Monday, December 15, 2014

SCHWING-LE BELLS!


Fucking tourist Vaalie bastards burning down my mountain again. Don't you unliterate dumkupfs ever get tired of that trick? Aren't you over visiting our malls in your startling neon yellow poly-shorts (replete with a Boksburg Brick cellphone hip accessory), walking full-family-abreast and remarking in fear and awe "Jinne, kyk daar mama! Dis mos nou duiwels!"

You're probably wondering if the mountain has once again been the victim of some negligent out of town shitbag. It has, I am happy to report, not. I wrote that a while back and forgot about it. When I went into my posts to start something new to end the year with, I was pleasantly surprised to find it sitting there, all ready and trussed up like the traditional turkey. Perfect.

As I do every year, and especially since this year I will be making the very necessary escape from my office a lot earlier than usual, here is a list of my favourite stories from this year just gone. As far as best of compilations go, it is by far the most mediocre thing I can imagine; nevertheless, at least try not to drop your smartphone in the toilet whilst reading...

  1. Surprise, surprise - this one's about music and Turtle Burnings.
  2. Black metal cheese.
  3. Reasons people dislike me. Quite a few of them.
  4. Stick with me, I'll make you famous!
  5. Take your hand off your penis!
  6. Just more things that suck!
  7. More moaning from Mr Moangat.
  8. I really did moan a lot this year...
  9. The thoroughly practical alternative to online slacktivism.
  10. How to be less of a doos.
  11. This list wouldn't be complete without a reference to blowjobs.
  12. Jeeeesh! More moaning...

Anyway, as I bid you a premature farewell, please take care of yourselves and one another this festive season. My dearest rabble rouser from New Zealand lands soon for a visit and we're gonna tear shit up, so buckle up. I'll also be missing the greatest show EVER so that I can play guitar as Rose Thorn and Commander Conker exchange vows - wearing a buttercup yellow tie...

NGDG: "It's Christmas and one lucky entrant will be drawn at random to win a Rachel McAdams. Share and like our page and say what colour you want. It's that simple. And as unlikely."

I'll have a blonde one please.

Spread The Love. Hug A Vaalie. To Death.

Friday, December 12, 2014

THE POLITICS OF DANCE


Yes, ladies and gentleworms! It's the weekend! (Note how I avoided sounded like that other blonde twat by leaving out the "baby"...)

And tonight is a very special occasion. Tonight we dodge loadshedding and ignore the ruling party to have one of our own - ironically the theme is black...
Tonight I hit the decks like Paris Hilton hits the tabloid headlines! And the similarity doesn't end there either! I do not beatmatch. All I do is play the most deliciously dark dancefloor classics for you all to get down and dirty to. I sometimes even crossfade...

So if you smaak your tekkie squeaking exploits to be to the ghastly grooves of the likes of Bauhaus, Fields, Sister, Cure, Mode, Mission, Rammstein, Zombie, Wumpscut, Swans, Ministry and many, many more, do pop in at Mercury tonight for Party In Black.
Guess what colour you're required to wear.

Once I have the crowd in a frothy frenzy, we're upping the ante with the legendary DJ Reanimator taking over before Cevin (Off)Key finishes you and the night with some seriously stomping aggrotech damage. Pack in your pool noodle hair slinkies!

Other than that, have a fantastic weekend!

NGDG: I sell the cleaning lady an old cell phone for next to nothing because her Blackberry is broken and she's scared her child won't be able to contact her over the holidays. Today I hear the Blackberry 'she's fine and the sister will have this now'. Fuck your sister and fuck you.

Spread The Love. Romantic, Candlelit Love...

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

BROKEBACK BACHELORS


What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I'd happily have stayed a while longer in Barrydale.

Alright, for the sake of my ever diminishing dignity, and your mind's eye, let us get the awkward euphemisms like "pitching our tents" out of the way first.

It was a balmy night...

After a little roadblock in Robertson, and a few educated guesses owing to poor directions, the Brother In Awe and I arrived at the farm where we were camping for the weekend - next to a damn - for Commander Conker's bachelor party. Some of the lads had gotten there quite a bit earlier and the spirits, as well as flowing, were already high. I know I was supposed to be done with the whole pitching the tent thing, but let me tell you, it ain't no picnic in the countryside with load shedding. There is a special kind of dark out there, and I wasn't close enough to the roaring braai fire. The first night was quite sedate, with only minor casualties and the drinking limited to "extreme".

