A musical prelude to the new year

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As I wandered through to the kitchen for the first of the day’s essential injections of caffeine, a movement outside the front door caught my eye. The old doe was back, with her own joey and the adopted trio in close attendance, hopeful, as ever, that something edible might materialise from the humans’ den, their curiosity emphasised by the smudged nose- and paw-marks on the glass. From the shards of orange on the ground around them, I guessed that Keith had already obliged with a carrot or two. I went out to give the old girl a scratch. The orphaned trio kept their distance, still wary despite their habituation, but her own joey, head deep in her mother’s pouch to suckle, allowed me gently to stroke her too. I wondered if the old doe was carrying a second offspring, a little shrimp-like foetus already ensconced in the pouch, latched onto the other teat, which, thanks to the miracles of marsupial physiology, would be providing a different mixture of nutrients than that helping to sustain the older “at foot” joey.

I left the kangaroos to it, and went through to the kitchen. From its window, I could continue to watch the animals, stretched out in the rapidly-warming rays of the early morning sun, ferreting about in nearby bushes, expertly searching for a green shoot or two amongst the unprepossessing scrub, or grooming each other. Not a bad substitute for breakfast telly, I thought, as I sipped my coffee.

I don’t usually write about my sojourns in Australia because they tend to be sociable - aka lots of fun for me and (hopefully) for those I’m with, but not exactly of scintillating interest to anyone who wasn’t there - and/or preparatory, researching and booking trips that will be, and/or domestic, enjoying the relaxed downtime of day-to-day life with my cousins or friends, and giving me time to recover from trips that have been. But this time was a little bit different.

One morning in Namibia back in September, I’d found Steve, a Tasmania-based friend, online on Facebook. After exchanging pleasantries, we “chatted” about my forthcoming trip Down Under (he told me he was already altruistically sampling a variety of red wines in anticipation of my visit), and discussed when it would be most convenient for me to turn up in Hobart. Before I knew it, he was promising to get me a ticket to the Falls Festival where, he said, almost everyone I knew in Tassie was going to be spending the run-up to New Year’s. Suddenly, I had my first multi-day music festival in the diary.

It can safely be said that I really didn’t know what I was letting myself in for. Visions of Glastonbury’s mud occupied my mind. I wasn’t good at Wet, let alone Mud. Not my idea of a Good Time. But I maintain that I’ll try (almost) anything once, and this particular bunch of friends had introduced me to some great bands last time I’d visited. If they were going, it WOULD be fun, I reminded myself. I texted Steve just after I got to Australia in early December, and asked what I should bring. He offered to lend me a tent and Thermarest; I just needed my sleeping bag… “What about waterproofs?” I asked. “This is Tassie: bring a snorkel!” he replied. Eek.

I had worried needlessly. This year’s Falls Festival was the hottest and driest on record. Everywhere we were urged to beware of the sun, to drink enough, to cover up, to apply sunblock. Even by Australian standards, the sun in Tasmania has a particular viciousness to it. You can feel it hard against your skin when the breeze drops, even if the day is barely above warm. I found myself getting fried after 6 pm one day, in what’s supposed to be the “cool” of the evening. Yes, the temperature was probably only around 18ºC, but the sun had lost none of its power. At the Festival, volunteers wandered round with gallon containers of sunblock over their shoulder, squirting it out on request, some of the punters increasingly lobster-like.

But, like a true Pom, I’m talking about the weather. You can take the Pom out of Pommie-land, but you can’t change the national characteristics. Sorry.

The most stunning aspect of the Falls Festival is its location. Situated in rolling farmland an hour or so east of Hobart, it seems a million miles away from the city… and, for all but those with cell phones on one particular network, it continues to feel that way. Just beyond the furthest campsite area, across the marshes and through the dunes, are the endless golden sands of Marion Bay, deserted apart from Festival goers taking a break from the music… and, on one day, so many jellyfish, bluebottles (otherwise known as the Portuguese Man O’ War) and sea lice, the beach had to be closed to the dismay of the over-heating crowds longing for a refreshing dip. Antisocial marine wildlife apart, it is a beautiful location, with not a sign of human habitation, and glorious clear waters.

