Sonisphere
July 4-6 | Knebworth Park
While 175,000 people nursed wounded heads and altered perceptions in the aftermath of Glastonbury – that all-encompassing, immeasurable temporary city where all and sundry form a vast range of disparate but unified splinter groups – the following weekend saw something a tad more esoteric going down in Knebworth Park. The 50,000 who marched through the gates of Sonisphere may have one-track minds for these three days and nights, but they’re nothing if not dedicated to the music, and the way of life, that defines this festival.
People who go to Sonisphere are nice – that’s what makes the revelations in the aftermath of the festival all the more shocking. They come to Knebworth to join together and worship at the altar of metal, with no ulterior motives beyond that. This year is a landmark: 40 years of music at Knebworth, which is reason enough to pack an extra couple of cans. During our time there we didn’t particularly notice any special celebrations to mark this milestone, apart from Bruce Dickinson partaking in an air show, though we get the impression he didn’t need much excuse; maybe it was like that 50 Years of Doctor Who the BBC did. Just don’t tell anyone that Doctor Who wasn’t on the telly for about 20 years in the middle, OK?
Having hotfooted it over from London as soon as the working week expired (and having listened to Slayer and done no work for the last four hours), we enter the festival to the sound of Limp Bizkit barrelling through a cover of Rage Against The Machine’s Killing In The Name. Sometimes, the old tricks are the best. They proceed to round off the set with renditions of Take a Look Around and the meathead anthem Break Stuff, all of which is eagerly lapped up.
Catching up with some accomplices, we’re assured that earlier in the day Gary Numan had delivered an accomplished set, while Anthrax – their first appearance of two over the weekend – played their classic Among The Living record in its entirety to a rammed and jubilant tent, going close to stealing the day.
While on the surface The Prodigy may not seem like the most obvious headliners for this roaring field of metallers baying for blood, they’ve always united audiences like very few acts can. Bringing, as they always do, peerless sound and an engaging light show, they are loud – really fucking loud – and brash, and everyone loves it. Opening with the titanic Breathe, they reel out Voodoo People, Poison, Firestarter – all the big ones – and even the later, more-EDM-less-punk numbers fare well. They build to a feverish Smack My Bitch Up, then return for an encore which finally ends with the seminal Their Law; 20 years old and as boldly confrontational as ever.
There’s very little to complain about when it comes to Glastonbury, but having spent the previous weekend treating slapping around for hour-long treks from one end of the world to the other as second nature, it’s really nice to walk from the headliners to your tent in 10 minutes, then take a seat and drink cans and talk about music until bedtime.
Saturday is Maiden day. Oh boy, is it Maiden day. We’ve never seen so many Maiden t-shirts in one place. We’ve never seen so many t-shirts with the same logo in one place. We’re literally talking about one in two here. Everyone, including us, is swigging Trooper, Maiden’s own real ale from the Robison’s Brewery. It’s bloody good. Also bloody good are Scottish band Alestorm, who are churning out some amazing sea shanty-meets-Dragonforce-keytar fare on the Saturn stage, with a seemingly endless arsenal of songs about sailors and beer.
Alternating sets on two main stages facing one another is an increasingly prevalent trend, and here it works incredibly well, emphasising the main idea behind Sonisphere: consume as much heavy metal as fucking possible.
Performing their first European festival show, J-Pop/metal sensation Babymetal are brilliant, amazing and phenomenal. Their set opens with a Star Wars-style intro video explaining that the band were sent from another world to unify metal on earth. Fair enough. With the three main vocalists – Japanese teenagers clad in kind of gothed-up tutus – delivering saccharine melodies and performing choreographed dance routines, the band sear throughout a set of melodramatic metal mentalism. The guitarist is excellent at shredding, and so does it a lot, and the whole thing is a total sensory overload. There’s a sense of disbelief amongst the crowd as their set draws to a close; a mixed bag of confusion and adoration.
Next up – and why the hell not – are snooker loopy Chas ‘n’ Dave! They’re appearing in front of a rammed and jovial crowd, the buzz of which makes a lot of their gags difficult to hear, but they definitely play an excellent song about Margate with the line “Keep yer Costa Brava!” They have a drummer joining them onstage – we’re told it’s Dave’s son – but we’d still confidently describe their sound as ‘lo-fi’.
Ghost are also a riot, how could they not be? There are a lot of extremely theatrical bands at this festival, but there are very few as theatrical as this lot. Vocalist Papa Emeritus II, all clad in priest’s attire and singing in his overblown tones, holds court while the Nameless Ghouls plough through riff after gargantuan riff.
