A.H. CAYLEY reports on day two of the Golden Plains festival, which saw mudslides and storm warnings, a trip in an ambulance and a wonderful climax by the Midnight Juggernauts. Photos by KRISTY MILLIKEN. Day one here.

“Beep beep beep. This is the emergency warning system. Please pay attention in the event of emergency announcements ... There are currently no announcements.”

And with that wake up call, it's time to get out of my warm sleeping bag for another day. Fuck, it's cold. Everyone is soaked and muddy, but smiling all the same. Even my dry clothes come out of my bag damp. I forgot to pack more than one pair of socks, so they're soaked too. It's almost impossible to roll a cigarette – the air is too moist, the paper just goes soft instantly and the tobacco sticks all over my damp hands. Friends with tailored cigarettes are suddenly kings. Time for breakfast and coffee.

While the line snakes away from the Community Tucker Tent (run entirely by volunteers and with proceeds going to local not-for-profit organisations), Super Wild Horses start the day. I'll never understand the backlash against them. They write simple, catchy, minimalistic rock music and they play it well. They may play the same song eight times, but at least it's a good one. No one criticises The Ramones too harshly for it, but they're men. Over the weekend, any discussion of Super Wild Horses invariably holds arguments over their looks, with discussions about their musical abilities (or their perceived non-abilities) following. I think they play their instruments as well as they need to for what they do, and they produce an energetic set of songs you can dance to. What's wrong with that? They kick the sleep out of my eyes, and are a great choice to open day two.

Following Super Wild Horses is a first for Golden Plains: an inaugural keynote lecture delivered by Professor Hugh McDermott of the Bionic Ear Institute. It’s called, “Why Music Is Good For Your Brain.” At only 15 minutes, I wish it could go longer, but then, I'm a geek. Brief but fascinating, McDermott's lecture speaks at one point of the amazing ability of our minds to store aural memories, or “pictures”, outlined when he plays only half a second of the beginning of a song and asks the crowd what it is. Few wouldn't have recognised the start of Guns n' Roses' 'Sweet Child O' Mine', even having only heard the first two notes. This, McDermott says, is similar to showing someone a few millimetres of a painting and having them guess it's the Mona Lisa, which is really quite incredible. He explains the complex way sound travels through our ears and into the cochlear, before being translated into pictures by the brain, likening the process to the prism on the cover of Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon. Music, it seems, is important for keeping our minds exercised and improves our emotions and thoughts. So keep listening. But wear earplugs, or you won't be able to for much longer.

The sun has decided to show itself, and suddenly it's boiling hot. An outfit change is required before Jack Ladder, and suddenly everyone's coats and gloves and beanies come off. These people have skin! You'd never have known. Basking in the sun at the Pink Flamingo, it seems impossible to believe today is forecast with storms even worse than yesterday. It'll never happen.

Though the sun may be out, Jack Ladder doesn't seem to have noticed, playing a gloomy and rather underwhelming set. His Nick Cave-esque vocals echo throughout the site, but on the whole it feels rather self-indulgent, with little crowd interaction. There isn't much to latch onto or to enjoy, and the majority of the audience seems equally uninterested. Perhaps it would have been better if he had played first?

There are so many people working hard to make this festival what it is, and so many important workers and volunteers who may never get their credit. At this point I’d like to take a moment to thank the St John's ambulance volunteers. It's easy to forget the work they do until you really need them. Humiliating as it is, I found myself completely thankful for their presence when, having eaten little, taken no water and perhaps had too many Pink Flamingos, I lose consciousness and collapse to the ground during US band Nashville Pussy's set. Within moments I'm surrounded by the voices and touches of concerned punters, all adhering to the “Look After Yourselves And Others” policy of the festival, rolling me into the recovery position, holding my hand, checking my pulse, stroking my hair, asking me questions to keep me speaking, and on the whole keeping me calm. Security quickly alerts first aid, who promptly have me on a stretcher and in an ambulance to the medical centre building. These people are the invisible heroes of the festival, and as much as it embarrasses me to recount my moment of public weakness, I can't ignore an opportunity to praise them for all their efforts.

With Tame Impala about to go on and the rain having returned, an announcement is made from the stage: “The Bureau of Meteorology has told us that this afternoon and this evening, there will be huge storms, and possibly hail. So, things might get a bit hairy.” The crowd cheers, perhaps in disbelief. “Yes, we all love hair. Please take shelter in your vehicles, and not under trees. To repeat, take shelter in your vehicles, and not under trees.”

