Even though I’d want my kids to think it was the drugs that killed Amy Winehouse – and even though I’m sure they played a big part in her demise – I couldn’t in good conscience feel that I, and most of you out there, shouldn’t shoulder some of the blame as well.
It’s kind of like when Princess Diana died. Those that ‘loved’ her so much – and showed that ‘love’ by devouring all news and gossip about her life – were quick to blame the paparazzi, but conveniently let themselves off the hook.
Kind of like throwing a bucket of petrol on an open flame and then blaming the flame.
Sure, there were some who recognised the public’s responsibility in Diana’s death, and scowled at the readers of tabloid trash, but that realisation was quickly forgotten as we moved on to the next celeb to stalk.
Now take Amy Winehouse. The latest member of the morbid ’27 Club’ and a girl who, in the public’s eyes, could do little right. She was someone who shot to mega-stardom relatively quickly and frequently got shitfaced.
Because of her party lifestyle we were never short of photos and stories about her exploits. With seldom a good word to read about, and even though I’m sure a lot of celebs try to ignore all the shit being spread about them, it’s got to be hard to avoid it all of the time.
Now think of how horrible it feels to hear someone running you down – it doesn’t even have to be someone you know – and imagine yourself, after a bad day that’s left you feeling worthless, just wanting to get away from it all.
You might go to the movies to escape for an hour and a half. You might phone a friend and get together for a drink.
Or, if you have pretty much unlimited financial resources, you might decide, sod it, and go on a month-long drug and booze binge.
Or imagine fucking up – having an argument with your wife or being caught driving drunk (a common pastime in good ol’ SA) – and strangers thinking it was their ‘right’ to be told about it.
It would probably push you over the edge.
The tragedy that is the Amy Winehouse story is a case of an addictive personality placed under extreme stress and handed enough money to ruin themselves.
The personality is hereditary. The money earned. But the stress is our fault.
The most shameful thing that will happen in the coming week is how all the tabloids that wrote so much venomous vitriol about Ms Winehouse will be telling us how wonderful she was and how much we’ll all miss her.
And those of us who so ferociously gorged on the gossip will wipe our dripping chins and say, yes, we really loved her, what a tragedy.
I believe in free speech, but it is often shameful what we do with that freedom.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Apocalypse Party Hits
For a split second I imagine a post-Armageddon, nuclear-fallout-influenced, cyberpunk world.
In front of the kitchen pass, behind an untidy cable-orgy, stands a crusty poster boy for decades-long abuse of fake tan, chain smoking, staring at his laptop screen and then at the flatscreen on the wall, waiting for the song to end.
To his far right a woman drunkenly sways, shrieking like a mutated, diseased Whitney Houston, “And ay-ee-ay-ee-ay will always luv yoo-oo-oo-oo…”
The fake-tan-man’s dead eyes move across to her, ash drooping impotently from the butt between his lips, to stare unimpressed at her efforts.
After a particularly bad night I’d thought watching people act like tits at the weekly Wednesday karaoke sessions down Long Street Café would make me feel better. At first I’d thought the available table right up front was a boon.
One song into it and I was reminded of God’s sick sense of humour.
As I sip my drink I wonder if maybe a radiation ravaged planet might be an improvement, or at the very least the booming explosion could soothe the ears a bit.
With no service to speak of I shuffle over to the bar, praying that in my absence the table will be snatched up and I’ll have an excuse to leave.
But no, it awaits my return, and like a rubbernecker at an accident scene I sit back down in twisted anticipation for the next corpse to be pulled from the mangled wreck.
My eyes follow theirs to the flatscreen. And as they belt it out I sing along in my head the badly translated words to Robbie Williams’ Feel – “Just can’t understand… this rope I’ve been given…”
The background images on the screen could be the boring bits of early Nineties soft porn, until someone stands up to sing something from Bob Marley and a bunch of girls on the screen in firemen’s outfits get their baps out.
This distracts the wailing punter and he fucks up the words.
The table behind me, a large group of fifteen or so, are choosing songs for each other. Soon enough the guys are up there, clammy hands fumbling the microphone, stuttering Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys into the giggling crowd.
An underage couple, possibly on a first date, sing the inevitable Grease Medley to each other. She’s clearly more into it than him, and she grins through shiny braces as he mumbles the Travolta bits.
All the while the crinkly, crispy controller smokes at least two packs of Texan Plain.
I don’t sing, but in the wake of all the care-free abandon and lack of self-consciousness surrounding me I think maybe I could.
Karaoke takes either balls or alcohol, and I imagine getting up there and making an arse out of oneself must be kind of liberating.
It seems most people only face their fears when it makes them look cool – bungi jumping or jumping in the ocean with sharks – but standing in front of a crowd knowing you sound like a couple of bulldogs porking and serenading no one in particular is about as extreme and scary as it comes.
Intentionally making a fool of yourself in public shows true courage.
Maybe when the world ends we’ll all just think, fuck it, and sing.
In front of the kitchen pass, behind an untidy cable-orgy, stands a crusty poster boy for decades-long abuse of fake tan, chain smoking, staring at his laptop screen and then at the flatscreen on the wall, waiting for the song to end.
