'The Meaning of Zef' by Ross Truscott

In early February 2010, US-based website, Boing Boing, featured South African "zef rap-rave" group, Die Antwoord, on their site. Within days the group had over a million views of their music videos on YouTube, their Facebook fan-bases swelled, and their own website crashed with all the extra online traffic. There are now talks of big record deals and world tours. And comparisons with District 9. But far more interesting than their instant international fame was the fierce debate that ensued on countless internet forums over what Die Antwoord are about, over what - precisely - zef means.

It was entertaining stuff reading some of the imaginative and rather silly conclusions that some people reached, removed as they were from a South African context - one person asserted that the music was sung in Afrikaans, the same language the aliens spoke in District 9.

Although there is no clear definition, zef is generally associated with poor, or at least common, white Afrikaner culture, with a flair for white-trash antics (although it also implies at least a minimal display of ironic distancing from itself). Well, that seems pretty straight forward.

The name, as academic Albert Grundlingh has pointed out, comes from the Ford Zephyr, a model that preceded the Cortina and was popular in brandy-and-coke brandishing communities during apartheid. The website, Wat Kyk Jy, boasts a zef dictionary which, although it does not define zef, is in itself a kind of elaborate definition. Providing visitors with lists upon lists of cruder Afrikaans words and figures of speech for fighting, sex, masturbation, friends, and drinking, it offers up a vividly loose idea of zefness.

Amongst the debates that have raged over Die Antwoord, the most affectively charged have revolved around the real status of the group's racial and ethnic identity.

Are they actually white working-class Afrikaners? Are they English-speaking South Africans pretending to be Afrikaners pretending to be coloured from the Cape Flats? And so on.

While it is possible to establish a few basic facts on this score - for starters, that it is Waddy and Yolandi from Max Normal TV; that it is, without question, parody - the rest is open for interpretation.

Other commentators who concede the parodic status of the act have asked whether it is alright to make fun of a poor, under-educated, marginalised group, even if it is one that is typically racist and clings to old political ideals. I have some thoughts of my own here, which I will provide in an over-thought, and complicated psychoanalytic account of zef in my doctoral dissertation, but I'll keep these postulations to myself for a while longer.

In the meantime, google Die Antwoord. Their music videos are seriously seamless and, frankly, very funny, and their music is a fascinating patchwork of appropriations, including the 'Body Beat' theme tune for the chorus of the song, 'Zef Side'.

In any case, as Ninja says in an interview on YouTube, what zef means is "pretty self speaking."

For more on Die Antwoord and images of the group by Sean Meterlerkamp (as seen above), visit their Facebook profile. Also, for some more on 'zef cool' visit David Smith's debate in "Is Afrikaans cooler as Engels" for the M&G.

“Dude, BLK JKS are, like, super good” by Ross Truscott

Hailing from the East Rand and Soweto, BLK JKS - Lindani Buthelezi (vocals and guitar), Mpumi Mcata (guitar), Molefi Makananise (bass) and Tshepan Ramoba (drums) - were the musical sensation of 2009. Mail & Guardian writer, Lloyd Gedye usually has his finger on the pulse of South African music and, last year, he called the BLK JKS debut album, After Robots, "probably the most important SA album to have appeared in the past 20 years." That's a big call.
Turns out quite a few Big Name Music Magazines agree. So for anyone who had their head in the sand last year, BLK JKS are doing alright, crazy-international-fame-wise.

As it happens, they played in East London on Wednesday, the 17th of February 2010.

Anyway, it was "pretty much totally sick, dude."
Wow, guy, awesomeness.
"But then, like this reporter from The Daily Dispatch* totally wrote a shitty article about it the next day, and like so tore into the white ous that were there 'cos he reckoned they only came to check if black dudes can actually play rock."
Shees, what a hater, what a doosh. But do you think it might be true?
"Like, uh, ja of course it's true - the jorl was at Buccaneers. You know what Bucs is laak. Still, though, I wish the paper could of sent sent someone who actually had a set of ears; that band was bef*#ck, my bru."
So, what you're saying is that you also went to see if BLK JKS can make rock music and you reckon they can?
"Jussis, whatever, bru."
Sorry, man.
"Don't you also start with that kak now."

Admittedly, the crowd was a little on the pale side. But not that much. In fact, really not that much. Anyway, that completely misses the point, as the Dispatch reporter missed it. And unfortunately for him, while he was matching up skin shades with his Plascon colour-chart, he missed a show that was off the charts, so to speak.

