Times are tough, we’re pissy and entitled, and our most reliable form of escape – the music festival – is starting to betray us. That’s the mentality, mostly rooted in some semblance of reality. ATP promised us Jesus Lizard, Forest Swords and Balam Acab. They didn’t arrive, for reasons that are beyond the festival’s control (there’s no concrete reason to believe this isn’t the case). We had a venue switch-up and a caste system in the guise of coloured wristbands, dictating our vantage point at The Palais, the main stage in the sprawling, indiscernible festival grounds. It seemed like the lustre of ceremony, that feeling of Event with a capital E, would be lost somewhere between the stroll (or shuttle bus) between the two venues. But it could be found in line for the rickety Luna Park rollercoaster (which bruised my knees and nearly broke my damn back) as punters claimed their free ride, and around the various St Kilda haunts in between sets.
As blue-wristband royalty, gaining optimal seats for The Palais acts wasn’t a problem. The only time the two-venue setup proved a problem for me was at the end of the day, when I couldn’t muster the energy to bounce from The Palais to the Prince for Sleep and return for The Breeders, so I waited in my chair for Kim Deal and company to grace the stage. Playing The Last Splash in full, the era-faithful lineup took delight in recreating the record as faithfully as possible – “We even brought the big windchimes we used on the record”. After warming up with a Guided By Voices cover, The Breeders were in top form, running through the tracklist with ease and a foremost feelgood charm.
Also performing full-album duties were New York luminaries Television, playing 1977 debut Marquee Moon. It’s an undeniable classic, but a top-heavy one at that. As such, the tracklist was mixed up for the live setting. There were times where things hit a lull in the album’s weaker songs, but the title track acted as one hell of a set closer – particularly that incredible moment where everything comes together in glorious syncopation. Replacing Richard Lloyd, guitarist Jimmy Rip was worthy in taking on most of the lead guitar duties. Most of his and Tom Verlaine’s solos were recreated verbatim, with jammy deviations most notable during Marquee Moon. They opened as the album does with See No Evil, with the PA mix slowly playing catch-up at the beginning, but getting there eventually. Venus was a highlight, the sneering back and forth of “Did ya feel low?” “Nah,” a special sight to behold.
Playing almost entirely new material, guitar pop darlings Twerps were a finely tuned machine, looking every bit in their element on the main Palais stage. Frontman Marty Frawley copped a few daggers after cheekily blasting through a few bars of The Hives’ Hate To Say I Told You So after wrapping up their set for some reason. The slickness of their new material did nothing to diminish their ragged charm, with freshly debuted tracks primed to impress when they presumably are showcased in album form next year.
The Prince Bandroom was a more confined surrounds during the day, particularly during Lightning Bolt’s napalm stint – this time on the stage. Drummer Brian Chippendale is half Lucha libre, half gimp, all sound in his trademark microphone mask and drums pairing. He made a few apologies about jet lag and foldback issues, but it didn’t show one bit in his ferocious percussive attack.
Total Control members Al Montfort and singer Dan Stewart quickly backed up their performance with UV Race, with the six-piece putting on a corker of a set from the beginning. Rather than channel the Suicide-punk synths of their recorded material, the tri-guitar assault aims for something more hardcore. And it works, with the tightly wound collective attacking like a guerrilla artillery unit. Second track in, Retiree, was a relentless feral animal.
It says something for the contextual malleability of Fuck Buttons’ material to see some members of the crowd drifting off to sleep while others raved like maniacs above their seats. Expanding the scope of their sideshow the night prior, the duo made full use of the Palais’ screen and soundsystem. It felt like one big fuck-off THX sound test, Surf Solar acting like a 2001-style stargate jump for the senses.
Opening the Palais at the start of the day, UV Race were a tad exposed to being with, exchanging looks across the oversized stage as they tried to find each other during the singalong choruses. They’re a punk band. Perhaps the finest punk band to ever exist in Melbourne. So the ornate and massive theatre wasn’t their natural habitat, but they eventually found their groove. Opening with a a string of Racism’s best moments, Marcus acted as bandleader with a serial killer moustache and a glow-in-the-dark skeleton onesie. While the energy of tracks such as I’m A Pig became a little dissipated in the cavernous venue while early birds trickled in, the magic moment came during Homo duet ballad Lost My Way. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen on a stage, time freezing in a slow motion Hitchcock zoom as the haze of smoke machine crept in like a swathe, the raindrop lighting effects on the rear wall fired up for the first time in the day. Marcus’s serenading croon was masterful, the interplay with co-vocalist Georgia swirling together to conjure something truly magnificent.
While punters didn’t exactly get what they want, we got what we needed for the most part. And shit, that’s a damn sight better than getting nothing at all.
BY LACHLAN KANONIUK
Picture by Rob Perrone
Loved: Punching the air like a goddamn sporting champion for the drop in Olympians during Fuck Buttons.
Hated: Nobody commented on my “sexy music journalist” Halloween costume.
Drank: A top-notch Bloody Mary at The Vineyard just before Twerps.
