REVIEW: Meredith Music Festival

“A wiser man than myself once said, ‘Sometimes you eat the bar, sometimes, the bar eats you.’”

Lebowski is incredulous, “Is that some kind of Eastern thing?” he mumbles, munching nuts.

The grizzly-looking cowboy had a point and it remains salient. You can be on top of Meredith, in the zone, loving everyone around you but if you’re not careful (raises hand) Merrydeath changes up its letters and – yep – you’re hurting. That I truly becomes a whY.

So forgive me, patient reader, for not catching all the music I shoulda. The old one stage is a misnomer; there are a thousand stages, a thousand conversations and about that many levels of Having a Good Time, to borrow some of Aunty’s treasured capitals.

To quote another modern scholar, Rick James, “I’m sorry Chawlie Muwphy…I was having too much fun.”

Locking it down at 5.17am Saturday and 7.32am Sunday disrespectively was a bacch(analian) to bacch(analian) effort I’m regretting like hell. Good fun but.

FRIDAY

The Friday line-up was particularly strong, perhaps the strongest it’s ever been. Blank Realm gave us busy Brissy garage pop, the type it’s hard to get a handle on until all the hooks and the choruses grab you when you see it live and you’re done. Fan 4 lyf. Finishing with Who’s Falling Down The Stairs Tonight? after a little instrument change-a-roo, these guys wait until you come to them not the other way around.

Jess Cornelius and her biting Teeth and Tongue project went fashion forward, silver-speckled tops, midriffs and no middling riffs, all classy licks in new song Cupcakes and even a segue into Kokomo. A member of the band was later seen at the bar whereby they informed me “I’m really high…I’ve gotta go.” No high feelings, nothing but love.

Sleep were so loud they probably woke up fans in China. Matt Pike and co brought the pain, ese. By the conclusion of their set the Blundstones were high in the sky, pebbles trickling out and straw falling down and catching the armpit hair of their owners. Very Meredith.

The War on Drugs had the temerity to restart their time-freezing tune Red Eyes. It just made it better. Your scribe was listening to it from a massage table, the sound carried beautifully before the winds of Saturday and it was a holy moment even if the Oirish masseuse was a Chatty Cathy.

Lights. Camera. Traction. The Bombay Royale stomped home their premier party band status, a million miles from an outfit that would do a Jessie’s Girl cover but with plenty of the lovable dagginess. A real (OK cut it some slack) elephant crowdsurfed through the masses as kaleidoscopic reds, purples and magentas zapped us and the band members on stage which at last count were somewhere in the triple figures. Give me back my bunty bunty!

“We haven’t played to a crowd like this since Glastonbury,” high beamed Jagwar Ma’s Gab Winterfield (championed by Rock City since 2012, Winterfield since Ghostwood days in 2006 – I Told You So Ed). “This is amazing, TRULY AMAZING!” he added, then got to work on his effects panel and our baggy pleasure zones. Never has a crowd danced so sideways. It felt like a sinkhole could open at any moment. Uncertainty’s dubby flourishes built into Come Save Me and then that drop – THAT DROP – in The Throw. Heaving heaven.

NB: “Exercise your chemistry” looks wonderfully dopey on paper yet makes total sense at an outdoor festival in the country with a guy wearing a blue Terry Towelling hat with a Kangol emblem and a very Weatherall circa ‘92 checked shirt. B.O.G.

James Holden (live) was a dilapidated, foreboding triumph. Remember he’s a DJ/producer who put out an album called The Idiots Are Winning in 2006 to mock the state of po(o)pular dance music (pre-EDM). At 3.30am Saturday morning the idiots were grinning. I was one of them. The pay-offs weren’t your bosh ‘n’ squash type, which frustrated peeps who wanted 4/4 and nothing more. Like Roland Tings last year, Holden got a hold on the crowd without taking it home (James and don’t spare the horses)…after all we had 25 more acts to see over the next day and a half and he wanted us to play the long game.

