Meredith Music Festival
Meredith, Victoria
Friday 10th December 2010

by Marcus Teague, Andrew Crook and Ariel Katz

REVIEWS AND PHOTOS OF DAY TWO | REVIEW AND PHOTOS OF DAY THREE

AC & MT: Much has been made of the homely idea that Meredith Music Festival, celebrating its 20th year, never changes. That the same bands-and-slabs-in-a-field formula dreamed up by Greg Peele, Chris Nolan and Marcus Downie in 1991 is still kicking proudly today. Which, while ethically sound, isn't entirely true.

For the purists that only ever attend Meredith, the changes are easy to spot, and the impulse to dismiss the event as something outgrown lingers. The crowd gets richer and younger (or maybe you just get older and poorer); beyond a few grumbles from the zealots, there is a real sign that price pressure could be dissuading the faithful, with sister event Golden Plains, arguably boasting a stronger line-up, yet to sell out in its usual rapid-fire manner. [Correction: This statement was incorrect. Organisers have told us that Golden Plains has never sold out before January 8th in its previous 4 years. Last year was January 22nd - Ed]. International acts now speak of the festival in glowing terms and a good proportion of the audience seemingly ingest stimulants not widely available in the early 90s. Structures once makeshift or humble are now permanent additions to the wider festival grounds, and the gentle policing of crowd participants and bar attendees are more visible than ever. Intrinsic to the running of a festival that now boasts the smooth management of 12,000 punters, sure, but with each thoughtful addition a ghost of the "old" Meredith is quietly laid to rest.

But as Sunday's MC Angus Sampson, pointed out, Meredith's real asset, and the one that sets it apart from virtually every other festival in the land, is its bloody-mindedness in band selection (never heard of Jeff the Brotherhood? Who cares, they slay it...) and the middle-fingered fuck you to corporate piggybacking. Still no Red Bull tents and Channel V stages after two decades and still a bewildering and educational line-up.

Matt High, who now co-runs the festival fairly full-time, gave an emotional anniversary speech on Saturday, telling everyone just how much Meredith means. "We won't stuff it up," he pledged, as Chris Nolan, incapacitated by a shocking infection in the mid-1990s, smiled from his wheelchair. In an instant, the crowd perhaps realised that their living room, and all those other fields, weren't greener after all. 'Happy Birthday' was sung twice, with the kind of ferocity reserved for football dressing rooms. And Meredith, if it had ever shied away, was well and truly back.

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MT: It seems like no matter how early the alarm is set, the hardcore Meredith contingent will always surprise. Upon early arrival on Friday morning and, post-passing three kilometres of football-kicking, couch-sitting, drink-sipping car inhabitants waiting patiently, our convoy was greeted with a Meredith campsite more than half already filled. Bouncing through the dirt trails we found ourselves in Top Camp, away from the usual Bush Camp stomping grounds and within whiffing distance of a convenient row of compost toilets. With sun bursting through patches of intermittent drizzle and wind whipping across the valley vista through the pines (a pattern that would be repeated across the entire weekend, making fashion statements a nightmare), we plonked down upon the golden grass and congratulated ourselves around an esky. What seems uncomposed  back in civilisation feels like par for the course in the Meredith universe.

AK: While we were eager to get in and get set up as early as possible, we did have a minor setback when our van, Norman, got bogged about 500 meters out from the entrance. In a rush of enthusiasm we all jumped out to coerce the ol’ man from that which ensnared him. On ‘THREE!’ we were to push. I saw bits of debris fly toward me as Norman’s engine revved, but alas too late, I was committed, on the word ‘THREE!’ we all pressed ourselves against the car and I was immediately showered in mud. The only one -  apparently something to do with standing directly behind the swamped wheel. Not even in the gates and I was surrendered to my first Meredith experience and all the dirt/adventure involved.

MT: By 4pm the urge to have Meredith proper embrace you with a running, furious dry hump, was dulled somewhat by the Puta Madre Brothers electing to blow gentle kisses across the room. The triplicate of drums, guitars and faux Mexican accents seemed like a recipe for classic Meredith appreciation, but three songs in their movements around tasteful licks and drawn out, Morricone-esue patches do little to spark. A flat mix doesn't help, and the lure of the first Pink Flamingo makes for too strong a siren. We hoik up to the bar to find it's pink satin lanterns swinging in the vigorous breeze, and an allotment of people happily nestled in the unusually long green grass. Victoria's frequent dumps of rain over the last year might have been an annoyance for many, but the breaking of the El Nino weather cycle has meant vegetation at Meredith is at an all-time lush high.

With the Meredith Festival wick still only smouldering, it's left to Melbourne party kids Rat vs Possum to finally light the cracker, and they veritably detonate the stage. A mash up of jungle drumming, deep synth beds, ratbag stage hi-jinks and group chants, the now 5-piece come across as the nervy art students dismantling pop music into their own image. Lying somewhere between what MGMT should have morphed into and what Animal Collective did, the band manage their own spin on clattering mash-up music, making cuts from their 2010 debut Daughter of Sunshine sound thrilling and chaotic, without ever losing the reigns. Or their own identity. Should reappear at Meredith/Golden Plains in the 9:30pm slot and immediately become everyone's new favourite band.

