It took the industrial gods of German rock that are Rammstein, clad and buckled in leather boots and vinyl uniforms, to rule the stage at Sydney’s Big Day Out on our very own Australia Day.
If the deafening roar of the guitars didn’t catch your attention, the sky-high eruptions from the flame-throwers strapped to the band’s faces did (the heat from those firey pillars reached us at the back of the mosh, scorching our already flushed faces). Missiles of fireworks exploded above the stage, shooting towards the sound tent and then back again in retaliation. Flake jumps on a treadmill donning a mirrored tracksuit while Till’s booming voice thunders out the all the crowd favourites; Rammstein, Links 2-3-4, Du Reicht So Gut, Ich Will, Du Hast. I haven’t seen the crowd this electric all day. They’ve packed the stadium like sardines, blood boiling with the mercury , fueled by the rumble of the drums and the deep, dark intoxication that Rammstein belts out. The band doesn’t even falter in the typical 43-degree summer heat of Australia Day; they continue to serve it up to the ten-thousand strong army marching to their beat, the brutish punch of their music forcing fans and converts alike to join in unison, a legion of voices chanting along with the band as the clouds roll over, a fitting backdrop to the maelstrom the band has wreaked on stage.
The music mounts its climax as Till straddles a gargantuan, pink, phallic cannon, aiming at the crowd and ejaculating spurts of foam over their adoring hordes, smashing any hope of headliners Tool had of topping this act, popping that cherry with a final, fierce rendition of… Pussy.
Speaking of Tool, the crowd clearly spoke for themselves. The stream of fans abandoning ship in the wake of an undefeatable Rammstein did not slow at all, even 2/3 of the way through the set, when the band finally relented and played one of their hits – Schism. Too little, too late. The throngs of the disappointed were physical manifestation of the flood of tears I would have wept if I could feel anything during that numbing, un-evoking set. I tried closing my eyes, hoping the trademark spectacular visuals were simply distracting from the music, but to no avail. Nothing. In fact, the most entertaining thing to erupt from Maynard’s mouth was a whispered line delivered dry and droll between two songs, “I smell marijuana”.
It was a crescendo that never reached climax.
I can only thank whatever powers that be that we made it to Vitalic before the evening was out. If our feet hadn’t been destroyed from hours in the mosh they would have carried us right into the center of a floor-full of pinging kids. Salvation.
Now that’s music to rock to.
