Splendid

I sit among the debris of our two days at the music festival. Water bottles, half empty beer bottles, ash tray, cigarettes, left over beer tokens, card form the local taxi company and an empty Twisties packet all on the balcony table. It’s my recovery day off but I can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. The tunes in my head are Bloc Party’s, but the words are the Finns’, still. “It means that I won’t give in, won’t give in, won’t give in.” Not very rock, i.e. the waistcoat gets another outing, but sweet.

Mick says it was the festival of the drummer. I say name your top 5 drummers of Splendour and then let’s open it up to all time. He says Bloc Party (As LT rightly pointed out by text: dig the drummer), Queens of the Stone Age, Moby’s…and then kind of trails off.

I agree. Although for me it’s been about the pauses, the non beats, opposite of beats, really. Missed a beat when Gab told me she was having a baby. Not Gab. Imagine Gab. Recovered and picked up the rhythm. Lowy coined “Brisbaned”: to describe the excommunication that happens to my friends when they move away from me, geographically, and I punish them by not speaking, emailing, calling or visiting. It’s a total state but it seems to be for a finite period of about a year. I wanted to shout in protest but knew it was true. I’m glad he gave it a name before a time when that name could justifiably be “babied”.

But for now, for this weekend, nothing has changed. We stand in the tent, and set ourselves a “spot”, pretty much always the same no matter what the festival or location, just left of the sound desk. It later becomes “spot where I fainted” when Gab crumples from the knees. As chance meetings in other locations throughout the day muddy the clarity of the term “spot”, the faint becomes a strangely convenient incident. “spot where I fainted”, or even better, “faint spot” is much easier than texting “original spot left of sound desk” in response to that relentless SMS: “where are you now?”

After the faint we sit outside for a bit on the woodchips, to get some air. Boys stagger in to the stand of trees next to us to piss, and one of them, when he’s finished, comes over and pretends to be some kind of marsupial, a wallaby type thing I think. We smile dismissively.

I remember the second day as the best but that’s because the first is already fading. I do remember this, though:

- finding a formula for conversation with Johnny
- watching Sarah Blasko be all gamine and sweet in her purple vintage dress and thinking that Annie and I must have flogged her CD more than I realise because I somehow know every song and every word
- the tent dripping on me during Ryan Adams, big drops of condensation falling from the seam way above my head, right before he says: “don’t worry, it’ll be over in about half an hour”, and we flee to…
- Har Mar Superstar with his shirt off and rolls of fat mushrooming over the top of his pants – did he really date Kate Moss? - perhaps she was auditioning rock stars
- giving in to Year 9 rebellion with The Living End. “Cos I’m a brat, and I know everything, and I talk back, and I’m not listening to anything you say.”
- offering to go home early with Gab but not really wanting to.
- mulling over T’s words to Gab in my head: “Grow up, haven’t you had enough fun?” My instinctive reply: NO.
- the six year old girl with long, long hair on her mum’s, and then dad’s shoulders during Queens of the Stone Age. Gina helping to brush the girl’s hair out of her eyes and make sure that she’s OK.
- sitting on white plastic chairs at the campground kiosk with Lowy and Mick checking cricket scores on their phones and Jimmy scoffing a pie in the background
- the Blair Witch walk home watching the clouds stained in a ring around the moon

Day Two was about the music, the beats, and non-beats, and the constant internal conversation: “but I can see them any night of the week in Sydney, how often will I get to see Moby?” Doves sounding like the most optimistic band in the world (besides The Go-Team), and Bloc Party. They’re kids. When they sing: “I figured it out”. I want to shout, “Good for you, because I’m 33 and still trying.” Still, I do believe that they have.

Then down the front for Interpol, so New York. How many couches? So many couches. Great suits and tight, no mucking around rock.

Jimmy wants me to mention that we sang into a Chupa Chup. Not just sang, belted out Crowded House and Split Enz. Six Months in a Leaky Boat: Tim’s voice has changed so much since the 80s that he can barely sing it. I had forgotten about the sad, wafty bit at the end. Kiwis are a funny lot, strangely ahead of and behind the times.

I don’t like vegans as a rule, but Moby turned out to be alright. Actually, he was better than alright. He was pretty fuckin’ rockin. So now, Gina and Scott, I believe you.

Overiding theme for the whole weekend: wishing that I had rubber boots.