Ironfest 2014...

I have to say that I’d been looking forward to this event all year, so my expectations were a little overwrought. Last year the festival was so fresh and unexpected that I had high hopes for a follow-up: inevitably, I guess, I was bound to be a little disappointed. That’s the caveat that I’d like to offer going in on this review and any readers out there should bear it in mind, before you think I’m being overly harsh.

After leaving Ironfest last year, my head was on fire: this was something outrageous and innovative; it spoke of all kinds of possibilities and adventures; it reeked of creativity and good times. Good times, specifically, that I wanted to share with my friends. I hit the soapbox and worded-up everyone I could find, telling them how much of a blast it was. Everyone I spoke to responded enthusiastically and I made all kinds of tentative plans to get together this year and share my experience: unfortunately, everyone piked, so I ended-up flying solo down to Lithgow once more.

This kind of underscores my experience even further for this year: in 2013, I had no expectations and I was at a loose end with no local comrades; I was looking for a diversion and this landed in my lap. This year, I had expectations – not only of the event – but also of being able to share it with those closest: didn’t happen. In fact, I almost didn’t go at all: but for the fact that sitting home alone would probably have started some kind of downward, depressive spiral, I was all for blowing the whole thing off.

One thing that prodded me out-of-doors was that I wanted to see how everyone tackled the theme for this year, which was “Life on Mars”. Last year’s theme - “Time Travel” - was tailor-made to support all of the anachronistic madness that was going on: Napoleonics, Nazis, Vikings, robots, daleks... I felt that this year’s theme was just as inspirational and capable of handling the diversity of activities; I thought it would move all that creative energy in exciting directions. Sadly, it didn’t.

Was there a single reference to Edgar Rice Burroughs? Any playing of Jeff Wayne’s magnum opus? The faintest whiff of 1950s Cold War movie paranoia? No; not even a red rock. Instead, the medievalists did what they do; the Napoleonic dudes pitched their camp and carried on; the jousters jousted; the belly-dancers ... well, you know.

In short, it was business as usual. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it was a bit of a let down. One thing that I did notice was the tendency for people to just gloss over things by saying “That? That’s steampunk.”

No. It isn’t.

Just because you trick out your best cape and LARPing sword with a pocket-watch, doesn’t mean it’s “steampunk”. Putting goggles on a hat doesn’t make it “steampunk”. Squeezing into a corset until your boobs explode out the top is not “steampunk”. As I’ve suspected for quite awhile now, “steampunk” is basically a catch-all term for anything to do with cosplay and geeky fandom. It’s all (dubious) style and no substance.

And so, there was a crusader stomping around with an Iron Man mask on; a Warhammer 40K Ork with goggles; and any number of Goths (remember when Steampunks used be called “Goths”?) with eyeliner running freely under their top hats.

Slap a cog on it; she’ll be right. The absence of consideration or thought was deeply stultifying.

(Of course, there were even more people there who had no clue, but wanted to get in on the game regardless. I lost count of the number of guys there in shorts and thongs wearing a flag for a cape, wielding a plastic sword and chugging a tinnie. Also, the guy dressed as a fluoro-green X-Files alien – and I know it was a guy – should have road-tested his outfit before getting all sweaty in it: that parachute-silk stuff gets quite transparent in the damp...)

The market stalls were similarly lacklustre. There was a bunch called “Sydney Steampunk” who were selling plastic Goth leftovers (50 bucks for fingerless lace gloves anyone?) to the accompaniment of pounding Evanescence-clone heavy rock, with all of the four-letter words included – right inside the front gate. Not a good look. Another guy right alongside them was selling baseball caps and sunglasses (they’re like goggles, aren’t they?), with a heavy hip-hop soundtrack issuing from his tent denouncing all the “bitches an’ ho’s”. Yet another guy shooed me away from trying to take a photo of one of the Frilled-Neck Lizards he’d crafted from a handful of forks: what? Do I look like someone who steals craft ideas to pass on to my hordes of metalworking associates? Given his high prices and cranky ‘get away from my stall’ attitude, I’d be surprised if he made a sale all weekend. Suck this up, Lizard dude: FRILLED-NECK LIZARD MADE FROM OLD FORKS – RUN WITH IT METAL ARTISANS! YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST!

