Part three: Sonntag
Bands in order of appearance:
Cradem Aventure
Golden Apes
Mono Inc.
Eva O.
Scream Silence
Diary Of Dreams
Voodoo Church
Umbra Et Imago
Client

Sunday at the Wave Gotik Treffen may not be a day of rest - it's festival business as usual all over town - but it's nevertheless a good day for wandering around to discover what's going on outside the live music venues, for the WGT is not only a non-stop frenzy of goth 'n' roll. 

There are, as I've already mentioned in passing, many other events and attractions taking place around Leipzig. Performances of Renaissance choral works at the Thomaskirche (the historic church where Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart once had a regular gig as organist), assorted theatricals at the Kristallpalast Variety Theatre, movies at the Cinestar cinema, and swordfights and fruit wine drinking (although not, fortunately, at the same time) in the medieval village. You can even take yourself off to a (thankfully) remote location and indulge in vampire role-playing games, if that is your particular bent. And, of course, there are plenty of opportunities to give your credit card a good workout in the vast cavern of counter-culture retailing that is the Agra market.

Band-head that I am, you probably won't be astonished to learn that my main discovery turns out to be...yet more live music. At the medieval market on top of the Moritzbastei, the sixteenth-century fortifications which rise from the ground in incongruous proximity to Leipzig's tallest office block, a bunch of fearsome-looking types in leather kilts are plumping up bagpipes and setting up oil drums. This, it turns out, is Cradem Aventure - one of the WGT's many medieval bands, although in this case strict historical accuracy has been given a modern twist by the inclusion of the scrap metal percussion rig and a rather cool two-string bass guitar. Without formality or any kind of announcement, the band suddenly strikes up a rumbustious, clanking, honking cacophony, and a crowd swiftly gathers. Cradem Aventure make the kind of rollicking, rhythmic racket that sounds like the kind of music you'd hear down the Mended Drum on talent night - if you listen carefully, you can hear the trolls at the bar clashing their tankards together to the rhythm. Oh, no, that's just the oil drum percussionists giving it some clatter. The crowd - a motley assortment of diehard medievalists, passing punks, randomgoths and market shoppers - stands bemused and cautious at first, but then outbreaks of dancing spread through the throng, and by the end of their performance Cradem Aventure have the Moritzbastei in motion. Amiable good-time music, with a certain oomph to it: just the thing for a sunny afternoon. But there's more music about to happen elsewhere, so let's take a tram...

...to the Agra. This is the WGT's largest venue - yawning twin hangars which are usually used for trade exhibitions, set in an area of parkland. Over the four days of the festival the immediate environs of the halls become the location of many impromptu parties and al-fresco photo sessions, as Treffen-heads gather to let their hair down (or, in the case of the deathrock contingent, put their hair up). A roar of unrepentant metal is coming out of a truck parked nearby: this, it transpires, is the WGT's own karaoke facility. Here, you can grab the mic or an inflatable guitar, if that's your fancy, and holler along to assorted heavy metal selections. A couple of lads are up on the truck, giving it the full Ozzy, and while I'm not particularly impressed by the none-more-metal musical selection I can't help noting that the PA and lights are significantly superior to the gear you'll find in many London live music venues. And this is nothing more than a temporary karaoke stage! I'm going into the main venue, before hardware-envy kicks in.

Inside the Agra hall, it's sunlit and (mostly) empty. A small crowd gathers for the first band, the rather discouragingly named Golden Apes. Fortunately, I'm glad to report that the band are quite a lot better than that name. They're a dark, mordant, lounge-rock act, clearly influenced to an extent by Nick Cave. The vocalist's doing the black suit, sideburns and cigarette thing: his singing voice is half way between a growl and a croon. This carefully constructed image is somewhat undermined by the guitarist's bright orange jump suit, but the music has a rather cool late-night swirl to it, and I'm sufficiently struck to put the band on my 'must find out more' list. The set ends abruptly: apparently there was a late start, so in order to get the schedule back on track, someone's got to get the chop. And, as ever in the ruthless pecking order of rock 'n' roll, that someone is inevitably the opening band. The Golden Apes reluctantly walk off the stage, the vocalist frowning with frustration, but they did well in a distinctly less than perfect situation.

Mono Inc. are hustled on stage soon afterwards, and at first I assume this is some sort of Nik Page side project, for the frontman is sporting almost exactly the same cyberpunk Billy Idol look as Mr. Page modelled on Friday at Werk II. But no, Mono Inc. are an entirely different band - and yet, again like Nik Page and The Sacrifight Army, they play a straightforward brand of rock music which doesn't have much that is memorable about it, and which certainly doesn't dovetail with the singer's cyber-rocker image. One for the ho-hum list here, I think. I click off a few photos of the band, and then instantly forget them.

