Sade Sundays
I’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 Mike’s movements closely as we listened to Die Antwoord’s debut album $0$. They are, as far as I’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 MC’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 “The answer to what?”, Ninja looks around, somewhere between bored and annoyed and offers a profound “whatever, man…fuck.” Apparently transcendental space beings don’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 – 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 won’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.

[audio:] Oreaganomics – “Create Something to Love”

We walked out with a celestial smugness, convinced aliens must exist if an unassuming tavern has both Skee-Ball and an absurdly extensive taxidermy collection (Mike enjoyed rubbing his face against the long, oily neck fur of a stuffed Waterbuck antelope). I wouldn’t be surprised if Buckshot is actually an alien spacecraft disguised as a wacky bar. Mike too. He might be a blow-in from a distant galaxy and I would only have my imagination to perpetuate this suspicion. That is, unless I continue to scour the interwebs for more interplanetary space music; then I will have my proof.

About Sade Sundays: Sade Sundays is a two-part monthly column written by Michael Tapscott and Joshua Rampage. A profundity has never slipped past the lips of a man who lives a life of quiet desperation. He has time for no such subtleties. So basically, Joshua and Michael have time on their hands. They spend it together one Sunday a month, dispensing boozy wisdom and violent, undefended revelries. You may listen, but you may also render their words as a call of the wild, a spear from St. George into the side of the dragon beast, or a meaningless squabble. Contact us: