The Pondering Blonde

Wikki Wikki Ching Ching!

Many dj’s would have you believe they were birthed with their fingers melded to a turntable. They weren’t. Very often when their mothers tried to enrol them into Rocket Science School after matric graduation, they said ‘Nah, I don’t wanna go to space anyway, I just wanna party with my friends.’ And as if by some holy transference from God is a Dj himself, it dawned on them; they could indeed make a living from clubbing like a lunatic.

Dj’ing isn’t rocket science. At the very least, it’s a sport, and at the most; a well layered art form. But somewhere in between someone realised it’s a damn good way to make easy money, doing, well- very little. And why not? When the good times are rolling, they can spin right up your alley! Big brands fall over themselves to dish out car endorsements and sneaker sponsorships (‘I just wanna hola to my aMaZiNg hairdresser in Sandton for my aWeSoMe hair extensions!!’ (Sorry about that, it’s in the contract.)) -to latch onto some cool-by-association cred from these ‘major music personalities’.

So some have cracked the code and entered this irrevocable system that is life on the top shelf of SA DJ land- and who’s to say they haven’t worked damn hard to live the local dream? But what about when it comes at the expense of the music industry itself? I’m talking about people with the money to buy their way in. Only in South Africa is it possible to buy- yes buy- yourself gigs at big events and blag your way to some contrived feeling of electronic accomplishment. But then, this isn’t new- it’s just becoming more obviously anti-progressive for the club scene itself.

Money can buy you the marketing, the management- what the hell; the whole friggen hype machine and a stupid kid to make a few tracks with your name on it so you can say you’re ‘IN the music industry’. In fact, make it two; you might need an edgier, techy alter ego, right? Money can also buy you a ‘tour’ to Ibiza, a VIP ticket for Cocoon, and a few shots of liquid courage before walking up to Loco Dice himself and giving him a demo of your skillz. It’s like a bad mafia movie only the ‘stash’ is the coveted disc of crap tunes, the accents are from District 9- and nobody says a thing.

Let me tell you what money can’t buy you. Money can’t buy you originality, style, a rad personality and that coolness that cool people emulate without trying. It sure as hell can’t buy you good taste in music. -For the sake of the ear drums of clubbing societies at large, I wish it could. Mostly; money can’t buy you the insatiable hunger a starving artist feels for his craft, it can’t buy you a genuine thirst for creative success. (And as it turns out, you perverted, mumbling idiot; it can’t buy you groupies or a sex life.)

Hunter S. Thomspon epitomised the situation when he said, ‘The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. [There’s also a negative side].’ Of course; Hunter was being his eloquently sardonic self; he no doubt had friends who ‘gave it all up for music’- sometimes at the expense of common sense- and witnessed their frustration and hardships, while pompous fat cats mowed past their genuine resolution after their own selfish crusade.

There’s a difference between simply dj’s and musicians; the calling for this music life is not a gamble easily satiated by winning a popularity contest, a jackpot payout and a feature on the Ultimix@6. Ultimately the painstaking journey; at times choosing music over food, fashion and fun, are what shapes a true artist; an unwavering passion purged into creative genius. The music always finds its way to the top and will be remembered long after the men who simply played it are gone.

Don’t Mind The Gap, Get Innit

Remember the day’s people went on a Gap year, returning with enough dosh to put a deposit on a house or buy a new car? Well, it’s likely those people never left their grotty flat share and ate baked beans on toast every day; kinda useless when you have one of the maddest, interesting cities at your fingertips! If you go overseas you’ve got to experience it and get your nails into the awesome, dirty, sexy culture and live it up! Well, in my almost 2 years as a party-chasing Saffa in London, I certainly did try! Here’s a scratching-the-surface summary of life on the nightshift in London Town.

London really is a melting pot of incredible culture. But you can’t sit in Wimbledon aka Little South Africa expecting it to come to you- you have to chase it and get involved. A round up of our regular (not necessarily all at once!) nocturnal team included several South Africans, a Brazilian, an Italian (and sporadically; her loud Italian entourage), a lone-ranging Turk, a couple of Aussies, two Spaniards, an American, a Welsh lass, and a good dozen curious Brits, among them! It’s a truly incredible thing to be surrounded by so many different people and never a dull moment on a night out!

