It’s just gone 3pm and I’m stumbling — bloated, bleary-eyed and near-blotto — out of the James Squire Brewhouse onto Russell Street, facing the sharky eyes of sober passers-by. But I’m not concerned — I’m armed with a hazy smorgasbord of facts and phrases to justify my state. And let’s face it, that’s the sign of a good Melbourne Food and Wine Festival event.

Three hours earlier I was sitting around a large table with 30 others, admiring a specially-developed five-course menu. There was nothing spectacular about the list — the two starters, two mains and desert were all pretty standard good-pub fare — but the novelty here was that each meal incorporated at least a dash of house brew, and was also paired with with a separate, complementary pot.

Imagine blowing the froth off a sweet Golden Ale while you sip onion soup with blue cheese and sourdough croutons; prizing open wheat beer-steamed mussels with pancetta as you sink a similarly smokey limited edition Scribbly Gum; or putting away a subtle Sundown Lager while you nosh on a grilled, pilsner-marinated rockling fillet. Mostly it worked — although the braised daube of lamb was perhaps overpowered by its very rich Highway Man coupling — and at times it approached “perfection”, according to the barely-legible scribble in my notebook, describing the final dish — Porter-glazed poached pear with mascapone, alongside the house Amber Ale.

Each course was introduced by Joe, head brewer at the adjoining JS brewery, who explained the pairings, and provided a bit of background on each particular beer. (He was also charged with the enviable job of finessing the menu between sessions, so don’t be surprised if the line-up changes.)

At the end of the meal, Nigel, the head chef, also fronted up to our cheery group to describe how he incorporated frothies into the food, ending on a particularly inspiring note; “There are no solid rules, so fiddle around to discover what you like, drink and have fun.” Handily, he also hands out a pamphlet with all the recipes, just in case you’re inspired to recreate — after you nap off the daytime-drunk hangover.

Cooking with James Squire runs March 5 and 6 at the Portland Hotel, 127 Russell Street, Melbourne. A sister event, Beer vs Wine – Food Matching, which throws wine into the mix, is scheduled for March 12 and 13. All tickets $80.

Loosen that belt and forget the refreshing clarity of Feb fast — the Melbourne Food and Wine Festival is upon us once again.

The program is full of Epicurean delights, ranging from free, to affordable, to ‘I bet you wish you got free media passes to these things’, and, truth be told, it’s so big that it’s kinda hard to comfortably trawl through online. So to save you the hassel, here are Laneway’s top picks. Stay tuned for the dishevelled, wine-stained reviews.

Food

The Whole Hog
The Order of Melbourne
March 4 and 11, 5-10pm
$10 suckling pig roll and cider

150 Years of Aperitivo
Siglo, Rooftop Melbourne Supper Club
March 6, 1-4pm
Tickets $75

Local Food Dinner
Urban Reforestation Garden and Eco-Centre
March 6, 6.30-10.30pm
Tickets $45

The Dumpling Crawl
Yum Cha Cafe
March 7 -9, 11am-1pm
Tickets $50

Cooking with Spirit
Campari House Rooftop
March 8 and 9, 6-8pm
Tickets $80

Viva Espana
Portello Rosso
March 12, 7-11pm
Tickets from $50

Wine

Pinot Views from St Kilda Rooftop
Next Level, Hotel Barkly
March 6, 1-3pm
Tickets $45

How Not to Drink Like a Wanker
RA at Collins Corner
March 7, 5.30-7.30pm
Tickets $35

Beer vs Wine – Food Matching
Portland Hotel
March 12 (2-4pm) and 13 (5-9pm)
Tickets $80

The Smelly Gorgonzola
Terra Rosa Restaurant Bar
March 5, 11.30am-1pm / 1.30pm-3pm
Tickets $25

Beer and cider

The Beer Diva and Women of Beer
Thornbury Theatre
March 4, 9-10.30pm
Tickets $40

Cooking with James Squire
Portland Hotel
March 5 (5-9pm) and 6 (12-4pm)
Tickets $80

Along Came a Cider
World Restaurant and Bar
March 12, 12-5pm)
Tickets $37

Rewind to the final days of summer, 2010: I was enjoying a sizable music festival spliff with a stranger who called himself The Pirate, and who initiated the exchange for no other reason than I was camped next to him, when I enquired dopily about the porno-grooves spiralling from the stereo of his nearby panel van.

The portly, scruffy-haired gent proceeded to deliver a nugget of musical wisdom that was, in hindsight, probably one of the greatest I have received to date: “This’s Pornland, man,” he said, a steady plume of smoke snaking from his nostrils, curling to a haze around his bloodshot eyes. “You’ve gotta check ‘em out live if you get a chance.”

. . . . . . .

“Merry Christmas, mother fuckers!” roared Pornland front-man, Slatty D, as he strutted onto the stage wearing a cheap Santa suit and black eye mask, microphone in one hand, jug of beer in the other, to the roar of a boozed-up 1.15 am Espy crowd.

The audience was a 20-80 mix of young St Kilda trendies, probably there by chance, and dedicated fans (a little older, and with grins planted firmly on their faces in anticipation), who lapped up the special chance to catch a sporadic reformation show.