You know how I'm always on about the Brakpan Boikies Boetilicious Braaimix? The one with Summer Of 69 and The Final Countdown on it? Well, one of the locals that was invited - let's call him 'Kaptein' - decided the best way to wake up an entire camp full of hangover guys was to blare, you guessed it, 'It's My Life' as if we were at a fucking T20 game at 9 in the morning. He very nearly was decapitated by a Jack Daniels bottle. After much sitting around, a cold shower, inspecting the massive pork spit roast that was already on the go, and some cat herding, it was off for brekkie at a nearby wine farm. Kak life, I know... Anyway, thinking I was too clever by half I decided to make use of their rather more pristine facilities. Sauntering into the bathroom, trying to attract the very minimum of attention, I fled like a detainee who just managed to escape Gitmo. After the inevitable guffaws subsided, I calmly explained that the loo was infested with little birds and that entry was not an option. Thankfully everyone's favourite knight in shining armour, TDB, was at hand to shoo the 4 foul beasts from the bathroom and shut all the windows and doors. Very bravely I once more entered only to find their nest above one of the cubicles. Farm life is not conducive to a pleasantly relaxing dump, lemme tell you! We had to make a quickish getaway anyway after Kaptein politely asked the farmer's wife if he could "daai wyn uit jou doos uit drink"...

Back at the camp we fished. Well, everyone else fished. I stood there, casting, reeling and cursing. Fishing is only relaxing if you're actually catching something. The frustration of failure quickly negates any meditative quality it is supposed to bestow on those participating. Time for the first drink of the day! And then off to one of the most picturesque slabs of real estate I've ever seen (on a winding mountain pass between Barrydale and Swellendam) where we indulged in a spot of jumping off rocks into brown water. Glorious. Once again returning to the camp, we were greeted with a call to lunch and were presented with an entire pig, spit roast to perfection! I thought my friend SaTim was going to pass out - he was actually hyperventilating from excitement.
Nothing like a spot of lawn cricket and some more standing by a dam with a stick in your hand, while everyone else catches fish, to relax you and get you in the mood for the evening's pub crawl...

Yes, the inevitable pub crawl. Going from one place to the next, taking over, being obnoxiously raucous, making new friends, contributing to the town's GDP to the extent that most inhabitants could take the rest of the year off, and generally having a blast. At one point we walked into some place and as soon as they found out it was a bachelors party, some patron ever so nonchalantly ordered 20 Jagermeisters for us. He wasn't the first to lavish rounds on us, although he was the most generous. And he wouldn't be the last. A few minutes later the poor bachelor was faced with what I can only describe as a Platteland Flaming Lamborghini. And after he failed to successfully dispatch of it, it was left to me to save his blushes. If only someone had told me that stuff in the middle was Stro Rum. After that I somehow volunteered to take his shots on his behalf and that's where things start getting a bit hazy. I do remember, after much more drinking back at the campfire, that my Brother In Awe passed out somewhere that wasn't his tent. Then after a lengthy process of elimination which involved a lot of muffled "fuck off"s we eventually got him to it. He refused so hard to enter that we left him and found him asleep in his car the next morning. There is also a mountain of photographic evidence of the bachelor eventually relenting to social expectations and performing his own striptease.

All in all, it was a fantastic weekend away and my sincere thanks to the best man Doctor Thrasher for organising such an awesome getaway.

Can't wait to see all you maatjienaaiers at the wedding...

NGDG: I'm convinced that showering by candlelight inspired many a Manowar album cover.

Spread The Love. Someone Bring Me A Damn Fish.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

STRIKE A WOMAN...


...STRIKE A ROCK!
There's a well known story in the good book which tells of Moses striking a rock, upon which water flowed forth. Well, South Africa, it's time for the waterworks.

I've been intending to write a little bit about the police state in the good ol' U S of A. I was going to comment on how, at least our own police force was far too lazy to even bother shooting us for jay walking or brutalising us for inquiring after our rights.
Then I saw a news report on some worthless piece of shit cop actually standing on the head of a helpless old lady. In the street. She was already restrained. With his FULL WEIGHT. 16 Days of activism against the abuse of women and children my lily white privileged arse...
And then I remembered Marikana. I remembered Mido Macia. I remembered those motherfucker cops who man handled that poor old man, unresistant, into the back of a cop van with their 9mms drawn.

But let's get back to the "police officer" who abused a grandmother in the street. And his ilk...

What compels a man to do such a thing? In fact, what compels a man to turn to any sort of violence? I can understand self defence. But ganging up on, and kicking the shit out of an old woman outside Tiger Tiger? Or domestic violence? Is the fact that we are not allowed to discipline out youth finally coming home to roost? Do we have on our hands a generation raised on televised violence, Satanic rock'n'roll, misogynist hip hop, and the inability to comprehend consequence? I have nothing against a good spanking, especially in the bedroom or in the dungeon. Spare the rod, spoil the child? The debate rages on.