What we need is for an artist to come out and take the day by the scruff of its neck and shake some excitement out of it. Fortunately, that's exactly what happens next.

If Rozz Willams is the deathrock scene's messiah, then Eva O must be its Mary Magdalene. Her reputation goes before her, and attracts a large crowd. Suddenly, it's crush-loading down the front, as everyone pushes forward. On stage, things are minimal. A drummer, a bassist, and, on guitar and vocals, Mz O herself, exuding implacable confidence as she stomps up to the mic in her thigh boots of doom. The noise this three-piece band generates is uncanny: a hurricane-force surge of monster riffs, powered along by Eva O's angelic guitar, from which she wrenches the sound of a thousand six-string demons being spit-roasted over the fires of hell. It's a big, billowing racket built on a splendidly dirty guitar sound, equal parts vintage blues and Black Sabbath. The voice of Mz O is a fine thing in itself: a hellfire preacher holler, a righteous roar in the midst of the sonic storm. Eva O, as is well known, embraced Christianity a few years back, which explains all the heavy-duty spiritual stuff - although on the evidence of this performance it seems she hasn't so much embraced the faith as grabbed it by the balls and squeezed it until the God-of-love juice spurts out. Certainly, it all makes Nick Cave's occasional excursions into the murkier corners of Christianity seem like a Sunday school ramble across sunlit fields. 

There's a little vignette of drama - a hooded figure appears on stage bearing a tray of apples, which get hurled into the audience. Now that's a new one on me. I've heard of bands being pelted with rotten fruit by hostile audiences, but I've never seen an artist make a pre-emptive strike. Eva, I notice, takes a bite out of an apple as if to demonstrate that she knows all the stuff we're not supposed to know. I believe you, Eva, I believe you. Then it all gets stripped down: Eva abandons her guitar and the final few songs are a frenzy of minimalist-but-loud drum-bass-vocals workouts. It's as if the band decided to show those young upstarts, The White Stripes, how stripped-to-the-bone rock 'n' roll should really be done. It's more abrasive than coarse sandpaper, grittier than the floor of a parrot's cage. Here on the big stage of the Agra hall, it's all intense enough - but I can't help thinking how good it would be to see Eva O do this stuff in a small club. Scary, for sure. But good.

Back to earth with a clunk. The next band, Scream Silence, prove to be one of those straightforward rock bands in black which seem to have such a following on the German goth scene. They're competent, smoothly professional rock journeymen, making a mid-tempo, middle-of-the-road noise that's entirely acceptable without ever getting as far as being exciting. The vocalist, casually adopting the time-honoured foot on the monitor stance, cruises through the set with blandly anonymous ease, while, in the background, his guitarist adopts an assortment of curiously half-hearted rocker poses that utterly fail to inject any life into the proceedings. The audience cheers enthusiastically at the conclusion of every forgettable song - but then, this kind of characterless rock does seem to be genuinely popular with certain sections of the Deutsch gotik massive. Personally, I find it very hard to stay awake till the end of the set.

A much-needed wake-up call arrives with Diary Of Dreams. Here's a band which knows how to turn it on for a festival crowd: a band entirely at home on a big stage, with plenty of showmanship tricks up their sleeves to keep the sturm und drang going from first to last. They certainly don't disappoint on this occasion, in sound or in vision. Much of the set seems to be delivered in the form of a bizarre duel between frontman Adrian hates and his be-mohawked guitarist, who duck and dive at each other like boxers gearing up for a big assault. Songs are thrown like punches, each one a power-packed whump of guitar-noise backed by live drums and multiple layers of robust electronics. Diary Of Dreams certainly know how to give their material that essential big-venue wallop, and the audience responds with such adulation you'd think they were welcoming home a victorious army. It's really quite an eye-opener to see a band which, at UK gigs, typically plays medium-sized club venues (and often to distinctly medium sized audiences) letting rip in front of such a huge and up-for-it crowd. This, surely, is Diary Of Dreams' natural habitat. Their drastically downsized UK shows must seem like slumming it after experiences like this. The big showstopper of the set is 'Chemicals', always a roaring monster of a tune, and here given a wildly intense, bug-eyed melodrama treatment - Adrian Hates declaiming the lyrics with such force that in spite of the big venue and the distance between band and audience, it feels uncannily like he's yelling right in your face. Any performer who can transcend his surroundings in that way really must have something special. It's odd - As with Girls Under Glass, I wouldn't necessarily rate Diary Of Dreams as one of my favourite bands, and while I was sure they'd deliver a decent set, I certainly wasn't expecting to get blown away. But you may consider me well and truly blown. That was good.

