KEY POINTS:
The anticipation of the second night of Rock2Wellington festivities came to a head 18 hours after the previous night's events wrapped up.
Much like last night's recount, and most Harry Potter books, the journey started with a train trip and people dressed in black.
Upon arriving at the Central Wellington station the main difference was that the bar wasn't open due to Easter Sunday trading laws, so everyone headed straight to the venue.
Outside the venue two types of people were peddling their wares: one's wares were tickets and he was very hush hush about it, the other's were not tickets and let's just say Simple Simon would not have said to this 'Pieman', "Let me taste your wares"...
Stepping through the ticket scanners and turnstiles was like stepping back in time, to a little decade I like to call the 80s.
Ozzy Osbourne t-shirts were everywhere, there were men with huge hair do's a la Poison and everyone was confirming they had the right words for Here we go Again by Whitesnake.
Moving to our seats, it was obvious that the giant guitars either side of the stage had changed since last night and there was a cacophony of bongo drums from NZ band The Valves, who seemed a tight musical outfit.
A giant cheer sounded that might indicate the first band was about to take the stage, but it was actually the first two notes of AC/DC's Highway To Hell. It seems when you get your Certificate in Bogan, knowing any AC/DC song from the first two notes is a must. The irony of this song being played on Easter Sunday wasn't lost on me.
To my surprise, and the surprise of others I was with, Poison was the first band on stage this evening.
We had all picked Whitesnake to open the proceedings. Bret Michaels, Poison frontman/TV Reality Star was very polite, thanking New Zealand after every song and before the start of the next song. Often taking the time to tell us all that the lead guitarist's name was CC. CC was orange. Fake tan orange, but he sure knew what to do with a guitar.
The drummer had the sort of haircut you'd see of a skinny 15 year old boy dressed mostly in black, but again was very competent with the skins.
Musical highlights of their performance were Unskinny Bop and the lighter igniting, romantic sing along Every Rose has its Thorn. Poison thanked us again for our hospitality before leaving the stage to go and enjoy that very hospitality.
During the break New Zealand band Sonic Altar sung a song called My name is Sue... I think. The Weta Dragon reared its head again. Though it was an old play to a Rock2Wellington veteran such as myself, it was a new sight for the people who hadn't attended last night.
Whitesnake took to the stage and automatically won the "Best Band Logo" of the festival with a White snake looping around a large capital W. Brilliant in its simplicity.
David Coverdale, lead singer and ex member of Deep Purple (new fact for me), didn't talk to the crowd too much. When he did he welcomed us with a "kia ora" and told us that last time he was here, 32 years ago, he had been arrested and sentenced to 6 months jail. I think he was fibbing, and his fibbing continued when he said New Zealand had three pubs for every person - not only horrifically incorrect, but also highly economically improbable.
Although my friend assured me "You'll totally know some of their songs, you'll say 'Oh that song, I didn't know that was Whitesnake'," that never happened...
Until the best sing along of Rock2Wellington came in the form of the penultimate song from Whitesnake - Here we go Again. The crowd were so into it and everyone screamed the chorus as best they could, filling gaps with noises. All in all far better than The Singing Bee. Whitesnake then bid us adieu and departed the stage to thunderous applause for their fantastic musical abilities.
The Weta Dragon appeared again, this time its laser eyes found a home in the smoke around the stadium not put there by the smoke machines.
It seemed the ideal time to seek refreshments, everyone else figured the same though and the 20 minutes I spent in line for water was spent mostly overhearing young and old, black and white, bogan and boganess, discussing how fantastic Ozzy Osbourne was going to be.
The crowd roar signalled to me the Prince of Darkness was about to take the stage so I abandoned hydration and headed back to my seats for the final performance of the weekend.
The Ozzy Osbourne Experience began with a montage of Ozzy edited into scenes from popular shows and movies, including The Sopranos, Entourage, The Queen and Dancing with the Stars, (in which he pulled on Heather Mills-McCartney's leg off and threw it at her), proving Sharon was keeping him up to date with the MTV Generation.
