Soundwave Festival @ The Royal Melbourne Showgrounds, Melbourne (21-22/02/2015)
DAY ONE
The mammoth under-18s entry line sprawling out around the block and dwarfing the comparatively meek grown-ups queue proved which demographic Soundwave 2015 was keen to get through the doors in greater numbers this year. Sure, there was still plenty of acts for anyone who was born pre-90’s (especially the headliners), but a great deal of bands only recently garnering global recognition showing up to play ensures that the mammoth amount youngsters attending their first Soundwave will turn up for many years to come. A smart idea from the organizers, and good for the guarantee of Soundwave coming back in future.
It was way, way too hot for Slipknot jumpsuits, skinny leg jeans, and denim vests over hoodies on day one. Not that that stopped a dedicated collective of keen counter-culture fashionistas braving the heat in what this reviewer considers very courageous Australian festival clothing choices. But hey, if they feel good doing it, who are we to judge? Big props to two young blokes dressed as bananas. They were making strangers laugh even though it must have been utterly stifling.
The mammoth under-18s entry line sprawling out around the block and dwarfing the comparatively meek grown-ups queue proved which demographic Soundwave 2015 was keen to get through the doors in greater numbers this year. Sure, there was still plenty of acts for anyone who was born pre-90’s (especially the headliners), but a great deal of bands only recently garnering global recognition showing up to play ensures that the mammoth amount youngsters attending their first Soundwave will turn up for many years to come. A smart idea from the organizers, and good for the guarantee of Soundwave coming back in future.
It was way, way too hot for Slipknot jumpsuits, skinny leg jeans, and denim vests over hoodies on day one. Not that that stopped a dedicated collective of keen counter-culture fashionistas braving the heat in what this reviewer considers very courageous Australian festival clothing choices. But hey, if they feel good doing it, who are we to judge? Big props to two young blokes dressed as bananas. They were making strangers laugh even though it must have been utterly stifling.
Stage 5 saw This Wild Life kick off an opening spot with their earnest and catchy, Emo-Pop-punk heart-string janglers to a decent audience. Their song structures allow for what would be considered a hardcore breakdown if everything wasn’t mostly acoustic and they had a drummer. It was good stuff, and a chilled way to ease in to the day.
Next was Stage 1 for a bit of local act I, Valiance, who landed their spot on Soundwave by winning a Triple J Unearthed competition. They’re a curious blend of chilled, 70’s California lead guitar meshed with classic Sabbath solos that float briefly between raging breakdowns and modern metal structures, with a welcomed circus vibe to boot. Think if Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Californication album had a baby with Suicide Silence’s back catalogue. |
Front man Mark Poida’s guttural scream made up for his less ear-pleasing but more often expressed screeching vocals. The rest of the band are prodigiously talented and tight, powering through the set, even when some tech issues kept one of the guitars dropping out for two songs. That small glitch aside, there was still enough young and willing fans to muster a midday wall of death, and it’s great to see a bunch of young and local dudes who look like they were in-utero when Soundwave first started get play time on the main stage in their home town.
A mistimed trot to a subsequently empty stage 3 had me pass a terrifying ride called Freak Out; an awful, spider-like thing that looked as though it repetitively flung you skyward in a pendulum, then probably sexually assaulted you. Why subject yourself to such a thing while there’s great live music on all day? I understand rides are fun, but not while there’s rare bands on multiple stages who may very well never tour again bashing out great tunes.
Regardless, Apocalyptica had just opened on a main stage with Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah over the PA. Once the gents and their string instruments had taken the stage, the speakers crackled incessantly throughout their first two songs. These tech issues coupled with very quiet vocals made the novelty wear off quickly, and I headed off to seek something less irksome.
A mistimed trot to a subsequently empty stage 3 had me pass a terrifying ride called Freak Out; an awful, spider-like thing that looked as though it repetitively flung you skyward in a pendulum, then probably sexually assaulted you. Why subject yourself to such a thing while there’s great live music on all day? I understand rides are fun, but not while there’s rare bands on multiple stages who may very well never tour again bashing out great tunes.
Regardless, Apocalyptica had just opened on a main stage with Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah over the PA. Once the gents and their string instruments had taken the stage, the speakers crackled incessantly throughout their first two songs. These tech issues coupled with very quiet vocals made the novelty wear off quickly, and I headed off to seek something less irksome.
The Wonder Years were half way through a set on stage 3. They belt out anthemic stuff that comes off somewhere between Say Anything and Four Year Strong. To many, this is a dream musical combination, and the crowd were eating up what was on offer. Unfortunately, the much maligned Australian-flag-being-waved-by-foreigners bullshit was in full effect. It’s so tacky and over done by many American bands. Throughout both days there was a running presence of US groups pronouncing ‘Melbourne’ like a local (See: ‘Mel-Bin’), which met with many laughs and cheers from the crowds. Our flag rouses the opposite, and our cheers are because we love your music and are being polite. In short; put it away, guys. We know where we’re from.
After a few songs from The Wonder Years, I arrived at stage 5, with South-Floridian hard rockers NonPoint waffling half-worriedly while the guitarists tried to fix their instruments from intermittently cutting out. Tech issues being an early-growing theme of the day, apparently... It took a good ten minutes without resolution, so front man Elias Soriano broke out in to a capella rendition of In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. It was nothing short of brilliant, and the crowd erupted. That said, it was a bit awkward and disappointing when they had to leave stage, return, and still have check before finally clambering for one last (and mercifully decent) song. I hope they rest of their gigs had less problems for the remainder of the tour, because they seemed like good guys. I returned to the main stages just in time for a swell of strings at Apocalyptica's crescendoing set finish. It was a grand thing to behold, and an immediate reprieve from their lacklustre start. |
If only the
whole set were as good as the blistering pace of their last song. How
folks play the cello so fast, I will never know.
Immediately following Apocolyptica’s slot, Scottish pop-rockers Twin Atlantic kicked off their first ever Australian show on the stage next door, waltzing out to the Happy Days theme in the process; such a small thing that seemed to lift the spirits of everyone in attendance. Although I’m sure their output is far too radio friendly for many SW goers, there’s no denying Twin Atlantic make shrill, uplifting, catchy, anthemic stuff. A dedicated handful came to have a gander, but many others missed a sugary mess that's well worth an ear. Bravo, you sharp, talented, crotch-clamming heart throbs.
