Decreasingly Successful Conversations: The next couple bits.
Two short stories about the local culture here in Aotearoa.
Mongolian Dave
The plan was to show Keef New Zealand but everywhere we went turned out to be a pub. So I'd organised some local culture for us an hour north of Wellington. Unfortunately this wasn't the sort of culture that Keef enjoyed. Some people might call it eccentric or 'Wishy washy'. To the Keef's of the world it's "Total bollocks." I saw the gig advertised on a bohemian arts website but told Keef I found it on Resident Advisor. They used all the right buzz words to lure a gullible contrarian like me in. I listened to some of it - a violinist & vocalist who chopped what she was doing into something resembling electronica - Sold. Although, I did hear some screaming on one track. Best not to show Keef that bit. Keef has a nonsense intolerance whereas I have a depenance. A long way from convinced, Keef said he would drop me off then piss off two towns over to find somewhere showing the footy.
We pull up to a rural village. It was Saturday night, we were on the high street but there were no people. There were four cars parked outside the village hall where the gig was happening. "Are you sure you don't wanna come in?" He just looked at me "Are you sure?" "It's fine" I said, convincing neither one of us "I brought my oner." A oner is a small weed pipe. I hadn't smoked in a few months but for some reason figured I'd be in a safe space. I leaned up against the side of the hall and lit up. Five minutes roll by and things were hotting up - four people walked past. Who knew empty parking spaces could feel so busy. This was a very local gig and I probably shouldn't have packed the oner with such abandon. I walk into a hall with eighty odd seats facing a stage. Twenty of which were occupied. There was no bar or anybody checking tickets. The seats filled from the back like a comedy club. An inordinate desire to avoid small talk led me to sit in the front & centre, away from everyone. I sunk into my chair and waited for the show to start.
At no point did it occur to me there might be a warm up act, let alone two of the nutters. The opening act walked on stage and introduced his set up. He had a 1970s reel-to-reel recorder and a few other gizmos he would use to create something unburdened by rhythm. He began distorting recordings of machinery into the woo-woo sound black & white films use when a UFO lands. It was total nonsense and I loved it. But after ten minutes the seriousness went up a few notches above what a man in my chronic disposition could mitigate. He was joined on stage by a rapper / spoken word poet. An older Maori gentleman in a red leather jacket and black mono-sense sunglasses. Neither acknowledged the other. The first guy did not change what he was doing in the slightest to allow the rapper space to do his thing. There was no beat or melody, the rapper had to wait for random gaps in the noise to squeeze in lines against racial hatred. Then when he finally let up and allowed him to rap a full bar, he would completely distort what he was saying. It felt more like an art exhibition than a music gig. Perhaps one where the not-so-subtle subtext is 'The white man silencing the voice of the Maori'. He would reverberate the rappers voice so it went "Jus jus jus jus jus jus jus, tice, tice tice tice tice tice. Community unity unity unity unity unity unity." All while the UFO was landing and the lights were flashing red. It sounded for all the world like this was the first time they had met. After 15 minutes of this repetition the performance came to an abrupt end. The Maori guy said "That song is called Justice For The Community" and they bowed in sync. I let out the first noise made from the audience. A horribly timed involuntary laugh.
It's amazing to think I left this place feeling like they should have actually been the second act. I struggled through two more 20 minute songs. I know for a fact Keef would have stood up two minutes in and pointed the word "Shit" at the pair of them before storming out. This was my punishment for disliking popular things. A big shit sandwich. There's nothing funnier than the giggles when you're not allowed to laugh. Turns out this is even true when you fear for your safety. I was stuck in this village until Keef came to get me. And the fear these giggles might get me lynched for a hate crime felt very real. It was a powerful mix of emotions which I was unable to internally regulate, leading to nervous laughter. I was in trouble. A year earlier Keef and I were attending our mate's daughter's Christening in Watford. In no uncertain terms our mate told us no drinking before, so we thought it would be funny if we got stupendously stoned outside the Church. We were so right that Keef had to leave midway through proceedings because he was having trouble breathing. That was all tipped off by Keef looking over and saying the words "Keef I am in trouble" but he looked at the sight of me and knew help was not available. Back in front of the two nutters, I was acutely aware that I was pulling the same face that said to anybody looking 'I am in a perilous pickle and have abdicated any sense". I am not ashamed to admit that I shed a tear of relief when they finished their set. The next act seriously needed to be normal. My emotive state was in bits. The next act was a white Mongolian throat singer.
