“Are we sure we’re going the right way?”
We’re walking up from the parking area, with a bunch of other people following us, including my friend Savannah and a few familiar Cape Town faces. Now we’re questioning whether we’re even heading in the right direction.
Getting here has already taken a winding road around Simon’s Town and Red Hill, then a sharp left toward a sign for The Imaginarium. We park at what looks like a farm homestead, with multiple homes on the property and a bunch of cars in a parking area. A rope cordons off access, and the rest of the journey is apparently on foot. No one tells me about this fucking “hike”.
We turn around and trek back towards the cars, only to be told we were going the right way originally. At this point, my friend Lauren gets the blame for the “hike” and for taking us back. Fuck sakes, 1 out of 5 stars for this event so far; I hate hiking, especially with a camera bag full of gear.
I calm down as we finally reach The Imaginarium, which resembles an aeroplane hangar or some sort of bunker; I mean, it is Scarborough after all, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there are wealthy AF, white doomsday preppers afoot here. Scarbs! Love it here; the whites here are rich but humble, hippy and happy.
Inside, the decor is straight out of a Pangea, Red Telephone or Origin Festival techno stage: red drapes, fairy lights, carpets, and bean bags, of course, mandatory in the rich hippy-dippy community.
THERE IS NO FUCKING BAR though.
They’re selling healthy drinks and vegan food. And by healthy drinks, I mean kombucha, organic ginger beer, all the shit these Kommetjie, Scarborough, hippy-loving motherfuckers enjoy. BYOB vibes, which is cool, but my crew are not prepared to leave this off-the-beaten-track venue just in an attempt to find a liquor store.
Also, I’m not wysing kak here at the organisers, the venue, or anyone else—just myself; I should read the event description properly. One note, though, to the promoter and owner of this lush venue: you need to get better door people, mate. We all waltz right in for free, but SALUTAS, I’m mos writing this review, so hold your bek, lol.
Enter Lionel G, jazz aficionado and VIP at many jazz shows. Somehow, he locates someone working on the property and manages to get us some brandy, which he pays for. Lionel G saves the day. Now we’ve got brandy chased with Leo.
Some chit-chat and fluent sabela to try to scare the whites, but they just laugh with me (or at me) with my rendition of Mongrels: “I GIVE HIM BREADT, I PROTEC HIM.” The fun is in the contrast: a bit of skollie delivery in the middle of all these very chilled, very boho vibes. Then a fat conversation with Lauren’s bro, Jared, the barefooted white-adjacent guitarist from Bam Bam Brown’s band.
For Hayley Jade, the opening act, outside the performance area/bunker seems like the best spot. Why? I’m railed up on Ritalin and other tings, with voice notes to make for this review.
Hayley Jade’s lyrics are supercharged with emotion, angst and trauma from the many failed relationships she’s endured. Her voice is angelic, sort of Mazzy Star meets Lauren from Men I Trust, and her sound fits perfectly into the realm of dream-pop folk. Soft, floaty vocals, with all this raw relationship kak sitting underneath them. Everything sounds dreamy, and then the words start getting a bit too fucking close. The sweetness in her voice almost makes the hurt worse.
Rollie after rollie, ginger beer brandy in hand. Then a single tear, and a little break away from the performance area. I head down into the bushes, quick wipe of the face, a moment to get it together. I can’t have my crew or any of these strange but beautiful hippy-adjacent people see me like this—I am triggered by a lyric that takes me right back to the time I was a horrendous male to my first girlfriend.
My friends Madison and Bronwyn find me patting one of the many hounds (yes, duh, this venue is both doggo-friendly and child-friendly—gross—as one might expect from a gig at a venue in the upper echelon of the deep south). We decide it is time for another bump and proceed to find a windless bush, where we happily snarf up some primo Peruvian, followed by a lekker pyp of the Blockberry AAA-grade weed from my maansak that’s currently falling apart.
When we get back to the show area, Bam Bam Brown and his talented backing band are well into their first track. As always, Bam Bam Brown, aka “Coloured/White Jesus”, commands the crowd’s attention with his eclectic lyrics and seasoned plucking skills. There’s a mix of playful, almost nursery-rhyme phrasing and lyrics about love and life that are much heavier than they first sound. Sweet on the surface, then suddenly, ja, that fucking hurt.
The crowd itself during the performance is low key low-key. Everyone is relaxing, maxing, bundled, and nestled together on the floor, bean bags, and some chairs at the back of the venue. Once or twice a “SSSSHH” cuts through.
All in all, the gig is incredible. Bam Bam is as always a tour de force, despite being turned down for this very, very chilled environs that is the aeroplane hangar, aka The Imaginarium. The energy is in his voice, the guitar, and the way he holds everyone’s attention. Everyone can be planted on their arses and he still has the room; the band gives the songs movement without overwhelming the kombucha drinkers.
The crowd is friendly, warm, albeit hippie/hipster (no judgement, I’m a coloured hipster) as fuck. Still a bit bleak about the fact that there is no bar, but noted for the future—next time I am probably arriving with a case of Zamalek, just to see the older whites raise their eyebrows at this so-called skollie behaviour.