Dijon is from the future.

An iconoclast untethered in time. Slicing and dicing sounds like a spaceman who just landed on solid ground.

Down under for the very first time, bringing his mercurial love songs to the One and Only Stage. A cosmic congregation, super-charged by his astounding live band.

Goosebumps.

Slow-jam dances. Raw folk freakouts. Cryptic r’n’b cuts that explode chests like blockbuster Top of the Pops hits.

With just two records Dijon Duenas has already developed the most singular of sounds. Absolutely became the bedrock for every musician trying to do it different in the 20s. Baby took it a step further out. A collision of sound sprung from all decades, ruminations on domestic bliss stretching the bounds of rhythm and time. A classic beamed straight from the solar plexus.

Many Times. Yamaha. The Dress. Baby! Another Baby!

Bubbling up from his Baltimore bedroom, Dijon’s shadow-shifting production cut through the lockdown malaise. Into his orbit arrived fellow sonic sorcerers Mk.gee and Bon Iver. He helped them find their groove, they helped him find his. From there, everyone wanted a piece: Charli, Bieber, even Paul Thomas Anderson.

Sonic benediction for the hopelessly devoted. 

Primed for heart-squeezing communal ascension.

It sound like pop, rock, electronic, rap, rock n’ roll
Bass bump, supersonic, won’t you take me home?

underscores broke pop music and remade it in her image. 

From prodigal teen to certified scene shaper, April Harper Grey has risen to epilimnion. Hooked by shards of kaleidoscopic noise, she reached the surface with U, one of the decade’s most bold. A record that pulls all the pieces from pop’s last 20 and makes them refract like a Galaxy Bubble Tea with extra boba. A slippery, liminal artwork finger-painted with glittery hyper-pop, chomping dubstep, glossy r’n’b snapbacks and kickdrum punk.

Last night, I had a wet dream ’bout the perfect song
I know, I know, I’m too far gone

Hooked on 100 gecs and Skrillex, 15 year-old Grey used lockdown to plot a course to pop stardom. Wrapped in the coattails of fellow visionary SOPHIE, amid her ascension she found something all her own. Following a couple of cultish EPs, fishmonger and Wallsocket, underscores blasted out of the bedroom and onto centre stage.

Her U live show is a one-woman flex to the stars – a dance party that’ll compel even the most couch-coddled Sup’ heads to flip the furniture for a late night festival freakout.

When I’m with you, it feels like music

Saturday night.

Get fcuked. It’s time to party.

Shaking off the hype like a pair of freshly groomed cavoodles, Shanny Wise and Jackson Walker Lewis sprung one of the year’s gluiest with Ö. The Dimes Square hotshots squeeze out club-sticky bangers that ripple through the bloodstream faster than a shot of Ribena. 

Y2K stompers dunked in an ice bath of UK garage and smoky drum’n’bass. Sub-3 minute hits of powdered pop. Cochlear-chewing earworms. Doomscroll antidotes that land with the conviction of a pulpit-chattering preacher delivering a singular message from on high: “The dancefloor will save you!!”

Homie Don’t Shake. I Like It Like That. Play Me. Butterflies. L.U.C.K.Y. If you wanna party…

Getcha Bon Bon to The Sup’ Sup’.

Saturday Nite.

Hot Diggity Dog.

Portland’s post-bohemian, pre-bixie, potty-mouthed, avant-psych survivors. Materialising in The Sup’ for the very first time. 

And I feel wuh-ho, woooooo.

There was only one question that mattered in 2004: team Anton or team Courtney? Iconically immortalised in Dig!, indie rock’s most beguiling frontmen became the sharp-jawed poster boys for a generation’s worth of buy-in/sell out blog screeds. Twenty years on, beefs begone, The Dandy Warhols have survived it all. Hype, hate, majors, indies, drop-outs, ring-ins, right-ons.

Bohemian Like You. Get Off. We Used To Be Friends. You Were The Last High. Horse Pills. Godless.

Era-defining indie jams – a wavelength to another universe. From within the Oddotorium, Courtney, Zia, Pete and Brent keep on keeping on, conjuring new sounds from out of the nor-west gloom. Glam-slammed pop, stoner-thrifted psychedelic jams, electro fried wig-outs. Most recently, a record of their best ever covers.