Half a set in and it was off to stage 3 to watch Lagwagon. They opened with a purposefully glib ‘2pm anti-climax’. It was very funny, but lead singer Joey Cape seemed to stay in a bit of a disinterested mood. If I recall, he blamed a hangover. It’s great to see old punk dudes with their still shamelessly dyed brightly, like they're misguided and 17 ad infinitum. Some dudes die hard to their genre, and it's fucking great.
Immediately following Apocolyptica’s slot, Scottish pop-rockers Twin Atlantic kicked off their first ever Australian show on the stage next door, waltzing out to the Happy Days theme in the process; such a small thing that seemed to lift the spirits of everyone in attendance. Although I’m sure their output is far too radio friendly for many SW goers, there’s no denying Twin Atlantic make shrill, uplifting, catchy, anthemic stuff. A dedicated handful came to have a gander, but many others missed a sugary mess that's well worth an ear. Bravo, you sharp, talented, crotch-clamming heart throbs.
Half a set in and it was off to stage 3 to watch Lagwagon. They opened with a purposefully glib ‘2pm anti-climax’. It was very funny, but lead singer Joey Cape seemed to stay in a bit of a disinterested mood. If I recall, he blamed a hangover. It’s great to see old punk dudes with their still shamelessly dyed brightly, like they're misguided and 17 ad infinitum. Some dudes die hard to their genre, and it's fucking great.
After a couple of new songs, they belted out the classic 'Violins', which got the kids up and about. The mood lifted, and nostalgia truly began to reign.
I soon left the Cali punk kids' reverie to get a look at metal super group Killer Be Killed on stage 4. Watching Dillinger Escape Plan front man Greg Puciato on stage is always a force of nature. That guy matched with Max Cavalera, Dave Elitch, and Troy Sanders was a guarantee for a fucking great time, having already made what many considered metal album of the year in 2014. Time has proved supergroups sure can effortlessly pull a mammoth crowd, and KBK were no exception. They were a rollicking fucking band of consummate professionals who were by far the highlight of the day by the time 4pm hit. |
These dudes are sonic heathens, and got so fucking heavy that the sun went out. Ear drums in gleeful pieces, I headed back to the main stages to let them recover with something a bit more relaxed.
It's always a bit sad to hear an accent give way to generic American inflection, especially when you know it’s only because the person harbouring it has derived it from mainstream pop-culture – intentionally or otherwise - to sound cooler. Tonight Alive's front lady Jenna McDougall was dressed like a 90’s hip hop artist, and spouting out a bizarre half-Yankee accent that certainly wasn’t around in interviews as recently as a year ago.
It's always a bit sad to hear an accent give way to generic American inflection, especially when you know it’s only because the person harbouring it has derived it from mainstream pop-culture – intentionally or otherwise - to sound cooler. Tonight Alive's front lady Jenna McDougall was dressed like a 90’s hip hop artist, and spouting out a bizarre half-Yankee accent that certainly wasn’t around in interviews as recently as a year ago.
It
sounded very silly and contrived. So annoying in fact, that I got the
fuck out of there to be early for some actual Americans. A good idea, as
I later discovered they decided a cover of 'Killing In The Name Of' was a good idea. It’s a shame, because they don’t make bad pop-punk. Ditch the accent, Jenna. You guys were marketable anyway.
I got a beer next to stage 3 while Lagwagon finished up with a cover of Bad Religion's cover of John Paul of Portugal’s 'Oh Come All Ye Faithful'. It was bloody great fun, to say the least. Both continuing on with, and promptly elevating the fun to the highest degree were riotous Punk veterans The Vandals. I could write a gushing, 5000 word review on just how exciting, funny, eccentric and friendly these dudes are to behold every single time they play, but I absolutely cannot be bothered because I saw them twice in a week between labouring work and danced so elatedly that my legs may fall off just sitting here typing. If you’re too young to know The Vandals, just buy 'Hitler Bad, Vandals Good', watch their live DVD from House Of Blues, and educate yourself on how much cooler bands are when they’re they can laugh at themselves. Guitarist Warren Fitzgerald is almost certainly the funnest and most exciting man in Punk Rock. He’s a rollicking, unstoppable ball of joyous energy the entire set. Singer Dave Quackenbush smiled for 98% of the gig, and relished saying the word ‘cunt’ as much as possible while on our far less vernacularly precious shores. |
Joe Escalante is a quick-witted bass behemoth, and Alkaline Trio drummer Derek Grant brought the house down with a timely Blink 182 joke, and also characteristically awesome drumming. They played 'People That Are Going To Hell', 'Pat Brown', 'Ape Drape', 'Don’t Stop Me', 'Diarrhoea', a cover of Jacko’s 80’s Aussie punk classic 'I’m An Individual' (to a shamefully underwhelming response), some others I didn’t note because I was banging my head, then finished with 'Girlfriend’s Dead'. Vandals good. Very fucking good, indeed.
Following The Vandals, were the less exciting, but solid Millencollin. They’ve remained a tight and melancholic stalwart in live Punk since I first saw them 15 years ago at The Metro in Bourke Street.
A sizable crowd conveyed their continuing influence. They started with Pennybridge favourite 'Penguins And Polar Bears', followed by 'Happiness For Dogs'. Their new album 'True Brew’s' first single 'Sense and Sensibility' is a mouthy return to classic punk structure and content, with Melbourne being the lucky bunch to hear its live debut. As a slight drizzle settled in, the band began to joke about bringing the Swedish weather with them. Luckily, the rain soon stopped, and I missed the last few songs to check out a skerrick of Papa Roach on the main stage. |
At this point, it’s worth congratulating the Coffee and Crepes Van for making me a sensational coffee at a reasonable cost. Kudos to them not flogging hugely festival prices for something they could easily have marked-up sky high.
