All posts tagged cosic

  • The Vine story: The Flaming Lips ‘Zaireeka’ iPhone experiment at 4ZZZ Brisbane, November 2011

    A live review-of-sorts for The Vine.

    The Flaming Lips – Zaireeka iPhone Experiment
    4ZZZ Studios, Brisbane
    Sunday November 20 2011

    “There’s a lot of things where, when you think about them, you think they could work. But it’s different when you do them.” Wayne Coyne, singer and songwriter of The Flaming Lips, is sitting before a microphone at Brisbane community radio station 4ZZZ. It’s 12.50am. Four hours earlier, Coyne and his band headlined the Windmill Stage at Harvest Festival. Now, at Triple Zed, he’s here to lead something that’s never been done before: an attempt to simultaneously play all four albums of the Lips’ 1997 album, Zaireeka, live on the radio, in sync, via 160 iPhones split into four groups of 40 fans.

    “It’s tough to get this many people together, and to be doing it live on the air, and not knowing whether it’s going to work,” Coyne says. “But you seem to be open to the idea of experimentation, and I think your audience will be forgiving enough if it’s not perfect. Everybody out here is having a good time, so that seems to count for something.” He’s right. The station’s three floors and car park are buzzing with the excitement of iPhone-wielding fans, harried-looking Zed staff, and plenty of hangers-on who’ve snuck in via the back entrance just to be a part of it all. Judging by the sunburns, most spent their day at Harvest. Many are in altered states.

    The singer is being interviewed on air by Zed presenter Brad Armstrong, who began petitioning his ‘Bring The Lips to Zed’ campaign in late August. Armstrong eventually got through to Coyne’s camp, and the two have been in touch for weeks leading up to his arrival tonight. “In the end, you and me were texting back and forth,” Coyne says to the 23 year-old presenter. “There was a couple of times you were calling, and we were just getting ready to walk on stage. I was like, ‘Hey Brad, I can’t talk to you…’” The pair laugh. Armstrong is nervous; his mind repeatedly blanks during the interview. “But persistence is a good quality, for sure,” the singer smiles. “You seemed like you were interesting to work with. Now I’m at the mercy of your organisational skills.”

    Though Armstrong is clearly enjoying himself in the booth, he’s shot himself in the foot somewhat. He’s the default mastermind of this whole operation. While he eats up airtime, a handful of Zed staff flit between the groups, trying to make sense of it all. Guest ‘conductors’ include Richard Pike from PVT, a dude from The Holidays, and local punk duo DZ Deathrays. None of them have any idea what they’re doing. Someone forgot the seemingly obvious step of supplying radios for the four groups; these are eventually put in place, while Armstrong attempts to lead a test run. In the preceding week, the 160 iPhone holders were instructed to download the Atomic Clock app and transfer one of Zaireeka’s four discs to their phone, plus a test track. Eventually Armstrong communicates that everyone should set the test track as an alarm for 1.32am, and then hold up their phones so that microphones can pick up the sound. Zed staff then run throughout the building, yelling out the same message.

    Watching all of this unfold is exhausting.  I pass between all four groups and share many raised eyebrows and shrugged laughs. One group doesn’t even have a radio; they’re broadcasting Armstrong’s commands via speakerphone, using the studio’s phone system. I’m on the bottom floor when the Atomic Clock strikes 1.32am. Some participants are still talking as the test track kicks in; they’re met with shushes, which are momentarily respected. Some instinctively touch their screen once the alarm appears, which instantly stops the music. To confuse matters further, the two minute test track is largely comprised of silence; a six-second synth blast is used to check whether each of the four groups’ output are being picked up by the microphones. Those few seconds aside, it’s silent but for an announcer’s voice. So even when the synchronisation is working as planned, the participants think something’s broken.

    Cue more frantic tweaking, alarm rescheduling, and general chaos. A decent chunk of the 160 participants – if there are that many; some rooms hold around 40, while the car park crowd barely nudges 20 – don’t seem to give a shit. They continue talking, drinking beer, and having a great time, while Zed staff attempt to gain some semblance of control over the situation. It’s the aural equivalent of herding cats. The sheer lack of leadership on display is unnerving. Armstrong, the mastermind, still sits powerless in the booth. Coyne tweets to his 76,000 followers: “Trying to do Zaireeka live on Australian freak radio!!!”

    Eventually the message filters through that Zaireeka’s first track, ‘Okay I’ll Admit That I Really Don’t Understand’, is to be scheduled as an alarm for 1.43am. This time it works – mostly. Armstrong leads Coyne out of the booth to tour the four groups, who titter nervously as the singer graces them with his presence. As he descends from the top floor to the car park via the back staircase, he remarks, “Wow, this is a big station.” Armstrong takes the mic again after the song ends – 2 minutes and 51 seconds later – to announce the experiment as a success. The group in the car park cheer, and congratulate themselves. And then the night takes a turn for the weird.

    I don’t hear how it went down on the air, but I’m told second-hand that Coyne said – I’m paraphrasing – “This’ll take too long to play in full. Let’s just fast forward to the party.” And so Zed staff begin herding all four groups out into the car park – a tiny space perhaps six metres wide and ten deep, which probably isn’t meant to hold 150+ people. Staff throw balloons and party poppers out into the crowd, while everyone stands around, bemused. Some still have their iPhones out, looking forlorn. Upstairs is suddenly empty. I venture back to the window outside the broadcast booth; inside, Coyne is being photographed with a handful of fans, and signing vinyl. Then a blonde girl that takes him by the hand and begins leading him out toward the car park. Coyne is hesitant. She says something like, “Are you scared?” Most people have prematurely detonated their party poppers, but as Coyne skirts the hallway, a few fans shoot off theirs in his direction.

    Ropes of coloured paper settle on the singer’s greying mop, as he shakes hand after hand and attempts to engage as many snippets of conversation as possible. One drunk weirdo begins singing Flaming Lips lyrics LOUDLY in his presence. Others simply rub Coyne’s grey suit as he passes by, presumably so they can tell their friends they did. One girl shakes his hand, then remarks to a friend, “It’s like meeting the President!” It’s acutely embarrassing — excruciating, even. He takes perhaps another ten steps into the surging throng, before retreating. Dozens of fans – many brandishing cameras overhead – fill the space left in his wake, and pursue him back into the station.

    Minutes later, Coyne is led back through the car park, after a man who appears to be his tour manager has cleared the way. The singer swigs from a beer. A shoulder bag bumps against his thigh while he strides through the crowd. He has one final photo taken with a fan – who practically blocks the exit in order to secure the shot – and then he’s walking down St Paul’s Terrace with the blonde girl and his tour manager. Dozens of people mill about on the footpath, uncertain. Coyne and his offsiders walk down the street a little more, in an apparent attempt to regain some personal space. Moments later, the crowd follows. Then the trio flag a taxi and hop in. It’s 2.10am.

    If one tenth of the starry-eyed worship that ebbed through the halls of the station tonight had been replaced with sound management and adequate organisation, together we might have shared a truly magical night. Instead, through miscommunication, misdirection and prevailing confusion, we heard only Zaireeka’s shortest song played simultaneously through around 100 iPhones, before witnessing an imposing, fawning, mob-like groupthink take hold. Then we watched Wayne Coyne hop in a taxi, seemingly spooked by his overbearing fans.

    The original version is archived on The Vine, where you’ll also find a gallery of photos taken by Justin Edwards, including the image used above.