It has to be said, South Africans aren’t the most stylish bunch; Saffa’s are more likely to spend cash on going out and getting hammered than on new threads, but this is a good thing… We just don’t look as good doing it. The locals are pretty lekker and accept- no, welcome- raving travellers who adopt their city and dancefloors- contrary to belief that they’ve been sulking about immigrants for decades (Those old farts moved to Cornwall ages ago anyway!) But as they say, everyone leaves eventually, and while it’s a bummer for residents to watch international friends come and go; when it comes to the London clubbing community at large, this constant shift and new energy is what keeps UK dance culture so alive and well!

The core club scene, aka those deemed the coolest club kids of all by no-one in particular- they’ve just danced up the year-miles to prove it, is actually kind of small when you elbow your way right into the thick of it- everyone knows everyone and supports everyone. And so you just have to go and party at everyone’s party every weekend- it would be rude not to. (No mean feat I tell you!) When they know you, they put you on the guestlist, let you skip the queue and coat check your stuff for free. It’s the little things that make it home, right?

If you’re still clubbing at Pacha and Ministry of Sound 6 months into your London Life it’s safe to say you probably couldn’t find the underground in a mine shaft- but hey, maybe next time you can tickle the Deadmau5 pantomime behind his ear even? Okay, big room shows are great, and the underground is not without its massive warehouse parties, but there’s nothing like an intimate shindig with your favourite dj just metres away- you can even pinch his bum if you want to… I’m just saying!

Experiencing The End before it closed and witnessing the power of its era in dance music history sucked me right in. I entered a world that crossed the border of Recreational clubbing into the 24/7 realm of Professional Party People. A community ‘headspace’ that speaks EDM- discussing venues, promoters and releases in beats per minute; the same way you might natter to your girlfriend about your day at work, the traffic and what’s for dinner. It’s something else entirely and privy to a well-networked and thriving music scene- totally worth trading your collection of pictures of The Queen to experience first ear and foot! London, you sexy vicious bitch; to be continued…

De Puta Madre: Ibiza

Finally; my first ‘ultimate clubbing experience’ on party-island Ibiza, and just my luck the torrential rains decide to pour down for a week for the first time in 10 years! The island known for its white beaches, blue waters and beautiful people was awash with soggy socialites with nowhere to rest their laurels. Correction- escapism is what Ibiza is all about, so while the gods were not in favour of us spit-braining ourselves an exotic shade of Balearic brown; you can bet we got more than a mighty big ear full of club culture, shimmying to the select sounds of the best dj’s on the planet. Yeah, it wasn’t what they promised on the brochure, but we’ll take it…

Ibiza is certainly an existence unto its own; tailor made to wine, dine and ease the mind; it’s a life size playground in paradise and hedonism is the order of the day. Every single day. I’m told Ibiza workers tune into the news for a shot of reality TV when delusion is on the verge of becoming a K-hole of no return. Yes, I said that. Basically, it’s our answer to Vegas and whether you’re rolling with Kevin, Perry and going large in San An, or riding high on a rubber dingy to the Blue Marlin beach club from your yacht, there’s a place for you to play. Anything can happen in Ibiza… and will. So there’s only one rule; let the magical island vibe guide you and trust you will experience what they mean when they say ‘Ibiza Fucking Island!’

Island politics pretty clearly dictate the type of vacation you’re bound to have based on where you leave you luggage and you need to know this before you book. If you’re going for the cheap beer, T ‘n A and consider coming to, 6 days later with a Northern accent and an I heart Ibiza key ring pierced through your ear lobe as a successful trip- take a left and head West at the next exit. If you want to experience island style Electronic Dance Culture, West side is otherwise only a pre-party pilgrimage for a sunset showdown later in your stay- for a real underground adventure; come with me…

My theory is, if you’re going to do Ibiza, do it properly, and with South Africa’s White Isle representatives, Team Goldfish, as our guides, we indulged a front row tour of the islands best parties, people and Paella. From dancing behind the dj box with Sander Kleinenberg and Trentemoller at Pacha; sunning ourselves next to the gazelles on Salina’s beach- ‘hot’ doesn’t even touch sides in reference to these good looking humans- no wonder the place is repute for couple breakdown!- to discovering audio orgasm with James Zabiela at We Love Space and coining the expression ‘Jesus Jones!’ as the only way to fathom what he did us…

There was also being in the VIP room with Loco Dice, dancing with Satoshie to Villalobos, a tipped hat and German Greetz from Mr Vath himself outside Cocoon and tapas with Faithless while The Fish churned out their Jazzy-Afro beats at Mambo. -The only moment of being truly star stuck that I’ll ever admit to; resulting in my spilling Sangria on my leg which Maxi kindly offering to mop up with a £20 note- that man is an icon and I will forever be a slave to his music! Yes, it’s pretty safe to say we did Ibiza proper.

