Raging Against the Machine

This caper has been rotating around our circle since the late 2000s. Now, with almost two decades elapsed, it's probably safe to disgorge in public. On the surface this story could simply be, Rage Against the Machine reformed, we saw them, and it was epic. However, just as most music is a homage to previous generations, this was the moment we stood on the shoulders of preceding Metalheads. Not only was the baton passed down, but we also grabbed it firmly by the wrist and charged towards the dance floor.

Entering high school in the mid-1990s, I was immediately introduced to a wide range of music. Soon after, I feel in love with rock and punk music. At the time, Rage Against the Machine was one of the most revered artists in this space. When they played the Big Day Out Festival in Australia during 1996, I missed them, due to my young age. Over the following years, it was widely assumed they might return, and we would get to experience this seminal act live. Unfortunately, this pipe dream was crushed with the band’s acrimonious break up in 2000. 

Too young to realise what we had missed out on; I spent most of the early 2000 years going to as many gigs as possible with my mates. This period was such a blur that I eventually forgot about missing Rage. Occasionally, this disappointment would rear its head when some of our elders talked about attending the 1996 Big Day Out. However, the FOMO largely vanished with age and experience.

Eventually, in 2008 after everyone had given up on seeing them, Rage was lured back together by a reportedly large brief case of cash. With a show in Sydney announced soon after, we eagerly awaited the ticket release. On the day, my good friend Suzy diligently sat on her computer and somehow managed to secure us six magical tickets to the gig. Sadly, due to overwhelming demand there was one minor problem, we could only get seating tickets.

Although we were finally going to see Rage, a grail gig for many, the disappointment about having seated tickets was palpable amongst the crew. Not one to take the easy way out, I wracked my brain for some inspiration. That’s when, from somewhere deep in my battle-hardened synapses, an idea popped out.

Harking back to a legendary tale my older cousin Andrew once shared, I tried to conjure some inspiration. Growing up in the working-class Campbelltown area, under the judicious and principled guidance of my Uncle Bruce, let's just say he knew how to get things done. Although Bruce is no longer with us, the lessons learnt still flow through us all. I must also disclaim that the following shenanigans probably didn't live up to his strong sense of ethics, but Bruce would have at least appreciated our resourcefulness.

Back in 2001, at the height of their fame, Limp Bizkit, were touring the country. Pertinently, they were performing at the same venue Rage was scheduled to, the now extinct, Sydney Entertainment Centre. As a late addition, attending on a whim, Andrew was likewise confined to the stands. Upon arrival to the arena, he was jarringly met by mocking waves from all his mates down in the mosh pit. Coming from the mindset of being there may be better than not but a real gig is properly experienced from in the pit, this was galling. With enough motivation provided, he decided to put his pals in their place and somehow get down to the floor.

In this situation, most commonly, the path of least resistance would be to use brute force. Taking this approach, you generally wait until the house lights dim just before the band takes the stage and then leap down from the top level. Doing so, opens yourself up to not only injury but also the risk of being caught by security and missing the show altogether. Instead of chancing it in this manner, Andrew decided to apply a bit more finesse. Spying that everyone on the floor had bright pink wristbands, he decided to duck across the road and find a shop selling something similar.

Leaving the venue and beelining towards the neighbouring Chinatown precinct, a bus stop advertisement caught his gaze. Staring back at him was a huge poster that serendipitously contained a large splash of fluorescent pink. Running on instinct, he quickly pried the surrounding casing open, tore a pink strip from the sign and slyly tied it around his wrist. Hustling back to the gig, he presented his ticket at the door before approaching the last security check for the floor. Reaching the final gateway, he nonchalantly raised his sign clad forearm to the staff, who through the darkness and chaos just waved him straight in.

After enjoying the gig and successfully proving his mates wrong, Andrew decided to continue his crusade. Employing a similar trick the following day, he went on to catch Limp Bizkit again by attending the Big Day Out ticketless. With that tale now in the forefront of my mind, I would need to go about my work and acquire some wristbands. This plan had a couple of obvious stumbling blocks. Time was the first issue, as it wasn't until the day of the gig I remembered the story. More pressing, was finding a location that sold a variety of wristbands because we wouldn't know in advance what colour was required. Pulling this together, while being stuck at work all day, and then convincing my mates to play along was going to be tough. 

After frantically googling and finding a place that sold wristbands out near the airport, it was obvious that a favour would be required. Standing behind the Concierge Desk of an inner-city hotel with the gears whirring around inside my head, I was struggling to find anyone to go out of their way on a weekday. Then, like the intro to Bulls on Parade, it suddenly hit me. Maybe, one of the taxi drivers that frequent our establishment could assist. While our relationship was mainly transactional, I had got to know a few of the regulars over the years. Beyond kickbacks for good fares, we often talked about family and life in general during the quiet times, so there was some rapport.

One of these eclectic mix of characters was, let’s call him, Nick the Greek. He appeared to be a great family man, who worked his behind off to provide for his son. Considering we weren't employed by the same company; our working relationship was surprisingly symbiotic. Occasionally, I'd give him free passes to family friendly events from my Concierge Stash, and he even went as far as collecting me for work at 6am one New Year’s Day. With options few and far between, I decided to give Nick a call and within a few hours he came to the party.

On one of his many laps to the airport with customers, he took time out of his hectic day and detoured to a party supply shop. Here, he followed my instructions precisely and bough bulk supplies of wristbands in a multitude of colours. Impressively, he returned before the end of my shift, so I now possessed armbands spanning most colours of the rainbow. Wild with excitement, it was time to get everyone else onboard.

