International Calling Card 21.10.2012

F*ck a sunday night movie on Mnet. F*ck popcorn and watered-down coke at the cinema. F*ck thin base pizza served at red-checkered tables and Eros Ramzotti pulverising our ears.

I wana live in my city, i wana extract her for every bit of culture her body can offer. I wana experience her streets. I want something new, something exciting.

I wana see live music that’ll pluck at my heart strings. I want music that’ll send my hammer anvil and stirrups doing funckiness in the depths of my ears.

I want the Venue, I want Melrose Arch. I want beer. I want the riotous rock of Shadowclub live and unplugged.

This trio of hipster maniacs, once raw, now Gillette sensor razor-sharp played an acoustic set that left the women in the audience tearing at their seats as zombies, hungry and guys wishing they were rockers in skinnies. The trio of Isaac Klawansky on drums, Jacques Moolman, the vocalist and Louis Roux slapping that bass as though it was his sexually charged girlfriend played a gig worthy of a replay on DSTV.

image:www.justmusic.co.za

Jacques, his balmed hair and shaven cut. His voice rapturous, powerful to turn rock to liquid magma, to cause dormant volcanoes to burst into flambuoyant flame elevated the venue to an halcyon day of great rock. the breath from his lungs trembling his chords delivering craig bellamy-ic theatre.

Isaac commands. Isaac delivers. Isaac leads. His phenomenal drum rolls and tommy gun-esque staccato. He is a black cloaked gangster peppering American-made Lincolns delivering ‘Lucy’ to our ear-steps. hopping  and skipping down that yellow bricked road, tripping nillies down a country road, it’s ratatata, and then he sends us running running in free flight. It's the 70’s, the pinnacle of Rock. Isaac, he is off of his skins, it’s “Left and Round Again’.

Louis, as bassists go, said more. He has intensity. He is physical. Caressing that guitar, holding it with a sexual hankering, it in turn delivers. The bass is an extension of his form and he loves it.

With “Guns and Money”, it’s hilly billy beats and “Never Hide' with her Radiohead heavy crescendos, i crumbled as a soggy marie biscuit. ‘Kill the President’, a rhythmic chainsaw, tearing at the ether.

These lads set the ambience at Sexually Charged when they announced “Garden of Snow’. 
Play on sires, keep evolving, keep experimenting.

The trio, looking good for a Levis ad pasted on a brown stone building towering over Times Square, form Shadowclub, a hard thumping, percussion heavy rock hipster band. Their debut show as owners of their own Bill, play a unique sound of rock to this country. They’re exciting, innovative and just at the birth of their anthology.

the theme tune to carte blanche can suck my balls.

I Called You on the Telephone 02.10.2012

the pin stripes of the yankees, the verticles, and then the high risers, the Empire State and her glittering bejewelled lover the Chrysler. oh she dropped one, the diamond stud, the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue. the autumn, turns the Apple crisp, but before she cools,we take a bow in Queens.delivered on the F-train, it's bouncing yellow spheres, blue courts and sweaty balls, its grunts and moans, pleated skirts, racquets, sweat bands and a Scottishman. the heat rises from the concrete floor slapping you every which way, but who cares, cos you're in Noo Yark city. 

the streets of Chelsea, the Gagosian Art Gallery, Richard Phillips, artist and film maker, his larger than life realistic images of the strawberry Lindsay Lohan and Sasha Grey. My eye's they couldn't stop staring, drinking in Lindsay, finding it difficult to quench their thirst. my blue cirulean orbs turning to rainbow coloured lollypops. after Shades of Grey this was this most accessible porn not found under the bed of a pimply teen. a trail of drool down west 23rd street and a Dr Pepper as coolant.

the midday sun grills and you find yourself at anchor on the Intrepid. the star, the ship, its the Enterprise. its a Shuttle and an ode to the Americans endeavour. the day is dawning cos you've queued for hours to go submarining. so you pull out your point and shoot, it's unlocked and you're firing wildly, its staccato, ratatat tat F-16 F15, Blackbird, Hueys and in the distance Chinook. the day is at its end and you've en-gulfed 3 times one dollar slices of cheese.