Oh long game, why did you desert me?

SATURDAY

Owwwch.

The Harpoons could be renamed the Harp-Swoons, even if the weaker tracks fall away like wilting celery.

Phosphorescent received many raised boots for their yelping cosmic country leanings, particularly Ride On/Right On as a Free The Nipple parade strutted by, banner held high. Everyone’s a winner, booby that’s no lie.

The mythical Beechcombers Cocktail Party in Bavaria had an old school hip hop theme this year, serving gin and juice as the gorilla-chested DJ spun the same track. Good sorts like Marieke Hardy and Kate Langbroek approved of the beverages and it was the first year the organisers said Nar Nar to Goon. 198 centimetre Australian Opals centre Elizabeth Cambage stopped by with a blonde mate we dubbed Rollergirl. They hit a shot of Fireball Whisky then Cambage turned and said “Thanks guys, we’re gonna go in the moshpit” as House of Pain’s Jump Around sent the place absolutely bat droppings. A nearby ute had its suspension severely tested as the party within a party reached a level it never has before. “It only took us 15 years to get it right,” quipped one of the organisers as Rollergirl blissed out and my mates turnt to each other with the Only At Meredith look.

Returning to the “real world” via Luke Pocock and Katie Pearson’s Deep Sea Doof, the disco thread began which would get a great callback from Set It Out alumni Misty Nights DJs on the right side of 5am but we’ll get to that.

Ghostface Killah and hypemen upped the gangsta quotient in The ‘Sup and showed everyone how it’s done with his DJ slotting in bruising anthems like Pharoahe Monch’s Simon Says (what up Meredith 2009). Continuing with the hoop dreams theme, something magic happened, something so great you’ve probably already seen it a bunch of times but this week has brought with it so much awful news you definitely need to see it again. Paralympian basketball dude Dylan Alcott was hoisted up in his wheelchair (some say 20 metres away, others 80, either way it was a long way to go without legs that work) by his mates and crowdsurfed to the stage to spit a verse on Protect Ya Neck.

He cut a few figure eights, composed himself and crushed Method Man’s rap (even grabbing ‘Killah’s shirt — the cojones on the man! — to rap ‘Ol’ Dirty Bastard he’s dirty and stinkin’), causing mass euphoria/hysteria. Alcott told Nui Te Koa the day after “I can’t believe I got the verse out perfectly. Sport is my comfort zone. Rapping on stage is not.”

Clearly you can do both, Dyl-la.

Painters and Dockers picked up from they left off at the Community Cup with Paulie Stewart antagonising the younger-crowd-with-more-hair-than-what-they-are-accustomed-to-these-days, baiting: “Come on Meredith show us what you’ve got.” They sprinted along like the punk reprobates they are and got everyone to kiss their art with all their heart. Some felt it was a bunch of old dudes trying to be cool but the ‘Dockers have never tried to be anything but themselves, going heave ho and Kill Kill Killing it.

Augie March had a funny old slot. They came on after Meredith MC royalty Fee Bee Square did a little Guns N’ Roses housekeeping. The reformed outfit effectively had to put The ‘Sup’s jigsaw back together as dusk approached. Party stops, magic hour starts shortly. They presented a captivating, widescreen set from Havens Dumb back to Sunset Studies and finished with One Crowded Hour as a green-eyed girl in the front did some Judge Reinhold close-talking to make sure everyone was as into it as she was. They were. Glenn Richards’ lyrics are full of morsels to meditate on, Definitive History particularly: “Make abominable children, vicious little animals, Reared up like pit bull dogs, By the ordinary Australians.”

Looking around at the lack of meat-head blokes and screeching Shazzas magnified Meredith’s sanctuary status. Twice a year, no dickheads, no punch-ons, no worries. More on the No Dickheads policy later. The Glenn Richards of old would have been peeved with a few feedback squalls and ticks, but not Richards 2.0, he grimaced slightly then went back to his happy place. Standing right up the front was the best way to enjoy Kiernan Box’s closed-eye keyboard playing. The brother meant every note and his Augie siblings are marching in step again.

