chikitakooki's photostream

chikitakooki's photostream on Flickr.

The Paranoid Survive.

Met up with artist Nita Hungu this past weekend. Will be writing her story. New style, new feel, new everything. Talking to her, and her manager(Barak) and PR consultant(Wesonga), it was like my eyes had been opened this new awesomeness. forgive my lack of vocabulary, it's all the badness I've been absorbing by not blocking out guys that are out to get me. 

The paranoid survive.I feel as if no matter what we do, there's always someone looking us the wrong way, wishing we were unhappy. Guess what? The human race is unhappy from birth. So I don't understand why anyone would want to make it any worse for themselves or anyone else.

Wish some people would ease up a bit. Live a little, learn to smile with your eyes more than anything, be as nice as possible. There's no need to hate anyone for no reason. And when you do, question yourself until you figure out why you're being such a dick to people.

I will say it again: the paranoid survive but mostly, we're all just a bunch of lucky bastards.

Njerish

Perfection ends...

I was stuck in traffic this morning, not too long ago in fact. It was the kind of early traffic that you would normally loathe for keeping you away from the work you wanted to get done. And the driver of our matatu was a Rasta man. He had, hidden within a swollen mound of cap, a glorious mane of true African kink.

So, yes. As stuck as we were, no one was mad. The driver kept chiding his conductors for not 'fixing' a jam that he invariably caused to begin with by using the wrong lane; they promptly, but not very proactively fixed the jam and had us moving in what seemed like no time.

During the short struggle however, our bus had touched bellies with a smaller personal type car and once again the driver chided one of his men for not fixing the chuma. Chuma? Asked the conductor. Yes chuma the dreadlocked driver had responded. Chuma? Asked the conductor again. Eeeh chuma the driver had responded rather disgustedly. This had everyone in the bus giggling like silly little girls. I hadn’t spared.

Remind me of that time I’d gone into Tuskey’s and when that Boyz II Men - Mariah Carrey song had started, everyone had started singing along. Sometimes, the universe puts together a bunch of people who would live in perfect harmony with each other. We just never open our eyes to it.

A soon as I left that bus I felt like i had lost a family. It wa like leaving an island you knew you could never get back to because global warming was going to cause it to be submerged forever. It’s just the way things are sometimes. They’re beautifully perfect for a while. And then they’re perfectly over forever.

All I missed out on

Every time I think about the things my folks DID NOT do for me, that they should have, I am reminded how big of a miracle it is that I am alive. I remember being sick most of the time as a child and being asked:

"How long have you been feeling like this," by one of my parents. In spite of an answer to affirm how gravely ill I was, the response was always something like:
"Oh okay. Let me know if you get any worse..."
Worse? Worse? I'll show you worse! How about a dead stinking corpse of drug-drenched me? How's that for worse!

It's a little angering, especially when I see kids being mistreated by their parents nowadays. They're more enlightened about disease and how it's prevention can prevent a world of grief - both for them and their children - and yet, they still behave like they're in that prehistoric period before the stone age. You know, that one where insects were considered a little more intelligent than the so called Homo Sapiens.

I tell you, there's nothing as heart wrenching as a careless parent. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's that I'm growing older that I find myself caring a little more. A little too much if you ask me. The thought of having my own children is so unappealing, that I'd rather adopt about 50 kids form the streets and home-school them. Yep. Last time I checked, I still had a good bulk of matter in my thick skull - and as long as I write everything down, I won't forget the important stuff, you know?

There are so many people, the world over having babies for the simple selfish reason of proving their own virility (is that the word?) after which they promptly abdicate their responsibilities or delegate them to a maid or nanny or whatever you want to to call them.

The people for whom child making or child baring is so easy seem the least interested in their offspring, it seems. In some ways, this makes me wonder what it would be like if the Chinese one child per couple rule were enforced universally.

