The End is Live – Desmond and The Tutu’s Album Launch
Alexander Theatre – Braamfontein, Johannesburg
Ah! Shit! Line!
No, not that kind of line. I’m not that cool or rich or… you know… bad-ass. Plus, anyone who snorts shit that makes you more of an asshole must be some kind of asshole-savant to start with. That’s the kind of statement I can’t afford to make.
The line in question slides out of the entrance to the new, latest “hot” spot (it’s pretty damn cold in there), the Alexander Theatre. The queue snakes some fifty-meters, and a short foot-race ensures I’m there only slightly ahead of some enthusiastic Pretorians and their cigarette smoke. The guy, no, the man in front of me is old enough to be my former guidance councilor in high-school. This is a different crowd, I note. In my notebook.
It’s a different crowd, a big crowd, an older crowed, an excited crowd. It’s a Desmond crowd. Finally, twenty-minutes later, I’m frisked by the huge doorman (oh, how welcome his warm hands were!) and squeezed into the over-populated Beijing lobby. It’s tiled in black-and-white retro linoleum and has a coat check. Coat checks are strange. I’m South African. I’m from Joburg. I do not hand my clothes over to strangers and expect to get them back. That’s my goddamn coat, lady.
I managed to be caught in the jet-stream that leads to a massive, hangar-like room. The ceiling is a good three- to four-hundred metres above my head. Or so my approximations conclude. The walls are black, and the graffiti reminds you of where you are: “Othello – June ‘70”, “Grease ‘92”, and the less obvious “PDC Rule, OK?”.
Ok.
The stage is manned by a DJ queuing up 80s novelty-classics on his Mac Book Pro, beneath an arch of multi-coloured balloons. No, there’s no Sugarhill Gang or Cameo, but that “Hey Mickey! You’re so fine! You’re so fine you blow my mind!” kind of novelty song that gets people off for no other reason than the fact that they know the words. This is all a little too white.
Luckily there’s a bar (actually, there are two – we’ll visit the other later) at the far end of the hangar. I attempt to slide through the crowds, all stealth-like. But I feel like Mufasa just before the wildebeest started stampeding.
The bar is poorly stocked and understaffed – it takes an entire AC/DC track (“She shook me all naaaight long!”) and much general bitching with the guy next to me to emerge with a Jameson on ice and with R18 less in my pocket. A quick tour of the lobby and a suspicious-eye on the coat check girls before it’s back to the hangar to catch the main event.
Being somewhat short (totally average height… for an Asian… woman.), I can’t tell the bassist from Marty Scorsese. I few young, sprightly ones begin climbing the ladders leading to makeshift balconies dotted above the Tutu’s. I pocked my pen and notebook and set about climbing the rungs, one hand still clutching my tumbler and the other pulling me up rather high. From my new vantage point, I see both D
esmond and his Tutus doing their stuff – and, take note you local bands, they’re fucking awesome. They’re polished but energetic; they’re having fun and actually entertaining the crowd. And this size crowd needs some entertaining. Of course everyone’s into it – it is their album launch after all, and they’re the only band performing – but they’re making sure our R50 bucks feels like a good deal. The drummer’s kinetic and playing with a confidence that belies his rather drab black shirt. Dude should be rocking a sock, or a James Brown Funk-Suit. The bassist and guitarists both avoid that “Hey, man, I just play guitar” cliché and actually do more than stare at their fretboards. Mr. Frontman sings and shouts between the indie-pop licks and beats with a sense of real purpose, and also announces, “Hey, we’re Desmond and the Tutus” more than strictly necessary. That’s alright though, its all part of the show. Flicking between laid-back and crazed (wide-eyed, like a man stumbling out of a Brakpan strip-club at 3a.m.), he promises kisses on one’s cheek and bemoan saggy-bottomed Speedos to the rather over-enthused blondes right in front of him. The shake their hair too violently to be considered sexy – which is very, very violent indeed.
From way up high (I’d guess three- to four-hundred metres up), the crowd gradually turns from violently convulsing blondes to the Serious Listeners (who stand in the classic indie-guy pose: Converse toes pointed inwards, skinny-knees locked in skinny-jeans, dress-shirt untucked and creased like the Devil’s laundry, ironically-cheap beer in one hand, the other hand adjusts his eyeglasses so as to better capture the scene). The goodtime guys and gals are still swarming the bar at the back, but they’re lucky. The sound at this gig is what I call The Money Sound. It is brilliant. Well-balanced and clear, the vocals aren’t completely muddied by overly loud bass and drum mics; guitars sound crisp and immediate, all of which lets us, the precious audience, enjoy the songs as well as the performance.
After a cry of: “Encore! Encore!” (Where on earth do they think these things up?!) the band depart. Soon after the balloon-infrastructure collapses (speaking of which, have you seen the Radiohead video for “House of Cards” yet? Go. Now.), and that’s my cue to get off the concrete slab above the heads of the un
suspecting and make my way to the other bar.
Alexander Theatre – Braamfontein, Johannesburg
Ah! Shit! Line!
No, not that kind of line. I’m not that cool or rich or… you know… bad-ass. Plus, anyone who snorts shit that makes you more of an asshole must be some kind of asshole-savant to start with. That’s the kind of statement I can’t afford to make.
