Thoughts on a Felabration

When I first received notice of a Felabration taking place in Amsterdam last year, celebrating the life and work of the near-mythical Nigerian musician Fela Kuti (1938-1997), I couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy. As a musicology student a few years back, I was already quite taken by his music and background, so I should have been pumped to be among a great bunch of likeminded Fela-enthusiasts, right? Far from it, I felt inexplicably detached from the event and I stayed at home. With the 2nd annual edition coming up, I keep pondering the distance between myself and the 2nd annual Felabration. Here are some of my loose, cutting-corners, never-mind-the-bollocks thoughts on the  subject:

To my mind, the key question to ask here is: What do we really celebrate when we celebrate Fela’s life and works? When we ‘bring The Shine (Fela’s infamous Lagos nightclub and residence) to Mokum (Amsterdam)’ as the organisers of next month’s glorious Felabration 2 say? 

Well, there is a lot to celebrate: Fela’s works as a freedom fighter and humanitarian in the face of persecution put him near the top of the list of inspiring leaders in post-colonial Africa. The creation of ‘his’ Afrobeat music was a groundbreaking effort in the synthesis of Westernised African heritage such as jazz and funk and the indigenous Yoruba and Highlife musical styles which left its mark on musicians and audiences across the African continent and well beyond.

Even as his music spread across the globe, Kuti retained an air of exoticism and mystery about him. His values and manners were untouched by the Western world throughout his career. He took his immense retinue of musicians, caretakers and wives (he had twenty-seven (!)) with him wherever he went, putting great pressure on accomodation and hospitality with their homegrown habits. Part of the myth of Fela Kuti is the fact that above all, he remained true to his (Nigerian) Yoruba roots despite the lure of Western civilisation. Het is a symbol for many, be it as the rebel, the musician or the human rights activist, and as such, it’s not hard to see what Fela Kuti could be celebrated for.



I say could, because to my mind the intentions of this celebration are not completely obvious. I would like to propose here that an event such as Felabration, for all its good intentions and sincere convictions, is as much a celebration of the tradition that was created around Afrobeat (or African music in general, for that matter) in Amsterdam (and Western Europe in general) as it is about what actually went on at the Kalakuta Republic, the ‘Shrine’ the organisers speak of.

With the rise of World Music as a commercialy interesting phenomenon for Western audiences in the late 80s, a process was put in motion that can only be explained as a massive displacement of meaning in these musics. Large record labels were eager to compile and distribute large amounts of indigenous musics from around the globe (especially from South-America, Africa and the Carribean) to  cater to an increasing Western audience. This audience warmed its ears to music that was a little bit different, a little more exotic than what they were used to. This is to this date the way most average listerners approach these musics, whether it’s Buena Vista Social Club, Amadou & Mariam, Youssou N’dour, or Fela Kuti: as music that pleases them because of it’s exotic properties. rhythm, instrumentation or language: similar to our own, but not quite the same.

It’s for the same reason that Middle-Eastern and some Asian musics are far less popular in the Western World - music that is created in a different tonal system is still a little far-fetched for the average listeners. I will not go into a lengthy discussion on music and cultural imperialism in colonialist Africa (did I hear a snore?), but it is a fact that music from regions that we’ve thought our own tonal systems is far more appealing to Western audiences than the music from regions in the world that were less touched by the cultural endeavours of our ancestors. I’m not trying to pass judgement here, just putting it out there.

Now as most musicologists learn in their first year of studies, music is in most cases nót just pleasing to the ear. Music has many layers of meaning embedded in itself. We talk not  just of the soundbytes itself when we talk about music; we talk about the culture it was created in, we talk about traditions and rituals that music is embedded in, we talk about the places and the means by which we experience it, we talk about the values of the musicians and the way the audience responds to it. It is at this point Western listeners are still struggling to keep up with the plot, especially when World Music is concerned.

It’s hard to tell exactly why we care so little for the circumstances that originate the music we all listen to. Especially in recent years, music has become such a commodity that, admittedly, there is just too much music going on to bother with the background story. But then again, most people would not make an effort to put together an official celebration for  a single artist (fanclub meetings don’t count). When the idea sparks to celebrate such a singularity, such an otherworldly phenomenon (especially to Western audiences) as Fela Kuti, than He must be part of the cultural 1% (which is ironic, Fela being the archetyplal frontrunner for the 1970s version of “the 99 percent”) one of the happy few we do care hear about, to immerse ourselves in the life and times of this Great Musician.

