Paranoia. the video

paranoia starts here

More PARANOIA (Mama Know Nothing)

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in other words

our loss is our pain...

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credits: http://www.bephatmotel.com/

Paranoia. the irony.

Paranoia is Wicked; the complex and the song. Didn't your mama warn you?

There is more prophecy and irony in this promo and its music video than can be inferred through clenched teeth. Why? Because art intimates life.

On the eve of the launch of the (hothothot) music video that the above promo is for, the vocalist absconded entirely, with no forewarnings, insulting the efforts of those involved (in the band, in the video, on performance commitments) for the umpteenth time , cementing a reputation of ill repute that rivals the history of even the Wad. Poor, dear, brilliant Be Phat Motel saw the sentiments in the promo take on realistic proportions and were left with little more than a rear view of Miss Mama’s fine ass.Can i say good riddance?

A fine ass, indeed, she has subsequently expressed objection to the release of this material to broadcast media under the auspices that it misrepresents her in her new musical capacity. In so doing, she depriving MK viewers and TV dinner enthusiasts everywhere of prime time sex appeal in strings, stockings and stray bits of lingerie in its superb 3-minute suppertime story (or should that be bedtime story?) with a whole lot of woah, Mama.

Woah, Mama, indeed. And quite literally. There is no more Mama Know Nothing to mention. We are left, instead, with the brutal observation that the band’s Facebook fans have doubled since its death. What does that tell you about what we want and what we need? To my mind, this is hardly the best way to launch a solo rock career. Perhaps there's a clog in the Machineri that will be repaired by reality. In the Mamas' wake, few of its fans and fellows can reflect on this callous, unintentional requiem without shedding a tear. Or a jersey (for the more jaded). Paranoia is a self fulfilling prophecy, it turns out; the one true crew of blues/folk/rock heel fillies its sacrifice. With them they took their inimitable style, absolute approachfulness (that's not a word, I know) and rhythm and raunch. That’s not a word, either, but it rhymes with launch. Which didn't take place.

But this is not the bitter end. We’re dragging it through the dirt. The band did just that in the video, albeit more organically, so who's to object to a bit of dramatic irony and tragic parallels? The difference is, i'm calling it integrity, while some will whisper 'herecy' and 'indecency'.As to whether this is appropriate or adequate (depending on whether your shed tears or jerseys) i have one question : is this Rock & Roll, or isn't it? while you debate, we'd like to announce that the video will be screened at Brand Your Band expo along with a whole lot of other gorgeous music videos from a whole lot of other gorgeous production crews and director/editor type pairs or triplets of whatever. Think of it as an unofficial launch. Come on - it's Loerie weekend; you can make like an appropriated symbol of natural freedom and um flap your things, celebrate short stories set to music on screens. To underline the unsolicited, there won’t be tearful announcements or (No-) Thank You speeches. Just the sound and luscious visuals of a world that could have been. Or should have been. Or whatever.

Or, if you’re impatient, like me, hold your breath till i find a way to drop the video's file size from 400 megs to something a little more pigeon-sized without the right software (you're going to die, if you do, but then, at least it'll be a requiem for two). If that happens, you can drop in here for the first online publication of a dirty dirge to a deeply disappointing death. (allit.eray.SHUN! aaaaaargh! are there pills for this?)

vinatge china

photo by Terri Lee Coppin (http://www.facebook.com/terri.coppin)

It's the night before yesterday in the city of pretty, and China is celebrating twenty years on the decks.

Considering the changes we've seen in South Africa in the last two decades, this is a fitting way to begin to celebrate National Braai Day. (let's just get over it, it's only ever going to be called Heritage Day on calendars. Braai's - being the cultural common denominator of non vegetarians the land over - have a postive history, whereas heritage is a heavy, half-strangled word still redefining itself in a world still coming to terms with its persistent social segregation and lack of political self flagellation. So yes, the long walk to freedom parades [or is that parodies?] itself as boerewors and pap these days. But back to this celebration.)

