After a cramped car ride using five bodies and a mountain of camping gear to test the limits of your average Toyota Camry, we sink into our surroundings in Wadawurrung country. Now out of covid-induced hibernation, Aunty Meredith has invited us back to her musical stomping ground — affectionately known as the ‘Sup — for the 15th Golden Plains, and it’s strangely reassuring to find that everything is exactly the same. The random assortment of couches, the Flamingo Bar, the helper huts… it has all fallen into place for this Labour Day long weekend as if the pandemic never happened.

Signs at the entrance warned us that dangerous items such as glass, gas burners, dickheads, and bongos are banned here. Bongos is an interesting one, possibly banned due to the rampant risk of cultural appropriation occurring at music festivals filled with white people — though I can’t help but to wonder if it’s necessary to ban them completely. If I may suggest a replacement, it would be White Dudes in Dreads, which I unfortunately spot two of throughout the festival.

"Isn’t this why we pack our bags and come all the way here? To sway under the spell of our favourite artists, to scream again and again into the night sky, to find some sense of community?"

Apart from this, Golden Plains stays true to being a relatively dickhead and idiot-free crowd. It’s my fourth time here, and I’m yet to be confronted with any overt form of dickheadry, which is no mean feat in a culture where enjoying music and partying can be somewhat synonymous with bros. This toxic bro energy is unwelcome here, as Bikini Kill front-woman Kathleen Hanna boldly lays down from day one. During their high-octane set, Hanna calls “femmes to the front!” because “cis straight men take up too much space”.

The audience roar with approval and I soon find myself headbanging to their iconic Riot Grrrl anthems in the company of hundreds of frenzied femmes… and all I can say is it’s totally awesome. The pure joy of screaming “Rebel girl! Rebel girl!” in this moment of feminist revelry is at times hampered, however, by the exact people Hanna was addressing — some of which annoyingly continue to do exactly what they were told not to do and take up too much space. Hello, did you get the memo?

Regardless, Bikini Kill electrify many of us into collective rage and euphoria, making us feel like we’re a part of something special — which is, for me, the best part of live music. Isn’t this why we pack our bags and come all the way here? To sway under the spell of our favourite artists, to scream again and again into the night sky, to find some sense of community?

1300 also bring about some wholesome crowd-bonding, who bounce onto stage and announce themselves as the first ever K-pop boy band of Australia. The Western Sydney based hip hop collective effortlessly switch between Korean and English by voicing “whatever feels right” in any moment, which is, I’m sure, relatable for many diaspora kids. As the five-piece zoom around to their fast-paced beats, a guy in the crowd offers me soju in some sort of salute to Asian solidarity, and they finish their set by getting us to yell “kimchi!” while taking a happy snap. 1300 stay unashamedly true to themselves, which may just be the recipe for their climbing success.

Other day one highlights include a spellbinding psychedelic guitar solo from Tuareg rockstar Mdou Moctar, a soulful fusion of jazz and Afrobeat from London-based outfit Kokoroko, and the soaring vocals of Angel Olsen. It’s a huge day, and I cap it off with a giggly ride on the Ferris wheel before getting some rest for day two.

Waking up at a festival is always a daze, and usually involves spending two hours trying to get my hands on coffee. Once I’m sufficiently caffeinated, I get down to the amphitheatre for the last chapter of a storytelling session with Uncle Barry Gilson, who reminds us of the brutal genocide that happened on this country and receives a standing ovation from the tearful crowd.

Mulalo pulls up as my next highlight, who absolutely steals the show with her charisma, tongue-in-cheek lyricism, and stellar outfit of dancers Chantal Bala and Kaleece Miracle as well as DJ Caucasian Opportunities. Many a shoe is in the air as she shakes her booty in head-to-toe Maroske Peesch, raps Tracy Grimshaw, and tells Tony Abbott, “I never want to see you in a budgie smuggler again. Ok? Never”. Mulalo proudly represents Melbourne’s West, and hands out shots to some lucky fans at the front while repeatedly yelling “Let’s goooooo!” This is a debut festival performance to remember, and one I’m sure will prompt more to come.

I secretly love a call and response, and the legendary Brian Jackson (a former collaborator of Gill Scott-Heron) gets us in the mood by way of scatting in response to his flute melodies. Each round is assessed by his bandmate with a score out of 10 — and yes, at one point we hit a 10/10! Japanese house extraordinaire Soichi Terada is equally endearing in his hype man moments, encouraging us to jump in unison and running around with an origami figure in hand. I can’t help but dance to Terada’s polished rhythms, and the crowd thrums with delight as the sun begins to fall towards sunset strip.

There’s no time to rest, as next up is iconic London jazz collective Soul II Soul, who shower us with blissful harmonies. This is where I momentarily come to believe the no-dickhead policy has been broken, as an unwelcome hand near my waist rings alarm bells. I scamper away, only to receive a profuse apology from the accidental culprit once he’d grasped the nature of the situation. His apology is genuine, and it makes me wonder — why can’t every dude be like this? Anyway, this means I can keep singing “Back to life, back to reality…” in peace, which is the most important thing.

Watching the sunset is an unmissable part of Golden Plains, and Sunday evening doesn’t disappoint. Once the final rays of neon pink dissolve from the horizon, they reappear in the amphitheatre among multicoloured bursts of light for Carly Rae Jepsen. It’s spectacular and filled with confetti and of course we all go crazy for Call Me Maybe.

By this stage phone batteries are dying and there’s barely reception anyway, making many of us resort to pre-historic methods of meeting our friends, like “See you in front of the Flamingo Bar in half an hour!” which has questionable success rates when there are a billion different directions you might be pulled. Cue the doof stick — the tried and tested method of gathering your crew in absence of the internet, though I personally never got around these contraptions. There are many doof sticks reaching for the sky – some favourites being a neon red dildo and a giant Golden Gaytime packet newly christened ‘Golden Plains’ thanks to some nifty photoshopping — as we wiggle our way to the front in anticipation of a transportive 3-hour set from Four Tet.

Four Tet (AKA Kieran Hebden) is a whole lot of fun, seamlessly arranging ambient textures, booming beats and pop bangers by the likes of Selena Gomez without a single word of stage banter — it’s all about the music for this one. I finally make it front and centre with one hand on the barrier and the other pumping in the air, as this ecstatic electronic journey inspires some dorky coordinated dance moves on our front. After 3 hours of non-stop dancing, we decide to call it a night and bring our long-awaited return to the ‘Sup to a close.

The lanterns, the fairy lights, the Meredith Eye… being back at Golden Plains this year felt like an LED-filled haze of déjà vu. It was nice to inhabit this hedonist dream world again, where grown adults can make a group appearance as Marge Simpson, blow giant bubbles while sporting magician suits, and jump around on couches screaming “CALL ME MAYBE” and nobody bats an eye. It’s a place where crowds are largely respectful, forming a safe haven for all to have some reckless fun. It’ll cost you $460 a pop, but it might just be worth it to spend a long weekend rinsing off the 9-5 grind and diving into a state of collective effervescence.

For the seasoned revellers that return year after year, the amphitheatre is like a second home always filled with good cheer, reckless abandon, an eclectic line-up, and a whole lotta dust. I sure felt lucky to be back.

Article by Maki Morita (@maki.m0use)

Photos by Joshua Preston (@preston.studio)

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'Golden Plains Review 2023' / Maki Morita

"Isn’t this why we pack our bags and come all the way here? To sway under the spell of our favourite artists, to scream again and again into the night sky, to find some sense of community?"