Is it, really? One of the prime progenitors of these festivities is Jungle By Night, a very young and hot Amsterdam-born-and-bred 9-piece that takes a fair few cues from Fela and Afrobeat. But, as they’ve stated so many types for fear of stereotyping, they’re “not just an Afrobeat band”. On their first album, they take influences from jazz to hiphop to Indonesian Gamelan, but still they slyly position themselves as leaders of a Dutch Afrobeat movement. They’ve als commented many times that they do not share Fela’s political views or put the same kind of social commentary in their own musical output. The event is further managed by their label and their manager.

Given, it’s hard to express any social commentary as an instrumental ensemble. And anyone should be awarded for making their own music, instead of just copying existing music. You could be forgiven for thinking they’re the ‘evolution of Afrobeat’ as mr. Tony Allen (the long-time backbone of Kuti’s band Egypt 80) once said, cause you wouldn’t be wrong. But when you go to such great lengths to celebrate the creator for Afrobeat, you’d better do it for the right reasons.


So I dare to ask: Will Felabration 2 really be a night to remember Fela for his contributions to the world? A memorial as much as a celebration? I’ll grant the organisation the benefit of the doubt. But of the audience I’m not so sure. I have a hard time believing that on October 12th 1500 people will indeed pay tribute to Fela Kuti. Or that people will even be aware that there’s more to this music than the way it makes you move as they walk into the Paradiso. Some of the most inspiring stories in modern music probably never even reached most of the fans of Jungle By Night, despite their best efforts.

Well, all I can say is, there’s more to this event than an awesome, sweaty party at the Paradiso. And it’s not up to Jungle By Night or the organisers or even Tony Allen to live up to the true potential of this event. It’s up to you, whether you’re going or not, to know about Fela Kuti, and not just his showtunes. 

His Wikipedia page is quite the pageturner. So get acquainted. Here’s the link to the event

You're welcome,

J.

Where have the times gone?

So, months have passed and my blog untouched. It's... sickening, I know. So much talent and so little productivity... yes, you've guessed it: You have landed back on planet Jasper for some cynical blablablabla.

Assessing my current situation, a few things come to mind. I'm having a slightly sore throat. I'm listening to, ocassionally watching Boilerroom.tv, where Scuba and Jimmy Edgar of Hotflush Recordings fame are playing some deephouse cuts from -wait for it- a boilerroom. The obviousness of it all (I mean, they've so clearly put the pipes on the ceiling in the frame for all to see) makes me a little queezy, but it could also be the mindnight oil I'm burning.

As we speak, Scuba (whom I deeply respect) is rolling a fag in the background, while Jimmy (a wee bit of loathing, there) is doing the hip deephouse-with-a-touch-of-90's-R&B thing. There are two vinyl players (untouched so far) and Pioneer CDJ's hooked up to a Pioneer mixer - pretty much the club standard. Being a digital wuss myself, I always feel a slight envy whenever I see these guys actually beatmatch and -mix their cd's. Having the discipline and patience to actually beatmatch by hand is something that is becoming obsolete, as there is no necessity for this skill: any and all DJ software will take of that for you. The ability to do this is still considered an art though, meaning that in order to be taken seriously as a DJ (regardless of one's ambition in this direction), one must master the beatmatch-by-hand. Frustating.

Tomorrow, I will have a stab at becoming a serious DJ. Ill advised and obviously doomed to fail for my lack of beatmatching-skills, I feel compelled to attempt my first try. In the past few months, I've been slowly gathering some tracks that I feel strongly about, and have gotten comfortable with the DJ software. I've also managed to demistify the range of elusive (sub)genres that comprises the spectre of electronic music. No small feat considering the many tiny changes could propel a tune into a completely different category. Also, there seems to be an outbreak of Peter Pan-syndrom (or early stages of senility) among electronic music fans. Basically meaning that most DJ's and fans forget or negate any tracks over 18 months and under 15 years of age. So 90's shit house is okay, but some great minimal track from "06 has been banished to some place far from collective consciousness. I'm tempted to say 'swallowed in a big K-hole', but it seems Ketamine as a whole has gone to that same place. Yes, this scene is odd.

Well, Jimmy Edgar has bored me enough to make my eyes heavy. I'll let you get on with your lives, for now. Perhaps I'll share the experience of making my very first mixtape somewhere near the end of the week.

Ta-ta,

Entwistle (my DJ moniker. Like it?)

Writer's Update #1

Hi Folks!

