August 15, 2017

Liam Burden reviews the Bow Project cd

Filed under: michael blake,music — ABRAXAS @ 4:51 pm


Hannah Arendt

Filed under: dick tuinder,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 2:21 pm


Céline on song

Filed under: literature,music — ABRAXAS @ 2:09 pm

One night, I don’t know why, they changed our number. The scene of the new sketch was the London Embankment. My misgivings were immediate, our little English girls were expected to sing, off key and ostensibly on the banks of the Thames at night, while I played the part of a policeman. A totally silent role, walking up and down in front of the parapet. Suddenly, when I’d stopped thinking about it, their singing grew louder than life itself and steered fate in the direction of calamity. While they were singing, I couldn’t think of anything but all the poor world’s misery and my own, those tarts with their singing made my heart burn like tuna fish. I thought I’d digested it, forgotten the worst! But this was the worst of all, a song that couldn’t make it … And as they sang, they wiggle-waggled, to try and bring it off. A fine mess, all of a sudden we were knee deep in misery … No mistake! Mooning about in the fog! Their lament was dripping with misery, it made me grow older from minute to minute. Panic oozed from the very stage set. And nothing could stop them. They didn’t seem to understand all the harm their song was doing us all … They laughed and flung out their legs in perfect time, while lamenting their entire life … When it comes to you from so far, with such sureness of aim, you can’t mistake it and you can’t resist.

Misery was everywhere, in spite of the luxurious hall; it was on us, on the set, it overflowed, it drenched the whole earth. Those girls were real artists … Abject misery poured out of them, and they made no attempt to stop it or even understand it. Only their eyes were sad. The eyes aren’t enough. They sang the calamity of existence, and they didn’t understand. They mistook it for love, nothing but love, the poor little things had never been taught anything else. Supposedly, they were singing about some little setback in love. That’s what they thought! When you’re young and you don’t know, you mistake everything for love trouble …

Where go … where I look …
It’s only for you … ou …
Only for you … ou …

That’s what they sang.

It’s a mania with the young to put all humanity into one ass, just one, the dream of dreams, mad love. Maybe later they would find out where all that ended, when their rosiness had fled, when the no-nonsense misery of their lousy country had engulfed them, all sixteen of them, with their hefty mare’s thighs and their bobbing tits … The truth is that misery already had the darlings by the neck, by the waist, they couldn’t escape. By the belly, by the breath, by every cord of their thin, off-key voices.

Misery was inside them. No costume, no spangles, no lights, no smile could fool her, delude her about her own, misery finds her own wherever they may hide; it just amuses her to let them sing silly songs of hope while waiting their turn … Those things awaken misery, caress and arouse her …

That’s what our unhappiness, our terrible unhappiness comes to, an amusement.

So to hell with people who sing love songs! Love itself is misery and nothing else, misery lying out of our mouths, the bitch, and nothing else. She’s everywhere, don’t wake her, not even in pretense. She never pretends. And yet those English girls went through their routine three times a day, with their backdrop and accordion tunes. It was bound to end badly.

I didn’t interfere, but don’t worry, I saw the catastrophe coming.

First one of the girls fell sick. Death to cuties who stir up calamity! Let ’em croak, we’ll all ber better off! And while we’re at it, don’t hang around street corners near accordion players, as often as not that’s where you’ll catch it, where the truth will strike. A Polish girl was hired to take the place of the sick one in their act. The Polish chick coughed too, when she wasn’t doing anything else. She was tall and pale, powerfully built. We made friends right away. In two hours I knew all about her soul, as far as her body was concerned, I had to wait a while. This girl’s mania was mutilating her nervous system with impossible crushes. Naturally, what with her own unhappiness, she slid into the English girls’ lousy song li9ke a knife into butter. Their song began very nicely, like all popular songs it didn’t seem to mean a thing, and then your heart began to droop, it made you so sad that listening to it you lost all desire to live, because it’s true that everything, youth and all that, comes to nothing, and then you start harking to the words, even after the song was over and the tune had gone home to sleep in its own bed, its honest-to-goodness bed, the tomb where everything ends. Two choruses, and you felt a kind of longing for the sweet land of death, the land of everlasting tenderness and immediate foggy forgetfulness. As a matter of fact their voices were foggy too.

