Netflix has shared the first-look images and teaser for the upcoming third season of local teen drama “Blood & Water”.

After an explosive second-season finale, the Parkhurst faves are back for yet another school term, where new tensions and dramas unfold. Secrets and mysteries continue to surround Puleng (Ama Qamata) and Fikile (Khosi Ngema), who inch closer to the truth amidst a plethora of unanswered questions.

With the squad returning and new faces at the forefront, fans can expect the usual Parkhurst ‘vaabes’ as tricky love triangles, friendship, drama and family truths unravel.

Season 3 will return with key cast including Ama Qamata, Khosi Ngema, Thabang Molaba, Dillon Windvogel, Greteli Fincham, Natasha Thahane, Gail Mabalane, Sello Ka-Ncube, Sonia Mbele, Leroy Siyaf, Getmore Sithole and Zikhona Sodlaka to mention a few.

Season 3 will premiere on Netflix on November 25, 2022.

Check out the new teaser trailer below + synopsis:

Synopsis:

As the Parkhurst heroes return and prepare for the future, the story of the missing baby unravels further leading to more burning questions, like who’s Fikile’s real father? And will Puleng bring down the curtain on the now defunct system known as Point of Grace? Relationships are also put to the ultimate test as revelations lead to broken hearts, tested friendship and family bonds, and a quest for the truth.

*All images supplied by Netflix.

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Image credit: Instagram

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Durban – The North Gauteng High Court has granted the National Prosecuting Authority’s Asset Forfeiture Unit a preservation order to seize items valued at over R50 million amid a probe into financial mismanagement and corruption at the National Lotteries Commission.

The NPA said nine luxurious residential estates in Pretoria, Centurion, Hartbeespoort and Johannesburg, which were valued at over R22m, one BMW 420i convertible and two Ocean Basket franchises worth over R25m, were now under preservation.

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PRICE: R235,625 ZAR/month . Location: Cape Town. Where to Book : AirBnb.co.za 

2, Clifton 2nd

4, The Halyard

5, Nettleton House

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He ripped through opponent Priddy Ugly in one of his now-infamous celebrity boxing matches, then hopped over to Mary Fitzgerald Square, Newtown, where he performed at the Back To The City festival, returning after a two-year, pandemic-induced hiatus.

The past few years have been interesting for the rapper, who has sought to distance himself from the core fanbase that made #FillUpTheDome a reality. Add to that list Sizwe Alakine, who eschewed the moniker “Reason” when he decided to focus on his burgeoning Amapiano career.

While a cursory glance by the common citizen might suggest hip-hop has reached a low, heads in the know recognise that the real and the dope is still available in steady supply. One needs to dig deeper, beyond the surface level of Nasty C and AKA — who’ve got a banger in their latest effort Lemons at over two-million YouTube views after three weeks — to understand there exist Zulu Mecca, Tyson Sybateli and more.

While traditional hip-hop media was dealt a heavy blow in the mid-2010s with the demise of Hype Magazine’s physical format, outlets such as podcasts — the likes of The Sobering — and YouTube channels dedicated to cyphering, such as Sotra Cyphers, have carried the baton and kept the culture alive.

On the afternoon of Sunday, 11 September, when rapper Maglera Doe Boy is due to attend a curated presentation of his debut album Diaspora, Braamfontein is a lulled stranger, its streets reflective of the texture of the day: muted, with minimal traffic and ample parking space — especially on the street where The Artivist, the venue hosting the session, is situated.

Maglera Doe Boy draws on popular culture for his subject matter.

Slated to start at 3pm, the event has yet to see any people arriving 15 minutes later when I get there. This is a sign, a bad one at that. Among the many things Covid-19 taught us is the importance of time and how crucial it is to not waste it. That the event doesn’t start until two hours and some change later feels like a personal affront, so I leave, but not before interacting with the select few people who’ve been invited.

The themed affair has many adhering to the dress code — “dress to impress the Italians”, according to the invitation. It’s a black-tie affair featuring Joburg cool sized and dolled up like they’ve just de-cluttered their wardrobes and put the best-fits on for the occasion. Think gangster flick aesthetics tailored to meet the demands of modern-day city living.

