kagablog

Koos has realised something: it’s us versus them. The Rainbow Nation has become a Bloedrivier, he says, the title of his new collection of protest songs. But not like you think. Koos Kombuis has always seen ‘them’ as those with power, and ‘us’ as those with less, especially those with none.

You will hear Koos angry, but he’s been that before. You will hear him rock out, again not for the first time. But has he ever, ever been so… right? And I’m talking about the music here, which is remarkable.

The English songs still suck, but for the most part, the album is a sequence of those wondrous occasions when Koos gets things right. Opener “Fokkol”, the arguably unpatriotic (and unarguably lekker) rock anthem you heard first on 24.com, is on a one way ticket to being played (and banned) anywhere you can order a brannewyn in Mzanzi.

“Reconciliation Day” is no radio hit, but it says more about the anger of many Afrikaners than Die Burger ever can. The incredibly dramatic number features the roars of K.O.B.U.S’ Francois Blom, operatic backing vocals by Lente Louw and soaring guitar solos. It’s as close to Meat Loaf as Koos will ever get.
It’s as close to Meat Loaf as Koos will ever get.
Bloedrivier also sees the return of Koos’ favourite genre: gatskeer blues. In his signature style, he takes on the ANC and Eskom in “Fat Cat Piete (ANC Tiete)” and the not-so-hidden track, an ode to Johannes Kerkorrel’s “Sit dit Af”. A special bullet is reserved for the President: “Ou Mbeki ek sal wed / Dat jy ‘n generator het.” Clearly, we are not in Klerksdorp anymore.

Why did he come back? It’s been five years since he last recorded an album, and many more since he’s been so pissed off. “Fokkol” begins like this: “Welkom op die airport, dis die jaar 2010; Julle’s seker hier om die sokker games te sien”. But before long the kind words give way to a sea of fokkol. Smell a metaphor, do you? Koos Kombuis, one of the staunchest believers in the rebirth of the country, was more disappointed than most when the milk started turning sour. And he thinks he knows who to blame.

I wish race could be kept out of this. And if by general consensus Bloedrivier was no more than a racially-inclusive club for everyone who wants to stick their tongue out at our national leadership, it could be. But there will be disagreement, and oh-so-much finger pointing.

Let it be, whatever. But don’t turn down the music, because in Bloedrivier, we have one of the best soundtracks to the struggles of the new-new South Africa to date.

- Niel Bekker

The Ballad of Sugar Moon and Coffin Deadly deur Aryan Kaganof
Uitgegee deur Pine Slopes Publications (Mei 2007)
Resensie deur Koos Kombuis

Hierdie is een van die snaaksste boeke wat ek nog ooit in my lewe gelees het sonder om een keer te lag. Nog selde was ‘n satiriese komedie so beklemmend. En nog selde was ‘n opeenstapeling van voorheen ontginde tema’s en literêre clichés so oorspronklik!

“The Ballad of Sugar Moon and Coffin Deadly” is die verhaal, in vrye vers-vorm, van twee baie onvriendelike mense. Coffin Deadly, ‘n bankrower en gewoonte-moordenaar, reis met sy tienderjarige meisie, Sugar Moon, deur die onderwêreld van Suider-Afrika. Sugar Moon is verslaaf aan dwelmmiddels en Coffin Deadly drink te veel. Soos in die fliek “Natural Born Killers”, is ‘n mens nie altyd seker waar hallusinasie eindig en werklikheid begin nie.

Is die kroegman wat Sugar Moon gevange neem in Port St Johns werklik Osama Bin Laden? Probeer Coffin Deadly werklik vir Nelson Mandela vermoor net omdat hy nie hou van die hemde wat hy dra nie? Is Rodrigues werklik ‘n beter sanger as Peter Sarstedt? Is daar al ooit sulke tragi-komiese verse geskryf soos die volgende?

“Fuck me Deadly! Make a baby!” She would
scream while I pushed that thing inside her
with everything I had. We were both long past
the point of holding anything back and then we

came together for the first time and I could feel a
baby coming out of me and it was more than a
little ironic that we had met at the abortion clinic
but then, I never wrote the script of my life, I

merely lived it…”

As kru galgehumor Kaganof se handelsmerk geword het – ons het hom immers leer ken deur die (nou meer kontroversiële as ooit) selfoon-rolprent “SMS Sugar Man”, die bizarre drinkstories “Stones Again” en sy holderstebolder outobiografie “Uselessly” – vat hierdie ‘epiese gedig’ letterlik die koek.

Soos ‘n wafferse Bonnie en Clyde bestook hierdie twee misfits, die immer besope Coffin Deadly en sy al meer veeleisende side-kick Sugar Moon die reeds gebroke lokale werklikheid. Hulle probeer vergeefs drugs koop in Keetmanshoop (dit kon ek hulle gesê het). Hulle overdose in die Mount Nelson Hotel in Kaapstad. Hulle veroorsaak ‘n kroeggeveg in Knysna. Hulle vermoor Britse toeriste in Natal. En eindelik eindig alles op ‘n hopelose antiklimaks wanneer hulle probeer hoender koop by Fontana in Hillbrow. Coffin Deadly word gevang en beland saam met die Boeremag-lede in ‘n sel, waar die swart bewaarders hulle martel met luide kwaito-musiek. Sugar Moon word staatsgetuie, maar verduidelik haar verraad aan Coffin Deadly in ‘n lang, swak geskryfde liefdesgedig waarin sy aanhoudend plagiaat pleeg deur bekende reels uit popmusiek-liedjies te steel. Pappa Coffin se foetus word geaborteer, en wanneer hy die nuus in die tronk hoor “sterf” iets in hom. As gevolg van die helende invloed van kwaito-musiek kom hy egter tot berou oor sy woeste lewe:

I am very sorry for all the pain and suffering

I caused my victims and their families. There really
should be more stringent gun laws in this country.
It’s madness, all those guns out there.

