So. What a weekend! Friday night was, as expected, quite something! I walked into ROAR to witness and hear something more foul than a midget playing dubstep. Oh no! Wait! No offence to the bloke, he seemed to be having a fair ol' time of it, but when you purposely mash up the greats of our time with nothing more than cheesy loops and "wubble-bass", whilst bouncing up and down behind a laptop, I hold no sacred cows dear. I'm far more offended than you could possibly be by anything that comes out of my mouth. I'm sure you're a really nice person.
Windernessking took a while to capture my imagination, I'll be perfectly honest. I think it may have been the kinda unique combination of influences they employ to make their dark, dangerous music. By the end of the second last song, as they rumbled into an earth-shattering. Sabbath-esque riff, and Keenan got almost the entire venue to headbang in unison, I was more or less won over. By the time they had delivered the stunning last song - a tune very reminiscent of something off Shades Of God (Paradise Lost), I was most certainly a LOT more interested.
Enter Ark Synesis. The earth moved. The crowd stood rapt, jaws on the floor, and started swaying and baying as if hypnotised by some far fetched religious cult. The sheer power and presence of the music washed over the packed dancefloor in waves of mathematically mesmerising sensory overload. It is truly astonishing to witness a band of this calibre up close. They hook you and reel you in effortlessly with their intricate, intense and innovative riffs, beats and atmos(h)pherics. If music be the food of love, life and everything else, then you lads may, nay MUST, play the fuck on!
Saturday was spent bumbling about seeing how quickly I could get rid of my hard earned money. Various birthday gifts and miscellaneous goodies for the house were purchased in a leisurely retail therapy session.
And we get to the big night out. Mesopotamia. A restaurant. A place to eat awesome food in return for money. No dishes. Generally an experience associated with a gentle ambiance and a pleasant, private(ish) time with those you love.
Oh fucking no!
First of all I was forced to sit on the ground. I am six foot three, barely able to bend my joints at the best of times and generally fucking grumpy. "Are you serious?" echoed around as I bellowed my incredulity. Much uncomfortable maneuvering and squirming around later and deftly removing my shoes, I was semi-comfortable enough to order a beer, which arrived with merciful speed. Seeing as I was with an assembly of my closest friends, at least we can deduce the conversation was top notch. I flicked through the menu. Not being too familiar with Kurdish Cuisine, I opted for the "spicy lamb chops, with yada yada yada" a mouth watering prospect. After having been rushed to make our order, the food took its sweet time, more beer was consumed and all were content in the knowledge that good food takes time and we were in for something truly amazing. Not so...
...3 forlorn little chops.
Three shall be the count. Once thou hast counted to Two shalt thou proceed to Three, but not to Four. Five is right out! Tiny! Like frog leg tiny. Don't even get me started on the yada yada bits. Looked like something out of a McCains packet just got dumped on the side with no artistic endeavour whatsoever. Admittedly it was kinda tasty, but I can make better food. And that's saying something! I may be Martha Stewart (in my mind) but I doubt I'd secure gainful employment at one of Cape Town's leading restaurants. But wait! There's more.
I have never been a fan of belly-dancing. It is not an attractive visual experience, since in my experience, it is the activity of choice for those ladies that shop at 'fashions for the fuller figure'. I hasten to add that I appreciate the fairer sex in all their varied splendour, but do not wish to be subjected to a rattling, shimmying quivering mass of excess body mass if I can at all help it. Thankfully this was not the case as the music was cranked up to earsplitting levels and tooth-gnashing frequencies. In prances a scantily clad young lady, all veils and coins-on-strings! By all accounts she was very good at this whole belly-dancing lark. I gamely watched and even clapped at the end of her performance. Oh would it be so! No. I was subjected to almost an hour and a half of having to hear and see the vast majority of women haul their variety of asses (all shapes and sizes) up from the floor on which they had been sitting and engaging in the largest display of audience participation since 'Rocky Horror - the play' was first performed in Green Point. Accompanied by - what I would imagine - the same shrieking hysteria, as the gyrating banshees treated us (and themselves) to a truly, if unwanted, memorable experience.
For those of you brainwashed by popular media, this was NOT Shakira! This was more like the Hippo scene from Disney's "Fantasia", although in this case, the "hips didn't lie" as the girls, many of whom seemed to be part of a bachelorette party, screamed, wobbled and stomped their way to ass shaking nirvana. On the plus side, I did finally find out the distinction between a bridesmaid and a Maid Of Honour. The one is married.
Anyway, my apologies to all the girls I know that enjoy doing the belly-dancing thing. Obviously you do it particularly well and are nothing like the Tiger-Tiger types so easily swept into a flesh-flopping-about frenzy.
Which brings me to the rugby. I don't even know if I should get into it here. I think the rest of the people with access to the worldwide web and an opinion (everyone) have said enough.
Perhaps our next coach will have improved media skillz...
NGDG: "Just when you thought the weekend had hurled its last pat of excrement at the wall of everything you hold dear, you read that Queen may recruit the Gag-worthy sirloin sartorialist to sing for them. *loads the breach*"
Spread The Love. Without The Arabian Nights Gedoentes.