Needle party

Now I've seen everything. Seen in Melville, Johannesburg, today on a Volla.

"Hi, can I have three Pepsi's and something ornate by William Blake please? Just ring the buzzer, I'll come down."

Just plain lost

I watched Lost in La Mancha the other night, a documentary about Terry Gilliam's attempt to bring his version of Don Quixote's story to the big screen - in what was ultimately a very appropriately titled "The Man who killed Don Quixote." Gilliam does not endear himself to everyone, that's for sure, but it was sad to see something that held so much promise get gradually dismantled into a few carton boxes and insurance claims. I also learnt that the first assistant director is actually a project manager.

The South African movie distribution system is continuing to uphold the lofty standards we expect of it (sarcasm intended). There are so many instances of good movies that don't reach our screens apart from showing at the odd festivals, if at all (e.g. Oldboy and 3-Iron), or disappear, like Serenity which was pulled after big banners and posters trumpeted its release. I actually don't know whether to blame the distribution system for its lack of imagination or the viewing public for theirs. I also don't know whether seperating "art" movies from "blockbusters" is helpful - it is certainly not contributing to the cause of exposing people to a wider range of film making styles and more than three storylines. (Of course, showing them together won't mean they get watched.)

Anyway, the reason I am angry once again is it seems we will be missing out on Everything is Illuminated, a movie based on the book by Jonathan Safran Foer, directed by Liev Schreiber and featuring Gogol Bordello's own Eugene Hutz as the character who apparently steals the show from Elijah Wood's characterisation of Foer (read a Twitch review here). The soundtrack also looks like it should be excellent. The web sites of Ster Kinekor and Nu Metro are so unintuitive that I have given up trying to find out whether it will eventually be released. And speaking of Terry Gilliam, I wonder if we'll see Tideland around here. Oh, and what about Emir Kusturica's Life is a Miracle?

The best solution to these problems, apart from traveling to Xi'an and getting Cerebus to chaperone you around the local DVD shops and translate requests, is to resort to good old Buyoyo, in my view one of the web's best-kept secrets. The only down-side is that our Customs people tend to have trouble differentiating between US and Hong Kong dollars and have twice taxed me on the wrong currency and exchange rate when my package enters the country, which cannot be resolved at the post office. But that's another story. All I wanted to say really is that I enjoyed Lost in La Mancha... and look where that got me.

The humdrum conundrum of race

Aah, race. What would we South Africans do without it? What will we get our respective Cardies satin boxers, Pep Stores panties and Woollies briefs tied in a knot about if we each couldn't be an expert on race? Four different things made me think about it today.

In an update on a previous story, IOL reported on how race-related remarks can get you in trouble at work in South Africa after the arbitration case of Mahas vs Smith Manufacturing was settled. The story is about how Mr Mahas, a South African Indian, made the comment at a staff meeting: "'n Boer maak 'n plan, but an Indian is born with a plan." After an offended staff member confronted him, he made a complete fudge of clarifying the comment and eventually got fired (he has now been reinstated).

On News24 there's and article on how the whole nation (ha!) is apparently still in a tizz about the comment made by Babalwa Mneno on the TV programme Strictly Come Dancing, when she said, after being voted off: "That should be a lesson to black people to vote only for each other." Sandy Ngema, who presented, concurred on air and has also been dragged into the debate. I must just add that if Mneno's response is accurately quoted, its the worst clarification of a statement ever, even beating the one Mahas managed. Check this out:

"I never meant it as racist in any way, that is not how I am or how I was brought up. I did not say that black people should vote only for other black people. I said black people must vote for one another because I feel they ought to support their own people better."

Also on IOL, an article identified Zayn Nabbi as one of Survivor South Africa's contestants. He recounted some reasons why he thinks he got selected by the panel, including:

"They asked me what pisses me off? And I said 'seeing six white people sitting on a panel and judging whether I go on to a show. Where is your transformation and demographic representivity?' I think they were all gobsmacked with a 23-year-old upstart telling them what to do."

The last thing was a chain-email I received today entitled Why Africans can't be Terrorists and, in obvious reference to the recent Heathrow scares, listed ten reasons like: "We are always late; we would have missed all 4 flights" and "Pretty girls on the plane would distract us" and "We would talk loudly and bring attention to ourselves."