Ja, dis waar. “The Ballad of Sugar Moon and Coffin Deadly” is melodramaties en ongeloofwaardig, hoogstens ‘n opeenstapeling van absurde ontmoetings en kwasi-ernstige mymerings. Die waarde van die werk is nog in die karakter-uitbeelding nog in die storie, maar eerder in die skerp taalgebruik en ironiese jukstaposisies.

The security guard at the Melville branch of ABSA
Bank swiped me down with the electronic sensor
Which went off. Beep beep. He smiled unctuously.
“Sir, please hand in your cell phone.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”
“Then what’s making that sound?”
“My gun.” He laughed. I laughed
too. Then I shot him.

Dit is baie jammer dat hierdie boek nie algemeen in winkels beskikbaar is nie; mens moet blykbaar die uitgewers persoonlik ken, of ‘n brief stuur aan Posbus 86, Westhoven 2142. Maar dit is tipies van Kaganof se werkwyse deesdae; waar hy voorheen, onder sy oorspronkelike naam (Ian Kerkhof) ‘n wêreldbekende filmmaker en kunstenaar was wie se werk hoog aangeskryf is van Amsterdam tot New York, verkies hy, om redes net aan homself bekend, om deesdae feitlik anoniem te werk in Suid-Afrika. (Volgens gerugte het hy deesdae sy eie band ook, en speel hulle meesal in Boksburg.)

Dit is nie bekend wat sy lewensfilosofie is nie, maar onderstaande aanhaling kan dalk leidrade verskaf:

I stifled a yawn. I was feeling rather sleepy.
Osama was no different from Mussolini or Robert
Mugabe, just another crazy crackpot dictator in
Love with the sound of his own voice. He wouldn’t

Have lasted very long on Jerry Springer I tell you.

now on sale
featuring contributions from kagablog contributors samantha reinders, koos kombuis, gary cummiskey and aryan kaganof. order your copy from toast coetzer: toast@bastardmedia.co.za

As gevolg van ‘n rare sameloop van omstandighede – pas voltooide bouwerk aan ons huis, ‘n klub in Johannesburg wat my nie betaal het nie, en onverwagte uitgawes – was ons gesin die afgelope paar weke gewikkel in ons eerste ernstige kontantvloei-krisis in meer as tien jaar.

Dit was ‘n leerkurwe.

Skielik kon ons nie sommer net in Woolworths instap en alles in die trollie gooi wat lekker lyk of fraai verpak is nie. Vir die eerste keer in jare moes ek skeermeslemmetjies koop wat vier rand kos per pakkie in stede van veertig. Een dag het ek my huishulp se dag-fooi van byna honderd rand uittel in silwer munte. En toe die nood regtig druk, breek ons die kinders se spaarvarkies oop en leen van hulle tandemuis-geld!

Hierdie penarie het my oë laat oopgaan, nie net vir die daaglikse probleme van talle gewone mense nie, maar ook vir ander dinge.

Ons gewone ouens, wie se bankbalans nog nooit ‘n halfdosyn nulle bevat het nie, weet min van wat aangaan in die duistere en onverstaanbare wêreld van “High Finance”. Party van ons verstaan die breë beginsels van die landsekonomie, maar die meeste mense wat ek ken gooi die sakebylaes van hul Sondagkoerante weg en blaai dadelik na die sport of na Deon Maas se bladsy toe.

Omdat ons finansieel naief is, gaan dit by ons verby wanneer ons iewers hoor dat die Baas van Eskom himself ‘n Krismisbonus van dertien miljoen uitbetaal het. Die bedrag is so onvisualiseerbaar hoog dat mens te lam in die knieë voel om daarteen te protesteer. Mens kan netsowel protesteer teen die afstande tussen sterre in die heelal!

Net so het die gemiddelde mens geen benul van die enorme kostes wat betrokke is by die omstrede wapentransaksies van ons bewindhebbers nie. Het ons daardie duikbote en vegvliegtuie nodig of nie? Hoe de hel moet ek weet? Al waaraan ek kan dink, is dat die toiletpapier in die spaarkamer op is en dat ons vanaand dalk gaste kry.

Eers wanneer die gate in die Groot Ouens se beursies ons lewens direk raak, besef ons dat daar dalk iewers ‘n krisis is. Wanneer ek geboek is om oor ‘n week Bloemfontein toe te vlieg, en ek hoor van vliegtuie waarvan die enjins uitval en van ongelukke op die aanloopbaan, dan begin ek rêrig bekommerd voel. Dan voel ek uitgelewer aan magte buite my beheer.

Wanneer ‘n familielid van ‘n goeie vriendin aangerand word in sy eie huis, gelos word vir dood, en uiteindelik bykom in ‘n staatshospitaal waar die geriewe primitief en vuil is, en waar die hospital-kafeteria nie tee kan bedien nie omdat hulle teesakkies op is, DAN raak die geldtekort van die gesondheidsdienste ‘n konkrete bedreiging wat die kwaliteit van jou lewe direk kompromiteer. Skielik is dit meer as net ‘n koerantstorie.

En skielik begin lees jy ook sommer alle afdelings van die koerant met groter aandag.

Mens se oë dwaal vanaf die koerantberigte van baba’s wat in kartondose rondlê in die gange van kraamsale tot die peperduur privaat kamer waarin Tannie Manto herstel het na haar lewer-oorplanting, en jy vra jouself af: wat is fout met hierdie prentjie?

Jy hoor van misdaad en gerugte van misdaad, maar iewers in jou kop steek ‘n sewe-of-agt-syfer-bedrag vas wat Thabo Mbeki vir die heining om sy huis betaal het.