He appeared on stage and began his performance. He had an amazing guitarist who was introduced to the audience but I couldn't understand what his name was from the mouth of the Ozzy.
Ozzy told us between songs that he couldn't hear us, he said it so often I actually believe he couldn't hear anything - like many who attended the concert.
Ozzy finished off his set with Mama I'm Coming Home and Paranoid before leaving the stage and not returning. The lights came on and it seemed it was time to go home.
So that was it.
It's over.
Please go see and hairdresser and get your mullet sorted now, it looks silly. Wait... you weren't growing it for the concert? Oh, as you were.
Your reviews:
Angela Kingston-Smith
Night One:
Well, here I am on Easter Sunday - a little dazed and confused, but surprisingly, without ringing ears. This may indeed not be a good sign at all! Still last night was most enjoyable despite my extreme tiredness.
I arrived in Wellington early afternoon, in an aeroplane filled with bogans. The capital too was filled with black-shirted, sloganed men (some quite aged) in blue jeans. This is the plumage of the typical kiwi bogan. There were a few "Immortal" and other black metal shirts (with their indecipherable logos) around - remainders of last night's Immortal concert. They tend to be quieter, rather more sinister figures than the cheerful NZ metalhead. In my "Anathema" long-sleeved tent I resemble a strange hybrid of the two.
The Wellington Stadium is affectionately known as the Cake Tin and from it tonight, the noise is sure to rise! A tide of black streams in. Some folks have adorned themselves like tonight's headliners, KISS, with make-up and studded black clothing. Most have gone for the typical black shirt, blue jeans. I regret not wearing pink or something equally ludicrous. It would make me much easier for my companions to locate later in the evening.
Gates opened at 6 pm and we arrive about that time - too early as it turns out, with my companions and I dividing up into our separate aisles. My view, it appears, is going to be blocked by a dragon, so I was moved aisles. It then became a long - but entertaining, wait. They had cameras on the audience, panning across the faces. Poking tongues, waving devil-head signs assail us, some just laugh, others hide their faces. There is a real mix of ages - mostly 20+, but a few younger kids in the audience too. Some people have hit the bottle early - and at least three are removed from the field before even the first of the festivities have commenced. Idiots - who would fork out $250 just to get falling drunk and miss the action? Not I! Despite the complete lack of a vehicle, I shall approach this completely sober. That way I will remember it.
Around 7.30ish the Riff-to-Wellington axegrinders begin. They are quite skilled, having won a competition to play here. Fingers racing at many miles a minute, fierce concentration drawn on their features. It all blurs a little into a wall of noise. They play one-by-one, each situated by one of the aisle entrances. I can recall little of the riffs that are played, but hearing our National Anthem God defend New Zealand on electric guitar was rousing indeed!
Finally Lordi take the stage. I've not heard much of them before but they won the Eurovision Music Awards a few years back. With this win they received a fair amount of infamy - since they are a bunch of monsters playing heavy metal. The pianist is a pale woman whose fingers danced gracefully across the keyboard producing some spine-chillingly eerie notes. The drummer appears to be a troll. In his silver armour and with his wild mane of hair, the vocalist stomps about the stage. His cape turns into wings! He sweet-talks the audience a little - I'm sure we're not the best audience he'd ever played to! But the line-up likely was the best he'd been in. Their music is catchy and bombastic with good solid rifts. However, the rough-edge to the vocals got to me after a time. I guess I'm still rather into the clean operatic vocals. The only song I recognise was Could you love a monster man? And yeah, I think I could. The vocalist prances about with various props - including an enormous stick of dynamite that he holds in a suggestive place as it erupts a shower of sparks. Lordi remind me of a PG-rated Gwar with better musicianship.
We then pause for Drusilla to make her grand entrance. Firstly, people walk amongst the field, spraying a fine mist of smoke. A roaring starts, low and threatening and from behind the canvas netting, she rises. Her head is narrow, almost skull like, her eyes menacing slits. She glares balefully at us, green light streaming from her eyes, piercing the crowds. Lacy-red wings unfurl and beat lightly at the air as Sonic Altar commence playing.