This is where it all gets complicated. Are we, in defining our new social construct, saying it's OK to make self-referential, seemingly deprecating remarks about ourselves and our own racial groups or not? Are we allowed to joke with ourselves? In the case of Mahas, it all went horribly wrong. The "(ha!)" I inserted in the second story above actually meant: "probably more the white part of the nation" - it was a sarcastic comment, which would seem acceptable to do if I was white, but I'm not. It is probably interpreted as me saying: "well, we blacks back her."

Mneno actually made a stab at her race and got stung. Nabbi implied the ability of the panel to select good participants was compromised because of their homogenous racial profile and is in the article reflected as a telling-it-like-it-is conveyor of uncomfortable truths. The chain email is written as a self-parody and the copy I received was circulated among various black South Africans before it somewhere managed to jump the racial email barrier and begun its travels among white social networks, before it jumped back again (that's another interesting topic for another day - where are those connecting nodes?)

Did the meaning of the email change the moment white South Africans started to distribute it, rather than black South Africans? We've been through all the tedious debates about what is an African, yet there is still no conclusive answer. Which 'Africans' are we talking about? Is it right for a black person to be offended if receiving the email from a white person , rather than from a black person? If a black person circulates the same email, but the formulations are changed from "We" to "They" would it be perceived differently - is it then offensive? If a white person then forwards it formulated as "They" can that be grounds for dismissal? Can sending it as it reads now be grounds for dismissal? Each situation carries different nuances and will carry different interpretations. I mean, looking at it from a black perspective, my view is bound to be different, right?

All of this white and black stuff is grey... or is it gray? I have more questions than answers. It's been only 12 years and our political discourse is still based on the severe division of races (two economies paradigm, BEE), and we all have preconceived ideas and racial stereotypes grafted into our psyches, so we still have a long way to go to define a new set of rules for how we interact with and define each other. I like the idea of introspection and joking with oneself, because I think we get overly excited about these things sometimes... and sometimes I get overly excited.

By the way, I'm not black, I'm white. Does it matter? Does your interpretation of what I wrote here and your response depend on which one I am? That's the problem.

Guess what, a post about music

When it comes to music, I'm always in a sharing mood, it's just a pity most people are such lousy receivers. I wonder what is happening on FM radio these days. I tuned in for 15 minutes daily in the shower a while ago when my radio-on-a-rope's batteries were still working. I listened to the 4 or 5 same songs that played everytime for a few weeks and decided I'll stick to my own playlists, which at least include a wider selection of songs, more variety and less groin grabbing. My favourite playlist while driving is to shuffle the 423 songs that I've awarded 5 stars on my iPod - that's 6.4% of the 6595 songs available, which I think sends out a decent enough message that 5 stars don't come easy. When driving a rental car in Gauteng, I listen to Radio Jacaranda or whatever it's called. The other stations take themselves and their coolness so seriously that the complete ignorance of Jacaranda and the way they can mix anything into an easy listening playlist is a breath of fresh air... or possibly a nosefull of dank roadkill stench which is why it's difficult to tune away from. Like Radio 99 in Namibia - the ultimate random music machine with a touch of artificially intelligent pathos.

Some good music I'm listening to that I would recommend if you're gatvol of the usual tripe:

Current 93: Black Ships At the Sky
This is an intense album which has been widely acclaimed as a definite pinnacle in the apocalyptic folk recordings of David Tibet, the most unlikely looking man that goths like to hug. I suspect many people will find themselves listening to the repeat renditions of Idumea on the album, rather than Tibet's own contributions, but the whole album is worth at least two listens. Some reviews here and here and here.

Soundtrack to Temenos: Sainkho Namtchylak, Shelley Hirsch, Catherine Bott
I'm listening to this because of my current obsession with Tuvan throat singing and because Sainkho Namtchylak (thanks again for the tip, Cerebus) features on it, but it's probably not the most exciting one to listen to. What makes this album interesting is the range of sounds that Sainkho can produce and even with the narration I find it good working music. Some reviews and information here and here. There is, of course, Yat-Kha, Huun-Huur-Tu and Shu-De to listen to as well once you've worked your way through these tuvan singing samples. I was laughed at in my face the other day when I excitedly described throat singing to some people. As punishment, I'm now compiling a mix-cd of Tuvan artists for them.

