VENGABOYS ARTICLE IN GQ INDIA
Open letter to the Vengaboys
Dear Donny, Denice, Kim and Robin, This is huge. We could hardly believe our eyes when we saw #Vengaboys trending on Twitter last week. Because it’s Twitter, we automatically imagined the worst: Arnab Goswami, Justin Bieber and the crew of punching bags must’ve taken the day off, if everyone in the playground was bored enough to start picking on poor ol’ you, a europop super-band no one has heard from since the last century.
So we paid a visit to your “house on the interwebs” to see what’s up. Must say you all still look pretty hot — those hot bods and garish bold costumes are a sight for sore eyes. (Except, Denice, you really need to stop dressing like a strawberry threw up on you). And that scrapbook of pictures of you guys with glittering L-guards over your balls, aluminium foil for cone bras and, um, Perez Hilton… Real classy, guys. And that’s when we knew happiness really is round the corner — just a couple of blocks from Kurla station, no less.
Honestly, it’s been a pretty dull year around here. Those hobos who arrived from the UK earlier this spring, armed with guitars and faux-hipster attitudes, preferred moaning about pansy shit like love and triangles. And love triangles. Now yours is a gig everyone and their grandmother can get properly excited about.
And that isn’t just an expression. Our grandmothers have actually jiggled to your songs at just about every wedding in the country since before the new millenium dawned. Frankly, between Anaida and Falguni Pathak, no one was surprised they chose to shake a leg to “2 Brazil”. Ah, the Nineties, when music was all about having a good party. When you released Up & Down, we’d all rushed to Planet M, bought the cassette and lodged it firmly in our hi-fi Sony music systems. Nothing like a session of pretend-partying in our bedrooms to get the adrenaline high and hormones buzzing — it was hardcore, bed-breaking stuff.
While the rest of your MTV brethren was busy being lame — boy bands pretending that words were all they had, the girls demanding to know what you “really really want”; if not straight up begging to be hit one more time — you were sexing things up, all smooth and buttery, like pros.
But you had manners. No impersonal messages on chat rooms from you. Instead, you hired buses and picked up interested strangers who just happened to be standing around on the road to Ibiza. And if you wanted to make naughty…well, suffice it to say we tried the “boom boom, in my room?” routine. Occasionally, we got a sly “zigazig ha” in reply, and a date at McDonald’s was guaranteed. If not; we had Denice’s boobs to fantasise about during detention.
Leaps and bounds ahead of your time, weren’t you? After all, you were making bra-popping, brain-numbing EDM before the term, or the Calvins and Davids of the world, were even born. Seriously, what in the name of bleeding bloody beetroots is that trash they’re spinning these days? They could at least pretend to make music by putting some words in there.
Which is why we think all these hipster douchebags who’re mouthing off about your ‘irrelevance’ are just faking it, so they don’t jeopardise their VIP ticket to this year’s Sunburn. The other day, we heard this DJ-type dude who’s been riding around the country in a red and silver Vengabus rip-off say: “It’s 2015, brah. Who cares about the Vengaboys? Fuck that….” We socked him. If there’s one thing no one can call you, dear spunktards, it’s a ‘has-been’.
We remember when you had our rebel hearts thumping again with your ‘comeback’ in 2010? “Rocket to Uranus” is just the sort of reflective, summing-up-your-life song we’d expected from a band that’s been lip-syncing their own songs for almost two decades. But if you don’t want a repeat of 2001 in Guwahati, we suggest you be pretty clear what your songs are about while you’re here: Say, beats. Exotic holiday destinations. And space odysseys. If you survive all this, we can toast your return to the realm over shots of absinthe. That is, if we haven’t already finished our bottle(s) to survive your gig.
Can’t wait to cheekah bow wow,