make a joyful noise
Thursday, 10 June 2010 08:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freckles_and_doubtIs it strange and inconceivable that I'm rather enjoying Cape Town's current outbreaks, at random intervals and in illogical spots all over the city, of the characteristic blarting noise of the vuvuzela? It is not an instrument of great beauty, neither in its form, which is elegantly curved but garishly plastic, nor in its sound, which lacks any remnant of musical note and more closely resembles the pained bellow of a rhinoceros whoopee cushion sat down upon suddenly. It is an item adapted most perfectly, however, to its threefold functions: its fitness for cheap mass-production, its absolute lack of demand for any vestige of musical skill in the player, and its perfect ability to make a loud, unrestrained and happy noise more or less incessantly.
I am not any sort of worshipper at the altar of the World Cup. I don't enjoy soccer as a game, being pretty much imprinted on rugby after a Zim government school upbringing (just pick the damned thing up and run with it instead of all this nancing about, will you?); I think all this outlay on stadiums is a criminal diversion of funds from crying basic needs and won't repay us in the long term; and I am extremely dubious as to the wisdom of allowing FIFA to obtain a death grip on the country's merchandising short hairs. Nonetheless, now that the juggernaut has inevitably rolled around I'm both entertained and rather moved by the World Cup fever which has gripped the country - the outbreak of slightly tacky flags on car rear view mirrors or waving from roofs or bonnets with that oddly pseudo-diplomatic vibe, the insane numbers of student volunteers who are working Cup-related jobs over the vac, and, yes, the soundtrack, in all its madcap, cacophonous glory. Even the slightly gritted-teeth upper-class response (read the game timetable obsessively to avoid traffic, brace for the tourists) has a reasonable assumption of cheer. I don't care if it doesn't. This World Cup isn't really about the privileged.
I think I like the vuvuzela because it's a democratic instrument, its traditions very much in the experience of soccer at what I'll call, although I hate the lazy shorthand of it, grassroots level. It's become a visible and extremely audible embodiment of a sort of Cinderella joy: gosh, we're South Africa, poor cousins in practically everything, but hosting this enormous expensive event. The noise is both celebration and welcome, a statement that says hello, visitors, we're excited to have you here, and we hope the nasty minimal percent of bad guys don't actually turn you into a crime statistic. Also, almost by the way, go team! It doesn't matter which team. Just go!
I would imagine that the noise will pall over the next few weeks, that I'll reach the point where one more outbreak will make me want to shove it down someone's throat wide end first. But I'm not there yet. The cry of the vuvuzela makes me happy because it is, itself, so innocently and exuberantly happy. This World Cup might have been worth it if it allows us to fill the stadia with working-class black fans who can just about afford the cheap seats, and who will blow their vuvuzelas like billy-oh in a rare and momentary real-world participation in a global event. For that, I'll cheerfully enjoy the cheerful noise.
I am not any sort of worshipper at the altar of the World Cup. I don't enjoy soccer as a game, being pretty much imprinted on rugby after a Zim government school upbringing (just pick the damned thing up and run with it instead of all this nancing about, will you?); I think all this outlay on stadiums is a criminal diversion of funds from crying basic needs and won't repay us in the long term; and I am extremely dubious as to the wisdom of allowing FIFA to obtain a death grip on the country's merchandising short hairs. Nonetheless, now that the juggernaut has inevitably rolled around I'm both entertained and rather moved by the World Cup fever which has gripped the country - the outbreak of slightly tacky flags on car rear view mirrors or waving from roofs or bonnets with that oddly pseudo-diplomatic vibe, the insane numbers of student volunteers who are working Cup-related jobs over the vac, and, yes, the soundtrack, in all its madcap, cacophonous glory. Even the slightly gritted-teeth upper-class response (read the game timetable obsessively to avoid traffic, brace for the tourists) has a reasonable assumption of cheer. I don't care if it doesn't. This World Cup isn't really about the privileged.
I think I like the vuvuzela because it's a democratic instrument, its traditions very much in the experience of soccer at what I'll call, although I hate the lazy shorthand of it, grassroots level. It's become a visible and extremely audible embodiment of a sort of Cinderella joy: gosh, we're South Africa, poor cousins in practically everything, but hosting this enormous expensive event. The noise is both celebration and welcome, a statement that says hello, visitors, we're excited to have you here, and we hope the nasty minimal percent of bad guys don't actually turn you into a crime statistic. Also, almost by the way, go team! It doesn't matter which team. Just go!
I would imagine that the noise will pall over the next few weeks, that I'll reach the point where one more outbreak will make me want to shove it down someone's throat wide end first. But I'm not there yet. The cry of the vuvuzela makes me happy because it is, itself, so innocently and exuberantly happy. This World Cup might have been worth it if it allows us to fill the stadia with working-class black fans who can just about afford the cheap seats, and who will blow their vuvuzelas like billy-oh in a rare and momentary real-world participation in a global event. For that, I'll cheerfully enjoy the cheerful noise.
