Big Day Out 2008 - 3rd February 2008.

Claremont Showgrounds, Perth, Australia.

That's how it starts...
...waiting for Battles still trying untangle, as I have been since the timetable was announced, how to resolve the gross misfortune of two beloved, keenly awaited acts performing simultaneously on separate stages. Bjork is in town with a full brass section and delirious reviews. She starts at 9.00; finishes at 10.10. LCD Soundsystem, who just put out the most compelling record of last year and from my vantage point one on my shortlist for all-time, start at 9.30 and finish at 10.30. A simple path down the left hand side of the orange tent would allow me to make the journey in a few minutes. Given the hour of crossing, I'm going to have do the big loop around and brawl tooth and nail through a sea of Rage Against the Machine fans. Not that I'm a regular brutalizer of festival goers, or even Rage Against the Machine fans, but I'm looking at about 10 critical minutes. I've seen LCDS once before, Bjork never and given the infrequency of her visits to Australia, how many more opportunities might I get? Shall I play it by ear?

******

I'd hoped that live you, me, anybody would be able to decypher Tyondai Braxton's lyrics. Its a loss. I can't get beyond the "sing this song, ooohh-we-oh" and to be honest I'm not even sure if that's "song" he's singing; if singing be what it is. I'm sure its going through an F/X unit or two, but its still righteous headtwist to see a human being open his mouth and have that come out. Battles have been described as "future funk" (Mojo magazine - can't say I see the futuristic element) and wrongly labelled as math rock; that's just groping in the dark. There's none of the sprawling complexity of Don Caballero. The rhythms that go down best with the crowd are the simple ones they can clap to, especially Atlas. They're an instrumental band who've inherited the same cavernous New York basements Liquid Liquid used to rule.

Making they're own samples and looping them on the spot; it's a blast. The weirder the better, particularly the one that sounds like someone trying to fell a tree with a very blunt saw. They also have the world's coolest cymbal; a giant Zdijan mounted seven foot high, surveying all it towers over.

They used to say Picasso couldn't draw. Anyone familiar with Picasso's early work would know he had excellent technical skills. He simply chose cubism. Battles have no solos, no conventional singing, no conventional compositions - but great ears for 'found' sounds and a gnarly, obstreperous sense of rhythm. Maybe they can peel off virtuoso solos, sing beautifully and write rock operas. I'm guessing they've recognised their limitations and mastered an art within them.

Their material stands up fresh despite touring for 12 solid months and the onstage timing interlocks with jackhammer precision. It's hard to fathom what an average Battles knock would be, and how this would compare; it's a mindwarp. Strangely, their music doesn't sound vastly different to the bumps and scrapes produced during the soundcheck. They could easily be a collection of artschool roadies who elevated the simple act of testing instruments into a discipline. Its a slippery logic that's ultimately best summarised by Derrick (Detroit Techno Deity) May's recursive pleasure principle "It is What it Is".

******

Its red hot out there, so some time indoors checking out Billy Bragg on a whim is a sweet move. The room has been partitioned with the drinking crowd separated in a cage along the left wall. Good thing too, observes the man himself, a Billy Bragg mosh pit usually consists of fat, drunken 45 year olds falling onto each other.

As he winds up Sexuality he tells of how he recently received a fax from Woody Guthrie, who loves West Australia for its copious, never-ending dust, particularly that of the Nulaboor dessert over which he astral travels. Death has not stopped his appetite for playing live and the good folks in Carnarvon can expect him to drop in sometime unannounced. He monologues over a few guitar licks, explaining that normally when he starts whistling a sheep dog gets up on stage and tries to round up the roadies. Today he's probably watching Gyroscope.

He slams the boot into Australia First: There'll be a power vacuum caused by the recent Liberal defeat and having followed politics for a little while know exactly what he's talking about. Its delivered with a passion that's astonishing considering this is our backyard, not his. A minute ago he was crooning sweetly, albeit with an accent that's been pulled up by the bootstraps in Bethanl Green, now he's nailing us to the cathedral doors. He remembers the Clash and the demonstration of Rock Against Racism. Its hard to believer that Billy Bragg was once afraid to speak out, but back before he picked up his mic he tells of how he felt alone in his beliefs. The office he worked in was populated with racist, homophobic middle aged men. It was only on the march he realised he wasn't alone. And as he was talking with the crowd laughing and cheering I felt like I was not alone either. Although its not the first time I've gotten misty eyed at a gig, its a first for a political speech. He talks about the value of activism, because the alternative is passive cynicism and the cleansing fire of punk rock. And somewhere amongst all that he played some music. Plenty of songs about relationships, a tough but tender Greetings to the New Brunette, the Shang-ri-las Give Him a Great Big Kiss, saving the political ones for last There's Power in a Union and Fuck the Debt, which I misinterpreted as Fuck the Dead. Not sure how necrophilia is going to solve third world famine..... ahhh now I get it. I hadn't meant to stay this long. I've been entirely consumed. Now I have to scrap my way through a fistful of bogans for a decent Arcade Fire spot.