the 7-train shuttles you to Lawng Eyeland City. Who explores Long Island City? Dora? there sits the Isamu Noguchi gallery. Isamu sculptor and influencer of architects agreat. 5 Points, an unrivalled graffitti explosion. the battered buildings caressed in a rainbow's ejaculation. you leave the City and chug back litres of amber, pale and dark, the world is spinning, she asks you to dance, but you don't tango.

the cloak of night falls over gotham city. but as you keep sucking on the black nixxer ball, the colourful City reveals itself. Neon lights and flashing bulbs. 

oh my gosh, you're running, you tell Jess where you're at, where you're going. she tells you, 'if i were you i'd...".you throw anchors, your feet halting to a grinding stop, turning up pavement, you swivel, and with blistering speed, the buildings a blur, you kick the curb and flying at Concordian knots you land up with a paper cut from a free ticket to see live in concert in Central Park the Foo Fooo Fighters and one-note Neil Young, the oldest dodgiest geyser you've ever seen strum a geet.

with the riffs of rock reverberating off of the hammer, the anvil and Clint's stirrups, you swipe your Metro card and board a shiny shimmering rail car to Brooklyn. moseying down Fulton Street, dodging baseball caps and low hung jeans, you picture yourself shooting hoops with jayzee and alee-shia-ah. then high fiving all your new homee's, you come a Knock knock knocking on DopeJams record store. scouring the vinyl, out pops Miriam Makeba, and she's ready for a twirl.

you then fill up on tacos and hummus and craft beer and settle back into the Rockwood Music Hall for some ridiculously sublime live music that penetrates your heart, that lets you in on New York's secret. she is the centre of the arts, that girls playing violin are exceptional and that a falafel can make you dirty.

you wake up, the sweat stained streets, and lingering arabiatic aroma leave skid marks across your nostrils, you throw on your runners, and you ring Jess's doorbell. the grided streets push you to its out skirts. you're barely limber and you're off. 8th 9th 10th Ave. West Street Highway. You run the Hudson. Jersey flashes past you, WTC, your beacon. bobbing pony tails and lycra tights. the smile, you can barely tear it off of your mug. you grip a joe joffee, and angle your way up the Highline, you're gaping, you put your jewellery on the line and say, 'this is probably the greatest space in Manhatten'

your journey is but a purchase of a new pair of Nike sneakers from being done.it's over. the turbulent wake of New York leaves you behind. it didn't even see you, you've left very little for it to remember you by, 1000's will fill your void.

There can be only one Russian Bear Hunter. 

'Dont let "them" tell you who you are or where you should be. Life, Live it'

'if you don't eat your meat, you cannot have any pudding'

Nothing's Without Corn Syrup, Nothing 24.09.2012

hopping and skipping through the streets of DUMBO, Brooklyn, hair flailing in the wind, camera in hand, whistling as a Von Trappian in the hills of Austria, i was as happy as a daisy in a meadow.

with the sun's rays reflecting off of the cascading sweat of my saltied brow, i needed a coolant, a refreshant. i needed an ice cream.

it was a tough choice to make, my hands left moist marks on the counter top, i felt clammy, a sense of unease, it was pure drama in my head. i was stressed out. what do i choose, would it be the cows lick of chocolate flavoured ice cream, or a vanilla scented 2 scoop?. 'argh, somebody help me.' i couldnt take the pain, so i left. and with the whir of an NYPD chopper above i made a line for the piers edge over looking the great Manhatten skyline and the turbulent Hudson.

in the Hudson bobbed NYPD boats and rubberised men, all drifting beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, waiting, anticipating in the tumult of the rivers current. i followed the gazes of gazers and there atop the bridge sat a lonley soul. a jumper.

