Golden Geese.

They might be the most exhilarating band on the planet.

Strange and Compelling. Unrelenting. America’s Most Thrilling.

Music you have never heard before and have known all your life.

“Rock and roll doesn’t need saving. Rock and roll needs playing, and, by god, Geese do exactly that.”

Baby, let me dance away
Forever

Geese have imprinted on a generation. Cameron Winter’s wracked and wondrous songwriting capturing the bones of what it is to be alive right now. A rare and alchemical kind of thing. Songs that have rippled into the world like gilded skipping stones. Collected, fawned-over, then tucked neatly into pockets.

If 2023’s 3D Country was Geese’s wild and wretched upstart, then last year’s Getting Killed is the gloriously unkempt howl of a band in full flight.

The more Geese play, the more the songs shift shape. Young in years but like Old Masters, they charge a propulsive new life through their music with every showing.

Cameron, Emily, Dominic and Max, on Supernatural Debut.

It’s alright
I’m alright

V formation. Sunday night.

Honk honk.

YES. It’s happening.

Underworld on the astral plains.

A wild idea that’s pinged around the minds of countless Sup’sters over the years.

In fact, it’s a clear standout in Aunty’s Eucalyptic Dream Collection Registry.

There’s much to be said, but nothing quite captures it like closing your eyes and listening to the opening notes of their eternal anthem.

Boy…

Everything, everything, everything, everything.

Laser-flexing doyens of EDM. Icons of the discotheque. A coupla angel boys.

Scarpering from Cardiff to London in ‘92, Karl Hyde and Rick Smith stumbled upon a dancefloor alchemy that would soundtrack our lives. A heady transmutation of hook-filled techno and giddy verse that tapped into a unified consciousness. Scrabbling together the DNA of underground raves, Cool Britannia and a post-Thatcher euphoria, Underworld gave us life.

She was a lipstick boy
She was a beautiful boy
And tears boyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Two Months Off. Dark & Long. Jumbo. Cowgirl. Pearl’s Girl. And, yep, Born Slippy (Nuxx).

No Rez for the wicked, a new millenium sparked some of Underworld’s most inspired strokes. Chameleonic collabs and legendary assemblages. A whole new Gen set alight. 

Underworld’s performances pioneered an ecstatic new communion between artist and fan. Four decades in, the energy is atomic. 

You bring light in

Arriving like a flaming 8 Ball on new moon eve.

333-year-old time travellers land in postcode 3333.

Qui est Angine de Poitrine?

Not since the mirror ball cow was mysteriously rustled from The Sup’ in ‘05 has a riddle so puzzled the masses.

The weirdest party band on the planet. A microtonal dada-pythago-cubist rock orchestra. Québécois questlords, docking their space rock starship Down Under for the very first time.

Khn and Klerk broke the internet with a performance that sent the world cuckoo. Wielding a double-knecked bass/guitar and pummeling muffled tubs, the dotted deux blasted brain stems with their brew of jacked-up math rock, Anatolian psych and acid techno. “Like Lightning Bolt trapped inside Pee-Wee’s Playhouse.”

Fabienk. Sarniezz. Sherpa. Mata Zyklek. Utzp.

Witnessing the cosmic force of Angine live is akin to a blink-off with the sun: you’re guaranteed to see spots.

Angine de Poitrine at number Nineteen.

It’s Kaninna time. 

Returning to The Sup’ at a new pinnacle, the push up is on and – if her recent shows are anything to go by – the joint will be heaving. 

I’m a deadly bitch

Miss K has been stacking up the chips. Blak Britney announced her arrival, and the Yorta Yorta, Dja Dja Wurrung, Kalkadoon and Yirendali emcee’s been ascending ever since. ARIA noms. AIR Awards. Rolling Stone list-topper. She’s fired it up with Amyl and the Sniffers, M.I.A. and Kneecap – fronting for the Fenians all over Europe. Oh, and Greta is a huge fan.

New record BLACKPRINT is a ferocious manifesto of rage and resistance. Self-produced and stacked with bangers, Kaninna’s latest goes all in. From a long line of truth-tellers and action-takers, she carries it all forward. A force.

I got, I got, I got mob ties
And I’m steppin’ on these white lies

Miss Kaninna unlimited. Saturday Night.

Call him King of the Mountain.

In ‘71 Peter Garrett responded to an ad in the Sydney Morning Herald: “Singer wanted”. Supreme serendipity. The Oils were born. Flailing and wailing out front of Rob and Jim, Garrett turned RSLs and surf clubs into stadiums. Word spread of this 6’4” maniacal shape-cutter.

