Accusations will always follow Sonisphere festival – usually aimed from those most preposterously pretentious metal fans who frequent supposedly
non-mainstream festivals like Bloodstock – that Sonisphere is little
more than a sell-out event, aimed at watered-down metal fans of
pop-edged bands who have long since let go their grip on creative
integrity in favour of the almighty dollar.

But 2011′s fest boasted one of the most impressive line-ups rock
festivals have seen for a good long while, thanks largely to the promise
of the Big Four playing together on one stage in one glorious night, as
well as talent from across almost every sub-genre of rock from pop-punk
(Weezer, YouMeAtSix), to comedy-tinged re-imaginings (Hayseed Dixie,
Richard Cheese) and the bona-fide megastars of Slipknot, Biffy Clyro

And no matter what pigeon-hole those bands might fall into, a festival
experience that includes so much breadth, and so much inclusive passion
for music in general is a far better one than the incestuous
claustrophobia of more self-consciously liminal festivals. So I say long
live the touring festival, because what I experienced a couple of
weekends ago – despite the rain, the mud and the occasionally moronic
wankers – was a magical thing indeed.

So, pull up a camping chair, pop a can of Tuborg and join us as we revisit the highs and lows of Sonisphere 2011.

Friday: The Big Four

A three o’clock start for the bands meant another morning of heavy
preparation, mostly out of plastic cups or directly from the can, which
numbed the pain of the abysmal weather for a while at least until
Diamond Head opened the festival on the Apollo Stage, in a slot that
suggests as much about their importance to the formation of Thrash
Metal’s elite as it does about Metallica’s personal fondness for the
NWOBHM band. Without them, none of this would have been possible – as
Lars Ulrich himself proclaimed later – but, this is no mere ceremonial
inclusion, as the band ploughed through song after song, sounding better
and more energetic than Megadeth for the most part, and rousing the
crowd perfectly with the day’s first appearance of iconic track “Am I
Evil?”

Without much of a pause, we were into Anthrax, the start-line proper for
the Big Four event, and a fitting beginning, thanks to a focus on the
80s heyday material that reminds the gathered mega-crowd of their thrash
metal royalty status in sublime fashion. The band – and Joey Belladonna
in particular are in barn-storming form, despite the absence of
talisman Scott Ian who is usually such a focal point, but who was
necessarily otherwise detained by the birth of his first child with wife
Pearl Aday, and proved a standard-setting opening for the historic
reunion.

Next up came Megadeth, who I personally would have put in the opening
slot, because following an amped-up Anthrax was always going to be a
Herculean task for a band who can blow hot and cold within the space of
one gig. But, despite not being a fan, I was eventually silenced by
Megadeth’s technical prowess and Dave Mustaine‘s undeniable presence
(even if I always feel he could step up his animation a little more to
suit his reputation). What puts me off about them is usually Mustaine’s
vocals, which are usually the problem when things go wrong, but he
offered a pretty strong showing that will probably be unfairly forgotten
thanks to being sandwiched between two superior showings from Anthrax
and the ever-blistering Slayer.

And third out of four they came – fan favourites, and the pick of the
three acts so far by some distance, Slayer don’t know how to play a
reserved gig. Their manifesto is coronary-bursting, bone-shattering
brutality, even if their lead singer has just got over massive surgery
and can’t quite head-bang the way he used to, and they didn’t
disappoint, turning heads with their energy and stage-presence like few
other bands can muster.

Others may argue, but it was always going to be about Metallica, and the
heavy-weights didn’t disappoint at all, swaggering through an extended,
pyrotechnic-punctuated set; the air pregnant with insistent helicopter
drumbeats, cut with screeching jaguar-snarl guitars to distract from the
earlier rain. And as ever, they had the crowd on their side, the
response buoyed by the familiarity of so many songs, and the band’s
decision to stick to largely pre-1990 material. That decision might have
pissed off more modern fans, but it knitted them closer to the Big Four
spirit when many might have expected them to consciously set themselves
apart.

One thing the band can never be accused of is laziness – they know,
after years of successful tours, exactly how to play to a crowd, to make
the sweating, heaving mass before them feel part of the experience
beyond merely observing. It’s for good reason they repeatedly called out
the Metallica Family, because even those who were there for other bands
– the hugely vocal, occasionally sneering Slayer fans who feel their
bands position in the Big Four hierarchy belies their importance for
instance – are quickly enveloped in.

The moment that many (okay, maybe all) were waiting for arrived when
Metallica were joined on stage by members of the other three bands, plus
Diamond Head founder Brian Tatler (and fill-ins Andreas Kisser of
Sepultura and Gary Holt of Exodus). Unsurprisingly, the invasion was met
with roars from the crowd, which swelled when Mustaine and James
Hetfield embraced enthusiastically (cynics might call it no more than
showmanship of course), and which peaked during the Big Four
Collective’s version of “Am I Evil?” This was what we all signed up for,
and it didn’t disappoint – the footage of that song from the rest of
the tour is already highly viewed, but it in no way devalues the
experience, nor the bragging rights of being present at one of the
historical moments of Heavy Metal.

