Festivals can be a nightmare, if you let them get on top of you. Rigid plans are the sure-fire way to an unhappy day in the sun, in my experience, so I approached this year’s Big Day Out with a chocolate-box attitude. I thought I’d sample whatever I happened to be near, to let the wanderings of the day inform what I ended up watching. It’s a bit Forrest Gump, sure, but it also means that there’s the chance of getting a stack of musical caramel-filled goodness. On the other hand, it could also mean a whole lotta tuneless Turkish Delight.

Rocking up to the site, in the middle of Olympic Park, proved easier said than done. While trains were running pretty smoothly, the lines, as expected, took ages. Not much agro from the cops at the station was seen, though the way their presence made punters wonder if they smelled like drugs – even if they weren’t carrying any – did put a bit of a crimp into the day. Which, of course, some gig-goers attempted to beat into submission with alcohol. (At festivals, apparently, there’s no such thing as a too-early start; in an Australian summer, it’s doubly true.)

Travails of the getting-in type over and done with, it was time to apply the sunblock and check out the gigs already in progress. Frenzal Rhomb had already blown through a powerhouse set by the time I arrived. On to D4 for a bit of Kiwi big-sideburned rock goodness, then. The band powered through a mix of old material, and some of the newer tunes that’ll feature on their upcoming album. The high-energy set was to set a good tone for the day – big smiles, big fun, and, more importantly, all the right rock moves.

A bit of orientation time was necessary after this musical wake-up call. With the last BDO I’d been to taking place at the old site – Fox Studios before it was Fox Studios – I was keen to see how the festival had changed. It seems more suited – despite the chronic lack of shady spaces – to the Olympic Park site, though. Misted water spread through the air near the EAR stage (upon which a spectacularly shiny-clad Fwuck were giving it their all, and where I’d unfortunately miss the musical stylings of The Corndawg, later in the arvo), providing much-needed respite from the heat of the day. Long – though not unmanageable – lines already had formed for both beer and bathroom, as well as the assorted thrill rides set up for the day. (At one point, it seemed that hitching a ride in a device that catapulted punters many storeys into the air was a bit more popular than necking booze!) But in all, despite the expected number of festival dickheads, people seemed to be smiling and enjoying the day – all except one poor person who’d discovered, in the rocketing temperatures, that a corset was probably not the way to go, fashion-wise, for a day like this.

As I ambled along to the CAT Essential Stage, Wolfmother strode on. The band’s rapidly – given its summer schedule of gigs – coming to terms with what’s required to hold the attention of a festival audience, and with today’s set, managed to consolidate their great recent live reviews. This was, of course, aided by the incredible Rickenbacker-driven bottom end of bass player Chris Ross, and the acid-tinged soloing of guitarist Andrew Stockdale, who’d donned a cape (with matching short-vest and headband) for the occasion. Kicking into crowd favourites (like the tripped-out White Unicorn and the arse-shaking Love Train), the band danced their way through the set, looking vaguely surprised that prog-leaning rock can incur such a big mosh in those watching. But hell, with a set-closer like Woman, who could blame people?

A quick trek to the main arena resulted in a good spot for The Hives, the band who, as well as being best dressed, undoubtedly had the best stage banter of the day. No sooner were the suit-clad Swedes onstage than they kicked into Abra Cadaver, all speedy riffing, quiff-shaking fun. Frontman Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist strode the stage like a naughty schoolboy, spruiking the best lines heard during the day. How many other frontmen can get away with suggesting that his band’s so good that, as an exorcising priest, he can assure you that you can no longer take in bad music once you’ve heard them? Genius. This was only topped by his mid-set remark that, because the band was from one of the coldest places on earth, they were so cool that they’d make everyone in the crowd so cool that they’d freeze to death. “Are you ready to freeze to death and become vampires?” he asked.

And an arena thundered in response. Class.

With a fair slab of Tyrannosaurus Hives given an outing, it was great to hear the band throw Dion And The Belmonts’ Born To Cry into the set, mixing it away from the expected garage-tinged rock. As one of my BDO companions remarked, sometimes you can tell when certain bands just have ‘it’, that indefinable quality that marks them apart from everyone else. The Hives have it, in spades.

Following that burst of sartorial splendour, it was time to feed the stomach, and not just the ears. Sadly, though, most of the food on offer at the BDO this year seemed pretty average. Yeah, it’s the case for most festivals – you take what you can get because there ain’t anything else – but it’d be nice to see a vendor that thinks that the $4 cup of chips is as big a rip-off as most of the punters do. But finally, with German sausage in tow, I hit the Lilypad for a bit of warped relaxation. It didn’t seem that I was the only one – the two large bean-bags in front of the stage were packed tight with punters looking for somewhere soft to crash, if only for a while.

