Cracker by Damian Christie

It had all the makings of a bad horror flick.  A group of attractive young things venture to an island.  A severe storm is brewing, which will soon cut power and any means of escape.  Half the group will make it, although we don’t know this at the time.  And the legend of a Hook Hand Joe, a former patient of the old rehabilitation centre there, who went mad and escaped – not before chewing his hand off – and is said to live in the hills somewhere,

Well, that’s mostly true.  Apart from the bit about ol’ hook hand.  And maybe our youth – we were there for a 40th, so I suppose it’s all relative.  But dammit, we were an attractive bunch that head across to Rotoroa Island last weekend.

The occasion, as I say, was my friend Sofia’s 40th.  She’d rented the one of only three rental properties on Rotoroa Island for the weekend, and invited a dozen friends along to celebrate with her.  The fortnight before hand involved much planning and seemingly endless group emails flying back and forth.  Everything was accounted for. Music, check. A menu taking into account various dietary requirements, check. Supply and quality of coffee, check. Even a separate set of group emails for secret party surprise stuff like a cake and presents.  We were on like the proverbial Donkey Kong.

 Rotoroa Island, if I may backtrack, is a small island off the back of Waiheke.  It was purchased by the Salvation Army the year after the Inebriates and Drunkards Act of 1906, and housed a drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre for nearly a century, until it closed in 2005.  12,000 odd inebriates and drunkards sobered up there over the years, an irony that wasn’t lost on us as we packed lashings of booze for our friend’s big day.

 In recent years Rotoroa, still owned by the Salvation Army, and run through a trust, the island’s history is being preserved, and as well as its buildings, its native bush and wildlife are also gradually being restored – 20,000 pine trees have been cut down, and some 400,000 native plants established. Two families live on the island permanently, engaged in maintenance and seeing to the islands guests.

 There’s one ferry a day on Saturday and Sunday (plus Tuesday, Thursday and Friday during Summer), leaving Auckland at 8.45am.  It being a holiday and all, we decided bundling up our lives, baby, and battling morning traffic on Friday morning was going to be too hard, so the six of us adults, and two children, booked a water taxi instead.  At $360 for the boatload of us, and our considerable provisions, it wasn’t too bad a deal we thought.  The other five adults, who had work commitments on Friday they couldn’t get out of, were going to jump on the Saturday morning ferry.

 Or so we thought.  Friday was gorgeous, the sun was shining, the sea was flat, and we kept to our 11am departure time without a hitch.  But though we set sail on the (surprisingly petite) water taxi with narry a problem, trouble was literally on the horizon. The weathermen and women, fickle though they might be, were in agreement – a storm was a brewin’.  And not just any storm, but that most pants-wettingly exciting of all meteorological media creations: A weather bomb.

 On arrival Rotoroa seems almost strangely well-developed.  The visitor terminal, inside which one waits for the ferry, I assume, was new and flash, to the extent of giving some regional airports a run for their money.  There were other buildings too: A modern exhibition centre and a restored church visible from the harbour.  Having assumed heading to a little-known island was going to be a tad intrepid, first impressions were more like what I imagine Norfolk Island might be like – a preserved colonial feel.  Or Kawau Island, minus the mansion.  And there are weka by the truckload.

 We were picked up by one of the caretakers, piling our gear in the back of the 4WD for the short hop up to the house, and then settled in.  The house was nice, recently renovated, with everything one might need right there – no need to bring towels and linen and that, which makes sense I guess given the ferrying involved.  There’s even Wi-Fi.  Phew.

 While the weather was beautiful, it soon became clear that our city-side companions might have a few issues getting to us.  The 360 ferry, which we were told cancels sailings at the first wisp of wind, had cancelled its sailings for Saturday.  The water taxi reckoned they could head out super-early, and hopefully outrun the storm, but (understandably) two of its would-be passengers weren’t so keen.  We were down to three, which made it expensive for those left.  As it turned out, by day break even the water taxi wasn’t leaving port.

 On the island, as often happens out in the Gulf (it’s not just a rumour spread by smug Waiheke-dwellers), the bomb barely made itself known.  Well, the wind whipped along, and the sea was messy with whitecaps, but above it was predominantly blue skies.  It wasn’t great exploring weather though, so we stuck to the house.  During the afternoon there were a few short sharp downpours, and the power went out but was soon back on – although I suspect that was the island’s generators kicking in, rather than a prompt repair job.  The Wi-Fi kept us updated with the damage toll back on the mainland.

 While those we’d left behind were missed, we made do.  We had twice as much food as expected, although the list of stuff we’d forgotten and given to the reinforcements to bring, was never going to make it.  By day two the beer was gone, coffee was running short and cigarettes were being rationed.  On the other hand we had pork chops and bubbly for (the non-Muslim bits of) Africa, the former cooked to perfection by our volunteer chef Scott (whose Taco Truck is a Sunday must). And realistically, the house we were staying in, Serenity, might sleep twelve, but only six fit comfortably around the dinner table, and no-one was left without a seat in the lounge.