He looked uncannily like the bald traitor from the first Matrix movie. Nothing could have prepared me for this although in hindsight, the first act gave it a good shot. He had a 2 foot long guitar string. One end had something to bite down on, the other had a little bell on it. He walked on stage, said "Hello, I'm Dave" and knelt for a minute in silence. He put the string between his teeth and plucked it once, making a single drawn out note. He then accompanied that tone with similarly long, other worldly, guttural Roarrrummmmmm. I'm not the world's leading expert on Mongolian Throat Singing but it sounded pretty good. Dave was clearly very talented and was very clearly serious about this talent. But his name was Dave and Dave was white. Dave did not have a stage name. Dave was not dressed in Mongolian get-up. Dave was dressed in a graphic tee and cargo shorts. Who told Dave this would be an okay thing to do outside the house? Who told Dave he would make an appropriate warm up act? And how have I ended up paying Dave to do this to me?
Dave plucked his string every 40 seconds (I know this because as part of a meditative practice not to wet myself I started counting the seconds). This first song was one pluck for one groan. I looked at the floor trying to hold it together. I was only 10ft in front of Dave and looking down for longer than 40 seconds felt very rude. I had to mentally disassociate the image of Dave in his cargo shorts from the otherworldly tone to appreciate it. But every time I looked up, Dave's intense slaphead broke the spell and I lost it again. Gripping the string between his teeth gave Dave a maniacal grin. It was just too weird for me to process internally. Each second lasted 10 as I waited for Dave to stop what he was doing and tell me to fuck off. But he never did. My sole goal in life was avoiding eye contact with Dave. After a particularly long gut note (53 seconds), I looked up to see Dave crouched lower than usual, leaning slightly forward and staring straight at me. He then rang the bell on the end of his string. It went ding-aling-aling. I didn't stand a chance. I bit down on the inside of my lips but fear the tears streaming down my face might have given me away.
Dave continued staring at me for the remainder of the show. After 25 minutes of casual staring Dave stepped up the intensity. Dave moved onto track two. He wiggled to the edge of the stage. To everyone else in the room he was performing his new single but to the initiated, it was an ominous signal of intent. This wasn't music but a war horn. Dave was evoking the sound of the Mongolian Death Stare. A dark art used to crack your enemies mind. After several minutes of this ancient ritual I could feel him poking around my noggin, looking for a way in. Not today pal. Or so I thought. Dave was floating. Even I know that floating in mid air is a dead give away in a telepathy battle. Dave had the keys and he was mocking me. I wanted to break eye contact to disrupt the illusion but Dave compelled me to hold his gaze. This is when it happened. Our minds & emotions became symbiotic. I am communicating with this man's soul... I am at one with Dave... A message from Dave flew through the ether, something he'd been trying to ask me all night Mate why would you sit right there ~ How high are you ~ And why won't ya fuck off?
Keef said I looked violated when he picked me up. Humouring me, he asked if I had a good time at the gig. The fuck sort of question is that? Had he no idea "Good?" I couldn't quantify what just happened in such definitive terms. Keef wanted to cheer me up. "C'mon Keefy. I'll play some of your music. Who d'ya wanna listen to." I just looked at the floor "Ed Sheeran."
