day two review

Several things are made apparent walking through the vast festival gates on the second day of Wireless. First of all, there’s something up with the crowd. They’re a far smaller collective than yesterday’s lot and are inexplicably overcome by a hushed quiet. Where the chatter and frolics should be, there’s eerie bluegrass music seeping out low-level from the stage speakers – something which, bizarrely, seems to become one of the unspoken themes of the day. The air is still but the sun is hiding and there’s a sense of aimlessness in people’s behaviours. Then the spookiest part of all? You can’t help feeling as if you’re trapped in an inverted vision of Logan’s Run: Where are all the children? There’s no-one under thirty…

Such is pulling power of headliner David Gray, the only young people you see loitering around the periphery are the begrudging competition winners, who, despite their good luck still wish they’d been given tickets for The Strokes the night before.

To a minuscule crowd of barely a hundred people open San Francisco’s highway ramblin’ Two Gallants on the Xfm stage. With a dusty kick and the growl of too many smokes, the cowboy duo flit between searing southern rock suited to soundtrack a ride on a rodeo, and bluesy folk fretwork that could backdrop a night laying in the desert, looking up at the stars. Drummer Tyson Vogel seems trapped in a percussion trance, barely taking a moment to look out over his kit and beyond his long mop of hair, whilst singer and guitarist Adam Stevens uses every guttural growl from his belly to hark in new intrepid listeners. By the end of their set, the crowd has almost tripled.

Over on the Main Stage Missy Higgins is churning out well-meaning but disaffecting singer/songwriter/folk/acoustic/whatever/nonsense. It’s pleasant like a cup of coffee, but as the thousands of picnickers are sat before her, completely indifferent as they spread Port Salut on their crackers, the poor lass is relegated to being little more than background noise.

Searching for adventure in the grand Hyde Park enclosure finds us at the ridiculous Blueroom stage, only accessible to people on a certain phone network that sponsors the whole thing. Inside is a sick vestibule that merges the horrors of living in an eternal advert and being trapped in the Big Brother house – people living in deluded media abstraction, wowed by the comfort of its modern decking, which they recline amongst whilst salespeople offer their dreams come true if only they’ll take a moment to fill in their personal details on this quick competition form. It’s all a bit rotten and jaded, so it’s a shame that the stage situated in its heart is the most stylish and potentially atmospheric. Instead of great bands like yesterday’s sadly misplaced White Rose Movement performing here (who’d go down a treat), there are local tribute bands and competition winners. Promised their slot on a festival stage, they find themselves coerced into taking part in an overtly conspicuous advertising farce, which is a bit rubbish, really. The poor old Flaming Monkeys, a gang of prepubescent rock hopefuls, have no idea how loveless and contrived their seemingly abundant surroundings really are – it seems all the more exploitative of the sponsor to hook them in whilst they’re so young (Happy Birthday to Chris! 15 last week!).

Made melancholy by the number of corporations that now have our postcodes, encountering The Weepies on the MySpace stage offers a perfect opportunity to mourn the sorrows of capital living. Despite their moribund folk (more folk! What’s going on?!) sounding wholly unoriginal, it is musically astute and is well-received by the modest crowd in attendance. Sadly though, there’s too much risk of permanent depression setting in so most people only stick around for a few songs before it’s too late for them.

More upbeat back on the Main Stage are the legendary Violent Femmes, the Milwaukee folk/bluegrass (is that a surprise?) trio that have invaded all walks of musical heritage since their inception in 1980. People are still picnicking, but at least now they’ve put down their Kettle Chips to clap along to Brian Ritchie’s infamous solo bass acoustics. Even though the band are getting on a bit, they still exhume charm and charisma that leaves a lingering sense of satisfaction in amongst the crowd. When they play their most famous number, ‘Blister In The Sun’, Wireless cheers in unison and suddenly it seems that, although today’s line-up is not particularly strong, and though there’s nothing around to get particularly excited about, everyone’s particularly happy to be here. If people are smiling, then it’s a success.

...continues on page two >>

Latest Updates