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To be polite about it, last year's Big Day Out was a fucking disgrace.

The central travesty revolved around the insanely pant-wetting prospect of watching the Chemical Brothers. Out of the $110 or so I paid for my ticket, about $100 is for the Chems. As I idle the time away, waiting for a Rowland and Simmons on-the-road-to-Damascus style blinding, I check out Le Tigre (pretty good), Slipknot (kind of cool, there's at least some suggestion that serious rock chaos might ensue, alas no one else I know wants to watch them and I have to peek over a forrest of bloody bogans), The Music (tossers), The Streets (I remain unconverted by this over-hyped little shit, although his ordering of people perched up in the nearby tree to "climb down or I will come up there and beat you" is at least entertaining), Scribe (muscle bound Kiwi MC who tries to convince us that Christchurch is one swinging joint, kh-yeah) and Butterfingers, who were so bad I think they gave me some rare brain disorder that impells people to kill themselves if they have to listen to this shit any longer.

On heading to the Boiler Room a good forty or so minutes before the Chems are due, we're informed by Leon and Jess coming from the other direction, that not only is the Boiler Room full, security aren't even letting them into the courtyard around it. We go for a shortwhile to check out the Beastie Boys, who, whilst I admit to being bloody far away from them, appear to lack any kind of focus, in a tired, seemingly jaded set. We return to the courtyard entrance to join a large, increasingly frustrated crowd, who after ten minutes gate-charge en mass (the second most exciting event of the day) and we at least get to watch the Chems on a giant screen. Alas the courtyard soundsystem is profoundly underwhelming, so much so that the throbbing rabble can be barely motivated to dance. We leave in dust-kicking strop, the one and only real highlight; the magnificent performance by the (Jon Spencer) Blues Explosion - a magnetizing sound delivered with brutal economy featuring a theramin solo that bordered on the clairvoyant. Their records don't begin to hint at this kind of energy. Nonetheless, I'm aware that there better be some pretty sharp cocking improvements if the BDO organizers want me to keep coming back every year, as I trepidly approach the main entrance.

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Through the gates we are impelled by the frictional, full bloodied moan of Sleater-Kinney. Half their set has elaspsed, but SK are in full stride. Despite an apparent lack of technical proficeincy they insist on lengthy solos. It's an awkward, seemingly unprofitable venture, yet there's a kind of chemistry which reaps some acquired mud-funk blues. The crowd is a little smaller than expected and Carrie Brownstein's attempts at banter, a request for clarification on West Australia joining the federation late and that we have one of the best cities right, are no more than politely responded to. Nevertheless, we get clamorous takes on Jumpers and Entertain, Corin Tucker's voice undulating with superbly visceral sustain, and as band I'm only just discovering, its a decent introduction.

Belonging to a crowd that has little but antipathy for anything R'n'B related, I begin my solitary trek towards M.I.A. Happily I encounter a luved up Joel, who informs that his medication just kicked in whilst in the massage tent.

M.I.A. has been blowing up my stereo with ATTITUDE for almost a year, and whilst I'm apprehensive about any live act which doesn't amount to much more than a PA, I'm hungry to see what she can deliver. It's an eyebrow raising entry, if merely for her tasty looking legs in impressively short short-shorts. Despite the obvious absence of onstage instrumentation, she counterweights with presence. And if that weren't sufficeint, the cattle bothering bass of Pull Up the People is enough to grab anyone's attentive zones. Neither does she need studio trickery to augment her plummetting "ohhhhhhhhh"s or brash stacatto "oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh"s, just another, unidentified female vocalist for some powerful close harmonies. Admirably she reworks her rhymes when the DJ plays the wrong track, barely missing a beat as she uses all of the stage. "Do you want the message or the party, or do you want the mashup. We mix the party and the message and fuck it". Yay verily, she does so. Fire Fire flitters inbetween politics and party at no more than the close of a bar. It's likely better suited to the crush of a jammed, throbbing club rather than a half filled field. Joel, perhaps not surprisingly, goes for another massage. I remain, let the bass hit my torso and the beats take my limbs. Regardless of how much of her performance is "live", its a credible achievement.

Either M.I.A. finsihes early and returns spontaneously, or pre-meditatedly encores (she's a little bit off pitch and out of focus so I'm guessing the former), with a raucous Hombre, perfect for this sultry heat we're having; alongside James Murphy who follows on immeadiately. I catch the first five minutes of his set and absorb the general vibe he's promoting, lest the chance to experience him in a DJ capacity arises again - then zip across the park, rationalising that a full live band, The Go! Team, whose onstage talents a good wedge of my friends are willing to eulogise rampantly over, will be more fulfilling than a man spinning platters, in daylight.

