Ok lets cut to the chase, last weekend’s Download Pilot (or Diddy Download as every bugger and their aunt are calling it) was probably the most pleasant experience I have had in the eighteen years I have been making an annual pilgrimage to Donington Park. Let’s put all the emotion aside of this being the first one back and concentrate on what worked, which frankly was its size. You see smaller is actually better. Yes, there were no colossal stadium filling acts (the only two bands that had actually bothered arenas were Bullet and Frank Turner) but the fact that it didn’t feel grossly overcrowded, the fact that everyone was a stone’s throw from their tents and the fact that I didn’t queue once all weekend, made up for the lack of a Maiden or a Slipknot. I am not suggesting that Download should scale back in the future, but I am pointing out that smaller more compact festivals essentially produce a much more pleasurable experience.

The other overriding feeling was one of normality. Yes, there was that euphoric rush of emotion when I saw a live band and a mosh pit again for the first time in eighteen months, but by the second act in that had worn off. What it was replaced by was a feeling of familiarity and ordinariness. I was back in a place I loved, doing a thing I loved and actually it felt like I had never stopped doing it. My mind glossed over the eighteen months, like it was healing some gapping wound. Diddy Download didn’t feel like rallying cry for a dying art. It felt like celebration of the beauty of live music and musical kinship, which to be honest is what a festival feels like. But to the bands.

Friday

The tent is full to burst for the Death Blooms, not because people are particularly hungry for their brand of industrial tinged nu-metal, but because for the majority of punters here, this is their first live show since early 2020. The atmosphere is electric, and they are greeted with quite simply a tsunami of elation. This is not about whether they are any good or not (they could have been doing the songs of Foster and Allen on a tinny whistle and the pit would still have been a cauldron of flaying arms and legs), this show was about embracing the moment and savouring the sight of kids playing rock n’ roll. There were tears, there were hugs and vocalist Paul Burrows noticeably struggled to keep it together. A magical half an hour that was much more about the fact that they are playing at all rather than what they are playing.

Hot Milk are the first main stage act and come across a splice up between Black Veil Brides and Halestorm. Their brand of rock n’ roll is light, frothy and rather harmless. They are not bad, and they pass the time rather adequately, it just lacked any real venom. The standout from their brief thirty-minute set is the unbridled energy of frontperson Han Mee, as opposed to any of their actual songs. She is a bundle of connective energy. What however should be noted is that their appearance (amongst others) heralds a real shift in Download booking practises. By my counting 14 of the 40 acts of the weekend had at least one female member. For a festival famed for its gender imbalance (that infamous doctored poster with three names left once you had removed all the male only acts and that stupid comment about women wanting to watch rather than be in bands) this is a massive step up in its game. Now I am not sure whether the pool is wider or whether Andy Coupling made a concerted effort to seek more diversity this time around, but a 35% split is a remarkable starting point. The question is whether this can be repeated or even bettered when Download returns in its full glory next year?

Malevolence are nothing short of extraordinary. Death Metal reinvented for the British Council Estate experience. They are coarse, corrosive, and utterly unstoppable. They channel all the negativity and alienation that the last year has thrown out into half an hour of powerful unadulterated noise. Quite quite incredible. Boston Manor, who directly follow them out on the main stage, feel tame and pedestrian in comparison. Their anger feels stage-managed and cosmetic compared to the pure nihilistic hate coming fromMalevolence. Both, however, are a world away from the introspective post-hardcore of Holding Absence, who manage to beautifully balance introspection and intensity. They burn off the stage, but still manage to come across as slight and fragile. Their music is prog filtered through Fugazi. Like every other act on the bill, they come across as generally moved by the whole experience. Lucas Woodland talks openly and evocatively about how difficult the preceding period has been and how overwhelming it is being back on stage. Yes, they may well be one of the lighter bands on offer, but the ethereal nature of their music makes it an uplifting and other worldly half an hour.