In case you hadn't guessed, Drusilla is a dragon. She stands around 17 feet tall and is a most exquisitely scaled beast indeed. I shall try and find her picture later, from the archive uploaded by the professional photographers (we were not permitted our own cameras, although I saw cellphones clicking everywhere and a few digitals that had been smuggled in).
Sonic Altar fill in the time on a tiny little side stage whilst the roadies flood across the main stage, transforming it beneath their skilled hands. I believe they are a local band, but their sound is unremarkable, the vocals rough (intentionally). In the bleachers opposite three fire dancers swirl and twist whilst beside them a troupe of zombie cheerleaders strut their undead stuff.
Finally, Alice Cooper takes the stage.
A huge curtain with his name emblazoned upon it illuminates brightly, a familiar silhouette behind it. Cane in hand, top hat perched on his still very black hair, the King of Shock Rock struts onto stage.
The years have been relatively kind to Alice. They have increased his distinctively lined face and seem to accent his hooked nose. He looks not old, but merely more weathered. The opening track is a short piece whose name I cannot recall, mostly spoken, and then the cords of No More Mr Nice Guy rip out.
I am entranced. I have been a big fan of Alice (and Ozzy) since my formative years - at least 17 years of my life. And now here I am with him before me - the real him, larger than life. He has lost none of his style and not gone to fat as so many rockers tend towards. His music is everlasting and his performance that of a skilled showman.
It is also rather shocking. I have heard of his shows before, a long time ago in my more metal years, but had forgotten that he was known as "shock rock" and received a fair amount of controversy.
After playing several of his catchier numbers - Im 18 (soon it will be "I'm 80", Alice!), Under my Wheels, and some I didn't recognise. He sang to a corpse-like mannikin of himself and then broke into Welcome to my Nightmare. Creatures with strange and lumpy heads dance around him, amongst them a fragile, waif-like woman in a white dress. As the song dies away, he slaps her sending her tumbling backwards. The lights dim.
Only women bleed whispers softly across the speakers. Alice is sitting on the stage, the woman on her knees beside him, blood staining her face and dress, staring at him with vacous, pleading eyes. Throughout the song she crawls to him, pleadingly, and is slapped and pushed away. It is quite traumatising to watch (even though clearly choreographed as his slaps miss her head by inches). Finally she retreats to the corner of the stage and he brings out a carriage. It is an old-fashioned style and is pushed back and forth across the stage to a song I do not recognise (but will research later).
The baby is snatched from it, thrust at the audience. Although it is small and far away, I can make out that it wears the typical Alice Cooper make-up. Placing it back in the pram he takes a hammer and stake and proceeds to butcher it, before presenting it to us, skewered and covered in blood.
At this point, hooded men came and grabbed him (the woman comes back on, retrieving carriage and dead baby), dragging him to his knees and wrapping him in a straitjacket.
Steven sends a shiver down my spine. I have always loved this song, but never thought I would hear it live. It is even more eerie and frightening when performed in a straitjacket. As the last notes die away, he wriggles free and runs from the stage.
The hooded figures follow on behind. Back on he is dragged, back in the straitjacket. A covered object is pushed on from the far side, the cover whipped away before our eyes to reveal a gallows.
And we all watch in silence (well, not quite, because the guitarists are still going) as Alice Cooper is hanged for his terrible crimes. He hangs limply for a while at the end of the rope, before the whole contraption is removed from the stage.
But the show is not over yet, for Alice is returned to us, with the ever-popular anthem School's Out! Huge rubber balls bounce through the audience. None, alas, making it back to the cheap seats. The show, it appears, is over.
Despite not being the Headliner, a sad oversight in my eyes, Alice is persuaded back to the stage for an encore. We are all desperately pleading with him for that despairing love song heard in every Kaos party, but it is not to be - instead he struts the stage with a fencing foil laden with what appears to be American Greenbacks and the song Billion Dollar Babies.
And then the first cords sound out and a sense of palpatable relief and excitement floods the audience. He hardly needs to sing the words - we all known them - "your blood... like ice..." I have loved this song for over half my life and now I can hear it - performed by the man himself, in the flesh (if somewhat distantly) before me. It is haunting.