The All Blacks
Craving something not mental, the following Saturday we went to see England v All Blacks play in a pub. We were tasked with securing a table for six somewhere and it took a few stops to find something. Neither one of us anticipating just how much rugby-mad New Zealand loves the New Zealand All Blacks. There would be me - a passionate but entirely uneducated England Rugby fan. And five other English expats at the table. All of whom had no real interest in the test series other than the feeling that one really ought to watch the All Blacks play visiting here. Two of the people meeting us, I had only met once but they struck me as the type of people who only talked about sport with a healthy level of irony. Keef took pride in his ignorance of rugby like a working class badge of honour. And the last two were Jimmy & Ash. A couple who once told me they might watch the Olympics if they introduced competitive gardening.
The four of them joined Keef and I just in time for the Haka. I had already embarrassed Keef once (Who is a hard man to embarrass, he shat on a mountain trail the day before and the only emotion he displayed was pride). Somebody asked to pinch one of the four empty chairs which surrounded our table for so long. The pub was full of black shirts and Keef deemed my single word response of “No” as a potential problem. Only today I was writing about acts of sinful depravity at a punk club while sitting in Christchurch library, when two young lads in white shirts interrupted my flow to ask “Excuse us sir, would you care to join our bible study student meeting.” I was caught too off guard to respond with more than one syllable. This was that.
During the Haka, the Kiwi’s in the pub (who were all white) respond to Maori tradition in an unexpected way. In my mind everyone would watch stoically, like a national anthem. But it was more like when I claim to know all the words to Without Me at an after party. There was a lot of passionate uncertainty. At the end of the Haka, the pub cheers and I scream “Fucking c’mon England!!” Which sends my friend Jimmy into a neurotic tizz as the pub looks over. He sinks into his chair and pulls an involuntary grimace. Imagine the face Wallace would make when pulling floss out of Grommet’s bum.
A family with three young children sat next to us. Jimmy apologises to them a couple times on my behalf for reasons beyond my comprehension. We were in a pub. If anything I considered his apologies a little unpatriotic. I thought perhaps he was over analysing the whole thing until mid-way through the first half. We took the lead with an incredible piece of rugby any self-respecting Englishman would acknowledge heatedly. This clearly upset the youngest of the three children the family had to try and console him to the background of my laughing.
Clearly this was the first time this lad had been exposed to any negativity towards the All Blacks. The mere concept that somebody could wish them to lose had never entered this young idiot's head. I could see this unthinkable thought turn into diabolical realisation and tear the world he knew apart. The tears welled up to breaking point as he bravely held on. Bad timing, as England just doubled our lead. “FUCKIN AVE IT!! GET THE FUCK IN THERE!!” This little blond fucker started wailing. He was 6 years old. He was so distraught the whole family had to leave. My lack of humility was parable to Jimmy’s unbearable shame. He watched them leave through the gaps in his fingers. I would have sung them Cheerio had I not been too busy barrel laughing.
At half time I had a run in with a Kiwi in the men's. "Oh ho England! Did you's really make that family leave in tears just 'cause you were screaming?" I took issue with the word screaming despite its accuracy. Although if I remember rightly, what I actually said back was "Errrr. Urrmmmmm." He looked delighted "That's fucking rugby bro! You know what I mean?" I didn't but pretended I did. He shook my hand in a menacing type of way. Squeezing a bit too long while he decided how to deal with me. He must have liked the look of me because just like that, he gave a knowing nod and wished me luck. We then put our respective dicks away and he left without washing his hands.
As the match went on, Jimmy sank so far into his chair the only part of him which stood taller than his pint was his increasingly erratic barnet. Only lifting his hands from his eyes to run his fingers through his hair or to hold his hand out to apologise. He longed for me to match the rest of our table's indifference. Keef was enjoying the Jimmy show more than the rugby. The others had paid so little attention that they failed to notice all of the above. We ended up losing the game by one point, much to Jimmy’s delight.
The following day I phoned my brother to see what he'd make of my destruction of our mutual friend. I was worried that my over-exuberance had crossed a line. We happened to move to NZ at the same time, so my brother had been the one to link us. He just congratulated me, wistfully adding "I miss making Jimmy squirm."
Artwork by my brother @BillyCatHantz
Comments