I do not know that they did the best they could. I believe however that our parents got tired along the way and decided on a one-size-fits-all outfit in all facets our lives. We all went to the same schools, even though we are completely different from each other. I especially hated the comparisons that people made between me and my older sister. I hated it like you wouldn't believe. And every time I remember how much I hate, I know that I would never do the same things to my kids or anyone else's unless I was completely fucking brain dead.

Disclaimer: this article is fictional and shall not be taken as truth...but I really know how to feign anger, don't I, did you feel it?

Murfy's fLaw lead guitarist turns 100 this past weekend.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOCO

I know it’s a little easier said than done but, no one should ever have to thank you for doing your job. The salary you get is already thanks enough, and not only that, but the satisfaction of completing something successfully that you love should be more than payment enough. And the recognition you get, if any, is just that extra cheese you like but don’t need on your pizza. Needless to say, we all need to survive, thus the need to be a bit of a street-smarty when it comes to getting jobs and getting them done well. 

Think of it this way; you may not always get to do what you love for a living. Things happen, people grow old, get arthritis if they’re athletes, go blind if they’re readers, writers or editors, you know … that kind of thing. But it’s your duty to make hay while the sun shines, so that when it don’t shine, you have lots of stash underground to live on.

So one of Murfy’s fLaw just turned a lot older this past weekend; I’m impressed with the load of them this far. They are the hardest working band I know. And they know it too. They have three albums out and with 4 out of 6 of them running households of their own, you’d think they’d get a standing ovation.

People, guys are willing to spend their cash to make music to entertain and educate you, give DJs something worthwhile to do, keep your kids glued to the television and tuned into stations where too often, radio presenters grossly misuse their power. When we don’t appreciate our own they wither and die and if they don’t, they go where they know they will be appreciated. This, I’m afraid is where one of greatest talents, Murfy’s are headed.

 I had the great fortune of being at one of their birthday Shin-digs. Their lead guitarist was celebrating another year on earth. He goes by many names; Foco (pronounced foko), Foco Jembe, Fauz Noir, 9ine and most recently the mad-man (he will gladly confirm this himself). He can put a talk show host to shame this one. He makes fun of everyone and every situation, you can’t beat him in a diss contest, but you could try, just so you could hear what he had to say, and maybe attempt to understand how witty he is.

Talkative and sometimes coming off as abrasive, Foco is one of those guys you want to hear talk. A little bit like Russell Brand. He’ll insult you and you’ll just laugh. Just the kind of person he is. Sometimes you listen, sometimes you don’t. Not because what he’s saying is not important but because sometimes, it’s just easier to listen to other things, you know; you get distracted by the sound of waiters dropping glasses and cursing at the mess.

Don’t know about other musicians but, he and his band some of the few that I know that don’t care what other people think. While we can think of about 1000 musicians that could mentor the next generation of musicians, those musicians are busy being ignored by the very people that should take the baton from them by playing their music. Not mentioning any names but how do you expect things to go anywhere when you’re giving foreigners priority over your very own? Take Camp Mulla for instance, they produced such good quality music and corresponding video that everyone was convinced they weren’t Kenyan. But they are. And so are all these other bands trying to get airplay but getting kicked in the teeth instead.

Radio and Television producers, do your jobs; talent and quality stares you right in the face.

Dear Rockers

This past weekend has played out a little bit like a scene in a Stephen King Novel.


See, a bunch of us went and camped on the grabbed hills of Ngong. We knew there were buffaloes and other wild ones but decided they wouldn’t attack us if we minded our own business. A stupid thing to do I know but, what is life without one or two of those. Some of us were dumb enough to carry electrics because they thought it would make them look ‘cool’. I had my acoustic with me and had quite the lineup of Mraz and Bublé songs.


