The dude standing just in front of me at the Red Bull stage turns to his friend and, with a reasonable level of concern in his voice, musters a hushed, “Dude, where are we?” With a hand placed firmly on his buddy’s shoulder, doing that reassuring grip-and-release thing people do, the friend replies, “At Oppikoppi.” The first guy nods slowly, pupils so large they look fixed in his sockets, unable to catch up to the movement of his skull. And then he turns back to the stage, to Sideshow‘s really insane set, and carries on throwing himself forward to the music.
I could just go ahead and tell you about the bands at Oppikoppi. About how BLKJKS owned that big ol’ Wesley’s Dome main stage. Or how Eagles of Death Metal‘s lead singer Jesse Hughes sounded like a preacher for the church of sex, drugs & rock ‘n roll. Or about how the media seemed alternately either confused or distracted because everything behind the scenes seemed to be a mess. Or how corporate branding seemed to strangle every stall, wall, banner and fence. Everyone will tell you about the glow sticks and the naked chests and the dust (oh god, the dust), but I also just want to tell you about the strange, wondrous Philip K Dick futureworld we all live in together, today.
