Sorry for the hiatus. Apparently, I'm a lazy, lazy man. I could claim my mind's a blank as a result of having a pointless day-and-a-half argument with one of my favourite bloggers, but really - I'm a lazy, lazy man. And I spent Saturday at WaveAid, sweltering in the pitiless Australian sun, as a collection of sterling local muso's played me (yeah, and 49,999 other people) a bunch of great songs. Well, except for Kasey Chambers' "Am I Not Pretty Enough?", a song which always brings back painful memories of hearing that song. OK, that's mean - she was there for charity, after all. It's just a shame she only plays both kinds of music and I've never particularly liked either.
It was, as my friend Agador* remarked, interesting to contrast the pleasant but rather forgettable noodlings of many of the performers in the earlier part of the day with the music of the Finn Brothers, who came on and stamped their mark on the proceedings with some honest-to-God tunes. To be fair to everyone else, however good you are (which reminds me - memo to self: buy Pete Murray albums), it's difficult to measure up to the craftmanship of an opener like "Weather With You", the first song of the day nearly all the audience could sing without help of accompaniment. There followed a set of incomparable pop anthems each one more than capable of blowing the top off the Old Grey Whistler's head.
Oh yes, it was a great day, appropriately finished off with a pounding swan-song from the greatest pub band ever, fronted by Agador's Federal MP. (What a strange country I live in.) And who, as they said in the Herald this morning, would have thought all those kids would know the words to rock standards now (oh my gawd) twenty-two years old? Well, anyone who understands how recording works, but that's besides the point. The Oils will never die, my son!
First time I've ever seen them live, by the way.
And then Chuggy** came out and swore at us a bit more, and told everyone how great they were, and we all went home. In my case, on foot. I really have to stop thinking I'm still twenty.
Couple of points: the Sydney Cricket Ground isn't really a great summer rock venue, as one would expect in a place where you have to careful with the grass. The plastic griddle-mats laid down to protect the turf got bloody hot in the sun, and people were ripping them up to build little plinths with, anyway. The real problem was access. Either bulldoze a few more entrances into the place or rethink the ticketing arrangements. Yes, yes, I' realise this was a last-minute once-off, I'm just saying, for future reference.
Of course, getting in and out, and to and from the amenities, wouldn't have been so much of a problem if you hadn't had needed to force your way through all the idiots seeking, buying and drinking beer. It was one of the hottest days of the year, you pillocks, the last thing you needed in your system was alcohol. Could this country just bloody grow up and stop being such a pack of fecking dipsos?
But these are minor quibbles.
On Sunday, I recovered.
* Not his real name.
** Rock promoter Michael Chugg, the magnificent bastard who put it all together.