Karnivool kom van Perth, Australië af en was so week af terug hierso in SA gewees. Jy sal dalk onthou dat ons so paar weke voor hulle gig hierso bietjie met hulle gesels het.

Die brasse by Turning Tricks Entertainment probeer glo al vir die laaste drie jaar om hulle hier te kry, so dit was nogal ‘n big deal om hulle uiteindelik in die Bassline in Johannesburg te siene te kry. Dis fokken weird om te sien hoe baie fans die ouens actually in Suid-Afrika het. Om eerlik te wees, fokken min van julle (if any) het al ooit van hulel gehoor. Dit sluit ons kontkoppies hier by Watkykjy ook in. Wat ons by Bassline gesien en gehoor het, het dus die kak uit ons impress. Nie net in terme van die musiek en performance nie, maar ook die crowd se energie. Dik ingeduk.

Karnivool se unieke weergawe van progressiewe moderne rock is uitstekend en die skare het amper woord-vir-woord met alles saamgesing. Karnivool… Dit klink soos piele wat vleis vreet. Anyyway, des nieteenstande was dit ‘n kwaliteit aanskousel gewees. Hoe langer die aand aangegaan het, hoe beter het dit geword. Ian Kenny is een van die beste frontmen wat ons nog gesien het en die wetter het die skare bederf met een Karnivool hit na die ander. Hulle bestaan al van 1997 af (kan jy dit fokken glo?) en daar was dus baie tunes om van te kies.

Wonder hoeveel van hierdie gems van die overseas af ons klomp bederfde bloeiseltjies op tuisgrond sal kom besoek in 2017. Sulke afgewaterde AC/DC met Cartman op vocals? Het jy al gecheck hoe Axl al hoe meer soos Cartman begin lyk? Sulke ronde vuilbek oudstes en enigstes seun wie se mamma hom bederf? Fok, ons raak bietjie off-track hierso. Karnivool is deur local geraasmakers, Deity’s Muse en Poverty Of Ideals support en SA se rockmusieknaam was hoog gehou die aand.

Hier so paar kiekies vir die van julle wat daar is en bietjie van ‘n oomblikkie moet geniet by jou desk by jou graft…

Deel met jou tjommies!

SABC se idiot clown at large en in charge, Hlaudi Motsoeneng, het gister getune dat die SABC van vandag af 90% local musiek sal jol op hulle stasies. Sy presiese woorde was: “We want to come to a point where any of our 18 radio stations can become a home for all South Africans.”

“Gr8! (het ‘n klomp tietkoppe moontlik in unison geskree) Nu kan ons net baja lekka stuffs lyster. Kom k what’s up al m maaq’s!”

Dit gaan nie lank wees tot Broeknaai Braaitreffers 1 tot 17, afgewaterte kwaito en ‘n klomp boktos  jou ore te klap nie. Local “artists” gaan nou seker ‘n kakhuis vol stront record om SAMRO royalties te probeer klap. Maar moenie worry nie, dinge in Suip-Afrika isn’t always what it seems. Jy moet bietjie onder die surface gaan rondkrap.

Ons het ‘n vinnge toets gedoen en online gaan luister want ons het vermoed dat daar kak uit die man se smoel val sodra hy dit oopmaak:
Channel Africa het ‘n boring gesprek oor racism gehad.
Channel Africa 2/7 het nie gewerk nie
Good Hope FM het een of ander kak international R&B tune gejol waarin die goose klink het asof sy in ‘n emmer aut-tune ingekont het.
iKwekwezi het kakhard ge-gospel in isiNdebele (yay, local!)
Lesedi FM het met luisteraars oor die foon gepraat
Ligwalagwala FM het iets ge-jol waarna mens loosely kan verwys as township bass. Maar met extra bass.
Lotus FM was aaklig op die ore. Tunes straight outa India, so fokol local.
Motsweding FM het met luisteraars oor die foon gechat.
Munghana Lonene FM het met luisteraars oor die foon gechat
Phalaphala FM het het luisteraars oor die foon gepraat. (drie se calls is gedrop)
Radio 2000 het Pump it On van Toya Delazy gepomp. Sy is local. Toya, jou SAMRO geldjie is innie pos, hoor!
Radio 2000 Xtra is ‘n carbon copy van Radio 2000. Dubbel geldjie vir Toya Delazy!
RSG? Ek gee jou een fokken raai en ek praat nou nie poes nie… Wait for it! Tot My Laaste Uur deur Nicholas Louw. So nothing changes there. Pomp daai kak uit! Yay vir local!
SAfm was boring as fuck en het met ‘n political scientist gepraat. Oor racism. Kom ons kak in ons hande omdat ons so surprised is.
Sprinkbok Radio het Stars in My Eyes deur Morton Gold & His Orchestra gespeel. Dit was soos om ‘n glas vodka saam met ‘n slaappil straight in jou hol in te gooi deur ‘n tregter. Instant slaap.
Thobela FM het vir ongeveer 4 minute lank advertensies ge-broadcast. Dit maak sin – hulle moet hulle 1.5m listener base gebruik om companies se piele droog te melk vir zak. Die DJs het toe vir ‘n verdere 5 minute sit en boktos praat en gelag vir mekaar se grappies. Ek het nie verder gewag vir musiek nie.
TruFM het gepraat oor local musiek met een of ander poes wat SAMRO verteenwoordig. Oh, the fokken irony.
uKhozi FM het met luisteraars oor die foon gepraat.
uMhlobo Wenene FM was besig met een of ander locally produced radiodrama. Befok! Local vibes. Maar dis nie musiek nie, naaiers.
X-K FM was so fokken dood soos ‘n mossie wat deur die buurman se laitie met ‘n pellet gun deur die ballas geskiet is.

Daar het jy nou al die 18 SABC stasies waarvan Hlaudi gepraat het. Die bra is dalk moedswillig deur die kak of net so goed met wiskunde soos Jacob Zupta, want die SABC het eintlik 20 fokken radiostasies. Hy het conveniently gemaak asof 5FM en Metro FM nie bestaan nie. Die rede hiervoor is dat daai twee stasies nie deel is van hierdie “eksperiment” nie. Die bra het dus sy woorde so fyn soos ‘n lyn cocain gekies om misleidend te wees.
Die nool het verder getune: “In choosing to play 90% local music, the SABC is also going beyond what is required of it by the Independent Communications Authority of South Africa (Icasa).”

OK, fokgesiggie – kom ons doen gou somme om te kyk hoe daai 90% van jou lyk, maar om met ronde getalle te werk het ons sommer 5FM en Metro FM ook in die mix gegooi:
(5FM het wel toevallig local gegooi – Stay A While van The Parlotones, daai band waarvoor almal so verskriklik lief is. Metro FM se DJs was baie lief vir hulle eie stemme en het virtually oor mekaar draad getrek)

Die wenners is:
Nicolas Louw, Parlotones, die ouens wat die jirre prys, die township bass en Toya De Lazi (onthou, sy word tweekeer getel)
Dit maak 30% uit van die groot som en die Paroltones hoort eintlik nie op die lys nie. In fact, hulle hoort eintlik nie op radio nie.

Jy is welkom om self deur al die kak te skip en te kyk waarmee jy opkom. Shazam was handig vir die drie local songs wat wel gespeel het.
http://www.sabc.co.za/wps/portal/SABC/listenlivepopup#fragment-2

Laat my gerus weet of jy by 90% local musiek uitkom. Ek fokken twyfel sterk dat jy sal.

En as jy lus is vir piele tunes sonder DJs wat mekaar se velle klap of draadtrek oor hulle goue stemme, tune gerus in op http://www.interwebsradio.com/

Deel met jou tjommies!

Kaapstad is ‘n fokken weird plek – hulle hou ‘n metal konsert so op ‘n Woensdagaand in ‘n casino. Die tipe plek sonder persoonlikheid met lelike matte en verkakte decor waarheen desperate mense gaan om hulle laaste geld, hoop en drome te begrawe. Maar fokweet, Maiden was daar en dis al wat getel het.

Terwyl ons in die ry staan en wag het, tune ‘n antie vir Chopper:
“Excuse me, is there a show on tonight?”
Chopper: “Yip.”
Antie: “Is it a biker show?”
Chopper: “More like a metal show.”
Antie (aan haar dogter): “Dis blykbaar ‘n METAL show, hartjie.”

Ja wat, Kaapstad. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, huh? Seker ook hoekom die Kaapse kinders (al vierdusiend van hulle) amper soos een man ge-boo het toe oom Bruce reken dat die Kaap ‘n befokte crowd was en dat Joburg volgende deur flight 666 getref gaan word. Ouens, ons bly in dieselfde fokken land, hoor. #SulkeLaerskool.
Dalk was hulle net pisserig omdat die bar halfpad deur die show gesluit het. Hou mos nie van geld maak nie. Sulke allergies vir geld. O ja, en dankie ook aan die een bra en sy tjom wat aan ons aangebied het om crack in die parking lot te gaan vat. En met dankie bedoel ons “nee dankie”. Jirre, seuns! Hoop julle het at least die eerste helfte van die eerste song gekokkenodge.

Behalwe vir die weirdness was die gig dik fokken gees gewees. Iron Maiden bou al vir dekades lank hulle reputasie op ‘n ongelooflike stage show en hierdie was nog ‘n illustrious chapter in die book. Mens kan sê Die Book of Souls, wat ook toevallig die nuwe album en die toer se naam is. Die setlist bestaan dan ook uit ‘n amper even balance van Book of Souls en ou favourites. En omdat die nuwe album dik gat skop is dit fokken nca verby, pappie!

Ons kan seker maar op hierdie stadium mention dat die Joburg show ‘n presiese cookie cutter copy van die Kaapse show was, so hierdie review geld dus vir beide. Daar was net meer siele by die Joburg show (18,000) as wat daar was by die Kaapse show. En meer siele beteken meer gees. Letterlik.

Die show begin met die eerste twee tracks van Book of Souls en dit pas 100% by die impressive Mayan stage set – deel van die 20 ton (ja, jy lees nie verkeerde nie) wat die brasse saam met hulle gevlieg het in hulle eie Boeing 747. Bruce hardloop rond en spring soos die Duracell hasie op badsoute op die ouderdom van 57 – fokkol moeg na hy pilot-pilot gespeel het met Ed Force 1. Jirre en hy het daai vliegtuig mooi ingebring maar dis maybe ‘n storie vir ‘n ander dag. Een van die krimpies in die band, guitarist Janick Gers, gooi sy kitaar rond soos ‘n fokken mal ding, klap sy been op die speaker regs langs hom, so weirdly 90 grade sywaarts. About die hele tyd. As jy daar was en ‘n oog op daai omie gegooi het, sal jy uitmaak waarvan ons praat. Die oom het genoeg energie vir 10 mense en is die hele fokken tyd aan die gang. Dit was soos die Comrades Marathon van heavy metal.

Op ‘n stadium maak Eddie sy appearance, eers as ‘n 3D kop wat agter die stage uitpeul en later as actual karakter wat op stage rondloop, met Bruce fight en dan sy hart verloor. Die mal guitarist hardloop onder sy bene deur. Natuurlik. As jy op iets iets anders as drank was sou daai 3D kop jou brein gebreek het want aanvanklik het dit soos ‘n video gelyk wat op ‘n screen agter Maiden speel. Dan hang daai kop vorentoe oor die stage en mense verloor hulle kak heeltemal!

Maiden se Troopers (dis nou julle, die fans) was dik amped en vreeslik vocal. Tunes soos The Red and the Black en Fear of the Dark was kliphard saamgesing. Ongelukkig soos vroëer genoem, ook lekker hard ge-boo (die Kaapste naaiers) toe Bruce tune hulle gaan volgende Joburg toe. So paar laities met kleinmannetjie sindroom is ook uitgegooi in Kaapstad. Jirre, hoe loser moet jy wees om by ‘n casino uitgegooi te word? Johannesburg se crowd het ook maar hulle pielnekke gehad. Twee ouens in in die golden circle gedeelte voor die sound desk het byvoorbeeld (vir geen rede) stamperig geraak met almal wat verby hulle durf loop, chicks ingesluit. “I’ll fuck you up, broe!” Dis asof hulle girlfriends niggies ‘n emmertjie dom kont oor hulle uitgegooi het voor hulle show toe is. Onthou om vir jouself ‘n pakkie poesklappe in te pak vir die volgende show, jou blerrie nool. Ons hoop julle het van julle 1980’s Katana’s afgepoes na die gigs, julle fokken turfjakkalse.

Groot Maiden tunes soos The Trooper, Powerslave, Hallowed be thy Name en Iron Maiden (poes ou song) het ook hulle opwagting gemaak. Ook Number of the Beast, wat sy eie opblaas Satie gekry het teen ‘n backdrop van vlamme. Dik gees. Onheilige gees. Super onheilig. Salig. #blessed

Iron Maiden het soos ‘n well oiled Boeing gewerk. Die sound was befok gewees en mens kon elke fokken solo pitch perfect hoor. Die beligting was ook iets uit ‘n ander wêreld gewees. Julle local ouens wat op hierdie show gewerk het kan ‘n groot bucket list item op julle lysie af tick. Well done! Die produksie was fouteloos gewees. Dit was ook awesome om te check hoe die guitarists verskillende style het. Steve Harris (die enigste marabs in ‘n short pant) bounce en headbang straight deur terwyl kamera’s mens wys hoe die drummer rustig die galoppende ritme bestuur van agter sy massive kit met omtrent 100 toms.

Dis moontlik die beste perdjie-metal show wat jy ooit in jou lewe te siene sou kon kry. Om ‘n band van hierdie formaat op hierdie level te sien speel in Suid-Afrika is nogal pretty much ‘n big fokken deal. As jy nie daar was nie (en boonop ‘n groot fan is) moet jy dalk nie na die befokte foto’s kyk deur Watkykjy se fotograaf, Henry Engelbrecht geneem is nie. Jy gaan net in jou fokken hande huil daar reg voor jou PC by die werk en soos ‘n kont lyk.

UP THE FOKKEN IRONS!
Die hele setlist (Joburg en Kaapstad)
If Eternity Should Fail
Speed of Light
Children of the Damned
Tears of a Clown
The Red and the Black
The Trooper
Powerslave
Death or Glory
The Book of Souls
Hallowed Be Thy Name
Fear of the Dark
Iron Maiden
Encore:
The Number of the Beast
Blood Brothers
Wasted Years

Deel met jou tjommies!

by Marc

I passed a newspaper headline poster the other day. Last Sunday, I think. Stuck on a street light pole. I think it was the Sunday Tribune, or something. I don’t read newspapers anymore and that has more I think to do with the recognition that reading newspapers is only slightly edifying and far more depressing and a willful subjection of oneself to, at best, negative trivia and, at worst, manipulated bullshit, rather than the sensationalism that has overtaken almost every newspaper over the last decade or two. Did you notice that? Years ago. When you saw headlines, bought the (ordinarily unimpeachable) newspaper on the day and realized that the article was mostly hype and far less noteworthy than you had anticipated? Realizing, too, that the headline had been, basically, lying crap. I remember it, not only because I have an interest in matters journalistic, but also because it occurred to me as something sad that in the transition from the era of print (and thus newspaper) dominance towards the tech, online era, newspapers were not helping themselves by degenerating into bog-roll, selling their integrity like that. Many papers had struggle credentials too. It seemed an emerging tragedy that all of the horror and death they had so bravely tried to expose was now reduced to whoopy-doo horseshit.

Nowadays, with the Daily Sun cementing bullshit trivia as standard fare in this country and, really, in my opinion, just dumbing the whole world down with it and, rather stingily for me, treating their predominantly black, working class readership like assholes (although they are the assholes who consume the crap), it’s become standard. No one, perhaps with the exception of The Mail & Guardian and one or possibly two others, have any journalistic integrity left. And by journalistic integrity I mean manifesting the confidence in the reader that the articles are honest, unbiased and factually correct as far as the writer could ascertain and that the content is relevant, important even and contributes in some way to human progress or, at least, societal intelligence.

Different world today… So, when I passed the headline that said “How to be a blesser” my toes curled a little. For those of you who don’t know, a blesser is a South African, currently emerging term for any man who has sufficient disposable income to buy a usually younger, female ‘blessee’ clothes and tuition fees and hair and nails and stuff (there’s a quote there, but I’ll get to that just now) in exchange for her sexual charms. Her naked ass. I might be wrong, but I believe this used to be called prostitution…? Now of course it’s a soft version, couched in kissy-wissies and lovey-doveys, but the rote, mercenary “Ok bend over and I’ll bless you, bitch” remains inherent there for me. Ok ok, I’m sure I don’t have to use words like “bitch” and I also won’t pop a few images of underage Hillbrow prostitutes in here in words in order to avoid making this article depressing too but… really?

A blesser. Mmmmm…. I am ok with being a (limited) provider and, as it happens I am an older man dating younger women and it’s nothing but a joy to help out, but that’s a given anyhow… I give as freely to the vagrant who lies on the pavement lawn outside my complex every day. Also, while I’m going down this avenue, I am adamant about sexual performance – produce it or hop it.

So… while this wasn’t the source of my curling toes and, in fact, is only occurring to me now as I write this, perhaps particularly as a white man who dates only black women, I guess I am practicing at least some of the blesser formula, if only by default. Mmmmm.. It displeases me saying that, because I know I’m not. And the difference between me and a blesser? I need a real liaison, a genuine mutual interest with ALL possibilities present – up to and including love and marriage – before I want to be naked with someone. I need to have all of the essential ingredients contained in a woman before I do nasties with them. It doesn’t have to go that way – who gets to dictate that a natural unfolding of falling in love, marrying and mating is going to happen ever? – but the potential has to be there. For me. I need far more than a sex partner, at least going beyond the short term. Sex is easy, for almost all of us. Anyone can get laid, with apologies to all of you for whom this is patently untrue. But I need to lie down next to loveliness and intelligence too, before I get hard, besides any other prerequisites or preferences I might have… And how intelligent can you be, trading your holes for cash. Or goods, like that makes it better…

Although the whole blesser phenomenon is typically black, I am supremely confident that when people are selling their orifices for material goods, there’s plenty of colour blur and, frankly, who gives it? If you’ve got the money and you, baby, have got sufficient ice around your heart and tuition bills to pay or a desire for a new hairpiece, what does colour matter? So, what made my toes curl? The nature of the headline. I know I know – it’s just relatively inert phrase, “How to be a blesser”, but I was left wondering why it wasn’t “How to help your girl child not succumb to a blesser” or just “The blesser phenomenon of today”…? Something about the headline was almost tongue-in-cheek, almost congratulatory, almost suggesting “this is how you do it”… It stank. Much like when Lolly Jackson, that fine, upstanding bastion of morality whose smile shone upon Johannesburg, until organized crime shot him in his white-trash-with-money face and rubbed him out, was celebrated in some sense by the newspapers at the time. Regular articles, the life of Lolly laid bare with accompanying pics, Lolly the Joburg icon, the history of the rise of Lolly… God. The man was a sex trading piece of shit. Is he really making the papers as someone worthwhile? Is this really good reading for all, I thought at the time. That was a moment in the same vein, for me, when I saw that headline last Sunday. “How to be a blesser” rang those bells.
I mooted an explanation above. I mentioned that there’s a quote above I didn’t bother to punctuate with inverted commas. I was buzzed recently. By a young, black female student, resident in Pretoria. Online. From a site. “Hey – wanna chat?” or something like that. I looked at her profile. It stated quite openly “I’m looking for a blesser to buy me nice hair and nails and stuff”….. Unquote. Needless to say, apart from the fact that she wasn’t a particularly attractive mercenary whore which merely made it even sadder, I declined her request to “chat”. Shame. I guess she doesn’t know that the vagrant outside and I are more akin than strangers. Yes I live inside the complex he lies outside of, but our finances are pretty much neck and neck right now I’d be prepared to wager. He might get thrown off the lawn, but I might get thrown down the stairs. Anyway… I am not a blesser. Or, put another way, a man who would pay for a woman’s sexual servitude. Let me hastily ward off the acrimony that will surely arise from some (mostly female) quarters, mostly those women who know that they have compromised or will happily compromise their sexual integrity for material inputs, and say that of course people have got to do what they’ve got to do. No, I don’t wish to control female sexuality or curtail the freedom of women to do as they see fit, within the confines of what society deems law. But, really…?