All of us in chorus repeated their plaint, reproachful of everybody who was still around, still dragging their living carcasses from place to place, waiting along the riverbanks, on all the riverbanks of the world, for life to finish passing, and in the meantime doing one thing and another, selling things to other ghosts, oranges and racing tips and counterfeit coins … policemen, sex fiends, sorrows, telling each other things in this patient fog that will never end …

Louis-Ferdinand Céline
Journey to the end of the night
translated into English by Ralph Manheim
New Directions isbn 0-8112-0847-8
New York

Cyclonopedia on openness

Filed under: philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 1:37 pm

If the so-called despotic institutions of the Middle East have survived liberalism, and have grown stronger instead of being shattered into miseable pieces long ago, it is because openness can never be extracted from the inside of the system or through a mere voluntary or subjective desire for being open. Openness can never be communication by liberalism (not to mention the free world).

Human history is an experimental research proess in designing and establishing modes of openness to the outside. Openness is not ultiately, so to speak, the affair of humans, but rather the affair of the outside – everything minus the human, even the human’s own body. But opennness is not only associated with human history. Parsani argues that the Earth, as the arch-puppeteer and occult-manipulator of planetary events, has a far more sophisticated openness of its own. If the human is the subject of openness or the one who opens himself to his outside, then the Earth is the ‘inside-out subject’ of human openness. Undoubtedly, human openness is full of twists. This includes social openness, gender communications, and openness between populations and governments of the contemporary world, whether cultural or petrological. Parsani shows that human openness has a strategic and tisted spirit for which every communication is a tactic and every openness is a strategy to be unfolded … It is difficult to study the politics, culture and economy of the world without questioning its issues and concerns regarding the ethics of openness.

Openness comes from the Outside, not the other way round. Nietzschean affirmation was never intended to support liberation or even to be about openness at all. It was an invocation of the outside, in its exteriority to the humand and even to the human’s openness (which includes desires for being open to the outside). Radical openness has nothing to do with the cancelation of closure; it is a matter of terminating all traces of parsimony and grotesque domestication that exist in so-called emancipatory human openness. The blade of radical openness thirsts to butcher economical openness, or any openness constructed on the affordability of both the subject and its environment. The target of radical openness is not closure but economical openness. Radical openness devours all economic and political grounds based on ‘being open’.

While the subject of the economical openness manifests itself in the statement ‘I am open to’, the objective of the openness is what ‘being open to’ aims at. Economical openness is constantly maintained by these two poles which must afford each other. For an entity, the act of opening to its environment is only possible if the environment has already afforded the entity within its environing range, and if the entity itself is able to accommodate part of the environment within its capacity. The capacity of the entity is directly influenced by the subjective survival of that entity. For this reason, so-called (economical) openness represents the affordability and the survival capacity of its subjects, not the act of openining itself.

‘I am open to you’ can be recapitulated as ‘I have the capacity to bear your investment’ or ‘I can afford you’. This conservative voice is not associated with will or intention, but with the inevitability of affordance as a mesophilic bond, and with the survival economy and the logic of capacity. If you exceed the capacity by which you can be afforded, I will be cracked, lacerated and laid open. Despite its dedication to repression, its blind desire for the onopoloy of survival and the authoritarian logic of the boundary, the plane of ‘being open to’ has never been openly associated with paranoia or regression. Suchh is the irony of liberalism and anthropomorphic desire.

