Perching in the shade of the hill beside the GW McLennan Tent and basking in the blissful sound of Cloud Control was the perfect way to ring in the final afternoon of the festival. Bodies were sore, heads hungover, but the vibe this Aussie band brought to the stage made you forget all problems as you swayed to sweet and soulful melodies. The band declared Splendour “the best festival ever”, and put a stupid smile on everyone’s face with the joyous Gold Canary, catalyst hit Death Cloud, and the eerie chanting of This is What I Said.
At the Mix Up, Gold Coast groovemeisters Tijuana Cartel help shake those tired joints with their infectious, Spanish-tinged grooves. Vintage acid house-laced new song White Dove sits well alongside established stompers Holiday In Baghdad and the regal Persian and the band’s hallmarks – pulverising breaks, scorching trumpet solos, Paul George’s rapid-fire flamenco guitar and Daniel Gonzalez’s frantic congas/timbales pulse – are ever-delectable.
Aussie garage-blues kings The Mess Hall are the best when you see them at a packed, sweaty small venue or at one of the many tents at Bluesfest, but not in the unrelenting Amphitheatre sunshine. Aided by a keyboard player, Jed Kurzel and Cec Condon eventually hit the right spots with staple Keep Walking, however generally lack both energy and crowd numbers and we’re left guessing whether it’s the early slot or it the lackadaisical, partied-out listeners as I head back down.
Two Swedish tunesmiths and one consummate American frontman, Miike Snow are given a heroes’ welcome at the chock-full Mix Up and immediately proceed to do a masterclass on how intelligent pop music should be performed live. Opening with the uplifting, Passion Pit-like Cult Logic, they don’t wait for the cheers to stop as they follow it up with Burial and a triumphant Black And Blue. A propulsive newie Rabbit is also well-received, but the Ibiza-like euphoria truly takes hold during the prolonged Silvia. The driving Plastic Jungle keeps the tent contingent moving their feet while the soaring In Search Of is a gorgeous exercise in dynamics and the lilting Sans Soleil soothes the air a bit before the 10-minute grand finale of Triple J hit Animal – which the band speed up to near-gabba house tempo towards the end.
Forget the mental picture that the name and the music helped you draw Surfer Blood are about a ‘surfer’ looking as Vampire Weekend. Luckily though, collared shirts that should have been picnic blankets don’t hinder your ability to create rolling east coast surf rock. Initially the Floridian four piece look a little daunted, and thus are unconvincing early on. The nerves settle though, and the cowabunga-combination of Twin Peaks, Slow Jabroni and Anchorage sees the boys hitting their stride along with all the delay-laden chords that made debut album Astro Coast so infectious. A tongue in cheek jibe to the not completely convinced crowd, from frontman John Paul Pitts offers “You guys have been wonderful. I’ll muse about you later in my moleskin notebook”, then rocks into ripping set closer Swim. New York rock punks We Are Scientists are a breath of fresh air to the Amphitheatre. Their tried and tested brand of energetic rock is perfectly balanced with sarcasm, satire and a pinch of self-depreciating comedy. At one point bassist Chris Cain jokes ‘Be careful on the steep section of that hill, during our first song I saw six people tumble to their deaths… It’s a long way down and theirs spikes at the bottom – God knows why!’ After Hours and The Great Escape are gloriously edible chucks of danceable rock and the crowd concurs.
They were teenagers when they started in the ‘90s, however Ash’s music passes the test of time with flying colours for the most part. With Bloc Party’s Russell Lissack on second guitar, Tim Wheeler and co storm through old favourites Goldfinger, Kung Fu, Oh Yeah and the iridescent Girl From Mars – quite possibly the finest pop-punk song written since The Undertones’ (also coincidentally from Northern Ireland) Teenage Kicks. Shining Light likewise stands as one of the best pop-rock songs from the past decade, yet new tracks Twilight Of Innocence and The Return Of White Rabbit trail off into a dangerous sub-Muse territory. The trademark fun vibe is restored on the riveting finishing number Burn Baby Burn.