Ergste van alles, jy weet almal praat van ons land se “ekonomiese wonderwerk”, jy hoor almal sê dat “al is die regering ‘n spul kroeks, doen Trevor Manuel darem sy job goed”. Maar, wag ‘n bietjie: as daar nie geld vir broodnodige dienste is nie, het dit nie ALLES met Trevor Manuel te doen nie? Of raak die geld weg iewers tussen die teoretiese papierwerk en die ouens wat die rêrige muntstukke na die rêrige blikkies toe moet allokeer?

As die ekonomie bloei, waarom moet baba’s in kartondose lê? As die ekonomie bloei, waarom word verpleegsters en polisiemanne nie ordentlik betaal nie? As die ekonomie bloei, hoekom val ons treine en vliegtuie uitmekaar uit?

As die ekonomie bloei, waarom bloei ons almal saam?

I feel about Etienne Leroux’s book “Sewe Dae by die Silbersteins” the same way as I feel about Cliff Richard’s movie, “Summer Holiday”. It’s impossible to be objective, because I was exposed to it at a young age. I loved Leroux’s book to bits. Even today, if I reread it, evokes the same sense of wonder. However, it’s perfectly probable that I might feel different about it had I experienced it now for the first time. As things stand, I feel remain forever blind towards any mistakes in such personally (to me) influential work.
Koos Kombuis

Koos A Kombuis
2007-03-21

Tot sowat twaalf jaar gelede was ek ’n dwelmgebruiker.

Dit was nie ’n besonder goeie tyd in my lewe nie en as ek daardie tye sou kon oor hê, sou ek beslis nie naby enige vorm van onwettige dwelmmiddel kom nie; nie net omdat dit onwettig is nie, maar omdat alle dwelms in ’n mindere of meerdere mate ongesond is, sielkundig gevaarlik, en antisosiaal.

Wanneer ek egter kyk na die dwelmkultuur wat in Suid-Afrika vandag ontstaan het, moet ek erken: dit lyk vir my erger as enigiets waarmee ons te doen gehad het.

Hoe bereken mens, in finansiële terme of in terme van menslike verlies, die totale effek van iets soos tik? Tik is ’n monster. Tik is besig om ons jeug van onder af op te vreet soos ’n wegholkanker. Dit is die Satan van alle dwelmmiddels. Dit is algemeen beskikbaar, lei verstommend vinnig tot verslawing, en veroorsaak drastiese persoonlikheidsveranderinge waaroor die gebruiker blykbaar geen beheer het nie.

Wanneer ek sien wat tik aan vandag se kinders doen, voel ek oud. Ek voel kwaad. Ek voel om op te tree soos daardie skoolhoofde en pedagoë wat ek self gehaat het toe ek jonk was, want ek sal ENIGIETS doen om te keer dat my kinders tik doen. Vergeet van tydsame berading en geduld. Dit sal “tough love” wees vanaf die eerste sekonde. Vergeet van reëls. Want tik speel nie volgens die reëls nie.

Die enigste dwelmmiddel wat ek uit my jeug onthou wat hoegenaamd by tik kan kers vashou, is Mandrax (“buttons”). Mandrax was ’n vuil dwelmmiddel. Ons het altyd daarop neergesien, want net “kommen” mense het dit gebruik. Selfs in die talle smokkelhuise waar ek tydelike skuiling gesoek het, was daar feitlik orals die ongeskrewe reël: HOU DIE BUTTONKOPPE VAN DIE VOORDEUR WEG. Want die oomblik as jy een buttonkop in jou sitkamer laat plak, daag al sy vriende op. En kort voor lank is die hele kommune rot en kaal gesteel. Want buttonkoppe het nie omgegee vir hul maatjies nie.

Dit laat die vraag ontstaan: Is daar dan iets soos minder antisosiale dwelmmiddels? Is dit moontlik om op ’n meer gesofistikeerde manier ’n dwelmgebruiker te wees? Is daar grade?

Ja en nee. Hoe mens die gevolge van dwelms ervaar, hang nie alleen van die middel af nie, maar ook van die gebruiker. Soos ons dikwels spottenderwys geanekdoteer het: “Die doel heilig die dwelmmiddel.”

Alkoholverslawing is ’n liederlike ding wat gesinne uitmekaar skeur en lei tot geweld en werkloosheid. En tog word ek geborg deur Beyerskloof. Beyerskloof vervaardig die beste Pinotage ter wêreld. Ek het al tientalle male gaan wyn proe by Beyerskloof se landgoed, maar nog nooit iemand daar sien rondslinger met ’n half-jack in ’n papiersak nie …

So dink ek met ’n mate van nostalgie terug aan die tye toe ek nog rondgehang het in Amsterdam se koffiekroeë (ek gaan deesdae om ander redes Amsterdam toe, helaas). Mens kon in Amsterdam kwaliteit-dagga koop uit alle wêrelddele. Dit was altyd vir my ’n bron van verbasing hoe die smaak en effek van dagga uit verskillende streke verskil: dagga uit die Ooste het so ’n tjieng-tjong-effek gehad. Hollandse “skunk” was swaar en donker en vulgêr, soos hoertaal. “Durban Poison” was skerp en giftig soos kerrie. Mens kon die verskillende soorte zol leer herken soos ’n wynkenner sy wyne ken – van proe. Daar was iets edels aan hierdie leerkurwe, selfs al het die spiraal van die kurwe stadig afwaarts gelei, al dieper in die paranoïese doolhof van die tipiese roker se toenemend passiewe siel in!

Tikgebruikers is hoegenaamd nie bewus van enige sodanige subtiliteite in smaak en effek nie. Hulle is ook beslis nie op soek na Nirvana of hul eie Hoër Self nie.

