DROR EYAL saw in the new year at the annual Oppikoppi music festival
THE South African music explosion is a bit like God. Journalists resurrect it yearly, Barney Simon preaches it daily, but mankind never gets to see it. The Oppikoppi Moerit Boetie festival, which is held near Sun City, is set to change that.
For five days, white-boy rawkers replaced Bushveld civility with noise. Along with the music there was also bushveld, bushveld and kids flying on 11 herbs and spices screaming: “Ons is vrye koeie! (we are free cows)” before rushing off into the bushveld.
So we stuffed our boots under the shrink’s couch, tried to ignore the fact that the last Oppikoppi festival resulted in a bushfire, and prepared to spin out to 1997. First up on the bill were the legendary Naaimasjiene in their first appearance since their banning seven years ago. Possibly the only band in the world with alternatiewe Afrikaner bellydancers, the Naaimasjiene had the crowd in hysterics over their agitrock lyrics and hard grooves.
The hit of the festival were, however, Dorp, who bruised and cruised through their set with all the energy of a streaker at Queen Victoria’s funeral and had the crowd bopping away to their infectious brand of rock. The drummer kept up a relentless beat as they rushed offstage beating pots. Definitely the name to watch for in 1997.
The much-hyped Famous Curtain Trick provided light airy pop after the splintering Dorp. But if you’re going to listen to girlie rock, forget Famous Curtain Trick and their CNN accent and get wise to Henry Ate. Despite being short of a drummer, they slinked by on cute appeal and some fine acoustic material.
Day Two and I was sitting around waiting for something besides my New Year’s resolutions to kick in. Then the mighty industrial sounds of Battery Nege began terrifying the wildlife. Songs like Kiss the Machine and Vatso Jou Booswig consolidated Battery Nege’s hardcore reputation. When the crowd screamed for more, Paul and his crew showed their ironic side and played an unplugged version of the Macarena. As Koos Kombuis would say: “Ai, ai. Weird, weird scene.”
Despite some great bands, the local rock scene also offers a lot of mediocrity. Bands, who scream “play more local”, rehash the same old tired formulas and clichs. But you can’t sell this to the kids who know what they want. When you have to throw T-shirts to get people to dance, you know its time for change. When they throw them back, its time to break up.
Day Three, and Ark took to the stage. I hit the beer tent as they went through all the same old moves. But then it was time for Billygoat. They delivered a raucous concoction of moonshine and cowpunk. Plum played as though their insane-in-the-brain funk hybrid was as effortless as spliffing up and dropping out. The crowd rinkhalsed along despite the rain.
Day Four (or is it Five)? As enough reefers were smoked to float a small hot-air balloon, White Trash’s vocalist sang with the fort of Tom Waits going down on the Titanic. Songs like PMS Junkie were a psychotic screamfest, but the rest of the band never really kept up.
It was nearing midnight and the legendary Valiant Swart intimidated the old year into submission with hard-edged rock. It was time to kick back with some homegrown.
The Oppikoppi festival is setting the timer on the South African music explosion and breeding the next generation of terrorists. We have some fine white-boy rawk to look forward to.