"All I’m saying is, if you can’t beat someone up, don’t date me." There I was, lone grandma under an umbrella in the midst of rain-heavy poncho crowd trying to understand the appeal of Tex Perkins. My mate Bree says it comes down to the arm span, which he is wont to demonstrate at frequent intervals during the set. Bree says Tex is the archetypal Australian male, ripe with testosterone and potential violence. I tell her there are two kinds of girls in this country – Tex Perkins people and Paul Dempsey people. I prefer brain span to arm span, see.
"All I’m saying is, if you can’t beat someone up, don’t date me." There I was, lone grandma under an umbrella in the midst of rain-heavy poncho crowd trying to understand the appeal of Tex Perkins. My mate Bree says it comes down to the arm span, which he is wont to demonstrate at frequent intervals during the set. Bree says Tex is the archetypal Australian male, ripe with testosterone and potential violence. I tell her there are two kinds of girls in this country – Tex Perkins people and Paul Dempsey people. I prefer brain span to arm span, see. Bree scoffs and comes out with her little edict, and the crowd starts heaving to the sounds of The Honeymoon Is Over. It’s a good show and all, but up there at the Pink Flamingo there’s a dry patch of marquee and a lolly drink with my name on it, and intractable differences in perspective to contemplate.
For example – I thought Dirty Projectors were an amazingly talented bunch, with their punchy little voice orchestra, whereas my ex thought they were annoying indie hobgoblins. Tame Impala, he says, were the business. I reckon Tame Impala are the reason ten drunk children had to be escorted from the amphitheatre on Monday morning while bellowing only marginally comprehensible rounds of The Lion Sleeps Tonight at each other. Some people loved Dinosaur Jnr, some people were reminded of how much they had hated Dinosaur Jnr in the nineties. I loved how dry my tent was when Dinosaur Jnr were playing. Those that had the foresight to figure out where and when Lou Barlow’s solo set was happening were uniformly delighted with his performance. Those who neglected to read the email and forgot to ask about it until Sunday morning cursed the breach of the single stage rule.
If you loved Big Pink, they were marginally better at Golden Plains than at their side-show earlier in the week, but still pretty flat. If you didn’t know the UK fuzz rockers, they were pretty impressive. That Dominos tune is catchy, isn’t it? And etc. The weekend scuttled on.
I watched most of the action from under scraps of plastic and the semi-retarded umbrella of death as god rained mightily on our parade. Could have been worse, mind you. Could have hailed golf balls on 6,000 munted campers. Ergo, five stars.
