Splendour in the Grass - Day 3
Woodford, Queensland
Sunday 1st August 2010

DAY 1 | DAY 2

by Marcus T, Andrew Crook, Ariel Katz

(Pics: Tim O'Connnor)

MT: After three days on the site, mostly spent on the feet, and long nights of socialising, I expected to feel destroyed by now. Instead, the combination of a drop in humidity with today's more relaxed atmosphere (no doubt due to the masses making Saturday night 'party' night) makes Sunday the laziest day of the event. I take my time, walking around and absorbing as much food as possible. It's odd to see Chai tents nudged up against stores selling Cheap Monday jeans, but it does sum up the crossroads of Splendour's history and present neatly. Whether the store selling crafted wooden flutes, the dance troupes of the Tipi Forest and the oxymoron of the "Sacred Art on Vinyl" shop still holds any relevance for the skinny-jean clad ticket-holders here is a long shot - I highly doubt anyone spending a months wages on Passion Pit and cocktails is going to take home a dreamcatcher or harbor eco ideas. Still, such breadcrumbs are important in at least signifying the underlying spirit of the festival and that of its wider region. There's nothing like the humiliation of walking around with 30,000 people crammed into the concrete woks of the Melbourne Showgrounds or Sydney's Homebush Stadium (and under local marshall law) to highlight ones insignificance. And brute commonality. At least here - whether accepted or not - individuality is clearly celebrated; the choice is yours rather than assigned.

Sydney's The Mess Hall deserve a late night slot on a small sweaty stage rather than their cumbersome midday position on the sun-drenched main amphitheatre. The huge stage already dwarfs any living thing, so it's exacerbated by just having the two ants on it in the form of Cec Condon and Jed Kerzel. In any case, I'm ever impressed by the wide range of tones and emotions the pair wring out of just a guitar and drums (well OK, and a keyboardist and Kurzels doom-inducing bass pedals tucked behind his foldback), and Kurzels voice belted out strongly around the grassy coliseum, pitching his casual angst into the foliage upon high. They were simply too far away for new fans to be struck by the magic in their minutiae, but by the time they finished with an extended version of 'Keep Walking' from 2007's AMP Award Winning Devil's Elbow (though I think their newer album For The Birds is even better) The Mess Hall had at very least jump started the days proceedings admirably.

AC: Cloud Control have been getting a solid run on Triple J for their mostly-lightweight musings on fraught relationships, but even with a new album and all the right haircuts there's something disconcertingly vague about many of these new tunes. Sure, the band's likeable enough, and scissor-legged keyboardist/vocalist Heidi Lenffer did her best to keep the momentum up on older songs like 'Death Cloud', but the set seemed to float by on the early afternoon breeze. Twee pop is usually only saved by cutting lyrics dunked in reservoirs of pathos, and I am still waiting for the band to discover its nasty streak that was always unlikely to emerge on a picture postcard festival slot.

MT: I don't know the work of Swedish band Miike Snow beyond the odd passing single. (Which is what festivals like this are perfect for; it's the physical equivalent of flicking through YouTube: you walk in 'cause they're right in front of you, you walk out with an opinion). Amongst a wash of synths (there was at least three on stage), a limber drummer and hints of an '80s electro-house history, it's frontman Andrew Wyatt that really stood out. First of all the guy's about 6,5", but secondly his falsetto: it soared over the bands disco infused electro sheen and when he layed into his white Gibson guitar (despite it not being loud enough), it was the kind of human touch that electro this polished requires to breathe. Their set built into something ecstatic for all concerned and I won't be surprised to see them back here in summer.

AC: The sun was out for Surfer Blood, who in a matter of months have managed to weasel their way on to festival line-ups thanks to a tasty afro-beat/prep-school combination pioneered by another band from the US east coast. Opener 'Fast Jabroni' hardly set the VIP bar on fire, which was groaning under the weight of the third day in a row of $8 beers. But any fears of a white bread overdose were put to rest the moment the chorus on second salvo 'Take It Easy' kicked in:  "We should take it easy or we will both be sorrrrrrrrrrry", mourned John Paul Pitts in surprisingly commanding fashion. But it was the massive, over-driven, Weezer-aping "why is everything a chorrrrrrrre" chorus on 'Twin Peaks' that really underlined the direction the band should be heading in. Or maybe the festival should finally take the plunge and get out the chequebook for Rivers Cuomo and crew.