Lightning ominously struck in darkened skies behind a surprisingly powerful Papa Roach. It's no wonder that even Steel Panther front man Michael Starr liked their latest album.
Lightning ominously struck in darkened skies behind a surprisingly powerful Papa Roach. It's no wonder that even Steel Panther front man Michael Starr liked their latest album.
The few songs I heard on the walk past were rip-snorters. Sure, they're a bit tacky, but even the awkward cocksureness couldn't play detriment to how satisfying The Roach were for a head bang.
It might have taken fifteen years, but they've shed a one-hit wonder moniker that's followed them about for so long, and really seem to be hitting a belated stride. A characteristically swathe of skinny, peculiarly-haired youngsters gathered about to watch Japanese post-hardcore metallers Coldrain at little ol' stage 5. Front man Masato was more than friendly and excited to be heading to Australia to play when I spoke to him mid-last year a few days before their public announcement of being on the SW15 bill. With that in mind, their late start and lengthy sound check with not nearly enough crowd recognition made the band come off as a bit contrarily unfriendly. |
They’re a clean cut, trendy-looking bunch of dudes any self-respecting ‘traditional’ metal fan would like to beat to death, especially when they left the stage for a pithy operatic intro over the speakers once the set up was finally done. It was unnecessarily precious and time-consuming. Ten minutes late on a forty minute slot is four songs and a quarter of your set.
Once they did start, the boys delivered their impeccable, shouty, 30 Seconds To Mars-esque routine. Not that that’s to be taken as an ineffective or a negative comparison in any way. After a shaky start that threatened the band coming off like jerks, Coldrain played a technically swell, catchy and energetic set, with pearler breakdowns and a great crowd response. I left after two decent songs to go watch something pretty damn spectacular.
The band backing Marilyn Manson came out to a song that sounded like Ed Sheeran if he said fuck much, much more. Some grim strings followed, before the pale emperor himself strolled languidly on to stage.
Once they did start, the boys delivered their impeccable, shouty, 30 Seconds To Mars-esque routine. Not that that’s to be taken as an ineffective or a negative comparison in any way. After a shaky start that threatened the band coming off like jerks, Coldrain played a technically swell, catchy and energetic set, with pearler breakdowns and a great crowd response. I left after two decent songs to go watch something pretty damn spectacular.
The band backing Marilyn Manson came out to a song that sounded like Ed Sheeran if he said fuck much, much more. Some grim strings followed, before the pale emperor himself strolled languidly on to stage.
A mammoth crowd had gathered, proving his atrocious, drunken stupor of a performance two years ago didn't leave a lasting bitterness. White-faced and shoved inside a torturous looking corset, there was no doubt Manson was far more lucid than his last showing at Soundwave.
Warbling, erratic, but mentally involved, Manson certainly made his presence felt. The majority of his huge crowd were dedicated and responsive. This go around, the man seemed deeply in love with the audience, verbally reiterating it, and blowing kisses throughout the gig. "I can feel the sweat in your tits, your balls, your marrow, your brains", he growled mid-set, permanently pervading some kind of gloomy, hypnotising aura. The man is an honest, matte-finished car wreck of raw emotion. |
It's completely engrossing, even if some of it is only somewhat spurred by anticipation of watching him actually go insane, or some further and relative equivalent.
New tune '3rd Day Of A Seven Day Binge' is a bleakly sumptuous, ugly fucking thing to hear live. There’s no denying Manson is lost in his own music, thrashing about and savouring it all at once. He played all the hits, from 'Mobscene' to 'Personal Jesus', and everything in between. 'The New Shit' piqued the atmosphere in particular, the crowd heaving while Manson roundly and violently molested the fall backs. 'Sweet Dreams' followed to much adoration. His cover of The Eurythmics song blows the original out of the water, and is a gloomy fucking beast of a rendition that Manson wilfully and boundlessly flings himself into; crawling about the stage and wailing, captured.
Disappearing off stage for a few minutes, he struts back through the curtains, stating "Sorry… I was trying to score drugs in Australia", before collapsing in to 'Dope Show'. Late in the piece, Manson commandeered a water hose and mimed ejaculating and pissing all over the crowd in time with the music, before disappearing for a brief moment once more, only to return with a face slathered in unsettling black paint. 'Beautiful People' finished up the set, although no one was ready for it to do so. Marilyn Manson was a seething and enigmatic force of nature from start to finish, and almost inarguably the best main stage performance this reviewer has ever seen at Soundwave.
Judas Priest bashed away in traditionally epic fashion on Stage 4 straight after, just as the sun began to set. They exhibit a noise live that leaves some of their dated and treble-heavy recordings dead in the dust.
Horns rose and fell over a massive swell of gnarly-looking, dedicated fans with much joy and aplomb. This truly was metal Mecca for a huge amount of Saturday punters. None will have left disappointed, as the mighty Priest have not lost a step in the last forty (FORTY!!!) years.
New tune '3rd Day Of A Seven Day Binge' is a bleakly sumptuous, ugly fucking thing to hear live. There’s no denying Manson is lost in his own music, thrashing about and savouring it all at once. He played all the hits, from 'Mobscene' to 'Personal Jesus', and everything in between. 'The New Shit' piqued the atmosphere in particular, the crowd heaving while Manson roundly and violently molested the fall backs. 'Sweet Dreams' followed to much adoration. His cover of The Eurythmics song blows the original out of the water, and is a gloomy fucking beast of a rendition that Manson wilfully and boundlessly flings himself into; crawling about the stage and wailing, captured.
Disappearing off stage for a few minutes, he struts back through the curtains, stating "Sorry… I was trying to score drugs in Australia", before collapsing in to 'Dope Show'. Late in the piece, Manson commandeered a water hose and mimed ejaculating and pissing all over the crowd in time with the music, before disappearing for a brief moment once more, only to return with a face slathered in unsettling black paint. 'Beautiful People' finished up the set, although no one was ready for it to do so. Marilyn Manson was a seething and enigmatic force of nature from start to finish, and almost inarguably the best main stage performance this reviewer has ever seen at Soundwave.
Judas Priest bashed away in traditionally epic fashion on Stage 4 straight after, just as the sun began to set. They exhibit a noise live that leaves some of their dated and treble-heavy recordings dead in the dust.
