Passions in Newcastle run near boiling point for anything the Geordies decide to express themselves in. If Newcastle boasted the best toboggan team in Europe, then you can bet 60,000 topless northerners would follow them to the slopes. On this particular weekend, music and football are flowing through the city via an airborne concoction of anticipation and excitement (and brown ale, for good measure). Their beloved Newcastle United are playing for sporting survival, the Sunday market is in town with its luxurious offerings of ‘Dinky Donuts’ and various second-hand SNES games, and it is the first day of Evolution Festival 2009. The whole city is in on this one.
Thank god the Sun is out. Up here the sight of men donning jackets causes similar disgust to that of white flower wearers in World War 2. Upon arrival at press headquarters we are informed that Boys Noize have cancelled. No replacement, just a timing shift. Meaning that stage will start later and now finish with a booming disco house set from Brodinski. I can deal with that.
Unfortunately, the importance of a simultaneous football match leaves Evolution opening with limited numbers. The bar is still ten deep, and the bands are oblivious, but there is definitely a little too much room for manoeuvre. I like my festivals so crowded that moving with the masses is the only option. We seize the opportunity of a delayed start to embrace some Geordie culture and venture to the nearest pub to catch a glimpse of the football. High-ranking fans are rallying the rest of the pub into songs and cheers. It is blatant that any animosity or intimidation in here is directed solely at the TV, and the enthusiasm is enchanting. After some liquid encouragement, we are all protesting everything from offsides to the half-time pundit’s poor choice of tie. “If they lose the football, that festival is going to get fucking messy,” remarks a bystander. Fair point.
The match is lost and the pubs empty with hoards of disheartened northerners in need of a cheer up. And without any control over which direction we actually want to walk we are swept down to Baltic Square (stage two) to catch The Japanese Popstars using their 8-bit techno to orchestrate a synchronised crowd bounce. The distance between stages results in large groups of loyalists who refuse to venture between. And since there is now such a big turnout this just means both stages are always busy. No ebbs and flows, just constantly crammed – something that becomes quite apparent as I head to White Lies and fail to get within a stones throw of the stage. Knowing that, visually, White Lies aren’t exactly an array of bright colours and gravity defying choreography, it matters little that the band are just out of sight. And as they have been doing since their live performance on Jools Holland last summer, they blow away the thousands with tones of wistful drama, that lead singer McVeigh portrays as if experiencing every lyric, there and then. Their darkened vibes strike chords with forlorn football fans and I witness one of the most emotional sing-alongs that I imagine ‘Death’ has ever experienced.
That’s it out now. The earlier sporting disappointments that many feared would tarnish the festival have been vented and aired. By the time The Human League come on, the atmosphere has returned to the dizzy vibrancy of the morning. Drunken renditions of ‘Don’t You Want Me’ are coming at me from all angles, with the odd brave one attempting the higher notes of ‘Electric Dreams’ and failing miserably, yet looking rather self-satisfied.
Although Susan and Joanne aren’t the wet dreams they once were, The Human League still retain a mysterious charm and the pair back up Philip Oakey’s vocals without ever looking ‘past it’. An over-zealous guitarist who definitely wasn’t with the League back in the ‘80s (he looks around 20) struts up and down the stage looking like a cross between Slash and Ken Kesey’s Chief Bromden from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. Oakey deserves credit for keeping that tone-trapping voice completely preserved, and after cutting into some new material he begins to tease the crowd with the classics, leaving many declaring, “I forgot they did this one!?” and, “I thought this was Depeche Mode”.
My arrival for day two is delayed by the indulgences of day one, but I do rock up just in time to see Dead Kids. After reading reports of their cocky bravado, offensive nature and general penchant for anarchy it feels like a must-see. They manage to call all the security guards “apes” and “oafs”, singling one out as “blondie” and threatening to slap him, before lead singer Mike Title apologises and asks the guard in question to come on stage, because he had a “thing for ‘chubby lads”. Undoubtedly the last daytime slot Dead Kids will get at a family festival.
By the time Friendly Fires are due on we, and many others, are stuck in a limbo of indecision. After pretty timid sets from Esser and Ladyhawke, temptation is to cut losses and head to Dizzee Rascal at the main stage. What actually happens is an awkward hover, resulting in little movement towards either stage. Friendly Fires typically saunter on like shy early ‘90s shoegazers. Yet once the music starts they transform into bouncing indie-pop animals, leased life by their own sounds. A decision is made to stay, and by the time the trio reach ‘On Board’, singer Ed Macfarlane is in full salsa swing.
In true British fashion the weather switches from glorious sunshine to soaking showers in seconds – about as quickly as Dizzee Rascal switches from songs we wanted to hear to songs we didn’t. The biggest attendance of the festival bundles into Spillers Wharf to hear, well, ‘Bonkers’ pretty much. In fairness to this grimer-come-popstar, he plays the crowd like a fiddle and for the more recognisable sounds of ‘Fix Up, Look Sharp’, ‘Just A Rascal’ and ‘Dance Wiv Me’ there’s unified enjoyment. An extra-long rendition of his recent number one marks the culmination of an electric weekend in the north.
Evolution Festival may have lost a little credibility for dropping the free entry, but with stellar line-ups and exhilarating atmospheres for two years running, it is constantly justifying a price tag. And £9.50 isn’t exactly money bags!
