The Meredith Gift: Community, Camaraderie, Christine Anu
This piece, written the day after Meredith, was originally intended for publication at Pilerats. It got caught up in the end-of-year break and, seeing as it’s too late to run it now, I’ve decided to put it here. You can check out the remainder of my photos from Meredith 29 @ my personal website!
They’ve got it down to an art.
It’s been twenty-nine years since Meredith Music Festival began. Back then, the title was a tongue-in-cheek reference to the modest party for founder Chris Nolan, held it on his family farm, but in the last three decades, the founders have landed liquor licensing, built amenities, landed local talents, secured international headliners, and celebrated a host of milestones. Needless to say, between Meredith and Golden Plains – the festival’s far younger sibling – Aunty Meredith and her crew know what they’re doing.
It’s impressive, then, that Meredith stays so unpredictable. The Supernatural Amphitheatre – the huge, natural slope that banks down to the stage – is littered with couches, caps and cans of cold beer, crowds coming and going as acts take to the stage, arriving in a sudden rush and dissipating just as quickly. It’s in these ebbs and flows that you might bump into Big Bird or a host of cockatoos, a fully-clad cricket team or a squad of cosmic ‘space cadets,’ a score of boy scouts or any number of colour-coded collectives.
Costumes mostly come out to play on Saturday, so when I arrived at the amphitheatre for the Welcome to Country, I was greeted with an assemblage of nonchalant punters, beers in hand, more attentive than you might expect. There’s not a dickhead in sight, at least from where I’m standing, proof that Meredith’s famed rule is in full effect. The joyful return aside, it’s worth admitting that I wasn’t as keen on the Meredith lineup as I have been in years past. 2018 proved a perfect storm of personal taste, a hard act to follow, but even then, there was no question as to my attendance: if I have trust in anything, it’s the festival curators, and the late addition of Dead Prez raised my spirits.
Julia Jacklin, who opened Friday evening with the seven o’clock set, was one of the most promising inclusions. That promise gave way to her prodigious talent, channeled through her guitar, the focal point of her understated presence. The cloudy evening seemed picture-perfect for her laidback melancholy, a local slice of Greenwich singer-songwriter goodness that slipped into harsher riffs and moving crescendos with ease. That ebb and flow, isolating her voice before miring it in a dense fog of folk-rock, was the perfect kind of lowkey dynamism to usher in a misty night.
Briggs took to the stage backed by a mighty fanfare, the suit-and-tie avatar adorning the screen a far cry from his significantly more laidback Raiders jersey. His command of the crowd was second to none, leading the deep audience in sways and waves, calling on sound effects and boasting – to great effect – about the time he pissed Pauline Hanson off. There was a real sense of ease throughout his set, which saw Friday opener Jesswar join him on-stage for a contagious performance of Front Row Hustle. In amongst the anthemic call-and-response and vivid tales of a Shepparton upbringing, Briggs mentioned that it was his first Meredith since 2016. The comfort, the ease, the rapturous applause: even three hours from Shep, it made for a homecoming of sorts. He left the crowd with a spritely wave, innocent and disarmingly earnest.
If Briggs’ presence was unassuming, Liam Gallagher’s was predictably loud. The infamously antagonistic Brit came for the crowd, the weather and a punter named Eddie in his raucous set, offering a dedication to the firefighters and touching on some Oasis classics. “There’ll be no whinging about it,” demanded Gallagher when he slipped into Morning Glory, a tune that incurred no such response. He regaled the inner-city trials of Oasis through strained Mancunian syllables, songs framed by hearsay and colloquial wisdom, anchored by soaring guitar riffs and graced with a dash of aimless optimism. He slipped into Wonderwall, slotted somewhere in the middle of his set, hands swaying and a few lighters flickering as he lead the crowd to the indelible chorus. He didn’t sing it – he didn’t need to.
Taking it all the way back to Cigarettes and Alcohol, a fitting pick for the late-night crowd, Liam closed out his set without pretense. He bowed, gracious, and thanked the crowd profusely, the veneer of his infamously cantankerous exterior – undoubtedly real, but also increasingly theatrical – slipping to reveal a humbled singer-songwriter. You’ve got to imagine the 10,000 person amphitheatre does look pretty humbling from up there.
As Friday slipped to Saturday, Tasmanian duo Close Counters took to the stage, the neighbours-turned-collaborators offering soul-infused dance for those sticking it out. Doonside emcee Hooligan Hefs took the reins in the AM, hitting harsh West Sydney rhymes atop his hard-hitting instrumentals: tracks like No Effect and The Party are more than enough to keep the drowsiest punter awake and moving. Logic1000 moved into the graveyard shift, less than two weeks from releasing her very first record. I’m not going to pretend that I was awake to see it – I was tired, gotta conserve that energy, right? – but still, the EP, like the river, is tight. Vanessa Worm, similarly fresh-faced, took her EP and sole single to the stage, synthy dance cuts calling for a lava dance.
Saturday is the day at Meredith: the costumes come out, group aesthetics assemble, the coveted mid-afternoon set approaches and supernatural vibrations course through the so-named amphitheatre.
