Live Review: Groovin' The Moo

Given Queensland's hellishly temperamental weather of late, it's both satisfying and suspicious when Groovin' The Moo arrives in Townsville bathed in sunshine. An almost cloudless sky welcomes patrons to the festival. The setting is practically idyllic.

It's with mild apprehension that I wander through the gates, though. Having been recently scarred by my last festival excursion and never having attended either Groovin' The Moo or Townsville before, I'm unsure of what to expect. Still, with an atypically effortless entry, genuinely friendly staff and an unusually legible timetable, I'm buoyed by early promise.

An early scope of the site reveals Tuka and Ellesquire performing admirably in the Moolin Rouge tent. Two of the best artists of Sydney's excellent Big Village collective, the MCs balance their verbal dexterity with some commendably goofy showmanship. Their DJ is dressed as a ninja. When asked for a roaring dragon sample, he delivers a mewling chihuahua. There's a nice silly vibe to proceedings.

The kicker is that their sound isn't exactly stellar. Tuka and Ellesquire's voices cut through their instrumental backdrops and, without a strong rhythmic foundation, their set turns to mush. As I wander over to Triple J's stage, I notice middling indie-rock locals (and Triple J Unearthed winners) Cape York suffering from a similar malaise. I begin to worry that sound problems will be the festival's albatross.

Brisbane's Last Dinosaurs don't hold my attention long enough to really contribute to the discussion. Hungry Kids of Hungary seem unaffected. While not their best, they deliver one of the performances of the festival. Their set is limited to their most successful singles and punctuated by banter that's as amusing as it is surreal ('Your triceps are going to be so sore,' quips keyboardist and vocalist Kane Mazlin about the audience's clapping).

Closing their set, vocalist and guitarist Dean McGrath insists audience stay around for the next act. I mentally promise to return; but take off. Eager to catch a snippet of Urthboy's set, I head to the [V] stage to catch the final moments of the MC's performance. The Oz hip hop legend still has a habit of blending into his backing band but his workmanlike continues to yield solid results. A cover of Blur's Song 2 is a nice touch, too.

As the group wind down, I find myself wondering about Matt and Kim. They've flown completely under my radar. I'm expecting dream-pop. One of my confederates puts their money on folk-rock. They take to the stage in a firestorm of AC/DC-sampling dubstep and gonzo choreography. We both feel like idiots. They're actually another indie-pop act. An amazing one. The most energetic, earnest, insane pair of musicians I've ever seen.

Backlit by shots of fireworks, their set encompasses blitzkrieg synth-and-drums pop, confetti explosions, crazed dance breaks and some utterly fantastic words of advice for the audience. “I hope you all know how important it is to stay hydrated and protected today,” yells drummer Kim Schifino. “But, what you're really going to need, is some motherfucking baby wipes? Why baby wipes?”

“Because,” she bellows. “Each and every one of you is going to get fucked tonight and you're going to need to wipe down before you do.” Unfortunately, I can't stay for their entire set. As per my mental promise to Mr McGrath, I must return to the Moolin Rouge tent for Los Angeles firebrands The Bronx- who, McGrath asserted minutes before leaving stage, had been 'incredible, every single day'.

As a fan, I'm mildly underwhelmed. Their setlist is a solid compendium of their four albums (from 2003's Heart Attack American to 2013's Ribcage) and Matt Caughtran remains both an incredible vocalist and phenomenal frontman - handling paint-stripping screams and side-splitting detours ('At this point, I would wager that your Moo has been 45% Grooved, so take a breather everyone') with aplomb - but it all feels a touch perfunctory.

It's hard to argue with the band's catalogue. The aforementioned Heart Attack American, Knifeman, Six Days A Week and Shitty Future are all absolute classics. Closer History's Stranglers, in particular, is brilliant. Still, there's something lacking. While their musicianship is excellent, The Bronx perform with a certain relaxed swagger that simply fails to inspire after Matt and Kim's ridiculous onslaught.

Leaving at once in hopes of grabbing some of Seth Sentry's set before Alpine, I can hear DZ Deathrays return to their post as DJs. They immediately drop some Slayer and, amidst all of the technicolour fury of an indie-driven festival, I'm overtaken by a bizarre poignancy remembering that Jeff Hanneman has just died. It's a strange feeling looking out at a festival unaffected by the timing of that particular track.

Similarly, it's a strange feeling looking out a festival unperturbed by a thrash-metal tune. A festival unperturbed a sixties-heavy indie-pop act being immediately followed by a hardcore punk band. As I wander into the tail end of Seth Sentry's performance, I begin to appreciate just how well Groovin' The Moo has been programmed for 2013. One barely has time for all of the acts on display and their stylistic spread is remarkable.

Sentry, of course, is a great example. A key figure in the latest wave of Australian hip hop, Sentry is diametrically opposed to The Bronx in style but easily their equal in merit. Nearly four years on, The Waitress Song is still a remarkable piece of songwriting. The self-effacing humour and all-or-nothing perfectionism that make him such a remarkable songwriter do hurt him as a live performer, though. Outside of his songs, he's a bit dull.

Before Alpine, I race to catch The Amity Affliction. One of Gympie's most successful exports, theirs is a performance of triumph; admirably illustrating their long-since completed transition from local hardcore heroes to international contenders. Songs like Living Underground are both exceptionally crafted and delivered. The terrifying circle pit that engulfs the venue is testament to frontman Joel Birch's equally terrifying charisma.

