Country House

It's occurred to me quite recently that the majority of posts I've written of late have been quite negative. Their subject matter is invariably a humourous take on woes that befall me, or situations that I have hated sure, but they're still pretty whingey. I know this brings the lols to those who read this blog (especially Mitch) and as such I won't soon be stopping, but I also wonder how much this depicts me as a negative person. In actuality, the second half of 2011 and the first week or so of 2012 have found me in the happiest head space I've been in for a very long time. Maybe that's why I'm able to find hilarity in unpleasant situations and the idiotic things I do? Perhaps.

At any rate, today's post isn't negative in the slightest. In fact, the four days I'll now attempt to detail can only really begin to be described as "idyllic". Sigh. Tomorrow work begins again, and I imagine I'll spend much of the day gazing longingly out the window and daydreaming about time spent without a watch, picking fruit and lazing on the beach.

The location was Leongatha, at Marlon's parents' place. They weren't there, but the dogs, chickens, sheep, the views, the beach and ripe fruit were. We took a wrong turn on the sweltering hot car trip there, thanks to my easily-distracted direction-giving skills but helped in no way by my fellow navigator. As a Kiwi, Mike's brain very quickly turned to mush in the heat and conversation slowed to a near halt as the heat rose and the car made noises of pain, struggling against the unfamiliar weight and the air-con on full bore. The wrong turn however, meant the detour we took to get back on the South Gippsland highway took us through be-sheeped paddocks and back roads lined with trees and small pubs whose clientele whirled around in curiosity at the sound of a car speeding past.

Upon finally arriving at Marlon's our jaws collectively dropped to the floor as we attempted to stifle gasps. Or at least, I did. Alice's face was probably more easily readable as a look somewhere between "overwhelmed" and complete delight. We agreed later that had Immy been there, she would have been sent into a conniption, such was the gorgeous scene and the house that resided within it. Marlon, perhaps sensing our delight, gave us a tour of the property. The house, with its rooms littered with the beautifully mis-matched trinkets, books and paintings and things only acquired after years and years of living. The old kitchen, the verandahs with three dogs lazing on it. Three outdoor wood fired bread/pizza ovens, a shed full of chickens. An orchard, full of peaches, grapefruits, oranges, apples. Artichokes, berries, avocadoes, with dorky geese waddling around and two of the friendliest and fluffiest sheep you can imagine. Frequently looking back at Alice, I could see her eyes growing bigger and bigger in gleeful shock and wonder. We picked peaches straight off the tree and ate them, the warm juice dripping down our faces and arms. Marlon took us to the other side of the house, where the cellar sat with a tiny little room resplendent on top, stairs leading up to it.
"Reb." Mike was pointing at the room, grinning. "Ernest Hemingway."
"Ohhhh my goodness!! Imagine being led up to that love nest!" Alice cried.

Seriously. Seriously, it was just too lovely to describe. The other side of the house led us to cucumbers, potatoes, pumpkins, a shed for making cider in, flowers, olives, strawberries. Come ON! We half-expected some Ashton Kutcher-esque guy in a backwards trucker cap to leap out from within the bushes and declare that we'd been Punk'd.

The first day was spent at the beach, finally cooling off after the rather rudely hot journey to Leongatha. Alice and Mike's backs were peeling something awful, an arm almost permanently reaching behind them to have at the itchy carnage. Unfortunately for Alice's gag reflex, I soon discovered a newfound love and skill (?) for peeling chunks of skin off Mike's back. I don't know about you, but I think our friendship reached a new level as soon as I triumphantly held up a piece of skin, bobbing in the surf. 

Cheap thrills, yo.

You know? That was the first time I'd been to a beach proper since Alice, Karin and I lay by the surf in Spain. That was 2010. Can you believe that? I mean sure, I'd swum in an Amazonian lake, Peruvian hot springs, and Lake Eildon (obviously the most impressive of the trio), but no beaches. The sand, the taste and smell of the water, the sting of the ol' water-in-yer-nostrils game ... I was surprised to realise that I had missed it dearly. Living right on the bay in Adelaide all those years ago, I took the beach for granted, and even decided that I was decidedly not a "beach person". Truth be told, I'm now re-thinking that opinion of myself. It was glorious as hell, bobbing around and (failing at) catching waves. Marlon and Mike headed further out while Alice and I stayed behind to talk excitedly of the extent of the loveliness we'd managed to find ourselves in. A day at the beach, lying in the sun, with the promise of a barbeque and cider upon returning to Marlon's. 

For those of you playing at home, yes, I did get slightly sunburnt. It was probably somewhere between dozing off on the sand and stopping off for a beer on the way back home. Sozol skin, you'll be scaly for a few days yet. The barbeque was prepared, as was the salad. The sun went down and out came the camera and ciders and thus so too did the conversations and gesticulations that grew wilder as the volume of laughter also did. What did we talk about? Oh lord, don't ask me to remember! Everything and anything. Everything from the pros and cons of fighting to the death against a horse-sized duck to punk to sex to creativity. All the while, three dogs eyed us curiously as we sat beside the cellar, drinking port after the cider. 

The days that followed all seemed to be guided by the same script. Sleep in, fry up some bacon and eggs, down some coffee, head to the beach, swim, sunbathe, meander our way back past the supermarket, make pizzas, cook them in the outdoor oven, drink cider, drink wine, blast some music, keep drinking, pass out. 

The box in the pantry set aside for recyclables soon filled and overflowed, with cider bottles, wine bottles (blanco y tinto), homemade cider bottles, and one bottle of whiskey was unwisely tackled after all of the drinks listed above. Let that be a lesson to y'all, children. If you've had cider, white wine, red wine, homemade beer, homemade cider and a spliff, then whiskey is a bad idea. 

Reb: WHISKEY

Mitch: NEVER THE BAD CHOICE!

Reb: GREAT CHOICE OR GREATEST CHOICE

Reb: (the next day) Whiskey was the worst choice. 

However, up until the point when I chundered to the dulcet tones of Mike's laughter (at me, not with me), the night was filled with laughter and music and pizza. Alice went to bed, and the two guys and I embarked on a whiskey-fueled adventure - an adventure which even included rally driving to Korumburra to buy papers. I tried my darndest to keep up with Mike and Marlon's hip-hop oriented conversations to varying levels of success, and could feel myself talking louder and louder, with arms waving further and further into the air - as is the case after so many fun-filled, alcohol-soaked hours in good company. Fun fact: Marlon is truly a superb host. 

Needless to say, the following day (read: afternoon) I felt rather worse for wear. The beach, the supermarket, a nap, pizza, wine, back on the horse. More delicious pizza and delicious company, with the perfect temperature in the breeze. We went inside and thus ensued a dance party. Alice and I flailed around in the inimitable that has made us a force to be reckoned with on the D-Floor. Toe-tapping, hip-twisting, arm-flapping, jumping and kicking; we even managed to get Mike off his feet to the strains of some 60s garage. I then put on a bit of Limp Bizkit, to Alice's wide-eyed horror. "BREATH IN BREATH OUT HANDS UP HANDS DOWN BACK UP BACK UP TELL ME WHATCHA WANNA DO NOW KEEP ROLLIN' ROLLIN' ROLLIN'" Mike attempted a body-roll at the behest of Alice, to a chorus of our hysterical laughter. Alice and I debated the finer points of "being danced with", longed for the days of charming men dipping girls on a civilised dance floor. Then, as if to contradict those thoughts entirely, came the mounting. As those who are acquainted with us know well, when Alice and I are around the mounting inevitably occurs, as does licking. Thus, also came the metal-hands and screeching along to "Bohemian Rhapsody", into what we'd decided would be our microphone - Mike's crotch. Sorry, Mike. 