So, here's the breakdown of all the writings I've forgotten to post on here in te past 2 weeks:

March 7: The BAMM Argument: OK GO

Every so often my editor Chris Davies and I take a punt at cracking a controversial subject by taking oppossites sides in the conflict. I always enjoy writing these pieces, not only for my love of the form (polemics for everybody, hurray!) but also because it seems to really trigger both Chris and me to really give it our best. I guess we're competitive that way, even though I can't really speak for Chris off course.

This week, following pieces on Justice (pro) and Coldplay (con), I had the pleasure of thrashing OK GO. Read it over at the BAMM.tv BLOG

March 7, 8: 5 Days Off for OOR.nl

For the second year in a row I've been dispatched to review one of Amsterdam's finest electronic festivals, 5 Days Off, held annually at Melkweg and Paradiso. I was present for the opening two days, witnessing sets from the likes of Sleigh Bells, The Field, SBTRKT, Koreless, Falty DL, Kutmah, Krampfhaft, The Gaslampkiller, Jameszoo and Dorian Concept. Fun times, and great music for the most part, even if it wasn't quite as exhilirating as the past year.

Read it at OOR.nl: Day 1 (The Field, SBTRKT ao) and Day 2 (Kutmah, GLK ao)

All in Dutch (sorry foreign amigos!)

I co-wrote these pieces with Harm Groustra (@fresh77); pictures by Remco Brinkhuis (@remcobrinkhuis) and Bart Heemskerk (@bart_heemskerk)

The Field - pic by Remco Brinkhuis

March 10, 11: Festival FabrIQ for OOR.nl

There was a lot more happening that week, so over the weekend I attended the third annual Festival FabrIQ. It was my 2nd year in a row covering the festival, again for OOR. I'm getting fond of building these traditions now I've been in the field of music journalism for a while.

In the three years of its existence, a very nice bunch of indie and folk artists have passed through Den Bosch for FabrIQ. Last year was a blast, with surprising performances from Nils Frahm, SUUNS, Sleep Party People and Cloud Nothings. Looking back I feel this edition was slightly more on the folk side than indie, but a great two day event nonetheless.

Read about it here: Day 1 (Kim Janssen, Idiot Wind, TRIPPP) Day 2 (Damien Jurado, Cass McCombs, Xiu Xiu, Chad Vangaalen ao)

pics, again by the incredible Remco Brinkhuis (@remcobrinkhuis)

Damien Jurado, pic by Remco

That's all folks!

Bahnhof

It’s an odd sensation: It’s Friday, 6pm, I’m inside Amsterdam Central Station. I’m running on 3 hours of sleep and a stern hangover, a full day of meetings behind me. But, as regulations stipulate, I’m not allowed to travel on my Discount Railway Pass until 6.30. Seeing my financial condition of late, I’d better wait it out. I’m munching on a bag of Fritos for lack of better things to do and, dead tired as I am, manage to wander a bit around the station. All around me people are moving faster than me, rushing to get home. Where was I going again? It takes me a while to process te question.

My legs feel awfully mushy. I notice I’m kind of pivotting on the spot. I pass the HEMA, I can smell the rookworst, and continue to wander into a bookstore. I stare blankly at the cover of Economist magazine, it speaks of a recovery of the financial crisis. I feel it’s only just begun for me, what with budget cuts and all. It’s hard being a man of culture these days. Being a cultured man in general is already a challenge these days. Having no money only adds to that. Nickelback is bruising my ears as I gaze at the station’s multimedia store. I wonder if I’d be able to describe the emptyness I’m feeling, once I jot it all down. Probably not.

On the platform, I see the Train à Grande Vitesse destination Paris. There’s a bunch of clowns already gathered at the bar of the restauration car. I guess they felt like getting right down to business. Who can blame ‘em? Travel and drink are a wholesome marriage. I wish I could have bought that Economist. A verse pops into my head, its from a Nits song, suits my state of mind. Getting away from it all seems a joy like no other when you’re down and out. Still, even in harsh times like these with just a handful of halfbaked ideas and the intention to dig out your soul, there’s silver lining.

Konichiwa! My guardian angel thank god is never far. I’m dead poor but full of joy when she’s around. I don’t deserve it, and can’t afford it, but I’m committed to trying my darnest and straightening out my shit. Even though no-one and no-thing will ever actually make me an above average man, inspiration strikes and suddenly I’m there: I’m that happy kid again.

I ponder these predicaments and blessings while everything around me is continuously in transit. Going one place, then the other. Then a train comes and takes me home.

Adieu, adieu sweet Bahnhof
My train of thought is leaving...

