Marion Bay is a quiet section of coast just north of the
Hobart waters in Tasmania. Less than an hour from the capital, it has a
secondary road leading in, and a well planned annual music festival, The Falls
Festival.
The dirt road leads down a hill with the bay view spreading
ahead. Mid afternoon on day one I’ve beaten most of the traffic, and drive
right up to the welcome gate. Volunteers brace against a whipping gale and hand
me two plastic bags – black for rubbish, clear for recycling.
I’m here following a directive from the editorial committee
who thought it would be funny (for them) and enlightening (for our readers) to
have a punter’s perspective from a punter who would not normally attend a gig
like this. Looking at the short traffic jam of backpacker campers and cheap
cars crammed with what look like children with beards, I feel the committee
choose well.
Cars are searched. They are looking for booze and gas
bottles, possession of either will result in you losing your ticket, the
numerous signs warn. I possess neither so I am free to enter.
Now I am at the Gimmee Shelter chalet, a plywood erection
with a cool dude inside. Literally chilled, the gale has peaked at about 400 on
the Beufort scale by now. He profers the contract, which requires my name,
address and phone number presumably so I can be hunted down if I steal the
tent.
Tent # 104 is mine, thankfully free of a shared guest since
these are twin share and had there been a lucky solo punter in the queue with
me, we would have been consigned together. To share, and discover each over,
yelling over the blustering of tent flaps and twanging of guy wires.
Duly established I tour my new world. Attempts at counter
cultural vibe are everywhere, little woollen spider webs and painted logs poked
in the ground. I do an outer lap, keen to inspect the facilities that will
matter to me the most – the bar arrangements, and the other end of that
process, the toilets. Both are in abundance.
Drinking is a serious business at Falls. First you need
tokens – these come in $5 and $2 denominations (not refundable) and are, we are
warned, water soluble. At least they warned us.
At a bar you dish up the tokens. This is presumably a clever
form of tax on the drink concession, who can’t take actual money and who presumably
redeem mountains of tokens for actual money, minus the Falls commission, later
on.
Food concessions take money – lots of money. As I walk
amongst the youth, marvelling at the lack of anyone remotely as old as I, the
thinking turns to just how much money these kids have. At $7 for a beer, and
$12 for a burger or $4 for chips, it’s going to be a long three days.
There are some terrific hippy vibed shops, and a too cool
chilled beats coffee and pizza place with a DJ and decor that resonates with 18
year olds. I glance at the DJ, feeling empathy for his empty existence,
standing there grooving away at his chill beats, chill wind whipping up his
chilled shorts, blowing his neat festy dreads around like little whips.
Ignored, as I am.
Absolutely no one says hello to a 56 year old, and I am
starting to feel like a grizzled Toolie at Schoolies. It’s an all age gig, so
the arm band tells who can and can’t buy booze. Unlike the walled confines of a
club, it is hard to imagine how or if underage drinking is policed.
I see a sum total of two police, and the security is present
but respectfully restrained. I like that. There are a couple of gruff
encounters, but I’m used to that since my demeanour hovers between homeless
grifter and absent minded pensioner. At least it does in this crowd.
There are three venue areas. The Main Arena contains the
Valley Stage, which is a permanent construction sitting down the slope towards
the Bay itself, framed behind. There would not be a prettier stage outside of
Sydney Harbour.
You need to show your wrist band to enter this precinct,
which has bars and concessions and toilets and probably would easily contain
eight thousand people at once.
Leaving the secure area, you are in open country with
concessions, camping areas, toilets and the disappointingly closed on day one
Village. This appears interesting, yet remains unexplored.
The Field Arena is working on day one, with a low key and
surprisingly quietly mixed slab of acts I’ve never heard of, like The
Correspondents and Mountain Mocha. But the kids are happy. A surprising number
of them are wearing onesies. I regret leaving mine in Sydney. It is flipping
cold, but the wind abates at sunset.
I walked to the beach – easily a one hour return hike across
the tundra, vegetation grimly clinging to the earth as I walk doubled against
the arctic gale. A bridge over a creek has a sad lonely lifeguard in
attendance, to deter anyone from drowning there. The beach has a troop of
lifeguards, huddled in a sand whipped cluster. A dozen hipsters and one child
wander the sand like extras from The Walking Dead.
Sleeping in a two man tent erected on a knobbly grassy slope
is very hard work, even for an easy sleeper fuelled by Tasmanian beer and many
little plastic goblets of excellent Pinot Gris ($9).
I stagger out at first light and hit one of just six hot
showers ($2 for 2 minutes). It is gratifyingly gratifying. Just prior I closely
inspected the toilet – a long drop arrangement that is infinitely more appealing
than those porta loo things. A men’s urinal alongside is a tin walled area with
guttering into which you urinate. I marvel at the considerable genetic
advantage one has being male.
With no early opener in sight, I decide to pull up stumps
and head for Mona in Hobart instead. I’ve experienced the life, heard the
beats, endured the cold (it is 8 degrees this morning) and fulfilled my brief.
Next time, I’m going to force some of those glib young editorial
types into something more Julius, like a Boz Scaggs concert. That’ll teach
them.....
