big day out

Rip It Up, Issue 210, 1 February 1995, Page 16

big day out

BIG DAY OUT Mount Smart Stadium, January 20.

Friday, January 20, dawned looking to be a shit of a day. It was positively pissing down in the central city. Most assumed the same was happening at Mount Smart Stadium, home for a day to The Big Day Out. Australasia’s equivalent to the Northern Hemisphere’s Lollapalooza returned to Auckland for the second year, this time on a grander, more adventurous scale. In 1995, The Big Day Out would take over the entire stadium complex and showcase '45 local and international bands. Auckland was the first stop for this travelling road show, meaning, unlike last year, we saw all the imported bands. But who says this was a bonus? On the day, many local acts' chewed up and spat out several of the super-hyped headliners. True to form, the RipltUp contingent arrive late, due in part to traffic snarl-ups caused by a fatal crash near the Harbour Bridge. Apologies to Love Custard Patrol. At midday the clouds are holding on to the rain, and a decent sized crowd has gathered at Stage Five to watch Tadpole, who experienced a car crash of their very own on the way to the show. Understandably they’re a little subdued, and are definitely not assisted by a PA that crackles and breaks up during each song. Yet they triumph, straddling the line between highenergy left-field rock and the brashness of punk. While the rhythm section move mountains in the background, all melody is carried by the voice of Kath Deeney, who along with several others, chose The Big Day Out to quit their bands.

Immediately following, parallel to the main stadium and under the Supertop, Christchurch’s Pumpkinhead played a monster of a set on Stage Four. Free time provides an opportunity to explore. Up the garden path beside Stage Five is a whole bunch of stalls and food — beware the healthy stuff! The biggest stall has been given over to High Times magazine, who’re offering every possible item and implement the average ‘erb smoker could need. Also, curiously enough, there’s not a single boy in the Family Planning area picking up ‘something for the weekend’.

Back in the pup tent now. Today was bassist Dave James’ final show with the Dead Flowers. In grand style on Stage Four, they played all the hits during an outrageously good performance. Okay, the main stage — let’s have a look at it.

From the balcony of the big stand all appears to be in order. The bar is open down below the

scoreboard at one end of the field, while Stages One and Two have an overbearing effect on the overall outlook.

There's only a few things I’ll walk hills for, and a flying fox is one of them. So I clamber the stairs to the top of the main stand only to discover there's a 90 minute queue. Bugger. It looks cool fun too. The trip whizzes you down to the centre of the field in 10 seconds flat.

Making do with the conventional way, I melt into the crowd for Luscious Jackson and California’s Offspring. There’s a keen bunch moshing in front of Stage One, but I’ll never understand why. The essence of a great rock ‘n’ roll is a performance that almost appears meaningless or a throwaway. Calculated poppunkers, Offspring spend too much energy cultivating spontaneity rather than trying to nail their fans to the wall. In short, Offspring are fakers.

Back up at Stage Five, Wellington’s, Bilge Festival attracted a very limited number for their selection of tangled and grating guitar histrionics. Any energy there was, was turned inwards. What audience there was, was ignored. All they needed was four walls and it would’ve been a proper practice. Today’s a day for departures. Fiona McDonald and Michael Lawry will be Headless Chickens no longer after this set. Better make the most of it. Who ever wrote the set list is a genius and knows how to thrill a crowd. Up in the pit, the faithful are surfing and surging out of control, it doesn’t get any better than this. By now the clock is reading six, and the stadium continues to fill with people — many of whom have obviously not come for the music. The dodgem cars situated next to the Supertop are in constant demand and there’s even a queue at the spacies. Upper Hutt Posse are 20 minutes late arriving on Stage Four, so they have their set cut short after ‘E Tu’ and a swinging version of ‘Ragga Girl’. On Stage Two, Shihad are trucking through their 45 minutes and tie with the Chickens as the highlight of the day. ‘Derail’ is as intense as ever, and the forthcoming single ‘You Again’ pins your ears back with its power. Masterful. Primal Scream are turds. They encompass everything that’s bad about English indie guitar bands. They excel at being weak and whiny, and haven’t a fucking clue how to rock. The rest of my day out will be spent in the big tent.