Although the band has only recently gained the recognition and the record deal they deserve, they have been around fro some time, working hard (six years, according to Molefi Makananise). The hard work and the time they've had together shows, too. They may give the impression that they're free-wheeling and improvising through parts of their performance, but they're tight. Really tight. And they would need to pull together so many influences - blues, ska, dub, progressive rock, mbanqanga, psychedelic rock - to manage a sound so distinctive as theirs, so coherent; these influences are not hats worn during different songs, but threads that run through the fabric of their sound.

I had been digging After Robots for a few weeks before the show, so the live, expanded versions of some of their tracks were mind-blowing. 'Lakeside', for instance, even on the album, rides some other kind of rhythm section, one from an other-worldly beyond that the band restrains through the start of the song, with chilling vocals from Lindani Buthelezi - who, incidentally, seems to have a bit of a David Byrne-inspired stage presence going on - and then, once they have a firm enough grip on it, lean into the song and take it downhill, through some mesmerizing turns.
To see and hear this performed live, to witness its musical ascension, was pretty special. And the interaction between Makananise and Ramoba, on bass and drums respectively, is something to behold - particularly on some of the songs where they were less faithful to the album version.

'Molalatladi', the title of one of their songs, means 'rainbow'. Quite a bit has been made of this, both by the media and the band. But far from easy 'rainbowism', the band and their music are challenging. The backside of the album cover, for instance, has a photograph of an animal with a slit throat.
I asked Molefi about the photography, which seems an odd choice of image with which to market a sound.
"That's how life is. For a lot of people, that's as harsh as it is, man. Some people said we shouldn't use it, that it wouldn't help sales, but no, man, that's how it is."
As a friend said as their third song reached about the one-minute mark, "That's some seriously syncopated shit." But this is the beauty of their live performance, something that comes across less strongly on the album: their ability to begin with what seems like chaos, or at least a relatively formless mass of sound, with which they begin to sculpt their songs. And before you know it, there is the song you recognise from the album, alive, that chorus, that great hook. And then, once again, it's changing shape, shifting tempo.

They hardly need more praise, but if you haven't got the album or seen them live, you could do yourself a serious favour.
"BLK JKS are, like, kak good, my bru."

Many thanks to Cheryl and Themy from Nahoon Reef Productions for bringing BLK JKS to East London.

*If anyone is interested, the Dispatch article was by Lindile Sifile and can be accessed here.

Lyrics, Love and a Box of Crayons

Those primary school kids have the idea; you know, fold a piece of paper in half, pull out that box of crayons and take care of Valentine’s Day in a jiffy. Yes, the heart on the front is out of proportion, and colouring inside the lines is out of the question, but they nailed the sentiment in the purest way: I like you, do you like me too? The industrious kids might even pluck a couple of petunias from mum’s flower bed (unless that’s the sort of thing that gets you beat up at school these days).
The cynics will tell you it’s a sham, and that you can’t turn love into a commodity, but for those amongst us that aren’t that jaded yet, Valentine’s Day grants free reign for those confessions of tender intentions.

This said, by now we are all too aware that roses are red and violets are, well, violet (yeah, they got me with that fib too), so let’s sidestep the poetry path and move over to that expression of love that has trumped since time immemorial: music. Hopefully, this musical exploration of the love’s due courses might sway even the most cynical of you, as I do my damnedest to offer a platter of songs suited to Valentine’s Day ranging from light finger food to the spare-ribs sans a napkin kind of deal. So, whether you have a significant other or you’re navigating the day solo, you can feel you’ve eaten your full.


The Postal Service – Such Great Heights
A sweet number delivered with distinct certainty. It’s the certainty of feelings against the odds of distance. With the plague of indifference running rampant in society, it’s refreshing to hear declarations that are so sure-handed. The intro builds anticipation with bursting bubbles of synths leaping from speaker to speaker before Ben Gibbard delivers the opening line: “I am thinking it’s a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images, and when we kiss they’re perfectly aligned. I have to speculate that God himself did make us into corresponding shapes”. We are richer for Gibbard’s fondness for the Casio keyboards jettisoned at the bottom of a box in your garage marked ‘toys’.

