David Moseley
It’s a musical week in Cape Town with Coldplay tending to the depressed white man’s needs tomorrow, and Rocking the Daisies catering for the stinky, shoeless hippies (or, pretend alternative revolutionary suburban hipsters) on the weekend, so why not a column regarding some things lyrical?
We do live in a country, after all, where the president’s greatest talent is not negotiation, nation building or, heaven forbid, leadership, but rather the ability to sing and dance on stage in front of a large frothing audience. In fact, while I’m digressing rather violently here, perhaps the songsters in charge could just engage in a spot of Presidential Idols to determine the next crowd-pleasing, performing president. At least then we could text in our votes, and avoid the queues on Election Day.
But back to the music. (And before the tie-dye clad of you out there choke on your lentil tea, I rather enjoy Rocking the Daisies. It’s just that I prefer to keep my shoes on. And I’ll also be going to Coldplay. Any day where you get a chance to relive the magic of the Fan Walk is a good day indeed. Even if means I’ll be in tears by the time Chris Martin starts singing his third ode to Gwynnie).
Despite Coldplay’s sometimes mournful melodies, I am a fan and, after thoroughly enjoying U2’s performance in Cape Town earlier this year, I’m quite excited about a second big band experience in the Mother City (aka The City That is Also Better Than Joburg, Durban, PE and Everywhere Else).
Great music memories
I’ve enjoyed Sting, Counting Crows, INXS, Live and a few more that I can’t quite remember in Cape Town, while a special mention must go to one-hit-wonder Eagle Eye Cherry’s performance at aforementioned Rocking the Daisies. Belting out his classic Save Tonight he had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand for all of four minutes. Sadly for the Daisies headline act of 2008, as soon as he moved on to some lesser-known hits in his repertoire, the crowd quickly helped him off stage.
Still, at least Eagle Eye has one song that sticks in the mind for happy reasons. My aural nemesis over the years has been UB40. I’m ashamed to admit that I actually owned (purposefully bought, no less) two of their cassettes before my musical tastes had developed. And in some kind of bad karmic twist of fate, ever since realising that their faux-Caribbean sound was actually rather crap, they’ve managed to pop up throughout my life, ruining otherwise pleasant moments with their used-bubblegum pop.
I know I can always turn it off, plug in an iPod or change stations, but it’s practically impossible to tune into KFM without being dripped in the syrupy tones of Ali Campbell and his bland bandmates. Knowing the generic playlists that plague South African radio, I’m sure there are other stations around the country that also abuse their listeners in this undignified manner.
Awful aural experience
"I Got You Babe" and "Red Red Wine" are the repeat offenders, but it’s a lesser hit that always sends me over the edge. Camping outside of Hermanus one wet and windy December, my then girlfriend and I had already suffered a tormented two hours trying to get the tent up in gale force winds. As the wind howled the brats in the tent next door grew louder, and the party further down the lane reached its peak with horrific song choice after horrific song choice.
But none of that was as torturous as the UB40 fans camped right behind us, who for hours on end pumped out the band’s Greatest Hits CD, taking particular attention to hit repeat numerous times as the CD lurched towards "There’s a Rat in My Kitchen". Over and over we endured “there’s a rat in my kitchen what am I going to do, there’s a rat in my kitchen what am I going to do”. Even now, seven years later, I can’t look at a tent without breaking into a cold sweat, and a chorus of There’s a Rat in my Kitchen.
Suffice to say, if a contestant on Presidential Idols appears on stage with a reggae wig and Caribbean colours, and so much as hums the intro to that song, I’ll bloody well show him what I’m going to do. And he won’t get my vote either.
Postscript: Good heavens, I’m not even making this up. The coffee shop I’m writing this in has just put on the DMX Reggae channel, and you’ll never guess what’s playing...
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