Splendour in the Grass
Byron Bay, Australia. 2006
The mud, a mass churned black goo that yeilds maximum squelch when you land, is fantastic. It's as if it has an elemental lifeforce of its own, a metaphysical presence universally bonding the experience of all participants, ranging from the properly prepared in rubber boots, to the naive, tiptoeing and in their Reeboks, waving their arms for balance.
Sporting their best Almost Famous haircuts which, like everything else about their appearance, seems to have been time-machined in from the early seventies, the four svelte Swedes that constitute Dungen, labour into the soundcheck way past their start time. Aside from a slightly cumbersome start with a new composition, their playing is casually nimble; demenour largely horizontal. Singer and pivotal brainchild Gustav Ejstes, resembling some sort of gangly gentle-looking Robert Plant, thanks us for our patientce as they slide into a deliciously drifting Festival, renamed Splendour in the Grass Festival just for us. The guitarist jams away by the speaker stack tweaking dillegently at his amp in quest of reverb enlightenment. The bass player, looking not unlike the bastard child of a dozen Hawkwind members, sings along throughout despite the fact he's stood more than six feet away from the mic. Its a shame the sun is blocked out by tarpaulin, these excursions demand to be drenched in sunlight. When I was young an older friend told me how he went to old people's house where early Pink Floyd was soundtracking their placid decay. It totally changed his perception of music. Neo-Floydian odyssey Om Du Vore En Vakthunf could sondtrack any number of ephiphanies, and when Ejstes blows into his flute (how often do you see that at a rock show) it's sublime. Like nothing I know in this realm. The drummer pounds away with all the supple fire of a multitasking octopus and at one point it seems somehow that all four members are playing four individual solos in perfect cohesion. Complex but never tedious on a rabbit-hole journey down into seriously baked Wonderland noodlery. They pick their feet up as the end approaches, slipping up through gears with well oiled rapport, and it all comes down in some unpredictable swoopy jazz thing. I leave with a fantastic buzzing inside, wishing the start of everyday could be like this.
Having taken an hour or two to acclimbatize, and suffering a moment or two of clagnuts TZU, I end up in the dancey dance tent (please note: this is not its real name) to observe the mighty Mos Def, who co-incidentally I'd been observing on the big screen less than 24 hours earlier in the latest Bruce Willis vehicle. Heightening suspense as he raps for a couple minutes off-stage, then making an appearance looking not unlike a bum in unflattering hoodie and shorts. No matter, as he brings much vitality ina de area. "No two Mos Def songs are alike", he reiterates, no doubt the hands down winner in the weekend's in the improvisation stakes, freestyling his way over classic sixties R'n'B through about a third of the set. Another third is dedicated to material from the forthcomming album, this one's been kept quiet - I had no idea of its immenence - Chill Magic. The atmosphere is liquid gold and a healthy mix between dancing and stage gazing is struck. It's a shame I don't recognise anything until halfway when a double whammy of Hip Hop and Ms Fat Booty falls on us. I don't get to too many hip hop shows but I might have to start reconsidering my policy after this. Neither are there too many MCs out there who could get away with interpolating the chorus of Leaving on a Jet Plane into their rhymes.
Mos finishes with Umi Says which if it doesn't close every Mos Def show, should do. It's an all time gem. Mos opens his throat to sing and round off a magnetic display of stagecraft.
Providing ironic sideshow freakage is the Tent of Miracles, or Church Of Two Hands & One Chicken as I later come to realsie, performing on-the-spot, innuendo-laden weddings and flagelation for the impure of buttock. At the back appears to be Che Guevara standing to attention, in full military regalia, sporting a suicide belt comprised of rubber hot dogs. Mac goes for an ultra-vague tarot reading (that's what happens when you give them just ten bucks) and we poke our noses into the GW McLennan tent to briefly witness Tex Perkins performing an accoustic set with former Beast of Bourbon Charlie Owen on slide guitar. Not that we can see much, we stay for a couple of numbers wherein Tex tells of how on Sundays he performs miracles by turning pay cheques into wine and a lament whereby he explains he has nothing but he'll give half of it to his beau.