Rilo Kiley – Portions for Foxes
You’ve been warned, and told to steer clear, but temptation from a talking snake moonlighting as a produce salesman is just too hard to deny. The consequences are secondary – that’s hedonism for you – but oh what fun, we’ll clean up in the morning. Easily the band’s most accessible track, ‘Portions for Foxes’ is an ultra-catchy ode to indulgence of the carnal kind. The song alludes to an acceptance of self-depreciation on the dominant moral scale of society, but it’s more of a sneer in light of that scale having ridiculously high standards. Forbidden fruits are the best kind.

Something Corporate – Konstantine
This track is the epitome of high-school sentiment, but it’s comforting to know it was written by someone of that age, and not a forty year-old pandering to teenagers. From the piano crescendo to the overly earnest vocal delivery, the song captures the idealism of youth, big dreams and all. The songwriter Andrew McMahon now fronts a more mature outfit, but there are rumours of reunion concerts planned which speaks to the idea that although you may be far-removed from such romanticizing, there is significance in remembering you once felt like that, and that it was enough.

Queens of the Stone Age – Make it Wit Chu
On first impression, it seems odd that a band that is primarily known for heavier rock could pull this off. However they have always had a knack for killer guitar licks, and in this case Queens of the Stone Age have put that to use in creating this bluesy, suave (although not-so-subtle) number about sex. If the piano doesn’t already have you itching to disrobe, the guitar on this track could wrest that belt from your pantloops all by itself.

Explosions in the Sky – Your Hand in Mine
An instrumental track that manages to be incredibly affecting over its eight minute length. If your dreams had a resident electric orchestra, this is sort of music you would want your nightly adventures conducted to. The song is wide-eyed and graceful in its intricacy, and momentous and weighty at its crests, but poignant throughout, offering the overriding sensation of hope. The best part, though? You get to fill in the words.

Bloc Party – This Modern Love
This track was tucked away on the band’s sublime debut. It’s a lo-fi contemplation of modern relationships, but focused in the personal sense on the selfishness that marks one’s incongruity with them. There is a tangible impression of claustrophobia here from both the hushed vocals and spare instrumentation. The questions the song poses are those you would have visited in the throngs of hesitation already, but once more, “What are you holding out for, what’s always in the way?”

Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Maps
On ‘Maps’, listeners got their first taste of the tender side of Karen O, who up until this point had seemed simply beyond restraint. The song is best experienced with its superb music video counterpart, so as to witness the utter vulnerability in the lead lady’s eyes on stage in front of a small, scrutinizing audience. The microphone howls we became so accustomed to are, here, replaced with a desperate plea to a lover in the most important and certainly the most delicate song the band have produced.

Why? – Simeon’s Dilemma
A song for the stalker in you. Come on, we’ve all taken an indirect route that just happens to pass a certain somebody’s house. This isn’t even a case of unrequited love, so much as it being flat-out unnoticed. Thankfully the topic is in the hands of a gifted wordsmith, Yoni Wolf, who never shies away from excruciating honesty. He claims “You’re the only proper noun I need” over the rising chimes of the piano, and later “Are you a female young messiah for stowaways… are you what church folk mean by the good news?”. Looking to be saved has taken a wicked context in our hyper-aware state of living; the result is a lot of lonely, disconnected people… and things called restraining orders.

Say Anything – Alive With the Glory of Love
The nervous tapping that you mistake for a foot spasm which is actually your body begging you to act on something; that is the place this song occurs. The fact that it details two lovers’ escape from a prison work-camp validates the song’s request for revolt. Charismatic front man,
Max Bemis, is at his most vigorous here, and it’s positively infectious if not for the raspy guitars behind him. If you ever wanted to elope and needed a love-crazed soundtrack for the getaway, here it is.

Stars – One More Night
The band has always had a flair for pretty pop music, emphasized mainly by the interplay between the male and female leads. In this song that interplay resembles a conversation between lovers in celebration of their concluding relationship. There is clarity in their dissolution, an awareness of things becoming unhinged, but also a reclamation of the good things discovered along the way. Hints of this duality are found in lines like: “The bed is unmade, like everything is. Dark little heaven at the top of the stairs.” The violins and brittle piano notes back up lyrics that betray knowledge that can only be learned through intimacy.

The Format – Inches and Falling
Exuding the same contagious joy found in his new project, Fun, Nate Ruess urges us to forget the pitfalls of romance and simply affirm love for the capital L’s own sake. The track doesn’t have an object of affection, instead, serving only as a reminder of the righteousness that spews forth as a by-product of meeting love’s embrace. The uplifting ditty is made complete via enthused horn sections and parade-like delights. Think of it as a nursery rhyme for adults.

