Splendour in the Mud 2022 - Part 1
Don’t believe what you read in the newspapers. Don’t let The Today Show steer you otherwise. It was nothing like that…
QF508 arrived into Brisbane right on time and a short taxi ride to Cruisin Motorhomes saw us pick up our hired camper van for the next 7 days. As the esteemed social media influences we are, we were duly upgraded to a larger van, the identical brother to Anthony in Tasmania. Familiar with all his do and don’ts we were out of there lickety-split and southbound on the M1 headed for the Byron Bay Parklands and Splendour in the Grass 2022.
And that’s about where the simplicity ended.
Even seasoned festival veterans couldn’t anticipate the shitshow brewing 400 metres beyond the rolling hills of the northern rivers district. The persistent rain was now heavy and the line of vehicles entering the bottle-necked entry gates covered in light brown mud. It would prove in coming days to be like a soothing body lotion in hindsight.
The procession of cars, utes and campers snaked a further 2 km into the very epicentre of Spendour Camp Central and after another hour, Warren the campervan was ushered from the graded road into our allotted campsite paddock. His rear wheels had just left that sanctuary before bogging themselves into 4 inch black mud. And there he stayed, quickly becoming a Monday problem.
With bigger quandaries than us on the organisers hands, we donned the wellies and raincoats and trudged along the remarkably messed up grounds for our first of 4 nights at Splendour in the Grass. Customarily we start with a lap of the venue to suss out the food stands, clothing retailers, offical merchandise, and most importantly the bars! With our bearings set we of course then head to the VIP village and the comfort of shelter, heat, Emirates first class enviable toilets and the oh too frequented executive bar. With the rain cyclonic and mud inches thick on our boots, most of the atmospheric performers and DJ’s where missing for the evening so we settled into our festival oasis to drink, eat and make the first of many new friends.
Given the conditions, we actually had a really good night and reluctantly readied ourselves for battle and the kilometre walk back to Warren. With heads bowed from the rain and eyes firmly trained on the rasputitsaian paths, the party continued through rows and rows of festival campers enjoying themselves despite their campsites seemly floating on 3 inches of water.
En route from Brisbane we’d stopped for supplies debating the need for a 750ml or 1ltr bottle of illegally smuggled booze. Back in the relative comfort of Warren we opened said bottle to recap the day and watch a procession of car headlights carve a path through the driving rain bringing campers on site until 2am. We saw them all, together with the bottom of the aforementioned bootleg. Why we’d wasted energy choosing a bottle size we will never know.
It wouldn’t be till morning when chatting with new neighbours and reading a plethora of facebook posts did we learn many waited in line for 9 hours only to be turned away at the gates at 4am. It appeared the grounds were, how shall we say, screwed, and organisers shifted to plan B. The shitshow pivoted. What are normally well organised lines of cars parked bumper to bumper, tents to one side, emergency access on the other, was at morning light a battlefield of bogged vehicles and tyre marks of their ill-fated attempts scarring the grounds. It was a no-mans-land between camping fronts and only the very brave or insanely stupid attempted any further crossings.
Initial communiques filtering through advised the festival would proceed “rain, hail or shine.” This was the 20th incarnation of Splendour and while weather conditions are always in the lap of the almighty, event organisation and communication were evidently another victim of the worlds covid hiatus. As the morning lengthened and word from those more internet savvy than us made it to our corner of hell, the boffins announced at 1pm that all live performances for opening day Friday would be cancelled. Wiped from the roster. Not to be rescheduled. Officiated on hours after many were due to perform. And so the shitshow strengthened.
With over $5,000 already invested into this adventure we were needless to say very disappointed by the decision. Fridays lineup was a full dance card for us with many acts not only conveniently time slotted, but high on our must see list for some time. But as the first to admit the conditions were woeful, punter safety is paramount as is concern for artists, riggers, vendors and the environment. It was clearly the right call and no doubt a tough one for organisers to make, especially on the back of fire, covid and flood cancellations over the past 3 years ripping the heart from their industry.
