Golden Plains 2009

Golden Plains review

By Samson McDougall

 

Post Golden Plains depression grips my weary body and drowsy mind as I write this. Increasingly these days it feels as if summer begins with Meredith in December and ends with Golden Plains in March. Still we’ll push on with the melancholy remnants of a lost friend in our hearts and the harsh reality of another dry but chilly Victorian winter on the horizon.

Each year there exists a wide-eyed, enthusiastic optimism in the freshly made eyes of city-dwelling Golden Plains goers. While the military fatigued lone-soldiers arm themselves with the comfort that they are better equipped than the average, there are those of us that are secure in the knowledge that it’s not going to matter a fuck what happens; we’ll power through regardless, bubbling from the eyeballs and certain of nothing but the decimation of body and brain. For the prepared amongst us there is little to separate this from any other semi-luxuriant weekend getaway—waterproof disposal gear, state of the art tentage, weather forecasting—but for the remainder it continues to be a test of mental and physical endurance unrivalled but by our last (painful and moist) Meredith visit.

A man inside an enormous beach ball, crowd-surfing and drinking a can of MB capped off this event and embodied the spirit of Golden Plains festival to the ground. I can’t believe it’s the first time I’ve seen this! I don’t believe it’ll be the last we see of beer-bubble man. After all, like many god-like figures before him, women want him and men want to be him.

 Once again the calibre and mind-blowing mix of acts on this GP bill outshined any festival line-up of the last year. The heavily psychedelic musical leanings were again complemented by an indulgent and psychotrophically adventurous audience; the organisers don’t mess around with this one, they aim to please and somehow manage to get it right every time.

            The usual jostle for valuable bush-camp space was pronounced by the less than courteous sensibilities of a few punters attempting to save tent space for their: ‘Girlfriend who doesn’t finish work till five’, ‘mates who’re driving down from Canberra’, or, ‘sick pregnant half-sister who’s only got a week to live.’ First-in best-dressed..? Whatever.

            Soon enough the beer was iced and sliding down the throats of thirsty girls and boys determined to push the boundaries of sensible consumption. From this moment forth, things get a bit hazy. We set off with the knowledge that we were in for one hell of a ride and we weren’t disappointed.

The real beauty of this bill was the diversity of acts, which allowed for customised Golden Plains experiences—no two parties alike. I’m proudly part of the ‘you’re not going to tell me what to do’ set who actively shunned Dan Deacon’s domineering demands. Lucky for me as, if the rumours are true (and I love a bit of unverified gossip as much as the next bloke), a young woman broke both her legs during Deacon’s strange and unusual routine. Time for a rethink Mr Deacon perhaps?

Deaf Wish proved again, well… deafening, whilst Brant Bjork and Black Mountain held up the psychoactive end of the first night nicely. The shoes came off (again) for Bjork who gawked and grinned his way through some stoner solo-fests as his band mates gaped bug-eyed at the thickening crowd. Though they managed to resist delving into any Kyuss material, and they knew we wanted it, Bjork and his Bros got some groovy shit happening as the people puffed.

Black Mountain kept the buzz going swimmingly with some fine, hooky sweetness. But it was Mogwai that smashed the boundaries of common sense with a reckless display of weaponry and noise. In doing so Mogwai divided the camp into two distinct categories: 1. they’re boring and loud and I don’t understand it; and 2. that’s about the most intense performance you will ever see or hear and about as good as you could ever expect. The low end of their spectrum buzzed out the melody to a certain extent, but for those of us who knew where to find it, it remained delicately apparent under the seventeen tons of sonic chaos they created. Their closing number 2 Rights Make 1 Wrong stole the entire weekend for, undoubtedly, more than just yours truly.

            Some of us lined for coffee next morning and some of us opted for strong drink. It can be a true test of grit to muscle your way through a frigid Meredith morning and the level of commitment to the cause was, as per usual, exceptional.

My Disco dominated an all-killer line-up on day two, so much so that many other acts got buried in the mashed-potato wasteland of grey-matter that so many of us travelled home with. Sure, Jim White, John Doe, The Church, Gary Numan and Tony Allen told us how it used to be and did a fine job of it. But My Disco told us how it is for an hour and we listened and listened well—I don’t reckon there’s any denying it.

To sell out a festival without even announcing the bands is testament to the pulling power of reputation alone. GP attracts the kind of devotee that retains faith in their supreme organisation and booking prowess year-in and year-out, un-reliant on gimmickry or hype. The resulting cross-section of folk are there for the enjoyment of the festival for its beautiful surrounds, wondrous tunes and laid-back atmosphere—rock’n’roll ideology in the purest sense. While the odd dickhead is a given at any event, the ratio of idiots to all-round cruisers is kept down at the Supernatural Amphitheatre and for this I am grateful.

                        With the slow yet, for once, relatively pain free exodus back to Melbourne done and dusted for another year, it’s a long haul until the next one. For now the dry but beautiful fields of Golden Plains are where my wind-beaten, sun-baked heart remains and where my fondest memories survive.