Cure will fall for the same slapstick
routine, but Smith has seen it all before, so chooses to see a band instead.
Shelleyan
Orphan's Caroline is met by the blazing sun of the Amphitheatre-- a
pre-raphaelite dressed in English school blazer. Shelleyan Orphan are as
English as punting, and often as difficult. They attempt to grab chunks out of
the stratosphere with songs like "Tar Baby", which is good. All too
often, however, their supine piano sway and Jemaur Tayle's acoustic guitar and
constant harmonies are reminiscent of The Style Council, which is wretched.
Only when Caroline is left to her own devices do the band ever rise more than
inches above the ground.
Einar looks at
the bouncers (who wear standard-issue leather gloves to stop their knuckles
from getting grazed), stares at the crowd and smiles. "I hope it rains
when we go on", he glowers. Meanwhile,
Charles is hearing Shelleyan Orphan for the first time and quickly decides to
throw out all the slow numbers he's just written on The Pixies' set list, in
order to counter the Orphan's soundtrack to languid summer days and
strawberries and cream.
Smith nods
approvingly from behind the PA, and it soon becomes clear that Shelleyan Orphan
have improved a great deal since last year, bolstering their attempts at the
ethereal with a sturdier rhythmic undercarriage and dispensing with almost all
of the vile violins. At their moments of greatest abandon, they almost reach
the stage of All About Eve's "Martha's Harbour", but they still wear the bottom of their trousers
rolled and have some way to go.
Charles wanders around the festival stalls, perusing
the sweet counters and tie-dye shirt stalls. The crowd has now swelled to
20,000. Two days earlier, The Pixies had disturbed the foundations of The Town
& Country Club, unhinging spines and loosening synapse gaps with their
brutal, rampant holler. Now they walk onstage to an audience at least 10 times
larger than they've ever seen before and they look distinctly edgy. Charles
takes in two deep gulps of air and the onslaught begins. After only one number,
it's clear The Pixies song strategy has paid dividends. The Germans erupt, an
enormous mosh-pit forms centre stage and soon wounded arms and legs are
toppling over crash barriers. "Debaser" and "Bone Machine"
accelerate the carnage and suddenly a sharpened iron bar is hurled into the
photo pit. From the side of the stage, Einar watches with interest. "That's
it", he says. "Today I'm going to kill a German hippy". Onstage,
Charles never speaks a word. The momentum is too great to stop and chat, as
"I Bleed", "Vamos" and "Death" toss more discord
to the chaos cauldron. The reaction is terrifying. No one can believe it. Even
Charles doesn't believe it. When he reaches the closing lines of their single, "Monkey
Gone To Heaven", 5,000 voices accompany him. "If man is five..."
It knocks him for six.
By the time The
Pixies leave the stage, the stampede is set, the crowd so trigger happy, even
an Icelandic nursery rhyme could send them into a frenzy. The Sugarcubes arrive
and Björk and Einar perform their Icelandic nursery rhyme, just to test the
theory. The crowd roars it's approval, but Einar looks unimpressed. "Why
are you clapping, stupid? We are not The Cure." As soon as they appear
onstage it's clear Einar's changed his shirt, but not his mood. Only vintage
Lydon has boiled over with this much fury and satire, although Einar would
probably loathe the comparison. Lydon has invited Greenpeace to set up a stand
for the PiL, Sugarcubes, New Order tour of the US this summer. "He's been
living in LA and now he wants to save dolphins", Einar tells me later. "It's
so fucking predictable. We told them they could have their stand, but only to
talk about American Environmental issues. We don't want them shouting about how
Iceland kills dolphins. What about how Americans kill Central Americans? It's a
matter of priority". Last year, every record label in the world would have
walked over broken razors to sign The Sugarcubes, but it was always Einar who
worried the companies out of the deal. They thought him too volatile, too
dangerous. Yet, as Thor later explained, "The more dangerous he is the
more beautiful he becomes and the more we love him."