We’d decided to camp in the “Families Only” area, not least because the extended group included a couple of people under ten and few more of the teenage-but-probably-shouldn’t-be-out-all-night-despite-their-own-inclinations persuasion. Mercifully, this allowed us at least a few hours’ sleep, between the final distant drum-rolls at 4 am and the tent becoming too unbearably oven-like around 8 am. (I exaggerate a little. The nearest of the two stages shut up shop at 8 pm, and live bands (and sales of alcoholic drinks) finished at the other one at 2 am; only a guest DJ or two kept the hardcore crowds going beyond that.)

The sale of alcohol was regulated to a decidedly Big Brother extent. Bringing alcohol into the Festival was totally verboten, with many cars being searched on the way in. (We concluded that having kids in the car might be one way round this: we weren’t searched on the apparent basis that we couldn’t possibly be carrying alcohol with impressionable wee ones around… A rare moment of naivety by the authorities… Not that we did have any booze with us, she adds hurriedly!) You could only buy beer or premixed cocktails with tokens, so buying a drink required two lots of queuing: one for tokens, which could be purchased singly or in 6-for-5 strips, and one for drinks. Tokens were only valid on the day of purchase, being colour-coded appropriately, and, even once you were furnished with tokens, you could swap no more than two at a time for drinks at the bar. Under 18s had differently-coloured wrist bands, so could not purchase tokens or alcohol, and wrist bands were checked assiduously across the site.

With his typical eye for business, Cindy’s son, the nine-year-old Fynn, decided that this set-up provided a great opportunity to make some money. The programme advertised for volunteers to help pick up rubbish during the Festival, the “carrot” being a two drinks tokens for each huge plastic sack of cans collected. Off on his own, Fynn rapidly collected three sacks’ worth. Having collected his half dozen drinks tokens (with a grown-up in tow to do so), he then wandered around the Festival offering the tokens for sale at the usual, or sometimes a discounted, rate but saving the punters the need to queue, and all proceeds went in his pocket. He began to build up quite a stash. His young cousins decided this was a pretty good idea, and set off to follow suit. Their mother was faintly aghast that people might think she was putting her kids to work to fund their parents’ alcohol consumption, but didn’t want to cramp the kids’ resourcefulness. And, for the youngest, the “cute” factor won out big time. Dragging round a sack bigger than he was, six-year-old Nicky rapidly earned himself tips from all quarters, and was ecstatic when his mother could report his takings exceeded a hundred dollars.

I settled down to imbibe the atmosphere and to enjoy the music, in all its forms. The opening act, fronted by the preposterously-dressed King Khan (unless padded Y-fronts, a woolly wig, knee-length boots and a gold cape are de rigueur on any part of the planet) who described his band as “the church of psychotic love and erotic gospel” (whatever that might mean…). The haunting voice of Sarah Blasko. The crowd-pulling Wolfmother and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The lightning-battling Midnight Juggernauts, pulled off stage part-way through their act on New Year’s Eve out of fear for the band’s safety, to the selfish booing of the crowd. The unexpectedly good Moby - as his music is heavily reliant on pre-recorded and mixed strands of music, I wasn’t convinced it would translate well to a live set. The extraordinary flying fingers of the Mexican acoustic guitar duo, Rodrigo Y Gabriela, Hispanicly fast and furious, which had even the most sedentary up on their feet, toes a-tapping. And the classic approach to a music festival, shouted out by Liam Fynn at the start of one of his songs, “This one’s about getting stoned and getting laid, something I hope you all do later,” to cheers of approval from the crowds.

And so, with a light show from the heavens to beat anything the Festival’s engineers could come up with, 2009 drew to a close in Tasmania. Fortunately the rain held off for the most part, and, when the storm moved on, the Midnight Juggernauts were allowed back on stage to finish their act, before the impossibly-harsh’n’husky voice of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Karen O could usher in the New Year. Queues at the beer tent had been patience-defying, so I treated myself to a gloriously fresh Byron Bay donut (it was “organic”, and therefore Good For Me… or something!), and waddled back to camp wondering what this year might have in store.

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Comments

[Steve Cooke]

Brilliant
It was a magical time, wasn't it? I loved every second - but I was incredibly tired at the end of each day! I'm very pleased you could make it.