'TALLICA GIVES YOU HEAVY, BABY!

Pic by Not-So-Lil' Wayne

It's Friday. I'm hungover. I wish I could report that I had actual 'Whiplash!' from last night's gig, but the painful truth is that I'm just an old fart. I sat in the stands and soaked up the wonderful atmosphere, instead of going bonkers with the rest of the reprobates.

Not that I wasn't enjoying myself. Let's start at the beginning, but it'll have to remain a short report. I need my rest.

Getting picked up and chauffeured to and from a Metallica gig is an outstanding experience. It frees you to have a motherfucker of a hangover the next day. Thanks to the inimitable Rose Thorn and Jasmyn, the little white Hyundai. We congregated at The Starlight Diner and entered an unspoken competition to see who could wait for their beer the longest. Only after being threatened with grievous bodily harm did our waiter make any sort of attempt to bring me one after a thousand year wait. And then he contrived to fuck the bill up. Fuck The Starlight Diner.

Even though that would normally put a small damper on proceedings, we joined the queue to enter the Velodrome in high spirits and The Hot Girlfriend, Chocolaty and Weird Al chattering away like songbirds. The lines were mercifully quick and very efficiently handled. Once inside, it transpired that it was actually a surprise party for me!
I knew EVERYBODY! My head was spinning trying to keep up saying hi to everyone. It was awesome! I am even more impressed that I remembered to introduce The Hot Girlfriend every time. (I know I did, because I would have been hit behind the head if I'd forgotten.)
What a wonderful surprise!

Then there was VCK, who played their hearts out but suffered from the typical opening band muffled sound. They got a loud enough cheer, though.

Then, after some more schmoozing and a pint or 2, we took our seats for the main event. Fucking hell! The 'Tallica boys blasted onto the stage and into our eardrums with 'Creeping Death' and never let up. We were treated to one of the most consummately professional shows these shores have ever seen. James snarled his way through hit after classic hit, while Kirk shredded away and Lars looked eager, but tiring fast. The receding hairline splashed up all over the massive screen backdrop was also a dead give away. At least they looked like they were having fun with it. It was a lesson in controlled musical aggression and perfectly executed interaction with the crowd. The set list was STELLAR! Typically, all the pop up collars went utterly berserk when 'Enter Sandman' ended the official part of the show off. Then the obligatory encore left us breathless and baying for more, grinning in unison and mentally high fiving everyone else in the arena.
No wonder some of my friends came back for a second night. Apparently having a new arsehole torn for oneself is the logical progression after having one's mind blown.

Then. The venue ran out of beer. Let me just put this into perspective for you. The vast majority of people attending this concert were male, lager lout, metalheads. And it was, in the grand scheme of things, woefully under attended. The organisers and their sponsors have been putting on shows like this forever, yet they STILL . RAN . OUT . OF . BEER . A more shameful set of circumstances cannot be fathomed.

Still, not even the rancid cider I was forced to endure instead could ruin my high. What a night! What a band! What a concert! What a fucking unbelievable EXPERIENCE!

Thank you Metallica! Please don't judge us on our poor ticket buying skills. We have a beautiful mountain.

Please come back!

NGDG: After watching that labioplasty surgeon on Doctors trim pastrami from a roll, I think I'll just stick to beer.

Spread The Love. The Memory Remains...

LEPER MESSIAH - SOME KIND OF MONSTER (FROM THE BLOG)...

Beer and boobs. That pretty much where the similarities end...

So Tarty brings up an interesting point. She accused me of being a metalhead. Or at least resembling one. I'm not affronted. Or surprised. But let me take this opportunity to decisively separate myself from the herd.

