/ 23 September 2009

Spreading the love of opera

Soprano opera artist Loveline Madumo, one of the first black opera singers in Suth Africa, was first exposed to classical music by Bernard, her violin

Soprano opera artist Loveline Madumo, one of the first black opera singers in South Africa, was first exposed to classical music by Bernard, her violin-playing brother.

On weekends, Bernard — now part of the Johannesburg Philharmonic Orchestra — would practice together with friends at the family home in Ga-Rankuwa, Pretoria. “He exposed me to classical music,” the member of opera group Black Tie Ensemble enthuses in an office at the South African State Theatre in Pretoria. “He used to take me for concerts and I developed a love for opera.”

But her breakthrough came in 1995 when she, together with a friend, Dipuo Moagi, were noticed by a State Theatre talent search team in Ga-Rankuwa and promptly invited for auditions.

“One Saturday afternoon we went for auditions at the State Theatre,” she says. When they got there, they “saw white people around”. They told a receptionist that they wanted to do opera.

Moagi went in first for the auditions; “when she came back she looked dead”. Soon it was Madumo’s turn, and she trudged in and sang a song. “They were so pleased they invited us to come back,” she recalls.

Later she acquired a national high diploma in performing arts and then a bachelor’s degree in education technology from Tshwane University of Technology. She tells the Mail & Guardian that none of her lecturers were black — perhaps the reason why she wants to become a lecturer.

She now walks with a limp sustained in a car accident in 2007. Even though she has discarded her wheelchair, her ankle still has restricted movement, and sometimes she hobbles in pain on the stage during performances.

“Some directors don’t want to use me,” she says. “Others are more sympathetic and don’t mind,” she explains, “they love my voice.”

Asked whether race was ever an issue at opera school, Madumo replies: “We were a bunch of music lovers. I didn’t feel this white and black thing. We didn’t see colour. Although sometimes you felt the lecturers were more lenient to white people.”

When she ventured into opera, black people were incredulous. “What kind of music is this?” some asked. “Do you have to be fat to sing this music?” Getting no satisfactory answers, others resorted to simply calling them “the screaming people”.

Even though her community didn’t understand the music, whenever she sang for them “they loved it”. The cynical responses, she reckons, come from ignorance. “It’s not that they don’t like it. They were just never exposed to it. That’s why there’s an initiative to take opera to the townships.”

Despite her township background, the soprano singer is something of a purist. She doesn’t want people to adapt the genre to suit the tastes of certain African audiences. “I love the way opera is. I don’t want people to tamper with it. I want an Italian aria the way it is.”

She argues that artists like Pauline Malefane are infusing classics like The Magic Flute with African sensibilities to reach out to black audiences. “We do struggle with black audiences, that’s why people are doing this.”

Still, she wants a little dose of black energy in the sometimes suffocating polite opera ambience. Once, people from Ga-Rankuwa were invited to the opera house and were told not to ululate after performances. “Here we just clap,” they were told. Madumo argues for the need to infuse black energy with opera.

Muted
When touring overseas, European audiences are appreciative. “Our voices are unique. When they see us they say, ‘Wow. Can blacks really sing like this? Blacks from South Africa?’. They are really amazed.”

While responses have been enthusiastic abroad, applause has been rather muted in her own backyard. The aphorism that a prophet is not honoured in his own land holds true for the Black Tie Ensemble. Anonymous industry observers note that because of simmering racial prejudices, some white people no longer attend when Black Tie Ensemble performs. The industry insider told the M&G: The sentiment from some whites is: why should we go and see black people perform?

Madumo explains that sometimes you find racists in the audience — you know you sang beautifully but they don’t want to clap because of your colour. Sitting in on the interview is Goitsemang Lebohye, a 21-year-old soprano in the Black Ties, who chimes in with: “I used to cry when white men didn’t clap for me. But recompense comes from elsewhere: I love my job.”

Madumo is aware that she’s seen as a role model, a fact immediately echoed by Lebohye, who enthuses, “We saw her on TV. We said we just want to be like Loveline.”

But for Madumo to end up on TV wasn’t easy. She recalls how she had to sleep over at the houses of fellow white opera singers as she didn’t have transport to go back home to Ga-Rankuwa after nighttime shows in central Pretoria. “I lost a lot of opportunities because of my transport situation.”

Likewise, the current economic slump is affecting opera singers as most companies have chopped entertainment budgets. But Madumo plans to sit the storm out and won’t immigrate to Europe. “It was once my dream to go there but as I grew older I wanted to make it as a South African opera singer. Why can’t I make it at home?” she asks.

Even if she doesn’t achieve the success she envisions in her dreams, she wants to lay the foundation for potential black talent. “If I can’t make it, at least I can create a platform for others.”

She is sanguine and philosophical about the current slump, saying “it is just a cloud. At some point it will move.” Already taking a peek into the times ahead, she sees herself as an established singing teacher running programmes in the townships to help grow the genre. “That’s a promise and a threat,” she says, clenching her fists and raising her voice by a note.

Madumo earnestly hopes the new Jacob Zuma administration will support opera as it is a disciplined art form that could help snatch youngsters from the clutches of substances. It’s not entertainment; it’s a lifestyle.

Married to Dennis Sathekge, Madumo tries to spend her free time with her husband and daughter, Rethabile. The scant evidence at hand suggests that her daughter might follow after her mother. “She sometimes asks me to repeat a song many times,” she says.

A brother influences his sister who in turn influences her daughter. This might be a music line that won’t be broken anytime soon.