Ryan Adams – Come Pick Me Up
Backtracking to Ryan Adams’ first solo record is a double-edged sword, because for all the splendour of its country styling, it casts a long shadow he hasn’t yet been able to surpass. The lack of self-editing in the current state of his career is a bane, where he seems to suffer from musical verbosity. But returning to that other edge of the blade, on ‘Come Pick Me Up’ the harmonica and steel guitars accompany what is essentially a song brimming with the reckless abandon of love. The unforgettable chorus is delivered with Adams’ characteristic southern tone in a lingering appeal for emotional violence.

Mazzy Star – Fade Into You
A sweeping lullaby from the 90’s, ‘Fade Into You’ is the song missing from every wedding playlist. Granted, in the pre-internet age it didn’t even appear as a blip on the music landscape radar. Singer, Hope Sandoval, has an unmistakeable seductive voice that manages to soothe and entice simultaneously. Regardless of how many feet you would step on in the process, this song deserves to be slow-danced to.

Bon Iver – Skinny Love
The story goes like this: a relationship dissolves, sending boy retreating into a cabin in the woods to exorcise the demons in the afterglow. The outcome is stripped down, devoid of resentment and anger, instead electing to radiate with the embers of resignation. You would be hard-pressed to find somebody sounding so exposed in such an insightful way. It’s a counter intuitive move; where most of us would choose to keep our cards pressed firmly to our chests in an attempt to salvage what remains of our pride, Justin Vernon lays his hand down in plain sight. The song is completely defenceless, and so much prettier for it.

So, after all the lyrics are said and done, I’ll add to them in this peace-offering that, whatever you make of Valentine’s Day, even if you aren’t singing along, at least try hum the melody.

2009: A RETROSPECTIVE By Michael Coetzer

The task of trying to please everybody is a fool’s errand. So I’ll be upfront about the limited scope of this article; it is by no means an all encompassing sermon on musical necessity. It is however a list populated by some of the finest records of 2009; and it’s a rowdy bunch considering the year that saw our life expectancy dwindle at the hands of swine flu, a crippling economic collapse, and the stark realization that the hope peddled by the Obama administration, while pertinent, would actually take some hard work to come to fruition. 2009 began with universal praise for the psychedelic noise-pop of Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavilion. Only one month in, and the album had already reserved the top spot on many year-end lists: a premature move. I can’t recall a more productive year for music, and here are a number of records that confirm as much.

Metric - Fantasies

Emily Haines is versatility personified; after the haunting, piano-led solo album Knives Don’t Have Your Back, she returned to the energetic platform that she is best known for fronting the band Metric. While previous releases seemed too overt in their disorder, Fantasies tightens the formula, and the result is enough to make the Lady Gaga’s of the world tremble in their neon-coloured boots. Haines ethereal voice is backed by thumping synthesizers and crisp instrumentation on an album that indulges the band’s potential that was always evident from the start. The triumphant “Gimme Sympathy” highlights the record you knew they were quite capable of making, but thought they never would.

Fun - Aim and Ignite

The new project from Nate Reuss of the now defunct band, The Format – both of which remain criminally under the radar – is simply named, Fun. It’s fitting, because the album is very much a clap-your-hands and stamp-your-feet affair, and let it be said: This Is What Pop Music Should Sound Like. Aim and Ignite is unassuming and, at the same time, flamboyant in a way that begs to be translated into a stage musical. The main ingredient for its success is an abundance of the rare commodity of uninhibited joyfulness; this is the sort of music that makes you nostalgic for an era that you never even knew.

The Xx - The Xx

As soon as demo’s started appearing at the beginning of 2009, it was clear that this clan of pasty British kids was worth keeping tabs on. Their self-titled debut is a harmonious gem, and an expertly crafted exercise in atmospherics. It offers a sense of immense spaciousness in its sound, the ambient guitar dynamics are complimented by the subtle texture added by a male and female duo on vocals. They are easily the best new band I’ve heard this year, and what remains startling is how a bunch of twenty-somethings handled the task with such nuance. The album is executed with veteran precision where the music, vocals and lyrics blend into a potent erotic cocktail.