Daar was ’n tyd toe elke selfrespekterende hippie in Haight-Ashbury werklik geglo het dat LSD die mens kan help in sy soeke na die “waarheid”. Dit was ’n studente-ding, amper soos ’n buitemuurse vak, om in die sestigs met dwelms te eksperimenteer. En die grootvader van hierdie denkrigting was natuurlik nie Timothy Leary of eers Albert Hoffman nie, maar die skrywer Aldous Huxley, wat reeds dekades vroeër onder die invloed van Suid-Amerikaanse woestynplante ervarings gehad het wat vandag se laboratoriumprodukte eenvoudig nie kan naboots nie.1 Dit was Huxley wat die term “doors of perception” uitgedink het, waarop Jim Morrison later die naam van sy orkes – The Doors – sou baseer.

Ek beskou hierdie fase – die Westerse wêreld se dwelmwittebrood – as ’n onvermydelike stroomversnelling in ons kulturele ontwikkeling as spesie. Dit het gevolg kort op die hakke van Freud en Jung se ontginnings van die onderbewuste. Dit het onder andere aan ’n hele geslag Amerikaanse jongmense ’n kortpad gebied uit die stereotiepe verveling van ’n klomp voorstedelike waardes wat gesetel was in Pat Boone, “The Green Berets” en slap karre. Soos ons eie, heelwat kleiner Voëlvry-beweging, het die hippies nie werklik die politieke impak gehad waarvan hulle in hul optimistiese beswyming gedroom het nie, maar die wittebrood het tog tot ’n huwelik gelei. Die gemiddelde denkende Westerling van vandag hoef nie dwelmmiddels te vat om te weet dat hy ’n onderbewussyn het nie. Die regte van die individu word algemeen aanvaar. Die generasie wat George W Bush ingestem het, was dalk die laaste geslag Amerikaners wat sonder bevraagtekening die knie sal buig voor gesag. Die nadele van hierdie kits-“enlightenment” is aan die een kant die feit dat nie al die baanbrekers van die sestigs die eksperimenteringsfase oorleef het nie, hetsy fisies of geestelik, en aan die ander kant die probleem dat daar ’n groeiende kloof van intellektuele misverstand is tussen individualistiese jong Westerlinge en die groepsgebonde, hiërargiese, byna Ou Testamentiese waardesisteme van byvoorbeeld hul Islamitiese bure. Al is ek vandag gekant teen dwelms, wens ek soms onwillekeurig die jongmense van Bagdad en Kaboel wil – net een maal - ook iets soos ’n Woodstock beleef!

Geen samelewing wat so ’n wittebrood beleef het, kan ooit weer vrywilliglik terugkeer na waardes soos starre vormgodsdiens en gedwonge huwelike nie. Want rock ’n roll het finaal aan ons tieners ’n stem en ’n reg op keuse besorg.

Dit was ook in hierdie byna edel tradisie dat ek dwelmmiddels begin neem het. Nie bloot om “hoog” te raak ten alle koste nie. Dit was ’n pleister vir die eina, ja; dit was troos in donker kamers van die agterbuurtes, ja; maar daar was ook ’n soeke, ’n hunkering betrokke. Sal ek ooit my eerste heroïen-trip vergeet? Ek was agt uur lank “hoog”. Ek het tjoepstil alleen in my kamer gelê terwyl die res van die kommune-inwoners elders gerumoer het en ek het Dante se “Divinia Comedia” van hoek tot kant deur gelees. Tot vandag toe is dit onmoontlik om die beelde te beskryf wat die teks, onder die invloed van hierdie middel, in my wakker gemaak het. Dit was een van ’n handjievol suiwer, mooi herinneringe wat ek vandag van daardie tyd oorhou.

Alreeds met my tweede trip moes ek ervaar dat ek meer heroïen nodig het om dieselfde resultaat te kry, en kon ek die eerste tentakels van verslawing voel pluk-pluk aan die pante van my hart. Die derde of vierde keer het ek “Nee” gesê. Ek was een van die min gelukkiges wat heroïen oorleef het. Gelukkig in meer as een opsig, want die heroïen wat ek gebruik het, was nog suiwer heroïen – die dealers se “introductory offer” aan Suid-Afrika se jeug, en nie vermeng met allerlei rottegif en suiker en waspoeier of cheap XTC of wat de hel hulle ook al vandag alles bymeng nie.

Sal tik - of een van hierdie ander nuwe konkoksies - my kinders toelaat om “Nee” te sê, selfs al het hulle net een keer daarmee geëksperimenteer?

Ek het mense geken, en ken vandag nog mense, wat letterlik jare, soms dekades lank, geleentheidsdaggarokers is voordat hulle die negatiewe effek begin ervaar, hetsy net in hul longe of ook in hul persoonlike lewens. Maar die tik-duiwel ken nie hierdie soort sagte verleiding nie. Die tik-duiwel donner jou oor die kop met ’n veragtelike chemiese konkoksie en sleep jou aan die hare in ’n dimensie van kitsch ontvlugting in. Daar is nie meer werklik sprake van ’n “door of perception” nie. Dis ’n “black hole”. Dis die hel self.

Ek is nie ’n voorstander van die doodstraf nie. Maar dalk moet ons dit tog oorweeg in gevalle waar die lewens van jongmense in gedrang is. Ons het nie nodig om tik-handelaars in die tronk vet te voer nie. Hulle moet dalk maar liefs uit ons samelewing verwyder word, saam met kinderverkragters en mense wat tienjarige meisies se lyke in mynskagte afgooi.

Ek sien uit na die dag wanneer minder “gemene” dwelmmiddels soos goeie dagga (meskalien is ongelukkig, of dalk gelukkig, moeiliker om in die hande te kry!) per doktersvoorskrif of oor die toonbank wettig beskikbaar gestel kan word – met ’n waarskuwing-sticker daarop wat sê “GEBRUIK SLEGS EEN MAAL PER WEEK” of “MOENIE BESTUUR, BABY-SIT OF BLOG ONDER DIE INVLOED HIERVAN NIE” – sodat dié wat regtig wil, kan leer om dit soos grootmense te gebruik.

