Hey,buddy ! Drawing your attention now .

Hey,buddy ! Drawing your attention now .

 

The day’s most gorgeous moment comes with the bass throb into ‘Song For Zula’, which spools out through pedal steel, the tinkle of synth strings and the grizzly Houck’s redemption-seeker shtick soaring into melancholy even as it stays fun. For the next three hours, that mercurial slow jam was a clear festival highlight, even though ‘Ride On/Right On’ finished on an up, with a bunch of woo’s from Houck and a frond of thongs in the air.

 

 

CL: Aunty never goes too heavy on the “it” bands and why should she? In a festival calendar that doubles as an endless bidding war for BNM acts, Meredith has proven that it would rather stamp its authority through different means. But she chose well this year, with the rough edges of Cloud Nothings counterbalancing the more colourful, slick characters gracing the ‘Sup over the weekend. Actually, Dylan Baldi might be the most introverted and neurotic man at the entire festival site, with his tortured, no-fi fuzz echoing through the inescapable sunshine like a glorious juxtaposition. With Jayson Gerycz on percussion and backing vocals, the caustic textures are lightened at times. And although lyrically it is harrowing stuff, Baldi knows when to give himself hope, stating on ‘Now Hear In’: “I can feel your pain and I feel alright about it.” ‘I’m Not Part of Me’ is one of the year’s best singles and serves to momentarily puncture any mid-afternoon, heat-induced fatigue, but as he finishes the set with ‘Wasted Days’ the band looks exhausted. The term punk might be a misreading for Cloud Nothings, as Dylan is a closer soul to Elliott Smith than anyone might want to recognize, but if comparisons to Heatmiser and Roman Candle are due, he’s on his way to his own form of immortalisation.

 

MT: Cloud Nothings score the misfortune of the afternoon satellite party slot. Next to the sports field, the unofficial Deep Sea Disco goes down, filling a red tent with a hazy array of Facebook friends in undersea garb. There’s a dude in undies, neon orange facepaint and dozens of blue tube balloons (jellyfish?); another in a captain’s hat, tropical sunnies and a selfie-stick (first-timer tourist?); another in black rubber gloves, boots and an old-timey diving suit trying to suck VB through a straw (BDSM?). Somewhere between the silver-blue streamers, people are dancing around two big vats of suspicious punch. At the same moment up in Bush Camp, an all-out old-school hip-hop party has people heaving on several big podiums trucked in for the occasion. (Podiums!) Who needs even one stage?

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