English festival goers seem to think they have the market cornered on mud, but even hardened Glastonbury veterans would have wanted the man-sized gumboots for their arrival at Woodfordia late Thursday night. Late due to the truly epic gridlock on the one road that runs into Woodford, and grateful because what might once have been a grassy green field to set up camp on had become something more like an acres-wide version of the goalsquare at your local footy ground after a weekend of rain and trampling. Squishy.
Most of the 8593 tens, vans and market stalls were open for business on the Thursday night but only a few DJs were set up, so after setting up camp and comparing time spent in cars and buses with the next tent over, the night was more for exploring than getting into the music. The labyrinthine layout of the new venue took some getting used to, and after trekking through the smell of hotdog vendors and hippie healing tents for an hour, my girlfriend/navigator and I thought we’d reached the far end when we came across the imposing Mix-Up tent. After consulting a map and realising we’d only come a third of the way across Woodfordia, it became apparent just how big the venue was. The Amphitheatre (capital A) itself was quite something, a monstrous grassy slope leading down to the pit area and main stage. The grassy slope turned out to be perfect for a relaxing sit-down during the bands with less pulling power, and just as suited to the packed out human sardine-fest that was
The Strokes (
Florence,
Pixies,
Mumford, etc.). But first things first:
The first real ‘moment’ for Splendour came midway through the first day of bands, during a typically hard-hitting
British India set. Interrupting what had so far been a head-banging good time, the entire PA cut out during the first verse of a surprise Beastie Boys cover (“Fight For Your Right”, of course), leaving only the faint whisper of raw sound from the amps on stage. The band soldiered on assuming the system would eventually come back to life, and the crowd happily filled in on vocals as well as they could, only to have the PA gloriously kick in again right on the first refrain of “YOU GOTTA FIGHT…FOR YOUR RIGHT!” from front man Declan Melia. It was fantastic timing, and not many on the hill could resist joining the band with a full-blooded “TO PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTY!”.
Yeasayer prompted the first mass dance-along of the day, fighting through the heat to deliver an energetic set full of their schizophrenic brand of dance/pop/80s/digital freak-out.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club was about as dark and dirty as the festival got, all filthy alt-country guitars and snarled vocals. ‘Music to wear leather to’, a concise review from a friend, was a good summing up of it, and while they delivered a largely flawless set, the mood ran contrary to what most people were looking for, which is likely why they got less of a response than the more accessible ‘good time’ bands that followed them.
Angus and Julia Stone ambled on stage later that night, and without any banter (or a decent band) launched into somewhat lazy versions of their hits. The set might have been more enjoyable for those who managed to get their own splendiferous grass past security, but the siblings themselves just came off as uninspired, way past laid back and thoroughly disappointing. The crowd cheered the first chords of hits ‘Big Jet Plane’ and ‘Wasted’, but couldn’t will those on stage to greater heights. Thankfully
Ben Harper picked up the slack and then some, closing out the first night with an emotional run of songs and a stunning ten-minute lap-steel guitar solo. I’ve never known much about Harper or cared much for his music, but his friendly nature and soulful delivery kept the main arena captivated past midnight. INXS drummer Jon Farriss took to the stage at Harper’s invitation to perform a rousing rendition of ‘Never Tear Us Apart’, complete with a string section, slide guitar in lieu of a saxophone and a
massive sing along from the crowd, which left those lucky enough to be there with a warm fuzzy feeling in their stomachs (not just from dodgy kebabs) at the close of the first day.
Saturday belonged to international headline acts, but honourable mentions go to
The Drums for some truly demented tambourine action,
The John Steel Singers for great energy and horse-headed ballroom dancers (I know),
Bluejuicefor some fantastic Boosh-inspired costumes and
Laura Marling for being a trooper and attempting to play through sound problems that eventually forced her to shorten her set. Sound desk issues were unfortunately a feature of the festival, from sudden PA drop-outs to instruments disappearing from the mix and grating volume jumps, my band of merry campers counted only two bands in total we saw on the first two days who
didn’t have noticeable sound problems. It’s bound to happen sometimes of course, but when you’re hosting a barrel of international acts it goes beyond being irritating for punters and performers and becomes a bit embarrassing for the festival, and maybe the screws could have been tightened a little more in terms of professionalism.
As you’d expect, Flo and Casablancas and Co. drew the biggest crowds of the day, to the extent that punters were eventually turned away from the main stage and bars were shut down, presumably to nip any drunken rage in the bud. From all reports people were eventually let through to the Amphitheatre, and both bands obliged with a barrage of hits familiar to anyone who listens to Triple J (95% of those present, surely). Curiously,
The Strokes’ on-stage backdrop seemed to be the biggest talking point following their set, and call me a traditionalist but I’d rather be blown away by the music rather than images of Pong and Pacman on a video screen. A satisfied crowd is a satisfied crowd though, and those who sucked in their guts and squeezed into the pit for The Strokes were just that.
The last day of Splendour in the Grass for 2010 started the same way as the others, with a tent like a greenhouse, a plate of Dutch pancakes and a few mellow bands to get things going.
Boy & Bear were in perfect harmony with one another and with the crowd throughout their set, which included a well-polished cover of Bon Iver’s ‘Flume’. It was just that kind of festival really, a big indie love fest which regularly saw artists name-checking and even performing with other bands, much to the delight of the crowds (standout Mix-Up tent act
K-OS even took time out from rapping to talk up Canadian underground heroes
Broken Social Scene). There were some more intense moments, like Cec Condon of
The Mess Hall drumming with such ferocity that he smashed right through a snare, or the frenetic Energizer bunny action provided by last-minute replacements
Art vs. Science, but for the most part Splendour was all about luxuriating in the healthy state of the indie rock scene at present.
