Reviewed: Golden Plains 2010

Over the last few years the Australian festival scene has become a bloated, overfed beast. And while there has been no Altamont - no singular pivotal loss of innocence - the time of every punter putting on a festival with their mother's savings has passed. This is not a terrible thing, because with the tasteless dregs dispensed with it leaves us the cream. Golden Plains was elected the best festival in Australia last year. After three soggy March days spent within the famous Meredith festival site, it is clear why this is so.

It is truly the cream of the crop. Despite the logistical difficulties and general lack of comfort that came with persistent inclement weather, the festival sparkled with amazing music, superb organisation and a magical sense of community amongst the 9000 odd in attendance.

Arriving around 11 on the Saturday morning enabled the securing of a spot not far removed from the amphitheater. Equipped with ponchos, camping chairs and eskies we made our way to the bowl. Couches, makeshift lean-tos and all manner of equipment and furniture gradually dotted the hillside.

The opening slot was taken by northeners Royal Headache. They put on a tight punchy show, despite evident nerves as frontman Shogun said "I think I might spew, eh" - the debut of a phrase bound to be uttered many times over the next 72 hours. The rain kept coming in swathes, though nothing would deter the ongoing populating of the amphitheater.

Royal Headache

The smooth pop sounds of Crayon Fields were perhaps suited to more cosy surrounds but the Melbourne-siders impressed nevertheless, as the sun played a welcome hand here and there through the persisting rain. One of the most appealing things about Golden Plains is the superb balance of the diverse line up. Clairy Baby Brown and the Crying Rackets (swinging loungey soul, complete with sultry dancers and jiving brass) followed by the stupidly entertaining Mononotix (entire band located front of stage, guitarist and singer crowd surfing throught) were a bizarre but effective contrast.

Crayon Fields

Sitting just the right side of clichéd stadium rock, The Big Pink provided an emotional release in the wet sunshine as dusk approached. They played a real sitting-on-shoulders, clap-your-hands-above-yer-head set that seemed to stretch on and on in the best possible way. With just one stage to acommodate the entire festival, bands are afforded one and a half hour plus sets, instead of the usual 30-40 minute whisk-through you get at many fests. Anitbalas Afrobeat provided another, more worldly dimension, and the party atmosphere had well and truly taken effect in time for the band many had come to see.

The rain licked at the festival but never fully engulfed it, the site fortunately on the edge of a vicious storm that had devoured Melbourne earlier in the day. The mud was thick, the atmosphere primed and at 9:15 Pavement arrived. Frontman Steve Malkmus displayed some nerves and almost seemed to excuse what was to come. There was no need. They commenced slightly sloppily with "Silent Kit" but midway through second song "Stereo" it was apparent they were finding their feet and something wildly special was developing. This was a truly exultant display, it felt very much like a moment of musical history. People in animal suits, rain slickers and the bare chested embraced as favourite after favourite was performed.

Much of the set consisted of  songs from "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain" and "Wowee Zowee". Malkmus became more comfortable as the set went on, tilted over the mike and thrashing with his guitar in a teenage ecstasy. Despite the history of band antagonism, for the most part Pavement appeared as a band of kids playing the rock and roll they love without a skerrick of hesitance. And what rock and roll it still is. "Cut Your Hair" drew a predictably ecstatic response, to put in conservatively. Screaming the dirtiest word of all - "CAREER" - headlong into sheeting rain along with hundreds of like minded souls was utterly joyous. The towering wall of guitar constructed through "Stop Breathing" showed Pavement's unrecognised power - they are a band of so much more scope than the indie/quirky tag they are often lumped with. "Range Life" was unforgettable, opening up from its country beginnings to its free wheeling climax - "Dont worry, we're in no hurry!" An ideal theme song for this care free pastural festival if ever there was one.

As many recovered in the mud and others continued to dance to their Pavement induced joy, stacks and stacks and stacks of Marshall amplifiers were rolled into the purple stage light. Soon after the silver maned J.Mascis appeared and commenced tuning and fiddling with pedals, followed by Lou Barlow and drummer Murph. Dinosaur Jr. were upon us. Loud, loud, loud. The rain got angry now, and this was a magnificently defiant set. It was moving, it was intense, it was a front-on assault of squalling guitar rock. It was one of the best bands of the last 30 years unleashing at full tilt. Material from the latest reformation albums sat seamlessly alongside extended versions of classics "Get Me", "Feel The Pain" and "Sludgefeast". It all became quite supernatural, as festival goers and the elements and Dinosaur Jr combined into an otherworldly swirling maelstrom. The set finally concluded and as senses were restored, it was apparent the threat of hypothermia was very real and retreating to the dry of camp was necessary. We were, after all, only half done.

Sleep was limited and broken as one would expect and with the high notes of Mascis and Spiral Stairs still reverberating in the skull, the masses returned to the arena for the first band of Sunday, Super Wild Horses. A great little sugary set, the thumping two piece provided a much needed shot in the arm as an alternative to taking on the endless lines for coffee.

With the weather taking a misleading turn for the better, Jack Ladder played a tediously ponderous set that did nothing to abate the yawn epidemic. Jeffery Lewis was more entertaining though soon became novel and slightly annoying. His song about acid was good, the Pavement cover was not. Californians Wooden Shjips were a sight and sound to behold, all reverb and beards and extended wig outs. Many muddied boots were held aloft during their warped take on Neil Young's "Vampire Blues", the traditional Merdedith sign of approval. Groovy and well suited to sipping one's way back into the swing of things.

Soon after Nashville Pussy pumped an expletive filled set into an increasingly vivacious crowd, and hedonistic good times were firmly back on the agenda. Dirty Projectors were more reserved and refined types, though their set of lush harmony drenched tunes did little to detract form the party atmosphere. The band were clearly enjoying their debut Australian set as much as the audience, as the drenched dancing contiuned and one fellow was bounced around the crowd in a giant Wayne Coyne-esque clear plastic ball.

From there the night took on a mostly rock flavour - the 70's psych of Tame Impala, followed by the Tex-Mex of Calexico (a definite highlight, hugely talented musicians playing beautiful, soulful music) and then onto the deliverance of The Cruel Sea. Midnight Juggernauts then provided the bridge from rock to the late night electronic sounds and from all reports they were excellent.

Along with many others, my time in the amphitheatre had come to an end. Golden Plains was supreme escapism. It is a festival that is as much about the musical experience as it is the construction of a unique feeling of communal positivity that other fesitvals forsake for commercial stalls, excessive ticket sales and advertising space. The focus on comfort, care for other people and minimising the environmental impact of the festival is wholly inspiring. Everything has been done to make this the ultimate escape, the finest of our festivals. Perfection is impossible, but this Golden Plains went very, very close.

by James Baker

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