"Blue Eyed
Pop" becomes a sneer at the rock 'n' roll circus, while "Deus"
almost cracks under the strain of Einar's rabid torture. He wants to draw
blood. During "Traitor" he decides it's too difficult to provoke the
crowd from the safety of the stage, races toward the crowed barriers and ends
up rolling around in the photo pit hurling humorous insults at any moving
target. A slender order is restored as Björk's voice bubbles above the jostle
of "Motorcrash" and "TV", mixing the sublime with the
absurd. This is the first concert The Sugarcubes have played this year, save
one warm-up gig, and they stagger when they should swagger. Smith looks on with
anticipation as Einar spits yet more sarcastic vitrol. "Sorry about the
light show. It's just the sun. But if there wasn't any sun, you wouldn't be
alive. And what a pity that would be." The crowd stand still, confused
partly by the verbal assault, partly by the weight of new material being
performed. Songs off the forthcoming album like "Plastic", the
ferocious "Negrotrip", "The Day Called Zero" and
"Pump" all get the Germans hot under the collar, but are too
unfamiliar to spread fever. Suddenly the tangled sinews ignite as Björk's
soaring voice cuts a crater into the ozone layer for "Mama". The
pulverizing bass of "Cold Sweat" finishes things off.The Germans go
ape. More monkeys go to heaven. Einar should be half pleased: the heaven's
opened, but it didn't rain once.
The sun still
shines as Wayne Hussey approaches the stage.Without the dry ice and lights, The
Mission ritual only fires on two cylinders, but by the time they finish
"Beyond The Pale" and careen into "Wasteland", Wayne's arms
begin to stretch out and Mission banners unfurl. The Mission are made for
events like this. Wayne has an acute ear for an anthem, yet the bombast of
"Butterfly", "Severina" and "Amelia" are never
towering enough to eclipse The Mission's frailties. Instead, the band remain
human, able to share only droplets of strength. Just as The Mission risk veering
into the ridiculous, Wayne launches into Ray Davis' vaudeville jig, "Mr
Pleasant", diffusing the bluster and confusing the Germans. "Tower of
Strength", "Sacrilege" and "1969" all restore the
ritual pageant, Wayne's fingertips straining to touch the adoring hands. The
effect is almost magnificent. As he later explained, "I believe in what we
do. I know the limitations, but on stage I live out every fuckin' rock fantasy
anyone's ever had." He lives it well.
The daylight
lingers as The Cure hit the stage, but although the band bristles with
confidence, Smith is obviously uncomfortable seeing his audience. "It's
good to see you", he announces after the sorrow of "Pictures of
You", before adding, "God, I feel so ugly". Smith has always
been obsessed by his body, which he finds loathesome, and here it is, in plain
view of everyone. By the time The Cure reach the epic "Closedown",
he's even more concerned. "If you stare at me, I'll frighten you
away." Standing by the PA, Charles looks down at his own figure."What
the hell does he have to worry about?" he mutters. "I like the Cure
though. They're still kinda weird, but can still play a place like this. That's
amazing." He's right. The Cure are the most unlikely success story of the
Eighties. Their songs, especially the new album, wreak of internal corrosion
and personal torment, yet still project enough inspiral torture to fill a
stadium. Night falls and the light show sparks into action as "Just Like
Heaven" and "Why Can't I Be You?" cascade from the skies. As the
Cure shimmy through "Japanese Whispers", clothes are hurled onto the
stage and Einar finally introduces himself to Wayne. "Mr Hussey, I am
Einar", he says. It's a good start, but things deteriorate fast. "The
reason I am like I am is that my face used to be halfway down my spine",
he continues. "Then it was pulled up to where it is now. I still have this
itch on my back that I can't get rid of and I can find no other explanation for
it." Wayne waits for Einar to break into a grin, but Einar is serious. Drunk,
maybe, but still serious. "What the fuck are you going on about?"
asks the man with The Mission. "It is what I say it is", comes the
reply. "That's why we sell more records than you in America." Wayne
laughs and goes off to see more of The Cure. Only after he's left, does Einar
explode into laughter. "You English don't understand Icelandic sense of
humour", he splutters. Meanwhile The Cure are on a rampage, scything
through sweat-stained songs like "Same Deep Water As You" from their
new album and restoring their former gems with more spit than polish. They
sound more awesome without Lol. Smith even dedicates a song to the ex-keyboard
player, "The Last Dance", on the day of Lol's wedding, proving he's still The Cure's scapegoat even
if he's not in the band. "A Night Like This" carries futility through
the dry ice and by now there are enough garments onstage to clothe half of
Ethiopia. The feverish rant of "Disintegration", surely the best song
The Cure have written for years, ends the set, shaking debris from Mount Olympus.
