It’s fucking nice out. Hit my line. I look at the schedule for the next two days and am excited. This is what it must feel like to go to Europe in the Summer or finish a book. I carefully pack my cans of golds and bitters into the esky. God, what an indulgent piggy! A 10-pack of Canadian Club to-boot? Outrageous. Financially crippling. Absolutely necessary. The Mazda 2 roars to life in my driveway. Lizzy gracefully organises the camping gear in the back and Mick chucks in a thousand beers and a single lime. I really hope his cocaine isn’t as bad as his chat. I stall twice and nearly crash trying to queue music on the highway. We arrive in high spirits.

It’s blue skies and sunshine or whatever and there’s a lot of shit rigs out and about. Asha manages to find our campsite without any assistance (beast), and with the crew now in-place, I set-up my milk crate throne and start photosynthesising joints and tinnies like a late season tomato plant. We are going to live forever, shoulda bought a stubbie cooler, this op shop air mattress is fucking sick, free energy is real, screenshot of set times, psychological operation, sunscreen, anunnaki, post-punk etc.

Walking down to the sup’ is always a treat, especially when it’s nice out, you’re chilling and you’ve got loud. SPLIT SYSTEM opens the fest, meat n potatoes Australiana, oooo yeah, rock n punk n punk n rock. Raise ya fist in the air and may the Saints, Rifles and Birdmans live forever. Splitties naturally emerged outta Melbourne’s underground like a product of evolutionary forces; a tattooed amphibious lizard rearing its head from a primordial soup of pints, crowd surfing and independent record labels. They lovingly reconfigure a familiar local palette of power chords, steeze-y riffs and half-sung/half-shouted vocals into something devotional and fun. We get all da hits, ‘End Of The Night’, and ‘Alone Again’ being the standouts.

Plop down at the campsite, munch on mushies, load up esky, walk back down, WEDNESDAY! Man, what a band! Definitely one of the highlights of the entire fest. ‘Rat Saw God’ has rightly catapulted them to the cusp of alt-stardom, evidenced by the packed sup’ and sold out shows. Wednesday’s lurid portrayal of middle-America exists in tiny details and affected drawl, bombastic noise and considered twang, mental breakdowns and teary giggles. It’s universal in so far as you find suburbia an unsettling hellscape. I feel dem mushies really cooking as we get ‘Chosen To Deserve’ early in the setlist. Probably one of my favourite indie outputs of the last few years, the combination of surprisingly heavy guitars and earnest lapsteel work is potent and fantastic. Karly sings “now all the drugs are gettin’ kind-of borin’ to me/now everywhere is loneliness and it’s in everything/Thank God that I was chosen to deserve you/’Cause I’m the girl you were chose to deserve”. They obviously close on ‘Bull Believer’ and it’s obviously fucked up good, the last minutes of their set drawing out into a beautifully apocalyptic textured mess, Karly screaming and singing over the top as cymbals crash and the guitars build to an impossible climax. I want to shoot a gun at a stop sign and lie on a porch and listen to insects and smoke more weed. What a fookin performance mate, really exceptional.

I’m feeling nice and pineal now which is extremely optimal for WITCH. The Zamrock band has been a staple in my playlists for years and although still reeling from Wednesday, I warm up my feet, aggressively and shittily dance on the hill. Much like Cymande, who plays tomorrow evening, WITCH are beneficiaries of reissues, algorithms and continued interest in danceable esoterica. Over 50 years from their inception, the newly reconfigured WITCH still gets crowds moving. Their funk and psychedelia tinged afro-garage-pop is as potent to listen to on mushrooms in 2024 as it was in 1974. Frontman Jagari is in his 70s and hasn’t lost any of his infamous on-stage charisma, still leading the band with fervour, taking timeless rock melodies across choppy rhythms and fuzz’d reprisals. There’s no denying the original essence of the band as it’s presented on-stage and I’m a sweaty ball of positive energy after they finish.