The Go! Team have swapped places with James Murphy. This time last year when TG!T supported Murphy's LCD Soundsystem in London they suffered at the apathatetic ears of a disinterested crowd. Hard to imagine given their lead rapper's fanaticism. Considering her motivational skils, lithe athleticism and tank top, no doubt one day she'll make a great gym instructor. Cross-pollinating seemingly random genres this highly adaptable six piece make synthesisers and banjos sound completely compatible. Junior Kickstart sounds even more bombastic in the flesh; Panther Dash every bit as smashing. They demonstrate that it's possible to dance to feedback. And rhyme to it. Although I'm not sure why they have two drummers when they play pretty much identical parts, probably so that each band member is employed and doesn't end up loittering aimlessly.

I can't find a single Goddamn one of my friends. I wangle my way into the middle, but its no substitute for watching BMK trying to dance. There's a satisfied ripple going around, an unfettered wave of arms and big up nice vibes ina de area. Bottle Rocket has band members and audience alike beaming like blissful monkeys. Having been largely unimpressed at their regretable London gig, their radiant optimism and everything but the kitchen sink approach gradually warms my cockles.

Biggest regret: Finishing my beer tokens after watching The Go! Team with a long forgotten acquaintance instead of going with Mac to watch the end of James Murphy's set: Mac got to chat with the LCD Soundsystem main man at the end of his stint and score this photo: By all accounts a very lovely person with a big Cheshire chat grin (not really apparent in the photo, but hey, what are you going to do about it). Other regrets: See, I don't have time for regrets, and you're a fool if you do. however, by all accounts the Subways were sensational. Good things too were said of the Magic Numbers. Alas timetable clashes robbed me of the chance to see Kings of Leon, Vitalic, Soulwax, Snowman and the Henry Rollins spoken word thing...

...so whilst I'm freely dispersing accolades; the most memorable banter award goes to:
Alex Kapranos (Franz Ferdinand) introducing his band. "Can you feel the bass this man is sending through your body, this man's vibrations moving through you? Can you feel this man moving inside you?" Steady on Tiger. Tsk. Trolloppes the lot of them.

It's a core maxim of Franz Ferdinand that they don't play guitar solos. They make music for an honorable purpose. They make music for teenage girls to dance to. There's nothing wrong with taking a targeted, functional approach to your art. You define yourself as much by what you reject as what you accept. The music they create is about collective rather than individual expression. They sure as hell are not about jamming. They combine to create songs. And they have so many cracking songs its almost impossible to belive they're still only a two album band. Normally in an hour set I'd expect to wade through filler. Every number sounds like a solid gold hit. This Boy is a raging highlight, joyfully precocious. Take Me Out has just the kind of welcome you'd expect and it deserves. Some bands are spoilt by success, Franz seem to revel in it, exuding showmanship from every cavity. Elenor Put Your Boots on gains a second life in a rare moment of quiet non-boppery, but aside from that they're just having too much of a sensational time. A semi-synchronised falling to the ground and merry waving of legs in mid-air ensues. They even come close to actually playing guitar solos, but as for their central purpose to make music for teenage girls to dance to - I am their bitch tonight.

Before his sudden departure from this earthly realm John Peel (broadcasting champion of underdogs and ne'er-do-wells to whom we shall be forever beholden) was working on a list of things not to be included in an accompanying press release for the thousands, literally more than any man could listen to, of demos sent to him at the BBC. This list included, "don't claim a lifelong admiration for the New York Dolls, MC5 or Iggy & the Stooges (pictured right). This will mean you are almost certainly either Swedish or German, wear leathers and are in your late thirties".

The king of rock and roll did not die in on a toilet seat 1977. He is alive, well and from what I hear has just moved to Florida. His name his Iggy Pop. Many have been compared to Iggy, but Iggy is compared to none.

