Splendour In the Grass

July's festivities at the Woodford based Splendour in the Grass were a veritable orgy of chemically enhanced revelry and musical bliss. Boasting a line-up surpassing even this year’s impressive Big Day Out, this critic can’t recall a more physically and emotionally draining or rewarding experience in recent memory.

Arriving midday on the Friday, the festival’s official opening day (though there had been local bands from 5 pm the day before) punters were treated to a thankfully lax bag check and admission process. Though it would soon become apparent that Splendour’s stage management was thoroughly organised and punctual, the management of the camping grounds and general administration was head-scratchingly convoluted. Its not that anybody had any particular trouble in finding a campsite or accessing facilities, so much that it was nobody had the faintest clue where anything else was. Over the course of the festival I would be told I was to undergo a random bag check, that I had an incorrect wristband, that I had a correct wristband and once even refused entry, resulting in a thirty minute walk to the other side of the campsite, where I was admitted without so much as a second glance.

Clerical foibles aside, however, the experience was superlative. Kicking off my jaunt with a band, the tragically hip Black Rebel Motorcycle Club tore up the turf with their take on 60’s feedback garage. The thoroughly burnt-out psych rock of ‘Bad Blood’ and the potent ‘Conscience Killer’ were set highlights, and while the mosh-pit was fairly tame, the waves of neo-psychadelic fuzz and (admittedly justified) hipper-than-thou pouts of Peter Hayes and Rebort Levon Been were enough to lull the crowd into a blissful stupor.

The underwhelming performance of Angus and Julia Stone prompted a quick booze run, which quickly turned into a blind stumble into the rapidly dimming twilight of the designated camping ground. By the time I made it back to the ‘Mix-Up’ tent LCD Soundsystem, I was still stumbling, though for a different reason. As one of the towering figures of indie rock culture in the last decade or so, I had high hopes for the live incarnation of James Murphy’s dancepunk experiment. Appropriately wandering onto the scene just to catch the last few refrains of ‘Drunk Girls’, I made my way to the center of the crowd, stepping on more than a few toes in the process. I’m not going to pretend I remember a great deal of what went down after that; what I do know is that I enjoyed myself. The schizoid Talking Heads tribute of ‘Pow Pow’ blended seamlessly through to the Doc-Martined party anthem ‘Daft Punk Is Playing At My House’ and beyond. The band closed with indomitable super-irony of ‘Losing My Edge’, one of the cleverest songs of the 00’s. Not that its subtleties were picked up by me, as upon its completion I left and promptly passed out in a bush.

Day Two was even more impressive. Shaking off the Saturday morning blues was aided by the irrepressible Mr. Percival at the Temple Stage, a frighteningly talented vocal maestro who used only his voice to create sonic rhythm beds which the crowd would then harmonize to. He closed by making the crowd disperse while singing an ode to peace. It got me out of my funk anyway.

The next few acts in the Amphitheatre were marginal at best. The sycophantic indie preen of the Drums (“Thank you so much, thank you,” in perfect Californian after every song) was tolerable only by virtue of their excellent single, ‘Let’s Go Surfing’. Operator Please took the cake for worst act of a day. About as tight as used condom, they meandered through their one hour time slot with contrived pleasantries and poor songcraft. Over on the Mix-Stage, Delphic were surprisingly arresting. “It’s smart dance music,” one punter confirmed my thoughts on their ability to keep an audience interested. A little samey though.

Back on the main stage Tame Impala started their set nervously. They are an anomaly to me: the tones and song structures are straight 60’s garage rock, think Cream via the Electric prunes, and yet, somehow they just teeter on the border of anachronism. It was a good, solid set: nothing spectacular but, for what was clearly the biggest crowd they had ever played to, they pulled it off with charm. From that it was a nose dive into the heart of cheesy 70’s cock rock. The world’s premiere talentless Led Zeppelin tribute act, Wolfmother, or Andrew Stockdale and Friends, took to the stage and proceeded to jerk off their egos for a full hour. Or at least so I assume. I bailed after fifteen minutes.

