She gone with the man/ In the long black coat

The biggest musical moment was when Jimmy Eat World came to Oppikoppi in 2007. After Savage Garden and Usher in the Dome in Johannesburg when I was still a preteen this was huge. I must have been 19, ready to finish my Abitur and head out into the world at the end of that year. I remember standing pretty close to the stage with one of my best friends, how excited we were and how we sang along to every song. It was magnificent.

This year I have had the privilege of seeing the National, and with that my musical bucket list had started. There are just 4 names on there: Radiohead. The National. Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. Ben Howard. Easy. Doable, in a lifetime, surely.

And then someone came along who would blow that bucket list to smithereens: Bob Dylan. As in, the Bob Dylan. Bobby D. The one and only. For some reason (I do not question the powers that be in this case) Bob Dylan came to Flensburg, of all places. And played for us. Jimmy Eat World were magnificent because of who I saw them with and because they are the band of my teens; the National were a testament to how sad songs can make you incredibly happy; and then came Bob Dylan.

Except for jazzy versions of All Along the Watchtower and Blowin in the Wind played as an encore I knew none of the songs. Not a single one. There was no singing along, no great dancing, no great moving along to the music. And yet he was mesmerizing. He walked on stage in a black suit where the jacket was quite long and then a wide-brimmed hat. During the performance, he switched between singing and playing on the piano, walking between the two stations with more swagger than an entire Hip Hop crew, and enthralled us. The hall was stickily hot, the people were packed quite densely next to one another and I was constantly stepping on my jacket on the floor. And yet, him being there was all it took to make everyone forget how hot and humid it was.

To him it must have been just another gig, one of 1000s, but to me it was the world. It was seeing someone who had lived their dream and who at 70-something was still going strong. I am not a musician and I am entirely unsure what the future holds, but seeing him in the hall us students had been welcomed to Flensburg in, well, it made me believe for a little while that anything was possible.

(After the concert we watched Germany beat Brazil 7-1, so that night the impossible truly became a reality.)

Standing Bob.

Piano Bob. 

Germans celebrating their win.

Dancing in the dark

I was in Grade 9 when my mom drove us to Oppikoppi for the first time. We still owned an old blue Mercedes Benz station wagon, left-hand drive nogal. My four friends were squeezed in the back seat while I was living it up in the front seat, with all our stuff in the boot. I am unsure why/how my mom agreed to take us to a Rock festival somewhere in the middle of nowhere, but it was great. We survived on instant noodles, drank cheap beer and cheaper wine and didn't shower for three days. A bench collapsed under us whilst watching Boo! for the first time, we drove around the campsite with strangers at 4AM and overall had a wonderful time. When my friends' parents came to fetch us on the last day, we were exhausted but happy. So I went back, sometimes even twice a year for the main Oppikoppi and the smaller Easter version.

Since then I have made the pilgrimage to Northam more than 10 times. But I think it has been one time too many. Maybe I am becoming old and my bones can no longer handle freezing at night and cooking like a lobster during the day. Actually, no. It has just become too big, too commercial, to superficial. Now there is a Converse truck where you can get a patch for your chucks. Shampoo samples are handed out at the showers. Ladies dress up in florals and that festival staple: wellingtons. It felt as though the music got lost between all the labels, between all the hype surrounding the festival. Just as an example: days before Oppikoppi started the media reported that Jack Parow had been arrested, and he confirmed that he wouldn't be performing because he was stuck in some jail cell. On the night of his performance, he was miraculously sprung by Captain Morgan and some Hot Bitches. Jack arrived on stage with police sirens and the captain in tow. It felt too staged, too branded, too manipulated to be funny or smart. Never underestimate your audience's intelligence, and their ability to enjoy a prank. Even Parow's performance afterwards was weak.

In previous years I never needed to get drunk to say that it was a great experience. For this Koppi, no amount of inebriation could've saved it from being mediocre. There were highlights of course, like Bittereinder's brilliant set, Toya Delazy's energy on stage and the Koos Kombuis tribute show, but the rest was a stab into the very-well lit up dark.

I heard the party's here

And I'm back.
Joh.
I previously stated that roadtripping to Rocking the Daisies could be at either end of extremes: awful or awesome. Maybe it was a bit of both, a bit of loneliness and fun and happiness and depression and incomprehension strewn in between just to mix it up. Maybe it was better this way.

When going to Koppi, I remember groups of people, camping together; making a fire; chilling in front of the stages and enjoying the music; and, partying at night together. The camp site there is an important place, since it is where you spend half of the time. Also, it is not unusual to just pitch up at some stranger's camp site, be offered a drink and make new friends. Oppikoppi is gezellig.

By comparison, RtD is not. Since it purports to be some kind of hippie-hipster-eco-festival, camping and cars are kept separate, and no glass is allowed in. Also no fires are allowed. Therefore, there is no reason to have a camp site to chill at, and the tents are just pitched at random. At Koppi you try to get a few trees, here you don't give a f*ck since you'll probably just be sleeping there. What neighbours? What sharing a beer? Not these cool kids.

Shock number two came after queuing for two hours to shower for a full five minutes. To me, showering at festivals is nice, but it is optional. You are there for the music, not to make sure you look your best. Again I was very wrong. These girls have ghd-straighteners and hair dryers. They also don't leave the shower-tent without putting on their made-up face. And I'm not talking just some mascara here. Hells no.

The outfits are also worth mentioning. I am used to taking semi-old clothes so that if something happens I don't mind throwing them away. Ahhhhhhhhh non. All these girls appear to be in dire need of nourishment, and they all wear their mother's high waisted jeans, but cut off just short enough to show the rounding of the gluteus maximus. The crop top, angle boots and large hats were also a staple. The gentlemen all looked like they weren't trying to look cool but that they were secretly spending quite some time on getting their hair looking just messy enough. The boys I went with spent more time in the bathroom getting ready than I did.

