The atmosphere was already frothing as I hunted a pair of trashy sunnies that would survive the rigours of a music festival.

Pacing around Sydney’s Paddo Markets feasting on a steak sandwich that had to sustain me for eight hours, you could sense an urgency, a tumult among the normally funky but relaxed crew that frequent the Oxford Street icon.

But right now a different crowd was threading the maze of stalls slowly making their way up the hill to Centennial Park for V Fest 2008.

As each block fell away behind us more and more people poured out from pubs and laneways until a full horde braved the traffic dodge to cross Moore Park Road and enter the park.

Some marched with determination, heads down, legs pumping, desperate to get amongst it as quick as possible. Others were finishing off bags of goon, getting their fill before attacking huge worming beer queues and morale-shattering drink prices.
But most moved in large groups of beaming smiles, arms round each other’s shoulders already belting out the favourite songs they hoped to hear.

A couple of hundred metres out from the gate of the over-18 festival bands of young teens paced, planning their fence jump with expressions coursing between exhilaration and fear (“F*ck, I’d better not get caught and hear about how bloody hot Modest Mouse were. Sh*t and I bet Robbo hooks up with Kate if I’m not there. I’m there.”).

After the inevitable wait to get in, the bag check, the ticket scan; all very regimented and orderly it was a great feeling being spat out the other side into the festival. People line up trudging through the gate but shoot off in every direction once across the threshold. There is that air of promise, of mischief. The sun, a few beers, hotties everywhere and the chance to rock out in front of one of your favourites.

For me that meant making a beeline straight for Modest Mouse. Going against every instinct, every grain of my being, I even went thirsty, giving the bar a wide berth so as not to get sucked in and miss Isaac Brock’s opening song.

The indie rockers were on early when the sun was doing its worst. As a relatively pasty dude with an aversion to burn, I still wasn’t going to miss it. So I shielded my hatless (read stupid) melon with my hand and watched Brock, along with Smiths guitar legend Johnny Marr tear through their set. For a man who is much happier these days Isaac Brock is still one intense hombre on stage. He went absolutely ballistic during set highlight, Tiny City Made Of Ashes and the crowd ate up his frenzied screaming of the line ‘Self pity built a city and the population is you’.

By the time they finished I would have stepped over my grandmother for a beer so we trooped off to the bar for some fuel.

It gave me a quick chance to have a glance around and realise just how different festivals are these days. The flannels, Rollers, Metallica shirts and red eyes of my youth had no place here. The grassy stroll to The Other Stage was like a catwalk; wall-to-wall flesh and fashion.

But back to the music, the next band off the rank was Air. Strange festival fare I would have thought but as the sun was setting and clouds strolled over for a look shelling out a light load of plump rain drops it almost seemed right. People who had moments earlier been banging out on one side of the park grooved for a moment or two as the French love merchants serenaded the crowd.

For me though the day’s highlight came next with Queens Of The Stone Age. I had never seen them before but have always loved everything frontman Josh Homme has done. They were awesome, full of fantastic rock riffs and hooks you cannot help but move to. Homme is a charismatic leader and he had the crowd in gaa-gaa land and with ink laden drummer Joey Castillo belting away we went nuts, especially to former Triple J hottest 100 number one, No One Knows.

Strangely enough though the biggest singalong went to 80’s and 90’s heavyweights Duran Duran. When lead Simon Le Bon asked if anyone was hungry the cheer went up and every word of Hungry Like A Wolf was echoed by the crowd.

Lastly it was off to see headliners Smashing Pumpkins. I was weary and anxious. The Pumpkins are the band that nudged me off the rail of crappy Video Hits and made me love music, loud rock music. Siamese Dream is one of those albums that brings back vivid memories every time I hear a song from it. When I saw them at the ’94 Big Day Out, I thought for the first time ever I was gong to get crushed in a mosh pit so amped was everyone. It was one of the most energised and thrilling live performances I have seen. But that was a long time ago. There had been many falling outs and a number of bad songs released by the band and their alter egos since.   

Still as they came onto stage to a massive roar and lightning cracked furiously in the background I wondered if maybe history might repeat. As if in answer to my prayers Billy Corgan strummed the first chord to Today, the same opener that sent everyone surging over my body at the BDO. I let out of joyous hoot.

Sadly it did not last forever. Corgan and his group sent down a few classics but during one stage of his famed self-indulgence Billy was standing on a speaker playing the American national anthem and on both sides of me people pleaded, “Please Billy, play something”.

Really though festivals are not purely about the music itself. If you want to see a great band at their best you go to the side show. V Fest and its siblings are about atmosphere and mischief and gorging on music until fit to burst. It’s not fine dining.

As we made our way back down the hill of Oxford Street and the crowd thinned pouring back into the pubs and laneways they had scurried out of earlier in the day, full of swagger and music this time round, it was obvious every punter got what they came for.
   
 

Photography by Daniel Parkinson