Can you smell that? Malodorous and rotting, mundane and futile... and it's only been a few days. The head of 2012 had only started crowning and, to me at least, the new year has shape-shifted in record time, taking on the form of the beast of 2011. If one more person tries to convince me it's a new year packed with promise and rejuvenation, bilious rage will ensue. 'What's your new year's resolution?' enquired one person the other day. 'Not to commit murder,' I spewed before cracking my knuckles. I swear I'll perpetrated savagery of African proportions in the face of such banal questions and bumper-sticker like optimism. Let's take stock of the last few days of this year so far.
Yet another country descends into tumult. Nigeria, while not entirely a contender to the Arab Spring: The Sequel, has erupted in the face of a yet another government desperate to save money, for what real reason, we don't know. Government lackeys will say they need more cash to help improve Africa's most populous country for the greater good. Spluttering into my teeth with stifled laughter I'll nod in mock agreement. Corruption, self-enrichment and a complete disregard for the truth is how I interpret such mundane justifications. I do harbour an inkling of sympathy for Nigeria, though. yet another maddened, bloodthirsty Islamic radical group has emerged out of the wood work in that country. Boko Haram has started wreaking havoc on jihad proportions. And so religion once again rears it's troubled, schizophrenic head. With madness and religious zeal being exported so successfully across the world, who needs dictators.
The Arab Spring seems to have become a winter. Tunisia, the unofficial Godfather of North African dissent marked its one year anniversary since it shrugged off the yoke of authoritarian suffocation. I think a handful of us recognised this, in between new year's diet fads and apathy. Syria's national bloodshed shows absolutely no sign of abating. Same same, shame shame.
What would a new year be without a disaster of some kind. Thankfully Ma Nature has spared us of earthquakes, etc. Human stupidity, though, delivered us an early tragedy in the form of the Costa Concordia, coupled with that good old Italian bravery - the ill-fated cruise liner, captain Francesco Schettino, who jumped ship as passengers drowned and welcomed in 2012 with healthy doses of shock and horror.
The ANC turned a 100. Congratulations, back slaps, hand shakes and fake smiles. While it took a century for the ANC to morph from an admirable struggle movement to ruling party, it may take another 100 years for it's leaders and voters to come to their senses and realise all is certainly not well in South Africa.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Happy Nowhere Year!
Your year appears to hold much luck and happiness, read my horoscope, the first of 2012. I searched the ceiling, my little piece of 'heaven' for clarity to shine down upon this ambiguous and cock-eyed prediction, compliments of some whack job astrologer called the Doctor of the Stars (read: Poephol with a pony tail). I pondered a more African approach to predicting what a new year holds in store for me. The feeling passed, much like urine through my bladder or a mini-bus taxi through a stop street. The throwing of bones, shivering and speaking in tongues got me thinking... what would Jesus do? Realising the mind wanders even in the face of spooky sangomas and incomprehensible languages, I turned to the east. The Chinese say its the year of the dragon. Apparently much luck lies ahead. 365, no wait, it's a leap year, so one extra day to endure perilous reality and barrages of bulltwang.
Seeing into the future, boy if only I could! But here I lay, my head under the guillotine, awaiting the chop, should my lay person predictions for 2012 not come to fruition. Crystal ball, speak to me, buddy. Poof, a flash, some smoke, I see a vision... the words are becoming clearer - SHAZAM! Economic downturn. Yup, We know little to nothing of what lies ahead... except, the world won't have enough money... AGAIN! And so, while death and taxes are as certain as aging and grass growing, a firm and safe prediction for the new year lies in the state of the world's finances. Expect further hell-and-brimstone headlines; 'Economic crunch lingers' or 'Where'd our money go?' Shock and awe, except, it's not really all that shocking anymore. Same same, as Thai would lament.