Among us was one Buddha, nicknamed thus because of his peaceful nature and the lotus position he assumed whenever and wherever he was. Though not a musician, Buddha learned how to play the guitar against all odds. When he first started, he had no guitar, couldn’t read music and seemed to know nothing but how to beat drums – the traditional kind – with no particular rhythm. Before he knew it, and after only a few months of hanging around guitar wielding self-proclaimed superstars, he found that he could learn any song by ear.


Having been present during those first days when this miracle began can only be compared to watching a gymnast bloom. In this case, the gymnastics was in his fingers. Though not a rocker, Buddha can do Steven Tyler just fine. He not only looks like a black version of him with locks instead of blonde curly tresses, but sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t just sit for hours, studying and imitating his speech.


So there we were on a Saturday morning at 3am, sitting round a bonfire, intoxicated only by the freshness of the mountain air, and listening to Buddha sing “Back in The Saddle” while simultaneously pulling those impossible Jagger/Tyler facial expressions. He was just about to summarize and hand over the mantle to me when twigs all around us began to crackle.


Buffaloes don’t roam at night I told myself, lions were last seen here in the 80s. But then again, murderers seem to favour these woods as a dumping site. Immediately ‘Jaine’s got a gun’ started playing in my head and I wished so badly that I was Jaine. Of course in every horror story, there’s always that idiot who decides he has to go find out what ‘that’ was. In our case, there were five; Steve, Jay, his brother Jared, Omosh and Kama.


They disappeared into the darkness, guitars in hand in case they needed weapons. Against what, I wondered, fireflies? 50 seconds in and there was a horrible screaming sound coming from each of their directions, triggering an equally terrifying chorus scream from those of us left round the bonfire. Everyone grabbed a flaming log from it, ready to burn and thump anything that came their way. All I could think was, we’re all going to be decapitated. Before I could snatch a torch of my own, I heard what sounded like feedback, then what I knew to be the beginning of a Black Sabbath song.


Then it all began to make sense. The electrics, their insistence on parking in a semi-circle, the amplifiers in the boots of their cars; they’d planned to scare us all along. Expected of a band called Shadow Scratchers. As soon as they turned on their headlights, everyone relaxed and even attempted to enjoy their very grungy version of ‘Into the void’.


I never did get to play and fortunately, only figurative aural decapitation occurred. They were terrible.

It’s time to get Confusing!

I am absolutely flummoxed by the ways of non-rockers. What do they mean when they say of themselves ‘I rock’ when they can neither play an instrument nor hum to a single song that isn’t lady Gaga’s poker face? And when they say rock is evil, do they mean it’s inspired by the devil? Or does it inspire evil doing? This got me thinking, what can I do to make people understand that it isn’t music that’s evil; rather, people are?

Without thinking too hard, I feel that many musicians sing about my life as it was, and as it will be. Their lyrics give me delusions of grandeur. “I just found out there’s no such thing as real world,” he sings to me, convincing me that someday, I’ll fly, someday I’ll soar, because I’m bigger than my body gives me credit for.

John Mayer sang these words and about vultures hiding right outside his door while simultaneously, playing completely discordant chords on his fender. Before he knew it, he was free falling because gravity was working against him. He was talking about paparazzi going to whatever lengths to get his pictures, the more compromising the better. He sang about his half smile and zero shame; a reflection with a different name. Now if that’s a bad thing then I guess we all belong in a schizo-clinic; and he’d be all our boss because his eye-hand-mouth co-ordination is unparalleled.

Macy Gray tried to say goodbye and choked, tried to walk away and stumbled, when she tried to hide it, it was clear that there was nothing evil in her words.

In 1997, Pink was Steve Tyler’s new obsession because back then it was the color of passion and just went with the fashion. Now while his words might have raised questions about his sexual orientation, the song was and still is a hit because of his use of wordplay.

Incidentally, at around the same time, a young Jason Mraz was composing Remedy and You and I both in which he heard two men talking on the radio in a crossfire kind of new reality show, the bright lights turned to night and after being all around the world mixing and mingling found another way to live a life of leisure; he wrote, recorded and performed his hit single Wordplay. Over ten years later, before the cool ran out, he gave it his ‘bestest’ and urged people to see that it was their God intended right to be loved, loved, loved. I listened to these songs and decided that I too was a curbside prophet, waiting for my rocket to come.

