Live Review: Meredith Music Festival 2017

Day One

We all know that being trapped inside a car overflowing with beer, a tent that hasn't been aired out since 2016, too many pillows, a mate who's already powered through 70% of the rationed snacks and negotiating heavy eyelids from waking up at 5am can kind of suck. However, whilst waiting in the queue to get into The Supernatural Amphitheatre, rolling down the windows and watching the shenanigans inside the endless sea of vehicles makes for a solid pick-me-up.

During the slow, uphill trudge to glory, Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas is heard seven times from one car. A group of keen partiers get started on slathering on some glitter (while their friend twerks out the back window). Countless dudes jump out to piss at the side of the road and are weirdly met with wild applause from their mates. We're welcomed with everything from pouring rain to swollen grey clouds, burning sunshine and wind that threatens the ropes struggling to hold down couches tied to roofs. And just as the sun begins to peek through from behind the cotton-cloud sky, we're finally here. It's a heaving ocean of tents, flags and party people with frosty cups already finished and refilled before noon. Home for the weekend: the sweet, sweet Sup'.

Emerging from campsites from every direction, punters pull up as 4pm approaches, to secure a spot for Amyl & The Sniffers. Settling in with a drink, punters lounge in the sun, relishing every warm ray in between gusts of cool air that get increasingly stronger as the evening continues. "Five, four, three, two, one!" is shouted collectively from all around us and onto the stage rockets Amyl & The Sniffers to kick off Meredith 2017. They're an intoxicated tangle of erratic guitars, attitude and drums so loud that the earth vibrates. It's a tough gig, to hit the stage first at such a huge event, but they get the job done with a killer confidence that bleeds straight back into the crowd with many thrashing around in the pit, totally stoked.

Kikagaku Moyo's power chords drag napping punters out of their tents and to the stage. Their psychedelic/folk concoction is a lush accompaniment for those choosing to kick back in the shade with an ice-cold, pale-pink drink to slurp from the iconic Pink Flamingo Bar. It's very dreamy, with some wonderfully intense guitar-driven climaxes sprinkled throughout to keep us on our toes. People covered in sparkles twirl around in the light, some bring out hula-hoops, some snooze under the trees, drifting away into lovely kaleidoscope dreams - Kikagaku Moyo provide the perfect soundtrack for it.

An overwhelming majority vote for LCD Soundsystem's Daft Punk Is Playing At My House for this year's compulsory housekeeping track and everyone gets up to boogie over to a prime viewing position for one of the most highly anticipated acts this weekend: Aldous Harding. Firstly, let's have a moment of silence for the audible perfection that is the bass clarinet. Damn. It's rich and leathery and envelops the Sup' in a gloriously thick layer of sound that hugs Harding's every note. She's a master of dynamics, executed especially well in her vocals that feel like a punch in the heart, especially when she reaches for those yearning, high ones. Through all the inevitable chatter that comes along with open-air festivals, Harding's voice and completely captivating stage presence reign and she manages to maintain everyone's attention with her intense energy. There are lots of boots in the air and rightfully so.

The sky starts to turn a dim baby blue, and that's everyone's queue to leg it over to Sunset Strip for a space on the grass to watch the sun disappear for the day. Couples cuddle, friends huddle together. It's all very sweet and fuzzy, and it never seems to get old.

Fade to black and it's time to party. As if like clockwork, as soon as it's dark the mood switches instantly. People are ready to let loose. It's back to the tents to grab some beers from the esky and then over to ESG for a wild one. It's a funk-fuelled, drum-heavy dance party delight in the Sup' right now. Layers upon layers of jumpers, jackets and beanies slowly get stripped off as punters pull out some serious sweat-inducing moves thanks to these guys.

Left on a complete high, everyone's in the mood to wobble around for the next 20 minutes until Total Control are all set. Track one packs a punch. It's bass-heavy and has the crowd moving from the get-go. Performing against the screen in the background showing static, fast forwarded videos of Play School and politicians yelling at each other in Parliament makes for a weird and wonderfully insane juxtaposition. The crowd gets a little intense about three to four songs in, and a few burst out of the pit looking a little frazzled and in need of some H20. It's pretty intense in there.

The mood is calmed by Warpaint who grab the attention around the Sup', especially with So Good. There's a few punters double-fisting pink drinks and singing loudly into the sky from Pink Flamingo Bar and most take this time to cool off from the previous set, only to be happily hurled into a glitchy, groovy celebration hosted by !!!. The set hits its peak at the very beginning. Unfortunately, a few seem to lose interest/can't keep up towards the end, opting to get to higher ground and seek phone reception or to fill up on bevs. Or maybe it's just too damn cold and a hot whiskey from Eric's Terrace beckons? Either way, at 1.37am the dancefloor is still pulsating as punters gear up for Various Asses. It's a freakin' party! And why wouldn't it be? It's Friday night, it's only night one and we have two more blissful days to go. If that's not enough reason to celebrate, then what the hell is? 

