I’ve always had this ability – rampant facial hair growth. It might or might not have something to do with the fact that I was bitten by a radio-active member of ZZ Top when I was a child. Other people get spiders, I got a man with a silly beard. It’s not a bad gig though, I get to swing through the neighbourhood on my whiskers, roof to roof and tree to tree – saving those in need. I go by the name of, “The Moustache” or El Mustachio to the Spanish. I often find myself battling the evil forces of “Clipman” or Il Razorino to the Italians. He has a suit made entirely of razors and clippers. More often than not, I thwart him with the might of my lip-cylinders, wrapping up his legs with one side of my moustache and whipping his botty with the other side. That’s correct, not only can I swing, I can whip too.

I’m sorry, was that a little whimsical? A little out-there? Let’s try and return to some state of normalcy. Grab hold of my lip-reins and ride me like a nicely-fragranced horse.

Sent to jail. For having an ass-kicking moustache.

A moustache is a lot more than a collection of hairs growing under your nose. A moustache is a legacy. Something handed down from father to son. Empires are built on moustaches. I’m quite sure, that under Barack Obama’s noble upper-lip – he hides a moustache of gargantuan, krakatoan, leviathan-like proportions. Yes, many crazy mass-murdering tyrants and dictators had moustaches too – Stalin, Hitler, Pinochet, Lord Kitchener, Saddam Hussein and Robert Mugabe spring to mind, but that’s not important. On the side of good I’ve got Tom Selleck, Einstein, Dali, Ghandi, Frank Zappa and Freddie Mercury – and I’m sticking with them.

My popsicle had a moustache for nigh on thirty year, and by Jove, I’m continuing the legacy. I could lie and tell you that my father died in a shaving accident in the Congo, but that would be untrue. He runs a pharmacy in Tokai. He shaved his moustache off a few years ago, and I proudly took those bits of discarded man-fur and figuratively stuck them to my naked, pink upper lip. Well, I just didn’t shave my upper lip for a while, but you get the idea. Imagine two men standing on a mountain peak, red light from a perfect sunset streaming past them as one hands a pitch-black horseshoe to the other, who proudly and promptly staples it to his face. Kind of like that.

Apparently this cat's name is Jan van Voorst. More like: Jan van Awesome! He's not even a cat!

What is interesting about having a joke living right under your nose, is that you forget that it’s there. I find myself walking around in public and watching people do double-takes as they realise that I don’t have a caterpillar balanced between my nose and lip. For some people, it’s a knowing smile – a recognition of something great, something more than just the mundane – for others, it’s a little bit of a snigger, but that’s fine. I let the small-minded ha-ha’s bounce off my mouth shield. The real people out there know that this moustache I sport is at least as important to humanity as the pyramids at Chichen Itza.

Indeed, it’s a constant choice to keep yourself looking like this every day, but whenever I feel the need to shave, hanging over me like a sword of Damocles, someone or something reminds me that this moustache is not just for me – it’s for all of the men out there who know how awesome moustaches are, and any ladies who may want to stroke it. A friend of mine’s father saw my moustache and all but bowed-down, he was so proud of me. Just the other day, I was driving out of a parking lot and who should I drive past but Louw Venter (Corne from The Most Amazing Show) our eyes met through the glass and he looked away for a second, only to be drawn back by the magnetism of my moustache, hanging around my mouth like a big black… magnet.

So, whenever I wish I was a little cooler, a little more hip to the times and up to the date – something tells me that this moustache should stay. I can say with all honesty that I will keep it at least until next year. The times I’ve shared with Moustache have been great – we’ve shared some great meals (and my moustache has even kept some left overs for me to be eaten at a later date), we’ve drunk our fair share of beers and once or twice; when I’ve been drinking a cappuccino – a tiny little bit of foam got caught in it – it was too cute for words.

He only looks sad because his brother just died.

Sometimes it is trying having an amusing doorway to the seventies around your mouth, but in the end, the times we’ve shared together and the amusement we’ve shared at other people’s responses to us have made this an extremely special relationship. One day, when my lip is bare and cold and people no longer point and whisper to their friends, I’ll remember that summer we shared – when the world was simple and all we had to worry about was making sure that the little black hairs we shared didn’t get stuck in the ring-pulls of cans.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and have a little cry.

