THE VOODOO KITCHEN

Goodbye, Blogger. Hello, WordPress

2010-03-25T16:29:00.003+02:00

Dear Blogger;

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. You were good, and then we had bad sex, I broke up with you, then we had make up sex and it sucked, and now we don’t talk any more. It’s so funny how we don’t talk, anymore. I’ve moved my stuff out and what I’ve left behind, you can keep, burn or give to charity. I don’t care. I’m off with my new love, her name is WordPress.

So long and take care,

Hedmekanik

p.s: if you need to contact me or send mail on, my new address is Steaknife Tuesday

OK, Computer. Have It Your Way.

2010-02-25T09:24:00.004+02:00

Ladies and gents, we apologise for the interruption in service. We have our best technicians working on the problem. Please talk amongst yourselves for a moment...

To be honest, the Blogger platform sucks, and I think it's high time I migrated this blog to WordPress, which I've realised is a much tighter package. And who doesn't like a tight package, hmmm? Therefore, consider this one of the last posts at this URL, with info to be posted shortly as to where you will find The Voodoo Kitchen v.2. Bear in mind I'm moving to Cape Town, so the forecast will be for scattered posts with intermittent bursts of activity.

But before we leave you hanging, please take note of the last NONONO!!! event Mrs Hedmekanik and I will be staging in Durban, which will feature the talents of the team you've come to know and love and will be topped by a serving of the brothers Skene, a.k.a GRAVE DANGER, pretty much one of the hottest pieces of electronic action doing the rounds. We're doing it at Origin, which features a Funktion One sound system. If you don't know what that is, we suggest you find out. Here, have a flyer:

(for those who cannot contemplate a life without NONONO!!! events, rest assured that the team will continue to bring you your regular serving of cutting-edge electronica and mandatory socialising. Thanks for reading, and have a fucking great year!)

Apologies, Snowed Under, Here, Have Two Flyers

2009-11-11T16:47:00.004+02:00

As stated above, snowed under with year-end stuff, so I'll keep it short and sweet.

Tis the season to get so motherlessly wrecked up that you forget your own name, your dog's name, your mother's name, where you live, where you left your car/girlfriend/boyfriend/morals and how you got home. Traditional stuff, then. Thus and therefore, you should get your ass to the two events represented in flyer form above, where you will find yourself in very good company.

If I post nothing before the festive season truly hits, please accept my humble merry wishes in advance.

All the best.

This Chorizo Assumption

2009-10-14T17:29:00.004+02:00

Bluff Headland Heritage Park? Not a sausage...

For all those who live in Durban and wonder why our local tourism industry flounders, consider the following:

The Ethekwini Municipality, through its erstwhile tourism marketing arm, Durban Africa, put out a tourism brochure a couple of years ago. This brochure, entitled ‘101 Things To Do In Durban’, has since been scanned as a low-resolution PDF and is now resident on the internet, despite containing some incorrect information. Perhaps it was a ‘blue sky’ marketing ploy, designed to ramp up the city’s profile by including projects that had yet to see the light of day. One of these is/was/may be the ‘Bluff Headland Heritage Park’ which I, understandably as a Durban resident would love to see, considering that the Bluff headland remains the largest undisturbed tract of original Durban bush, due to its military history. However, despite much to offer the local or international tourist this elusive place, which could provide a whole new way of seeing the city, remains shrouded in mystery. A visit to the army base on the Bluff yielded no clues, as the soldiers stationed there were nonplussed when asked of the whereabouts of this fabled destination. Calls to Tourist Junction, the city’s tourism marketing hub located in the centre of town, went something like this:

Me: (Dials 031 3044934) Ring ring...ring ring...ring ring....
Unidentified Tourist Junction Employee: “Toozumshin, hakinelpyoo?”
Me: “Hi there, I’d like to find out some info about the Bluff Headland Heritage Park?”
UTJE: “Huh? Bluff what?”
Me: “Bluff Headland Heritage Park?”
UTJE: “Plizold”...scratchy electronic marimba and drums, dial tones and finally:
Another UTJE “Twos Gumption, hakinelpyoo?”
Me: “Hi there, I’d like to get some information about the Bluff Headland Heritage Park?”
AUTJE: “The what?” (Possible snickering in the background from one UTJE to another upon realising that the bilious brochure continues to sow discord.)
Me: “BLUFF. HEADLAND. HERITAGE. PARK.”
AUTJE: “National Park? You try KZN Ezemvelo on 031...”
Me: “NO! The phone number in the information brochure is for Tourist Junction – 3044934!”
AUTJE: “Yes. Is our number. Hakinelpyoo?”
Me: “Please – I have a brochure. From Tourist Junction. It lists the Bluff Headland Heritage Park. And says that there is public access, but that you may be able to provide me with further information.”
AUTJE: “You want information, you call 1023. This Chorizo Assumption.”

By which stage, of course, the bile is leaking out of my ears, my eyes have started to froth blood and the chance of ever unearthing the truth about the Bluff Headland Heritage Park is rapidly receding into the distance. If anyone has more luck than I, please let me know.
\p.s: please excuse the screwy fonts etc. Blogger is in the throes of thrombosis, it would appear...

AfrikaBurnt

2009-09-21T14:37:00.006+02:00

Pic courtesy of Wonderleka Woeskus team leader, Liz Linsell.

Here are a few reasons you shouldn’t go to AfrikaBurn: Puff adders. Sunburn. Chapped lips. Hangnails. Infected fingernails. Thorns. Cracked heels. Dehydration. Choking dust. Sharp stones. Stubbed toes. Scratches. Bruises. Cuts. Exhaustion. Blisters. Burnt fingers. Disintegrated bearings. Bald tyres. Punctures. Road blocks. Stop ‘n Go’s. Baking hot days. Freezing cold nights. Winds that shred tents. 100km on a gravel road, along which there is no cell signal, no petrol station and very few signs of humanity. Sound good? You should get your ass to AfrikaBurn. We did, and it was fucking fantastic for the second time round. Who the hell are ‘we’? We are the AmaDeadlies and we regularly provide CPR to the Durban and KZN electronic music scene, in the form of AmaFullThrottle, NONONO!!! and a variety of other events. Why did we go on a 3300km round trip go to the Karoo and set up a dancefloor tent at AfrikaBurn? Because Tankwa Town is where it’s at, and because we smaak it like a bergie smaaks his papsak.

For the second time in a year, we created a Camp called AmaDeadly Disco, this year with a circus theme. In order to do so, we stuffed a van to the roof and loaded a trailer to the hilt with speakers, amplifier, CDJ’s, laptops, lighting, costumes, fabric, décor, tents, electrical gear, rope, tools, cable ties and duct tape. Lots of cable ties and duct tape. Did you know that cable ties and duct tape hold the universe together? Little-known true fact, that. But before you get to thinking this is a ‘oh, sweet, a road trip, yay!’ mission, think again.

Driving to the Tankwa Karoo from Durban makes most weekend festival missions look like a doddle to the corner shop for bread and milk. But then AfrikaBurn isn’t your run of the mill festival. Hell, for a start, it isn’t a music festival – although there’s music, and plenty of it, mostly electronic. AfrikaBurn, like the big bad voodoo daddy that spawned it – Burning Man, which takes place in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada each year at the end of August - is an ‘invent’, not an event, and if you attend, you can’t just rock up and proceed to get liquored and behave like a muppet, which is pretty much the standard procedure at most festivals. No, it’s an anti-muppet gig, AfrikaBurn is. And unlike other festivals, at a Burn, you get off your hynie and make shit happen – your participation, and the participation of others attending, is what makes the substance of the experience. In Tankwa Town, there are no Fast-Moving Consumer Goods, there’s no branding, and you cannot buy anything, because it’s a cashless community. OK, that’s a white lie – you can buy something, one very important thing: ice. And goddamn, do people jump to it when they see the iceman cometh, because it is hot. How hot? So hot you could fry an egg on your ten buck bag of ice, that’s how hot. But for everything else, if you need it, you bring it. Or someone gives it to you, no strings, in keeping with Burner gifting culture. If you think this is a novel way of spending a week in the desert, fantastic. Novel is the new black and it lives in Tankwa Town, where the citizens create art pieces, stage performance and come together to make shit happen. The beautiful thing about this is that when people are free to express themselves in whatever way they choose, amazing shit happens because within the bounds of decency, you’ve got free rein to get out there and get on with it. As for us members of Camp AmaDeadly Disco, we chose to express ourselves through music. Thus the mission of taking of a dancefloor to the desert, something we were not alone in doing – quite a few Camps this year featured a wide selection of great tunes, all of which are supplemented by two mobile music wagons; one hitched to a trailer, the other (named ‘Clever Sausage’ and manned by the VuvuCreative, which makes up a substantial part of the organisers who put heart and soul into each year’s AfrikaBurn) led by a flouro old school Land Rover. But then many Camps didn’t feature music – and these were generally manned by participants who created art pieces. And damn, was there art.

Everywhere you look, you see amazing creations and interactions. Artworks are dotted all over the desert landscape, some of which are burned, some of which are not. For example? A masterfully replicated and massively upscaled creation of huge Lego pieces. ‘The Wish’ - a massive white dome consisting of interlocking circles of plywood, which was erected at AfrikaBurn 2008, which was burned on the Friday night this year. A beautiful and complex arc, also made of plywood, by the same crew (Brendan Smithers and The Upsetters), called ‘Memory’, was created for this year - it didn’t burn, but may do next year. The rigging of a three-masted galleon, sunk into the desert floor. A huge wobbling flouro octopus, manned by a posse of intrepid Jozi psychonauts. Mutated art cars bearing flags, sails and armour. A huge three-wheeled trike, straight outta Mad Max and manned by a six-foot muscle mary in gold lame and heels. Labyrinths. Puzzles. A 20-foot post box, where you can send a card to other Camps, or to the default world. And then of course the San Clan, a huge multi-headed effigy that represents the temporary community of Tankwa Town. It took a while, but it went up in flames on Saturday night, the ‘main’ night of AfrikaBurn. These are just a very few examples of the kind of creations you see at AfrikaBurn. There’s much, much more to see and do. Lots of which is kid-friendly and visually arresting.

If this all sounds a bit too out there for you, great. Stay home, keep the malls in business. Keep believing that you’re an individual, sunshine, there’ll always be a place for you at the banquet of unthinking consumerism, so tuck right in. However, if this sounds like your kind of headspace, get your ass to AfrikaBurn next year. You will not regret it.

For more info on AfrikaBurn, go to www.afrikaburns.com or do a facebook search for ‘Afrika Burns – Burning Man in South Africa’.

p.s: having some coding issues with this piece of shite Blogger platform. Considering moving to Wordpress. Please be patient, we have our best technicians working on the problem.

I Ask You With Tears In My Ass

2009-08-26T16:34:00.004+02:00

So, yes, I admit it – I’m a chronic purist when it comes to abbreviation, spelling and punctuation. I’m a bore, I’m going to hell in a hand basket for all my nitpicking, I should build a bridge and get the hell over it already, yeah, yeah, yeah – don’t even start, I’ve heard it all before, from foul-mouthed poets who can deliver a knockout blow from fifty paces and would make any other comers look positively juvenile, to haughty high society dames who think the measure of their worth is the height of their stiletto and the depth of their cleavage. Offenders all, and when I am King, first against the wall.

No, it’s not curable, and yes, it’s a petty matter which shouldn’t drive me into the loving embrace of a sanatorium, but there you go – when the world’s crapping out and atomic mushrooms are blossoming overhead, I’ll still be bent double over a restaurant menu, fiercely twitching at the gross injustice of a misplaced comma. And, whilst it is the opinion of some that a sufferer who can admit to and identify his shortcomings is well on the way to recovery, I, a sufferer for life with a chronic dose of the Corrections, will not be - and indeed do not wish to be – cured, as mine is the finest kind of malady – that which may be my downfall but brings the promise of a better world for all mankind.

The day that we all give up the pursuit of proper grammar and punctuation is the day that the white flag of surrender to guttersnipe virtues is seen over the carcass of language the world over. And with language being the bedrock of culture, you can only imagine the bland quagmire that will suck us into. Don’t even get me started on the insidious creep that textspeak is making, stealthily abbreviating its cryptic way into the common psyche and demolishing the nuance and delicate tracery of language, word by word. Centuries of reason and history, demolished by the convenience of a pocket toy.

I ask you with tears in my ass.

One For The Money

2009-08-06T15:24:00.004+02:00

"Money often costs too much." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

‘One for the money’, that’s what we call it. And considering the looks of this joint, they have a lot of it to splash around. In this, the time of the financial house of cards, it seems this bunch of product pimps are doing a roaring trade. All the signs are there: parking lot crammed with all the right insignia, rows of shiny new models, winking away as the dirt poor shuffle past the electrified fence. Labels and egos in all the right places. Row upon row of unmentionably dear champagne – and none that Methode Cap Classique tat either, no, no, no – the real deal, mate: Champagne. Johnny Blue, too, a couple bottles’ worth, and they’re mixing it with…oh my god…cola. And catering from the only Michelin star in town. For a goddamn office party. Fuck me.

In any case, can’t complain. Although we’ll privately shake our heads at the sheer blind gluttony of it all. Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to stand behind this DJ console and take requests like the hired help we are; sit back and think of the cash. One for the money, like I say.

They were already roaring by the time we arrived, god alone knows how messy they’ll be when we pack up and head to the next gig. If they'll let us. The men are leery, the women have wild eyes, swimming in pools of eyeliner and mascara; the innuendo is thick as cigar smoke. Bet your bottom dollar there’ll be a divorce hatched tonight, or at the very least a serious fall out, perhaps an engagement will get put on ice. Office parties are like weddings like that – there’s always the indiscretion, some foul play, someone offside. And someone goes home in tears.

Christ, it’s getting a bit Hieronymus Bosch round here now, they’re pulling at each other and hurling themselves around the room, mouths agape, eyes leering. There goes a pair, into the room where the Xerox machine is. Hmmm - who ate all the pies?

Best have a medic on standby; the glass on those things has a breaking strain of only 60kg’s...

Turn That Shit Up! Turn That Shit Off!

2009-07-22T08:15:00.004+02:00

Supersonic Sound Systems...Or Silence?

So we're off to AfrikaBurn again in six(ish) weeks, and once again we members of Camp AmaDeadly Disco will be hauling a van packed with all the stuff needed to create our dancefloor and chill area: speakers, amps, DJ booth, scanners, fairy lights, CDJ's, mixers, carpet, dust covers, fabric, inflatable furniture, 10x20m stretch tent, poles and...all the rest. It'll take us a day and half to get there - the Tankwa Karoo is pretty much all the way across the country from where we're situated on the Panga Coast. Once we get there, it's all bang bang tish tish walla walla till the morning light. Or, depending on the outcome of discussions presently underway, maybe not.

As AfrikaBurns is a Burner event, it subscribes to the Ten Principles,which include Radical Self-Expression, although those expressing themselves do so within reason - for example, your expression shouldn't infringe on somebody else's experience. This is clearly illustrated by the expectations of two sorts of participants: those who go to AfrikaBurn to get away from the noise, and those who go to make lots of it. As you can imagine, this has the makings of a contentious issue: those who attend with the express wish of experiencing the serenity of the Karoo are bound to get pissed off with those who prefer to play Ministry's 'Jesus Built My Hotrod' at 6am.

As a Camp with a sound system, we AmaDeadlies find ourselves on the horns of this dilemma: our form of expression is music, and we like to express ourselves freely. However, we're not entirely unreasonable, and we're aware that banging it for four days straight is just not feasible. For a start, it's tough going out there on the baking flatlands of Tankwa Town, without going full throttle. We learnt that last year, which is when we got a sound complaint. No, we weren't playing Ministry, but for the complainant who was possibly hoping to have a peaceful lie-in, we had obviously overstepped the mark. You might say 'Fair enough, but what the hell are they thinking - going to a festival and expecting some quiet time? WTF?' Quite. But then again, the involvement of participants at a Burn event depends on cooperation - there is room for everyone to express themselves, it's simply a matter of finding balance. And, despite the fact that systems are limited to 400 Watts, bear in mind that the site used is flat and the air clear - sound, especially bass, slices through space in that setting like a hot knife through butter.

Solutions which facilitate this balance will need to be found: in my mind there are two routes - on the one hand, sound systems could be asked to tap it off at 4am and resume playing at volume from 9am. This is a possible arrangement currently in discussion by the organisers. Cooperation from those Camps which run sound systems would obviously be needed, but bear in mind that the kind of people who run systems - and those who stomp the ground in front of them - may not always be conducive to a punctual end to their festivities. On the other hand a separate area - selected for its distance from the main body of the event and limitation of sound bleed - could be designated as a noise area. This second route is that taken by Burning Man, where all loud systems are located in the Large-Scale Sound Art Zone, located on the outer ring of the event, with systems faced away from the main body of Black Rock City. With AfrikaBurn still a toddler when compared to the 22-year-old Burning Man, the application of this solution would mean locating the Sound Art away from the single-ring Binnekring around which AfrikaBurn's Tankwa Town is created.

It remains to be seen which option will be explored at this year's event in Tankwa Town. Whichever it is, we'll be there.

If you'd like to participate in a discussion on this matter, go here.

For your musical edification, here's a little ditty put together by that top geezer from African Dope, Fletcher - it's a song I've had on repeat in my head for some time and will be playing (possibly repeatedly) at AfrikaBurn. A fantastic warped dubstep cracker, this is some infectious shit:

Fletcher - Dreadlox Dub.mp3

For more on African Dope Records (including some fine free downloads), go here and for more on Fletcher, go here.

What Have We Done To Deserve This?

2009-06-19T10:42:00.002+02:00

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.

Dust, Anybody? No?

2009-06-12T09:26:00.007+02:00

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.)

It Ain't No Mistri, We Makin Histri

2009-05-05T15:30:00.003+02:00

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.

It's Alright Ma, It's Only House Music

2009-04-23T16:32:00.003+02:00

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.

A Whole Lotta Love

2009-04-23T08:53:00.003+02:00

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

Come With Me To The Dancefloor

2009-03-25T08:08:00.004+02:00

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)

Assmonkeys

2009-03-24T08:07:00.002+02:00

"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.

Close Encounters Of The Wierd Kind

2009-03-11T10:58:00.008+02:00

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.

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

2009-02-19T10:44:00.005+02:00

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:

Look, Ma - No Singer!

2009-02-09T09:20:00.004+02:00

Pretoria's finest, rocking at (sweaty) sea level...
(Photo: Marcello Maffeis)

Having previously played Durban twice, to what could optimistically called sparse crowds due to a lack of exposure (which is odd, considering kidofdoom are shit-hot, as in ‘Jesus Christ, call the fuckin’ fire department, these dudes are flaming!’), it was encouraging to see a packed-out Willowvale Hotel play host at the band’s third Durban appearance. It seems that a support slot played by the perennially cheerful The Arrows, who move with a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fanbase that would do any band proud, always ensures that any out of town act can expect to play to more than a handful of diehards, so a gold star to the organisers on that count. Top marks, too, for the great sound and light - always an encouraging sign that someone, somewhere, has got their head screwed on right in a city where lacklustre production levels have been known to sully otherwise competent performances. Added to this mix was the savvy Willowvale crowd, who, whether attending the I Heart Durban or NONONO!!! parties or independently-organised live gigs, always show strong support to gigs that offer a departure from the usual smorgasbord of cheese that can make up a considerable portion of the standard Durban musical menu. But enough with the hors d’ouvres, let’s get to the main course.

kidofdoom, as you would know unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last three years, are a four-piece act outta Pretoria. Young, gifted and white, they play indie rock…with no lyrics. And while this may strike some as odd (the sarky bulldyke in a homburg on her minder’s shoulders who screamed ‘Get a fuckin’ singer!’ included. To which it must be replied ‘Get a fuckin’ clue.’), it’s safe to say that the flailing crowd surfers in the heaving moshpit and the revved-up punters waving their hands in the air couldn’t give a shit – these dudes rocked out from start to finish with an infectious vigour that’d get a septuagenarian in ICU bouncing like a tot in the throes of a sugar rush. From power chords and rising crescendos punched home by the hyperactive and consummately enthusiastic keyboardist (who doubles as guitar #2) and matched by possessed and razor-sharp drumming, a kidofdoom show rocks the socks off any comers. Industrial-strength slabs of sound barrel on down a sonic highway which at times evoked the sounds of Polyphonic Spree, Kings of Leon and Mogwai. If you think those comparisons are lathering it on a bit thick, you’re either tone deaf or haven’t seen this band. Delivering a blistering set of their best-known tunes with hardly a moment’s rest (apart from asking the entirely reasonable question ‘Who do I have to fuck to get a cold beer round here?’), there’s no doubt the band were happy with the result. Trying their sweaty best to exit the stage after their second encore, the baying of the crowd brought them back for their final tune: the ‘Mario Bros’ theme, fricasseed a la kidofdoom. Tasty? Mmmmm.

From The Sublime To The Ridiculous

2009-02-04T15:23:00.005+02:00

JZ in the spotlight, as usual...

'A president on trial would embarrass SA' - Mail & Guardian 04/02/09 headline paraphrasing Julius Malema, ANC Youth League President.

When all the kak was flying towards the fan, before JZ was president of that almighty untouchable vestibule of all that was once good and worth dying for, the Holy Almighty Once-Was-A-Broad-But-Now-Its-A-Bit-Of-Tight-Squeeze-Church, the ANC, and when he was unceremoniously shunted off his perch as Deputy President of the aforementioned selfsame gang, did the ANC not think at all about the embarrassment factor?

After all, they've known for years that the inevitable shit/fan explosion was imminent. All the signs were there: the Schaik debacle, the Infamous Kanga Shower Episode and of course, those looming Four Horseman of the Armpocalypse thundering on down the Legal High Road must also have given pause for thought. No?

Or did they think that a president under fire from so many directions was omnipotent and would simply give a waggle of his goggle-eyed and bespectacled bonce, let rip another tone deaf rendition of uMshiniwam' and - shazam - it would all be alright? Perhaps they have indeed swallowed the intoxicating brew of conspiracy and believe it's all that bad, bad man Thabo's doing - after all, it's always the quiet ones, eh?

Sweet baby Jesus laying in the manger with the three wise geezers gathered around, are these people entirely out of touch with reality? Are they aware of how the rest of the world views us a nation for even CONSIDERING the election of a man so utterly besmirched by his own making? Or that sycophants with no more in their mouths or minds than appallingly-rephrased and defunct Marxist rhetoric and a wardrobe full of Armani suits respectively are inciting active resistance to the fundaments of our Constitution?

Are the card-carrying comrades that make up the ANC entirely ignorant of the damage its insistence on electing Jacob Zuma is doing to not only the country, but indeed to its own organisation? No wonder COPE is making such inroads, when the good ship HMS Sisulu Luthuli Mandela is leaking like a goddamned sieve and all able seamen have either jumped overboard or are eyeing the lifejackets as the ship coasts, rudderless, towards certain shipwreck.

I heard a good one the other day:

If the ANC can't. Cope.

Hey, when the outlook is bleak, have a laugh. Everyone else is.

