We all knew it was going to happen. Like the trailer to an upcoming movie the EFF had been dropping hints all week along. "Wait and see" I believe is how one MP phrased it in giving us a teaser of what would unfurl during the State of the Nation address. And so I waited (no bated breath, though) and when the clock struck 7pm on Thursday the 9th of February I lugubriously plonked my body on the couch, turned up the volume on the TV, leaned in slightly and witnessed yet another parliamentary spectacle.
EFF MP after EFF MP raising points(less) of order, impish smirks never too far from their faces. Same same. My fingers lingered over TV remote ready to wander off onto a different form of entertainment, bored by a third year of futile political brawling at the opening of Parliament. Then came the DA's Chief Whip requesting (demanding) a moment of silence in memory of the94 Esidimeni psychiatric patients who died. A reasonable point. That was until John Steenhuisen pronounced it "Edimeni". Cringe. Place face in palm of hand. Witness just the opening act of amateur hour at SONA 2017.
You had me, then lost me. The entire moment had been wasted. Sure, Parliament's presiding officers could've stunned us by actually observing a minute's silence, daring to breakaway from what was already an ailing agenda. This act could've distracted us from Steenhuisen's pronunciation flop. But of course, National Assembly Speaker, Baleka Mbete, and NCOP Chair, Thandi Modise, were never going to even consider bending protocol. They had to fight back. If you could call that a fightback. While the DA was raising an important and worthy point around the Esidimeni tragedy, the best the EFF's caucus could do - apart from hurling insults - was produce cable ties as they whinged and moaned about the excessive security. Instead of raising points of order on other issues, the cable ties were whipped out several times in what soon became a display of selfish, misguided, childish posturing (more so than usual in a parliamentary context.)
Then came an MP, who I can only assume was from the ANC, bumbling and fumbling her challenge to the balls up that was already starting to gather momentum. Visibly nervous and agitated she appeared to be a novice, and did nothing to show some muscle back at the DA and EFF. This dilettantish concert was now in full swing.
And all this in just over 10 minutes. The country (those who hadn't already abandoned this debacle) had to endure another few hours, marked by insults, fist fights, vandalism and that unsettling presidential snigger ("hehehehe").
By the time President Jacob Zuma got down to the business of the evening, it was already clear - our politicians can't even get chaos right. With all the practice we've seen, surely a more professional spectacle could be expected. Here I was thinking MPs had become expertly adept at bringing Parliament, themselves and their parties into disrepute, in such public arenas. But even the mayhem, was going awry. Even the chaos seemed amateurish. Even the most seasoned of rabble-rousing politicians were mangling words, appearing flustered and resorting to child-like tactics. They had one job - to sow chaos, to filibuster, to disrupt. And they couldn't even get that right.
Friday, February 10, 2017
Monday, December 29, 2014
Beware of the road pig
You could be a kind, warm-hearted, soccer Mom ferrying your little ones to their numerous extramural activities or a priest, pious and spiritually fulfilled transporting a group of grannies to a church tea. Are you a senior citizen, perpetually loyal to your 1963 Beetle, destined for a scrap heap somewhere, were it not for your nostalgia, happy to pop along on a national highway at 60 kms/hour (in the 'fast lane.)? You could be a surfer, as laid back as 10 Sunday mornings, languidly inching your way to your favourite surf spot. Our roads are a perfect cross-section of our society. Diverse but dangerous, and more often than not, death hot spots. No matter your personality, many can't avoid transmogrifying
There are always pigs lurking on our roads. No not literally (unless you find yourself traveling through the far reaches of the Eastern Cape, where roads accommodate both vehicles and livestock.) You needn't look to hard to see the pigs on the roads. Just take a look in your rear view mirror.
We all change into pigs the minute we get onto a road. Of course, you'll disagree. "I'm a good driver," is a national mantra. It can't possibly be your fault when you change lanes without indicating and roar off, exceeding the speed limit, your breath noxious with the smell of booze.
You could be a regular Joe Nobody just wanting to make your way from A to Z with the help of your vehicle. But no matter your persona, put a steering wheel in front of you and the brain does something (usually it doesn't involving thinking.) An American Psychological Association study into road rage shows even the most placid of people can be transformed into monsters behind the wheel. As you drive you may feel a niggling transformation taking hold. Watch your knuckles. Do they turn white? Check your eyes, do they glaze over, turning red with looming rage? Road rage is almost unavoidable, especially in a country where violence is our 12th official language. Compounding this is a distinct lack of personal responsibility. We can't seem to accept that once we earn the right (yes, it is a right) to drive we also have to take responsibility for our actions. It's not just a necessity, its a survival tool, a means of possibly avoiding those tragedies which sadly become diluted into nothing more but road death statistics. But even the most conscientious motorists are not immune to the pig behaviour we see being flaunted from within vehicles.
