Falls Festival - Marion Bay

Picture this: a festival on acres of farmland with ocean views, big old gum trees, open fields and one hell of a sunset. That’s the premise of the Falls Festival, held over two states, and incorporating music and arts into a two-day extravaganza. The site is composed of two stages: the Field Stage in a small meadow; an old wooden construction mostly populated by blues, soul and the odd retro-rock band; this is the one where people are most likely to sit around, possibly smoking dope (or they would do if it wasn’t for the large police presence - still, you catch the odd whiff, floating down on the warm breeze). Surrounding this is a variety of food and nick-nack stalls, and the best camping. (Late comers get the hike - this stretches a good kilometre down the road.) The second stage, The Valley Stage (and main arena) has the crowd area on one big slope - to one side is a tangle of raw bushland, the other hosts a spectacular view of the ocean. More stalls, international food and a lengthy line for booze fills out the rest of the site.

The first act I caught at this musical smorgasbord was brother and sister duo Angus & Julia Stone. Their subtle harmonies and fanciful melodies ensnared us instantly, drifting across the warm summer air like sweet aural honey. By contrast, Operator Please had the crowd jumping. A quick duck down to the Field Stage revealed Adam Hills hamming it up with his signature Terminator gag - in which he reveals his false leg. (In a side note, I picked up the local paper they thoughtfully delivered on-site the next day - ‘It's probably our only chance to feel like rock stars’, he said.)

The delights continued at Valley with The Mess Hall, who took the mid afternoon blues and chucked it out the window, to a grungy, angular soundtrack you could dance your rocker’s bones to. In counterpoint, Jose Gonzalez wound it back down a notch with some sweet tunes, ensnaring the crumpled heart of every festival chick in the place. Ah - nothing like a little blues in the afternoon.

The groove bass of the Morning After Girls provided the perfect sonic backdrop to the activity on the hill, by now a steaming mass of picnic blankets, warm beer and ruddy skin. ‘Blackbird’ wafted around the natural amphitheatre, a sweet and warm blues zephyr. Regurgitator got those folks up on their feet, leaving summery ennui behind with 90’s nostalgia - I mean - if you didn’t bust a move to ‘Polyester Girl’ at some point you were a total bogan - and newer experimentation.

Kings of Leon stomped out some much-needed rock attitude - this was the band many of the punters had came here to see. Although not the stuff of revelations, The Followill clan turned in a solid set - at least until someone chucked debris at them and they exited stage left early.

The indomitable Groove Armada were next to take to the stage. They never fail to get you up. Whatever your musical persuasion, I defy you not to dance to their infectious electronic pop. They certainly wove their magic over the crowd - we were soon shaking everything we owned like some kind of possessed raver. (Of which there were more than a sprinkling, admittedly.) Special note goes to the hallucinogenic visuals, which made you feel as high as a monkey on a trapeze - no chemical enhancement necessary.

This being my first experience at a music festival where you actually have to camp to take in the whole deal - I don’t just mean both days of music (and film, comedy, food, and general oddness of festival life) but more the feel of the place - the dramatic landscape underscores the whole package. Unable to sleep beneath the now stifling canvas of my tent, and after partaking of the coffee cart making the rounds (though not of the showers, due to the small crowd gathered there…thankyou baby wipes) I made a trip down to the ocean to cool my dirty little heels, a steaming plate of waffles (with industrial quantities of cream) in hand. Though any illusions of beachside retreat were quickly shattered - I was summoned back from the ocean by the Siren’s call of good solid rock. The No No’s had started up the day’s aural delights.

Fairytale guitar awakened plenty of punters from their tent greenhouses - wooed by the sweetly romantic sounds of Lior. His tunes are the aural equivalent of rich, golden sunlight. For those of us who were trapped in the hellish breakfast queue, nursing sunburnt hides and roaring hangovers, life seemed suddenly easier.

Seeking shelter from the rapidly boiling sun, Whisky Go-Gos added some rocker crunch to match. Joining the other hot and lobster-dappled folks in the circus tent facing the stage, we witnessed squealing guitars singe through the air, bass lines moving hips in summer heat.

