Justin Townes Earle @ The Corner

Last time Justin Townes Earle was here, I wasn't able to see him. Firstly, I had no one to go with (or so I thought). Secondly, I was in the midst of editing a rather epic and stressful project while also working full time and packing up all of my belongings in order to move out. I then heard from a pal who actually did go that it was Pretty Much the Best Thing Ever. Obviously I was beyond disappointed in my having chosen sleep over seeing endlessly talented, tall, dapper-as-fuck, singer-songwriter son of Steve Earle. Who needs sleep when you can have a night of the twangin' musical stylin' of JTE? Chumps. That's who.

Then, lo and behold, I heard he was coming back and I proceeded to lose my shit in excitement. Turns out he actually comes to Australia fairly often; he's been here about six times since 2008. Well, I praised the musical gods of touring at that nugget of information. To cut a long story short, I finally saw Justin Townes Earle on Sunday night at the Corner Hotel.

After so long spent watching countless  live performances of Justin Townes Earle on Youtube, I can now happily say that I've finally seen him in the flesh. In fact, I wouldn't just say it happily - I'd probably shout it, with wild gesticulations and a slightly crazed look in my eye. I can honestly say that I haven't been that enraptured and mesmerised by a live performance, or that moved by a gig in a really, really long time.

The entire night.

Wanting to minimise the amount of time fiddling around absentmindedly on my phone while standing by myself, I ended up arriving about two-thirds of the way through the second of the two support acts. I instantly regretted my decision to be a pussy, as Robert Ellis was onstage and immediately grabbed my attention and interrupted my "find a beer and and try not to look like a loser" train of thought.

When I arrived, the Texas native was about to launch into "No Fun", the cause of my aforementioned distraction from beer acquisition. That song, and "Sing Along" were particular highlights from what I managed to catch of his performance. Post-gig, I made sure to buy a 7-inch single of "Friends Like These" and congratulate him on a super set. Standing by the merch table and shooting the shit with punters, he was just charismatic and friendly and as good a story-teller as he had been onstage, if not more. So you know, keep an eye out for him if you're into a good dose of twang.

In any case, I marched my way to the front and waited for JTE to take the stage. Which he did, after what felt like aeons and after I managed to hit myself in the face with my beer. How that happened I'm not entirely sure, but it did and it was awkward and I was by myself. That's entirely beside the point though, because shortly after I proved yet again that I can't leave the house without making an ass out of myself in some way, Justin Townes Earle took to the stage. And when he did, a huge grin must have appeared on my face and I'm pretty sure it didn't leave for the duration of his set.

The first thing I'll say about Justin Townes Earle is that his onstage presence is something to behold. He's charismatic, self-effacing, and has a sense of humour that's a little wry, that betrays some intense geekery and that is very, very engaging. As in, I spent a lot of time giggling. Even while mentioning rehab and stints in jail, he had the crowd laughing. He spoke about his mother, about living in a terrible part of Brooklyn, and revealed the stories behind a number of the more touching or #dark songs in his arsenal of tunes, all in that amazing Southern drawl of his. I'm sure they're anecdotes he shares regularly to crowds around the world, but the show had the intimate atmosphere of someone sharing something personal - needless to say, he had the Corner audience eating out of his hand before long.

Of course, I did manage to be standing next to the all-sway, all-singing, all "YEE-HAW!"-ing epitome of That Guy (or woman in this case) who doesn't understand proper gig etiquette. That was a little tedious. But for all of her off-key wailing and her shitty, no-sense-of-space or of time and place dancing, I couldn't really fault her too much. I mean, her exterior personified what I felt like on the inside, and isn't that a good thing? Besides, the guy standing on her other side informed her that he was at the gig to see Justin Townes Earle perform thank you very much so she did eventually shut up. Which must have been embarrassing for her. I empathised - I'd just hit myself in the face with a beer after all. BUT I DIGRESS.

It's worth mentioning that the evening show on Sunday was actually the second one he'd done that day; the first was a matinee show. I suppose when you do two shows in a day you've gotta do something to keep things interesting, and to my delight that led to a few different versions of songs. A blues adaptation here, a re-imagining of "Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out" there (a particular highlight in my opinion), and a few moments of suddenly changing his mind or pulling out a song he hadn't played a long while. The set-list appeared to be in large part completely improvised, with moments of, "Ah, shit. I reckon I'll try it this way instead..." muttered while adjusting a capo, or re-tuning his battered black guitar.

