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This weeks articles:
Johannes Kerkorrel
Ek was te klein om die Rewolusie te onthou, maar groot genoeg om te weet Johannes Kerkorrel het iets verkeerd gedoen in die oe van talle Afrikaanse groot mense. Dit was die 1989/90, en ek was so 11/12 jaar oud.
Ek kan net so vaagweg die headlines onthou oor die Voelvry kampus toer en hierdie mannetjie wat dit gedurf waag het homself "Kerkorrel" met sy "Gereformeerde Blues" band te noem.
Ruk en rol, en kerk en gereformeerd, het nie in een asem gehoort nie....
Die enigste Afrikaanse musiek waarop ek letterlik gespeen is, was tannie Carike en tannie Anneli
en verder ken ek van kleins af Jimmy Swaggart anthems. In my huis was pop musiek 'n taboe ek onthou die dae toe ek die TV moes afsit as Popshop gewys het.
So gaan ons ou familie'tjie op 'n wholesome vakansie na 'n klein kusdorpie met die naam Tergniet. Op ons laaste dag van my vakansie, toe hoor ek hierdie musiek wat jou skielik laat vryheid proe, musiek wat nie please nie, nie 'n pretty stemmetjie, nie soothing lyrics nie, en bowenal Afrikaanse musiek soos ek nog nooit Afrikaanse musiek gehoor het nie.
En as jy grootgeword het met 'n klavierjuffrou wat jou sover probeer kry om "Op Blouberg se Strand" te probeer speel, het hierdie vrye rock 'n roll en die klavier wat gehamer word skielik vir my gewys dat daar definitief dinge en werelde is waarvan ek niks weet nie.
My ma onthou daai dag soos gister, en ek onthou dit as een van die "Vormende Invloede" op Kytie Koekblik. Die studente wat Johannes Kerkorrel en die Gereformeerde Blues Band deur die middag laat dawer het, was besig om 'n ou groen kombi te was. Die kombi was met blomme beverf en hulle het in lang rompe rondom die kombi gedans.
Ek het geweet ek moes 'n hippie gebore gewees het, maar nevermaaind, hier het ons dan ons eie Rewolusie in Afrikaans gehad. Ek sou dit daardie dag vir 'n oomblik kon ervaar, maar op daardie oomblik het ek vir die eerste keer vermoed dat daar meer in die lewe was om na te strewe as my wiskunde boeke of 'n prefekwapen.
Nou kyk, die Afrikaanse Youth se Rewolusie was eintlik verby toe ek in die prime was van my tiener lewe, in die vroee neentigs. In 1992 was die dae van langspeelplate en apartheid gelukkig getel en my Roxette en die New Kids on the Block het nie 'n lang lewe gehad nie. Toe kry ek later 'n CD player en ontdek Nirvana. SA musiek het nie juis in my tienerjare gefeature nie, tot in my matriekjaar.
Vroeg in 1995, toe kry ek die mees exciting commission van my hele 17 jarige bestaan. Die destydse Jong Burger vra toe vir my om 'n onderhoud te doen met ene Johannes Kerkorrel.
Ek het nou nog die tape wat ek ge-record het in die destydse Hard Rock in Seepunt met my eie senuagtige stem en my naiewe aspiring journalist-tipe vrae.
Later het die Hard Rock toegemaak, want dit was mos nie die ware Jacob nie.
Maar dit was een van die coolste plekke en dinge wat ek my lewe gedoen het. Ek kon nie eers bestuur nie, en my ma het my kom oplaai by die Hoerskool De Kuilen en my Seepunt toe gery na skool. Sy het my 3 uur afgelaai en tot 5 uur in die kar gewag.
Binne-in die Hard Rock het ek koffie gedrink en sover ek kan onthou, het Ralph Rabie, soos hy homself voorgestel het, swart koffie gedrink. Ilda Jacobs het aan haar ma terug gerapporteer dat hy 'n goeie ou is en dat sy hele lewe om sy musiek en sy kunstenaarskap draai.
Die opskrif van daardie onderhoud was " Musiek is sy lewenslyn, sy wese, sê Kerkorrel."
'''n MOEILIKE tipe'' is hoe Ralph Rabie homself beskryf.
Die ''moeilike tipe'' is Johannes Kerkorrel, die man wat sy regte naam as ''gewoon'' beskryf.
''Die naam 'Kerkorrel' 'trigger' mense, dit laat hulle lag en reageer. Ralph Rabie het net nie dieselfde impak nie.''
En impak het Johannes Kerkorrel wel deeglik in die Afrikaanse musiekwêreld sedert sy eerste en berugte Voëlvry toer agt jaar gelede.
