In the wee hours of Saturday morning, a pair of weary Ripers set out on the road to experience the sweaty and glorious sounds of Golden Plains Lucky Seven . We flocked to the festival like ants to a glass of cordial, drowned in its sweet nectar and emerged, two days later, slightly damp and totally blown away. For anyone who didn’t make it down, let Alison and me take your hand and lead you through the 53-odd hours of music and delightful mayhem down at the Supernatural Amphitheatre.
There were many a shoe in the air for Wild Nothing , who wooed us with their 80s shoegaze pop. Amongst the electricity in the crowd and the enchanting apathy on the stage, we almost forgot it was 10 billion degrees in the Amphitheatre. Almost. After something of a slightly muddy introduction, the set really blossomed for ‘ Golden Haze’ and ‘ Live in Dreams’ , ‘Only Heather’ too, standing out of the set like a sore, beautifully manicured thumb. More material meant that their set was really solid and cohesive. The tracks were belted out with a much cleaner sound than some of their album tracks, which are often heavily layered. Listening to them on record is one thing, but seeing them live in the Amphitheatre for me truly validated the band’s place as one of the most talked about up and coming Brooklynite groups.
Kristian Matsson, aka Tallest Man on Earth (regularly sized in real life for those of you who take things too literally) was a real delight to watch on a balmy, stinky, sweaty Saturday night. Generally, people who wear wife-beater singlets are about as sexually appealing as wife beaters themselves – but not this guy. Throughout the entire set, I was no more than a doe-eyed tween throwing metaphorical bras his way. ‘ The Wild Hunt’ live demonstrated like never before the power of a nasally, tortured, Scandinavian voice accompanied by minimal acoustics. There were more shoes in the air than you could count, and I was lucky enough to sight three legionnaire hats – a treat I hadn’t experienced since puberty. Although I had to sit through a 15 second ad about Bon Jovi’s new album (ugh) on YouTube to relive ‘ Love is All’ , it was a struggle worth enduring. There’s a simple, beautiful magnetism to this man that you simply owe yourself to experience.
A clear crowd favourite, Dinosaur Jr. wasted no time ensuring that we all knew they were the ‘Big Daddy’ of Golden Plains. Hats were rightfully taken off to the Yanks, who have been in the music biz’ since before many of us were in the living biz’. For much of the set, I sat by the red tree (controversially referred to as the pink tree) and channeled my five year old 90s kid self. This may well have been because I spent much of the set watching the air guitar stylings of an actual five year old perched on a rock, who was unnaturally good at playing his pretend musical instrument. Dinosaur Jr. treated us to an oldy by Mascis and Barlow’s previous band Deep Wound , spraying nostalgia over the wooing fans. I can’t imagine that compiling a set list from ten-odd albums spanning from last year to 1985 would have been easy, but the old fellas could not have been having a better time up there. Sure the lead singer looks like this creepy old man who sings Stairway to Heaven every single week at the karaoke bar near my house, and sure, if one of them were my father I would not have volunteered that information. On the same token, however, you have to hand it to Dinosaur Jr.; when they rock, they do it in the most literal sense possible – perhaps second only to being an actual rock.
The stage transformed into an ethereal wonderland when Purity Ring floated on stage late Saturday night. This young synth-pop duo sent our minds spinning as Megan’s voice drifted hauntingly through the crowd. ‘ Cartographist ’ was one personal favourite, with deeply transfixing electro sounds, ‘ Crawlersout ’ being another with visually boggling light-up, electronic drum pads. As they finished with the very epic, deliriously brilliant ‘Fineshrine ’, I turned around to peel my attention to the crowd. I saw everyone’s lips barely mouthing the words, their eyes either closed or facing the stars to take it all in. As the manufacturers of one of the most talked about albums of 2012, Purity Ring delivered a very fitting performance.
