*Comic © Alastair Laird.

At one stage of history the French had two La Reunions. The first, an island in the Indian Ocean where I happened to find myself at a theatre festival last week; the second a small socialist utopian community that only lasted a few years at the end of the nineteenth century in Texas. The second Reunion is dead as the Dodo which is the symbol of the first. The French have never been good communists, no matter what their philosophers write, but they were kinder colonialists than the British. They attempted to turn their subjects into good French citizens and bring their language and cultures into their empire. And they’re still doing it today. The Creoles on Reunion Island call the Francophones ‘z’oreilles’ (the ears) because they hold their hands to their ears when they don’t understand the local dialect.

The theatre is a funny community. We’re all there being given the same things, accepting the same information, believing the same things. A play or an act must appeal to a crowd instead of the individual, must appeal to everyone at once. Novels and poems are for enjoying alone, but a show must, within limited space and limited time, appeal to the assembly. And a theatre audience is not a normal crowd: unlike a football mob or a church congregation there maybe little in common from seat to seat. And we all sit there watching, waiting to be brought to life, influenced and entertained by what we see, like marionettes with slack strings.

There were two particularly good puppet shows in the Leu Tempo festival, one from Reunion and the other from Belgium. The Reunion puppet company is called Theâtre des Alberts and their show Théodore, le Passager du Rêve. Théodore, a puppet with long arms and legs, is a dreamer. Accompanied by Aristophanes the owl, he leaves from platform 19 in the station west of dreams on a quest for love. On his journey through a fantastical landscape, passing in and out of scenes in cardboard boxes, he encountered many strange and marvellous things. The tiny stages were projected large onto a screen at the back of the room and the artistry was quite stunning.

The children in the audience had been invited to sit at the front and they began to crawl slowly forwards, leaning over the edge of the stage, as though they hoped that a closer look might tip them into Théodore’s world.

Theatres d’un Jour, a Belgian company, presented L’Enfant qui… a story based on the life of the sculptor Jephan de Villiers who spent much of his youth ill and confined to a hospital bed. Aesthetically the set is like one of his sculptures. As a child he lived near a wood and would wander around picking up feathers and sticks and making things out of them, and the young puppet child does the same, picking up odd leaves and sticks and placing them in the hands of the audience.

It was strange, a bit like a Brothers’ Grimm fairy tale and all to the sound of a single cello. There were acrobats who teased and tormented the child, throwing him into a metal hospital bed and blowing white powder into his face.

It was intimate, performed to a small audience so that we are close to the puppet and close to the fear. The little puppet was young and vulnerable with wide unblinking eyes behind his spectacles and manoeuvred by a gentle woman, like a mother who made him seem so human.

The relationship between a good puppeteer and their puppet is not just that of animating the thing. This morning I pressed a button and the kettle came to life, I moved a belt through my trouser loops and it danced against my hips but neither of these things are puppets. To create the illusion of life the puppeteer must give the puppet breath, must share a life force with it.

There was one South African group that made it into the Leu Tempo programme: the Mayolaboots. A band of gumboots dancers from Soweto who teamed up with some Creole musicians. Their show, which they stomped out twice a day in front of the town hall was, as expected: rhythmic, enthusiastic and energetic, though perhaps not as refined as some of the other performances.

They wore orange and blue boilersuits and orange hard hats, which they never took off, not even when they were eating. They had taken over a section of the press area, against the ankles of one of the stretch tents, filled it with chairs and a few cushions and they would go there to digest, leaning their helmets against the backs of the chairs. Some days there’d be others with them, local women who seemed magnetically drawn to them. Other days they’d sit alone. It was quite an exclusive set up; you wanted to be hanging with the gumboot dancers. I thought about interviewing them, but every time I went near they’d look from my eyes down to my canvas shoes and move as if to hit on me.

The night the festival ended there was a Grand Parade down the main street of Saint Leu, bands and floats and painted faces on poles. When the parade and all its raucous followers had passed through the residents set up speakers at intervals along the street. Liked parked cars with their radios on and only the passengers on the street dancing. And there were pancake sellers, kebab vendors and pizza vans on every corner.

And after the show there’s the after party, by invitation only, held in the Ravine behind the town. In the same venue where I had seen the first performance a week ago, I now danced under a shiny disco ball with it’s cast.

At the airport in the morning I bought myself an over-billed café enorme the size of a shot of espresso and sat waiting. The Maloyaboots dancers were on the same flight back to Johannesburg, I saw their bright plastic hats coming towards the departure gate. I had left the Après at around 2am, and had crossed them in the car park heading in.
‘Were you up all night?’
‘Yes sisi. South Africans don’t get tired.’
Within 20 minutes of takeoff they had all collapsed forward over their tray tables: a whole row, all with their helmets and boiler suits still on, asleep in their seats. Soothed by the low hum of the aeroplane’s engine. The curtains were going down on the week we’d had, a week where the Island became a stage and we all merely players. I left almost as tired as when I’d arrived, the week slipping behind me into memory and as we landed and the boys in boots woke up it felt like it could all have been a dream.