“You f—head” a guy said to me after he found out I missed Ty Segall.

He was right.

As is their wont, non-French band De La Soul cranked out hit after hit but not without stopping the beat just one too many times, causing the same frustration on the unsuspecting punter as Neil Hamburger does when he opens for Faith No More, basically driving some people incandescent with rage. I prepared my coterie for this, advising them De La would play everything you wanna hear, don’t worry your pretty little head about the stop-start stuff. This only reached boiling point late in the set with the tedious false-starts to A Rollerskating Jam Named Saturday “Is it Tuesday?” “NO!”

Prior to that they grabbed the crowd by the Starter cap and flicked it 360 degrees with Oooh, Me Myself and I and with just a song left in their set you just knew a call was about to be placed despite shabby telecommunications. Ring Ring Ring made everyone’s shoulders get an inch closer to the ground, lowslung grooves and air-sax.

The Interstitial DJ (read: “culprit”) afterwards played that diabolical “Heyyy-ayyy baby (Ooohh ahh) I wanna know if you’ll be my girl” which I refuse to look up to get the correct name of….before Dr Phil Smith (DJ Ransom in cheese-mode) took over and sullied his good name with Toto’s Africa (how many times in one weekend? That’s not cricket) and endless, poorly mixed selections that duped The ‘Sup into thinking it was at a 60th not a 24th. I couldn’t get far enough away from this and the free (masterstroke, Aunty) Meredith Eye beckoned. Many had the same idea though and the queue was snaking long and loquacious.

Flamingoes instead, Pink ones believe it or not.

Ukrainians do it better. The clock ticked over to 3am eternal and Vakula (who was ragging on Dr Phil Smith’s set on Triple R on Tuesday) belted out pulverising, nuanced techno, righting the ship and getting everyone off the goofy foot and back on the good one. Outstanding. We weren’t in Kansas any more (thank god, Toto).

Two hours of mastery was followed by Misty Nights DJs, Salmon Barrel and Lil Hotep, the smirking gentlemen of Melbourne disco dishiness, in charge of rewarding the students who were still in class. You wanted to give them an apple. The first hour was very danceable like a good bottle of plonk is “very drinkable”, going down easy as the sun came up breezy, they then moved into horny, hornaaaay cuts like The Beegees’ You Should Be Dancin’. Which everyone was, navigating hundreds of empty plastic bottles, discarded grey hoodies and still-chilled Melbourne Bitter cans snug in Kakadu stubbie holders. A guy that looked like Morpheus reclined side-on to the dancefloor in a grape-coloured coat and when he finally worked out what The Matrix was he got up to dance and turned to his mates “We’re killing it. Absolutely annihilating it!” Lotta love in the room. There were plenty of Free The Nipple ladies and gents down the front but nobody was being Denis Leary, everyone acted cool including the security guards.

Wouldn’t get that at many festivals post-78.

SUNDAY

Owwwwwch.

Wounded. Man down MAN DOWN.

After what some would call sleep and others would call ‘Slowly Basting In Your Tent’ Jen Cloher’s rocking strums brought us back to the scene of the crime. Mt Beauty and David Bowie Eyes did the right things to nullify a flowering headache (to borrow a line from The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon) and she finished with the best song from her AMP-nominated album In Blood Memory, Name In Lights, an ode to her guitarist on the day Courtney Barnett. Heart-melting moment: Cloher singing the line “When indie rock is so obsessed with youuuu” as she playfully side-eyed her lover.

Yewwwww!