Choosing a seat in the stands proved wise, as it allowed the perfect vantage point for what was going on onstage – namely the Sweetie Darlin’ Sweeties, a band of cowpokes who threw some rodeo-ridin’ goodness into the crowd, including the theme from Rawhide – as well as off. Alas, security at The Lilypad left a lot to be desired, also. While it’s understandable that there’s meant to be spontaneity through the place, the amount of yobs that got up on stage specifically to interrupt the proceedings was remarkable. A piece involving a large, camouflage-painted horse was knocked on the head when one punter leapt into its saddle and knocked the faux horse arse-over-tit while the security people meant to be watching the stage were off to the side having a quick cig. A bit disappointing, that.

Still, if it were people-watching that you were after, this was the place to do it. From tent-entering punters seeking affirmations to people just wanting to avoid sunstroke for a couple of minutes – with the help of a saucy burlesque show – it was the perfect place to perch and perve. Unfortunately, though, the place left a bit of a bad taste by the end of the time I’d spent there; the “get your tits out for charity” event that unfolded in a painfully drawn-out manner seemed to have spoiled the good-natured, fun and quirkily shambolic air of the place, instead lending it a bit of footy-crowd tack.

Heading back into the day, Grinspoon were the next stop. Already into their set, the band showed why they’ve been stayers on the festival circuit for more almost a decade now. Better Off Alone, More Than You Are, and Hard Act To Follow ripped through the crowd, while Hold On Me proved one of the most popular moments of the set, kicking the crowd off into a fist-pumping frenzy. Hardcore fans weren’t forgotten, either, with Post Enebriated Anxiety getting an airing, to screams of recognition. A solid, solid set from a band who’s sound now seems airtight, corralled by the assured cheekiness of rock survivor Phil Jamieson.

Next, Slipknot blew onto the stage, a tribe of black-clad, mask-wearing metalhead specialboys who proceeded to show the assembled masses exactly how to have fun… in a very fucked-off-with-the-world-and-you-in-particular kind of way. If there’s a band having more fun at this festival than this bunch of Iowa natives, then I don’t know where they are. One drummer, two percussionists and a raft of other instrumentalists combine to make songs that sound like big bludgeoning slabs of meat – it’s a perfect example of collaborative aggression and arena-friendly posturing. Alas, there’s other bands to see, so the masked mayhem onstage must be left – but it gives me the impetus to check out the band’s albums, much more than I’d expected. Hail Satan, indeed.

A short walk later, and it was time to scope out Spiderbait. Is there a band that’s played more festivals, more successfully than the trio from Finley? I doubt it. From the word go, their set was flawless. Kram remains the cool older brother who a) you never had and b) somehow manages to be the best drummer in Australia. Opening with Tonight Alright’s Take Me Back, the band’s in – as expected – fine form, playing well and shooting the breeze between songs. Four On The Floor saw the frenetic drummer standing at his kit, exhorting the crowd to dance while he played, while the Janet-voiced Fucken Awesome and the legendary Ol’ Man Sam had the crowd on its feet. Between pisstaking about hats – “That, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call rock-and-roll couture!” – and swapping drum duties with Janet for Buy Me A Pony while Whitt shredded on, the ‘Bait encouraged all the sort of things that make a festival fun. Familiar tunes, friendly fans, and arse-kicking musicianship – in terms of fun in the sun, it doesn’t get much better than that.

Shifting to the left a couple of metres or so, I landed a better vantage point for Dallas Crane. Though their crowd wasn’t as packed as Spiderbait’s had been – perhaps due to the System Of A Down slot on at the same time? – the quartet rocketed through a sterling set. Can’t Work You Out and Unlucky Star combined to make a double-team gem, while traditional band-introduction tune No Through Road saw the guys stretch out a little. It’s true to say that I’ve never seen Dallas Crane play a bad set, and today’s reinforced all the good things about them – timeless songwriting and panache-filled playing, carried out by some of the nicest blokes the industry in Australia has to offer, short of Powderfinger.

Speaking of which, a glance at the watch indicated that it was time to scoot over to the main arena to check out Brisbane’s finest. It’d been a while since I’d seen Powderfinger play, and it’d been in a much smaller venue than an open-air stadium, so it was intriguing to see how they’d handle it. Happily, they seemed to take it in their stride – with honesty and a refreshing lack of showiness, apart from the visuals projected behind the stage. The Day You Come showed bombs, Bush and flowers, while Sunsets showed a gorgeous day’s end; something that looked ripped straight from the duco of a ‘70s panelvan. The band’s grasp on classic rock is fierce, and there’s nothing like hearing a full arena shout along to Pick You Up to remind you exactly how good these guys are at song construction. Stumblin’, Passenger and a solo, heartfelt These Days sealed a set that drove home exactly how world-class a band this is.