Epilogue
To the many acts I never mentioned I am sorry, you were too good and too many.

Read part one and part two here.

* Images © Le Poulailler

Disclaimer: This is a story about Snoop Lion. But first… a preamble. Please bear with me!

I met the prince of the Zulu Nation in an Ayurvedic clinic in downtown Durban. I didn’t know who he was at the time of course. We exchanged a couple words through our bug-infested lungs under the watchful eyes of a golden 6-foot Ganesha. “That was horrible,” he said after having his brain doused in black oily liquid concocted by some Indian mystic in the jungles of Goa. Little did I know, I had just met a direct descendent of the great Shaka, fearsome warrior-king of the Zulu Nation.

Fast forward a couple weeks and I’m shmoozing with celebs in the VIP tent at the Snoop Lion gig courtesy of MTV and Mahala dot fucking coza. ‘How the hell did I end up here?’ I’m thinking as I hit up the free drinks and chow like a ravenous ghetto child. Soon I’m charging about with wild abandon like a pretend rock star, hoping my friends don’t unfriend me for bailing on them to exploit my virgin VIP experience.

Some dub-flavoured afro-rap saturated in Americanism is emanating off the main stage. ‘I wonder when Snoop’s coming on?’ I think to myself like an ignoramus. Hey there’s Bob Perfect from DIY, lemme go glean some info off that cat…

Me and Bob get together like whitey conspirators, sticking out like green hats and orange hair. I’m quietly laughing at his Eminem Tee and he’s probably chuckling at me in my Run DMC hoodie. We’re like albino rap groupies crashing a BEE tender party.

Bob fills me in on all the great acts of the night and how epic the press conference was… so I decide to give up on my journalistic endeavours. I need a camera.

The problem is my third eye got confiscated at security, so its time for Plan B. I hijack a camera from a young Media24 journo (thank you Alex) and get busy snapping the celebrities and posers alike.

Next thing I know I spot the cool cat from the Ayurvedic clinic (remember the preamble?) and he tells me he’s the prince of the Zulu nation and now I’m in the middle of the Zulu Royal Family with their leopard skins and Armani suits, waving iPhones and bottles of Jack like assegais in the good ‘ol days.

And the Prince is telling me all sorts of mystic shit about Zulus and heaven, conquering Europeans, love and Mary Jane.

I soon tire of my faux-celeb experience and decide to get back to the real world… the main pit where the masses are shaking their asses in a deliciously ignorant orgy of bling and leopard skins.

It aint nothing but a G thing baby!

Snoop eventually graces the stage at about midnight and drops three or four classics to get the old faithful Dogg fans clutching their dangles with joy… he drops his verse from ‘Still Dre’, then rocks ‘Gin and Juice’ and that Pimpin track with 5 Cents.

Snoop’s also rocking the leopard skin head gear, just like the young prince and the other members of the fam. I wonder if he made a detour into the jungle on his way from Cali to slay one of our last remaining big cats.

It reminds me of that Tim Buckley line: “I just wanted to be a hunter again.” Forget Snoop Lion… more like Snoop Leopard, lost son of the Zulu Nation.

Snoop swerves around the stage like he’s swimming through water. His china eyes smiling like crescent moons. Everyone in the crowd lights up… but the Lion shows a bit of discretion. The MTV peeps must have him on lockdown; especially after last time he was in Poison City… when he stepped on stage and blazed a 6-inch bat of DP One. Snoop and the band were pelted with Mary Jane for the rest of the one-hour show.

Anyway, Snoop quickly shifts gear and starts playing some R and Bizzle with a dancehall twang and three bodacious ladies take the stage to shake their ghetto booties and it’s all rather ridiculous.

My brother passes out from the excitement and we drag his 6’4 frame through the crowd like a battering ram. Fix him up with some liquid and head to Johnny’s to refuel.

And I’m left wondering about Snoop re-incarnate. In Rastafari, “The Lion of Judah” represents Emperor Haile Selassie I, Jesus re-incarnate, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah. Now Snoop’s taken on that crown, after a spiritual metamorphosis in Bob Marley’s humble abode, in the heart of Jamaica.

Snoop was a great emcee, a sharp lyricist with one of the most unique voices to come out of the 90s. Although he was completely misogynist, homophobic, drug and gun toting… that’s gangster rap for you. It was a revolutionary time and he was a part of a movement to shake up the establishment.

