Photos: Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4

Stuck inside of suburban Hamilton with the post-Camp-A-Low-Hum blues again. One part disillusionment in the real world of deadlines and day-jobs, one part disappointment at not being able to stumble out of bed into adventure after crazy adventure, and one very large part despair at not having that many wonderful friends to hang out with for a whole year. Go easy on your friends who sigh about how much they miss Camp. They're in mourning just a little bit.

Team Hamilton set out in convoy Thursday afternoon with a set of toy walkie-talkies between two overflowing cars. We got crackly sweet nothings from a truck driver who called himself 'Cherry Red' on the road into Taupo. It was already dark by the time we found Tatum Park just south of Levin. We pitched our tents on parched, rock-hard ground which bent all the tent-pegs, while the light drizzle turned to nagging rain around us. I bruised my palms real good, it hurt to clap for the whole rest of Camp. Then we went a-wandering and found a hippy fire circle, complete with hippy drumming and belly-dancing. What is it about music festivals that bring hippies out of the woodwork?

Day one, and the first order of business (well, the second after cranking the butane stove for a morning cuppa) was a bracing morning swim. It smelled like bleach and felt like burning, which is probably just as well considering how many icky bodily fluids were going to come in contact with it over the weekend. I took a few laps and a hot shower, then wandered off to explorify the camp site. I didn't even find the railway tracks, much less the camp sites on the other side of them. I did, however, meet some lovely people and catch up with some folks I hadn't seen since last camp (hi Molly, hi Liam, hi half of Christchurch). Spent most of the morning spraying bug repellant on attractive strangers. Wit woo. The entertainment was meant to start around noon with a live audio link-up to wherever So So Modern were. Aidan said they were in San Francisco, and joked around playing casiotone-preset Wham. Blink told them off for wasting valuable audiofeed time. Then our hoodie-clad friends burst forth from the house and whomped us with quirky keyboardcore. Cue spontaneous dancing and a chorus of "oh yeah, i knew that was going to happen"s. Teenwolf hit the main stage next. Bradley was dressed all gangsta in a fiddy t-shirt and enormous bling. There was a stage invasion (the first and about the only of Camp). Hannah and Tim danced and sang. Then they all got kicked off for making the stage unsafe. Badass. Bradley threw his bling into the crowd. Somebody put a silver-plated bulldog round my neck. I put it round Hannah's. She deserved it more. Champion stage invasion antics! We're not even drunk yet!

I went to suss out the frequency of Radio CALH. Blink said don't bother, the Radio NZ live-to-air's going on in the bar. So i tuned my wee radio to 101fm and went in search of this mythical bar. There was a Mr. James Milne in short, short short-shorts. With him he had a Liam Finn and a Matt Crawley and a beautiful woman with a chillingly beautiful voice. They sang. I whimpered. Then Pikelet had a chat and played a couple of songs. One was a Stephen Merritt covered. I swooned a little. Pikelet is a girl from Melbourne who sometimes plays drums in hardcore bands, but mainly sings pretty folk songs with a cheap keyboard, accordian and vocal loops. She sings harmonies to herself, live on stage. That's pretty cool.

Back at the Main Stage, Crawley and Bradley were about to unleash their superstar personality cult. The Conjurors got us all hot under the collar. We all sang along to their smash hit 'It's Too Hot For Pants Tonight'. Chris pashed Buck in the heat of the moment. It's true, there are photos! Thanks to the miracle of Yootoob, you can sing along at home.

Saturday afternoon was pretty much an Alt-Country Party. Wellington's The Family Cactus did lovely things with three guitars, two organs, lots of voices and swathes of check cotton and gingham. It was super splendid to see Cassette again, now with the addition of Andrew Bain on bass and a giant furry growth on Dave Fraser's chin, and the astounding Steve Abel and the Chrysalids. They had accordion and double bass and the most amazing songs. Even more delicious than the dinner party that Jenni and I had that evening. And our dinner was pretty damn good.

We wandered down to see the whimsical wee Raggamuffin Children sing about aliens, then back to the main stage for The Reduction Agents. The stage invasions which punctuated last Camp were banned, so Camp'08 was the year of stage invitations. Sometimes with James, Liam, Ryan, EJ, Gareth and Crawley all lined up on a stage I couldn't even remember which band was which...or maybe that was the vodka-in-a-bottle cocktails. I do remember this: Reduction Agents were bloody fantastic. Jolyon Mulholland is a god amongst men, a very hairy drunken god covered with Sharpie-marker tattoos. Three or four songs in, he fell over into Ryan McPhun's drumkit and just sort of lay there for a bit. The band played on while Gareth (last year's Notoriously Drunk Bass Player) hauled him up and fixed up the kit. Next he dropped a pick and fished a 20c coin out of a pocket to finish the song. At one point he took swigs from whichever bottles of alcohol had been rested on the edge of the stage. This, kids, is how to do rock'n'roll. Take note.