Speaking of money going missing, another sure thing for 2012 is the ANC government's unending spending spree. Excuse me while I close my eyes and enter my trance state. Mumble, groan, shiver, salivate, scream and convulse. Another vision appears. I see mansions, blue light convoys, dodgy tenders, luxury vehicles and a complete disregard for the rest of the country. Smells much like 2011, doesn't it? Another certainty comes to me in a vision - Another bride for Jacob Zuma. I see his gut wobble as he prances, resplendent in dead animal hides and feathers, wooing a semi-naked female, herself scantily clad in a bra and beads, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. The dance of love. I've lost count how many Zuma's we as taxpayers are bank-rolling. What's a few more in 2012. But put your money on it, JZ will remain on the prowl this year, not just for prospective brides, but also for more cash and ignorance to keep his party running and his pals in plum jobs. Note, I said party and not country.
What's that in the crevice of my third eye, another apparition-like prediction - Julius Malema, Bloemfontein, succession battle... the vision coruscates into a prophecy or at least a mental e-mail of sorts. Much gnashing of teeth, shaking of hands (laden with cheques and other costly goodies) empty promises, skulduggery, betrayal and much resentment will appear at the ANC's national conference in December. Yes, the future of the party (and the country) will again be pondered and steamrolled into an uncertain reality. My minds suddenly goes blank (I fully expect the same at the conference). Darkness, momentary despair. Depression sets in at the thought of what the ANC has in store for us.
Pure horror occurs to me as I think of Nelson Mandela, what will become of our icon this year? I shudder. Let's not even talk about it. Okay, let's just mention it then. Should we brace ourselves for further rumours of his death (Thanks Bob Mabena. Thanks very much!)
On the technology front, we'll still be Tweeting until our fingers bleed and our brains turn to mush. Twats and tweets and twits and twirps, there's plenty to go around this year. Now the nausea sets in.
Here I was thinking we could shape a new year to, well, look new and different compared to 2011. I may not be an astrologer or Nostradamus's long lost cousin, 18 times removed. But I think I know enough of our history and the recalcitrance of the winds of change, which rarely seem to blow over South Africa these days, to firmly say, with little fear of being grossly inaccurate - Don't hold your breath and expect the powers that be to try too hard to make a change for the better. We, the nobodies, the Joe Publics and Jane Somethings, it's up to us to make changes (be it small), free of government, the ANC, politics and economics. In other words, independent of money-grabbing, power-obesessed, horrifically incompetent morons, who believe they are the centers of real change.
Seeing into the future, boy if only I could! But here I lay, my head under the guillotine, awaiting the chop, should my lay person predictions for 2012 not come to fruition. Crystal ball, speak to me, buddy. Poof, a flash, some smoke, I see a vision... the words are becoming clearer - SHAZAM! Economic downturn. Yup, We know little to nothing of what lies ahead... except, the world won't have enough money... AGAIN! And so, while death and taxes are as certain as aging and grass growing, a firm and safe prediction for the new year lies in the state of the world's finances. Expect further hell-and-brimstone headlines; 'Economic crunch lingers' or 'Where'd our money go?' Shock and awe, except, it's not really all that shocking anymore. Same same, as Thai would lament.
Speaking of money going missing, another sure thing for 2012 is the ANC government's unending spending spree. Excuse me while I close my eyes and enter my trance state. Mumble, groan, shiver, salivate, scream and convulse. Another vision appears. I see mansions, blue light convoys, dodgy tenders, luxury vehicles and a complete disregard for the rest of the country. Smells much like 2011, doesn't it? Another certainty comes to me in a vision - Another bride for Jacob Zuma. I see his gut wobble as he prances, resplendent in dead animal hides and feathers, wooing a semi-naked female, herself scantily clad in a bra and beads, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. The dance of love. I've lost count how many Zuma's we as taxpayers are bank-rolling. What's a few more in 2012. But put your money on it, JZ will remain on the prowl this year, not just for prospective brides, but also for more cash and ignorance to keep his party running and his pals in plum jobs. Note, I said party and not country.