Since their inception Aussie rockers The Vines have spent about as much time as the country’s hardest working band as it has as the country’s hardly working band. When on song the powerful four piece is about as good a live band as you can see, but their ‘other’ performances are generally pretty entertaining too. It’s virtually standing room only when Craig Nicholls and co. set the frenzied crowd alight. Highly Evolved comes early powerfully menacing riffs rip through the amphitheatre. By mid set it appears Nicholls has finally gotten his shit together, probably to the disappointment of most, and will finish a set with the stage and his psyche in tact. Their take on Outkast’s Sorry Miss Jackson has become a staple of the bands live set and is a great and ballsy reworking. Mary Jane is the band at their acoustic best. To the delight of everyone present The Vines save their two best tricks til last and while blasting out the second half of Get Free Nicholls snaps. First half heartedly ramming his guitar’s headstock into an amp then the floor, before gaining momentum and deciding the strap’s got to come off and that guitar needs to be swung. It’s smashes into the floor several times before being launched vertically and crashing to the ground. The drums also cop a hiding from the mic stand – all without missing a beat. They even managed some genuine sounding thanks before exiting the spotlight.
Jonsi is the voice of God – you can quote us on that. As otherworldly as ever, the elfin-like extraordinaire sends chills down thousands of spines with his ethereal voice. This is truly as close as you could get to seeing his flagship act Sigur Ros (who were astounding back in 2008) at this year’s Splendour and one cannot help but surrender to the celestial acoustic guitar, piano, vibraphone and electric band arrangements and that angelic tenor. Heavenly.
Boston’s synthpop quintet Passion Pit is the first straight up dance act of the festival to be granted the main stage and they grip that offering with all 10 hands. the band remain trapped behind their keyboards as they fiddle around with knobs and keys as the delicate falsetto voice of front-man Michael Angelakos soars over the top. The band is super tight, with it’s intricacies and in no time at all has the capacity hillside bouncing and time. As expected The Reeling and Little Secrets send beams of light, throbs of bass and waves of euphoria bounding. A questionable cover of The Cranberries’ Dreams is interesting and entertaining if nothing else, but with crowd participation hitting new levels, everything is ravenously devoured. Sleepy Head is anthemic, sparkling and wondrous, and induces frenzied dance moves the likes of which you’ve never. Their pastiche of electro sound is so fun-loving and joyous and the groove infects even the staunchest non-disco loving audience members like an epidemic.
Despite the miming rumours, Goldfrapp ’s set is a solid hour of crisp, retro-futuristic electro-pop with a space-portal backdrop and keytar/perspex bass onslaught that’d make The Mighty Boosh’s Vince Noir proud. Appearing to wild cheers, Allison Goldfrapp is an explosion of glitter, ray-reflecting tinsel and blonde hair while chief bandmate Will Gregory ’s jumpsuit is likewise parallel-universe stuff. Dreaming and Number One make for a nice, vintage synthpop-hued opening double, latest single Rocket aptly takes off in the same way as any classic Human League number would and Black Cherry’s throbbing electro-glam stompers Train and Strict Machine send the crowd in giant-moving-centipede mode. To further quell any suspicions, Allison’s vocals sound even more beautiful live than on the record – none more so than on the alternating low/high passages of Ride On A White Horse. The pulsating Ooh La La provides a nice finish to an unabashedly fun performance – unashamedly pop, more than slightly camp and all the better for it.
Outshining many of the musical performances on the last day of Splendour was Richard Ashcroft’s spectacular maraca smashing moment. The official statement by Ashcroft’s management as to why the set lasted less than a minute is that Ashcroft lost his voice, but that wasn’t the spin bandied about by the few who bothered to show up. Visibly frustrated with a small crowd turn-out, The Verve frontman dramatically jumped off the stage halfway through his first song Are You Ready, looked to have words with a photographer and never returned to play his proposed setlist which included Bittersweet Symphony and The Drugs Don’t Work. Cue bottle and witches hat throwing by some angry punters.
