kagablog

Oh pity the poor Idols winners of yesteryear. Oh pity the poor Idols winners of today. They have all got their certificates to say “I’m an Idol. I’m not an original Idol, but I’m a photocopy of a clone of a reproduction of someone else’s voice, someone else’s looks, someone else’s fashion, someone else’s hairstyle. I’m a product.”

What a cynical thing to say. Am I envious of them because they are younger and prettier than me? Am I disgusted because I know in my heart of hearts that I would never have gotten past the first round? Not even if I’d sung one of my own greatest hits?

No, I’m not envious. No, I’m not even saying: stop all Idols competitions. Idols competitions fulfill a socio-economic function. They propel people into the limelight who otherwise would have remained gardeners, plumbers and murderers’ girlfriends forever. The fame usually doesn’t last, but hell, does a hamburger last? Does a perm last? Is anything manufactured and sold by the free-market system supposed to last? All too soon, they will be back in the sticks. As Nataniël so aptly put it in the De Kat of Herfs 2006: “In hierdie land beteken ‘n recording kontrak niks. Hulle maak vir jou ‘n CD, maak vir jou ‘n cheap video, gooi vir jou ‘n party and then you’re on your own. Twee jaar later bly jy nog steeds in ‘n flat agter jou ma-hulle se huis.”

Actually, I can’t decide whether the young people of today have got it too easy or too difficult. At a show in Bloemfontein, a beautiful young woman hands me her first CD. I’ve heard of it, and I’ve heard of her, but she isn’t big-time famous yet. Her name is Bea van der Vyver or something. A week later, I give the CD a listen as I drive around in my car. The songs are good, the voice is good, the production is good, everything is there and it’s well put together and there’s no plagiarism, and yet… yet it all feels second-hand. It leaves me feeling profoundly depressed. It’s a brilliant product, but it’s got no heart.

She should have waited a year or two. She should have walked the streets at night, wrestling with her own creativity. She should have spent more time asking herself: “What is my message?” She should have traveled abroad, scrubbed floors, met gipseys, mistreated children during au pair work. She had never suffered. Her daddy probably paid the studio. I’m guessing, and maybe I’m all wrong about this particular person, but this is the kind of thing you get nowadays. Making a CD and designing a career has become a bit like buying a timeshare or a Lotto ticket. People scratch themselves, but they never bleed. It’s like drinking alcohol-free beer.

I’m sorry if I offended anyone with this rambling piece of writing. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s just Bloemfontein. Maybe it’s just the very annoying fact that they had a fucking nerve to install an elevator in Leonard Cohen’s tower of song. So that, nowadays, young muso’s no longer have to start at the bottom and walk up all the way with their guitar on their shoulder and a dream in their hearts. These days, people take the elevator. They start at the top and work their way down. But not fast enough.

But, as I said, maybe it’s just Bloemfontein…