Every festive season I bend my brain trying to understand why so many people die on the roads during this period. Cutting through the hypothesizing, the pontificating, the examining, I ca' only draw the conclusion that it's because we are all - in one way or another - bad drivers and even worse vehicle-owners. These machines, as amazing as they are, are basically weapons of mass destruction. Yet we use them and behave around them as if they are candy floss. There's no real appreciation of just how dangerous a motor vehicle can be. And in the hands of a road hog, well, it's only a matter of time before it's reduce to a heap of twisted metals, often entwined with humans (or what's left of them.)
There are always pigs lurking on our roads. No not literally (unless you find yourself traveling through the far reaches of the Eastern Cape, where roads accommodate both vehicles and livestock.) You needn't look to hard to see the pigs on the roads. Just take a look in your rear view mirror.
We all change into pigs the minute we get onto a road. Of course, you'll disagree. "I'm a good driver," is a national mantra. It can't possibly be your fault when you change lanes without indicating and roar off, exceeding the speed limit, your breath noxious with the smell of booze.
You could be a regular Joe Nobody just wanting to make your way from A to Z with the help of your vehicle. But no matter your persona, put a steering wheel in front of you and the brain does something (usually it doesn't involving thinking.) An American Psychological Association study into road rage shows even the most placid of people can be transformed into monsters behind the wheel. As you drive you may feel a niggling transformation taking hold. Watch your knuckles. Do they turn white? Check your eyes, do they glaze over, turning red with looming rage? Road rage is almost unavoidable, especially in a country where violence is our 12th official language. Compounding this is a distinct lack of personal responsibility. We can't seem to accept that once we earn the right (yes, it is a right) to drive we also have to take responsibility for our actions. It's not just a necessity, its a survival tool, a means of possibly avoiding those tragedies which sadly become diluted into nothing more but road death statistics. But even the most conscientious motorists are not immune to the pig behaviour we see being flaunted from within vehicles.
Every festive season I bend my brain trying to understand why so many people die on the roads during this period. Cutting through the hypothesizing, the pontificating, the examining, I ca' only draw the conclusion that it's because we are all - in one way or another - bad drivers and even worse vehicle-owners. These machines, as amazing as they are, are basically weapons of mass destruction. Yet we use them and behave around them as if they are candy floss. There's no real appreciation of just how dangerous a motor vehicle can be. And in the hands of a road hog, well, it's only a matter of time before it's reduce to a heap of twisted metals, often entwined with humans (or what's left of them.)
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Give us your votes and we'll give you... very little
The press releases and media invites are now coming through thick and fast. My inbox is clogged with turgid invites to the opening of some or other facility, the introduction of some obliquely-named initiative or sod-turning ceremony for... well.. anything. Election fever is well and truly with us. But with the malaise that this feverish season brings with it also comes a very obvious question: Why all of a sudden are we seeing things happening? By this I mean, service delivery. Surely the 5 years between general elections should see regular, consistent delivery of houses, electricity, water and sanitation by all spheres of government. So, why suddenly when votes are needed does it seem service delivery is intensified? I've lost count of the number of housing initiatives which have apparently been rolled out over the past few weeks. I can't keep track of the invites being dispatched daily of events where everything from PCs to solar energy panels are being liberally handed out. The cynic in me still asks: Are these real services being implemented or is it all just window-dressing? I can't help but wonder if they are nothing more but flimsy, superficial gestures aimed at fooling the masses into believing the powers that be, whoever they are, are actually fulfilling their mandates without the maddening allure of elections and the desperate rush to clinch the hearts and minds of voters.
Don't bother asking the politicians at these events why suddenly things are appearing. Expect the usual piffle and rhetoric; awkward attempts at explaining why delivery is being expedited when it seems almost non-existent between polls.
There's no escaping the ugly truth that comes with the result of non-delivery. Just turn on the TV and radio, open a newspaper, log onto a news web site; the stories of violent protests are all the indication you need that all is certainly not well.
Around election time you'll notice reporters rightfully focusing heavily on community stories. In other words, instead of just covering mind-numbing electioneering events and the skulduggery which usually characterizes politics, journalists will also give the regular people the chance to tell their stories. It's a perfect opportunity for the regular nobodies of society - the shack dwellers, the unemployed, the ratepayers, the average citizens - to voice their grievances (and every so often even their praises) over the everyday issues of life. "Where are they when we really need them?" is usually the stand out question you'll hear in sound bytes and TV news inserts from communities who feel marginalized, except when politicians need their votes. "They only help us when they need our votes!" is another lament which becomes more uncomfortably acute over elections.
