Iâ€™ve considered uninstalling our doorbell after Mike exploited it upon his arrival. When the upstairs neighbor was kind enough to let him in (I imagine he rang both apts. A & B simultaneously), he sprinted past her up the stairwell and then past me into my apartment where I followed closely. Straight to the refrigerator for a beer, to the cutting board for a lime. As he tilted the bottle ceilingward, its contents roaring down his parched gullet, I carefully wrapped the knife he used to cut the lime in cardboard; inexplicably, he had somehow managed to break it while carving the soft fruit. After a holiday hiatus, Sade Sundays 2010 was officially underway.
I studied Mikeâ€™s movements closely as we listened to Die Antwoordâ€™s debut album $0$. They are, as far as Iâ€™m concerned, three aliens gallivanting as a Rap-Rave crew from Cape Town, South Africa. I say aliens because only intergalactic beings are capable of making music like this. While Mike finds creatures from outer space and conspiracy theories intriguing, he usually avoids music faster than 43bpms. Behold! An exception to his Duncan Cameronian leanings. It was the way he pursed his lips and nodded his head to the beat that led me to believe we were experiencing something truly special; like a UFO landing at the foot of your bed. Greetings, Earthling.
The beats are remarkably filthy. DJ Hi-Tek uses a grime diving board to drop booty-bass cannonballs into Dizzee Rascal’s jacuzzi. The rabbit punch flows of duo MCâ€™s Ninja and Yo-Landi Vi$$er are in English and Afrikaans, with lyrics like “I do my own thing/when the phone rings/maybe I’ll answer/maybe I’m busy”. Aliens indeed. When asked about the name Die Antwoord (which is Afrikaans for The Answer), and then pressed by the interviewer with â€œThe answer to what?â€, Ninja looks around, somewhere between bored and annoyed and offers a profound â€œwhatever, manâ€¦fuck.â€ Apparently transcendental space beings donâ€™t feel compelled to quantify the infinite.
We then headed to Buckshot for a rousing game of Skee-Ball and corn dogs. Seated at a card table, we discussed Oreaganomics â€“ another extraterrestrial band, only this one is of the Chicago variety. The lo-fi, bass-light mix melted and set to cool on a windowsill of Pop took me back to 2004 and the first time I listened to cLOUDDEAD. It matters not that most people wonâ€™t be able to get past the offset submarine sonar percussion and satisfied ennui in the vocals; then again, this isn’t a hang-glider ride to the moon with Sir Richard Branson. I suggest docking to this space station as soon as technology allows. In this case, they’re giving the album away for free on their myspace page.