Crawl from bed to the couch. Aches and pains, bruises, beer hair, smoker’s cough. Death. Will I ever reach the kitchen? Monday feeling cocoons itself around me and being (f)unemployed makes it easier to carry the last two days decadence. Yesterday I was hastily texting unsure if I could physically and mentally handle the now, not so Secret Show.
The drive back from Colour Box was magic. The air was cold, windows open and music blaring whilst Paarden Eiland disappears behind me. The venue speaks for itself, surrounded by industry hides a secret set of stairs in a courtyard behind a gate. A beer or two and a mellow high whilst zoning out to Medicine Boy was all that I found to be necessary. Andre and Lucy’s chemistry pours itself into all-encompassing reverb whilst their vocals roll over seductively. Breathe in. Breathe out. Pierre and I head downstairs to catch some fresh air outside under the stairs, a cigarette and some conversation whilst blowing around some sweet leaf before the storm. I feel it build as we climb back up and the vibrations pulsate under our feet. The forces guiding me lead me into a thrashing pit, laughing, and kicking in circles to ‘Dirty Hands.’ It carries on ceremoniously waving goodbye to the weekend through the entire Black Lips slot. The level of content is fuelled by angsty vocals creating an audience under the influence of Georgia garage inspired prowess. The spell had been cast and when the final encore had been set we wavered to the courtyard to find ourselves again. Swedish man hands me a burger as Cole mentions that the album’s name is ‘Arabia Mountain’ because of a flat mountainous ground in Georgia that they hang out at.
Sunday morning began around 2 PM as all the scavengers had somehow regrouped. The story-swopping-scandal-shit-talking commenced over shaded eyes, brunch, and a hard to swallow beer. Hangovers have to be shared with those you drank with otherwise you have a shit day ahead. As we exchange tales in a possibly still drunk tone we recall the events from the night before. Everything from ridiculous taxi rides, a lighter burial ceremony, grooving in the garden, kissy mouths, drugs, and jumping off speakers were covered in a polite restaurant around the corner in Obs.
On Saturday night every decision was made with feeling, rationale and logic were given the night off and Dionysus took his turn to play king in my cerebrum. Welcome to your kingdom shouts beer, tequila, middle fingers, mosh pits, whiskey, and weed whilst Apollo sighs in his chambers. The Assembly is a boiling pot shimmering over with hedonism (circa. Psych Night Presents: Night Beats), and we the kids are ok! ‘O! Katrina’ is ‘O! Tequila,’ as we push and shout in front of the stage. We jump and scream, get mean to ‘Arabia Mountain’ and I can’t see a thing. The energy pushes the pulse through the crowd. I was taken aback when told later that Cole had announced that, “it isn’t the place for stage diving,” as their shows are notoriously known for a fuck you attitude inspired by their presence. The crowd’s disregard for that statement was clear as the debauchery continued. The Black Lips handed us a match and we made a fire between the walls of The Assembly. Considering the audience only adds to the enticement to equal the drive. I was nowhere near anyone standing static for aesthetic; this was real and raw. The space drew out trashy, ratchet movements. It was garage at its finest, bar the stage dive comment.
The Sisters’ from Dirtbin (aka Durban) were super rad, messy stoner rock extra-terrestrials blessing us with some spaced out jams. I’m hoping this won’t be the last time we have them grace us in Cape Town because I think we need an injection of filthy noise. The Sakawa Boys brought in a shoegaze indie feel born in Cape Town and The Gumbo Ya-Ya’s rolled out six new tunes staying true to their garage edge. The line-up curated by Psych Night for this particular event provided a seamless flow. It is a great reminder of the local talent that we are fortunate to have and the continued support for the live music scene.
Before we had even entered The Assembly, the night had greeted us with plans of our demise. The casual, frivolous November breeze held a mischievous lick. The sun had set so Krige turns to me and we down our drinks. The taxi driver’s playlist, a hard to sneak in a bottle of whiskey (3 attempts) and a march to Kimberley Hotel with a god sent Noah brought me to the familiar face of The Assembly’s bouncer.
I re-entered The Assembly not once but four times that night. My final arrival was the nail in the coffin.
I marched down the stairs. Gave my best friend her ticket to the ride.
And walked in.