The jumper had attracted a crowd. gathered, we watched. 'Don't jump, weell, maybe... jump'. a family arrived with a 16 inch pizza pie. the spectacle was worth breaking bread for it seemed. and as i watched people photograph the event, i held fire on the trigger of my camera. and then i figured i best show proof, so i took zoom off and shot an image. Brooklyn Bridge, that bridge is a beautiful bridge. and then bizarre arrived. a cute asian girl, unknowing of the drama unfolding, asked so delightfully for a photo, but the clincher was she wanted the bridge as background. I giggled, my question, 'do you know what's going on?' was lost in translation. so i chuckled and i shot the image, and only she could beam such a smile.

The FDNY, with ladder extended and negotiator on the pulse of this guy, managed to save a life. the Jumper's stresses and short flight were alleviated. 

next time i'll order a two scoop, one bouncy ball of chocolate and one a scoop of vanilla.

 From the mysterious musings of a Russian Bear Hunter

Badda Badda Sawing Badda Hush Badda Sawing Badda 20.09.2012

so what was supposed to be a sombre adventure turned out to be book ended by biig sightings.

while cruising through the west village en route to see the 911 memorial, there as hulking as a hanging skinned beef carcass, with a hanky covering his head defining his colorado-landscaped mug, his mouth hung as a horse shoe off of door, and his bulbous door knob nose moving towards me was stevie van zandt.. ',yo, uhm hmm, you're... i lov...', and then he was gone. 

with a smile larger than i can normally smile incised into my face, i, the bowling ball, continued to roll downtown eventually coming to a halt as i hit a queue to enter the 9/11 Memorial.

since 2001, the City of New York has been a dismembered body, it's skyline having looked depleted, toothless as a 4 year old. She has appeared unrecognisable and from the streets of the city, down the cavernous corridors of Manhatten, peering down south there was no hook to bait the eyeballs of New Yawkers. Now, slowly, the towers are rising, re-forming, mutating the city of New York. She is morphing, returning to the state that once had its skyline inbedded in our memories, instilled on postcards, sketched on napkins. the stump of the WTC 1 rising, rising brushing the belly of the sky. the Empire State now has a winking partner.

the 9/11 Memorial is the footprint of each of the twin towers surrounded by metro stops and the ever growing WTC 1 tower. 

the two sunken waterfalls, the extent of the footprints of each the devastated original twin towers. black tiling and gushing water. rimmed by laser cut steel embedded with the names of each of those killed on that day. a red carnation. a red rose. circling each of the pits, touching many of the names. im engaged. my viewfinder can't get a great shot. this was great devastation. we aren't staring up at a monolith, but rather peering down into a pit. my senses tell me this is me standing at the edge of a grave hole. that is humbling.this isn't the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington ,it doesn't engage the viewer as actively but it does extract emotion and disbelief. 

i exited the Memorial still stumped at what happened that September day in history.

ghost limbs of the city are now active operating on the emotion of visitors.

as i walked with the tower and her memorial at my back, shedding the carapace, the skin of sadness, my back regaining it's height, my eye's drying, and my face looking to the sun, Jonah Hill nearly walked into me. 

that rolly lad in a plaid shirt, desert tinted chinos and a baseball cap carrying a paper bag sent a mary jane inspired giggle to my face and a smile to my belly.

get me to a greek, i need some hummus.

From the Russian Bear Hunter, living out of a backpack and scrubbing the streets of Noo Yawk for a story, RRrraah, ggrggrrr, Raaahhh

a quote by the giant Big Wave surfer, Laird Hamilton, 'Let's just expose our weaknesses and focus on sh*t we can't do.'

Chai Tea in Chai Town 06.09.2012

chicago illinois.

After a 20 hour train ride having crossed america, seated next to a styleless college kid from Boston, i landed ragged as a soppy rat in Chicago Illinois.

chicago is a pebble bed reactor of cooking architecture, harbouring the greatest tide turning edifices of modernity, defining an age, defining our thinking. two of the most renowned architects did work and established themselves in the Windy City- Frank Lloyd Wright the american womaniser and designer of the Guggenheim and Mies van der Rohe the german designer of barcelona pavilion and developer of steel structured glass boxes.