Sisters Underground are doing it on Stage Four at 8.30 pm. They've acquired a DJ and, surprisingly, a collection of jazz-flavoured tunes. The focal point is still the magnificent voices of Brenda and Hasana, and ‘ln The

Neighbourhood’ is still the slice of pop brilliance it always was. It must be said though, singers of this calibre deserve to be backed by a tight, funky band, rather than a temperamental DAT machine.

The Otara Millionaires Club sound painfully thin tonight, due to a mysterious lack of bass in the mix. All rap interludes that were a major ingredient during previous OMC shows have been scrapped in favour of the soulful vocals of Paul Fuemana. He’s the owner of a strong set of lungs, but the booming rhymes were definitely needed this evening.

Australian techno outfit the Severed Heads followed soon after on Stage Three — Depeche Mode on speed. Next. Supergroove are up against Ministry at 10pm, but still pull a crowd of thousands into the tent. They enter, the kids go apeshit, and it's impossible to move in any direction except up and down for the next three quarters of an hour. Phenomenal.

Finally, Fundamental. Up front the sound is deafening, and the bass booms deep enough to rattle your bones. Frontman Propa-Ghandi is a maniac on stage. His face covered with a headscarf, he swings his arms madly around his head while leaping about the stage. ‘Wrath Of A Black Man’ is the highlight — samples scream from the PA while Ghandi raps at high speed. A fine end to a day that was long. My only feeling of disappointment is that I didn’t lay my eyes on Drew Barrymore.

JOHN RUSSELL

I spend the first hour of my day at the Big Day Out wandering around and around, trying to figure out what was where and why I had to wait in lines for 10 minutes to get in a certain direction. I find out the queues are because of the areas that the people are allowed to drink ‘th’ piss’ in. I decide to avoid these areas very early on in the piece, but this is near impossible, as they block the way to the Supertop, Stage One and Stage Two. So, I wait in line with all the people who are desperate to get ‘loaded’ or ‘shitfaced' for the day, then some unpleasant woman accuses me of being underage, as I try to get into the ‘area’, and violently puts a pretty yellow plastic doodaky around my wrist. I am now free to walk through the ‘area’, and to my destination, which is Stage One, to see one of my favourite bands You Am I. Now, because I am so frivolous, I didn’t even bother to see You Am I when they played on the little stage at last year’s Big Day Out. I didn’t like them then, but I have since acquired their album and subsequently decided that I do like them very much thankyou. So this year You Am I are playing the big, main stage, and deserved-

ly so. They are a happy bunch, who obviously like each other, and very much enjoy playing their music, which consists of gorgeously crafted, poppy songs, full of melody, but ‘going off’ at the same time. They churned through their set with happy abandon and enthusiasm, and served up many a favourite ditty including ‘Adam’s Ribs', ‘Jaimme’s Got A Girl’ and their tasty new song, ‘Cathy’s Clown’. Later on Stage One, I’m watching the 3Ds, who I usually find quite mesmerising. Today, however, they had a few technical troubles, which chopped the flow of the set up somewhat. Shortly after a slightly shaky version of ‘Beautiful Things’, Dave Mitchell’s guitar amp died or something. David, Denise and Dom decided to do a song on their on, which was going along nicely, until David Saunder's amp followed suit. They appeared to fix their technical problems up fairly smartly thereafter, and continued with a much stronger and very spunky set. After the initial problems, they were one of the few bands of the day whose sound rang clear around the stadium. After a solid 10 minute walk, push and shuffle, I finally made it to the Supertop to see Australian teen rock stars Silverchair. I didn’t realise just quite how popular Silverchair were. As the band arrived on stage, the crowd, well the girls at least, all started screaming really loudly. This startled me a lot and made me think several things of this phenomenon: a) I am really old; b) I must be really outta touch; c) (with misplaced righteousness) I’m really in touch and every one else isn't because I liked this style of music ages ago; d) why are the girlies screaming at boys who look like any other teen boys? It must be their talent. I was confused, but there’s no doubt these little sons-of-guns can play the grungy, rocky, metally thing very well indeed. The sound in the Supertop was far superior to that outside on the main stages, and this helped a lot. When guitarist/singer Daniel stepped on his overdrive/grungy pedal thing for the ‘rock’ bits of their songs — well heck, it was quite powerful of sorts really. They were good. They were cute. There’s no doubt as to who influences them, being all that grunge sorta music. There was hair everywhere from the bass player and the drummer, and Daniel has a very accomplished and rich voice. I forgot they were so young until Daniel introduced their Top 10 hit ‘Tomorrow’ as ‘Big Fat Hairy Scrotum’. Teenage boys eh! My next goal was to decide where to put myself in order to see Hole. I decided not to wedge myself in between people’s bodies that I didn’t know, so I had to stand back a fair way. I found a nice elevated spot of sorts that I could see the (w)hole (hah!) band from.

