International News

Walk In Africa - the National Wake Documentary Mixtape by Punk In Africa

…..post…post...city...late…./Post…post...city late...post

‘put a blanket…over Soweto

they put a blanket…nowhere to go no

they put a blanket…over the news

they put a blanket…nothing to choose

The question that has been plaguing my mind the last couple of months is this: What does music do? In 1981 an album was released in apartheid South Africa. The band who produced it was an anomaly; a multi-racial marabi-punk band known as National Wake, a bands whose roots are planted in reggae, funk 'n punk and inspired by The Clash, Malombo and Philip Tabane. A band that still resonates with South African feel and political potency. 

The band that featured on the recording was comprised of Ivan Kadey (rhythm guitar), Gary and Punka Khosa, brothers in rhythm on bass and drums respectively, Steve Moni  on Lead Guitar, and Kelly Petlange on saxophone.  The band and the scene they created were described by Craig Duncan – Czech State Radio’s alternitave music specialist - as “perhaps the most dissident music scene of the 20^th Century: a multi-racial punk-reggae band operating in a fascist state” . The album “National Wake” was banned from the airwaves, “gazetted” after over 700 copies had been sold. The digs which they inhabited became subject to police searches, and under political pressure the band disbanded, and the album lay dormant until 2009 when Keith Jones and Deon Maas set out to make a documentary about punk in Apartheid and the role it played in South Africa’s struggle for equal rights.

I feel the bomb yeh…it grows inside me

I feel the bomb yeh…blows up inside me,

I feel the bomb here

Is something wrong here?”

In the early months of 2012 I started researching the band for my master’s thesis. It led me to Rosebank Mall in Johannesburg to meet Ivan Kadey, rhythm guitarist of National Wake; one of the three remaining members.  My timing was right, Kadey was visiting his home town after relocating to California in the 80’s, and I was able to glean from him some of the magic that made National Wake the musical force that brought a portion of a fractured society together.  For Kadey it was never about being political. Out of the bowels of the commune in Parktown, where the band resided - illegally because of the pass laws at the time - a sound started to emerge.  It was lively, energetic, angsty and it spoke of hope that the nation would wake out of dark times  – “this is the wake of the nation/this is national wake…we’re bubbling up with the new time people”; a musical account of living in Apartheid South Africa under the release of punk, captured in a moment of censorship.

I feel the bomb

there’s nothing wrong!

going to the movies

what do I see?

going to the movies

what are they throwing at…

what are they throwing at me?

Skip forwards a week and a ten minute drive from Rosebank to Yoeville, March 2012, once the hub of musical activity in Johannesburg in the 80’s, the home of the now infamous Rocky Street.  A place which I had been taught to fear, where the stereotypes of Nigerian drug lords run free and the imagined crime rate is so high you can’t even walk through the suburb. I park my car outside a block of flats and Ivan lets me in, we walk up the stairs of the somewhat dilapidated building, along the corridor and into a well-kept and homely flat, owned by Kadey’s sister-in-law. 

 My perception of Yoeville is immediately altered. Growing up in the Northern suburbs the entire stigma that surrounds Yoeville becomes nothing but the thought of those too scared to venture out of their comfort zones. There must be some truth in their fear, but on the streets during the day there is another culture – where people walk the suburbs, and greet each other as they walk by, Bob Marley blares from a car radio – It is only my imagination that is keeping me overly alert. The only thing to be feared is thought, even though it has become a culture in Jozi to watch your back - it isn’t the worst advice.

they sent the troops yeh…into Angola

they sent the choppers…over the border

they put a blanket…over the border

they put a blanket…into Angola

My mission for the visit was to receive a visual document taken of a National Wake gig held in an outdoor square on Rocky Street in Yoeville in 1979. The video is something special. Having been born in 1987, and starting primary school in 1994, the first year where multi-racial classes were taught together – a curriculum for the new South Africa had barely been thought of, apartheid became a list of dates, and a tribute to Mandela – although I do have a picture a drew of Brenda Fassie as a raging cocaine addict in a tribal mask (age 13). I was never confronted with the true and deeper realities of apartheid, we parroted the names of the laws and the years they were implemented but we never really learned what they meant - the theatre, music, and arts of the time left to academics and kids whose parents were inclined to the arts. The history of separatism that occurred during apartheid was never conveyed clearly in my younger years, even though the roots apartheid planted still thrive in a negative light in the news, thoughts and culture of the country today.