TV on the Radio shudder to something of an awkward start. Nerves? It's their first time in Australia. The rhythm section sounds stiff and leaden, and I'm not completely convinced by the mixing. Yet it's hard to take your eyes off them, especially their guitarist Kyp Malone, who, with an over-opulent afro and astronaut white jumpsuit, looks like some black version of Zeus. If that doesn't force you're attention then the cleaver-like F/X distortion will. It's nothing like conventional fretwork. Occassional gentle stroking is enough to generate an almighty wave that threatens to tear us all to shreds. Leadman Tunde Adebimpe leaps on the spot, spraying his arms liberally, his agitated falsetto playing havoc with every sensibility. Bassist David Andrew Sitek runs about weilding his engine like he wants to play lead. It's not until halfway through as they hit the likes of I Was a Lover and Wolf Like Me that the venom starts to drip from their fangs. There's a convulsive rumpus of activity around the drumkit, as a crowd of extras emerge to wang on a variety of tools. They certainly don't fit into any box I know of. And just to confirm my hypothesis, they close with Sitek beat boxing over what could be My Bloody Valentine gone doo wop.
The most mind blowing physical experience of the weekend goes to Mogwai. Five rows from the front and I am positively splattered under the sheer weight of reverb. Uniformed in green and white Celtic FC jackets its a set that just gets better and betterer. They whip through 4 songs in less than 20 minutes. Time was four or five songs would be all they could manage in a rambling spectacle. Their sound has diversified too, incorporating some graceful if decidedly chilly piano for Friend of the night and the sung-through-a-keyboard vocals of Hunted By a Freak seemingly transmitted from another planet and chained to a wall of feedback. Out here on the front there's barely room to move. Closing my eyes I sway in the elctro-static wind, a brilliantly defined 'yes, yes, yes' blazing through my mind.
The band asks whether we're enjoying the Scottish weather they've brought with them, before steamrollering us with the Mogwai Fear Satan. Its the one epic length piece they provide, allowing the atomic fractions of modulation wihtin their distortion an audible platform. Midway through, ten or so minutes maybe, it features the largest leap from quiet to loud, quite possibly in the history of music; the shimmering screwdriver guitar and drummer ferociously smashing UFO size symbals, as the halycon moment of calm is torn from us. Each note has near infinite sustain, new tactile layers emerging as the punishment unfolds. I was warned about this. I thought TV on the Radio had the most splitting guitar I'd ever heard. They're second place now baby. All in all its like spending an hour in the stomach of Godzilla, the seering F/X like digestive acid stripping the meat from my skeleton to the death march rhythmn of We're No Here. They depart, a Satanic sub-rumble in their wake. It's a miracle the drumkit hasn't been smashed to tiny pieces. I limp away, barely knowing who I am.
It's a misfortune that Sonic Youth must be sacrificed. It's no small sign of the reverence I maintain for DJ Shadow that this band, who I've heard more long players by than any other, must miss out. The reasons: 1) a mediocre current album, b) I'd have to watch them from far, far away for only twenty minutes or so before the Shadow appears and c) I've seen them before in rude form and wouldn't dare ask for a better performance than that previously witnessed.
The word in the tent is, or at least the circumspect word of a lady on what I imagine to be one too many Bacardis (I'll give her some credit nonetheless, bearing mind that she loathes festivals, is here solely for DJ Shadow and that later on she drew something cool on my arm) is that having played, by his own admission, a disappointing, jetlagged show last time he was down under, had personally vowed to rock Splendour in the Grass most colossally. We're perched on the front row railing like hungry hounds, trying to stare beyond the deep white veil before us. Each lull in the music pumped out over the PA raises up our expectations up on a spike, ("the curtain's about to drop"), only to lower us agonizingly into more techno-breakbeat. Begone, purveyor of senseless club cheese - that his light might bless us. And then it does. High on a fifteen feet platform, overlooking each and every one of us. He pauses, takes it all in, then finger extended like a child's six shooter, slow motion divebombs onto the start pad. The crypto-phantasmagoria of Building Steam with a Grain of Salt tumbles into being. It would've been a head-first dive into the uninterrupted eternity of sonic zen, had the audio not suddenly failed. It's perhaps not to my credit that I hadn't even noticed that the visuals hadn't loaded either. Frankly, I could barely care. I know listenning is supposed to be a holistic experience involving all the senses - but just turn the sound back on - PLEASE. Still, its a good opportunity for Shadow to introduce himself, deftly maintaining sardonic composure. "I'm Josh Davis, and normally I like to play music".
The power returns. Changeling is born. Minutes later the video loads. Up on the railing there's scant room for manoeuvre, yet space is found for some nimble side to side action. JD rips his way over samples, drum pads, scratching and surprises with the intense stare that only a man focused on the heart of the void can summon. New material is subtley introduced to the dense anaotomy of his opus; a stronger emphasis on vocals, a little more mainstream perhaps, but still recognizably 100% Shadow.