Ek het ’n vermoede selfs Aldous Huxley sou met hierdie sentimente saamstem as hy kon sien watse verskriklike nagmerrie ons van-lotjie-getikte jeug – om nie van hul ouers te praat nie – vandag moet deurmaak.

1 Ek het self twee maal die “voorreg” gehad om meskalien te probeer. Ek kan tot vandag nog nie eintlik oor die ervarings praat nie; hoe Huxley dit reggekry het om boeke te skryf onder die invloed daarvan, weet nugter alleen!

this article first appeared on litnet

2006-11-01

Toe ek die nuus hoor van PW Botha se dood, was dit soos die geluid van ’n honderd watervalle in die verte.

En daarna: stilte.

Dit was anders as die dood van enigiemand anders wat ek geken het of van geweet het. Ek het gehoor daarvan toe Etienne van Heerden van LitNet vir my ’n sms stuur kort na sewe-uur die oggend. Ek was besig om ProNutro met melk te meng vir my sesjarige seun voor ek hom aantrek en na sy preprimêre klas toe neem. Pienk ProNutro.

En toe: die sms.

En toe: dis suising van baie water.

Dit was asof alles stil gaan staan het op daardie oomblik, asof alles wat ek is, wat ek glo, en waarvoor ek gewerk het, alles om my, my huis en my tuin en my stoele en my TV en my computer en die prente in my gang, nuwe betekenis gekry het.

Alles was meteens leeg.

Dit was asof Tafelberg in die see in gesak het.

Ja, dit was soos om een oggend wakker te word en stad toe te bestuur in die spitsverkeer, en Tafelberg is nie meer daar nie.

Tafelberg is … weg. Waar hy gestaan het, is net blou lug. Asof dit nog altyd so was. Asof dit die normaalste ding in die wêreld is.

Baie waters.

Ver weg.

Die gesuis.

En dan, lank en ver terug, die herinneringe, herinneringe van liedjies wat ons gesing het in die donker skoolsale van Apartheid toe ons nog stout seuns was …

Liedjies teen PW.

Ons het toe nog ons wynbottels stukkend geslaan teen die wand van die berg. Die berg wat nou nie meer daar is nie.

Ek weet dat daar iets sal kom na die stilte.

Ek besef ek sal iets voel wat amper soos berou is.

Ek weet daar sal dan weer woorde in my kop spring, woorde van vergifnis, miskien, selfs woorde van humor.

Want die blou lug moet besing word.

PW is nie dood nie, hy’s net uitgepaas.

Die draak het ophou vuur spuug. Die haatfabriek het gesluit.

Die geraas in my kop het verdwyn. En die angs. En die skuld. En die woede van my jeug. Ek trek my kind se klere aan vir skool en laai hom in die kar, en terwyl ek oor sy hare vryf en kyk of daar snot aan sy neus vassit, weet ek: hierdie kind hoef nie eendag army toe te gaan soos ek moes gaan nie. Hy sal dalk teen ander Bothas moet veg, maar nie teen hierdie een nie.

Wanneer ek die kar se deur toeslaan agter my en agteruit by my eie garage uit ry, is die lug oral blou, en die strate is vreemd rustig, en Suid-Afrika het ’n nuwe naam.

this article first appeared on litnet

there is always 1 person. @ every show. there is always 1 person, he or she, who thinks he or she is more important than the other fans who stand in line 2 have their cds autographed. there is always 1 person after every show who tries 2 draw u into an endless conversation, who pretends 2 know all your old friends, who imagines he or she looks cool talking 2 u, monopolizing your attention, imagining that out of all the people who listen 2 your music, read your books, etc, he or she is the 1 person u have been waiting all your life 2 meet, the 1 person u as a star is really interested in.

there is always 1 of these ass-holes @ every concert. sometimes 2. of course u cant imagine what theyre thinking when they do that. dont they realize they r making your job that much harder? how fuckin egocentric can 1 get?

that is y u hate your guitar. or, 2 b more accurate, u hate the box it lives in, that fuckin black coffin of dead notes. u hate the music. or perhaps not so much the music itself @ all the paraphernalia of the music. all the fucking black boxes and black wires and steel implements & the sound desks & amplifiers & kombis full of stuff. & the driving @ night, & the hotel rooms.

no, actually the hotel rooms r fine, the hotel rooms r the best bit, provided youre alone, completely alone after the show, with no-one hanging around requesting 1 more song just 1 more song pleezzz. the hotel rooms r gates 2 eternity, meditation chambers, little holy holes of privacy, body shells, cubic bibles, salvation, the hotel rooms r where u go when hell has spent itself & the sound crew has packed up & gone home & the drunken fans have left 4 another club or afterparty 2 get drunk some more. the hotel rooms are where u pen down notes like these 2 retype later on your computer @ home with proper punctuation. the hotel rooms rooms r where u can do what u like, think what u like, breathe what u like, & where the only thing u have 2 avoid is the bathroom mirror. who wants 2 b confronted with an ageing rock star in the mirror after an exhausting evening of acting like an ageing rock star 4 fucks sake? not u!

the box your guitar lives in has a lot of airport stickers on it that says fragile. they r pink. some r more faded than others. your guitar box loves flying but your guitar hates it, that’s y it hides inside the box with eyes shut tight every time the box boards a plane decorated with yet another pink fragile sticker. your guitar never intended 2 get famous. in the beginning, all your guitar wanted 2 do was 2 get strummed & stroked, softly, like a cat, alone in a room full of books & flower vases & stuff. your guitar never envisaged so many sweaty bodies chanting the names of the songs it had written all by itself. your guitar is shy. your guitar is made of soft wood & shaped like a young girl. your guitar does not enjoy being gang-raped every night by drunk madmen. your guitar wants 2 exist 4 her own sake, art 4 arts sake, music pleasing itself like goldfish breathing & existing in a bowl. your guitar yearns 4 self-respect & a quiet life. your guitar has secret ambitions 2 become a science fiction paperback novelist. your guitar wants 2 settle down & get married or old or both. your guitar yearns 4 the state of blissful inexperience she used 2 know when she was still a tree in the forest. that state of being is gone 4ever now, only dreamt of & half-remembered. your guitar knows 2 much. your guitar is a recovering alcoholic. but not really recovering in the strict sense of the word, because people still insist on buying her drinks. your guitar wants 2 get a life but she is prevented from doing so by the constant and unasked4 interference of 1000s of strangers she has never met be4.