I looked at the photo of the wannabe blessee who buzzed me. Weirdly, I thought of her folks. Was so saddened by it all. Did they really want their daughter growing up into this? Do they give a shit? Did they inspire her to it? People, hey…

It’s a headline. Young girls are going to drive past that. And it’s slightly celebratory in phrasure. Isn’t it? Am I being a prude? I don’t know…. But I do know that the young girls in my life that I care about I would have never factor in getting a “blesser” on board in order to ease their way in this life. God, no. For me, it’s far more prostitution and far less “just a girl making her way”, all smiles and happy, jiggly tits…. It’s whoring your slit. Can we just call it for what it is? A blesser is a whore monger. And a blessee is a whore. I don’t buy, as the headline seemed to encourage, that it’s a component of life nowadays and, ag, not so bad hey. Better than prostituting yourself on the street… Really? Somehow, street hookers seem to manifest more integrity than blessees, to me. I don’t think finding a blesser is an ok aspiration for any young woman. I would shit myself if one of my girls grew up factoring that into her safety net. Whoring one’s flesh costs. I know. We all know. We all feel it, which is why the massive majority of us don’t do it. I know that evolutionary psychology can paint marriage as nothing more than prostitution too, but I always found that extrapolation somewhat limited, as it avoided any mention of companionship, the spirit. The massive human growth and good that long term relationships help us feel if not positively manifest.
Whoring one’s flesh costs. Buying flesh costs. So, does “blessing”.
How long before your blesser wants to stick something up your anus and you’re lying there, contemplating the rape of your soul and the pain you’ll endure, weighed up against that big screen TV? Maybe you’ll be lucky and have a gentlemanly blesser and it will work out just fine for you, but the reason I don’t gamble is this thing – the losses are just too potentially great. If I could lose only 20% of my money and go home, maybe I’d gamble. But the prospect of going home without my shirt is too great an ask for me. The downside is too far down. It’s unacceptable. Complete. Utter loss. So, when your blesser makes you blow him in front of his friends, or comes over drunk and bliksems you before sodomizing you, or wants you to fuck his friends before he buys you a car, well… Good luck with that shit. It’s always a potential. See? It’s that unacceptable potential, like putting yourself into a situation where you can lose every penny you own, that’s an integral part of the contract that puts the lie to all the couching and lovey-doveyness you can say about blessers. Basically, it’s the knowledge that your ass is worth someone’s disposable income, that makes it unacceptable for me as a construct. A phenomenon.

Don’t be a blesser. Don’t be a blessee. Please God… And, speaking of God, bless all of you

Deel met jou tjommies!

By Marc

I had a strange experience the other day. Well, the other night actually… I went to Bassline in the arty precinct of Johannesburg. Well, the old arty precinct, before yuppies established Maboneng. Thursday night. Rocking dancehall. I dig it. Dancehall. Ragga. The music I mean. Boss reggae. Between Bob Marley and Lucky Dube, between my teen years and the anomaly I today manifest as, that shit has totally rocked. There’s something about that music. En, quite frankly, diegene wat groot geword het, veral in Kaapstad soos ek en boom gerook het kan skaars betwis dat reggae in jou brein gevestig is, china. That’s just how it is… There’s something so logical about the partnership of dagga and rocking reggae music and something so grand about jolling to reggae. It’s generally upbeat, positive and rhythm-rich – all things that won’t struggle to be welcome when they step into your life in any moment, even if only for a moment. Hulle het vir seker saam grootgeword, die blaar en reggae. Which doesn’t mean I won’t throw myself into a mosh pit, aging punk that I am. I just enjoy a wide variety of music. I think once you really feel the beat, the rhythm of music, you enter that world of it en dan is daar fokol “Dis kak” en “Hierdie is piele musiek” tipe houding weens (of is dit teen?) die kleur en ooprsprong van musiek – musiek is musiek en alle goeie musiek is goeie musiek.

So, having hooked up a date – a young, buxom black chic called Faith with suitably ‘black’ hair braids and thus ragga credibility (‘credibility’ or camouflage I so obviously ruined by being a bald, white man) we stuck out to Bassline on a Thursday night. Pleasantly surprised to find a Rasta selling doob… bags, prerolled, offer-to-roll-it-for-you right there on the curb, you name it. Doob and stuff. And the cops?
“The cops just take money man” he said. “It’s OK – they look after me.”
“Uuh… Really…?” I asked. “How is that looking after you, ripping your shit or taking your tjeld?”
“Aah it’s all OK man” he said, and then very skillfully rolled us a joint that we toked on a little. Well, me a very little and Faith smaffed the rest like an old pro.
I say “a strange experience” but actually I had a familiar experience of it the other night, at Bassline. “It”, being life… An experience of SA life… It never loses it’s strangeness for me though, no matter how many times I live it out, this thing in this place… I have been a member of a black family, my family, for years now. It all ended late last year when my ex demonstrated that no matter your colour, your tribe, your race, your creed, you can always take a shot at the title of Head Monumental Fuckup of the Universe. That, ignores race. Anyway… It was me. My black ex. And her two black daughters. My kids. OK, not my kids but my kids, you know? Here’s the contract with kids: all of them deserve love and you, the adult, sign up to love them unconditionally until you die, once you love them as your own, whether they are your own or not. Once you become an adult in their lives. As jy dit nog nie geweet het nie, raak wys. If you would claim human intelligence, a heart, the ability to be and do good, then that’s the contract with kids. There’s only one. One only. So, I’ve had black funerals, black church, black jolling, black street parties ekasi, black weddings… Jislaaik. Black life.

Years ago when I was living with a Thai woman, a somewhat jaded and local white guy who had two kids with a Thai woman that he’d separated from said to me at some Thai cultural event at Zoo Lake: “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re Thai. Once you think you’re one of them, you’re fucked.” I guess he was observing my role as local right hand man to the Buddhist abbot at the meditation center. All of the other local husbands could tell I saw something they didn’t in meditation. In Buddhism. I wasn’t trying to adopt a culture though, a point they missed. I was merely celebrating skill when I came upon it. I was merely returning to wisdom I had known in samsara before now…

I remember being a little taken aback by his scorn, but I took him as a slightly bitter source who nonetheless had a valid observation. It’s been a struggle for me. I am so colour blind I don’t even think of myself as white, nor do I gravitate towards black women, music and suss just because it’s black and I’m uncomfortable in my white skin. I do think the white middle class should all be taken out and bumfucked by a camel, but that’s not the point. Anyway, I’m getting lost here… The point is – it’s taken me years to think in fluid sentences in my brain that, yes, I’m white and OK being white among black people. I’m not black, no, but beyond that observation or statement, who gives a shit? Thanks for noting that. End of acknowledgment. I’m South African, man… God, I’m human. I really do feel blessed to have coloured, black and white blood in me (and having looked at my genealogy once in the Cape Town archives, I totally do) on this strip of earth, having had all of the varied cultural inputs and nuances I’ve had growing up here. Peter, another former Thai-loving local whitey I met at that time had engaged me in conversation one night at his place.
“What do you think we are?” he’d asked. “European?”
“Uuh.. Ja, I guess, Caucasoid motherfuckers that we are, Peter.” I’d said.
“No. We’ve got almost fuck all in common with Europe man,” he’d said “we’re hybrids. It’s gone too far. We’re different to everyone now, us SA whiteys.”
I think he made an interesting point…

So, the few black funerals I’ve been to, wow…. Ek dink ek het al miskien so vyf bygewoon en ek kan seker die whiteys wat ek by hul almal kan onthou op die vingers van een hand tel. OK, OK, dis fokol. Dit sê niks behalwe miskien dat wit en swart nog steeds aparte lewens leef nie en dis OK op sekere levels, né? Daardie tipe ding neem tyd. OK. The ‘meshing’ in of various cultures until one day we look like Brazil. Or maybe Turkey. Where everyone looks Brazilian or Turkish first, and their tone comes after. Their origins. Watookal. Not that meshing in is necessary. I love being different. A different race. And I love being the same too. A people member. But it has occurred to me sometime during the service at a black funeral, or piling onto the back of a bakkie en route to the burial itself or standing in the graveyard when the body is lowered into the ground that I am the only whitey for fucking miles. I do wonder where the cultural blur is, why, when there’s this huge swathe of different, often sexy, very easy going humanity here – black folk – why whiteys are not positively present.
Black weddings? I’ve often been complimented by a handful of white work colleagues who either know the groom or the bride and thus have not been utterly alone in my race at weddings. I say that…. The last wedding I attended was in Zimbabwe. We drove up there through the utterly corrupt shit hole that Beit Bridge is and, sitting at this massive, black wedding (I think the entire district was invited), in Zim, I realised something interesting. Here I was, a lone whitey, at a black wedding with at least five thousand guests (I shit you not), taking place on a redistributed farm (the groom’s father was a recipient of Mugabe’s land reform ideas), going outside for a smoke every now and then to be engaged in conversations with a political twist to them by locals who were obviously at least intrigued if not weirded out by me. Me and my black fiancee. I say all of these things and write about them now, here, not because I am so conscious of being white but merely because it’s taken me years to start noticing when I’m a lone whitey and it has started to fascinate me a little. It’s lekker, because I can dance, baby. I can beebop. I’m not hanging my head around any race on earth, not on that score. Dankie. And I am chilled. And ‘at home’, you know? I can klap Black Label sitting under a tree in Mamelodi like I was born there and have been doing this every weekend of my adult life. So if I am aware of my race at all, it gives me some small kicks to disprove the assumptions I’m normally faced with. White men have small cocks (haven’t publicly disproved that one yet – that’s a personal mission I’m working on debunking on a one-to-one basis), white people can’t dance, white people won’t eat with their hands, white people won’t sit on the ground, white people just don’t generally get the black cultural necessities. It gives me some joy to piss on all of that when I happen to find myself in a position to do so. It makes me happy to be able to assert that we are all different and yet so obviously so much more similar, that any insistence on fundamental differences should just be taken out and shot with heavy weaponry.

Black church is a suffering for me, mostly because it goes on for fucking hours and, man, I do OK not being the lone whitey who stands up and walks out because I just cant take it any more but boy, I avoid it where I can. You can go to church for the whole fucking day as a black person. I don’t think God requires it, but there they go…

Let me wrap up the historical inputs and make my point about the strangeness I mentioned above. What else can I add to this catalogue? I was the only whitey at The Soil’s concert a year or two ago, oddly enough held at Mosaïek, the Afrikaans church stroke rock concert venue. I couldn’t have been the only whitey at Orlando Stadium with my ex to see R Kelly but I didn’t see any other whiteys. Fucking bizarrely, I nearly had a punch up with a coloured guy next to me who was with his wife, because he found my behavior with my ex – slinking to R Kelly and sucking face copiously – offensive. He shoved me and said “Don’t come and fuck your woman here!” when I walked past him at some point to go and buy beer. Ekskuus? WTF….?? To this day, I don’t know what that was really about and, no, we weren’t groping sexually or practicing foreplay, much less fucking in the aisles. We were just dancing lovingly and having a good time. I think he just didn’t dig a mixed race couple being happy. Period. Fokken rassis. If ever you read this, jou ouma se hele ou kont, né? I should have busted your head. Let myself down that night, I feel I haven’t strolled through black townships looking for the perfect kota, stared down whiteys at posh WASP venues when I enter with my sexy, young black lover, told black and white critics alike to go and fuck themselves generally, only to listen to some fucking conservative brown boetie give me shit at a public venue, a concert. Sometimes, I really yearn for the gun and the badge, man, just to be able to cuff them and ram a night stick up people’s arses when it’s so obviously the only valid response.
Anyway, the point… The point is, in a nut shell – where the fuck are the whiteys like me??? We’re all over, ja, us whiteys, maar by die jols of kerke of waddiefok ek ook al bygewoon het, was ek fokken aleen en hier’s die clincher: by fokken Bassline was ek so amper alleen! There was one white chick there. One. And me. I was blown away. No, I haven’t been there for maybe fifteen years but, God… It was kicking man. A fucking great jol! It just blew me away that I seemed to be the most enthusiastic attendee, for one – but that’s a separate issue I guess – the fact that everybody stood around kind of dull, watching, while the music was so rockarolla. But mostly, I was blown away by the fact that I was the only white male. Really? Waddiefok? I completely expected a good, mixed crowd, surely containing all of the guys like me who grew up with this in their lunchbox, surely a few old faces from Rockey Street, maybe my old bonghead mate Adrian… Jislaaik. Someone, something, some fucking ragga collection of whiteys who have this as their thing too… But, fucking no-one?

It left me with a desire to round up twenty whiteys next time and feed them into the venue so that I can be less startled. Maybe a hundred and twenty.

I’m venting a little and not substantiating much, I guess and can see now, as I reread what I’ve written, that the point is perhaps still obscure. Let me just conclude with this then: I was the only white male at a reggae night at Bassline the other night. If anyone can explain why I thought that would be impossible, please let me know. Whiteys are brave. Embarrassing sometimes, but brave in a cosmopolitan sense. Afrikaners is plesierig. How come I was alone there? White folk? Don’t you dig reggae? Isn’t the prospect of a mini Caribbean beach party something lekker?
I’m not the only whitey who would rock there. Any time UB40 comes on in any whitey venue, watch, because people move. That thing, that upbeat dance. Come, whiteys! Come stick it on Bassline next Thursday night!

Deel met jou tjommies!

Woorde: Griffin, Rolbees & Chris Danger ThunderVolt
Prentjies: Big H

Die H-Mobile se soniese knal onderbreek Waterkloofriffraff  se stilte en so paar Hadeda’s klap verward vlerk in verskeie ritings tot hul hoogtevreeskrete flou uitdoof soos hulle oor die bome verdwyn, moontlik op ‘n mission op pad na die volgende subarban kar se neus om met pers kak te versier.  Die enorme tuig raak sigbaar soos dit deur die mis daal en bons tweekeer saggies soos wat die skokabsorbeerders inskop om hulle werk te doen en stoom uitblaas. Die luikdeur sak tot op die grond en Big H en AnniBrand loop uit om Rolbees en Griffin halpad te ontmoet op die landingstrook. AnniBrand se hare waai wild rond in die ysige wind.
“Waar’s jou skêr?”, vra sy
“Sy het ‘n brandwond opgedoen na gisteraand se onderonsie met die Oosrandse tappits by Bad Luck Bar. Sy is onder sedation in die cell re-generator. Besides, sy like fokol van metal. Ons weet almal wat by Iron Maiden gebeur het”, tune Griffin. ”
“Sy sal deurtrek,” antwoord AnniBrand terug
“Is julle fokken reg vir die mission?”, vra Griffin en druk ‘n skyf in die hoek van sy mond terwyl hy met ‘n lighter peuter.
Almal knik met ‘n grynslag. Rolbees beweeg eerste nader aan die die H-Mobile tot reg voor die luik, druk ‘n knoppie en sy rystoel kom raserig met ‘n hik en so paar stikke eventually regop soos dit die vorm van ‘n eskoskelet aanneem.
“Daai ding fokken raas, Oscar Pistorius! Ek het al hoeveel keer vir jou gesê jy moet hom olie. Gods”, laat Griffin van agter die ander twee hoor.
“Man, fok jou!”, hap Rolbees terug en loop in tot by die eerste ry sitplekke in die tuig waar hy homself vasmaak en rondfok met sy armour.

Die res van die misbaksels volg hom na binne  – Griff gaan sit agter by Rolbees en Big H en AnniBrand voor.  “Buckle up, fokkers!” Big H flick so paar switches terwyl die deur toeskuif, check so paar dials (net sodat dit lyk of hy weet wadefok hy doen) en trek die throttle terug met mening. Die H-Mobile beur op, eers stadig terwyl papiere, plastieksakke en ander rommel kolk onder die thrusters se wind. Honde blaf en kar alarms huil en die tuig skiet so paar honderd meter in die lug op. Next stop, Braamfontein. Waar God se lelikste kreature laataand uit hulle gate kruip om hulself aan drank oor te gee en hulle bes probeer om stinkvingertjie te speel met enige los kreatuur wat geinteresseerd voorkom.
“Wat is die mission vanaand?” vra Rolbees.
“Strictly ‘n recon by Bassline”, tune Big H.
“Die targets?” vra die newbie.
“Drie rogue units. Een local homo sapien unit en moontlike humanoids van die States af,” antwoord Griffin, terwyl hy in sy neus krap en die vonds tussen sy duim en wysvinger behendig in ‘n groenerige balletjie rol.
“En die derde een?” vra hy weer.
“Sulke hybrid genetically transformed fokops. Half vark, half mens. At least, dis die intel wat ons gekry het,”sê Big H.
“Wat is hulle modus operandi?,” wil AnniBrand weet.
“Obviously iets fokken onheiligs,” tune Rolbees asof hy alles weet.
“Vanaand skiet ek hulle almal faktap,” mompel Big H, sy oë amper glaserig
“Chill uit, bra. Ons is net daar om te observe. Soos die fokken IEC met election time”, tune Griffin. Sy koëelvaste baadjie is ietwat te klein vir hom en hy trek-trek die heeltyd aan die ding soos ‘n tikverslaafde wat lanklaas ‘n rook gevat het.
“Goeie nuus is dat daar is ‘n double agent is om ons te help by Bassline. Die kak nuus is ek weet nie wie de fok dit is nie. Hy sal ons blykbaar approach”,  laat Griff hoor terwyl hy ‘n skyf vir die tweede keer onsuksesvol probeer light.
“Wat as van hulle dissipels in die pad kom?” vra Annibrand.
“Dan skiet ek hulle ook faktap!”
Big H het duidelik nie tyd gekry om by McDonalds te land voor die mission vir ‘n Happy Meal nie.  Hy kom hoogs geirriteerd voor.
“Ons is hier” grom hy en land heelwat minder grasieus as sy vorige attempt in Pretoria. Hierdie keer in Bassline se parkeerarea waar hy ‘n Hilux vergruis onder die H Mobile se gewig.
“Koop volgende keer ‘n proper bakkie, poes!” Vir die eerste keer in maande lyk dit of daar ‘n halwe glimlag wil deurbreek.

Almal begin rondvroetel in hulle back packs en check hulle gear.
“Werk almal se in-ear communicators? “ vra Griff terwyl hyself ‘n oorfoon rondskuif in sy oor.
“10-4!” tune almal soos een man.
Die groep spring uit en beweeg na die agterste entrance waar die bouncer hulle retinas scan. Daar is ‘n groepie varkdissipels voor ‘n stage en almal is in swart geklee. Meeste van hulle spring op en af en gooi duiwelshorings omhoog. Een van die dissipels het ‘n Never trust the living t-shirt onder sy swart jas aan. Die club is donker en rokerig met ‘n inherente boosheid wat in die lug hang. Plek-plek slaan die reuk van ou bier jou op die neus.
Skielik verander die beligting en die hele vertrek se gemoed soos wat varkmense hulle teenwoordigheid aankondig oor die mikrofoon. Hulle dissipels gaan aapkak. Hulle lyk effens senuweeagtig maar hulle begin met hulle onaardse musiek en ‘n varkman met lang hare bliksem die drums asof dit Armageddon is. Die hoofvarkgevreet staan reg voor op een plek en slaan sy kitaar soos wat ‘n houtwerkmeneer ‘n standerd sessie slaan in ‘n model c skool. Hy praat met ‘n dik, zef, Wolmeraksent en hy lyk soos ‘n kruising tussen ‘n vark-alien en Gene Simmons. Tussendeur maak hy onaardse varkgeluide terwyl die kitaar huil soos ‘n standerd sessie wat deur ‘n houtwerkmeneer geslaan word in ‘n model c skool. Die bassist hamer nog meer ritme in die alien kakofonie in. Een van die varkmense hol heeltyd rond op stage en connect met hulle dissipels en met die ander varke op stage. Hy spring van die drum rise af en gooi befokte old school wailing solos. ‘n Sexy sog  hardloop besete op stage rond met ‘n grinder en probeer haar chastity belt af grind. Dis net fokken sparks orals en die crowd is onbewus van die gevaar dat sy moontlik die club kan afbrand, of erger – haar poes ‘n plus kan sny.
Die varke shred deur een tune na die ander en aldrie members van die recon team staan soos ‘n kollektiewe oopmond Hansie Conjé en kyk, die mission amper vergete. Daar is ‘n tegniese probleem in die middel van die set en dit gee Big H kans om met die team te connect: “Hierdie unit is poesgevaarlik! Letterlik. Moenie dat hulle julle intrek met hulle musiek nie,” waarsku hy oor die radio.
“Hou net aan fokken skiet, Big H!” laat hoor Griff terug. ”
“Iets is fout met my…” tune Rolbees. Hy begin duiselig voel en dit lyk of sy weerstand besig om te kak. “Ek dink hulle het my!” Die musiek skop weer in en Rolbees word in die crowd ingetrek. Hy begin dans soos ‘n oerang-oetang op goedkoop cocaine. Met elke derde dans move kry ‘n varkdissipel ‘n kakebeen vol eksoskelet-elmboog en verruil die tydelike vir die ewige, Rolbees salig onbewus van sy destruktiewe danspassies en unintended industriële poesklappe. “Dis befok!” skreeu die kreupel. Hy stamp nog so paar dissipels rond asof hulle nat Marie beskuitjies is.
“Fokkit! Rolbees het alien varkgriep of iets!” tune AnniBrand…

“It’s the baconing!!!!,” skree die hoofvark in sy Wolmeraksent met ‘n snorklag. Griffin is volgende. Sy gesig vertrek in ‘n uitdrukking wat lyk soos ‘n vark op fyndraai terwyl hy onsukselsvol soos ‘n robot probeer dans. Hy verdwyn in die moshpit in. AnniBrand probeer nog keer maar dis te fokken laat. Die varkmusiek het haar ook nou aan die tiete beet. Dis nou feitlik net Big H wat die mission kan red. Terwyl die varke spekdemone oproep met hulle bose musiek skiet hy links en regs terwyl rook uit die Nikon se shutters trek. Tussendeur probeer hy uitfigure hoe presies hy die res van die span gaan red…

“We are Boargazm! Thank you Bassline!” is die varke se laaste woorde voor hulle stage verlaat. Rolbees verloor sy laaste varkie: “Boaaaaaargaaaaaazzzzmmm!”
Fear Factory verskyn op stage en die hele plek ontplof. Die flikkerende ligte sal moontlik iemand so vêr as Kaapstad epiliptiese aanvalle in hulle slaap gee. Die ou in charge weet wat hy doen want dit freak almal uit. Met die eerste song raak Griff eers bietjie nostalgies en skree oor sy in-ear communicator aan die res van die ouens, strome trane oor sy wange: “Dis ‘n vreemde, satisfying sound wat binne in jou borskas ruk en dreig om jou Uno Fire se six-by nine speakers ‘n nuwe een te ruk! Fok, dis amper soos Korn se dik sonic boom!” Hy gaan huilerig voort asof almal aandagtig luister: “Korn se eerste  album, konte! Die eerste track. Onthou julle?
*static*
Griff haal die communicator uit en peuter met die ding. “Ek kak sommer in my fokken broek!”
*static*
Een van die varkmense stop vir Griff ‘n tequila in die hand en hy duik weer terug in die moshpit in. So tussendeur twee songs irriteer Griff almal weer oor die radio: “Jirre maats, hierdie is die legendariese Fear Factory. Ek het dit ‘n jaar na Korn ontdek..”
*static*
“… het dit aan my introduce. Fok, hy’t gesê hy doen sound en… ”
*static*
“…hy ons contact vanaand?”
Griff raak weer emosioneel terwyl die res hulle oë rol: “Sampling, computers, drums, metal, dik kitaar sound en ballas – alles so in ‘n driepootpot ingekont wat oorkook met energie. Alles met Ballas! Hierdie is Fear Factory!!!
“Wie de fok is Fear Factory?” kom Rolbees se stem op oor die in-ears. “Klink soos Pantera vir my…”
Kan hom ook nêrens heen vat nie. Fokken doos.
Een van die varkmense approach Griff en Rolbees en trek hulle eenkant toe. Hy haal sy masker af. Dis Chris “Danger” ThunderVolt. “Kom saam met my as julle nie wil vrek nie…”
I don’t want to live that way! I don’t want to live that way! I don’t want to live that way! weergalm Fear Factory weer van die stage af.
Dit lyk asof dit ‘n onbegonne taak is om te probeer stilstaan op hulle musiek. Die moshpit lyk lyk teen hierdie tyd al soos ‘n cartoon stofwolk en so elke nou en dan is Annibrand se ponytail of ‘n linkertiet herkenbaar soos wat die stofwolk rol. Hulle het haar nou behoorlik ingetrek. Big H raak bekommerd maar hou vasberade aan skiet. Die hele club headbang. ‘n Chiropractor se droom. Die moshpit kry nog meer momentum.
“Ons intel was nie fokken akuraat nie,” tune Big H en duik in die bondel in om AniBrand oor sy skouers uit die chaos te dra. Hy trap hier en daar ‘n vinger af soos hy deur die crowd beur. Uiteindelik sluit hulle aan by die res van die span.

