It’s after midnight. One half of Client Liaison, frontman Monte Morgan, is backstage removing his shirt and adorning a talisman-like chestpiece while his bandmate, Harvey Miller, smoothly strides past the vintage office mise en scene (replete with fax machine and appropriated Diners Club logos) to pour himself a cup from the water cooler. The crowd is in their hands after the stellar preceding portion of their set, a showcase of their impeccable Michael Jackson-meets-Johnny Farnham pop smarts, and they’re about to blow everything wide open with their satircal ode to our nation’s gaudy culture, End Of The Earth. It was a definitive starmaking turn, one that you can’t really picture happening anywhere other than the Supernatural Amphitheatre.
We huddled like ewes under the scant shade of the ghost gum trees during both days. “That breeze is nice.” There were a few drops of rain as we greeted Sunday evening. An eager patron overshot the mark with a bright yellow poncho as The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion burst into their set with 2 Kindsa Love. It was hot. But not hot enough to dissuade the trio’s eponymous frontman from kicking it in leather pants. Spencer cuts a fine figure, perpetually on the offensive with an imposing forward-leaning stance. Returning from hiatus a few years back, Blues Explosion still emit a potent sense of danger. “THE BLUES IS NUMBER ONE.” “Judah Bauer. [beat]. Russell Simins.” “YEAH!” The staple JSBX cries punctuate the set to great effect.
Blues Explosion guitarist Judah Bauer spent that band’s hiatus playing with Cat Power. He played along with drummer Jim White. Jim was also here this weekend, performing with lyra-slinger Psarandonis. Usually a beast on the skins, Jim left the percussive elements primarily to the acoustic string instrumentalists on his flanks, striking a barebones kit containing only tom and snare.
Few artists are as polarising in the live setting than one Chan Marshall. The set timing for Cat Power’s return to the Supernatural Amphitheatre was a little off the mark, missing the aimed sundown synchronicity to provide a somewhat droll welcome into the first evening. Opening track The Greatest had a reworking to incorporate minor chord arpeggi similar to that of Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. Chan’s vocals were consistent, but rarely great. Same goes for the new band. And the new material, such as Cherokee, didn’t quite hit the mark. Fetishising Rowland S Howard is massively on trend, and Chan paid homage with a shonky rendition of Young Charlatans/Boys Next Door classic Shivers.
I made plenty of great decisions over the course of the weekend. A pre-4am Melbourne departure resulted in primo shade-drenched bush camp. Lotsa water intake kept the rig in top form. I slip slop slapped like a motherfucker. But my one misstep was barrelling front and centre into the frenzied Dinosaur Jr. crowd while in thongs. I felt the pain of everyone stomping on my toes. Lou, J and Murph were as vital as ever, projecting a gut-rumbling tsunami of noise much like they did in the same setting three years ago. This time, however, there was no satellite Lou Barlow solo set. In fact, the tendency for Golden Plains to bend Meredith’s strict one-stage rule has fallen by the wayside. Not that it really matters.
Opossom progenitor Kody Neilson is a focussed dude in the live setting. It can lead to some derailment when things aren’t going to plan, but everything went swimmingly. Despite his partner and bandmate Bic Runga’s absence, tracks such as Blue Meanies and, especially, Getaway Tonight were early weekend highlights.
Buoyed by a very tidy lead-in interstitial DJ set, Toro Y Moi kicked things into overdrive with Underneath The Pine cut New Beat. The stream of smoke machine emanating from the stage took us on an interstellar journey, a pretty funky one at that. Wild Nothing did similar on the first day, coming across somewhat like a poppier version of Kurt Vile with a soaring psychedelic bent.
Canuck duo Purity Ring were a revelation in the live setting, being one of the few outfits to parlay ridiculous hype into a worthy live show. And then some. Corin Roddick’s lanterns-as-midi-trigger contraption was transfixing, complemented by grandiose stage ornaments. Vocalist Megan James was hypnotising and perfect with a stage presence that belies the outfit’s relative youth.
I went into Flume with the intention of being the Mr Cool Guy who heaps derision on the country’s current hottest musical property. But god dammit, he crushed it. After running through his established material for the majority of his set, including the pretty tedious mash of Biggie’s Juicy, he debuted a handful of new tracks with an allegiance to trap. While Flume/mainstream-Australia might still be lagging behind trend-wise on the electronic pop front, it looks like we’re catching up somewhat.
There were only a few moments of glory during Moodymann’s festival-closing set. His dropping of Seven Nation Army was not one of them. But the set was serviceable for the most part, and over a bit too soon. A touching tribute came in the form of the interspersion of an interview with recently deceased Australian dance crusader Ajax.
The first night was closed in fine fashion with a set from Melbourne identity Post Percy, providing a satisfying send-off to a bloody pleasant Saturday.
The polish of Naysayer And Gilsun’s audio-visual set was remarkable. The rear projection screen was crystal clear, showcasing a variety of iconic filmic moments (Network’s “mad as hell” speech spliced with The Shining, to name but a selection). It’s a novel concept, a well-executed one at that, but the sensory overload was a strange thing to process as a lead-in more adept electronic music proponents.
The slight lull of Naysayer And Gilsun slingshotted nicely into a powerhouse opening from Julio Bashmore, who went on to fulfil a dreamy house set, perhaps the early AM dance highpoint of the festival.