Horns rose and fell over a massive swell of gnarly-looking, dedicated fans with much joy and aplomb. This truly was metal Mecca for a huge amount of Saturday punters. None will have left disappointed, as the mighty Priest have not lost a step in the last forty (FORTY!!!) years.
Too bad the sound cut out half way through 'Valhallah'. Mercifully, it returned half a tick in to the next track, promptly sending the crowd in to a raucous furore. Rob Halford is a stud and trench coat clad gent of the finest order. It’s an understatement that Judas Priest are pioneers, and it's awesome they still take time to leave their millionaire castles and visit the country so very far away.
Halford is just the loveliest bloke to listen to between songs, as he calmly and eloquently introduces each track like a BBC documentary. A wondrously hellish LED backdrop was a nice touch, too. Then they played 'Breaking The Law' and a fucking motorbike wound up on stage, then more songs. Fucking hell, Judas Priest are so great. Once Priest were done, I swiftly dropped by Of Mice And Men, to see a plodding, heavy number bang out over a considerable crowd. My ignorance to their music doesn’t mirror their bleak appeal and lofty number of fans. In a staggering coincidence, they happened to be playing in time with one if the carnival rides pumping 'Pretty Fly For A White Guy' through it's speakers. Back at the main stages, razor light from a rich golden sunset piercing the clouds played out stage right to Slash and Miles Kennedy blistering through 'Sweet Child Of Mine' to begin topping off their set. Slipknot's fancy gray theatre curtain was sandwiched ominously between the two (the sunset and the band, not Miles and Slash, obviously). |
The curtain came off as creatively polite more than anything else, being that any of Slipknot's entirely unique stage set up being erected would no doubt cause a tizz throughout the now-gigantic crowd, thus detracting from Slash and his crew. Slash and The Conspirators finished with 'Paradise City', polished off with a big ol' confetti cannon and epic solo finish; classic things of which festival memories are made.
A raucous, baritone crowd of Slipknot fans were at fever pitch before the curtain had even raised. They are a dedicated cult of punters, that's for dead certain. A wailing a capella intro behind curtain was bleak and left the crowd transfixed, before the curtain shot up and levelled the whole joint.
Percussionists on rotating scissor lifts, a wall of sensational noise, and a tool-inspired circus backdrop were all part and play for Slipknots incomparable, blistering trademark of performance spectacle. The band were blaring and flawless. Flames bellowed, countless punters utterly revelled in the unmitigated and garish thrill of it all, and Slipknot roundly stole the show for the twenty minutes I bore witness before toddling off to a unequivocally tamer Fall Out Boy |
New FOB music is an atrocious amalgamation of contrived punk and spastic, unlistenable, over-produced pop music, but their first three-and-a-half albums are nearly faultless yardsticks for a whole generation of pop-punk fans. It’s a shame then, that they opened with a newbie. Luckily, they followed and surprised with the angry and sesquipedalian classic 'I Slept With Someone in Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me'.
The band had a glitzy, monochromatic back drop that exploded with geometric patterns and lines throughout. It was cool, but a bit repetitive. After a few tunes, bassist/ main lyricist Pete Wentz told a shabby joke that did little more than remind the audience how much he loves the sound of his own voice.
Front man Patrick Stump does have an unquestionably wonderful voice, used to full effect in all their songs (although tragically masked with effects in their post-reformation albums). There was still a huge audience that knew all the words, both new and old, but also a feeling in the air that their new deeply pop-influenced sound detracts from what the band is truly capable of. Especially when the new stuff is sandwiched between earnest, anthemic classics on the set list.
The band had a glitzy, monochromatic back drop that exploded with geometric patterns and lines throughout. It was cool, but a bit repetitive. After a few tunes, bassist/ main lyricist Pete Wentz told a shabby joke that did little more than remind the audience how much he loves the sound of his own voice.
Front man Patrick Stump does have an unquestionably wonderful voice, used to full effect in all their songs (although tragically masked with effects in their post-reformation albums). There was still a huge audience that knew all the words, both new and old, but also a feeling in the air that their new deeply pop-influenced sound detracts from what the band is truly capable of. Especially when the new stuff is sandwiched between earnest, anthemic classics on the set list.
It’s a safe assumption that,
had their musical catalogue been chronologically reversed in creation,
prominence and frame would have come much later for Fall Out Boy (if at
all).
'A little less sixteen candles, a little more touch me' got a huge response, but not nearly as huge as 'This Ain’t A Scene, It’s A God Damn Arms Race'. Wentz rather contrarily shouted "Punk Rock!", before they played another new pop song. I lost a bit of interest, and hoofed it to The Smashing Pumpkins on stage 5. Unsurprisingly, they were shoe-gazing in to a glum oblivion under monochromatic lighting to a completely unlit crowd. A welcomed change of sorts, but not nearly the punchy finish day one of Soundwave needed. For that, it was off to stage 5 for the endless, clamouring, infectious rage that is Fucked Up. I rubbernecked at Fall Out Boy on the venue-length walk to bare witness 'Dance Dance', showcasing the pop punk behemoth when they were the jewel in a fading scene's crown. |
Present and future musical digressions aside, FOB certainly were some
killer show stoppers for nigh on a decade. To wit every person who's
older than they were a few years ago; those were the bloody days. They
promptly followed with a rubbish new hit single 'American Psycho' and quashed the nostalgia, but uplifted many budding new fans. 'Grand Theft Autumn' set the crowd off like a frog in a sock, as did 'Sugar, We’re Going Down'. The roaring early 2000's tune had the every single person watching on a magnificent cloud.
