Ladies and gentlemen, I have a new
house. A new, squeaky clean house with a title deed and ef'thing. You should see the grin on my face right now... Now I love Google products the
way no sane person should love any interwebs thingis, and Blogger is by far the easiest way to blog ever invented for idiots like me, but dammit
if I've not tired of having a blog that looks like such a blog. I
tried to redesign this page, but it is what it is, a basic page. It's time to move on.
Seeing as how this is simply a quick hop across, I don't need to get all weepy, do I? I do not.
Thank you, each and every one of you
who's passed through over the past four years. An extra special
thank you to the deviants, and angels, who made the comments
section here the absofuckinglutely best part of the blog. For real, the comments section we created is hands down the most
hilarious, opinionated (yet for the most part never abusive), hands-down crassest comment section on any blog hereabouts. I bow down down to your greatness,
my lovelies. My one regret with this move is that I can't take the
comments with me, which is why this blog will stay up for as long as
possible. I can't bring myself to take it, us, down (I folded Dunia
into this one, because three sites seems a bit excessive, no? I mock
myself...).
I have to thank Serikali and/or Google for never
shutting my anti-establishment, borderline pornographic pages down (that's part of the
reason for owning the domain, for just in case someone catches on to what really goes on here). I must also thank the lovely people at DMCA for only flagging my
liberal, and apparently very illegal, use of lyrics that one time. Useless detour. You cannot use more than 5 words from a song, not
without permission (for a fee, usually) from the song's author. You
can, however, use the song title, because titles cannot be
copyrighted. I looked for every conceivable loophole, fair use nini
nini, nothing. Folks, don't use lyrics, especially if you publish
for money (and that includes advertising on your blog). Fortunately
for us, embedding videos and such is not illegal, so the show will go
on, only now I'll have to hum the lyrics to you. I know, it's
exciting, yes? Bloody internet.
A bit of housekeeping. Email people, I
could transfer your subscriptions to the new site, but that strikes
me as a little creepy, no? Sign up again na huko, tafadhali,
apologies for the disruption. Those of you not on the email list,
sign up, it's easier to keep track of me that way (bonus, I email
full posts, none of that teaser nonsense, and I will never ever email
you directly. because I'm not a stalker like that, promise).
I know, I know... What can I say? I
should probably start off with a lengthy apology, accompanied by a
suitably lengthy explanation as to my whereabouts for the past 7
months, but what's the point of wasting time on pointless
formalities? Better to get on with it, yes? Yes. To wit...
I love You Tube. I mean I really,
really, REALLY love You Tube. For someone who grew up with one TV
station that operated from 4:00 pm (2:00 pm on weekends) to 11:00 pm
every day, with next to no music on screen save for the odd 30 minute
show once a week, You Tube is the MTV I never had. All the songs I
grew up with, live in technicolor, all at my fingertips. It's
brilliant. Brilliant, I tell you. The only drawback is (and this
isn't really a drawback, more my general discontent with all things),
these musicians I loved back in the day look nothing like I thought
they would. I was watching a Commodores video the other day that
pretty much ruined 'Sail On' for me, forever, what with their
unseemly groin thrusting in what I thought was a song of romantic
longing. Dude...she peers over her glasses...why you gotta hold the
mic like that? On the up side, I now have a keen fascination
with wind sailing. Yay! I don't, for the record. Now the best part of
You Tube is finding a clip of a live performance of a song you
absolutely love. See, it's one thing to know the album version, in
and out, but it's another thing to see it performed live. Think
about the last concert you attended and how you felt hearing, and
singing along, to that song you've been obsessed with; the vocals
may not have been as perfect as the album cut and the music
arrangement may have been different, but still you loved it, maybe
even loved it more than the now seemingly sterile version on your
player. That's the beauty of live music. All my life I've been
sulking over all these great musicians I'll never get to see in
person, but no more! I have...wait for it...the interwebs. Cue
sound of heavens opening...
What? Don't look at me like that, you
cocky youngling, you have no idea what life was like without
everything a click away. This shit right here is truly
revolutionary. Take it from someone who listened to AM radio, in
mono. I wish I was kidding.
So there I was, listening to the
aforementioned Commodores song, and the suggestions panel on the
right had Al Green. Now you know I have great love for the Rev, and You Tube knows that too, seeing as how he's on almost all my
playlists, hence the suggestion. I should have known better, but
clearly I don't, I clicked on the link and proceeded to spend an hour
watching the same song, in different clips. I haven’t been that
happy since I found those Hoda queen cakes at the petrol
station a few months ago (don’t judge me, those little cakes are
bite sized morsels of joy, soft and fluffy, aaahhhh...). Those clips
of Al Green performing 'Let's Stay Together', from Soul Train back in
the day through to a talk show in London 5 years ago, those clips
became my own little world tour; skipping from a swaying dance floor
to a swanky night club, from the glitzy Grammies to the always
raucous Apollo; the Rev morphing from bare chested, deliciously
sweaty crooner to soul man in requisite shades to three piece suited
preacher-man; the song shifting from mellow ballad to raunchy
falsetto to gospel call and response to salsa funk and back to mellow
ballad. In those 60 minutes, I realised there's a version of this
song, and the Rev, for every occasion. It's like I discovered him
all over again, bless his truly genius soul.
I'm half tempted to stick in each and
every one of these clips here, I've found 14 so far, but I suspect if
I do one of you might actually slap me (by way of a harsh comment). What I will do is stick in the ones that struck me most. Bear with
me, there is a reason for this music geek moment.
Before we do the live versions, the
album recording, for reference purposes.
Laid back, no? It's almost like he's
caressing the words as he sings, all gentle like, very mellow, very
unlike what's typical in soul music. As it turns out, how he sang
the song was very deliberate...
"I'm in here
trying to blow the studio top off," Green says, "and Willie
kept saying, 'No, just say it.' I'm going, like, 'I think I need to
just muscle up and sing it.' He said, 'Don't try to handle the song,
Al. Just let the song happen. Just let it happen. Just let it ooze
out and let it — that's right.' "
"I wanted
this golden voice on it, and he kept giving me somebody else's
voice," Mitchell says. "And that's why we just kept going
over and over and over and over again. Yeah. When he nailed it, I
said, 'That's the one.' "
Now compare that gentle with this live
performance, a few years after it's release...
