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“Charming spot. Inspiring prospects,” Sir Ian McKellen whispers. He’s perched on the edge of a makeshift stage, glaring into the darkness. Into the gloomy half-light of Oliver Tambo Sports Hall in Khayelitsha. Things are going on. Real things. Not in the play. A plastic chair squawks. An infant squirms. A young girl folds her homework. But the show has begun. read more…
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COMMENTS (6) |
Dr Catherine Stewart is lost. Although she’s a successful gynaecologist, she no longer knows how to seduce David, her husband, and feels invisible in a world of younger and supposedly more beautiful women. The men around her are obsessed with girls – her teenage son is sleeping with his sweetheart under her roof, her male colleague has a partner half his age and David, a university professor, is constantly chatting to his young students. read more…
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What has a hundred legs and one pube? The queue outside Jesters in PE. Nah, it’s usually not that bad. More like a handful of birds and a family feast sized braaipack of wors. For a place that usually caters for white painted faces, black nails and emo fringes, the other night’s menu served up a jovial mix of genres with the usual copious beer drinking quota. read more…
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Ferial Haffajee looks like she’s about to bitchslap Jackson Mthembu! The media finally meets the ANC national spokesperson over the proposed Protection of Information Bill. This is the SABC’s attempt at an unbiased current affairs debate. But what it turns into is an opportunity for Mthembu to blatantly lie about the biggest threat to media and public freedom in South Africa. He swears the proposed bill won’t lead to censorship or the arrest of journalists. Even Zuma recently said commentators are over-reacting. But tell that to Sunday Times journalist Mzilikazi wa Afrika and the pack of cops who dragged him to an Mpumulanga jail. read more…
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It’s getting a little late. We’re pumping Doomriders first album Black Thunder, nodding heads to their abrasive blend of bluesy hardcore, and screeching down Baden Powell Drive like a soccer mom car out of Hell. I didn’t get a Pontiac Firebird for my 21st. Renault Modus. Laugh it up. read more…
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Cynical Me and Positive Me are having a fight near the edge of the Assembly’s stage during New Holland’s set on Saturday night. Cynical Me is clearly losing because we’re no longer at the back sitting on the steps and judging from a distance, which was our position during the guitar power pop (without any real power) of Third World Spectator. I had missed Red Huxley due to a certain reluctance, lets just say, on my part to even come to this gig. I’ve always just lumped New Holland in with the Bellville bands and have built a solid foundation of prejudices toward them without ever seeing a gig or listening to any of their tracks. read more…
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The lives of the young and disaffected are now spent in a war against boredom. In this fresh century, modern sensations are so easy to find and experience as to have become almost assaultive: they throb on screens, and wail from radios and brush up against your thigh when you’d rather be alone. Experiences that would’ve excited and fascinated entire heritages past are reduced now to plastic playthings. There’s no excuse for anything to be boring. And this was my rather desultory impression of the opening pages of Galgut’s novel, served in cold and functional prose. read more…
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I met one of my heroes the other day. His name is Sage Francis, a slam poet and emcee hailing from Rhode Island, USA. He is the anti-thesis of the 50 Cent candy rapper generation and is one of the few people making hip-hop today that is truly taking the music to new frontiers as well as remaining true to the old school heroes like Public Enemy and KRS One. He has gathered a worldwide cult following as is often the case with slightly obscure, so called ‘underground artists’. read more…
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Sea Monkeys |
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Personal Mandelas |
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Bad Lieutenant |
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Planet of the Fakes? |
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LV featuring OK Malumkoolkat |
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Dodge Diner |
