It’s early afternoon on the Flemington train line. A nubile sits with her equally young friend swilling a bottle of Cool Ridge vodka.
“We can’t drink it all before we get there, can we?” she poses.
The friend takes the bottle and grimaces it down; “that’s the point, isn’t it?”
Welcome to the Future Music Festival.
Let’s disperse with the obvious, whatever you’ve heard about Future is true. There’s the abundance of 18-year-olds (tick), the kidney-bursting toilet queues (tick) and, of course, more one-man dance parties than you can throw a pill at (tick).
Tongue-munching fist-pumpers aside, this year’s event proves a far more enjoyable experience than the above suggests. The acts run on time, there are few fights (if any) and the overall mood is jovial.
An occasional south-easterly also helps to offset Melbourne’s 58th consecutive day above 30 degrees.
Rita Ora proves a success in the early afternoon heat. Performing on the back of two singles that have had more than 25 million YouTube hits a pop, the Briton demonstrates a commanding presence her throwaway pop fodder otherwise suggests.
The vibe dissipates once this scribe finds out a can of Jack Daniels costs more than his shorts and shirt combined. Following the removal of any remaining shrapnel, it’s onwards to the Mazda 2 stage (or, as some put it, that place where all the ‘indie’ acts play).
Fun. possesses the discography to kick-start any festival. Unfortunately, for today, their crowd is severely lacking in numbers.
Frontman Nate Ruess does his darndest to attract their attention, however most seem preoccupied with exploring the festival’s surroundings or checking in with whoever’s got their stash.
A later time slot would’ve been more appropriate for the Grammy Award winners.
Shooting to prominence on the back of lyrics such as “I guess that c*nt gettin’ eaten” (her relatives have gotta be proud), Azealia Banks rolls up and leaves few in doubt of her fondness for vulgarity.
What the 21-year-old lacks in class, she makes up for in energy and skills as an emcee. Capping off with her rendition of ‘Harlem Shake’ and breakout single ‘212’, she is one of the day’s most polished performers.
She even survives a slight wardrobe malfunction after announcing; “I’m flat-chested and my top is falling down.” Oh, Azealia.
Although Steve Aoki manages to garner a similar reaction back on the main stage, it’s questionable whether he deserves it. Seriously, how challenging is it to hit ‘play’, spin a couple of decks and scream out “fuck yeah” every minute and a half? Not very, you’d think.
A return to the Mazda field sees A-Trak take the reins. The DJ’s appearance seems counter-productive on a stage usually occupied by guitar amps and kick-pedals. It provides the ideal opportunity to check out what overpriced cuisine Future is offering.
An hour later sees The Temper Trap honing their craft. Despite a few early mixing problems, the Melburnians find their groove, especially when unleashing ‘Fader’ and ‘Sweet Disposition’. They’re a band that’s been around long enough to nail a quality live sound.
Like Fun.’s set, the number of people in attendance is rather tardy. Unlike Fun.’s set, the reception is boisterous.
The performance of the day comes courtesy of the ever-whacky Dizzee Rascal, who revels in the big crowd. A view from the ferris wheel provides the truest indication; empty real estate is non-existent.
On ground level, it’s evident his presence is as big as the pupils of the surrounding punters. By the time the Mercury Prize winner wields ‘Holiday’ and ‘Bonkers’, every arm is unfolded and all inhibitions are lost.
He is one of the few in his genre that can spit with scintillating effortlessness. Such is his vitality, it makes watching the Stone Roses difficult.
Though the Mancunians deliver valiantly, they seem out of context in a festival where the beat is king and melody is a distant second. You’d also think they’d be sick of only being able to dive into a catalogue consisting of two LPs and a handful of singles.
Still, what they have is of the highest quality. ‘I Wanna Be Adored’ and ‘I Am The Resurrection’ remain astoundingly fresh cuts and guitarist John Squire has lost none of his brilliance across all six strings.
The Kokoda-like trek to the Warrior stage where headliners The Prodigy begin is an arduous task. Entering the sauna that is their tent is the cherry on top.
It proves worth the struggle.
The first half of their set reflects a reputation granted to only a chosen few. Frontman Keith Flint delivers on his promise to run amuck, jumping into the crowd and thrashing the likes of ‘Breathe’ and ‘Firestarter’ with the appropriate bullishness and ferocity.
The band also plays their instruments – a feat not many of their dance contemporaries can hold claim to.
Half-an-hour of sweating in crevices and stepping-on-feet follows before another journey through Avicii’s crowd-pleasing set and onto Bloc Party.
This doesn’t prove worth the struggle. Oh Bloc Party, why? Why must they be so eager to evolve?
Silent Alarm and the first half of A Weekend in the City were near-masterpieces. Any effort to veer from their angular-riff roots has proven disastrous. Evidence? Check out lead single ‘Mercury’ off their third album (*shudders*).
The band’s set is a mish-mash of dance and, oddly enough, tender material. It doesn’t gel and – along with the return trip down the Flemington line – ends the night on a sour note.
Despite the criticism often leveled at the event, there’s still plenty to enjoy at Future Music. In a period where Australian music festivals are going down the drain, the fact that Future is still thriving seven years down the track says something.
Oh, and just a handy tip for any prospective attendees; if you haven’t already noticed, there are occasional moments of ecstasy – in both meanings of the word. Just a few here and there.