“Fear Factory is fokken humanoids,” tune Chris, “hulle mission is om hulle dissipels fokken doof te maak. Fokweet hoekom. Goddank vir hierdie in-ear communicators met die noise filters.”
“Waar de poes het jy daai gear gekry?” vra Griff.
“Uit julle outdated space ship, my bra. Op dieselfde manier as wat marrafakkers laptops uit BMWs se boots steel by die Hyde Park shopping center. Signal jammers.”
“Well, thank fuck dat jy ‘n skelm kont is. Jy kom my actually net ge-WatssAp het en getune het jy’s ons inside ou. As jy ons nie vroeër gevang het nie, het hierdie sonic boom! my poepstring deur my hol uitgeruk.”
“No worries, bra…”

Fear Factory klink weer op:

What I thought was life
Came to an end
Born into a world
I never asked for this
I’ve got to get awayyyyyy!

Born into hardship
World of destruction
Suffer, bastard
I’ve got to get awayyyy!
Griff draai na Rolbees terwyl almal deur se kant toe begin loop: “Fokken Pantera? Jy’s faktap. Hoor jy dit? Dit klink soos Ministry, maar net minder gay. Of wag, Ministry is ook befok. Imagine daar was ‘n hoërskool vir industrial metal? Soos die têk? Ministry is standerd 8 uit daai skool uit en Fear Factory het klaargemaak met universiteitsvrystelling.”
“OK, fok. I get it. Dit klink nie soos fokken Pantera nie…”

‘n Ongoddelike knal bars los en ‘n wit lig verblind alles in sig…

Rolbees word wakker, natgesweet in ‘n Fear Factory t-shirt en ‘n paar comics lê verstrooid om sy bed op die mat langs ‘n wit onderbroek met ‘n dik bruin streep. Hy sukkel uit sy bed uit tot in sy rolstoel en beweeg kombuis toe waar hy vir homself flou tee met sewe suikers maak. Terwyl hy se tee sluk maak hy Outlook op sy laptop oop:

1 Unread Message.

Hy maak dit oop.

From: ‘Chris Danger’
To: ‘Griffin’
CC: ‘Rolbees
Subject: RE: FW: FW: FW: FW: Jou sussie se balhare ruik soos Cheese Curls

Howzit Griffin en Rolbees. Jirre Rolbees, jammer dat jy Fear Factory gemis het. Dit was ongelooflik. Ek onthou toe ons die call gekry het. Nie net het Fear Factory commit om Suid Afrika toe te kom nie, maar Boargazm is opgeline om vir hulle te open by altwee shows. Die JHB aand by Bassline was vol akitiwiteite. 11th Hour se guitarist het 20 min laat opgedaag en die dudes kon net 3 of 4 tunes jam. Ons het lekker gejol en die sound was kakhard! Daar het ‘n paar kabels gekak, ons het magic tricks gedoen en Heine was ‘n fokken kokkelol op stage – maar Fear Factory was insane! Die sound by die JHB show was vreeslik hard. Hulle het ‘n level van precision en tightness wat net hulle kan nail. Hulle riffs en drumming patterns is ook geskryf om die beste sound uit te alles kry. ‘n Klipharde, tight, driving snot-klap. Hulle het ook nie konvensionele amps gebruik nie. Hulle het AxeFX, Kemper Profiling en Line 6 rack units gebruik wat veroorsaak dat hulle travel met minder stuff maar hulle kry dieselfde tight sound aand na aand.

Ons het die ouens vroeër die aand ontmoet. Nice dudes. Heel chill, still en teruggetrokke. Arme Dino se voet was seer, so hy het maar stadig beweeg tussen punte. Ons het hulle toe raakgeloop op die lughawe toe ons almal Kaap toe getravel het. By The Assembly was dit ook ‘n lekker vibe. Bietjie kleiner plek, so dit het lekker opgevul. Die varke het eers gaan ribs eet by Lefty’s terwyl Fear Factory soundcheck. Hulle het ook daar opgedaag en almal het lekker varke geëet en Queen gesing.

Die show by Assembly was ook befok. Ill System is al ‘n ruk lank aan die gang en hulle het ‘n baie lekker vibe met ‘n variety van styles en sounds. Ons was ook bietjie gemakliker. Minder nervous as Vrydagaand. Ons het lekker grappe vertel, mal geshred en rond gehardloop soos ‘n klomp mal varke. Fear Factory het weereens voluit gestoom en vir Kaapstad ‘n nuwe een geskeur.

Ek het na die show met hulle roadie, John gesort laat hulle my ‘Fuck You’ Explorer sign. Lekker gechat met die brasse! Hulle is baie lief vir Suid-Afrika en het dit heavy ge-dig. Dit was surreal! Ek het Fear Factory in die 90s die eerste keer gehoor en nooit in my lewe gedink ek sal hulle ontmoet nie, en nou’t ons saam met hulle gejol! Witchdoctor Productions doen great magic – die toordokter kry al die metal bands hier. Ons is vreeslik weggeblaas deur die hele geleendheid.

Ons waardeer dit vreeslik en try maar ons vark vlag hoog vlieg.

Re-spêk!

Deel met jou tjommies!

Ons het verlede week uitgesak by Arcade Empire in Pretoria en moontlik een van die beste live gigs van 2016 gesien. ‘n Watkykertjie, Towerjas, het sommer liries geraak en Big H het soos gewoonlik vir ons kiekies gekap.

Woorde – Towerjas
Kiekies – Henry Engelbrecht

Ek is verlede Vrydag bewys dat die local musiekindustrie definitief nie in sy moer in is nie, maar besig is om nuwe horisonne te betree met befokte kunstenaars en crazy musiek wat vir dae lank nog in iemand se kop sal replay. Daar is invloede van vêr en wyd wat ons oorals kan aanvoel, maar daar is tog iets waarop ons ons eie duim nie kan sit nie, iets wat nie sin maak nie. Dalk omdat ons blind is om ons eie kulturele identiteit bietjie krediet te gee en te sê dat ons werklik net ‘n befokte poespas van mense is in die land.

Albert Frost, Die Afro-Boer (Gerald Clark) en Black Cat bones (Kobus de Kock, André Kriel Chris van der Walt) het weer gesorg vir een crazy performance waar harde werk en ure agter instrumente uitkom en wys. Ure agter die instrumente waar mense, vriende, vreemdelinge en familie om ‘n vuur sit en braai, stories vertel, kak praat en musiek maak, waar die hart eers skep en nie die gewensde identiteit van die media nie. Waar die ware self in uitspraak tot ons eie omgewing uitkom en wys.

Ja, natuurlik gaan daar invloede wees van vêr en wyd, want ons is mos nou ‘n geglobaliseerde wêreld en nasie. Nou ja. jy is deel van hierdie, ons is deel van hierdie, ons is deel van die wêreld en nie net meer ‘n kol op ‘n kaart nie. Gaan uit en ontdek die prag wat ons local kunstenaars vir ons bied want waar anders in die wêreld stap jy uit na ‘n show en klink ‘n bier saam met jou gunsteling kunstenaar en musikant soos Albert Frost, Gerald Clark, André Kriel, Chris van der Walt en Kobus de Kock?

Dis mense soos die wat net lewe vir die goedheid van die hart. Dit is net passie wat ‘n man so vol vrede kan pomp. Dat jy tyd het vir alle invloede wat jou musiek volg en geniet. Dat jy kan skep in jou passie en vrede vir die wat werklik jou identiteit geniet en deur dit te sorg dat mense oor talle generasies die Blues kan geniet met n whiskey in die siel.

Wees trots, wees befok, wees tradisie en wees local, want hier is dinge befok en aan die kook. Los politiek en al daai kak, wees die verandering en glo in jou kuns! Want ons is fokken mense en ons hou van lekker dinge.

Deel met jou tjommies!

Julle Oppikoppi veterans kan ook maar gerus deur hierdie tips scroll aangesien die kanse uitstekend is dat hierdie raad gewoonlik spooknugter gelees word en dadelik vergeet word met jou eerste “Koppiiiiiieee!” kreet wat jy laat weergalm soos wat jy die “Opppppiieeeee!!!” mating call van een of ander besope vreemdeling beantwoord in die bosveld. In fact, print hierdie storie uit en gaan sit dit solank in dag een se jeanpant se gatsak. Jy het mos klaar jou wardrobe eenkant langs ‘n tassie uitgepak, so excited is jy oor 2016 se festival.

Foto: Derius Erasmus

1) Raadpleeg die Oppikkoppi website vir band line-ups, fotos en ander inligting. Print sommer so paar copies van alles wat jy as belangrik ag uit en sit dit nou al in jou kar se cubbyhole. Old school werk cheaper uit. Papier is cheaper as gefokte fone. Which brings us to point nommer volgende…

2) Ons tune julle elke jaar om die duur fone en kak by die huis te los, maar niemand fokken luister in elk geval nie, so vat maar jou duur smartphone saam sodat jy kan selfies neem en Tweet en Facebrag en what-what. Maak net seker jou insurance is in tact. Krokodiltrane in jou ProNuro proe heavy kak.

3) Daar is nie kaartjies by die hek te koop nie. Dis nie ‘n karkbazaar nie. Gaan vang hulle hierso online.

4) As jy ‘n dayjob het, sit nou al solank leave in. Oppikoppi gebeur vanaf Vrydag 5 Augustus tot Sondag 7 Augustus. Hierdie jaar val Women’s Day op die 9de Augustus wat ‘n Dinsdag is. Don’t fuck this up. As jy geskiem het die vakansiedag val op die Maandag, mag jy dalk in vet kak wees by jou graft. As jy nie die Vrydag kan af vat nie, kom na werk deur of fokof vroeg Saterdagoggend. Moenie in die donker jaag nie. You’ll get there. It is a journey, not a fokken race, china.

5) Daar sal most likely ‘n roadblock wees net voor Northam, so onthou jou fokken driver’s license en maak seker jou kar se disk is op datum. Los ook sommer die Rondkyk Rothmans by die huis of pak ‘n warm truitjie en lube in as jy graag in die tjoekie wil slaap.

6) Maak vir jou en jou tjommies ‘n kief playlist om in die kar te jol – hier is vir jou ‘n super tip: gaan kyk bietjie na Oppikoppi se line-up en maak tunes bymekaar van bands wat jy fokken glad nie ken nie. Die punt van die hele festival is musiek. Leer bietjie nuwe stuff ken, jou aap.

7) As jy beplan om nie in Mordor/District 9 te camp nie (dis nou die general camping area vir julle newbies) bespreek sommer nou al vir jouself plek in een van die drie awesome tented hotels (http://oppikoppi.co.za/tent-hotels) – daar behoort nog so paar bedjies oop te wees.
8) Vir die campers. Hier is die basics wat jy moet inpak:
‘n Tent wat jy verkieslik voor die tyd uitcheck vir volledigheid. Jy wil nie na bier nommer ses daai sak in die donker uit die boot sleep en agterkom die tentpenne lê in die garage langs die tent en jy’t net die fokken cover ingepak nie. Slegte tye. Ons het al te veel keer gesien hoe volwasse mans langs hulle karre staan en huil soos rooikopweeskinders omdat hom tentjie nie in hom karretjie  ingepak is nie.
Slaapgoed – pak genoeg komberse en ‘n kussing of twee in. ‘n Grondseiltjie sal ook help.
So paar camping chairs en tafeltjie sal ook nie sleg wees nie.

9) Vir die campers wat bosbefok wil raak:
Sou jy so voel, is jy welkom om jou kar en ‘n Venter sleepwaentjie full-on te laai met camping gear, tafels, stoele, gas stofies, heaters, eetgerei, ‘n sitkamerstel, ‘n generator met DSTV en ‘n ysmasjien. Teen die tyd dat jy alles uitgepak het is die laaste band besig om te jol en dan moet jy al daai kak weer terugpak. Jy wil at least een band sien?
10) ‘n Man is nie ‘n klip nie en daar moet ge-graze word die hele naweek. As jy beplan om te braai, werk dit so uit dat jy dit op die eerste dag doen, want kanse is goed dat die wiele na aand een gaan afbliksem. Jy gaan moontlik te kaksleg wees die res van die naweek om ‘n braaitang hoër as jou toggos te lig. Moet ook nie alles fokken self saamsleep nie – beplan onderlangs tussen die tjommies wie vat charcoal, wie bring die vleis, watter bra pak die toeknyprooster in. Verdeel daai kosduties tussen almal. Daar sal ook hout te koop wees by Koppi, so los die fokken bome uit. Dis actually iemand se property. En hou daai vure onder ballashoogte en pis hom dood voor jy gaan lallies. Moenie soos Hlaudi Motsoeneng wees nie – werk bietjie fokken saam.

11) Oppikoppi werk met ‘n cashless card system. Vat kontant saam of koop ‘n cash card met jou kredietkaart. Jy kan daai cash card sagkens met ‘n lanyard laat hang onder jou shirt oor jou awesome têtte.

12) Pak so paar pakke chips in, ‘n chokkie of twee, ‘n swerm vrugte en ‘n trop water vir daai inbetween bevliegings. Die res van die tyd kan jy jouself faktap vreet by meer as dertig kosstalletjies. Daar is iets vir almal.

13) ‘n Gemaklike paar skoene word sterk aanbeveel. Jy gaan hopelik baie tussen die ses-en-‘n-half stages rondmission om soveel tunes as moontlik te absorbeer. In die proses gaan daar baie stof ook opgeskop word, so pak ‘n buff in. Daar is gewoonlik buffs te koop ook by die merch stalletjies. ‘n Tipe hoofbedeksel en sunnies om jou teen die son te beskerm sal ook nie sleg afgaan nie. So paar minute na die festival afgeskop het, sal jy ‘n hele paar gopse sien wat bierbokse of waatlemoene op hulle koppe dra, want hulle is fokken snaaks. Dan lag ons almal so tot melk by ons neuse uitspat.
“Jissou, ouens!”
*vee trane so van wange af van al die baie lag*
“Julle is blerrie snaaks, hoor! Flippit!”
Sonbrille werk ook lekker om hotties uit te check sonder dat hulle dit agterkom.
Oppikoppi raak saans kouer as enige van Littlefinger se hoere se harte en bedags warmer as jou niggie. Pak klere in vir drie dae van somer EN drie dae van winter.
‘n Goeie manier om nie eventually voetskimmel na jou gevreet toe te versprei nie, is om plakkies in te pak vir die stort vibes.
Wat onderklere aanbetref, pak in vir twee ekstra dae, want onskuldige poepe kom soms stilletjies uit met skilletjies. Veral op daai laaste dag. ‘n Poep se timing kan ‘n man maak of breek.
14) Jou badkamersakkie moet min of meer so daarna uitsien:
Koekie seep.
As jy meer as net jou koekie wil was, seep vir die res van jou lyf ook.
Deodorant (assefokkenbliefman).
Tandeborsel en tandepaste (grootassefokkenbliefman).
Wet wipes – jy gaan fokken huil as jy nie wet wipes inpak nie.
Boudservette. Moet om vadersnaam nie die fokken kakpapier vergeet nie. Jy sal spyt wees en spyt kom altyd te laat, tensy dit spuit is. Dan kom dit blerriewil orals.

15) As jy van plan is om te score by Oppikoppi, sorg dat jy zaberjassies inpak vir daai kromnekvoël van jou. Of even beter, pak tight-fitting thermal underwear in, want dit is veeldoelig – dit sal jou warm hou gedurende die aande en dit maak die perfekte broeknaaibroek. Sodoende kom daar ook nie stof of modder in waar dit nie moet nie. Geen goose soek stowwerige voorboude nie. Broeknaai is in elk geval heeltemal te under rated deesdae. Broeknaai is dik pret as jy die kaptein en die klein mannetjie in die boot reg opline…
16) Hangovers is ongelukkig ‘n groot deel van die festivities vir die ouens wat nie hulle drank kan hanteer nie. Dit gaan op ‘n stadium van die naweek voel asof jou hoenderkop stadig by jou poeflobbe wil begin uitloop. Baie mense reken jy moet net aanhou drink. Baie mense praat ook loutere fokken kak. Hierso is ‘n proven wenresep om jou hangover uit te sort:
Blaas jou neus om soveel as moontlik stof en snot uit te kry sodat jou sinusse weer kan begin praat met mekaar.
Moer een Berocca bruistablet in ‘n glas water – sluk 2 Myprodols daarmee af.
Maak ‘n sachet Rehidrat Sport aan in ‘n glas water en sluk ‘n Sinutab saam met dit af.
Kry nog ‘n glas water en sluk twee Essentiales of Proheps af.
Eet ‘n brekfisbroodjie met bacon en eier as jy confident is dat jy nie mondkatjies of keelkotsies gaan maak nie.
Probeer om vir ‘n halfuur lank nie te rook nie.
Gaan vang ‘n vet, bevrydende oggendkak.
Vang ‘n vinngie 20 minute slapie as jy kan.
Jy sal binne veertig minute weer reg wees om jou volgende hangover te begin bou.
*disclaimer – ons is nie dokters nie, so moenie rondfok met pille en medisyne as jou konstitusie soos Zimbabwe s’n daarna uitsien nie.

17) Los die volgende by die huis:
Troeteldiere – jou love birds, daai iguana en budjies sal sonder jou survive vir drie dae.
Bikes en scooters – jy sal toegang geweier word en as jy dit somehow regkry om ‘n scooter in te sneak, mag dit dalk net op ‘n bonfire beland.
Onder 18’s. Jy kan nog ‘n jaar of twee wag. Oppikoppi sal rustig vir jou ook sit en wag, pa se grootseun.
Daai kak houding – Oppikoppi staan vir brotherly love, nuwe vriendskappe en befokte tunes.

18) Los jou fokken kar uit en loop tot waar jy moet wees. Park hom net eenkeer. Jy gaan net oor ander mense se tente en bene kont as jy dronk in die donker probeer rondfok. Karre wat in die paadjies parkeer word sal weggesleep word, guaranteed. As jy beplan om heeldag musiek uit jou six-by-nines te blêr, maak seker jou bure like dit en dat hulle jumper cables het. Jy gaan gesuip raak en jou karbattery gan defnitief kak.

