Homelands - Bands : Winchester Matterley Estate The Bowl
Pulp make a triumphant return, while Public Domain prove astounding, at Homelands...
So, regrettably, Faithless were right: God really is a DJ. Why else would conditions for the summer's first proper full-on disco bender be practically perfect, were it not for His dedication to hard house and uplifting trance? The sun is out. Foot And Mouth no longer officially exists for this weekend only. Mobile phones don't work, despite the event's sponsor enjoying a hefty presence. And Seb 'Fonty' Fontaine and Judge 'Won't Budge' Jules are on techno-fluoro rotation among the dozen arenas.
We have to ask: "Ericsson@Homelands England - 'Are You reeaaaad-aaayy??!!'" And Ericsson@Homelands England holds its collective Robert Miles promotional lighter aloft and shouts, knowingly, "Bish bosh! Oi! Oi!"
1500
Homeland's co-headliners Pulp have been given their own marquee, The Desperate Sound System, in which all manner of freaky head music is played all night by various members of The All Seeing I and Pulp's extended ragga family. Jarvis Cocker mans the decks early on, and climaxes by crooning over I Monster's 'Daydream In Blue'. A dapper Roots Manuva is spotted nodding to a Lee 'Scratch' Perry cut. Later on, bootleg kingpin Girls On Top mixes US R&B diva vox with vintage British electro.
1645
Bent's read-with-mother electronica might now be the stuff of lager commercials, but it'll take more than Balearic beats and Pet Shop Boys funk to wow a nonplussed mid-afternoon Ericsson Arena. A shame, as Nail and Simon Mills deliver their usual quota of digi-soul and reprocessed love with considerable aplomb.
1730
The Dreem Teem's DJ Spoony rinses the Ericsson Arena rotten. "Oi! Oi! Oi!" grunts the white-suited MC. "Like, whatever," shrugs Homelands.
1820
Artful Dodger are the two-step Simply Red. The delightful 'Moving Too Fast' aside, their ersatz lovers' UK garage revue should be banned from these so-called 'credible' festivals. Too many session cats rocking that flabby Blues Brothers schtick.
1900
A rainbow appears over the Slinky Arena - God's signal to the 40,000-strong E-battalion that Sonique's DJ set has ended.
1935
Ruffneck garridge geezers Stanton Warriors cane gonzoid breaks for the Bud Ice Bus outdoor massive. Well wicked.
1943
Punters inexplicably erect two-man tent in middle of main walkway, then sit and eat sandwiches around its entrance.
1945
Pulp are magnificent. Orange sunset streaks into the Ericsson Arena as Jarvis high-kicks his rejuvenated group into - what else? - 'Sorted For Es And Whizz', and suddenly the prospect of being richly entertained by an intelligent, witty and glamorous collective, by humans, not Timo Maas, becomes hugely exciting. Horticultural in theme but universal in appeal, Pulp's brace of Scott Walker-helmed new songs blend the baroque sleaze of 'This Is Hardcore' with the Everyman euphoria of 'Different Class'. But Pulp have not gone exclusively dance, as their curious billing might suggest; rather, in 'Trees' and 'Weeds' and 'Minnie Timperley', they offer delirious Moog-fuelled unorthodox pop that spooks and surprises in equal measure. 'Common People' crescendos heroically over a Krautrock lock-groove, and several thousand misfits text-message their friends the good news: Pulp ;-)
2115
Seb Fontaine is the Ocean Colour Scene of superstar progressive house DJs: boring, ubiquitous and massively popular.
2220
Orbital's new album 'The Altogether' is wack as hell. But add swooping attack lasers, millions of sense-battering colours and rapid-fire pithy yet meaningless slogans and it becomes an especially vicious and exhilarating work. Let's face it, Orbital's gradual passing from relevance will not happen without grand spectacle. But it will happen.
2300
Watching Scottish rave psychos Public Domain perform their turbo-nutter trance in the Slinky Arena is like watching Oasis and Happy Mondays for the first time. They shower the tent in enormous 3-D glitter exclamation marks and are the singularly most thrilling act of the entire festival. They are more fucked-up than their amyl-raddled fans - frontman Mallorca Lee explodes with pure MDMA pleasure before our very eyes, leaping over keyboards and out-Bezzing Bez in the superstar spaz stakes. Lee is being paid to get pilled off his margin for our benefit, and he plays the goon with natural comic brilliance. Public Domain make hard house and juggernaut acid sound like the best idea on the planet. To see them live is to witness the cosmic life-affirming power of rock'n'roll in full effect. Worship this band now.