Now we have Snoop Lion the Rastafari, reggae star. And the question that begs to be asked is: would anybody be listening to his reggae if it weren’t for Doggystyle, his Dre collabos and his umpteen rap studio albums? Probably not.

I love reggae… Bob Marley is one of the greatest revolutionaries of our time. But Snoop can’t sing, he’s lost the energy to write new lyrics and his reggae/dance-hall R&B ish is about as deep as a puddle in the ghetto. But the old Dogg is now preaching positivity and Jah love instead of fuelling the East Coast/West Coast feud and killing cops. So I guess that’s cool. Even if his identity is more screwed up than a Zulu Warrior, wearing Armani, rolling down the street in a Rikshaw, sipping on Gin and Juice.

*All images © Samora Chapman

Furious 6 announces itself with a splurge of generic sluts, the throaty roar of sovereign engines. Media previews are, ordinarily, a rather sombre affair: the same five or six critics, with their handfuls of stale popcorn. Today, however, the magnetic draw of this film has gathered at least ten times that number, mostly Athlone’s finest casuals who have, somehow, managed to evade Nu Metro’s asshole security in pursuit of a free ride. Furious 6 is classical action cinema, contoured and arched with perfect idiotic sublimity over its two-hour duration. Like most of this species of action cinema, it is immediately globalised, ranging across Moscow and Macau, London and Bratheel. The arresting crisis for a franchise of this sort, is how to elaborate complex car chases around a plot that deals with global terrorism and geopolitical anxiety (my fondness for this phrase will dissipate in due course, I imagine). It requires an improbable series of narrative maneuvers to rush into each fabricated car chase; it requires, also, an anti-terrorist unit who think that Mustang fast-backs choreographing themselves in beautiful spurts of acceleration/deceleration are the desired method for taking down tanks and aeroplanes.

There are two meatheads at the helm here. The first is Vin Diesel, with his cut-glass voice and primate charisma; the other is Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, with shoulders of such unthinkable girth as to be purely absurd. Feminists may rejoice in the knowledge that female leads in this film are no longer surrendered to the “damsel-in-distress” role, but have rather gained ascension into the same sphere of moronic psychopathy with which male action heroes are usually represented (but, please, don’t get me wrong: there are enough tamed and victim-worthy wives and girlfriends lamming in our peripheral vision). Diesel and Johnson – this is not the name of new haute couture house of designer steroids – come together for two reasons. Johnson needs a team of experts to take on a new terrorist threat which, apparently, the combined might of American military intelligences and arsenals cannot. Diesel has the people for the job, the recurring cast of the Furious franchise: Paul Walker, Tyrese Gibson, Ludacris, Sung Kang and Gal Gadot. They are all wanted crims in exile from America, dodging extradition laws in far-flung places. Their stake in helping Johnson is simple. Michelle Rodriguez, series regular, has been presumed dead/missing, and Johnson has evidence she is in fact, alive – although curiously in the employ of the enemy. For this reason, Diesel summons the valorous principle of “family” – you never give up on family et cetera et cetera – and brings back his odd gang to rescue their former sister.

This is not an especially believable principle. None of these seven are de facto family, but rather friends, associates, partners-in-crime, possible lovers. They are also, lest we forget, anarchic thugs, criminals, the traditional bad-guys, and their commitment to this phantasmal notion of “family” is cutesy but ridiculous. To give us some form of empathic community with these bad-guys, the film-makers have had to engineer some strange ethical sleights-of-hand. Having maimed and destroyed their way through five earlier incarnations, they are all unexplainably anti-collateral damage. But the whole principle of illegal street-racing, their unifying interest, is entirely pro-harming innocent lives. In a set-piece race scene which curves through the lamp-lit arteries of London, Diesel and Rodriguez have to throw every passerby into imminent threat of collision with their contorted motions across the freeways. They are inserted into a lifestyle which takes collateral damage as a principle, so when Owen Shaw, this year’s antagonist, starts crunching over civilian drivers in a stolen tank, and Rodriguez starts to register such pangs of emotional regret, we need to wonder a little about this contradiction between explicit/implicit violence.

Batman, as an aside, is a victim of the same stupidities. He, almost childishly, refuses to kill as an ethical dictum, yet he condemns his assailants to the most tortured lives when he’s done crushing spines and rushing faces into concrete walls. He too, with his explosions and batmobile car-chases must destroy innocent lives in the spectacle of his justice-pursuits, yet his conscience is clean of the violence he performs peripherally, outside the purview of the main vision. This refusal to accept the violence imbricated in the work of vigilantism, and it’s the same logic at work in Furious 6, is among the most enduring ethical problems in action cinema: protagonists or heroes who are not allowed to face up to their implicated-ness in a violence that extends beyond the explicit act of pulling the trigger.

