Monday, August 22, 2011



I am well and truly knackered.

I feel like the stereotyped Italian yob, post feast, that casually leans back and undoes his belt whilst scratching contentedly at his overstuffed, spaghetti-stained-vest covered boep. Satisfied, satiated, but fucking uncomfortably so. Too much of a good thing? May very well be the case. Although I had a weekend filled with some of the most amazing gastronomic delights, it wasn't just the tastebuds that go more than they bargained for. No. Not at all. The ears and eyes were assaulted with all manner of delight, and that not-insignificant part deep down that keeps screaming for more booze like a starved baby bird was more than happy with the outcome. Although its neighbour, Mr Liver is not as convinced all's well.

Let's start at the start. Springbok rump potjie. Words to instill an automatic salivatory response in even the most doubting of casual meat eaters, and a few misinformed All Black fans. It was exquisite. An evening spent hopping around by the fire, talking heaps of shit and generally having a good time was capped off with this incredible feast - fit for kings! I even managed to participate in the manufacture of bullets. Talk about taking the entire "hunter" theme to its opportune extreme. Thanks to the Dean of Univer City and the hostess with the mostest, his awesome wife Slappy. What an evening!

Saturday was spent playing through most of the Axxon set. Best you all invest in staple guns to keep your faces attached to your skulls, the 24th of September is going to be quite a little evening...

After that I was happily whisked away by my Sidekick-in-Sleepers-Obsession, the lovely Rose Thorn, to the Demonic Sibling and the Brother-In-Awe for pre-gig drinks. Where I promptly pulled off my party pants and fell asleep on the couch for an hour. Lame.

Anyway, we finally got to Mercury Live and did the obligatory stand around / order drinks / make small talk / greet millions of people / pretend to remember who the fuck this oke is that's talking to me / shots at the bar / say the right thing to everyone / try not to give away the fact that you're almost weeing yourself with excitement. My friend, the Manager said casually to me, upon being asked who Ark Synesis were, that I'd like them. Fucking hell! Did I fucking like them...

They were the opening act. They are an instrumental 3 piece. They now own me. Forever. You'd think being an instrumental band, that they'd struggle to keep interest or momentum going. Not on your life! I have rarely seen or heard anything as consistantly engaging as these guys, a kind of Tool/Meshuggah hybrid that spends most of their time creating atmospheric soundscapes ala Anathema at their most spaced out. Bravo, sirs! Fucking bravo! Genuinely one of the most pleasant surprises I have ever had.

Next up, the ever impressive 3rd World Spectator, who also did not disappoint. The golden voice of Mr Peter Crafford elevating the crowd into a reverential state of bliss.

Cue scenes of madness, the air thick with anticipation and spittle, a fiendish and feverish period of nerves as the moment drew closer... And that was just me. Everyone was going quietly berserk, trying not to let the cool evade them altogether.

Replacing Simon Tamblyn... and I'm sorry to bring this up here, but it's going to be an inevitable comparison, will not be easy. It is an unenviable task. A task nonetheless, that this special bunch have somehow managed to conjure a rabbit out of a hat in accomplishing. Enter Daniel "I Could Serenade Angels From Their Lofty Perches In Heaven" Botha. Now I will admit to 2 things in my opinion of this gentleman's singing. I was a little inebriated. I am very used to the previous incarnation. Very. But you, sir, at the very least get a nod of approval and a thumbs up with a keen eye on the future and what you are capable of. Your contributions to another stellar set from the Mother City's favourite sons is already an indication of wonderful things to come. Well done to you and well done to the guys on unearthing this unearthly talent. Just give this poor pilgrim a minute to let it all sink in.

Obligatory ninja bomb ensued and I went home to see in the new hangover.

Ah. Sundays! A day of rest. Mostly anguish and trying to piece together the happenings of another successful Saturday night, actually. I was fortunate enough to be invited for Sunday lunch by the wonderfully talented Weekend Wizzard. Do go and check his site out, he makes Jamie Oliver look like a hack. I was served an incredible 'steak, chips and egg' which was more arty Nelson's Eye than dull Dros, a truly exquisite variation on a standard classic. A masterpiece.

Thanks buddy, we'll do it again soon!

And so we're back at work - on this Monster Moanday. It's been a struggle to keep my eyes open and to keep the hangover at bay. Almost there. One thing that helped was this awesome list of life's insights from Tequila Tart. Seems she's back in the wonderful world wide web. Huzzah!

NGDG: "A rude woman is a sad woman. Make a rude woman smile today. I did."

Rather more cryptic than usual...

Spread The Love. Cryptically. On Rude Women.

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