Golden Plains 2026 Brought New Blood and Bad Doof Sticks But Immaculate Vibes

I never would have picked Basement Jaxx for a Golden Plains Hall of Fame claim, but by midnight on Sunday the Supernatural Amphitheatre was absolutely fizzing. On stage the pioneering, wonky big-beat British duo were flanked by maximalist, neon chaos: dancers in flowing robes, drummers in Roman Empire garb, ballerinas, rappers, opera singers and whatever else you can’t see behind dozens of doof sticks.

The duo opened with 2004 rager Good Luck and escalated from there. The blown-out euphoria of Raindrops put a dancer inside a massive unfolding flower. A pyramid spun on screen for Plug It In, there were calisthenics for Life Saver and a digital sea of lips for Jus 1 Kiss. The hectic Cish Cash felt like a cartoon visual of adrenaline itself. Pandemonium. It all built to the sure thing we all knew was coming. When Where’s Your Head At finally kicked in, and you couldn’t see a thing for the eruption of humans punching the night sky. Pure, unfiltered joy.

That’s the pitch for Golden Plains, and somehow it always delivers. The 18th iteration of the festival, held on a farm in Meredith, regional Victoria, has long been a must-do on the calendar. Despite tickets always being hot property, organisers continue to make no unforced errors, just quietly thoughtful amendments. This year, that included a stall with a sewing machine to repair any camping gear mishaps and aisles for dancing between the couches that punters plant on the hill. So thoughtful, Aunty.

Saturday

From the get-go, the festival’s reputation preceded it. “When we got the email, it was the best day of our lives,” Public Figures drummer Gigi Argiro said during the punk band’s zippy opening set. “Thank you so much, I’ve been dreaming about this for years,” followed Georgia Knight, who battled tech issues, a harpsichord and a prop phone mic to deliver a woozy folk-noir set that never quite lifted off.

Chicago quartet Water From Your Eyes took control next, weaving a weird spell with their nervy, shapeshifting art pop. My notes for the relentless groove of Barley: “It’s like the song never starts. But good.” Nights in Armor: “Like asking ChatGPT to make a song from everything on the internet post-2000.” Frontperson Rachel Brown speak/sings in a deadpan drawl, drummer Bailey Wollowitz throws in a random breakbeat every now and then, and bassist Al Nardo lurches from side to side as guitarist Nate Amos shreds and stares down the crowd. It’s airless dance music, odd indie, all hypnotic and great.

Obongjayar continued the day’s musical fracturing. The Nigerian singer is a writhing, humping, glowering presence, who performs like he’s pissed he’s not headlining. Fronting a frenetic band that swerved from Rage Against the Machine-like riffage to dance-punk, big gospel breakdowns and jazzy side quests, his expressive voice flicked disorientatingly from a husky falsetto to rap, to howling. Obongjayar closed on the Prodigy-like blast Jellyfish and with a brief thanks, he’s off. Mercurial.

I’ve been so well sustained by the Hare Krishna tent over the years here, I must be part-devotee; if not for the religion’s tenet of “non-intoxication”, I and the entire festival grounds might have already ascended. Sustenance regained, we headed down in the late afternoon drizzle to see Smerz. The Norwegian duo’s slot was a limp low point, fumbling their moment in favour of a dreary run through melody-free pop. An overheard review is sharp: “We were having a dance and a great time. Then Smerz came on.”

Harder still for Smerz, Marlon Williams strode into the night armed with his crack band, the Yarra Benders. Setting off with catalogue favourites My Boy, Vampire Again and Party Boy, the golden-voiced Williams was then joined by a rousing wall of Māori singers from Ngā Mātai Pūrua, who launched into celebratory tracks from his latest album, Te Whare Tīwekaweka, his first in his ancestral te reo Māori (Māori language). The collective’s pride and joy was infectious, a haka sealed it, and Williams’s stunning voice soared above it all. The only downside: more people on stage meant less Marlon Williams.

A friend wondered if BadBadNotGood got their name from what you say when navigating tents in the dark. Unconfirmed, but the Canadian jazz fusion quartet proved just as tricky, their finicky playing giving an overcooked vibe close to midnight.

Fortunately, Cut Copy were around to reset the deck. The hometown four-piece were an inspired choice for Saturday night, their spacious, sugary dance-pop a huge release on this knotty day of deconstructed music. From the bubblegum bounce of Far Away to the French touch-leaning Saturdays, things were rolling. Until frontman Dan Whitford stopped the set: “There’s an incident down here.” With music paused and lights up bright, the Sup’ fell sombre as paramedics entered the crowd and spirited someone away for attendance. (A contact later confirmed they were okay.) How do you restart the party after that? Hearts On Fire, before Need You Now into a pogo-ing mass singalong for Lights & Music. Ace.

Into early morning we descended. Doubt they’re allowed to triple the volume at Golden Plains after 1am, but US siblings Frost Children sure sounded like it. Angel and Lulu Prost played through a haze of fog, their emo-tinged, hyper-online EDM pop absolutely ripping through the speakers. Despite the blare, What is Forever For, the gurning Position Famous and ravey Falling all boasted huge hooks worthy of shouting into the void.

The R’n’B of Becca Hatch followed; she was on a fun and sultry one with dancers and a live band before tech issues cut her set short. Enter British producer Djrum, who with nothing but three turntables, a crate of vinyl and spectacles perched down his nose, meticulously built an hour of precise beats, before tessellating them out in new directions. Patches of classical strings led into skittery percussion, bass grooves, spacey pads and twinkling arpeggios to roll the clock over 4am.