No point celebrating my sexy sideswipe reverse up the ridge parking. I have to walk all the way to the door in the dark. It's more rare to find a parking right outside mercury than it is for a carguard to let you get away without chatting (you up) for a bit en Français. Especially when you're too tipsy to remember your name, let alone how to say, 'no, i do NOT want to marry you' in that lovely, lilting tongue i can never quite wrap mine around.

The whiff of green in the air assures me i haven't gone to the wrong venue again. (despite the disparity in sound systems, and excess or lack of tasteful interiors, they do all start to feel inanely the same after a while, these different, dark holes in our sonic city)(and besides, the last time that happened to me, i ended up dancing with the devil, so i've learnt that i like to know where i'm going. At least then i can waltz when he walks in)

Not the devil, and not the gates of the garden; the dedicated doorman stands stolidly, inured to his gallant role and unmoved (except to laughter) by shitfaced teens drooling over their shoes and slurping into the street at 3 a.m. (how come nobody ever gets knocked over there? Cars conduct themselves like deranged acrobats under the influence of winking witches, and there are always smelly, incoherent things formerly known as people staggering across the road to the boerie stall to celebrate their own little braai day in the middle of the night. A mystery. Bit like The Waiting Room's roof - i'm still waiting for someone to fall off it. Not in a sordid, psychotic way; it's just... inevitable. As is the gumption of my assumptions on this fine, spring night that i'd earlier assumed to be sans frisson. Wrong.)

Some lost souls mumble by on their way to the shack. ("Capetonians are funny," says jolly Jason later, "they're scared of each other in a weird way." i'm scared of all those purple monsters that have descended on Long Street in celebration of the ass fucking industry. i mean. advertising industry.)

"i think maybe you're coming here?" says said doorman to them. I laugh silently at the reality of colour coded venues and the sharp eyes of those who hustle and usher people in and out of them. They clarify it's Ragga Soulja's thing in there? Yes, here, welcome. Spose if you spend dark nights watching lots of white kids get caned, you chance to notice a multi-coloured crowd crunching along the curb on their way to where they don't want to go. (alliteration! aaargh. go. away.and who put the ass in assonance? hey?!)

In we go. Fifty ront. Steep, but then, Hellfire is doing the sound, which means no unwelcome ear ache on my side, and no need for earplugs, and also, the night features some of the best (and more down-to-earth) DJs in town (HoneyB, Mix'nBlend). But besides that, i'm not expecting anything especially awesome, though the promise of an act i haven't seen live (responsible for a song i love dearly) is hopeful.

Inside. Kiss cheek kiss cheek with my stalker. Swap notes with a drum & bass dude about mixtapes and who kicks ass on the scene(s). We agree. For once. And it has nothing to do with rhyme.

After a while i'm upstairs, and noticing it's not that smoky. So this crowd, i'm thinking, thinking i'm clever, they smoke ganja, but not cigarettes,right? Nope. Mercury is just ahead of the game. Again. Mercury. First live venue to invest in decent sound, longest standing supporter of local original sound. This time it's the new tobacco law. In one month, you won't have to wash your hair and your whole body before getting into bed after a night in a nightclub because the men in blue will be making sure we copy the men and women on the west coast of the red white and blue - No Smoking In Public Venues, California style. I anticipate LOTS of grumbles on the Face for this one. Personally, i'm pleased as cat whizz on a virgin pole...(one zero to me, Peter, without making a poephol of myself in the process, nogal.)

Then the music. EJ's the man, ek sê. Maybe we're starved of women with mics since Mama Know Nothing's lead lady proved how clueless she really is. Von Lyrik has a great energy, a versatile voice and diversified vocal style. She's as comfortable in chorus with the full bodied flood from the backing vocalist as she is alone on a rant and a rap. The band bops along sublimely, with newlywed lark, Sean Ou Tim, keeping time as effortlessly as ever, tubby Teba's freestyling, China's Bongo beats and intermittent MCing, the undreadful Fletcher fingering things in the dark, Carlo being brilliantly understated on an electric guitar and the keyman apparently having the most fun out of everyone from the smile on his dial. Who thought so many songs could stand that established synthetic organ tone? I guess it depends on the blend and the composition. On the latter they fall a bit flat at times. They've this habit of harping back to the beats and melodies of other hit artists (which irks me a little, but my little feet vehemently disagree by dancing dub dub dub despite my preferences for all-original sound). When they put their own material out there, you feel it, unrefined, uncopied, and full of... dare I say it.. heritage.