I have given a sketch of the plot above, but clearly the narrative framework here is designed as a method to control and flex the quantities of action – it is obvious in the way set-pieces organically evolve from simple beginnings into magnificent and saturnalian scenes of excess. The film is tame on actual blood and evisceration (clearly aiming to penetrate the widest and youngest audience possible; they have also excised the usual plenary of pendulous nude breasts, limiting objectification to the bikini-ed and g-stringed). But the choreography of its violence is almost balletic, fitted to this form in its exquisite brutality. It suggests the thing that Hollywood should really surrender itself to but almost never does: a glorious composite of surrealism and violence. Dispense with plot altogether and simply run protagonists through a gauntlet of bloody and increasingly intense trials. It is apparent to most that the plots in these films, as I’ve said, are functions to control blood-letting and thereby manipulate tension and drama – they are absurd and do not survive the most simple of inquisitions (why did Walker have himself incarcerated when he could have just sent Johnson over to America, for example?). Take the anarchic spirit of Jodorowsky and marry him to the impulses for carnage and tension and produce a whole palette of sensory mind-fucks.

Furious 6 is, finally, not a bad film as far as its species goes. Certainly, the dialogue is atrocious, its men are the product of the dictatorship of testosterone, savagely gargantuan and revolting, the plotting is ridiculous, the motives are dubious, and the logic is foolish. But at the same time, it summons such gloriously absurd set-pieces – just millions of dollars pumped into reproducing a comic-heroic world we are denied by the limits of reality. The fighting sequences feature truly satisfying flying kicks and the sound brings out a thunderous connection with each punch that simply cannot exist within the natural laws of acoustics. It’s the apotheosis of the Hollywood escapist fantasy: totally unthinking, physically impossible, stereotypical to the point of disaster, entertaining and with no pressure or injunction to learn anything. As the pre-credits coda assures us, too, there will be a sequel – and so the endless, autotelic succession of this simulacra continues ad infinitum.

Here at Mahala we have high friends in places, and some of them happen to live on a tropical island in the middle of the Indian Ocean and each year they have a huge music festival called SAKIFO, featuring acts like Manu Chao, Cody ChesnuTT and Salif Keita, amongst many others. And this year, we’ve put together an insane package to get you to the island in time for the tunes… Around that you can surf one of the world’s finest waves, hike up volcanoes, jump off waterfalls and drink Dodo beers. All for a scant R9900. Believe it because it’s true!

What you get is 7 nights on the island, return airfare from Johanesburg to Reunion Island, tickets to the festival, transfers to the lodge, bed and breakfast… Price is per person sharing. But you need to move quick sharp, because this shindig kicks off next Sunday 02 June!

If you’re interested hit us up right here! These prices are a once in a lifetime kind of thing. And don’t panic, South Africans no longer need a visa to visit Reunion. Price includes:

Flights ex JNB
Airport taxes
7 nights at Big Bird Lodge
One way transfer to St Leu
Ticket to Sakifo Music Festival
R9990 pps

Dates: 02 to 09 June 2013

Below are some of the class acts you’ll catch on stage at SAKIFO:

And here are some pics to get you juiced!

*All images © Greg Ewing.

Visiting Krugersdorp for the first time is like taking a trip through time to the the old Transvaal. Our connection to the crew, William, said he’d meet us by the Krugersdorp Museum in a white bakkie. It doesn’t help that every second vehicle is a white bakkie. Luckily there’s only one museum.

We find him and he beckons us to follow. We try and keep up, not wanting to lose ourselves to the West Rand. A large concrete sign marks our arrival, ‘Welcome to Kagiso’. Tswana for peace, the empty streets, live up to their name on this Monday morning. “We’re here,” says William, pulling over in front of a face brick wall, almost entirely unremarkable in a whole street of face brick walls.

The orange tinted windows colour the light like Fanta. Via Volcano are the pioneers of the innovated pantsula form they call ‘tapsula’. They’re all seated, sipping coffee in the orange glow as we enter their headquarters. “We practically live here,” says Elvin, while his fellow crew members take their seats on an assortment of beer crates, which later double as props in their routine. “Monday to Friday, 8am to 5pm, this is our home.” There’s no mistaking that. Posters of the shows the crew have performed over the years decorate the walls and a trophy cabinet sits in a corner, proudly displaying the efforts of a successful career in shiny brass, plastic, ebony and ribbons.

“When you say you dance ispantsula in the townships, they would say you’re a hooligan. So we decided to screw taps into our shoes and show them, there’s more to pantsula than you think.” Explains Elvin. “Well, we actually glued them at first, but they kept falling off,” corrects Elrich, Elvin’s identical twin.