To his far right a woman drunkenly sways, shrieking like a mutated, diseased Whitney Houston, “And ay-ee-ay-ee-ay will always luv yoo-oo-oo-oo…”
The fake-tan-man’s dead eyes move across to her, ash drooping impotently from the butt between his lips, to stare unimpressed at her efforts.
After a particularly bad night I’d thought watching people act like tits at the weekly Wednesday karaoke sessions down Long Street Café would make me feel better. At first I’d thought the available table right up front was a boon.
One song into it and I was reminded of God’s sick sense of humour.
As I sip my drink I wonder if maybe a radiation ravaged planet might be an improvement, or at the very least the booming explosion could soothe the ears a bit.
With no service to speak of I shuffle over to the bar, praying that in my absence the table will be snatched up and I’ll have an excuse to leave.
But no, it awaits my return, and like a rubbernecker at an accident scene I sit back down in twisted anticipation for the next corpse to be pulled from the mangled wreck.
My eyes follow theirs to the flatscreen. And as they belt it out I sing along in my head the badly translated words to Robbie Williams’ Feel – “Just can’t understand… this rope I’ve been given…”
The background images on the screen could be the boring bits of early Nineties soft porn, until someone stands up to sing something from Bob Marley and a bunch of girls on the screen in firemen’s outfits get their baps out.
This distracts the wailing punter and he fucks up the words.
The table behind me, a large group of fifteen or so, are choosing songs for each other. Soon enough the guys are up there, clammy hands fumbling the microphone, stuttering Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys into the giggling crowd.
An underage couple, possibly on a first date, sing the inevitable Grease Medley to each other. She’s clearly more into it than him, and she grins through shiny braces as he mumbles the Travolta bits.
All the while the crinkly, crispy controller smokes at least two packs of Texan Plain.
I don’t sing, but in the wake of all the care-free abandon and lack of self-consciousness surrounding me I think maybe I could.
Karaoke takes either balls or alcohol, and I imagine getting up there and making an arse out of oneself must be kind of liberating.
It seems most people only face their fears when it makes them look cool – bungi jumping or jumping in the ocean with sharks – but standing in front of a crowd knowing you sound like a couple of bulldogs porking and serenading no one in particular is about as extreme and scary as it comes.
Intentionally making a fool of yourself in public shows true courage.
Maybe when the world ends we’ll all just think, fuck it, and sing.
SA Police Not Afraid To Show Musical Taste
Upon reading that the Locnville boys had been pepper-sprayed and beaten up by the police, my thoughts immediately ran to spaghetti bolognaise.
If my mum had a signature dish, it would without a doubt be ‘spagbol’. She’d make it for us at least once a week, and in such large quantity there were two days’ worth of lunchtime leftovers.
By the time I left home I must have eaten easily more than a thousand plates of tomato-ey mincemeat on top of Fatti’s & Moni’s pasta.
When I first started getting irritated by seeing the Locnville girly-boys every week in the esteemed Heat magazine (SA’s only weekly glossy!), I reminded myself that just because they were young, popular and airbrushed didn’t mean their music was plastic trash headed for the dustbin faster than a soiled Durex.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I thought, and YouTube a couple of their hits.
The first one I came across I’d heard before on a Supersport commercial. It was fairly catchy, and had on occasion unconsciously flared up in my head like a mild case of Athlete’s Testicle.
The next few songs I uploaded were much the same as mum’s consistent cuisine – the same old recipe, but warmed up in the microwave and slopped on a plate.
But unlike Locnville, mum’s bolognaise wasn’t a mere flash-in-the-pan – enjoyed today and stinking up the bathroom tomorrow – but a regular performer in the gastronomic playlist of our youth.
Unfortunately no one filmed the Loc/SAPS mash-up, so those particular hits won’t wind up on YouTube, but with the twins’ popularity possibly waning and their following of fans (groin-achingly named ‘villens’) growing up and moving along to real music, one has to imagine that it all might be a publicity stunt.
It’s marketing brilliance, really.
Locnville’s fanbase must have aged and now be old enough to stay up past eight and watch the evening news, therefore being exposed to current issues like xenophobia and police brutality. And what better way for the boys to get in on their fans’ newfound social awareness by getting punched in the face by cops.
The fact that it got on the front page of the respected Cape Argus shows just how far the paper has sunk in terms of sensationalism and spectacle, and I’m afraid that upon receiving my next subscription form I will have to go for the lifetime renewal.
If my mum had a signature dish, it would without a doubt be ‘spagbol’. She’d make it for us at least once a week, and in such large quantity there were two days’ worth of lunchtime leftovers.
By the time I left home I must have eaten easily more than a thousand plates of tomato-ey mincemeat on top of Fatti’s & Moni’s pasta.
When I first started getting irritated by seeing the Locnville girly-boys every week in the esteemed Heat magazine (SA’s only weekly glossy!), I reminded myself that just because they were young, popular and airbrushed didn’t mean their music was plastic trash headed for the dustbin faster than a soiled Durex.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I thought, and YouTube a couple of their hits.
The first one I came across I’d heard before on a Supersport commercial. It was fairly catchy, and had on occasion unconsciously flared up in my head like a mild case of Athlete’s Testicle.
The next few songs I uploaded were much the same as mum’s consistent cuisine – the same old recipe, but warmed up in the microwave and slopped on a plate.