Yours Ron Jeremyly,

Paul White

The point being: what I feel is not important. At least not to you. Even you with the exceedingly long nipples, well done, by the way, for making it out of the house – I’m proud of you. You could feed babies on the other side of the room. But, the Internet, and social media specifically are designed in such a way that your opinions, your pictures, your links, your everything are given centre stage. The paradox is that there are millions and millions of centre stages and the only member of the audience is a rather shiny mirror with a giant gold frame.

Some of you might have seen a documentary called Century of the Self, by Adam Curtis. This posits the theory that the idea of a self was not crystallised in human minds prior to the early twentieth century, where Sigmund Freud’s nephew, Edward Bernays, used psychological techniques to further consumerism and influence people. For a very brief overview at Wikipedia, click this collection of linky letters. For a little more of an in-depth look, dive straight into this blue pool of linkage (The BBC’s page for Century of the Self). And, what with the wonders of free information, why not let your mouse hover over and chomp up these letters, which will allow you to download the entire documentary, for free. Don’t complain if you burn up your Internet.

Please bear in mind that my takeout from the documentary is almost as simplified as the plot to Twilight. So don’t kill me, or troll me, or start a flame war, or whatever it is that the Internet kids are doing now.

What we are seeing now, manifesting in the Internet is the evolution of this idea of the self. If or when you watch the documentary, you will see how the public had to be given this idea of the self. And then, they had to be taught that only by buying things, they could define who they were in relation to other people. The Century of the Self tells us that prior to this, humans only ever consumed what they needed. Am I guilty for owning 30 pairs of shoes. Yes. I am.

The Internet has evolved to meet this idea of the self and push it further than we could imagine. People celebrate themselves for no other reason than they are themselves. This doesn’t make sense to me. While one should certainly be happy with one’s self (I am happy with myself sometimes two, three times a day), I still don’t understand people’s need to blab so much. To literally cut themselves open and let it all pour out. I don’t like having your smelly, emo guts all over me, thank you very much. Perhaps because the Internet is so much more anonymous and there are less consequences than there are in real life, people are happier to air their dirty laundry without fear of recourse or someone looking at them funny with that slight sneer as if there’s a strange smell afoot.

Think of facebook status updates. I have seen more post-break-up wars of words than I care to count. And no one realises just how silly and childish they are. The same goes with overly emo status updates. No one cares that you’re upset, that you’re over it, that you quit or that you give up. Mentioning your dear Pep-pep that just died means nothing. Does your emotion only become validated when it is seen in a public forum? If there was no Internet would you have to run around in the streets with a sign around your neck (complete with an unhappy face, just to let people know for sure that you’re upset)? Or (and this is something that irritates me more than people trying to justify to me why Twilight has any merit whatsoever) are people just doing the old emotional fishing? This can take the form of fishing for compliments or fishing for sympathy. Either way it’s pretty lame. As soon as people fish for compliments or sympathy around me, I tend to ignore their pleas quick-smart.

I think it’s the assumption that your emotions, your insides, are worthy of public consumption that frightens me. I define myself (on the Intertubes and to a large extent in real life) by what I create, by what content I put forward. It doesn’t matter that I was the youngest person to reach the South Pole wearing only underpants and green nipple tassels, or that I entered the Winter Olympics for the antique pipe-smoking and typewriter abuse events and won gold at both (and had to get a really bad tattoo to let you all know that I was there). What matters is the content that I produce.

I define my value by what I can create. What I can bring into being from nothingness. My selfish hopes and dreams have nothing to do with any of you. You can ask me and if I feel like it, I might share some things with you, but I hope I will never overshare my personal life. It’s really not that interesting. And neither is yours. Even if you’re quirky and zany. And you know what? Even being kooky is not enough. What I’m interested in is your responses to things, big things, not the way your best friend’s ex-girlfriend totally likes you but you’re not sure if you should do her or not because bla bla bla bla, I’m sorry I couldn’t read any more of your self-serving blog because I was stabbing an oyster fork into my eyes.

I don’t even like oysters and I wear glasses. You can imagine the amount of effort needed to just undertake such an action.

