Mofokeng’s Note To Taiwa: reading a life through its musical echoes

Biographical writing often tells us as much about the writer as about the subject. The title of Phehello J. Mofokeng’s A Note To Taiwa: a reflective essay on the music of Moses Molelekwa https://gekopublishing.co.za/bookstore/books/a-note-to-taiwa-reflective-essay-on-the-music-of-moses-molelekwa/, published late last year, acknowledges that upfront. It’s not an attempt at the chronological documentation of a life; rather, it’s Mofokeng’s very personal set of improvisations on Molelekwa’s work (particularly the tracks of the debut album, Finding One’s Self), journeying outwards to selected aspects of the pianist’s life story and circling back again to the core ideas enacted and represented by the sounds.

That kind of writing about music has been embraced by several South African writers – we can recall, for example, Percy Mabandu’s monograph on Yakhal’Inkomo, (currently hard to find, and shamefully not yet picked up by any publisher). Many, including Mabandu, acknowledge the influence of Geoff Dyer’s But Beautiful: a set of highly personal essays on American jazzmen by the English writer. So gorgeous was Dyer’s way with words that those seduced by how But Beautiful was written seemed to pay less attention to what the Englishman wrote. Apply a different eye and Dyer’s book emerges as fan-boy writing – though of the highest literary order: unreflectively masculinist, assuming from the outside familiarity with lives Dyer could never know; near to exoticising desperation-fuelled self-destruction. When his demi-gods did not deliver what he wanted, he turned on them: as evidenced by his petty, patronising whine about John Coltrane’s magnificent Offering: Live at Temple University, headlined Catastrophic Coltrane in the October 4 2014 issue of the New York Review of Books.

Though they may have read him, Mabandu and Mofokeng are not Dyer, and that is a strength for both. They have learned their subjects’ communities of origin from the inside; they know and respect the relevant intellectual traditions; they have consulted elders who share that cultural landscape. Dyer’s work certainly did contribute something to younger writers in his implicit invitation to write beautifully, apply adventurous writing techniques and an unashamed personal voice to the writing of life and to reject Bourdieu’s “biographical illusion” and, rather than straightening out events into a neat, unidirectional, tightly-referenced line of facts, to write the messy, simultaneous, recursive and multilayered nature of actual human living.

Phehello J. Mofokeng

That embrace of a life as a mesh of interconnections, harmonies and resonances infuses Mofokeng’s work, creating acutely perceptive writing . His analysis of Molelekwa’s involvement in kwaito are the strongest I’ve seen, rooting both in the pianist’s commitment to making the music of the people. With a neat turn of phrase, he observes that South Africa is “sitting in the lap of jazz, mostly unaware of the importance of jazz as the foundation” of modern pop musics. What also shines through is Mofokeng’s love and respect for the young pianist and his music, expressed with moving lyricism. The “elastic memory of music, beats and sounds,” he says “connects us through a thread of sonic sorrow, happiness, angst, ecstacy and purpose.” Nor does Mofokeng shy away from the role and fate of Molelekwa’s wife, Flo Mtoba, and the prevailing, deeply gendered, silence around that.

Despite the title’s implicit declaration that (although it is certainly writing about a life) it is not a biography, the book will probably still be grabbed from the shelves by readers hungry for the detailed, straightforward, cradle-to-grave story. After all, there’s very little else: a situation tragically normal for most of our music greats. Those seeking that may be disappointed. Not only is Mofokeng’s highly personal reflection interwoven with much high-level music theory – Adorno, Bebey and more – but there’s hardly a date to be found. If it’s that kind of biography you’re looking for, you may have to write it.

Moses Molelekwa at the time of Finding One’s Self

The things the book is not matter very little. What matters is what it is. Even if you’re looking for the other kind, you’ll emerge enriched from reading this not-biography. Because Mofokeng has shaped a reading of Molelekwa that captures the pianist’s family legacy, emotions and visions and weaves those together with the spirit not just “of Tembisa”, but of Africa. That work lays a superb foundation for any future biographical project. It dares future biographers to look outwards from facts and chronologies to what those mean for society and humanity: it dares them to do what Molelekwa did and Mofokeng has done, and also dream.

Robbie Jansen, Barney Rachabane and the reissue detective story

It’s getting easier to find reissues of historic South African jazz these days. But describing them accurately, after long years and from incomplete records, is much harder.