AK: 20 year-old indie chanteuse Kimbra, was the first musical act I was to experience and she proved a very lovely start. Framed by a band of four white-clad gents, her quirky, electro-tinged outfit established her as the focus even before she sang. But what a voice. Beautiful, confident, Bjork-tinged, smoky and soul-filled. The NZ-bred singer's single ‘Settle Down’ was especially impressive, and her electro-lite proved a perfect segue between the manic energy of Rat vs Possum and the rock punch of Jeff the Brotherhood.

AC: The first chapter in Meredith's Nashville double-shot (Those Darlins would dominate Sunday afternoon), Jeff the Brotherhood blasted a guitar FX-a-thon of poppy tracks from first album Heavy Days, released locally on Spunk. The "brotherhood" bit is probably because Jake and Jamin Orrall are real-life siblings, and the ramshackle fuzz offensive belied a sellotaped synthesis that held together over the 40 minutes of prime stagetime. Despite the volume boost provided by the humongous Meredith PA and drilling tunes like 'Heavy Damage' and 'Pleasure Centre' being shrouded in all sorts of echo-ed out overlays, the brothers failed - just - to leave a permanent mark. It wasn't for a lack of trying, it just might have been better in the top paddock with a single amp and a generator.

MT: After a trip back to our campsite to survey a warmer range of clothes and a tent slowly losing its battle against the wild top paddock winds, Broadcast were, I was reliably informed by someone still agog at their club show in Melbourne the night before, "going to be shit" in the fading daylight. They weren't, but the UK duo's doomy pop was a poor match for a now chilly crowd desperately needing to get their party started in the nexus of the night. The band, too, seemed unable to fully connect in the not-quite-dark-enough surrounds. Glimpses of the desired effect could be seen whenever frontwoman Trish Keenan silhouetted herself against the dramatic backdrop, the scene being as if we were suddenly peering at her through a keyhole into a futuristic dollhouse. Their mood-inducing icy pop sheen was graceful enough, but with the sun dropping behind an icy earth, the punters appeared to be wishing for blast beats or joyful screams; at least something to kick the night into gear.

Cloud Control mystified. Classy indie-rock band with safe-arrangements playing a gently Africanised version of inoffensive pop? I wouldn't say no. And yet Cloud Control's appeal remains elusive. The band seem pleased as punch at having made their Meredith debut in the plum, 9:30 to 10:15 spot, and for good reason; the optimist would applaud the elevation of a hardworking, local indie act to such a debut - a hard-bopping and generous core of fans tonight appear to back such a thought. But the cynic wonders if the culmination of booze, substances, end-of-the-work-week-goodwill colliding with radio familiarity and the crosshairs of the  night, basically allow such an act a free pass. Happy to settle for motifs that frustratingly avoid hooks, the recently-celebrated Sydney quartet's argument as anything but Australia's answer to more palatable parts of Brooklyn's influence on recent history, is wobbly. Neutral lyrics, humble ideas that don't mature and a general intangible feeling that history will view them as bright eyed, right-place-right-time wonders. None of this serves to dampen the crowds enthusiasm tonight, though it brims rather than blazes. The band, it must be said, have an absolute ball.

AK & MT: Little Red are enthusiastic. Their sound is largely innocuous and bright, but they translate as more about snappy dressing than sharp sounds. On just past the tick of midnight, the five-piece were lively and main-stage confident, all clangy guitar riffs, jangly percussion and a rampant affinity for shirts to be unbuttoned to the belly. With a handful of now bona fide festival hits, 'Coca Cola' and 'Rock It' being the night's essentials - the latter finding frontman Dominic Byrne guitar-free and arms aloft on the risers, leading the mug-athon for the weekend's first true "festival" moment - they didn’t really need much more to claim victory.

AC: Twenty-past one on a wintry Friday was a suitable juncture for some underground rap, but even in a mashy state it was difficult to cope with the sonic weaponry that greeted Clipse's arrival. The brothers had obviously told organisers to keep the bass jacked up to meteoric levels to suit the mood, so that the opening chop-ups on 'Mr Me Too', from Hell Hath No Fury resembled alien death rays aimed at the brains of those who had retired prematurely to their tents. Ice cold bangers like 'Keys Open Doors' from that album and Lord Willin' dominated the set, causing temporary mayhem and chant-alongs. But in what was the start of a 'festival of the plug', the duo destroyed the vibe entirely by imploring people to jump on websites and keep an eye out for future solo releases. The internet is clearly irking Clipse, but a straw poll on who bought HHNF compared to who downloaded it pushed the sell-job, like the distorted bass, gimmicky horns and Atari explosion sounds exploding from the left speaker stack, way too far.

MT: After a wander through the now frosted fields that took in a visit to the womb-like Pink Flamingo bar, a rival publications plush hotel/large van, and the superbly late-opening Roti Wrap stand, The Field sounded pretty excellent as we bedded down for the night. But with the temperature plummeting to an all time Meredith low, the only two decisions were to embrace the dancefloor or sleep. And at 3:30am, the band's review could only slowly slip away under the down of a warm sleeping bag.

REVIEWS AND PHOTOS OF DAY TWO | REVIEW AND PHOTOS OF DAY THREE

(Pics: Tim O'Connor)