Courtney sauntered onstage, some 10 minutes late I think, and gave us all the finger. She then proceeded to say how good it was to be back in New Zealand, the place of the boarding school that had “fucked her up". Courtney then strapped on her green guitar, put her leg up on the monitor and proceeded to play a surprisingly together set, with the help of her very competent band, including foxy new bass player Melissa. Phoaaw!

After the first song, Courtney commented that the “guys in New Zealand are much better than in Australia", then proceeded to jump into the crowd to fetch some flowers that were obviously meant for her, and to give the guy a good snog too. “Good kisser,” she said, after climbing back on stage and showing the audience her lunch. I’d heard reports that Courtney couldn’t, or wouldn’t, sing all the notes in the songs, but she was on form today. ‘Doll Parts’, ‘My Beautiful Son’ and ‘Miss World’ were all fantastic, and ‘Pretty On The Inside’ was crudely and beautifully raw. As far as reports of her abusing the audience go, that was complete pooh pooh as well, unless it was when she was yelling at the crowd to “shut the fuck up”, ‘cause she wanted to play her next song. What’d they expect? Someone polite like Juliana Hatfield? I thought it was funny. Somebody threw her a sunbathing mat, which she promptly spread on the floor, like New Zealand’s own little red carpet, and played on. This was followed by a spot of ‘abuse', aimed at her guitarist. “His girlfriend's [Drew Barrymore] on the cover of Playboy magazine,” she drawled. “I thought all this time you only wanted me Eric... c’mon, lemme touch it.” She then chased him around the stage and tried to touch his dick. If that wasn’t enough to confuse the Herald/Sunday News and some other startled men in the audience, she then hit him violently over the back several times with her guitar, while the other band members paid no mind! '

I know Hole aren’t the greatest band in the world musically, but none of the great bands in the world are. They’ve all got something wrong with them, which makes them right. Courtney is entertaining. She was playful and very funny, and you wanted to keep watching her and her band. Isn't that what it’s all about?

The set finished. Courtney squatted on the edge of the stage to peruse the audience, then jumped in, reappearing some minutes later with half her frock pulled off, before disappearing backstage. After all that excitement, I headed over to Stage Five to catch Fagan’s set. The crowd here was completely different, consisting of lots of old Gluepot/Coromandel looking types. Not that there is anything wrong with that, it’s just lots of his potential audience weren’t

there. Fagan’s set consists of very good poppy songs, in a Lemonheads-ish sort of vein. He plays the music the kids would like, but somehow, the kids don’t go and see him. Maybe they can’t get over the Mockers thing. Andrew is completely batty, and again, if you have someone batty, or mad, like Courtney, it’s obviously gonna be entertaining. Between songs, Andrew was telling us about his new thing called the Future Earth Organisation, or something like that, in which you write your emotional problems to Andrew and he will help. He kept saying (infomercial style): “Blah, blah, blah, Future Earth thing... hi, I’m Andrew, blah, blah, blah.” Guess you had to be there, but most of you weren’t. I think I saw Martin Phillipps there, near the front of the stage. I think it was him. It looked like him. But then, the same night, I had a dream about Martin Phillipps being there, so maybe I’m wrong. SHIRLEY CHARLES The hypnotic grind ’n' growl of Solid Gold Hell’s ‘Sugar Bag' heralds the beginning of my Big Day Out. Beneath the folds of the Super Top, the one and only Glen Campbell (not that one, or the other one) is orchestrating the descent to a place much darker. Solid Gold Hell come on like a tragically forgotten house act, at a lounge bar somewhere between hell and the Mexican border. The sweet irony is that they are, of course, far from forgotten, or forgettable. Campbell sports the threads of one of those dreadful friends of the family (y’know, the ones you’re supposed to call Uncle) and the kind of shades which proved Andrew Eldritch was a CHIPs fan. The combined effects are as intoxicating as the most creeping of internal evils. However, as I surrendered my six-shooter at the bag search on the way in, I am forced to abandon all thoughts of committing Swingin' Hot Murder on the beautiful people outside in favour of seeing more bands. Stage Five is a lovely place to hang out. It looks like a holding tank for the non-moshers amongst the crowd and it’s nice to find a decent patch of grass to kick back on. David Kilgour and the Best Minds are the reason I’m here, although I got my additional thrills out of watching one enamoured fan getting down in a pair of Sesame Street trousers. Very fetching! I arrive in time to hear my favourite Kilgour song, ‘Nail In My Foot’, and plenty more off Sugar Mouth follows, so I’m well pleased. Kilgour’s resigned delivery of that sad, sweet ‘Recollection’ is a definite highlight. The set is unfortunately dogged by a crackling speaker, and Kilgour suffers more technical difficulties in his later Clean set.