The one man show is broken up the entrance of Chris James. The sooner this poncy hipped poser, who's clearly stolen my name to condem yet more ill fame on my game, goes back to England the better. He saches across the stage going "ooooohhh oohh ooohhh" a bit and generally not impressing. Lateef the Truth Speaker punches in to save the day, blowing up the spot with energy, presence and dynamism. Summoning an intensity not often found in sunny San Fransisco, although I have it on authority that their driving is insane, as he reveals to us the art of Mashin' on the Motorway. Lady Don't Tek No is smoothly sewn into the mix and we're instructed to "break it down" as the heavywieght Metallica sampling funk of The Number Song is dropped upon us. A blazing organ solo, the method of its production the subject of some controversey, is the climax and Shadow descends from his turret to high five the front row. I almost miss him but he catches me and shoots an enigmatic look that could either be "Hey, that Guy Fawkes facial hair is really working out for ya" or "Dood, that looks fucked". It's a fleeting glance I shall ponder for many hours as I tweak my follicles in the bathroom mirror.
Sunday, and alas its nobody's fault bar a heedless truck driver, who overturns his charge all across the highway, that we miss out on The Zutons. A pity. I was keenly revved for some Why Won't You Give Me Your Love action. The other loss is Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! who cancel mere days before, for whom I'm curious, if not especially ravenous.
Stopping for some quite excellent pies at the Humble Pie shop, and having purchased more than I can eat in one sitting, I turn to face a queue which features a tall, skinny fellow with a pair of friendly mutton chops that could bat for Tazzie. Looks uncannily like Tim Rogers I note; proceeding to find Mac who lathers incessentantly that it is indeed the You Am I front-man. I ponder a possible approach, curious as much as anything as to what kind of pie this dapper gentleman favours. For certain, here is a man more Australian than a kangaroo in Waltzing Matilda boxer shorts. He's from Kalgoorlie for Christ's sake. If there should ever be a definitive source on what is a genuine Australian pie: here it is. Hmm; possibly Tex Perkins. Nonetheless, having plucked said courage up to make a polite introduction once the man has taken a seat, on completing his snack transaction the Royal Rogers heads straight to the tour bus. A missed opportunity. Nonetheless, at least we know he's not going to start without us.
The multitude that's swarmed by to check out Matisyahu is intimidating. He's certainly by himself in the curiosity / freakshow stakes. I'm going into this with an open mind, I try to go into everything with an open mind, but the energy level here is just flat. It's a sort of lightweight rocksteady noodling that The Police would have abandonned as not enough some decades ago, mixed with some occassional lightwieght ska. I was hoping to see this boy, who Mac thinks we might have spotted in a car rental lot at the airport but I have my doubts, in his full Jewish orthodox getup. Halfway into his set, and it appears he is only half dressed. Perhaps he drives the crowd insane by slowly putting on more clothes as the show reaches a trembling climax. Still I've got better things to do, like get a decent position for You Am I. Although regretably that means catching the last of the mouldy old antics of whiny Brit-rockers Snow Patrol.
The temptation to shout out "How was the pie?" is almost overpowering as You Am I take the stage with mischievous authority. Anyone familiar with the new album will notice YAI's rocky side bubbling to the forefront and this spectacle is no different. Pretty much all their songs feature the archetypal big rock ending; waaaaang, waaaaang, waaaang guitar and rambling drum rolls. Much of the delicate comeliness the Rogers vocal chords can muster in moments of quiet regard is a tad trampled in this banging company; their set almost totally devoid of trademark misery stoked pop. Cantankerous bitchin' aside; Berlin Chair and Kathy's Clown are little Aussie crackers. Jamie's Got a Gal gets a turbo injection of testosterone. And Tex Perkins, truly the iconic hard livin' Aussie beast, the David Boon of rock no less, joins them onstage for a delightfully full throttle ditty, Coprolalia I later discover, that features a chorus entirely consisting of Tex bellowing "Head in a state, head in a state". TR spirals on the spot to the close of Ain't Funny How We Don't Talk Anymore, before saluting the audiance and reminding the punk rock element to spend less time on their hair. And finally Heavy Heart, where if it wasn't for the fact that everyone was singing every single word, this would probably go down as the worst version ever. They are all over the place; timing, cadence and the backing is so lacking in conviction its occassionally hard to tell when they've started or stopped. However, everyone IS singing every word correctly, apart from my friend Loxley, and if there's anyone capable of holding it together in the face of being all over the place its Mr Rogers. Leaving to a gushy farewell, the consensus around the tent seems to be "they never play a bad show". Perhaps not an indication they've just played one of their best, but you'd have to be some kind of churlish buffon not to be riding this ocean spray.