Kokeshi Doll: Self-Titled & Pirukorui
Of all the bands on the Benten Label, Kokeshi Doll remains my favourite and both the first two albums are excellent. This is not punk-by-numbers with Japanese girls singing in the hope that it will be enough of a novelty to sell records; this is good, aggressive and original music. I was starting to despair that the band broke up after reading no news, but was very excited to see a third album is out: Tantalus Rhythm. My copy is on its way, lying on a grey metal shelf in a postal depot somewhere close to the Indian Ocean, between embarrassing postcards, final notice invoices and letters of condolence.

I am also currently relistening Sigur Ròs, Gogol Bordello and Diesel Whores, all of whom I've seen live recently. With the live performances in memory, the albums become much more interesting and multi-faceted. Aag, and then there's the usual suspects I listen to, dilligently captured by Last.FM and reflected in the list on the left.

That's my sharing for the day. Please share alike.

A flickr of life

I have started uploading some photos of our recent European trip to my Flickr profile.
So far there is a set of Tallinn, Estonia, to be followed soon by Riga, Berlin and possibly some oddities from Lisbon and England. Work calls, however. Not far-off, oh no, not carried by the wind. Close, close to my ear SCREAMING. I try and ignore it. I read articles on the web about the psychological reasons for procrastination. Still it screams. Still work calls. Alas!

The lighter side of prohibition

A friend of mine from Oklahoma forwarded this link to me with the note that the picture of the accused is even better than the story ;-)

Subjects of the night

There is a gig I want to attend this week with Three Bored White Guys, Diesel Whores and Jim Neversink. The flyer I received mentioned the 3 August show is at Upper Level, Stellenbosch and the 4 August one is at Mercury Live in Cape Town. The 4th is difficult, and I heard rumours and speculations that Upper Level (which is unknown to me) might be the old Springbok Pub (and before that, Drunken Springbok), a place along with the notorious ex-Finlays that I can honestly say I never visited when I was a student in the town. So I typed a Google search for ["upper level" stellenbosch] and the first hit read "Subject Librarians". Imagine that. I pictured some sort of obscure, experimental evening of spoken word performances by people in dark corners of the room in husky backtracked vocals, before I realised it's a link to the University's actual subject librarians. A pity, I almost had hope for the venue.

Who wants to live forever?

This blog is 2 years old today. With 128 posts in 370 days, that means one post every 5.7 days. See you in a week.

Cerebus was one year older yesterday. And another day today. Hurrah!

One night in Lisbon

Ah, if it were but a week a week ago. Enjoying a sunny Lisbon on a Sunday afternoon before watching Sigur Rós play live; drinking beer to cool down, then eating spicy food as an excuse for the next beer. Most weekends should be like that. The spectre of work is closing in on me, so before it fogs up my senses I’ll recall the concert of last Sunday.

[Start of context]
Vele vlieë met een klap. That’s how I like to plan trips. It’s like if you really have to go to Stellenbosch, you might as well also… ok, bad example. Before we left on the European trip, I checked various gig listings and given our itinerary, I compiled a shortlist of Mono, Sigur Rós, Woven Hand and Gogol Bordello. It’s festival season in Europe, so most bands are touring and mixing up small gigs with large outdoor spectacles. The spectacle thing doesn’t really appeal to sneeudiere like us anymore, so the best fit turned out to be Gogol Bordello (as reported) and Sigur Rós. Or so we thought. The latter’s logistics proved to be slightly more challenging than anticipated as the only solo concert possible for us was in Lisbon at the time when we were in Berlin. Europe can seem small, but the driving distance from Berlin to Lisbon is 3165 km and there were no budget airlines offering a decent solution. Enter good ol’ Voyager miles, which I have been working hard on since the big cash-in of 2004. Minus 50,000 Voyager miles later, we had tickets on Lufthansa worth almost R30,000 via Frankfurt to Lisbon and back the next day. All for less than the price of a Latvian visa. And all because we decided to see Sigur Rós, dammit.
[End of context]

