READY

FOR PUBLICATION
SOLICITTION

Jazz in the
Shadow of the
Mountain

The C ea i f Ca e Ja ,
Ide i & M ica Mea i g

Te b J i eL b e

Pe & I k D a i g b L i e L de 1
 CONTENTS PAGE
terminologies #whoami #coloured #black #identity #ethnicity #southafrica #race #jazz #music #jazzpolitics #personal #abdullahibrahim #adhikari #racepolitics #earliestmusic #recorded #ancient #AMH #anatomicallymodernhuman #capetown #capedemographics #capejazz #tablemountain #salvery #slaveryatthecape #identitypolitics #robbiejansen #hiltonschilder #stevenerasmus
#mohammedadhikari #edwardsaid #homibhabha #jazz #capeminstrelsy #macmckenzie #basilmoses #cliffiemoses #jive #kwela #marabi #capejazz #compositionalprocesses #compositon #music #capepenisula #notwhireenoughnotblackenough #discrimination #johnparkington #ethnomusicology #musicalidentity #identityformation #hoerikwaggo #ingridmonson #musicology #whatisjazz
#definitionofjazz #memory #memoryandidentity #music #musicalanalysis #musicology #ethnomusicology #capehistory #southafricanmusicians #southafricanhistory #historicalmusicology #identitymusic #musicalidentity #identityformation #definitionofidentity #noperson #whoisanafrican #afrocentric #africanist #africanism #musicspaceplace #district6 #mannenberg #manenberg #L0d
#virginiajubileeasingers #sevensteplament #capetonianidentity #sarabaardman #tablemountain #capepeninsula #jazzincapetown # #orpheusmacadoo #townshipjazz #searchingforidentity #local #localmusic #goema #ghomma #karienkel #tariek #township #ludic #ludicidentities #khoisan #khoekhoe #san #khoisansymphony #healingdestination #kalaharithirst #searchingforidentity
#neithercolourednorwhite #youarenowinfairland #basilcoetzee #adamsmall #ludic #ludicidentity #inversludicidentity #trauma #apartheid #idduplessis #traumaofapartheid #ptsdofapartheid #inverseludicidentity #rashidvally #lmradio #adamastor #camoēs #portugueseslavers #southafricanpolitics #segregation #gourdbow #uhadi #emailtotheancestors #hotnotsteeparty #hotnotsteaparty
#ptsdaparheid #ptsd #traumaofapartheid #apartheidandjazz #segregationandjazz #musicandapartheid #adamsmall #idbook #capejazz #jazzinthecape #capetownjazz #liedjies #nederlandseliedere #politicsofidentity #politicsofidentityformation #musicalidentities #mymusiclaidentity #musicacape #musicalcapeidentity

• Preface – P LEASE READ THIS FOR R EFERENCES . 3

• I NTRODUCTION 4

Chapter 1 : The Cape of Very Good Hope 12

• Chapter 2 : Camissa: The making of a Musical City 26

• Chapter 3: The Complexity of Constructing a Capetonian Identity 43

• Chapter 4 : “You are now in Fairyland”: Space, Place, Identity and District Six 72

• Chapter 5: Abdullah Ibrahim and the validation of the local: "Is THIS what Rashid Vally wanted?" 114

• Chapter 6: "Tamatie Bredie of Kerrie Kos?": Local musics and its Influence on Cape Jazz 150

• Chapter 7: “Please mêrim, kamaan smile!": Playful Responses to the Trauma of Apartheid 197

• Chapter 8: Ancestral Memories in the Beauty of a Woman: Reclaiming the self through indigenous
• musical identities 275

• Chapter 9: Contemplating Hoerikwaggo: Concluding Thoughts 321

• Bibliography (0n request)

• Indices (On request)

#terminologies #whoami #coloured #black #identity #ethnicity #southafrica #race #jazz #music #jazzpolitics #personal #abdullahibrahim #adhikari #racepolitics #earliestmusic #recorded #ancient #AMH #anatomicallymodernhuman
#capetown #capedemographics #capejazz #tablemountain #salvery #slaveryatthecape #identitypolitics #robbiejansen #hiltonschilder #stevenerasmus #mohammedadhikari #edwardsaid #homibhabha #jazz #capeminstrelsy #macmckenzie
#basilmoses #cliffiemoses #jive #kwela #marabi #capejazz #compositionalprocesses #compositon #music #capepenisula #notwhireenoughnotblackenough #discrimination #johnparkington #ethnomusicology
#musicalidentity #identityformation#hoerikwaggo #ingridmonson #musicology #whatisjazz #definitionofjazz #memory #memoryandidentity #music #musicalanalysis #musicology #ethnomusicology #capehistory #southafricanmusicians
#southafricanhistory #historicalmusicology #identitymusic #musicalidentity #identityformation #definitionofidentity #noperson #whoisanafrican #afrocentric #africanist #africanism #musicspaceplace #district6 #mannenberg #manenberg
#L0d #virginiajubileeasingers #sevensteplament #capetonianidentity #sarabaardman #tablemountain #capepeninsula #jazzincapetown # #orpheusmacadoo #townshipjazz #searchingforidentity #local #localmusic #goema #ghomma
#karienkel #tariek #township #ludic #ludicidentities #khoisan #khoekhoe #san #khoisansymphony #healingdestination #kalaharithirst #searchingforidentity #neithercolourednorwhite #youarenowinfairland #basilcoetzee #adamsmall #ludic
#ludicidentity #inversludicidentity #trauma #apartheid #idduplessis #traumaofapartheid #ptsdofapartheid #inverseludicidentity #rashidvally #lmradio #adamastor #camoēs #portugueseslavers #southafricanpolitics #segregation #gourdbow
#uhadi #emailtotheancestors #hotnotsteeparty #hotnotsteaparty #ptsdaparheid #ptsd #traumaofapartheid #apartheidandjazz #segregationandjazz #musicandapartheid #adamsmall #idbook #capejazz #jazzinthecape #capetownjazz #liedjies
#nederlandseliedere #politicsofidentity #politicsofidentityformation #musicalidentities #mymusiclaidentity #musicacape #musicalcapeidentity

2
PREFACE

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4
INTRODUCTION

Fieldwork Diary Entry, March 2003

THE NORTH SEA JAZZ FESTIVAL, CAPE TOWN, MARCH 2003

I'm Home! I'm Home! I’m singing in my head. A crazy busy week has led to a boring 14-hour flight
and a late touchdown in Cape Town. The city, like me, has been preparing for the biggest Jazz
festival of the year: The North Sea Jazz Festival – the little sister festival of its big Dutch brother.

Arriving today is truly amazing. Musicians and Jazz aficionados, arriving from Europe, the US,
South America and Japan are rubbing shoulders with Hajji. Indeed, although the Hajj has been
and gone for month, many enterprising Capetonians use this once-in-a-lifetime trip as an extended
time to see the world, visit family, and, once back on home ground, to give thanks to Allah. Today is
no exception: men and women, clad in white or black are walking to and fro in stately fashion to an
outrageously ornate and cumbersome tent: a make-shift Mosque.

I elbow my way through passport control and, with luggage in hand, I catch sight of my sister, and I
run towards her and hug her tightly. I've not seen her for more than a year. “Hurry,” she says,
“we're late for your first appointment”. True, I had been thinking about that whilst arguing with the
officer in charge about my citizenship status. But now I'm here, safe in the cocoon of my sister's car,
safe in my knowledge of home and safe between the cool shadow of Table Mountain and the bright
blue sea shimmering in the late summer sun.

“Where to”, my sister asks, drawing me out of my reverie. “Loopstreet, I think. ESP Afrika [name
of an events organisation company], to Tshepiso Sello's office”, I say, holding both my thumbs, in
the hope that I was right.

We drive around the highway system, on roundabouts and flyovers, past cooling towers and
casually parked white taxis, into the heart of a bustling Cape Town - Green Market Square. I hop
out of the car whilst my sister finds a parking space. The city bowl is busy. There is to be a free
concert here tonight, complete with political speeches, to open the festival. In colonial times this
was the main vegetable market, but now, in 2003 it is considered the most fashionable place in
town; a funky space with heavenly trees and market stall holders from all over Africa.

Last year I ran into some Kenyans who had hitch-hiked all the way down south. I also had my hair
done once by a bevy of beautiful Congolese women, who are often found sitting around in this
place, drinking small cups of coffee whilst talking rapidly in French-enriched Congolese. A suitable
place to hold an out-door gig.

5
Today, as we weave our way through tourists and bystanders, we notice that half the stalls have
already been packed up in preparation for the gig. Big trucks with SABC [South African Broad
Casting Corporation] logos are parked along the side streets, with technicians scurrying about and
musicians milling around. Some are clearly waiting for soundchecks and are warming up their
instruments; others are escaping the heat, sitting on the pavement in the shade of the Central
Methodist Mission Church.

The midday cannon is deployed on Signal Hill as it has been every day since 1806. You can set your
watch by it. Almost immediately it is time for “dhuhr1”, the second prayer of the day; the
Salah2 sounding above the din. You can set your watch by that too.

A flock of street kids cannot believe all this excitement and launch themselves into song, their
performance attracting a lot more attention than usual. Their little voices ring out above the noise,
whilst they shimmy and shake in makeshift costumes. The visiting musicians cannot believe their
luck: African children, singing, dancing, laughing smiling?! Why? They are so musical! They are so
poor! They pose for photographs with the kids and are told rather directly by their minders that
their “suitable” financial contributions might well be the only income for these children.

At 1.00 pm I run into Tshepiso's office. She stands up, air kisses me, laughingly berates the airline
for my lateness and hands me a large envelope with everything I'll need for my week of jazz.
Contact details, phone numbers, press pass, food stamps, after-party times, venues and most
importantly, my free ticket – all generously donated by ESP Afrika. It's going to be one busy week!

THE PURPOSE OF THIS BOOK

This book traces concepts of identity in Cape Jazz. The original research was inspired by a concert

held by Abdullah Ibrahim which I attended whilst a master’s degree student in London. At this gig,

Ibrahim’s piano solos contained snippets of the Capetonian folk songs I grew up with. At the time

it seemed as though he had taken a handful of tunes and thrown them on to the piano as a

medley of half phrases of familiar songs. I remember looking around and wondering how many of

the audience members understood this and knew of the existence of this music, which many in

the Cape claim to be Ibrahim's compositional fount.

1 Noonday prayer.

2 The call to prayer.

6
Consequently, a whole series of questions emerged that concerned the origins of Cape Jazz, its

development, its musical parameters and its possible cultural meanings. And, as I dug deeper, I

realised that many of these pointed directly towards the importance of identities found in the

Cape and amongst Cape Jazz musicians. Therefore, this book examines how a number of Cape

Town's jazz musicians succeeded in creating finding, shaping and developing themselves through

created musical identities.

TERMINOLOGY

Recognising that questions of race and ethnicity are often based in nomenclature, I wish to

immediately clarify some of the words used in this book. For instance, where one culture might use

the term “black” or “black and minority ethnic” to describe everyone not obviously European,

another culture might note distinctions according to political agenda or religious observation.

Furthermore, the meanings of words such as “mixed race” and “coloured” used here present

problems each time the approach and context to the subject changes.

Therefore, as this is based in a South African context, when I use the word “black”, I refer to

the Nguni, Sotho, Venda and Shangaan-Tsonga peoples of Southern Africa. When I use the word

“coloured”, I refer to the heterogeneous Southern African group whose ancestors were drawn from

Europe, Africa, India & Malaysia (Adhikahri, 2005). This is a label that grew out of the colonial state

and made definitive by the apartheid government. It was not in official use in the beginning of the

1900s, as the word “mixed” was used to describe ethnicity on official documents such as birth

certificates3. It is also not a word that was chosen by the group members to describe themselves,

with many preferring the label “black”. Yet it has to be acknowledged that because of the unique

3 For instance, my grandmother was described as being ‘mixed’ on her birth-certificate – she was born in 1900.

7
historical development resulting from colonization and apartheid, the word “coloured” must be

used to distinguish from the population grouping “black”. Finally, when I use the word “white”, I use

it as it is ordinarily understood in Europe to describe those whose ancestors were drawn mainly

from Europe. In the South African context, this refers to the two main white population groups:

those of British extraction who speak English as a home language, and those who describe

themselves as being of Continental extraction and speak Afrikaans as their mother tongue. This

latter group is also widely mixed but became more homogenised during the 20th century as a direct

result of apartheid.

Consequently, I will be writing of black, coloured and white musicians. Though this will come

across as the simplification of a complex, cosmopolitan society, this was the simplification

used by the apartheid state that divided the country’s population into four distinct groups:

black, coloured, Indian (or Asian) and white. Additionally, these divisions are still applied

within the country – despite its generation-long post-apartheid legacy. Whilst, on the one hand,

I am aware that this is deeply problematic, reiterating concepts of the by the rules of the previous

administration, I am also conscious of the political essentialism in a region still grappling with racial

and economic inequality, and the self-identification of subjects who continue to place themselves

into these social categories.

APPROACH
This study of jazz grew over such a long period of time that some might currently view as “dated”.

Indeed, many of the musicians passed away after the completion of this study and thus it should be

8
viewed as a snapshot of a musical space, which still has some relevance to the music and musicians

in question. When I started this work there were hardly anything written on the topic and precious

little was known about the music, its history, its performers and composers, as previous research

into Cape Jazz was almost non-existent. In fact, Christopher Ballantine described it to me as “patchy”

(Ballantine, 2001: telephone interview with author). Even so, a number of scholars and authors have

worked on the topic and produced, as I did here, a reading of this seemingly elusive music.

The research that started all this is most probably Colin Howard’s thesis on Cape Town’s annual New

Year’s Carnival, completed whilst doing a Masters’ degree at Goldsmith College, University of

London. Another contributing factor was no doubt Colin Miller’s jazz-musician interviews and the

number of jazz festivals that emerged after the 1994 elections. After this a host of related

conference papers, books and articles appeared from the time I first discussed my ideas with Chris

Ballentine until today. Indeed, I myself published, mainly through conferences and journal articles

in England, South Africa and Portugal, my reading(s) on the topic. Other prominent researchers

include the insightful work by Valmont Layne, C.A. Muller and Christine Lucia, and the etically-based

research completed by Denis-Constant Martin and Jonathan Eato.

Initially this was to be a “study of jazz” (chords, harmonies, melodies and improvisation techniques).

However, it became immediately obvious that the musicians participating in the project had little

interest in something so perceivably detached and un-emotive. Instead, they wanted to discuss their

experiences, their ideas of identity and of nation building after the relatively recent change in the

country’s politics. They needed to know where they fitted in and where and how their music fed

into the changing cultural and political landscape in South Africa. Furthermore, where European

and American jazz has volumes written on the topic, at the time of writing Cape Jazz had only limited

attention from scholars.

9
Moreover, the studies that focus on aspects of jazz in the Cape seldom address the notion of Cape

Jazz, let alone attempt to develop a contextual and historical understanding of the music. Thus,

because of the lack of research materials available, my research directions had to be taken from

field colleagues who have, either professionally or independently, conducted their own research.

Since my field informants, in particular Mac McKenzie, Hilton Schilder, Valmont Layne and the late

Vincent Kolbe, highlighted the crises of identity in post-apartheid South Africa, I quickly came to

understand that “questions of identity” needed examination from a musicianship perspective. The

view of Cape Jazz as presented here, therefore, provides critical insights into the complexity of

identity politics and changing representations in the musical lives of Cape Jazz musicians. Finally, I

hope that you, as the reader, will gain some understanding of a valuable form of music that has

been somewhat neglected in the overall jazz discourse.

P ERSONAL P ERSPECTIVE

I am an ethnomusicologist, capoerista and a multi-instrumentalist musician. I have, up to the point

of starting this book worked mainly in popular music, as academic, teacher, composer and

performer. Prior to starting this project, I viewed the study of jazz with some trepidation as I

regarded it to belong to a strange other world; mainly inhabited by men, with knowledge that

included the back catalogue numbers of the vinyl of their favourite musicians. Thus, I was, at first,

extremely uncomfortable presenting myself to the jazz community. However, since my initial

interviews highlighted that Cape Jazz and Cape Town’s jazz musicians feel that they have either

been misrepresented or misunderstood, I sensed that there was a whole community about to be

overlooked and forgotten. In fact, as noted above, many of the musicians I worked with, already in

their 70s at the beginning of my project have since passed away. I did not presume that my work

10
will explain the entire elusive music scene in Cape Town, but hoped that my contribution,

whatever it turned out to be, would be of benefit in the long run.

Very few have ventured into writing on the Capetonian music scene, whether jazz or popular. Yet

those who did were more often writing from a culturally etic perspective, leading to analyses with

mixed results as that, in my view, highlighted a lack of understanding of the cultural remits found

within the country, gleefully unaware when musicians ‘acted out’, and played up to media

representations. Also, it has to be noted that, since the 1990s the field of “Jazz Studies” has

developed immensely so that cross-disciplinary and international perspectives on jazz are more

welcome.

Another feeling of discomfort came from the issues of gender and ethnicity; so prominent within

the world – but especially felt within the South African context. I understood from the outset that

questions might abound regarding my parentage, my musicianship and my political leanings - as my

mixed-race heritage renders me neither white nor coloured. In Europe, for instance, my siblings and

I are often mistaken for being Middle Eastern or Brazilian, whereas in South Africa we have to strike

an uneasy balance as both communities have shown discomfort and are sometimes offended by our

compound ancestry. Further discomfort came from the fact that jazz was, for me at the time a new

musical language, complicated by the many volumes of Real Book “standards”, chord voicings and

the intricacies of scatting.

I knew that my local knowledge [of music and language] could be used to my advantage. Also, I

guessed that my fluent Afrikaans, Capetonian creole and British connections could be beneficial.

Further, I hoped that my newly acquired vocal repertoire, centered on well-known standards and
11
Bossa Nova, and my pianistic knowledge of local tunes were appropriate, and would allow

participation in some jam sessions. And so, with my research questions in hand and sense of

apprehension, my search for Cape jazz began.

#terminologies #whoami #coloured #black #identity #ethnicity #southafrica #race #jazz #music
#jazzpolitics #personal #abdullahibrahim #adhikari #racepolitics #earliestmusic #recorded #ancient
#AMH #anatomicallymodernhuman #capetown #capedemographics #capejazz #tablemountain
#salvery #slaveryatthecape #identitypolitics #robbiejansen #hiltonschilder #stevenerasmus
#mohammedadhikari #edwardsaid #homibhabha #jazz #capeminstrelsy #macmckenzie #basilmoses
#cliffiemoses #jive #kwela #marabi #capejazz #compositionalprocesses #compositon #music
#capepenisula #notwhireenoughnotblackenough #discrimination #johnparkington
#ethnomusicology #musicalidentity #identityformation#hoerikwaggo #ingridmonson #musicology
#whatisjazz #definitionofjazz #memory #memoryandidentity #music #musicalanalysis #musicology
#ethnomusicology #capehistory #southafricanmusicians #southafricanhistory #historicalmusicology
#identitymusic #musicalidentity #identityformation #definitionofidentity #noperson
#whoisanafrican #afrocentric #africanist #africanism #musicspaceplace #district6 #mannenberg
#manenberg #L0d #virginiajubileeasingers #sevensteplament #capetonianidentity #sarabaardman
#tablemountain #capepeninsula #jazzincapetown # #orpheusmacadoo #townshipjazz
#searchingforidentity #local #localmusic #goema #ghomma #karienkel #tariek #township #ludic
#ludicidentities #khoisan #khoekhoe #san #khoisansymphony #healingdestination #kalaharithirst
#searchingforidentity #neithercolourednorwhite #youarenowinfairland #basilcoetzee #adamsmall
#ludic #ludicidentity #inversludicidentity #trauma #apartheid #idduplessis #traumaofapartheid
#ptsdofapartheid #inverseludicidentity #rashidvally #lmradio #adamastor #camoēs
#portugueseslavers #southafricanpolitics #segregation #gourdbow #uhadi #emailtotheancestors
#hotnotsteeparty #hotnotsteaparty #ptsdaparheid #ptsd #traumaofapartheid #apartheidandjazz
#segregationandjazz #musicandapartheid #adamsmall #idbook #capejazz
#jazzinthecape #capetownjazz #liedjies #nederlandseliedere #politicsofidentity
#politicsofidentityformation #musicalidentities #mymusiclaidentity #musicacape
#musicalcapeidentity

12
Chapter 1: THE CAPE OF VERY GOOD HOPE

Field Work Diary, 25 July 2002.

Scene: A Sunny Winter Afternoon on The Parade, Cape Town City Centre.

It's a late Thursday afternoon and I'm sitting, enjoying the unexpected sunshine, catching my breath and
gathering my thoughts in Betsy, my rusty, semi-roadworthy car. I’ve parked on the Parade, a place where in
days of old, colonial marching bands would meet at sunrise, play music and raise a flag to the glory of its
administrators. Today it’s mainly a car park and a Saturday flea market, known across the peninsula as a
place to buy reams of cloth and traditional remedies. Occasionally it is still used as an important gathering
place: Nelson Mandela, for instance, made his first public appearance and address to the nation here, after
being incarcerated for 27 years. But today, it’s a car park, and I am sitting, staring, thinking.

For more than a month now I’ve been going to gigs, meeting agents, musicians, journalists and venue owners
to assess the lay of the musical landscape. Unsure of which aspect of jazz I wanted to research, I thought that,
by spreading my net wide, I’d come to some conclusion; an agreement with myself of what I want to know.
Thus, last night, after active encouragement by my musician-friends, I went to the first of a series of gigs at
the Green Dolphin Jazz Club. A mini winter festival, it will run for consecutive Wednesday evenings until early
September; the beginning of spring. Sponsored by a well-known whiskey company, it aims to celebrate the best
of Cape Jazz, with music composed and performed by local musicians.

On arrival, Ralph, the owner, kindly offered me a stage front table. However, seeing my friends, I gently
declined and spent the entire evening on the informal balcony: talking and listening, meeting and introducing,
being introduced and hanging out. The introduction of each new band on stage was greeted with roaring
applause, whilst information of the band was being shouted into my ear. It was thrilling, friendly and
intoxicating. I'm still buzzing with excitement, still smiling. It seems the entire Cape Jazz fraternity was on the
balcony last night – well everyone who composes, plays and sings, reviews, researches and photographs. I met
this one guy who only photographs jazz musicians. “Do you”, I asked hopefully, “Write articles on them?” “Oh
no,” he answered, “I have no idea who they are. I only do this for my own artistic pleasure”. I met a jazz-crazy
historian on holiday from America and ran into my friends Tina and Sylvia; one an academic, the other a well-
known vocalist. I also met Ezra Nkcunuka, Tony Schilder, Alvin Dyers, Basil Moses and a host of musicians
whose names I now barely remember. What a night!

Today, too tired and lazy to drive to the Mayibuye Archives, I spent the entire day going through newspaper
clippings in the District Six Museum Archive and only just noticed that the rain had finally stopped. It's the
end of the working day, the city smells fresh, the sky is blue and people are streaming from their places of
work; golden faces smiling, shining in the wintery sun. I smile at no one and nothing and everyone at the same
time. I think I'm onto something. I think that jazz is my way forward.

13
JAZZ IN CAPE TOWN

Cape Town's jazz scene first courted the attention of the international jazz world when Chris

McGregor’s ensemble, The Blue Notes, performed at the Antibes Jazz Festival in 1962. Two years

later, another pianist from Cape Town, Abdullah Ibrahim (then known as Dollar Brand), released

the album Duke Ellington Presents the Dollar Brand Trio (under the auspices of Duke Ellington)

simultaneously launching an international career that was to become legendary.

International recognition of these two artists drew attention to the burgeoning jazz world in Cape

Town and, at the same time, highlighted the social disparities of South Africa’s apartheid regime.

Not that these were the first South African jazz musicians to receive international recognition. They

were foreshadowed by vocalist Miriam Makeba and the 1961 London performances of the jazz

opera King Kong4. However, this was the first time the focus fell on Cape Town, a city where the

social complexities of the country are played out and encumbered by its diverse population and

history of slavery. Certainly, the difficulties these musicians faced reflected the circumstances of

many people in South Africa at that time, including whites who defied apartheid laws and engaged

with the social “others” of that period, such as Chris McGregor, Jürgen Schadeberg5, Joe Slovo6 and

Ruth First7.

4 Composer: Todd Matzikiza

5 The German photographer, Jürgen Schadeberg was the Artistic Director of Drum magazine; a family magazine that,
during the 1950s, became involved in the anti-apartheid struggle through the publication of political materials. Many of
his photographs centred on music and musicians as evidenced in the publication of his book Jazz, Blues & Swing: Six
Decades of Music in South Africa (2007).

