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The horror of Facebook, the deepest one, the most lastingly wounding, lies in how it turns our intimates into information. We’re all confessional blurts to be processed. Rather than rounded selves full of complexity and difference. The closest people in our lives increasingly become the sum of their wall posts. We’ve turned into a proliferating scroll of bulletins. A metastasizing network of confessors. read more…
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Italians have a popular representation in cinema and literature: macho, Machiavellian, masculine – perfectly dramatic, their musical language with its curvaceous notes; their gesticulating fingers, their goon-honour in the Godfather. So, it comes as nothing other than affirmation that the Italian males in Videocracy are militantly masculine: they command women, they mainline their arteries with power and wealth: their Italy is the Italy of excess and decadence, hypersexualisation in the land that gave us Passolini’s Salo. read more…
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Sometimes, although not all that frequently, I find myself wondering, which is, perhaps, in the context of Mahala, a better word to use here than ruminating – more modern, less UCT English Honours – why it is that contributors to this online publication (or possibly ‘zine, but you can call it a blog too) all seem to write in perpetual fear of the comma, that standard issue punctuation mark which, when I last checked, is not endangered, threatened or otherwise proscribed by the terms of the proposed Protection of Information Bill [B 6—2010] read more…
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I watched Leon Shitster’s new film Schuks Tshaba-blah-blah and made some notes. I only call him “shitster” because I’m jealous. Jealous that most hit films in the history of South Africa are Schuster films. Jealous because he seems to be having way too much fun to be making the money he makes while I’m still stuck writing for Mahala. And under a pseudonym. Intentionally installed to protect myself from the vitriolic abuse so easily dished out on Mahala comment boards. read more…
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Like German reggae or Afrikaans country, music that struggles to keep it real is always easy to bash, usually for good reason. American accents, for example, are nothing new to South African music. And they’re always kak. read more…
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A Tribute to Ezra Ngcukana.
My first exposure to live jazz was at about 12 years old with the Henry February band who at the time boasted a frontline of Ezra Ngcukana on alto,tenor & soprano, brother Duke Ngcukana on trumpet, Winston Mankunku on tenor and later Willy Haubrich on trombone. In the rhythm section was the man, Mr Feb on piano, Kenny Jephta on guitar, my Dad, Robert Davids was on percussion, Max Diamond on drums and Basil Moses on the electric bass. read more…
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The Convention Centre’s bright lights intuit my bank balance and dim on my entrance. Slender billionaire playboy, Patrice Motsepe, mute BEE poster boy, is arriving soon so the welcoming blaze is being saved for the real money. At the Media desk, I gush with politeness. The heavily mascara’d receptionist recognises a newbie. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s not like The Devil Wears Prada!“ it’s just Cape Town Fashion Week.” read more…
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Drowning in a sea of moving adolescent bodies – I’m awaiting the release of a build up of excitement. A build up that’s been building up for days already. It happens in the moment the crowd meets the opening of “A Devil in a Midnight Mass” with a roar. This is going to be absolutely mind-blowing. I’m glad I ignored all those “too cool for Billy Talent” hipster whispers. read more…
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Global Shorthand |
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Slang Lag |
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Rainbow in the Toilet |
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One for the Haters |
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Mshini Wam |
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The A-Holes |