Even in 1975, when rock n’ roll was at its peak, Freddie Mercury, who would later die of AIDS cried to his mother, in Bohemian Rhapsody.  “Life had just begun,” he says, “and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.”He not only shows remorse for whatever wrong he’s supposed to have done but also urges us to carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters if he has not returned this time tomorrow.

Now, If you’re still wondering what ‘who did you think I was’ is about and if you have no idea what I’ve been saying, and if you still think rock n’ roll is evil, and if you’re sitting there with a confused look on your face thinking, ‘this girl is insane’ then, you most definitely DO NOT ‘rock’.

I know, it’s only rock n’ roll but I like it – yes I do.

So this is what it feels like to be homicidal...and broke.

What a life I lead!


If all I did was music, I’d probably have starved to death already because guess what? My show got cancelled!


Yup! After weeks of rehearsal, nerves, finger and nail damage, some event manager decided my band wasn’t well known enough to cut it. Hell! If all event managers thought like this, Hendrix, Kansas and every other great musician who started just like me would never have made it. Not to say that I’m as good as any of them but when starting out, it’s good to have yardsticks that are better than you might ever be.


So here I am pretending to the black version of Courtney Love playing for Kurt Cobaine during the dress rehearsal and before I know it, midnight comes a’ knocking. Everyone but the singer is present but we’ve been so engrossed in perfecting our parts that we didn’t notice she hadn’t arrived. Front-men and women are generally dramatic, moody and ‘fashionably’ late so we let it slide this time. It was now two days before Sunday’s scheduled show and we get the rude realization we’ve been snubbed.


True to character, our front person, Kelly, dramatically depressed, explains everything and the fact that the employer – those guys they like to call corporate – had decided to go with a better known artist. This had us all crying on account of the oestrogen saturation that characterizes an all female band.


Not to sound new-agey and stuff but hasn’t it ever occurred to lady I-don’t-know-who- Sandpaper-are, that maybe even they need a new sound injected into their monotonous track lists. You can’t possibly have the same listeners forever. There is such a thing as a new generation. But that show was not to be, for Sunday came and went and all I did was stage an imaginary kung-fu duel where I beat the crap out of the event manager with my guitar.


Boy, was I miffed! I’d spent nearly all my money knowing that Sunday would be payday, my outfit was all ready and sparkling, I had a manicure – Jeri the all round tom boy had a manicure and it cost me five hundred; five hundred that I would have spent on two copies of last year’s Q magazine.


Diary, it’s not so much that I spent a lot of dough preparing for this, it’s that people, supposedly of influence can write you off just because they’ve never heard of you. As if people start out by being as famous as say, B.B. King. He was a nobody at some point too. No one is paying attention to new comers; exactly the reason why the people dominating award shows now have been doing so for fifteen, twenty years.


No. The world, no matter how unreceptive, will not push us down for we are the sun. We’re never really gone; we’re just on the other side.


It’s just like Kansas said: Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done.

Nine

Any hint of self esteem I might have had went out the window this past Saturday.

I had the honor and pleasure of watching the performance of one very talented singer at an amphitheatre somewhere in Lavington, Nairobi and decided that perhaps it was time I gave up music all together because if that’s what I have to compete with, I might as well try competing financially with Oprah Winfrey. But there was a way out of this sudden feeling of talentlessness.

I made it a hobby to try and sing like all my favorite singers, men and women alike. And since the way to learn is by emulation, I decided to hang around this wonderfully gifted singer, Esmeralda. It was not long before she had me under her wing, if only for that day, teaching me how to breathe, the facial expressions to make; it was a struggle and different from my default rock n’ roll sneer.