The band commanded the full attention of both groups – it’s difficult to tear your eyes away from seven fully developed men, barely clothed in a combination of brightly-coloured leather, capes, top hats, vests and fur coats, topped off with thick mutton chops and teenage moustaches. It’s every bad porn stereotype you can imagine.

Flanking Slatty D from stage left to right: the sultry Marccio ran his mouth over the the sax and flute, Dylan ‘the heart-throb’ McCoy dominated the guitar, Maccy G pounded the drums, Son of a Famous Man slapped the bass sensually, Baboona Valdez wrapped his tongue around the backing vocals, while Security Dirty Joe watched over the whole filthy mess.

Then there was the extended Pornland family, dragged on stage as entertainment over the course of the night. This time, Boy, a topless waiter with suspenders, distributed cans of beer and a bottle of vodka to the band and front row; Pilot Man, dressed as (you guessed it) a pilot, was playfully ushered off stage for drunkenly slurring and confusing a song intro; and something that looked suspiciously like previous band-buddy Wolf Man appeared, dressed head-to-toe in some kind of furry animal costume, albeit for a few fleeting moments, and referred to only as “What the fuck is that?”

“I’m gonna stick my dick in your motherfucking ass,” squealed Slatty D, launching into the first offering – the aptly-themed ‘Pontius Pilate’, a risqué ditty (in any other context) about the man who sent Jesus to his death.

I like to party / Jesus died so we could party / I like to party / Pontius Pilate start the party

All the classics were performed with smiling, pornographic zeal, and, where possible, given a festive slant.

“All I want for Christmas is an erection,” Slatty D exclaimed, leading into ‘Get it up’.

It’s been so long that it’s hard to remember / what it feels like to have a stiff member / … I just can’t seem to get it up / get it up

He also lovingly dedicated ‘Old Man’ to his deceased father.

He is nearly 80 but he likes to party / Experience has made him a hit with all the ladies / He likes to get it on / Get it on with his slippers on

This is the kind of gig – and band, for that matter – you stumble upon. A few nondescript posters will pop up around the venue, and in a handful of city alleys, to inform the initiated and those they’ve relayed their tales to. Then the word-of-mouth extends. Even within the Espy, pre-show, you hear mutterings: “Have you seen Pornland before?” “Stick around, they’re great.” And so the community grows, cemented once the newcomers are inevitably wowed by the sheer energy, and chaotic presence of the enduring porno-funk collective. It’s one of those refreshingly grass-roots, organic phenomena – boosted by the fact that the band only plays a couple of times a year, at most. The myth grows between shows.

After a steady hour-and-a-half, Pornland had exhausted the vodka and beer, and the hip-swinging audience weren’t far behind. But the band couldn’t escape the powerful call for its undeniable crowd-fave.

“Slap that ass, motherfucker!” screamed hundreds of punters, off kilter, “motherfucker, slap that ass!” (Repeat).

It’s by far the simplest song on offer – indeed, these are its only lyrics.

The band joined in on the chant, yelling along with the audience at first, before a rhythmic bass slap acted as a well-needed metronome, quickening to the right pace, followed by an explosion of squealing wah guitar, howling keys, group derrière-slapping, and call and response.

Pornland concluded the show with the slower, arm-in-arm, sway-along number, ‘Strudel Juice’.

Studel juice, dripping in my pants / Strudel juice, every time I dance / Oh, my strudel juice, it’s gonna flow / Oh, my strudel juice, I think I’m gonna blow

The band was ex-troduced, each member bidding adieu with an appreciative solo, before leaving with a final, “Happy birthday Jesus.”

Utterly incredible.

. . . . . . .

Note: At the conclusion of my smoking session with The Pirate, he jumped from the roof of his panel van onto one of our camping chairs, which shattered under his seafaring strength. I never saw him again. If perchance you read this, Pirate, you’re a legend.

Image courtesy of Pornland

You know summer has arrived when the word ‘rooftop’ sneaks its way back into your vocab.

Suddenly the winter-paled masses are happy climbing those few extra stairs to grab a drink, enjoy some live music, or catch a film – nothing better sums up the warmer months in Melbourne.

Thankfully, the wonderful team at St Kilda Openair has cleverly combined it all – think films like The Breakfast Club, Heathers and Jaws beside Melbourne indie acts such as Ryan Meeking, The Little Stevies and Miriam Lieberman, plus a fully-stocked bar — atop the St Kilda Sea Baths. Then of course there’s that magnificent beachside sunset. If you can’t get lucky with your new summer squeeze here, you might as well start buying cats.

To celebrate the launch of the 2010/11 St Kilda Openair season, which kicks off on December 9 with Exit Through the Gift Shop, Laneway has 20 double passes to give away. All you need to do is be one of the first 20 people to email info@lanewaymagazine.com.au with ‘OPENAIR’ in the subject line, and include the name of the film/night you would like to attend.

St Kilda Openair runs from December 9 — January 19. For the full program visit the website here.

Last November, indie-retro-pop-rock-harmonisers Little Red found themselves placed peculiarly alongside homemade toffee and scone stalls, on stage at the East Ivanhoe Primary School fete. Flanked by Wilbur Wilde (saxophonist of Hey Hey It’s Saturday fame and Ivanhoe East resident), the five young Melbourne lads rocked the schoolyard with trademark grins and enthusiasm.

