This time round I am so blown away by the Parlotones’ new CD I have to have my say.

Stardust Galaxy is the third big release by a band that is destined to make Dave Matthews-sized waves internationally. And what a release it is.
Radiocontrolled Robot was a mishmash of styles, some good tunes (and one or two forgettable ones) and an attempt at putting their stake in the ground as rock contenders. The follow up A world next door to yours moved things up a gear with a bit more of a unified sound and a fistful of radio-friendly songs. But, as good as it was, it still had a streak of ordinariness about it as if the band hadn’t yet found their mojo. But if those two albums can be likened to firstly dipping a toe in the water and then wading in chest high, Stardust Galaxy sees the band taking the plunge and swimming the English Channel. It’s that good.

The catchy radio friendliness is there – Push me to the Floor being the first single, perfectly palatable, interesting and one of those songs you’re unlikely to tire from hearing over and over. Not sure what radio stations will begin playing next but if it’s not Remember When… then someone is making a giant mistake. It’s the kind of anthemic rock tune that bands gouge their eyes out to write. Without any hint of 70s glam rock cheese. Think Journey without Steve Perry’s tight trouser whine.

There’s something subliminal on the album that makes it work. On the one hand it could be the product of playing together live so much – it results in a tightness and unified sound that can’t be replicated in the studio. Then there’s the contribution of Theo Crous’ production and Neal Snyman’s mixing (Neal is one of those underrated engineers who has quietly mixed some of my favourite albums – Wendy Oldfield’s Holy Water, Arno Carstens’ Another Universe, a couple of Nude Girls albums, Karen Zoid’s Media and Postmodern World, and Sons of Trout’s Ticks on George). Their influence is felt throughout the CD. It’s tight and polished and gives you a deep sense that there’s something magical in the way the chemistry has come together.

But back to the songs. The title track of the CD is another of those rare moments – combining Kahn’s sound with that of the reigning queen of SA pop, Freshlyground’s Zolani Mahola. It’s a great combo. Both have unique and distinctive voices. Both are on top of their game. And they’re dynamite together. In a kind of way that Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush were on Don’t give up. Fly to the Moon is one of those yearning-for-something-better-but-unattainable songs that Kahn does so well and Welcome to the Weekend manages to be both angry and sweet at the same time. In a sinister way (you can blame Andy Lund for that, I guess – he does backing vocals on the track).

I first saw the Parlotones live at Oppikoppi in 2006. But my abiding memory was watching them on stage at South by Southwest in Austin, Texas earlier this year. They were good. But they sort of got lost in the great orgy of live music that characterises this showcase festival. I wanted to leap in front of the crowd and kak them out for not realising that they were watching the beginning of something special, that their albums to date have been good but just wait, there’s more on the way. i had a conversation with a bigwig music journo who wanted to come to the gig but arrived late, I should have told him the same thing. Because with Stardust Galaxy being launched I could email him one line – “I told you so”. In fact I might just do that anyway.

They’re a great band, destined for great things. And as someone who has been lucky enough to work with them peripherally I can attest to the fact that no-one deserves it more. A bunch of great guys, hard working, uncomplaining and who leave their egos firmly at the door when they have a job to do. Bring on Wembley, they can handle it.

“The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door…”

(sidebar – this is actually pretty flawed as a novel, making the sexist assumption that the last man on earth is also the last person, but let’s not nitpick)

Perhaps in years to come, thanks to Twitter and Facebook, we’ll all have been reduced to beings with attention spans shorter than a metalhead at a Britney concert. Never mind – I’m not going to let a bandwagon pass me by, so here are some reviews of the bands I’ve seen at SXSW, Twitter-style. In no particular order. It’s important to note (or maybe it’s not, but I’ll note it anyway) that SXSW is a Festival of discovery and if you don’t recognise many of the names on the list don’t worry – nor had I until I stumbled into their shows on a word of mouth recommendation, because I liked the poster or I needed a beer and was passing by. I’ve left out a couple of bands I did see perform purely because I didn’t stick around for long or missed their names, which is, I guess, a review in itself.

Tori Amos – Beautiful and magical, or at least she would be if she hadn’t disappeared inside herself in search of her wand.