So much for the front door.

There were other crafty types about the place as usual, many of them in the main pavilion, with the smithy-types and their steam-hammer in the cattle-judging barn (this all takes place in a rural showground, remember?). I recollected that one stall was selling sturdily-made funky goggles last year, and I thought I’d pick up a pair as a gift for someone: there were none to be had. Instead, a range of shoddy plastic World War Two aviator-type goggles was on offer, with equally-shoddy plastic Victorian-era-ish glasses as an alternative. Since neither of these offerings started below $30, I passed on the whole deal. (Strangely though, if I’d decided to lash out $30 on a faux-leather-lined army helmet – with or without horns, Captain America insignias, spikes or fluoro-colouring – I could have had a set of these goggles included for an extra 5 bucks. Hmmm...)

A lot of steampunk “modding” was on offer at the stalls and not much of it was good. I mean, if you’ve seen one lamp made of copper pipes and sewing-machine light-bulbs, you’ve seen fifty; and there were at least that many here for sale. One thing that is a hallmark of the modding process (or should be, I think), is that whatever you make, has to work. On offer here were tables and tables of huge metal doorstops Frankensteined together with hardly more utility. Kind of like Frilled-Neck Lizards made from old forks. To me, if you break a perfectly good working antique camera in order to make something that looks like it should be a perfectly-good working steampunk camera-thingy but isn’t, means you haven’t done anything particularly clever. Except for having made an ugly and unwieldy doorstop.

(I guess, a few years from now, when local councils are roaming the streets and taking away the junk that people have put out for collection, they’ll find that it will all have been conveniently welded together in lumps as an aid to transportation. Upside!)

Wooden swords and shields were another beef. Last year, there was one guy selling these for the kiddies and, to his credit, he was barely keeping up with the demand (he was churning them out on-site). This year every second stall was selling these – painted; unpainted; with leather attachments; without. Every other child was lashing about with a set, or crying about how their parents were too mean to buy them a set. Given the ease of manufacture of these items it’s easy to see why traders were so keen to get on the bandwagon. Lucky then, that Frill-Necked Lizards made from old forks weren’t so popular (and yes, I do know how to hold a grudge, thank-you!).

Going in to the event, there was a lot of noise on the festival’s various websites about how cosplay was going to be a big attraction for this year. Frankly, nothing makes me cringe harder. Adults, badly dressed up as fictional characters, has a certain attention-seeking desperation to it that can clear rooms. Large rooms. I’d say “kudos” to the fellow who came dressed as the Beast from X-Men (why not? Stick a cog on it; she’ll be right!), because being spray-painted blue like that from head to toe must have been truly irritating; but did it look good? No: not five minutes after it was done; certainly not five hours after that. Discovering that there were areas set aside for these people to “perform” in was another truly horrifying discovery – I stumbled into one of these zones and had to backpedal furiously to get out: adult human beings dressed as generic “aliens” in full body paint, yodelling a capella pop songs into a badly-tuned mic before an audience of steadily-chewing punters who’d innocently thought the room was a place where they could sit down and eat their “chips on a stick”, has “SAD” stamped all over it in 10-foot high letters. Seriously people: it’s not reality TV; you’re not on The Voice. Get dressed; go home.

One thing you learn quickly walking around Ironfest is that goggles and helmets do not positively enhance peripheral vision. You learn to quickly sidestep oncoming cosplay types in order to avoid getting a fascinator in the eye. Or a spiked epaulette. Often, reduction of a person’s local awareness can’t simply be put down to creepy eyewear: the dress-up types have a tendency to wander about adjusting themselves, or trying to catch their reflection in the shiny merchandise nearby. We’re told that mobile phones are detrimental to concentration; good thing, then, that the Romans didn’t have them!

A last observation: if your cosplay wardrobe is going to malfunction, work this out before you show up in public. I’m looking at you Green Alien Guy. And you, Steampunk Dr Octopus.