If Metallica brought the house down, it was left to a far less
auspicious talent to pick it up. And in the shape of Hayseed Dixie, the
festival organisers found the perfect antidote to the occasional and
wholly acceptable self-important, po-faced grandeur of Metallica, who
not only picked the house back up, but also dusted it off and handed it
an over-flowing jug of the finest moonshine.

The boys in dungarees who sing about ale, women, and ale blew the lid
off the packed tent in their late-night slot (a feature of Sonisphere I
love), introducing some of their own material – the beautifully odd
love-song “Keeping Your Poop in a Jar” – with classic covers that got
everyone singing back in response between bouts of chaotic, and
obviously drunken barn-dancing. My own personal highlights were the
ridiculously impressive version of “Duelling Banjos” and a
spine-tingling re-imagining of “Bohemian Rhapsody”. And for anyone who
dismisses the band as no more than a comedy act, I’d urge you to
reconsider, or at least go and see them live – their technical prowess
is unbelievable and their on-stage enthusiasm breeds a massive, warm
reaction from all audiences I’ve so far seen them gather.

Saturday: Biffy Clyro

In comparison to the night before, Saturday’s line-up was something of a
commercial venture – but unlike those accusing sorts, I won’t say the
line-up suffered as a result. Far from it in fact, as it was great to
see radio-friendly acts like Sum 41, YouMeAtSix, All Time Low, Weezer
and the mighty Biffy Clyro enjoying the opportunity to show their stuff
alongside heavier, more fan-driven acts. Sadly, not everyone felt the
same way, and the arena felt a damn-sight quieter than the night before,
and there’s only so much of that you can blame on the rain. Which is a
huge shame, as it meant comparatively few people were present for the
hilarious re-arrangements of Richard Cheese & Lounge Against the
Machine, who surprised and delighted in equal measure in their early
slot.

The pick of the early day’s more poppy bunch were Sum 41, who we caught
the final few songs of (and in all honesty that’s the only ones I’d have
wanted to see anyway), thanks to missing out on seeing Steve-O‘s debut
set in the Bohemia tent, as originally intended, who captured a massive
crowd and did manfully well to entertain every last one of them. Aside
from them Weezer stuck out a mile, reeling out their classics (old and
new), as well as offering two outstanding covers in the shape of
Wheatus’ “Teenage Dirtbag” and a flawless version of Radio Head’s
excellent “Paranoid Android”. They would perhaps have been better suited
to a Leeds/Reading near-top-bill slot, but the crowd were obviously
game and the set went down a storm.

Not everyone did so well – I have to say I’m a sometime fan of
YouMeAtSix: I find their particular brand of British poppy “punk” to be
quietly entertaining – but this is the second time I’ve seen them play a
festival that perhaps didn’t suit their more tender sensibilities and
the second time I’ve watched front man Josh Franceschi foolishly try and
whip up the crowd into some mosh-filled maelstrom. Which would be a lot
easier if he wasn’t fronting YouMeAtSix and facing a growling mass of
metallers who think he’s a petulant clown. At one point I thought he was
going to stamp his foot and swan off stage because he wasn’t getting
his own way, but at the end of the day a front-man should know his
audience, and his place. And sometimes they should just shut the fuck up
and accept that they aren’t a world-beating heavy metal band.

Between the radio-friendly stuff, and in the oddest of all the line-up
decisions were Cavalera Conspiracy, given a mere thirty five minute set
that defied their status and their subsequent performance, and Gallows,
playing their last gig with erstwhile flame-haired frontman Frank Carter
who’s now left for pastures new. Both formed heavy punctuations to the
rest of play, and both brought generous responses from the crowd,
particularly Gallows, whose circle-pit baiting almost threatened to
engulf the entire (impressively massive) audience. And while Carter’s
announcement, and his odd decision to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the
name of his new band Pure Love (fucking awful name that) could have
derailed the whole affair, the band responded defiantly, playing one of
the best gigs of their careers.

Saturday was about one band and one band only for me – Biffy Clyro – the
reason I bought my ticket. This was the seventh time I’ve seen the
Kilmarnock boys live, and the seventh time I’ve been blown away by their
live show and generally huge talent. They might not quite subscribe to
the opinion (Simon was particularly humble in his thanks for being
accepted at a metal festival) but the band pack an unbelievably heavy
punch that is far more visible in earlier material, but still adds a
steel-toed kick to even their most radio-friendly newer material.

Every time I see Biffy, they match their impeccably staged sound with a
visual show that would put most to shame, and it was only the presence
of Metallica on the day before’s bill that meant they didn’t walk away
with best light and pyrotechnic show, which is some achievement. The
addition of smoke filled bubbles to an immaculate “Bubbles” was a
particularly charming touch.

If I had one criticism, I’d suggest the set-list was a little uneven,
with three early “slow” songs in a row sending an audible wave of unease
through my section of the crowd, before later choices had even the most
vociferously anti-Biffy fans (and there were some vocal ones dotted
around – who had particular fun with their Matt Cardle jokes) admitting
their conversion to the band’s army of fans. But it’s a small matter,
and one that is more about the expectations of others at the festival
than my own, as I can safely proclaim to be a fan of their material
across the broad spectrum that it plays.

