A gloriously sunny morning with blue skies and The Simpson’s clouds prepared the scene for High Vibes 2009 and, once again, Northcote’s annual street party lived up to all the expectations – good, bad and everything in between.
My friend and I met up mid-afternoon and pedaled our way across Brunswick to join the fray. Passing Northcote station where a couple of ten-year-old Rob Lowe wannabes were out busking with saxophones, it wasn’t long before we were part of the dizzying mix of hipsters, hippies, maths teachers and denim cut-offs. There were leggings without pants, pants without leggings, blissed-out wackos in paisley secretary vests, and worst of all, kids dolled up in pre-grunge fashion (it’s happening already) - think 4 Non Blondes with patches on torn jeans, top hats and flannel shirts with Ray Bans.
With a mind so focused on the musical acts it was a shock to enter the scene to a swarm of children, food stalls, street performers, hand-outs and friends. Since the demise of the Brunswick Street Festival, Chapel Street Festival and the general codification of the St. Kilda Festival, it was nice to once again touch base with the neighbourhood vibe that flourishes on Melbourne's fringes. Rather than, y'know, be buying drink cards and being told where to go and what not to do. Even if a pot of Cascade Pale at the North Social Club was NINE DOLLARS! Judging from the heavy lines and herding of people at the festivals zenith later in the day, one wonders if the festival could handle many more people. It does seem a little ironic though; many of the fences that stopped the flow of foot traffic were to prevent people crowding into bars. So we all just crowded outside them.
We wandered past the Songwriter’s Collective Stage to the sound of accordions, flurrying guitars and clattering gypsy rhythms to our first point of call - a hot dog from the Wesley Anne BBQ. Everybody loves a queue, or so it seems at High Vibes. So we did the same and waited patiently, then impatiently, for our sausagey moment in the sun.
East Brunswick All Girls Choir (ex-Smokin' Hot Bitch) have come along way since their inception. Once the angsty solo domain of frontdude and ex-Bang! Bang! Aids! troublemaker Marcus Hobbs, the band has mutated into one part melancholic indie lament, one part soul scraping doom rock. They're the first band we see in Punch - a cleared out haridresser's salon which is easily the best venue at the festival. When the band weren't cracking self-depracating gags between songs, they were busy testing the room's plaster. There's a sense that the band aren't quite sure where they sit, this sitting of pretty guitar changes alongside balls-out shrieking over gut-punching bottom end, but it's a captivating combo; one perfectly recorded on their brand new and self-released Dead Air LP.
After a few laps up and down the street we stepped out of the mayhem and took a turn up a side street for some quiet time. We found a comfortable stoop and sat down to have a drink and a smoke in the relative peace, while the booming bass from the (ill advised and out of place? - Ed) dance stage beside the Northcote Social Club rattled the tin roofs above us. Beside us a piece of graffiti read ‘My girlfriend can’t wrestle but you should see her box.’ This was an indication of what was headed our way and sure enough soon some of the local lads stopped by to say hello. They greeted us with shiny white teeth and 17-year-old smiles before quickly moving onto the important topics.
‘You got any weed?’
‘No,’ we replied.
‘How about some pills?’
We shook our heads.
‘You take coke? You got any coke? Es? What about bikkies? You got any bikkies? How about some nancy?’
Nancy? What the hell is nancy? I thought to myself feeling old and sadly out of touch.
‘You boyfriend and girlfriend?’ the fellow behind me asked.
I explained that we were simply friends hanging out for the day.
‘Why would you sit next to a girl you don’t want to kiss?’ he asked incredulously before whispering to my friend, ‘he wants to put his sausage in your muffin.’ He followed this up with a plea for a kiss from her and a hug from me, of which he got neither. As we walked back toward the main drag our man of the moment was already bragging to his buddies that he’d almost pashed my friend - but the best was yet to come. Out of nowhere our hero’s disembodied voice rattled out of a toy megaphone shouting, ‘Erin, you’re gorgeous! Karl, suck my cock!’
It was time for some music so we joined another line, this time at the social club. We made it inside to hear Washington (solo piano with a Clare Bowditch twist crossed with a Sundays vocal).
We were watching Nun play in Punch from the relative safety of the footpath outside. Which meant that we missed out on the obvious brutalising of peoples eardrums inside (a stream of people leaving were wiggling their fingers in their ears, yet each departure passed by an eager replacement - but it did mean that we had a band's eye view of the poweful stoner rock barrage. (That they're fronted by ex-Peeping Tom frontman Gerasimos Grammeno should give you an indication.) The Dacios managed to equal Nun's viciousness just through sheer vocal intensity alone. Linda J's voice is fucking hilarious in its power. The pint-sized frontwoman roared out from in front of a band decimating itself just inches behind her and still she was the loudest thing in the room. Awesome.
Teeth and Tongue filled in admirably for Kid Sam, who were forced to cancel at the last minute for some reason, and after another stint outside, which involved the clap-happy-cheer, twin keyboard attack and three part harmonies of Sydney’s Cuthbert and the Night Walkers coupled with a saltier-than-thou borek, it was back to the Northcote Social Club to catch the wiry indie darlings of the moment, St Helen’s. With Jarred Quarrel’s words seeping into the crowd, Hannah Brooks wearing a blouse with as many sparkles as the New York skyline and Lewis Boyes tearing at his guitar, they didn’t disappoint.
By the time we wandered into St.Helens the scene was begging for a soundtrack to match the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas-like mutation of the crowd into shape-shifting monsters. At first they hit the spot but the mix just didn't do the band - and the scene - justice; all flat and swampy where it should've been a collar-grabbing clusterfuck. Over at Wesley Anne Aleks and the Ramps were in their element. With the room packed the band took a while to get going - gone was the banjo, surprisingly, replaced by a sampler and percussion - and the room was hot as hell...but I like the Ramps in this setting. Seeming like they're about to fall apart yet winning everyone over with their weirdo take on pop deconstruction. By the time single 'Antique Limb' segued into 'Heaven Is A Place On Earth' there was a sense that they'd made some new fans alongside giving the old ones a glimpse into a band working - and winning – on the fly.
A few drinks on the balcony talking to a new Argentinean friend about reggae (I hate reggae but didn’t want to upset him) was enough to suggest we head home to the sound of Black Cab clanging up a storm in the band room. So that was it and that was that: another stellar year at High Vibes.
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