On Thursday morning, 4 August, I found myself wandering the corridors of the local shopping centre looking for sunglasses. An extremely cheap pair of sunglasses which was sure to be found from one of the usual hawkers. Who wasn't there. The afterbirth of capitalism had failed me, but after promises of sunnies from the cornucopia of my friend's collection, I decided to continue on, realising that this was going to be theme of the weekend: Making do with what you've got.
I told myself, I'm a crazy-ass girl. I can rough it. I can shit in a bush. Oh, the bullshit us Oppikoppi Virgins spout. Pretending we have a notion of what happens in the depths of Northam amidst 16 000 people, all as fucked as you can get with whatever you can get. But I held on fast to my notions of expert survival skills as we packed the car and headed to the place of aforetold magic and debauchery.
My optimism was infallible whilst I pitched the tent, using pieces of firewood to beat tent pegs into the hard, red-stained earth. Within ten minutes I was making a mental "do not" list for next year's Oppikoppi. And I hadn't even cracked open my Vodka yet.
1. Do not wear white. Ever.
2. Those cute little ballet pumps will die an agonizing death within one afternoon. Mine barely lasted an hour.
3. Waterless handwash is a lie. It just makes it easier to move the dirt from the palm of your hand to the back so you can deal with it later.
But I was not only there in the context of a festival goer. I had work to do. Bands to interview. So I continued with my research against the dying of the light with a steady flow of Vodka. Dehydration is a killer, kids. Eventually, work done and vast quantities of Russian courage later, the time came for my lady-bits to be introduced to the bush. I say bush, but what I really mean is thorn bush. This first adventure over our mini koppi taught me one thing. The thorn bushes will get you. It is inevitable. There will be blood, scratches and bruises. It made me suspicious as to the hue of the sand, wondering if this is the shade you get when you've had 17 years of casualties wandering the habitat of hedonism. Of course, it helps when a fellow drunk offers to accompany you. What is undesirable is when that person is an Oppi virgin too. Which brings me back to my mental check list, which was quickly turning into a guide of how to survive.
4. After the first day, any pile of shit cannot be deduced as being animal in origin.... As in, not human. By Sunday we're all fucken animals. But we'll get to that.
Later, lubricated and with somewhat impaired motor-skills, we decided to check out the entertainment area and get some money on our cards handed to us at the gate. This is one thing the festival organisers failed in. Drunk people trying to put money on a card with no pin. Drunk people. With a card. That has no pin. It's like giving a priceless Ming Dynasty vase to a 3 year old for 72 hours and expecting to get it back without so much as a droplet of saliva on it. Despite the obvious problems with this scenario I had little trouble hanging onto the card, mostly due to paranoia, but a friend went through three in less than a day. Like I said, survival, man. Sometimes it's more mental than physical.
5. Get your shit organised before you start drinking/ingesting substances.
Now, I was working strange hours which resulted in my sporadic inebriation. I was cut-throat journalist one minute, mindless Unknown sister riding the Vodka wave in the next. But the bands I did get to see were mind-blowing, some more than others. Alleen na Desember and Isochronous were my favourites on Friday despite the minor sound problems and speakers cutting out during performances. A technical malfunction I was intensely grateful for when it happened during Jax Panik's performance. A friend and I were stuck in the drunken throng, moving side to side to the current of music. There was no escape. We'd have to wait it out. And then the speaker went mute. It was akin to being saved from rape. Of my earholes. God dammit, it almost made a believer out of me.
6. Always, always have a performance schedule handy. You don't want to miss a fucken thing.
And Sum 41? Well, they constituted the soundtrack to my drunken navigation back to the tent. Which took a very, very long time because of a man-made speed bump. But the soundtrack to my trek sounded decent enough.
The one thing I did actually prepare for was dishevelled hair. I had romanticised about washing it every morning, but the one flaw in that plan was that it gets cold at night. And I mean, like, Arctic cold. I was expecting, during the nights, to hear penguins waddling through the thorn bushes. This, likewise, meant, that what we thought was lukewarm water in the morning, was just recently melted ice. Brain-freeze and screams ensued much to the dismay of our fellow hungover campers. That was before I realised I still had to put conditioner in. Fucken fairytales, man. Unless your friends are bat-shit crazy and think the only solution is to cut their hair. It happened. And it was glorious. I now own Salon Fantastic, open in the Northam bush, but only once a year.
9. Bring a beanie/hat and forget that you have hair. Out of sight, out of mind.
10. You can never have enough blankets. Ever.
11. If blankets fail, invest in a Burrito worm. This constitutes one tent, many people and every one's blankets and the like piled in.
12. Sometimes survival is more important than sex. (Oh yes, I said it.)
I told myself, I'm a crazy-ass girl. I can rough it. I can shit in a bush. Oh, the bullshit us Oppikoppi Virgins spout. Pretending we have a notion of what happens in the depths of Northam amidst 16 000 people, all as fucked as you can get with whatever you can get. But I held on fast to my notions of expert survival skills as we packed the car and headed to the place of aforetold magic and debauchery.
My optimism was infallible whilst I pitched the tent, using pieces of firewood to beat tent pegs into the hard, red-stained earth. Within ten minutes I was making a mental "do not" list for next year's Oppikoppi. And I hadn't even cracked open my Vodka yet.
1. Do not wear white. Ever.
2. Those cute little ballet pumps will die an agonizing death within one afternoon. Mine barely lasted an hour.
3. Waterless handwash is a lie. It just makes it easier to move the dirt from the palm of your hand to the back so you can deal with it later.