One of the only bands Bowie let share his stage.

Get off. Get on. Get the rotation juuuuust right.

Naarm’s funkateers are back from Supernatural hiatus.

A sound born of a Northcote share house. Bad insulation. Worn couches. Stages shared with sword swallowers. The correct conditions for world-conquering neo-soul and future sounds.

Last seen in Postcode 3333 in 2014, around the time Q-Tip got on board and the Grammy noms started stacking up. Not long after, Prince and Erykah Badu began bobbing along, and Kendrick, Drake and Beyoncé started slicing it up. Sampling that warm psychedelia. The polyrhythmic, multidimensional funk and cyberpunk r’n’b. The twists, the turns and the details that draw you in like a fractal poster on a bathroom wall at 5am.

Worlds within worlds. Soul within soul. Sweet melodies, break downs, freakouts and nimble side-quests into Latin, hip hop and electronica. All anchored by Nai Palm’s generational voice. Always breezy, always powerful and controlled. A primal timbre that turns the mind to cinders.

Live, they are shapeshifters. Masters of chaos and control. Utterly elite.

Saturday at sunset. Ready to freak.

It’s no joke. DJ Seinfeld on the decks for the post-Sky Show party.

The ascendent Swedish producer, schooled in the ways of deep house and acid, who channelled that energy into his own lush, unifying sound. His recent tracks with Confidence Man and latest album, If This Is It, have been flooding the big rooms with reflective euphoria.

He’s in DJ mode at Meredith, which means upbeat bliss and capital-C Classics in a dynamic mix – lo-fi and tech house, electro breaks, banging garage and maybe some rapturous trance flickering in at the edges.

A set about nothing? A vessel for collective epiphany and uncomplicated joy.

All aboard for a funnnnky Supernatural special. 

A sprinkling of postmeridian magic and James ‘D Train’ Williams steering The Sup’ into ecstatic freakwencies. It’s the stuff Aunty is made of.

The lungs behind You’re The One For Me, the post-disco classic that shot out of the New York club scene in ‘81, wriggling its way across the Atlantic to demolish hearts and dancefloors. Alongside Hubert Eaves III, Williams lit it up as D Train, pitch-shifting the moment from one decade to the next, presiding over the birth of boogie – and stamping music for all time when his airy falsetto was lifted to forge the iconic ‘169 Aaaah!’ Roland sample. (That’s to say, without Williams we may never have had Nelly’s Dilemma).

He’s sung it big on other hits too. Walk On By. Music. Something’s On Your Mind. And the grooves Keep On coming. 

Stoking the D Train steam engine will be Melbourne funk-o-mites and beloved Sup’ stirrers, Mondo Freaks.

Saturday arvo, stopping all stations from Inner Mongolia to Outer (Outer) Space.

Like a pack of rabid mutts, Fat Dog get off on terrorizing earholes. Scarpering out of South London, saliva-soaked tennis ball in tow, this gang of shape-shifting punks go full throttle. And then some. Bone-crunching EDM breakdowns threaded through hysterical punk rock. Led by a mustachioed frontman who’s as likely to whip up a circle pit as he is to spit up a lyrical evisceration so chunky you could carve it.

“I’m the Julian Assange of trash music…”

Their debut, WOOF!, takes all that flea-bitten Fat Dog energy and shakes it into a sonic Meal Deal of cognitive dissonance. A moonshine howl into the abyss, these are bangers that’ll make you rip off the leash and embrace the hound within. And there’s even more to come in ‘26.

Fuel up on roo mince. Crack out the kibble. This’ll be a rager. 

Marking their territory, Friday night.

She comes at you in waves.

The synth visionary. The wizard with the wires.

A classically trained composer who got a job manufacturing synths in the late 60s and never looked back. Rode on the oscilloscope glow, out beyond the beyond. 

Working in advertising, she became the industry’s go-to for future audio. If you needed to convey the sci-fi power of the Atari, or blast a pinball machine up to the planet Xenu, you’d find Ciani on the Rolodex.

