Just outside the Northwest-town of Northam lies the farm Maroelasfontein.  It’s got koppies, lots of dust, the odd depressed cactus, a large smattering of stones, and dry reddish gravel paths that criss-cross up to the horizon and who knows where.

The farm is also thankfully reinforced with quite a lot of sharp thorn-trees. 

Because twice a year, during Oppikoppi, the place gets overrun by a bunch of music-mad creatures from all corners of the country.  They come in packs, they come with friends, cars, messy braaipacks, incessant yelps and whoops, tents, firewood, Blitz and booze.  Some bring toothbrushes and clean underwear.  Some drink copious amounts of tequila on the first day and pass out in front of the stage.  Others drink copious amounts of tequila, eat a chips-whirl, stumble around between the stage, the mobi-loos and tents, and finally end up landing face (or arse) first into a thorn-tree.  Because you see, the farm always gets its revenge.  Heatstroke, thorn-wounds, clouds of grasshoppers in your face, bloody kneescrapes, inquisitive bees, sinuses clogged with dust, ants in your beer, wet zebra/warthog turds, spiders, chilly nights, random swooshes of rain long after sunset – you name it, the farm has it.

However, most of Oppikoppi’s festival creatures handle the farm and its trimmings as respectfully as possible, and hopefully try to minimise their carbon footprint.  For this year’s Easter-Oppi, they came for the music – never mind the crappy recession.  We’re talking guitar meister Albert Frost, Foto Na Dans, Van Coke Cartel, Andra, One Sock Thief, Ashtray Electric, aKing, newcomers Sonsteek, The Arrows and Seeleeu Leipoldt Band, The Pretty Blue Guns, the supersmooth Dave Ferguson… the list packed a mean punch from 24 to 26 April – and a mini-tsunami of awesome bands from Belville.

Festivallers also came for Twakkie, the other half of the lewd comic pair Corné and Twakkie.  Twakkie wants to be president and Easter Oppikoppi is perfect for his frenetic campaign. He struts on the stage with his yellow kortbroek and moerse fake yellow moustache, he curses like a pirate, lets Corné carry him like a bride, makes feeble political promises and spews insults at fans:  “Your eyebrows tell me you’re stupid.”  They love him. 

Easter Oppi is groovy.  It’s more laid-back and a great deal smaller than the big August-festival, with people bringing their toddlers and even babies to the farm.   This year is a bit different, though – with the festival starting just after Voting Day, and most of the Oppi-crowd sporting a tiny purple smear on the left thumb.  Blimey - they voted.  RESPEKT.

OK, back to the Easter-vibe.

Some bands are not well-known yet, so a lot of tunes are new and fresh, and quite a few delightful surprises took control of the stage this year.  Talk among the sober Oppi-people was about The Pretty Guns’ tight set, with strong songs and lots of confidence.  The girls liked the guys’ weirdly teased hair.  And each band member of this talented foursome is uncannily handsome.  Black Hotels enjoyed a nicely packed crowd, and pretty bassist Lisa was cheered loudly when most of the people realised during her rendition of “I’m the ghost” that she can really sing rather well.  Frontman of Fuzigish, the amicable Jay Bones, had a quiet set after the rowdy rockers of Sonsteek, who opened the festival.  Jay made quite an impression with his guitar skills and almost folksy songs, with Congo Kev doing djembes at his side.   Ashtray Electric was one of the Belville-bands that took the floor from the first song.  They had a whale of a time on stage, and even though their songs such as “Swing”, “Gallop” and “Lea” were unknown to most of the crowd, it didn’t stop the entire band from bobbing, grinning and jiving to the vibe.  The Beams had the same effect – even though they were new on the Gauteng scene, their performance was more energetic than a room full of toddlers on a sugar-high.

Two exceptional women caused a bit of a stir at this Easter’s Oppi. 

One was Andra, a petite figure on the stage with her Fedora-hat and huge guitar, and a voice darker than the devil’s heart.  Her songs “Cockroach”, “Don’t come back” and “Darkness” made people sit up and listen, some exlaiming that she’s “too intense” and “why is she screaming at us?”  However, it was her song “Broken Spanish” that got her CDs flying from the merchandise corner.  Even the dude who made those scrummy fresh subs with jalapenos, mustard and salami, had to go get himself a CD with a breathless “…that woman - she made my spine chill.”

