Everything I Heard and Everything I Saw At Golden Plains Super Sweet Sixteen

Golden Plains 2024, part one of Australia’s best festival duopoly, was a time I will never forget. If not for the severe weather, the dazzling music programming, the hours spent dancing into the night, then for the sheer number of white guy dreads forced into my retinas against my will. It was awesome. 

Nolan family farm diehards were treated to 48 relentless hours of 40-degree weather. In a testament to the punters’ boundless loyalty, everyone apparently managed to have a good time. Even I, a career hater and critic, had a wonderful time. 

Across the crowd, there was no bitching to be heard, nothing but dazed grins, couples and cutesy crews languishing in rare spots of shade, water bottles being emptied over heads, and, on the dance floor, water guns ejaculating their mist into the sky, falling graciously on our scorching heads.

This year was Golden Plains’ Sweet 16th and the highlights included Japanese noise juggernauts Boris, whose life changing performance seized the Supernatural Amphitheatre and delivered me the body-shaking lobotomy I’d always dreamt of. They had a gong up on stage and, reader, I’ll assure you they gonged the shit out of it. Another highlight was techno pioneer Jeff Mills, aka the “Wizard”, who took the stage as the blistering sun finally made its descent and had everyone quickly gyrating. The Jeff Mills’ set also had a gong, but, tragically, it was only gonged once. 

Usually at a festival I’d be concerning myself with eavesdropping on conversations, attaching myself to funny people and forcing them at beer-point to say funny shit, or asking cute people to take their photos. Unfortunately, the heat was so oppressive I spent 93 per cent of my time at the festival sitting at the bar trying not to pass out. In earshot and sight of the stage, I bitched about everything within sight and earshot, and praised where it was deserved. 

The result is a half-overheard-half-spotted-half-dos-half-don’ts. I present it to you with pride. 

If you were at the tent at the right time you might have heard the loud groan of a truck and a whoosh pitter patter. You might’ve thought, wow, that almost sounds like… a waterfall… water… oh – the water truck! And there it would have gone, trundling through the campsite, doing Jesus’ own work of spraying down airborne dirt to save the tents from dust hurricanes.

In the truck’s wake, people would appear out of nowhere in various states of dress to run, arms outstretched, like rats to the pied piper, to be doused with the blissful, refreshing spray, of what was likely grey water.

You’d think there was only one white guy with dreadlocks at Golden Plains because they all had the same outfit: a singlet, button up shirt, dad shorts, Birkenstocks and some sort of wide-brimmed hat, either teetering on top of their wad, poking through their wad or perched, terribly, on the back of the wad – a curious, gravity defying aberration. But every sighting was in fact a new person. You’d forget White Guy Dreads existed for a second and then, like an omen, one would appear. As the festival progressed, White Guy Dreads became like the hourly toll of the clock. White guy dreads, little hat. White Guy Dreads, 12:00. White Guy Dreads AND White Lady Dreads. Together or separate? They’re together! Double points. White Guy Dreads, dance floor. And on and on. And we never saw the same White Guy Dreads twice. 

Thank you again for another wonderful festival Aunty, we are very grateful!

Arielle Richards is the multimedia reporter at VICE Australia, follow her on Instagram and Twitter.