Last time I went to a festival at The Espy it was a fucking shit fight. In a good way.

So many people, so little walking space, so much fun. All in all it wasn’t entirely memorable (except the bit where I pashed an F-Grade international touring artist only to find he was married when I Googled him the next day). But it was on the eve of a long weekend and it was packed to the rafters. Keep note kids, this will be relevant later.

I drag the long-suffering Erin to yet another gig where she has to balance allure of free tickets with the boring friend who keeps stopping mid-stride to scribble things into her notebook. Sober. Poor Ez. We bring her brother and his lady too, but you know what couples are like. We lose them constantly.

After buggerising around at home drinking beers and smoking ciggies we don’t end up getting there until after nine. A couple of bands are still loading in when we arrive and there is certainly no crowd to battle through in the main front room. I’ve seen bigger crowds here on a Tuesday. Which is cool. I don’t feel like battling tonight. Instead of the usual dark bowel-ish atmosphere someone has turned pretty lights on, giving the whole space a groovy grand acid ballroom feel. We discuss architraves, renovations and ornate cornices for a while.

Latching onto a free table in front of the fireplace with a clear view of the front bar stage we split a couple of jugs while The Seabellies do their thing. Starting off as pretty non-offensive, the five-piece showcase a heap of different ideas, interspersing pop rock with shoegaze vibes. They then open up to diversity with horns, keys and an unexpected but really cool accordion inclusion. The dude on vocals ends up in a bit of a Robert Smith homage, and while there are times when they don’t seem to be counting the same beat, they have a largely professional sound and a musical enthusiasm that forgives them the fact that they could do with a couple more rehearsals.

Grafton Primary are next on the list, and after sorting out that pesky last jug, we head into the Gershwin Room. The fact that their drummer has earmuffs on should be a warning sign. They are the Motorhead of dance: I cannot remember the last time my entire skeletal and nervous systems vibrated because of the intensity of the volume at a gig. I think my chest is going to explode as the vocalist swans around like a young Dave Graney, giving in to his inhibitions only when mic duties lapse and the music became the focus. Pink and green light stream down behind them as they blast punters with ferocious dance that conveys a similar universality to the Presets (notably, E=Mc2). They are easily one of the best bands of the night, even if my balance will forever be affected after the pummeling my body got from the sound waves.

Next up are Shocking Pinks. A friend has highly recommended these Kiwis, so I feel compelled to check them out. They begin with little fanfare: I didn’t even realise they had actually started until they stopped. Neither did anyone else it seemed – until they really got going – sending huge rafts of alternatively brash and atmospheric electronic music over the room like wavy blankets. Then it was on for young and old – i.e. the kids loved it.

I am distracted at this point by a bloke who wants to write something in my notebook. A pretty horrendous attempt at a pick up line, it reads, ‘If you u had a donkey and I had a rooster and your donkey ate the legs off my rooster what would you have?’ Erin and I look at this grinning man and shrug. He writes, ‘2 feet of my cock in your ass.’ Not sure if this is a tried and true method of meeting new chicks for him, but it certainly had me wondering why I always seemed to attract mental dudes like this.

Marginally underwhelmed by Shocking Pinks, and eager to escape the ‘cock in your ass’ fellow, Erin and I hightail it outside for a refreshing fag break. I make it back to the front bar to see Dardanelles. I’m an unashamed fan of and champion for these boys and am still shitty about having put their album back in the wrong cover, rendering it lost within my collection. While they seem to barely interact they still produce something amazing together: Alex, Cayn and Mitch as always insular and dedicated, Josh Quinn-Watson always commanding.

Where the lighting was fine for the Seabellies, it’s not dark enough for the real Dardanelles magic. Where they have been lush and all encompassing when I’ve seen them previously, this was more brash and raw – but just as evocative. The crowd seems a bit lethargic though and I couldn’t help but think it wasn’t the best Espy space they could have been given. I would have loved to have seen a bigger stage, a darker room, more volume on the vocals: I ended up pulling the pin early. Where the fuck is the crowd and who was responsible for organising this event?

Back to the Gershwin Room to force my mates to watch Darren Cross do The E.L.F. When I reviewed him previously they opted to stay at our friend’s metal gig, I didn’t want them to miss him again. Before long, he pulls out an old staple-starter, Hey Mickey. Weaving in a bit of Muscles and Daft Punk throughout his clever mash ups, The E.L.F. totally commands the room, getting everyone completely amped up and finding time to skoll down Melbourne Bitter. Legend.

While from my vantage point the party is well and truly started, I find it amusing and mildly suitable that Daz rocks away behind his laptop while several other people work behind him, rolling up leads, moving things on and off stage and generally ignoring him. They didn’t even turn the lights down but he’s boppingly awesome as usual and completely oblivious to the boring work going on behind him.

It should be noted (hopefully not by my editor) that it is never a good idea to drink during a gig you are supposed to be reviewing. Everyone who has struck up a conversation with me has implored me to catch Ratatat. I listened to them on RRR earlier in the day and am totally keen: not least because they had requested a bit of Snoop Dogg when they were on the wireless. This is a band that is allegedly making new ideas in electronic hip-hop and they have the three-quarters capacity Gershwin Room entranced: a bit of a Nine Inch Nails vibe to begin Lex, backdrops that alternate between Ratatat shadows on the curtains and lighting like a burned guitar fret.

The dark African drum beats are intoxicating and underneath the huge faux-antler chandeliers at the bar we are getting into the wicked beats and interesting mixes that these guys were pulling out. Keen festival goers were probably pretty glad it wasn’t a sold out show – they got to have a pretty decent view, and all went ape shit in response to the New Yorker’s blistering set.

Naturally, despite our increasing inebriation, we hung out to see The ’Gurg: a bit of nostalgia for us nearly-thirty-somethings. A drunk bloke yells at me, “I can’t fucking believe Bluejuice cancelled!” as if because I had a pen and notebook, I must be somehow involved in the lineup. I yell back, “I can’t fucking believe it either! I never even knew they were meant to be here.” He looked disgusted at my ignorance, and for some reason I feel guilty. And disappointed that they had cancelled. I would have liked to see them here too.

Anyway, Regurgitator. Now here is the headliner, right? As I peek from behind the stage curtains, they don’t disappoint, in that they know how to perform these songs perfectly and are a totally kick-arse rock band. With the recent addition of Seja Vogel on keys, I struggle to hear what she is actually adding, when the tunes sound exactly the same as they always have, but still she’s having a good time and that’s the main thing.

The boys are clearly enjoying being back together after a bit of a break and Quan is way hotter and way more powerful than I remembered. After pulling out a few classics, though, I start racking my brains to think of the most recent release they had given us. We bop away for a while, getting caught up in the frenetic delivery and on-stage grinning, before finally admitting that even though it had been ten years since we saw this seminal Aussie band, nothing had really changed. Still awesome, don’t get me wrong – but nothing new for mine.

By this point Erin and co. had completely abandoned me, and when I battled my way out to the chatterbox of cigarette-addicts on the footpath they shrugged and gave it a bit of, ‘Bor-ing.’ ‘It was boring,’ I admitted. Some of the bands were awesome, some were average. The whole event seems a bit half-arsed. The event, not the performances. Odd lineup choices, even weirder allocation of stages.

I love a fair few of the acts – I just can’t seem to figure out why they’re all on the same bill; why this one got a worse slot than that one; why the place seemed empty most of the time. Who’s doing the lighting? Who forgot to invite their friends to see them play? I think what shits me is the name: I don’t know why I was supposed to consider it essential.