Report: Sugar Mountain 2013

Melbourne’s far-reaching yet close-knit indoors festival Sugar Mountain remains a mixed bag in its third year, but its successes easily outweigh whatever doesn’t work – or sparks controversy and rumour-mongering. JEREMY STORY CARTER and DOUG WALLEN report. Photos by JENNY JONES.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.] Jeremy Story Carter: As exciting and seemingly well-rounded as Sugar Mountain’s line-up may have appeared, moving into the dark cavern of the Forum Theatre from an impossibly sunny and gentle afternoon is something of a hard sell. Its ethos may be in staunch opposition to conventional summer festivals, but this particular day makes an outdoor environment seem far more preferable (An $8.50 Asahi Dry as the only beer option does, however, recalls Big Day Out et al). It is pleasing, then, that in its third year there’s a calm, organised feel inside the festival.

The enormous backdrop to the Forum’s main stage (once again termed The Womb) features a projection of Hanging Rock, and its rural setting seems specifically paired to the distinctly Australian landscape Lower Plenty’s music unfolds upon, despite the fact the image remains present long after their set closes. The band themselves are both awful at times (‘Work in the Morning’ and particularly ‘Grass’) and perfect at others (‘Nullarbor’, ‘White Walls’). Their sound fills out to each corner of the vast room, thanks in no small part to the vocals and hand percussion of Sarah Heyward, whose presence at many of Lower Plenty’s gigs in 2012 was sorely missed. Thankfully the dreaded floor tom at Heyward’s feet goes largely unused, and when the band can figure out which chord they are supposed to be playing, they succeed as the affable start organisers were surely banking on.

Boomgates, by contrast, are far more urgent and all the more captivating for it. Brendan Huntley starts their set mic stand in hand from the floor, and it’s a brilliant sight to see him staring up at Steph Hughes as their voices coalesce during the chorus of ‘Flood Plains’. Huntley brings his usual earnest, jittering stage presence, but it is Hughes who has rarely been so assertive, her vocals and guitar ringing out over the gathering bodies at the foot of stage. When it all comes together on ‘Layman’s Terms’ and especially set closer ‘Whispering or Singing’, Boomgates sound as good as anyone at Sugar Mountain.

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Brothers Hand Mirror take to the Boiling Point Stage more than 10 minutes past their scheduled start time. That’s disappointing, given that a by-the-numbers DJ set is all that precedes them. Also, there’s no actual stage, so the diminutive HTML Flowers (Grant Gronewold) is scarcely sighted beyond the first few rows. It’s a real shame, because his vocals are breathtakingly dexterous and his buoyant energy never flags. Yet much of Brothers Hand Mirror’s appeal derives from their all-involving nature, and with any view limited to the flailing limbs of those bumping and grinding in front of the duo, the physical disconnect only amplifies the feeling that this is a predominately friends-only affair.

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Still, ‘Summon Me’ sounds huge and Gronewold serves as a surprisingly fitting Missy Elliot during a cover of Tweet’s ‘Oops (Oh My)’. As for when Oscar Slorach-Thorne (Oscar + Martin) takes the mic for a Melbourne approximation of commercial R*B on Miguel’s ‘Sure Thing’, it’s as if this city’s answer to the song’s creator is stepping up (and there are more than a few pretenders to that title). As he’s shown in any of his sporadic solo shows, the guy is an R&B beast and cannot be touched.

Doug Wallen: Brooklyn’s Woods are notably more of a bouncy, jaunty pop proposition live, compared to the more shambling lo-fi rock tendencies of their records. That said, there’s a moment or two where whiffs of a Grateful Dead-ish openness waft through their set. Jeremy Earl’s squeaky voice is probably the most interesting thing about the band, as their California-directed full-band folk motifs land on the blander side of things.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

JSC: So, that Kirin J Callinan set. Here is, in essence, what happens:
A reasonably full Summit crowd watch on as the clip to ‘W II W’ plays without sound.
Callinan and the clip’s director Kris Moyes laugh and apologise for the lack of audio.
“Only moments ago, the organisers told us we had to censor the concept that we had planned for the past two weeks,” says Moyes.
Boos ring out around the cinema.
“No … this is a great festival,” says Callinan.
The two endeavour to try to introduce the intended concept. Their dialogue is stilted, and someone shouts “play some music.”
They say they tried casting a participant for the show, and ended up looking at “hospitals and clinics.”
They welcome to the stage ‘Billy,’ who suffers from photosensitive epilepsy.
Moyes cues up a clip on his laptop “from rehearsal.” It’s Billy, staring into the camera. A small, bright flashing strobe is held to his eye. He goes into an epileptic fit and needs to be held by someone onscreen.
Boos ring out again.
“Get the fuck off the stage.”
A lady stands up.
“Not only have portrayed pornographic images, but you have used someone who is medically unfit for the audience’s joy,” she says.
Several people applaud.
“They are using you, Billy,” says another.
Moyes shrugs off the woman’s criticism as irrelevant.
“This seemed like a good idea at the time, but now...” Callinan trails off.
A call of “dickheads” is heard among a chorus of boos as people stream down the stairs for the exit.

