Really, really missing my Dad today

 

Really, really missing my Dad today

12 March 2024

I’m really, really missing my Dad today. I think about him all the time, and that’s a given. But today I ache.

 

Not quite sure what brought it on. It’s not like it’s a birthday or a special occasion, it just is. But perhaps there have been some hints along the way.

 

Yesterday an old band member from the very beginning days of the Blues Broers, posted a pic on Facebook. My Dad is actually pretty much completely out of the pic, as he wasn’t the focus. But even before spotting John’s tag, I just knew it was him. Wearing his beloved suspenders, playing the drums ( swear I even recognize him from the way he’s poised with the drumsticks in his hands) and the hint of dark hair. In addition there was the Smokehouse Blues sign up against the wall and we had so many awesome jols there. The whole pic simply made my heart squeeze.

 

Then there’s the fact that My Grantie is away for two nights. Now, I’m a strong independent woman. Don’t think I’m particularly needy and a bit of alone time (with three kids in the house) is always good for the soul. But I do so love My Grantie and spending time with him. So yes, we’ve spoken multiple times since he’s left yesterday, on the phone and via WhatsApp. Yet he’s not here. So maybe that also played a role.

 

But what really tipped me off, was music. I’ve really been obsessed with Spotify of late. And get great enjoyment from constantly adding songs. And I was thinking back to some of the songs that we used to listen to while I was growing up and still living at home. Our home was never quiet. It always felt as though my life at 29 St James Street in Somerset West had a constant soundtrack in the background. And so many of my memories of my childhood are linked to songs.

 

So I’ve been diving in, adding some old songs that I haven’t heard for many, many years. Songs from my parents’ favourite records, which obviously became ours too. And then CD’s, when that was the thing. I did a search yesterday and added a few just such tunes and loved it. Made me think of my Dad, as I could picture him humming along, sometimes singing, dancing and the never ending drumming of his fingers. Either against his legs, or on a counter or tabletop. Sure it’s an inherent drummer’s thing.

 

And then this morning while driving the boys to work, I randomly remembered David Hewitt’s African Tapestry. One of the very first CD’s my Dad bought. We all marveled at the crystal clear clarity when he bought it. CD collecting was just starting to be a thing, so our musical choices were limited if we wanted to listen to a CD. And right from the very first listen, we all loved it. Remember when you used to listen to a complete album from start to finish? Over and over again. No skipping of songs, no other random artists and genre’s thrown in. Just the pure enjoyment of listening to one exceptionally talented artist who has honed and crafted his skill.

 

Was listening while still on the way to drop the boys off. Felt a bit heartsore, listening to the first two tracks. But then I got to song number three (https://open.spotify.com/track/5sqthYJA5Cp5r7kHyodxtA?si=TGLxebe3SlOdmynGKv6hdg&utm_source=copy-link). And it was a doozy. Absolutely floored me. My heart was racing and I was mere seconds away from depositing the boys at work. But the minute they got out of the car, I amped the volume up as much as I could, skipped to the beginning of song three and listened to it all over again. And I frigging bawled like a baby. Such a wash of emotion, that it completely took me by surprise. Was holding thumbs that every single robot I would encounter would be green, as I didn’t want to make eye contact with a vendor or domestic worker handing out contact details, looking for a job. Had it down to a fine art. Would slow down without stopping, timing the robot change so I would never have to be stationary. I’m quite gifted actually.

 

Felt emotional all the way home. And cried freely, cause it’s healing. Just giving in to the feelings. And then I saw my Amber-Berry when I got home and that was it. She hugged me so long and hard. Then dutifully indulged me by listening to the song with me again. She’s a really good egg.

 

Going to a special farm when you are just 46 years old is way too young. Frank D Frost was larger than life. Flamboyant, colourful, eccentric, talented, a gifted artist, a brilliant drummer, unconventional, a visionary, extremely funny and delightfully quirky. Maybe that’s my perspective as a daughter. Yet, I’ve known so many people and just know that he was magnetic and that people were drawn to him. He just had something about him that was intriguing.

 

So whilst working today I’ve been listening to a never ending stream of music that reminds me of him. Looking at his beautiful artworks in my home and admiring them afresh. Saw his green eyes in the mirror this morning when I brushed my teeth. And I’m thinking what else I can do to make me feel close and connected to him. Perhaps I need to get myself some zoo biscuits, his favourite treat. Or maybe the answer is to have a few Gauloises Plain cigarettes? Though I’m fairly certain that I’d keel over if I tried that.