 Sunday morning, the bomb was gone, the sun was out and the sea flat again.  Dozens of visitors had arrived on the island for some sort of Open Day – many were involved in planting and other conservation projects by the looks of it. 

 We had arranged the taxi to meet us at half two, so we had time to wander over to Men’s Bay (there’s a Ladies’ Bay next to it, separated – quite rightly – by an impassable rocky outcrop) for a swim. The last of the pork chops were consumed, we packed our belongings and wandered down to the ferry.  Like the ride over, the ride back betrayed no sign of the previous day’s tempest, which was probably for the best, as some of us inebriates weren’t exactly ship-shape.  Happy though, and with a careful eye on the weather, I’d head there again in a flash, and recommend it for anyone wanting to escape the 09, without losing the Wi-Fi.

Show first:

 Let’s just put it out there to start with. New Order weren’t very good.

 That’s going to sound like heresy to some, and I’m sure others will emphatically state that they thought they were bloody fantastic and they had the best night ever.  Of course it’s possible to have a great night and enjoy seeing the band you love simply because you love them, not because they’re doing a particularly good job.  Or, as was the case with the couple in front of me who were giving each other vigorous head massages, you might’ve had some extra help.

 I mean, I said the same thing about the Pixies when they came a couple of years back – I went to both Powerstation and Vector gigs then, and was really glad to see them, but also completely underwhelmed – and people couldn’t believe I was being serious. 

 So let’s put a few facts in there.  Barney’s voice was completely shaky and not-particularly-in-tune for the first bit of the show.  He kept fiddling with his headphone-monitors, I wonder if they weren’t working properly.  But still, that wouldn’t excuse his total lack of vocal energy.  ‘Regret’ trundled along well enough.  I saw some friends leaving early, disgusted.  “You didn’t see us here”, they said. 

 When they performed pretty much my favourite tune ever, ‘Ceremony’, early on, I found a wave of excitement.  Which was tampered by Barney forgetting the words to the second verse and instead just repeating the final verse twice.  I mean, it’s only their debut single. They’ve only been performing it since 1981.

 Everything else ticked along, but that was kinda it.  Ticked along.  And I felt like I was ticking off a box, “New Order, tick”. I’d missed them in 2002 – the much discussed line-up change at the Big Day Out which saw them playing the last set to everyone’s wonder saw me cursing in a car back to the CBD to open up the nightclub I was managing in time for the post BDO crowds.  Sorta wish I hadn’t, in retrospect. No-one ever arrived at that nightclub until 3am.

 If I was thinking “New Order, tick”, Barney was probably thinking “Monday night, Auckland, tick.”  He looked at his watch during the Blue Monday encore.  And then during the final song of the night, Love Will Tear Us Apart, added rather stupid stadium-rock-esque yelps into the chorus.  Ian Curtis, grave, rolling etc.

 For pure energy and I suppose authenticity, I actually far preferred Peter Hook’s ‘Unknown Pleasures’ Powerstation appearance in 2010.  He’s coming again in April, hauling out another Joy Division album as an excuse.  I would, but I’ve already got a tick in that column, and I’m going to start being a lot more careful before throwing money in the direction of ageing rockers trying to eek out a living on past glories.

Dinner:

 The stereotype-breakingly lovely mother-in-law was across from Waiheke on babysitting duties giving us our first night out as a couple in some time, so we decided to head out for dinner first.  I was keen to check out the new development of Imperial Lane, which runs between Queen Street and Fort Lane.  Roxy, the fine dining establishment there is closed on Sunday and Monday, and we wanted something a bit more casual anyway, so we went to Everybody’s Bar and Bistro. 

 First, I fricken love what they’ve done with the fit-out.  Decaying urban meets faded 1920s – aged mirrors, upholstered ceilings with exposed brick and concrete.  Auckland just became a better place to live.  It’s the sort of place I would take a friend who was back from the UK and wouldn’t shut up about how much better it is there.  It reminded me of the better parts of Melbourne, or a Lower East Side restaurant in Manhattan. There's an inside bit with lush booths, and an open air atrium, which feels like a little secret in the city.

 Someone told me that they famously don’t employ New Zealanders there (or it could be Roxy, I’m not sure), because they’re just not up to it.  Well there were a few kiwis on last night, and a few non-kiwis – we were served by a handful of different people during dinner.  And everyone seemed remarkably well informed as to where the food originated from, how it was prepared, and what we would think about it.  Signs were good.