“We never turned down a gig,” says singer-bassist Quang Dinh, describing the band’s difficult climb up the lower rungs of the city’s crammed music scene. It’s an approach that has earned the group a big thumbs up from the alt-music community, though Dinh assures me Little Red’s fresh brand of up-beat doo-wop was also a hit with the school mums.

It’s plain to see why. On stage the boys deck themselves out in collars, suits and spiffy shoes, oozing scruffy schoolboy charm. Add four-way harmonies, punchy bass lines and light, catchy guitar jingles, and you’ve got a recipe for timeless fun.

The fete gig was actually more than a kooky experiment. Months earlier the boys had approached Wilde (a regular at singer-guitarist Adrian Beltridge’s video store), and asked for a helping hand on a then upcoming long player. The local music veteran agreed, and asked Little Red to play the fete in return.

“We had this song (Jackie Cooper) and it was kinda missing something,” recalls Dinh. “We imagined a little sax solo or something. So Adrian just asked Willie if he wanted to be on the CD – we gave him a copy of the song, and he loved it.

“He pretty much came into the studio, had a yarn for about half an hour – which ate into our studio time, but his stories were good so it didn’t matter – and kicked out the solo in under a quarter-of-an-hour.”

Time was tight because the band had essentially begged and borrowed its way through the recording process, with no real budget to speak of. The studio and producer (Steven Schram) were wrangled free for three days only, and there were 16 songs to power through.

“We recorded it bare boned,” the bassist says. “We just set up the equipment, got the levels and the sound right, and hit record. We did have to do some over-dubs, but 90 per cent of it’s live. That’s how we wanted it to sound.

“It was a bit harder, just because we’re usually drunk when we play live. And we’re usually excited and nervous. But in the studio we were completely sober, still trying to groove, and get the same kind of rawness in.

“In some areas, in terms of musicianship, we didn’t have time to get it all right. But we’ve never been a band that’s been about musicianship, I don’t think. It’s pretty much about song writing. We’ve got three very talented song writers.”

The critics wholeheartedly agree. The product that emerged from the hectic studio sessions, Listen to Little Red, hit the shelves a couple of weeks ago (read Laneway’s thoughts here) and propelled the fellas to indie-rock posterboy status. You can’t flick through more than a couple of pages of a newspaper or magazine without stumbling on a spectacularly adoring Little Red review, or ‘next big thing’ prediction.

For those who prefer numerics, the album debuted 29th on the national ARIA chart, and came in at number 13 in terms of Victorian sales. “We’ve done the hard yards here, so we’ve got as many fans in Melbourne as we have in the rest of the country,” says Dinh.

“Melbourne’s absolutely tops for us; it’s the best place in Australia for musicians to be. There were so many venues for us to try out our stuff in.

“We started out at the Tote and Barbukka. Some of our best gigs have been at the Old Bar though. That was back in the day, when we played there and it was like our drinking hole as well.

“Because it’s so small, it looks like there’s just a flood of people in there. On stage as well, it’s so crowded. It’s just a really good vibe at that place.”

But with Listen to Little Red making glorious sound waves nationwide, bigger gigs await. First the band hits Byron Bay’s iconic Splendour in the Grass festival, followed by a support tour with Vampire Weekend. Then they take to the road for a month-long, five-state headline tour.

“We’re probably going to have to hire some kind of Tarago, which is annoying because we all love to drink,” Dinh says, disappointed. “I’m not sure what’s been arranged, but whenever we have to drive there’s always problems with the four of us being too drunk, and somehow having to squirm out of the venue and get home.”

Once the tour hangover dies down, the band plans to start demoing material for album number two, slated for release in under a year. They are already rehearsing new material.

“Gigs are so much fun, but they’re not as permanent as recording something. A gig is like a fun moment in time. It just happens, and it’s awesome, but the reason it’s so good, in a way, is that you do forget it – you’re just living in the moment. But a record is more what we’re aiming at.

“One of the reasons we wanted to go independent was so that we could just release records whenever we want. We want to record as much as we can and get things sounding as great as possible. That’s not to say that we don’t like gigging – we love gigging – but recording is a lot more important for us.”

“We’re really just looking forward to the next thing. I don’t think its good to just kind of rest on what you’ve done.”

It’s not often in adult life that you get to let loose completely; I’m talking hands-in-the-air, euphoric-grin-plastered-on, screaming-wildly, hope-a-workmate-isn’t-watching, loose. But that’s exactly the response sugar-popsters Passion Pit won from an elated Corner Hotel crowd this Aus day eve.

It was a short but fairy-floss sweet performance by the super-hyped US quintet, which still seemed to be coming to terms with worldwide stardom. The group appeared genuinely surprised that a capacity crowd had forked out $70 each to see the show, and that the audience knew all the words to songs written not so long ago on the other side of the world. After all – global buzz aside – two years in, this is a band in its infancy.

This showed a little onstage, where Passion Pit was still finding its live feet. The band stuck closely to a pre-planned, 70-odd minute set and there was minimum chatter between songs. But this didn’t dull the feel-good power of an album and EP’s worth of lovie tunes – and yes, front-man Michael Angelakos’s voice really is that good live.

