In the past, South African jazz marketed overseas was often sold on stereotypes. The Indestructible Beat of Soweto — a 1985 compilation of mbaqanga, mqashiyo and more — had such a runaway London success that innovative jazz exiles such as reedman Dudu Pukwana were pressured by labels to emulate its far more limited and conservative sound.
There’s been an important and positive shift since then. Partly thanks to a magically un-stereotyped compilation, Brownswood’s 2021 Indaba Is, the title of which alludes to philosopher Credo Mutwa, interest now focuses on how South African jazz relates to traditional spirituality.
Pianist Nduduzo Makhathini (Blue Note Africa’s first signing), has fanned that interest, drawing on similar sources in interviews and lectures.
Outsiders often find the big-picture cosmologies of thinkers like Mutwa captivating (and a danger lurks there of creating yet another exoticising stereotype). Yet, at the core of African philosophy lies something far more intimate and even domestic — how people should relate to one another, as family, as community, even as fellow musicians and audience.
That’s the focus of pianist Sibusiso “Mash” Mashiloane’s latest album, Izibongo (Homage to Gratitude), to be launched at the Untitled Basement in Johannesburg on August 27.
It is Mashiloane’s seventh album in as many years, a sequence that began with Amanz’ Olwandle in 2016, and is a promise to himself fulfilled.
Apart from the 2021 solo, and largely improvised Ihubo Labomdabu, they’ve all had a similar shape — ensemble outings presenting original compositions reflecting on life. Yet each has, audibly, grown from the last, conceptually and in the reach of compositions and arrangements.
Izibongo is the biggest. There are only five core players: the pianist; reedmen Kagiso Ramela and Sisonke Xonti; longtime bass collaborator Dalisu Ndlazi; drummer Sphelelo Mazibuko and percussionist Tlale Makhene. However, there are seven guests: vocalists Zoe “The Seed” Masuku, Siya Makuzeni and Natalie Rungan; guitarist but here singer Bheki Khoza; poet Eugene Skeef and Bishop Nathi Zondi.
That makes for a dozen musicians, 19 tracks and two hours of music, divided between 12 instrumental tracks and seven (some reprises, some new) centring the human voice.
Mashiloane describes it as a multi-generational “human-shared musical experience”, in which the “musical meaning is nuanced in how we play”. All the compositions reflect on gratitude — to particular people, in particular forms, and more.
The pianist describes programmatic elements, such as how the voices of the horns on the title track echo human shouts of gratitude, as well as moments when meaning emerges through band process — as when everyone walked beside him on his segue from the emotionally intense, slightly uneasy evocation of his relationship with his father (Ntate Mashiloane) into the calm, almost hypnotic Prayer of Gratitude.
Such spirituality, rooted in relationships rather than some walled-off religious or other identity, recalls the meditations on humanness of the late pianist Bheki Mseleku.
One tune, Words, sounds particularly Bheki-ish, with the mood and texture of the Celebration album. The “words” are the many ways the same concept, gratitude, can be expressed, showing, says Mashiloane “the power of collective strength within a landscape of diversity”.
Words gets three incarnations — as a prelude, taken straight, as seven minutes of intricate explorations of the chords (ending with a joyous chorus and gentle solo piano coda) and as a guest song with Makuzeni exploring the sounds of the words alongside melodic lyricism; not so much scatting as conducting sonic research.
Like Words, the other guest numbers are unique and powerful. They enrich the collaboration with fresh voices and conversations and widen the circle to enfold other communities (Zondi’s church; Skeef’s generation of Staf frider pioneers). But those on stage aren’t the only ones who matter. Music students, audiences and dancers receive gratitude too.
Hymn for the Creator is based on the contributions of Mashiloane’s composition students. They created, at his request, notes at random intervals. He used those “available resources… [reflecting] the importance of sound in their communities”. The clay is shaped into a soaring ballad and breathtaking pianism (one of those moments when the band goes “Ooh!”) and a sweet reed solo.
The sequence from Amehlo Ayakhuluma to Blues for Amanono speaks of gratitude for an audience’s role in making music, as they offer feedback through expression and movement. The eyes speak, the bodies dance, the band moves and is moved by the interaction. Amanono must be the diga dancers of the jazz appreciation societies, because what bassist Ndlazi and Mashiloane create conjures proud, intricate, sharply shod footwork, capped with swinging sax to sway to.
The musicianship is impressive but this isn’t an album about solos. It’s more of an immersive, immensely moving shared journey, with the melodies as milestones along the way. And although Mashiloane has fulfilled his “seven in seven” promise, we need a number eight.