 

So here’s what I’m thinking. Music soothes the soul. And it’s really good to remember him. He deserves that. So I’ll continue my Frank Frost inspired musical journey. There is just so much to tap into, the possibilities are near endless – The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Blues Broers, Ray Charles, The Blues Brothers soundtrack, BB King, Edith Piaf, The Police, Tears for Fears, Jethro Tull, Eric Clapton, eVoid, Crowded House, John Lee Hooker and some classical songs as well. Will be hard to start to scratch the surface, as the musical world is my oyster. As it was his.

 

In addition, I think it’s time to watch an old home movie again. Will be so wonderful to see him and hear his voice again.

 

Miss you Frankie-Baby. You were something special. Love you long time.

 

A-hummuna-hummuna-hah!

 

My very beautiful Mom and Dad. Pic taken at Kleinbaai many moon ago.

Proudly showing off their first grandchild, my Luke

My Dad absolutely adored Luke. So sad that he didn't get to meet his six other grandchildren. He would've been putty in their hands.

A rare gem. A pic of me with both of my Dads.

Frankie-Baby - the nutter with the drum held aloft

He loved Oppikoppi and having a street named after him was such a highlight and thrill for him

The pic that started it all. Thanks John Frick for the share. Think you mentioned that someone called Steve Reitz took the photo. Unmistakably my Dad in the back.

 

Dads and dating daughters - Exhibit A - Frank and Grant

Dads and dating daughters - Exhibit A - Frank and Grant
21 June 2014

I remember the first time I had to bring a boy home.  Talk about embarrassing.  I thought I would die.  My family was sure to embarrass me.  They’d most likely swear.  My annoying little brother and sister would do their magic – be annoying.  Flatulence was a strong possibility.  My mom would whip out my baby album.  My dad might tell an awkward joke.  Our home would look so very, very homely (not très chic at all).  My folks would listen to their cringing music.  My mom would definitely whistle.  Or sing.  My adorably cute little sister, would annex him (she did too).  My brother would do something goofy (he did too).  My dad might do the whole heavy-menacing-father thing (he did a bit – or perhaps I only imagined it in my anxious teenage mind).  Our dog might try to hump him.  I mean the list of possible catastrophes was pages long.  Nay, volumes full.

And to cap it all off, I was the eldest.  I’d have to pop the dating cork, so to speak.  There had been no sibling paving the way for me.  In fact, I think my folks thought I’d stay ten forever.  I was convinced they hadn’t realised I’d been quietly growing up on the side lines.  Maturing in to a young lady.  They were kind of growing up at the same time I suppose.  They were still so young themselves.

I put the whole subject of boys off as long as possible.  Doing a rather admirable job of playing along with the whole, “I’ll-just-stay-ten-forever-thing”.  Until I quite simply couldn’t last.

I first gently broached boys towards the end of primary school.  Gently throwing in the odd name or two.  Then, I eventually gained a measure of comfort and became more practiced in the verbal art of discussing boys.  I clearly remember droning on to my mom about a boy called, Geoffrey Garrett, while we were doing the dishes after supper every night.  Night after night.  I think I simply picked up every night, where I left off the previous night.  And to her justice, my mom did a really fair impression of paying attention.  Don’t know how she managed it.  I remember that in particular his hair fascinated me.  It was cut really straight at the top, and it kind of spiked up.  Like a newly cut lawn.  Strange analogy, but there you have it.  I also recall freckles and the fact that he was tall.  Still I went on and on and on.  Extremely repetitive.  Until, I eventually changed topics.  To Darren Sturgess.  It was pretty much an exact replay of the Geoffrey Garrett scenario.  Minus a few changes.  Change spiky hair, for blonde hair.  And he was really short.  And so it went on.  My mom deserved a medal.  I don’t even think alcohol would’ve deadened her senses.  Not that she indulged, but in a similar situation, I would’ve been tempted.

But these were little girl crushes.  Very typical of that age.  I liked the idea of having a boyfriend, and of being in love.  But I wouldn’t know what to do with a boyfriend.  Or what being in love really felt like.

High school also saw a few crushes and young loves.  Until I met Grant.

And right from the start, I knew he was the real deal.

My dad was not overly impressed.  In fact he was far less friendly with Grant, than any of the previous and very few guys that had come to our home.  I clearly sensed some hostility.  And I think my dad only pulled himself together on my mom’s urging.  And “gentle” prodding.  Putting on a polite face.  Humouring me.  Alas, he was not a very good actor.  He wasn’t really rude.  He was just not charmed, and seemed to hang on to his fatherly reservations.

But I think that for a father, this is a very difficult thing.  Would any guy really get the nod?  Meet the requirements.  Get paternal approval?

