Laneway’s Atonement

Clover Moore would be proud, thinks A.H. CAYLEY, of Sydney’s leg of the St Jerome’s Laneway Festival. Mostly because it was better than Melbourne’s. Photos by JEZ HEYWOOD.

What a fucking shitfight. Slightly concussed and standing under the blazing sun in an unmoving line, I begin to wonder if I’ll ever get inside this festival. Someone ahead is having no luck attaining her VIP wristband from a bushy-browed man who either really loves or really hates his job.

“I don’t have those wristbands. Next.”
“But, it says there on my ticket that I get one.”
“Yeah, so you get that from the VIP desk. Over there. Goodbye,” he says dismissively.
“But, how do I prove it if you’ve taken my ticket?”
“I don’t really care. I have to keep these after scanning the barcode. Goodbye,” this time with more of a sneer.
“But, if you’ve scanned the barcode, it can’t be used again anywa…”
“I. Am. Keeping. This. Good. Bye.”
Wow.

I know that in about two minutes I’ll have the same problem. Sure enough I do, and make my way to the desk.
“Your name’s not here. Do you have your ticket?”
“Um, he took it off me.” And with that, the gentleman at the gate and his cohorts get a quick talking to. Two minutes into the festival and I’m already responsible for getting someone in trouble. Awesome. That, paired with this extra red wristband, well, I feel so fucking bourgeois.

That out of the way, things are nicely relaxed. The early birds are casually exploring the site - The Basement and Macquarie, Bulletin and Reiby Places; all beautiful sandstone, marble, fig trees and cannons – before the first bands play. It’s a great site, for the most part, very well set-out. And thanks to the towering buildings and sprawling trees, it’s shady too. Thank goodness for that. It seems no-one here has seen the sun since last year’s festival. Two points of concern are the apparent lack of any ambulance or first-aid facilities (not found on the map and not seen in the venue), and the inclusion of four separate bars but only one cluster of toilets. Fortunately, I see no evidence of the former being a problem during the day; unfortunately, the lines for the toilets saw no end all day. A usual festival symptom, however, and certainly nowhere near the debacle of Melbourne. It seems everyone here put hours into deciding their outfits. Kudos to the guy in the red jumpsuit. Very few could pull that off as you did.

At the Park Stage in Macquarie Place, Sherlock’s Daughter has started playing. They’re very good. The five-piece are joined by backing vocalists that harmonise perfectly with well-dressed lead singer Tanya Horo. In the Basement, Newcastle’s Firekites are playing to a steadily-filling room. Their blend of electro-folky pop works well in the surrounds.

Over at the Reiby Place stage, Philadelphia Grand Jury are wowing a rather small crowd. My God, they’re good. Brash, excited rock with fun, witty lyrics – it’s understandable that The John Steel Singers later lament having to follow them. Their between-song banter is pre-recorded, like there’s an emcee on stage. This should perhaps be seen as a massive load of wank, but somehow it works. It’s fucking hilarious. Guitarist/bass player “MC Bad Genius” has some fun climbing the scaffolding and lead singer “Berkfinger” makes his way into the photographers pit to end the set. Suddenly, with no music to sing to and the rest of the band departed, he gives a blunt “thank you” and hands the mic to local photographer Daniel Boud. Give us a tune, Dan. No? Aw. That a crowd member is so keen to then pontificate about their previous sets speaks volumes of their appeal. Go out and see them now.

Again at the Park Stage, Sydney indie darlings Talons are playing to a now fuller festival. Forgive me if I just don’t get it. Yeah, they’re not bad, but there’s nothing there to (ironically, for a band with such a name) hook me. The same applies to Yves Klein Blue. I know they’re popular, and I can see why, but what’s new here? Nothing today answered that. Sadly, the same can be said about Papa Vs. Pretty. I will give $10 to the first person who can identify which band member has a record company executive for a parent (if indeed there’s only one). Still, I must give pre-congratulations, as they’ll soon no doubt be the poster boys for something, and we’ll be hearing them everywhere. They’ve got a song about Club 77, for fuck’s sake.

The line so long (and static), there is now no hope of getting into the Basement, so Mountains in the Sky will unfortunately get no words here. Neither will any Basement acts for the rest of the day. Such a shame.

Although not an Australian act, Spiral Stairs (aka Scott Kannberg from Pavement) deserves a mention for his inclusion of Melbourne rock icon Julian Wu on guitar. Could anything say Australian music festival better than that? Well, perhaps, witnessing Dave McCormack and Cameron Bruce excitedly rocking on a loose paving stone while Wu plays guitar. We fit five people on that paving stone! Yeah.

Now in the summer twilight, the polar opposites of this festival (both with an equal share of rabid fans) are onstage: The Drones at Reiby Place and Architecture in Helsinki at that Park Stage. Tight jeans and op shop shirts at one; fluoro, tie-die and white shoes at the other. Walking between the two stages, it’s quite funny to hear ‘That Beep’ in one ear and ‘The Minotaur’ in another. With the massive toilet queue still barely moving, plenty of others seem to have that experience also. Before launching into the aforementioned song, the first single off their latest record Havilah, Drones lead singer Gareth Liddiard mentions that the house in which the album was recorded is now most likely gone among the hundreds of others in Victoria’s bushfire disaster. An incredibly sad reminder of the world outside the security barriers.

In all, it was a good day. A relaxed atmosphere in which (mostly) good fashions, carefully dishevelled hairstyles and vitamin-D deficiencies could enjoy a selection of (mostly) independent artists. It was fun and (mostly) well-run. And yes, it was better than Melbourne’s original.

Hurrah.

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