1. Metalheads have long hair (mostly, until life forces them to relinquish their locks). Ok, you got me there.
2. Metalheads listen to only metal. There are obviously the odd exceptions, but I guaran-damn-tee you they are in the minority. It is virtually exclusive. This is not the case with li' ol' me.
3. I actually hate most of what would be classified as traditional metal. I've always hated the likes of Iron Maiden and Megadeth. I'll probably get donnered tonight for that admission.
4. As in any genre of music, it is really only the top 1 or 2 percent that are worth my attention and/or adoration. This precludes me from the generalisation of "metalhead", a group who would  choose to listen to the music based on genre rather than quality. (I sense another beating coming...)
5. Metalheads are quite comfy with the "us against them" stigma. In my case, the world has never wronged me and I have very rarely, and only in ill-advised fits of adolescent naivety, ever taunted it by pandering to the notion of being an outcast. Fuck that, everyone loves me, I'm not misunderstood and I loved school because I'm clever and enjoy sports and socialising.
6. I will NEVER cut the name of a band into my arm, although I will admit to being willing to dish out a stern frown if you have anything kak to say about Paradise Lost.
7. I flat-the-fuck-out-refuse to see anything remotely attractive in Viking/War/Folk/Battle metal. Hail! Hail! Fail! Chainmail! (Here's where I get ostracised by most of my friends... Don't get me wrong, to each his own. I just don't like it.)

The list could go on forever...

Thinking I'm a metalhead is easy. 99% of my friends are and, given my love affair with heavier-than-lead guitars, this is not an absurd conclusion. But given the choice to listen to Anthrax or The Cure, guess which one will win every single time. But as I said, most of the people with whom I associate are real, genuine, metalheads, and a finer group of people you are not likely to meet. Just being part of the True Believers camping at Ramfest was a privilege in itself. Fucking hairy, stinky, crazy bastards!

So, with the ominous prospect of all my mates giving me the leery eye tonight, I'm off to go and watch the mighty Metallica rock The Velodrome. I may even put my "horns" in the air or headbang a little. Don't judge me. I can be whatever I set my mind to. My mommy always told me...

NGDG: Like a tit, I've gone and ordered two copies of The Blackout's new album. Who has something excellent to swap for it? I'd give it away but I'm selfish.

Spread The Love. We Will Tolerate!

CAPE TOWN'S NEXT TOP MODEL

Scary, innit?

Guys, can you imagine actually stepping out in public looking like this utter tool?
Girls, would you go down on THIS? Let alone take him home to dear ol' papa?

I expect to see a lot of these characters flouncing around like Captain Pants (far, far away from their stronghold at the Biscuit Mall) at the Metallica shows tonight and tomorrow. Clearly they misunderstood "iconic" for "ironic". Dickholes.

Well, other than last night's wunder-drubbing - Barcelona got mauled by Bayern Munich - there is precious little to report. Everyone's excited about the concert. I'm going running. The Hot Girlfriend is still hot. Looking forward to making music with my cohorts this evening. Life is indeed still peachy.

Unless of course you count the numerous times a day I am driven to the verge of homicidal mania at work. It's that time of the year again. Luckily the cool part of my job far outweighs the few times I am unfortunate enough to have to deal with the imbeciles of this world.

And speaking of all things awesomely amazing and totally incredible. If you haven't already, check out Shannon Hope as she continues her whirlwind tour of Old London Town. Dates here. And if you have, well, I don't need to tell you, and you're probably going again...

And since I have nothing further to add to your well-being, enlightenment, or general enjoyment of life, this is where I say cheers and bugger off. I have important things like recycling and picking up curtains to do. In a car. With a big engine. Which doesn't in the least resemble a penny-farthing or a fixie. In clothes that don't elicit spontaneous projectile vomiting. And I wear socks inside my shoes. Don't get me started on the unique and ground-breaking idea each and every single hipster had at the same time to wear the exact same type of hat...

I know... I know... Hipster bashing IS the new hipsterism. Pffft. Fuck it! They fucking annoy me to distraction.
I imagine this is what my poor old-fashioned father felt like when I came home as an adolescent goth/punk.

NGDG: [*I've been saving this one...] So many kids with bad eyesight. It's like the optometrist's waiting room. With beer. And the awesome The Kooks.

Spread The Love. Fashion is Thankfully Fleeting.

PANTIES

Bow chikka wow...

Panties are like conspiracy theories. A cover up.

Westerners are so quick to judge other cultures. As soon as we don't understand something we condemn it. And then attach the blame for all the woes of the world on that besmirched entity. Although I disagree in the most vehement terms with flogging rape victims and forcing women to dress like post boxes, it is inconceivable that it can be automatically concluded that any attack on the Unaated States of 'Murica is by default a Muslim fuelled act of terrorism. The whole fucking world hates you, you ignorant bastards! Stop fucking your cousin for long enough to consider all the possible angles. It is - after all - from such gems of the small screen such as CSI that we are made aware of the need to find evidence to support an arrest. Motivation being one of the factors, I'd have bombed your greedy warmongering arses a long time ago.

