You may have heard of Robin Auld. Maybe you haven’t. But when I was growing up, he was the closest thing to a rock superstar we had in South Africa. After Johnny Clegg of course.
But Robin was a surfer, he was English, he had long hair and the girls loved him. So we checked him out and we took notes. First note: grow your hair long when you leave school. Girls dig it.
Of course, what looked cool on Mr Auld made us look like vagrants. And girls don’t dig vagrants so much.
But they did dig All Of Woman and Baby You’ve Been Good To Me! Turns out talent and creativity are the real aphrodisiacs.
So, eventually, many years later, me and some guys from the scene, we put a band together and began playing. We actually played before we practised, which was a bit rich, but we got better.
After two years of play and practice, we became “alright”, which qualified us to play a support gig at the venerable Boardwalk Amphitheatre on the PE beachfront. Supporting who? Robin Auld!
After 12 years or something, I was sharing a stage with my childhood idol. We were going to play together. Oh, perhaps he’d even like one of our songs and ask us to come up and jam on Charly Go Crazy or something!
So the appointed evening arrives and our band is on fire. We play about our killingest set yet, including an especially power version of Riders.
I’ve got my sexy new jeans on, and it ends up being our last show with Richard, the keyboard player. Maybe as good a show as we ever played.
After our set, we head down to the green room below the stage. Robin Auld and his band are there, unpacking their gear.
“Er, Robin,” I cough, and introduce myself. “Did you check our set?”
“No. Do you play?” he asks.
“Ja, of course. We opened for you.”
“Oh, right,” he responds. “Didn’t know that. We just managed to make it in time. Had to come in from J-Bay.”
And with that, he skips up the stairs to do sound check. Him and his band delivered one of the tightest, most skilful rock performances I’ve seen. Sadly the invite to come jam on the final song never comes.
We had to pack the gear in the car, so I missed the last song anyway.
Would’ve been nice to chat, but ja. I decided to just email him. There would be a next time.
That next time came this weekend. Robin Auld came to play Die Blou Hond in Joburg. He was solo, and I’m just strumming in my lounge a bit these days. The time for a duet had passed.
We had a nice chat at the bar after his show, though. He’s less of a rock icon these days. More a lekker ou with some great songs.
It was ten years since we’d last met, at that show at the Boardwalk.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Bacon, I think we were scared of you...
In the old days, before Lorraine Primary built the new section, the school was basically just a quad with classrooms running around it.
The kindergarten classes were in a wing running off the one side, and the headmaster’s office opposite that. So it was really like a big capital A. But if you write a A like the Germans do, with a square section at the top.
And we were in the corner where the right-hand ascender meets the crossbar. Standard One. Miss Jonker.
Break times, well, they happen in the quad, mos. In the netball court. Girls playing that game where they loop a length of pantihose around their legs, and the other girls jump over it. The boys play stingers.
Well, most of the boys. This one little kid didn’t play stingers. He wore his blazer buttoned up, even in the middle of summer. And he was a bit chubby, so we called him Bacon.
He just sat there on the benches, watching us. He must have been Sub B.
We were merciless. “Come on, Bacon. Why don’t you come play stingers? Are you scared? Bacon! Bacon! Why don’t you go play pantihose with the girls!”
Until he ran off and cried into Mrs Bruwer’s dress.
We were like assassins. Like torturers. Mass murderers, we were that cruel.
Bacon was new. Within weeks of his arrival, we’d been called in by Mr Van Rooyen and told to stop calling him Bacon. We didn’t. We smelt blood and we went in for the kill. We were like sharks circling our prey, there in the corner of the quad near the netball net, where Bacon used to sit, all by himself, in his blazer.
“Hey, Bacon! Are you coming to rugby practice after school? Or are you gonna play netball? Did you remember your netball skirt, Bacon? Hey Bacon?”
We were just stabbing him in the heart, this little boy who’d come from Sunridge, or Rowellan Park, or Kabega or wherever, without any friends. And we just broke him down.
Bacon didn’t come back for the second term.
And I know it was because of us. We broke him down and chased him away. We never even bothered to learn his name. It might’ve been Grant, but it probably wasn’t. We were such little arseholes.
And perhaps we were afraid of him. We’d never seen individuality before. Never seen anyone resist the peer pressure to conform and go along with the group. So we looked at him, found something distinctive and picked at it until we chased him away.