Ben Harper – The master. His cover of “Under Pressure” was extraordinary. Understated and in charge from start to finish. Lenny Kravitz se moer.

Rod Thomas – A good guy and innovative musician, with some nice tunes. Pity the sound guy fell asleep.

Sandi Thomm – Sweet and underrated. Sure she banged on about her lost cat a bit but, hey, she was sad. Didn’t affect her performance, though. Whew.

BLK JKS – The unlikely rockers from Soweto did us proud and turned a jaded crowd into fans. They rocked.

Proclaimers – Still melodic and tuneful after all these years. Exactly what you’d expect from a Proclaimers show – good humoured pop twiddle.

Caroline Herring – My discovery of the Festival. Captivating singer-songwriter, beautiful voice and songs oozing with more warmth than a bowl of Texan chilli.

Peter Mulvey – What Jack Johnson with a personality injection would be like.

Bushwalla – Hi energy attitude, although a bit desperate at times.

Camera Obscura – Disappointingly bland. Lead singer very apologetic about new songs but probably not apologetic enough.

Andrew Bird – confusing, but I wanted to enjoy the show so probably did.

Erin McCarley – forgettable. In fact that’s exactly what I had done until I checked up where I was at 9pm on Thursday.

Dinosaur jnr – They’ve still got it. But they can have it.

Dananananakroyd – Huge energy and entertainment value.

The Devil Wears Prada – I have no idea. They didn’t pitch.

White Lies – Wow. Maybe through ignorance I had no idea they existed before this week. Looking forward to ten years time when I can say “I was there at the start”…as big as Metallica. You heard it here first.

The Parlotones - my favourite SA band at the moment, and they can do no wrong. They outdid themselves here, though – great gig. They’re gonna be huge.

Razorlight - OK, who forgot to tell Borrell they don’t do encores at SXSW???? 30 minutes of a 80 minute show and the band was outta there. Major disappointment…they didn’t even play “America”

Third Eye Blind - worked the crowd, tighter than a newt’s sphincter with some rocking tunes. Lead singer a tosser, though.

I’m in Austin, Texas. Well, that’s true but not absolutely true. I’m at South by Southwest – a week long orgy of a conference that spans the triple disciplines of interactive, film and music, and all the grey areas in between that they share. To say that South by (as we regulars call it) is big, is like saying that Table Mountain is pretty. It’s true, but it doesn’t begin to do the kind of justice to the statement that true hyperbole can. It’s frigging ginormous. So while I am in Austin, I’m in Austin during something so big and all consuming that the city becomes secondary. Like Edinburgh or Grahamstown during their festivals, or Mecca during the hajj. The cities are there, but they become secondary to the event which the city wears like a fresh skin. South by is as much the skin of Austin as it is the heart, lungs and quivering liver.
Trips like this are best reflected on, their true value only unfolding in the fullness of time. Asking me in the middle of the frenzy to offer any insight into its worth or impact is like turning to me in the middle of a movie and asking me what I thought. I can tell you I am enjoying it, but I can’t tell you why. So let me do this….

Being at the creative and technological hub of the world, and sharing that experience with those who shaped the world to begin with is enough, I think, to qualify me to offer up some observations and theories about trends.

Trend number 1: The Geek shall inherit the earth.

To be honest I came up with that line before I spotted the trend, but the more I think about it the more self-evident it appears. In the early 90s the tech department in any company were the cable guys, the ones you called when Windows bombed, tried not to speak to for fear of being drawn into a long conversation about the relative merits of Linux and, well, Linux, and who huddled together at office parties, waiting for the pizza and beer to be finished so they could go back to their caves and download porn and play games. Except they weren’t doing that. Well, not all of them. They were building the very tools that today shape the way we interact with every company and brand in existence. They were thinking of and building Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, developing Flash and writing lines and lines of code that would give rise to Google, Firefox and other behemouths of our age. Today they’re the ones CEOs turn to for insight into where their company is going or should be going. The power they hold is enormous and their influence global.
Observation number 2: The music industry is not ill, but the record industry is terminal.
One of the most insightful moments of this week came at the end of the interactive portion of the Festival. The head of interactive stood up at the last keynote address to introduce the speakers, and thank all the delegates. In doing so, he pointed out that the music festival had just gotten underway. “There will be lots of musicians wandering around the building today,” he said “You can spot them – theyre the ones looking around for a business model.” The geeks guffawed smugly, if indeed you can guffaw smugly (and I think you can). As the music portion of the festival unfolded it became clear that at no point in living memory has more music been created, recorded and distributed. And we’re not talking poky little garage bands here – we’re talking seriously talented singers, songwriters and bands working their butts off doing what they do….and earning a living from it. The worried ones are not the bands, their managers or their mothers. Its their record labels, who are becoming as irrelevant today as seven singles were ten years ago.