If I wasn't such an advocate of peaceful coexistence and all... That's the only problem. If you're cool with humanity, you have to accept the mouth breathers as well. Utopia will never exist as long as there is a Southern Drawl and a penchant for incest.

For instance, perhaps it's perfectly acceptable to practice cannibalism in Paraguay. Who fucking cares? Last night the English Premiere League title was returned to its rightful home, Old Trafford. Whatever opinion the naysayers have, my response is to close my eyes, stick out my tongue and stick my fingers in my ears. 33 years is a long time to call oneself a supporter. I guarantee that when the fans of our opposition "chose sides" those sides were on top...

Anyway, onto the real reason I write these terrible, convoluted tales. Besides the obvious opportunity to rant from the virtual soapbox that the internet has provided all of us to abuse. It is - of course - to keep you up to date, informed, and jealous of my awesome life.

Yes.

Friday, The Hot Girlfriend and I - after making a slight detour to Noddy's Toyland in Pinelands to pick Jean Pant up - made our way to a little town called Botrivier. Most people bypass it altogether as it is merely where one turns off on the way to Hermanus. Typically, Tarty Farty Tequila Party got herself invited to be a judge at the Barrels and Beards Harvest Festival and to do a review on the entire area. This included a stay at the Overstrand version of the Taj Mahal. She was allowed to bring friends. I love being her friend. Although I am considering changing her online nick to Tarty the Intrepid Traveller. Or TIT. Anyway, we got there after some hair raising moments in which we discovered that my car's lights need adjusting. Downwards. ONTO the road surface. It's amazing what you don't realise driving around in well lit suburbia.

The fire was already going and Tarty and Slappy, who'd arrived earlier, were already in full swing. Much wine, some champagne, and some massive steaks later, it was a real shrieking good time around the table. We carried on til the wee hours, after which Slappy continued her own private party in the indoor pool and jacuzzi.
The next morning was greeted with some animosity from The Hot Girlfriend, but she bravely joined me on an awesome outride and didn't complain TOO much. One of the best rides I've had in recent times and an absolute pleasure of a horse.
After cleaning off sweaty horse smell, it was mega-brekkie time and then wine tasting. I mentioned before that I know the wine maker and his wife - she popped in to say hi before we went and accosted the poor girl attending the tasting. Jean Pant and I purchased some wine and then we all retired back to the Villa. More braaing, more boozing and after some time enjoying a boozy sunset, somehow we contrived to break the jacuzzi. Tarty was out judging beards and schmoozing with the local farmers and was most upset with us when we couldn't get it to work again.
Sunday morning was more or less a write off. Except for the planet sized rack of ribs I had for lunch at a quaint little restaurant called the Shuntin' Shed.

Unsurpassed views, unsurpassed luxury and unsurpassed company. That's how you SHOULD spend weekends! And only 90km away. We should do this more often. Oh wait! We do this kind of shit all the time. See, I told you the point was to make you all jealous.

Anyway, a great time was had by all.

Last night, after a surprisingly successful run to Clifton and back, an equally surprising dinner was conjured up, and the original Doom Band had a great evening making music. Oh, and did I mention Manchester United won the English Premiere League with a few games to spare! Glory! Glory Man United! Fuck all the naysayers.

NGDG: I rented a German comedy in a moment of irony. Now I'm watching a bullshit American romcom starring an actress with a German name. I really should pay more attention to things.

Spread The Love. 'Murica, That Means You Too!

THE NO PANTS DANCE

Look at the piggy, piggy in the mirror...

It's a bit busy here today. Isn't it always like that when you've just returned from Paradise? And the trip home always seems twice as long as well...
Except in this case it was. You know how guinea fowl act when there is oncoming traffic? Their sentries conscientiously scout the horizon for approaching death, and then when the timing is just right, they make a manic run for it and that's all she wrote. Lethal but effective way of ensuring the flock never gets too big to handle. Interesting fact: the local human population living around the N2 in a sprawling metropolis of informal dwellings have the same approach to road crossing. The numerous pedestrian bridges were apparently a massive waste of tax payer's money, since it is clearly preferable to taunt the gods and get your weekend kicks by dodging intermittent streams of certain metallic death coming at you at an average of 140km/h.