''Ek was nie 'n besonder weerbarstige outjie op skool nie. Ek het grootgeword met kadetparades en haarinspeksies en jeugweerbaarheid, maar eers ná my universiteitsjare het ek geweet:
my musiek moet 'n doel en boodskap en funksie hê.''
En toe tref Kerkorrel en die Gereformeerde Blues Band die land.
''Dit was opwindend, hoe meer ons verbied is, hoe meer het dit gewerk. Maar dit was net 'n fase, 'n rebellie teen 'n sisteem wat kreatiwiteit onder druk het. Nou is ons op die rand van iets rêrigs
'amazings'...''
Johannes is ongelooflik positief, ''uiters positief'' oor die land en sy mense. Hy meen die jeug, die nuwe generasie, gaan die kans kry om te wees wie hulle regtig wil wees en om te gaan waar hulle wil gaan.
''Ek het nog altyd probeer om mense se bewussyn aan die gang te sit, nou wil ek mense laat besef ons het nou vryheid, die dae van in eksklusiewe klein hokkies leef, is verby.
Hy wou nog altyd net musiek maak. ''Ek het geen 'heavy' teorieë oor die lewe nie, dit gaan vir my oor oorlewing. Musiek maak die lewe vir my draaglik.''
Dit is ook oor sy passie vir musiek dat Johannes heeldag voor die radio sal sit en soek na iets luisterbaars.
''Daar is ongelooflike hoeveelhede 'trash' op die radio. Ek kry vat aan 'n kunstenaar, eet dit op en dan is dit verby. My 'Prince-fase' is op die oomblik verby, ek is nou mal oor Sheryl Crow."
En as hy nie sit en ''scan'' vir goeie ''songs'' nie, dan skryf hyself. Hy skryf enige tyd wanneer hy ge nspireerd voel, en gaan heeltemal van sy kop af as hy nie kan skryf nie.
''Ek kan slegs direk ná 'n optrede regtig ontspan. Die res van die tyd dink ek heeltyd aan 'n ritme of 'n wysie, my brein is nooit stil nie. Musiek is my lewensbloed."
Met sy musiek probeer Johannes oor alle grense, veral taalgrense, breek.
''Afrikaans is 'n taai kalant wat definitief sal oorleef. Die belangrikste is nie om na 'n regering of party te kyk vir jou taal nie, maar na jou skrywers, want dit is hulle wat 'n taal laat leef."
Die meeste van die tyd werk Johannes in Gauteng, maar hy hou van die Kaapse atmosfeer.
''Die reuk van die see hier is Fishtang ...''
Gebraaide vis vars uit die see is dan ook Johannes se gunstelingkos. En sy gunsteling drankie is swart sterk koffie, waarskynlik om hom wakker te hou terwyl hy skryf.
''Ek wil graag eendag 'n nommer een liedjie in Amerika hê,'' is sy droom. ''Of om 'n nommer een vir iemand anders te skryf.''
Sy program vir die res van 1995 is baie vol. Hy neem aan verskeie oorsese en plaaslike musiekfeeste en toere deel, waaronder 'n Suid-Afrikaanse musiekfees in Parys.
Maar Johannes sal enigiets doen. Solank hy net soveel as moontlik musiek kan maak.
My Johannes Kerkorrel onderhoud was ook vir my bepalend. Ek het Kytie Koekblik geword, aspiring musiek joernalis, ook 'n lid van die tweede generasie jong Afrikaans sprekendes,
geinspireer deur die voorbeelde van ons kult gurus.
Ek het die nuus van sy dood gehoor hier in Washington D.C. en vir my Ultimate American Boyfriend gese, "Jy weet mos daai Afrikaanse CD wat ek altyd speel, daai man het selfmoord gepleeg."
Ek dink nie hy het heeltemal die impak verstaan nie. Vir my was Johannes my Kultuur, die tipe kunstenaarskap in Afrikaans en Suid-Afrikanerskap waarmee ek wil associate.
So 'n maand of wat terug was ek in Suid-Afrika by 'n Buckfever Underground gig waar my cult vriend Toast Coetzer opgetree het. "Ralph Rabie" het nogals kom kyk.
Daardie middag, voor ek die pad Stellenbosch toe gelooi het, toe vertel ek vir my ma Toast en Ralph is nou op eerstenaam basis - waaroor ek nie 'n bietjie jaloers was nie. Sien ek wou mos die eerste Afrikaanse Ruk en Rol chick gewees het, en toe gaan ek weg na Amerika toe en toe word Karen Zoid met die titel bekroon. Karen en Kerkorrel het juis saam aan 'n show gewerk vir volgende jaar se Klein Karoo Kunstefees.
