Live Review: Falls Festival Byron Bay: Day 2
"You could honestly tell me that Jesus and Elvis had just returned from beyond to play the Amphitheatre right now and I’d still fight you about leaving this stage."
The first of January has, for the past couple of years, been a phenomenally entertaining day to wake up to at Byron’s Falls Music & Arts Festival.
Unlike its southern cousins, which this year — well, last year — finished on 31 December (and in contrast to Fremantle’s leg, which doesn’t kick off until a solid few days into the new year), Byron’s Falls fest only opens on New Year’s Eve. So, while we’re getting under way, the other events are wrapping up, and one suspects that, at those parties, people have paced themselves to be able to properly welcome the next 12 months with the biggest effort they can muster on the final night. They can absolutely go hell for leather, because they don’t have to back up again the next day.
Not so at the North Byron Parklands, where the early hours of 2017, and Day 2 of our Falls experience, reveal scores of seedy-looking revellers who clearly treated the event’s opening night like it was their final day on Earth. It’s a hard balance to get right, to be sure, and few appear to have mastered it yet.
That’s not to say that people, whatever state they are in, aren’t making the most of things. In the morning, we step outside our campervan to see a few groups of people making use of a nearby tap to cool off in the already-scorching pre-midday heat, and we respect the ingenuity — right up until overuse and rough handling springs a massive leak and a poor staff member is dispatched to deal with the swiftly growing pool encroaching on nearby tents. A nearby patron puts his mind at ease, informing the worried staffer that the brown fountain in front of him is definitely “not poo water”, and soon it’s all under control.
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By the time we’ve woken, dressed, eaten and done some work, it’s already after 11am, which means we miss the opening effort for the day — at the now-open, actually shaded Forest Stage — from sibling duo Lastlings, but they were quite good at BIGSOUND, if that helps at all. We also forgo comedian Joel Creasey, because I don’t really want the first thing I see this year to be mediocre.
This non-attendance partially ties into a larger issue with the scheduling of this event (and others) — namely, why the heck do they start so (relatively) early? Nobody is feeling good at 11am on day two of a multi-day festival, and especially not one that’s been so plagued by devastating heat as this one. The grounds don’t even really come to life until after 3pm, the scant early crowds choosing instead to once again frequent the haven of pools at Palm Springs or sit in the pockets of shade that do exist around the place but are in totally useless locations (as far as watching live music is concerned, at any rate).
We break our drought by venturing, idiotically, to the largely shadeless expanse of Amphitheatre, where one-man-band Hein Cooper is kicking off proceedings. “Not too hot for you?” he asks the crowd, to stony — or just exhausted — silence. Despite the early slot, Cooper’s crowd is much larger than it appears at first glance. Although fewer than 20 people populate the pit at the start of his set, plenty of interested onlookers are strewn across the Amp: under The Sole Tree, huddled up the incline under fringe shade, crouched in the shadows of the area’s bins or hanging out up in the hillside bar. And, in his defence (and as testament to the man’s abilities), Cooper’s immediate crowd swells considerable within the space of a few songs.
He charms us with his brand of easy-listening pop and impresses with a voice that proves capable of delicacy as much as power and determination. Through well-received cuts such as The Real, Curse My Life and The Art Of Escape, he skilfully juggles electronic elements with live instrumentation, creating a frequently ethereal soundscape punctuated with moments of polished falsetto and an underlying pop nous. New cut New Blue and loop-laden crowd fave Dopamine put the cherry on a wholly enjoyable outing from the young up-and-comer.
Now, it’s time to hit the Forest Stage, and once we get there, we really don’t want to leave. Firstly, it’s tented. But there are also trees. There’s even a breeze. You could honestly tell me that Jesus and Elvis had just returned from beyond to play the Amphitheatre right now and I’d still fight you about leaving this stage. It’s an oasis, and honestly the coolest I’ve felt since Friday and, besides, Jesus can’t even sing.
The vibe is greatly helped by the British troopers in Haelos, who are clearly melting a bit in the heat but still put on a brilliantly energetic show. This is definitely aided by the presence of dual drum kits — dual drum kits greatly aid everything — which keep the pace thundering along through the band’s bountiful serve of atmospheric wonderment, which includes an early-set highlight in Full Cirle, a dark cover of The Beloved’s The Sun Rising, and Pale. The band muse on the curiosities of experiencing Christmas Down Under (“We’re used to Christmas being cold, and if you wear a Santa suit it’s probably to keep warm — here, it’s fucking ridiculous”) and, when talk turns to their next album, they tell us, “We’re working on it — it’s coming through. Good things come to those who wait.”
From here, the pace picks up for us irreversibly. Our stomachs start to rumble, but we ignore that for just a little longer to head back to the Amphitheatre to see City Calm Down. This band has emerged as one of the most consistent live acts in the country, nary putting a foot wrong over the course of their outing. A stunning rendition of The Smiths’ This Charming Man and an appearance from guaranteed winner Rabbit Run mark standout moments in a generally strong performance for the now-well-established Melburnian drawcards.
