Fantasy Island

A.H. CAYLEY plays Robinson Crusoe for the Sydney leg of All Tomorrow’s Parties. Photos by JEZ HEYWOOD.

There are times I really hate this damn city. I come shaken from a maniacally-driven bus to Circular Quay, already late for my allocated ferry, inhaling the salty, rubbish-and-seagull-shit stench of our most beautiful Harbour while navigating around, over, under overweight tourists wearing bum-bags and dreadful footwear, having more fun in my city than I ever have, and marvelling at sights I’ve never bothered to see. Finally, I dodge my way to the Sydney Festival info booth, only to be informed that my pre-arranged two-day pass has not, in fact, been arranged. No dice. Come back tomorrow.

There are times I really love this city too, and the people in it. Walking to a bus stop (incidentally, the wrong one), I’m asked if I have a ticket by Sydney musician Daniele Marando of The Maladies), who is holding one in his hand.

“The last ferry leaves in like, 10 minutes, and my friend isn’t going to make it in time so it’ll only go to waste. You can just have it if you want.” Listen to his band; buy their records. They’re great. Suddenly the day is looking good.

Cockatoo Island is beautiful. A sandstone and rusted steel patch of Australian colonial history resting solemnly in the sparkling water. It’s perfect for a festival celebrating, among other things, some of the country’s most revered and historically significant acts. Opportunists with dinghies sit just metres from the shore to watch the bands, completely unmolested by security. Stepping off the ferry and through the Deco entrance, the atmosphere is immediately tangible. Bar the security staff, there is no fluoro on the island, and the only Australian flag to be seen the entire weekend is worn over the shoulders of the Harbour Bridge. There seems to be few wankers; even the gentleman in the pink shirt declaring that the Dead Kennedys were the original Rage Against The Machine isn’t too much of a knob. The burning sun prompts imaginative headwear (shirts, jackets, canvas bags, parasols, watermelon skins, Heineken boxes, 12” records - even a pith helmet) from the crowd. Young adults mingle deferentially with the middle-aged in bar queues, un-patronisingly wide-eyed at stories of their favourite bands playing tiny venues in the late-’70s. Everyone’s here for the same reason. The whole island smells slightly of weed.

Near the Foundry Stage, a party of rich kids have dropped anchor to watch the Laughing Clowns. Dancing on the top deck, they’re coked off their tits, clearly revelling in the attention their bikinis are receiving, looking like extras in a hip-hop video. The Laughing Clowns last played live before I knew what music was, so I’ve nothing with which to compare this set. I overhear grumbles from a podgy, dreadlocked couple, but for me it’s brilliant. Punk music with actual music! Kuepper is such a great frontman, his quick wit and warm nature making for an even more enjoyable set from his “highbrow little group”. By this stage, the wind from the Harbour is blowing the sound out, but no-one seems too bothered.

There’s a wonderfully avuncular nature to the well-dressed Robert Forster. An uncle through marriage though, so you can totally still have a crush on him. He may be a Go-Between, but this weekend looks perfectly at home centre stage. Each song has an amusing intro detailing the time period it covers (right down to the day) and the events it follows, while the tracks from the beautiful The Evangelist serve as a deeply moving tribute to Grant McLennan. It’s sad that so few people decide to witness his sets – Saturday’s small crowd became a group of about 20 on Sunday, if even that.

By contrast, The Necks draw quite a large crowd, sitting cross-legged all the way back to the sound tent and beyond, relaxing to some post-jazz while a Jet Boat group come screaming past, woo-hooing and waving. Over at the main stage, the crowd is already mobilised for The Saints. Chris Bailey is a wanker. Sorry Ramadge, but he is. Coming onstage in what appears to be his pyjamas (the same outfit over both days) his movements and his banter for the first half of the set is also the same over both days. Kuepper, onstage again, does not look at him once. I’m disappointed. Perhaps it’s the still-present animosity, but it just feels that they’re going through the motions. Sure, I still dance along and pump my fists, but it isn’t quite right.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, however, are. It’s so right. It’s loud, and it’s sexy, and I suddenly want to fuck anyone I can get my hands on. Cave thrusts lewdly at the crowd; a flailing marionette with a loose pelvis and a filthy mouth. The new songs from last year’s Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!! fit seamlessly with their well-known tracks, such as ‘Red Right Hand’, which has thousands of right fists in the air. A new arrangement of ‘Deanna’ has the whole crowd spelling out the chorus at a competitive volume, and there is something just too perfect about hearing the ‘Stagger Lee’ line, “COUNT THE HOLES IN THE MOTHERFUCKER’S HEAD!” or “GET ON YOUR KNEES AND SUCK MY DICK!”, while to the left, before the velvet and diamante backdrop of the city at night, an old replica sailing ship with tall, proud masts slowly drifts by like a swan. It is over too soon, and tired feet wait for ferries home, their owners raving to anyone who’ll listen about what just was.

Returning to the mainland, new friends sit on the back deck of the James Cadman III, loudly comparing favourite moments and varying degrees of sunburn, while another group of strangers bond through the act of discreetly vomiting overboard.

I love this damn city.