But as day of day, week after week, month after month, and eventually year after year passed, he warmed up.  Just a bit.  For me.

There was nothing wrong with Grant.  He was a perfectly nice man.  A good person.  I know for a fact that my dad knew this.  But ultimately, I think my dad realised that this would be the man that took me from him.  And making Grant sweat a little bit, would perhaps take the sting out of it.  Make it hurt a little less.  At least for him.

My dad and Grant had a good relationship.  They had an understanding.  And mutual respect.  Perhaps not so much fondness, but a certain liking.

Until we got married.  I do believe that my dad only really warmed up fully to Grant, once it was inevitable.  Once he was a part of my family.  My dad could see that I was happy, so that counted hugely in Grant’s favour.  And thus he treated him with love.  Said to me, that Grant was one of his kids.  Which was kind of odd, as the age gap between them wasn’t very big.  About sixteen years only.  And when Grant and I started dating, my dad was only 37.  So ridiculously young.  Can’t imagine having to contend with a daughter’s serious boyfriend at the age of 37.  But when my dad spoiled me, he made a point of spoiling Grant too.  On one occasion, he put R200 in an envelope for each of his kids as a random spoil.  He wrote a personal note on the envelope and handed it to us.  And rather than give Grant and I one envelope, we each got one.  It was very sweet.  R200 was a lot of money then, and my dad wasn’t flush.  In addition, Grant gave him Luke – the only grandchild he got to meet.  I also remember being married for a short while, and me making some or other comment about Grant.  And my dad saying to me, “Don’t speak about your husband like that”.  I was completely and utterly shocked.  Floored.  It was true.  My dad had finally bought into Grant. 

I was “the women”.  And they had bonded as “the men”.

Tomorrow, Dads and dating daughters – Exhibit B.  Me-thinks Amber’s in for a bumpy ride…

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Handshake between Grant and my Dad, as my dad hands over the bride to the groom

And he's one of the family

 

 

Dad and daughter dance at our wedding - very special

It REALLY sucks that my dad died

It REALLY sucks that my dad died
26 April 2014

I mean, seriously!!!  What a chop!  Who smokes three packets of Gauloises Plains a day, and then doesn’t keel over from a tumour in the lung? 

Without a doubt, those bloody cigarettes, were surely at the crime scene.  Plain as day.  But were they the only cause?

My dad lived a life of exuberance and joyful excess.  He was loud, enthusiastic, the life and soul of a party.  Basically a really big kid.  He enjoyed his food.  He lived for music.  Was passionate about his art.  Given the fact that he was a musician, he had a thriving, teeming, busy social life.  Him and my mom spending more time, at all of the hip and happening clubs and pubs in Cape Town and surrounds, than I did.  Everyone knew him.  Everyone bought him a drink.  People naturally gravitated to him.  He was extremely charismatic.  Was the absolute best at telling jokes.  A natural and gifted entertainer.

Perhaps he’d done his fair share of fun and excitement?  His time on earth was maybe over?

Even when I was little, I could never really picture him as an older person.  Or even as a real adult.  I couldn’t imagine him reaching his sixties or seventies.  Or shrinking in size, as elderly people so often do.  Couldn’t imagine his voice one day turning quivery and thready.  Of him finally deciding by choice to lead a quieter more sedate life.

It’s almost as if, he’d used his allotted time up.  That one is only allowed so much excitement and experience in your time on earth, and he went through his share rather quickly.  He squeezed a hell of a lot of life and living, into 46 short years.

But man, I really wish he was still here.  It truly sucks that he died.

I would’ve enjoyed seeing him enjoying my kids.  Laughing at their antics and showing grandfatherly pride in their every achievement.  He would have actively encouraged mischievous behaviour.  Indulged in it.  Most likely feeding them sweets and treats.  And his favourite – huge chunks of cheese.  He would have encouraged frivolity and embraced every aspect of their lives.  He would have delighted in their artistic and musical sides.  Been charmed by my Berry’s breath taking beauty.  Would’ve enjoyed Luke’s serious, logical, analytical side.  Been enamoured of Cole’s goofy, quirky, different ways.

I often see little bits of him, in them.  Luke is determined like him.  Exceptionally intelligent, logical, methodical.  And diligent too.  When he sets his mind to something, he will do it.  Stubborn as well.  And then there was the colour blind gene he passed on through me, that settled in Luke.  Which in turn will one day, be a “gift” to Luke’s grandsons.  Like me, Amber got his beautiful olive complexion.  His wonderful sense of humour.  That sparkle in her eye.  And Cole?  Well Cole got the sillies – the clown gene.  The thing that makes both of them want to be funny and entertain others.  That made my dad and Cole think differently.  See life in a unique way.