Sora Shima did their noisy thing with effects pedals in the Noisy Room. People sat down. Sitting down at a noisy gig is just weird. I left them to it and went back to the main stage to see Liam Finn do his thing. His thing is effects pedals to sample and loop his own guitar, so that he can put it down and stroll over to the drumkit and play along to his own song. It's a pretty damn cool party trick. But Liam's an amazing, I'd-stab-my-own-eyes-out-to-be-that-good songwriter as well as a master of stage gimmickery. Better yet, the beautiful girl with the amazing voice was back. Liam introduced her as EJ Barnes. She sang, and strummed an autoharp, and two two of them made the most beautiful music. We swooned to 'Second Chance' and 'I'll Be Lightning'. We rocked out to 'Empty Head'. It was bloody choice. So's the album.

And so were Die! Die! Die! (even if the songs off Promises Promises don't have the same violent vehement fury as the earlier album). Lachie skulked up and down the stage like an angry puma, Andrew flung himself places, i force-fed them booze between songs. Good times. Afterwards I let a fellow paparazzo give me a swig of Jaegermeister (nasty!) and tried to get the Die! boys to come party with the ladies of Hamilton. It didn't go so well, when I managed to drag them out of their cabin the party had all but died. I gave up and swigged tequila with team Sora Shima instead. The morning of Day Two, I spent twenty minutes lying outside my tent groaning "I'm never drinking again!"...then I had a cuppa, a few laps of the pool, and decided it was time to venture into town for more liquor. In my attempts to get the party started, I'd accidentally polished off what was meant to be three nights' worth of spirits. No wonder it felt like I'd slept with my head on the train tracks!

Steve Abel followed by the Reduction Agents shook off the rest of the hangover. This time Jol was having guitar strap issues. The bass kept tumbling to the floor with an almighty blunnnng. James was wearing the same tiny shorts he wore the day before. Quite a contrast from the teenage indie-kids in the camp ground, who cried when the hot water ran out and unplugged the communal microwave to plug in their hair straighteners. True story, hair straighteners on a camping holiday! The short shorts made yet another outting a few hours later, with the Disciples of Macca. The Li'l Chief family make no secret of their love for Paul Macartney, but the Disciples took it to the next level. An entire field singing along to Mull Of Kyntire with a horn-and-accordian accompaniment? Sure thing! Heather, Hayden and Harry parped their brass while Gareth Thomas (Goodshirt, Chrysalids) squished his squeezebox. We all sang. It was glorious and sickeningly cheesy all at once.

There was a pool party on Day Two as well. Mega Chain Gang vs D-Rad. The inflatable orca whale. Whirlpools. Winecask bags blown up so they'd float. Splashwars. Dancing in togs and towels. Boozing to Amy Winehouse. Molly jumping into the pool in her dress, taking it off when it got heavy, and having random strangers pour wine into her mouth as a result. Ain't no party like a Mega Chain Gang Pool Party, folks. That was my last daytime swim of camp, and already my hair was starting to turn ginge from all the chlorine. Ginger afros are not rock'n'roll.

Little Pictures played xylophones in front of the gingerbread-man cutouts of the Nice Stage and gosh, it sure was nice. Johanna wore a little red riding hood cape and blew bubbles. Then it was back to the Main Stage, homemade vodka-lime-bitters in hand, for more Short Shorts action. Lawrence Arabia, featuring the amazing EJ and Chris Garland (I used to be a big Betchadupa fan when they were all still at high school, I felt like a pervy old woman perving at him now he's grown up and hot). And also featuring the game of Cat Bum Chicken. James showed us all how to make a face like a cat's bum and then threaten to kiss another guy -- the first one to pull away loses. Jol turned out to be a master of this art, as well, and lay a big puckery one on James. After that excitement, we hung out drinking at Little Hamilton for a while, where the Doppelgangers were having a bit of a jam. There was an extended song about being a crap band with bongos. I wish i could remember how it went, it was apt. Ricky played some old broken-down-heart songs and i butted in when i knew the words. We (well, I) butchered Hank Williams' 'Your Cheating Heart' quite thorougly, and I had a go at murdering 'Stand By Your Man' as well. Then I trotted off to see most of The Brunettes' set. They played lots of oldies, I was drunk and nostalgic. I probably sang along some more. The stabs of brass sounded epic. We stuck around for Phoenix Foundation but they were decidedly less awesome, to whit they were in stoner jam mode and most of the crowd was halfway to drunksville. I mentally gave them a B-, must try harder.

