“Electric cable feeling, electric cable healing” – A South African guy sings as I sit there in a complete stranger’s living room.
I am there by a combination of complete chance and lust for adventure. Not having any clear idea of what I was getting myself into I unhesitatingly agreed to tag along when a friend, The Philosopher, asked me if I wanted to go see a concert in a living room – honestly who would say no to that?! Even my friend was completely oblivious of what this situation entailed as he only knew of it due to him checking out the possibility to rent a room in the hosting house. After confirming with him that it was not a date invitation for his part that the hostess had intended, we head over there.
I immediately get the feeling that if I was any less comfortable in myself and to new experiences I would feel very unhappy. It strikes me how incredibly good looking the people who show up are. They are well dressed or at least modern, have all kinds of maintained modern haircuts, are well built – both genetically and from effort. Even the slightly older woman there is a complete donna in her long silver braid. Sitting there waiting for the start of the concert part of our little adventure I lean in towards my friend and mention my impression and add that: “it feels like accidentally having stumbled into the cool kids’ party” – to which we in a borderline-pathetic humor laugh for a moment. This feeling of subjective alienation ends when the music starts as it gives everyone something much better to do than to look at each other.
Listening through that sweet South African accent I desperately try to figure out what on earth this guy is singing about – electric cable healing? I repeat internally to myself in hope for some grand revelation of its meaning all the while trying to make sense of the rest of the lyrics. My attempts are fruitless… But then again I really do not care much. It is very good and I am enjoying both the music and the delivery very much. One song I do understand, not necessarily because of the words but due to the context in which it was written. Our South African tells us how his mother has asked him to come home for the last seven years to which he answered with a song promising to do so. Something along the lines “…I’m coming home, Going by myself, I’m coming all alone…” really touches me as I can relate to the internal struggle between the love from the people who means the most and the search for that one thing in the never reachable periphery that makes the staying-away bearable. I decide that I should buy tickets to go home to Sweden at my earliest convenience (as so happens – tomorrow).
Following the somewhat obscure lyrics of the South African guy is a trio playing some crazy mixture of Reggae, Jazz, Hip Hop and some aggressive Pop style I do not really know what to call. It is really quite surprisingly good. The lead signer on guitar has a voice, that while it is not very pretty, can do the most amazing flips between high and low, not to mention the impressive imitation of a trumpet. He has a face and hairstyle that screams Kurt Cobain, and a pair of pants that are at least three sizes too big. I can imagine he is a handsome fellow, yet there is nothing in his person that appeals to me. The bass player is not the most interesting character, like many bass players he simply stands there, doing his thing in a cool hat and a fluffy beard. Now the “drummer” caught my attention. Mostly because he is playing his instrument without it actually being there. Waving his arms in the air mimicking an actually equipped drummer he beat-box throughout the entire concert – and wow! is he good at it.
After they finish we thank the hostess and stroll to the tram. This chance encounter goes down in my history as one of the most interesting and most intimate music experiences. Life is pretty impressive.