I'll admit - if it wasn't already obvious - to being quite the fan of ol' JTE's catalogue. I suppose his particular brand of country and bluegrass twang peppered with tales of fuckin'-up, being down and out, heartache and redemption appeals on a very personal level. And I guess the fact that all those songs of his about being down and out, about heartache and redemption come from personal experience and IRL days of being down and out makes for some really affecting stuff.

That being said, I'm certain that even if I didn't have a personal attachment to his tunes and even if I didn't think him just about one of the most easy-on-the-eye/stylish people I've ever laid eyes on (I'm not even kidding), I'd have been pretty mesmerised by his performance. Completely disregarding any of his banter or his laughing at the shit yelled from amidst the crowd, his performances of the actual goddamn songs were kinda nothing if not heart-wrenching. Face contorting and body moving as his long limbs pace up and down the stage - it's like each note is a part of him wrenching itself free. If that sounds painful, it's not meant to be; it's just an indicator I think, of a singer who pours everything into every performance. It must be exhausting.

While I enjoyed the entire set (obviously), particular highlights in my opinion were "Look the Other Way", "One More Night in Brooklyn", "Black-Eyed Suzy", "Harlem River Blues" (SINGALONG, SINGALONG!), and of course, the previously mentioned "No One Knows You When You're Down and Out" (here's a link to another performance of it). For those of you playing at home, "Nothing's Going to Change the Way You Feel About Me Now" may have just been my mind-blowing moment of the set. Prefaced with a quip along the lines of "if you ask an artist you're dating to write a song about you, you might not like the result", it was the song I had been looking forward to seeing and it was all I could do to keep my hands from clapping involuntarily in glee.

Anyway, the set rollicked along in the charming, engaging, occasionally heartwrenching, occasionally hilarious fashion I have described in all sorts of gushing ways in this post. And at the end of the gig, I suddenly realised my attention hadn't wandered for the entire time JTE had been on stage. Which may seem like a strange thing to notice, but it's certainly noteworthy in my case. Even if I'm enjoying a gig immensely, I'll inevitably end up thinking about other things at points during the set, whether it be my To Do list for the next day, or something a song reminds me of, or whether I'll make the last train. Furthermore, I often find that by the end of a gig, I'll be ready to head home. Not that I hadn't enjoyed said gig, I'll just have had a sufficient session of rocking out and I'll be ready to head home and hit the hay. It takes something special for me to yell "MORE! MOAR!", and this was the first time in a long time that as the lights came back up I wanted much, much more.

In fact, I'm pretty sure the only time my mind wandered, it was for me to suddenly wish I'd come with someone, if only to be able to share the musical experience with someone. I wanted to teleport the friend I'd originally planned on going with to the Corner, because I knew the gig would've blown his mind.

Instead, I wandered on back home, all elated and in high spirits, and proceeded to describe how amazing Justin Townes Earle was to Mike and Jaz when I got home, with wild gesticulations and yelling and brandishing my cup of tea around.

Best gig in a while, in case that wasn't clear.

FEAST YER EYES ON THESE.

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 1)

I find myself feeling older and older all the time. It's disheartening occasionally, but I have to admit that I (at times) get quite a bit of sick, twisted enjoyment out of raging and whining (usually raging) about the "youth of today". I know however, that I'd be a fool not to think that I too, fall into that category. I'd also be a fool not to think that I can - quite often - be loudmouthed and obnoxious. However, being that I was born in the 80s, and that I graduated from high school a fair few years ago, there's just something about kids born after I started my primary school education that just ... riles me up. I'm going somewhere with this, promise. 

So. On Sunday, my brother Evan and I made our way to Flemington for BIG DAY OUT 2011. I had high hopes for having my brain and ears made love to by all manner of musicians, including Grinderman, the Greenhornes, LCD Soundsystem and Andrew WK. Boy, oh boy. Excitement plus. Unfortunately, no sooner had we arrived at the train station, my heart sank. Met with a squawking, mostly orange, hoard of youths-under-twenty, I glanced at Ev and said loudly, "YOUR MATES." 