However, while affirmation is tactically nurtured by affordance, it is also a stealth strategy to call and to bring forth Epedemic Openness whose eventuation is necessarily equal to the abortion of economical or human openness. As far as survival is concerned, radical openness always brings with it base-participation, contamination and pandemic horror, the horror of the outside emerging from within as an outonomous xeno-chemical Insider and from without as the unmasterable Outsider. In any case, radical openness is internally connected to unreported plagues. If affordance is the mesophilic extension between subjective and objective fronts of communication, the outside is defined by the exteriority of function rather than distance. If affirmation is ultimately strategic, this is because epidemic openness is inherent to the repression of the outside and the suspension of its influences. In a polytical twist, epidemic openness craves for solid states, manifest closures such as dwelling and subsistence and survival economy. Conforming to the secrecy and the conspiracist ethos of affordance, for which every tactic is another line of expansion (to afford more), radical openness requires strategic calls or lines of subvervions from within affordance. Radical openness, therefore, subverst the logic of capacity from within. Frequently referred to as sorcerous lines, awakenings, summonings, xeno-attractions and trigggers, strategic approaches unfold radical openness as an internal cut – gaseous, odorless, with metallic wisdom of a scalpel. Openness emerges as radical butchery from within and without. If the anatomist cuts from top to bottom so as to examine the body hierarchically as a transcendental dissection, the the katatomy of openness does not cut anatomically or penetrate structurally (performing the logic of strata); it butchers open in all directions, in correspondence with its strategic plane of activity. Openness is not suicide, for it lures survival itself into life itself where ‘to live’ is a systematic redundancy. Since the Outside in its radical exteriority is everywhere, it only needs to be aroused to rush in and erase the illusion of economical appropriations or closure. Openness is a war, it needs strategies to work. Openness is not the anthropomorpic desire to be open, it is the being opened eventuated by the act of opening itself. To be butchered, lacerated, cracked and laid open – such is the corporeal reaction of subjects to the radical act of opening. Accordingly, affirmation is a camouglaged strategy, a vehicle for cutting through affordance and creatively reinventing openness as a radical butchery.

August 14, 2017

Siphokazi Jonas – crowdfunding poetry

Filed under: poetry — ABRAXAS @ 2:02 pm


Hauntology For Mark Fisher

Filed under: kaganof short films — ABRAXAS @ 8:59 am


Graham Newcater & Aryan Kaganof | 2017 | 4min 12sec. | video | no dialogue | South Africa |

All recordings are ghosts. – Mark Fisher

A marche funebre with no beginning and no end. – Dick Tuinder

August 11, 2017

Filed under: caelan — ABRAXAS @ 5:22 am


August 9, 2017

Ieva Jansone on the abyss

Filed under: 2016 - abyss — ABRAXAS @ 1:02 pm

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Matthew Whoolery (Soiled Sinema) on Matricide

Filed under: kaganof short films — ABRAXAS @ 12:58 pm

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Matthew Whoolery (Soiled Sinema) on the abyss

Filed under: 2016 - abyss — ABRAXAS @ 12:42 pm

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Lydia Lunch and Weasel Walter

Filed under: lydia lunch,music,poetry — ABRAXAS @ 10:57 am


August 8, 2017

Peter Whitehead on the abyss

Filed under: 2016 - abyss — ABRAXAS @ 12:55 pm

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Molyneaux’s problem

Filed under: philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 12:51 pm


‘A Man, being born blind, and having a Globe and a Cube, nigh of the same bignes, Committed into his Hands, and being taught or Told, which is Called the Globe, and which the Cube, so as easily to distinguish them by his Touch or Feeling; Then both being taken from Him, and Laid on a Table, Let us Suppose his Sight Restored to Him; Whether he Could, by his Sight, and before he touch them, know which is the Globe and which the Cube? Or Whether he Could know by his Sight, before he stretch’d out his Hand, whether he Could not Reach them, tho they were Removed 20 or 1000 feet from Him?’