In a partnership that’s headlining itself ‘We are As-Shams’, Canadian indy wearbusybodies and historic Joburg label As-Shams/The Sun have been working together to excavate the South African company’s archive for music that needs to be heard again. One such – available digitally right now, but out on vinyl on April 22nd – is a compilation of music featuring the late pianist Lionel Pillay and reedman Basil Mannenberg Coetzee, Shrimp Boats. (https://as-shams-busy-bodies.bandcamp.com/album/shrimp-boats )

As-Shams archivist Calum MacNaughton describes the origins of the album like this: “As As-Shams’ first stab at an archival release in 1987, this was partly an attempt to give Basil centre stage. He’d played such a crucial role through the label’s history and yet had never had an album all his own. The art direction and notes have often led people to think of this as a Basil Coetzee album. .. “Shrimp Boats” was recorded at Gallo during the Plum and Cherry sessions so it was ostensibly a Pillay/Coetzee collaboration (riffing on a Dollar Brand arrangement of 50s show tune published  by Disney). The addition of Side B (without Basil) ultimately makes the release as a whole a Pillay album featuring Coetzee. .“

Irrespective of provenance, the tracks are beautiful. They capture perfectly the soulful intensity of Coetzee’s playing, but also the powerful musical intelligence of Pillay as bandleader as well as pianist for the sessions in question. (The latter, incidentally, is long overdue more reissues showcasing his skill. As well as being the pianist on Yakhal’Inkomo – for which he’s best known – he also created the Cherry track on Plum and Cherry, and has the albums October Magic, Deeper in Black and Deeper in White to his credit, as well as a priceless interpretation of My Heart Stood Still on the extremely hard to find 1968 Mankunku Jazz Show Live at the Orlando ‘Y’ .)

But confirming provenance for everything posed problems. In a situation familiar to all music researchers, the archive master had tracklistings but no credits. The 1980 date for that master did not rule out the possibility that some of the recording was done in 1978, at the time of the second Spirits Rejoice album and Deeper In Black. The tape box carried multiple annotations from both ’70s and ’80s – and we know, too, that tape box annotations are often near-illegible and sometimes over-written if a box is re-used. After painstaking detective work, a personnel list for the album was created in which the featured reedman on the various tracks were listed as Coetzee, Duku Makasi and Barney Rachabane.

Lionel Pillay

But here’s the thing. The fourth track on that album is a free-wheeling cover of Birdland, sounding much more Spirits Rejoice than the others. When the compilation appeared on cassette in 1987, I bought it and, quite by chance, played it to visiting members of the Robbie Jansen band, in Gaborone for a gig at the Holiday Inn. And when we got to Birdland, Jansen leaped to his feet, exclaiming, “Where did you get that? That’s me on there! That was a session with Spirits Rejoice and I always wondered what happened to that track…” His memories of the session were extremely happy ones, and he expressed nothing but pleasure that the track had finally seen the light of day.

Listen for yourself – that reed is unmistakeably Jansen. And his solo is a killer.

When the reissue came out, MacNaughton and I discussed attribution. He took the matter very seriously, contacting other musicians of that era to see if their memories could fill in what box-notes could not. As a result, the label plans to add a note to the release in future, explaining how different sessions contributed to the compilation, and re-attributing the Birdland solo to Jansen rather than Rachabane.

As Shams’ response is a model of what record labels should be doing: listening, investigating, verifying and where possible correcting. That, not my own involvement (which was pure chance), is why I’m writing about this. We know that musician-friendly labels such as As-Shams in the past struggled with resources and thus record-keeping. Today, we have the opportunity to put that right.

(Apartheid-friendly studios such as the SABC, on the other hand, deliberately obscured identities to conform to the race laws; that’s why Lionel Pillay often had to be “Lionel Martin”, something that undoubtedly contributed to his tragic psychological problems in later life.)

Labels operating in the 2020s, however, should not still be citing excuses for poor record-keeping. They know how important accurate details are for our music history, and on a digital release it’s simply a matter of typing in the facts: no expensive printing required. That’s why it’s with mixed feelings that I’m writing about some beautiful music in which the late Barney Rachabane is unquestionably the lead reed: the recent Afribeat digital release Upstairs in the Township ( https://afribeat.bandcamp.com/album/upstairs-in-the-township )

This 2010 session arrived in the wake of Rachabane’s death. In the 20-teens his playing was at its peak, combining the fiery shout that had been his trademark since his youth with even greater skill and a refined, mature understanding of space and tension. There’s no question that this session merited a release. The music is powerful and moving, featuring, among its dozen tracks, what must be a definitive version of the saxophonist’s well-loved Kwela Mama and an incandescent Dance for Lebo. For those who loved Bra’ Barney’s sound and skill, it’s an invaluable addition to the discography.

