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see all photos from this concert here
Part two: Sonnabend
Day two of the WGT, and Leipzig basks in
cheerful spring sunshine. The various live music venues around town tend
not to open until mid-afternoon, but that doesn’t mean the earlier part
of the day is a cultural desert. From mid-morning onwards, the Cinestar
cinema is showing goth-friendly movies At the risk of appearing uncouth, we decide
to forgo the culture and go shopping. Or, at least, take a wander around
the counter-cultural hypermarket that is taking place in one of the two
vast halls of the Agra complex. It’s an impressive experience, with multiple
CD retailers and the huge stands of the four main German-scene goth magazines
(who are clearly trying to outdo each other with sheer presence) vying
for space with a bewildering variety of outlets selling clothes and acoutrements.
Not As far as bands go, today we’re heading
across town on a tram ride to the Parkbuhne stage, the WGT’s open-air arena,
and the only part of the event that has a traditional festival feel. Picnicking
goths scatter themselves about shade-dappled parkland around the stage
like a surrealist open-air Things pick up a bit when Pink Turns Blue
take to the stage. They look very ‘post-punk funeral director’ in their
sharp black shirts and severe black suits, and yet in spite of their formal
attire they still manage to exude an effortless coolness in the full sun.
Their sound matches the look. It’s a neatly-constructed guitar-layered
new wave rush, where precision and energy collide in every song, but always
under controlled conditions. There are no OTT crowd pleasing antics during
their set - it’s all very measured, as if the band is taking care not to
overshadow the music with showbiz Wait a minute - who let the skate kids
in? This, it would seem, is Sanguis Et Cinis. A gang of youths who look
like they’ve just been turfed out of the local shopping mall are suddenly
swarming all over the stage. They’re decked out in middle-market leisurewear
and toting guitars like they’ve learned Fortunately, the next band on the bill
is Diva Destruction, and unless they’ve undergone a drastic style reappraisal
since I last saw them, it’s a fair bet that I’ll be spared any further
excursions into the ghastliness that is mainstream yoof culture. As the
band take the stage, however, it’s immediately apparent that Diva Destruction
have undergone a drastic line-up reappraisal. Debra, lead singer and all-round
mistress of the Diva Destruction experience, has had another of her end
of season clear-outs, and her former musicians have been replaced by a
new bunch. The last-drummer-but-two is back, there’s a new guitarist, gamely
wearing a rather alarming PVC outfit, and a new keyboard player who spends
the entire gig smiling a secret smile to herself. For all these changes,
the band sounds much as they ever did - a swirling drama of sound, every
song a tumbling rush of rhythm and crashing guitar. This incarnation of
the band features no backing vocals, though. Clan Of Xymox also seem to have a revised
line-up. I’m sure the guitarist is new; and this incarnation of the band
doesn’t have a drummer - just a girl doing something-or-other at a keyboard
right at the back. But, as ever with Xymox, it’s a case of plus ça
change, plus c’est la même chose. So, there are no surprises, but we get
a good set nonetheless. The sound is clear and cutting, the programmed
drums slap and crack like electro-thunder, the guitar sound builds and
rumbles. Ronny himself stands almost casually at the mic, working his way
through the songs with easy familiarity. He seldom cuts loose, instead
giving us his trademark, relaxed, eye-of-the-storm persona as the set unfolds.
Just occasionally, he’ll make a grand gesture, or reach out to the audience
with the And then it’s curfew time. In deference
to the good burghers of Leipzig, some of whom doubtless want to get a bit
of sleep tonight without electrically amplified gothic thunder invading
their dreams, the Parkbuhne stage closes down before 11pm. The rest of
Leipzig is still jumping, however: the WGT never sleeps...