But unlike Locnville, mum’s bolognaise wasn’t a mere flash-in-the-pan – enjoyed today and stinking up the bathroom tomorrow – but a regular performer in the gastronomic playlist of our youth.
Unfortunately no one filmed the Loc/SAPS mash-up, so those particular hits won’t wind up on YouTube, but with the twins’ popularity possibly waning and their following of fans (groin-achingly named ‘villens’) growing up and moving along to real music, one has to imagine that it all might be a publicity stunt.
It’s marketing brilliance, really.
Locnville’s fanbase must have aged and now be old enough to stay up past eight and watch the evening news, therefore being exposed to current issues like xenophobia and police brutality. And what better way for the boys to get in on their fans’ newfound social awareness by getting punched in the face by cops.
The fact that it got on the front page of the respected Cape Argus shows just how far the paper has sunk in terms of sensationalism and spectacle, and I’m afraid that upon receiving my next subscription form I will have to go for the lifetime renewal.
Finding Diamonds in Dogshit
Saturday night, Long Street. Lucy and I – among the sober minority for a change – fight our way through the crowd of piss-heads and prostitutes dancing to the atrocious covers of Bryan Adams and Robbie Williams, and up the stairs of the Dubliner.
God knows where they find that band, but their aural assault is well worth the light at the end of the terrible tunnel.
It is something akin to digging through dogshit to find a shining diamond; but if you can manage getting stepped on by inebriated tourists and the accompanying market of meat with their bovine eyes on all the Dollars and Pounds, you will meet the Piano Man.
His name is Dave. Cooler than a Tarantino movie, he drinks Southern Comfort on the rocks and has a voice like an icy glass of blended honey, angel wings and gravel. An odd combination, but much like stopping along a country dirt road for lunch, staring at the majestic mountains and thinking of God as a given.
If you can grab a seat at the glass-topped piano you’ll have a front row vision of his nimble fingers banging out everything from Neil Diamond to Coldplay and, of course, a large helping of Billy Joel.
His fans shout out requests and cheer like punters at an underground kung-fu death match – and more often than not someone from the industry passes by, gives Dave a kiss and a drink, and lends their voice to his soulful magic.
Now if they could only build a bridge over the dodgy, downstairs dancefloor, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth to get an icecream.
God knows where they find that band, but their aural assault is well worth the light at the end of the terrible tunnel.
It is something akin to digging through dogshit to find a shining diamond; but if you can manage getting stepped on by inebriated tourists and the accompanying market of meat with their bovine eyes on all the Dollars and Pounds, you will meet the Piano Man.
His name is Dave. Cooler than a Tarantino movie, he drinks Southern Comfort on the rocks and has a voice like an icy glass of blended honey, angel wings and gravel. An odd combination, but much like stopping along a country dirt road for lunch, staring at the majestic mountains and thinking of God as a given.
If you can grab a seat at the glass-topped piano you’ll have a front row vision of his nimble fingers banging out everything from Neil Diamond to Coldplay and, of course, a large helping of Billy Joel.
His fans shout out requests and cheer like punters at an underground kung-fu death match – and more often than not someone from the industry passes by, gives Dave a kiss and a drink, and lends their voice to his soulful magic.
Now if they could only build a bridge over the dodgy, downstairs dancefloor, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth to get an icecream.
My Mixtape Romance
Has technological advancement become arbitrary? When my friends show me iPhone apps that can identify their DNA and track the journey of their turd from toilet to ocean I think it’s cool and all, but pointless and sad too.
In kind of the same vein, so many people I know say the more music they have on their iPod the less they listen to – just around five albums over and over. A lot of people, myself included, upload albums to show off like a friends list on Facebook; but still just stick to the usual suspects.
So what’s the point of carrying around your record collection if it just sits there?
There was a time when the Walkman changed the world. Music became portable and personal – kids didn’t have to listen to their parents’ Abba tapes on family road trips anymore, they could plug the latest Pop Shop into their ears; and on the bus you could tune out the grannies’ gossip with equally depressing Cure tunes.
And you have to respect that while the iPod can store every album you own, the Walkman practically birthed our culture of public solitude. When we could personalise albums we began building soundtracks suited to our mood swings.
There’s something about making a mix tape (or Mixtape) that an iTunes playlist can’t match.
Back in the day, a ninety minute cassette compilation would take at least two hours to produce. When you gave it to your girlfriend she appreciated the effort you put in – not only having to listen to every song all the way through, but also obsessing over the flow of tracks.
You’d sometimes record six songs, then rewind back over the last four because you realised the third would be better a few tracks later. Sometimes one mix tape would take a whole day to make – you’d call it something like ‘OCD Hits’, and neatly write each song title and artist on the cassette-holder insert.
Nick Hornby believed that making a mix tape was an art, and outlined the rules in his novel High Fidelity: “To me, making a tape is like writing a letter — there's a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again. A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention… and then you've got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs and...oh, there are loads of rules.”
The same way that sending an email just isn’t the same as posting a letter, a mix cd lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.
Maybe it’s because, embedded in even the smallest romantic act is an element of the personal touch.
Nowadays, when we fuck up, burning a cd of love songs is faster than popping down the corner café to buy flowers, and therefore just as meaningless.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
In kind of the same vein, so many people I know say the more music they have on their iPod the less they listen to – just around five albums over and over. A lot of people, myself included, upload albums to show off like a friends list on Facebook; but still just stick to the usual suspects.
