The doof that wouldn't die: Hopkins Creek

The anticipation for the return of Naarm’s prodigal child of festivals, Hopkins Creek, was palpable. “Oi, you goin’ Hopkins?” a phrase commonly overheard at many a pub-soiree and kickons-yapfest alike.

Aussie festival season is in full swing, with nothing short of an onslaught of doofs occurring almost weekly since late September; healthy competition which has flourished in the vacuum left by the loss of stalwart Victorian festivals Inner Varnika (RIP) & Hopkins Creek itself, which appeared to be indefinitely in hiatus since its 2022 cancellation.

For a bit of context on why my two cents are even worth scrolling through on your toilet break, I was lucky enough to attend the aforementioned IVX - an experience that I can fondly and wholeheartedly say influenced my life’s trajectory. Over one rainy weekend, lifelong friendships were solidified, my understanding of music was turned upside down, and countless jokes, bits, and goofs were formed. I was hooked. I’ve voraciously attended countless doofs since.

This was my first Hopkins, which had always seemed like a pipedream: the one that got away…

Well, here it was finally. Back and… better than ever? I was excited to find out.

A doof by definition is an ‘intimate’ community-driven music gathering - a breeding ground for opportunity and creative collaboration; showcasing the DIY spirit that lies at the heart of any good underground scene.

The best doofs consider all aspects of the experience; the selection and flow of the music programming, how lighting and production interplay with the environment, nature itself serving an important role.

The punter plays an equally important part as the DJ does. “When a DJ plays in an Inner North Location TBC and no one is around to hear it,” etc.

Last but not least - a good sound system is vital.

Hopkins has faced a long & rocky road to its return - 2020’s COVID-19 lockdowns, 2022’s site dilemmas, postponement, an indirect result of extreme weather in the aftermath of the black summer bushfires.

The result: forced adaptation, improvisation and first-hand experience dealing with a set of worst-case scenarios. Given their long-running weather curse, it was unsurprising that the 2025 edition would have its own severe weather incident of biblical proportions. Ferocious 70km/h winds ravaged the campsite in the early hours of Saturday morning, leaving many unseasoned attendees in a sorry state.

“It was so comical though, it added to the experience - we were all just laughing at some point,” said Jade, whose tent was levelled by the storm. Thankfully, many stranded campers were accommodated; Jade’s group luckily wrangled a spare glamping tent. “It all works out in the end!” she told me proudly.

Personally, I returned to the campsite to see the hilarious image of my tent completely upside down, with all its contents intact and undamaged. Others in my campsite weren’t so lucky, but while tents may have been physically flattened, spirits remained high.

Another wind-victim included one of the Town Hall stage’s shadecloths - nature’s not so subtle nod to 2018’s stage pole-felling and subsequently mainstage shut-down incident. Experience and preparedness prevailed this time, and the ruggedly built infrastructure remained intact despite the weather’s worst efforts.

Enough carrying on about the weather, though, let's talk shop, Baitshop that is.

I’d heard many infamous tales about Barry’s Baitshop, and for better or for “worse”, I ended up spending a great deal of time there.

“Inner Varnika always took itself pretty seriously. Hopkins has ALWAYS been the silly one,” artist Whiskey Houston smirked.

No other stage could encapsulate this silliness better. Australiana-tongue-in-cheek-chique in the form of a marquee laden with fish and tackle bits, booby-trapped with fishing net, which I managed to get stuck in on several occasions. My Friday night was spent watching a game of pool slowly get derailed by an endless stream of punters shuffling into the space in the wet-weather induced ‘sardine-ification’ of the baitshop. Dancers sandwiched together for equal parts vibe AND shelter during Myles Mac & DJ Possum’s thumping closing set.

Moments of pure joy and amazement were witnessed as friends realised that Guinness was on tap at the bar alongside a slew of crater & fishing themed cocktail concoctions, accompanied by the “Experience” which provided the daring few with $69 to spare a bizarre side-quest involving negronis, cigarettes, a lobster man and a line-skip lanyard which would prove invaluable.

Especially so on Sunday afternoon’s Chuleo Club takeover, which saw the Baitshop at its most raucous and sweaty. The security-enforced capacity limitation rewarded the strongest bladders and those lucky (or foolish) enough to endure the boiling sun, or else face an hour-long line to get back in.

Other highlights from the Baitshop included the brief appearance of a bucking bull, the musical stylings of Navy Blue Radio’s Folarin, Spin Cycle’s Terri & Bex shutting down the shop on Saturday night, and a standout performance by the Bauxite bully himself, Rapper C.R.A.I.G. I’ve never felt more proud to hail from WA than during this performance.