“I feel the bomb yeah…

‘put a blanket…over the blanket

and then a blanket…over that blanket

they put a blanket…to suffocate it

put a blanket…suffocate!”

The high walled houses and constant patrolling of private security vans in the suburbs hold testament to “the fear”. The fear that many suburban upper -middle class whites feed off of that keeps them locked behind closed doors and travelling safety in cars, public transport out of the question. They rarely interact with the black domestic workers walking on the streets, or the fruit sales men, or the bead artists – “hawkers” in their eyes. Negative connotations shooting like daggers. The new language in the country is to turn opposing heads in greeting, in shame, or fear of the other, or perhaps just not knowing how to communicate? As if it were a crime to nod and smile, say hello or perhaps, if the mood took you, stop and have a chat. 

But this video footage which I was privy to in a Yoeville flat, on a Sunday afternoon, gave me an insight into apartheid that is rarely seen – and probably as uncommon in real time as it was then – in South Africa. People dancing, not just white, or black, or coloured, but all of them together in a square in Yoeville, smiling, happy, standing watching the music as the camera passes over them – the atmosphere seems light, even a scene where Kadey is dealing with a police officer – the tension is minimal. Well, as minimal as dealings with police go. 

The text book South Africa, the one we learnt about out of the books was transformed, but more so than that the words “oppression” and, “racism” were not present for that moment. National Wake became a door to a new universe of thought. About stigma, about how we treat words with such great power. Trevor Noah –South African comedian - offers a similar sentiment about the nefarious “K” word. No not Kellog’s. Kafir. He then continues his act by desensitizing the word – taking away it’s power. He offers the audience the original Arabic definition of the root being “infidel”. He highlights the different between saying Nigger in Xhosa and Nigger in America, the former meaning “to give” and the latter being a derogatory term. He makes you feel the break down between words and our given meanings for them. National Wake, the music, and the scene they created conveys a feeling, a break down in meaning, that still exists in South Africa today – one of wanting a South Africa united in its diversity.

So what can I say about what music does? For now I will say this:  different styles of music convey different feelings, and people relate to those feelings, those feelings bring different groupings of people together, sometimes in extraordinary circumstances – National Wake was extraordinary, the feeling of their music crossed colour boundaries, and brought people into a new space for thought about a possible future of peaceful co-existence. I can only hope that this story and this feeling is part of the history that is taught to future generations – one that speaks to the new South Africa, not against it.

International news…international views…

International news…insanity!'

Excerpts from ‘International News’ by National Wake

Powerage - Punk and the Global Apartheid

There is something to be said about a South African punk rock EP being published in France in 1985. Most of those things would start with questions. Why could an anti-apartheid album not be published in South Africa? Or was it better off being published in France? What links did the South African punk scene have with the European punk scene during this time? How were these relationships formed? The answers to these questions seem simple, but the more one looks between the lines a strange picture of unity within estrangement emerges. It is this picture that I will focus on, for the former questions cannot be answered accurately without interviews.

It all starts in the context of apartheid, a framework of forced segregation. By 1985 a significant divestment movement throughout the world had begun placing pressure on investors to disinvest from South Africa. The global community was in a strong reactionary phase to the apartheid regime. And in Durban South Africa a small pocket of white resistance was making itself heard within the global community of punk rock.

Positioning themselves as anarchists against the discrimination of fellow men, Powerage sang out against apartheid, but more so than that against discrimination. For it is the plight of the punk rocker to be discriminated unjustly against for their modes of dress, musical taste, and beliefs about “the system”. And it is in this judgement from “civil” society that a connection of unity can be made between an estranged group of white punks in Durban to those suffering from the oppressions of apartheid mandate. In a recent conversation with Ampie Omo trombonist of monkee punk band BOO! A similar notion came up 17 years after the end of Apartheid with small communities fighting for their identities - the right to keep their languages and customs alive. What he said was that (although I do believe he was references an earlier conversation had with Chris Chameleon) all these communities are fighting the same struggle, the struggle for their own identity, and while their identities, languages and customs may be different, they are fighting against the same concept. Afrikaans, Pedi, Tswana. And they must unite in order to conquer.

