Laneway Festival
Footscray Community Arts Centre and Surrounds, Melbourne
Saturday 30th January 2010

By Marcus and Andrew Crook

Was there ever any doubt? Despite hysterical predictions St Jerome's Laneway Festival would wither away after last year’s overcrowding made headlines, the 2010 installment rebooted in a new, picturesque (by laneway standards) location, with a swathe of bands that for the most part have never toured here. Backed with a range of some of Australia's most interesting local acts, it ensured that the focus on the day was roving, thus so too the crowds.

The highlights? The diverse locations of the three stages made it feel like there were three disparate (though complementary) mini-festivals in one. The Moreland St stage, featuring green, overhanging branches that framed the high stage against a backdrop of red-brick factories and ancient apartments, acted as the "event" location. The River Stage acted as the relaxing, "scenic" perch, and the Car Park one the most "gritty", despite being just metres away from a large patch of park with shady trees dotted throughout. Lowlights? Just seven food stalls for seven and a half thousand people, which led to long queues for grub. And after paying $5 for generous cups of beer last year, the $8 for 330ml cans was a blow. (And though really nothing to do with the festival itself, can I mention the hats? Having a crumbling, festival-beaten one I was aiming to replace it at the venue with something selected from the range surely on offer. Indeed there was one stall that was selling them - you know the ones, the trilby kind - for...$138!! Thinking this was a mistake I picked up another...to see it was $178!!! You slay us, dear hatters.)

And so it went last weekend. With the Laneway franchise now stretching all the way to Singapore, it’s clear organisers have hit on a winning formula. A lineup dominated by prominent locals and NME-sanctioned buzz bands (and the Black Lips) meant that on paper the festival seemed destined to succeed  – even diehard Echo and the Bunnymen fans sent reeling after Ian McCulloch missed his plane from Heathrow could find solace elsewhere. Nontheless, the Footscray Community Arts Centre and surrounds proved a perfect spot for Laneway's Melbourne rejig and, one suspects, once again pinned the festival to punters "must do" events of the season more than any clutch of bands could ever do.

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AC: I huddled under a tree to watch Mark Barrage serving up his singular take on twitchy pre-programmed tomfoolery, complete with Neil Hannon-style Proper Vocals. Sadly Mark was halted half-way as Gremlins invaded his black box, but not before a nice rendition of ‘Fall Guy’ from 2008’s Delays (Barrage’s was the first of two malfunctions on the Moreland St main stage, with Mumford and Sons struggling for large portions of their set later on).

Black Gold were up next over on the SPF-defying car park setup, the fleshed-out Brooklyn duo pushing an unashamedly hi-fi brand of remix-ready AOR squelch. But as with Barrage's dancier numbers, it still seemed too early for epics like ‘Breakdown’ -- even though the band’s straight-up approach could have incited more than tapping feet in a more favourable slot.

MT: Partly brain-damaged from the cheese dance-rock of Black Gold, I sought some kind of solace in Oh Mercy on the River Stage. Arguably the plum spot of the festival, the River Stage faced a lovely slope of rich green grass upon which thousands of punters could contentedly bake, the expanse framed by flower beds and willowy fronds. Behind the stage a suspiciously fresh-looking Maribynong River flowed, bridging us and the loading docks, and then the city skyline beyond. (Later on a full moon would rise over such a scene as The Middle East finalised their set with a gorgeous 'The Darker Side' to a hill of reclining bodies. A better vista - Meredith notwistanding - I can't think of.) Oh Mercy displayed sparkhere with their always classy take on classic pop, but as with so many bands today, the already sweltering heat meant attention drifted more than once.  

AC: The frat house vibe on the Car Park stage continued with Portland’s Hockey, lead by the not-lacking-in-confidence Ben Grubin, whose David Byrne-esque ticks unfolded incongruously before a backdrop of passing semi-trailers. Jaunty versions of ‘Too Fake’ and the Phoenix-meets Simon & Garfunkle ‘Song Away’ produced the first major crowd connection of the day -- even those unfamiliar with the material seemed eager to mouth along.

Still, too much confection can leave a sour taste. With that in mind, it was high time to head over to Moreland St to catch Sydney’s Bridezilla, a teetering performance art spectacle that struggled before 100-or so people in such a cavernous setting. Despite the pickups attached to last year's The First Dance, singer Holiday Carmen-Sparks’ cooing failed to slice through the acres of airspace, dreamy textures escaping into the ether before the tunes had a chance to bite. A worthy exception came on 'Queen of Hearts', which stuck long enough to hint at the wounds the band are capable of ripping open when they back their judgment in a more intimate space.

