Long before the world of online streaming, Patreon perks, and podcast mics, there were long nights, my Larrivée acoustic, and a 1975 Audi 80 that smelled like pizza. That was the beginning. That was Pietermaritzburg — a small town in South Africa where the music dream first took root.
In those early years of being a singer-songwriter, I was on stage almost every night of the week. My partner-in-melody was my good friend Erin Fourie. If you’ve never had the pleasure, Erin is, without exaggeration, one of the finest singers the KZN Midlands has ever produced. Her musical pedigree runs deep, but even more impressive is her rare gift of being an utterly gracious and authentic human being. Erin doesn’t just perform songs; she invites you into them.
Together, we played anywhere that had a microphone and at least two chairs to sit on. Restaurants, pubs, cafés, wedding receptions — you name it, we were there. We weren’t picky. If someone offered us a gig, we’d show up, guitars in hand, grinning like fools, thrilled just to be part of the noise.
Looking back, when my kids ask me about those days, I find myself saying, “You had to be there”. Places like Cliffy’s, the Wobbling Warthog, Zan Zee Bar, and the Mist and Drizzle Pub in Hilton (which, thanks to its rather inebriated clientele, was affectionately known as the “Miss and Dribble”) were our stomping grounds. Every venue had its quirks, but the one constant was the wonderfully motley crew that followed us around like a loyal indie-rock caravan.
Erin had this magnetic way of gathering people. There was Steve and Terence — legends in their own right — who bonded with us over Tarantino films and obscure punk rock bands. Then Nick and Monica, who rarely missed a gig and carried an unrelenting passion for anything German, especially if it came in a stein. And of course, the unparalleled TJ Tallie, or “Teej” as we called him, who came all the way from the United States and is now (officially, I believe) a Professor of Awesomeness.
There were many others along the way — faces that would light up when Erin sang a ballad or when I stumbled through a guitar piece with more enthusiasm than skill. But at the heart of it all was Erin. She had a sixth sense for people, always keeping in touch, checking in, nurturing friendships in a way I didn’t fully appreciate back then. What I’ve come to realise is that these weren’t just fans. They were our tribe. Loyal, hardcore friends who shared a love for grunge-era bands and acoustic artists with a few rough edges. They followed us not because we were flawless, but because we were real. And Erin, with her quiet grace, was the glue that held us all together.
I didn’t understand then just how good those friends were to us, especially to me. I’m profoundly grateful for that time. Those nights taught me that music is never just about chords and lyrics. It’s about community. It’s about showing up, whether you’re on stage or in the crowd, and sharing in the messy, beautiful, unfiltered experience of being human.
It was a beautiful kind of chaos. Most weeks we played six nights, sometimes all seven if we got lucky (or unlucky, depending on your throat’s condition). We’d lug gear into smoky bars and out of dingy backrooms, and when we were done, we’d pile it all back in the car and philosophise about life on the late-night drive home. Sometimes, just for the joy of it, we’d take a detour to Durban — a breezy coastal city where the humidity in February clings to your skin just like it does in Malaysia, where I now live.
Durban was where the waves crashed louder and the people clapped softer, but there was always a stage and an audience, and that was enough.
It was during this time — those long, late drives and whirlwind weeks — that the songs for my first solo album, Better Days, began to form. I was writing about everything: the search for meaning, the madness of the world, the tiny moments that made me believe it was still worth getting up in the morning.
The album cover? I painted it (pictured) years earlier on a family holiday. It was this wide-eyed, childlike character looking up to the heavens and smiling, all bright colours against a greyish backdrop. At the time, I just thought it looked cool. But later it struck me: that image was the message. Amidst all the doom and gloom, the cynicism and struggle, I wanted to cling to wonder. To joy. To the better days I still believed were coming.
That album happened through pure stubborn love. A good friend of mine had just landed a job at Hilton College and offered the use of the recording studio. It was too good an offer to pass up. Back then, I was partly stupid and mostly gung-ho (or perhaps vice versa), and I distinctly remember walking into Babs Music to talk with my friend Roberto Hemmero. To my amazement, he agreed to come and record with me. Along with us, another good friend of mine, Mark Houston, also agreed, and so the nucleus of a recording band was formed. We recorded it in Hilton, a leafy little town just up the hill from Maritzburg. Somewhat ironically, we would purchase pizzas from a store which later became Upper Millstone, located behind Artisan Pizza – where I would perform many weekends some 20 years later.
Night after night, we chipped away — layering tracks, tweaking harmonies, chasing that elusive “magic take”.
It wasn’t glamorous. It was a studio with coffee stains, tangled cables, and half-empty chip packets on the floor. It was me losing track of time while mixing a song for the twelfth time… and there, fast asleep under the table, was one Tamlyn Mary — the woman who would later become my wife. Back then, we spent hours driving together, making sense of the world and the universe. For whatever reason, she loved me, tolerated my crazy dreams, and occasionally caught some shut-eye under the table while I tweaked EQ levels and replayed the bridge for the fifth time. Crazy, stupid love.
I hustled together enough money for 500 CD cases, booklets, and a printer that produced the images onto the disc itself. The whole thing was self-produced… quite literally. It was hard yards, expensive, and formative for a future in the music business.
The album garnered some local attention and helped get my foot in the door towards a number of larger shows, including the long-standing festival Splashy Fen. That was the birth of the RCB. More about that next time.
If these songs meant something to you, they’re still here. See the link above or comment below, or share via the buttons.
