Get all 13 THE BUCKFEVER UNDERGROUND releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Voortvlugtend, Driving on the N2 with Ghosts in My Car, Die Nagorno-Karabakh-blues, Satelliet, Last Days Of Beautiful, Walk Fast, Whistle, Verkeerdevlei, Limbs Gone Batty, and 5 more.
1. |
Who Cares (Not Us)
03:39
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who cares (not us)
wake up in the morning’s tide, sex on the blink, the alarms in sync, stuff outside my window, it’s got to be birds, sounds like birds, dog’s sniffing at the backdoor, wants to go for a walk, garbage trucks, dragging bags, get in the kitchen, get some cereal, more Weet-Bix, i need my Bokomo, I need fibre. kiss the kids goodbye, there they go, all snot and clothes, what do they do in school, what do the people teach them there? what’s wrong with them? who cares? not us.
brush your teeth with Aquafresh 4, all those colours in one tube, how do they do that? grab the wife by the throat, kiss goodbye, bravely into the traffic, 7:15 heavy fog on the M3, intersections are clogged, Hospital Bend, who are those people, and do they really bank at Nedbank? who cares? not us.
7:55 parking bay, beggars on the lurk for a tip for the day, get to your building with the thick, blue carpets, security guard and entrance card, swipe here, press there, goodmorning sir. what do they do? who do they protect? who are paying these people? who cares? it’s not us. wie gee om? not us, nie ons nie.
up the lift, floor 17, sliding doors, smiling secretary, swallowing something, heaving chest, don’t do that, that’s dangerous – ooh, that’s nice, mmm, anyway, a minute past eight, into your office, cubicle, personal space, who cares? not us?
sometime past 11, tea and stuff, one the park bench, pigeon crap, old, grey sky, eat a burger, chow a cow, eat some of those fumes, who cares? who cares?
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2. |
Oom Willem Strikes Back
05:25
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oom willem strikes back
die son gaan onder en die donderweer kom op, oom willem kom binne en gooi sy eerste dop, eers brandy en coke want sy plaas is broke, dan cane teen die pyn, rum vir sy kop en Castle vir die leeu teen die muur opgestop, stop by die TV, halfpad na die knop, by die voordeur klop ‘n vinger die electric klok, liggies soos ‘n bok in ‘n slaghuistrok, gebind, gereed en reggemaak vir die blok, die sisi het mos al lankal die hoenders op hok, wie de fok kan dit wees, Escom, of die bure, of die nag se wilde diere?
oom willem strikes back teen die forces of evil, vuisvoos en moedeloos, motherless en tandloos, los hy die print van ‘n koeël teen sy ken – one shot willem, so’t hulle hom geken. renjaer en swemmer, knopknieë en al, dis die duiwel se lewer wat so braai in die dal, dis sy gal wat so bloei onder jou voeteval. dis sy roepe wat so ratel snags in jou katel, hy spartel en hy spartel want oom willem het gestrike, hy’t hom fokkol gelike, oom willem het gestrike, hy’t hom fokkol gelike
oom willem staan nader, skadu gladder, langer , dunner soos thinner, maerder as ‘n model, ‘n rooi Edgars hanger teen die skemer, ingespanner, alleen, maar getrain, ‘n ninja met ‘n kierie kielie-kielie hy die slot, bring die glas na sy mond, geslepe en geslyp deur jare op sy eie, ‘n waghond, ‘n reier, ‘n roereier-miskruier, derdespan breier, voorslag voortrekker kampkommando-leier, laatnag vryer in die koeksister-voue van die VLV by die damestee op goedgegund, goedgunstiglik, met ‘n grinnik in sy tande
want oom willem strikes back teen die forces of evil vuisvoos en moedeloos, motherless en tandloos, los hy die print van ‘n koeël teen sy ken – one shot willem, so’t hulle hom geken. renjaer en swemmer, knopknieë en al, dis die duiwel se lewer wat so braai in die dal, dis sy gal wat so bloei onder jou voeteval. dis sy roepe wat so ratel snags in jou katel, hy spartel en hy spartel want oom willem het gestrike, hy’t hom fokkol gelike, oom willem het gestrike, hy’t hom fokkol gelike