The line in question slides out of the entrance to the new, latest “hot” spot (it’s pretty damn cold in there), the Alexander Theatre. The queue snakes some fifty-meters, and a short foot-race ensures I’m there only slightly ahead of some enthusiastic Pretorians and their cigarette smoke. The guy, no, the man in front of me is old enough to be my former guidance councilor in high-school. This is a different crowd, I note. In my notebook.
It’s a different crowd, a big crowd, an older crowed, an excited crowd. It’s a Desmond crowd. Finally, twenty-minutes later, I’m frisked by the huge doorman (oh, how welcome his warm hands were!) and squeezed into the over-populated Beijing lobby. It’s tiled in black-and-white retro linoleum and has a coat check. Coat checks are strange. I’m South African. I’m from Joburg. I do not hand my clothes over to strangers and expect to get them back. That’s my goddamn coat, lady.
I managed to be caught in the jet-stream that leads to a massive, hangar-like room. The ceiling is a good three- to four-hundred metres above my head. Or so my approximations conclude. The walls are black, and the graffiti reminds you of where you are: “Othello – June ‘70”, “Grease ‘92”, and the less obvious “PDC Rule, OK?”.
Ok.
The stage is manned by a DJ queuing up 80s novelty-classics on his Mac Book Pro, beneath an arch of multi-coloured balloons. No, there’s no Sugarhill Gang or Cameo, but that “Hey Mickey! You’re so fine! You’re so fine you blow my mind!” kind of novelty song that gets people off for no other reason than the fact that they know the words. This is all a little too white.
Luckily there’s a bar (actually, there are two – we’ll visit the other later) at the far end of the hangar. I attempt to slide through the crowds, all stealth-like. But I feel like Mufasa just before the wildebeest started stampeding.
The bar is poorly stocked and understaffed – it takes an entire AC/DC track (“She shook me all naaaight long!”) and much general bitching with the guy next to me to emerge with a Jameson on ice and with R18 less in my pocket. A quick tour of the lobby and a suspicious-eye on the coat check girls before it’s back to the hangar to catch the main event.
Being somewhat short (totally average height… for an Asian… woman.), I can’t tell the bassist from Marty Scorsese. I few young, sprightly ones begin climbing the ladders leading to makeshift balconies dotted above the Tutu’s. I pocked my pen and notebook and set about climbing the rungs, one hand still clutching my tumbler and the other pulling me up rather high. From my new vantage point, I see both D
esmond and his Tutus doing their stuff – and, take note you local bands, they’re fucking awesome. They’re polished but energetic; they’re having fun and actually entertaining the crowd. And this size crowd needs some entertaining. Of course everyone’s into it – it is their album launch after all, and they’re the only band performing – but they’re making sure our R50 bucks feels like a good deal. The drummer’s kinetic and playing with a confidence that belies his rather drab black shirt. Dude should be rocking a sock, or a James Brown Funk-Suit. The bassist and guitarists both avoid that “Hey, man, I just play guitar” cliché and actually do more than stare at their fretboards. Mr. Frontman sings and shouts between the indie-pop licks and beats with a sense of real purpose, and also announces, “Hey, we’re Desmond and the Tutus” more than strictly necessary. That’s alright though, its all part of the show. Flicking between laid-back and crazed (wide-eyed, like a man stumbling out of a Brakpan strip-club at 3a.m.), he promises kisses on one’s cheek and bemoan saggy-bottomed Speedos to the rather over-enthused blondes right in front of him. The shake their hair too violently to be considered sexy – which is very, very violent indeed.From way up high (I’d guess three- to four-hundred metres up), the crowd gradually turns from violently convulsing blondes to the Serious Listeners (who stand in the classic indie-guy pose: Converse toes pointed inwards, skinny-knees locked in skinny-jeans, dress-shirt untucked and creased like the Devil’s laundry, ironically-cheap beer in one hand, the other hand adjusts his eyeglasses so as to better capture the scene). The goodtime guys and gals are still swarming the bar at the back, but they’re lucky. The sound at this gig is what I call The Money Sound. It is brilliant. Well-balanced and clear, the vocals aren’t completely muddied by overly loud bass and drum mics; guitars sound crisp and immediate, all of which lets us, the precious audience, enjoy the songs as well as the performance.
After a cry of: “Encore! Encore!” (Where on earth do they think these things up?!) the band depart. Soon after the balloon-infrastructure collapses (speaking of which, have you seen the Radiohead video for “House of Cards” yet? Go. Now.), and that’s my cue to get off the concrete slab above the heads of the un
suspecting and make my way to the other bar.This is bad. That’s more than I care to say. Why, why would they be out of beer? Beer? The mainstay of modern-civilisation is nowhere to be found in a bar. Let us not mention that two weeks prior to this shindig, at Social Security on July 4th, they were out of gin. This over-sight, of course, made it difficult to order the writer’s preferred gin and tonic. For without gin, it’s just tonic, which is no fun. The trips to this dark underground chimney have not treated me well thus far.
That’s it, truth be told. Over to the coat check girls to validate my parking ticket and warn others about the second-hand coat deals, and I’m once again in the cold July night-time. The street smells only of cigarette smoke, marijuana and the boerewors-rolls of the near-by vendor. That’s a decent combination at this time of night in this part of town.
That’s it, truth be told. Over to the coat check girls to validate my parking ticket and warn others about the second-hand coat deals, and I’m once again in the cold July night-time. The street smells only of cigarette smoke, marijuana and the boerewors-rolls of the near-by vendor. That’s a decent combination at this time of night in this part of town.
1 comment:
This last pic is RAD! Kudos, whoever took that one =0)
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