He laughed, "Haha. Nah. Shotgun not."

That sentiment, "SHOTGUN NOT", was one felt throughout much of the day. Not all of it, thank God, but a portion that was a little too big for me not to call it Downright Irritating.

What makes me so angry? Is it the guys all dressed in a matching uniform of oversized white singlets, often with completely obnoxiously loud shorts? Is it because most of the girls are able to wear items of clothing that would be eye-rapingly bad if ever seen on me? Or is it the absolutely, completely INANE conversation I was forced to overhear during the entire (double) train trip to the Big Day Out? A little from columns A, B and especially C, I think. Two stops or so into the second train trip (Flinders Street to Flemington), a rather large group of guys and girls literally fell onto the train, yelling and squawking. I say squawking because that's what it sounded like. Squawking. 

"OH MY GOD I NEED TO GO TO THE TOILET SO BAD!"

"OIJOSHYOUFUCKINGCUNT GIMME YOUR PHONE."

"DON'T YOU THINK BETH LOOKS HOT TODAY? YOU ALWAYS LOOK SO HOT BABE!"

Your mates.

That's not an exaggeration, by the way. I promise I'll cease this ranting in a moment, but there's just a few things I need to say. It's important. I promise. In fact, it's a few Helpful Hints Regarding Big Days Out and Festivals In General. 

• I know it was a hot day. It was 41 degrees, for chrissakes. But, that doesn't mean I want to see your cellulite-ridden butt cheeks because the crotch of your shorts is lower than the end of the legs. It's not a matter of me having anything against short shorts, nor is it because I cannot myself wear short shorts. Wanna know why I don't wear short shorts? Because I know that if I do, it'd make people vomit. Your butt cheeks make me want to vomit. 
• Think before you open your mouth. Please. 
• If we're in front of a stage, and if it's cluster-fuck-crowded, don't think that using a squeaky, sweet voice will do the trick and result in me giving you my spot. No. 
• If you wear thongs to a festival, don't start wailing about how your feet hurt. I wore my Docs for a reason. That reason is not because they breathe well. 
• If you spent that much money on tickets to a music festival, don't spend all day at the bar. Go see some music. 
• If you're seeing some music, don't spend the entire time recording on your iPhone. I took a few photos, sure. But when something amazing is happening onstage, there's just something about seeing A THOUSAND IPHONES IN THE AIR that gives me the irrits. So you like having a fuzzy-quality recording in which you can only hear the screaming crowd of that band you don't remember watching properly because you were viewing it through a screen and not your eyes? Okay. Idiot.
• Reapply sunscreen. This one didn't make me angry, it just made me laugh. I have the good fortune of having Chilean skin that takes a shit-tonne of sun to burn, but I do have a bit of a bag-tan. To the crispy and fried masses, maybe only wearing a bra on your top half and not bothering to put on sunscreen was a dudd move. Dunno. Just sayan'.

Anyway! Ev and I entered the festival proper and after a quick wander around, decided to head to the main stage. This was in order to see Little Red, but we arrived to find The Vines were still onstage. I found it a little sad, seeing as they'd been rather high up on the bill a number of years ago, and here they were, first band of the day in 2011. How the mighty have fallen, eh? Their set was adequate. I mean, I was watching from the blue stage (they were on orange) but "adequate" is really all I have to say. 

As far as Little Red goes, I've loved them for years. Years and years. I'll readily admit that while I enjoy their second album Midnight Remember, I don't like it even nearly as much as Listen to Little Red. I'm a sucker for 60s-esque pop, and I don't think Midnight Remember is exciting enough to sell me on the new direction. That being said, they put on a fun enough set. Unfortunately, the crowd was filled with those youths that I was raging about earlier. Jesus, I'm being negative. Promise, this'll stop. Obviously new fans via Triple J, they screamed loudest during "Rock It" and "Slow Motion". I danced around and sang happily along to "Coca Cola" and "It's Alright", however. Side note: I definitely got a certain amount of joy out of seeing guitarist/singer Tom's skinny white legs in shorts. Superb. Good set, marred by irritating teens. 