Neck Deep are pop punk from Wrexham, and they are akin to a day-glo explosion in a sherbet factory. They come across like a toddler’s birthday party on speed and the kids seem to love them. They are probably too sugary and blatantly happy for my own personnel tastes, but there is a level of intoxicating positivity that even makes this grizzled warhorse smile. Sleep Token are essentially an enigma wrapped within a mystery. Think of a more pretentious and less camp Ghost and you are halfway there. Visually what we get are five anonymous masked figures half-hidden behind plumps of smoke. At the heart of it is “Vessel’s” haunting vocals and slight presence. Think Boys 2 men do emotionally tinged metalcore, as “their” soul drenched vocals provides a bizarre juxtaposition to the music the band produce. It shouldn’t work, but it does so remarkably well. They are a hypnotic experience, even at times it feels more like a mystic ritual rather than a rock n’roll show.

Frank Carter is a born headliner. For all the talk about this weekend being Bullet and Shikari’s opportunity to shine, it is Frank that comes out looking like the one Stadium bound. He is his usual boisterous self; witty, articulate and brazenly self-aware. It is that mix of humility and confidence that makes him such an intoxicating and infectious figure. When he proclaims, we listen because we know that he feels the same anxieties and doubts that we do. What we get is a pure adrenaline ride of a headline set complete with special guests (Joe talbot of Idles, Cassyette and a stray Gimp), sing-alongs (Love Games and I hate You stand out for me) and the obligatory cover (a frantic Ace of Spades). Like all but one of the bands this weekend he doesn’t bother with an encore, he has spent too much time off the stage to bother with the antiquated parlour trick of leaving it to only re-emerge again. Instead we get a rousing, bouncing finale of Crowbar and with that he bides us a fond farewell.

 

Saturday

Day two starts with sunshine and the continued oddity of empty bars. The decision to combine the camping and arena into one space has meant that Diddy Download has turned into a massive bring your own event. Under utilised Bar staff spend their time trying to coax punters in and creating hastily written cardboard signs that plead, “please buy beer”. It is a wonderful tonic to 2019’s beerqueuemaggedon, but I wonder whether this is financially an experiment that Live Nation will not want to repeat. Lotus Eater start us off in the tent and they are a cacophony of rigid time signatures and taut riffs. It is clean and mathematical and a bit like being bathed in 90-degree angles. They very much come from the clever end of hardcore, they use what they have sparingly, but when the noise comes it is tight, regimented and eminently powerful. Conjurer follow on the main stage and are the heaviest thing here by a country mile. Theirs is a potent mix of Doom, Black and Post Metals that sounds like it has been dredged from the bottom of the river Styx. They are also utterly captivating. There is a magical subtly to their pounding monolithic riffs and it is those fragile breakdowns that makes what they are doing so infatuating.

Back in the tent As Everything Unfolds are doing something really quite interesting indeed. It is a potent mix of sugary pop and caustic punk, sprinkled with the sonic assault of My Bloody Valentine. It feels like they have put Spotify on random and pieced together everything that it threw up. In the middle of this maelstrom of competing styles and genres is Charlie Rolfe. It is her deft showpersonship and undoubted stage presence, that manages to hold it all together. She screams, croons, and bounces off every inch of the stage. Her role-play approach to the tracks makes their random nature makes sense. Unique and really rather brilliant. Back on Main Bleed from Within have obviously persuaded themselves that the 1pm slot is actually the headline one, as they come out like they are top of the pile. We get fire, sing-alongs, and a self-confidence that they have long been missing. It’s been a long hard slog for these plucky Scots (they have been touted at the next big thing for nearly a decade now) and you could tell previously that the lack of success and traction was starting to get to them. But not now, today we get a Bleed from Within that believe in themselves again and that belief is infectious. Whereas before they have been guilty of playing to the converted, today they reach out to every bugger in the field and by the end of their short, dynamic set have earnt legions of new followers.

The Hara want to be 21 Pilots, this is more than a band crush, this is essentially blatant plagiarism. Now, I am not saying that they are bad, and leather skirted Josh Taylor is probably one of the most engaging and energetic front people of the weekend, I just struggled to discern anything approaching originality. I find Wargasm equally confounding. There is rampant energy on offer and an obvious connection with the crowd, however I struggle to engage with the hybrid of styles. As I often say of vegetables, I can tell there is something really good about them, I am just not sure whether it is for me. I feel much more on solid ground with Tigercub, who peddle an authentic but modern take on the blues. They have a laid-back style that oozes quality. There are plenty of blues-revivalists out there, but Tigercub seem to have happened upon a refreshingly unique way of presenting something that is essentially as old as the hills. There is both a warmth and groove to what they are doing. It feels loose and almost jammed, like structure and consistency are way down on their must do list.   