The maximum crowd frenzy award clearly must go to the hotly anticipated Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Even when standing motionless Karen O is capable of driving the kids doo-lally. And they are going absolutely out of their trees, sceraming, waving, ready to tear down every other single person down around them that they might touch the hem purple and yellow star garment. Not that Karen O is in anyway capable of standing in anything resembling a normal pose. Or doing anything approaching conventional, as she chews her fingers, strokes her thighs, hides behind her scarf or performs any number of actions that have absolutely no logical explaination. Most spectacularly, she tears apart a beachball with her teeth. Whereas some artists thrive in an intimate setting, the YYYs are clearly lapping up every drop of attention these few thousand have to offer. They are delerious for it. The strongest part of the set is stunning mid-section with Phenomena and Miles Away going to toe to toe in a heavywieght slug-fest. The waves of hysteria are nicely broken up with a handful of sweet, smoking jammies. Maps is a pleasure. Porcelain is a revelation. The conclusive Date with a Night has Karen wearing a smile as wide as a harbour, bounding across the stage like a bunny in full spring fever. If nothing else, they show The Grates up to be the half assed chumpettes they are with welcoming irreverence, spontenaity and unpredictability.
The GW McLennan tent is a handsome venue with a proper roof, a theatre style red velvet curtain and seating around the stalls. It's perfect for Decoder Ring who's visual asthetic is as important as their music. Whilst film footage of nature could draw accusations of cliches and tree hugging hippy crap, its tightly observed, exquisitely selected and fits DC's blend of organic and electronic perfectly. I'm lucky enough to catch half of this set for which I had no real prior expectations, and whilst I couldn't deem to identify a single song they played, the ending swell of heavy strings, breakbeats and dancing that has broken out all around provides one of the best vibes. Much respec'.
Tonight Wolfmother are parodying themselves. Given how they're already an ill conceived Zep / Sabath parody, although I proppose they're 75% Deep Purple, this is close to deathly. "Do you want a sex jam?", that fucking gorilla haired skuzz pile demands. If I was female hetrosexual and not only the human race, but the history of civilisation and everything worthwhile ever achieved by man depended on it I would still in no way get into a "sex jam" with any of these crusty spondooliks for mortal fear they might start luring me with their "Woman, she's a woman, woman woman, not a man, a human woman" pile of putrifying spooj. I can only assume their popularity is derivived from appealing to the lowest common ebb as I go in search of entertainment in the form of the eternally monged.
Are Scissor Sisters the new Machine Gun Felatio? They're all strut and no chutzpah. They sound weak and spend too much inanely groaning on. I'm a huge fan witty incisive commentary. Annamatic, or whatever she calls herself, sounds like nothing more than a typical loves-nothing-more-than-the-sound-of-her-voice queens. They play Tits on the Radio, which until now I was happy to have a semi-ironic bop to. I thought these guys might be fun but they're little more than repulsive chunderwits of the wankiest proportions.
God only knows what we'd do without Brian Wilson who puts a beam back on everyone's face with his breezy old-time California pop. It's a solo material heavy set, the Beach Boys songs present tending to be of the cuddly variety; Surfer Girl, Catch a Wave. An innovator he may once have been, its probably fair to say he hasn't updated his sound since 1973. But it's the perfect good cheer send home after a weekend of heavy blasting, with decrees to "dance, dance, dance" and perhaps a reminder of what we'll all be like in thrity years time. The laptop beside his keyboard could equally contain lyric sheets in case of amnesia or instructions as to when to take which pill; the top vibes only interrupted as Wilson goes off his nut to berate a smoker at the side of the stage. Seriously, its some scary shit. Nonetheless, with a ten man band behind him he exudes a good time aura that as infectious as a smile.
We escape into the night, conscious of staying one step ahead of those gathered around the arse-faced Scissor goons. Its been a nicely balanced raft of experiences, throughtout which I've managed to stay alarmingly alcohol and drug free, albeit a few swigs of wine from the water bottle some Adeladian devotchka was waving around.
Splendid.
As testified by the G-Man
Nauto's opinion.
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