What's that in the crevice of my third eye, another apparition-like prediction - Julius Malema, Bloemfontein, succession battle... the vision coruscates into a prophecy or at least a mental e-mail of sorts. Much gnashing of teeth, shaking of hands (laden with cheques and other costly goodies) empty promises, skulduggery, betrayal and much resentment will appear at the ANC's national conference in December. Yes, the future of the party (and the country) will again be pondered and steamrolled into an uncertain reality. My minds suddenly goes blank (I fully expect the same at the conference). Darkness, momentary despair. Depression sets in at the thought of what the ANC has in store for us.
Pure horror occurs to me as I think of Nelson Mandela, what will become of our icon this year? I shudder. Let's not even talk about it. Okay, let's just mention it then. Should we brace ourselves for further rumours of his death (Thanks Bob Mabena. Thanks very much!)
On the technology front, we'll still be Tweeting until our fingers bleed and our brains turn to mush. Twats and tweets and twits and twirps, there's plenty to go around this year. Now the nausea sets in.
Here I was thinking we could shape a new year to, well, look new and different compared to 2011. I may not be an astrologer or Nostradamus's long lost cousin, 18 times removed. But I think I know enough of our history and the recalcitrance of the winds of change, which rarely seem to blow over South Africa these days, to firmly say, with little fear of being grossly inaccurate - Don't hold your breath and expect the powers that be to try too hard to make a change for the better. We, the nobodies, the Joe Publics and Jane Somethings, it's up to us to make changes (be it small), free of government, the ANC, politics and economics. In other words, independent of money-grabbing, power-obesessed, horrifically incompetent morons, who believe they are the centers of real change.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Where is my Xmas?
Where to begin? Let's start at the end. December 2011, sitting at my work desk, that barbell around my neck, the din of that last minute/hour/second until the 'festive season' is meant to dawn. Festive my poephol. I sluch further into my chair. A colleague groans int he distance. I attempt it myself, a groan, a moan, a whinge. Computer says NO, NEIN, NEE. And I slouch further, deeper. Okay, so I turn to booze, my liquid mate of merriment and potential idiocy. By mid-December, my liver bit me. Eina. My brain, addled by an array of substances, clicks, clanks, churns and stops short of... well, stopping. Food, yes, binge-eating, that be the answer. Who cooks then? eat out, the merry morons urge. With what money? No bonus, no 13th check, no profit share, fuck all. My fiance eyes me like Ali over her fists. I swear to Jah, I'll fight her over cooking duties. Klap, bam, slap! With blue eyes and batter ego, the realisation dawns on me - the woman cooks food. I cook kak. I reach deep into my abyss, searching for hope to drag me into 2012, minus hang ups, arsehoels and further injuries. The abyss says NO, NEIN, NIKS. Where to from here? Hopelessness and boredom pervade me and I have a sore throat. Who cares any more, apart from parents desperate to keep the little ones from moaning over tether ball, socks and shoes for Xmas. Merry Xmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Yeeha Kwanzaa.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Boo hoo, where's the booze?!
Okay, so it's it's the silly season, which means, well, we can become all go out of minds with madness and joy, no matter how misguided this sense of happiness may be over this period. Some of us (me) may probably take the silliness a step further. Who'd blame us? I'm thinking outright derangement, a complete loss of the usual functions of my brain. Mix jolly with some silly and you get Christmas. Now, I wanted to spend the next few paragraph happily attacking the (evil) spirit and spirits of Christmas. But then the news came to my rescue, more specifically Government. Apparently Social Development minister, Bathabile Dlamini, has urged her colleagues and other government officials to have alcohol-free end-of-the-year functions. Pause, scratch head. Fall to the ground crying with laughter. That's like asking a tik addict to, well, kick the habit in a day. I thought the only way you get into government is if you are drunk. Inebriation may also be necessary to cope with the levels of incompetence seen in our corridors of power It certainly seems when government ministry's HR departments are recruiting, they do so pissed out of their skulls thanks to them having to adhere to Employment Equity policies so turgid and obtuse they make trigonometry seem easy. Surely one also needs to be intoxicated to be able to swallow the poo and drivel that comes out of most minister's mouths. Look at President Jacob Zuma's "communications advisor", Zizi Kodwa, and his recent brush with the drunk driving police. Of course he insists he hasn't had a drink in years. Yet admits in the same breath he only has a drink on special occasions, such as end of the month, when he gets his salary check. I'd also smile heartily with a Johnny Walker Blue label and a straw poised near my lips if I was cashing in from the JZ gravy train.