An evening stroll past the Large Hot Pipe Organ was just the antidote to a full-on day of volume-driven insanity. That’s not to say that this creation – a MIDI-controlled organ that runs on gas and regularly emits thunderclaps of sound. Signs warned of the explosive nature of the performance, but as I walked past, the collection of smoking pipes sounded like a conference of steam-engines, each with its own voice. Capable of the most interesting type of industrial subtlety, it’s a shame that the Organ wasn’t given a lot more promotion – it was only by chance that I caught a show, even though it’s been something I’ve seen a lot of info about online. Still, for those seeking something not so straight-ahead as some of the day’s acts, it was a great diversion.

Popping into the Boiler Room for a moment, a portion of Carl Cox’s set blew eardrums and tolerance levels. Traversing the hordes of lost-in-their-own-nightclub punters and circling around a rather bizarre scorpion-woman-centaur sculpture on the way out, screams of joy were heard as the DJ slipped some White Stripes into the mix.

Coming to the CAT Essential Stage, I caught the end of Butterfingers’ set. While not a fan of their stuff, it was really refreshing to hear their take on groovy, urban tunes, and to see the excellent reaction they got from the crowd. There’s an enthusiasm, a keenness that came across really strongly in their set, with its laid-back attitude and honest-to-god thankfulness towards the audience. I don’t know that a whole set would’ve been my cup of tea, but what I saw was great fun.

Hatebreed were up next – though the program I’d printed out earlier said otherwise – and I wasn’t quite prepared for the level of volume they were packing.

HOLY FUCK!

If you were looking for hardcore, loud, in-your-face tunes, then these guys were the perfect purveyors of it. The set – populated by some of the most driven fans I’d seen all day – was intense, loud as hell, and riveting, though there were fears that industrial deafness would result, given the volume at which tunes like Beholder Of Justice were played at. Perhaps I’m getting old, perhaps I was tired, or perhaps I’m a wuss, but I thought I should head out of the blast zone and check out something else for a while. Judging from the number of people leaving the area also, I wasn’t alone.

The Beastie Boys were a great alternative, though. Catching some of their set – particularly the showstopping 3 MCs & 1 DJ – was enough to remind exactly why the guys have been so influential in the hip-hop world, and why they’ve experienced such longevity. They’re tight – tighter than most, and the abilities of Mixmaster Mike are truly phenomenal. With a set that’s more like a greatest-hits routine than a gig – Sabotage, So Whatcha Want and No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn getting an airing – the three MCs held the attention of the whole crowd, all eyes watching their relentless stage-crawling and inventive delivery. It seems criminal that a bunch of guys can have so much fun at their jobs!

After some timetable mix-ups – the ones shown online had ‘em playing an hour or so earlier, which explains the people fleeing Hatebreed’s set in terror – Blues Explosion finally took the stage to remind everyone, once more, that the blues still is number one. Unfortunately, the band’s set seemed a bit more drawn than previously. Sure, Jon Spencer still has that crazy-legs thing going on, but the sort of energy that made their Recovery appearance a thing of wild-eyed legend wasn’t very much in evidence. True, Spencer was wearing the best suit of the day – shiny, grey, and giving the distinct impression that if he ran across stage really fast, he’d generate lightning with it – but there just seemed to be something missing from their performance. They were tight, they were raw, nobody could tell exactly what it was that Spencer was saying – everything normal, then – but for some reason, they didn’t light the stage up like they have previously. Which was a shame, as their new disc, Damage, is the sort of thing that’s a fantastic party-starter. Maybe it was just an off set – I don’t know, but feeling my festival mojo levels run terrifyingly low, it seemed as fine a note as any to finish the day off on, and with that, I headed home.

From reports, main-stage closers Chemical Brothers constructed a roof over the venue, before lifting the fucker right off – but by the time that their brand of block-rockin’ beats were blown out into the audience (helped, I’m told, with the presence of a lightning-generating Tesla coil sculpture) I was with the already-gathering crowds at the train station. People compared how much they’d drunk over the day, what bands they’d seen go apeshit, and winced with sympathy at those who’d forgotten to slather on the sunscreen during the course of the day. But most of all, they listened, as the lines moved slowly forward, to the ringing in their ears that told of a good time.