Ek wou nog vir Kerkorrel gaan hello se daardie aand, toe het hy al weer verdwyn. Ek wou vir hom vertel die enigste Afrikaanse CD waarna ek luister hier in die VSA, is na sy 10 jaar later CD met al sy beste songs op.
Ek het nog nie weer die Johannes Kerkorrel 10 jaar CD in my speler gaan indruk nie sedert ek gehoor het van sy selfmoord vroeg in November nie.
"Ossewa" vertel vir my wie ek was destyds, as 'n skoolgirltjie in die apartheidsjare en dit laat my onthou hoe ek gedink hedonisme is opgesluit in daardie klavier. "Halala Afrika" eggo my reenboog idealis jare toe ek in 1995 aan die Hoerskool De Kuilen gematrikuleer het.
"Awuwa" en "Al le die Berge nog so Blou" skeur letterlik my hele hart oop, want dit is ek, Kytie Koekblik, Suid-Afrikaner en Afrikaanssprekende hier in die VSA. Johannes Kerkorrel se musiek het "siel" soos my ma altyd se en daai siel spreek tot my as ek homesick raak oor my land en my mense en my kultuur.
Ek wou huil en huil toe ek die onderhoud van destyds gaan lees. Johannes het in daardie een middag vir 'n 17 jarige droom-oog girl, 'n stukkie van homself gegee, soos hy dwarsdeur sy loopbaan met alle mense gedoen het, op sy gentle manier, in sy Afrikaans wat hy so lekker kon praat met sy understated sin vir humor.
Johannes Kerkorrel se legacy loop baie diep. Hy wou dit miskien nie wees nie, maar hy was 'n politieke leier wie ek enige dag sou volg, iemand nie skaam om te staan vir dit was hy is, en dit waarin hy geglo het nie. Hy't maar altyd jou horisonne 'n bietjie groter laat lyk, en die Suid-Afrika na 'n minder rigiede plek, en na apartheid het hy gaan sample aan al die verskille lande en tale en klanke en musiekstyle wat die diverse landjie te offer het.
Hy was ook 'n Afrikaanse leier, en bowenal 'n regte egte Suid-Afrikaner wat in sy musiek ver voor sy tyd was. Sy lewenslyn mag miskien opgehou het, maar sy musiek het mos siel, soos my ma altyd se.
Through a series of events (okay then, two to be exact), this column simply begged to be written.
It isn't very often that an unwritten column wakes me up in the middle of the night, saying "Write me NOW!" (Unless you count the ones that have caused my insomnia as their deadlines fast approached, arrived very quickly and finally went... all while the columns remained very much unwritten. This time, at least, it had the courtesy to wake me up with an idea.)
Anyway... who is this often-desperate columnist to argue with a column idea, right?
So here goes.
It started with two uncanny coincidences. And if you have ANY imagination, you will see what I mean.
A few weeks ago a male friend finished a domestic paint job that had been started but not completed by his wife.
He had been nagging her for weeks to get it done, saying that it can't possibly take so long or be the huge chore she had claimed it to be.
So of course, this led her to sweetly say something along the lines of: "If you think so, then do it yourself, my darling sweet potato."
I happened to phone their house just as he was playing the part of house-painting Picasso.
He answered the telephone after a long time, very out of breath.
When I asked why he sounded as if he was on his last leg, using his last lung, he was vague and elusive at first. Then he finally admitted that he was in the midst of painting a room.
He mumbled sheepishly: "It looked much easier than it really is when SHE was doing it!"
I told him he should've done what I did.
When my S.O. (Significant Other) was fixing up his house, I ignorantly offered to help with the finishing touches (paint), figuring that it would be a quick but fair way to ease my guilty conscience for having done so little to help up to that point.
However, once I had the roller in my hand, it didn't take me long to also figure out that it wasn't as easy as it had looked on all those Oprah home-makeover shows. (For one, I managed to get more paint on myself than on any of the walls.)
So, I pulled a Tom Sawyer on all our friends, pretending that it was the most fun I've had in years (it wasn't too much of a stretch, especially when you consider the rest of my bleak, but blissfully pain(t)less, existence) and before long, the friends came over and took over the job, while I ran to the river and hopped on the steam boat for a booze cruise with Huck Finn, unselfishly leaving all the "fun" to the friends.
Heh-heh-heh-heh!
The second coincidence happened just last week.
S.O. belongs to an a cappella group (shameless plug to follow eventually. They're so good they deserve to have an entire column devoted just to them. In the meantime, if you're curious, check out their web-site at www.thechromatics.com. And if you happen to live or be in the greater Washington D.C. metropolitan area and would like to see them live (and to meet this columnist in person... Okay, okay, just kidding. You don't HAVE to talk to me, I promise. But I may just end up stalking you!), click on concerts to see where they'll be making beautiful music next.).
