The weekend that was - Splendour in the Grass

It strikes me as particularly strange that my Splendour highlights and lowlights were not produced by the musicians I saw. Maybe this was because even little things, that I may even be aware of; anticipating, can blow my mind when I actually see them happening. Comparatively (indeed, in comparison to nearly all of my peers), I’m a very sheltered little girl. Despite this, I’ve been lucky enough to have parents and friends to fill me in on the ways of the world that aren’t yet my ways. So, as I boarded my seven o’clock bus to Byron Bay I was acutely aware of my expectations: frigid late winter breezes, gumboots, pot, sex, teenage debauchery and (the greatest of my fears) hippies.

Fortunately (for any psychiatrist that I will probably have to frequent in the future) there weren’t as many hippies as I had thought there might be. My other expectations, however, were met and raised by james-bond-esque gambling stakes. For example, what a great time one must be having when you’re having passionate (probably stoned) arm-flailing sex in the front seat of your car, in full view of admiring / jealous / perverted punters. Unfortunately for the voyeuristic amongst you, of those two people engaged in copulation, I was neither and can’t tell you much more about it than I already have. That was probably highlight number three for me – but the most interesting to share. I found that Splendour in the Grass is not just a music festival as all of the promotional gear flogs, it’s a 48 hour long sex education class. For me at least, I haven’t seen that much sex-in-public action since …well, I haven’t seen that much sex in public action ever – at least not so much in such a short space of time.

The compliment sandwich – I just said something good about Splendour; now I’ll say something that I thought was bad about the festival. It was a breeding ground for the fetid species that is the teeny-bopper. Not that theoretically any one of us could complain, we all must have been thought to be a teenybopper by someone in our day. Nonetheless, they’re damned troublesome and annoying. Case in point: I’m sitting at the bus stop, ready to head back to Brisbane, while an innocent girl wandered while her mum was in the café next door. Despite her wallflower nature she was harassed by two drunken trollops who (despite being her age) hugged her sloppily and threatened to adopt her. Needless to say these little slatterns weren’t doing the system proud.

Oh yes! The music! The Cat Empire knocked my cotton socks off. It was crazy. Standing next to a group of English fellows (with adorable accents) during the set was a pleasure in itself. Noticing a fellow that had climbed the entire height of a tent pole was also scintillating. The Empire show was frenetic and seasoned and all that they’re hyped up to be in terms of live performance.

Operator Please never cease to impress me. They’re clearly true professionals already. My friend recently admitted to me that he hated Operator Please and as a result of his obviously poor taste I have lost a certain amount of respect for him…think about that.
I think that if I raved about Operator Please any more than I already do people would begin to suspect that they’d commissioned me to infiltrate the media and plant good reviews of their shows across the information landscape.

Moving right along, Tilly and the Wall were fabulous. I was feeling very egocentric when my friends thanked me sweetly for introducing them to the wonderment of the tap-dancing indie sideshow. Although, the blonde fellow in the band said “fuck” a little too much for my liking.

Old Man River surprised me. I didn’t expect to like them quite as much as I did. “Here’s another bloody hippy” I thought to myself as the lead singer came onto the stage with an afro that accounted for approximately half of his height.

I have a story from a friend of mine that had to leave the mosh for the Bloc Party set. Apparently it was far too much for the wee dear. She tells me she nearly got squashed. She’s very itsy though and thus more easily smooshed.

Not to worry though. After all the adventure I could handle I made it home safely. I’m already fondling thoughts in my head about heading back next year. I’m tenderly caressing the idea of camping beside the site. Sounds sexy right? I’m sure it will be. Until this time next year…

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