Conversation flows freely and the bits I catch centre mostly around music industry-related issues, for this is a music-insider event, after all. People speak of the state of South African hip-hop — it seemed to be on the rise but now no one is really sure what is happening — and of the album itself — he needed to take us, the old fans, through this transitory phase, for it feels rather disconnected from the rapper who used to lose it over beats by the likes of Apu Sebekedi and Khalil Masia, who produced timeless bangers such as Contra and 10 Deep, respectively.

When I do go outside, the white minivan transporting the MC arrives and parks temporarily in a slot opposite The Artivist, while alternative arrangements for a more permanent parking spot are made. I dip. Time’s a-wasting, as Erykah would say.

“You had to be there, man,” tweets Maglera the following day.

I feel nothing!

For the past two years, the rapper born Tokelo Moyakhe, who hails from Makazana (Kanana township in Orkney), has destroyed every record he’s been on. His verse on producer MashBeatz’s Never Sleep (alongside Thato Saul) is this year’s best, bar none. Every word spat and every bar laid belongs to a memory bank of rap’s most delicious delicacies. He’s a tongue-twisted flow-meister with the speed of a racetrack stallion and a magnanimous, unique installation in the sea of otherwise forgettable faces flooding rap at the moment.

This knack for content and delivery carries through on songs such as Dor do Povo, about the realities of ghetto living, which include being stuck in a vanity project with the self that refuses to go, irrespective of how old its inhabitants become: “To never grow is to never grow/ you never know until you know, the highs are in the lows”. And on Makazana, an homage to his hood, described by the anchor in the opening news clip as “once a thriving mining area but now a pocket of poverty, unemployment and crime”.

This draws to mind a similarly reported clip towards the end of 25K’s Pheli Makaveli about his hood, Atteridgeville, where the news anchor talks about it as an area with high levels of unemployment and drug abuse, one “plagued by an escalating rate of crime”.

What these news reports always fail to make clear is that this shit is all by design.

Stylistically, Maglera draws from a range of subject matter in popular culture. He’s a gaming head in one life, a bodega supplicant in the next, and a Mexican druglord with the suave outlook of a learned, in-touch professorial candidate elsewhere.

He doesn’t stand alone, however. Maglera Doe Boy is part of a generation of South African hip-hop that has finally found its own mode of expression, though it regularly ventures out Stateside for a touch of inspiration. He’s so effective with his lyrics, and so intentional with his song-making, that it can be hard to trace exactly where he’ll head to next — just know and trust that it’s going to bang, regardless.

In his lane are MCs such as Thato Saul and 25K, proficient wordsmiths with a talent for detailing the most daring true-crime hood narratives on their songs.

“From a language perspective, it was so important to tap into somebody like Maglera,” says the event’s curator Kabelo Moremi.

“If you think about how he positions the township [as] being a diaspora, meaning that it’s a collective of people who have been dispatched from their proper regions, you can think about the melting pot that the township is of different cultures, different languages, different traditions. And this is somebody who draws, like a sponge, from all of those traditions.”

This moment is not without its forebears. There have been many iterations of it, from Gugulethu’s own Driemanskap’s spaza raps (remember S’phum’eGugs?), to YoungstaCPT’s trap anthems detailing his side hustle while pursuing greatness in the underbelly of Hillbrow (I’ve Seen It All, Mwanangu).

Spaza, a style of rapping commonly associated with Xhosa-speaking MCs from the Cape Flats, absorbed the idiosyncrasies of hood life, from language to clothing to social issues, and fomented a uniquely Capetonian rap identity that encompassed other artists of that era, such as Rattex, whose signature joint Kulcha would get the crowd riled up whenever he’d perform it in clubs and park jams between 2008 and 2011, when his public presence began to wane.

Wordsmith MC Thato Saul.

YoungstaCPT, on the other hand, had a revelation. The Lil Wayne influence he previously flaunted got substituted with a style of rapping that bore a close resemblance to how he speaks. This he explores in great detail, and from multiple angles, on his debut full-length album, 3T (2019).

As he told Sabelo Mkhabela in an interview, “I knew that the only way I was going to make people understand the situation in these ghettos like Grassy Park, Ottery and Lotus River is to take them right back to the start, and if I’m wrong, go do your own research.”

What’s fascinating for me is how the MCs weave hood narratives into their songs as though they shared the same backyard. There’s a line running from Mahikeng to Potchefstroom to Tshwane. This line skips Jozi before landing in the Vaal Triangle, where it recoils and re-traces its steps to the rustle and bustle of the Joburg metropolis.