Day Two

Cracking open eyelids in stuffy tents as we wake to the distant strains of the City Of Ballarat Municipal Brass Band is a bittersweet experience; feeling a little fuzzy-headed I could probably do with another 40 winks, but who wouldn't want to greet the day to a tuba parping out the bass line to ABBA's Mamma Mia?

Venturing out into a bright-but-slightly drizzly Meredith morning, activity around the sprawling campsite is negligible as most sleep off the previous night's hijinks. But thanks to the restorative powers of Friday's generous six-hour Silence Wedge (the quiet time between the end of one day's shows and the start of the next) it's not long until sleepy revellers are collectively getting their shit together for the festival's biggest (and longest) day.

Home-grown talents The Stevens and New York's Big Thief offer an easy start to proceedings, drawing crowds back to the Supernatural Amphitheatre with their crisply-made, risk-free indie-pop rock.

With breakfasts munched and coffees (and probably a few beers) procured, the crowd gather for The Senegambian Jazz Band who switch the action up a gear with their tight, West African folk-infused funk. The combination of such eclectic styles is surprisingly simpatico - who knew the lute-like African Kora would blend so seamless with kit and horns? With just two years of performances under this group's belt, their taut, impressively delivered Latin-Afro-jazz fusion feels like the music-making of a far longer-established ensemble.

It's not long until the bill takes us back to more familiar musical territory courtesy of Melbourne-based four piece RVG. It's a set that delivers both energetic toe-tappers and deeply emotional torch songs, but this duality is far from incongruous. The band's titular frontwoman Romy Vager is both the yin and yang of her band's collective energy, displaying incredible control and dexterity in her guitar technique while still unleashing a raw, untamed power with her seething vocals. The same push-pull of skill and passion shines through in Vager's unguarded lyrics. There's a lyricism to her poetry, underpinned by the clarity of simple, honest songwriting from the heart; the authenticity of revealing true experiences with head-on integrity.

Next, another Melbourne act, The Teskey Brothers, take the Meredith stage at the tail-end of what has been a watershed year for the quartet. After more than a decade playing together, they embarked on their first true Aussie tour earlier this year, supporting Busby Marou at a series of sold out shows, as well as dropping their first LP, the self-produced Half Mile Harvest, which reached #1 in the AIR Independent Album chart. But despite this barnstorming success, the four-piece have remained steadfastly independent and their commitment to avoiding the muddying influence of commercial representation is writ large across their sound. They conjure a tender, sweetly sentimental homage to the great era of Motown soul and blues, with beautifully analogue attention to detail. And yet they are still able to imprint their personal stamp on this genre. With an almost ineffable edge, captured in a fleeting inflection of Josh Teskey's smoky vocals or the distortion of a guitar lick, their songwriting still imparts something subtly contemporary. All up, it's a pleasing set for a sunny afternoon and yet it tip-toes around anything too risky, staying in a safe zone that sometimes feels a little complacent.

As evening approaches, however, we leave the old school and radio-ready behind to take a forward-facing look to the future, with two rap acts that both drip with subversive swagger. Firstly, Chicago-born slam poet Noname brings a fierce intelligence to bear on a distinctive brand of vintage-vibe, electro-soul hip hop. Dressed in humble tracky-dacks and loose T-shirt, she shuns the sexualisation and materialism that has become such a prominent trademark of rap in the 21st-century, while musing on what it means to be African American in the US. She pulls no punches with her subject matter but, far from being dark, Noname shows that her stage time is also her play time, expertly holding and corralling the crowd's attention. She's not afraid to change the energy of the audience to better serve her purpose, occasionally halting a number to interact and get us where she needs us to be. It's duly reciprocated with a swath of raised boots - the Meredith festivalgoers' customary salute for the act they deem a standout.

Later in the day, in a red-hot performance that seems to throb with the zeitgeist, Brisbane rapper Miss Blanks offers a jaw-dropping foil for Noname's set. Spitting rhymes about "wet pussy"s and "fat ass"s that "clap clap", Miss Blanks' EDM-powered, club-ready bangers are shamelessly, almost aggressively, sexual. But as a trans woman of colour, the in-your-face, body-positive sexuality of her tracks are a rebellion against the cis-gendered, hip hop mainstream. As this sensational performance, complete with two booty-popping back-up dancers, fires up the crowd, the moshpit turns into a queer dance party with its very own twerk battle. Given the overwhelming national acceptance of the LGBTQIA+ community displayed last week, as marriage equality became law, the significance of a trans woman smashing it at such a prominent Australian event feels truly momentous.