So, here’s a finger to the rain and sneaky low 5 to a quality bottle of fake tan; party vacation of a lifetime? Absolutely. Worth repeating? Without a doubt. Which reminds me- EDM SA needs shares in a villa- I’m coming round to do a collection. Ibiza Fucking Island indeed.

Have Legs Will Dance

Dance Music Culture. That’s what we call it, and month in and month out websites, magazines and conversation with friends surround, discuss and dissect everything about it from the dj’s and music to the parties, equipment and club layouts. Yes, when you find yourself debating the soundscape of a Funktion1 sound system and whether the dj’s tunes are working the room- you’re no longer an ordinary party-loving patron anymore.

Back in the day the ‘The Lifestyle’ meant you were into some seriously kinky stuff in high society circles but these days it refers to anyone immersed in their subculture and indeed it refers to us in ours. We eat, breathe and dream Electronic Dance Music. We talk about dj’s like they’re our neighbours and plot our nocturnal rendezvous with more zeal than a dancing dervish. And yes, men even plan their party outfits!

But with all the analytics, politics and fashion frolics- there’s a huge industry element lacking in limelight and love: The dancing. The body slamming, club slumming and shoe shuffling antics- our physical offering if you will- brought to action whenever we hear our flavoured beat. Dancing is the club cultured roots that brought us here in the first place. It’s where we met, made and merged party families- because we found other people like us, who understood the music like us- who moved like us. And it just made sense that we moved together.

Even those Skippies on the Funky Floor… sure, they almost knock out half the club with their moves but they’re sweating in glorious, unadultered Fidget bliss; a community and vibe all of their own- this is their moment, their music’s reflexious identity- and they’ve been working up a life-size stutter all week to purge into this release! And before you beat them away with a well-oiled Techno Arm, behold The Krochn; a spastic little dance with fancy footwork infecting Techno floors across Europe- and soon, a dark and pokey dancefloor near you! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Every sound has its soldiers and we all march in our own special way. Even our team of party-stompers have their own rodeo-techno dance- now affectionately dubbed ‘The Hade Ho’ – like Howdy Ho but with a South African twist- well that’s what happens when the Saffa’s make such a momentous discovery!- and there’s nothing like a marathon party familia Ho-down. As my friend Sj so rightly puts it, ‘This is what we came here for!’ And indeed, bender weekenders trying to dance at every great party on offer have seen the word ‘legless’ redefined.

Forget ‘unconscious expressive movement’- okay, ye that too- but first and foremost this is about compulsion. The unexplainable urge to direct your feet to that dance floor and surrender to the music again and again. You know, that moment when you realise you’re in; you’re body starts to ride the groove and you don’t even have to think about legs and arms and rhythm, they all just seem to come together and cavort in the most perfect of soul-touching symmetries.  That is what we do this for. And it’s beautiful. And nothing feels better.

I mean, where or who would we be if we didn’t have dance music? If we didn’t move with gravitational force to throw shapes at these sound shrines each weekend? People just don’t bond the same way over gardening and baking. And then there’s trying to explain this all this to your mother! And we wonder why the world looks at us like we’re crazy!

Save it til the Morning Afters

The morning after the night before has never been this cool. Previously associated with hangovers from hell and waking up next to something chortling and hairy-my horrifying experience anyway- the Afterparty is now officially the crescendo of your big night out. Yep that’s right; carbo-load and pace yourself; just because the sun is up doesn’t mean the party’s over!

Research into ‘Afterparty’ culture revealed these seemingly last-thought soirees actually go way back. To go totally nerd on you- and I probably won’t be invited to any more after this- the Latin word repotia is the heyday ‘afterparty’ equivalent which literally translates to ‘a second round of drinks’- which meant ‘the party that follows the original entertainment’. HA! And I’ve been trying to tell people there’s theory to this for years!