Evan Dando began without a band, “I’ve always wanted to come and check this festival out,” like he was munching on spinach. He did a little bit of roadie mocking too: “Two…the sequel” and invited Our Courtney up on stage to sing Being Around. Sharing a single mike, the duo one-upped each other but remained equals. Barnett admired him up close like someone who had long admired him from afar. He was joined by the rest of The Lemonheads (around the same time I was praying for that button I could press and be home with my two girls and hugging them and no longer wallowing in pain) and The Outdoor Type had the aroma of a meta-Meredith moment, If I Could Talk I’d Tell You had all the lilts required to Get You Back In The Game on Meredith Sunday. It was a little too loud though and this is coming from someone who specifically emailed Nephew Woody and Aunty Meredith’s bingo associate before the weekend to request the sound engineers keep the volume up. Only got meta-self to blame.

Skipping the ‘Gift means we missed this present to Meredith. Drats. Well played sir.

LITTLE BIT OF CONVERSATION

“I said I wanted a box of 80 nangs. The woman behind the counter said ’80!?’” I said ‘Yeah, they’re not all for me’.”

[beat] “I wonder what the Soda stream AGM is like. ‘Well folks, sales are up this year..since our, err, ad campaigns. And we’re noticing a spike before Rainbow Serpent, Earthcore, Meredith and Maitreya. [adjusts tie] Um, those festival-goers love carbonated drinks, simple as that. Cheers.”

“Geelong represent!!”

“What do you call that artwork?”

[beat] “Cerulean Precipice. It’s almost a good painting.”

“At Golden Plains we need to bring a stenographer.”

(in unison) “True dat!”

“I’d have sex with a midget, I’ve always been fascinated by them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, not the ones with chunky fingers though.”

“You can’t say that, you have to accept all midgets.”

“You could tell Ty Segall came out on stage and wanted to slap everyone across the d-ck.”

UNEXPECTED GREATNESS MOMENT OF THE FESTIVAL

After a mere 90 minutes sleep on Saturday morning a still-up mate who never brings a tent to Meredith put on a slamming electronic track that started up with a minute of muffled spoken word, clearly building to a big drop (I hoped I hoped I HOPED).

It sounded like a sea snake darting under water, then hope sprang eternal and it jutted to the surface on a liquid synth and a bossy bass line, not jumping out of the water but zig-zagging and coming back to the starting point every 32 bars. It was hot, hotter than the sun on the surface of the sun times by Nina Kraviz’s face. It got me up and about — to my detriment later — but felt right at the time. It really was the beginning of the end. I asked the mate what the hell it was and he said it was a track by Andhim. I’ve since asked him four times in person and twice by text message “What’s the name of that track by Andhim?” And him? His most helpful response so far has been “I was just thinking about that track and that moment.”

[UPDATE] And then he just sent this through [falls off chair with happiness].

LIST OF PHYSICAL AILMENTS

Hoarse Hawka.

A mouth like a burnt out cauldron after a banquet hosted by Vitalstatistix.

Puff Daddy eyebags.

Coffee has tasted like ar$ e (Monday), burnt hair (Tuesday), turnip juice (Wednesday).

I’m using Boost Juice right now (Thu) and singing in my head “It’s just (just) a lemon crush, not like a faint every time we touch.”

FUN FACT OR FAKE FOLKLORE?

Bombay Royale’s lead singer The Tiger is a wealthy IT web designer. Or is he?

The origin of the No Dickhead policy? Apparently (allegedly is a better word) when Superheist played their nu-metal wares here in 2001 there was plenty of “nahhhh bro” biffo and something had to be done. The No Dickheads policy was introduced and here we are and there Fred Durst is not.

This review took way too long to get built and posted….or is it just what you need to draw out the sweet sweet memories of a weekend rollin’ in postcode 3333, rollerboys and ‘girls?

You know the answer.

To see this link clog up your twitter feed in the next few days, follow @joeylightbulb

Thanks Aunty and Nephew and Angela ‘She’s a Multi-Tasker, You Just Gotta Ask Her’ Henley, the photographers Ty Johnson, Kelli Morris, Kristy Milliken and the other 12,494 people in The ‘Sup that make a weekend in the country something out of this world.

Originally published as REVIEW: Meredith Music Festival
www.news.com.au/entertainment/music