I wish I could still chat to him.  Ask him things I really want to know.  There’s bits of me, that only he knows.  Shared pieces of history, that we share.  Special moments that just the two of us had. 

Nobody has ever looked at me, with the same look, as the one he had in his eyes, whenever he saw me.  Part adoration, part pure love, part indulgent fatherly pride.  And though my mom most definitely loves me equally, if not more, than my dad did, the look that she and I have, is a different one.  Just as special.  Wonderfully so.  But it’s a different one.

And in hindsight I’m realising, that most likely, the look I gave him, was equally unique too.  One just reserved for him.

I am grateful that he was such a big presence.  That he made such an impact.  That he was so seminal to me.  That he loved me absolutely.

Fifteen years later, and the missing has still not stopped.  It really sucks that my dad died.

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The Frost-Five - many years ago, at my wedding. A very, very happy day. So glad my Dad was there.

My family is just sooo embarrassing!!!

My family is just sooo embarrassing!!!
3 September 2013

When I grew up, I just adored my family.  They were my everything.  My rock.  My stability.  My ever present love.  And I felt this way about them for the very longest time.

Until I grew up a bit, and saw them through teenage eyes.

Jeez, they were embarrassing!!!  Talk about being uncool.  Sooo boring!  Sooo old fashioned!  Sooo strict!

Nah, I’m just kidding about the boring bit.  And the old fashioned bit too.  And the strict rule most certainly applied to me.  But as for them?  Hell, no!

I thought our house was so old fashioned and out dated, with all of these ancient furniture pieces.  Nothing modern ever.  No hip and trendy little mementoes dotted around.  Nothing ever seemed new, current and abreast with the interior decorating trends of the moment.  Not that I knew much about that kind of stuff in any rate.  Instead everything had a story.  And a history too.  “New” things were usually salvaged from building sites, torn down old places, or even the rubbish dump and then lovingly restored.  My Dad famously bought an antique yellowwood table from a hobo at the dump for 11c and five cigarettes, which is all that he had on him at the time.  He stripped it from its layers and layers of paint, and renovated it to its ere gone glory.

My folks were younger than the folks of any of my friends.  They drank beer and to be fair, a fair amount of it too.  They smoked.  They swore like troopers.  They loved a good party and always entertained.  They played loud music until the wee morning hours.  They seemed to live on coffee too, drinking a never ending supply.

They laughed too loud.  They said weird things.  They went against the political and social grain.  I thought my mom’s clothes were so yesteryear.  My Dad’s moustache really way too big. 

But perhaps even most embarrassing of all, they engaged with my friends.  And really spoke to them.  I would’ve preferred them melting into the background whenever I “entertained”.  And the most horrendous cardinal sin of all, they came to all the PTA’s and made friends with my music teacher, even inviting her over to our very uncool home.  Super lame deluxe!

My mom cut our hair and made new duvets or patchwork covers for our beds.  She made dresses for dances and blinds for the lounge.  Instead of paid-for entertainment like the movies, rented DVD’s, shows, eating out at restaurants or constant excursions, they insisted on more home-grown alternatives.  Like reading, playing an instrument, puzzles or board games.  Museums were “fun” outings.  As well as get-together’s with the larger extended family.  In fact, with them family always came first.  And was placed as all important.  A solid grounding and sort source for home-grown friends and entertainment, all rolled into one.  So cheap!

Let’s face it – they were decidedly odd.  And different.  They didn't really fit the traditional parent mould.  They were wacky.  And strange.  Weird too.

But as time passed, and I thankfully outgrew my teenage horridness, I saw the value of all that they did actually give me.  My friends amazingly thought they were cool.  They loved our unique and interesting house.  My young parents.  Their love of live music.  And young, hip music too.  Their acceptance of others.  Their embracing of teenagers.  And because of that, our home, was the home to be at.  Somehow or other, I found myself being in the enviable position of being envied for my different upbringing.  My relaxed folks, who allowed me to grow.  With guidance, yet a certain sense of freedom.  Who didn’t restrict me too much.  Who said, smoke if you want to, but do it at home.  Who said go to church if you want to, but it’s not really our bag.  Who would buy me low-grade alcohol  (the odd Esprit - I thought I was waaayyy cool) and allowed me to drink it, under their supervision.  Who weren’t judgemental of anyone I brought into our home.  Who didn’t enforce their own view onto others.  Who listened to young people and gave them a voice.

I have also realised, that money was always tight and that they had to look for alternatives and we had to simply make do.  Yet we never really lacked for anything, and somehow had ample enough at home. 