I just hope it didn’t last.
I hope moved to Charlo, and it was a hundred times better and he made lots of friends and he grew up well adjusted and happy.
And most of all, I’d like to say sorry to you, sir, the boy we called Bacon. I apologise. We didn’t know how much we’d hurt you. But rest assured, we got our turn later in life, and we learnt our lesson.
Crumbs, man, Bacon. You’ve haunted me all my life.
The kindergarten classes were in a wing running off the one side, and the headmaster’s office opposite that. So it was really like a big capital A. But if you write a A like the Germans do, with a square section at the top.
And we were in the corner where the right-hand ascender meets the crossbar. Standard One. Miss Jonker.
Break times, well, they happen in the quad, mos. In the netball court. Girls playing that game where they loop a length of pantihose around their legs, and the other girls jump over it. The boys play stingers.
Well, most of the boys. This one little kid didn’t play stingers. He wore his blazer buttoned up, even in the middle of summer. And he was a bit chubby, so we called him Bacon.
He just sat there on the benches, watching us. He must have been Sub B.
We were merciless. “Come on, Bacon. Why don’t you come play stingers? Are you scared? Bacon! Bacon! Why don’t you go play pantihose with the girls!”
Until he ran off and cried into Mrs Bruwer’s dress.
We were like assassins. Like torturers. Mass murderers, we were that cruel.
Bacon was new. Within weeks of his arrival, we’d been called in by Mr Van Rooyen and told to stop calling him Bacon. We didn’t. We smelt blood and we went in for the kill. We were like sharks circling our prey, there in the corner of the quad near the netball net, where Bacon used to sit, all by himself, in his blazer.
“Hey, Bacon! Are you coming to rugby practice after school? Or are you gonna play netball? Did you remember your netball skirt, Bacon? Hey Bacon?”
We were just stabbing him in the heart, this little boy who’d come from Sunridge, or Rowellan Park, or Kabega or wherever, without any friends. And we just broke him down.
Bacon didn’t come back for the second term.
And I know it was because of us. We broke him down and chased him away. We never even bothered to learn his name. It might’ve been Grant, but it probably wasn’t. We were such little arseholes.
And perhaps we were afraid of him. We’d never seen individuality before. Never seen anyone resist the peer pressure to conform and go along with the group. So we looked at him, found something distinctive and picked at it until we chased him away.
I just hope it didn’t last.
I hope moved to Charlo, and it was a hundred times better and he made lots of friends and he grew up well adjusted and happy.
And most of all, I’d like to say sorry to you, sir, the boy we called Bacon. I apologise. We didn’t know how much we’d hurt you. But rest assured, we got our turn later in life, and we learnt our lesson.
Crumbs, man, Bacon. You’ve haunted me all my life.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The quest for sexy
What makes a hot swimsuit? A killer cozzie? I work in the industry and it’s my job to choose costumes for sexy women to wear.
At men’s lifestyle magazine FHM, we do glamour shoots with South Africa’s most beautiful swimsuit models. I’m the editor, so I spend a lot of time on shoots furtively observing models from over the photographer’s shoulder. Basically lurking about trying not to get in anybody’s way, and endeavouring not to eat too many of the catered chicken pieces.
Then, the snapper will say, “I think we’ve got it!”
The first shot in the bag, the model will retreat to the styling room, where she will don a gown and check her BlackBerry. Maybe have a quiet chicken wing and have a cigarette.
Then there’ll be some faffing with the hair and make-up. I’ll knock politely and go, “Is it alright if I come in?”
In the styling room there is usually a rail with all the outfits we’re planning to shoot. As tastefully as possible, one sets about browsing the garments, looking for something that catches the eye. Something you reckon would look good on the young lady in question.
And what will? Well, I do have a few rough guidelines, when it comes to choosing a costume that’ll look hot.
Firstly, see what it looks like on! It’s impossible to tell if a scrap of rumpled material on a hanger is going to fit a model properly. Have her try it on. A cozzie that fits is sexier than one that doesn’t.
Plain and sheer will always look better than busy. A complicated fabric design distracts the eye and makes it harder to discern, say, the curve of a lady’s left boob.
Small cozzies will look better than big. Because skin is sexier than fabric.
