Celebrating its fifth year, Strawberry Fields has become somewhat of an institution, bringing quality, diverse international DJs as well as local talent to a beautiful bushland setting on the border of Victoria and New South Wales. Morgan Richards and Ben Muller went bush to check out the action.
Ah, Strawbs, we missed you. Was it only a year we were apart? It felt like ten. But finally we were back, clutched in your leafy bosom, and all was well again. Arriving on site, we were first drawn to the enormous bamboo mainstage - almost doubling as an art installation in itself. This thing looked tough enough to withstand an attack from a hungry band of giant pandas and provided the centrepoint for the madness of the three days to follow.
A big mention must go to the extra effort that Strawberry put into the art and decor side of things this year. Lighting installations made from reclaimed plastic bottles and other detritus, billowing white sheet-like sculptures haunting the gum trees at night and a dozen easels upon which a dozen artists live-painted their works over the festival were just some of the artistic touches around the festival.
Friday afternoon seemed to pass in a cheesy haze of nu-disco and over-the-top Euro summer house. Still, most people were yet to arrive, and it was clear from a glance of the program that Strawberry were saving their best treats for last. Friday night seemed deliberately scaled back, with the mainstage programming ending at 3am. It was a wise move, giving punters a slight push towards pacing themselves over the course of the festival rather than going all out on the first night.
One of the night's highlights was Avatism. With a recently released album under his belt, the Italian house expert took over the main stage with sophisticated dark and deep tunes that carried into the middle of the night. Psytrance legends GMS kicked off the festival's nightly post-1am psychedelic marathon, with a set that picked up the crowd and carried them straight into the stratosphere. This was classic psy at its finest, with a few cheeky treats like 140bpm renditions of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' and 'Message in a Bottle' thrown in for good measure. Closing the stage that night was KiNK. The ebullient Bulgarian bounced around the stage with his characteristic enthusiasm and played a high-energy set, with Existence drawing a particularly good crowd response.
At the mainstage on Saturday (and again on Sunday), Child performed exceptionally in the lead-up to the big-hitters Microtrauma and Extrawelt. Coming off the back of an amazing set at ACT festival Dragon Dreaming only a few weeks ago, it was fantastic to see so much support for a rapid grower in the Australian techno community. In many ways it was better than the giant, Microtrauma, who through a combination of dodgy sound setup and apparent lackluster enthusiasm, left many punters feeling underwhelmed.
The duo that is Extrawelt did nothing less than completely overwhelm the crowd with a dark, screaming, industrial performance. Despite some early sound hiccups which had us holding our breath, the German techno wizards did not disappoint in the slightest and missed no marks as they piled layers of sounds upon sounds in a beautiful live set. They were grating, harsh, terrifying yet beautiful and melodic, and it was like frenzy in a slaughterhouse as thick slices of fat synths flew low and hard over pulsing people stomping through the dust. Finishing with an epic rework of 'Windshatten', Extrawelt left everyone in their wake feeling dazed yet satisfied.
Meanwhile the Deep Jungle stage, Shigeto was loosing his warbling Brainfeeder-esque beats upon a hypnotised audience. People grooved and swayed back and forth to the delectable sounds. Then Shig opened the "trap door" and hauled out a huge swag, rolling it out under the night sky and enveloping everyone in a thick blanket of bass. The stage itself was an excellent work of art, built of wood and bark and other bits of nature fashioned into a little shaman nook. The minimal lighting left the focus on the beautiful craftsmanship. After Shigeto, Djrum expertly stitched together an hour and a half of bass, old garage and exotic alien dubs. Watching him mix was like watching slow, bright lava streams converging on a mountainside. Such dubs. The Englishman played with nary a glance to the enthralled crowd, engrossed in his work like a machinist at the lathe.
Those that made it out of their tents early enough (and those who'd powered through the all-night psytrance marathon on the mainstage) were energized by the uplifting and upbeat progressive sounds of Grimez as they warmed up to the day. Sunday morning was perfect for those enjoying a coffee or a beer, with Owen Howells and Luke Neher playing beautiful relaxed house and techno at the Electric Nectar Bar, while OOF Sessions helped everyone wake up and get their feet moving again with a morning of ideal summer daytime beats.
Back at the mainstage, the festival had reached its sunny peak. The dust kicked up by a solid weekend of dancing seemed to hang in the air. Hippies put their scarves over their mouths to beat the dust, and end up looking like tie-dye gangsters. Beautiful girls with bumbags wandered around selling frozen young coconut water to the thirsty dancers. The sprinklers overhead rained down cooling mist, creating tiny rainbows everywhere. Moodymann turned many a head when the unmistakeable harpsichord of Teardrop was joined by his own live vocals. Dressed like the locals — that is, with a dust-proof bandit mask around his face - the Detroit legend played an excellent set of sunny afternoon disco jams and slow house groovers.
At the Deep Jungle stage, Jacob Korn mixed classic house cuts until festival favourite Tinman took over. The reserved acid-wrangler set up towards the back of the stage, staying out of the spotlight and letting his warbling acid hooks draw the crowd in. Looking around the dancefloor, you could see all manner of folk — stern-faced techno nerds, rave kids in bedecked in retro day-glo, nang pixies with coruscating crystal pendants and blue dreads, dirt-caked wildmen kicking around inflated goon bags like soccer balls — all getting down to the strange beautiful sounds of the Roland TB-303. It was the melting pot of Strawberry at its finest.
Later, after John Tejada had brought the mainstage to a graceful close with his melodic house vibes, several afterparties sprang up around the festival and the music continued well into the next morning. A lot of people were going to miss work on Monday.
As the sun rose and the heat set in again, campers packed up their tents, gathered their belongings and began the drive back to snivilisation. It had been good, it had been damn good. But, like every other time, it was over too soon. We've become so removed from this essential thing - the basic, primal act of dancing in the bush to the sound of drums — that when we do it, we have to go all out. We bring huge towers of sound and dizzying arrays of lasers out into the wild, take the modern-day powdery equivalents of our ancestors' shaman sacraments and let our minds off the leash for a few days and nights. It's bliss, and some of us live for it. Thank you, Strawbs. Until next year.