It's a concert performance, he's
shirtless and sweaty (hello reverend...), and a bit less restrained,
which in turn means the song has a bit less mellow to it and a bit
more of the longing/urgency we've come to associate with R&B. And yet he still manages to keep the song quiet.
Fast forward 15 years, the song evolved
into funk...
...and gospel celebration...
At this point the song had already
become a soul anthem, which is what made this my favourite clip of
the afternoon...
Do you see/hear how the Apollo reacts? I don’t care what anyone says, there is no way you weren’t
getting down when you watched this, not if you love this song, not
unless you're a bloody...say it with me...philistine.
Don’t worry, I haven’t been gone
from the blog so long that I actually think you buggers play these
thingis. I know you're sitting there reading this with one eye and
wondering when, or if, I'll get to the point of this little two step
down memory lane. Patience, grasshopper, I'm getting there.
Why, oh tell me, why do people break
up,
Then turn around and make up,
I just can’t see…
You’ll never do that to me, would you
babe,
This song has been on the soundtrack
before, way back in 2012. I wrote a post about blogging, more accurately about no longer blogging. I was giving myself a long winded woiyee, such as I do, to mourn
what seemed to be the end of blogging by people I loved reading. It
was a bit of a bittersweet post, as was the version of the song I
used, Ms Tina's (still the most excellent) cover (on the soundtrack). As fate
would have it, I ended up in the rut I spoke of, the 'cant blog,
won't blog' rut. Now I'd love to tell you there was some brilliant
reason behind it, but there wasn’t, not really. I just woke up one
day and realised I had nothing to say. No, that's a lie, a shameless
one at that. I had lots to say, I just couldn’t be bothered to say
it. I was tired, 'I feel it in my bones' kinda tired. See, what
they don’t tell you about blogging, ideally before you start, is
what happens when you go digging in the recesses of your mind,
digging up shit that perhaps shouldn’t be dug up. That shit starts
to fuck with your mind, slowly making you even more neurotic than you
are (yes, that is in fact possible). It gets to the point where all
you want to do is curl up in the foetal position and eat chocolate,
without thinking, or over analysing, or picking every little thing
apart looking for some godforsaken answer that will in all likelihood
never help your life in any way. It becomes a bit much, is all I'm
saying, makes it hard to do this blogging thing.
And then I heard a song that reminded
me of this my baby, and I read the old post, and now here I am
clawing my way out of the strange, self-indulgent rut.
Good personal blogging is, to my mind,
honest above all else. Not honest in the sense of 'thou shalt not
lie', everybody lies, it's simply a matter of omission or commission. I'm talking about honest in the sense of unvarnished truth. The
good, the bad and the ugly. I've always told myself that there is no
point to any tale if I'm only telling you the shiny-happy bits and I
can only hope I've managed to keep to my word, this in my attempt to
be a good blogger. From the conversations I've had about the blog
during my time away, conversations with disgruntled readers (these buggers can lecture like you wouldn’t believe, you'd think they'd
paid a subscription or such like, greedy so and so's), turns out what
I considered 'the ugly' is a large part of why they, and possibly
you, kept coming back here, week after week. Well, that and the sex
stuff. Fine, mostly the sex stuff, dammit. I'll admit, the not so
shiny bits are harder to write, and read, but let's face it, without
them, this would be one long soliloquy about songs that make me
happy. Wait, most of these posts are long soliloquies about songs
that make me happy, no? Sorry, my bad. I lie, again, I'm not sorry.
According to my uber opinionated
audience sample, the best part of the blog for them is the part I
struggle with most. Thing is, I stopped blogging because I was tired
of having all of you (pointing at all 8 of you) in my
house (taps head), poking about, moving things around, making tea at
odd hours, drinking my booze, leaving a mess behind for me to clean
up. That's what happens, see, I climb into yours (tap your own head)
and you climb into mine. Does that sound creepy? Good, it's meant
to. In the spirit of being completely honest with you, I didn’t
feel like being honest any more. I felt over-exposed, like I was
naked in the town square and people were throwing (sometimes not too)
ripe tomatoes at me. That analogy is a bit dodgy, but fuck
it, you know what I mean. As it turns out, yes, I am naked in the
square, but, and this is the bit that made my head spin a little, my
nakedness makes you feel naked, and you like it. My lovelies, turns
out we are all naked here.
I almost pulled off deep and
meaningful until that last bit. Almost.
At the beginning of the post I talked
about how Mr Green sang the album version of the song, all soft and
mellow. In the article I pulled the quote from, they talk
about the Rev learning to “let loose his vulnerable side, when
the song called for it”, as opposed to singing in the 'belt it
out' style favoured by musicians at the time, a style that did
nothing to show off his greatest talent. “Al Green is a singer
who does more with a whisper than a scream.” That was the
point to all those versions I put up. In as much as he was singing
the same song, over and over again, the music tweaked just so to fit
his varied audience and his evolving persona, the meaning of the song
never changed, and neither did the way he sang it, not really. In
almost every performance I've found, that rare ability to sing gentle
(even when he's singing loud) always makes the song feel personal, to
him and to the people listening. Isn’t that what this particular
brand of blogging, writing and reading, is all about? Our themes are
constant, life and love and all the messy stuff in between, but our
context is constantly changing, as we grow older, learn from our
mistakes, make more mistakes, win some, lose some... I was worried
that I was starting to repeat myself, getting frustrated (and
sometimes embarrassed) at picking at the same issues over and over,
but now I’m thinking, that's the nature of the song, no?
She shrugs and walks off in search of a
glass of wine and socks...
I have never been so happy it's Sunday evening. Not even the
thought of Monday morning tomorrow can bring me down. Ladies and
gentlemen, this little experiment is finally over, and the end
couldn’t have come any sooner. I didn’t think I'd live to say
this, but I am all talked out. Wait, that's not entirely true. I
have a few choice things to say about the idiot MPs who felt the need
to act like fools last night, but that can wait. Apart from that I
have nothing to say. Although there was this brilliant article I
read about porn addiction and how its complete bollo...no...nothing to say tonight. Tonight I let other
people speak.