There's a buzz of anticipation in the air as Voodoo Church take the stage. What with all things deathrocky being cool and fashionable in Germany right now, the return of a genuine 80s-vintage band from the original Californian scene is very much a 'must see' for the mohawks 'n' fishnet crowd. On close inspection, however, Voodoo Church aren't really as 80s-vintage as they seem. This incarnation of the band features only vocalist Tina Winter from the early days. Everyone else on stage is a new recruit. And while the band is leaning heavily on their old-skool deathrocker credentials in order to whip up some twenty-first century interest, it's obvious as soon as they strike up the first song that they've thrown deathrock's post-punk musical blueprint out of the window in favour of...metal. And mid-tempo grunge-metal, at that. 

The guitar grinds, the drums thump, and song after song trundles by without the music ever really getting out of third gear. I stand dutifully by, waiting for the band to hit the gas and really go for it, but they never quite get there. The music is too slow; the tempo never varies. Tina Winter simply wanders to and fro on stage, looking rather lost. She seems hesitant and nervous - certainly, she never comes right to the front of the stage and hurls her personality out into the hall, dominating the show with sheer presence, as both Eva O and Adrian Hates were able to do on this very stage earlier on. She hangs back, a vague figure lost in the smoke, wailing her lyrics (most of which seem to recycle the standard themes of zombies 'n' death) while her band chugs away. Frankly, it's disappointing and dull - like watching a small band who've landed a big gig and don't quite know how to cope with it. And that's a pertinent point, for back in the early 1980s, Voodoo Church were very much a local Los Angeles scene phenomenon. Their reputation might have grown now, but they were never a big band first time round. Their original career was short (they only released one EP), and their live experience was restricted to the small clubs of the 80s scene. I dare say Tina Winter has never performed in a venue the size of the Agra in her life - and it shows. 

Eventually, the set rumbles to a stop - it doesn't reach any kind of climax, it just stops - and Tina takes her leave, with a plaintive 'We love you!' to the audience. The unspoken subtext - 'Please love us!' - hangs in the air with the smoke. The audience applauds, but with polite appreciation rather than huge enthusiasm. It's noticeable that Voodoo Church don't get anything like the roaring ovation that both Eva O and Diary Of Dreams received. Nevertheless, I'm sure the band will do well in Germany - deathrock has such a momentum now that they can hardly fail. But I need more before I'll be impressed.

Right now, I could use a band who put on a real show. Fortunately, it seems I'm about to get one. The paraphernalia now being carried on stage - classical columns, a lectern, sundry items of unidentified steel hardware - suggest that our next act do something more than just stand there and play guitars. Umbra Et Imago seem to start from the premise that the only thing wrong with Spinal Tap's 'Stonehenge' routine was that it was unnecessarily restrained and sensible. They're not so much a band as a cross between Dante's Inferno and a carnival procession. With, I note with pleasure, King Louis Quatorze of France on vocals. Always good to see the crowned heads of Europe rockin' the mic, don't you think? 

So, here we go. Umbra Et Imago kick up a thunderous metal rumble, a bombastic earthquaking noise like a squadron of B52s hurtling down the runway. Sure, that's pretty much par for the course: I'd hardly expect a bunch of metal megastars to do anything less. But where Umbra Et Imago really score - the factor that lifts them head and shoulders above the metal mayhem crowd - is in the show. It's a loony riot of poses, costumes and theatre. Whether it all means anything, or whether it's just an excuse to put on a suitably crazed extravaganza, is anybody's guess, but it's all quite gloriously over the top. King Louis delivers some of the songs as if addressing the court at Versailles; others like he's the ringmaster of a particularly boisterous circus. He's a showstopper all by himself, but the main part of the theatricals comes when two girls in minimalist fetish-wear stage a series of S&M games amid the thundering metal rampage. And it's the real deal, too - none of the coy posing and teasing routines which I've seen passed off too often as something outrageous. Umbra Et Imago's fetish-maidens give us the genuine article, deploying straps and chains with stony-faced concentration, and wielding fire and spikes to the point - literally - of drawing blood. I suspect the bit where one of the girls had her hair set on fire was not in the script, mind, but hey, it all adds to the fun. 

