FRIDAY
They're certainly packin 'em in on the Queenscliff Reserve Oval and we're directed to unpack the car, park it on the street somewhere and then return to carry our stuff where directed to pitch our tent. A kid in a hi-vis vest palms us off “to the next fluoro” and then our tent's measurements are taken into account before we're allocated our patch of grass. With the stellar Friday night line-up beckoning from Princess Park, we set up, rug up and then power-walk down Hesse Street.
Festival staff can't find the QMF programmes and so we experience slight FOMOs before deciding that seeing where the night takes us isn't necessarily a band plan of action. The fact that Queenscliff often book the same bands for multiple appearances across the weekend is also comforting. Howlin' Steam Train perform to an entranced Pelican Bar crowd and this is one of the areas where drinking is permitted – an early win-win. One of the musicians is seated onstage and upon closer inspection he's nursing a heavily bandaged, bare right foot. But this doesn't stop Teddy McLaughlin from standing up and moving about occasionally, which exemplifies dedication. This Melbourne four-piece is the real deal and Ramblin' Man sees arms flailing inside the tent. Their only downfall is in the set's pacing, with some lengthy banter ruining momentum. In a weird way, the music of Howlin' Steam Train actually does sound like the band name, especially once the harmonica lets loose.
A change of bar is opportune when we hear Ian Moss's distinctive timbre summoning us into Hippos Stage, but we can't even get inside the tent. No matter, Mossy penetrates and we admire his dulcet tones and dynamic guitar playing from outside. This area is not big enough to contain Chisel fans eager to sing along with Bow River and Saturday Night (“doo-doo-doo/doo-doo” etc – very satisfying to sing). We hear there are barrier problems in the front stalls. Mossy still looks all right as well and we promise ourselves a repeat experience if he's scheduled to play here again this weekend.
Back in the Pelican Bar, Jackson Firebird tear it up. This Mildura duo offer two distinct voices and prove a hoot to watch. The Pat Cash-style towelling headbands definitely soak up a lotta sweat and the multigenerational audience goes nuts for She Said (from the outfit's debut Cock Rockin' set), which sees frontman Brendan Harvey and drummer Dale Hudak locking gazes, daring the other to go faster. They're cheeky too, with Harvey revealing one of their songs is an ode to Julia Gillard: “This one's about our prime minister. I don't know whether we love 'er or hate 'er, it's just about 'er.” When Hudak sits on his haunches to pummel the inverted bottle bin, shit gets hectic. One lady sporting a Daniel Boone-inspired coonskin cap peels away from the barrier announcing, “They're crazy muthafuckas!” And with a, “Thanks for hanging with the 'Bird,” they're off.
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While we hover and try to figure out our next move, a random approaches, “I saw you guys rockin' out in there”. That's my cue to head to the portaloos and leave my plus one on the chat. Re-entering the conversation as my companion's applying some lip gloss, old mate deserves his marching orders when he says, “Oh, don't do that. Then I'll wanna kiss you.” We leg it over to Hippos Stage to catch Baby Animals. Gutsy vocalist Suze DeMarchi still looks incredible (WTF, she's 48!) and we start to think this stage has anti-aging properties. What could possibly be bad about rocking out to this Perth band's hits such as Rush You and Early Warning (which my plus one admits she used to think was “Early Morning”)? Fortunately for us the campsite is but a short walk up the hill, because at this point we lose each other: one to the Roti Van, the other to the Cajun Kitchen.
SATURDAY
Gates open at the family-friendly time of 10.30am on festival Saturday and we're grateful that two onsite coffee vendors have been set up on Queenscliff Reserve Oval as well as a BBQ cranking out cheap egg and bacon rolls to soak up last night's boozefest. After a leisurely gander at the foreshore markets, we head into the festival for this year's Tribute Showcase at Pelican Bar, which kicks of at 11.30am. This year we are treated to Bee Gees classics by a variety of bands on the QMF bill. This gives us a chance to discover new acts and earmark their full sets later on in the day as priority viewing or, alternatively, cross them off the list if they ruin our favourite songs. Why more bands don't furiously rehearse and embrace this as an opportunity to advertise their wares and fatten up their fanbase remains a mystery since a lot of today's performances have obviously been thrown together last minute.
The Bellarine Peninsula All-Stars (local talent recruited from years nine through 12) kick off proceedings with You Should Be Dancing, and it's pleasing to see some of the youngsters have taken this opportunity to rock '70s onesies and headscarfs. The DC3 frontman Damian Cowell (formerly of TISM) intersperses their take on Run To Me with some misheard lyrics from childhood. He thought the song was about a beautiful young Chinese girl called Sue Mee, and hence: “Run Sue Mee/If you need a chauffeur” (in lieu of, “Run to me/If you need a shoulder”). Priceless. The booby prize goes to Luke Legs & The Midnight Specials, who murder Emotion with harmonies that grate. Keshie nail Tragedy, taking it all the way to Africa with double bongos and a foreign-language chorus. Phew, it's stinking hot! We head to the beach for a quick dip in the ice-cold ocean.
