The next best thing…

Is it true? Yes. That headline might be clickbait on steroids, but nevertheless it rings true. Tame Impala at Qudos Bank Arena was a show countless fans had been waiting for; our psychedelic Jesus touring the world far and wide but never once being able to grace the hallowed arena with his indescribable wizardry. 

Thus, you can imagine our disappointment when his show in April got postponed to December by that twat of a virus that I refuse to give a shoutout to. But our hope remained. “December will come by in a flash,” we said. “It’ll be so much more worth it then,” my group of mates and I reassured one another.

But as you’ve probably guessed, December crept up, and doing the best with the info he had at the time, our god Kevin Parker was forced to reschedule his Aussie tour to 2021. You could say fans were just a bit heartbroken. Actually, heartbroken doesn’t begin to do justice to the torrential storm of emotions we were feeling. But let’s be clear: we weren’t angry or upset at Tame, but at the stitch up of 2020 in general. Music lovers have really been forced to rough it out while we hold onto the memories of festivals and gigs (the ones that didn’t give a shit about social distancing) that defined our lives. 

Naturally, my group of mates and I (I’ll be remaining anonymous because, well, just read the title of this fucking article) asked ourselves “What’s the next best thing we can do over the Tame weekend? What can make this somewhat worthwhile?” We brainstormed our hearts out, hoping against hope that the live music gods would come to us in some divine intervention. Then, it hit us. The answer: Go camping with a shittone of acid, and trip our absolute balls off as we go through the heavenly discography of one of Australia’s greatest musical exports.

So that’s what we did. Our daring, slightly sleep-deprived group of high-functioning sesh heads loaded our cars and ventured into the beautiful landscape of rural NSW for some good old-fashioned camping and tripping. So, you know, what regular camping trips are like, but this time with a very specific goal: To listen to so much Tame Impala that we could recreate a fraction of what his Qudos Bank Arena show would’ve been like, and come home knowing that we made the best out of a terrible situation.

At this point I’m gonna fast forward through a bunch of shit (work, exams, COVID, you know, regularly 2020 stuff) and jump right to our arrival at the campsite in Mid December. We’re all locked and loaded, and to be quite honest, we’re all ready to get astoundingly buckled. But, there’s one thing standing in our way: a huge, fuck-off tent brought by our mate (let’s pretend his name is Barry) that’s literally the size of a small home. It takes over an hour to set up, and by the end we’re all so defeated that we take a couple minutes to get our bearings. But nevertheless, it’s totally worth it. The resulting structure ends up being an absolute nirvana just perfect for our substance-infused venturing, fitted with the most psychedelic lights that old mate Kev himself would’ve shed a tear at.

But the tripping comes the day after. The first night we get so abhorrently sideways on beers, ciders, seltzers and cruisers (say a bad word about them I dare you) that we’re all a bit worried we haven’t left enough in the tank for the main event. But then again, after 2020 I think we could all go on week-long benders and still be wanting more, no amount of partying or debauchery able to satisfy the leviathans within.

So yeah, we’re all fucked and just enjoying life, and we end up on a nearby beach with a guitar (don’t jump the gun it wasn’t cringe). And we somehow link up with another group with a scarily similar music taste. Luckily, they’re all on the same wavelength, and like us, are just looking to have a good time and make some new mates. Before we know it we’re belting out hits old and new, jamming out wholesome group singalongs revolving around Sticky Fingers, Ocean Alley, Tame Impala, Matt Corby and essentially every Aussie act under the sun. There might’ve been a rendition of ‘Wonderwall’ at one point as well, but let’s not get into that. We all make friends and promise to link up the night after, but of course, no one means it, and we don’t see those fuckers again for the rest of the weekend 

Cut to the next morning. We all wake up scatt AF, but ready to seize the day. After a little exploring of the surrounding beaches and getting one of our cars bogged (make sure to go into low range BEFORE you get onto a beach folks) we somehow make it back to the campsite. Then, the moment we’ve all been waiting for begins. We toast our magic fun squares into sweet ecstasy as if we’re in an episode of The Crown or some boujee shit, and then we wait.

I should mention at this point that I’d brought with me a ridiculously huge speaker so we could get as close to a real gig as possible, but what I’d completely forgotten is that this very speaker has a hidden function that allows you to change the key of whatever song is playing. So, we’re all coming up, playing beer pong and just fucking around while we wait. And all of a sudden, one of my mates finds the button, and totally starts messing with our heads. Essentially, you don’t know torture until you’ve heard Tame Impala’s ‘Let It Happen’ in every key under the goddamn sun. It gets to the point where we don’t even know what the original keys are for any of his tunes, and we start questioning whether we’ve gone through his whole discography in the totally wrong key (cue LSD-driven existential crisis).

