Ageing Raver's Rave Review

Festival 23 — The Bouj Doof

On a grassy slope overlooking vineyards, rolling hills, and a dam, a raver lays on a picnic rug in a k-hole. Her friends chat with each other and pick cheese and crackers from a charcuterie board.

Other ravers sit on the grassy slope in groups — giggling, snacking, sniffing, popping.

To their right a dancefloor heaves. Weaving through the crowd the space between ravers gets smaller. Until people are ducking and squeezing to fit through arms, legs, and torsos, until coming up for air at the decks. Fingers stretch out from the faux fur cuffs of a satin pink robe, twirling knobs, pressing buttons.

Behind the decks, US musician Osunlade commands a sweaty dancefloor with his hypnotic house beats.

Behind Osunlade, is a red brick building. A 3-star hotel. 'A boutique accommodation venue ... purpose-built for private events — like conferences and weddings'. The hotel’s website states: 'it’s hard not to feel a powerful sense of purpose' while on site. Our purpose today — to doof.

We're at Festival 23, a bourgeoisie doof. A bouj doof if you will.

If you're cashed up enough you can spend your time at the doof in a hotel room. Upwards of $1000 will get u a twin or double bedroom.

Me and the rest of the hoi polloi, we are camping — a 40-minute walk through the bush. Or, if you dare, a ten-minute minibus ride on a winding dirt track.

The Who blares through crackly speakers. Punters sit on laps and stand in the aisles as the driver bush bashes and bottoms out, up and down the valley all day and all night.

'STOP THE BUS!'

Someone's having a panic attack. The bus screeches to a halt to let off the few ravers who don't feel like risking death at this time.

Once at the rave, no one wants to return to the campsite until they have to. With a lack of access to your own cooler, you are reliant on the food available. As a gluten-free, lactose-free individual I am subject to a $27 bowl of broth with noodles, or a flat piece of dough with a smear of passata, a shrivelled mushroom, and a few slivers of onion. I hand over $32 for the privilege.

'They’re pretty old, I don't think they'll be strong.' I'm told about some mushrooms I've been given. I want to know their strength before I hand them out to friends, so I take what I think will be a very small dose.

It's not so small as it turns out. When I close my eyes creatures crawl out of fractals. I struggle to form coherent sentences. I am for literal lack of words — tripping balls.

I need a safe space. A soft space. I walk the halls of the hotel to find rooms with drone footage from Iceland projected onto walls. At the end of a hall, a large machine plays the ‘sounds of the earth’. Not nice sounds. Stark. Uncomfortable sounds. There appears to be no chill in this venue.

Day one of the doof feels perilous.

Day two, the sun rises with a vengeance, it's 36 degrees. I take advantage of the provided portable showers, twice.

I pack a nanna trolley full of snacks and warm clothes for later. I eventually make it up the hill to the bouj doof by 5 pm.

Revellers cool off in the dam and the infinity pool overlooking the dam.

The vibe is less perilous. The music is bangin’. We have our own snacks. I opt for no mushrooms.

There's trance playing in the sunken loungeroom called The Snake Pit. There's techno in Cloudland, a room adjacent to the hotel lobby.

Flanked by two backup dancers in leotards, a raver belts out 'Aint no mountain high enough' in a hotel lounge. Master of psychedelic interactive doof art – Fizzy Fingers – battles through tech issues to host karaoke on both Saturday and Sunday night. Providing a much needed space away from the rave for punters to sit down and have a laugh.

Two artists, whose names I cannot find on the line-up, take a room full of people laying on the floor on a sound and projection journey. Another much needed space away from the rave.

Day three, we race up the hill to catch a live set by Beatrice next to the outdoor pool, at midday. We then wait around til after midnight for more bass music.

Kodiak Kid, Wonqi Rose and Z.I.V deliver for the heads who've been waiting all weekend for something to slice bread to.

The bouj doof, fuelled by k and coke, offers a severe lack of drunk people. No one is getting too messy, or if they are they handle it well.

The demographic is mostly white, over 30s, seasoned partiers, a lot of queers, a lot of European accents. Dreadlocks are minimal. Most people here I've been seeing on dance floors for the past two decades.

The toilets are indoors and cleaned frequently by hotel staff. It's shoes off everywhere inside. Communal slides are provided outside the dunnies. On day one, I find the idea of communal slides repulsive. By day two, I'm stoked to touch them rather than the floor of a communal bathroom.

The bouj doof is good. It's a grown-up space for adult doofers. The lineup is well curated. There's interesting art. Nice crowd. A pool. But, the lack of decent food, easy access to camp, and chill-out spaces meant it was hard to stay grounded. Something I consider essential to people's safety when partying hard for three days.

It was the council who apparently moved the campground to the far-off distant land at the last minute, so we can’t blame the organisers for such a folly. However, the organisers have their hoi polloi to thank for being so accommodating and so forgiving.

I loved this doof, but I feel partying in a hotel should feel less perilous.

I give this party 7/10.
Would bouj doof again.