Once the dust has settled after the May 7 polls, I'll again cynically expect the politicians to return to what so many of them do best - very little. Their "hard work" of electioneering will be done. The ballots will have been counted, victory speeches will have been delivered, the damage control from bruising losses will have been done. And sadly reality will also return - the reality of poverty, joblessness and corruption. Sluggish to non-existent service delivery will again probably become the norm. Hyena politicians will continue cannibalizing the meagre resources of the country and the voices of so many of the already disenfranchised will again fall on deaf ears... that is until the next elections.
Don't bother asking the politicians at these events why suddenly things are appearing. Expect the usual piffle and rhetoric; awkward attempts at explaining why delivery is being expedited when it seems almost non-existent between polls.
There's no escaping the ugly truth that comes with the result of non-delivery. Just turn on the TV and radio, open a newspaper, log onto a news web site; the stories of violent protests are all the indication you need that all is certainly not well.
Around election time you'll notice reporters rightfully focusing heavily on community stories. In other words, instead of just covering mind-numbing electioneering events and the skulduggery which usually characterizes politics, journalists will also give the regular people the chance to tell their stories. It's a perfect opportunity for the regular nobodies of society - the shack dwellers, the unemployed, the ratepayers, the average citizens - to voice their grievances (and every so often even their praises) over the everyday issues of life. "Where are they when we really need them?" is usually the stand out question you'll hear in sound bytes and TV news inserts from communities who feel marginalized, except when politicians need their votes. "They only help us when they need our votes!" is another lament which becomes more uncomfortably acute over elections.
Once the dust has settled after the May 7 polls, I'll again cynically expect the politicians to return to what so many of them do best - very little. Their "hard work" of electioneering will be done. The ballots will have been counted, victory speeches will have been delivered, the damage control from bruising losses will have been done. And sadly reality will also return - the reality of poverty, joblessness and corruption. Sluggish to non-existent service delivery will again probably become the norm. Hyena politicians will continue cannibalizing the meagre resources of the country and the voices of so many of the already disenfranchised will again fall on deaf ears... that is until the next elections.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Boer soek iets anders
Agricultural body, Agri SA, joined the easily upset masses of our country by getting it's thick farmer socks in a bundle over yet another inane remark by a top ANC leader. This time it was Cyril Ramaphosa who, imbued with electioneering hubris, warned those attending a public meeting in Limpopo recently that the evil Boer, replete in khaki and frothing with 'dop en dam', Calvinist zeal will encircle the country, turning it into a laager of the past.
'If all South Africans don't vote, we will regress. The boers will come back to control us,' he apparently stated. With elections looming, hyperboles, rhetoric, jargon, jingoism and propaganda will find their way into anything coming out of the mouth of a politician. At a cursory glance Ramaphosa's remarks constitute nothing but piffle. Yet I find myself having to ask why this term 'Boer' continues to irritate nerves to such ridiculously histrionic levels.
Any Afrikaans dictionary, let's take the intimidatingly title 'HAT: Verklarende Handwoordboek van die Afrikaans Taal' (try say that fast three times over!) defines 'Boer' as, 'Landbouer; plattelander. Die boerderybedryf uit oefen.' I'll put you non-Afrikaans-speaking lot out of your misery by paraphrasing this definition; in it's purest form it basically refers to a farmer. It's also refers to a member of the 'Afrikanervolk' or the Afrikaans culture. On its surface its a word which too many remains sinister, a label to be attached to the backward among us.
Languages, however, are dynamic and the word has maybe for too long been associated with those hawkish, God-haunted white men who helped reduce South Africa to a pariah state for decades: The Nats.
But 'Boer' can mean any number of things in the South Africa of the 21s Century. Often I've heard the term used among coloured people in referring to police officers. The link is easy to understand. Under Apartheid many an Afrikaner rushed to defend the 'Volk' by becoming either a cop or a soldier. When in the field as a reporter I couldn't help chuckle when I heard a black police officer being called a 'Boer' by a coloured person, usually amid a heated atmosphere. In such cases its derogatory, though.
In our modern day language 'Boer' can be a verb, also applying to situations where you find yourself 'hanging out' or 'chilling' somewhere. Example: I'm boering with my mates. Coloured people's linguistic equivalent would be, 'I'm blomming with my bras,' yet another beautiful example of a South Africanism.
