It’s finally happened. David Hasselhoff has turned himself into a stage show. David Hasselhoff: The Musical will include sets inspired by, he says, “Knight Rider and the songs of Teddy Pendergrass”.

“I am also doing a heart-rending set on my life and the mistakes I have made,” says Dave. It sounds like a joke, but the show will be opening later this year in Melbourne.

Well, if Popbitch says it’s so…

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rudies can’t fail

July 16, 2006

It’s been a busy few months for SA’s snappiest ska band, The Rudimentals. Ross became a dad – and Rocco is either a great name for the tiny rudeboy, or a precursor to many, many years of therapy. On the other hand, they could have gone for ‘Punk’ or ‘Ska-face’, so I shouldn’t be too quick to criticise. The ‘Mentals recently signed to international Indie label Moonska – home to former 2-Tone stalwarts The Selecter, The Toasters and Jamaican Supergroup,The Skatalites – for distribution of their debut album throughout the UK, Europe and parts of Asia. They also found time to ‘Set it Proper‘ – that is, release their long-awaited second album, which, by all accounts, is a corker – and added some weight to an already hefty rhythym section by persuading skate and City Bow(e)l ska-punk pioneer, Errol Strachan, to join them on bass.

Errol, a.k.a. ‘Bong’, started out playing guitar and then bass for the Sons of Sellassie, but that’s not important. He’s really known around these parts as The Guy Who Replaced Me, Barb, in the legendary, albeit short-lived, punk band Brain Slaughter, thus stifling my shot at one day comparing strap burns with the likes of Sean Yseult and Melissa Auf der Maur. Instead, here I am. Hanging out with you guys.

Admittedly I might be basing my appointment on a remark made in passing, possibly in jest, by the vocalist – but still, I do take exception to being replaced before I even made it to my first rehearsal. Sure, the sangoma and six times skateboarding champ can actually play his bass without staring at his fingers and mouthing the chord sequence (if only my parents had sent me to this Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls instead of a convent in Port Elizabeth), but I do look a darn sight cuter on stage.

If you don’t believe me, catch Bong and the rest of the Mother City’s rudest at the Zula Sound Bar, 194 Long Street on 21 July. I’ll be the attractive one at the bar, mouthing along to those chord sequences.

If you’ve ever attended Art School, dated someone in Art School, or studied something useful in the faculty next door, then you too will have had a run in with the sleepy guy from the sculpture department – or, in my case, my father – you know, the guy who sidles over in a Hendrix / Morrison / Barrett t-shirt and asks you if you like Are You Experienced / Waiting for the Sun /The Dark Side of the Moon. To which the obvious response is: a right-hook / ‘I take a bus’ / ‘God, Dad – can’t you see I’m a Goth?’

If you’re unfit enough not to have outrun the Floyd fan, then (a), cut back on the koeksusters and, (b), be prepared for the inevitable segue from Obscured by Clouds to a lengthy exposition of Syd Barrett‘s fragile, tortured genius, his propensity for LSD and something about shaven eyebrows. You might be able to slow the flow somewhat by pointing out that Syd isn’t actually on that album, and asking him to name anything Barrett did before or after he buggered off to his mum’s to paint. Or, you could just point out that he died last week from a diabetes-related illness, aged 60. Whatever you do, don’t mention that you know the cow featured on the cover of Atom Heart Mother is called Lulubelle, because he’ll interpret this as genuine interest and it will only set him off again.

For someone who quit Pink Floyd long before I was born and has largely not been seen or heard from since the 1970s, Barrett’s influence has hovered over the band for the better part of three decades like, I don’t know – a forlorn, hypnotically-patterned, swirly little raincloud? Wish You Were Here is partly an open letter to Barrett from his bandmates, Dark Side of the Moon explores themes of mental illness – a common lyrical thread for Roger Waters. And those damn art students, man – they just never let him rest.