Ducking down to the Field stage revealed Old Man River in mid-flight - his music evoking a land where the sun is warm, the beer cold and tired feet can always find their way home. In short - the perfect music for this festival. Hearing this guy do his thing was like condensing the whole spirit of Falls into one chilled-out, psychedelic riff.

The time for comedy hour was once again here - and the likes of Justin Hamilton, Adam Hills and Tripod keeping the crowd entertained. Of note was the always slightly wrong (which is why we love them, really) Tripod, with their Dirty Sea Shanty. Suffice to say the topic of horny sailors was covered in full. I am sure we were clearly visible through the heat haze, giggling away.

Back on the main stage, The Spector-esque Pipettes brought the 60’s dancing mood with retro-styled girl pop. Yes - there were rehersed dance moves, co-ordinated outfits, and plenty of high camp. I guess you could say we’d found the festival’s oddballs. Who would have thought we’d find unlooked-for girl-band-age in the middle of the Tasmanian bush? Ah, Falls - quirky one day, endlessly surprising the next.

Diafrix took the crowd and shook it up like a snow-dome, injecting some much-needed energy into the come-down afternoon of second-day musical bombardment - forcing the kids to pause on their long trek down to the beach. More chilled-out tracks featuring female vocals framed the afternoon perfectly. Then, there was that bass - always that bass, that follows you all the way, wherever you go, like the auditory equivalent of the Mona Lisa’s eyes. Saxaphone tunes followed swiftly on its tail, wafting up the hill like a soft breeze.

Making our way back to the Field Stage, we took the opportunity to browse the markets - ethical stalls lined the narrow corridor between the stages - Oxfam, hair-braiding, vegan stalls - and, incongruously, a tent filled with vintage video games, circa the 1980’s. Odd.

In another musical U-turn, we had come to see Kev Carmody. He was the festival’s Musical Patriarch, and brought with him an earthy attitude and honest dignity. We sat on the ground and listened to his stories; his music filled us with a sense of pride and simple strength.

By contrast, I arrived back at Valley to discover The Waifs had ushered in the start of prime-time.

The band were indeed in fine form, feeding off the massive turnout - it looked like most of the populace had turned out for their brand of folksy blues-pop. 'Sad Sailor Song’ had everyone’s hands in the air, capturing the fading sunlight with clapping hands. For the record - I have never seen so many girls on shoulders for a song as when they played ‘London Still’.

Gotye threw in a solid set, though the tech-heavy music and staging was beset by technical problems. This is a band I feel is very dependant upon crowd response - every band is of course, to a degree. But Gotye seems to reflect a crowd’s mood back like a burnished mirror. Still, Wally de Backer handled it all in good humour, bantering with the crowd throughout. The set delivered one shining jewel - single ‘Hearts a Mess’ was transcendent.

From the moment BRMC’s first riff slices through the night, you know it’s game on. I was keen to check out how a band raised on sticky-floored, sweaty bars would fare in the Tasmanian wilderness. Their riffs rolled around the natural amphitheatre like caged thunder, dripping bluesy, ragged riffage and pummeling drums in that slow, devastating way. Success!

Paul Kelly got those wont to clap along going, with punters of all ages turning out to witness a mixed bag of new tunes and old favourites. ‘Dumb Things’ shone like a musical gem amongst a setlist that glimmered with gold.

Hip-hop/funk fusesters Blackalicious had the distinction of playing through midnight - and a better band you could not find to do the honours. It was all groove, shake, jump - then ‘3...2...1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ To a mass punter-propelled launching of glo-sticks and sparklers. Strangers wished each other Happy New Year, ravers shook their sequins, rockers... got it on in their tents, presumably. I was giving mine a wide berth for at least a couple hours, that’s for sure.

The Go! Team made sure things kept on kicking past midnight, with feel-good tunes made for staying up late. Their single ‘Grip like a Vice’ had the crowd in their corner, the sparkling bling of a set made for dancing feet.

Regrettably, I lasted only a few songs into The Herd - this reviewer’s weary head had to traipsie off home. What I did see - a 10+ person stage show of MCs, singers, guitar, drum and synth action seemed to be just what the doctor ordered - Aussie attitude, post haste!

All up - the best organised, eclectic, and most eye-catchingly beautiful festival I’ve ever witnessed; just shorten the line for booze and it’s possible that we may have festival perfection. (Or maybe just more raging hangovers?)

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