Indie Bros and Drunken Hoes: A big day at the Big Day Out
The Prelude
“Check out that dude’s shirt” “Which one?” “The black one” “Nice. Have you heard that album?” “No, no I haven’t” “It’s more raw than their later stuff, so, y’know”.
Calum and I rested below the sloped roof of a large white tent, rapidly consuming alcohol for maximum efficiency. The bag checking at the entrance was disappointingly lax and looking at our meager supplies, we wished we’d brought more.
The tent provided a vantage point for low-cut shirts, breasts attempting to escape the warmth of cloth, as well as well as several unique images, such as this one:
It gave us ample time to prepare the energy needed for the coming events.
Jake And The Giant Orange
British rockers Kasabian initially piqued my interest through the guitarist’s friendship with Noel Fielding. For half of the set, I rested upon the broad, sturdy shoulders of Calum, well above the peasants with their views mired by heads, hands, and other like-minded individuals taking advantage of their friend’s hospitality. Sergio Pizzorno, the aforementioned guitarist, looked fabulous, though he paled to the concert guitarist, who looked like the lost Gallagher brother. The energy in the crowd was awesome, everybody jumped up and down, shouting lyrics, and more than made up for frontman Tom Meighan’s boring stage performance. Why isn’t there a school for frontmen, or some sort of course? 
An Early Perdendo
Calum was not pleased with Girl Talk, and neither was I, which is why I didn’t feel as bad as I should that he mocked it for the rest of the day after I’d hyped it constantly. Beyond the first few rows was an impenetrable wall of people standing statuesque, barely moving to Gillis’ remixes, which barred me access to the fun zone. Eventually I realised I couldn’t blame them. Between playing some of the weaker mixes from Feed The Animals and some average tracks I hadn’t heard before, it wasn’t a very good set. The artist I’d come to see had been a huge let down, reinforcing once again the need to abandon expectations. Did he have a sideshow? I should’ve gone, I get the feeling his sets work much better in smaller, enclosed spaces. The disappointment continued with a boring set from The Horrors, another band I had high hopes for. Faris Badwan wore a hawaiian shirt under a leather jacket, and somehow it looked great.
Rising Again
I decided to rejoin the party at the Green Stage, where my friends were watching Rise Against. I’d discovered Rise Against about a year before they’d started listening to them, so I was well past the stage of infatuation and thus didn’t feel any great need to see them live, though my hairdresser insisted they had an incredible live show. She was not wrong. The energy in the crowd was almost tangible. Tim McIlrrath seemed personally invested in making sure each crowd member was having an incredible (safe!) time. This was followed by Devendra Banhart, who did much the same, butchering his own songs for comedic effect. It was a bold move that I don’t think many musicians could pull off, but it put a huge grin on the faces of everybody there. I don’t know why nobody laughed when he said “We’re from Los Angeles and this is a song about San Francisco”, I thought it was funny. Probably why we’re such good soulmates.
Interlude
After Devendra Banhart, I met with Arran and some of the others and we sat on the hill near Jet talking about the day so far, taking a respite from the constant mobility. While there, I saw this:
The guy thanked me for boosting his ego. Half an hour later, we were heading over to the Blue Stage for the most highly anticipated performance of the festival.
Muse
Bright lights lit up the sky as they launched into their opener, “Uprising”. It took about a minute and a half for me to tire of them: Matt Bellamy formed a triangle with his fingers and put it over his left eye, making reference to the infamous Illuminati Eye. As the crowd pumped their fists in unison chanting blatantly anti-establishment lyrics, I wondered if any of them were as passionate about the revolution as Muse intended. I turned on the spot and found the real show: Behind the crowd, a cloaked figure had climbed onto the roof of a large tent and was running about, dodging the bottles of those below. Somebody was kind enough to donate a chair to his effort, allowing him to sit on the roof and enjoy Muse. It wasn’t long before the festival’s goon squad, like orange-vested KGB, mounted the tent in pursuit. What followed was comical for all but the members of security, who slipped and slid on the canvas roof while their target deftly evaded them, eventually sliding off the roof to take refuge amongst his sympathisers below.
Homeward Bound On The Frankston Line
Having had enough of Muse, Calum and I made our way to the train for an early ride home. We were under the impression the day’s excitement was over. How wrong we were.
It wasn’t at Flinders, but maybe Richmond, when three drunken strangers entered our carriage and sat opposite us, one far more intoxicated than the others. James, the loutish Liverpoolian, his wife, and their friend Casey or Kaley or something. James insisted we call him Jim, which seemed appropriate because his wife looked like something out of The Dark Crystal. She swore she recognised us after revealing she was a year older and had gone to the same high school, but I’m sure I’d recognise such an offensive looking person. Or maybe not.
After having Kaley, whose head rested in Wifey’s lap, narrowly miss me with the contents of her stomach (through no kind intention on her part, frankly I was surprised she wasn’t comatose by the way she looked), I spent most of our time with them attempting to assure the care-taking couple that I wasn’t bothered, and placating the rowdy Jim. As he alternated between proclaiming the cowardice of Australian men in romantic endeavours, asking people whether they followed the football (and making several apparently hilarious jabs at Manchester United), and telling his wife that he loved her, I wondered if it were possible to manipulate my reality through sheer force of will. Alas, it seemed I lacked the necessary knowledge, as no matter how tight my eyes were scrunched, whenever I opened my lids the trespassers on my sensibility were still there.
Wifey spent most of the train ride attempting to convince Jim to help her bring Kaley back to their home to spend the night, an idea I secretly supported as it seemed unwise to turn the clearly dependent young girl out on her own. Despicably, however, this is exactly what they did. They carried her out of the train, left her at her station, jumped back in the train and watched her stumble along the platform into the darkness. I doubt she made it home. It was an excellent reminder of how fortunate I am to have such beautiful friends. Luckier than the poor Kaley, we made it home safely, dropped off by Calum’s effervescent girlfriend Ella. I couldn’t wait to rest these weary limbs.
2010: It was the best Australia Day ever.