It’s taken a long time for Head Like A Hole to happen for me, but today was the day this was destined for, and it couldn’t have gone off

any better than it did. One need go no further in describing the band than placing Hidi and Booga alongside one another — the former typically naked, save his dreadlocks, the latter’s latest style looks like he’s dressed for a Miami Vice audition. The perfect summation of their performance occurs right in front of my nose during one of the Booga-dubbed “sensitive” numbers. Two (apparently) long lost, hard ass mates swamp each other in an uncharacteristic looking, warm embrace, then, as if by telepathy, simultaneously break into a spontaneous fit of headbanging. Fair brings tears to my eyes, it does. Booga gets the audience in the palm of his hand, squeezes them tight, then shakes them till they're silly. The band blasts back to the Cabaret Volatile from whence they surely issued with a mighty version of 'Holidays In The Sun’, and the kids go wild.

Shihad are sandwiched rather unenviably between headliners Hole and Primal Scream, but manage to make mincemeat of the trepidation which would understandably mark such a spot. Jon Toogood looks a lot more comfortable in front of a crowd these days and well he should, being at the helm of the heaviest and strangle-tightest band in the country. I can register nothing other than a stunned disbelief at the cold steel perfection which encased every component of the band, and the even mightier one (driven by man-or-machine drummer Tom Larkin) which hammered them all home.

Ministry were the moment I had been waiting for, and I’m damn sure they came close to being the last band I would ever hear, so blistering was their volume. Samples in tact, they burn through a bunch of the best, in front of a screen alive with the typical fodder of the monster called Ministry — death, religion, war etc. The renderings are largely faithful to their recordings, but I ain’t never heard nothing this loud before.

Paying to be abused has always struck me as one of the stranger human failings, nevertheless big Al (yes, he is goddamn frightening in action) makes sure we all get our money’s worth. “So you like the fast ones, huh?,” he asks, to ass licking howls of affirmation. “Well here’s a slow one for you, you fucks. It’s called ‘Scarecrow’.’’ And on it went. It appears Al may have made some new friends over at the hot rod stand, as ‘So What’ is altered for the “Westies” in the crowd. After all the press I’ve read lately about what a nice guy Mr Jourgensen is, I was pleased to see him restore his legend status as the baddest ass in the business... and a damn good advertisement for earplugs. I left clutching my bleeding aural orifices, and couldn’t hear a thing for the rest of the weekend.

BRONWYN TRUDGEON

The Big Day Out: referred to as the big day off, and even the big day out of it. At the rate the St. Johns people carried bodies away on stretchers, maybe the latter is the best description. Out of it or not, it was a day to enjoy a broad range of acts, local and imported.

We got away to a late start, due to a freak accident on the motorway. By the time I arrived and was processed, Moana and her Moahunters were halfway through their set. The broadcast from bFM informed me they had begun with a poi dance. When I arrived they were belting out ‘Sensual’ a slower track from the Tahi album. Moana then stepped aside, giving Teremoana the lead to perform one of her own songs. Meanwhile, the Moahunters provided the super fluid essential funk background. They performed a few more numbers from Tahi, all perfect and professional. So begins the wandering around. With all the construction going on at Mount Smart, moving from stage to stage was fraught with other bodies trying to do the same thing. I went to Stage Five, the little stage, to find a tutu clad Jacinda Klouwens. She belted out her post Fatal Jelly Space set, without the wailing that was her FJS trademark. Her singing has improved and so has her song writing. ‘Pleasure’ is the name of her new single, as it was to hear Jacinda again. I was not in hip-hop mode. Neither were the punters as they left the Supertop in droves. The “dance party” kicked in with ‘Damn Natives’. No welcoming mihi, no solemn karakia. Dam Native lay down the challenge and the challenge is to think. Think about that billion dollars, is that all? We cannot be bought anymore. The heap of them come at you like your worst urban nightmare. It’s almost intimidating, despite some technical difficulties.