But I was not only there in the context of a festival goer. I had work to do. Bands to interview. So I continued with my research against the dying of the light with a steady flow of Vodka. Dehydration is a killer, kids. Eventually, work done and vast quantities of Russian courage later, the time came for my lady-bits to be introduced to the bush. I say bush, but what I really mean is thorn bush. This first adventure over our mini koppi taught me one thing. The thorn bushes will get you. It is inevitable. There will be blood, scratches and bruises. It made me suspicious as to the hue of the sand, wondering if this is the shade you get when you've had 17 years of casualties wandering the habitat of hedonism. Of course, it helps when a fellow drunk offers to accompany you. What is undesirable is when that person is an Oppi virgin too. Which brings me back to my mental check list, which was quickly turning into a guide of how to survive.
4. After the first day, any pile of shit cannot be deduced as being animal in origin.... As in, not human. By Sunday we're all fucken animals. But we'll get to that.
Later, lubricated and with somewhat impaired motor-skills, we decided to check out the entertainment area and get some money on our cards handed to us at the gate. This is one thing the festival organisers failed in. Drunk people trying to put money on a card with no pin. Drunk people. With a card. That has no pin. It's like giving a priceless Ming Dynasty vase to a 3 year old for 72 hours and expecting to get it back without so much as a droplet of saliva on it. Despite the obvious problems with this scenario I had little trouble hanging onto the card, mostly due to paranoia, but a friend went through three in less than a day. Like I said, survival, man. Sometimes it's more mental than physical.
5. Get your shit organised before you start drinking/ingesting substances.
Now, I was working strange hours which resulted in my sporadic inebriation. I was cut-throat journalist one minute, mindless Unknown sister riding the Vodka wave in the next. But the bands I did get to see were mind-blowing, some more than others. Alleen na Desember and Isochronous were my favourites on Friday despite the minor sound problems and speakers cutting out during performances. A technical malfunction I was intensely grateful for when it happened during Jax Panik's performance. A friend and I were stuck in the drunken throng, moving side to side to the current of music. There was no escape. We'd have to wait it out. And then the speaker went mute. It was akin to being saved from rape. Of my earholes. God dammit, it almost made a believer out of me.
6. Always, always have a performance schedule handy. You don't want to miss a fucken thing.
7. Like David Kramer, which I'm still bitter about, but I hear he was incredible.
Photograph: Dominique Alba Few
Alleen na Desember
Isochronous
But despite the audio-harassment, Saturday brought amazing bands to the fore. Allan John, Karen Zoid, Gazelle (DJ Invisible had some crazy, disjointed but amazingly entertaining and eclectic dance moves), Desmond & the Tutus, and Holiday Murray hit the spot, and hit it hard. My favourite performance, though, would have to be Bittereinder. I know, I'm bias, it was the double rabbit costume gimmick that swayed me. Maybe. No. They just rocked my dusty socks. That moment when you're shoulder deep in a crowd of your Oppi brethren and the universe aligns, offering you pure contentment, but only while this set lasts.
Allan John
Bittereinder
Jack Parow during the "Tale of Three Cities" performance
This is the thing that made me proud to be a South African entertainment journalist. I can honestly say, without a doubt, that the two international acts cowered before the local flavour. Yes, The Used were amazing and it was much appreciated that they played their older songs versus their later commercialised offerings. But where was the screamo? Every time Bert had to bust it out he held the mic to the audience. You lazy mother fucker. I've heard the rantings of my Unknown brothers and sisters constantly for three days, and now, during the much anticipated performance of an internationally accomplished band, you hold the mic out to the crowd. Every. Time. Compared to Lark, you rock back and forth in a puddle of your own excrement.
The Used
Lark liquefied my internal organs, I'm almost sure I sustained brain damage from the awesomeness that is Inge Beckmann. Of course this is completely subjective, but Lark was, by far (and by far I mean in a celestial sense) the best performance of the weekend. Beckmann's voice gave me ladywood that was harder than the rather large tree I saw an Unknown brother pass out in. If you missed it, I feel terribly sorry for you and every generation of progeny you spawn. Sorry, ne?
Lark
8. Speed bumps slow down drunk people as well as vehicles.
Sum 41
9. Bring a beanie/hat and forget that you have hair. Out of sight, out of mind.
10. You can never have enough blankets. Ever.
11. If blankets fail, invest in a Burrito worm. This constitutes one tent, many people and every one's blankets and the like piled in.
12. Sometimes survival is more important than sex. (Oh yes, I said it.)
Then the dawn of doom arrived. Monday morning. The most horrid of horrid realisations start to formulate in the frays of (or whatever is left of) your cognitive prowess. Oppikoppi is over. There are no more bands. No more alcohol, drugs and afternoons tripping on the grass. No more cowmen, chickenmen, spidermen, men in trees and men on the floor with their pants down. No more Tequila, Vodka, hedonism and bush loving. We were in the transition from the Unknown to the known. The daily grind of assholes and deadlines. Bills and bullshit. Emails start flooding in, the world is burning down and humanity has been forsaken. The drunken derelict start trudging back in droves to the urban honeypot that will allow us all to return with bank cards refilled. A necessary evil must ensue. The cycle must continue. But I return a veteran. With my list close at hand. Ready for the dusty embrace of Oppikoppi 18.
All photography of the performances was done by JP Nathrass. Follow the link to check out more incredible photographs of your favourite bands at Oppikoppi. http://www.facebook.com/possum27#!/pages/JP-Nathrass-Photography/137927732943354
Awesome post Agent Kiki! Mission accomplished. Really wish i'd gone with you guys, but reading this makes feel like i was with you guys all the way.. that and Wes didn't stop talking about for like 2 days after he came home :) xxx
ReplyDelete"It made me suspicious as to the hue of the sand, wondering if this is the shade you get when you've had 17 years of casualties wandering the habitat of hedonism"
ReplyDeletehahahaha - nice!