0500
For the fragile of mind, The Orb provide babbling half-songs conjured from effervescent dub flange and curdled vocal samples. A fractured head trip with no discernible beginning, middle or end, theirs is an inter-textual freeform phase-out that nurses Homelands into a fuzzy narcotic reverie. Same old hippy bullshit, then. But my, what magical bullshit.
Piers Martin
Click here for Homelands photo gallery
We have to ask: "Ericsson@Homelands England - 'Are You reeaaaad-aaayy??!!'" And Ericsson@Homelands England holds its collective Robert Miles promotional lighter aloft and shouts, knowingly, "Bish bosh! Oi! Oi!"
1500
Homeland's co-headliners Pulp have been given their own marquee, The Desperate Sound System, in which all manner of freaky head music is played all night by various members of The All Seeing I and Pulp's extended ragga family. Jarvis Cocker mans the decks early on, and climaxes by crooning over I Monster's 'Daydream In Blue'. A dapper Roots Manuva is spotted nodding to a Lee 'Scratch' Perry cut. Later on, bootleg kingpin Girls On Top mixes US R&B diva vox with vintage British electro.
1645
Bent's read-with-mother electronica might now be the stuff of lager commercials, but it'll take more than Balearic beats and Pet Shop Boys funk to wow a nonplussed mid-afternoon Ericsson Arena. A shame, as Nail and Simon Mills deliver their usual quota of digi-soul and reprocessed love with considerable aplomb.
1730
The Dreem Teem's DJ Spoony rinses the Ericsson Arena rotten. "Oi! Oi! Oi!" grunts the white-suited MC. "Like, whatever," shrugs Homelands.
1820
Artful Dodger are the two-step Simply Red. The delightful 'Moving Too Fast' aside, their ersatz lovers' UK garage revue should be banned from these so-called 'credible' festivals. Too many session cats rocking that flabby Blues Brothers schtick.
1900
A rainbow appears over the Slinky Arena - God's signal to the 40,000-strong E-battalion that Sonique's DJ set has ended.
1935
Ruffneck garridge geezers Stanton Warriors cane gonzoid breaks for the Bud Ice Bus outdoor massive. Well wicked.
1943
Punters inexplicably erect two-man tent in middle of main walkway, then sit and eat sandwiches around its entrance.
1945
Pulp are magnificent. Orange sunset streaks into the Ericsson Arena as Jarvis high-kicks his rejuvenated group into - what else? - 'Sorted For Es And Whizz', and suddenly the prospect of being richly entertained by an intelligent, witty and glamorous collective, by humans, not Timo Maas, becomes hugely exciting. Horticultural in theme but universal in appeal, Pulp's brace of Scott Walker-helmed new songs blend the baroque sleaze of 'This Is Hardcore' with the Everyman euphoria of 'Different Class'. But Pulp have not gone exclusively dance, as their curious billing might suggest; rather, in 'Trees' and 'Weeds' and 'Minnie Timperley', they offer delirious Moog-fuelled unorthodox pop that spooks and surprises in equal measure. 'Common People' crescendos heroically over a Krautrock lock-groove, and several thousand misfits text-message their friends the good news: Pulp ;-)
2115
Seb Fontaine is the Ocean Colour Scene of superstar progressive house DJs: boring, ubiquitous and massively popular.
2220
Orbital's new album 'The Altogether' is wack as hell. But add swooping attack lasers, millions of sense-battering colours and rapid-fire pithy yet meaningless slogans and it becomes an especially vicious and exhilarating work. Let's face it, Orbital's gradual passing from relevance will not happen without grand spectacle. But it will happen.
2300
Watching Scottish rave psychos Public Domain perform their turbo-nutter trance in the Slinky Arena is like watching Oasis and Happy Mondays for the first time. They shower the tent in enormous 3-D glitter exclamation marks and are the singularly most thrilling act of the entire festival. They are more fucked-up than their amyl-raddled fans - frontman Mallorca Lee explodes with pure MDMA pleasure before our very eyes, leaping over keyboards and out-Bezzing Bez in the superstar spaz stakes. Lee is being paid to get pilled off his margin for our benefit, and he plays the goon with natural comic brilliance. Public Domain make hard house and juggernaut acid sound like the best idea on the planet. To see them live is to witness the cosmic life-affirming power of rock'n'roll in full effect. Worship this band now.
0500
For the fragile of mind, The Orb provide babbling half-songs conjured from effervescent dub flange and curdled vocal samples. A fractured head trip with no discernible beginning, middle or end, theirs is an inter-textual freeform phase-out that nurses Homelands into a fuzzy narcotic reverie. Same old hippy bullshit, then. But my, what magical bullshit.
Piers Martin
Click here for Homelands photo gallery
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