Riah Phiyega, at this especially poignant time, you have a wonderful opportunity to provide a shining example to all South Africans as a woman in a position of power.
Riah Phiyega, clean up your foul farce of a police force and start protecting and serving South African citizens.
Riah Phiyega, combat this cowardly behaviour and root out the culprits. Show them what consequence means.
Riah Phiyega, fuck you. Fuck you and your incompetence. Because I know that's not going to happen.

And that, ladies and gentlemen is the problem. Policy makers and police chiefs the world over are untouchable. Winning elections year after year with empty promises, free tshirts and the occasional scandal.
Charity starts at home. I know I'm preaching to the choir, but let's all - one by one - try and help curb the scourge that is violence. Violence against women and children. Violence against men. Animal abuse. Every type of violence. Violence perpetrated by those who should be protecting us against violence. I know it sounds a little trite. Because it's so obvious. Clearly it isn't obvious enough.

On the day leading up to the "celebrations" on the anniversary of Madiba's passing, this is how you behave, South Africa? Today you should not celebrate, South Africa. Today you should weep. Weep in shame.

Ice T said it best when he gave us: "Shit would hit the fan motherfucker, and it will hit real hard."

Now go and kiss your mom. And yes, I do kiss my mother with this mouth.

NGDG: How is load shedding supposed to reduce stress on the grid when you go to bed an hour early only to wake up in the morning to find the TV, all appliances and every light in the house blazing since 3am?

Spread The Love. Stop The Violence. By Any Means Necessary.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

BEELZEBOOBS!

Her name is Lucy Something or other...

I'm going to take a stab at telling you how my weekend went. Later on it'll all come together and you may understand the reference. If you're standing in the bright Cape Town sun, blinking at the sharp light after having just discovered a way out from under a large stone, then you need to know that there was a fairly important gig here on Saturday night at Assembly. The rest happens to be incidental. Nonetheless...

Friday night at Mercury was insane. I'm not even using the word lightly. It was Mr METAL's 30th birthday and all the kids came out to play. Even the aging cast of Sex And The City was having the jol of their lives at the corner of the bar and a'hollerin' and a'whoopin' like men half their age. There were quite a few bands on display. The Rudimentals have taken the Tokyo Drift approach to their musical direction and introduced an electronic element along with what I can only describe as a mass Black Eyed Peas lyrical melange. Clearly this new energy works, as they have recently hit the top of 5FM's charts, but I wasn't convinced by the Beastie Boys vs Mango Groove mash up. That being said, it's clearly not being done with my artistic vision in mind and more power to them. The rest of the bands had the crowd going suitably nuts all night. I really must revisit Bryan Ferry's wise words. That, or hang up my going out stirrups. The main thing was the awesome time had by all and especially the love shown to the birthday boy! METAL!!!

Saturday I was introduced to a game akin to lawn jukskei. With elements of chess. And clearly developed by the devil and the people who designed printers back in the day to include the "paper jam" feature. I wasn't the only one at the picnic who didn't like it, as a very inebriated homeless person on a church hat went off on a rant so eloquently colourful, she inspired this lot of privileged individuals to start a zef rap group. We're called the Tik Kop Naaiers (TM) and we already have 2 songs written. Watch out Jack, Ninja and Yolandi. I am your creator...

Anyway, swiftly on to the main event. After a quick (and fucking awesome) meal at Roxy's we took a stroll down to Assembly, only to dart straight into Lefty's to continue our Prehemoth Drinks (after taking one look at the queue for the show). It's testament, not only to how dire things have become, but, to how well Witchdoctor Productions are now doing, that we bolt at the sight of a line of people outside a venue. Back in my (doddering old) day, you'd stand outside Playground for ever unless you knew someone important. I didn't, but the party already started IN the queue.
Finally we got inside and watched the second half of the Konkhra set. They were as punishing and as heavy and as unforgiving as a freight train from hell. Brilliant! The crowd was simply bludgeoned into submission - and they loved it!
And then after the mandatory round of high fives, bum-out hugs and "pretending you remember where you know this oke from" it was time for Behemoth. A theatrical triumph! They effortlessly entranced the acolytes gathered to worship in front of them - as if at some ominous black mass. Their stage presence is an otherworldly wonder to behold and Nergal's natural charisma is the stuff the kerkbazaar tannies warned you about, instantly pinning everyone under his serpentine spell. Not to mention that they started with the mind blowing 'Blow Your Trumpet Gabriel', my personal favourite...
[*Before you take me for some superfan, please note that I'm THAT arsehole who never paid them any attention until it was announced that they were touring. I then clicked on the Youtube and the first song that came up was the breathtaking video for "Blow Your Trumpet..." I largely disregarded everything since then, admittedly smitten with this sublime slab of dark art.]
The highlight of my evening was actually getting to meet and hang out with Lilitu - the darling demonic diva of Theatre Runs Red fame who had traveled down after playing Joburg with Behemoth/Konkhra the night before. Let's do that again!