Ruby Savage on the abyss

Filed under: 2016 - abyss,ruby savage — ABRAXAS @ 12:25 pm

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Filed under: kaganof — ABRAXAS @ 12:21 pm


Rian Malan on the abyss

Filed under: 2016 - abyss — ABRAXAS @ 12:20 pm


Dick Tuinder on Say It With Flowers

Filed under: 2017 - Say It With Flowers,dick tuinder,reviews — ABRAXAS @ 12:11 pm


Die vergeetachtigheid is (mede-) het onderwerp van Aryan Kaganof’s bijdrage aan het korte film festival van Oberhausen, en de reden dat we elkaar hier treffen. De film, Say it with Flowers, is een fleuristische montage van super8 beelden die tussen 1948 en 1973 werden geschoten door de zuid-Afrikaan Charles Weich. Vijentwintig jaar lang legde hij de bezoeken vast die buitenlandse (klassieke) muzikanten aan Zuid Afrika brachten.

Grappen makende, stoeiende, drinkende, rokende en musicerende blanken in een zonovergoten koloniaal burgelijk décor. Een verdwaalde elite met een dun glazuur van excentriciteit en losbandigheid. En dun glazuur ook op hun over het algemeen zeer slechte gebitten.


In zijn toelichting verteld Kaganof dat niet toevallig in 1948 met de opnames werd begonnen. “Almost the complete classical music scene of South Africa in those years consisted of so-called former nazis. Once they had settled in, they invited their old friends.”


Altijd weer word ik getroffen door Kaganof’s jazzy trefzekere montage, die zich aan elke regel onttrekt en toch coherent lijkt. Sommige beelden worden herhaald. Anderen staan veel te lang. Ze worden in je hoofd geprent. Als een herinnering die onmogelijk de jouwe kan zijn, maar het nu toch is.


“That is what defines his films I guess,” zeg ik een paar weken later tegen onze gemeenschappelijke vriend Jeffrey Babcock: “Mr. Kaganof is a thinking editor. Watching his cuts is as if hearing him think aloud. And that is also why he works so fast. He doesn’t think twice. He just adds another shot.”


Say it with Flowers eindigt met een opname van nog maar eens twee sigaren rokende muzikanten in pak. Ze babbelen wat en knipperen met hun ogen tegen het felle licht alsof ze juist uit lange gevangenschap bevrijd zijn. Dan komt er van rechts een in piccolopak gestoken zwarte jongeman in beeld. Hij heeft een dienblad vast waarop twee Martini’s staan. Het dophoedje staat schuin op zijn donkere hoofd en heeft dezelfde kleur als het piccolopak. Het beeld vertraagd en de man kijkt als betrapt in de camera. Hij, de eerste zwarte die we in 24 minuten hebben gezien, hoort niet in dit kader thuis. Is geen deel van deze wereld.


“I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve created another masterpiece.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind. I wish though I could think of a trick to pay next month’s rent.”
“Well, at least you outlived Mozart.”
Kaganof schudt zijn hoofd: ”But at what cost!?”
Dan veert hij op en laat zich nog eens bijschenken. “On the other hand I can proudly say that, 53 years of age, I have never had a ‘real’ job and I’m still breathing.”

Yana Kostova on Lamentation

Filed under: 2015- Lamentation/Klaaglied — ABRAXAS @ 11:22 am

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Dick Tuinder on timeless cinema

Filed under: dick tuinder,film,film as subversive art,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 11:20 am

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Alain Badiou on being blind

Filed under: philosophy,politics — ABRAXAS @ 8:27 am

Any real movement, especially when its blind mission is to reopen History, maintains that what is merely visible should not be considered genuinely given; that one should know how to be blind to the self-evidence of representation so as to have confidence in what is happening, what is being said, here and now, about the Revolution and its implementaiton.

