MUSIC: Bafana Khumalo
AS five black men step on to the stage at His Majesty’s theatre and play their guitars off at each other _ like some modernised, bloodless battle ritual _ one is tempted to describe African Axemen as a sweet musical travelogue, from Central Africa to South Africa. A curio article so sweet that tourists would have the urge to buy it as a memento of strange and exotic places.
That is, until the full wrath of Lesego Rampolokeng’s commentary between sets cuts a searing swathe of disconcerting questions through the fantasy of the ”African experience”.
Rampolokeng is South Africa’s resident authentic raging young man poet, now that Mzwakhe Mbuli’s symbols of black oppression have become the Afristocracy and he a favoured member of this inner circle. And Rampolokeng is a less than deferential tour guide on this journey, starting off in Zambia, briefly stopping in Zimbabwe and Botswana, and finally passing through South Africa to a finale consisting of a potpourri of the entire continent of African experiences.
African Axemen _ featuring Duncan Senyatso from Botwsana, South African Mfaz’omnyama Khumalo, Louis Mhlanga from Zimbabwe, bass guitarist James Indi and Zambian Sim Zecko _ is not a Graceland or Juluka repertoire of sentimental pop, embellished with Afropop rhythms and a few words in an African language for a touch of quasi-authenticity.
It is truly African, with subtitles deliberately left out, both in the musical form _ whether the religious-influenced guitar incantations of Central Africa or the unapologetically ethnic raw maskanda beat straight out of a filthy migrant hostel room _ and in the language of presentation to the mostly white opening night audience.
It has taken one step further than other local African cultural activists in looking at the question of accessibility and translation: when producing work in a multicultural society, to what extent does one adhere to the dictum of using the original cultural form?
Does one, for instance, remain true to Zambian guitar music or, in the interests of opening the ears of a parochial South African audience _ both black and white _ add a dash of Mahlathini to the rhythm to sweeten it just a bit? Do the local performers speak Zulu or Sesotho, and the Zambian perfomers an accessible local language?
Many an African audience would say that African culture should be presented as it exists, not diluted with subtitles to make it accessible. But would they accept that decision when a Zimbabwean performer sings a love song in a Zimbabwean language without the benefit of an introduction along the lines of ”The title of this song means…”? This musical presentation chose to be true to the originals.
African Axemen does not provide any answers but poses rude questions which a lot of us would rather not address. One should not, therefore, expect a comfortable hour-and-a-half cruise through Africa. That would be disregarding the dangerous nature of the music.
As the arrogant poet/philosopher Rampolokeng _ who wrote the poetic commentary _ says at the end: ”If you liked the way the axe fell on your head, there are tapes available out there (in the foyer).”