Golden Plains @ Meredith Supernatural Amphitheatre, Meredith (8-9/03/08)
“Surrender to the sound of music… It’s the sound of victory.” As tent pegs are driven into the dust, the opening ceremony speech from RRR Radio’s The Ghost welcomes the assembled crowd to the second Golden Plains festival. Or alternatively, the 19th Meredith Festival if you’re inclined see them as essentially the same event. But there are some differences between the two festivals: at Golden Plains there are fewer punters, there’s no Meredith eye ferris wheel, no official naked sprint and it’s in March rather than in the mad stumble of parties in the lead up to Christmas. But in just its second year, Golden Plains is already a firmly established event for any discerning music fan.
Kicking off on Saturday, with a plane circling overhead scouring the countryside for intrepid punters attempting to sneak into the sold-out festival, the Frowning Clouds opened the two days of music with a suitable crunch of garage rock. Switching the mood, Qua’s Cornel Wilczek followed offering up a laptop set of beats in a vein similar to Caribou or Mountains in the Sky. Kamikaze Trio announced to the crowd that for a shitkicker band from Melbourne, playing Meredith is a career peak, and they play at the top of their game. British India on the other hand deliver a serviceable set of rock before the first of the festivals international drawcards takes to the stage.
Iron and Wine were oddly placed on the bill, easing things back just as the crowd are heating up. Even with a seven-piece line up to flesh out Sam Beam’s singer/songwriter country folk they are perhaps too gentle for their time slot, but beautiful nonetheless. In what seems set to become a Golden Plains tradition – begun during last year’s set from Comets on Fire – much of the crowd holds a shoe aloft in appreciation. In comparison with the naked ‘Meredith Gift’, it’s a far more appealing and inclusive fashion custom.
In a diseased introduction, Ween began their two-hour headline performance with a jacked up version of HIV Song before they dose up Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down). Dean and Geen Ween have been rumoured for the Meredith bill for years, and now that they’re finally here they’re not about to disappoint. Their early hit Push the Daisies is missing – as is Can’t Put My Finger On It and Mutilated Lips – but no one’s complaining as they play so many great tunes including Buckingham Green, Ocean Man, Waving My Dick in the Wind and Johnny on the Spot. Voodoo Lady and the typically smut filled With My Own Bare Hands have everyone singing along and even without the yacht rock sax solo Your Party is a winner. Even now after they’ve played it wouldn’t be surprising to see wishful rumours of their return.
Ween would have won performance of the weekend if not for the next act; the super soul super show from Sharon Jones and her Dap-Kings. After an unprecedented run of sell out nights at the Hi-Fi Bar and extra shows added to her tour at the Gershwin Room, it’s obvious that Melbourne loves this band and the feeling seems to be mutual. Their slick performance begins with a few warm up tunes giving the bands spokesman Binky Griptite a chance to show off his own tunes and work the crowd into a frenzy of expectation before announcing the arrival of the “super soul sister with the magnetic je-ne-sais-quoi”. She may be tiny, but there’s little doubt she has the strongest voice to ever grace the Meredith festival site and she showed off her range with funk cuts like My Man is a Mean Man as well as slower soul burners like 100 Days 100 Nights. After a full day of emptying eskies, almost everyone in the crowd dip-daps along with the show auditioning for So You Drink? You Can Dance! and begging for more when their set finishes. The cries for more were met with an encore tribute to a certain ‘Godfather of Soul’ who shared a hometown – Augusta, Georgia – with Ms Jones. A towering version of Man’s World segued into There Was a Time before Sharon took the chance to show the hill shufflers how to dance with a dynamic run through of her favourite moves.
It’s a near impossible task for follow Sharon, and the South Rakkas Crew fail to come even vaguely close. DJ Dow Jones spins a selection of obvious crowd pleasers including a several Daft Punk tracks, but their set is a frustrating failure with any momentum killed by their MC. With an incessant commentary about every tune and a flow killing tactic of repeatedly cutting the music just as it feels like the show may begin to function, South Rakkas provide a test book example of how to kill a party. Thankfully the Bang Gang crew were on hand to the pick the mood back up again, but with a full day to go it’s soon time to pass out on the rough floor of the tent.
Getting back into things on Sunday, Pikelet’s songs about tiny people and eating bugs while sleeping are annoyingly cutesy, and her looped folk tunes for indie infants are easily abandoned for nobler pursuits such as seeking out bacon and egg sandwiches, restocking eskies and securing a place on the hill. It’s early, but with the forecast threatening to deliver 37 degrees of wilting heat, spaces under the shade of the trees are prime real estate. Providing unintentional comic relief with their scripted banter and innuendo-laced lyrics, Jane Balder and Sir deliver an insultingly poor set. While they seemed to be striving for a Jane Birkin and Serge Gainsbourg vibe with their duets, their performance was as sexy as being serenaded by a drunken aunt and your high school music teacher – South Rakkas were probably the only festival attendees thankful for this train wreck.
The Sea and Cake’s mild mannered sound thankfully provides some classy cool, even as rivers of sweat flow from the fans. Kicking the jams up several notches and pushing the amps to twelve, Jay Reatard and his long haired bandmates race ferocity through their straight up punk performance with both Reatard and his bass player attacking flying V guitars. Commanding the set list by yelling out song titles before playing them as fast as possible, Reatard blazes like a white trash Ramones. Before the final notes have hit out, Reatard’s guitar isalready thrown down and he’s turned to walk off, but what he lacks in sociability he more than compensates for with speed, volume and presence.
