Find The Party - Desmond And The Tutus

(yissis! This was written December 2006! - Nine months ago...enough time to birth a baby, né? Forgive, kittens, twas hiding somewhere in my harddrive archive – can you say that five times fast?! Harddrivearchivehardivearcdrivedarkhivearkdive eeuyaargh!)

*Ahem.*

Kiss on the cheek

(dec 2006)

Last night was a typical Cape Town Summer’s night out. You don’t always find the (right) party by default; it’s usually somebody else’s fault. In this case, many people contributed to my fun. I left the stiff-collared middle-of-the-road (but jamming) yuppy jol at armchair (hey, it takes all types to float a business in this industry, gil’s just doing his job for live music) and found a flood of summery seventeen year olds making the (former) Cool Runnings very happy about their deal with Cobra. There were hoards of homies buzzing about while the fire dancers tickled our short attentions spans with flashes of flame and local fame. Cape Town is living up to its reputation for beautiful women and pretty boys. I didn’t quite know where to look, actually, it was eye-candy-cum-kindergarten - Hip chicks with slim hips, the token would-be beauties with everything hanging out. Sjoe! Like any media mind-washed mêdem, my eyes settled on a tiny creature flaunting it all, sporting little more than a strip of fabric across her punani and a cropped leather jacket over the fresh, desperate skin exposing her honour. She looked lost. I wanted to take her my arms in and give her some undies to put on under her loincloth, and teach her that a woman’s weapons is not her wang – uh - whatsit. But anyway.. Freedom means finding your own boundaries, innit?

So that got old, and I ebbed off to Mercury, which is possibly older than all of us, and seedier. I enjoyed Eat This, Horse (despite their bad hair) and then I really enjoyed Desmond and the Tutus(despite their bad name). Sparing me the crackers and overfull tummy, the tutus brought Christmas to me. They did a dandy job of impersonating kissmiss trees. They came on stage dressed in skinny jeans and stripy tops (~sigh~) and long Hanson hair. (were the Hansons boys or girls? I was never totally convinced either way). The white, twinkling Christmas lights wrapped around their necks sold me completely - I’m sucker for sparkly things and party animals. With the stage lights off, they bopped around beautifully like illuminated robots, their knees knocking together in all the right places, and their heads nodding about in concurrence.

No idle promises from these boys –their noise is easy to enjoy, and they know how to dance, I guess, because they do it their way. It’s happy, it’s hairy, it’s happening.

Oh. And they rival Taxi Violence and The Sleepers with their flyer art…!

Possibly politically incorrect band names

Especially for the oversensitive, newly oppressed amongst (and if we’re going to split hairs, I’d like to remind you that of all the arts, music stands testimony to having no colour or creed)

• The ancestors
• Bed on bricks
• Taxi violence
• Desmond and the Tutus

Ve r y S m ö r ... .. g å s b o r d

Smörgåsbord? It’s not a Nordic tongue. Though the band I’m talking about certainly do nice things with theirs. And their fingers.. <sigh>.

Smörgåsbord, kitlings, is a variety of things. Originally, things you could stuff your face with. But in this case, its things you can wiggle your bottom to. Verismo (say it silently, imprint it into your sonic synapses!) is all that. And a bietjie more. (ok, say it loooooud)

They make mad music. They dress in velvet and studs. They leap about almost as much as their audience does (now that is a good sign), and they aren’t going to stop any time soon.

It’s a constant dance of quiet little moments that gently build up to fullblast, heartfast deliciousness.

See if you can keep still.

I was like, kululululuuu (or izit kilililileeee?): here's celebration. They bring out the Prima Donna in boys, girls and inbetweens who can’t help dancing to the bouncing frenetics of something other than ordinary. Toss some ska and opera and some yiddish funk and some Antarctic blues and a lot of heartfelt theatrics and a lot of red-faced fans with delirious grins, stir it up like Mr Marley suggests, and voila! You have an unnameable, almost describable evening of hip happiness. Prepare to sweat. And swoon.

And yes, they sing all about love. Lust. Life and the little things that make it magical. Like velvet and lace and lots of pretty faces. That is what Verismo is made of.

Btw they’re wicked musos too.

p.s. Verismo sounds like Verismo, but i'm having moments of Desmond and the Tutus, too. in tone. not taste. and the (wonderful, amazing, where are they now?) Honeymoon Suites.