Mm. And speaking of the things we inherit, i later bumped into Carla('s belly). The next Southpaw son is due on the weekend of Rocking The Daisies, so this year we're dubbing it 'Rocking The Babies' in his honour. Or hers. Or both, if Carla's right. "I think there's another one over here, behind the boy" she says, gesturing to her kidneys and disappearing quickly to the loo. Being pregnant is like being online, only the short span is not your attention, it's your squashed bladder. I ask if she plays her unborn music, and she glows a hell yeah back at me. 'Ja, everything. Except i'm a bit disappointed in his taste." So why then has she been listening so widely, if she knows what she likes? obviously to give her boy a choice, but also, if we don't listen widely, we sometimes miss out. On events like this, for example. it only comes once in a lifetime, after all...

Happy Anniversary, Dubman of many names. You may make us argue over what you're really called when we're trying to find your Facebook profile, but we always find you sincere and humble and super fun. Respect.

the versus verses and other unke(mmm)pt promises

[above image and concept property of Mama Know Nothing]

Marketing is getting me again. Or - what was that lovely little word from Anonymous (sjoe, there are so many of you now, i keep confusing your faces) - the 'half-assed' interpretation of marketing.

Marketing is a promotional tool, not a promise. i should know that. You may not care. i may not care that you may not care. Et cetera. The fact remains that every time someone promises a showdown between two DJs, soloists, bands, or MCs, i get interested. X versus Y this weekend, it goes. Ooh, i go. And so i go. Or, i used to.

It works, promising violence. We like to see a bit of bravado, peeps pitting themselves against one another. Competition, after all, is an instinct, so it belongs to the best and the rest of us; it’s embedded in our egos and in our will to live (erm, ok, trainspotters aside). On a more basic level of existence, competition is also known as the fight for survival, the need to succeed (argh. how does the copywriting creep in?) and that’s why talk of it titillates even the civilized (or especially, as we’ve discovered; the developed world is not necessarily mature or responsible or compassionate). At the promise of some blood (be it a musical metaphor), some guts (be it sonic), some actual combat on the decks or the stage, i get excited. i think, 'hey, what? They’re going to pit themselves against each other? What’s the prize?' (the Audience is the prize. Remember that)... or, 'wow. Duel. They’re going to have to interact with each other's material! How friggin revolutionary.' (excuse my sarcasm, but you may or may not have heard of the non-violent form thereof, - that almost extinct instinct: co-lla-bo-ration. say it slowly, it'll come back to you like an ancient memory. And no, it's not illegal, but it is dangerous, and you should be afraid, very afraid – it can lead to spontaneous creativity). But no - no promises kept, no tête-à-tête, no one-up(wo/)manship. You go to the gig, and it's, like, “just the bands, bru; the support, the headline, hey…ja-no, like 'versus' was like a clever way of saying there'd be two bands, you know, back to back [‘they faced each other?’] Not that there normally aren’t, but like, we don't wanna fight, hey, we just wanna make music and be friends and like -bru! Check their asshole vocalist there, and his gay walk. You know he tried to sleep with my, like, girlfriend last week, hey. Doos. I’m gonna fucking killim. Ja, hi dude. Howzit man. Sweet.”

mm. Dirty skirts and Taxi Violence disappointed me that way a long time ago. (remember the classic poster? – Jess and George in duotone raising their fists at each other.

They raised the ceiling separately on the night).

Mama Know Nothing and [Them] Tornados should’ve known better than to pull that move at Albert Hall, too. (See, Anonymous? even my precious ones aren't safe from the scissorthoughts, and I use these examples because the good and the bad of these bands sticks in my head, not because of their hair or my hormones. Ahem.).

