After a stressful Saturday with fears of an attempted covert assassination plot I was looking forward to the peaceful warm fuzzy hug of festival best known as WOMADelaide.

Seasoned punters can be spotted from miles away, lumbering great piles of picnic paraphernalia pass through the gates early in the day to stake claim to some prime festival real estate. I always found the festival to be much like going through an op-shop vinyl record bin. You spend a lot of time flipping through albums you cringe at but can occasionally stumble onto some golden find that gives you the sense of a personal victory that makes the effort all worthwhile.

At WOMADelaide this occurs with a backdrop of naked children screaming in trees, hippies re-aligning their chakras and enough organic soy chai latte to fill an Olympic size swimming pool. I discovered that the professional Wo-goer knows not to chase the good time, but instead camps in a shady spot and awaits the tunes to be carried to them upon the breeze. As a reviewer and curious chap, I probably spent as much time walking between stages as settling down for the hour long sets.

San Lazaro started the day off for me well with a very funky latin sound that was suprisingly authentic for a Melbourne act. Following that was Etran Finatawa who to me epitomized the spirit of WOMAD. Southern Nigerian Tribesmen and Northern Nomads form a band together, blending styles, culture, tradition and technology, rising above the bullshit associated with most western pop and just having fun playing music.

Sambasunda blew away my preconceptions of a wind-chimesque traditional Indonesian exhibition with a performance of south-east Asian chaos with a thumping Brazilian style beat. Throughout the songs and the set, the mood and the music twisted, changed and was constantly evolving into something different, putting them beyond the ability to be labelled with a musical genre. The visual aspect of Sambasunda made for a great show and the smiles on the performer’s faces were completely infectious.

Yasmin Levy delivered an amazing showcase of Latino music. With a fantastically expressive voice backed by an Israeli influenced flamenco style of music, the performance was extremely passionate and an amazing singer to watch. I managed to get in enough of the Rebetiki set to see my girlfriend get sucked into one of the biggest whirlpools of a dancing circle I’ve ever seen formed to Greek music.

The Mahotella Queens put all the young people to shame with the energy they put into their songs and their dance. If you were looking for a funky African dance party, this was the heart of it, and the black grandma you never had was at the ring leader.

When it comes time to eat, Womadelaide is a terrible place for me. Swamped by choice and hungry, I patrol the over priced food stalls to try and discover where exactly that delicious smell is coming from. There are plenty of stalls, shops, entertainment, workshops and toilets to amuse you when the music doesn’t, however I still am not sure why a festival that attracted 75,000 people, in a time where electronic funds reign supreme, contains but a single ATM. The environmental aspect of the festival goes beyond its setting in the parklands as most of the festival waste is recycled or composted. This leaves me feeling good about myself and my effect on the planet, but not good enough to stop cursing the collapsing of my bio-degradable straw.

After dinner I met with friends to see the sub-continentally famous Asha Bhosle perform with the Kronos Quartet. I had seen the Quartet years before, sleeping through most of it, the only thing that kept me awake was their rendition of Purple Haze. They were as equally yawn worthy this time around until Ms Bhosle began singing. Prior to this very mellow, act, the pro-active enthusiasts had filled most of the area with their selves firmly seated on the lawns. Things quickly turned very un-Womad when standers infiltrated the seated zone, blocking the views of the pre-established audience. Projectiles were thrown, harsh words were exchanged and before blood was drawn, the artistic director Rob Brookman took hold of the stage microphone. In a call for sanity, he pleaded with the audience to segregate into standers on the right, sitters on the left, narrowly avoiding the first turf war to be fought over a string quartet.

Augie March started strong with an amazing live rendition of “_The hole in your roof_” which rang through the giant trees with an eerie power that touched everyone who heard it. Unfortunately the band’s popularity preceded them and a number of screaming 14 year old girls demanding their hit single be played ensured the gig would not easy. Aside from that I found disappointment in the fact they essentially had nothing to offer as a live performance and headed off for greener pastures.

Mariza was a Portuguese powerhouse. She had enough expressiveness in her voice and body movement that she almost transcended the language barrier, her band and the festival itself. I should have spent my time watching her but I had to meet people, but the walk between areas gave me an opportunity to stumble past a very intimate performance Deborah Conway was giving on the tucked away Moreton Bay stage. Circle of Rhythm played Tabla based rhythms that were good to just chill out to. The instruments were interesting, the music however wasn’t.

Our final show for the Sunday was Mad Professor, the man of “Dub Reggae”. The crowd vibe was great and at times the Dub was coming through so thick and luscious it was like having syrup poured in your ears. The bass was as fat as ever I’ve heard it, set to 7.3 on the Richter scale, it ensured even the staunchest of anti-dancers had some movement in the rump. The set however was geared to DJing and not the listening enjoyment of the audience so at times there were songs that were far removed from the smooth stylings of acts like Massive Attack.

Attendance wise, the festival has begun to outgrow itself but it still provides a wonderfully unique experience. A ticket may cost a lot of money but it may be worth it to see somebody dancing unexplainably and inappropriately to live world music, especially if that somebody is you.