See, it occurred to me a while ago that going into a big dark room to dance for 9 hours and then heading home is actually not the most social thing in the world to do. You may think you’re bonding over shared bottles of water and tag-teaming into the loo’s, but when it dawns on you that all you really know about your Party Pal is their disturbing fascination with Steve Lawler and a penchant for shouting ‘VIVA!’ anytime anyone drops a half-decent tune, you might need to rethink how you spend your time. You might need to go to a few Afterparties!

Previously regarded as quite an elitist activity- by those not invited I’m sure- the key to Afterparty access is quite simple: make your own one! Briefly- spread the word, deny it until 10 minutes before the club closes so the lightweights and safety-hazards have gone home or passed out (Do not stop, do not wake them, do not help them into a cab- they will come alive, follow you home and vomit on your carpet!). Arrange some afterhours tune deliverance, a few cold ones and you’re pretty set!

Actually- it might even be worth a shot to try lure the headlining act back with you too- after all, it’s only decent to offer your hosting services to guests in the city and give them a truly memorable experience, right? An Afterparty I found myself at in Hackney saw D. Ramirez rock up with an awesome entourage- a gay Capetonian and two chicks from Pretoria- I kid you not! We all ended up donning someone’s neon pink lipstick, threw shapes in front of a camera I’d come across and later shared the fallacies of life on someone’s four poster bed. Brilliant, bizarre and the best of all- he didn’t play and no-one asked him to.

The homes, rooftops and back-gardens of the clubbing community around the world serve as the perfect time-continuum for when you’ve had the night of your life and you’re not quite ready to let it go. The decks are set, the crew are draped appropriately around the room and a few vodka-coffee’s are doing the rounds… you can scrape your hair back after letting it down and watch as people become human- and highly entertaining- making real connections away from the dancefloor and in ways you couldn’t possibly do in the club.

So as it turns out; Party Pal has a dog called Gadget and a theory on what we’re all dancing for but I think moments like these may very well be it! Oh and the moment you realise you don’t know where the hell you are and have work on Monday morning- but the Afterparty walk of shame is usually totally worth it!

Girl on Girl on Boy

There is no better place to be sexually liberal than in Europe. In fact, it doesn’t take being here long to find oneself in an if-not-why- not? situation, providing a previously seemingly elusive all-access pass- to real experimentation and self discovery with the same sex. Its human nature to be curious and you can’t help but wonder if the Same-same Society really does know something you don’t. Basically, I kissed a girl and I liked it. And while the news would possibly shock my mother- I’ve told her not to expect marriage from me anyway- it really doesn’t matter here, in fact; I’d probably do it again…

When it comes to fiddling-fodder, the question of one’s sexuality isn’t thrown into debate either. We’re living in a modern society that allows one to chop and change our minds, morals, personality and now, sexuality, as we wish. If no-one’s asked the question, there’s no need to answer, so as you were…  It’s refreshing to know one can play kissing catchers on their own playground, decide they still like boys the next day, and no-one will blink an eyelid- although, you still have to be weary of breaking hearts! But it’s simply just another day of human existence on planet earth, really! And I’m not going all safe-sex debate here either- this isn’t school, it’s a genderised cultural celebration- because we can.

When it comes to going out, meeting and congregating; the big-wigged neon flashing camp site is a thing of the past- thank god, that’s so 90’s! No really, a far cry from the bare-chested, oiled up and happy-hardcore pre-conception of the gay clubbing community (We can find you those, if you really want!), the subversive dance-loving society is all-encompassing and generally all roll together as one. Without falsely creating some exotic unisex utopia; yes- he is making bedroom eyes at the boy in the skinny jeans and he will score; those two girls kissing in the corner are not trying to wet the pants of every man in the room; and him, over there- he pinched Sven Vath’s bum- well someone had to, he tells me!

Speaking of dj homie’s- I tried to put that in a context that didn’t imply Mr Vath was one, but couldn’t- so moving along; they’re also a lot more common than you think. While for some their sexuality is very much part of the show, for others; well what did you expect- gay music? The gay kids want Techno too! That’s right; this ain’t Kansas anymore Dorothy, indeed!  A recent random email from a female dj in London- watch me open a real can of worms now- openly shed light on the fact that until quite recently, she was actually a man. She spent her first 31 years of life male, she told me, but now confessed to being fully transgendered- and trans-genre’d, with a record label that’s spans the electronic spectrum to prove it! You go girl! Keeping mum about her transformation is also simply a matter of it being part of her, not defining her. Fair enough!

