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Vader Krismis in Bedrog-Skok
PARYS - Kort voor spertyd gister kon bevestig word dat Vader Krismis wel skuldig is aan grootskaalse bedrog sedert so vroeg as ten minste die laat 1500s...

Soundtrack of a year I can't remember very well
Well allright. The year before the year zero, and you want me to talk about a soundtrack. This is my annual tequila day, and you want me to talk about a soundtrack. Jesus Christ, are you incredibly wrong. This is obviously the story of my own soundtrack, so sorry, no addendum B with quoted lyrics from Britney Spears or Just Jinger...

Girls in red, Jesus and five bottles of Tas (that became seven)
48 hours in the Klein Karoo, Oudtshoorn, the most happening festival in the country since the Koedoe-drolspoeg competition at the Bosveldfees in Ellisras. 4 people, 4 presspasses, 5 bottles of Tas, 5 girls in red, 2 guys from the telly...

Oppikoppi - in search of salvation (and Steers)
Nostalgia, is what returning to the place is all about. Maybe because I've mixed girls and music here before, with great consequences. Maybe because I've shaped friendships here that will be part of my wrinkles until I die. Maybe because the music performed here tells me something about myself. Fuckit all, Oppikoppi is still the finest thing you can do with spare days of your life in August...

KK*K stories from the fifth beer barrier
Upon my return, basic services have broken down. There's no toilet paper, tea or coffee. Fresh milk is a myth, not heard of for more than ten days. My digsmates have taken in three female French exchange students, harbouring them from the cold and lonely autumn nights. They are pretending to understand some French. There's kissing going on. It's infuriating...

Jim White, The Handsome Family
The Barbican Hall's a smart place, kind of like the Nico (ag I mean Artscape) if you could imagine it being glamorous there. From tonight onwards it will host the Beyond Nashville concert series, further exposing the past decade's burgeoning so-called alt.country/Americana (yes, I know, 'or whatever') scene to larger and larger crowds. If you can ignore the weirdness of seeing twisted 'for real' country/folk/rock/pop music being marketed as if it's a really good new chocolate bar, then tonight is the start of something really good....

How many hours 'till the first Hansie joke? About 10.
It happened almost a week ago now, last Saturday. For some it will go by unnoticed, others will always, especially when drunk somewhere thinking of the 'good times', recall where they were when The News Came. Anyway, Hansie is dead and it closes a chapter on something, whatever that was. A kindly reminder of what we've done to sport heroes and how much apparent 'meaning' we can draw from their lives...

You do, of course, know this.
Waking with the Ctrl-Enter-Del-blues again, jargon-fried and drunk (not on information, but still on last night's ciders), I make my way to the conference in my '69 Beetle, warp-drive not by definition of speed, but by defintion of noise, driven like a submarine-deathtrap where I inhale the trapped fumes of old, dead forests. Somewhere in the east there's a hazy day, ten hours of it already, hanging fairly loosely in another well-controlled fire's smoke. I'm beating the living shit out of my computer but it keeps fucking up at the all-important hurdle of booting up, and when it does, the world turns and turns and turns and fucking turns until Bill and the Microsoft massive call it quits, network down, no email. I pick up the phone, the line's dead. The world is going to end. It dawns slowly on me, then I reach for my cell and SMS my massive that I can't cope anymore, I need my email, I need it now. I need input. I need coffee...

Garbage, Placebo and warthogs
Last weekend's much-punted double bill concert of international supergroups Garbage and Placebo should've opened a few eyes in this country. Garbage, who've won countless awards for their almost scientifically brilliant electronic pop, and groove-induced glamrockers Placebo played four concerts split between Johannesburg and Cape Town...

Parting shots, stuff on the wall & the man from Uitenhage
By the weekend there was finally time to cruise through some of the exhibitions around town. Stuff just hanging with its painted ass there on the wall, with only a little nametag and (normally) a hefty price tag to hide behind, has really got to unhinge itself and punch me in the face to be noticed...

The truth from Zim, death row & the mouth of a donkey
Every now and then something unexpectedly adds something to your life. Beyond the level of pure entertainment, a performance can also touch you emotionally. Take five white guys from Zim called Mann Friday on a non-descript Wednesday, for example...

How Graham Weir Accidentally Managed to Turn the Tide
To start with, the pianist wore an orange overall touched up with a heart-shaped fur patch. And he was called Sven. Then add Graham Weir in blue suede shoes, 'Working Girl' t-shirt and purple fur and you somehow know you're not here for 'A Night With Andrew Lloyd Webber'. But it's not quite the Scandinavian porno you're thinking about either...

Flu, flying cheeses & red wine
If it wasn't for the carguards, the postered walls and the hippy trying to sell you an orgazmatron, you could be forgiven for thinking you were somewhere out on the pack ice of Antarctica, saving some trapped researchers...

Blood on the dancefloor at The Jam
Friday arrives and I'm broke as hell. Ready to settle into DSTV-fuelled depression and re-heated lasagne, Dave comes to the rescue. It's Fuzi Gish's CD launch at The Jam and he'd be damned if I was gonna sit around and have a wank...

Kadja Nin, I kid you not, is the Queen of Africa
A better location for the African Summer Stage music festival (21-22 March) one could hardly picture - right under the mountain on the fields of Cape Town High. With all the organization in place and the machine running smoothly, it was now up to the artists to come to the party. And by and large they did, often in spectacular fashion...

How Mark Shuttleworth Paid for my Rent
I'm standing in the queue at the ABSA to get some printouts of my account - a constant freelancer mission to see who's paid and who hasn't. They've got a TV here, which you can check out while you're waiting. Today it's wildlife stuff - they're showing a pack of hyenas cornering a wounded buffalo cow in a shallow mud pool. It's merciless, nature. Survival of the fittest. I feel a bit like that buffalo cow today. A pretty girl joins the queue, I smile at her. She smiles back, then stops, seeing my t-shirt...