Nice, indeed...

pics swiped from http://www.facebook.com/pages/Beatenberg/166509122974?ref=ts

"We used to be called Nice" says their myspace page. What an opener. It's a line that'll cull many a boring intro interview. Beatenberg is was and always will be a three-piece from the Southern Suburbs as sweet as they are sarcastic, as grounded as they are talented.

That word again. Talent. because of an abundance of fair bands in the fairest Cape it's somewhat overused, i'm glad to say. But don't for a minute think that just because there are lots of boys (and one or two girls) making a pretty noise in our pretty city that talent is something to take for granted (take the mountain for granted, that's ok. Just don't throw your forking cigarette onto it half stubbed). First of all it takes blood, sweat and tears to turn talent into something finish and klaar, something consumable, something worthwhile. And second, if we start resting on our laurels before they've even grown, we're fucked. No rest for the wicked, is my motto. Now go be wicked.

So Beatenberg. Once was Nice. New songs. New name. It's something you can afford to do when you're just getting started and you know what you believe in.

I believe in them.

Face the music

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Beatenberg/166509122974?ref=ts

Myspace the music

http://www.myspace.com/beatenberg

and watch out for them live. They're Nice.

niceties that mean something

Matthew Field (photo by James William King)

Aah. What better way to end another confused, not-so-winter's day that starts wet and ends dry than with a simple tune under a milky, spilling moon? And what lies there in el inbox in the invisible post-sushi slump? (Invisible because you don’t get sleepy from sushi, but you do from sa-ke. Even if you didn’t drink any and can't spell it in the first place) Nothing but the unmastered, unadulterated preproduction recordings of this little known band's tracks, “Lost In Translation" and "Recent Developments". That's what you get for being Nice, for making friends with good people, for loving life even when it doesn't love you.

I'm possibly one of fewer than eight or ten lucky pandas to have their paws on this new material, and it’s only really because Nice is a well kept secret that... well... that I just told.

The trio has gigged here and there for a bit more than a year. Between musical studies and grabbing Berkley scholarships and giving the ivory towers the stick, its boys made ripples where it’s real (as well as in some seedy bars and so forth). Both serious about their sound and light hearted about life (on the surface) , they’re also convincingly self-deprecating(on the surface), citing the ‘pop’ genre instead of going into the sort of sordidly lengthy, lyrical explanations I am guilty of. (in sushium absentium, mostly. and it could be worse. much worse.)

What their fistful of fine fans know (along with the gloating GolumGirl aka yours truly) is that they're going into studio this Friday to record their first EP. What the world doesn't yet know is that it’s been waiting for this for a very long time.

Siriyuss, you say? Who exactly is this “Nice” again? Only a most promising new outfit that's got me excited for the mainstream, the more discerning and the musicians all at once. Nice has something that will sell well but not at the price of their souls, something that will lift spirits and eyebrows alike, with smiles to support. They’re one of the few bands to be both on time for meetings and ahead of their time with their music, a touchy blend of sunny-side-up, very soft sarcasm, incredible vulnerabilty and an honesty that never abandons itself. (there? see? lengthy, lyrical description. sigh.) To be trite, and break all my own rules of not referring to the globally revered, it’s a mouthful of Boublé, a gargle of Garfunkel and a sweet spoel of Mayer. It’s also its own brand entirely, with its own sound which is entirely hard to describe when you’re tired of describing sound. Luckily, they are the brand - fresh-faced, affable, and intelligent. Their music is, too. Matthew, Ross and Robin describe themselves as "decent" (in the best sense of the word), though “dapper” (in the best sense of the word) is probably more accurate. Think collars, cufflinks and coiffures, and then add a dangerously twinkling bruisedblue eye and a wink you think you imagined but can’t quite remember. Yep; they’re frost in December, they are (34 degrees south), and you'll hear it in their compositions. They’re by no means beyond a bit of subversion, either, especially when you listen to innocent|ironic lyrics like

"I get the feeling

all the words on your lips

and all your Freudian slips are just like the bones in your hips - well designed".

No, wait, you can’t, yet. But come their Spring launch, you can. In the interim, wish them luck in the studio, and

listen here http://www.facebook.com/pages/NICE/27423962206?ref=ts

or here http://www.myspace.com/nicenicernicest

or here http://www.blueworld.co.za/bands/profile.aspx?id=352

Trivia: they're into pizza and they’re not over anything except the things they never had time for in the first place, like insincerity and idiocy. Good boys, Nice. Like something sublime waiting for you at home after a very long day. Mmm.

THE UNCUT. One hundred percent volume.

