Harvest Festival
Paramatta Park, Parramatta NSW
Sunday 13th November 2011
By Jonno Seidler and Bridie Connellan
Remember what flights used to be like? When nobody hassled you and you didn’t have to take your shoes off, and throw away your liquids, and keep your baggage under some ridiculous limit, and the hostess didn’t charge you for a glass of water? That’s a pretty much how it was being at Harvest in Sydney.
Festivals have become such a fucking stress lately that it’s becoming increasingly hard to amp yourself up to go, what with the dickheads and the bouncers and the drink lines that go forever. We had it better than what was reported in Melbourne, but aside from Sydney's Harvest Festival being in Parramatta — where at least 60% of the audience had never actually been to in their lives — Harvest was absolutely flawless. Knock promoter AJ Maddah all you want, and plenty have, but you can see why he put his arse on the line for this show; Sydney has been waiting for something like this for years.
At Harvest Sydney, we wait maximum five minutes for a beer or the bathroom. Even when you’re at a packed-out stage, nobody gets in your face and everybody is polite. Better than that, it feels like every single one of the nine or so thousand people in attendance is actually here for the same reason as you – a rare occurence. This was branded – unfairly, I might add – as an ‘old person’s festival’, because of The National and Portishead not being spring chickens, and an apparent glut of geriatrics who love listening to Holy Fuck in their Volvos. Sure. But really, it’s skewed more towards us, the fans in their mid-twenties who are sick of the ‘roided-up, antisocial arseholes who now rule every event from Parklife to Big Day Out. And by jove, we’re having a blast.
We only get to Paramatta Park for the end of The Family Stone’s set, which is a massive bummer. But given that they ride out one funk tune for fifteen minutes, we’re pretty sure we have an idea of what’s going on. Nobody knows what’s going to happen in the first Aussie TV On The Radio shows post-bassist Gerard Smith’s death, but the band absolutely dazzle the afternoon crowd with a frenetic, energised hour of rock that is even more pulsing than on record. They lean far too heavily on new material, but we do get a punk-rock ‘Staring At The Sun’ and a few Cookie Mountain cuts. Twin vocalists Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone are just one of the well-oiled units we’re going to see today, but their symmetry is scarily good. Plus, whoever is now on drums is a demon and their trombonist sounds like an entire horn section. So nothing to sniff about here.
With a furry cloud haze forming the perfect sun shelter for punters, Nebraska’s cherished pioneers of poetic indie rock Bright Eyes subsequently sent the lot of us back to our emo-teens, dredging up heartbreak and young lovers we sure didn’t have to love. Wonderfully clad in a tassled poncho-cardi, Oberst and his merry band kicked off in 'Four Winds' swinging style after a 15 minute tech-snag (“there was a little ghost in the machine, he’s gone home now”). Keyboardist Laura Burhenn shafted presuppositions of being mere stage candy, sending her poker faced synth-tinkering and pristine harmonies straight to the pines, and back via Parramatta Station. And with talk that all good things must come to an end, the rumoured disbanding of Bright Eyes made today's special set just that little bit more charmingly sad. Temporarily dismissing his duo of drummers and trumpeter Nate Walcott for a moment of storytelling clarity, a stirring solo rendition of 'Landlocked Blues' with Oberst’s rolling poetry and fight-the-Man-no-wait-just-scream-passionately-about-the-Man-and-your-girlfriend-Laura-you’re-leaving-in-a-hotel-room schtick reminding us all why there’s no shame in a good ‘n special indie wallow. ThankYOU Omaha.
Between dry grass, war monuments and gum trees, Harvest did well in the outskirts. With Batlow cider in hand [yes, THAT lunchbox apple], and country-folk toppling into gypsy, an unexpected but most welcome addition to the musical line-up was the Cope Street Parade, a howevermany-piece ensemble jamming with sousaphones and banjos atop a coffee stand far from the main stages, as well as sneaky tent Le Boudoir blasting Kate Bush between eclectic performances such as Justin Shoulders’ fantastical creature V. Next door, in The [Not So] Secret Garden, things were getting dub and freestylin’ as UK reggae institution Trojan Sound System made their Australian debut, while ladies with moustaches dragged their feet with The Glitter Militia in The Snuff Box. Essentially, shit got weird. Back to the bands.
(Continued next page)