Splendour – To the Grounds of Chaos

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

You wake up covered beneath a mountain of clothing, within a tent no wider than your bed back home, momentarily dazed and unsure where you are. The sun bores in too early, defrosting everything frozen under darkness into a mild sweat.

The birds don’t chirp outside; they sing, high pitched, bordering on a line between annoyance and bliss, a natural chorus that makes your phone alarm seem subtle.

They’re the first live music act of a three day epic event.

When you’re able to manoeuvre out of the small space and get your bearings, you fall out the constructed room onto the dewy grass and see the tents of every other attendee; it’s a unified reaction, as frothy beers are already being consumed and faces of excitement begin to replace the tiredness of tent-sleep.

The Triple J tunes establish the pre-party, boom boxes of yesteryear bringing back the vibe and thumping the birds back into hiding.

This is the first morning of Splendour in the Grass, Australia’s greatest music festival, set in the comforts of Byron Bay.

There’s no rush, no stress, no raised voices or complaints; the only concern is whether the alcohol will run out before making the short bus trip to the grounds.

The morning sun is powerful, in stark contrast to the chill felt when replaced by the stars, but people dress for comfort, for style and for mayhem. No judgement, no care.

Conversations with random festival-goers ensure a dull moment is never had; you come from all areas of Australia, but soon all that won’t matter.

You didn’t stay within the Splendour campgrounds, but rather ten minutes down the road in a caravan park. This was a popular option, as escaping the area after 12 hours of indulging in its chaos allows sanity to prevail.

After a few beers, a banana, a packet of biscuits and a shower producing questionable water (with a guy in a nearby cubicle chugging on his elaborate bong) you walk within a sea of anticipatory bodies towards the shuttle bus station.

The girls are buzzing, decked out in short skirts, colourful tops, carefully planned accessories and more visible skin than cloth. They prance around to a beat unheard, predicting the bass of the day.

A local resident (generally visually appealing, another tick for Byron) wearing a fluorescent vest over little else sells you a ticket and you’re on your way, in the midst of even more festival-goers, but the numbers only grow as the day wears on.

The bus driver urges people to leave their drinks at the front of the bus, but nobody does, and the few who are caught don’t rat on the smooth criminals. This is the practice session, as sneaking items in to the festival is all part of the process. The levels of illegal differ between person to person, but the mindset remains the same.

You turn to the person in the seat next to you and discuss the acts you’re most keen on seeing, where you’re from, how enjoyable (or excruciatingly difficult) the trip to Byron Bay was and whether you’ve done anything like this before. Everyone plays this game. People awe at the 20 hour road trip you took from Melbourne the day before.

The bus moves through the parklands, rows upon rows of the liveliest trees guiding the way to the destination. And then you see it, on a hill, each letter a different bright colour stuck into the ground, people crowded around to get their first photo of the day; the letters say ‘Splendour in the Grass’ and you know you’ve arrived, the first official signage of the place you’ve been waiting months to see.

The bus stops and the people pile out, thanking the driver for doing what he’s paid to do, as feet kick up the dirt that threatens to become mud should the rain fall.

Patrons already dash for the toilet cubicles that wait, lines suggesting that the seals are being broken. But the gates to the grounds aren’t visible just yet, as you walk through a forest on unstable rocky ground, a tunnel that shields the sun and allows the breeze to sober the mind.

And this is when the initiation begins. Police armed with sniffer dogs cut through the throbbing horde and allow the search to commence. Hopefuls tense up as the dogs slam their noses against pants, bags, skirts and shoes to discover the concealed contraband. Vacuum suction on display. Only they fail.

The people breathe a sigh of relief when reaching the entry point, as chatter rises and the desire to middle-finger the officers is only quelled by the urge to catch the first glimpses of the festival.

When the staff attach that bracelet to your wrist (a red piece of cloth that means you’re over 18, you’re here for three days and you’re part of the club) the wait is over, and you walk past a final batch of underperforming security into a freedom that is part relaxing, part energising.

Money is exchanged for drink tickets, phones are out to check-in and maps are withdrawn to get a handle on the enormity in which you’ve positioned yourself.

The names of the stages and bars start to sink in: Amphitheatre, Mix-up, Red Bull.

Music enters the ears, sounds that are only increase in volume as the day progresses.

You buy three drinks at a time and begin to work out the costs: the thought of three tickets equals one beer and each ticket is worth two dollars becomes replaced by ‘I’m thirsty, more tickets equals more beer, I want more tickets.’ This is no place for mathematics. Open your wallet and watch the colour fade.

You find the closest stage and sway to the tracks, hands constantly enclosed over tin, as people are already pinging or drunk or both, urging those surrounding them to party harder, dance more ferociously, to lift others onto shoulders, to toss items into the pits and to push closer to the source.

Cans are crushed, shoes are thrown, shirts are discarded and entertainment flocks from every angle.

You’re starting to adapt.

But this is the first act of the day. This is nothing. The party hasn’t even begun.

Chris Sutton

Coming soon: Part 2 – Where the wild sets in