“If you're losing your soul and you know it,
then you've still got a soul left to lose”
- Charles Bukowski
then you've still got a soul left to lose”
- Charles Bukowski
***
1987
***
1987 -The year that Artists protested the Sistine Chapel restoration, Les Misrables was awarded 8 tony awards, Bruce Willis married Demi Moore (which later turned out to be a mistake), Condom commercials appeared on t.v. for the first time, Porn star Ciccolina won a seat in the Italian parliament and Choreographic-genius Bob Fosse died of a heart attack on September 23.
Meanwhile, back in South Africa in 1987 the proverbial shit hit the fan! Police raided English newspapers seizing documents relating to the legalization of the ANC, some people were killed in a grenade attack on Tladi Secondary School, Sweden boycotted trade with South Africa, car bombs, land mines, riots and apartheid-in-general wreaked havoc on the country and on the fifteenth of July at One thirty-five
– I was born.
I’d lament missing all the good stuff – Nat King Cole, Sinatra, Elvis, John Coltrane, Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin, The Beatles, Bob Marley, Patti Smith, Madonna’s “Virgin” Tour… - but there wasn’t much of that going on in South Africa anyway. No Andy Warhol. No Beatniks. The Hippies, the Punks, the Disco Era and even Pop and Rock were small here. The revolutions in this country weren’t written in lyrics and sung in concert halls, they were written in blood and sung with propaganda. Far less attractive.
However, I grew-up happily oblivious in our newly free democratic “rainbow nation” full of faux-reconciliation and colour and culture, though none of it my own. I remember waking up at six to watch American cartoons for four hours on our 3-channelled T.V and staying up late to catch British sitcoms. I could whistle the theme tune of The Thin Blue Line way before I’d learned the National Anthem.
I was always creative. The world doesn’t take well to creative types. A freckly middle-classed kid stuck in a world that’s been shitter before and looks like it’s heading in an equally shit direction. Bored and disillusioned, craving influence and change, I got into the Clash and the Sex Pistols at 12 or 13. I also got into clubs and bars for the first time with photocopies of a doctored I.D. Just a few safety-pins, a pair of scissors and some permanent marker later, I was rocking that look. I thought I was super hard-core. A right little punk-rocker.
School was easy for me, so was finding friends. ‘Though I gravitated towards the psychos. The misfits. The crazies. We rocked the underage joints with dreads, Mo-hawks, takkies, badges, shredded stockings, patchwork tartan & denim skirts, fake train-tickets and double-brandy & cokes. Skanking around and moshing at sweaty, live punk-rock gigs. The Purple Turtle was the doorway to subculture. The turtle closed a few years later. Most of the crew had moved on by then anyway. Some went metal, some went hippie, some went indie, some went emo and some even went boring. I went Rock’nRoll -The language of revolution. Not just the clothes, the icons, the bands, or the style. Rock’nRoll is more than music, it’s a lifestyle.
“People ask the question... what's a RocknRolla? And I tell 'em - it's not about drums, drugs, and hospital drips, oh no. There's more there than that, my friend. We all like a bit of the good life - some the money, some the drugs, others the sex game, the glamour, or the fame. But a RocknRolla, oh, he's different. Why? Because a real RocknRolla wants the fucking lot.”
–first lines from the movie RocknRolla (2008)
Of all the rocking generations past, the 80s has by far out-influenced this age. Neon, animal print, high waist-lines and big hair are back. Plastic and denim never left. But the main lesson learned from our 80s heritage is Attitude!
Attitude and a teen-like rebellion along with a love of lycra, leopard print and leather has rendered me a true-to-birth lovechild of the 80s.
1987
***
1987 -The year that Artists protested the Sistine Chapel restoration, Les Misrables was awarded 8 tony awards, Bruce Willis married Demi Moore (which later turned out to be a mistake), Condom commercials appeared on t.v. for the first time, Porn star Ciccolina won a seat in the Italian parliament and Choreographic-genius Bob Fosse died of a heart attack on September 23.
Meanwhile, back in South Africa in 1987 the proverbial shit hit the fan! Police raided English newspapers seizing documents relating to the legalization of the ANC, some people were killed in a grenade attack on Tladi Secondary School, Sweden boycotted trade with South Africa, car bombs, land mines, riots and apartheid-in-general wreaked havoc on the country and on the fifteenth of July at One thirty-five
– I was born.
I’d lament missing all the good stuff – Nat King Cole, Sinatra, Elvis, John Coltrane, Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin, The Beatles, Bob Marley, Patti Smith, Madonna’s “Virgin” Tour… - but there wasn’t much of that going on in South Africa anyway. No Andy Warhol. No Beatniks. The Hippies, the Punks, the Disco Era and even Pop and Rock were small here. The revolutions in this country weren’t written in lyrics and sung in concert halls, they were written in blood and sung with propaganda. Far less attractive.
However, I grew-up happily oblivious in our newly free democratic “rainbow nation” full of faux-reconciliation and colour and culture, though none of it my own. I remember waking up at six to watch American cartoons for four hours on our 3-channelled T.V and staying up late to catch British sitcoms. I could whistle the theme tune of The Thin Blue Line way before I’d learned the National Anthem.
I was always creative. The world doesn’t take well to creative types. A freckly middle-classed kid stuck in a world that’s been shitter before and looks like it’s heading in an equally shit direction. Bored and disillusioned, craving influence and change, I got into the Clash and the Sex Pistols at 12 or 13. I also got into clubs and bars for the first time with photocopies of a doctored I.D. Just a few safety-pins, a pair of scissors and some permanent marker later, I was rocking that look. I thought I was super hard-core. A right little punk-rocker.
School was easy for me, so was finding friends. ‘Though I gravitated towards the psychos. The misfits. The crazies. We rocked the underage joints with dreads, Mo-hawks, takkies, badges, shredded stockings, patchwork tartan & denim skirts, fake train-tickets and double-brandy & cokes. Skanking around and moshing at sweaty, live punk-rock gigs. The Purple Turtle was the doorway to subculture. The turtle closed a few years later. Most of the crew had moved on by then anyway. Some went metal, some went hippie, some went indie, some went emo and some even went boring. I went Rock’nRoll -The language of revolution. Not just the clothes, the icons, the bands, or the style. Rock’nRoll is more than music, it’s a lifestyle.
“People ask the question... what's a RocknRolla? And I tell 'em - it's not about drums, drugs, and hospital drips, oh no. There's more there than that, my friend. We all like a bit of the good life - some the money, some the drugs, others the sex game, the glamour, or the fame. But a RocknRolla, oh, he's different. Why? Because a real RocknRolla wants the fucking lot.”
–first lines from the movie RocknRolla (2008)
Of all the rocking generations past, the 80s has by far out-influenced this age. Neon, animal print, high waist-lines and big hair are back. Plastic and denim never left. But the main lesson learned from our 80s heritage is Attitude!
Attitude and a teen-like rebellion along with a love of lycra, leopard print and leather has rendered me a true-to-birth lovechild of the 80s.
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