Let’s talk about doof sticks. Sure, it’s fun to be able to locate your friends and yeah, it adds to the party atmosphere. But if you were hoping to view the whole stage after dark this year, forget about it. The Golden Plains rulebook asks that punters bring things on sticks “no bigger than a head of cauliflower”. It didn’t stop some people from toting a full umbrella-as-jellyfish, a big sunflower face, an oversized Game Boy and a giant tampon, all of which obscured the view for hundreds. Next time admire your slim brethren, such as the skeleton, cute neon bat and shoe on a stick. And all could learn from the sick genius who hoisted a real roast chicken in a bag, hung under scrolling letters that read “poultry in motion”. If you’re going to spoil the view, at least make it funny.

Sunday

Despite leaving my tent windows open overnight and getting rained on, I managed to brazenly wake at midday on Sunday. Mission accomplished. A restorative coffee, banana and sunglasses later, I caught young Frankston garage pop upstarts the Gnomes continuing the festival goodwill. “This is our first Golden Plains for all of us,” said frontman Jay Millar, before translating it into Frankstonian: “It’s fucken wicked.” Despite their songs being one chord change away from threatening letters from lawyers of the Beatles, the Kinks and the Rolling Stones, the Gnomes had enough sizzling chops and fun garage fuzz to make it all feel fresh again. They’ll be back here in a plum spot within a couple years, no doubt.

This is Lorelei continued the buzzy vibes, with Nate Amos returning alongside two Water From Your Eyes bandmates for a catchy set of downcast, fuzzy indie pop to start the afternoon right, Dancing in the Club a highlight. Atlanta five-piece Upchuck followed with the heaviest set of the festival, tearing through 15 songs of hybrid punk, thrash, metal, new wave and fuzz rock in 40 minutes. Awesome singer Kaila “KT” Thompson ended the set over the barrier in the crowd, pushing off security to crush in with the fans.

Only at Golden Plains does that energy somehow marry with a set of groove-laden, Anatolian folk music. “I heard so much about this festival,” said German Turkish bandleader Derya Yildirim towards the end of her excellent afternoon slot. “I had really high expectations. But you guys are amazing.” So was her band, Grup Şimşek, especially keyboardist Axel Oliveres, whose percussive organ and synth blips leant an air of psych-tinged G-funk to Yildirim’s spidery mastery of the bağlama, a long-necked, seven-stringed lute.

An attempt to wander back to camp for a rest was hijacked by the hordes of people heading to the stage for legendary DJ and producer François K, who started his career in New York’s best clubs in the ’70s. “I’m actually really honoured to be here, it’s an amazing setting,” he said towards the end of a super fun set big on fluttering drums, long reworks of goodtime classics and endless soap bubbles launching from the crowd. Kicking off with sections of Manu Dibango’s Soul Makossa and James Brown, with athletic dancer Ben Sofowora twirling around the stage, the set cruised past 130 beats per minute with singalong grabs from Talking Heads’ Once in A Lifetime, Wham!’s Everything She Wants and Kate Bush’s Running Up That Hill.

Over the past few years, this Sunday afternoon DJ slot has quietly proved a reliably momentous, fun-in-the-sun dance moment; I’m thinking the run of Four Tet, General Levy, Soichi Terada, DJ Koco and last year’s set from Adriana. This joyous response to – and from – François K confirmed it.

Counterpoint: the sunset slot around 7–8pm used to be prime position for an act at Golden Plains, a spectral soft launch into the night. That’s been usurped by the actual sun, with thousands heading to the hill on Sunset Strip to watch it go down. Bleak Squad bore the brunt of this annual novelty, the amphitheatre thinning considerably at their grand, moody rock. Singer Adalita Srsen’s voice sounded unreal above the fray, but the bone-dry banter from Mick Harvey between songs rubbed more than a few people the wrong way. “He said, ‘We’re about to play a song that’s not on our album. I can’t imagine what that means to you,’” recalled a campsite friend afterwards. “And that was it – I’d had enough.”

Dinner, a cocktail and a campground giggle later, we returned to rock dude Ty Segall powering through a fuzzed-up medley of Americana, psych-rock and guitar hero grunge. His pacier tracks like Feel and Death threatened to be glorious, but I couldn’t connect with the saloon rock solos, retro riffs and more than a few bonehead lyrics. (“I went to church and I went to school / I played by all of your mother's rules / But now it's time to drink the wine / And wave goodbye.” C’mon.) Like Cut Copy the preceding night, it felt fortunate Basement Jaxx were on hand to collect what felt like the entire festival crowd and reroute them post-midnight into their own frenzied image.

With the ballistic jungle outro of Where’s Your Head At still ringing in the ears, British duo Crazy P cruised into their gorgeous 2015 disco house single Like A Fool, before a squelchy, feelgood set of highlights, including the bittersweet Heartbreaker and a lush remix of Joey Negro & The Sunburst Band’s Taste the Groove.

From there the night splintered into trips to the Pink Flamingo for sugary drinks, dumb chats, dancing in the Sup’ to Sally C, wondering how many times we’d hear Rock the Casbah from the interstitial DJs, discussing if a shower at 5:30am is physically possible, and finally flaking in the tent to the distant techno of OK Williams. Ah Golden Plains, you’ve done it again. Poultry in motion.