Its archival value, though, is currently eroded by very limited digital liner notes – maybe something fuller is planned for a hardcopy release? Though a full ensemble is heard playing, only the participating members of the Rachabane family are named. We are told that Neil Solomon contributed some additional work to the release, but not precisely what.

Most problematically, however, one track, dubbed Township Jazz  https://afribeat.bandcamp.com/track/Township-jazz and credited as a Rachabane composition, is, in fact, unmistakeably, Umsenge, composed by Tete Mbambisa  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpI3TJcof-I Rachabane played on the original Jazz Disciples 1967, 7″ release of Umsenge, so it’s easy to see why he would have wanted to revisit it. But the melody is well enough known – and as Mbambisa’s composition: the pianist has also revisited it in his recent work – that somebody connected to this release should have been able to ensure a correct attribution.

Mbambisa suffered neglect, mis-attribution and, of course, denial of financial reward throughout the apartheid era. He should, in his golden years, at least be able to assume that such disrespect is over. It’s to be hoped this error will be corrected as soon as possible, so that what is otherwise a glowing rediscovery from Rachabane’s recorded opus can take its rightful place in his history.

The detective work is never easy, but it has to be done. Because this is our history we’re rebuilding, and giving cultural workers their due is another of the human rights we should be conscious of on March 21, tomorrow.

Somi’s Zenzile: Miriam Makeba – maybe not as you think you know her

UPDATE: 23 March. Somi’s Gauteng show on March 27 referred to below has been moved to the State Theatre in Pretoria – a much more accessible venue for many fans of both Somi and Makeba. Details:
https://www.webtickets.co.za/v2/event.aspx?itemid=1513445949

On March 4, the late Miriam Makeba would have turned 90. I hate to think what that icon of music and revolution would have made of the loathsome activities, then and since, of Operation Dudula and its motley coalition of self-proclaimed patriots and other assorted opportunists. Among Mama Africa’s constant principles was African unity – a principle she lived throughout her time on earth.

A perfect counterweight to those insults to her memory – among many tributes, though not half as many here in South Africa as there should have been – was the release on that day of US-based East African vocalist Somi’s tribute album, Zenzile: the Reimagination of Miriam Makeba

https://orcd.co/zenzile

“She was the first African artist to show up on the global stage; she paved the way for me, ” Somi told Forbes magazine’s Micah Hunter. She’s not the first to acknowledge that role. Many African women singers have described how seeing Makeba perform in their country, or hearing her on record, opened their eyes to what their own musical futures could be. One of them, Angelique Kidjo, shares a track on this album .

Somi has taken the tribute further. The music on the album made its first appearance during the development of a biographical stage play, Dreaming Zenzile, which has been touring US theatres since last Autumn. You can see a snippet of the rehearsals for that project here:

The music, meanwhile, will be presented live in South Africa at Nirox on March 27 (tickets: https://nirox.howler.co.za/zenzile ) It’s a pity that sole venue is so inaccessible for the pockets and transport constraints of so many of Makeba’s fans, gorgeous though the setting is.

Zenzile Miriam Makeba

Covers of Makeba’s music have become almost obligatory for all aspiring young South African female vocalists, and media reviews and interviews with them are infested with comparisons to her, even when the singer in question bears not the faintest sonic or stylistic resemblance. That speaks powerfully about her continuing stature as a role model and influence. But Makeba was a musical innovator, and would probably have preferred it if those young singers instead strove – as she did – to sound above all like themselves.

And that’s what Somi does.

Zenzile is nothing like an album of covers, although the 17 tracks comprise compositions that Makeba sang. As the title declares, the songs are reimagined, to tell us not only about shifting musical styles and approaches, but also about the life offstage that informed Makeba’s interpretations. Somi has spoken about how her researches revealed the pain of Makeba’s life “I didn’t know [previously] how much she was carrying,” from her abusive first marriage through to her silencing and erasure by American authorities after her marriage to revolutionary Stokely Carmichael. That’s a point underlined in Nomfundo Xaluva’s scholarly birthday tribute, published by The Conversation (https://theconversation.com/the-legacy-of-iconic-singer-miriam-makeba-and-her-art-of-activism ).

