Live Review: Harvest Festival

All the laptop gangsters going off on one about the Werribee trainline works coinciding with loads of Melburnians' needs to get to Werribee Park for Harvest Festival could probably have saved their fury. The traffic is a little congested approaching the site, but that Starsky & Hutch-style shortcut through a funeral home sees us right. At a T-intersection when our car is motionless, a decision is made to send one passenger across the road on a Slurpee run. Just like lighting up a durry at the bus stop (which always makes your bus appear), traffic suddenly flows freely. And her phone's on the backseat in the car – yikes! We keep rolling for a couple of 'k's up and over a hill and hope common sense prevails. Suddenly, our Arts Coordinator emerges, carrying a cardboard tray containing four Slurpees! This rear-view mirror sight won't be forgotten in a hurry and Most Valuable Player is decided before we even arrive.

River City Extension begin proceedings on the Windmill Stage to a modest crowd of early revellers. Their music is upbeat and full of energy, aided by the use of various percussion instruments and handclaps. They're from New Jersey and draw on the influences of their state's long folk rock history. Singer/guitarist Joe Michelini confides in the audience: “We've escaped a hurricane and then a snowstorm. It's great to have power and be out in the sun.” It's a throwaway line, but puts things into perspective, as they burst into another pop gem. Well deserving of a later time slot.

The War On Drugs' sprawl of feedback lies somewhere between Americana and shoegaze, with an amalgamation of genres that is captivating from start to finish. Playing from their debut Wagonwheel Blues and its acclaimed follow-up Slave Ambient, it's an early afternoon treat. Overcoming a significant line-up change with the departure of Kurt Vile, their bravado is still present, as Adam Granduciel's muffled harmonica solo echoes into distant parklands, affirming and uncompromising.

Dexys have dropped the Midnight Runners and are back with their first album in 27 years,. The 59-year-old frontman Kevin Rowland's theatrics command the stage, as much an actor today as he is a singer. Dressed like a London scallywag, the roleplay between himself and co-vocalist Madeleine Hyland brings the songs to life as they flirt, fall in love and break up in the space of an hour. Come On Eileen sees the crowd size significantly increase as the reprised version of their 1982 hit extends to become close to ten minutes in length. The song alone is a festival standout and worth this band's curious billing on the Harvest line-up.

We park it on The Great Lawn grass for The Dandy Warhols and eagerly await their tunes, which should perfectly suit these idyllic conditions. They open with Godless, which is genius. It's so fun to sing along with that trumpet riff! Courtney Taylor-Taylor has his hair piled back in a dandy bun and it's amazing how the sounds from all instruments assemble and burst forth as one. Much of the mix is carried away by the wind, particularly during We Used To Be Friends, and at one point all we're left with is Taylor-Taylor's weak, octave-down chorus vocal. He's taken a few too many hits from the bong in his time and honks rather than sings these days. They're handing out free frozen bananas, which may or may not be in homage to Dandy's Welcome To The Monkey House cover art. As Bohemian Like You rings out, it's time to wander over to Red Tractor Tent and secure front stalls for Liars.

The Brooklyn trio have male fanboys with braided hair, perhaps inspired by Julian Gross's creative 'dos. And it has to be said that Liars are dedicated followers of fashion from the moment they arrive on stage, all suited up at 3pm. They start off drummer-less, but the crowd are instantly enamoured. Frontman Angus Andrew calls to mind Nick Cave crossed with Cousin Itt and has the ability to sing like Damon Albarn. He's a charismatic motherfucker who can pull off well-timed shoulder rolls. Liars change up the number of band members onstage, constantly swap positions and vary up instruments played (even who sings) throughout. If Liars were blasting from the stereo of an alien aircraft, we'd queue up to board.

The Windmill Stage is an open range, with no respite from the sun and without the aid of screen projections to watch from afar. As such Silversun Pickups have a rough timeslot to win over unfamiliar fans. Regardless, they do their finest. It's the band's third visit to Australia, having previously supported Birds Of Tokyo and Snow Patrol, and their latest record Neck Of The Woods now signifies the group as headline material. Old favourite Lazy Eye has the large contingent front of stage blissfully singing along, as does Bloody Mary as Brian Aubert wails high-pitched, Billy Corgan-like vocals. Like The War On Drugs earlier, their use of electronic instruments and refusal to stick to one genre is inspired and justifies the sunburn.

Heading back out into the sun for Mike Patton's Mondo Cane, we are treated to a curious assortment of instruments: flute, lute, theremin plus more. There's even a conductor! “It must sound like a heap of gibberish to you, right?” Patton enquires of this set of Italian pop covers from the '50s and '60s. He then pauses before admitting, “Me too”. Sometimes it's all a bit Eurovision and one of the songs sounds suspiciously like Mack The Knife sung in Italian (a cover of Nicola Arigliano's Moritat, perchance?), but it suits our picturesque festival setting. This is clearly what Patton wants to be doing right now, but is it what the audience wants to hear? Throwing in Faith No More's Epic wouldn't have hurt and it seems Patton reads our minds: “Thanks for listening,” he humbly concludes.