To ban booze at government parties, would be like banning blue light convoys. I can just see the grimaces, the looks of despair, lips being molded into crevices of disgust at the mere suggestion of taking away precious liquor from the mouths of government staffers! For many, the only reason they got into government was for the freebies, which include all the free finger food you can stuff into a pot belly. Not to mention all the dodgy tenders fund swirling around government offices. Yummy, money! I, for one, would never ban alcohol at my end-of-the year parties. Never! It's all I have at the end of a year, apart from a broken soul and some tattered sanity It's one of the few things I can count on to get me threw the festive period without going postal. Can you imagine a whole month of sober government officials?! Things may just start working as they should. At the very least, they'd become more bearable to deal with.
To ban booze at government parties, would be like banning blue light convoys. I can just see the grimaces, the looks of despair, lips being molded into crevices of disgust at the mere suggestion of taking away precious liquor from the mouths of government staffers! For many, the only reason they got into government was for the freebies, which include all the free finger food you can stuff into a pot belly. Not to mention all the dodgy tenders fund swirling around government offices. Yummy, money! I, for one, would never ban alcohol at my end-of-the year parties. Never! It's all I have at the end of a year, apart from a broken soul and some tattered sanity It's one of the few things I can count on to get me threw the festive period without going postal. Can you imagine a whole month of sober government officials?! Things may just start working as they should. At the very least, they'd become more bearable to deal with.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
A farewell to Arms, Comrades and insanity
Warm greetings to you Comrade Jules. Hope you are well, in spite of yourself and those pesky 'Elders' in that pesky party called the ANC. Shame, Comrade, seriously, shame, does it still hurt, that sting of defeat, that burn that accompanies humiliation? I wonder if it hurt as much for the hundreds and thousands of people you've smacked, punched, beaten (figuratively, of course. can you throw a punch? Takes quite some effort, especially with a boep like yours) in your years at the helm of the Youth League.
To be honest, Comrade, I didn't take joy in your unceremonious suspension from the ANC. I try my best not to seek enjoyment out of other people's misery, and boy the spanking Daddy (His Excellency, JZ) gave you must of been miserable and eina. I held my head in my hands as Derek Hanekom (another pesky White man, no doubt entrenched in that White monopoly you so liberally speak of) read you and your goons the riot act... on an iPad nogal (oh how far the ruling part has come).I don't use the phrase 'riot act' ironically or even with a pinch of humor. That's exactly what your sheep did outside Daddy's house (Luthuli House) when the disciplinary hearing against you and your top brass kicked off - they acting riotously, throwing tantrums the likes of which were rarely seen since 2001 when a protest march under the banner of COSAS turned violent in Joburg. Wait a minute, you were the architect of that 2001 tumult, weren't you? I just saw your face splashed across a newspaper, a trip down memory lane, when you wore the cape of COSAS president. Put on a few pounds since then, grown emboldened by that fickle cup of power? Drinking while driving (an organisation) doesn't work. Ask Jackson Mthembu and Zizi 'I-don't-drink-anymore' Kodwa. Oh, Comrade, never down, just sip from that cup. Don't you ever listen! Ag, don't stress too much, buddy, all will be well. I doubt you'll be in the cold for too long. Look at some of your partners-in-crime from the past. Comrade Yengeni got nailed and he was nothing short of lionized after serving some 'jail time', not that I'm saying you are a criminal... not yet, at least. You also have Winnie in your corner to mother and wipe your nose. Tokyo is also backing you, I hear. Friends are abundant for you these uncertain times... at least they say so now.
Yet the radio in the background here says you are losing support. Lonely, are you? How about turning to Internet dating or Facebook for some friends? It almost worked for me. I hear some residents in your home town, Seshego, threw party after hearing of spanking. With friends like those...
Oh, Comrade, cheer up. You still have your family trust, plethora of 'business contacts' and your ever-growing waistline to keep you buoyant.