August 7, 2017


Filed under: Jonathan Eato,luzuko elvis bekwa — ABRAXAS @ 7:51 pm


Confessions of a fanatic

When I met grandmaster Aryan Kaganof at Tete Mbambisa’s performance in Khayelitsha he looked so pale and tired someone overworked, worn out and bit ill health. It was during an interval and as I went over to greet Him and Doc Jonathan Eato in my slanging ‘mother tongue’ isixhosa he greeted back in his tsotsi slang and immediately said “HEY MAN WE ARE GETTING OLD” then we teased each other and there was this item I was wearing which he admired of which I failed to grab the opportunity of souvenirs exchange moment of which up to this moment I beat myself up with not grabbing that golden opportunity. We went on chatting and I was telling him what Tete was saying to me when I went to greet him that he was getting old and there was no escaping that. Then grandmaster told me of Tete’s performance at the rainbow in Pinetown how jovial and fun it was he said the audience was even dancing to some of Tete’s tunes. Then he came back to Tete’s comments about getting old. He mentioned the untimely passing of Ray Phiri and, notably, the passing of legendary jazz icon Dr. Johnny Mekoa. What disturbed me was the fact that these incidents happened during the tour to promote Tete Mbambisa’s latest jazz offering ‘one for Asa’. He said Tete was dancing and saying he is next in the line. It’s like he was welcoming and embracing death. Then Kaganof, witnessing all these events unfolding, said it feels like they are ‘HOSTING THE GHOSTS’.


Attending Tete Mbambisa’s concert is one of the highlights of this year’s calendar in my life. Tete Mbambisa’s sound is timeless.

I think the first time I heard of Tete Mbambisa’s sound long before I know the MAN I was in my mother’s womb. I think it was about few hours after zygote (conception) and that was the sound of UMSENGE and that’s how powerful the sound of Tete is and then in primary school and in those days it was called sub standard A came this soothing haunting sound ‘ZUKILE’ and when that song is playing on the radio you were rest assured that your parents are coming home from work. It (ZUKILE) had that healing effect. Then there were 1976 uprising which I can confess that that though I was still young and in primary school the impact of the riots was too severe to ignore judging from the reaction of our parents towards the unrest. In the midst of all that with Abdullah Ibrahim ‘s


MANENBERG being the hit song then Mbambisa kept us sober with his offering which was a tribute to late piano guru CHRIS MCGREGOR and that is the song STAY COOL . In the song you find all generations of South African jazz in one song , past present and even future. Funny enough you also find all music genres in one song.

Then as time was progressing you kind of being enticed by other sounds. During the late 80’s and early 90’s there was an emergence of choral music coupled with African pop culture which was nicknamed bubblegum music. The likes of the late Brenda Fassie and choral music composer Mzilikazi Khumalo were household names. They kept us mesmerised during those days – it was a phenomenon then. But still then South African jazz music refused to die thanks thanks to the likes of the late Duke Ngcukana (Christopher Columbus Ngcukana’s son) for fusing three elements of music: choral music, jazz music and marimba – to introduce CHORIMBA. I should confess though that at some instances jazz music was treated like a ‘cheap whore’ which forced those who revere jazz music to move away from the spotlight in protest of this illicit act. However artists like

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Hotep Idris Galeta were vocal about this abuse. At the jazzathon which was a four day festival held at the V & A WATERFRONT Hotep will always after his performance make people aware of the value of jazz music and have a stern warning to those artists who use the name jazz in vain.

But the fact that jazz music was dying was evident especially with the rumours of the death of Tete Mbambisa and also horrible things that were happening to the families of jazz musicians. The McCoy Mrubatas, the Ngcukanas, and, of course, Tete Mbambisa, just to name few. The years 1996 to 2007 were the years of plenty in the life of South African jazz. As much as kwaito and hip hop were taking over, the sounds of Sibongile Khumalo, Moses Molelekwa, the resurrection of legendary saxophonist, maestro Mankunku Ngozi, just to mention a few were too powerful to ignore. Coupled with that was the government’s choice in appointment of Mr Pallo Jordan as the minister of arts and culture and indeed he did deliver. He made it possible for jazz music to shine by giving artists space to freely express themselves.