St. Vincent - Live Review for OOR Magazine

First live review I've done in a while. GREAT concert. The pics were made by Bart Heemskerk, who I think did a very nice job of capturing HER (Annie Clarke) essence on stage.

IN DUTCH
http://oor.nl/#reviews/concerts/1925/st_vincent_is_de_superlatieven_voorbij

GOOGLE TRANSLATE ENGLISH (never great, but all the more instrumental. And Google Translate won't work with the OOR website (probably flash difficulties or something)

St. Vincent is beyond superlatives.

The finale is actually the perfect summary: Annie "St. Vincent "Clarke hunts in the bouncer Your Lips Are Red a seething, noizy guitar through it, jump and smash the public in all possible ways with guitar and all her fans. Here is Annie, as she is affectionately called, one with her audience. Then she jumps in her leather shorts on the podium again, throwing her guitar down somewhere in the direction of a roadie and then shamelessly another guitar to pick up and worn outro on glowing way to put down. Her hair still messy, but the dark eyes and delicate face again perfectly in the crease. So the audience breathless as the frenzied opener Surgeon beheld, as we are blown away with the sound subsided.

And while there are still some doubts existed prior to this concert at The Max in a leap of the Galaxy. Of course, St. Vincent's live reputation already made the rounds after her performance at Crossing Border. But filling a large hall seemed still very ambitious. That turned out better than expected. The balconies were closed but the floor was very nice filled-with-it seemed merely devoted fans of the New York singer and guitarist and her band. The whole performance long there were noises in the vein of "We love you Annie!" Or "Play something very special just for us". It would get you almost break your concentration, all those declarations of love. But they are entirely justified.

Annie Clarke namely everything to get people to bond. A strong body of work, with the most recent album Strange Mercy as provisional Magnum Opus, an appearance as a dark angel with ditto voice, and fabulous electric guitar playing that constant association with Great Guitarists (Jack White to Prince) calls, without blatantly borrows to play. Try it once but do not fall in love. The perfectly tight sounding band around her (drums, bassynth, vocals and keyboards) has no trouble with the wide range in St. Vincent's repertoire is handled and subtle plays serve without losing color. Meanwhile, the public perception sucked Annie's, a wild ride in which she herself alternately sensual, aggressive, weird and fragile composing. It's hard as an artist and her animal stage to define. She has a little distance thing, almost alien about him. It is part of the spell.

Almost 90 minutes Annie the public in its grip. By the end of the regular set she asks "Did you ever really stare at me the way I stare at you?" (Neutered in Fruit). Rest assured: Whether fascinated, love, or simply overwhelmed opgegeild is; 700 souls are staring at her without embarrassment. It may also: St. Vincent created unadulterated magic tonight and we could be there. It is a typical evening with superlatives, and one afterwards somewhat melancholic finds that the best concert this year maybe already have under their belts. Particularly memorable, even with al To Lowlands Annie? (Please?)

Views: 29 February 2012, Melkweg, Amsterdam

A foggy night and borrowed time

Have I been here before? I’m pretty sure there was a jungle here, and a tribal ritual, and an African albino playing the banjo or some associated instrument. I’m confused. Is this real? The Milkyway is ever-changing. TO THE TASK AT HAND - I was sent here. Don’t really know why it was me they called for. Needed meeting minutes to be kept. Not sure I’m qualified. I tend to mess up meetings more than I can recollect them in an orderly manner. Last thing I knew I was talking Afrobeat with a bunch of teenagers and choking on mushrooms and tea in creative lounge near the psychology faculty. Ah! To be learned but twisted. I love myself a good psychology student.


Snap back to present time. What day is it? Am I really here on a weeknight? Heard a Warlock with a big beard mention these Wednesdays only come every five years. Tells me this day is borrowed, not a keepsake. Mommy would not agree. Make every day yours. THIS PLACE. There’s a musician’s vibe here, like an almost tangible cloud the loose brainmatter of hundreds of creatives float freely in the air. It’s a many colored beast whose loosely switching between our reality and some foreign dimension. I see the Swinging Star, brooding songwriters, rockers humming ancient anthems and a few lurking vultures scourging the land for easy prey.



Then, on stage, an angelic apparition. You can almost see through her soft skintissue, but her raven hair and dark eyes go right through me in return, sending a shiver down my spine. She’s somewhere midway between a Great Guitarist and a Deadly Siren, ready to send my little raft into the cliffs. Ruthless, iconic, charming. She’s asking whether I ever really stared at her. I touch her arm, whisper, “how about right now”. Gasping in amazement turns out to be an activity of great communal merit. The more these drones are doing it, the more she lights up. It won’t be long ‘til she combusts I’m sure. Burst into flames. Burn the house down. Do it for us, your devoted followers. She shreds and kisses our ears in a single instant.



