Charl Blignaut On stage in Johannesburg
It seems to me there are two particularly compelling reasons to stage a tribute to Gibson Kente in 1998.
In the first place, it’s about bloody time. We need, for the record, to preserve a body of work such as Kente’s in case we forget. Secondly, it’s a rare opportunity to bring the township musical tradition of South Africa’s gritty Sixties to life – and in so doing offer the work of this socio-pop pioneer to the next generation.
There’s no problem as regards the first compelling reason. Indeed, there was the tangible sense of an icon being freshly frozen in the firmament during last week’s limited run of A Tribute to Gibson Kente at the Civic Theatre. How could you have anything but a significant theatre event on your hands when the “people’s diva” meets “the father of township theatre” on the back of Standard Bank’s money and in front of such a fine team of musicians as Khaya Mahlangu, Fana Zulu, Prince Lengoasa, Johny Chonco, Themba Mkhize and Vusi Khumalo.
Donning an Afro, spreading her wings, taking a deep breath and letting rip a medley of songs carefully chosen from just four of Kente’s staggering 29 musicals – Sikalo, How Long, Lifa and Mfowethu – Khumalo demonstrated, yet again, her particular ability to fuse weightiness with frivolity, vocal control with spontaneous soul mamma shit and a classical sensibility with a pop mentality.
The archivist in Khumalo was determined to showcase Kente’s music with all due respect for posterity. Directed by Siphiwe Khumalo, choreographed by Nomsa Manaka and supported by Khanyo Maphumulo, Thoko Nogabe, Somizi Mhlongo and Luyanda Jezile, Kente was in safe hands from the start.
What threw me about the production, though, was the second compelling reason. The song and dance was there, but there was no drama, no enactments, no retro-zeitgeist, and – unless you lived through it and can, like the bulk of the very important persons at opening night, sing along to each tune and whisper “yes” every time the spirit takes you – absolutely no picture of the grittiness of the era being painted on stage.
It was all a bit like the struggle without the fight. This was a tribute as in what they do for ageing directors when they are awarded a lifetime achievement thingie at the Oscars. Glitz, nostalgia, deification and precious little context for the next generation to hook into.
The beige, airport foyer formalism of the Civic Theatre didn’t help matters either. I kept recalling the stodgy old theatre luvvies who used to attend very important openings like this. The blue-rinse and fur-coat brigade. The only thing different on Thursday night was that the status quo had changed its colour.