Sunset Sounds - Day 1
Botanical Gardens, Brisbane
Wednesday January 5 2011
Queensland's version of The Falls Festival, Sunset Sounds, runs for two days. Both events share similar line-ups, but here, the curfew is 10pm and there's no camping. Held at Brisbane’s Botanical Gardens, three stages run concurrently in a space roughly half the size of the Parklife Festival held in September.
I arrive as gates open at 3pm, and there's a few hundred metres-long queue snaking toward the main entrance. I'm about to detour to the second entrance when, amid dozens of people streaming through the gardens’ gates, I'm stopped by a man in his mid-20s, wearing board shorts and looking not too unlike the typical festivalgoer. I immediately expect him to either sell me drugs, or ask me if I'm selling any. Turns out he's an undercover cop; the same one who stopped me
outside Parklife last year, I think. He asks if I'm carrying any drugs. At this particular moment, I'm carrying a couple of sushi rolls, so it's a bit awkward when they ask me to empty my pockets. "Is that sushi legal?", his colleague jokes. I tell them I'm a journalist and we bullshit about live music for about ten seconds before they let me go. I sit nearby, finish my sushi, and wonder how successful this anti-drugs tactic is, before picking up my wristband and entering through the much shorter VIP line.
Clouds loom overhead. Walking up toward the top of the venue, I note the six portaloos located between the main stage (Riverstage) and the other two (Gardens and Hibiscus). Six shitters sure ain't enough for tens of thousands of people; there are more located on the far side of the Riverstage, but it's a bit of a dead end, with far less traffic. I get the feeling that this situation will be a problem for many people later on. But for now, I watch local act
Ball Park Music for about thirty seconds as they attempt to win over the small early crowd. It doesn't seem to be going well for them. Good band, with strong songs, but only a couple dozen are feeling it. I head toward the Gardens Stage, where
Cloud Control are the day's first drawcard. I've seen them play a similar set of songs at venues around the country over the last year-plus, but they still make me smile. I'm standing under a tree some fifty metres away, paying equal attention to the band and crowd surrounding me, yet when they hit particular melodies in their singles, chills run down my spine. I'm a sucker for their mash-up of 'Gold Canary' and the Butthole Surfers track 'Pepper', too. Though it feels like singer/guitarist Al Wright is cheating a little by soliciting Hottest 100 votes from the thousands-strong crowd.
Back at the Riverstage,
Sleigh Bells' stage plot consists of eight Marshall amps, two Marshall heads, a guitar, two microphones, and an effects pedalboard. I'm a big fan of their debut album,
Treats, but it's not until they start performing that I consider just how strange this act must be for those who've never heard them before. Derek Miller, clad in a puffy Army jacket, plays air-raid siren guitar riffs and looks mean, while Alexis Krauss sings child-like rhymes over drum machine samples. She's a shock of black hair in white tights, a black dress, thick black eyeliner, and white contact lenses (I think). It all feels a bit ridiculous, and Sleigh Bells know it.
Treats is an exhilarating listen because it's unrelenting, and unlike anything else. Screaming guitar licks over hip-hop beats? Yes, please. But today, it doesn't feel good. Miller's guitar isn't near loud enough, and Krauss' vocals are consistently awful. The few softly-sung tracks, like 'Rill Rill', are pretty; on everything else, her voice is shocking. It works on record because it's overdubbed and effects-laden. Without studio trickery, Krauss struggles to shift her vocal range as fast as the songs require. Miller has a microphone, too, but I swear it's switched off. They play most of
Treats, and one new song. Kudos to the duo for their contractual negotiations, as alongside Ball Park Music, they play the shortest set of the day. A half-hour feels like more than enough. I question whether this act has a future. They can barely deliver live, and their sound is only interesting in small doses. They're not a huge disappointment, but it's not far off.
The first act on the Hibiscus Stage is
Charlie Parr. I know nothing about him; I'm only here because a Falls Festival-attending friend tells me that he's incredible. He's right. Before a small, seated crowd and atop a folding chair on a small square of red carpet, Parr compels with voice and finger-picked six-string alone. I catch only the last two songs of his performance, and instantly feel deep regret; I should've been here, drinking in a timeless American blues artist, not some flash-in-the-pan buzz band. His final song is delivered a capella. The man holds us rapt in the palm of his hand for a few minutes, as we watch his leg bouncing to the rhythm. It's magical. I want to shake his hand. This is music that matters. He wishes us a great festival, then packs his guitar into the case at his feet, while a stagehand removes his tiny stage plot and Passion Pit plays over the PA. I suddenly have enormous respect for the promoters, for their willingness to fly in interesting acts like Charlie Parr to colour the schedule amongst the flavours of the month. Keeping it real.