... Suddenly outside. Foreign creatures and Strange Mercy. I talk to the Quiet Singer. People are ushering me into the darkness. Why me? I can’t help but follow. Garden of Eden turns out to be just another bar in the heart of the night. Sex is not on the mind, it IS the collective hivemind itself establishing itself. It’s all about Connectivity. Our phones, social media, chit chat, long letters and single syllabic messages all end in that final stage of Connectivity. It’s the only religion I dare to follow. How about some LSD? I kindly refuse, this trip has brought me far enough. Enjoy the scenery first. Breasts and bottoms. Events of a homosexual nature nearly miss me. Too close. But, no tongue no foul. If you start setting rules, you better play by them. A fair man is hard to find, but they’re out there. 



In a dark street. Suddenly not so empty. I see Philosophy Girl, a true hero. Hipster passing by. Former love past in present. A glorious pastiche of faded opportunities. I never regret a thing. Something I picked up from my attorney, you might say. Makes you look weak. Never bargain a deal looking weak. Press onward, dodging bullets and bystanders. On & on we go, past canals and hobo’s and deep fried dinners. The place suddenly starts making sense. Unforgiving Nature has some gloss, some silver lining to it. I never saw the light of day. I only saw the brightness as the bar closed down.



Time to move on. 

Confusion is a merit of wandering. It clears the mind, unlocks the brain’s backdoor. Lots of weirdo’s come in through there. The more the merrier.

REVIEW: Kill 'em Mister - Wolves Horses

Kill ‘em Mister could be considered as somewhat of a side-project. Comprising of boy-wonder-guitarist Mathias Janmaat (Bombay Show Pig), producer/bassist Joost de Glopper (producer of Houses a.o.), guitarist Richard van Rooijen (ex-GOTV) and British singer/MC Lenka Boyd, it’s the type of act you’ll see popping up every now and again to thrash a party here and there. Most of the time, this leads to acts who are either annoyingly jammy or barely disguised tributes-to-times-past. You would expect nothing of the above considering Janmaat’s profile, who’s rise to prominence has been all about cutting edge musicmaking, both sonically and conceptually.





Truth is, Kill ‘em Mister sound nothing like a side-project. Their first EP Wolves Horses is a fairly ambitious project, fusing Sleigh Bells’ high-gain guitars, MIA’s vocal delivery and Skrillex’ dubstep mayhem into something decidedly high-octane. But it’s not the initial kick-in-the-face that sets these 5 tracks apart. It’s the playful musicality underneath that’s most compelling. Opener Bad Luck is electronic rockstomp, but is aptly counterpointed by the arpeggiated synths and falsetto chorus. Scarlet Fever is built around a surprisingly catchy synthriff, the kind you rarely come across in recent dubstep anthems. For Bombay Show Pig fans they’ll sound familiar enough, but in this context all the more refreshing. Same goes for Female Killer Robot, which is closest thing to the type of ravepunk one would expect from The Prodigy or T.Raumschmiere. It’s nothing new, but it’s enough to get a raunchy indierave going, favorably in some smelly basement.



Come to think of it, if Kill ‘em Mister would in fact be a tribute act, it would probably be to rave music throughout the last 20 years. Luckily Wolves Horses is not pretending to be an anachronistic overview of rave music compiled into 17 minutes and 50 seconds. It’s just a bunch of songs these incredibly talented musicians have had a lot of fun messing with in their free time. And it shows! Not all of it is great - Rogue Leader is way less compelling than the other tracks for lack of a good hook and bland vocal performance. But on the whole, being able to score 4 out of 5 on first attempt is well above average for any act. It definitely legitimises Kill ‘em Mister as an act to watch in its own right. Let’s hope they won’t spend too much time in hibernation.

The end of the road... with Gerhardt

Dear all,

No semi-fictional stories this time around, but brutal reality. Below in Dutch first, (short) English synopsis below that.

Beste vrienden, volgers en die ene fan (ja jij!),

Sommige dingen in het leven zijn onontkoombaar. Tijden waarin dingen niet zo lopen zoals je eigenlijk het liefste zou willen. Je jaagt dingen na waarvan je denkt dat ze je verder op weg helpen, je ergens brengen waarvan je denkt 'daar wil ik zijn'. Dat is de essentie van 'on the road' zijn. Je wilt ergens naartoe. Natuurlijk weten we allemaal dat juist datgene wat je onderweg meepikt vaak belangrijker is dan wat je vindt op je voorgenomen bestemming. Als je er al ooit aankomt (clichés kloppen bijna zonder uitzondering met de realiteit).