While the struggle during apartheid was seemingly different, it was a fight for citizenship and recognition, to be part of a larger whole. The irony, it seems, is that now that apartheid has ended small cultural groups are becoming estranged from their cultural heritage’s and are being forced to become part of the global community. To be educated in English, to believe with all their might in consumerism, and the goodness of monetary wealth. They are controlled by large scale border controls. They have passports instead of pass books. We all have passports. We are all stuck in a global apartheid. But the oppressor is faceless, it has become a system of laws and regulations – hedged by corporates with their own wealth in mind and the well-being of those enslaved during colonialism has become a situation of adapt or die. And the punks still sing out. The fools of modern society, except that nobody is listening or laughing. Their ears and eyes blind folded and deafened by media and songs about Jimmy Choos and lady lumps. If only Plato could see his golden lie in action today.

While the hatred bred in apartheid between whites and blacks in South Africa keeps them living in the past, blind to the larger injustices of the world. The new regime of neo-liberalism spreads its blind octopussy tentacles and segregates the world into first and third, richer and poorer. Better off and worse. And the words written in 1985 by a group of anarchist punks still speak true “We as a band stand against any discrimination of fellow man, we believe that everyone should live in a state of equality, no matter of race, religion, wealth, music and way of dress. We therefore stand against any law that denies a person equality, their human rights. We strongly oppose the laws regarding Apartheid in our country.” Except that now it is the global apartheid to which we can refer.  

John Wayne

I have not told you a story in a long while.. But that silence has ended, so you can bask in the glory of The Bone Collectors.

It all starts an a long drive in the early morning out of Cape Town towards an unknown location. We come to a cross roads, Rawsonville to the right, Slanghoek to the left. We go right. I am travelling with Ken Bullen-Smith of The Bone Collectors, he pulls out a cleaver and waves it emphatically as The Clash spew punk out the radio. People are going to be shot. In the nicest possible way. Well that depends on if "the nicest possible way" means standing in the blazing sun for hours, and made to play fascist killing instruments in an imaginary fashion. Anyway ...I present to you some sneak peaks and behind the scene shots of the this epic sax driven gypsy blues conglomerates soon to be released music video for their track John Wayne.

Cirque du Psycho

Part One- Pulling It All Together


Where to start? The beginning obviously. There are two beginnings to this tale. The first occured at Gandolf's in Cape Town, mid December 2010. The second at Zula's a few weeks later, thogh by this time it was laready 2011. There was liqour involved in both incidents. Neither of them were particularly exciting. But they just go to show that the smallest of meetings can be the beginning of an avalanch. One that has left me with an awe inspiring hang-over.


So Gandolfs. I headed there with Brent and Andrew. I can't actually remember how we got there. The day started with a mission from Constantia to the city via train. We ended up drinking on Long Street for most of the day, with Pat, Rozy, Gav and Flash. And somehow we ended up at Gandalfs. Where I was introduced to a gorgeous blond. Her name was Dom, and I was terrified of her. She was cool and tattoed and self-assured and she made me feel like I was infringing upon some code. Which one I'm not quite sure. But I started to feel very out of place, and being rather drunk and stoned and afflicted with LSE (low self esteem - a side affect of constant blazedness), I kinda just kept very quite and watched her awesomeness, wandering if she was going to beat me up. Why I thought this I do not know. A little later in the evening we got to talking. It turned out she played in a Rockabilly band called Peachy Keen. I had heard the name working the network, and made a mission to see them as soon as humanly possible. I was blown away.


The second story starts at Zula's in Long Streets. A few of my mates were meeting up to discuss bringing the infamous Typical Cats down from the States, I was there to drink mainly (Cape Town has the propensity to turn me into a fiendish alcoholic, mostly because I don't have band practice to keep me occupied otherly). They ended up bringing Qwazaar in the end, it was still a mad party. Anyway, sitting three drafts down at Zula's the most amazing sounds start wafting off the stage. Low down sax driven blues. Dark as fuck. I had to know who they were. But I also had to leave. So I ran up to the stage as the band finished their sound check, introduced myself to the lead singer and told him that I wanted to bring them up to Johannesburg. I didn't even know who they were. They turned out to be The Bone Collectors. So Rol and I exchanged numbers, found each other on facebook. And a few weeks later Rol got in contact with me and said "Can we make this happen?" To which o replied yes, not knowing what I was getting myself into. "Who else should we pull in?" The Peaches were the obvious choice. And after a few phone calls and scattered messages the Peaches were roped in and Cirque du Psycho was born via the birth canals of my drunken determination.

