My memories of Taiwan's first true indie rock festival are fragmentary, and after a dozen years, unreliable at best. The vibe was chaotic, but in a relaxed way, and the bands themselves consisted mostly of instrument wielding expatriates and a few unpolished Taiwanese punk bands. There was only one stage, and audience and bands could have fit in a couple of school buses.

The one act I recall with razor clarity was a Taiwanese metal band who did a version of Black Sabbath's Paranoid, substituting English school conversation patterns in place of lyrics.

When the lead singer screamed "Hello how are you I'm fine and you please give me toast and eggs" at the crowd, I was gripped with metal bloodlust and nearly knocked myself unconscious bashing my head against the stage.

In 12 years, Kenting has traded rural charm for the trappings of a resort town, and now boasts high class hotels, multiple fast food joints and even a Starbucks. It's in front of the latter that I'm nearly run down by a flatbed truck bearing scantily clad adolescent girls gyrating to techno music.

"Come to Spring Wave!" they screech in English, Taiwanese and Mandarin before moving on.

Dodging endless tourists and the shops set to trap them, I stroll down main street, eyes drawn to flyers plastered on every vertical surface advertising "Spring Scream 2006 events."

Despite the heading, none of these events - featuring British DJ's, American dancers and assorted entertainment - have anything to do with the festival started by Davis and Moe. The real Spring Scream isn't even in Kenting proper anymore; years ago the organizers swapped the alcohol and amphetamine laced beachfront vibe for a more serene patch of farmland a few kilometers away.

It's a healthy walk from downtown to the festival, a comparative oasis of calm, at least as calm as a 2.5 hectare patch of land with five bands playing simultaneously can be. But appearances are deceiving; it's only Thursday evening, and though its already the seventh of 10 days (Spring Scream went from three to 10 days to celebrate its 10th year in 2004, and hasn't gone back), the festival is just ratcheting into high gear. I set up my tent after sundown and set out to find out just how vibrant Taiwan's indie music scene really is. I don't have to walk far.

Over on stage three, a quartet is warming up beneath a banner reading Kou Chou Ching. The band's lineup? Two rappers, a DJ and a heavily set Beatnik clutching a pipa. Nice gimmick, I think, this marriage of hip-hop and traditional Chinese music. But the four stringed instrument creates a perfect rhythm over which the two rappers spit menacing words in a variety of dialects. Halfway through the set and I'm wondering what musicians in dynasties past even did with the pipa before hip-hop was invented.

As the quartet winds down, two stages over and barely out of adolescence, Taipei power trio White Eyes is winding up. Backed by a drummer and bass player, singer-guitarist Gao Xiaogao moans sultry lyrics while raging across the stage like a she-devil in flip-flops, letting the crowd know what it must have been like to have witness Sonic Youth in their prime (even if many of the 200 or more Taiwanese teenagers present have never heard, or even heard of, the quintessential 1980s post-punk band).

"White Eyes isn't your typical Taiwanese band, and for indie musicians, Spring Scream is definitely Taiwan's most significant music event," Gao tells, hawking post-gig CDs. "There's a total lack of commercialism here, which is hard to come by in Taiwan."

There is more on the menu that night, bubblegum rock (balage or "guava music" in local parlance) and screaming Japanese punks. But the acts at Spring Scream are different than those at the first festival. These are not wannabe rockers with three-chord licks and improvised lyrics, or English teachers on holiday. These are musicians. This is rock and roll.

Sometime before dawn I head back to the campground and doze off, cursing the drum circle hippies across the field, and wake just after the sun turns my tent into an oven. After a quick cold bucket bath, I set out to take the festival's pulse in the light of day.

Xiaojue is an 18-year-old girl with pierced tongue and a tight one-piece singlet. She hails from Tainan, Taiwan's traditional Buddha-belt, she tells me. This is her second Spring Scream. Also, she mentions matter-of-factly, she's a lesbian.

"In Tainan I try to be a bit more low key about my sexuality," she says "its pretty conservative there. But Spring Scream is one of those events where I don't need to think about that kind of nonsense."

When I first arrived in Taiwan married couples wouldn't even kiss in public. In Tainan, most still won't.

Before sundown I take a quick jog into town to buy some fruit. Main street is so thick with revelers that police are controlling pedestrian traffic. The vibe is tense, and before long I head back to the peaceful, easy feeling of the festival grounds.

Like any hallucinogenic experience, a music festival has a peak, usually the last night. On Saturday night Milk, bizarro darlings of Taiwan's rock scene, perform a blistering set incorporating Zappa-esque guitar solos and gyrating dancers in micro-skirts. There is also a man in a leather thong and bunny mask; his main task seems to be menacing the drummer.

At midnight, Shambhala, one of two bands flown in at the promoters' expense, takes stage three, where they proceed to rock the crowd, all the while dropping knowledge about nurturing one's Buddha nature and following the five-fold path.

Switching with great difficulty into journalist mode after their set, I ask Agua (half of the Washington DC- based duo) his thoughts on performing in Taiwan.

"It feels like I've come home," he replies.

The rest of the night passes in a haze of Japanese metal acts, techno music and fire dancing, and the next morning I crawl out of my tent, sunburned and unshaven, ready to face the festival's final day. It's time to get down to some serious rock journalism, if only I can find someone awake enough to interview.

Brisbane native Pete is awake and chipper at the coffee cart, surprising considering that a scant nine hours before he'd been putting on one of the most energetic performances of the festival with the band Milk.

"Spring Scream is comparable to some of the better festivals to be found in Australia," he says. "It's always a bit different every year, and that's just one of the things that keeps me coming back."

Dave Sailor, a musician and English teacher from Melbourne (whose band Regenerators is one of the many I missed out on seeing) is another early riser. He's somewhat less enthusiastic about the festival.

He tells me: "I appreciate the fact that Spring Scream gives a lot of Taiwanese bands a venue they otherwise might not have, but they ought to pay the bands."

Around noon the festival's collective consciousness is beginning to stir for one last day.

Chatting up one of the volunteers at the front gate, she tells me: "Attendance is a bit low this year, only about 2,500. But roughly 30 percent are either members of the bands or their friends and fans."

I see Wade and we discuss the bad press Spring Scream routinely gets in the local media. He tells me: "The local media routinely lumps anything that happens in Kenting over spring break as being related to Spring Scream."

Later in the afternoon I run into Jimi and, as I did 12 years ago, thank him for letting me weasel in without paying. The party, it seems, is winding down; 10 days is a long time to sustain a festival. For me, three days is enough.

I hitch a ride into Kenting with a couple of departing musicians. The town looks like a series of garbage bombs have exploded.

As I wait for the bus that will take me back to the airport, I find myself contemplating the numbers. A few thousand is a small draw for a festival that's had a dozen years to establish itself, smaller still when compared to the horde that's been trashing Kenting over the weekend.

Is Taiwan really a cultural wasteland of karaoke bars and Andy Lau imitators?

But then I remember what the volunteer had told me earlier in the day, about how 30% of those at Spring Scream Dog were either musicians or die-hard fans. And this reminds me of a quote, beloved by music fans and rock critics alike, concerning the Velvet Underground.

"Their first album only sold a few thousand copies," goes the quote "but everyone who bought a copy started a band."

How many, I wonder, of that 30% came in years past as mere spectators and returned this year belonging to a more dedicated breed? And what percentage of the rest might return for Spring Scream Pig (cycle two) as musicians, or at least groupies? By my reckoning, even if the numbers are small, Spring Scream has accomplished its original mission in very a big way.