We forget there was a whole radical expatriate African community in New York at the time Makeba lived there. Her passionate denunciation of apartheid at the UN was brainstormed together with her comrades in struggle: the final words were polished by poet of both Harlem and South Africa, Keorapetse Kgositsile, with trombonist Jonas Gwangwa standing over his type-writing shoulder as proofreader and sounding-board. Makeba was instrumental in creating support structures for exiled southern Africans in America. She established funds for stranded students and helped find first crash-spaces for Hugh Masekela, Gwangwa (and later Caiphus Semenya and Letta Mbulu) when they landed in the Big Apple, as she had done earlier for Abigail Khubeka in Soweto after the latter’s parents condemned her choice of a singing career. Working together with her community was another conscious part of Makeba’s practice and the radicalism it embodied is well conveyed in Somi’s take on A Piece of Ground.

The collectivity is paralleled on the album through the team Somi has assembled. As well as guest stars such as Kidjo, Gregory Porter, Seun Kuti, King Tha, Msaki, LBM and Nduduzo Makathini – spanning places of origin, styles and generations – the instrumentalists are an equally stellar, though less prominently publicised bunch, including trumpeter Jeremy Pelt, percussionist Minu Cinelu, saxophonist Lakecia Benjamin and bassist Michael Olatuja, as well as a South African vocal quartet including Vuyo Sotashe, and a string ensemble.

Musical reimaginations don’t always work, but as with her cutting-edge choice of attire, Makeba always stayed abreast of musical fashions too. She often chose music that was on the cutting edge of its time: forward-looking then and thus strong enough to carry whatever ‘now’ it reappears in.

Some of Somi’s reimaginations are startling and audacious. A sprightly, upbeat Laukutshon’ ilanga sounds little like the original, but would probably have brought a smile to the face of composer Allen Silinga who was, explicitly, writing popular songs. Likewise, Welcome Duru might not have expected Mbombela to become a vehicle for Herve Samb’s rock guitar – but how that is likely to move an audience would certainly gratify him. Somi says she almost didn’t include Pata Pata because of its status as the ur-Makeba song, but by mixing a darker, more jagged musical narrative with Makeba’s own interview reflections on how ‘happy’ Black South Africans were under apartheid it becomes a striking and very different vehicle for the politics of the play, and its main protagonist.

That’s one slightly disturbing aspect of the album. I occasionally felt there was more to Somi’s interpretations than what we were hearing: a more that was embedded in their fit with the text of the play. I wanted to see where and how in Makeba’s dramatised life they were used, and what theatrical elements they were juxtaposed with. I hope the Market (or, better, the Soweto) Theatre is listening, and will consider bringing us the whole play.

Not everything is so radically reimagined. Somi’s voice is very much her own, but can be just as liquid-sweet as Makeba’s own, and we hear passages achingly reminiscent of their originator, for example in Hapo Zamani, with Pelt’s trumpet making intelligent allusions to the Masekela sound. Malaika (almost East Africa’s trans-national album) carries a similar nostalgia.

Some captivating arrangements sound out, for instruments (on the House of the Rising Sun it’s the brass work that lifts what could be an over-familiar melody) and particularly for voices: the multiple voices of Nonqonqo (Bahleli bonke entilongweni: sitting all together in this prison) and Mabhongo, and the duo voices of Somi and Msaki on Khuluma – that’s a pairing I’d love to hear more of.

My big regret is that the album contains no visit to the Senegambian music of Makeba’s Guinea years. That was, in its own time, a hugely influential reimagination, shaping new ideas about the tradition for, for example, Oumou Sangare. How might it sound now, through Somi’s 2022 lenses? Nevertheless, on the levels of both music and message Zenzile is more than just another addition to what is already a crowded archive of Makeba re-makes. Its sonic revisionism makes a declaration that’s long overdue. Just as Mandela cannot in fact be reduced to just a grandfatherly patron of liberal democracy, because he was actually a militant combatant for freedom, so Makeba was not just a “songbird.” She too was a militant, living a life of struggle. And as Somi reflects, “the struggle continues”.

Normal service will be resumed next week

Dear readers, due to the conjuncture of a number of my work and editing deadlines, there won’t be a blog this week. See you next week!