Mon the biff!

Sunday: Slipknot

Another day, another soggy wash-out, with the promising early sunshine
that left a fair few pink faces around the fields making way for
biblical torrents in the late afternoon.

The day’s line-up again was something of a mixed bag, meshing the
technical insanity of Mastodon (which they actually toned down in favour
of more generally crowd-pleasing fare) and Slipknot, the old school
teeth-rattling heavy metal of Motorhead, the tub-thumping ACDC apeing of
Airbourne, the rap infused Americana of Limp Bizkit and the madcap
surrealism of a comedy set by the wonderful Bill Bailey.

Each act’s show fit their reputation – though Mastodon did resist the
urge to bring out their more complex material, and Motorhead were
somewhat muted to begin with after announcing the death of former
guitarist Wurzel the day before, but both got into their strides quickly
and blew any cobwebs away mercilessly. Airbourne meanwhile once again
advanced their own reputation as one of the most energetic (and slightly
insane) live bands currently on the tour circuit, with leading man Joel
O’Keefe again showing off his Fathers For Justice skills and climbing
to the top of the second stage to belt out some riff-heavy metal
goodness to a wave of horned hands below. These Antipodean wonders
certainly know how to rouse an audience, playing the kind of material
that it’s impossible not to want to join in on, even if it’s not wholly
familiar – it’s just that infectious.

Aside from that little lot, the main stages line-up was made-up of an
eclectic mix including Volbeat, House of Pain (still trading on that one
song), In Flames, Black Tide (universally panned by all I spoke to),
Opeth and the angry boys of Parkway Drive, all of whom I missed, with
only the latter registering as a disappointing miss (I was upside down
in the camping field at that point).

But then there was Limp Bizkit, who I did see (for the second year in a
row following last year’s Welcome Back apperance at Download), an
opportunity most other fans won’t get this year thanks to their limited
appearances. They’re definitely not a current band at all, and their act
is firmly rooted in their 2002 heyday, but like Motorhead, Fred Durst
and the boys don’t feel the need to adapt to survive, nor will they ever
pay any notice to critics other than to flick them a casual, menacing
middle digit. And based on the amount of fans and casual watchers
visibly singing along to Faith and air-wheeling their way through
Rollin’ the band can still infect an audience with their own brand of
nu-metal, even long after the genre went belly up.

Despite Limp Bizkit’s refusal to acknowledge his existence, Bill Bailey
was on fine form, relying mostly on his musical based comedy to fit the
spirit of the big stages, and while the majority of the material was
drawn from previous and current tours (all of which I have seen), the
fine-tuning of certain bits and the majesty of the event made for a
brilliant set. The comedian’s rendition of “Scarborough Fair” in the
style of Rammstein, his familiar (though rearranged) techno parody of
the BBC News theme and in particular his car-horn based version of
Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” drew the biggest response from a willing,
but drenched crowd (the largest for a comedy set in history apparently).
Fair play to him, he tailored the material well, and was able to brush
aside the considerable obstacle of the gig’s sheer size with admirable
ease – what price now on other comedy acts following suite and venturing
out from the tents onto the bigger stages in future?

Even from the earliest hours of the day, it was obvious that there was
definitely something going on, and a cursory glance around confirmed
that as many people who had turned up to see the historic appearance of
the Big Four had turned up to see Slipknot‘s tribute to sadly departed
bassist and founding member Paul “The Pig” Gray. Corey Taylor, the
charismatic, huge-necked had already dedicated the band’s European
schedule to Gray and heartily encouraged fans to get into the spirit and
make it a special event. And the fans turned up in their boiler-suited
droves, buoyed no doubt by YouTube footage of the band’s high-octane
appearances at other European legs of the Sonisphere tour, to pay their
own respects.

But for me, Slipknot was never the biggest draw of the day (that
accolade went to the delightful Bailey). There is something about the
band that I just don’t fully invest in, and though I admire the
technical ability involved, and can pick out a number of songs from the
back catalogue that I enjoy as much as the most ardent of fans, I would
never class myself as an out and out fan. Which is why I took the
decision, propelled considerably by the miserable weather I might add to
leave as the first bars of opener cut through the air and miss the
traffic. Very unrock and roll of me, I know, but the advantage of
festivals is that you can pick and choose which acts to see and which to
swerve, and the draw of the homeward journey overbalanced my desire to
get even more wet.

Every year I come to a festival intent on experiencing the off-big-stage
experience, and yet aside from a few exceptions I once again failed
miserably, with exceptional reviews for Periphery, Lower Than Atlantic,
Killing Joke, Hammer of the Gods and Cerebral Ballzy making a mockery of
my decision. But then, there’s always next year. I just have to make
sure I don’t drink so much…

This year’s Sonisphere was my first, thanks to my resistance for the two
years previous in favour of the familiarity of Download, but I can say
assuredly that if I get my own way I’ll be landing on both festivals
every year for the foreseeable future. Sell out or no sell out.

by Simon Gallagher