MARCUS HOBBS reports on East Brunswick All Girls Choir’s recent tour of New Zealand, which included a stint at the Campus A Low Hum festival in Bulls.

Day 1: 35,000 Feet and Rising

We're waiting in the Tullamarine terminal, our plane is delayed, gate four. It's Rob's birthday and I have already broken one of his cases and clashed heads with him. A pen we took from New Zealand last year has burst in Rie's bag. The book next to me reads The Black Box: Cockpit Voice Recorder Accounts Of In-flight Accidents. This is a bad fucking idea all this.

We're waiting for our flight with Witch Hats and Ouch My Face. All destined for New Zealand with its long white clouds and small music festivals.

We'll skip the all the shit. All the waiting and announcements that you listen so carefully to with great attention that are rarely directed towards your flight. We'll skip all the shit like the bar not opening for another hour. We'll skip all the shit like leaving behind pillows in the terminal. We'll skip all the shit like the steward forgetting to announce Rob's birthday during the flight. We'll get to the shit. The Sydney International Airport. That is all.

At a second attempt on our new flight, the fresh overweight camp steward went to the microphone: “Hello ladies and gentlemen. We have a special announcement today. Sitting in seat 25b is Robert Wrigley and he turns 25 today. Put your hand up Robert.” He raised two almighty fists in celebration and the fuselage was riddled with cheers as if somebody has opened a Pringles can in the mid-’90s. We should have attempted a happy birthday sing-a-long but we're pissweak and gutless. No time. Gins were spilt and some sustenance was taken from the ice cubes. It's a tradition to drink at altitude.

We landed and acquired: 1.125lt Jose Cuervo Tequila
1.125lt Jameson
1.125lt Jim Beam x 2
1.125lt Beefeater Gin
1.125lt Gordons Gin
1.125lt Johnny Walker Red
1.125lt Smirnoff Vodka
10 x Peter Steyvasant Classics
250gm Blue Drum Tobacco

Our car hire representative seemed upset that we had taken so long obviously not understanding the importance of our purchases and in a disgruntled tone asked, “Was your flight delayed?” I answered, “No.”

He forced us out of the airport to sign documents for vehicle and we were on our way. Off to see an old friend David Pascoe on the other side of the bay. He was an avid seagull observer and ale drowner.

To cut an evening short we drank many ales from the Pak’n’Save and met some new friends who would be running to Campus A Low Hum also. Rob failed to spew on his birthday as we finished the night with some kind of fruity vodka which was sucked from a single shot glass that burnt the neck out, Pelican Pete Syndrome. 1.125lt. This is a bad fucking idea all of this.

Day 2: Moving Camp

Early morning cage eggs too hot to handle. A decent shower taken for granted. These were the perks of a functioning house, get it right and you will never leave.

It's the eve of Campus A Low Hum, a small music festival which will be held in an abandoned school (flock house) just outside a town named Bulls. Bulls itself is more or less abandoned if you exclude Mr Grumpie's Fish and Chips, The Rat Hole and a McDonald’s. The drive there was shithouse, a long weekend riddled with Wellingtonians sitting in a queue for miles outside the city trying to escape for the long weekend. Had they known we were in the queue they may have turned back.

We were met at the gate by two guys in blazers advising us to head to reception to pick up our wristies and form guide. I'm not going to lie, if you want to break into this festival it would be fucking easy.

We were accommodated in a large dorm, rec room and cold showers that we realised worked on the third day of the festival. Surrounding us were the Witch Hats, Parking Lot experiments and Love Connection. Probably should have just stayed home.

The day tapered to night and duty free was released to the wilds. While it rained everyone gathered in the barn for the initial pleasantry storm. I got to catch up with my Polka Dot Dot Dot pals and then spew on a wire fence. Just a few more days to go.

Day 3: Flocking Fuck House

We rose, we fucking made it. Single mattress survives day one with just a little bit of dirt and a scumbag on top. We were due to play the barn stage at 1.30pm so there was some kind of monster reason to get up. Main stage time had been pushed back because of the rain which still fell quietly on the grass.

Pets With Pets opened up my ears at midday and the headache dominated. Codeine cometh and make the man. I fucking hate headaches. They're useless.

We eventually played, the rain cleared. We barnstormed clearing the remaining vomit from the throat from nights previous. It's hard to say how it went, when you have the front of house engineer right in front of the stage throwing cigarette filters at you it could be going either way.

Day 4: Holy Hell

Pass the fucking codeine again. This warm mixture of ginger ale and whisky needed to be left behind. Rob made a trip into the city of Bulls for a box of Tui's. Ice in the showers was a failed idea and we were back to warm carbons. Fuck it.

Today, the reported 20 litres of mescaline doing the rounds had taken it's toll on a few including our very own Josh. Arguably he had a good time and on the plus side it didn't persuade him to jump through a door as it had to others. Wicked games.

Witch Hats took advantage of the party-in-the-pool stage, literally held in an empty pool. It rattled the bowels a bit. Josh with head in hands rested on the back wall. Seven hours after this I was standing in the same position in the pool as Dan Deacon geared up to play. I had watched a news story a few weeks prior about all these people dying in a night club fire as everyone panicked. This looked strangely familiar so I got the fuck out of there. Exiting the door I found Pascoe analysing the stance of a young kid with his hand on a wall vomiting up his future. I couldn't think of anything better to do than to observe and learn.