It's good Fucked Up were in a gigantic concrete shed, especially for anyone that utterly despises the gift of hearing. Their hardcore-drenched, swaggering prog-jazz-grunge that journeys through contrasting genres and time signatures is a unique, uplifting thing to behold. Front man Damian Abraham is a now slimmer, but still burly, hairy, heaving, and ceaselessly energetic thing to behold. He spends most of his time in the pit making honest and gleeful conversation at a million miles an hour, or infecting the whole joint with his rollicking ways. I'd take five of him over half the dudes I'd seen front bands today. Not knowing many songs was a non-point for garnering a large amount of enjoyment from their roaring set. Abraham made witty, hilarious commentary on technology, and denounced an auto-tuning guitar in amongst his ramblings. 'Sun Glass' was a massive hit, with most of the song expressed through fans’ voices in the tiny and enraptured mosh, and amidst many, many sweaty hugs. Anyone with a view that relates heavy music with hate need only bare witness to the truly gleeful abandon that took place at Fucked Up's closing slot.
A breezy walk home amongst merry punters as a light breeze lapped over the petrichoric banks of the Maribyrnong river while lightning flooded a distant, drifting gray sky was a blissful finish to a solid first day of Australia's biggest festival. Bring it on, Sunday…
DAY TWO
I awoke with mammoth amounts of sweat-and-mosh-induced chafing. Don't worry about a phone charging booth, talcum powder's where the real money is come 2016. A beautiful young lady in the first aid tent next to Stage 3 graciously gave me her roll-on sunscreen, which I promptly jammed and rubbed high up in between my thighs. Understandably, she refused taking it back. In short; it saved my day, and I hope her fractured wrist feels better.
Raglans started late, if at all. If it was out of their control, then that's a shame. If, perhaps more predictably, it was of their own doing, they've greatly damaged their capacity to express their craft to a willing and unfamiliar crowd. Any local bands shit-kicking around Melbourne attempting to garner attention are rarely afforded such a privilege. Photographers quickly lost interest, and went to cover less unpunctual performers. I left before they ever made it on.
Area 7 are the greatest Ska band in Australia’s history, and certainly the band I saw most during my teen years. Heaps of punters already sprawled tiredly on the main stage lawn seems happy to chill and watch the Ska punkers do their thing first up. All the early incapacitation was a visual testament to just how taxing the controversially lengthened festival had proved to be for many two-day attendees.
It's good Fucked Up were in a gigantic concrete shed, especially for anyone that utterly despises the gift of hearing. Their hardcore-drenched, swaggering prog-jazz-grunge that journeys through contrasting genres and time signatures is a unique, uplifting thing to behold. Front man Damian Abraham is a now slimmer, but still burly, hairy, heaving, and ceaselessly energetic thing to behold. He spends most of his time in the pit making honest and gleeful conversation at a million miles an hour, or infecting the whole joint with his rollicking ways. I'd take five of him over half the dudes I'd seen front bands today. Not knowing many songs was a non-point for garnering a large amount of enjoyment from their roaring set. Abraham made witty, hilarious commentary on technology, and denounced an auto-tuning guitar in amongst his ramblings. 'Sun Glass' was a massive hit, with most of the song expressed through fans’ voices in the tiny and enraptured mosh, and amidst many, many sweaty hugs. Anyone with a view that relates heavy music with hate need only bare witness to the truly gleeful abandon that took place at Fucked Up's closing slot.
A breezy walk home amongst merry punters as a light breeze lapped over the petrichoric banks of the Maribyrnong river while lightning flooded a distant, drifting gray sky was a blissful finish to a solid first day of Australia's biggest festival. Bring it on, Sunday…
DAY TWO
I awoke with mammoth amounts of sweat-and-mosh-induced chafing. Don't worry about a phone charging booth, talcum powder's where the real money is come 2016. A beautiful young lady in the first aid tent next to Stage 3 graciously gave me her roll-on sunscreen, which I promptly jammed and rubbed high up in between my thighs. Understandably, she refused taking it back. In short; it saved my day, and I hope her fractured wrist feels better.
Raglans started late, if at all. If it was out of their control, then that's a shame. If, perhaps more predictably, it was of their own doing, they've greatly damaged their capacity to express their craft to a willing and unfamiliar crowd. Any local bands shit-kicking around Melbourne attempting to garner attention are rarely afforded such a privilege. Photographers quickly lost interest, and went to cover less unpunctual performers. I left before they ever made it on.
Area 7 are the greatest Ska band in Australia’s history, and certainly the band I saw most during my teen years. Heaps of punters already sprawled tiredly on the main stage lawn seems happy to chill and watch the Ska punkers do their thing first up. All the early incapacitation was a visual testament to just how taxing the controversially lengthened festival had proved to be for many two-day attendees.
Anyway, Area 7 fucking killed it. They are a exemplary group of dedicated, endearing locals with nothing but humility and positivity to bestow upon their die-hard audience. Truly beautiful fellas from which many other bands on the line up could take humility lessons.
They smashed out classic after classic, we all danced, their scarily grown up kids danced side of stage, 'Nobody Likes A Bogan' left no face unsmiling, and everyone was left feeling elated, and fucking proud to be a part of the Melbourne music scene. A hard act to follow, it was now over stage 3 to watch Patent Pending bang out a catchy tune about a psychopath ex-lover, followed by a punchy mash of The Friends theme song and Cascada’s Every Time We Touch, but not before proclaiming that they personally wrote the both of them. Lol. They were a bit of fun for a complete stranger to their music, and their song written about Mario being a fuck head for chasing a princess around for so long was an absolute banger (Hey Mario). |
The inclusion of 8-bit melodies and breakdowns was absolutely killer, and it’s quickly hit the running for best new song I’ve heard this year. As good as they were, the stage was running late, and The Bennies were nowhere to be seen.
A particularly complicated double kick fill that the wind carried over from stage 5 piqued my interest enough to go check out ballsy Texans Nothing More belt out their head banging, stadium friendly brand of nu/power metal. They had a fair crowd, and were entirely gobsmacked by Melbourne's large turn out to their slot. It's no surprise, considering the fist-pumping tunes they were banging out. A jaw dropping percussion spectacle from the entire band topped their set off, and solidified NM as the most pleasant surprises of SW15.
Plodding back to Stage 3 found The Bennies in full weed-appreciation mode. Front man Anty Horgan promptly lit a joint on stage, passed it about, then flung it in the bat shit crazy crowd. 'Heavy Disco' brought the house down. Actually, every fucking song brought the house down. 'Mushroom Tea' followed (in song only, not literally like the jozz). The Bennies pump out jolly, dancey rip-snorters that start a party like few other local bands, and with matter-of-fact, relatable lyrics for their bohemian counter-culture fans to boot.