Sweet, sweet relief was just around the corner, however. Both from the teens, and the sun. I convinced Ev that The Greenhornes would be worth watching (he was on the lookout for his pals) and we headed to the Hot Produce tent. We heard the last strains of Gypsy and the Cat, and I amused myself with thoughts of "What would Dave be saying if he were here right now?". For those not in the know, Dave is a good friend of mine. A good friend, and also a cynical and bitter, albeit hilarious, prick. One with a certain (huge) amount of disdain for hipsters, and Triple J. Why he's my friend then, I have no clue. At any rate, the crowd completely cleared out after that, and in a near-empty tent I waited for The Greenhornes. First saw them supporting Wolfmother in 2007 (lol), I was pretty damn excited for this one. While Gypsy and the Cat was PACKED, the crowd was significantly smaller during The Greenhornes. It grew of course, but what pleased me most was the distinct lack of loudmouthed and obnoxious teens. Pretty sure my mood was visibly changed. 

The Greenhornes' set? They seemed to be in a rush to finish the set. That was a bit of a shame, to be honest. They rushed from song to song, only acknowledging the audience twice at most. Having said that though, musically I was very, very pleased. Like I said earlier, I'm a sucker for 60s revival, and these guys poop all over Little Red (as much as I love them dearly). As sure as a bear shits in the woods, I'll be heading to their gig at the Northcote Social Club on Thursday. I wanted more, much, much more and I suppose that's where I'll get it. For those of you who haven't sampled the 60s garage delights of The Greenhornes, please for your getting them in your ear drums NAO. 

The Greenhornes. Winner.

Next, Ev and I headed to Andrew WK. A few of my pals had gone to see him and Barbarion the night before, and I had sadly been unable to attend (being that I'm in SAVING MODE for South America, I'm limiting the amount of gigs I attend). Again, I noted with interest the very different crowd in attendance. Very different from both the crowd at Little Red and The Greenhornes. 95% of the crowd was male, almost all dressed in various shades of black. One had his face painted as the Joker, one was wearing army camouflage shit, complete with netting and fake leaves/shrubbery. He was wasted, and yelling. This was a crowd I felt much more at home in, more so than the wannabe hip teens. Ah, relief. 

For the uninitiated with Andrew Wilkes-Krier, his music is of the metallic variety, and his subject matter includes not only Partying, but also having Fun and living for the moment/fun/today/the party/getting ready to die. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that his set was some of the most fun I've had in a long time. It was also probably the sweatiest I've ever been (that's not an exaggeration). Andrew WK appeared onstage wearing a battered and sweaty white singlet and white jeans, looking as if he'd already been partying in the sun for some time. His wife Cherie also was a part of the show, wearing a PARTY HARD PARTY HARD top over her fitness gear, assisting AWK in whipping the crowd into a frenzy along with his burly, bearded bandmates. Sure, most of his songs sound alarmingly similar, but I don't much care. Andrew WK is pretty much the epitome of charisma, a consummate frontman. Incidentally, he's also drop-dead gorgeous. Never a lull in energy, one song would end to his yells of "MELBOURNE, ARE YOU READY TO PARTY?!?!" or "IT'S TIME TO PARTY!" or "GET THAT CIRCLE GOING AGAIN! I WANT TO SEE THAT CIRCLE!". Speaking of which, I wanted so much to be in that circle pit...rather regretting not throwing myself in. At any rate, it was incredible, head banging, fist pumping, lose-a-few-kilos-in-sweat fun. I felt like I'd just had sex and was in need of a cigarette.

His set ended and I turned to Ev. "HOLY FUCK." exclaimed my little brother. 

"I KNOW, RIGHT? FUCK!" was my response. 

I immediately headed over to a refreshment stand to buy some water (my bottle had been lost in the Fun). Standing in line, a young woman about my age turned to me. "Were you just at Andrew WK?" she asked. 

"Yeah, definitely." I replied breathlessly.

"Ah, no wonder." She said, grinning. "That's why you're smiling so much!"

I laughed, "My god, that was fun!"

"I know! I think everyone coming from that stage has a giant smile on their face!"

Pretty accurate, I think.

I headed back to Ev, and we made an executive decision to go to Die Antwoord and take it easy for little bit. You know, rest, replenish the absurd amount of fluid we lost through excessive SWEATING. Rest, definitely. And it's on that note, that I rest from BDO-ing. More tomorrow. 