 
Apart from one insightful contributor on my own blogsite at Mweb, I am probably the only person in the Western world who doesn’t believe that Bob Dylan’s latest CD is the most important, most profound, most cutting edge thing that has happened in the rock music industry since the breakup of Wham.
 
Okay, fair enough, “Modern Times” isn’t the worst Dylan record ever. It’s a good piece of work.
 
But does it deserve all the accolades being heaped on it by fervent critics and fans? Is it really all THAT different from the other Dylan CD’s of the last few years?
 
Musically, Dylan has regressed rather than progressed. Apart from his raspy voice, which sounds better than ever - many glasses of whiskey and countless cigarettes have been very kind to his vocal chords - his compositions have become more and more predictable as time goes by (the pun on “time” intended).
 
Why all this boring bluesy stuff, the ancient R+B riffs, the have-been-there waltzy shuffles? Why is he sounding more and more like an ageing Valiant Swart fan?
 
As for the lyrics, well, this record has a few gems, but they are so badly pronounced and hard to decipher that I can’t even quote them if I wanted to. As for the lyrics I CAN hear: well, it’s the usual Dylanesque gibberish: some love-sick lines which are forced to rhyme with used-before quasi-religious imagery. “Mine” inevitably is made to rhyme with “shrine”, etc. There are the usual refernces to crowns of thorns and tired donkeys. How many donkeys do Dylan actually own? Are they allowed to have donkeys in Beverley Hills (or Malibu, or wherever he has retired to in wrath and bitterness)?
 
As I said, “Modern Times” is a fine album. But it won’t be remembered for very long. None of the songs will be remembered as long as “The Man in the Long Black Coat”. When is Bob going to write a song like this again?
 
And why doesn’;t he play harmonica any more?
 
If ever a musician was overrated in this day and age, apart from myself, it is Uncle Bob.

 
Koos Kombuis  

it’s 4 in the afternoon and i havent had a drink yet which is a world record so i can’t help wondering who is this pope guy and why should he apologize on second thoughts maybe he SHOULD apologize i’m deeply hurt and antagonized by his attitude towards gay sex personally i think he’s a dirty old man for saying such things and then he’s got the fucking nerve to do CROSS-DRESSING (i don’t mean the fact that he wears crosses, i mean he wears WOMEN’S DRESSES) yes THE POPE IS A TRANSVESTITE can you believe it i think guys like that shouldn’t get paid they should just go and live in a little room in the salvation army hostel and ask god to forgive them then on the other hand i wonder a lot about osama bin laden as well it can’t be helped it’s 4 in the afternoon and i haven’t had a drink yet so i tend to repeat myself but hear me out: if osama bin laden wants the whole world to believe in allah (and i’ve got nothing against allah, some of my best friends are people who know people who know people who once met a suicide bomber!!!) but if he really wanted everyone in the world to think like him he shouldn’t spend all that money training people to fly aeroplanes into buildings, he should print gideon copies of the koran and leave them lying around in every hotel room, i mean what really confuses me is why didn’t osama ever consult a spin doctor before starting his career, any good marketing consultant would have told him the chances of everyone in america suddenly believing in allah just because some aeroplanes flew into the world trade centre is absolutely NIL, americans aren’t like that, americans talk on cellphones and drink energy drinks, americans won’t go for a religion that promotes abstinence and prohibits the flying of kites etc and anyway they are trying to get rid of george w bush who is also a bit crazy (why are they only realizing it NOW???) in my mind americans are a bit tired of fundamental religions right now i couldn’t help noticing this throwaway line in kurt vonnegut’s latest book “i hate primitive people, they are so stupid” vonnegut wrote anyway and now there’s this new book out which is more shocking than the da vinci code its called the jesus mystery and it says JESUS never EXISTED holy cow this is REALLY going to freak out that cross-dressing guy anyway as i said its 4 in the afternoon and i havent had a single drink yet and will everybody please just shut up for a moment and fucking LISTEN to AL GORE dammit?

buy uselessly now (in south africa) (in united kingdom)

review by Koos Kombuis
 
 
Daar is heelwat Suid-Afrikaanse kunstenaars wat baie graag naam wil maak oorsee. Daar is ouens wat liedjies komponeer oor plekke soos Brakpan, maar eintlik droom hulle van ‘n uitverkoop-aand in die Royal Albert. Daar is skrywers wat boeke skryf oor longdrops in die Karoo en drug trips in Seepunt, maar in hulle harte voel hulle dat hulle die script vir “Trainspotting” sou kon doen.
 
Dan is daar Aryan Kaganof.
 
Reeds vir jare lank is hy bekend oorsee. Hy hou kunsuitstallings in New York, vervaardig kultus-flieks in Amsterdam. Onder die naam “Ian Kerkhof” behaal hy roem en respek  op die internasionale front; helaas nie ‘n huishoudelike naam soos Tretchikoff of Steven Spielberg nie, maar nou ja. Ian Kerkhof is iemand om mee rekening te hou. Hy is cutting edge.
 
Toe, een dag, ontdek hy sy roots. Toe, een dag, onthou hy dat hy eintlik in Suid-Afrika gebore is. Toe, een dag, word hy “wedergebore” as ‘;n Suid-Afrikaner, verander hy sy naam na Aryan Kaganof, en koop ‘n vliegkaartjie hiernatoe.
 