On with the show — Three the Hard Way and Urban Disturbance. I didn’t like either of these crews and left during the latter. Though it may have been hard for them performing to the handful of remaining punters, but the dull humourless rhymes and beats dragged from the moderate rock box were not even entertaining. that old school? I think not. It wasn’t their big day at all. Coming back to the Supertop, I caught the Picassos at their blistering best. Yeeha! MC OJ, Rhythm Slave and their true school DJ DLT showed strength and experience. Mixing up their half hour, old school, new school, ragga. They have always been a conduit of prevailing influences, taking them and making them their own. Now they have stopped being the goofiest rappers in town, they displayed an edge that some of the younger crews can learn from, ‘cause none of them had it. ' Never mind. There were bound to be some

disappointments from that many acts. It was well made up for by the all great, enjoyable things I saw and heard that day: Dimmer (let’s hear it for the Ron Asheton fan club), Solid Gold Hell, David Kilgour and later the Clean, Silverchair, though I found them a little depressing, and from further afield, Offspring and Ministry. Better facilities make it a lot more pleasurable. 1996 should be phenomenal. BARBIE Garageland are superstars on student radio. Big Day Out was their chance to takeover the world, unfortunately only a couple of hundred turned up to witness their Big Day Out debut. Garageland sound like a New Zealand band imitating an American band imitating a New Zealand band. But what they lack in originality they more than make up for in song writing skills. They easily have five or six songs to die for, or at least to be slightly injured for, and it is this which will stop them from being crucified for sounding like a Pavement fan-band. Now they must gather up their slacker-energy and put all those songs onto what could quite possibly be a sublime record. In the Supertop, because of the tardiness of Urban Disturbance, the Hallelujah Picassos were late on stage and rushed their way through a twenty minute set. Everything played came from their speedy guitar/shouty chorus department. Bobbyion piped up once and even then the guitars deemed it time again to come thundering in and shut him up. Harold was a force to be reckoned with, after getting the obligatory “Hi Mum ‘n’ Dad” over with, he removed his Picasso shirt and then jumped and lurched around the stage, (not quite) transforming the audience into a seething mass. The Tall Dwarfs had two or three thousand

people filling the whole Stage 5 area. I don’t know if it was because of the popularity of the Tall Dwarfs or if it was just all the softy Grey Lynn types hiding from The Cult fans. After Primal Scream’s rawk, it was relaxing to pass the twilight hour listening to Dwarfs’ low-key and low volume take on verse-chorus rock ’n’ roll.

Of course the trademark bleeping Casiotone, scuzzy loops and fuzzed out guitars were in full effect. Chris Knox was his usual irreverent, irrelevant self while Alec Bathgate stood by staring politely if somewhat bemusedly at Knox. A guest guitarist (erm - Deanna?) joined them in the last song. They spent five minutes hunting for leads and effects pedals. Knox singing instructions to her throughout the song. Same as it ever was.

Not only would it be blasphemous to say the Clean were no good it would also be untrue. There is beautiful simplicity and clarity in most of what they play tonight. But one couldn’t help feeling that we were watching the NZ Rolling Stones. Seminal band, together once more and not as good as they once were, complete with guitar solo’s (well, jangle marathons actually) and superstar guests (Martin Phillipps). The Clean are a classic band of the 80s, indulge in nostalgia by all means, but let’s not listen to all the wrinklies telling us they’re still the greatest thing in modern rock. They were simply nice. DARREN HAWKES Last year the big day ended for me with an earth shattering (final) performance by the Straitjacket Fits. This year it started with

Shayne Carter’s current band, Dimmer, already into its second incarnation. Bass player Chris Heazelwood and drummer Dean Goodwin have added an even darker edge to Carter’s wild and weird guitar and wonderful voice. Gone are the soaring pop gems of the Straitjackets. Dimmer excel in dark sketches; tangential shards of guitar, exploring but never quite defining the boundaries of a new musical landscape. Playing a mixture of ‘old’ and new Dimmer songs — this is a band to expect wonderful things from. Racing across Big Day Town for my appointment with Balance, I took a wrong exit and stood watching a few songs by a big rockin' Dead Powers before I realised I was in the wrong place, and had to battle the traffic over to Stage Five. The last few songs of Balance that I did see featured veteran punk rock vocalist Rowan Coffey, who has only been with the band a short time. Even when Rowan didn’t seem to know exactly what was about to happen, the rest of the band did, and they laid down an intense, tight bed of crisp hardcore for the vocals to skate over. If sometimes the layers didn’t gel, it may just be a matter of time for the elements to work with, not just beside, each other.

