Mick Raubenheimer loves music in all forms of form, fluffiness and viscosity, but is prejudiced in having a fondness for music that squirms out of the proverbial box. John Zorn and Bjork should just marry already.
Mick Raubenheimer started writing about music in the early 2000's. His first
submitted article was a fever dream transcription of Tom Waits' Alice/ Blood
Money situation. The magazine for which it was intended never got back to him,
and possibly fled the country.
While most of his attention is zoomed into so-called Jazz and experimental
electronica, Jim White alerted him to the fact that Country music could be
dangerous, a realization that had a ripple effect leading him to note strange
phenomena in all the ponds, swamps and rivulets of musical genres.
His writings, which on the whole aim to shed strange lights on adventurous,
underappreciated music and artists, has appeared in Rolling Stone SA, The
Sunday Times, The Cape Times and Muse magazine. His poetry about the female
mystique has been published by BlazeVox, amongst other discerning, friendly
He frowns and frolicks in Johannesburg, South Africa.
My Jazz Story
I first fell in love with Herbie Hancock by mistake. As a 14-yr old Grunge head. A weathered tape cassette found in a tiny pile of
miscellaneous recordings led to my confusing the Herbie Hancock side (one of his more generic Eighties outings) with the flip
side, which was the Keith Jarrett trio's inaugural, ethereally ambient Standards release. A further shock, and much confusion,
was had when I listened to the only Herbie Hancock album at a local CD store: The super funk-drenched and all round wondrous
Thrust. Confusion and mega-stimuli abounded. Apologies to Gary Peacock, and Hancock's Eighties album.