19) Dis goed om at least een act op elke stage uit te check en gaan maak ten minste eenkeer ‘n draai by die boonste bar. Dis waar die legendary parties uitbreek.
Jy moet by Oppikoppi ‘n idee hê van watter bands jy graag wil sien, maar jy moet ook fokken realisties wees en besef jy gaan omtrent 20% – 80% daarvan mis. Misdrink, miskuier, misnaai, mistos, misslaap, miskots, misfokkenals. En dis fine, want terwyl jy een ding mis, is jy besig om iets anders raak te sien, te kuier, te naai, te tos… Jy kry die idee.
Jy gaan probably na ‘n band of twee vanuit jou tent moet luister terwyl jy huil, en dis totally OK, bae. Ons sal verstaan. Ons was al daar.
20) Mens maak altyd nuwe tjommies by Oppikoppi. Soms kwaaivriende, soms friends for life. Dit hang maar van jou attitude af, ou perd. Jy mag dalk even die persoon van jou drome ontmoet. En kinders maak. Baie mense het al kinders gemaak by Oppikoppi. Van die eerste festival se offspring loop elke jaar op die sherrif se plaas rond soos mak hoenders.
“Haai kyk, daar is ou Glipsie Van Rensburg weer!”

21) Vat so paar swartsakke saam en try om die camp site netjies te hou. Wees vriendelik met die staff – hulle maak gereeld ‘n draai om jou rubbish skoon te maak. Dit geld vir die ander staff ook. Moenie kak soek met die mense nie – die ouens try net hulle job doen. Sit daai spiere se op safety, my ou.

22) Daar bestaan wel ‘n ding soos “die beste Oppikoppi ooit” en dis gewoonlik die een wat jy mis, so net vir die wis en die onwis moet jy maar liewer nie hierdie jaar s’n misloop nie.

En hier is ‘n bonus tip: moenie ‘n poes wees nie, wees net lekker.

Check julle in die stof!

Deel met jou tjommies!

By Marc

Look at the photos here… See the kids playground? A park. A public open space in Merafong. Looking at these photos, isn’t the first question that comes to mind, “Who’s the arselicking comrade?”

Firstly, hate to shatter your reality but communism failed, china. Haha that’s classic! It did fail, China. Just ask the several hundred million emerging middle class Chinese. Mostly because it was run by assholes like you. So can we stop calling each other “comrade” in 2016 please? Kids of any colour don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about. And, secondly, well, capitalism fails too. It just takes longer to die but the point is no one thinks it’s a good idea to paint children’s swings in party political colours. Except Kim Jong-il or whoever the little dwarf is who runs North Korea and we all know he’s a retard. Thirdly, while kicking away broken glass, cigarette butts and condoms that were almost brittle, so long had they been lying there, do you think you could possibly give as much thought to picking this shit up as you do to the promotional sneakery you gave in painting poles that colour? The maintenance is simplistic and basically comprises mowing – god knows how often or, rather, how seldom – maar van gereelde chicken parade is daar fokol, boetie. Fokol.
The combination of broken glass beneath kids’ swings and the colour of the swings themselves just really got up my nose. It was just such a proof of misdirected functionality… No, dysfunctionality.

Obnoxious.

You took my tax money and painted some fucking poles with enamel paint in your political colours. In Carltonville. In a children’s’ park. Jou ouma se vuil gat. You’re fired. For incredibly bad taste. For being an ass kisser. For bringing your fiefdom in and trying to shove it down my throat. For, instead of using an opportunity to share and demonstrate community, rather opting for the same opgefokte doosgeid that made Eugene Tereblanche such a convincing dickhead, a tradition capably continued by such stars of the firmament as Julius Malema and even more established caricatures like Tony Yengeni and Robert McBride and all the other fat, pisscat assholes who got a job from dad. Almal afloat in hul eie unashamed kakwaters. You’re an iconoclast and the idols you destroy with your petty bullshit are our hopes of friendly getting along. Communal aspiration. Association. Just being cool as people together. Didn’t your mother teach you that the best route to congeniality is neutrality, especially when you’re fucking with public property? I paid for those poles, you stupid shit. If I had painted those recreational facilities, I would have put kids first. Just to begin with. Bright, happy primary colours, devoid of any even potentially misconstrued political overtones. Secondly, I would have considered yellow, black, white and turquoise people as well as the broad surrounds and been mindful of the aesthetic input I was giving too.
The whole construct of authority due to government really gets up my ass when I see things like this. Het jy geweet, toe Eritrea van Ethiopia geskei het, het daardie nuwe government vir ‘n stipend gewerk, vir jare? Net lat die fokken eksperiment kan werk. Want hulle wou. Because they put their personal ambition aside and made the fucking country work. Of course, they’ve also banned opposition political parties, never instituting their land’s fine constitution so, beyond a certain point, a politician is always an asshole. But the point is – that kind of largesse you’ll never see here. Not here. Here you step into a role in local or national government feeling proud, like you’ve made it. Like you’re someone. You’re only someone to the extent that you’re a servant, you dumb shit. It’s all upside down. Instead of having to move out of the fast lane for a blue light brigade (and fok, how I’d like to shoot an RPG at you fuckers) you should be pushing a broom in the yellow lane. Get it? You’re a civil servant. You’re here to serve. Serve me and all of the other over taxed, bumfucked-by-price citizens in this fine country.

You don’t make Carltonville Merafong, you just make it a soviet shit stick, painting your party colours on children’s stuff.

Maybe it was coincidental. And maybe the painter took creative license. And maybe many maybes. But whoever has jurisdiction over that little happenstance – and he or she is there, sitting fat, feeling smug – you need to take responsibility for this minor tragedy on South African soil. Whole new idea hey? Accountability. And repaint the fucking poles, asshole. And pick up all the shit that’s lying around. Have some pride, take some pride in your surrounds, your community, your own fucking abilities.

Jislaaik. Did I say this already? You’re an asshole!

Deel met jou tjommies!

By Marc

Johannesburg has grimy streets. The CBD, I mean. There’s a lot of excavation work going on in town, as there is all over Joeys, with standard maintenance. MTN’s cabling ambitions and the ubiquitous Joburg Water constantly digging up pavements and generally making dust and shit out of what was once a decent level surface but, also, there’s a crap house full of humanity here. The wear and tear (busted water pipes trickling, road usage, remnants of fires made in the night) and the moronic flippancy of humanity (chuck your shit on the ground), not to mention bodily fluids, mielie skins, soot, general refuse and constant pedestrian traffic all go towards something I noticed the other day, now that I live in the CBD, having left leafy suburbia behind. I came home to notice the smears on my bathroom mats. From my shoes. I had walked the grime into my apartment. You can get away with walking through your house in your shoes in suburbia without dark marks showing on your carpeting. Not here, cousin. Here the Asian traditions hold truer – take off your shoes when you enter.

I am digging it though. I last fraternised in Joburg CBD almost thirty years ago – visiting Peri Peri, the long running Portuguese restaurant with blood curtains draped like whale spoof all over the place and the old Chinatown – Commissioner Street – Seven Swallows or Eight Hundred Swans or whatever it was. The Market Theater. Carlton Center, when it was still a thrill to get up high and Carlton defined high and still had swagger.

I have been wanting to return to inner city living just to see what the inner city is nowadays and also maybe write the developments and achievements up for Joburg Property, put together a more interactive portal with video and copy content and generally present Joburg in a less predictable and far more exciting manner. Since I’m still pitching that, I’ll avoid any comments about dry, shitty governmental information, scattered and half buried among all sorts of other crap to avoid being thrown out of my next appointment but jislaaik, fok! There is a lot happening and some beautiful buildings in Joburg, old as is and also the refurbished ones, great overtures and such a mooshmash. Streetside cafes, building renovations and conversions, different strategies being tried out on space utilisation, but you wouldn’t know it trying to coalesce the fragmentary bits and pieces posted by parties who have developments happening, municipal overtures manifesting, individual optimists and so on. Hence my desire to skip across those private and/or state boundaries and present Joburg CBD as a unified thing, and this is what it looks like to me…

I have seen other whiteys. First, a half-lams or quite possibly semi-retarded omie hobbling along to work. Then quite a swish looking chic crossing Gandhi Square. Then another well dressed middle aged dude sitting in a bus shelter. A white couple who took it all back down a peg, looking more like Krugersdorp central (failed) white working class who make the transition to “living with the blacks you know” with such an irksome lack of grace. And, well, a few others. But as for whiteys in my building (it’s big), there’s one white chic doing her rastaman and no one else, I think. So far. And,as for whiteys who hit the streets and head for MTN rank or Bree or Wanderers with a knapsack on their back in the early dark of the morning like all the other wretched of the earth trudging their way to work, I think I’m alone. So far, as far as I can tell…

From my unique perspective, while I used to hustle some of the tellers at Checkers Lonehill, a few of which I would totally do, here the tellers in the local Spar are all lelik. Is that a town thing? Also, the whole prospect of getting close to the black female pedestrian masses, a prospect I relished as I turned my head so often taxiing through town in the months I have been without a vehicle and before I moved here, is kind of offset by being a token whitey. Somehow, being white and on the street as a whitey in the CBD is still unexpected. Unexpected by black folk anyway. Not unexpected as in mildly alarming or exciting, unfortunately, but unexpected as in it goes unnoticed. I guess in mixed or predominantly white suburbia, black chicks expect to see white guys. Here, I guess they expect to shop and walk and get home – there doesn’t seem to be much wide eyed interest in life generally, never mind the novelty of a whitey they just might want to bang. Fok. From line fishing I guess I’ll have to develop a trawling strategy here. There have been one or two smiley greetings on my stairwell but, besides that, the whole total capitalisation on proximity hasn’t panned out as I imagined. Little chats over the laundry line, a “Say, could you help me hang my mirror (smiling wryly)”, even a student or two who frat with all colours who might say “Say, tell me how come you’ve decided to stay in town and (while I’m dreaming) are you busy this evening because I’d really love it if you came over and banged the shizznizz out of me?”

I’m reminded of a conversation I had while sitting in a taxi with a girlfriend not long ago, when she said, in whispered tones, that black folks who see a whitey in a taxi think there’s something wrong, like, the whitey’s a failed whitey in some sense. It’s always interesting for me to hear what black folk think of whiteys because, of course, I’ve heard all the white stuff whiteys say about darkies, but we seldom get to hear those offhand bits of bigotry darkies throw around about us. Well, fuck you. Fronting for a UK concern, I’m buying and selling cars weekly so I have a lot of cars in my life and I could surely drive one if I wanted. The fact is, I’m still enjoying the experience of taxiing in a minibus. They go everywhere, stop anywhere and generally get you there faster than anything could, even in peak, except perhaps a motorbike. I’ve gained a different perspective – when you’re behind a taxi or, more usually, cut off by one or watching one reversing up an off ramp or driving on the wrong side of the road, you just want to stick your foot up his ass. But when you’re inside one, they’re pretty groovy for all of the reasons mentioned above. A huge weight of hatred has fallen from me, simply by being a regular passenger..

Terug huis toe, I stroll past a shop – is it the church’s shop? – that looks more like a porn video store with thousands of DVD titles displayed in the windows. There are tiny holes in the wall shops – hairdressers, cell shops (every one with a Pakistani in them), clothing ‘stores’, penis enlargement shops…. Just kidding about the last one although, for fuck’s sake, in probably the only city in the world where bigger dicks and tits and thirty minute abortions and recapturing lost lovers is advertised to dementia in posters on every available surface. I often wonder where exactly the blou vetterjoel these practitioners operate from? The church over the road is either small or the building they operate from relatively sound proof, because they aren’t offensive. Assuming, of course, you don’t take the name seriously and the nigger in his swish suit who heads it all up – Holy Prophet Trinity or some such. I should start a church, it’s good money. Pastor Chris knock-offs, the lot… Always some asshole who is claiming a direct line to God… And, by the way, on the subject of the money hungry asswipe Pastor Chris – fok jou. Wow, that felt good…. The sooner you’re caught with hookers or molesting children the better for human sanity and the black working class’ savings kitty. Jesus wouldn’t pay you a visit, bling boy. Fucking pimp.

There are hairdressers who braid all over, little single crate ‘spazas’ all over, a true weekend stitches tavern over the road up the drag a little. Weekend stitches in your head, from a beer bottle or half brick. You know the type. More churches scattered around, every one hoping to be ‘blessed’ by God as he allows them to take money out of good people’s pockets and buy a new suit…

It has taken me a few days to stop jumping every time a car goes over the steel grid on our building’s ramp outside – each time it happened when I first moved in I thought it was the neighbours again, banging on the door about the music. I have post traumatic stress disorder on the issue, man. So happy to have black neighbours now as no one gives a shit about time lines and volume. None of this pedantic white shit that I had to diffuse constantly at the old place.

Joburg town is beautiful. It’s big, has some lovely buildings that although not that old already speak of a former era, such is the care and even artistry or artisan-ship that went into them when they were built all those years ago. I haven’t been mugged yet and Metro cops are everywhere, along with bus line security guards, Joburg City security guards and assorted other security personnel. I’m not sure if all of that’s a good thing – I am half expecting to be mugged by a cop – but let’s see…

One can’t help notice, though, that other foreign nationals – notably the Pakistanis who have all of these clothing and cellphone shops all over – are pretty relaxed on the streets. They are cash businesses too. They don’t seem too freaked out by life in Joeys.

So, how’s life in the CBD? Ok. The taxi ranks at Bree and MTN and even Wanderers are remarkably well organised. There are venues where you can do just about anything except pat an elephant (although that’s not far) and people here are just folks, you know, trying to get ahead. Working, shopping, eating, working again. So far, the wretched skollies and the failed seem remarkably absent. There are only three or four persistent beggars around the place. All of those “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” responses I got when I mooted moving here (interestingly mostly from black friends) haven’t been supported by dire experience nor any other pitfalls. I still remember how Atang, a girlfriend, was mugged up the 200m road that sits on my last place’s corner. Just outside my leafy, swish apartment in Lonehill, sexy Fourways, tsotsis mugged my chick one evening when it was still light enough for passing cars to see it all and step on the gas pedal. Also here, I strongly suspect, if you hash it out and become of interest to pedestrian traffic, having just ripped off a store or mugged someone poorly chosen, there’s a real possibility that you’ll be kangaroo courted and flogged in the streets (or burnt or beaten to death with bricks, either way) so, crime is a high risk venture unless you’re fast on your feet or high on nyaope.

My apartment is nice, a little boxy, but nice, and, having bought prepaid electricity for the first time in my life, R20 has seen me through the last thirteen days of power needs. Think I was getting fucked at my last place, that’s for sure.

Just one thing – can this city, for no extra spend than it currently extends, not rig a 24 hour cleaning squad so that we can have clean streets? Yes, maybe Metro cops can also harass litterers but, really, having watched Joburg town become more and more soiled over the last decade or two, can someone in the municipality not present a different, proactive and workable plan that acknowledges the current state and simply reconfigures human and other capital in a manner that results in a vastly cleaner city? Why is that such a big ask? Joburg will never be a “World Class African City” until they do. It gets up my nose because it’s not a highly technical solution that’s required, just mostly shuffling of resources and, alright, perhaps a slightly bigger spend on night shifts and the likes but the results will push rentals and values and desirability back up over the next few years and thus will revenue for the city powers go up too.

Guys, fok, come on…. Get this shit picked up. It’s lelik en fokken onaanvaarbaar really, when you think about it. So far, that’s my only gripe. That, and the fact that Pastor Chris is still alive…

Watch this space!

Deel met jou tjommies!

Dis amper twee weke later. Oppikoppi 22 is agter die rug en dis tyd om daai duisend piece stoflegkaart en waserige tequila memories uit te pak en te probeer sin maak van alles. Soos dit maar is met legkaarte, is baie van die stukke missing, drank is op dit uitgemors, die hoeke trek varkore of van die pieces het onder ‘n couch ingefok wat jy eers later sal kry wanneer jy desperaat soek na daai effie wat jy wéét iewers in die huis is, terwyl Marietjie ongeduldig oor jou skouer kyk en haar voet stamp met gevoude arms.

Meeste van die selektiewe amnesia is direk daai donnerse Klein Bar se skuld – dis waar jy ou tjommies raakloop, nuwe tjommies maak, mense verkeerd opvryf, mense lekker vryf, tequila drink, chicks se hare per ongeluk brand (weereens sorry, Anja Slaptiet), dans asof jy ‘n nuwe kolon vir Krismis gekry het en die belangrikse van alles – befokte bands kyk. Vroegmiddag was jou kop nog soortvan op jou skouers en jy het dalk Willim Welsyn se band gecheck. Jy het van die musiek gehou, die befokte solo’s ingeasem en die general goeie vibes wat hulle van die stage af ge-beam het gesluk. Dan het jy dalk vir ‘n rukkie lank kop gekrap omdat die bassist bietjie soos Donald Drumpf lyk, maar met Lego-hare. Dan het die tunes jou weer gevat. Op een of ander aand (jy weet steeds nie watter een nie) het jy miskien Georgetown se hillbilly musiek gedrink en ‘n beenspier of vier het jou lyf laat kak moves pull maar jou hart laat goed voel terwyl jy soos ‘n kwylende doos gedans het.

Jy het ook Valiant Swart se set moerse geniet maar op tye gewonder hoe de fok die sound engineer die klank plek-plek kon opfok. Bra, twee acoustic kitare en twee mics? Komaan, dis so basic soos spoeg en plak by een van daai skole met die kort, geel bussies…

Dalk het jy, soos ek, Albert Frost se set verruil vir ‘n pot lensiesop en eerder een van die main international acts, Kongos gaan kokkenodge by main stage, net om te hoor dat dit een van Albert beste live sets ooit was. Op pad na Kongos se set het ek August Burns Red so in die loop ‘n halwe oor gegee en besluit om dit ‘n mis te gee. Dis ongelukkig soms die geval met metal en spesifieke genres van metal. As jy nie in die mood is of die enrgie het om dit te kyk nie – loop eerder weg. Dit help nie om dit te staan en kyk soos  Kepler Wessels (hy is ‘n oopmondkind) en rond te hang soos ‘n soutpilaar nie. Jy gaan net die ouens wat op daai spesifieke oomblik hulle kak verloor en rond bons se energie en suurstof steel.

Kongos was effens disappointing gewees. Check, ek moes dit eintlik geweet het – hulle is nie ouens vir ontploffings en panties in die crowd inskiet met potato guns nie. Hulle is maar net ‘n band wat fokken lekker live op stage jol, moerse tight is en die gooses ‘n slakstrepie of twee laat squeeze as die oomblik hulle vat. Hulle was konstant goed deur hulle set en het al die hits gejol, maar daar was vir my nie daai moerse “wow” oomblik gewees waar alles ontkknoop het nie. ‘n Man soek bietjie hoendervleis nou en dan, maak uit? Tog het hulle op die main stage gehoort – die crowd was huge en supportive.

Die klein, onbeplande missions is wat Koppi hierdie jaar lekker gemaak het. Daai deel waar jy sonder ‘n line-up of ‘n smart phone skiem jy loop doelgerig na ‘n stage toe om “iets” te gaan kyk, net dat ‘n band jou aandag aftrek en jy ‘n 90 degree klap om te gaan kyk wat hulle het om te bied. So het ek byvoorbeeld Femi Koya ontdek – die bra het iets oor die microphone getune tussen songs deur en ek het Nigerian flashbacks (ek het vir 4 jaar daar gweoon) gekry en net daar in my spore gevries en staan en kyk. Afrobeat, jazz en blaasinstrumente in die algemeen is bo aan my lys van slegte dinge saam met rosyntjies en pikkewyne, maar jirre die ouens het gegooi. Dit wys jou net – Koppi will convert you. Ek koop sommer vir myself ‘n fokken trompet.

Later die aand (of maybe die volgende aand – Saterdag en Sondag was een dag vir my) het ek min of meer ‘n soortgelyke experience beleef – Nakhane Toure. Jissis, ek het ge-fanboy tydens die set en nog meer toe ek later met die bra gesels by een of ander bar op die plaas. Soos ‘n fokken tienermeisie. Gaan soek hierdie artist se volgende live show en gaan kyk dit.

Van die meer hazy memories wat hier en daar iets ge-trigger het (thanks, drank) kon ek die volgende onthou:

Jade Abbot van Follow Me Follow You het die bass hard pakslae gegee. Hulle was so tight soos die pants wat sy gewoonlik dra en alles het net perfect ge-jel op stage tussen haar, Kaz op guitar en Fundile wat basies ‘n wiskundeprofessor op die drums was.

Fokofpolisiekar se gig het soos al hulle ander jare se gigs gevoel. Die manne deliver altyd. Wynand Myburgh moes iets gedrink het wat deur die Olimpiese spele verbied word want hy het hoër as gewoonlik gespring. Of hulle het ‘n trampolien iewers agter die monitors weggesteek, want geen mens kan so fokken hoog spring en nie ‘n hele sak vol enkels breek nie. Mind fucked.

De Wallen het gespeel asof dit hulle laaste Oppikoppi ooit was. Hulle het alles gegee. In fact, dalk te veel. Ons hoor Jeandre (vocalist) is steeds iewers op die plaas. Jirre, ou.

Tuin het ‘n perfekte Foo Fighters cover gedoen van “Best Of You” as my vrot brein my nou nie vir ‘n poes vat nie. Jirre, dit was mooi.