We jet back to the Forest Stage, passing a roving brass band pumping out New Orleans-style revelry (we catch them as they hit always-reliable standard When The Saints Go Marching In) along the way, in order to see what we can of the incredibly talented Marlon Williams. Everything this man does is gold, but his honeyed vocals are the real star of the show, as he hits and holds notes with righteous power and beauty, reaching fever-pitch during the climactic points of clear crowd favourite When I Was A Young Girl, for which Williams clears the stage of his accompaniment and strikes an imposing figure centre-stage. However, he soon brings the troupe back out for a cover of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins Portrait Of A Man, which makes for a beautifully cacophonous way to round things out.
Staying put, we ready ourselves for Philadelphia indie-punk heroes Modern Baseball, easily one of the most likeable contemporary bands on the international circuit. The four members’ friendship is palpable, the band preceding their set with a little team huddle before the recorded title track of 2016’s excellent LP, Holy Ghost, crackles to life over the PA. After a couple of salutations from co-frontmen Jake Ewald and Brendan Lukens, the band mirror the record and launch seamlessly into Wedding Singer, leading their crowd to an immediate, vocal frenzy.
In fact, if there is one word that adequately describes MoBo’s audience here, “frenzied” isn’t the least accurate you could choose. Big, joyful sing-alongs punctuate almost every track the four-piece bust out, regardless of the era. That’s a good thing, too, because the band hit multiple favourites from all three of their full-lengths, including Fine, Great and Broken Cash Machine from You’re Gonna Miss It All, beloved Sports-age cuts such as Tears Over Beers and The Weekend, and — naturally — a healthy dose of Holy Ghost, including highlight singles Everyday and Apple Cider, I Don’t Mind. Apropos nothing, the crowd breaks into its own chorus of DJ Otzi’s Hey Baby — much to Ewald’s amused confusion — before a mid-set respite takes place in the form of the timid Pothole, during which bassist Ian Farmer and drummer Sean Huber take the opportunity to have a sit, while Lukens tunes his guitar and Ewald handles the song itself. Late-set highlights come thick and fast, in the form of the lyrically devastating Note To Self and ultra-infectious Mass, but it’s ultimate closer Your Graduation — the sing-along to which earns our country the band’s praise as being “fucking wild” — that earns the biggest response, leaving the boys tangibly humbled and gracious as they farewell the stage.
Local buzz act Middle Kids have massive shoes to fill following that effort, and they do so with aplomb. Opening with recent single Your Love, the band are briefly derailed by technical difficulties in the song’s second verse, but they recover with ease to deliver on the promise that has been growing around them over the past several months on the back of standout track Edge Of Town. It’s an otherwise technically faultless performance — the band hit the right balance between banter and getting on with it, while their abundant talents are obvious — but it’s all a bit, if you’ll pardon the bluntness, middling. There’s nothing wrong with it per se, but there’s nothing overly memorable about it, either. Another time, another place — another temperature — and this would have been a super-strong offering.
Heading back to the Amphitheatre for a spot of early-evening Matt Corby, we pass the Captain Morgan’s bar and find a group of fluoro-clad dancers engaging in a spot of impromptu choreography, much to the delight of several onlookers and passers-by. Corby himself is fronting an absolutely massive audience — I shouldn’t be surprised by that fact, but for some reason I always am — as he beckons us to “put 2016 behind us” and lose ourselves to his velvet-smooth, soulful tunes. His infamous flute makes an early appearance during Belly Side Up, while he switches to guitar (leaving flute duties to someone else) for Sooth Lady Wine. Harmonies reign supreme in the dulcet Knife Edge, while his cover of Tina Arena’s Chains elicits a massive cheer from the crowd. Special mention for Corby’s backing band, who are consummate professionals throughout and lend layers of depth to the entire set, especially in standout moments such as Resolution and Wrong Man. Some people might look down their noses at Matt Corby — lamentably, I couldn’t claim to be totally innocent — but every time he performs, he proves his doubters wrong. A world-class talent.
Over at the Forest Stage, veteran rhyme-smith Illy has his sizeable audience hanging on his every well-articulated word. We’re suckers for his charms as he leads us through On & On, admitting that he “nearly ate shit” during it, before conveying his gratitude to the crowd and dropping into If Looks Could Kill and It Can Wait, both of which earn rapturous responses. He asks the audience to put their lighters up for Cigarettes, celebrates the recent Platinum status of hugely-received Catch 22 and even busts out his much-loved cover of Silverchair’s Tomorrow, thoroughly demonstrating why he is such a respected figure in the Australian hip hop community. Under it all, he is backed by the relentless, bestial beats of drummer Ben Ellingworth, who Twitter reveals is well-known as being an animal on the skins. Deservedly so — the dude pretty much double-handedly lifts Illy’s performance from excellent to outright unforgettable.
Well and truly famished by this stage, we ultimately make the call to pass on both Jamie T and Lemaitre. In some ways, this proves to be a fortuitous decision, as we pass a game of human foosball — always a riot — and an exceedingly random, completely wonderful polka jam going on in the middle of the grounds. This festival is full of so many wonderful smaller events and attractions, but it’s simply impossible to take them all in and successfully cover the event the way I am supposed to. It’s a real shame, because there’s another whole festival going on among these grounds, and we only ever see the briefest signs of it.
