Don't Believe the Hype - A Splendour Review [Part 2]

Penfold Krackerbarral continues to bring you the real events that made up 2010's Splendour in the Grass festival. If you missed yesterday's madness, you can read it by clicking here.

SATURDAY
After the awesomeness of yesterday, I wake at the suitable time of 12 noon and roll out of my tent to see that someone has used the side of my tent as a urinal during the night. As the waft of urine makes its way through my nasal passage, I raise my fist to the sky and curse Ben Harper’s name. I know he probably didn’t do it, but still, I feel justified in blaming him. I take a belt of whiskey from my hip flask and set off towards the stages once again.

I wander past the Triple J enclosure. I note the Doctor parading around in a three-piece suit interviewing celebrities. I liked this guy better when he was in Frenzal Rhomb.

McFly are playing a set. An hour long set. Who in the hell invited these pituitary retards to this ‘music’ festival? I note one Rio Lobotomy follows their set, and I pray to almighty Jesus that this is some kind of live brain removal operation on the members of McFly. Failing that, I think I might have to get one if I am forced to sit through a McFly set.

Thankfully, I’m not, and exercising my rational judgement chooses to go see the latest flash in the pan, Two Door Cinema Club. These guys are from Northern Ireland, and when not making music that features a bit too much keyboards, they’re thinking up snazzy band names like the aforementioned ‘Two Door Cinema Club’ or ‘Four Door Electric Hatchback’ or ‘Eight Legged Mechanical Esky’. They play a song called ‘I Can Talk’ which is funny because they cannot sing, nor play instruments. Perhaps that's the only thing they can do?


The Philadelphia Grand Jury take their jobs very seriously.

Philadelphia Grand Jury arrive on the amphitheatre. This time they’ve brought the entire bench of the Philadelphia Supreme Court, and instead of playing their hit songs which are ever so popular, they decide to court-marshal Julia Stone live on stage, charging her with manslaughter over the “accidental” shooting death of Andrew Stockdale from the previous day. She gets off lightly, sentenced to 100 hours of community service and a mandatory “emu parade” at the end of the festival. Philadelphia Grand Jury are harsh…but fair.

Lunchtime again. Today I opt for the Dagwood dog, which only costs me $20 plus my first-born child. I laugh inwardly – don’t those carnie merchants know that Ben Harper’s music has rendered me sterile? The joke is on them.

Tame Impala are here to wow the crowd with their psychedelia. Halfway through ‘Lucidity’, I have a lucid moment combined with an existential crisis Why did I come to this festival? Am I simply dreaming? Why don’t I look more like Leonardo diCaprio? My mind wanders for what seems like 16 weeks but is actually only about 2 seconds. Still, I can’t really remember how the Tame Impala ended. Weird.

Wolfmother had to cancel. Understandable considering their bandleader was killed the previous day. Instead, the organisers opt to put on a Black Sabbath record and everyone seems pleased.

Well, well well. Guess who is next - yup! It's Art V Science. These guys have a song called ‘Parlez Vous Francais’, probably one of the most annoying songs ever created. You can imagine some French band getting huge in France by simply singing a song in English that goes ‘Do You Speak English?”. It sounds pretty stupid to us, doesn’t it?

It always strikes me as humourous asking someone if they speak French…in French…I mean, it just won’t work out if they don’t, will it? Really they should be asking ‘Do you speak just enough French to realise that I’m asking you if you understand what I’m saying?” Anyway, Art V Science finishes with yet again no conclusive evidence as to which discipline has triumphed over the other.


Florence + the Machine want this dog TO DIE!!!

Florence + the Machine is some kind of equation. I do notice bad algebra when I see it – where is the resultant expression? Let me solve it for you. Florence + the Machine = shithouse. They play a song about how the dog’s days are numbered or over or something, which is presumably about euthanizing dogs. Get the RSPCA on the line! Not only are they pro-killing canines, but also they have the audacity to write popular music about it.

Band of Horses are a misnomer. I arrive at the GW McLennan stage expectant to see this group of talented equines, but it turns out that they are actually humans. No horse can be seen anywhere. I’m pretty peeved and find it hard to concentrate. When I pay $500 to see a band of talented horses, I expect a fucking band of horses! At least wear some kind of horse head costume! Even a camel suit like in Jonathan Richman’s 'Egyptian Reggae' clip would have sufficed.

More Camel Needed from Band of Horses

Julian Casablancas has the coolest name in the history of names. His band, the Strokes, play popular garage rock music, the type of music that spawned such awesome groups as Jet. During the middle of ‘New York City Cop’s Julian dives horizontally across the stage, Raiden-from- Mortal-Kombat style, and giving Albert Hammond Jr a fatality. Apparently they haven’t been getting along that well lately. The set ends abruptly and people return to their tents to scratch their heads over the antics they had seen this day.

Come back tomorrow for details of the final day! It will be gangbusters!

Don't Believe the Hype - Splendour in the Grass: A Review?

Hola! I'm Penfold Krackerbarral and I went to Splendour in the Grass. I've packaged together some of my thoughts for Daz's benefit.

