A Nighthawks Project.

"I Just Breathe Until I Collapse..."

2006-08-02T15:22:00.000-07:00

Somehow, it’s August. Which can mean only one thing – we’re back at Oppikoppi. This time, the line-up is a little different – we’ve seconded another poor soul into the mad adventure. Rob Roux, unofficial roadie/super groupie for Old Mol is with us as beer drinker, light controller and all round skivvy. He doesn’t seem hate us yet, but is only day 2, so anything can happen.

Strictly speaking the festival hasn’t started yet, but we’ve been here for a day two nights already, shooting, writing, pissing about, waiting for tents, lights and power for our studio and generally getting settled.

It’s cold here. Amazingly, bone-crunchingly cold. Apparently it’s snowing in Joburg, and it’s carrying over to us – the sky is overcast, and a blustery, dusty wind has been blowing all day. It’s put us all a little on edge, we’ve got dust in our eyes and grit between our teeth but we’re beginning to get into our groove and it’s a pleasure to see the guys getting exited about shooting and comparing material.

The Nighthawks line-up isn’t the only thing that’s changed – we’ve graduated to semi-pro level. Levi’s Original Music, bless ‘em, have sorted us out with a real studio, and all the access we could ever want. In return (like it’s really trade-off) we’re blogging the festival for them, capturing Oppikoppi and all thje good things that go with it in words, images and sound. It’s gonna kick, I can’t wait for it all to start, so we can show y’all what’s going down.

If you want to see the Nighthawks at Oppikoppi Rock Paper Scissors 2006, check us out here. Go to the Oppikoppi link, and choose the Nighthawls button. For a little taste, have a look at these portraits, shot in our shiny (ok, dusty) new studio under the shadow of the ‘koppi. See if you can spot the Bomber; the Ninja; Stiny; me; and the man with the rock n' roll legs.

By Rebecca Kahn

God Gives You Lemonade - Make DeathMetal

2006-04-17T01:01:00.000-07:00

We woke up late - probably because we went to bed at 4, and people are rough around the edges today. As the boys set up backstage, it’s all I can do to get coffee and sit, like a vegetable, in the dark and cool. The ‘studio’ is a mess, and Rock n Roll Legs is shooting it all, the squalor of backstage. Rock n roll is not as glam as you may think, boys and girls.

The day kind of starts when Ménage A Trios comes on. There’s talent there, no doubt, but I’m not happy. What the hell is up with guest vocalists who get on stage, chewing gum, carting their water bottle, gesturing to their mates to light a cigarette…forget it. I don’t dig that. It’s just rude, and tacky.

But Bed On Bricks blow all the grumbles away. Mike Hardy, no longer a hairy Son of Trout, now he’s slick and toned and oh so good. The Sons of Trout sound is there, lurking below the surface, but Schalk van der Merwe is just a powerhouse. Daai fokker speel. They ratchet up the mood from lazy Sunday in the sun to rocking night out, under the stars.

I don’t know if I can write about Moses Khumalo. It was just too perfect. Perfect time, perfect place, and perfect music. He pushes things, and then takes them that one step further. And people love it. I think, in this case, the pictures say what needs to be said.

It’s getting to dusk, and there’s a change in the air. People are gearing up for a big night. A quick dash to the tent for jerseys, and a camping supper of smoked mussels, Provitas and peanuts. And then back for the big boys. Valiant, Albert Frost (a ‘surprise’ that we all had secretly hoped for) The Parlotones, The Narrow and Fokof. It’s the dream line-up, the best we have to offer, from the elder statesman to the young lions.

Valiant is lifting his guitar above his head in a swirl of purple light. Is he gonna smash it? Is he? Is he? Is he gonna do a Pete Townsend? No, he’s too slick for that, the Mystic Boer.

Later, backstage, he’s the epitome of grace – smiling, laughing, smoking, posing for shot after shot, one interview after another. If you look back at the photos over the years, he was a kid when it all started. Now the little baby’s all grown up, and it’s wonderful.

