Return of the Prodigal Sons

If ever there was a recipe for the perfect home-grown music event, the kind that leaves your ears ringing and your heart warm, this was it. Blk Jks, playing their first gig on African soil after months touring and recording in America, at House of Nsako, one of the jewels in the tarnished crown of Brixton, Jozi.

Nsako is the kind of place that screams good times from the moment you stoop through the curtained entrance. But drop the Blk Jks into the mix, everyone’s favourite culture jammers, and you’d be forgiven for openly salivating on the polished concrete floor.

Blk Jks Storm the States

Somewhere in the bowels of San Francisco, at a cold little venue called the Independent, on the exclusive bar, boutique and gourmet restaurant-lined Divisadero Street, just a cheesy hop-and-a-skip away from the Postcard Row and the Full House house in Alamo Square, a confident young bloke with a guitar hanging loosely around his neck leans into the microphone to do one last sound check at the request of the stage director. Rather than the “Two..two…two…” that the supremely average local warm-up acts used, he opts for a series of Xhosa clicks so solid and ear-achingly clear and quick that even Ma Brrr would’ve glanced up from her G ‘n T. They bounce and reverberate violently off the cold walls, through the rising smoke and deep violet mood lighting, and before the thinning ‘Frisco crowd can even begin to comprehend what’s just happened, drum beats so powerful they would’ve rattled Bob Saget and co’s windows a whole block away blast through the club.

The Truth Isn’t Out There – UFOs In South Africa

June 26, 1972. 10:00AM. Fort Beaufort police station, Eastern Cape. Station commander Philip Van Rensburg is sitting with his feet up on the counter, whistling to the sickly SABC treffers floating from his wireless into the cool winter air. As he does most mornings, Van Rensburg ponders how he’s going to whittle away the hours until he clocks off later that evening.

The station doors burst open, startling Van Rensburg; enough to make his feet drop off the counter. Sergeant Piet Kitching, desperately out of breath, wheezes something about an oval craft. It’s hovering over Breaside, a local farm. Mr Bennie Smit’s farm, to be precise. Phil is a little bit sceptical. A UFO? In Fort Beaufort? Surely not. But he realises he has nothing to lose – this isn’t an opportunity he’s going to let pass him by – and he hangs the “Back in 5” sign up on the door.

South African Varsities: A Short (And Probably Biased) Summary

In 2008, SL Magazine asked me to write a brief summary of South Africa’s biggest universities. It sounded dreary, but, believe or not, it turned out to be quite fun (and, if you’re a Rodent, contentious).

Letting go to smell the Daisies

A case of beer and a soccer ball were pretty much all it took to turn a stupidly long queue into something quite bearable. Everyone’s gonna bitch and moan about this monumental organisational stuff up, and for many it’s going to hang over this year’s event like the dark clouds that caused all the chaos, but really, when you’re there to have a good time, listen to the country’s top bands in one of the most beautiful festival settings in the country, then bitching and moaning serves little purpose.

Pop Goes The Music. And Jamali.

Jamali is a pop group. Straight up and down. Which is hardly surprising, I guess, when you find out they’re a trio pulled straight out of the Pop Stars production line. Which I didn’t know. In fact, I didn’t know anything about them. At all. But then again, I’m not a “young girl that’s inspired by their music” (their words). But in the interest of journalistic integrity, I paused Dave Matthews’ crooning on iTunes and streamed a couple of tracks off their latest release, morbidly titled “Yours Fatally”. And, unsurprisingly, it’s straight up and down pop. Think lost hearts, remembered smiles, and ‘bitch please.’ The final deathblow comes with the latest album cover, which sports three striking young lasses all staring down the camera with that oh too familiar mixture of contempt and confidence.

Burgers = Big Business: Royale Eatery

Burgers are big business. Those archetypal Golden Arches stand tall above most cities throughout the world, and only the bravest restaurants will dare to leave the ultimate fast-food fix off their menus. The once humble burger has even become a universal economic tool: the price of a Big Mac now serves as a means to compare economies from around the world. So, if their success lies in their global consistency, is it safe to assume that a burger is a burger is a burger?