You know you are getting old when the day’s nostalgia act is one that you still consider to be a plucky upstart. There is also a question of what A (as it is them) means to the average twenty-year metal fan, as it would be kind to call the initial attendance sparse. However, A have two clear objectives, which are to enjoy themselves and, in the process, ensure that we enjoy ourselves. They achieve both as they are bottled sunshine. They grin, gurn and joke their way through the set, dropping early noughties punk pop classics, inspiring walking circle pits and inexplicably chucking a Deliveroo carry-case into the audience. They win over the doubters (and even the anti-vaxers) and come the end refrain of Nothing they have the crowd eating out of their hands.

Like lots of the younger acts here this weekend, VUKOVI are very much a work in progress. There is something there, something actually really rather wonderful. It’s not fully-formed and they are yet to found their true voice, but the potential is outstanding. In VUKOVI case its frontwoman Janine Shilstone, who is quite simply astonishing. Her attitude, her playful mannerisms, and her honesty (“you don’t want to lift me up” she warns a chivalrous security guard “I’m heavy”) are refreshingly wonderful. She cavorts around the stage (and off it) with a jovial glee that is positively life-affirming. It is that lack of pretention that makes her stand out from the crowd. They don’t quite yet have the memorable tunes, but in Janine they have a bonafide star in waiting. YONAKA share both VUKOVI’s penchant for spelling in block capitals and the fact that they base their performance around a charismatic dynamo of a front person. Theresa Jarvis is all over the shop from the word go, coming across a hyperactive gym instructor on a mission. Again, like with VUKOVI, her blistering performance outshines the fairly safe power pop the rest of the bad are pumping out. She however really comes in her own when the sound fails minutes into their performance. Theresa soldiers on, never once loosing her composure or her cool and manages in that moment to win the hearts and respect of everyone watching. 

You can tell that Those Damn Crows have run through this moment every single day of their enforced exile from the stage. They hit the boards at hundred miles an hour and just accelerate. This is good time rock n’ roll for a moment in life where only good time rock n’ roll will do. They may be as original as a Gucci handbag purchased from a market stall, but they make up for that in the sheer passion with which they pound out their blues driven rock. Shane Greenhall is obviously moved by both the reception and the fact that they are here at all. He drolls in his sensual welsh tones about his need to lose pounds in the weeks leading up to the gig and his joy at seeing all us again. The rousing finale of ‘Rock N Roll ain’t dead’  feels both euphoric and defiant as ten thousand voices rise as one to proclaim, “Who said Rock N Roll is dead?”. It is a moment of solidarity and celebration that illustrates why this weekend is so special.

In my book Twin Atlantic are a Poundland Biff Clyro. I watch two songs and find nothing to persuade me otherwise and instead return to my tent for more beer. I return for Stone Broken who have a sparkle that makes their slick radio friendly AOR rise out from the ordinary. They may lack the raw edge of the preceding Those Damn Crows, but the power of their performance pulls them through. They have choruses you could land a jumbo jet on and hooks the size of mammoths and they just seem to adore what they do. It may all be incredibly safe and sanitised, but you fall instantly in love with Rich Moss and his band mates. In the end, it is their enormous sense of self-belief that makes it all work.

Back on main stage, While She Sleeps step up to the plate to claim their title of people’s champion. We talk about bands being owned by their fans; with Sleeps this is literally the case. Through the Sleeps Society their fanbase have become the bands one and only benefactor. There is no record company, management team or third-party involvement of any kind. The band do it all themselves and the fans underwrite it. One of the offshoots is that boundaries between band and fan are blurred. Sleeps’ shows are a collective endeavour, as opposed to a crowd blanky watching five blokes play.

Tonight, is all about the live debut of material from recently released “Sleeps Society”, an album that saw the band continue to concurrently hone and expand their sound. ‘You are all you need’ and ‘Know your Worth (Somebody)’ feel like motivational self-help manuals put to raucous noise. It is that exuberant positivity that puts While She Sleeps in a category of one. Yes, this is riff heavy juttering Metalcore at its heart, but it has ripped out any of the angry negativity and instead replaced it with a rampant can-do attitude. Loz looks effortlessly cool in custom made white jeans, though it doesn’t take long for them to be covered in grass stains and spilt beer. He confirms his reputation for daring dos by scaling the lighting tower and seemingly it is only the implored pleas of a roadie that stops him from leaping. This is the life-affirming and ground shaking set that we all needed. This was the moment that Sleeps slammed down their hand and said, “next time it’s us”.

