First came the mud, then came the heat. After Victoria’s Meredith music festival experienced torrential rain in December, the opposite was true for its sister festival, Golden Plains, with two straight days of 38C weather. The heat meant that, while the festival went ahead, the traditional opening smoking ceremony was scuppered due to a total fire ban. (Pitch Music and Arts festival in the Grampians, also on at the weekend, was eventually cancelled due to the heatwave.)
But if anything is true about Golden Plains, it’s that the community finds ways to band together. Punters get creative – mister bottles, wet tea towels, a cup of ice-cold Esky water over the head (that last one definitely wasn’t me). Strangers mist one another, festival volunteers roam around spraying cold water and signs flash on-screen, reminding us all to take care of each other.
So much of Golden Plains, now in its 16th year, is about community and communion. For seasoned attendees, the familiarity is comforting; newcomers are welcomed with open arms and these rituals become theirs, too. From the opening long blink from founder Chris Nolan, who suffered a brain injury in 1996, to “the boot”, in which you raise your Blundstone or Birkenstock for your favourite act of the festival, to the mysterious Aunty, who helms the whole affair – there is a special language that exists at this place on Wadawurrung country, affectionately nicknamed “the Sup’”.
Uncle Barry Gilson’s Welcome to Country and charming, emotional storytelling sessions have become part of the festival’s fabric. The connection to land and Country is felt across the two days, with sets by Kutcha Edwards and King Stingray offering different approaches – one moving and sincere, the other raucous and joyful.
The political heart of the festival is evident. The plight of Palestine is front and centre in this progressive crowd, both on the ground and on the stage – the word “ceasefire” is uttered early in the day and, after a sparkling, high-octane set in the late hours of Saturday night, Belgian singer Charlotte Adigéry’s parting words: “Keep talking about Palestine, please.” Among all the doof sticks and lights, a large Palestinian flag waves.
One of the joys of Golden Plains is that, as a single-stage festival with eclectic programming, there’s always something new to discover – and a wildcard or two for good measure. US singer-songwriter MJ Lenderman is on double duties, playing in the band Wednesday on the Saturday afternoon then as his solo project (backed by most of the same band) on Sunday. In the former, the music builds from a gentle alt-country base to a scuzzy wall of sound, with vocalist Karly Hartzman’s impressive yowl cutting across; the latter is a relaxed Americana set that showcases Lenderman’s songwriting skills.
Melbourne’s RVG plays a typically blistering set as the sun sets on Saturday evening. Technical issues don’t mar the band’s precision and passion, with singer Romy Vager’s voice reaching its climactic howl as the sky turns black. “I’d forgotten how magical this place is,” Vager says – by the smile on her face, she won’t be forgetting again any time soon.
Japanese noise titans Boris are this year’s surprise – “the Sup” doesn’t usually host heavy music – and their theatricality is something to behold. Bathed in orange light and smoke, singer Atsuo raises his hands like a messiah and commands the crowd. It’s not for everyone, but those who stick around are rewarded with something unique.
Nostalgia comes in heavy with Regurgitator’s Saturday night set, all 90s colours and patterns. Dressed in all white, the Brisbane band rips through their classics, peppering the set with new songs that don’t land quite as well (and an almost-cover of Metallica’s Enter Sandman, aborted as quickly as it begins). Polyester Girl and ! (The Song Formerly Known As) get the biggest responses as the crowd morphs into a high school disco.
Those up early enough on Sunday morning are treated to Sarah Mary Chadwick’s tales of hardship and heartache, woven with her idiosyncratic, unadorned vocals. The Melbourne via Aotearoa musician is a fine storyteller, and she offers a raw, cathartic live experience. She repeats the question “will I feel it?” during Let’s Fight, making sure that we do.
The Sunday afternoon slot is often filled with a dancefloor-igniting DJ, and Japan’s DJ Koco is up to the task, with a round-the-world set seamlessly mashing classics. When he slides effortlessly from Superfreak into Move On Up, there are more than a few boots thrust into the air. Some newlyweds were getting down to Koco, too – festivalgoers Liz and Enrique were married on Sunday afternoon around the corner at Sunset Strip, all glitter and colours, and the business card-style invite rallied friends and strangers alike to celebrate with them on the dancefloor.
Headliner the Streets deliver a shambolic set at the hands of leader Mike Skinner, who admits he’s taken an edible. They sound great and Skinner’s ad-libs are impressive, though touring member Kevin Mark Trail offers cleaner, more impressive vocals. Skinner is a charismatic and funny performer, though his gags run a bit thin by the end of the set. He misunderstands the concept of the Boot, corralling the crowd to hold theirs up as he does the same to us. It’s a divisive but memorable performance.
My Boot went, at least spiritually (there was no bending down at 2am on the last night), to Melbourne’s Sunshine and Disco Faith Choir, a genius combination of techno DJ and live choir, decked out in spectacular blue and gold costumes. From Justin Timberlake to Adele to church-style hallelujahs, the choir’s angelic tones are accompanied by shuddering, thudding beats and a sea of writhing bodies. Against the lights of “the Sup” at night, it’s transcendent.
By Monday afternoon, all the punters have cleared out and the sun is still beating down on the Nolan family farm, which now has nine months to breathe before it comes alive again for Meredith. It’s always a privilege and a pleasure to be there, at the best festival in Australia.