Dead Man’s Bones - Dead Man’s Bones

Generally, when an actor attempts a foray into music it’s not unreasonable to expect disaster. There have been few exceptions, but Ryan Gosling has bridged the gap between screen and stage with aplomb. Behind his howl on vocals, you’ll hear distorted drums and rousing string arrangements; the whole thing sounds like it emerged from vaudeville theatre. If you can somehow imagine The Arcade Fire being filtered through The Rocky Horror Picture Show, it should give you some idea of what you’re in for. This is not an extension of Gosling-the-actor’s celebrity; it is a genuine attempt at an alternative medium by a promising musician.

Fuck Buttons - Tarot Sport

Forget that they are potty mouths; the second offering from Fuck Buttons expands on what they got right on their debut, which is creating effervescent multi-layered electronica. It’s a malleable term in their hands, because you’ll hear tribal drums and piercing vocal samples amongst the galloping beats. This time they’ve upped the tempo, and the album benefits from their reliance on a more consistent aesthetic throughout its length. Tarot Sport is a very animated record; its pulsating rhythms are certain to augment blood flow, but unlike most electronic music, it’s transcendent because it includes both heart and head in the process.

Patrick Wolf - The Bachelor

Patrick Wolf possesses a distinct thespian-like showmanship that is hard to separate from his music; his personality serves as an appendage to his creative output. A scholar of classical music, this boy-wonder has continued to push boundaries with each subsequent release, and it’s clear that he is in command of his trade. On The Bachelor, violin arpeggios are naturally accompanied by the currents of synthesizers and stuttering drums; the nomadic Wolf is able to seamlessly mesh classical elements with modern advances. He can call the style his own. Listen out for actress Tilda Swinton who sprinkles narration on some of the tracks.

Brand New - Daisy

If you follow the trajectory of this band’s albums, you’ll notice certain maturation through each. Initially a pop-punk outfit, they have evolved into serious contenders in the alternative rock scene. Their latest effort relents on the lyrical intricacy of previous releases, and instead does a fine job of melting your face off with its musical intensity. The albums intro, a 1950’s church hymn, is surely penance for the forty minutes of jarring guitar work and off-kilter vocals to follow. When the album closes and chaos subsides into the resuming hymn, it’s apparent that Brand New have released what is certainly their most polarizing album, but also their most cohesive.

Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix

French alternative band Phoenix released their fourth album this year, and it’s a fraction short of flawless. Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix is a charismatic jaunt of funky guitars and dreamy, cascading synths, equally at home on headphones and the dancefloor. The anthemic “1901” is about as blissful as a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, one of many great tracks on a rightly self-assured album. French flair indeed.

Tegan and Sara - Sainthood

The Quinn sisters continue to up their game with an album of more elaborate compositions and the customary interplay between the two vocalists. It’s always been the most appealing thing about the band, their chemistry, and how well their affinities compliment one another. Most of the tracks on Sainthood clock in under three minutes which lends itself to concise, well-realized, albeit brief delights. It may not be as accessible as some of their previous work, but with repeated listens it really blossoms.

Kevin Devine - Brother’s Blood

It pains me how hard this man has to work to make a living off of his music. Devine’s fifth album should hopefully put any possibility of a day job permanently on the backburner. Brother’s Blood has elements of the acoustic folk of his earlier work, but its seminal numbers are full-band efforts, and as always Devine’s lyrical prowess is humbling. His wordplay and vocal delivery never overwhelm his sense of melody, and I marvel at how expansive his themes are in the same sweeping vein that makes Bob Dylan a great songwriter. On his most consistent album to date, Devine interrogates the usual suspects – god, government and girls – with a stellar soundtrack provided by his affectionately titled ‘Goddamn Band’.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - It’s Blitz!

Lead singer, Karen O, is a prime example of a female who doesn’t need to sacrifice her femininity for appeal on a visceral scale. She is a firecracker of a front-woman; previous releases with their beer-soaked riffs and gritty tones saw her spring to life with carnivalesque charm. On It’s Blitz! she straddles the fine line between confidence and vulnerability, and while Nick Zinner still provides those patent guitar chords, the album is primarily comprised of lush electronics. The record resembles a leather jacket with glittery ribbons; prettiness has never sounded so dangerous.