The rest, as they say, is rock history.

How can we dance when our earth is turning?

Four decades in, PG casts a storied legacy across politics, culture and music. From writing world-beating anthems with Midnight Oil to his years in Canberra and powerful solo work on A Version of Now and The True North, and his current chairing of an independent crowdfunded inquiry into submarine spending. Still dancing that dance, talking the talk, and walking the walk.

The Singer has taken many turns but always arrived right back on the stage that delivered him.

Bringing something from the past and something from the present. Backed by The Alter Egos, including legendary Oil’s guitarist Martin Rotsey. A songbook that amplifies peace, social justice and environmental activism.

Permaglow.

The time has come. PG at GP.

This music moves mountains. Tinariwen’s hypnotic assouf carries the stories of homeland across oceans. Songs born from resistance, Tuareg poetry glued together by rolling guitar licks, rattlesnake rhythms and undulating desert grooves. Vibrating into the world for half a century. Against all odds.

Along the way there have been Grammy nominations and collabs with Kurt Vile, Cat Stevens, Jack White and Warren Ellis. Their influence so enduring, a whole new generation has now clambered aboard. The formation has shifted over time, but Tinariwen’s heart remains forever rooted in its cause.

Hoggar is album number ten. Named for the ancient South Saharan mountain range, a symbolic refuge for the Tuareg people. It reunites founding members with new. An exhilarating exercise in joy, rebellion and defiance.

Blazing into the Golden Shire for a set that’ll rattle boots and limbs.

A long journey under the big sky. Saturday.

Synth pop to make you twist and bounce like an untamed balloon animal.

LA duo Haute & Freddy are two fashion-forward songwriters who’d been helping pen tracks for the likes of Calvin and Kylie (do you believe in Magic?). Then, one day, they ran away and joined their own pop circus.

Their debut album, Big Disgrace, is full of cloud-busting crescendos and theatre-kid flair. With massive hooks to help Dance The Pain Away, it’s party music to move nobles, freaks and paupers – kings, queens and everyone in between.

Don’t be surprised if you see them Sunday night, stockings up high, cinnamon eyes – putting the synth back into 18th century club culture.

Four kids from Manchester start a band. Write a coupla sweet tunes. The rest of the world catches on.

A tale as old as Coronation Street.

These urban wranglers aren’t messing about. Their hand is stacked with finger-plucking, slack-jawed indie, languid doo-woppy melodies and clear-eyed choruses. Britainicana, they call it. Shooting from a hip pocket full of daisies, it’s rock music that sways. From breakout EP to debut It Goes On, they’ve high-tailed it over the hype. Jimmy, Reuben, Aoife and Paddy are galloping into the sunset and rustling us all along for the ride.

“Living, vibrating proof that you can conquer the world if you’re in lockstep with your best friends”

Saddle up. Sunday.

Avant-pop goodness from Badalona.

Someone who could break your heart with nothing but her voice and the drone of an old Sruti Box. Maria Arnal started out exploring old folk sounds from the Iberian Peninsula. Her full-bodied soprano up front. Electronics humming at the edges. 

Now, she’s an experimental composer and a polyphonic party pusher. On her first solo album, AMA, she commands army-of-me stacks of choral harmony. Clattering drums, glitched synths and sub-bass reach out across time to play with folk forms and field recordings. Programmed beats catch Catalonian commotion.

Live on the Nolan Farm? Increïble.
 

Serena Pasion, AKA Peach.

Bubbly vibrations of house and techno persuasions. A classicist with modern flair and glorious emotional range. Peach is a Canadian born, London based DJ, producer, and snack enthusiast. Label boss at Psychic Readings, NTS radio host, and one quarter of S.A.S.S. (with her pals Shanti, Moxie & Saoirse).

Lover of both dark and steamy club rooms and sending it on the big stage. Bitta tech house, proto house, bleep, tribal, even dashes of r’n’b or runway classics. A Galaxy Girl to guide us deep into the night, after the angel boys.

Just ripe.

Songs made to be blasted out of the first floor bedroom window, belted in the shadows of heartbreak, and recklessly inked on skin.

Dove Ellis sings with his head and his chest. An enigmatic kid from Galway, transplanted to Manchester. His voice arrived in pubs and dimly-lit house parties. It came in waves. Rolling melodies like those green hills back home. Words with a loose grip on reality. Some have proffered Buckley, others Morrison or Yorke. But Blizzard is a work all of its own. A thing of uncommon beauty.

Love is
not the antidote to all your problems

Cherry-picked for Supernatural lift-off. Tingles as the rays turn Golden.

