1. The first Tapau Fest I attended was on New Year’s Eve in 2016. I was a 19-year-old girl who had no clue about the independent music scene unless listening to the greatest hits of Hujan and Bunkface counted as being a local indie music fan. I went with a friend who only bought the ticket so I wouldn’t have to go to my first music festival alone. My understanding on the indie music scene was as clean as a white sheet of paper, not knowing any band on the lineup. If my hazy memories are to be trusted, I remember gasping while watching Takahara Suiko perform as the frontwoman of The Venopian Solitude. Then I saw Johny Comes Lately, who also blew me away with their saxophone work — though mostly because I was standing so close to the speakers. A big mistake, but one all concert rookies make. After that, I went home because I was a 19-year-old with a 7:00 PM curfew. I waited for Grab while eating pricey pasta from a takeout box. I left Tapau Fest that night almost penniless because the pasta was expensive for a broke student like me. But there was only one thing I wanted to do when I got home: type “The Venopian Solitude” into the YouTube search bar.

2. Then there was Tapau Fest 2019. I was 22 years old, fresh off the end of a situationship. So to mend my broken heart, I bought the RM50 early bird ticket to the festival. I wanted to see Midnight Fusic. And maybe to see what all the hype was about for Mafidz (you had to be there in 2019 to see for yourself the way people talked about this band), LUST and Iqbal M. That night, my dad fetched me and asked who was performing. I said Hujan because lying was much easier than explaining who Iqbal M. was and why watching them made me want to start my own music magazine.

3. Fast forward to three years later, I was no longer 22. I was 25 now and on a road trip to Lenggong, the first Tapau Fest to be held in this hidden gem of Perak. When I arrived, it was fucking hot. The sun melted my face. I wasn’t sure if I was going to have a good time, despite the insanely blue skies and a mountain as the stage backdrop. But it all changed when Kungfu Heidi first hit the stage, her voice sounded raspy and damaged, rapped about fighting ego with more ego. At night, the mountains were no longer visible. I cramped in between the crowd of hipster girls to watch Hindia, whose music I downloaded into my brain so I could sing along just a few days ago. It worked because I actually remembered every word to “Untuk Apa / Untuk Apa?” and Hindia was the one who forgot the lyrics to one of the long, sprawling verses. But it’s okay, he wrote “Menari Dalam Bayangan” and played one of the best shows I’ve ever seen to this day. So all is forgiven.

4. In May of last year, a sneak peek of Tapau Fest 2024 was teased on their social media platforms. It was meant to be an extra special Tapau Fest, marking the festival’s 10th anniversary. But later in October, during an Instagram Live, Ahmad Faris, its founder, announced that Tapau Fest would not take place due to a lack of funding. I, who had set an alarm to watch the announcement, saw in real time as comments like “Lenggong lagi ke?” or “Bawak [insert rising Indonesian artist] please!” scrolled up into the livestream and vanished.

5. Then, in November, #Tapau10Tahun was announced. A compact version of Tapau Fest but instead of Lenggong mountains, you get the warehouses in Petaling Jaya as your backdrops. The lineup featured a mix of bands that had performed on the Tapau roster before, as well as some that hadn’t. Then, there was the Tapau FC battle and a mini version of Tapau Kon, a convention of scene-related conversations first held in 2022. Except this time, I was no longer the clueless girl head-nodding amongst the Tapau Fest crowd. I was invited to be a guest speaker??????

6. Faris began TapauKon Mini by sharing his nearly two-decade journey with Tapau — how his love for the independent music scene first bloomed and how he built music festivals like Tapau Fest. It was an emotional session because Faris admitted that from 2025 onwards, Tapau would never be the same. I almost caught myself asking, “Is this it?” but I didn’t want to ask the same question that only active complainers, passive doers would ask. So I didn’t ask myself anything. I just kept quiet and replayed the memories of all the Tapau Fests I had attended in my head.

7. Then it was time for our session. I was afraid I’d talk too much and too loudly. And that’s exactly what I did. I talked about how I think music journalism is dead because streaming services like Spotify fucks with the way people discover new music. Zhafirin Zulkifli of Gedegang! reminded the older generation to ‘berpijak di bumi yang nyata’. In my head, I thought, “Maybe we should tell them to berpijak di bumi tahun 2024,” because most of the conversations surrounding new music are hindered by those still living in the past. All three of us shared our love for gonzo journalism, and then Ku Syafiq, who now writes for Seni Malaya, said that Hunter S. Thompson’s works bores him. I agree.

8. The big topic of our conversation was the highs and lows of 2024. Faris let me talk about the data (the audacity for me to call it data! It’s a poorly managed Excel sheet tracker at best) that I collected on music festivals in 2024. Mid-conversation, and in front of everybody, I asked Faris why Tapau didn’t organize cash-spurring shows like tribute gigs, which are clearly churning out more money than ever — if you haven’t noticed. But I feel like I probably shouldn’t have asked. Not because I was wrong to ask, but because I already know why Tapau wouldn’t do it.