I mean, this is not necessarily a negative thing, but I felt as though at RtD the festival is a constant fashion show, and that music is just something happening in the background. Except for when Bloc Party played. They are INTERNATIONAL, after all. Rocking the Daisies was somewhat of a disappointment. No one seemed to respect the local bands, like the Dirty Bounce Collaboration (with Mr Cat and the Jackal contributing members), Machineri or even hip-star of the moment, Jeremy Loops. This festival felt as though it was more important to be seen, to tell others afterwards "Ja, bru, sorry I missed you at Daisies, hey, Ja, it was awesome", to have been there without really caring about any band past Bloc Party.

A festival is definitely not the place to be lonely. At Koppi, even when I went only with my friend Sliv, there were always others around to go party with, there were always random people that were willing to meet new people and just have a good time. Here, the cliques were already established, and no one new was cool enough to break into the established order of coolness. The Capetonians were constantly remoulding themselves to be more avant garde, more advanced, more hipstamatic than even the app. Me? I was stuck, rigid, a piece of unwanted, a Nokia 3310 in a sea of iPhone 5s.

Perhaps it is my own fault. I was pretty pissed (not the drunk pissed, the pissed off one) because my homeboys had their own agendas for the festival, which is fine. But it wasn't my fault that things had changed, that the original party was not going, and after three days of being supportive and understanding and adapting to other ways of doing things I just felt a bit die moer in.  If I could try to be understanding, so should they. On Saturday we had a tent-round-table, and sorted it out, which was great, since after that the last night of RtD was quite fun despite the rain and the cold. Nothing a bit of Havana Rum and freshly squeezed orange juice can't fix, hey.

The roadtrip, the Daisies, it was all an experience, neither best nor worst. Like gezellig, I am trying to find that one word to describe the festival, the one that will capture its essence. Beautiful? Eco? Different? I'll settle on oppervlakkig.

Get on the road

Lark. Not sure if it was at Koppi though. 

The only festival I've been to is Oppikoppi. In the years when Easter Oppikoppi still existed, we went on a bi-annual pilgrimage to Northam to freeze at night and die of heat during the day. Also to spend most of the time in a state of semi-inebriation, watching bands you knew well and discovering others. I learnt that cucumbers last really well, that chicken viennas and buns for three days aren't the worst idea, and that showering is not essential.

Now we're leaving for Rocking The Daisies. Which is in Darling, in the Cape. Which is like five times as far as Oppikoppi. The group that was supposed to go was reshuffled due to a break-up, which to me means it can either be really awesome or rather awful.

On verra bien.





 

Gee my jou lyf, jou hart en jou siel

So ja. Ek luister nie juis na Afrikaanse musiek nie.  Dalk 'n bietjie Heuwels as my playlist op skommel (ha ha) is of Chris Chameleon se Ek herhaal jou album waar hy Ingrid Jonker se gedigte sing. Ek onthou nog, dit moes 2009 gewees het, toe ons Oppikoppi toe is en Chris by die boonste bar begin sing het. Net hy met 'n kitaar op 'n kroeg-stoel en 'n klein groepie mense wat na hom geluister het. The Narrow het onder op een van die Maine of Myn of Mayne verhoe gespeel so die meeste mense was onder besig om na Lonely Lonely lyf te skud. Die vorige keer wat ek hom gesien het was jare tevore ook by Koppi toe ek vir die eerste keer Boo gesien het. Ek dog dis 'n absoluut wonderlike freakshow. My vriendin en ek het so die musiek geniet dat die bankie waarop ons balans gehou het gebreek het. Gelukkig was daar 'n stywe crowd wat ons gevang het.

So van lyf-skud gepraat, 'n paar dae gelede luister ek toe nou maar na Jacaranda FM, so bietjie teen my sin want al die ander radiostasies het nie ontvang nie. Een of ander ou het toe heel lekker in Afrikaans gesing, tot ek hoor hy sing "gee my jou lyf, jou hart en jou siel". Klink 'n bietjie soos 'n seks-sekte vir my. Maar ek is bly hulle prioriteite is reg, 'n mens se voorkoms is natuurlik op plek een. "Gee my jou siel" sou dalk ook effens te satanisties wees, ek sien Voldemort en die Death Eaters voor my wat jou siel uit jou suig. Soos 'n menslike suigstokkie. Dalk nie die regte ding om op 'n Sondagoggend op pad kerk toe te luister nie.

Eerlik gesê, ek weet amper niks van Afrikaanse musiek af nie. Rooi rok bokkies, kapteine wat seile span en Liefling is hoe ver ek kan saamsing as dit by traditionele, Huisgenoot-hits kom.

Ek weet dié is nou nie Chris self se lirieke nie, maar ek sal enige dag "klimaat van jou lyf/o meidjie dousag/maar jou oe vlieg wyd/oor die nimmermeerdag" bo "gee my jou lyf" kies.




As julle belang stel, die sanger van Lyf is Albert de Wet, julle kan hier kyk na 'n paar videos wat hulle geneem het gedurend die Jakaranda Friday Live sessie.

Lost

The last time I went to Oppikoppi was in 2010. Right after the festival, they stole my camera and also the hard-drive that had the back-up on it. Until recently I did not know I had lost any photographs through the robbery, but thanks to my vanity in having to post any social interaction ( since it is so rare) to FB, some images could be recovered. Strange how we associate photos with memory, and the conservation/capturing of it, as tough it were an wild animal that could be caged forever in a  8x10 frame.

This one is my favourite. Would've probably looked better with a nice little DSLR on hand, but anyone that goes to a festival with an expensive camera should reconsider going, or reconsider the life of their camera.