12:41: We’re making our way into V Festival, which is touring Australia and New Zealand. The punters are out in force and displaying what they’ve got. Men’s fashions are really starting to bemuse me. Pink thongs, vacuum-sealed skinny jeans, tight yellow t-shirts, and hair so erect with product that it has to be compensating for something. These are not separate items, they are all being worn by the one guy. A guy nearby is bitching self-importantly to his group of friends about the P.A. system, which is playing Modest Mouse: “I hate it when they play the band that you’re going to see before they come on.” His mate asks him to name another example. There is twenty seconds of silence. “Well…they played the Kaiser Chiefs before we saw Maximo Park. They’re similar.” I wonder if I ever sound like as much of an over-inflated wanker as this guy. I conclude that this is very likely. Suddenly I hate myself very, very much.

13:30: From the line, I hear Little Red hit the stage. Justin Pearsall is probably quietly creaming himself somewhere across town at the thought.

13:45: We’re in, and on the dot, Swedish pocket dynamo Robyn hits the stage. She’s blonde, tiny, and sassy. I bet everyone’s girlfriends hate her. She appears to be going for ninja-chic, in a tight black dress with a sort of bat-wing affair stitched under the arms. This allows her to mime flight as she moves confidently about the stage.

14:01: Gets the crowd’s cheer with the intro to ‘Konichiwa Bitches’, which has had solid airplay on Triple J for quite some time now.

14:02: Inadvertently proves that she doesn’t mime her vocals, by dropping the mic halfway through the song. Picks it up and slips effortlessly back into the groove: “Konichiwa bitches from Beijing to Saigon.”

14:16: Dead feminists spin in their graves fast enough to start campfires as Robyn responds to her broken mic stand with: “Maybe I need a man to help me.” Then, ‘Be Mine’ injects some real 80s power-pop cheese into her set, perhaps a nod to Duran Duran who will grace this stage later tonight.

14:24: ‘With Every Heartbeat’ gets a big response. There’s something endearing about the number of guys in the audience camping along to Robyn. I’m starting to wish for a pair of pink thongs. She emphasises the line ‘with every heartbeat’ by thrusting her chest rhythmically at us, and pointing at the result in case we hadn’t noticed. The result is impressive. She can’t just be dismissed as a trampy novelty though – she has an impressive vocal range and a very powerful delivery. Plus, her music is somehow infectious. It may not represent the greatest accomplishment in composition since Schubert died of syphilis in 1828, but it’s a lot of fun, and at the end of it you really can’t help liking her.

14:40: I get a hot dog. This would not be notable except the serving lady looks exactly like Sofia Loren. Not young hot Sofia Loren, but older, slightly less hot Sofia Loren. I wonder if Sofia Loren has actually moved to Australia to sell sausages to munters at festivals. I try to think of an appropriate way to ask, but all I can come up with is “Kransky, please.” As I walk away I have a vague idea that she just blew a kiss at me. My cheese kransky smells of new-mown hay in a Tuscan field.

15:09: I go back into the bar area. On my way out a girl loudly demands to know whether I want her fruit salad. I’m not sure what to make of this offer. She says indignantly that it cost her five bucks. To her mind, this seems to settle the matter. I take the salad.

15:20: Cut Copy are playing on the ingeniously-named That Stage. The festival also includes This Stage and the Other Stage. I find a seat to watch. Dan Whitford is nowhere near as cute as Robyn, but his music is reasonable. So is the fruit salad. I use the girl’s fork. Today I am a risk taker. I’m not sure whether it’s just the big screen, but Whitford looks a little like a junkie. His arms are too skinny. The red grapes have seeds in them. I want to spit these at people, but decide against it. I wonder whether this makes me community-minded or a boring old cunt. I try to spit them sideways down the aisle instead, and accidentally spit a glob of grape flesh onto the shoulder of the guy in front. I freeze, but he doesn’t notice. The grape flesh sits there accusingly, glistening. I wait for a witness from the rows behind to denounce me to Grape Man. No-one does. I think about how to hide all evidence of my salad. Luckily though, Grape Man gets up and leaves.

15:26: Cut Copy keep cranking out their New Wave hits. Whitford seems to be channelling Bernard Sumner. I wonder if somewhere in England, Sumner is having strange dreams of being on a stage in Melbourne. There isn’t much of an atmosphere – the intensity you’d expect from Cut Copy’s beats seems to be dissipating in the open space and the flat, gloomy afternoon.

15:32: A hand grabs my shoulder. I’m terrified that Grape Man has been apprised of my crime and come to seek vengeance. But it’s ok, it’s my friend the G-train, who has spotted me from a distance. He informs me that he is going to go and watch Arrogant Rat. Blank. He explains that this is his name for Modest Mouse. I tell him that he is very clever indeed.

15:46: Modest Mouse arrive, and have some interchange with the crowd. The intellectual highlight of this is the request of one punter for them all to take off their pants. They decline. A couple of nearby fans spill chicken fajitas all over themselves in a brave attempt to rock out and enjoy bastardised Mexican cuisine at the same time.

14:15: The set is going badly. Modest Mouse can’t seem to find the energy to give a fuck. Their playing is correct but the band, especially Isaac Brock, are as flat as Princess Diana. Some of their fans seem happy enough, and cheer the hits like ‘Dashboard’ and ‘Float On’, but the band just seems to be going through the motions. Whether it’s the mic or his singing, we can hardly hear Brock, let alone understand him, as he mutters crankily through the songs, sounding bored himself and radiating boredom towards his audience. His singing on ‘Fire It Up’ is totally lacklustre. Once incident is representative of the whole set: the guitarist needs to re-tune, and tells Brock to say something. Brock stands there and looks uncomfortable. “They told me to say somethin’. [Pause.] But I don’t got shit to say. [Longer pause.] How about…muscat? Anyone know anythin’ about muscat? [Longest pause.] I don’t.” The whole crowd is left shuffling awkwardly. It’s like walking in on your aunt getting boned over the back of the couch. By your brother. On this performance, Modest Mouse are one of those bands who are better on CD.
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