The Bone Collectors - Suburban Stalker

The Bone Collectors - Barslag of your Dreams/21st Century Dan

The Bone Collectors

The next step was venues. The Bohemian being the obvious choice. A brief call to Ryan Neebe (high master of band bookings at The Bo) and the date was set. The second venue was trickier. Cool Runnings Benoni was the first choice, having met one of the managers, Vaughn, at Thornfest we started arranging things. But nothing of worth materialised. Other than me having to drive an hour to Benoni for a non-existant meeting.


Enter from stage left Jadd Steinhard. Whose brother in law owns Woody's in Edenvale. He called, booked the date, organised the sound. I am much greatful to him seeing as the morning I made the call to him I had woken up from dreams of tours going wrong, venues cancelling, I'm sure there were flamey pits and hellish demons involved too, but to put it short I was a tense and nervous wreck about not being able to find a second venue. The tour was still two months away, but I couldn't help myself.


So with venues organised flyers and sponsorship were brought to the forefront. Thank you Sailor Jerry for the rum which led to one of the maddest weekends a Rockabilly tour in Jozi or South Africa has probably seen. And Jan Munky Giebelmann for the amazing flyer.

Part Two - The Tour




Friday


I was exhausted, perhaps beyond exhausted. The last few weeks of my life have consisted of band practice/gigs every night of the week. With body broken and mind bent from an afternoon of tutoring a crowd of very anxious first year philosophers, and the previous night jamming with The Brother Moves On, Uju and Bongeziwe at The Bohemian, I stumbled into Brad "The Kid" Down's place to pick up the last of the equipment needed for the show that night. A guitar amp. After a brief mooch on the couch and a gathering of wits I headed back to my folks to shower and do my hair.. Oh yeah I said it, DO MY HAIR.. For those of you who don't know me, this isn't a common occurance.. But I recently got a new shark fin, and I'm quite in love with it. (Thanks Henry)

Dom and Alex of Peachy Keen

Dom of Peachy Keen

So shower and hair done, four mic stands, a giant box of cables, one H & K Basskick, one marshall, one double bass, one shiny blue Ibanez bass, and a collection of micropones packed into my car, I started off my journey to The Bohemian. As I pulled into the garage to pick up a 9V for the double bass pick up my phone rang.. With bad news. Very bad news. Certainly not the type of news you'd want to get when you're already under the pressure of organising a show with two touring bands down from Cape Town that you really don't want to muck up. It's The Kid. "A's in a coma". I'm hoping this is some sick and twisted April fools joke. But it isn't. I walk numbly into the shop. Thinking "Happy thoughts" over and over again. Trying not to think about the fact that my close friend, mentor and fellow band mate is... "Happy Thoughts" "Happy Thoughts" "Happy Thoughts". I get a box of Lucky Strikes, and the battery. "Happy Thoughts" as I get into my car. "Music, put on music". I put my phone onto shuffle and sing along. But the thoughts are still trying to overwhelm me. I almost drive into the back of the car front of me, tears seeping out the corners of my eyes. "Happy Thoughts". I make it to the Bohemian. Spread the bad news. Distract myself with setting up the stage. Distract myself some more with whisky. Distract myself some more with free rum from the door. Distract myself with greeting the touring bands, making sure they have everything they need. The Kid rocks up, tells me he got a call, A's not in a coma, but he is in hopsital. I let out a sigh of relief. It was a white lie on The Kids's behalf. But it calmed me down enough to feel like the world was okay. I found out the next morning that A had in fact been in a coma, but he is fine now. No brain damage.

Rob- The Bone Collectors

Ken - The Bone Collectors

The rest of the evening turned into pure rock and roll debauchery. The Jozi crowd (most of the so-called psycho scene not in attendence) made up of punks and lesbians (Emilia Bug's birthday party) went mad. Turned into swinging psycho animals. And then more drama as Hannah had to be abulanced out of The Bo. But by this point I had given up on taking responsibility for things out of my control, I was piss drunk and partying it up with The Peaches. The night all in all was a success. We got out of there at around 3.30am to wake up early and head to Midrand for JawFest ate my Dingo.

Crowds go mad for Sailor Jerry, yes the do. It's all part of SJ's evil plan to enslave us all

Saturday




Saturday started bright an early, and probably stil a little drunk. What with it being bright and early the logical assumption to make is that minimal amounts of sleep were had, thus minimal amounts of time were given to the process of sobering up. And so the morning quickly escaped me and it was off to meet the boys of The Bone Collectors and head off to Jawfest. We never got there. We did however get lost, and rather stoned, and generally discombobulated for a good hour and a half, before back-tracking to Greg's folks place to relax before the Woody's show.