Evidently Chickentown

2009-02-04T08:04:00.005+02:00

the fucking pubs are fucking dull
the fucking clubs are fucking full

A bit slow off the mark here, it's true, but then it's a busy life, between the hangovers and the periods of abstinence. And then of course there's the manifold preparations for the ever-looming Love Declaration Celebration, which is no longer far off, and all the other little things that pile up. I mean, who the fuck has time to watch movies these days? In any case, made some time last weekend to at last watch Anton Corbijn's Control, the biopic on Joy Division frontman Ian Curtis. And damn fine it was too, and of course it's resulted in a personal commitment to listen to more Joy Division. One of the highlights of the flick (for me, at least) was John Cooper Clark's rendition of Evidently Chickentown, a spoken word piece for which he is arguably best known. Along with the immortal words, I give you the radio-friendly version of the poem (which is a shame, because no word in the English language is quite as versatile as 'fuck') and Joy Division's Transmission, as sung by the cast of Control.

Evidently Chickentown

the fucking cops are fucking keen
to fucking keep it fucking clean
the fucking chief's a fucking swine
who fucking draws a fucking line
at fucking fun and fucking games
the fucking kids he fucking blames
are nowhere to be fucking found
anywhere in chicken town

the fucking scene is fucking sad
the fucking news is fucking bad
the fucking weed is fucking turf
the fucking speed is fucking surf
the fucking folks are fucking daft
don't make me fucking laugh
it fucking hurts to look around
everywhere in chicken town

the fucking train is fucking late
you fucking wait you fucking wait
you're fucking lost and fucking found
stuck in fucking chicken town

the fucking view is fucking vile
for fucking miles and fucking miles
the fucking babies fucking cry
the fucking flowers fucking die
the fucking food is fucking muck
the fucking drains are fucking fucked
the colour scheme is fucking brown
everywhere in chicken town

the fucking pubs are fucking dull
the fucking clubs are fucking full
of fucking girls and fucking guys
with fucking murder in their eyes
a fucking bloke is fucking stabbed
waiting for a fucking cab
you fucking stay at fucking home
the fucking neighbours fucking moan
keep the fucking racket down
this is fucking chicken town
the fucking train is fucking late
you fucking wait you fucking wait
you're fucking lost and fucking found
stuck in fucking chicken town
the fucking pies are fucking old
the fucking chips are fucking cold
the fucking beer is fucking flat
the fucking flats have fucking rats
the fucking clocks are fucking wrong
the fucking days are fucking long
it fucking gets you fucking down
evidently chicken town

Goodbye, George. You Fuckwit.

2009-01-22T14:14:00.006+02:00

And so it was that the almighty tosswad was shown the door, and crept back to Texas with his mangy tail tucked between his well-paddled Republican ass. And there was a great hallelujah across the face of the blue planet, and somewhere up on high, the angels toasted their good fortune by drinking a dram of holy water.

And to add some soul to an inauguration that has undoubtedly, for the preceding 43 occasions, been rather stilted and waspish, the legendary Reverend Joseph E. Lowery dropped a slice of street poetry straight outta the ghetto:

"In the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day
When black will not be asked to get back,
When brown can stick around ...
When yeller will be meller ...
When the red man can get ahead, man;
And when white will embrace what is right.
That all those who do justice and love mercy, say Amen."

Amen!

Take a listen to the man:

Reverend Joseph E. Lowery - Inauguration Rap.mp3

We Few Aging Disgracefully

2009-01-07T14:30:00.005+02:00

Once, not long ago, the process of my day would sound something like this: wake up, smoke a bong, have a shag, go for a swim, have a bite to eat, have a drink, shake a leg, talk shit for a while and then have a kip. No longer. Now, something as innocent (!) as Christmas turns into a traumatic overload of too much food, too much booze, an inevitable and hazardous exchange with remotely-related racist bigots and of course the crowning glory: expensive crackers with cheap Chinese trinkets in them, which of course nobody wants and as a result are left in a forlorn pile after all the shouting is done. The rest of the year is much the same: weeks are no longer a matter of marking time to wait it out for the weekend, they're an endless roundabout of packing as much to'ing and fro'ing into the days as is possible, and the weekend mostly seems a respite from the demanding schedule, although often it's as busy as the days that precede it.

In keeping with this, the present all-grown-up-and-got-a-real-job complicated life comes with all the changes that must ultimately follow as time has its way. To use a fresh example: the traditional New Years' knees-up seems to have become too much to face for some of the extended network of friends. And - even though they've no kids, which at least is an honest to goodness legitimate excuse for avoiding the hue and cry of a boisterous tub-thumping balls to the wall two-day party - despite the furrowed brows and declarations of undying commitment to attend your party, they weasel off to sit around expensive bars or someone's lounge and get thoroughly, totally and inevitably pissed. This, on the grounds that a dance music event a short drive away would end up being 'dangerous' or 'too much'. This reasoning of course ignores the glaringly obvious negatives of driving under the influence and doing nothing essentially different for a New Years party than is done any weekend during the rest of the year, ie: sitting around getting rat-arsed and emphatically discussing much the same dog-eared subjects as have held their interest all year.

Did they get old before their time, or are we few simply aging disgracefully? Personally I'm quite willing to go with the latter option as I've yet to get any grey hairs and am not ready to reserve that nice plot at the top of the hill and put a deposit down on an oak veneer casket quite yet, thank you very much.

Happy New Year.

Someone Pass Me A Frikkin Mop

2008-12-19T13:14:00.005+02:00

Houston, we have a New Years party...

Let loose The Hounds of Jol, make hot the Flaming Speaker Stacks of Thump and crank the Sacred Amplifier of Love up to 1.21 Jigawatts, for 'tis the season to be Jolling!

Yes folks, we're knee-deep in holiday and the Jol is just oozing all over the place. Someone pass me a frikkin mop. It's madness, madness I tellya - madness in any direction, at every hour like the good Doctor said. And what better way to pop a cap in the ass of this, the year of the Imploding Market, 2008, than by thrashing off the remnants with an industrial-strength military-grade Jol like the AmaFullThrottle New Year Festival? Too bloody right.

As though you need telling.

Our little party features:

20 DJ's
2 Dancefloors
24 hours of music
A bar and a chill cafe

and a whole bunch of nutters giving it horns having a cracking time.

Taking place a mere 45 minutes south of Durban on an expansive bass farm with a cool lake and all the necessary facilities including a bar with a deck overlooking the water, the venue for AmaFullThrottle is ideal for kissing goodbye to a year that, let's be honest, turned out rotten.

For more info on the biggest little New Years shindig this side of the Med, let your fingers do the mousing:

AmaFullThrottle New Years Festival (facebook page)

Tallyho, onward and upward - have a great Xmas, and don't go too overboard or get busted in a goddamn roadblock.

Cheers!

Tis The Season To Be Jolling

2008-12-08T15:48:00.005+02:00

Yep, the season is firmly upon us...

Been quite slack on the posts lately, but then you gotta remember I have a full-time job, I DJ on Tuesdays and Thursday nights, fill a couple columns elsewhere on the web, submit a monthly city guide and generally end up either a) playing a date on weekends or b) shitfaced and/or sleeping on weekends. And there's the not insignificant matter of pitching in organising the biggest little New Year party for miles around. So, bear with me as we wade through the festive season, thank you kindly. Here's what Saturday night brought:

The seal on this year’s bottle of Jol has been cracked, and it looks to be a good vintage as Durban, as elsewhere, is hopping like a box of rabbits in the tradition of old. Campuses far and wide lie deserted whilst the bars and clubs of the beloved country heave with a fresh crop of dancing and dopping. So yes, ‘tis the season to be jolling, and Rickshaw delivered the goods with a mix of Durban sound and style. Eight invited up ‘n coming Durban fashion designers set up shop in the memorabilia-strewn Boogies Diner and pimped their wares, whilst Eclectica Allstar DJ’s from NONONO!!! and fidgetmongers The Renovators provided an electronic soundtrack that varied from local digital glitch to indie and fat fidget beats. Topped up with a band line-up that featured local bands Soma, Pocket Change and Fire Through Window and a surprise appearance by none other than Joburg’s Slashdogs, the smorgasbord of entertainment catered to the young and (in some cases tragically) hip. As if that weren’t enough of a stocking filler, the industrious organiser (Vega student Jess Tagg) hauled in two egte rickshaw pullers with their chariots and a few graffitos for good measure.
The result was a Boogies Diner that was packed to the gills, with all three floors and the massive rooftop filled with a multiracial, multifaceted and multicultural extravaganza of fashion, music, and the aforementioned traditional festive season dancing and dopping. And lotsa really, really, really short skirts. Or should that be fairly wide belts? No matter – spirits were high and the night kicked off with another impromptu performance – this from a posse of B-boys and girls dressed by one the showing designers, Finally Phamous. Busting a few moves, they set the stage for the later antics of Soma, who were…loud and crap, actually. Dudes, derivative metallic angst a la USA went the way of the dodo some time ago - get with the program by building a bridge and getting over it, already. Moving on, Pocket Change were a bit more in keeping with the Stone City flavour, presenting an ebony & ivory combo who dropped a fine set of beatboxing and vocal harmonies backed by capable ska-folk guitar, with a sound that could be described as the unholy issue of a threesome involving Lauryn Hill, Jack Johnson and Sublime. The MC for the night (who has a slight case of that most regrettable of vocal afflictions, an affected Yank twang) hyped the appearance of the surprise act, and lo! and behold, for none other than the Slashdogs (in town for a gig at the Willowvale on Friday night) donned their holy instruments of divine raucousness and delivered their furious sermon from on high. These guys don’t fuck around – a dedicated bunch of rockabilly punks that play rock ‘n roll with a dash of thrash at breakneck speed, they topped their impromptu performance with an ass-blistering version of ‘Ace Of Spades’ by Mötorhead, which, though the spring chicken punters might not have known the tune was in fact a cover, got the floor heaving. Fire Through The Window…shit, no matter what gig they play, no matter that (or perhaps because) the crowd has heard every song they play, like, twenty times, the result is invariably a frothing mosh of chanted choruses and hysterical calls for encores. As far as fan clubs go, these guys should bottle their formula and sell it, they’d mint it. Suffice to say they played all their crowd pleasers and even attempted a upbeat cover of Johnny Cash’s ‘Jackson’.
So, was there anything to put a damper on this otherwise top night of jol? Why yes, there was – it seems the boys in blue have been given instructions from on high to cut down on the high spirits of youngfolk this season. Two popular gigs have in the past week been shut down because of ‘noise complaints’, and Rickshaw suffered a similar fate at about 1:30am, with The Renovators’ filthy beats curtailed only three tracks into their set. Which sucks, and put a premature end to an otherwise kickass event. Nevertheless, deck the halls with rocking and rolling, ‘tis the season to be jolling - it's all all balls to the wall from here on out until Dec 31st, when yours truly, plus wife and a good few hundred nutters will kiss goodbye to the year at our little New Years festival, AmaFullThrottle.

This article also published on Levi's Original Music.

This Won't Hurt A Bit...It'll Hurt A Lot

2008-11-19T12:46:00.004+02:00

Turn towards me sir, thank you...this'll be over before you know it...

Hands up, who’s had a dental implant? No? Well, I gotta tell you, people, you don’t know what you’re missing out on. Lemme fill you in. (Ahem) Sorry about that, couldn’t avoid it.

First you lose a tooth, then you go to see your dentist. The dentist (as is their wont) leans on in there, messes around for a bit, makes all the requisite hmmms and ahs as befits the deep thinking done by tooth tinkerers, and tells you the inevitably expensive prognosis:
‘Extraction.’ (Man of few words, is The Dentist.)
‘How much?’ Asks the ever-impoverished patient.
‘Hmmm. Expensive.’
‘Why?’
‘Implant.’
‘Implant?’
‘Hmmm. First - extraction. Then implant.’

And so it is that you find yourself a fairly regular visitor to the chair, for an implant is no simple procedure (although orthodontists and maxillofacial surgeons may beg to differ), and consists of a number of trips. First up - the exploratory session to determine what the hell is exactly going on in there, which is fun and games compared to what lies in wait. Next, the almighty extraction which, in my case, was a full-blown wrestling match replete with jets of blood arcing all over the joint. It was a marathon tug-of-war that required the dentist to apply his knee to the chair in order to wrench the offending tooth from its socket and his assistant to hold my head down to prevent it from following the tooth. It was over in about an hour, and yes, it was rather like a movie, with the Doc triumphantly holding up the offending article, bloodied as it was, with a grin on his face:
‘Wanna keep it?’
Uh, no thanks, Doc.

Phase three of the construction of Maxillofacial Mansions is the all-important and suitably horrific implant. For this charming little procedure we will need: an implant specialist (who, it goes without saying, charges astronomical fees, although all he actually does is tote a selection of Titanium/Aluminium/Vanadium alloy implants around in his briefcase, stand around making comments on the depth and width of the excavation, and hand over a tiny pile of ‘white gold’ – powdered synthetic bone), a dental assistant (someone’s gotta suture up all that blood) and the proud dentist, who is mentally racking up his expenses on an ultra-exclusive seven-star resort on some far-flung equatorial archipelago.
So, do they drill? Do they ever – it’s like they’re taking a core sample.
Is it painful? I’ve got four words for you: Six shots of Xylotox.
And afterward? Ten codeine tablets later, you’ll look and behave like a freshly exhumed zombie, but will still feel like a buffalo kicked you in the face.
But wait! There’s more.
Due to the effect that smoking has on the level of oxygen in your blood and thus inhibiting the ability of your newly drilled and grafted bone to knit well, it is strongly suggested that anyone wanting to go through the process of having an implant give up smoking prior to the process and maintain their abstinence afterward. Studies have shown that the rate of implant failure is twice and in some cases three times as likely in smokers when compared to those who refrain from sucking on the devil's stogie.

So, here goes with not smoking, for the first time since I started in...1991.
Wish me luck, because this is what my next 5 weeks looks like:
This weekend – a 40th Birthday, at which the wife and I are DJ’ing. Smoking? Lots.
Next weekend: Our 11th NONONO!!! events. Smoke? Like a fog rolled in.
The Weekend after: An office party gig on the Friday for the both of us, followed by an all-nighter on the Saturday. Smoke? Like a chimney.
December 13 / 14: A friend’s wedding. At which we are DJ’ing. Smoke? Yes, yes, lots.

In fact, the only weekend in the next seven weeks that doesn’t involve drinking and the accompanying fog of cigarette smoke is that little lonely weekend of the 20th and 21st December. But don’t you worry about that – so close to the season of spontaneous festivities, it’s bound to turn into a circus. A circus where everyone smokes.

Wish me luck.

Free Your Mind And Your Ass Will Follow

2008-11-07T14:16:00.004+02:00

NONONO!!! # 11

Sharper than a razor's wit, perkier than Milla Jovovich's tit and cooler than a romp in the snow, NONONO!!! once more lurches into the gloaming that is Durban’s nightlife to bring the heathen masses a dose of musical evangelism. Freshly baked from a four-day stretch out at AfrikaBurn and ready to tear a new sonic hole in the fabric of Stone City’s underground, The Eclectica Allstars have thrown their lot in with a motley crew of DJ’s who are willing and able to suffer for their art, even if it means being locked up for disturbing the peace.

And with a choice assorted bag of lekkerish allsorts like these, your palette can expect a veritable carnival of musical flavours that will include but is not restricted to: 80s and 90s amadeadly classics, indie, alternative, rock, acid jazz, minimal techno, big beat, breaks, fidget, house, remixes, electro, Japanese noodle pop, sofatech and a whole bunch of other stuff even we can't make up a name for.

DJ’s featured:

The Eclectica Allstars - Hedmekanik, Mixin Vixin and Leo
Kevin Louw (The Rift, Retro’s, CRASH)
Jet Jungle (Social Workers)
Manoj & VaSun (Lapis Lazuli)
One Track Mike (TripHazard Sound System)

Friday November 28
Willowvale Hotel
Corner Albert Dlomo & Umbilo Roads
Glenwood

9PM
R40

For more on this deadly event, go here:

NONONO!!! facebook Event page

Bet Your Bottom Abdullah

2008-11-06T14:55:00.006+02:00

So the wife and I (she studied jazz at Pretoria Technikon) went to see Abdullah Ibrahim perform in Durban for the first time in 12 years, last night. And I’ll be straight with you – before this performance I’d about as much knowledge of Abdullah Ibrahim’s music as I did of, say, Sun Ra. ‘Who?’ you might ask. Quite. But there you go – there’s no excuse for any South African to harbour a lasting ignorance of South Africa’s ‘greatest living composer’ and one of the most remarkable musicians to have come out of the beloved country, and so it was that I determined to set that to rights. Sure, I knew he was a jazz pianist and that 'Dollar Brand' was the name he was known by until he converted to Islam, it’s a piece of musical trivia up there with Cat Stevens and Yusuf Islam. But bear in mind, I’m not from Cape Town, I’ve spent most of my years in the shorebreak of Stone City and ‘Manenberg’ sounds to my ear like a mountain named after a Jewish dude with the name Mannie. OK, I lie – I know it’s a suburb of Cape Town, and I do in fact know something of Ibrahim’s music - for example, everyone has a snippet of the unofficial struggle anthem, Manenberg, on file somewhere in their memory. You may not think you do, but believe you me, you do, and once you hear a sample of this, one of his more prominent pieces of keywork, you’ll be all ‘ahhh – that tune!’ I’ve also caught Abdullah on the box, on one of those godawfully tryhard late-nite jazz programmes that do the medium justice about as much as MTV plays intelligent music. On these, I’d always thought him somewhat reticent, even a little condescending. Mind you, considering the vapid questions asked by cack-handed presenters, it’s a testament to his patience that he remained on set at all. But I digress.

Sat in the posture-killing chairs in the third row at the University of Kwa-Zulu Natal’s Jazz Centre, the Zen of the man is what makes the first impression. Cool, calm and collected, he silently takes the stage in trademark karate shirt, along with his cohorts in the Abdullah Ibrahim Trio, namely New Yorkers Belden Bullock (on bass) and George Gray (on skins). Working samples of his new album, Senzo (which means ‘ancestor’ in Chinese and Japanese, and translates as ‘creator’ in Sotho) into his repertoire, he is the epitome of control at the keys. Beautifully rambling solo pieces meander through a melancholy sonic landscape all his own, with delicate free jazz diversions lacing through the complement of bass and drums. Then the pace is picked up, with the incredibly deft drum skills of Gray (who never breaks a sweat and makes it all look so easy) adding beef to his rising crescendos, and the perpetually beatific Bullock adding groove. With three versions of Manenberg quoted through the two hours of performance, and a nod to jazz standards with his rendition of Misty, the assembled jazzophiles got their fill, whilst this jazz ignoramus was left (albeit with a fucked posture thanks to those torture-perfect chairs) suitably impressed and in no doubt as to why Mr. Ibrahim has the respect of so many and is talked about in hushed tones of awe. King of the keys? Bet your bottom Abdullah.

This article also published on Levi's Original Music Magazine.

Burnt To A Crisp And Quite Happily So

2008-10-27T13:42:00.004+02:00

Saturday Evening, when the chocolate brownie madness kicked in...

The Tankwa Karoo might as well be Mars. For a start, it sure as hell looks like those photos that have been beamed back from the Phoenix mission – it’s a stark and unforgiving landscape, whipped to within an inch of its life by howling winds, lorded over by a merciless sun and peppered with red and black volcanic rock. Why the hell would anyone in their right mind go there? Because AfrikaBurn is held out there on those inhospitable flatlands, that’s why. How inhospitable? Very, as in ‘baked to a crisp every summer for the past 114 million years’. Unlike Mars though, there is life there – fluffy yellow mesembryanthemum (vygie) flowers that smell amazingly like ylang-ylang make an annual appearance, as do armour-plated koringkrieks (which definitely look alien) and praying mantises which sport distinctly alien headgear. And then of course, once a year there are those who attend AfrikaBurn – and you’d be forgiven for thinking that some of them are from another planet. But then that’s precisely the reason to go to a Burn – some of them might look like freaks, but by god, they’re some of the best people you’ll ever meet.

As Africa’s very own Burning Man satellite event, AfrikaBurn brings the wildest, wackiest, most imaginative (and balls-to-the-wall dedicated) bunch of nutters together under the Burn banner. For those who are still a bit foggy about what exactly AfrikaBurn is, allow me to illuminate your gloomy bonce: AfrikaBurn is the African spawn of the Burning Man festival, that almighty freakdown which is held each year at the end of August in Nevada, on the alkali lake of the Black Rock Desert. What started out as an art-inspired ‘invent’ (as opposed to an event) back in the late 80s and featured a bunch of San Franciscan nutters dressing up, throwing off the shackles of normal life and erecting art installations which are ritualistically burnt. It goes without saying (what a perfectly odd expression) that, with any likely group of creatively-inclined nuts, there’s music, dancing, dressing up and all the traditional shenanigans that go with the territory. In these respects, AfrikaBurn is a faithful local version of B-Man, with all the obligatory bells, whistles and incineration of laboriously erected artpieces that go with it. And my god, are there bells and whistles. From the four-storey mindfuck art construction that was The Wish (a beautiful vision of interlinked white circles which made up a majestic domed temple) to the ten-metre flame-belching steel vuvuzela’s of Camp Vuvuzela, to the anti-GM construction of recycled sodapop bottles and LED’s that made up Amaize, on to the eclectic musical menu of Camp AmaDeadlyDisco (that was us, from Durban and the KZN Midlands. Five of us, squeezed into a VW Transporter, with a sound system, stretch tents, poles, 170 litres of water, food for a week and a lust for the jol. Yes folks, we AmaDeadlies weren't going to let a little thing like a 3 700-km round trip stand in the way of taking the jol on safari. Hell, no.), the massed-band drumming and all-embracing atmosphere of Camp Partycipation, the Tex-Mex theme, music and double-strength cocktail menu of Desert Rose or the…sweet baby Jesus laying in the manger, there was simply a mindboggling array of things to see and do out there on that Martian plain. It’s no walk in the park, and it’s a world away from the same-old story of your regular festivals, which mostly consist of a predictable formula: pissed punters camping band pissed musicians playing on stages manned by pissed technicians.

No, there’s no doubt about it – AfrikaBurn is in a league of its own, by virtue of its turning convention on its head. For a start, there’s the adherence to the principles that have made Burning Man such a runaway success in the States: instead of an experience that simply dresses consumerism in a festival cloak for a period of three days or so and plonks it in an outdoor setting, as so many festivals do – and I’m not knocking those that do, because they have their place - a Burn is all about participation, creativity, imagination, expression and freedom. As a punter, you make the jol happen – whether you set up a dancefloor for the enjoyment of all, create a temporary artpiece that is ultimately incinerated, dress up, re-engineer your car into a mobile art installation or indeed do whatever it is that takes your fancy. And no, that doesn’t mean you can stick one of those godawful brightly-coloured velvet jester hats on your pip and walk around with your buddies making sexist remarks at anything fine that crosses your path. In fact, that kind of behaviour is the last thing you’re gonna see at a Burn, because why? Because that’s the kinda attitude a Burn seeks to liberate punters from. And that, dear reader, is just dandy as far as I’m concerned.

Which is why we'll be there next year, for round two of the AmaDeadly Disco.