Actually, wait, no – I disagree with myself. After last night's collaboration at Zula bar and the Backyard Crew (http://www.backyardrecords.co.za/ ), i fully forgive the five blues|rock-folksters. Inviting the first act of a trio of genre-splicing sounds on stage with them, Mama Know Nothing proved their musical buoyancy a bit beyond the norm. There's Sannie (on top form despite the crackly PA, btw, and completely captivating) sharing a mic with Galina, ad-libbing lyrics and swaying in time to Kideo’s MCing to the beat of his brothers' feet which mimic the call and response of Vannemerwe and Mashonisa’s hollers under Hagar’s lead strings letting Point 2 make a point or three hand-in-hand with Fez plucking depth from thin things while gruff Kurt keeps the beat with a flourish that jazz training alone cannot incur.

It worked. They reworked a song on the spot, splicing hip hop and blues-rock. Ok, Hagar is right – they chose a song open to interpretation and fiddling. But they did it without practicing, without thinking, with love and laughter. They did it well and something happened on stage – something started. I hope they’ll write a song together. Big up to the boys for being so keen on merging musical memes …we want more fusion intrusion. (I want copywriting to dissppaaaate.)

So. It does happen. Co-lla-bor-ation. Even if this time it was a secret surprise for the select few who risked having their nights brought alive by people with a bit of vision and a lot of talent.

However. Collaboration is as rare as real combat. So until everyone and their girlfriend slash groupie slash wannabe public relations person start writing press releases and fan page updates that actually deliver what they claim, i ignore claims about aural adversaries like i ignore bad bands (that one's for limpwrist. pity your prodding into people's personal lives had about as much impact as your music does, hey? wasteoftime).

and this might be a floating point (or it might be my main one), but i would've thought there'd be a bit more honesty and integrity in indie-pendent music marketing, considering it doesn't have to answer to anybody (except its Audience...remember that.) Unless, of course, the cynics and sages are right, and everyone's just in it for the pert perks, not the love.

wanna know something? (an unlikely love letter)

Dear Mama

Last night you sang and played for us. Your music is something like a prayer, a dirge, a war cry & a victory song meeting, mingling &merging. Your ballads &bluebird ditties are dirty and beautiful, &so are all your inmates. In all the right ways.

But.

I can’t hear what sister Sannie is saying. And I’m not the only one. Her voice is heavens(c)ent and bloody, but she needs to ennunciate more, because i know her lyrics are as good if not better than her melodies and vocal abilities. &Galina’s gorgeous eyes roll around her sockets like she really would rather be somewhere else. It’s weird, because she is the most capable of bringing joy to the set, and instead people are leaning over to me &saying, ‘mydoghowsheplaysthat fiddle’ and/or ‘why is she up there if she's so unhappy?’ &finally - nobody is communicating with Hagar. Quiet and humble as she is, she is the hidden flower, and flowers need attention to blossom bigger. You are not forgetting she’s your lead guitarist, are you? Or are you?

I'm sure the uber cool Fez and Kurt would agree with me if they were the other side of the sticks and bass. Do me a favour, ladies - do them proud.

That’s all. I’ve had a night of nasty discoveries and even harder realisations. So forgive me my directness.

Or don’t.

In the spirit of your world (in)fame(y)
Jezebel

star quality

Showbiz is hard work, for sure. Business obligations carry on way after the singing, stringing, strumming, banging and drumming have silenced. People want a piece of you if you've been on stage. All those hands grabbing your groin, cameras in your face, body parts to sign, not to mention the drinking, dancing, flirting - or should i say networking... Poor rock musicians. What a performance!

On average, I mean "performance" literally. Most performance is average. Most performance is an act. A good deal of what we see on stage is an act of sorts - an offering to the gods of the celebrity pedestal, a testament to the adoration of minion masses pulling at their panties and tugging at their already unruly hairdos. Most performance is average. Most performance is put on. This observation doesn't double as a compliment, unfortunately. For me, real star quality is about catharsis, not the catwalk, and the superficial strutting is starting to bore me.

Some souls have the solitary gift of being able to stand up on stage and exude excellence and/or eccentricity without (looking like they're) trying. Helplessly Brilliant? Yes. These are the ones who pierce your peace and leave an indelible mark on your subconscious. Think Inge. Chameleon. (and please ask them to do a duet sometime) You might never remember their names but you'll never forget their presence, musicality and demeanour. These are the ones worth watching. Actually, these are the ones you can't help watching. These are the ones that might survive themselves. With a certain naked frankness, without seeming to mind that their person is displayed for the scrutiny of all, they climb into the light and shine with an honest expression of self, soul and talent. However bizarre or unusual that might be, it comes across as indubitably authentic and essential. Picasso, not Pavlov.

