Three piece on Cuba st

In Kiwi, out and about, tunnnneeeee! on April 18, 2010 at 7:49 pm

Please note this was written during the evening, as I got progressively drunker. Apologies for the hating at the end.

Whilst walking away from awful hostel bar up cuba st came across this great funky jazzy three piece drums double bass and guitar, they were all kinds of awesome, melding their own compositions into a long freaking jam of a jimi hendrix tune, which I can’t quite put my finger on, no got it now voodoo chile. Fucking superb. I mean like out of this world kind of superb, if I hadn’t given my last pieces of change to the band up the street who were busking to get to Manila, they would have had it. I’m seriously thinking about breaking a note to give them some dollar. Only thing is, as always, I’m amongst a group of sitters and watchers rather than interacters, no head nodders or foot tappers, apart from the odd hippy and me. It’s like they can’t find the center of the bass or if they can they aren’t willing to show it. I’m supposed to be on a mission to find a bar playing good tunes but I might just stay here all night or at least until I find out what they are called, cause the are all sorts of super dope and ms bickerstaff you would love them….

If they are not influenced by the breakestra and the bad plus I will eat my hat…

And it is a nice hat as well.

Street beats they are called, awful name, good band.

I then adjourn to the southern cross where a four piece band are murdering “it’s your thing”, sucking all the grit and soul out of that beautiful song and turning it into something that a couple can happily jive to, and they do. Plus cider costs nine bucks and I’m out looking for someplace better to be…

Then it’s a long walk along the seafront looking for someplace else to drink. I’ve passed the Matterhorn which has been recommended on Cuba st as well as Good Luck. But it’s early and there’s no harm in taking a quick fifteen min jaunt down the road. Imagine soho and bricklane joined at a t junction and you’ve pretty much got Wellington covered, one street cool and interesting, one just out to get the out of towners.

I roll back to Matterhorn and get involved with one of the barmen about why cachaca is classed as a rum when it is cane spirit, and he says it’s down to the Americans. Damn Americans! It seems rum is made from the molasses and cachaca is made from the sugar cane juice, the by product of heating sugar cane. And the Americans call it Brazilian rum rather than rum, though my barman informs me that an expensive rum by Zacapa, which is the good stuff that made me miss my flight to sydney is made the same way it’s classed as cane juice but let me tell you the Zacapa is a great fucking rum. Get it if you can.

Scottish bar girl Claire whose been here two years, but hasn’t seen the beauty of New Zealand and is off to Cuba courtesy of Havana club for four days, then gives me a shot of Appleton estate 8yr old as a gift for this being my 1st night in Wellington, it is beautiful… She also has a very nice sleeve tattoo.

So after Matterhorn I end up in Good Luck which is just down the way and down a set of stairs amongst a load of young bods playing at hip hop, as jay z’s New York or Empire State of Mind as its officially called blares out of the speakers, making shapes and stepping from side to side. Want to tell them that shit won’t fly amongst black people until the dj plays “dreams of fucking a rnb bitch” by biggie and I lose my goddamned mind…

Then watch the dancefloor empty as the infamous, original queensbridge murderers rolls forth. Fucking lightweights. What do you know about hip hop? I want to shake each and every one of them. But what would be the point. They only know what’s played to them on the radio, they don’t feel hip hop deep down in their soul, feel it like it’s their skin being shook and shaken. It’s a shirt or a pair of jeans they can put on or take off. Fuck that it’s my skin the only way you can get it off me is by skinning me and killing me in the process. Fuck you and your I can choose this or that. I didn’t choose it, hip hop chose me. In it till I die…

The dj plays a composite of hip hop by dead prez with some other song, after blister in the sun by violent femmes, no vocal just the beats and I wonder if he knows how disrespectful that is to those who know what hip hop is about, it casts a shadow across my soul. I love that song so much, properly, not even lying, and this dj denigrates it by mashing it up with something else and not even playing it properly, why fucking bother! I’m starting to hate him a little bit, actually a lot, bastardising the music I love for the know nothings filled with alcohol who’ll dance to whatever rnb nonsense has been played on the radio that morning. I spit on you, or better, I shit on you….

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