And now I find myself in the position, where I’m holding thumbs with all of my might, that I embarrass the living daylights out of my kids too.  Because I suspect, only then, do you know that you’re doing it right.

And if Luke’s reaction is anything to go by, I think we’re on the right track…

Because everyone can have "normal" parents.  Only a fortunate few of us, are lucky enough to have the wack jobs.

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Clearly you must see that I have a point here?  This was a supposed dress-up party and my folks went as The Lady and The Tramp.  Far too convincing for my liking...

My ever-knowing, slightly superior and annoyed teenage face says it all

 

Still thought they were seriously cool here

 

A few more clan members - just my Mom, with my brother, sister and I, our partners and kids

 

More La Familia!  I seriously dig these embarrassing people!

 

And that's why I still need my Dad

And that's why I still need my Dad
6 July 2013

A while ago I wrote a blog about how I still need my Mom.  Practical, every day examples of why she is still so important in my daily life.  Illustrating clearly how vital she is and how valuable she is to her whole entire family.  To every single one of us.

It made me realise just how blessed I am to have her in my life.  How appreciative and grateful I am for the depth, colour and ever present humour she brings to my world.

Though at the same time, it also made me realise that the same applies to my dad too.

I still need my Dad.  For some things, only he will suffice.  There is no substitute.  Simply no one else will do.

There are questions only he can answer.  Memories that only he can help to recall.  Stuff that only he can do.

No one else can quite come close to giving an awesome hug like him.  His hugs were legendary.

When we were little he used to sing the laughing song, which basically entailed lots and lots and lots of laughing.  The whole song long.  In fact, I don’t recall there being any words at all.  And he just did it so well.  His rendition always brought forth peals of laughter from those listening to him.  Perhaps it was his deep voice.  Perhaps his facial expressions.  Still the end result was most amusing and hugely entertaining.

And then there used to be a programme on TV when I was small that was quite simply called "Rooi en Blou".  Which translates as red and blue.  It was these little red and blue clay blobs, and they used stop motion animation, to manipulate the balls into shapes and then they would interact with each other.  Perhaps the forerunners of Wallace and Gromit?  They made the funniest noises.  Having whole indecipherable conversations.  And he could mimic their voices or rather sounds perfectly and did so quite regularly, purely for our pleasure.  We used to love it when he did those for us.  I include a clip and I’m sure it might jog a memory or two.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=Qb9X214wIFo

He often used to reminisce about his youth.  Remembering radio programmes him and his brother used to listen to.  And I used to love when he told of all his naughty antics at school.  And believe you me, he was a real naughty little bugger.  Still those stories all sounded so fascinating and adventurous.  His tales of fighting on the border and his army days.  Meeting my mom and their courtship.  The wonderful stories he could tell about my grandparents and great-grandparents.  Visits to Ouma Maggie on the farm.  Speaking about all he learnt from his various art teachers.  How they enriched him and made his world bigger.

I miss the smell of oil paints that always seemed to cling to him.  The pervasive air of greatness, of knowledge, of goofiness, the ever present bulge in his shirt pocket courtesy of a pack of Gauloises Plain cigarettes, his deep and husky voice, his beautiful green eyes, his 'stache (very few men can truly rock a moustache, yet he did so with an amazing amount of panache), his sense of humour, his perceptiveness, his creative spirit, his visionary abilities, his people skills, his fabulous laugh, his arsenal of quirky sayings, the way he used to hum with pleasure whenever he ate cheese, the look of concentration on his face when he was busy with a painting or a sketch (I loved watching him at work), the funny way he was able to type remarkably fast even though he only used two fingers, his love of music always blaring in our house, his constant imparting of little titbits of knowledge, his very focal viewpoints on things he felt strongly about, his level of comfort in going against the grain and upsetting the apple cart, his firm belief in right and wrong, the way he absolutely never used an indicator because "it's obvious I'm going to turn here", the way he adored my Mom, the love that shone out of his eyes whenever he looked at any of us.

There are so many little things, that I still need so much.  That only he can give me.  That I still need him for.  Stuff I need to see, learn and hear from him.  It fills me with sadness, that he just isn't there anymore and at times it is still able to take my breath away.  Will it ever stop?

Perhaps that's the way it is supposed to be?  Ensuring we think of him always.  Still, I have had some people in my life, who have passed and haven't made much of a dent at all.  Yet his absence has left a huge gaping void.  A hole that can never be filled.

But then I take a good look around me and I see him once more.