Dear readers. There is a difference between blogging and writing. I am not a blogger. The democratisation of the Internet has been its biggest boon and its biggest bugbear. The idea that information and content can be created and shared by anyone is still one of the most exciting things I’ve ever come across. Just thinking about twitter makes my brain wet, when I consider what a thrilling, dynamic conversation it can be. It can also be a whole lot of emotional whining, or mind-vomit, don’t get me wrong. This democratisation has allowed anyone to start a blog, a place where they can share their talent with the world (if they have any). Or they can share pictures. If that’s their thing. I’m generally about as visual as Stevie Wonder. But please kids, stick to your talents. The piss-stained sepia look does not make your photos more arty, even if you’re pouting as best you can, sticking your neck out so that your double chin doesn’t show and standing with the biggest group of friends you can find, to prove how cool you are. Ditto black and white. Black and white photos should be left to the professionals. Or dogs.

You can become righteously indignant. Tell me I’m no better than you. That I’m a bastard for slapping the sunburn that is your personality. I’m just as boring as you are. I just recognise that I am. And anything I share in a public sphere I try to make interesting. Especially if it’s actually about me.

Yours (in parentheses),
Paul White

With the rise of Facebook it became easy for people to use social networking to dedicate a day to a cause. Examples of this trend include Suit Up Day, Man Day and Earth Hour.  Everyone has been getting in on the act. Including, oddly enough, the goths. It seems a few goths decided to set a date where they shall emerge in all their glory to show the world that they can withstand daylight.

At this point you’re probably wondering why the fuck you should care. Given the nature of this site I expect very few of our readers are goths and those who are already know about about the day of darkness. None of our writers are goths. I, the most alternative looking of our writers, flaunt a look so emo it’s become a caricature. Seriously, people tell me I look like an anime character rather than an emo.

The reason I care is that I’m a huge fan of gothic fashion.  Drab black bleakness and PVC are however not what I look for. What I enjoy is something that gothic culture with it’s victorian inspiration brings to the world far more than any other stereotype group in existence. What I refer to is corsets.

I love corsets. If I had my way every girl would wear a corset every day of her life. Of course this isn’t practical so I’m willing to compromise at wearing a corset any time they dress up. While at this point there is a chorus of girls screaming bloody murder at my chauvinist attempt to force girls into an item of apparel regarded as a throwback to an age when women were treated as objects to be owned. So is monarchy but the British seem to like having theirs around.

They’ll also complain that corsets are uncomfortable and, in cases, dangerous to their health. I counter with the simple statement of “Buy one that fucking fits, idiot.” If a corset fits it’ll be comfortable.  It’s a simple matter of not trying to cram yourself into one far to small for you, which I expect most girls will do anyway. The prevalence of muffin top, a pet hate of mine, doesn’t give me much confidence in the ability of women to admit their size and stick to it.

By my estimates, which are very vague and in no way linked to and real statistical data, at least one in two goths will wear a corset voluntarily. And that’s girls only, I’ve neglected  the rather unfortunate but thankfully low occurrence of guys in corsets. What this means is that 50 percent of the girls will appear to have huge breasts, massive cleavage and comparatively slim waists. A note to the guys here is to consider the ability of a corset to improve body shape and take it into account when scoping the ladies.

So… If all this sounds good to you pencil the 22nd of May into your diary (it’s a Saturday so there really isn’t any excuse) as the day to get down to Gandalf’s (Gotham more accurately, or whatever it’s called this week)  if you’re in Cape Town, or whatever your local goth/alternative club is if you’re anywhere else. Goth Day should be a feast for the eyes and, for the adventurous and charming, perhaps more. Take a peek at the fan photos on the Facebook page to get a preview. I stole quite a few of these images from there so if anyone wants a picture taken down let me know. I don’t wanna get sued.

However, this post isn’t about the past. This is about the future. So I spent some time considering the vile leaders of the past and present who will in some way become apart of the next generation’s lives:

Kroks

In an effort to relaunch the brand, Croc will aim their famous product at their largest market, the Afrikaaner. The Groot Krokodil range will be a best seller, ensuring every boer has the comfort of plastic beneath his feet.

I can like to be comfortable

Vodka Stalin

With communist-chic currently en vogue, one smart marketing executive will see the true meaning behind Stalin’s Purges:

Pass me the bucket, peasant.

Osama Bed Linen

That’s just his name isn’t it?

Rest in Peace!

My point to all this: Do some critical thinking before you just wear whatever others are, or whatever is considered in this season. You may just save yourself from being considered an ignorant douche-bag.

Author’s preface:

This began as a rant about why I could never get friends to come to gigs in Cape Town, but has turned into more of a sociology paper.  I was finally prompted to write it when a friend of mine, Brett Allen-White, asked why there were no girls at shows apart from the girlfriends of band members, and it started a massive discussion of gender politics in the local underground music scene.