Paul Kelly’s set in the McLewen Tent was easily one of my festival highlights. Charging in to the sweet nostalgia of ‘Dumb Things’ I quickly secured a place near the front of the stage. Kelly is the undeniable Australia’s king of folk rock and with a thirty odd year back catalogue, I think very few would have been upset with the choice of setlist, which contained among others, ‘Sweet Guy’, ‘How to Make Gravy’ and the gorgeous duet ‘Everything’s Turning To White’.
After Kelly had wrapped up I ran back round to the amphitheatre, passing Art Vs Science just breaking into ‘Parlez Vous Francais’ and, being only human, I had to stop and have a dance. Then it was onto the highlight of the evening and indeed the weekend. The Strokes will go down in history for two things; inventing garage revival indie rock way back in 2000 and being one of the tightest guitar-bass-drums units since Tom Verlaine’s Television. The precision in their playing is almost frightening, ripping through numbers like ‘Reptilia’ and ‘You Only Live Once’ without sweating a bead. Additionally, Julian Casablancas is clinically one of the coolest men on the planet. Seriously, they’ve done tests. The dude rocks a studded leather jacket like he invented cows and has a voice that could melt cement. All in all, actually one of the best performances I have ever seen from a live band, a definite top three.

After the highs and lows of Day Two, Splendour’s last hurrah levelled out a bit. Waking up and walking in to the blissful strains of Miiike Snow, the day began pleasantly, if not explosively. Snow’s sobering, pretty tunes mingle well with the bittersweet lull of a hangover.

Then it was quickly over to the Ampitheatre for Surfer Blood. I can’t say any of their set was particularly memorable but they seemed like fun. We Love Scientists gave me the impression of a less interesting Arctic Monkeys, but they were nothing in comparison to the awful Ash. The archetype of MOR rockers, Ash are plain in everything they do. The songcraft was predictable, the guitars were big black and shiny, the singer had floppy hair. I was thoroughly disappointed later to find that (actual good band) Bloc Party’s Russel Lissack was the rhythm guitarist. Which I thought was sort of a kick in the teeth to taste... still, maybe he’s having a laugh.

The Vines too rocked a fairly uninspiring set, although by that time my body had pretty much given out so I could be biased. I like the Vines: they seemed like the 2000’s answer to Nirvana except, you know, replacing suicide with complete psychotic breakdown. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on the sadistic necessity of your viewing tendencies; hey, some people like to see a train-wreck) the set was completed with merely a token guitar smashing, which as a guitarist I am theoretically opposed to but did look very cool in practice.

Lacking any energy post the half-mosh pit of the Vines, I resolved to spend the rest of the time in the amphitheatre. This turned out to be a good idea. Passion Pit’s coy collegiate dance rock proved tiresome for the first half of the set but things brightened up around the last two songs: the irrepressible ‘Little Secrets’ and appropriately dreamy pop of ‘Sleepyhead’ went absolutely off, the sea of hands waving in unison, justifying the maritime imagery the festival plugged.

For myself, at least, Mumford & Sons were the musical dark horse of the festival. There’s just something so winning about four men in plain, old style work clothes coming onto the stage with battered instruments and just playing their little hearts out. Some grumbled that the sincerity of the thing was a little suspect (how did an until recently unknown folk rock band get to almost headline Splendour in the Grass? Answer: a number 1 on Triple J’s Hottest 100) but it’s hard to deny the tunes. ‘Little Lion Man’ and the fiery ‘Dustbowl Dance’ were obvious highlights, but its clear they’ve spent a long time honing their songs to perfection so there was nary a dull moment in the set.

Finally, closing the festival out on an oddly sour note, the Pixies took to the stage and played more or less a greatest hits set. This unto itself was not a bad thing; I mean, who doesn’t want to hear the Pixies play ‘Broken Face’ or ‘Where Is My Mind’? The band was not into it though. Black Francais refused to acknowledge the audience once and even sweetheart Kim Deal’s chirpy “We’re so glad you had us play here!” sounded a bit tired by the third repetition. It really was a case of note perfect performance and stone dead enthusiasm. Mind, it was a nice experience to have heard ‘This Monkey’s Gone to Heaven’ live. Some of the best lyrics in rock and roll in my humble opinion.

All in all one of the most outrageous three days I’ve experienced since I was but a wee tot. There were ups and downs (but mostly ups) and by the time a group of us sat down on the bus together we were dirty, exhausted, and broken in body and spirit; thoroughly pooped. Not that we didn’t rave about the thing the whole way home.

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