The expression, ' 'n Boer maak a plan' has also weaseled its way into our ever-growing body of colloquialisms. It's a fantastic, and rather accurate, way of explaining resourcefulness, especially amid adversities. You can say what you want about Afrikaners, but their history is filled with examples of just how hardy, tough and resourceful Afrikaners have been throughout history. Think of the Great Trek and the Anglo-Boer War.
For those inclined to refuse to accept the ambiguities of the word 'Boer' I'd suggest, as a last resort, watching a programme on KykNet on DSTV idoneously called 'Boer Soek 'n Vrou.' For me it's a peek into the lives of real old fashioned farmers; toughened boere who, despite their two-tone shirts, veldskoene and bakkies are themselves trying to do what every human does: Try to find love. When I'm not buckled over laughing at the fascinating cultural disparities between those featured in the series, I'm genuinely intrigued by these purebred brethren of the Afrikaans culture. To me, watching this programme settles my mind (at the very least) that the ubiquitous, and let's face it, bizarre paranoia that a khaki clad army will again take over the country, Boermag style, is ridiculous. Yes, of course there are still Afrikaans people who have the Viekleur emblazoned on their wall, who still sing Die Stem and insist HF Vervoerd was simply misunderstood. But then we also still have many who will still sing 'Kill the Boer, kill the farmer.' I'd like to think, though, that these types are gradually finding themselves in ever-shrinking corners and the word 'Boer' will find itself freed from the stifling confines of the past.
'If all South Africans don't vote, we will regress. The boers will come back to control us,' he apparently stated. With elections looming, hyperboles, rhetoric, jargon, jingoism and propaganda will find their way into anything coming out of the mouth of a politician. At a cursory glance Ramaphosa's remarks constitute nothing but piffle. Yet I find myself having to ask why this term 'Boer' continues to irritate nerves to such ridiculously histrionic levels.
Any Afrikaans dictionary, let's take the intimidatingly title 'HAT: Verklarende Handwoordboek van die Afrikaans Taal' (try say that fast three times over!) defines 'Boer' as, 'Landbouer; plattelander. Die boerderybedryf uit oefen.' I'll put you non-Afrikaans-speaking lot out of your misery by paraphrasing this definition; in it's purest form it basically refers to a farmer. It's also refers to a member of the 'Afrikanervolk' or the Afrikaans culture. On its surface its a word which too many remains sinister, a label to be attached to the backward among us.
Languages, however, are dynamic and the word has maybe for too long been associated with those hawkish, God-haunted white men who helped reduce South Africa to a pariah state for decades: The Nats.
But 'Boer' can mean any number of things in the South Africa of the 21s Century. Often I've heard the term used among coloured people in referring to police officers. The link is easy to understand. Under Apartheid many an Afrikaner rushed to defend the 'Volk' by becoming either a cop or a soldier. When in the field as a reporter I couldn't help chuckle when I heard a black police officer being called a 'Boer' by a coloured person, usually amid a heated atmosphere. In such cases its derogatory, though.
In our modern day language 'Boer' can be a verb, also applying to situations where you find yourself 'hanging out' or 'chilling' somewhere. Example: I'm boering with my mates. Coloured people's linguistic equivalent would be, 'I'm blomming with my bras,' yet another beautiful example of a South Africanism.
The expression, ' 'n Boer maak a plan' has also weaseled its way into our ever-growing body of colloquialisms. It's a fantastic, and rather accurate, way of explaining resourcefulness, especially amid adversities. You can say what you want about Afrikaners, but their history is filled with examples of just how hardy, tough and resourceful Afrikaners have been throughout history. Think of the Great Trek and the Anglo-Boer War.
For those inclined to refuse to accept the ambiguities of the word 'Boer' I'd suggest, as a last resort, watching a programme on KykNet on DSTV idoneously called 'Boer Soek 'n Vrou.' For me it's a peek into the lives of real old fashioned farmers; toughened boere who, despite their two-tone shirts, veldskoene and bakkies are themselves trying to do what every human does: Try to find love. When I'm not buckled over laughing at the fascinating cultural disparities between those featured in the series, I'm genuinely intrigued by these purebred brethren of the Afrikaans culture. To me, watching this programme settles my mind (at the very least) that the ubiquitous, and let's face it, bizarre paranoia that a khaki clad army will again take over the country, Boermag style, is ridiculous. Yes, of course there are still Afrikaans people who have the Viekleur emblazoned on their wall, who still sing Die Stem and insist HF Vervoerd was simply misunderstood. But then we also still have many who will still sing 'Kill the Boer, kill the farmer.' I'd like to think, though, that these types are gradually finding themselves in ever-shrinking corners and the word 'Boer' will find itself freed from the stifling confines of the past.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Electioneering marketing 101
The ANC's knickers are in a knot... yet again. Cynical and supercilious billboards 'congratulating' the governing party for delivering e-tolls to Gauteng sprung up recently and have the party convulsing with anger. Reading from the party's now well-rehearsed script of knee jerks and automated ripostes, the ANC's top brass reached deep into its stale arsenal of slamming, criticising, lashing, dismissing, baulking and pouring cold water on what appears to have been a carefully crafted and wily attack by the DA, which is behind the cheeky billboards. And the opposition can be pleased with itself. On Helen Zille's pre-election fever check list she can safely tick off the box, "Annoy the ANC and in so doing get publicity." Mission accomplished... so far.