Luscious Jackson I know — I must confess — from the grand total of one song off the TV, but this wasn’t an impediment to enjoying them. Their mixture of groovy guitar, keyboards, bass and drums, deejayed and sequenced sounds and catchy pop tunes was a perfect accompaniment to the summery (if overcast) feel of the day. We got to sing — well, yell — along, and they seemed to enjoy it too, even playing a song “about Auckland, Nu Zealand”. After; some years the Clouds are, at last, starting to sound less like good bits from other bands and more like the Clouds — finding a mixture of.beefy guitar and sweet vocals that works just right for them. Vocals are now split even more evenly between guitarist Jodie and ex-New Zealand bassist Trish, with each taking a turn at lead singer. The meat in the on stage sandwich (eww, yuck) is the boy guitarist, who now fills out the sound more than some of his Joey Santiago- fiddling of-the past. A healthy crowd inside the Supertop proved the following this band has steadily developed. x . “You can squeeze out the pus but the boil remains,” is the poetic way a member of the Headless Chickens described the departure of singer Fiona McDonald and tech-wiz Michael Lawry to me. This will be a band changed by their departure, but by no means squeezed dry. To prove the point, , the band opened with founder Chris Matthews on lead vocals, and his presence — as a formidable singer, lyricist and guitarist — was evident throughout the set. But the kids do love Fiona, and they (okay, we) danced, clapped and screamed in all the right places as the band played their catalogue of hits (and shouldabeen hits). Capping a fine set with the remarkable ‘George’, the Chickens left the stage, never to appear , quite the same again. . ... ' Apart from falling helplessly in love every 45 seconds, other highlights of the day . for me included You Am I, Shihad, Drew Barrymore and lan Astbury’s silver shirt. - . JONATHAN KING There it was — the ride none of us ever thought was . coming, the ride, truth be told, some of'us half hoped would never arrive. I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t scared. This was my first tour of duty. I didn’t know what I

was going to see, what I was going to hear, there was only one thing certain — I’d never be the same again. Entering the gates, we were processed and given our red tags of identification. Some wore it with pride, others tried to half hide it from the hostile eyes of the crowd. To many of them we were filth misrepresenting the situation to the folks back home, but this was not the time for second thoughts or qualms. There was a job to be done. Democracy was at stake. The first impression of the Supertop is it’s big. The reason for this is it is in fact quite large. New Plymouth’s living legends, Sticky Filth, are given the task of christening proceedings. An impressively large curtain is pulled aside and it’s show time. Sticky Filth open up with their heavy artillery, inspiring much bouncing and sweatiness of limbs. The first three songs are played at much tempo, Sticky Filth perhaps anxious for the audience to hear as many songs as possible in their half hour set. They impress with their total commitment. Torrents of sweat pour from the singer, making me regret leaving my poncho at home, and the full on heaviness of it all really puts the zap on my head. As the curtain is drawn, the band keeps on playing. I depart as they either give up the struggle, or someone pulls the plug. Dizzy from Sticky Filth’s set, I stagger towards some ‘eavy metal booming from Stage Two. Hailing from the land of Oz (not Ozzy), Allegiance played a brand of metal that seemed more suited to the pub rock circuit. When they pulled out their big ballad, I uttered an oath at Allegiance and scampered off back to the Supertop. Not long after catching my breath, it was stolen from me by Pumpkinhead's song ‘Third Eye’. What a little ripper. Should it be on the upcoming album, I advise all you Romeos out there to learn it and sing it to someone special. The rest of Pumpkinhead’s set is devoted to maximum body movement and assorted political messages. ‘Burger Sheep’ disses meat eating — hope they’re careful with the title should it ever be released. Aside from promoting healthy eating, Pumpkinhead also dis telling tales in ‘Nark’. Despite the tired cliches of these numbers Pumpkinhead’s set is excellent and leaves one peeved at the time constraints. The excellent thing about the next band, Thorazine Shuffle, is I only have to move 20 metres. Unfortunately for Thorazine Shuffle, about a third of the crowd moves somewhat more than 20 metres. This was my first taste of Thorazine Shuffle’s flavour, a flavour that’s no doubt an acquired taste — just how one could acquire it remained a mystery. Playing hard edged alternative rock, or soft edged hard rock, Thorazine Shuffle failed to leave much impression other than when some lady wandered on in a miniskirt. If this was meant as a treat for the teenage boys in the audience, then why start playing the flute? Like a good mystery novel, Thorazine Shuffle posed many questions, but instead of a whodunnit it was a whydidtheydoit.