9. We had an open table session for the audience to ask, criticize and ponder together about the state of the scene. Someone asked about the future, so Ku Syafiq gave his bold statement. I had subconsciously and embarassingly become a TikTok advocate, urging for the scene to make the most out of the platform. In reality, I hate TikTok because every second I spend on the app rots my already damaged brain. But I was also frustrated by the lack of local music presence on TikTok. The platform is like a sea of hungry music fans, and yet no one seems eager enough to spoon-feed them. Yes, unfortunately, you gotta spoon-feed the kids with good music. So I don’t understand why we’re still expecting them to dig through the buffet spread like it’s 1998.

10. I left TapauKon mini with great hunger — not for answers to the future of Malaysian indie music but for actual food. Outside, it was raining heavily. I bought hot churros and razed each one of them like Chunk the Groundhog. It was my first meal of the day. And I didn’t want to eat anything else because it was already time to watch Terrer.

11. Earlier, I spoke to Mohd Jayzuan, who wanted to know why the kids love Gard Wuzgut, a conversation that had been prolonged from when he met my peers and saw Gard Wuzgut at the Ipoh Music Symposium 2024. For some reason, I felt obliged to give him reasons, so I took mental notes of Gard Wuzgut’s performance, though I, for one, haven’t been properly introduced to their music yet — a shameless defeat I’d have to admit. Their performance was one I expected from most rappers I had seen recently — oozing coolness that can only be truly appreciated when you’re their fan. There was an anticlimactic DJ set in the middle, spinning their hits and yet no one in the hall danced. Because again, not all of us here came into this room as Gard Wuzgut fans. I skimmed through my mental notes, and the only plausible justification I could give to Jayzuan’s long-running question is that you have to view them through the lens of pop music. Like how I see Drake as a pop star and not a hip-hop artist. Any other expectation simply falls short.

12. I wish Okirama’s set wasn’t so… stained with technical issues. I hope to see them again, free of any ringing noises.

13. Then there was Iqbal M., whose performance was the one I anticipated the most, especially since the last time I saw them at Hausboom Music Festival, they gave the most offensively boring version of Iqbal M. I’ve ever seen. I wanted Iqbal M. at their most theatrical, offensive, laden with crowd humiliation rituals that made me question my stance as their fan. And so, at #Tapau10Tahun, where Iqbal himself declared that he’s free to do whatever he wants, my wishes came true.

14. On the second day of #Tapau10Tahun, I saw FUAD and thought it was Lisa Fuad at her most confident. She was no longer shy, giggling, or looking at her brother to check with him if she was doing alright. This time, Lisa was shouting into the microphone, strumming guitars while laying on the stage floor, making weird noises with her mouth.

15. I saw The Filters only towards the end of their set because I was experiencing this thing called mid-concert fatigue, somewhat an unsettling pregame to post-concert depression. It wasn’t the concert; I think I was struggling to accept that tomorrow was Monday.

16. When watching Jemson, I kept registering in my mind that it was my first time seeing them. I had been a fan of their debut self-titled album, which I’d consider one of the best albums of the 2020s so far. It’s filled with memorabilia of its predecessors yet clever enough to stay close to the present; pinching nostalgia in the cheek without making it nauseating. The highlight was none other than the karaoke-friendly, sing-along-inducing “Lagu Yang Paling Kecewa Di Dalam Dunia.” I always knew Jemson was amazing, but watching them live skyrocketed my love into something bigger.

17. I went home right after Jemson. Sorry to Seru and Masdo! In my defense, I’ve seen both bands before, and at this hour, my mind was adamant on toggling the corporate slave switch inside my brain.

18. In the car, I kept thinking about what to write about this: the state of the music scene? Its future? What will we all do if Tapau is no longer around? Oh, I wish I had the answers. But clearly, I’m too juvenile to read the scene’s palm to know what’s coming. The last thing I’d want to do now is to romanticise the past (we already have an entire generation whose role in the scene is exactly that) or predict the future. Surely, the signs of darker times are all around. And yet, I don’t have to dwell on the past to feel the same thrill I did when I was 19, at my first Tapau Fest, or when I was 22, watching Iqbal M. for the first time at Tapau Fest 2019, or at 25, witnessing how The Filters lit up the stage at Resort Tasik Raban. I don’t have to dig up old memories to feel those joys: the rush of discovering new bands, the awe of seeing my favorites live for the first time, the satisfaction of watching bands grow and evolve, the delight of hearing unreleased tracks performed live. Those joys aren’t just relics of the past. They’re still here. They’re always around.