Witness the performance of Metallica, arguably one of the biggest bands in the world. They played at South by not to promote a new album, funded by a massive record label. They played to promote the launch of a new computer game – Guitar rock Hero, the Metallica version. They’ve made more money off computer games than they ever have off record sales. More of the money is going to them, they are generating new fans and by being smart marketers themselves, they’ve cut out the fat in the middle. In other words, the fat cat record companies.  The keynote address I mentioned earlier was by Chris Anderson – Wired editor and author of the Long Tail. He’s got a new book coming out – it’s called “Free”, and it details how everything available online is one day going to be free. And he’s walking the talk – anyone who follows him on Twitter will get a free PDF of his new book. Don’t worry – he’ll find ways of  making his money. There will be limited edition paperback gift sets sold in the real world, monthly newsletters you can subscribe to, lucrative speaking engagements and so on. His theory is that you should distribute content as widely as possible for free, and convert 5% of that free market to a paying market through other channels. The bigger the free market, the bigger the 5% will be. His publisher no doubt hates him, but his followers adore him. And, ironically, he’ll get rich by being free.

Observation number 3: South African musicians are being short changed, and the country is losing out.
This Festival is made up of literally thousands of showcase concerts happening over four days. There are big names – like Metallica, Kanye West, Dinosaur jnr, Razorlight, the Proclaimers and Primal Scream, and then there are the young hopefuls playing their hearts out hoping to get spotted by promoters, festivals, radio stations and record companies. Out of all those thousands of bands, there are precisely two South African bands – Soweto rockers Blk Jks, and the perennially talented Parlotones. Both those acts are here not because their South African management or record company bankrolled them, but they were being punted and staged by American agents and promoters. Let me repeat that – the South African bands here were being presented by Americans. By contrast, dozens of other countries are here showcasing their bands – Scotland, England, Canada, Australia and more. Funded by Tourism boards, arts councils and governments who realise the tourism and marketing potential a global audience to a country’s music has for that country’s economic growth. Why wasn’t there a South African showcase here with Sibongile Khumalo, Vusi Mahlasela, Karen Zoid, Harris Tweed, Louis Mhlanga, Ray Phiri, aKing, Arno Carstens and Koos Kombuis? Yes, it’s an expensive exercise. But for the investment of a couple of hundred thousand rand South Africa could see returns in the millions in terms of GDP contribution, marketing and brand value and tourism potential. I’ve spoken to about a dozen people since I’ve been here who hadn’t thought about coming to South Africa for the World Cup, but who now are because they met someone from our country who enthusiastically sold it to them. The Parlotones handed out a couple of hundred free CDs at their show – now a couple of hundred people are going to listen to them, play them to their friends, send them off to their local radio station saying “listen to this cool band from South Africa”. Sure, no-one actually visits Ireland because of U2….but they know about it, the talk about it, and one day they might visit it. Meanwhile they’ll buy tons of U2 CDs, t-shirts and concert tickets…earning the band money, and the entire Ireland-based U2 economy of record companies, publishers, t-shirt manufacturers will flourish. And if U2 had to pay tax, which they don’t because Ireland actually supports its artists with tax breaks, the government would earn a healthy chunk off all the band’s earnings. U2 becomes an export commodity. So too could any one of the South African bands I mentioned earlier.