The woody's show was another night of veritible chaos. But Rol's discription of it far out explains anything I could give you right now. So I shall leave the rest of this expose up to the blurps of the touringbands....Though I do at some point remember being on the streets singing "ohhhh darling, please believe me, I'll never do you no harm" very drunkenly at the top of my lungs with Dom..

Part 3 - What The Touring Bands Had To Say

Peachy Keen

Sailor Jerry Rum, Studded Punks and a 22 Hour bus ride...

I was always told by mates from other bands that had performed in Jozi, how much tougher the crowd is compared to Cape Town. Talkings of the Joburg punks ,way more venues and hijackings at midday, springs to mind. But after a 22 hour bus ride and a couple bottles of Sailor Jerry, all I wanted to do was get on stage, drink some more SJ and ROCK OUT!

Bus-lagged and a not looking so hot, we arrived at Greg’s parents spot and were met with a fully stocked bar, hot meal and a needed shower-Joburg love! We rocked up at The Bohemian, a place we’ve heard so much about. Cam ( Carniwhores) met us with the biggest smile on her face and we knew things were gana get messy!

The Carniwhores opened and definately set the bar. They got the crowd pumped so we knew we had to bring it Joburg style! Sailor jerry was flowing and after making some friends with the local studded punks, we got on stage and rocked out so hard. The Bone Collectors made the crowd weep - Cape Town would be proud!

Saturday night saw us at Woodies in Edinvale. Once again the carniwhores and Bone Collectors tore it up. The crowd was ready for us and we melted faces! After partying until 7am we headed home on our 22 hour bus ride, purely stoked! An unforgettable experience...Thanks Joburg!

The Bone Collectors 

 ROB WROTE:  Our first inclination that Friday night’s show was going to go down well was the fact that we had with us a case of Sailor Jerry Rum. Feed people enough of it and you’re well on your way to ensuring a receptive crowd. In hindsight, the crowd at the ‘Boh’ probably didn’t need too much to lose their inhibitions and the offering of rum was merely providing fuel to the proverbial fire. More accustomed to a somewhat demure and unforgiving crowd that is the Cape Town audience it was quite a welcome surprise to be confronted with what appears to be a still thriving community of ‘punks’. From ‘Cracked Rib’ Willie to the ‘Mohawked Microphone Killer’, the more than generous response we got from the crowd was greatly appreciated.  