The gay community have long known their personal preference on heels and hi-teks, and even before the legality of gay marriage- which certainly set the tone with a new-age precedent to ‘coming out’- they were getting loud and loved up in public, and flicking a self-assured middle-finger at the square jaws of the world. Homosexual mouthing off, literally, is no shock tactic or charade- they’re really don’t care; they’re just getting on with it- clearly! It’s safe to say the proverbial ‘closet’ has long since been vindicated, but if you come back at 7pm, they’re more than happy to let you watch them coming out of the shower? Basically, the show’s over- nothing to see here!

Straight-down-the-liners partying with the Pinks learn the etiquette very quickly; and no, no matter how hammered they get they do not want to have a threesome- with you. Don’t ask. Indulging a sexually kinked and ambiguous atmosphere while out with this encumbered bunch however, is quite an experience- remember to bring your dancing queen shoes!

SAFFA Fingers On The London Pulse

BPM Magazine 2009

Some say they’re the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels but mostly, they’re the ones with the twin steel balls that took themselves out of their perfect sun-shiny South African existence to throw themselves with all abandon into the bottom of the Big Smoke party pit.

This is London; the dance music deity that got the globe started on Acid House, The Hacienda, M25 Raves and still owns the forefront today with the likes of cutting-edge super clubs, record labels and sub music genres. Think Fabric, Ministry of Sound and Garage – erm, scratch that last one – and switch off your beeper!

For many Dj’s and producers, this is where its at; the epicenter of all that goes bump in the night, the diversity driven melting pot of people, music, fashion, music, culture, music, lifestyle and music! Shane Watcha, Clint Lee, Sahin Meyer, Paul Bingham, Dave Impact, 2 Phunked Up, Sleazy G, Little Leigh, Hayley Hunter, Anton Kingsize and the Live Tech Rebelz are just some of the names you’ve heard making sound waves on the international EDM scene. They have no respect for the status quo; they’re the ones who saw things differently, followed the UV light and gave it all up for music and La La London land!

An amalgamation of sound in themselves, getting this bunch into a small dark room wouldn’t have been as easy as you’d think – they’d all want to be the bloody Dj! – so with a little digital word play, I picked their master-mixing minds to see if they really felt United in the Kingdom

Where to begin? It was agreed; no matter how big they were back home, when their two-step first hit the streets of London, they became the musical equivalent of a double size 0. It requires immense passion, dedication obsession – to keep up with the electronic rat pack in Europe. Its bigger, better and way uglier – you should see some of these people! And they attest to the notion that it’s all about who you know, as there are no hand-outs here. They’ve been nauseous from networking, even more so from not enough, been overbooked and way underpaid. They’ve burnt their ears, lost girlfriends, jobs and lots of sleep – they’ve even lost themselves deep within this avant-garde music anarchy and twisted in turmoil at the decadent choice of direction to tune into.

But what makes it all worth fist fighting their way upstream – another unanimous nod is being able to see their well-hung heroes live and in the flesh on a regular basis; there is no better inspiration! Being at touching distance from the likes of Steve Bug, Sven Vath and Loco Dice is right up there with owning the stage themselves – well, almost!- and so they’re quite content to watch from the dance-floor or lurk with a long eyeball from across the room.

Then there’s the actual clubs. There is said to be – but I haven’t quite counted yet – over 300 clubs and bars that drop a decent beat and with that in mind, consider the party-people patronage! There is a sound for every situation and an audience to appreciate it and feed their fanatical frenzy, on any given day of the week. Clubs heave even on Monday night, Tuesday night, Sunday morning and all afternoon – and you know, there’s nothing quite like a Sunday session of light-footing it to make you feel alive! This kind of scene support allows Dj’s to be creative and play exactly what they want! Between the lot they can pool an impressive playing alongside list which includes Axwell, The Swedish House Mafia, Brian Cross, Paul Van Dyk, Mr C, Booka Shade and then some, which proves they’re making some serious treads!