If only the ANC's election campaigns were half as impudent and creative. Party officials have vowed to take the matter up with the IEC and the Advertising Standards Authority. Yawn. Spin doctors have been reaching for the Thesaurus as they pen press releases and vice their dissatisfaction in sleep-inducing radio/TV sound bytes. Snore. The ANC best get with it.
Putting the merits of the issue aside, I believe the ANC is missing a great opportunity to take this impertinent dig from it's arch rival and use it to overhaul it's own election strategy. We've already seen the ruling party's big-wigs take to the streets to kiss babies and to pray away the opposition. It's going to get even more heated - and possibly even more mundane - as the days tick by. Expect over-inflated politicians cutting ribbons, ponderous dancing, uncouth attacks on their rivals and brain-numbing 'election messages' EVERYWHERE! It's all from the age old book of electioneering, where imaginations and creativity are dumbed down and filed under the rarely-read chapter titled, "Creativity: Not really necessary,. unless of course you are desperate".
The DA pricked a nerve by employing some lateral thinking through some cheekiness. It helps the party picked an emotive issue such as e-tolls.
Sure, call an imbizo and implore people to vote for your party. It's one of the few occasions voters get to be in the same vicinity as those who'd promised them 5 years earlier an array of wish list items.We'll see many of these in coming weeks and months. But the ANC, and other parties, could also allow their imaginations to run rampant as they shift into electioneering gear. The party may be loathe to now follow suit and engage in a billboard war as it wouldn't want to be seen as copying the 'enemy.' . But marketing is more than just a public message visibly from the road. It should become a way of life for those in the movement tasked with building it's brand.
The ANC and DA are getting more nifty with social media, like Twitter. The two at times even embrace some humour and some party stalwarts aren't scared to venture into the uncharted wilderness that is marketing through social media . But is it enough for elections in the 21st Century? The billboards move was daring and sarcastic, and it achieved it's objective of getting up the ANC's nose.
The humdrum promises and tedious reminders of political party's achievements won't suffice in 2014, especially if you want to secure the much sought after youth vote. Lateral-thinking messages needn't be oblique and cerebral, but can be impudent, thought-provoking, daring and emotive. In a time when cynicism, particularly around elections, is has become the norm, political marketing paradigm shifts could be key next year.
If only the ANC's election campaigns were half as impudent and creative. Party officials have vowed to take the matter up with the IEC and the Advertising Standards Authority. Yawn. Spin doctors have been reaching for the Thesaurus as they pen press releases and vice their dissatisfaction in sleep-inducing radio/TV sound bytes. Snore. The ANC best get with it.
Putting the merits of the issue aside, I believe the ANC is missing a great opportunity to take this impertinent dig from it's arch rival and use it to overhaul it's own election strategy. We've already seen the ruling party's big-wigs take to the streets to kiss babies and to pray away the opposition. It's going to get even more heated - and possibly even more mundane - as the days tick by. Expect over-inflated politicians cutting ribbons, ponderous dancing, uncouth attacks on their rivals and brain-numbing 'election messages' EVERYWHERE! It's all from the age old book of electioneering, where imaginations and creativity are dumbed down and filed under the rarely-read chapter titled, "Creativity: Not really necessary,. unless of course you are desperate".
The DA pricked a nerve by employing some lateral thinking through some cheekiness. It helps the party picked an emotive issue such as e-tolls.
Sure, call an imbizo and implore people to vote for your party. It's one of the few occasions voters get to be in the same vicinity as those who'd promised them 5 years earlier an array of wish list items.We'll see many of these in coming weeks and months. But the ANC, and other parties, could also allow their imaginations to run rampant as they shift into electioneering gear. The party may be loathe to now follow suit and engage in a billboard war as it wouldn't want to be seen as copying the 'enemy.' . But marketing is more than just a public message visibly from the road. It should become a way of life for those in the movement tasked with building it's brand.