Via Volcano, formed by William and his friend Sphiwe back in 1994, was created to encourage dancing in the Kagiso community. Almost two decades later with a group that’s grown to over 30, they’re still working within the community trying to spread the performing arts. “When we came up with the name we thought of something strong and unstoppable. What’s more unstoppable than a volcano?”

The core of the crew as it stands today, got together back in 2001. But it took until 2005 for things to finally galvanise for the Volcanoes. “That year we won the Gauteng Dance Showcase. We were chosen to represent Gauteng in a series of workshops which led to us being chosen to go to the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown,” recalls Elvin. The impact of this exposure completely changed the face of Via Volcano. “It was the first time we were exposed to choreography – we learnt so much. After that, we returned the following year with our own production – Ayashisa Amateki.” He adds.

We break as the crew readies themselves for a display of what differentiates them from being just another pantsula crew. Apart from tapping, it’s clear Via Volcano have broken the boundaries of any specifically defined dance style. It’s a powerful show of movement, at times borrowing elements from Michael Flatley, but with a whistle and the squeak of converse shoes bringing it back to the pantsula roots. It’s clear these guys have moved far beyond Kagiso – all the way to China, in fact.

“Yes, we toured four cities in China. That was the first time they saw panstula that side.” Says Elvin. “They actually asked for us to close the festival. To be the last act is considered an honour there. It was very special for us.” The crew returns to their crates. Since China, the guys have toured Europe but have had to turn down offers to travel to the Unites States due to funding issues. It’s a constant refrain in the Mzansi dance world: never enough money to match the opportunities.

But there’s no feeling sorry for themselves at the Via Volcano crew. What do they do when they’re not rehearsing for a show or honing a routine for a competition? “When there’s peace, we prepare for war. That’s how you become number 1.” Elvin answers, delivering his Sun Tzu wisdom.

With such a track record, including twice being named Gauteng Mapantsula Kings, the one thing the Volcanoes don’t lack is confidence. “Last year we attended the Beat Battle finals and watched. We knew then we’d be able to get to the finals the following year. If anyone’s going to take the title from the Reptilez it’s going to be us!” Says Elvin. “Just look at our trophy cabinet.” He points to the corner. “It’s full.”

“We’re going to have to buy a new one soon,” adds Elrich.

* All images © Sydelle Willow Smith

Here at Mahala albums tend to pile up and clog the trestle tables. Mostly, they’re not exactly worth a full review but definitely a mention. Occasionally we compile a selection of music you should know about, either as a recommendation or a warning.

James Blake/ James Blake/ KH

This 22 year old singer-songwriter from London has seemed to polarise listeners through the creation of his incredibly tender take on the dubstep genre. Blake’s mix of his melodic voice, simplistic lyrics and complex synthesising has resulted in an unusual musical cocktail. His self-titled debut album did not leave him on the music charts for long, yet critics believe such a distinctive sound should not be there at all. His tracks shake listeners out of the sleepy acceptance of sweet-sounding contemporary music. Blake is not always easy to digest. At times one wonders if he is simply trying too hard and whether his true challenge would be to produce something ordinary. Indeed, his weakest tracks are his most simplistic. The track ‘Give me mouth’ makes him sound like any other blues musician. And yet ‘I never learnt to share’ could not be more haunting. The circular use of lyrics, echoes, bass and piano create a hypnotic sound that will not speak to everyone, but to those it does, it consume.

Stray Arrows: A Collection of Favourites/ Chevelle/ TG

I’ve never heard of Chevelle before. And I doubt you have either. That’s because they’re nothing great. Generic rock. Before I even looked them up, I had the quick thought that this sounds like Christian-rock, or something like that, whatever that is. Basically, I thought to myself – this sounds like…. Rock. Ya, but not like the Stones or anything slightly reflexive of their bluesy origin. Nope. Rather, I thought – radio rock. Or generic rock. Or Christian rock. And thus, after a further read, I find out these guys are controversial in the Christian world – they’re of faith, but try and distance their performance and art from preaching the word on stage, much to the dismay of the American (Christian) audience. They’re from Chicago. They were originally two brothers, a third then joined, and left. They then incorporated a brother-in-law. Anyway, the band has done very well in the States, selling over 4 million copies. This Album is a compilation of their best hits.

Exile/ Hurts/ SZ

What is the New Romantic genre if not pop music for grown-ups? A place where a man can sing in a suit and tie without any sense of irony. For all the recent Eighties revivalists very few have ventured into this territory. Hurts, however, is one such band; disarming with us with their synth charms and Tony Hadlee-esque chin dimples while at the same time damaging us with a look at the brutal beauty that is the romantic beast. The first half of this album is a tad saccharine at times but side B definitely matures into something a bit darker. One can hear strong influences of Depeche Mode but sadly without the brevity of Martin Gore’s lyrics. Although a decent outing Exile is still more for fans than anything with strong crossover potential. Nothing stands out as obviously as “Wonderful Life”, their debut single off their last album. Fingers crossed for next time.