Entering the Pink Flamingo to escape the rain, the place is buzzing with this news. What if you're not camping near trees? Do you still need to shelter in your vehicle, or will a tent suffice? My tent cost $39. For the second time at the Meredith site in the space of only three months, I find myself again uttering the words, “I think I'm going to die.”.

Tame Impala play a great set, expanding on their recorded work with the extended bluesy psychedelic jams for which they've become known. They seem a bit unsure of themselves today, perhaps a little nervous, but on the whole they play well and the crowd seems to enjoy it, even with the rain. A couple of new songs are thrown in, which sound fantastic. A small crowd of people attempt to give them the famous “Boot” - when the audience decides to reward the best set of the festival by holding their boots aloft – but it doesn't catch on. However, a boot does make it onstage, smacking a band member in the hip. It's interesting to note that no band this year will receive the Boot. Perhaps it's all the mud and water everywhere – there's no way in hell I'm taking my shoes off for anyone.

The mud is just outrageous now. Not just a bit of wet dirt, it is now a soft, smelly, wet slurry that splashes from the toes of your gumboots onto anyone walking in front of you, and comes near to the ankles as you make your way through it. On an average day, walking up the incline of the amphitheatre is never really an issue. Today, it’s a tough and slippery journey. I see one man go face first, spitting out a thick mouthful of mud as he stands up. Others walking down the slope go feet first, landing flat on their arses and sliding. There are many comical moments as people losing balance attempt to steady themselves with the same grace of a newborn foal standing for the first time, and everyone seems to walk with the exaggerated isolation of a pantomime villain.

Various theories are passed around as the best ways to avoid slipping while walking downhill. Walk slowly. I tried it - it didn't work. The mud just slides out from under you and you don't have the momentum to get away. Walk quickly. I tried it - it didn't work. It's too hard to get a proper footing and you're likely to go face first with great speed – then hello, broken nose. Walk sideways. I tried it - it didn't work. It's much too tricky to balance and you run the risk of one leg sliding ahead of the other, resulting in a muddy and painful split that would be too hard to get out of. Walk backwards. I didn't try it – it's a fucking stupid idea.

I'm thankful not to have fallen in the mud, but my back and my legs are now aching from all the effort involved in navigating it. It’s such a deep sludge that your feet sink far into it upon impact, but it is so thick that it holds onto you as you try to take another step. There is no more walking, just trudging. Every movement is a cold, wet trudge. How tiring. So too are The Cruel Sea. Again, perhaps they are just in the wrong timeslot, but their set doesn't really have much effect on the wet crowd. Lengthy instrumentals are weaved among Tex Perkins' vocals and antics, and though there is nothing inherently bad about what they play, there just doesn't seem to be much good to speak of either.

The rain comes down faster and harder at acute angles to the ground. Tarps and tents take a battering, as do those around them. Onstage, Perkins had said the rain was over. Liar. I'm in such a mood that I find myself holding him personally responsible for the water flooding into my gumboots as I wait for the Midnight Juggernauts to play. There's no sign of hail yet – thankfully, it never comes – but stories spread throughout the site of the conditions back in Melbourne: flooded streets, cars washed away, hail the size of tennis balls. Tennis balls! We're doomed! Word has it the roof of Spencer Street Station has collapsed under the weight of the hail that collected in its silly new-architecture wave pattern. My tent is nowhere near as sturdy as that roof, though it may be far more appealing to the eye. We're probably going to be killed, so we may as well enjoy ourselves, and it seems that when Midnight Juggernauts walk on stage, everyone in the amphitheatre agrees.

They play the perfect end-of-evening set, with glorious electronic melodies flowing over the site. Though the mud makes movement an effort, a sea of bodies make the best of it, writhing beneath purple, pink and blue lighting which, thanks to the foggy air and a smoke machine, stretches out across the amphitheatre into one blaze of vibrant colour. It’s an exultant, joyous moment that not even the rain can quash, and such a brilliant end to the sodden evening.

And with that, I can no longer stand up. I walk back to the campsite as Opulent Sound entertain the ravers with dub beats that go early into the morning, and join my friends beneath our double marquee for too many drinks and cigarettes. The rain and the wind beat us senseless, but it can't dampen our spirits. Tomorrow may hold more rain, early-morning packing and a long drive home, but for now, I just want to enjoy this moment. Settling in to finally sleep as a distant DJ plays an M.I.A. remix at top volume, I smile knowing I'll see these Golden Plains again next year. I already can't wait.

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