Saturday

So Saturday awoke with the promise of being Oppi's greatest - out with the Big Guns and fireworks. The Big Guns included 340ml, Dutch singer Lucky Fonz III, Sipho "Hotstix" Mabuse and Harris Tweed, amongst others. Let's get a few things out the way: I did not see Koos Kombuis, Hotstix or Harris Tweed. I know, I know, I should have, they would have blown my mind apart with their stupendous genius, but I felt like having my brain in one piece. Thus explains away my failure to the see the Big Guns. Also, I like the term "Guns" when describing objects other than firearms... it makes things seem... grander.

Moving on, for we have a busy day to attempt to remember: first up on the James Phillips Main Stage was Fire Through the Window, who hail from somewhere with a sea. I saw them perform at one of the very awesome "Shut Up, I'm Dancing" parties last year. I was not impressed then, but due to some aggressive prodding on the part of my friends, I went along. I was pleasantly surprised, which is always the best kind of surprise. Poppy and generally inoffensive, they bopped around sweetly while we waited for our headaches to dissipate - and managed to live down their introduction: "You may have heard this band in an ad for an iPod!".

The Kick, who followed on the seemingly cursed Most Amazing Myn Stage, did not, however, get the set they would have liked. A truly awful piece of planning meant that a band, who sound like Led Zepplin having sex with The Mars Volta in a black hole with absolutely no connection to sunshine, were playing to a sleepy crowd of drunks and a few fans. This was not mid-morning-having-brunch-with-your-girlfriend's-family music. It deserved a dark dive bar, with toilets that don't work and 5-for-the-price-of-1 whiskey special. Instead, with the birds tweeting and most people still asleep, they struggled to build any sense of atmosphere. This was disappointing: even though I'm not partial to music that The Kick makes, they are very good at making it. Technically, they tick all the right boxes and put on a powerful show. It's a pity, really - Oppikoppi is somewhere people should be able to hear new music, but it was not to be.

Enjoying more success was Isochronous (who are praised in this week's Mail & Guardian), who took to the James Phillips Stage at about midday. Led by Kidofdoom guitarist Richard Brokensha, they played a tight, strong set - full of hooky lines, catchy lyrics and Tele-heroism. Along with Kidofdoom - Isochronous are proving that prog is not dead, its just dusty.

On my way out, to get some food and some rest before Desmond and the Tutus, I catch a slight bit of Gordon's Suitcase with Strings and Skins. Don't ask me what I remember.

Right, so it's Desmond Time. Let's get a few things out of the way, before I am stoned to death (with added ironic dance moves). I like Desmond and the Tutus. I think they're fun, and have some catchy lyrics about girls and stuff (what else is there? "Imagine" was about booty too, you know). I cannot, however, condone the mass-hysteria that grabs hold of a crowd when these skinny white-boys take to the stage. Have you people seen what mass-hysteria can lead to? It's a gateway drug, I tell you! What next? Political rallies? Gang-warfare? Taxi Violence?! I just can't afford to get that excited. I'm sorry. They were, however, very good. They came on in dramatic fashion, two memebers being carried on. The boys from Pretoria (represent!) played hits, "Kiss you on the Cheek" and "She Hangs The Pictures" amongst others, to a healthy throng (wow, what an awesome word!) while still looking cool. Impressive. I, however, am still not moved to craziness. I just feel as if I've passed the stage in my musical evolution where having fun is the be-all and end-all to music. I know, this is somewhat counter intuitive, but let me explain. I listened to fun music, yes. I liked Vanilla Ice when I was young. I liked Roxette too. They were fun. I was not able to form coherent sentences. See a pattern? I'm tired of simply, having fun I need something more. I need to be challenged, I need to be offended, I need to not understand. Desmond & the Tutus? I get them, I understand their music in the same way I get The Strokes. But I cannot, no I cannot! be truly in love with what they do, because it's too easy. I've read Dostoevsky and can't go back to Harry Potter now, no matter how fun and addictive.

I know. I sound like some kind of snob, but I swear to you... Ok, fair enough, I am some kind of snob. Forgive me.

Fearing I could not stand the sexiness that is Koos Kombuis, I decide to follow the other "minorities" (here at Oppi, black people, Indian people, coloured people English people, indie people and random people) to the Sipho Gumede stage to catch the very cool, chilled and sexy 340ml. Fate, however, had different plans for me. Instead of walking to the stage to the sounds of 340ml, I am serenaded by Obita (not a completely terrible thing). This is because the entire Sipho Gumede bill is running 45 minutes late. This seriously fucks with my timetable, as Lucky Fonz III is playing straight after 340ml on the Gito Baloi stage, which is 5 minutes and one daunting uphill away.