OK, so that’s my perspective from Austin. This time next week I’ll be back at home, ensconced in a world I know far better than this one, looking forward to our elections and the political high drama we do so well. Maybe some of the views I’ve expressed here will be moderated on my return, but i hope not. With just one day to go before this particular movie ends, I think I already know how I feel about it…and I’ll be back to watch the sequel.

(if you don’t get them, then feel free to choose another exciting post on this blog to read, the rest won’t make that much sense to you!)
Anyway, at the time I thought it would be fun to create a couple, and I promised myself that when I had time I would give it a stab. That was a year ago, and I finally got round to doing it. So here are a couple of my own:

And a slight variation on this last one, for local flavour:

“What a co-incidence,” I said, “That’s my name too.”
“I’ll just get your key.”

Off she hurried. I’m loath to use the world “bustled” because that conjours up images of a rotund B&B owner, wiping on her crisp apron the floury evidence of warm and crusty bread having just been popped into the oven while clucking around her guests like long lost friends. Ms R Water was nothing like that. Ash dripping from her top lip, she hurried through a western-style pub door behind the desk with poodles in tow. “He’s here,” I heard her announce to the gathered staff at the back. I’m sure I heard a celebratory “Whoop”. Dewy-eyed she returned with my key and instructions to follow her to my room.

The journey through the hotel backyard to my room was an adventure in itself. Stepping over dogs, rabbits and, I swear, a mongoose, I nodded sagely when my hostess gestured to a peacock or Guinea Fowl or something (fauna and flora have never been my strong point, so take that mongoose thing with a pinch of salt) and told me that they were likely to walk on my roof tonight and wake me up. As it turned out they didn’t. What did wake me up – repeatedly and relentlessly – was a rooster that decided to “cock a doodle doo” himself to a hoarse whisper on the half hour, every half hour from 2am, just outside my window. Walking to my car the next morning, grumpy from my interrupted sleep, I spied the smug rooster, well, let me call a cock a cock — I spied the smug cock under a nearby tree. Its night of hard work had worn it out, and so it now lay in a deep slumber of its own. I tiptoed over to it, leaned forward and positioned my mouth more or less where I imagined its ear to be. Or maybe it was its ass. Anyway, I leaned toward a tightened orifice. At the top of my lungs I yelled “BOKKE”. Nothing. No dramatic flurry of feathers or that useless panicky thing cocks do with their wings. Zilch. Unsatisfied by my experience with the cock, but quietly pleased at scoring a point over nature, I stood and turned toward my car to see a flutter of frilly curtain in the office window. I gave the spying receptionist a wave and a cheery smile, threw my room key at the mongoose and hopped into my car to start the dusty trek to Potch.

I was in the area as part of my ongoing attempt to get a handle on South African arts festivals. When a small town like Potch stages Aardklop, which tens of thousands of people flock to in the name of the arts, then it’s worth taking a look to see what they’re doing right and what I can learn from them for the benefit of my own employer.

Before arriving, a journalist told me of the outcry that ensued after he reported that Aardklop was like a giant “Kerk Bazaar”. That may be a little harsh, and a comparison that conveniently ignores the cultural passion that runs through the festival. But I can see how he arrived at that description. The massive “Fees Terrein” is basically a patch of lawn enclosed by several streets that have been shut down, giving way to marqueed and caravanned food and craft stalls. While impressive in its size, there’s not much by way of variety. It seems that sosaties are big in Potch. Lamb sosaties, beef sosaties and chicken sosaties. Sosaties on a bun and then, cunningly and to give the illusion of choice, two sosaties on a bun. Sosaties made and sold by a staggering number of NG Kerks and their derivative offshoots (Reformde, Gereformde, Hergereformde and so on). Others braaied on long rows of sizzling grids and sold by means of signs promising that, of all the sosaties in Potch, these are the best — until the next few steps, anyway. Now don’t get me wrong, I love sosaties as much as the next man. But a slice of Bovril toast would have been good in between. They could even sell it on a stick if it makes someone feel better.

And then there was “Mr Mushroom”. Now Mr M is a creative thinker. Obviously well aware of this crowd’s love of food on a stick, he wacked up not just one two or three, but four stalls selling what can only be described as a crumbed mushroom sosatie. Genius.
In case you’re wondering what has precipitated the national stick shortage, I can reassure you that, after Aardklop, supplies will return to normal.