(This article originally published [with minor alterations] on Levi's Original Music Mag)

Burn, Baby, Burn

2008-10-24T14:36:00.007+02:00

Welcome to Mars. Enjoy your stay.

Sweet baby Jesus laying in the manger, did we have ourselves a fine-ass time out there at AfrikaBurn. Phew. Wow. Damn. Jislaaik. Aibo. Whoa. The expletives don't even come close, but there you go - a Burn leaves you kinda at a loss for words (and with a deep hankering to do it all over again, as soon as possible).

Suffice to say, we set up our Camp AmaDeadlyDisco (which, as the name suggests, was a dancefloor which featured...not so much disco as every other kind of music under the sun, as well as two discoballs), met some great people, saw some mind-blowing art, witnessed the burning of some massive structures, and then packed up and headed back on home to this, our common-denominator-common-or-garden, default reality.

We had really cool neighbours, the good folk from Camp Partycipation, and made a whole bunch of new friends, who made themselves comfy in our camp and our hearts.

If it sounds a little 'aww shucks', that's cos it was, and if you don't understand why, then you, dear reader, need to get your ass to a Burn near you.

I'll be posting a couple of articles I've written over the next few days, but for now I leave you with the pic above.

Ciao.

Locked, Loaded and Ready To Burn

2008-10-13T10:57:00.004+02:00

Tankwa Town (Population: 1000 nutters)
(image courtesy Monique Schiess, www.afrikaburns.com)

Cheers, goodbye, au revoir, auf wiedersehen, hamba kahle, totsiens and sayonara. Well, at least until we Camp AmaDeadlyDisco members make it back from AfrikaBurn on the unforgiving Karoo platteland, hopefully in one piece. At which time, yes, you can expect to read a rambling account of mad voodoo on the rock-strewn wastes of the Tankwa Karoo.

We're locked, loaded and ready to rock the jol - sound system? Check. Lights? Check. Stretch tents? Check. Poles? Check. Liquor? Check. Food? Check. Vitamins, minerals, lip balm, sunscreen and, most importantly, seven 20-litre water containers and two coolies (currently empty, to be filled at the very last convenience)? Check. Inflatable chill area couches? Check. Discoballs? Check. Spare tyre? Check. Tyre-weld aerosols? Check and check.

Right. All seems in order.

All systems go, go, go!

See you in two weeks.

Just Another Day At The Office

2008-10-02T10:03:00.006+02:00

Hi, my name is Cerberus and I'll be your Hellguardian for all eternity...

You there – that was you, wasn’t it, going all ‘vroom, vroom’ at the robots, wasn’t it? You, sir, are an idiot, so please step into the burning pit of eternal pain and suffering, thank you, and make it snappy please, we’ve a bit of a backlog here today…now listen here, I’m a reasonable dog but you really must try and think of this as a public service – after all, we are saving you from wrapping yourself around the nearest tree, are we not? Thought you’d agree. Goodbye.
Now…you, madam, who drove too fast in the rain up to a red light, thus mounting the pavement like a rhinoceros driven mad by lust? Yes, you too are a prize-winning imbecile, and as I am unsure as to whether the word idiot has a feminine designation, you too shall fall into the flaming pit of idiots, and you can take your dented car with you. Hurry along now, would you? I don’t have all day.
And you over there with your Hummer and those oh-so-gangster tinted windows, yes you. You’re the one that leads the pack by shooting red lights, are you not? In that case, it is my pleasure to relegate you too – no, I’m sorry, we don’t accept bribes here at Sentencing For Idiots Inc., unlike those many, many traffic cops you’ve helped with all those little presents over the years – to the idiot pit. Get in, go on. What’s that? Your enormous oversized gas-guzzling carbon monoxide-belching monstrosity won’t fit through the gateway to Hell? No problem. Engineers! Stop skiving and widen this bloody door, and need I remind you that the bellows needs fixing? We have a surplus of sinners and they don’t fry themselves, now do they? No, they don’t. Right, where was I? Oh, that’s right.
You with the itchy hooter finger – yes, yes, I am talking to you, you sullen psychotic abusive misogynistic tosser. Oh you will, will you? Gone all ‘I won’t do it again, I promise’, have you? Leave it out – you had your chance to make amends but you squandered it. Oh - just a question, before you’re vapourised in a puff of eternal damnation – what was the rush, oh matey? Why did you have to repeatedly pound that godforsaken hooter, when one gentle tootle would have done the job? And why, pray tell, did you feel that your arrogance permitted you to invade the space of others with your incessant petulant bleating? What was that? You were in a hurry, eh? Well, that certainly hastened you to your demise. No, no, no – sorry, there’ll be no ‘Oh please Cerberus I promise I won’t do it again, how about I buy you a nice juicy steak?’ – you shoulda thought of that whilst you still had the chance, eh? No, awfully sorry, it’s goodbye and good riddance. Engineer! Remove those fingernails from the doorjamb, would you, there’s a good man.

Ah, I love my job.

=======================================

And So It Goes

2008-09-29T15:15:00.003+02:00

What was that? A request? Your days are numbered, sunshine.

So we had another epic NONONO!!! gig on Friday night. Top class, as befits our tenth foray onto the high seas of cutting-edge music. Loadsa people, hopping and bopping till late at night, great crowd, awesome tunes, all that. In any case, so there I was, minding my own business, just busting a few tracks to warm the joint up...

Clueless Muppet #1: 'Listen mate I don’t mean to disturb you…’
Actually that’s a redundant statement, isn’t it? After all, if you really don’t mean to disturb me, you’d have stayed down there dancing, as opposed to climbing up onto what is clearly a DJ podium, no?
…but can you play something faster…
Well, considering it’s 10:30pm and I’m warming up this floor with 110BPM tunes, um, no.
…because my mate over there – you see him?
Uh, not really, seeing as how I have 9 seconds left to fuck this mix up and I haven't actually looked at you because I'm a little preoccupied by the rapidly diminishing countdown timer...
…well, he’s a professional dancer, and he can dance really well, you should see him…
Gee, that’s great Sparky, because I’m doing this just so you can watch your mate dance. Because there's no-one else here, apart from...the other two hundred people in this place.
…but he needs faster music…
What, like 140 BPM industrial death trance? Damn, musta left that bag at home tonight.
…like the stuff that DJ you had play here in January, you know who I mean…
Funnily I do know who you mean but as it happens I’m playing now and I don’t play the same music as him. Strange, that.
…so can you make a plan, because my mate there, he’s a professional dancer…
Well fuck me gently over a keg round the back, a pro dancer – when did we ask him to come round and dazzle us with his mincing cakewalk?
…and it’s such a waste to have him not dance…
Couldn’t agree with you more. I know I for one am truly gutted.

Smile. Nod your head to the beat. Eventually they go away.

And that’s pretty much how it went, actually. Straight up. But wait – there’s more – shortly thereafter (and this is a gig headlined by me, my wife and our friend – and we are collectively called The ECLECTICA Allstars, as if that's not enough to give you an idea of what we don't play) another muppet climbs on up with that classic spangle-eyed, lantern-jawed, cold-sweat gloriousness of the triple-dropping rave muppet, and proceeds to tell me – not ask, mind you, but tell me – that ‘You need to play house or R and B! (mate)’
To which, of course, I reply: ‘Heyyingguhhooffouttahere!’
Quizzically he responds: ‘Eh? House and R & B!’
Me: ‘I DO NOT PLAY THAT CRAP!’
He: ‘You must have some house, or some R & B! Come on!’
Me: No. I Don’t. Now fuck off. (but luckily he’s standing right in front of the monitor and can’t hear a thing. So, he leaves. Which is great. But I’ve just fucked up another mix.)

These are not isolated incidents. Oh no, no, no. Far from it. Every DJ has a tale to tell. I just seem to attract a larger flock of flailing muppets. Like the dainty damsel who fell - fell - onto the decks with a full drink...which, as liquid is wont to do, spilt all under (thank feck it wasn't over) the cables and plugs. Close one, that.
And so it goes.

Dilated To Meet You

2008-09-25T15:43:00.006+02:00

It’s a helluva thing, not breeding. After the rumble strips of that mad all-night, balls-to-the-wall, hands-in-the-air, caution-to-the-wind rollercoaster ride that is your twenties, you hit the thirtysomething stretch, and suddenly the road to the future reaches that almighty fork in the road where the signs point in two directions: Breed (Population 6 Billion) and Not Breed (Population: 2). Seemingly innocuous get-togethers become rife with pitfalls and eye-opening moments, like ‘How much were you dilated?’ as you’re casually leaning over to retrieve the saltcellar so you can chuck a Tabasco omelette at your hangover. And then it hits home. They’re not asking about the size of your pupils after a long night’s rave. Oh, no.

It’s interesting to watch the shift in priorities that occurs in one’s peers over the age of 30, hell, it’s a downright phenomenon to behold and a testament to the power of our urge as a species to breed. That rosy-cheeked mom over there in the corner? A thirteen-double-vodka-and-cokes-in-a-night kinda gal she was, with all the blurry cellphone snaps of her flashing the cops at a roadblock to prove it. The dad in the corner currently dandling his firstborn on his knee? Teaser’s best customer till only five months ago. God knows how Lolly Jackson’s going to put his kids through varsity now that one of his most valued guests is on the straight and narrow. The domestic goddess in the demure empire-line floral number spooning pureed butternut soup into widdle Zen Okra Narwhal’s screeching mouth? The scourge of Ibiza two summers ago, with more notches on the bedpost than Amy Winehouse has had alcoholic beverages. And the rather respectable bespectacled gent discussing comfort-fit nappies with his dowdy librarian-looking wife? Last we saw of him he was weakly fending off the amorous advances of a muscle mary in the shadowy recesses of a notorious local leather lounge. Yes, things certainly have changed when you look around and realise that a particularly virulent strain of Parentiasis has miraculously passed you by. Next stop: waiting for the divorce fallout. What can you look forward to as a thirtysomething non-breeder? Phone calls at 4 in the morning from freshly divorced casualties of domestic warfare, replete with the obligatory drunken confessions that he/she never loved him/her and he/she was crap in bed and has run off with a taebo/yoga/Pilates instructor/secretarial floozy/transvestite waxidermist/[insert bizarre post-separation recovery shag here].

Yes folks, that’s what you get folks, for makin’ whoopee. Now, my wife and I, well, we don’t wanna breed. We just wanna practice. Because why? Because practice makes perfect.

This article also featured in HisLife on iafrica.

2008-09-16T08:24:00.004+02:00

1954 - 2008

John Matshikiza is dead. Hamba Kahle, Bra John.

Here below is a snippet of the easy, flowing and scathing prose that brought many a smile to my face over the years. Irascible, he was.

"Livingstone’s intentions, let alone his methods, were dubious. Who wouldn’t want to escape a boring and rain-drenched life as a general practitioner in Scotland for Africa, Asia, Mexico, anywhere? So he showed up in Africa, got the hots for the daughter of the missionary Moffat of Kuruman, married her (also under dubious circumstances — some have said that she was already “spoiled” by the pious doctor, Scots being what they are, especially under the influence of a little medicinal tipple, which he always kept with him in his doctor’s bag, and that he had to do it to avoid her father reaching for the bullwhip and driving him out of town) and then got restless and decided to “move on into the interior” to do a little bit of missionary work — the kind of thing he knew his father-in-law would approve of.

He deliberately left wife and civilisation behind him. Mary Moffat, pining for her one-night-wonder with the big moustache, piercing Scottish eyes, and big Scottish talk, took to drink in a big way. But he was gone.

Yes, my sisters and brothers, we should have seen trouble coming from a long way off and done something about it. We should have stopped this surly, unsmiling fellow dead in his tracks by whatever means necessary. But we took the African way and smiled politely every time he yelled at us for not brushing our teeth or polishing his boots. The rest is history."

- JOHN MATSHIKIZA: WITH THE LID OFF - Mail & Guardian, Apr 24 2006

Stirring Up A Hornet's Nest

2008-09-09T15:32:00.005+02:00

Image courtesy Zapiro (www.zapiro.com)

It's a helluva thing, the reaction to this cartoon. The tripartite alliance partners have come out, guns blazing, as though someone had nicked their most treasured bottle of Johnny Blue. Overreaction, perhaps? Undoubtedly, but their fury has only served to highlight how thin skinned these guys really are. It's all good and well for them to lob incendiary comments at all and sundry in their blind obeisance to some ethereal 'revolution' (which, it goes without saying, they consider themselves the sole spokespersons for) but god forbid anyone takes aim at them, through legitimate channels or not. Their selective amnesia has wiped their minds clean of any concept of freedom of speech when it comes to criticism which shows them in a bad light. Tsk, tsk.

No-one can doubt the importance of the ANC in terms of the struggle, and the effects of their efforts to usher in a democratic dispensation. No-one in their right mind can question that. But the ANC, in its prime, prided itself on being a 'broad church of many opinions'. No longer. Now, in conjunction with COSATU and the SACP, it presents for all the world to see a narrow-minded clique of individuals who serve not the people but rather their own self-interest. A cartoon such as Zapiro's merely brought to the surface an undercurrent that has been running close to boiling point for some time. People in South Africa - black, white, pink, brown, whatever - are fed up with these pontificating fatcats. They're the bane of all our lives, running the civil service into the ground, getting off criminal charges, labelling anyone who dissents with their worldview a 'counter-revolutionary' and generally pissing on the freedoms that the struggle was fought over.

Perhaps maturity will come in time, and the successors to the bully boys will have the mien to take it on the chin when it is necessary to do so, for the sake of reasonable and responsible political discourse. But for now, we wait to see who the dogs snap at next.

For more poignant, hysterical and generally spot-on caricature and lampooning, get on over to Zapiro's website.

I Can't Stand It, I Know Ya Planned It

2008-09-05T08:56:00.005+02:00

Streetlab rock, in the vein of Tommie Sunshine and...oh, all the other great remixers out there who don't get all ootsy ootsy cheesy discoballs on a good tune. Thus and therefore, without any further ado, I give you one of their latest rejams. (Oh, and if you like the flavour, dip in for more at www.streetlab.net)

And yes, you will most certainly be hearing this at loud volume at the 10th NONONO!!! on September 26th.

Beastie Boys - Sabotage

I Can't Stand It, I Know You Planned It
I'ma Set It Straight, This Watergate
I Can't Stand Rockin' When I'm In Here
'Cause Your Crystal Ball Ain't So Crystal Clear
So, While You Sit Back And Wonder Why
I Got This Fucking Thorn In My Side
Oh My God, It's A Mirage
I'm Tellin' Y'all It's Sabotage

So,So,So, So Listen Up 'Cause You Can't Say Nothin'
You Shut Me Down With A Push Of Your Button
But yo, I'm Out And I'm Gone
I'll Tell You Now I Keep It On And On

'Cause What You See You Might Not Get
And We Can Bet, So Don't You Get Souped Yet
Scheming On A Thing That's A Mirage
I'm Tryin' To Tell You Now It's Sabotage

Why; Our Backs Are Now Against The Wall
Listen All Of Y'all This Is Sabotage
Listen All Of Y'all This Is Sabotage
Listen All Of Y'all This Is Sabotage
Listen All Of Y'all This Is Sabotage

I Can't Stand It, I Know You Planned It
I'ma Set It Straight This Watergate
I Can't Stand Rockin' When I'm In This Place
Because I Feel Disgrace Because You're All In My Face
But Make No Mistakes And Switch Up My Channel
I'm Buddy Rich When I Fly Off The Handle
What Could It Be, It's A Mirage
You're Scheming On A Thing That's Sabotage

For The Hell Of It

2008-08-21T16:09:00.003+02:00

Image courtesy of www.kylewilliams.com

So we’re going to AfrikaBurn. Yes folks, we’ve got our tickets and we’re taking the jol on tour. Disco In The Desert. Party On The Playa. Opskop Oppie Vlaktes. Bohemians In The Bush. Although there’s precious little bush out on the baking flatlands of the Tankwa Karoo, which is where it’s held this year from October 16th to 19th. Tankwa is in the Northern Cape, about...16 hours drive from Durban, due west.

For those who’re not familiar with AfrikaBurn, allow me: AfrikaBurn is a South African satellite event of the mightiest free-zone freakdown on this here god-blindingly beautiful planet - Burning Man, which is held in the States each Labor Day Weekend on the salt flats of the Black Rock Desert in Nevada. Which is…next weekend, if I’m not mistaken. Burning Man has its origins in the late 80s (and had precedent before that, if Wikipedia has it right), when SanFran artist and general raconteur Larry Harvey (with a little help from his friends) erected and burnt an effigy at Baker Beach. A few years later in 1990 a group of performers and artists created an event called Zone Trip #4, out on the salt flats of the Black Rock Desert. The two groups came together, and voila! Burning Man was created. The result? Every year a growing number of people come together and have themselves a regular old time shit-kicking jol, at which they dress up, create art installations, burn the ‘man’, dance about like loons and invoke the various spirits of their neomystical hippie universe. As you do.

Fun and games, then, with décor to match, a purpose and some pyrotechnics. In so doing they were in sympathy with ancient practices that are continued to this day the world over in various forms; that of using fire to send forth wishes or banish evil, bad omens, or just perhaps to get closure. After all, who among us can say they haven’t indulged in a little post-breakup cleansing? Thought as much. But I digress. The salt flats of Nevada, much like the Tankwa Karoo where AfrikaBurn is held, are an unforgiving environment to say the least, but are also the kind of place where nobody bats an eyelid if you want to cycle around in the skin you’re in or want to build a hundred-metre mugwump outta carbon steel tubing, just for the hell of it. This is the headspace that’s attracted so many people to Burning Man (so much so that it’s now Nevada’s tenth-largest city, albeit temporary), and made a success of last years’ inaugural AfrikaBurn. Just like the granddaddy event in the US, our homegrown freakdown features wild and spectacular art installations, themed and decked-out camps, unrestrained displays of celebration, awesome music and of course the burning of the huge man; all set off and created as a result of, and pursued with, an overwhelming sense of freedom.

Judging by the photos and the grapevine tales, a bunch of upstanding and well-adjusted folks are steering the AfrikaBurn ship, making for a fine time for all. You can do anything (within reason) out there - be anyone, let loose your voodoo. Or play every single disc in your DJ box, twice, if that grabs you. Which is what we’ll be doing at AfrikaBurn, among other things - setting up a sound system, mixing drinks, handing out umbrellas (there's no commerce at this jol, it's a gifting economy) and generally meeting like-minded nutters. Seems there’s an awful lot to see and do, and an awful lot of nice, likely-looking folks to hang out with, perhaps on a mobile couch, while engaging in some light banter over a three-course sundowner of absinthe, mojitos and tequila. We’re gonna need a lot of shade (stretchy tents with industrial-grade staves, check) because it’s Fucking Hot out there and there are Perilous Whirlwinds. We’ll also need to bring everything we need and take it all away, as all the Burn principles apply. Which suits us down to the ground. We’ll need a lot of water, a generator, sound, lights, easyshades, sun cream, dust goggles and be prepared to weather some extremes in temperature. The only thing provided are portaloos, and as the nearest shop is a hundred and something k’s away, everything will have to be thought of carefully before we find ourselves going ‘Oh shit, I left the..…at the pozzi.’ Everything. It’s gonna be one helluva journey. But then as the Good Doctor said: Buy the ticket, take the ride. And we have bought the tickets.

Free your mind and your ass will follow! In the name of the Jol, the whole Jol and nothing but the Jol!

Tankwa Town, here we come!

Step Away From The Language And Keep Your Grammar Where We Can See It

2008-08-13T09:58:00.009+02:00

It's enough to drive you demented.

As a copywriter, there’s a lot of hyperbole that I’m obliged to apply to products and brands. Comes with the territory, sure, but too much tub-thumping generally sounds like you’re blowing your own trumpet, and it’s important to be aware of the consumer’s bullshit threshold. People can tell when you’re so far up your own ass you can see the light out your own cakehole. So it really grates me when I see ads that abuse words like ‘greatest’ or ‘world’s #1’, when in likelihood, the product or brand in question is likely a mediocre turd that’s getting a desperate polish in the hope that some gullible punter out there is going to be thick enough to swallow the drivel, hook line and sinker. Funny thing is, these ads wouldn’t make it to the page, screen, TV or radio unless there were enough peabrains out there to justify the expense. Go figure.

When it comes to examples of apt description, it's safe to say that Muhammad Ali was The Greatest. Michelangelo, he could have, if he’d been around, advertised himself as ‘The World’s Greatest Artist’. Genghis Khan, for that matter, if he'd been so inclined, would have had carte blanche to put out an ad in Mongolian Tyrant Weekly stating that he was 'The Known World's Greatest Uncontested Marauder! Thirteen Countries And Fifty Thousand Decapitations In A Decade!', and no-one would have room to criticise the man. But a flyer which hollers about ‘The country’s greatest house music DJ’s!’ or a facebook message which spews all over my page about ‘the hottest tunes you’ll ever hear!’ - that just gets right up my nose, bypasses the brain barrier and directly attacks my good taste centre with as much finesse as a roll of barbed wire.

And of course, this is not an issue restricted to your common-or-garden schlock, hell no. Would that it were, but no. It’s much the same out there in the corporate world, because there’s simply no control on the abuse of language – and this has lead to the godawful corporatespeak that plagues our modern world. Some common examples:

‘Forward planning’ – tell me, Sparky, what other kinds are there?
‘Concretise’ – WTF? Don’t you mean ‘consolidate?’
‘Unpack’ – so, when did ‘explain’ fail to do the job?

See what I mean? The problem is that there’s nobody willing to stand up and say ‘Oi! You! Yes, you – move away from that lingo! You’re not qualified to play verbal Lego with my mother tongue, motherfucker! Step away from the language and keep your grammar where we can see it, or you get it in the cerebellum!’

Pillocks.

Don't Get Any Big Ideas - They're Not Gonna Happen

2008-08-12T10:17:00.004+02:00

image courtesy www.waste.uk.com

So I recently bought a T-shirt from Radiohead. Well, not from any of the lads, but rather from W.A.S.T.E, their merch division. And, apart from it costing the most I’ve ever paid for a T-shirt (it was shipped from Oxford), and being fucking cool on account of having the lyric from ‘Nude’, a single from their most recent album printed all over it (as above), this is a special shirt. Yip, got a couple scowlers at the mall. But fuckem, not because they scowled, but because this here shirt has some very interesting info printed on it, which I now present for your edification. As for the scowlers, they probably will go to hell for what their dirty minds are thinking. They sure looked suspect.

Anyway, the shirt is 50% certified recycled polyester and 50% certified organic cotton. And this is what it says, printed on the inside back:

=========================================

We Are Sensibly Talking Endlessly Clothing Division

This garment is made from 100% certified recycled plastic PET bottles and certified organic cotton. The bottles are stripped of their labels and caps, washed and crushed, then chopped into flakes. These tiny pieces are melted and extruded to create fibre. The fibre produced is crimped, cut, drawn and stretched into desired length for strength, then baled. The baled fibre can be processed into fabric for a variety of textile products and uses.