They Like Beautiful Mornings (And Catchy Tunes): The Black Hotels

Like most of their Sovereign Entertainment label-mates, The Black Hotels have the ability to hit the mark as far as churning out easy listening, radio-friendly tunes. Take their better-known songs, Natalie and Beautiful Mornings for example. They’re undeniably foot-tappingly catchy, and it’s easy to imagine husky-voiced radio jocks introducing these tracks as the hottest South African music.

Skop the Critics: The Kick

Wow, have these kids from The Kick been lynched. In May last year that great local music site isolation.tv called them useless sods for rehashing sixties and seventies hard rock in a way that was not only darn right annoying, but apparently hugely offensive. Shit bands do seem to have a way of popping up around town (especially up North); most will go on to gig for a few months until they realise the truth, while the rest will soldier on in spite of it, even as their limited fan-base dwindles.

Slick Styles: Slikour

When emcee Snazz stepped up to mic at the legendary Le Club, he probably expected it to be just another day at the office. He’d slammed his battle opponents with his sharp tongue and intimidating stage presence many times before, and he wasn’t about to soften up. And when he saw who he was up against – an unknown newbie sporting a head of greasy s-curls – he must have just laughed. He was going to sink this lightweight, he was going to sink him hard. But Siyabonga Metane had different plans. And with just a few hard-hitting punchlines the unknown emcee sent an embarrassed and silenced Snazz limping off stage. This was Siya’s time to shine; the kid who called himself Slikour had arrived with a bang.

My Coke Fest 2008

Muse was fucking brilliant. Korn, 30 Seconds to Mars, Good Charlotte, Chris Cornell and the Kaiser Chiefs were pretty decent too, but Muse was the group that made it all worthwhile. Their performance required none of this condescending “we love you Cape Town and we’ll be back” nonsense; there was no carefully-scripted climbing up the stage rigging and then proudly fitting in childish swear words like Jared Leto’s favorite, “mother fucker”; there was no call for all the brothers in the house to cheer and the sisters in the house to scream. Instead, Muse gave the audience a 90 minute set of beautifully tight, ear-drum blowing tunes, that had even the old ballie standing behind me saying things like “Brilliant. Aaabsolutely brilliant.”

Francois Steyn

Francois Steyn is the new dynamite kid of SA Rugby. He is the youngest player ever to be in a World Cup winning squad, he’s always the first to step up to take those pressure kicks from behind the halfway line, and he has an amazing ability to put in tackles that leave rugby’s toughest lying face down in the turf.

It’s Steyn’s combination of sheer determination, self-confidence and incredible ball skills that have catapulted him to hero status amongst local and international rugby fans, and no doubt posters of the mop-haired player adorn the walls of many young fans.

Phat like Helmut Lotti: The New Academics

I watched the New Academics live for the first time at Rocking the Daisies a few months back. The weather was bloody awful. The day had been filled with some great performances from SA’s hottest acts. But these had unfortunately been interspersed with a handful of painfully amateur clones as well. By the time the New Academics burst onto stage the crowd’s attention was waning, and a few stiff drinks under the shelter of the tent at the back seemed like a good option.

Barry Zeidel and his Baz Bus

Anyone who’s done it will agree: backpacking beats any other form of travel. There’s something about dropping your heavy backpack next to your dorm bed after a hectic day of sightseeing, looking over at that Norwegian beauty sitting on the bunk opposite and knowing that you instantly have something in common.

Interactive Travel Guides: Schmap Maps

Gone are the days when you need to thumb through that dirty, outdated tour guide to find that restaurant the crusty authors assure you is “three thumbs up.” Now you can swing through to Schmap.com and access the latest tourist information right on your desktop. Not only can you read honest reviews, find detailed directions and even check out a few pics of the joint, but you can also check out what other things there are to do in the area, all with the click of a button.