So what’s the point of carrying around your record collection if it just sits there?
There was a time when the Walkman changed the world. Music became portable and personal – kids didn’t have to listen to their parents’ Abba tapes on family road trips anymore, they could plug the latest Pop Shop into their ears; and on the bus you could tune out the grannies’ gossip with equally depressing Cure tunes.
And you have to respect that while the iPod can store every album you own, the Walkman practically birthed our culture of public solitude. When we could personalise albums we began building soundtracks suited to our mood swings.
There’s something about making a mix tape (or Mixtape) that an iTunes playlist can’t match.
Back in the day, a ninety minute cassette compilation would take at least two hours to produce. When you gave it to your girlfriend she appreciated the effort you put in – not only having to listen to every song all the way through, but also obsessing over the flow of tracks.
You’d sometimes record six songs, then rewind back over the last four because you realised the third would be better a few tracks later. Sometimes one mix tape would take a whole day to make – you’d call it something like ‘OCD Hits’, and neatly write each song title and artist on the cassette-holder insert.
Nick Hornby believed that making a mix tape was an art, and outlined the rules in his novel High Fidelity: “To me, making a tape is like writing a letter — there's a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again. A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention… and then you've got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs and...oh, there are loads of rules.”
The same way that sending an email just isn’t the same as posting a letter, a mix cd lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.
Maybe it’s because, embedded in even the smallest romantic act is an element of the personal touch.
Nowadays, when we fuck up, burning a cd of love songs is faster than popping down the corner café to buy flowers, and therefore just as meaningless.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Snackbox in 3D
Why is it the only time I ever hear about this band is when their name’s attached to some product or gimmick?
Cheap wine, logo’d tekkies, KFC kiddies meals… and now 3D.
Before the fans start shouting that U2 did it first, it must be noted that the producers of U23D approached the band after initially planning to 3D-ifise American Football. They couldn’t get hold of the band’s manager, Paul McGuinness, and punted the idea to Catherine Owens, the group’s art director since 1992.
According to U2 bassist, Adam Clayton, the band didn’t want to do another concert film (along the lines of 2001’s ‘All Access’), but Owens “pushed it down [their] throats”.
But it was Bono who convinced them to do it. Interested in the project purely as a technological experiment because, let’s be honest, they don’t need the money.
Maybe it’s fitting that the Parlotones, three years later, are following. They sound just like the Killers, they wear make-up just like the teenagers in A Clockwork Orange, and now they’re making a 3D movie just like U2.
Aside from the fact that they’re perpetuating the eventual zombification of South Africa (See ‘I warned you about that 3D TV’), I find the crassness of the whole thing offensive.
Shouldn’t the music speak for itself? Shouldn’t your talent be what gets attention?
You can’t blame them. It’s not their fault that these days we only notice something if it’s shoved in our faces, below a Coke or Nike logo. And if selling out is the only way one can make money through their passion, who is anyone to judge?
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Cheap wine, logo’d tekkies, KFC kiddies meals… and now 3D.
Before the fans start shouting that U2 did it first, it must be noted that the producers of U23D approached the band after initially planning to 3D-ifise American Football. They couldn’t get hold of the band’s manager, Paul McGuinness, and punted the idea to Catherine Owens, the group’s art director since 1992.
According to U2 bassist, Adam Clayton, the band didn’t want to do another concert film (along the lines of 2001’s ‘All Access’), but Owens “pushed it down [their] throats”.
But it was Bono who convinced them to do it. Interested in the project purely as a technological experiment because, let’s be honest, they don’t need the money.
Maybe it’s fitting that the Parlotones, three years later, are following. They sound just like the Killers, they wear make-up just like the teenagers in A Clockwork Orange, and now they’re making a 3D movie just like U2.
Aside from the fact that they’re perpetuating the eventual zombification of South Africa (See ‘I warned you about that 3D TV’), I find the crassness of the whole thing offensive.
Shouldn’t the music speak for itself? Shouldn’t your talent be what gets attention?
You can’t blame them. It’s not their fault that these days we only notice something if it’s shoved in our faces, below a Coke or Nike logo. And if selling out is the only way one can make money through their passion, who is anyone to judge?
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Your Favourite Band Sucks!
Along with politics and religion, music is one of those things that one shouldn’t be discussed around the dinner table. Nothing gets people more worked up than telling them their favourite band sucks.
The same way a Testament-thumper will want to drive a stake through your heart if you believe in Evolution, a Rammstein fan will tell you you haven’t lived until Till Lindeman has come all over your face.
In my book, though, there’s not much difference between the screaming tweens chasing after Justin Bieber and the testicle-pierced sulkers worshipping OTT bands like Rammstein; because in both cases, it’s not really about the music.
Bieber fans think he’s sooooo key-oot and adorable, whereas Rammsteiners feel solidarity in hate against society and anything fluffy. And as much as JB’s music is contrived and commercial, Rammstein’s is noisy and soulless.
But then who am I to judge? I actually own a Taylor Swift album, regard meeting the drummer of Iron Maiden as one of my life’s great ‘achievements’, and think Matchbox Twenty is one of the bestest bands, like, ever!