All the while she was cultivating her own freeform sound, spending days at a time with her Buchla 200. Harnessing the electrical flow. Taming raw waveforms. Casting out on sonic oceans of light, rippled with bass. Modular currents that gather velocity and thrust.

Prepare to set sail, deep into the dusk.

Coming up in Vancouver’s electronic underground scene, Sophia Stel makes gothic pop that soars and swoops, aches and pitch-shifts. Teeming with midi manipulations and cutting observations. Daydreaming melodies and feelings traced in the dark.

I’ll Take It. Molly In The Club. Object Permanence. Music for stolen glances in the alt-pop throng and rum-punch reveries on a misty walk home.

Be Stel, our beating hearts.

New York hardcore that’s been flipping off the purists for nearly 20 years.

Blast it with jazz horns. Get it plucked to buggery by banjo (yes, hardcore banjo!). Have a good old stomp in the riff swamp and chug out an irrefutable melody. Keep it dynamic and stab it with venom.

Formed back in 2009, Show Me The Body put the sludge back in the morass of modern life.  

Wielding a clash of banjos, bass, drums and electronics, each song seems to gain gears. From slow burners to crashing crescendoes, and a fresh album in tow that ups the ante and draws a new line in the sand.

Dancing at the end of the end. Under the overpass, down the alley, in the basement.

Or between the lanterns. Saturday.

Every so often a band comes along with the perfect mix of rawness, melody and soul that makes you wanna thrash and shout til’ your voice is as shredded as an echidna’s doona.

Twisted Teens are that band. Rockers and rollers. Punk with some stoink on it. Rooted in folk traditions, laced with country twang, knee-deep in the New Orleans’ bayou.

Caspian Hollywell with one of the most rousing voices in rock today. RJ “Razor Ramon” Santos on pedal steel, guiding the thunder and threading the songs’ spiritual backbone. Joined by a ragtag bunch of friends, a collective just dripping with charisma.

Behind not one but two of the year’s best discs, with murmurs of a third by summer.

Saturday arvo, we got a Wild Connection.

The Motor City maverick. Master of his craft. Custodian of the Unirhythm.

Not many, if any, come as sharp behind the decks as Marcellus Pittman. A cornerstone of contemporary Detroit dance music. Rolling, low flung house and hi-tempo disco stock his trademark crates, yet he’s not afraid to knock you around with hard slapping techno, obscure post-punk or change gears altogether. Infectious energy and impassioned mixing is the only constant.

Starting out in the early 90s, playing weddings, parties, anything – he soon broke through on the club circuit and his reputation as one of Detroit’s best DJs began to grow. In 2003, over some beers and a game of Tekken, he was asked to join Three Chairs, alongside Moodymann, Rick Wilhite & Theo Parrish. Dance music royalty. Come December, all four will have graced the Nolan Farm at some point in Supernatural history.

Time is a flat, funky circle. ¿Sunday A.M.?

Violet Town’s very own.

Teenage sensations who conquered charts & hearts. 

Back in 1996, siblings Ella & Jesse Hooper formed a band with their high school mates and headed down the Hume to play city gigs like Push Over. Ultra-talented kids, they leavened their folk roots with punk and power pop, and soon got signed to the big leagues – balancing their gritty side with radio rock sheen.

A few years later, Weir hit the airwaves and caught fire, followed by Mascara – which went #1 on the day of Ella’s 17th birthday. Reflector became the fastest selling Australian album ever.

KH were everywhere at the turn of the millennium, from school formals to sold out bandrooms, from So Fresh to the Big Day Out. Their down-to-earth charm oozed through, and their success inspired many to pick up a mic or instrument and start a band.

Old friend of mine, we will
never lose the time

After two more albums and hits like I Am, in mid-2006 an announcement went up on their MySpace page that the group were taking a break.

20 years on, Killing Heidi are back, rockin’ again, alive as ever.

Will you make it in the end?

Saturday arvo.

Spike F*ck is a slippery little sucker. At times more myth than musician, music has arrived, transplanted and disappeared. Cities have been swapped. Songs have drifted from honky tonk balladry to CBGB jams. The mission? To distill both the sacred and profane, balancing the melancholy and humour of life.