A particularly complicated double kick fill that the wind carried over from stage 5 piqued my interest enough to go check out ballsy Texans Nothing More belt out their head banging, stadium friendly brand of nu/power metal. They had a fair crowd, and were entirely gobsmacked by Melbourne's large turn out to their slot. It's no surprise, considering the fist-pumping tunes they were banging out. A jaw dropping percussion spectacle from the entire band topped their set off, and solidified NM as the most pleasant surprises of SW15.
Plodding back to Stage 3 found The Bennies in full weed-appreciation mode. Front man Anty Horgan promptly lit a joint on stage, passed it about, then flung it in the bat shit crazy crowd. 'Heavy Disco' brought the house down. Actually, every fucking song brought the house down. 'Mushroom Tea' followed (in song only, not literally like the jozz). The Bennies pump out jolly, dancey rip-snorters that start a party like few other local bands, and with matter-of-fact, relatable lyrics for their bohemian counter-culture fans to boot.
A characteristically blistering and relatable set was jovially expected and received. Big up to the gent next to me with a walking stick, and all the planets scratchily tattooed in to the side off his mohawked head loving the shit out of every moment. 'Knights Forever' was meshed with the classic “No way, get fucked, fuck off” response from The Angels’ 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again', just in time for a second spliff. 'Highrider' topped off a sublimely energetic set. “We're The Bennies from down the street”, proclaimed Horgan as they thanked the crowd and departed. Yes you are, and we're all fucking stoked about it.
Hollywood Undead are, for good or ill, this generation's Limp Bizkit. Sure they come off vapid, self-aggrandizing, and lyrically hackneyed, but at least they're up front about it. Truth be told, they had a dedicated audience rap-rocking all along the way with them. |
Kind-of-jerks making a crowd bay for an encore that never happened during an arbitrary afternoon festival slot? My word, yes, but entertaining ones at that.
Japanese post-Emo wailers One Ok Rock have been around since 2005, when Thursday, Saosin, and Finch used to play identical music in identical spots at identical festivals. Competent musicians indeed, that simply pander to a younger audience fully embracing what was once a much smaller and unique scene. Any punter over twenty would be wondering what the big deal was. Surfie-driven pop-rockers Emily's Army were keeping stuff pretty on Stage 3 in the mean time. They were a groovy throw back to Ramones-inspired simplicity and - even as a completely newcomer to their music - propped me up on a happy lilt.
Sludgy and mysteriously metal super group Terror Universal were doing the exact opposite on stage 5. Their masks coupled with a brand of gloomy and boorish metal shredding conjures so many unavoidable Slipknot comparisons that it's hard to take them as an entity all of their own. It seems the still unknown members of Il Niño and Machine Head are having fun doing something different to their day jobs, as opposed to breaking any moulds.
Japanese post-Emo wailers One Ok Rock have been around since 2005, when Thursday, Saosin, and Finch used to play identical music in identical spots at identical festivals. Competent musicians indeed, that simply pander to a younger audience fully embracing what was once a much smaller and unique scene. Any punter over twenty would be wondering what the big deal was. Surfie-driven pop-rockers Emily's Army were keeping stuff pretty on Stage 3 in the mean time. They were a groovy throw back to Ramones-inspired simplicity and - even as a completely newcomer to their music - propped me up on a happy lilt.
Sludgy and mysteriously metal super group Terror Universal were doing the exact opposite on stage 5. Their masks coupled with a brand of gloomy and boorish metal shredding conjures so many unavoidable Slipknot comparisons that it's hard to take them as an entity all of their own. It seems the still unknown members of Il Niño and Machine Head are having fun doing something different to their day jobs, as opposed to breaking any moulds.
They're a fine band, but do no favours being so disposable at the hands of their musical and visual clichés. The front man's incessant want of noise from the crowd became frustrating fast in thirty degree heat. He did say he loved us many times though, which is lovely; even from a bloke in a mask that looks like something Clive Barker would wince at.
Gerard Way is in the midst of a David Bowie-inspired career reformation. After embracing a slew of operatic and fully-fleshed stage personas, it’s all suits and stripped back pop for the time being. Ziggy Stardust to Thin White Duke was a similar path by Bowie thirty years previous, and acts as an unavoidable comparison, even if Way has done it unintentionally. Further more, the masturbatory, cutesy, show-and-tell cover art and merch Way had slapped himself all over in the last year more irked than endeared this formerly gargantuan My Chemical Romance fan. |
Regardless of Way's insistence that he wouldn't be playing any My Chemical Romance songs, the guy certainly presents on stage as someone who is still fronting a group that was quickly becoming the second coming of Queen. His songs shimmy about disinterestedly, like a vanilla Panic! At The Disco, or pop Marilyn Manson. That said, he is very thankful, even acknowledging how sappy he sounded in the process. A good bloke, even if his cucumber pop isn't every MCR fan's cup of tea.
Throughout the earnest set, there was much mentioning of MCR, and praises sung of his 'adorable' brother/ former-MCR guitarist Mikey. Delving in to a piano ballad about their shared history, and following with 'Drugstore Perfume' was a particularly emotional part of the set. It seems a lot of people have followed Way on his journey in to Pop-rock-dom, but nothing was musically riveting enough for this reviewer not to sit down in the stage 1 mosh and conserve energy for Steel Panther. That's not to say that there wasn't many more - predominantly young and female - fans eating up Way's new creative pathway. More power to him, as it seems to be burgeoning in to a successful one.
Throughout the earnest set, there was much mentioning of MCR, and praises sung of his 'adorable' brother/ former-MCR guitarist Mikey. Delving in to a piano ballad about their shared history, and following with 'Drugstore Perfume' was a particularly emotional part of the set. It seems a lot of people have followed Way on his journey in to Pop-rock-dom, but nothing was musically riveting enough for this reviewer not to sit down in the stage 1 mosh and conserve energy for Steel Panther. That's not to say that there wasn't many more - predominantly young and female - fans eating up Way's new creative pathway. More power to him, as it seems to be burgeoning in to a successful one.