I present to you part of my current playlist, inspired/created
almost entirely by the brilliant people I follow on twitter (while
it is still the work of the devil, I've finally accepted that I have
sold my soul, and embraced it. Most of it. Well, about a tenth
of it. I've digressed...). I'd love to take credit for what you're
about to see and hear, but save for putting them in some sort of
discernible order, this list has nothing to do with me and everything
to do with the kindness of strangers.
That's also a disclaimer in
case you get offended by something and you feel the need to rant huko
chini.
First up, Ms Eartha Kitt.
Have you ever listened to someone and you sat up straight, goosebumps on your arms, back of your neck
tingling? That's what happened when I clicked play on this clip. Ms
Kitt speaks with such clarity its a little frightening, no one should
be this sure of themselves, right? Wrong. We should all be so lucky
to know our minds this well, and speak them without fear. When I
finally find the documentary from which this clip is taken, you best
know I will return to this most fascinating woman.
In keeping with the theme of women
speaking their minds, Ms Janet, who's
been on my playlist
since December.
I'm not sure how to explain just how
important Janet, last name Jackson, is, I suspect I’ll have to do a
separate post on her. This woman was and still is the shit. Ignore
the dodgy Tyler Perry movies, her genius is almost as great as her
brother's, hell, she only loses points because his voice was in a
class of its own. 'You want this' is what a sexy video should look
and sound like, oh ye younglings fond of girls shaking their thonged
asses for the camera. I'm just saying, Nicki ain’t got shit on
Janet, never has never will. Useless fact, back in the day we all
wanted to look like Janet. We didn’t have the body, or the face,
but we had the braids, dammit. Another useless titbit, I can still
pull off the MC Lyte rap perfectly and my sister still does that
kuteremka dance step like the aspiring video vixen she was back in
the day. Yes, my family is a bit special.
Special, in a good way, describes this
chap quite aptly...
I had never heard of dub poetry before
I played this clip, now I can't get enough of it. This was a bit of
a mind fuck for me, reggae plus rap/spoken word. Its gorgeous music
and words that make sense. Brilliant, and so confusing to my lover's rock loving ass.
Speaking of spoken, this is my latest
crush...
Smart, articulate, gorgeous, funny as hell, and she
swears like a sailor. How can I resist Staceyanne Chin? I've had her playlist on in the background while I work for the past two weeks. I think I
love her.
I also love these two...
This reminds me of the Whedon version of 'Much Ado About Nothing', the one in B&W. It's the rapid dialogue cum poetry, fascinates me to no end, probably because I talk quite slowly (because I think even slower). I figure if poetry reminds me of Shakespeare, good Shakespeare, and mind you I struggle with the bard, then it's a keeper. These two are brilliant.
Speaking of brilliant...
So I've been getting music lessons of sorts from these two junkies I follow, they who like to fuck up my playlist
at random, because they can. Its a bit fuzzy how I ended up at Chuck
Brown (it probably had something to do with Chef, the movie), but I’m glad I did. This is funk, pure unadulterated funk. As is this one...
You know how you click a link to prove
someone wrong? I clicked on this because I thought there is no way
it could be anywhere near as funky as he claimed it would be, its a random white dude for crying out loud. I now
have all of Mayer Hawthorne's music. Woi.
I could keep going, but I suspect I’m
already pushing it. One last one, to say asante,
for keeping me company this week.
This was definitely not one of my more intelligent
plans. Who the hell does 7 posts in 7
days? ‘Do we not have jobs to go to?’
she asked herself last night, as she shrugged off the fast waning urge to blog. Then I woke up this morning ashamed, ‘Surely,’
I implored myself, ‘surely you can scrabble together a random list?’ I know, it’s cheeky, but when all else fails,
write a list. The interwebs is built on
pointless lists. To wit…
A Not Particularly Useful List Of Things I Thought About While Sitting In
Traffic Today.
1.Why are the traffic cops still
controlling traffic at the roundabout, when the lights work just fine?
I’m not sure how many more times I can rant
about this before I lose what little is left of my mind and stone a cop. Seriously, government of the great county of Nairobi, what the hell? Buggers installed newfangled technology and
ef’thing, complete with a countdown, at great cost. And then?
Just when we hit the all important critical mass of drivers obeying the
lights (and no longer hooting at you when you’re the one idiot that stops at a
red light, because stopping at a red light is such an insane thing to do), the
cops come out and shit goes right back to fuck.
Throw in the lack of parking and the CBD becomes a no go zone for
drivers. Which is why I was in a bus…
2.Why is the aisle in the
bus so bloody narrow?
Now listen here bus fabricator people, some
of us (read, me) are slightly wider than a coin and therefore cannot slither
through those little gaps you falsely label aisles. Don’t laugh at me, you try weaving through that
slit carrying a huge hand bag, trying not to rub your ass in some strangers
face, or decapitate another with your laptop bag, all while trying not to trip
over someone’s awkwardly placed feet or (my favourite) the omnipresent gunia of whatever, and this while the
bus driver is swerving in and out of whatever lane he clearly doesn’t think he
should be in. But hey, it’s only for a
minute or two, while you make your way to your seat. Ptuh! What
seat?
3.Why, oh why, won’t other
passengers make space for you (me) on the back seat?
It’s bad enough I had to squeeze my way
down the entire length of the bus, but when I got there these buggers wouldn’t make
space for me. These two women, irritated
at my sudden intrusion (mind you, its not like I popped out of nowhere all
magical like, they’d watched me walk towards them for a full two minutes, bumping
and apologising my awkward way down, only for them to stare up at me blankly), these lovely women moved apart a whopping
two inches, and then looked up at me with a shrug. Now I’m a laid back kinda chick myself, not
looking to start nothing, but these women were looking to get smacked. The conductor is shouting to me from the
front of the bus, ‘Kiti huko nyuma!’ The women are nudging the men beside them to
move. An additional two inches was
created. Four inches of clear space, narrower
than the aisle. ‘Songa huko nyuma!’ he hollers.
No further movement. He stomps
down the aisle at speed (how do they do that?).
‘Boss, hii space siwezi toshea,’
I tell him, pointing at my hips, hips wider than four inches. He looks at the four inches, then back at
me. He nods. ‘Kiti huko mbele!’ Stop laughing. Listen, my hips are not that wide, they're just not 4 inch skinny, dammit.
4.Why are bus seats so small
though?
