No one warns you that when you wear a spaghetti strap dress outside the house for the first time that you’ll end up with very thin tan lines on your shoulders for several weeks afterwards. Still, there was no other way for me to rock up to Laneway, Sydney’s first (and potentially only) big music festival of the year, decked out in my Brat green Dangerfield digs with an overprepared bag and a full commitment to the monochromatic aesthetic.
My Laneway started in a very Sydney way: waking up at my boyfriend’s share house in Dulwich Hill, stopping in at my work friend/now-real-friend’s share house in Marrickville to discuss outfits and bitch about our managers, then running into five different acquaintances and USyd glitterati on the bus to Centennial Park.
A short walk from the Entertainment Quarter bus stop, I got through the gates quickly and followed the curve of the entrance to the great green landscape of Laneway awaiting me. I arrived in time to catch Eyedress’s thumping live set, and Olivia Dean’s sultry and giddy performance full of songs I didn’t realise I knew. The Welcome to Country from Auntie Maxine Ryan was a spirited musing on the hope that lays ahead for our generation.
“You are our future, you are our leaders, you will be running my country one day, so keep on the good stuff you do caring for Country. If you look after Country, Country will look after you.”
The park was split into two performance areas, with food trucks, bars, and medical personnel lining the amorphous shape. I took a wander over to the EDM heavy Everything Ecstatic stage, and returned several times throughout the day (if only to check out the selection of food nestled behind).
Here I encountered Rona., Fcukers, Joey Valence & Brae, and 2Hollis, and every single performer had an incredibly hyped-up crowd that jumped and screamed with every song. I was personally obsessed with Ninajirachi, the hype DJ between each set, whose flaming orange hair and jumpy demeanour kept the energy up in the tent for the whole festival.
My media pass entitled me to enter the VIP area, which was filled with hammocks and had a separate bar and bathroom facilities. Having a safe place to return to made the ten hour day much easier to process. My one complaint was that the VIP area DJ was very clearly drowning out the live music that people wanted to hear, regardless of how enthralling the continually shifting sets could be.
I had a pineapple cosmopolitan and found myself lounging on a surprisingly comfy deck chair. I then blurrily remember drifting to sleep for a nanny nap, and in my dream state being awoken by Remi Wolf’s full-throated cover of Walking on a Dream. I only caught the end of her set, but it was so impassioned and hyper that I felt whipped up in Wolf’s world, if only for the three minutes of Photo ID I managed to catch in the crowd.
At this point I nestled in at the front of the Never Let it Rest stage. Djo sang some unreleased ditties about the kinds of girls he likes (mysterious, unbasic, gap-toothed) and prowled around the stage like an American musical goblin. His 360-stage camera, frenetic energy, and jumpy little bursts of sing-speak were beautifully counterbalanced by the sombre, whimpering peak of End of Beginning.
It was noticeable that the crowd immediately sparked to life at the start of this TikTok viral sound. Something I didn’t quite realise until everyone whipped out their phones was that the audience was very… dead? Dead. For most of the day. No one was dancing, no one was feeling the energy until the songs came on that they knew. I don’t know if this was symptomatic of crowd-hogging for the later (bigger) artists, or if the spread of social media has rendered music useless without the tinge of recognising a small snippet of song, but it feels like the magic of live music is being lost.
This wasn’t as much of an issue for Clairo, the first artist brave enough to leave gaps in her songs for the audience to sing, and boy did they sing. Clairo and her band walked on stage and just chilled out to some classic music before they started digging through the gem which was her 2024 album Charm. It was an effortless showcase of her angelic voice and indie sensibilities, and singing along to Bags was not something I knew I needed until I heard that sweet sweet guitar. She was definitely Sexy to Someone: the girl behind me who moaned “oh my God I love her capris” the second she walked on stage.
After the intense round of crowd pushes, I went and sought comfort in expectedly overpriced food. Madiba’s Kitchen had banging African spiced chicken and fried plantain, and with this burst of energy (while double-fisting Malibu Pina Coladas) I charged through the crowd for Charli XCX.
This was always going to be the peak. With brat summer finally landing in Australia, there was a litter of angsty neon green coating the parklands (including myself) eagerly awaiting the arrival of our cool-girl pop princess.
I wriggled my way to the midsection of the crowd but decided I’d rather have room to move than a mildly okay view, so I found myself dancing and sing-screaming with these two very cool siblings at the back of the audience who were also incredibly hyped for Charli.
Charli XCX, my top artist on Spotify every year for almost the past decade, was everything I wanted, no, needed her to be, and more. Every song was kinetic: I felt my throat being torn to shreds singing along to Lorde’s verse in girl, so confusing, I threw my arms out and relinquished myself to the electronic catharsis of her masterpiece Track 10, and I jumped and screamed and hurled my body around for her renderings of 360/365/365 remix.
Centennial Park became the coolest club in the world that night, for one bright and fizzy hour. Then began the long, squishy trek home…
Overall, I think Laneway was exactly what I expected it to be. Cozy but chaotic, I saw one boob slip, one whole ass out (thanks to a guy in a velvet green unitard), and one girl who got off someone’s shoulders at the front of Clairo’s set after someone threw a bottle at her.
During her set, Charli spoke about her special connection to Laneway. The last time she was here was when she first felt sparks with her husband George, and now she’s returned and “put a fucking ring on it bitch”. It’s all full circle.
Centennial Parklands was my high school sporting field, and one of the first places I felt the pressure to shrink who I was to survive. Now I’ve returned in a neon strappy dress, surrounded by beautiful acquaintances and friends, on assignment at my cool ass job, and living my gay ass life.
I could never have hoped for this life without that music. It’s all full circle.
