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Friday 9 January 2009

Uncool fun

Charles Spencer goes to Guilfest

A couple of the bands didn’t exactly warm to an audience in which a large number were seated in comfy chairs with the papers and a picnic, most notably the splendidly named Brian Jonestown Massacre, a bunch of recalcitrant San Franciscans who mingle psychedelic and shoe-gazing styles with weedy droning vocals in a manner that is right up my alley. Almost everyone else, however, reacted to them with complete indifference, which goaded the band into accusing those out front of being one of the most boring audiences they’d ever encountered. The band’s notoriously temperamental founder, Anton Newcombe, in particular, delivered mutinous mumbling monologues in a manner that made Syd Barrett sound like a model of coherence and played much of the set with his back to the crowd. It was just the grit in the oyster this friendly, laid-back festival needed.

The big event was the return of Blondie on Saturday night. During my days as a cub reporter in Guildford 30 years ago, Blondie was my favourite band, and the cool and beautiful Debbie Harry the apple of my eye. How odd it was to see the once über-hip New Yorkers, veterans of CBGBs and the American New Wave, performing in leafy Surrey. They were terrific, delivering their immaculate back catalogue of hits with a panache and freshness that, to my ears, had more balls than the original recordings. As well as pop, punk and disco, there’s a touch of funk in Blondie, too, and the band really stretched out and got into a groove here, powered by the virtuosic drumming of Clem Burke.

It seems age cannot wither Debbie Harry, who is now 63, but according to Ollie looks younger than his Mum (who’s 42 and won’t thank me for repeating her 14-year-old son’s ungallant remark). Blondie is celebrating the 30th anniversary of its greatest album, Parallel Lines, and Harry took to the stage in a chic red beret and a black-and-white-striped poncho in tribute to the LP’s cover art. Soon both were discarded to reveal the familiar mop of blonde hair and a catsuit most women half her age couldn’t get away with. Her voice remains fabulous, both insolent and coolly seductive, and, as the group powered their way through the whole of Parallel Lines and a host of other hits, I experienced one of those rushes of pure pleasure that only the greatest pop music can give you.

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