Today's review comes courtesy of long-time Beezy Listener, Christ Pearce. Christ is a well traveled festival-goer who last week made the pilgrimage over to Sydney for the mostly metal/punk festival Soundwave, taking in bands such as Monster Magnet, Millencolin, Primus, Gang of Four, and Melvins. No mention of Third Eye Blind, however. Here's his take on the day's action:
Sydney Showground - 27 February, 2011
A change of venue from Sydney’s Eastern Creek Speedway to the more accessible Olympic Park Showgrounds meant that Soundwave 2011 became more like a heavy Big Day Out. So although most of the same stages remained from Australasia’s biggest music festival, the ironic t-shirts were replaced by black Slayer and Iron Maiden merchandise and the normally fluoro accessories were more of the permanent ink variety here. Mid strength beers and mixers were still being peddled however, although it presented little barrier to intoxication (I suspect the frozen cocktails had a bit more venom). The forty degree heat which plagued last year’s Soundwave was thankfully absent, and the occasional rain shower maintained an ideal atmosphere for accepting punishing aural attacks.
British legends Saxon should have appeared first on one of the twin main stages but had pulled out in the days prior to the event, reportedly in order to finish recording their new album. It sounded a bit weak to me, since I don’t know anyone likely to buy such an album, though plenty who were keen to see them perform. So instead we arrived a bit later to see Saxon touring partners The Sword play a very loud and energetic set on a smaller stage. With a clear Sabbath influence these Texans knew how to kick off a festival, and the large and ever increasing crowd were receptive. I passed by British band This Town Needs Guns who began by admitting that although they were neither metal nor punk, they were at least pleased to be at Soundwave. So what would they be then? An At the Drive-In derivative from what I could tell. The wavering vocals were spot on if a little wimpy, but the jumpy guitar riffs not quite as melodic as some of the better bands of their type.
Bullet For My Valentine followed immediately after and with a unexpectedly powerful intro. I almost thought Slayer had come on early as the three guitarists charged out and swung their hair and flying V’s to the punishing Your Betrayal. It deserved applause but I had other tasks to attend to such as wrist-banding, gaining some more friends, and booze. On the way I made a stop at old Swedish punk favorite Millencolin, who were playing their classic Pennybridge Pioneers album to a packed tent. Millencolin are one of only a handful of pop-punk bands who can get away with touring an album over ten years old, and by all accounts the sound was better than most of the outdoor stages.
I was intrigued to hear what Terror would sound like – terrific, terrible? My initial experience turned out to be not of the band but of a fan wearing a Terror t-shirt being dragged away from the stage. Perhaps I’d already missed the best of them... you had to assume the guy had been enjoying himself. Unlike him, I managed to catch the end of the Californian hardcore act, which sounded heavy enough but didn’t seem to offer much more than what hardcore from the late 90's has already given us. Though to be fair I didn’t hear or see enough to pass a considered judgment.
Having bought a can of beer and a can of whiskey and dry I mulled over what to drink first. They were both barely satisfying cold so I decided to drink the beer first on account of the whiskey RTD being most likely to keep its flavour when warm. As I later found out, the superior drink choice was the multi-coloured, multi-flavoured, oozing frozen cocktail. Music festivals demand many such considered decisions as this from all punters. Pizza, hot dog, noodles, nothing? Spew on the ground or in the toilet?
Choosing Primus over High on Fire was an easy decision. I was drawn immediately to the front after watching opener To Defy the Laws of Tradition from afar. Having only listened to Primus’ albums I had never guessed at how much of their overall sound actually comes from Les Claypool’s bass. The man is simply a magician. While rapidly slapping and finger tapping his various basses (bass is not even the appropriate name fro them, he produces the whole range of pitches as well as percussion) he strutted about the stage at times like a prancing parading moustached soldier, his distinctive vocals instantly appealing even when chatting to the crowd between songs – “there are so many things I’ve been wanting to say to each and every one of you, but they told me to just get up and play this four-stringed piece of furniture”. There were no let-ups throughout the whole set, with American Life, My Name is Mud and Tommy the Cat all producing spontaneous freak-outs from the crowd when they weren’t staring mesmerised by one of the most unheralded groups of the last twenty years. A large gathering of backstage admirers was testament to the genius on show. My highlight of the day. I later heard that the High on Fire set was halved by technical difficulties.