With The Smackwave EP now standing in local canon, Spike has re-emerged to spin some more webs. New album, evidence, is the culmination of all the roads taken, or not. Catholic guilt, head-in-the-ground fanaticism, flip-flopping fermentations on the human condition. It’s all Spike. Or is it?

Salty water in my eyes
It’s only water in my eyes

Feel it in your Guts, Friday.

Ella Thompson has a voice that can bend moonlight. A little bit old, a little bit new, she’s been wielding it with immaculate force for over a decade. Springing shiny pop twists in GL, moving mountains with The Bamboos, sizzling atop Dorsal Fins. Those liquid lungs threading it all together.

On Domino and Ripple On The Wing, ET found her solo groove. Shimming from carefully curated cinematic soul to a longplay of blistering and ghostly r’n’b. The scene was set. At home on College of Knowledge and the iconic Mr Bongo label, more magic is emerging. Just in time for a big ol’ Supernatural swoon. 

BYO dandelions, Friday.

Taking the helm of the Supernatural Sound System for the zenith of Saturday night is one of Boorloo’s finest.

The Wongi man of many talents – deejay, producer, broadcaster, designer, community organiser – has been sidestepping from RTRFM to Nani Creative to parties all over. Lover of broken percussion, wubby basslines, swirling crescendos, and fierce vocals. As heard on Come Round, his landmark collaborative release with DJ PGZ which topped end-of-year-lists internationally.

A classy operator who knows when to phreak it and when to cheek it. Threading unbridled energy and rhythmic detours with a whole lot of feeling – the hows and whys of the dancefloor.

Eucalyptic euphoria of the highest order. Ouss Ouss!

Bringing the desert reggae grooves all the way from Kaltukatjara Country to the 3333. Docker River Band is here to make you move. Led by Aṉangu man Roy Jugadai, the Central Desert five-piece has been honing their energy for a coupla years now. Singing in Pitjantjatjara language and English, their music draws from a long tradition of desert rock and shimmering synth-laden reggae, circling themes of family, land, longing and pride. 

Legends back home, their early demos and recordings circulated via YouTube, WhatsApp chats and radio, on their way to becoming certified local classics. Just watch them stretch out would-be-megahit, Beautiful Lady, into an 11-minute triumph at Bush Bands Bash.

Locking in and lifting it up. Sat.

Tiw Tiw!

Straight out of Davao City. The godfather of Budots.

Living in a squatters’ area of the Philippines, DJ Love spent the 2000s feeding Eurotrance, hip hop and Amen-break funk through the aural energy of his home. Dogs barking, birds singing, lizards calling, engines revving. Jeepneys blinged to the heavens. He’d record into his Walkman and remix it all into his productions. The parties he threw helped stir a DIY movement and a lifestyle. One with a positive energy and a sound that goes hard.

It whistles. It blasts. It makes you move your arse.

Laaaate Friday.

A Bristol band behind one of the year’s finest & most delightfully meandering albums.

While steeped in their hometown’s trip-hop tradition, with subtly inspired vocal melodies, cracked electro/piano treatments, restrained strings and off-kilter samples – the Tara Clerkin universe holds a whole lot more.

As Ryan Davis delights in the liner notes, “there are elements of avant-pop, modern classical, kraut-folk, audio verité, dare I say indie rock (and not of the beer guzzling, masturbatory fuzz-flex variety but perhaps more like a Trish Keenan-fronted Faust, Adrian Sherwood at the mixing desk of If You’re Feeling Sinister, or – in expanding on our alternate reality – a world in which High Llamas cut a full-length for Warp Records with Andrew Weatherall on coffee duty).”

Somewhere Good, Saturday.

Synthetic Squashies. Teen Frogue. Squidward’s Viola.

Jorg Kuning’s peculiar track names somehow describe exactly what he’s doing. Resonant funk flicked with elastic goof. Minimal house warped with melodic squelch. Wonky, modular grooves. Froggy, bouncy and bodacious moves.

Think: Diddy Kong on a banana bender – Oakleys wrapped, smoothie in hand – getting right down to it where the jungle meets the sea.