What about home? Some have long lost the will to look back, totally locked into their London lives – but they all miss that special South African flavour- it’s like Aromat, I’m telling you – and the incredible character of our county’s people. They’re happy to see the club scene is healthy and growing, the influx of young blood – dj’s and producers – making waves, as well as fresh sounds gripping deck space, which should give SA more recognition on the dance music map. They want to keep up with and be part of it as they are very much representing this side of the pond!

They’ve formed this intense and unbelievably bonded community of like-minded music lovers, who loudly follow and rally around their music mission and rather than see each other as nail-biting competition, they all for one in making name and give each other leg-ups all the way. You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them, glorify or vilify them. But about the only thing you cannot do is ignore them – the only way they’re going is up! Support your Dj’s in London, your country needs them!

The Brand New DJ

BPM MAGAZINE 2009

It goes without saying that we’ve been brought up in a brand new world. Never before has life been so fast, so convenient, so at your service, at your finger tips, at the push of a button -or the flick of a knob. And, whether you’re a proud member of Generation X or Generation Y or skip merrily on the blurred line between the two, (it’s somewhere in the 80’s and I’m blaming Madonna- can the women please stop behaving like an adolescent!) we’re all part of a society that wants it all, and in fact, we wanted it yesterday!

This very much goes for the influx- I’d rather call it spawn- (simply because it sounds like a spreading disease) of new musicians chasing instant fame and success, who so badly want to be the hottest thing since sliced Electro was dubbed ‘Fidget’, that they’re literally making up a whole realm to their musical empire before they’ve even produced the goods! Literally!

They’ve got the reasonably trendy band or performer name; if you need help selecting it, something with the words funk, groove, super or bass jammed in somewhere usually works. They bought the self-actualising set up; all you need is a DJ-In-A-Box! They’ve got the pimped out MySpace page- this pretty much makes it official; ‘Welcome! You are now a musician, you are number 1, 965 447 281 in the quest for superstardom and we’re going to help you get your big break!’ Well, there’s no time to wait around hoping to be discovered… So, they set up their own record label; you really just need to give it a ‘we’re serious about music’ sounding name and complimenting logo.

Then, it’s all about the biography: A musical genius from the age of 3, they were divinely influenced by the advancements of technology and were making mix tapes as birthday gifts for their cousins and friends at the age of 9. At 13 they were raving in some of the meanest underground clubs with their older brother who just happened to be big mates with DJ Whatwhat. Dj Whatwhat himself taught them how to play and gave them their first pair of decks at 16 and now, at the tender age of 21, they’re a musical sensation, with their own unique and distinguished sound. They’ve played with every almost famous DJ and their dog and watch this space; this is only the beginning!

WARNING: You have now entered DJ-By-Numbers territory; please ensure you’re shades are correctly positioned, you’re picture poses are down pat and that for the life of you, you actually can match a beat or two (For the latest edition of DJ’ing for Dummies, please visit Amazon.com). From here on out, it’s all about a bit of marketing savvy and Bam! Rob Riviera could soon be your DJ uncle!

And so there they were; standing in their bedrooms, strumming the jog wheel of their favourite tune on CD, headphones on, eyes closed, a vision of an elevated DJ box and 20 000 people running behind their eyelids… It was all going so well! They’d publically ‘gone underground’ and rumour had it they were working on ‘some serious shit’. The last thing they expected was this global outbreak of EverybodywantstobeaDJ Fever! The 2008 strain has been particularly serious- the 60’s equivalent of playing a guitar- it’s everywhere, it’s contagious! Their neighbour has it, their brother has it, even that science nerd down the road has it- oh wait, that was you!

They curse themselves, having spent too long mentally preparing slick answers to burning questions like, “Who do you consider the legendary DJ and producers of our time?” and “If you could take only 5 tracks to a deserted island, which would they be?” They’ve been put into a box (and not the one they were hoping for!) and are in somewhat of a panic. They’re wondering, “How can I stand out in this insipid DJ Generation?”, “How can I compete with this onslaught of mass music murderers?” Soon enough their webwhore girlfriends are on the networking sites, making groups, fan pages and start spamming the hell out of everyone about their plans for world domination! A little FYI; in this business it doesn’t say much, to be seen and not heard.