The same way I enjoy a McDonald’s burger but know it’s not stellar cuisine, I sometimes enjoy kak music even though I know it’s not good.
Dissing the music someone likes is an affront on their ‘coolness’ – and nothing is more sacred. That’s why so many people still smoke cigarettes; anyone who tells you they suck on a camel for ‘the taste’ is full of it, smoking is just so damn cool!
Forget the adage ‘sex sells’, there is no currency stronger than ‘cool’.
I think we all unconsciously doubt our musical tastes, and look to people we think are cool to tell us what to listen to. That’s why almost every Facebook status update in Cape Town last week was either someone bragging about going to the U2 concert, or lamenting the fact that they couldn’t be there.
You can’t not like U2 and still be socially adept, and even though there is some stock in the belief that going against the grain holds an element of coolness, with this band it just doesn’t work.
The thing is, aside from U2, nothing is guaranteed eternal cool status. Looking back, styling my hair like Vanilla Ice and wearing my clothes backwards because of the kids from Kriss Kross was a bad idea and proof that music more often than not inspires idiocy.
And what is music, really, but the soundtrack to our life? Songs remind us of past girlfriends and heartache, inspire us, make us feel strong or weak or sometimes both at the same time.
Nostalgia is an old shoebox of dusty mix tapes, that's all.
The same way a Testament-thumper will want to drive a stake through your heart if you believe in Evolution, a Rammstein fan will tell you you haven’t lived until Till Lindeman has come all over your face.
In my book, though, there’s not much difference between the screaming tweens chasing after Justin Bieber and the testicle-pierced sulkers worshipping OTT bands like Rammstein; because in both cases, it’s not really about the music.
Bieber fans think he’s sooooo key-oot and adorable, whereas Rammsteiners feel solidarity in hate against society and anything fluffy. And as much as JB’s music is contrived and commercial, Rammstein’s is noisy and soulless.
But then who am I to judge? I actually own a Taylor Swift album, regard meeting the drummer of Iron Maiden as one of my life’s great ‘achievements’, and think Matchbox Twenty is one of the bestest bands, like, ever!
The same way I enjoy a McDonald’s burger but know it’s not stellar cuisine, I sometimes enjoy kak music even though I know it’s not good.
Dissing the music someone likes is an affront on their ‘coolness’ – and nothing is more sacred. That’s why so many people still smoke cigarettes; anyone who tells you they suck on a camel for ‘the taste’ is full of it, smoking is just so damn cool!
Forget the adage ‘sex sells’, there is no currency stronger than ‘cool’.
I think we all unconsciously doubt our musical tastes, and look to people we think are cool to tell us what to listen to. That’s why almost every Facebook status update in Cape Town last week was either someone bragging about going to the U2 concert, or lamenting the fact that they couldn’t be there.
You can’t not like U2 and still be socially adept, and even though there is some stock in the belief that going against the grain holds an element of coolness, with this band it just doesn’t work.
The thing is, aside from U2, nothing is guaranteed eternal cool status. Looking back, styling my hair like Vanilla Ice and wearing my clothes backwards because of the kids from Kriss Kross was a bad idea and proof that music more often than not inspires idiocy.
And what is music, really, but the soundtrack to our life? Songs remind us of past girlfriends and heartache, inspire us, make us feel strong or weak or sometimes both at the same time.
Nostalgia is an old shoebox of dusty mix tapes, that's all.
Don't turn your child into a Musical Retard!
I place the blame for my bad taste in music squarely on the shoulders of my parents.
On the long, seven hour road trips to our grandparents’ farm in Beaufort West, my mom and dad would play only two tapes. This was before the Walkman was invented – showing my age, but there you go.
One of these was a mix of their favourite Abba tunes. At such a young age you don’t know any better, and Greg and I would sing along happily from Cape Town to Worcester – Mamma Mia, Dancing Queen, Super Trooper, we knew them all.
It’s a wonder the pair of us grew up liking girls. I’m sure that in more progressive countries at the time, inflicting Abba upon such tender and innocent ears would have been considered child abuse.
The other tape was the greatest hits of Julio Iglesius.
For those that don’t know, that was Enrique’s curly-haired dad – a great womaniser in his day, who I’m sure was actually Ron Jeremy in disguise.
It is this reason that on my CV I list Spanish as one of the languages I know. If there’s any doubt, I just sing the chorus of ‘one-tunna-mera’.
One would think that after the Walkman came out things would’ve changed, but the damage had already been done. After that we consciously chose to fill our ears with Cyndi Lauper, Yazoo, and – I’m man enough to admit – Rick Astley.
In the Nineties, when I hit puberty, things changed a bit. We rebelled by listening to AC-DC, Motorhead, and Ozzy. My bedroom wall was plastered with posters of Iron Maiden’s Eddie murdering Margaret Thatcher and attacking the Devil with an axe.
But I still secretly had an appreciation for MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, and 2 Unlimited. The bad taste from those formative years had been imbedded in my genetic code.
Today I’m conscious of this ingrained flaw and try and steer clear of anything too poppy or commercial. But every now and again I get a Beyonce track looping in my head… and in a perverse, masochistic way I kind of like it.
So I’ve vowed not to put my kids through the same pain and embarrassment. These are my rules for a child’s musical upbringing:
1) Only expose them to music played with actual instruments.