The ANC and DA are getting more nifty with social media, like Twitter. The two at times even embrace some humour and some party stalwarts aren't scared to venture into the uncharted wilderness that is marketing through social media . But is it enough for elections in the 21st Century? The billboards move was daring and sarcastic, and it achieved it's objective of getting up the ANC's nose.
The humdrum promises and tedious reminders of political party's achievements won't suffice in 2014, especially if you want to secure the much sought after youth vote. Lateral-thinking messages needn't be oblique and cerebral, but can be impudent, thought-provoking, daring and emotive. In a time when cynicism, particularly around elections, is has become the norm, political marketing paradigm shifts could be key next year.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
NIN's new found funk
All great musicians deserve some time out from their brilliance. They
also 'deserve' a dud in their careers (granted it comes on the back of a
hit). It's from mistakes and failures, lessons are learned. And believe
it or not, even the great Trent Reznor, can err. His 2007 concept
album, Year Zero, failed to reach the same heights as The Downward Spiral and The Fragile - albums which helped secure his fame. Year Zero
It was a lacklustre muddle through what seemed to be an overly-packaged
techno-industrial lark, devoid of orgininality and bloated with
pretence. While I never expect musicians to refrain from exploring other
avenues in sound, I do feel such endeavours should at the very least
sign post originality. Not so with the orotund machismo offered on Year Zero.
But fans sharing my view on the mediocrity of that album and the subsequent The Slip, which slipped (forgive me for a I pun!) into obscurity, may agree Hesitation Marks is a comeback of sorts for a man, faced with turning 50, but who seems unaffected by age; a man who is always transmogrifying yet at the same time keeping musical leitmotifs of the past alive in his distinctive sound.
Since the precarious wilderness years of The Slip Reznor's gotten married and procreated... oh, and he won an Oscar and a Golden Globe and formed a side project with his significant other. All this can be diluted and interpreted as a procession into his ubiquitous success and, seeing as though he's nearing 50, perhaps a midlife crisis... gone right (?).
Gone are the angst-stricken screams, the raging against God and hints of bestiality. Away with the jarring grind of effects, samples and guitars mashed into schizophrenia and heart-grinding laments, glued against atmospheres of hazy auditory shimmers.
Reznor's demonstrated on Hesitation Marks a new found 'angle' on music technology and (are you sitting down) a taste for funk. Yup, I said 'Funk.' I find myself doing an awkward jig as tracks like 'All time low', with it's Bowie-esque swagger lead you through characteristically meticulous textures of near drum-and-bass moments and dangerously dancey beats, which mark the record's progress from past offerings. By the time you get to the bubbling, foreboding bass that unsettles 'What I have done', a song which could easily lend itself to hip-hop, you're left wondering: Is this a midlife crisis? And by crisis I mean the good kind. Like the 'crisis' that resulted in the self-loathing, dystopian heresy offered by The Downward Spiral, an album which seemed to track Reznor's personal descent into substance abuse. So, a good kind of crisis then, one which only the dark prince of industrial music could accept and use to his advantage. Despite the unsettlingly upbeat Everything, it's a hump in the road to what could be a defining moment for Reznor and the future of NIN. His bleak world view so evident in his body of work gives way to a taste for the funk. He's still a little angry, though, as he screams "Thrive/Just become/Your disease" on 'In two', which at first reminds you of the texturalexploration The Spiral. But then a Bowie moments returns jolting you back. Reznor sounds confident and seems hungry again.
But fans sharing my view on the mediocrity of that album and the subsequent The Slip, which slipped (forgive me for a I pun!) into obscurity, may agree Hesitation Marks is a comeback of sorts for a man, faced with turning 50, but who seems unaffected by age; a man who is always transmogrifying yet at the same time keeping musical leitmotifs of the past alive in his distinctive sound.
Since the precarious wilderness years of The Slip Reznor's gotten married and procreated... oh, and he won an Oscar and a Golden Globe and formed a side project with his significant other. All this can be diluted and interpreted as a procession into his ubiquitous success and, seeing as though he's nearing 50, perhaps a midlife crisis... gone right (?).
Gone are the angst-stricken screams, the raging against God and hints of bestiality. Away with the jarring grind of effects, samples and guitars mashed into schizophrenia and heart-grinding laments, glued against atmospheres of hazy auditory shimmers.