[Start of random observations]
On Sunday 16 July the 03:30AM U-bahn trains to the airport were full of people returning from (or going to) the Berlin Love Parade, the annual techno festival. Lufthansa is overrated, I found EasyJet better and more efficient. Lisbon was as hot as Berlin, but they are better prepared for it, with air conditioned city busses and metro trains. European buildings in general are poorly equipped to deal with heat. Lisbon old town virtually shuts down on Sundays, with a few tourists braving the sun and taking pictures. The reason is not that they are in church – all of Lisbon hangs out at the mall on Sundays, specifically the Vasco da Gama Centre near Oriente Station, part of a vast, newly developed stretch of shiny metal and glass offices and shops, complete with recorded seagull sounds. Why is it that coastline property is such a non-event in some cities and in others a sea view is everything? Sleeping 2 hours per night twice in a row only to get to a concert, while travelling in severe heat makes for stiff necks on a plane and lessens the urge to save money by eschewing random snacks and big beers.
[End of random observations]

The Sigur Rós concert was most excellent. In the last few years, although they have not switched to singing in English, as some in the music industry would want it (what a ridiculous premise), they have become very popular. The show wasn’t sold out, but a few thousand people made their way to the Pavilhão Atlântico, spread out over three levels. The set was opened by Amiina, an Icelandic female foursome who keep on bustling about on stage, swopping spaces and moving between instruments such as keyboards, violins, a saw (expertly wielded) and xylophones. They play an eclectic mix of music that complements the show very well and you will like if you listen to Múm, Colleen and Pagtas.

Sigur Rós on stage, playing live, is powerful. The music drifts between beautiful, slow melodies using Jónsi Birgisson’s voice to full effect, and loud cathartic moments of voice and instruments merging into a just as beautiful synchronised noise. This is not an evening of easy listening, thank god, this remains (post-)rock after all. The bulk of the set comprised songs from Takk… with one or two older songs thrown into the mix. Much has been made about Jónsi playing his guitar with a bow, and I thought it was hyped up like the “Hopelandic” lyrics issue, so I was pleasantly surprised to see he plays with the bow most of the time and it is crucial to what they are doing. It creates a unique sound, which is immediately recognisable as a Sigur Rós sound while providing a strange spectacle as he needs to slide to and fro it in the same way a violin player does, while playing chords with the other hand.

Jónsi always seemed very shy in interviews. On stage, the few times he spoke between songs, he proved himself to be the high priest of social awkwardness. Completely transformed when singing, he becomes fully immersed in the songs and his guitar playing. It seems a feature of the whole band, they get stuck in the music and only emerge for breath in-between songs. I was very interested beforehand to find out what the crowd is like at a Sigur Rós concert and whether they also start thrashing about when the music becomes heavier. I was amazed to find that everyone, including those in front of the stage, stand still and watch and listen throughout the show. When Popplagid was played as the encore and built up and built up and exploded into an incredible convergence of noise, with everyone on stage grinding down / bashing their instruments to within inches of their little anthropomorphosized lives, lights going crazy, the fans stood, heads raised, transfixed.

A band can go far with professional lighting. While the whole concert seemed very slick in terms of music, presentation and lighting it wasn’t in your face choreography. A thin curtain at the front of the stage with spotlights on stage shining against the backs of each band member projected their silhouettes against the veil during some songs. When this was combined with images project from the sound engineer’s booth on to the front of the curtain, and there was some synchronisation with the music, an amazing effect was created.

Another thing I liked was to position all four band members in a row on front of the stage, meaning that Orri Páll Dýrason was playing his drums on the right hand side, facing in. This has the effect of underscoring the importance of the drums’ contribution in their music, as you can watch him playing much better than having to look for a bouncing little head at the back. The back space was effectively taken up by Amiina playing strings and the brass band, as and when needed.

A few years ago a camera was still very much forbidden property in live venues. While they still are officially and it is printed so on the tickets, the ubiquity of cell phones and digital cameras means that dozens of little screens are continuously illuminated as people record snippets or take pictures, and this has become acceptable. I only taped the odd snippet as aiming, focusing, switching on and off (in the case of a video camera) becomes tedious and prevents you from becoming immersed in the concert.

So who’s next? Mono is high on my list, and it’s a pity they played too far away this time to combine with the others. Sigur Rós at least now has one tick against their name, but it won’t be the last one if I can help it.

The Platonic Realist in Me

Today I saw the cookie for what it really is -- a lump of dough. Ughh.