Cake lure the crowd in with the promise of nostalgic hits and then play largely from their new album. While old chestnuts are present in The Distance and Sheep Go To Heaven, there are also notable omissions such as Short Skirt Long Jacket and I Will Survive. Frontman John McCrea is at his quirky best, interacting with the audience at any given opportunity. “The combination of beer and heat contributed to my inability to remember the words,” he says, after a suitably haphazard rendition of Black Sabbath's War Pigs.

Next up on The Great Lawn stage is Beirut. He tries out his (terrible) Aussie accent, saying something about shooting wallabies, and then blames it on jet lag – just shut up and play. Beirut's music often has an olde-worlde Russian quality to it, which makes you wanna bust out some Cossack jumps. A nearby punter observes, “I love this song but I've never known the lyrics to it” – you're not alone, mate, but it's called Santa Fe. Zach Condon requests, “Help out if you can,” before some impossible vocal parts and as the brass wafts by on the breeze, we wouldn't wish to be anywhere else in the world than right here, right now.

Ben Folds walks on stage telling the crowd it's the first time he's been in the country with his band Ben Folds Five since 1999. Given the timespan of absence, their set is the perfect balance of old and new. All the classics are there, Underground and Song For The Dumped, as well as material from their new record The Sound Of The Life Of The Mind, released in September. Mid-set, Folds, ever the showman, jams on his grand piano and improves a stream of consciousness lyrical tirade, name-dropping anything in his line of vision, including Hare Krishna and Organic Pizza stalls and the pinnacle, rhyming “best of all” with “Harvest Festival”. Followed by the sombre Brick, it momentarily lowers the mood, though emphasises the breadth of Folds's songwriting abilities.

Seated bodies protect their Beck turf while soaking up the sun's rays. There's a new signifier for almost-showtime: when a cameraman filming visuals for the big screens takes his position behind the camera, it's high time to stand up and shuffle forward. Devils Haircut opens with much swag and that striking guitar riff calls us to action. Seeing Beck Hansen up on stage, in a dinner jacket and outlaw hat, makes you wanna pinch yourself and the songs – including Loser, which elicits a rowdy sing-along – are perfectly executed. Many remain horizontal during this set, even during Gamma Ray, which is swoon-central. Where's It's At is rapturously received, but marred by a dodgy Beck-led call-and response insert.

Grizzly Bear's set is delayed half an hour for undisclosed reasons, but if it's of the band's doing then it's a masterstroke. Gaining Beck's crowd, as the LA artist finishes just as they begin, they play to the stage's largest audience of the day and have the luxury of doing so against a sunset backdrop. Their layered vocals provide the perfect Sunday session soundtrack, highlighted by tracks from each of their four albums and clear crowd favourite Two Weeks.

“My mind is already blown,” enthuses a random when Sigur Rós are barely two notes in. Their melancholy musings are accompanied by wonderful, at times amorphic, visuals that – depending where your journey agents have sent you –may have you feeling like you've been thrust into a Hans Christian Andersen fairytale. Jónsi Birgisson's flawless falsetto cuts through the dusk and there's glocks galore but, as soon as the evening's cloak of darkness settles in, we crave some music to pull shapes to. When we start wishing for hammocks, it's time to race over to The Garden Stage, where Smoking Toddlers are crafting a set of Boogie Wonderland-esque dance classics.

Santigold's music is in stark contrast to the other acts on the line-up, most notably co-headliners Sigur Rós. Drawing on a gamut of influences from grime-inspired hip hop to Jamaican dancehall, she transforms the festival into a club-like atmosphere. Each song has its own choreographed routine and lighting sequence. There are costume changes, props and at one stage, even two dancers together underneath a horse costume. While the visuals are great, it's the music that is most compelling, particularly rousing renditions of LES Artistes and Go! The only flaw in Santigold's set is that it takes place late on a Sunday night, and for most, that means work the next day.

As we wander back toward the car, discussing whether the dung smell is actually horse manure or hippo excrement from the nearby Werribee Open Range Zoo, we are unanimously impressed since all kinks from last year's Harvest Festival have been immaculately ironed out. No dunny, bar or food queues (and the stall that flambés crepes with your alcohol of choice wins Best On Ground). And the beer didn't run out, either. The most annoying aspect of today relates to backpack-wearers. Please note: If you choose to sport a backpack to a festival, remove it and place it on the ground between your feet rather than dancing like a gigantic upright snail wiping out everyone in your path.