Wolf/ Tyler, the creator/ AVW

A lot has been said about Tyler, the creator. He has been praised for relentless promotion of individualism while others criticize him for his overly-apathetic nature which accompanies accusations of homophobia and misogyny. Tyler and his Odd future crew have rapidly risen in profile, but the “we don’t give a fuck” novelty value which made them so popular has worn off and most reviewers and journalist are wondering when they will grow up. This being Tyler, the creator’s third album Wolf does not hint at any change in attitude. His first two efforts, Bastard and Goblin, brought a tremendous energy to Hip-Hop, hitting a B-12 straight into its veins, but Wolf shows his failure in displaying true growth. Though there is a decent amount of collaborations that seem great, most of them add no depth to the album, especially Pharell Williams’ signature falsetto which seems to irritate more than serenade on IFHY. Tyler’s rhymes truly display his weakness as a lyricist, with every word littered with too much profanity and homophobic slurs. Now his anger and need to shock has ended up forced and that sincerity which accompanied his anger and aggression has disappeared. Treehome95 adds a beautiful raw edge to the album with Erykah Badu’s contributions mixing perfect and subtle jazz vocals with a simplistic beat while songs such as Parking lot and Domo23 continue the played out Odd Future ADHD energy with every second increasingly the agitation. But though the majority of the album’s beats, influenced by Jazz and the current Los Angeles instrumental hip hop scene, show a great improvement from backroom beats of his first two efforts, most of the album is easy to forget.

AVW – Andrei van Wyk
TG – Timothy Gabb
SZ – Stanley Zive
KH – Kim Harrisberg

What do you get if you smoke a lot of dope and then mix two Australians and a couple of musical instruments? Well in Brisbane, you get a swirl of punk laced garage rock with bogan-surfy overtones by a duo who call themselves the Dune Rats. Danny Beusa and BC Michaels, aka the Dune Rats, only started making music in 2011, so they are still pretty fresh on the scene. And they’re brand spanking new in South Africa. These two kids from Brisbane are bringing their dirty-fucking-garage-rock to the Puma Social Club tomorrow. We caught up with Danny to see what he thinks of our beloved country.

Mahala: How have you been finding South Africa so far?

Danny: We haven’t slept and our faces hurt from smiling so much, all of that is a good thing. We fucking love this place and every person we’ve met has partied with us nonstop.

How has it come about that you are on tour here?

We wanted to go to somewhere different, so BC put up a picture of a cute cat and asked someone to pay for our flights on Facebook. Our man Tyson did the legend and then we met Henk (our SA wrecking ball) through Vice Magazine and a rad dude named Martin helped us.

Do you have a big South African fan base?

Thought we’d have fuck all if I’m being honest. But we knew the people were dope, the drugs good and the women attractive so it was a pretty easy choice.

Is this your first time here?

Yeah, we saw a few movies… but it isn’t the same.

How is an SA crowd different from an Aussie crowd?

Fuck. Well, based off our first shows about 600 times the size and fucking nuts. The fucking nuts thing our Aussie mates have but we were blown away by how many people came… like a blowjay.

Do you admire any SA bands?

Tonnes. None have egos. Well none of the cunts that we’ve met, they just wanna play music and party. Short Straw, PH FAT, City Bowl Mizers, Beast, Beach Party, Fruit and Veggies.

Who inspires you?

Our mates who don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone who is a scummy fuckbag. They aren’t all in bands, they are just creative people who hate negative shit.

You call yourself 2.5 mates. That’s Danny and BC and…? Why ‘2.5’ mates? What’s the extra half?

That’s Brett our bass player, he has a dick but it was semi bitten on by a ferret he had once. Ages ago.

How do you go about writing your songs?

Grab the guitar and watch television. Or smoke cones and then when something sounds cool I’ll show BC and he’ll say if its shit or cool, and it works the same way with him. Then when Brett came along it was just two people to say if it was fucked or not.

Do you often (ever?) write songs when you’re high?

Always.

How does if affect your creative process?

Makes it more patient and less agitated.

Have you tried the local weed? How do you find the quality?

Yeah its fucking unreal, I have two massive bags with me right now and they are the best friends ever.

Tell us about the video for ‘Red Light, Green Light’. How did that come about? It was a fan voted clip right?

Nah, we thought it would be funny to rip the shit out of cones like our mates DZ DEATHRAYS who attack a bottle of Jaeger in their video. Then we asked people on our Facebook if we should and 5000 cunts were keen to see it so we did. It was fun.

Is that the first time you’ve done that?