Thus, we’re all riding the wave; colours swirling, mountains moving and feelings running rampant as we lose ourselves to the kaleidoscope of sensory overload that’s LSD. Soon after, we even lose track of what album we’re up to, immersing ourselves in the absolute magic inherent to Kev and his many hits. But there are tonnes of special moments that are impossible to forget; the gorgeous rawness of the guitars in ‘Mind Mischief,’ the sudden spurt of magic that launches ‘Disciples,’ the fluorescent streaming of sweetness that emanates from ‘The Less I Know The Better’ and of course, the inevitable, drug-enhanced arguing about which version of ‘Borderline’ should’ve made The Slow Rush (the OG version is superior and I’ll fight anyone that says otherwise).

But, much like Hockey Dad’s ‘Seaweed,’ the beach calls to us, it’s gentle waves and endless depths inviting us to take it to the next level. We oblige, and lug that fucking huge speaker over, moving the party to the sand as we all venture deeper into the trip, and consequently, ourselves. By this time, everything is hilarious and nothing makes sense, but alas, it’s beautiful. In terms of Tame we’re now coming to the tail end of Slow Rush, tunes like ‘Lost In Yesterday’ and the gentle ‘Is It True’ being backed with mystic waves hurtling toward the shore. It’s bloody sublime, and honestly, nothing could’ve made that moment better. 

Naturally in moments like that however, boundless euphoria fills the air, and with its arrival, the departure of all common sense. It’s all perfectly summed up in one of my mates yelling as we’re about to run into the waves “WAIT… We can only go in at 6:30.” For some reason, we don’t question him at all, and we all wait until exactly 6:30 before submerging ourselves in the water. It’s totally worth it, the ocean enhancing our sensory transcendence as we shiver with magic droplets. 

The next couple hours, I’m gonna be real with you, I honestly don’t remember. But, I assume we were all frolicking and doing a bunch of other silly shit. I’m also guessing the guitar made an appearance at one point or another. But boy, do I remember the second part of the night. Of course, I’m referring to the long-awaited sesh/ magic-light den that was Barry’s tent.

So, we all end up back in that fucking house-and-a-half, all of us sat around the edges with pretty much every illicit substance you can think of (but only the good ones) in the middle. We also had enough nangs to last us until kingdom come, which yes, we played Tame’s ‘Nangs’ to while indulging. But by this time we’ve essentially finished Tame’s discography, and we’re going through every genre of music we can think of to keep our spirits burning. Disco, Techno, Drum & Bass and so much more, it feels like we’ve tapped into the cosmic heartbeat of sound, and it’s bloody beautiful. We’re literally all just huddled together, the pitter patter of the rain outside adding to the immersion as we lose ourselves to the gorgeous tunes and boundless energy that emanates from a bunch of mates on the sesh. I swear I saw the birth of the universe five times over in that tent, losing myself to those heavenly lights as we cycled through rhythmic and auditory nirvana.

Slowly we start to immigrate back to our camp chairs outside the tent, sitting around as we all eventually come down. I say eventually because we straight up trooped it out until the early hours of the morning, but as some pretentious philosopher once said, all good things must come to an end. Thus, we finally retreat to our tents, swags, cars (and one super beautiful van that’s the living embodiment of a ‘sesh haven’), going to sleep with the expectation of a super mellow morning, one where we can all just reflect on our day of utter beauty.

WRONG. I wake up to a ranger tapping on my car. Some lovely campers loved our music so much they ended up telling the rangers all about it, not even bothering to come ask us to turn it down beforehand. But to be honest, we probably weren’t the most approachable lot, and I can’t imagine hearing various Tame Impala hits constantly shifting key would’ve been the most pleasant soundtrack for the surrounding families. So, we end up having an hour to get the fuck out of the campsite before the ranger tears us a new one, and we hustle like our lives depend on it. It’s the end of a straight up silly weekend, and honestly I wouldn’t change any of it for the world. But if there’s anything I’ve come away from the whole couple days knowing, it’s to NEVER bring a speaker with an adjustable pitch button with you on a drug-infused camping trip.

Nah but seriously, that weekend taught me the importance of your mates and live music, especially in these cooked times. I mean, I think it’s fair to say all of us have lost contact with a mate or two due to all the bullshit of COVID and lockdown. Without gigs, festivals, house parties, clubbing etc, it’s just been rough as on the social side. You’ve probably still got a mate you haven’t seen since everything kicked off. It’s been rough, but even though it’s still looking a bit shaky, I’ve realised that this COVID shit can do fuck all to dampen your bond with your mates and the Aussie spirit it comes hand in hand with, and I think it’s time we be reminded of that. That ridiculous, insane weekend taught me that, and it’s without a doubt the main thing I’m gonna take away from it.

Anyway, if you managed to get this far down this encyclopaedia of a trip report, firstly: How on Earth do you have this much free time? Secondly, cheers for letting me ramble to you for god knows how long! Here’s to 2021 hey! Fingers crossed it’s better than the shitshow of 2020 (and we get to see our god Tame Impala absolutely rock the house at Qudos Bank come December).