Presented below are brief descriptions of the processes involved in the production of both ordinary polyester and of recycled polyester:

TO MAKE POLYESTER:

MINE EXPLORATION + PETROLEUM MINING (LAND) OR DRILLING (OCEAN) + PETROLEUM TRANSPORTATION (BOAT, PIPELINE, RAIL & TRUCK)
AT THE POLYESTER REFINEMENT FACTORY:
CHEMICAL TREATMENT 1: TEREPHTHALIC ACID + CHEMICAL TREATMENT 2: DIMETHYL TEREPHTHALATE + CHEMICAL TREATMENT 3: BIS-CHYDROXETHYL ISOPHOLATE + CRUSH, MELT & SHRED INTO POLYESTER FIBRES
AT THE YARN FACTORY:
PACK THE POLY FIBRES INTO BALES + DIVIDE INTO SMALLER ROLLS + WIND THE ROLLS + COMB THE ROLLS + SPIN THE COMBED POLY INTO YARN + KNIT THE POLY YARN WITH OTHER YARNS INTO FABRIC = FINISHED FABRIC

TO MAKE RECYCLED POLYESTER:
COLLECT BOTTLES + COMPACT BOTTLES + TRANSPORT BOTTLES (BOAT, RAIL & TRUCK)
AT THE POLYESTER REFINEMENT FACTORY:
CRUSH, MELT & SHRED INTO POLYESTER FIBRES
AT THE YARN FACTORY:
PACK THE POLYESTER FIBRES INTO BALES + DIVIDE INTO SMALLER ROLLS + WIND THE ROLLS + COMB THE ROLLS + SPIN THE COMBED POLY INTO YARN + KNIT THE POLY YARN WITH OTHER YARNS INTO FABRIC = FINISHED FABRIC

RECYCLED POLYESTER
REDUCES AIR, WATER AND SOIL CONTAMINATION
REDUCES USE OF ENERGY AND OIL
REDUCES NON-BIODEGRADABLE LANDFILL MATTER
REDUCES TOXIC EMISSIONS FROM INCINERATORS
REDUCES POLLUTION AND LAND DEGRADATION
ALTHOUGH, OF COURSE, NOTHING IS PERFECT

===========================================

Worth every penny.

Radiohead - Nude.mp3

Spectacular, Spectacular!

2008-08-07T16:52:00.004+02:00

Yes folks, it's that time of year again - it's Virgomania!

Spectacular, spectacular - no words in the vernacular
can quite describe this great event - you'll be dumb with wonderment!

Roll up, roll up! Come one, come all and witness the gathering of the Virgo's for a show quite unlike any other for miles around!

Elephants! Europeans!
Africans and Indians!
Deejays and Courtesans!
Acrobats and juggling bears!
Exotic girls! Fire eaters!
Muscle Men! Contortionists!
Intrigue, danger, and romance!
Electric lights, Machinery!
Amplifiers, decks and dancefloor tomfoolery!
All powered with electricity!

Dig into your wardrobe or hie to the nearest costume hire - yes folks - it's a dress-up, and you'll not be permitted within the inner circle without the requisite dress!

The theme?

Why, it's MOULIN ROUGE, of course!

Willowvale Hotel - Septembre Cinq, 9pm.

(find us on facebook at 'Virgomania')

Get Your Weekend On, Damn Your Eyes!

2008-08-01T14:59:00.006+02:00

Ladies and brutes, the delectable Mz Von Teese...

Here - have a poem. Not just any poem, mind - (I wouldn't do that to you, as I generally regard poetry as the refuge of those who can't handle their prose. I await the fatwa taken out on me by poetry lovers everywhere. Such is life.) - this is by Verlaine, the infamous barfly, absinthe connoisseur and geezer of La Belle Epoque. It makes me think of Dita Von Teese. Whom we love.

The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)

by Paul Verlaine
(Translated by Louis Simpson)

High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.

Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.

Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.

And while you're at it, have a tune. Go on, then, you know you wanna.

The Cardigans - Erase & Rewind (2008 Remix by Kleerup).mp3

Fear & Loathing On The Boulevard Of Broken Dreams

2008-07-30T15:10:00.008+02:00

What're yew lookin' at, maggot? Move it!

So I’m trying for my license again…fear and loathing on the highway? You betcha. Mind you, nothing comes close to those fleeting moments before my driving instructor arrives. He’s a piece of work, he is. Thinks I’m mentally deficient, and you can tell, the way he starts foaming at the mouth when I don’t get an instruction right. Actually, scratch that – I get them right, he just jumps the gun and freaks out before I’ve even had a chance to screw up the parallel park or alley docking he’s doing his best to scream me into. Instruction is one thing. Guidance by sonic boom is another thing altogether, and as I don’t deal with apoplectic rapid-fire drill sergeant manners at the best of times, there’s a predictably patchy result. The other thing that throws me off my game is his incessant teeth sucking. No, not like you might surreptitiously do after a particularly sinewy piece of rib or a heavily laced poppyseed muffin – this is more like the high tide sluicing through all thirty thousand full-grown black lipped, bearded mussels on a long, long pier as the tide goes out. All the time. ‘Stthhhhhhhh. Sthhhhh. Sthhhhhhhh. YES! FULL LOCK TO THE RIGHT! WASSRONGWIYOO?’

It’s not right, it’s not fair, and I’m considering ringing up those geezers in The Hague and laying a couple charges. That’ll learn him.

Then of course there’s his car - it’s fucked. An old nag of a Toyota Tazz with fewer teeth in its gears than your average marshmallow mouse, I’m not entirely sure how this skorokoro ever makes the grade in the yard test. Guess we’ll find out Monday when I Go For Broke – The Sequel. Will I emerge triumphant into the humid morning with a smile on my face the size of a Honduran plantain? I sincerely hope so - the admin alone throughout this license palaver is enough to swear you off ever going for it again.

Keeping with the vehicular theme, here’s a ditty I dropped on Saturday night at the Uprising Festival. Remember now – keep left, pass right.

War - Low Rider (DJ Kue Remix).mp3

Have Some Sympathy And Some Taste

2008-07-23T09:26:00.004+02:00

Image: www.coopstuff.com

Yes ladies and beerpurifiers, you guessed it - we're tucking into another delicious slice of 'We Love Tommy Sunshine' Pie here at the Kitchen. Why do we love Mr Sunshine so very, very, much? Why, because he's a geezer, and he's an ear for it that most muppet remixers would give their cajones for. To top it off, as a geezer, he's been around for some time, and has earned the respect (and access to the master tracks) of many a revered music maker, among them that bunch of crusty lovable rouges the Stones. Reason enough for us to prostrate our unworthy selves before him and chant 'Lay that badass voodoo remix goodness all over my willing ears, oh Tommy you geezer, you!' (Steady on, this is a family show. Oh wait...no, it's not.)

Right - a slice of Sympathy Flavour for you? Yes? Grab yourself a plate, and oh - don't forget to take a napkin...

Rolling Stones - Sympathy For The Devil (Tommie Sunshine's Peak Hour Lucifer Edit).mp3

Shocking State Of Affairs

2008-07-21T15:26:00.004+02:00

Insubstantial...not unlike the posts of late...

A shocking state of affairs, I think you'll agree, would be the best description for the inconsiderate lack of fresh posts hereabouts in the Kitchen. What can I say? Well, for a start, I can say hello in sixteen languages, but that's still not gonna placate the dear readers who crave more scraps than have fallen from the table of late. There's no excuse...oh, wait, yes, there is. I've been busy, touring the country (OK, I lie, I only went to Joburg for a gig) and playing shitloads of dates (Ok, I lie, it was only a helluva lot) at clubs, pubs and backyards up and down the eThekwini Metro.

What can I say? It's been a beautifully mild winter down this way on the right hand coast of darkest South Africa, I've had lots of good books to read and there's always an endless list of important lunch dates with folks who need someone to finish off the leftovers. Oh - and I work.

In any case, we'll try to make more of an effort in future, and to make up for the lack of goodness flowing from this particular neck of the hoods, here's a fine ditty put together by none other than that old charmer, crooner and shaker of the voodoo stick singer man, who was, it's true, loonier than a sack of Ghanaian Squirrel Rats after a weeks' float down the Niger, the one and only Mr Screaming Jay Hawkins. Go on, then. Fill 'er up.

Screaming Jay Hawkins - Africa Gone Funky.mp3

Egg Shelly Wood Lurk Kill

2008-07-09T13:28:00.005+02:00

Yep, I grew up in....drumroll, maestro, please...the Eighties (cymbal crash).

Dunno about you but...hell, I'm not even fully qualified to comment on this but hey, that's never stopped me, so...there's a lot of 80s revibe going on out there in the rarefied atmosphere of the interweb. So much so that yesterday I downloaded a mix set off Hot Biscuits from a dude named Sparkletone...and...excuse me a moment while I take a deep breath and consider the ramifications...holycrapsakes...the mix starts with 'Girl You Know It's True' by, yes yes I know, Milli Vanilli...and no, it doesn't get much better, although the dude has mixing skills. The funny thing is, they're gushing about this stuff out there in blogosphere. Now, I'll admit I've gotten some pretty nifty fidget remixes off blogs like Palms Out, Red Threat and others, but some of the stuff is so overboard you're tempted to chuck it a life preserver.

Now is it just me or has the whole 80s revisited thing just boiled up and over the rim of the melting pot and begun to get a whole lot of sloppy all over the Kitchen's floor? I reckon. The 80s...they gave us some good shit: synth took centre stage, and some kick-ass rock music also managed to stay alive through the cocaine blizzard and toxic clouds of New Romantic hairspray.
Shit, some of the finest tunes I have are 12" remixes from Razormaid, Ben Liebrand et al. However, when the dregs are hauled back outta the barrel to see the light of day once again - despite many people vowing on pain of death that they would preserve the world's sanity by ensuring that they would not - and rehashed for all the world to see and hear, something has gone awry.

Let's just put a qualifier in here - hey, we can, right? - some of the fashion and music of today that's inspired by the eighties IS cool, shit, I wear and I play some of it, so I'm in up to my balls. BUT when the envelope gets pushed so hard you can see the veins in the poor thing's eyes standing out, we have to question the distance to which things have been taken. Too far? Not half. Take, for example, that muppet Corey Delaney (below) who had the ultra-violent house party in Melbourne, Oz, last year and thereafter refused (on TV) to take his bilious lumo yellow sunnies off because 'I lurk killin thumb'. He, for one, is a prime example of how the worst of the eighties - yellow sunnies? I ask you with tears in my arse - have been regurgitated. As we can see from Exhibit A, Your Honour, 'taint even the good bits. (Now Corey, mate, if they'd been black, those sunnies, well, then you egg shelly wood lurk kill, mite.)

Exhibit A

Christsakes. The next thing you know, it'll be all Boy London T-shirts, baggy high-waisted primary colour jeans, belt buckles the size of a radiator grille and...damn. Let's just stop right there, it's better not to tempt fate. I saw that stuff first time round and...it wasn't pretty, Judge.

Anyway, somewhat tenuously related to the rant of the week is this pretty damn fine tune which I got from Slutty Fringe - yes, ladies and beerpurifiers, it's a fairly fidgety rework of Tainted Love by Soft Cell. And I like it.

Soft Cell - Tainted Love (C90's Remix).mp3

Stealth Giblets

2008-07-01T13:49:00.006+02:00

We’re bored, bored, bored, to the last man, every one of us in this muggy little room at Impendle Police Station….or – what is it they call them these days? – ‘Community Service Centres’. The windows are misted up and some have been smoking, funking the room with the reek of it. We’ve been up an hour since 4:30, and listening to our polony-eating Inspector for half of that. It’s warm in here, but all the same, we’d all rather be out in the cold, the lot of us.

‘And that is why every single one of them – every single one – is a suspect…’ van Huysteen added the emphasis, little flecks of spit flying out onto his crisp shirt. He’s standing only two metres or so from me, and I swear I can see a teeny pink spot of polony in one of his errant spitballs. God help us.
Nevertheless, at risk of being sprayed with the remnants of his breakfast, it pays to sit near the front when Haardegat van Huysteen is giving one of his pre-ops motivationals. Projects eagerness. At least, he thinks so. For us up front it means cushier jobs later in the day.
Haardegat was on a roll:
‘…so don’t drop your god!’ he continued, clipping vowels as always, ‘Mothers, children – they even use the babies’ dia…dia…deksels…nappies! This type of people, they have no skaam, they are calculating and sly, like the snake!’
‘Sir?’ Wandi has his hand up, giving me a sly side-wink, ‘Sir?’ with his hand up, like in school.
‘Khumalo! Yes!’ Never really lost his drill-sergeant manner; Haardegat; he’s paraat in that old-school way, an old dog in a tricky new world.
‘I was jus’ wanderin’, sir. What ‘bout animals?’
‘Animals, Khumalo? What kind of animals? Snakes, maybe?’ A titter runs through the back row, where I’d much rather be. Then again, suffering a spit bath down the front here will pay dividends later. Haardegat ignores the dissent, eyeballing Wandi. Doesn’t smaak him. No surprises there, then.
‘Ah…no, Inspector. Dogs, sir. Cats. Birds. That kind.’
‘Are you trying to be funny, Khumalo? I think you’ll find that while Barry Hilton is still going strong, you’ve got no chance!’ Titter again, this time from one Christiaan Scheepers, resident teacher’s pet.
‘Ah, no sir, not trying…it’s just, I’ve heard they…ah…how do I put this…they put it inside the animal. Sometime. Sir.’
Haardegat ruminated on this for a moment.
‘Ja! They do. Sometime.’ He concurred, giving Wandi a little linguistic jab. ‘They have been known to put it inside a dog. But if you have read the brief, Khumalo, you would realise that this festivals doesn’t allow for dogs inside. So it is cars, mos, and the occupant of this cars, that you will be concentrating on. Now, let me tell you manne…this is the twelfth roadblock of this festival I am commanding officer, and I have seen all sorts of things, on this road…even the one time it was in a chicken – so Khumalo, you are not so far wrong talking about birds – but this was dagga in a frozen chicken! They take the dagga and they puts it in da giblets! And then they freezes this chicken! Maybe they think that the dogs isn’t going to sniff it, but they are wrong, ‘cos I have taken a suspect in with just such a chicken!’
Haardegat harrumphed, stuck his jaw out and blinked, allowing the gravity of such despicable abuse of poultry to sink in.
‘Now! From tomorrow morning, there will be be a heavy Easter holiday traffic on the R103. There will be thousands of vehicles, and maybe some of this people is not suspects, and maybe they are not for this festival. So you must use your brains, manne. Last year one member of the service actually tried to apprehend an officer of the Service for resisting arrest! Yes, Daniels – that was a stupid thing to do, but you screwed up on the side of caution, and for that nobody can blame you. It’s just a pity it was Detective Inspector Owen you pulled over!’
Sitting in the back row, Zane Daniels shrank into his chest. That had been a fuck-up of magnificent proportions. Haardegat, glaring at him, rolled on…
‘So don’t be stupid! But don’t fall for any tricks! Every one of this people is a suspect. Every single one of them. Now - your operational assignments: Thompson – reports, Adderly – reports, Scheepers – handler, Thompson – handler, Khumalo and Rogers, undercover…’

Festival mania, here we come.

Have A Nice Day

2008-06-19T10:55:00.007+02:00

A note to readers with gas-guzzling 4x4’s, SUV’s, RV’s and a love for fossil fuels:
You’re idiots, your actions are inexcusable and you deserve to fry in hell. Have a nice day.

You know them – you see them everywhere, they’re on every street corner, on every highway, even in the parking lots of the malls you frequent and – most of all – lurking outside the schools of your city. They’re a scourge, a danger and the most insidious threat to both general and personal safety that anyone in town or country presently faces.
Yes folks, it’s the 4x4. Sorry, Sparky – what was that? ‘What am I to do with all of my kids?’ Have you not heard of a station wagon? Have you not thought of a hybrid soccer-momobile? Or are you too cool to invest wisely in your children’s future by doing your bit for the environment?

Of course, there’s an easy route to blaming the Yanks for this – someone’s likely gonna come along and point out that the US was way ahead of the rest of the gang when it came to having an 4x4/SUV fetish, and they’d be right in assuming that this has had some influence on the polony -brained muppets of all other nations that have taken to driving the automobile equivalent of The Hulk with all the ardour of a dog long denied a walk. The problem is – perfect timing as always, folks - there couldn’t have been a worse time for the world to suddenly develop a taste for vehicles that can comfortably fit a family of twenty.

‘What brings about this deluge of bile for the perfectly innocent 4x4 / RV / SUV driver?’ you may well ask. Let me put you in the picture. Let me show you what I mean.

Walking – yes, dear reader, I walk to work, every morning. OK, so sometimes I can’t walk when it’s pissing with rain, but my walking is doing a damned sight more for the state of your world than you’re doing for mine. What’s that? ‘I work too far away from home to walk!’ Get a job closer to home, Sparky. Or get a bike. Whatever – do your bit or stand against the wall and wait for the firing squad. But I digress.
On my way to work this morning – a small aside; I live across the road from a Well Known High School, my alma mater – I did as I usually do, and took about three minutes to make sure the coast was clear before scurrying the ten metres to safety on the other side of the road. The problem? Behemoth Mom- and Dadmobiles, hurtling around the corners of my neighbourhood as they raced against time to drop little Johnny off at school. Because - god forbid - Johnny can't walk to school, that's just outta the question. I mean, what would Johnny's friends say? Once safely across, I saunter off down the side road to work. Only this morning this just isn’t a safe place anymore because Small Dick Man #1 has decided to drive like a marauding Hun. And even though there’s only about 400m to maraud along, he’s determined to break all land speed records – and not just in a straight line, oh, no – that’d be too easy – no, no, no – he wants to do it whilst overtaking another hulking 4x4 - on the left! Now usually this is only mildly offensive behaviour, but when Small Dick Man with his Prosthetic Dick Car is swerving towards me as I walk along the pavement, I get a little pissed off.
Someone should give muppets like this an award, like maybe a Darwin Award – lord knows they're gonna pick one up posthumously, might as well let them bask in the glory before he drives himself into a roadside mahogany, right?
If I were driving it would make me want to pull up and step out, pull the Small Dick Man outta that twincab and clip him around his unused earhole while reading the little cuckold the riot act and denigrating his manhood, the parlous state of his moral pantry and last but not least his thoughtless frippery with oil at a time when it is blindingly clear that Things Are Not What They Used To Be. Is it possible that perhaps he just happened to be going so fast that he missed the past twenty years? And why in the name of all that is good and pure in the world should decent people have to put up with imbeciles like this making life not only more dangerous to live but indeed of a lower quality than it was only some two decades ago?

I await enlightenment and the Answers to these and other Important Questions.

As Always.

The Orb Are Back - Pack The Chillum

2008-06-05T14:14:00.005+02:00

A Huge Ever Growing Pulsating Brain That Rules From The Centre Of The Ultraworld. Hic!

The Orb are back. Dunno who The Orb are? Oh, Christ on a fucking bike, I ask you with tears in my sad, sad eyes. You really need to sort your musical reference out, man. I mean, if you don’t even know who the…I give up. Go and consult your wikipedia, and when you get back I wanna see a hundred lines: ‘I am a musical dolt and will endeavour to rectify the situation forthwith through diligent research and the purchasing of old CD’s from stalls at flea markets manned by grizzled ex-ravers.’ Right. That’s you told.

For those of you who do know The Orb, you’ll be glad to know that the intervening years haven’t straightened them out, and Alex Patterson and his mob are still making noodly dubbed-out ambient tunes which are perfect for chilling, cleaning the house or squeegying your third eye through the aid of massive hits of acid. Appropriate for a range of domestic and transcendent applications, if you will. The new(ish) album (of which I’ve only heard a bit) seems to be much along the lines of the best of their output, with a bit of an updated electronic edge to it, if ‘Katskills’ is anything to go by. Released in the UK in September last year, and featuring the ambient musings of the good Dr Paterson and newish Orb member Thomas Fehlmann, it’s only now making waves. Weird. But then, they wouldn’t be The Orb if there weren’t some weird in the equation.

In any case, here, for your edification (and washing, ironing, squeegying etc) is one of the tracks off the album, ‘The Dream’. Also listed here for your aural indulgence is a tune released by Paterson and ex-KLF member (and an Orb founding member back in pre-MuMu days) Jimmy Cauty as well as the guitar noodling of the one and only (and presently a band member of Modest Mouse), Johnny Marr of The Smiths fame, under the Transit Kings moniker.

Right. Herewith ends today's somewhat rambling post. Phew.

The Orb - Katskills.mp3
Transit Kings - America Is Unavailable.mp3

All Hail The Maverick Scribes Of The 20th Century

2008-06-04T13:40:00.007+02:00

Before The Village People, there was the Village Family...

‘The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test’ should be required reading at every high school in the world, in my opinion. It was my introduction to Tom Wolfe, and gave me a vicarious immersion into the subject matter - the world of Ken Kesey, his Merry Pranksters and the bacchanalian Acid Tests. Sure, Wolfe is also well-known for ‘Bonfire Of The Vanities’ too, which is good, if a little pithy and complex in its study of the ambition, racism, class politics, and greed of 1980s New York. In any case, I recently picked up ‘The Pump House Gang’ for the criminally low price of one Zuid Afrikaansche Rand at a Christian junkshop. No, I won’t tell you where this den of cutrate delights is located. The book is a collection of short journalistic articles that Wolfe put out in the sixties, and covers Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion, California surf subculture, the Swinging Sixties scene of London (and its underground – literally – lunchtime clubs), and his fortuitous stumbling upon an illegal private casino. Which is where I lifted this fantastically descriptive passage from:

‘There was only a dim light on the stairway. I kept climbing and finally got to the door the tea boy had talked about and it was still just quiet, cold, dim and drafty in someone’s old moldering townhouse. The door was heavy and had a lot of crowded carving on it. I knocked, but nobody answered, so I went ahead and turned the knob and pushed it open and –
Santa Barranza! –
- inside, the scene was the way I always pictured it in The Masque of the Red Death, the Edgar Allen Poe story, when they go through all the rooms in the big old moldering castle or whatever it is, and finally they get to this last room, where everybody is having one utterly final choking red revel in a room suffocating with red velvet, gilt, ormolu, heavy glass – inside, as soon as I open the door, this great heaving fullness comes rolling over me, sherry-yellow, lights, florid browns, hunt-blood reds, smothers, smothers, smothers of merino cloth, velvets, tapestry, swollen, swollen, swollen with gilt, covings, ogee and ovolo moldings, all yeasting up with the heat of the gambling funk, the smoldering armpits of the punters, a stagnant haze of cigarette smoke, and voices, a low burble of voices and clattering chips, and a woman with a low voice and a Central European accent saying:
“…pos-see-bul flush…straght-y-ning…no help…”
The room is a huge drawing room, filled with green-baize gaming tables crowded with young men and a few women, all florid and ripening amid fading Louis XVI needlework, old Sultanabad carpets with white ticks where the woof is coming up and goddamnedest bunch of gilded tables, sideboards and commodes you ever laid eyes on, riots of rosewood and ormolu, every table leg in the form of a great swollen jaded baby hooker with blank eyes and gilded nipples rising up to into a gush of acanthus leaves – perfect!’

Now if that doesn't conjure up the picture in full blown sensovision, then you're as dull as dishwater.

Thompson Mailer Burroughs Capote Wolfe - all hail the maverick scribes of the 20th Century !

