Is There a More Poetic Festival Than Meredith?

Sometimes it’s easier to cover a festival if you know what you’re looking for ahead of time. For this year’s Meredith, I figured I was going to write about what happened OFF-stage, seeing as though band performances are always the most covered aspect of the weekend. You know, when people tell you Friday night started with a bang through the Hard-Ons and reached its zenith with the War On Drugs (who seem to write music made with epic settings in mind) and Factory Floor.

Or Saturday, when Ghostface Killah presided over a sea of Wu-Tang hand signs and pulled a couple of people up from the crowd to rap Ol' Dirty Bastard and Method Man parts. Or the squall of a Ty Segall set that should make Wavves’ Nathan Williams lay down his guitar for good. Or when De La Soul gave a tiny young fan the memory of a lifetime by inviting him up to address the crowd for a bit of #makesomenoise. Nice touch, guys.

With this in mind, I stared off taking photos of couches in The Sup. As ever, there were plenty to laugh at—and plenty to wonder what shithole of a sharehouse porch they sat on before.

Saturday's known for its Bush Camp/Spring Valley parties so I did the rounds. Luke Pocock’s "Legends" session had a 'Deep Sea Doof' theme this year—an underwater playground celebrating 'yeah boi-ing', winking at strangers, LOLs, hugging, and smooching. Replete with seashell shower curtains, CD fish, Coober Pedy University Band’s - Kookaburra, a male version of The Little Mermaid's Ursula, swimsuits, and a stripping crab.

There was also this balloon-thing guy.

I was looking for the ingenious camp setups too. This was the winner.

And experiencing the warm musk of the famed composting loos.

And I thought maybe a little snippet on the gift of wobbling fleshy bits….

But here I am, looking back at the last three days and all I can ask myself is—“Is there a more poetic festival than Meredith?”

From the empty, dawn streets of Fitzroy; to a highway banked with car convoys packed with mattresses, slabs of tinnies and Arnott's Shapes; to that feeling of arriving on-site—the last year compressed into a moment as you come back to that bucolic community setting where familiarity breeds tents, not contempt. If poetry is the best words in the best order, then this is the best festival of the best order.

Seeing two epic sunsets on that inspirational ridge—looking through sun spots as the big gold orb buried itself into the hard golden plains while a horizon of slow-spinning turbines turned wind into power. All set to the roar of hundreds—Earth worshippers for the moment—willing it downward with Sleep’s stoner rock rumbling in the distance. They were aglow too, powered by their mammoth stack of Orange amps.

Then there's the broken man, Mark Lanegan, with his mournful, broken tone; swimming in a quiet river bend with dragonflies and blue wrens; and sleeping in the shadow of an outdoor cinema talking life on Mars—its flickering beam piercing the screen to light up the bush behind, while seeding the kind of drug-muddy dreams Coleridge might have had while eyeball-deep in opiates.

Oh and let’s not forget the poetry of the 'pink drink'.

If Meredith moved you too, follow Josh on Twitter @josh__gardiner. If not, grow a heart you monster.