Day 5: Hat Trick

After saving the liver the day before it was time to go. Sunshine and mini-lasagne snacks went down a storm. By mid-afternoon Rob was drunk as all hell, so we thought it best to pull up a pew and watch Polka Dot Dot Dot. They hail from Olympia and I had seen them the first year of camp receiving the only deserving standing ovation I have come across. They rocked the party handing out a dickload of spoons and ice-cream for everyone to gorge on throughout the show. Banjos, stomping and sweet sweet voices were the order of the day. How could we step on the same stage in two hours and not ruin the afternoon? There was only one thing for it. Get drunk enough that everything sounds like an empty gut spew. It worked somehow, we had Zayd and Ash sitting on a couch on stage doing something or other.

The day pissed on and we ended it with a formal. Photos were taken and we hit the dance floor. Moments not to proud of but never forgotten. Camp was essentially over. I can't remember many bands and I missed a bunch too. It was the best way for it to all go down.

Day 6: Your Love Is Like…

Rising at midday we emerged to a festival camp ground now empty. Everyone got out quick smart and all that was left of the 1300 people were piles of trash and a few hitchhikers. The morning had aroused memories of the night before. A Drumheller 5am set keeping up the campers and a Duns set terrorised by members of Gaywyre – it wasn't pretty but it got through the gates.

Today we head back to Wellington but not before we take advantage of Mr Grumpies fish and chip store in Bulls. He wasn't that grumpy at all but he knew how to lay on a titload of salt.

Nothing happened today. We woke then ate then drove then slept. The sunroof in the hire car paid off. Codeine drained.

Day 7: …Bad Medicine

After an uneventful evening we were now due to catch up with an airbus to shoot us down south, way down.

The half-hour flight to Christchurch, although not as pretty, nailed the ferry and six-hour drive for convenience, but it scared the shit out of us. While coming into land there was a dark man with swastika tattoos reading to himself from some kind of demon book and scrunching up rosary beads and his plane ticket. After he counted to four a number of times, the wheels hit the floor. Maybe next time mate.

Tonight we were playing at The Dux De Lux with T54, I had already left my bag at the car hire office so this night was gearing up to run well. The Dux has their own range of self brewed ales and ciders so we knocked off some scabs before heading off to RDU radio station to attempt to do something. Who knows?

Getting back to the Dux it was all ready to go. T54 were some kind of mixture of brutality and reverb-mashed vocals. Loud like lightning. The Dux ended up being pretty busy with guys and girls buying us beers while we slagged our way through some songs. There may have been an encore request, things must be pretty quiet now down in old Christchurch town.

After the show we headed out to the new cool bar called Goodbye Blue Monday. It had a fake 40 gallon drum fire and a fussball table which had been pissed on a few nights prior. It was games night and I was keen for it. Ping pong was on the cards with Rob not quite living up to his self-proclaimed reputation. Fuck this let's roll. We were staying tonight at the home of Rose, Paul and Kaye of The Bats fame. Rie heard someone crying hysterically in the middle of the night. We are still unable to figure out who it was. Maybe it was someone who wanted to take up the offer of staying with a guy we met called Brian Ferry?

Day 8: You Got Some Nerve Pal

A breakfast of champions devoured by a river and the day had begun. Christchurch was holding the international buskers festival so we were unable to locate the Cathedral Square wizard. Instead there was a German guy in tight shorts playing ‘I Like To Move It (Move It)’ and throwing yo-ho diablos in the air. This reminded me of a kids game show in Australia where they used to give away diablos. Which then reminded me of James Sherry, which then reminded me of him hosting the half-time cricket entertainment, which then reminded me of the first time I was in Christchurch and there was an England vs New Zealand one day international, which then reminded me of not being able to find a place to stay in town because a gig organised by Popolice had fallen through, which then reminded me of how much I hated Christchurch the first time I visited.

Fortunately, this time Paul and Kaye offered us up their spare house so we spent the night there drinking on camping chairs and playing Asshole. Nothing else happened that day except for Rie cooking gyoza and karaage in the evening, that fucking annihilated.

Day 9: I Wah Wah Wah Wah Wunderbar

The buskers festival continued today and we caught some traditional young Maori stylings along with some jerk with a guitar and beard. I had spent most of the day up to this point trying to organise a backline for the show at the Wunderbar tonight in Lyttleton. Everything seemed fairly in order, getting organised, trimming nails.

After Wednesday's show at the Dux we got offered to play a magazine launch for these drunks running this gloss-spread called Tallyho. They got six months worth of funding somehow and were ready to dish out the scratch. The gig was held upstairs above a cafe in the city during the early evening. We were due to play first up being bumped onto the lineup and as we were setting up we realised Josh was missing. After 20 minutes he rounded the corner, kebab in hand and none the wiser. The place was pretty packed and Josh wound on the final cymbal nut and finished the kebab, he later told me all he wanted to do the whole time was piss. Some guy was filming the set right up in our grills, it all felt a bit awkward. We played fairly well, all bladders considered, and as we finished someone broke a window which fell and landed on a vacant cafe table a storey below. Vandals.

Some other bands were still to finish up at the Tallyho launch and we needed that backline. That's what the day of hunting panned out to: wait for one gig to finish then take the gear. We opted to head out to the Wunderbar instead, about 20 minutes drive through a tunnel.

Come midnight, the barman started asking questions, so I tried to force Drumheller into doing a set with whatever gear we had. Just as he finished setting up the rest of the gear arrived. He began packing up without striking a note.

Young punks the Nevernudes played and got by, we did some drunken shitting through the mics and the let Ouch My Face get in and party. At some point we played Chris Isaak's ‘Wicked Game’ and a man made his way into the band room from the front bar to yell “fuck yeah” and dance around. This was a concern so we stopped playing that and cut into something else. He promptly left, it was about the story of the evening.

Our empty house greeted us with a wink.

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PART TWO SOON: Seals, mass murders and sunburn.