Genre-lisations

What’s in a word? When the same band is variously described as alt rock, progressive rock and punk metal by music critics, you’ve got to ask yourself who’s speaking to who. I’ve said it before. By nature of its wide-winged interpretation, pigeonholing genre can be a serious disservice to musicians. But perhaps not to their audiences and potential fans.

Trucker?

Ask people what a truck sounds like. a rare few will say something like, ‘a dinosaur with laryngitis’. Some will shrug their shoulders and maybe try to make the noise for you. And others will just say, “like a truck, haven’t you heard one?” But that’s just the point. If you haven’t heard, and you want an approximate idea of a sound, who’s going to help you? Not the dinosaur with laryngitis.

A velve (er, valve) for exasperation

Here’s an example : I recently heard what a music journalist i respect calls a mix of indie-disco, kwaito-rock and acoustic Drum & Bass. i was intrigued by the description, but not gratified by it. I couldn’t hear the disco. I couldn’t hear the kwaito. I could hear a lot of passion, and perhaps that's what all these words are trying to describe.

Untie yourself

Words cannot do music justice. But in some cases, they’re all we’ve got. Words about music need to be music to the ears. It’s an odd interface, language. We’re fluent in it, but it often betrays us. We’ve been using words since we could crawl, but sometimes, eish, they make your skin crawl. And the thing is that music was there first. We hear rhythm and rage before we ever say a word; think of heartbeats. Anguish. Crying. Mumbling. The things babies do. Well, we’re babies when words won’t work. But you try telling someone that a band sounds like another band they haven’t heard. What are they going to do? Rush out and sample it on myspace? (nope, facebook doesn’t do that. yet) No. they’re going to look at you blankly and sample something else. And by the same token, try explaining recent visitors, Evanescence – operatic emo? Gothic clit-pop-rock? Huh? Exacty, ek sê...

In with the old?

Sometimes I think we should go back to the days and ways of yore, when we had fewer genres, maybe keep three or four or five definitive groups names, and then relate that to some quintessentially human experience (preferably sensory, for absolute understanding) like seasons, or colours. It cuts down on adjectives, expletives, and might save us from reaching that critical mass that loses the point entirely. ..- sorry, what was the point again? Well, let’s just say that slimming down the genres might help The Sleepers feel less like their amazing music is creating semantic schizophrenia in the media, and rather a tempered excitement that making hard, melodic sounds with lots of light inspires. But what would we describe them as, then? Well, how about a clever bassist(and fan)'s suggestion of “dark rock”?

cockfest 007

cape town, workers day, 01 may 2007

So what was it like?

If you like kilometre-long queues for the loos and lots of dust up your nose when you stand around perfecting that manicured, bored look at everyone’s expense, then you know you’re doing it Coca Cola style. Sigh. With 5fm sucking crock somewhere backstage.

Imagine

Mmmillions of middle class kids paying through their noses to get sozzled and scorched on Kenilworth racecourse. O. and listen to some music. Who was it they said was playing again?

(in order of appearance…)(these are links, kitlings)(use them)

Bed on Bricks

Taxi Violence

Love myself Jones

Dirty, naughty Skirts

Parlotones (coldplayOnAgoodDay)

Sprinkbok Nude Girls (aka SNG aka ZZZ)

Hoobastank

Staind

3 Doors Down

Evanescence

Lonehill Estate

Unsurprisingly all got merrier as everyone ODed on their beer limit (lending a refreshing, new meaning to the phrase Top Up. Or is it bottoms up?) and lent their artists passes to passersby to get more beer. As pink and piss coloured draft bent brains and the sun set to sinking, more people fell on their faces and more smiles were plastered there between drool and mud stains and bruises. The demise into joy didn’t seem much connected to the music. Chatting to the hoards, the line ja, no,which song? I wasn’t even listening bru,but cheers,hey came up all too often. Which is sad. Because there were some momentous moments. (and some – SOME – great music)

My best of fest :

TAXI VIOLENCE. Proved. that size doesn’t count. They fill any stage with their sexy synergy and sweet, slicing sounds. Smash them together like pebbles in a penny or give them the scapes of big-budget boards, and they make love to music. Take it away, taxi.

Best of the rest

• Bed on Bricks : full force and wonderful as always
• Not to be outdone or hemmed in, the Dirty skirts : pop-rocking their indie butts off.i like that they like what they do.
  

