Big Day Out 2006 Review

At the risk of sounding uncool, this was my first Big Day Out. There – I’ve said it.

As the White Stripes were playing, I decided to fork out the hundred-and-something bucks for a ticket. They’ve become favourites of mine and I managed to miss their previous fifty New Zealand shows, so they were my main incentive for going – the other bands being a bonus. I ended up enjoying myself, for the most part, with a few of the acts happily exceeding their bonus status.

The fateful day arrived and I caught a bus to Ericsson Stadium from outside Real Groovy. The service was surprisingly good. Once there, I and a few thousand others waited in line, and after a while started inching towards the gates. The atmosphere was quite laid-back at first, so beating a path to Gramsci wasn’t too difficult. But Gramsci was boring, so it wasn’t too difficult getting away either. Having a few hours to spare before the next act on my agenda, I decided to buy some food and a White Stripes T-shirt, visit the loo, and check out the scene near the rides.

As the Big Day Out is about more than music, I found a little bit else to do. I spent a while at the Fruju waterslide, where I watched attention-mongers hurtle down and spray those close enough, witnessed a cheeky chappie remove his trunks and catch his balls between his legs, and enjoyed the occasional commentary from the bloke behind me (“ooooh, here comes a big boy”). I also enjoyed the “sprinkly-showery-tunnel-thingee” – it was perfect after a bit of sunburn. And ladies in bikini tops are a tasty accompaniment to any event.

Around midday, a crowd of us waited forever for the rapper on the stage next door to end his spiel before the Greenhornes appeared. This was the Cincinnati trio’s first visit to New Zealand, and their brief set was one of the day’s unexpected treats, even if bassist Jack Lawrence did look like a cross between Garth from Wayne’s World and Lewis Skolnick. Despite their lax appearance, the Greenhornes gave an energetic performance, capped by the superb In the Shelter of Your Arms – a song recently covered by their mates the White Stripes.

Because of a time-table stuff-up, I missed much of Sleater Kinney. I didn’t want to miss Breaks Co-op, however, seeing as The Sound Inside was one of my favourite albums of 2005, and their performance promised to be a great detox after standing through a set of syrupy pop a la the Magic Numbers. Helping out Zane (fresh off the plane from London), Andy and Hamish, were bassist Rio Hemopo, a drummer Tom Atkinson and Goodshirt’s Rodney Fisher on guitar, mandolin and percussion. The guys tackled with sound problems during the show, but managed to make the most of their set, which included a selection of tracks from the new album and a sprinkling from their first, Roofers.

After more food, a walk through the “sprinkly-showery-tunnel-thingee”, a lovely Danish ice cream and another trip to the loo (I felt silly having to contend with girls for the guys’ cubicles, but never mind), I saw a bit of Kings of Leon, though I made for the stands after a lacklustre performance of their best song Milk. Having spent the whole day up to now standing in the sun, I sat back and caught a quick nap, before being pleasantly awaked by Shihad. I raced down and managed to catch a killer My Mind Sedate before they packed up.

Now came the meatiest part of the day – Scots rockers Franz Ferdinand, punk elder statesmen Iggy and the Stooges and Detroit’s finest, the White Stripes, in succession.
Franz Ferdinand didn’t disappoint with crowd-pleasing boogies like The Dark of the Matinee, 40’ and Take Me Out. They were helluva good fun to watch: frontman Alex Kapranos did a silly dance in which he introduced his bandmates, and getting three guys to attack the drum-kit at once was a novel method of reproducing the layered beats of Outsiders. And they linked arms did a bow out at the end. Like classic rock stars.

I’m not at all familiar with the Stooges, so I was disappointed Iggy didn’t perform any of his better known solo material, but what a performance it was! Pop was clearly high on something when he arrived on stage, and he didn’t let up his bare-chested acrobatics for a minute, showing he’s still very much a “Wild One” in his old age. He even let members of the audiences join in his monkeying on stage, saluting them afterwards as “the Kiwi dancers”. It was showmanship at its finest. Needless to say I ended up giving the Mars Volta a miss, curses be on those who devised the day’s programme!

The White Stripes’ was the most elaborately decorated set of the day – with black, red and white being an obvious theme. Unfortunately, their performance was a bit hit and miss. The Stripes have too many good songs to squeeze into an hour-long slot, so they had to leave a lot out of their set, and much of what they did cover, they seemed to rush through. Ball and Biscuit, the lumbering centrepiece of the Elephant album was squealed through by Jack, who seemed to be undergoing some strain in vocal department (rumours went flying before the show that the Stripes wouldn’t be coming at all). I was tad upset with their recent album, Get Behind Me Satan, so those tracks – Little Ghost, My Door Bell (that baby grand was awfully underused), the Nurse – didn’t do much for me. Meg took to the timpani for Passive Manipulation - the only bit of lead singing from her that evening (I was looking forward to Cold, Cold Night but it never came). The audience was also treated to intervals of feedback which kind of linked the songs in a medley-like fashion, though I could’ve done with a little less sloppiness.
But when Jack and Meg were good, they were very good. They kicked off with the crunching Dead Leaves in the Dirty Ground, and couldn’t have opened better. Hotel Yorba and Fell in Love with a Girl will always get me bopping like an idiot, and covers of Dolly Parton (“Jolene, Joleeeeeeeeeene”) and Son House were tasteful additions to the set. After a fair period of fuzz-buzz, the Stripes returned to the stage for a four-song encore, including the fantastic singles The Hardest Button to Button and Seven Nation Army. At his best, Jack White is a Robert Plant and Jimmy Page in one, and tracks like these are testament.

I walked away satisfied, with numb ears and sore feet.

This review was published in Craccum, Issue 1, 2006