My friend De Vries described it as feeling churned up, confused. In the same breath he spoke of finding himself thrust into another kind of South African identity for the first time in his life —recognisable, but alien at the same time. All sorts of things were clanging against each other.
No wonder. He was listening to the music of Louis Moholo, back on stage for the first time in 10 years at various venues around Johannesburg.
The “Return to the Roots” line-up of almost 20 musicians included some of the best that South African jazz can offer — Barney Rachabane, Zim Ngqawana, Robbie Jansen, Khaya Mahlangu, Marcus Wyatt, Andile Yenana, Lulu Gontsana, Feya Faku and Herbie Tsoaeli. Along with them was lined up some equally heavy talent — natives from home and abroad: Pule Pheto, Francine Luce, Jason Yarde and, of course, Moholo himself, prowling and growling round the stage, changing the free-style dynamics of the music as the mood suited him, driving it along from his restless, roving microphone or from behind his drum kit.
Dig it. Two drummers, two stand-up bassists, two pianists, a hunched bunch of saxophone players, four trumpeters, two singers, three dancers and a poet (that was me). All of them joining in a united sound that had something to do with mbaqanga and a lot to do with Sun Ra and Duke Ellington. It had to leave a somebody somewhat churned up.
Moholo was last in town in 1993 when he brought his band Viva la Black (cheeky name, as ever) to the Market Theatre and also played in Cape Town. On that occasion the house was packed for a week, but the audience reeled into the Newton precinct deeply divided. For most it was a baffling experience — a cacophony of sound that came at you from all directions, making references to things that the main man chose to weave into the tapestry from the day’s television experience, like Brenda Fassi’s Indaba yam i’straight, to the far out and fantastical.
This was in the early years of South Africa’s reintegration into the world. There could have been no better demonstration of how removed this society had been from the mainstream of artistic and social development than the shocked reception one of its native sons received on his return. A few people were impressed. A lot more were appalled.
Moholo cut loose from South Africa with an outfit called the Blue Notes in 1964. They took Europe by storm and never returned as a unit to play in their native land. This was hardly surprising, considering what they stood for — not just free jazz, but freedom itself, a dangerous thing to show off in those times. In fact, if you behaved the way the Blue Notes behaved, you were bound to be thought of as either political or crazy.
Crazy they certainly were, and crazy they remained. They were led, for example, by a pianist called Chris McGregor, a crazy white man from Cape Town who had decided that the way black people played music was where it was at. He was a devotee of Kippie Moeketsi and Dollar Brand in particular, and absorbed their style into the kind of music he composed and played. On many occasions, to appease the uptight promoters who would have been shocked at the idea of a white guy playing with black guys on the same stage, he would hide his laanie hair under a cap and pretend to be coloured. That was how it was in those days. The most important thing was to make the music, and make it together.
Then there was Dudu Pukwana, who started out as a pianist and switched to the alto saxophone, where he became the natural successor to Kippie, with a bag of powerhouse tricks all of his own up his sleeve. There was Johnny Dyani on bass (who also played a mean piano when he felt like it), Mongezi Feza on trumpet and pocket trumpet and Moholo on drums.
Coming from where they did, with their varied backgrounds and the indignity of apartheid to work with, they brought a collective fury and freedom to the kind of music they produced. Europe’s jazz musicians, who thought they knew it all, were amazed. English, German, French and Swiss outfits started to try and play the way the Blue Notes played. A number of them went mad in the attempt.
As the last survivor of the Blue Notes, Moholo holds on to this element of craziness and discipline in his music. There is a lot to be angry about — not least the fact that so many exiles, including his brilliant colleagues in the Blue Notes and the later Brotherhood of Breath, never made it home.
And also the fact that their long separation from the native land meant that their musical language, and the ways in which it went forward, was divorced from its origins. Which is why when Moholo finally made the journey, on behalf of all the others as much as for himself, there was this sense of separation, wonder, and disbelief.
It was fascinating, though, to see the dynamics at the one open-air concert that was held in Soweto. Even though it was a free concert the turnout was disappointing. But among the few who were there were the old timers who had stayed behind and still remembered the era that the Blue Notes sprang from — the days of gangsters and beerhalls and shebeens and violence and elegance and eloquence all mixed up together. They sat back in the winter sunshine with their two-tone shoes and took it all in with a sense of pride and warm reminiscence.
Making the statement about returning to the roots in a country that has been entirely uprooted was a defiant comment in itself. Moholo, in his capacity as master of ceremonies as well as band leader, repeatedly pointed out that all it meant was, “We love you”.
Tough love. Hard, noisy, beautiful flowers over Soweto.
John Matshikiza is a fellow of the Wits Institute for Social and Economic Research
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