Maybe I'm getting old, but that’s not my idea of a fun Sunday morning wake up call. Not anymore....
So how did I get here you ask, my ears ringing like Baghdad, my brain hemorrhaging cottage cheese, my stomach gently coagulating 1000 greasy Prego rolls and slices of pizza. Three days earlier… The first thing I see is an old South African flag. They always make me nervous. Especially up country. We set up camp and head out, cautiously. First impressions: this is going to be a hard festival. A test. A four-day episode of Ultimate Survival. There are no Hydration Stations. No couches. No hills. No cappuccinos. Just a flat bowl of grass with hard pokey bits sticking up – to ward off barefooted hippies – and three stages set up back to back. Food options, stalls and shade seem limited. Second impressions: okay, there’s a small pool, a mechanical bull and a giant stage set up for Guitar Hero: Metallica. But there’s only one guitar! Next to all this, old water tower parts sit silently rusting in an open field. The night quickly turns into a gin-fuelled rollercoaster with Pistol Whip 45, Carboot Vendors, The Death Valley Blues Band, The Otherwise and scary-as-fuck metal band Emperium compiling the soundtrack. The turnout seems pretty weak so far. Then again, it’s only Thursday. I’m sure the hordes will arrive tomorrow. They have to. The lineup demands it. Suddenly, I’m looking down on myself from above. The camera’s spinning and I’m watching myself fall asleep in the back of a van in the middle of a field in deepest Jagfontein, unable to do anything about it. Day two: one thing Thornfest does provide is metal: metal to wake up to, metal to brush your teeth to, metal to drink to, metal to mosh and bleed to, metal to fall asleep to. It’s relentless. I catch Durban black symphonic metal band Theatre Runs Red in-between church burnings and they scare the shit out of me. They look like they just flew in from Norway (or from Transylvania on bat wings) and sound just as demonic. Their music’s a mesmerising blend of haunting symphonies and punishing brutality. And their stage act’s just as sinister and impressive. Later on, Durban hardcore band Go! Go! Bronco look so fired up I’m scared they’ll tear the Stand Firm Stage down. Guitarist Luke throws himself around so intensely he falls off stage, landing in a crumpled heap between the monitors and the security fence. When he gets up again, his face is whiter than Theatre Runs Red, there’s a mad look in his eyes and he’s lost his voice. I suddenly realise the refreshing lack of beefy security guards. These gate watchers seem surprisingly mellow and laid back. LA Cobra’s set is interrupted by a powercut and a lost generator deliveryman, setting the Black Dahlia Stage back a few hours, rescheduling bands like Facing the Gallows, Enmity and Beyond the Pale. I bump into LA Cobra frontman Don Cobra at the bar. He’s wearing Willie Nelson’s boots and a look of bitter disappointment. On the Stand Firm Stage, the Slashdogs are incredible. Without founding member Reverend Wright, the stripped down combination of ATFN and frontman Blessed Wretch is given new room to breathe, and the Dogs have chewed through a new leash on life. Their slowed down, bluesy rock ‘n roll songs, featuring clarinet and trombone, sound hypnotising. Classy. Meanwhile, the main stage is still pissing blood in the shape of metal bands Erebus, Warthane, Bile of Man, Deane Crescent and Contrast the Water. I catch All Forlorn, who mix things up with their shredding blend of modern riffing and old-school brutality. Back on the Stand Firm Stage, Hog Hoggidy Hog are battling through a glitchy sound setup and coming out on top. It’s their never-say-die, infectious enthusiasm that always seems to save the day. Looking around, the marquee’s packed and it really starts to feel like a music festival. Feeling inspired, I decide tonight’s the night. Suddenly, it’s 2am and they’re calling last rounds at Cool Runnings. We stumble across to the Black Dahlia Stage, like drunken moths to the light. They’re still serving drinks. “Up next is DJ JP, he’s gonna blow your mind.” It’s 6am. Two Hogs are left standing but the place is a ghost town. No campfires. No mechanical bull. No Guitar Hero. No sign of life. The sun’s coming up and I’m going down. Hard. Day three: The sun is relentless. Metal chicks look like they’ve airbrushed their once pale bodies with red paint, keeping the white lines of their straps and things, just for the effect. It’s one o’ clock. Rambling Bones is singing soothing lullabies on the Stand Firm Stage. But somehow, his band’s minimal acoustic setup’s feeding back like a Nirvana show. The bass sounds boomier than Bubba Smith in a cave. Frontman Jay Bones breaks two strings and has his lead ripped out by an overenthusiastic Kevin S. Flee. Still, Jay doesn’t panic. He keeps his shit together and pulls off an impressive show under fire. I bump into a friendly-looking guy at the Prego Shmego stand. He says something to me but I don’t catch it. “Sorry, what was that?” I ask. “I don’t speak Spanish,” he spits back. Which is weird, ‘cos neither do I. Maybe the old South African flag was his. I haven’t seen Fuzigish for a long time. Last time they were in Durban, they ripped the upholstery off Chain & Sprocket. So I was geared up and ready for their show. But they are a bit disappointing on the night. Maybe I'd just built it up too much. Meanwhile, across town, at the Black Dahlia, The Dead Will Tell are tearing the stage in half. Fire rises from the ground, black smoke blows across the stage and giant vultures circle overhead. It’s intense. Back on the Stand Firm Stage, Submachine, again, decide to paint it black. And again, their hi-octane blend of punk rock, ska and glowing voodoo skulls turns the stage into a five-centimeter square of explosive primal energy. On the main stage, Cutting Jade dish up a cheesy blend of camp gravel rock, ‘til Fokofpolisiekar take over and self-combust. Maybe they’re just going through the motions, but us Durbanites only get to see them once a year and every time’s as intense and explosive as the time before. Dishing out their new album, The Monotony of Monogamy, Half Price keep things tongue in ass cheek on the Stand Firm Stage. It’s weird, as vulgar as they get, on stage, they always come across as likable, impish innocents. Day four: So here I am. Balancing over a toilet for fear of infection, ears ringing, vocal chords depleted, throat burnt to shit, dreaming about Durban. That green, moist shire, where lips don’t crack, the bunnies flow like wine and you’re unlikely to see an old South African flag raised. It had been a long weekend of music. I'd seen some great bands. But now I was ready for bed. I get in the van, fall asleep and wake up in Harrismith.