The National @ Palais, 9th January (Belated)

Or: That time my ears creamed their pants.

If there's one thing I'm grateful for, it's that while I was still in Barcelona, truly wonderful pal of mine offered to buy me a ticket to see the National in Melbourne. That pal goes by the name of Tony and I am so, so, so glad I said yes to his offer.

Sunday night just gone, we made our way to The Palais in St Kilda via an overpriced and underwhelming "seafood tasting plate" (at Republica Bar ... "meh" is my verdict) to watch Matt Berninger and company send our ears to be lost in auditory bliss.

Like I said, at the time of purchasing said tickets, I was still overseas. As such, I'd found myself somewhat behind with the times as far as musical releases went. With no chance to buy or download anything, I'd been listening to the same things over and over again. Granted, just before setting off I had well and truly raided Dave's, Mitch's and some uni pals' hard drives for winnin' tunez but still, my ears were growing restless. For instance, I had listened to Yeasayer's All Hour Cymbals pretty much on repeat between Brussels and Amsterdam and GODDAMN IT did I crave Odd Blood. Similarly, I would gaze longingly at posters for Neil Young's latest, but I knew in my heart of hearts (the very same that is in love with dear old Neil) that it'd be impractical for me to buy the CD. Oh, the humanity! Apologies for the tangent, but it really did cramp my style. Anyway. When I returned home I finally bought myself a copy of High Violet and fuck me gently with a chainsaw, did I ever fall in love with it straight away. I'm not kidding. I was immediately bowled over, punched in the gut and the face by the album. Truly beautiful. As is, of course, Boxer. Is it bad that those are the only two albums of theirs on my iPod? Maybe. I apologise. Sorry. That isn't to say that I wasn't any less OH MY GOD EXCITED. My god, was I excited.

A few days earlier I saw the Mystery Jets play at the Hi Fi, and spent a small yet annoying portion of the time spent at the gig being kind of pissed off at the obnoxious drunken teenage louts in attendance. Thankfully, our fellow audience members at The Palais was decidedly the opposite of that description. Perhaps at times a little too far from that description, but you know. That was for one of Tony's friends to laugh about At any rate, I definitely found time for quite a bit of perving before entering the theatre proper, and I found myself lamenting the fact that Brian was not by my side. Both the band and those there to bask in their glory would have been right up his alley. I'm sorry, Brian.

Townsville band The Middle East provided the support, a band of whom I had only heard one song; "Blood", thanks to Triple J's Hottest 100 (was it the last one or the one before? I can't remember). Despite only having heard one of their songs, I was quite looking forward to seeing what they'd be like in the flesh. "Flesh" used loosely of course. Tony (who I'm eternally grateful to, by the way) had chosen seats in the dress circle. For those not in the know, that's the top section. On the other hand, Tony explained that he'd been at work, and being that he has a job in the medical field, he happened to have a patient in the throes of near-death. Or something like that. So I have to say I agree with the choice made between human life and awesome seats. Well played, Tony. Then again, the Palais is really rather beautiful, grand, old ... so the view from the nosebleed seats (which really weren't nosebleed seats) was still pretty great. But back to the Middle East. Unfortunately we only managed to catch the second half of their set, but I really dug it. Most enjoyable. Note to self, go to one of their gigs.

I whiled away the time in between The Middle East and The National by quizzing Tony's adorable pal about his top five favourite films. It's a (bad?) habit I have, immediately asking anyone I meet that seems even vaguely interesting what their top five are. I think you can tell a lot about a person by their favourite flicks, especially if they don't think about it too long. I'm not proud to say that once or twice I've immediately gone off a person due to a lacklustre top five. Luckily for this guy, and the evening as a whole, he passed the test. Evening, definitely off to a good start. I was probably in the middle of telling him some useless cinema fact when suddenly the lights dimmed and all my attention was suddenly zeroed in on the stage like a laser.