Someone Shoulda Told Him That The Buck Stops Here

2008-06-03T13:29:00.009+02:00

Pic: Hannah Whitaker (see www.tinyvices.com)

No one can deny the genius of Talking Heads at their prime.

What was that?

You DON'T KNOW WHO THE TALKING HEADS ARE???????

Well, here's an opportunity to redeem yourself. Get cracking.

Godsakes. Some people.

Talking Heads - Blind (Deaf Dub and Blind Mix).mp3

We Need Some Sunshine

2008-05-30T09:31:00.008+02:00

Tommie Sunshine is the man.

Yes, we've had a fucked up couple weeks down SA way. 'Xenophobic' riots, further racially-tinted episodes up and down the land being dragged through the courts, and of course the ongoing interest rate hike. All as winter's teeth really bite in. And then, adding insult to injury, James Blunt did a tour. Mind you, could've been worse. Could've been Josh Groban. Now there's a powerful truth serum to use against reticent enemies of the state:

Evil Interrogator #1: 'Now you listen here and you listen good, maggot - tell us where the secret files are stored or your balls go in the blender!'
Hero: 'Pah! Go ahead. You'll get nothin' from me. I spit on your blender. Ptui.'
Evil #1: 'Hmmm, wiseguy, eh? How about a little bit of THIS -' (cue Josh Groban's latest single, 'You Are Loved (Don't Give Up)')
Hero: 'Aaaaeeehhhhhhggggggggg!!!!!!! Fuucccccckkkkkk!!!! Make it stopppp!!! I'll tell you everything!'
Evil #1: 'That's more like it. Now - where are the goddamn files?'
Hero: 'Ha! In your dreams, Sparky. I'll never -' (the Groban is turned up, reaching a particularly cruel crescendo) 'Gggghhhhhh OK - OK - they're in the safe...aaahhhhhhh!!!!! Make it....stop...make it....aaaaaaaa..a...bblllth....' Eyeballs boil, tongue goes blue; the Hero is toast.
Evil #1: 'Shit - we've lost him! Now we'll never know where those files are hidden!'
Evil 2: 'Wha?'
Evil #1: 'Take those bloody earplugs out!'
Evil #2: 'Oh. Right. That's better. What?'
Evil #1: 'He's dead - can't you see - he's dead!'
Evil #2: 'Damn, that Groban shit is strong.'

It's The Parents That Need A Smack

2008-05-26T12:08:00.007+02:00

Caffeine? Check. Refined Sugar? Check? Chaos? Check. Piercing High-Decibel Screams Of Anguish? Better Believe It.

Caught a steam train on Sunday morning. What was that? Did you say ‘holy crap, now there’s a sure sign he’s getting old’? Come closer so I can klap you like I would like to have klapped a few of the manic lighties who were on said train. Hold still. This won't hurt a bit.
The Umgeni Steam Railway – manned entirely by volunteers and run on the sheer love of steam - is a grand and endearing anomaly; a 95-year-old steam locomotive that pushes eighty-year-old carriages up to Inchanga from Hillcrest, in the year 2008. The state of preservation of these grand remnants of the age of steam and the heydays of leisurely travel, unfettered by the demands of modern life and a here-today-gone-tomorrow lifestyle, is impressive. For all the graffiti and the jarring disruption of cellphones, you could well believe that it is the year 1929 as you make your way through the darkly forested valleys.
Then, of course, there is the screaming horde of ankle biters that bring you out of your reverie with a thump. They’re a study in chaos, for the most part, and a lesson in parenting. Or the lack thereof. For one thing, it’s immediately obvious who the indulgent parents are that allow their offspring to run rampant and unchecked. They’re the ones shouting:
‘Shayden Breitling Goss! (because a name like Thomas or Michael would just be so passé) Ah thord ah tolljew noddoo stickyaw eddowdov a windah! Ah’m gonna smeckyew nah if you doan siddahn en karmdahn!’ (They're originally from Queensburgh, the Gosses, but dad Terry - he's the one who's been ogling my wife's legs since Hillcrest - he recently made good by importing cheap Chinese generators. They now live in Durban North. There goes that neighbourhood.)
To which, of course, the little cretin sticks out his tongue and continues to scream blue bloody murder at perplexed railside spectators as he defies the cruel oppression of a parent that is merely trying to ensure he isn't dashed to mince on the tracks. Shayden Breitling Goss, the little belter, is the unambiguous result of ineffectual parenting, non-existent discipline and a strict diet of processed Woolworths food and refined sugar. Which is to say, a hyperactive snotty little tyrant that has no respect for his parents and has never been instructed in how to behave and will undoubtedly go on to become a success at a) cheating on his wife and b) selling cheap Chinese generators. You can't blame him that he'll go on to become a faithful facsimile of his parents and pass on the insufferably ignorant yet unassailably snooty attitude to the generations of little screamers that will undoubtedly come after. Hell, some of them may even evolve to become lawyers and bank managers. Maybe.
The upshot of the experience of this train is that some of the parents spend the entire journey howling threats at their kids, and consequently have an awful time of it. What a godawful way to spend a Sunday. Just deserts? Quite. Ritalin? They don't need Ritalin, they need Valium.
The other (regretfully smaller) portion of parents are those whose children sit quietly by, quite happy to observe and make comments on the passing vista. These are the well-adjusted parents who have equally well-adjusted kids. I love these people - they give me hope. The lawless little trolls that scream at the top of their lungs for the entire journey and disregard any and all instructions from their parents – they on the other hand, they make me despair.
But it really is the parents that deserve a smack, not the kids. Sure, that kind of behaviour is unacceptable (or at least, there was a time when it was considered so) and should be disciplined. Goes without saying. But it all starts with parents who are unwilling or so utterly parentally inept that they refuse to impose some kind of order upon the tykes. The sneaky suspicion is that these parents themselves were probably the result of some lacklustre parenting. Maybe momma just didn’t have enough time what with all the chores, or poppa was out getting drunk too often. Hey, we all had tough breaks - roll with it.
Whatever – the result is there for all to see on the 8:30 to Inchanga. Sweet wrappers, burger boxes, milkshake cups, chocolate bars and pure screaming hysteria. Whose bright spark idea was it to open a Wimpy right to the traintracks? Whoever they are, they're first against the wall.

Spare the kid and spoil the ride. Or so it seemed on the way back down to Hillcrest on that ancient puff ‘n go train.

This article/rant/hissy fit also published on iafrica's highlife - hislife pages

The Mill's Grist

2008-05-20T09:45:00.006+02:00

Here - have a rant. No really, go ahead.

So you’re there at the festival and it’s freezing fucking cold. You look around and you realise…these people are idiots. Outside of this environment, they’re the ones who prop up the system, they’re about as far away from alternative thinkers as you can possibly get. They’re bankers, call-centre phone jockeys, estate agents, accountants, clerks, admin assistants, managers, department heads, shopkeepers, insurance tricksters, cellphone hustlers, chemists, liquor store owners, speculators, developers and the worst of them, lawyers. Philandering, misogynist, racist, dull-brained, bigoted, narrow-minded and gathered up into one heaving mass in the name of intoxication, not so much as two independent thoughts to smack together amongst the lot of them. They’re here to get loaded among people just like them, people that speak the same language, people who have the same shifty eyes when it comes to discussing the state of the nation, people who similarly drive like utterly incompetent pillocks in their fuckoff-size four by fours. Pass them by and you get the same defensive scowl that outsiders get when passing through a small and close-knit back-country community, Easy Rider-style. These are the habitual braaiers, the braggarts and liars who crowd a sizzling grill and mutter that the country is going to shit. These are the resistant remnants of a past so recent that they haven’t yet said their goodbyes, and any comment or argument to put them to rights is met with a patronising chuckle because you, with your outlandish ideas, just don’t understand. These are the women who, slit-eyed and unspeaking, stare resolutely ahead when approached by beggars at the stop street, hold their noses in the air when walking into a restaurant, calling to the staff ‘You – excuse me, hello? I need some service here.’ No please, no thank you, just ‘you’. These are the obese parents who wrench their children away from anything that doesn’t fit their narrow version of acceptable. Insular, round-shouldered, ignorant, and utterly happy for the singing of it. They’re the polony eaters, the cream donut bingers; the processed cheese lovers, they’re the ones who laugh at the thought of taking trash to a recycling depot, they’re the proud owners of fast-food brains and mallrat hearts, they are the happily ignorant, and they’re here to stay, because they are the mill's grist.

Weekend Special

2008-05-16T08:32:00.005+02:00

Langa's Finest

Sticking with the Brenda Fassie flavour to end off this week of her passing, we bring you the finest ingredient in the 1980's South Africa Bubblegum Stew, here at iVoodoo Kishin. Weekend Special still gets the floor pumping, as I'm sure it will continue to do for years to come, but to my dismay and surprise, it would seem that there are very few other blogs out there which feature Ma Brrr's tunes. I go to Elbows, I go to Hype Machine, and the picture I'm getting is that only two blogs that feature her - World's Greatest Music, and yours truly, in all of this wild world webness? Tsk. Aibo. Let's see what we can do about remedying that, shall we?

Start your weekend with a Weekend Special. Can't go wrong.

Yeah Yeah Yeah. I Heard You.

2008-05-15T14:43:00.003+02:00

They reckon I've an unhealthy regard for Radiohead.

Sounds about right.

Oh Your Poor Delicate Shell-Like Ears

2008-05-13T11:00:00.005+02:00

I know that the new Portishead isn't everybody's cup of misery. Hell, even I think they've included some mopery, but then they've made name on the back of that, haven't they? So what's all the bloody surprise about? Godsakes, some people, they're never happy. In any case, as a dedicated Portishead lover, I've gone out into the menacing wastes of the interweb (it's brutal out there) and scouted for something that wasn't straight off the album, Third, and had a little more oomph. For my tastes, the high-pitched whine on 'We Carry On' isn't a problem. Maybe I've finally blown my ears into submission...it's a distinct possibility. Similarly, the staccato stabs on 'Machine Gun' aren't an issue - in fact, I quite dig them. Nonetheless, I understand that some don't.

Hamba Kahle, Ma Brrr

2008-05-09T08:09:00.006+02:00

November 3 1964 - May 9 2004

I only ever saw her once. OK, if you count the time at the Metro Awards, twice, but at that appearance she wasn’t performing. No, that’s not entirely correct – she was performing, alright. Might not have been on a stage (although anyplace she happened to be was a stage for Brenda), but she still performed for her audience.
There must have been ten thousand people on the other side of that green metal fence that night, and every single one of them were there to catch a glimpse of the legend in the flesh. Never mind that hundreds of other minor stars were there, milling about in the rarefied atmosphere of the invited guests’ enclosure of the Durban ICC. Never mind the scowling kwaito rappers, the sullen hip-hop swaggerers, the snotty wannabe-diva’s in tottering heels or the drunken radio DJ’s. They tried to bask in some of the glory, going up to the fence and shaking hands, high fives, all that. But after surging forward in anticipation, the crowd would again fall back. You could tell they were disappointed - these pretenders were merely bit parts in the nondescript background noise of the galaxy that night. Just as there’s only one sun in the heavens above, so there was only one Brenda Fassie.
It started as a murmur, some polite jostling for position, and then there she was, bursting through the crowd of larneys with her posse in tow. Ignoring the applause of the guests, she went to her fans and walked triumphantly, her head held high, along that green fence. The crowd went wild. They screamed, they cried, they tore at their clothes, they pulled their hair. Wild. Beatles at Shea Stadium wild. They grabbed ahold of the fence and shook it; they ripped the carefully landscaped saplings out of the ground and waved them. Wild. She took it all in her stride, did a victory lap, thanked her fans and then promptly turned her attention to the gathered throng of guests. With hand on hip, chin out and a cheeky smile on her face, she surveyed the crowd. And with one flick of her head, dismissed the lot. Her posse gathered round, and they were off.

The other time? Ah, well, that was an entirely different story. This time she was performing on a stage at Oppikoppi’s attempted urban relocation in…was it 2003? The Pretoria Sports Grounds, or some such. It was an odd choice for an event renowned for its rural shenanigans to be held in sports halls, and as a result it wasn’t particularly well attended. Which can be something of a blessing, in terms of crowds and space. In any case, she took to the stage with a half-empty hall. By the end of the third song, the place was heaving.
Funny thing is, before I saw her that evening in Pretoria I wasn’t sure I knew much of her music. Sure, I knew who she was. Hell, anyone south of Cairo knew who she was. So I suppose that in a sense I was there that night more to put some meat on the bones of the outline I had of her. I didn’t expect to be singing along or dancing like a man possessed, but that’s exactly what I did – I knew all her tunes; they’d been playing in the background on transistor radios in lazy white suburban afternoons, my whole life. They were forever mentally bonded to the dry chemical perfumes and metallic clatter of ironing that I, and countless other kids, came home to after school.
She was warm and personal when sitting at the edge of the stage, talking about her hardships and triumphs. She was defiant in the face of rumours that she’d gone missing, she was destitute, she was addicted to crack…headlines that were loudly trumpeted in the tabloids. To all her naysayers she gave the finger, stating proudly that she was here to stay, because she wasn’t done yet. Then she was up and doing star jumps as she howled into the mic. She even got a little maternal on our asses, bringing her son Bongani out. They beatboxed together; she was pretty good, Bongani was really good. 'Nomakanjani' got a fresh rework, turning into a heavy house beat remix which went on for a rocking six or seven minutes. The crowd went, predictably, wild. She encore’d with ‘Too Late For Mama’ and then, she was gone.

And then, on May 9, 2004, she really was gone.

This article also published on Levi's Music Mag.

(and you can read more on Brenda on The World's Greatest Music blog)

Pull Up To The Bumpersized Dub Version

2008-05-07T13:33:00.004+02:00

Grace Jones is headlining the Secret Garden Party fest this year. Fucksake.

So there I was, minding my own business...trawling the net for interesting things, when I noticed a friend had joined the Secret Garden Party festival group on facebook. Apart from being green with envy down to the cuticles of my toes, I was riveted to the spot with jealous apoplexy when I read that Grace Jones would be headlining. (For the benefit of international fans of the Voodoo Kitchen, allow me to explain: I'm in South Africa. The Secret Garden Party takes place in England.)

While I was a little young to appreciate her in full cry back in the eighties, I've come to dig her music since. She's as crazy as a cornered honey badger, agreed, but her music is fantastic. Jo, I hope you have yourself a fine time. Say hi to Grace for me.

Yes, Yes, Yes

2008-05-06T09:56:00.004+02:00

NoNoNo!!! - April 25th

We throw a good jol, it's true. The venue is...a little worn with age, but man, does that old joint have character. Here are a few pics from the last one, courtesy of bon vivant and all-round photographic raconteur Justin McGee. (see more at our facebook group)

Piercing The Haze

2008-05-05T15:59:00.004+02:00

Psittacula krameri - the Indian Ring-necked Parakeet

André came past, magically refreshed the ashtray, made a polite remark about the weather, replaced her glass with a freshly charged Johnny Red on the rocks and – poof – was invisible once more. Waiters like André made it very easy to let the world slip by.
‘Thanks, André…love you, man….’ she sighed into the afternoon air after he had been gone for more than a minute. She lit another in a long line of Marlboro Lights. A feral parakeet screeched past, piercing the haze with a streak of green as it negotiated overhung streetside trees. Her phone screeched in sympathy, and, taking a deep breath, she fished it out of her pocket.
It wasn’t him.

‘Damian. What’s up?’
‘Grafting. You?’
‘Hmm. Fuckall, really. Dopping.’
‘Ja, I know. I can see you from my window.’
She let out a low guffaw and looked across the road to the hair salon.
‘Thaaat’s right. Forgot you started there.’ She said, waving at him in the window.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Dopping!’ she said at him, raising her glass.
‘I can see that. But that’s not what I mean. I mean what are you doing?’
‘Pfff. I’ve my reasons.’
‘Where’s Callum?’ he asked, sounding concerned.
‘There you go…who’s a clever boyyyy? Damian!’ her words were now drawn out in emphasis, she was drunk.
‘So? Where’s he?’
‘I dunno.’ And now her words were stunted, the nerve had been touched.
‘What?’
‘Dunno. Gone.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Mmm.’ She mumbled through her mouthful. She wiggled her glass at him, beckoning him over.
‘You heard me. Gone.’
‘As in ‘gone to get milk and bread down the corner’ or as in ‘gone for good’?’
‘Who can say? So, Damian – wanna drink?’
‘Stay where you are. I’ll be right over.’
‘For a drink? Yay!’
‘Well, can’t very well have you pissed on your own, young lady. Just give me five minutes. Stay put.’
‘Sure!’

It didn’t take long for Bailey to get on her soapbox.
‘It’s fucking degrading, how we’re hardwired to be so fucking grateful for any little scrap of luxury, how very fucking lucky we are to not have to suffer the indignities of servile existence! I mean, fuck – maybe that’s why, Damian, maybe that’s what he was running away from, and if he was, well fuck, I support him! I just wish the asshole had asked me to come with him, because I cannot fucking take this life, lived as it is by licking the fucking boot heels of every cunt who has the money! That is not fucking life, Damian - that is slavery!’
‘Jeez. It’s not all that bad, bokkie. Is it?’
‘Hmmph. ”Not all that bad”? “Not all that fucking bad”? Are you crazy, and can you not see how low you bow every time you make a buck? Shit, I know I’m only a fucking waitress, but dude, it’s all the same – however you make the cash, the essence of the transaction is that you have to submit to the system. You want the cash – you have to take it up the ass! No lube! Not so much as a ‘how’s your auntie!’ Fuck that!’
‘Oh please – next thing you’re gonna tell me that capitalism is prostitution. Get over yourself, chick, and deal with the realities. Your boyfriend has left and now you're pissing your sorrows away by yourself but you don’t actually know why, now do you?’ Damian asked quietly.
‘What? Don’t change the subject, dammit.’ She spat, her eyes sulking away towards the road.
‘You have no idea. That’s why you’re sat here – you’re just assuming he left because of you. Don’t you?’
‘Well I, I….just because…. Fuck you, buddy. What do you know?’
‘I know that he wasn’t all he seemed, bokkie.’ Andre took a cigarette out of the box on the table, took a deep breath, lit the smoke and sat back, clearly relaxing now. Bailey’s eyes swivelled towards him, accusing, expectant.
‘Well, fucking tell me!’
‘He had real problems before he met you, darling. You have no idea.’
‘Well thank you very much, asshole – you picked a fine time to tell me!’
‘Hmmm,’ mumbled Damian as he puffed the smoke. ’He was into some weird-ass shit before I met him, y’know.’
‘What? That’s kak, man. What are you talking about?’
‘Hmmm. It's some fucked-up shit, chick. Suggest you order another.’
Through the drunkenness, the fog was lifting. In its place Bailey was feeling the cold hard clarity of hatred coming on. For the first time in days the world stood out in crisp colour.

In The Name Of The Jol

2008-04-29T09:05:00.003+02:00

image courtesy of Spitmunky

All the other jols suck. This much is clear from the popularity of Willowvale Hotel events, the only bolthole for Durban’s nascent underground scene. Not since the days of legendary club The Rift has a venue enjoyed such buoyant status. And, armies of piss-faced indiepants punters aside, none are more happy about this than Francois, master of this den of iniquitous delights, and owner of the patchwork Deco Umbilo hotel that is front and centre of the only decent scene worth being seen in. If you were to put a face to the Willowvale, it would be that of Tallulah Bankhead. Faded beauty, sure, but tough as old boots and standing proud when all others are going down for cigarette money. With an atmosphere that’s more fecund rumpus than the pallid overbranded haunts of feckless air-kissing clones elsewhere in eThekwini, it’s the perfect location for NONONO!!!
Trumpeting mottos that range from ‘Free Your Mind And Your Ass Will Follow’ to ‘In the Name Of The Jol, The Whole Jol And Nothing But The Jol’, it’s clear that NONONO!!! is an event determined to stand its ground in the face of conformity elsewhere. Either that or they’re an irritating bunch of hedonists trying damned hard to stand out. Regardless, along with the ‘I Love Durban’ parties and a range of rock, punk and hardcore nights, it’s one of the cornerstones of a scene that is out of the ordinary in an otherwise bland nocturnal landscape. And thank fuck for that – without this small but influential bunch of promoters, Durban would be like Stellawood Cemetery on a quiet night. With a wide range of acts from diverse genres having played their stages over the past 5 years, NONONO!!! parties remain a keenly anticipated highlight for any punter worth their tequila salt, with Friday night following in this tradition.
With a crowd that requires very little provocation to get down and dirty, the gig was already heaving at 10pm. You’ve got to wonder – do they come for the acts that perform or is this swooning, yodelling, screaming, sweating, bizarrely-mixed crowd simply drawn to the Willowvale like the proverbial moth? Whichever, they’re steadfast supporters, and there’s always a core that patronises the three bars with religious regularity. The fashion set, the mascara’d leather-bar refugee, the cherubic photographer, the maudlin emo kid with eternally perfect hair, the grizzled and gurning raver, the clucking hen set, the dronkgat quart drinkers, the redeye parking lot lurkers. They all rocked their tits off to the first of Friday’s two headliners – Spitmunky. Being a three-part cocktail consisting of two parts Neon Anthem members and one part Creamy Ewok Baggends, champion MC on the m.i.c., they rocked the party with their fresh take on electro-hip-hop, shaken and stirred. They have their detractors, coming a little late to the electro game, but the combined talent of these three young bucks creates something greater than the sum of parts – they’ve got an infectious live energy that’s tempered with pro stylings, and the result is predictably well-received. With a unique hit of Durban-centric rhymes courtesy of Ewok backed up with killer beats and warped synth noodlings, it’s an altogether likeable package. Warming up the floor with some crowd-band call and response, they pretty much raised the roof by the time they were done, leaving the floor rocking for the follow-on, one half of The Social Workers. To quote from NONONO!!!’s facebook group ‘With king muppets of the indieremix fidget dancefloor the Social Workers on the case and loony as ever, you can expect to get a bloody good rinsing. And we should know, we've been using their product for...oohh...days now, and we've never had brighter whites. Hands in the air stuff, and that's a promise you can take to the piggy bank!’ With the energy from Spitmunky milked into the cup of the lone Social Worker till it brimmed over and spilled out onto the pavement, the result was a milling throng that bayed for more till sparrowcrack.
Yes, they’re a bunch of unrepentant hedonists, the NONONO!!! crew. And it would appear that Durban loves them.

This review also published on Levi's Music Mag

Apropos Fokol

2008-04-16T15:23:00.006+02:00

There, There, little devil, it'll be alright. Oh, wait - no it won't. Sorry 'bout that.

All those in favour of voting Radiohead the Greatest Band Of All Time, Bestest Muso's To Ever Have Lifted A Gifted Finger T'ward Instruments Of Various Kinds And Stripes, Conquerors Of The Known Globe and Almighty Omnipotent Rulers Of Lands And Planets Yet Unknown At This Stage And Worthy Of Having Inane Rubbish Spouted About Them In Upper Case At All Times, say aye.

So we're agreed, then. Bravo. As you were.

More Charming News From The Edge Of Reason

2008-04-15T13:50:00.005+02:00

Ah, the glint of pristine polymers at play...

