Reading 2001 Review - Sunday

Sunday

Sunday is the day that Reading's murky past as a Rawk festival returns to haunt it, like the ghost of christmas past or that ill-considered veggie curry the night before. The main stage line-up might initially seem far removed from the (ahem) glory days of Meat Loaf and Bonnie Tyler (though Marilyn Manson does bear an uncanny resemblence to the latter, in the right light) - but the Korn hoodies, studded belts and 'none more black' dress code of today's crowd tell their own story...

Fittingly enough, it's also the day that the weather finally breaks, dousing the tired and huddled Nu Metal masses with persistent drizzle (hey, a little more angst can't hurt); but, away from the grunt-fest of the main stage, it's business as usual.

If Frank Black had stuck around to check out the bands on the Evening Session stage today, he'd possibly be heartened by the way the sound of the Pixies has become another strand in rock's DNA; either that, or he'd be on the phone to his lawyer, as Biffy Clyro open proceedings with a display of quiet-loud dynamics and screaming to ADD emphasis to RANDOM words that recalls nothing so much as the big man in his heyday.

Seafood at least bring a little more subtlety to the equation, spot-welding the blurred dynamics of 'Daydream Nation'-era Sonic Youth to the juddering Pixies chassis. There's a sense of palpable confidence and range as they veer from the hammering 'Cloaking' to the more langourous 'Desert Stretched before the Sun', and if singer David Line's claims of imminent world domination seem just a tad optimistic (hmm, I don't see the White Stripes handing out promotional water pistols as a crowd-pleasing ploy at gigs), they should at least step up into the indie premier league.

Over on the Carling Stage, a newly-solo Mower strums gamely through 'Infamy' and 'Drinking for Britain', assisted by label boss Graham Coxon on off-kilter backing harmonies - a veritable spec-fest, and, yet again, much Frank Black-Lite shrieking in evidence. We'll skip blithely past Noo Yorkers Hopewell and their angular synth-aided new wave (the drummer's Miss Havesham bridal gown confirming suspicions that they're goths in mods' clothing), and onto the excellent Electralane: their unsmiling Kraftwerk schtick - all black shirts, bowlcuts and furrowed brows - might seem at variance with the happy-clappy mood of a festival, but there's no denying the metronomic power of instrumentals like 'Film Music', as they feed '96 Tears' through a Krautrock grinder.

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