6 Joe Slovo (1926 – 1995) was a lawyer, South African Communist Party (SACP) leader, politician and a much-respected
anti-apartheid activist. Through his work the ANC became a multi-racial party, and, despite 27 years of exile, he became
Minister for Housing under Nelson Mandela in 1994 (www.sahistory.org.za, accessed December 2014).

7 The journalist Ruth First (1925 – 1982) was the daughter of the founder members of the SACP. As a consequence of
her activism, and her marriage to Joe Slovo, she was forcibly exiled and first moved to the UK and ultimately to
14
At the time, the apartheid state operated an astonishing number of segregative laws that included,

amongst others, the Group Areas Act of 1950. This particular bill forced South Africans to live in

designated areas, prohibiting musicians of different racial groups from playing alongside each other,

or in each other’s designated geographical living areas. Subsequent international cultural and

economic boycotts prevented South African musicians from performing abroad, impeding musical

and cultural development further. Because of these difficulties many musicians, such as Abdullah

Ibrahim and Miriam Makeba, chose to go into exile.

The uprooted musicians continued to create and refine their jazz musicianship, fuelled by their own

experiences, new cultural and political difficulties, and exposure to a wider musical scene (du Preez,

2002: Interview with author). Musicians who decided against a life in exile, colloquially known as

“the musicians who stayed at home” or “the musicians who stayed behind”, continued to develop

their interpretation of jazz (Lille, 2002: interview with author). A popularly held belief is that it was

through the combined influence of imported American LPs and various local musics that Cape Jazz

developed (Layne, Kolbe, McKenzie, et al, 2002; interviews with author).

A BRIEF HISTORY OF CAPETONIAN MUSICIANSHIP

Cape Town has a long history of musicianship that can be traced back to before the arrival of the

first colonial travellers. Through the centuries that followed the aggregate musicianship of its

citizens was developed and honed so that the city itself, many feels, has become the epicentre of

the South African jazz scene. This, in turn, is supported by a number of local musical practices that,

by and large, were responsible for the rise of musicianship in the city.

Mozambique where she was killed by a letter bomb in Maputo, Mozambique in 1982 (www.sahistory.org.za, accessed
December 2014).

15
Possibly the more influential of these practices is the Cape Minstrelsy Carnival that dates back to

the end of slavery and has been inexistence, in its present form, for around 130 years. The carnival

enjoys around 30,000 participants, where string bands, brass bands and choirs participate and

compete for trophies and attention. Although most of these musicians are drawn from the poorer

classes of the city and surrounding towns and villages, many are also musicians in other

organisations, such as church choirs and community brass bands, dance and jazz bands.

Furthermore, many a string band form as family and friends gather together, often also feeding

into the musical life of the city, either through formal performances or simply existing as a home

musicking8 group (Small, 1998: 9).

With such a number of actively performing musicians it is then not surprising that music has

received such focused attention and forms a central part of Capetonian culture. What is

interesting though is that, despite the number of musical styles in existence, jazz was the music

that was ultimately settled on as embodying the “klang ideal” or “sonic ideal” of the city.

GEOGRAPHY & DEMOGRAPHICS

Cape Town is a well-known tourist destination and a sprawling, majority-world city. The city centre,

often referred to as the “city bowl”, is overlooked by Table Mountain, with its famous flat-topped

roof. The rest of the town extends down both sides of the mountain and stretches around 35 km to

the north and the east, bounded by the Hottentot-Holland Mountains. Towards the north, beyond

the city borders are rolling hills, primarily used for agriculture and conservation. The area is

8 Christopher Small’s definition of “musicking”: “To music is to take part in any capacity, in a musical performance,
whether by performing, by listening, by rehearsing, by practicing, by providing material for performance (what is called
composing) or by dancing…“ (Small, 1998: 9). This is, of course, similar – but not as comprehensive as the African practice
of ngoma; the concept of music as a performance dimension (playing, singing, dancing, acting, storytelling, actively
taking part) – rather than simply just being somewhat involved with music making.
16
approximately 2,500 km2 in size, with 200 km of coastline along its western and southern borders.

The population is around four million, with approximately one million living in informal settlements

(townships or back-yard dwellers) (Goldberg, 2009: 17).

Illustrations 1 and 2 show Cape Town’s city bowl and Table Mountain. These are images that many

will recognise as Cape Town, yet it is only a fraction of the size of the city. The largest section of the

population lives east of the mountain. Here one can find the wealthier suburbs of Cape Town such

as Rondebosch and Bishops Court, as well as the poorest areas: the infamous “townships”, including

Mitchells Plain, Manenberg9, Gugulethu and Langa. In this area most impoverished citizens live in a

constantly expanding number of informal settlements that have, some argue, become cities in

themselves.

Demographically the city shows a diversity that can be seen in the variety of spoken languages and

other cultural practices that underpin some of the concepts of identity discussed in this thesis. For

instance, in 2011 it was estimated that approximately 42% of the population was coloured, 39 % of

the population black, 15.7% white and 1.4% Asian – with the remainder 1.9% being described as

‘other’ and include any formal or informal immigrants which, of course, add to the complexity of

the population10 (www.statssa.gov.za; accessed 13 September 2018).

9 This is the correct spelling of the area. “Mannenberg”, as it appears on Abdullah Ibrahim’s album is a, possibly
deliberate, misspelling.

10 It is estimated that there are around 5 million illegal immigrants in South Africa. Added to this is that the country
also hosts many refugees from Congo, Burundi and Rwanda. Furthermore, Cape Town has three universities and many
other HE colleges that attract students from across Africa. Cape Town is also a major tourist centre, attracting visitors
from across the globe. This all adds to the diverse nature of the city’s demographics.

17
ILLUSTRATION 1: THE CITY BOWL AND TABLE MOUNTAIN. THE MOUNTAIN IS SUPPORTED ON EACH SIDE BY TWO KOPPIES (HILLS):
DEVILS PEAK AND LION’S HEAD . THIS ANGLE, TAKEN FROM A HILL IN FRONT OF LION’S HEAD (KANON KOP), SHOWS DEVILS PEAK AND
TABLE MOUNTAIN, AND THE BEGINNING OF THE TWELVE APOSTLES. IMAGE: ISTOCK

From the perspective of this study, however, it is not just Cape Town that is geographically

important. The rest of the Western Cape Province is equally important, musically, emotionally and

historically. The mountain ranges across the valley from Table Mountain, including the Hottentots-

Holland and Hex River mountains, separate the Western Cape from the rest of the province and the

country, and are sometimes colloquially referred to as cultural boundary markers that divides this

area from the rest of the country11. Illustration 3 shows the city situated in proportion to the rest of

the country.

11 This is not a true political boundary, but often regarded as a cultural boundry.

18
ILLUSTRATION 2: VIEW OF CAPE TOWN FROM THE ATLANTIC SEABOARD, POSSIBLY TAKEN TOWARDS THE END OF SUMMER. HERE YOU
CAN SEE THE URBAN SPRAWL OF THE CBD AREA, SHOWING THE GREEN POINT SPORTS STADIUM (FOOTBALL WORLD CUP AND
MINSTRELSY CARNIVAL VENUE) IN THE RIGHTHAND CORNER. SOURCE: ISTOCK

ILLUSTRATION 3: A MAP OF SOUTH AFRICA SHOWING CAPE TOWN’S GEOGRAPHICAL PLACEMENT. BELLVILLE USED TO BE A CITY NEXT
TOCAPE TOWN, BUT AFTER THE 1994 ELECTIONS HAS BEEN RE-ABSORBED INTO THE ORIGINAL MUNICIPALITY . ALSO , THE CITY OF
GQEBERHA - THUS KNOWN SINCE FEBRUARY 2021 – IS SHOWN HERE AS PORT ELIZABETH, BUT ALSO KNOWN AS THE NELSON MANDELA
METROPOLITAN AREA (N.M.METRO ) . ILLUSTRATION BY LOUISE LÜDERS.

19
Emotionally, Capetonians have an intense feeling of belonging. It is held that the combination of the

majesty of the mountains, the presence of the sea, and the general closeness to nature, sets the city

apart from all other cities in the country (McKenzie, 2002: Interview with author). On the other

hand, there is a realisation that the history of the city, its people and its Mother City status all

contribute to this unique perspective (Kolbe, 2005: Interview with author).

CABO DE BOA ESPERANÇA

The Cape, at the southernmost tip of Africa, had been in existence since Gondwana broke up and

settled into its current shape – which was least 140 million years ago (du Toit, 1937). Population

groups – such as the San and Khoi (or Khoekhoe) is thought to have lived in the area for at least

150,000 years. Indeed, archaeologists such as Catherine Kyriacou and John Pakington suggest that

these groups may have been some of the first anatomically modern humans (AMH) (Kyriacou,

Parkington, et.al., 2014). Certainly, the ancient L0 haplo genetic group found in the Cape is

regarded by many scientists to be our ‘mitochondrial eve’ (Spector, 2019).

During Age of Discovery the first known Europeans to land at the Cape in late-1400s was

Bartholomew Dias - when blown off course in an attempt to find a route to the east via Africa.

Indeed, the storm that caused this navigational error was so impressive, that it was immortalised by

Camões almost 100 years later in his poem The Adamastor. In memory of this experience Dias

baptised the Cape, Cabo Tormentoso or Cape of Storms. The Portuguese king of the time, João II,

however, saw this discovery as a point of good fortune and renamed it Cabo de Boa Esperança – or

Cape or Good Hope - a name that is still in use today (Worden, 2004:13 – 14).

20
From this moment on, many used the Cape as a stopover point on their way to Asia, prompting the

Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie12 (The VOC hereafter) to set up a permanent refreshment

station in the 1600s, arriving with a governor, Jan van Riebeeck, three ships and a handful of men in

April 1652. On arrival they were met by the two aforementioned groups, the Khoekhoe (herders)

and the San (hunter-gatherers); two ancient peoples that we now know to carry the oldest known

human (AMH) DNA13, and are often referred to by the collective name of Khoisan (Henshilehood, et

al., 1990; Skotness, et.al., 1996). Soon others arrived for the purposes of work, fortune or freedom,

such as French Huguenots fleeing religious persecution, mardyckers14 recruited for their skilled

craftsmanship, European free burgers, and Dutch colonial workers.

The early European settlers faced numerous difficulties which included acclimatising to the weather

conditions, whether for the benefit of occupations such as farming and or just for the sake of their

own health and well-being. They were also obstructed by the lack of financial and labour assistance

from the main colonising company, the VOC. Disease and poverty were commonplace. Also, as a

result of the impact of the colonisation, they created bitter relations with the indigenous peoples

[the Khoisan], resulting in a distressing and difficult life for all (Worden, et.al, 2004). Thus, the

procurement of slaves came to be seen as a necessity.

12 The Dutch East India Company.

13 Indeed, the L0 haplogroup genetics (in this case, mitochondrial DNA) is possible around 150,000 years old
(https://www.livescience.com/mitochondrial-eve-first-human-homeland.html, 2019). The L0d group is specific to Cape areas and is
found amongst around 60 - 70% the coloured population of Southern Africa. Our own family haplo falls within the L0d
group – something that we are immensely proud of.

14
Meaning: “Free blacks” – the Dutch and Portuguese colonised part of southern India and Malaysia and enslaved some
highly skilled groups. However, they quickly realised that their survival in the East depended on the skills of the group.
Thus, they decided to ‘free’ them. Another explanation – with different spellings of the word: Madyker, Mardycker or
Madijker /Mardijker is the Dutch interpretation of the Malay word Merdeka, it means ‘rich and powerful’ and refers a
group of skilled workers, enslaved by the Portuguese, but freed and employed by the Dutch in the early to mid-1600s.

21
As was common at this time, slaves were sourced from abroad, as the enslavement of the local

population was forbidden. Even so, it appears that a small group of indigenous slaves, or rather,

serfs already existed in 1655. The first slave ships noted in contemporary literature date from 1658

and brought with them 228 slaves from the coast of Guinea (Worden, et.al., 2004: 27) and another

174 from Angola; many of whom, it was reported, were at least three years too young to

work15 (Ross, 1983: 21-22).

The majority of slaves, however, were imported variously from East Africa-Madagascar (30%), and

the Indo-Malaysian archipelago (65%) [See Table 1] (Jeppie, 1988: 105). Skilled craftsman called

Mardyckers by the Dutch were employed by the VOC as artisans and Batavian Muslims leaders were

sent to the Cape as political prisoners. There was also a great deal of “ship-jumping” with the arrival

of each new fleet contributing to this practice (Worden, et. al, 2004; Jeppie, 1988: 105). These

happenings, of course, led to an exceptionally diverse population, with continuous processes of

absorption and miscegenation taking place amongst all the population groups present. From the

early 1800s, after a series of Anglo-Dutch wars, Britain annexed the Cape to become one of its

colonies16, and thus the demographics again changed. It has been suggested that by the late 1800s

almost everyone living in the immediate area of the Cape Peninsula and the adjacent geographical

areas were racially “mixed” (Lewis, 1987: 273).

TABLE 1: Ethnic Distribution of Slaves as reported in the census of 1700 (Jeppie, 1988: 105)

Place of origin Numbers Percentage of overall

Africa-Madagascar 397 30.63

Ceylon 20 1.54

India 653 50.38

15 I am unsure at which age slaves were deemed to be of “working” age in the Cape. Frederick Douglas, the African
American slave who had managed to escape slavery at the age of 20, wrote in his memoires that, in the US, children as
young as five would be expected to join the workforce in some minor way (Douglas (1845), 2001).

16 British possession of the Colony: 1795 – 1803 and 1806 – 1961

22
Place of origin Numbers Percentage of overall

Indonesia 189 14.58

Malaysia 4 0.32

Indo-China 1 0.08

Japan 1 0.08

Cape of Good Hope 10 0.77

Unidentified 21 1.62

Totals 1296 100.00%

With the change in governance in 1806, surges of liberalism could be witnessed. In the same year

(1806) the end of slavery was announced in British Parliament. Furthermore, laws were brought in

to give greater autonomy to those of mixed-race descent. The most powerful of these were, no

doubt, the announcement of the end of slavery17 in the Cape Colony, on 1 December 1833.

From this time on, with the change in administration [Dutch to British] the Cape was beset by many

of the British-South African issues that, although taking place far afield in other parts of the country

or the world, would still have influence. For example, the Anglo-Boer War (almost 800 miles north

of the Cape), the Unionisation of South Africa in 1910 under British sovereignty, and the First and

Second World Wars would leave their mark. Finally, the declaration of the first of the apartheid laws

in the late 1940s led to a gradual disentangling of the two countries, resulting in independence from

Britain, and the formation of the Republic of South Africa in 1961.

17 Trans-Atlantic slavery was abolished in 1806. The abolition of slavery in the Cape was announced in 1833, enacted
in 1834 with the provision that slaves remained indentured as “apprentices” for four years, with manumission finally
achieved in 1838.

23
The history of apartheid is well documented. From 1949 onwards a series of laws were passed that

would ensure the suppression of its black, coloured, indigenous and Asian citizens. This was,

essentially, a legalisation of continued slavery, shaped to emulate British colonial rule. What is not

well known, however, is that prior to this, under British rule, a series of laws were passed that would

curtail the education, land ownership and political equality of all black South Africans – regardless

of demarcated population grouping. When the National Party came to power in 1949, this process

simply intensified, becoming even more noticeable after the formation of the republic in 1961.

From this time on the citizens of the entire country were manipulated according to the beliefs and

desires of a few. Based on social Darwinism, and expanded according to the governing body’s own

bewildering desires, all unlegislated cultural formations were swept aside and apartheid’s laws

changed, restricted or, in some instances, forced the formation of culture. All citizens were bound

by these strict laws – regardless of population grouping – as they were prescriptive in every aspect

of life. The main laws of the times included the Education Laws, The Groups Areas Act and

Population Registrations Acts of 1950, the Prohibition to Mixed-Marriages and Immorality Acts of

1960 and many other Labour and Land ownership laws. The organisation of wealth, land ownership,

education and labour were placed in the hands of white citizens in order to sustain this increasingly

divisive and expensive regime. Finally, towards the end of the 1980s, mainly due to external and

internal political pressure and in view of potential economic collapse, the country saw a regime

change, followed by the 1994 elections.

24
IDENTITY CRISIS

One of the issues that arise amongst compatriots, when extreme regimes such as dictatorships and

apartheid come to an end, is the examination, formation and reformation of the conceptual

identities. Modes of behaviour and thought processes regarding the self will change, either as a

result of the freedom given or extreme behaviours curtailed. These new identity definitions will

frequently include concepts of the culture previously dismissed and include a reflection on the

diversity found within the overall population. These issues, in South Africa, shown in its many official

and unrecognised languages18, and diverse cultural practices, contribute to its problems of identity.

Thus, since the 1994 elections, South African citizens have been trying to construct maps of

themselves, of their identities, not just in relation to other South Africans, but also in relation to

Europe and the rest of Africa itself. For the first time South Africans were allowed to think of

themselves as part of Africa - rather than as an expansion of Europe. For the first time South Africans

were allowed to fully embrace Africa for what it is, rather than view it from a Eurocentric

perspective.

18 Many of these languages, such as the language group Xiri or Griekwa, have been denied official status by the current
government, and consequently are in crises. A few languages now only exist in colonial documentation, such as |Xan, a
language whose structure was studied by Wilhelm Bleek and Lucy Lloyd, two philologists of 19th Century (Killian, 2009).

25
CHAPTER 2: CAMISSA19: THE MAKING OF A MUSICAL CITY.

Music is something that many people embrace as a way in which to form, define and build identities

- and South Africans are no different. In fact, I note amongst my own family that music-making

forms a central part of ‘being a family’ and ‘being in the community’. Others do the same -

embracing Africa through their own musical practices. Of course, having a rich musical community

in the 21st century points towards a history of music making that is entirely informed by its past.

TOWARDS A HISTORY OF THE MUSICAL CAPE

Music making has been part of the Cape's cultural soundscape for time immemorial. In fact, 1497

Vasco da Gama recorded in his diary that the local people were playing on “four or five flutes,

some high, the other low, harmonising together very well for blacks from whom music is not

expected” (Martin, 1996: 58). Harmony and harmonising, as many a music student will tell you, is

complex and involve accurate knowledge, listening skills and musical responses. Thus, for da

Gama to have written such a phrase in his diary points to a very long tradition of fine musicianship,

as was underlined by Richard Kirby’s works of the 1930s and Roger Blench’s20 discussion of the

polyphonic wind ensembles found throughout southern Africa at the point of European contact.

19 Camissa is the traditional name for Cape Town – meaning “place of sweet water or “place of good water”.

20 Blench also uses da Gama’s quotation, but the translation reads slightly differently: ‘and they began to play upon
four or five flutes, some of which were high and some low, so well in fact that they played harmoniously…’. Using a multi-
disciplinary approach, Blench also produced musical maps of pre-colonial Africa – including the wide-spread flute playing
traditions of pre-colonial southern Africa (trans. from Morelet (1864) in Blench, 2002).

26
Yet, the Cape's musical history was not well recorded – both pre-colonial and in the early years of

colonisation - yet we do know of some of the music making that took place.

We know, for instance, that many of the indigenous groups - such as the Khoi and San populations

displayed a rich musical and dance heritage based in songs, instrumental music and ritual dance.

The “piped music”, observed by Da Gama, was found all over central and Southern Africa at this

time (Blench, 2002: 12). From P.R. Kirby’s21 work we note various description of the richness of

these traditions that include descriptions of music and dance from a variety of sources. He quotes

from colonial diaries describing the music-making, including that of Pieter van Meerhof from 1661

who also described the music-making of the indigenous groups and the slaves on various farms.

Of course, both the Dutch and British administrations had accomplished marching bands. Their

duties were mainly ceremonial and included providing a musical background for the departure and

return of the various shipping fleets; events that were often celebrated with music, dance and canon

fire (Worden, 1998). Additionally, many of the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie22 (VOC)

employees, the Dutch and British colonisers, free burghers and their visitors, were musicians - some

classically trained and other amateurs of varying standards. Many of the slaves brought to the Cape

had their own musical practices as well as the musical practices that the Dutch had taught them in

eastern [Dutch] colonies such as Batavia (Kunst, 1935). Add to this the musics of the indigenous

populations as well as the group of Sufi’s, sent to the Cape for political reasons and whose central

21 Kirby’s translation (1933) of this work reads:

The earliest reference to the Hottentot reed-flutes occurs in the Journal of Vasco da Gama.
" On Saturday, there arrived about 200 negroes, large and small, leading twelve horned beasts, oxen and cows, as well as four to five sheep; and
they started playing four to five flutes, some high, some low, so that they sounded together marvellously well for negroes, from whom one hardly
expects any music, and they danced in the manner of negroes. Then the commander-in-chief caused the trumpets to be sounded, and we started
dancing on the boats, and the commander himself, who was black, danced with us." (Kirby, 1933: 314)
22 The Dutch East India Company

27
religious practice centred on music. This, as can be imagined, all resulted in an extraordinary amount

of music making with many musical genres existing side by side (Worden, et.al., 2004: 77).

We know that many of the slaves were accomplished musicians. Some were trained in European

musical styles in India or Batavia by the Dutch and Portuguese, and some arrived as fully trained

musicians of their own culture. On arrival at the Cape they performed music, not only of their own

personal style, but also European tunes on European instruments, so much so that there is evidence

of a formal slave orchestra having been formed twenty-five years after the beginning of the colony

(Kunst, 1934; van der Merwe, 1997). Additionally, all the different slave populations brought their

respective musicianship(s) to the “musical table”, thus emphasizing the creolisation of society.

The social history of the city records vibrant accounts of ‘merry making’ during the colonial period,

so much so that by the mid-1700s the city acquired the name “The Tavern of the Seven Seas”. Of

course, this moniker alludes to the fact that visits to the taphuis (public house) were the centre of

the Cape’s social life, and that music making was an important element of the entertainment at

these establishments (Worden, et.al., 2004: 77 - 79). Yet, music-making was also part of the social

network of the VOC employees and their fellow burghers who, when formal dances were arranged,

performed themselves or employed slave bands and orchestras to provide the music. For official

state business the VOC marching bands or British colonial bands took to the stage (Ibid.).

28
Slave owners frequently hired slaves specifically for their music-making abilities23. One slave owner,

Cornelis van Quaelberg (Governor of the Cape, 1666 – 1668), was in possession of a slave orchestra

as early as 1676 (Martin, 1996: 58). Evidence of slave music-making at the Cape is also found

amongst the papers of Hendrik Cloete, one of the owners of the wine farm Groot Constantia24, who

was known for his hospitality and eccentricity. Two of his guests from 1780, Francois le Vaillant and

his companion, known only as Larcher, were charmed when they awoke

…to the sound of beautiful music coming from outside their windows, they
were surprised and flattered, assuming that the concert was in their honour.
They were soon to be disappointed yet again when they discovered that
Hendrik was customarily awakened each morning with a performance by 15
of his slaves who were good musicians (van der Merwe, 1997).

Van der Merwe notes that this was clearly not the only slave orchestra in the area. In 1825 a visitor

to a neighbouring farm, Martin Douwe Teenstra, reported an orchestra consisting of 16 slaves and

was

agreeably surprised by [their music making], all slaves belonging to

Mevrouw Colijn, who gave a rousing performance of martial music by a
brass band, using the necessary wind and other instruments such as
clarinet’s, flutes, trumpets …and two great drums, and did it as well as
best English corps stationed in Cape Town (Ibid.).

Thus, Hendrik Colette’s slave-musicians were not out of the ordinary, and the ownership of a slave

orchestra was a demonstration of prestige, wealth and status.

23. For instance, the slave owner, Joachim van Dessin, owned a slave who was a cook and a “fine musician” during the
1750s. His estate included two trumpets, two violins, a 'cello, bass recorder and two hunting horns (Martin, 1996: 77).

24. Groot Contantia was established specifically for wine-making purposes by the 10th Governor of the Cape, Simon van
der Stel. Hendrik Cloete was the fifth owner of the farm and is known as the person who succeeded in finally establishing
wine-making at the Cape (van der Merwe, 1997).
29
The slaves, however, did not just perform for the merriment of their masters, they also performed

for their own enjoyment. During the early 1800s, slave owner Samuel E. Hudson observed in a letter

that he had

seen them with their wives and children very well attired ...dancing to their
rude music of a Sunday Afternoon or joining their Rix Dollars for the hire of
a wagon and spend the afternoon at some of the dancing Houses in the
Country (Shell, 1984a: 60).