Thursday
I arrive at my campsite late on Thursday night and pitch my one-man tent. I’m crammed up against the male toilets next to a group of people who’ve been sitting around drinking beer for most of the day. They’re busy telling each other about how much more superior their musical taste than the average festival punter. I do end up confused because despite such claims, many in this aforementioned group feel compelled to state repeatedly how much they’re looking forward to watching Mumford & Sons the next day. To tell you the truth, I’d prefer watching Garry MacDonald and Ruth Cracknell do a 45 minute enactment of the best of ‘Mother & Son’ on the main Splendour stage than catch the aforementioned winners of the Triple J’s “hottest 100” of 2009. I roll my eyes and return to the safety of my fortress of solitude. I’m a tired mofo.


Mother & Son - far superior to Mumford & Sons

You see, I left Brisbane 12 hours earlier; arrived at the grounds an hour later, then spent 11 hours in a holding queue. I almost died of thirst, but was lucky enough to have enough distilled urine to prolong my feeble existence, a trick I learned from the ever-helpful ‘Man v Wild’ television series.

Friday – Day One

I’m up at the crack of dawn. I’m not missing Jinja Safari for the world. These guys won some competition presided over by Richard Kingsmill, future leader of North Korea. Ironically, despite being the first band on the bill, Jinja Safari is probably the best of the entire festival. It’s a shame that not many people are here to see them.

I stick around to see local grunge band Violent Soho sans Thurston Moore. They have a song about Jesus stealing girlfriends, which is historically inaccurate at least in a literal sense. They pretty much rock the fuck out and rip a few bottoms apart here and there.

British India play a set typical of a band who admire colonialism. Included in the setlist is an anti-Gandhi anthem, another song about bringing civilisation to the savages and a folk-esque tune that looks into the fiscal benefits of exploiting the third world. Actually, all of that might not be true, as I cannot remember any of their set because I fell asleep.

Megan Washington looks like an attractive female Beatle, judging by her haircut. She plays some songs and does a great Abby Dobson impression; everyone is holding hands and slapping each other on the back. ‘Yeah, we’re cool!’

I take a break for lunch, and spend $40 on a hotdog. It cost me $10 for some bbq sauce as well. Good value for money. It’s fortunate that I budgeted $5,000 to attend this festival. Who needs two kidneys anyway?

I return to the GW McLennan tent to catch Midlake. They emerge from stage left dressed as 19th century American puritans, pitchforks in hand. They don’t actually play guitars, instead opting to shovel hay for 45 minutes. Still, their set is more enjoyable than Angus and Julia Stone.

Angus has been getting around in a beard of late, attempting to look like Devendra Banhart. Julia gets in on the act, playing their entire set with a large bushranger-style beard. During ‘Mango Tree’, Julia dons a Ned Kelly style metal helmet, a long brown jacket, completing her outfit with two holstered pistols. Near the end of the set, she leaves her piano and ambles towards the side of stage, firing two shots into celebrity onlookers, mortally wounding Andrew Stockdale from Wolfmother. The crowd rejoices at this development, but joy soon turns to melancholy, as Julia is taken away in shackles.


Police sketch artist depiction of a murderous Julia Stone approaching Andrew Stockdale

One of two horse themed bands here at Splendour, Foals attempt to engage the crowd by catapulting a horse carcass into the mosh pit. Screams of joy turn to screams of agony as a 900-pound horse crushes several Foals fans. This naturally puts a dampener on proceedings and the usually upbeat ‘Spanish Sahara’ takes on more somber tones.

The Temper Trap hit the main stage to play a bunch of songs they stole from U2 and now pass off as their own. Still, the crowd gathered round the main stages are excited. ‘Sweet Disposition’ goes down as expected, with the surprise appearance of the Edge, who parachutes from 20,000 feet and lands directly on to the main stage in order to operate guitarist Lorenzo Sillitto’s digital delay pedal.

It’s getting dark now and that means the vampires are out. Worryingly, I note several blood-drained corpses left willy-nilly in the mandatory festival recycle bins. I shake my head with a sense of disappointment: you can’t recycle that!


Bears are usually a OH&S nightmare, particularly at large Australian music festivals.

Grizzly Bear played a great set, mostly comprising of their work from 2009’s acclaimed record Veckatimist. To heighten audience suspense, the group let loose several untamed grizzlies, brought with them all the way from Alaska. Much like the Foals debacle earlier in the day, things don't go to plan, with several punters being mauled throughout the duration of the set. Lucky St. John’s Ambulance was on hand to issue band-aids and re-attach limbs. The set ends with a cracking version of ‘While You Wait for the Others’.

Ben Harper & the Restless 7 close out day one proceedings. You know what? I can hazard a guess as to why the Restless 7 are restless. It could be because they’re beginning to realise how crap it is being in a band with Ben Harper. I stay for about 10 minutes before wandering off to find some thalidomide. I must purge these memories.

Day one comes to a conclusion and I feel fortunate to be alive.

[To be continued]