Following a breakdown heavy assault from hardcore troupe The Hell, it’s time for that aforementioned show from Bruce Dickinson and his War Display Team. What fun. 10 or so vintage war planes having a fake dogfight in the air over the main area, while Dickinson does the (pretend) damage in a 1917 Fokker Triplane. The historian providing a running commentary onstage offers moving reflections on the great war. Come on Bruce! Oh, thank god, Bruce won. That said, Eddie was his tailgunner.
Deftones are in fine fettle, Chino looks in good shape and they appear to be escaping from their recent tragedy and falling back in love with playing live. They quickly deliver such timeless gems as Be Quiet And Drive and My Own Summer, dipping into their entire back catalogue and offering the amalgam of emotive peaks and pummeling power they’ve come to define. A gorgeous Digital Bath stands out, while a brutal triple header of throwback classics – Headup then Adrenaline cuts Root and 7 Words – ends a breathless, masterful showing.
Slayer are Slayer, and they’re greeted as returning heroes. War Ensemble, Seasons In The Abyss et al will always sound incredible, and Slayer will always be the tightest band you’re ever likely to hear. But unlike Deftones, who appear to have served their mourning period, there’s a sense of something amiss here; a hulking great Jeff Hanneman shaped hole. It’s still a blast – it’s still a Slayer show – but it comes with a tinge of sadness.
Maiden don’t. Their three-pronged guitar assault, rollocking, stampeding riffs and man of the day Dickinson’s air siren pipes are as close to as perfect a match for a time, a place, and a sound as you’ll ever see. The set’s patriotic, military theme is deliciously OTT, with Bruce dressed in uniform and waving a Union Jack and a couple of cameos from Eddie. After two hours, sated, elated and Maidened out, it’s on to a couple more hours on the fairground rides.
Sunday is, as Sundays at festival are, accompanied by a big thick head. Still, that’s our fault, so we staunchly and with straight backbones (we learnt a thing or two last night) proceed into the fray once more. French titans Gojira are brutal and hugely well received, their ambitious extended sagas more than captivating enough to maintain the attention. Truckfighters offer some tops off Swedish power stoner, before Bo Ningen appear to a disappointing crowd. Well they’re all missing out, cause the Ningen are as brilliant as ever. Those fine young men in Beastmilk didn’t make it onstage as they missed their flight. Oh dear. We’re given a free CD as an apology though, which is a lovely gesture.
Reel Big Fish are really bad, aren’t they?
One of the highlights of the weekend was always likely to be Mastodon. Their latest studio effort is as batshit mental as ever, though perhaps a little short on the sludgy magic that we love so much – but live, they still slay. Opening with Oblivion, the opening track from 2009’s Crack The Skye, they’re unforgiving, entertaining and technically spectacular. They dip through the albums, with Crystal Skull from Blood Mountain and the barnstorming latest single High Road standing out, before closing with an intoxicating version of Leviathan cut Aqua Dementia. It’s a tantalising glimpse, and as grand a show as they put on, we’re left pining for more Leviathan. It’s Leviathan we really want.
Speaking of bands who are still amazing despite not quite showing it on record of late, The Bronx batter and smash through a set of classics, provoking the kind of mayhem that follows them everywhere they go. We salute them.
And onto the closing set from morally bankrupt metal superstars Metallica. Many people are saying they proved the doubters wrong at Glastonbury – maybe if the doubters wrongly believed they weren’t an impressive and enduring live force to be reckoned with. However, if the doubters were a little miffed that their lead singer senseless promotes the killing for sport of beautiful, rare animals, then the doubters are still present and correct.
The ‘By Request’ element of this run of Metallica dates is a stroke of genius; seldom can you feel a real sense of connection and contribution to an uber-massive-scale show like this, so the fact that the fans have directly selected the set is a nice touch – not that the set would have been that different anyway, but y’know.
And the fact is, Metallica do deliver. From Ride The Lightning through an elephantine Sad But True, straight through to a spectacular Seek & Destroy to close things off, they are slick, heavy, professional, and the crowd love it. A great booking, and a great ending to the festival. But still, not cool James.
Reluctantly packing up our things and leaving this whirlwind of roaring, raging, hugging, swigging, howling, moshing, crushing, loving metal mayhem, it’s back to the real world. Sonisphere isn’t the real world. It’s a lot louder, for a start.
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Words: Thomas Anthony, David Rochford + Rich Bit
Photography: Sonisphere
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