Reznor's demonstrated on Hesitation Marks a new found 'angle' on music technology and (are you sitting down) a taste for funk. Yup, I said 'Funk.' I find myself doing an awkward jig as tracks like 'All time low', with it's Bowie-esque swagger lead you through characteristically meticulous textures of near drum-and-bass moments and dangerously dancey beats, which mark the record's progress from past offerings. By the time you get to the bubbling, foreboding bass that unsettles 'What I have done', a song which could easily lend itself to hip-hop, you're left wondering: Is this a midlife crisis? And by crisis I mean the good kind. Like the 'crisis' that resulted in the self-loathing, dystopian heresy offered by The Downward Spiral, an album which seemed to track Reznor's personal descent into substance abuse. So, a good kind of crisis then, one which only the dark prince of industrial music could accept and use to his advantage. Despite the unsettlingly upbeat Everything, it's a hump in the road to what could be a defining moment for Reznor and the future of NIN. His bleak world view so evident in his body of work gives way to a taste for the funk. He's still a little angry, though, as he screams "Thrive/Just become/Your disease" on 'In two', which at first reminds you of the texturalexploration The Spiral. But then a Bowie moments returns jolting you back. Reznor sounds confident and seems hungry again.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Give us strength!
A sole goat grazing on a piece of veld outside Nelson Mandela's Qunu home in the Eastern Cape shouldn't have caught my attention. But by day 5 of covering all things Madiba related in this rural outcrop of the republic, even such banalities clearly threatened to amuse me. I watched this goat (by no means a unique sighting in a province known for its errant livestock) as it languidly ambled from the veld to the heavily guarded main gate to the Mandela's property. It appeared to have cocked its head to one side, much like a dog would in response to a human's beckoning. For a few seconds it seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Amid my boredom I personified the goat, giving it a bleating-type accent as I provided a running commentary of this animal. 'Good moooorning Mr. Security maaaan. Please could I cooommee in?' My colleague and I chuckled as the goat continued to wait, staring longingly at the gate. By this stage I noticed a few photographers clicking away at this animal, which had by then started bleating. It seemed to stubbornly refuse to leave the main entrance, much like the contingent of reporters, parked across the road, waiting for anything to happen.
After a few moments the goat eventually moved on. As mundane as this observation may seem, to me it adequately summed up how my sense of humour and logic had been warped by the intense coverage of Mandela, his ailing health, the never-ending outpouring of support for him and the bitter dramas that have gripped his kin.
By the time the lonely goat's 'homage' to Madiba caught my wavering attention, my brain felt like pulp. I'd only been covering the court drama plaguing the the Mandela family of grave sites and exhumations for just a few days by that stage, but my sanity was already being challenged. I was number 3 in a rotation of reporters dispatched to Mthatha and its surrounds to expand EWN's coverage of Mandela, such was it's intensity. The Mandela family feud became ugly, largely distracting the rightful focus on Madiba's health, taking it away from the Pretoria hospital where he's being treated, into a courtroom far away. As meretricious as it had become, we couldn't ignore this development in an ongoing news story of one of the world's most beloved people.
And so we reported on every aspect of a story which at times was frenetic and tough to keep track of in the Eastern Cape - a province which was never prepared for this media onslaught. It was a black void for technology (at least in my exeprience) where even the most basic form of communication (making a call from a mobile phone to a land line) proved to be near impossible. But the story wouldn't tolerate technical glitches or technophobia, as oscillated along a continuum of frenzy. In it's wake: a ubiquitous troupe of journalists.
By my fifth day of covering the Eastern Cape league of 'Mandela watch' I couldn't help notice the whites of eyes had taken on a red hue. Bones started aching from sitting in cars for too long. My stomach rumbled for a home cooked meal in lieu of fast food and dodgy room service. My colleagues from other media houses too struggled to get the white back into their eyes. Rubbing them never helped. The gesture only served to further remind us just how fatigued we'd become. Sleep had become a luxury to many of us. Hacking coughs, elongated yawns and muffled curses had become a backdrop to the soundtrack of this maniacal rolling coverage. 'My blue jeans are no longer blue,' remarked one reporter to anyone who could summon up the energy to listen as we camped outside Mandla Mandela's Mvezo property, 'they're now brown jeans, that's how long I've been here.' To which a colleague added, 'I'm down to my last pair of underwear.' In any other context, this would be considered over-sharing, but, you see, most reporters had been in the region for as long as a month, and by that stage, it was a free-for-all in info sharing as no one cared enough to filter themselves. Airs and graces had long fallen away, substituted with fatigue, irritation and a distinct lack of the ability to reason. When an EWN videographer suddenly burst into a peels of laughter, which took on a tone best described as unhinged and evil, on one occasion, I realised, maybe she'd been doing this story for too long. It had been her 19th day in the Eastern Cape and her outburst of laughter was for me a sympton of a sense of humour easily tickled; much like mine was at the lonely goat.
