At the top of his voice: Vusi Mahlasela incorporates his spirituality into his music, which is known around the world. Photo: Delwyn Verasamy
Being called “The Voice” is no small responsibility.
Because of his exquisite instrument of wonderment, Vusi Mahlasela is not only a national treasure, but also a global icon. Furthermore, as a traditional healer who recently completed his initiation rituals, the African folksinger is also a conduit for the voices of the ancestors.
We are sitting in a small office at Planetworld, a sound equipment provider and studio north of Sandton in Johannesburg.
I have been given a 30-minute gap for an interview after Mahlasela’s sound-check and that evening’s launch of his album Umoja to media and some music industry types.
Next door, a bass drum is thumping to the engineer’s desire.
I’m buzzing after being delighted by the 58-year-old’s effortless voiceworks at the rehearsal as we sit down for our chat, with his long-time manager Brad Holmes, promoter extraordinaire, faffing over Mahlasela.
The revered singer-guitarist is looking frail after serious diabetes-related health issues but he gently indulges the effervescing Holmes for the friend and comrade he is.
“We must manage your energy. Where do you want to relax before the show? Which shirt do you want to wear — the golden one?”
That sorted, he leaves us to continue our conversation.
So, that voice. What’s it like hearing your own gorgeous voice?
“I know I’m called ‘The Voice’, but I’ve never taken any voice lessons whatsoever. It is just natural. It sounds different when I speak.”
So far, so obvious.
But then a confession by The Voice: “So, I don’t like hearing myself…”
Still, he is aware of the power of his voice which touches people around the world — something Mahlasela humbly accepts.
After a concert in Norway, a family originally from the Congo came to thank him — their five-year-old son loved the show and so did the parents.
The dad told him a wonderful story: “You know, your music is really great and all that. But you know what happened? My wife was pregnant. And then she went into labour and we didn’t know what to do, because our apartment building’s lift wasn’t working at the time,” the father told Mahlasela.
“Her water broke and I panicked. But there was a tape cassette and I just put it in the player and pressed ‘play’. It was your music … then she relaxed and gave birth.”
Mahlasela has a gentle smile on his face. “How beautiful. And then they named the boy after me, Vusi.”
After the concert, little Vusi met big Vusi. The former is probably the only Norwegian Vusi there is.
An American woman once told him after a performance in the States, “Coming to this show, it was more like a church for me … the message and everything.”
That’s why she bought 13 CDs to give to all her family, spreading the musical word.
Unsurprisingly, Mahlasela sees the world through spiritual lenses: “I am a spiritual person, very much so.” Becoming a sangoma, he followed in his late mother’s footsteps.
He believes he channels messages from his ancestors — “the underground”, as he refers to them. They speak to him in his dreams, Mahlasela tells me. He then relays that in his music.
When I ask him if an over four-decade veteran like him gets nervous before a show, he draws an analogy with a priest on a Sunday morning.
“It’s good for a priest to be nervous before he preaches. So, nervousness is good. It’s natural.”
When Mahlasela was still at school in Mamelodi, Pretoria, already making music, there was the obvious question: “What do you want to be?”
“I did not finish school because I was involved in politics, through activism. I said my wish, ‘I wanted to be a doctor or a priest.’ Now they’re telling me, ‘But you’re already doing it with your music. You’re preaching and you’re healing.’”
Produced by Joe Arthur, the 10-track Umoja was recorded at Flame Studios at Constitutional Hill in Johannesburg. It’s Mahlasela’s eighth studio album since his 1992 debut When You Come Back.
“Umoja means spirits,” he explains. “The album is a tribute to our spiritual beings.”
On it are collaborators including Malian singer-guitarist Habib Koité, saxophonist Steve Dyer and actor-singer Maduvha. It’s a multilingual album, with songs in English, Sepedi, Tshivenda and Swahili. The Voice —or maybe The Tongue? — has a natural aptitude for languages.
“I speak maybe 17 languages. I’m the first recipient of a multi-lingual award that was given to me by the Pan-South African Language Board.”
Our man Holmes pops his head around the door. “How long to do?”
“Fifteen minutes, please?”
“Okay, 10.” And he’s off. I rush with Mahlasela through the songs on Umoja (see sidebar).
Before we wind down, the veteran troubadour tells me this is his first album launch. Unlike Gallo Music, the previous guys “didn’t do launches. They just released albums.”
An hour and half later it’s showtime and Holmes gently accompanies his friend Mahlasela up the side stairs onto the stage.
Dressed in that striking golden shirt, black trousers and shiny black leather shoes, the music man picks up his sunset orange guitar. He’s in the spotlight and we’re spellbound, as he, his excellent band and the magnificent Maduvha, who occasionally shares vocals, take us seamlessly through the songs on Umoja.
Each song beguiles us because, as Mahlasela says, “The songs are like my children.”
But like a good showman, he ends with a crowd-pleaser. As always, his heartfelt take on Weeping leaves no eye dry in the house.
Still a watchdog on country’s social issues
Vusi Mahlasela didn’t think he would be writing political songs for his latest studio album Umoja.
When the activist-singer started his 41-year-long recording career in 1992 with his debut album, When You Come Back, apartheid was in its dying throes. Or so we all thought two years later when the country elected its first black president, Nelson Mandela.
But on the new album several tracks address pressing societal issues in a country where the poor are getting poorer.
“I was not really looking that one would be writing this or getting to get subjects like this. But now I think one has been put here as a watchdog.
“When we went to the election to vote for Mandela, it was more about freedom.
“But it’s no longer about freedom now, it’s about quite a lot of things and about the economy. Things that we didn’t think we would still be fighting today.”
Tlala Mpekole, for example, is about the politics of hunger and poverty, says Mahlasela. He cites the example of the desperate Eastern Cape woman who killed her children and then herself, because she could not afford food for them.
“The message here on this song is there’s no excuse for not sharing.”
On Thuto, which means education, Mahlasela warns: “The education we are given, it is that they make you do things that they want, so that they could enslave you.”
Lerato (love) is one of three songs that Mahlasela recorded in New York with South African-born drummer Ian Herman and Malian singer-guitarist Habib Koité — he added the lyrics afterwards.
“So, I just listened to what we’ve recorded and then something came to me — choose love because it’s better than hate.”
The album opener, A Dance of Life, which features Maduvha on vocals in Tshivenda, is an earth prayer dance.
“When the Khoisan dance, the diamonds will come closer to the earth’s surface,” and he adds with a chuckle: “That’s probably why Paul Simon called his song Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.”
Azamali celebrates musical ancestors, such as guitarist and fellow Mamelodian Philip Tabane, whom he describes as his “guru”.
It also showcases Mahlasela’s superb guitar work.
“That’s the typical Mamelodi sound. It’s about the ancestors like him and I’m showing my love for the malombo sound there. I’m still very much inspired by Malombo’s music.”
With the hymn, Sietsi la Letswalo (directly translated as “troubles of the conscience”), Mahlasela pays tribute to his late mother.
“I’ve put it on the album because my mother loved this.”