It takes in language and fashion and parades historical allegiances on songs as though they were daily bread and manna from the heavens. It’s a historical pathway, too, of miners and their tales of migration; of  gangsters and their territorial contestations; of apartheid and its undying legacy of dispossession, zoning, state-instituted oppression through violent force and so much more.

This, what is happening in rap, is not just a flex, it’s reclamation of identity, of history, of the very souls of black folk. It’s the blues of our bruised, misused daily lives.

A few days after Maglera’s event, I went to check out KO’s listening session for his SR3 album. He’s also been instrumental in crafting a sonic and lyrical identity that is very much South African in its makeup, from the sghubu-laden beats, to the bars lifted off of kwaito’s rosy past, to the very content of his raps, while encompassing elements from global pop culture, mostly American.

Before sounding off on the 13-track offering, he mentioned the album was supposed to be released in 2020 but he decided to hold back since he felt it was “outside music”. The wait has yielded results, for now we have bangers such as Sete (with Young Stunna and Blxckie) which hark back to the days when Cara Cara was causing traffic on the airwaves, the highwaves, the hood hangouts and the festivals.

This current form owes its proliferation and almost-immediate acceptance to OGs such as Skwatta Kamp, HHP, Morafe, Brasse Vannie Kaap, Jitsvinger and many others who have made it a point to deliver perfect products while keeping their roots rooted in Mzansi expression. It is to them we tip our hats.

Rap is still Alive in South Africa

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The alert was issued by the US Embassy on Wednesday.

And it warned of a potential terror attack in the Sandton area this weekend.

The DA has criticised government’s response, calling it indifferent and dismissive.

The opposition party also brought up the failures of state security and intelligence during 2021’s July riots.

The Democratic Alliance wants Minister in The Presidency responsible for State Security, Mondli Gungubele to address South Africans about the possible terrorist attack warning in Johannesburg. The alert was issued by the US Embassy on Wednesday. #DStv403 #eNCA pic.twitter.com/WLoG6WCKxe

— eNCA (@eNCA) October 27, 2022

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For many, particularly outside of South Africa, the name Soweto evokes an image by Sam Nzima made during the 1976 Soweto Uprising. In that iconic photograph, 18-year-old Mbuyisa Mahkubo carried Hector Pieterson, a 13-year-old boy who was fatally wounded when police fired on students protesting the official lowering of academic standards in South Africa’s black schools. The image of the dying boy spread around the world, and today the uprising is widely seen as a turning point in the struggle against the nationalist government. “Soweto” became the symbol of the profound social, cultural, economic and physical divisions of apartheid.

But such a “black and white” reading belies the complex spatial history of townships in South Africa. Soweto itself is not a unitary place but an abbreviation for South Western Townships, a collection of over 25 townships bordering Johannesburg’s mining belt to the south, which range from middle-class enclaves to informal settlements (sometimes known as shantytowns).

Until the early 1990s, when South Africa became an inclusive democracy, non white workers were forced to live outside cities in residential areas known as townships. The systematic segregation dates back to the colonial era: in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the British colonial government resettled racial groups under the pretense of responding to disease epidemics in overcrowded neighborhoods. The area now known as Soweto was settled by blacks and other nonwhites who were relocated after an outbreak of bubonic plague in central Johannesburg. Early separation was formalized and reinforced by colonial laws such as the Natives’ Land Act of 1913, which reserved nearly 90 percent of the land in South Africa for a tiny minority white population. In the following decades, during which South Africa became an independent republic, a series of pass and influx laws comprehensively restricted the rights of the non white population. During the Apartheid Era, from 1948 to 1994, the ruling Nationalist Party, dominated by white Afrikaners, passed miscegenation laws, institutionalized legal segregation, formalized racial categories and restrictions on movement, and embedded apartheid physically in the landscape. Cities were designated “for whites only,” and townships became, in effect, the mechanism for housing the nonwhite labor force. Such policies accelerated the growth of separate townships across the country at all scales — from cities like Cape Town and Johannesburg to the smallest villages.