The other was Christie Desfontaine, the drummer from The Arrows.  “Wow!  This chick knows her shit!” was the comment from a group of dudes on their way to the bar, stopping in their tracks to stare at her.  It was obvious that, nevermind her knockout-looks, she’s an energetic and kick-ass drummer, completely involved with the songs and the crowd.  Watch out for her when you see The Arrows on stage – she is a powerhouse.  Their powerpop-songs were quite charming, with frontwoman Pam De Menezes’ singing voice a bit on the candy-sweet side, but her zesty personality and bassman Bongani Zondi’s funky moves made up for it. 

Then there was the magic stuff.

Blind singer Bacchus Nel took the stage with his band Die Westdene Drie, and new back-up singer Marissa West on his left to complete the band.  After Bacchus asked:  “Erm– is daar nog bier?”, they kicked off a raucous set, with Marissa’s crystal clear voice a clear indication of the band’s new sound.  Bacchus’ new stuff is a tad more aggressive, but equally enjoyable – especially “Die aasvoëls land” and the enigmatic “Hey hey hey”.  Silly title, yes, but all about a scorned woman who ties her lover to a bed and summons his enemies – ah ain’t love sweet. 

Not everybody knew who Seeleeu Leipoldt was.  He was introduced on stage in a wheelchair and sunglasses, setlist on his lap, fake flowers twirled in a purple garland around his neck - and some kind of orange-yellowish (squint-eyed) rubber worm on his head.  “This thing is trying to suck out my brains,” he chortled.  “But I think it’s wasting its time.”  Some were confused.  Who is this man?

Then the word spread.  It’s Erik Holm, the young actor and singer who broke his neck in 2007 after diving into a shallow swimming-pool and survived as a quadruplegic.  He was a lot thinner, but brimming with life and a smile that reached everyone in front of the stage.  He smoked effortlessly with his cigarette held between his left thumb and forefinger, and told dark jokes about physical disability and outsiders.  “What’s the definition of emo?” He grinned maliciously.  “It’s goth for pussies.”

At his side were the talentful okes Neil and Leon from Radio Suid-Afrika, Pieter on bass (previously from Revolusie) and Erik’s talented sister Nike on backing vocals and mirthful commentary. 

His songs were razor-sharp, riddled with swearing and clever as hell.  He shot the lyrics from the stage at machine-gun speed and you had to concentrate really hard (and not be hungover) to get what he’s about.  “It’s not me, it’s you” was hilarious, yanking the bottom out of all those idiotic relationship break-up lines starting with:  “Erm … it’s not you, it’s me.”   At the end of his set, when he did “Blou blou lug”,  a large part of the crowd was roaring along with the chorus: “Alles is nie reg nie, alles is verkeerd, alles is nie pluis nie, want jy’s nou ‘n ander doos se meisie en is moeg vir jou kak, ek’s moeg vir jou kak, EK’S MOEG VIR JOU KAK!”

It is evident that one should not invite Seeleeu to do the music at church tea parties.  He would most probably be frowned upon. 

Easter Oppi 2009 was one of the smaller festivals, with about 1 300 people attending the festival, just one stage being used at the foot of the koppie, with the top bar open for the die-hard jollers.  A lot of babies and toddlers also romped with their parents around the grounds, some kids pressing their hands to their ears because of the music blaring from the stage speakers – especially when Sonsteek kicked off at 17:00 on Friday as the first band of the festival.  Sonsteek’s bassist and rhythm guitarist, identical twin Dewald and Wynand Venter, caused some smiles with their T-shirts “Copy” and “Paste”.  Peter Mitchell was another artist that made people laugh – although he’s from Stellenbosch, he speaks with a convincing Scottish accent – and had people in stitches with his ability to create a perfectly likeable song from a few key words that he prompted from the crowd. 

Headliner Albert Frost closed the festival with an excellent guitar performance – as one would expect.  Being his 23rd Oppikoppi performance, the James Philips stage fit him like a glove.  The swirling stage smoke, red and yellow light beams and live Fender Strat in his hands with his head thrown back created a magical scene to behold – it was as if he was being swallowed by a volcano. ROCK AN’ ROLL.

So on the Sunday morning when tents are being folded up and empty bottles, half-eaten boerewors rolls and torn underpants find their way into black refuse bags, the memory of Oppikoppi slowly starts to shift to the back of your head, where you can revisit whenever you like.  Then there’s the slow drive back on the gravel road, the fill-up and quick wee at Northam - and then, if you feel like it, you stop in Brits to gulp a hot jumbo Wimpy coffee as a toast on the best music festival in the world.  Oppi-fokken-koppi.