And that’s about where we’re at with that and it really is much ado about nothing. Many have already spun out of control and into oblivion. The others? Well, in time they will learn that less is more, they will see that slow and steady wins the race, and that there’s ‘always next year’. A real connection with and passion for music stands the test of time. If you’re life is music and music is life, then you may want to note- you’re already living the dream! The beat goes on in 2009!

Before You Prick An English Rose

BPM MAGAZINE 2009

So there I am; in the ladies bathroom of a small bar next door to Pacha- the supposedly massive super club of London and The White Isle (we’ll get back to this)- having a little pee, as you do, when the banter of a gaggle of girls at the sink catches my ear. It’s nothing outside the usual; in their thick London accents they’re talking hair, handbags and dancing up a storm, but it’s once I’m standing outside the cubicle, waiting for my turn at the mirror, that I’m somewhat stunned to the spot.

The five ladies are adorned in what can be described as a rainbow of colour that could make only Boy George break out into a dj set; each one in a little satin frock with lashings of frill, bow and sequin that give me the same nauseous feeling I get when I’m being followed- I swear- by a women pushing a pram ridden child, screaming it’s head off, around the supermarket. (Insert random Pro-Contraceptive slogan here). My outfit, in brief; black mini, funky top and my ultimate in all night club survival; black Ugg boots, are suddenly looking very indistinct in comparison. I find myself wondering if it’s possible we’re going to the same place or did I just miss the Carnivale Night memo?

Now L-town, being one of the biggest economic monstrosities of a city on Planet Earth, is surprisingly feminine. Much of the city has been delicately crafted (to encourage tourism demand) and gleaned (to satisfy tourism demand) to graceful perfection. Old buildings and ‘typical English’ houses are the brick and cement equivalent of Lace with their engraved curly wurlys and molded roses. Well, never mind that the inside of any given one looks like a dated IKEA store catalogue- a cheap Swedish story all on its own! And the same, to some extent, is to be said for the lasses that run the place amuck- possibly right down to their ‘IKEA filled’ internal fixtures as well but without the Swedish-ness. (Did I mention the random pro-contraceptive slogan here?). And we thought South Africa had a brain drain…

Yes, the women of Britain are being flogged as English Roses to this day. This distinctly ‘English Country’ or ‘Posh Society Girl’ looks being punted by High Street designers and ‘fashion gurus’ from shameful Cable TV shows are convincing the fashionable- questionable- female public that donning a shapeless old curtain and teaming it up with a Kate-Moss-attitude, Cowboy boots and Aviators is ‘bang on trend’. And they’re getting away with this foul crime- all for the sake of selling England to the world as being the home of My Fair Lady. Personally, I’m good with holding onto a little bit of Joburg Girl Glam, thank you- as My Fair Ladies this lot is not!

English girls could very well be the thorns among the roses, in fact, when put on a global scale. Dainty dresses aside, they’re feisty and shoot from the mouth with words that would shock a Pikey, carry a pasty (if not ridiculously Oros tanned) pallor you cant help but fear (either way) and are prone to popping out illegitimate children to live a cushy-as-pins-and-needles life on The Dole. (Seriously, pro-contraceptive campaigners have invaded this space!) When it comes to going out on the town- leaving their mums to babysit?- they dominate the dancefloors of their chosen musing and set the precedent for a whole new era of Girls Gone Wild. I’ve been given much opportunity to witness this fascinating lady species in action, as in my attempt to be adventurous, and much to the tumultuous delight of my roommates and fellow party bitches, I’ve poked a toe, with them in tow, onto the dance floors of several scenes this side of the pond, to see, without the sub-genre political jousting in my earballs, where my toes actually like to jam.

As it turned out, the Loo Ladies and I did all head for the Cherry emblazoned doors after a few party starters at the local. Though famed for its legendary rosters of Thee. Worlds. Best. House. DJs. Like. Ever. (See, I told you I’d come back to it), one of my girls beat me to the Pacha punch when she yelled over the good but yes, ordinary sound system, average sized dancefloor and strangely shrined DJ box, “Is this it?”. (I even went back again a month or so later just to check and, no offence to the European tourists who feed its annual income; yes, that was it.)

At the end of the night I spotted two of the Pouffy dressed party girls looking somewhat deflated. The one, dangling her teetering stilettos from her fingertips was navigating the other, hobbling behind looking like what another mate of mine would call ‘a very dizzy donkey indeed’, towards the exit. If these are English Roses, then God save The Queen! (Pro-contraceptive campaigners thank you for reading here.)

