Gig Watch: Big Day Out 2008

By Lisa Dib
Photos courtesy of The Dwarf

Anti-Flag (above) were a surprise hit

Faker won over the crowd with their electric performance

“I feel like a piece of beef jerky”

Burnt and twisted, we strained our immoveable legs (now wooden) across the pavement, feeling miles from ourselves. Wanting nothing more than an aloe vera bath and some solid food for our raging guts, we reflected on the long day of cheer and chaos that had brought us to our unenviable position; destitute and cooked like bacon strips, wailing for a cab. Sunburn? They should call it FUNburn! (I’m being facetious of course; it is incredibly painful and heinous).

But we need to go back, way back, partner. Back to 12noon on Monday 28th January, wherein I arrived at the Big Day Out - festival of festivals - locked and loaded for madness. Did I mention I had but $23 to my name for the entirety of the day - nay, until payday 3 days later? That’s an important fact, since it makes for such intriguing shenanigans later.

UncharTED winners Krill were a nice gut-punch start to the day. I considered this a sign of top-notch-rock to come.

The majority of my horrendous sunburn, I think, would’ve been in the hour that I waited for Faker to take to the stage. I was damned if I was gonna be in the nosebleeds for the entirety of one of my favourite band’s sets. We watched uber-patriots wandering the desert landscape of the Flemington Racecourse, draped in Aussie flags and other nationalistic paraphernalia. I resisted the urge to strangle those who chose now- squished into the pit, sardine like - to light up a cigarette. If you were one of those, may very bad cold sores befall you.

Anti-Flag played in the time we waited; I had heard from my editor that AF were the nicest bunch o’guys you ever would meet, so I hoped their stage show wasn’t any kind of punk-rock- poncery that might turn me off. Luckily, the guys rocked the jocks off every customer who went for a slice - and then some.

Frontman Justin Sane bellows like a ship, acting preacher-man to a frustrated generation, getting on every punter’s good side by bagging out lil’ Johnnie Howard and G. Dubya. Punk rock lives inside Anti-Flag.

Oh, Faker. How I love thee, let me count the ways: Infinity - done.

Singer Nathan Hudson is always an unconditional joy to watch (finally, a stage big enough for him and his pinball-like vigor), his smile overshadowing the summer sun (shall I break into a sonnet now?). Personal highlights were the heavily Doors-inspired Killer on the Loose, Sleepwalking and Love for Sale, all delivered with charismatic fervor. I didn’t want to sing along for fear of hearing my own voice over Nathan’s as I stood, hands unconsciously clasped in a sort of prayer-form, overjoyed. The day could end now, but it probably shouldn’t.

Opening for Oz-hop act Hilltop Hoods was Aunty Joy, a much loved and respected elder of the Aboriginal Wurundjeri people, who performed a “Welcome to Country” ritual which, in essence, cleanses and welcomes all on to the land, unites us as one and wards away bad spirits. Sound good, dunnit? Apparently this gracious gesture of good faith and kinship interfered with some punter’s get-drunk-and-be-a-tosser time, since some top-class customer decided to bark racial slurs and ignorance into the air. What I could’ve done with an Uzi…anyway, Hoods played brilliantly and I was determined not let some inbred scum trash my groove. Clown Prince made me a happy little Vegemite and ready to tackle the rest of the festival.

Tying for highlight of the day with my glorious Faker was Sydney’s Pnau. The golden god that is frontman Nick Littlemore (shirtless, dripping with the sweat of effort and sexuality) pranced with contagious boogie, turning the Boiler Room into, well…more so of a Boiler Room. With cameos by Sleepy Jackson’s Luke Steele and Operator Please’s Amandah Wilkinson (no, I didn’t see Op.Please - no, I didn’t want to), the real stars of the show were the costumed characters including, but not limited to, a giant dancing strawberry. Too brilliant.

After swinging past Arcade Fire and seeing only maybe half of what the world was seeing (overrated? I think so, call me insane) I made my way to the ever-pleasing Little Red. I don’t need to say yet again just how splendid the LR gents are. They pull off old-school cool easier than Sammy Davis Jnr and I love them more every time I see them.

Above and beyond expectation were Battles, whose grandeur overshadowed the entire festival. Bee, my accomplice for the day, asked me what genre they were, what they sounded like, and I couldn’t assemble an answer. You just have to hear them, I replied, genuinely not knowing how or where to class them, and that’s what I’m saying to you, gentle reader: they’re amazing - go YouTube them, buy their CDs, check out their music any way you can. Do you trust me? Then go!

Saw four minutes of Silverchair and wanted to die. Don’t even let me begin a Silverchair/Daniel Johns rant, but sufficed to say Daniel Johns spent far too much of the set impersonating Jimi Hendrix and defending his wavering sexuality than being the Daniel Johns the rock world once loved and respected.

Following a brief stint in the Boiler Room partaking in the raping of decent music at the hands of Krafty Kuts and Dynamite MC, I did a quick tour of the breezier musos - Paul Kelly, ever enigmatic and hearty as usual, and Sarah Blasko, who, despite her indie cred and lovely voice, bored me to some extent - but was in no mood. Lisa had canned heat in her heels tonight, bay-beh. I traipsed back to the Boiler Room to catch the one Carl Cox.

Must say, slightly disappointed with CC’s set. It seems Mr. Cox has not entirely kept with the times, since his brand of dance-house sounded as if it’d been beamed in from the early 00’s. Not to suggest it was not enjoyable, mind, I still boogied like a motherbitch, but, but, the slight disenchantment may have been due to most of the freakin’ BDO crowd being over at the Rage Against the Machine stage. 

I can’t even imagine the bedlam that was erupting over at the Main Stages (I’m envisioning the herd of running wildebeest scene from The Lion King crossed with something from 300?) once RATM finally took to the arena.

So. Destitute, drained and dustier than your Mum’s contraceptives, punters slogged home, probably regretting those last six or seven Red Bulls, never having wanted a shower and clean sheets more in their lives.

I was glad to have finally popped my BDO cherry (having remained chaste and unadulterated in the Festival sense for twenty-odd years).

Let’s do it again sometime.

Silverchair lost the plot, while Rage Against The Machine helped audiences lose the plot at the 2008 Big Day Out

Overall: 75%