A.H. CAYLEY reports on Saturday’s Homebake at The Domain in Sydney’s Royal Botanic Gardens, where not even a guy in a banana suit could outshine Wollongong’s finest, Tumbleweed. Photos by DANIEL BOUD.

It's 11am. The line snakes around the Domain grounds and doesn't seem to move much. I can't believe how long it is, given that doors only just opened. Despite scalper tickets failing to sell even at cost price, those who are here are obviously very keen. An array of colours and outfits greet onlookers walking past. Denim shorts seem to be the order of the day, as are hand-penned singlet scrawls: “Homebake '09 Fuck Yeah”, “I'm Fine, Mum”, “Don't Hassle This Hoff”, “Powderfingerrrrr”, “Jonno Is A Faggot”, etc. Fluoro isn't such a big deal this year, though yellow and orange safety vests still make an appearance with some sporting an overlap in the vest/scrawl venn diagram. There are at least 20 “Getting Baked For 15 Years” homemade shirts, and one guy is dressed in a banana suit. It could be two guys, as he seems to look different throughout the day, but I never see more than one banana in the same space at the same time. All sorts of headwear make an appearance, and the Village People-style chief's headdress is an early favourite. Orange skin is on show with little left to the imagination, and the early signs of sunburn are already evident.

Once in, Philadelphia Grand Jury kick off proceedings on the Main Stage. It's a slightly subdued set, with MC Bad Genius suffering from bronchitis and a seemingly shy Berkfinger – who recently revealed that he doesn’t like the sound of his speaking voice – having to address the crowd between songs; his pre-recorded banter samples aren’t working on this occasion. He needn't be so worried – his voice is fine. They played a good, if not great, set featuring songs from their debut album Hope is For Hopers. New drummer Calvin Welch – wearing a “Yes We Did” Obama shirt – is a mesmerising addition, and fits in with the band's sound perfectly.

At the Hopetoun Stage, Hopetoun Homebake Incentive winners Kyü exhibit a Björky kind of pop. It's really quite lovely – sunny, intricate and atmospheric – but also with a sense of darkness to it as well. A fine choice for what could possibly be the last ever Hopetoun Incentive winners, as painful as that it is to write. Opening the Big Top stage, Catcall performs with a live band (including former Kiosk bandmate Angela Garrick), showcasing some tracks from her forthcoming debut album. The crowd is absent to begin with, but many soon wander in as her set continues. Catcall's voice has an amazing strength to it that carries well live, and the band provided more of a rock sound to her usual electro-hip-pop. Can't wait for the album.

Back at the Hopetoun Stage, Triple J Unearthed winners Boy And Bear play a folksy, '70s throwback kind of indie rock, with some gorgeous vocal harmonies. Many stand inside the tent to watch – others lounge around the fig trees outside and listen from the sun, while at the Main Stage, The Scare showcase their energetic live set to a steadily-growing crowd, as I walk over to catch The Middle East at The Dome. Not having seen them before now, I desperately wish I didn't have other sets to review. This is wonderful stuff; aching, yearning, beautiful pop music with an alt-country edge.

On the way back for Jonathan Boulet, having torn myself from The Dome (walking slowly and turning around often), I come across the beginning of the inevitable festival meltdown. A shirtless man staggers around near the main stage and comes to land against the metal tree barrier to the left of it. It may be heat, booze, or something more illicit, but despite his massive grin, he clearly needs help. A stranger grabs a nearby security guard, but he turns out to be just another drunk punter in a fluoro safety vest. With responsibility flung upon him, he stands over the fallen festival-goer, one foot on either side, bends, mumbles about having “everything in control”, and proceeds to slap the man across the face, repeatedly enquiring “yrighmay?” while another guard is sought. It turns into an all-out slap fest before a real security guard steps in. I walk on. Nothing to see here.

New Modular signing Boulet and his band are certainly worth seeing. They play a gorgeous brand of melodic pop, and though still a smalltime act, there is enough buzz to ensure a sizeable and appreciative crowd. People are dancing. It’s great.

