Day One: It was hot. There were blue skies and white clouds. It tried to throw some raindrops, but didn’t really follow through while I was awake…
I’ll confess straight away: I slept through Friday night. After our convoy dictator ordered a 3am departure from Melbourne we were onsite, tents erect, by 9am. This admission alone saw me mocked by many a Meredith regular. That’s a three hour sleep to prepare for my favourite weekend of the calendar year. I am actively seeking a new convoy for next year. Spread the word.
Planned tent-y nanna naps went by the wayside for our entire group as the excitement of being back in Meredith took over, the annual updates of individual lives were submitted and general procrastination set in. Nonetheless, we ambled down the hill for King Gizzard And The Lizard Wizard. I love this band, and it was warming to see these local boys playing Meredith after so many times in small dark Melbourne bars. They made a hell of a good noise; the festival had seriously begun and it looked as though the weather might stay good indefinitely.
Cash Savage And The Last Drinks was a bit drowsier and I was well in the swing of catching up with friends during their set but Unknown Mortal Orchestra were everything I wanted them to be. Loved them.
I decided to risk the derision of my much cooler peers and be the one who didn’t make an effort to see Kurt Vile. The jetlag of the previous night was rapidly attacking so I scoffed a baked spud with everything and committed to a 2-hour siesta. I awoke at 8am Saturday morning to hear that Barbarian bought the Viking Epic and picked up a few new fans in our part of the paddock while Ladyhawke was apparently better seen at the Tote last week. I was admonished for missing Explosions In The Sky but no one I confessed to seemed to think the world had ground to a halt because I was under the doona. Most shrugged: “Meredith Friday.”
Day Two: Perfect festival weather with shower of light when needed and a supernatural fire and brimstone storm to finish.
Upon my return to the amphitheatre, The Rechords finally crashed through my rockabilly radar. Loved their way of waking up the campers – refreshed as I was from my twelve-hour respite – as they bought a bit of full-on 50s fun to the grass.
Adalita was stunning as always though I had to spend time explaining her appeal to our oblivious Kiwi mate. He likes happy music. Dubstep. Chur, bro. Adalita continued on, engaging some smaller fans who were hanging with their folks on side of stage, performing a set heavy with material from her well-received (and AIR Award-winning) solo debut.
OFF! were not what I needed at that point. The politicking wasn’t for me and Adalita was about as introspective as I’d like to get while sitting under blue skies.
Cue Joelistics, the perfect antidote and a highlight of my entire weekend. We were down the front on the dance immediately and his rhymes were red hot. I wanted to give him The Golden Boot when he spliced in Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” for a hook and I wasn’t the only one; it was fantastic.
Seeing Graveyard Train outside The Old Bar was like seeing a nuclear bomb set off inside a cupboard. The whole horror country concept does not lend itself to sexiness in the first suggestion but the rhythm got everyone moving like panthers. Panthers with straw cowboy hats on. A hell of a lot of boots were thrust into the air for this bracket; these two sets, as well as Cut Copy’s later were the three standouts for my day. I was so proud of Australian music in those moments.
Unfortunately missing Black Joe Lewis but making it back for Mudhoney’s dirty and dark unleashing I realised I knew none of the back catalogue except “Touch me I’m sick.” Still sweet.
Since I was a small child, I have an inexplicable dislike for Ice House. I don’t know why. Is it unAustralian? Probably. They were a massive highlight for a lot of people and from the campsite I did kinda wish that I was down there for “Great Southern Land” but not enough to, you know, actually, be there. It was surprisingly easy to find people with the same grumpy bent on the matter.
It felt like minutes later that I was deep in the crowd for Cut Copy and I don’t mind saying it was the closest I’ve felt to being on pills since I stopped dropping pills. They know how to play a festival and once the rain began to play with the lights it felt incredible that close to the inside of the stage front. Brilliant.
By Grinderman I had managed to propel myself to the front of the stage. This was a huge mistake. It’s not until you’re in a moshpit that you remember why you stopped going into moshpits. Grinderman were so mesmerising but I thought I was going to die longer than is good to have that thought. For an eternity my feet weren’t touching the ground and I felt like I was going to drown as the storm unleashed above and Nick Cave held his hand out in front like a sorcerer posing as a lighthouse. I escaped. We all would have preferred the lunar eclipse visible but it was an apocalyptic storm in my world, actually and musically. An experience sitting somewhere between incredible and terrifying. I was still gasping at the edge of the abyss thinking I would get another chance to see them again up close as Cave announced that, no, he didn’t think I would.
Day Three: The respite. Tuning in and out from sunny to breezy.
Abbe May on the Sunday was brilliant. We traipsed down from camp and as soon as we could hear the band properly were all asking each other, “Who is this?” The rockier songs at the front of the set were genius. What a vocalist and what a band.
I was sorry to miss Dave Graney & The Lurid Yellow Mist though I’m sure Dave isn’t sitting at home waiting for the review. If Dennis Cometti is, I would advise him against it. He flailed through a bizarre weather update including numerous other “menial” bits but managed to save himself by responding to hecklers then taking us to task on the negative feedback we were putting toward him.
This was rectified immediately with a big warm round of applause and followed up by one lone audience member who, as Dennis read amusing things from the Meredith program, faked a massive guffaw that could be heard across the unamused crowd. The phrase “centimetre perfect” got a good response but hopefully Angus Sampson will be free again next year. He was reportedly supposed to be “doing something” at the festival but I didn’t see what it was. Shame.
Eagle And The Worm was at its consistent best; they opened with “Good Times” and it was. Their looseness suited the sunny afternoon beautifully as they drew their set up to the staking of the Meredith Gift course. As we proceeded to the cars a clutch of white bums sprinted off to the sounds of air horns; the crowd let out a roar. Soon after the bar room rock of Matt Sonic & The High Times followed us out the gate. How come it always takes longer to get home from these things than it does to get there? Bring on Golden Plains.
– Melanie Lewis
