What Have We Done To Deserve This?

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
Mine eyes have seen the glory of steel.

Holy flaming shitburgers, Batman, but I believe we have reached a new pinnacle in bad taste. Stopped in my tracks like a newborn duiker in the blitzkrieg hunting spots of a Land Cruiser, I was bedazzled into next month. From the dazzlingly sterile plains of the stainless steel door panels to the unfinished symphony of the triumphant doorside pillars with their aerial roots hinting at further shininess yet to come, all was full of bling. Cosmonauts on the International Space Station have reported that when the planet is at just the right angle they can switch their bedside lights off and read by the reflection off this cacophony of bling. But wait – there’s more! Note the broekie-lace gazebo. Marvel at the sheer breathtaking audacity of faux-colonial style forced to make sweet love to this paean to the gods of sheet metal in an unholy union that would leave lovers of bestiality slackjawed and speechless.

Put my eyes out with a hive of angry Madagascan tiger hornets, for mine eyes have seen the glory of steel.

This also published on Mahala.
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Dust, Anybody? No?

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
Burn, baby. Burn.

You’re standing in the middle of a wide, flat plain of baking hot red rock. Next to you is The Wish, a three-storey-high dome constructed out of circles of white-painted marine plywood. A little further off stands a multi-headed effigy, the San Clan, which stands a little higher than The Wish. In the distance you can make out the blue silhouettes of the Cedarberg. It’s midday and 40 degrees in the shade, and. There. Is. No. Shade. In every direction across the dusty red Martian plain on which this carnival of creative community takes place, you are encircled by camps, each of which is different, all presenting a colourful and varied addition to the numerous large and small structures and artworks scattered across the empty centre of Tankwa Town. Population? Around a thousand. Location? Tankwa Karoo, Northern Cape. Yes folks, you’re at AfrikaBurn, South Africa’s own regional Burning Man event.

One of the twenty themed camps at AfrikaBurn 2008, our Camp AmaDeadly Disco is the creation of my freinds and I. Promoters and DJs from Durban and KZN, we're familiar to punters who have attended NONONO!!!, Lightworkx, Jalarupa and AmaFullThrottle events in our neck of the woods. Let's just say we're...gregarious. Die-hards to a man (and woman), we undertook a road trip that eventually ate up some 3400 kilometres of tar and dirt, shredded one tyre and left a few marbles roaming the Karoo. As AfrikaBurn is a Burning Man event, it operates according the Ten Principles of a Burn (see www.afrikaburns.com for more on that), and meant that we AmaDeadlies took every part of their camp with us, from Durban, and took it back once the dust had settled (and been washed out of their hair). Dust, anybody? No?

Our camp itself consisted of a complete (and carpeted) dancefloor, including quadraphonic sound, a DJ booth, chill area and, of course, discoballs and lights. Covered by a stretch tent, our aim was to participate in the event by playing music, and offering their space to all comers. After four days of non-stop music, pyrotechnics, fun and games and self-reliance, we packed up our camp, and in keeping with the ‘leave no trace’ ethos of the event, left nothing more than a few small holes in the ground where industrial-strength staves once held our 20x15m tent down.

A few hors d’oeuvres short of a cocktail party, or just plain mad for the jol? That’s a matter of opinion, but one thing’s for sure – we’re doing it again this September out there in the Tankwa Karoo, bigger and better than last year. We held a fundraiser recently to spread the word , and raised some funds to ease the costpain of this motherfucker of all road trips, consisting of an information session where Burning Man and AfrikaBurn dvd’s and photos were shown, and of course a wild party which kicked on through to dawn. But we've got plans, big one, for this year's Burn, and have been beavering away with different configurations of structures and gear. Stretch fabric. Staves. Kingpoles. Rope. Poles. Inflatable furniture. Carpeting. Webbing. Ratchets. Dustmasks. Goggles. Jimmy-rigged showers. Diesel. Genny. Bowser. These are a few of our favourite things.

Participants from KZN are kinda thin on the ground at AfrikaBurn, by virtue of the distance to the event, but if you’re interested in attending Africa’s own Burning Man, or would like to know more, let your fingers do the mousing to the AmaDeadly Facebook Page

Brace yourself, Sheila. We're in for a wild one.

