kagablog

Last night at the Bo this little guy steps up to the challenge table and puts his two rand down. He’s the size of a pin prick on an asshole. Big he is not. He goes over to the juke box and goois five five rand coins in which means that the next 15 songs are his. That’s a lot of songs. He’s become our deejay for the night, whether we like it or not.

An hour later we are all groaning but big time. How many Metallica songs can you pick in a row? And that’s not a so-called rhetorical question. This oke has played an entire Metallica album from start to never-ending finish.

Now it is true that a certain kind of rough, not terribly bright, girl adores Metallica. When Metallica gigged Joburg every idiot biker and lowlife drug dealer in town got laid. Girls who enjoy Metallica are not fussy about who dicks them so I can imagine why a shortass would back them.

What I don’t understand is what we’re subjected to after. Sting. Lots of Sting. …invisible sun…alien in new york…

I have a theory you see. If Sting had died in a plane crash just after Roxanne had been released he would have become one of the most important pop icons of the twentieth century. Roxanne = one of the greatest songs of all time. Sting dead straight afterwards = immortality.

As it was he continued to churn out the drekkiest catalogue of soporific pop spam in history. Sting makes Elton John sound edgy. Not to mention a sorry attempt to funkify the proceedings by hiring Branford “mercenary” Marsalis et al for a jazz tenure. Sting ended up with the sorriest career in the history of the voice.

And this mongrel who can hardly see over the edge of the challenge table has diseased our night at the Bo with a complete ouevre selection.

On the subject of early deaths, wouldn’t it have benefited Bob Geldof to have passed on immediately after I Don’t Like Mondays? He would be forever remembered as a punk pop prince, not the woeful charity charlie he became.

Then of course there’s Gerry Rafferty, now he would have best snuffed it before recording Baker Street.

Thank god for Bob Dylan. He single handedly redeemed growing old.

It’s my turn at the table. When they’re arrogant I try harder. Shorty leaves with his tail between his stumpy legs. I pull the plug on the jukebox, cut the cord off with my pocket knife. what we’re left with is a a truly blissful silence. Sometimes undercover is the only way to go.