WHO’S BATTING NOW ?

Rip It Up, Issue 79, 1 February 1984, Page 2

WHO’S BATTING NOW ?

Look, the only way to survive these things is to make sure you enjoy them. Haul in the entire consumer society if that's what it takes. It's better than dying of a Big Miserable. Your reporter was taking no chances. I did the steak very rare ...

FRIDAY: The early afternoon crowd seems very thin or to put it another way, there's plenty of space. The row of stalls sells clothing, sunscreen, comics, special Sweetwaters frisbees (a dubious idea that seemed to fail), badges, hats and the usual array of marijuana paraphernalia. Poet Bruce Bisset mounts his apple crate to begin orating, sees he hasn't really got an audience,

and stands down

The day wears on, more people arrive and it rains again. Hard. Mud puddles trace out giant holes in the crowd. They're not going to wet their feet for rock'n'roll not yet anyway. Backstage, people find their caravans, the roar of a couple of powerful stereos begins. Ungainly casual cricketers echo the test match unfolding on the radio. The ball gets lost quite often.

By the time the Eurythmics take the stage the mud seems to be taking over. The Monster That Ate Pukekawa. It doesn't matter. I spend most of their set ankle deep in mud, sort of wearing jandals, oblivious to all but the show. Fab, and even the sceptics said that. The ongoing establishment of our caravan as the site of a permanent party begins but it's a damn fine party. Jordan Luck meets Roger Shepherd and drinks lots of our beer, a bundle of faces cram themselves in. Doug Hood has arranged 200 watts worth of stereo. Across the way Sandii and the Sunsets look politely uncomfortable in the WEA caravan.

The lady from next door comes in and says she has two exhausted film crews trying to sleep and could we keep it down.

SATURDAY: There's a knock on the door and it's someone from WEA threatening to tip our caravan over if we make as much noise when they've got Talking Heads there that night. Sounds like a fight ... The film people respond frostily to our cheery smiles.

Netherworld Dancing Toys come and play cricket and are better than anyone else. A couple of rainstorms make the mud even worse it's an effort to get anywhere. The food is proving to be average at best and not at all cheap. That's what a monopoly does for yer.

A naked man rolls and dances ecstatically in the mud in front of the stage. At first people take pictures and, later, inevitably, throw cans. It's called intolerance.

Nobody seems to know whether Talking Heads have arrived but the Joßoxers wander about, pale and friendly. Would have invited

them to play cricket but figured they probably didn't want to even think about the game with their lot's current showing down south. Plastic Pegs are a most pleasant interlude on the often tedious small stage and leaving them for the Pretenders proves to be a bad move.

The crowd has firmly established itself as (mostly) benign a distinct change from last year. Thefts are reportedly well down and there have been no rapes reported. The big police presence is making people a lot more careful with their drugs. Those in the know point out plainclothes cops. This fucking mud is getting me down. Talking Heads aren't doing interviews, never mind.

The show is great, if occasionally a little uptight. David Byrne assumes a very weird character on stage. He knocks over a lot of microphones and doesn't talk. As promised, Talking Heads are at a barbecue at WEA. We attempt some kind of decorum but it doesn't really work. David Bryne's not there

anyway. The lady from next door comes and asks if we could keep it down because she's got two exhausted film crews trying to sleep. We turn the stereo off but then the singing begins ...

SUNDAY: Fatigue is beginning to cloud a few minds. Paul Rose starts repeating himself. Hammond Gamble does something that sounds like Jimi Hendrix from back here.

The cricket ball is lost for good but the real cricket, which has formed a patchy backdrop to the entire event, is developing almost psychedelically well. Roars of triumph dot the compound with each wicket. Probably none are happier than festival promoter Geoff King

the early finish to the test match means it won't compete with Sweetwaters South in Christchurch tomorrow.

Dance Exponents play a typically infectious set on the main stage, while Simple Minds watch from the wings. It's time now for The Interview. The Virgin people are creditably nervous but eventually Mr Kerr and I sit down only to be

interrupted 10 minutes later by a kick on the foot. No time, try again Tuesday. It's not fair ... Simple Minds are enthusiastically great, quite heartwarming. Many choose to pass up on Rose Tattoo and head for home or bed dummies! Not so much a concert as a sustained bomb blast, this was the perfect end to three days of inexcusable excess. Angry Anderson: "C'n ya understand what I'm sayin'? Well that's good, 'cause I fuckin' can't!" EPILOGUE: Angry has drunk to our good health, Rose Tattoo are gone and there's silence apart from the ringing in my ears. On many fronts this has been the best Sweetwaters I've attended drawbacks like the ludicrous detours to get from behind the stage to in front, never once seeing toilet paper in a portaloo and the MUD couldn't change that. I'm still glad it only happens once a year.

There's been an exodus, the caravan is quiet, it's time to sleep. But there's a noisy party nearby. I think it's the film people. Russell Brown