On turning of the ripe old age of 24 (only 3 years until Rock’nRoll age of death strikes) I fondly recounted the tales of drunken debauchery and, worse still, sober debauchery in the life of Cape Town’s underbelly. My recollection of the last decade led me along a hilarious path of memories only to discover that, Observatory (Yes, the grimy black spot on the southern suburbs’ shiny white knickers) is the answer to our never-ending story.
“Turn around, look at what you see, in her face, the mirror of your dreams…” – Title theme of The Neverending Story by Limahl and Kajagoogoo.
My first Obz fest. No shoes. No i.d.’s (not legal ones for about 4 years anyway) No boundaries. Back in those days Obz fest was an underground-scene thing. It didn’t have the crappy shit. It was literally a blocked-off road filled with all the bizarre and ballsy brawlers and creatives that the rest of society spat out. We had thick layers of black junk on our feet with bits of glass in but the dirt was so deep whole chunks of glass didn’t even get through to our skin! It was vuil and we loved it. The rudies played and we skanked around in a little mess of metal spikes and patchwork tartan, home-made badges and cute shit that little kids do before they get money.
An entire decade later we are still patrolling those streets for cheap drinks, old records and good style (And suspect gatsbys). There’s a very fine line between nostalgic familiarity and stagnation. But fuck, If you’re going to stagnate it may as well be with a cold beer and a punk.
