- 52 min
"Will someone call God, and tell him we don't need him anymore?" At the height of their fame, and mired in sex, drugs, and alcohol, the energy surrounding the band as they perform on a main stage tips over into violence: lead singer Francois is sick into the crowd, and a fan covers herself with it. Yet the words that enrapture a generation bring on the fury of conservative South Africa: "Chaos and war is at the door my friend. We will fight them and if necessary, we will drive them out!" For the five best friends, the idea of an Afrikaans punk band became a way to confront all of the questions they had about their conservative Christian upbringing: "we grew up being told what we could listen to, what we could wear, that we would go to hell if we swore…". They lived on $100 a day between them, sharing a single bedroom and wearing each others dirty clothes: writing and gigging and drinking on a perpetual loop. And suddenly they had a following. "We actually thought no one would play us anywhere because of our name", the band laugh. As the fans snuck out of their bedrooms to see 'Fokof' gigs, presenters delighted in announcing the band. "They kind of shook the media out of their political correctness". But the band's egos grew with their fame. Their spit-flecked melodies spoke of Satan, their music videos showed Afrikaner men kissing. "Having the time of our lives, living from drink to drink" - the band was destined for a fall. "We got death threats. It was like the crusaders - be Christian or die!" When a drunken Wynand wrote 'Fuck God' on a teenage fan's wallet, the band became the centre of an intense media storm. Drained by three years of touring, and fearing what the band had become, 'Fokof' called it a day. "We're actually not as punk, or as apathetic as you'd like to think we are", Francois said, "we actually did this to make a positive change. Like when parents give a kid a hiding. One sometimes needs a rude awakening".