Live Review: St Jerome's Laneway Festival

A ridiculous queue snakes down Moreland Street, but props to the crossing guards who ensure our safe passage across neighbouring roads.

 

If you are bagless, there's an express queue far right (except that there's no one to direct punters to the correct side until it's too late). Queuing in the wrong line proves worthwhile, however, because when inspecting this scribe's ID the young bouncer pulls a gobsmacked face followed by confirmation that he would never have guessed the birth year. "PIP"? What does the 'P' stand for? Priority? Possibly? Someone please advise. 

 

Hipsters saying the word "hipster" provides endless mirth throughout the day and they are here in abundance today. Excellent to see self-service free water stations at most bars. Stubbie holders are also available at the bars, which is a genius idea until they run out. "How's your 2015 been?" is overheard in the bar queue. Raury (stop defaulting to "Fairy", already, predictive text!) must have heard this question from Moreland Street stage; at the conclusion of his hit closer God's Whisper, the fit fella announces, "The awakening begins in 2015". The Atlanta teen's voice is rougher around the edges in a live setting and he's wisely chosen to cut the armpit region out of the black top he's barely wearing for added comfort in this stifling heat. 

 

Suddenly a giant hand appears (with a human inside) and fumbles around near Moreland Street stage. Its operator must have sweaty palms indeed and, when it falls over, punters argue over whether to give it a hand (badum tish!) The pleasant grassy area before Mistletone stage is still (miraculously) green for this time of year as Leeds quintet Eagulls pummel away relentlessly onstage. Blond frontman George Mitchell sways hypnotically - incorporating an occasional slight body roll - in his long-sleeved black T-shirt. There is a lot of Robert Smith to his vocal. "This the last song," he announces. (Twice, when there's little reaction the first time.) 

 

There are ice-cold wet towels on sale for $7 if you fancy wandering around the festival with one draped around the back of your neck like nan. Geez, Dean Turner stage is a hike! The photo of Laneway past en route to this stage serves as a reminder that user friendliness was even worse when this festival was held in the CBD. But Dean Turner stage is still a bit of a clusterfuck (especially if you're short). And today wearing heels/heeled boots just ain't an option. Benjamin Booker won't have any trouble being booked solidly throughout his lifetime. He just delivers. No nonsense. Wicked Water is set a highlight and Booker gets a hot mosh going down front. 

 

Who's introducing Mac DeMarco, next up on this stage? A dude with long grey locks who kinda resembles a shaman, but boasts an Aussie accent. Where's his MC mum? People actually run towards Dean Turner stage for DeMarco until they get to that point of realisation that there's no room to get ant closer. It's jammed! DeMarco says he got "so drunk last night", but his guitarist Andy White calls him out claiming he didn't get "that" drunk. White then complains that he nearly forgot to launch into his guitar solo because DeMarco didn't announce, "Andy's solo!" Whoever it is up on stage (can't see due to questionable visibility) that keeps claiming Family Guy obviously doesn't screen in this country needs to be promised a lift back to his hotel room via kangaroo. Where's Mrs DeMarco? We get impatient waiting and head over to today's most comfortable stage: Mistletone, without question. 

 

Hipster fail of the day: dude wearing powder blue vintage suit, died grey hair, ample freaky makeup, white boots and cat ears on a headband, who brandishes a coconut decorated with cocktail umbrellas (all day). A definite candidate for Snog Marry Avoid? Maybe he's the son of Barry Morgan, who we later spot in the VIP bar. Side note: Ladies, metallic vinyl skirts are not flattering; you just look like a shiny walking stomach. Did we learn nothing from Julia Morris' ensemble on the season premiere of I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here?  

If Vic Mensa dropped Who Let The Dogs Out by Baha Men into his set, none would raise a brow. In fact you could sing that song over most of the stuff he plays. 