Drums and guitars are the nuts and bolts of good music. I don’t care how cool you think DJ Duvet is – he is not a musician. Your children need to appreciate this fact.
2) Make sure they know the pioneers.
Your record collection should resemble a mini-Louvre – Rolling Stones, U2, Bob Dylan, Dire Straits, Public Enemy, etc. You wouldn’t expect them to tackle quantum physics if they hadn’t studied Newton and Einstein, don’t let them make musical choices before they’ve appreciated the trailblazers.
3) Only very rarely is a cover-version okay, and remixes are out of the question. No despicable Madonna version of ‘American Pie’ or remixed Bryan Adams riddled with rap.
Respect the originals and accept no substitutes.
4) Remember how you were beaten up by the metalheads at school when you wore that Roxette t-shirt on civvies day? I sure do.
Don’t let your kids wear any dorky music-related clothing – pretty much anything that doesn’t have skulls, Satan, or sacrificial virgins emblazoned across the chest. Vintage clothing of the greats is also acceptable, but current-day bad boy rappers are a big no-no as they are almost always lame in future retrospect.
5) And most importantly, make sure they know that any artistic pursuit is a labour of love; the work should be its own reward.
They should regard bands punting Kentucky Fried Chicken and Sprite as the money-grubbing, attention-seeking, ungodly sell-outs that they are, and with the contempt they deserve.
So hopefully by following these simple rules and with a bit of luck I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing my little dear won’t be keeping me awake with the next Spice Girls or Locnville ear-bleeder.
Of course, she could be influenced by unenlightened schoolmates into boyband worship; or possibly, in those rebellious teen years, play polka or (God forbid) techno full-blast in her bedroom – but I’ll just have to turn the hearing-aid down or buy her an iPod.
As for me, I’ll just have to struggle along, worrying that one day my mom and dad will be standing in front of the God of Rock and will have to answer for their sins.
On the long, seven hour road trips to our grandparents’ farm in Beaufort West, my mom and dad would play only two tapes. This was before the Walkman was invented – showing my age, but there you go.
One of these was a mix of their favourite Abba tunes. At such a young age you don’t know any better, and Greg and I would sing along happily from Cape Town to Worcester – Mamma Mia, Dancing Queen, Super Trooper, we knew them all.
It’s a wonder the pair of us grew up liking girls. I’m sure that in more progressive countries at the time, inflicting Abba upon such tender and innocent ears would have been considered child abuse.
The other tape was the greatest hits of Julio Iglesius.
For those that don’t know, that was Enrique’s curly-haired dad – a great womaniser in his day, who I’m sure was actually Ron Jeremy in disguise.
It is this reason that on my CV I list Spanish as one of the languages I know. If there’s any doubt, I just sing the chorus of ‘one-tunna-mera’.
One would think that after the Walkman came out things would’ve changed, but the damage had already been done. After that we consciously chose to fill our ears with Cyndi Lauper, Yazoo, and – I’m man enough to admit – Rick Astley.
In the Nineties, when I hit puberty, things changed a bit. We rebelled by listening to AC-DC, Motorhead, and Ozzy. My bedroom wall was plastered with posters of Iron Maiden’s Eddie murdering Margaret Thatcher and attacking the Devil with an axe.
But I still secretly had an appreciation for MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, and 2 Unlimited. The bad taste from those formative years had been imbedded in my genetic code.
Today I’m conscious of this ingrained flaw and try and steer clear of anything too poppy or commercial. But every now and again I get a Beyonce track looping in my head… and in a perverse, masochistic way I kind of like it.
So I’ve vowed not to put my kids through the same pain and embarrassment. These are my rules for a child’s musical upbringing:
1) Only expose them to music played with actual instruments.
Drums and guitars are the nuts and bolts of good music. I don’t care how cool you think DJ Duvet is – he is not a musician. Your children need to appreciate this fact.
2) Make sure they know the pioneers.
Your record collection should resemble a mini-Louvre – Rolling Stones, U2, Bob Dylan, Dire Straits, Public Enemy, etc. You wouldn’t expect them to tackle quantum physics if they hadn’t studied Newton and Einstein, don’t let them make musical choices before they’ve appreciated the trailblazers.
3) Only very rarely is a cover-version okay, and remixes are out of the question. No despicable Madonna version of ‘American Pie’ or remixed Bryan Adams riddled with rap.
Respect the originals and accept no substitutes.
4) Remember how you were beaten up by the metalheads at school when you wore that Roxette t-shirt on civvies day? I sure do.
Don’t let your kids wear any dorky music-related clothing – pretty much anything that doesn’t have skulls, Satan, or sacrificial virgins emblazoned across the chest. Vintage clothing of the greats is also acceptable, but current-day bad boy rappers are a big no-no as they are almost always lame in future retrospect.
5) And most importantly, make sure they know that any artistic pursuit is a labour of love; the work should be its own reward.
They should regard bands punting Kentucky Fried Chicken and Sprite as the money-grubbing, attention-seeking, ungodly sell-outs that they are, and with the contempt they deserve.
So hopefully by following these simple rules and with a bit of luck I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing my little dear won’t be keeping me awake with the next Spice Girls or Locnville ear-bleeder.