From the moment the curtain was raised to the opening electro-bops of ‘I’ve Got Your Number’, the Corner Hotel was theirs. Tempo wise, it was a relatively subdued start, but the band picked up the pace with ‘Better Things’, from the Chunk of Change EP, then falsettoed through most of the Manners album, including ‘The Reeling’ and the unbelievably well-received ‘Moth’s Wings’ and ‘Let Your Love Grow Tall’. The crowd danced harder and harder as the show went on.

And so by the time ‘Little Secrets’ dropped punters were wild with excitement – but happily wild, with jumping and singing and clapping and giant smiles. The audience managed to drown out the PA with its rowdy chorus sing-along, “higher and higher and higher and higher!”

So much fun.

With that, the band left stage, conveniently denying the Corner a couple of crowd faves. Cue encore.

Passion Pit was welcomed back with just as much affection as the band burst into ‘Eyes as Candles’ – “nah nah nah nah nah nah!” – before a curveball cover of the Canberries’ ‘Dreams’ – the most delicious Passion and Cranberry cocktail you’re ever likely to taste. But it was ‘Sleepyhead’ everyone was waiting for, and when it finally came the audience erupted. Again. And somehow even harder. Not a single foot remained on the ground longer than a second at a time. To be honest, I can’t really remember how the song sounded live – that moment was all about the blissfully happy, energetic, adoring response en masse. The perfect end to a very fun show.

Wow.

And if you missed out this time, don’t despair – Angelakos said he hopes to back in a couple of months. More love will await, I’m sure.

It’s just turned 2010 and I’m burning through my last shreds of energy in a giant tent, dancing to Miami Horror’s closing number – a very cool, full-band cover of PNAU’s ‘Embrace’ – alongside a few thousand other Falls revellers.

An earlier downpour hasn’t, ahem, dampened the mood inside the tent or out, where the rest of the festival cheered on the Hilltop Hoods as they rhymed in the new decade only 20 minutes ago.

Around me, movements are getting looser, eyes wider. It’s the biggest night of the festival but I know I won’t last much longer on my feet; despite the great tunes, after days of celebration in front of about 50 stellar bands all I can muster is an uninspired zombie shuffle. I’m entirely, completely, utterly exhausted.

. . . . . . .

December 28

The sun sets over the Falls Festival, day one.

Driving onto the Falls Festival farm, tucked into a rainforest outside Lorne, five days earlier, it was clear Falls 2009/10 would be an endurance event. Around 2,500 devotees arrived for a new, fourth evening of festivities on December 28, setting up camp in prime locations over a few smuggled-in bevvies dug out of car panels, hollow loaves of bread, and anywhere else likely to go un-searched at the feared check-points.

Arriving a day earlier also provided a chance to soak up the surrounds before the site was overrun completely by tents and drunkards. Relative emptiness meant it was even more striking watching the sun slowly disappear behind the tall forest that fences the picturesque festival grounds; rolling green hills that valley into a beautiful natural amphitheatre. The main Valley Stage is set at its base, and a big top tent is erected higher at the back.

Thankfully the extra night – a seven-act funk special stolen by a high energy, one-and-a-half-hour performance by Melbourne headliners The Bamboos – didn’t at all dilute the talent pool servicing the rest of the festival.

December 29

Day two featured notable performances by The Beards, Whitley, The Vasco Era and Seasick Steve, with each act charming, wowing or drawing a giggle from the evolving daytime audience in the magnificent 30-something degree heat.

US rapper Lyrics Born ensured hands were thrust firmly into the air as the sun made its descent – hits ‘I Like It, I Love It’ and ‘I Changed My Mind’ had the audience bouncing, shaking and singing along – but the night undeniably belonged to Norway’s Datarock and, later, the locally-bred Wolfmother.

Datarock, dressed in spiffy, matching red tracksuits, fanned an already fiery night-time crowd with infectious, weirdo indie-dance tunes and genuine on-stage enthusiasm. The four men seemed to be enjoying the up-beat festive vibe as much as the punters as they launched into the dream-run finale: ‘Computer Camp Love’, ‘Sex Me Up’ and an arm-in-arm, sway-along cover of the Dirty Dancing hit, ‘Time of My Life’.

Wolfmother followed up with an explosive set that blew the crowd beyond midnight. The new(ish)-look four-piece proved dirty rock riffs, psychedelic vocals and wild afros never go out of style, and had heads banging along rowdily to a set split fairly evenly between tracks from the recent Cosmic Egg and, later, crowd faves from the band’s blockbuster self titled debut.

Wolfmother rocks the midnight crowd.

December 30

A star-studded December 30 line-up meant that many treated New Year’s Eve-eve as the main event. Quirky indie-popper Lisa Mitchell and fun Scottish rockers The View entertained an early, mostly seated Valley Stage crowd, before Urthboy, of The Herd, got punters to their feet and jumping along to ‘We Get Around’ and ‘The Signal’ in the sweaty afternoon heat.

Up in the big top, Emiliana Torrini offered a calmer alternative. The adorably shy Icelandic songstress delivered a solid set peppered with sweet early hits, including ‘Hearstopper’ and ‘Sunny Road’, but, unsurprisingly, it was the pop-radio-friendly ‘Jungle Drum’ that won the biggest cheer and had the smiling audience bopping along with the most gusto.

