The veld-vet underground

I'm always the last to know. In this case that Die Antwoord released a new album earlier this summer, along with two singles over the last year.

Not that I can begin to explain "Cookie Thumper" without flushing red in embarrassment (nor without vomiting a little in my mouth for that matter). And yet it is yet another intriguing, dystopian video and hypnotic, addictive tune by a South African rap-(early '90s) techno hybrid that apparently is fronted by Hellraiser in a Speedo and that little girl from Poltergeist, all grown up, overly sexed up, with a hairstyle that only Pikachu could love.

Alternate group name suggestion: FouUnlimited.

I understand that there's been a lot of discussion surrounding Die Antwoord as an art project. Ninja (Hellraiser himself) has said that

People are unconscious, and you have to use your art as a shock machine to wake them up. Some people are too far gone. They'll just keep asking, "Is it real? Is it real?" That's dwanky. That's a word we have in South Africa, "dwanky." It's like lame. "Is it real?" You have to be futuristic and carry on. You gotta be a good guide to help people get away from dull experience. (David Marchese, "Die Antwoord's Totally Insane Words of Wisdom." Spin, February 7, 2012.)

I admit I'm semi-unconscious most days and have come to accept the fact that I have to be that way in order to survive the day-to-day of the real world. And yet I do admire Die Antwoord's brilliance. But it is a brilliance I'm fine with listening to from a distance and watching from even farther away.

Plus I'm old and wish they'd stop saying "fokken" every three seconds. That's what I do, not my art.

Almost simultaneous to discovering new music from Die Antwoord, I just checked out a copy of Agaat from my local library, Agaat being the latest work (I've discovered) by South African writer Marlene Van Niekerk, she of Triomf fame. Here's a description of the plot of Agaat from the back cover of the book:

In the waning days of South African apartheid, Milla, a sixty-seven-year-old white woman, is condemned to silence by a creeping paralysis. As she struggles to communicate with her maidservant turned caretaker, Agaat, the complicated history of their relationship is revealed . . . . With sadistic precision and yet infinite tenderness, Agaat performs her duties, balancing anger with loyalty.

So it's a light read.

If this is what I'm listening to, reading, and watching in September, I should be a right jolly ol' zef by the time Christmas rolls around.