10 minute read. Don’t hurry, be happy.
A man walks towards me carrying a prosthetic leg. “Incredible doof stick, sir, can I please get a photo?” I ask.
“Would you like a shot of Baileys from the kneecap too?” he counters, name-checking Irish trio KNEECAP who literally tore Golden Plains a new one 12 hours earlier chanting “Open up da pit”.
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I open up my gob and seconds later goopy, caramel liqueur flicks out of the patella through a goon bag nozzle, trickles down my throat and spills onto my purple kaftan. Worth it. It’s Day Two of Golden Plains 17 and everything is in its right place.
12,000 people and change have gathered here, 12,000 different narratives but essentially three unifying ideas: kindness, connection and the power of music. “It’s the best place in the world,” may sound hyperbolic but if you keep hearing friends and strangers say it all weekend does it really need fact-checking?
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Nolesy’s Long Blink gets us away on Day One after a moving Smoking Ceremony and Welcome to Country from Wadawaurrung traditional owners Barry and Tammy Gilson and family.
Kiss-enthusiasts Mulga Bore Rock Band and, um, also kiss enthusiasts Wet Kiss do a fine job of easing us into 34 (!) musical acts but it’s always up to a particular act to feel like we’ve properly begun the party and Teether and Kuya Neil crack the first boundary of the day.
“Can someone turn the sun off,” drawls Teether, rocking a blue and red Chopova Lowena skirt and black singlet, looking the least petrified I’ve ever seen someone on debut in The Supernatural Amphitheatre (correct pronoun: The Sup’). Alice Skye joins them for the song Chanel, emoting about reaching one’s full potential. Teether and Kuya Neil walk off stage after announcing their “last” song.
“Psyche, cunts” Teether says, re-entering stage right and snapping into two-steppy single Blush from album Yearn IV, out May 2 via Chapter Music. “Teether’s voice is the sound of ketamine,” a mate quips. Towards the end of the set a beach ball flies onto stage. “I feel like Neymar up here (kicks ball), bottom corner cunt.” So much for my cricket analogy.
Skeleten are wonderfully perplexing. My un-turn-off-able critics brain skips through comparisons to Blur, Manic Street Preachers, Ride, early Presets? Deep Scene is very much the latter.
“Let me go deep scene, Yeah, The real coming home,” is one of the great recent Australian choruses, those gang vocals are still wafting through my head 48 hours later, even if the drummer fell out of time too often.
Wisconsin’s Bonny Light Horseman slip into The Sup’ like a hand curling around a Pink Flamingo; the mysterious and impossible to replicate cocktail of the festival.
Lover Take It Easy, Deep in Love (“don’tttt chuuu-oooh-ooh breeeeak my heaaaart”), Keep Me On Your Mind and Sweetbread give us the exact tone of red, white and blue Americana we need. An alien doof stick bobs to the beat. Time seems to stand still as the clock on stage says it’s somehow only 6.30pm. How good.
I inquire with the woman next to me about the notification that has popped up on her Apple Watch and she obliges: “Good news. The poo count result is in for horses’ worms in Bangholme and it’s low.”
Jess Sneddon and DJ People’s Interstitial tracks are en pointe, MIA’s Bad Girls and Iggy Pop’s Nightclubbing in particular prove inspired choices.
Later on, Thelma Plum nervously tosses her hair then glides across the stage with her mic, looking permanently like she’s on the verge of tears of joy or sorrow, perhaps a combination of both.
Her set builds powerfully, the crowd with her the whole way, peaking with the line: “’Cause in 1967 I wasn’t human, and in 1994 I was born/ I’m still here, We are still here.”. She mentions her ADHD in a self-deprecating way then brings it home with Not Angry Anymore and Better in Blak. Bravo.
Florida sugar-pop duo Magdalena Bay are having a blast on stage, Mica Tenenbaum is swooshing her gorgeous blue pantsuit up and down like Kate Bush 2.0, propped on a mini riser, giant white feathers projected on screen framing her perfectly. I oscillate between digging a banger such as Death and Romance (“My hands, your hands, I’ll hold forever”) and finding the rest all a bit flimsy like a doily (I have the exact same relationship with Khruangbin).
San Francisco lifers, Osees, feel like a bespoke band for this dusty part of regional Victoria. Chaotic, loose but keeping their shit together, vicariously thrilling, it’s all there. They’re super naturals. Singer, vocalist John Dwyer keeps headbutting his mic between songs, shades of Six Ft Hick’s antics.
I feel like Jimbo Jones in the Homerpalooza episode of The Simpsons as he watches Peter Frampton: “Maaaan, that guy’s guitar is talllking.” I think my pseudoephedrine-laced Cold and Flu tablets are kicking in.
After the scuzz, there’s still a buzz in the air from Magdalena Bay’s resplendent performance (definitely a crowd favourite) while another Maggie is about to fair much worse.