Of course, she could be influenced by unenlightened schoolmates into boyband worship; or possibly, in those rebellious teen years, play polka or (God forbid) techno full-blast in her bedroom – but I’ll just have to turn the hearing-aid down or buy her an iPod.
As for me, I’ll just have to struggle along, worrying that one day my mom and dad will be standing in front of the God of Rock and will have to answer for their sins.
Make the [Prime] Circle Bigger
For the last couple of years some of the best music in the world has come out of South Africa.
One just has to listen to albums like Zebra & Giraffe’s Collected Memories, Prime Circle’s last two releases All or Nothing and Jekyll & Hyde, or bands like Cassette, Taxi Violence and Hog Hoggidy Hog to wonder why the hell musicians in this country struggle so.
Is it because the Americans are painfully closed-minded when it comes to international anything and just believe what the TV tells them?
We get fed such mediocre, boring bullshit from the States – all image and no substance. So-called artists who sell millions of records purely by shaking booty or pretending to be a gangster.
Is it because, when we have the opportunity to showcase our talent through events like the World Cup opening ceremony, our politicians stick to ‘traditional’ artists trying to be West Side Ali G imitations or safe but mundane bands like the Parlotones?
It’s almost as if there’s a government conspiracy to say to the world, “Look how gracious we are to let the whities on the stage, but doesn’t it sound like a kak version of the Killers?”
When I was a teenager all we had to offer was deafening bile like Mango Groove and MarcAlex – South African music was embarrassing and crap – but things have changed and I think most people my age don’t realise it.
Many still wrongly believe local is lame.
It’s not enough to buy a cd here and there and occasionally go to a Kirstenbosch concert. Proud South Africans need to be proactive and help get our musicians’ talent out there.
When Lucy’s mom returned to England I gave her a pile of discs to give to her son – everything from the Plastics to Plush to Wrestlerish. Hell, I even threw in some Watershed and old Squeal albums.
Listening to Prime Circle’s new Jekyll & Hyde causes my chest to puff up with patriotism. And, as one reviewer suggested, I will wave it in the face of every foreigner I meet.
We need them and those of their ilk to be able to keep doing what they’re doing, because if they fail all we will be left with is American finger-bling wavers, British gayboy bands, and a KFC snackbox.
One just has to listen to albums like Zebra & Giraffe’s Collected Memories, Prime Circle’s last two releases All or Nothing and Jekyll & Hyde, or bands like Cassette, Taxi Violence and Hog Hoggidy Hog to wonder why the hell musicians in this country struggle so.
Is it because the Americans are painfully closed-minded when it comes to international anything and just believe what the TV tells them?
We get fed such mediocre, boring bullshit from the States – all image and no substance. So-called artists who sell millions of records purely by shaking booty or pretending to be a gangster.
Is it because, when we have the opportunity to showcase our talent through events like the World Cup opening ceremony, our politicians stick to ‘traditional’ artists trying to be West Side Ali G imitations or safe but mundane bands like the Parlotones?
It’s almost as if there’s a government conspiracy to say to the world, “Look how gracious we are to let the whities on the stage, but doesn’t it sound like a kak version of the Killers?”
When I was a teenager all we had to offer was deafening bile like Mango Groove and MarcAlex – South African music was embarrassing and crap – but things have changed and I think most people my age don’t realise it.
Many still wrongly believe local is lame.
It’s not enough to buy a cd here and there and occasionally go to a Kirstenbosch concert. Proud South Africans need to be proactive and help get our musicians’ talent out there.
When Lucy’s mom returned to England I gave her a pile of discs to give to her son – everything from the Plastics to Plush to Wrestlerish. Hell, I even threw in some Watershed and old Squeal albums.
Listening to Prime Circle’s new Jekyll & Hyde causes my chest to puff up with patriotism. And, as one reviewer suggested, I will wave it in the face of every foreigner I meet.
We need them and those of their ilk to be able to keep doing what they’re doing, because if they fail all we will be left with is American finger-bling wavers, British gayboy bands, and a KFC snackbox.
Did Emos Hijack the Eighties?
While chatting to a pasty guy in skinny jeans and an attention-seeking hat I realised that my childhood memories had been perverted for the misery of a generation.
Some of my favourite bands like The Smiths and The Cure now meant more to ironically fashionable misfits than they ever did to me. This made me wonder if I wasn’t maybe a closet emo!
I mulled over this for a while, but then decided I wasn’t up for the job.
I’m not nearly committed enough to skateboard in a jean pant tight enough to make your arse turn blue.
And as much as I enjoyed ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’ I don’t think I’ve got the space in my flat for a Jack Skellington shrine, complete with plastic skulls and Tim Burton wig shelves.
At my age I don’t have the strength to maintain a constantly downturned mouth; and the receding hairline won’t allow the standard-requirement, face-obscuring fringe.
I must say I envy the ability to pour trendy scorn on our consumer-obsessed society while spending all your trust fund pocket money on overpriced, made-to-look-vintage t-shirts.
They’ve made my original copies of Eighties pop music cool, now I just need a tape-to-iPod converter.
And it’s good to know that no matter how sulky I am before my morning banana and coffee shake, I can grumpily be happy in the knowledge that apathy can still get you laid.
Just make sure you take off that shrunken jean pant before you get excited or you might hurt yourself.
