BERLIN FESTIVAL
Flughafen Tempelhof, Berlin | September 6th-7th
As far as festivals go, Berlin doesn’t engage in orthodoxy. It thrives on innovation and individuality, immediately demonstrated by the location of this event: Templehof’s abandoned airport. With ticket collection at the check-in desks, the line-up on the arrival and departure boards, and an aeroplane situated in the middle of the festival, Berlin has taken the venue’s in-built theme to admirable levels of extremity.
The modest 20,000 capacity prevented the notorious festival pitfalls, allowing for civilised meandering as opposed to the combative shoulders you generally have to endure, and bars with queues short enough for you to maintain insobriety.
Reinventing themselves with a dubious ‘new name’, NYPC, formally New Young Pony Club, are regaining the credibility they once garnered in their days of gracing the pages of NME and soundtracking adverts. They instantly have the crowd bouncing and shuffling, despite it being mid-afternoon. The predominantly German crowd move uncontrollably to the distinguished What and merrily reiterate Tahita Bulmer’s boisterous banter.
Pet Shop Boys‘ set is a parade of relentless pop, rendered through a crowd-pleasing setlist and conceptual dancers flaunting some kind of militant pop march whilst sporting colossal cone-shaped costumes. The flamboyant pantomime candidly entertains the crowd with inescapable hits like Go West and West End Girls, whilst Blur fans impatiently brave the incontrovertibly corny performance.
Bathing in the glow of anticipation, Damon Albarn haughtily strides across the stage, stealing the crowd with his rambunctious raillery. Graham Coxon takes a stance simulating a 15-year-old dressed in stripes and skinny jeans, incapable of moving incase his greying hair falls out of place, whilst Alex James wistfully stares into the distance praying his current batch of cheese is curdling nicely. They commence with Girls and Boys, throwing the crowd into a hysterical turmoil, and the first example in another thoroughly crowd-pleasing set list. A lack of exchanged glances makes onstage chemistry something of an angsty affair, and further suggestion that Blur is merely a mandatory chore the boys have to endure from time to time.
Saturday sees Villagers adorning the Pitchfork stage, grasping the crowd with Conor O’Brien’s shiver-inducing shrieks and Oberst-esque raconteuring. A deserved arrogance emanates through the Irishman’s Ray Bans, yet his charm immerses the spellbound onlookers.
An unfortunate misunderstanding saw every M.I.A fan eagerly awaiting a sass-ridden performance of Bad Girls swiftly after Villagers’ mellow pursuits. An unfamiliar backing band begins the anticipated set with an eccentric brass opening, mustering a sea of bewilderment from the English minority. A dainty German girl, ostensibly lead singer of the band MIA., clambers onto the stage in a pink onesie and greets her native fans with excitable screeches and squeals. The sighs from defeated M.I.A fans are audible as they immediately abandon the vexatious elf frolicking around onstage.
The festival’s more art-based offerings were unconventionally small-scale for Berlin, yet fabulously relevant and captivating, immersed in worldwide events. With a stall inviting bystanders to decorate cassettes in an endeavour to participate in International Cassette Store Day and mesmerising dance performances highlighting current affairs and personal motifs, the art was humble and undaunting, allowing people to dabble without missing the music.
Saturday night musters a calamity of noise from My Bloody Valentine. An undesirable admittance seeing as their Loveless-dominated setlist is faultless and they were arguably the most credible band of the weekend. Nevertheless, their entire set becomes drowned in deadened shoegaze, with I Only Said and Only Shallow‘s acclaimed riffs inaudible amongst the turbulence. Bassist Mark Ross is the only lively body, lending the set a lamentable dose of energy whilst Kevin Shields insolently peers at the crowd as though we’re enemies, rapidly losing the majority to Björk, supplying the Icelandic goddess with an extravagant audience.
Enveloped in yellow from head to toe and resembling an alien through clumsy dancing, compelled by her 20ft platform-trainers and her outrageously spiked head, Björk glides onto the stage with an inexpressible elegance, causing the biggest crowd roar of the weekend. The climatic Mutual Core sees her accompanying choir executing inconceivably harmonic screaming, conflicting with fragile harp melodies and Bjork’s eminent delicate vocals. A heartbreakingly beautiful performance, decorated with Biophilia-inspired images, assuredly expanding Bjork’s fanbase.
Diverging from the sentimentality, Klaxons provide a good slice of stand-up on the Zippo Encore stage in a desperate pursuit to entertain during sustained ‘technical difficulties’. Having the crowd roaring with laughter louder than My Bloody Valentine’s barely existent end-of-set cheers, the boys have everyone forgetting we’re no longer in the midst of nu-rave’s heydey. Their impeccably nostalgic setlist has everyone wailing to It’s Not Over Yet and Gravity’s Rainbow, evoking the party animal in everyone in high time for the shuttle buses to whisk them away to the club night.
Ending on a lofty high, the musical displays across this two-dayer may not have always reached such stunning levels. But with an outlandish line-up worthy of its incredibly original venue, Berlin Festival succeeded in achieving a truly enchanting individualism.
– – – – – – – – – – –
Photo: Stephan Flad
Words: Ayesha Linton-Whittle
CONNECT TO CRACK