Oh ja, did I mention that the internationals ended up opening for Wildernessking? Their atmospheric, plaintive black metal majesty rounded off a perfect night - one I am sure many, many people will never forget.

What's a night out watching one of the world's most evil bands (who can actually afford production quality on their recordings) without a bit of blood? I'm having tremendous trouble typing this as my one finger is pointed away from the keyboard swathed in Elastoplast. I got home and, in a drunken attempt to clear a bit of a mess, somehow managed to pick a fight with a razor. The razor won. 12 hours of thinning my blood out also meant The Hot Girlfriend did a lot of cleaning. She really is amazing!

I must make special mention of the Sad Panda twins. You have to work on the corpse paint, guys. And lay off the McDonalds. There's more to life than the dank dungeons in which you mope and play quest games between epic bouts of cranking. A wise man once lamented "See the light and feel my warm desire..."

It won't surprise you at all to learn that Sunday was a write off.

Football last night, however, was not. I still can't understand how they forgot to carry me off the field held aloft on their shoulders.

So, to everyone I drank with, partied with, drank with, laughed with, drank with, made fun of other people with, and generally cause kak with, thank you! Thank you for an exceptional weekend. I'm still standing. Try harder next time, motherfuckers.

NGDG: Steve Hofmeyr's attorney actually tried to shut up a libelous ventriloquist's puppet by putting his hand in its mouth.  Jinne, Steve. Clearly you couldn't afford BDK.

Spread The Love. How 'Bout A Go On My Trumpet?

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

SEX IS VIOLENT!



Although you may immediately leap to a point which intersects Perry Farrell's anthemic chorus and mild internet outrage, don't beat yourself up. It's my way of getting people to click on provocative headlines so that I can continue to refuse to get paid for the messages of hope, love, peace, understanding, tolerance, boobs, beer, DOOM metal and the occasional rant when it all gets a bit much. But is it? Perhaps I am subtly alluding to a deeper ill in our society...

You have to be THIS tall to be allowed on this ride.

Please disregard all of the above as a clumsy introduction to the latest SONGS WE MADE FAMOUS - ICONIC WOMEN OF THE NINETIES. Another night of wonderful performances by the variety show that comprises Anton Marshall's group of friends. And one which celebrated the impact women have had on the music and the memories of our (not so much) youth, as we navigated our way through torn jeans, ratty jerseys, scuffed Docs and poppers in the smoke machine of whichever shit hole we found ourselves immersed in the aural aura of it all. You know, because it's 16 days of activism against woman and child abuse. And Woman's Month. Or something. How is it not just a continuous conscience? I digress...

Yup, he went and did it again! 2 sets of superbly chosen songs performed by Cape Town's choicest female vocalists. And a bloke. The show kicked off with Mr Daniel Fernandes, an interesting take on femininity, but starting with the plaintive strains of Tracy Chapman, very quickly stamped his musical authority all over everything. An accomplished guitarist and a captivating voice brought new life to great songs that have most certainly laid down a lot of tread over the years.
Following him, the diminutive hippie punk Cami Scoundrel proved (again) that dynamite comes in small packages as she - on tip toes - walloped the audience with a rousing rendition of Meredith Brooks's 'Bitch'. (I was still singing it to myself after I got home.)
Thereafter, the walking talking (trust me on the talking part) embodiment of the typical angelic voice, Rose Thorn strode out to the mic. After a brief introduction that wouldn't be out of place in the beginning of a rom-com about a shy girl overcoming her stage fright, she treated us to a truly special experience as she belted out 3 Cranberries classics with all the aplomb of a seasoned band leader. The truth is that I have been keeping her largely to myself as an integral part of my doom metal band. For now, you may refer to us simply as The World's Best Kept Secret. Let's just say I could not, for love or money, wipe the grin from my face throughout.