New York’s Grizzly Bear and Melbourne’s Temper Trap might hail from opposite ends of the Earth and favour different tempos, but the back-to-back acts seemed to draw the same, utterly engrossed response from a growing main stage crowd. Grizzly Bear – calmer performers, whose whimsical harmonies perfectly suited the amphitheatre – had mesmerised punters swaying along unrelentingly, especially to buzz tracks ‘Two Weeks’ and ‘Knife’. By the time Temper Trap swooped in the crowd was amped. The local darlings were greeted warmly before pulling jaws to the floor with a short-but-sweet performance of tracks from last year’s international success, Conditions. Rumours abound that vocal problems were what forced singer Dougy Mandagi to cut the set in half, but the front-man still belted out everything expertly. Even he seemed surprised with the response to ‘Sweet Disposition’, letting out an “Oh shit…” as the adoring audience went wild for opening notes.

The Editors followed up with a raucous set – ‘Smokers Outside the Hospital Doors’ was particularly well received – and the Midnight Juggernauts impressed with its hour of cosmic-dance tunes, although there was a sense that the crowd was holding back for what would be the highlight of the night…

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Wow.

The stage, all glittery and blue and with a giant eyeball suspended overhead, was set for an epic performance and the trio from New York didn’t disappoint. From the moment Karen O waltzed onstage to the opening twangs of ‘Dull Life’ the captivated crowd was hers. Ms O, dressed in tiger print tights and a multi-coloured poncho and swimming in a sea of powerful blue light, barely paused for breath as she led the band through hits from all three albums – unfazed by sound problems that apparently affected those standing further back (everything sounded perfect up front). ‘Gold Lion’ was a sing-along hit and ‘Zero’ saw the release of more giant inflatable eyeballs into the crowd; ‘Skeletons’ slowed things down a little before ‘Soft Shock’ and ‘Heads Will Roll’ ramped the show right back up again; and the band closed with the wonderful ‘Maps’, “a Yeah Yeah Yeahs love song” dedicated to the crowd, as confetti and glitter exploded from the stage.

Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Those with the stamina were able to follow Major Laser, at the Valley Stage, or Bag Raiders, in the big top, into the dancier hours of the morning – hours far too hazy to report on.

December 31

Weary festival-goers catch some shut-eye on NYE.

And so, by the final day of the festival and 2009, energy was in short supply among punters.

On stage, though, Philadelphia Grand Jury was full of the stuff, and put on a good fun show for the hung over morning crowd, while Dappled Cities and Liam Finn slowed the pace to a more manageable afternoon rate.

Then, out of nowhere, the entire festival gathered in front of the Valley Stage. The reason: Art Vs Science.

The trio put on one of the best performances of the festival, cheered on by an excited crowd waving all sorts of inflatable animals – including a giant blow-up horse that was ridden overhead by a particularly keen fan. ‘Parlez Vous Francais’ was an early favourite, setting the pace, and a very fun cover of ‘Boom! Shake the Room’ won plenty of grins as the arena burst into one giant rap-bounce. But it was the closing track, ‘Flippers’, that stood out as the highlight, sending the audience into a frenzy – matched on stage where the band was joined by members of the John Steele Singers, dancing wildly underneath life-size horse head masks.

Numbers dipped a little for Little Birdy – although the group didn’t seem fazed and still rocked the remaining afternoon crowd as hard as it could – but the masses flocked again for UK indie-rock-rapper Jamie T, who had a little help from Mother Nature. The crowd roared at a spectacular thunderstorm raging above, which made singing and dancing to hits ‘Operation’, ‘361’ and, finally, ‘Sticks and Stones’ and ‘Sheila’ so much more fun.

Once the primal rain-dance euphoria wore off at the intermission, though, many retreated to the cover of their campsites to dry off and warm up for the night ahead.

It was Moby who welcomed a capacity crowd back to the arena with a fantastic set and major light show. He didn’t miss a beat – on his guitar or bongos – nailing an eclectic mix that jumped from ambient electronica to hard rave to 70s disco, with the help of a full backing band and a couple of very talented vocalists. ‘Extreme Ways’ was a fabulously exciting opener, while ‘Porcelain’, ‘We Are All Made of Stars’ and ‘Honey’ were huge crowd hits; it was stunning watching the audience, bathed in warm yellow and purple lights, digest the music in such glorious natural surrounds. Moby also threw in some techno treats, a cover of ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ and an extended 70s disco guitar jam – a varied assortment which appealed to every type of fan. Moby, too, seemed to be enjoying the Falls crowd, ending each song, and the set, with an ever-growing string of “thank-ya-thank-ya-thank-ya-thank-ya”s.

The Hilltop Hoods seemed kinda minor billed beside one of the world’s most renowned performers, but the Adelaide hip hoppers still put on a good show, which peaked about 15 minutes in as the trio launched into ‘What a Great Night’ after the midnight countdown.

After crossing the psychological New Year hurdle, though, exhaustion started to set in. But I couldn’t give up just yet. And so I dragged myself to the big top to watch the tail end of Miami Horror.

. . . . . . .

My zombie shuffle lasts about another ten minutes, after which I haul myself back to the campsite to consolidate the next day’s hangover with a few cheap whiskies before bed.