This article will most likely be the first in a series, as I develop my thoughts around this complex topic.

A Note  on Terminology:

I will refer to ‘The Scene’ very often (with a capital ‘S’). It might seem trite to those who know me, but for those reading this out of interest: by this I mean the small collection of bands, most of which do not have record labels, who play regularly in venues like The Assembly, the Purple Turtle, Mercury Live and Zula Bar in Cape Town, and the people who support them. In my opinion, this scene can be described as ‘underground’, as it is not popular, but still has large covert appeal (by covert I mean as opposed to the overt appeal of swanky nightclubs and popular beaches). This can of course be generalized to most underground or niche music scenes.

The Cape Town music scene is not well-known by most people.  In fact, most people who consider themselves fans of local music have probably never encountered the ‘Scene’ I am speaking of. It exists in small bars, and venues dedicated to live music on a small scale. The types of places you wouldn’t venture unless you were going there for a reason – like to see a band.  The bands that play are amateurs, by and large, and the members usually have day jobs to support their love of music.  The purpose of this article is to investigate why this scene is ‘un-cool’, given the natural behaviour of the ‘cool’ phenomenon.

Live at the Purple Turtle

Allow me to explain. Popular theory around ‘coolness’ is that it emanates from the lower rungs of popular society – the underground.  The theory is that a small group of people who are looked up to by another group of slightly less-cool people will innovate a new trend, a new fashion, or a new style of music.  This will be picked up by their followers, but initially shunned by the majority of young cool-seekers.

However, after a short period of time the more progressive amongst the ‘majority’ (and by this I mean the mainstream – the people who define style by what is depicted in the mainstream media, and that which can be easily found in local hotspots and the vicinity of celebrities) will start to pick up the trend.  It will eventually reach critical mass, and soon everyone is wearing skinny jeans and spiked belts, even though they are far removed from the bands and fans that first started doing this.

Obviously, once everyone is wearing skinny jeans and spiked belts, they stop being cool – that is the nature of fashion. So my question is that if these trends originate in this Scene, why isn’t the Scene itself more popular?

A common complaint about the Scene goes something like this: “The bands suck. The sound at the venues is terrible.  They’re always hot and smoky. The chicks are short, fat and have too many piercings, and the guys all wear eyeliner.”  So why on earth would anyone go to these gigs?

Here’s where the irony comes in.  The people who are attracted to this kind of social event are, for the most part, those who do not fit in or do not feel comfortable in places that are conventionally popular – at least when they reach social maturity and start to go out to clubs and bars. These are the un-cool kids. The places where their friends’ bands are playing can be scary at first, but very quickly the Otherness of the places begins to make these lost souls feel at home.  They identify with it, and begin to feel pride and take confidence from the fact that they, out of all of their peers, understand it.  Liking something that nobody else likes can be difficult, but for certain personality types it is extremely satisfying.

The question to be answered here is, why don’t all the cool kids flock to these gigs?  If anything, to see what’s going to be cool tomorrow?  The answer lies in incentives.

Incentives, if you’ve read Freakonomics, are basically what motivates most human interactions that involve the exchange of a commodity.  Our commodity in this case is coolness itself. For those who are ‘members’ of the Scene, there are plenty incentives to go to gigs.  All your friends are there, you get to see bands you like, and you come out of it feeling like you belong to something bigger.  Those are just a few of the things that people who put time into the Scene get out of it.

On the other hand, for an outsider, there is very little incentive to try to penetrate this little world.  As mentioned above, the bands are not ‘good’ enough to attract people purely by virtue of their name or their music.  The venues have little to recommend themselves as hotspots, and the overall quality of the production is not of a consistently high standard.

But that’s not all. The coolness of the Scene depends entirely on the constant activity and input of its members.  They create the trends, the music and the fashion that define that little corner of subculture. Why bother going to a place you don’t know, listening to bands you don’t know, with a bunch of people who probably scare you, when you can get all of that stuff second hand, for “cheaper”, simply by letting it permeate upwards through the social strata?

The ‘good’ parts of the scene – those that the mainstream decides are cool – filter upwards, and become far more easily accessible to everyone else.  There is no incentive to seek out a social arena that offers little rewards to the casual visitor. Especially if that casual visitor’s motivation is to increase their own exposure to coolness, or to find some of their own.