"How did he think he could fit
four songs into one??!" - Alice

Disregarding being cornered in my room by a giant spider and as a result spending the night on the couch (Wisely I think, I decided not to venture into Alice and Marlon's room to ask for assistance), our last night in Leongatha ended pleasantly and our last morning there began sans hangover. We feasted yet again on bacon and eggs, as well as the bagels Mike had made the night before. Talented boy.

After a quick round of target practice using Marlon's air rifle (turns out I'm a pretty good shot, if anyone playing at home is in need of a sharpshooter) and posing with a very old and beautiful rifle, it dawned on us that we'd have to hit the old dusty trail soon. We then went on one last wander around the garden, picking all manner of fruit and vegetable to take home with us. The dogs scampered around us, prancing and wrestling in the grass. Again, we ate berries and peaches and picked the most monstrously large grapefruits imaginable. Marlon disappeared into the bush and a minute later emerged grinning, handing Alice a bunch of flowers he'd just picked. Alice's face - if our surroundings and the fruit hadn't caused her brain to explode from delight - managed to become an expression of the kind of gleeful bewilderment I can't for the life of me describe.

Anyway. We bade goodbye to Marlon, thanked him a wonderful few days. Earlier that morning Alice and I had reflected on the days that we'd just had, and how completely and utterly idyllic and relaxing they had been. Alice asked me what time it was, and to my surprise I lifted my wrist and realised I hadn't worn my watch for four days. Generally speaking, I feel naked as hell without my watch, and panic when I don't know what the time is. Over those few days however, all concept of time and what day it was completely flew out the window. That phrase, "not a care in the world", was absolutely fitting; we all agreed that any troubles that might've been lingering in the backs of our minds were completely washed away by the booze and the sea and the company we were keeping. That rarely happens for me, so certainly it was an occurrence worth noting. Not for a very, very long time have I been that relaxed. Similarly, not for a while have I spent four days with a group of people and not once felt that a silence was uncomfortable, or that a conversation was stilted. That too, I think is worth noting. 

So then, as we said goodbye to Marlon and his wonderful house, it was a sinking realisation that the real world was hurtling towards us at a breakneck, sinister speed. The trip back was markedly more subdued than the one there, even though the temperature was cooler and our brains hadn't turned to mush. Thoughts of work, what would face us on Monday, the distinct lack of beach and home made pizzas that would be so glaring at our respective offices. Sigh. I shouldn't complain, seeing as my place of employment happens to be a highly enjoyable one ... but still. There's a lot to be said for wandering barefoot through the grass, picking warm peaches from a tree. 

Here's to an amazing "weekend"! 

Of discoveries and vomit and sombreros.

My iPhone was stolen in Argentina. It made me sad, it made me grope at the pockets of those dancing near me while demanding they prove they didn't take it, it ruined my night, it prompted the adorable Argentino I'd been amusing myself with to apologise repeatedly on behalf of every one of his countrymen. The next day I spent hours in line attempting to purchase a replacement phone. The fruit of my labours and limited pesos was a phone with a shitness rating of such magnitude that a few days later when I was pickpocketed again - at the SAME CLUB, justsoyouknow - the thief in question rummaged through my bag and left it there for me. That's how woeful a phone it was.

Upon returning to Australia I dug around within the junk I possess and for once thanked my inability to throw anything out, ever. Behold, an old phone. I thought it had died a grizzly death at the hands of an esky a few summers ago, but apparently the old girl's made of tougher stuff than that. I inserted my newly acquired SIM card and oh joy, it worked! Moreover, it very quickly became clear that this particular phone happens to be nothing less than a veritable time capsule, an official deliverer of nostalgia. I found ALL of my contacts, photos, ring tones and a shit-tonne of messages from early 2009 intact. My lord. The infamous "BURWOOD HIGHWAY" recording, pictures of a drunken uni night at the Oxford Scholar, messages regarding Vicki Christina Barcelona, a picture of a seagull with the head of a shark as the background.

What made me delightedly laugh out loud however, was two photos in particular. The memories of a night I hadn't thought about in an incredibly long time came rushing back, and immediately rang Mitch. Unfortunately, I soon remembered Mitch changed his phone number somewhere between early 2009 and the present day. Small hurdle. I've since informed him of the photos' existence and he implored me to send them over. Well, the afternoon is lovely and I've spent the day being a functional adult person and I'm rewarding myself with a tasty beer beverage so I'll do you one better; I think it's time for a bit of a reminisce. 

It was a nice night. The boys were all still living together at that stage, being that it was early 2009. The house was called The Glebe. It's still there, now inhabited by people ranging from good friends to slight acquaintances. But it was 2009 then and Mitch, Jackson, Toby and Ben all resided within its walls and high ceilings.

I can't remember what the day leading up to the night had consisted of, but some bright spark had realised that it was a Monday, and on Mondays at Taco Bill the main dishes are half price. One would be a chump not to capitalise on that particular tidbit of information, no? The four of us trouped over.

We were starving, so everyone immediately decided to get a Very Large Entree as well as the half-price mains mentioned earlier. Why the hell not? It was Mexican, after all. Mexican is delicious. Someone (doesn't matter who) then informed the table that if one bought a fish-bowl margarita, one would then receive a sombrero. This particular suggestion was met with roars of approval. Giant margarita and a sombrero? Well, shit. This was turning out to be the dinner suggestion of the century!

I gazed at the menu sadly. I was probably already pushing it with the two servings of Mexican delights both wallet- and appetite-wise. A giant margarita would be excessive. I'd get a little margarita. That was met with roars of disapproval.

"Come on! It's a giant margarita!"
"Fishbowl margarita!"
"With a hat!"
"PUSSY!"

The drinks arrived and so did the hats.
I sat there, with my little margarita, without a sombrero.

"Aw. I want a hat." 

"You can't have a hat. These are hats for men. You need a man's drink for a man's hat."

"I can be a man!"

"No. You can't. Where's your man drink?"

"It'll take more than words for you to be a man, son!"

"You can't be part of a man club without a man's hat." 

My margarita looked so small and inadequate.

"Fuck it!" I announced. 

So I ordered a giant margarita, with a "YOU'LL SEE!" attitude. It arrived. So did my stupid sombrero. I placed it on my head proudly and took a giant gulp out of the giant glass in front of me, full of triumph. 

The image was met with thunderous accolades. 

"Well done, Rebby!" said Mitch proudly. "You're a man now."

Huzzah! 