Op ‘n stadium kan ‘n ou ook maar net in die Windhoek biertent sit en luister. Bene en spiere wil nie altyd saamwerk nie. Gerald Clark en The Fishwives se sets is so aangepak. Sit op jou gat. Drink ‘n bier. Luister. Repeat. Mission.

My grootste fuzzy oomblik was net voor Boargazm se set gewees. Ek het hulle heeltemal misgedrink en geslaap maar wil nie verder hieroor uitbrei nie. Dis min om meer die deel van die naweek waar ek my naam die hardste met ‘n plank gepoes het en toe al die plaas se dorings op een klein plek gevind het en daarin neergeslet het. Die skaam is nog in die pos. Ai.

Die groot oomblikke:

Met hierdie een was ekself nie daar nie, maar is vertel dat Satanic Dagga Orgy iets moers nice gedoen het – hulle het plastic spaarvarkies in die crowd in gegooi en mense getune om coins in te sit en weer na iemand anders in die crowd te gooi. Die idee was dat wanneer die spaarvarkie eventually vol is by die laaste persoon, dat daardie persoon die spaarvarkie vat en vir iemand gee wat swaarkry en kan doen met die zak. Kry ek nou sommer ‘n traan. Goeie werk, dudes. Dis ‘n superbefokte ingenius idee. Is dit nie dalk ‘n geval van julle harte is op die regte plek, maar uhm, koppi is ‘n cashless fees, niemand dra coins nie?

OK, vir hierdie een was ek ook nie daar nie, maar ek het ‘n fokken plan gemaak. Vir’n hele klomp mense met wie ek gesels het was Sawagi vanaf Japan die absolute highlight van Koppi gewees. Ek het heavy bleak gevoel omdat ek uitgemis het en het hulle die afgelope naweek in Joburg by The Goodluck Bar gaan kyk. Dit kon net sowel Oppikoppi gewees het. Gaan soek so paar van hulle YouTube videos – hulle doen fokol vocals en klap net instrumental die hele tyd. Dis asof die hele band deur die keyboardist gedryf word. Dis rock en dit maak glad nie sin nie, maar dit maak die hele tyd actually sin. “Sawagi” vertaal min of meer na iets in die lyn van disturbance, uproar, turmoil en dies meer. Ek sou graag precision en tight as fuck wil byvoeg. En as helfte van ons so vriendelik, tevrede en kinderlik gelukkig soos die bassist kan wees vir een dag, mag ons dalk net wêreldvrede bewerkstellig.

Yelawolf vanaf Alabama het my nogal gegooi. Ek het hulle nog nooit gesien nie en het nie sulke befokte musiek verwag nie. Sulke Kid Rock tipe rock, hip-hop en rap maar met bietjie meer van ‘n edge. ‘n Hele balsak vol edge. Asof die bra Kid Rock se niggie gespyker het en ‘n bottel Jack Daniels gedown het en ‘n skyf buite sy trailer gerook het na die tyd. Die ouens het dik gees en attitude. Boemelaar hip-hop for the win. Vuil en lekker. Soos Oppikopi self is. Ek kon nie help om te dink of hulle nog meer gat sou skop met ‘n sletterige langbeen bassist nie. Probably.

Die local bands het vir seker hulle kant gebring hierdie jaar en dit het by tye gevoel asof hulle die international acts uit die water geblaas het. The Narrow se set was een van daai defining Oppikoppi oomblikke gewees wat nog lank by my sal bly. Waar ‘n klomp bands gespeel het asof dit hulle laaste kans ooit by Oppikoppi was, het The Narrow gejol asof die plaas aan hulle behoort. Hulle was 100% in beheer van die stage, die crowd, hulle instrumente en die vibe. Ek was nog nooit juis die grootste The Narrow fan gewees nie, maar hulle het vir my ‘n fokken les geleer hierdie jaar. Absolute domination.

Die vibe:

Kyk, jy kan fokol aan die stof doen nie. Jy hoes maar die black lung uit oor so twee weke en kak dalk vir ‘n maand of wat na die tyd diamante uit, maar Oppikoppi was fokken skoon en goed georganiseer. Almal wat hierdie jaar betrokke was het ‘n uitstekende job gedoen. Daar was aansienlik minder kak mense by hierdie jaar se fees (in fact, ek kan nie regtig eers een onthou behalwe vir myself nie). Die gees en samehorigheid was tasbaar ten spyte van die feit dat ‘n groot gros mense hulleself in ‘n ander bloedgroep ingekuier het. Tunes en broederskap was aan die orde van die dag.

Dis amper asof die klein myndorpie van Northam hierdie jaar twee groot are losgeboor het: supergees en talent, want dit het fokken orals gespat…

Hier is so paar oomblike wat julle kan herleef of sien waarop jy uitgemis het, danksy ons man met die kamera, Henry Engelbrecht. Hy het in totaal 90 bands afgeneem oor die naweek en ons sal more begin om dit op die Watkykjy Facebook Page te looi.

Deel met jou tjommies!

… is die tipe headline wat jy nêrens hierdie jaar in enige media sal sien nie, want die enigste “media” wat by Woodstock 2016 was, was Watkykjy en dit was ‘n fokop of gigantic proportions gewees. En nou kan ons almal lekkerkry en lag daaroor, want in Suid-Afrika like ons dit fokken erg as dinge uitfok en uitbom sodat ons kan vingerwys en daaroor kan praat. Ons rubberneck wanneer karongelukke aan die ander kant van die highway gebeur sodat ons traffic fokops kan create aan die andersins skoon kant van die N1 waarop onsself ry. Want “jirre, dis fokken erg, huh? Ek hoop nie iemand is dood nie!” maar ons kry aksie te siene en eintlik hoop ons iemand is vermink of dood, want dis iets om rondom die braai te vertel. Suid-Afrikaners love darem nou maar ‘n fokken skinderstorie en so paar happe tragedie as dit oor ons pad kom. Dis ons fokken kos. Ons almal is skuldig daaraan. So net om die punt te staaf, kom ons fokken skinder so bietjie oor Woodstock se fokop en kry lekker oor hulle misery en probably die inevitable ondergang van ‘n festival wat ‘n ikoniese Amerikaanse festival se naam appropriate het…

Ouens (dis nou julle wat Woodstock ge-organise het), ons weet die festival is al ‘n hele paar jaar lank in Suid-Afrika aan die gang en het “nuwe management” gekry (whatever dit beteken in whatever konteks julle op die tafel wil sit), maar daar is letterlik duisende woorde in jou naaste woordeboek om ‘n oorsrponklike naam vir ‘n music festival uit te dink. Die oorspronklike Woodstock festival van ’69 in Amerika het amper ‘n half miljoen mense in attendance gehad – daar is nie ‘n manier (nie eers in die volgende 50 jaar) wat julle die naam sou kon gestand doen nie. Dis soos om ‘n ander Oppikoppi festival te probeer reel op ‘n plot in die Karoo en dit ook Oppikoppi te noem. Of Oppistoffie of iets kakker. Sulke nul oorspronklik. Ek twyfel glad nie daaraan dat julle dit met die beste intentions aangepak het nie en dis great dat mense soos julle SA se talent wil bevorder. Dit vat fokken ballas, tyd, geld en stress wat aan jou binnegoed knaag. Drop net die fokken naam as julle beplan om dit volgende jaar weer te doen. Moenie eers tune “… formerly known as Woodstock” nie. Laat dit net ‘n stille dood sterf en kom met iets oorspronklik op. Beweeg aan en leer uit julle foute. As julle oogpunt is om kakbaie zak te maak, drop die plan eerder dadelik in sy enirety.

Wat die werk in die organisering van stage, bands, sound, ligte en dies meer aanbetref kan daar glad nie ‘n vinger gewys word nie. Die ouens het elke boksie ge-tick. Dis ‘n great line-up met die beste tech en staff, stage design en al daai pragtige dinge wat mens sou verwag by ‘n music festival. Dit het befok gelyk (nadat die hele festival met basies twee dae se notice na ‘n nuwe venue toe geskuif is). Die probleem was egter dat niemand van die festival geweet het nie. Julle marketing was hondkak gewees. Facebook is nie die alfa en omega van marketing en advertising nie. Dis soos om “likes” in ‘n virtual machine gun te laai en kankerselle faktap te skiet. Ain’t gonna happen. Julle gaan seriously hierna moet kyk in die toekoms en ongelukkig kos marketing geld. Ironies moontlik heelwat minder as wat julle sou verloor het met die groter prentjie in gedagte.
“It takes money to make money”
*oom in khaki klere lag so met brannas wat op boepens rus oor sy wysheid*

Bands en ander ouens in die music industry was natuurlik baie vinnig ge-knight na keyboard crusaders en het vir die ouens opgekom met juweeltjies soos:
“You fans are what is wrong with our music industry!”; “Julle weet nie hoeveel moeite hierdie ouens doen nie!”; “You try and fucking organise a festival!” en die lys gaan aan for dayz. Julle ouens is ook reg, hoor. Julle is fokken spot on. *vryf so oor koppie* – Daar is ‘n moerse probleem met ondersteuning vir bands in SA. Mense kla oor ticket pryse, kakhuise, traffic, bouncers, sound, die musiek self, parking, die 50 meter wat hulle moet loop van hulle karre af, die weer, die jeukerigheid om die skaamdele. Complaints vir maande. Sit ‘n bak jammergatgeid voor ons neer en ons vreet hom sonder suiker.

In Woodstock se geval is die ouens blykbaar genaai deur die land owner in Harties waar die festival sou plaasvind. Hy het glo vir hulle gesê dat hy vroeër die jaar ‘n groot event daar gehou het (vir een of ander groot corporate of fokken iets) en die nodige sertifikaat daarvoor gekry het. Maar hy het blykbaar nooit daai event gehou nie, want hy kon nie die sertifikaat kry nie en het toe ook nie Woodstock se sertifikaat gekry nie. Anyway, dit stem egter nie ooreen met Woodstock se storie dat daar ‘n petisie deur die community in Hartbeespoort onderteken was nie en niemand het ooit daai petisie gesien nie, so ‘n mens sal seker nooit weet nie. Petisies werk in elk geval fokken nooit nie. #FeesMustFall

Ek weet nie wat die reëling was met die skuif van die event 2 dae voor die tyd na Sun City toe nie, maar ek hoop nie hulle moes vir alles betaal het nie, want dit sou kont duur gewees het. Hulle het ‘n massiewe saal gekry met ‘n next-level stage, sound en lighting. Sun City het ook sekuriteit en kos te koop voorsien en daar was shuttles tussen die saal en ‘n campsite buite Sun City. En dis regtig ‘n befokte venue vir so iets. Mooi so, julle! Dis fokken fantasties! As mens die dag voor die tyd na hulle Facebook page gekyk het was daar al kaar kak met camping en daai klas van dinge want mense het gekla dat daar nie meer camping plek is nie, ensovoorts. Maybe hulle het te min gedoen om mense gerus te stel daaroor want outjies sal nie sommer deurry Sun City toe as hulle nie dink dat alles in plek is nie. Weereens, as kommunikasie en bemarking in plek was, kon hierdie kleiner fokops ‘n breeze gewees het.

Hierdie is die probleem, ouens – as julle sien die skip is op pad rotse toe, spring af en swem kant toe. Moenie die skip se speedboat laat sak en rotse toe jaag nie. Die speed boat is poesduur. Nou is jou skip en jou speed boat gefok en jy weet nie watter een om reg te maak vir volgende seisoen nie. Dalk sal hierdie anlogy beter verstaan word: As jy sonder ‘n effie naai en nie betyds uittrek nie, mag daar finansiële implikasies wees. Die damage was reeds gedoen – julle kon die kinders bloot refund het (wat julle gedoen het) en begin belpan het vir volgende jaar (wat julle nie gedoen het nie). Bietjie stock taking en so aan sou ‘n wêreld se verskil maak.

Dis moerse commendable dat julle alles in ‘n kwessie van twee dae kon skuif na ‘n befokte nuwe venue toe. Ek weet nie hoe de fok julle dit reg gerky het nie maar nou het julle moontlik gesien dat hierdie dalk die regte venue kan wees vir die volgende een. Kom ons hoop so. Julle het wonderbaarlik ‘n haas deur ‘n hoed se hol getrek. Fokken magic! Die fans het dalk net opgegee toe julle eintlik moes opgee. Dis ‘n redelike entjie tussen Sun City en Harties, ongeveer 200km beide kante toe se verskil. Dit maak nogal ‘n hap aan ‘n kind se beursie as die planne last minute verander. Soos Kersfees wat Januarie toe geskuif word. Ons ouens in Gauteng maak natuurlik uit van ry en meeste van ons gee nie om nie. Gods, as julle hierdie in Kaapstad gepull het en die festival 5km verder geskuif het ‘n maand voor die tyd sou julle nog groter kak gehad het. Ons Gautengers is chilled, bru. Gee ons dalk net ‘n heads-up van meer as twee dae en die saak is pers. O ja, en maak seker ons weet daarvan?

So hoe was Woodstock toe gewees?

Daar was kakmin mense gewees en dis eintlik ‘n understatement want die kids het soos verlore skapies in daai massiewe saal gelyk. Gedurende die dag ons kamera bra ten minste een keer gedurende elke set omgedraai en actually die mense in die crowd getel. Hierso is ‘n breakdown van die crowd:
Nic Rush se set – 9
Sutherland se set – 10
Held On Till May se set – 13
December Streets se set – 17
Hikatori se set – 21
Desmond & The Tutus se set – 39
Shortstraw se set– ongeveer 70 mense

Die syfers sluit in sommige gevalle band members in wat deur die dag gespeel. Drie van die mense in Hikatori se crowd was actually girls wat Hikatori opblaasballe in die crowd in gegooi het en meeste van die balle is seker na die tyd weer saam met die band terug huistoe. Hulle sal dit maar seker bêre vir volgende jaar se show. Daar was nog twee bands na Shortstraw waarvoor ons nie gebly het nie, so die crowd kon moontlik gegroei het na 15000 mense na 21:30 maar sover ons weet was Metallica nie op die bill nie.

Die klein crowd het natuurlik ook sy voordele gehad wat dit in some weird way onvergeetlik sal maak vir so paar musos:

Die lead singer van ‘n band het homself persoonlik aan elke persoon in die crowd gaan voorstel en almal in die crowd se name aangekondig. Dis fokken super legit. Selfie-hemel.
Die guitarist van ‘n ander band het in die crowd gaan staan en speel en ‘n conga line met almal in die crowd begin.
Ons het nou van die derde voordeel vergeet…

So paar laaste gedagtes:

Die idee van ‘n “mini-Woodstock” was dalk te min om mense al die pad na Sun City toe te laat ry want die oorsponklike line-up was heavy gesny en het selfs gedurende die naweek ook korter geword. En selfs nie eens die feit dat die festival op die ou einde verniet was (alle ticket holders is refund, of hulle nou daar was of nie) het gehelp nie.
Saterdag se verkorte skedule is Vrydag uitgereik.
Saterdag se verkorte-verkorte skedule is Saterdag uitgereik.

Wat uitgestaan het soos ‘n paal bo water was die professionaliteit van die bands wat opgetree het. Almal het net goeie goed oor die event en die organizers te sê gehad en het almal in die crowd bedank wat die moeite gedoen het om deur te kom. “En dankie aan die mense wat so vêr moes ry, Chris en Penny…”
Hier is wat die artists egter superbefok gemaak het en net meer rede gee om jou aan te spoor om local musiek te ondersteun: Al die bands het gespeel asof daar ‘n duisend mense was.

Daar was actually ‘n proper festival gehou met goeie bands en ‘n proper setup. Daar was net nie fokken mense nie…
Ai.

Deel met jou tjommies!

Deur Potskerf Potgeiter

Dit is ‘n wetenskaplik toetsbare feit met ‘n groen masjien met goue lettering wat lees: “Green Paint Rules” dat jy in 1994/95 met ‘n Mazda 323 hatchback vanaf Sunnyside na The Doors in 165 Marshall Straat Jo’burg kon ry sonder om eenkeer ge-hijack te word of om ‘n smash-and-grabber met ‘n skerpgemaakte plastiekgegote Jesus-kruis van jou man-bag af te hou.

So het daar dan vele sulke journeys vanaf Sunnyside na The Doors in Marshall straat plaasgevind in ‘n beige 1982 Mazda 323 hatchback met twee 300 watt six-by-nine Kenwood speakers en ‘n ICE 500 amplifier terwyl Pixies, The Cult, NIN en Rage Against the Machine die malle nineties ‘n gesig gegee het. Dis om van verlief te raak!

Dit is ook dan so dat ek en ‘n buddy laat een vrolike Vrydagmiddag terwyl ons besig was om aan ‘n Black Label quart te slurp op die maat van “the chemicals between us” die epic besluit maak om weer te “journey”!

My woonstel stink na vrot tekkies en nat handdoeke. ‘n Koffiebeker staan eensaam in ‘n hoek en hou ‘n klomp vuil vlooimarkjeans company, ‘n geskeurde en bebloede Hendrix t-shirt hang oor my oranje-en-swart-blomme pandtjieswinkellessenaarstoel se ruglening soos ‘n sletterige brag-stuk. ‘n Vuil wit g-string versier die hoek van ‘n antieke spieëlkas se lipstiekbesmeerde spieël. Die woorde: “jyt my ‘n HOER gemaak!” pronk blosend in rooi lipstiek oor die spieël. In die middel van die wit-en-swart checkered mat is ‘n onopgemaakte enkelbedmatras. Die matras is die “koning” se troon voor ‘n home-made hi-fi stand waarop ‘n  Marantz amp, Pioneer CD-player en Sony turntable oop-ketel tussen twee klein Bowers and Wilkens speakers pronk. Die checkered mat voor die hi-fi stand is geflappil (dagga) met vinyl-ikone soos Motley Crüe, Cinderella, Iron Maiden, Slayer, Black Sabbath en Led Zeppelin en CD-rockgode soos Soundgarden, Megadeath , Faith No More, Metallica en Sisters of Mercy. ‘n Poster teen die muur bo die matras lees: “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” en die twee agter die Hi-Fi stand lees: “Stairway to Heaven” en “Depeche Mode 101 official album release”.

“Wie is so gepoes in die Hendrix-tee, my bra!?” vra my buddy terwyl hy ‘n paar CD’s by mekaarmaak vir die journey en aan ‘n Black Label quart hang.
“Dit was laasnaweek by Zillertal. Dave het die bouncer se ma op die dansvloer gevry en try vinger en is toe behoorlik opgefok in die kakhuis. Hy’t getune ek kan sy t-shirt kry en eendag as ek ‘n bar het kan ek dit daar ophang en aan vreemde dronk mense die storie vertel”
“Issit!?” lag hy. “Wie se panty is dit!?” ‘n verdiende burp later: “ daai Black Label het darem vir jou vinnig gegly. FOKKIT!”
“Dis Katjé s’n langsaan” tune ek terwyl ek ‘n lighter soek om my quart oop te maak en ‘n joint te light.
My buddy check my heavy ongelowig aan: “Die girl met die groen oë in nommer 605 wat ek laas getune het ek sal dood naai!?”
“Jip, die chick met die barcode tat in haar nek en Sinead ‘o Connor haarstyl!”
“Jirre my bra, ek beny jou. Hoe de fok!” trip hy oor amper elke woord in sy moedertaal.
“Eks jammer man, ek gaan jou nou moet teleurstel, ons het nie genaai nie. Ek en Katjé was noudieaand toevallig altwee by The Fridge en ek het saam met haar huis toe gestap (aangesien sy my buurvrou en alles is). Na ek haar afgesien het (sonder enige liggaamlike kontak natuurlik) is ek reguit  na my flat toe. Ek het net klaar ‘n sterk kommetjie koffie aan mekaar geslat toe is daar ‘n klop aan die deur. Dit was Katjé. Sy het reeds haar pajamas (wat ‘n korterig- lang Doors t-shirt was) aangehad. Ek maak oop, sy stop ‘n panty in my hand, gee my ‘n soen oppie wang en tune “dis die panty wat ek vanaand aan gehad het net om dankie te sê dat jy my veilig by my huis besorg het!”.
Ian Astbury se vocals bars chaoties uit die Mazda se six-by-nine speakers van agter die backseat.
“Got my bra, het jy fokkin Rizzlas onthou!!?” skree my buddy bo Astbury se stem uit.
“Ag jissus, ek het dit op die turntable vergeet!”
“Ag jirre tog. Hoe gaan ons hierdie fokken dagga nou rook!?”
“Gotweet, bra, ons sal maar ‘n bottel-nek moet klap!!”
“Jissis bra, ons gaan gefok raak van ‘n bottelnek, sommer tjop-tjop!!”
“Ag wat, ons sal survive!!”