MT: I manage a glimpse of the ever-enthralling Kid Sam playing into the furnace on the River Stage before they shuffle off. While their sounds are better suited to "after dark", a rather massive crowd had swelled to watch the Ryan cousins. As if to mock my non-attendance for the first half of their set, an acoustic guitar sat idle on the stage, a relic of FINALLY adding the wonderful highlight from their self-titled, 'Sunday Bus', into their set, as reported by frantic text message. From here I wander over to the surprisingly massive Moreland St stage, framed as it is with trees dotted down its expanse (a video screen erected halfway down which would ensure later on that the crowd staggers rather than crushes), factory walls in the distance and a wan set from Bridezilla. I get nothing from them, curious once again at how their orchestral instruments in brass and strings emote without weight. Too much it feels like they're playing just the part of something, putting on an act that has no story.

AC: About two thirds through Bridezilla's set, I shuffled away to the river stage to witness Whitley (aka Lawrence Greenwood) deliver his cracked odes to self-pity and questionable redemption. With the sprawling Go Forth, Find Mammoth all over the radio, Whitley had some serious t-shirt wearing fans (including his mum) jammed up against the barrier yelling along to ‘We’re Becoming Shadows’ and ‘Head First Down’ from that album. And he lapped up the kudos, lurching at one point into the opening bars of The Drones’ ‘Shark Fin Blues’ in an off-the-cuff tribute to that band’s legendary last show at the Tote.

MT: After the general outcry in the last few weeks of Mumford and Sons - both for and against - over their shock Number One slot on the Triple J Hottest 100, I was keen to see what happened live. So too everyone else it seems, as 5000 or so people sandwiched themselves between bricks, trees, fences, rooftops and shoulders to catch a glimpse of the UK four-piece. Their set-up is simple: double-bass, acoustic guitar, a banjo-dobro hybrid, keys and a single bass drum (for a couple of tunes frontman Marcus Mumford slides behind a full drumkit also), and it goes some way to describing Australia's embracing of the band: roots rock. Take away the vests and shift the celtic influences to something say, 'environmental' and you have an act that would sit comfortably on a bill with John Butler/Xavier Rudd. Arms swayed, voices sung in rousing unison, sure...but I find no hooks, no meat, no lyrical bite and no reason to continue peering through a crack in the sound tent. Punters streamed for cooler climes as 'Little Lion Man' faded out, I sought same and headed to Daniel Johnston.

Who was facing a vastly smaller but entirely respectful crowd. In a canny bit of programming, organisers had placed him against where the "radio" crowd was going (see above), meaning those here probably have an inkling of what's what. Which is required, as Daniel Johnston to the passer-by suggests a laughing stock. He's overweight, he mumbles, he takes "a short break, ladies and gentlemen" every few songs, his guitar playing alternates between "enthusiastic" and poor, his songs sound like they may (and should) derail at any moment. But unlike most every artist here - and most other performers I've seen in recent memory - his craggy, battered, manchild voice is a deeply moving, damaged and wholly pure instrument: Johnston's vocals - and with those brutally sincere words - can snap your heart in an instant. A cover of Lennon's 'Hide Your Love' away had the crowd onside by its refrain and you can see why so many artists revere him. His thoughts slip past the ID and hit you deep in the heart, a simple transaction of human feeling to same. I'd never seen anything quite like it. He finished with a rousing 'Rock n' Roll EGA' from 1994's Fun LP, took his lyric book and disappeared.     

AC: The sight of pale and clammy Frightened Rabbit murmuring Scottish sonnets back over at the car park sweatbox immediately set the nostalgia dial to Pastels-era indie pop and dingy Glasgow bedsits, even though the lads are outliers in that scene. They were an inspired last-minute addition bill with new single ‘Swim Until You Can’t See Land’ and the righteous ‘Keep Yourself Warm’ seemingly brimming with extra poignancy (until singer Scott Hutchison admitted sunscreen had been dribbling into his retinas, causing him to “emote more than usual”). ‘Nothing Like You’ gave a perfect entrée to the excellently-titled Winter of Mixed Drinks LP.   

I didn’t stick around for much of Sarah Blasko, another radio favourite about to try her luck in the UK, but a front-row packed full of lookalikes were clearly immersed in the well-trodden tunes that today seemed to be jogging in neutral. Admittedly, in the 5 o'clock slot it was the peak of exhaustion, which Blasko was reportedly suffering a little from herself, nursing a crackly throat in the lead up to her set. Probably a good time to hit the bar, I thought, with 'All I Want' wafting over shouted demands for $12 mohitos.