Chicago is the threshold to middle america, its the precipice, and from this point it's the drop-off to farming country and sunburned necks.

Here trains zoom above head, grazing past the upper floors of buildings, snaking, dodging towering edifices. the system was mecannoed years ago, it was the future then, and it's the future right now.

My exploration begins, it's downtown.

i'm in a queue,im on the way in. there's a bazillion (c) people in the elevator, and it's lift off. i'm going from zero, 73 floors up. just before cerebral aedema kicks in, i'm atop the Sears tower, light headed and weak. with a miserly budget, i barely ate.

the views of the city from Sears, constructed using the 'bundled tube' system, pinpoint my location. the blackened tower looking as cigarettes haphazardly protruding from john waynes box o smokes scrapes the sky as a former tallest building in the world. the tower becomes my beacon locating my position, orientating me. im in a queue,im on the way out.

im in a queue waiting for the boat. the river boat tour on the Chicago River which penetrates the city giving it a serene sense and an other heart beat. the river tickles the sides of buildings, creating an active shore front with glazed towering buildings and green emerald relax space. the shore depicts architecture of the ages, a development of building thinking, the old interacting sterlingly with the reflective new.i leave the boat. im in a queue.

im in a queue,' whole wheat footlong, cheese and veggies, please.' i wanna pay. im in a queue.

im on the platform, im drinking a Dr Pepper. im waiting. at the end of the Green line sits Oak Park. Oak Park with its genteel clap board houses nestled on peppermint green lawns, mottled in leafy darks and bottle blue skies is Frank Lloyd Wright territory. Oak Park became Wright's petri dish, his test tube for experimental thoughts, ideas and influences. Oak Park allowed him to create and redefine the architecture and building of the time. The four or so blocks on which he has birthed about 6 houses sets out his metamorphosis as a young architctect moonlighting to his steps towards redefining the world of residential architecture. Wright changed mindsets, defining a period of time. my travels have revealed to me once again: the greatest creatives-archi's, muso's, scientists, writers, and painters, are great because they reconfigured the human race's thinking.

my uncontrollable black pen and my controlling mind, struggled to sketch Wrights complex edifices, i was in the space of genius. 

i didn't queue to see Wright's work, because i did a self guided tour.

Millenium Park, breathing space in a busy city is a respite from the rolling cogs of urbanity. it's soft to the touch and mirrored in Frank Gehry's bandstand.

there in the landscape sat on a plaza, is a Bean, a Cloud-a massive jelly bean of mirrored material reflecting the earth and the city that surrounds. i aint no jelly bean fan, but i licked this one. looking really hard at the city mirrored,the Art Institute addition by Renzo Piano defined the Flying Carpet by locals is a serated edge to the city, a building of vertical and floating roofs. crispy white and glinting bright. 

the queueing had ended and i found a place of solace. There at the Illinois Institute of Technology, Mies van der Rohe penned a building of nucleiaic proportions. The Crown Hall houses the school of architecture.its a rectangular box ribbed in blackened steel, sliced proportionally by the verticals that support it. 4 large I-Beams hold its roof, alleviating the interior of any supporting columns. the gushing natural light floods the interior allowing a volume of serenity and peacefulness. it's an expression of its materiality, an expression of structure. it is a refinement of a life times work.

the day was going to end so pleasantly but then i chowed a bag of super salty french fries and i turned into a raisin

Chicago was not only defined by building, city, a Bears cap and deap pan pizza, but by Jeremy, a steely lad, a Leadville 100miler, a sensitive, switched on personality with Elvisian lambchops and his wife Melanie, a sculptor sublime, a thinker, with a radiating heart, a creative soul, and dynamic DNA. both sublimely intuitive and inquisitive, together with their two wee offspring, warmed my Chicagoan senses for me. we'll be sure to reconnect Comrades 2013.

from the roar of the Russian Bear Hunter, a journey personified.