Monokinis are a mission. A one-piece swimsuit gets a massive bulge in the front when the girl sits down. Only a front-on pose will look half decent. Go the bikini route rather.
Sheer is better than matte. To bounce the lighting off the lady’s curves and emphasise the, er, “moulding”, as they call it.
Some costumes look better from the front. Some better from the back. Give every side a chance to shine. Some bottoms can be worn back to front.
Details, details. A little blingy metal here, or a cowrie shell there, makes the whole garment look a little more upscale, a bit more expensive, basically.
The Brazilians make the most amazing cozzies. Dunno what it is about them. But they do. Especially the bums. Brazilians are all about bums.
And finally, a model will always look better in a swimsuit she likes than one she hates. “How do you feel in that one?” is a useful question to ask.
“Okay,” is what I say at that point. “Let’s shoot that.” And I slink back into the background and let the photographer do his thing.
I’ve been a maid, a deckhand, a gardener, a painter and a shop assistant. I can confirm that this job is better than all of those.
At men’s lifestyle magazine FHM, we do glamour shoots with South Africa’s most beautiful swimsuit models. I’m the editor, so I spend a lot of time on shoots furtively observing models from over the photographer’s shoulder. Basically lurking about trying not to get in anybody’s way, and endeavouring not to eat too many of the catered chicken pieces.
Then, the snapper will say, “I think we’ve got it!”
The first shot in the bag, the model will retreat to the styling room, where she will don a gown and check her BlackBerry. Maybe have a quiet chicken wing and have a cigarette.
Then there’ll be some faffing with the hair and make-up. I’ll knock politely and go, “Is it alright if I come in?”
In the styling room there is usually a rail with all the outfits we’re planning to shoot. As tastefully as possible, one sets about browsing the garments, looking for something that catches the eye. Something you reckon would look good on the young lady in question.
And what will? Well, I do have a few rough guidelines, when it comes to choosing a costume that’ll look hot.
Firstly, see what it looks like on! It’s impossible to tell if a scrap of rumpled material on a hanger is going to fit a model properly. Have her try it on. A cozzie that fits is sexier than one that doesn’t.
Plain and sheer will always look better than busy. A complicated fabric design distracts the eye and makes it harder to discern, say, the curve of a lady’s left boob.
Small cozzies will look better than big. Because skin is sexier than fabric.
Monokinis are a mission. A one-piece swimsuit gets a massive bulge in the front when the girl sits down. Only a front-on pose will look half decent. Go the bikini route rather.
Sheer is better than matte. To bounce the lighting off the lady’s curves and emphasise the, er, “moulding”, as they call it.
Some costumes look better from the front. Some better from the back. Give every side a chance to shine. Some bottoms can be worn back to front.
Details, details. A little blingy metal here, or a cowrie shell there, makes the whole garment look a little more upscale, a bit more expensive, basically.
The Brazilians make the most amazing cozzies. Dunno what it is about them. But they do. Especially the bums. Brazilians are all about bums.
And finally, a model will always look better in a swimsuit she likes than one she hates. “How do you feel in that one?” is a useful question to ask.
“Okay,” is what I say at that point. “Let’s shoot that.” And I slink back into the background and let the photographer do his thing.
I’ve been a maid, a deckhand, a gardener, a painter and a shop assistant. I can confirm that this job is better than all of those.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
How long is a song?
How long is a song?
And why? And since when? And what are they for these days anyway?
If I whip out my old maths skills, I’m able to calculate the average length of the songs on my iTunes library. I have 13,6 days’ worth, and they average out at 4 minutes, four seconds.
Which is pretty much what I thought it would be. Songs are about four minutes, aren’t they?
But why?
How long is a song? Songs are ancient. The earliest musical instruments date from 7 000BC in China, and songs predate even that.Chanting is a spiritual practice that forms part of African, Native American and Aboriginal cultures. As a means to entering trance states, chant was also part of the timeless San trance dance, using hyperventilation. In this context, a song might last for hours and was originally a means of achieving an altered state of consciousness.
Some of the centuries-old folk songs listed on contemplator.com have fourteen or more verses. The written lyrics for Bob Dylan’s Like A Rolling Stone originally ran to ten pages.
So how long is a song?
Today, it’s four minutes long. But why?
Part of the reason can be traced to the history of recorded music.