Alpine don't prove as captivating. Their live performance generally adds a certain viscera to their overly neat productions but the Melbourne sextet have still yet to fully tease out their songwriting. Their set suffers as a result. Hands and Gasoline prove excellent, as per usual, but many of their remaining songs feel like variations on a theme. Scottish indie-folksters Frightened Rabbit suffer a similar fate; little more than earnest sonic wallpaper.

Fortunately, Regurgitator inject some serious vitriol into proceedings. Having stripped down to a brutally effective trio, their punk-heavy set is a contender for performance of the festival. They graciously juggle classics (Everyday Formula, Polyester Girl, Kong Foo Sing) with more recent cuts (Game Over Dude, All Fake Everything). Their musicianship is unnervingly tight. Most gratifying, they appear to be having the time of their life.

Given how often they've seemed on the cusp of self-destruction over the years, it's a true joy to see them having such unabashed fun. All Fake Everything arrives with a histrionic performance from Ben Ely and a power-ballad karaoke video. Black Bugs starts with an inexplicable shout-out to Guns'n'Roses fans before hilariously concluding with a hilariously shonky cover of Sweet Child O' Mine. When Quan Yeomans' synth cops out during closer Song Formerly Known As, he simply laughs and demands a drum solo. It's fantastic.

By contrast, They Might Be Giants prove disappointing. They begin strongly with Older from 2001's Mink Car - John Linnell masterfully screwing with audience expectations throughout - but rapidly proceed to underwhelm. Disguising a certain selfishness with whimsy, their set consists predominantly of time-wasting diversions like guitar solos and crowd participation and material from 2013's Nanobots.

It may be churlish to criticise an older act for spruiking their latest album at the expense of nostalgia but, between their diversions and half-hearted renditions of classic cuts like Istanbul, They Might Be Giants simply seemed disinterested in actually performing for their audience. With a history spanning three decades (and a well-documented fondness for brevity of songwriting), their set could have delivered so much more.

Heading towards some of the line-up's most acclaimed and anticipated acts, They Might Be Giants' underwhelming performance seems to introduce some vague miasma of disinterest in their peers. In a reversal of expectations, I'm consistently underwhelmed by the festival's second half. Midnight Juggernauts are the only exception of the streak. An incredible light show and confident delivery make for a suitably epic performance.

Tegan and Sara seem almost devoid of life. While it's tempting to link their substandard performance to their recent decision to embrace more commercial material, they're plagued by more universal problems. Their vocals, for example, are pitchy and wavering on older cuts like Walking With a Ghost and Back In Your Head. The lighting, meanwhile, is aggressive and harsh to the point of discomfiture.

Disappointed, I make my way over to Flume's set. A true Australian success story, Flume has easily snared the biggest crowd of the festival but his set doesn't really work. Punctuated by sudden detours bereft of consequence and delivered at a lumbering pace with awkward transitions and an uneven mix, it's a strangely unprofessional performance from someone who, if nothing else, has always been a remarkable craftsman.

Tame Impala offer more of the same. While blessed with a wondrous sound job (putting paid to my long-forgotten theory about the festival's sound set-up), their performance is marred by improvisational detours that rarely seem to work out. Closer Half Full Glass of Wine reaps the benefit of an extended psychedelic workout but other tunes (including bona fide classic Elephant) are simply torn apart by the random additions.

Surprisingly, Yolanda Be Cool offer a minor reprieve. The Sydney duo are merely DJing between sets but their experience as DJs is obvious and their expertise is a relief. Unfortunately, Shockone, sandwiched between their sets, simply squanders their good work. The introduction of the Perth DJ's set is spectacular. His own Chaos Theory launches his set into the stratosphere from the outset.

From there, though, he swiftly loses his way. Rising to prominence as a drum'n'bass/dubstep DJ and a one-time peer of Pendulum, Shockone's set attempts too much with too little. His performance straddles house, electro, drum'n'bass, dubstep and breaks but does so awkwardly; without any genuine sense of flow or continuity. While occasionally hitting gold, his set is mostly a half-baked collage of under-developed ideas.

With The Kooks lacking the songwriting to really distinguish themselves from their more celebrated countrymen (The Arctic Monkeys, Pete Doherty, et al) beyond 2006 hit Naive, it isn't until The Temper Trapthat proceedings really pick up once again. Irrespective of their output, the Melbourne outfit are consummate arena performers. Their musicianship is tight; their production values exceptional.

Most remarkable, their performances are generous. Frontman Dougy Mandangi, in particular, is a beautiful performer whose shuddering falsetto is significantly enriched by a warm, smiling stage presence. Unfortunately, Trembling Handsheralds something of an exodus. The band having delivered their biggest hit, audiences flee in droves. Evidently, in hopes of catching UK pop star Example.

It's hard to blame them. Example's crowd nearly rivals that of Flume. His flair for performance eclipses that of even The Temper Trap. His performance is much like his songcraft; while not especially complex or sophisticated in construction, his work is immediate and inescapable. More so than perhaps any act on today's bill, Example is an inclusive and inviting performer. Audiences connect with his work.

Occasionally, he sabotages himself. His dubstep and drum'n'bass cuts (for example, Chase & Status-produced Playing in the Shadows) simply jar against the more straightforward rhythms of his other work but, when he starts reeling off hits towards the end of his set, Example is simply unstoppable. Close Enemies, Natural Disaster, Perfect Replacement and Changed the Way You Kiss Me. It's a tremendous display of power.

As Changed the Way You Kiss Me winds down and matters draw to close, I'm quietly surprised. In spite of my trepidation, Groovin' The Moo largely delivered. A few disappointing sets, of course - but far more exceptional performances.

If ever you're considering it; people have trekked far further for far worse festivals.