The band opened with "Runaway", drenched with moody purple lighting. Sublime. They then launched into "Mistaken for Strangers". I could feel Tony next to me, squirming in his seat in excitement and National-love. He mentioned after the gig that he hadn't expected Matt Berninger's voice to be as strong live. I don't know what the hell I was expecting, but oh lordy I do declare, Mr Berninger's baritone was absolutely beautiful. Immediately after "Mistaken for Strangers" (and from memory, a little bit of terribly endearing banter), the band played "Anyone's Ghost". Incidentally, that's one of my favourite tracks from High Violet. I felt the overwhelming urge to get up and have a little bit of a joyous boogie, and craning my neck I could see the crowd directly in front of the be-suited band doing just that. Unfortunately two girls a few rows in front of us were ordered to sit down by a man behind them, and I cursed the overly still and calm crowd around us. Luckily, I was distracted from that downbeat realisation by the music in my ears. "Bloodbuzz Ohio" followed "Anyone's Ghost", and the crowd erupted into cheers. I messaged Brian immediately, something along the lines of "BLOOOOOOOODBUZZZZZZZZZ".

He didn't reply.

At any rate, "Bloodbuzz Ohio" was simply gorgeous. I really do enjoy Berninger's interesting phrasing as perhaps compensation for a lack of vocal range. I could hear Tony have a bit of a singalong beside me, and could see Berninger doing that funny kind of kick, shuffle move that he does, and I had to grin to myself as I realised what a fucking goddamn good time I was having. Ever get those realisations? The "Shit son, I am genuinely happy!" moment when a smile spreads over your face and everything seems peachy keen for a while.

I have to admit, at the risk of being "the one that only looks forward to the songs from the most recent album", "Afraid of Everyone" and "Conversation 16" were two tracks I was looking forward to immensely. They ended up following one another after "Squalor Victoria". To me, "Afraid of Everyone" didn't quite reach heart-wrenching climax it could have, but it was still one of the highlights of the evening. You may have seen various videos of The National performing live, but Matt Berninger does this thing, this thing where he'll stride around the stage, and yell (just, yell) off-mic at various band members, or the floor, or whatever. It's great. It seems as if he's psyching himself, trying to send himself into some sort of frenzy. Superb. This particular performance trait of Berninger's was gloriously on show during "Afraid of Everyone", much to my delight.

As t night went on, the band proved themselves to not only be superb musicians but also possessing as a whole, a incredibly endearing self-deprecating sense of humour. Their banter yielded some genuinely funny moments, something that certainly is in contrast with a number of their songs. Namely "Sorrow", a song that Tony's recently-broken-up-with pal had drily remarked was the only song he needed to hear that night. As the opening strains of said song began, Ben grinned at us. "Sorrow, man!" he said, resulting in our small posse laughing during the opening of a particularly melancholy tune.

"Abel" (hooray!) followed "Sorrow" from memory, and I remember "England" and "Fake Empire" closing their set. Which, of course, were both gorgeous. The encore? "Lemonworld" began it, then came "Mr November" and "Terrible Love". Again, winner. Especially considering during "Terrible Love" Mr Berninger decided to wander into the crowd, shouting and wailing and singing. Cheers and excitement seemed to emanate from the crowd below us, and only then did my fellow nosebleed audience members stand up, necks craned searching for a glimpse of the goings-on. Unfortunately, as soon as the song finished most people promptly sat down again. I don't know what everyone considers correct theatre gig etiquette, but I enjoy standing up and having a bit of a boogie. A good boogie mind you, completely devoid of the "white man's overbite" particular type of dance move. So it was rather irritating, to feel compelled by the actions of those around us to spend the last portion of such a lovely and amazing gig sitting down like some sort of well-behaved member of society. Luckily, THEN. Oh lordy, then. Then came a moment of instruments being placed down by various members of the band (bar guitarist, from memory), and the mic being discarded by Matt, and all five men perched themselves at the edge of the stage. And so began an unplugged, theatre-wide singalong of "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks". I found this clip (or rather, Tony did. I lie.) on the 'tubes, and it'll be my parting statement regarding a simply gorgeous night. I know my use of "gorgeous" is somewhat excessive at this point in time, but it's pretty fucking apt.

Mystery Jets @ Hi Fi Bar

Taken at the risk of being "that girl taking photos with her iPhone"

"Hey, is that the drummer?" I asked Erin, trying to look nonchalant.
"Huh?"
"Yeah, it's the drummer. Over there, the guy - OH SHIT, IT'S ALL OF THEM!"

