Live Review - Laneway Festival, Melbourne - Part 2

Down the end of the slim Red Bull Stage area, the UK's DJ Rusko is arms akimbo, shaking his blonde mohawk above the crowd while his jungle-tinged dubstep sizzles around him. Half the crowd are lazing down the back with drinks, presumably biding their time til the shadowy figure of Keiren Hebden finishes setting up his records in the background. In between the changeover a security guard approaches two people smoking. Being "Australia's first smoke free event" he makes them stub their ciggies out on the ground. Smirking, he then draws his own previously hidden lit cigarette to his mouth, tokes, and moves on. Patrons stare dumbfounded. Someone moves past and begins pissing behind a bin.

Four Tet begins his set with the title track from last year's 'Ringer' EP, the tune's signature synth washes building but never quite breaking. Organic percussive sounds from the 'Rounds' era dip in and out, before the beat finally drops a good ten minutes in. At any other stage the moment would be an explosion, but the Red Bull Stage is three quarters full and the sound is prominent, but not pulverising. 

On a tip-off I exit past the waiting masses into an empty Lounge bar, where Tim Fite is about to play. I know nothing about Tim Fite. It turns out to be one of the best experiences of the festival. Fite arrives on stage like a cross between Alexi Sayle, The Penguin and Tim & Eric. Joined by a second "sexy" comedic foil on vocals, the duo proceed to:

- Climb into the audience and sing/cry/yell at people to personally come to the front of the stage.
- Be joined by bored looking projections of Fite on a screen playing the backing track instruments.
- Make the crowd sing a seeing eye chart.
- Tell a touching parable about a friendly bird and cat sharing a sandwich called "Bobby and Jo Jo Stab a Motherfucker'.

Maybe it's the lack of people at this twisted routine but the whole thing is somehow touching, epic and fucking awesome. Try before you buy.

On the way out of the Lounge a girl who has finally made it in is cursing to her friend that they've missed Fite. She then says it's ok because they can go and see Four Tet. I say that she's missed him by now and she seems utterly defeated. A security guard talking to his friend, says "I wouldn't have done the job if I knew I was on this door. Or the music was so shit". His colleague then hassles Emily Ulman, telling her he won't let her in. Ulman, who played at the festival only hours earlier.

I make it over to the VIP bar at Little Londsdale Street where a crowd is choking the entrance to Architecture in Helsinki. Seemingly they're not letting anyone else in, nor are they letting the stranded people at the gate now caught between the band area and the street, move anywhere at all. As AIH begin to a pumping crowd in the distance, people at the entrance are yelling at security and pushing them. Soon cops arrive and begin to arrange the gated fence into a barrier. (Read more about this moment here).

Due to the above I miss the bulk of Augie March's set, catching only 'Train' and 'One Crowded Hour'. Both sound huge, the latter inspiring the relevant singalong which pleasantly (finally?), isn't inhabited by gropey couples waiting for their big moment to neck. Which paradoxically, the song still completely deserves, such is its wonder. As the band exits an announcement is made thanking the crowd for coming to the festival. The MC then let's us know that we're in for a hell of a show and that we should stay and watch it. No one is being allowed onto the Little Londsdale Street stage. The crowd boos.

It's lucky for all concerned that The Hold Steady are the next band in question. They exude so much positivity and in the moment joie de viere that it's hard not to succumb wholeheartedly. Craig Finn is a helluva frontman. Wearing his Telecaster at half mast he bounds around the stage thrusting and gesturing like he has only you and tonight and a six-pack in mind. By 'Sequestered in Memphis' Finn has all in attendance forgetting about the drama unfolding elsewhere. And very nearly, that the bars have stopped serving alcohol. 

This isn't a problem on the library lawn outside the long blocked off Girl Talk. Around 800 people are covering the grass, trees, benches, garden - the James Joyce reading tablet - wherever they can fit, dancing to the sounds coming from Greg Gillis' laptop via a speaker embedded in the garden. That one, glorious speaker. In the distance dozens of people are surrounding Greg Gillis on stage and losing their shit. People are dancing on the eaves of buildings facing the stage, until Gillis pleads with them to get down. Outside on the lawn it's a scene from Hair: The Musical. One punter tells me it actually sounds a lot better out here. Earlier he was inside next to the mixing desk but left because "it wasn't loud enough to dance". By the time Gillis winds it up, people are elated and drained. Beaming, even. 

Conjecture swirls in the wake of the festival. Theories doing the rounds are that organisers sold too many tickets, that the best stages were the free (or free to see) ones, and that simply the wrong bands were on the wrong stages. Others suggest that by attempting to expand what most agree, is a great idea, the festival got a little big for its boots. Memories will last long for the stuff ups, but history should show there were some great performances and some happy campers alongside. And that at its finale, the most frustrating and ugly aspect of the festival became its accidental best. That it was engineered by the punters themselves is perhaps another story. 

PICTURE GALLERY UP NEXT

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