Food blogging very temporarily on hold. Through my work, I managed to pocket free tickets to Rock2Wgtn, the two-day music festival with some muscular headliners – Ozzy Osbourne and Kiss. These tickets are exceedingly pricey so Tim and I were rather stoked. I realise my list of pet sounds on the right hand column of this blog don’t exactly display bogan tendencies, but – and I don’t want to come off all David Brent here – some of my favourite music errs on the side of ‘heavy.’ I count Metallica’s ‘Fuel’ is one of my (admittedly million) favourite songs, and Motorhead’s album Ace of Spades gets high rotation on my iTunes (and how could it not, with such ditties as Love Me Like A Reptile?) To be fair though, my knowledge of all the bands headlining is mostly gleaned from various reality TV shows, 80s compilations, and Top 40 Guitar Riff countdowns on C4. Despite, or perhaps because of this, we had an amazing time.
Last night was Alice Cooper and Kiss:
Above: Alice Cooper is absolutely mental. He has to be what, 97 years old? Yet in the course of his set, he threw out ropes of pearls into the audience, attacked a dummy replica of himself, engaged in a glorified display wife-beating with his backup dancer, sacrificed a baby (doll, don’t sweat), had three costume changes, (who is he, Kylie Minogue?) got put into a straightjacket, was hung from a noose (it looked pretty real), flung fistfuls of money about and attempted to run for President. A Troubled Man for Troubled Times, was his pithy slogan. (Your move, Obama…) Listening to a lot of Radio Hauraki in my late teens meant that I ended up knowing a lot more of his songs than I anticipated, and so I was able to have a good singalong. His face is just fascinating though. He looks like a Quentin Black illustration. It is just begging to be doodled.
Above: This. Was Kiss. Blissfully ignorant of the definition of “carbon footprint,” these platform booted nutters sent off jets of fire, sprayed confetti everywhere, and punctuated their singing with fireworks displays. The lead singer (the one that’s not Gene Simmons, the drummer, or that other guy) rode a flying fox across the audience. They were excessive and excellent – truly, truly entertaining.
Above: Ah, the tongue. You better believe this happened a lot. He did not disappoint. It’s funny, a lot has been made of Gene Simmons’ many er, conquests, but while he was strutting about the stage I couldn’t help but imagine him chuckling: “My rhymes are so potent that in this small segment I made all of the ladies in the first two rows pregnant.” (I know, quoting Flight of the Conchords is now passe, but here in NZ we tend to always get the memo later than anyone else, and besides, just click on the link.)
Hot Cross Buns and other Easter baking to come (sandwiched between frantic essay writing and photo-taking) and I guess we will find out tonight what Ozzy Osbourne has in store for us, and if Bret Micheals from Poison is as bloated as he looks in Rock of Love.