...continue to Part
3
08/08/04 |
before hosting a production of the Rocky Horror Show. Elsewhere,
there are demonstrations of medieval metalworking, and fruit wine to be
sampled. There are theatrical performances at the Villa, and absinthe tasting,
literary workshops, and dark folk bands (now there’s an interesting combination
of activities) at the Sixtina bar. If all this sounds worryingly cultural,
you could opt for some good old fashioned fan-worship, as the bands gather
for their autograph sessions, give yourself a large dose of retail therapy
at the Agra market, or just choose a bar or cafe and hang out. That’s the
beauty of the Wave Gotik Treffen. It’s a festival that doesn’t feel
like a festival. It’s as large or as small, as hedonistic or as highbrow
as you wish. For four days, Leipzig is a city of possibilities. All you
have to do is choose.
that
I particularly wish to buy any off-the-peg gothic costumes, trinkets, novelties
or objects d’art, you understand. I never did connect with the ‘gothic
lifestyle’ thing, probably because I’m rooted in a time before the gothic
concept had expanded to that kind of all-encompassing extent. But it’s
nevertheless instructive to gaze out over the expanse of stalls and realise
that, here in Germany, goth is big business, while still being entirely
*independent* business. These days, we’re all more or less expected to
accept and consume; to eat McDonalds, drink Coke, wear Gap, and dutifully
listen to Britney or Busted, Avril or Evanescence. It’s reassuring to know
that a viable alternative exists, and it’s big enough to matter; it’s big
enough to count. Sure, it might ultimately be just another branch of consumer
culture, but at least it’s *our* consumer culture, not theirs.
production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, to a soundtrack of sizzling wurst
and foaming bier from the refreshment stalls. The Parkbuhne stage itself
was originally built many years ago as an al-fresco culture bunker, and
is oriented south-west so that the afternoon sun shines directly onto the
stage, to provide natural stage lighting. Thus it is that the bands have
to play their sets while squinting into the sun, which must be a tiresome
experience, but it doesn’t seem to dampen the heavy metal enthusiasm of
The Cascades, the first band we catch on stage. They’re a bunch of fairly
traditional rock blokes in varying states of grizzlement, and they play
a brand of straightforward ‘eavy metal which manages to be suitably thunderous
without ever really asserting its own identity. It bumps and grinds in
all the right places, and the singer, in PVC rock-god attire, strikes all
the right poses at the front, but none of this can disguise the fact that
the music is pretty conventional mullet-metal. Not that any of the musicians
actually sports a mullet, as it happens, but then a mullet isn’t just a
hairstyle. It’s also a state of mind. As a soundtrack to getting the beers
in, The Cascades do a reasonable job, but I’m not particularly inspired
to pay them much more attention than that.
foolishness,
but that’s OK because the music stands up to close scrutiny. It’s
a very eighties sound, in a way, and that shouldn’t come as a surprise,
because Pink Turns Blue originally formed in 1986 and thus aren’t simply
influenced by the sounds of that era - they helped to create them.
This performance, it appears, is one of only a handful reunion gigs they’ve
played in the last couple of years after splitting up sometime in the mid-90s.
Paradoxically, Pink Turns Blue sound very fresh, very modern, very much
in tune with the twenty-first century zeitgeist. Perhaps that’s because
this style of music - sharp, dynamic, abrasive but under control - is back
in contention after being banished to the wilderness for too many years
by the twin prongs of dance and metal. Could Pink Turns Blue find their
time has come again? If they’re genuinely a going concern, back for the
long haul and not simply playing a few revival shows, I think they might
just swing it. With Franz Ferdinand in the charts, anything is possible.