(This article also published on Mahala.)

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Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
There they go, through rain and sleet and snow, bitching as they go...


“The toilets were sif. They were long-drops. They were plastic portable toilets. The toilets were just a hole in the ground surrounded by a grass screen you could drive a bus through. There weren’t any toilets. There wasn’t any toilet paper. There weren’t any showers. The showers were too cold. The showers were too busy. They charged a fee to use the toilets, and another to use the showers. The bar was too far. The bar was too close to the campsites. The bar was too expensive. The bar didn’t have the right brand of beer. The beer was warm. There was no ice. The bar was full of drunk rugby fans. The bar played kak music. There was too much rock on the bill. There wasn’t enough rock on the bill. There was too much indie/electro/trance/house/folk/jazz/kwaito. Not enough indie/electro/trance/house/folk/jazz/kwaito. There was no firewood. They sold outta firewood. It was too packed. There weren’t any food stalls. The food stalls were too expensive. The lighties were too dronk. There were too many ballies. Too many hippies. Too many pubescent emo rockers. Not enough chicks. Not enough drugs. Too many drugs. The drugs were shit. The drugs were too expensive. Too much security. Not enough security. Venue was too far. Signage en route was crap. The dirt road was awful. It was too hot. It was too cold. There weren’t any bonfires. It rained. It hailed. It baked. There wasn’t enough shade. The sound was kak. It was too loud. It wasn’t loud enough. Tent blew away in the wind. Shit got nicked outta the tent. Campchair got nicked. There were no ATMs. No cellphone signal. Nowhere to charge a phone. No water. There was water, but you couldn’t drink it. They didn’t have water on sale. They were charging too much for water. There weren’t any dustbins. There was trash everywhere. The door staff were rude. The tickets were too expensive. There was a queue to get in. Cars got stuck in the mud. The moshpit was too hectic. There was no metal. There was no dance music. They shut the dancefloors down too early. They let the dance music play too late. The music never stopped. The bands started late. The headliners cancelled. The stages shut down too early. The stages were too close together. The stages were too far apart. There were delays. The ravers were off their faces. There was nowhere to chill. There was no Rizla. No cigarettes on sale. Cigarettes were too expensive. The cops were hardcore. Loads of arrests. The crowds were too much. There was too much dust. There was too much mud. The campsites were full of rocks. There were thorns everywhere. There were too many people drumming around campfires. Too many people brought their kids. It wasn’t safe for kids. The décor was crap. There wasn’t any décor. There was too much branding. The VIP area sucked. The headliners sucked. The support acts sucked. The DJs sucked. The comperes sucked. The free stage sucked. The food sucked. The drinks sucked. The organisation sucked. The whole fuckin’ festival sucked.”

What can we conclude from this exhaustive collection of complaints?

Punters love to bitch.

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It Ain't No Mistri, We Makin Histri

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
Tell me sumting, Mr Government Man...

Standing at the bar at Saturday night’s LKJ gig, and along came Neil Comfort, veteran promoter on the Durban music scene from way back since the bad old days and present owner of legendary venue The Rainbow in Pinetown. His muttered comment on the organisation of the gig? ‘Fly by night operators.’ Turns out the organisers – Purple Haze Productions – had to change the Cape Town venue three times (on the day of the gig) because – get this – they only found out that Linton the main man doesn’t play outdoor venues. After he’d arrived on South African soil. The Durban gig followed much the same line, with the venue being changed late on Friday afternoon from the Bluff Showgrounds to the City Hall. But, despite mutterings from other performers about shambolic organisation, it turned out fine. Bear in mind that the City Hall is a soaring gorgeous colonial hall in the style of old, which easily transports visitors back in time to a more genteel age when moulded ceilings, exquisite wrought ironwork and finely crafted woodwork were the order of the day. And, acoustically speaking, the far-flung outdoor Bluff venue isn’t a patch on the cavernous hall. So, all in all the punters won with the venue change, and it didn’t seem to throw too many off the trail – the venue wasn’t exactly packed, but then the City Hall can easily accommodate over a thousand people.

