Reactionary Reviews | That Winter Fest | Sognage
by Roger Young
There's a woman talking to the fence about the one time she took Ritalin, and it's still straight-edge early. This is the first sign that the word “fest” might still have some meaning. Everyone here seems to have recently done their laundry. Or had it done. And recently been to the salon, especially the mohawk guy.
That Winter Fest isn't an overnighter, there are no tents to not be able to find later. Here at 7pm there is a remarkable amount of restraint through the strata of Randburg punk, the fur coats, the ironic moustaches, the braces, the occasional newly purchased Ramones shirt, the flashy orthodontics, the general Coachella-lite, and scatterlings of suburban dad punks, a lack of plaid, no Flea impersonators. There are so many types represented here that I half expect long-dead friends to emerge from the crowds. Except everyone here is so neatly coiffed. A guy in a cardigan battles the skate ramp. Shirtless okes tony-hawk holding beer.
The main stage is big and airy but even as early as the Shameless set (decent rendition of Zabalaza / shit moshing from the crowd) it's pretty full. As live music events go in this dismal time, it's impressive. But the main stage is high-roofed, airy, somehow feels managed. I don't know how to qualify that.
The bands alternate. The Tazers are playing on the main stage. But Jethro paid for my Uber so ethically I have to watch Ruff Majic soundcheck on the punk stage. The main attraction is the longhair in the witchy poncho. Everyone here, all four of them, are proper scruffy except for witch poncho. Ruff Majic's guitarist obsesses over the feedback. The whole vibe is comforting, especially the rainbow Robert Smith hairdo using a rolling machine in the corner.
Outside Tyla of Black Math tells me he's been giving people acid. There's hope yet.
The punk stage is a padded cell. Vape haze, tangy fruit dipped in poo, hangs in the air, while people apologise not meaning it, as they rush to the mosh.
Ruff Majic are that rare thing: formalism plus basic genre stretching, done really fucking well. Obsessing over the feedback issue did not help and it's wonderful. The crowd heaves and moves as the singer does all the standard moves, the eye-rolling, the hair-shaking, the growling, and yet it just works. The Tazers set upstairs has ended and it feels like everyone is trying to get into the room, the mosh is packed and frenetic and the padded walls have become bouncy castles, a ritual performed a thousand times before. Make-up is starting to smudge. It's glorious. It grinds hard, the rhythm and guitar and feedback and yowls. The lead singer tries to crowd-surf with his guitar and I think someone drops him, because the set ends hard and sudden. My faith in everything is restored by the punk stage.
Tutus, they're a legacy band now. But the place is packed and everyone knows the words, and the dance moves, and listens to Shane's instructions and it's performatively quirky. What happened to the bassist though? He was fun.
Outside someone tells me about how owning a house at 30 has made him broke. It's not very punk rock. Fucking copywriters.
Again the main stage has driven me to the punk stage, full of anticipation for that scruffy mosh. I discover that the stage itself does not generate the mosh, nor does Sex Tape.
The main stage is a lot less full, the Tutus fans have taken home their newly dyed green hair and their ironic t-shirts. I came to That Winter Fest for one reason, to see if Black Math's new drummer is as good as the old drummer. She is.
Black Math do not need to ask the crowd to participate. I have already reviewed their music, it is better live. Someone crowd-surfs and almost breaks their wrists. Black Math are paying for my Uber home so I cannot ethically review the set.
All that bottled-up energy from the punk stage is uncontained here, all flowing and fun and swirling in the guitars. A man with a homemade ACAB beanie keeps telling me how good they are. Two guys start rubbing my belly. Cameron burps into the microphone and a girl in the audience shouts, “Six out of ten.”
And then they go in hard. Grinning wide, a guy in plaid just drops his beer and throws himself into the mosh, comes out still grinning, a small cut on his forehead, picks up the leaking beer and douses himself. Encores until exhaustion.
The set ends, a girl still dancing takes a moment to stand still, still gurning, says to no one in particular, “now what the fuck am I going to do.” I strongly suspect Tyla gave her acid.
Outside the crowd is drenched in sweat crystallising in the cold, not giving a fuck, all raccoon eyes and joy.