I don’t remember anything from RVG’s set (drunk, high, etc) and so I’ve asked Asha, who loves RVG and remembers more than me, to write this part:

RVG Romy ! Vager ! Group ! Melbourne’s finest goth exports grace the stage for the first darkness-shrouded set of the festival. I’m beyond wrapt as I descend the hill towards the glowing orange campfire light of the stage, perfectly chosen for the unique sonic geography of the band, almost breathless as I catch Romy haul upwards to the second chorus of Midnight Sun. I know there is exemplary musicianship occurring around her but I cannot take my eyes away. I think back to the day the guitarist of Killing Joke passed away as we spent hours in the bookshop trying to dissect if anyone still sings that way and I didn’t say it at the time but Romy is it. She has that signature goth sarcasm in her voice, a hangover from the forgotten croonings of Andi Sex Gang and Olli Wisdom, morphed through early PJ Harvey and late-stage Saints to come out with a truly dark Australiana. There’s twinges of Wait Long By the River era Drones. Trapped in the spotlighting from the stage I feel like the day I threw my bike and then myself down the steep embankment as the lights of the freight train barreled towards me, David Bowie’s Five Years blasting in my ears in the autumn small-town dusk as sticks snare chunks of matted curl from the back of my head. And suddenly we thunder into I Used to Love You and all I can do is grip my Tun Bitter and sway.

Thank you, Asha. BORIS descends upon the crowd like a tropical storm: feedback, smoke machine, wall of sound, mayhem, noise wizards... The set feels like one long song without any reprieve, guttural n beckoning vox, at the gates of the underworld and all that. We get the double neck guitar/bass, gong behind the drummer, tape echo next to Wata’s guitar, ohhh yeah, some high level rock dawg action here. Atsuo, the original vocalist for Boris emerges from the wall of smoke like a shaman of the end times, casting long-forgotten spells with careful wrist flourishes and an unsettling elegance amidst such distorted, heavy chaos. I really feel the Sunn O))) influence, but that could also just be the drugs. Cleaning up cerberus’ shit at the dog park, riding a valkyrie into the city, necromancing your dead lizard, the post-doom malaise weaves between classic hard rock riffage. (bottle in whitewash, twig in spokes, sock in rinse cycle). Boris are unrelenting and fucking awesome. I cannot make out a single song but raise my fist often and am justifiably pushed around even more.

The YUSSEF DAYES EXPERIENCE is undeniably world-class, Yussef might be the greatest drummer I’ve ever seen, maybe, i dunno, probably, but after such an intense run of acts, I am not feeling in the mood to consume fancy-pants intricate contemporary jazz fusion. I feel more like consuming food, or perhaps a pinga. Yussef Dayes tseems like stoner bait, Nujabes on bath salts or something. The band is off chops but too indulgent for my brain at this point in the night.

I walk back to the campsite and three canadian clubs dissolve on my palette. JFK’s suicidal tendencies. Regurgitator is playing in the background and I am not motivated to witness 90s alt Brisbane steeze. I look at my hand. “Just fucking eat it mate” says the man from Ballarat and so I do.

