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Reading Festival 1992 : Cultural Apocalypse?
These were the impassioned words of perfectly manicured Richey Edwards look alike Jordan. Phil Rose Esq and I had bumped into and teamed up with him early on at Reading Festival in 1992. Two nights later, as I climbed out of my sinking tent to find out that I was now in the middle of an enormous, filthy lake, I tended to agree with him. After several years spent avoiding the thing, what circle of soggy hell had I now entered?
On the surface the Manics seemed to agree.
Despite Nicky's comment, it's clear that MSP always regarded Reading as their favourite festival, the holy grail for indie kids, and they'd obviously made an effort. Glamorously turned out, smiling into the sunshine, even Richey appeared happy. All the tracks sounded acerbicly brilliant in the Berkshire afternoon sun, a spikily perfect riposte to any sunny hippy vibes, and we got to hear the first play of 'Suicide is Painless'.
None of this stopped them dashing off quickly straight after they'd played, ostensibly to get home for Match of the Day, but perhaps also because Nicky's smashed bass had apparently hit a security guard causing him to need 16 stitches. James's dedication of 'You Love Us' to “all the bands backstage, you fuckin' c*nts” may have had something to do with their desire not to hang out as well. Of course there were other great, even legendary bands playing that weekend, but none of them stand out in my mind as incandescently as that half hour from as Manic Street Preachers.
Nirvana were majestic. Due to Kurt's health, there were rumours they wouldn't turn up right until he was wheel-chaired on stage for a powerful, poignant, perfect finale, both to the weekend and to their British gigging career. Yes, some Nirvana know-it-alls say it wasn't them at their best, but to me it sounded powerfully impeccable, now available online. And then there were the beats, bombs and brilliance of Public Enemy; no wonder I've spent 30 years fighting the power with that set to ignite me. Reassuring to see the power of rock and roll to unite, hoards of fey indie kids clenching their fists and shouting back the words to a rabbble rousing rebel rap group from New York.
Who else did we see? Good question. The comedy stage was blown away by the wind, the second stage was often shut due to the floods, but there must have been some great or at least mediocre acts that I witnessed during my debut weekend at Reading. Probably Public Image, Teenage Fanclub, Ride, Mudhoney and Suede. Possibly Sultans of Ping, The Heartthrobs, Shonen Knife, Mega City Four and Carter. No doubt Phil saw The Wonder Stuff. And maybe I arrived in time for Therapy? opening proceedings on the Friday afternoon. Before the drowning. Wheels spinning through the slimy trenches, as I left the site on the Monday, there were people selling bootleg cassettes, my copy of the Manic set recorded direct from the sound desk (how did they get that copied and with a set list and sleeve and through the mire within 48 hours?) has to be one of my favourite live recordings of the band. And then on the way home my car, no doubt full of mud and gunk and goo, broke down. The perfectly apposite end to a perfectly portentous weekend?
And, actually we both lied. Manic Street Preachers didn't release one album and split up, and I have been back to Reading since. First of all just for one day to see the Manics, poignantly without a hospitalised Richey, playing much of his masterpiece The Holy Bible in 1994 a few days before its release. And then for a whole weekend in 1995.
Our first Readings. Cultural apocalypse? Perhaps, but a cultural leap forward too. Rosey R*E*P*E*A*T, August 26th 2024
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