It’s been two long years since the festival fuckwit was last documented – yet festivals continue to spring up by the bollock-load, and their most rabid by-product still plagues Sydney’s eyes, ears and noses. Here’s what to expect in the back end of 2011 …
Let it be known that sociology has uncovered three confirmed species of festival fuckwit. Firstly, there’s the original prototype of the protein-enhanced Southern Cross Grinspoon gurner. Then there’s the curious lad who just likes to “have a look around and that”, and the precious, six-string, scarf-wearing surfie with a Temper Trap tattoo.
The following forecast is focussed on the latter two specimens, as these bloodlines have multiplied at the most rapid levels of exponential growth.
Sunday 2 October, 2011
Magnetic Man, MSTRKRFT, Diplo, Digitalism, DFA 1979, Joker & MC Nomad, Katy B, Mylo, Santigold, The Streets
As prophesied in my prior festival State of the Union, the effect of post-General Pants visual pollution is a growing threat to vibe security. Along with most of Sydney’s small-bar uni-pleb population, the festival fuckwit has decided to sharpen his look. Long-gone are the Big Day Out jerseys, accompanying wallet chain and Globes, and in are the contents of the Urban Outfitters clearance bin.
Trudging through Centennial Park, his pair of canvas shoes might cop some vomit and dog shit along the way, but none does he care, as he casually discards his case of Skyy vodka beneath a tree. With another 700ml he’s dacked in hand and an Adobesi beanie full of pills, he’s ready to cut sick.
The fuckwit’s cheeky ‘spring-summer’ makeover will also see him debut his rolled-up chinos and dock his fixed gear outside the festival gates of Parklife. Don’t forget the mandatory ponytail, koi fish tatts and crinkly bushranger hat, as they’ll all be on show at DFA 1979.
Low-brow bastardisations of dubstep will be the order of the day, as the fuckwit tosses up between Flux Pavilion and Example, with usual festival bogan favourites Mylo, Santigold and MSTRKRFT also to his liking. The bass-less ipecac midrange on offer is sure to tear his seam and blow his tiny mind. He’s already tossing up on whether to get buck-naked at Magnetic Man or Nero.
As a burned out ex-lad (see: Supreme, Obey, Carhartt), the other brand of fuckwit may still carry a tekkie; so be sure to intrude on his mural session in a steamy cubicle as you sprint for a mid-set grogan during The Streets.
As for Glue Store’s local representative – make sure you keep an eye on the fuckwit during Joker before he reaches ‘Purple City’ with your girlfriend.
Once the streams of primitive munters emerge onto Oxford Street, take heed before the fuckwit follows you up Crown and ends up vomiting on your mate’s couch not long after. Send him to Good God instead.
Sunday 13 November, 2011
Portishead, The National, The Flaming Lips, Bright Eyes, Death in Vegas, Mercury Rev, PVT, The Family Stone
There’s a new aesthetic duality to the festival fuckwit – he’s now the everyman of Bondi, Byron Bay and Surry Hills. Nowadays the fuckwit’s the type of guy who listens to James Blake and sits on Tumblr all day, so it’s likely he’ll pop up everywhere on your social (but kind of musical) calendar.
The inaugural edition of Harvest is no different. After hearing some Cheap Mondays jam band guys from Avalon at the Beach Road throw the name around, he’s decided to invest in a fisheye lens and a ticket to the latest indie-leaning festival to emerge in an ever crowded (flea) market.
Put on by the same promoters who brought you previous disasters at Sydney Park and Eastern Creek, you’ll be sure to hear tales of satellite dishes falling on people’s heads, amenities spreading thin, and organisational skills on par with CityRail. However, Harvest’s line-up seems to indicate there’s hefty coin behind it and a strong pulling power on this basis. Punters are apparently agreeing, and there’s no doubt the curious festival fuckwit will make his way over the fence at Parramatta Park.
What looks to be sombre occasion on paper could go either way; especially if the festival fuckwit is involved. A mid-arvo rock opera with your dad at PVT could turn into a lighter and house key throwing extravaganza, especially if the fuckwits band together in militia-like factions. The same could be said about their attention span during the cartoonish rainbow flavours of The Flaming Lips.
Bright Eyes will leave the fuckwit idly bored, as he chomps through Dagwood Dogs and slurps back half-empty, ash-ridden plastic cups. The bombastic/geriatric funk of The Family Stone won’t register either, but he’ll definitely tell all his mates on Monday how good ‘The Roots’ were on the weekend. Mercury Rev, also known to him as ‘The Smiths’, got him mildly intrigued.
The major drawcard of Portishead will be a dangerous time for any average punter who happens to fall within the fuckwit’s seemingly limitless radius. Whilst it’ll be most desirable to cook a spliff and hold your lady’s hand to It Could Be Sweet, the fuckwit sees things differently, as he hurls a can and launches bemusing calls for Teardrop.
As you nod off on the 12:43 to Central, the fuckwit’s sure to sidle up next to you and tell all you about his day. With a truckload of summer festivals around the corner, he’ll be back with a vengeance.