De Kock wrote that many instruments would have been present at these encounters. These included

a single-headed cylindrical drum, possibly the ancestor of the goema and a three-stringed lute

with calabash (or coconut) resonator referred to here as a ravekinje or ramakienjo (See Illustration

6) (De Kock, 1950: 96). This instrument was later known as the ramkie which, Denis Martin

speculates, is an instrument that “illustrates the interaction between Khoikhoi and slaves from Asia”

(Martin, 1999: 60). It is something that may have been brought by people from Malabar and copied

by the Khoikhoi. The musicologist Percival Kirby referred to it as a “Malay” instrument from Cape

Town, used to play a “little Hottentot tunes...for dancing” (Kirby, 1939:484). Conversely, we can

assume that these musical instruments and musicking interludes were not isolated incidents, but

rather that they formed part and parcel of the fabric of the Cape from very early on.

Since no official slave records were held in the Cape prior to 1816, it is impossible to trace the arrival,

names, occupations, talents, owners and possessions of the slaves. Robert Ross has, however, put

forward an account of occupations of Cape residents, which lists nine full-time musicians; six of

Dutch or German origin and three who were listed as madijkers (Cape Archives, 1820: RDG 121).

30
ILLUSTRATION 6 A: The three stringed lute: Ramkie or Ravekienjo. The one on the right is made with a coconut shell. The
one on the left, with a calabash, its entire construction looks a great deal more professional than the rural model. The
peg box reminds of a cavaquinho of the 19th century. The rest of the construction reminds of the Javanese rebab. Source:
Author's photograph, Kirby Collection, University of Cape Town.

ILLUSTRATION 6B: The three stringed lute: Ramkie or Ravekienjo. Illustration by Louise Lüders

By contrast, although it is apparent that some slaves were excellent musicians, as they were not

regarded as fully fledged residents, their specialist occupations were not deemed important enough

to be included in the census (Ross, 1980: 3).

31
POLITICAL PRISONERS

One of the groups who most certainly helped establish music making as an important cultural

activity in the Cape was a small group of political prisoners. The Cape, unlike other colonies, was

never used as a penal colony by the enslavers. Instead, it was used as penal colony for political

prisoners from other areas of the colonised world, more specifically those in the East.

This is important from a music-making perspective. Many Muslims were exiled to the Cape as a

result of their outspoken stance against the Dutch. The majority of those exiled in this way were Sufis

and practicing musicians. Thus, apart from the large group of skilled free Muslims [ the Madijkers],

others arrived as political prisoners who, after their sentences were complete, had an important

religious and musical influence on the people of the Cape. The most influential musician of this

group was Yusuf of Macassar.

A well-educated Goan prince, he was exiled to the Cape in 1694 and arrived with an entourage and

a large number of possessions25. A Sufi, he was known to be a superb musician who established

Sufism in the Cape, and thus music-making followed as part of this process (Mahioda, 1993:

electronic copy; Martin, 1999: 74).

25 The Shaykh arrived on board `De Voetboog' on April 02, 1694, along with his retinue of 49 which included his two
wives [Carecontoe and Carepane], two slave girls [Mu'minah and Na'imah], 12 children, 12 imams [religious leaders]
and several friends with their families. He was royally welcomed by Governor Simon van der Stel at the Cape. The retinue
were housed on a farm in Zandvleit, near the mouth of the Eerste River in the Cape, far from Cape Town, on June 14,
1694. The Company's attempt to isolate Shaykh Yusuf at Zandvleit did not succeed. On the contrary, Zandvleit turned
out to be the rallying point for `fugitive' slaves and other exiles from the East. It was here that the first cohesive Muslim
community in South Africa was established. Since many of the Shaykh's followers hailed from Macassar in Goa (India),
the district around Zandvleit is still known today as ‘Macassar’ (Mahioda, 1993: electronic copy).

32
Accounts of European art music making are many and are mainly depicted in paintings, in letters

and diaries since, as in Europe at the time, music-making and music learning were deemed

important recreational elements and essential to the education of, especially, young ladies. An

example of “Western classical music” practice is demonstrated in the works and diaries of Charles

Etienne Boniface (1787 -1853), an actor, playwright and musician, who lived in Cape Town from

1807 to 184426.

Yet, from a Cape Jazz perspective, the most notable account of music-making during the 1800s

surely has to be the slave performances of 1 December 1833, in celebration of the announcement

of the end of slavery. This apparently spontaneous performance underlined the importance of music

to the city-dwellers, functioning in a way that musical boundaries and social kinships were

established and validated, not only by the noteworthy documentation of this event, but also by the

street festival it was to become in later years.

A year later, the first “carnival” performance was recorded in a short article in “The South African

Commercial Advertiser” of 6 December 1834. It states that when slavery was officially abolished on 1

December 1834

large bodies of “Apprentices”, of all ages and both sexes, promenaded the
streets during the day and nights, many of them attended by a band of
amateur musicians; but their amusements were simple and interesting; their
demeanor orderly and respectful (The South African Commercial Advertiser,
6 December 1834).

26 These can be found in the archives of the W.H.Bell Library in the University of Cape Town.

33
THE BEGINNINGS OF A CARNIVAL

Once the slaves were emancipated in 1834, it was decided that they should fulfil an

“apprenticeship” of at least four years. Since this apprenticeship was not distinguishable from the

slavery that preceded it there resulted, as Robert Ross suggests, a two-tiered system of

emancipation (Ross, 1993: 132). The first included all the English Colonies and were brought about

through the shortage of “free” labour rather than any feelings of philanthropy. The second

emancipation affected the Cape only as, four years later in 1838, the slaves were freed from their

four year “apprenticeship” or serfdom (Ibid.). Comparatively, Khoisan workers faced a much

harsher situation, as I will explain below.

In the early 1800s, there was, possibly under the influence of the philosophical stances of the French

Revolution a call for greater personal autonomy. Thus in 1828, Ordinance 50 was announced, calling

for greater equality and freedom for those deemed to be of mixed-race origin. It also bestowed

landownership on the Khoikhoi27. However, this law also reinstated an earlier piece of legislation

called the Caledon Code of 1809. This legislation demanded that all Khoisan had to have a fixed

abode, turning the Khoisan into serfs. Should these servants leave their place of employment, they

had to carry a pass signed by their employers, thus representing the beginnings of the South African

pass laws. Consequently, because the Khoisan were not slaves (but serfs), no freedom was granted

to this group through the abolishment of slavery (van der Heuvel, 2008: 193-94; Ross, 1999: 333-

345).

27 This part of the law excluded the San peoples.

34
During the second emancipation in 1838, the slaves again “made merry” and marched in the streets

as in 1833 (Martin, 1999: 33). From this period on it became an annual event of procession, music-

making and celebration, and continued to be celebrated on 1 December for some time. Indeed, a

newspaper article reported an end-of-slavery performance in December 1885 (Martin, 1999). Over

time this performance gradually became formalised, at the same time absorbing new influences,

some British, such as Guy Fawkes, and some American.

A MERICAN M INSTRELSY
The formation of and exposure to minstrelsy during the 1840s left a huge impact on the musicians

of Cape Town. A year after the Christie Minstrels were formed in 1840, various imitation groups started

visiting Cape Town, leaving Cape musicians to imitate the songs, dances, dress code and grease paint

and incorporating this as part of the carnival (Worden, et.al., 2004). By the late 1800s, the end-of-

slavery celebration had become an annual event and organized into clubs for competitive purposes.

This formula is still in evidence today and has become a three-day extravaganza with year-long

preparations, involving around 30,000 participants and 250,000 attendees.

The carnival, or minstrelsy carnival, includes a variety of musical ensembles, including string bands,

choirs, percussionists and brass bands. The majority of the participants are amateur musicians who

only rehearse for the specific purposes of the carnival. However, a large proportion of the musicians

are professionals who act as directors/conductors to individual troops or join existing groups to

make up numbers. These musicians often became professional musicians as a result of their parents’

or their own participation in the carnival as youngsters. One can thus imagine the impact on the

numbers of musicians trained as a result of this, almost 200-year-old, tradition.

35
The carnival repertoire is drawn from a variety of sources, with a large number of pieces historically

set, whilst others are taken from current popular music repertoire. The most important stylistic

music is said to be goema; a music based on part of a son clave rhythm28 with melodies extracted

from European and American songs, some dating as far back as the late 1700s (Howard, 1990;

Martin, 1999). This music, in turn, has been drawn from older styles of dance music such as

sikketees, vastrap and tiekie-draai (Author’s fieldwork, 2001 – 2008).

Since the 1930s, and especially later, with the subsequent rise of bebop, many of Cape Town’s

minstrelsy carnival musicians have been drawn into playing jazz. As can be expected, this resulted

in a group of specialist jazz musicians, writing and composing their own pieces, resulting in a style

of music known as Cape Jazz. Although some may argue that the music does not fit strictly within

the jazz arena, defining Cape Jazz, or jazz in itself for that matter, has been shown to be rather

problematic. Even so, despite the problems of labelling, the term Cape Jazz continues to have

currency among musicians and audiences.

D EFINING C APE J AZZ

Jazz is notoriously difficult to define as a genre. Alyn Shipton wrote that jazz assimilates different

musical elements, thus “this [on-going] definitional question has been omnipresent throughout

jazz history” (Shipton, 2002: 3-5). The television series Jazz (2001) also emphasized the complexity

of a jazz as a genre, highlighting its definitional debate. It suggested that each time musicians alter

the style of the music, the discussion as to what constitutes jazz needs re-defining (Burns, 2001:

28 This rhythm is similar to the Brazilian Bãio, Jamaican Dance Hall, and elements of Cuban clave patterns. It is, as Deni-
Constant Martin suggests, a rhythm linked to the Black Atlantic.

36
film; Pond, 2003: 11 - 45).

In response to the Jazz (2001) series Gary Hagberg suggested, as did Ingrid Monson, that “Jazz...

resists the straitjacket of definitional essence; instead, it displays a number of definitionally

significant features, but not in such a categorically clear way that anyone emerges as necessary and

sufficient” (Hagberg, 2002, 193). Therefore, definitions of jazz, such as that stated in The New Grove

Dictionary of Jazz [“Music created mainly by black Americans in the early 20th century, through an

amalgamation of elements drawn from European-American and tribal African musics” (Kernfield,

1988: 580)] are problematic. Although commonly used, such definitions can be viewed as simplistic,

since they do not account for the complex history and origins of jazz. Neither do these definitions

capture the qualities of the music, such as the complex harmonic, rhythmic and melodic properties,

the drive, the swing, the spirit and the excitement (Monson, 1996). Moreover, the notion of musical

ownership [origins of music/creators of jazz] is ambivalent, deepening the debate of “a jazz identity”

(Hagberg, 2002). Thus, statements such as “African Tribal Musics”, used in Kernfield's definition,

becomes nonsensical when considering the length of time most African Americans will have lived in

the US by the early 1900s - the core time for the development of jazz. By this time, any traditional

musics would have long been forgotten through the experience of slavery29. To add to this

complexity, I want to emphasise that Cape Jazz is an African style of music. It is not “tribal” as

29 Actually, this is partly bound up to the laws of the specific enslavers, combined with the geographical space. Thus, in
Cuba, certain West African-influenced musical practices persist until today, simply because the Spanish allowed the
formation of traditional fraternities during the 1600s (Weaver, 2007: sleeve notes). In Brazil, the physical landscape had
much to do with the survival of practices as it allowed the formation of hidden groups (the Quilombos or maroon
settlements) from where the practices of Candomblé/Orixas, maracatus and capoeira grew (Downey, 2005). In the US
many traditional practices, including instruments, were banned. Another debate to add to this is, of course, the idea of
Africanisms that include both the anthropology of the body and cultural memory, something that I touch on at various
points in this work. I believe Brazilian ethnomusicologist Suzel Reily also made points towards this in her own works.

37
understood from a Eurocentric or romanticised African American perspective, but a contemporary,

urban African genre (Rive quoted in Viljoen, 2006: 137).

Cape Jazz therefore forms part of this definitional problem. Although frequently represented as a

label or a marketing term in record shops, extemporal analysis suggests that any music, performed

or composed by a specific group of Capetonians, is regarded as “Cape Jazz”. Bassist Basil Moses

remarked that “It's unbelievable what people will call Cape Jazz” after an audience member praised

the Cape Jazz techniques of Jonathan Butler; a vocalist known for his soul and gospel

performances (Moses, 2003: conversations with author). Certainly, Cape Jazz is known for its

distinct sonic structures, its minstrelsy carnival origins, its resultant timbral space and its Continental

European influences. It stands apart from the rest of South African “local” jazz styles that are

stylistically influenced by black musics, such as, amongst others, mbaganga [an urban, township

musical style] and township jive. Not that Cape Jazz is performed separately from a wider jazz or

South African jazz repertoire, indeed not. Instead it forms part of the overall fabric of the rainbow-

nation’s cultural output. Thus, although certain sonic elements need to be present for music to be

considered as Cape Jazz, during my fieldwork it became clear that individual experiences also played

a part in defining what Cape Jazz means to different people.

Let me illustrate the above point. To my question “What is Cape Jazz and what were its origins?”

some informants focused on goema [a style of carnival music], excluding all other styles. Others

mentioned langarm and vastrap [dance styles/music], but made no mention of the influence of

pianistic techniques prominent in the local churches (Jimmy Adams, 1999: interview by Valmont

Layne; van Heerden, 2006: personal correspondence with author). Some reminded me of the

38
importance of Kwela , a form of urban penny whistle music from the 1940s and 50s, without

isolating the reasons for its importance (MacKenzie: 2002, interview with author). Most informants

have simply answered my question with a vague “...oh, I don't know... it’s just music, you know, just

music...” (Gawronski, 2003: interview with author).

That said, my field informants were consistent about particular meanings implied by specific musical

influences. There is a common understanding, for instance, that Cape Jazz is closely linked to carnival

activities, partly by introducing youngsters to musical performance, thus creating a strong “musical

work force” in the city and partly because much of the musical language is borrowed from the music

of the carnival (Layne, McKenzie, Moses, et.al, 2001 – 2011: personal interviews with author). In

addition, certain aspects of the musical materials used in the Cape Minstrelsy Carnival were

considered as important to the main “sound identity” of Cape Jazz which in turn was linked to

musical ownership (community ownership). It was also suggested that Cape Jazz belongs to a

specific group of people who interpreted the meanings of the music in specific ways.

Questions and explanations about the meaning of these musics are not surprising. Music is not

referential as a language and is always open to interpretation - both by the performers and the

audience. The meaning of music comes out of complex culture-specific ideas such as learning,

ownership, composition and musical function, amongst many others (Blacking, 1990; Merriam,

1964; Feld, 1990; Barz & Cooley (ed.), 2008). Louise Meintjies argued that the musical meanings we

ascribe to in a composition do not exist in a separate, exclusive domain, but are embedded and

placed within a wider social discourse (Meintjies, 1990: 69). Similarly, the social discourse that

surrounds Cape Jazz therefore includes historical notions that points to, not only the meanings

39
imbedded within the pieces of music itself, but also in the function the music have played in the social

milieu that was responsible for its creation. Consequently, in my search for musical meanings in Cape

Town, I asked my field colleagues questions about the role, and thus function, that music has played

in their lives. The answers they gave to these questions always concerned notions of identity

informed by the historical and cultural placement of the music. Music, as my field colleagues

explained, has given shape to their lives beset by the difficulties experienced as a result of the

apartheid regime.

Consequently, Cape Jazz is of primary importance to many, having given meaning to events, ordinary

and extraordinary and, as a result, it informed a sense of belonging, contributing to notions of

identity. However, what these identities were, and how it related to the music in question was

something I had to discover through dedicated fieldwork, as it has been shaped by the social

infrastructure of the city. This led me to isolate specific historical frameworks within which some

musical identities are clearly placed. Consequently, questions of musical identity that turned out to

be of prime importance to my investigation, included notions of local, national and international

acceptance of the music, as well as ideas that highlight the important influence of the city’s carnival

activities and, finally, notions of indigenous identities. These ideas are explored in the following

chapters, starting with Capetonian notions of identity in Chapter 3.

C ONCLUDING R EMARKS

In this chapter I explored the diverse demographics of the city, hoping to grasp some of the essence

of contemporary Cape Town. I had briefly shown an overview of the colonisation of the country and

seen how Cape Jazz was formed as a result of the complex history of the city. Through this, I had

shown the diversity of the population of Cape Town throughout the colonial period, where each

40
group of newly arrived colonists brought with them new cultural practices. These multifarious

cultural practices included the wine-making skills of the French Huguenots to the musicianship skills

of specially acquired slaves who, not only worked as ordinary slaves, but were also acquired -

specifically as musicians. I included a very short musical history of the pre-colonial and colonial Cape

to illustrate some of the reasons the city became known as a “musical” place, with thousands of

actively practicing musicians. Through this historical research I found that, apart from the practice

of acquiring slave-musicians, people from all walks of life either participated in music-making or in

dance. I demonstrated how country farms often had their own orchestras or marching bands,

performing several times a day, as well as performing for dance events held on these farms, New

Year’s celebrations and other festive occasions. The musicians in these orchestras formed the

mainstay for the next major musical developments, the creation of the minstrelsy carnival – or at

least, the performances that led to the creation of the carnival.

One of the main reasons, as we had seen, for music-making to have continued was that, at the

announcement of the end of slavery, a tradition developed whereby this day is marked through

procession, dance and musicianship. This continued practice, as we discovered, became codified as

the Cape Minstrelsy Carnival in the early 1900s and the main reason why Cape Town now has an

astounding number of actively practicing musicians, ranging from the strictly amateur, to those who

take part in the carnival on a yearly basis, including professional musicians of international standing.

When discussing the definitional problems of jazz, however, it was found that none of the definitions

offered defined the music satisfactorily. This, I feel, is as a result of the diverse influences of the

music, the complexity of the music and the range of the distinctive stylistic differences between the

41
music of different eras, different composers, geographic areas and nations. Jazz is, after all, a

musical form that is constantly evolving and changing and is therefore polysemic in nature. Notions

such as “traditional American jazz” have thus come under scrutiny for some time and form an

important discourse amongst contemporary jazz scholars (see, for example, David Ake’s Jazz/Not

Jazz, published in 2012). Cape Jazz, as indicated previously, forms part of this discourse, yet

ironically the way in which the music is viewed, and as a consequence, defined, forms part of the

concepts of identity for musicians. Thus, even though the music is not defined by its practitioners,

there seems to be enough information on the music (musical, social and historical) that is analysed

on both a conscious and subconscious level, that isolates it to be “this” music and not “that”.

Musicianship and musical styles create their own identities and their own issues of identity. Cape

Jazz is no exception, as many of the musicians involved with jazz scene in Cape Town ignored the

apartheid laws that emphasized the racial divisions in the society. Furthermore, many argued that

although the majority of the musicians involved within the scene are of mixed-race descent, the

music performed, created and celebrated here, is African. This notion has led to many discussions

and forms one of the main points in the following chapter where I will argue that this music,

although syncretic in its formation, is Afrocentric in the notions of the identity that it creates.

42
CHAPTER 3

THE COMPLEXITY OF CONSTRUCTING A CAPETONIAN IDENTITY .

"For everything to stay the same, everything must change,"

Tancredi in The Leopard, Guiseppe di Lampedusa, 1959

Field Work Diary, A Post Gig-crawl discussion, 7 January 2005.

Scene: On the way home, in Jai Reddy's car.

“No man”, says Hilton, “I tell you what”, he takes off his shoes and places his feet on the dashboard, “I'll play
piano with my feet...rather than what we've been hearing all night.”

He's far gone in his musical argument and we're all in support - and thus can't understand his vehemence. But,
hey, it's 3 am, and as a group we've attempted a gig-crawl on this worst-night-for-jazz-gigs in Cape Town: a
few days after the completion of the carnival and the first evening of the Jazzathon, the three-day long Jazz
Marathon. The aim was simple: to see if we could find any “decent music” in the city – other than the jazz
gigs organised for the festival. And now, at 3am in the morning, after starting off well at “Die Kasteel” [The
Castle], with humorous twists on well-known standards (e.g,. a 4/4 take on Dave Brubeck's Take Five), and
moving through sessions at gradually worsening standards, and so we ended up at the Chilli Bar, a simply
awful venue. The music is played by less-than-competent DJs, and the most entertaining discussion we came
across turned out to be on the abuses of “tik” - or crystal methamphetamine. Thus, effectively, we've run out
of patience. It's late. We want to go home, sleep.
But Hilton isn't budging. He's ranting now, voice raised, “...I swear on the graves of my ancestors...no, no ....
on the graves of my Khoisan ancestors,” emphasizing the word Khoisan, “I'll play cool chords with my left
foot...”, and then lamenting, “oh, the crap we heard tonight...” And then Jai's “voice of reason” cuts in and
reminds us of all of the day ahead. We've all got be up bright and breezy for the first jazz festival of the
Capetonian year; we each have a role to play.

Yet, I'm intrigued, and the conversation stays with me the next few days. Hilton ALWAYS talks of his Khoisan
ancestors. Who says he had any? Who says he doesn't? Who says he can place himself in a Khoisan space of
identity? Who says he can't? Are there any Khoisan left? Or rather, are there any Khoi or San or Cochaqua
left? Who were the Cochaqua? I know that some people are scathing of his chosen identity. The scornfulness,
to my mind, a relic of the apartheid accusation: “just who do you think you are?” ... implying that you, to
whom this question is addressed, are judged according to the colour of your skin, according to the standard
of your education, the quality of your hair, the legislation that says “Net Blankes/Whites Only”.

43
From my field Work Diary: A poem, written in Mum’s Garden shed, March 2011

44
S CRUTINIZING I DENTITY

Though many of us might not consider our obsession with ‘self’ as significant in the way in which we

define ourselves, it is a relatively recent phenomenon. In the past the obsession with “self” and “I”

will have been construed as blasphemy – regardless of religious observation – as any notion of “me”,

“I” or “self” only came after our allegiance to the king, the father of the household or to God. Even

so, ideas regarding identity started surfacing during the Renaissance, and solidified, eventually

making way for Descartes’ ‘Id ergo sum’ (1637), and then more strongly during the time of the

Napoleonic Wars and the formation of the Zulu nation under Shaka Zulu.

Thus, around the same time the first South African notions of identity [identity of the yet-to-be

nation] started to get into play as a result of the British annexing of the Dutch colony, the

announcement of the ‘end of slavery’ in British parliament in 1806, the seemingly endless wars that

followed, and their [British] consequent introduction of the first of the colony’s pass-laws, that were

to impact enormously over the next 18730 years, in 1807.

Yet, our contemporary understanding of “identity” and “identity studies” only came to prominence

in the 1950s through the work of the psychologist Erik Erikson. Indeed, Erikson wrote of the ego

identity that develops through social interaction, whilst French philosopher Paul-Michel Foucalt

suggested that identity formation takes place through a series of "discursive practices” in reaction to

our surrounding social structure (Foucault, 1972: xiv). Hence, identity formation is neither a given,

nor a mindless act, but something in which we play an active part through mediation with ourselves,

30 1807 - 1994

45
our peer groups and our immediate social structure - establishing where we would like to place

ourselves musically, politically, emotionally or spiritually.

However, where Eurocentric notions of identity frequently concentrate on the importance of the ‘I’,

of the ‘self’, Southern African concepts of identity is more often based in an ubuntu-like notion

wherein the self is a reflection of the community. Thus, instead of the Descartian ‘I think therefore I

am’ – where the main discursive practice is with the self, traditional Southern African identity

negotiations expect individuals to consider community concepts as its principal mediation [e.g., I am

because you are]. Not that notions of ‘I’ and ‘me’ do not exist - of course it does – but the emphasis

is inverted – giving credence to the influence of community. Hence, from a Southern African

perspective of identity: the multiple identity placements we carry is influenced by our immediate

community and suggest that we do not carry a single unchanging identity but as noted by Denis-

Constant Martin, “a multiplicity of potential identities that constantly transform” (Martin, 2013: 4).

These transformations, as noted by the epigraph in the beginning of the chapter, are necessary so

that constancy of community and of self can be maintained.

Paul Ricœur wrote that each ‘potential identity’, each segregate concept is a “plot” that we combine

in a variety of means (through music, food, dance, sport, etc.) around which we can organise

narratives about who we are - and who we want to be (Ricœur, 1990: 168). Consequently, a duality

exists suggesting that identity is flexible and fluid, moving from one aspect of our identity to another,

from one ‘plot’ to another, without destabilising its familiar foundation.

Stuart Hall also noted this fluidity and multiplicity of being, adding that identity-building recognises

shared ideas or common origins with another person or group (Hall, 1996). Whereas Martin

emphasized “cultural memory”, as stories are told and re-told, contributing to identity formation by
46
“filling gaps left by official histories” as it “tells [stories of] of injustice and past glories” - especially

when considering political regimes such as dictatorships, wars, slavery and apartheid (Martin, 2013:

6). In self-defining we thus tend to include cultural-specific behaviours or unchangeable

distinguishing features that are socially consequential in its interpretation - both by ourselves and

by others (Hall, 1996).

