I’m dancing in a $10 poncho, just sturdy enough to last the two nights.
The crowd goes wild after chanting out the countdown, echoing around the natural amphitheatre of Waterways.
How did I get here?
Slopping through 15 minutes of ankle deep mud, including a direct hit to the eye by some douchebag jumping up and down in the stinking filth. Yes, I expected to get muddy. I’ve just made it past the gates for the second time, haven’t I? But I sure as fuck was not planning on an eye infection to boot. Lucky these contacts are due to be ditched.
What the hell am I doing here? I’m Miss Priss. I don’t care how awesome the lineup at Woodstock was; I never would have survived. I’ll never make it to a Glastonbury. And if we’d been camping this NYE, I probably would’ve written off my ticket and stayed in Auckland. Thankfully, we had a house and hot showers to return to.
So I settle into the squelching miniature swamp of my sandshoes – still damp from yesterday’s gig – and hold my tongue as the muck sloshes in over the sides and between my toes.
I turn down all offers of booze and drugs. Even if I was into it, I need all my wits about me to navigate this swamp in the descending darkness. I don’t want to faceplant in the brown slush, or fall on my ass like the guy in front of me. And I’ll stay away from the massive mudslide on the other side of the hill.
Shapeshifter’s on, bringing the “mudstep”.
Optimus Gryme turns up the dirty dirty dnb.
I read a brilliant op-ed once that asserted “dubstep never got anyone laid”. It’s true. The shuffling and spazzing that passes for dub dancing is decidedly unsexy.
My poncho is slowly ripping down the centre of the chest, and I have to physically hold it together with my hands when the rain starts. Apart from Homegrown, the weather has been crap at all the outdoor concerts I’ve been to – Big Day Out, the Foos, and now Coro Gold.
The three skinny security guards stationed next to me start dancing. too. A drunk guy approaches and envelops me in a bear hug. I hold a can of Smirnoff for another while he videos the band on his phone, nearly nutting himself on the fence post while trying to get a better angle. He never comes back for that drink. Countless more rock up, unzip and empty their bladders a metre away.
I’m counting down (5, 4, 3, 2,1) by myself. I’ve decided to stay up on the hill where it’s relatively clean and I can rock out to just the acts that I do like. T is off with the others in the pit, getting his arm potentially broken (trouble always finds him). It’s the perfect way for an introvert to see in the new year – surrounded by others, yet alone.