Other noteworthy releases from 2009:

Au Revoir Simone - Still Night, Still Light

Harlem Shakes - Technicolour Health

Manchester Orchestra- Mean Everything to Nothing

Monsters of Folk - Monsters of Folk

Regina Spektor - Far

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - The Pains of Being Pure at Heart

Thrice - Beggars

Why? - Eskimo Snow

Bon Iver - Blood Bank ep

Death Cab for Cutie - The Open Door ep

Modest Mouse - No One’s First and You’re Next ep

ETRAN FINATAWA AT DOWNTOWN: “OUT OF THIS UNIVERSE” OR PURE “ORIENTALISM”? YES. By Ross Truscott

Etran Finatawa is known as a “Desert Blues” or “Nomad Blues” band from Niger. They are a well travelled group of Tuareg and Wodaabe-Fulani musicians who recently performed in several South African cities. Their official website, which makes sure the reader understands that these two communities have an antagonistic relationship, markets the band as, “a group of ten musicians who wanted to unite these two nomadic cultures as a symbol of peace and reconciliation.” I caught their performance—the touring and recording group has only five of the ten members—in Port Elizabeth on the 10th of October 2009, hosted by the Alliance Francais at Downtown in Central. In the first of these posts on the cultural politics of live music in South Africa, I try to decide if it was a good night out or not.

Selling difference and reconciliation
It isn’t that I think Herman’s Head was a particularly good television program—it was more or less watchable. It’s just that, probably due to the fact that it was aired on M-Net during developmentally formative years, it often structures conversations I have with myself. But instead of Herman’s four-part Greek Chorus—Angel, Animal, Genius, Wimp—sitting in the attic ruminating over decisions, I have three people substituted from a bench the length of popular culture. There are regulars, of course, but the combinations change. And so it was that after the Etran Finatawa performance in PE I sat on the steps outside of Downtown going over what had just happened, with Hunter S. Thompson, Woody Allen and Patti Smith in the attic.

“That guitarist was out of this universe, utterly stupendous. And the drummer on that plastic ball that looks like an old buoy…that he beats with a ring…Patti, give me a light,” Hunter S. Thompson says, with a cigarette, clamped in a sleek black filter, between his teeth, “unlaleewable.” A lung-full of smoke comes out with the second go, “unbelievable.”

“Gourd, I believe that ‘old buoy’ is called a gourd. And yes, Thompson, I’m sure you felt that it was one of those moments we were ‘riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave’ and that ‘we were winning,’ and so on. But out of this universe, are you serious? The only universe it was outside of was middle-class white Port Elizabeth. It was pure Orientalism—Edward Said would have worked up quite a froth over this. If he was here, hypothetically speaking, and we got out a sphygmomanometer it would show dangerously elevated blood pressure.”

“Edward Said…are you serious? Allen, you’re a namedropping snob. Make yourself useful and fetch us all one of those free glasses of champagne at the counter at the top of the stairs,” says Hunter S. Thompson.

“I would but I’m pretty certain they were finished during the curtain raiser. Perhaps it was because of her erotic dance moves or because nobody knew what the hell a belly dancer from Port Elizabeth had to do with a desert-blues band from Niger, but people were thirsty. Trust me on this one, the freebies are done.”

“Patti, tell this pretentious idiot the band was great,” Hunter S. Thompson says with his forehead in his hand.

“Sorry, Patti, I want to hear what you have to say and please don’t think me silencing the feminine voice here or anything, but it’s not that I didn’t like the music. The music was unbelievable. I am just not sure about how it was staged. It reminded me of when they bring kids in from communities next to game parks and dress them in skins and make them dance for the tourists. Except this was the gala version, but no matter how much you gloss something…why, for instance, did we need that old fashioned anthropological introduction to the band? Why were we given oysters and free drinks? Why the bloody belly dancer? And why, for heaven’s sake, was everyone dressed in funeral-wear to come and watch a gig? Did you see how the musicians came out afterwards? They were signing autographs in jeans and t-shirts. The guitarist played a Fender. And yet, there they were, performing and parading in full tribal uniform across the stage like ancient, nevertheless breathing artefacts. I blame their management. And, especially, the Alliance Francais. Don’t get me started on the French.”

“So tell me about the situation in Niger then, smarty pants,” says Patti Smith with her arm around Hunter S. Thompson.

“Well, I will, just let me go and make sure about those free champagnes, maybe I can get us some before this bunch finish off the lot.” Woody Allen makes his way awkwardly back into the crowd.