Nonetheless, we do not constantly think of our identity placement, or of our desire to have a space

for identity. Rather, it takes place through situating ourselves in different spaces, different social

interactions, getting deeply involved in our activities, such as playing a game or sharing a joke,

deciding on the food to eat and what music to engage with; enjoying fully what we do, instead of

constantly thinking of who we are. Indeed, our identities are experienced and performed as we

execute our daily routine or become involved in transitional practices, connected to life cycles,

family celebrations, political changes and cultural events, such as Cape Town’s carnival. Accordingly,

the building blocks needed to form identity draw on elements such as memory, history, space, place

and the continuation culture; what we remember about a specific place, and what happened in a

specific space, contribute to forming our cultural memories from which our identities are drawn.

I thus define identity as a socially negotiated idea of self as a direct result of ongoing enculturation

processes in response to our community - constantly renewing, referencing and incorporating new

ideas and responses to culture and its formal and informal institutions.

47
A M USICIAN ’ S I DENTITY

Music is one of the most potent ways in which we define ourselves today. Regarded as an

expression of our ourselves and our musical communities, we often assert and re-assert these

identities by engaging with specific musics and music-related practices - even though what that

musical identity constitutes and how it is achieved is not always clear.

John Baily suggested that the construction of musical identity is a combination of several factors

including the results of:

1) musical change or non-change (Blacking, 1977: 7);

2) as a by-product from a “musical function” standpoint (Merriam, 1964: 226-7);
3) and as a concept of nurture as suggested by Alan Lomax (Baily, 1994:46-8).

Here Baily uses John Blacking's idea of musical non-change, demonstrating why immigrant groups

or “traditional” groups, seek to visit and re-visit their musical and cultural identities. He illustrates

how, in these performances, the musicians hope to recreate “home” or reiterate ideas of “how

home should be”; capturing the audience through a familiar repertoire that invites participation

(Baily, 1994). Yet, these reiterations are seldom an exact copy of what had been; instead, it offers

a “present of the past” that “[…] has more to do with the truth of the present than with the reality

of the past” (Lavabre 1995: 43, quoted in Martin, 2013: 6).

Another consideration includes the functions of music, as suggested by Merriam. Indeed, many of the

building blocks of identity highlighted above are closely aligned to musical function as it, amongst

others, reaffirms societal borders, facilitates communication, represents cultural norms in a symbolic

fashion and contribute to the continuity of culture31 (Merriam, 1964: 209 – 228). This includes the

31 Merriam discussed the “Uses in and Functions” of music in his book Anthropology of Music (1964) where he devoted
an entire chapter to the topic, sighting various approaches and belief systems. Although many British
48
use of pieces such as a national anthem or a popular tune, such as Bob Marley’s Redemption Song32

(1980); something that re-affirms the notion of societal borders, of national feeling, of belonging, and

thus of identity (226-7).

This, in a way, is common sense: we use music on a daily basis to form shapes of who we perceive

ourselves to be. Further, we use music to show our association to those with whom we are creating

our idea of livingness. This points to both multiplicity and memory, as we might use a variety of musics

to reflect our present, with elements drawn from our current experiences and our historical past. This

latter notion was underlined by Lomax who explained that the musical style of a culture is learned in

infancy, in a similar way to the manner in which “we acquire language or emotional

patterns...symbolizing childhood, religious experience, community doings, courtship and work”

(Lomax, 1959: 929, quoted in Baily, 1994).

Hence, from infancy we are enculturated react to and use music. Synchronously we are acculturated

into the music of our particular culture and perhaps are even lent the opportunity to learn an

instrument. Thus, the combination of these observed reactions, which may include physical reaction

or a form of debate, in combination with enculturation and acculturating processes, the changing or

static nature of both culture and music, lead towards the formation of a musical identity. This will be

clarified further when the social factors shaping apartheid South Africa and its resultant post-

apartheid musical identities are examined.

ethnomusicologists no longer support this notion, from a compositional stance, musical functionality makes complete
sense, for instance the compositional gestures used for a piece of film music is completely different to the way a piece
of electronic dance music is constructed. To be honest, in my experience as composer I am somewhat baffled by the
negation of musical functions…I can only surmise that the ethnomusicologists in question have never been
commissioned to write a piece of goal orientated music.

32 Regarded as Jamaica’s unofficial National Anthem

49
AN AFROCENTRIC PERSPECTIVE OF IDENTITY

Afrocentric writers frequently note that ideas on identity are presented from a Eurocentric

perspective. For instance, Frantz Fanon33, whilst a clinician during and after the French-Algerian

war (1950s) noted that his patients34 were left with, as a direct result of colonialism and war,

“fragmented identities” (Bhabha, 1994: 58; Fanon, 1961: 200ff). He explained that colonialism and

capitalism were “built up with the sweat and dead bodies of Negroes, Arabs, Indians, and the

yellow races” and ultimately led to the destruction of nations, and cultures, never to return to

their pre-colonial state and pre-colonial identities (Ibid.; Fanon, 1961: 76).

Further, he suggested that [colonised] identity formation was not so much a process of free will,

but as it is a construct of discursive practices, a decision to go against Eurocentric prescriptions of

identity. These prescriptions, beset with Darwinist essentialism can be seen in Fanon’s statement

that he, as representative of those colonised, experienced. Thus, he noted that “[I]was battered

down by tom-toms, cannibalism, intellectual deficiency, fetishism, [and] racial defect”, describing

accurately many of the colonial and post-colonial practices that has had an impact - and still

continues to have an impact - on the lives of those previously colonised (Fanon, 1986:110-12).

Aimé Césaire, in his Discourse on Colonialism (1972), also noted the impacted brutalities

colonialism has had on both coloniser and colonised, underlining the disruption of ancient existing

infrastructures in Africa, South America and Asia, with “resources drained and cultures trampled

underfoot” in the name of the “European idea of progress” resulting in a continuing post-colonial

33 Fanon viewed these concepts from a personal perspective after witnessing the effects of French colonialism in
Haiti, his place of birth. The French colonisation of Indochina (Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos) marks his references to
“the yellow races”. He worked as a psychiatrist in Algeria during the French-Algerian war.

34 Both Algerian and French patients.

50
trauma that more than 200 years after the end of slavery, still seems unfixable (Césaire, 1972: 6-

7).

Homi Bhabha reflected on the connections between these various experiences, highlighting the

importance of Benedict Anderson's “imagined communities”: diasporic spaces, unrecorded histories

and so-called “alternative histories of the excluded” reflecting on untold stories – not because they

were unknown – but because they were kept hidden (Bhabha, 1994: 8). They were hidden as a result

of the simultaneous processes of usurption and subsumption that were ordinarily part of colonialism.

Thus, the uneasy knowledge of being culturally ignored renders not only an “imaginary”35 community

as fictitious, but also its cultural products and its artists; realities that many Capetonian musicians

have to face.

Similar to this is the experience of the so-called “missing”. “Missing”, not in the sense of being lost,

but “missing” because of not being recorded in history, “missing” because s/he was not regarded as

worthy to be named as the person who planted crops, worked the fields, made the music or built the

colonial forts. “Missing”, because he or she was thrown overboard and reported as “lost cargo” during

the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, and thus not recognised as a person whose life or death was precious

(Beckford, 2005; Bhabha, 1994: 76-78). Thus, the missing is “invisible” to the observer, or learning to

be “invisible” to avoid the “gaze”. Here the problem of being stared at, being gazed at and regarded

as a “freak” diminishes self-autonomy and bestows power upon the “gazer” (Fereira, 2005).

In 1983 Marike de Klerk, the wife of the last white South African President F.W. De Klerk, declared

that mixed-race South Africans, coloured people

are a negative group. The definition of a coloured in the population register

is someone that is not black, and is not white and is also not an Indian, in

35 D-C Martin suggests that the idea of “imagined communities” should be used “in a somewhat broader sense than
Benedict Anderson actually suggested (Anderson, 1983): as social entities temporarily cemented by a belief of belonging
together and having common interests, a belief reinforced by shared cultural practices” (Martin, 2013: 7).

51
 other words a no-person. They are the leftovers. (Sunday Tribune, 5
February 1983, quoted in Adhikari, 2005:13).

Hence de Klerk demonstrated a cultural blindness, dismissing a large section of society as no-persons,

not worthy for attention, or being seen, let alone heard; like golden pennies, lost down the arm of a

sofa. In line with Bhabha's discussion, her assertion demonstrates exactly that which he interrogates:

the histories of those affected by colonisation and diasporic experiences. Hence the task seems quite

clear: to locate some of these cultural practices, to locate some of the forgotten peoples, in the cracks

of colonial societies, in the spaces in between.

Consequently, the trauma of living in a post-colonial society, as discussed by Aimé Césaire and Frantz

Fanon in their respective critiques of colonialism, still seems valid more than 50 years after

publication. Most African countries are still trying to define and redefine themselves and are still

trying to make sense of the cultural trauma of colonialism and slavery which formerly beset them,

with, in the case of South Africa, apartheid and post-apartheid adding to these complexities. Africans

and the African diaspora still live in financial poverty and are still regarded as “the other”.

IDENTITY AS “THE OTHER”

Being “the other” is, of course, problematic when cultural and physical differences are noted,

highlighted, analysed and placed against the European ideal as a negative view of what society should

be. Edward Said provides us with important insights into this process, noting the European view of

the “oriental others” as being “alien”, “phlegmatic” and “lax” (Said, 1987: 119). In Orientalisms (1987)

Said quotes sections of Arthur Balfour's 190936 parliamentary speech showing how Britain viewed the

36 Balfour actually says: “the Zulu nation” possibly in reference to the Anglo-Boer War, rather than “South Africa” whose
formation was at this point a further 52 years off – but the implications remain the same.

52
peoples of its colonies, particularly Egypt, India and South Africa, in a similar way (48). Thus, a

stereotypical contrast was created and codified in which “the Oriental other” was defined as “slow,

lazy and dim-witted”, rendering the Occident as a place of desire, its people being “hard working,

clever and organized” (Said, 1987).

Consequently, I wish to argue that the concept of “the other” has utmost relevance in the South

African context: “the other” as being part of Africa, “the other” since the majority of its citizens are

black, “the other” because the society itself, in imitation of the “Eumerica”37 it so desperately feels it

needs to emulate, created its own “other” placements – through language, culture and skin

tone. Thus, the combined placement of being “the other” and “being missing” from history, together

with working through the trauma and brutalities of colonialism and apartheid, forms the platform of

many South African identities. Additional post-apartheid revisionist identity negotiations add to this

complexity, aiming to allow many of the peoples addressed to emerge as being “found”, from being

“overlooked” to being “seen” – and, importantly, vice versa.

CAPE TOWN, IDENTITY & EUGENICS

Locating a Capetonian identity could then seem elusive and difficult to unravel. Ordinarily South

African identities of the colonial, pre-apartheid and apartheid eras tended to focus on prescriptions

by its governing body and were supported, and furthered, by its academics. Some contemporary

cultural myths, drawn from the academic practices of the 1930s, still present many Capetonians as

37 Eumerican - my own created word. I started using this in reference to the African trend that favours European and
American beliefs and art forms that, ultimately, is having a homogenising effect on much of the music and culture of
the continent. Moreover, this cultural sameness has led - and is currently leading - to a smaller musical and cultural
gene pool in terms of sounds, effects, techniques, musical gestures and so on. Effectively, I view this current obsession
as a self-inflicted continuation of colonial Social Darwinism – but from a musical perspective.

53
being exotically of Javanese or Malayan extraction, whereas others focus their concepts of identity

on being Khoisan, Indian or European.

Moreover, when considering that the colonial and apartheid regimes focussed exclusively on race

and ethnicity, it clearly formed a central point to identity negotiations in the Western Cape. Indeed,

contemporary understandings of the notions of “race” and “ethnicity”, rooted in the Enlightenment,

were triggered as a result of the earliest colonial travel. When early colonists came across the

nomadic African groups, such as the Khoe-khoe and San [Khoisan], European notions of “civilization”

entered into the equation, underlining Eurocentric ideas of the “wild nature” of a people they

regarded as “less than human” (Hudson, 2004: 310 - 315).

These ideas, along with the deepening Darwinist beliefs “that focused on the 'scientific' validity for

the division of races”, included the work of Francis Galton, whose theories38 ultimately led to the

formation of the eugenics (Said, 1978: 206). Academics and colonial travellers in Southern Africa

applied Galton's theories of the lower classes of Europe directly to the recently freed slaves, the black

population groups, and the indigenous Khoisan and Nama populations. Thus, experimentation and

the physical measuring of all parts of the body (Thomas Huxley's methodologies), phrenology,

abduction and human-hunting expeditions followed; all seen as a moral obligation, all in the name of

“God” and of science (Skotness, et. al, 1996).

Belief in European ideals was subscribed to and observed by many of the settlers, including eugenics

-viewed in the UK and the rest of Europe as a liberal philosophy. Without a doubt, eugenics was not

38 Outlined in an article entitled Hereditary Talent and Character (1865).

54
regarded a philosophy of the ignorant, as its champions included leaders such as Marie Stopes39 and

Winston Churchill. We must also bear in mind also that South Africa was, until 1961, a British colony -

constantly fostering the idea that “Europe is better”. Eugenics thus conquered many South Africans

who viewed themselves as “European”.

One example is Gerrie Eloff, whose academic specialism was situated in eugenics and “race relations”.

In 1933 he published an article wherein many of apartheid's belief systems were codified40.

Entitled Rasverbetering deur uitskakeling van minderwaardige individue (Racial betterment through

the omission of inferior individuals), Eloff argues in favour of so-called “positive eugenics”; showing a

clear dislike of those who were black or bi-racial (Eloff, 1933:33; Venter, 2009: 23-24).

Other writers, such as I.D. Du Plessis (an academic, musician and poet) and P.J. Coertze (An academic,

writer and editor), who were both influential in the apartheid state mechanism, aligned themselves

with Eloff and through their deliberations and writings, oiled the cogs of the apartheid state.

However, it has to be noted that the South African system of enforced segregation was not unique

and was commonly used by British, French and Belgian administrators throughout Africa. Concepts

of “social comfort” and “hygiene” were put forward as legitimate reasons for this segregating

behaviour which ultimately led to apartheid (Mamdani, 1996: 8-16, van den Heuvel, 2008: 193-194).

39 The much admired 'Marie Stopes' abortion clinics, the first set up in Liverpool, UK, and seen today by many as a pro-
choice tool for contemporary women, were set up on eugenics principals, specifically to encourage working class women
in Britain not to have children – especially mixed-race children (Rape Crisis Organisation, UK & South Africa). It recently,
in response to Black Lives Matter #BLM decided to change its name in order to separate its old associations with the
new and is now known as MSI Reproductive Choices…the MSI still representing the Marie Stopes Institute (The
Guardian, 17 November 2020).
40 Its publication coincided with Goebbels' first publication of the state of the Nazi nation in 1933.

55
Thus, I argue that many of the characteristics of the prescribed identities, forced on to the people by

the apartheid state, were already in place in the late 1800s - adapted fully from European notions as

what it meant “to be African”. From this, ideas of segregation were further codified by the South

African state apparatus, using approaches prescribed by its European colonisers.

Consequently, the pre-apartheid state (pre-1949) loosely divided and segregated the population into

four different population groups, formalising these divisions after the formation of the apartheid

state in 1949. These divisions were:

a) Black, which comprised various groups such as Nguni, Sotho, Venda and Shangaan-Tsonga,
with each presenting a different set of cultural notions, languages, cultural ideas and
identities.

b) White English and Afrikaans speakers, made up mainly from the colonisers, with yet again
different cultural values and identities.

c) Coloured, a label which grew out of the colonial state and was made definitive by the
apartheid government. This classification (coloured) included the descendants of the colonial
slaves, the Khoisan groups, the Nama groups, the Griekwas and the Rehoboth Basters.
However, these groups were sometimes treated as distinct groups, such as Malay, Griekwa,
Nama and so forth, and sometimes lumped together, and at points even included the Indian
population, under the rubric “coloured” (Adhikari, 2005: 14; Lewis, 1987: 46 - 63).

d) Indian, in reference to the Indian slaves and their descendants brought to South Africa
(1860 – 1911) specifically to work on the sugar plantations.

BEING MIXED-RACE

Mixed-race or Coloured identity structures has thus given rise to many discourses, including the

notable Between the Wire and the Wall (1987) by Gavin Lewis, Coloured by History, Shaped by Place

(2001) by Zimitri Erasmus and Not White Enough, Not Black Enough (2005) by Mohammed Adhikari.

As a group, coloured citizens occupy a difficult social and cultural space in South Africa, carrying a

56
baggage of negative connotations from the colonial time, including Victorian eugenic notions of

“mixed blood”. For instance, being coloured, wrote Zimitri Erasmus, is having to “choose between

blackness and whiteness”, “being the privileged black” and the “not quite white person” whose

legacy is “clouded in sexualised shame and associated with drunkenness and jollity” (Erasmus, 2001,

2 - 3). Yet, as many of Cape Town’s most prominent Jazz musicians are drawn from the group, all of

the compositions chosen as case studies for this book were written by musicians of mixed-race

extraction. Therefore, it is important that I discuss some of the foundations on which contemporary

coloured or mixed-raced identities were formed. (This identity formation is discussed in more depth

in Chapter Five).

Due to slavery and eugenics, the marginalisation of coloured people was widespread, and continues

to be so for a host41 of reasons42. Consequently, some of the earliest formal negotiations of identity

was to seek out education and politicisation, only to be followed by

disappointments through political downplay when a series of laws, introduced from 1902 onwards,

prevented educational43 or political equality (Lewis, 1987; Adhikari, 2005: 66 - 72).

41
In March and April 2011, for instance, members of the ruling government had lodged complaints against this group
as they felt that, from a positive discriminatory perspective, too many senior managerial roles had been awarded to
coloured citizens. More shockingly, it was alleged that one government official suggested that a forced removal
programme be put into place, to move coloured people to various areas of the country, thus address this viewed
imbalance (SABC News Reports, March and April 2011).

42 By 18 November 2018 these debates have intensified as coloured poverty increased, along with the continual
ignorance of their plight as this BBC News Report shows: Accessed 10/03/2019: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/world-
africa-46291290/south-africa-s-coloured-community-complains-of-ethnic-marginalisation

43 In in 1902, schools were segregated, by 1912 black teachers were demoted and by 1922 all black and coloured
teachers, who were teaching at white schools, lost their hard earned positions as a result of racist legislative change.

57
What followed was an aspiration towards an assimilation of whiteness and European culture,

accompanied by consistent distancing from the concept of blackness. Great value was placed on

lightness of skin, straightness of hair and white ancestry, together with a conformance to the

standards of Western bourgeois culture (11, 70 -72). This was aided by the eugenicist ideas that

attributed “racial” traits to people of mixed-descent, and often explained in terms of the deleterious

effect of racial mixture. Allegedly inherent characteristics – such as being physically stunted, lacking

in endurance and naturally prone to dishonesty, licentiousness and drunkenness, have often been

explained or justified in terms of the effects of gebastenheid (bastardization) resulting in physical

and moral weakness (24). Thus, it is not surprising that mixed identity, loaded with its negative

associations, was not embraced as a self-affirming group identity (15).

Added to these identity ascriptions were further negative ideas. For instance, because the early

Cape minstrels found inspiration in the acts of the visiting American minstrels, traditional stock

characters such as the “buffoon” were adopted. At the same time the dop system, a feudal system

whereby alcohol is used as payment for work completed, encouraged the stereotype of the

“alcoholic coloured buffoon”. Moreover, the education system, which provided limited education

for anyone who was black or coloured, led, in part, to the extreme poverty of the coloured

population in the Western Cape44. Consequently, cultural products such as music, poetry and

literature were viewed with suspicion and embarrassment. Instead of being celebrated as

interesting creative processes, wherein “discussion, argument and debate” was celebrated, it was

derided and linked to the minstrelsy stereotype noted above (Rive, 1961, in Viljoen: 2006).

44 Since 1994, under the new, post-apartheid government, the mixed-race population is the only group in South Africa
that has become poorer, rather than maintaining or increasing its economic standing.

58
However, in spite of this negativity, Capetonians constructed a large part of their identities through

their cultural outputs and the various organisations they created and use. Furthermore, because of

the lack of education offered, many turned to music as a way in which to attain some learning. Thus,

the identities formed include political thought and religious conformity, musical spaces and carnival

groups, jazz bands and dance troupes and more; essentially activities that are somehow linked to

organisations that meet throughout the year and give structure to lives beset with mundane jobs and,

often, financial difficulties. As a result, many situate their identities as actors in the minstrelsy

carnival, as choristers, or as instrumental performers through the musical styles they compose or

perform. Furthermore, all show an exceptional fluidity in choosing from these identities; a necessity

for survival in this (still) divided society.

WHEN DO WE BECOME AFRICAN - AT HOME OR ABROAD?

Whatever was understood in the 1950s and 60s by the phrase “African Jazz'” contributes to one of

the many dichotomies in this book. Many musicians left South Africa specifically because they felt

their musical developments were curtailed by the offerings of the apartheid system. However,

they faced many difficulties on arrival at their destination, regardless of whether they “stayed

behind” after being part of a touring troupe of a musical such as King Kong, or whether they left

the country via other routes. In addition, we must be aware that despite the wish or need to

travel, many South African peoples were not entitled to a passport.

This stems from the 1950s legislation by the apartheid regime which prohibited black South Africans

to tour, even as part of a sport or performance group, except through the facilitation of a

government agency. Thus, certain musical or theatre performers were only allowed to tour if they

were able to satisfy some cultural norms as will be demonstrated below. People of mixed-race

59
decent were, however, entitled to be passport holders yet, considering the groups’ poverty, not

many could organize their own concert tours and had to rely on impresarios or government vetoed

tours.

The control over passports and tours was not that unpredictable, considering that whatever

legislation was introduced was used to support the interest of the apartheid system and restrained

the movement of all South Africans. The movement of black citizens was especially curtailed

through the Urban Areas Consolidation Act of 1945, whereby black people had to carry a pass

[known as the dom pas - transl: dumb pass] at all times. Subsequently, many musicians “slipped

across the border”; a commonly used euphemism for going into exile, particularly to places such as

Swaziland and Botswana, before leaving for greener pastures.

Fundamentally the apartheid government wanted no-one of colour to leave the country, other than

on trips approved by the government such as the performers of the jazz opera, King Kong, the

Golden City Dixies45 and the musical, Ipi Tombi. These performances were allowed to travel abroad

mainly because they underlined the stereotypical imagination of what was regarded as being

coloured or black. Performances such as these assisted in the codification of the European and

American expectation of the visual and sound qualities of African music and its form of dance,

drawing sub-consciously on previously introjected ideas, including the impression that Africans

were “all singing, all dancing”, “primitive”, “unsophisticated” and “tribal”.

Mervyn McMurtry's analyses of the way in which the play Umabatha was received by London

audiences in the 1960s and 70s, underlines this idea. The play, by Welcome Msomi, often referred

45 One of the pieces sung by the Golden City Dixies was entitled My Mamma was n' Hottentot (1957). The title of the
song means “My mother was a Hottentot”; Hottentot is a word of slander to the Khoi or Khoekhoen people. From this
we can assume that being on a government vetoed tour means underlining the racist ideologies of the apartheid
government. I expand on this in Chapter 8.
60
to as a Zulu Macbeth, frequently drew comments referring to tribal elements, simplicity or

sensuality. One of the more colourful critiques of the play [whilst in London] was that by B.A. Young

who wrote that

Africans are natural actors; their emotions lie near the surface and they
gesture as readily as they talk. It’s this instantaneous sublimation of
thought into movement that gives their acting its touchingly childlike
element (Young, Financial Times, 4 April 1972, quoted in McMurtry, 1999).

Playing on Barthes's ideas of mythmaking; specifically that of distortion (of truth) and transforming

history into nature, McMurtry focuses on Victorian ideas and the lexemes and morphemes used by

the literature that pre-dates the play. He explains that these “views of Africa” were already at play

in Joseph Conrad's “Heart of Darkness”, published in 1902, and predated by J.Rider Haggards'

novels such as “She” (1887). Descriptions of spear-bearing warriors in cow-hide and feathers, and

bare-breasted dancing maidens abound. Concepts, put forward by Victorian writers such as

Haggard, favoured these views in their justification for the imperialisation of Africa on moral

grounds. Subsequently it is not surprising that the Victorians frequently used words such as

“primitive”, “warlike”, “childlike”, “instinctive” and “exotic” to describe these performances

(McMurtry,1999: 319-343).