I had my doubts. I wouldn't wish to tarnish my Iggy & the Stooges records by witnessing a half assed performance from a bunch of old men with unpaid tax bills. I never saw them tour their Fun House album, but it couldn't have been much more intense than this. I've got no previous Iggy experience to act as a bassline, but were he any wilder than this, his limbs would fly clean off his body. Even the token slow number Dirt is wrapped up in a stupor enducing haze of dynamism; Iggy transmiting a kinda warped voodoo to suck in souls even at the back of arena. Unlike most headline acts who at one point or another get cute with their lighting, the Stooges' set emmits nothing less than an intense orange glare, never dissipating, much like the sonic assault. Or the assault from all sides. We should be given medals for surviving this mosh pit. Or at least new ribcages. The bass of Mike Watt (ex Minute-Men, the only non-original Stooge here) churns relentlessly through 1969. On guitar Ron Asheton torches the air throughout. It's so simple, but so effective. But it's Iggy's willingness to try anything on stage that completes the picture. Halfway through TV Sky he trips, falls to the ground, then improvises out of his clumsiness by lying on his belly and scissoring his legs in the air like a randy cheerleader. Its the complete abandonment of fear. Halfway through an instrumental break, although break isn't quite the word as the atmosphere is as charged as ever, Iggy steps over and clamours something to the audience, first a couple of times to the left, then a couple of times to the right. I can't make out what it is, but it sounds like "come and dance with Iggy and the Stooges". Then I notice some nut has managed to get up there with the band, somehow. Then another. There another splurge forward and about twenty people get to dance with the Stooges. Mac and I just miss out. Although the kids aren't exactly dancing, more running to one side, hands over head and legs astride as they scream "YEAH", then looking round like they're not quite sure what to do next. In fact there aren't exactly many "kids" up there, although I can't specifically see any Swedes or Germans. Considering the fact that each one of their songs is older than am I, this is perhaps reasonable *. Even at his age, Iggy has the the lithe tone of a professional swimmer, although he has the face of some captivating lizard from the depths of ancient folklore. And I would like to say that on his second stage-dive into the crowd I may have touched his burning grace; although in the surge of hads that went forward I just can't be sure.

It was the best sex I ever had.

It's a time honoured tradition for Mac to indulge on the various whirlly amusement park rides at BDO. We've left it late, but endevour to squeeze in a quick spin of the upside downy rotary thing (hey, if you've ever had to describe a theme park ride you should sympathise) before The White Stripes appear. A loud guitar stab and symbol smash announces, we are too late. No regret is felt however as it is discovered the only way anyone should ever hear Blue Orchid is upside down; its swooshes, vaguely sensible lyrics and high pitch yelpery concocting into one electric stew. Heads a turmoil as we dismount, the music blurs as we plunge back into the crowd.

Jack White acknowledges that to follow The Stooges is a Herculian task. Perhaps it's with this hell-bent rock mind-set that he decides to gurge through guitar solo upon guitar solo. Once I heard a live radio broadcast where you could hear how The White Stripes had the audiance in the palms of their hands, as they throttled through their best known songs with deft style, enthusiasm, and what sounded to me like bona fide rapport. Maybe they're a little bored with some that they have to play every night. JW takes to the piano for an unexpectedly forlorn Fell in Love with a Girl. But there's way too many Jimmy Page impressions, with the popular nuggets thinly dispersed (heh, I just remembered what 'nuggets' mean in San Fransisco). Not that there aren't some captivating moments. Cold, Cold Night drips with sexual tension. Jolene sounds more desperate than ever. The Nurse tantalises with marimba, then bludgeons with electric minor sevenths. But quiet sound problems conspire when Jack takes to the piano. When I'm singing along to My Doorbell, there's no way I should be able to hear myself singing. "The truth don't make a sound, and neither does Jack White's piano mic" some observant sod remarks. Alas much of the set is lost on the audience, myself included, as Jack and Meg attempt to shatter the record for most songs played in an hour, rifling out arcane blues obscurities such as John the Revelator made all the more hard to identify due to being played at twice their normal speed. Seven Nation Army and eloquent testimony from JW to other bands on this tour marks their conclusion. I recollect Dave Lima who still records that both the best and most disappointing gigs he's ever attended have been White Stripes gigs. Had he been here, I figure this would have been somewhere in the middle.

Dessert arrives in the form of 2 Many DJs, who keep on playing after everyone else has finished. We arrive to a flurry of Windowlicking. Its a treat as they splice proven floor-fodder (Song 2, with obscure acid-esque wibblecore for an effective, unpredictable stamp-fest, a fest made all the more stampy by the simple fact that Leon and Jess join us. 2MDJs drisplay the fruits of their research by playing domestic rising stars Wolfmother's (the new Deep Purple y'know) psyche-rock-stomper Woman and I am partially compensated for missing Vitalic as his car crash anthem La Rock 01 ** squeals and and blasts its way through my anatomy. My calves and ankles are so fucked it hurts to stand. I discover, however, that when I shift my weight the pain goes, so I rave like a fatigued goon mindless of the consequences.

Your life has as much significance as you assign to it. If this all seems overly subjective or OTT, it is. But then life should not be lived inside a trench. You never know when you might be caught by a stray bullet. Break cover and dance for your life. Or as a friend of mine once said, "we're divers, life's a pool".

As experienced by G.

* Further research has shown that the Stooges have been working on new material since reforming in 2003. Given that there were some numbers I didn't recognise my assertion that all the material they played is older than I am maybe incorrect.

** I will never be able to dis-associate this song from spinning off a Cornish highway late one foggy night, at an undisclosed number of miles per hour.

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