Bizarre:The Loreley Festival
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' revelationary 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 Bjork 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.Bjork'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 Pixie's 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 Bjork 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 Bjork'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 Bjork'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.