Harvest Festival may hold the distinction of being the only festival where the journey between the stages is almost as entertaining as the performances on the stages themselves. Wacky art sculptures, random marching bands, a tranquil lake reminiscent of Monet’s Water Lily Pond all combine to evolve what is normally a brisk walk into a wandering saunter, and to make me look a pompous, over-educated douche of a writer. The luscious Werribee location is a fucking spellbinding wonderland, inviting you to lose yourself in its beauty and vote for the Greens. I wrote the review for Harvest last year, and there are only so many synonyms for “luscious” and “beautiful” so excuse me if some of this sounds familiar as I plough through this one more time.
Silversun Pickups were my first act of the day. Original bass player, Nikki Monninger, pathetically couldn’t even make it to the festival because she was in hospital apparently “giving birth” to “twins”. Thankfully, replacement bassist Sarah Negahdari was infectiously fun and her adorable stage presence galvanised the crowd to mimic her playful vibe, particularly during the bass heavy Panic Switch and Lazy Eye. The Pickups were neither exhilarating nor insipid, but I did ponder at one moment whether it wouldn’t have been a better idea to bring Monninger along for the tour in the hope she could give birth onstage just to give the performance that extra little edge.
Next up were Mike Patton’s Mondo Cane, who were undoubtedly one of the more bizarre acts on the lineup. Complete with Italian lyrics and an overwhelmingly gargantuan orchestra, Patton’s anthemic vocal were seemingly complemented by every instrument known to man. I’m pretty sure there was even a guy smashing the heads of two dead rats together in front of a mic to achieve that sort of rat-smashing sonic texture rarely employed these days.
If you talked to anyone at Harvest on Sunday, which I hope you did because otherwise, what the hell, you most likely heard about the brilliant performances of Cake or The Black Angels. Cake singer John McCrea singled out a member of the audience for filming during the set in a sardonic moment where he elucidated the importance of the audience enjoying the festival with the band, not with their cameras. And for that, he should be both applauded for arguing a valid point and condemned for spitting venom when he should’ve gone on with what was a dazzling performance, highlighted by the hilarious Rock N Roll Lifestyle and the upbeat funk of Sheep Go To Heaven.
I was admiring the cleverly designed urinals when I heard Beirut open with the sweeping croon of Santa Fe off their album The Rip Tide. A flugelhorn, trumpet and a French horn were all present in Beirut’s brass orgy, harmonised by the occasional use of a ukulele and an accordion to create the band’s flowing yet subdued electronic Balkan folk sound.
Right from Beck’s opener in Devil’s Haircut through to Modern Guilt and Qué Onda Güero, I was shaking what my mother gave me and got on it. The man is downright fun, and the stage manager’s denial of Beck’s (and the crowd’s) yearning to play one last track, E-Pro, was a tragedy.
The headliners of the night, Sigur Ros, are the kind of band that make you feel like a fucking idiot for ever using the word “beautiful” to describe anything not related to their music. A benighted stage decorated by what appeared to be electric candles, Sigur Ros immediately lowered the heart rate and exploded the pineal gland with the glockenspiel opener Í Gær, followed by Glósóli. Illuminating the exquisite, ethereal experience of hearing Sigur Ros live is an almost impossible task. Agaetis Byrjun is the sort of elegant, otherworldly, divine album you put into your stereo to play whilst you lose your virginity, but by the time you finally go for it, the CD changes to Sisqo’s Greatest Hits and you lose your virginity to The Thong Song. The record was well represented by the poignant Olsen Olsen as well as Svefn-g-englar, where frontman Jónsi Birgisson’s indelible, piercing falsetto screech firmly grabs you by the balls, hovers its sweet red lips next to your trembling mouth and whispers, “Welcome to another dimension, big boy”. Much like Portishead at the festival last year, Sigur Ros possess the rare sonic mastery to transcend the listener into an emotion devoid of definition.
Immediately contrasting the tear-jerking beauty of Sigur Ros was the wild party that was Santigold. One minute I’m searching into the abyss of my soul, nekt minnit I’m crunkin’ with a stranger in a clown suit.
Starting her riotous set accompanied by extravagantly-dressed, corybantic dancers, Santigold smashed through tracks L.E.S. Artistes, Lights Out, Say Aha, a cover of Major Lazer’s Hold The Line and more. By the time Santigold dropped Creator, not long after she invited dozens of festivalgoers onto the stage, the crowd was in an all-out frenzy which can only be compared to the delirium that occurs at the conclusion of Patrick Süskind’s novel Perfume, in a second example of how I can use an Arts degree to sound like a pretentious wanker.
And that was it for Harvest 2012. Almost all of last year’s minor complaints, such as long queues and a depleted beer supply, were eradicated. The extension of the arts program and the addition of carnival games such as the one where the carnie lady slams a hammer down onto some scales and a weight soars high to the bell but then you do it and it barely moves and you look like an absolute banana were all well enjoyed. Harvest has further affirmed itself as a near-flawless festival, with a dynamic lineup and progressive approach. Also it’s very luscious and beautiful.
BY NICK TARAS
Photo credit: Richard Sharman
LOVED: Moonlight dancing at the disco.
HATED: Werribee is hard to spell.
DRANK: Beer mate what do you reckon.
