name dropping and self naming

Our beautiful Bella sashays into the room looking secretly pleased with herself. She sighs, smiling dreamily.

“That was Carlo,' she swoons and flops onto the stained couch in a draft of Gucci. We pause in wonder and burst out laughing at her. She’s talking about alt jazz pioneer Carlo Mombelli (and The Prisoners Of Strange), and it's the only time i've heard ever her boasting. Given, having Carlo call your personal phone to give you compliments is something to be pleased about, but it doesn’t change the fact that name dropping is kind of corny.

In a world of busybee networking, though, name dropping has its uses, and like its mobile cousin, the jittery Twitter, it’s a promotion platform that’s here to stay. Like bread and margarine for lunch (which, according to inner city aficionados all over the franchised world, is the ‘promotional platform’ that keeps your coffees coming atcha with a friendly, paid-for smile and an obrigado).

The culture vultures of the sonic underground have also noticed that in the last while, name dropping has increasingly been taking place in non-egocentric situations. Name dropping in the literal sense, mind you, though it ironically serves professional survival and expansion.

In some cases, it's seems to be happening because IP in SA stands for a political party with Freedom taken out, not an arm of the law governing Freedom Of Expression and creative ownership. In other words, somebody forgot to Google their band name to check if it is owned by some phat company from a cultural dictator like the U, S and A, or the UK. Ask the artist formerly known as Harris Tweed. They hit a nasty snag on the security fences near the sheeplands er, Shetlands, when an international brand cried wool – ag, wolf. Think also of the spurned and augmented Love Jones whose name was stolen from them when some yankee act that had legal dibs on it discovered the Jones’ doing a doppelganger.

Other bands have edited their catchy name to something more in line with what they've been advised are the tastes of a potential foreign market, though i struggle to see what Germans will see in a pseudo-Scottish band name with South African musicians besides, well, pastiche.

The fact remains that while names are changeable or set in the stone that could sometimes sink with the songs, a name is both a banner to band's entire brand, and a subconscious, intellectual interaction between the listener and the music, so it has creative and commercial weight. It helps to get it right, then. Problem: like with love and good combinations of grapes, there is best practise but really no formula (and of course, mixing the two is the best formula, and widely practised as well).

When effective band names can become a slogan or mantra for a sub-culture or even an entire generation, the best ones have proven that they either fall easily off the tongue and carry the essence of its music, or they mean absolutely nothing. You decide which category The Beatles falls into.

So when a kind call-out from a sweet starter-upper goes out to the masses for his new artist name, Jezebel started wondering about at the art of .. well.. self naming. Sounds simple, eh? Like, just close your eyes and Bob’s Your Uncle? Sorry, it’s taken. (The Americans again) Alright, then name it after your granny? What? Gertrude Gugulethu? Maybe not, hey? (no, wait, maybe yes, especially if it’s for a solo artist. See? This is fun!)

But having sat with some such starter-uppers a little while back, and knocked words back and forth like the floppy swords that they sometimes are, I realised it can be hard to agree when there's more than one creative contributor in the band.

For those of us whose writer’s block is often our starting block, or for those who have just gone round the block trying to find inspiration (and maybe round the bend as a result), here are a few cunning (admittedly corny) cop-outs for those uncreative days when you just have to find a new band name and you simply cannot find your brain. Or a baby name, for the expectant mums reading this. Even if it doesn’t work for you, it might make you laugh, and who knows, even get your creative juices rejoicing…

So:

*open the dictionary (/bible/yellow pages/junkmail/current novel) at random and highlight words (with your eyes closed, if you like)

*try Your Porn Name. Take your first pet’s name, and add mother’s maiden name.

* Facebook's spam check (that pops up with every link you post) offers some arbitrary and sometimes rather intriguing combinations. Add a verb. (‘fuck’is inadvisable. So is ‘kif’. I won’t even mention ‘kewl’.)

*take a line from your favourite fairytale/nursery rhyme/poem/advert.

*grab every second word in yesterday's headline. Then put them backwards.

*make an acronym from your initials, and then choose words to represent it.

*put up fridge poetry, invite your friends over, and offer shots (or whatever your cultural currency is) for every catchy combination of two or more words. If you want to be artistic, ask them to select just one word.

*don’t randomly choose character names from esteemed novels unless you understand the implications. (the artists once parodied as Peter Keating did not)

*write foreign cuss words phonetically. [“Koos Emek? Cool name. Is that like a new acoustic act from Krugersdorp or something?” ]

*if you're really pressed, go ask your baby sister for some of her old poetry. You'd be surprised what people will sing along to if it rhymes.

If you’ve tried this and your heart sank at the results, take heart. Your band name might already be written in your lyrics somewhere. (but take note: these exercises won't help applied to penning lyrics themselves. A phrase is a phrase is a phrase (this is not a phrase). Sure, you can try it, but you'll probably end up a sounding like bad a stand-up comedian on stage, rather than a rock star, though it seems the perks are much the same.

Good luck!

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.