Jens Lekman is backed by a full band including strings and brass, and has the girls and some of the boys swooning with his sweetly sung, often personal material. Sound issues with the foldback cause a brief falter and restart during Your Arms Around Me ,but with his charismatic presence and self deprecating lyrics he’s effortlessly charming. A Postcard To Nina is complete with pauses to explain elements of his tale, about a girl who falsely tells her dad she’s engaged to Jens. It’s a highlight and no doubt a few more will be clambering to claim engagement. And hailing from the orphan state of Tasmania, the Scientists of Modern Music have graduated to the mainland and seem prepared to take it by force – or air guitar. Dressed in a Spy Vs Spy arrangement of black and white the duo hit an occasional button and sing with robot vocals while leaping about like sugar-fuelled toddlers. They’ll need to keep their IDs on them at all times to prove they’re overage, but the Scientists are an energetic addition to the retro electro-rock sounds that are becoming a dominant presence on the Australian music scene.
Returning to the hills and the comfort of the creeping shade, The Panics provide a pleasant afternoon soundtrack. Though they’ve picked up several high profile accolades, including the J Award from our national youth broadcaster, their show and sound fails to fully captivate, but it’s a fine afternoon drinking soundtrack. Harking back to the mid 90s, Buffalo Tom are next to the stage, pulling out their 1995 hit Summer early as if to remind the crowd who they are and entice a few down front, though their unmemorable show lacks spark or spirit, making it simply feel dated. As the sinking sun filters through the dust filled air to create an appropriately sepia light, as Beirut begins his show with an assortment of unusual brass instrumentation and several ukuleles. Beirut suffers from a plague of sound issues, but rather than fussing, Zach Condon and his band simply get on with the job and win over the crowd with his fusion of eastern European folk and Mariachi-esque horns.
It’s been a year since The Vines last played live, and even longer since they were rock and roll’s latest saviors, and so the crowd gathered with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation for their set. Get Free, Highly Evolved and closer Fuck the World, complete with obligatory rock star guitar trashing, all send both Craig Nicholls and the true believers down front into caterwauling frenzy. With bizarre tales about water bombing the homeless in LA, Nicholls is every bit the arrogant posturing rock star and his bandmates complete the ensemble, dressed as Hollywood Strip imitations of Hendrix in velure jackets. Even their somewhat painful cover of Outkast’s Ms Jackson becomes a guilty treat as the crowd warble along grinning with the sheer stupidity of it all.
The Bamboos are a highly accomplished crew, but they suffer from the obvious comparison to the Dap-Kings show of the previous night. The two bands are too similar to not be judged against each other, and find one to be lacking a certain punch. It would be like asking the Vines to play the day after Nirvana. The key difference is the voice and presence of Sharon Jones and the Bamboos simply can’t match her star power. They employ two vocalists to attempt to compensate, but the bar’s set far too high and while Kylie Auldist manages to bring some of Sharon’s class, the inexplicably overexposed NFA again proves his limitations as an MC and entertainer. With nothing but a predictable list of lyrics from the ‘Hip-Hop For Dummies’ handbook, NFA manages to recall another of the previous night’s performers – the widely derided South Rakkas.
The Dirtbombs’ ever changing line-up has backed Mick Collins on several approaches from Detroit garage rockers to soul covers but their latest record, We Have You Surrounded, is a loose concept record about a dystopian future. Determined to ensure that everyone is stunned into submission and ear ringing headaches, the Dirtbombs double their punch with a pair drummers and bass players commanded by the towering presence of Mick Collins. He may claim that everybody’s trying wreck his flow on the new album but it’s impossible to imagine anyone challenging their power.
The last time Kid Koala graced the Meredith site he played a storming set in the middle of the day’s blazing heat, and quickly had the dust rising down front as throngs in thongs danced and moshed through an unexpectedly rocking set. On that first visit he was an unknown by many punters, but he easily won the crowd over and the consensus was that he should have played in a later timeslot when more are inclined to indulge in a dance under the cover of darkness. Oddly, when granted that later slot Koala played a less energetic set that focused on his impressive mixing and tricks rather than party-rocking beats. Cueing his records without earphones, to close he met the shouted call for his swooning live remix of Moon River – a regular element of his shows and perfect example of why he’s able to refer to himself as “your mom’s favourite DJ”.
The opening of Optimo’s set caters perfectly for the final slot of a rock-orientated festival, with a playlist that leans heavily on classic tunes from the likes of Prince, Michael Jackson, The Stooges and later even Spaceman 3 and Birthday Party. Though a lengthy diversion through more progressive dance beats looses some of the crowd – though the heat, dust, booze and fact that the food seemed to run out early in the night certainly helped ease the crowd to back to their tents.
With Golden Plains, Meredith is now practically competing with itself for the title of best festival in the country. Only one stage so there’s no timetable stress, BYO booze so there’s no drink queues, a total lack of advertising and a policy of ‘No Dickheads’ combines with great line-ups to create two near perfect weekends each year. Best make sure your details are correct on that mailing list or you’ll never get a ticket in next year’s ballot.