“Provoking such a reaction may be Callinan’s usual MO, but this was nothing to aspire to.”

Callinan then steps up to play and there’s the usual shards of piercing guitar, but it’s pretty uninspired and by now there’s already a bank-up of people trying to leave. I join them shortly after and, as Callinan’s wailing fades out down the stairs, Collarbones ‘Hypothermia’ fades in and it’s the sweetest sounding thing I’ve heard all day.

Was it all a setup? Was the outraged woman a plant? Certainly, the behemoth in fluro-shorts and Everlast singlet, who was briefly involved and whose hulking frame could be seen walking about the festival, was in Callinan’s camp. Really, though, it doesn’t matter. There’s only so much you can fly under the banner of art and even the most sympathetic interpretation couldn’t hide the fact that this was an undeniably awkward and uncomfortable experience, considered wildly inappropriate or, at least, in extremely poor taste by the majority. Provoking such a reaction may be Callinan’s usual MO, but this was nothing to aspire to.

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Collarbones continue to sound terrific, but the sightline issues at the Boiling Point ‘stage’ pervade again. A glimpse of Marcus Whale through a slightly thinning crowd suggests he’s thoroughly enjoying himself, and when Grant Gronewold steps up again for his bit on ‘Die Young’, he effectively confirms his place as the day’s best performer. It’s just difficult to feel any sense of immediacy, so I step outside to the slightly jarring sight of hundreds watching the tennis televised at Fed Square to fetch some McDonalds.

DW: Collarbones’ ‘Hypothermia’ is indeed a central moment in the day, as eager fans push their way to the front both for dancing and for visibility. The song teems with hyperactivity, transcending its internet-distorted R&B airs for a near-spiritual outpouring of emotion. Collarbones appeared at the very first Sugar Mountain too, so this set has the added feeling of a homecoming.

Hunx & His Punx supply the set that grows on me the most as I watch. Right up the front, within arm’s reach of three super-fans stomping and screaming like fucking maniacs (that’s not a complaint), I have a close-up view of Seth Bogart’s costume changes, from skin-tight jumpsuit to panties, garter and stockings. (Also, black leather jacket and hand-painted raincoat.) Leading his namesake three backing players, including loveable bassist and singer Shannon Shaw (of Shannon and the Clams) he oozes exaggeratedly campy gay and rock ‘n’ roll motifs while piping out girlishly high vocals over straightforward – and almost indistinguishable – punk burners. It’s cartoonish in tone and simplicity, as well as in sheer likeability.

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He does surprisingly well with the biggest room in the house, despite the obvious fact that he’s better suited to a space like The Tote – his sold-out stop the next night. Bogart asks for drugs, simulates oral sex with an unamused bouncer and generally sparks with manic verve throughout the set. At first I’m not totally won over, but as I stick around I appreciate the whole thing more and more. The best song is ‘Private Room’, arguably the catchiest of his great many burst-bubblegum volleys.

In the seated third-floor space, Forces’ relentless, hard-hitting dance set is set to Antony Hamilton’s choreographed group of white-clad figures pushing large geometrical shapes into different positions. A perfect fit for the music, but offering seats and a dance piece is iffy when you think how well this set would have done in the mezzanine, with the chance for punters to dance themselves. The third floor is devoted to electronics, visuals and multimedia collaborations this year, ranging from that Kirin fiasco and HTRK’s narcotic set to Naysayer & Gilsun’s pop-bent electronic set (as ideal for a triple j audience as for this one) and Phantôscopia, which saw live participants “put to sleep” and transmitted to pre-filmed weirdness on the projection screen. This kind of thing is interesting at a festival but can get lost in the shuffle when up against so many (relatively) big names on the other stages.

JSC: By now Sugar Mountain doesn’t exactly need saving, but it certainly could use one unifying, festival-defining set. Enter ESG. With two members decked out in RRR t-shirts and some of the most infectious smiles you are ever likely to see, they decant the best of disco, funk and hip-hop down to its core elements: bass, drums and vocals. On a night that saw so many accoutrements added to those elements, ESG, in spite of nagging sound problems, prove what could be achieved by keeping to what is important and staying impossibly tight. The ubiquitously sampled ‘UFO’ appears among the highlights in an utterly joyous set, and as the Two Bright Lakes cabal and others mob the stage to dance during a brief encore, this would have served as a fitting way to end the night.

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DW: Compared to his set at Laneway last year, Jonti has taken his beat-making to much deeper places. There’s a total serenity to his work here, feeling more controlled and masterful than the goofy youth that grinned and laughed so infectiously at Laneway. The mezzanine’s Boiling Point Stage is literally a middle ground between the electronic- and multimedia-tilted seated space upstairs and the more guitar-anchored acts of the vast downstairs. Throughout the night it’s where the most dancing happens, whether to DJs or to Brothers Hand Mirror or Collarbones. That includes Peanut Butter Wolf’s throwback, funk-informed plundering, which shook awake anyone whose enthusiasm was flagging as the night neared its end. The dancing spilled onto the stairs and downstairs foyer at times, confirming the Laneway crowd as not exactly rockist and proving excellent counterprogramming. Or were the guitar bands the counterprogramming?

