The Soundwave 2010 death camps have been liberated! Call me a fool for being suckered in by mild (occasionally drippy) weather and some schmancy stage dressing, but Soundwave 2011 was light years better than the dark days of 2010.
A significant amount could be attributed to the line-up, which had me constantly slapping my chops in amazement that there were at least nine acts that would’ve had me salivating over individual touring announcements. On one bill, it was a bounty of riches.
Sadly, I missed out on two essentials (due to work, no less. See: forthcoming Coheed & Cambria interview): thrashcore punks Trash Talk and epic metallers The Sword. No troubles, I waltzed in to the sonically subdued King Wyndorf and his Monster Magnet. Low on guitars (criminal) but still satisfying. Added bonus: spotted the first punter in full corpsepaint and the first NOFX tattoo.
The elderly and responsibly-garbed turned out to jerk around gently to UK post-punk legends Gang Of Four, who still had hip-jutting ‘tude and songs which stand proudly against the modern imitators. I knew little, learnt lots and came away happy. In keeping, I wandered through the same venue while punk rock icons Social Distortion barked away. Sacrilege that I didn’t stay long, but canned-bourbon-in-a-damp-parking-lot was calling.
Consummate black metal sell-outs Dimmu Borgir were up next, decked out in bizarre white costumes and conjuring up symphonic metal turmoil that remained surprisingly catchy.
The crowd started to fill out on all stages – the loveable rejects, retards and rednecks, all salivating for their fix of the angry stuff. Scumbag metal trio High On Fire certainly delivered in the ugliness stakes (at one point it seemed Matt Pike had written a song he himself could not play), which is exactly how sludgy, doomy, rocky metal should be.
On to the next oddball trio, being bass-freak veterans Primus. The props had begun on the mainstage, Les, Larry and Jay dwarfed by two giant toy astronauts. The set bobbled and bounced and nasally whined, as they do, bringing goofy grins and loose-limbed dancing and a rare cheer when Claypool announced he was going to play a new song. Not nearly enough of their frantic material, but a decent injection of nerdy weirdness to a mostly-scowling line-up.
For you, dear reader, I witnessed 30 Seconds To Mars. For me, though, it was one of the most action-packed sets of the day (action being a relative term). I was unsure of Leto as an actor until I saw him act like the biggest rockstar in the motherfucking universe today and succeed. He whipped the crowd up into a Teen Beat frenzy by changing clothes almost constantly, dragging audiences members on stage, crowd surfing, and taking photos for twitter (I checked; not tweeted). Best value was the utterly baffled expression on a transfixed AC/DC fan and a ‘War Pigs’ cover for which they should probably be sued.
Slayer aren’t playing. I was told by a working buddy. So let’s watch the riot. Even better, Slayer are playing, Tom Araya saying how glad he was that both we and he showed up. When the planet explodes, the last remaining thought racing through the collective unconscious will be “It’s agreed: Slayer were the most metal band to ever exist”. Unimpeachable, even with a Hanneman fill-in and a laughably fake two-storey wall of Marshalls.
If you can’t beat Slayer –which you can’t – offer something else. Georgia sludge groove metallers Kylesa brought a rare female guitarist and two drummers to tear up some turf with hugely rhythmic sagas. If their music wasn’t hypnotic enough – which it was – watching two drummers play side-by-side is just about the most edifying thing in the world. They turned people.
Over to Queens Of the Stone Age, busily not giving a fuck on the mainstage. Even bros couldn’t resist shaking their thangs to a more psychedelic set of slow-burn rock than usual. That said, Homme chuckled about getting mashed on Brunny St and puking in St Kilda in between slugs of straight vodka and shrugged “You gotta go with the flow” which led to the most surging moment of the set. And drummer Joey Castillo remains the sweatiest human being on earth.
The sun sets, the crowd generally gets the staggers, and Iron Maiden casts aside their walkers thanks to the redeeming power of metal. It began with an extended, Space Eddie-themed video montage featuring what a fellow writer mused may be the four basic elements of metal: explosions, monsters, skulls, lightning (NB: list may be revised). Pilot, former longhair, and owner of the most resilient pipes in the business, Bruce Dickinson, emerges with the motley crew of golden oldies on a space station set. The songs don’t soar as much as they should’ve. Yet the energy was palpable and a higher-than-usual preponderance of Maiden tee-shirts at a metalfest means that the crowd were entranced.
Me? I soon wandered off to catch the warped weirdness of The Melvins. They weren’t as sonically variable as their recorded material suggests, but they were fuck-off loud and also sported two drummers (as of now my favourite thing). With King Buzzo and Jared Warren both afroed and wearing astro-hippy tunics, the stage was strangely mirrored, suiting the stomach-churning riffage.
And what better way to end a monumental day than with LA’s pugilistic rock unit The Bronx? Their nasty, venomous punk spiced up with just enough cock rock got pulses pumping. Singer Matt Caughthran hopped on his toes, wailed to the red-eyed gorilla on their backdrop and screeched atop the crowd during a particularly searing ‘Shitty Future’.
It’s okay, Matt. Judging by Soundwave 2011 the festival’s future is secure. The only shittiness remaining is that of the world, which will ever fuel heavy music’s fire and ensure continuing generations of fans.
VIDEO: Check out our interview with Soundwavers Stone Sour below.