In Seepunt word hy herenig met sy biologiese vader, en hy trek by hom in die woonstel in. Hier begin hy sy mees persoonlike gedagtes neerskryf in ‘n reeks notaboekies. Uitiendelik groei hierdie aantekeninge tot ‘n roman; ‘n Suid-Afrikaanse roman. ‘n Roman gevul met karakters uit Seepunt, Stellenbosch, Alberton, en allerhande mundane plaaslike plekke.
 
As Aryan Kaganof probeer die voormalige Ian Kerkhof nou naam maak as ‘n Suid-Afrikaanse skrywer.
 
Die roman “Uselessly” is sy eerste vollengte literêre poging.
 
Daar was ook ander pogings. Hy het ‘n hele rolprent in Johannesburg geskiet op selfone en dit versprei op die Internet. Daar was ook digbundels, uitstallings, selfs pogings tot mode-ontwerp. Aryan Kaganof is ‘n Renaissance-man, en as sulks deel van die Afrika-Renaissance; miskien nie op presies die manier wat Thabo Mbeki dit sou wou hê nie, maar, nou ja, you can’t keep a good man down.
 
Anders as J.M. Coetzee, wat die Pullitzer-prys gewen het toe hy nog hier gewoon het, en toe Australië toe getrek het om alleen te wees tussen die skape en die kangaroo’s, het Kaganof besluit om hiernatoe te trek en sy inernasionale loopbaan vireers “on hold” te sit.
 
Hierdie gegewe alleen behoort genoeg te wees om enigiemand se nuuskierigheid te prikkel. Ek moet egter erken dat ek “Uselessly” gelees het voordat ek enige van hierdie feite geweet het. Ek had geen benul Kaganof en Kerkhof is dieselfde persoon nie. Ek was onbewus daarvan dat die grootste deel van die roman inderdaad autobiografies was, en het dit gelees soos fiksie. My reaksie op die teks was totaal en al gestroop van enige vooropgestelde idee’s.
 
Eerstens: ja, daar was hinderlikhede. Was ek ‘n uitgewer, sou ek ‘n boek soos “Uselessly” dalk ‘n bietjie meer ge-edit het. Daar is geweldig baie herhalings – soms tot ‘n hele bladsy – en die voor-die-hand-liggende woordspeling tussen die titel “Uselessly” en die James Joyce-werk “Ulysses” is ietwat deliberaat en boonop nie vreeslik snaaks nie. ‘n Te groot deel van die boek bestaan uit slimmighede en one-liners; goeie one-liners, okei, maar hel, mens kan net soveel genialiteite hanteer voor jy begin voel dit hinder die verloop van die storie.
 
Ten spyte van hierdie slaggate (wat Kaganof nie vermy nie, en waarteen sy uitgewers hom klaarblyklik nie gewaarsku het nie), is “Uselessly” ‘n boeiende, eerlike, interessante, en werklik vars leeservaring.
 
Ek is nie seker presies hoekom ek in die loop van die 192 bladsye verlief geraak het op Kaganof se manier van werk nie. Ek weet ook dis nie enige leser se koppie tee nie. Maar daar is iets in sy prosa –  die soort varsgeid wat mens laas ervaar het met die vroeë werk van Kurt Vonnegut, gemengd met die kinderlike sinsime van Darrel Bristow-Bovey, wat jou eenvoudig om die hart gryp en meesleur, meesleur. Aan die einde van ‘n boek soos hierdie is jy of ‘n Kaganof-fan vir altyd, of jy wil jou polse sny. Of beide.
 
‘n Ou wat dinge kan kwytraak soos die volgende, verdien ons volgehoue aandag:
“Life in Cape Town is an ongoing soap about waiters and menus. It’s a bit like sitting in a Peter Stuyvesant ad.”
 
“My entire childhood, I longed for abuse. Everywhere I went, I was always hearing how some kid got abused, and gradually I began to believe that I was the ugliest, most unappealing child in the world, because nobody ever took time off from their busy schedules to interfere with me.”
 
“I have raped, I have battered, I have lied, I have cheated, I have stolen, I have betrayed, I have perjured, I have bullied, I have depraved, I have run away. In short, I have led a very normal life. But I have never committed genocide. Not yet.”
 
Nou ja, wat kan mens hierop sê?
 
Baie, baie welkom in die Nuwe Suid-Afrika, Aryan Kaganof. Jy sal beslis tuis voel hier.
 
 this review, in a slightly altered form, was first published in the rapport newspaper. the review was incorrectly attributed to “Kaganov” due to an apalling fuckup by the publicist of Jacana , one Sahm Venter, who sent out a mailing to all the magazines and newspapers in the country with my name incorrectly spelled. Instead of committing suicide, as she would have done if she had any self-respect, the dreadful cunt actually sent me an email with my name incorrectly spelt again and the explanation that she “wanted to see if I had a sense of humour”. That Jacana did not fire her remains a mystery to me. That I did not belt her one can only be attributed to the calming effects of the lobotomy and all those mysterious Buddhist poems that Suchoon Mo sends in to the blog.

Let us light a candle tonight to the “Guess the Gadgets” of tomorrow.
 
Let us pause, for a moment, by the graves of those brilliant yet doomed designs which had been conceived at exactly the wrong point in time, those scientific experiments who died before they had a chance to live, and serve, and fulfill their destiny.
 
Let us shed a tear for those dodo’s of invention who never had a chance. Who never got past the starting lineup. Who landed on the dungheap of technical evolution through no fault of themselves.
 
Let us mourn their passing as if they were chance acquaintances, or temporary flat-mates, or short-term lovers. For they all had the potential to become a more meaningful part of our lives. If they only knew how. 
 