******

The energy of Arcade Fire can't be faulted, and we reciprocate in kind. There's an ocean of singing. This must qualify as one of the most switched on audiences of recent times. Win Butler compliments us; "everyone said would Perth would suck but you guys have been the best", then stumbling out that we're "not the best city". His flappy explanation that his cred ability will suffer if he keeps dishing out compliments barely covers the gasp.

I'd hoped for a sound to encompass all sounds. A bit too much maybe, but with ten onstage, all clanging and whooping trumpets, horns, drums, other random percussion, guitars, violins and keys... Too many instruments are lost in the mix. If you listen in close you can pick them up, but its not in any normal circumstances intimate music and surefire as hell not an intimate venue. You're not supposed to stop, hold your breath and strain your listening capacity. There's bawling and fist-punching in at the front. There's bawling and shape pulling onstage. There's a glut of posing, especially from some "look-at-me" chic in a red dress. Some of them look decidedly too "Wa-hey" to be singing about despondency and loss. Still, if there's one particular band member that's too much, there's plenty of others to watch. Its a dizzy melodrama: everything committed, no whims restrained. Maybe that's the key; the Arcade Fire ticket to success - the ability to make outwardly sad songs sound so damn triumphant. They're a band for the kids allright, the monged, abject urchins with a heart full of ideals: those who'd happily claim that we're all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars. If I hadn't become so holy damned pragmatic I'd be doing emphatic cartwheels myself. Where does that spirit go? Through it all I think you have to remember that everyone you know, one day, will die. Including yourself. So let you friends know you love them, because it could come at any time and it would be a real shame to have to go into the ground without ever having pogo-ed to ten semi-hinged Canadians joyfully purging their guts out.

William Butler, brother of Win, abandons all caution and monkeys up the side of the dome, about thirty feet into the air, one arm wrapping around the steel pole scaffolding, the other wantonly banging his drum. Its a climax. Mac moves on to catch UNKLE. I decide to hold fast for a prime Bjork spot and stomach the jaded, mouldy posturing of Silverchair on the adjacent stage.

******

The sacrifices of Fandom (and the tiresome weight of a Silverchair):
I've puzzled over this; whether I can say I've seen an entire Silverchair show. True, I was there. I endured every note, although my back was turned for the entire performance so I never actually saw them, apart from a couple of brief, accidental flashes I caught on a nearby jumbo-screen. It was lurid enough.

It started not to egregiously, almost acceptably, a slow, physical rocker with Melvins-inspired sludgy guitar sound. From then on it was all a gradual inexorable crawl downhill. Daniel Johns is a third-rate screaming queen in love with the sound of his own voice. By the time we reached tedious egomania of "I Want you to scream for me time, two times, one long sexually frustrated time" call and response, the fat was truly in the fire. It was longer than grieving. I've often talked about visiting certain loathsome acts at festivals specifically so that I could throw rocks at them, and here I was, this was my chance. But there were no dense, blunt objects around; they were all in front of Silverchair, whopping like gorillas. The surrounding Bjork brethren were a pretty cool mob, with no qualms about telling the 'Chair how much they suck. To pique our interest we watched the complex construction of the Bjork set with its many flags, banners and other unidentified gizmos.

******

The Bjork show begins with a troupe of horn players clad in red and gold togas marching into position. Bjork, dressed like a baggy elf, wearing a smile as wide as a harbour and gambols on to the alien forest drums of Earth Intruders. It's a style of dancing I wish I could get away with in public were I not likely to be set upon by simple minded orks.

There's a plan to her madness. After the opener, the first half of the set consists almost entirely of slower songs. They showcase Bjork's extraordinary voice, not that it needs attention brought to it. You can't ignore, it's from another dimension; unique phrasing and a depth that seems to come right from the centre. It might be possible that she might secretly be harbouring some snake DNA as I swear there are times her mouth is larger than her head. It's far from a greatest hits set, but I could hardly ask for more personal choices; Unison which swells and lingers, Unravel, Pagan Poetry, All Is Full of Love which given the addition of brass has a little extra soul breathed in. To the side some guy manipulates what may be an instrument or could just be some extra-terrestrial visual F/X orb. I try to tell people I was good boy, abstaining from all hallucinogenics - even spicy food, yet they don't believe me when I explain that twenty plus feet of spider netting shot out from Bjork sleeves midway through Hunter. Without all these tricks the show would still be mesmeric, with them... we raise no resistance.

