Creek-chers unite at UTC 2014

Little Opel Corsa Lite packed to bursting point with tents, lilos, sleeping bags, vodka (lots of vodka) and three gradually-losing-their-cool ladies. Smelt be our names. Aircon? What is this thing, aircon, you speak of? These hardships, however, are well worth the stifling trip and 230-kilometre drive. As anyone who has ventured to that Damn Swell festival will attest to, UTC is unique, it's intimate, it's familiar, it's a family reunion and once you've floated down its river in a lilo's loving embrace you'll be hooked, returning year after year.

Arriving a few sundowners before dusk with just enough time to set up camp before the velvety night enveloped us, we listen to the strains of Under Water Kite and Stereo Kids from those preppy Plastics, itching to finish the set-up process (damn, why does the ground have to be so hard?) so we can be free to crack open some reviving vodka and cranberry juice and head main stage.

Jeremy Loops

Rough-edge rock

Jeremy Loops is our personal party starter, our enthusiastic welcome to #UTC2014. And what a decent job he does, ever the gracious host, Mr Loops, with the help of his charismatic sidekick Motheo Moleko, make sure we're feeling those happy-go-lucky festive spirits.

Followed by the ever-professional and polished Gangs of Ballet, Friday night is shaping up to be mighty fine, that is till Arno Carstens and his Springbok Nudies ascend the stage. Now don't get me wrong, I'm a fan and we were chanting "Bubble Gum on my Boots" on the trip there, but something just wasn't right with their performance that night. Pity, as mentioned on stage they were one of the original poster bands for UTC. Carstens' vocals were muffled - all but drowned out by the crashy wall of sound produced from the rest of the band. Now I like some roughness round the edge of my rock, but this just seemed like poor sound checking rather than intentional cacophony.

Springbok Nudegirls

With the end of their set so ended the action on the MK main stage that night. Now the direction moves more intimate; follow me night owls, the Jägermeister and original festival stage beckons. Bathed in its customary green light (due to the green shade cloth above) Red Huxley takes to the stage. Guitars held aloft as swords, slashing the night with their grungy rockabilly-riddled sound.

Breede baptism

Day Two and a stuffy tent and clear denim blue sky predict another scorcher; best be making our way to the cooling and soothing Breede, ready to baptise ourselves in its reviving waters. Hangover be gone, let us be reborn. Steve the Stingray, my inflated friend, my trusty aquatic steed, transports us across the river to a slightly more secluded area. From the opposite banks we have a perfect view of the Ray Ban River Stage and all the colourful playful mayhem. Grassy Spark, Beach Party, Al Bairre are our sirens, their sweet tunes and voices summoning us to let loose and focus all energy on soaking up the sun and the golden sunshine splashy times. Done and done. You don't have to ask twice, easily convinced we are.

That is 'til a fairly brisk wind breathes down our necks, wreaking havoc on many an umbrella and causing countless lilos to make a break for freedom. Time to bid adieu to our sweet river and venture back up to the main stage action, just in time for the tail end of Runaway Train Cult's set - an unlikely band of gypsies combining to create a folky, hillbilly field of bluegrass to dance upon. Next, my favourite road trippin' band of choice: Shortstraw, who deliver their brand of friendly pop rock with conviction, inciting many a happy fan to happily flea hop. Bikini weather indeed.

Our brother from another mother, Donovan Copley from Hot Water is the fest's tribal man. Intense, arresting, he commands eyes and attention during his set. Need something to combat the intensity and sincerity of Hot Water? No worries, our fearless foursome of quirky pop kwela band Desmond and the Tutus are here to lighten the mood. Including a cracking cover of R Kelly's Ignition they entertain with humorous zeal; it's the freakin' weekend river babies.

Hot Water

Hail the unholy

Black Cat Bones won the 2013 MK Award for Best Live Performance and, seeing them fired up and in action on Saturday night, one is reminded just how deserving they are of this award. Front man, Kobus de Kock, is a bearded grisly with fire in his eyes and feathers in his hair, playing conductor to an unstoppable force of a band, no cause for pause of breath. Just like their line-up brothers, Taxi Violence, who summon the dark forces of the night into a taxi tsunami takeover, a sleazy homage to sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. All hail the unholy!

Phew! And just as you thought there may be a respite from the high energy and spectacle, a group of brave buck-naked boys with fire between their legs gallop around the stage. You have just about enough time to ask yourself "What the Buddha was that?" before they're gone and your attention is once again grabbed by the hiss swoosh wizz bang of a fiery shower of sparks falling from the heavens. Fireworks! What an unexpected present.

What next? Now that we're fired up on primal power, love sick rock 'n roll and heavenly showers, we look for the next round of distr(action). All aboard the Jägermeister train. Next stop Bed on Bricks (UTC stalwarts since its inception) Toot toot! Years later they are no less as commanding. We applaud and praise.

Body finally feeling the abuse of the weekend, the night is drawn to a relatively early close for us. Tent and sleep beckon. The last thing remembered is drifting away to the bluesy sounds of Mean Black Mamba. Hissssss.

Thanks for everything Up the Creek, 'til next year.

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