Later, at the top bar, it’s hectic. The place is crammed full, sweat dripping off the walls. Someone takes a jug of water and dumps it on a girl’s head, and she’s loving it. A lady walks past, it’s her birthday; she comes from Jeffrey’s Bay, poor thing. She has a blow-up ball, but not for long.

The boys are shooting everything they see, bottles, grass, each other. Someone spills a mug of red wine. We’re running out of cigarettes and money and time. In a few hours, we’ll be climbing out of our tents, packing up, scratching the dust out of our ear holes and making our tired ways home. Too soon, and at the same time, not soon enough.

Hookahs and Bug Bites

2006-04-16T02:00:00.000-07:00

Something in the tent bit me last night. And no, all you clever clogs with witty comebacks about tent sex, they’re not human bites. They’re real Oppikoppi doozies, small and itchy. Maybe they’re thorn jabs; I did pull a whole lot out of the hem of my skirt last night. It’s an eternal dilemma – skirt or pants? Hot or cool? Pockets or bag? Oh, the drama…

Simon Van Gent and his band may just be the best thing I’ll see this festival. It’s absolutely lovely - songs about little boys and burning planes. They seem a little bewildered by it all – surprised by how pretty it is here, how nice the people are. And good God, Ross Campbell is playing with him – the man is a legend. Marry me, Ross; I’m a groupie for life…

Some people come here just to get fucked up. A guy just walked past me, in a T-shirt that says ‘Hillbrow, 5km’. What a dufus. His features are flat; you can practically see the skaap grease around his mouth. I doubt he’s even seen Hillbrow, watched the sun go down and the lights on Ponte start to flash. Grrr. Maybe I’m just hung-over and ratty. Truth is, most of the guys who come here are good people. Yes, they get drunk and aggro, but they’re sweet enough. Like the guy at the bar last night who was so upset that his girlfriend was getting high. He was yelling ‘Ek wou veg! Sy het nie vir my gese nie…wat is die fokken scenario?’ he was just a sweet, aggro guy who couldn’t sit his lass down, tell her he loved her and cared about her and wanted her to be safe. Poor girl. Hope she had fun.

I’m lying on the grass, waiting (what’s new) for Rian Malan and Matthew van der Want. People are smoking hookahs, which seems a little silly. There’s so much paraphernalia that goes with them – gauze and water and all that crap. Just roll the joint, little brothers. This is Oppikoppi, you’ll be safe.

I can’t tell a lie – I missed most of Chris Chameleon’s set. But I have a good excuse. I was raving it up in the beer tent. But even from there I could hear Chris, ripping it up. The man is amazing; I can imagine him standing on his head, gargling watermelons to make the sounds he coaxes out of his vocal chords. He yells, wails, croaks and squeaks.

BVK have us all back though. ‘Dis ‘n gatsby, Gatsby, dan is ons happy, happy’. Kids are throwing their hands up, jumping up and down. It’s just so good. Dancing music, jolling music, oldies but goodies. And these guys are as tight as hell; they’ve been doing this for years, and know exactly how to whip us all up. The B-boys make us gasp, Mr Fat, he’s all that.

And back up the hill. This time things are all about the fun fun fun. I’m doing Jaegermeister shots with Brixton Moord en Roof, Matthew and Ross Campbell are laughing, two of the icons, the good guys, the ones we need to hold on to.

The night is oddly warm, even the walk back to the tent is pleasant, as we dodge the drunks and dudes passed out in the road. Pick your friends up mate; it gets chilly as the night wears on.

The Kingdom Of Tunes

2006-04-14T23:30:00.000-07:00

Things have picked up. We set up the studio space today – well, we actually just moved in to a little room under the stage, and made it look like we belonged there.

