Big Day Out 2008

You know it’s summer when the opening of beer cans becomes a symphony, you start roasting 5 paces from your front door, and, crucially, when the festivals start rolling in: and in our wide brown land the high tide mark is undoubtedly the Mighty Big Day Out. As I was a veteran of both the Sydney and Melbourne events, I was interested to see how the Adelaide crowd did it.
First thing I noticed was the huge number of folks who rolled up at 11am, at what would’ve been considered an unearthly hour in many of the other venues. (Especially do not wake the indie children before one.) There was also what I soon noticed as a scary trend emerging: giant Mexican* Hats, dozens of them, pouring into the vicinity like strange mushroom-people half-hidden under masses of sunlit straw. Were these people in cahoots? Was this some kind of cult? Should we, the people of BDO ‘08, be worried? Perhaps just pissed off, when you’re on the short side and happen to be stuck behind one of them...
Feeling slightly paranoid, but managing to skirt around the sun-smart monstrosities, I made my way to check out Uncharted winners Krill at the Essential tent, kicking off the day with some home-grown prog-rock. Making my way into the heart of the Showgrounds I caught on the breeze a strange blend of space-age samples and pedal guitar: it seemed Something With Numbers were afoot. It reminded me of a blend of shoe-gaze strangeness and Wolfmother on a bad trip. (Not to say I have ever experienced said event.) Which wasn’t to say they were bad, either. Just, well, odd.
At a festival there’s always that one band that musically cuts the ribbon on proceedings, and for us that was Gold Coast youngsters Operator Please. Their cover of ‘Whip It’ got the kids down the front into a frenzy; plenty of the aforementioned pestilential Mexican Hats bobbing in sympathy with OP’s hyperactive stage presence. Nothing says musical fun in the sun like punky vocals, and sunny, driving guitars.
Big music festivals seem to have a strange effect on people: they have a way of unfurling the freak flags. If you have a freak flag be prepared to get it out and wave it high, because it’s the BDO motherfuckers! Milling through the crowds between bands I caught several oddities, including a guy dressed up as Bam Bam (yes, from The Flintstones - orange and black spotted fur toga and all), a girl in floor-to-ceiling sequins and several mismatched sneaker combinations. Drawing me away from my sartorial wandering though via. Sitar and a drum thump you could feel far and wide were Melbournian boys British India. They turned in a solid set, despite the weird sound associated with the Green Stage – the echo onto the pavilion behind gave you headaches if you stood too far back.
After wandering down to Converse Stage and the limitations of the venue were becoming painfully clear. Everyone I asked seemed to think there were 20,000 people in there – I later found out the number was almost 35,000. Did someone not tell the management? Thankfully though, the struggle turned out to be worth it as we were duly rewarded by the charming performance of Kate Nash. The Englishwoman even teamed up with Billy Bragg on a tune. The crowd were spellbound.
Next up for moi and company were Gyroscope, who were much improved since I last saw them. They sure entertained the Mexicans*, who were gathered in a bundle, no doubt collaborating on some dark plot or other. We took a seat on what remained of the grass to enjoy the folkalisciousness that is Josh Pyke – the crowd were happy to get involved for the set, which culminated in a mass sing-along to the passive-aggressive irony-bomb that is ‘Private Education’ a tracks which couldn’t be more effective if it were set to searing guitars and a rebel yell.
Ah, Battles. After putting in sets around the country nothing short of transcendent, the air was heavy with expectation. They delivered, as well as a trio of pasty New Yorkers not used to direct sunlight could do. Which was surprisingly well, actually. (Perhaps it missed some of the Hats*, but that was to be expected really, eh?) Of particular not was how, despite a marked lack of vocalist, they still managed to pull a certain level of emotion (euphoria?) from the crowd. In short, this was aural ecstasy: no illicit substances required.
Arcade Fire were next up on the musical radar, filling the main stage with a grand total of ten members; all of which are prone to a bit of trans-instrumental showing off. The set was smooth as butter - I was at a loss to find any weakness in their perfectly executed musical defence. But in the end – is this a good or a bad thing? This is a music festival after all – skin burns, shoes snap, make-up slides off in streaky beige rivulets. We’re here to celebrate our flaws. All that said - I get the feeling this is a band that comes into full flower in a more intimate setting.