JSC: Entering the Summit for HTRK is like walking through a good party only to find yourself in a dark, smacked-out bedroom with a bunch of people murmuring dispassionately about sex. Only, the lights were on. It’s actually quite shocking to see Jonnine Standish and Nigel Yang so fully illuminated, although the projection of pulsing, digitised organs inside the HTRK logo is a far more fitting accompaniment to the dense, dank, enveloping atmosphere their music engenders. As the set progresses, a warmth and tenderness begins to emerge in Standish’s vocals and Yang’s guitar sound that isn’t always present on record. If not for the procession of foot traffic obscuring the view (there literally isn’t a moment when someone isn’t coming or going, a distraction amplified by the cinema setting), this would feel like quite an intimate performance. The bass bleed-through from Peanut Butter Wolf’s neighbouring set downstairs doesn’t help either. (Ed.: The same thing happened last year with Julianna Barwick.)

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DW: No one mines the emptiness and oblivion in (and after) sex as deeply as HTRK. Their first two songs are alluring but their next two are flat-out mesmeric, which makes it a hard decision to head downstairs for Action Bronson. Arriving just after his on-the-floor rapping amidst the crowd and a related altercation with security, I plant myself and just absorb his blustery yet ultra-amiable stream of words. It’s impossible to catch every one, especially with chatter from parts of the limited crowd, but his charisma is instant. Just hearing that parched, deceptively smooth voice makes me smile, as do mentions of prosciutto – the man loves his food – and sporadic runs of DJ-unaccompanied rapping. He’s grouchy, though, asking one audience member in what seemed like an accusation: “Who are you here to see?”

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Yeah, the crowd isn’t big and isn’t exactly bouncing off the walls (“You can move your body,” says Action Bronson early on), but it’s still disappointing when he cuts off his DJ a few times and winds up cutting the whole set 15 minutes short. As one of the major drawcards of the day for me, it’s not nearly enough time with him. At the same time, it’s not much fun if the performer’s not having fun himself. As for his supposed arrest, those persistent rumours were just that: rumours.

Dirty Projectors don’t match the just-so perfection of their last two records, but their rawness offers something all its own. Playing for a solid hour including encore – not the hour-and-a-half advertised, which would have been a bit much – the six-piece are much less precious and arty than their reputation, and more windblown and ramshackle. The rock outbursts of ‘Offspring are Blank’, opener of last year’s Swing Lo Magellan, seem to broadcast what’s to come: less of the pristine R&B reappropriation, more of the rough-edged interaction. Thus, Bitte Orce’s ‘Stillness is the Move’ comes off quite different, but songs from Magellan have a renewed kinetic force, including standouts ‘About to Die’ and ‘Gun Has No Trigger’.

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David Longstreth’s newfound lyrical tenderness comes through in ‘Impregnable Question’ and ‘See What She Seeing’, and his spiky guitar playing is a thrill to behold. Amber Coffman remains a crucial part of the balancing act, while Michael Johnson throws himself into the drums with surprising and exciting force. Dirty Projectors could be the Sugar Mountain house band, filtering a love of all manners of black American music through a knowing, art-project mentality. It’s not an amazing set, or a packed house by any means, but it is a lot of brash fun and untroubled by clashes – apart from Peanut Butter Wolf’s sustained inciting of limbs on the mezzanine.

JSC: At times confused and at others inspired, Sugar Mountain offers a valued alternative for this city. It is almost exciting to see the flaws, because you know the festival’s organisers have so much more to give. The collision of art and performance may not always succeed and might read a little ‘serious’ on paper, but Sugar Mountain is no place for chin-stroking and, at its best, it’s almost unrivalled in Melbourne.

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DW: With more of Sugar Mountain arts programming outside of the actual Forum this year, it feels slightly less unique. There are other little differences, like the mezzanine acts set on the other side and staircase access switched for the third floor, and a few issues persist, like only one brand of beer on offer (albeit with two types of cider plus wine and liquor options) and a lack of food options outside of a mini box of Pringles. And with such a wide schedule condensed into eight hours, the night blows by and forces one to either miss certain acts or only see partial sets.

But that’s true of nearly any festival, and there’s no other festival in this country that could put Lower Plenty, ESG, Action Bronson, Hunx and HTRK under one roof without skipping a beat. If this year lacked one singular, mind-blowing set on par with last year’s Thee Oh Sees coup – though ESG seemed to come close for a lot of people, sound issues aside – and also threatened to be overshadowed by the mischief of Callinan/Moyes and Action Bronson, Sugar Mountain is still incredibly curated and smoothly pulled off for the most part. It honours Australian music while at the same time looking as far afield as possible for the other side of its choices. That duality is there in the shared focus on music and other arts too, and in the collision between questing artistic ambition and naïve, body-moving abandon.

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