Facebook and the media would tell a very different story with many young festies venting their frustration perhaps not weighing all considerations against their own disappointment. For a 20 year old, this would be their first major “legal” festival since coming of age and most felt cheated. And you know, rightly so. But among the condemning and humorous social media posts made by thousands, the overarching attitude and commitment to fun can be best summed up by Nicolas Chaiawut’s comment…
The obvious lack of reliable and timely information filtering to the 50,000 ticket holders was nothing less than damming with most of us kept entirely in the dark. There’s a lot to be answered for on this front but luckily Adam Sobbi’s dog was on the ball…
Shattered by the news, we started the day walking the grounds and sloshing in the mud like 5 year old children. Let’s be honest, it was fun. It may wear thin in a few days - we’ll have to wait and see - but life is what you make it right. Only campers where allowed on site so numbers were probably less than half of what they should be. Things were still exciting though with many characters embracing the festival spirit. Street dancing, mud slides, bar parties and general mayhem making a cancelled day pretty enjoyable.
On a positive note, the rain and cancellations forced most festival goers into seeing and doing things they may have otherwise overlooked. The World Stage has been a haven for up and coming local bands showcasing their chai-seed-eating-Byron-hippie talents to 50 or so of their mostly blood related adoring fans. The Dreggs, a pop infused folk duo from the Sunshine Coast played to undoubtedly their biggest crowd ever. 500 mud encrusted revellers, ourselves included, danced and stomped to the beat of their kick drum. That in itself was an experience we ALL would have otherwise walked passed.
Coming back from another site loop, a squall of rain swept across the Splendour Bog and we sheltered under the awning of the Bohemian Lounge just as the Spaghetti Circus was to commence their evening performance. We took refuge with the sole intention of avoiding another drenching, but within 5 minutes of the performance starting we found a soaking from the heavens would be less painful. A fat contortionist is an unusual sight, one that can’t catch a hoola hoop even rarer. We cut our losses by scurring through the back of the tent proving not all new experiences are edifying. A few more drinks in a few more bars saw us soon head back to Warren our bogged, yet faithful shelter from the evolving shitshow. As you know we name all our vans, and on this occasion Warren derived his name from the lead actor in the 1961 classic Splendour In The Grass. (Google it)
Saturday broke with light rains and clearing conditions so we thought it only appropriate to start with Tequila shots with our camp neighbours. They’d forgotten the limes, but luckily we had plenty. That is the level of camaraderie exhibited across the boggy battlefield of day 2 Splendour. Never leave a man down. The show must go on they say and we returned to the scene of our weekend crimes to catch our first major artist, The Chats.
Playing the 50,000 capacity natural amphitheatre stage, the Qld based shed-rock thrashers blew the residual water from nearby trees, with their opening track Smoko whipping the music deprived crowd into a frenzy. We parked ourselves in the VIP bar and headbanged with everyone else for the remainder of the set in awe of how talented and brash this group of twenty something rockers are. To them, they were back in mums garage dreaming of playing the festival they now commanded and didn’t skip a beat given the forum.
It only took one set for the sodden ground to be savaged by the assembly of foot stompers and the grassy bowl soon resembled a WWI western front trench. We were hanging around regardless for the next act, The Jungle Giants, who drew even more into the already packed colosseum. The Brisbane based festival favourites have been on the circuit since 2011 and driven by optimism, creative freedom, and a desire to “go weird, go funny and not be scared”. Their metamorphosis continues and we’ve seen that growth live over the years and today they performed a 3:30pm set like headliners. With a new shift toward electronic-dance, the crowd duly shook a leg and with Sam Hales out front and Cesira Aitken shredding the riffs, not a song performed wasn’t word for word sung in unison across the arena. It was a heartwarming and soulful performance bringing sunshine into Splendour if the Gods wouldn’t.
There had been obvious attempt overnight to repair the grounds with gravel, mulch and bark chips spread over the affected areas. Even sludge pumpers were trucked in to clear what they could. Despite their efforts all were sadly ineffective and the North Byron Swamplands only gained in coverage and depth. Festivals like these are supported by a crew of volunteers working for free save access to see the bands. They also camp on site with us all and were greatly affected by the Thursday/Friday carnage. Whispers spread throughout Mud City of mass abandonments leaving just about every service grossly undermanned. This was blatantly obvious with garbage overflowing, toilets nothing short of third world toxic, and bar lines reaching distances longer than most greyhound races with painful waits of over an hour. Not ideal, but a great way to meet new friends and swap stories and secure positions while each ran the toilet gauntlet. Justifiably there was universal concern for all regarding dysentery, electrocution, stampeding, covid, foot-rot and dengue fever, but as high functioning alcoholics the only danger we faced was drying out.