Just in case we were under any delusions that we're not the most dangerous organism that ever slimed its way outta the primordial soup - more news from the edge of reason.
Dunno if you heard about the Gyre. It's 'located between the equator and 50º N latitude and occupies an area of approximately ten million square miles (34 million km²)* that is more plastic than ocean. I found out about it from Vice Magazine, which is a great mag and is found over here. But there are plenty other sources if you - dull pun alert - trawl the net.
Well, lemme tell you, it's not pretty. Basically the Coriolis Effect (you do remember it from Geography? No? Slackass. It's a consequence of the earth's spin. It causes your bathwater to drain out in an anticlockwise fashion down south and vice versa up north.) creates massive vortices way, way out in the world's oceans. The North Pacific Trash Gyre (honest injun, that's what they're calling it) isn't alone, though - wherever our beloved beleaguered oceans have enough room to spin lazily around in areas of stable high pressure, the shit collects. Mostly it's plastic, as plastic floats and has a looooooooooooooooooooong lifespan.
Yes, I do realise that this is usually a happy-go-lucky-where's-the-jol kinda blog. But this is just too gruesome to pass up. Don't mean to spoil your day, but we've a few problems out there.
Turns out all the trash of the world, as it was once biodegradable, used to collect in the various gyres out there, but used to get waterlogged and voila! disappear into the briny blue. No more.
Because so much of our trash nowadays is polymer-based and virtually indestructible, it just...spins out there. It gets broken down by sunlight, sure, but into smaller pieces. So what we now have is a soup of plastic that's more plastic than seawater. You can imagine what this is doing to the beseiged sealife out there. Doesn't bear thinking about. But there you go - somebody's gotta. Might as well be us.

Moral? Shit, there's no moral, only a lesson - recycle your plastic.

(There are plenty places to take your separated trash. Hell, if I can haul my lazy ass out of an intensive session of sofa yoga to troop my household schieze to the recycle depot, anyone can.)

*Wikipedia

All Hail The Restorative Powers Of Fish And Chips!

2008-04-14T08:04:00.005+02:00

Holy mother of God, thank the heavens that weekends only last two days. If they were any longer the productivity of the world would decrease tenfold, hangovers would be exponentially more insufferable and we would live in a world filled with overflowing ashtrays and empty bottles. Hic!

Saturday night's I Love Durban jol was epic!
So was the headache on Sunday!
All hail the restorative powers of fish and chips!

Anyway - here's a tune from Fire Through The Window to ease into the week. Enjoy!

Just Like You Are.mp3

2008-04-11T09:17:00.004+02:00

This is about as religious as Richard Pryor gets.

Picking up the thread from the previous Richard Pryor quote on Blue Mondays, we chuck in some spices and serve up a slice of true comedy genius. In the grand scheme of things, a lot of comedians are quite crap. They get up there, they spout ye olde dog-eared and recycled wisecracks that you've heard come outta other comedic cakeholes and...then you go clap politely and cringe the hell outta there. For me, I like the screwball nutter genre and the Kalahari-dry wit genre. Fat jokes, racial jokes, parent jokes....ptui. Weak. Some of my favourite comedians are George Carlin, Steven Wright, Bill Hicks, Jack Dee, John Vlismas, Eddy Izzard and Alyn Adams. Eddy Murphy, back in the RAW days, too. OK, so Bill's dead. So's Richard Pryor, but you can still hear him, through the miracle of MP3. Ah, technology. Where would we be without it? A few degrees cooler with hands covered in callouses, probably. In any case, herewith and without any further delay or ado, a helping of one Richard Pryor's finest skits, EVER.

Bit of a large file, so be patient, it's about 35mins long. But so, so, so worth it, because at about 24:59, he launches into an inspired caricature of a wino that will have tears running down your cheeks if you've even so much as smiled only once in your life. I tell no lie.

Voila: That Nigger's Crazy.mp3

Stone City Smaaks Them Lank

2008-04-10T08:18:00.003+02:00

Nothing compares to tea.

In amongst the carnage that was Sunday night at Splashy Fen, a distinct tish-tish doof-doof could be heard in the distance, giving it some electro horns. That was Redflecks. Suffice to say, Saturday night was such heavy going that no bands were seen, but Redflecks sounded great. Fire Through The Window, mercifully having played the Saturday night, were seen, and they did a fine line in surf rock, which of course evokes comparisons to the Pixies and Violent Femmes. Kinda makes sense, when you consider they’re from Durban Stone City, Homeland of Surf. Bru. Redflecks, however, are from Nashville, Tennessee; yessiree, down south where they makes whiskey and eats grits. And to a certain extent you can see the difference in the professionalism of their performance. OK, maybe a little harsh but there’s a grain of truth there – Redflecks are polished, the result of performing together since 2005. Lead singer Amy has an accomplished voice and her cohorts do a fine line in supporting her with solid bass, keys and lead backing. They give some angst, some anger, some moody and dreamy Stereolab-ish groove, and it’s all good, but perhaps the student crowd weren’t exactly attuned to the nuances of their show. In any case, it was Fire Through The Window that wiped the floor at the Willowvale on Friday. Make no mistake – Redflecks (who played support, along with 5men3missing) were great in an indie-electro-pop kinda way, but there was a palpable surge of interest (and kamikaze crowd surfing – the Willowvale’s ceiling fans are head-loppingly low) when Durban’s Next Big Thing took to the stage. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re local, and have built up quite a head of steam as they’ve shunted to prominence in the last 6 months, maybe it’s the fact that all the band members have, at some stage, been in other Durban bands, or maybe it’s the resonance their sound has with the previously mentioned SoCal surf sounds.

Maybe it’s just the disarming perky charm of foxy lead singer Sinead and her rather Frank Black-ish partner in rhyme, Marc. Who can say? The crowd at the Willowvale, that’s who – they bounced, they howled, shit – they sang along to every chorus. FTTW, they’re not rock in the sense of thrash and they’re not pop like the candyball cheese that gets lapped up by pre-pubescents on MTV. Highlight of their show? Musta been the uptempo cover of 'Nothing Compares To You', which sounds....deadly. They’ve a sound and lyric something like The Beautiful South, which bears comparison on the grounds of the call-and-response of the lead duet, but also because of the upbeat licks and straight-down-the-line rhythms and beats. Which is fair enough, because the combo works, and Stone City punters, they smaak them lank.

This review also published on Levi's Music Mag.

The God Of Small Things Won’t Save You From The Big Bang

2008-04-09T16:30:00.004+02:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Richard Franklin Lennox Thomas Pryor III

Sticking with the waterworks theme for the moment, we dish up a little advice from a man who saw a fair amount of Blue Mondays in his time - Richard Pryor. Yes, I'm aware it's Wednesday. Been busy, alright? Who's Kitchen is this, anyway? Any more lip outta you and I'll...ah, screw it.

'Mondays, hell, any fool can see them coming, sure. No man, it’s the Tuesdays you gotta watch out for. Tuesdays – whoo – they’re sneaky motherfuckers, best of times. Come up behind you without so much as a whisper and – BAM! – give you a kick in the balls you never see coming. Next thing you know you’ve got the fear, it’s all shit creek no paddle, cryin' over TV ads, cold sweats, and I’m not talking about no Jimmy Brown jive, neither. Take no chances. You got your 5-HTP, you got your banana’s, and you’ll swallow 'em down if you know what’s good for you, ‘cos the god of small things, he won’t save you from the big bang. No, he don’t give a damn about your freaky little ass. Not on a Tuesday, at least.'

Thank you, Rich. Always a pleasure. And now to the Talking Heads, who have a little advice for us....Dave, Tina, you ready? Take it away...

('too late!' she cried.)

I Smaak Durban

2008-04-07T13:57:00.004+02:00

Mad, bad and dangerous to know. Perfect.

All hail the Durban weekend: Up at sparrowcrack, shoot off down to the beach, quick dawn dips to ease into the day. Back home, get dressed, zip into town, score a Little Gujarat breakfast: vada’s, puri patta, samoosa and bhaji for two, how much, larney? Thirty four bucks. That includes two drinks. Cheap as...bhaji. It’s all mental down Yusuf Dadoo way, cheek by jowl, barrowboys on the mission, ‘AmaSecretSocks! Ten rand, ten rand, ten rand!’
Gotta love it. Nip up back to the hill, pop into the Corner Café to say hi to Anna, tell her we’ll be coming over next weekend to her ‘I Love Durban’ party (hey, gotta spread the love in the interests of good neighbourliness, dontcha?) and for a quick constitutional cappuccino, damn fine as always, then pick up a bottle of Shongweni-brewed Pale Ale. That’s right folks, the brewvolution is creeping into your back yard, and it tastes like…dunno. It’s so pretty I just wanna look at it a while longer. It will no doubt go the way of all alcohol soon enough, though. That’s a promise you can take to the piggy bank.
Then, zoom, off to Satan’s crucible, the Pavilion. Crawling with ankle-biters, every last one of them hocked to the eyeballs on refined sugar and howling a cacophony at their harassed-looking parents. Ja. Jy wou mos. Gap it the hell outta there still relatively unscathed. That was Saturday.
Sunday…ahhhhh….early morning dawn patrol, more epic waves, then a breakfast at the secret garden joint that was so good word’s can’t . More missions, and a return to the beach to meet high tide head-on. My sweet lord, how the shorebreak kicked the shit outta me, yet I emerged with a smile on my face the size of a Honduran banana. The rest of the weekend? Spent leisurely perusing the papers, making acid comments about politicians, and generally lazing the day away….

You've gotta love Durban.

Unwind Yourself

2008-04-04T09:35:00.005+02:00

Nope, no smarmy, smart, chipper, chirpy, dry, witty, cutting, biting, smooth, ingratiating, obsequious, insolent, brazen, impertinent, rude, abusive, blunt or insightful comments for you today. No, no, no. Just a tune (that I picked up over here) to ease you into the weekend. It's a little ditty from Marva Whitney, and has a sax sample that you'll no doubt recall.

Go on, now, and...tsk, you missed the boat. Sorry.

Let Your Fingers Do The Hazard

2008-04-02T09:00:00.005+02:00

But it's OK to be an asshole if you use your hazards!

Of all the signs that we in South Africa are a nation of outstandingly bad drivers (as if the omnipresent roadside crosses and bouquets were not enough proof), there is one sign that is head and shoulders above the rest: the use of hazard lights.

Now, as far as I’m aware, you’re supposed to use your hazards when:

a) warning other drivers that your vehicle is, or is about to become, a road hazard – engine is overheating, brakes are faulty, or your wipers are defective – and that you’re slowing down to stop.
b) when you are in an emergency, e.g: feeling sick or rushing someone to a hospital
c) or when the car ahead of you has an accident and you want to warn other cars behind you.

Judging by SA standards, it would seem that these rules of the road are mere suggestions. Far be it from your average road user to accept these as reasonable, and to a large extent a lot of pillocks have taken it upon themselves to add to what is obviously an arbitrary set of rules. Why be restrained by such archaic and pointless laws when there’s a whole new range of options to be applied? Hazards give you supernatural powers!

Need to fly across four lanes of highway at rush hour to pick up a passenger in the emergency lane? That’s what the button with the red triangle is for!
Stopping in the middle of the highway to wait for a gap in the fast lane? No problem!
Bang on the Almighty Hazards!
Triple parked outside your favourite fast food joint?
No problem, let your fingers do the Hazard!
Picking up a prozzi at the stop street? Give ‘em the hazards! It’s your ticket to ride!
Wanna park your small-cock-big-petrol-tank Hummer on the pavement directly below your table on the café terrace? Why sir, simply apply the Hazards!

Why be held back by norms and conventions – rules are made to be broken!
Let’s go rob a bank. We’ll just park outside the place, leave the hazards on. No problem - got it covered! The cops won’t know what to do!
Feel like a fistful of crack for a congenial evening at home? It’s all good – pull up to the kerb at your friendly neighbourhood den of iniquity, call the nearest dealer over, slap on the blinking reds and – voila! – Hazard Power gives you immunity from prosecution!

Pillocks.

Rocking Like Men Possessed

2008-03-31T09:11:00.003+02:00

pic: Kliktrak

They look an unassuming bunch, Unit.r – no rock star posturing, just a bunch of dudes and their instruments and then BAM! – they rock out like men possessed. Over the past three years their sound has grown and evolved into the solid slab of…electro?...indie?....post-rock? Hell, whatever it is, it had the floor cooking at Burn on Saturday night for the launch of ‘Phosphenes’, their first album. With very tidy and somewhat Murakamiesque artwork from legendary designer Kronk complimenting eleven tracks that were slow-brewed for extra flavour over a long period in the studio, it’s a package that confirms the suspicion that these guys are pro’s and love what they do. Lead man Goran said he hoped more than twenty people would rock up for a band that hadn’t performed in Durban before, but as expected the grapevine had been working overtime, and a solid showing by the dedicated indielicious crew saw to it that they received an enthusiastic welcome. Even though no more than a few could’ve known the tunes, it was hands in the air and baying for more at the end of each well-crafted tune. And though the sound at Burn has left much to be desired in the past, it seems that new owners and a competent sound techie have sorted it. The result? Solid walls of bass and sharp electro stabs, chunky backbeats and throbbing guitar. It’s hard to pin down the Unit.r sound – sometimes they have ethereal electro textures, others there’s a swooning rock sensibility, and still others it’s straight down the line doe-eyed indie. Whatever. They took the floor by storm on Saturday night, ending to a wail of lament from the assembled throng, then came back to drop an encore that grabbed every punter by the scruff of the neck for one last thrashing, and left the stage the newest favourite for those who saw them play. Flushed and sweating, Goran was impressed that they had faced such an enthusiastic crowd. It would seem that Durban can look forward to the Unit.r experience again, if the smiles on their faces was anything to go by.

This review also published on the Levi's Original Music Mag.

Happy Friday!

2008-03-28T08:37:00.010+02:00

Polite and immaculately turned out, The Social Workers are a couple of metrosexual gents.

NoNoNo!!! - April 25th - Willowvale Hotel - Durban - South Africa

Fearlessly leaping into the cheese fest that is Durban's musical mainstream, we slash and burn our way down to the marrow to dish up a smorgasbord of delectable cuts that leaves our punters filled and fulfilled yet ravenous for more.

With king muppets of the indieremix fidget dancefloor the SOCIAL WORKERS on the case and loony as ever, you can expect to get a bloody good rinsing. We should know, we've been using their product for...oohh...days now, and we've never had brighter brights. Hands in the air stuff, and that's a promise you can take to the piggy bank.

The Socials will supported by bright 'n shiny new kickass Live electro-hip hop phenomenon SPITMUNKI (featuring Liam Magner and Kobus van Heerden of the Neon Anthems and multi-talented all rounder Ewok), delivering a fresh take on how many warped and wild noises you can get mic and machine to make if you tickle them in all the right places.

Last but not least is URCHIN, a delectable slice of homegrown electro pie that is the brainchild of one Mikey Goddard a.k.a the ex-drummer from Perez, Love Jones and the dude who can drum like a motherfucker.

Did I just say 'motherfucker' on live TV? No, No, No, I didn't.

Of course, and as always, the above superstars of the underground sound will be in the company of your favourite dancehall deviants, the ECLECTICA ALLSTARS, namely one part Hedmekanik, one part Mixin Vixin and one part Leo. As always they will be seducing your delicate shell-like ears with a truly orgasmic genre-bending selection of beats, bleeps and basslines.

In the name of the Jol, the whole Jol and nothing but the Jol! Amen, boeties and sussies, can we get a witness, hallelujah etc etc etc.

Someone say ‘hallelujah?’ Right, you - I've had just about enough of you, so here’s a downbeat electro remix of that self-same tune by the legendary Happy Mondays, those world-renowned muppets of the acid house daze. That'll learn ya.

Happy Friday!

('too late!' she cried.)

A Spectacle Of Mudnificent Proportions

2008-03-25T11:56:00.004+02:00

Dirty girls love a festival frolic...

On a must-have list of all the things you can take to Splashy Fen, gumboots stand first and foremost. You’d think that with a name that fairly screams ‘bog of the year!’ that it would give some indication to punters that a downpour will precede a sea of mud. You’d think. Some don’t - perhaps they’re from drier parts of the country where Oppikoppi and Woodstock are held - but the results are spectacular because it pissed, it bucketed, cats and dogs, like all the sprinklers in heaven were turned on at once. Mother of god, it rained and across the hills all was mud. But ah, the show that comes after – that makes it all worth it.

Because a substantial portion of the acts at Splashy are folky bands that have scraggly beards, brazenly wield violins and flutes and have names like The Hairy-Legged Lentil Eaters, anyone between the ages of 18 and 30 (about ‘80% of Splashy Fen’s 8 000 attendees) does what any normal person would do – they drink away the ‘Gotta Get Bent Till The Rock Music Starts Blues’.
And then of course it’s time for the Mud Olympics!
Such a spontaneous and impressive spectacle must start with someone, and at Splashy Fen it starts with the general decline of those who do not come prepared for wading through Lake Muck. It starts with the shoes, then it spreads to the legs and after a few too many, maybe a tipsy tumble into the sludge. But soon enough they succumb, and then it’s game on. The prime instigator this year was one muppet who had skull tattoos - generally a good sign of a top-quality muppet. One who is open to public displays of lunacy, and isn’t going to let a little thing like a split pip stand in the way of a good jol. First a little warm up with that old crowd pleaser the table slide, soon enough a contender steps in, then it’s a trio, a couple of girls join in, their tops go astray, the crowd goes wild. It’s rugby tackles, over the shoulder hoists, ass over kettle, two on one and any number of variations. Of course, such a spectator sport requires commentators well-versed in the in and outs of the game.

Overheard in the main bar:
‘Now Clive, I don’t know about you but as far I’m concerned this pitch just isn’t suitable – for a start the splatterbility is too low, and it hasn’t got the necessary fluidity to spread over a wide enough area. Shoddy, if you ask me. A well-trained athlete could do themselves some damage.’
‘Couldn’t agree with you more, Murray. Now that pool outside the Grant Erskine marquee for example, that really is quality quagmire. It’s a superior blend that’s been deeply mashed over the years, ripening it to the consistency of thoroughly whipped chocolate mousse. Far more suitable for a sport that needs a consistent playing surface. Hereby nominated Best Bog 2008. ’
‘I second that. Cheers!’

Event security looks on sternly, but doesn’t stop the wanton enjoyment of sludge. A winner is declared, and it’s back to the music.

Who rocked?
Dan Patlansky, he rocked that guitar like a lothario ravishes a lover. Goldfish rocked it, City Bowl Mizers rocked it, and Your Name In Neon, Japan And I, Voodoo Child, Redflecks and Love On Rollerskates rocked. The Rudimentals rocked, with a non-stop set of slick and pacy ska that got every ass in the joint jumping. But the Best In Show ribbon goes to Napalma, who kicked ass up and down that muddy fen till way past their cut-off time with a high-energy assault of Brazilian-style techno and drum ‘n bass accompanied by djembe. And when they absolutely had to get off stage, they headed for the massive stone circle bonfire, and continued to rock into the wee hours, leading a full-blown bongo fury that attracted a large crowd. Now that’s enthusiastic.

Some punters moaned about the rain, the mud, the fact that the music ended at 2am after various DJ’s including the NoNoNo!!! crew played on the Red Bull van but at the end of it all the rain did pass and they’re whining wimps for the moaning – Splashy Fen is overall a well-run gig, with something for everyone. But if you wanna have a good time there, get yourself some wellies. You won’t regret it.

This review also published on Levi's Music Online.

You Need Streetlab In Your Life

2008-03-19T10:34:00.004+02:00

Yes, it's true. We love a halftone pixellation.

Do a fair bit of sieving the net for amadeadly tunes, I do, it's true. The problem is, you gotta slog through a lot of gunge to find the gems. But it's all good, because true diamonds await the dedicated prospector. Such a diamond is Streetlab, who, as usual, I'm a little late in picking up on. Hey, it's a full-time job, being me - between keeping my ravishing wife in the style she's accustomed to, working three jobs, reading like a voracious bibliophile, playing an endless stream of high-profile engagements (OK, I exaggerate. I play every Tuesday at a relatively hip local restaurant) keeping fit through a hardcore regime of sofa yoga and getting a dose of surf as often as possible, I've a full dance card on my hands. But I digress.
Streetlab are from Nooyuksity and they, among few remixers out there, have an ear for classics. Yes, you get loads of remixes out there in the rarified atmosphere of the interweb, but a lot of it is hyper-hyper extra-strength psychopop, which gets a bit maddening at times.

But Streetlab, they're a different story - shit, they take on the Stones, Led Zep, INXS and even the overlord of reggae, Robert Nestor the Jamaican himself. So let your fingers do the mousing - you need some of this in your life.

Go on, then.

('too late!' she cried.)

We Are Willing & Able, And Have The Gumboots To Prove It

2008-03-18T08:57:00.006+02:00

Hang on...what's this? I found my keys!

Gumboots...check.
Frozen chicken with stealth giblets....check.
Carton Marlie Lights....check.
Heineken keg....check.
Tent...check.
Headache tabs (industrial strength)...check.
Gumboots....double check.

It's a fact of life, mud at festivals. Just one of those things that, once you've driven hundreds of miles into the dewy hinterland, you have to get your head (or welly) around, because all the bitching and mooning won't make one jot of difference to the gods of Mud.
The forecast for Splashy Fen doesn't look good, really. But that'll not stop our intrepid posse from scaling the heights of the foothills in the interests of doing some in-depth research into the workings of the mind when under the influence of mass hysteria, brought about by stuffy marquees and a diet of beer, bourbon, jagermeister and half a manky hotdog. Research, you unnerstand, important and up-close, executed with a solemn sense of duty and a 5-litre keg of Heineken.

It takes a prolonged derangement of the senses to equip yourself adequately for such a marathon of debauchery. Have no fear, we are willing and able, and have the gumboots to prove it.

It Could Be Sweet

2008-03-11T16:13:00.006+02:00

Although its release date is set for April 14th (as previously served up here in The Kitchen), the third Portishead album, cunningly named...Third, has begun to leak all over the joint from that positively sieve-like repository of all things, the Net. Odd, that.

Without further ado, I present you with 'We Carry On', one of their most uptempo numbers thus far:

('too late!' she cried.)

On The Next Tuna Boat Outta Here

2008-03-11T13:09:00.004+02:00

It's awfully romantic, Spain...

The Trans-Cantabria first runs through, then alongside the Picos do Europa en route to Leon. It is a landscape so beautiful as to warrant cliché, and forgivably so. At Leon, according to the conduttore, we are obliged to split up and allow the correct ticket-bearer to take their place. Not that the passengers have paid any attention to seating arrangements, which they treat with characteristic scorn. Lovely people, the Spanish. Proud.

The scenery is very typically Asturian – green and lush, a mountainous landscape serrated by great granite peaks, at the foothills of which is a lush, green coast bordered by the deep blue Atlantic. Unquera…Llanes…Ribadesella, it’s all beautiful. It’s all rather Asterix, and on thinking it, it suddenly dawns – ‘Asturias…Asterix’. Of course! This is close to the French border, and the homeland of the ancestors of the Gaul, in Galicia. I check the guide book, and…no. Galicia is way off to the west, a Spanish peninsular that juts out into the Atlantic, nowhere near any escargot.

