Big Day Out

On the eve of the Big Day Out, here’s a piece I wrote about last year’s debacle that strangely didn’t run…

Two sniffer dogs ejaculated on the Chuck Taylorss of two unlucky lads in Dallas Crane t-shirts. Iggy Pop ejaculated on two sniffer dogs.

Stage right Jack White ghoulishly grinned behind his ghoulish garb as Sleater-Kinney’s Carrie Brownstein conjured some shivery Hendrix voodoo. To my left spittle formed in the corner of Harry Dean Stanton’s mouth. “Sleater my peter,” he murmured, causing a tiny spit-bubble to burst on his chapped lips.

A soft place to fall was beer garden grass. Damn it was hot as hell. Toohey’s Extra Dry put Big Day Out acts on beer tins. Hundreds of fans given Gerling tins immediately demanded refunds, or failing that, exchanges for Ghetto Fabulous ones.

The competition for the most louche member of the Bumhead Orchestra was a close one, but it surely must go to Greg Wadley for his unwitting impersonation of Porn Gil (Gil has a secret for sexual endurance and it’s not dissimilar to his recipe for mango chutney).

At the Kings of Leon show latent homoeroticism was prevalent. Bare-chested stumpy guys in designer shades lassoing their t-shirts, straddling the shoulders of their shirtless buddies, sporting droopy breasts no doubt triggered by a reliance on estrogen-friendly health drinks like Soy Plus. Both arms raised, fists pumped, lyrics howled, commotion incited, fun spoiled. Kings of Leon will never sound the same again.

There was an SMS facility in the Virgin Mobile tent, where people could send instant messages direct to the big screen. Other than a good Vin Diesel joke (“When Vin Diesel was born the nurse went oh, my God, that’s Vin Diesel, then he had sex with her”) it was a witless affair in complete poor taste that will probably require policing in the future.

Media tarts notwithstanding, Franz Ferdinand were handsome, charming and smoothly electrifying; a joy to behold, pushing two minute pop songs into voluptuous pop epics.

Due to the heat and humidity and also the presence of The Stooges, the crowd was one of the most clapped-out in the history of rock festivals. Didn’t see any celebrities besides Harry Dean, but then again the eyes wandered timidly, afraid of what it might see. Jaundiced faces, skanky hair, exposed bum cracks and serpentine tattoos on repugnant parade. There were some crazy dudes on ugly trips too, wastee weasels, no sense of grace or decorum whatsoever, all sweating, spastic limbs disjointed and freakish eyeballs lurching from their sockets. A syphillitic guy in a “syphilis is the new black” t-shirt was there. Some other dude had Rip Curl underwear hanging out of his denim shorts and eagle wings tattooed on his abs in dive mode like its beak was preying on his wee wee. “When you’re up, you’re the shit, when you’re down, you’re dirt.”

You said it Iggy.