Like a number of other bands here this weekend, Creeper were cursed with releasing a remarkable album but being unable to prompt it. “Sex, Death and the Infinite Void” was number two in ROCKFLESH’s 2020 Top 100 Albums of the year and rightly so. It is a Goth Rock opera masterpiece, combining Meatloaf with rockabilly and Scott Walker. Tonight, we get a headline show of biblical proportions that builds on all their potential. For sixty incredible minutes the second stage here at Download is centre of the known universe. We get props, brides, sparks, and a synchronised show that is pure theatrical rock n’roll. They also get a fevered devotional audience that screams back every lyric at the band. During the time away something has clicked, and Creeper have returned the torch bearer for the dis-enfranchised eye-liner adorned masses. Every song in their arsenal has morphed into a blistering anthem of gigantic proportion. This was their moment and they clutched at with every bone in their bodies. Simply sensational. 

Technically Enter Shikari only had three weeks to prepare for their first Download headline, but reality they have been building up to this for 15 years. In 2006, they were young oiks heretically welding breakbeats to our beloved metal, in 2021 they are conquering heroes. Somewhere along the way they have become nothing short of a national treasure (a national treasure that flick V’s and steals all the family silver). Production wise they have gone to town; the light show is Blackpool illuminations on acid. It’s a strob-tastic whirlwind of neon-stripes and pulsating colour. Whilst Rou admits early on to be chronically anxious about their ascension to headline status, the truth is that they look so comfortable in this position. Whilst the performance may come across as chaotic, it is a perfectly choreographed chaos.

Enter Shikari are too good at this now to let the occasion overawe them, there is just right balance of emotional abandonment and professionalism. The set itself is so immaculately crafted. Every album gets at least two outings and four tracks from “Nothing is True and Everything is Possible”. The weather does it best to try and dampen the spirit by whipping away the numerous confetti bursts and by pissing on everyone later on in the set, but the truth is that it would take a meteor strike to put Enter Shikari off their pace. This was the ultimate fingers up to all the doubters and nay-sayers and they savoured every single moment of it.

Sunday

Sunday is cold, overcast and damp but we have sixteen more bands to plough through. The no clash policy means that if you are intrepid and you time your loo breaks just right, you can watch every band. Static Dress seemed to have decided that they need a gimmick, but have not reached a consensus on what that gimmick is. Visually they are a hotch potch of lab coats, face masks and natty head dresses. Musically there is a subtly to their post hardcore and their noise is tempered and in places refrained. Talking about gimmicks, Saint Agnus have broken into the dressing-up box and gone mad with the face-paints. Sadly, their stage antics and attire overshadows their music. They have purloined a Rage Against the Machine riff and spend the set shouting nonsense over it. Cassyette is a Tik-Tok sensation, which explains why I have never heard of her. Again, her set is a Spotify friendly assault on a truck-full of influences. A little bit of punk, a pinch of grunge, a dollop of rap and good glug of Riot-girl. Like so may of the younger bands on show this weekend it is her personality that holds it all together.

Employed to Serve where the last band I saw before the world stopped. We pick up where we were, with me screaming “Eternal Forward Motion” along with Justine and the gang. Employed to Serve feel more like a rap collective than a post hardcore band. They are a solid unit with each of them equally sharing the limelight. It is the cohesiveness that makes them such a powerful proposition. The riffs and break-downs rain down like an artillery bombardment.   They have obviously been busy during lockdown, as we get two new tracks. Exist shows they have moved their sound on, there is much more clarity and space now. They have slowly learned that power and impact is about what is not there, as much is what is there. They may have to fight a bit for reaction, but overall their short, jagged set is a triumph. 