Suitably grounded, I return to the rolling documentary pan that is the window, and observe that nonetheless, down to the ancient-looking small wooden houses, which have a mushroom shape and are apparently used for curing jamon (ham), it remains rather Asterix. The houses are rustic and come in a range of shades of ochre stone. Yet, as with elsewhere in Catalonia, Cantabria and Euskal Herria (the Basque Country), the industrious call to ‘Build! Build! Build!’ has been heard loud and clear, and the comically perfect pastoral scenes are rent by industry's hunger for raw materials.

Spanish developers are a busy bunch – no vista of the Spanish countryside is free for long of the sight of ever-present cranes, steel superstructures, rubble, processing plants or mills. Despite a stringent ethic of keeping the centre of towns and cities spotless (to the point that these look positively artificial and remind you of ersatz piazzas replicated in casinos back home), outlying areas bear the unsightly brunt of the boom in building and industry. And what a boom it is –

‘Build, boys, build! I got six chicos that need new Nikes and a beautiful chica who’s sitting her psychology majors in Madrid! Don’t listen to those fuckin’ hippie tree-huggers – what we need is more housing estates, and a shitty strip mall to service its shitty inhabitants! Screw the chestnut trees – the days of idealised comic-book verdure are over! Build, boys, build, in the name of progress!’
‘But Senor, what about the housing glut? King Carlos is worried –‘
‘Housing glut? What housing glut, cabron? Don’t listen to that maricon Carlos; he’s fuckin’ loco from all the whores and sherry, every puta from Santander to Sevilla knows that! You keep that up and it’s back to Manila on the next tuna boat outta here for you, you illegal Phillipino asshole! Build, d'ya hear me?!’

Oak, plane, chestnut, hickory, poplar, holly, poppy, daisy, wild fennel, elder, dog rose…and quarries. Lush green hills, majestic granite peaks, dark ravines - none are safe from the lust for rock. Black stone, yellow stone, red stone, ripped and blasted from angry scars and startling mountainside wounds, the lot of them–

‘Blow it out, chop it up and ship it out, boys! No time like the present – we got kitchen counter-tops to get to the home-maker, flagstones for the plazas, marble for the snobs, cement for the developers and it ain’t gonna haul its own ass down this godforsaken mountain!’
‘But Senor, this is a protected area, the environment –‘
‘What’s that, Lupé? Destroying the precious Picos de Europa, eh? Am I spoiling your view, señor? Get lost, hippie – this industry puts food in my mouth! What, run outta trees to hug? Did we cut them all up? Take your new-age gibbering to the city, boy – this is the countryside, hijo da puta, and it’s no place for sentimental whining!’

Yes, it’s awfully romantic, Spain.

Seventeen Years On, Still Giving It Horns...

2008-03-10T08:33:00.012+02:00

Splashy Fen popped my festival cherry, and I've not been the same since...

In 1991 you could hit a festival with R100, a couple cans of beans, a 20-buck bottle of Russian Bear, a sleeping bag and a pocket fulla rizla and green, and you'd be set. Mind you, there wasn't much choice at that stage of South Africa's festival evolution, and things were cheap, so a meagre hundred and the most basic of portable pantries would satisfy. Well, satisfy my needs at the age 18, at any rate. I know this because I still have my scrawled note which listed the requirements for a three-day jol. It went a little something like this:

2 x cans beans
1 x bottle Russian
1 x bag apples
1 x R100
R10 - weed (got)
R30 - petrol (got)

As Dylan said: 'Things have changed.'

These days our festivals have bloomed from erstwhile crustfests into full-blown slick-ass extravaganzas that are as good as, if not better than their Northern Hemisphere cousins. Granted, we may not have the line-ups or Celine Dion-grade production and staging that the likes of Glasto, Coachella, V, Bonnaroo, Big Day Out etc can boast, but what we lack in international star quality and tech we more than make up for in terms of space, facilities and (surprisingly, considering) safety. It's true - you and your stuff are safer at a South African festival, because why? Because they're a relatively recent development, big festivals, and thieving brigades of inner city skabengas on cheap drugs can't usually get to them, what with most SA festies being way out in the bush, and public transport being so dire as to be nonexistent. At festivals in the UK, for example, you can be pretty sure that if you pitch a tent it'll a) be stolen b) get burnt or at least c) be used as a public convenience by selfsame inner city ferals. There may also be something in the fact that ye olde South African paranoia ensures that every festival is fairly crawling with security, and some of with them cops too. Che sera.
In any case, South African festivals have certainly come a long way, and are pretty damn jacked when it comes to facilities. Toilets and showers, (which some people complain about because they've never had to take a crap in the bush before, but then these are the people who come to festivals in heels and white trainers, and deserve a mud bath, just to adjust their attitudes. But I digress.) are actually not bad at all, compared to some overseas festies, which don't bear thinking about, Reading Festival being a notable no-no. And while some may grumble into their beards about the commercialisation of things, the fact is that the larger the event, the more market there is for all the conveniences of a small city, which of course takes away from the 'getting back to nature' mofofo that some hold so dear, which is to a certain extent understandable. That said, there is always going to be a sense of the incongruity when you see a goddamn big-name-brand burger joint taking pride of place in what used to be a hippie market. Dunno about you, but for me, there are plenty greasemongers back in the city. If I want a Triple Bypass Burger, I'll get one back in the big smoke, thank you very much.
Anyway, I'm off to Splashy Fen in two weeks' time, for the first time since...hmmm...I think it was 2003. And although I've been to some 30 or so other festivals since 1991, things are well different than they were back in the day, that's for sure. The one thing I'm looking forward to as a lover of all things electronic is a considerable presence of some shit-hot electronic performers among the usual line-up of Splashy Fen suspects (read: 'lots of folk, some cack-handed garage bands, a few pro blues and rock ensembles and a smattering of traditional African acts'). I'll no doubt be found front of stage for at least Seake (www.seake.net), Redflecks, Goldfish, Veranda Panda and last but not least the King Muppets of fidget house, The Social Workers.
Unlike my first festival experience, my needs and range of equipment are now substantial, and The Good Wife and I now travel with the whole kit and caboodle: 4-man tent, huge stretchy homemade shade-type tent, coolie box, ice box, larder, liquor cabinet, cashcard, change(s) of clothes, gumboots, mp3 FM transmitter for communal camp radio station, first aid kit and many other necessities. Like the man said, things have changed.
Splashy Fen, here I come.

See www.splashyfen.co.za for the line up.

We Smaak An Ambient Jol

2008-03-06T08:30:00.006+02:00

- An ambient jol? No, you’re mad. Ous’ll never go for it.
- Whad'you mean, ‘never go for it’? There’s shitloadsa ou’s that’ll smaak it!
- Never. You’re mad. In Durban? You got a snowball’s.
- Well screw you, my little sunbeam of joy, cos I’m gonna do it and the ou’s can come if they smaak, and if they don’t I guess it’ll just be me, my tunes and my beer, right?
- Righto. Just being reasonable, y’know? Seen you do this before with the dub thing, and, y’know, the ou’s didn’t exactly queue up for those jols, so…just playing devil’s disting, right. Not tryna piss on your battery or anything.
- Whatever, bru. I reckon there’s a gap – maybe not in any ol’ jol, but beachside is a winner. Tuning you.
- Hmmm. That’s a bit more reasonable, that jol has at least got the venue side of it sorted. Can’t help but smaak ambient vibes when you’re parking sleazy on the strand.
- For sure, one-two wetties and a shorey vying bossies only a hundred metres away, who can’t smaak that kinda jol? Chuck in a one-two dolls and there it is.
- Fully. I’m keen.
- You check? Start off all warrawarra, now you’re all over it.
- Bobby Browns, bru.
- Ay?
- It’s my prerogative.
- Christ, you’re a prize wopsac sometimes.

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For the benefit of our international audience who may not understand Afrikaans or South African slang, we have the following clarification:

jol - 'party', 'fun' (very similar to 'craic' in Gaelic: where's the jol = what's the craic)
smaak - 'like', 'enjoy'
ou's - an 'ou' is afrikaans for a guy, so 'ou's' = plural
disting - 'this thing' corrupted to be a general term for any thing
tuning you - to 'tune' someone is to tell them something, or tell them off
wetties - drinks
shoreys - shorebreak
vying bossies - 'going off' (bos=bush)
one-two - a couple
warrawarra - blah blah

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We love an ambient tune, so here's 'Grey Clouds' by Alan Parker and The Orb, a 2004 rework of 'Little Fluffy Clouds'.

http://www.zshare.net/audio/85425816da9676/

Busy, Busy, Busy

2008-03-05T13:33:00.003+02:00

Busy, busy, busy - thus the lack of action hereabouts. That said, here’s a brief list of the titles I can remember having read in the last…three months or so. This excludes those that I’ve forgotten a) because they were unremarkable or b) because I’m terribly forgetful, for some mysterious reason that I can’t…what was I saying? Anyway, I recommend all of these.

Wilfrid Blunt Linnaeus - The Compleat Naturalist
Tom Robbins - Villa Incognito (his best, imo)
Paul Theroux - Jungle Lovers
- Dark Star Safari
- Kingdom By The Sea
- Mosquito Coast (fourth time)
- Riding The Iron Rooster
- The Family Arsenal
John Peel - Margrave Of The Marshes
Todd Matshikiza - Chocolates For My Wife
Irvine Welsh - Filth (second time)
Howard Marks - Señor Nice
Judy Marks - Mr Nice & Mrs Marks
Isabel Allende - Zorro
Simon Elmes - Talking For Britain
Ian Banks - Dead Air
Malachy McCourt - A Monk Swimming

UFS Humiliation - Sordid, Sorry State Of Affairs

2008-02-29T13:03:00.004+02:00

Had an odd request today. I got an email asking me why I didn't make use of my spare time ('you obviously have a lot of it, judging by the amount of rubbish you post on your blog...'...excuse me?) to raise the topic of the four cleaning staff who were subjected to a humiliation at the University of The Free State.

Made me think, but then I realised that, in fact, my blog is for what I find interesting, and while I am shocked/astonished/revolted/flabbergasted that this kind of mentality still hangs on for dear life in various dark corners of my country, I find the whole saga at the UFS utterly sordid, and to be honest, the kind of racial minefield which I generally try to avoid. I'm white, by the way. (More accurately pink, especially after a day at the beach. But I digress.)

Perhaps if I were an anthropologist, or studying psychology at a university, instead of trying to get along with my fellow man, I'd have the time to dwell on the forces that boil and fester under the skin of this, the Crying Beloved Country. But I don't.

Which is not to say that I don't have an opinion on the matter, I certainly do - those idiots deserve to be pissed on and humiliated, not given the opportunity to use the national media to justify or excuse their involvement in a sorrowfully retarded game of racial thuggery. Twats. Adding fuel to the tinder pile of racial tension in this of all countries is a imbecilic throwback to a past we should all be trying to move on from. And yes, I do think that whites have room to apologise. If the Aussies can do it, so can we.

So there you go, o dearest emailer - I hope I've made your day and stuck something interesting up for your edification.

Houston, We Have a Blog Feed

2008-02-29T09:01:00.004+02:00

Ladies and Gents, boys and girls, after much head scratching, I figured out that if you click on the link over to your right, you can subscribe to my blog via Atom.
(The original 'Subscribe To This Blog: Atom/RSS' button went walkabout when I attempted to change my template some time ago. Despite my best efforts, it refuses to come back, so back off, computer geeks - there isn't any simple way to sort out an RSS feed, as far as I can see on Blogger's not-very-helpful-Help-pages, so we're going with the crude version until someone sheds light on the dim hinterland of Blognovia.)

Go forth and...um....do weekendish things.

It's A Sicko World Out There

2008-02-28T15:06:00.005+02:00

EuroDisney looks convincingly like the real deal

So, I saw Michael Moore's latest flick last night, and I've gotta say I'm once again impressed. (There was one of those 'call this number and get two free tickets with two free popcorns (you cheapskate) offers in the M&G that don't get passed up round our house.) It's all about the injustices of U.S. healthcare.
Impressed with the man's balls, and refreshingly impressed by South Africa's healthcare system. No, it doesn't feature in Sicko, although Moore does explore the Canadian, French and British healthcare systems (all of which are light years ahead of, and incomparably more compassionate than, the U.S.). He even goes so far as to highlight the fact that the 'enemy combatants' held at Gitmo have medical facilities which far outstrip that which the majority of Amerkins have access to. Which is kinda cooked, but then this is one screwball world we're living in.
It's a disturbing film, appropriately alarming considering its subject matter, but don't let that put you off - if anything, it may well make you realise that even down here in deepest darkest Sarfefica we're actually quite fine, thank you very much.
Now before the chorus of the disgruntled raises its hackles and aims some well-honed missiles of cynicism at me, hear me out.
When I broke my left leg dancing (it's a long story, one day I'll tell you all about it, but for now can you please just sit down while I tell you this bloody story. Thank you.), I ended up going to McCord's Hospital on Ridge Road here in Durbs-By-The-Sea-Stone-City.
After an initial evaluation by a nurse who was beside herself with laughter at the fact that I had broken my leg whilst cutting the proverbial rug, I was pumped full of industrial-strength painkillers and sent on my way with a cast that pretty much came up to my chin. (OK, I lie, but for a shattered ankle and fractured fibula you've gotta wonder why in the name of strawberry flavoured nipple clamps they had to plaster my leg all the way up to my package. But I digress.)
Upon waking up the next day, I was one surprised motherfucker. Surprised, for one, at waking up with a leg in plaster (couldn't remember a thing. Industrial strength, as I say.) and suprised, secondly, at how little the whole bangshoot had cost. Eighty Zuid Afrikaansche Rands. That's, like, less than ten dollars US. Now that included being admitted, having a nurse see to me, getting X-rayed, having a doctor check out the X-rays and make a diagnosis, pump me fulla those goddamn wonderful drugs so that I wouldn't scream like a ten-year-old girl when they put me in plaster and sort me a pair of crutches.
Watching Sicko last night reminded me of all this, and I now realise that down here in deepest darkest Durban, the government health care on offer is actually quite fine. Sure, the queues are long (not at 5am, though...) and we're not talking Private Hospital Care, but it's adequate. And I know this, because the movie revealed just how screwed the American system is. On the face of it (and it's not a pretty face, let me tell you, after seeing the sad results) universal healthcare is about as foreign to the US as universal suffrage was to the 12th Century.
This is not to say that I'm about to stop paying for Discovery. But that's not my point - my point is that as far as I'm concerned, basic health care is available to a far greater degree in South Africa than in the Younaaided Stays. And that's gotta count for something, when some of my compatriots are all-too-readily slagging off any and all aspects of living in the old S of A.
So I bless my cotton socks. And keep paying my health insurance. (Hey, I'm not 18 anymore.)

Lark Break Up, The Bird Sings Its Last

2008-02-25T16:40:00.006+02:00

[Melanocorypha yeltoniensis]

One of the greatest bands to ever come out of the musical desert that is South Africa, Lark, have sung their last, it would seem. I was always mesmerised by their sound, but only had one opportunity to see them perform live, and it was epic.

From The Argus, by Evan Milton:

"It was heart-wrenching for us," says Beckmann, "Going out there and getting told by people that we were the most incredible band, that they were so happy that a band like this existed - getting all of this encouragement, but none of the practical rewards. We weren't getting any of the big opportunities and we weren't making any money." Ratcliffe adds, "We reached a point where, doing what we do and keeping our integrity, we either had to leave to go overseas, or to break up. I literally couldn't afford to be in the bands anymore in the sense that we had to spend so much time other things in order to be in Lark, not just focusing on it." Ou Tim says, "It was a case of feeling the abyss; we were all committed to making this the best band that it could be, but we were having to do so many other things that we couldn't get together and rehearse and create as much as we wanted to." There are nods of assent, and then Ressel adds, "We got disheartened. After hearing all this praise, being awarded as South Africa's best alternative band and then... nothing. We're not afraid of working hard, we did everything ourselves, but it was this paradox of gigantic proportions and, when we got the news about CokeFest, it was just the final nail in the coffin."

Much has been written about the South African component of the massive My Coke Fest concert scheduled for late March in Johannesburg and Cape Town, albeit mainly in the country's blogosphere - the intricacies of the business machinations behind the scenes of any large public event are not the staple of entertainment sections in newspapers or lifestyle shows on television. Suffice to say that the festival is crammed with global headlining alternative artists - bands like Britain's Muse and Kaiser Chiefs and America's Korn - and is the kind of big stage feather in the cap, with its possibility of international exposure, that the South African winner of the first ever "Best Alternative Album" award would logically expect to be perfectly suited for. But they're not on the bill, and it's an omission that cuts the four to the core.

"We mean no disrespect to the (South African) bands who are playing; we really like a lot of them," starts Ratcliffe, "It's from the other end..." Ressel steps in, "To sum it up: being the band that last year won the South African Music Award and hearing that two of the world's biggest bands in the 'alternative' category are coming here, bands who have been a massive influence on us... it would be the perfect stage for our music, and when we were pushed aside, not even seriously considered it was..." He searches for the words. "The straw that broke the camel's back," says Ou Tim. Beckmann has been silent for a time; now the song-siren finds voice: "It feels... disrespectful. Consider who is playing, and what we do, which is as hard and as heavy and then you think 'Is this coming from the angle that someone thinks that a chick can't headline along with these bands?'"

They're silent, and the reverie is one that's resolute and resigned, rather than bitter. "We've done the albums, got the fans, opened new doors for music, toured overseas, made music for movies and TV and played all the festival, but then what? It was very sobering," says Beckmann. "There was no anger after the initial frustration; it was 'Look, that's just the way it is'," adds Ressel. "In some ways, we even knew that it wasn't a surprise," continues Ou Time. Then Ratcliffe finishes, "It's not like not getting one gig meant we decided to stop the band, but it was really the one thing that made it clear: after all that we've done, and this is where we get to. What's the point? And we didn't want to be a band that just disappeared and everyone had the rumours of the 'creative differences', so we wanted to explain what happened, and why."

Lark's last album was named "Razbliuto", a damningly ironic title in retrospect. It is, apparently, a Russian colloquialism meaning “the feeling you get when you no longer love someone anymore”. It seems painfully - darkly - apt that this is their swan song, a schwanengesang of by their dying black swan, as these four creatives who, despite being fare more than the sum of their parts, were simply, methodically and starkly forced by circumstance to fall out of love with what was, arguably, their true calling. Paraphrasing their semi-autobiographical song, "Weights": Lark did scare, it did move, it did make people love and hate them but, now, it no longer shines the wondrous light.

En route to the interview I'd communicate with two "alternative" female musicians, one who treads a brave aesthetic path on the fringes of electronica, the other who bends classical training to diverse ends, some formal, the others powered by groove. "Off to do the 'last post' Lark interview,' I'd tapped in a scribbled sms. Exiting the studio lounge into Cape Town's gloaming and bidding a sad farewell to the band, I read the reply, "sounds like a genre; 'post Larkism'". Maybe they did open doors, blaze trails, open perceptions and breach a few barriers; maybe the tricksy shadows are too strong for any cold light to snuff entirely. Here's hoping...'

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Not Forgotten

2008-02-25T10:19:00.004+02:00

Say 'Aaaahhh'

It’s 3am somewhere in South London, 1995, and the pills are kicking in.

The soundtrack? Leftfield. For untold thousands of young clubbers, the album Leftism is about to throw the biggest spanner in the works that they will ever experience.

The reason? It is the ultimate dance music album, and in combination with ecstasy and large sound systems, provides a compelling bridge to the burgeoning electronic music phenomenon. For a generation raised on guitars and acid, beer and aggressive rock mentality, it will be The One That Starts All The Trouble. From here on out dance music is taking no prisoners, and an army of new converts to the high church of hedonism is about to sign up.

From the dub-heavy Release The Pressure, the tribal voodoo of Afro-Left to ex-Sex Pistol John Lydon’s rock-fuelled anti-Hollywood ranting on Open Up, Leftism was the product of a diverse range of musical influences that came together to create something totally new. At a time when grunge was in its death throes, acid house had burnt out and pop music was as vapid as the talking heads that pimped it on MTV, the air was ripe with promise for a new sound. Along with The Chemical Brothers’ Exit Planet Dust and Underworld’s Dubnobasswithmyheadman, Leftfield’s first album was responsible for turning the world onto a new sensation. Many other artists and many other albums will lay claim to being there first, but they would be wrong.

Certainly, Derrick May, Marshall Jefferson and Frankie Knuckles et al were the Chicago & Detroit pioneers who generated a body of work that made the first forays into an otherwise rock- and disco-heavy world of dancefloors, but to a large extent these had remained a limited phenomenon, relegated to warehouse parties, underground clubs and gay bars. And although a well-established culture in England it had not, by 1995, taken the world by storm to the extent that the cult of the DJ as superstar had reached its international jetsetter pinnacle. ‘Cheese’ had yet to become associated with music or dancefloors, and dance music culture had yet to be co-opted by corporate greed for motives of profit.

All that would change in a few short years.

Here's Storm 3000. Enjoy.

http://www.zshare.net/audio/80753288c56634/

Butterfly Capture

2008-02-21T11:36:00.007+02:00

‘A creature of habit’ he called himself. That may be putting things a little simpler than they are. In reality, he was a creature of curious rituals. The head of the mechanical toothbrush was put in its exact place each day for a very good reason: it caught the morning sun on the narrow windowsill above the washbasin and sunlight is an effective steriliser. The post-prandial cigarette: for digestion. Always taking one of four different ways to get home: to ensure that his movements were unpredictable, should anyone with untoward intentions take it upon themselves to mug him, as slim as their pickings, should they have done so, would have been. And so on; myriad choices made for sound enough reasons, most of which were known only to himself. Over time I came to see that he had some privately ordained plan, and was not under the spell of an obsessive disorder but rather made his way through life by justifying the small decisions with a peculiar logic all his own. Compulsively exacting, sure. Crazy? No.

It’s not a long drive to Bloemfontein from Cape Town, well, not as long as the journey to Johannesburg, certainly. He had decided, after twelve whiskies, that it was a good idea to drive that distance, which may have seemed all the shorter as a result of his drinking. Whether it was wise of him after so much drink to take to the road is neither here nor there. The fact is that in his own way he made it there and back for one reason and one reason alone – to attend Hansie Cronje’s funeral. As the erstwhile god of South African cricket, it was only fitting that Straud pay his respects. With a faithful fifteen seasons of attendance under his belt and a deeply ingrained sense of the irrefutability of cricket as being as close to a divine sport as any could get, it was his duty to attend. Anything less would be inexcusable in his mind. So after twelve Jameson’s he bid adieu to his drinking buddies, who looked on with a mixture of grave apprehension and secret admiration, and made his way to the usual rendezvous, chosen for its discreet position. Located as it was on the sharp bend of a quiet residential street that afforded a clear view in both directions, he had always met the Nigerian there. Even now, some five years down the line, he would not meet his connection anywhere else, even if it meant waiting longer when time was of the essence. And it was, with a steadily increasing frequency, but this never swayed him from his determination to stay within the plan. Again, nothing much was done flippantly, and as usual the rationale was close to the surface, if at first a little unclear.