To be honest, Comrade, I didn't take joy in your unceremonious suspension from the ANC. I try my best not to seek enjoyment out of other people's misery, and boy the spanking Daddy (His Excellency, JZ) gave you must of been miserable and eina. I held my head in my hands as Derek Hanekom (another pesky White man, no doubt entrenched in that White monopoly you so liberally speak of) read you and your goons the riot act... on an iPad nogal (oh how far the ruling part has come).I don't use the phrase 'riot act' ironically or even with a pinch of humor. That's exactly what your sheep did outside Daddy's house (Luthuli House) when the disciplinary hearing against you and your top brass kicked off - they acting riotously, throwing tantrums the likes of which were rarely seen since 2001 when a protest march under the banner of COSAS turned violent in Joburg. Wait a minute, you were the architect of that 2001 tumult, weren't you? I just saw your face splashed across a newspaper, a trip down memory lane, when you wore the cape of COSAS president. Put on a few pounds since then, grown emboldened by that fickle cup of power? Drinking while driving (an organisation) doesn't work. Ask Jackson Mthembu and Zizi 'I-don't-drink-anymore' Kodwa. Oh, Comrade, never down, just sip from that cup. Don't you ever listen! Ag, don't stress too much, buddy, all will be well. I doubt you'll be in the cold for too long. Look at some of your partners-in-crime from the past. Comrade Yengeni got nailed and he was nothing short of lionized after serving some 'jail time', not that I'm saying you are a criminal... not yet, at least. You also have Winnie in your corner to mother and wipe your nose. Tokyo is also backing you, I hear. Friends are abundant for you these uncertain times... at least they say so now.
Yet the radio in the background here says you are losing support. Lonely, are you? How about turning to Internet dating or Facebook for some friends? It almost worked for me. I hear some residents in your home town, Seshego, threw party after hearing of spanking. With friends like those...
Oh, Comrade, cheer up. You still have your family trust, plethora of 'business contacts' and your ever-growing waistline to keep you buoyant.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Entitlement - The New Economic Crisis
Pinch, slap, kick me awake, PLEASE! Am I dreaming when I read headlines like: 'R170m Zuma home revamp'? Can it be true that amid never-ending reminders of a credit crunch, a financial crisis, another slump in the markets, economic dire straits, pick one any one, that our esteemed president sees it fit to blow OUR money on a new sauna and steam room for one his official residences? Such rhetorical questions would be wasted on the powers that run and ruin the country. They'd shrug and smile, all the while thinking up clumsy sound bytes and awkward prevarications as they reach deep into their expense accounts. Many believe Zuma is entitled to such lavishness... along with his numerous wives, children and sycophants. Funny thing about this heavy air of self-entitlement polluting the country, how it keeps cropping up more often SA politics, it seems to be the sole reason, more often than not, government can't keep with even the most basic service delivery targets.
JZ's spokesperson played the politics game perfectly when she explained it wasn't him who authorised hundreds of millions of OUR money be used to upgrade and refurbish his official residences and a parliamentary village. 'No, the president never gets involved in renovations' Zanele Mngadi blustered in justifying the expenditure. Of course he wouldn't get involved! Is tiling, replastering and woodwork mentioned anywhere in his CV? So, the obvious solution to explaining away how and why OUR cash is plowed back into ensuring JZ can now go for a sauna and his many wives have their own bathrooms, the buck is passed to Public Works Minister (cue drum roll and bated breath) who is none other than Gwen Mahlangu-Nkabinde, she of the impeccable track record when it comes to spending on headquarters, homes and other assorted dwellings (except RDP homes. That pesky government initiative is left to Tokyo Sexwale). Her spokesperson wasn't on hand to explain the R400 million price tag for revamping the president's homes. No surprises there.
God forbid our leaders stay in normal homes. It's unthinkable to even ponder them having to rough it in a middle-class neighbourhood, in a single-storey home, stripped of saunas and pools.