His eyes greet me every morning when I look in the mirror. My home is magnificently adorned with his beautiful artworks all around – two incredible paintings in my bedroom alone..  Oil paintings, sketches, drawings, even wooden carvings.  His music is played often and I see his character and personality in the family he left behind.  Even in the grandchildren he never got to know.  Cole has inherited his drumming skills, Luke his artistic ability, Amber his sense of humour.  As he is getting older, my brother, Albert, is exhibiting more and more of his mannerisms and looking more like him too.  And so the list goes on.

And so in this manner, perhaps indirectly I still have physical manifestations of him all around.  And these truly fill me with joy.

Some people leave this world, with a barely perceptible ripple.

Frank D Frost left an earthquake followed by a tsunami in his wake.  And maybe therein lies his greatest gift to us.  Because how could we forget him?  He left us so much to remember him by.

Though he only lived for 46 short years, he made a huge mark on this world and on the lives of many around him.  Never to be forgotten.

Fourteen and a half years later, the ripples are still rippling.  And his life is still celebrated by those who knew him. 

May those waves never stop.  I enjoy riding them too much.

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Receiving my degree from Stellenbosch University - my Dad's mom, Ouma Cathy, took the pics.  She was so excited, that she pushed down too hard with each pic that she took on her little mik-en-druk, and subsequently chopped everyone's heads off.  This is one of the best ones we've got.  I believe this was a very proud day for my folks.  I was 20, my Mom was 39, and my Dad was 40.  Amazing!

Celebrating my folks' 25th Wedding Anniversary - unbeknownst to all of us, I was already pregnant with Luke, and Frankie was already sick

Fame at last - My Dad had his own street named after him at Oppikoppi - Frank Frost Freeway

Oupa Frank and baby Luke - this was taken just six months before he died.  He was already very sick at this stage.

A favourite family pic, taken of the five of us, at my wedding

Two very proud teenagers, showing off their brand new baby, the day I came home from the hospital

We lived in Clanwilliam for a stint, and this was taken during the height of flower season, in the open veld right next to our house

Celebrating baby Katrine's christening - I had the honour of carrying her into the church, and I do believe that this is the only dress I wore during my childhood, as I was very much a tomboy and hated dresses with a passion!

A family pic taken many moons ago, when I was still a teenager going through a very bad hair-phase

The Grahamstown Martell Blues Rock Festivals - Part 2 - The Musos

The Grahamstown Martell Blues Rock Festivals - Part 2 - The Musos
30 May 2013

Now as mentioned before, the magnificence of the Grahamstown Martell Blues Rock Festival, was twofold.  “The People” and “The Musos”.

And Part 2 of my Blues Rock Festival blog, is about the wonderfully talented musicians.  How very many of them there were.

Because here’s the thing.  Awesome though all the people associated with the festival were, the Blues Rock Festival, was still a festival celebrating music.  And for that one needed musicians.

Traditionally the main music festival at the Grahamstown National Arts Festival, is the Smirnoff Jazz Festival.  Which was awesome.  Though the very label, “Jazz”, excluded a whole bunch of amazingly talented bands.  In fact, I think it was rather limiting.  Furthermore, the Jazz Festival was a humongous big corporate gig.  Controlled with a corporate type vibe.  And I think it took away a bit of the magic for some, and stifled the creative spirit for others.

In comparison, the Blues Rock Festival, was far more liberating.  It formed a part of The Fringe.  This was the label given to side festivals, gigs and events, feeding off the hype of the main festival.  The funny thing being, that the Blues Rock Festival, was the festival that really ended up drawing in the crowd.  The music hungry youth, eager to expand their musical horizons and take in all of the new talent SA had on offer.  Those that didn’t like to conform.  That liked the slightly more edgy artists and performances.  For them, this festival was perfect.  It wasn’t a humongous big corporate gig, with a corporate type vibe.  It was a family run event and had a far more personal feel to it.

In fact, the Grahamstown Martell Blues Rock Festival was a glorious celebration and showing-off of the very finest musical talent SA had to offer.  A showcase for awesome artists to share their magic with the masses.  And the masses simply lapped it all up.  It also had the added benefit of being a platform to launch careers.

I loved how down to earth and very humble the musicians all were.  How very human and real.  No prima donnas.  No airs and graces.  No superstars.  Just ordinary people with a passion for music.  Talented people – one and all.

The music community is actually a very small community.  And rather closed off.  Often you find that musicians hang out with fellow musicians.  That they befriend each other.  And maybe the same is true for many other professions too.  I suppose doctors, hang out with fellow doctors, etc.  And in the music community, everyone knows everyone.  Many have performed together.  They have done the same festival circuit.  Some have even been in bands together.  And so they have a joined history.  They are fellow musical brothers-in-arms.  Each knowing the path the other has walked. 