A twee-mo star with a badged knapsack packed with Endless Awe & Agony.

daine went from Naarm bedroom producer and teenage rapper to cult sensation – touring the world with a run of EPs and mixtapes that fed auto-tuned emo through hyperpop, bit-damaged hardcore and euphoric club synths. Sugar-rush melodies and metal-worthy screams.

The new album feels like a true arrival. Stripping back the vocal effects, their soprano comes to the fore – homing in on guitar-forward emo-rock and soaring indietronica.

Tunes that dig in like a love heart on a journal page, biro-d in black. Hooks that fly from Highpoint to the moon and back. Say Hello, Sunday.

Bubble riddim from London’s new dancehall princess.

Equal parts rude girl, pop brat and sound system sweetheart, iKeda makes music for basement parties, afters at 4am (kick-ons for brits), and for anyone who’s ever been told to turn it down. 

She pulls Jamaican dancehall, UK bass, R&B and digital gloss into her own universe – where Tumblr, PC Music and Vybez Cartel are foundational texts. iKeda’s distinctive voice is cemented on her ripper second EP Bangs N Braces. A collision of sugar melodies, speak-sung vignettes and blown-out bass. Addictive stuff.

Saturday night is Go!

Three legends to rule them all. 

Miller of Comets on Fire. Shelley of Sonic Youth. Orcutt of, well, Bill Orcutt. A supercell of psychedelic atoms. Bringing forth blistering rhythmic rock & roll and cyclonic freakouts with such force it will whip the dermis from the tip of your nose. Marching towards oblivion, the universe flung these masters together to manifest some of the wildest and most pleasurable noise this side of Orion’s Belt. A rare and wondrous thing.

“Carefully executed mayhem.”

Many moons ago, the first ever boot was raised for Comets on Fire. What Supernatural happenings await on this cosmic return?

Follow the vapour trail as A Star Is Born in the east.

A four-piece from South Australia who met up as teens and swapped their hearts for fuzz. Riffs tug at your sleeve. Songs pump and bleed. Melodies that jangle threads through lovelorn vignettes. Warm you like your crush’s knitted scarf. Lift you like a wild hoist up onto the shoulders.

Their live sets have been leaving laces loose in the mosh on both sides of the equator. Now they’re riding their beautiful, beat-up Datsun of 90s-inspired indie our way.

Down the Western Highway, past Mount Zero. Arm out the window, fingers dancing in the breeze.

The mutant funk maverick, Maurice Fulton.

A phreakishly prolific producer and true house music original. His fingerprints are all over some of the biggest and most defining records in dance music – from Crystal Waters’ Gypsy Woman to MU’s Paris Hilton – as well as some of the most far out and genuinely twisted.

Syclops. Boof. Eddie & The Eggs. Ladyvipb. A few of the 20-plus aliases he’s released under, on labels from Warp, DFA, Nuphonic and Peggy Gou’s imprint, Gudu, to his own BubbleTease Communications.

Growing up in Baltimore, Maurice started DJing hip-hop in his early teens, before moving on to house (dancing somewhere in the background of John Waters’ Hairspray along the way). While his sets today are still rooted in Loft and Garage classics, he is one of the few figures who can boldly swing the pendulum to electro, dance-punk, or jazz-fried synth freakouts. And back.

The glue is his trademark, thick and chewy funk bass production. Remixes and edits given the special MF treatment. A sound already a part of the musical fabric of The Sup’, Fulton having worked with alumni from Mim Suleiman and DJ JNETT, to Tame Impala.

Now for Maurice’s moment. Happy Sunday.

Iggy Pop drilling holes in coconuts. Pastoral psychedelicism. Post-lockdown stasis. Mould music. Mushrooms. It’s all part of the Station Model Violence soup. Cooked up by members of Total Control, RMFC, Den and Gaud, SMV is a dense beast. Their debut already filed under ‘post-punk classic’. Spewing forth hypnotic, motorik mind-chompers, sinewy sauced-up rhythms and gothic rumbles atop savage spools of apocalyptic verse.

Songs that pool under the skin, soggy and warm. Visions that gather like gunk in your nailbeds. Full body buzz.

“A possible masterpiece of whatever genre it belongs in”

On Heat. Off with a bang.

In the dictionary, I am where the G is

A Brooklyn rapper with soulful swagger. Working in the New York tradition of freestyle-poet MCs, Salimata’s got big charisma and a cool-headed flow. Weaving tales of grit and glamour over champagne-in-the-bubble-bath beats. Rich slabs of funk and soul. Supreme slices of electro and house. It’s all happening on The Happening. 

