the hills are alive

Once upon a time, an email landed in my inbox from my fantastically Irish friend Fi. A quick perusal of the message told me about an upcoming festival deep the heart of the Victorian countryside. For a mere $50 I could partake in this whimsical event. So I agreed upon it, booked my ticket, and awaited the wonderful days.
A few weeks later the day arrived. I taxied to a friend of Fi’s, and awaited the crew to arrive. Much to my amused horror, almost all the collection going with us were of Irish decent. I have nothing against Irish in general, they are lively, funny, crazy, well meaning people with the taste for alcohol and singing into the night. Exactly the type you want at a festival. But they are also known for the dreaded Fianna Buama. The Irish Ninja Bomb. Ninja Bomb, as you well know, is a wonderful drinking rule to add to any eve. If a person is to say something that stops any conversation dead, you shout ‘Ninja Bomb!’ at them, and they drink. The Fianna Buama, is a variation of this, where an Irish person will begin to talk exclusively about Ireland, Irish things, or Irish places. Meaning, anyone who isn’t from Ireland, is basically excluded from the conversation, and unable to say anything at all.
But I continued my smile; this weekend was about music, drinking and fun. And I’d be darned if ‘The Craig’ was gonna get in the way.
We travelled down by car to South Gippsland to the wafting tunes of The Kooks and Wolfmother. A simple drive, broken twice by cigarette and McDonalds breaks. At one point we were informed that one of the cars had blown up. But eventually it was discovered that this was an incredibly dramatic interpretation of ‘the bonnet it open’. We arrived after a few hours of motoroways, farmland, and rolling hills. Amazingly, through the simple application of a blue wristband, I was allowed to enter this wonderland.
The car park had been set up and hand painted signs showed us the way. A farmer drove a tractor around for everyone to throw their gear on, and make the trek over the hill to the campsite. A pleasing site arrived at the camp where all festival goers were helping unload and sort out the bags. We were all working together. Like hippies should. Fi, Kev and I collected out tent, set ourselves up, and looked at the surrounded area. Beautiful rolling hills on each side, lush forests, and many a cow.
The camp was a short walk from the stage and performance area. A small crowd sat and watched the first few bands. A few of the more early drinkers had started to dance. We found ourselves a spot, plotted, and started our drinking adventure.
The bands were all local and relatively unknown bands. They sounded good, they seemed to have some fans, and I merrily watched them wail away. Briefly I explored the local area, finding a ping pong hut, where Kev and I battled some amusingly podgy women. A few games of tetherball, and a quite wonderful chill out tent.
When I first walked in there, I found a big circular room with cushions lining the floor, and instruments resting, awaiting a skilled person to pick them up and pluck them. At this early stage, only a few high school girls sat around, playing small tunes with my pauses and inquiries as what to do next. While I may adore this kind of thing, I felt it rather seedy to sit and watch High School girls. So I wandered away.
The bands continued to play, the rain also came. In true Hippie spirit we refused to stop us, and simply donned our ponchos and garbage bags made into ponchos, and kept on dancing.
Between one of the bands I made my way back to the Chill Out tent, and I wasn’t the only one. The room was packed with many a festival goer, seated and smiling, all eyes focused on the one standing giant. He was calling out a tune, to which everyone repeated back. The chorus (if one could call it such) was ‘Calamine, Calamine, Calamine LOTION!’. Smiles were thick in the air and you couldn’t help but mingle. I met some wonderful people and shared a laugh with them. They invited me to join a rather amusing drinking game, that mainly involved making funny noises and drinking a lot. My kind of game. Suddenly, a head poked through the door and shouted ‘They’re on!’ and most instantly left. They turned out to be Direct Influence.
They were a reggae hip hop funky soul band. Playing rather chilled and funky danceable tunes, to which we rather chilled and funkily danced to. After Direct Influence came ‘Cockfight Shootout’ who I personally thought were band of the night. Hard rock, laced in Black Sabbath like riffs and bounded drums. I hit the pit instantly and was very pleased to get bruised up. They done what they done really well, and I was impressed.
Once they had finished their wares, lack Market Rhythm Co. Entered the fray. The next morning I wondered upon a question- Where they really good? Or was I just so drunk by then , that anything would have been amazing? What I remember was dancing a lot, screaming along, jumping up and down, and smiling all the way through. But I believe more investigations should be made before I make such a wonderful statement.
Around this time I retreated back to the Chill out tent, where a few stragglers sat around, playing the instruments and talking wondrous drunk bullshit. I joined in with them and had many a deep conversation about racism, and the rights of women. At least I think I did. By this time, the room had started to get a little funky. And not ‘James Brown in sparkles’ kinda funky. As one person quite brilliantly put it- ‘it smelt like Horse and Incense’. So Sadly I had to soon leave
I wandered back to the tent with the intension of ‘Just chilling for a moment’, but secretly wanting to lay my head down, and not have it up again till morning’, but Soon after I attempted this, Fi burst in through the door screaming ‘marku marku, come dance, come dance’ and who was I to refuse an enthusiastic Irish girl?
Back to the dance floor I arrived where ‘polo club’ played away. White people can rarely rap that well, and my issues with apple are that thanks to their hardware, anyone with a Mac now thinks they’re a DJ. What they played was fine, I didn’t hate it, I danced, but it was by no means spectacular. After them, two old guys came to the stage dressed...well...kind of like Hitler. One stood behind the decks, the other to his side. They played obvious ‘get everyone dancing’ songs, and proceeded to run around the stage like silent movie characters being chased by the police. The music was good, songs I would listen to and happily dance along to on any given night. However, they simply played each song to the end, then played the next. A CD played could have done the same thing, and would have got rid of the kind of ludicrous sideshow they put on. It was at this point I called it a night for real and collapsed into my tent.
Awaking the next day to the sound of vomit from another patron of the festival was not the best alarm clock ever witnessed, I must say. But once the gent had finished his business, the relaxing early morning calm began. I laid in the tent and daydreamed upon life and love. Eventually waking, packing my things, and stepping outside. I walked to the stage to see the other early morning raisers walking around, picking up rubbish left from the night of frivolity. Smile. Hippies are awesome. While they do nothing. They’re awesome.
I stood in a long line for a coffee, the sun was slowly climbing through the sky, and the mornings first performer entered the fray. ‘Uncle Tim from Around the Way’ jumped on stage, and began yodelling. Epic.
As the morning progressed, we collected our things, reminisced over the night. Commented on hangovers, and by midday had decided it was bet to leave, and sleep of the rest of the day. We travelled home in mostly silence, happy silence, but silence just the same. I arrived home to my jelly bride, and the weekend was over. A beautiful time, and a great old festival.