Grampians Gold

A weekend-long shindig in rural Victoria is always going to garner comparisons to a certain festival in December. But, writes LAWSON FLETCHER, Goondooloo is more like a cross between a paddock party and a really great DIY gig – Madonna even turned up. Photography by MATT TITO.

An eerie haze blanketing Victoria gives way to the midday sun as we drive the inland highway to Halls Gap, a picturesque little hamlet over which looms the towering, sublime ridges of the Grampians. We depart from a convoy of boomers just before town, who continue on to what I’m sure was the weekend’s other musical highlight: the Grampians Jazz Festival. Winnebagos and wine to the left. Panel vans and goon to the right for “Goondooloo: A Party in the Grampians”.

While “party” is certainly the operative here, this inaugural event for Melbourne’s folk-punk and other fringe musical communities shows that these little bastards certainly can organise. Last year’s version was a little more than a round the campfire acoustic affair, whereas we now bear witness to no less than two portaloos, a cool room, sausage sizzle (vegan options, natch) and even a raised stage. Not that everything else isn’t totally punk though – from the gnarly camping situation (think Meredith without the organisation) to the game of hide-and-seek travellers must play with the “plenty of signage” directing them to the property (two or three laminated A4 sheets stuck to the odd tree, thanks guys). Then there’s Heatherlie Track, which someone forgot to mention was not so much a road as a rally course complete with engine-fracturing rocks the size of boulders.

It is a beautiful spot though. Nearby there’s a muddy dam on which an authentically rotting boat is moored, while stretches of bushland beckon revellers on spirit walks. The stage itself is its own special “natural amphitheatre”, ‘cept this one is more a flat, dusty paddock shaded by gumtrees and filled comfortably with maybe 300, rather 10,000 punters.

Enough with the allusions to that festival though – even though there’s certainly inklings of that mythical Meredith ’91. This is more a cross between a paddock party and a really great DIY gig. It’s also the scene for some of the best underground acts, self-indulgent side-projects and all-out punk rockers this side of the mountain. And while many a choral “woh oh oh” cry was to be expected from the folk contingent, the sounds on offer were surprisingly eclectic

Hannah trekked across the Bass Strait to kick things off with their born-and-bred carnie rock; a product of sheltering as much as unbridled enthusiasm. More brashness was to be had with Jerry Falwell Destroyed Earth, as the indomitable Jessica Shulman, band in tow, went about recorrecting the gender imbalance with an appropriate transformation into acoustic clamour given the ants and flies. Dr DNA provided a not-often-seen miscegenation of punk and skip-hop, while Learn the Splits came in thick and fast, avoiding the usual pitfalls of sans bass duos by simply piling on the ‘core in an electrified acoustic and frenetic drumming onslaught. Little Red cut-offs The Hondas are like their daddy band without the palatableness, whereas The Greasers bought something new and worthwhile to the mix.

Reconstructing a definite timeline of bands becomes difficult as the night wears on, although one recalls solo troubadours Wil Wagner and Chris Burrows playing back-to-back sets to a closely huddled crowd that joined in on all the best bits. While their MOs diverge – Wagner is off covering Wolf Parade while Burrows screams ‘Fuck Cops’ – their shared openness and enthusiasm meant that everyone was included. At some point rat VS possum wandered out of the jungle to deliver a wildly uneven set that heaved between absolutely inspired neo-tribal bliss and shambolic, shouty freak outs. Obviously these guys like to “fuck around”, which is great, but sometimes when they stop fucking around and find a groove and a melody, they’re even better.

What I most definitely remember, though, is Madonna, an ecstatic punk outfit that inexplicably borrows from ska, noise, metal and a bunch of sounds in-between and somehow it all comes out golden. Frontman Anty Horgan screams surreal scenes into a vocal delay, loops it and generally fucks shit up as his band play with a surprising cohesion. Their ability to flip between structured playing to completely arbitrary fucking around at the drop of a hat is a marvel. “Hey, has anyone got a funny word I can put a vocal delay on?” asks Horgan. Someone shouts “Goondooloo!”

But it’s not really a funny word. Instead, it’s now instilled in the hearts of those that made the trek to bask in the shade of these ancient mountains as a catchcry for good times. As the major festival circuit well and truly hits saturation (let alone commercialisation) point – filling bills with tired overseas acts, constantly pushing up ticket prices and generally treating punters like shit – it’s good to know you can get back to the land, pull a bunch of friends and strangers together and have a great weekend out of the city.

It’s even better to know that you can still hold a musical gathering where the people onstage emerge from the very crowd watching.

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