Runs smooth like a 71’ Chevelle, sharp like an Alexander McQueen horn heel, click-clacking down the strip.

Sunday afternoon Jackpot.

When the mood strikes. We get inter it.

They’re piped pipers at the gates of the house party. Emerging out of Naarm’s dance underground – mirror-lit and well equipped with a sauntering stew of cosmic disco, psychedelic jazz and electronic exploration. One very groovy EP in tow, and Signals of an LP on the way that sets the controls even further skywards.

Live, they’re fluid and loose. Rhythmic and rhinestone-sharp. Ready to dazzle, deep into the night.

Shock Corridor huddle in dark corners. Peek out from bedroom closets left ajar. Foggy trip-hop, pulsating punk and cinematic cacophonies. 

School mates turned jam buddies, this hometown six-piece has been bedevilling brains with their dusky musical concoctions for a coupla years now. Their debut brings it all together. A smokestack of mood and sound that uncoils like midnight margaritas.

Out of the shadows. Onto the Plains.

Immy Owusu makes music that weaves. Culture. Life. Worlds. It’s surf rock meets Zamrock. Blues meets Highlife. Rhythm unearthed at the crossroads. It runs deep. 

His grandfather is Koo Nimo, a legend of Ghanaian Highlife and Palm Wine. His Dad, Kojo, master Ashanti percussionist. Through them he has found his own unique vibration. A little bit of fuzz, a little bit of wah. Afrodelik. From debut LO-LIFE!, featuring members of Surprise Chef, Karate Boogaloo and The Senegambian Jazz Band, to his Sensible J collab Spiritual War, Immy keeps taking new sonic turns. His forthcoming album is his finest yet, and he’ll be bringing it to life with a stunning expanded band & BVs.

Torquay represent, Sunday.

Two club music technicians down from Wangal and Gadigal land.

Rydeen & SOVBLKPSSY’s sets mutate dancefloors – under bridges, under stars, under rusty tin roofs and in lesbian bars.

Their productions are cyberpunk cinematic. Decked out in Kmart swag and ready to rave without one second to lag. Ballroom blends, bubbling house and footwork dives. Icy synths build and warp like bullet-time then melt into the heat of R&B-spiked bedlam.

Double knot your trainers, coz they’re rinsing out night one.

Naarm’s most elusive. TD is an emotional state. A collective. Scouring the recesses of the rave-punk slippery slide, their shows are the stuff of legend. Commune in the park. Party after dark. Relentless and offensive. All welcome. Everything goes.

“Guerilla operators, waging asymmetrical combat against the usual expectations.”

Mountain Simulator is a manifesto of sorts. Psychosomatic chunks of disembodied percussion and deformed guitar. Fury and repetition and cracks that shoot into brain stems and flip bodies into go-go mode. Resistance and persistence. A free-for-all, passed from ear to ear.

T Dizzy at G Plizzy. Catch them if you can.

“i dance, it’s what i do”

Nono Gigsta is a playful yet precise selector, driven by a deep fascination with low frequencies and a style that’s been described as “metaphorically jazz”. Splicing the old with the brand new, the silly with the ultra-serious. House of the Crocodiles Part 2 ranks in RA best mixes of the last quarter-century, schooling everyone on the “Big Blend Academy”, as one listener put it, acclaim which Nono could file next to her actual PhD in Comparative Electronic Music Literature.

Beyond the decks, Nono’s overland-and-sea journey to get to GP Nineteen might be even more powerful. Her Sup’ stop is part of a 5-month-plus odyssey, from Marseille to Wadawurrung Country, avoiding air travel for environmental reasons. En route as we speak, chronicling the realities of her grounded travels, amongst other writing in her newsletter, Fictions & Reflections.

Talk about a story to tell. The last word at Nineteen.

Yes, all on the one and only stage. Take a spot in the Amphitheatre and don’t move, until you can’t help but be moved.

No timetable clashes – you miss nothing unless you choose to.

Years of planning go into the shape of every LineUp so it is custom cut for all the various times of day and night, as well as those glorious in-between times.

History told in story. Stories told as history. Golden Plains takes place on Wadawurrung Country, and Uncle Barry lets us in on precisely what that means.

Heart full of passion, head full of knowledge, fan of Japan, and a gift for the gab.

Pen and paper recommended.

A disputed fact, maybe. But true nonetheless. Silence is Golden. At least for a time.

Some years it goes for longer, some years for shorter. If this will be your first time here, you’ll want to catch Silence Is Golden. It happens in the early morning, at dawn or just before dawn.