Parklife
Birrarung Marr, Melbourne
Saturday 3rd October
(by Andrew James, Nick Holt and Marcus)
Fake tan. Ridiculous drink prices. Sniffer dogs. Fence jumpers. Ah yes, festival season is back! How did we all survive the last 6 months or so? The start of a very silly season is here, and we have Parklife to thank. But was it a fun day of frivolity for all or just several hours waiting in queues for the toilet? There's children dying in
*insert distant parched continent*, right? RIGHT?
Typically placed at the very start of the festival season, Parklife can be a risky affair in more ways than one. First off, the early spring weather is often a little hit ‘n’ miss, especially in Melbourne where rain is a constant backdrop to our regular latte-drinking, Claude Maus-wearing Saturdays. Secondly, the lineup is sure to include a swathe of forward-thinking dance acts, some of which are perhaps more studio beasts than solid stage performers. That said, the fest has grown in popularity from humble beginnings, this year selling out weeks before the event. And thankfully the weather held out for what was a memorably good festival, with some unexpectedly assured performances.
*dilate pupils*
The line to get in twists and turns along the Yarra. An hour and half down and the line has moved what seems to be inches. It becomes apparent that Fuzzy Entertainment have spent their budget on the artists this year, as staff members fumble through guest-lists, media passes, and pre-bought tickets. All of a sudden the fence to our right is rushed as hundreds of would-be patrons jump, scramble, fall, bleed, cheer and remorse in attempt to dodge lumbering security guards. One of our number already in (and whom had just witnessed
Art Vs Science who, with the aid of two fan-mimes, a cover of Basement Jaxx's 'Where's Your Head At?' and unexpected ripping guitar solos, had a teeming crowd collectively losing their shit) sees a punter thrown to the ground and frogmarched out. Another leaps past a guard's lunge, the tubby pursuer literally kicking at our wayward patron's heels. Yikes.
Finally we're in and head immediately to higher ground. Which is the Air stage and
Autokratz. It's early afternoon and the crowd is out of control. Rounds of financially crippling drinks, (beers for $9? Mixed drinks for $11? And you wonder why everyone takes drugs?) are tossed left and right as singlet-clad someone or others fight their way past anyone and everyone, to get somewhere or other. We evaluate the situation and realise that in order to properly process the sequence of events we must join them asap. Emboldened, we gaze pleasantly at a 50-strong swarm of guys jumping the fence to the service area, and queue with everyone else.
Twenty minutes and a lazy $50 later we have one round of drinks. Next to us on the Air stage is the charmingly charismatic french work-horse,
Busy P. His set is dramatically softer in volume than Autocratz, and so, in the land of dance, worse. A technical difficulty that perhaps a sound check would iron out. Nonetheless he entices the crowd with his comical banter and hints of Ed Banger's past, until seemingly cracking the shits at the organisers after being told to pull the plug. Something he might want to take up with the way-overtime Autokratz perhaps.
The first real highlight comes from the chopped and screwed craziness of
Cool Kids. A large gathering of fans (who seemed to know plenty of rhymes) are enjoying themselves fiercely, as Mikey Rocks and Chuck Inglish bounce across the stage. ‘Black Mags’ is the obvious killer, the crowd roaring their appreciation until set's end. The New Yorkers whip the scensters into a frenzy
. "When I say Cool, you say Kids'! Who's joining in? Hmmm.
Junior Boys have added a drummer for their live shows, adding a touch of muscle to the synthetic grooves. Playing a good mix of tracks off recent longplayer
Begone Dull Care, they prove the James Murphy rule: you can still rock a crowd well into your late 30s/early 40s. A quick smattering of
Sampology’s set proves this is one guy with an ear for a beat. Rocking Scratch Live like his life depended on it, the DJ constantly melds cut-up boots with stone-cold classics. A party set par excellence. Belgian duo
Aeroplane follow, and it’s clear that nu disco (in all its forms) is getting some serious love from all corners. The pair fashion a seamless set that took in aspects of Balearic, cosmic disco and all points in between. While the crowd could be bigger, there’s no doubt that these guys have a serious future ahead of them (you heard it here second). They don’t offer residencies at the Make Up Club in Ghent to just anyone, y’know.