Quite impressed but unconvinced :

Parlotones. Pretty. Clever. A bit pale this sunny day, though.

For your scrapbook :

The Have Your Say bigscreen clips. SA kids being loud and ‘avin it large. Loved it.

Ever wondered why…

We let the Nude Girls get away with rehashing the same old same-old year after year? (especially when there aren’t ever any nude girls). It’s been over a decade of overkill now. Is it because arnie works out? Is it because the bubblegummers under their boots can’t really discern between expensive noise and rock music?

Low blows :

kak sound. Again and again and again. But like Jess said, it was beautiful weather.

Trend signifiers ( ≠ stylish ) :

• The Only Miss Jone’s bleached,table top, pudding-bowl ‘do. (the future? i shudder; I’m a low maintenance kind of girl)
• Self-conscious, black fingernails. Bitten. But not bleeding. (the neo-alternatives? Come to scream for Evanescence? Exactly. How deep. How dark. And with fingernails that colour you’ll never see the puke stains).
• Parlotone’s eyeliner for boys in three easy streaks. Both sides. (hey! He’s pretty – he pulled it off masterfully) (and I like boys with eyeliner, we established that long ago with the sleepers)
• Limited edition coke buttons anyone? I heard people were fighting for them like dogs. O. no. people were just fighting like dogs.

Big (bad) joke :

free coke. The liquid form. Pfffff. Won’t touch the stuff.

Pathetic :

Hoobaskank's half-hearted, half-minute rendition of the Pink Floyd theme tune. Not cool. Especially when all the bricks on the gravy train were gaily singing along, blissfully unaware that they’d been lulled into thinking they know something about music just because they know some of the words and wear chicks with sunglasses around their shoulders at festivals. And anyway, covers are cool only if you give them a facelift.

‘Just Call Me Stupid’

booboo from the ill-informed interlocutor with one red knee and one sleeveless arm who called the Skirts “Cape Town’s best rock band”. the skirts don’t. Make . Rock. And “best” is in the ear of the belistener, baby.

Progressive :

free squishes of factor 20 from the info booths. For the pale faces. (this is a very pale city!). respek to the organisers for acknowledging moneyed demographics and the need not to burn them.

Best line :

Wiseboy George (Taxi Violence) dubbed it the "cockfest" most appropriately.

The runner up:

[Can you take 1^st and 2^nd prize? You can if you’re clever.] The Hair had a(nother) witty moment with the privileged ones when he called their inner circle the “the golden shower”. They all screeched back gleefully for their five hundred odd bucks worth, and spilt more beer on each other. Sigh. I’m just being antsy because I wanted to be in that ring under the noses of the stars, too; the dull and the shining. and the only stars i was under couldn't be seen for the clouds.

Touching :

• the almost religious humility of Staind’s Aaron. Ooh. And it’s a biblical name, you know. I wonder if he’s Amish.
• Louis (Taxi Violence) wearing a Bed on BricksT-shirt (he has taste)(the bricks are tasty)(yum).

A touch of bad taste :

Love Jones’s wearing their own T–shirt. Helyieu. That’s not branding, it’s narcissism. As if their band name doesn’t say it all. But then at least they weren’t all dressed like kitsch patchwork quilts with a life of their own….

The bottom line :

Taxi’s rock out. Cocks out as always. Metaphorically speaking. They were winners, come wine or whiskey. Or beer or .. uh.. beer. (or coke)(pffff)

Next time, dump the queues; have a line of- instead of a free shlook of- coke. And support good local music week to week, rather than once a year rancorously out of pocket. It’s a looôoot cheaper (count the zeros). (And the sound is better, if you’re at mercury or armchair). Besides and more importantly, the money stays in the hands of local musicians. Who make all the difference to our days.

Time for a little Economics lesson. Big acts need big profit margins and only come here if they can afford to. (they’re supposed to do community service too to give something back in exchange for all the ronts they’re leeching out of our economy! And most of them don’t. What kind of government enforcement don’t we have, ekse,. Go vote. ) They can’t afford to come here if the local music scene is supported by its moms and mistresses. So the bigger local music gets, the bigger the far away acts you can get on your doorstep. Remember that next time you pay cover, or buy a local band’s cd. It’s a global investment in sound.

Big up to the boys and girls who played for nothing, for you. for the love.

But next time, put your money in the mouths of those who make music sing. Not into the pockets of organisers and headliners who leak it away into European holiday villas and offshore expense accounts…

Amen.