Sitting in a triumphant circle with our triumphant hats, the five of us turned our attention to the veritable mountain range of food in front of us. Good thing we were hungry. Burritos, rice, chicken things, more burritos, tacos, the works. And our giant drinks. Shit, it was a good thing we had the hats to help us on our way to plate completion. 

We ate, we barreled our way through the excessive amount of food piled on the table. We made a toast to the Glebe, and the apartment that preceded it. We ate with the gusto of starving dinosaurs (I assume they enjoyed eating). Then we began to slow down. The margaritas were consumed. We slowed down even more. 

In hindsight, it was inevitable that things would take a turn for the worse. We were destined for disaster, even after the glorious sombrero and alcohol-filled victory that came first. Dare I say it, disaster was a direct result of the glory that was our table a mere half hour beforehand. 

At any rate, the five of us sorted out the bill with dispositions a few notches more subdued than was the case earlier. The mood was tired, full, deteriorating. Toby stood and hurried to the bathroom. Bad sign. We filed outside in silence, still wearing our sombreros. Happy Mexicans we were not. 

Jackson staggered over to the wall next to Taco Bill and leaned against it on his forearm, resting his head. Ben sat down in the gutter, with his head in his hands. I didn't feel great, I'll tell you that much for free. I too sat down to wait for Mitch and Toby. We'd played it badly. We'd been drunk on the heady sense of power that comes with giant margaritas and complimentary sombreros. Mitch soon emerged, looking unenthusiastic with the goings-on.

"Where's Toby?" he asked. He was met with queasy silence. 

"Dunno. Inside." Someone replied. 

We waited in silence. 

Soon enough Toby rejoined us and we battered soldiers of cheap Mexican cuisine began the long march back to The Glebe. As we were crossing the road I heard my phone go off. I tried to get into my pocket, but got tangled up in my excessively large girl-bag. 

"Toby, could you do me a favour and hold my bag for a second?"

"Mm."

I kept walking, retrieved my phone and turned around to relieve Toby of my bag. I was met with this image:

Artist's rendition.

From Toby's mouth came forth perhaps the most violent spray of vom I have ever seen. It splashed off the ground, it just kept coming, it was awful.
"Ohmygod! Toby! Are you okay???"

"Yeah..." replied Tobias, wiping his mouth. 

We finished crossing the road. He vommed again. 

The reaction wasn't one of a chorus of disgust. Everyone felt somewhat the same. Toby was just articulating it a little better than anyone else. 

"You guys go on ahead." said Ben in a dire tone. "I need to do this on my own."

The walk home seemed twice as long as the walk there. We staggered back, still sombrero'd. As we rounded the corner to the lane behind the Glebe, Jackson sped ahead of Mitch and I. At the back gate of the house, he acquiesced. In a shower of vom, he too surrendered his two meals and margarita. But not his sombrero. As we entered the house, he made himself a sandwich. 

"The fuck?"
"I'm hungry again!"

You know what? I got almost all the way back home (my home, not theirs) before I realised my sombrero was still slung around my neck. I suppose that's the mark of a man. That even in the throes of an upset stomach, one doesn't admit defeat. Defeat, neither of the nauseous nor the sombrero-less variety. I'm pretty sure I still have the sombrero. For the record, the food was completely adequate. I think it was more a matter of an over-ambitious consumption goal. 

Speaking to Mitch about the discovery of the photos, he laughed. 

"I remember that night! That was a Good Night." He paused. "That was the night you became a man!"

Some last thoughts on Soundwave (Part 2, at last)

It almost seems pointless bothering to write about the second half of my Soundwave experience.

The "tomorrow" I referred to at the end of Part 1 has turned into "weeks later", with the bruises having faded and gigs having been attended since, and memories having faded somewhat since the initial excited exclamations and arm-flailing.

If it were anything else I probably wouldn't bother, but I did say that I'd write a part two, and there are some things that I think are definitely worth relating about the second half of Soundwave.

So, when we last saw our heroes, they'd just partaken in some sustenance, in the form of burgers. Served to them by a foul-mouthed, loud man at the Beatbox Kitchen. I fell a little bit in love.

The temperature of the day dropped, and everyone pulled their jumpers and jackets tight around them. One isn't generally wont to taking multiple layers to music festivals - particularly those that take place in early March - and so I found myself cold. I had chosen practicality in a mosh over weather-wear unfortunately. We stood in line for coffee for upwards of half an hour. Friends came and went. A tripped out guy prone to yelling and falling into the fence provided amusement for a few minutes.

Waffles were bought, the ground sat on, acquaintances and friends ran into. A friend from high school, a guy I met in Amsterdam, the brother of a friend I used to work with. It seemed we were all in the mood for some chilling out on the ground with our disgusting coffees, as opposed to going back to one of the various stages. Is it old age that makes us so weary so quickly into a day of music? Or maybe it was more a case of the bands we were interested in not taking the stage until later.

At any rate, after some time spent shooting the shit with TD, Dave, Bob and Lozz, one of us noticed that One Day as a Lion would be on shortly. After a lot of "ehhhhhh" and "maaaaaaybe"-ing, we trouped over. My verdict: entertaining. I'm glad I hauled myself off the ground to see them. Certainly I was intrigued to see what they'd play, given the band has only released one five-song EP. We stood a fair way away from their stage, in readiness I suppose, for Queens of the Stone Age. I enjoyed ODaaL, dug seeing them, but I was also glad I didn't bother to get any closer to the stage. Somewhat amusing was a comment from Zach de la Rocha, about a group of fans directly in front of him in the crowd. Something along the lines of them being the "most dedicated Maiden fans I've ever seen". I laughed at that, the mental image of men clad in Maiden tees, steadfastly standing there during set after set, in readiness and anticipation for their heroes.

The space around us soon began to fill up, Queens of the Stone Age were about to begin. While Dave and TD marveled at the QotSA lighting set up, I tried in vain to find a friend of mine, and organise a meet-up with a girl I'd met in Amsterdam. The day was planned as a glorious reunion of Amsterdam party pals, but it was not to be. Who was I kidding? Festival meet-ups are nigh-on impossible to co-ordinate. At that stage, I was truly sick of trying to get messages to send, and craning my neck over the crowd to see if Jase was finally in the same vicinity as me (he wasn't). I gave up. Fuck it. Josh Homme, you have my undivided attention.

You certainly do.

Their set was an entertaining, exciting one, albeit also a festival-friendly one. Not that I minded particularly, as that was to be expected. They kicked off their set with "Feel Good Hit of the Summer", a somewhat appropriate song given the giant bottle of vodka Homme was brandishing, asking the crowd, "WHO KNOWS WHAT I CAME HERE TO DO?". As a slightly chubby, drunk ginger-haired dude, under normal circumstances one wouldn't expect someone like Josh Homme to be a sexy beast. Somehow though, he manages to pull it off. Shit son, does he ever. My toes began to tap and a grin spread over my face. I turned to Dave.

"Goddamn. He is one ridiculously sexy man."

Dave paused.
"Yes. He is. I'll pay that."

QotSA's set included "3s & 7s", "Lost Art of Keeping a Secret", and "Sick, Sick, Sick" ... and you'll have to forget my terrible memory (and the fact that it's been weeks), but it was shortly after this stage that something fairly great happened.

