Tilt Republic. Johannesburg. New York. Cape Town. London.

this bohemian apocalypse

Amidst the bustle of Observatory, between the work a day stoner humps and the rent a suite day drunk pretend friends to dropping out, is a sentiment so rare it can’t be looked at full on. A mirage like silhouette that can only be seen out of the corner of the right kind of eyes, and though fleeting, it’s probably one of the most beautiful ideas I’ve encountered.

Behind every movement is an individual, nothing has been done without that Emerson-esque inner worldly excess and the same applies to this Bohemian Apocalypse. It needs horsemen, adherents, agents and idealists. Servant hearted neo-neos; constantly progressing, with self knowledge, ability and a tireless appetite for cultivated leisure. This fragile biome lies unprotected and it’s true that it’s capitalistically uncreative, which I’m starting to see as a thing that provides safety. Money draws all sorts of business pigs out of the wood work, no new observation there. That’s the beauty of this place, this artistic playground that has launched our country’s comedic inner circle.

 

“If a bomb went off there 12 years ago, South Africa wouldn’t have a comedy industry.”- Kurt Schoonraad talking about the Armchair.

 

I feel strongly about this place and writing about it sets my teeth on edge, there’s this lingering fear of doing it a disservice through clumsy transposition. Perhaps I’m giving my pen too much credit, yeah I am, an article couldn’t buckle what apartheid couldn’t.

 

Back to idea of this crucial individualism, everything rises & falls on it. Whatever the plot line, without individual effort, it’s fucked from the beginning. Comedy is a perfect example of this, there’s only you up there- for however long you do and whoever you’re doing it to, it’s a receipt of the work you’ve put in.

 

“When everyone takes responsibility for their body of work.”- Rustum August, on talking about a fundamental shift in the underground comedy scene.

 

 

 

 

 

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