 Unfortunately, they weren’t that great at the getting-stuff-to-and-from-the-table bit, which some might say is even more important.  There was an awful lot of faffing and announcing what was going to happen.  “I’m going to bring you your water, and then I will begin the bread service.”  Ten minutes later, we’d got a glass of water and been told a free bit of bread – produced in Newmarket by the wife of the owner, served with butter made in our own kitchen, unsalted other than the sea salt we sprinkle on it (making it salted, I guess) – was imminent, but we hadn’t had our drinks delivered. 

 This sort of continued, trying to catch the eye of the staff to order another drink, having to call out to remind them we hadn’t any cutlery for our entrees, or perhaps they could clear our empty plates when they left with our drink order, and we still hadn’t received the salt and pepper we’d asked for, but maybe we didn’t need as we’d eaten half our mains by that stage.  Despite having a show to get to we weren’t in any particular hurry, so the delays were real rather than situational.

 I’ve worked in enough restaurants that this stuff irks me a bit.  Don’t deliver drinks to our table and not take the dirty plates back to the kitchen with you at the same time, unless there’s a really good reason not to.  It makes things faster.  It makes people not even realise until later how brilliant the service is because it has gone unnoticed, it’s that swish. 

 The food, for the most part, was great.  Or should I say, the owner’s wife in Newmarket knows how to make a good loaf of bread.  The “pig’s head”, which is actually the pig’s face meat removed and reconstituted into a sort of warm, fleshy terrine, served on mash and with wispy crispy bits of pig ear, was the best pork meal I’ve had in years.  Better than any pork belly, as rich and tender as a good confit duck (which they also do), really impressive, as was the Matawhero Chardonnay I ate it with.

 On the other hand, I don’t know why the waiter trumpeted the oysters, some deep sea variety that were small, grey and disappointing.  Out of season, I’d say from their condition.  Not the kitchen’s fault necessarily, but don’t put them on the menu, and certainly don’t recommend them to the table with an enthusiastic smack of your lips.  The kingfish sashimi – unlike the way Al Brown does it at Depot, nice and simple with apple, toasted fennel and an oyster cream – disappears into a watery mess, buried beneath pink grapefruit, a pile of micro greens and barley of some description.  It wasn’t bad, just lost. A bit like the cutlery.

I will however, be back.  Just with lower expectations, and possibly an annoying friend from the UK. I suspect on a good night, with the right staff, it could be one of the best places in town.

In all the years I’ve been going to Splore I assumed it was a made-up word.  Foolish me, of course it’s an obscure Scottish term from the 1700s, how could I not know that. Call myself a wordsmith.

Point being, over the years, made-up-word or not, the term Splore has become infused with such meaning of its own, that it’s now worth a thousand or so other words. Like ‘Mabo’, it’s about the vibe.

Unfortunately for some, the chilled-out vibe that Splore is supposed to ooze was somewhat hampered by massive queues to get in.  I’d had my own issues – about to leave home, discovered a flat tyre on the new family wagon, and no key to remove the special lock-nut that I’d never noticed was holding the wheel on before.  There were queues on the motorway at Manukau – it was Friday afternoon after all, and queues to search the cars when we turned up. Things were made easier for me, a combination of my media pass and a pregnant friend (not my partner, Harry was born a few months ago now, and Rebecca deemed it a bit too soon to brave a music festival – a wise decision in retrospect) meant we were ushered past lines and got a sweet parking spot, but I spoke to some who spent up to five hours getting in, parked, and to their campsite – before even beginning to pitch their tents. It meant some people missed the ‘main’ acts of Erykah Badu and Soul II Soul, the former being pretty much the main reason I made the trip.

 Not me though – I got there as the Yoots (a side project from Fat Freddy’s Drop’s Joe Lindsay, offering ska-esque covers of all your favourite Maori folk songs) were celebrating the sunshine – perfect musical programming, thanks Splore.  Lady Badu was well worth it too, even if she was about 45 minutes late getting to the stage.  I love festivals, the rumours that circulate – she’d been detained by customs; no, her plane had been caught in a hail storm and had to turn back  - turns out, according to Amanda from Splore anyhow, that she’s just a difficult artist to deal with, whatever it is that means. I heard (more rumours) she travels with an entourage of around 20, not including the band. Of course, a little more communication with the general public via the big stage would’ve helped alleviate rumours, and perhaps chucking a DJ or something on so those waiting could at least have a bit of a shimmy wouldn’t have hurt either.

After Erykah had sha-la-lahed her way into our hearts and souls, and began on an encore, the heavens opened up. It’d happened in town earlier that day, that brief but incredibly torrential rain that our sub-tropical city does so well. Outdoors at a place like Splore however, the effect is transformative – suddenly everything becomes churned mud, people are slipping, sliding, gripping, clinging, jandals are discarded.  Many chose simply to embrace mother nature, and dance in the rain. Along with a few hundred others I rushed to the Living Lounge and sheltered under a mostly waterproof marquee, watching a fairly bizarre cabaret act involving tightrope walking, sword swallowing and bong smoking/juggling.