Jürgen Lieskounig adds to this critique through his analysis of the depiction of Africa in the National

Geographic Magazine. He writes that

a rich source for myth production is the emphasis on so-called

tradition and the traditional ways of the people .... they not only provide a
titillating and sufficiently exotic commodity that can be exploited, but they
also perpetuate the myth of timelessly exotic and primitive Black Africans
(Lieskounig, 1997: 29).

61
Ipi Tombi and King Kong46 were spectacular Broadway-style musicals that focused on many of the

concepts of Africanness, such as dress code, dance styles, and urban and traditional (rural) songs.

Subsequently, when in exile, performers had to transact what was considered to be “African Music”

or “African Jazz” by their European or American counterparts due to political force or individual

choice.

Musicians in exile also had to live with the psychological strain that they may never be able to

return to their homeland and see their families again, while also trying to cope with the difficulties

of adapting to a new culture, which often entailed learning new languages. Inevitably, living in

different cultures affected elements of their identities. They had to adapt to their new country and

a new way of living, whilst also experiencing a great deal of homesickness combined with a wistful

yearning to be psychologically, historically and emotionally understood. The pressure to make a

living increased their aggravation and must have played a crucial part in making their choices from

the two options that musicians saw available to them. One was to adapt completely to their new

circumstances; the other was to retain what others wanted them to be: the exotic as seen by this

new culture. In some cases, musicians adopted the exotic as a new face, a new identity – not

becoming more of home than when at home - but becoming an exotic version of what is expected

of them. In each case, this adoption of a new culture or the exotic version of the self, acted as a

mask whilst at work, although most musicians had to maintain their self-identities outside work as

an act of self-preservation, only to be shown to and shared with friends, family and compatriots

(Galeta, 2004: interview with author).

46. Billed as a 'Jazz Opera', it is essentially a musical written by Todd Matshikiza depicting the life of the heavy weight
boxer Ezekiel Dlamini who was known as King Kong.

62
Brian Isaacs and Arthur Gillies are examples of musicians who chose to live in exile. In the 1950s both

were very active on the Cape Jazz scene, and highly regarded members of the performance group,

The Golden City Dixies. Isaacs chose to “stay behind” when the troupe visited Sweden in the late

1950s. Initially, through good fortune and hard work, he managed to attend the Royal College of

Music in Stockholm, receiving a performance degree in bassoon.

At the same time, he worked hard at being a South African political activist, thus, developing one

aspect of his musical identity, whilst maintaining a strong sense of being South African in another.

The film SØR-AFRIKA: musikk i eksil (1989) (South Africa: Music in Exile) shows this aspect of his

identity in a performance of traditional black, rather than Coloured songs in his adopted Sweden

(Isaacs & Horne, 1989). Dressing for shows in a leopard skin draped across his shoulders, he seems

to exemplify Lieskounig’s analysis of the perpetuation of the myth of the “timelessly exotic and

primitive Black African” (Lieskounig, 1997).

.
Comparably, pianist Arthur Gillies settled in Norway, where built his life as a jazz pianist and contrary

to Isaacs, adopted the country wholeheartedly. “It was love”, he told me, “I fell in love and it made

things easy” (Gillies, 2004: interview by author). Returning to South Africa once a year (since 1994)

he continues to perform in both countries – despite being over 70. His music is controlled, careful,

mainly based on standard jazz and strongly influenced by his adopted country. His compositions thus

reflect his adopted identity, rather than a Capetonian space and include many classical references as

found in the Scandinavian countries (Gillies, 2005: interview by author and Nxomalo).

THE INDIGENOUS AND AFRICANIST IN CAPETONIAN IDENTITY

Within this context we find that a unique position were created where a group of people were

63
classified as “coloured”, whereas those from a similar extraction were viewed as “black” in other

ex-colonies. Jamaican and North American black populations, for instance, are similarly mixed47 in

heritage – yet identify completely as “black”’. From the South African perspective there are, as we

have seen, historical reasons for such a placement, yet, to entirely separate and create such a

group remains uncommon.

Another unusual idea was the inclusion of indigenous groups as part of the “coloured” classification.

As will be seen in the penultimate chapter, being Khoi or San is not the same as being Khoisan; a

newly emerged identity which many musicians claim as their own. At present aboriginal groups -

such as the Khoi and the San - are trying to reform themselves and find spaces for a cultural revival.

These ancient groups date back at least 140,000 years and were so completely oppressed by the

colonising administrators, that little of the cultures survived. Chased away from their traditional

living places, indentured as serfs, hunted, decapitated, preserved and used in anthropomorphic

taxidermy exhibitions48 – complete with glass eyes, huts and hunting stances holding bows and

arrows – it thus adds to the hardship in the search and placement of identity (Skotness, 1996:

Introduction; Skotness, 2011: unpublished lecture).

As these identity placements, and its resultant art forms, have been shaped by an entirely African

experience, I propose that we regard the musical identities that flow from these experiences, not

only as an expression of a Capetonian identity, but also an expression of African-ness as it is bound

47 Jamaica acknowledges this with pride as its motto reads, “Out of Many, One People”, whereas discourses in the USA
concerning blackness are multiple and included, in the past, degrees or percentages of blackness, and descriptions such
as octoroon and quadroon.

48 Some of these remains are still held in European collections – both private and public - including those in the British
Museum identity (Skotness, 1996: Introduction; Skotness, 2011: unpublished lecture).

64
by its specificity to culture, history and geography. These expressions of “African-ness” are often

referred to as “Africanist identities” or “Afrocentric identities” – the use of each term depending on

its cultural and geographical approach.

T OWARDS AN A FROCENTRIC A FRICAN I DENTITY .

Molefe Asante wrote that Afrocentricity as:

…a mode of thought and action in which the centrality of African interests,
values and perspectives predominate. In regards to theory, it is the placing
of African people in the center of any analysis of African phenomena. Thus
it is possible for anyone to master the discipline of seeking the location of
Africans in a given phenomenon. In terms of action and behaviour, it is the
devotion to the idea that what is in the best interest of African consciousness
is at the heart of ethical behaviour. Finally, Afrocentricity seeks to enshrine
that the idea of blackness itself is a trope of ethics. Thus, to be black is to be
against all forms of oppression, racism, classism, homophobia, patriarchy,
child abuse, paedophilia and white racial domination (Asante, 1988: 2).

It is clear that this is a declaration - as it is much more than a definition. Although the defining quality

of this statement is clearly in the beginning of the paragraph, it also contains an almost unachievable

set of notions that include an idealism that could be the aspirations for any 21st century society.

Also, definitions of blackness differ from nation to nation so that, at the one end of the scale, being

black includes a specific set of attributes – one which needs the inclusion of being African or

diasporically African. On the other end of the scale, blackness is defined as any person not regarded

as part of the wider white population; a mind-set that defines anyone regarded as “the other” as

black49.

49 For instance, an Asian student identifies as ‘Black British’ – even though her ancestry is based in southern India.

65
This view seems to fit with Asante’s ideas, as in An Afrocentric Manifesto (2005), he explains that all

people of African descent should be viewed as African50, yet what constitutes blackness is in

question. In the final chapter Asante concludes that, although the notion of blackness has led to

marginality in many societies, the concept is not something that should be viewed from an

essentialist perspective and that, rather, it should be approached as an open-ended discourse

(Asante, 2005: Kindle location 3056 ff).

This is almost an inverse approach to that taken by the authors of Who is an African? (2009) – yet

there are similarities. In fact, the similarities reside in the idea that African-ness as an identity

construct is viewed as a discourse and, in both cases, it is viewed as something that is aspired to and

earned, rather than a given notion (Adibe, 2009). Yet it is oppositional in that where Asante, from

his North American perspective, accepts someone’s African-ness – provided that you can prove and

negotiate your familial blackness, the writers of Who is an African? (2009) accepts blackness as

something that is set and non-negotiable – and questions notions of being African. Bankie Foster

Bankie, quoting Mohammed Fayek, pointed out that the birth of this specific Africanist movement

“…was initiated by black Americans in reaction to discrimination against them….Hence the birth

of…’Africanism’…but only with black Africa in mind…” (Foster, 2009: 195). This perspective, Bankie

points out, is viewed with some difficulty by many African nations, and South Africa is no exception.

Monique Theron and Gerrie Swart, writing on South African identities, acknowledges

the difficulties found herein and critiques those who proclaim that an African or South African

50 He notes in his writings that notions such as “African American” or “Black British” does not describe the concept of
blackness or Ebonics, and that blackness is something more than just the colour one’s skin or a knowledge of the
linguistic ideas set out (Assante, 1998, 2005 and 2010).

66
identity is bound up in blackness or ubuntu51; the Zulu word that can be explained as “a person is a

person through other persons” (Theron and Swart, 2009: 158). This concept is expressed in a variety

of ways in South African contexts, not only through individual reflection – but also in popular media

as a ‘peer group-like’ concept. For instance, the South African Broadcasting Company (SABC)

exclaims through one channel, (SABC 1) that “we are one”, using the word simunye as a tag and

statement of ethos; constantly trying to hone the communalism of the South African state.

However, because of its (ubuntu’s) extreme emphasis on community, it might be, wrote Themba

Sono, exploited to become restrictive, tyrannical and totalitarian. In such a system, he goes on to

say,

Discursive rationality is overwhelmed by emotional identity [of

communality]…To agree is more important than to disagree; conformity is
cherished more than innovation. Tradition is venerated, continuity revered,
change feared and difference shunned (Sono: 1994: 7, cited in Louw).

Consequently, Theron and Swart concludes that

For South Africa, being African means being part of the rainbow, believing in
renewal, embracing diversity and being part of a continent that is
transforming itself for a better future. Being African is about working
towards creating a new image and space for Africa in the world…it is a state
of mind, rather than a construct of race and creed… (Theron and Swart,
2009: 160).

This argument, although it still contains ideas of ubuntu – as being part of the rainbow nation – it

also reiterates the notion set out by Asante in his definition of Afrocentricism: Being African is a

state of mind, rather than an essentialist notion of skin colour and physical features that reflects

Thomas Huxley’s notions. Being African celebrates African ideas and ideologies’, placing these at the

51 Ubuntu is a word found in many Bantu languages meaning “being a person through other people” or “I am the person that I am
because of whom we are as a society”; Archbishop Desmond Tutu describes it as “A person with Ubuntu is open and available to
others, affirming of others, does not feel threatened that others are able and good, for he or she has a proper self-assurance that
comes from knowing that he or she belongs in a greater whole and is diminished when others are humiliated or diminished, when
others are tortured or oppressed” (Tutu, 1999).

67
centre of one’s being, at the centre of one’s identity, becoming Africanist, or in Asante’s parlance,

Afrocentric. These notions also fall in line with the concepts of identity highlighted by the musicians

I have worked with.

“Nation building”, many participant musicians have called it, quoting former president Thabo

Mbeki’s parliamentary statement of 1998. Herein he called for a dignified national movement

towards a South African identity where Afrocentricism, as understood from South Africa’s diverse

rainbow nation perspective, is celebrated

(http://www.dfa.gov.za/docs/speeches/1998/mbek0529.htm, accessed September 2011).

From this angle, it is accepted that Capetonian experiences, through slavery, the colonial and post-

colonial processes, are culture-specific and uniquely African exactly because of the hybridity that is

the result of these diverse influences. Histories are portrayed through stories told, languages

spoken, and musical languages inherited or developed that could only have originated in this

particular place because of a particular set of circumstances presented in the southern-most city

on African soil. Musically this means that neo-colonial genres, such as goema and Cape Malay

choral music – despite being drawn from former colonial countries, along with traditional musical

spaces – such as the music of the Khoi and San peoples, all form part of the Afrocentric, Africanist

ideal.

Some might argue, however, that “Africanist” and “Afrocentric” reflect slightly different approaches

to African identity. Both embody concepts of Africa as identity placements – although the ideas of

this ‘Africa’ is sometimes construed as tenuous, romantic, mythological and idealistic. At the centre

of its identity negotiations “Afrocentricism” is regarded as an ideological paradigm, “Africanisms”, by

68
contrast, reflects the practical day-to-day notions of how this ideological paradigm is applied. Of

course, proclaiming to being an Africanist from a musical perspective is undoubtedly a valid notion

for identity construction. Certainly, Portia Maultsby argued that from an African American view,

musicians use ideas constructed in Africa, including, from a musical perspective, the use of extended

mellismas, vocalisations (“grunts, hollers and moans”) and a performance delivery which she calls “An

African Musical Dimension”, thereby creating and re-creating an identity denied through slavery

(Maultsby, 2000: 157 – 165).

Wole Soyinka also demonstrated this in his analysis of the Orishan [Yoruban] religious practices, that

had, as a result of the Black Atlantic, transferred to Brazil. Though it had been altered through its mix

with Catholicism and other African belief systems, it still functions today to create identities denied

through the colonial processes (Soyinka, 1976). In each of these cases, Maultsby suggests, the

practitioner is freed from being the victim of a prescribed colonial identity, or from being the

Eurocentric “other”, and instead creates an identity based in Afrocentric cultural practices (Maultsby,

2000).

From the South African concept these ideas play directly into the concept of ‘Nation Building’ as it

allows the person to acknowledge their African or Africanist identity – regardless of previous

[apartheid] population grouping. As a mark of this identity the bearer can use physical adornments,

engage in music-making, or other art forms, to reflect their Afrocentric placement (Maultsby, 1990).

From a Southern African-specific perspective this means that the Africanist can engage in traditional

musical practices such as such as salungano (Southern African story-songs), bira (Zimbabwean

spiritual practices that uses the mbira as musical instrument) and chopi (Mozambican music that uses

69
timbila (marimba) orchestras as main instrument) as an everyday practice. However, Maultsby is clear

that the Africanist does not only engage in the ancient ways of “doing things” but allows the lived

experiences of colonialism and contemporary life to form part of this identity formation (Maultsby,

1990). Thus, musics informed by the colonial experience or by contemporary constructs, are also

viewed as African and thus include the musical practices at the centre of this dissertation: Cape Jazz

and the local musics that have influenced its creation. By engaging with these, the practitioner ends

up with a clearly defined, albeit culture specific, Africanist identity.

That said, Africanisms are often regarded, in Africa itself, as an African diasporic construct; a diaspora

that is in search of identity. When interviewing, I asked my field colleagues their views on the validity

of Africanisms. The concept, however, was frequently dismissed as “Americanisms” and “American

ideas of Africa”; yet others hinted at similar concepts, but without necessarily articulating it fully

(Layne and Nxomalo, 2002: Interviews with author; McKenzie and Schilder: 2004: Interviews with

author). Nonetheless, Timothy Odeyale proposed a practical need for an Africanist or Afrocentric

approach. He explained how Western views disregarded African cultural needs and used, as example,

the construction of a homestead. Herein he showed how young Nigerian architects, trained in Europe,

return to Africa and create homesteads suitable only for the European nuclear family, rather than an

African homestead, suitable for use of the extended family52 (Odeyale, 2002). Essentially Odeyale was

arguing for a syncretised adaptation of African and European ideas.

Transferring this idea to music, and taking into view Maultsby's ideas, I suggest that South African

musicians have constructed their musics in the way suggested by Odeyale. Musicians have looked

52 Many in South Africa, Black, Coloured and White, have retained this approach whenever necessary or possible,
approaching a home-life that accommodates three generations.

70
practically at the instruments and local musical materials available to them, creating their own

versions of contemporary popular musics. Thus, from a black South African perspective, in the 1920s,

Marabi was created, in the 1930s kwela and in the 1940s and 50s, jive and so forth.

From a Capetonian perspective similar ideas were at play, although the musics were not the same, as

the materials available were not the same. Consequently, in the 1830s and 40s, out of the original

slave musics and colonial marching bands, came the musics that would eventually be known as

Malay53 choirs, Vastrap and Goema. Similarly, in the mid- to late-20th century, from Vastrap, Goema,

and the Malay (Muslim) influence, in combination with North American Jazz, Cape Jazz was created.

A music that, I argue, is distinctly and decidedly African, in its use of Africanist musical materials and

its identity defining, nation-building, position.

***

In the chapters that follow, I unpack ideas that pertain to Capetonian identity formation, and show

the way in which they have informed music making. I hope to show the effects of the traumas of

eugenic placement, forced removals and of building identities based on a slave ancestry. I also wish

to demonstrate, through musical analysis and historical placement elements of transcendentalism,

play and newly emerging identities. Thus, cultural spaces, the change and non-change of music and

of culture, the international and “ethnic identity” of Cape Jazz, local music and European classical

music, are at play here, constantly transforming and layering the musical landscape, shaping the way

we think about music and what we consider to be “our” music.

53 The word “Malay” in this instance means that the choristers are thought to have been drawn from the descendants
of the Malayu speaking groups who were imported and indentured as slaves during colonial times. Frequently it simply
refers to being a Capetonian Muslim.

71
CHAPTER 4

“YOU ARE NOW IN FAIRYLAND ”: SPACE , PLACE , IDENTITY AND DISTRICT SIX .

F IELDWORK D IARY , N OTES ON D ISTRICT S IX , D ECEMBER 2004,

B LUES FOR D ISTRICT S IX , BY A BDULLAH I BRAHIM

early one new year's morning

when the emerald bay waved its clear waters against the noisy dockyard
a restless south easter54 skipped over slumbering lion's head55
danced up hanover street56
tenored a bawdy banjo
strung an ancient cello
bridged a host of guitars
tambourined through a dingy alley
into a scented cobwebbed room
and crackled the sixth sensed district
into a blazing swamp fire of satin sound

early one new year's morning

when the moaning bay mourned its murky waters against a deserted dockyard
a bloodthirsty south easter roared over hungry lion's head
and ghosted its way up hanover street
empty
forlorn
and cobwebbed with gloom

54 The South Easter is a wind that can be of unimaginable strength. It’s known to topple double-decker busses every so
often. Yet, it keeps the weather fine and the city pollution free.
55 The koppie or hill on the right hand side of Table Mountain.
56 The main street of District Six.

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F ROM THE ADDRESS BY P RESIDENT T HABO M BEKI , A T THE D ISTRICT S IX L AND C LAIMS C ELEBRATIONS , C APE
T OWN , 26 N OVEMBER 2000

We have met here today to say that racism and apartheid were wrong and that Abdullah Ebrahim
[sic] was right. This sixth sensed district, the historic representative of a non-racial Cape Town and
a non-racial South Africa, will, once again, be enveloped in "a blazing swamp fire of satin sound…As
we celebrate the return of District Six to the people and the return of the people to District Six, we
are giving the sea back to those who used to swim here day after day and we are returning the
mountain to those for whom it was their youthful playground…This, surely, is our country's new
year's morning (Mbeki, 2000).

I LLUSTRATION 9 Y OU ARE N OW IN F AIRYLAND : AN IMPRESSION BY ARTIST LOUISE LÜDERS OF ONE OF THE FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPHS
BY C LOETE B REYTENBACH (T HERE IS A SERIES ). T HIS BIT OF GRAFFITI LED TO THE TITLES OF ART EXHIBITIONS , BOOKS , ARTICLES
AND ACADEMIC PAPERS . I T IS FELT THAT IT ACCURATELY SUMMED UP THE GENERAL FEELING ON D ISTRICT S IX AT THE TIME .

FIELDWORK NOTES
At some stage, during the last existing years of District Six, an old Cape Town neighbourhood, on a
wall in large letters a hastily painted phrase summarised the feelings of what many felt was the
essence of the place, stating: “You are now in Fairyland”.

73
Having spent an evening at the Distrix 6 Jazz club, I came home filled with wonder and excitement,
thinking that I had entered Fairyland myself. I was sitting in this club, knowing that this was, as far
as we knew, with the exception of the mosque, the church and the Bloemhof flats, one of the last
remaining original buildings. Removing these would not do, and for the overly religious apartheid
government, it would not have been...how can I say? Kosher?

So, this building, now restored and renewed, is unique in that it escaped the devastation of forced
removals. One of the few places not to have been bulldozed, not to have been forcibly flattened into
a pile of rubble, along with livelihoods and real lives lived. I am, of course, referring to the
memories of having lived in District Six, of having grown up in this over-crowded suburb, described
by many outsiders as a “slum”, yet referred to insiders as a place of sounds and smells. As a place
where people were born and raised; walking and talking, making food and fun and music. This was
a real place with its population dancing and laughing; yet doubled over with the dual yoke of
apartheid and poverty.

Tonight (how exciting!) I was honoured to meet some of the musicians who grew up here. They told
me their childhood stories of games and music and carnival play in these very streets and,
somehow, I felt I was part of it! Somehow, I was transported back in time, back to the 1950s. I met
the people who were living their lives making music; transforming ordinary spaces into places to
be, places to be seen. I spoke to the dopest musicians who knew the hippest places, who only moved
once the devastation of forced removals, along with the noise and rubble of the demolition teams
made ordinary life impossible.

I grew up only knowing the result of the devastation: a bare wasteland, overlooking the harbour.
Driving past on the motorway my parents spoke in hushed tones; pointing out the three solitary
buildings, respectfully, sadly, thoughtfully lowering their heads - as if in prayer.

But somehow, I was there tonight: an ocean's worth of music, surging and declining, ebbing and
flowing with waves of crashing cymbals, dancing bass lines and melodies; curling smoke-like all
around an impassioned saxophone. Oh, and then: the scintillating conversations! Swinging between
the “have we told you of the time we”, or “do you remember that time in Grahamstown when
Robbie was still playing his intro 45 minutes into a 45-minute set? Ha-ha-ha...tell her, tell her, tell
her that story...” it finally, bitterly, settled in a newly published book.

I recently purchased my own copy – but have not even looked beyond its contents page. The book,
promising to be a history of South African Jazz, has been eagerly awaited for a few years now, with
many interviews conducted all over the country. Indeed, the book itself formed part of the
discussion a few evenings before at the Green Dolphin Club, when bass player Basil Moses and I
were told of its shortcomings, thus, I bought my own.

“It contains nothing much of Cape Jazz…and a lot of wrong words”, the musicians said. “Incorrect
translations”, “embarrassing”, “overlooked”, “misrepresented”, “misunderstandings”, were the
words used and, “no District Six”. Not a word, not a whisper.

Not having read it yet, I looked, and I compared. In the index at the back, I checked for noted
musicians and compared the mentions. I compared the number of mentions between Cape Town,
74
the mother city and Johannesburg, the city of gold. I checked for forced removals between the
musical “slum” Sophiatown (in Johannesburg), whose 65000 people were swept away towards
Meadowlands and SOWETO and the musical District Six (Cape Town), whose 60000 people were
removed to the Cape Flats. And so I kept a score. Sophiatown, pages noted in the Index: 20;
District Six, pages noted in the Index: 0.

T HIS C HAPTER
The concept of space and place has, for long, been a central concern to ethnomusicology, simply

as it underlines the concept of being “active in the field”, of doing real, live fieldwork. Similarly,

space and place are notions that, many will argue, inform the making of community and also

identity. If this is so, then we can debate that forced removals, especially ones as brutal as what I

will describe in this chapter, are the antithesis of this; a counterclockwise movement against the

creation of identity and community.

In this chapter I therefore wish to show the importance of music, space and place in the creation

of identity and community. I wish to illustrate the cosmopolitan nature of Cape Town, with special

reference to the musical life of an area called District Six. Here I hope to demonstrate the cultural

importance of this geographical area that ultimately led to the musical creation of the city. Finally I

wish to focus on the demolition of District Six and the forced removal of people from this area.

Therefore, the musical case study in this chapter focuses on District Six as the place and space

responsible for the creation of the jazz practices in the city. The practice of jazz in Cape Town is

often viewed as the aggregate result of the cultural diversity and cultural practices found in

District Six, such as church-music activities and the year-long preparation for the New Year’s

Carnival, in combination with active community involvement, in a relatively small geographic

75
space. I will illustrate how the concept of a “musical home” was created and what that meant to

its musicians, and to the participants in the tradition. I also aim to show the devastation of forced

removals and how this instigated the recording of the first jazz album to be drawn from these

musical practices, called Jazz from District Six (1970), under the auspices of Cliffie Moses.

District Six had a long history of musicianship, poverty and diversity. Demolished in the 1960s and

70s, it was known as the musical hub of the city – possibly in line, although smaller in scale, with

that of Storyville in New Orleans. Known, initially, as the farm Zonnebloem (Sunflower), it became

the 12th city voting zone early on, and reflected a population so diverse that wealthy wool merchants

lived alongside free blacks and the poorer citizens of the city. However, in the 1800s, around the

time it was re-zoned as District Six, the name that it would carry to this day, the over-crowding and

discomfort meant that many who could afford it moved to the newly created suburbs further afield.