The next morning, as I shakily dismantle my campsite and attempt to shove the remnants of my final days of 2009 into an unwilling boot, I gaze around at the soggy aftermath of the lengthy event. Recycling bags stuffed full of grog vessels sit alongside bleary-eyed punters struggling through the pack-up effort. Cars full of the better-organised uncertainly scale the muddy inclines. Scavengers rummage through leftover goodies at surrounding campsites. A symphony of hung over groans rings across the misty, green field. Not quite as picturesque as opening night, but still striking in its own, surreal way.

And so the marathon reaches its tired, dirty finish. But firm grins all around show that even the built-up pain of four nights of excess – the throbbing heads, aching muscles, mysterious cuts and bruises – can’t topple the Falls high. Five nights next year? Yes please.

It really is a shame that a festival with so much potential, and with such a unique creative force behind it, was dragged down by logistics.

St Jerome’s Laneway Festival has always been a tight squeeze – last year it was near impossible to move during headliners Feist and the Presets – but the decision this year to incorporate Little Lonsdale St as well as Lonsdale and its offshoot alleys should have freed up plenty of space. Instead, under the nieve assumption that audiences would be evenly spread, the organisers used the extension as an excuse to send numbers soaring well beyond what either street could hold.

To be fair, the festival must have been a nightmare to organise. The two main stages were separated by Swanston St, which remained open to the public. So to get from one to the other, you would essentially have to leave the event, and re-enter.

This created painful bottlenecks at the best of times – exits and entries were very limited – but the real problem emerged when the majority of the crowd tried to converge at the Little Lonsdale St for big-name acts Architecture in Helsinki and Girl Talk. The street just couldn’t support the numbers, initially resulting in queues that were blocks long, before the street was deemed full ahead of Girl Talk’s performance. Not good for those who paid over $100 to see the US mash-up king.

That said, there were still plenty of other good acts on offer, and it isn’t fair to discredit the entire festival on a painful ending.

Sunday laziness kept me from catching the opening act, Tame Impala, which was quite disappointing. Asking around after the performance, punters who managed the resist the snooze button assured me I missed a very solid set by the retro-rock three-piece.

So it ended up being the girls from Beaches who eased me into the festival, taking to the Lonsdale Street stage at 1pm. The sun nicely complimented the chilled out, indie psychedelia, and the group seemed to be having a bunch of fun up on stage, which always makes for an enjoyable show.

After wandering past some obscure DJs down the smaller alleys off Drewery Ln, I stopped by the festival’s kitch little arts market in Knox Ln. It did feel a little contrived – especially as corporate sponsorship was plastered absolutely everywhere – but the novelty of discovering these features in tiny lanes was still very enjoyable, touching on that idyllic notion of Melbourne as a network of quirky byways, each housing their own unique treasures and communities.

Over at the Little Lonsdale St stage, San Fransican many-piece Still Flyin’ was doing a good job of barely fitting on stage, and an even better job of getting the crowd moving. The group was well-placed early in the festival; its upbeat cheeriness – built on the fantastically fun foundations of trumpet, bongo, and glockenspiel, plus a guy whose sole job seemed to be dancing around in brightly coloured clothes – was hard to resist.

The mood was different at Lonsdale St, where a calmer crowd was bobbing along appreciatively to Port O’Brien’s folsky-rock sounds. The band performed well, but at the halfway point of the set I realised I was sick of being ‘that guy’ waiting to hear TV-famed ‘I woke up today’, and left the fans to it. After hours standing in the heat, beer also beckoned.

It’s easy to feel a little guilty ditching acts for brews at festivals, especially on review duty, but things were different here; the dingy laneway bars were as much a part of the broader celebration as anything happening on stage. Of course they lost their hidden-away appeal after they filled to the rafters, but there was still something about sitting in a genuine bar – as opposed to having an order processed at one those makeshift beer tents – in the middle of a music festival that just felt right.

Loosened up, I made my way to NZ-born, UK-based Cut off your Hands. The band was already pushing capacity at Little Lonsdale at 5pm, so I watched the three-piece wedged between a big bin and a sweaty, shirtless teenage guy – the fact that it was still enjoyable was testament to COYH’s abilities. Hits ‘Oh Girl’ and ‘Expectations’ were very well received, with passionate sing-alongs and as much dancing as the limited space would allow.

This is where things took a turn for the worse. The drinks taking their toll, I slipped out to find a toilet (there were none within the event grounds at Little Lonsdale), returning to find the exit I’d used had been blocked for entry and that the line at the main entrance was about 100 metres long, four people wide, and moving at snail’s pace. Goodbye Drones and Architecture in Helsinki.

Instead, I caught a solid set by Augie March at Lonsdale, which attracted a smaller group of more subdued ticketholders. Fewer fluoro sunnies here. The set was peppered with tracks from last year’s Watch me Disappear, but 2006 sway-along hit ‘One Crowded Hour’ still won the biggest cheer.

After this, an organiser who must have drawn a very, very short straw confronted the Lonsdale crowd to tell them Little Lonsdale was now completely closed for entry – no Girl Talk for us chumps. Lots of booing.

