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Best of 2012 | Jack Parow and The Nature of Inbreeding

by Max Barashenkov / 27.12.2012

Originally published 20 January 2012

The Patriarch pulled his cock out of his son, slapped the hairy ass and said, “that’s it, Jack, you’re ready for real stardom now.”

The younger man hitched up his shorts, wiped the snot from his moustache and vacated the place for the next sibling to receive the blessing. Fame Under The Mountain is hard earned, the family demanding and merciless to those that stray beyond the caravan park, but, as the Patriarch likes to say, inbreeding sells. Success is not achieved here, it’s fucked into you.

Jack squatted, fished out a note pad from somewhere and, while the Patriarch’s seed was strong within him, prepared to scribble down the wisdom to come. His older brother, Francois, had already assumed the position and the Patriarch always dispensed good advice while in the act. Jack couldn’t help but envy the elasticity of Van Coke’s anus, a man bred for stardom indeed.

“Aiiiight, Parow,” exhaled the elder, easing himself into the overweight Afrikaans cultural icon, “the second record is make or break time,” shallow thrusts at first, “your braaisous is not selling that well, we need to pump up the Afrikaans nationalist angle.”

“But why must we do it here?” whined Jack, his eyes wandering over the decomposing deck chairs that littered the lawn in front of the trailer. On them lounged glamour models, carefully de-toothed and krommed-up, some heavy with the next generation of electro-zef-Bellville sensations.

“AUTHENTICITY!” roared the Patriarch, hips pumping, gold brewing in the balls, “Remember Ninja, the bastard went full retard, shitty tattoos and all, and made millions. Never underestimate the value of image, my son. It’s what made you.”

Jack swallowed the bitter truth, recalling the hated cap, the one with the oversized lid. He was sweating now.

“We’ll need something controversial, like, like…” the Patriarch paused, “Afrikaans is dood! We’ll fly that confused-Afrikaans-identity flag high. Maybe we’ll get David Kramer in on a track, the man puts out like no-one else and who can doubt his roots? I can hear acoustic guitar, the crackle of a fire and something really Boer. Like biltong.”
“Brilliant,” whispered Jack in awe. “I have a song too, something I’ve been working on, it’s about the unifying properties of brandy, the bond shared by drinkers…”
“Sure, sure,” the elder dismissed the younger man’s suggestion. “Do your thing, list random attributes of your subject, the places, the names, the drinks, but, my dear Jack, this record is not about you. No matter how much I expel into you, your act is only paper thin,” when in heat, the Patriarch tended towards the brutal, “and it is time for the family to step in.”

“But I don’t want to be a leech, I am my own artist!” objected Jack.

“Shut your mouth, ungrateful upstart,” the Patriarch thrust hard. Francois whimpered. “Without us, without your brothers,” he patted the rock n roller’s glistening back, “you are nothing. We’ll need to be strategic. Electro must feature heavily, so we can get your ass into Assembly gigs, that’s where the money is. I’m thinking, lay that illiteracy you call rap over some Sibot or Haezer beats. Yes, yes. And maybe get in with those freaks from P.H.fat, they’re trending.”

“But they use words I can’t understand…” Parow put up feeble resistance, but knew the wisdom of the Patriarch’s words. A record riding on the styles of others made perfect sense and who was he to dispute it. Such were the ways of this place, nesting lazily under the crooked and fading sign, ‘Olympus Caravan Park’.

“We’ll get Gazelle too, lend you that African flavour, so you can prance around overseas, ‘a real South African export’ the headlines will say.” The Patriarch was truly in his groove, manifesting hits, one after another. “It will have the catchiest chorus, maybe something Bollywood-themed? Perhaps. Then we’ll show off your emotional side, something concerned, moving… Pierre Greef! His nasal boredom will be needed. A masturbation anthem for the meisies, it will be! That reminds me, send Pierre in after we’re done here, he is overdue for a session.”

Jack knew better than to interrupt the Patriarch’s flow and jotted it all down. The elder did his best work while in Francois.

“Consolidation is needed too,” puffed the wise man. “Rewrite… what was that single of yours? ‘Cooler As Ekke’? Something about you being the shit. If you tell them so, they will believe it. Francois,” he yanked the singer by the hair, arching his back, the flab wobbling, “I take it you will have no problem re-hashing ‘DansDansDans’? Should be piss easy, keep the formula the same, maths never fails.”

Francois moaned in response, already close to orgasming out the future colab hit. Jack grinned, success was assured.

“Oh yesss… it will be good, fuuuuck!” The Patriarch finally ejaculated, fame-bringing seed filling up Van Coke’s derriere. “You’ll go platinum, the reviews will sing your praise, the dancefloors will shake.” The elder was pleased, “and the press releases will lie: South Africa’s dangerous, romantic rapper, Jack Parow…”

Jack Parow - Clouds

jack Parow - Octopus

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