Melville isn't dead, it's just offline. Part I
June 8th, and Melville’s 7th Street has no shortage of parking spots. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and, like ticking down to desolation, the bars my friends once dragged me to are closed. Some for good, some waiting to come alive again when the economy recovers, and new addicts can pick up from those who drowned in what they sell. Some will be open on Tuesday.
The cocktail bar Six stands in opposition to this countdown. Five beggars or car guards, desperates donning reflective vests fuss and fight for the patronage of the few still making pilgrimage to their not-yet-dead red-light derelict. Four stray cats, though I concede there were bound to be four score more, scrounge and scheme beneath the feet of three potential threats: one near, and two pacing in the rear. Indeed, they are cause for second thoughts. Nevertheless, before we reach zero, tonight there is but one reason to be present:
A show.
The not-yet-famous Capetonian pop sensation Anica Kiana is performing in the dive-bar-styled dive bar that refuses to die. Smoking kills. Speakeasy-sized, with graffiti splattered side to side completed with graphics that cry anarchy and drink prices that demand a rigid nine to five. Sobriety tastes like sugar-free Redbull and I am ready for the night.
The self-described “little popstar”, Kiana’s voice announces the sound check. Neither DJ nor band, her manager on guitar and soundboard playing support is her only accomplice.
Much like the manager, a dual-wielding desperado, I came armed. A contrarian's spite fueled by the Americanized auto-tune of her digitally released music. But what I hear brings forth trite descriptors instead. With half an hour to the opening act, the little popstar’s steady vibrato disarms and calls to me.
But as the clock strikes closer still, the beautiful voice vanishes from the pale polluted air, and it is the call of a Mars Baby that signals us to attend instead.
I shuffle into a room too small and am greeted by something I did not pay for: an alien that is neither little nor a popstar, strumming his guitar to too few people to constitute a crowd.
Wary of this extraterrestrial, I elect to loom in the background.
The blown-out speakers communicate ballads, heartbreak, and earache from a voice no less beautiful. He lets us know that he is an outsider who doesn’t quite fit in, before performing a cover of “Creep” by Radiohead.
Despite coming from Mars, he seemed to be fitting in just fine. In fact, I’ve never known a man nor an alien, for that matter, who can sing and play guitar who doesn’t. They’re mostly well liked, if not quietly resented and envied for their talents.
The people ahead nod in agreement and take pictures, and I worry about their eardrum health. Before long, it’s over, and Kiana takes the stage as promised. As paid for. The effect is immediate. The seated rise to applaud and holler at her command. We’re legends, we're amazing, and we're beautiful just for being present. The room isn’t full, but it’s an intimate experience. The little popstar assures us as much as herself that once she blows up, it will all be worth it.
Her songs, a calling for patience, a counting down to the last minute. Affirming again and again the promise held in every ticket and borne on every ink-stamped wrist.
‘Kiss me, love me, know me, have me, leave me, and do it all again.’ The people dance and shout to ensure they are seen by the yet-famous but oh-so-prolific object of their intent.
The time, dispassionate, ticks down until there are no songs left. The set ends, and I am grateful for it. I can see her now, young and beautiful like her voice, descending the stage to meet with her patrons. The haze of excitement becomes that of a clumsy line.
Stickers, signatures, and a momentary embrace.
Strangers hugging a stranger, again and again.
I am disquieted, yet motivated.
Revolted, yet in line.
Counting down.
I am next to receive.
She smells like roses and a threat.
‘I am little, yet huge. Held, yet destined to be untouchable. I am a bomb that is going to explode, and you will be remembered for having possessed me beforehand.’
Touched, known, in the most superfluous of ways, just for a moment before the ticking stops. A promise made, and a promise kept. By a goddess in a shithole. A romantic amongst adulterers. A triumphant Fynbos flower flitting in the cold Johannesburg air. A little popstar that you dare touch. A game of roulette to see when it is she blows up.
To Be Continued...
Graphics by: Hassan Hussein
COMING SOON:“Optimism in the Age of Nyaope. By Hassan Hussein,which is the second installment of our ethnographic culture report.
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