Carling Weekend : Leeds, Main Stage Friday

Metallica, SOAD, Sum 41 and more...

Its the redneck rock’n’roll travelling road show. Heavier than hell and as honest as coal, the brutes perform their steam roller metal with aplomb, as subtle as oxygen and as glamorous as a rainy Sunday, Metallica complete the job with workmanlike pinache. A job well done.

System Of A Down bound on to the stage like politically versed pitbulls. Like Fugazi taking metal work night classes, the unhinged bruterock of this vital band sends the field of little rock monsters into a savage frenzy. 60,000 people singing along to ‘Chop Suey’ was a thrilling little knee wobbler too. Finally NME is propelled to an alternate reality of rock nirvana and like a wank too far the rock juices flow freely. Hurrah!

The man who invented Sum 41 really is a twat. As NME.COM considers devoting the rest of its existence to finding the runt and marinating him on a bed of hot coals, it occurs to NME.COM that the kids, for they are so, are going totally barmy. Whilst NME.COM could comment that opinions belong to the individual, it would also point out that Nuremburg was a busy day out.

Bobby, dear sweet Bobby, gets everything so wrong. As Primal Scream stride on the stage to an onslaught of plastic bottle projectiles, Mani consequently offering the whole field to a ruck, it becomes clear that the Scream team, as fine as their apocalyptic speed skunk punk is, aren’t the band this rock leeching crowd desire on this grisly rock afternoon.

Good Charlotte are asking for trouble popping into our lives at this point in the day, but we’re feeling charitable and give them a fair chance to impress. As the opening notes of misogynist chart recent hit ‘Girls And Money’ cranks into life NME walks to get a burger. And that was fucking shit too.

As NME strolls away from a break of glorious melody in a day of neanderman grunting and we find The Used’s Burt McKracken cultivating his angst-rock flowerbed. At this point NME.COM is considering catching the first bus home.

Evidence to the contrary is unlikely to come in the form of poster emo boys The All-American Rejects. A wet as boiled lettuce and as rigid as a corpse, one suspects that these boys are certainly not American rejects, rather possessing a quality that’s almost Aryan. If they were Latino ladyboy prosthetic limbed rock n roll freaks, NME could accept their status as rejects. ‘Swing Swing’ sounds awesome though, in an *NSYNC-meets-At The Drive-In stylee.

Biffy Clyro then. After the aural atrocities of Sugarcult NME is granted a brief respite. Sometimes thrilling, but sometimes Biffy make a noise akin to a asthmatic trout. NME attempts to collect its thoughts. At this point we’re beginning to wonder if anyone can rock properly anymore.

NME sees nowt redeemable in Sugacult’s juvenile hall punk jock chic and quickly points them in the direction of the door marked ‘fuck off and never graze my ears with your turgid filth again’ before barricading the door with 4 x 4 planks of Leeds’ finest timber. Just to be sure.

Today is by all accounts the day of the doom. The day the rock will come to Leeds and secrete it’s filthy black slime across West Yorkshire pastures, thrilling the legions of denim and leather clad youths with the primal thrills of skull crunching powerchords and metal posturing. Leeds, prepare to salute those who are about to rock.

James Jam