So, to the music. Arriving around 7ish the support acts seen played in with Manoeuvre To Land’s well-crafted and soulful rock, followed by The Tuff Masters’ wailing ghetto reggae, and final support was played by The Meditators who, it must be said, are a very tight outfit and may well knock the ‘Kings Of SA Reggae’ crown from Tidal Waves’ head at some point in the near future. Slick, upbeat and bouncing along, they’re an act you should make an effort to see at all costs. And, in between the bands delivering the sermon to the gathered throng of rastas, hippie dreads and surprisingly straight-looking middle class honkies, was the one and only DJ Paperboy, dropping rare dancehall, dub and early reggae platters, much to the delight of the easy skanking brigade. Talking about skanking, it seemed that the City Hall had been declared a free zone for the night, judging by the brazen burning of blunts taking place outside the hall. Hell, one dread was even walking around with a coconut bong. Real casual, like. Mind you, as one dread said, the City Hall belongs to all of us, the taxpayers and ratepayers especially. But enough of the hors d’ouvres, what of the main course? Backed up by the eminently competent beats of the Dennis Bovell Dub Band, who played a great 20-minute intro set of their own material, LKJ finally took to the stage in trademark hat and jacket, and proceeded to lay down his inimitable dub poetry with ease and style in the patois he’s so well known for. Peppering his set list with illuminating commentary on the origins of each song, he filled the audience in on the state of inner city 1970s Britain and its accompanying police brutality, the difficulties faced by people of colour and the injustices committed in the name of justice from thirty years ago to the present. Having listened to his music for over ten years, it was great to have some light shed on so many of his seminal recordings from the man himself as he wove his way through hit after hit.

This was my last column published on Levi's Original Music Mag before it shuts up shop.
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It's Alright Ma, It's Only House Music

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
See Spooky Panda. See Spooky Panda dance. Dance, Panda, dance!

The wife says I'm getting soft in my old age, and classifies some of the stuff I now DJ as 'house'. Now, I mighta taken exception to such barefaced cheek a few years ago, but I've realised that 'house music' probably reflects the spirit of some of the stuff best. Why? Because all the truly dire crap drivel coming outta speakers at a club near you is no longer called house - it's called by 'deep', 'progressive', 'minimal', 'electro' and any number of other names. The result? House music has reclaimed some of its authenticity since even the cheesemasters started avoiding using the term.

So, here's to revisiting the music that started all the bruxism and shaking. This right here is a piece put together by James A. Copeland. Otherwise (pretty damn well) known as Broken Toy in the Cape trance scene, with a fanbase of dedicated flouro nutjobs in tow, he's branched out to tech and 'house' under the Nesono moniker. And I like it.

Nesono - Dagger 125A.mp3

Note to the net Sherrif: fuck off, this is legally downloadable with rights granted. Love you. Hang on, no I don't. You suck. Kisses.
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A Whole Lotta Love

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
Photo: Roger Jardine / shot on Hasselblad

Always wondered what all the fuss was about, this whole thing about weddings. The stress, the bickering, the family members meddling, the fussing and minor meltdowns. You always hear about 'Christ, was I nervous' and 'It just gets too much' and all that. Had always thought people were overreacting and just being, well, useless. And now I know. It's a helluva thing. You walk down that aisle and all eyes are you and...you kinda have a minor out of body experience. But damn, was it an experience.

Our Love Declaration Celebration was a participatory affair - we would never have gone in for the muffin dresses, the traditional schedule of boring speeches and some proselytizing minister and all the (frankly awful, in our opinion) white wedding trimmings that can make some occasions a yawnfest. So we opted to instead do it ourselves, by having our guests contribute a skill, an item or a service. The upside: everyone feels involved, and gets involved. The result: a fantastic day of colour, freinds and family and one horned, pearler kicking monstrosity of a party.

