Despite the overwhelming good intentions of the 2009 Queensland Music Festival's headline event, it's difficult to overlook the fact that we're mostly rich white people watching mostly rich white people play a comparatively poor black man's songs. Originally proposed by Paul Kelly and tonight introduced by Deborah Conway, this concert is a near-carbon copy of the January 2008 event staged in Sydney to celebrate the collaborative Kev Carmody tribute album, Cannot Buy My Soul. Ordinarily I'd discard the race card, but when we've got an amicable Carmody gently ribbing us about the differences between indigenous and non-indigenous Australians for two hours, it's hard to ignore. I get it: tonight's a celebration of his work as a singer-songwriter, respectfully translated by modern musicians. It's a beautiful moment when 9000 of us partake in a standing ovation. But what does continually pointing the finger at a race divide achieve?

My spot on the grass in the far corner of the general admission area informs my bias. I'd be telling a different tale had I been located among the plastic seats further down the Riverstage's natural amphitheatre. But it's at the back, among the average punter, where the true nature of contemporary Australian culture reveals itself. It's whistling at the appearance of Missy Higgins, Bernard Fanning, John Butler and other celebrity figures that the everyman thinks he can relate to. It's ignoring the inspiring stories told by Carmody over the PA before each song, as he and the rotating roster of musicians play charades to the accompanying footage. It's loudly proclaiming to love celebratory set closer 'From Little Things Big Things Grow' when you haven't the slightest fucking idea of its history or message. It's calling your mates "fucking cunts" during the acknowledgement of the traditional owners of the land – ie. not the white folk pouring beer into their faces - to the utter embarrassment of every human within earshot.

Funny how The Drones' sonic flagellation of 'River Of Tears' shocks many of these obnoxious loudmouths into silence. They fill six minutes with the slow-burning intensity they'd usually fit into 80. Lodged midway through the set, it's the night's most confronting performance; for a few moments, the entitled, the disrespectful and the ungrateful can't find enough rocks to hide themselves under. And then it's straight back into the bar queue.

Mess+Noise