Melbourne kicks grass

There is nothing like a good long weekend bender. It all began a harmless Saturday when a friend had a chillout session in St. Kilda park. This was to celebrate the fact he was another year closer to death. I presumed 'chilling out' would involve to mean lying on picnic rugs, eating kabana & grapes, discussing the finer points of yacht racing. This pious image went out the window as the group inhaled laughing gas and took some acid. I was fairly relaxed myself until I saw a small grey cloud go twirling and wobbling down a footpath. On second glance, said cloud was only a pidgeon - mmm halucinagens.

The craziness continued on Sunday at Kiss My Grass - a new outdoor dance party fully promoting KissFM and the Australian music scene. At $35, a day in sunny Melbourne with great tunes was too good to pass up. The crowd itself was like an army of clones - literally there are two stereotypes which covered 95% of people there. Guys had blonde tips, steroid-fueled muscles and pink 'collar-up' shirts. Girls had blonde hair, little clothing and too much make-up. Everyone was too cool for school, walking around in their 'retro, big eyed-sunglasses'. God forbid you beat the heat by wetting your hair and messing it up. That whole atmosphere really didnt appeal to me - what attracted me to the scene in the first place was its friendly, ecstacy-fueled nature.

There was a point when this all changed though. Everyone's drugs must have kicked in, and people got down and messy. I found a particular crazy stage and danced off my chops for over an hour. It was an incredible experience, literally feeling myself slide in and out of the thickness of reality, realising I truly did not give a fuck what anyone here thought, and wished more power to anyone that was having as much fun as me. I think I shed a few tears at one point, it was so weird - I had an epiffany (a comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization) about the world, music on acid, how everyone just wants to be accepted, yet at the same time I couldnt give a shit if I wasnt. This was a time to dance.

At some point I heard some guys talking about their dancing skills and how they weren't that great etc - I just burst in the middle of the circle and declared "You know what mate, here - everyone is a fuckin' champ!" Shouts, high fives and crazy 'naked-in-your-living-room' style boogying broke out.

The highlight of the day was seeing Phil K live. Playing on an intimate stage, he crunched and squeezed some of the phattest, earth-shattering beats - they cant described in mere words. This guy is a fucking genius, and the whole crowd went off its tits. When they finally pulled the plug on him, the crowd was not satisfied - with everyone rushing the stage chanting for more. No other DJ's that day got such a reception. One He-Man got up onto the actual stage and directed the chanting - the security guards waited a few anxious minutes before having some words to him to step down. With good reason too, Phil K had worked us poor individuals into a frenzy - the possibility of a near riot not far off. The man himself just shrugged and blamed the organisers, for the power was literally cut off to his stage. Dejected fans dispersed to find other second-rate beats, the vibration of their idol's work still reverbating in their chests.

Afterwards I danced all the way home, down hills, down streets, my head a high-pressure balloon of sounds, and I just could not come down. While others went to bed, I made a 30 minute trek for a killer souvlaki on Chapel St, my step still full of spring. Only after my blood content contained 30% garlic could I lay my head to rest.

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