Provincial things were happening. Nomaindiya Mfeketho brought us NORTH SEA JAZZ which is now known as CAPE TOWN INTERNATIONAL JAZZ FESTIVAL which is now approaching its coming of age. We’ve seen art meets sound meets poetry through the sterling work of

kgafela oa magogodi, Ernest Mothle and Msa Xokelelo. We’ve seen a retrospective of the late Dumile Feni. Late Cups ‘n Saucers Nkanuka through the brainchild of Fitzroy Ngcukana was regrouping and these were artists who were long forgotten now re emerging to the jazz scene. Through all this then followed the passing of jazz artists in droves Ezra, Robbie, Duke and others. But the one that hit me hardest was the passing of Winston Mankunku Ngozi. I mean he was a giant, one of the most noticeable figures in the SA jazz scene. Guys like Ezra Ngcukana were even quoted saying they don’t see the reason to live anymore. To them it was like jazz has died. And of course for jazz lovers it was indeed the end of the world.

However the case of the passing of Ezra Ngcukana was admittedly the unearthing of new talents on the jazz scene.

Lefifi Tladi was there to render a poem dedicated to Ezra, hence they were the part of the notorious DASHIKI. My friend Sakhiwo Noboza, a sterling trumpeter now turned guitarist, was there but it was a rendition of Tete Mbambisa’s DEMBESE which was led by renowned trumpeter Feya Faku that stole the show. Tete was of course was on piano while Lefifi by his side kept nodding, it was a spellbinding performance. Bra’ Barney Rachabane tapping on Mankunku’s yakhalinkomo – I mean Ezra’s send off was quite hilarious. In fact it gave us jazz lovers that hope that jazz is still alive. Bra’ Roy’s little giants, his son with his friends mesmerised us – it’s like Mongezi Feza was brought back to life – full circle.


Born too late, gone too soon is the lamentable case of Zimasile Ngqawana. Zim was not just a musician but a philosopher and a cultural activist. He was the voice of conscience. A voice of the voiceless. As we are all aware of the state of jazz neglect by the powers that be. To the system, theoretically, jazz is the most revered genre that needs to be nurtured, but practically that is not the case. We often heard of the cases of jazz musicians dying as paupers due to lack of support from the government. I even read an article headlined ‘THE ART OF DYING POOR’ and Mankunku being a household name was on that list. And that was what made Zim angry. In the meantime you will have government sponsored hip hop concerts advertised as “jazz concerts” and you won’t see even a single jazz artist in the line up. This was a masochistic abuse of jazz.

When Zim’s institute for jazz was vandalised there was no government assistance to rebuild the institution. To Zim Ngqawana in confession has succumbed to the fact that for him it’s no longer about entertainment but inner attainment. To him it was not about pleasing the audience but for his personal spiritual healing. He even said “the audience is free to do whatever they want to do” – which in jazz that is not the norm. The passing of Zim Ngqawana was a wake up call for the authorities, they even pledged a trust in honour of Zim. That was too little too late judging from the fact that when his institute was vandalised no assistance came from government. It was one of those hypocritical stunts the system is famous for. Perhaps we should say Zim’s passing was a sacrificial offering to cleanse the ‘sound’.

The state of jazz neglect is in fact a world-wide case. The case in mind is of Wynton Marsalis with his traditional New Orleans jazz function. His lament on THE DEATH OF JAZZ, his trademark paints a picture of the ongoingpersecution of jazz, the tireless journey of Duke Ellington, the lonely life of Albert Ayler and many more of those jazz martyrs. Abdullah Ibrahim once said it’s like the sword is lifted above your head and you are summoned to go through anyway.