Skinny Up The Boy

BPM MAGAZINE 2009

Let’s start with the great eyeliner debate. Now before you jump down my throat and protest that a mans’ ‘metro-sexuality’ must surely end well before the painting of nails and the gentle fainting of make-up, I’m only suggesting you explore the idea if only to develop opinions, of course, so there’s no- immediate- cause for concern or self defense! Seriously… masochism aside- would you or wouldn’t you? Let me break it down further; have you ever, in your own personal capacity, fantasised about applying a layer of kohl eyeliner to the rims of your eye lids? Too far huh? Well… If recent billion dollar cosmetics companies launching dedicated men’s facial and skincare ranges are anything to go by, you may start to wage that war of conflict (would it be a war?) to decide you’re personal stance on, say, The Manscara.

You snigger now- but I bet you didn’t really believe 5 years ago, that today you’d be a loyal consumer of their well rounded ‘mind-warm-up’ manipulation scheme. Yes, that’s Men’s facial scrubs, washes and moisturizers to you Sonny Boy! Fine, it’s a conspiracy theory of mine- but the fact your mind is now bashfully wandering over the bottles and tubes in your bathroom cabinet is my point exactly. And now that you’re silently arguing that ‘men have just as much right to look after their physical appearance beyond a shave and hair gel, only further proves my point- which is: My, how times are a changing!

Jared Leto is unapologetically the posterboy for eyeliner- and skinny jeans for that matter- and some ladies, myself included, can’t help but see the slanted sexual appeal to a boy that’s just too girly for his own good. There’s something so ‘I’m-already-so-hot-and-manly-and-I-know-it-so-I-can-look-like-a-girl-if-I-want-and-get-away-with-it’ about it that you can’t help but be slightly wooed by the sheer balls of it. But then, I confess, I am guilty of dating men a little more on the pretty side of ‘prettyboy’. I am seeking help for this, however, I draw the line at dating a guy who wear pants tighter than mine.

That out the way; this is not merely about the female or males perspective on wearing makeup, women generally, myself included, again, would rather not have to arm wrestle their boyfriend for the eye pencil each morning and likewise many men would rather use it to poke their eyeballs out- more than understandably so! But my theory spans beyond this.

Whilst men are being ‘softened’ up by marketing which enforces men to have preferences on a wider variety of lifestyle related topics- healthcare, fashion and even diets; women are being ‘manned’ up in a similar way by advertising that essentially bullies us into adopting a mans purchasing mentality. Women are buying faster cars, lifestyles and generally spending more than before- and they were spending more to begin with. Many women will admit to keeping up with men whilst drinking– or straight up drinking them under the table and thinking none too much about it, never mind that we’re still not genetically designed to do this. Before, it was men who received a public bad rap for rowdy, self indulgent behavior and the women who sat back and ‘tut-tutted’ over their testosterone charged irrationality. Just a few ways gender roles are changing in the 21^st century.

But mostly I wanted to talk about men wearing make-up. Basically, cosmetic marketers sat about in a slow moving brain storm session one day, (having decided that women’s mascara had worked every potential marketing ploy possible- they can only be so long and so black), debating how to now extort the male market of more money- since men are severely lacking in leverage in the Consumer Kingdom. An artful and quirky guy called Fabio- or Arnold-, with rounded black specs, a slightly high-pitched voice and manicured fingertips suddenly announced with glee; “I know! Let’s convince manly-boys that it’s cool to be more… pretty?”And they rest, as they say, is now made in Italy and features prominently on the catwalks of Milan. Or something like that.

It seems in Europe, the UK and parts of Asia, men are ‘coming out’ en force to take advantage of the new fashion opportunities available to them- and for the first time, the Westernised front is lagging- they still wanna be ‘gansta yo!’ But men have long bitched about not having as many fashion choices as women and now that the closet doors have finally opened, revealing shorts, shirts and pants in more than two designs or four colour options; it really is to be seen weather (the proverbial) ‘he’ gets involved and gets creative.

Essentially, it’s less about feminism (I was merely having a dig) but more about liberation and gender equality- a coin that clearly flips both ways. Why should we ladies have all the fun and self expression? Grab a pencil and give it a whirl! Think about it… after all, you’re worth it too!