CHARLOTTE ADIGERY & BOLIS PUPUL’s 2022 release ‘Topical Dancer’ was as revelatory to my conceptualisation of dance music as actual ecstasy was for 30-something James Murphy (although I hear that stuff is pretty good as well). The Belgian duo’s electro-pop is about as contemporary I’ve heard, their sound is just so... Modern. They’re like a tesla with a climate change sticker on the bumper or a vape with wireless charging. It’s tongue-in-cheek, funny, pertinent, European, trendy and probably chic even though I don’t know what that word means. Charlotte’s pointed dressing-downs emerge as memorable one-liners, dripping with sarcasm and melody. She may very well be the most attractive person on the planet. I am currently half-crouched with both of my hands raised in the air, covered in sweat and deep in a state that can only be described as ‘goblin mode’. I think we’d be good together. Bolis’s production has a fantastic sense of space, choppy, unconventional rhythms providing the basis for sharp bass lines and organic-sounding synths. The duo is my favourite act of the festival. I hear from countless people the next day that Charlotte’s laughter at the start of ‘HAHA’ is one of the coolest things they’ve seen. I agree. She lies down on the stage and without a single moment of insincerity or cringe, perfectly replicates the affected giggling and cackling heard on-record. The hits keep coming though, ‘you’re cold as ice!’, lets gooo, ‘Blenda’, ‘It Hit Me’, ‘Making Sense Stop’... I wish they could play on these big ass speakers all night. Foreshadowing.

~~~

I awake feeling like the walls of a compost toilet, a tumour in a beloved pet, a forgotten birthday, a bug on a windshield, a lost pair of car keys, sewage run-off, radiation, maggots, faeces, gutter, trash, bad... The first thing I hear is Sarah Mary Chadwick balladeering in the background - cold side of pillow sorta gear. I muster the courage to look inside the esky and the situation is absolutely catastrophic. Asha’s case of green Tuns become important. Vital, even. If Sarah Mary Chadwick had any decency she’d walk over to my campsite and drown me in the remaining liquid of the esky. Boot to neck, I cost more to fix than what I’m worth. I sit on the milkcrate with a shaky hand, shoving a bullet into the revolver, spinning the barrel and pointing it at my head, Asha rushes over to put a bloody mary to my lips, I pull the trigger and it clicks. I take a sip, it’s a really good batch. I watch Mick awake from his swag and It’s immediately obvious all the cocaine is gone - beady eyes, red face, a defeated slump. Alas. We all slouch and eat our vapes, cocktails and breakfast pingas (panadol, anti-nausea, claratyne). Music writing (jesus fucking christ) resumes.

I reckon THE BELAIR LIP BOMBS latest record ‘Lush Life’ was quietly one of my favourite local releases of 2023 and it’s a treat to see the songs come to life while nursing a beer like a newborn. The Lip Bombs’ tunes are sincerely catchy and despite the sandpaper in my throat, I find myself singing along to many of em’. Maisie’s voice is in much better order, well-suited to the big stage, leading anthemic indie choruses that feel at home under the dregs of Summer. She has fantastic range but it’s those deep, from-the-diaphragm melodies that catch my attention... ‘Look The Part’ has always been on high rotation at Stew HQ. The driving tempo and dual guitars do a great job of keeping everything rooted in garage-rock, sounding leaner and more angular than a lot of the indie/alt rock/pop you’re liable to hear in the algorithm. Wind hits my sails and I feel a bit of momentum about the joint after they finish.

The sun is still shining and MJ LENDERMAN’s ripped blue jeans roots n 90s alt schmoozin’ is hitting the spot. His live album And The Wind (Live and Loose!) showcased MJ’s songs to me in a whole different light, the live version of ‘You Are Every Girl To Me’ being one of my favourites he’s released to-date (Xandy tapping his lapsteel with a cello bow at the start mwuah). I think his music sounds like heaps of shit, Drive By Truckers, Modest Mouse, Yo Le Tengo, Songs: Ohia... Then ya got all the source material under that, Prine, Townes, Young and the rest of em’. It’s a pretty fertile intersection of country and alternative rock, telecasters and offsets existing in harmony, and for some people it might be nostalgic, but for me it sounds cool and new. Ya get the cigar-chomp feeling that ‘this kids gon’ be a star’ as he plays through all the hits from the much-lauded 2022 release ‘Boat Songs’. The lyrical nature of MJ reminds me of lotsa dolewave tunes, kitchen sink melancholy, dag-y, intimate, slacker universalisms, crazy horse/courtney barnett, etc. Much like his partner’s band, Wednesday, MJ Lenderman builds the set to an obvious yet no-less spectacular climax, closing on the banger ‘Tastes Just Like It Costs’.