In addition to stealing Richard Ashcroft’s audience, Empire Of The Sun put on a typically no holds barred performance. Standing on a raised podium in the centre of the stage, surrounded by lycra-clad dancers Luke Steele clearly reveled in the huge turn-out. Despite the fact he has been playing the same songs for over a year now, what Steele lacked in new material he made up for in sparkly guitars and make-up. Walking On A Dream and We Are The People predictably drew the biggest crowd reaction, however the energy had dissipated quite dramatically amongst revelers since the first day of the festival resulting in a less than spectacular closing night at the Mix Up tent.
Looking like a bunch of nineteenth century dairy farmers, yours and your mums favourite English gentlemen Mumford and Sons humbly take the stage. Neglecting the drum kit to the rear, the four space themselves equally across the front each with an instrument and a mic stand. The initial, virtually a Capella delivery of Sigh No More sends an audible chill through the crowd followed by soaring “I’m Sorry” en masse. Awe quickly gives way to ‘Yee hah’ as a stomping ho-down gets underway; frenetic acoustic guitar and banjo, feverish keys and driving bass runs rampant throughout the Mumford and Sons set in which a few ‘new’ tracks are delivered and generally frothed-over. The scooting continues with Roll Away Your Stone and predictably goes gangbusters for a blazing rendition of Little Lion Man with Marcus Mumford looking almost as please as the crowd at being able to spit the curse laden lyrics of the chorus. The band continues to showcase their musical talent with each member at one stage or another moving to between instruments. Now singing from behind the drum kit, Mumford and his sons are joined on stage by a motley gang of percussionists, backing vocalists and foot stompers comprising of members of Boy and Bear and Passion Pit and Julia Stone. They offer a heartfelt speech of appreciation addressed humbly at the Australian people and close with the fantastically energetic The Cave.
Following the exit of a few thousand Mumford and Sons fans, the Amphitheatre lights up one last time for Sunday’s headliners – alternative music godheads Pixies. The Bossanova opening track Cecilia Ann is a great start to the predictably “greatest-hits” set, with the bulk of the cherished Doolittle and a decent chunk of Surfer Rosa and Come On Pilgrim getting aired. Frank Black unleashes the first of tonight’s many devilish screams on Bone Machine, Joey Santiago’s guitar cutting through the mix like a razor.
The band members may not be at their most photogenic these days (the conspicuous absence of Kim Deal from the huge video screens is somewhat unnerving) and their stage banter is awkward at best, but the quality of the music speaks for itself. Velouria and Alec Eiffel are unexpected delights, Caribou swirls and Cactus and Kim Deal’s showpiece Gigantic rock like a mother. As the clock nears midnight, the iconic four-piece bid us farewell with a double-whammy finish of Where Is My Mind? and Here Comes Your Man again reminding us what great songs they wrote and how classic that signature sound has become since.
As the main music stages shut up shop, the smaller Tipi Forest and Jager Cube venues hosted revelers who weren’t quite ready to go home. Those lucky enough to find and gain entrance to the Tackleshack (via a bus manned by a prominent festival director, no less) danced like buffoons to classic soul tracks til close to morning.
What was a slow crawl on the way into Splendour now seemed like a 100m sprint compared to the expected, unavoidable yet outrageously frustrating wait to get the hell outta dodge after a weekend of sunshine, debauchery and excellent array of musical performances. Even the crack of dawn wasn’t early enough to avoid delays of up to five hours to exit the camp grounds.
Splendour In The Grass 2010 will go down as one of the best so far, and here’s hoping the something-for-everyone lineup, new location and three day format are here to stay.
Reviewed by Jake Newell (yaki), Denis Semchenko (denistheman81), Crystle Fleper (misscrystle), Scott Thompson (scotty_thompson), Anna Angel (AnnaAngel) Sarah Smith (sarahanne). Compiled by Crystle Fleper.
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