Golden Plains XVII: A celebration of Fine Art

 

Photograph: Bron Peters/Golden Plains

 

I was walking back to the campsite reflecting on my Saturday evening, caressing my own shoulder. Minutes ago I was pirouetting to Magdalena Bay’s Image, and now my limbs were pretzeled after a hard set from the Osees. I was levitating, protruding from the pistil of a sunflower, and then I was descending, fighting off the boots of the Plainian punks in the house. It was seriously toe-cutting. A ring of people helped me to my feet, flaunting the most saccharine of smiles. I thought what I was feeling was horror– and trust me, I was for a moment back there— but it was rapture. I dove back into the pit and swam with the choppy current, until the wind changed and my head could bang no more. Limping back to my tent, bruised and amused, “I love Golden Plains,” I exclaimed to my friends. They will allege that I was crying, but I promise that the tears were cortisol-induced.

Thank you, Aunty Meredith, for the bush communion. Spanning two days, festival-goers were equipped with the utensils deemed necessary for what was an enlightening festival experience. These not only took the shape of varying musical acts, but included facilities such as free range camping, BYO, exquisite food, a No Dickhead Policy, and one stage that “fits all”. There was something particularly special about sharing one stage, one space. Skirted by gorgeous pine trees and gargantuan in size, Meredith’s Supernatural Amphitheatre is situated on the lands of the Wadawurrung and is continuously preserved to ensure a “prime time on the slight incline” for both patrons and performers. This practice of coming together, same time, same place, reflects an ethos that upholds community and protects Country. It would be fair to say that we don’t all live under such conditions; at Golden Plains, Aunty shows us what’s possible, that there is bread and wine in the spirituality and physicality of music and landscape.

 

Photograph: Benjamin Fletcher/Golden Plains

 

Thank you, again, Aunty, for a spectacular lineup: MULGA BORE HARD ROCK. THELMA PLUM. SUN RA ARKESTRA. SKELETEN. BONNY LIGHT HORSEMAN. MAGDALENA BAY. PJ HARVEY. FONTAINES D.C. KNEECAP.

There are more. OSEES. BAHAMADIA. DURAND JONES & THE INDICATIONS. HERMANOS GUTIÉRREZ. GRACE CUMMINGS. JADA WEAZEL. ELA MINUS. SOFIA KOURTESIS. ROBIN S. ZJOSO.

I should’ve conducted a step-count; I’ve never danced so much in my life. A quick round of highlights: Sun Ra Arkestra were bedazzled and dazzling; Bonny Light Horsemen were romantic; Fontaines were visceral; PJ was entrancing; Bahamadia was dynamic; Thelma was beautiful; Mulga bore were electric; Kneecap were Parful.

I could’ve sworn that I was closer to them, and that I could see them. But suddenly I was on the opposite side of the Amphitheatre, and DJ Provai had metamorphosed into a prismatic and roving balaclava, illuminating the entire ‘Sup. The boys entered the stage giddy and growling. Mo Chara, who was painted in black, asked that the lights be switched off; cue the godly balaclava. The set was fast, heavy and immersive. Have you ever preached peace in Gaelic? Neither had I, until Sunday night. I didn’t know what I was saying, but it felt right, and I seemed to mean it. Eventually Móglaí Bap was bare-chested, and festival-goers were bootless. The Aboriginal and Palestinian flags engulfed the screens, the boys reminding us of our reality and our mission. Kneecap were happy to be with us, and were willing to work with us towards justice. The performance was exhilarating. Perhaps dance and decolonisation are a means to an end.

 

Photograph: Chip Mooney/Golden Plains

 

While I’ll never get over that performance, some of my favourite moments were also the quieter ones. Waking up too early in the morning and sitting on The ‘Sup, watching the Portishead-ical Acopia take the stage through my sunglasses. Surveying the Plains on the ferris wheel and getting sun-kissed. Resting on a lounge chair at the Pink Flamingo with a Bloody Meredith in one hand as the other clicked to the wise words of Uncle Barry. Don’t get me started on the roti wraps.

There were destructive moments, too. Like when PJ Harvey’s set was delayed as the threat of a great storm loomed. And walking back to camp post-set only to find my tent crushed by our gazebo. At least it didn’t storm.

Although, it must have… My only regret is that I didn’t take a balaclava with me. The next one, for sure. And the next. And the next.