The night's revels belong to veteran international acts. First, Future Island, helmed by the indomitable Samuel T Herring, set Meredith ablaze with a performance so dynamic both band and audience were sweat-drenched just a couple of numbers in. Herring's helter-skelter physicality - featuring his catchphrase gesture of King Kong-worthy chest beating - is mirrored in the wild, raging, polychromatic density of Future Island's music. With a current of disco-ish, funk-like pop, a core of hard rock and vocals that oscillate between the bleak, crooning tones of Morrissey and the torrential screams of death metal, there's a chaotic quality to Future Island's sound. But that's not necessarily a criticism. When delivered with the uncompromising commitment this American trio bring to their live appearances, such a melee of aesthetics becomes abundantly, irrepressibly alive; a performance you can't help but be swept up by.

By contrast, the stone-faced delivery of Scandinavian synth wizard Todd Terje is totally disconnected to his thumping, euphoric nu-disco electronica. Joined by The Olsens, the restrained stage presence of their set is identically opposite to the crowd going off in the Amphitheatre. For a little over an hour, the bumper-to-bumper bangers, performed with flawless accomplishment by Terje and co, have the packed-out audience breaking every shape imaginable. By the time Terje drops arguably his most popular hit, Inspector Norse, everyone assembled seems to become one single pulsing organism, bristling with fever-pitched joy. It's the perfect way to set us up for the six hours of DJ sets that awaits us as Meredith's Saturday program forges on towards sunrise.

Day Three

The pungent scent of liquor-soaked grass, stale beer, coffee, old ciggies and Pad Thai have been fermenting onto the matted grass overnight and with every gust of wind that blows through the Sup' the smell gets carried in different directions.

Remnants of last night's wild times are strewn around the campsites. A lone pink feather, surely once part of a luscious feather boa, is now tangled up in twigs under a tree, soggy and crumpled. Kind of a visual representation of the way most punters look/feel this morning.

Slowly surfacing, bleary-eyed, dazed and content, party people slather on sunscreen and lie in the grass, face down and fragile. A bit of sunshine and hair-of-the-dog seems to be the hangover cure this morning.

Emma Russack's guitar melodies melt into the Sup' and serve as a gentle way of pulling those still feeling a little bit dusty back to reality. Body Goals goes down especially well, with that guitar line well and truly stuck in our head for hours to come. The Ross McHenry Trio offer the same support, with beautiful keys amongst scattered beats and deep bass that ties it all together tremendously. The grass starts to fill up as time passes, with most punters succumbing to the music and finding it within themselves to crawl out of sleeping bags, grab a coffee and soak up the last few acts of the weekend.

Japanese Breakfast haul in the biggest crowd of the day so far. Of course, by 12pm everyone's in a much better headspace, having mustered up all the energy needed for their last few hours of partying before packing it all up and heading back to reality. Japanese Breakfast is everything we all need right now and more - intense experimental pop with a dreamily compelling voice and stage presence to match. What a wonderful pick-me-up! Michelle Zauner's vocals are an audible energy drink, which brings us all back to life.

It's time for the Meredith Gift - the insanity that is a bunch of sunburnt punters running nude in the sun, glistening from sweat and sunscreen, all covered in dust. Led by Gabriella Bartonova and The Huxleys, their mellow voices and gloriously glamorous outfits have the Sup' packed. "It really is the race that stops the nation," they say, ever so calmly, as the audience erupts into cheers as the nudie run kicks off. One of the winners of the heats thanks their mum and dad who, no doubt, would be proud.

Suss Cunts are the perfect way to end Meredith Music Festival. Their personable attitude makes you feel like they could be your best mates and even with song titles like I Can't Believe I Fucked An Anti-Vaxxer they somehow feel relatable. Their banter between songs is delightful, lighthearted and makes you love them even more. The sound of Suss Cunts is unapologetic, overflowing with feminist attitude and, for a band of three, they make a freakin' huge sound. There's stacks of tracks to yell along to and who doesn't love that? Suss Cunts aren't trying to be like anybody else. They're genuine, completely themselves and that's why it works so well.

And, just like that, it's done. Three days of pure joy passes in the blink of an eye. As groups of punters use the last hour or so to sober up completely, or grab a free breath test, they perch themselves on the highest points of the grounds - drifting away, watching the wind turbines, arms around each other, simultaneously destroyed and revived by the supernatural experience that is Meredith. Cars packed once again, everyone joins the much-less-enjoyable queue than what we experienced on arrival, but not without one last glance back at the Sup'. Thank you Aunty Meredith, it's been lovely.