This left a great deal of housing available for the newly freed slaves. Consequently, from the mid-

1800s onwards, the complexity of people’s races, ethnicities, and cultures was perhaps unmatched

elsewhere in Cape Town and the Cape Peninsula, solely because of the fact that after the second

emancipation, the 1838 manumission, many ex-slaves found living space here. This mix of peoples,

in conjunction with the musics played, led to the District to become known as an important musical

space. At the same time, the demolition of the District has led to a mythological zoning of the space,

creating the idea that this was indeed the musical heartbeat of the city.

O UTCAST IN C APE T OWN

Forced removals are ordinarily understood as the forced re-settlement of peoples from one

geographic area to another, and it is an issue that confronts most 21st century urban areas. In April

76
2011 the forced removal of a group of citizens from a crumbling Rio de Janeiro favela reached

international newsrooms – yet it is, as we all know, not a uniquely 21st century dilemma. The first

known records to report forced removals point to Flint in Wales when, during the 13th century,

Edward the First forcibly removed an abbey to allow the building of the first of his many fortresses

(Lemon, 1991: 1). These practices, Anthony Lemon remarked, is a global issue, keenly endured in

the context of all colonial cities, and angrily withstood in many parts of Africa. Certainly, where

British colonial powers advocated separate living areas for “comfort and hygiene” (Mamdani,

1995), Winters describes French and Belgian colonial planners’ “techniques of residential

zoning...closely resembling apartheid town planning” (Lemon, 1991: 2). These “residential zoning”

and re-zoning techniques, aimed at the segregation of urban areas, ultimately resulted in the

forced removal of many from their living area of choice; from their places of birth, from their

ancestral homes.

In South Africa, the suburbs Sophiatown and District Six, were “grey areas” with diverse, mixed

populations, and culturally rich, complex characters. The consequences of forced removals, in

these instances, not only include the brutality associated with the forced removals of its peoples,

but also the breaking-up of communities and cultural spaces; places that were regarded to imbue

its citizens with a special kind of identity and character. The effects of forced removals then, like

elsewhere in the world, included the dissolving of communities, of friendship groups, of

organisations and, in the case of District Six, the division of some nuclear families57 according to

apartheid divisions. Certainly, forced removals took place in many geographic areas of South

57 There are a few newspapers reports of husbands and wives being split up as a consequence of the Group Areas Act
of 1950 – especially where one member of the family was regarded as white and the other as coloured.

77
Africa, but peaked in Cape Town to affect “a greater number of people than in any other city in

South Africa” (Cook, 1991: 26).

Central to these removals were the Group Areas Act (No. 41) and the Population Registration Act

(No.30) both dating from 1950. This first act, already mentioned in Chapter One, declared

separate living areas for each population group – an extension and legalisation of the colonial

ideas noted by Mamdani and Winters (Mamdani, 1995; Lemon, 1991). The second act mentioned

enforced a registering of people according to what government officials believed to be their

ethnicities, affecting many families directly. In this instance, officials occasionally relied on hair

texture and skin tone for their categorisation of peoples – regardless of parental origins or

classification. This was demonstrated in the harrowing case of Sandra Liang, a woman, whom as a

pre-teen girl was reclassified as “coloured”, despite her parents’ white status (Fabian, 2008).

Many suggest that these 1950s Acts were preceded by a host of earlier legislative actions and

were already in operation as early as 1662 when Jan van Riebeeck, progenitor of the Dutch colony,

planted a hedge to separate the Khoe and San from the land occupied by the European settlers

(Cook, 1991). Even so, I argue that District Six, as one of the most congested areas in South Africa

in relation to the Group Areas Act, played an elemental role in the formation of the making of the

jazz city. This area, declared by the apartheid government as a “slum” during the 1950s, made

major headlines across the world when, through the work of groups such as “Friends of District

Six”58, news of the forced removal of its citizens became international news.

58 This group consisted mainly of white academics; however, they annoyed the authorities enough to be labelled as
“economic terrorists” (Coles, 1996: 158).

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M AKING MUSIC , MAKING BOUNDARIES , MAKING MUSIC

During a seminar held in 1995 at Goldsmiths' College (London), the Congolese ethnomusicologist

Manda Tchebwa explained a term used to describe musical space and place in and around Kinshasa.

The term sebene, he explained, is only used in those circumstances when the music-making is

exceptional; a time and thus a space, when both the musicians and the audience find themselves

captured by a performance of unusual emotivity and beauty. The expression, sebene, derived from

the French C'est Bien (it is good), and used in the setting described by Tchebwa, also includes how

the performing musicians respond to each other, in full knowledge of the exceptional quality of their

performance as a group, rather than as individuals. Everyone who hears this type of performance

is, in turn, captured and transported by its sound and the boundaries it creates. In this sphere, the

performer’s music-making influences and informs those around them, its effect on its listeners

creates a transcendental musical space. In this place everyone who is listening, participating or

performing is aware of, and is entranced by the music; captured within the boundaries created by

the sound.

Comparably, and from a jazz perspective, Ingrid Monson discusses this, explaining that

A small jazz band provides a framework for musical interaction among

players who take as their goal the achievement of a groove or a feeling –
something that unites the improvisational roles of the piano, bass, drums,
and soloist into a satisfying musical whole. The shape, timbral colour, and
intensity of the journey is at every point shaped by the interacting musical
personalities of the band members (Monson, 1996: 26).

Where Tchebwa discusses the relationship between musicians – and the way it affects the

audience in relation to semantic meaning - Monson points more directly to the communicative

idea of performance. Herein the goal (creating a “groove or a feeling”) is created by and through
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communication and interaction between the performing musicians; effectively, I would argue,

creating a space that transmits the emotional intent of their performance. Further to this she also

points to the view that identity is, amongst musicians themselves, frequently linked to specific

instruments, attitudes and musical perceptions, citing two well-known examples as proof. (“He's a

drummer; that's why he thinks like that”; “horn players just can't hear low notes.” (Monson, 1996:

27)) Certainly, group identity depicted through specific instruments is well known and is

indispensable in maintaining good, standardised techniques in understanding the role of the

instrument within a defined group. This understanding, in turn, is fundamental to the interaction

between instruments, spreading beyond the immediate circle outwards to the performers, to a

space where the audience is emotionally affected by the performance in question.

My own reaction to the performance event taken from my fieldwork diary and described above

(Section 4.1.3) is an example of this. The evening started off in a low-key fashion, which included

me collecting some of the musicians from their respective homes and driving them to the venue.

The arrival of friends and audience members, sound checks and a pre-gig smoke break for the

performers, all added to the build-up of excitement. Then, once the opening band started their

performance, debuting a young female vocalist, the emotive intensity became tangible - working

the audience into a heightened state – possibly even an altered state (Becker, 2004). By the time

the main band, The Sons of Table Mountain came on stage (Robbie Jansen on alto saxophone and

voice, Hilton Schilder on piano, Steven Erasmus on bass and Jack Momple on drums), the air was

electric. The excitement of the performance heightened with the beauty of each phrase, the

tension of the solos and the musical “in jokes”, culminated in the launch of set of new

compositions. These performances, carefully worked through and selected, elicited a fervour that

included encores and standing ovations, with much audience participation in clapping, “yes-sing” –

80
at the end of a particularly emotive phrases; laughing smiling, talking and ghai-ing (creole slang

meaning teasing, joking) once the final notes had come to rest.

My own excited response to the performance continued through much of the next day. I have

little doubt that the same could be said for the performers and other audience members too,

having reached this beautiful space – sebene – where we were all captured by the sound, by the

music, by the event, by the musical space.

If I throw a pebble in a pond, I'll find that the stone will make a small “plop” sound, and then, with

the force created, the water will ripple outwards, in ever-increasing circles; each time encircling a

space specified by the initial impact of the pebble. From a natural sciences perspective, the force

created will be influenced by, amongst other things, the speed at which you threw the pebble, the

size of the pebble and the viscosity of the water in the pond. Comparing this to music, and

incorporating the tales of musicians from Kinshasa, Monson's New York and my experience in the

Distrix 6 Club in Cape Town, a similar concept can be found: that musical spaces reach outwards in

ever-increasing ripples as in a pond: from the individual to the group, to the audience, to the

followers, the area, the suburb and beyond; in ever-increasing circles – diminishing in influence

the further the reach from the centre – yet, even so, remaining circular, always encompassing,

always inclusive.

In a similar fashion, geographic musical spaces act to incorporate and encompass; giving identity to

those affected, touched by musicking and aroused by music-making. Sarah Cohen explains some of

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such musical identities and musical spaces created amongst popular musicians in England, noting

the differences between the “Manchester Sound”, the “Coventry Sound” and the “Liverpool sound”.

Explaining that, in terms of Liverpool – and working inwards from the ripple effect – many feel that

a legitimate “Liverpool sound” exists, with smaller divisions of the sound denoted by areas of the

city to the North and South, and incorporating semantics, accents and ethnicities – sometimes, she

feels, only distinguishable to the locals (Cohen,1995: 117 - 134). Such spaces in turn create definitive

ideas of group identity, areas of belonging – created through that which is imagined.

From a comparable perspective, Ndiouga Benga makes a case for Senegalese rap, where the distinct

character of the style creates a space for identity. The style was codified only after shaking off the

strength of its American influence, by changing to languages commonly used in Senegal (Arabic,

French and Wolof) and incorporating local rhythms as part of the genre’s compositional materials

(Benga, 2002: 81). It is so that Rap and Hip Hop are known for their distinctive social borders, often

created by political comment in music, language and art. When adding these ideas to the Senegalese

notions of language, rhythm and of representations of Africa, one can gain an idea of the specialised

and exclusive spaces created. From a South African perspective, Sophiatown is one of the places

often cited to be of cultural import, specifically due to the “exclusivity” of its musical and cultural

borders, created in part by the apartheid system, and in part by the musicians themselves (Copland,

2008). Thus, Andy Bennett remarks that the

relationship between music, space and place demands an understanding of

the ways in which the various component aspects of this relationship
overlap and intertwine...the act of music-making becomes invested with a
series of rich discourses concerning the impact of cultures on collective
creativity...the actual sounds and timbres produced by musicians in given
local settings are deemed to result from their sharing of particular forms of
local knowledge and experience (Bennett, 2004: 13-14).

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Thus, the notion of space becomes a “place” when invested with meaning as the result of human

interaction and shared activities. In the case of music these human activities are then concerned

with the timbre or actual sound of the instruments, the compositional forms and musical activities

which are regarded as everyday and ordinary, as well as those regarded as being extraordinary.

Considering such a place with “local knowledge” where many actors intertwine, it would seem

that District Six fits the bill. In an area such as District Six, where the population was weighed

down by the difficulties of living in a poor, overcrowded neighbourhood, magnified by the

segregation of the society and the privileges bestowed upon its white citizens, music (and dance)

became the way in which the society was drawn together; functioning as “the integration of the

society” (Merriam, 1964: 224). The philosopher Yi-Fu Tuan explains that “Space is transformed

into place as it acquires definition and meaning” (Tuan, 1977:136) and “what begins as

undifferentiated space becomes place as we get to know it better and endow it with value” (Tuan,

1977:6). In the case of District Six, as an antithesis to the societal borders enforced by the pre-

apartheid and the apartheid governments; borders were being created through the shared

experience of music-making, based further and deeply, not only in post-slavery musical

developments, but also in the sharing of new and immediate experiences. Lewis notes that

“People look to specific musics as symbolic anchors in regions, as signs of community, belonging

and shared past” (Lewis, 1992:144). Part of these anchors can be found in the specific musics

used, the borders created or enforced, creating the spaces, places and identities realised. This can

only be understood, however, in light of the history of a place.

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T HE C REATION OF D ISTRICT S IX

In the 1840s Cape Town had an approximate population of 20,000. Towards the end of the century,

however, the population had increased to around 140,000 through trade which included wool,

ostrich feathers, diamonds and gold. By this time District Six, itself, had a population of 30,000

inhabitants, and known as Kanaldorp or sometimes, Kanaladorp [The suffix “dorp” means town or

village] (Bickford-Smith, 1990: 36). The word Kanal more than likely referred to the Melayu word

“kanala”; meaning “thank you” or “to help one another and stand together”, thus a “help one

another” village. In 1867 the area was renamed District Six, in a political reorganisation which

transformed the city from 12 municipal voting areas to six (Worden, 2004: 250-251).

In Illustration 10, District Six can be seen as the area to the left-hand side of Table Mountain, on

the gentle lower slopes of Devils Peak. The area offers great views over the city, the harbour and

the rest of the city bowl and is within walking distance of these areas. Prior to the forced

removals, it was a desirable area for people to live - allowing a close proximity to places of work.

Certainly, until the suburbs were developed in the mid-1800s, there was a diverse mix of people in

all areas of Cape Town. Wealthy and poor, old and young, Muslims and Christian, artisans and

prostitutes, coloureds, blacks and whites all lived side by side (250 - 251). From the middle of the

century the wealthier citizens moved away to the newly created suburbs, and the residents of

District Six were no exception. Indeed, once the “upper classes” moved out to areas known as the

“southern suburbs”, District Six became part of the “lower class” residential belt that included

84
I LLUSTRATION 10: T ABLE M OUNTAIN – THE CLASSIC VIEW ACROSS THE BAY FROM B LOUBERG BEACH , SHOWING THE
APPROXIMATE LOCATION OF D ISTRICT S IX . I LLUSTRATION BY L OUISE L ÜDERS .

areas such as Woodstock, Salt River, Kensington and Mowbray. Vince Kolbe remarked that

“District Six was”, in his experience, “Cape Town in its entirety”; suggesting that it represented the

entire city to him (Kolbe, 2008: interview with author). However, he added that, although the

District was seen as the central cultural point, other areas, such as Salt River and Kensington, also

played their part in the concept of musical space and place (Geschier, 2007:39).

The population of areas such as District Six was a mix of (Cape) Malays, colonial settlers, mixed

others, coloureds and blacks. The colonists in these areas included British citizens, Russian Jews,

Indians, Chinese and Australians (Bickford-Smith, 1990: 37). Thus, by the 1870s most upwardly

mobile residents had left the area, leaving the high-density, affordable housing in District Six to

artisans and labourers (Worden, 2004: 250-251).

Considering its close proximity to the rest of the city (See Illustration 11) even the harbour could

be reached on foot – District Six became an important place for immigrants to live. The influx of

people lent it a cosmopolitan air, as they brought with them rich cultural experiences, resulting in
85
the area becoming known for its street life and night life – providing excitement when the rest of

city seemed to sleep. Indeed, the music and street life is what many remember from their

experiences of the area.

It was not, however, the happy “melting pot” that many would like us to believe, since instances

of “ethnic solidarity” were strongly at play in the Mission schools, Malay choirs and Jewish trade

unions (Bickford-Smith, 1990). Additional societal divisions were clearly evident in wages, which

were directly linked to skin colour; remuneration rose as pigmentation receded (Bickford-Smith,

1990). African musicians earned far less than their coloured or white counterparts (Nixon, 1995).

Another feature of the area was its neglect by both landlords and the municipality. This

neglect was noted in 1881 when the Cape Times newspaper published a letter by “’Another

Grumbler', [who] suggested that the residents should revolt...” [against the municipality] for the

general neglect of the area (Worden, 2004: 251). Thus, the poverty and general decay of the area

is one of the elements remembered by its former residents.

Reflecting on the conditions of District Six, guitarist Cliffie Moses remembers that, when living in

the District as a child, his family shared a home with two other families, “the Williams's and the

Perdros,” making for very cramped accommodation (Moses, C., 1998: interview with Colin Miller).

Vocalist Zelda Benjamin also recalls this, reflecting that,

there was a general physical decay, you know, not only moral-wise, but the
buildings were beginning to fall down about people's ears...landlords were
exploiting people and we were one of the families that they also exploited
(Benjamin, 1998, interview with Colin Miller).

She also notes some of the more notorious gangs who played a part in cementing the perceived

character of the neighbourhood. These perceptions are portrayed in the novels of Alex la Guma

such as A Walk in the Night and Other Stories (1964) and Richard Rive’s memoire-novel,
86
‘Buckingham Palace', District Six (1986). La Guma opts for an unsentimental look at what he

describes as a “whirlpool world of poverty, petty crime and violence” (la Guma, 1967: 4; Adhikari,

2005, 118).

ILLUSTRATION 11: T HIS M AP SHOWS THE ARTIST ’ S IMPRESSION OF 1960 S C APE T OWN CITY BOWL , ILLUSTRATING THE
PROXIMITY OF D ISTRICT S IX TO THE CITY CENTRE . O N THIS MAP D ISTRICT S IX IS INDICATED BY ITS ORIGINAL AND ' NEWLY
ESTABLISHED ' NAME : Z ONNEBLOEM . T HE C APE P ENINSULA U NIVERSITY OF TECHNOLOGY WAS BUILT ON THE GROUNDS OF THE
OLD D ISTRICT . A RTIST : L OUISE L ÜDERS

87
By contrast, Rive's novel describes District Six in a way that became the embodiment of the

mythological memories of the suburb, underlining the view that poverty, crime, music, joy and

respectability all existed side-by-side, with little interference from each other. Donald Tshomela,

recalling his initial reaction to moving into District Six, said that “I got a shock to see blacks staying

with coloureds, Chinese and Jews in the same place”' (Tsomela, 1998: Interview by Colin Miller).

As can be expected, the mythmaking of the area is highly pronounced. Bill Nasson remarks that the

images of the “all singing all dancing” District Six as a “merry community, with a rich vigorous and

rowdy popular life...thronged with characters with an insatiable appetite for conviviality and...

alcohol” is probably more of a media construct than the actual reality. These images, continues

Nasson, “are clearly distorted and false; the power they have in local popular consciousness derives

from their capacity to simplify realities for us, to provide meanings and stereotypes which we can

grasp easily and comfortably” (Nasson, 1990: 47 - 49). This idea is further reinforced by Clifford

Geertz who noted that, “In order to make up our minds we must know how we feel about things;

and to know how we feel we need the public images of sentiment that only ritual, myth and art can

supply” (Geertz, 1975: 82).

In support of this, and drawing on interviews of the musicians, it is the “kanala” (stand togetherness)

and the musicking that was foremost in their memories. Consequently, I argue that it was a

combination of this togetherness, music-making and musicianship that drew people together as a

community and, which in turn, lend the area, District Six, the concept of “Place”. Julie Raimondi

explored this notion saying that “…a place become more effective through the use of music” and

that “…themes of identity, community, and memory come into play” when communal musical

88
experiences acquire meaning through the use of music, helping, as I posited earlier, to form a

community (Raimondi, 2012: 107 - 108). She concludes by saying that

When meaningful sound intersects with the spatial dimension of place, the
effect is intense. The place becomes an entity of great importance, full of
emotion through communal musical experiences. Furthermore, the process
is reciprocal; the place collects more meaning while the spatial experience
also brings meaning to the music. Spaces become musical places, and the
music tradition reifies itself through practice (Raimondi, 2012: 109).

A M USICAL M OSAIC : T HE I NGREDIENTS OF C APE T OWN J AZZ

Shamil Jeppie observed that there was a propensity for music-making in the ‘District’, noting that

many of the “coloured working-class engaged themselves in private pleasures, like household

music-making” (Jeppie, 1990: 67). Certainly, it has been reported by many musicians that much

musicking took place at home, using both real and makeshift instruments. Basil “Mannenberg”

Coetzee explained that

we lived in District Six, you see...and that was where most of this form of
music was going on, because, like, there was a musician, like, in every
family. If he wasn't a guitar player, he was a violin player or a banjo player
or a saxophone player, you understand… (Coetzee, 1994: interview by
Martin)

Vince Kolbe supports this, saying that there were instruments “all over the place, throughout the

year”, enabling youngsters to learn to play music in a variety of contexts including carnival, church,

parties and “hops” (Nixon, 1995: 20). Cliffie Moses adds to this, explaining that on a Friday evening

his dad and uncle

who were both two happy-go-lucky guys, would go to the Cheltenham Bar,
and when they come home, it's music time. They would take out the guitar,
and I would take out the spoons, the other one would take out the forks,
and believe me, anything that sound like music would be portrayed as
instruments (Moses, C. 1998: interview with Miller).

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Mrs Asa Jassiem added that

we were very fond of singing these Afrikaans liedjies, you know. And every
Sunday...when we were making food and we used to sing and go on. I
mean we really had enjoyment at home by doing that (Jeppie, 1990: 67)

Additionally, there were many performance activities to choose from and take part in. Institutions

and organizations such as the Salvation Army, the Moravian Church, St Thomas (The Anglican

Church) and the Dutch Reformed Evangelical church helped to support the community’s

musicianship. As all these institutions had the “upliftment of the community” as their central

focus, it stood to reason that musicking was taught, through choir and band practice, as a matter

of course (Bruinders, 2012:62, Worden, 2004: 251). Bible study was advocated as essential by

those following the Christian faith and the Madrassa (the teaching of Islamic Theory) played a

major role in the lives of young Islamic boys and girls. The Salvation Army taught many to read

music; training brass players in tonic sol-fa and notation (Jansen, 1998: interview with Colin

Miller). Additionally, musical evenings were arranged by church leaders reaching for a more

cohesive community. Participation in choral work was regarded by many as an essential element

to their faith and their concept of community, with the notion of “choir practice” forming the focal

point of their music making (Moses, C, 2011: interview with author). On a more personal note,

Cliffie Moses spoke of his own musical development, explaining that parental influence, and thus

nurture, was essential “with my mother being a soprano singer in their church, and my dad was

the bass singer” (Moses, C, 1998: interview by Colin Miller).

Basil Coetzee emphasized the importance of the Malay Choirs saying that, “it was a thing that...to

the people it was very sacred...because it follows their type of tradition” (Coetzee, 1994, interview

by Denis-Constant Martin). The Malay Choirs highlighted here, follow a tradition of Dutch songs,

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with competitions and rehearsals throughout the year with the aim of performing in the New

Year’s Minstrelsy Carnival competition. The strict organisation - including the costume, rehearsals,

competitions and performances – working up to the New Year’s Eve performance contains

elements of keeping a “flock” on the straight and narrow.

Coetzee also mentioned the Eoan group where “they did like...mostly Italian operas” (Coetzee,

1994: Martin). Ballet and opera performances were held in the District by the Eoan Group (the

Greek word for “'Dawn”). This organisation, formed in 1933, was more outspoken regarding

“community enlightenment”. Founded by Helen Southern-Holt, a white businesswoman, the

group focused mainly on opera and ballet, putting on full-scale performances of Rigoletto, La

Traviata and Carmen in the 1940s and 50s. The group is still in operation and still has “the

upliftment of coloured people” as their central aim. They claimed at their 1953 conference that

“there is not a government in the world who can hold back indefinitely people who have true

culture based in deep-rooted morality” (Martin, 1999: 134). Their repertoire still consists mainly of

opera and ballet, but its impact reduced considerably after the forced removals during the 1960s,

necessitating segregated performances and the acceptance of government subsidies (135).

Other events in District Six included formal dances and parties. Cliffie Moses remarked that they

“used to hold dances, ‘hops’ we used to call them, whenever we could”, where music such as

rumba, samba, foxtrots and tangos was played (Moses, C, 2002: interview with author). It was an

exciting life, constantly renewed by the excitement of music-making and dance, prompting Donald

Tshomela to remark that “District Six surprised me because weekends started on Wednesday”

(Tshomela, 1998: interview by Colin Miller).

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Certainly, the number of performance venues was astounding. Valmont Layne noted that a

number of community halls were created during the 1920s and 30s, creating the spaces and places

for music and dance to commence (Layne, 1992: 93) and remarking that

such use of social space as musical space was a mark of community and
identity – for example in dance, variety, in the Star bioscope and in dance
halls in the District...Bands formed a cornerstone of the activities
surrounding the use of community spaces (Layne, 1992: 92).

Alan Merriam wrote that music could assist in the validation of religious rituals and social

institutions (Merriam, 1964: 225). Within this, religious ritual and political ideas are validated

through the use of very specific music and musical ritual which, in turn, gives rise to the idea

of imagining a community (Anderson, 1983: 6-7). In District Six we can see how music and

arts, such as opera, ballet, church choirs, religious festivals and Muslim choirs, all added to a

feeling of community. At the same time, the use of music validated and accredited the

various occasions and institutions (Merriam, 1964: 224), confirming the genteel aspirations

of the greater community, adding to the argument of the role of music in building a feeling

of belonging, in building an identity.

P ERFORMANCE S PACES AND J AZZ

Certainly, many feel that the dance bands of the District formed the “real” cornerstone of

the jazz tradition which emerged in Cape Town during the 1940s and 50s (Jeppie, 1990;

Layne, 1992; Miller, 2007). These bands mainly played langarm dance music, an informal

ballroom style, which “that plays good tunes like foxtrots and tangos” (Kolbe, 2008:

interview with author). More to the point, however, the bands played music in keeping with

the clientele found in the District including “Muslim songs, Jewish songs, Afrikaner songs,

Portuguese songs, French songs” (Nixon, 1995: 21).