Chubby And The Gang are like stepping in a 1976 edition of the Old Grey Whistle Test. They have taken the blueprint of American punk pioneers MC5, the Stooges and the Ramones and replicated it in its entirety. They do it very very well indeed, but part of me feels that I saw it all before the first time around. Loathe are a band that ROCKFLESH have championed for getting on to five years. From the off we spotted that there was something here, very special indeed. They do indeed shamelessly nick the Deftones shifting soundscape, but they use it as a canvas to paint their own masterpieces upon. There is a groove and shimmy to what they are doing. It is heavy but it is also intricate and oh-so clever. Higher Power are also trying to cut a fresh path through well-known pastures. This is (as they say) hardcore, but there is so much more to them than Fugazi fanboys. There is as much melody and subtly to what they are doing as there is raw primal power. Punk for those that read books.

 Jack Bennett may look like he has escaped from the CBeebies house and Lonely The Brave may be more Indie than Metal, but god they are terrific. This is fiercely modern prog spliced with chamber pop.  It is beautifully refined and exquisitely executed. A tidal wave of sumptuous melodies and emotional fragility. Jack’s nerves are obvious, but also highly forgivable. He seems genuinely moved by the reception or at least thankful that he hasn’t been strung up and sacrificed to a demonic over-lord. Completely out of place, but still really rather wonderful. Jamie Lenman was once the face and voice of almost made its Ruben, now he has chiselled himself out a unique spot as quirky elder statesmen of alt-metal. His set is brilliantly odd from the start with a surprise cameo from Wargasm, before he goes on to cover the Popeye theme and head down a surreal rabbit hole. Bizarre but utterly compelling.

 Elvana are not high art. They are a shit Elvis impersonator singing Nirvana, badly. They are also ludicrously good fun and by far the most entertaining band of the festival. This is the moment that you forget about the hardships of the last eighteen months and bellow along in terrible faux-Elvis voice to a faithful rendering of In Bloom. It ain’t big, it ain’t clever, but it is a wonderfully daft way of spending your Sunday afternoon. The slow-moving Elvis pits that break out all over the shop are a joy to behold and the whole absurd spectacle just feels so so right.

Massive Wagons keep up the feelings of utter joyfulness. Having been couped up in the frozen plains of Lancashire for the last year and a half, they are here to have a party and we are all invited. They have reappropriated the three bar boogie, given it a bit of spit n’ polish and dialled up the fun. Whilst there are tons of young bucks out their holding onto the coat-tails of this new wave of classic rock, what makes the Wagons’ stand out is that they have got the songs. ‘Pressure’ is a gloriously self-aware tale of second album blues, ‘Back to Stack’ takes us back to the time when the Quo were hip and trendy and ‘The Curry Song’, well ‘The Curry Song’  is a joy to behold. Gloriously ridiculous, the site of an audience bellowing the response to “When I say Keema you say Naan, Keema, Naan, Keema, Naan” is still making me chuckle a week later. Fabulous.

The Wildhearts should have been the third instalment in this Sunday afternoon feel-good extravagance. Instead it is all a bit of a damp squib. The omens aren’t good from the start as the crowd is thin to say the least and the sound is muddy as hell. ‘Diagnosis’ is barely recognisable and ‘Suckerpunch’  is less punch and more flaccid slap. Ginger tries to get things sorted and to a degree ‘Everlone’ sounds better, but the damage has already been done and the band look visibly agitated. They limp on for three more songs, but the momentum is gone and with a grudgeful “this is shit, have a good rest of the day” Ginger stomps off, soon followed by the rest of the band. On their day, The Wildhearts are quite simply the greatest rock n’roll band on this planet. This was not their day.

Trashboat are repackage Emo for an audience that were toddlers when the “Black Parade” came out. The power of a catchy riffs and a memorable chorus is universal and Trashboat are taking the ‘if ain’t broke don’t fix it’ approach to replication. They do what they do well and perhaps if I was eighteen rather than forty-eight it would have swept me along more, but I leave the young ones to it and head off for my first bar visit of the weekend (like many people by this point I have run out of beer). Skindred’s milkshake has brought everyone on site to the yard. For the first time this weekend the crowd reaches out well beyond the lighting tower and when you look upon the campsites that surround the main arena there is not a single fucker to be seen. Half gig, half stand-up comedy show, this is the final word in crowd participation. Benji is an old-fashioned entertainer, he knows where and when to land a punchline and he knows the buttons to press to hype of a crowd. We get banter, we get audience splitting call and responses and we get the obligatory Newport Helicopter. The latter is re-modelled as both an act of defiance and a symbol of unity. Benji acts out a phone-call to Boris, ending in the insolent roar “look you c*nt, nobody here has Covid”. Skindred get the mood so right; we want to shout, we want to chortle, we want to sing and we want to dance. Essentially we want to lose ourselves in the unifying power of rock n’ roll. They magnificently bring all of this and more, the perfect party band for a generation so desperate to party.  