I suddenly heard surprised laughter, and saw people around me pointing. I craned my neck to see, and there it was; a guy in a wheelchair, bouncing around above the crowd, his fists pumping in rock n' roll victory. 
"That's...AWESOME!!"
"That's fucking amazing!!"
As people noticed what was happening, the volume of the crowd rose. It really was fucking great. 
As the song ended (whatever it was), Josh Home laughed and pointed down at the crowd to where the wheelchaired guy must've been.
"THAT. Was pretty much the most BADASS thing I've ever seen!!"
(cue cheering from crowd)
Their set continued, including "Monsters in the Parasol", "Burn the Witch", and "Little Sister". I would have taken a photo. I would have. But given how much time Dave and I spent during the band's performance laughing at the sea of cameras recording Josh Homme's blip in the distance and phone cameras taking blurred photos, that I felt it would have been a hypocritical move at best. Yes, having a photo to post on this blag would have been nice, but it was much more fun elbowing Dave and hissing "YOUR MATE", pointing at the drunk fat girl holding up her iPhone to record "Little Sister". Cause I mean, hearing the shitty audio and barely discernible image will be worth it after not paying attention to the performance proper.
"Nup. Fucken, shotgun not. Your mate." 

Photo from here. Consolation for having too many qualms with taking photos
at festivals using my phone.

Anyway, "Go With the Flow" preceded "No One Knows", in which green lightsaber-esque tubes illuminated the stage. "No One Knows" being their last song (bar the encore that followed), Mr Homme suddenly pointed at the guy in the wheelchair, and bellowed something along the lines of getting "that motherfucker onstage where he belongs!"   

A camera man scrambled to the front of stage (I could just imagine barked orders from the director in his/her headset), just in time to see the security guards looking up at the band, as if to say, "Serious? Get him up there? For fuck's sake." 
At least three or four burly men then hauled the wheelchair-bound young man onto the stage ("Don't fucking break him!" yelled Homme). After a couple of minutes of struggling, he was on the stage with the band, and the crowd erupted into cheers. The guy punched the air with his fist, his hands giving the crowd a metallic sign of victory. Homme thrust the bottle of vodka at him, and the guy took an almighty elated swig, prompting the crowd to cheer even louder. 

I was laughing, clapping, as were those around me. It was a pretty great moment. "Now, get the fuck over there!" Homme pointed to the side of stage (the guy was front and center). He wheeled himself over, then started headbanging and brandishing the bottle. The song ended, and again the crowd was a deafening roar. I recounted the story Ev, my brother, the next day. He's a much bigger fan of QotSA than I am, and the look on his face was full of more disappointment at not attending than after all of my gushing gushing about The Bronx, Iron Maiden and Primus put together. 

The band returned briefly for "Song for the Dead" (awesome), and left the stage with wheelchair mosher, no doubt to continue the party. Earlier on in the set Homme had declared his love of Melbourne, of "partying in St Kilda! Throwing up on Brunny street!", and I for one, hope he well and truly took the Melbourne night life and got it pregnant behind the gym before setting off for Adelaide. 

Anyway. After a brief yet enthusiastic and excited conversation with an old high school friend of my brother's (my, how they grow...), it was time for Iron Maiden. Or rather, a little bit of Maiden before The Bronx. Or rather, a ten minute introduction video and a couple of songs before The Bronx. The introduction video itself was a sight to behold. It was almost as if the band had sat behind the guy animating it and intermittently yelled out, "An explosion there!" 
"Now, cut to outer space!"
"Cut to fire!"
"A space ship!"
"Now more explosions!"
"An exploding planet!"

It was pretty ridiculous. Also pretty awesome. It transcended the ridiculousness to be awesome. We saw maybe two songs before rushing over to see The Bronx, but I was happy to see Maiden take the stage, and to see the reaction of the crowd. There's no denying the guys, especially Bruce (the world's #1 Over-achiever) rock out just as hard or even harder than the much younger bands around today. According to a quick Google, the songs we saw before bailing were "Satellite 15" and "The Final Frontier". Good stuff. I suppose it's one of those, "I have seen them! I can now tick that box on my life's To Do list". I do really like Maiden. I have a great fondness for Maiden. But having said that, seeing The Bronx was one of the main reasons I had bought that over-priced ticket in the first place.

I'd seen The Bronx before, at the Meredith Music Festival in 2008 (the muddy one). They'd been pretty fucking great. They were pretty fucking great, but it also wasn't a true Bronx gig, in that there wasn't really a Mosh, a FUCKING MOSH MAN. Earplugs in, boots tied up, bag done up, Dave, Bob, Lozz and I sidled our way to the front. The Melvins played on the stage next door, a most pleasant surprise. I guessed TG must've been there. Probably just recovered from the Primus. His pants must've been a mess, frankly.

A puzzled glance at a guy YELLING VICTORY about Essendon or someshit, and seemingly endless minutes of waiting and finally The Bronx began. I was promptly pushed and stumbled over my own feet (ever a vision of grace) and landed on the ground in a heap. I hauled myself up, slightly mortified to have fallen over before anything had even begun ("I thought you fucken.... died, or something." Dave remarked later).
They opened with "Knifeman", I remember that much. It was awesome. It was crowded. It was shoving and pushing and jumping and arms in the air and yelling and grinning and laughing and being pushed into the guy in front of me. "FUCKIT!" yelled Dave, as he liberated himself from his jumper and t-shirt. "Rape Zombie" followed. More of the same, but even better. Shoving and pushing and oh SHIT that crowd surfer nearly squashed me WHOOPSLOL nearly pushed over jumping and jumping and my fist pumping the air. Then "Shitty Future". SHITTY FUTURE! I screeched and jumped and there was a circle pit behind us but that was okay because ONE MORE TIME YOUR SHITTY FUTURE.
 
Fucken, good.

I'm not sure what was next. "Inveigh", I think. At any rate, my too-full bag kept getting caught between people and nearly dragging me backwards onto the ground. Annoying. Note to self: travel lighter during next Soundwave I attend. "I think I gotta bail!!" I yelled at Dave. I took my leave and shoved my way out of the mosh. I'd travelled a couple of meters to some relative calm and turned back to look at the crowd. Circle pit, jumping and pushing...I cursed my momentary pussy-dom. What the fuck was I thinking??
"FUCK THAT!" I thought, at the song's close. I hitched up my tights and marched back into the throng. Best decision ever. Even though I only caught glimpses of the guys from that point onwards, it was still fucking great. Forgive my constant expletives, but they're really kind of necessary. At one stage I nearly scrambled my way back to Rowan and Dave, but to no avail. No matter however, as there was much to make up for being just out of reach of my pals. Fucken, of course there was. Frontman Matt Caughthran, prone to whipping crowds into frenzies and crowd surfing with a trail of mic lead behind, hauled himself into the crowd multiple times. Each time the crowd responded with crazy approval. It was great. "They Will Kill Us All", "False Alarm" ... a girl rushed past me with blood pouring from her mouth. Circle pit. I wasn't game enough to actually through myself into the pit, but certainly felt the reverberations (is that the right word?) from where I stood, pretty much directly in front of it.