Vier Black Label quarts, ‘n bottelnek, ‘n botteltjie poppers (gescore by ‘n vriendin wat by The Hustler shop in Sunnyside werk) en ‘n Crossbow Cider elk land later ons veilig somewhere loopafstand van The Doors af. My ore tuit, my kop klop met kickdrum bass rhythms en huilende kitare van “FUCK YOU I won’t do as you tell me, fuck you I won’t do as you tell me, fuck you I won’t do as you tell me, FUCK YOU I WON’T DO AS YOU TELL MEEEEEEEE!!”
In een van daai onbeskryflike helder oomblike onthou ek van die acid in my cubbyhole: “Bra, kom ons pop gou hierdie acid voor ons The Doors invaar. Dis ‘n voldwonge feit dat ons vas geglo het “die-regte-ding-om-te-doen” is om DAAI betrokke aand een Superman elk te neem voor ons oor die drempel by The Doors sal trap. Ons besluit ook om eers ‘n joint of twee te rook en te wag dat Superman ons neurons kom help in kleurevuur voor ons ons siele aan Alternatiewe Rock, Goth en Industrial Metal ritmes aan ‘n dansvloer gaan oorhandig.

‘n Meisie met vlinders in haar hare, jasmyn op haar vel en viool in haar stem groet my by die ingang.
”Dis vir my astounding dat soveel mense nog steeds glo dat ‘n mens nie skoenlappers in jou hare mag dra nie!“
Anyways… die meisie met vlinders in haar hare, jasmyn op haar vel en viool in haar stem soengroet my by die ingang. My buddy skiem ek’s god en tune dis die acid wat my so aantreklik maak. Ek stem saam en lag in die kleur van pienk.
Eddie Vedder se stem dra my op note van swart Doc Martin-geklede demone na binne:

Alone, listless, breakfast table in an otherwise empty room
Young girl, violence, center of  her own attention
The mother reads aloud child tries to understand it
Tries to make her proud

The shades go down it’s in her head
Painted room, can’t deny there’s something wrong

Don’t call me daughter not fit to
The picture kept will remind me
Don’t call me daughter not fit to
The picture kept will remind me

Die flitsende ligte en gedaantes wat soos geeste agter die smoke-machine se rook dans maak my neurons oranje spookasem pols …

Don’t call me,
She holds the hand that holds her down
She will, rise above

Don’t call me daughter, not fit to
The picture kept will remind me
Don’t call me daughter, not fit to be
The picture kept will remind me
Don’t call me daughters

The shades go down
The shades go, go, go

My vriend praat met ‘n Spaanse aksent en sy woorde klink so vloeiend soos Eddie Vedder se poetry. Ek wonder vir ‘n oomblik of dit moontlik is om ‘n pen en papier by die barman te bedel om my gedagtes neer te skryf maar dan onthou ek dat dit heel onwaarskynlik sal wees dat hy ‘n magenta-kleurige pen saam bar toe sal bring. Almal weet tog dat magenta nie die kleur is vir ‘n bar nie. Ek wonder watter kleure ek sal kan meng om magenta te kry. Ek gee op na ‘n wyle want my buddy kan nie besluit watse kleur om in te praat nie. Dan is dit magenta, dan groen, dan blou, dan pampoengeel …
“Jissus bra, stiek by ‘n kleur!!” gil ek
“dw&^%sw ctlu#@! Bwa-kwa-@#$” antwoord hy met ‘n DIK glimlag in ‘n kaleidoskoop van kleure.
Ek wurm (letterlik) tussen die donker “gemaskerde” figure op die dansvloer deur. Diep in die dansvloer se polsende hart gryp een van die figure my aan my stovepipe jeans se belt-lus.
“Did YOU draw the Van Halen picture on your jeans or did you buy it like that?”. Dis dieslefde viool-stem.
“I bluter flosen dibboel makka issek troug” antwoord ek vriendelik en met passie.
“Dis fokken beautiful, dude. Ek love dit! Kom ons swop pants innie badkamer” haar viool-skaterlag pas in met een of ander industrial remix van Carmina Burana wat die dansvloer maak bewe.

Ek probeer antwoord, maar kan nie onthou hoe om ‘n sin te construct nie. Die vlinders in haar goue lokke vlieg in my mond in, ek proe sjokolade. Sy vat my hand en trek my in haar sphere in. Haar tong maak stroop-soet spoeg in my mond, ek ruik cocoa in haar hare en haar hande speel lyf-kitaar op my rug onder my Robert Smith tee-shirt. Die visions in my kop loop in haar mond in en in haar keel af. Ek voel skoenlapper-wurm-papies onder haar bra en sluk haar stroop-spoeg tot in die donker dieptes van my maag. Haar siel maak seeblou-bubble-harte in die dynsige rook-wolk bo ons koppe. Gekleurde ligte flits helder vuurwerke teen ‘n spook-storie agtergrond. Die viool-stem-kind-van-godin-Freya trek my wese binne haar sprokiesverhaal in. Ek val, val, val, maar dié keer keer ek nie!

Hier is ons NOU, entertain ons! Sjokolade smelt in my neusgate, die toilet cubicle se mure het in onderwaterwêrelde verander, die sjokolade en soutwater vermeng. Ons hyg asems jaag mekaar se monde en die woorde “het jy ‘n kondoom?” klink vreemd en uit plek in die scene. Ek voel hoe my liggaam deel word van haar senu-eindes net onder haar bleek-bronze goosebumpsvel. Ek proe hoe my spoeg haar tong maak plek soek in my hart. Ek hoor hoe ons intercourse ‘n leuen sing van liefde. Ek soek plek op haar Alternatief-Afrikaanse liggaam om my hande neer te lê, maar godweet ek kan nie ophou voel nie. Haar wilde lewendige hare groei in my ribbekas in, ek wil haar hart aan die voorkant van my mond voel klop. Ons jaag die dragon, ons sweef saam met die ander, ons is God, ons word water, ons is die klein wit kakhuis cubicle in die meisiesbadkamer in The Doors by 165 Marshall Straat Jo’burg.

“Moenie binne my kom nie!” klink soos deel van die note van “Black Hole Sun” wat soos giet-swart honderd poot kewers onder deur die kakhuis se deur skarrel tot binne my oogholtes en die gekriewel en die soet smaak van haar mond en die gedierte in haar vroulikheid wat my dieper en dieper in haar liggaam inlok. Haar seksdemoon verlaat haar liggaam in ‘n gil en haar naels krap slote in my rug. Ek ruik haar hare vermeng met sweet van haar gesig, haar glimlag is opreg en haar oë maak my siel se geslote kamers oop.
“Dis ok, ek sal nie pregnant raak nie”

… skree Doloris O’Riordan:

In your head, in your head
Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie
What’s in your head?
In your head
Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie-ie, oh

“Check jou op die dansvloer” en sy druk haar vet gevryde lippe op my wang. “Ek LOVE jou Robert Smith t-shirt!” hang haar stem in die lug terwyl sy weereens deel word van die gedaantes op die dansvloer.

“Bra, Danie is hier. Kom ons gaan snuif ‘n lyn saam met hom!” swem daai geskommelde bekende kleure van my buddy se stem deur my ore. Tyd het ge-eindig. “Liefde” het my lus oorval, ek proe nog haar sjokolade in my mondhoeke. Iemand ruk aan my arm! “Fok bra, daai acid het jou geklap! Kom ons gaan snuif ‘n lyn, jy sal beter voel …”
Ek trek die wit poeier diep in my keelgat in, ‘n steekpyn skiet deur my kop, rooiwarm ysters boor van binne my kopbeen by my oë uit. Die kleur van my oë stroom oor my wange soos olieverf en drup drup op my borskas. Ek vat liggies aan my oë met gepunte vingers om te voel of iets van my oë oorgebly het. Onbekende stemme giggel en gil om my, ek kry ‘n knop in my keel – dis iets tussen naar en verlief wees.

“Is jy OK!?”
Ek probeer praat, maar my hart klop so vinnig en so hard dat ek besluit om nie eens te probeer nie. Wat ek wel weet is dat die bass riff van Stone Temple Pilots se Plush die neuron demons in my liggaam maak wild gaan. Ek voel overwhelmed en weet nie watter trip ek moet kies om my in hierdie nag verder te dra nie. Ek weet nie of ek meer ek is nie, ek is beslis nie HY, Hy of hy nie; ook definitief nie SY, Sy of sy nie! Ek moet ‘n donker hoekie vind om myself te vind. Die musiek kry macabre gesigte en die dansvloer wemel met wyse wesens wat met my wil praat oor die universe en God en fotosintese en dagga en acid en coke en die dood en hoe om te lewe en oor kakhuisliefde en oor die meisie wat my binne haar laat kom het… en oor die kleure in my siel en oor die duiwel se sussie en oor die feit dat my liggaam besig is om in pikswart  ru-olie te verander soos die dwelms stadig maar seker alles binne my tot dik swart liquid verteer.

Ek wonder of ek dalk gaan beswyk aan ‘n overdose maar onthou dat ek nog my Crossbow Cider moet klaarmaak voor ek mag vrek! Iemand glimlag skaam vir my terwyl ek probeer onthou hoe om by die kakhuis uit te kom. Die knop in my keel word ‘n definitiewe naar. Ek soek iets bekend… MY BUDDY!

“Bra, ek is GEFOK… ek MOET van hierrie trip afklim”, hoor ek ‘n bekende stem. Ek voel-voel myself deur die gedaantes op die dansvloer. Die kakhuis se deur skeur oop voor my soos ‘n Sunnyside hoer se poesbeen. Ek sukkel om te onthou om my hart vas te hou dat dit nie uit my borskas bars nie. Satan se septiese stank-verhoog. My oë soek net EEN oop kakhuisdeur maar die Duiwel hou blykbaar daarvan dat jy sy verhoog met dwelmbesmette kots besmeer! Een deur (die laaste een) staan so op vyftig persent oop. Die “oop deur” is nie oop nie, ook nie toe nie, is nie lewendig nie ook nie dood nie. Ek forseer my hand deur die dig hangende septiese stank en druk die deur groter oop.

‘n Figuur lê in ‘n fetusposisie voor ‘n slym-en-pis besmeerde kakhuis. Sy broek is amper op sy knieë, die kotsplas onder sy kop maak ‘n halo op die vloer. Die stank van sy kak wat teen sy bene af geloop het maak my dronk-hoog trip soos ‘n vuisfok voel.
“Weet iemand waar ons Mandrax kan koop?!”
Iemand stamp my weg voor die deur: “JISSIS! WERNER, WERNER!! God, Werner het ge-OD!”.
Twee ouens dra vir Werner met sy bekotste en bekakte klere uit die kakhuis uit.
“Weet iemand waar ons ‘n lyn kan score!? Got, na hierdie epeisode kort ek TWEE!”

My naar is weg, my trip is half stert-tussen-die-bene. My buddy vra in duidelike afrikaans: “Is jy lekker, my bra!?”
Ek antwoord in sober sekerheid: “ek wil NOOIT ‘n Werner wees nie, my bra!”

The Doors in 165 Marshall Straat Jo’burg het vir nog vele “journeys” hierna gesorg. Maar nog NOOIT weer het ek sulke great kakhuisseks experience nie en ook NOOIT weer het ek drugs SO abuse nie. Alles te danke aan die vlinder-haar sjokolade-tasting inhibisielose seks-godin, Werner en The Doors.

Deel met jou tjommies!

By Marc

I have a friend. I care about her a lot. Although she is my favourite kind of friend – black, female – nonetheless while I could imagine us getting wasted and pumping each other stupid somewhere sometime or, in the meanderings of my ever so lucid and fantastical mind, us realising one day years from now that actually we love each other like biscuits and end up living this weird, gratifying partnership after years of mutual care without knowing that that stuff was and is the true fabric of intimate relationship, it’s never been that thing… Or, put another way, I would never reduce her to sexual gratification. I couldn’t engage her that way and remain unchanged, leave my life unchanged. I love her, you see. I love her a lot. Care about her a lot. It’s never been romance nor desire… I always saw her, from when I first met her, the child in her, her pluck and massive heart and also the wounds she sustained from living so large and openly and lovingly and crazily at times and always just wanted to hug her. Her sass and charm and sweet openness is a model for many of us lesser beings. She calls me baba’khe (father of the child). I am happily content with being daddy, not who’s your daddy, with her. I am completely fulfilled standing on the sidelines, wishing her well, hoping for everything for her, loving her with my time and attention whenever I can because she fills my heart, so lovely is she, such a privilege is it to be able to cheer someone like that on. Fresh, young, sassy and brave, pretty, smiling, lovely and so deserving human that she is. Even the sexual tyrannosaurus I am or, let’s say, in spite of the constantly erect T Rex that I am, I know many, many subtle shades of life and heart and spirit and I value the relationships I have that don’t include my dick.

Wow, I just realised what an indictment saying that might be, like, I glimpse that most normal people would be shaking their heads and saying “Uuh… duuh… welcome to normality” about that statement of mine but, anyway, you get the point.

Dee’s mother is a paranoid schizophrenic. While I am not a medical professional I am going to go out on a limb here and say that any parent who comes across their child and seems to want to jump on a bible and sprinkle themselves with holy water is probably a candidate for psychiatric medication and I’ll leave the exact diagnosis to those who value being authorities on crazy. She went AWOL last night (Dee’s mom, not Dee) and the stress in a friend (Dee called me traumatised and also just flat and seemingly bereft) and the sadness of her mother’s dementia, moved me. But I need to worry about money today.

So, do I get to pop around and just sit in the sun and chat with Dee, knowing as I do that that kind of moment in time, that kind of stuff, is the best kind of stuff we humans can do – giving time to show care and swelling all hearts present in it – no, I don’t. I don’t even have taxi fare today. The tall, goofy street kid, my favourite street kid, Simon, is mooching for food and he and I both stand around Gandhi Square, Jo’burg CBD, soaking up the sun, two shadows fretting away the day because, no money, no food. I need to worry about money today. I can’t fill a kid’s stomach, because I have no money. Hundreds of thousands of meals will go into hundreds of thousands of mouths in this city today, go down those throats, hit those stomachs, feed the organisms, come out the other end and pass on and all of those beings somewhere inside of them, at the back of their consciousness, are ferreting away at work in the knowledge that this is their life and, without those insignificant and ultimately worthless hours spent sitting in that building, they will have no money and without money they will have no food. And without food they will be standing with Simon and I, ashamed, fallen, no food. No status. No worth under late capitalism.

No money, no food.
All of the wonder of a day today, the first of Spring, will go unnoticed and worried away as, today, I have no money.

B2, the beautiful young woman with whom I awoke this morning, journeying now through this town, buying fabric, keeping even a loose clock time. How I wish I could meet with her, sit with her, reaffirm her as lovely and charming and delightful, kiss her face, walk amongst my fellows, smile, relax. But I am worried about money. No money, no condoms. Not nice ones anyway, ones that don’t feel like they were made from secondhand tyres. No money, no food. No money, no leisure time. No work, no career. No career, no social standing. No sense of self worth. No money, go to hell. They’re waiting for you…

We are all, each one of us, huge assholes that we accept this scenario. We stand, a creative genius, each of us, a spirit, an angel walking the soil, beautiful, bright, shiny, and wrap it up and go to work. And dumber than dumb we become. “My work’s not so bad.” “I enjoy my work.” “I love what I do.” It’s the male spider, the male praying mantis, heading off for the wildest fuck ever, sex and then death. An orgasm you’ll never forget nor remember. We have actually gotten to a point as a species where we will argue for the denigration of our souls. I can imagine people who give, who design, who care and who aid perhaps. They can say “I really enjoy my work” with some legitimacy. But even they only get to say it due in some part to the lack of consciousness of their innate angelic qualities. Their own massive creativity and spirituality. I know that doing a mountainside meditation retreat for ten years will outstrip anything you can possibly do in the world of work, even if you’re helping people aggressively, which you’re fucking not. I know that having a few decades to meditate, practice yoga, travel the world, experience jets and boats and foreign countries and delightful foods and super delightful naked foreigners, would make the sun pale due to the shining light that our species would project from this globe. You don’t know this. You think a four bedroom house in an nice suburb is the pinnacle manifestation of your worth. A good credit record. A luxury sedan. A brief overseas vacation, with bling pics on Facebook, shopping for shoes.
“But it’s valuable to build for the species!” It’s what humans do, pull together. Commerce and industry are positive. That’s us. A proud, industrious species, heading off to the farthest reaches, out into space. Really? All statements like that need to be seen against the backdrop of children begging in the streets of the world. Children raped. People killed. Women traded for material goods. People trading their time – and that’s all of us working saps – are but one step up from cutting open people to trade their organs. Raping children for sport. Some humans killing other humans for the same gratification. Can’t you see it? The absolute dearth of morality in a life of work, no matter the “ethics” of business.
God, what an oxymoron. Business ethics. What is the point of business? To make money. And not just money – profit. Money on top of money. And not just profit year on year. But growth. Just like greed, it starts with a “g”. More profit each year. This is the sole raison d‘etre of business and anyone who tells you otherwise is either a humongous doos or a lying piece of shit. Thanks for all the corporate social responsibility programs, thanks for all the charity tax offsets and nice to see pics of you suited niggers trenching veggie gardens ekasi in the papers. But we all know that if anyone were to ever, eeeeever reach for the bottom line, their hands would be cut off in a brutal parody of Sharia retribution that would see even Arabs screaming and sprinting to the dunes on camel-back. You can’t see it? The dark molasses of Satan’s drive in men to power, dominion. Do you think the cosmos wants that shit in it? Do you think wonderful new worlds await us with smiling hearts? This cretinous species… so accomplished and so broken. So advanced, and such apes… No money, no food.

I have never seen chimpanzee children go hungry. I have never seen a chimp in a group outcast, sleeping on cold stone, while the troop hunkers down in leafy style above. The chimp child might die and we’ll all tut-tut and slap ourselves on the back about being so much better than animals simply because we choose not to walk city streets at night and witness the lives of others that too are a manifestation of our beautiful little world of commerce but I tell you now that chimpanzees are better at Win/Win or No Deal – the highest form of interaction – than we are.

Fuck you and your proud contentment with your work. You’re a moron and you moronise your children and us all…

I have realised, over years, hearing words from different people but the same words, that I am too vehement, too weird, too messed up or too something – vociferous and vaguely psychotic perhaps – and that my words so often fall into the thorn patch beyond normal, decent, rational social intercourse.

Really?

Well, fuck it. I mean it. Fuck you. And I say “fuck you” not because I dislike you nor want you to clip my earhole but because I love you. Because I see you. Even you dumb, fat Americans. Even you old-money, aristocratic European assholes, totally oblivious to the pain of others in this world. Even, well, you. I know what you have inside you. And it’s light and light in this universe is free. So I guess I think shitting on you or swearing profanely will result in a good thing – you’ll stop and maybe feel upset or offended for a moment but still my words will linger in your ears and because I am so off kilter, so obscene, such a dick, such a bitter, failed, hippy kind of punk, pissing on the system, it might just mean that the experience of me will register in a way all of those billboard ads and trendy shows and extra big couches and shiny automobiles won’t.

The reason everyone sings Jesus’ praises yet cannot even begin to live a life like him is because Jesus didn’t have to work for a living. The reason everyone praises Allah but trades hashish and oil and children and bubblegum is because Mohammed wasn’t fucked up about being an accomplished shopkeeper. The reason everyone coos over the wisdom of the Buddha yet cannot possibly fathom nor imagine the nature of his life and thus manifest his sublime dhamma is because he wasn’t running camel caravans through Nepal to make a living. The reason, people, the wisdom and grace of our own spirituality eludes us, is work. It’s a fucked up way to live life. No one of any historical merit ever worked full time. God… Steven R Covey, Nelson Mandela, even Clint Eastwood, whose films I love, immediately come to mind. But those are nuances, rare balances of folks who can be deemed employed yet so much bigger, obviously, than their “employment”, no matter that they do have medical aid and an RA. And – those historical giants – they sure as fuck didn’t work as we do nowadays – this mindless, churning shit that merely reinforces ownership of the globe by a handful. Not true? Dispute it? You’d be a bigger doos than even I thought if you did. People who avoid facts and further avoid extrapolating them into a new direction really irk me. Aristotle said that “citizens must not live a mechanic or mercantile life, for such a life is ignoble and inimical to virtue…” He said labourers make poor citizens. Notwithstanding, no doubt, that ancient Greece had slave labour to free up their lily white hands and also that Aristotle glorified the pursuit of logic and politics and that the latter has clearly become a scourge of vermin in the homes of humanity, his point stands.
Has the Gen Y promise come true? The unbundling of the workplace? The free spirited new kids, working online, working from the beach, doing their own thang, redefining the global marketplace? No. That’s a story for another time but, no. That’s the short answer. If you could float for a moment in space, looking down upon the writhing serpent that is human travail, you’d see that while it may be sloughing its skin, shedding skin and glistening in a new way, the sundry few preposterously wealthy motherfuckers who own most of the shit on this planet still have their hands firmly around its throat.