Dappled Cities soon take to The Dome stage to fill in for Rowland S. Howard, who has cancelled his show due to illness. For a band called in to take the place of a national fucking treasure with generations of fans (many of whom may not have got the news in time), Dappled Cities did a fine job. Songs from this year's marvellous Zounds translate amazingly on stage, while older material still sounds as fresh as ever. The “oooohs” of 'Fire' have those standing near me swaying pleasantly, and that exultant chorus in 'Holy Chord' still provokes goose bumps, no matter how often I hear it. Absolutely joyous.

Short Stack take to the Main Stage midway through Dappled's set, and from the back of The Dome area, the screaming audience can be heard even as Dappled play. As I walk over to check them out, I'm amazed they’re even on the Main Stage – after all, this is an over-18 festival and the majority of their fanbase is still forced to take maths classes – but they sure know how to work the crowd. Sweaty drunks in minimal clothing move wildly to their music, and no one seems to mind that the kids onstage have evidently spent more time teasing their hair and carefully ripping their jeans than developing any sense of distinctiveness to their sound. It's schlock-rock-by-numbers with heavily scripted banter, but at least we can be sure the young folks know the value of recycling: Short Stack are making a killing off of it.

Feeling dirty, I head to the Hopetoun Stage to catch Parades. What a difference a smaller stage makes. Parades play sweet but intelligent pop rock, and will no doubt soon be huge in the indie scene. They are followed by Bridezilla, whose new album The First Dance works wonderfully live. It’s proof, if there was ever any doubt, that the depth and beauty of that release was more than just a result of fine production. The intricacies of their music shine through, and they have the crowd in the palm of their hands.

By now, the Domain is almost split in two – those on one side of the longest bar queue, and those on the other. Stuck in the middle for booze. I wonder how many people will spend more time queuing than actually seeing bands. Seems like a waste of a ticket, frankly. Walking parallel to it, I make my way to The Dome to see Underground Lovers. Admittedly, I know little of their live act, having missed them the first time around, and though I can appreciate it and tap my feet, I'm not particularly moved. It's unfortunate that their set clashes with Tumbleweed’s, because I don't get to see much of it.

“Standing at the front of the Main Stage, I find myself at home among a massive Wollongong contingent, screaming big ‘fuck-yous’ to the Channel [V] presenter onstage.”

Standing at the front of the Main Stage, I find myself at home among a massive Wollongong contingent, screaming big “fuck-yous” to the Channel [V] presenter onstage, asking us to make some noise while they announce their newest recruit Billy. “Fuck off, Billy!” can be heard from a few directions. It seems half of Wollongong has shown up today, with even Thirroul and Tarrawanna public schools represented side of stage in the form of Tumbleweed’s on-looking offspring. Jesus Christ, Tumbleweed. It's as though they've never taken a day off. Richie Lewis' voice sounds better now than on any record, and he moves with the ease and abandon of a man half his age. I can't stop smiling, or dancing, and neither can those around me. In the silence before their final song, the legendary ‘Daddy Long Legs’, a chant of “Wol-lon-gong! Wol-lon-gong! Wol-lon-gong!” picks up momentum. I can't help but scream along in a rare show of pride for my former hometown. I sincerely hope this reunion is not as short-lived as currently advertised.

Later, the Red Riders play the Hopetoun Stage. Perhaps it's just the memory of Tumbleweed still fresh in my mind, but their set seems pretty tired. Even original crowd favourite 'Slide In Next To Me' seems quite lacklustre, and more recent singles like 'You've Got A Lot Of Nerve’ fail to bring much excitement.

The news crews will no doubt report large numbers of young people arrested for possession of drugs and pre-purchased alcohol, and this will be no surprise. Throughout the day I have seen various bag searches, countless bottles being emptied by guards and one young woman escorted out in handcuffs after her pockets were rifled through. I personally have learnt never to take any sort of medication around a festival security guard, remaining polite and cooperative while two boneheads pass a blister pack of contraceptives back and forth for inspection. “Yeah, nice try,” one said. “It's pretty obvious these white pills here are different to the others. How stupid do you think we are?” The policewoman they escorted me to answered that for them with one withering glance that seemed to say, “Just fucken evolve already.”