Those geniuses tried to make space for
me. They didn’t try so hard, but they
tried. Problem is, those seats are made
for children. Small children. They are not nearly wide enough and they have
barely any leg room. As for the genius
who thought a seat that sits three was a good idea in a bus, well… The one thing I regret about the Michuki Rules
and the changes they wrought was what they did to the buses. Remember the old KBS/Stagecoach buses? The bit with packing us in like sardines wasn’t
good, but when the buses weren’t overcrowded they were the best thing
ever. Bright and airy; comfortable seats
without unnecessary accessories like head rests; an aisle wide enough to walk through without having a discussion about your hips, or ass, or boobs, or your belly (ahem); slow enough that you didn’t
need a seat belt and a prayer to feel safe… Good
times.
5.Have you noticed we don’t litter
at bus stops any more?
I didn’t think we’d ever stop tossing our
tickets wherever as we alighted. Not too
long ago you knew where the stage was not by the sign but by the rubbish on the
ground, and the obligatory maize seller.
These days, not a scrap of paper in sight. Well, the odd scrap, but not a ticket, at
least not in the CBD. Who would have
thought? Perhaps now we can stop throwing
crap everywhere else? No? Baby steps.
6.I don’t think those hand
held scanners work.
Either that or they are finely tuned, very
finely tuned. I didn’t think so either. Makes for a reassuring gesture I guess, although
it gets me thinking, if the bus is jacked, or god forbid blown up, can I sue
the bus company for negligence, assuming I don’t die?
7.Bus drivers have split
personalities.
When I’m driving, the bus driver is the one
guy I can count on to cut me off and then swear at me. When I’m his passenger, he’s the nicest
fellow, happily chatting to me like we’re old friends, telling me about his kid
who’s just started school, even as he’s cutting off another driver to his right,
and swearing at them. Split
personalities those ones. In fairness, I
should point out that I may, possibly, drive as badly as he does, and I definitely swear
at other drivers worse than he does, and I'm almost as charming to my
passengers too, but in my defence, I already know I have several personalities all
up in here (motions at hips…yes, you can nod…). Guess that means I should become a bus driver.
Every four years the world, or at least
the part of the world with interest in matters football, comes to as
close to a standstill as we can manage, Al Shabaab, Boko Haram and
IDF allowing. I can see you frowning, unhappy that I've chosen to
return to that which kept me away from you, but I promised to do this
post, if only to get Woolie out of his peculiar funk when it comes to
what I considered one of the more enjoyable tournaments we've had in
a while. Well, one of the most enjoyable first halves of a
tournament we've had in a while.
The group stages of the tournament were
a joy to watch, beautiful football, a touch of unpredictability (but
only a touch. Thank you very much, Cameroon, for failing to deliver,
as always), goals galore and suspiciously talented youngster with a
name that confounded the commentators (in fairness, one would expect
that James would be pronounced as James, no?). The round of 16 games
were the longest four nights of my year, with mostly crappy matches
dragging out into penalties (thank you, Costa Rica, for the most
boring goal ever to be scored in open play). Would you believe my
highlight of that stage was Algeria? Yes, Algeria, the bastards who
beat out my lovely Burkinabe to the finals proved to be most
entertaining. That was most odd. And Musa, lovely Musa... The boy
is a genius. The problem with these big tournaments, once all the
lively upstarts have been bumped off, it reverts to business as
usual. Or not. The semi final threw up possibly the most
humiliating thrashing in World Cup history. Quick question, did
anyone else feel like they were watching a fake match? The first 30
minutes of Germany v Brazil were surreal, it was like exhibition
football. For anyone who doesn’t understand the love people have
for the game, watch the crowd reaction, people don’t cry like that
for no reason.
Football is more than 22 people kicking a
piece of inflated leather around for 90 plus minutes. It's a bloody
love story, complete with unlikely heroes and evil villains,
unexpected heartbreak and happily ever afters. I know, I'm making it
sound like a cheesy movie, but in some ways it is, no? Where else
would you find an idiot biting another idiot, just because? Or a
broken back? Or a flying Dutchman? Or a super sub goalkeeper? Hang
on, can we talk about about that substitution? That shit was not
right, it just wasn’t. Football is fucking brilliant, is what it
is.
For your withdrawal symptoms I give you
a couple of video montages, because what is football without a
mash-up of goals and fouls set to music, no?
Here's the arty homage
to Brazil from the BBC...
...and the heart-string pulling goalfest from ESPN.
Now that I have you basking in the
afterglow of a month well spent, how about we take a little detour
down a rabbit hole? First we turn to the defining music of football,
to my mind. Today's soundtrack is 'Nessun Dorma' by Luciano
Pavarotti, from the 1990 World Cup, the first one I watched with real
seriousness. Before that I was watching because everyone else was
watching and I had no choice, being the last born in the house, but
in 1990 I was home alone with the parents for long stretches, and
because my father couldn’t (still can't) sit through a match
without falling asleep, the TV was all mine. It was bliss. I became
a World Cup junkie that year, and with my addiction came a peculiar
fascination with peculiar music I didn’t understand. No, not
Soukouss (Roger Milla taught us, me, how to dance at a corner flag), I'm
talking about opera. 'Nessun Dorma' wasn’t the official song of
the tournament, but BBC used it with such spectacular success it
ended up on the charts (with matching video montages, of course) and
in due course it became a bit of a sports anthem. I have to make an
embarrassing confession at this point, I always though opera was
unintelligible nonsense, the Latin 'shoobeeedooowup!', but with an
orchestra and powerful vocals. I should point out that I am horrible
with languages. Up until this week I had no idea what this song was
about, and I'd never thought to find out. Shock on me when I read
the lyrics and discovered it's a fascinating tale. From Wikipedia, this aria is taken, “from the final act of Giacomo
Puccini's opera 'Turandot'”.
Nessun
dorma! Nessun dorma! Tu pure, o Principessa, nella tua fredda stanza,
guardi le stelle che tremano d'amore, e di speranza!
(English
translation: None shall sleep! None shall sleep! Even you, O
Princess, in your cold bedroom, watch the stars that tremble with
love and with hope!)
Ma il mio
mistero è chiuso in me; il nome mio nessun saprà ! No, No! Sulla tua
bocca lo dirò quando la luce splenderà !