Tragic cultural icon or unfortunate acid casualty – whatever, there was something vaguely endearing about the shambling recluse with no eyebrows, pottering around behind rose-covered walls. Blasted by the occasional psychotic psychedelic flashback. It could have been so different. So, yeah. Shine on, you.

the lick

July 5, 2006

I’m your ice-cream man and I like Mötley Crüe…”

Sloppy Seconds. Remember them? Me neither*, until I read this article. Now I have “a stabbing or aching type of pain” in my temporal region “that recedes 10-20 seconds after its onset. Rarely, it can persist for two to five minutes“. Not unlike a Sloppy Seconds song, in fact.

But I digress:

Embrace the summer: come to terms with your local ice cream truck chime, and admit that you crave — nay, require — its catchy 20 second hook on glorious infinite repeat for maximum seasonal enjoyment.

WFMU’s Beware of the Blog scoops up a double serving of creamy, dreamy ice cream truck chimes. Essential… who am I kidding – particularly annoying for anyone stuck in the Southern Hemisphere in the dead of winter, licking chapped lips and dreaming of sweaty Camps Bay lifeguards and Choc 99 Caramel Dips with Nutty Sprinkles.

With links to mp3s of the Ghetto Ice Cream Truck Song, the Mister Softee jingle, Lips Stained Blue, Creamsicle of My Dreamsicle and my personal favourite title of all time: Torturing Swedes Since 1969, you can recreate your own sticky swirl of retro summer bliss. Or you could just blast this from your car stereo every time you pass a playground and confuse the hell out of the pre-schoolers.

~*~

* I lie. You never forget physiques like that. Plus, they once did a well-intentioned cover of the Misfits’ Where Eagles Dare.

~*~

Mmmm, Lifehacker.

stirred, not shaken.

June 27, 2006

In what might be the most inspired franchise manoeuvre since the local Blimpies (Subs & Salads) changed their name to Olympies just in time for our failed bid to host the Big Games, Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley cut the ribbon on the world’s first KISS Coffeehouse in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

Once past the 20-foot platform boots (smoking, natch) at the door, patrons can sample KISS signature blends like the Demon Dark Roast, French KISS Vanilla, or a frozen Rockuccino.

“The KISS Coffeehouse is our way of providing everyone with the buzz of great, quality treats and coffee filled with enough sugar and caffeine to get the party started, and keep it going!” Paul Stanley

Fine. But the first waitron to stir my latte with his tongue will end up spitting blood. For real.

Now, if anyone needs me, I’ll be at the Tony Iommi Pastry Emporium.

~*~

Rock on, Stereogum.

~*~

Update: And in the second most inspired franchise manoeuvre since the introduction of the Sausage Crust® – Caffeine Spot in Sea Point have promised a free cup of coffee and a muffin to anyone who mentions them on their blog.

Ordinarily, I’d never sully my high moral standards by accepting free gifts in exchange for a wee bit of publicity. I’d much rather hold out for cold cash. Then again, I appreciate a good viral campaign as much as the next person – provided it doesn’t leave me on a respirator – and, hey, they operate from Sea Point, for chrissake. That’s my ‘hood. We’re practically family. More importantly, I’m cheap and easily swayed by free stuff – and free coffee is free coffee. Free coffee!*

Make mine… dark, please.

[* Plus, it’s good.}

Jesus. Would you look at the date, already? It's a good thing this isn't actually my house and you weren't really left to pick over yellowed copies of Spin and the Big Issue before succumbing – reluctantly – to starvation and eventual interment in the tomato bed alongside Pretty Boy*, the Gay(est) Budgie. Because then you'd never be able to:

Get The Hoff to Number 1
Think what he's given to the world. Knight Rider. Baywatch. The reunification of East and West Germany. Untold laughter from forwarded e-mails of him in hotpants.


He's given a lot. It's time we gave something back.


