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.
Highlights:
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.
Highlights:
- Iggy & The Stooges - the first half-hour at least. I was so excited at finally seeing the man I almost cried. Definitely tailed off towards the end though - and two renditions of I Wanna Be Your Dog? Sure it's a fantastic track, but where was Passenger, Niteclubbing, the mighty Search & Destroy? Hmmm. Ever get the feeling you've been cheated? (Although Chuck makes the valid point that Passenger and Niteclubbing were solo tracks and not Stooges songs. Well spotted.)
- Soulwax - 15 minutes of James Murphy mentalness warmed us up a treat, although I'm sure 90% of the sweaty muscle-shirted ravers in the Boiler Room didn't know the hell had hit them when Mr Murphy dropped the 5-minute unsynched drum break. Belgium's finest unleashed a sonic electro-metal blast, leaving the Kiwi crowd not sure whether to neck another pill or throw the goat. Top stuff. [You can check it here.]
- The Franz - up there with the best I've seen them play. 40 Feet, Do You Want To and Matinee would have torn the roof off if Ericsson Stadium had a roof - and let's face it, it was such a sweaty hellhole it's a damn fine thing it didn't. Gawd bless Alex Kapranos for his superlative rock'n'roll antics (which made me holler myself hoarse, I've only just recovered my voice now) and gawd bless wee bassist Bob for continuing to look just as angelically bemused as he has done for the past three years.
- Shihad - I'm not a fan but watching 20,000 people mosh in unison to Home Again... Who wouldn't get the tiniest of lumps in their throat?
- The Living End - rockabilly-meets-punk-meets-ska. Yeah it's for the kids, but these guys can really play their instruments. And that includes a bona fide double bass! Rockin'!
- The Magic Numbers - the two songs we managed to catch before the desire for beer took its toll (see above). As usual. We did manage to catch this though. Ahhhh.
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]
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]