I persist and decide to watch whatever I can of the Maputo Mob (Wham! Bam! Alliteration!) before running to catch Lucky. I'm glad I did stay, because despite being annoyed with the generally tardiness and the two guys behind me who kept asking for their photos to be taken, 340ml were awesome. They were helped by a really receptive crowd (the rest were all at Koos), who cheered, puffed, passed and reminded me that despite the horrors of Xenophobia, South Africans can still have a good time regardless of nationality. It was a Hallmark moment, with added herb. Having, sadly, only caught 20 minutes of the set, I was off and running.

I made it to the Gito Baloi Stage just in time to hear (but not see): "Hey, I'm Lucky Fonz tha fird" sighed in a thick Dutch accent. I took a seat near the rear and watched as this jangly fellow, with only a guitar and a nearby piano, started his set. I kind of expected something else from Mr. Fonz. I'd read reviews comparing him to Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan - but also to modern folky men, like Conor Oberst, M. Ward and Will Oldham. I, therefore, expected a show draped in quite, intense melancholia, littered with quiet "thank yous" and "thank you very much-es". But no, Fonz baited and toyed with his crowd - challenging them, taking questions, telling jokes, hiring smokers to act as human smoke machines, singing in Afrikaans. He was hilarious and silly and occasionally rude - in some ways, more Ryan Adams than Conor Oberst. His songs, however, were short vignettes of war and loss, they are letters from soldiers girls left behind. As people laughed at his asides and odd accent, once every now and again they'd fall silent. They'd hush around a strangled cry, or a plaintive note left struggling to stay alive. He'd cut through the bullshit, the laughs, the playfulness with such clarity that the voice he carried could not eek out any more emotion. And, as the crowd recovered, hearts in throats, he moved on. The songs, simple Americana tunes, chugging on to familiar melodies, were still sung in a Dutch accent - an endearing juxtaposition. I was glad I left the others behind.

Now, with Fonz still a warm memory, I had four hours to kill.


I did the hour-killing with as much efficiency (and FREE SPRITE!) as possible. Now it was time. I hoped, I prayed, I doomed.

Kidofdoom climbed onto an unrecognisable James Phillips Stage, lightsabers stood upright, the landing area was bathed in purple. On both flanks were giant screens - displaying dot-matrix graphics. Something special was about to go down...

Kidofdoom took to the stage. Soon we neared sensory overload - strobe lights beat our pupils into submission, the spacey synths washed clean the kinetic drumming and sharp guitar bursts, bass-lines circled the rest, throbbing in my feet and hands. The people around me stared at the screens - cityscape's and ocean waves, galaxies and rocket ships, they all seemed to fit what we were hearing. There was an epic, intense, otherworldly edge to what they did. Even though, at some stage, the visual system failed - the songs were there to put those same images in our heads. Raucous and thrilling, they played without abandon or restraint. Drummer Johan pounded out tricky beats and rhythms, odd time signatures and cymbal crashes with the mad energy of a banshee, while guitarist Ryk stood to the side, sanguinely carrying most melodic duties with a cigarette in hand and aloofness in spades. Isochronous' Richard and Ben of the Visuals rocked out on keyboards/guitar and keytar respectively - all is well in South African music. I have the proof right here.
Applause seemed sparse from where I was standing, most newcomers seemed dazed and slightly confused about what they were witnessing ("Do we clap at the end of songs? When are the songs over? Do they have laserbeams?!"), but the crowd stayed until the last note rang out, the band triumphant and defiant of most conventions at once. This is what I meant when I said I couldn't love Desmond & the Tutus: I gotKidofdoom. I really did.

Finally, the last act of Oppikoppi 2008 was upon us. Alas, things were not going well. Data Takashi had drawn the Most Amazing Myn Stage, hardly intimate and most probably cursed, and was set to play after the truly horrific noise made by Thys Nywerheid. Not a good combination. This rather painful fuck-up meant that the final set played was poorly attended with Data fans clamouring for warmth. His set, however, was designed to keep us poor, frozen souls moving and warm. Our extremities were awakened, our blood pumping and, closing in on 4a.m., the thought of sleep put on hold while we broke it down for the final time.


So, there we go. It was dusty, dirty, loud and beery, yes, but it was also an opportunity to make new friends and hear new music. It was a chance to be reminded that sometimes, no matter how shitty you think this country might be, we still know how to throw an awesome festival.