The day feels like it’s barely begun and I walk back to the campsite like a ghoul, a dementor, a very tired man. The back of my car may as well be a vegas penthouse suite. I crash into the sweatiest, deepest, most blissful nap of my life. Drool running down the air mattress, dirty, smelly feet dangling out the back of the boot, an hour or so passes undisturbed. I have a dream where I look in a mirror and colour my teeth black with a sharpie I left in my pocket from work. Does this still count as music journalism? Probably. Unfortunately. I eat chicken and rice and it tastes like butt ass and costs $18. If I ever took notes it would probably mention something about the ambiance or defining characteristics of Meredith at this point, but my elbows are on my knees and I’m eating butt ass chicken resisting the urge to shove a biodegradable fork directly into my eye.

The spiritual distance I feel from the members of BLACK COUNTRY, NEW ROAD at this moment is immense. Post-goblin mode, haggard, a husk, I look at these Cambridge art school gweebens with disdain. Music theory, cinematic swells and autistic band lore on subreddits killed my father in a similar incident and I won’t let it happen to me.

However, there was absolutely no denying the group’s performance at Golden Plains. Taking to the stage as the sun was setting, they suspended time and belief, wiping my memory of all the amazing music that had played before. BC,NR performed some material from ‘Live at Bush Hall’, but mainly songs I’ve never heard before. These new tracks were exceptional, with Georgia, May and Tyler taking turns leading; May digging into the keys and accordian, Georgia on the violin and guitar and Tyler alternating between bowed and plucked bass. When they all come together to form the three-part harmony on ‘For the Cold Country’ it’s spectral, May gliding over softly descending lines and instrumentation always finding the perfect time to come in. “I’ll take off my armour if you promise to stay” - It’s very beautiful. encompassing a full range of emotion, from ever-floating, breathless builds to delicate, stripped back moments of just vocals + sax. Hungover and stoned as the sun descends - it’s fantastic, the set ending ridiculously and chaotically and in a bit of a black midi-ish fervour. Next record probably gon be sick.

I have listened to a lot of KING STINGRAY’s tunes over the years, especially in and around Brisbane as they were coming up in 2020/21. It’s not a surprise to see them on such a big stage, delivering their new wave-y anthems with a relaxed, fun energy. They’ve certainly come a long way and they played well but it’s not the stuff I want at the moment, especially after MJ and BC,NR and heading into The Streets.

After slogging through the day, battling tooth and nail to get drunk again, I have made it to THE STREETS and I am keen to see them. Mike Skinner immediately strikes me as a beguiling fella, his interactions and energy is personable if a bit hollow on such a large stage. He sprays champagne over the front row, gets an audience member to hold the microphone for him, and is constantly speaking to the crowd during and between songs, “we’re all going to have a shit week after this, may as well enjoy it while you can”, “come on guys, raise your shoes in the air and lets have a social media moment”. The banter is tongue-in-cheek and on-brand if a bit insincere. Anyway! The live show is fantastic, we get all the juice off the first album, ‘Turn The Page’, ‘Dont Mug Yourself’, ‘Has It Come To This’, and ‘Let’s Push Things Forward’. Some of the newer stuff rips as well though, ‘Who’s Got The Bag’ and ‘Take Me as I Am’ getting things moving with harder dubstep cuts. Although I’m sure many in the crowd feel nostalgia around this set, I am simply enjoying the classics manifested live, the proto-grime, off-the-cuff garage melding smoothly with my two-day old brain. Their latest album, and first in over 10 years, ‘The Darker The Shadow The Brighter The Light’, sounds extremely uninspired and mid to me, but thankfully I don’t recognise any songs from it on-stage. They finish up and I instantly teleport back to the boot of the car. I sleep long n hard.

The next day, we pack up site, and I do a tear-jerking, rosary-bead-clenching poo at the Meredith town cafe. The barista’s karmic retort is to spend 15 minutes diligently and lovingly burning the milk of my flat white. I curse her name, fist raised out of window, takeaway cup spitefully shoved into centre console. Mick puts on his favourite Dirty Three album, Lizzy half-sleeps on camping gear in the back and we turn onto the highway and head back home.