all
their moves from MTV. They’ve got the geeky one squinting at a laptop at
the back, and a budget price Billy Idol on bass at the front, working his
way through a list of rock star poses. A guitarist in highly fashionable
(and utterly foolish) cut-off trousers swaggers around the stage as if
pacing it out with a view to installing fitted carpet, pausing occasionally
to holler out a vocal, while another guitarist in one of those ubiquitous
fake school ties does some rather self-conscious ‘rocking out’ on the opposite
side. The music itself is a formless nu-punk noise which manages to touch
all the right sonic bases without ever really coalescing into anything
you could call a memorable song. And oh, look, they’ve kindly allowed their
little sister to join the gang as well. A curiously doll-like girl in a
thirteen-year-old’s idea of a fetish outfit stands rather awkwardly in
the middle of the melee, and occasionally raises a microphone to her lips
and trills what I can only assume are intended as backing vocals, although
frankly I have heard more assertive budgerigars. The whole thing comes
across as a half-arsed youth club project, and I stand aghast at the sheer
awfulness of the spectacle. However, I seem to be alone in my horror. The
audience gives the band a rousing reception, greeting each formless mish-mash
of beats ‘n’ chords with great enthusiasm. This, it’s obvious, is What
The Kids Want. I have never been so glad not to be a kid.
It appears that the new keyboard player doesn’t sing, so the dual-vocal
attack which has previously been a distinctive element in the Diva Destruction
sound is absent this time. Debra carries the show alone, but with
great aplomb. She’s always in motion, whirling and gyrating around the
lead-vocal position as if trying to keep her balance on a waltzer, to the
cheers of the crowd for whom she’s clearly a bona fide rock ‘n’ roll heroine.
The songs seem to strike a chord with the crowd - at any rate, everyone
sings along to ‘You’re The Psycho’ as if exorcising demons - and the visual
excitements never stop. We get three costume changes along the way, and
Debra even takes to brandishing an assortment of artifacts - a scarf, a
stick, a flag - above her head, presumably to illustrate the lyrical content
of certain songs. An effective bit of schtick, for sure, but I think she
should be careful not to overdo it. It almost gets to the point where I’m
wondering what the next object she’ll wave at us might turn out to be -
a bath towel, a hearthrug, a toaster, a cuddly toy? She throws a bouquet
of artificial flowers into the crowd as a grand finale (just as well she
didn’t go for the toaster option, I suppose) and there’s an immediate scrum
in the crowd as all the boys try to grab a souvenir of their favourite
rock chick. Then she’s back for the encores in tight black PVC pants, a
costume which increases excitement levels among the male half of the crowd
to fever pitch. It occurs to me that the Diva Destruction live experience
is an even balance between rock ‘n’ roll theatrics and unashamed crowd-pleasing
hokum. If you analysed the show in cold blood, it would probably seem rather
cheesy. But, swept up in the swirl and the excitement of the moment, that
ol’ hokum works every time.
The
line-ups may differ, but the overall sound, and to a great extent the songs
in the set, don’t radically change. The band even contrive to look much
the same as they always do. I mean, surely Ronny must have more than that
one pair of boots? I dare say a sizeable chunk of the Xymox fanbase appreciates
this, how can I put it, consistency, but personally I think it’s high time
Xymox rang a few changes, shifted their ground a little, gave us something
instantly, recognisably, *different*. But then, I’m not entirely sure if
Xymox plan to be with us for much longer. Their latest album is entitled
‘Farewell’, which suggests the band is contemplating retirement. Let’s
face it, if they call their album ‘Farewell’ and then they don’t go for
the big bye-bye, what are they going to call their next album? ‘Hang on,
We Haven’t Gone Yet’?
microphone,
but these are uncharacteristic moments of rock ‘n’ roll liveliness in a
show that’s otherwise an exercise in cooled-out restraint. The band
play new songs, and new-ish songs, but, as ever, the vintage selections
from Xymox’s 80s past are greeted most warmly, a fact which I suspect must
be quite galling to the band in a way. They must wonder whether they’ll
ever get out from under the long shadow cast by ‘A Day’, a song which is
surely over 20 years old by now. But they rattle through it with fine conviction,
Ronny putting an impressive amount of passion into the big chorus-shout
of ‘Where are you?’ even though I’m sure he’s asked that particular question
a thousand times on a thousand different stages. That’s the thing
about Xymox: they always deliver a good show, and while it might be in
all essential respects the *same* show, from one gig to the next, from
one year to the next, they nevertheless do the business. There’s just a
slight question mark - in my mind, if nowhere else - as to how much longer
they intend to continue doing it.