I'm not going to go into too many specifics, and detail the evening on a song by song basis, as I feel that the spirit of the evening was more of a complete experience, which also included awesome performances by Thomene Dilley, Amy-Lou Dickinson and the fantastically feminine voice of Anton Marshall, who did Suzanne Vega more than justice. I am, however, going to single out another two performers for special mention. Shannon Devy has the voice and the charisma of a goddess! Fuck me! Talk about being blown away... She did Brian Molko better than Brian Molko could ever hope to. Don't even get me started on the set closer - 4 Non Blondes epic classic 'What's Up?' - it raised the fucking roof! That was one of the best vocal performances I have had the pleasure of watching, hearing and feeling. Someone next to me had the decency to lift my jaw back up and go buy me a beer.
But the evening belonged to one Marisa Salvarto, who had never sung in front on an audience before, never mind in the hallowed arena that is Mercury. I don't know if it was the nerves, or the relief at pulling off such a stellar performance, but congratulations! You will never ever forget this special night - and neither will anyone who was lucky enough to be there - you NAILED it!

Speaking of nailing it, once again kudos to the house band. Stuart, David, Damian and the man himself, Anton - well done on another flawless job. I sincerely hope these evenings become the institution that they are planned to become. I will be at every one of them. (Do not go there... we are NOT talking about the ALTERNATIVE EIGHTIES night.)

Bravo to all of you! And for the sake of full disclosure, here is the list of iconic women and bands that were so brilliantly honoured last night:
Tracy Chapman
The Beautiful South
Sheryl Crow
Meredith Brooks
The Cranberries
No Doubt
Suzanne Vega
Alanis Morissette
Des-Ree
Joan Osborne
Placebo (cheeky)
4 Non Blondes

NGDG: I support President Zuma for a second term. Only this time it should be 25 to life.

Spread The Love. "I Pray Every Single Day For A Revolution"

Friday, November 21, 2014

HAMMER SMASHED FACEBOOK!


So the evening came and went and not too much happened to shatter the earth. Rose Thorn and I enjoyed a nice quiet night of reminiscing, watching old live footage and drinking wine. Apparently though, there was quite the kerfuffle online...

The lads at Witchdoctor Productions had been keeping the metalheads of this country waiting for long enough. Speculation has been rife for months as to who would complete the line up for next year's Witchfest. It seems a super efficient method for gathering information on who peoples' favourites are for future reference.

Then, after a few teasing "Tatadah-daaah!"s, they go and drop the bomb of all bombs. Cannibal fucking Corpse. Anyone who is anyone who has ever liked their deaf merrils on the heavy and burtals side had that quiet moment from the movie Green Street Hooligans when West Ham draws Millwall in the cup.

And then motherfuckers lost their minds!

And rightly so. Now let me put this into perspective for you. According to prevailing tastes and cultural notions, I am the furthest thing from a staunch merril head. I'd rather inject puppies with cyanide before subjecting myself to "Hail! Hail! Fail! Chainmail!" songs of slaying dragons and drenching wenches in mead or what the fuck ever. Similarly, I cringe at the thought of Trve Kvlt Blekk Merril with its rather limiting production value of being required to sound like was recorded on a four track Fostex in a jail cell. Don't get me started on the ridiculous face paint and assless leather chaps in the snow. The list of subgenres I don't care for is almost as long as the total list of subgenres. And I fucking hate Iron Maiden. Which should disqualify me altogether...

But I do recognise when something mind blowing is happening. To book the stellar list of local and international bands Shaughn Pieterse and Alec Surridge have managed is nothing short of miraculous and should warrant the eternal gratitude and respect of anyone who has ever found themselves in a moshpit or headbanging along to anything with overdriven guitars in it - regardless of specific style.

For the metal loving public, this could not be any more of a monumental accomplishment and event. For the local bands chosen to play alongside these legends, I can't even begin to imagine...

I'd like to single out a few friends of mine that have truly deserved this honour a thousand times over.

Adam Van Der Riet, Paul Blom, Ronnie Belcher, Adrian Langeveldt, Patrick Davidson, Jacques Hugo, Ian Watson, Bryan Villain and Wallace Warner. I could - and probably should - add names to that list, but I'm trying to keep it as select as it can be - and in so doing to recognise the massive contributions made by these individuals and to lend as much weight to this achievement as it rightfully deserves. Ladies, take a bow.

Also, it creates the illusion that I'm cool by association.

And on that rather manly note, I will leave you with the following thought...

Should the next cover my band does be 'I Wear My Sunglasses At Night' or 'My Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades'? They say there's no such thing as bad publicity.

NGDG: The upside of matitudinal gastric reflux is the super fast Internet. And this. This is funnier than Justin Beiber on fire.
[*Disclaimer: I'm unsure if I've used this quote before, but I'm too lazy to check.]

Spread The Love. Just Don't Use Cannibal Corpse Lyrics As A Handy "How To"...