Zanzibar Chanel were very much Zanzibar Chanel. That is to say, very brilliant. Vocalist Zack was a twirling cyclone of shirtless glory.
Old mate Ted Ballieu scored a few mentions on the weekend. ‘Burbs poet Barry Dickins delivered rousing, recently dated, prose in his first of two interstitial orations.
Dick Diver’s Al Montfort managed to drop a few cheeky sardonic quips of “ditch Ted” during the ambling and infinitely brilliant Head Back. It was the highlight of one of the weekend’s best sets. They opened with Alice, continued with the tender Keno, and worked their way to Water Damage. Established champions of the Melbourne jangle, Dick Diver become pioneer’s of Drangle (jangly Dragon covers, obviously) with a ridiculous and euphoria-inducing rendition of Are You Old Enough? These lovable scamps were on point.
It was a slow burn, but Mulatu Astatke with Black Jesus Experience went from pretty good to pretty darn excellent over the course of their set. The rhythmic grooves were topped off with some incredible verses from rapper Liam Monkhouse.
Actually, the more I think about Dick Diver doing Dragon the more I fall in love with it. Is it a shunning of the incessant Flying Nun comparisons, iconoclastically embracing a daggy Kiwi band instead? And fuck it, the track is a corker even when devoid of irony.
Decked out in all black attire, Bushwalking ran through a commanding display of mostly new material, opening Sunday’s proceedings with a solid triumvirate of distinctive, adept playing styles.
It’s a known fact that ska is objectively the Worst Genre Of Music. Populace outfit Melbourne Ska Orchestra did little to challenge that notion, but not without trying. The tactic of covering history’s least terrible ska song (The Specials’ A Message To You Rudy) very nearly worked, but not quite.
Inadvertent or otherwise, Golden Plains displays a stronger showing on the rock front than its sister festival, but this year fell short of the top-notch gallery of old rock dogs on display at the Meredith just passed. Redd Kross failed to fire in the same way Hot Snakes and Earthless did back in December. Festival openers Money For Rope were a fairly weak consolation for the last minute withdrawal of SixFtHick, though their meat-and-potatoes rock ‘n’ roll did gradually build momentum through the course of their set. Adelaide’s The Mark Of Cain performed with a ring-in for John Stanier (one of the greatest drummers the world has to offer at this point in time), resulting in a fairly lacklustre set. DJ Keb Darge took over for an hour (plus another 15 minutes due to delay) on Sunday night for a dull runthrough of vintage bluesy rock ‘n’ roll, the kind of soundtrack that is more suited to a morning stroll around your local supermarket. But the dullness worked in my favour as I overcame tall guilt for the first time in my life as I planted myself front and centre for the weekend’s main event.
“Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time, for we have knocked her up. I have tasted the maggot in the mind of the universe, but I was not offended, for I knew I had to rise above it all, or drown in my own shit.” George Clinton, slightly paraphrasing the iconic intro to Maggot Brain, the 10-minute guitar solo originally performed by Eddie Hazel as the title track to Funkadelic’s 1971 LP. After performing a worthy (also golden boot-worthy) rendition of the track, long-serving P-Funk guitarist Michael Hampton gestured upwards to the sky in Eddie’s direction. It was one of many highlights of George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic’s all-out two-hour jam.
After a slight delay, the set was opened with a heavy-as-hell performance of You And Your Folks, Me And My Folks. Within the opening bars, George Clinton emerged with little fanfare from side of stage in a double-breasted suit and gilded glasses and stayed in view for the entire duration of the performance. He was the ultimate hypeman, planting his microphone as a supplement in front of whichever amp was currently blasting a solo, continually offering his ear to the audience to raise raucous cheers. George’s granddaughter Sativa made a cameo to bust out Something Stank And I Want Some (the band got what they wanted after a stream of joints made their way from audience to stage). George went into protective grandpa mode as he playfully snatched the mic from Sativa as she began to rap about hard (as steel, still getting harder) dick.
Early on, the dancer performing as Sir Nose D’Voidoffunk made his presence felt during Parliament classic Flash Light. He did his thing – handstands, rolling his immaculate abs, picking his Pinocchio-length nose (which was scrawled with “Fuck George”), then concluding his role as antagonist with a funky dance-off with Clinton (George’s moves were next-level). It was all happening. The back-up singers were all stars, especially the one rocking silver hot pants and rollerskates.
Funkadelic cut Red Hot Mama was a surprise inclusion on the setlist, and by god, it was the greatest thing I have ever experienced. Holy shit. (Not Just) Knee Deep was an elongated groove. Things were mixed up with a guest appearance from Mary Griffin. It nearly fell flat after two malfunction microphones, but as soon as she found a functioning conduit for her incredible voice, things got wild for her cover of Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy.
The set was closed with a funky runthrough of Atomic Dog. Shit. Goddamn. We got off our collective ass and jammed.
“They say losing love is like a window to your heart. Everybody sees that you’re blown apart.” The Tallest Man On Earth was joined onstage by his wife Amanda Bergman (who performs under the moniker Idiot Wind) to cover Paul Simon’s Graceland.
It was lovely, it was heartfelt.
BY LACHLAN KANONIUK
LOVED: RIDE ON RED HOT MAMA GURRRRRRL YOU SURE LOOK GOOD TO ME.
HATED: That George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic couldn’t play for three hours.
DRANK: A coconut and a bit too much Club Mate.
