The following is an inside view into Australia’s biggest festival. It is a spin on gonzo journalism that takes you inside the chaos that is Splendour in the Grass. There will be four parts to the article, covered over the next week. Enjoy!
Chris Sutton
PART 1 – http://www.culturemad.com/2014/07/30/splendour-2014-part-1-grounds-chaos/
PART 2 – http://www.culturemad.com/2014/08/01/splendour-wild-sets/
PART 3 – http://www.culturemad.com/2014/08/04/splendour-fields-mayhem/
FINAL PART
Before you even realise you’re awake, you’re in a pack of eager bodies with a beer in hand unloading off the bus.
You enter the gates of Splendour like a returning soldier to a trodden battlefield.
Each step brings you closer to the beats, the smells, the feeling; the scene you became a part of after one day. Back to the R rated version of a playground in a primary school, where the toys are pills, the fruit boxes are alcohol and the uniform is chaos.
There are no hangovers here, nobody complaining of being sore, or tired, or sick.
After such a day back home you’d sit on the couch all afternoon, demanding take-away food, the sight of booze enough to resemble invisible fingers down the throat. Here it is embraced, consumed and appreciated. It’s the breakfast of the mob.
There’s no need for a map now, as they lay scattered on the ground. You know the setting like the bark of your dog, the engine of your car or the layout of your wallet.
You march to the most familiar bar, acquire your beverages and make for the Mix-Up stage, ready to be absorbed as a native again.
DJ’s spin tracks both known and foreign, Waveracer and Basenji own the vibe amidst the horde of sunglasses, cans and energy in the devil’s recess.
You sway, taken by it all, before a girl grabs you by the arm and leads you further into the pressing swarm of minds trying to reach the peak mood of the previous day. Wedged within a group of seven you shake hands and kiss cheeks as the names roll off into the abyss during the introductions. Names are irrelevant.
Flirtation rises, or is it just the sense of the ecosystem?
They teach you new dance moves as the DJ’s crank the volume for their signature songs. Fists rise. The tint of the shade filters the view. And moments later you’re at the Amphitheatre, more beers in hand, the fresh company lost.
Violent Soho take the stage, a rock band that causes the droves of ownership to push forward. They say it’s the biggest crowd they’ve played to. This fires everyone up. During a notorious chorus the herd brace, ready to scream the words louder than they ever have, and when the time comes you do the same, your ears ringing with the words ‘Hell Fuck Yeah!’
The rain starts to fall as the set ends, but as you blink 360 replaces the band. Time ticks at an uncomfortable speed. He raps against the flashing colours of the stage, to a crew being pounded by the weather, but nobody is deterred. Special guests grace the spotlight and assist the conduction. Containers, empty and full, are tossed skywards. They add more liquid to the downpour. Your bladder threatens to burst. You wait until the set is done.
The toilets are at the highest point of the mountain. You race to the top, eager to beat the mob, aware they all had the patience to wait for 360 to finish rapping before making the ascent.
A cluster of people are huddled around the male urinals. They’re not lining up. No, these members of Splendour are watching the desperate manoeuvre up and down the hill. It may not sound entertaining, and when you’re busting to the point of explosion it even lacks humour. But then you stand beside another member and watch. One man dashes up, slips, regains composure and then loses footing completely and slides down the mud on his knees. Cheers rise. You’re as vocal as any.
The final act of the day, Rufus, draws the bulk of the crowd, only this time they’ve been slotted at the Mix-Up stage, a place not as capable as the Amphitheatre in terms of crowd control for a main event. The music starts and people charge. They climb the poles that hold up the roof like crazed monkeys escaping capture. Bodies are crushed on the level ground, no slopes to allow structured viewing. Flags wave. Not everyone fits in the location. Lawlessness rules supreme and nobody escapes without bruising.
Click. It’s the final day. You purposely wear your ‘It was all a dream’ shirt.
Where was the tent?
Where was the bus ride?
Splendour beats before you.
The young and glamorous singer from Broods thrusts suggestively. A girl who tells you she’s on MDMA works on an injured raver’s leg, muttering the words of another language or planet. You’re lying on the green, the rays boring holes into your skin, as a band plays the soundtrack to entropy.
A performer asks if someone just threw a tampon on stage.
Australian artists praise the unifying power of music.
International artists praise Australians for being unlike any other pack they’ve seen.
‘You made us famous’ they say, as the night falls on your final night.
Lilly Allen, the last act of Splendour, sets an unexpected tone – fuck it, lets party, why stop?
You want to follow her words but you know it’s over. It isn’t like the two nights prior, where you left with time still in the tank. This is hollow. Heads are down. Realisation dawns. Back to work, to university, to the ordinary life of an ordinary individual. Nothing can compare. Your family of 20,000 filters out. You’re already forgetting the experience, as the memories sift and you’re left with only the most vivid images.
There are many who can’t deal with the end, and make for the tepee forest, or the stalls that continue to serve beer. You don’t hang around to see how the lockout impacts them.
Tones soften and chatter remains, discussion of the acts seen, the conversations had, the crazy antics and the raging crowds, just to feel a part of the group for as long as possible.
But fists no longer line the horizon. Allied cheers hush. It’s over. The power is switched off. You nod to the faces of the festival, an appreciation of the shared occasion. ‘I’ll see you next year’ is the theme. You’ll never see this group again.
Time once again speeds up, and before you can mentally deal with the end of the festival you’re in a bus, then packing up your tent, then driving out of Byron, then unloading the car and putting your clothes in the wash in a structured environment.
Work resumes.
People text or people call, asking about your little holiday.
And as Melbourne sets in and the norm reprises the role of command, you sit there for a minute and wonder; did it all really happen?
There’s photo evidence, and news updates, and a wristband still attached tightly on skin, but it isn’t quite enough.
In surges responsibility, and rules, and a format that has to be followed amidst people who care. Anarchy is extinguished.
You remember the final scene in Inception, when he spins the top to see whether he remains in dream or reality.
But like Leo you’d turn away, because it doesn’t really matter. You’d rather not know.
Chris Sutton
The End
