A chipper weatherman smugly announced that 43 degrees was the day’s prediction. Already sweating in early Sydney hours, I sagged a little. As I was only prepared with the baggage of dealing with Muse - it was now apparent that I was expecting twins. I knew right then and there how Helen Keller felt (most likely worse though, but hey - it’s not a competition). Furthermore, moist spoonfuls of fruit soon followed into my facehole. I knew all too well that this healthy breakfast is my redundant attempt at breaking even with Dr. Bingedrink’s inevitable prescription for the day. A multivitamin (aka placebo) later and I’m on the train for Olympic Park.
The train on the way there is when you first start to remember what you’ve got yourself into again. It’s the dolled-up stereotypes planted on seats around you, both the male and female variety. Granted yes, not all who attend are stains (the vast majority are delightful), but it’s the vocal minority that barnacle on your memory.
No shirt? Tick! Oversized faux-Mexican straw hat? Tick! Am I a yahoo who would lose to Grimace in a chromosome race? Tick! They are the annoying underwater Mario levels of society.
Let’s not forget the other 50% of our population now. So what’s with this hipster side-mullet haircut all these girls are getting? You know it, the one where one half of a long set of hair is basically lopped off. Sophie Delesio-chic? A silly fad I guess (at least Sophie was a two-hit wonder). But as I’m no fashion guru, I’ll scamp away from this one.
I sound frightfully jaded about the day, but it’s a feeling that coincides with a child like enthusiasm for it all. Pouring through the gates alongside the masses, deciding whether or not to pat the sniffer dogs and getting your bigboy drinking wrist band quickly ignite your lust for the event. Karnivool (wow is that ever a bad band name) were the first band I laid my peepers upon. It was a decent set for a morning band, however the sound on the main stage was deplorable (and remained so throughout the day), thus it was a bit hard to judge. Mastodon followed with a double neck guitar, a flying V and what looked like a backyard-job face tattoo? It would be too easy to rag on them, but to be honest I quite enjoyed a few tracks.
A quick peek into the Boiler Room revealed that it was filled with yahoos, so off to the smaller stages I went. The Temper Trap and Passion Pit both suffered the same fate. Both good, and as tight as a nun’s cunt- but not enough frills to distract from the 40 degree heat. Girl Talk had hips moving, but it’s all too predictable if you’ve seen him before. A consequence of this horribly recycled lineup.
The Horrors turned the boiling sun into freezing rain ten minutes in to their gig and ended their set five songs in due to technical issues (they were the band I was most keen to see, Mother Nature can get F’d in the A), but the heat was back almost straight away, ready for the biggest crowd of the day - Dizzee Rascal. Not the greatest sound yet again, but he did swear a lot in between songs. People enjoy that. Lily Allen followed, doing the whole ‘all men are bastards’ thing - but at least she was wearing teeny pants.
The Mars Volta hammed out an impressive set later, however my face rendezvoused with a guy’s dreadlocks a few times. Now excuse my sailor’s mouth, but having shit covered dicks all up in my grille isn’t exactly my cup of tea.
As the sun dipped, Powderfinger took to the stage. They’re not ‘bad’ per se, just very bland. And I just can’t trust a contemporary band that 50-year-olds like. ‘Better safe than sorry’ rock ’n’ roll. Muse closed the main stage with lasers, heavy breathing in between words and deeply scientific lyrics. They are the best. To make it even better, the Jet guy came out and did a number with them. Golly gosh, together at last. After what felt like nine hours, they finished and some fireworks started for some reason. It was the 100th BDO apparently, but why the Fantasia soundtrack was playing is still a mystery. I was faced, double-visioned, with an ordeal at this point. The only two bands left were Groove Armada and Fear Factory. The lesser of two evils I believe is the term. It was like the movie Sophie’s Choice - except I wanted the Nazis to kill both my children. I chose to see the latter band, being that it would be funnier. There were guitars, songs about cyborgs I think and best of all - pissed off girlfriends, obviously forced there by their boyfriends. It almost made up for the $17 I paid for a beer and a taco earlier.
Leaving tiresome, covered in dirt and looking like Oscar Wilde after a bush doof - I overheard on the train that Wil Anderson got busted by sniffer dogs. That was the nightcap I needed really. It was a grand day indeed, one that I’ll most likely endure again. Oh and Peaches got her tits out.
