Splendour – Where the Wild Sets In

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

You’re in the midst of a throbbing crowd, personal space extinguished, unaware of where one body ends and another starts.

The smell of weed wafts through invisible clouds and is drawn into your nostrils whether intended or not, the chosen air of the atmosphere as the people control the buttons of the festival.

They smoke, they pop, they stick their sweaty fingers into small plastic packages and wiggle around to let the powder attach, before rubbing the substances on gums or snorting freely.

The band plays beneath a roof held up by pillars, blocking the sun and allowing the light show to take command, but still everyone wears sunglasses as they watch the enthralling gig and jive to the beat.

You’re out of beer so you manoeuvre skilfully through the sea of limbs and find the closest bar, a fresh breeze blowing colour back into your face and awareness into the mind.

A measly bouncer asks for your identification on entry, so you raise your arm and reveal the wristband that signifies your worth. Everyone follows this action, as though saluting a general before entering war.

The bar is similar; bodies everywhere, sunglasses on, questionable smells and continued dancing. You fish into your pockets for the drink tickets, praying they didn’t fall out, and withdraw a bunch of the silver squares that already lose their print.

Heads are down, counting, calculating, as serious as anyone is likely to get at Splendour in the Grass. You finally reach the front of the queue, hands on the saturated surface, and hope for attention.

‘Sunglasses off’, says the bartender, as she looks into your eyes and assesses your state. Nobody is knocked back; each and every person in this bar and every other bar in the parklands is served. The only limits are the four drink maximums on each purchase. You gather your cans and escape the mayhem, spilling liquid over others and yourself. It dries, they don’t care.

You sit on a bench, already vacated by dozens of others, and analyse the timetable. There’s a band you know playing at the Amphitheatre, the main stage, a sight you haven’t had the chance to see as yet. Your ears prick to random conversations.

‘My name’s Steve, you?’

‘No I’m Steve, you’re Shaun.’

‘Your name is Shaun?’

‘My name is Steve?’

‘Ok, we’re both Steve, but I’ll be Stevie.’

(Man hands man he doesn’t know his blue PowerAde)

‘What’s in here?’

‘Electrolytes.’

(Man takes large swig, winces and coughs)

‘Vodka has electrolytes?’

‘What am I, a chemist? Just keep up those fluids.’

A person (gender questionable) sits on the bench between strangers, dressed in a gorilla outfit that would petrify onlookers in the dark. Females sit on its knee like a wild Santa Claus and get their photos. The wearer plays to character.

When your beers are at a manageable holding-and-walking level you begin the trek to the Amphitheatre, quickly realising the obstacle ahead; a massive hill, steep and complemented by the unstable rocky surface you struggled through on the way inside the grounds.

The first few metres are easy enough, but already the legs begin to cramp and frustrated laughter echoes from all angles. Some storm up the hill, others shrug, while a few stop half way for a sip of the beverage. One man requests a shoulder-ride, to which you decline. It’s an effort enough as it is. He still tries to climb aboard.

And then, reaching the top, the view of the main arena hits you. High hills from all angles dip down into a pit and stage, the perimeter an ascent at every point, a slope of carnage if heavy rain were to fall. For now there are still patches of grass visible, but by nightfall every blade will be covered by a stomping foot.

You descend towards the stage as the DZ Deathrays thrash their instruments in true rock style, the jumping crowd a relentless tide to bash against the fence, a dangerous shore.

The sign says ‘no moshing’. Like every other rule it is broken within minutes. Attendees break backwards so a circle forms in the midst of the mayhem. Men charge from one side of the circle to the other, bulls to a matador, only in this arena connection is inevitable and the strongest stay upright. You watch.

As alcohol progressively blurs the environment the day rushes by, the sun and heat is replaced by the moon and chill, the backdrops flash in epileptic delight and sear holes into an invisible roof. The Amphitheatre swells, as the Mayor of Splendour (Bender from Futurama, a head too tall) overlooks his charges from the throne atop the highest vantage point.

Whilst urinating for the thirteenth time of the day, you hear people mention your favourite act, who they say is starting in twenty minutes on the opposite side of the parklands. You try not to slip on the soggy ground like thousands before you and march away briskly from the Amphitheatre, aware you’ll be dashing back for Outkast in a few hours.

Childish Gambino is playing on the Mix-Up stage, so you slide down the slope without breaking your neck (a commendable skill) and walk through the heart of Splendour.

Stalls selling everything from clothes, jewellery, food, accessories and other random items line the sides like houses in a busy street. Competition flows. Sizzling sausages and foreign meats entice. A silent disco rages on. A sarcastic political advance blocks a route. Females sit on beanbags as their phones charge at a popular station.

You reach the Mix-Up stage, which is covered by a roof so high it might as well be the sky, glittering balls hanging from above and reflecting all.

You push ahead, through the countless anticipatory bodies, nudging and knocking and pushing. Not a single complaint is aired.

And then he bursts on stage, all energy and chaos, belting out a signature track to the jumping Splendour crew. This is why you’re here, and soon all else is forgotten as you join the mindless insanity of letting go.

Before the song is finished people step back.

They don’t stop dancing but they step back.

A girl, mid twenties, lies on the ground grasping at her leg.

She returns the next day, on crutches, with a smile as deep as the pit of the Amphitheatre.

‘I missed the rest of Childish Gambino,’ she says.

‘But I will not miss anything else.’

The bar has been set.

Chris Sutton

Coming soon: Part 3 – Fields of Mayhem