Big boss and adorably ‘shy-in-real-life’ Flume gave us a real treat when he busted out a whole new mix-up for his set. There was a large portion of the crowd who only just managed to muster a standing position, using what mental power they had to shake their bodies uncontrollably throughout the set. Teasing us with teeny samples of ‘Sleepless’ and ‘ On Top’ , Flume eventually hit the release button, letting them wash over all of Golden Plains in full. Just before ‘ Hyperparadise’ , we were lucky enough to experience a brand new track that blew the goo out of any minds that had any goo left to be blown. If Golden Plains is any indication of what more he is capable of, young Flume will undoubtedly be spoken about for a long time to come. He is one of those rare gems that have an intense natural flare and ability for what they do, and a unique, highly specialised skillset that can aptly be described as ‘indescribable’.
Through the tiny wee eyeholes of a rubber unicorn head, I watched the electronic hip-hop stylings of the great Toro Y Moi . Why a unicorn mask you say? If you’re asking that, you have no place at Golden Plains. With the unicorn head as an extension of my soul, I rocked out hard to ‘Say That’ and ‘New Beat,’ possibly (definitely) head butting multiple people standing around me. During ‘So Many Details’ I was almost on the verge of passing out, equally due to the lack of oxygen in the unicorn mask and my shock about how much of a babe Chazwick is. Luckily I made it through the set boppin’ and a wigglin’, finally realizing that I was dancing on my own. The life of a unicorn has always been one of Hip Hop and solitude. Irrespective of this, Toro Y Moi was enough of a euphoria injection to keep this unicorn far from extinction.
Well. This is embarrassing. I wrote some absolutely dynamite notes about George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic at Golden Plains, which I couldn’t wait to put into well constructed sentences. The only unfortunate thing is that I was obviously slightly inebriated at the time, and so the transcript read: ‘Ceelor Grain’ ‘Got the funk’ and ‘More jatz thern every bag’. So here we are. A wonderful set to write about and those cues to get the memories flowing. What I can’t tell you is what the hell I was trying to say with any of those comments, but what I can tell you is that the man did set the house on fire. With an entourage of Parliament Funkadelics who have been known to perform while wearing no more than loin-cloths, George Clinton emanated class, soul, style and I guess Cee-Lo Green (see: Ceelor Grain). The point could be raised that said act was slightly out of place amongst the rock, electro and synth-pop sweeping the festival, but in this instance, the cool change was very welcome – and how very cool it was. The Plainers couldn’t help but swing and bop to the brassy, bassy beats. There was an exclusive inclusiveness of energetic Clinton and his fun loving crew in that the experience was very inviting and warm. Even I picked up on this as I wobbled around the outskirts of the crowd.
Though a lameoid it may make me by saying, Naysayer and Gilsun are not a set, but an experience. At the risk of making my entire job redundant, it is something that you can’t really put into words. An audio-visual orgasm is about the best I can do, as you get trapped, almost infinitely, in a world of loops and films and things narrated by Tom Cruise. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as listening to ‘Horreo’ by Panteros666 while watching a cheetah take down a gazelle. Below me, the ground was reverberating around my filthy, cut-up bare feet (yes, I broke the cardinal rule of Golden Plains, but karma got me good). Above me, Naysayer and Gilsun’s light show beamed through wisps of the crowd’s hair and through their silhouetted bodies. The Chinese lanterns bobbed along agreeably and even, for just a moment, the plains themselves seemed a little more golden.
The merciless sun beat down on our tents early Monday morning until we finally emerged, severely dehydrated and half brain dead. A Powerade or four got us to the point of forming proper sentences once again and we sat around our pile of empty beer cans looking exceptionally pleased and utterly exhausted. Aunty Meredith had given us everything from synth playing Canadians to as many puns with the word ‘funk’ you can possibly come up with. Alison and I turned to each other. A simple nod and smile was exchanged as if to say “Shit it’s hot, can we get the hell out of here”. Golden Plains had done its job for another year, enlightening festival-goers with its bravely diverse line-up and homey feel. See you in December Aunty!
REVIEW BY ALISON ERLANGER & SIMONE BERMAN
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