While anarchism has been sullied for me by my realisation, probably during a moment sitting naked in a hooker’s room in Hillbrow, cutting lines, or something similar, that I actually do need a stick on my back in order to not end up behind bars. Nonetheless, that is probably more a product of my distaste for the way the world turns rather than any innately criminal or otherwise antisocial bent. And also, while the forefathers of what we currently know to be anarchism – a regal, proud and beautiful idea of people without government so often miss labelled and destroyed by the media who tout any bunch of looting assholes to be anarchists – the forefathers I tend to think of as a collection of broadly positive yet seriously flawed pricks (due mostly to their inability to give women their due at the time), nonetheless Proudhon was spot on – “Property is theft.” He said it. Here’s my addendum. It isn’t, when everyone owns what they need and want. So clearly it remains theft as not just the gulf between rich and wretched is so obvious but also the disparity between simply people who have that middle class life and people who have absolutely nothing shows us as we live on this planet every day. We just make our eyes slitty, narrow our gaze, and keep moving…

Dee wants to quit her boring, mindless job at a broadcaster, selling glitz to us assholes who feel that DSTV is some kind of essential, who think that watching fucking worthless, indulgent twats like the Kardashians is somehow edifying and become a doctor. Here is a woman who feels her pull, knows her route, imagines the doing of medicine, the healing of others. But, she’ll have to pay. Work like a dumb bitch for a little while still, save, pay for tuition, shit in her pants for food, rent and fuel for years, until maybe she makes it through having every last cent wrung out of her and becomes a doctor one day.

Here’s a thought… That doctor might save your life.

Or, one day, because she dropped out, because she had to pay for the ‘privilege’ of becoming a doctor, because the cost of the study of medicine here is linked to your future earnings or even just lumped in along with everything else, with all of us, as a monetized thing, she might not make it. Somewhere at a clinic somewhere there might be a doctor short because she never made it, because she couldn’t afford it. And you’ll wait an extra few minutes for attention. While your ribs pierce your lung. Or while your innards give up. Or while a bullet remains lodged in your brain.

And you’ll fucking die.

Floating off into the ether (up, if you’re lucky) and experiencing the massive grief all beings suffer as they lose their life (down, if you’re unlucky) you’ll be hard pressed to justify the presence or absence of something as utterly fucking worthless to all conscious lives as money and the role it played in your death there, then. Wouldn’t you? Do you think you would still feel so warm and fuzzy about having been a member of a species who spend life working? Really?
You who are so proud of capitalism and all of its giant successes. You’ll die like an animal when you could have been healed and saved. But here, now, you’ll give me a quick explanation or offhand rebuttal of my stance and march on with the other ants. I’ve got news for you – ants treat one another better than we do too. We’re not even ants. Not capable of the cohesion and oneness they are. Otherwise there is no way on God’s abundant planet that we would have ownership. Have-nots. Status. Monkey status. Pride in our possessions alongside knowledge of the dispossessed and suffering masses beyond our door. We are not even insects, morally. We are the slime of the universe. But you’ll refute that, won’t you? You’ll tut-tut and move swiftly along with the rest of the dumb herd, heading to the cliffs because that’s just the way it is. The Buddha said, of the two men involved in slander, he who responds in kind is the worse of the two. And why? Because when the first guy said “Hey you? Fuck you, you cunt!” the respondent had a moment in which to choose better. To stay OK. To be light. To side-step his ego and be a being of greater substance than the first man who is busy dragging us back to the animal realm. Likewise, us humans, as a species when we adopt that “Oh, well!” stance or say “Yes, but you can’t help everyone” or “Well, I didn’t make the world, I’m just trying to make my way in it” or even worse, have nothing to say because Jesus is coming to make it all lovely one day so screw the here and now, we’re the worse of the two. Only, there’s only one. Us. We suck. Because we know better. We do. We have all had glimpses of our own hearts. But because beer tastes nice or pulling chicks with a jetski and getting blown on a beach feels awesome or because Oprah said it or because some surgically enhanced “celebrity” twat wore it we’ll slap ourselves on the back for our moment of introspection, feel a little warm and fuzzy, and then get right on back into the brawl for stuff, status, wealth, that apartment that overlooks that leafy little valley.

Even the abbot at my chosen Buddhist center once said “This is just the wave we’re on right now so, just ride it…” Thanks, but I don’t surf. That’s A. And B, no, I don’t want to ride it. While capitalism’s highs may make all of us glow with pride, its lows eat children and put a price on human life. Still so proud now? You’re OK with that, are you? It’s possible you are and it’s only possible because that’s what the system does – makes us mercenary fucks who will often go to great gregarious and generous lengths but – take that “give all you have to the poor and follow me” shit seriously? – no. Not to that length, thank you. Oh no. No thanks. And that abbot, for the record, is a part of the most massively capitalist, huge Buddhist evangelism this planet has ever seen, merrily selling merit like a packet of crisps so I’ll take that comment from where it came.

We make the way it is. Idiot. There is one revolution. One only. One thing to do. One only. Change your heart. Love and support your children. Love them enough to free them from industry. Commerce. Bling status. Trivial, evil, tinselly life as we know it and live it. In your heart. It’s all you can do. One thing. Change your heart. Play more. Wrest time from the man. Take it. Push the boundaries of employment until they break. Give more. Sing more. Smile more. Love more. Talk more. Pray more. Meditate always.

One thing.

We can still build rocket ships to take us to the stars. The difference will be that we’d be welcome then. No-one there would fear that we’ll put them to work to buy back their time like we do to all of us, do to ourselves.

All work is, is a mostly futile attempt to buy time, time to be ourselves, which is not to work. One reason. One compulsion. One point in your life when you see the contract and sign it and then that’s it. You’ve become a modern human adult. And a slave. I guess, for my part, I still have my pen hovering over the dotted line.

Natalie just buzzed me. While we broke up recently and B2’s shriekingly lovely face and ass have been filling my vision and creasing my sheets nowadays. Nonetheless I do love her (Natalie) and want to cuddle her heart a little if she needs it as I know she hoped more than anything in this life that we would make it. Oddly enough, having just written above about how I value the relationships I have in which I don’t get to be naked, it occurs to me now that Natalie and I have found, albeit through her heartbreak, the space I always should have been in with her. Loving her (she is so raunchy and zany and funny at times and is such a worthwhile human being) completely openly and freely, without marriage and baby potential which was never company to my hard-on that initially met her because, well, I’m an asshole. That’s the short answer. But this feels good now. Loving her. I miss her conversation at times, her absolute loving of me, her constant readiness and willingness for me. But I just can’t do that thing with her. It has occurred to me, in terrifyingly emotion-devoid moments, that she might actually be the most amazing woman I have ever met who is saying everything I ever wanted to hear in a woman and does everything I ever wanted a woman to do to me and for me and in my life. Selfish though that might sound and I am throwing that away as the rampant, rutting stallion I remain but anyway… That, too is a story for another time. She has a cocktail evening this evening. Can I come? No. I’d love to. Love to show someone that I care about that just because we won’t bang each other any more doesn’t mean that it’s all dark. Show someone that life is still good, people are good, things can change and we can still smile. Can I? No. There are no free cars on this planet. And right now I don’t own a vehicle. No free cars, no free fuel, no free taxis, no free transport. No free shit. And I have no money today.

No money, no food. No money, no cocktails…

“And a merchant said, speak to us of Buying and Selling.
And he answered and said:
To you the earth yields her fruit, and you shall not want if you but know how to fill your hands.
It is in exchanging the gifts of the earth that you shall find abundance and be satisfied.
Yet unless the exchange be in love and kindly justice it will but lead some to greed and others to hunger.
And before you leave the market-place, see that no one has gone his way with empty hands.
For the master spirit of the earth shall not sleep peacefully upon the world till the needs of the least of you are fulfilled.”

That master spirit is an emaciated spirit now…

No money, no food. No money, no cocktails, motherfucker…

Deel met jou tjommies!

Shivas Rock is probably die sifste club in Pretoria daar op die hoek van Hillside & Rodericks in Lynwood. Hulle voel ‘n fok vir local musiek en die kak het Vrydagaand behoorlik by hierdie hool gespat. Boonop het die eienaar soos ‘n fokken kleuter tekere gegaan op social media wat steeds nie verwyder is nie. Fokken slow car crash se ma. Julle kan vir julleself gaan lees. Dis ure se vermaak. Die drugged op, dronk eienaar het, deur sy eie toedoen, so paar wakkermaak poesklappe ontvang toe die tension bietjie taai raak. Vanuit ons oogpunt is dit ‘n kuierplek wat ons nie eers vir ons kakste vriende sal aanraai nie. Om Shivas se naam nog self verder poes te maak het die eienaar Slash Dogs daarvan beskuldig dat hulle hom aangerand het. Hoe fokken dronk of hoog moet jy wees om iemand wat nie eers naby jou club was nie, te beskuldig van aanranding? The mind really fucking boggles…

Chris Van Der Walt (Boargazm, PitVirus, Black Cat Bones) was self Vrydagaand daar en het die volgende met ons gedeel. Hierdie gee julle min of meer ‘n idee van die kak kant van SA se music scene waarmee fans en musos mee moet deal. Dis jammer dat daar sulke konterige eienaars bestaan in die scene wat reeds nie so groot is nie. Wat ‘n fokken tietkop…

Ons job is nie om besighede soos hierdie se name met kak te gooi nie. Hulle doen ‘n goed genoeg job daarvan hulleself. Bly vêr weg van hierdie establishment af. Hulle verdien nie ‘n fokken sent uit jou beursie nie. En aan die eienaar – geen verskoning gaan jou reputasie red nie. Maak daai stuk kak club eerder toe en begin ‘n besigheid waar jy nie met fokken mense of diere werk nie. Rottweilers is nie daar om jou piel te laat groter lyk nie, jou pielkop.

Rust in Pieces, Shivas Rock.

Hey bra,

Ek was vroeg daar. Gelyk soos ‘n normale aand. Plek ruik soos muf maar ons gee dit maar ‘n kans want hulle gee vir ons ‘n gig. PitVirus het 20:00 gejol – lekker vibe. Boargazm het 21:00 gegeol. Befokte show – mense skreeu, mosh, cheer. Regtig baie lekker. Haggis begin 22:00 jol en so paar tunes in cut die backline en desk se krag maar die club se ligte en yskaste is aan. Hmmm, okay?

Ek vra toe vir die sound dude om te double check op die kragboks want hy het getune die owner sê als is aan maar as gevolg van die power outage hardloop alles bietjie laat. Maximum Carnage is gereed om 23:00 te jol maar die eienaar sit die krag af. Niemand jol nie, hy like nie metal nie. DJs moet begin.

Ek convince hom toe om vir Maximum ‘n 10 minute slot te gee want hulle is klaar opgestel en wag nog heel aand. Hy stem in. Drie minute later sit hy al die krag af. Die hele club chant “POES! POES! POES! Pure poetry. Daar was ‘n groterige fan wat hom konfronteer het, toe stap ek ook nader om te hoor of ons die krag kan aankry. Die eienaar tune ons moet oppak in die donker. Ek stap weg en reël met ‘n barman om die krag aan te sit terwyl ons oppak, toe moer ‘n ander dude die eienaar. Iewers het die eienaar sy Rottweiler ook uitgebring maar die hond was so freaked out gewees.

Die krag is toe aan, almal is rustig en ons pak op. Hy charge toe daar by die kitchen uit met ‘n mes en gooi gear rond, skop die PA system ensovoorts. Soos ‘n kind. Hy was toe actually out-of-it. Toe gooi hy ‘n drummer so tom rond en ‘n bra slaat hom pot shot op die neus. Bloed orals. Ek het ook sy arms gegryp en hom terug in die kitchen ge-force waar die barman en bouncers hom gehou het. Die barman en bouncers was actually aan ons kant. Toe pak ons op en ry. Die cops het gekom, gelag en gery.

What. A. Doos!

Nou is sy social media commentary ook ‘n gemors. Sy online responses waarmee hulle try op-cover het is presies hoe hy met almal in die club gebpraat het. Hy was so poes dronk en hoog op drugs, hy was borderline vertraag. Sies.

Deel met jou tjommies!

Dis die jaar 2019 en Julius Malema is Suid-Afrika se nuwe president. Dit is jou skuld, want jy is fokken ignorant en share alles op Facebook, las stertjies by en raak emosioneel sonder om enige iets te fact check of vir jouself te bevraagteken. Dit veroorsaak ‘n slow-motion kneejerk kettingreaksie wat SA square in die poefgaatjie skop min of meer soos wat met Amerika, die kollektiewe poephol van planeet aarde laasweek gebeur het. En hulle kollettiewe mank apie, die Verenigde Koninkryk van Groot-Brittanje en Noord-Ierland toe Brexit vir almal ‘n nuwe een geskeur het. ‘n Koningkryk van idiote. Kom ons fok liewer daai details vir eers…

‘n Glas rooiwyn per dag laat jou langer lewe. Share! 105-jarige vrou tune ‘n halwe bottel whiskey per dag is net die fokken antwoord vir ‘n lang lewe. Share! Tjoklits laat jou kom soos ‘n bosvark vir ure aaneen. Share! Selfoongebruik gee jou voorvelkanker. Share! O poes, wag – rooiwyn is nou weer sleg vir jou! Share!

Jirre, en ons love stats iets faktap. Die hoeveelheid plaasmoorde, die crime rate, hoe leeg die Vaaldam is. Ons like dit om die horrible goed te share. Die doom en gloom. Wanneer laas het iemand jou ‘n Whatsapp gestuur om te tune dat die Vaaldam 78% vol is? Seker nooit nie. Wanneer laas was hy 78% vol? Fuck knows. Ek is te lui om te check. Vandag is die Sterkfonteindam 91.3% vol. Dit klink heeltemal te wonderlik, kom ons fokus eerder op die Vaaldam se 15% (hy staan actually vandag op 30.9%, maar stuur gerus 15% aan oor Whatsapp – dit klink heelwat meer fokken terrible).
Het jy geweet dat 98.5% van alles stats complete bullshit is?

Jou Facebook vriende is net so ignorant soos jy, comment op die kak wat jy share en mense sukkel om “even te can”. Literally. Dit sneeubal, jy vergeet van die kak wat jy versprei en twee jaar later duik dieselfde kak op, effens gemodify met poesbaie stertjies bygelas. Jy het weer eier op jou gesig en jou super lame defense is: “Ja, maar dis Suid-Afrika, mens weet NOOIT met sulke goed nie.” Mens fokken doen. Jy is net te fokken lui om te lees. Jy is net te fokken lui om alles te bevraagteken. Jy hou nie daarvan om vir jouself te dink nie. #SulkeMoeite. Jy word so hard aan jou neus rondgelei dat wanneer iemand eventually jou neus los, slaan dit so lekker breë pers pielmerk oor jou voorkop. Dis lekkerder om ‘n aap te wees. Dis gerieflik.

Kyk na hierdie foto wat mense vir weke lank laat rondtos het op Facebook. Is dit Tom Hanks of Bill Murray?
Kom ons fokken stry vir ure lank. Oor ‘n foto wat in 2012 geneem is en weer die rondtes doen op Facebook. Spoiler alert, dis Bill Murray. Ja, jy lyk fokken baie na Tom Hanks, maar kom ons werk met so bietjie feite:

Reasons my son is crying.
He met Bill Murray.
Submitted by: Laura R.
Location: St. Andrew’s, Scotland

Die BBC het die antie gebel en dit bevestig. Hier is nog ‘n foto van Bill Murray, dieselfde dag by St. Andrew’s met dieselfde outfit. Case closed. Moving on…
Jirre, het jy geweet dat Jacob Rothschild se familie 500 triljoen dollar werd is? Het jy ook geweet dat die hele wêreld se rykdom in 2015 op omtrent 250 triljoen gestaan het? So, die Rothschilds besit in fact alles op Aarde en dubbel al die rykdom wat nog op Aarde gemaak moet word. Slegs een lid van die Rothschild fokkers word ingesluit op Forbes se 2015 lys van billionaires in die wêreld: Benjamin de Rothschild. Hy rank hier by nommer 1121 met ‘n netto waarde van $1,61b. Weet jy wie is ryker as hy? Probably Whitey Basson. Ek is te lui om te kyk waar hy tans op Forbes rank. Dis die fokken ou van Checkers. Hier in Suid-Afrika. Ek sê “probably”, want ek is te lui om dit te fact check. Jou defense sal seker iets in die lyn wees van: “Maar die punt is hulle het steeds BAIE geld!!! Wat is die verskil nou regtig?”
Regtig? Is dit die punt? As jy ‘n keuse het om twee verskillende pryse te betaal vir dieselfde huis, wat gaan jy doen? Wat is nou regtig die verskil tussen R1.5m en R2.5m? Dis net baie geld. Vat die duur opsie. Daar is nie ‘n verskil nie. Dis net syfers, dommie.
Het jy laasweek op Facebook gelees van John Cleese se fantastiese “open letter” aan Amerika? Fuck ou, jou moet dit lees. Dit was goed, hoor! Behalwe dat dit deur ‘n ene Alan Baxter geskryf is waay fokken back in 2000:

London, 8th November 2000.

To the citizens of the United States of America,

Following your failure to elect either a half decent candidate or man-monkey as President of the USA to govern yourselves and, by extension, the free world, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence. Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume a monarch’s duties over all states, commonwealths and other territories. To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, please comply with the following acts:

1. Look up “revoke” in a dictionary
2. Learn at least the first 4 lines of “God save the Queen”
3. Start referring to “soccer” as football
4. Declare war on Quebec

Tax collectors from Her Majesty’s Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all revenues due (backdated to 1776).

Thank you for your cooperation and…have a nice day!

Gaan lees nou weer “John Cleese” se brief. Sestien jaar se fokken stertjies bygekry en ek skiem nie John Cleese is die tipe ou wat sy fokken tyd gaan mors om iets onoorspronklik uit te kak deur plagiaat te pleeg nie.

Meer onlangs, toe Trump president-elect geslat het in Amerika het hierdie pêreltjie ook kop uitgesteek:
Kom ons kyk of jy allergies is vir lees. Gaan figure dit vir jouself uit. Hierso is al die ammo wat jy nodig het. Onthou om die hele fokken ding te lees en die videos te kyk. Hulle voer hom vir jou met ‘n lepeltjie:
http://www.snopes.com/simpsons-trump-prediction/

En uiteindelik kom ons by die groot finalé wat verlede week kak en verwoesting gesaai het, heel moontlik meer ekonomies van aard as wat die weer blameer kon word. Ekself het hierdie WhatsApp boodskap van SES verskillende mense af ontvang waarvan twee van hulle my immediate bure was. ‘n Chick met die naam van “Antoinette” wat claim dat sy vir ER24 werk het aparheids-tipe vrees in mense ontwaak met haar doom-en-gloom boodskap van ‘n poesgroot storm:

“Prediction is worse than yesterday” – sy gee geen indikasie van wat “vandag” se datum is nie, so hierdie boodskap kon ses jaar terug dalk ook die rondtes gedoen het.
“If you are out, I suggest you get home” – hier was waar meeste mense hulle kak verloor het, want “out” het vir meeste mense beteken “nie by die huis nie”. Companies het hulle werknemers so vroeg as 14:00 huis toe gestuur sodat hulle die storm van die eeu kon mis en eerder by die huis kon sit en draties kap en Milo drink. Hoekom? Want elke tweede doos met Whatsapp het ‘n stertjie bygelas soos “massive electric storm – switch off electronic devices” of “die ou wat hierdie vir my aangestuur het is ‘n pilot en het dit confirm”.
“If you’re on low ground, I suggest you get to higher ground” – daar is geen fokken sprake van enige geografiese ligging nie. Vir al wat ons weet is dit ‘n Sandton-tannie wat in Phuket sit en Mai Tai suip deur ‘n strootjie terwyl sy die wolke dophou.

Jy sou dalk ook opmerk dat die persone wat hierdie kak versprei het “WhatsApp” uitspreek as “What’s Up” – daai tannies met die “ek-wil-NOU-met-die-manager-praat”-haarstyle. En daai ooms wat wat op hulle buurtwag-groepies van swartmense praat as “bravos”.
Het dit Vrydag gereën? Ja, nogal hard, maar dit was ‘n doodgewone hoëveld donderstorm gewees. Weet jy wat ‘n fokken breeze die M1 op pad Joburg toe was tydens spitsverkeer daardie dag? Almal was reeds by die huis met flitse en blikkieskos onder hulle forts in hulle sitkamers wat hulle met kussings en duvets gebou het.

Jissis mense, kom ons wees bietjie meer informed, asseblief? Voor jy daai share knoppie click, sit op jou hande vir tien sekondes en vra jou brein se regter hemisfeer om die logika te handle. Ek praat kak, die linker hemisfeer hanteer logika. Of doen dit?

Gaan fokken lees dit op!

Deel met jou tjommies!

By Marc

Wam niggas, or is that wam niggers?  Can I say nigga?  I mean, there, I just said it a few times and also, the short answer is “yes” but I mean, as a white male South African, expropriating (or just succumbing to) the African-Americanism “nigga” and using it unapologetically upon black and white friends alike, will Aunty let me say it?  Aunty Society?

While for years I railed against the now retrospectively inevitable contamination of our society and the globe with American English generally and notably annexed ghetto cool from the States just like “nigga” and “yo” and “holla” and, every time I heard a local black teenager on the street approaching a local black teenage girl, saying “Yo bitch”, I just wanted to slap him – my toes curled – I concede.  I lost.  And I let go of that resistance and distaste because I guess I gravitated towards a black environment, a black life, so at home ekasi mina.  Make no mistake, whenever I hear a local black person either squeaking like a Yankee Barbie or a guy saying things like “ninee-nine” instead of “ninety nine” or “gone” instead of “going to” I still want to shit my pants. It’s just more distant now and I get over it quicker.  I guess if you hang with folk you take them as they are, pseudo twang and all.  Borrowed street cred and stolen cool and all.