Also, I find that in general, musicians are fun.  And have a real passion for what they do.  They’d have to.  Because lovely though the music was that the artists all made, it is very hard for an SA musician to be financially independent and secure.  And so for many of them, the festival was a bit of a break from reality.  Perhaps a way to supplement a regular income, because most still had regular jobs.  This was a glorious little sojourn from the rigours of real life.  A brief golden snippet in time.  Apart from that, few would be able to resist the allure of the party atmosphere in the whole of Grahamstown.  A paid holiday of sorts sounded great.  The musos were generally all happy, fun, relaxed, jovial and in a party mood.

If one can generalise people and rather unkindly put them into little boxes, then there are certain obvious boxes that can be used as a classification system.  The go-getter type, extremely competitive guy, is often referred to as the classic “Type A” personality.  You know the type.  We all know them.  Some of us are even them.  Then you have the slightly more sedate, relaxed type of person.  Not quite as driven.  Not quite as passionate and maybe they’re referred to as “Type B” personalities.  Well musicians?  They have their very own classification system all together.  Maybe they’re all “Type C Minor”, or “Type F Sharp”.  Just a little bit different.  One and all.  Basically, lots of them are big kids.  Big kids indulging in their favourite hobby – making music.  How could they not be jolly and happy?

A few things stand out for me, with regards to the musicians.  Amongst them was Sipho Hotstix Mabuse.  Such a great performer.  A consummate gentleman and a real class act.  He was refined and elegant.  Eloquent too.  He came with a simply huge supporting band.  A whole horn section, a few guys on guitars.  A rhythm section – not just a drummer.  And most of his musicians, were simple folk and had never really travelled or been exposed to the great big world out there.  Nor had they stayed in proper accommodation either.  They were essentially rural.  And when these grown men, were shown their accommodation, they ran right through the house, exclaiming loudly, flicking light switches on and off.  Opening and closing taps.  The novelty of running water and electricity incredible for them and such a huge treat.  Their delight palpable.

Another memory, was the time Linky and I embarked on a so called excursion to hand out flyers at the market.  We kinda lied.  The flyer bit was just our ruse, to escape the office for a while and mill about at the market.  Still, whilst perusing all on display, we still did do our fair share of handing out flyers too.  In fact we were pretty enthusiastic whilst we did it.  Engaging with people, telling them all about it and trying to convince them to come.  And so, in our quest, we once more handed out a flyer to an unsuspecting gentleman, giving him the whole big spiel.  And on this occasion, the gentleman in question, took a hold of the flyer, glanced down at it in his hand and said, "I'm playing there tonight".  Oops!  And that was the first time I met Louis Mhlanga.

Part of Maggie’s deal with each band and crew member, was that apart from providing them with accommodation for the duration of their stay, she would provide each and every person associated with the Blues Rock Festival with one square meal a day.  This alone would be a mammoth task.  How could it be done?  Most of the crew members, including Team Frost, Roadies, Sound Engineers, etc. stayed on the farm.  But the bulk of the musicians were booked into houses and B&B’s all over town.  The logistics were quite daunting.  And then the solution, all of a sudden seemed rather obvious after all.  Maggie made an arrangement with the one and only local Spur in town, to feed her people.  Obviously at her cost.  And so each and every person was issued with one R40 meal voucher a day.  A meal voucher that could be cashed in for anything on the Spur’s menu that amounted to R40.  Obviously if you wanted to order a more expensive meal, you were free to do just that, provided that you paid in the difference.  And let me tell you, that R40 was most generous back then.  It allowed for a burger, chips, onion rings and cold drink.  We were all super chuffed with the agreement.  How exciting and novel.  However, after day five….. I never wanted to see a Spur onion ring again.  By day seven, I never even wanted to set foot in the place.  Even the smell, just from walking in through the doors, made my stomach churn a little bit.  Still, the idea was such a cool one.  At the beginning.  On day one.

I loved how the musicians also seemed like one big happy family too.  How they all genuinely got along really well.  How they partied and jolled and kuiered long into the night after each and every gig.  So happy to just take it all in and squeeze every last little drop of goodness out of each event.  How chuffed they were with all they received.  How they put their hearts and souls into every single performance.

Because the fans could feel that vibe and that energy.  They fed off it too.  And that was the magic of the Blues Rock Festival.

From the people, the organisers, the musicians, the barmen and ladies, the roadies, the soundies, the admin people, the door chicks, in fact every single person there – they had passion.  They loved that they were there and they gave it that all.

Grahamstown Blues Rock Festivals – you rocked my world.  And that of many others too.  Thanx Frank, Maggie and Edgar from Martell.  For the great gift you gave us all.  The gift of magical musical memories.