From here.

"Heart Attack American", "White Guilt" and "History's Stranglers" (WOO!) closed their set. As did much of what I'd just been describing. To describe it again would probably serve to entertain no one but myself, but suffice to say it was full of pushing and shoving and jumping and yelling. And awesome, of course.

At the set's end I spied Locky and slapped him on the back, trying to formulate a coherent sentence out of my gasping and beaming smile. I'm pretty sure "OIMAAAAN!!!" was all I could muster. We wandered over to the shipping container (designated meeting point), and I saw everyone (TD, Bob, Lozz, Rowan) standing around, looking disheveled, tired and sweaty and happy. Dave was hugging everyone. He turned to me and at that moment I bizarrely wished to myself that I had a camera. The look on his face was of undiluted, elated, joy. His smile was pretty much taking up his entire face. Frankly, I wished that I could have captured that image somehow, as I didn't know I'd ever seen him quite look like that. He grabbed me in a huge hug, probably exclaimed something, and covered me (more) in the sweat of countless fellow Bronx fans.  

And you know the best bit? We got back to Iron Maiden just in time for "Number of Beast", and met up with various friends at the back of the crowd. WELL PLAYED, UNIVERSE. Well, that was my day done. Bronx, then "Number of the Beast". Then "Hallowed Be Thy Name". Muy bien.

Any Maiden fan that reads this will probably shoot me, but it was after that point that Dave, TD and I decided to bail. Honestly, the prospect of battling for upwards of an hour to get out of the showgrounds was something we wanted to avoid. So we left. Yes, it sounds like a pussy move, but anyone who's tried to leave a festival on public transport will know that it's not only tedious and horrid, but also fucking annoying. After a day of being in the elements, moshing, rushing around, the last thing one wants to do is inch your way towards the one train platform to be herded onto a train and stand a centimeter away from a smelly dude's face and make the long journey home. So we left. To be honest, I kind of do regret pussying out after those two songs but there's not much I can do now apart from wait for the next Maiden tour. If the band's energy is anything to go by, I'm sure there will be at least one.

I returned home and staggered inside.

"How was it?" my dad enquired.
"Euuuuuurggghhh. Good."
"You hungry?"
"Eeeeeeuurrghhhhhhhh. Imgonnabed."
"See Maiden?"
"Mostly Bronx. Saw Number of the Beast. I hurt... mosh. Everything hurts."
"Good stuff, kiddo. That's my tough girl!"
"Eeeeeuuuurgghhhhh."

Good day. Good bruises. Good stuff.

Soundwave Melbourne 2011 (Part 1)

Friday just gone was the day of Soundwave. It was my first Soundwave in fact. I was excited.

I'd bought my ticket when I returned from overseas, after the Melbourne show had sold out. It was a present to myself, a way in which to cheer myself up (something that I certainly won't go into for fear of casting a downer on proceedings). As such, I was not concerned about the price, and in hindsight, paid more for it than I should have. With such a superb lineup, in my estimation I'd be a chump not to go. On the train trip towards the city, I told Dave how much I'd paid and his eyes widened in horror.

"The fuck?"

I hurriedly defended myself, but honestly, I wasn't that fussed about it. This was because not only was the festival being headlined by Iron Maiden, but the Bronx, Millencolin, Dimmu Borgir, Queens of the Stone Age, One Day as a Lion and Primus were also playing. Fuckyeah. No kidding, fuck yeah. For those playing at home, the full line up was thus:

Comparisons to Big Day Out are constantly made, albeit (in the case of many of my friends) with "BUT METAL, AND BETTER" added at the end. These friends are mostly those who consider Big Day Out as having degenerated into a regular summer mostly-hipster occurrence attended in large parts by those who enjoy "stuff" more than seeing that band you're in love with. Which isn't to say I don't enjoy Big Days Out when I go. I mean, shit. I saw Nick Cave! I saw LCD Soundsystem! Big Days Out have brought to my eyes and ears Rage Against the Machine, Neil Young, Arcade Fire, Andrew WK and countless other eargasm-inducing experiences.

However, you may remember a previous blog post of mine (link in previous paragraph) in which I spent a large amount of space describing the large amount of time I spent raging at wannabe teen hipster sluts and dudds. The first thing I noticed upon arriving at Flinders street to meet up with Tim and catch the connecting train to the showgrounds, was how different the image one was met with at the station was compared with BDO-day. 

We descended onto the platform and didn't immediately cringe at the sound of squealing teenage girls, nor were our eyes ravaged against their will by the fluro shorts and white singlet clad guys. Instead, it was a sea of black. Black band tees, black jeans, black boots. A lot of dyed black hair. In a green dress (with black tights and a black jumper), I felt almost too colourful. A sea of Maiden t-shirts. Tees emblazoned proudly with band names and slogans declaring allegiance to the world of metal. Ahh. I felt happy, and decidedly not out-of-place. At peace, if you will. 

At any rate, TG, Dave and I journeyed to the showgrounds, and soon met up with a bunch of the other guys and a few girlfriends. Upon greeting them, we were almost immediately informed that Sum 41 had pulled out of the festival. That prompted a chorus of "SERIOUS? OH, SHIT!!" 

If there's one thing worth noticing about the line up of this year's Soundwave, is the remarkable 90s vibe it gives off. A 90s vibe, stench, aura. Whatever. Looking at a list of the bands, I feel a distinct nostalgic stirring in my loins (?). I mean, Third Eye Blind? Pennywise? Millencolin? Ah, the memories of high school! Primus, The Melvins, Dimmu. I was looking forward no end to getting my nostalgia on listening to Sum 41 (I'M IN TOO DEEP!), so that was pretty irritating. 

First band on the cards to see were Sevendust, a band of whom I know next to nothing, but who seemed entertaining enough. I know at least one of my friends is fairly obsessed with them, and so I was at somewhat curious as to what all the fuss was about. Their set though, was spent mostly greeting friends and discussing a plan of attack for the rest of the day. The first band I was interested in seeing had pulled out, and so I was left waiting for Dimmu Borgir. 

However, before that Dave, TG and I traipsed over to check out Gang of Four. Again, not a band I knew much of, but one that I had a significant amount of friends insist I must get into. Insist vehemently, with promises of eargasms and mind-blowing. Well, why the hell not. We went, and I was impressed. Impressed with their stage presence, their energy. Particularly impressed with the guitarist, who seemed to exude an effortless cool. I can tell you for a fact that I'll be partaking in some Gang of Four listening as soon as I had a chance. 

We met up with our mate Mark after their set, whose mind had been appropriately blown. A dude with long flowing hair and a propensity for making hilarious puns, his face was an ear-to-ear beaming grin. His phone was in a zip-lock bag in preparation for the METUL, and the puns were flowing thick and strong. In recent times I've begun hanging out regularly with fellow ladies, and enjoying it thoroughly, but there's just something about metal-oriented males that is just irreplaceably hilarious and engaging. Regardless of the musical pedigree at our eye-tips that day, I was kind of just thoroughly pleased to be spending the day with The Guys. It's not often that one finds a group of people that can so frequently bring about chortling, gut-wrenching laughter. 