Having spent much of last years outing ensconced at the amphitheater, we consciously decided to visit the minor stages more this year. At the bottom of the steep, and ever increasingly slippery path to the mire of festival central, was our next stop to catch Stella Donnelly at the GW McLennan tent. This Perth based indie pop soloist broke through in 2018 with her own brand of melodic and raw tracks showcasing her captivating voice and powerful messages. Her upbeat, and at times crafty setlist had the mud flying high and hands clapping loudly. The GW crowd rang back the lyrics, where at one point Stella stopped mid song to address her guitarist brother through grinning teeth “Hey Jac, we’re at F#*@ing Splendour !” Such is the significance of this festival to all in attendance.
We enthusiastically returned to the amphitheatre to knowingly witness perhaps the final performance of Violent Soho. Only weeks before the 4 piece alternative rock veterans announced their “indefinite hiatus” from the music scene. After 19 ARIA nominations over a career spanning 2 decades, they have carved a special place in Australian rock history and hold the hearts of many music lovers. From Dope Calypso to Covered in Chrome, this hour long set ripped the heart out of Splendour generating an atmosphere normally reserved for the likes of Pearl Jam or Nirvana. We’ve never seen so many people in love with a band and the arena was electric. Well worth the additional 7 layers of mud strategically flung on our clothes like a Pro Hart painting.
On the other side of this pop up city stood the Mix Up tent where only the day before we stood alone at the checker plate for the first and only time. Thank Christ. For the next act on our heavily detailed agenda was LA based producer and experimental hip-hop artist JPEGMAFIA. With a devoted following, the tent seethed with millennial males jumping and stomping rhythmically to the off kilter beats forming the base of his assertive and unapologetic songs. Renowned for creating “death pits” within the mosh, Peggy at one point asked the crowd to “clear the pit” giving the participants some breathing space. His set was hypnotic, at times verbally violent, but strangely entertaining and another reason why festivals create the perfect opportunity for all musical experiences.
Perhaps our most anticipated set of the day was always going to be Ruby Fields in the venue we saw her fill back in 2019. The Cronulla born songstress has seen a meteoric rise with her unique take on indie-rock chords performed with punk rock delicacy. Being the fourth time to have graced her presence, this young, unassuming guitarist held her band together with a force belying her youth. The crowd again knew every word to every song, and Ruby beamed back fully appreciative of the following she’d built. Her lead guitarist and good friend Adam Newling’s own burgeoning solo career faced a cruel blow the day before with his set cancelled due to the shitshow. Handing the stage to him and his band, we were privileged to see them all belt out his freshman tune, Sweetness. Sheer rock energy swept the crowd making the hour set seem like only minutes. Once more Ms Fields has grown in performance stature and will next year, we are sure, command a deserved amphitheatre slotting.
We had a very tough choice on our hands next. Do we see an Australian comedian, actor, writer, musician, poet, composer and songwriter, or do we see the New York headliners, The Strokes in their first Australian performance in over 10 years. Tough call. We grabbed a beer and argued our cases. Lyndall won, we were off to see Tim Minchin.
A strange addition to any Splendour line up, the Perth raised genius usually commands $500 a ticket and here we were 5 rows from the front, close enough to see his eyeliner and Cheshire Cat smile. Oddly, we were neither the youngest nor oldest in the audience, and his opening guitar led song had everyone immediately singing and laughing along. Accompanied by a 7 piece band including 3 horn section, Minchin ditched his shoes for the second number and remained footloose for the rest of the set. Renowned for his satirically edgy commentary on real life issues, his musical brilliance backs witty lyrics and his band wraps them into a highly polished performance. Literally climbing on piano, fold backs and even a stack of roadie crates, the obviously AdD suffering mastermind had his audience simultaneously laughing, crying, singing, dancing and in general awe well past his allotted one hour set.
Making continued jibes about being slotted against the aforementioned Strokes, Minchin covered their biggest hit to perfection then followed it with a masterful version of Billie Eilish’s Bad Guy - a 20yr old female emo-pop version of himself. It was simply amazing. All previous trepidation of clashing bands was quickly forgotten with Tim Minchin becoming the standout set of day 2 of Splendour in the Grass for us both.
The rain came and went for our walk back to Warren and we arrived safely in ankle deep mud to perform our well choreographed “removal of the mud encrusted gum boot” dance before climbing over everything else with minimal glug spreadage.
Just another 2 fat contortionists to add to the Splendour line up.
Read on for part 2 of this thrilling tale.