At a concert last week, a colleague who came to see S.O. and the group perform live for the first time, leaned over during the first set and whispered: "They make it look and sound so easy."
"Yeah, right," I replied. "And Olympic figure skaters make their sport seem easy too."
And ta-daaaaaa, thus I stumbled onto this week's topic: Things that look Much Easier than they Actually Are.
So here, in alphabetical (but no other) order, is the list of things that I think should be classified under the above-mentioned topic (With some I've felt the need to elaborate a bit):
Any of the arts. This includes singing, dancing (especially classical ballet, but in my unfortunate case, also dancing in all its glorious forms.), acting, painting (on canvas, but yes, alas, as also in my case, painting in ALL its forms and on all surfaces.), playing an instrument, etc.
Bathing suits/Bikinis. By this I mean trying to pull off wearing one by emerging from the water looking like you've just stepped out of the pages of the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition (A la Bo Derek in Ten.). Take note, however, in this case the water drops would add to one's general sexiness and NOT merely enhance the mascara smudged, dribbling, goose-pimply, shivering, pale and yet strangely blue at the same time, heap that I... I mean ONE ends up being and that makes a wet dog seem appealing. Thank the Heavens that bathing suit season is over for now in the Northern Hemisphere...
Cooking. Yes, add it to my list of disabilities. But know this: I didn't surrender without a fierce fight. Even have the recipe books to prove it ("Cooking for Dummies"and "The Kitchen Survival Guide"). A later column will elaborate more on that near-disastrous journey.
Dieting. Need I say a word more, oh fellow women-kind? I've tried them all (My body has gained all the weight, and then some, out of revenge to prove it), and I have long since given up on the fantasy that one day, people will - after straining to see skinny little me at first - grab me by my fragile, bony arm, lead me into the kitchen and say: "Oh, dear slender child, feed thyself! You are but a shadow of your former self! Let's fatten you up immediately!" and proceed to force-feed me mounds of pie and other sweet delights.
Entertaining. I long to be transported back to that day, a bit more than six years ago, when I was still only on my way to the U.S.A. and therefore blissfully unaware of Martha Stewart's existence. Ms. Martha has since made my undomestic life a "Martha Stewart's Living" nightmare, complete with pots and pans banging me on the head and sharp silverware poking me from all sides while I pathetically try to surrender by waving a stained napkin that used to be white, starched and embroidered...
Fame. This should be divided into both trying to become famous and then, eventually, handling life in the glare of the spotlight. I should know, albeit only about the first part, unfortunately. For almost two years I've been trying with this online column to catapult from absolute obscurity to glorious fame, complete with an entourage, a pack of hounding paparazzi, hordes of screaming fans, and a hairdresser (essential!). Perhaps even a stalker or two would be nice...
Gardening. In my presence, flowers wilt, cactus plants shrivel up and die instantly and even the blades of grass on a once lush lawn sink back into the earth until there is nothing left but cracked, barren sand.
Holiday-shopping.
Ironing and all other household tasks.
Jogging. See an earlier column about my disastrous encounter with a treadmill. I've since "affectionately" dubbed it the D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L.
Killing (One's self or others.) Not talking from experience - I assure you - it's come to my attention (from a registered nurse, no less) that killing yourself isn't very easy, which is a reassuring thought for someone as accident prone as myself. And from watching way too many bad films I've figured out for myself that killing others can't be much easier. Why else would the movie cops always miss when shooting several rounds at the suspect, even if the bad guy is in full view and often unmoving?
Learning. Yes, I'm a bit slow in that regard (Ask my Mathematics teacher, who, in 9th Grade, when we had the choice to drop the subject, BEGGED me to please drop it. She threatened me that if I wouldn't, then she would be forced to retire. I nobly decided to drop it. "Nobly", because said teacher was only about 28-years old.) Seriously though: admit it, fellow humans. We can make life MUCH easier for ourselves if we'd be willing to learn from other's mistakes, or often even from our own.
On that rare, preachy note (admit it, it's not often that I resort to sermons!), I've decided to end the column just about now. I think I've exceeded my word count for a change. Also, this way we can have a "To be continued" as far as the rest of the alphabetical list goes. Besides, it's not often that I can squeeze TWO columns out of one subject! (But more truthfully, it will give me seven more days of grace to come up with something for Q, X, Y and Z.)
In the meantime, good luck with all those "Things that look Much Easier than they Actually Are" in your OWN life
Ragel Nel
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[based on rand-dollar exchanges 8 April, 2002 and Pick & Pay prices]
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