Garbage’s Good Things Melbourne set was always going to be emotional. Shirley Manson has been open about the grind of touring, the state of the industry and the likelihood that long-haul runs like this won’t last forever.
But nobody expected one of the most talked-about moments of the festival to be Manson tearing into a single fan over a beach ball.
In fan-shot clips that ripped around the internet, Manson pauses the set, locks onto one guy in the crowd and unloads: mocking him for “your big f***ing ball”, calling him a douchebag and hinting she could get crew – or the crowd – to “mess him up”. At first it played like sharp stage banter. Then it turned dark.
The man on the other end of it isn’t a pest trying to ruin everyone’s night. He’s Ben O’Brien, known to his mates as “Gig Pig” – a lifer who’s built his adult life around festivals and has been a fan of Garbage for nearly 30 years.
Ben has been a fan of Garbage and Shirley for nearly 30 years
“I’ve been going to festivals for nearly 30 years,” he tells BLUNT. “Twenty-odd Big Day Outs in a row. I love the music, mate. It’s all about the music.”
Ben first saw Garbage in 1996 on their debut Australian tour, headlining Livid in Brisbane alongside Weezer, Silverchair and Tumbleweed. He still has the CD he bought after that show, complete with the Australian-only bonus disc, as well as a cassette tape of the live recording of the actual show and he still spins both of them .
On Saturday at Good Things Melbourne, he rode his bike in early to catch Refused (“outstanding… one of my favourites of the day”), drifted between stages, and did what he’s always done, talked to friends he hadn’t seen in years and soaked it up. At one point, sitting on the grass in the heat, he noticed a small pink-and-white beach ball on the ground.
“I’ve done it before at festivals,” he says. “I’ve had a beach ball under my arm and you can actually feel the music, especially when the bass is really loud. It vibrates. It’s just a little thing I do to feel the music.”
With the ball tucked under his arm, he split off from his mates and headed back to the main stage to lock in for Garbage, then Weezer and Tool. He worked his way in on the left while All Time Low were still playing and ended up about 20 metres from the stage, under the main screen.
No security pulled him up. No one around him complained.
“I’m quite tall – six-two, six-three,” he says. “But I’ve been going to festivals for nearly 30 years. I don’t mind if people a bit shorter than me go through. I often let people through if they ask nicely.
I thought I was pretty respectful. I don’t think I hassled anyone at all.”
When Garbage came on, Ben did what every fan does, tried to get noticed for half a second.
They were a couple of songs in – ‘I Think I’m Paranoid’, then ‘Vow’, two of his favourites.
“I was jumping up and down with [the ball] in the air, but only per song,” he says. “Waving the ball to try to get her attention… trying to get into the festival atmosphere and show you’re having a good time. How many times have you seen beach balls at a music festival?”
Then Manson turned on him.
“All of a sudden she’s performing and then turns all of her attention to me out of the whole crowd,” he remembers. “You and your ball, waving it in the air – you’re such a big important fing guy with your big fing ball… I’m so scared of you, I’m so thrilled by you… what a f***ing douchebag.”
The first spray, he says, was more shocking than scary.
“I thought that was kind of hilarious in a way and everyone around kind of laughed,” he says. “I turn around and look at other people in the crowd – I just thought that was the end of it.”
It wasn’t. The second round is where it “went dark – absolutely went dark.”
Manson began talking about getting “people” to deal with him – her crew, or the crowd. That’s the moment that’s stuck in people’s throats since.
“It went dark – absolutely went dark,” Ben says. “I felt hurt that one of my artists I’ve loved for over 25, 30 years had singled me out and made me feel very small and a bit afraid.
Listen: Beach Ball Guy speaks for the first time since Manson tirade
It was scary. Was she trying to turn the crowd onto me? Was someone going to just blindside punch me out?”
He did what any seasoned hospitality worker and crowd veteran would do: scan.
“Left, right, looking around – who’s around me? Is someone coming to get me?” he says. “I’ve worked in hospitality for 20 years, you’re always scanning for trouble. In that moment it was shock, then fear, then hurt.”
The moment it went dark…
Around him, the energy shifted.
“It was really awkward,” he says. “A lot of people came up to me towards the end of the set going, ‘That was unbelievable, that was out of line. We don’t want that in Australia.’”
The woman standing behind him checked in to see if he was okay and offered to send him her full video of the incident if he needed it.
When the adrenaline dropped and Garbage wrapped up with ‘Only Happy When It Rains’, his collector brain kicked back in. Ben’s been quietly hoarding setlists for years, and in that moment he decided he had to try and get this one.
“I went to the sound desk and introduced myself – ‘I was the guy Shirley was telling off, I couldn’t believe what was happening… can I please have the setlist?’” he says. “And he gave it to me.”
Amazingly Ben managed to still snag the setlist after the show, maybe Shirley could sign it for him?
Amazingly, after being singled out in front of thousands of people, Ben O’Brien walked away with Garbage’s printed running order from the night. Then he did what festival rats do: grabbed a beer, ducked straight into Weezer (“one of my favourite sets”), then locked back into Tool from almost the same spot.
Later, when he finally landed at home, he put the same 1996 Garbage bonus disc on – chilled, stripped-back versions of ‘Milk’, ‘Stupid Girl’, ‘Queer’ – and listened all the way through.
“It was beautiful to listen to after a long day,” he says.
Ben doesn’t want a hate campaign. He still loves Garbage and he still respects how brutal touring can be.
“Nothing but respect for the bands that do it,” he says. “It’s not easy.”
He also doesn’t pretend to be a saint. He’s crowd-surfed in his time. He’s been that tall guy in the way. But he’s paid his way into shows for decades, flown overseas to build holidays around festivals like Glastonbury, Rock en Seine, Pukkelpop, Electric Picnic and Coachella, and he’s spent more money on tickets, CDs and records than he wants to add up.
“I’m not a violent person,” he says. “I’ve come from a great family… I’ve paid my way a lot through it, mate. I haven’t had too many freebies. I’m just a big fan that loves festivals and loves this band.”
For his mates, he’s always been Gig Pig – the guy who went to 20 Big Day Outs in a row, hoards setlists and memorabilia, and is now slowly turning that life into a project under the same name.
What he doesn’t want is for the blow-up to become an excuse for punters at the remaining Good Things dates to go to war with the band on his behalf.
“I don’t want you throwing beach balls at Shirley – she’d hate that. She’d probably walk off stage,” he says. “If anyone does bring a beach ball, just wave it in the air like I did and have fun.
Maybe pull out a Sharpie and write ‘Gig Pig’ on it for me.”
Manson had already doubled down in the hours after the show, posting that she “makes no apologies whatsoever” for calling out beach balls at shows, framing it as part of a wider frustration with how audiences treat musicians rather than a personal attack.
The rest — whether this was a tired frontwoman misfiring her frustration, or a bigger question about how artists want to be treated, is still being argued online, but right now the overwhelming response is that Ben didn’t deserve what happened.
What’s clear is that the man who copped it isn’t a cartoon villain. He’s the kind of fan, broke, sunburnt, still clutching a CD from 1996, who helped build Garbage’s world in the first place, and the kind of fan the music industry needs now more than ever.
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