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I must remember that this is for public consumption and thus whining thoughts about the heat annoying me and lustful
contemplations over who looks rather good in their festival leathers must be kept to a minimum...
On arrival in Copenhagen we catch some of the city’s sights and sounds such as vintage shop Fisk, which looks more like a
designer boutique than a church-run charity shop. Quirky dresses and handbags galore plus a lovely resting area of old chairs
surrounded by shelves upon shelves of Danish literature, which I attempt to delve into despite the obvious language barrier.
In the afternoon we join a thousand other merry festival go-ers on a cramped train ride to the site. Little did we know that we could
not check in at the media centre this way and despite a lot of very friendly Roskildeans assuring us we were in the right place, we
had to carry ourselves, our inappropriate clothing, our inappropriate footwear and our inappropriate luggage (I speak for myself
here), through the blazing desert sun on a 5 mile trek up the long and dusty road to the media area. A friendly blond helps to wheel
my trolley suitcase through the gravel and remarks that people don’t usually bring trolleys here. I realise that he and the other
70,000 music revellers all have army-sized rucksacks which are “90% filled with beer.” Oops.
Once we set up camp, we meet our new neighbours. Norwegian band, Data Rock bound about chucking things out of their tent at
MTV Nordic who are interviewing them, we meet Anders, Tomas and Henrik from Norwegian Film magazine, Black and White, the
girls from Junior Senior repeatedly sing ‘Skip To The Lu’ while lounging in their tent and newest SSS Holland recruits, Peter and
Wilco greet us in full wig and regal attire. As for the British contingent, we share our grass with Kate and Helen from Gigwise and
stumble across Northern likely lads Si and Carl from Sweet Toys label.
The 'show us your tits' Crew
Back on the buzzing main festival site in the evening, we come across a group of enthusiastic Scands who welcome us with open
arms (literally) before shouting the international well-known greeting, “show us your tits!” Needless to say, it was time to swiftly
move on. Fully clothed, of course. Despite falling over lumps on the ground which turn out to be a series of punters laid out in the
recovery position, the atmosphere is overwhelming even though the official festival kicks off in two days time. We brace ourselves for
high impact music and the scarcity of flushing toilets.
I wake up and can no longer walk as I've skillfully managed to sprain my ankle somehow. As the festival is spread out over about 10
fields, the prospect of hobbling along painfully for hours definitely puts a spring in my limping step. What fabulous luck.
One of the first warm-up bands of the festival we see are Icelandic 7-piece Brudarbandid. They are quite a feast for the eyes; 6 girls
handle their guitars/keyboards and accordion with pride while a slightly embarrassed looking male pounds on the drums. The girls
are dressed in their Sunday bests and rip out songs a la Sleater Kinney/Madness. They frequently encourage the audience in their
strong Icelandic accents to “rip your kit off! Yah!” and I soon get the feeling that perhaps this really is a warm welcoming Nordic
greeting. Brudarbandid are punk ska pop and are an instant hit with the crowd. For me, they are certainly fun and their Icelandic
lyrics land like a new freckle on my ear – sweet but rather unfamiliar. However, confusion always helps to add spice to new bands.
With the bitter-sweet taste of festival dust and strawberry flavoured lipstick on my dehydrated lips, Brudarbandid have whetted my
appetite for some new and exciting music.
up a tent' advice
Roskilde officially kicks off with Brit band, Athlete. An all in white clad Tim takes the eager crowd through the entire album in a
rather grumpy fashion. He vents frustrations and stops mid-performance because of his “sh*t” guitar which causes their set to
have little momentum. However he still manages to share old Britpop band Sleeper's true hiccup singing pedigree.
We move on to main stage, The Orange tent for one of the most anticipated bands, Velvet Revolver. Considering I’d been a
huge GN’R fan in my awkward teens, the prospect of seeing at least half of the band made me want to drink straight out of the
nearest Jack Daniels bottle that crossed my way. Shame I reach for a raspberry slush puppy instead but that's the nearest
toxic beverage to hand. And boy does it bring back great memories (running round the maypole and spitting at boys).
The weirdest looking frontman in the world, Scott Weiland takes to the stage in leathers and SS cap (yawn) and starts his
camp Nazi routine that only a true psycho could pull off so well. He greets the crowd with “MOTHERF*CKERS!
MOTHERF*CKERS! Hello Copenhagen!” and I’m convinced I’m watching a remake of ‘This Is Spinal Tap’ and not witnessing
a performance by a hybrid of one of the most infamous LA rock bands ever. He soon realises his mistake and tries to cover it
up by distracting the crowd with a mighty energetic bum wiggle and “hello Roskill!” OK, so he kind of gets it right but by this
time, the roar of the crowd has subsided into a mild titter. To be honest, I think I prefer the Nordic greeting of getting naked. I
feel like I’m the only one enjoying myself and I’m ashamed to say it is only the thought of seeing my first crush, Duff McKagan
bounding about on stage with his bouffant blond hair and lovely leathers that keeps me going. Fellow gunner Slash keeps it
real by looking exactly the same as he did 54 years ago and emulates the crowd by also ignoring Weiland. Overall, the
performance was loud, contained many of the mandatory expletives but lacked any of the tension, passion and rock heroism
that I’d imagined. Oh well. Nice to see that Duff’s keeping well.
help him hide from Weiland..
stage. Kim Gordon's dangerously short dress and the band's wonderful output confirm they still proudly hold on to their 'youth'
status. The highlight of their masterful set is definitely Thurston Moore's mesmerising guitar masturbation solo which is
precisely, just that. Moore begins by gently rubbing his guitar against himself before a full throttle onslaught of licks and sucks on
its unwilling frets and strings. After a frenzied 10 minute rape, a satisfied looking Moore chucks his weak guitar away and
performs the rest of the set with a seedy look on his face. Certainly memorable and I immediately have even more respect for
Gordon. How does she tame that man? Suddenly, the thought of getting married to a milkman rather than a musician seems
appealing. And so practical. I could sell my cow.
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