And just for the record, I recovered from my Spur aversion rather quickly.  We stopped off for a Cheddamelt burger on the way home again after the festival …..  On day ten?

Blues Rock Poster from '99 - signed by all

Blues Rock '96

Back of a t-shirt

The logo for the 1996 Festival

We all still have our 1999 Blues Rock Festival sweaters. They were absolute keepsakes and Grant wears his often.

The 1996 line-up and performance times

In 1996, Frank lined all the artists up outside the Rhodes Building, for a joint muso's pic.  It was rather funny.  And when I glanced to my left, I saw this bunch of "photographers" taking videos of it all.  One of my very best pics.

Frank directing all as to exactly where he wanted them.

And there they are - The Performers of the Grahamstown Martell Blues Rock Festival 1996

Our Albert on stage

David Poole - he played with Albert in their first school band, called The Fauves.  The Fauves later changed into Dorp, who were performing at Grahamstown.  David is one half of the magical Gold Fish Duo.

Inside the Rhodes Building - crowd having a blast

Valiant Swart doing his thing

Katrine monkeying around back stage with Dylan and friends from Dorp

I'm guessing those mugs didn't contain coffee or tea...

Dorp was crazy on stage.  In this pic, Piet is cutting Dylan's hair, live on stage, whilst they're busy performing.  Really out there!  (No, Piet is and was not a hairdresser.  Nor did he possess any hairdressing skills.  As could be witnessed after the performance.)

Ampie Omo from Boo - they were just such fun to watch.  Their own unique sounding music, dubbed Monkeypunk was contagious.  And as for their stage presence?  They were mesmerising.

Anton Goosen - brought along his own sense of style

My uncle Jac, with Mick from "Mick & Nick"

I simply loved watching Sugardrive - they had such a cool vibe

View from the back of the stage

Just Jinger were just about to hit the big time - just look how young they all were.  And no, they never had a female vocalist in their band - posing with them for the pic, is my aunt - Bettie.

My favourites!!!  The Blues Broers - yes, yes, I know.  I am ever so slightly biased.

Chris Chameleon from Boo - his outfits were legendary.  Such a wacky, crazy, loony look - still it worked like a charm.

Fetish

The Honemoon Suites - they took kooky to a whole new level - such a cool band to watch.  Highly entertaining and just plain simply weird.

Piet Botha and Jack Hammer

Just Jinger

Karma amidst the smoke

One of my very favourites - Koos Kombuis - such a legend

Chris Letcher and Matthew van der Want - I loved these guys.  Their music is beautiful!

The Van der Want and Letcher Combo once more

Edgar, Maggie and the venue manager back stage

Wonderboom - I've heard an old story about them.  That of the members, one is the wonder and the rest of them are the boom.  In fact, I've heard it often and it always makes me laugh.  They have incredible energy and Martin reminds me a bit of Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Mick & Nick

Awesome!

Back stage antics - if only those couches could talk

The Springbok Nude Girl - and the crowd goes wild.  Arno screaming into the microphone as only he can.

Back stage relaxing - a whole bunch of muso's all together.  Just chilling and having fun.

View from the back of the stage during a Springbok Nude Girls set.  The crowd quite simply goes ballistic.  The guys in black, are bouncers/crew, attempting to hold the surging crowd at bay and away from the musicians.  The oke on the very left is my Grantie.  They were physically shattered after a gig like this, just from the constant pushing of the crowd and having to force them right back again.

My Daya!!!

Sons of Trout - they were fabulous

Aaaaahhh!!!  The one and only Squeal.  I was simply in love with their music.  In fact, I still just adore it to this day.  We were just the biggest fans.  And what amazingly, humble, genuinely likeable, nice guys.

My beloved Squeal once more

The Usual performing

The usual - a bunch of nice guys too

Now these guys are huge.  SA music royalty if you like.  And what an incredible duo they made - Vusi Mahlasela and Louis Mhlanga.  Solid gold.

The crazy guys from Wonderboom

The Zap Dragons

The Blues Broers, emulating their idols, The Blues Brothers.  Driving through the streets of Grahamstown on the back of a bakkie.  Loudspeaker in hand, announcing their gig, whilst Albert plays the guitar, Doc John shakes the maracas and Rob plays the harmonica.  Legendary.  Such style I love it!

Sometimes, just sometimes, the music is just too good.  The alcohol too.  And a little rest is required.  Some might call it passing out.  And so, we covered this hapless fan and left her to sleep it off.  Such a pity as she missed much of the music.

Inside the venue after a gig. The term carnage comes to mind.  As well as the word, "savages".  Insane!