My first Peats Ridge was the last one in 2006, where I scored a job volunteering in the merchandise stall. I was touched by how peaceful, friendly and laidback the atmosphere was; a small-knit community had popped out of nowhere and it seemed quite capable of existing this way forever. I mentioned this to the store owner, a weather-hardened man who had been here every year since its original incarnation as the Glenworth Valley Festival - that's how long ago. He replied with a thousand-yard stare, then murmured wistfully how it had been growing larger each time, and was now at a point where it was almost too much to bear.
His words echoed in my mind as I anticipated Peats Ridge '08. How far do festivals have to go? Why the inevitable trend to outdo themselves with every passing year until they reach a tipping point, either buckling under their own pressure or spreading their appeal so thin they becomes an empty shell of their former self? Luckily the organisers of Peats have accomplished the reverse, halving the number of tickets to just 5000 and so ensuring its future as a sustainable festival. The decision was felt immediately upon entering, with a smooth ride down into the valley a welcome change to the three-hour bottleneck of '06.
Most arriving on Monday were greeted by a welcoming committee of rain clouds, but the storm soon passed and as camps got set up it was time to explore. The afternoon was packed with plenty to see, as people's wandering paces fell in sync with the slow, steady heartbeat of Peats Ridge. Old friends bumped into each other, new ones were made, sculptures were marvelled at and acts were stumbled upon across the multitude of different stages.
Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu stunned a travel-weary audience, seated before him as his voice carried off into the distant cliffs. Sitting seemed the option of choice for the evening, with crowds parking themselves to lap up the pop intensity of The Jezebels, though some jumped to their feet to bop along to Belles Will Ring.
The warm temperature over the next few days saw the river become a second home for many, with several visits a day as vital as anything on the itinerary. The tree-lined bank provided plenty of sought-after shade, and folks positioned themselves within view of the Bellbird stage to catch music as they dried off. It was here that Sui Zhen opened on Tuesday, her strong but shy melodies providing a gentle wake-up call to all within earshot.
The sweet vocals continued in the Hills Hoist with Kiko's laidback groove, but those wishing to sweat out the heat via dance headed to the Dub Shack. Declan Kelly and friends, including a stroll-on cameo by Afro Moses, had the place jammed like it was the funkiest sauna around. Kelly set the audience up for Ben Prest of Freedom Sounds to knock them down, serving up a dose of dub as thick as the humidity. Dandy Lyon of The Dolly Rocker Movement seemed impervious to the heat, his purple corduroy and denim combo a bold defiance to Mother Nature and a seamless fit to their brand of wailing '60s garage.
Dead Letter Chorus swatted technical bugs early to deliver a characteristically epic show, closing as always with the magnificent 'Sons and Daughters'. Meanwhile, the boundless talent and Canadian-next-door charm of Brian Campeau had the Chai Temple packed as he played in both full band and solo mode, his rendition of Kate Bush's 'Wuthering Heights' a highlight of the festival.
As evening rolled in the temperature dropped; those who had opted to sacrifice some goon-smuggling space in their bags to pack a jumper were now glad of their decision. Bodies were kept warm dancing to the party thrown by Cuthbert & the Night Walkers. A suitably shambolic exercise in audience participation involving placards accompanied new song 'Pace Ourselves'; sage advice to any festival-goer, but nonetheless ignored by the masses gathered at the Lyrebird stage - Bluejuice and Hermitude both enjoyed crowds partying like it was 1999.
The sun cared little for punters' late nights or fondness for sleeping in, shining bright on its last day of '08. The Green Mohair Suits kicked up a dustbowl with their bluegrass ditties, a repertoire of originals and covers ranging from Hank Williams to Portishead. It was the unique touches that made Peats Ridge so memorable, one such being the performances by Richard and Conrad from Richard in Your Mind: on Tuesday and Wednesday they set up shop along the riverbank, creating ambient sounds from sitar, sampler and other devices which drifted over an audience reclining on the grass or floating along the water.
As Wednesday progressed so too did the anticipation for night to arrive. As per tradition, a masquerade dress-up was planned, and revellers started fitting into their outfits at the first sign of dusk. Pretty soon the entire place had transformed from straw hats, thongs and sunburnt backs to festive costumes, masks and painted faces. It made a fitting congregation for the carnival parade, who worked their way through the grounds to midnight's arrival. In the Underworld the countdown honour went to the Crooked Fiddle Band, veterans of the prime slot who again rang in the new year with a fervour shared by a packed audience.
Celebrations continued on each stage and onwards to the camping grounds until the first wee hours of 2009. Peats Ridge was a hit by any festival standard: a diverse schedule of music, art and activities, no queues, eco-friendly toilets that were actually pleasant to visit and a relaxed vibe that permeated all involved with warmth and solidarity. Other festivals could take note of Peats' method of success: scale back, introduce a degree of humbleness and see what happens. The weather-hardened merchandise seller was nowhere to be found this time around. If he had seen what Peats had become, I'm sure he would have been proud.
Kilian David
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