Live Review: Volumes Festival

The first Volumes Festival was a resounding success; a boon for the format. A multi-venue extravaganza: one wristband, four venues, infinite (actually only four) musical possibilities. That's not to say Sydney nailed it. From all accounts Brighton Up Bar was rarely packed. Not the case with both Oxford Art Factory venues. Cliff Dive had its moments as well, overcoming some odour issues to be, for the most part, a delightful place to dance the night away. The crowd, for those playing at home, was an extra two to three per cent hipster more than usual; likely a fallout from the progressive festival structure. It seems only those with tucked-in high-waists and thrifted overalls were progressively-minded enough to comprehend the multi-venue premise: "Wait, so you mean I can go over there and music? But I can music here as well? Two musics? Whoa, hang on just a second, what about those places over there? FOUR musics?"

Early birds were treated to Low Lux, Jon Dory, Mezko and WIld Honey at each venue respectively. Low Lux were their sultry, sensual best. The crowd at least feigned early afternoon enthusiasm. It was like the dance-move pre-season, devotees testing out their repertoire so they could have everything locked in for the main event. Sadly, planning went out the door for the majority of die-hards for one key reason: they started drinking at 2pm. The moves they thought weren't going to make the cut were out in full-flight a few hours later: we're talking 'the Sprinkler', ladies and gentleman.

Methyl Ethel were a bit of an early evening revelation: synthy, electronic tunes with feeling. Lead singer Jake Webb's feminine vocal style didn't shine through as obviously as in recorded work; not necessarily to his detriment. What we got here was more akin to a Youth Lagoon meets Superchunk-style power-rasp, nasally in all the good ways. Rogues was the highlight, punchy yet downtrodden, like wandering through a neon-bathed carnival at midnight.

Holy Balm were indicative of the 'niche bands' vibe that Cliff Dive were going for Saturday night. The tunes seemed to match the notably questionable odour emanating from various spots in the venue. The band's scattershot vocals and discordant bleeps conjured up vibes of walking into a suspicious spice shop in an Indiana Jones-style movie — luxurious on the surface, but with something sinister deep inside. So too with Cliff Dive's foul stench: "Smells like teen spirit" an optimist was overheard uttering, perhaps a little late on the reference train. "Smells more like shit," said an accomplice, closer to the truth.

Back at the Oxford Art Factory main stage, drink lines were getting longer in anticipation of the headliners who were curiously awarded the 7pm time-slot, perhaps a way of ensuring the venue wouldn't reach capacity. Jack Ladder & The Dreamlanders were everything you could've hoped for: smooth croons, extended, clean guitar solos and shimmering '80s synths. Anyone who's witnessed the group live can attest to their smokey, casino showroom-style appeal, intentionally a little more Harrah's Casino in Reno than Bellagio in Vegas. Ladder's deep, soulful voice, shamelessly Presley-esque, sliced the air like butter as Donny Benet and company built tension behind him. Several times, on bangers like Hurtsville and Come On Back This Way, the dark synthy undertones reached goosebumps levels. The group have an irrefutable knack for building nostalgia from moments you've never actually witnessed and emotions you've never actually felt.

Day Ravies weren't afforded the benefits of the best-sounding room, but were impassioned all the same. Their low-key, pop-punk tunes were hard to piece together in the Art Factory Gallery, but they pulled it together for a string of compact anthems for their last two tracks.

Tees were a surprise. The band were a time machine of wandering synth and hollering refrains. Highlight, Playground was awash with nostalgic hooks and pulsing 808-flavoured drums. Frontwoman Lizzy Tillman had water in constant supply to fuel her enthusiastic dancing. Perhaps she was spurred on by the crowd, who were clearly in a dimension of their own.

A strange closer to a slow, jam-heavy, blast-from-the-past-style night were The Laurels, who got the headline slot without actually being billed as such. Rock and metal fans came out of nowhere for the closing main stage set, head-banging the night away, as much of the crowd left to see what Brighton Up and the now odourless Cliff Dive had to offer.

Truthfully, there was a good enough spread of styles at the end to keep everyone happy: the 2pm drunks, the head-bangers, the downtrodden slow jammers, the sinister spice-shoppers et cetera. That, guys and gals, is Volumes in a nutshell: the music festival for the Tinder generation.