(But my
secret is hidden within me; none will know my name! No, no! On your
mouth I will say it when the light shines!)
Ed il mio
bacio scioglierà il silenzio che ti fa mia!
(And my
kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine!)
(Vanish,
o night! Fade, you stars! Fade, you stars! At dawn, I will win! I
will win! I will win!)
Vincerò!
Do you see now why I compare football
to a love story, and why this song is my default World Cup song? It's the high and low, and high again, of a game, in music. It speaks to
our misguided, nay, blind faith in bastards who always break our
hearts.
I've been gone too long. Apologies,
but the combination of World Cup distractions, low temperatures and general
lethargy have combined to keep me away longer than I intended. I
shall attempt to make up for my errant behaviour over the next couple
of weeks, but for tonight allow me to clear some cobwebs, get my
fingers up to speed, my brain ticking over as it should. Bear with
me, I need to get into the right frame of mind to write the
posts that need to be written. I can't do sewer when I'm pissed off
at the government, not unless I'm writing about sodomy with a foreign object (hint: things I want to do to someone with a broom handle). I can't
get fluffy when all I want to do is slap the idiot press for pretty
much everything they've done over the past month (I'mma start with
KBC, the idiots who thought to ringa with their signal,
bloody nkt!). I can't even indulge in my bullshit alien
conspiracies, now that I am convinced they walk amongst us (CORD, I'm
looking at you...). I need to detour a bit, and then resume normal
service over the weekend. Yes?
Disclaimer: This post shall be vague,
and rambling, and shall have absolutely no moral whatsoever. I'm
just having a bit of a chat is all, such as I do, and playing you a
couple of tunes. On the up side, this is all about random music. That’s always fun, right? Right? Just nod.
I've ended up following a couple of
music junkies on twitter (it's still the work of the devil that one), because I
consider myself quite the aficionado and I was looking to meet
kindred spirits. Shock on me when I keep getting taken to school. These fellas, they're the real deal, the depth and breadth of their
playlists is frightening. No really, real fear. I'm too scared to
tell anyone what I'm listening too, lest I am mocked for my gauche
taste in pop ballads. But that's over there. Here, in my house, I
can play all the nonsense I want, and you must love it. To wit, I need to tell you about
my dirty little secret love. Well, its not so much a secret as it is
a well concealed fact. I know I'm quite the oversharer, constantly
subjecting you to way too much TMI, but this one even I am too shy to
tell you about, until now. This man, walalalala...
I'm in love with a man. An older man. A man who should not be sexy, but dammit he is. A man who has been
accused, but never convicted mind you, of theft. A man whose hair
was slightly questionable, for way too long. A man who wears his
shirts a tad too unbuttoned even for my lascivious ass. Aaaahhh... Lovely Michael Bolton. I'm grinning stupidly at my screen, watching one of
his oh so romantic videos, with the ubiquitous beautiful people
making lovely even as they pine for love...
I'm swaying and ef'thing...
What?
Don’t look at me like that, I love
the man and I am okay with it. Scratch that, I am most proud of my
love for a 61 year old (yes, he is 61, that's how old we are) white
man best known for ripping off black soul artistes, and winning
Grammys for his effort. Now ordinarily, a man like this would be on
my list of men I plan to one day kidnap and torture in my basement,
but Mr Bolton came into my life when I was young and impressionable. Stop judging me, I first heard the man when I was in kendo
Standard 8, back when my music tastes were dictated by John Karani,
John Obongo Jnr and Jeff Mwangemi. If none of those names means
anything to you, this post is not for you. KBC (ptuh!)
had such a serious hard-on for this man, he was played all day;
Lunchtime Music, Sundowner, Late Date... There is no one in my age
set who is unfamiliar with 'Soul Provider'. Admittedly, most don’t
much care for the man, in public, but you belt out one of Mr Bolton's
many ballads at karaoke and watch the geriatric bastards sing along
(fellow lovers of easy listening pop/rock, I see you...). I have
known this man for 24 plus years. That's longer than I have known
any of my close friends, longer than I have owned any one pair of
shoes, hell, as long as I have been menstruating. That last one was
too much, yes? Yes. (Sewer gear...check!) Michael and I go back, way back, talk smack about him at your own
peril.
There I am, happily singing along to a random playlist
helpfully provided by the lovely geniuses at YouTube (they who seem
to have me pegged as someone who is in dire need of sanitary towels,
if the Always ads they insist on showing me are anything to go by),
and I stumble upon one of my favourite songs...
Now this particular song is the reason
my black passport will be confiscated, for real. I am ashamed to say
this, but I've always considered his cover much better than the
'original'. Wait, don’t lynch me, let me explain. The first time
I heard the song, it was this cover, to my mind, this was the
original. You can imagine my dismay when I heard Ray Charles
sing it. Why now? He was so...throaty. And there was no Kenny G,
dammit! Again, don't lynch me. Yes, I loved Kenny G too, but not
too much. I've lied, I thought that curly haired bugger was the
shit, up until I grew up and got some education as to what real jazz
sounded like, which then took me back to Ray Charles, but with a
greater appreciation for his genius. Ray is brilliant, but,
truth be told, I still prefer Mr Bolton's vocals. Before you revoke
my negro credentials, listen and tell me what you think.
The sumptuous orchestra on this track makes his a completely different song; less 'woe is me' love song and more gentle serenade. I don't think I should even compare the two, they're like chalk and cheese. This is how I get out of my self created awkward corner, yes? Yes.
Detour. I keep saying 'original' because I
have recently learned that Ray Charles
covered the real original, written in 1930, by Hoagy Carmichael and
Stuart Gorell. Yup, all you Bolton haters, he didn’t steal this
one from our people (that I can tell), so there. It gets better, the
song was written for Hoagy's sister, Georgia, which explains the
lyrics. Why would someone talk about smiling tenderly when
singing about a place, especially in America? I'm not being mean,
I'm just saying, it's the South, Jim Crow and shit, smiling
tenderly is not what comes to mind, not in 1930. Don’t look at me like that, I
watched Roots, and Malcolm X. (Conspiracy theory gear...check!) Singing about the
state is odd, but singing about a woman, now that’s just about
right. The best part of this little nugget I stumbled upon, the
original is bloody spectacular, jazz orchestra the works. Again,
listen before you slap me...
