Scripted Hippie Jolby Natasha Nel / 20.04.2011
“Dude. How black is this party right now?”
The question came from somewhere behind me, dripping in sarcasm and white-liberal indignation. I hadn’t noticed; now it’s all I can see. Sowing the Seeds is, indeed, a party for pale faces. I can count the previously-disadvantaged constituency on one hand. Can’t for the life of me imagine why. I mean, there was the scenic train ride set to old swing music, the complimentary Black Label on arrival, the craft stalls littered with scrapyard ‘jewelry’ at 200 bucks a piece… what’s not to like?
To plagiarise Roger Young: anything these Daisies kids throw together appears to be organised to the point of becoming scripted. It was like a fashion shoot for we-are-awesome Or we-are-awful, whichever your denomination. Shiny happy people abound, even the police are smiling – although their eyes seemed to say “We’re not joking, give us some of your free beers.”
I’d like to write about Jeremy Loops but I’m separated from any sense of journalistic integrity by ten degrees of fire in my loins. The man has feathers in his hat. I am in love. He moves around in a way that says he isn’t aware of his indie fuckability, unlike the kids in the front row. They’re more concerned with capturing the perfect “action shot” profile pic than appreciating the genius before them, but that’s okay because everybody’s doing it.
Rob van Vuuren is the MC. He goes for edgy wholesomeness, and it couldn’t be more perfect for this party. Children run underfoot through a maze of cigarette smoke and brogues, its all a little disturbing if you think about it for too long. Rob introduces Hot Water: “This is the most feel-good band you guys are ever gonna hear!!” Cue crowd reaction; the perfect pitch of adolescent hysteria. I watch them take the stage, think of dancing natives, curse Mr Race Card from earlier for tainting my entire perception and choose to get another drink.
As the afternoon progresses, stage-crowd dialogue gets far too smooshy for my pragmatic sensibilities – its a mutual wank-off of: “You guys are awesome” and reciprocating “Woohoos”. I decide to take a walk around The Old Cape Farmhouse. I find some horses, get bored, turn back. Before I can make it to the party, a spritely grey-haired little lady beckons me over. I obey and approach her. “Are you using my bushes as your tik spot?” Deadpan face, matter-of-fact tone. For a moment I am convinced that if I answer in the affirmative she’ll invite me inside for a good time. “No. I’m, uh, taking photos. Ma’am.” She lets me go, satisfied with only a brief run-through of the demise of today’s youth and the great perils of accepting obscene amounts of money so that neo-hippies can rage on your farm.
If I’d known it would be the most stimulating conversation I’d have all day, I probably would’ve paid more attention. There are no interesting photos to take; this movie set is a tightly run ship and I can’t spot a crack in its flower-print exterior. As a result, I leave the mini-fest feeling uplifted and sunshiny in spite of myself. Attempts at hipster cynicism aside, Sowing the Seeds was lovely, just lovely.
All images © Natasha Nel.