Silly, since we are way cooler than Americans – black or white (I mean us, but them too) – and our country’s population is such a hip melting pot that has given rise to so much talent and skill on the world stage.  Zulu could easily become, even without the dubious and Kafkaesque benefit of the Zulu nation colonising a few foreign countries, the lingua franca of the world.  Why can’t it?  It already bridges so many in this country and beyond, has an easy to learn construct and is exploratory in demands it makes on your mouth and expressive in the contemplation it insists on in application.  Do you know that awesome super bike, the Ducati 916?  That red phallic locomotor symbol you just want to be naked with, it’s so sexy?  A Mr. Terblanche designed it.  Sowaar!  Troosgod.  He’s the big kahuna at Ducati design, Italy, on that stuff.  From P.E, I believe.  Hy het daardie ding geskep.  And Lucas Radebe, captaining Leeds United that time ago?  (If I must)… Charlize Theron (the glitz), Ernie Els (more sport), other famous astronauts, scientists, whatnot…

This is silly.  I am getting off topic and into a list of SA greats when even a dim historical or current global consciousness tells one that South Africa rocks and should hang its head nowhere.  There the Aussies, the Kiwis, even the Chinese and Gabonese are way ahead of us – they just run on a “Well yes of course, we totally rock” understated demeanour that we lack here in SA, which is even sillier, because we really do have phenomenal people, facilities, events, thinking.  We’re the shit, man…  Our government is bloated, retarded and well, it’s a government and how great can that be? And a huge swathe of humanity has yet to be dragged through the brutal process of becoming middle class while still maintaining dignity and sanity. Not to mention developing taste, manners and a world view – and our lives play out against the backdrop of that fat kid tuck shop and the pathetic uniformed forces we glimpse, the political and geographical chicanery and tomfoolery I guess any state in the world may be subject too, but we have the spark man!  If the world was a small cottage garden, we are like year-round tulips, always shooting from the bulb, from the soil, always colourful, beautiful, never unremarkable.

My niggaz, I have a text record – one that can never be erased – and a daily habit of greeting all friends I bump into regardless of their colour, “wam nigga” and a growing interest in finding out, honestly, beyond me not giving a particular shit anyway, if I’m being politically correct saying it. The thing is, political correctness is sort of scoffed at on the street, in friendship, where pushing things and tweaking language and just generally swinging in the next dope terminology is almost mandatory and totally cool. I guess there are two issues I have begun pondering of late:
One – the fact that I have been assimilated – both by the spell checker as well as by American domination of certain aspects of life no matter where you are – into utilising Americanisations as much as any of the Afrikaans goed and old English and French expropriations and whatever else litters language in this country and beyond.
Two – “nigga” is so fiercely owned and currently charged by black folk in the USA or, rather, it’s a charged atmosphere there now so, am I always going to be a dick using the term simply because I’m white?  I mean, regardless of America’s internal politics or even consciousness of how it seeps into the world at large – let’s even leave that out for a moment – will nigga forever be black and ill suited to my white mouth?

No, I don’t think so.

Jou ma se white mouth.

There was a debate about whether whiteys can say nigga some time back, in the States.  I caught a bit of it at the time.  One somewhat academic tangent of that national, unproductive conversation was that black Americans are saying “nigga” whereas “nigger” will always remain a racist slur.  Horseshit!  That’s retarded, silly.  How, with the myriad twangs on accent and individual manifestations of speech and dialects prevalent even in a province, much more the world, can you determine if a whitey or anyone for that matter is saying nigga with an “a” or nigger with an “er”?  I think it’s safe to assume that if a pasty white fuck wearing a white sheet, somewhere in the southern states of America yells “Hey! Nigga!!” that he’s a hostile piece of shit but, beyond that, the whole “it’s how you spell it” offering seems like irrelevant semantics to me and a poor contribution to that whole debate.  I won’t get into the whole phenomenon of black Americans calling themselves “nigga” to begin with but, on that point, if you call one another by that name, and you’re successful in impacting world culture and your terminology passes into the vernac of earth, well, well done and deal with it.  You did it.  Now I do too.

In my heart, I say it in love.  Wam nigga.  Impossible?  Never entitled?  Never allowed unless by grace?  Well, not for all of us, né?  I’ll tell you where I got the phrase from – Lebo.  Lebo who was once my cousin-in-law who walked into the house one Sunday carrying stuff for a salad and waltzed into the kitchen and said “Wam niggaz!” by way of greeting.  She’s a CA and black and cool and, I don’t know, it was just so cool and cute and dope all at once, hearing her say that, affirming me as a black man, accepted, present and relaxed, beyond race, beyond anything.  Just people making salad before a braai. I’m sorry, but I am aware of our colour and culture differences in the way that God meant us to be – joyously.  He had a genocidal moment that went on for centuries in the old book, but he got better, remember?  No one slaughters Amellekites nowadays.  I, way far and completely more value someone for their differences that are so interesting to me – individual and cultural differences that make each person you meet unique – than recoil into my own identity.  I suppose I have just enough distaste, alienation and fatigue from being white middle class to be perfectly hovering, wraith-like, beyond contamination of core racism and, well, yes, possibly even core identity.  I’ll tell the shrink… the point is or the question was, since seeing me slapping palms on a city street without knowing anything of this and just seeing white man saying “wam nigga” to a black man – is that kosher?  See?  There we go…  Awe. Kosher. Schweet. Lekker. Mal. Tit. Befok. Nca. Ayoba. Dope, bra…  Eita, wam nigga…  Maybe I’m just supercool? If supercool is pathological disdain, a patent inability to give a flying fuck about the ramifications of what one says and an insistence on everyone else being supercool too, then, ja, maybe.  That doesn’t answer things for me, though.

If I’m introspective and frank about it, I guess I also just flout race stereo-typification, even classification, on principle.  I just don’t think classifying anyone or just seeing the person walking towards you as a colour first and a human second aids anything almost ever, so…  I say that, but I totally gawp at hot black chicks and, yes, because they’re black.  That’s in there somewhere. I dunno…

Having dipped into a pondering of this in words, coming as I do from a few years traveling with the term in my vocab, I now feel like I’m gravitating back towards that disdain.  Wragtig.  Since I have never ever had anyone – black or white – rebuke me for employing the term, not only am I relaxing back into the innately cosmopolitan sensation I have always enjoyed by being blessedly colour blind in all the right ways, I am also realising that it is a global term now, whether black America likes it or not.  No, here we never witnessed black folk take hold of the term “kaffir” and own it as some kind of milestone jargon all hip and cool (although saying “hola mlungu” between black men trended a while back and is still present), so I guess a straight pasting-over-imagining of a similar happenstance here is flawed.  But, I can lag lekker with my coloured mates, calling them “bushy” (an adaptation of “bushman” vir diegene wat gister gebore was), so the cool, piss-in-your-racist-face thing has happened there.  With hindsight, coloured folk have always had that laaste lag sense of humour in their language, né?  Who was going to emulate the ownership of nigga here as in the States if not them?  Oddly enough, now being called “m’larney” by coloured acquaintances jars a liiiitle on me…  M’larney was almost a nod to your white, better face, originally?  Now it feels like an unwelcome identification, one I’d rather not have or, rather, one that disappoints slightly, since I know I am at least a quarter coloured, if not a whole lot more.  Perhaps even odder, being called “mlungu” by black folk has become neutral to me now.  That doesn’t jar on me at all.  It seems to contain just the right touch of an identification of a difference as well as a welcome. Maybe I’m just biased.  Black girlfriend, black neighbours, black mom-in-law-to-be, black “other” family to visit, black other place you might find me…  Maybe I’m biased, ja.

Wam niggers…  there’s also the comedy value of an older white male using the word.  Somehow, no matter that the backdrop may be shit brown sometimes, what we went through, indeed, what we are, here in South Africa, allows me to say it.  Also, since the term doesn’t belong to black South Africa nor white South Africa, it’s kind of got a mutually foreign OK-ness to it.  Not for Julius Malema, no doubt, but we all know he’s a doos…  Make that a Doos.  Capital “D”, please.  Maybe the relative newness of the mush-mash of languages we have here, now able to be meshed and welded and blended and live alongside one another, also allows nigga and dope and chill and too many other cool terms to mention to slip in to this fertile play ground, South Africa.

I’m OK saying it.  I like it.  It’s both a lag and a statement of total OK-ness.

I hope.

I’ll let you know if ever I lose teeth over it.  Until then, soentjies, catch you, wam nigga.

Deel met jou tjommies!

Wherever jy 2017 se arrival ge-celebrate het – ons hoop dit was ‘n fokken lekker enetjie gewees. Ons het vir hom netjies vasgevat by Tweefontein Melkery die afgelope naweek. Thanks vir die 150 of so mense wat ons kom join het en kom holswaai het. Dit was een virrie boeke.

Dink bietjie terug. Jy moes al so paar kak nuwejaarsparties beleef het of jy was moontlik al op die verkeerde plek op die regte tyd gewees. Een nuwejaars countdown wat vir my uitsteek soos ‘n seer, krom piel was hier in die laat 90’s rond gewees. Ek dink die trauma het die spesifieke jaar uit my brein geblok maar ek vermoed dit was die oorgang van 1997 ma 1998 gewees. Dit was nie juis ‘n partytjie. En met “nie juis nie” bedoel ek eintlik “fokken glad nie”. Ek was net op een van die kakste plekke in Gauteng gewees omdat alle vriende en familie met vakansie was en ek die enigste doos was wat nie zak gehad het om weg te gaan nie – dit los my toe by Vereeniging se fokken ysskaatsbaan.  En hier is die weird deel – ek het daai aand nie eers gaan ysskaats nie. Ek het maar net saam met ‘n goose en haar broer gekarring na die ice rink toe, want selfs dit is beter as om net by die huis te sit en draad te trek met facial scrub terwyl so paar romantiese kerse flikker iewes in ‘n hoek van ‘n badkamer.

Dit was so ‘n fokken slegte affêre dat ek het tot vandag toe nog nooit ice skates oor my voete getrek het nie. Ek is daai doos wat nog nooit in my lewe ge-ysskaats het nie. Sulke adolosente trauma. Die ander kinders het al in die rondte geskaats op zef techno en dit duidelik geniet. Een of ander mobile disco doos wat vir die aang gehuur is het  oor die mikrofoon begin aftel van tien na nul. Toe daai klok nul slaat het ek een van die mees oninteressante dinge op aarde gedoen: in plaas daarvan om “happy new year” te gil en ‘n meisie of ‘n MILF te probeer grope of om ‘n shooter in my keel af te gooi, het ek tamatiesous oor ‘n souterige russian en slaptjips gespuit. By die fokken ysskaatsbaan. In fokken Vereeniging. Ek vermoed dat die russian ekstra souterig was vanweë my trane.
#Sulkeuneventful
#SulkeSad
Terug in 2017… Toe ek vanoggend hierdie video van ‘n Australiese TV-stasie sien, het ek egter baie beter gevoel oor daai kak aand in V-Town, Sien, as jy ‘n loser is op jou eie iewers in die bleachers, is dit fine. Niemand sien jou raak nie en dié wat jou raaksien voel ‘n fok vir jou. Dis fine, dis jou eie worries en jy kan daarmee deal. Dis maar net nog ‘n dag en jy beweeg aan, maar wanneer jy deel is van ‘n trop losers en die sadste coutdown van alle tye word live ge-broadcast op televisie en daarna op die internet verewig word, is dit ‘n totale ander fokken ball game.

Daar is heeltemal te veel cinge in hierdie video om elke deelnemer individueel te bespreek, so ek gaan dit maar aan julle oorlos om in die comments te tackle as julle wil. 2016 se hangover hang ook nog maar dik oor die ore. Happy new year en hoop jou jaar het nie te kak begin nie. Hou jou broek maar styf vas. 2017 gaan heel moontlik ‘n fokken rowwe enetjie wees, so gryp hom aan die ballas voor hy jou eerste aan die ballas gryp…

Deel met jou tjommies!

Wat maak jy by die werk, huh? Dis die tweede week in Januarie en jy is veronderstel om met vakansie te wees, jou aap. Like jy die traffic? Het jy so verlang na die traffic dat jy in die kakste traffic-week van die jaar weer werk toe en terug wil fok? Jy weet mos die meeste mense het gister vir die eerste keer in 2017 terug soutmyne toe begin beweeg. Nee man, moenie so wees nie , my fok.

Hey, moenie worry nie. Ons is hier om te help om jou leave vir 2017 behoorlik te beplan. Jy moet net seker maak dat jy die eerste klikkiebek is wat reguit HR toe hardloop om jou leave forms in te gee nadat jy hier gelees het. 2016 was ‘n kontkoppie gewees. In terme van publieke vakansiedae is 2017 nogals gaaf met ons. Uit die twaalf vakansiedae is daar net een dag wat ‘n totale doos is en op ‘n Saterdag val. Hy maak seker niemand kry ‘n af dag links of regs nie. Dis 16 Desember, oftwel AfriForum se dag om te shine by die Voëltrekkermonument en Die Stem te sing saam met Steve Hofmeyr. Geloftedag. Nasionale Two-Tone Dag.

Behalwe vir daai speedbump, lyk die lys van af daggies vir hierdie jaar verder heel aangenaam. Ons het vir Goeie Vrydag en Familiedag wat sorg vir ‘n lange hier by die middel van April rond en dan vir Freedom Day en Werkersdag wat broeknaai en amper vir ons nog ‘n langnaweekbaba maak. Youth Day looi ons met ‘n lange in Junie, Nasionale Braaidag is vir ‘n change vriendelik met ons in September en die Krismisnaweek is langer as Ron Jeremy se piel hierdie jaar. Kom ons stel ondersoek in….
*spoeg op brille en vryf so blink met t-shirt se binnekant en sit terug op neus*

So paar voorstelle vir jou verlof:
Merk Maandag, 20 Maart af op jou lysie. Dinsdag die 21ste is Human Right’s day. Daar score jy ‘n langnaweek. Vrydag 14 April is Goeie Vrydag en Maandag 17 April is Familiedag. Los hom net so. Langnaweek innie fokken sakkie! Vir ‘n superlangnaweek, maak seker jy sit leave in vir Vrydag die 28ste April, want Donderdag die 27ste is Freedom Day en Maandag die 1ste Mei is werkersdag.

In Junie score jy ‘n langnaweek met Yoof Day wat op Vrydag die 16de val. Julie is ‘n koue maand sonder enige vakansiedae, so maybe kan jy hier rond dalk ‘n weeklange break vat en Suidkus toe fok waar dit altyd somer is. Die strande is ook stiller, so jy hoef nie ‘n Penny Sparrow op jouself te trek en jou werk te verloor omdat jy ‘n poes op Facebook is nie. Met jou terugkoms sal jy moontlik ‘n week later hondsiek word, so daar score jy sommer sick leave ook. Die winter is maar meeste van die tyd ‘n fokken bitch met snotsiekte, skarlakenkoors en runderpes. Eet lemoene. Drink genoeg water. Eet mashed potatoes vir spuitkakvoorkoming. Dra effies. Rave safe.

Augustus is hierdie jaar effens weird – Nasionale Vrouedag val op ‘n Woensdag, so vat maar daai midweek break vir wat dit is. Ons het nog nie besluit hoe dit ons Oppikoppi-planne hierdie jaar affekteer nie. Maak jy maar daai somme. Treat jou goose en jou ma vir ‘n Wimpy brekfis of iets.

Hierdie jaar val Nasionale Braaidag op ‘n Sondag (24 September) wat beteken dat jy Maandag die 25ste kry vir mahala. Vat hom vas en braai ‘n ding faktap daai Sondag sodat jy Maandag kan huil en Netflix kyk. Jy moet braai. As jy nie braai nie mag jy nie ons maatjie wees nie. Jy kan maar vir juffrou gaan sê. Ons gee tog nie om nie.

Tussen September en Desember is dit ‘n droë, dooie stretch, so hang in there, cowboy. Probeer net om November te oorleef. Daar is ‘n bederfie aan die einde van die tonnel – Kersfees val op ‘n Maandag en Doosdag val op ‘n Dinsdag. Superlangnaweek vir die wen! As jy die begin van 2018 ook wil bytel, go for it – die eerste Januarie val op ‘n Maandag! Fokken scooooore!

Raait, so kom ons veronderstel jy’t ons guide gebruik – dan het jy 2 werksdae af gevat om naweke langer te maak en 5 werksdae gevat om Julie meer draaglik te maak en sandkastele te gaan bou op die T.O.D strand. Dit sit jou op 7 dae verlof wat jy vir die HR tannie met nie “ek-wil-nou-met-die-manager-praat”-haartyl ingehandig het. Moet nou seblief nie gaan staan en leave mors oor Desember nie. Desember is die heel beste maand om by die werk te wees – meeste van top management sit en ballasbak in Stilbaai, Hermanus of Plet en weet nie waddefok by die werk aangaan nie. Jy kan fokken slap trek by jou graft, halfdag fokof, drank uit jou boonste laai haal en kanse vat. Fok, as jy die enigste ou by die werk is kan jy kaal rondloop ook. Neem die plek op horings! Gebruik eerder jou leave om hierdie tyd volgende jaar af te vat en iets befok te gaan doen. Teen die tyd wat jy middel tot einde Januarie terugkeer vanaf ‘n welverdiende vakansie, het die mense weer gewoond geraak aan commuter traffic en minder mense bestuur soos werfetters. Nie almal nie, net minder.

Ons het hierdie tip verlede jaar ook gestress, so vir die van julle wat geluister het destyds en eers hierdie week die langpad vat en daai vakansie aan die klokke gryp, sal Rolbees Donderdag vir jou ‘n lekker playlist aanmekaarslaan vir jou musiek vir die langpad.

Om te recap, hier is jou public holidays vir 2017:
Dinsdag 21 March: Human Rights Day
Vrydag 14 April: Good Friday
Maandag 17 April: Family Day
Donderdag 27 April: Freedom Day
Maandag 1 May: Workers Day
Vrydag 16 June: Youth Day
Woensdag 9 August: National Women’s Day
Sondag 24 September: Heritage Day
Maandag 25 September: Public holiday
Saterdag 16 December: Day of Reconciliation
Maandag 25 December: Christmas Day
Dinsdag 26 December: Day of Goodwill

As jy ‘n lekker vakansie beplan het en uitmaak van kief plekke, deel dit gerus met ons. Miskien is dit ‘n goeie idee om befokte wegbreekplekke hierso met die ander maats ook te deel. Miskien stel ons ‘n lekker lys op.  Geniet jou vakansie! Of as jy by die werk sit, sit lekker by die werk, hoor!

Deel met jou tjommies!

Deur Big H
Frosted Orange is in 1996 gestig en het hulle eerste official gig by ‘n restaurent genaam Cranzgotz in Houtbaai gejol op die 19de of Oktober van daai jaar. Al wat die ouens blykbaar kan onthou was dat die gig pretty much ‘n fokop was en dat die pizza lekker was. Dit sou darem nie lank so bly nie (dis nou die kak gig-gedeelte, nie die pizza nie).

Simon Orange en Albert Frost het way back in 1989 ontmoet toe Albert se pa, Frank Frost handjie bygesit het as drummer vir The Blues Broers se eerste recording, Shake Like That. Albert was ‘n 12-jarige knock-knee puisiegevreet en Simon was die stil tipe takhaar met sy neus in ‘n boek, meeste van die tyd. Niks het regtig vlam gevat tussen die twee tot en met so 5 jaar later nie, toe Albert die Blues Broers as hul lead guitarist gejoin het. Hier rondom die launch van The Blues Broers se tweede album het Albert en Simon agterkom dat hulle like om die boundaries verder as die blues te druk en saam begin werk aan ‘n side project genaam Frosted Orange.

Fast forward so twintig jaar en hier sit ons nou… Die dag na Krismis, 2016, was die vyfde keer wat Albert Frost-hulle die Boxing Days Blues Bash gehou het en ek is spyt ek het nou eers daarvan uitgevind. Van nou af gaan ek elke jaar probeer gaan! Ek het gig-ontrekkingssimptome begin kry, en toe ek hoor dat ‘n hele paar van my favourite musos in Tulbagh ‘n gig net na Kersfees gaan speel, het ek ‘n plan gemaak om daar uit te kom (synde ek anyway in die Kaap met vakansie was). Alles is mooi daar. Tulbagh is mooi, Saronsberg Kelder is mooi, die bome is mooi, die gras is mooi, die girls is mooi. Alles is befok mooi.

Frosted Orange (met Simon Orange en Albert Frost), die Robin Auld Band, die Blues Broers en die Albert Frost band het gespeel, en die musiek was uit die heel boonste rakke uit. Albert Frost het op ‘n stadium by Jorik Pienaar oorgevat as die Blues Broers se drummer. Kan jy dit imagine? Dik nogstalgies, net soos sy pa al daai jare vantevore gedoen het. Dit was genuine ‘n great dag gewees – lekker vibe, lekker kos, lekker dagdronk en fokken fantastiese musiek!

Deel met jou tjommies!