Attending Oppikoppi is somewhat akin to being mauled by a feral creature. You wind up all kinds of exposed. To dust, grit, blood and numerous other bodily fluids. There is noise, lots of it, and hella loud. There is what can only be described as general pandemonium. Adrenaline pumps, you need to self-medicate. It’s certainly not pretty but, by Zeus, is it fucking wild. And thankfully, 16-odd-thousand others are right there with you. In the thick of it. Rumbling, tumbling, screaming, freaking.
You’re fairly certain nobody dies. A peculiar, transient fellowship develops almost instantaneously and the atmosphere that pervades is palpably one of ‘we’re in this together.’ Then its over in a flash. A blur of the thing is left making childish sketches upon the layer of red silt now squeezed in the tight space between your brain and your skull. You check yourself for structural integrity. Four limbs, twenty digits, mouth full of teeth, two eyes, a gargantuan headache and a beaming smile.
Yip, you’re all there, left to piece just the phantom images of the preceding experience into something nearing coherence as you make your way back to the safety of your home. Oppikoppi makes itself known with a punch to the solar plexus, the fucker doesn’t back down. To come away unscathed means you didn’t do it properly.
Here are some scenes that, since that fateful weekend, well up in the deep of the night, fever-dreams from the beast as it taunts my sleep, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I was actually there:
- A deep rumbling WubbityWub that heralds the rampant viral infection of dubstep in seemingly all electronic genres, barring Zakes Bantwini’s intriguing afro-house.
- Dan Patlansky doing voodoo on a Fender, raising spirits and bewitching the attendant crowd.
- The Used being cussed out by 10000 people for being unfashionably late by 40mins. That many people yelling ‘WHAT THE FUCK’ in unison is scary.
- A ferocious tablist, with fingers forged from some inter-dimensional spacedust, skullfucking a small horde with polyrhythms dredged up from 5000 years of tribal history. Then the same tablist throwing the Devil Horn’s unabashedly because he knows what he’s doing is just clandestine Heavy Metal. - Yolandi Vi$$er telling a black stage manager – ‘Nigger, get the fuck off my stage’ – before busting into Rich Bitch. Cringeworthy!
- Artist quote of festival, by frontman of newbie rockers Saintfearless (I think): “We have CDs available, wanna take us home without anybody moaning.
“- I learnt from a stranger that people grow weed hydroponically in Antarctica. This is not a joke.
- Epic fail of the weekend: Singer proclaiming that South Africa has the best women in the country. – Lark slay. Inge transmogrifies on stage into an electrical storm of staggering proportions. The Rez looks overjoyed to be back in the fray on local soil. Here’s hoping he sticks around a while.
- By Friday evening I’ve heard the call and response of ‘Oppi?’ ‘KOPPI!!!’ far too many times. Tons of people clearly never quite assimilate the fact that they are actually at the festival and need constant reminding. - Fuck Standard Bank and their insidious money-less card scheme profiteering. Cash is king, bitches! Naturally, I could go on but the above is at least a taste of the delicious hedonism that occurs out there in the sticks. And it happens every year, has been for 17 years and will continue to do so until the poles burst apart and we all get flung into the cosmic rays and incinerate gleefully.
It was my first Oppikoppi. I will absolutely be back there, amongst the thorns and the Afrikaans and the swirling dust-madness.
Review: Unknown Brother
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