Those bellicose Belfast bruisers KNEECAP have us chanting “Na na na na naaa naaa naaa, Maggie’s in a box, in a box, Maaaaggie’s in a box,” as they absolutely obliterate their 45 minute set while making Margaret Fooking Thatcher roll in her grave.
They keep it gender neutral by wishing Amazon fuckface Jeff Bezos the same fate too. A group of 20-year-old backpackers from the Emerald Isle are live streaming themselves singing every lyric, including the Gaelic. Irish eyes are dialling.
The best part? The singing fans are all female and it’s International Women’s Day (sorry that sounded mansplainy).
“Open up da pit,” demands MO Chara aka Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh as the crowd obliges. A Molotov cocktail of 31 degrees heat, alcohol, stimulant ingestion and the world’s most incendiary rap act results in a wild mosh and a wave of bodies fall over…thankfully, everyone pulls each other up.
Your Sniffer Dogs Are Shite and H.O.O.D take the set to heaving new heights, the 170-bpm is the right amount of groove and grunt for a collective third wind. Fun fact: drum ‘n’ bass streams have increased 96 percent in popularity in the last three years. Post pandemic, the world wants it turbo.
Two poor blokes get their nose busted, one in the mosh and another who cops a wayward can from DJ Provai. He takes it like a champ, commenting online the next day: “To be fair, they told us it’d be a bloodbath.”
Back at our base in Mulwaverley it’s time to pull a few mates out of holes.“We’re all going to the Pink Flamingo Bar!” “What’s the Pink Flamingo bar?” a newb asks.
10 minutes later we are under that Lynchian red light, feeling both straighter and more sideways, cheers-ing the vodka and pink grapefruit drink that you always nurse, never just knock back. We watch the doof sticks twinkle and gyrate among the lush green trees, reflecting on all the different friendship circles taking on new hires.
Refreshed, we emerge and Tetris down the hill in various states of enhancement, doing variations on “’Scusi” every time we need to brush past a tight space, until we end up right in front of Peruvian DJ/producer Sofia Kourtesis.
She sings a bit, mixes a bit, lurches into the front of the audience then seems a little unsure of whether she’s cutting through (it’s been a big day, sorry Sof), so changes tack and plays Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody into Caribou’s Honey (hyuuuge) into Underworld’s Born Slippy (Nuxx Version).
The first two would have been enough, it’s still a massive vibe. She switches into deeper stuff and I do my only Shazam of the weekend: ACiD – DJ Pierre (Pierre’s ACiD FACE mix).
I smoke-bomb from my crew, melt into bed to the compact techno of Reptant and hear from mates who went the distance his set was elite. “The last five minutes all coalesced into the most amazing finish,” spruiks a pal with still-pinging eyes. I’ve DMed Reptant for a link, patient reader, we’re on the case.
We start the next day at Camp Purple with an indigo-themed quiz which we knocked together in the car while waiting in the queue. Which Jedi had a purple light sabre? (Mace Windu). Which vegetables have purple rubber bands around them? (Asparagus) Three words that rhyme with purple? (There are none, silly).
The quiz is punctuated by an impromptu Fremantle Dockers theme song singalong led by their sole supporter in our coterie. Thanks Acopia for the excellent trip hop soundtrack as we all tried to fast-track feeling normal again.
On that point, Systah BB’s textured, dubby selections are as effective as Nurofen and a swim to ease our pain from the excess of the day-night match prior. Later on, Larry Quicksticks choice hip hop, neo soul and house selections all come together when he drops Scribe’s Not Many and hits the crowd for six.
We trek out to Tom Mankey’s for a low-to-middle-key cocktail party where the Margs are flowing and everyone is talking up KNEECAP as Best on Sup’ from Day One.
Holy Singing Drummers, I have a new favourite Australian garage rock band, RMFC. Described on their website as “Sydney, Australia. Extremely talented, intelligent and famous child prodigy”, their 2023 album Club Hits nearly scraped into the $50,000 Soundmerch Australian Music Prize Shortlist. Today, they’ve bulked up to a six piece with double sax and sound much fuller/phatter.
The double trouble horns can only be topped by the guitarist’s swashbuckling white shirt. Singer/drummer/mastermind Buz Clatworthy looks spent as they swing into their final track Television and asses start shaking.
I’m about to run for cover as I say this but why isn’t Grace Cummings bigger? She’s so fucking good. Today, Cummings appears extra locked-in, giving the crowd a Medusa stare, you-blink-first energy as she conquers her slot from first song to the last.
Miles Brown’s theremin has us enthralled (I hope he’s got sunscreen on that beautiful Nosferatu melon). I raise my Blundstone for/to Heaven, she gives a serpent-tongue to the crowd who are very much on board with my question 87 devilish words ago. She’ll like that Australian cricket reference too.
Spasta founder and irrepressible force of nature, Adriana, scored the prime day two afternoon doof slot and it was never in doubt she would wallop it. She hits us with tough, buoyant house music, her petite arms outstretched in a fusion of traditional Greek dance and 3am Night Cat dance moves and whenever she purses her lips you know a big drop is coming. She spanks the shit out of The Sup’ without ever going too hard. World Hold On sounds mighty as we bop as one to Bob Sinclar.