Yeah first time filming it and listening to our song, I don’t lipsync when we dendy at home normally…

Are you punks? What do you think about authority?

Fark, we’d rather just be dudes who see the fucking world as how it is… which we are pretty sure most people see it this way. Authority is old dudes and big business. People aren’t blind to that shit, just a larger bunch like it cos it feels safe.

Who do you respect?

Our family and the other sick cunts in our lives.

Do you mind what your mum thinks?

Yeah, but we are lucky to have mums that wouldn’t put their thoughts on us, they fucking love us and realise you can’t change someone’s mind, you can’t make them act how you want but they’ll still think how they want.

Is it true that there is a chance that marijuana might be legalised in parts of Oz? 

Yeah for the sick and elderly which is awesome. In the USA we saw that a fuckload of people that actually needed it to help them were the elderly and sick, the people who run the banks give a fuck about the people unlike alcohol and tobacco companies.

What do you think about that?

Just had a bit of a rant.

Do you think it should be legal?

Yeah, at least to grow your own.

Are you having a good time?

Fuck yes. Thank you.

What can the crowd at the PSC expect tonight?

Lots of swear-words and drunk cunts.

Where next?

Singapore, China, Jakarta, Bali and then Australia. Woooo!

Skanking it up in the windy city is the Bob Marley Tribute Concert. There’s more to it than Rasta’s singing about weed, it’s also Africa Day and we’re handing out a pair of tickets for you to celebrate. Hit us with your favourite Bob lyrics, you know, the ones about peace and unity and Babylon and stuff, and we’ll sniff out the best and get you plus a friend in at the door.

Bob Marley Tribute concert at The Boardwalk’s Vodacom Amphitheatre, Port Elizabeth, Saturday 25th May, 6pm.

Line-up:
The Brothers
Skank & The Roots
Take Note
 

Tickets through Computicket for R80.00 or available at the door for R100.
More info: Onebloodsound01@gmail.com

Competition closes 12pm Friday 24th May.

All the cars had parked along the pavements, so the people (unable to move between the wing mirrors and the walls) had all taken to walking in the streets. They moved like rivers, sweeping up drifters and carrying them along.

Have you ever seen a child separated from their mother? If you do you’ll see the face of absolute misery, like the frown of a melancholy clown. I saw one lost child last week: he had chocolate on his cheeks (perhaps from an ice cream or a crepe he’d merrily munched earlier) and now his salty tears were washing off the sugar. When his mother found him, he clung to her for a moment and when his sobs subsided he jumped down, took her hand and laughed. And they went together to one of the Festival’s clown shows.

Children feel emotions in a pure and simple way and clowns base their acts on simple childlike emotions: often exaggerated by the painted expressions on their faces. That’s why people enjoy them, they are empathetic characters, often simpletons, who struggle with inanimate objects and find their own bodies hard to control. But their exaggeration of our own emotions somehow validates those feelings in us.

Last week I saw a pair of clowns perform – Bibeu and Humphrey, from the L’Attraction Céleste in France. It was the second day of the Leu Tempo Festival in Reunion Island, and I had just about stopped checking my map to find the performances that were scattered around town. The two clowns interacted like an old married couple, in an awkward balance. Like a pair of Greek theatre masks: she was jolly, he was glum; she was fat and he was thin. Bibeu talked in gibberish and shrieked with laughter, while Humphrey’s voice was low and clear. They were wonderfully old-worldly and charming to watch. Their show had no story line and they made no progress; it was just an absurd little moment in their lives.

Bibeu and Humphrey weren’t the only clowns performing in Saint Leu that week, but some were not for children: Cedric Paga performed his show Que Sommes-Je? (Who Are I?) as his alter-ego Ludor Citrik but only after dark when the children had gone to bed. Citrik is a clown character that Paga developed back in 2000 and has been experimenting with since. Now this is just hearsay, but here is what they say:

Cedric Paga is an interesting man. Trained as a dancer and performer, his interests lie mostly with the world of the clown. He is a method clown: in Que Sommes-Je? Ludor Citrik (Ludor “acidic”) is born on to the stage in plastic wrapping, naked and naive. But Paga had to know how it felt to be able to act it. He spent days in nappies with a carer to change him, he breast-fed, he was disciplined, he prepared. In the show we watched him form childish obsessions with the things he found: when he rips out the cotton padding from his nappy he tries to eat it then plays with it as though it were snow; fascinated by a mirror he shows his own reflection his genitals and is amused to find that the reflection and the real match.

The only other character to appear is that of a watchman, a discipliner in a suit who enforces the world of conformism on him, rewards him for ‘good’ behaviour and punishes him for anything too free-spirited. It was an exceptional performance, strangely psychological and brilliantly funny.

