MUSIC: Bafana Khumalo
I’M no jazz buff, that much I will say. This, however, does not preclude me from enjoying the occasional piece of good jazz. I was not able to do this at the Grahamstown festival for the groups I was able to catch — chosen because they were recognisable and therefore unlikely to disappoint — were not inspiring.
They were Dorothy Masuka, Don Tshomela and the African Jazz Pioneers, who were whooping it up in front of festival crowds as part of the Smirnoff Jazz Festival.
Before somebody organises a lynch party, I should say that my comments have nothing to do with these people’s talents and proficiency. They are good. Dorothy Masuka’s performance of You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog is probably the way Elvis Presley thought it should sound, until Colonel Parker told him: “Whoop it up a little, boy.” For the duration of the song Masuka took everyone’s souls in the packed Rhodes Clubhouse, slowly bounced them around a little and — when everybody was getting comfortable with that bouncing motion — she just, whoosh, slam-dunked those souls. Nothing can describe the rush.
Don Tshomela, sharing the bill with Masuka, did not lack class either in his version of Mr Bojangles. Accompanied by bassist Basil Moses, Tshomela whistled; his voice rising and reverberating through the room, he pleased the crowd no end.
In all these professional and enjoyable performances, there was a huge but nagging question at the back of my mind. Why is it that when jazz artists do covers of other people’s work, their creativity isn’t questioned? Should a pop or rock star dare to touch someone else’s work, critics come down hard on them, casting aspersions on their talents and ability to come up with original material. As much as I enjoy Masuka singing Stormy Weather, I wish she would sing something original, just every so often.
This lack of original material also plagues that other group, the African Jazz Pioneers. The first time I saw them perform was in 1987 at Jamesons, that painfully trendy pub aspiring to be a shebeen. Then I was enthralled when they launched into Skokiaan, their full brass sound effortlessly describing the potent ingredients of the bootleg brew sold in some township shebeens. Ten years later, I have heard it far too often to be impressed by the creativity and exuberance of the 1950s and Sophiatown.
Whatever one’s criticism of the African Jazz Pioneers, they sure can move those liberal trendy crowds, who seem to have recently discovered the group. Overheard at one concert was an enthusiastic fan with a companion who seemed to be illiterate in the art of appreciating jazz. The companion was told: “You’ve gotta feel the music. Let it take you over, from your head to your toes.”
Yeah, you gotta feel the music …