I don't usually get all squealy star-struck, and I try to make a point of remaining (somewhat?) cool while in the presence of people that I admire/lust after but unfortunately on this particular occasion I could not. Sitting at Three Below with Erin and a couple of her pals, I clutched my Bulmers in an increasingly tightening grip as the members of the Mystery Jets sauntered past us. My mouth gasping like a dying fish, eyes wide, I turned to Erin. "Should we say hi? Oh, SHITthey'regoing. EUUURRHHHGHGHH. SHIT." and so on. And so forth. Until they were out of view. Blaine and Henry Harrison, William Rees, Kai Fish and Kapil Trivedi walked back towards the Hi Fi, where they were to play in about an hours' time, oblivious to the two hyperventilating females left in their wake.

Why suddenly turn into squeaky, freaking-out dudd, something I steadfastly try to avoid? I'm not entirely sure to be honest.

Yours truly.

The last time Mystery Jets were in Australia (the first day of 2009, and a hungover one at that), I was walking to the Hi Fi along Swanston and saw guitarist William having a smoke, standing around ever so stylishly. I wanted to say hi, tell him how much I loved Twenty One, their second album. Unfortunately, I decided that I didn't want to seem a squealy fangirl and decided against it. Flash forward to the fifth day of 2011 and again I kick myself for pussying out. Oh well, win some, lose some. I guess it doesn't help that the members of said band are all incredibly good-looking.

At any rate, The Holidays provided the support. I saw them in 2008 supporting Little Red (I think) and I don't remember being super impressed. Enjoyable but not mind-blowing. We actually missed half of their set on this particular occasion so I can't give a complete report on what it was like but from what I saw it was much the same. Enjoyable, not mind-blowing. Erin had been looking forward to hearing "that bag of bones song!" (their album having been the feature on JJJ, I think that one's got some airplay) but we were too busy having a drink and ogling the various Mystery Jets and missed it. Speaking of ogling and drinking actually, immediately after visiting the bar at the Hi Fi proper, I spotted William and Kai standing near the merch stand watching The Holidays. Erin's pal Sachini immediately offered to ask them for a photo. "Uhhhh..." was my reply, and off she scampered. The resulting photo is hilarious (let's not kid ourselves), with Erin and I sporting nigh-on delirious grins contrasting the boys' significantly less excited expressions. Is it bad that the smile Kai flashed at me as I thanked him for the photo sent me nearly sent me into a conniption? Perhaps. So much for always keeping it cool.

Reb: HERP DERP. 

After recovering from the laughter caused by reviewing the photo just taken (as soon as Erin puts it on Fakbok I'll post it up here), I noticed a few things that were already apparent about the night ahead of us. Namely, things that had changed since Mystery Jets '09 (and that's not counting Blaine Harrison's ever-morphing hair). Firstly, the crowd. I've been on this earth twenty-two years, and I like to think that (NYE notwithstanding) I've gotten most of my drunken obnoxious antics out of my system. Unfortunately, the average age of the crowd - or at least, those in the moshular area - was around the 18-year old mark. I tell you, the sheer amount of obnoxious kids was incredible. Now, I'm all for having a great time at a gig but if your hulking frame has a jumper tied around your shoulders and you continually yell "I AM LOSING MY SHIT! I AM LOSING MY SHIT!" whilst flailing around, then frankly you can suck my dick (so to speak). A similarly-aged group of guys were to my right, and didn't spare a single opportunity to take photos of themselves falling over each other wearing oversized glasses adorned with flickering lights. Gooooooooooood. I could go on about the other dudds surrounding me, but I don't want this to turn into a tirade about exactly how much 17- or 18-year-old wannabe hipsters irritate the living snot out of me. Suffice to say, it's quite a bit.

I was lamenting to Dave about the drunken pseudo-hip teens and he dryly remarked, "What a startling coincidence. Drunken teens at a Mystery Jets gig..." but I swear, it wasn't like that last time! Is it because I'm two years older now? No, I think it's more a case of the band having acquired a bit more fame (which is quite good for them) in the past couple of years, and also a result of the sound of the band becoming significantly more electro-y and synth-y of late. That in itself doesn't bother me in the slightest as I like the most recent album, Serotonin just as much (in fact, perhaps more) than their first offering, Making Dens. That's certainly not to say I was raging at the entire crowd throughout the entirety of the gig. Not at all! Anyway.