I hear there's now mention of a new plane which may need to be bought to ferry JZ and his deputy around the world. I know Kgalema Motlanthe's has a rather unlucky run when it comes to air travel of late, but can't he and the retinues of self-entitled government lackeys settle for travelling using airlines? Motlanthe did it once and even survived the airline food. 'Preposterous!' I already hear the powers-that-be saying among themselves at such outlandish suggestions. If they had to scrimp and save like the rest of us, what would become of their hallowed and ever-mysterious Ministerial Handbook, that Bible of blundering justifications, that idiot's guide to burning money and never caring. It would be pure lunacy to think politicians are just like us.
JZ's spokesperson played the politics game perfectly when she explained it wasn't him who authorised hundreds of millions of OUR money be used to upgrade and refurbish his official residences and a parliamentary village. 'No, the president never gets involved in renovations' Zanele Mngadi blustered in justifying the expenditure. Of course he wouldn't get involved! Is tiling, replastering and woodwork mentioned anywhere in his CV? So, the obvious solution to explaining away how and why OUR cash is plowed back into ensuring JZ can now go for a sauna and his many wives have their own bathrooms, the buck is passed to Public Works Minister (cue drum roll and bated breath) who is none other than Gwen Mahlangu-Nkabinde, she of the impeccable track record when it comes to spending on headquarters, homes and other assorted dwellings (except RDP homes. That pesky government initiative is left to Tokyo Sexwale). Her spokesperson wasn't on hand to explain the R400 million price tag for revamping the president's homes. No surprises there.
God forbid our leaders stay in normal homes. It's unthinkable to even ponder them having to rough it in a middle-class neighbourhood, in a single-storey home, stripped of saunas and pools.
I hear there's now mention of a new plane which may need to be bought to ferry JZ and his deputy around the world. I know Kgalema Motlanthe's has a rather unlucky run when it comes to air travel of late, but can't he and the retinues of self-entitled government lackeys settle for travelling using airlines? Motlanthe did it once and even survived the airline food. 'Preposterous!' I already hear the powers-that-be saying among themselves at such outlandish suggestions. If they had to scrimp and save like the rest of us, what would become of their hallowed and ever-mysterious Ministerial Handbook, that Bible of blundering justifications, that idiot's guide to burning money and never caring. It would be pure lunacy to think politicians are just like us.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
My first live concert
Good news for purveyors of laboured commercial pop. Coldplay have landed safely and are ready to unleash their own blend of formulaic, banal pop on South Africa. Not that I hate the band’s music. I simply disregard it and at the very worst I relate their songs to the fodder middle-aged 5FM worshipping squares, desperate trying to stay and in-touch with their departing youth. Hey, at least it’s not the return of Bryan Adams… AGAIN! But I digress. The band’s arrival here takes me back a billion years to my youth. My first ever concert was Depeche Mode. I know, readers, y’all getting green with envy? If not, you should, dammit! Oh vok, there I digress again.
I was 16 and a few hours old. My birthday present to myself was a ticket to see my most favourite band in the world (at that time): Depeche Mode. From a wee age I’d learnt to love them and depending on the stage of adolescence I found myself trapped in, I deified them to a degree (Hey, I was a virgin. What else was I going to do?) I knew nothing else but Depeche Mode and didn’t care much for anything else. I was young, dumb and full of a trenchant lack of musical diversity). So, in 1994 when I read in Top 40 magazine (who can remember that classic read?) DM planned to do the unthinkable and tour the Third World, I exploded with joy. With magazine in hand I sprinted to my folks. I fell to my knees and started that well-practiced chore of begging for something I wanted. The thing is I had a little something in my corner to back up my argument as to why the well-being of my youthful life (and my street cred and possibility of finally scoring with girls and not my hands) depended solely on seeing this band in the flesh. It was my 16th birthday that year and to refuse me this would be tantamount to child abuse. With the bomb-question dropped, my Mother stared at my Father, the awkward spouse dance soon ensued. 'It's your call. Can your back handle the trip to Joburg? What about school on Monday?' The reality of having to cave in to their adolescent son’s pleas started dawning on them. My Dad, having failed to avoid apportioning responsibility to his wife, had little option really but to agree. With adult/child negotiations done, it was time to start preparing for what would be the equivalent of my Woodstock pilgrimage, even though it was just a backseat trip in my parents battered car to that cesspool of kak - Johannesburg.