In my mind, my little point-and-shoot Olympus is as indispensable as whatever wacky outfit makes the cut. The Saturday scene is so vibrant, in both colour and personality, that voyeurism becomes a key part of the whole experience. That’s not to be weird about it – there’s no judgement, to be sure – but the sheer range of faces, costumes and colours make for a true spectacle. One moment you’re dancing with a cosmonaut; the next you’re next to Tigger and an assortment of his onesie-clad friends; a few later and you’re watching a fully-fielded cricket team pull the local police into a game down the centre of the amphitheatre.
The mid-afternoon set – last year, the purview of unlikely festival MVPs Mental as Anything – belonged to international stalwart DJ Koze, who delivered an hour-and-a-half of dance goodness, as easygoing as his bass was hard hitting. His arrival coaxed the audience from their campsites, pulling punters into orbit as far-flung picnic blankets gave way to a tight-knit dancefloor, bold outfits and bright totems swaying under the lingering cloud cover. The pearl came when he dropped his disco edit of Låpsley’s Operator, a pleasantly unending groove that inspired singalongs and smiles alike. It got a good helping of boots, the traditional Meredith endorsement, complicating the undeniable dancing across the hill. I’m not one for superstition, but there’s a good chance that’s what pulled the sun from behind the insistent clouds.
Aunty Meredith checked in – make sure you drink water; wear some sunscreen; wash your hands; help out your fellow festivalgoers, or friends, as you should consider them; and most importantly, don’t be a dickhead, the golden rule – moving into more motherly territory as ever-optimistic attendees, myself included, underestimated the power of the absentee sun. Digital Afrika teased it from behind cloud cover, rhythms infectious and arrangements intricate, whilst The Egyptian Lover, a synth legend and electro-hop pioneer, brought his turntable hands along for the occasion. It was Christine Anu, however, who brought the biggest numbers, the setting sun a perfect backdrop for a nostalgic gaze at her mid-’90s hits. My Island Home was an all-swaying, all-singing affair, and her set, like many a veteran Aussie set, proved another festival highlight.
Dead Prez ushered in the night with their trademark energy, with their first Australian tour — a good twenty years overdue — proving that they’re still speaking truth to power. Invoking Floyd’s Another Brick In The Wall as a segue to They Schools, M-1 & stic.man pushed beyond the brand of ‘consciousness,’ challenging systematic biases and injustices with the same abrasive delivery and acerbic pen they’ve made their signature. As the duo launched into Hip Hop, another of their signatures, they reaffirmed their case against “fake records,” backed by the impassioned audience who bounced with the refrain. When music hits you, you feel no pain, but when Dead Prez take to the mic, it ain’t hard to hear it, laced into the socio-political grievances that, once paranoid, now land as prescient.
Amyl and the Sniffers arrived in a fury of rock ‘n roll anarchy, rip-roaring riffs giving way to crude mantras and harsh truths. Lead singer Amy Taylor brought the pub to the rock, jumping into the mosh to scrap with the rough-and-tumble fans dishing it out in the front. If it seems like stylistic whiplash, Dead Prez and Amyl brought energy in spades, and whilst their missions are far from aligned, their shared stage presence made them perfect choices for a Saturday night. Energy got the better of the Sniffers and, after running a little bit over, the band made a sudden getaway, though punters seemed more than happy to indulge a little more uproarious rock rebellion.
Tasked with turning night to morning, Roisin Murphy linked herself to a chain of hard acts to follow and delivered in synthpop spades. There were costume changes, along with a cycling assortment of impressive hats and some inspired physicality, but every addendum was perched atop the already-impressive performances. It was one of the more controversial sets – the notable absence of Moloko tracks prompted some head-scratching from longtime fans – but at a purely performative level, Murphy made for an exciting watch. That having been said, even Gallagher went back and played the hits.
That’s where it goes a bit fuzzy for me. A full day of drinking will do that to you, and even though I’m taking mental notes somewhere up there, they’re becoming less and less legible with every swig. If the performances fade into one-another, immediately enjoyable but vaguer with time, then it’s the interstitial moments that stay crisp. There’s the food, from pad thai and gyoza to pizza and souvlaki, each meal better than the last by virtue of hunger and fatigue. There’s the people in the campsite over, who battled with their admittedly confusing tent as the sun sank, or the Irish delegation from next door, who gave us a quick lesson in pronunciation.
Meredith is the underside of a well-worn shoe, held aloft as the strongest sign of support. It’s a naked foot race, a talking point each and every year. It’s an impromptu sunset limbo competition by the gorge, somehow won by an impressively flexible six-foot-something guy. It’s Anna, who shared a thermos of incredible mojito; Jas, who turned a dressing gown into festival fashion; Harini, an outgoing new friend who felt familiar; Andy, whose optimism left him pantsless on a damp, cold night. It’s vague friends-of-friends-of-friends, each one a confusing connection adorned in some singular guise.
If you push it far enough, everyone at Meredith is a friend of a friend. It certainly feels that way. I can’t quite say how you enforce a ‘no dickhead policy’ for a crowd of 10,000, but somehow, Meredith manages it year-in, year-out. I might’ve been colder on the lineup this time around – I’m always down to be surprised, and I predictably was – but whilst it landed a little more lowkey compared to years past, Meredith delivered with the character and community it’s cultivated over the last twenty-nine years. Only at a festival so storied, diverse, conscious and fun could claim to have a ‘middling year’ – a sentiment common in the lead up – that’s as much fun as this.
It’s like I said: they’ve got it down to an art, as do the punters, fluorescent paint on a well-heeled canvas.