Obnoxious jocks aside, I was getting more and more excited as the time for Mystery Jet-ing grew closer. Despite the paying out I receive from my more metal-orientated (read: non-indie) pals, I absolutely adore the band. Their tunes are energetic, to me capturing the joy, untapped potential, the adventures and mishaps in love that comes with youth. I won't deny that I have a sentimental attachment to a number of their songs. Twenty One was the soundtrack to a break-up that occurred just before their last tour here. For your future reference, "Behind the Bunhouse" is perfect to yelp/sing while in the midst of heartbroken rage, while "Flakes" is a good choice for more fetal-position sobbing. Of course, it helps that Blaine Harrison's voice is plaintive, full of longing. On the other hand, "Young Love" is the perfect accompaniment to brand-new flirtation. I remember during my days of working at a certain chain record store, dancing gleefully around the store, singing along to "Young Love" not caring about the strange looks I was attracting. After all, at the time I had just snared myself a charming man, and isn't that a reason to dance and sing? But I digress.

The boys opened with "Alice Springs", which happens to be my favourite track on Serotonin. Incidentally, it would have been my choice for first release from the album, as opposed to "Flash a Hungry Smile" but that's totally not the point. The plaintive longing of Harrison's voice that I mentioned before is a wonderful for the album's opener, with the rest of the outfit's "OOOHHHH-OOOOH EEE OOOOH"-ing keeping the song from becoming too lovelorn and instead the vibe of the Hi Fi was one of pure elation.

I was a little disappointed that not a single song from Making Dens was featured during the gig, but at the same time I was definitely bopping and singing along to the vast majority of the songs in their set. Frontman Blain Harrison, despite being confined to a chair due to spina bifida, still manages to rock out rather emphatically. I've already made remarks about how much I adore his voice (which might not be to everyone's taste), and his ever-changing hair but I feel I have to reiterate that he's got a great presence. This though, is at the same time as seeming somewhat quiet and almost shy at times. Reb in love? Probslol.

swoon.

I didn't have the foresight to put effort into memorising the set-list but highlights included "Hideaway", "Dreaming of Another World", "Serotonin" and certainly "Two Doors Down", the 80s-tastic flail-around-dancing favourite. I was pleasantly surprised when suddenly William put down his guitar and flashed a wonderfully crooked-teeth'd grin, shouting "DO YOU WANT A DANCE, MELBOURNE??!" (yes). They then launched into After Dark, a track by The Count and Sinden featuring the band. William's dancing was endearingly daggy, rather 80s in fact. I have to admit, despite the receding hairline and the crooked teeth, William Rees is incredibly attractive. Then again, I can't ever claim to have conventional taste. Again, I digress.

I could do an extended analysis of exactly how much I enjoyed myself during every song, but that would result in an overly long-winded blog post. And in my opinion, blog posts should be on the more concise side. I will say this however, that my highlights were "After Dark", "Alice Springs", "Young Love" and certainly "Behind the Bunhouse", which swept the crowd into a near-frenzy. Aaaaand, "Flakes", the tune that closed the show. Oh! And "Show Me the Light". William's proven himself to be quite a fine singer, with quite a few songs with him on lead on Serotonin (there was only one on the previous release). I note with interest that it's been his vocal contributions that have been the singles released of late. Anyway, mercifully the twats even mostly ceased twatting about halfway through the show thanks to security turning up to point to them that they were in fact being complete twats. So I (and the rest of the crowd) was free to dance around happily and sing along without fear of having a sweaty seventeen year old falling on us.

In my opinion, a really superb way to kick off 2011. Despite exasperatedly yelling into Erin's ear an expression of my anger at the novelty flashing glasses wearing youths at one point, seeing the Mystery Jets was really a lovely night. I guess even if there's a few dudds in the audience, seeing some of your favourite songs performed really tightly and charismatically by one of your favourite bands is you know, going to end up being a good night out. The band are an incredibly energetic, adorable, group of really fine musicians. Winner. I emerged from the Hi Fi sweaty, exhausted, happy, with ringing ears and a ripped dress. I say that's a pretty good result, wouldn't you? Well played, Mystery Jets.