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Richard Rive, in his novel Buckingham Palace: District Six (1986) also notes this. The novel

itself is a description of exactly this sense of unity and community; creating characters to be

variously white, Jewish, Italian, coloured black and Asian; echoing the racial mix ordinarily

found in the District. Rive also remembered the formal dances organised by the churches as

fundraising events. In this fictional world, no expense was spared in ball gowns, shoes,

gloves, hats and suits. Harold Jephtha recalls the stateliness of these affairs with clarity,

saying that his parents went dancing

every weekend. I saw how they got dressed and how they went to
dances...There was dancing at home too. They invited friends and they'd
dance, dance, dance, dance – dancing everywhere; on the streets...a lot of
dancing (Jephtha, 1998: interview with Colin Miller).

The formality of these events was only interrupted by the band striking up a moppie

(humorous song) or a vastrap (a style that pre-dates goema and Tiekie Draai), especially

after a few whiskeys and beer (Kolbe, 2005: interview with the author; Kolbe, 1998:

interview with Colin Miller).

At some point during the 1930s and 40s, many of the bands also started playing the tunes of

the musicals shown in the cinemas, often closely copied. Jazz recordings that were

purchased formed the mainstay of evening listening sessions, and in turn formed a

substantial part in the learning procedures of the musicians moving towards jazz. (Kolbe,

2005; Moses, C. 2002; Schilder, R, 2001: Interviews with author). Opportunities to perform

“specialised jazz”, as opposed to dance-band music, were facilitated in part by the halls

mentioned by Layne and also by the cinemas where, before each showing on a Saturday

93
afternoon, talent contests were held. By the 1950s many performance spaces and clubs had

sprung up in nearby areas such as Kensington, Salt River, Mowbray and Woodstock.

Actually, where District Six was seen by many as the enculturating training ground for the

city's jazz musicians, regardless of colour, the nearby areas facilitated the performance

spaces (Kolbe, et. al., 2002 - 2005: interviews by authors). Thus the neighbourhoods of

Kensington and Salt River, both facilitated performances from an African Jazz, township jazz

and jive perspective – simply because there was a substantial black “squatter camp” next to

Kensington. Salt River was also easily accessible to black, white and coloured musicians and

audiences as a result of the road system and infrastructure (Nixon, 1995: 23). Mowbray and

Woodstock steered more closely to local, American and Latin-influenced jazz by playing

tunes such as “The Peanut Vendor” (Kolbe, 2008: interview with author).

The strength of the Latin influence cannot be underestimated. Hilton Schilder explained that

Latin-influenced jazz, to him, resembles Cape Town’s jazz scene of the 1960s (Schilder, H,

2005: interview with author). The strength of the Latin scene of the 1950s had an

exacerbated influence in the Cape - as it did throughout the rest of Africa. The Democratic

Republic of the Congo, for instance, still sports a healthy salsa scene as a result. Similarly,

echoes of this sound are still heard in compositions by both Hilton Schilder and Mac

McKenzie (Roberts, 1986).

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Returning to the Jazz performances spaces: The Ambassador Club in Woodstock, the Cape

Town equivalent of the 1930s Cafe Society club59 in New York, formed the central point of

jazz activities during the late 50s, gradually becoming the place for highbrow jazz; a place

where the Group Areas Act and the Immorality Act were both flagrantly flouted (Kolbe, 2005

& Moses, B, 2004: interviews with author; Nixon, 1995: 23). At the same time, even though

music in general was already held in very high regard by everyone from the area, jazz

became increasingly important.

Basil Moses recalled that at a point during the 1950s, musicians used to leave their

instruments at the Ambassador Club for the convenience of rehearsals and performances.

When a burglary took place, however,

the entire place was smashed, you know, to cover their tracks...but they
left the instruments completely intact…the burglars, they must have loved
music. They must have loved jazz (Moses, B, 2004: in conversation with the
author).

Other venues in this “lower economic belt” which became important for jazz include The

Naaz, The Mermaid and The Zambezi (Moses, C. 2002: Interview with author; Moses, C.

1998: interview with Colin Miller; Bickford-Smith, 1990). These places, Vince Kolbe

remarked, became places where “richer people came to slum in Woodstock. There were

59 Billie Holiday famously performed Strange Fruit at the Café Society Club in 1939. It was arguably the first time a black
person performed so political a song in a public space in the US. The club opened in 1938 and was frequented by a similar clientele
as the Ambassador Club in Cape Town: musicians, artists, writers, journalists, 'slumming' rich whites and so forth.

95
quite few wealthy white jazz fanatics who spent heavily there...Some of them were

businessmen from the area” (Nixon, 1995:23).

Returning to District Six, however, we should keep in mind that it was ultimately ear-marked for

destruction and rezoning as a white area long before the first bulldozer entered the space. This

created a relative “seclusion” of the area, giving shelter and sense of identity. The community was

thus drawn together through poverty, crime and, as a “grey” area (mixed ethnicity area), free from

segregation, apartheid inadvertently creating a space of relative freedom; at times even protecting

its inhabitants from apartheid legislation. This prompted some musicians to venture that District

Six created a barrier between the community and the outside world; providing protection against

segregation – guarding the community against the worst elements of apartheid (Kolbe, 2005:

interview with author).

S TREET L IFE

District Six was known as “a vibrant place”…“with pubs and canteens…gambling dens and,

brothels...and an extremely low violent crime rate” (Bickford-smith, 1990: 43). The cinemas,

colloquially known as bioscopes, doubled as music halls and entertainment centres. Not only were

these, in addition to the many churches, places where the community met and socialised, they

were also places where the community were introduced to cultural ideas from abroad, to

Westerns, to musicals with black performers, such as Nat King Cole and to jazz. Sometimes before

or after a cinema show, talent contests would be held. Cliffie Moses recalls that “if you made it at

the Oeg (the 'Eye', the bioscope) ...then you've made it” (Moses, 2004: interview with author).

96
Indeed, some of the more prominent South African jazz musicians, such as the vocalist Zelda

Benjamin, were introduced to the Capetonian public through “cinema theatre” performances.

Bill Nasson lists an impressive array of entertainers, street life and excitement found in District Six.

These included

pavement draughts and domino players, small male voice choirs, and
buskers who sang and danced in front of cinema queues outside the Star,
the Avalon, the British Bioscope or the National. At weekends, there was a
small family brass band. People would also gather to stare at the antics of
professional fit-throwers and bogus epileptics who tried to scrape a living off
the sympathy and charity of outside health professionals (Nasson, 1990: 57).

The amount of music-making and the favourable geographic position of the area added to the

number of visitors and excitement. Both Shamil Jeppie and Bill Nasson remarked on this

geographic position – allowing visitors from all over the “lower income belt” to make the short

journey and join in the fun. Indeed, Donald Tshomela's chronicle of a week in District Six, is

entertaining in itself:

Wednesday there's a ball – people going out, on Tuesday to do dancing,

then Wednesday the party with a live band, Tuxedo Slickers. Then Thursday
its ladies night...all the girls come off [work] and they come dressed and
there's always a beautiful show, Maziboko Maskenke, Dollar Brand, you
name it. Lellep Nzimande, David Mzimkulu, everybody was there. Ouboeta
Fly, Jimmy Adams, Timmy Hawker, it was happening. Black Starline!
Everything was there, you get anything you want...we were together, we
were a community and we loved one another, we knew each other'
(Tshomela, 1998: interview with Colin Miller).

Thus, I would argue that music, in this instance, contributed to the “stability of the culture”

(Merriam, 1964: 225), allowing ideas, that in other circumstances would not be tolerated, to be

expressed through music and dance. Implicitly, these ideas were expressed by residents of the

97
District in the full knowledge of the power of the art form. Many felt that music was the only option,

the only space allowed for the development of intellectual abilities. The pianist Richard Schilder

remarked that, given the lack of opportunity to develop in business or academically, the remarkable

musical expression by the coloured population stands to reason (the majority of District Six’

residents were coloured), since “under apartheid no other opportunities were allowed” (Schilder,

2001: interview with author).

P LAYING AT M INSTRELSY

The musical event that is seen by many as the most influential in the District was possibly the Coon

Carnival or Klopse Karnival (Minstrelsy Carnival), held over the New Year’s period. Many

considered the carnival, with its Malay choirs, Klopse (minstrelsy troops), food, dance, songs, and

costumes, as the central musical and social event of the year. The Carnival, for most of the 20th

century, engaged the entire community. Even though the troupes and choirs themselves, until

very recently, were entirely male domains in terms of performance, women were required to

make and design the costumes, run food stalls and prepare food for the tafels (food tables for the

performers). Shamil Jeppie noted that the carnival was deemed so important that the event was

held throughout the Second World War; making many middle-class families cringe at, what they

regarded as, a shameful waste of resources in a time of want and need (Jeppie, 1990: 73 – 87).

The choirs and troops, frequently seen and heard to be rehearsing, had a direct influence on many

musicians growing up in the District. Descriptions and stories abound, and Cliffie and Basil Moses,

drummer Willie van Bloementein, Saxophonists Basil Coetzee and Merton Barrow all note the

strength of this influence. Basil Moses recalls “the sound of guitars drifting in through the

98
window” (Moses, B, 2004: interview with author), and Basil Coetzee says that the “New Year’s

…thing…oh, it really fascinated me”. Cliffie Moses recalls that he and his younger brother, Basil,

always played “coon, coon” [sic] just as New Year was approaching; imitating the marches and

music and organising their friends into miniature minstrelsy groups (Moses, C, 1998: interview

with Colin Miller). The influence was so strong that Cliffie also based his album Jazz from District

Six on carnival, describing it as a “hilarious meeting every New Year’s morning” (Moses.C,1998:

interview with Colin Miller; Moses. C, 2002: in conversation with the author). Others recall the

constant rehearsals and “sounds” drifting up from the streets into their homes and backyards,

especially shortly before New Year, during the preparation for carnival. Basil Coetzee added that

but now when we talk about...the...New Year thing...the thing when people
go out in the streets and they celebrate, you know...the, the whole New
Year thing was very influential on me because it had a lot of rhythm, you
understand...and when I was a child I looked at this and thought...oh, it
really fascinated me, you understand. So when I started getting involved
with music...it was, sort of, a mixture of all these different influences going
around (Coetzee, 1994: interview by Denis-Constant Martin).

C LIFFIE M OSES : C REATING J AZZ FROM D ISTRICT S IX

Cliffie Moses was one of a handful of Cape jazz musicians born in District Six. He and his younger

brother Basil demonstrated their musical interest early on by creating home-made instruments – a

“Sunshine Polish” tin guitar and a stoffel bas (tea-chest bass) (Moses, C., 2011: telephone

interview with author). Indeed the “guitar” was an empty floor polish container with a few elastic

bands twisted around. Using a makeshift plectrum and holding the tin close to the body, different

tones are achieved by moving the tin closer or further away from the body. The tea-chest bass was

created to standard versions of this instrument – a tea chest, a broom handle and a string. Neither

were the easiest of instruments to play – yet these became their individual instruments much later

in life when Cliffie had become known as a vocalist and guitarist of distinction and Basil, as noted

99
by Darius Brubeck, had become the finest bass player South Africa has ever produced (Mason,

2011: blog).

Their early life in District Six was marred by poverty and extreme hard work, which included selling

newspapers, usually on a street corner, by the ages of nine and six respectively. These early

endeavours were supported by their mother – as long as school and church were not neglected.

Being from a large family, they felt that they were just “two of many” in the household; their close

age ensuring a lifelong friendship.

Their initial music-making was inspired by their parents, the church and the musical life of the

District. The aggregate result of this helped to establish music-making as just another natural,

everyday event. Both Cliffie and Basil recalled childhood evenings playing music with family and

friends, resulting in musicking becoming an indispensable part of their lives (Moses, C., 2011:

telephone interview with author).

As teenagers in the 1950s and impressed with groups such as Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers,

Cliffie, with the help of Basil and a few other friends, formed a similar group, calling themselves

The Heart Throbs. The success of the group, in part verified by Cliffie's drive and focus, was further

substantiated by competitions won at the National bioscope, or the Oeg (The Eye) as he called it.

This success led to a host of performances all over Cape Town – including at Mowbray; a gig which

Moses recalls, was, at the time regarded as being akin to playing at Carnegie Hall (Ibid.).

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Apart from his vocal prowess and development as group leader, Cliffie was also learning guitar and

piano. Considering that there was little money to pay for lessons, much of this was based on self-

discipline. Learning from written “Tutors” (books) he managed to gain a good foundation; assisted

by occasional lessons from other musicians, such as the prominent Capetonian pianist, Henry

February. Indeed, Hen Feb60, as he was known and referred to, was exceptional in his musical

knowledge and pianistic abilities, training many musicians in the finer art of jazz (Ibid.).

Even so, as Cliffie remarks, “Tutors” and teachers can only take you “so far” – thereafter you have

to do the work yourself. His improvisation techniques, for instance, were acquired from long

practical listening sessions, then learning the phrases (chord progressions and licks) and analysing

their harmonic functions. This was not “to copy the musicians”, but rather to gain an insight into

their playing abilities, and thus get a “flavour” of the improvisation techniques used (Moses, C.

2002: conversations with the author).

It's the way you listen to the music: I would play the melody and 'colour in'
the melody the way I felt fit...Like being a painter painting a portrait. That
was my interpretation and still is my interpretation today (Moses, C., 1998:
interview by Colin Miller).

60 Henry February: I can't think of one musician in the course of 10 years of fieldwork that spoke of him other than in hushed
tones, in reference to his exceptional pianistic prowess and musical knowledge, rather than his warmth of being. Many Capetonian
musicians had lessons from him. As he was extremely difficult to interview, early on in my research it was suggested by Valmont
Layne that I should go to him for lessons – just to see what he was like and what he had to say for himself. I met with him, hesitated
and then declined. I saw him perform in 2004 and was truly impressed by his musicianship. He was less than impressed, though,
when I used the phrase 'substitute' when I meant 'sit in' – 'substitute' referring to chord substitution rather than change of personnel.
On the other hand, his light skin tone enabled him to pass as white from time to time– something not a great deal of musicians from
either side of the divide appreciated. Yet I wish to underline Mohammed Adhikari’s remark that the system of colonialism and
apartheid damaged so many people so completely that it was not difficult understanding his demeanour. He passed away in 2007.

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This manner of learning is, of course, commonly found in the jazz world, and today even

recommended. Doing this on the strength of your own motivation, your own intelligence is,

however, exceptional.

Another feature of serious music learning is singing. This technique of teaching music is found

throughout the world of musical enculturation - whether imbedded in local culture such as Venda

Children's songs, as explained by John Blacking; or written into a known method such as Kodály or

Suzuki. Some jazz tutors also embrace this method, expecting their instrumental students to learn

to sing the improvisation before actualising it on their instrument. This is also true of Cliffie, as he

explains that

I normally sing my phrases, or my improvisation, because that's the way I

sing it and that's the way I pour it into my instrument....and that to me is
jazz the way I hear it (Moses, C, 1998: interview with Colin Miller).

At some point in the late 1960s, Cliffie formed a quartet called the “Four Sounds” with himself on

voice and guitar, Richard Schilder on piano, Basil Moses on bass and Willie Ekstein on kit. The hard

work that followed paid off, as the group were invited to play all over Cape Town and continued to

perform thus for the next 50 years. Some of the places they performed at included clubs like The

Zambezi, The Naaz, and The Chequita in Sea Point – an upmarket suburb on the Atlantic seaboard

(Moses, C., 2011: telephone interview with author).

Residencies followed that were in contravention of the Group Areas and the Separate Amenities

Acts. In these instances, the band was advertised as being from “The Congo” or at times as being

“Eastern European” or even “Hungarian”. Even so, apartheid South Africa and separate amenities

meant that the musicians, highly regarded throughout the city, were not allowed to share the

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same space with white punters in between sets. Thus, meals served to the musicians, or smoke

breaks, had to be taken in the kitchen, or outside, at the back of the restaurant, something that

was, understandably, deeply resented by the group (Schilder, R, 2001: interview with author).

Not that these were the only indignities faced. Apart from the difficulties in performance

spaces, and despite the fact that the jazz fraternity in Cape Town seldom paid much attention to

either the Group Areas Act or the Separate Amenities Act, musicians from all racial groups insisted

to both me and Colin Miller that there were no distinctions between those who were performing –

as long as they understood the (jazz) language, had a good knowledge of standards and could play

effortlessly. (There are countless examples of musicians interacting in a way that stood in direct

contrast to the laws of the country).

Many musicians were faced with the fact that music did not pay. Financially it was imperative for

almost all musicians to have a “day job” in order to be able to play at night. In many cases, pay in

both jobs was so poor that it was essential to maintain the lifestyle of “two jobs” in order to make

ends meet. Richard Schilder, pianist of the Four Sounds, was a jeweller by trade and a pianist by

night. Basil Moses was working as a “clicker”61 in the shoe trade. Cliffie himself worked for a

printing firm, starting in 1954 as a general worker and moving up to becoming a packer, then a

clerk, and finally starting his own publishing company in later years (Moses, C.: 1998: interview

with Colin Miller).

61 Clicker: the person who cuts the 'pattern', the leather uppers of shoes.

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During the 1960s the group attracted a lot of attention, so much so, that when Percy Sledge, in

spite of the cultural boycott, decided to tour the country, it was the Four Sounds who were asked

to be his backing band (Ibid). During this engagement many promises of tours and promotion

abroad were made. However, none were upheld by the American company that hired them,

leaving the musicians to their difficulties, trying to survive as the yoke of apartheid became more

and more burdensome (Moses, B and C., 2002: conversations with the author). One of the

difficulties which was particularly exacting was the “forced removals” programme.

As stated earlier, the Group Areas Act of 1950 was an act that proclaimed the urban re-zoning of

the country into different areas for peoples deemed to be of different ethnic origins. Thus, in each

village, town and city, specific areas were given over to those deemed as “black”, those described

as “Indian”, those classified as “coloured” and those regarded as “white”. This was obviously

problematic for areas such as Sophiatown (in Johannesburg) and District Six; the best-known

urban “grey”62 areas known both prior to and after the beginning of apartheid.

However, even though the Group Areas Act was proclaimed in 1950, it took around 20 years for

the Act to be fully enforced. Thus, where the people of Sophiatown were forcibly removed in the

late 1950s; others – such as in my own village63 – were only affected by the early-1970s.

62 “Grey Areas” in South Africa simply means urban areas with a variety of population groups. Grey areas actually existed
throughout the entire period of apartheid – something often overlooked or forgotten.
63 In the small villages close to Cape Town, segregation was enforced with a ferocious precision. My village (65 kms from Cape Town)
was divided into a 'bo dorp' [upper village – for whites] and an 'onder dorp' [lower village – below the railway line, for coloureds].
Even so, many coloured families continued to live in the 'upper village' in the beautiful original homes their parents or grandparents
had built. These were razed to the ground sometime during the 1970s; the families forced into small municipal housing. Black South
Africans, although allowed to live in major urban centres, could only do so if they could prove that they were employed. Neither were
they allowed to live in these smaller municipal areas – and many men were employed as seasonal workers, usually as cattle herdsman
in the Western Cape (In the north of the country it was usually as mine workers). For a long time only men were allowed to come to
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District Six was destroyed slowly, carefully, systematically; shattering lives, dismantling families,

erasing a community that was the axis of cosmopolitan, culturally vigorous Cape Town. From the

time the area was re-zoned for white use in 1966, it took 15 years and R30 million64 to complete

(http://www.capetown.at/). House-to-house visits were made by municipal officers, determining

the number of people living in each home, their names, genders and “colour”. Residents were

then required to further register at the municipal offices and were moved to a variety of locations

across the Cape Peninsula. The majority of District Six citizens were moved to newly built areas on

the sandy plains of the Cape Flats, which include black areas such as Khayelitsha and Gugulethu,

and coloured areas incorporating Mitchells Plain, Rocklands, Eastland, Lentegeur, Bonteheuwel,

and the well-known Manenberg.

Cliffie Moses, who had returned to District Six by this time, was like many others, directly affected.

Yet, his insight led him to purchase a house in Athlone which he rented out well before leaving the

District, relying on the place of his birth and childhood playground for its close proximity to his

work place and accessibility for gigs. In 1972, however, after living for almost five years with the

continuous destruction all around him, he decided to move his young family to the house in

Athlone, where he still resides today (Moses, C., 1990: interview with Colin Miller).

live and work in the Western Cape. Their wives and children had to live precariously in the designated ‘homelands’…and the many
folks wonder why there is such dysfunction at present…I think most of us will be angry if our families had been thus treated.

64 At this time the rand/sterling exchange rate was around 1 : 2; thus around £15 million 1970s sterling.
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I LLUSTRATION 12: C LIFFIE M OSES , HOME FOR THE DAY , 6 J ANUARY 2013, FROM THE V INCENT P ALOTTI HOSPITAL ,
HOLDING THE PRIZED AND VERY IMPORTANT ALBUM : J AZZ FROM D ISTRICT S IX (S OURCE : A UTHOR ’ S PHOTOGRAPH )

Yet, the move was not an easy one – especially for someone so completely involved with the

community. He was, after all, involved in his local church, training choirs, music-making and

gigging, sometimes as many as six nights a week. Hence, during the late 60s, when it became more

and more difficult to lead a normal life “when the diggers started worrying us” Cliffie and his wife

decided to leave District Six – before they were moved by the government (Moses, C, 1990:

interview with Colin Miller).

The move, although instigated by the tragedy of forced removals, led to the recording of his first

album, Jazz from District Six (1970), which was produced by Robbie Davis and Ivan Weir. The

inspiration for the compositions on the album came from the music of District Six itself and include

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musical forms such as goema and vastrap. Furthermore, Cliffie asked of his band members to each

contribute compositionally to the album65 as a space to “breath musically”. This democratic

approach, I suggest, exemplifies the feeling of District Six, the idea of “kanala” of saying “Thank

you and stand together in peace”. Thus, the pieces included show mainly standard jazz

approaches, with two pieces displaying Cape Jazz materials – long before the label was created.

The album comprises of seven tracks, three on the A side and four on the B. The track listing can

be seen in illustration 13, as well as half of the back sleeve of the LP.

The actual beginnings of the album came from a post-gigging experience, a story that Cliffie likes

to recount:

When we used to come home at night, we'd practice at my place until the
next morning. And one particular morning I was inspired by this man, the
Balal66 , he was baing67 [sic], and I heard this sound coming through. And as
I was busy playing, this particular song came to mind and I saw a complete
picture of me walking up Hanover Street and sitting on the Seven Steps. It
was then that I composed this tune called 'The Seven Step Lament'. Taking
you from the Friday and Saturday evening, into the Sunday. And all those
songs happened. ..and that is where the District Six album was born,
playing 'Jazz from District Six” (Moses, C., 1990: interview with Colin
Miller).

The piece, The Seven Step Lament, was consequently the first to be written for the album, and

considering its inspiration, he suggests, the melody “was not based on a specific Eastern

scale…but….something I imagined” in a bid to empathetically “create or re-create the Imam’s call to

prayer early in the mornings” (Moses, C, 2013: interview with author). The result of the head, as

65 Since the LP was privately sponsored, only 250 copies were printed, leading to few surviving copies.

66 from the word Bilal – the Malay word for muezzin – the person who performs the call to prayer
67 from the Malay word sembayang – meaning 'to pray'

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can be seen from the transcription, is initially a slow-moving piece, based on an F Blues scale, using

a simple I-IV-V harmonic progression. However, all the solos which, due to a badly scratched vinyl, I

could only obtain small sections there of (examples included), are fast a moving blues, comping

quartally on the piano, returning eventually to this slow-moving head. (Transcription No. 1 shows

the closing head). The melody here, as indicated by Moses, is an imitation of an Imams’ call to

prayer, to give an impression of the sound heard often during the day in District Six, clearly showing

what District Six meant to many of its inhabitants (Moses, C, 2013: interview with author).