Way finished up graciously, then Steel Panther promptly fucking rocked the fucking balls off everyone at Soundwave festival.
There's no hyperbole believing that - and I'm sure The Panther themselves would agree - every person that was watching other bands felt stupid and underwhelmed by not seeing Lexxi, Michael, Satchel, and Stix send their crowd in to a boner-stricken and vaginally moist fever pitch at that very moment. There's no rules at a Panther show, to which the many, many (MANY) pairs of bare breasts openly frolicked about by willing (and sexy) lady punters attested. If you don't know how shamelessly entertaining and filthy Steel Panther are by now, me and thousands of others feel very, very sorry for you. |
What many nay-sayers need know is they are a gracious lot who clearly respect their audience, which includes thanking any and all of the ladies who decided to get in on the fun and show off their gleefully received knockers. Utterly hilarious from go to woe, there's no denying the biggest recipients of Steel Panther's blissfully offensive humour is Steel Panther. Bring on their sideshow, and continuing ascension in to rock immortality.
Antemasque had the unenviable task of following the most fun band on today's line up. Mercifully, the two bands are chalk and cheese, so the AM dudes waltzed out unfazed, even getting in on the laughs and introducing themselves as Aluminum Panther. Frontman Cedric Bixler-Zavala is a funny, easy-going and wily bugger, who’s all comedy and acerbic, self-deprecating wit between their intricate, barraging, time-signature obliterating four-on-the-floor Rock songs.
Antemasque play out Like a radio friendly Mars Volta, the band from which several members have gained so much universal acclaim over the last twenty years. They performed as sharply as you'd expect from seasoned roadsters, and the moderate swathe of their fans and curious punters seemed engrossed. That, or they were all stood on point trying to figure out just how some people get so insanely good at their instruments. Drummer David Elitch – pulling double duty for the festival - is an unbridled percussionist genius.
A busy walk through many, many crowded food truck lines landed me back at Stage 4 for a capacity crowd watching the aggressive behemoth that is Fear Factory. There's no surprise, as they are a watermark in a two-decade wide sea of lesser substitutes, and still perform like they're as young and angry as ever. It was a raging spectacle, and those up front in the jam-packed pit were sucking it the fuck down. Conversely, those in the seats behind the temporary fencing separating bar and booze-free zones respectively were treated to a brazen young lass clearing security to jump the barricade and get closer to FF.
Antemasque had the unenviable task of following the most fun band on today's line up. Mercifully, the two bands are chalk and cheese, so the AM dudes waltzed out unfazed, even getting in on the laughs and introducing themselves as Aluminum Panther. Frontman Cedric Bixler-Zavala is a funny, easy-going and wily bugger, who’s all comedy and acerbic, self-deprecating wit between their intricate, barraging, time-signature obliterating four-on-the-floor Rock songs.
Antemasque play out Like a radio friendly Mars Volta, the band from which several members have gained so much universal acclaim over the last twenty years. They performed as sharply as you'd expect from seasoned roadsters, and the moderate swathe of their fans and curious punters seemed engrossed. That, or they were all stood on point trying to figure out just how some people get so insanely good at their instruments. Drummer David Elitch – pulling double duty for the festival - is an unbridled percussionist genius.
A busy walk through many, many crowded food truck lines landed me back at Stage 4 for a capacity crowd watching the aggressive behemoth that is Fear Factory. There's no surprise, as they are a watermark in a two-decade wide sea of lesser substitutes, and still perform like they're as young and angry as ever. It was a raging spectacle, and those up front in the jam-packed pit were sucking it the fuck down. Conversely, those in the seats behind the temporary fencing separating bar and booze-free zones respectively were treated to a brazen young lass clearing security to jump the barricade and get closer to FF.
Predictably, the muscle-bound security dude took it with good humour, even clearing the tan bark off the young lady's back from her lofty stumble over the wire.
It's worth stating that all the security for both days were breezy, good-humoured folk from all walks of life more than willing to join in on the fun whenever possible. They were the best this reviewer has ever seen, and deserve many thanks for their light-hearted efforts. Wheelchair access for alternatively-mobile punters was fantastic as well. I went deaf in my right ear just as Incubus' bizarre and dramatic count down timer back drop hit zero. There was a mammoth turnout that jawed my deeply mislead perception that not many people gave a fuck about 90's Grunge/ stoner rock anymore. All the weed in the air probably had a more than a little to do with it. All this aside, Incubus came out and - for lack of a better simile - Incubussed the shit out of their gig. Cruisy, affectuous and strangely uplifting in equal measure, their long-devoted fans were certainly left sated by the show. Their LED screen of live projections in trippy, polychromatic negative colours even resembled film clips from the decade in which they achieved the brunt of their popularity. A nice touch. In opposition to the Incubus vibe, stage 4 was being grippingly destroyed by Ministry. They were making the ears of hundreds bleed with music about as hard, fast, and eye-exploding as it comes. |
There's no denying Ministry are a band peerless in their approach sonically and morally to anti-establishment. It's an acquired taste, but by god these dudes and their insanely brain-melting LED backdrop were bringing the fucking house down in a mammoth, angry, and uncompromising way. To think they were headlining Big Day Out fifteen-odd years ago. How the times have changed...
Regrettably, not everyone has to be a good role model to get popular. As vacuous and self-involved as Ronnie Radke and the rest of Falling In Reverse are, it seems not to bother their mostly female following in the slightest. They are, musically and physically, a cliché long since established by bands that generated enough of a post-punk-sub-genre fifteen years back to make words like 'scene' and 'Emo' show up common vernacular (often as an insult; The Used, Atreyu, etc.)