The First time I was introduced to Aryan Kaganof was by a postal brochure that I received from him. To be quite precise it was by Lesego Rampolokeng through his book black heart.
Lesego Rampolokeng is a subversive artist (dissident poet), a literary bomber. He also caught my attention through a television programme called ‘not quite a Friday night show’ that was aired in the early 90’s. The host of that show was a comical guy even the show itself was kind of a comedy show. It was satirical. Lesego in turn after meeting him in person at the concert held at Cape Town gardens introduced me to the sound guru Warrick Sonny in his house in Camp street. At that time I was still trapped between rock’n roll and choral music, classical literature and bit of poetry. Was also fascinated by alternative spiritual practices, though my Christian faith took centre stage. Taking music classes accidentally introduced me to the experimental jazz sound. Then I was majoring in bamboo flute. I can recall one moment during break my colleague and I, he was a guitarist, we were just chilling playing this tune and boy did we get carried away. It was then that I spontaneously improvised in sound. It was a full 45min of non stop experiment. Our teachers were so baffled asking us where we learned to play like that. That resulted in us passing exams without even writing them. It was then that I started to embark on a quest to find and understanding this sound. I went from Joan Jett in rock’n roll to Boy George, From Sibongile Khumalo to Mike Ngxokolo in choral music, From GF Handel to WA Mozart in classical music, From Sandile Dikeni to

Lesego Rampolokeng and Ingoapele Molingoane in poetry. From Christian indigenous worship to being fascinated by intlombe nemiguyo . And all this was in search of that sound that unique sound.

It wasn’t until I was captivated by the voice and sound of MBIZO JOHNNY DYANI that I finally realised that I have arrived.
MBIZO was a point of departure in my quest. From from him (MBIZO) I began to understand the artistry of professor CT Msimang and Pitika Ntuli. MBIZO led me to the sound of the BLUE NOTES, of CHRIS MCGREGOR, DUDU PUKWANA, MONGEZI AND TEBOGO MOHOLO.

That was the beginning


Elements of hope and honour

In the beginning was jazz and Jazz was with the sound and the sound was jazz.

Having witnessed the erosion of jazz sound it was slowly becoming evident that this sound needs to be rescued from the shackles of sound sinning genres. First was mbaqanga and maskandi that disguised themselves as “jazz”, then as slowly as that genre was dying came African pop, popularly known as bubblegum, that’s the Mahlathinis and Brenda Fassies. Then there was kwaito and house music – the Makendlas and Revolution. Throughout this process the Ray Phiris and the Tabanes were still soldiering on, attempting to keep the sound (jazz) alive. It was this genre – the hip hop – the one that is often referred to as the genre of the lost generation, that actually resulted in the re-emergence of jazz. To recall a few artists from this genre: Tumi of Tumi and the volume, Tuks senganga, Prokid, Proverb and others who were time and again paying tributes to jazz artists through their work. This genre also has an underground element where prima facie avant garde artists are showcasing their craft. That’s where names like SIMPHIWE DANA, MTHWAKAZI, TLOKWE SEHUME and others emerge. In the sound of these artists you can clearly capture true jazz in its most spiritual form.

Dreaming of BUGS GONGCO and GIDEON NXUMALO is what is happening when I listen to the work of NDUDUZO MAKHATHINI and KYLE SHEPHERD. These guys it seems are the rescuers of South African jazz music. Guys like HERBIE TSOAELI, AYANDA SIkadE, SHANE COOPER, KESIVAN NAIDOO, JONATHAN CROSSLEY are like warriors of this sound. Listening to THANDISWA MAZWAI’S BELEDE has further put my soul at ease saying finally the sound of jazz is indeed rescued. Black Coffee is also following suit in acknowledgement of the power of jazz.

Selfless and tireless work of the dedicated SAINT (DR JONATHAN EATO) has finally yielded results. The martyrdom of the GRANDMASTER is indeed not in vain. Amongst other places I know that host this sound the one that truly stands is JAZZ IN THE NATIVE YARDS PROJECT popularly known as KWA SEC. It has over the years serve as jazz sanctuary of highest degree right at the most humblest of all places. IN THE TOWNSHIP. Having witnessing all this unfolding and at play.