By contrast, good entertainers have crafted an act that puts them on the spot in the spotlight, something they perfect and explore, nip and tuck and tailor for the benefit of their benevolent audiences. The effort is admirable, and the craft brings laughter, awe, and enjoyment to many. The more hard working and professional the approach, the more evolved the entertainment factor, but it remains an experience based on premeditated charm and simulated (sex) appeal. If you're in the audience on the receiving end, the conjuring act on stage can never be yours the way it can in the presence of greatness. It won't penetrate your psyche, it won't surface in your dreams, it wont take you home with it. Why? Because when you watch an act, you're not consuming something innate, you're swallowing a carbon copy of an approximation of authenticity. With the right lipstick and lip sync, they become something more than they are. (and, it must be said, choosing the right audience is part of the formula. Performers are not the only ones in the habit of approximating authenticity.)

The very effort that separates entertainers from the ordinary (wo)man in the street divorces them from real stars. It’s the effortless ease that separates rising stars from hard working performers. Stars are just being themselves. Most of them probably can’t help it. It makes them unbelievably irresistible.

Sure, tastes vary, and we need all kinds of entertainment to forget the unanswered questions and unmapped roads. You might have a taste for a bit of thigh, banter on the fly, you might want half a stand-up routine before the first chord is played. You’ll get that, and you’ll probably enjoy it if it’s well done. The city is filled with frustrated divas just dying to be looked at. The stars wont’ do that. Or, if they do, they won't do it for that reason. They’ll climb up on stage and sing, scream, swing their arms around, stand silently or pull faces and insult your mother because they can’t help themselves, and they don’t want to, anyway. The stage is one part of a process of becoming and embodying. They’re here because they must. And whatever it is they’re giving to you on stage is NOT a performance, it's a gift. and believe me, they need you to receive it. That doesn’t mean they can’t improve their rapport with their public, or that you shouldn't be mad when they are out of line. In fact, that's where these definitive boundaries of star and performer merge. That’s perhaps where skilled performers could give stars some quick and handy tips. Both approaches do good work, and both bugger it up, at times. A respectful exchange could make the world of difference to enthusiastic, discerning audiences everywhere.

Problem is, a true star is not going to take anyone’s word for it until s/he sees it personally. That's what makes them impossible and important. And that is why we believe in them. Because it’s real.

Some local stars : (front men and women to watch)

Sannie fox.
Mamma Know Nothing - the former Black Betty

Joshua Grierson .
Mercurial.an impassioned singer/songwriter proving that there IS a potential for audience-crossover between the Watery Front and seedy bars.

Le-Roi Nel.
Foto Na Dans forever. even if he's keeping mum at the mo.

Jaxon Rice.
Diesel Whores. first prize for being the only person I’ve heard and met who is more interesting OFF stage than on it. (and no, he's not boring on stage. he's brilliant, self-effacing and sarcastic.)

Inge Beckman.
(The former) Lark's lass, and currently planning the next big thing. Everyone has a million synonyms for Inge's on stage presence, but the truth is that there aren't any.

quote me in stereo

Said a mama who knows a thing or 2 to me today:

"I think if i were to capture Stereo Zen i would say ,
'They make white girls feel black and suddenly i wish i had a much bigger booty.' "

mama know nothing & mercurial

yes, so I know we're all giddy with this sort-of summer, and we can't stop saying Happy New Year even if we don't know what date or day it really is, but really - it's time to go back to work now and start paying off your credit card . (To console yourself, of course, you can always spend every other waking moment at your favourite watering hole trying to recall what it was like to be free.)

A good choice for that tonight would be at Upstairs (Royale on Long) featuring the talents and allure of Mamma Know Nothing and Mercurial - a cross-section of indigenous alternative folk. Yummy! Get some country in the inner city. Get some funk in your fine bodies. And yes, it IS my fault, actually. That’s what happens when you connect people under the auspices of a party...

he he he he.