It's good, no? No? I don’t know why
I bother with you ungrateful Philistines. Detour over.
Scrolling down the Ray Charles
playlist, I came upon this lovely gem...
Sound vaguely familiar? Rap being rap,
they took one random line and spun it into that most addictive hook
from 'Gold Digger', 'She take my money...'. I came across the
song some time last year, on Treme, the TV show. It was one of those
moments when you hear a song and the hairs on the back of your neck
stand up, and you think, 'Fuck me sideways!' Odd thing is, that show is
so fucking brilliant, those moments come along roughly 5 times per
episode, at least. I know you think I'm off on one of my misguided
tangents, but listen to this and tell me I lie...
Detour. If you like this, go out and
get the TV show, then get the music. This is the only show I know
with several sites dedicated specifically to the soundtrack, episode by
episode over four seasons. It's a music junkie's heaven, plus it has
some of the best writing and acting I've seen in a good long while. As with all things brilliant, it has, however, since ended, HBO saw fit to kill
that story. I blame Obama, I blame him for everything these days,
him and el presidente, just because. (Ranting gear...no check, trying to
disengage...) Detour over.
While googling for the Treme version I wanted to revisit, I stumbled upon a live performance of the same by Stevie Wonder. Being that I am loose like a langa, and
Stevie is, well, Stevie, I clicked play, and thus began another walk
down memory lane. This man is the voice of my childhood, him and MJ
and Lionel. 'Part Time Lovers' was the song, no? Scrolling down his
playlist takes me back to the first time I watched a colour
television. I have no idea why. Issues. Listen to this man sing...
This song though. I'm not sure there's
anything I can say about it. His voice is most fascinating, in some
ways its an instrument in its own right. R&B these days is all
woowoowoo bullshit, but this is what it should be about. Clear
voice, control, lyrics that make sense, music that did not come out
of a computer. It's art, is what it is. Now I'm guessing there's a
youngling who'll listen to this and think, this guy sounds like John
Legend. I see you nodding, you poor soul. There's nothing new
under the sun, my lovely, now you know. All of me isn’t all that
new, is all I'm saying. Yes, I am laughing an evil laugh. I googled
the two, hoping to find a clip of the them on the same stage, and I
did, kinda.
My people, when Mr Wonder introduces someone as
'overwhelmingly incredible', you need to listen. You don’t have to
agree, just listen. In one of those creepy coincidences that tend to
happen when you're online way too long, someone put three songs I
absolutely love in one performance, thereby rendering me speechless
for 10 minutes. I watched this clip in awe, 'hand in the air,
hallelujah!' awe...
Ms Corinne Bailey Rae should need no
introduction, but she's so brilliantly eclectic she's often
overlooked when we talk about good music. Watch this concert and
tell me she hasn’t won you over...
Isn't she just the most gorgeous
creature? Come on... If this doesn't move you, then you are a cold heartless bastard unworthy of good music.
John Legend on the other hand is a
staple, whether you like him or not, Kenyan FM has decided he is the
man they will play until our ears bleed. 'Coming Home' is...fitting. As much as we hate to admit it, us and
our langa government, we are at war, most of the time with ourselves,
and trying to come home.
We'll make it home again
Back where
we belong again We're holding on to when We used to dare to
dream
We pray, we live to see Another day
in history Yes, we still believe...
Detour. These two artistes do a mean
duet. Their cover of 'Where is the love', off his live album, almost
outdoes the original. Almost. For all their brilliance, Donny
Hathaway cannot be beaten, and because I know you don’t believe me
(you never do, do you?), here's the original with Roberta Flack. Further detour, as I was wandering through Mr Hathaway's playlist, I found a live version of 'Someday we'll all
be free'. I'd explain my obsession with the man, but it's easier to let you figure it out for yourself...
Keep your self-respect, your man, the
pride
Get yourself in gear, keep your stride Never mind your
fears Brighter days will soon be here
Take it from me someday, we'll all be
free, yeah...
If you do nothing else this week, get
yourself one of his albums, the man was true genius, the likes of
which we rarely see these days. You shall thank me later. It was
inevitable that this song would lead me to his live cover of 'What's
Going On', which in turn could only lead to Marvin Gaye himself, he
that was shot by his father, useless twit, the father, that is. Wait, both of them were equally foolish, no? This album is described as the seminal album for black conscious music, yaani he sang about more than pretty women, unheard of for an Motown musician at the time, or so they say. I wasn't born yet, so don't quote me.
Mother, mother
There's too many of
you crying Brother, brother, brother There's far too many of
you dying
You know we've got to find a way To
bring some lovin' here today, yeah... Lakini, if
I need to tell you about Marvin, then we cannot have a discussion. If
you don’t like him, that’s another story, I'll fight with your
dodgy ass later. Detour over.
The last of the trio on that Stevie Wonder clip, John Mayer, now
he is a truly special bastard. Honestly, I'm not entirely sure he's
sane. Any man who refers to his dick as racist, well, he's a star. I absolutely love his no-filter mouth, and I love his music more. I
know a man who is about to send me a strongly worded email tukana-ing
me for that statement, but fuck it, this man plays blues guitar like
someone three decades older and several skin tones darker. 'Gravity'
is moody music, just what you need when you're in a funk and
unwilling to climb out. Strange thing is, this is just what I needed to
get me out of my funk. Go figure.
Oh, twice as much ain't twice as
good
And can't sustain like one half could It's wanting more
that's gonna send me to my knees
Whoa gravity, stay the hell away from
me Whoa gravity has taken better men than me How can that be?
And to wrap up this random walkabout,
we return to (almost) the beginning, with my 'strange white man with
a penchant for covering black man classics' fixation. The beginning
of 'Gravity' has a riff off this beauty...
I still want you to stay
I still
love you anyway I don't want you to ever leave Girl, you just
satisfy me, me...
Possibly related, I now
have the title for my next post. Chitty chitty, bang bang. Bang
here refers to...
...but I'm almost home. While you wait, wander over to Woolie's, he offered me shelter while I was out perambulating, but I had to sing for my supper, and oh how I sang.