Woke up early on Day Three, after a refreshing early night. Went for a wander over to the merch tent, to charge some more batteries, and got to chatting with some of the bearded beauties of Camp A Low Hum. Blink insisted I take a photo of Jolyon's hand. Apparently the cabin boys had been playing that game where you take a knife and stab the gaps between your fingers real fast. Only it had all gone a bit pear-shaped. Equal parts foolish and f'kin awesome. The only person who was possibly more awesome at Camp was Hannah's brother Carl. He was legendary. Bling-laden hiphopper one minute, scary clown the next. The third time I met him, it was with a handful of printer paper with karaoke classics such as 'Rocket Man' and the entire Lion King soundtrack. I really should have asked Hannah for his hand in marriage, while I had the chance! Tim might be a close runner-up though. Brand New Math turned their midday Main Stage appearance into a pyjama party. I had my nightie on under my dress. Bradley had a fluffy robe on over his Johnny Cash man-in-black gettup. Calum had oversized jarmies that kept falling down while he played. Apparently Tim sleeps naked. By the end of their set, all he had on were two pairs of undies, boxers and the fetching hand-printed Cosbys panties from the first-night luau. I secretly thanked myself for the early night and lack of hangover. That was no sight for a delicate stomach.

The highlight of the afternoon was the Doppelgangers actually getting people to dance in the Noisy Room. The tiny, sweaty room got even sweatier. It kind of looked like the dance hall thing Patrick Swazey takes the girl to in Dirty Dancing, all writhing half-naked women and sweat and cheesy lighting. Oh, and Architecture In Helsinki side-project Somethingorother was great fun as well. It was muggy and we were sleepy, so we lay on the grass and listened to their twinkly electro. One song was made of telephone noises and Ants, steadily turning the colour of his cheap Cab Sav from drinking in the sun, decided to freestyle...

"Oh hi, mum....I'm at camp"

"Yes I'm eating alright"

"No, I've got protection"

No! No no no! The highlight was late in the afternoon, back at the Nice Stage. We were having an early dinner when Sam Scott started his solo set. I was curious to see if he was more interesting without the stoner-prog noodlings his band sludged through the night before. He started with a cover of Radiohead's 'Creep'. So far, not so good. But oh! The rest was magnificent! Sam, James (and the shorts!) and Liam tag teamed a greatest-hits package, with copious guest appearances. Sam wore a ridiculous inflatable seahorse family. They sang about Matt Crawley's penchant for pashing bees, made us all miaow along to 'Advance Australia Fair', and dragged Conan Hosford up for a romp through 'Sneaky Sneaky Dog Friend'. Then Sam ended on Chuck Berry's 'Teenage Wedding', with compulsory swing dancing. We kicked up a sexy dust cloud of fun.

The rest of night three was a bit of a wowser after that. Popolice was underwhelming, Kittyhawk was a no-show, Ruby Suns struggled to make sense of their songs with just Ryan, Amee and another lass on stage. The Disciples of Macca may have proved that Wings weren't so bad, but getting rid of all the multi-talented musical geniuses from your band and reverting to stadium drudge is never a good idea, whoever you are. Even if your girlfriend is a better musician than Linda McCartney. Even the Mockasins had lost the crazy spark they used to have. They did have some pretty sexy guest singers, though. Ladybird put on a great show down at the Nice Stage, though. It was all sweet, innocent sing-along until Creepy Crawley made an appearance with 'Il Est Trop Chaud Pour Les Pantalons Ce Soir'. That's right, the camp theme song en français. With French boys in Cosbys undies. Made of win! I got a kiss on the cheek for telling Luq "je t'adore", and later ended up in a boggling half-French-half-English conversation about Unicorn sex. While surrounded by zombies. Good party though, Teenwolf were the ultimate party band. Warner from Phoenix Foundation/Hot Swiss Mistress asked me why I still lived in Hamilton and I accidentally got on the defensive. Thought Creature did a wonderfully sludgy 'Monster Mash'. Their creepy soft toys got tangled in the lighting. Some hippy lady came up to us while Ants was demonstrating he was undrunk enough to jump over his own leg, and insisted on dragging him, Carl, Hannah and some others off to their 'better' bonfire. I decided the zombie party held better thrills, and thrills it did. Tim was on a boy-pashing rampage, which turned into a naked-2am-pool-party rampage, which turned into a seven-person 3am shower-in-the-band-cabins rampage. Janna poked her head in with a "Hi Petra, I thought I could hear your laugh!". It was kind of hard not to. Jordy and I had managed to get one shower cubicle to ourselves while Tim, Stevie, Isobel and a few others jammed into the cubicle next to ours. The towel-clad, shoeless gravel trudge back to the tents was Not Awesome.