Dimmu. It was not to be... :C

A few minutes into Social Distortion (who seemed pretty cool, from the song-and-a-bit that I heard) I rushed over to where Dimmu Borgir were to begin playing. If I had been in a lake of men dressed solely in black, then surely now it was an ocean. Admittedly, my days of listening to a lot of Dimmu have been behind me for a while, but there's enough of a sentimental attachment still there in my loins (?) to have warranted bailing from the guys right when they were about to head to Primus. It was not to be, however. After twenty minutes of standing around in the drizzling rain and searching in vain for an old friend from my days toiling away at Sanity, Dimmu had not taken the stage. My clothes were damp, my face was D: and Primus had just started playing. Unfortunately all that was going through my brain was "I could be seeing Primus right now!" and I soon succumbed.

I arrived at the main stage maybe one song into Primus' set. I have to admit, even though my knowledge of Primus isn't as comprehensive as that of say, a diehard fapping fan like Tim, I was fairly amped to see them. It's really thanks to Tim that I know of them at all. It was back in the years of 2005/06 or so, when almost every night Tim would send me a video over Messenger. Yet another video showcasing how amazing and fap-worthy Primus was and is. I arrived at the stage and got directions from Dave as to how to find the guys. "Just right of the JJJ Video Hits tent." I searched for them for about five minutes then admitted defeat by the rain and crowd and found myself a good spot to merely enjoy the band. 

Not worried about flying solo and despite the rain, I was really quite impressed with my first experience of seeing Primus in the flesh, this band that so many of my friends loved so dearly. According to a quick Google, they played "Here Come the Bastards", "Those Damned Blue-Collar Tweakers", "Pudding Time" amongst others (obviously), but at the time I had no idea what I was listening to, only that it was fairly great and there were two giant inflatable astronauts behind the band. 

"Where's TG?"
"Where do you think? He's probably cleaning himself up."

Mercifully, after a few songs the crowd rearranged itself, and I spied a glimpse of Dave's bright blue jumper. I made a beeline for it, thanking the festival gods that everyone was wearing black and that Dave had chosen to wear a jumper that he was okay with losing amongst the METUL excitement. I had found the guys, albeit a the guys minus TG, who I assumed was at the very front of the throng, probably in need of cleaning up his pants.

There's no denying Les Claypool is most probably more than worthy of all the fapping (for lack of a better term) and adulation. Immensely entertaining, an amazing musician, and in possession of the gift of great banter. He spied a guy in front of the stage with an intricate banner made in honour of Slash, which isn't a noteworthy occurrence of itself. However, Mr Claypool paused and pointed at the Slash fan.

"I hate to be the bearer of ... inconvenient news but ... Slash is playing over there." Les said, then pointing at the opposite stage. "He's playing over there, like, right after this."

The crowd erupted into confused laughter. According to the timetable, Slash was on this stage ... 

"So buddy, you're going to have to run over there pretty quickly."

The band then launched into another song, from memory it was "My Name is Mud", one of two songs I explicitly recognised. I wished at that point I could tell TG how excited I was to hear "Mud". I know this song! From all those times you told me to listen to it! It was not to be so, however. Cause we didn't see TG for the rest of the day. True story.

And they never saw him again.

Later on in the day, hours later:

"Where's TG?"
"Probably still watching Primus."

Anyway. Les directed his gaze back to the Slash fan. "I've just informed that I was wrong! Sorry." More laughter, more Claypool love. And then, "Tommy the Cat". Which was awesome. Truly. At the risk of sounding somewhat lame, it was really, really great to finally see that song live. Well done, Primus.

Is it just me or does the mind constantly boggle at the price of food at festivals? 

Or rather, one expects to pay over $9000 for a few chips, but it's always annoying to actually be faced with the price that one grudgingly expects. People need to eat. People will eat at festivals. They'll pay that much, and they will pay that much after standing in line for an hour. In fact, they'll probably buy more than enough for fear of standing in line for another hour.

Which is part of the reason I see next to no point in drinking at festivals. Spend $150 for a ticket then pass the time away not in front of a band but in line for beer tokens? Wait in a fuck-off huge line for a wristband? Spend $70 for a few beer tokens? Get three beers within the hours it spends waiting? No. It's broken. Broken. 

We ran into a friend of ours a number of times, one whose battle cry over those few instances seemed to be, "I'm SOBERING UP! This SUCKS!" .... why?? Really. He declared that his friend had some beer tokens and wandered off into the sea of black. I avoided glancing at Dave, for fear of erupting into sniggers (we'd discussed the broken-ness of festival bars only the night before). Those who know me well would know that I enjoy a good drink as much as the next person (or perhaps even a little bit more) but honestly, drinking at festivals doesn't appeal to me at all. 

Food though, is a little bit more necessary. I had gotten myself a lovely large bacon-covered breakfast while waiting for Dave to get to the station, and the then TG had suggested burgers before we headed to the showgrounds proper, but one does need sustenance during a day of metal. It was necessary then, that we brave one of the queues. Luckily for us, buying food ended up being one of the comedic highlights of the day. 

The scene was the Beatbox kitchen, next to the chip-on-a-stick stand or the potato tornado stand or whatever the hell you want to call it, and the line was long. Very long. After long, torturous hours (or what felt like hours), we edged towards the front. And suddenly we could hear him, and suddenly we could see him. A tall, blonde, quite tired and fed-up looking man working at the Beatbox Kitchen, handing punters their burgers.

"FUCKEN... 23!"

"Fucken....24! No, calm down, it's JUST YOUR FRIES."

"25! 25!! BUDDY, ON YOUR TOES. Now. What do you want on your fries. Great. I love you. Now fuck off." 

"Fucken23! Your burger!"

"Shroom burger without mayo but with relish and cheese? What the fuck is that?!??"

If only, if only I could yell like that whilst at work. "FUCKEN, TAKE YOUR LATTE." 

Amazing. My hero. The guys were stifling laughter, all except for Dave, who was openly guffawing. 

"31! 31! 31!"
That was me. I bounded over.
"CALM DOWN! It's just your chips."

I walked back to the guys.
"I think I'm in love."

"FUCKEN. 32. Just your chips. You're amazing. Now get the fuck out of here."

More tomorrow.

Big Day Out 2011 - Melbourne (PART 2)

When last we saw our heroes, Reb & Ev, they were recovering from losing about ten litres of sweat, and having their minds blown by Andrew WK.

Yesiree. I tell you what, we were in need of some recovery time. Especially considering the day managed to reach a top of about 41 degrees. That's no exaggeration, by the way. Apparently over one (NINE?) thousand people were treated for dehydration over the course of the festival. So needless to say, by then I was not only sweaty, but also craving some shade, and fluid. Ev and I searched for a few of his friends, but given that finding people at festivals is more a matter of luck than communication, we didn't have much luck. A few phone calls straight to voicemail was good enough an excuse to bail to the Boiler Room, right in time for Die Antwoord.