The first practical device that recorded sound was the phonograph cylinder, invented by Thomas Edison in 1877. The device worked by running a needle across grooves engraved in a wax cylinder roughly the size of your thumb. These were the first mass-produced “records”.
The phonograph cylinders were superior to the gramophone records that appeared ten years later in that they allowed users to record as well as play music, but their main limitation was that they could play only two minutes of music!
The first recorded pop stars were a four-piece (piano, cornet, flute and violin) called Issler’s Orchestra, who had their first hits in the late 1880s with a style of piano-driven dance music. The Unique Quartette were another success story, with their barbershop-style vocal tunes. Two minutes long, these songs were.
The one-sided, circular gramophone discs invented by Emile Berliner in 1887 also provided around two minutes of playing time. But the gramophone eventually displaced phonograph cylinders as the recording medium of choice around 1910, when the first double-sided discs appeared.
These “lateral disc records” were made of fragile shellac material, were usually 10 inches in diameter, and were designed to be played on gramophones at speeds of 78rpm. The 78s had arrived.
These records now offered three minutes of playing time on each side. Someone had the idea of packaging several records by the same artist together. The 78s were grouped in packages of four or five discs in bound containers resembling photograph albums.
They were called “albums”.
The first album release was a version of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, released as an album of four 78s in 1909.
But because of the limitations of the 78 record, for forty years, only one three-minute recording could be accommodated per side of a record.
And that became the standard. From 1909 until the Sixties, through the rise of radio and jukeboxes, and the advent of television, anyone who wanted success as a music artist had to conform to the three-minute song structure.
The first vinyl records were introduced in 1949 by RCA records. They were more durable and could produce better sound. But by this time, the three-minute song format was so established, that the record was designed to accommodate a three-minute song, not the other way around.
But as groove-cutting technology improved, it became possible to accommodate longer recordings on a seven-inch vinyl disc. These were called EP’s or extended players.
So only by the late Sixties did it become possible to challenge the three-minute song structure. The Beatles did this, for instance, on their 1968 single Hey Jude, which was seven minutes long. Twelve-inch singles appeared in the Seventies, catering largely to the disco and dance clubs, where DJs began playing longer songs. To this day, dance music tracks are the longest format in popular music..
Albums, by this stage, were sold on 33rpm 12-inch vinyls, which allowed far more latitude in terms of song length. Isaac Hayes, for instance, rocked a 19-and-a half–minute epic called Do Your Thing on his Shaft album. The Velvet Underground felt their two-chord workout Sister Ray deserved 17 minutes of their 1968 album White Light/White Heat.
There were some rare artists like Led Zeppelin who made their fortunes releasing albums and touring. But radio still dominated the commercial imperatives of most pop musicians. Songs had standardized at around three and a half minutes by this stage, designed to slot into the format of music radio. Album tracks that did not fit this format, were frequently re-edited to fit as “radio edits”.
The digital era has seen a slight dip in the popularity of albums, and the rise of singles, driven by the popularity of shuffle mixes of songs by various artists. Songs have become slightly longer, freed from the shackles of radio format. Style now dictates length to some extent. Dance tracks tend to be longer, approaching six minutes. Hip-hop and R&B are around four and punk tends to whizz by in around three minutes.
Unless you want to be played on radio. Then you’re probably going to need a radio edit.
And so, song, which began life as a path to enlightenment, as a limitless, trance-inducing means of communing with the ancestors, a stairway to heaven that lasted hours, has become a standardized commodity that lasts three and a half minutes.
Except for Stairway To Heaven by Led Zeppelin. That one lasts eight minutes. It was never released as a single, it breaks all the rules of radio formatting. And it’s been played on radio more than three million times.
And why? And since when? And what are they for these days anyway?
If I whip out my old maths skills, I’m able to calculate the average length of the songs on my iTunes library. I have 13,6 days’ worth, and they average out at 4 minutes, four seconds.
Which is pretty much what I thought it would be. Songs are about four minutes, aren’t they?
But why?
How long is a song? Songs are ancient. The earliest musical instruments date from 7 000BC in China, and songs predate even that.Chanting is a spiritual practice that forms part of African, Native American and Aboriginal cultures. As a means to entering trance states, chant was also part of the timeless San trance dance, using hyperventilation. In this context, a song might last for hours and was originally a means of achieving an altered state of consciousness.
