The first mission is in motion before dawn, in the cold damp hours steaming from blankets and pallets, they head out into the mines, down in the trash of last night, cans, bottles, cardboard, treasure, separating into black plastics for the scrapyard scales. They range slow burdened and sure, investigating and scrutinising, every find is a fragment closer to a piece, a cap, a packet of two rand biscuits.
Notes is documentary in its truest form. It is a document that aligns to the ethos of what it is documenting. An act of reverence. Refraining from any examination or critique of that it is historicizing. It is here that Notes From The Underground both fails and succeeds.
an interview with Serokolo 7
electronic garble… static…. “rural, the rural areas, places like that, Limpopo”… more garble…“not really good, netwaaarkkkkkkk,” and Tshepang’s voice breaks away, bouncing off the satellites…
I am trying to interview Serokolo 7 after his track, Bonkoko Bagana, was dropped by Björk during a DJ set at the Venice Biennale. Which happened shortly after his Nyege Nyege-released Maramfa Musick Pro was reviewed on Guardian UK, The Fader, and The Wire.
The chief complaint in the Muizenburg Resident’s Association petition against the creation of a Muizenburg Safe Space seems to be that bringing sixty five homeless people into the area will overwhelm their private gestapo.
The Death Of Bunny Munro – based on the novel by Nick Cave with music by Nick Cave and featuring a cameo from Nick Cave – is SPOILER ALERT about a character called Bunny Munro who dies.
Circling where the venue should be, a rising niggle. It’s not even nine yet according to the listing it’s late, I pay no mind: Jazz is the sufi word for time travel.
She winds down her window.
“You need your bath.”
Opening the door, settling in, driving away from the intersection where all of us spend the days asking for change, whathaveyou.
Variasies toes a line between elegiac and pretentious, and pulls off this high wire act by not resorting to hand-wringing, moving to a subtle, soul-shifting gestalt.
He leaves the rehab fat and full of confidence. He is afraid of disappointing his mother. Glowing complexion, new clothes from the outside, and a shrug, happy to be clean, out the rusty gate, under the wide sky. Three months later he returns unrecognisable. Thin, more teeth gone, and a homeless tan, dark burnt by the sun.
At precisely 38:22 the newish Netflix algo-scripted revenge pile on, 180, falls apart with a single shot.