My memories of my first Laneway experience in 2008 are of sitting on milk crates on grassy slopes under trees and watching The Panics play on a stage no more than 10 metres in front of me. It was relaxed and friendly, and looking skyward afforded a view of the skyscraper cityscape of Circular Quay, accentuating the feeling of being in some kind of heavenly green music bubble. Later that night, I can still feel the ecstasy of dancing in a long laneway to The Presets, the crowd jumping as one sweaty unit. It was intimate and buzzy, not that wild hot thrash of roaming the packed paddocks of the Big Day Out (not to take anything away from that experience, of course).
Through these rose-tinted glasses Laneway has held a special place in my heart, a great big indie love-in with no megastar rock moments and no attitude. I was excited though for this year’s move to a new venue, the old asylum, now Sydney College of the Arts, at Rozelle. Sandstone, grass and river breezes, I thought.
What greeted me instead was by far the worst designed festival layout I have ever encountered. The grounds may be larger but that doesn’t mean you can amp up ticket sales and leave the layout plan to your eight-year old.
The three stages were squirreled away in courtyards and the carpark, presumably to create the ‘laneway’ atmosphere. No problems there, apart from slightly awkward stage directions and arrangements meaning that buildings frequently restricted viewing, access and capacity. The major issues arise when we consider that these three stages were strung out along a long thoroughfare, necessitating a fair trek to move between stages. This trek moves from slightly annoying to mind-blowingly aggravating when said thoroughfare is not only packed with people, it also features several bottlenecks and, in a move so earth-shatteringly stupid it beggars belief, it is the exact place where all the food stalls were set up, forcing hungry people to queue in dozens of lines across the walkway.
In an additional idiotic move, presumably designed to keep drink sales down, the only collection of toilets was shoved down one end of this thoroughfare at the back of the carpark stage. Whoever designed this ludicrous arrangement and the moron who signed off on it should be forced to drink two litres of water each, and swim through an Olympic pool filled with honey to get to a toilet. Perhaps this way, they could gain some kind of appreciation for the way festival-goers felt at the end of several hours in the crush, shuffling from one end to the other.
But enough of the rant and onto the fashion. These indie kids are a fashion-conscious bunch, and Laneway was perhaps more about posing than music for some. I tend to treat music festivals as a kind of endurance event and dress accordingly for comfort and durability. Not so this crowd. Go to your nearest op shop, grab the first thing you find. Girls, the more optically offensive the pattern on that daggy dress, the better. Or maybe you can just steal your granny’s dressing gown and wear it as a cardigan-come-cape.
I cannot do justice to any accurate rundown of the Laneway style, so here are a few notes to give you an idea: high-waisted super short shorts, fluoro, black ankle boots, ancient print dresses, billowy tops, Ray Bans, full technicolour tattoos (preferably nature motifs – flowers or birds), hats (not caps), and my favourite, onesies. Yes, onesies. Worn with varying degrees of success and wedgie. I also noted a disproportionately high number of gingers. Very strange. Male fashion included all of the above, but the two predominant styles were bad 80s pirate, or classic geek. Pirate was very popular.
I can also report the utter failure of quit smoking campaigns in this demographic. Either our famous belief in our own immortality as youths is at an all time high or we are the stupidest generation to walk the earth, considering we are the first to really not have ignorance as an excuse. The crowd puffed merrily all afternoon and into the night.
I did manage to draw my eyes away from the onesies and focus on the stages periodically, and happily found much joy there. The Middle East brought their special brand of beautiful, and spread it out over listeners in the afternoon sun. One of the most awesome live performance bands in Sydney, Philadelphia Grand Jury, delivered to their usual high standard. I have to take that on the word of others, however, as testament to the Philly Jays’ insane popularity the tiny stage area they had been allocated was so packed I could only listen from around the corner.
Highly anticipated Brits Mumford & Sons, who took out the top spot on Triple J’s Hottest 100 of 2009 a few days prior with “Little Lion Man”, were superb, even getting the audience to sing them happy birthday at one stage. There was a disappointing exodus immediately after “Little Lion Man” though – but perhaps I’m just being cynical.
I was really interested to see prolific American artist and songwriter Daniel Johnston and when he came on stage the audience gave him due reverence. Lyrically he was amazing, but musically things picked up dramatically when he was joined on stage by his band, which included Sydney local Ohad Rein, a.k.a. Old Man River.
Next up was a crazy dance party with Radioclit, but when they invited half a dozen girls to dance on stage with them, I knew it was time to head over to watch the end of Echo and the Bunnymen, and prepare to fight for my spot up the front to hear the flame-haired songstress with a voice to blow you away, Florence and the Machine. She was magnificent (in a blue onesie!) building to a tripartite finale of “Dog Days Are Over”, “You’ve Got The Love” and “Rabbit Heart”. The audience was sweaty and moderately awestruck, and finally able to forget, if not forgive, a day of Laneway’s woes.