ROL WROTE: Saturday mornings have been getting to be more of a challenge with each year, and this was the roughest Saturday morning in living memory. A sensory kaleidoscope: I awake to a taste in the back of my mouth reminding me of ‘warmed essence of sewer rat’, bright spinning catherine wheels of unwelcome morning light are projected through the window and projected onto my puffy eyelids, WonderDrummerGus can be heard snoring like a sawmill down the corridor – how did this happen?  Friday at the Bohemian was a riot. Our gracious hosts, the Carniwhores, kicked proceedings off and warmed up the disparate crowd of dirty youths with a sleazy set of dirty billyness. Zam is a dangerous man on 6 string, and Cami&Storm are a fun rhythm combo to watch and hear. The Jerry flowed, legs got a little more rubbery, smiles got looser...Next up, our co-touring amigos Peachy Keen whacked that dirty little room like a bad stepchild – you wouldn’t know they’d just sat on a bus for 22 hours. My plan to keep my head straight until *after* the set was abandoned at this point - so hot in there, just needed something to cool a parched throat, right? *GOOOSH* (mistake, I now realise). Ha! By the time the Peaches’ set was over, the dance floor was a hazard, all a-glisten with shattered bottles and slick beer puddles. We all had an itchin’ and twitchin’ feeling in our Collective Bones at this point, and so we charged into maybe the messiest and most fun sets of our mediocre little lives. All kindsa shit went wrong, broken strings and knocked over mics etc.etc., but it didn’t matter a bit and we left dripping with sweat and grinning like village idiots. The dirty humans in attendance jammed like the apocalypse was nigh, for which we couldn’t have been more grateful. Getting all 5 Bones into the same car and back to the same address was a more testing process. Sleep came only when the birdies started cheep-cheeping, and Saturday was bound to be a rough one.....  Fortunately, we were staying in highly hospitable turf – SaxophonistRob’s parents treated us reeeeaaaalll nice, and I don’t know how such nice wholesome folk could have turned out such a wicked little miscreant as he. I blame Marilyn Manson and videogames, personally. Some nutritious foodstuffs went a long way towards replenishing the boogie-ness, and by the time Cami came to fetch us we were feeling halfway normal. Our initial plan to whack Jawsfest, a daylong indie backyard fest of sorts (I think?), was aborted halfway along that Kyalami-ish road where all the larnies keep their horses, as were lost and demotivated and actually not feeling as robust as we had earlier claimed. Instead we went to lay low with our Peachy muchachos, where once again parental hospitality saved the day and we were treated far too well by Peachy Greg’s gene donors.  Off to Woody’s we go we go, and I’m struck by how many miles the Gautengers rack up in the name of a night out. In Cape Town, we’ll drive 5km for a braai, 10km for a braai if it’s a special occasion like a birthday or bachelors etc, and for 15km or more you’d have to offer your guests fellatio, cocaine or stocks. Upon arrival at Woody’s I was impressed to find that a number of the heroes from last night’s carnage at the Boh have crept back out for another round. I get the impression this is a scene that looks after and supports its own. It’s like alternative ubuntu.  The Carni’s knocked out another mean set of badness, and I hope we can introduce their madness to a Cape audience. Although I was feeling a bit heavy, I was psyched to play again after last night’s carnival fun. Despite enthusiasm, however, it was to be a challenging set, one of those nights plagued with, erm, broadly ‘technical problems’ and it felt like I was on a candid camera show – kept waiting for the sound guy to rip off his mask and say ‘ha ha there’s the camera over there mate, we’re just having you on, ha ha you’re gonna be on tv’. I looked for stitches on the back of his neck later but concluded that he was too slim to be Leon Schuster in a sound-guy suit.  Anyway, it took half an hour of farting around before we could get our set rolling, and then, first song - *shtepang* - string snaps. HarHar funny, right? Borrow a guitar from the Peaches. Next song - *krrrrklunk* - guitar strap snaps. Hi-Fucking-LARIous I’m thinking to myself, and now I really shouldn’t be drinking because I’m in the sort of vile mood to stomp a stray cat to death or feed laxative to an old homeless man or some other wicked act. Instead, we play on, stuff starts going alright again, soundguy is more or less on top of stuff, I have all 6 strings, band is feeling good, and the incredibly patient audience is warming up and starting to boogie. We decide to keep our set short and simple, for after all there is free rum to be drunk before the sun comes up, and by our last song I’ve forgotten my grumpiness, the band and I love each other like brothers, and wish that instead we could play for another hour. Peachy Keen closed the Saturday night with an act that I’m glad we didn’t have to follow, and I must confess I gave myself over to the boogie with abandon, spilling more beer on the floor than down my throat, dancing with rubbery legs, sweating like a gorilla’s nutsack. If you’ll pardon the expression.  By the end of the Peaches set, the wise thing to would’ve been to get back to the crashpad, sleep like a dead thing, and wake up feeling human on Saturday. Rob, percussion Ken and bassy Gawie opted for this moderate route of wisdom, leaving only Gus and I, the oldest and surely the more responsible, with the remaining Jerry and no particular idea of how to get from Edenvale to Greenside. Clever, ne? A series of misadventures ensued, none of which are relevant to our narrative here, except to say that Gus and I did indeed get back to safe turf and, eventually, to kulula 549 seat 24 c&d. In the few hours post-peaches, pre-flight, when I should’ve been snoozing, I had the pleasure of sharing a bottle with and chatting to many of the volkmensch who’d been so generous during our troubled set, struck by how open and friendly and patently NOT jammed up their own scenester arses they are – even though I would not be pleased if any of them were dating my daughter. Honestly, if we could find a means of covering our transport costs, I’d bring the Bone Collectors back to Joburg in a week – it might be a little longer than that, in practice, but we most certainly will be back and I’ve a feeling we’ll see many of our new friends again. Big thanks to Cami and the Carniwhores for taking such good care of us, our SailorJerry sugarmamas and papas for greasing the wheels, the sweet Peaches for their honest-to-god groovy goodness, Rob&Greg’s families for treating us like your own, and every groovy brother and sister who stomped foot at the Boh and/or Woody’s. Really hope to see the lot of you before the year is through

Submachine - Road From Babylon - Album Launch (with some Qwazaar on the side)