To end on something a little more upbeat, it is then suggested that we vote for him with I'm Elected.
Well Alice, you've got my vote!
Drusilla then takes the stage again and the second no-name band takes their tiny little stage on the other side of the stadium. They're wearing kilts and seem to be older aged rockers, with quite good vocals and catchy tunes. Alas, the crowds greet them with subdued enthusiasm. Alice is a hard act to follow and we are all getting tired.
The headliners of the night are Kiss and I realise as they hit the stage that a, they have discovered the secret of eternal youth and b, I don't actually know any Kiss songs. Nothing sounds even vaguely familiar. Still, they are skilled and experienced performers.
The stage looks nice and clean and clear with its black, white, silver and the spurts of vivid red and blue fire. They are very clearly the forefathers of stadium rock and pander to the audience in a manner that is almost needy. How are we supposed to sing the first verses of your ballad, Gene? I don't even know the song! I am so tired at this point that I am almost comatose. The songs sort of bleed together, until the encores.
For the encores they actually choose songs I know! I was made for loving you and Rock 'n' Roll all Night. These I throw myself into, having finally broken through to my second (or perhaps third) wind.
Alas, they do not play my favourite - God gave rock and roll to you.
And then it is over, the stage grows dark and a tide of black flows from the gates.
ROCK ON!
Night Two:
Once again the dragon is interfering with my aisle and I find myself upgraded to aisle 12. This affords a better view of the stage. The crowd is different tonight, and the atmosphere is more relaxed. I see no one being escorted off before the show begins - possibly because we arrive halfway through The Valves' performance.
More goths are in evidence although there is little change in the array of sloganed tees. Aside from the performing bands, Iron Maiden, Metallica and Led Zeppelin are all emblazoned across people's chests, interspersed with the occasional Cradle of Filth.
The Valves are halfway through their set when I make my entrance. They are a raucous wall of noise, but the vocalist sounds and looks vaguely familiar. It is Brent Milligan, ex-vocalist of Christchurch band, Pumpkinhead.
He looks almost exactly the same as he did some 10 years ago. Lean and supple, he struts the stage half-naked, flinging about his dreadlocked hair and climbing the scaffolding. When they break into Walking in the Rain my voice joins his - not that anyone can hear it (I hope!).
Poison's set begins with a photo montage from their hair days - the "poodle rockers" of my youth. And Brett Michaels takes the stage. He's a bit chubbier (as are the entire band), and resembles a middle-aged cowboy.
It has been 21 years since Poison began their musical career. They were likely the first rock band I truly got into, and although I recall very few of their songs, despite having owned Flesh and Blood for a time, I am instantly hooked.
The opening track is Look what the cat dragged in and they belt their way through a series of their old, slightly familiar tunes. For I Want Satisfaction, sexy images from the 80s flicker across the screen. Michaels is very friendly and chatty throughout the performace.
He informs us how much he loves "Nooo Zealand" and has enjoyed partying with some of us and how it's been too long since he was last here. He introduces us to his band - reformed especially for this gig, I believe. He's very real, still just one of the boys. The whole feel is gritty and raw - the way rock music should be - and a stark contrast from the clean, clear cut manner in which Kiss took the stage.
Not that there was anything wrong with Kiss. They rip into Mama don't dance and nostalgia overwhelms me. Even though I own no Poison albums and have not actively listened to their music in years - this was the sound of my youth.
For Unskinny Bop I stand up and bop - to the annoyance of the two large goth girls behind me, I'm afeared. But there's some things you've gotta do.
The camera pans across the front of the audience, who look entirely unamused. It cannot be fun being pushed against the guardrail for hours upon hours. After the last chords of Every Rose has its Thorn die away and the punters lower their cigarette lighters, Michaels declares that there will be one more song. But "there will be none of this encore bullshit where we walk off the stage," he adds - as they power into We're Gonna have a Good Time Tonight.
Well, thanks Michaels - we already are!
