Virgin Festival Diary: Day One

My day started with MGMT playing to an excited crowd on the main stage, though they started off slow and dull. They opened with, in an odd tongue-in-cheek sarcastic tone, “Hey, Toronto, best crowd EVER.” And proceeded to play their slower Zeppelin-like set, only getting to their more energetic songs at the end. I wondered if they knew they were at a rock festival. We then hurried to catch The Fratellis, who, despite their great energy and cute British demeanor, failed to convince me they were much different from The Arctic Monkeys or The Kooks.

A bright spot of the day was definitely the Bacardi tent, where DJs made dancing fun and the crowd really enjoyed chilling with some great beats. Flosstradamus made quite the impression, drawing people into the tent during their set.

The next act was the amazing Bloc Party.. Though they come to Toronto on a regular basis, I’d never seen them live and I was not disappointed. They played a lot of their singles (which a few other bands failed to do, indulging in their status) including the high-energy “Banquet” and Guitar Hero favourite “Helicopter” and the crowd’s energy revved up from a previously lacklustre day.

I rushed over to see The Kooks’ set and was blown away at how they’ve grown in both prominence and command of a large crowd since I first saw them play a couple years ago. They played an absolutely dynamite set to a huge crowd and the fans lapped it up. They even managed to get the entire audience to sit down during their performance of “Do You Wanna” – a feat considering the amount of people that came out to see them.

The night ended with The Foo Fighters. They revved the audience with a few of their hits. E! was there to talk to the legendary Mr. Grohl and we’ve got some awesome footage to share with you very soon.

The day was a whirlwind, so I had to bring in the Sideshow Sidekick, RJ, to help with important Day 2 reportage.

Virgin Music Festival Diary: Day 2 (by the Sideshow Sidekick, RJ)

Since the dawn of time there has been but one position coveted by those fortunate enough to be involved with the planning and execution of a music festival. One man or woman comes out on top in a nail biting four day, 275km triathlon that is tail ended by a brutal knivegun duel between the survivors (see Final Fantasy VIII).  One could justifiably assume that victor of such a job interview would be able to undertake any task put before them…except of course, crafting a scale map of the festival grounds.

As I helmed the world-renowned Oriole across the Ontario to Toronto Island, I couldn’t help but become all sunshine and lollipops at the layout of the Virgin Music festival. Without a legend on the map, I wrongfully presumed the little man and little woman shown in the washroom symbol were to scale. Fourteen foot drum sets! Manatee-sized hamburgers! Oh my! Upon arrival I was completely let down. Whoever drew the map (or should I say, lied the map) should be thrown out of a helicopter. Ass. Onto the show.

Hearing California-born Matt Costa sing reminded me of the first time I heard “I Am the Walrus.” Not in the sense that it eventually grew on me, but that the first time I heard it, my ears felt like they were bleeding. As I looked at the rest of the crowd, I noticed that we shared the same state of mind, unconsciousness. The only person that seemed to enjoy the show was a greasy old man getting a message, and he wasn’t even facing the stage. The best part of his performance was when the Arkells drowned him out with a bat-shit loco guitar solo from the Oh Henry stage. Sweet.

Surprisingly enough, the Silversun Pickups does not consist of robots. After the first note of the set exploded my heart, I could enjoy the show as an emotionless husk of a man. With stage presence that resembled a seizure, the Pickups totally laid the smackdown. Without the Costaesque sob stories in between every song, the set flowed like a baby’s ass. Smooth.

When the Stereophonics snapped out their first notes, the crowd went absolutely shitballistic. The band reminded me of a mullet; business at the front, party at the back. While the singer nailed every note, the bassist and lead guitarist followed suit. Meanwhile the drummer was busy bumping uglies with the drums. The recipe of the four of them together was musical pornography, orgasmic to the ears. Needless to say, I chain-smoked four cigarettes after the gig.

I’d always assumed Moby was the same size as a small to mid-sized pick-up truck. I was dead wrong. I wonder how such a big sound can come from such a small man. I guess technology can amplify the smallest of sounds into a thunderous roar. While Moby was being interviewed by various members of the press, I couldn’t help but be taken aback by the beautiful Toronto skyline. As my eyes leveled to his, I noticed he was looking at my crotch. I then came to the shocking conclusion that he wasn’t looking at my junk, but at the rusty crowbar resting on the bench in front of me. As his eyes darted feverishly back and forth between me and the bar of crow, I became increasingly nervous. Moby meant business and I wasn’t ready to die.

Moby brought the hotness. The moment he stepped on stage everybody went shitbonkers. His heavy beats and trance melodies had everybody bouncing like yoyos, security included. He dropped it like a meteor. Seamless as a balloon, he cracked out beats that had people going epileptic.

That’s it, kids! So long and farewell from both the Sideshow Sidekick RJ and Sword Swallower. Keep on rockin’ in not-really-free world!!!