Night One watching KNEECAP felt like we were in the eye of the storm and the centre of the universe. On night two PJ Harvey seems to control the weather. “She’s a witch,” a mate says in awe. Why?
The dangerous looking lightning storm she (definitely) conjured cruises past us, perilously close, then leaves us with a welcome, light drizzle. The chimerical weather event is not unlike her show, a glimpse into a very specific universe she’s created — tonight a writing desk adorns the stage where she sits purposefully when she’s not out front, thrusting her guitar at us.
The UK shapeshifter starts with a suite of insular songs from I Inside the Old Year Dying, transfixing most of the crowd while others tune out and head back to their various camps. I find the whole thing incredibly captivating and vibe the fuck out of 50 Foot Queenie, Down By The River and the poised and political way she and John Parish sing “What if I take my problem to the United Nations?” on The Words That Maketh Murder.
It’s my turn in the Interstitial hot seat and I decide to send Gigamesh’s 1.0 remix of Radiohead’s Everything In Its Right Place rather loud to get everyone up and about.
It lands, seismic-like. I’ve never received so much positive, “WTF was that tune?” correspondence over one song and it’s only been three days. Here it is. But enough about Lightbulb.
The moment is here. In a time of global turmoil, the other Irish world-beaters Fontaines D.C. are the steady hand on the wheel we require. They swagger onto stage to the sounds of Romance and yer man Grian Chatten is roiggghte in yer ear singin’ “Into the darkness again/ In with the pigs in the pen.”
The band all click as one, the older tracks like The Boys In The Better Land and Jackie Down The Line stand out as more Sup’-suited for this time slot on a Sunday night. That is until I Love You and Starburster hits us in the warm and fuzzies and we give our mates a group hug that feels special even after the embrace ends.
Golden Plains always throws up some random hilarity and, my friends, that’s what Robin S provided in her 19-minute set. Before she starts they twice (!) play a wonderfully overblown career montage on the screen, replete with baseball-style American voiceover, then she takes the stage in a floral pink scarf and hippy pants, builds up to her hit Show Me Love, ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY smashes it to a mass singalong and is away, helping organisers make up for lost storm time.
It’s almost like she wanted to break Princess Superstar’s record for quickest hit-it-and-quit-it set in The Sup’.
2ManyDJs have been at the apex of dance music for 25 years because they always have two feet in the past and two in the future — they’re brothers, don’t question my maths.
Tonight, the Belgian duo play a bonkers, restless-but-not-fidgety set including Talking Heads edits, Vitalic’s La Rock 01 and their own Tame Impala remix of Let It Happen. Nearing 3am after a barrage of excellent music and life experiences, Kevin Parker’s reassuring, John Lennon-esque vocals feels like free life coaching.
I listen to Zjoso and CCL from a place called Bedfordshire (my mattress) and swear I hear Wicked Game by Chris Isaak (tick! It was the Trentemoller Businessman Dubby Games Remix remix) and 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins (can someone check? DMs open).
CCL unfurls Idris Muhammad’s Could Heaven Ever Be Like This as the closing track during sunrise. All the grinning photos of my buddies the next day confirm this Golden Plains was an all-timer.
Best Doof Sticks
Dancing monkey, LED Gameboy, Guinness Pint and Toucan, Miniature Purple Lantern. Loads more obvs.
Settle a bet: The Sup’ or the Soup’
In Aunty Meredith’s introduction in the Program she finally pointed out the original pronunciation of The Sup’: “There’s no wrong answer but it was intended as The Soup as in short for The Supernatural Amphitheatre, hence “see you in The Sup’. But whatever, it’s yours now.”
Overheard
“There are way less groping gronks here compared to Meredith last year.”
“Did you see the guy from Sun Ra Arkestra doing cartwheels on stage then he pretended to have a heart attack then said ‘I’m back bayyybayy.’”
“I always start day two with a power wank in my tent.”
“Skeleten sounds like Gotye on K.”
“Yep and the keyboardist is my dream girl.”
“How the feck is the KNEECAP guy wearing a balaclava and not dying of heatstroke?”
“This sounds like an AI version of Americana.” (during Bonny Light Horseman).
“Grace Cummings name sounds so much like a porn star with an extra ‘s’…no? Guys?” (tumbleweeds)
And finally, this beauty from Andrew Raphael on the Meredith/Golden Plains Ticket Swapping (unofficial) Facebook page:
After Kneecap I found myself speaking with a very passionate Irish woman who just needed to vent about Thatcher. I repeated only three things to her in the 15 minutes she was speaking:
“I’m glad she’s dead”
“…fuckin Tories”
“Jesus Christ…”
She then asked me for a cigarette, and when I offered it to her she said that she’d quit smoking because she got a dog and she’s allergic to dogs.
I asked her to clarify her story. She did not.
I almost gave her the boot.
To keep up with Aunty, head here.