Don't get me wrong, I believe in the sanctity of life above all else. I am simply baffled how simple laziness is higher on the agenda than, say, NOT getting mangled by 2tons of high speed fatality. And I have on numerous occasions very nearly parted company with my own mortality on that stretch of road as a last minute swerve to avoid hitting these bastards can make for quite the adrenaline surge and Tourettes attack.

One such "tarentaal" was unfortunately not as lucky as the close shave incidents I've managed to avoid. I am sure that he or she left behind loved ones and I am not attempting to dehumanised the situation or place any lesser value on his or her life. It's what happened afterwards that had me befuck.

The million kilometre traffic back up from the R300 to Sir Lowry's Pass, however, is. As Jeremy Clarkson once lamented, why do they have to close a lane for hours on end? Instead of moving the car/person/accident out of the way as soon as possible? After what seemed like hours sitting in first (luckily I had The Hot Girlfriend and Anathema for company) we eventually crawled past the scene. 4 traffic cones are an incredibly powerful force. One vacant looking traffic official staring at the crawling procession and another taking notes a bit further on as 2 cars' worth of people remonstrated. And one body bag. Surely there can't be so much forensic evidence that a body that is already covered or bagged cannot be moved, as the cars already had been, OFF the fucking road. No, all we got in the way of an explanation was a belligerent, dimly lit expression of "I don't give a fuck".

Anyway, all of that notwithstanding, I had one of the most marvellous weekends of my life. But for a full report on the fun and frivolity, you'll have to tune in tomorrow, sports fans. Too much to remember and write about - you wouldn't want to get only half the story, now would you? Suffice it to say, I have neither the energy nor the fully functional cognitive function to remember all the delightful details. Watch this space.

NGDG: Tomorrow is my last Monday at the office, aka. Salt Mine, Snake Pit, AIDS Ward. I'm happier than an Asian kid in a Samsung advert.

Spread The Love. Luis Suarez... Hiccies. You're Doing 'Em Wrong.

PURMP MAH RAAHD - TO THE BATMOBILE!

LordDoom goes to band practice.

Yay, yay! It's Friday. Tarty Farty Tequila Party is already swanning about like the colonialist she is in Bot River, doing entertainment reconnoitering for us before we arrive. With any luck she's managed to convince the local brass section to herald our arrival this evening with some proper pomp and fanfare. That would be nice.

Yes folks, we're off to pretend we're royalty for a weekend. There will be wine. Oh yes, there will be wine. There will be fine dining. There will be lazing in the jacuzzi. There will be roaring log fires. There will be braaing (I just bought rump steaks thicker than a Nokia 5110). There will be much adventure, guffawage and larking about. Also, I believe there is a view.

But that's not all. Get this. Yesterday, as I'm bragging to one of my oldest and best mates about the luxury package courtesy of Tarty, it transpires the lady who is looking after us the weekend is his sister. She's practically family of mine. Oh, and did I mention she's married to the wine maker? This weekend just got a whole lot more interesting... The fact that Jean Pant is somewhat of a wine connoisseur is just an added bonus.

Anyway, so there I was, at work this morning, minding my own business on Faeceboobs, when a bloodcurdling yell wakes me from my quiet social reverie. I spent the next few hours walking around the Gardens Centre while the boss got stitched up. Fun times, I tell you.

We're almost there, people. The air is an intoxicating medley of anticipation, excitement, potential, Friday afternoon cocktails, the weekend and my very feint body odour. (Think Kevin Klein in 'A Fish Called Wanda'.) But don't be fooled! In fact, be very, very cautious. Look left, look right, then look left again. LordDoom is mobile. Don't stare directly when you see a large, gloomy, black-clad metal head with long hair and an even longer beard standing in line to buy chrome spinners at your local Midas. In fact, leave immediately! Then go directly home and ask yourself what the fuck you were doing in a Midas in the first place...