dis net hy alleen, saam met sy hond, Neville, op die plaas met sy Vauxhall-wrakke en sy geroeste sign wat sê hier bly ‘n boer en sy roer, en sy dooie broer met sy hoenders en sy Dorper-ooie en sy wit toyota hilux bakkie en sy groen John Deere. oom willem strike dit rustig op sestig, gevestig en gesettle en gesond soos sy hond. super 12 op die tv, rol boerie op die braai en BB by sy pyp ingestop, want hy is fokkol getraak met die tutsis, of die tutus of die kaizer chief scores nie, net skommel in sy stoel op ‘n soel somernag toe die klokkie klingeling en Neville weer blaf
want oom willem strikes back teen die forces of evil vuisvoos en moedeloos, motherless en tandloos, los hy die print van ‘n koeël teen sy ken – one shot willem, so’t hulle hom geken. renjaer en swemmer, knopknieë en al, dis die duiwel se lewer wat so braai in die dal, dis sy gal wat so bloei onder jou voeteval. dis sy roepe wat so ratel snags in jou katel, hy spartel en hy spartel want oom willem het gestrike, hy’t hom fokkol gelike, oom willem het gestrike, hy’t hom fokkol gelike
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3. |
Sonsverduistering
02:00
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sonsverduistering
hoe sliert die strale deur die klippies-lug, nat serpe van die sterre-slakke, miswolke kruip soos roomys oor die teerpad, waar die wildehonde aflek, traak-my-nie-agtig pis teen hoekpale. oog geknyp teen die dag, ou voue en droë kepe in die hoeke, skilfers in die hare, dik broedersbloed in die are, gekneusde ribbes en knarsende tande. soos die res val hy tussen yster en stof rond, rol warm note tussen vingers, brand gat op karsitplek, spoeg in pisbak, trek labels van bierbottels af, lek suiker van vingers, hengel vir palings so met die krans langs. maar die uitspansel voorspel niks nie, net die gewone uitbuitery, myn-muitery, grondafsmytery, vrou-afvryery, en leepoog-leeglêery. swaar diere sluip met kettings en byle in die nag rond, stel steltoue, maak sommetjies, smee alliansies met dun meisies in pelsjasse en kniekoppe. sodat, eendag, doodluiters, sy weg versper word deur ‘n rooimier, wat verwoed aanval vir twee minute, spoeg en slaan en pik en krap. en dan die aftog blaas en wegknikker op die wind van die ruimte, tot volgende keer, die verbete rol van die miskruierwiel, flou ge-olie, skeef gemoer.
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4. |
Love In A Time Of Visas
05:12
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love in a time of visas
you’re seeing the bosphorus in the distance, from here I can see the cable cars
(two things on the same line, but never at the same station)
we can both see mosques, or at least, if I was standing on the roof I could
you’re cooking something in the kitchen, I’m spinning around on an office chair
there’s a tiny delay, when we laugh it becomes irrelevant
I’m trying to let a twenty minute phone call tell me something new about you
trying to let that hug you send me crunch my bones, pretending the plastic of the phone
is the warm curve of your face that fits like a favourite hat
the kind of hat you’ll climb back up a mountain for,
knowing that it’s kept you warm before
and there’s no reason to let it go just like that
that email you sent me about full moon
was like a brainscan spelled out in english
I wish I was a psychopath, I mean a homeopath, I mean,
I wish I had telepathic powers, so I can make you do things with your hands
or control about an inch of your skin, make it glow in the dark, just a bit
like an indiglo watch, a blinking cellphone charger, uv strips on a jogger
I wish it was the end of july already,
so I can rub a rough thumb over your eyebrows
and take you to a room somewhere
where we can talk and unpack and shower
and put our steaming limbs together,
melting the sheets as if it was snow
in the thin quiet air of nepal
then I can put my ear to yours
and download enough mp3s for years of listening pleasure
and tonight, what i remember is nothing
but the blue in your eyes turning green
like a fish
jumping in and out of water
as the sheets in my bed flap
from darkness to heaven
tonight’s the night
that i feel the warmth of your face
