The phrase “going bush” is a quintessentially Aussie expression, meaning to abandon city life, amenities and attitudes, and “live rough” for a while. In today’s technology-driven world, it sometimes feels like “going bush” is an activity that is often forgotten about among the hustle and bustle of city life.
In 2013, there emerged a new phenomenon in the Queensland desert that, over the next four years, would inspire tens of thousands of people to rediscover what “going bush” really means. This phenomenon is Australia’s most remote music festival, held in the tiny town of Birdsville in the Diamantina Shire of far Western Queensland; the Big Red Bash (BRB). The annual event (coming up again in July this year) is a three-day celebration of Australian music, set against the backdrop of Big Red, the first of over a thousand dunes in the Simpson Desert.
I attended the festival in 2016, and quickly learned that one does not have to be an Australian or country music aficionado to appreciate a BRB lineup. This year, the festival boasts performers including Missy Higgins, Kate Ceberano and Ian Moss, as well as a multitude of other names that will have something to appeal to even the least experienced in the country music arena.
But of course, half the fun of the Big Red Bash lies outside of the festival grounds. From Brisbane to Birdsville is around 1,500 kilometres, roughly a three-day drive with overnight stops. As a self-confessed city-slicker, I had no idea what to expect when my mum, sister and I commandeered the family Land Cruiser and headed West.
After a day of driving, we had made it just past Roma to a town named Muckadilla, where we set up camp next to a rifle range. Our journey so far had taken us through mainly cities and bigger towns, separated by stretches of well-kept highway, but the further West we travelled, the less this was the case.
As we drove further, the view turned to flat plains, orange-tinged, dusty and monotonous. Still, it was breathtaking. We were lucky; there had been significant rainfall in the days and weeks leading up to our trip, so the scenery was a lot greener than expected. There was something awe-inspiring about looking out over a vista that was flat as far as the eye could see, right to the horizon that shimmered in the waves of heat rising from the road; seeing kangaroos watching with inquisitive eyes from the roadside, and if we were lucky, the occasional flock of emus.
Every so often, we would make our way through a tiny outback town, marked by a pair of cattle grids at both ends, and often signs reading “No Shooting on Town Commons”. The further we drove, the smaller these towns became, with their corrugated tin roofs and sun-bleached signs (think Last Cab to Darwin or Hugh Jackman’s Paperback Hero, which prominently featured the Nindigully Pub, conveniently located not far off the Brisbane to Birdsville route).
By day three, we were travelling in a convoy of four wheel drives, all bearing a large ‘BRB’ written in duct tape on the back windscreen, or into the thick layer of dust that already coated the cars. Windorah was the last fuel stop for 380 kilometres, and the line of cars was banked right from one edge of the town to the other. Some entrepreneurial kids had even set up a sausage sizzle stall along the queue, and were making a mint. The next stretch of the journey would be nothing but dirt roads, red plains and kangaroos, and people were taking full advantage of their last chance to stock up and fuel up.
Eleven hours of driving and an overnight stop later, we arrived in Birdsville. The vibe was a lot more relaxed than the average teen-oriented music festival. The outback setting and the long drive we’d all just completed seemed to bring out a camaraderie in people, a sense of solidarity. The street leading into the main town area was lined with tents and caravans as far as the eye could see (interspersed of course with perpetually crowded rows of portaloos. If you were lucky, you got a spot close, but not too close, to one of these rows; if you were less lucky, you tramped through the scrub in the dark, hoping that the snakes were all hidden away for winter).
During the day, before the acts began, there wasn’t that much to see; we visited the Royal Hotel ruins, the overcrowded pub and the tree where Burke and Wills supposedly set up camp. We ate camel pie from the Birdsville Bakery and, one morning, drove up to Big Red and watched the sunrise. Birdsville is a beautiful little town, but within a ten kilometre radius, there isn’t a lot to do. However, this was far from a drawback. With no obligation to be doing anything other than reading, napping and soaking in the sun, the environment was 100% stress-free.
The shows themselves are the topic for a whole other blog, but I can sum them up pretty well from my perspective by saying that even I, a complete Australian music noob, had a great time. Highlights included the legendary Jimmy Barnes (who put on a good show despite being past his belting prime), the infectiously energetic Angels, and the reliably outstanding Paul Kelly, whose rendition of ‘To Her Door’ was the perfect wind-down for an amazing three days.
Certainly, the Big Red Bash (and the journey to get there) did not encompass the full (or stereotypical) experience of “going bush”. There was no sleeping under the stars, no total isolation from civilised society or modern technology. There was no running wild or killing and cooking your own food (in short, not much of the cliché Crocodile Dundee experience). But Cate Blanchett once said that, for her, “going bush” was mostly a state of mind. Our week in the Australian Outback taught me to appreciate the simple pleasures, like a good fire, a hot meal and a comfy camp chair. It put the everyday stresses in perspective. And maybe that’s what “going bush” is really about.
Stacey Whitlock 
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