So the food is all well and good, but what of the art? What indeed. I counted a healthy 98 productions on the Festival programme – a good mix between music, theatre, lectures and dance with a sprinkling of children’s theatre thrown in. And there were lots of recognisable names on the bill, such as Sharleen Surtee Richards, Lionel Newton, Frank Opperman, Zane Meas and Chris Chameleon. There’s also powerful, touching and tear-jerkingly beautiful work, like the Lara Bye directed Yellowman. But, and this is likely to be a contentious observation, as with the ABSA Klein Karoo Nasionale Kunstefees in Oudtshoorn, it’s not these 98 productions that give the festival its identity. It’s the multitude of music stages that spring up around town like mushrooms (I told you Mr. M was good). It’s the devastating truth of many of these Festivals that the arts take a back seat. In the front are a procession of pretty boy Westlife wannabees, singing and strumming songs that, to my ear anyway, all blend into one. Now I love live music. I really, really love it. When it is performed by the real deal – non-plasticky South African artists with genuine talent. And it’s not a language thing. I count Karen Zoid, Koos Kombuis, Chris Chameleon and Valiant Swart among my all-time favourite acts, regardless of the language in which they sing. So there’s nothing more depressing to me than stepping out of a mind-blowing performance by Valiant Swart, who I saw playing to a paltry audience of about 20 people in Oudtshoorn earlier this year, and coming face to face with a 5 000 strong crowd weeping over the Cambells and that musical abomination Japie or Gawie or whatever his name is (you know, the one with the hair who massacres Bryan Adams’s songs. If you don’t know him, you certainly know the type). It’s just wrong.

Now I’m not suggesting that festivals should swim against the tsunami of populism. It is what it is. If the masses want to flock together to watch Kurt Darren and Ghapi (that’s the guy) then they must do that and they will be urged along by mindless television talent searches, which, by the way, I love. No-one said I had to be fair or consistent. Salivating big record companies will milk the opportunity and achieve stratospheric CD sales. Sponsors see all the commotion and pay a premium to put their brands in the heart of the experience. Everyone’s happy and that’s all fine. But when that’s the dominating feature of a gathering of people, then you’re not at an arts festival with some music. You’re at a music festival with some arts. So let’s call it that.

Some will argue that what happens on music stages counts as the arts. And they are probably right, especially if you apply a broad definition of the arts that covers anything that is an expression of self, be it on canvas, through song or words. But I’m not talking about philosophy here, I’m talking branding. If you’re staging an event, you should call it something that reflects either the prevailing impression that is created of what you are, or it should describe what you want to be. I think too many events in South Africa pass themselves off as “Arts Festivals” to loosen the purse strings of those who want to get behind the arts. But in staging the event, they tend to default to the crowd-pleasing (read “ticket selling”) shows that stretch the definition.

That said, I have the utmost respect for the men and women who run other festivals in this country. I’ve met a lot of them and they’re constantly under the terrifying triple-whip of funding, logistics and ticket sales. They tend to do it with aplomb and passion, which is why it works. And my hat goes off to the sponsors too who are under increasing pressure to get “bang for their buck” and find a way of moving money off massive sport budgets to the arts. Between them, the major festivals and their sponsors are responsible for tens of millions of rand finding its way into the pockets of our artists, writers, directors and producers and anyone who gets on a stage in front of an audience deserves a cut. Yes, if I’m being honest, even Ghapi. Maybe.

And while on the subject of honesty, a note to the owners of the Rapid Waters Hotel. May I suggest a name change? There was nothing rapid or watery about where I stayed. Let’s be honest, it wasn’t very hotel-ly either. Since we’re all on a learning curve, here’s a tip. In Grahamstown there’s a guesthouse called “The Cockhouse”. I’m sure they’ll let you use the name.

In fact, even saying I’m not a big fan of theirs is a bit disingenuous. I’m a complete non-fan who would have been hard pressed to hum a single Tull tune. I don’t actively dislike them; they have just never featured on my radar. I dimly recall my parents owning an album, and I think I saw a video of theirs on Pop Shop in the early 1980s, but that’s the extent of my contact with the band.