Popbitch reckons he's doing quite well on his own, actually:

He was recently booked for Google's summer party in Berlin. slurred his way through a set of pop songs but couldn't remember the words to his new release Jump In My Car so Google staff had to write them down and tape the sheets of paper around the stage.

~*~

{* Poor Pretty Boy – I dug him up twice. Accidentally, I swear.}

For shame. It's not enough that Barry Manilow has a face that resembles Sid the Ice-Age sloth sculpted in marshmallow – now the bawdy sheep-fanciers next door are using his music to drive hooligans from the suburbs:

For the next six months the ears of the youth of Rockdale, a suburb south of Sydney, will be subjected to the sounds of the singer's back catalogue after the local council resolved to get tough on antisocial behaviour. Councillors hope piping Manilow hits such as Mandy and Copacabana through a loudspeaker into a car park troublespot will kill the atmosphere and force the youths to move on.

Poor guy. At least he's rich.

~*~

Thangyew, Whitney.

me ears are alight

May 26, 2006

If I spent more time on the Internet and less time on frivolous distractions like ‘work’ and ‘deadlines’, I wouldn’t be the last person in town to discover that the ‘King of Ska’, Desmond Dekker, popped his clogs yesterday at the youthful age of 64.

Dekker – who, sadly, is probably best known around my parts as the guy everyone thinks is Horace Andy or a barber – rocksteadied Jamaica to the top of the international charts with Israelites, and 007 (Shanty Town), paving the way for a succession of island superstars like Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff and … uh, Shaggy.

Prince has been voted the "world's sexiest vegetarian" in PETA's annual online poll, the animal rights group announced Monday.

Not that I care or anything – I just wanted to use that headline.

I really shouldn’t keep picking on the God Squad – it requires so little mental effort and incredibly, not even I can justify being that lazy. On the other hand, a little unintentional comedy does go a long way, and this inspired exposé of Satan’s Music dutifully trots out enough one-liners to kick-start a college t-shirt empire.

And it’s not just the usual suspects (metal, homosexuals) that face the flaming rod of righteousness, either. The people who brought you the fantastically monikered Antichrist Slideshow starring: The Popes of Rome spare no one: The Beach Boys, Bon Jovi, Christian Rockers, Country Music and, not surprisingly, Vangelis – are all beaten with their own lyric sheets before being drop-kicked to the Great Braai Down Below.

Stan help us all.

~*~

Hellarious, Metafilter.

OK already

May 16, 2006

Radiohead's Thom Yorke releases a solo album and the internet goes apeshit. Only it's not really a solo album, apparently, and doesn't necessarily signal a rift amongst the Flaky Five, and this blog still can't bring itself to care.

"One of the most rewarding things happened at one of our screenings when a kid stood up and said, 'Thank you for making a film that, for once, doesn't make us look like idiots,' " Dunn said.

MTV offers exclusive clips from soon-to-be-released doccie Metal: A Headbanger's Journey. And Prozac and a hoodie for anyone looking forward to Bastards of Young, a double-disc release chronicling the rise of emo. Well, not really. But they should.

raining blood

May 15, 2006

LiveDaily reports that Slayer have delayed the start of their "unholy Alliance" tour due to Tom Araya's gallbladder surgery.

It still isn't clear whether Tom is the one undergoing surgery, or if he's just preparing to rip the organ from a volunteer as a pre-tour sacrifice to ensure good ticket sales. This is Slayer we're talking about – it could so go either way.

Al Kratina hates music. And people.

So, what happens when one of my favourite online reads calls attention to an interview with the author (who also edits a magazine I know I should like but secretly find tedious) of a book I recently really enjoyed, published by a company I've really come to admire and respect – possibly, ok mostly, because it's headed up by a guy I once lusted after without knowing what he looked like simply because he played bass in a post-hardcore band that seduced and amused me all through the 90s, but also because the people he works with are not only seriously awesome, but infinitely patient, even when I fuck-up my online purchase and they have to give me a refund?

You read this interview, that's what.