For those wishing for such a contrived product packaged and presented in such a fashion, FIR are arguably the best, and certainly most popular, of the lot. Everyone else who thinks it's a load of bratty, immature, pretty-boy, one-direction-with-breakdowns-and-tattoos shit were probably off watching Dragonforce anyway. |
Speaking of which, Dragonforce were moments away from kicking off on stage 5 as I left Falling In Reverse to do their thing. In the world of metal, purists dismiss these staggeringly talented lads as a pithy blend of epic metal, and noises video games from the 80's make. For those less bridled by elitism, there's no doubt Dragonforce are a ball-tearing and hugely fun brand of truly epic guitar shredding. Their solos are literally peerless, and even though they swapped singers a while back, the world of metal fans that love a good time have still continued embracing this uproarious and ridiculously talented band. I'd heard whispers The Force (often toppled by a pre-show beer or so too many) had disappointed live in the past.
As a long time fan, I was interested to see if folks were being precious, or if their recorded sonic perfection was indeed impossible to replicate live. Kicking off fifteen minutes late was certainly an ominous and disheartening beginning. Their sound test didn't even begin until long after their set was meant to. That's a disappointment, and a big disservice to a loyal but still clearly annoyed audience.
Insisting - as Coldrain did the day before - on a lengthy electro intro once the time had come to play was salt in the wound. Dragonforce definitely had some apologies to make. Frontman Marc Hudson’s declaration that they lacked time led me to believe the shortened set was beyond their control. Furthermore, they brought the thunder, with no guitar, keytar, drum, or vocal cue missing it's spot.
As a long time fan, I was interested to see if folks were being precious, or if their recorded sonic perfection was indeed impossible to replicate live. Kicking off fifteen minutes late was certainly an ominous and disheartening beginning. Their sound test didn't even begin until long after their set was meant to. That's a disappointment, and a big disservice to a loyal but still clearly annoyed audience.
Insisting - as Coldrain did the day before - on a lengthy electro intro once the time had come to play was salt in the wound. Dragonforce definitely had some apologies to make. Frontman Marc Hudson’s declaration that they lacked time led me to believe the shortened set was beyond their control. Furthermore, they brought the thunder, with no guitar, keytar, drum, or vocal cue missing it's spot.
These dudes are as gloriously epic as they are talented. Truly gigantic music of the finest degree. Awesome, awesome stuff. The delayed beginning was more than worth the wait. Song 'Three Hammers' was the fastest drumming I've ever heard live, until two songs later when they played their latest single. As a drummer, I actually have no idea how Dave Mackintosh has conditioned himself so well. He must be the most physically endurance-tested musician on earth.
These dudes are a testament to physical strength and creative talent coming together. They're not the traditionally buffest guys at the party, but what they can do with their bodies and the right tools nearly defies comprehension. Love it or hate it, there's no escaping the jaw-dropping talent of Dragonforce. The best bit is, they're all enjoying the shit out of themselves while they're melting faces. Deluded and self-involved these dudes are not, even when the whole fucking guitar/ keytar section get in a circle to seamlessly play each other's frets. Unmotherfuckingbelievable. I was pretty sure that the goofy ol' Aquabats weren't that popular, even when they were popular. Much to my surprise, there was a pretty massive turn out for these champions of hugely enjoyable ska-punk back at Stage 3 once night had properly fallen. They were calling us ‘Melbs’ to avoid pronunciation error, laughing at how tubby and old they are in their super-cool blue jumpsuits, and generally being inviting and awesome. Their reinvention as an acclaimed children's program has no doubt extended their wondrous appeal. May The Aquabats come back to our 'Melbs' shores again soon. |
Faith No More are a wailing, grungy, minor-chord adoring group of vets, fronted by the very opinionated Mike Patton. On this particular tour, the whole band were decked completely in white, on a white set, dotted tastefully with fresh flowers. It was clear they had their huge turn out of fans drawn right in. More serious than not in this reviewer's very limited experience, it was refreshing to see Patton dip in to a brief and ironic Meaghan Trainor cover mid-song, and constantly ask if the crowd was okay.
In the ten minutes I stood their and took in three songs, they were punchy and entertaining. There's no doubt the vast array of folks much closer to the stage had a much greater time rocking out to these songs due to their familiarity and proximity.
I feel the biggest thing stopping me from truly enjoying Faith No More was ignorance to their back catalogue. To remedy this, it was off to a band I can literally sing every word to. A groovy porno bass line trailed me away from the main stage, and back to number three for an guaranteed 5-star finish to the marathon festival. Van Halen's 'Jump' briefly pocked the air, followed by a dash more off-stage tuning, a snippet from Redbone’s 'Come And Get Your Love', then a black and white projected rendition of Judy |
Garland’s 'Battle Hymn For The Republic' inspiringly soared over the crowd before enduring pop-punk Kings New Found Glory took the stage. These truly heart-thumping champions of mosh-inducing brilliance were the expectedly fist-pumping, uplifting show that every one in attendance knows and loves.
Some of the most thankful bands in history, the boys have never once done less than utterly opened the pit and brought the house down with their relentlessly energetic and catchy brand of unstoppable punk rock in any of the ten-or-so times this reviewer has had the pleasure of seeing them. Their new album may be the best of their career, so it’s no surprise the entire crowd knew all the new songs word-for-word. There’s nothing like an NFG sing along to get you arm in arm with other sweaty, gleeful strangers.
The Floridian pop-punker’s set was a glorious end to Sunday, and a jubilant full stop to two hugely satisfying days of inspiring, heading-banging, mother-fucking, exceptionally delivered rock and roll. Bring on 2016 - one day or two - as Soundwave is an unequivocally brazen testament to what a festival can seamlessly deliver here down under.
Todd Gingell
Some of the most thankful bands in history, the boys have never once done less than utterly opened the pit and brought the house down with their relentlessly energetic and catchy brand of unstoppable punk rock in any of the ten-or-so times this reviewer has had the pleasure of seeing them. Their new album may be the best of their career, so it’s no surprise the entire crowd knew all the new songs word-for-word. There’s nothing like an NFG sing along to get you arm in arm with other sweaty, gleeful strangers.
The Floridian pop-punker’s set was a glorious end to Sunday, and a jubilant full stop to two hugely satisfying days of inspiring, heading-banging, mother-fucking, exceptionally delivered rock and roll. Bring on 2016 - one day or two - as Soundwave is an unequivocally brazen testament to what a festival can seamlessly deliver here down under.
Todd Gingell