The bloody internet is a cold and cruel
place, man, cold and cruel. Can you believe someone somewhere stole
my tunes? All of them. Swiped the whole damn folder and everything. Hell, they stole the bloody account too, and now I have no cloud
storage to stream from. I mean really, how low can a bugger go? How
low, dammit? Do I sound slightly hysterical? That's because I am. It's like someone snuck in and stole my babies, all dingo like. Bloody useless mother... Nkt! Cold and cruel this internet...
On a brighter note, I now have a
YouTube thingimajigi. Woohoo! My people, the tunes are now audiovisual,
because it's 2014 and we are advanced and shit. Ahem. There's a
handy little gadget in the right hand column (in the web layout),
helpfully titled THE SOUNDTRACK, soon to have the entire playlist
(I'm working backwards, might take a while). I have to warn you, some songs have no
videos, because they're old (yaani pre-MTV), but better a song with
no video than no song at all, no? Thought so. Slight detour. Please, please, please listen to MJ's acapella version of 'Wanna Be
Starting Something', it is most brilliant. Stop frowning and just
listen to the bloody song, you useless buggers. See how I did that? Beg, then demand, just like our Gavana. Insert own nkt! Detour
over. Enjoy the tunes, and the videos. Yes, I do realise that I
should have done this from the get go, but in my defence, I'm a bit
slow, technologically.
Speaking of slow, I'm finally tweeting,
6 tweets and counting. I know, muchos impressive, no? Nod. Good. The way I figure, rather than struggle to figure out how to share my
random reading lists on the blog(s), si I just tweet the links? I know,
absolute genius. Or not, I have 5 followers, one of whom has been
following for about 2 years (during which time I didn’t tweet so
much as a LMFwhateveritscalled, the second is Woolie (a.k.a. inciter
number one, he that's teaching me how to tweet...kinda...not really...), the third is a random mzungu, and the last two are one
company of unknown origin. Clearly, I shall be a raging success, no? Probably not, but when has that ever stopped me? If you like the
random links I post in the research section, and over at Dunia, find
me na huko, @alex_kainikii.
Na kwa hayo machache, I shall now
attempt to put up a real post.
I forgot my own anniversary, ten days
ago. After spending the better part of last month reflecting, I then
completely forgot. I am not a serious blogger, am I? Wait, I am in
fact not a serious blogger, am I? Which in turn means I get to
forget important shit like my two year anniversary, no? Yes. I
forgot, so there, bite me! You had no idea it was my anniversary,
did you? You just shook your head, didn’t you? Ah well... Happy
birthday to the blog, and my most sincere apologies for letting her
big day slide. Yes, it's a big day, any time I get to celebrate
doing something slightly useful for more than two minutes is a bloody
big day. Two years of rambling? Humongous day.
That's why I fucking forgot, see?
Know it sounds funny, but I just can't
stand the pain, Girl, I'm leaving you tomorrow, Seems to me,
girl, you know I've done all I can, You see I begged, stole, and I
borrowed, That's why I'm easy, I'm easy like Sunday morning...
I've spent the last couple of weeks
trawling through my archives, looking back, trying to figure out
where to go next. I originally set out to do a bit of spring
cleaning, dust the corners, throw out the stuff I've collected but
never use, restore some shine to old favourites, maybe even add a few
trinkets here and there, tart up the old girl a little, in
anticipation of her big day. These were my ideas, and feel free to
throw in some of your own, should you feel so led:
I've been thinking of naming her,
this lovely baby of mine, but Ian @ Doris has already made the naming thing his, and
now anyone else who tries just looks like a shady imposter. So no,
no name.
Maybe a new gimmick. I should
start putting pictures in, no? Better still, I should start doing
picture only posts, like a real artist. Not sure I can pull off
Jodo's rose story, though. Plus I can't take a picture worth a damn
so...
Perhaps video, rather than audio,
best of both worlds, no? Lakini, si everyone has YouTube? Audio
then, only.
Why don’t I add a new section,
to replace Dunia? Woolie is trying to rope me into his cooking schemes, but that takes more dedication than I currently possess. What do you think, should I cook for you? I can picture the look of
abject fear on your faces right now, you're trying to put the sewer
and a kitchen together and its scary, yes? Hmmm... I think I'll
try that one, just to fuck with you. Yes, my laughter is most evil
right now.
I should try poetry. If the Wolf can rhyme, then why not me? Hang on, the 'me' at the end of rhyme
doesn’t rhyme with me, does it? Dammit!
Maybe I should try a ka-fiction
story. Who knows, I might have some Ngugi tendencies lying dormant,
undiscovered, after two years of non-stop rambling. No, I'm not
buying that one either. But wait, what if I write porn fiction? Surely I can put together some half decent smut? I do have the
source material, and I do like the sewer, and the bar is
significantly lower, and now that Doc is gone (the king is dead,
long live the king) there's a gap in the market, no? Hmmm... But
why write it when it's so much more fun to read it on Adventures, or Tumblr? I
am a firm believer in never reinventing the wheel. And I'm a lazy
bugger.
Why not write about my travels,
like Flani, all travelling man with a pen like? That reminds me, I really should go somewhere one of
these days...
I should spend more time talking
about women's issues, all serious and what not. Because that's just what
the internet needs, another woman banging on about the girl child. No.
I know, why don’t I just write
more lists? Lists are always good. Its a scientifically proven
fact that a list can never be boring. I think I should stop writing
this particular list now...
For all my brilliant thinking, all I
managed to do was change a font and tweak the colour of the
soundtrack bar. I know, complete overhaul, muchos dramatic. Or not. Ideas anyone?
As with any half decent anniversary
post, which this is not, I must give thanks, stroke own ego, then
stroke yours, then make promises that I will completely ignore once
the post is up.
Ladies and gentlemen, lovers and
deviants, thank you for keeping me company for another year. Your
continued patience with me, even as I become more erratic by the
month, is most appreciated. Your visits make me smile, your
page-views make me sigh, and when you cut and paste my words, you
make me wanna cry. Haiya! I is poeting and shit! Woi... Thank you
for reading, even when I have nothing to say, bless your kind souls and eyes
(you do realise my blessings carry less weight than those of a TV
pastor? On the up side, at least I haven’t asked you for
money...yet). Thank you for your most lovely comments, they truly
make this blogging racket worthwhile. I, we, have had conversations
about love and cheating, Jesus and politics, music and books, porn
and fantasies, mkwajus and ripe bananas, Barclays and Chinese
roads... We talk, that's what we do around here, and dammit if its
not the best thing ever. Incidentally, JayK, whenever you get inspired to return, I'm still waiting for part two of something or the other. Just saying...
