Angola club music
Africa is on my mind these days. I have an impending job opportunity simmering on the backburner for some possible work back in the motherland. Fingers crossed.
In the meantime I've fallen for Kuduro from Angola. It reminds me of Kwaito on fast forward, wrapped in a warm sheath of house and dipped in Portuguese. Then it's all chopped and mixed like diced onions. Or at least when Diplo plays it.
An interesting article about Kuduro here. Listen to it on Blentwell here.
my CanCon weekend
Last Thursday night I was out for dinner at the Fairmont YVR with some girlfriends. I had a total 'journalism groupie' moment at the end of the evening. As we were leaving the "Globe" dining room, who was checking in but Naomi Klein and Avi Lewis. I started gushing to my fun girls but they didn't have a clue who either of them were. I almost ran up to them both to shake their hands and say, "Wow I really admire both your work. Avi - your dad is amazing." But I didn't because they are not Sting, or Bono or Joey Lawrence.
For the next 24 hours everyone I gushed to about my Naomi/Avi sighting had no clue. It was so dissappointing. Two of Canada's strongest lefty voices and none of my friends knew who they were. Some didn't even know who Stephen Lewis (Avi's dad) was. I was beside myself.
Do my friend have access to radio (ie CBC)? Free television channels (ie CBC)?
Do they not know about 'No logo' and Naomi Klein's one woman campaign against nasty capitalists and their sweatshops? Have they never heard of Stephen Lewis' campaign against AIDS in Africa?
But then I told Leah and Elly - my journo gals. The great shining hopes of knowledge and all things globe and mail. There was also Brian - a high school teacher and former Toranta resident. I think I just gushed to the wrong set of friends.
Then on Friday I saw Michael Buble down at the seawall at a photoshoot. He was wearing roller blades, a navy blazer, surprisingly well fitted dark jeans, a grey shirt and his trademark impish smirk. He was doing some hockey-like moves with a hockey stick while a leggy brunnette took video/SLR shots of him. I nearly drove off the road. Oh how I wish my South AFrican friend and former neighbor Jacques could've been there.
Jacque introduced me to Mr. Buble. He did this by stomping around his kitchen singing to Buble at the top of his lungs at 9am saturday mornings. My room mate Manon and I were usually ridiculously babalas and could hear every octave because our house was 2.5 metres from Jacques'. Manon and I took Jacques and his roomie Reno to see Mr. Buble at Carnival City in 2003. It's by far the cheesiest casino development in SA and is under a giant circus tent building. The entire things screams CIRCUS!!! Even the poor bloody parking attendents are dressed like clowns.
If he was with me last Friday, Jacques would've screamed like I did in 1990 at the NKOTB concert or like he did in 2003. (Of note: the Buble concert in SA was attended by 99% white, middle aged Afrikaners who probably had never seen two flamingly gay men perform as Jacques/Reno did every time Buble finished a song. AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEE! Just like 12 year old girls.) After the sighting I promptly texted friends in the know. I'm still searching for Jacque's cell #. Int'l text charges be damned.
