That the last 12 months have been a towering success for Elbow is made obvious by frontman Guy Garvey in much more than the delicious smile sliced across his face as the band emerge.
You can see it when he elevates his fist to the sky during the monotonous and mesmeric 'Anyday Now', a signal to an audience who've seen this band finally seize their career after ten years of enforced stalling and broken promises. And you can hear it a number of times in Garvey's on-stage admissions: Elbow didn't even have a deal, let alone the acclaimed and breathtaking long-player 'Asleep In The Back', a year ago.
So it is that a claustrophobic 'Bitten By The Tailfly', the haunted beauty of 'Scattered Black and Whites' and the thrashing, clanging march of 'Coming Second' compel a rammed, hot and inspired Evening Session stage. However, 'New Born' is quite something else, shifting from the angelic tremors at the outset to a colossal, swollen second section, snapping the ceiling as the guitars spiral ever higher to the point of tangible explosion. For Elbow, the glory, is all theirs.
Mogwai take no prisoners and are rightly out on their own. However, tonight they actually appeared intent on enlisting members to an embryonic and violently individual 'cult' festering in their brains.
At the close of the set, amid a wronged, endless whirlwind of sound known as 'My Father, My King', Stuart Braithwaite goads centre stage, a pair of headphones circling his skull, and recites a set of almost tribalistic lyrics as if this were some sort of indoctrination at a fascist rally. But as the squall bleeds its last drop, here there is a mild sense of disappointment.
For the most part mesmeric and, occasionally, life-threatening - 'Sine Waves', 'Helicon 1', 'Tracy' and 'You Don't Know Jesus' - the focus is at times lost by the heavy indulgence Mogwai feed on and the lack of clout in the vocal-led likes of 'Secret Pint' and 'Cody'. As disappointing, as the band bid to infuse more esoteric electronic and string passages into their mind-accelerating music, is the way '2 Rights Make 1 Wrong's glorious melodic rise is choked by maudlin and unnecessary cello.
And, judging by the fact that during the set a woman attempts to corkscrew her male accomplice through an inflatable rubber ring, while another deranged fool bids to complete a mobile telephone call during total sonic aneurysm, there is ample evidence to suggest that some are still a considerable way from conversion.
This year may be a turning point for the Reading Festival, very likely marking out the triumph of the US invasion and the last stand of the ageing Brit-Pop acts limping up to the main stage. Don't be surprised if this is the last time that Supergrass enjoy such exalted billing, they'll probably have to make room for the bands that the kids are all clamouring to see in this year's foolishly under accommodating Concrete Jungle stage when they next show up. Quite where the Fun Lovin' Criminals sit in this equation is anyone's guess - they constitute a US invasion all of their own.
It's an invasion of MOR rock and lounge bar noodling - not really rock and definitely not funk - a comforting blanket of faux-cool for the terminally un-hip. Huey is the loveable master of ceremonies with a cheeky glint in his eye, playing to the ladies as ever.
It would be an exaggeration to suggest the Manics are already on their last chance but the much maligned Welsh rockers have everything to prove tonight and, with the bit between their teeth from the off, there's never any danger this is going to be less than spectacular.
How can you fail when you open with the blistering 'You Love Us' sounding as fresh as ever? James Dean Bradfield surrenders to the crowd during the rousing chorus of 'You Stole The Sun From My Heart' while the punky triplet of 'Found That Soul', 'Motown Junk' and 'Kevin Carter' are the Manics at the height of their powers. Nicky Wire, sporting a fetching combat shirt and knee high white socks, is less vocal than usual letting his bass and trademark scissor kicks do the talking.
The Manics are now well schooled in stadium-sized gigs and it shows. The sound engulfs Reading and, totally at ease with their surroundings, the music shines through despite a forgivable, and thankfully, brief lull during the airing of their most recent material. They dust off 'Motorcycle Emptiness' and 'Little Baby Nothing' which both sound triumphant, and 'Design For Life' is simply majestic. 'Masses Against The Classes' concludes what must rank as one of the Manics most important performances to date. It's a two-finger salute to the doubters and a signal that you write the Manics off at your peril
Reviews: Chris Heath, James Poletti, Ben Gilbert