Scurrying to meet the crew at a nearby establishment for a few warmup beverages, my idea initially received a tepid response. This is the problem with having wild ideas, not many people are prepared to believe in them before they have been proven. That’s why, if you truly believe in them, you need to hold your ground. After a few beers and a bit more stubborn hassling on my behalf, I managed to disseminate a pile of bands to each member of our party. Begrudgingly, these were haphazardly stashed away, largely to get me off everyone’s case.

Continuing to preload for a while longer, we were eventually charged up enough to head into the venue. Shortly after, we floated into the foyer of the Entertainment Centre, where I was met by the most beautiful sight. Strolling past, was a lad adorned with a bright pink wristband. With the grace of a used toilet paper salesman, I started interrogating him. In my excitement, brushing past any greetings, I enquired about the wristbands purpose. Confused, the punter defensively stammered, “you get these when you have floor tickets.”

Knowing full well, we had that same exact colour in our arsenal, I triumphantly wheeled back around to my mates. Not needing to say much, we all excitedly bolted for the nearby restrooms. I’m sure we probably had that same unfaltering look of someone strapping a different type of band around their arm in that sterile cubicle. Little did anyone know, the euphoria we were about to experience was far better than any narcotic.

With these new accessories haggardly stuck to our wrists, we soon breezed straight into the mosh pit. They were so convincing that my mate Rocky even managed to sell a few out in the smoking area. What ensued was, to this day, one of the heaviest mosh pits I have ever experienced. After an epic and historic set, with only the collar of my t-shirt remaining, I pushed through a mass of bloodied, bruised and at times shoeless patrons. Eventually running into my buddy Poita, I was momentarily met with hysterics before he spared my dignity, buying me a new shirt for the trip home.

Managing to somehow tick Rage off the wish list in such fine style, we were all walking tall. With time this feeling eventually subsided and the need for another gig returned, as always. Fast forward a few months and I was over in New Zealand snowboarding, with my main partner in crime, Kinning. Due to being preoccupied and messing up time zones, we struggled to get tickets for the upcoming Slipknot Tour. When we finally got around to organising tickets, we were once again relegated to the seating area.

Not to let the bad news get us down, we moved on and enjoyed the rest of the trip. After our success at Rage earlier in the year we were confident that we could just sneak onto the floor anyway. I was also comforted by the fact that one of my longtime friends from high school, Dave, and a bunch of his colleagues had secured floor tickets. This would provide a handy backup plan to access the pit.

When the Slipknot concert rolled around, we followed the same tried and true game plan. Post up at a nearby establishment and lubricate the body with a few beverages. Discussing the game plan with my boy Dave, we were once again packing our array of wristbands. For backup we suggested, once safely inside the floor area, one of his colleagues could remove their band and he could smuggle it out for us to enter. Once we gained access to the pit, the band could then be returned to the rightful owner.

Feeling confident, we marched into the stadium to suss out the lay of the land. Soon after entering it became apparent, we were dealing with a much higher level of security this time around. Most concerning, was that we soon noticed the floor wristbands were fluorescent pink with green leopard print. Not exactly standard party shop merchandise. Undeterred, I immediately switched to Plan B and jumped on the phone to Dave.

Eventually getting hold of Dave between support acts, he broke some bad news to me. Not only were none of his colleagues prepared to lone us a wristband, but security was also checking tickets, in addition to wristbands on each entry. Just as it appeared like “all hope is gone (sic),” Dave decided to show what true mateship is made of. He told me to wait a minute because he had an idea and promptly hung up.

With the headliners about to start their set, we were left pacing around the rapidly emptying hospitality area. Suddenly, the tension was momentarily cut as my phone buzzed. Hastily picking up, it was Dave. He instructed me to meet him in a nearby bathroom, immediately. Barging into the restroom, in what was now becoming a familiar occurrence, Dave quickly bailed me up with a pink and green leopard print wristband. He explained that he had ripped off his own band and hid it. Next, under the guise of it being stolen, he convinced security to give him a fresh one.

As I hurried off, he also mentioned that his colleagues wouldn’t even loan us an extra ticket, so probably expect to be stopped by security. I guess they were worried that the guards would comb through the pit mid set checking tickets or something. Undeterred, I decided to grab a tray of beers to occupy my hands before descending the stairs towards the floor. As I approached the gatekeeper, I hoisted my hands high towards the sky and flashed my wristband. Before I could mutter that my ticket was in my pocket, the bloke looked at my awkward posture and said, “don’t worry keep going.”

Just like that I was in the pit again and hastily called Dave with the good news. Within minutes, he had located me in the melee of bodies and rushed back out to get Kinning through in the same manner. So seamless was the operation that we even had time to neck the tray of beers before the set kicked off. After running amuck while witnessing a set that even included the rarely played prosthetics, we once again skipped home buzzing. Not only was this a victory against the odds, but it was also a great display of how mateship works out in the wild.

Looking back on these moments, with the perspective gained over the last seventeen plus years, I feel it’s now time to pass the baton onto the next generation. We may all be different, but none of us can escape the cycle of life. Whatever you’re into, usually doing it with mates is significantly more enjoyable. My advice to anyone out there listening, is do some stuff and make some memories whenever you can. This is especially important when you are young and free because you’ll never regret looking back and laughing at the fun times when old age begins to shackle you.