MT: Out on the baking bitumen of the Car Park stage, the instrument weilders in Eddy Current Suppression Ring were fiddling with amp settings and whatnot as lead Ringer Brendan wandered the stage looking like he was about to pop a vein. This is before the music started. When they finally cranked into excellent new single 'Anxiety' the beach party was on. (After all, there's more and more elements of "surf" in Mikey Young's rubbery Strat playing, so it seems apt). The band shot into 'Memory Lane', and as much as I desperately wanted to will this one through, I beat a retreat from the hottest part of the festival (my achilles, poking out from under my jeans, were burning - for example) for a skerrick of shade at the River Stage. Meaning I missed (though not our photographer) Brendan leaping the small fence as if heading to the river, before singing back through it at his crowd. Give the man a cordless mic.

Slightly hilariously, a defiantly black clad The xx walked onto the River Stage to face a swarming sea of thousands wilting under a now belting sun. (As frontwoman Romy Madley Croft would later tell us in our video interview, it was the hottest gig they've ever played). Opening with the instrumental 'Intro' - mirroring it's placement on xx - the huge crowd went nuts. By the time they played 'Crystalised' next, the appeal of the band became clear. When Croft and languid bassist Oliver Sims sing together, they sound like two good parts of the same great voice. That the sight of "drummer" Jamie Smith playing his collection of pedals, keys and MPC drum machines stoicly with his fingers, doesn't bother none. The humble band ran through their album, as well as a cover of Womack and Womack's 'Teardrops', before - bizarrely - walking off stage to a remix of themselves. 

AC: Somewhere amid mid-afternoon beer glow came an astonishing set by the xx (see above), after which the dropping of Jay Z’s ’99 Reasons’ prompted a portion of the de-shirted river stage to lose their shit, raising the vexed issue of whether the hits could have taken over the stage completely in the manner of Belinda Carlisle at so many house parties.

London's Wild Beasts were therefore set a difficult task, appearing in the wake of the mayhem and with The Very Best drawing rivers of hepped-up punters back over to the car park. They nearly got there. The band's studied flamboyance on record, driven by the vocal escapades of Hayden Thorpe, was dulled as a po-faced Thorpe and co. squinted uneasily into the sun/furnace (“we normally have little lights” remarked sunglass-free bassist Tom Fleming). Still, "next single ‘Smash and Grab’" somehow still managed to conjure up wintry, black tarred London laneways, a world away from the Footscray equivalent. Meanwhile a hastily booked Midnight Juggernauts were hauled from their Big Day Out itinerary as a fill in for Echo and the Bunnymen, who didn't make their scheduled plane trip as Ian McCulloch was "having a baby". (They would turn up the next day in Sydney, more on that soon). While Juggs didn't have the place as packed as Echo might, a great number of bouncing bodies seemed more than happy. 

An evening excursion in the Black Lips' direction promised some proper deviance in what had so far been a rather straight-edged affair (although granted, I did miss Daniel Johnston). Sketchy-ness levels didn't disappoint, even with the mix cruelled by a packed stage sloping away from the band. A scuzzed-up, Specials-inspired ‘Dirty Hands’ went down well amid demands to "turn it up". As the intensity flagged half way, an on-stage pash between band members not only shocked the guy wearing an Australia Day hat down the front, but inspired utter mayhem during ‘Bad Kids’ (“We are a minority/got no respect for authority”) and a raucous, closing ‘Juvenile’.

MT: I completely disregarded everything and everyone to position myself side of stage for the Dirty Three. They were, as always - and especially from a few metres away - astonishing. Opening with 'Some Summers They Drop Like Flies', the hairy three-piece set about making every other band seem small, with the kind've epic set that Warren Ellis, Jim White and Mick Turner seem to be able to conjure at will. 'Everything's Fucked', a rare 'Red', 'Indian Love Song', a frantic 'The Zephyr Player' and the heart-breaking 'Hope' all made an appearance, Ellis collapsing on his back more than once as White flailed and Turner stood still. As ever. An inspired booking from organisers.  

Scepticism abounded over whether Florence and the Machine had the pulling power to close up shop, but before a devoted 6,000-strong audience, Flo Welch showed what a year on the UK festival circuit can do for crowd management. Single after single was reeled off, with ‘Dog Days are Over’, ‘Raise It Up’ and Cyndi Staton cover ‘You’ve Got the Love’ prompting numerous Jesus poses under muggy orange skies. Welch seemed genuinely shocked at the rabid response, flitting between commanding superstar and wide-eyed youngster as the set hurtled to a close ("Oh my gosh thankyou Laneways") By the time she had every jumping it seemed the old road between these Footscray factories might bend and give way such was the outpouring of love. Welch made a lot of new friends tonight, elevated herself to star status (at least locally) and thankfully for organises, largely obliterated any sense of a lacking headliner with Echo's foolish absence.

Andrew Crook and Marcus

(Pics: Tim O'Connor)

MELBOURNE LANEWAY 2010 PHOTOS | SYDNEY REVIEW COMING NEXT