At night, once stories had been filed and deadlines met, reporters, camera people and photographers would congregate in Mthatha's limited offering of restaurants. Drinks would be ordered, food would be played with. But lap tops, iPads, and all manner of other devices would never be too far away. The work continued, the madness persisted and the fatigue grew. There was no such thing as 'knocking off' for the day. When the sun set, my phone would never be too far out of sight or grasp. My exhaustion had grown into paranoia.
Amid my stifling fatigue, I could only feel from my fellow-reporters who've had to virtually live outside the Heart Hospital where Mandela has been receiving for treatment for weeks. The bending of brains to circumvent the boredom and ennui so as to keep news stories fresh has been herculean. But as veteran radioman once told me, you learn to live tired in this job. And so the fatigue gets pushed down deep into our beings, the rolling coverage will carry on and us journalists have long come to accept given the immensity of the story at hand, there's plenty of time to sleep when we are dead.
After a few moments the goat eventually moved on. As mundane as this observation may seem, to me it adequately summed up how my sense of humour and logic had been warped by the intense coverage of Mandela, his ailing health, the never-ending outpouring of support for him and the bitter dramas that have gripped his kin.
By the time the lonely goat's 'homage' to Madiba caught my wavering attention, my brain felt like pulp. I'd only been covering the court drama plaguing the the Mandela family of grave sites and exhumations for just a few days by that stage, but my sanity was already being challenged. I was number 3 in a rotation of reporters dispatched to Mthatha and its surrounds to expand EWN's coverage of Mandela, such was it's intensity. The Mandela family feud became ugly, largely distracting the rightful focus on Madiba's health, taking it away from the Pretoria hospital where he's being treated, into a courtroom far away. As meretricious as it had become, we couldn't ignore this development in an ongoing news story of one of the world's most beloved people.
And so we reported on every aspect of a story which at times was frenetic and tough to keep track of in the Eastern Cape - a province which was never prepared for this media onslaught. It was a black void for technology (at least in my exeprience) where even the most basic form of communication (making a call from a mobile phone to a land line) proved to be near impossible. But the story wouldn't tolerate technical glitches or technophobia, as oscillated along a continuum of frenzy. In it's wake: a ubiquitous troupe of journalists.
By my fifth day of covering the Eastern Cape league of 'Mandela watch' I couldn't help notice the whites of eyes had taken on a red hue. Bones started aching from sitting in cars for too long. My stomach rumbled for a home cooked meal in lieu of fast food and dodgy room service. My colleagues from other media houses too struggled to get the white back into their eyes. Rubbing them never helped. The gesture only served to further remind us just how fatigued we'd become. Sleep had become a luxury to many of us. Hacking coughs, elongated yawns and muffled curses had become a backdrop to the soundtrack of this maniacal rolling coverage. 'My blue jeans are no longer blue,' remarked one reporter to anyone who could summon up the energy to listen as we camped outside Mandla Mandela's Mvezo property, 'they're now brown jeans, that's how long I've been here.' To which a colleague added, 'I'm down to my last pair of underwear.' In any other context, this would be considered over-sharing, but, you see, most reporters had been in the region for as long as a month, and by that stage, it was a free-for-all in info sharing as no one cared enough to filter themselves. Airs and graces had long fallen away, substituted with fatigue, irritation and a distinct lack of the ability to reason. When an EWN videographer suddenly burst into a peels of laughter, which took on a tone best described as unhinged and evil, on one occasion, I realised, maybe she'd been doing this story for too long. It had been her 19th day in the Eastern Cape and her outburst of laughter was for me a sympton of a sense of humour easily tickled; much like mine was at the lonely goat.
At night, once stories had been filed and deadlines met, reporters, camera people and photographers would congregate in Mthatha's limited offering of restaurants. Drinks would be ordered, food would be played with. But lap tops, iPads, and all manner of other devices would never be too far away. The work continued, the madness persisted and the fatigue grew. There was no such thing as 'knocking off' for the day. When the sun set, my phone would never be too far out of sight or grasp. My exhaustion had grown into paranoia.
Amid my stifling fatigue, I could only feel from my fellow-reporters who've had to virtually live outside the Heart Hospital where Mandela has been receiving for treatment for weeks. The bending of brains to circumvent the boredom and ennui so as to keep news stories fresh has been herculean. But as veteran radioman once told me, you learn to live tired in this job. And so the fatigue gets pushed down deep into our beings, the rolling coverage will carry on and us journalists have long come to accept given the immensity of the story at hand, there's plenty of time to sleep when we are dead.
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