So off we went to the new Grandwest Arena. (Good job on the venue, by the way. It’s about time Cape Town had somewhere other than a disused velodrome in the middle of nowhere to stage concerts.) And there I encountered tosser number one — a big, burly biker guy wearing one of those black T-shirts with the old South African flag on it, and the words “100% Boer” printed underneath. It occurred to me that he had almost got it right. Substituting the “B” and the “r” with a “P” and an “s” respectively would have been more accurate, but I wasn’t going to let half-brain ruin my evening.

That was the job of others — three more tossers, two in the form of MCs and the fourth the lead singer of Jethro Tull, Ian Anderson. Let’s start with the MCs.

Tasked with warming us up for a good evening out were Barney Simon (he of former radio glory and stalwart of South African music; not to be confused with Barney the Dinosaur, although apart from the purple thing, is an easy confusion to make) and some dolt who introduced himself as being a DJ on 94.7 in Johannesburg. This then caused him and Barney to embark on a Johannesburg love-fest — they decided it would be a hoot to tell everyone how rubbish Western Province rugby is, how crap the mountain is, and how their planes were delayed at the airport. Hilarious stuff. They then went on to introduce the opening band — an OK outfit called Voodoo Child — hyping them as the biggest band in Johannesburg [insert impressed audience noises here].

Now I used to live in Johannesburg, and still love the place, but how dumb do you have to be to come to Cape Town, act as if Jo’burg is the centre of the universe, tell us that because a band are big in Johannesburg we have to love them, and then proceed to trash Cape Town? Very dumb. And just to prove how dumb they were, Barney and friend embarked on this little bit of banter:

Barney: So Jethro Tull have been around for a very long time
Dolt #2: Yes, they have — although I don’t remember their early years like you can, Barney, haw haw haw.
Barney: No, Dolt, in fact can you name any Jethro Tull songs?
Dolt #2: Um, err, no, Barney, you’ve got me there.

Stunned silence. Here was this jerk who has walked on stage at a Jethro Tull concert, dissed the city’s rugby team, told us how fabulous everything from Johannesburg is, and then admits — in front of 6 000 paying Jethro Tull addicts — that he can’t name a single song by the band. 100% Boer looked like he wanted to rip him apart with a koeksister twister.

That’s how dumb he was. Clearly DJs at 94.7 aren’t coached on how to use the internet. It would have taken him five minutes to pop along to Wikipedia and brush up on the band when he accepted the job — after all, he probably got paid something in the region of R10 000 to fly to Cape Town, have a few beers and spend five minutes on stage. If I had been the promoter, I would have sent him back to Jo’burg with a swift kick in the arse and no cheque. Tosser.

And then we get to the last tosser of the evening: Ian Anderson, lead singer of Jethro Tull. The band are great. They are the Real Thing … genuine rockers from an era when quality musicianship still counted. Even as someone who knew little of their music I enjoyed the show. Until the end, which shouldn’t have been the end.

During an intricate guitar solo, someone in the audience whistled. It’s what people at concerts do from time to time. It’s called “getting into the spirit of things”. Ian Anderson stopped playing and berated the audience, complaining that the whistling put him off his playing. Except no one was sure whether he was joking or not. So, the moment he began to play again, more people whistled. So Ian threw a strop, and stalked off to the back of the stage to sulk.

There is of course a delicious irony in the fact that one of the band’s biggest albums was called The Whistler, but that was lost in the blue haze of petulant huff. Anderson then came back, indicated to his band that they should wrap it all up. After the song, they did, and they walked off stage and into the Cape night without so much as a nod and a smile, leaving behind 6 000 slightly confused fans.

I suppose we can hope that they bumped into MC Tosser backstage and had to endure his company for the time it took for their cab to arrive. It’s called justice. As for the audience, well, having paid R400 and upwards for our tickets, I reckon that we were entitled to a little more courtesy. Even a forced “Good night, we’re old and tired and extremely grateful that you bothered to come along tonight, but now we must sleep” would have been nice. Tosser.