The hype, be it good or bad, post-RHCP’s concert in Johannesburg was rife but in true Capetonian style, we just couldn’t be bothered.
Same can be said for majority of the crowd’s stance during Die Antwoord’s set.
As the sun sets and the crowd slowly trickle in, I watch Ninja and Yolandi work that stage like the world class stars they now are.
Yolandi klaps Ninja halfway through ‘Wat Pomp Julle’ and they prove that they can still adequately channel the flawless performance art ethic few witnessed at Ramfest 2010.
Die Antwoord invite Flea and Mark Ramos Nishita aka Money Mark (Beastie Boys) to join them onstage for ‘Fatty Boom Boom’ and the stadium goes mental. A greenling next to me jumps onto her father’s shoulders to get a better look at the RHCP bassist but is promptly asked to get the hell off by a pit marshal. Who knew you could only rock that look during the headliner?
As a newlywed couple behind me share a peanut butter sandwich (the high pitched frequency of her the wife’s voice privies me to many, many a detail) Die Antwoord and their dancers end, kneeling congregation-style to say cheers. No encore. Yolandi’s parting words: “Are you ready for some Red Hot love??” FUCK YES.
Techies sweep the stage like lightening for the changeover while bizarrely placed African tribal music echoes through the stands. The length of the queue to buy beer is matched only by the one to buy merch and as personal space becomes a luxury, one half of the newlyweds cackles, “You’re my love but Flea is my life.”
It’s exactly 9pm when the lights go out and Anthony Kiedis crashes onto stage. With the prodigal bass son to his right, he grips the mic with both hands in that sweet, trademark stance. They open with ‘Monarchy of Roses’ off “I’m With You”, which gives guitarist Josh Klinghoffer a chance to prove to us why he’s John Frusciante’s replacement. He silences critics with a shredding backhand.
‘Dani California’ whips the trio of drunken chicks next to me into a flippant frenzy as they crash into everyone and the lamest of fights ensues. PUNK IS NOT DEAD. Cape Town score ‘Scar Tissue’ at the expense of ‘Otherside’ but really, no one’s complaining.
At 50, Kiedis has managed to preserve his precious vocals and onstage vigour like few frontman his age have. But make no mistake, this is The Flea Show. The man is a Golden God. From beginning to end he rules with his mighty paws that pound away at his Modulus Fleabass. That’s right, bitch has his own range of bass guitars.
The bass line of ‘Factory of Faith’ is filled with resounding funk. Laced with a permeating groove. They follow this with ‘Can’t Stop’, ‘She’s Only 18’ and ‘The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie’ before Flea fixes his icy blue eyes on us and asks, “You wanna hear a song we wrote almost 30 fucking years ago??” They launch into ‘Me & My Friends’ (written back in ‘87 with original members Hillel Slovak and Jack Irons) and transform into a slap-happy funk band.
Then Kiedis pulls it back, cradling his mic again and treating us to a vocally gorgeous rendition of ‘Universally Speaking’. I keep wishing someone would tell Klinghoffer to cool it on the backing vocals though, they’re rough as all hell. Straight into ‘Under the Bridge’ and I’m bawling as I’m spitting, “TAKE ME TOOO DA PLAYCE I LURRRVE.”
Next thing Flea’s telling me that he loves my country, my face, my animals and Kiedis is telling him that he smells like weed. Consecutive tracks ‘Suck My Kiss’, ‘Californication’ and set closer ‘By The Way’ play out like a musical porn as do the tangible moments between Flea and Klinghoffer. They feed hungrily off each others’ melodies, but Flea is the undisputed king of each duel, his clobbering claw taking a heavy sword to each of Klinghoffer’s chords.
The band exits but Chad Smith comes back out with a GoPro strapped to his head for his drum solo and a packed stadium throws ‘Olé, olé olé ole’ right back at him with each pounding of his tom. He looks genuinely surprised.
Open ears and hearts embrace three encores before it all ends in a cacophony of thank yous and good nights. With a career spanning exactly 30 years, every hit was always going to be just that.
And if you walked away with anything but respect or adulation for The Red Hot Chili Peppers you were, quite simply, at another gig.
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