Anyway. Enjoy the living fuck out of your weekend. I know I will. All you Londoners! Be sure to catch the stupendous Shannon Hope as she transforms your town into the Music Mecca of the world!

NGDG: We apologise for this technical error. We will resume normal transmission as soon as our lackey technician has figured out what he done gone and fucked up.

That wasn't Neal, for those of you who are currently peering at your screens wondering why the bottom has fallen from your world...

Spread The Love. Apparently Milkshake Works. But You Have To Be In A Yard?

OFF TO NEVER NEVER LAND

All our metal icons.

Yes, Never Never Land. Not the Peter Pan Land. Instead, a place most whinging haters think exists - a place where everything is done exclusively for them. All of the bands that they think are cool magically sprout an uncontrollable affinity for the country of THEIR origin and can't help themselves - they build a conveyor belt that brings them all through this area, eager and willing to play for free to 23 people who can't afford entrance at a free-entrance night at Gandalfs.

Yes, I know I said I wasn't going, but the look on the Hot Girlfriend's face last night when I surprised her with tickets was priceless...
Of course I'm going to go and subject myself to a group of octogenarian hillbillies (and a short narcissist tub-thumper) as they promise to, um what was it now again... "Kick mah fuckin' ass!"

And now for the rest of this piece, which I wrote the other day, but for the sake of the surprise, couldn't publish...

The root of the entire debacle can squarely be laid at the feet of those people who have decided that 'Tallica are over the hill. Everything stems from the fact that not enough tickets were sold to warrant the show being staged at the Cape Town Stadium. Was it because of 'Lulu'? Was it because the South African public grows weary of the blustering buffoons that run Big Concerts? I don't think you can blame either. Metallica - like any other collection of individuals - will grow older with time and become less and less relevant to the teen angst set that proliferates our dank underground clubs. Also, Big Concerts have done something to salvage the situation, given the obvious knock they took when all but the least discerning metalheads failed to part with their cash - effectively embarrassing the local "scene" and driving yet another nail into the coffin of "less and less bands are going to be tempted to visit our shores".

I'm not asking you to be grateful for the scraps of the global entertainment juggernaut. Nor am I asking you to convert to mindless pop pap, since at least Rihanna is on the way and it can be argued she's a world class something. What you might want to consider is moving to a territory that frequently does get extreme metal bands on tour. Be prepared to give up the nice weather and the "no consequences for traffic violations" lifestyle, though. Alternately you are at liberty to try luring Behemoth or Immortal here yourself. Go on, your connections at your local pub will help you stage a kick ass brutal show, I'm sure.

And that covers the venue change. Let me address the opening band issue. I am by profession a part of, and by necessity, a commentator on, the SA music scene. More particularly, I have been involved in the Cape Town underground underbelly mix of extreme and not so extreme music for a very long time. More than 2 decades if memory serves. In my not so humble, but honest opinion (picture me standing with one hand on my heart and one on my dick) there have been perhaps one or 2 acts that are, or were, professional or successful enough to deserve an opening slot for Metallica. Sure, it would have been an awesome opportunity, but let's face it, if you're given such, you had better not make one mistake in front of all your potential new adoring fans. And I'm not talking about missing a note here and there. I know plenty of bands who are tighter than the proverbial duck's arse, I'm talking about putting on a flawless show of immense intensity, where every single aspect works like clockwork. How many bands in Cape Town (authentically metal or not) can claim that prowess? NEVER having sound issues on their own gear. NEVER allowing influences "beyond their control" to cancel or postpone a show. Don't get me started on the intrinsic ability to write a decent tune. Or keep that up for years. I think the dilution of standards - served to us like the one cup to the two girls by the internet - has rendered most of today's musicians impervious to their own flatulence. Are you REALLY good enough to open for Metallica? I can think of 2 Cape Town bands. I mentioned Sabretooth yesterday. And Mind Assault, who are - simply put - too heavy for the slot. Not to mention the clear and present danger of catching an eyeful of cock flapping about in the event they get carried away.

And just because I can, and it's Friday, and that means a little slice of irreverence is obligatory, I'd like you all to enjoy this absolute gem of a video...

More later. I just wanted to get that off my chest. Said the one girl to the other. Over a cup.

Spread The Love. Love, She's A Maniac.