The place is in an uproar, which moves further up when the band encore with
"Lullaby" and "Close To Me". They delve into the back
catalogue and reel in revitalised versions of "Let's Go To Bed",
"Three Imaginary Boys" and "Boys Don't Cry"--all perfect pop
hand-grenades which incite inexhaustible hysteria. They finally hit the
motherlode with a reworked version of "Faith", spurred on by a lust
for venom and vengeance. Amazingly enough Smith managed to turn The Cure
spectacle into the spectacular. The stadium shimmers with ecstasy.
After the show,
Smith talks to Einar about the evening. He thinks it went well. "The
trouble is that everyone knows what to expect from us. It's difficult to create
that element of surprise", he says. For Einar, surprise has always been a
trump card, but Smith needn't worry. The Cure are still more than capable of
astounding. They've been touring for 11 years, but still enjoy 93 degrees. As
the audience leaves fatigued, the champagne is popped and The Cure go into
hyperdrive. When they push the boat out it sails across oceans. Tonight their
excesses secure the very highest of accolades: even The Mission are impressed.
Travelling with the Cure is like living in Las Vegas. There are no clocks, no
sense of minutes ticking. Time merely expands and contracts depending on how
much fun is being had. An age after the festival's close, the temperature
finally drops and everyone starts to freeze, except for Robert, whose hands
feel like they've spent the evening in a furnace. "I never get cold. My
body temperature has always been two degrees above normal. It explains a lot
about me." Smith is two degrees above normal which also explains why he
gets on so well with Einar, who's at least two degrees off centre. The two of
them start sumo wrestling as the rest of the bands wait for the coach back to
their hotels. After five minutes of grappling, The Cure road crew become
concerned when they see neither man is smiling anymore and Einar has a manic
glint in his eye. Soon the two singers are rolling around in the gravel. It
could get nasty. Yet just as biceps are about to wade in, the couple get up and
start laughing for no apparent reason. Simon Gallup looks on bemused. He's seen
the strange before.
Soon things turn
from strange to downright bizarre. Einar is dropped at The Sugarcubes hotel,
team Cure arrive at their place and Robert takes pole position at the bar to
order assorted cocktails. "I'd like 30 drinks." The waiter looks
around and can see only eight people. He smiles politely, like psychiatrists
smile at outpatients. Smith realizes he's not being taken seriously, grabs the
waiter's shirt and starts hissing through his teeth. "Seriously. I'd like
30 drinks. NOW!" The waiter
quickly obliges. By the second round of drinks Smith and Wayne have managed to
coerce Shelleyan Orphan keyboard player Martin to play the restaurant piano. By
the third round, singer Caroline, Wayne, Simon and Smith are all singing
Abba's "SOS" and
"Knowing Me, Knowing You". Smith orders another round and the chorus
lurches into Sinatra. Wayne is having a ball and seems determined that Simon
should understand why. "I know people are always going on about how we're
going to be the next Simple Minds and U2, but that's bollocks. We've got other
ideas. We're going to be far more like The Cure. We've written some good songs,
but not a great one yet. If we do write that one great song, The Mission will
split." By now Wayne has another drink. "I know all the other lads
work hard, but I write the words and it's... difficult, y'know? Sometimes I
wish it wasn't like this. To be honest I always wanted to play for The Cure.
Simon and I stare at him in disbelief. Wayne is serious. Drunk, certainly, but
very serious. "Listen," he says placing his elbows on the perspex
sheet over the piano and pointing his finger at me. "I know people think,
'Oh The Mission, they're an okay band' and people think I'm a good bloke, but
they also think I'm a bit of a prat..." Unfortunately there are enormous
puddles of spilt cocktails coating the perspex. Wayne's elbow slides off the
piano and the singer crashes to the floor. "Well, all I can say is
sometimes they're right. I am a prat", he says, trying unsuccessfully to
get to his feet. Wayne may have fallen to the floor, but this is also the first
time in his life he's ever been level enough to see eye to eye with Robert
Smith, who's kneeling on all fours mumbling the chorus to "Strangers in
the Night". Dawn comes and goes and every table in the restaurant is
packed with empty glasses. Just as the first hotel guests arrive for breakfast,
one of The Cure's tour co-ordinators checks in to survey the wreckage. It
doesn't look good. "My God, this is a nightmare", says the
ashen-faced manager. One man's nightmare is another man's dream come true. A
long night's journey into day.