Live Review - Laneway Festival 2009, Sydney

To say Sunday's Laneway send off in Sydney was smoother than the now infamous Melbourne event would be a drastic understatement. Walking into the festival grounds just up from Circular Quay, we're met with a scene more reminiscent of a school fete than the shopping centre carpark vibe of Melbourne. Giant trees arc over the Park Stage providing dappled shade, while the adjoining Reiby Place laneway slopes at a reasonable enough angle to see bout everything. Joy. With the oncoming exception of the Basement stage, getting around this site is a breeze. So close.

We walk in to see local kids Talons popping a vein on the HIGH main stage. (Seriously, the thing towers about four or five feet above peoples heads. Awesome.) They're of the off-kilter, guitar jerk-and-shout variety and I've not seen them before. They work in the same field as buds Ohana, old-school My Disco and to an extent The Nation Blue. But with less venom and a bit more pop. Bouffant-toting frontman Christian Best waddles around the stage yelling and eking metallic sounds out of his Strat and generally looking tougher in shorts than anyone else around. 

Around the corner at the second stage in Reiby Place, sandwiched between two looming office towers are Brisbane's John Steel Singers. I'm still unclear what they do exactly apart from just being pretty damn good. There's no theatrical melodrama, no booming voice, no overt signature sound to wave their flag over. It's exactly why they work, a melange of "I've heard this somewhere before" pop nous, good chops (horns always help) and rocking fun. To prove it they bring twenty people on stage for their last song to hurl themselves around foolishly in the sun. Aww.

This Sydney site is so contained it's hard to believe it's the same festival as the Melbourne leg. Between bands most people sit lazily on steps or the grassy hill beside the main stage. Nearly the whole site is in the sweet shade of office buildings and the aforementioned giant trees - (trees!) - which arc over the small park. It's lush, an arboretum of hipsters. What's more, with the fey factor in the red the fuckstick factor is low. Bless.

Yves Klein Blue contain hints of The Strokes, Brit Pop and a vague rock quality that - while having the visual cues of a livewire act - translate as fairly unremarkable. And there's a distinct whiff of fashion over function. I'm still no fan of Tame Impala but I get that they might translate after a few beers and at Spinal Tap/Motorhead levels of volume. Unfortunately they're softly widdling on the Park Stage not fifteen metres away. People complain about the noise restrictions, but - it's a festival in the middle of the city. It's part of the deal. Still, it sure takes the spark out of a few performances. 

The Basement stage is annexed between Reiby Place and the laptop kids on the Red Bull Academy stage, and it's down into the bowels of the steamy venue we go to see what Mountains in the Sky are up to. John Lee and Co make a precise, sparkling thicket of sound on record. Unfortunately a lot of it's swept aside in a live setting, forsaken for the grunt of live drums and a fuzzy guitar that fights the dual synths and bleeps that make the bands core. Lee exhorts the crowd to dance, but not only is it too early (and steamy), it's more head music than feet. Plus, no one's drunk.

I thought No Age were supposed to be tough. I thought they were going to blow my ears out, scrape my skull for remains and sling them onto their smoking amps like cucumbers on a McDonalds window. I willed them to do it. Maybe it's this fandangled two piece set up. Or the volume again. I dunno but without the overdubs and layering of their records the LA duo seem thin. It's a dumb thing to complain about, (and yeah, glosses over the very reason the band exists), but there's a sense that with a couple more members on stage the band could be truly great. Instead of meh.

By now a giant line of people are standing unmoving outside the Basement. For most it's in vain as the place is at capacity. Inside the low ceiling frames punters circling the stage, lending Port O'Brien the aura of a band in their element. They sure rise to the occasion, despite the show pony antics of a lead guitarist who seems woefully out of place in this otherwise earnest band. There's a recreation of the "Ok this is our last song and we're gonna need some help on vocals. Here's how it goes, do it with me now" that evidently they pull at every show. But when 'I Woke Up Today' kicks in it's no less affecting. In these intense confines even more so and damn these people are yelling now. By the time the band is done there's a forest of people on stage and a sense that Port O'Brien will be back before long to a legion of new fans. And beards.

Back on the Park Stage The Temper Trap seem diluted in comparison to the range of fringe music surrounding them. Meanwhile Jay Reatard is ferocious down in Reiby Place. There's a blast of wind funnelling down the lane directly into the bands faces, styling their windswept hair and insistent rock moves into poses for the cover of some fantasy space calendar. Or a Spod album. Reatard's tight solos ricochet off the glass office towers like sonic bullets, his buzzsaw guitar; electricty itself. Not really. It just sounds like the way the "take no shit" Reatard would want it to read.