Who is Johhny Boskak? Do we know him?
Not really. Sort of… No-ja.
Who is Craig Morris?
We know him, this artist, here in the NGK Kerk saal, performing on a remote, disconnected Saturday afternoon, in Gatstad.
We know his work; we feel it, we hold it inside.
Now we gaze upon it, check it out.
Morris from orange, pitted, pulsating kaalkop in devil’s red. Rattling and writhing behind the wheel of a bellowing snorting rig on the road to Armageddon.
Or just tjuning, may bru, just skeeming, under the celestial canopy, lip curled, smacking his lighter, suiging on a Texan plain and exhaling.
Out there, up there, balancing on the road barrier of everything that is kak and insanely dangerous and incendiary.
I am feeling funny about this piece.
So in it, yet not in the uniform of emotions I am supposed to feel as a former conscript and End Conscription Campaign groupie.
I’m rather enjoying the road story, the technique. It grabs me by the seat of my ballas, it gruips my guts, druks my innards all the way to the kop.
It’s lonely out there hiking to hell with a balsak, I’ve been there.
And it’s oddly lonely and painful inside here, with the artist.
This is phenomenal theatre about the shit we have to go through in this South Africa,and the violence that begats the gats we have carried with such bewilderment and glittering revulsion.
I adored the settings for our brutality, our horrible heartless, heartbroken places, the bars, the parking lots, the dorps.
Hell is just around the corner.
Flip the coin. There is the love we crave, the soft fruit of Eve. Or Adam.
The lame lekker-like-a-cracker lines are actually poetry? Sumptious South African stuff, love lines that rise from our sun-and-booze ravaged cheeks to hold out song.
You gasp in wonderment. You recognise that there is in fact something profoundly poetic in the kak we talk.
Not always but it’s definitely here, in Greig Coetzee’s exquisite script.
It’s an umlungu’s story, but it reaches across battle lines into MK, to expose the violence in the system, in all of us. It calls us to connect. To come together.
And then the uitklaar, the fallout, the drop, the fucking fuck that of all fuck thats.
XX, Fontana, our culinary temples, smoking roast South African hoekoe (before those KFC imperialists invaded and occupied our minds).
Where the devil is a trucker who orders a burger with a side of bullets.
It is lonely out on the road, and you can die.
I die with a full heart.
Shows left: Monday 22:30, Tuesday 18:30, Wednesday 20:30 and Thursday 12:30.
Venue: NG Kerk Hall, Hill Street.