I'm heading to the Gardens Stage, intending to watch
Hot Hot Heat, when I come across a Video Hits film crew. Fuzzy is standing barefoot in the grass and looking radiant. Dylan Lewis is dressed like a 35 year-old who wishes he was still 21. I watch him do 'zany' introductions at the behest of his producer, while drunk idiots occasionally accost the team. I think about the ABC TV program
Recovery. I feel momentarily melancholic when I realise that I, too, will one day be in my mid 30s, attempting to navigate youth culture. I watch them do repeated takes where the camera starts rolling at knee-height and pans up to Lewis pulling ridiculous faces and gestures, and I think about how tedious this must be for all involved. By this time, Hot Hot Heat are finished. Oops.
After passing the huge line for those six portaloos - and absorbing the stench of the adjacent piss trough - I find that the Riverstage is hosting
Cold War Kids, who I attempt to admire from a distance from under the cover of the VIP bar - sorry, the 'Air Asia Sunset Lounge Bar'. Why an airline is sponsoring this, I have no idea. Their contribution, besides naming rights, is a photo booth in the far corner, where willing punters can pose for photos with 'zany' props and costumes in front of a sunset backdrop. There's also a massage booth. I admire the cleanliness of the toilets. The demountable shakes to the sound of the Riverstage's bass drum. I make use of the handwash - sandalwood and tea tree oil - and paper towels. I think about the poor fools in the toilet queue just over the fence. I stand at the edge of the tent, within sight of the band on stage.
I'm trying to concentrate on the music, when it starts raining. Hard. Water runs off the tent and seeps into the carpet underfoot. Those on the balcony scream, and crush back under the tent. Now I can't hear anything, but if I stand on my tip-toes, I can make out the crowds running in all directions for cover, like ants disturbed from their collective mission. It's a funny situation. I make friends with strangers. Cold War Kids choose to play 'Hang Me Up To Dry' while it's still pissing down. I can hear the crowd more than I can hear the band. I watch their arms move back and forth to that
"Too, too, too many times" bit. It's funny because I'm dry and they're not. Then it stops raining and I venture down the hill to hear them do 'Hospital Beds'. It's fantastic. I feel guilty for not following this band beyond their first album, 2006's
Robbers And Cowards. They end with the first track from that release, 'We Used To Vacation'. I haven't heard it in years. It's all jaunty piano, maracas, idiosyncratic basslines, cymbals smashed with maracas, and dirty guitars. I think about how strange the narrative is in a setting like this. The song's about parental absenteeism and alcoholism, yet the chorus -
"I promised to my wife and children / I'd never touch another drink as long as I live" - is being sung loudest by drunks.
I join the mass exodus toward the Gardens Stage for Ladyhawke, more for the hell of it than out of any real interest, when I decide to pause and observe the festival's main bottleneck. Several thousand people are attempting to move through a space no more than five metres across. Hmm. I watch a guy jump into a huge puddle at the top of the hill, splashing dozens nearby. I'm surprised that no-one chases after him, but the vibes are still good. It's nearly six o'clock, and after the crowds thin, I watch
Tame Impala at the Riverstage. They open with 'It Is Not Meant To Be', the first track from
Innerspeaker. I'm glad. How could they ever open with anything else? That yawning bassline. Those sheets of distant-sounding guitars. That casual drumbeat, all cymbals and snare. Kevin Parker's reverb-heavy voice, drifting across the masses. It sounds great. They could play every festival for the next two years, and I'd happily go see them. Or, more accurately, I'd happily be in the vicinity of the stage while they played music, since they're completely dull to watch. Their backdrop reacts to the drums, or the guitars, or Parker's voice, or all three; when they're not playing anything, it's a green dot in the centre, but when they're in full flight, there are green lines waving all over the place. You can tell they were high when they had the idea. One of those "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if..." moments. It looks like the default visualisation on Windows Media Player, circa 2003. They play 'Desire Be Desire Go'. I watch the flying foxes wheel overhead against the cloudy sky. Parker says something about how beautiful we all look against the green hill. I hear most of their set, and I think about nothing much, but it’s great. I leave when they start their 'Remember Me' cover.
At the Hibiscus Stage, UK act
Kitty, Daisy and Lewis are playing old-time swing blues, led by a double bass, guitar, piano and a compact drum kit. As soon as they're within earshot, every human knows how to respond: dance. It's fun to watch. I think about how this style of music will be received in fifty years' time. Will young people still know how to respond to the twelve-bar blues? Everyone here is having a good time. Most are on their way to the Gardens Stage, but many see fit to stop and pay their respects. An old trumpeter bro plays on a couple of tracks - really thrilling, intricate stuff - and lets out an "Ooh!" as the band hit the final note. It's awesome. Again, kudos to the bookers.
