Week 4 - Queestown (continued)

There are advantages and disadvantages to blagging a VIP pass to a high profile event.

On the opening night of the Queenstown Festival my official photographer (er, Tim) and I were invited to the Festival Launch Party. All the official sponsors were present, suited and booted, and they all seemed to know each other. They politely shook each others' hands, introduced their glamorous wives / girlfriends, and delicately took individual canopays from a dolly bird's tray. And then there was us.

We arrived at the purpose built pavilion in our smartest jeans, hoodies and trainers ('cos that's all I own now), took a glass of bubbly and a beer each from the bar and then, ever so delicately, took a handful of canopays from the dolly birds' trays and stuffed our faces. We smiled politely at the American Express Managing Director as we filled our cheeks and admired the venue. But it wasn't long before people glanced in our direction and mumbled to each other. And then, just as I was picking up another couple of free beers, we were approached by two people from the local newspaper.

Jess, a photographer and Scott, a journo, were curious as to why we were wandering around filming each other. So between us Tm and I recited our rehearsed speech, and then quickly turned the attention on to them.

It turned out that Jess and Scott were similar to us (er, a part from the fact that they actually do work for a publication). They too had access all areas passes and were enjoying the free food and drink. And they were wearing hoodies. Anyway we all ended up getting on pretty well and after swapping numbers we realised that the music had stopped and the suits had left, so we necked the rest of the bubbly, put a beer each in our pockets and headed back to the hotel.

Next morning we decided to take advantage of our complimentary lift passes, so we unpacked our snowboards, suited up, and headed up to the hill. And so it seemed, had the population of New Zealand. Despite the resort of Coronet Peak having had an expensive upgrade recently, the lift queues were like nothing I'd seen. To the point where it was actually quicker to hike to the top. After a couple of runs (just enough to discover how unfit we'd become) we grabbed a Coke and listened to a local band at the bottom of the slopes instead. Much better than standing in a lift queue for 45 minutes, waiting to slide down some crowded icy moguls.

We caught the early bus back down the mountain, and after a quick shower we headed into town to watch the evening's entertainment. A large stage had been errected by the lake, and the Queenstown masseev were enjoying some (apparently) famous New Zealand bands. Tim and I found the VIP bar, flashed our passes and helped ourselves to more free food (served by the same dolly birds which was embarrassing) and drinks.

Then we noticed the New Zealand Prime Minister Helen Clark heading out onto the stage, so we figured we ought to look as though we were doing our job. We headed to the side of the stage and as Tim took pictures, I got out my cheap notebook and Bic Biro and adopted a thinking pose. Eventually the Prime Minister left the stage and walked towards us. Tim took more pictures, the Prime Minister said hi to us, I eagerly wrote down "she said hi to us" in my note book, and then she was gone. Sweet! Job done! This journalism thing is easy! Time to up the anti.

I'd heard of the Kiwi band The Checks before. I was already familiar with some of their stuff - I'd even used their track "Take Me There" for an advertising job back home. So after a quick phone call to the festival HQ, our names were put on the guest list and we headed off to the Queenstown Events Centre. After picking up a goodie bag, we helped ourselves to yet another glass of bubbly from our now good friends the dolly birds, and headed past security to an upstairs viewing area where photographers and a film crew were setting up.

Then the background music stopped, and on to the stage swagger The Checks to a huge cheer from the female crowd. There was a brief but moody, "Evenin'. We're The Checks", the guitars kicked in, and the crowd went berserk to the chorus of "Take Me There". And it sounded superb! For the next few minutes Tim's camera never stopped, but my notepad and pen were wasted in our viewing gallery.

"Hey Tim, how far do you think these things will get us?" I said, holding up the piece of plastic around my neck. "Dunno," he said. "Where do you wanna go?"

We head back down the stairs, into the arena and squeeze our way through the sweaty crowd to the side of the stage. And sure enough, after a flash of the badge and a point towards Tim's camera, the four security guys let us back stage. And there we were, a couple of snow bums amoungst the rows of guitars, watching as roadies dragged thick cable past us and to our left, bathed in red lighting, the Checks played to a bouncing crowd.

Eventually the band set their guitars to feedback mode, waved to the cheering crowd, and swaggered off stage towards us. "Nice one guys - sounded great!" I said, holding up my thumb and notepad. As Tim took some more pictures the guitarist asked who we were. We told him about our magazine, and asked if we could have a brief interview. "Sure" he shrugs, and we follow the band, now with towels on their heads, through a fire exit. Holy crap what were we getting into? I knew nothing about this band. I didn't even know their bloody names!

We walk around the outside of the venue for a bit before ducking back inside through another fire exit held open by a security guy. A festival organiser greets the band, and then visibly double takes as we wander past her and into the dressing room. The noise of the venue disappears and we all sit around a table covered in cakes, fruit, and crates of beer which are immediately opened and the bottles are passed around.

The so called "interview" never happened and instead we chatted about British bands, Manchester, and snowboarding. It was all such a surreal experience. There we were, sat with one of New Zealand's biggest bands, reminiscing about the Madchester days, listening to them slag off the NME, and all the while I'm trying not to stare at the lead singer's stunning girlfriend who was sat on his knee, rubbing his chest and kissing his neck.

And then, all too soon, their manager appeared saying they had to be in Auckland tomorrow and the gear was packed and ready to leave. So with some back patting and clinking of glasses we said our goodbyes and I agreed to meet them in London on their UK tour in September.

We head back out to the viewing area, and as another band play on stage we get a phone call from Lawrence and Jack saying they were back in town and this time with Little Lizzy (another of the Fernie posse). So we hitch a lift back into Queenstown and after another quick trip to the VIP bar to stock up on nibbles and drink, we met up with them outside.

By now the centre of Queenstown was rammed with festival goers, and the queues for the bars and clubs were ridiculous. However, with a new found swagger, Tim and I head straight to THE club in town, go straight to the front of the line, and after a nonchalant flash of our passes and a casual "they're with us", the red rope was removed and we were led upstairs to our own table. We all ordered beers and shooters, stashed our coats, and headed to the dance floor. And that is where we stayed until the early hours of the next morning...

Queenstown is an expensive, touristy town. It's sole purpose is to take your money in return for a few thrills. But there are cheaper ways of getting that fix of adrenalin. Just create a UK lifestyle magazine over a few beers one evening, and then make some phone calls.

With our now useless passes still around our necks we all pile into the car and head off to Wanaka to move into our new house. All this partying with rock stars is fine, but it will be nice to finally do some bloody snowboarding!

Laps.

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