Een van de wegen die ik belangrijk heb gevonden om te volgen was het spoor van Gerhardt, met wie ik nu ruim een jaar op pad ben. Dat heeft me veel mooie ervaringen opgeleverd, waaronder verschillende optredens op radio, televisie, festivals en clubs en kroegen door het hele land. De verhalen over die periode staan voor een deel op het blog en zijn volledig in mijn geheugen gegrift. Wellicht dat ik ze nog een keer van stal haal, maar laat voor nu in elk geval gezegd zijn dat ik nooit één slechte ervaring gehad heb in het afgelopen jaar dat we onderweg zijn geweest.

In dat jaar kwam wel al aan het licht dat het functioneren in een band een aparte set vaardigheden vereist. En bovendien een dosis toewijding, flexibiliteit en muzikaliteit die eigenlijk onmogelijk is op te brengen als je er niet 100% voor gaat. Ik heb bij mezelf gemerkt dat ik op dit moment niet in staat ben om dat op te brengen. Mijn persoonlijke situatie en ontwikkeling staan dat simpelweg niet toe. Dat wil niet zeggen dat ik niet nog steeds enorm veel geloof heb in wat Gerhardt (het mens en de band) nastreeft en creëert, nu en in de toekomst. G is een muzikant met enorm veel visie en talent die het verdient een vaste waarde te worden in de Nederlandse muziek en daarbuiten.

In de praktijk betekent dit dat ik met heel veel goede herinneringen de band verlaat en ze het allerbeste toewens. Ik zal mij voorlopig even niet zal laten zien op een podium. Ik heb nog geen ideeën over nieuwe projecten en bovendien zijn er voor mij buiten de muziek een aantal persoonlijke zaken die ik al te lang niet heb aangepakt en die nu mijn volledige aandacht vereisen. Hierover en over alle andere zaken die mij bezighouden zal ik op de jullie welbekende wijze blijven berichten op dit blog.

Tenslotte, een woord van dank aan alle Gerhardianen (Otto, Bernard, Merlijn, Ivo, Jorrit en natuurlijk Gerhardt), alle mensen die ik heb mogen ontmoeten en alle Gerhardt fans out there bedanken voor een zeer bijzondere ervaring. Het ga jullie goed!

Cheers,

Jasper

picture taken by Annemiek Langen @ Noorderslag 2012

IN ENGLISH

Some things in life you just can't get away from. Things don't always go to plan. It's part of being "on the road". For over a year I've been on the road with Gerhardt. It's brought me to many wonderful places, people and great moments that forever will be engraved onto my mental harddrive. But to truly master the art of being in a band, one has to be fully committed. For many reasons -entirely unrelated to my personal feelings about Gerhardt or the music- I will not bother you with right now, this commitment has become an obstacle for me to continue with the band. So as of right now I'm no longer a part of the band Gerhardt. I have nothing but wonderful, fluffy memories and feelings about the past year, but know it's for the better to part ways now. I won't be returning to the stage anytime soon. There are a few personal challenges I have to face first.

A big thank you to all Gerhardians (Otto, Merlijn, Bernard, Ivo, Jorrit and Gerhardt off course), all the wonderful people I've met on the road and all the fans out there for a very special experience. I wish you all the best!

Cheers,

Jasper

Insert new meaningful phrase here

You can apologise all you want, blow it out your ass 'til it has no meaning whatsoever. At some point this has started to become a reality for me. A simple 'sorry' doesn't really cover the charges implied, it does not compute or compensate. It simply sits there, 'sorry'. Like a doormat. Or one of those cute magnets on the fridge.

"sorry"

It just doesn't seem to cut it anymore. I need new words to express how - insert new meaningful phrase here - I am for all this shit. It's been falling on me, around me, and taking others in it's maelstrom. I'm a right avalanche of infectious excrements.

Self-loathing is serious business, it's perhaps one of the things I'm most adamant about. You can never go wrong with some proper self-hatred. I try not to show it in public places, because becoming pitiful means getting all this unwanted attention from so-cal friends who just pee their pants in anticipation of being able to get your sorry ass back on its feet. But that's not the point. I'm growing something here, and here you go stepping on my delicate young flowers of self-loathing. I don't come to your house and mess up your lifestyle now do I? So people, a word of advice: leave the self-loathing bastard to his own affairs.