Encore time, and a rather bemused NFD are hauled on stage to supply backing vocals on 'Rock Me Amadeus' (King Louis introduces them as 'The guys from Fields Of The Nephilim!', which is stretching things a little since there is actually only one guy from Fields Of The Nephilim present). The lads do their best to keep up with the swirling madness, but it's only Peter White, NFD's singer, who looks like he's really having a good time. His eyes are out on stalks as he takes in the scene, and I can almost see his thoughts rising above his head in cartoon-style speech bubbles: 'Wahey! I'm on stage with a kickin' rock band in front of thousands of cheering fans! With sexxy deth chyx! Hell yeah! This is why I signed up for rock 'n' roll!'  But now the end of the set is fast approaching. It's an odd anticlimax when, in the final minutes, Louis Quatorze takes off his wig and coat, and reveals himself to be just another rock bloke in leather trousers. At last, it all crashes to a stop in a flurry of tortured guitars and extravagant farewell bows, and it's over. I half expect to see a red velvet curtain fall dramatically from on high - such a mad bout of theatre surely deserves the traditional finish - but, alas, the Agra is not equipped with such soft furnishings. I confess: I enjoyed that, even though I can't see myself buying Umbra Et Imago CDs and sitting at home listening to the music. But then, it seems to me that's less than half the point of it all. The show is the thing, and Umbra Et Imago certainly know how to deliver.

In one of those bizarre stylistic shifts that the WGT does so well, the next band on the big Agra stage is The Human League. Now, I was rather partial to The Human League, back in their very early days when they were a bunch of scruffy experimental weirdos from Sheffield. But, possibly alone on planet Earth, I never really went for the singalong poptastic chart smasheroonie material of their superstardom period. Unfortunately, those very songs form the principal content of the band's WGT set. Not wishing to participate in a misty-eyed nostalgiafest, I make my excuses and leave. But I don't go far. In a smaller hall next door, much more interesting things are happening.

Through the cafe, past the exhibition of fetish photos, and into Agra Hall 4.2 - a curiously precise mathematical name for what turns out to be a medium-sized conference room decorated in several exciting shades of beige. Here, a full day of smaller bands has been laid on, and we're about to witness the last band of the bill. Ladies and Gentlemen, here they come: purveyors of conceptual electronics and a very British wit: Client.  A wheeled flight case, on top of which a veritable spaghetti bolognaise of wires and hardware teeters, is trundled into place. The operation is overseen by a nervy guy, all suit and wild hair, fussing and adjusting - he looks just like Dylan Thomas before the pubs open. But it's the principal members of Client who get the big cheer from the crowd as they step with studied cool onto the beige stage: two elegantly uniformed women, exuding professional detachment (when they manage to suppress their gleeful smiles), like a couple of flight attendants from a trendy sixties airline. I'm all ready to pay attention to the safety announcement, but instead they crank up a splendidly punchy whump-and-thump beat and launch into a set of cocktail-cool electro. The songs twitch and glide, catchy but assertive, as Client balance with arched eyebrows and knowing grins on the cool blue line between slinky pop and roughed-up electronic rock 'n' roll. They even have a song devoted to extolling the virtues of rock 'n' roll, and I'm left wondering whether this is an ironic joke (since the song itself is a glacial piece of electropop) or a genuine celebration of the rockin' life. Either way, it's a wittily self-referential number precision-tooled to lodge in the pleasure centres of the human brain. The set seems to whip past in mere minutes - a sure sign, in my book, that we are in the presence of good stuff. Client leave the stage too soon, the audience cheering, the Clients themselves now making no effort to hide their delighted smiles. I could happily watch that performance all over again, but it's now the early hours of the morning, and it's time to go.

On my way to the exit, I pass the doorway to the main Agra hall. The Human League are still at it. I catch a creditable rendition of 'Being Boiled' (I note, with nerdish detail, that they're playing the single version, not the album version, with the handclaps). Hmm. That doesn't sound bad. Maybe I should've caught the band's set after all? But then the band launch into 'Together In Electric Dreams' (not, of course, a Human League song), in which Phil Oakey's voice, straining for the high notes in the chorus, cracks into a tuneless yell. Ouch. Whatever he once had, it seems he can't quite recapture it now. Together in electric screams? I don't think so, Phil.

So, it's out into the night, where the beer stalls are still selling beer, and the wursts are still sizzling. I wander past the traditional comedy foodstuff stall - this year, it's 'Amerikan Potatoes mit Knoblauchsauce'. I just hope they're using fresh knobs, that's all I can say. Then tram, then hotel, then sleep. Day four begins in mere hours.