SoundProof - Event: Virgin Festival 2007

The best thing about shows like Toronto's Virgin Festival is that they're huge and are held on an island. The worst is that's what makes these tickets so bloody expensive — a little more than $80 for one day, or about $140 for both once you add all in the service charges. You may even have to go through some pretty hellish lines, including the ferry line-up and more than four layers of security in order to get through the front gates. As a wise writer once said, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." So here's what you should know in advance to make your next time at V-Fest one of the best.

But first, I should explain: having a media pass made life much easier. When I showed up at Queens Quay I was pretty sure I'd be in line for a good 40 minutes as the crowd slowly meandered from the street down into the funnel that is security and, eventually, the gates to the ferry. Instead, I found myself whisked to the front of the line and hustled past security, all courtesy of a trusty media pass and the ever-helpful Virgin Angels. As if truly sent from above, these red-shirted bastards (with the unmistakable white wings on the back) were a god-send. I got the royal treatment from the moment they spotted me. And sure, all this line-hopping might have been a touch elitist, but, after all, what do you expect when you're attending a concert put on by a billionaire who space travels recreationally? There's gonna be elitism, but thank god I was on the right side of it.

However, it didn't solve all my problems. While the Virgin Angels brought me to the front of the line; it didn't mean they could actually get me on the boat. For a half an hour I argued with parks and recreation reps about whether or not I was allowed on the boat without an official V-Fest ticket. Conferring first with security, then the ubiquitous Virgin reps, and finally amongst each other, they eventually went to find the answer from some higher authority, leaving me stranded in limbo in front of the ferry. When they hadn't come back in 15 minutes, I decided they'd forgotten about me and just got on the boat. And that brings us to V-Fest and what you should know.

Go see Arctic Monkeys. By the time the last layer of security was passed and the rest of my friends located, the Arctic Monkeys were taking the stage. It felt good to have a stiff bevy on the lawn while Sheffield's enfants terribles of rock 'n' roll proceeded to do what they do best — jam out a blistering onslaught of high-energy indie-rock. Complete with classics from their debut, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, as well as their second album, the ineffable Favourite Worst Nightmare, Arctic Monkeys proved you don't need anything more than a few years of musical experience under your belt to rock a crowd of several thousand and leave them begging for more. And these guys were just the first sign of more good things to come.

Get fucked up. Because once it started getting dark, V-Fest quickly lost the air of just another concert and started to feel instead like one big fuck-yeah! party. Maybe it was the Bacardi B-Live Stage, pumping out a steady stream of laser lights and beats by acts like Tommie Sunshine and DJ Dopey. As the sun slowly slid from sight and Interpol blazed through their set on the main stage, something started to change. Suddenly all the baby strollers were gone. Some guy wandered through the crowd wearing a cape. Half the lawn turned into a patchwork of blankets and towels. And people, like my buddy Ron, too fucked up on 'zoomers an hour ago, were starting to come back to life, dragging themselves out of a drug-induced trance to shout, "Holy fuck! I'd forgotten how damn good these guys are live," as Interpol launched into "Say Hello to the Angels," "Obstacle 1" or any number of cuts from their latest album, Our Love to Admire. By the time they were winding down, the crowd was finally winding up with a weird sort of kinetic energy, like magnetic waves all across the island. You could smell grass in the air. I decided to get up and go for a walk.

And I was glad I did, because coming up to the Future Shop stage I was witness to probably the coolest thing of the entire festival — Mute Math. These guys were fucking insane in a way their albums, or their latest stuff on the Transformers movie soundtrack, cannot convey. Somewhere between jazz and speed core — these guys claim quite a range of influences, from Bjork to the Police and DJ Shadow — this New Orleans-based quartet rode the edge of insanity, flinging guitars across the stage, disassembling the drum kit and kicking over cymbals while the crowd got whipped into more and more of a frenzy. I heard some guy behind me yelling, "Wow, man, this is, like, the best shit I've ever been to!" I was inclined to agree. I don't know what songs they performed, or even where one ended and the next began, but, fuck, it was awesome. They're touring Canada's west coast and the U.S., so go see them if they're playing anywhere remotely close to you. If their V-Fest performance was any indication, you won't be disappointed.