Moving out into the centre of the showground, it was all plus ca change, plus ca meme chose, amongst the Napoleonic crowd. This year, there were far more of them, with more cannon, and there were Prussians, British Troops and a bunch of other nationalities too, all swanning about and firing their muskets. I was impressed with these dudes last year and I remain impressed: maybe all the leather and brass had been spit-polished harder than usual but this year they eminently improved upon their previous performance, one of the few aspects of the event to achieve this. To show my support, I even bought a $2 Tricolour to wave enthusiastically during the skirmishes!

The Medieval Village was also larger and there were several additional features which were nifty: there was an executioner with a chopping block running some “Horrible Histories” type patter for the kiddies and – best of all – falconers with a clutch of very pretty raptors to show off. Sadly, the wind was too boisterous, so flying the birds wasn’t an option, but they were fascinating to observe regardless. That the guys showing these pretties all worked for a conservation organisation hoping to increase the numbers of these birds in the wild, was icing on the cake. I avoided the jousting because I’m too long in the SCA tooth to be interested and, also, I worry about the horses – they can get splinters in their eyes too, you know. And speaking of SCAdians, there were more of them here also – in those pokey, unconvincing, “North Face” polyester tents wa-a-a-ay to the rear of the ‘Village. Feh. Losers.

I was bothered again by the archery: I’ve taught archery before and I get the fact that it’s cool to let people try out the sport by renting a bow and six arrows and pointing them at a target; but why is it “cool” to let them shoot at wooden representations of domestic animals? To my mind it’s just provocation to get some kid out in the Bush plugging away at a wombat with his dad’s “borrowed” .22. I understand novelty targets; I don’t understand suggestive novelty targets.

Something I did miss on the medieval front was the music. Last year there were musos with instruments, strumming and puffing and madrigalling along; this year there was silence. Maybe I just missed it, I don’t know.

Trundling full-circle, I ran into the Nazi re-enactors and their World War Two peers from other nations. Last year these guys were shifty and (somewhat understandably) not willing to be photographed; their tents were in a huddle and requests to pop in for a look around were met with a frosty eye and the suspiciously-inflected response: “why?” This year, they were chatty and welcoming; much was on display and there was a flourishing sense of camaraderie. I wandered about trying to discover the source of this transformation and it was immediately obvious: girls. Many more women were involved this year than in 2013, all fantastic in Dieselpunk drag, and the mood had definitely lifted for the better. There was some impressive war-machinery on display here too, and the AIF re-enactors were firing their field gun every half hour or so, to general approval.

Talking of machines, I find that I am less drawn to the flaky elements of these sorts of events nowadays and I find myself circling the automotive exhibits. The steam tractors; the steam trip-hammer; the beautiful old Rolls Royce automobile; the German World War Two motorcycles; even the remains of one-time King’s Cross performer Madame Lash’s burnt limousine (destroyed in last summer’s devastating bushfires which significantly rattled Lithgow) are all much more interesting to me than a guy with a horny helmet and a rubber LARPing axe. As usual, on this score, there was plenty to see.

Although I missed (if there was any) medieval music, there was plenty else on offer (quite apart from the bloodcurdling stall soundtracks at the front gate). The Lithgow Brass Band were on hand like last year, belting out the golden oldies and the Waratah Drummers put on a riveting display of co-ordinated drumming and toy-soldier marching down the main street. The dance tent was non-stop, with performances of belly-dancing, Irish and Highland dancing, boot-scootin’ and even some Interpretive material: acts were on in timetabled blocks and the non-stop extravaganza rolled along like (steampunk) clockwork from dawn ‘til dusk.

Afterwards, as I waited for the train to take me home through the seriously Martian-looking post-bushfires landscape outside of Lithgow, I perused the brochure which was my ticket of entry to the event. There, I discovered next year’s theme which is “Gypsy Dreadnaught”. I suspect this a bit of a sop to the tarot readers and belly-dance crowd, but really? I foresee that it will be an Abney Park-meets-Stevie Nicks extravaganza, all sequins, airships and handkerchief points. Oh well, at least I won’t be getting my hopes up!