AK: Surfer Blood was a lowlight for me. I thought their catchy guitar-pop would be catchier and poppier and basically, the Florida five piece sounded a lot heavier live than I expected from listening to Astro Coast. Drenched in sunshine, the crowd cheered for 'Twin Peaks' and at the introduction of new track, 'I’m Not Ready', which involved a nice bit of double percussion.

MT: I'm not sure if it was nerves in the GW McLennan tent for Brisbane locals Last Dinosaurs or the truth in their constant refrain that "we've been away recording", but the jangly guitar quartet never really sparked. After a solid opening deuce the band seemed content to sit in third gear, though with just a handful of EPs to their name perhaps they simply don't have the artillery - or stagecraft - to draw from yet. UK five-piece Fanfarlo fared much better soon after them on the same stage. The folky band draw comparisons to Okkervil River or a very relaxed Arcade Fire. Frontman Simon Balthazer has an easy, soulful voice that leads the music around like a kid with a kite. The bass, drums, and acoustic combo was rounded out by Cathy Lucas on mandolin and impeccable harmonies while an assured Leon Beckenham took care of atmospherics, switching between trumpet, keyboards, glockenspiel, melodica, and excellent backing vocals. Beyond the elegiac tunes I think the most appealing thing about Fanfarlo at this juncture was their comfort at being precisely who they are. There were no apologies, no revving the crowd, no posturing - first class musicians plying their story-telling craft. Refreshing.

AC: Ash are treading an curious path, running through strange combination of tracks like 'Oh Yeah' and 'Kung Fu' from 1977 which was recorded fifteen years ago, alongside lusher stuff like 2009's 'Arcadia'. Rhythm guitarist Charlotte Hatherley left the band four years ago and the lads have charitably dumped tracks from that era in favour of the pop punk tunes of teenage years. It was a tad strange to witness a 33-year-old Tim Wheeler still singing about attempts to woo girls in the mid '90s but with a repertoire this big, it's basically wall-to-wall classics. Shamefully, the vast proportion of the audience didn't appear to know the words to 'Girl From Mars', in stark contrast to the last time I saw them in school uniform at Melbourne's Corner Hotel in 1996. They finish with an epic 'Twilight of the Innocents', and a four-man stage bow (Russell Lissack from Bloc Party is filling in on backup guitar), which while at odds with the tepid response in a darkening amphitheatre, at least showed humility. Richard Ashcroft take note.

MT: After a brief respite in the twilight comforts of our campervan, we prepared for the bottleneck of the evening. Three of the artists we were most keen to see were about to overlap severely. Canadian eight piece Broken Social Scene kicked things off at 7pm under the GW McLennan tent in perfect fashion, opening with Forgiveness Rock Record leader 'World Sick'. And I don't know if it's the sheer number of guitarists that BSS totes (always three, at least) but as soon as those intertwining guitar leads began wrapping around each other the effect was spellbinding. And loud. Kevin Drew's voice was perfectly on point (despite the band having "just come from Japan! We've been awake for 32 hours! *cheers*) and as the band began chewing through '7/4 (Shoreline)', 'Fire Eye'd Boy' and the electronic 'All in All' with the assistance of female vocalist Lisa Lobsinger on hand, it became squarely evident that those sticking around for the set were about to get a great one. So with heavy heart I left for Jonsi, and as the strains of the Lobsinger-led, and You Forgot It In People classic, 'Anthems For A Seventeen Year Old Girl' trailed after me past the Fish n' Chip stand, I thought "Ah it's alright I'll see it at their sideshow in Melbourne". More fool me. (Lobsinger would have the flu in Melbourne three days later and not sing at all).

