CHECK OUT ALL THE PHOTOS FROM FAT AS BUTTER HERE.

Somewhere in Newcastle, someone is sitting in the warmth of their own home enjoying themselves to a collection to decent CDs. I was not that person.

Instead, I decided that a three-hour train trip to Newcastle’s Wickham Park was a smart thing to do on a day of torrential rain. As did the thousand who came out for Fat as Butter: a festival that aside from suggesting it would offer large doses of cholesterol in its name, seemed to be about bringing big-name bands into Newcastle.

The first band I lay eyes upon is Regular John, a band I’ve heard a lot about but have failed to ever listen to. They sound heavy, ratty, but at the same time quite average. Behind the headbanging and the rolling riffs, where’s the fun? Where’s the energy that gets people moving like complete idiots in unison? There’s a reason people turn out in droves to see hard rock acts and I’m not sure these guys have picked it up yet. Then again, Wolfmother never really did and look how far they’ve come.

Elsewhere, the Cassette Kids finish up their set. Considering the core demographic of most festivals, including this one, the punters are very much enjoying what they get here. Lots of dancing, lots of mindlessly shouting lyrics, lots of smiles leaving the stage afterwards. Just what a band with a well-oiled festival set should expect, really.

Probably indicative of my disconnection with certain facets of the Australian music scene is the fact I had to Wikipedia True Live when I came home after the event. Their genre is listed as – œJazz rap’, but it’s best called – œParty funk’. Their lead singer has stage presence, their band is tight and their sound is full of big, groovy, fun explosions. There are better bands of their ilk (let alone on this bill), but at 3pm on a Sunday they’re at the top of the pile.

On that note, aside from deciding to hold a large music festival on a Sunday with no long weekend backing and having no ponchos for sale at the merch desk, the event was overall well run. However, I’m becoming accustomed to the – œdog kennel’ used by most organisers for their bars: with current state licensing laws it seems like the only way to keep festivals open to all ages.

On the note of ponchos, it looked like Bob Evans really needed one on stage, being drenched within seconds of stepping on. With a crowd braving the heaviest of the rain to see him, he decides to open the set solo with a cover of Burt Bacharach’s Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head. Priceless.

While Snob Scrilla played to the crowd’s interests, the same can’t be said for the Lost Valentinos. With one of the smallest crowds of the day (while the stage was being set up, there was no-one to be seen), they played their unique brand of synth-rock. It was lost on the audience, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t great. On the other hand, Bluejuice, on the main or – œFat’ stage, probably don’t care if the audience is with them or not. Jake and Stav will still be jumping, shouting and stripping manically either way. Nevertheless, songs from both their debut and recent release Head of the Hawk have had such exposure that every song is accompanied with a rousing response – and with good reason as well.

Ian Kenny probably ranks amongst the strangest frontmen Australia has. If not for the persistence of Birds of Tokyo and Karnivool to play big, loud, rocking music, I’d have expected him to have joined the oddball side project boat a long time ago. Here he sings with the Birds of Tokyo wearing thick black frames glasses and a purple cardigan, standing stoic for the most part. And while a crowd of thousands (probably the second biggest of the day) sings along with their fluoro wifebeaters and wayfarers, I get the feeling that maybe he’s taking the mickey out of them a bit. The band is quite average overall – but credit where credits due, yes?

Grinspoon are another act that seems very self-contained; I highly doubt there’s a single Pom or Yank that has any clue what Grinspoon are. At the same time, they easily draw the night’s largest crowd and the best reception. After 14 years, Phil Jamieson and his band know who they’re playing to and what to play to them. They do this arguably very well and you can hear the drowning chants for more as they leave the stage.

And so left the final two acts for the day, a clash that saw the crowd split exactly in two. On one stage was Australia’s biggest hip hop act and, if the Hottest 100 of all time is to be believed, the writers of the best Australian song of all time: the Hilltop Hoods. Pressure, Suffa and DJ Debris have the crowd in their hands as they play what seems like hit after hit. Hell, banners declaring “I Heart Hilltop Hoods” are being floundered about. It’s very easy to knock Aussie hip-hop on music forums and on record, but (much like U2) once you see a live show, you understand where all the fans are coming from.

But the night belonged to Art vs Science, a band that not only drew away half the crowd, but also got their raving, glowstick-twirling, substance-abusing crowd to headbang like they’re watching Metallica. When they broke out hit Parlez Vous Francais, even the stone cold security guards brought out the moves. Yes, their music is dumb and mindless but when you’re getting a response like this everywhere you go, I’d be writing dumb and mindless music as well.

It was all over in time for the last train back to the big smoke. I left Wickham Park pleased with what I saw. It wasn’t the best thing in the world, but at the same time, it was just what you’d expect from a small festival in semi-regional Australia.