V Festival Melbourne

Not to sound Seinfeldian, but what is the deal with flannelettes? I am not even joshing when I estimate at being able to see at least 6 from any vantage point in the crowd (even a heavy crowd where space is scarce and patrons are packed like oily sardines). This is quite hard on the eyes, let me tell you. After some initial antagonism at Plug In City mysteriously disappearing from the program, we trundled over to the sparse crowd at the Red Stage (the three stages were actually named in the quite British way of This, That & The Other, making it incredibly confusing; colours are much easier) to see everyone’s favourite “Doo-Wop Punk” boys Little Red. Although having ‘done’ the festival thing already, and probably garnered great success henceforth, I don’t particularly dig LR as a Festival Band. My cohorts and I agreed that the boys, loveable and brilliant though they may be, were better suited to smaller venues like The Evelyn or The Tote. Their smooth vocals and jangly r’n’b chords seemed to get lost in the wide openness of the Showgrounds

The only information I had at this point pertaining to Sweden’s Robyn was one song (“Show Me Love”, a pretty catchy but stock standard late-nineties track), and that she supported The Backstreet Boys. But long gone was the pop-princess facade; perhaps had she retained some of that 90s spirit, her set may not have been so goddamned dull. Her faux-ebonic accent aside, the flavourless and laborious songs simply did naught for me. Meh.

Modest Mouse. Once again, having had no particulars regarding this band, I would have to rely on whatever they gave me this afternoon. And, despite so many of my droogies fighting to catch the set, I was once again bored out of my boots. I realise there is only so much you can do with the combination of drums, bass, guitar and vox, but, come on. Peeps ain’t even trying’ these days. One of those bands I can say, with a heavy sigh and an eye-roll; “I don’t like them, but I know other people will, and do”.

After a brief snack (the usual exorbitant festival prices ever-apparent) it was time for Cut Copy. Ah, relief; although not the hugest CC fan, it was nice to bop along to something, having stood crossed-armed in true Melbournian fashion, for some time. Far Away even made me dance some. If there is ever gonna be a Rock Gladiators, and they have an Indie-Electro episode (maybe while fit the set for the Pete Murray vs. Bernard Fanning “Boring Neutered White Rock” episode), it will be Cut Copy vs. The Presets in the ultimate do-or-die battle for Indie-Electro supremacy.

Personal highlight of the day was Moloko’s Roisin Murphy. The cheeky songstress has a voice as strong as straight gin, and twice as tasty. With incredible stage presence, she was able to capture the whole crowd’s eyes and ears and feet and imagination in one stunning fell swoop. Eccentric costumes, sultry vox and a mischievous glimpse into the camera made us all fall in love with the delightfully weird Roisin. I hadn’t been a fan before (mostly due to lack of exposure, not any kind of predisposed aversion) so the songs were entirely new to me and won me over, head over feet.

Euggh. Jesus and Mary Chain, come back to 2008. I know you were huge in the 90s, but so were B*witched; we all have to move on. I dunno, am I missing something? Can someone explain to me the appeal of the Scottish rockers? Listen to Here Comes Alice. Aren’t you bored rigid? Aren’t you??

“Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol....”...that old familiar sharp, pounding riff causes the crowd to literally lose their shit. Well, not literally (EW) but they went mental.Queens of Stone Age, fronted by the sexiest ginger ever Josh Homme, took to the stage and rocked more than a few balls off. Josh made us all laugh by incorporating “The Safety Dance” into the aforementioned drug-anthem and drummer Joey Castillo hammered his drums into mush. I befriended a girl named Shelby (or, rather, she befriended me) who took the mick out of the vacuous posers taking MySpace photos of themselves instead of watching the band, by jumping into the back of said photos, smiling as if she belonged there. She told me she would stand near me so it looked like she had friends. I introduced myself and said “Now you don’t have to pretend”. We ate lollies and jabbed over-excited bogans with our elbows. Then she disappeared, as if she’d never been (well, she didn’t disappear per se; she spotted some mates she had lost and fluttered away). Anyway. Newer QOTSA like Burn the Witch and Sick Sick Sick had its fair share of purist detractors, but they more than made amends with the massive, the awesome, the classic; No One Knows. How will anyone beat that today?

CSS, whose singer Lovefoxxx was dressed like some glorious bird, were another highlight of the day; their songs have a character all their own. Never boring, always up for a bit of a dance, satisfying to the last drop (or is that Bailey’s?). Music is My Hot Hot Sex and Alala went off like a cracker, but it was Let’s Make Love (And Listen to Death From Above) that really made ‘em go nuts. Even me, and I’m a terrible dancer.

I passed by the fiesta that was the Duran Duran crowd and caught the second most awesome Duran Duran song (Girls on Film) with an extended instrumental break for Simon to introduce the band. Guitarist Andy Taylor lets off some supreme lickage at the mention of his name and Sir Le Bon let out a ridiculously English and deliciously slightly-camp, “How does he fucking do it??”. I called some friends and let them listen, while screaming, “Fuck yeah I’m watching Duran Duran!”. A guilty pleasure, but a pleasure all the same.

I didn’t much fancy The Presets (honestly, I find My People one of the most irksome tracks thus far this year) but knew they were hot shit at the minute and had heard they put on a pretty tremendous live show. What I found at that show was...answers. I realized what made people love this band so much (especially a certain indie cohort whose obsession with said band sometimes seems worrying) and how they had rocketed to such success so quickly. But now it has become all too clear. Being officially enamoured with This Boys in Love, I trundled off with a newfound respect for the boys, but a less than reverent view of fluoro.

Before I sign off, I must first share this with you. Although V Festival, in its Australian infancy, could properly content with any other Oz music festival, the free booklet handed out at the entry gates was...less than endearing. Some of the tips for the festival included: “This isn’t a wedding; don’t dance like it is”, “Fluro, save it for Good Vibrations” and “This is not a playground- pashing and shoulder sitting is just annoying”. The fact that Smashing Pumpkins were on the bill on added to the overall jaded-gloomy teenager vibe that those tips give off. Are you the Gestapo? No? So you’re just a pretentious festival organiser who actually has the audacity to be selective in their audience? Thought so. Until next year; Heil V Fest!

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