Big Day Out

Post Big Day Out – Gold Coast, I've been considering becoming a professional festival goer. I had a grand time and I've assured myself that one can indeed make an occupation out of attending events. I'm thinking rock and roll socialite. Converse'll be sending me more Chuck Taylor high tops than I know what to do with and a simple follow your nose gesture (tap tap) to the merch kids will get me a nearly endless supply of band-badged stuff. That will be my life and I will be more than content with it.

By the end of the day, I was feeling too much like a rock star. This feeling spawned from that fact that I felt I had a pretty complete festival experience. I drank. I danced. I ate. I napped. I perved on the pretty boys. I got sunburnt (I have an unusual red spot on my forehead that looks a little like I gave myself a vacuum hickey). I vommed. I climbed on things. I met old friends and hell, I made some new ones. I like to consider the people with whom I was squashed in a line-come-mosh my friends. I hypothesised that the more you think of the whole sardine experience as spooning, as opposed to being cramped to near implosion into oblivion, the happier your memory of that closeness will be. Given that explanation, I felt loved.

I upped my ‘bands I've seen live' list exponentially. I saw (in chronologically incorrect order): The Vines, Muse, Trivium, My Chemical Romance, Operator Please, Scribe, The Spazzys, Jet, The Killers, The Butterfly Effect and The Violent Femmes.

Watching Operator Please I felt a little uncomfortable. Why? As I was listening the following thought bubbled through my mind. "What a sexy little voice." GAH! I stopped myself before some sort of warped fantasy exploded in my brain. The kids are like…fourteen and despite their unfortunate collective teeny bopper stature, they sound fabulous. I'm worried that the lead singer's voice might break. Does that happen to girls? I shall consult a doctor. Even though they are ridiculously cute, this particular adjective should be taken as an offence by Operator Please – it really underrates their severe amount of talent. I'm aggravated I wasn't better informed of their genius so as to vote for the little tykes in the Hottest 100.

Not to worry. I SAW THE VINES! Yes, capitals. I have mild mosh injuries to prove it. It's pretty pathetic, but, I'm really overly proud of the little barrier dents that formed on my knees. Keep in mind that you're reading the writings of a girl that is close to owning the complete Vines back-catalogue – including singles. I have two copies of 'Outtathaway' so as to have a both b sides – 'Ms Jackson' and 'Don't Go'. I was light years away from watching the set with any ounce of objectivity. I nodded my little head with an ignorant fanaticism reserved only for those with a ridiculously keen appreciation for the artist in question. I bought the t-shirt…

I can't however say the same for my Trivium experience. I did however climb on a bin to get a better view. I felt pretty swish though, watching all the hair spinning, head banging glory of a classy bogan-metal act from atop a garbage receptacle.

Jet sucked.

The Killers however, put on a better show than I had expected. It was enjoyable, in spite of my dislike for them.

Muse. Well. They were pretty damned awesome. Infinitely better live than on any of their records. This may have been due to the mind blowing lighting. It was like watching a lava lamp on ekkies. Muse just went off. Space opera rock at its thrilling best – how can one little fellow (and his two slightly taller band mates) be so freaking cool? I think that question will last through the ages.

What about My Chemical Romance, surely the Hungry Jacks-in-the-mall-patrol weren't there to see Tool. Oh no. No they weren't. All I can say is that if the lead singer called me (well, not me specifically, but his captive audience on mass) a motherfucker one more time I was going to cry. Funnily enough, I now have a clearer understanding of the whole emo subculture thing.

Anyway, I feel I should stop before I start ranting about how Craig Nicholls got tubby.

Too many munchies…