Some of the centuries-old folk songs listed on contemplator.com have fourteen or more verses. The written lyrics for Bob Dylan’s Like A Rolling Stone originally ran to ten pages.
So how long is a song?
Today, it’s four minutes long. But why?
Part of the reason can be traced to the history of recorded music.
The first practical device that recorded sound was the phonograph cylinder, invented by Thomas Edison in 1877. The device worked by running a needle across grooves engraved in a wax cylinder roughly the size of your thumb. These were the first mass-produced “records”.
The phonograph cylinders were superior to the gramophone records that appeared ten years later in that they allowed users to record as well as play music, but their main limitation was that they could play only two minutes of music!
The first recorded pop stars were a four-piece (piano, cornet, flute and violin) called Issler’s Orchestra, who had their first hits in the late 1880s with a style of piano-driven dance music. The Unique Quartette were another success story, with their barbershop-style vocal tunes. Two minutes long, these songs were.
The one-sided, circular gramophone discs invented by Emile Berliner in 1887 also provided around two minutes of playing time. But the gramophone eventually displaced phonograph cylinders as the recording medium of choice around 1910, when the first double-sided discs appeared.
These “lateral disc records” were made of fragile shellac material, were usually 10 inches in diameter, and were designed to be played on gramophones at speeds of 78rpm. The 78s had arrived.
These records now offered three minutes of playing time on each side. Someone had the idea of packaging several records by the same artist together. The 78s were grouped in packages of four or five discs in bound containers resembling photograph albums.
They were called “albums”.
The first album release was a version of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, released as an album of four 78s in 1909.
But because of the limitations of the 78 record, for forty years, only one three-minute recording could be accommodated per side of a record.
And that became the standard. From 1909 until the Sixties, through the rise of radio and jukeboxes, and the advent of television, anyone who wanted success as a music artist had to conform to the three-minute song structure.
The first vinyl records were introduced in 1949 by RCA records. They were more durable and could produce better sound. But by this time, the three-minute song format was so established, that the record was designed to accommodate a three-minute song, not the other way around.
But as groove-cutting technology improved, it became possible to accommodate longer recordings on a seven-inch vinyl disc. These were called EP’s or extended players.
So only by the late Sixties did it become possible to challenge the three-minute song structure. The Beatles did this, for instance, on their 1968 single Hey Jude, which was seven minutes long. Twelve-inch singles appeared in the Seventies, catering largely to the disco and dance clubs, where DJs began playing longer songs. To this day, dance music tracks are the longest format in popular music..
Albums, by this stage, were sold on 33rpm 12-inch vinyls, which allowed far more latitude in terms of song length. Isaac Hayes, for instance, rocked a 19-and-a half–minute epic called Do Your Thing on his Shaft album. The Velvet Underground felt their two-chord workout Sister Ray deserved 17 minutes of their 1968 album White Light/White Heat.
There were some rare artists like Led Zeppelin who made their fortunes releasing albums and touring. But radio still dominated the commercial imperatives of most pop musicians. Songs had standardized at around three and a half minutes by this stage, designed to slot into the format of music radio. Album tracks that did not fit this format, were frequently re-edited to fit as “radio edits”.
The digital era has seen a slight dip in the popularity of albums, and the rise of singles, driven by the popularity of shuffle mixes of songs by various artists. Songs have become slightly longer, freed from the shackles of radio format. Style now dictates length to some extent. Dance tracks tend to be longer, approaching six minutes. Hip-hop and R&B are around four and punk tends to whizz by in around three minutes.
Unless you want to be played on radio. Then you’re probably going to need a radio edit.
And so, song, which began life as a path to enlightenment, as a limitless, trance-inducing means of communing with the ancestors, a stairway to heaven that lasted hours, has become a standardized commodity that lasts three and a half minutes.
Except for Stairway To Heaven by Led Zeppelin. That one lasts eight minutes. It was never released as a single, it breaks all the rules of radio formatting. And it’s been played on radio more than three million times.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
When talking, voting, swallowing your pride and patient hoping fails
The Last Poets, of Chuck D or not, were not right in this case. A revolution had been televised, since first the flu of freedom flew, as such things do tend to do, through our fragile neighbourhood.