Apartheid is often construed as a largely political construct, but architecture and planning were critical to implementing apartheid policies. Design practices became cultural extensions of state power, and some professional designers validated the power of the white minority through the design of monumental structures such as the Union Buildings and Voortrekker Monument in Pretoria, and through the planning of new townships mandated under laws such as the Group Areas Act (1950), which specified where racial groups were allowed to live in urban areas. Vibrant multiracial settlements were cleared and razed, their residents separated by race and relocated into distant townships. In District Six near downtown Cape Town, for instance, 60,000 residents were forcibly removed between 1968 and 1982; Cape Technikon, a white-only university, was built on a portion of the land, while the rest sat vacant for decades and is only now being developed for post-apartheid housing and community facilities.

The use of townships as a racial construct was reinforced by theoretical movements within architecture and planning. Le Corbusier’s concept of temporary workforce housing, presented in the 1922 utopian proposal Ville Contemporaine, inspired the white South African vision of the positive yet controlled movement of a black population as temporary labor; and the influence of Ebenezer Howard’s Garden Cities can be seen in township plans, which often included neatly drawn boulevards and neighborhoods laid out in lovely curving grids. In the 1950s a group of architects at the prestigious University of Witwatersrand in Johannesburg proposed to solve the “native housing problem” by designing a series of matchbox houses whose sterile forms became ubiquitous across the sprawling township landscapes. ¹ Residents have since modified these homogeneous spaces, personalizing the houses with incremental upgrades, cultivated gardens, the inventive use of scavenged materials and lively paint schemes.

Under apartheid, the townships were highly controlled bedroom communities, often located at some distance from the “white city.” ² While in a few cases, like Alexandra, older townships were close to white enclaves and separated only by walls and fences, in most places a vast zone of uninhabited land separated the townships from the city. Getting to work often involved a long and expensive commute to a job that could be three hours away. Transport was limited to state-owned buses and trains, and the scarcity of commercial development forced many township residents to shop in faraway white-owned centers, or in licensed white-owned or Indian-owned shops dispersed around the townships. Leisure activities were also strictly regulated: the only legal beer halls were in government buildings, and dirt lots served as soccer fields. Schools were poorly maintained barrack-like structures with barred windows and second hand desks. There were no cultural facilities, though churches did provide places of community and belonging.

Nor was there any “public space.” While there was a great deal of unoccupied land in most townships, it had no civic, social or cultural role. It truly was a “no-man’s land,” with no owner, no rules, no maintenance. Footpaths to transit connections often crossed these weed-infested fields, but they were dangerous and strewn with trash. What little civic interaction occurred in the townships during apartheid happened in people’s yards, in churches or in the marketplace.

And yet, even in this strictly controlled environment, informal spaces and activities emerged and flourished — sometimes as a matter of survival, other times as a political act. Private minibuses, more commonly known as “black taxis,” filled the service gap between the need for urban transport and the capacity of the state system. (Post-apartheid, they’ve been legalized and are still the backbone of the transportation system for most townships.) Illegal bars, or shebeens, were run out of matchbox houses, providing a much-needed social (and, often, political) venue. Spaza shops, also run out of homes, served as small-scale convenience stores integrated into the township landscape. And the inadequate supply of official housing was supplemented by informal settlements located either on the periphery of the sprawling townships or integrated within their boundaries as shacks on subdivided lots — solutions that today remain an integral part of the landscape. These acts of responsive urbanism underscored the substandard living conditions for nonwhite peoples; sometimes they also gave the townships a physical and cultural vitality absent from the more sanitized city centers.

Racially motivated land tenure policies were officially repealed in 1994, following the democratic election that brought the African National Congress party to power, but there persists a class barrier that follows the old racial lines. In 2007, according to a report by the Johannesburg-based consultancy FutureFact, 55 percent of black adults lived in townships, and more than 40 percent of these were members of the working class. ³ As white-only areas have opened to other races, the biggest post-apartheid population shift has been the movement of black middle-class residents from townships to formerly all-white suburbs, enabled in part by growth in the black middle-class. ⁴ And yet the Future Fact report found that 81 percent of township residents planned to continue living there. Many stay for the strong communities and fledgling economic opportunities the townships provide; others cannot afford to leave.