Nor was the wind which whipped all the tent flys all night. Sam's mate had reckoned there was a big storm coming over from Palmy North, but it never amounted to more than drizzle. By morning, though, all the awnings had been blown down and everyone was cranky for lack of sleep. The thought of early-morning Stevie-cize was too much, so we ate our instant noodle breakfasts with Soljah Boy blaring in the distant background. I thought about op-shopping, but ended up just going on a supermarket run again. We made it back in time to catch Nico scaling the scaffolding as Ladybird charmed the main stage. They'd found some guests of their own, who played spoons and toasters. Bearcat did a neato picnic performance on the Nice Stage. There was shouting. And songs about John Campbell and communist Pandas. And lots and lots of mad grinning. Bearcat will make you grin your face off.

Boxwars helped me shake off the Nice and get back in touch with my inner misanthrope. Cardboard-clad warriors doing battle to the sound of Tiger Tones. There was a pretty vicious knucklebones final in there too. And a brutal Tug of War, in which Sharks were only narrowly defeated by the dreaded Eagles. Alex did his victory dance again. I think only because it proved so popular after he won the egg-and-spoon race. Take note, the way to a woman's heart is through screeching and imaginary wing-flapping. Back at Little Hamilton, the girls were doing pterydactyl impressions, and facing off in a competition of their own devising. It involved Jocee throwing pink smoker lollies into a line of waiting mouths. I did pretty well in the first round, but when it became a scrum it got a bit shovey. Later on there seemed to be competetive singing. Whoever could sing the Lion King soundtrack the loudest. Including all the African chant bits. They didn't even need Carl's karaoke crib-sheets, which was kind of disturbing. Later, as the booze flowed more freely, we moved on to The Sound of Music and old gospel songs. Amazing Grace got a couple of runthroughs at top volume, by a bunch of drunk slags in gorgeous prom dresses. We are nothing, if not enigmatic.

So So Modern played their second show in the round, in the field by the Nice Stage. The best bit was the cameo by Stormtroopa, where he insisted everyone sing along to Lord Vader and, as much as Dan scoffed, a few hundred voices raised in unison to hail "Lord Vader, you are the greatest playa". Then it was Tommy Ill's turn. Tommy is way underrated. People should do early-morning aerobics to his music. Except possibly not live, because he's totally baller and seemed to be swigging gin from the bottle just about every time i saw him. If Saturday night had been sugar and spice and musical niceties, then Tuesday was the night to dance like there's no tomorrow. Or at least, to dance like there's no Camp tomorrow, which is almost the same thing. After So So, we trooped up to D-Rad, who commanded the main stage and even slipped a little of TLC's 'Waterfalls' into the mix. Since Cut Off Your Hands had failed to make an appearance for the second year running, Trans Am followed D-Rad on the main stage. I've only been meaning to see them since 199-something, and I'm glad I finally did. They're funny, and fun, and they played some of the daft pop-electro numbers I used to love a little too much to not be embarrasing. Plus their drummer has sweet bling.

We'd all been running around in prom dresses and strings of pearls since before So So Mod, so after Trans Am the camp site was riddled with girls touching up makeup (Jenni pashed seven people in rapid succession, including a champion catch-and-kiss effort on Mo, that's a lot of lippy-smudgeification) and mixing another round of drinks. Stormtroopa and Tommy Ill had invited us to a No Pants Party on the boat in the woods, though an icy wind was blowing that made pantlessness something of an extreme sport. Still, they sounded great from where we were. A little drama went down and I ended up not going to the Prom, though I heard fabulous stories about Blink shutting down the PA when Noise Control came a-knocking, to which Liam shrieked that no man could shut him up and launched into one of his infamous extended drum solos. I'd spent the last half hour trying to make a cup of tea with a failing butane cannister and bumbling teenagers, who tore through our circle of tents and knocked over the pot of water just as it had finally started contemplating a few bubbles. I finally managed to get cups of tea and gingernut bikkies into our frozen hands as Boss Christ sludged his way into Hank Williams' 'Lost Highway'. So we trudged up the path in our warmest hoodies to watch that one. Tea. Bikkies. Hank Williams. Un-rock'n'roll might just be the new rock n roll. We had a relatively early night, anticipating hilarious prom stories and an early pack-down.

It's exausting just thinking about all the bands and booze and hello-hugs and goodbye-hugs and oh-my-god-this-is-awesome Liam-is-totally-playing-my-fave-song hugs. By 10am Wednesday morning we were more than happy to say Goodbye Camp. But gosh do I miss it already. Maybe I'll take my tent and some booze-in-a-bottle out to the garden, crank up Band On The Run and try to recreate the magic for a wee while longer. Camp '09 is only 360-odd days away.