Find yourself at Laneway here

A multi-stage music festival in the heart of the city, one with simple convenience, tall trees and cool breeze, makes Laneway an idea that should stick. It’s brilliant; a balance of concrete and greenery, of structure and abandon – all without a major trek to an oval in the burbs or a campsite in the sticks.

Winners of – œPath to Laneway’ The Preytells christened the Library Stage, where frontman Will Tell and bassist Cam Stewart found some shade to work with. Under gum trees, next to the entrance and opposite Laneway’s largest bar, they caught punters on their way in and managed to hold a few with the sick and catchy serial-killer anthem Sacramento . The Preytells stuck with classic gear, a classic look and classic mode of address. – œLadies and Gentlemen’ is Will Tell’s catchphrase; it came out each time he opened his mouth. Their aloofly-delivered clever indie tunes were a welcome intro to festivities.

U.S. five-piece Port O’Brien had done a switcheroo with Pivot and hit the Gallery Stage early. “I like this small, narrow and very enthusiastic crowd we have here,” smiled singer / guitarist Van Pierszalowski as they began with Don’t Take My Advice . They specialised in life-affirming alt-country; plenty of languidly strummed acoustics, drawled harmony vocals, sparkling teeth and shabby facial hair (with the exception of banjo player Cambria Goodwin ). Port O’Brien dig the natural life. “We went to Fremantle and went swimming in the ocean,” said Van P before playing In Vino Veritas . “We’ve hugged koalas and fed some kangaroos. We’re having an amazing experience in your wonderful little town.” The living was easy amongst their fans at the Gallery Stage, with cool grass underfoot, beer in hand and the strong scent of weed everywhere.

Over at the Museum Stage, Born Ruffians were also obscured by smoke, thanks to an over-eager fog machine. “Let’s go a little modest on the smoke,” said one of the three Canadians from behind a wall of white cloud. “I just stopped playing.” When things cleared, they were each still in white, and the intro to Foxes Mate For Life had the sizeable crowd clapping along. Their mix of 1950s guitar, animated bass and indie-punk – œwoah-oh-oh’ vocal melodies work their way into the brain, especially the world’s greatest car-advertisement song: Hummingbird . As their set-closer, it was a triumph of upbeat pop genius, even though Luke LaLonde ’s guitar was way out of tune. Born Ruffians’ stage setup was novel and cool; drummer Steve Hamelin was side-on to the crowd. Fantomas do the same thing. Should be more of it.

Spiral Stairs and his three offsiders played a set of straight four-chord rock at the Library Stage. You could tap your foot to it, which was a virtue to be sure, but none of the tunes went beyond bog-standard. It was a bland let-down: hackneyed songs, minimal stage presence; even their clothes were the epitome of shapeless, colourless genericism. – œWait!’ you might think, – œthose qualities sound like the hallmarks of a lyrical-genius type of act!’ You know the sort – the power of their words holds you in sway; their storytelling is an opiate; the music is just a vehicle, with no need of a dog-and-pony show. Well, you’d be wrong. Spiral is coasting on his Pavement rep.

Back at the Museum, Jay Reatard had near-fully transformed into the grumpy old man that is the future of every angry young man. On the boundary of 30 years old, he may be peaking musically, but he sure as hell isn’t a cute prodigy any more. His sunny mane and golden t-shirt clashed with his pout as he strapped on a black Gibson V. Luckily his speedy, noisy pop sounded fine, and bassist Stephen Pope was putting on a show. Pope is the coolest kind of stage madman – a manic, tubby, flying-V playing, pink-shirted whirlwind of wild afro curls. Meanwhile, Reatard’s hair was standing on end for a different reason. “You’d think in a modern world,” he spat as feedback howled, “it’d be pretty easy not to be elec-tro-cuted, while you’re playing at something supposed to be so – œprofessional’” (yes, air quotes.) “So if I look a little weird up here, it’s because the assholes at this festival are allowing me to be elec-tro-cuted.” With that, he literally launched into It’s So Easy . Not long afterwards, a roadie ran on with a red mic cover, and JR went hard until the end of his set. Much applause ensued. Maybe it cheered him up a little.

The sun had retired behind trees but still kept things lit as Stereolab began playing at the Gallery. A quick, jazzy opening number in 5/4 time had people bouncing from the get-go. As the cool breeze became a cold wind, any movement was well advised. Stereolab’s sophisticated cutesy euro-pop made it easy; it was just so beautifully perky. They’re a tight, talented six-piece who don’t say much between songs – “This is called Silver Sands ” was about the most heard from them – but all the better to fit more of their back-catalogue into the set. Vocalist and pink centerpiece Laetitia Sadier was mostly gorgeous, briefly haggard, and always note-perfectly appealing.

Psychedelic local trio Tame Impala had some twisted colourful visuals lighting up the night at the Library, where the amphitheatre held what must’ve been the biggest home crowd they’ve played to. Several thousand, easily. Probably more than The Panics were hosting at the museum. The shadowy, trippily lit outdoor setting was pretty much made for the Impala, and they were holding court. Singer / guitarist Jay Watson , the skinniest guy in rock, asked “So did anyone check out the silent disco?” Predictable cheer. “Here’s the not-silent disco.” Their now-standard cover of Blue Boy’s Remember Me worked its magic yet again and people were digging it; singing into the breeze and swinging their heads from side to side. That said, a seven-minute version of a song with two lyric lines and three chords can be a trial if you’re not wasted. But that’s their thing: extended journeys, eddies of space guitar, rolling drums and minutes without vocals. The size of the crowd suggested that the time is right for Tame Impala, even though most of the punters danced for the first two minutes of each tune and chatted for the next five.

Brooklynites The Hold Steady dominated with a brand of infectious, persuasive, ironically irony-free pure rock that defies shame. They love rock. They rock. None more so than frontman Craig Finn , whose Telecaster ended up being more hip-swinging-prop than guitar, since he spends so much time throwing gestures to the crowd and lovingly abusing his mic stand. There can’t be a guy who works a crowd harder. Finn’s pseudo-preaching sing-speak is utterly convincing, making him the coolest weird uncle in rock. A close second has to be keyboardist Franz Nicolay , the spitting image of a prototype freaky French spiv. Somehow though, The Hold Steady have a way of making image irrelevant. They go nuts, the crowd goes nuts, the songs are 100% pre-loved rock, and the whole thing is joyously fresh. How it’s done isn’t entirely clear. The punters didn’t analyse it and didn’t care, especially during Sequestered In Memphis when they sang their hearts out.

After The Hold Steady, you didn’t need anything else. Except rest.

Find yourself at Laneway here