Back at the campsite, we squeal, duck and shield our heads as a swarm of insects flies by. A couple in swags ask us whether we've been warned about the area's infestation of flesh-eating bugs. Apparently more than 30 people have been diagnosed with the Bairnsdale Ulcer across Victoria this year, most of whom were Bellarine Peninsula residents. Not the kind of souvenir you'd wish to pick up at a festival!
Heading back down Hesse Street, we return to the festival site via The Seaside Lolly Shop for some pick and mix and “rocks of the old English lollies that invoke a period of times past”. Hurrying to the Lighthouse Stage, we note that Gurrumul is appreciated in hushed tones. His show has changed markedly since we first discovered this extraordinary artist at this very festival back in 2009. Three indigenous dancers power-shimmy with much enthusiasm through Marwurrumburr (Native Cat), which is as close to a Gurrumul dance song as you could get. Is that the famous Barry Morgan, proprietor of Barry Morgan's World Of Organs on keys? It is, but in understated mode! Closing with Gurrumul History (I Was Born Blind) is an emotive choice and as Michael Hohnen navigates his friend into the line of performers for a group bow, the crowd erupts and we witness the most rapturous applause of the entire festival.
Queenscliff Music Festival is about so much more than what's happening in the Princess Hill site, with surrounding bars and pubs all showcasing live music as well as buskers setting up in the surrounding streets. A chalkboard out the front of the Esplanade Hotel advertises “DJ HRYZON” – nice shortening, buddy! As we enter the historic Vue Grand, Kira Puru & The Bruise are playing. Puru has a striking presence and guitarist Geordie Malone does a Jimmy Page, playing his instrument with a bow. Next up is Jordie Lane and he's drawn a crowd that overflows from the performance space. His new single Fool For Love sounds even better in its extended live incarnation, but for the Fifty Shades Of Grey set, I Could Die Looking At You is the moistener. Lane could very well be Australia's answer to Glen Hansard and his style perfectly complements the Vue Grand's interior. He still resembles a Sovereign Hill escapee, though.
In the festival proper, Electric Empire are talk-boxing up a storm, old-school style (with cord in mouth à la Peter Frampton or Chromeo) on Hippos Stage. Their cover of No Church In The Wild (by Kanye West, Frank Ocean and Jay-Z) slays us. Drummer Jason Heerah sings like Cee-Lo Green and we're taught a melodic chant that continues long after all band members have left the stage. Electric Empire have already played Glasto, Royal Albert Hall and even Kazakhstan, now it's time for their homeland to catch on.
While guarding our prime real estate for Clairy Browne & The Bangin' Rackettes, we spy a roadie with a genuine mullet, although the party at the back is restrained in a low ponytail. The Bangin' Rackettes warm up the stage with exquisite harmonies before their bandleader swans out and the Saturday night vibe go-gos up a few notches. A tween to our right is beside herself and ever-so politely screeches, “KEEP GOING!” Drummer Ricky Martyn is incredible, but he needs to take control of those (sex)facial expressions. Clairy Browne's voice couldn't possibly ever hit a clanger and she's stunning and elegant (although her costumier should have tucked those hanger straps out of sight – one's poking out of her backless dress). A certain Heineken ad has seen this band garnering OS attention and they're just back from a couple of US shows. Of course the ladies have a mid-set costume change, which allows the musicians to show off their mad skills. Darcy McNulty's baritone sax solo during the Clairy Browne & The Bangin' Rackettes' uptempo version of Linda Lyndell's What A Man is beyond comprehension and his antique golden blower's a sight to behold. This ensemble has everything it takes to go the whole way, but the varying dance abilities of The Bangin' Rackettes is distracting. It's totally fine that they all wear their distinct personalities proudly, but Ruby Jones badly needs to polish her footwork.
Over on Lighthouse Stage, we jump a few decades from the '50s-inpsired act we've just enjoyed to You Am I. Frontman Tim Rogers is in fine form, stressing, “This kind of music's not made by good-looking people,” and that's what gives these songs such longevity and resonance. He must think his body's quite beautiful though since he spends the last half of their set topless. And, yes, he's ripped for a gentleman of his age. We thankfully hear the hits, Heavy Heart and Berlin Chair among them. The inclusion of (I'm) Stranded by The Saints is genius and we pogo and bodyslam, celebrating our nation's musical legacy. “This is a fuckin' rock'n'roll party,” Rogers encourages. “Let's go over and see King Gizzard!”
An extra six security guards have been called in to guard the barriers of the (almost) adjoining Rip Stage after King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard-inspired mayhem last night. Stakes have been drilled into the ground to help keep these makeshift barricades in place and as the kids swell forward and back in the mosh, you can immediately see why these modifications were necessary. 12 Bar Bruise is a fitting debut album title for this septet's savage brand of surf punk and Rip Stage at midnight makes the perfect setting. Theremin/percussionist Eric Moore smashes cymbals while standing on a drum and Ambrose Kenny-Smith's harmonica playing is like a klaxon for crowd-surfing races to begin. But when a trip to the backstage toilet, Dolphin torch in hand, sees one accidentally opening the door to the cool room behind Calamari Brothers' food stall, it's surely time to return to one's tent. And many thanks to the Calamari Brother for the escort to the actual portaloo and hence saving this scribe from involuntary cryonics.