As for stroking my ego, there's not
much to say is there? I could tell you about my amazing stats (I
have a whopping 6 followers, one up from last year), but we all know
they are not all that amazing. I have nothing to brag about, I'm
just grateful google hasn’t shut me down yet. I would like to
praise you though, you lovelies deserve a stroke or two. The most
popular post on this blog, hands down, is SEDUCE MY MIND, PLEASE. I think that says everything that needs to be said about you, you
smart, sexy lovely people. Oddly enough, the most popular post over
the last 12 months is...wait for it...LIFE LESSONS FROM MEN IN SHORTS. Are you surprised? I am. Gobsmacked! I figured it might be an
anomaly, spammers and such like nonsense, so I looked to see the what
was number two, and it is...drums please...THIS ONE IS ABOUT POOR JUDGMENT, A HELICOPTER,SMALL CONDOMS, A CAMEL, PORN, AND A MIRACLE?
How now? Everything I thought I knew about your reading preferences is being
turned on its head right now. Turns out, you buggers aren’t only
smart and sexy, you like football (or tight shirts) and random bits
of news once in a while. It's not until you get down the list, past
ARE YOU THE ONE, FOR MS K? and ON THE DOWN LOW, past CONFESSIONS OF A (POSSIBLY DRUNK) STRANGER
and THIS DOPAMINE IS NO JOKE, MAN!, that you find a sewer tale, at number 7, SEX YOU? WHY THE HELL NOT! You sneaky buggers... You may not say it, but it shows, you don’t just read
the naughty bits, and you quite like the pseudo science bullshit. Excellent. Next time someone gives you a nasty look for reading my
blog, tell them the people here are most intelligent. Deviants, but
most intelligent deviants.
Slight detour. I've just realised I
shouldn’t have hived Dunia off. Oops. Talk about Kenyan
thinking: act first, plan later. Now I know.
Last, but hopefully not least, a
promise. I promise to keep sharing my tales of
batshit insane men with you, because you sadistic buggers love it
when I meet these strange men. I promise to keep talking about
things we don’t normally talk about, including bad sex, and maybe
good sex. I promise to keep throwing stones at the idiot politicians
and press (purely for my own benefit I realise, but at least this
way, when I get busted by Mzalendo, you get to say you were here when
the shit went down). I promise to piss you off every so often, just
because. I promise to make you laugh, even if you’re laughing at
me. And I promise to keep talking about random songs until you
finally give in and play the damn things, because I am nothing if not
persistent, no? Yes, its the same one from last year. No need to reinvent that wheel either, is
there?
Why in the world would anybody put
chains on me? I've paid my dues to make it, Everybody wants me
to be what they want me to be, I'm not happy when I try to fake
it, no, That's why I'm easy, I'm easy like Sunday morning...
'Easy' by The Commodores is my karaoke
song and I'll have you know I sing the shit out of this song (that may actually be quite
literal, unfortunately). On the surface, it seems like yet
another old song such as I like to wax lyrical about, but if you think about
it, it's a damn near perfect description of my flawed woman, and blogging, this blog
in particular. I love to sing it because I feel it, deep down; my
voice fits (kinda, let's not split hairs), and the lyrics fit, and
the song doesn’t require any fancy dance steps to pull off. Layered music with a guitar solo that's better than the vocals, the simplicity of this song belies the complexity beneath. Not unlike blogging, I think. It's easy. Did I just stroke my own ego? Why yes, I believe I did, she says, chuckling to herself.
Happy anniversary, my lovelies. Drinks
on me, if you can find me, I'll be the idiot crooning Lionel Richie in the corner, at 2 in the morning, in a dark bar, possibly alone...
You idiots, you must stop stealing
from me. Yes, you.
I've never bothered to do the whole copyright protected
disclaimer on this page because I figured no one would be silly
enough to steal from the sewer, right? Wrong. Seems there's no honour among deviants either.
Now I have had people 'borrow' from me
before, use me as their 'inspiration' for a topic, or subconsciously
using the odd 'no?' or 'my lovelies' as they speak. That's just
fine, I do the same thing myself, all the time. Odds are you can
tell what I'm reading by how, more importantly what, I write,
reflecting influences from Doc and the crazy sex lady on Salon,
through to Flani and Woolie, but I'd like to think that I never
blatantly rip them off, claiming their words, or styles, as my own. I take inspiration, and then I add them into mine, not me into
theirs. Some geniuses out there, however, are adding themselves to me, and
passing me, us, off as their individual brilliance.
That's a spectacularly shitty thing to
do, and it will stop, henceforth.
Cue awkward silence...
This is the best bit about the
interwebs, nothing will bloody change, will it? Buggers will come,
read, replicate, and life will move on. But before you choose to rob
my sewer, a word of wisdom, my lovelies. Sewer tales earn you the
unfortunate reputation of unseriousness. You will be written off by
the 'real' writers, those ones with poetry and shit, as nothing more
than an uncouth hack. You will never win a BAKE award, or be
nominated, not unless they start a sex blog section (I'm laughing
hysterically. That's never gonna happen, thankfully...). Now if the
sewer is something you genuinely love, that warning will make no
difference to you, because you know that to have certain
conversations you need to be in a hidden corner of the internet, away
from the moral bastards. If, however, you're using the sex to get
famous, don’t bother, and if you do, don’t steal my well thought
out and carefully researched sex (I am not mocking myself, this
time). Go out and get your own damn sex, you thieving little...
Woosaaaaa...
I don’t mind being robbed, but I
object to foolish, and lazy, robbers.
After spending the better part of yesterday glued to the internet, reading updates and scrolling through pictures, and after a long night of watching suspect TV, I woke up to more live coverage of an empty street, and the Citizen guy still going on about the 'fluid' situation (I don't think he's being sarcastic). I need a break, something to lift the mood.
To wit, a little bit of stand up. Fair warning, all are crude to some extent, all these comics are hands down certifiable and irreverent to a T, and at one point you will want to slap someone, possibly me.