Why is this? When did we become so hostile to newcomers? Surely it seems counter-productive to make the events we’re trying so hard to promote into an environment that’s hard for newcomers to access? We all say that we want people to come to our shows, but in reality we have built the Scene from the early days into an exclusive club, because that’s what being underground is all about.

So what do we do? Do we make it more user-friendly and soft around the edges, so people can come?  Do we need more money, better bands and bigger venues? On the one hand, this would help.  Improving the general quality of shows would attract more people – it’s my guess that most people aged eighteen to their late twenties don’t ever go to see bands except for more than once or twice a year.  In fact, the next time you go to The Assembly to watch some bands, take a look around you: you’ll see copies of One Small Seed on the tables (don’t get me started), a big bar with expensive drinks and pretty bar girls, and decent sound.  This could be the future.

If we had more people coming, we’d have more money in the scene, and that would lead to better venues, better sound, and more support for more bands, some of which would be good.  But we don’t necessarily want this. Not really. If we make it easy for the people who go to parties sponsored by major radio stations and events companies to come to our shows, we’re not the elite anymore.

The Scene is something that we feel we own. If everyone is coming to shows, we’re not special. And as I mentioned right at the start, if everyone is doing it, it ceases to be cool.  So while the Scene is traditionally un-cool, it needs to stay this way in order for it to be a source of tomorrow’s conventional cool.

This was Part One of a series of articles I intend to write on this interesting section of the counter-culture.  It will hopefully develop through discussion with those involved, and those who are not.  The next topic I intend to tackle is the aforementioned Brett’s question about why the scene is male-dominated, with girls traditionally being transitory girlfriends of band members or fans who lose interest when their punk phase passes.  I plan to write another on the phenomenon of a place like The Assembly in Cape Town, and it’s effect on the Scene. But in due course.

I hope this started some of you thinking.  Leave a comment if you’d like to contribute to the discussion.

Contrary to the beliefs of many this is not a good thing. The 80s were a dark era in fashion, music, facial hair and aids awareness. To make matters worse, the 80′s comeback is specifically focused on the gym fashion and leaves out the minor high points of the era such as massive punk mohawks, indiscriminate sexual activities and rampant cocaine use.

The comeback seems to be based on the premise of wearing colour schemes that make the eyes water, short shorts and skintight trousers on men and covering of flesh on women. No man’s package should ever be visible through his trousers and no woman’s form should ever be obscured unless dictated by the weather. These are basic social rules that have been fought for by people with dress sense and decency for many years.

In this case, What package?

The blame lies squarely on the university student age group who are of the mistaken opinion that looking “siff” is “cool” or “awesome”. It is also mostly attributed to the “jock” culture and in a small part the indie hipster movement. As a “jock” fashion, it can be found mostly among the students of so called traditional universities such as UCT, Stellenbosch and Rhodes. Somehow the former technikons have escaped this scourge, most likely by virtue of the smaller number of rich white kids with money to burn on stupidity.

Ya brah. I'm like, a huge jock hey

The fashion in question does not flatter those wearing it and functions instead by bestowing an incorrect feeling of individuality on the wearer.  One must always remember that dressing in a stupid manner, just like your peers, is not individual. It is called following the herd mentality away from socially accepted norms.

This scourge can only be combated with the same tools it uses against society:  unsociable behavior.  In much the same way as the wearers of 80s fashion inflict their awful outfits on society, a responsible person must strike back by ostracism, pointing out that the outfits in question look terrible or simply refusing to acknowledge the crimes being committed.

The people in question aim to look awful so telling them that they look disgusting is generally not the way to go. The correct way to point out to someone that they are inflicting a crime on humanity is to mention the ways in which their outfits do not flatter. One must also always remember that these individuals are seeking attention and as a result not giving it to them is the strongest form of disapproval.

Actually, to be honest, I'd still hit this. The one on the left. Yep. I would.

If anyone doesn’t believe that this crime is on the rise I suggest that you go to your nearest Puma or Nike store. Simply walking past their display windows will make you a believer.  Beware though, you could also find yourself blinded.

You can actually buy shit like this. You don't have to raid your parents' cupboard anymore.

It now rests in your hands to fight this scourge.

(All Images stolen without permission or credit from random google image searches, I do not know any of these people)

Author: Kyle Ecks