About Advertise
Culture, Music


by Bartlett / Illustration by Alastair Laird / 03.10.2012

I’m at the quarry when I get the call from Maximum Davis. Even against this grey-stained moonlit sky it’s possible to make out form against the rocky horizon. The form of animal life. The life of dassies. Scurrying busily for food, scavenger vermin that they are. I line one up in my sites and then… Pfwat! The sound of my .22 pierces the air… doof… splash… the dassie bounces off the sheer embankment and lands in the quarry lake. My Pyrenees Mountain Dog lumbers off to retrieve his supper and I take Maximum’s call.

“What you up to, B?”
“Nothin much.”
“Listen dude, I’ve gotta go to this Sowing the Seeds gig and make nice with Brian from Rocking the Daisies. He thinks I’m a dick ’cos of something Roger wrote about Rocking the Daisies last year. Anyway, I need a wingman.”
“Sure. I’ll be your Huckleberry. Come find me at the quarry.”

I’m on some high-adrenaline Zen tip, meditating high, up on a cliff edge overlooking the city bowl when Maximum rocks up, shattering the silence. Before long he’s boring me with shit about his personal life… yadda yadda, Mahala this, I’ve started doing yoga surf training, yadda yadda, Mahala that, my back hair is growing down into my asshole… till I finally get the chance to squeeze two words in.

“Let’s bounce.”

The dog’s left in the back of the van chowing on some organic Table Mountain dassie as we parachute into the warzone that is Long Street on a Saturday night. Destination Zula Bar. Maximum sniffs out the guest list, drops his venerable name plus one, and we’re soon on the red carpet, charfing the Daisies PR chicks.

“Oh, Andy Davis from Mahala.” They smile. “Brian especially wanted you to have this. It’s Bloc Party’s latest album.”

“Cool, would you mind holding onto my goodie bag for me till I leave?” Maximum is nonplussed and nonchalant. He’s like come dude, watch how I roll.

We tear up the stairs and make a beeline for backstage. Canapés and cucumber sticks and ice buckets filled with Bos Ice tea are spread out between musos taking themselves too seriously. I’m packing the heat of a hipflask filled with Maker’s Mark, so I settle in on a comfy couch.

“Wow, these Daisies guys really know how to put on a spread.”
“They sure do. Brian was in the film industry before this, so he knows about hospitality and logistics.”
“Dude, have you got a spare plectrum?”
“Would anyone like a cold Jagermeister?”

Conversations start and finish, but that last question gets my attention. Before long I leave Maximum to his own devices and start making out with one of the Jagie tweens in the stairwell. It’s all so forbidden, but all oh so firm.

When we return, Maximum is bromancing with Richard from Isochronous. Dude’s got a serious man crush on the guy. He’s all like Hey Richard, and then touches his chest.

“You look like a blond, gay Adolf Hitler.”
“Yeah, and you’re my little Jewish bitch Davis!”

It’s enough to make you wanna kotch. That, and the whisky and Jagies and cucumber sticks and suckface-a-thon shitfest that’s been happening backstage for the last two hours. It’s time to hit the dancefloor, where they’re dishing out tickets to Rocking the Daisies for those with enough skaam to show that they care. Because cruising along on the fine line between disinterest and disdain is what makes this crowd so quintessentially Cape Town.

There’s a chick on stilts stealing dudes’ fedoras (serves them right) and shoving her guava in their faces as if to make up for it. A midget does a backward somersault to impress a lady giant and smashes an onlookers’ Black Label. A guy in a monkey suit is beating off his banana cock with a frenzy while the women in the crowd all look like they need to cum but don’t know how.

In fact this whole scene would be a lot more honest if we all just moseyed around with cum shot faces, ejaculate dripping from our lips, the walls dripping in neon jizz. We are whores, Cape Town. Sluts for the freebie, goodtime tramps. But unlike a good whore, we are fucking hard to please. Rocking the Daisies throw us pre-parties and bring out Bloc Party and give us motherfucking cucumber sticks and we go meh.

Rumspringer rocked that night. I learnt something watching them, while wikipediaing their etymological origins on my iPhone 5. Just kidding, I don’t have an iPhone 5, yet. I learnt that the band’s name comes from the Amish word ‘Rumspringa’ which refers to a window period that Amish kids have during adolescence (between the ages of 14 to 16), when they have the choice to get baptized within the Amish church, or leave the community and go and get good and properly fucked in the real world like the rest of us. And they’re not even judged for their actions later on, if and when they decide to become Amish adults. It’s their one monster pink ticket in life. Their one chance to taste life’s sweet pussy juice.

Maximum is also on his iPhone, taking photos of Richard from ISO as the band come onstage.

“Jeez Davis, you sure have got a hard on for these guys.”
“Ja, I know. I just love their music man. And if I had to fuck one of them, I reckon I’d take it up the arse from the drummer.”

The pop happy sounds of ISO eke out as we leave Zula Bar. Not because you can hear the band’s set over the din of Long Street dealers offering you good weed and charlie, but because Maximum is now playing them on his iPhone. Now that is gay.

“I know when you go, there will be no light to show the way…
I know when you go, there will be no fire, no fire no fire…”

*Illustrations © Alastair Laird.

7   0