The only question the Dead Flowers posed is why is bass god Dave James abandoning ship? Easily one of the most popular acts at the Supertop, Dead Flowers lived up to their usual high standards, but why is Mr Bell wearing eyepopping chequerboard trousers and why does Mr Hadfield have feathers in his hair? Who is trying to upstage who? If it’s Mr Hadfield, then he has sadly failed, for Mr Bell’s trousers cannot and will not be beaten. The highlight of the set is the extended mix ‘Watch Her Play'. Well,

I watched them play and it was spiffy! Time to kill between assignments, so it’s off to enjoy the spectacle of crazy, gung ho types flinging themselves off terra firma and hurtling 150 feet, supported by what looks like cotton thread. Deciding it’s too frightening even watching this tomfoolery, let alone participating in it, I set off for Chug Land. Halfway into Chug’s set I begin to understand the attraction of the flying fox. Suddenly, the thought of being hurled 150 metres in the opposite direction of Stage Five is extremely appealing. Chug’s set is so lame that I examine the stage for wheelchair access. As the jangle wank drones on, reaction from the audience is almost zilch, with only one soul bopping away — maybe he bought the brown acid? If Nietzche’s dictum, ‘that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’, is true, then I leave a veritable mental Schwarzenneger through suffering.

There’s no need to suffer during Semi Lemon Kola, who make certain the funk is free and keep a dedicated group of fans humping and pumping right till their set’s end, when, just like magic, the crowd disappears. This disappearing act twas not the fault of Loves Ugly Children, but rather the fact Hole are playing on Stage One. Loves Ugly Children soldier through their set, but it’s obvious they’d like to be watching Hole as well.

Someone else who wants to be somewhere else is Mr Bobby Gillespie of Primal Scream. Dawdling on stage, the emaciated wee scunner’s vocals are barely audible during the first song. Luckily the sound picks up, but Mr Gillespie’s enthusiasm stays at rock bottom throughout the set. Hoary old chestnuts like ‘Jailbird’ and ‘Rocks’ are given an airing. ‘Rocks’ gets the crowd excited for a bit, then Mr Gillespie wanders off stage and lets his backup singer take over. It seems the rest of band and singer expect Mr Gillespie to stay and do the funky chicken during the funky number. Instead, Bob sits stage right and swigs from a bottle of wine. Looks filthier than a farmer’s gumboot are exchanged all round when Mr Gillespie condescends to crawl back onstage. Occasionally Primal Scream give glimpses of the great live band they’re supposed to be. ‘l’m Yours, You’re Mine’ is one of the day’s highlights, but one can’t help feeling the venue and audience were completely wrong for Primal Scream’s music.

The venue is completely right, however, for The Cult. As the lights begin to kick in, Astbury and dirty quarter dozen appear among clouds of dry ice, eager to show New Zealand just what stadium rock’s all about. Pulling the largest crowd of the day, The Cult inspired with the majesty of rock. The sound achieved was the stripped down rock of the Electric era. Standing on tippy toes I only just manage to glimpse Mr Astbury in sparkly shirt, prancing around stage like a Baryshnikov of rock. Mr Astbury’s dancing, coupled with the lights, created an awesome rock spectacle. The microphone gymnastics and blood red backdrop during ‘Fire Woman’ impressed muchly. If there’s one complaint, it’s directed at the lack of “woah woah, yeah baby’s”. Still, after grumpy Gillespie, it was nice to see a frontman really trying his best for the crowd. As they departed, lan pleaded with us not to “lose our childlike innocence”. I think there’s something in there for all of us, particularly the poseurs who spent the day trying to look hard and forgetting the music.

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