To understand why these demographic trends are significant, look at Soweto. It occupies only 10 percent of the land of metropolitan Johannesburg but contains 40 percent of its population. ⁵ Even as economic growth remains unpredictable, the people of the Soweto townships are pushing to transform these marginalized settlements into important hubs of commerce, political power and diverse social agendas. In fact, in some places, the townships are actually beginning to resemble towns. Entrepreneurial residents engage in a variety of businesses, run out of homes or hastily constructed shacks and shipping containers, or in newly constructed commercial centers. And global consumer culture is making an appearance in places like the huge air-conditioned Jubalani Mall, where Soweto residents can buy almost anything available in South Africa — from the latest fashions to fast food — from franchises of national and international chains. Another enormous commercial complex, Maponya Mall, envisions itself as an all-inclusive entertainment center, with special cultural exhibitions and activities designed to attract tourists.

Across the country, new and rehabilitated museums, monuments and leisure accommodations have transformed the townships into cultural destinations. Attractions like the Hector Pieterson Memorial and Museum in the Orlando West township (Soweto), Mahatma Gandhi’s printing press and home in the Inanda township (Durban), and the Red Location Museum in New Brighton township (Port Elizabeth) appeal to both South African and foreign tourists. Township tours, restaurants and homestays are also big business. Johannesburg tour companies like Imbizo offer shebeen crawls.

It is difficult to assess the value of all this commercial activity, but one clear benefit is increased employment in a country where the unemployment rate among blacks is nearly 29 percent ⁶ and where most jobs, until recently, were far from home. Township residents who work in local businesses, museums and malls do not have to spend hours and rands commuting; and locally owned businesses keep money in the township, where it spurs prosperity. The townships finally have access to commercial momentum. But still, even with the significant shifts of the past 15 years, residents in places like Soweto make 74 percent of their retail purchases outside the township; and of those who are employed, 70 percent work outside. ⁷

The recent record of public space is equally mixed. Many early post-apartheid projects were small plazas built in prominent locations, like the entry plaza at the main road into the Philippi township near Cape Town. These well-intentioned civic gestures were quick and inexpensive, and they signaled the intention of the African National Congress Party to invest in the transformation of the townships. The small spaces served multiple roles — as weekly markets, informal car washes and shoeshine corners — but with no historical tradition of public space in South Africa, they were rarely used for civic gatherings of any sort. Moreover, the post-apartheid government, after funding construction of plazas, usually failed to plan for maintenance and improvement. Most early projects are now derelict, and the trees that were planted with such hope for the future have been chopped down for cooking fuel.

The past decade has seen more ambitious public space projects. In 2002, the government, in cooperation with quasi-governmental development groups, launched a design competition for a public space scaled to the vastness of Soweto but rooted in one of its vibrant communities, Kliptown. The winner, Johannesburg-based architect Pierre Swanepoel and his practice, StudioMAS, created a vast public square featuring, at its edges, a hotel and conference center, a large open-air market, food vendors and office space, as well as community meeting space and other needs. The focal point is a memorial celebrating the Freedom Charter, an anti-apartheid document signed and dedicated at a mass rally held on that spot in 1955. Named after the great anti-apartheid activist and close friend of Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu Square is slowly settling into the community, as residents figure out how to use the huge space for trade and tourism.

The government has also used infrastructure projects to correct the apartheid legacy of inadequate transportation, housing and services in the townships. Since 1994, infrastructure has been developed through initiatives like the Reconstruction and Development Programme, a national blueprint for improving government services and basic living conditions for the poorest citizens, who number at least 17 million. ⁸ By 2009, programs such as the RDP had facilitated the construction of over 2.3 million homes ⁹ and provided electrification and clean-water access to millions more. ¹⁰ Yet, with 50 percent of the population living below the poverty line, implementation has not kept pace with need. ¹¹

South Africa has also seen large-scale infrastructural investment in connection with the 2010 World Cup. In anticipation of millions of soccer-loving tourists, the government spent over $5 billion to upgrade stadiums, airports, trains and roads. ¹² Soweto in particular has been changed by the landmark Soccer City Stadium, designed by Boogertman + Partners, on its outskirts, and the new bus rapid transit line, by Ikemeleng and Osmond Lange, from Dobsonville township to central Johannesburg. While both have been touted by the government and media, public opinion has been mixed. Informal minibus taxi drivers fear that the BRT system will undercut their livelihood. Activists and NGOs have complained that the government shifted money away from poverty alleviation projects to high profile showpieces that would, they argued, provide little benefit to the country as a whole.

