The Dust & The Rebels
I got screwed. A chunk of steel the size of my index finger wedged in the back tire. I felt a bump as we sped through Maitland. After plugging the hold in Voortrekker Road, I slid down the N1 as the tubeless refused to hold. An hour later I was waiting on the side of the N7 waiting for BMW assist who very kindly picked up punctured Wolfgang, my crispy RnineT from Berlin, and dropped me off at the festival in branded luxury.
Google Images of Rockabilly returns pomaded pompadour quiffs. Drainpipe trousers for him. Swinging polkadot for her. Elvis in the early years and tumescent feminine framed by died purple streaks. Apparently Rockabilly is big in California but everything sounds big in California. The easy three chords of 1950’s pinup, petrol fumes and tape-delay echo string together a subculture of Durbanville meets hotrod. Ralph the German invited the dark side by selling plated knuckle dusters and jagged pick axes dubbed ‘zombie killers’. Nick Stanbridge drives a monkey bike like Donald Trump drives hairspray.
Gliding vintage cars brew clouds of khaki dirt. Long legs lead pant lines so high they leave nothing to the imagination. On stage, a sweet voice defines ‘bombshell’ as a woman with just ‘that something special’. The event is a magnet for beautiful cars with a 1970 black Chevrolet Apache begging for a branded GWC monogram.