I had first been introduced to Die Antwoord by Mitch, while driving from Melbourne to Geelong. To put it simply, my reaction was one of undiluted confusion. He played me "Enter the Ninja", grinning ear-to-ear and studying my face intently. Die Antwoord (which is "the answer" in Afrikaans) is a South African hip hop group, fronted by a tattoo-ridden guy that goes by the moniker of Ninja (real name: Watkin Tudor Jones, so Wikipedia tells me). I won't lie, my reaction - post-confusion - upon hearing "Enter the Ninja" was of great amusement. It was surprising and bizarre to hear rapping in a thick, South African accent. Apart from that, the high-pitched "I AM YOUR BUTTERFLY" chorus was pure hilarity to my puzzled ears.
"Is this a joke??" I asked Mitch, incredulously.
"I don't know!!" was his reply, in between peals of laughter.

Die Antwoord. I don't know what to think about this picture.

It's a few months later, and I have to admit that I do have Die Antwoord's album on my iPod. During those few months I had been informed that no, the music of the Zef outfit isn't a joke. I'd also been told that their set at the Sydney Big Day Out had been one of the highlights of the day. Unfortunately Ev and I found ourselves with a minimal view of the stage, as apparently word had spread of Antwoord's live prowess. With regard to that prowess, I won't dispute that for a moment. The group were dynamic, energetic, a myriad words ending with "ic". At times Ninja's accent was near-incomprehensible but I'll give him credit where credit's due; he knows how to get a crowd going. Despite having decided to rest during the set, I found myself wishing we'd found ourselves a better spot instead of having a brief rest in a patch of shady grass. There's one regret of the day: that I had such a mediocre view and placement during that set. Fists were pumping, feet were jumping, there were yells, and there was an infectious energy in the air despite the at times completely and utterly ludicrous lyrics. Fokken, fun as mate.

The next hour or so was spent eating, drinking, resting, attempting to find shade and succeeding (somewhat). We watched some of the Deftones' set from the shelter of a tree (huddled there with about fifteen other people). To be honest though, I barely paid attention. I was too busy reapplying sunscreen and wolfing down a chicken wrap. I know that to say I "barely paid attention" to the Deftones is tantamount to treason amongst many of my pals, but it's true. My attention waning, I then bailed, to see the Black Keys. I arrived, and found Paul Dempsey. Obviously. Because the Black Keys had pulled out of the Big Day Out. Derp, etc. While certainly nice to listen to (in fact, I saw him play at The Corner in 2009), I soon tired of Mr Dempsey. I suppose that even though I was hot and bothered and sweaty as hell, I was still in the mood for excitement and happenings. So I bailed, and told my brother I'd meet him after Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. Ev stayed and watched Birds of Tokyo. I am of the opinion that he made a grievous mistake.

As much as I do enjoy a bit of Birds of Tokyo, there is really, really no describing the great, swelling joy of seeing Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I was flying solo at that particular set, but I soon found that listening in on the conversation of two brothers that happened to be standing beside me was more than enough amusement. One (the younger of the two) had written his phone number on the inside of his sailor hat, and as he explained to his brother, he planned to frisbee it onstage for singer Jade Castrinos. The younger's incredibly hip attire belied an endearingly daggy sense of humour that soon became apparent after a few minutes of solid eavesdropping. However, my silent chuckles were interrupted by the appearance of A Fucking Dudd. A Monumental Dudd. With a sombrero hanging from his neck, with two beer cans in his fist, with a stumble in his gait and a slur in his speech, he barreled his way through the crowd. Cries and mutters of disdain and anger were left in his wake.

"No!" wailed a girl behind me, "You can't push in there!!"
But still, he proceeded. "JUST LEMME THROUGH, MAN!"

I groaned. He'd decided to stand RIGHT in front of me, also blocking the view of quite a young girl next to me. Her mother (who, all things considered, was quite young also) happened to be beside her. She was incensed. "You'd BETTER NOT STAND THERE." The two brothers muttered to each other, sniggering. I imagined I'd have been doing the same, if any of my friends were there. I was quite tempted to lean over and say, "Your mate." ... which would have been what I'd have said to Linc or Mitch, or Dave. Instead I leaned forward and moved back the guy's hat so I could see his face. He didn't notice. He was fucking, fucked. "Why's everyone so MAAAAD?"
"Oi. Could you at least lose the hat? It's right in my face" I said, loudly. He either didn't notice, or was hoping that if he ignored the muttering around him (that was growing louder) long enough, he'd avoid a confrontation. The elder brother laughed.
"Love a hat to the face!" he said.
"Yeah." I replied. "I love having a hatface." Hatface? Smooth. 

I decided to try again with the Dudd. "BUDDY. How 'bout we swap places? I'm little. I can't see."
"No."

I half laughed and half groaned. The brothers wholeheartedly laughed. Luckily, a girl in front of Dudd grabbed my arm and pulled me forward, while glaring at the guy pointedly. Luckily, it was at about that moment that suddenly the band descended on the stage. With my brand new vantage point, I soon forgot the Dudd. Writing this on a Thursday morning when BDO occurred on Sunday, I've unfortunately forgotten what ES&MZ opened their set with, but I do remember jumping up and down and having a boogie, and I certainly recall that everyone around me was doing much the same. Actually, no! I remember! It was "Janglin'". Yes! Which is, you know, certainly a gleefully sing-along, dance, wave-your-arms-around superb choice for an opener. It certainly set the mood for the next forty minutes. The unashamedly happy, joyful music and stage presence of the troupe is really something to behold.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, featuring the Arm of That Fucking Dudd.

Looking back, the day seemed to be defined by electrifying and enthralling frontmen. Andrew WK, Ninja (lol), Alex Ebert of ES&MZ, Nick Cave, James Murphy (more about them later). In this case, Alex Ebert flailed, jumped, raced around the stage, being completely enthralling. His amazing energy meant that the vibe of that particular stage and crowd was really quite amazing. "40 Day Dream" followed "Janglin'", met with cheers and synchronised clapping. I was overjoyed; "40 Day Dream" happens to be my favourite song from their Up From Below album, more so than "Home" (which seems to be everyone's pick). I'm sure I looked a right twat, dancing around and jumping and singing along at the top of my lungs, "BYE BYE! TO THE TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE KIND OF LOVE! *cue jump*". However, the vibe showed itself to be exactly the kind where one could dance around like a twat, then turn to the person next to you and grinning ear to ear sing/shout "SHE GOT SUNSET ON HER BREATH!" while they did the same to you. Superb. At the risk of being a little sappy, I was reminded of a night during a recent trip to Perth, sitting in Mitch's backyard, drinking champagne, singing along to "40 Day Dream" (and "Home" for that matter), serenading each other. It was a lovely moment. And thus, my good mood was made even better. One of those, "Shit son, I'm happy!" moments. I won't lie that I have a sentimental attachment to a few of their songs, and so I'll be the first to say that it was completely and utterly lovely to hear them in the flesh with my own ears and see Alex and company with my own eyes and dance around like a slightly sunburnt twat.