like a gust from the warm wind mulling
around now for hours and hours
like the weather is one of your powers
and even if all i have to show for it is
backpain
and a sense of something incomplete
when i go through my daily prayer
of car eat work shit sleep
and even if all i need to know
is that when i play a song i like
you’re somewhere in it
laughing
like rubbish removal is a service
for clowns
doing black humour
and you’re directing aeroplanes again
to take off and to land
when you dance like a madman
and sing in a band
and my heart is a leather handle,
pulling with the tides
of yours hitching rides
with the freedom in the sand
my teeth are aching for peppermint chocolate
and lion’s breath in the morning
by that river,
you remember
because tonight,
i watched a movie alone
together with other people
and the moon
was just hanging there
like a church
without a steeple
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5. |
Die Bure
06:24
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die bure
die bure skop hulle diere en slaan hulle kinders in die niere, drink baie bier en gooi die bottels stukkend in die driveway. hulle sny nie die gras nie, gooi nie die rubbish in swart sakke nie, steek gedurig goed aan die brand, is besig om ‘n wagtoring op te rig, angle-grind tot 3-uur die oggend, skiet ou TV’s met rewolwers, rand bedelaars aan, verdryf kollekteerders en predikante met donshael, sambokslae en megafone. soms bel ons die polisie, maar die polisie is besig en het nie tyd vir nietighede nie.
hoe kou jy die dag in sulke diep blou, hoe lyk dinge vanuit jou vierdeur-kou? maak lugwaardinne met grondboontjies in hulle neusgate jou wakker, skud hulle bakpoeier oor jou gesig, klop liggies ‘n eier daardeur? of is dit die gehoes van reën en die getik-tik van stringe wind teen die vlagpale van die kwikspar? is daar kieme op deurknoppe, hempsknope, polisieknuppels en melkdruppels? hoe grou haar toonaels in jou rug se moue? wie’s die vrouens wat gedurig sooie kom lê, growwe, groen, nat sooie, wat nog na kontant en vloedwater ruik? wie’s die waterfiskaal by die beervleidam, wie se lammers lê dood langs die pad, wie plaas die bloukraanvoëls hier, soos grys gekerfde brode tussen die swart en die koring? wie grom vir wie tussen tandepaste en petroleumjellie? ken jy jou petroljoggie se naam? met watter vinger teken jy in die stof, skiet julle grof, vat julle fyn? ken julle tant mossie se acid house remix? click julle tonge, nat punte, gesplete klinkers, voorste verhemeltes en hemelse handlangers, saam, tegelykertyd, eensklaps, spoedig? buig julle saam om die herd, rol julle dieselfde drom om, deel julle ‘n paar boude? wat’s louterwater? wie besluit hoe later hoe kwater? is ‘n kapater elke dag kwater en kwater, synde hy sonder ‘n knater? brul dinge op die braai, roer iemand die slaai, swaai kinders op die skoppelmaai? hoe kou jy die dag in sulke diep blou, hoe lyk dinge vanuit jou vierdeur-kou?
voet op die wa, los hand om die greentrees koffie, sigaret wat rol onder die oogtand, staan ons held vannaand in september en praat oor sy vrou, en sy eks-vrou en hoe sy nie die inslepery kon hanteer nie. sy pak haar tasse, hy skud sy kop. die nuwe vrou is beter, sy’t reg gekies. dan’s daar sy broer en sy pa, dood op pad na ‘n ongeluk, hy’t uitgery nylstroom toe vir die lyksuitkenning. wanneer sy oë in die rigting van die caltex sign draai, kan jy jou jou verbeel jy sien sy harde ken by die ruit uitsteek, een hand op die wiel, die ander wat slap hang in die wind, blou oë wat wil huil maar nie kan nie, want die verkeer is swaar, en die pad by die carousel verby is vol busse en trokke. eers by die zambesi-laan afrit kom sy kop skoon, en hy dink aan werk en die ekonomie en vriende en die vrou. dan, jare later, staan hy hier by greentrees en deel raad uit oor karre en deals aan ‘n dwerg en ‘n yuppie, die gesprek soos ‘n toolbox wat van ‘n bakkie afval. soek hom maar gerus op, jy sal hom ken aan sy oorpak en sy glimlag, en sy wiele wat ruik na rubber en reën, en sy stem, vol missed calls, middernag-padstories en die lig wat uit die dag gesuig word.
