Yesterday afternoon. The Striped Horse, Muizenberg. Krakatoa played. Six musicians crammed onto the stage. When last did you see six musicians in one band? Alan Millar up front, vocals snarling, three guitarists battling it out, a trumpet blasting, a clarinet weaving through, and the drummer (Alex Collett-she introduced herself) —glue for the chaos. No idea who the others are.
What do they play? Hard to pin down. Surf rock? Psychobilly? A big, noisy mash-up of sounds that absolutely works. Labels are pointless anyway. This wasn’t a genre—it was an experience.
Live music does that. Hits different. Better than a car stereo or sound system at home. It’s in your face, pounding your chest, leaving your ears ringing for hours. Loud is essential. Krakatoa nailed that.
For me, music is a performance. Faces, bodies, energy, drama. You feel it. And Krakatoa brought that. Tight moments where everything clicks—guitars riffing, brass punching through, crescendos that melt into near silence. Variation. Tension. Release.
Is Krakatoa a good band? No idea. I’m not here to review them. I just know I loved it. Live music like this evaporates. Gone as soon as it happens. You’re left with the resonance, the memory. That’s the deepest kind of recording.
Thanks, Krakatoa. Your sense of drama, theatre, and playfulness made for a magic music performance.