Did it all proceed smoothly? Did it ever. It was fanfuckingtastic. My bride looked like a billion dollars (hey, a mill ain't what it used to be), and my suit got me the most compliments I've ever had. Now I know what all the fuss is about a tailored suit. If anyone wants the number of my tailor, shout. I'll let the picture speak the thousand words. And if you'd like to see more, go hither:

trabicaselyle's Flickr Photostream

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Come With Me To The Dancefloor

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
Going down like a lead Zeppelin

News of a new Prodigy release always provokes a fresh outbreak of moonfaced anticipation from diehard fans of ‘Experience’ and ‘Music For The Jilted Generation’, who hold out for a return to the warped Korg synths and acid house stabs of those seminal albums. And, after the commercial success of ‘Fat Of The Land’ with its MTV-rotation-heavy hits ‘Breathe’ and ‘Firestarter’ and the overblown, critically panned disco punk extravagance of ‘Always Outnumbered Never Outgunned’, you could hardly blame them. After all, quo vadis Prodigy, after the brutal brilliance of ‘Voodoo People’ or the mindwarp of ‘Break And Enter’?

Well, perhaps Liam and his band of merry punksters will never scale those dizzying heights ever again, and god forbid that a review of the new material dare compare the almighty Prodge to any other electronic noisemakers, but ‘Invaders’ does evoke shades of Simian Mobile Disco, Digitalism and other electrofried nu-ravers of the last few years. Have they taken tips from the master of chronic electronic, or is the master now taking tips from the pupils? Who can say? That said, the best compliment that can be laid at Howlett’s studio door is that this latest output is unashamedly raving, nay, it’s fucking barking and en route to the vet for a tetanus shot, at some points. The razorsharp acid house stabs, hyper vocals and grimy treatment on ‘Take Me To The Hospital’ could easily have been an ‘Experience’ outtake, having gathered dust in the Dirtchamber all these years. The title track on ‘Invaders’ could equally have been a throwback from ‘Always Outgunned’. But ‘Warriors Dance’, with its wailing clarinet and vocal sample (from techno anthem "Take Me Away" by True Faith) is straight up rave circa 1991, and thank your lucky stars for that, considering the trend of so many new acts to wimp out as the good life edges them closer to white bread mediocrity. Caution: diversion ahead. Cases in point? The Killers, Kings Of Leon and Coldplay - a comparison based on the progressive softening of their output as opposed to comparison in genre. What was that? They're your favourite band? I've got news for you - they're crap now, and were better when they were unknown. But hang in there, sunshine: you're an individual. I promise. But I digress.

It’s true when they say you can’t go back, so perhaps all that nostalgia is so much of just that, nostalgia, and fans should just throw that ever-elusive strong pill back and shake some shin, because there isn’t – and never was – much more to the Prodigy than a damn fine excuse to dislocate a vertebra or two, and ‘Invaders’ serves up just such a dosage, for lovers of the shuddering climaxes, mindlessly repetitive samples and cone-shattering basslines. So, is this the ever-elusive and much-feted return to form? Does a fish piss in the sea?

This isn't any effete electro noodling, and there's no room for academic discussion on the finer nuances of the album, because this album doesn't have any airs or graces, and thank god for that, being as it is a breath of fresh air in the age of unashamed aural masturbation. These are beats, plain and simple, and about as subtle as a pick in the eye. Ending the album off, ‘Stand Up’ echoes ‘The Trick’, (the B-side to 1996's ‘Breathe’), in its mid-tempo big beat styling, with the addition of a big band brass section, and perhaps stands as an indicator of how age has brought maturity to the Prodigy sound without the apparently mandatory loss of edge so lamented in other musical performers. (Brandon, Caleb and Chris - are you listening? No? Drat. Foiled again.)

So, do you want hard as nails beats and obnoxious guitars with psycho lyrics that’ll scare everyone but the nuttiest gurner off the floor? Yes? Step right up for a serving of gratuitous Prodigy.

Unfortunately fans of the Kitchen's apparently illegal habit of posting shit-hot music will have to go elsewhere, as the assmonkey net nannies have sniffed us out.

Go torrent.

(this review originally published on Pythagoras-TV)


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Assmonkeys

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik

"Blogger has been notified, according to the terms of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), that certain content in your blog infringes upon the copyrights of others."

Hmmm.
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Close Encounters Of The Wierd Kind

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
OK, Chuck, just look into the camera. 'Yeah, I am.' Oh...