Pretty soon, we’re back on deck at the Amphitheatre to catch West Australian psych-types POND, though it appears not terribly many people got the memo. POND themselves are a great band — magnetic performers, all, and their soundscapes are so utterly expansive that it’s not just easy but wholly enjoyable to get completely lost in them — but they have drawn, far and away, the smallest post-sunset crowd we’ve seen at the Amphitheatre so far this festival. No matter; it just makes the performance all the more intimate for those of us who are here (and, to be clear, “intimate” in this context is still a solid few shed-loads of people) as the band weave and wander through career-spanning standouts such as Waiting Around For Grace, Sweep Me Off My Feet and Don’t Look At The Sun Or You’ll Go Blind. It’s a valiant effort, and those in proximity evidently enjoy it; it’s just a pity that more people aren’t around to witness it in action.
However, that might be because it seems like the remainder of the festival has crammed themselves over the rise at the Forest Stage to catch a glimpse of the soulful electronica of Ta-ku. To be totally honest, at this advent of the day and festival, this kind of music — polished and consistent though such performances usually are — tends to bleed together, and it all becomes a bit of a blur, albeit an eminently listenable and evocative one.
One point of distinction does come forth, though, in a guest spot from incredible Aussie songstress Wafia. Ta-ku credits her as being an essential part of his success, in more ways than one, telling us that she “is the person that encouraged me to start singing … you just need that one person to encourage you”, and she hangs around to help him perform their joint crowd favourite, American Girl, plus a couple more collaborative gems. Her vocals provide a welcome focal point amid the shifting soundscapes, and lift the overall allure of the showing across the board.
Regardless of the noble effort over at the Forest Stage, though, there’s simply no comparing it with the packed-in, heaving throng that awaits Aussie mischief-makers Violent Soho back at the Amp. This band has come a ludicrous distance from their humble origins playing pub shows in Mansfield and the surrounding city of Brisbane — not that they’re too good for that these days either — to achieve an unassailable position as one of the country’s finest live acts, if not arguably its actual best right now. Their essentially flawless set is a ream of big riffs, driven beats and gang-vocal-worthy sing-alongs, the crowd ably rising to the occasion to meet the energy emanating from the musicians on stage as they tear through, among others, Like Soda, So Sentimental, Blanket, Viceroy, Saramona Said and Dope Calypso.
They throw back to their earlier catalogue “for the devil and all the motherfuckers that bought records like eight years ago” with Jesus Stole My Girlfriend, and decline the calls to down a shoey, which, let’s face it, is seriously gross stuff, with a voice on-stage (unsure who, sorry) lamenting, “I got fucking food poisoning from the shoey I got last night. Tasmanians don’t wash their feet. It’s fucking disgusting. I’ll tell you what — I’ll shotgun a fuckin’ beer.” They round out with In The Aisle and a phenomenally massive rendition of perennial classic Covered In Chrome, and it has never been more apparent that Queensland has genuine cause to feel proud of itself for breeding this band. It’s doubtful that anywhere else could have done so.
Finally, we’re in the home stretch for the final two acts of the night: The Avalanches and The Rubens. With all due respect to the latter, being that both acts are on at the exact same time, and considering the difficulty of navigating crowds efficiently at this hour — and being that we’ve covered more than 11 kilometres of ground today (thanks, FitBit!) — we decide it’s best to stick with a single headliner, and we’re already at the Amphitheatre. So it is that we find that, free of the hype and expectation that weighed down their eagerly awaited return at Splendour In The Grass back in July, The Avalanches are instantly more attention-grabbing and on top of their own material than they were mere months ago.
Opening with recent single Because I’m Me, this is a far more confident and capable band than the one so venerated ahead of their return after 16 years, now seeming far more as though they warrant such attention. Last year’s comeback hit Frankie Sinatra strikes an early high point, though Flight Tonight, Radio and Subway are all at risk of upstaging even that well-known slice. Of course, they couldn’t get away without playing Frontier Psychiatrist, the single that sustained general interest in the band for more than a decade, and it makes a necessary appearance later in the set, which reinvigorates the clearly floundering crowd. Throughout the performance, shifting, colourful visuals — occasionally just video clips, otherwise an assortment of footage — complete the package and help to make the final set of the day one big ol’ delirious party. It’s actually brilliant, and it's shows like this which make it easy to understand The Avalanches' lasting appeal.
But soon, just like that, the band wraps up and Day 2 fades into the ether. We grab a midnight doughnut for the road from the team at Divine Donuts — the absence of usual big-ass bread-circle merchants Byron Bay Organic Donuts has had to have been a blessing for them this year — and filter out into the night, riding high on the renewed and bountiful positivity, real or imagined as it may be, that has snaked its way through the festival on the opening day of 2017.
Tired but ebullient, we join the line for the shower (again: when did this festival demographic get so hygiene-conscious?) and get ready to wash away the accrued hours of sweat and mayhem — and to do it all again one last time tomorrow.
God help us all.
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