By George Palathingal
IT WAS the best of times, it was the worst of times: on one hand, a perfect autumn day with an extraordinary, genre- and generation-straddling line-up; on the other, a day when having "a few" beers was out of the question because soul-destroying bar queues meant you wouldn't be doing that again any time soon. Especially after you had faced the daunting scrum to get into the festival in the first place.
Still, this forced sobriety meant you were pretty much guaranteed to remember all of the mostly international acts, from the bona fide legends with the power to break your heart - through brilliance or incompetence - to the hip, newish acts attempting to justify their hype.
Actually, there was likely no "attempting" about the first such acts to make an impression as, both being French and cooler than a penguin's privates, they surely didn't care. Phoenix swiftly converted this sceptic with a thrilling run through their precise alt-pop before Nouvelle Vague effortlessly transcended the novelty tag that comes with being a band that covers postpunk classics in a bossa nova style. They not only made everyone in the crowd happy, they did everyone from Echo and the Bunnymen to the Dead Kennedys proud.
The wit and wisdom of former Pulp leader Jarvis Cocker was the key British contribution, although Groove Armada and the Pet Shop Boys brought fierce rhythms and slick spectacle respectively. With a few "well chosen swear words" and vigorously shaking his skinny frame, Cocker provided the day's funniest set, while still proving his musical relevance to the indie-pop scene. Also entertaining in more ways than one was the 10-piece Gnarls Barkley revue, all dressed as tennis players and storming through their mini-oeuvre of heavenly future-pop, peaking with a sublime Crazy.
There was a field at one end of for the (new) ravers, where the likes of the Rapture and Soulwax showed you can make scorching music to dance to with proper instruments. Soulwax, in their Nite Versions incarnation, offered a terrific alternative to a surprisingly lacklustre Beck.
Beck had started strongly, with a barrage of hits and a hilarious puppet version of his band on the screens, only to turn off the lights for a song in tribute to Earth Hour and lose himself in self-indulgence, a daring cover of the Pixies' Wave of Mutilation aside.
And it was those headlining Pixies who held the key to this event, for many. Some such fans had bought V tickets believing this would be the reunited American alt-rock gods' only Sydney gig, only for the very sneaky, very late announcement of Friday's side show. But from Kim Deal's first, instantly recognisable bass notes to Black Francis's last blood-curdling scream, they more than made up for their sins with the perfect set.
Every note hit the spot, the song selection offering a flawless mix of classics for the casual listener (Debaser, Here Comes Your Man, an unforgettable Where Is My Mind?) and longtime fan (the rockabilly roll of Nimrod's Son, a furious, demented Isla de Encanta).
Sent home at a resident-friendly 10.30pm with an exquisite Gigantic ringing in our heads, at least the last queues we had to endure - to get out of the venue - weren't so bad.