You couldn’t help but feel bad for the Hold Steady, the alternate headliner that a fair portion of the crowd probably never intended to see. Luckily, the US pop-rockers put on a damn solid, engaging, high-energy show. Front man Craig Finn Jumped and danced his way through the hour-long set, full of poetic tunes about love and life in the Twin Cities, with the overarching message, “stay positive” (which also happens to be the name of the band’s most recent album). It actually was an uplifting performance, and Girl Talk was the furthest thing from anybody’s mind as the crowd roared for more after the Hold Steady wound up.

I haven’t been to a Big Day Out in quite a while. The last time was back when it took months to scrape together enough pocket change earned on a sub-minimum teenage wage just to buy the ticket, and when timetables were studied forensically – the day planned meticulously weeks in advance. Deciding which of your idols to sacrifice in the inevitable event of a time-slot clash would be the toughest decision of the year.

This year was different. Having spent less time worshipping the once-sacred Triple J, a lot of the side acts were kinda foreign. And with a little more cash in the bank, there was less desire to wring every last drop of value from the ticket, running around madly trying to catch the maximum acts.

This year, I gave myself time to wander, to relax and enjoy. And in the interest of a holistic review, I made a point of venturing beyond the main stages I had once welded myself to.

My first lap of the grounds took me past local rockers Children Collide and Birds of Tokyo. Both acts pulled a fairly solid crowd considering the early slot, and seemed to benefit from being Melbourne acts playing in Melbourne to Australians on Australia day. A double-pang of patriotism.

And boy were the patriots out in force. Aussie hats, stickers, boob tubes, thongs, inflatable paraphernalia, tattoos (temporary and permanent) and, of course, flag capes, were standard fare on this sunny day of national celebration. But despite the faintly off-putting whiff of Cronulla, the bogans mostly seemed harmless.

After getting the lay of the land, I settled in the boiler room for local hip hop troupe, TZU. These guys were a lot of fun – and perfectly placed to amp the fledging dance crowd – delivering a highly energetic performance that had feet shuffling and hands thrust firmly in the air. Slotting in a ‘Sexual Healing’ breakdown mid-song towards the end of the set went down wonderfully, too.

Back out in the sun, Little Red was busy impressing a more subdued crowd gathered at one of the side stages. The turnout wasn’t huge, but the lads didn’t seem to mind. The ever-smiling five-piece bopped and doo-whopped their way through hits from the debut album and also sprinkled in a few newbies, which sounded very promising.

The Ting Tings was the first international act I caught. The British two-piece wasn’t super-polished – the commercial hype overshadowed the fact that they were nothing more than a drummer and a pretty girl who could sorta play the guitar and work an effects loop thingy – but they played the hits people wanted to hear, and got the way-too-big-for-a-side-stage crowd jumping and singing along. The big finale, ‘That’s not my name’, threw the crowd into a frenzy.

Mid-way through the set a loser in a sparkly blue mullet wig climbed atop a sound tent in front of the stage, thrusting a protruding tent pole and pouring sunscreen all over his face. It wasn’t funny until people started hurling bottles at him, and he started swiping at the incoming objects like a slower, lamer King Kong. Once a bottle eventually connected with his face, he climbed down into the arms of security.

Next up, one of the festival highlights: Black Kids. The band’s Floridian accents and upbeat indie pop combined with the heat and young, brightly dressed audience to make you feel like you were part of one of those TV-famed teen US beach parties. The band seemed genuinely happy and appreciative to be performing in a far-off land, again heightened the fun-factor. ‘I’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you’ had the crowd screaming along in absolute bliss, and was one of the most enjoyable moments of the day.

After swinging by a shonky hot dog place (the grimy red meat and stale bread came from the bain marie wrapped in airtight plastic, dripping with condensation – some off-putting new piece of festival food technology), I chilled out in front of TV on the Radio. The band performed well, but the sound from where I was stationed – slightly to the right of the stage – was shocking. It was as if the wind was carrying the music from side to side, rather than front to back. Quite annoying.

I arrived back in the boiler room in time to catch the tail end of Lupe Fiasco, who was incredible. Watching the athletic Chicagoan rapper spit out ‘Paris Tokyo’ and ‘Superstar’ in front of an enormous sounding backing band, I couldn’t help but regret not catching the full show.

My Morning Jacket proved to be an ideal act to kick back and enjoy a vodka slushy to in the afternoon sun, before it was time to head back to the boiler room for UK dance duo, Simian Mobile Disco. It felt a little odd gettin’ down to the grimy sounds of ‘Hustler’ and ‘It’s the Beat’ in the daylight, but it was a very enjoyable set that left no room for rest.

Feet still shuffling, and after a raft of rave reviews, the Silent Disco tent beckoned. For the uninitiated, Silent Disco involves whacking on a headset, choosing one of two music channels created live by DJs in the tent, and dancing like a fool in unison with around 50 per cent of the crowd – a surprisingly fun novelty, but one that words never seem to do justice. It is difficult to escape a feeling of guilt when you think about all the acts performing beyond the confines of the tent, though.

Outside, after seven hours of festivities, electropop quintet Hot Chip did a mighty good job of keeping energy levels aloft with the highlight performance of the day. God, it was good – the kind of live music you get lost in, with tunes you can’t get out of your head, and a steady dance beat you can’t resist. ‘Over and Over’ stood out as late crowd fave, which was topped off with a final cover of Sinead O’Connor’s ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’. Some arms were linked with their neighbours, others were swaying in the air, and others still were wielding lighters. Either way, though, the crowd was involved and loved it.