 

 

Meanwhile, back on Mistletone stage. Hang on, that's Mrs DeMarco introducing Pond! What exquisite taste she has. Pond frontman Nick Allbrook returns the favour by deeming her, "The hottest fuckin' MC in the universe, Agnes DeMarco!" These Perth legends are intergalactic national treasures. A couple of songs in, Allbrook laments, "I think Peter Bibby stole my voice, muthafucker!" But thankfully he still goes all right. You Broke My Cool is an epic jam that injects life into this hill as revellers scramble down for a dance. Crowd-surfing on your front looks hella weird. Much to the delight of all, Pond have just learned the title track from their recently released album, Man It Feels Like Space Again. Pond are euphoria conjurers and we can't drag ourselves away. The band members grin goofily at each other as if they can hardly believe the brilliant sounds emanating from their instruments. Some fellow old-timers bust out a coupla choruses from Greg! The Stop Sign!! (TISM) in between Pond songs, which is reassuring. We watch Pond's set in its entirety and are commended accordingly for "coming out and getting cooked", by a member of the band. (A thousand apologies to Royal Blood, sure you pulled a massive crowd over on Dean Turner stage despite our absence.) Pond would be a highlight of any global festival line-up. They're as tight as Jonah From Tonga's Takalua Link. 

Bucket hats are all the rage at Laneway this year, especially those featuring fruit prints such as bananas or watermelons. Glitter in beards is also prevalent - hmmm. Another look for the guys is shirt bottoms chopped off so there's a touch of fray. And irresponsible smokers supply spontaneous arm stings with alarming regularity throughout the course of the day. 

 

We brave scaling the killer hill to discover Future Islands up on Moreland Street stage. Lead singer/preacher Samuel T Herring looks so earnest up there! Are they playing Seasons song two? That could prove a mistake. Actually, it's so similar a song that it could be a reprise. Everyone wants to see Herring's moves. There's something very George Costanza-ish about him and at times he evokes a constipated toddler. We move forward to get a better view. And then split the moment the real Seasons wraps. That was a waste of a hill climb. Oh, well, at least it frees us up to see another act during clash o'clock. We meet some punters who choose to avoid clashes by attending back-to-back Laneways: Adelaide yesterday and Melbourne today. 

 

And the lucky winner is: Tkay Maidza on Mistletone stage. The Adelaide MC (who also sings equally well) is such a cracking role model. There's nothing skanky about her as she rocks a long-sleeved, sporty minidress with silver stripe slicing up black and white. Brontosaurus gets our feet stomping and then there are many Laneway-star stage invaders during closing track U-Huh; coupla Dune Rats and Joe Ryan from Pond plus more rampage the stage pumping super-soakers.

 

 

Ominous clouds overhead do more than threaten before Little Dragon's set and our overheated bodies are given a few rejuvenating cold showers. Gusts of wind pick up and flatteringly billow singer Yukimi Nagano's kimono as she plays a weirdly shaped tambourine. A couple of champs dangerously scale a pole in front of this stage and My Step gets us moving. There's a sense this crowd is waiting to go off, but Little Dragon don't really engage and there's an impenetrable fourth wall. They could give more. There is actually nothing worse than hearing little bits and pieces of your favourite song by an artist who's too far away to reach on the breeze. Caribou's Can't Do Without You makes us wish we'd sacrificed this Swedish electronic band.

By just before 9pm, Laneway massive suddenly seem munted: forgetting manners and losing their friends. There's a serious amount of people lying on the ground, which presents a hazardous collision course, and the freaks come out: Have they been pre-loading elsewhere all day? Dancing now creates a crushing-can symphony. 
 

Future Classic stage is being prepped for Flying Lotus and many flock there to secure prime real estate. He performs behind a scrim and 3D visuals are so retina-challenging that sunnies come in handy. Sliced up anatomical imagery becomes bejewelled patterns that are comin' atcha. Steven Ellison chooses gently swaying beats to start. It's a slow brew and a lack of patience while waiting for this headline set to garner momentum drives us up the hill for St Vincent on Moreland Street stage. Although it feels as if the beguiling artist only recently toured our shores (May last year), one could never get sick of hearing St Vincent (Annie Clark) shredding that guitar in contrast to her sweet vocals and we're so glad we stopped by. The lack of visuals - instead Clark favours a traditional black curtain - keeps focus where it should be, on these exceptionally talented musicians. 

 

The row of drinking water fountains is well-populated en route to the exit, the crossing guards are still ensuring safety first and, as we cross the Bunbury Street bridge, city bound, Clair De Lune by Flight Facilities illuminates our safe passage home.