Just then the group I’m with amble down the stairs and onto the pavement. Discussion of the band and the evening in general continues. Michelle comments on how much she enjoyed the “rhythmic momentum” the musician playing the ankle-bells gave to each song; Clay notes that the way the guy played the guitar was like nothing he’d heard before; Phindi says that the belly dancer’s moves can be seen in late night clubs across the country: “nothing special, if you ask me” she says; my dad enquires whether we’ve bought the CD yet. The thing is that while much of the performance is perfectly ‘legible’ to the audience—a stage with a five piece band, roughly four to six minute songs, guitars, drums, vocals—something escapes our comprehension. Sure, the influence of Tinariwen, the internationally acclaimed Malian Tuareg band, is there and the songs are similarly guitar-driven. The chanting vocals do at times resemble those on, say, Talking Timbuktu, the 1994 collaboration between Malian Ali Farka Toure and Ry Cooder who, to be honest, introduced us—those brought up on rock—to Malian music. And, I suppose, Cuban as well. But Etran Finatawa is none of these. Nor is it, for the Mzansi-obsessed audience, the familiar guitar of Louis Mhlanga and it is certainly not Vusi Mahlasela. Etran Finatawa’s songs roll forward in a tightly coordinated but at the same time loose assemblage of highly affecting sounds, with interesting drum rhythms, with guitar work that while it leads doesn’t overshadow and certainly manages to be skillful without lapsing into an onanistic spectacle. I really did enjoy their music.

Woody Allen returns empty handed and slumps into his chair. “Thompson, that lot reminds me of your hotel lobby scene in Fear and Loathing. Those people are animals and someone did feed them booze.”

Patti Smith stands over Woody Allen, “Listen, you’re going to give yourself a stroke. I’ve been thinking about this while you were gone. The two tribes, right, which make up the band, are nomadic. And hear me out here…if nomadism is a kind of adaptation to the ecological conditions, to seasons, to rainfall and drought and so on, then they, the band, in an analogous way, have adapted to global conditions, they have moved into a corner of the consumerist landscape that is, for the time being, a seller’s market for the exotic. And perhaps it has been since Saartjie Baartman. Ethnicity is a commodity and they are trading on it. An audience with an old fashioned anthropological curiosity like we have here and in many places like it pay the bills. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real, that it’s only staged. The whole lot, all of it—the history of their tribes, the colonialists who provided the conditions for their feuding relationship, the global marketability of Africa—this is the real thing.”

“Can we just not call them tribes?” says Woody Allen.

In retrospect, both Woody Allen and Patti Smith had points. On the one hand, there was something rather fetishizing about the way the group were staged for their audience, something quite colonial. And if not colonial then whatever colonialism has become in the 21st century. (Inter-) nationalism? On the other hand, this may under-acknowledge the way in which the whole circuit of the performance on the evening can, as Patti Smith suggested, be read as a sublimation of the historically nomadic dispositions of these two communities in a new and extensive scene.
This is not to suggest that the performance was just a charade for their audience. But the point is that the musical arrangements—let alone their tribal identities—are not somehow before the staging, the promotion, the packaging or the portrayal of the band. The real musicians are not somehow before or outside of this representation. There is no before. The band and their music, in my view, have been formed within a global context where ethnicity is highly marketable. And, to risk being cynical here, so is reconciliation. Which we know all about. It is within this context that I think the performance should be heard and seen. The real thing is the simulation that shows this context. And the performance of ethnicity, taken as an adaptation, is not merely a colonial gaze on African musicians. Rather, the audience is, in complex ways, knotted into the broad context the performance reflects. I wish I could have asked the band. I tried, but all they had to offer was French and all I had to offer was English and a hundred and fifty bucks for their album.

On the whole, some of the performance—taken as a whole—was sad, some of it beautiful. A few of the exoticizing white people made me ashamed, but mostly it was just nice to hear such great music being made live. It is very difficult to give words to, precisely because I have very little clue of what Niger is like. And it’s difficult to find a position from which to connect with the music without doing so from some of the problematic positions described above.
What I would suggest is getting the album and finding a way to hear Etran Finatawa, whether that is as a consumer of music, a maker of music, a (South) African, a cynic or sentimentalist. Although you’ll probably struggle to find Desert Crossroads on the shelves at Musica, you can certainly order it or download it. And it’s worth it, they are out of this world. And I would far rather be sold this particular version of difference and reconciliation, than the tired motifs of suburban angst or more to the point a big night out.


To the Alliance Francais, thanks for bringing a great group of musicians, please don’t take it personally, I only mean most of what I say. Next month’s installment will take a look at BLK JKS, the band from Soweto who being hailed as the most important group of musicians to have emerged from South Africa in the past 20 years.