Meanwhile, here's a nice video of cute baby animals to soothe those worried minds and tummies, with the added touch of non-invasive surfer popmusic by Jack Johnson.

The aftermath of this unfortunate event.

The following was written somewhere between total inebriation and the end of the headache on the far end of a three-day bender:

I’ve had enough, I’m done. I ain’t gonna wage this war. There’s a limit to what I can bear. In all these years I’ve been the fucking knight in crazy Shining armour. Here’s Johnny with the laughter and the goddamn axe again. Fuck him, and fuck this. There’s no reason for this distress. You reanimate yourself and feed on my three-day bender with no chance of a proper bed to sleep on. No job, no life’s work, no good intentions. All the grace and profitability I ever had to give to the ones I love (or fuck, hump, or whatever else) goes straight out the window, only to be eaten by hogs and police hounds hungry for blood. THIS is not my fucking war. Let somebody else take the beating.


NOTES ON BRAZILIAN FIELD OBSERVATIONS: It’s a jungle out there. As you move through dense trees with great skin and limber branches, be careful not to touch. Most of these specimen are intoxicated. Some bear great fruits, while others have succumbed to inertia and simply stand there, slighty slouched. Lost all the strength in their backbone. As temperature rises, observations of a sonic boom and a great amount of rustle. There’s a certain sensual humidity to this place. Density of leaf on leaf, deep roots and fertility of ground and spores. Careful not to step in poison ivy though. In circumstances such as these, death is hiding just around the corner.

I’m a man without prospect. When everything else fails, when the angry hangover becomes standard practice, that’s when you cash in the chips you’ve left. No more spinning the wheel. No more mr. Nice Guy. Death is closer than paradise. A fit of rage lead to bouts of wildflower abces turning my body into a botanical mess. Yet with all this upset stomach and dirty mind, I get fucked up over the ghost of christmas past, an apparition so horrid that my bones shiver to this day since I first gazed upon her. Nobody knows you when you’re down and out. Nobody knows you. Nobody knows.

Like the argonauts could not close their ears to the Sirenes, I cannot close myself off from what is bearing down upon me. This weight wears me down worse than a fat chick in a handcart. Stick a needle in my brain, doc, I’m giving it all to science. Lobotomise the past. Give one half to charity, one half burned at the stake. Let it be cast in stone that my cock will serve anatomy lessons for drunken halflings. Halfwits may disect my liver for kicks. Shits and giggles will be on the house from now on. Just consult my attorney on matters of Necrophilia. Like me mentor always said: You can never be against anything you haven’t seen the wrong end of.

OBSERVATIONS #2: The jungle is full of tricks. I see a party of eggplants escalate and nearly eat me alive. Chew disgruntedly and spit me back out. Too hairy. I got out with less than I brought to the table. Left a little dignity there, a spot of sobriety on the mantle, all in the nature of a fool’s errand. I slip out the door and let the war be the war, the jungle be the jungle and the illusions just that. Tell the taxi drive to keep the change and hop on the train. But while you can get the man out of the warzone, the jungle and the girl, you can never get the girl or the jungle or the warzone out of the man.

Le Clochard Noctambule

Snooze (fucked if you do...)

ShhhhhHHHKK. Quick release of a low pass filter. Fade-in day 239 of the party equilibrium. Groundhog day for the happy masses. The morning is bright, the morning’s shiny. And the dreary sky is seemingly finding it’s way directly into my nausea. The couch is too short and the beer was of the cheap variety. Oh yes, arty student parties. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t. My frontal lobe is shrieking and throwing dishes at me. Sound of shattering china hits me right in the nerve centre. Enough to knock out a deaf elephant.

I’m surrounded by what appears to be a host of mutated foetal twins, joint at the hips and covered in canvas, as if to say: color us in, we’re still untouched. In reality, these are fully developed byproducts of human interaction. ORDERLY: “No way we can throw ‘em out with the badwater now, doc, they’re protected under the copyright of procreation”
DOC: “This is just exactly what is wrong with this country. We’re growing social abces like weeds on an unrestricted, fertile yard. Nobody cares to do anything about it. Round ‘em up and ship ‘em off I say. They’re only here so we have something to hate. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t.



