Real Life Smiley Face will get this one...
...they require large shoes. Yesterday I was very grateful for my colossal clod-hoppers. Driving innocently through town, I spied with my little eye, a bright fucking neon orange sign. Being Dutch, my interest was immediately sparked. And being a footballer (more or less) in need of new football boots for his gigantic flippers, I was over the moon to read "Buy any pair of Umbro boots and receive a free pair of Adidas! Large sizes sale!" Now I can't wait for next Friday!
Enough of that...
As some of the more astute among you may have picked up yesterday, I was in no mood to indulge in mid-week revelry. I was publicly mocked for being a bit of a girl's blouse and to save face I gave in to Tarty's taunting. And I'm glad I did!
After a very hastily scoffed dinner of boeriedog rolls, I was whisked away in the Little Red Toaster to a place in De Waterkant called It's A House. Now, apparently this place is the latest trendy hang-out for those in the know, in the creative industry, and in dumb looking hats. The interior decor is early "barn" with attendant retro couches, gauche light fittings and a rusting bicycle, the likes of which were favoured by postmen in the late seventies and people resembling 2-minute-noodles in bad jeans more recently. The bar staff were so utterly deplorable, to call their level of service inept would be akin to referring to DrHellCuz as mildly misanthropic. Or My Dying Bride as a little glum.
Don't get me started on the stage. Or rather the lack thereof. It was a plank. With a lamp...
Despite all this, and the nervous false start, the first act was immediately endearing and by the end of their set, Jae Braun and her backing band can count me as a firm fan. This diminutive singer/songwriter sounds like Janice Joplin doing Edie Brickell songs. Her voice is a whiskey-soaked, husky reminder of what real soul should be. 'Soul' as in that thing that propels your choices and honesty and art throughout your life, not 'soul', as in Motown... The stand out track for me on the night was a wonderful song called "French Perfume". I will be following her path to greatness with great interest.
The second act on the night was the saccharine sweet Lexi Frame. Whilst her backing band was stellar, I'm afraid I have to admit that I do not have a sweet tooth and would rather have had my cerebral cortex drilled out via my eardrum, than be subjected to the sound that came out of the speakers - a shrill cocktail of cute, happy, sometimes naughty-girl screeching and a sound engineer who should be locked in a sound proofed room and have his ears sealed with builders' putty. Don't get me wrong, the problem does not lie with her, it lies with me. I am a cantankerous old fart who prefers dirgy slabs of music made from granite. Occasionally, very occasionally, I am blown away by the sheer quality of some artists, much like Jae, whom I mentioned earlier. And I have a knee-jerk reaction to any artist who appeals to the type of person who will wrap their tie around their head and go tits-up to The Proclaimers or Right Said Fred at a wedding. Shiny happy people indeed.
Which brings me to the main act. Sarah Pope has been a stalwart performer in the Cape Town - and indeed the South African - rock scene for a long time. Her ability to write and sing a good tune is undeniable. Her current incarnation, as front-woman of Wolftown, seems on the face of it, to be a slightly watered down version of her former self. Nevertheless, she delivered a consummate set (if you can find it in yourself to ignore the "crime" of having to halt the set to tune her guitar) along with her very accomplished band. To the point of me even going up to her afterwards and thanking her for her performance. Still, there is something lacking...
All the ingredients are there. The songs are good and very well crafted, if a little more poppy than what I'd expect. But that can easily be accepted if you understand the industry and what's required to make a living from it. She has unbelievable pipes and is naturally gifted with a voice that, at times, is the perfect mixture of style and sass for this type of radio friendly pop/rock, but at others, mystifyingly, fails to hit the mark. For all it's inherent quality and slick sensibility, this performance did not engage me the way I'd hoped.
The night ended, as it usually does, with a quick "last one". In this case it was a glass of wine at my place which turned into an early morning guffaw-fest a few bottles later. Today I pay the price...
In conclusion, I would like to apologise if any offence is taken from this "review". But lately I have come to the revelation that honesty is indeed the best policy. If you can't handle criticism, constructive or not, then you are in the wrong industry. And if you are clearly in the wrong industry, then someone should tell you. The sad thing is, out of the 3 acts I watched last night, I can practically guarantee you the wrong one will succeed.
Perhaps I shouldn't write about such things and play with peoples' lives when I'm this hung over...
And especially when I'm having trouble with my plus size feet in my big fat mouth...
Thanks Tarty, once again, for a brilliant evening.
Edie Brickell's Daily Gem: Philosophy is the talk on a cereal box. Religion is the smile on a dog.
Spread The Love. And The Myprodol.
Thank you for making the excellent decision to leave the vacuuming for another evening and join me instead. Was a fun night indeed. And I concur on Jae Braun - a wonderful discovery.
ReplyDeleteBut remind me to just drop you off next time. I really should know by now that there's no such thing as "just one glass of wine"!
*reaches for the Panado tablets*