Techno-Metal Anyone? By Michael Coetzer

The early nineties was a polarizing time to be a pop-culture sponge. Where I lived at the time, you were either a Greenday follower, or a Nirvana fan, rarely both. There was a clear-cut social distinction between two, one on hand frivolous brats, and the other brooding miserablists. Artists seldom strayed from the confines of their genres, keeping proceedings primarily by the book.
The musical climate of today is quite different, not only in production, but certainly in consumption. (When last did you purchase a cd, cheapskate?) Genres that were once clearly demarcated have become permeable, and it’s evident that dialogues have developed between musical varieties. The digressions music has taken have spurned hundreds of coined terms attempting to categorize all the cross-pollination going on, and while there will always be unholy matrimonies (Techno-Metal anyone?), all this genre hopscotch has produced some exciting amalgamations.
The term ‘indie’, entailing independence from major record labels, doesn’t describe a genre so much as a fluid aesthetic. Where labels (read: The Man) push for marketability above artistic integrity, indie has always provided an outlet for those intent on sticking it to said Man. Previously encompassing sounds that resided only on the periphery, indie has now entered the mainstream consciousness; this inevitably creates a tension between those lamenting its popularity, and those embracing it. With the general indifference prevalent in our globalised society, it’s hard to imagine the arrival of a unifying anthem or cause; but the tension has to amount to something right? A little bit of friction is productive; it worked out okay for those guys that stormed the Bastille didn’t it?
It’s futile trying to establish who fits under the indie umbrella because the movement has a secret weapon in assimilation, cherry-picking musical sensibilities from the deluge. It’s a wide berth, spanning from the grandiosity of The Arcade Fire, the poise of slackers, The Strokes, to the post-millennial drone of Radiohead. Without the restrictions of convention to follow, artists have run rampant, borrowing sounds from any and every other genre; Vampire Weekend somehow roped in reggae, The Killers revived new-wave, The Hold Steady channeled The Boss, and boy wonder, Conor Oberst, took over the confessional vacated by Dylan. So hey, man, my electric guitar can totally be friends with your trombone now, fudge it, bring your glockenspiel too.
Listening to Japandroids debut Post-Nothing with its fuzzy guitars and bang your steering wheel to bits drumming, on ‘Young Hearts Spark Fire’ as they sing "We used to dream/ Now we worry about dying/ I don't want to worry about dying.”. A line so simple may seem suspect, but it’s delivered with contagious conviction, the energy and sheer velocity of it is incendiary. It seems prudent, all things considered then, to be less concerned about where music is situated and how to classify it, and more about where it’s going. Be excited.

Michael Lifts the Latch… by Michael Coetzer

I’m a selfish bugger, but I’m learning slowly. A friend once told me that songs are like birds, and you see, I harbour the habit of wanting to keep them in cages. She was quite right in saying that they should be able to fly freely and fall on willing ears, so here goes, I’m lifting the latch.

Let’s start with the state of the nation. Album sales are continuing their steady decline, and anachronistic record labels still refuse to embrace the new model of democratized art the internet has allowed, instead choosing to persecute their customers, but all hope is not lost. Commercial radio seems to have gained some sensibility, embracing indie and electronica acts like Kings of Leon, Mgmt and Empire of the Sun. Alas, the members of Nickleback are still allowed to touch instruments.

If you manage to sift through the swirling cultural void currently occupied by auto-tune vocals and bands like Brokencyde, you’ll find that creativity is alive and well, even flourishing, fervently denouncing kitsch as king. Just listen to the bluesy, punk tinged ‘59 Sound’ by New Jersey’s The Gaslight Anthem, or the flippant (what economic meltdown?) swagger of Tv on the Radio’s ‘Dear Science’, and it’s evident not everyone is caught up in the malaise.

The year has run half its course, and the annual best-of lists are going to prove tough to compile. We’ve had stellar records from The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Bon Iver continued to amaze, the quite frankly bat-sh#t crazy Patrick Wolf gave a nod to Bowie, and both Death Cab for Cutie and Modest Mouse put out solid ep’s.

Besides musical musings, all the advice I can offer is that a comfy pair of shoes goes a long way; I’m excited about doing this blog, and surprisingly about things in general. To quote the sultry Emily Haines, “Help I’m alive, and my heart is beating like a hammer.”