Even we, freed before though we might have been, are not immune. Are those complaints, those demands of our North African semi-brethren, any different to ours? Do our youth have prospects any better than the million men in Tahrir square? Are their certificates any less useless? Less meaningless? Has economics failed them any less than it has us?
Are we not smoking cigarettes of silly, privileged apathy in flammable frustrated nations suffused with fumes of anger, crushed hopes, deferred dreams and any-minute-now igniting points?
Are we any closer to the bone, to mix a messy metaphor? Shees, man. How much tinned food do you have on you? When the 3 in 4 who don’t work decide they’ve nothing left to lose by taking to the streets in protest instead of job search, drivers’ tests, and your daily dose of sustenance is suddenly no longer there, how long do you reckon you’d last then?
How long before you join them? Would you? Would you watch it on TV? Would you watch it, wait it out, or would you want it? Are you waiting for it now?
Are you inspired by the sight of people taking charge of destiny, or a bit unnerved? Disturbed? Have you heard? A million men marched to make Mubarak move?
When more people are invested in changing the status quo than in trying to make it stay just so, and when the thin blue line of play-play peacekeeping policing can’t hold things back no more. Then it won’t be held back, for sure.
Don’t wanna be a doomsayer, but I’m just saying. You don’t need a dicator to be oppressed, as many are. And many are. And we are not immune.
Angry people make things happen for themselves. When talking, voting, swallowing your pride and patient hoping fails. Then the spell that keeps us tied together breaks. And it’s time to make another one.
It happened here once, it’s fertile ground. Sound in principal one time, not so much in implementing these times, I’d say. And it’s that way in plenty poorer places these dark days.
The people get their way, one way or the other, one day, whether we would wanna wish it any other way. And one day we will be those people, like we were one time.
Many were and will be one day too again in many shapes or forms of ballot boxes, some, or revolutions other times. Marches make things happen, cyber stuff does too. Communication’s better soon. Talking, listening and acting on it. There’s many ways to get a message through.
So be cool not cruel all you who rule.
Angry people make things happen for themselves. When talking, voting, swallowing your pride and patient hoping fails. Then the spell that keeps us tied together breaks. And it’s time to make another one.
Even we, freed before though we might have been, are not immune. Are those complaints, those demands of our North African semi-brethren, any different to ours? Do our youth have prospects any better than the million men in Tahrir square? Are their certificates any less useless? Less meaningless? Has economics failed them any less than it has us?
Are we not smoking cigarettes of silly, privileged apathy in flammable frustrated nations suffused with fumes of anger, crushed hopes, deferred dreams and any-minute-now igniting points?
Are we any closer to the bone, to mix a messy metaphor? Shees, man. How much tinned food do you have on you? When the 3 in 4 who don’t work decide they’ve nothing left to lose by taking to the streets in protest instead of job search, drivers’ tests, and your daily dose of sustenance is suddenly no longer there, how long do you reckon you’d last then?
How long before you join them? Would you? Would you watch it on TV? Would you watch it, wait it out, or would you want it? Are you waiting for it now?
Are you inspired by the sight of people taking charge of destiny, or a bit unnerved? Disturbed? Have you heard? A million men marched to make Mubarak move?
When more people are invested in changing the status quo than in trying to make it stay just so, and when the thin blue line of play-play peacekeeping policing can’t hold things back no more. Then it won’t be held back, for sure.
Don’t wanna be a doomsayer, but I’m just saying. You don’t need a dicator to be oppressed, as many are. And many are. And we are not immune.
Angry people make things happen for themselves. When talking, voting, swallowing your pride and patient hoping fails. Then the spell that keeps us tied together breaks. And it’s time to make another one.
It happened here once, it’s fertile ground. Sound in principal one time, not so much in implementing these times, I’d say. And it’s that way in plenty poorer places these dark days.
The people get their way, one way or the other, one day, whether we would wanna wish it any other way. And one day we will be those people, like we were one time.
Many were and will be one day too again in many shapes or forms of ballot boxes, some, or revolutions other times. Marches make things happen, cyber stuff does too. Communication’s better soon. Talking, listening and acting on it. There’s many ways to get a message through.
So be cool not cruel all you who rule.
Angry people make things happen for themselves. When talking, voting, swallowing your pride and patient hoping fails. Then the spell that keeps us tied together breaks. And it’s time to make another one.
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