hy’s so anders as ons bure, wat hul diere skop en hulle kinders in die niere slaan, skote na die maan afvuur, nooit die gras sny nie, en die pos laat ophoop. hoe kou jy die dag in sulke diep blou, hoe lyk dinge vanuit jou vierdeur-kou? swaai iemand op die skoppelmaai? roer iemand die slaai? brul dinge op die braai? skiet julle grof, vat julle fyn?
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6. |
Blood Red Land
03:20
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blood red land
you know, this land, the good, the bad, the maribous, the storks, mosquitoes and dogs and the chain of food through the mountains and valleys (?) and parks, the wind and the dust and rust can blow and blast the beat, the bomb, the weather, the towns are gone, rwanda, burundi, botswana, the congo, ghana, niger, morocco, mozambique and zim, kenya, cameroon, angola and nam, disease, the grease, release, the power, the priests, the past, the hurt, the rain to heal and the will to live, to steal, to kill, to take, to keep, forgive and move on, again, the maize, the sweat, the stains, the rain and the hungry child, the tender moon and the tilled soil, corrupt and barren, governments, corruption and the guns and the blood and the oil and the diamonds, the orchards and fields and the white cattle egret against the sky, watch the lightning crackling over the hills of the blood red land with the hate and the love go on go on go on, it stops at a wall, a bullet-hole and the wind alone through an empty room and the child with train tickets to the see to be happy for once in his life once in his life in the blood red land in the blood red land.
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7. |
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die ou man en die ou vrou
kyk sommer net hoe traan hierdie lug vannaand, met visnette, ghetto luv, greyhound-busse en rimpelringe om die maan, die naweek se nasmaak van gebreekte bottels en wynvlekke, vlenters plastiek betas die lug , snelweg en hawe snuif ligweg die lyne en rye, liggies en olie, fossilfuels en food parcels, die grendels wat die kontinent oopdraai, die wind wat ons worries wegwaai, die gehoes-hoes-hoes wat ons babas afmaai, die kieme wat die pangas rondswaai, die spense wat ons mense oplaai, die gehoes-hoes-hoes wat ons babas afmaai. skurwe vingers saai gladde sade die grond in, toegevou onder die kluite en kuiwe van die rookmis en torings, rante en skylines, waar kinders omrol onder sinkplaatdakke (waar die wind deur suis), draf straathonde om ‘n draai aan’t blaf (met twee slaapkamers en een kombuis), stamp koffie die lyf in, brom girlfriends onder duvets, gryp stywer aan kussingslope, gly duiwe in nou formasie, al om die hok, al om die hok. wie’s bang dat die linies gaan vou? wie vrees die derde wêreld-oorlog? wie gooi klippe teen die bullet-proof ruite van die karre daarbuite? wie gee geheime fluite, wie laai snags perlemoen in skuite? dis die marknavorser, die narkotiseerder, die geheimsinnige loseerder, die pasaangeër, die nommerpas hoëhakskoen, die pasgetroude hakkelaar, die ou man, en die ou vrou, wat stamel en sterwe, ons vir jou… dis die ou man en die ou vrou wat stamel en sterwe, ons vir jou ...
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THE BUCKFEVER UNDERGROUND Cape Town, South Africa
The Buckfever Underground is a South African spoken-word band. They perform poetry in English and Afrikaans with experimental music. Current members Toast Coetzer (vocals), Stephen Timm (drums), Michael Currin (guitar). Founder member: Gilad Hockman. Also: Jon Savage, Righard Kapp. Founded in 1998. On Instagram @thebuckfeverunderground ... more
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