And then came Niel Young, a headline decision that was – lets face it – pretty strange. Admittedly, I’ve never been a big fan of Young. His is music I associate with parents and ‘hit music’ radio stations. It always felt distant.

That said, he put on a damn fine performance, and it was heartening watching pockets of over-50s clapping and jumping giddily to the opening chords of each new song. The claps and cheers, if somewhat diminished from earlier in the day, were built on genuine appreciation, rather than amped up excitement. And if Young was perturbed by a crowd that mostly probably hadn’t bought tickets to see him, he didn’t show it.

It’d be difficult to find a bigger contrast than the Neil Young/Prodigy back-to-back that the timetable threw at punters, and it killed the mood a little. It wasn’t that Young was too downbeat, or that the Prodigy was too extreme, it was just too sharp a change too quickly – like suddenly running out of hot water in the shower.

I didn’t actually stick around for the Prodigy for long, after 11 busy hours it was two much to find a fourth or fifth wind. The psychotic strobes became a slightly off-putting distraction rather than an energising tool, and with a fair portion of the group’s fans’ eyes popping out of their sockets with intense, drug-fuelled excitement, the boiler room was no longer a place for cheery dance fun. That’s not to say the Prodigy didn’t perform well; you couldn’t ask for a more energetic set, and when ‘Firestarter’ dropped the crowd went insane. But I was pooped from a very solid day.

Having decidedly shunned the alt-arts ‘cool’ movement of its byway peers in recent years, Coverlid Place‘s famed pool-hall-cum-nightclub is a trashy blemish on an otherwise trendy bar scene – a laneway oddity.

The venue’s owners have also attempted to thrust together the quiet gaming crowd and the raucous, late-night, can’t-remember-my-own-name-or-what-I’m-doing-on-top-of-you karaoke throng.

The approach has long recieved mixed reviews.

Charltons has been variously described as “fantastic fun” and a “top venue”, through to “It’s places like this that hold back the human race”, “might have been something unique in the 80s when it opened, but today it’s less than nothing” and, “If you like getting kicked out of a bar or club, pushed down a flight of stairs and elbowed to the jaw then this is the place for you”.

But this interesting clientele clash, combined with the bar’s stubborn, closed-to-change self confidence, is precisely why the venue is worth visiting.

For the uninitiated, Charltons is a short stroll down Coverlid, right off the Chinatown end of Little Bourke, past the violent stench of surrounding dumpsters and a neighbouring adult store.

A wooden shark wielding an eight-ball, teeth glinting, beckons revellers from the dishevelled walkway into a large doorway labelled ‘Charltons’ / ‘Allans Music loading area: keep clear’. Here, an old elevator, complete with what looks suspiciously like a bullet hole, waits to slowly creak and grind its way up to level two.

When the lift finishes its arduous climb, letting out a tired ‘ding’ to announce its arrival, the doors (hopefully) open to reveal a dimly-lit bar at the far end of the room, a small stage to the left, and two large pool and games rooms to the right.

The walls are painted dark, and there are no windows – no natural light. It’s drab, and slightly disorientating.

Charltons opens at 2pm most days. During the daytime hours you’ll find a mixed handful of Melbournians, mostly young, having a hit of pool, a flick of foosball, or a thwack of air hockey (“direct from Spain – the world’s fastest and most exciting air hockey table is here!”, a sign boasts) . There are also plenty of aged arcade games to burn through your coinage.

The once-green carpet in the games room is old and tattered, worn down to its grey underneath in some parts. It breathes musty smoke and beer from years of abuse. On the walls, home-made posters and amateur photographs advertise gaming tournaments from years ago. A sound system pumps out hits of the early, mid and late 90s. Drinks are cheap before 10pm.

As the hours wear on, the music gets louder and slightly more diverse (cue: Jimmy Barnes and Billy Joel), and the bar area begins to fill up. Karaoke kicks off at about 10.30pm most nights. The talent standard isn’t great – pitch and timing generally take a backseat to volume – but all vocalists are recieved warmly.

The bar really comes into its own on Fridays and Saturdays, when management fires up what it likes to call ‘Cage Nite Club’.

Two burley bouncers warden the Cage – they’re not the friendliest of chaps but, in keeping with the lighting scheme, they’re dim enough not to pose too much of a problem. A group of friends once smuggled an entire slab of stubbies past them, and churned through it question-free over the course of the night.

The Cage crowd, an entertaining mix of can’t-get-in-anywhere-else 18-year-olds, after work lower-rung suits, and the occasional cheap-drinking uni student, are loud but friendly. By midnight the dance area in front of the stage is full, and punters are in high sing-along spirits. Despite the earlier mention of stairs and elbows, I’ve never seen or feared a fight at Charltons.

Charltons isn’t the type of venue you’d show an out-of-towner to illustrate Melbourne’s rich cultural underbelly, but the place can be a lot of fun. It’s an enduring throwback to the CBD’s cheaper, dingier days – before laneway projects, $20 cover charges and lift safety standards.