I paid for the ticket myself, a feat (and it was nothing short of that at the fresh that age) that seemed to impress my recently disgruntled parentals. ‘Where did you get the cash?’ my Dad half-heartedly enquired. ‘I stole it from you, naturally’ was my mental response. I’d actually saved it up from the 15 previous birthdays. Like I said, I was a sad, sad youngster.
On a Friday afternoon in February 1994 we headed off for the big smoke from Kimberley. Me, my Dad and Mom and all of Depeche Mode’s back catalogue. I'dspent weeks rubbing the noses of friends, acquaintances, homeless people and pretty much anyone who’d listen to me in the fact that I, little old me, skinny legs, acne skin and no sporting ability whatsoever,was going to see one of the most influential bands of our time(any arguments here?) live in concert.
Needless to say the trip to Shitsville… umm, Joburg, was a blur. My tiny mind was focused on only one thing – beholding Depeche Mode live.
Fast forward to the night of the show. My fretful Mother, baptised by fire by having to ensure her teenage son wasn’t going to be lured into slavery by the hordes of ‘miscreants’ looming around the Standard bank arena in the maw of Joburg, did her best to equip me for this alien experience as she tried to usher me through the throngs of people. ‘Don’t smoke the drugs. Don’t’ drink anything anyone gives you. Don’t leave your seat during the concert. Don’t’ make eye contact with anyone!’ The list was a veritable decree of parental neuroses.
Filing in to the stadium with the masses, my stomach curled into a knot. The sounds and smells (my first whiff of dagga), tempted me, but never quite secured my fleeting mind from the task at hand. I sought out my seat, taking in the mix of people. For what must have been a first in our newborn nation, Goths, sat cheek- to- jowl with bomber jacket-donning Afrikaners (hey, DM’s appeal is wide and vast). Preppy ‘Northern suburbs’ prissies, dared to mingle with so-called Grungeheads. This was the height of Grunge, remember. The arena filled up fast, another testament to not just how desperate and thankful South Africans were for a quality musical act following decades of cultural isolation. The opening act, the Outsiders, were simply a formality. Cheers of ‘Just can’t get enough ' made it very clear to the openers as they lumbered through their set that it was time.
The roars grew into… ummm, louder roars, the anticipation reached breaking point. Within seconds, a life time of waiting, 16-years of devoted listening climaxed into Dave Gahan launching himself onto South Africa’s first ever live taste of Depeche Mode. The rest, as they say, is hysteria. Much sweat was shed. Over-sized Doc Martens were well broken into. Baggy jeans flayed clumsily through manic attempts at quasi-moshing. It was my baptism minus strange dogmas and uncomfortable rituals.
I’ve been to many more concerts since then. I’ve witnessed U2 twice... live. I endured Jamiroquias (don’t ask). I saw Skunk Anansie in their hey day In Port Elizabeth (?) and have survived numerous Cokefests. I've even caught a live Fever Ray gig in Paris. But nothing to date has been able to trounce the thrill of seeing a band so embedded in my psyche in concert, surviving the mania, the elation of my induction into live music. For me even trying to recapture those 2 hours I spent in an alien city, by myself in a packed arena, surrounded by an assortment of freaks will be nearly impossible.