Sigur Ros frontman Jonsi has been here before, in 2008 with his "other" world famous band. In solo incarnation he plays it differently, switching between solemn vocal mourning and whirling, smiling frontman. Seriously, I'd never seen Jonsi smile so much. It helped that he had a crack band, most noticeably in octopus-limbed drummer Thorvaldur Thór Thorvaldsson, who regularly favoured his array of garbage can cymbals over the traditional and provided incredibly complex beats that lay furious IDM-like rhythms under his mates acoustic guitar, xylophone and array of vintage wind organs. All of this would pull focus from most groups but Jonsi's voice really must be heard live to be appreciated as the other-worldly instrument it is. With naught but a furrowed brow he held clear falsetto notes for what must have been 30 or 40 seconds, his voice soaring through the tent with more clarity and power than anything else heard over the weekend. Halfway through the set the singer reemerged with a feather headress and proceeded to wig-out with a vocal sampler and a Kaoss pad; the effect was many Jonsi's singing through the expanse, creating an aural power that would've been colossal in the grand nature of the amphitheatre.

Though if Passion Pit were indeed to have been switched with Jonsi in the Mix Up tent there would have been serious violence. Michael Angelakos was eager to please, constantly asking the crowd if they were alright; to make hand movements; bounding around the stage and staring puppy-dog eyed out into the upper seats to make sure he couldn't spot anyone not having a good time. It was kind of cheesy at first but by the time the band hit cuts like 'Higher and Higher' and 'The Reeling', people were losing their minds in feverish dancing spasms. Angelakos used the response like a feedback loop; the frontman urging the audience on, their willingness feeding his. Passion Pit's music is built for this, pop songs with deep fuzz synth heavy elements supporting falsetto hooks that blast through the speakers at maximum compression, hitting with a sweet sugar rush. The affect isn't long lasting but at the time the mind fizzes over to near mush point, never more so than in set closer 'Sleepyhead'. Passion Pit might not have been the most artfully coveted band on the lineup but I didn't see another crowd response like it over the entire three days. A real festival experience and one of the communal highlights.

AK: Like a Florence and Lily Allen Hybrid, Kate Nash seems to have both the voice and the story telling capability of her contemporaries, but somehow seemed to out-do them on Sunday night. The combination of her musical talent (she slays keys and guitar), her political and social commentary (“Homophobia is dogshit”) and her beauty (she’s a total babe, let me tell you) she’s a triple threat out there on stage. Her lyrics seemed so emotive and compelling as she spat them out, perched behind a sign that read, “a cunt is a useful thing”. The almost spoken-word introduction to 'Mansion' was intense, 'I Just Love You More' was fun, 'Foundations' made me wish she would fall in love with me and write songs about it and 'Later On' was playful, but perfect. She has an almost Joan Jett, or Kathleen Hanna style strength to her stage presence and it convinced me to buy a ticket to her sideshow. Job done.

AC: Goldfrapp more than made up for non-appearance of Kylie at Friday's Scissor Sisters show, emerging out of a giant silver donut wearing a black feather top ruffled by front-of-stage desk fans (see the photos). There aren't really any true pop icons anchoring the three days here and this was a chance to test deliberately over-the-top 80s tribute Head First in the Mix Up tent where it belongs. Those pumping singles, like 'Believer' and 'Alive' are no brainers you can sing along to on the second verse and as the opening strains of 'Dreaming' jacked up, it was basically a huge relief that you weren't watching Mumford & Sons. The bridge off of recent single 'Rocket' threatened mayhem ("But I still wanna know [synth] / how she got in the door [synth] / uninviiiiiiiited") but it was the older, slightly darker material like 'Ride a White Horse' and a closing, raucous 'Ooh La La' that really slayed it. File under stupendous revelation.

MT: It's not so much that Mumford and Sons leave me stone cold, but that they seem so engineered to affect the heart. And don't. And I watched their entire set, for the record. If Passion Pit's box to tick is one of feverish crowd participation and the Strokes, say, one of hipster hip-shaking, then surely Mumford's creative arrow is aimed at unearthing the emotions of the soul? Or at least mining frontman Marcus Mumford's. So why then does it glance away so spectacularly? There aren't real hooks in the bands music - celtic stomping and head shaking does not a hook make - so it has a lot to do with Mumford's lyrical limbo: shift around 'heart', 'spirit', 'tear', 'your', 'mine' and 'lies' amongst the thin emotional accusations, with no colour, place or frame to link them and this songbook is nearly full. It's this refusal to engage, to actually reveal or in anyway go beyond vague rhetoric - to masquerade -  that not only doesn't jive with me but offends. Key example: "I struggle to find any truth in your lies" ('Awake My Soul'). No shit! Clearly I'm in the minority here: the band are hugely feted in this country, set closer 'Little Lion Man' took out the Hottest 100 by a mile and they have a crowd that would've vied for the biggest here if not for the Florence/Strokes double-header the night before. It's hard to take pencil-case poetry on any scale, let alone this grand, and when the band is built around it, to gather behind it and massage it to life? Give me meaning in foolish hedonism, in balloons and posing and lights and frilly backdrops and "let me see your hands in the air" and silly alliterations before this sort of deception.