After a rather dismal attempt at an acoustic set with The Carniwhores at Kitcheners (Storm obviously not in attendence due to album launch commitments) I headed to Town Hall for the much anticipated launch of Submachine's debut album. And came out severly dissapointed. There just seemed to be no life to the show. Normally a Submachine show will have you screaming your lungs out while your feet are possessed by the PyschoVoodooBlackNoise. This show just seemed to lack energy. While it was well attended, well decorated, well advertised, Sailor Jerry and tattoo vouchers from The Golden Tiki being given away the whole event just seemed to lack the party element. I got there in time to see Juggernaut, but wasn't captivated and ended up outside shmoking cigarettes and enjoying the hip hop coming from The Woods where Qwazaar was playing later. A quick car bar and it was back inside to watch the mighty Submachine who just came across as exhausted after three hours of sleep after their Durban show the night before. But they held it together, and had the crowd going. I didn't see much of Half Price's set. Instead I snuck into The Woods (the stamps for both venue's were almost identical and the bouncers didn't seem to notice). Now that was a rad ass show. Though I did hop back to Town Hall for a bit in time to hear Half Price's iconic song about Titties. "I like big fat titties in my face..." I think I may have grown out of them when I was 16. The night degenerated back to Kitcheners and jamming double bass on the pavement at 4.30am with Roger Young, JR and Jade.

Next Door

March of the Punks

The hardcore punk scene in Jozi is once again live and kicking. And has doubled in size since the London Calling days. Hmmm, nostalgia of late night soccer games in the street, begging for 1's and 2's to buy R10 quarts. General drunkeness and the best of the underground scene every weekend. It was even the spot where I first got to witness Death Valley in their awesomeness. Although, most of the show I was "back stage" - it can't really be called back stage, it was a corner of the court yard where a small fence was erected to keep equipment - warming up for our set. I was playing in The Kosmonauts at the time. I remember thinking "man I'd dig to jam this stuff." Funny that.

JV and The Carburetors

JV

Anyway, London Calling died under new management. I think the building is still there, unused, waiting to be sold. And now we have The Bohemian. Well The Bohemian has always been there, and it is without a doubt the spawning ground for up coming bands in Jozi. And it is where I ended up on Thursday night after a drinking session with the WITS philosophy department. To witness what I believe is a fresh start for the Jozi hardcore punk scene. The Virulence were awesome. Tight. Got the crowd going. And JV and the Carburetors definitely have potential, although their sound check song sounded like babies crying into a microphone. No jokes. But they definitely exude some awesome energy on stage. But enough jibber, let the photos speak.

The Virulence

JV

The Weekend Starts On Wednesday

For the last few weeks it seems like Puzza Thursday has annexed by Wasted Wednesdays. Though Puzza Thursday still occurs, no doubt, the weekend just seems to start on Wednesday nights of late. Jozi has turned into a hotspot of culture and party. Maybe I've been cloistered in the punk scene for too long, but it seems that the diversity of all the scenes that have been bubbling up and growing over the past few years are suddenly coming out of the wood work and melding into something epic. What it's turning into I'm not sure, but scenes are merging, evolving, opening their eyes to see some bigger picture. I'm enjoying watching it.

So Wednesday night was spent in Benoni with The Sunday Punchers. Probably the drunkest punk/folk/rock/irish band I've had the pleasure of watching in a while (since the old Gross Misconduct Days at least). Definitely a band that's full of feeling and passion for music. I respect that. Got there earlyish and in record time, after a relatively traffic free 40 minute mission from Jozi, with Clint and Siane. Shaun was already waiting with beer. Gene wheeling is amp in. A R500 tab for the bands, we raped it, as the rest of the band trickled in. Mostert last, already a six pack down. though he swore he was sober. And we all continued to imbibe (except clint, on a sober driver mission) until the set. After which we hung around for a bit, hunted some weasels, slugged some car bar Scottish Leader. Mostert ended up with a black eye, no-ones really sure how. But that's Benoni for you.

Quinn (Drums), Mike (Guitar) and Matt (Friend)

Mostert decided he needed a prison knife. That poor steak knife never knew what broke it.

Ankia (Violin and Vocals) pregig making sure the pick up is working. Gotto love a girl who knows her equipment.

Quinn, rocking pretty boy Stee's (yep I said Stee's, its infiltrated my vocabulary)

Mike (Guitar) and Gene (Bass)

And Siane (vegetarian holding crocodile sking guitar case)