An exception to this mood of general leisure and relaxation was, predictably, Icelandic demi-god
Jonsi. The Sigur Ros front man is currently touring his latest solo effort
Go, an album bursting at the seams with childish enthusiasm. It was unclear how the cathartic, glacial style of much of Jonsi’s work with Sigur Ros would gel with this newfound optimism, but the answer soon became clear: beautifully. With a five-piece band costumed like nomadic-elf-fairy-pixie-princes (how often do you see a bald 30-something drummer wearing a felt crown?), Jonsi began his set without ceremony, a few quiet numbers to warm up the crowd and the vocal chords. The first portion of his show was worryingly uninspiring, especially given the hyped up state of the dance-tent crowd. However, a few kick-bass driven songs later the band really hit their stride, creating the perfect backdrop for Jonsi’s vocal theatrics, all the way from the near rap of
Animal Arithmetic to his trademark falsetto croon.
If there was one thing missing from the show as it neared its end, it was the spiritual catharsis one has come to expect from Jonsi’s performances. With two songs to go though, Jonsi emerged form a backstage break wearing a meter-tall headdress, replete with rainbow feathers and long trailing ribbons of flowers, which was clearly the equivalent of Superman stepping out from a phone booth. The last number, following a few shy words from the man himself, began gently before beginning to swell, and anyone in the crowd who knew Sigur Ros could sense something was happening. Five (maybe fifteen, I couldn’t say) minutes later, the whole tent was buried under an immense wall of sound, and it was the only time all weekend I saw a crowd with hands raised up in rapture and disbelief rather than simple approval. Jonsi looped his last vocal melody through some pedals and then took to pacing, stalking around the stage howling into the two mics he held, one in each hand. As much exorcism as performance, the band began to simply beat as much noise as they could out of their instruments, while Jonsi threw himself about, feathers and tassels flying as he shook and cried out over the crescendo.
It might all sound like hyperbole, especially in comparison to the rest of the weekend, but it truly was a stand-alone moment. There were some great sets from a lot of bands, mostly great because they were fun, accessible and completely nailed the party atmosphere of the festival. Jonsi brought something completely different with him, and it deserves to be talked about in language different to the rest of the shows.
Mumford and Sons serenaded a packed Amphitheatre crown with a mixture of balladry, foot-stomping energy and English charm, and I hope Angus and Julia were taking notes (well, Julia was on stage, along with ten others who added vocals and percussion for a few tracks. Still). Of course,
Little Lion Man was huge, as was
The Cave and the other tracks you hear on the radio every five minutes. Mr. Mumford was good natured about the lack of attention payed to the bands earlier work though, joking that they could now play old songs as new songs. Everything the band said was funny or sweet, really. There was a call for an inflatable zebra from the back of the arena, and a very sincere, humble thanks to Australia for support, the biggest show Mumford have played and ‘the best festival in the world this year’. Mind you, they really could have said anything with those accents…
There was no such ceremony from the
Pixies, who proved they’ve still got it with a typically abrasive set with the occasional crowd-pleaser. As you might expect, many members of the crowd who were unfamiliar with the Pixies’ material decided that they didn’t want ‘it’ at all, and left a few songs in after realising the headline act for the festival was mostly just a fat bald guy screaming. Those who stayed though (and there were many) were treated to a self-assured set from a band that knows what they do well and can do it easily.
Where Is My Mind? got the biggest cheer, but hits (insofar as the Pixies have hits)
Here Comes Your Man and
Gigantic were also well received. Frank Black even made a joke. Weird.
Those who abandoned the main stage during the Pixies set would have either caught some dreamy dance-pop from
Empire of the Sun or a spectacular dummy spit from ex-Verve front man
Richard Ashcroft, who lasted a whole half a song before throwing his tambourine across the stage and storming off due to a relatively small crowd. Poor form, especially considering what those in the crowd were missing to see him. This might be a rare exception to the ‘all publicity is good publicity’ rule, and Mr. Ashcroft may have shot himself in the foot in regards to a successful solo career.
Ashcroft and the sound guys were the only real black marks on Splendour for 2010, besides the usual festival niggles like over zealous security and drunk bogans. The rain held off the whole weekend (the early mud was more than enough), there was enough deep fried food for everyone and bands and punters alike seemed to enjoy every minute. London based
Fanfarlo were a suitable microcosm of the festival: songs ranging from Arcade Fire-esque big band energy to restrained acoustic tinklings, goodwill and humility from the band, room to sit down, stand up or dance in a circle with your indie-fairy girlfriends, and an exodus as soon as the last note had been sung to go find more mid-strength beer and vege-burgers.
Almost every aspect of Lisbon will remind you of another song or band, sometimes just proving that there is something else you could be listening to, including ‘old school’ The Walkmen. Leithauser’s vocal seem to be a combination of Dylan’s pronunciation and the presentation of risky range heard in the Cold War kids. Upon saying that, he does completely hold his own in comparison to the messy music (bringing us back to the garage aspect of The Walkmen). Let me just clarify as messy not being a bad thing, in Victory for example. There’s a pleasant delay to the sound, and it gives off the same charm as any Vampire Weekend song where, regardless of the intentions behind the lyrics, it seems like a decent ‘summer song’; see Woe is me, undoubtably the highlight of the album.. 