AC: Richard Ashcroft's Splendour in the Grass storm off has been well covered, and the writing was on the wall as I wandered up from a majestic Goldfrapp to what looked like a couple of hundred hesitant onlookers standing completely still to opening dirge 'Are You Ready?' from his band's debut album. Either a spat with photographers, dismay at a lack of crowd participation not befitting his highness' holier-than-thou persona (Ashcroft has previously compared himself to Jesus) or a strained voicebox was to blame, but in the end we were probably saved a trudge through the unfamiliar to hear Verve songs like 'Sonnet'. As the lights at the McLennan tent beamed orange and the prospect of a reprisal dimmed, fans high-tailed it to the amphitheatre to indulge a proper rock star in Frank Black, probably with more relief than disappointment.

MT: As the masses fled the main stage for Empire of the Sun, the average age of the crowd increased dramatically. I heard secondhand that some of the elders of the piece were walking past the fleeing Mumford fans yelling "Mumford and Sons wouldn't exist without The Pixies!" Any fans that had of stayed might've wondered what the fuck they were talking about as Frank Black cut into opener 'Cecilia Ann' by opening his tonsils and bellowing into the distance: guy can still wail like a stuck walrus (that's a good thing). The Pixies had one of the best mixes of the festival (at an event where the sound was uniformly fairly perfect) as they got stuck into classics like 'Bone Machine', 'Hey', 'Gouge Away' and 'Monkey Gone To Heaven' in quick succession. But after the initial rush had worn off, a bigger picture came into play. Frank Black wasn't talking, (and in fact, wouldn't say a word the entire time on stage. Not even a "Thanks" Or "meh".), Kim Deal was doing her best to keep it light "Are you guys camping or did you all drive here? Oh I don't know I never know nuthin'", and Joey Santiago and drummer David Lovering remained as mute as ever. The Pixies were pulling in the paycheck and it couldn't have been much more obvious. With decreasing temperatures, the group finished the set proper before strolling around on stage waving to the crowd, less like they'd won Wimbeldon and more like they were there to hand the trophy over. Cue the mock "Oh you wanna do one more? I don't know if we have time for one more? Oh we have time? One more!" mime routine they've been pulling for years now and lo we had 'Where Is My Mind' and 'Here Comes Your Man' to send us careening into the full stop at the end of Splendour in the Grass 2010. Meanwhile...

AK: Luke Steele has created a stage show that is like entering a dream. Or maybe I’m still too caught up in Inception? Either way, the combination of lights, video, smoke, dancers, costumes and sounds was a heady one for Empire of the Sun's tail-end Splendour set. It almost entirely made you forget that Nick Littlemore was ever involved in the project at all - perhaps that's the point. The crowd was way too big to be contained under the Mix Up tent, they spilled out and around, swaying to catch Steele in action and dancing, dancing, dancing. Empire of the Sun were exactly the kind of act you want at the end of an already great festival. Their rave remix, extended dance versions fit the timeslot and the mood, but there is no escaping the fact that 'We Are the People' was the banger that everyone wanted to hear. Luke obliged and soon after the he and his band took a bow and left the stage. It was awesome, but it was over.

Two hours later and we were driving down a Brisbane highway wrapped in sleeping bags and with the clatter of the van's pots and pans beating us about the dreamstate. With our designated driver at the reigns, we ended up in what seemed to be a carpark next to a solitary tree. We woke in the morning to texts from friends telling us they'd been in the queue to leave Splendour for four hours already. Us? We cast an eye out to sparkling turquoise waves, a brilliant white beach and, like a single rose beaming at us from the side of the cliff face, a coffee shop. A perfect way to end a festival experiment from all parties, which one has to say in hindsight was a raging success. When festivals outgrow their origins the default setting is usually punter condemnation. In the case of Splendour 2010, the opposite is true: quite possibly the best one yet.

DAY 1 | DAY 2