Some of the more successful infrastructure investments have been smaller-scale projects like multi-modal transit stations. Designed as mediating points between formal and informal activity, hybrid public transport and shopping centers such as the Baragwanath Taxi and Bus Facility, in Soweto, provide for transport, trade and social interaction. Designed by Urban Solutions and opened in 2008, opposite the Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital (one of the largest hospitals in Sub-Saharan Africa), the facility serves over 42,000 people daily, attracting more than 1,000 informal traders. ¹³ The design incorporates trading stalls and a pedestrian bridge to facilitate movement between transit lines, the hospital, trading areas and the street.

But despite such activity, post-apartheid officials have not been nearly as aggressive as earlier governments were in using planning and architecture to achieve their goals. The physical gaps between the former white city and the former black townships remain all too evident, and the spatial inequities of apartheid endure. While the government has built more than a million new housing units, a majority are on marginal lands at the edges of townships, exacerbating the challenge of access to jobs, transportation, education and commercial goods. Instead of using its robust housing program to heal the spatial wound between cities and townships and develop mixed-use neighborhoods on the in-between belts of land, the government encourages and maintains discrete industrial facilities, factories, workshops and the occasional shopping complex. The townships still lack the commercial diversity, both dense and distributed, that characterize thriving urban centers. What was once a racial divide has now become a class divide — although, of course, the two are linked in South Africa by racism and limits on education and social mobility.

It is also disturbing that the new government-built houses are often indistinguishable from the bare-bones houses of the apartheid era. These basic residential units — usually consisting of a wet core with a room or two — are understood to be starter homes. Residents can, over time and as funds allow, add rooms and floors, or even a small building in the back to rent out. And in the townships, here and there, you can find three-story houses built out to the lot lines, next to a neighbor still living in the basic house with maybe an added-on metal shed. But though they’re often painted with a brighter palette, many of the new houses are even smaller than those built during apartheid, and located on smaller lots. The ruling ANC party has apparently decided that replicating the old housing strategy of building bedroom communities is an effective way to make homes, neighborhoods and towns.

Such government sanctioned strategies have provoked increasing frustration among the impoverished black South Africans. Persistent factors such as low residential density, high unemployment, family breakdown due to AIDS deaths, and inadequate policing in township neighborhoods have contributed to a pervasive culture of poverty and violence. The rape incidence in South Africa is among the world’s highest, carjacking and burglary are common, and recently there has been an increase in xenophobic attacks toward immigrants from other African countries. After the first significant attack in the Alexandra township, in spring 2008, violence quickly spread to other provinces. Although the unrest was eventually quelled, outbreaks still occur occasionally. Foreigners have become a convenient target for some members of the black working class, with tensions exacerbated by high unemployment, particularly among the young and semiskilled, and by dissatisfaction with the slow rate of progress nearly two decades after Mandela became the nation’s first post-apartheid president.

South Africans who were elated at the end of apartheid, and at the promise of townships becoming towns, now battle to remain hopeful. For many it can seem like a surreal and conflicted world. The media report that the country is prospering, but day-to-day experience often says otherwise. South Africa’s townships continue to be sites of struggle and resilience, as they have been throughout their history. They constitute a distinct urban typology that must be addressed by practitioners, policymakers and scholars if we are to transform the spatial legacy of apartheid into a landscape that better reflects the multiracial aspirations of the nation. As townships evolve, residents are confronting the spatial legacy of the past, negotiating the socioeconomic and political challenges and opportunities of the present and slowly building a vision for the future.

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Glamour Base Entertainment approached Morale Pablo and Innanetwav with a basic idea for WATER, and from there they developed the concept together. The video comprises of a vibrant, colorful theme with Cool Prince performing and creating random little scenes in front of a number of diverse, colorful backdrops that keep changing as well as some of Johannesburg’s hottest and sexy models

We chose WATER as the second single and video from the album, seeing as we got a lot of great feedback about the song from fans and radio stations alike. (Vow Fm , Alex Fm , Metro Fm SA) etc , It’s also one of our favorite from the album.”

The song is very energetic and up-tempo which fits the vibrant, fun colors of the video. Musically the song isn’t ‘dark’, which also inspires the use of the colors and interesting compositions. The song does however feature a bit of an edge and to accompany that, they chose urban locations.

In the past Cool Prince has had quite a few storyline videos, and videos that made people engage with the concept through questions and figuring it out.  This one has less to figure out, and they opted to try convey and communicate a feeling, rather than an explicit message. 

Watch the Official Music Video for WATER here:

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