On to the eagerly anticipated Gang of Four. The British post-punk band immediately engaged everyone by destroying a Fender before the first song was over. After replacing it, besuited guitarist Andy Gill announced oddly “I’m like ya dad”, singer and tambourinist Jon King added for clarification “he’s like ya dad... after a bottle of rum... on Christmas Eve”. There was so much energy in this performance they made the rest of the bands look like a rehearsal. King repeatedly crashed into equally as sharply dressed bassist Thomas McNeice who barely noticed, and knocked his mic stand to all parts of the stage. Whenever he managed to calm down King would go into what appeared to be a sort of ‘rock trance’. It was reminiscent of a younger Peter Garrett, although unlike his also politically motivated band, Gang of Four haven’t compromised anything and are still going strong. Highlights included Do As I Say and closer To Hell With Poverty which King screamed himself hoarse and soaking wet.
Just as anticipated were thrash legends Slayer, and naturally a sizeable crowd was building. After a ten minute delay the murmuring crowd was silenced by the arrival of some kook coming on stage to say “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but...” - cue a shower of bottles and cans. Apparently singer Tom Araya was ill in hospital and unable to perform. The fence I was leaning against shook dangerously and air was tense, but everyone eventually gathered control. Although I later heard reports of fans pissing on their Slayer shirts and burning them (or probably the other way around). A few quotes overheard from fans moments after the cancellation – “he’s gonna get his arse reamed!” (metal is occasionally homoerotic); “let’s go and see Foxy Shazam” (I don’t think anyone did); in response to the surprising calm - “that’s why we’re on mid-strengths”; and the sensible “let’s visit him in hospital and bring him donuts”.
Queens of the Stone Age turned up on time and played a set from most of their catalogue, opening with Rated R classics Feel Good Hit of the Summer and Lost Art of Keeping a Secret. Always tight and heavy, frontman Josh Homme sculled from a bottle of Smirnoff and urged the crowd to dance. Before the show I’d been led to believe they were touring partly to promote a reissue of their self-titled debut, so I was looking forward to hearing at least a couple of tracks from the Kyuss era. But no such luck with this set. Anyhow, every song had the crowd rocking out from kick off and the closing three from Songs for the Deaf – Go With the Flow, No One Knows, and A Song for the Dead and made it a solid, if a little predictable, performance.
I traversed the festival grounds so quickly to catch Melvins that I managed to experience the end of a pumped up Rob Zombie finishing up at the adjacent stage. Now this was some serious entertainment. Seeing the end of a faithful cover of Alice Cooper’s School’s Out had me a little confused as to who was playing at first, but there was no doubt when he came out for encore Dragula, introduced by hot rod horror visuals. Surely this is as close as metal can come to dance music. After directing guitarist John 5 to smash his guitar to pieces “I hate that fucking guitar”! Rob and his band screamed over fading feedback.
For what I assume was a piss-take, Melvins came on and screamed over their own feedback for a minute or so before launching into the furious riffing and call-and-response vocals of The Water Glass. All wearing slightly strange outfits, Buzz Osbourne’s veteran band powered flawlessly through jagged rhythms and timing changes, although they occasionally flashed a grin across the crowd to confirm that it’s all really just a bit of fun. Billy Fish, Let it all Be, The Bit created the greatest amount of head-banging that I saw all night (pretty closely in time with Buzz’s swaying hair). Good heavy shit.
After foregoing the first half of their two hour set, I made the pilgrimage to The Royal Iron Maiden Symphony Orchestra. A set full of long operatic songs (incidentally, latest album The Final Frontier is their longest ever album), the majority of tracks seemed to come from post-90’s albums which surely only die-hards must listen to. The backdrop changed for every song and Bruce Dickinson pranced around in a torn shirt labeled ‘Psych Ward’, gesturing like he was reciting Shakespeare. It resembled a school production more than a metal concert. I wouldn’t have been surprised if their mums were in the audience to watch it. The song Iron Maiden from the album of the same name by the band of the same name (a couple of whom also wear t-shirts of the band of the same name) was notable for the entrance of a giant mechanical, possibly robotic, possibly real, probably a guy in a suit named Eddie who came out on stage to terrorize the band and then play guitar (well, hold a guitar) and finally simulate masturbating over Dave Murray! The final act thankfully included Number of the Beast and Hallowed Be Thy Name, and finished with Running Free which was interrupted by a brief singing of ‘happy birthday’ to guitarist Adrian Smith and Dickinson’s bizarre ramblings - he joked that it’s Sunday so we have all probably been to church and then immediately pointed out a pair of tits in the crowd! And then like any practiced theatre performance they finished precisely on schedule. Apparently a band called Polar Bear Club played at the same time.