They were mere victims of circumstance. They were the still-born, useless, failed epitomes of our disposable culture. They were the small-town con men of civilization. They sold their shares a split second before the boom. They lost their footing on the scaffolding at the exact moment when they preparing for their greatest triumph.
 
Oops.
 
I am talking, my dear friends, of the electric typewriter. Who remembers the electric typewriter? That magnificent engine with the golf ball mechanism?
 
Killed, superseded, cancelled out by the personal computer, never to have an independent existence ever again.
 
I am talking, my dear friends, of the cassette and CD Walkman players of yesteryear. Remember those prehistoric, strange little tools? (I never liked them all that much, to be honest. They invariably had one defective ear-plug.) Yet, to be fair, they made long distance driving bearable. For a year or two. Until the advent of the iPod…
 
I am sad tonight, my friends. I am mourning the death of so many remarkable machines. I am grieving. I am grieving because I remember my friend the pager. Remember pagers? Those little square thingamabobs the yuppies of bygone times used to wear on their belts? Those beeping, urgent little things which used to be the dividing line between those of us who merely existed and those of us who were Wanted and Needed by the Outside World? They are cast aside now, no-one manufactures them any more. Because now, of course, we have mobile phones.
 
While I’m on the topic, let’s shed a tear for the first mobile phones that hit the market during the first years of that new technology. Remember them? They were huge. They were expensive. They had aerials. They had one function, and one function only: to phone. They could not take pictures, or video clips, or receive pornographic images, or do any of the very clever things the cell phones of today are capable of. They were honest, and true, and simple. It was as difficult to hide one of those as it is to hide a gun, because when you put them in your pocket, they made your jacket hang down on one side. Hell, today I’d pay through my nose to find a phone that can do just that one thing: phone. All these other new functions are terribly distracting, don’t you think?
 
Tonight I am feeling blue. I am feeling blue because I have seen the death of so many inanimate objects. I have seen the death of the fax machine, the telex machine, the telegram, the hand-written letter, the public telephone booth, the town library, the printed book, the stiffie, the photo album, the black and white TV set, the record player, the video cassette, the Hammond organ, the recording studio and record label (the entire music industry as we know it, for that matter), the photocopy machine, Tipp-Ex Fluid, the old-fashioned family video camera which used to be so indispensable on all our trips to the Kruger National Park…
 
And there are jobs that are becoming obsolete, too. At a much faster rate than ever before. Soon, there will be no more encyclopedia salesmen. No more people who work in photographic darkrooms. No more record producers. No more postmen. No more professional website designers. No more librarians. We’ll be able to do everything ourselves. With no training. With very cheap software. Life will be easy. All sensory experiences will be enhanced. Death will be edited out. We will not even fear sexually transmitted diseases, for holographic chat rooms will make the messy reality of real relationships unnecessary. Personal vulnerability will become a liability instead of an asset. All this will save a hell of a lot of time.
 
So, why am I feeling sad tonight? Why am I dressed in black like a pre-graduate Grahamstown Goth from the early nineties? Why am I nostalgic for movies like The Naked Lunch? Why do I hate Pop Idols? Why am I bored with the Fashion Channel? Why do I feel like a hollow man, stuffed man, a man dancing around the prickly pear at four o’clock in the morning?
 
Why do I feel lost, and lonely, and forlorn, like the lyrics of the latest Neil Young album (“Prairie Wind” – considered by some to be his best yet, though most young people today will have no use for it):
 
I feel like I’m falling,
Falling off the face of the earth…
 
Look there, it’s gone. Click. No sweat. 
 
 
 
(With acknowledgement to T.S. Eliot)

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…

buy uselessly now (in south africa) (in united kingdom)

dear aryan, i’ve just read your book, uselessly. i have to do a review for rapport, but its very hard to be objective about it. you cover two topics i feel passionate about: the after effects of too much drugs, and the collective emotional problems faced by the sea point jewish community of the late 20th century. also you are the first writer to ask (in effect) the very important question: the government may be taking steps to protect children from rape and abuse, but what are they doing to protect children from normal happy homes and ordinary affluent schools?
what a relief to encounter the work of a published author who is crazier than myself. i feel vindicated. i sincerely hope we never meet in person, for we wont get along at all.
nevertheless: discovering your work has opened a door in my soul which should have remained shut forever. thank you so much.
koos kombuis

hy is verdwaal iewers
tussen enter, shift
en alt.
om hom rys regop, strak
die wolkekrabbers van my letters
en onder sy
voete: die donker niks (gleufies of gletsers
na ‘n dood wat deur geen taal be
-skryf kan word nie).

die mier is nie lui nie. dis ‘n bybelse mier. verbete
soek hy hiernatoe,
daarnatoe,
na ‘n uitkoms uit sy tronk van ivoortorings. in sy
kop beraam hy planne, teken hy diagramme
sodat hy miere wat na hom hier sal beland, kan waarsku.
maar dis alles tevergeefs.
nes hy sy weg baan by ctrl verby, en tussen esc en f1
sy vryheid vind,
vang ek, die woordsmid, hom

tus-
sen duim en voorvinger

en gooi hom gefrommeld oor my skouer om
die dag se
skeppingswerk te kan
begin

i’ve come to the place
where there are
no words
the clearing in
the middle
of the forest
where silence
rains

deep in the heart
of every winter
there is a summer
waiting to be born.

deep in the heart
of every work of fiction
there is a truth
hoping to be grasped.

in the midst of the fury
of this blindly raging storm
is an eye
watching calmly
for the promise of peace…
believing, hoping, knowing
willing
day to follow night
and the desert stream to empty itself
in the vastness of the sea -

there is decay at work
in the summit of spring
and blossoms sprouting
even as the dead leaves fall
on these houses,
this street -

so many yesterdays
buried and half-remembered.
so many tomorrows
hidden inside
today -

so much happiness
rising up to meet us
from this stained black highway