I was 16 and a few hours old. My birthday present to myself was a ticket to see my most favourite band in the world (at that time): Depeche Mode. From a wee age I’d learnt to love them and depending on the stage of adolescence I found myself trapped in, I deified them to a degree (Hey, I was a virgin. What else was I going to do?) I knew nothing else but Depeche Mode and didn’t care much for anything else. I was young, dumb and full of a trenchant lack of musical diversity). So, in 1994 when I read in Top 40 magazine (who can remember that classic read?) DM planned to do the unthinkable and tour the Third World, I exploded with joy. With magazine in hand I sprinted to my folks. I fell to my knees and started that well-practiced chore of begging for something I wanted. The thing is I had a little something in my corner to back up my argument as to why the well-being of my youthful life (and my street cred and possibility of finally scoring with girls and not my hands) depended solely on seeing this band in the flesh. It was my 16th birthday that year and to refuse me this would be tantamount to child abuse. With the bomb-question dropped, my Mother stared at my Father, the awkward spouse dance soon ensued. 'It's your call. Can your back handle the trip to Joburg? What about school on Monday?' The reality of having to cave in to their adolescent son’s pleas started dawning on them. My Dad, having failed to avoid apportioning responsibility to his wife, had little option really but to agree. With adult/child negotiations done, it was time to start preparing for what would be the equivalent of my Woodstock pilgrimage, even though it was just a backseat trip in my parents battered car to that cesspool of kak - Johannesburg.
I paid for the ticket myself, a feat (and it was nothing short of that at the fresh that age) that seemed to impress my recently disgruntled parentals. ‘Where did you get the cash?’ my Dad half-heartedly enquired. ‘I stole it from you, naturally’ was my mental response. I’d actually saved it up from the 15 previous birthdays. Like I said, I was a sad, sad youngster.
On a Friday afternoon in February 1994 we headed off for the big smoke from Kimberley. Me, my Dad and Mom and all of Depeche Mode’s back catalogue. I'dspent weeks rubbing the noses of friends, acquaintances, homeless people and pretty much anyone who’d listen to me in the fact that I, little old me, skinny legs, acne skin and no sporting ability whatsoever,was going to see one of the most influential bands of our time(any arguments here?) live in concert.
Needless to say the trip to Shitsville… umm, Joburg, was a blur. My tiny mind was focused on only one thing – beholding Depeche Mode live.
Fast forward to the night of the show. My fretful Mother, baptised by fire by having to ensure her teenage son wasn’t going to be lured into slavery by the hordes of ‘miscreants’ looming around the Standard bank arena in the maw of Joburg, did her best to equip me for this alien experience as she tried to usher me through the throngs of people. ‘Don’t smoke the drugs. Don’t’ drink anything anyone gives you. Don’t leave your seat during the concert. Don’t’ make eye contact with anyone!’ The list was a veritable decree of parental neuroses.
Filing in to the stadium with the masses, my stomach curled into a knot. The sounds and smells (my first whiff of dagga), tempted me, but never quite secured my fleeting mind from the task at hand. I sought out my seat, taking in the mix of people. For what must have been a first in our newborn nation, Goths, sat cheek- to- jowl with bomber jacket-donning Afrikaners (hey, DM’s appeal is wide and vast). Preppy ‘Northern suburbs’ prissies, dared to mingle with so-called Grungeheads. This was the height of Grunge, remember. The arena filled up fast, another testament to not just how desperate and thankful South Africans were for a quality musical act following decades of cultural isolation. The opening act, the Outsiders, were simply a formality. Cheers of ‘Just can’t get enough ' made it very clear to the openers as they lumbered through their set that it was time.
The roars grew into… ummm, louder roars, the anticipation reached breaking point. Within seconds, a life time of waiting, 16-years of devoted listening climaxed into Dave Gahan launching himself onto South Africa’s first ever live taste of Depeche Mode. The rest, as they say, is hysteria. Much sweat was shed. Over-sized Doc Martens were well broken into. Baggy jeans flayed clumsily through manic attempts at quasi-moshing. It was my baptism minus strange dogmas and uncomfortable rituals.
I’ve been to many more concerts since then. I’ve witnessed U2 twice... live. I endured Jamiroquias (don’t ask). I saw Skunk Anansie in their hey day In Port Elizabeth (?) and have survived numerous Cokefests. I've even caught a live Fever Ray gig in Paris. But nothing to date has been able to trounce the thrill of seeing a band so embedded in my psyche in concert, surviving the mania, the elation of my induction into live music. For me even trying to recapture those 2 hours I spent in an alien city, by myself in a packed arena, surrounded by an assortment of freaks will be nearly impossible.
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