Dear Meredith, a Love Letter

Dearest Auntie Meredith,

I trust you are well…. because I am freaking amazing! I shall not be forgetting the time we have spent together any time soon, partly because of the mind-blowing musical flavours you have so richly seasoned us with; partly because of the new and wonderful group of festival goers that I now call friends but mostly for the incredible amount of blue body paint that, through no lack of persistence, won’t seem to come off my nether regions. You are the loving relative we see but a couple of times a year and you never seem to judge our love for over indulgence. I know that you have a large extended family and must not always be aware of the specific memories you have helped to create. So on behalf of the Vulture family, I cast this letter into the cyber wind. It’s aim, to fill you in on some of the details of how our minds have grown from our most recent visit and in the hope that the good-times of a few might encourage group love and greater sexual gratification city-wide.

 

Word to the wise: Friday’s rock when you call in sick, pack but the bare necessities into a car (some lawn clippings, a bit of funky fungi, an assortment of chemicals and a Jayden Leski full of cold cans), hit the road with one hell of a purpose, get totally twisted and wind up planning your wedding day in Mozambique to a British chick you have never met before… which her wealthy parents are allegedly supposed to pay for before a honeymoon touring around Australia in a van, scuba diving and having sex. Ohh and take in some delicious live music while your every semblance of sanity spreads its wings and flaps away.

The Supernatural Amphiteatre

First on the musical bill to rock this Vulture’s world was ‘Explosions in the Sky’. A U.S all-instrumental band that I had not yet had heard of but who far and away lived up to the hype of those around. A four piece with a serious projection of sound, gripping effects and some incredible layering, at one stage I found myself wondering whether the audience was swaying voluntarily or being literally cast around, such was their power. A focus that had at least one man drawn into the audible universe they were vibrating into existence, a feeling this outer-body enthusiast will certainly be chasing again. Other Friday highlights included the Melbourne based ‘Barbarians’, who musically struck a pretty dissonant chord, but as portly, nappy wearing Vikings were an entertaining stage show. And Ladyhawke who took us back to a beautiful 2009 delirium and, as I feel it needs to be said, is a massive babe. The party would crank long into night, but such is age and the consequences of excess, this writer admittedly gave in to the temptations of a neighbouring roof top tent somewhere between Gang Gang Dance and thinking that the opportune time to make some lady friends was while they were squatting in the shrubbery stage right.

 

As Friday became Saturday the merry little land of Merry Death got set to do it all again. Some appeared better rested than others, others just confused as to whether they had woken or were still dreaming. The land of flannelettes and moustaches, of coloured gumboots and straw hats, of body-crayons, of underwater sea creatures and of a single coffee machine to cater for sum 10,000 of Melbourne’s indiest peeps all jonesing for a fix. The bill looked hot, appetites were wet with anticipation and the only conflict a man had to deal with was deciding whether it would be more fun to harass the festival masses around S-13 about an underwater dance party that may or may not have existed or to take in the likes of Joelistics, Adelita, Icehouse and Cut Copy. Thankful there was time enough for both.

And the crowd cuts sick....

Having previously offered to fellate the man in previous articles I wont go into too much depth now, but Joelistics, I take my shoe off to you and reside in a state of rigidity for the new TZU tracks. Icehouse produced an iconic goodtime, and as the rain found its way through after some beautifully sunny but hot festival days during an exhibition of Cut Copy’s ‘Lights and Music’, one couldn’t help the feeling that everything was in its right place. There were some obvious Nick Cave fans amongst the spread and although there was definite appreciation at this end, I couldn’t quite make sense of Grinderman beyond the observation that Mr. Cave is about 9 feet tall. With the anticipated lunar eclipse somewhat underwhelming in total cloud cover and with a few hours of incomprehensible booty movements from the Big Freedia dancers it was, again, time for me to adopt someone else’s tent and let the body pass to another day.

 

Pack but the bare necessities into a car (some lawn clippings, a bit of funky fungi, an assortment of chemicals and a Jayden Leski full of cold cans), hit the road with one hell of a purpose, get totally twisted and wind up planning your wedding day in Mozambique

 

In years past sun up on Sunday would usually mark the morning after and a laborious packing up of your shit before vacating the premises. This year I was able to hang round for its entirety and found the Meredith Sunday to be one hilarious time. There is morning Thai Chi where you can observe a mass synchronized failure to balance on one leg (a small thrill but a fucking funny one none the less), a fragmented and delirious audience dancing like mad-men and diving face first into a massive bubble wrap ball, some exceptional music and a really competitive naked foot-race. The Meredith Gift as they call it involves a lot of wang, a lot laughs, some pretty bloodied skin and Dennis Commetti who as much as I couldn’t give the ass end of a mule about football is one funny man. Overall it was a really cool morning and a good contrast between those who wanted to kick back in a deckchair, leisurely drinking a tinny and those who wanted to burn the rest of their candles and get weird.

The Meredith Gift: Blood, Sweat and a shitload of Wang

So, Auntie Meredith we thank you, for keeping us safe, helping us to rekindle our love with tearing shit up and providing one beautiful dickhead free space for us to explore. No doubts we will be back and we only we hope that your recipe for love gets richer with time.

 

Sincerely yours,

Vulture Rep #11 – Alias Scram

Scrambles Egg

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