Then as the sun slips from view the adrenaline fires. Army of Me pounds into life, green lazers splitting the air. The bass is massive, why weren't Arcade Fire able to harness this earthquake? She persuades us to sing the words to Bachelorette, not easy given the lack of a chorus. We give it our best shot. "We-Are-Happy-To-Be-Here". Her asides are short and simple in staccato bursts. When excited her thick Icelandic accent becomes barely penetrable as she squeals something like "puppets, eat your heart out" whilst attempting to mount a stage monitor in two foot long leprechaun slippers to illuminate a song about losing her ball and chain. She sings accapella in Icelandic. So much has been written or said about her voice, it's hard to find something new. Even though I don't understand a word but with no other distractions, I am sucked right in to this beautiful creation.

The opening few notes of Hyper-Ballad are all we need to know that this will be special, but who could have foreseen the rave-infesting crescendo of LFO's Freak to constitute its climax. Who? Its a beast, blindly lashing with violence and extreme prejudice. The brass section forms a dancing circle around Bjork as we slip straight into the evil insanity of Pluto. Face obliterated below her hood, Bjork raises hands like a vengeful spectre, as do we all in the pandemonium. At this point in time and space it would fully be within Bjork's capacity to form a death cult and lead us on some twisted Pied Piper trip over the nearest cliff. Instead she finishes with Declare Independence the crowd responding to her war-cry of "raise the flag" with "higher, higher" and a union of fists.

Out of this world. Literally and absolutely.

******

Its like checking in on a loved one, confirm that they're alive and hopefully well although the time is short. Wading through dregs of waiting RATM ramshackle-niks piling up all around the main amphitheatre oval, like thick, viscous algae around the edge of toilet bowl, my antenna are tuned aloft, desperately trying to catch the faintest audible glimmer of LCD Soundsystem satisfaction. Breaking free from the main oval and into the sidewalk arcade through to the boiler room, its starts to grow, like some animal impulse, a solid carpet of bass. Unmistakable: the distant rumble of Yeah! is like beacon and the closer we get the more levels of organised percussive chaos become comprehensible. They've changed since I last saw them two years ago in London. They're looser, funner, a little more lubricated for pleasure. Although this could be connected to the revelation that its James Murphy's birthday. His vocals are more elastic and his stage manner, a touch camp. Bjork and an associate rush onto stage with a double bouquet of flowers. "Really, its the least they could do", he chimes as they in unison with the crowd sing Happy Birthday. "I feel just like Morrissey". depositing one long stem rose in his back pocket, sticking out at a jaunty angle for the closing New York I Love but You're Bringing Me Down. Yep, its a very different band, less edgy and without that niggling throat infection. Funny guy. Turns out he was offered a job writing for Seinfeld but turned it down as he didn't see the show being a success.

Mac turns up bouncing around like a fortified goon sozzled on his juices. He proudly unfolds his LCD Soundsystem set list. We may be nerds, but we're nerds with heart. He also display his torn Stereolab t-shirt, ripped across the back from top to bottom by some deplorable wanker at the Arcade Fire set, the lingering flaps fluttering behind him in the night breeze. That's no way to salute Stereolab. Nor my longstanding best mate. Damn these obdurate cunts. If I see one of them in the street I'll mace them until their eyes explode and their brains run through weeping holes.

******

I hadn't expected to enjoy Rage Against the Machine. Agitation-rock with nothing to say. "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me"? How's that any more penetrating than "fuck you, I won't do my homework". The band is having a rampant good time, and needless to say they're tight as a bear trap. The songs are still 90% protest songs but there's some full on monkey pogo erupting. The sound is still exceptionally good out on the periphery, and the billboard size screens keep us in touch with what's happening onstage. Using the giant inflatable V can as pole star we eventually find Eddie, well lubricated and garrulous, chum in tow. There's extra space out here and limbs are free to fly in mindless pursuit of the groove. And these are some limber, punchy grooves. Amen to the rhythm section.

Eddie's back is giving out. We depart with them, forgoing Carl Cox. We're destined never to collide, I can tell. Time is ticking on. Troops are not limber as they used to be. Life moves pretty fast - you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.