So there I was, minding my own business, in the smoking section at the Wimpy, that haven of sanity in an otherwise hectic Hypermarket By The Sea. It's a trade-off with my dearest wife; she does the shopping and, as I'm too busy eating grease and reading the Sunday papers, I can't distract her from the all-important administration of domestic supplies. Well, it wasn't a haven of sanity for long.
As the wife disappeared into the realm of frantic retail horror, a nutter sitting across from me suddenly perked up. No spring chicken, he must have been about 40. With lank, greasy hair and a crazy eye (which kinda reminded me of...oh, who was it again?), he spotted his victim, licked his lips in anticipation and shot out at me these perspicacious words:
'Always better with the sound off, eh?'
To which I whinnied quietly as I scanned the exits. I knew he meant the TV, but kept shtum. Didn't put him off, of course. He ordered another tea '...with six sugars, eh?' and rolled on regardless...
'Because I always find people talk more, you know?' (This, at volume. Heads are turning. Forks, halfway to their mark and laden with bacon, are hovering in midair.)
And then comes the deluge:
'You know, it's in Revelations, hey? You know Revelations - where it says that all of this is against the will of God. You know. Too many people in the world, man, I mean - you know there's 7.5 billion people, now, hey? Now if they all have one baby, that's 7.5 billion more. And then if they all have two babies? That's right! 15 billion people! Now where will we find the resources? ANOTHER PLANET! Revelations!'

And then, through a cloud of Marlboro and fright, my domestic goddess appeared, wreathed in the white light of salvation.

He was still muttering when we left him. Only now it was to his mother, who was asking if he wanted another tea...

Close one, that.


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If I Don't Get Some Shelter I'm Gonna Fade Away

By Travis Lyle a.k.a DJ Hedmekanik
No, Mr Sutcliffe, it wasn't us, but yes, we like it.

The wife and I went to see Pieter Dirk-Uys' 'Elections and Erections' at the Elizabeth Sneddon theatre last night, and what a great show it was. PDU had the audience in stitches, he had us wide-eyed and thoughful, he had us howling like banshees. Oh yes, he had us, alright, for the man is a consummate observer of South Africa's social and political foibles, and has a uncanny knack for shining a light on the sheer lunacy of so many things we usually just accept as 'normal'. The first half of the show he was in person, performing a variety of impressions sharing reflections on his career and personal life. The master of the elegant dismount and the eloquent delivery, he held every member of the audience in thrall. The second half of the show? Why, he was nowhere to be seen for the stage was filled by Her Excellency herself, Mrs Evita Bezuidenhout, straight outta Bapetikosweti. But what really grabbed the audience was the guest: none other than Dr Mike Sutcliffe.

Now, as a little background for visitors to the Voodoo Kitchen from elsewhere in the world where they may not have heard of Uncle Mike (hey, it's possible) - he is the City Manager for the Ethekwini Metro, within which the city of Durban is situated. A figure of some contention, Mr Sutcliffe has led some of the more unwelcome changes that have marked Durban's transition from the old days to the new, under an ANC-dominated city council. Among these changes has been the one that has grabbed the most headline space: that of changes to street names. I'm not going to get into it in depth here, as elsewhere on the net there's plenty to read if you're so inclined. Regardless, there was Mike the guest in his obligatory Madiba shirt (although it was a fairly toned-down black number this time). And there was Madame Evita raising some piquant questions, sometimes diplomatically, sometimes ruthlessly, but always to uproarious response. The issue that got the most uproar? Street name changes. This issue hasn't run its course yet, for, as Evita reminded Mike so succinctly, in a few short weeks South Africa goes to the polls in a general election. And if things turn out to the ANC's dislike (which is distinctly possible, considering the recent political seismic shifts in the beloved country), Mike and his comrades may be on the back foot. But after all the hue and cry and booing and howling and whatnot, the message of the show was simple: vote. Or else you have yourself to blame when things don't go your way, politically speaking.

As for the unauthorised street name change you see above, we at NONONO!!! know nothing. But we think it's damn cool.

Some remix and cover finery:

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