Monday, January 23, 2006

Big Day Out = not a bad day out 

Could have been a whole heap better of course - generally I prefer not to have to queue for half an hour while 1,000 people bottleneck trying to get from one stage to another thanks to some conveniently-erected fences restricting passage to a 1m-wide thoroughfare.

I'd also like to be able to get myself a beer to enjoy watching luscious bands such as the Magic Numbers in the sunshine without having to queue to get back through the tiny thoroughfare, then to queue for another hour to gain access to the tiny fenced-off bar area because a) some fools decided to make it an all-ages festival and b) Kiwi kids are too ratbaggy to be able to be sensible around an open bar.

How I mocked my co-workers when they admitted they intended to remain in our company's corporate box and watch the acts from their lofty pinnacle, deriding them as 'pussy-arse soft cocks', claiming I would be down in the thick of it, getting amongst it. How they laughed as I was forced to eat my words and retire to my box seat defeated, a sweaty, irritable wreck seeking only air conditioning and solace in a pint of gin and tonic.

But anyway, whinge ends. It was a pretty good seat and not being 'amongst it' didn't stop me pogoing like a fool (apparently snapped mid-Iggy by TV3 News for maximum posterity shame). And the side-by-side stage was a nifty innovation - although it did make for amusing viewing watching one half of the crowd rock their socks off while the other side stood stock-still awaiting the next act, much like a very large flock of penguins.


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Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Ain't no good bringin' no jive to me 

Lizzie of the comments box asks what one might do on a Saturday night in Auckland. Where, she continues, are the young folk to get their dancing shoes on? Where, in short, do the children play?

Dear, sweet Lizzie, you've come to the wrong place. In Smacked Face Land 2006, Saturday nights mean only a quiet pint down at the Piha RSA before returning to the porch to load up the shotgun and indulge in some quiet whittlin'. I'm told dancing is in fact still considered the devil's work in these far-flung, simple isles.

Sorry I can't help. I lead a sad and tragic existence these days, in my self-imposed temporary exile. I may crawl out of the house tomorrow night to see if the rumours of a secret Meg White DJ set are true, then onwards to the Big Day Out to screech along to Search & Destroy, but then it's straight back to the shack. There's a rocking chair with my name on it.

INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Southern Can Mama, Blind Willie McTell [mp3]

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