From this we ducked off to see Karnivool, and arrived just in time to be king-hit by the awesomeness that is ‘Roquefort’. We discovered their sound had a pair of musical legs (and fists) it’s been missing the last couple of shows on the tour - water, sweat and dust kicked up glistened in pure rock ‘n rock euphoria. Hands down the most exuberant crowd response of any local act on the tour. (And on the smallest stage, to boot.)
Without further ado our troop took ourselves off to Unkle in The Boiler Room. Squeezing inside, we were met with the sound of decadence. I felt the outfit were a little samey at times, but their power could carry them a long way with the addition of some extra dynamics. That said, their atmospheric visuals were right on the money – setting us up for a night of delights. I’ll never look at a palm tree the same way again.
Making our way through the crowd and up into the stands could’ve been a metaphor for Moses parting the Red Sea (except he didn’t have to deal with sweaty yobbo blokes pouring beer down your top), but we eventually got up to a decent level above the crowd. A sea was right – every head a pinprick, the crowd moved like mercury in the twilight. A disarming hush fell upon them all with the first few notes from the stage: and a shambolic yet oddly perfect version of ‘Earth Intruders’ emerged. Bjork appeared amongst a crowd of horn players, who were all dressed up in flame-coloured bard’s tunics. Bjork herself was dolled up in a loose pink and white number, which swirled and shimmied with her every movement. And with a voice you could dive into and swim around in, you couldn’t help following. The horns lent a kind of symphonic sensuality to the rolling bass that issued out of the stage on several tracks, running through ‘Human Behaviour’ and culminating in a spine-tingling ‘Joga’. All this said, however, I felt the standout in terms of musical contrast and the ever-reliable Goose-Flesh Scale was ‘Army of Me’. Bjork appeared a Little Red Riding Hood in her garb, small and delicate, surrounded by the storm created from brass, and heavy electronic machinery, and became the eye. The set finished up with an epic ‘Hyperballad’, a million pieces of reflective confetti exploded into the air, green lights bouncing off it in kaleidoscopic patterns; just like someone shot up a mirror-ball.
Running as quickly as the human tide would allow, we made it into LCD Soundsystem – and, boy! Weren’t we glad we did! Singer James Murphy was tearing it up onstage (very, very neatly), a single classic voice punctuating the solid wall of dance cacophony perfectly engineered to get us movin’. (I actually saw one guy just standing there. But I’m not sure, he must’ve been a cyborg. Or maybe some kind of alien spy.) You’d have had to have been from another planet devoid of groove to not have appreciated the brilliance of the ironically titled ‘North American Scum’ or the perfectly placed closing croon of ‘New York, I Love You…’.
Again we ducked out to the main game to catch half of the much-hyped Rage Against the Machine set. We were in time to see vocalist Zack de la Rocha go off on an inflammatory tirade against Rupurt Murdoch and Lil’Bush and the usual suspects, adding what I suspected was an extra shot of liquid fire to the masses of sunburnt, exhausted punters. They went to produce a solid, blistering set – the chunky bass of ‘Renegades of Funk’ hitting you square in the chest where it hurt; followed up by a double-shot of Guerrilla Radio and Freedom. This heralded the end of their ‘official’ set, but it didn’t take a die-hard to know that something was missing in this here place. After much clapping and posturing and palaver that is the prerogative of the rock-star ego, the band re-appeared to produce a magnificent ‘Killing in the Name’. Fists were pumped, lyrics were screamed, dreams were realised. What a great end to a fantastic day.
So, in summation, how do the Adelaidians compare? I admit: I was initially a little freaked out by how friendly everyone seemed (when you’ve lived the jaded city-life for years you start to wonder what these people want from you), and the transport exodus from the venue still has a looooooooong way to go (three hour wait, anyone?!?), but overall, I liked it.
I’ll be back – with a car. (And less sunburn. Damn those people and their broad-brimmed annoyances*.)
*Nothing against those people of Mexican extraction. I love you all. (I also love your tequila, fiestas and customs of sleeping in the middle of the day. But that goes without saying.)

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