Think: the most delightfully squiggled remix of Our Kylie you’re likely to hear.

Dancefloor hooligans, it’s time to get yourself Jorganised. Saturday arvo.

Aine, Billie and Zev. Playing stand up drums, bass, guitar, melodica, frog guiro and shruti box. 

A trio who first started rehearsing in the early morning in Melbourne’s northern suburbs – surrounded by coffee cups, half-eaten pastries, and amplifiers. They quickly settled into a shared language that felt loose and timeless, and between gigs at the Tramway, they made a record. Blue Communications. It’s a beauty.

Influenced by the skeletal minimalism of Young Marble Giants, the jangled drift of The Clean, and the experimental tension of John Cale, Blue Communications move between sparse pop songwriting, tape-driven ambience and blown-out guitars. Catchy & compelling lyrics explore complexities of wanton sexual delight, political violence, ecological collapse and Australiana, with wide eyed and vulnerable delivery. 

Saturday morning, natural habitat.

A Naarm-based jazz-rapper who’s on the up and up, and ready to take The Sup’.

Miles Nautu has a deceptively laid-back flow. A live backing band rocks Latin-infused

drums while plush melodies dance through the mix. His dexterous bars examine grief, insecurity, and musical and cultural lineage – they burrow in and gather grit. Riding the liquid bass and surfing the boom-bap swing.

Lyrical hip hop at its finest. Styles for Miles.

A rare live show from a rare artist who can absorb the very molecules of a moment into their music.

The dewy crust of a morning paddock. The crackle of bushland under foot. Dust-padded wind across the plains. The atmosphere wraps around these songs like a woolly blanket on a dusk-lit veranda. Hana’s voice floats in on the breeze and nests in the ambience. Wistfulness and awe. Folk smudged with shoegaze and slowcore.

Her latest record, tiarn, takes us on a plunge into the icy Pacific. A vista on the brink of night, when the world is soft and suspended in blue. 

Just the ticket for a morning sway in The Sup’. Sunday.

Egg punk from Lismore with sugary hooks and serious groove.

Tom Peter’s media puzzle have been setting a breakneck pace. Pumping out one-to-two albums per year of one-to-two minute bangers. Garage punk and oddball pop records that are both incredibly cohesive and delightfully unserious. And punchy as hell – never made a song longer than the time it took their namesake to take out the ‘02 Melbourne Cup.

The Puzz with the Fuzz.

First out the blocks, Friday.

Those magnificent folks in their almost-flying machine.

Now over 125 years old, and a popular fixture at Meredith since 2005.

These civic minded alloys usually start with a march through the campgrounds to help everyone polish away the previous night’s excesses, before moving onto the stage and romping through some classic hits. They aim to get bodies moving and warm you up for what is to follow.

Their origins can be traced to a band formed in Ballarat by Thomas Bulch, who had arrived from England with a group of his musician friends in 1885 at the age of 22. Bulch became a leader in the local banding scene, creating ‘Bulch’s Model Brass Band’, which was renamed The Ballarat City Brass Band in October 1900.

The CoBMBB has been a staple at Meredith for many years now, and they reckon it’s one of their favourite gigs on the calendar.

You better bloody believe it.

Well I looked up north
And I looked down south
And I looked to the east
And the west was the best

For ten whole years Aunty has been patiently sipping her sherry, clacking away on her knitting needles and cueing up the ever-expanding Eddy Current catalogue, biding her time until the various components of the semi-conductor fell back into place. 

In light of recent events…

ESCR at MMF34.

Like a Mikey Young guitar solo, the Eddy Current legend runs deep on the Nolan Farm. First on as fresh-faced upstarts at MMF Fifteen. Debutants at Golden Plains’ debut. Prime time at MMF 2009. A 2016 comeback for the ages. And now, ‘cause they like to do things their own way, in their own time (and a decade feels about right) – Brendan, Mikey, Brad and Danny return to The Sup’ at the peak of their powers.

The creative force is alight. The bolts are twisting. The static is fizzing. Four people on the same wavelength, making pure, unbridled, skilful, nebulous rock and roll.

Satdee Nite Suppression Session.

Evening out the odds at Meredith 34.