"Up From Below" followed "40 Day Dream" from memory. It started off well, but unfortunately lost momentum during an extended jam/Alex wandering around during the middle. It was a little over-long, certainly lost a lot of excitement. Luckily, the band brought the song home well, and it ended rather a bit better. Which is a relief, given that it's a lovely tune. A couple more songs, then "Home" to close the show. As one can imagine, the crowd went completely bat-shit insane. I'll take this opportunity to vent about something.

Recording on your phone at a gig.

Okay, I'd be a hypocrite to say that I didn't whip out my phone to take a few photos over the course of the day. But. Why on earth would you choose to watch the best part of your favourite song through the screen of your iPhone? Do you enjoy having fuzzy, shitty audio in which you can only hear the yells of the crowd? Really? Well, you're a dudd then. During the climax of "Home", I could see about twenty iPhones, Blackberries and cameras thrust in the air in front of me. In front of me, and I was quite near to the stage. I hate to think how many were behind me. That shit gives me the irrits in a big way. Instead of fumbling around your bag for your camera, then spending the next two minutes video-ing, why not get into the show? When are you going to watch that video again?

Ugh.

Anyway. "Home" was great. Absolutely superb. I suppose all things I could say about it have already been said earlier ... that it was full of energy, that everyone had an amazing sing and dance, that it was amazingly enjoyable. The song ended and the crowd dispersed, and again, I had an ear-to-ear smile.

I bought some food, found Ev in the Boiler Room watching The Bloody Beetroots. Eh, it was okay. We bailed, to Iggy and the Stooges. Caught "I Wanna Be Your Dog". So, that was cool. We then headed back to the Boiler Room to get ourselves a good spot for LCD Soundsystem. Unfortunately, Kid Kenobi and MC Shureshock were still on. I'll say this much, it was pretty awful. Ev and I sat, then stood around, wishing for a fast-forward button. The Boiler Room was filled with "your mates", and your bro's mates. Ugh. But these are the things we do for LCD Soundsystem. "WE'VE GOT ONE MORE SONG FOR YOU!" yelled MC Shureshock. "THANK FUCK!" was the response Ev and I gave.

Finally, LCD Soundsystem took the stage, James Murphy in a white suit. Ev and I had been waiting about twenty minutes or so, but it felt like nearly an hour, such was the mediocrity of what we had to endure. The wait and the pain was worth it though, that much became clear. My usually subdued and quiet brother jumped, threw his hands in the air, yelled. James Murphy and company opened with "Dance Yrself Clean". Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah, indeed. I mostly forgot about the douchebags in the audience, and had myself one hell of a boogie. I completely forgot that I was missing Rammstein and Tool, didn't care in the slightest. "Drunk Girls" followed "Dance Yrself Clean". Although it's far from my favourite LCD Soundsystem song, live it was a hell of a lot of fun. However, "I Can Change" was next. So, that happened. And it pleased me, greatly. Dancing-twat Reb reared her head again, and it was superb. Even Ev was dancing, a little daggily, but the fact that he was so damn into it made the entire experience that much better. He doesn't dance often, in my experience. A little bit of banter. James Murphy, polite and lovely. "Daft Punk is Playing at My House" was next, and was also superb fun. I feel like I'm endlessly repeating myself. "HERP! IT WAS FUN!".

Well, it was. LCD Soundsystem was fucking awesome. That's all this paragraph should really say. In big huge letters. Part of me was thinking I should bail and find myself a good spot for Grinderman, but then the opening strains of "All My Friends" began. Pfft, fuck it. I'll stay a bit longer. So I did. And it was Awesome. "All My Friends" happens to be one of my favourite LCD songs. "Someone Great" happens to be my favourite of all time, so if they'd played that it's safe to say that I probably would have lost my shit, utterly and completely. Shit son, isn't "All My Friends" an amazing song? It is. It really is. I lost my shit a little bit. Then, knowing how long it would take me to wind my way out of the crowd, I decided to bail. With a heavy heart, I began the journey out of the Boiler Room. Ev told me later that they'd played "Tribulations" next, and all I could say was, "FUCK!". It happens to be Ev's favourite song by the group, and he subsequently pretty much went crazy. Damn. Apparently they closed with "Yeah", yet another reason to kick myself. Kick myself, although not very hard. For bailing from LCD Soundsystem would only ever happen for a very good reason. That reason happened to be Grinderman.

Grinderman.
Yeah, it's a shitty phone photo. Hypocrite, but I couldn't resist.

I'd never seen Nick Cave perform live up until Sunday. Judging by what countless friends and acquaintances have told me (or yelled, with wild gesticulations to boot) however, seeing Nick Cave in the flesh is something that one has to do at one point before one dies. I am happy to say, that at last now I have. Not only that, but I've witnessed my own eyes what all the fuss is about. 

Quickly, just before I begin my fapping, I just have to mention that That Guy from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros reared his ugly, sombrero'd head once more. He plonked himself right in front of a short yet burly guy who was next to me. He was immediately enraged.

"OI. MATE. EITHER MOVE FORWARD, OR MOVE BACK. YOU AIN'T STANDIN' THERE."

Dudd looked over his shoulder, and saw the angered man. 

"Aww... but there's no room up there!"

"YEAH WELL. YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO MOVE BACK THEN."

Dudd ignored him, choosing to suddenly become very interested in his can of beer. 

I tapped the angry man on the shoulder.
"He did the same thing at Edward Sharpe. He's a dudd."

"YEAH. WELL. IF HE DOESN'T MOVE, I'M GOING TO SMACK HIM ONE IN THE FACE"

The dudd moved, and I laughed. Then angry man offered to let me go in front of him.

EVERYBODY WINS.

Okay. I realise this particular blag post is getting overly long, with rather a large amount of gushing and fapping, so I'll try and keep this particular section concise. I mean, there's only so many ways that I can describe how AMAZING Grinderman were, and how AMAZING AND SEXY Nick Cave is, and how AMAZING a way it was to end a pretty goddamn fun day.

So I'll try and keep it brief:

• Nick Cave is the sexiest creature I have ever laid my eyes on.
• Warren Ellis is amazing. Jumping, hitting a high-hat with a couple of maracas, yelling, jumping. Amazing.
• Mr Cave at one point yelled, "THE COMBINED AGE ON THIS STAGE IS 200 YEARS OLD!". Personally, I think that's awesome. Four guys in their fifties rocking out harder than the vast majority of acts I'd seen/heard that day. Winner.
• Fuck, they were good.
• Musically, fucking great. Tight, exciting, awesome.
• I'm running out of adjectives.
• FUCK. They were good.
• FUUUUUUUUUCK.

I left the green stage, breathless, staggering around, stunned, after the sheer mindfuckingly amazing set. Nick Cave, you are amazing. In your sharp suit, then shirt unbuttoned to the navel, with your kicks and leaps and strutting and voice. Swoon, etc.

So. What followed was a search for Ev, a run-in with a pal, then some staggering out of Flemington with some severe chafage going on. Sorry for over-sharing, but it was fucking brutal. Brutal. Complete with bag-tan, dress-tan, watch-tan and boot-tan, my BDO was done. Dusted. Not as dusty as 2008, but still dusted. 

Fuck. 

Awesome day. 

This has been long enough. I'll stop.