The last Splore, the end of a cultural chapter

It was around 9.30pm in the mosh pit at Nightmares on Wax when I realised I’d lost my friends. The seething wall of humanity looked daunting at first but as I wove my way to the front through the swaying bodies adorned in LED lights, glitter and sequins, I made new ones.

No one is ever really a stranger at Splore, no one is judging, and the final Splore, which has evolved over 28 years from its beginnings at Karioitahi Beach to this location – Tāpapakanga Park for 20 years – was a potent reminder of the power of art, music, diversity and community.

In the mosh, a young woman about the age of my daughter was swaying in a way that suggested she’d partaken in too much of something. I asked her if she was okay and she said “Could you please hold my hand?” And that’s how we danced, for an hour, till the end of the set.

Nightmares on Wax, aka George Evelyn, has been described as the “purveyor of sonic perfection”. He’s from Leeds and so, as it turned out, was the guy dancing next to me. He was a high school teacher, dressed in a bright-yellow smiley-face onesie: a delirious, jazzing human meme rapt to see one of his favourite artists live for the fourth time.

As the last track played out and the young woman’s friends reappeared, they told me this was their first Splore and they couldn’t believe that they’d never been before. They hugged me, told me fervently how much they loved me and then vanished into the crowd. I never saw them again but I knew they’d be okay; that if they got lost, in whatever way you define that, in a crowd of 8000, they’d be looked after.

Many things have been written about Splore. Splores past and this one, the last. It was my fourth time at Tāpapakanga Regional Park. I have camped, glamped and I have vamped. I’ve worked there twice, at the Listening Lounge with journalist Russell Brown, and I took my kids there when they were 12 – it’s always been free for the actual kids. I wrote about wearing my mother’s black dress for the 2020 festival themed “Mother”.

Many things have been written about the costumes, the music, the artistry and the magnificence of the entire production; the sustainability which isn’t presented as virtual signalling whacked over your head. It’s pragmatic, it’s smooth.

Many have written on social media and in longer-form stories about dancing in the ocean while watching a local or international act perform on the mainstage or of finding a place under a trippily-lit tree and staring at the dazzling night sky.

Many, like those young women on the dancefloor at the Lagoon, told me this was their first time here and were somewhat dismayed that they’d waited till the very last one to experience it.

But what is most striking about Splore is that as a woman I have never felt adrift or unsafe. I’m not sure how many women, young or old, at festivals where thousands of people are in altered states, could say that. Alcohol is there, but the prevailing vibe is one of caring and consideration.

At Splore I have seen incredible artists like Dizzee Rascal, Sister Nancy, Lady Shaka, The Pharcyde, Aroha and MC Tali. Sampha, Fat Freddy’s Drop and Benny Salvador. Lady Flic, Loggcabin and halfqueen. Jazz, hip hop, reggae, pop, R&B and indie artists.

Artists come from around the world – Sweden, Jamaica, the UK, Norway, France and Spain. I have been introduced to new music and danced to old favourites. And amid all this was extraordinarily curated visual art, a wellness tent for yoga, really beautiful food and shady pōhutukawa to hide from the sun. I’ve never been there when it rained and I missed the year of the cloudburst when Erykah Badu took the stage. Legends have played there, and been made there. Plenty of legends, yes, but no strangers and no cynicism.

It started with the kaupapa, built on a bedrock of collective care and partnership. At the pōwhiri on Friday, Ngāti Paoa and Ngāti Whangaunga, the mana whenua, welcomed the international guests and all who were there. It’s always a moving experience but this time, for the final Splore, it was emotionally charged.

Pita Turei (Ngāti Paoa) spoke of the “treaty partnership” between Splore’s co-founders and iwi, of the mana whenua’s relationship with John Minty, a palagi, and a former Polynesian Panther and highly astute businessman; co-founder Amanda Wright and her team; and of the iwi’s relationship with the crowds who have come to this place and shown love and respect. It was, he said, like saying goodbye to a lover after 20 years.

The crowd dances at the final Splore at Tapapakanga Regional Parkon February 21. Photo / Corey Fleming

“What do you say? I’m going to say what I wish I’d said to my lover of 20 years: that whatever happens, if I spend the rest of my life in solitude under an ancient tree, every day and night will be filled with joy because of the memories of you.”

A friend, journalist Angela Barnett, said to me: “So what replaces Splore? Where are the intergenerational spaces where teenagers can see 60-year-olds dancing barefoot? Where nudity isn’t sexualised? Where art isn’t commodified?”

How do you replace the irreplaceable? Splore was singular for reasons impossible to list in these column inches, and its ending isn’t just haere rā to another festival. We can talk about models and money, but it’s really the end of a cultural chapter that truly and artfully embodied creative imagination; a place to explore and express identity, however that looked for you. A place for vitality and a broadening of the basic concept of “festival” beyond dissent, beyond a rave, beyond a wasteland of discarded tents and dreams. Leave no trace.

I would literally never see my friends again that night – they’d flown to all the feathered, sparkly nooks of the festival.

We would all reconvene at the campsite in the early hours of the new dawn and compare stories, but as I walked and danced from the Lagoon, past the main stage and up to Te Kanikani, where JessB was absolutely killing it, I met three French guys. Two were holding hands and the other was leading the way. He told me that he wished his friends could’ve got married at Splore. They’d never seen anything like it. They’d seen the weddings that day – one of which was a couple who’d first kissed at Splore 10 years ago, then had children, and finally decided they’d tie the knot at the very last Splore. The French guy told me what their travel plans were while in Aotearoa, and we continued this way, talking, sharing our stories till we peeled off in different directions.

On my way back, before I hit the goat track lit with neon sculptures, some living, some inanimate, I wandered to Lisa Reihana’s breathtaking octopus installation Te-Wheke-a-Muturangi, sat down in the grass and thought about how fortunate I had been to come here.

Splore, a word with Scottish origins, means “a spirited celebration with adventurous undertones”.

At the end of the weekend, as the pale evening sun danced on the sea and the far-distant mountains, John Minty, now 73, talked about the legacy of Splore and of the many unsolicited remarks he’d had from international artists who’d come at the end of epic and arduous world tours. And they told him this was the best festival in the world. I’ve been to a few elsewhere too, and they’re not wrong.

There’s nothing quite like an ending to remind you of the beauty and importance of something.

And Splore was indeed something.