Just as we finally make our way into the delightful country club guest bar area, British pop sensation
Little Boots enters the stage, with -
as she stated in our interview - two nerdy musicians by her side. Her crowd is surprisingly small - incredibly small actually. (Word is her appearance fee was more than that of her 'competitor' - and kinda hit of the festival - La Roux. Bum.) She powers on with her set despite the desolate frontage and bangs out all her hits from
Hands. 'Stuck on Repeat' closes out her day and a warm golf clap escorts her off stage.
The Aston Shuffle waste no time as they pick up where Little Boots left off, pumping out track after track of okay-ish set interval music. One could be forgiven for not realising there was a live act on stage during this time, and it's hard to tell if the crowd is building cause they're better than Little Boots or 'cause La Roux's on next.
A devastatingly expensive round of drinks is fetched and we return to a packed crowd, bar, grandstand, sky etc etc as
La Roux and her cohorts storm the main stage to an eruption yet to have occurred until now. You know what they played cause it's all there on the CD. (Plus, you
read this.) 'In For The Kill', 'Quicksand' and 'Tigerlily' go down a storm. People lock arms, make amends for past blunders, break romantic ice with a public make-out session and we soon realise - in some way or another we're all
doing it for the thrill? *boom tish*
Metronomy arrive with a big reputation (like when we
saw them at Revolver, say), but somehow they left us slightly indifferent. The two main members (Joseph and Oscar) were joined by a female drummer and a guy who could have been Green Velvet on bass, and proceeded to deliver a set of electronic-infused indie cuts. Maybe their sound was just so much Bloc Party-lite? Maybe their trademark chest-lights seemed like window dressing? Either way, the punters were certainly enjoying themselves, so maybe we've just seen them one too many times?
Back at the main stage there is barely room to sneeze, as the curious thousands witness the much talked about phenomenon that is
Empire of the Sun. The week was awash with stories and anecdotes about the less than amicable condition of Luke Steele and Nick Littlemore's relationship, or lack of. For those who are unaware, it goes like this: The studio mystery that is Empire of the Sun was allegedly never intended for live performance; indeed, the long wait for a live show is wholly to blame for the kind of mystique that would make Bon Iver blush. Luke Steele, unsatisfied by settling for such (and with gargantuan paychecks being waved in his face) decided to take the project on the road, leaving Nick Littlemore shacked up in Canada recording the new Pnau album with Elton John. Invariably. And so the story the goes.
The stage darkens. Interpretive dancers straight from Rock Eisteddford meander on stage and what appears to be
a full scale theatre production some LED screens and dancers in plastic capes quickly assume the aesthetic. Luke Steele graces the stage dressed like a 12th Century Emperor let loose in Toys 'R' Us. Is this why Littlemore is in Canada with Elton? Despite a set littered with this years FM gems, the stab at theatrics outweigh the music. Shit, this would've been more mystical if Steele had've come out with a boom box and an acoustic, a la David Byrne via
Stop Making Sense. (Though to be fair, we kinda saw him do that at
MGMT last year and it was awful). Still, those massive pop tunes do their job - the crowd swells and pumps fist in suitable fashion - but to sum it up best, the hits were hits, but the misses were pffft. Hard to say if this was a great idea from Steele. The Empire of the Sun tsunami is at its peak, we may have seen it heading out to sea. Come back Littlemore, let's work this thing out.
As we exit the main stage we land in the middle of a joyous, instantly-recognisable-as-being-the-'this-is-how-you-do-it-kid', fun as fuckery
Rapture doing what they do best. Shit they are great. The wiley New Yorkers set feet and hearts on fire as they crush through a set that's brimming with hit after hit. 'House of Jealous Lovers' and 'No Sex for Ben' top the night for them, us, me and you. A perfect cap to the day and a sliver of proof that sometimes the classiest way to get people moving is still a bunch of dudes pushing air from a couple of instruments.
Andrew James, Nick Holt, Marcus
(Pics: Tim O'Connor)