Meanwhile my phone is filling up on moral downfall and burning desire from another timezone. There’s about a 3 year timelag, but those inhabiting their own dreams seem like a most blissful species. They were discovered around 11 pm last night by a group of raving biologists who care for nothing but their next hit of Ayahuasca to put some coherence in their research statistics. Life science, people, live it or leave it. Do the human thing. Redefine the species in a sweaty state of excitement. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t. Any given definition of the human condition is an escape from facing life in itself. The deal is: we spend our lives searching for an answer. We don’t find IT, but the wild guesses and rough estimates are what drives our existence. Even the most inspiring, clear-headed wisdom you happen to stumble upon while you’re getting your genitals hosed down is no reason for CASE CLOSED. No post-game rep, no final assessment. Just put your pen down and keep searching. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t.

Meanwhile Karl Marx has come and gone, leaving polystyrene dandruff all over the place. Stench of stale beer on an empty stumach. Aromatherapy from hell. Captain Smalltalk is still down in the trenches, laughing maniacally as he shoots the breeze with a double-barrel sawed-off shotgun. It’s not standard issue, but then again, what is? Gotye is singing Somebody That I Used To Know with a slight lisp. There’s a cardboard box in the middle of the room. There’s a sighting of spotted banana with perfect curve. Mathmaticians stroke out with a smile in their eyes as they gaze upon her. 42 turns out to be the co-efficiënt of this one banana’s curve. Whether it’s worth gazing upon her has led to many debates in academic whorehouses and local Wholefoods stores. The University of Hangover has published an official press release containing the official, authorised consensus: “Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t,” But fearing the demise of all scientific institutions, they continue by adding: “The Board is fairly certain that it solves many a problem for mathmaticians. Life is hard on them as it is, so we fully support their newfound luxury to end it on a high note. But it’s still untested and we have no certainty as to the effects it has on commoners and Humanities students.”

I look around. No perfect curves here. Closes thing to it is the butt on the girl who's sleeping with upskirt and, apparently, no underwear. Great legs, great butt. Don't ask, don't tell. Let's never speak of it again. Sound of wind blowing. Distant rumble of cars. Slow flares of light, shot shivers out of focus, fade out. Snooze.

So... return of "Le Noctambule"

So I haven't been posting an awful lot on here the past few months again. Yes, AGAIN. To say I lack the discipline to get some continuity in my blogs wouldn't be far off. I certainly wouldn't disagree, but let me tell you: I've been having a good 'ole time seeing the world go to ABSOLUTE shit and seeing much of what I thought was my life's work go down the drain.

Yes, hardships. I'm an upper class brat, a college dropout, a less-than-great writer and a worse musician, not much of an organisational talent, lacking in social skills and arrogant, too. Just a little selection of what defines being the Distorted Reflector these days. Suffice to say I've been better. The easy way out? Never speak of it again. Rather shoot the breeze with an automatic bullshit rifle. Thirty-six calibre small talk. Uncut social opium. Interactive lubricant on oil basis; do not ingest.

Swift cut to my drinking problems. I've been hitting the sauce about as hard as I've been hitting the Beat Generation for inspiration (def.: 1. Addictive ethereal substance lifting the corpus into a state of bliss 2. a software company; Leader in Visual Thinking and Learning). Next to my beard, a bottle of cheap whiskey is my favorite prop. People started perceiving me for a hobo at one point what with the scruffy (facial) hair and sombre demeanor and all, and I just didn't want to disappoint. Personally, I think I did a wonderful job method acting myself all the way to the bottom of the barrel. It does wonders for my Mojo though (insert Jay-Z reference here).



Irony (def.: 1. Side effect to mixture melancholia and cocaine, self-aggrandizement and pain, 2. Style of popular music containing a great deal of horns, flutes and other symphonic instruments.) : the craziest shit seems to happen when I haven't been drinking all that much. That's when I lock myself out of my house, pick up the craziest women, run into a pile of red-assed baboons jacking off in the dawn and join them in a game of charades or find myself lost in similar David Lynchian plots. Most of the time my drunken rampages simply amount to anecdotes of really, really dumb shit. Unfortunately I can still recall 98,7% of all dumb shit I've done in my life since I started drinking. It's not pretty.

So in the face of unemployment, inebriation, gloom and the sound Invitation To The Blues, how do I react? What is my directive for dire situations? Retract? Pity-plea? Masturbation? Looking infinitely at my own belly button. FUCK NO. I'm going head first. If I'm going down the drain, why not tag along for the ride? It might get a little awkward, and painful at times. But I'd rather be completely blunt about things than keep up appearances. I'm not asking for your pity, just enjoy these scribblings as if you've never met me.

My name?

Noctambule le Clochard, your distorted reflector.