Frank Turner feels he needs to justify his inclusion on the bill by proclaiming that his heart is metal, and Maiden and Priest are the gods that he worships. But he needn’t have bothered. Nobody in the tent or even in the vicinity of the tent is going to question his involvement in this endeavour. During the Pandemic he has been the face and voice of an Industry in peril. He has been omnipresent on news outlets, pleading for the very livelihoods of musicians and their crews. He has led the charge in trying to keep venues afloat and he has dedicated every waking moment to ensuring our world did not collapse in on itself. If one person deserves to be part of the first major Festival back, then that person is Frank Turner.

You see, tonight is the moment where he goes back to work. Tonight, is when he stops being a campaigner and picks up where he was back in March 2019. Some things haven’t changed; this is show 2526 and as ever Frank is the consummate entertainer delivering folk-tinged anthems with big hearts and big choruses. But also, everything has changed, and I have never seen a man look so grateful for what he has got. Tonight, is fundamentally about not taking anything for granted. Tonight, is the tale of a man reunited with the most precious thing in his life, his audience. When Frank suggests we all come back to his house after, it is not a shallow through away line. It is the pleas of a man that never again wants to lose this connection with his following. We are his lifeblood and his reason for being and you can tell from his eyes that being separated from us has broken his heart. Whilst this is indeed one show in thousands for him, you know that this is one that he will never forget and that we will never forget.

So it all boils down to this, the final band of the weekend and the moment that Bullet For My Valentine finally get to headline Donington. After numerous appearances and three special guest slots, you would have forgiven them for thinking that the moment had passed, and this would never happen. But here we are, as a bizarre silver-lining on a shitty cloud, Bullet For My Valentine have got that much coveted top spot. There are moments where it works; ‘Your Betrayal ‘ is a magnificent fireball of malignant venom and savage one-two of ‘You want a Battle (Here’s a War)’ and ‘The Last Fight’ feel like the distilled essence of everything that is Metal. But there are also elements that are badly undercooked. There is no way on Earth we need a drum solo, we have been starved of gigs for a year and a half, so we have no patience at all for a five minute pointless vanity slot where ‘Alone’ or ‘Hearts Burst into Fire (both MIA)’ should have been. Secondly, they suffer massively from coming after the emotional outpouring’s of Benji and Frank. Matt has never been much of a talker, but the lack of any acknowledgement of the significance of both this show and the whole darn festival feels like a massive oversight. 

Talking of Benji he remerges, lyric sheet in hand, for a shambolically wonderful rendition of Maiden’s ‘Run to the Hills’. He may miss more lines than he hits, but he manages to single handily give the set its show-business glamour moment that it is so badly missing. The first (and only) encore of the festival again illustrates how they have mis-interpreted the temperature of the crowd. At this stage we don’t want convention, we just want to gorge on as much music and as much entertainment as we can before he have to reengage with reality. They gallop through T’ears Don’t Fall’, ‘Hand of Blood’ and ‘Waking the Demon’. All fantastic and resplendent in the sing-aloneness, but there is still that nagging feeling that they have failed to hit that button labelled “fucking special”. We end with platitudes and thanks but that feels a little too late. Now don’t get me wrong, this was a great Bullet show (I would question the set selection but that is me being picky), but for this moment in time we needed and we probably deserved something more than a great Bullet show and it was that feeling of specialness that was sadly elusive.

So forty bands, one weekend, one great experiment. Overall, it was positively life affirming. It felt right, it felt normal and it felt soul-enriching. But the overall feeling I got was the weekend was not about the bands or the organisation, it was about the people around me. People I had missed, people I didn’t know I had missed and people I didn’t know enough (or at all) to miss. This weekend was about community and belonging. For many of us the pandemic was about enforced solitude, being cut off from friends and being cut off from our chosen families. Download Pilot was at its most basic about reuniting the clans and allowing us once again to socialise, to drink, to cry, to hug and to just be with each other. That is what made it such a beautiful experience.