You do a lot of waiting at Oppikoppi. Waiting for the loo. Waiting for the next set. Waiting for food, beers and Bloody Marys. Waiting for Misha. I do a lot of hanging around – arb girl who gets cold cokes and coffee for the boys. Or at least that what it looks like. Little do they know that I’m absorbing it all, every word, every moment, and then I’ll sit down and report it all, world for word… Mwah hah hahah.

This afternoon was quiet – just what I wanted (and needed after last night’s silliness.) It was the build up, of course, to the alt. Afrikaans rocker night. Or at least that’s how I like to think of it, since I’ve pretty much dismissed Evolver. Don’t like their music. It’s too easy.

The other very special thing about Oppikoppi is that it’s the meeting place for all the people you love and care about and never get round to seeing because life is just too busy and mad. This year friends from Cape Town and Joburg and Pretoria were all there, and it was like a big high school reunions (minus the horrible kids who bugged you and the overachievers). Hugs and kisses and quiet moments in the shade, in the kingdom of tunes. Thanks, Carel. I feel so safe here.

Not a lot of people got the Buckfever Underground. I think that’s kind of the point of them. It was a spectacular noise, though. They’ve got some kind of crazy presence, but haven’t lost that ‘I can’t believe you’re here and you like us’ air. It’s pretty random sometimes, but I do love the dead airhostess song. Chicken, or beef?

Evolver are up next. I couldn’t be bothered. Stuff that.

Brixton Moord en Roof – what legends. Most of them look like bears, sing like angels. My rum and coke is going down like…ummm… a tequila sunset?

Tidal Waves. What can you say? They’re chuffed they missed the roadblock, and tell lovely, rambling stories in the middle of the set. Original music, for original people. There’s something a little menacing to some of their songs, a dark undertone beneath the happy reggae vibes.
But the crowd are lapping it all up, and as a final, half-smiling ‘We know exactly what you guys are about’ gesture, they do a cover of Hartseer Land’. It’s a reggae spine-chiller, bleaker and sadder than Koos’ ever was.

I’m going up the hill. I want to drink Jaegermeister and dance on the bar. Or at least get stuck in a silly conversation... Good night.

It Ain't Me, Babe

2006-04-13T13:13:00.000-07:00

By the time we hit the road, it was late – lots of logistical hassles held us up. But as soon as we picked The Ferret up in Pretoria, and actually got going, all the city rattiness just disappeared. Beer Bomber and I listened to lots of Paul Simon in the car – Graceland is most amazing driving album. Singing along, bashing out the rhythms on the dashboard – it was a good drive.

Once we got there, we set up the studio as best we could, but it was a real spoeg en plak job – duct tape, lights and hope. The boys found a dead snake, which was fun, for a bit. Some huge man, with an equally huge beard hacked it up with a machete. Poor snake.

Tonight the ‘koppi was relatively chilled, since not a lot of people were about. Although those that were there were well hammered. We hit the top bar for a drink as the sun went down, and people were staggering all over the place.

One of the things that make every Oppikoppi is the cd. There’s always one cd that gets played in between that sets, and over the system at the bar. A couple of years back it was Californication. This year it was Johnny Cash’s cover of ‘It Ain’t Me Babe’. Tonight, up at the bar, even with hardly anyone there, it was playing and I just knew it would be the song of the weekend.

Eavesdropped one of the funniest conversations I’ve heard in a long time – the Ferret and The Bomber arguing about who really are cooler – The Smiths or The Narrow. It sounds like silly bar-talk, but the more I think about it, the more I realise how much bullshit there is attached to music. We have this weird propensity to attach a value to any kind of music ‘Oh well, this kind of music is crap and this kind of music is rad’ and with one fell swoop; we’ll dismiss an entire genre or band and never think about them again. It’s bizarre. Perhaps it’s because we claim to be able to tell so much about a person by the music they listen to – and nobody wants to be seen as a tasteless loser. But some of the people I love most in the world think that Kenny Rogers is a legend.