And so with my newly acquired skills – of controlling the crowd with my mind – I went back out into the world to put them to practice. Well, the world consisted of five of my neighbours, the watchman, the house help and the building caretaker, but it is a wise performer that tests their strengths on a dummy audience. I thought of calling my best friends but they would just smile and congratulate me even if I did a horrible job, because according to them, that’s what friends do – let you make a fool of yourself and then convince you that you were ‘the bomb’.

After what I thought was a breathtaking performance, I stood in front of my audience waiting for feedback. Now, judging from their lack of expression, I had had absolutely no impact whatsoever, or these guys were really good actors. But as it turned out, looking at someone with a blank face after they’ve shocked you is an Indian thing, according to Anmol. She lives in the flat above mine.

“Jeri that was amazing!” her daughter Indu said to me with that same non-expression. Where I come from, an extraordinary performance is met with more song and dance. The caretaker was indifferent, the watchman just wanted to know If he could play my guitar when I was done. It was Hakim though that gave me the honest feedback.

“Okay, one, your voice is almost perfect, you need to make your strumming cleaner and more distinct, right now, you’re just banging away,” he took a breath, “aside from that I really hope you’re planning to vamp up your outfit.”

Okay.

As soon as that was done, I went back into my flat, locked myself in my room and pulled a Prince: recorded myself playing every instrument I had, drums, rhythm, bass, keyboard, and then I played the lead over it with a metronome on. This, according to Hakim would help me keep time with other instruments and perfect my solo. The tricky part was playing lead and singing at the same time. I’ve found that it’s much easier singing what you play, literally.

I have until tomorrow night to practice, then Sunday all heavy metals will be sipping out of my fingers. Wish me luck, for it’s been hard work.

There we go...

Sometimes I’ll stay up really late thinking about my life, my future, the career in music I might never have….
Sometimes I’ll look out across the street and see light in the windows of my strange neighbours and know their thinking the same thing. Where do I go from here? Has everything I’ve done in the past been building up to one moment of catastrophic failure? Will it ever get any better than this? Will anyone care for more than a few minutes if I died right now? Should they? Should that bother me? It’s a phenomenon we try to ignore most of our lives, unless of course you’re a Goth. Or an Emo.
I don’t think we have authentic ones in this, our ‘beloved’ country. If they do exist and they’re hiding it then I guess their living up to expectations; dark dangerous creatures of the night taking the form of ordinary human beings but partaking of human sacrifices in the secrecy of their dungeons. Death scares me. What I wouldn’t give to be a vampire right about now. Then again, who wants to live through eternity? Alive but not living, dead but breathing…
Death. Seems to be happening everywhere nowadays. Could be that I’m just paying more attention than I used to. And the fact that I’m aging noticeably isn’t helping. Sort of makes one realize that everyone is born dying. Some just take longer to burn out. There it is again; that negativity that latches onto my ankle and won’t let go. Relationships don’t work for me. I have too many flaws and rather than wait to be left for them, I make them known and then proceed to break up with my ‘boyfriends’ on their behalf. Stupid I know, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Ships are sailing and I’m standing at the docks waving goodbye to my many possible future. Planes and trains take off, cars drive away and here I am, still waving. It’s as if I’m waiting for something but I don’t know it. Ever wonder why things are going the way they are despite your every wish and attempt to make them go the other way? That exactly is my situation. If I could only find a direction, just one direction, not a forked road, to take and never look back, then life would be much simpler. But life is never that simple is it. It’s a fucking catastrophe if you think about it.
It’s funny now that I think about it, it actually makes sense. The reason God makes us forget things as we get older is because if we did remember, especially all the bad we’ve been through, we wouldn’t be able to handle it. I’m all for forgetfulness. It’s my favorite thing after Music, John Mayer and Meat and Michael Buble. Sometimes I even forget how broke I am and when I do remember, I wonder how I survive from month to month and not lose a single gram of weight.