The rain eased, and back at the main stage, Soul II Soul came on, those instantly memorable drum loops transporting the crowd straight back to 1989. Caron Wheeler was epic. I didn’t notice, but Russell told me he thought the MC was a bit average.

I wandered up to the DJ area and caught Nick Dwyer and Dick Johnson’s first outing of a new collaborative act which said it would take us “around the world”. It was a promising debut, with artists out front playing steel drums, African drums, congos etc. My only constructive criticism would be that behind those instruments, the near-constant four-on-the-floor beat didn’t help with the promise of global transportation.

Much of the rest is blurry. Tiki Taane singing an acoustic rendition of “Use Somebody” by the Kings of Leon as I traipsed down the beach towards one of the installations. Another festival rumour had it that he abused the crowd. If he did, I missed it. Two friends trying to have shouty-deep-and-meaningful conversations in my ears from either side at the same time, while I was trying to dance to JStar.

Then there’s the trouble with sleeping. Even if you haven’t somehow done something to make that less likely, even just too many vodka redbulls, there’s a problem. A tent is like tissue paper. The people who think it’s great to have a campsite party at 6am and sing “A horse with no name” repetitively might as well be in your room. Don’t they know that the proper time to stop being loud and annoying sleeping campers is 5.45am, when I left my friends’ campsite party? How rude. As soon as they stop, there’s a guy snoring loudly, might as well be sharing a pillow with you. Tune him out, here come the first people getting up for the day, discussing shower plans. Might as well get up myself.  

While not sleeping I come up with a great solution, one which, unusually, still makes some sense the following day. Just as the start of a big race sees runners self-sort by estimated finishing time, so the faster runners don’t spend the first half of the race trying to get past the chaff, why not do the same with the camping? What time do you think you and your friends might get to bed? 6am – right this way please. Midnight? Off you go, over there. Not foolproof, but at least it means those who want a good night’s sleep aren’t interrupted by the nightowls and vice versa the next morning. You can have that one for free.

Anyway, despite little-to-no sleep, Saturday is wonderful. The bar could probably open a bit earlier than midday, some of us could use a breakfast beer. A swim suffices – the ocean, I tell everyone who I think needs to know, is the most perfect temperature, cold enough to be refreshing but not even the slightest bit chilly. I could spend all day there.

The music starts up and I particularly enjoy Jason Eli’s set in the DJ area, before heading down to meet Amanda and Suzanne from Splore to get a few key facts and figures for the Metro review I’m writing. Were there too many people here, I asked? A few friends of mine were still gnashing and grinding teeth over what they describe as epic organisational SNAFUs from the day before. Amanda says it’s always a bit like that on the Friday, which is why Saturday night is the better night, people are able to let all that go. She points out we have it easy in NZ, at overseas festivals you sometimes have to park a couple of k’s away from the campsite and lug all your gear in. A friend responded to me later that at the Falls Festival you can park right next to your tent. Another says WOMAD never has these issues. I’m sure there are plenty of examples of better or worse logistics, all I would say is that plenty of communication at the time helps. Amanda says they certainly won’t be selling any more tickets than they did this year, but she’s considering whether to return to an annual festival, as the bi-annual concept isn’t really enough to live on. Tough call.

But time’s ticking. I had the foresight to pack up the tent earlier, meaning my last few hours aren’t spent dreading the task ahead of me. With half an hour til home time there’s one thing I haven’t yet ticked off, my best memory from last time – a swim while watching the bands. Perfectly, Isaac Aesili’s new project, Funkommunity take the main stage playing their beautiful brand of retro-soul and the water is warmer than before and I wish, my God how I wish I didn’t have to leave.

(Thanks Splore.) 

I'm told the police will be turning up at TVNZ and various other media establishments sometime today to execute search warrants for material relating to the 'cup of tea/tea pot/I'm a little teapot short and stout' recording.

I've been leaving clues for when they get here.

 

As a founding member of the Libertarianz way back when I was young, dumb and thought Ayn Rand was awesome, I like to keep an eye on my former brethren. Sorry, former autonomous individuals, each rational and capable of making their own decisions without the interference of Nanny State.

So I was amused to see this as I rode through Mt Albert this morning:

I appreciate it's frugality, the fact it says to me "yes, if we were in power, we wouldn't go squandering taxpayers' money on needless frivolity, we'd appreciate that every cent earned is yours to keep, and we'll only take the bare minimum required to do those few things that a Libertarian Government is properly charged with doing.

However I'm not sure what it says about their ability to plan ahead...

Lindsay Perigo must be rolling in his grave.

[Oh, and by the way, I was right about Winston not standing, see.]