Walking to the Big Top to catch Decoder Ring, I witness a little bit of Eskimo Joe on the Main Stage. Meh. Not much to say, really. Conversely, Decoder Ring are amazing. There's such an elegance to their music and their performance; it's dreamy, almost transcendental and perfect for sore bodies and souls winding down for the festival’s last stretch.

It's almost impossible to move now as more people turn to the Main Stage, stretching back across the grounds. It takes me 10 minutes just to get over to The Dome, by which point I've missed more of Sia’s set than I would have liked. She's certainly a talented singer and with a very dedicated fanbase, but tonight it's a bit too cutesy and quirky for me, and I have to run (well, shoulder and elbow my way) back to the Hopetoun Stage for the Howling Bells. It's been a while since they played Homebake, and it's a welcome return. Lead singer Juanita Stein is a born frontwoman, manipulating the crowd with each note. Though not wishing to downplay this year's Radio Wars, older single 'Low Happening' remains the highlight of this set.

I have no hope of getting back to the Dome stage, so I will miss Tim Finn, and wait at the Hopetoun Stage for Yves Klein Blue. Last time I saw them, at Sydney's Laneway Festival, they didn't do anything for me at all. Tonight, they're brilliant. A hard, fast, sweaty and incredibly energetic set greets fans, moving with abandon under the tent and spilling out under the surrounding figs. YKB's cover of Springsteen's 'Born To Run' is a moment of sheer joy for both band and crowd, and I reluctantly walk out to see Jet at the Main Stage.

Have we backlashed so far that we've flung back to a frontlash? Jet's crowd is massive, and loud, and moving wildly. It's a rare song that isn't sung along to. Say what you want about their influences or their perceived lack of individuality, these are solid rock songs, delivered with great skill and enthusiasm. I too have criticised them in the past, but fuck all that, this is now: My name is A.H. Cayley and I thoroughly enjoyed Jet's set at Homebake.

A glutton for punishment, I once again force my way through the crowd for Sarah Blasko at The Dome. Almost 10 minutes late on stage, she shows off some of the softer moments from her new album, As Day Follows Night – none of which I have seen or heard live yet - and I wish I could hear it better. The noise from a between-band-video screening while Powderfinger's crew sets up on the Main Stage can be heard too clearly from the back of The Dome. Even with my soft spot for Blasko, I can't truthfully say her set goes anywhere special before I have to leave for Eddy Current Suppression Ring.

They're midway through 'Memory Lane' as I arrive, and while it's a great set to begin with, it soon peters out into a bit of a bore. Lead singer Brendan Suppression tries to liven things up with an attempt to convince crowd members to jump the barrier and get closer to the stage, but it has little effect. Not even 'Cool Ice Cream' can pick up the energy, and having seen and loved this band many times before, I decide it would be best if I head out and catch the end of Blasko's set. I'll see you another time, ECSR, and I'm sure you'll be amazing as usual.

I wade through the massive Powderfinger crowd (do this many people really still give a shit about this band? Really?) and get back to The Dome in time for Blasko's last song – her glorious cover of Cold Chisel's 'Flame Trees' – as the bats dance around overhead.

Aiming to beat the crowd, I join some other weary folk on the way out, away from the sunburn and the blisters and the streaky fake tan. Many of this morning's costumes have long been discarded, and those too inebriated to remember where they flung their outfits shiver their way back to the city, past stuck-up CBD club-goers getting passed over with metal detectors. They stare at us Homebake survivors like a lesser species, and although they'll never know the sense of superiority we feel regarding them – we’ve experienced music far better than anything played in their shiny club – they do at least get to know not to hassle that Hoff, and that Jonno is, apparently, a faggot. You know - the important things.

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