[photo swiped from here (points to http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Uncut-Band/7025158463?ref=ts because nikon swiped from here (points to empty hands) ]

It's Sunday. no. it's Monday. No. it's...

Anyone seen my hangover?

I’m sure I left it here somewhere. I remember someone pretty and witty preaching the wonders of whiskey at four am. Best drink, good for you, blah. I agree it keeps you clever when you’re canned. (or at least, you think it does) and it warms your throat so you can’t feel your flu. True (or if it’s real cheap, it burns so bad, it leaves you hollow)... But after a day in bed with bright eyes and an itchy nose, throwing back a few shots of Jameson didn’t seem like a wise move. Did it anyway. Like a zealot at mass. Logic? Something about antibacterial, and anyway, many a good night started with a bad idea. And a band. But maybe that’s just me.

Not that I’m any different. Everyone wants to be cheered up and half the city was in bed with seasonal sniffles and grumps on Saturday. But I got up, got dressed and got down to Taxi Violence’s relaunch. Why a relaunch? you’re thinking. Why am I not still in bed with Selaelo Selota? I’m thinking. It had everything to do with loyalty and love, I guess, though by the breath of fate, both of those have changed their meaning to most people associated with the band. But don’t listen to me, I’m drunk, and I’ve misplaced my headache, and a large part of the conversations that continued after the music had had enough of us.

So there we were exchanging toddy fluids, upping the ante at the Ass, downing the shots. What’s that hedgy phrase again? Self medication. Which is what I do when I can’t get no.

Enter The Uncut. A Jozi band, one Taxi Violence’s drummer Louis loves, and one I hadn’t heard of because the two cities don’t seem to speak much. (PRESS HERE if you’re an independent Jozi band coming to Cape Town). Ohmymy. Ohhellyeah. Ohmynikon. No, no, wait. No Nikon. But lots of photo moments that flash in my memory, lots of leaping around. A real presence, sweat splitting the smoky air, raw personality ripping through the riffs. A bassist singing lead. A guitarist feigning detachment. Another guitarist acting like a rabid animal (a cute one, according to the encouraging catcalls from the crowd). And again, an animated drummer in the dark. How many faces did that front man pull? He’s like Jagger on gummiberry juice. A theatre in one body. And the music. Uncanny - I’d been listening to The Rubber Factory (2004) before I got there and it felt like The Uncut had been, too. Only it didn’t get them out of bed and down to the bar, it got into their music. The Black Keys’ garage blues rock is a brand of its own, and no fledgling original SA band deserves comparison, but it must be said (because I’m a fan of both) something similar resonates through the former’s bass driven finery and the latter’s energetic, indie pop rock compositions. Since seeing Nice, and now the Uncut, and Rus Nerwhich and The Collective Imagination, I believe if you can make em dance, you can make em happy. On a note of etiquette, Kudos to the front man for punting Taxi’s relaunch to the crowd between songs, and hyping them up for the main act. Great to see sincere support from a support act.

You were asking about Taxi’s relaunch? Untie yourself again, I guess. In aid of fans. They’ve finally printed more copies of their debut album which has been sold out for a while. A second album is on its way very shortly. Taxi tore the night, all right. Coy George finally got what was coming to him when some buxom babe jumped on stage, planted a wet one on his cheek, flashed her assets at him (she had them from tip to toe) grinning naughtily and then gave herself to the crowd. Being a professional, he didn’t miss a beat, but he blinked, bless him, he blinked. There’s something to be said for the sweet synergy of Taxi’s emerging sound – stronger, more complex, yet ever the melody makers. Strangely enough, I think it’s the crowd getting a bit soft at the edges – for once I didn’t feel like my life was in danger at the centre of the mosh pit. But maybe that’s because I was armed (or, um, heeled) with slicesharp stilettos. What can I say; dressing to kill is a woman’s vocation. You have to protect yourself out there in the fray. Speaking of girls, if Rian’s hair gets any longer (and his playing any better), I am not going to be able to call them boys at all. And Louis. With his locks escaping. Could more emotion move through one man in one sitting? It’s not just the energy of the playing you see in the lurch and arch of his body; it’s the message in the music. Whether hanging his head during a hot, heavy pause or cutting the air with two thin sticks, he is the music. In all, a powerful catharsis for everyone in the room. Thank you, Taxi.

Now. The unmarked grave of Mama Know Nothing has truncated my Wishlist, but the unannounced arrival of The Uncut has extended it:

one night I want four Pretty blue guns, The Uncut, and Taxi Violence in that order.

I can die happy then.

Ah. There it is. (my hangover). Shit.