It's hard to get a handle on
The National. They're the kind of band that everyone seems to have an opinion of. Feels like their fanclub is full, so I should invest my attention elsewhere. I've never voluntarily heard their music until this evening. They're running 15 minutes late on the Gardens Stage. The stage lights up at the first note. They have a two-piece horn section. The vocals seem a little frail, though the rock posturing is spot-on. The crowd is fucking huge at this point. It's not raining, though the ground is muddy everywhere. I retreat to the Riverstage, where
Public Enemy are just starting. The closer I get to the stage, the better it sounds. They've brought live drums, bass and guitar, a DJ, a couple of hypemen, two heavy-set dudes in Army fatigues, and - of course - Chuck D and Flavor Flav. What takes place on stage for the next hour-plus is less performance than demolition.
At no point are Public Enemy less than outstanding. I think about what they mean to hip-hop and how many people they've performed in front of in their twenty-plus-year career. It starts raining - pouring - a few songs in. We don't care. This is real. This is vital. This was billed as a performance of
Fear Of A Black Planet, but they're not following the script tonight. Their set takes in classics from that album and
It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back. Their wireless mics fuck up, so they're forced to use corded mics, and in some cases, mic stands; a rarity for them, I’m sure. When Flavor Flav brings out the clock from inside his shirt, the crowd goes apeshit. In none of our wildest dreams would Public Enemy look and sound as good in 2010 as they do right now. There's a guy in the wheelchair down on the pavement whose friends regularly lift him up above the crowd. They run through 'Brothers' and '911' and 'Terrordome' and 'Noise' and 'Hype' and it's still pouring rain. Chuck D talks about the Queensland floods and how they always take the time to get a feel for what's going on in every place they tour, and how the best culture is about celebrating our similarities, not focussing on our differences - I'm paraphrasing - and how Australian hip-hop is "strong", and how he wants every Australian MC to email him MP3s for his radio show in New York (that email address, if you missed it: andyoudontstopradioshow@gmail.com). It's a celebration of everything that is great about music. They mash-up a hip-hop version of AC/DC's 'Back In Black' and it sounds like their set is winding down. The rain seems to be reaching a crescendo. I think about seeking shelter for the first time in an hour, and the spell is broken. Time to leave.
I wait for 10 minutes to get into the VIP tent, while the band are still visibly - and audibly - shredding on stage, and I regret leaving. Then I'm inside, wringing out my soaked shirt in the bathroom, and craning my neck to see Public Enemy - who, by this point, have been on stage for a solid 90 minutes - finishing up. Flavor Flav ends with some kind of minutes-long soliloquy, and I wish I could hear what he's talking about. By now, lightning is flashing across the horizon at all points, and I realise for the first time that we're surrounded by a storm. The rain increases, somehow. The VIP tent loses power. It's a funny situation, here. Earlier, I'd entertained the thought of dashing across to the Gardens Stage to see how it was coping with the masses attempting to watch
Angus & Julia Stone, but in this rain - fuck that. I hear afterwards that they were running super late, and that the Hibiscus was closed early due to a wet stage, meaning that
The Cool Kids' performance was cancelled. Drag. I think about how great Public Enemy were - are - and how they should have headlined.
My girlfriend arrives, soaked. We purchase ponchos for five bucks each. I wring out my shirt again, don ponchos, then venture down the hill to watch
Interpol. Beforehand, I thought that Earnest Rock from New York City would not have been worth standing in the rain for. I was wrong. Immediately, their sound is loud and large. The stage is smothered in elegant reds and blues. For an hour, they keep the sea of ponchos swaying like jellyfish. My socks audibly squelch when I bounce to the beat. Sensibly, they keep things upbeat. I blink through the raindrops and watch the tiny men make grandiose gestures with their instruments, my soundtrack to dozens of people sliding down the hill to my left at high speed. I think about how dry Interpol must be. There's fuck-all emotional engagement happening on stage, but as I take in the surroundings, it all seems to make sense. Their set is weighted heavily toward
Antics, strangely, despite opening with the first two tracks from their 2010 self-titled album. None of the singles from
Turn On The Bright Lights. One new track. Paul Banks' voice, louder than God, seeping into our wet skin. We're among the thousands who instantly turn on our heels and trudge out of the muddy bowl as soon as the drummer stands up, and - weirdly - addresses us with something like "You're Australian, right? Then why don't you fucking sound like it?", before throwing his towel in the air and storming off. I can't tell whether it was a fond farewell. Minutes later, trudging through the inner-city university campus on our way into the city, it sounds like they've struck up an encore, but I could be imagining it. I think about the decimated festival grounds. I think about how pissed the groundskeepers will be. I wonder how they'll remedy it all for day two.
Andrew McMillen
(Pics: Elleni Toumpas)
UP NEXT: SUNSET SOUNDS, BRISBANE - REVIEW AND PHOTOS - DAY 2