The Planetarium stage served as another space for reprieve from nature’s harshities; a cosy arrangement of teepees decorated with a beautiful mossy installation & accompanying workshop by Xflos’ Kayla Moon.

Much of the festival’s slower, softer and deeper musical bookings were broadcast throughout the Planetarium on a hearty solar-powered sound system. Standout moments included Skylab radio resident, Elsie’s incredible Hopkins debut, lord of the deep Alex Albrecht’s liveset wizardry and whoever the fuck played that dubbed out version of Superstylin… Goddamn!

Unfortunately for a FOMO-ridden festival goer such as myself, the cosy comforts of this stage were the main reason I spent such little time within its confines, worried I’d get too engrossed in a great convo and miss an act elsewhere. I spent some time here, but wish I could’ve dilly-dallied longer. Perhaps in another lifetime I’ll learn to give less of a fuck about the music and embrace the mateship a bit more.

Hopkins’ previous home, the Kulkurt Crater is a mystical place. Having stood on this land just a weekend prior at Ballista, which has now inherited the site, this new ground had much to live up to.

The festival’s new site on Taungarung land proved immensely successful, with rolling hills and puffy clouds creating an immaculate backdrop and spectacular sunset vistas.

The zenith point and my personal festival highlight was Saturday night at Town Hall.

Gadigal Land/Sydney legend, Cousin’s sunset liveset (feat. some of the first rays of sun all weekend) acted as a perfect crescendo into the classy minimal grooves of Canadian dons PLO Man & Hashman Deejay.

Magda Bytnerowicz’ masterful exploration of progressive, in which sideways rain returned to the tune of Danny Tenaglia’s ‘Turn Me On’, flowed on into the newest iteration of Sleep D’s classic, ‘Red Rock’, where the line-array speakers thumped harder than ever during their hour of power, re-opening the portal back to many a doof under rain & stars listening to these Naarm legends.

The Town Hall's Saturday finale was none other than Darcy Justice, who rounded out the proceedings with pure club heat, a perfect display and celebration of Australia’s hometown heroes.

Hopkins is no stranger to thinking on the fly, but regularly, the result of that near-improvisational action is a near-spooky kind of small-worldedness.

Cult-legend Dreems, due to unforeseen circumstances, was unable to perform their duty as the closing act for the festival. A bittersweet final blow to the Hopkins crew, but not of course without a satisfying stand-in, Osaka’s finest selector Mitsuki stepped up to the plate(s) following on from Sound Metaphors’ Nemo & Castro’s Sunday Church proceedings.

For me, this finale was cathartic. Blissfully pure, joyful selections soundtracked a beautiful, starry sky, with a waning moon off to the side. As my phone's battery finally gave out, time stood still; the night seemed endless. Best of all, everywhere I looked, I found myself surrounded by a sea of friends, both old and new, finally all together in one place.

As I sit here reflecting on what was an unforgettable weekend, I think of what the future holds for festivals like Hopkins and the incredibly positive legacy that like-minded groups of ‘dreem-ers’ can create. In a world that increasingly prioritises the individual over others, where soulless cash-grabs constantly flood our Insta-feeds, one swipe away from another daily reminder of the darkest parts of humanity, it's nothing short of a privilege to be able to celebrate something good for once, alongside both mates and strangers alike.

Doofs like Hopkins are far more than a zany substance-fuelled weekend escape for the post-modern hedonist. They allow us to put aside the dreary shackles of daily life, to stop and focus on beauty in the form of art, music and nature. They’re places for up-and-coming artists to step into the limelight, upon the very same stages that both internal greats and homegrown veterans fondly covet and often recount as their favourite sets.

They’re an opportunity for us to marvel at the incredible land we call home, in all its striking beauty, rain, hail or shine. They’re places where lifelong friendships form, mates from far away can reunite and budding romance flourishes.

Hopkins’ return marked a return to form as much as it did the start of a new era.

Music & Mateship are the festival’s core tenets, and in this reviewer’s opinion, they managed to craft the perfect storm for these to flourish.

Against all odds, Hopkins Creek prevailed. Magnificent Seven was a magnificent triumph.

In the words of Barry Sunset himself,

Here’s to year 8 and to many more.

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Darren Cheah, also known as CHEAHDX, is a DJ, producer and writer originating from Boorloo/Perth, but now based in Naarm/Melbourne.