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Yes, it's that time of the year again when purse-lipped Caversham housewives tut and frown as the floors of Waitrose become awash with mud, spilt beer and dropped friendship bands. The time when trains bulge with fifteen year olds ready to RAWK by staying mostly in their tents and smoking oregano purchased from a bloke who told them it was Peruvian Psychweed. And it was precisely this congested mass of hedonists that made me miss Goldie Lookin' Chain; the opening act of Reading 2004.
But fear not. Music leaks out of every corner of this big but compact festival and Modest Mouse were about to appear in the Radio 1 tent. Muttering anti-teenage rocker sentiments under my breath I managed to arrive just in time to see the burly Isaac Brock walk on stage. An early start didn't deter a bustling crowd of die-hard fans and recent converts attracted by critical hit Good News For People Who Love Bad News. However, not ones to pander, MM begin by slamming out some older tracks, pleasing the tight knot of people at the front. With two drum kits and Brock's bellowing vocals, MM sound far more like a conventional rock band live than they do on their albums. Perhaps they are stubbornly avoiding the "New Flaming Lips" label that has been slapped on them. The NME even suggested they might be the best festival replacement in the absence of The Polyphonic Spree. Judging by this set they may as well dress a rugby team up in smocks. However, the glorious recent single Float On receives a hearty cheer, after which I decided to float off and boogie to feel-good experts Jurassic 5.
I arrived just as the smile-inducing intro to Concrete Schoolyard filled the moist air. Tuneful, pleasingly 'Old Skool' and with a refreshing lack of Gangsta posturing, J5 inject a bit of sunshine into a rain sodden crowd. Chali 2na's laid back, Barry White-deep vocals get the crowd grooving as his more hyperactive fellow rappers bound around him. Thankfully they keep the songs from their disappointing latest album, Power By Numbers, to a minimum and get on with such arms-in-the-air classics as Quality Control. Bounce Reading, bounce.
After a hastily scarfed burger, I squelched back to the main stage for those Swedish dandies The Hives. Insanely charismatic pigeon-English spouter Pelle Almqvist is intent on getting the crowd as worked up as possible. In his trademark white jacket and black shirt, the wild-eyed ringleader yells "There's an exchange of services here: the Hives play and you clap and scream!". Fifty thousand people duly oblige and the place goes mad for Main Offender. It's hard not to fall for their overblown brand of showmanship and catchy tunes, much as I'd love to say that they were a bunch of twats.
Walking off to nab a good spot for Super Furry Animals, I am stopped in my tracks by the sight of Ash's Tim Wheeler with guitar held aloft and ablaze. Rock and effin' Roll. Girl From Mars and Shining Light are belted out with such ferocity they remind you that Ash actually aren't as naff as you remembered. In a moment of sheer festival nuttiness, the ubiquitous Har Mar Superstar, who Wheeler cajoles into stripping down to his grey men's briefs, joins them for Burn Baby Burn. A shudder goes through the crowd.
For sheer imagination and verve it's hard to beat the Super Furry Animals. They've been pumping out brilliant albums for over a decade now, and their live show has evolved into a kind of psychedelic cartoon brain mash that never fails to entertain. A few examples: Gruf Rhys comes on singing from beneath a huge Power Ranger/Godzilla mask and trails a superhero's cape behind him; every song has a cutesy, trippy animated projection on the background screen; the band arrives for their encore dressed in the bigfoot-esque hairy costumes from the Golden Retriever video; they get an entire tent to jump simultaneously for The Man Don't Give A Fuck; and, lo and behold, Goldie Lookin Chain cluster on stage to deliver their chunk of the simple-chorused Motherfokker. It's like ten bands in one set.
And so to Friday's headliners The Darkness. The new archetypes of the meteoric rise. And this is part of the problem. For all the pomp and extravaganza, The Darkness just don't have enough material to fill a 90-minute set. New songs are met with vague interest and polite cheers, and a version of Radiohead's Street Spirit would have had some musical purists vomiting into their Mojos. But wait - I'm not gonna be the one standing in the corner grumbling - I Believe In a Thing Called Love, Growing On Me and the rest of the already-classic Permission To Land tunes are sung with spandex stretching gusto. Yup, these guys can put on a show. Spangly catsuit boy Justin Hawkin is energetic and captivating despite sounding like a Trekkie, and the fireworks at the end could yet signal the dawn of a Queen for a new generation.
And so back to the tent, eyes bleary and voice shredded from attempting too many high notes. Roll on Saturday.
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