Some of my favourite bands like The Smiths and The Cure now meant more to ironically fashionable misfits than they ever did to me. This made me wonder if I wasn’t maybe a closet emo!
I mulled over this for a while, but then decided I wasn’t up for the job.
I’m not nearly committed enough to skateboard in a jean pant tight enough to make your arse turn blue.
And as much as I enjoyed ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’ I don’t think I’ve got the space in my flat for a Jack Skellington shrine, complete with plastic skulls and Tim Burton wig shelves.
At my age I don’t have the strength to maintain a constantly downturned mouth; and the receding hairline won’t allow the standard-requirement, face-obscuring fringe.
I must say I envy the ability to pour trendy scorn on our consumer-obsessed society while spending all your trust fund pocket money on overpriced, made-to-look-vintage t-shirts.
They’ve made my original copies of Eighties pop music cool, now I just need a tape-to-iPod converter.
And it’s good to know that no matter how sulky I am before my morning banana and coffee shake, I can grumpily be happy in the knowledge that apathy can still get you laid.
Just make sure you take off that shrunken jean pant before you get excited or you might hurt yourself.
How I Became A Parlotones Fan
I’d like the record to show that Nathan Casey is man enough to admit when he’s wrong.
I’d foolishly thought my skill on the tambourine and triangle in junior school was enough to secure a successful musical career. The rejection of my first homemade single, ‘Ring-sting coz I swallowed my bling-bling’, set this “failed musician” on a terrible path of bitterness and jealousy.
My eyes were opened to my folly by DJ Raine whose “25 years’ experience in the music business” proves you’re never too old to throw your granny panties on the stage, and by Jackie B, a man with little patience for punctuation or paragraphs, who breathlessly pushed me to the floor [that one’s for the fans].
The opportunity to promote barely edible, mutated chicken offcuts was a “reward” for all the Parlo’s hard work, Raine told me, and then proceeded to place her idols in the same class as waka-waka soccer promoter, Shakira – gently reassuring me it was alright for fans to be cruel sometimes, so I shouldn’t worry about it.
Not one to answer a rhetorical question such as, “what’s the point in being an artist if no one recognises your work?”, I could only sympathise with the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci and ponder on the meaninglessness he must have believed his life life’s work amounted to – I’m sure he was just in it for the recognition.
If that wasn’t thought-provoking enough, Jackie B forced me to reflect on my “anger issues” and soon I was curled under my desk, thumb-sucking, crying in a foetal position. I can only thank him for my awakening.
It does “take talent to become famous” I suddenly agreed – I watch enough reality tv to realise that.
Who am I to judge those who turn a blind eye to the plight of four-legged, beakless box-chickens if it “reminds them of the people who have given them joy and filled their lives with the beauty of music”?
And now I can see that those kids in South American sweatshops probably wouldn’t have jobs if it wasn’t for shoe manufacturers.
I was a convert!
With a mascara job that would’ve made Stanley Kubrick proud I rushed to the nearest church, clutching my new favourite band’s cd to my heart, and forced it into the pastor’s hands.
When he told me they were just a wannabe Killers tribute band I punched him in the face and quoted my mentor, Jackie B: “Even Jesus was unwelcome in his own country!”
I can only hope for your forgiveness and offer a big hug when I see you at the next Parlotones concert.
I’d foolishly thought my skill on the tambourine and triangle in junior school was enough to secure a successful musical career. The rejection of my first homemade single, ‘Ring-sting coz I swallowed my bling-bling’, set this “failed musician” on a terrible path of bitterness and jealousy.
My eyes were opened to my folly by DJ Raine whose “25 years’ experience in the music business” proves you’re never too old to throw your granny panties on the stage, and by Jackie B, a man with little patience for punctuation or paragraphs, who breathlessly pushed me to the floor [that one’s for the fans].
The opportunity to promote barely edible, mutated chicken offcuts was a “reward” for all the Parlo’s hard work, Raine told me, and then proceeded to place her idols in the same class as waka-waka soccer promoter, Shakira – gently reassuring me it was alright for fans to be cruel sometimes, so I shouldn’t worry about it.
Not one to answer a rhetorical question such as, “what’s the point in being an artist if no one recognises your work?”, I could only sympathise with the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci and ponder on the meaninglessness he must have believed his life life’s work amounted to – I’m sure he was just in it for the recognition.
If that wasn’t thought-provoking enough, Jackie B forced me to reflect on my “anger issues” and soon I was curled under my desk, thumb-sucking, crying in a foetal position. I can only thank him for my awakening.
It does “take talent to become famous” I suddenly agreed – I watch enough reality tv to realise that.
Who am I to judge those who turn a blind eye to the plight of four-legged, beakless box-chickens if it “reminds them of the people who have given them joy and filled their lives with the beauty of music”?
And now I can see that those kids in South American sweatshops probably wouldn’t have jobs if it wasn’t for shoe manufacturers.
I was a convert!
With a mascara job that would’ve made Stanley Kubrick proud I rushed to the nearest church, clutching my new favourite band’s cd to my heart, and forced it into the pastor’s hands.
When he told me they were just a wannabe Killers tribute band I punched him in the face and quoted my mentor, Jackie B: “Even Jesus was unwelcome in his own country!”
I can only hope for your forgiveness and offer a big hug when I see you at the next Parlotones concert.
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