And after the 12/ 07/ 2017 Tete Mbambisa concert held at BERTHA HOUSE CINEMA in Khayelitsha I can confidently say


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for more information about JISA’s south african jazz archiving project contact Dr. Jonathan Eato at jonathan.eato@york.ac.uk

Michael Fleck on the abyss

Filed under: 2016 - abyss — ABRAXAS @ 7:25 pm

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Gilles Deleuze on cinema after the cinematic

Filed under: film,film as subversive art,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 7:23 pm


This is the stage where art no longer beautifies or spiritualizes Nature but competes with it: the world is lost, the world itself “turns to film,” any film at all, and this is what television amounts to, the world turning to any film at all, and, as you say here, “nothing happening to human beings any more,but everything happening only to images.” One might also say that bodies in Nature or people in a landscape are replaced by brains in a city: the screen’s no longer a window or door (behind which . . . ) nor a frame orsurface (in which . . . ) but a computer screen on which images as “data” slip around. How, though, can we still talk of art, if the world itself is turning cinematic, becoming ‘just an act” directly controlled and immediately-processed by a television that excludes any supplementary function?

Cinema ought to stop “being cinematic,” stop play acting, and set up specificrelationships with video, with electronic and digital images, in order to develop a new form of resistance and combat the televisual function of surveillance and control. It’s not a question of short-circuiting television-how could that be possible?-but of preventing television subverting or short-circuiting the extension of cinema into the new types of image. For, as you show, “since television has scorned, marginalized, repressed the potential of video-its only chance of taking over from the postwar modern cinema . . . taking over its urge to take images apart and put them back together, its break with theater, its new way of seeing the human body, bathed in images and soundsone has to hope the development of video art will itself threaten TV. ” Here we see in outline the new art of City and Brain, of competing with Nature. And one can already see in this mannerism many different directions or paths, some blocked, others leading tentatively forward, offering great hopes. A mannerism of video “previsualization” in Coppola, where images are already assembled without a camera. And then a completely different mannerism, with its strict, indeed austere, method in Syberberg, where puppetry and front-projection produce an image unfolding against a background of images. Is this the same world we see in pop videos, special effects, and footage from space?Maybe pop video, up to the point where it lost its dreamlike quality, might have played some part in the pursuit of “new associations” proposed by Syberberg, might have traced out the new cerebral circuits of a cinema of the future, if it hadn’t immediately been taken over by marketing jingles, sterile patterns of mentaldeficiency, intricately controlled epileptic fits (rather as, in the previous period cinema was taken over by the “then hysterical spectacle” of large-scale propaganda . . . ). And maybe space footage might also have played a part in aesthetic and noetic creation, if it had managed to produce some last reason for traveling, as Burroughs suggested, if it had managed to break free from the control of a “regular guy on the Moon who didn’t forget to bring along his prayer book,” and better understood the endlessly rich example of La Region Centrale, where Michael Snow devises a very austere way of making one image turn on another, and untamed nature on art, pushing cinema to the limit of a pure Spatium. And how can we tell where the experimentation with images, sounds, and music that’s just beginning in the work of Resnais, Godard, the Straubs, and Duras will lead? And what new Comedyll will emerge from the mannerism of bodily postures? Your concept of mannerism is particularly convincing, once one understands how far all the various mannerisms are different, heterogeneous, above all how no common measure can be applied to them, the term indicating only a battlefield where art and thought launch together with cinema into a new domain, while the forces of control try to steal this domain from them, to take it over before they do, and set up a new clinic for social engineering. Mannerism is, in all these conflicting ways, the convulsive confrontation of cinema and television, where hope mingles with the worst of all possibilities.

excerpt from the book: Negotiations by Gilles Deleuze

the eyes of a masturbator

Filed under: kaganof — ABRAXAS @ 2:48 pm

Screen shot 2017-08-07 at 2.47.40 PM

Max Liljefors on the abyss

Filed under: 2016 - abyss — ABRAXAS @ 12:58 pm


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