Apparently Paga runs workshops (like ‘The Laboratory on the Extension of the Domain of Playfulness’) in clowning. The application form runs for pages and if you are accepted you are given a location to meet and from there you are taken, blindfolded, to secret places where he teaches you his craft. Though the workshops only number 10 or so people, I’ve heard few make it to the end. Many find Paga, and the things he makes you do, too unsettling. But that’s just what I’ve heard.

When he washes off his face paint he’s quite a gentle looking man, barely recognisable in fact. We sat near each other one lunchtime, and there he was, just a bald man with a single silver hoop in his left ear. Every so often he’ll look up and grin idiotically and he assumes the high-pitched tones of his alter ego. It seems Ludor Citrik does not live on a stage… Citrik and Cedric live on either sides of a mirror plane.

But then again, we are all wearing masks.

There were two other journalists staying in the hotel with me, both from France. He was short and she was shorter, neither reaching much above my shoulders.

Julie has smooth skin and wide eyes. Her hair was thick – maybe thickened by the humid air – and held back behind one ear with a child’s clip, which struggled to restrain her ample mane and, though she had no wrinkles creasing her face, her hair was streaked with grey. She smoked cigarettes rolled thick between her fingers and her teeth were stained from the tobacco and the coffees and the wine. She chatted to me often and when she couldn’t think of the word in English she’d whistle to fill its place. Nicolas was thin and had bad posture. He wore dark glasses with dark rims, which he swapped for dark-rimmed spectacles when he moved into the shade. He had paper-pale skin and black hair and a large Adam’s apple that pushed out through his stubble. His voice was nasal and low and when he moved his mouth the words made ripples up his cheeks to his ears.

Julie kept her press pass in her huge handbag and Nicolas kept his in his pocket. I wore mine around my neck like a uniform, like an apron in a kitchen, like it gave me a reason to be there next to them with my extra inches and lack of experience.

If some of the acts in the Leu Tempo had collaborated the island could have seen a full-blown circus to rival any in Moscow. Without the animals. The only animals on the stages were Paulette the poulet (chicken) who wanted to learn how to fly, and a puppet owl.

Arcane by Les Philébulistes, a street-theatre company from France, featured two men who appeared like traditional strongmen: a pair – one large, one small, both bare-chested in trouser that laced high up their backs like girdles. They used a 5-meter-high wheel in their act: the larger of the two strapped himself into the centre and became almost part of it, like a bionic man, whilst the other acrobat swung from his arms. It was a marvellous show; perhaps they need a lion and a ringmaster.

The first performance I saw that week was called Ieto: two acrobats using wooden benches that they balanced using ropes and clever angles. It was slow, with minimal music and the pair had a silent, comical relationship: sometimes competitive, sometimes cooperative. The stage for the performance was in a deep gorge behind the town, and though they were light on their feet, each footstep rumbled around the Ravine.

Then Collectif AOC did some stunning acrobatics on the promenade with the waves breaking against the wall behind them: a seductive duet on trapeze, an artistic solo on a high pole, and an inventive number on a trampoline.

Throughout the week of Leu Tempo the artists and journalists ate together twice a day under a stretch tent in the festival park. Without being able to talk much in French I would often find myself watching the way the others moved around each other, watching the expressions they made when they talked and the way they gestured; the wordless communication.

One of the most powerful performances that week was in Creole and I barely understood a word. But the power of the performance came through regardless. The piece, Kok Batay, was performed by only one man – Sergio Grondin, the story teller. He sat on a stool on the stage in a pool of water and I listened to the noise the words made and the noise his shoes made in the water. I watched how the light fell against his face and glinted off the chain of his necklace and how the smoke he released onto the stage made images in the light. It was very bare, there were no tricks or costumes or flowers.

Kok Batay told a life history that was not Grondin’s, but one he strongly relates too. “This is not my life, but it is my story,” he says. It told the story of a Reunion kick-boxer called Johnny Catherine (in the play he was referred to as John le Rouge). He was and underdog that made it to the top and then was brutally murdered in his Reunion home. His neighbours attacked him with machetes and baseball bats, cut off his leg and took it as a trophy. It was a story of a violence that is often hidden. The truth behind the postcard; a fiction that is woven through with fact.

In the theatre we are a credulous bunch; believing almost always what we see and hear. But we trust our eyes, I’ve heard, more than our ears. Tell us something, we may trust you, but we nearly always believe what we see. In the theatre and out I was listening with my eyes.

Strange thing it is that had got me so far from home. People keep telling me that writing is a job that is going nowhere but I was really feeling like I was somewhere. British girl writing about French clowns for a South African magazine on an island that is actually the southernmost point of Europe. Funny’ol world innit.

Part three, in which we look at puppetry and dancing (on stage and off), here.

Read part one here.

* Images © Le Poulailler except where marked.