Sonic Altar sound better tonight - the vocals have been mixed louder so you can actually hear them over the guitar wall. They plow through a few moderately catchy numbers that I forget instant, whilst Drusilla growls and spears us all with her flurescent stare.
David Coverdale struts onto stage next. Whitesnake have been around from the 70s and he has always been a middle-aged rockstar in my eyes - even if he must be at least 50 by now. It has been 32 years since he has been here in New Zealand.
Resplendent in a white shirt and blue jeans, he still looks much the way I remember us. They Come out of the Shadows and break into a series of songs that I do not recognise.
The choruses are catchy, the rhythm clear - it is easy to rock along. Between songs he addresses us in his strong English accent, hassling a couple in the front row and speaking words of romance. But we know better, Whitesnake - your songs aren't about love, they're about sex.
Why else would you have such titles like Slip it in? A dreadlocked punter in a Hendrix shirt behind us shrieks at Coverdale to "bring on Ozzy", like he can hear him.
This punter mysteriously disappears shortly after. I cannot say I mourn his absence. Is this Love? probably my favourite Whitesnake songs, fills me with longing.
Coverdale's voice seems better suited for ballads - it is husky and soothing and rich wity emotion. The crowd go wild for Here I go Again. I had not realised Whitesnake were so popular - I suppose in my "formative years" their major chart career was on the wane, along with Led Zeppelin, so they never received too much airplay.
The crowd coerce them back onto stage to rip through Still of the Night to which we all screech along. I doubt I will be able to speak tomorrow as my throat already feels raw.
Much of The Symphony of the Screams performance goes unnoticed - although they too have their vocals louder today - you can actually here the opera singer. I'm trying to have a conversation with the wee Argentine fellow beside me. This is not as easy as it may sound - the combination of his accent, my deafness and the exceedingly loud background noise means we require a considerable amount of repetition.
Ozzy mocks us from the darkened stage. Are we crazy enough for him to make his entrance? He laughs his low and sinister chuckle. The screens flick on, displaying the Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End trailer. We are perplexed. Then Jack Sparrow turns his head, and Depp's dirty, sexy face has been replaced with ... that of the Prince of Darkness. We are then treated to a montage of popular TV shows and movies in which Ozzy makes a grand replacement - The Office (US), Lost, The Sopranos, Entourage, Borat, The Queen and a number I do not recognise. Some are too disturbing for words and it goes on and on longer than was truly necessary.
Finally, it appears we have reached the correct peak of "Craziness" and Ozzy makes his entrance.
He's old, and chubby now - but we all know that, and his vocals have not suffered in the slightest. He opens with Still Crazy and plunges through a set of songs both old and new, most of which I recognise: Bark at the Moon (and it IS a full moon tonight), Suicide Solution, Mr Crowley this list goes on.
Every so often he pauses between songs and informs us that we're not crazy enough and he wants us to "make some noise!" And we try, we really try, but "I still can't hear you!" I guess that's because you're going deaf, Ozzy.
A few Black Sabbath songs sneak in - too War Pigs we, the punters, sing every other line, and Paranoid (one of the encores) really gets the crowd a-rocking. About halfway through, Zach Wilde is abandoned on the stage, shredding his guitar to pieces in a feedback-laden solo that goes on... and on... and on...
The other guitarist amuses me more, spinning madly in circles during the rockier numbers. For the second half the tone is mellowed, with the new ballad Here for you and I don't want to Change the World.
And then - the show is over. But Ozzy will indulge us a little more if we can persuade him. He leads us into a chant - "One more song... one more song" and in this manner we manage to coax a few more from him, three in fact. Including the power ballad (that my mother loved) Mama I'm Coming Home and the aforementioned Paranoid. And with that, the show is over. No amount of chanting and clapping and cheering can encourage our aging icon back.
Thirty thousand (or so) fans stream from the stalls and field, an endless black tide, as they seek their taxis and trains and transport home. Our ears are ringing, heads are spinning, but we're also grinning.
It has been a good two days, a real party and even though my ears will never be the same again - it was worth it.
Yes Poison, I got me some satisfaction tonight. Of the aural kind.
