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?)

Black humour

Friend Of The Arts, ol’ Pal?

Dear Dr Jordan

It’s interesting that as Minister of the Department of Arts and Culture, you state quite glibly that “The Cape Town International Jazz Festival is about how the people of South Africa stopped thinking of themselves as belonging to different groups and began to see themselves as one African nation whose ancestors happened to come from different continents” in your Public Address on behalf of the Cape Town International Jazz Fest . Your department is concurrenlty establishing initiatives that completely contradict such claims, stratifying open-minded celebrations of diversity. The Department seems intent on curbing press coverage of what has inauspiciously and myopically been dubbed “White Rock”. I thought we'd freed ourselves from mental slavery.

The motions translate tritely. The press and the broader media will not be free to represent musical genres as it sees fit or as its readers and viewers demand, but as government quotas dictate. Ironically, "quotas", here, sounds suspiciously like a synonym for oppression. So much for a free press.

What I'd like to know is, since when did music have colour? Oh yeah. How ignorant of me and my centuries-scarred memory. Since the reign of the Rainbow Nation. But with 14 years of freedom in the bag and uncountable corruption in our coffers, this new approach sounds more like retribution and revenge than reconstruction and reconciliation.

Music appeals to the soul through the emotions, and as such, is one of the few art forms that has a stab at healing the rifts in our realities. Why segregate that?

So touché, Dr Jordan. Jou ma se genre, is all I can say. Bob would be disappointed by your “representation”.

Not Yours
Jezebel ('just another white girl')

p.s. What are you going to do about Blk Jks and Southpaw, I wonder?

Southpaw. SweetSexy.

Sexy. Simple. Southpaw.

Watch that lefty
while you're shmoozing to their irrisistably funky flow
they're not all soft-focus sex appeal...

Sweating in a concrete cube underground at the noYetSoUnderground MOPPP opening (Month of Peoples' Photography, poeopols! get widdit and support the emergence of lowbrow Artttt even if it is a little middleoftheroad to start with) a dreadless Fletcher smiles, “the thing with a boy band is not which one you want to sleep with, but how to choose between them!” his eyes twinkle, and we laugh, because we know that we know no better than anybody else the power of the punani and the peter...

but i digress. we're talking about Southpaw : a clutch of pretty boys who make some meanEasy noise.

There’s a reason the girls know the words to all their songs. I’ve only seen them once before, and I remembered words too. They’re catchy. Infectious, even. They’re a danceable-singable-jiggable fourboyband. lots of booty there. And they have great hair.

It’s a filial affair – brothers, cousins with a bunch of good genes (visual and musical!) The sound is funkysoulpop. And it rocks. They’ll get radio time if they play their cards right, but you’ll be proud that they’re also conquering commercial ears rather than bummed that they sold out. They haven’t. They won’t. Their sound is too squeaky, squelchy sexy, too mmmmmmelodic to be anything but dirtyclean. Their damn fine funk and thump and riddim are so smoothly stitched into ultra emo harmonies (but only for a quick mo) that their trademark crescendos spin sweetness into the air and sink into the tingly bits down there. The bass takes care of the rest. it's like being chatted up by music. professionally.

Try not to smile.

Southpaw. TKO.