As always, the dark blue Cortina was a few minutes late, during which Straud attended to the list he had scrawled on the back of a 30’s pack of Stuyvesant Red. Going on a solo mission to Bloem in the dead of night required meticulous planning if he was to pull it off in one piece. He had to make absolutely sure he had just enough of the coke to last him till he returned. Any less and his body would inevitably win the battle and he would fall asleep, perhaps at the wheel, something that was unthinkable for someone who prided himself on being an impeccable driver, and there was no chance he could restock in Bloem. The list was drawn and redrawn as various factors were considered, until he was happy that he had both the time and supplies to make it there and back without any hitches.

Taking to the long road with a pocket full of dynamite, a passenger seat occupied by a hulking cooler box filled to the brim with beer on ice and a back seat that was crowded with two weeks’ worth of washing, upstaged as it was by the urgency of attending the funeral, he felt that he was doing the right thing. Not that he had given it much thought: he had decided before Hansie had even died in that plane crash on a misty Outeniqua mountainside that his was a funeral which would be attended.

Just outside Touwsrivier he pulled the plastic-wrapped white knuckle of coke from his underpants and single-handedly administered a hoof to his nose. With the blur of alcohol now making way for the focus of the stimulant, it was a refreshed and talkative Straud that pulled into the glow of the petrol station with a squeal of tyres.

‘Howzit my bru, how’s a two-fifty Unleaded there, please bra. You o's got a toilet?’ Straud asked as he handed over the three hundred.
Taking the cash, Marten the petrol jockey replied:
‘J-j-j-a, m-m-mister. J-j-just by the beck. Where you g-g-g-going so late, ay?’ asked Marten. Straud gave him a quizzical look and continued:
‘Jussis my bru. I’m driving to Bloem.’
‘B-b-bloemfontein? For what?’
‘Hansie’s funeral, bru. Pay my respects, y’know?’
‘O j-j-j-ja, the o was a y-y-yiro.’
‘Ja. Hero. Ja! The best! He was poetry in motion, my bru, one in a million, head and shoulders above the best, the cream of the crop, the cherry on top! There'll never be a cricketer like him, I tune you. Never.’ Straud said firmly, with a stare that dared Marten to say otherwise.
‘For s-s-sure, m-m-mister. Oil anna water?’ Marten looked on, nodding.
‘Nought, bru. Just fill her so I can drill her, shot.’
‘O-o-o-o…sure.’

Straud got to thinking that he could live out here; this barren land was so clean and quiet. Cape Town was becoming increasingly dangerous, now that the Tik epidemic was making criminals bolder and crazier. Only two weeks before he had had to chase a psychotic addict out of his garden at 5am, after finding the guy trying to prise the gate mechanism from its bolts. With a wild look in his eye and a flashing knife, Straud needed no encouragement to wallop him one over the left ear with his Gunn & Moore, which sent the nutter scrambling back over the barbed wire fence that protected his small Tamboerskloof home. Later in the day as he took off for work he saw the spots of dried blood leading a trail up the narrow alley that backed onto his wall. He'd thought about following the trail, on the off chance that he could find the would-be-thief and give him another whack, just to make a point.

‘Tik. Such a dirty drug. Makes you crazy. Can’t understand how anyone would want to let drugs do that to them.’ Straud mused as he nailed the third line of the night off the lid of the petrol station toilet. The irony was not lost on him, and he emerged into the blazing lights of the lonely Karoo forecourt with a smirk.

Marten was waiting alongside the car with his change, hoping for a tip from this obviously edgy white boy.
‘D-d-d-daarsy, mister. F-f-f-f-fixed up for the long drive.’
‘Cheers, man. Hey, you wanna tip? I’ll give you a tip: Always look left and right before you cross the road. Hehe.’ And with that, he was off.
‘Poes.’ Said Marten quietly as the taillights faded towards Bloemfontein.

-------------------------------------------------------

Here's a fine tune from one of the members of Leftfield for your aural indulgence. (For more on them, see above) Go ahead, knock yourself out. No, really:

http://rapidshare.com/files/93631095/Butterfly_Caught__Daley_Beatless_Remix_.mp3.html

We're Here To Fool Ya

2008-02-15T09:26:00.004+02:00

Look, Mum - I'm multitasking!

A long, long time ago in a far away land...OK, so it wuz Lundun, in 95, wannit? Anna tunes woz massive, wanney? Too right.

Anyway, back in 1995 I picked up one of those free compilation tapes (yup, Dark Ages) that came with a copy of Select magazine, and amongst other aural delights there was one tune that blew me away. This is the tune presented on today's 'No Music Friday' here in the Voodoo Kitchen.
What's that? 'Can't have music on 'No Music Friday?' I hear you say. Who's blog is this, anyway? Go and read Perez Hilton or something. God's sake, some people, I ask you with tears in my ass.
Anyway.
So I had this tape, which eventually it made its way back home to South Africa with me and was put to thorough use, being mercilessly played till it was stretched and begging to be put out to pasture. I never did put it out of its misery, it simply went the way of innumerable items which somehow take leave when you move house a few times. All of which is to say that Lo! and Behold! one day on my web meanderings I came across a blog called Audio.Out (which you should check out - see link in The Buffet) and jigger my poker and blow me down if the same track wasn't among those featured in a post. I can tell you that I was beaming; I had been resigned to only ever hearing the song again in my mind.
The tune in question is a remix of 'Hallelujah' by Shaun Ryder's gang of loons, the Happy Mondays, which will forever be held in esteem as one of the iconic tracks that represented the Ecstasy / Rave / Summer Of Love era. Done by Deadstock, it's a downbeat, bass-heavy and slightly breaky rework which I actually prefer to the original. Blasphemy, I know, but there you go, I'm an odd fish like that and have a sweet spot for remixes, as anyone who has heard me DJ can testify.

Drum roll, maestro, please.......

http://rapidshare.com/files/91973907/05_Hallelujah__Deadstock_Remix_.mp3.html

Cheers, have a good weekend!

There’s No ‘I’ In Team

2008-02-13T16:52:00.006+02:00

Here's a story:

----

I ignored my way through that year at Whitelaw’s. They didn’t like it, and made their feelings quite clear on the matter, but what could they do? My work was always in ahead of schedule, up to scratch and, if anything, of better quality than they had expected. So they could gently go and fuck themselves. I deserved every cigarette break, despite the accusing glances and discontented grumblings directed at me from behind the plexiglass panels that constituted their poor understanding of an office. With long-term employees having swallowed the corporate culture whole, it was a little like being in a weird cult. There was only one thing for it – ignore the hell out of them and their determinations.

The issue I had with Whitelaw’s was the hysterically sycophantic corporate culture they tried to drum into every worker bee dull-witted enough to be susceptible. Weekends away, team building exercises, peppy seminars, free Instruction Manuals With Capital-Letter-Infested Titles Which Exhort! YOU! To Be Better At Your Crappy! Job! And of course mind-numbing sessions spent listening to deranged motivational speakers who chant a regurgitated version of every other pop-eyed psycho Life Coach. Oprah, eat your cholesterol-choked heart out, baby.

It always struck me as odd that these Life Coaches and Leadership Instructors were themselves no remarkable success at Life nor Leadership. ‘Kinda like critics,’ the wife said – ‘those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.’ Idiots that they were, Whitelaw’s were suitably impressed and swallowed the lot as though it were gospel. That’s what happens to companies when they get so big they lose touch of the importance of actually having a CEO who acts and is active as a leader. In the absence of managerial figures with the actual real-life charismatic personality that could instill a sense of aspiration in the salaried troops, this is what happens – you get Life Coaches and Leadership Seminars, the synthetic pathetic of the business world.

Pillocks. Like I said to that toad Mallet on my last day – ‘I agree, Mallet, there is no ‘I’ in team. But there is a ‘U’ in cunt.’

There are many ways to resign, but I think that one was the most definite.

--------

An Overview Of World Domination

2008-02-11T16:45:00.001+02:00

The forecast for the US is 30% chance of pointy nipples, and it's much the same for the rest of us...

Right, well, it's time for the inaugural 'Where The Hell Are They All?' Voodoo Kitchen Overview. Above is a map that has been diligently compiled by small men in a dingy basement hocked up on coffee and cheap cigarettes. (Which is, of course, how all the real work gets done on this planet. Coffee and cigarettes, man, I'm tellin ya. Gospel.)
As you can see, we're well on our way to world domination, sorry, that should read World Domination, in a few corners of the globe. Hey, gotta start somewhere, right? Right.
I didn't even know we had readers in some these places. I mean, the Caribbean? Damn, you people have sweet time on your hands if you're reading this from the beach in the Cribbian! (Which I thank you for, from the bottom of my keyboard.)
And it looks like we have some viewers up there in Europe, which is fantastic, and for that I can thank Amy Winehouse, because since she's been in rehab half of Europe don't know what to do with their spare web time at work. Amy, we love you baby, hang in there. You're an individual.
And to the rest of our viewers I bow and scrape and say 'Thank you for watching, you're a great audience. Keep up the slacking!'

Thangyoovermushgoonite!

GO_BOIL YOUR_ / H EAD

2008-02-11T13:35:00.002+02:00

I make no bones about being a card-carrying, box-set buying Radiohead fanatic. And whilst I owe my musical education (and bow in deference) to the greats who have come before, this bunch are far and away the ostrich’s orbs, in my inestimable opinion. Many people disagree, and as far as I’m concerned they can all go and boil their brains, the unrepentant Philistines that they are. I mean honestly – Muse? Coldplay? Pfff. Smoke another one.

Anyway. Here’s an Amplive remix of 'Weird Fishes'. It's a bit glitchy, it's a little electro'd up, got some sharp beats and everything is in the right place. Take it away, boys…

whoosh - what was that? that was an mp3 expiring...

Almond, Pecan, Brazil, Hazel, Macafuckindamia.

2008-02-08T08:21:00.000+02:00

[sign 'o the times]

No music today. (It's 'No Music Friday' here in the Kitchen...) Just a link to some of the craziest Polaroids ever seen by man or lens. If you've never heard of Dash Snow, allow the almighty wiki to illuminate you:

'Snow's photographic work often depicts scenes of a candid or illicit nature. Instances of sex, drug taking, violence and art-world pretentiousness are documented with disarming frankness and honesty, offering insight into the decadent lifestyle increasingly associated with young New York City artists and their social circles.' - Wikipedia

He takes some killer snaps, does old Dash. He also takes some questionable ones, which beg the asking of 'What in the name of flaming nipple clamps was he doing hanging around these people to get that shot in the first place?'

Charles Saatchi has picked up some of his work. And Uma Thurman's his aunt. Huh.

http://www.tinyvices.com/dash_snow.html

Does Exactly What It Says On The Tin

2008-02-06T08:03:00.001+02:00

'Told you I'm too short for the High Five, Joseph.'
'Sorry Paul. Low Five?'

‘Dub music evolved from early instrumental reggae music and "versions" that incorporated fairly primitive reverb and echo sound effects.’ - Wikipedia

Did I tell you that dub music once saved my life? Strue’s Bob, it’s the gospel, straight from the horse’s nipple. Yes indeed, it does exactly what it says on the tin – ‘restores your faith in humanity, rids you of irrational outbreaks of negativity.’ It’s aural sunshine, I tellya. Goes without saying (what a perfectly illogical expression) that you don’t get much of that kind of value for money these days, eh? What miraculous product could possibly lay claim to such marvellous curative powers? Why, Paul Simon’s ‘Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes’ of course, you philistine. But not just any old stock-standard album track, which we’ve all heard schmoozing its way outta the speakers of mall sound systems ad nauseum until we’re frothing at the gills, no, no, no – I’m talking about the minimalist extravaganza that is the Tangoterje Edit of that illustrious and somewhat worn and scuffed classic. For who can fail to break out into a sunny smile in imitation of a Jamaican banana when assaulted by the dulcet tones and sustain/decaying echoes of a killer downbeat? That’s right, nobody. Avast, Ye Dubbers!

(OK, so this isn't dub in the classic sense i.e: King Tubby / Lee Scratch / Augustus Pablo, but then it's a wide-ranging beasty, the dub. Shoo now, got cooking to do...)

You blink, and the mp3, she is gone. Tsk. Look sharp, Sparky.

Seake And Ye Shall...Dance?

2008-02-04T15:30:00.000+02:00

Hands up all those who want a Lemur for Christmas...

Well pump me full of nitrous and stick a match up my keyster - look at that - those head-nodding knob-twiddling muppets that call themselves Seake have pulled finger and have staked out their patch in the rarified atmosphere of the intraweb.
There they go, laying claim as one of the hottest rising acts on the positively bristling underground music scene in that city we love to hate, the throbbing cosmopolitan metropolis of Durban, no less. (I jest, but hey, whatever gets me through the day, right? Right.)
Music? Too right, but not the usual doof bang doof bang tish whoo hoo, no, no, no. You'll feel your gristle wibble to the wobble, your epithelium will positively tingle, and that's a promise you can take to the piggy bank. Are they the future of dancefloor voodoo or is it just the medication talking? Dunno, too early to tell. Gimme half an hour.
Hats off, gotta hand it to them and give them a round of applause ladies and gentiles - there they are, that's the noise they make and those weird-looking toys are in fact their instruments.
Tell you what, I'll name my first-born Seake, even if it's a girl, how's that for enthusiastic?
Can't be fairer than that.

See www.seake.net for more

(originally sent via email to Seake last year, but considering their sterling performance last weekend, what the hell. I know you lot need Monday highlights...)

In The Name Of The Jol

2008-02-04T10:35:00.000+02:00

(DJ Meanboy dishing the deep down and dirty)

‘In the name of the Jol, the whole Jol and nothing but the Jol!’ (So help me jol?)

With a motto like that, anyone attending a NoNoNo!!! event should expect a carnival. And carnival is exactly what you get, replete with a soundtrack of cutting-edge electronica, retrosynth classics and rarely-heard alternative masterpieces at these occasionally staged events. Saturday’s event, the second of two NoNoNo!!! parties held at the faded grande dame of Umbilo Road, the Willowvale Hotel, was a jam-packed affair which showed that the Durban underground is alive and well and taking no prisoners. Note that this is the ‘Durban underground’ – not the commercially tainted, capital-lettered ‘Durban Underground’ events which claim cred by name but deliver shmoozy house music to the label-obsessed instead.
Kicking off, the first of the three Eclectica Allstars (the drivers of this crazy train), DJ Hedmekanik, laid down a set of hen’s teeth remixes and obscure-but-immediately-appealing cover versions. Predictably enough, this set the tone for the evening, enabling DJ Mixin Vixin to turn up the heat some and get the hands in the air with one of her superbly-selected 80’s synth-heavy sets. Following these two on, alternative dancefloor pioneer of the 80’s and 90’s Helge Janssen literally set the place alight when, six songs into his set, the speakers caught fire! At any other event this would have been cause for wild panic, but not at NoNoNo!!! Oh, no – the punters took it all in their stride and made light of the situation with comments like ‘Dude – that is one kickass mother of a smoke machine!’ Any disappointment at the loss of one dancefloor was quickly dispelled when the crowd moved to the main floor to take in DJ Leo’s eclectic mix of indietronic anthems and classic leftfield favourites.
With Helge moving on to the main floor in an emergency reshuffle, this meant he followed DJ Meanboy on, who had been flying the voodoo flag with his unique electronica-laden set in the main dancefloor. Helge went on to bewitch fans both young and old with a trademark set of exceptional avant-garde and proto-electro classics. Wrapping up the evening in a blaze of home-grown minimal glitch techno was fast-rising duo Seake, who have won over a legion of fans due to their infectious stage presence and a relentless delivery of high-powered sonic missiles, all of which are created and mixed live on stage. With a cheeky edge to their sound and being adept at dropping their own wildly popular remixes of classic 90’s tunes such as the Beastie Boys’ ‘Intergalactic’, Seake earned themselves a roaring encore from the last of the dedicated punters.
With no sponsors, no ‘superstar DJ’ headliners and little more than word-of-mouth advertising, NoNoNo!!! events have earned a reputation as being the stronghold of authentic underground music in Durban. With all other options only offering the stock-standard schlock that can be heard anytime of day or night on any number of radio stations, it’s good to know that cutting-edge music has a home somewhere in this one-seahorse town that is Durban.

(Interested? Look for NONONO!!! on Facebook.)

2008-01-31T15:25:00.000+02:00

Alright, folks?

So I've decided to take my work overground, to stop you from falling in with the right crowd. Yes folks, that what you get folks, for shakin' booty. The plan is to drop at least one obscure/epic/bewildering/astonishing/mindfrigger of a tune a week. Why the hell not?

What was that? More Cowbell? Certainly, madam. Step right this way...

For your hors d'ouvre this lovely 31st day of January 08, we'd like to start off with a little ditty
from one our favourite favourites, a rework of Blur's 'Tender' by Keigo Oyamada (aka Cornelius), a Japanese nutter and all-round audio raconteur, whom I saw in July at Sonar.

Enjoy!

no mp3? Hmmm...you're slack. Catch up.

Here's A Little Ditty That We Refer To As A Movement...

2008-01-30T15:38:00.001+02:00

A long, long time ago (actually it was 1997-2001), I lived in a fantastic house that was once home to an avid collector of records. There were untold numbers of them, only a fraction of which I ever got through listening to. One of these, Songs By Tom Lehrer, was a moth-eaten 10" LP which had one tune in particular I found most amusing. It's called 'The Old Dope Peddler' and I present it here, along with lyrics and sleeve note, for your edification. Enjoy!

'You are no doubt familiar with songs about the old lamplighter and the old umbrella man and the old garbage collector and all these lovable old characters who go around spreading sweetness and light to their respective communities. But, it's always seemed to me that there is one member of this happy band who does an equally splendid job, but who has never been properly recognized in song or story, and this is an attempt to remedy, at least in part, that deplorable situation.

The Old Dope Peddler

When the shades of night are falling,
Comes a fellow everyone knows.
It's the old dope peddler,
Spreading joy wherever he goes.

Every evening you will find him,
Around our neighborhood.
It's the old dope peddler,
Doing well by doing good.

He gives the kids free samples,
Because he knows full well
That today's young innocent faces
Will be tomorrow's clientele.

Here's a cure for all your troubles,
Here's an end to all distress.
It's the old dope peddler
With his powdered happiness.'

mp3?...'too late!' she cried...you wanna hear it? Make some noise.

And if you don't know who Tom Lehrer is, go hither - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Lehrer

The Name's Head...Portis Head.

2008-01-28T15:22:00.001+02:00

Ladies and gents, boys and girls, freaks and creatures - drumroll, please maestro - Portishead are to release their third album, the rather cryptically titled 'Third'. In a brief but welcome snippet of info on their site (www.portishead.co.uk) they had this to say:

------------------------------------------------------------------

REAL NEWS

23 Jan 2008

We're pleased to announce that we'll be releasing our album, titled THIRD. on April 14th 2008.

The album has 11 tracks and is 49 minutes 13 seconds long.'

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well now. Not exactly verbose but everything's in its right place.

Also on the site is a long list of gig dates, none of which will be attended by yours truly as I am presently as skint as a freshly mugged hobo. Should a well-meaning philanthropist stumble across my deranged howls of anguish, they would be quite welcome to put me out of my misery by shoving a freshly paid-for plane ticket in my yowling gob. Failing that, it is to dreamland I go for my live performances. Hell, that's about the only way I'm gonna see Radiohead, Underworld and Portishead all in one night.

Apropos Of Nothing, Really...

2008-01-24T16:26:00.001+02:00

I love these three, they're my favourite tit-brandishing musicians.

Taken from Q Magazine, May 1994 (with a dash of license)

Q: Do you have, or have you ever, felt in competition with each other?

BJORK: No way.

POLLY: No.

TORI: Never. It's funny for women because journalists pit women against each other. If you think about Hendrix, Page and Clapton they were all much more similar to each other than we are.
We have tits. We have three holes. That's what we have in common. We don't even play the same instruments.
It really disappoints me when some sort of competition has to be manufactured for their little minds and fantasies. That's not growing, that's not support. There is room for everybody on the planet to be creative and conscious if you are your own person. If you're trying to be like somebody else, then there isn't. We see things from different points of view and that affects people in different ways and I think that should be encouraged. It shouldn't be like, ‘two tits too many’. Like with radio in America, they tell you, well, we're already playing one female this week. They wouldn't think about that with guys.

POLLY: Boys. So damn predictable.

BJORK: Amen, sister.

TORI: Gotta love them, though.

2008-01-18T12:36:00.000+02:00

NONONO!!! - January 26 2008 – Willowvale Hotel - Durban - KwaZulu Natal - South Africa

In the Name Of The Fader, The Subs And The High Spirits – LET THERE BE JOL!

Yes folks, that’s what you get folks, for shakin’ booty. Once again the Sacred Amplifier Of Love will be cranked up to 1.21 jigawatts so that the faithful can practice their devotions to the Jol, the whole Jol and nothing but the Jol. So help us all. And our livers. And our heads. And, come to think of it, unfortunate Rajen at Cha-Cha’s on Umgeni who usually has to put up with a rambling bunch of nutters who need quarts at 5am. Yes, it’s a rollicking circus of magnificent proportions hitherto unknown by the locals of the region. But I digress.

Ladies and gents, we are very proud to present, on two dancefloors:

HELGÉ –
The original alternative dancefloor pioneer, Helgé is a Durban institution, having single-handedly raised the musical bar since the 80’s at such luminary venues as Faces, Play, Outland, 330 and more recently, RE:Play. Not to be missed. (www.helge.co.za)

MEANBOY –
The original renegade beat master from back in the day at Crash. Smooth as silk and a dab hand on the ones and two’s, Meanboy is the quintessential freestyle pro.

SEAKE –
Everybody’s favourite knob-twiddling duo and our Live sacrifice to the gods of electro - these boys are a sure-fire sign of a kick-ass party. (www.seake.net)

Of course your gracious hosts, the one and only ECLECTICA ALLSTARS - LEO, HEDMEKANIK and MIXIN VIXIN will be in attendance to ensure your uninterrupted listening pleasure.

Expect nothing less than the very best in alternative, electro, techno, retrosynth, indietronic, psychopop and sofatech. (And some stuff even we can't invent names for but sounds damn fine.)
Come on down and do the voodoo that they don't dare do!

R 40 – 9pm

Info: hedmekanik (at) gmail.com

No More Corruption! No More Injustice! No More Shit Music!

2008-01-10T08:17:00.000+02:00

ATT: All shoppers

RE: Product Discontinued

Our best product, the Travis Lyle 3000, will officially be pulled from circulation tomorrow, in a move that has met with much wailing and gnashing of teeth from our single hot female demographic.
Although we are aware that this is our best-selling product, we regret to inform our devoted customers that the license for this product has been bought out by ravishing new company Abigail Case Inc, who will be taking ownership of this highly successful item at 11:30 at a handover ceremony at the Park Rynie Home Affairs, Deaths, Births and Marriage Validation Department.
To all of our customers who have enjoyed the Travis Lyle 3000, we wish to thank you for your brand loyalty over the years, and hope your experiences of using this product will leave you with only the rosiest of memories. Should you require an item of a similar nature, please feel free to avail yourselves of a wide range of products available at the many bars, taverns and discotheques of the Durban region.

Warm Regards,

Travis Case (née Lyle)
CEO, Whiteboy Entertainment Inc.