What We Learnt At Splendour 2016 Day One
"We return to our campsite well and truly sated by a day of incredible and diverse tunes from an acclaimed array of artists."
I’ve been covering Splendour In The Grass for the past several years running now and – presuming my memory isn’t far worse than I already thought – this is easily the most idyllic first day the festival has enjoyed in years. It’s the sort of day they put on tourism postcards; not a patch of mud to be seen, not a cloud in the sky and, for the first time in a while, bountiful, lush, green grass to Splendour all over.
As we make our way past a giant, pink, inflatable poop-emoji sculpture – I’ve seen enough of these things to know that this will be a giant-size horror once the sun goes down and alcohol kicks in – to make our way to the Amphitheatre for the official opening of the event. Food trucks line the thoroughfare to the stage, benefiting from both their proximity and the unusually large number of people already milling around the grounds as security hold us behind barriers. Although the day’s first act, Alex Lahey, is supposed to kick off at midday on the nail, at 12.01pm, security only just begin to let us through, and a mass of people pour around the corner in time to see triple j hosts Matt Okine and Alex Dyson finish inducting this year’s Mayor Of Splendour, some bloke in an inflatable sumo suit. Whatever.
We settle in under a sliver of shade to watch Lahey’s set, which proves a polished and highly enjoyable adventure. Encouragingly, she enjoys a remarkable-size crowd for the time of day and point in the festival, suggesting that word-of-mouth is starting to do great things for the emergent troubadour. It won’t be surprising by any stretch to see her on this stage at a later slot in future years.
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We stay put for High Tension, though much of the crowd does not. We’re instantly filled with sympathy and respect for the band, a group of people who are so committed to their unified image that, even in searing midday heat, they’re still all decked out in black; that’s dedication for you. Also dedication is the dude who is already vomiting underneath a tree nearby. Wait, not dedication. Stupidity. Look, I am not a total misanthrope, but I have no pity for people who do not pace themselves at multi-day festivals. These things have existed for long enough that we should all know better by now, really. Still, he rallies before we’re out of his sightline, so hopefully his day gets much better from here.
After the aural assault of Karina Utomo & co, we decide to seek some sustenance and to properly gain our bearings among the slightly reworked North Byron Parklands. Things are still largely the same, but arranged just differently enough as to be mildly disorienting, though we find ourselves passing through the central food tent soon enough. A sign on a nearby table requests punters refrain from jumping on or moving the tables, which makes me curious about the event that made that sign a necessity, but there’s no time to ponder too deeply as we set off again to explore some other (shady) corners of the festival.
At the Bohemian Stage, a woman is hosting a dance/yoga session, while we arrive at the Tipi Forest in time to see the aftermath of a Contiki-sponsored colour party as a group of people cluster under a bubble machine, as if that will help them cool down at all. We spy a tree resplendent in large purple Prince symbols – the mild disorientation still enough to prevent me from being able to tell you exactly where I saw it, just that I did – as well as an apparently daily spaghetti-eating competition, which is just also something I wouldn’t subject myself to when you’re so far away from proper bathroom facilities.
DMA’s’ set at the Amphitheatre proves too packed to invade, so we head back towards the GW McLennan stage to be serenaded by veteran troubadour Robert Forster, though we make a quick detour to the Forum to pop our heads in and hear Sam Cromack (Ball Park Music), Sam Hales (The Jungle Giants) and Alex Lahey talk songwriting with Robbie Buck. We don’t dally, though, and soon we’re in front of a suited Forster, dipping into material both new and old as he and his band traverse his solo LP Songs To Play, some classic Go-Betweens tracks and even a dedicated tribute to departed friend and stage namesake Grant McLennan. It’s a beautiful show, and one of the highlights of the day for me.
At this point, as we’re walking around the grounds in mild dejection – The Kills’ set is packed, as is The 1975’s, so we’re relying on our ears alone to verify that those are indeed the bands we’re looking at way off in the distance – the amount of litter around the grounds already suddenly smacks me in the face. I see people drop cups and plates and cans and all manner of other wasteful shit literal metres from rows of unfilled bins. I know we’re all here to have a good time – but why, for Australians, does that so often mean forgetting everything there is to know about human decency and becoming adamant that your good time is the only good time that matters? The clean-up crew has it hard enough without you adding to their problems by being too fucking lazy to extend your arm and open a bin lid, you massive cretins.
Refusing to let myself be pulled down into a funk by everyone else’s lack of consideration, I move with some excitement towards the Mix Up tent to catch British dance-pop faves Years & Years. It turns out to be a good move, as frontman Olly Alexander and his band of merry players prove a perfect antidote to the scum of the world as sensual and infectious and ebullient reign supreme from the stage. A quirky mash-up of Katy Perry (Dark Horses) and Drake (Hotline Bling) just adds to the copious glee. My cup now runneth over with good feelings, and I won’t just be tossing it on the ground.
Once again, we find another set filled-to-bursting; this time, for local heroes Violent Soho. Seriously, so many people are at the Amphitheatre that security is forced to close an entryway all of 10 minutes into the set, refusing to let more people through that way, meaning our only option is scale the giant hill itself to catch a peek. For average punters who only want to party and drink and have a good time, this sort of loose, rebellious revelry is exactly what they’re after, and Splendour delivers it multiple times over. For everyone else, there’s Leon Bridges, and I have never been so glad to count myself as “everyone else”. The Texan crooner puts on a note-perfect, flawless performance of swaying, soulful tunes, bouncing and shuffling and jiving his way across and around the stage without reprieve as he woos us all to within an inch of experiencing a mass outbreak of the vapours. I cannot sing his praises enough; if ever you’re given the opportunity to witness this man gift his music to the world in person, take it in a heartbeat.
As we make our way back towards the Amphitheatre for The Avalanches, we find ourselves inadvertently flanked by police, who are very friendly and take our comments about being important enough for a police escort in good humour, striking up a bit of a chat before they have to suddenly dash off to the side to stop a guy from pissing just off the road – but it’s nice while it lasts. The Avalanches are a band that has never really made sense to me – although this is the closest they’ve got – so we depart for Band Of Horses a few songs in. It seems like a surprising number of people have the same idea, as the appreciative US outfit find themselves fronting a much larger crowd than I’d have expected for being dead against one of the major drawcards of this year’s line-up.
Heading back past the central food tent, we find it immersed in darkness, the odd torch beam or passing strobe light providing all the illumination following a sudden power outage. Thankfully, the vendors are still selling their wares, and we restock with some late-night treats before heading back past the giant emoji poop – nightmarish, as expected – to catch The Strokes. The first day’s headliners end up being 20 minutes late – it doesn’t go unnoticed – and manage a 13-song set for their only Australian show this year. Of course, it’s received as though it’s the second coming of Christ, but it’s impossible to shake the underlying sense of disappointment knowing that tomorrow’s headliners, The Cure, will be offering up a three-hour-long performance where these dudes could barely manage an hour and a half.
Despite the lingering sense of having just experienced an anti-climax, we return to our campsite well and truly sated by a day of incredible and diverse tunes from an acclaimed array of artists. At end of the day, can you really ask for more than that?
Well, yes: stop littering so much. Let’s keep these grounds splendid for the next two days too because, for once, we’ve actually got the weather for that to even be a possibility. Let’s not waste the gift.
Check out our full day one review and gallery here.
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