Chill out. After Mute Math — and the drugs and the booze — I was starting to feel a bit wiped, so we all went back to the blankets by the main stage and saw Bjork. She had the best light-show by far. Though you can't help but be charmed by Iceland's elfin first lady of experimental electro-pop, it was a little dull to sit through the first half hour, although it was neat to watch one of her guys play around on his touch screen instrument, bending and blending the frequencies of the swelling, sighing sonic stew he was brewing. Even still, a lot of people started to drift back toward the ferries. But those who stayed were well rewarded, especially once she and her backing multi-colour-clad posse of orchestral singers launched into mega-hits like "Army of Me" and "Hyper-Ballad." Then when she performed "Declare Independence," her latest single from Volta, the crowd pretty much lost it. And it was hard not to, especially with the track's near riot-inducing lyrics ("Declare independence! Raise your flag! Raise your flag!") and the waterfall of confetti being launched out over us, filtering down like luminous snowflakes through the lasers, the searing yellow floodlights, and all the noise and mayhem. There were two guys and one weird-looking little chick dancing away beside me so fast I thought they were going to have a collective aneurism. But it's understandable. Because Bjork's encore really was that great.

Then 15,000 people tried to leave the island by ferry — all at once. It was a long wait, even though I was near the front of the line, but it wasn't bad, not only because after a show like this everyone was in a good mood — there wasn't the usual pushing and crushing — but also because some French guy got the whole crowd into a rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" as we waited for the boat. It was pretty crazy to see and hear that many people sing it all the way through, from start to end, including guitar solos. But it passed the time well, and we eventually got on the boat. I was tired but already looking forward to the next day.

The next day/Epilogue. The next day was good, but not as crazy. It seemed like there were more people on the island, even though it had rained in the night and was still overcast — that always seems to take the edge off things, plus I was pretty sketched out from the day before. Nonetheless, I found my friends watching multi-culti, New York underground darlings Blonde Redhead on the Future Shop stage. Then Guelph's Juno-nominated art-punk band, Constantines, went on and rocked out, but it was kind of more of the same, so we took off and were lucky enough to catch the tail end of the Carps on the Budweiser Stage. From Scarborough, Ontario, the Carps are two guys, Jahmal Tongue (vocals, percussion and guitar) and Neil White (bass and synth), and they do a fucked-up kind of theatrical/lo-fi/funk-rock fusion thing — what they refer to as "punk rock with a gun to R&B's head on the dancefloor." Their performance of "Scarboro to Compton" was pretty funny. But the best part was their finale, when they let everyone up on the stage with them and then proceeded to insult Budweiser, their stage sponsor. We need more bands like that. I'd go see them again, but the next gig listed on their myspace is in 2010, at "the innermost recesses and inlets of your brain," in "TheCarpsaredopeville, AZ." Hopefully they'll get something lined up in the interim because these guys were good.

After that it was a smug-sounding Metric on the main stage, then to the nearby Bud beer garden where we sat and listened to a half hour or so of mellow ambiance courtesy of Explosions in the Sky. Cans of beer were only six bucks. Not bad.

Later, the lawn quickly filled up when the Killers took over the main stage a little after seven o'clock and rocked out a solid round of all their hits from the last two albums. On to the Editors, who were really happy to be playing for us, and between every song they took the opportunity to remind the crowd of that. What a bunch of polite young English lads. In return, a fair portion of the crowd danced like crazy through every song they played.

I left before Smashing Pumpkins played because, in the overheard words of someone next to me in line for the ferry, "They sucked in the '90s and they still suck now."

The final verdict: V-Fest was awesome. I'm going again next year.