The final track on the album The (Goema) Dance is perhaps the most important piece on this album,

as it is the first known recording of goema presented as jazz. Here you can hear three main

influences, as can be seen in Transcription No.2. The first influence heard on the track is the goema

beat; the rhythm most closely associated with the minstrelsy carnival. This leads into the A section

where one can hear influences of bebop through the driven melodic line in the tenor saxophone

and guitar, played in unison and reminiscent of Thelonius Monk. In the B section you can hear the

influence of carnival melodies in the saxophone against a commonly used comping rhythm in the

piano, ordinarily, during carnival time, played on the accordion. Moses explained that he wanted to

represent the essence of the musical ideas found at Carnival time, rather than imitate the music

exactly (Moses, C., 2013: interview with author). Finally, you can hear the slightly wider (tremolo)

guitar sound, together with the use of the valve amps, and the slightly pushed, slightly syncopated

4/4; timbral elements that were frequently heard in Cape Town at this time. Valmont Layne

commented on this saying that the wide tremolo-ed valve amp sound “it is only dying out now”

[during the 2000’s], no doubt due to investment into newer equipment and the fact that the sound

is now populated by younger musicians who live in a post-bop, post funk, post electronica world

(Layne: 2002: interview with author).

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T RANSCRIPTION N O . 1: T HE S EVEN S TEP L AMENT FROM THE ALBUM J AZZ FROM D ISTRICT S IX (1970). T HE HEAD , ITSELF , IS
SLOW MOVING , YET THE SOLOS SHOW THE VIRTUOSITY OF THE PERSONNEL .

C ONCLUSIONS AND THE CULTURAL IMPACT OF THE A LBUM

The analysis of the tunes is perhaps not so important here as the date and time of its completion

and the publication of the album. A popular urban myth suggests that Abdullah Ibrahim was

responsible for creating the Capetonian jazz sound. The discussion above, I believe, invalidates such

ideas and statements by jazz critics who regard Ibrahim’s compositional materials as unusual and

exceptional. Richard Williams, for instance,

described Ibrahim as the most notable non-American jazz influence since Django Reinhardt

(Williams, 1994:7). Whilst the statement regarding his influence may have been true at the time,

the compositional constructs used by Ibrahim are in question here.

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T RANSCRIPTION N O . 2: T HE (G OEMA ) D ANCE FROM THE ALBUM J AZZ FROM D ISTRICT S IX (1970). T HE ALBUM WAS SELF -
SPONSORED AND THUS , DID NOT REACH BEYOND THE REACHES OF C APE T OWN DUE TO THE RESULTANT FINANCIAL RESTRICTIONS .
T HIS PARTICULAR PIECE IS THE 1 ST KNOWN RECORDING OF G OEMA PRESENTED AS J AZZ .

Of course, these are bold statements to make. Yet, that is not the intention to invalidate

Ibrahim’s musicianship or career impact. Ibrahim is, as many of us know, exceptional as both

110
pianist and composer. What is questioned here is the concept of musical ownership; the

question of the origins of music as it pertains to Cape Jazz.

It is true that Ibrahim was the musical and organizational power behind the album Verse 1

(1960) by the Jazz Epistles. However, as will be seen in the following chapter, this album was

based firmly within the bebop arena; quite strikingly imitating some compositional elements

put forward by Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers. Furthermore, Ibrahim’s award-winning album,

An African Marketplace, where, compositionally, he succumbed to the Capetonian sound, was

published in 1980. The Cliffie Moses and the Four Sounds album, (Jazz from District Six)

however, was published in 1970 – ten years before Ibrahim’s African Marketplace.

As noted, this clear time difference challenges notions of who invented the music, and had

the intellectual and emotional energy to do so. It also challenges established ideas regarding

some of Ibrahim’s creativity and musical constructs. I thus argue that this music is a

community construct in the true sense of the word. It should never be regarded as the product

of an individual musician’s intellect. Furthermore, District Six was the place and a space, where

much of this musical energy was created, helping the solidity of identities formed, based partly

on place and partly on musicianship. The rich cultural collage of cosmopolitanism and poverty,

in conjunction with the many music-making opportunities, led to this construction as a musical

space, creating opportunities and codifying many of the different styles of music that can only

be considered as Capetonian. The recording of the first album featuring Cape Jazz, however,

was entirely due to Cliffie Moses’ intellectual and emotive energy.

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This album thus helped formalize the concept of jazz in Cape Town, focussing local minds on

the musical possibilities available. It helped solidify, especially through compositions such as

The(Goema) Dance, the possibilities available in jazz, when composers choose to draw

inspiration from both local and international sounds. The importance of the album is thus

twofold: On the one hand it took Cape Jazz into the (local) public arena; on the other hand, it

demonstrated to local musicians the importance of the music that they perform and

experience on a daily basis.

Perhaps the issue here also includes the concept of Africa, which often follows European and

American ideals, and reflects on views of Africa by Euro-American idealists, rather than

having the confidence to trust itself in its artistic endeavours. Thus, only when some of

Africa’s sons and daughters (e.g. Ibrahim, Makeba and McGregor) were seen to be successful

in Europe and the US, did Mother Africa and the musicians from District Six allow itself to

regard these musical constructs as important enough to be worthy of recording and

publication.

In the next chapter, Chapter Five, I will discuss the tune Mannenberg, follow its iconic route and

analyse its harmonic construction in order to establish the cultural remits the piece had been

drawn from. I will show that, where the Four Sounds’ album Jazz from District Six brought Cape

Town jazz to the attention of the local public, the album Mannenberg – ‘is where it’s happening’

brought Capetonian and other South African jazz to the attention of the international public. Often

viewed as the golden key that unlocked the international jazz world to South African musicians, I

will show that the piece is not Capetonian from a compositional sense, but instead that it was

112
influenced by township jazz materials, and that the personnel used were well-known, local

Capetonians. Despite that, the use of the tune as a political vehicle in the Cape Peninsula rendered

it, ultimately, Capetonian.

In conclusion I wish to note that one should not forget that District Six, as well as those areas

adjacent to it, were mixed in population. Thus, many black, white, Indian and Chinese

citizens were relocated as well as the coloured population. Dullah Omar notes this in

connection with “remembrances” and “memory,” saying that far too often District Six is

remembered as a “coloured” neighbourhood, rather than the melting pot it was (Omar,

1990: 194). Far too often the holistic picture of the District is reduced to a romantic notion

thereof, based on mythological histories, which are often far from the truth (Dudley, 1990,

199).

To finish, a final quote from Eddie George, one of the musicians that was born in the District,

will remind us of the impact the destruction of the District has had on Cape Town. He said:

Socialising in all spheres in those days was pretty segregated...but the

jazz session brought all kinds of people together, all kinds of musicians
and all kinds of audiences...This all happened at the time that the
apartheid laws were consolidating the segregation. It was a sort of
contradiction and of course jazz concerts started becoming fashionable
and then some people realised it would become profitable. Then the
commercial side came into it...Jazz flourished...all over the world and of
course South Africa legislatively was going in the opposite
direction...They couldn't cope with this...integration...All these activities,
which of course included jazz and clubs, closed. The
musicians...emigrated and of course with the post-Sharpville state of
emergency and the Group Area resettlements, that virtually disrupted
the social life and culture of the city.

It was like death (Jeppie, et al., 1990:25)

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CHAPTER 5

ABDULLAH IBRAHIM AND THE VALIDATION OF THE LOCAL :

'IS THIS WHAT RASHID VALLY WANTED ?'

Field Work Diary, Muizenberg Musings, 11 January 2005

Tonight, I spoke to Robbie Jansen, a flautist and saxophonist whose improvisations always move me.
Having been acquainted with his performance style since my teenage years, I was unprepared for his
superb intelligence, his easy musicianship. During the 1980s, my friends and I invented our own
version of Beatnik ideology; writing awful poetry, reading books banned by the apartheid government
and listening to jazz - thus my knowledge of Mannenberg and Jansen.

But here I was, having the opportunity to speak to him, and finding that I was star struck; too scared
to articulate my thoughts and questions fully. So, I was pleased when the gig started, at least I could
listen and concentrate. At the end of the second set, as a second encore, “Mannenberg” was played,
albeit on request and amid protestation from the musicians: “We've played it too often”, said Robbie
to the audience. Later on, after the gig and after overcoming my fear of conversation, he said to me,
“It was the music of the time. It was a summary. It was a state of being”. Yet, I sensed that, not being
well, he was too tired after the gig for a more in-depth discussion, thus I chatted to Valmont, his
friends and family, had a glass of wine, fought off Steven's advances, was reprimanded by Hilton,
laughed at by Jai. Indeed, although I acknowledged the performance, the formality of the occasion,
here in this lovely restaurant with its view of False Bay, I found it difficult to concentrate. Thus, I hid
inside myself whilst experiencing childhood flashbacks of a dusty little village about an hour away.

I am six years old, and I am hiding underneath a chair at my piano teacher's house. I'm listening to
my dad and his friends rehearsing, drinking brandy and coke, whilst the twang of the guitar, the piano
and harmonica rang forth. I want to play too and am given a shaker. Feeling insulted, I sulk, and I
hide.

What were they playing? I don't know. Radio tunes?? Simon and Garfunkel? Spokes Mashiyane?
That sounds feasible. What am I remembering? Maybe they were playing the tune “Timothy”. What
is Robbie trying to tell me? I think that maybe I’m so tired that I can’t hear properly I know, it sounds
slightly crazy. I’ve wanted to speak to this guy for around fifteen years! I drift off into my own
thoughts.

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I live in Europe. Thus, I am often forced to apologize for my country, for my accent and occasionally,
my continent. At times it feels as if I am personally being held responsible for Africa's poverty and
sadness. Many imagine that it’s a terrible place, with poisonous spiders and deadly dictators. Should
I give them credit for their “nudge-nudge-it-must-be-an-awful-place” conversations? After all, they
want to hear that Europe is better. But I find that I can’t. I’d lie if I do so and then feel, well terrible.
So, instead I try to explain the complexities, the magic, the difficulties, the joy – but I see their
concealed yawns and suspect my explanations are interpreted as naivety and nostalgia.

So, here I am, in Nick's house at the edge of False Bay. I don't want to leave here. I want to stay here
with him and his crazy sister for ever. The comfort of culture and the protection of years of friendship
enfolding me, hugging me close, after-all: Mannenberg...oh, well, Cape Town – is where it's
happening!

T HIS C HAPTER
On the back of Abdullah Ibrahim's album entitled Mannenberg – ‘is where it's happening’ (1974), in

the bottom left-hand corner, a question on the intentions of the producer is posed by the composer:

“Is this what Rashid Vally wanted?”. Written in italics, it is a question that has puzzled musicians and

jazz lovers alike; suggesting that perhaps the producer of the album, Rashid Vally, requested

something unachievable.

The album contains only two tracks of thirteen minutes each, respectively titled Mannenberg and

The Pilgrim. Of these two tunes, the first is considered by many as South Africa's most iconic jazz

tune, written at a time when jazz was considered by many South Africans as elitist or subversive

(Ansell, 2004: 153). Unusually for a piece of jazz, it became an instant hit; a “Friday Night” tune to

put on the record player, kick off your shoes and dance to (Mason, 2007:23). The journey the piece

has taken, however, was long and unusual in its pilgrimage from Hit Parade to an unofficial second

national anthem.

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Placing the piece in a similar realm as the historic South African national anthem is quite assertive.

Yet, it is the piece that redeemed Ibrahim to his local listeners after years of seeming audience

neglect and musical soul-searching in his bid to find a sound that would express, not only his view

on the political front, but also one that would become “the voice of the voiceless” (Mason, 2007).

This chapter is an exploration of the musical makings of Mannenberg. Viewed as a “golden key” that

unlocked a wealth of Capetonian music and musicianship, I analyse both its historical placement

and its musical properties to show how it came to be regarded as such. I also trace some of the

effects of colonialism and apartheid, and the impact of the eugenics theories on the formation of

identity.

T HE B EGINNINGS
Abdullah Ibrahim is one of South Africa's leading composers and pianists. Born in 1934, he was

baptised Johannes Adolphus Brand and brought up by his mother in Kensington, a suburb described

by Vince Kolbe, at the time of their youth, as part-suburb, part-township (Kolbe, 2005: personal

interview with author). Ibrahim’s mother was the pianist at the African Methodist Episcopal (AME)

Church. Ibrahim was thus brought up as a Christian in this African American church that, towards

the end of the 19th century, often sent missionaries to Africa (Mason: 2007:26).68

The social difficulties of being brought up in a in a single parent family, in a poor coloured

community, must have been exacting, yet the young Ibrahim succeeded in building a career for

68 Alice Walker uses this idea in her novel The Colour Purple (1982). Here some of the characters are sent to Africa to
act as missionaries – although in a mythological space and place.

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himself early on, establishing himself as a musician of talent and resolve. His initiation into jazz

performance, however, makes for a colourful tale. Vocalist Donald Tshomela recalls that he urgently

needed a pianist when

They brought me this guy, I look at this guy and say this guy is too thin, he is
gonna die, man...[we asked]..."can you help us tonight?" and he said "let me
listen to what you gonna do". I said, "Have you ever played Jazz before?" He
said: "No". I said, "How are you gonna cope? and he said: "let me listen, I'm
playing with a langarm band" (Tshomela, 1990, interview by Colin Miller)

Not that langarm69 bands had a repertoire distinct from the jazz bands. Indeed, langarm bands, play,

and have always played, a wide variety of pieces, including foxtrots, tangos and jazz standards

(Coetzer, 2005; Kolbe, 2005 & 2008: personal interviews with author).

Tshomela continues:

So, what the hell, I let him [Ibrahim] listen! We did 'The Honey Dripper', a
beautiful song, 'Black Street Boogie'. We did beautiful things from Tommy
Dawson and he coped. We did African songs. This guy's got ears like a bloody
elephant and we went home thinking that he's gonna forget when he comes
back to the show tonight,... And he came back and we took off, that was
Dollar Brand. Brilliant. One word: brilliant! He was wonderful on the piano,
we took him back to District Six and we performed there with Tuxedo
Slickers, there the Tuxedo Slickers took Dollar on tour. And Dollar met up
with Kippie [Moeketsi]70 ...hey! we lost Dollar forever. (Tshomela, 1990,
v

interview by Colin Miller)

Having grown up in Cape Town, and considering his work in langarm bands, Ibrahim must have had

an early awareness of the musics that were to influence his future compositions. Not only was he

69. The direct translation reads: “long arm”, referring to the way in which your body is held when dancing ballroom –
with the one arm stretched to the side.
70. Kiepie Moeketsi (n.d.- 1980) was initially known as a kwela player – then moved on to jive and finally jazz. The beauty
of Moeketsi was that he enabled people; helped musicians along the way as teacher and educator – as much as being
a player of note. Perhaps this legacy also influenced Ezra Ncgukana's answer regarding the issue of playing with black
bands (that playing in a Black band often provided, during the 40s and 50s, the opportunity to learn to read and play by
sight (Ncgukana, 2002, in conversation with the author)

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schooled in the gospel influenced pianistic styles known in the coloured churches throughout the

Cape Peninsula; he will also have known a wide variety of local musical styles such as vastrap (a rural

dance form), tiekie-draai (a very fast two step71), and all the music involved in the Cape Minstrelsy

Carnival. Subsequently, this meeting with Tshomela gave him the opportunity to play black musical

styles such as big-band (a style of horn-based township jazz), marabi (early piano based township

Jazz) and jive (a style of township jazz, developed from kwela; a form of pennywhistle music). As a

result of his work with Tshomela, The Tuxedo Slickers, and the saxophonist Kiepie Moeketsi, he was

inspired to form the group The Jazz Epistles in the 1950s, recording only one album, entitled Verse

1 (1960).

The personnel of the group included, along with Ibrahim, Kippie Moeketsi (Saxophonist), Hugh

Masekela (trumpeter), Jonas Gwangwa (trombonist and composer), Johnny Gertze (Bass player),

and Makaya Ntshoko (drummer); two coloured players and four black players. Therefore,

considering the passing of one of the major apartheid laws in 1950, the Group Areas Act, by playing

together, these musicians were effectively breaking the law. Even so, their musical concept was

drawn in imitation of Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers, carrying a sound steeped in North American jazz,

and echoing the sonic structures of Blakey's Blue Note style in pieces such as Moanin' (1958).

Listening to the opening sequence of the Jazz Epistles' Vary-oo-vum, and the head of Moanin', you'll

immediately note the similarities in the motivic intention. The horn stabs create a certain amount

of anticipatory tension, which is only broken once the solos begin.

71. This dance involves the dancers being able to do very fast, continuous turns.

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T RANSCRIPTION N O . 3. M OANIN ’, B Y B OBBY T IMMONS , RECORDED BY THE J AZZ M ESSENGERS IN 1958. T HE SECTIONS IN RED
SHOWS SPACES OF MOVEMENT AND REPOSE . T HE MOVEMENT IS SHOWN IN THE PIANO LINE , WHILST THE SPACES OF ‘ REST ’ CAN
BE HEARD IN THE HORN LINES , AS A CALL - AND - RESPONSE BETWEEN PIANO AND HORNS . I BELIEVE THIS COMPOSITIONAL STRATEGY
MAY HAVE GIVEN RISE TO THE COMPOSITIONAL IDEAS IN V ARY - OO -V UM .

In Transcription No. 3 you can see a transcription of the opening lines of Bobby Timmons/Art

Blakey’s Moanin’. The phrases marked in red shows spaces of movement and repose. There is some

movement shown in the well-known opening piano line, whilst spaces of “repose” can be heard in

the horn lines. This forms a call-and-response between piano and horns. I believe this compositional

strategy may have given rise to the compositional ideas in Vary-oo-Vum. In a comparative

transcription of Vary-oo-Vum (Transcription No. 4) you can see the phrases marked in red that,

although not the same as Blakey’s tune, has a similar compositional intent – one of movement and

repose, or movement and rest. These motifs show, for me, some aspects of bebop’s influence: in

this instance, both the melodic rhythm and also the timbre. In each case, the horns create a rich,

complex and closely arranged space that leads to a sense of freedom heard in the solo sections.

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Other major South African musicians, the pianist Chris McGregor and his first collaborators, which

included the saxophonists Cups 'Cups n Saucers' Nkanuka and Harold Jeptha, were of a similar

musical and political persuasion, and formed another racially mixed group. These two bands, as

T RANSCRIPTION N O . 4. V ARY -O O -V UM BY THE J AZZ E PISTLES FROM THEIR 1960 ALBUM , V ERSE 1.

well as the members of the “reading, listening and discussion” group, led by pianist Vince Kolbe,

effectively formed the core of Cape Town's jazz musicians of the 1950s. In these sessions, Kolbe, a

well-read librarian by day, introduced his friends and fellow musicians to the works of, amongst

others, W.E.B. Du Bois (Muller, 2004: 187; Kolbe, 2005: interview with author). It was also the time

for the musicians to listen critically to their imported American LPs, share musical knowledge and

learn from each other. Basing themselves on, and drawing inspiration from, their African American

counterparts, it is little surprise that Valmont Layne called this collective group the “hipster

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breakaway” (Layne, 1990: 118; Layne, 2003: interview with author, Kolbe, 2005: interview with

author).

Musicians, who were not necessarily in the position to emulate the Hipster lifestyle, were politically

involved and musically influenced. Thus Richard Schilder, whose family commitments prohibited

him from being part of this Beatnik-influenced group, recalled Kolbe's listening sessions, adding that

“there was something about the music, something about the freedom that Charlie Parker and bebop

represented that was utterly inspiring” (Schilder. R, 2003: interview with author).

In addition to these exchanges, many performance spaces, supposedly segregated, turned a blind

eye to the segregation laws when confronted with the quality of the musicianship set before them.

Vince Kolbe remarked that the group involved musicians from any walk of life, “as long”, said Kolbe

“as they could play” (Kolbe, 2008: interview with author).

Similarly, Richard Schilder regaled me with the story of his first major band, The Three Sounds, who,

in the late 1950s, played at a [white] Italian restaurant, La Conda. The group comprised of himself,

Johnny Gertze and Early Mabuza; two coloured men and one black man. As it was illegal for them

to play together, and to play in a white restaurant, he recounts that “the owner used to say that I'm

from Hungary...and Early from Congo…Just for the publicity, you know” (Schilder. R, 2003: interview

with author).

Reflecting on this issue, Colin Miller, when conducting his interviews, also asked questions regarding

the reality of mixed population group bands. To this Robbie Jansen replied that "the musicians never
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had a problem with the racial things you know, because the black guys and white guys were always

playing together” (Jansen, 1990, interview by Colin Miller). Gilbert Lange commented that

I would mention...that although there was a colour bar in this country,

musicians never applied it, because we played with each other musically. No
problems, you know, we would get together for the sessions or blows and
there was never anything like that amongst the musicians that I came
across...we were always great friends all through those years (Lange, 1990:
interview by Colin Miller).

Apart from musicians, many ordinary people, during the 1950s and ‘60s, ignored apartheid laws

when it suited them. Restaurant owners employed musicians as an economic aid, whereas artists,

writers, anti-apartheid workers and jazz lovers sought out these venues, echoing the congenial

nonconformity of New York’s Café Society of the late 1930s (Margolick, 2001). Even so, this was by

no means an area unaffected by apartheid, especially as this group [of musicians and patrons]

challenged not only the jazz fraternity's narrow views on music, but also apartheid's racial laws and

its conservative view of music and art. What is clear though is that the social restrictions placed on

people restricted the “natural” syncretism that would ordinarily take place in the arts, in language

and amongst the people themselves.

Journalist Max du Preez reflected on this in an interview with Midge Ure, saying that

The main men of apartheid were really, really uptight Calvinist patriarchal
types...They disliked music...jazz was the devils' music and spelled the end
of civilization as they wanted it. It was fear of this kind of culture
growing...becoming popular...and people liking each other... (de Preez/Ure,
2009, BBC Radio 4 interview).

Certainly, the segregation of population groups not only detracted from the city's cultural growth

but gave rise to exceptionally negative myths relating to each population group. In the Cape, this

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effected the coloured population more so than any other, and Ibrahim was classified as “coloured”

under the apartheid system.

C ONSTRUCTED R ACISM
Zimitri Erasmus explains that being coloured is “about living an identity that is clouded in sexualized

shame” (Erasmus: 2001:14). She lists the negative associations attributed to being coloured during

the pre-apartheid and apartheid eras, and include “immorality, sexual promiscuity, illegitimacy,

impurity and untrustworthiness” as part of these constructs (Erasmus, 2001: 17). Mohammed

Adhikari extends this list and includes the “supposed propensity for criminality, gangsterism, drug

and alcohol abuse and vulgar behaviour” (Adhikari, 2005: 14). Considering that views such as this

were based in the sciences of the colonial era, which in turn gave rise to the eugenic theories of the

1800s, they became internalized, influencing coloured identity. Furthermore, reflecting on ideas put

forward by Said72 and Hudson73, these constructs were already in place as an occidental view of

Africa by the time Bartholomew Diaz set sail in the late 1400s (Hudson, 2004). Eugenics, however,

slightly changed these views, turning its attention to one of the results of colonialism, namely,

miscegenation.

It could be argued that these constructs are the direct result of the miscegenation that took place,

after the abolition of slavery in 1838, when groups were essentially forced together, thrown

together through circumstance, similarity of experience and economic conditions (Lewis, 1987;

72
Edward Said has shown how early colonial beliefs had given rise to views of Africa and the Orient [“Orientalisms”] and
still held and expressed by 1909 when Arthur Balfour, during a Parliamentary address, expressed these as a given (Said,
1979).
73
Nicolas Hudson has shown the semantic and ontological constructs of race became codified during the early part of
the colonial era (Hudson, 2004).

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Adhikari, 2005: 3). Truly, as pointed out by Adhikari, this stereotyping of coloured people showed

society's fear of hybridization, whether in livestock, household pets, music or humans (Adhikari,

2005: 23).

Other factors that pertained to the way this population group was viewed, included the perceived

high degree of alcoholism displayed; an addiction created through the “dop”74 system. Many

workers receive part of their wages in alcohol. Writing from a medical practitioner’s perspective,

Leslie London shows the results of this system, not only in creating alcoholism, but also in the

resultant medical conditions and its impact on the social structure; creating a cycle of poverty that

also affects the level of education amongst this group (London, 1999). This unequal education

system, already in place by 1905 with the segregation of school children, also carries negative

connotations. This inequality became more distinct in 1922 when curricula were differentiated

between population groups and teachers were segregated; forcing them to teach only the children

of their given population group (Adhikari, 2005:3 – 4, 71 - 72)). Thirdly, some viewed participation

in the minstrelsy carnival (Kaapse Klopse Karnival) as “embarrassing and low class” and

“uneducated”; thus taking something that is a celebration of human rights (the end of slavery) and

turning it against the very people whom it celebrated (McKenzie, 2002: interview with author).

Marginalization from political power was also at play as the group were initially ignored during

political lobbying and finally removed from the voting register in the late 1930s (Adhikari, 2005).

From these ideas a caricature of the poverty stricken, drunken, sexualized, semi-literate buffoon

emerged. Someone who was not to be trusted, and not to be taken seriously, regarded, and

74
A colloquial term, taken from Afrikaans, it refers to a measure, or tumbler, of wine. As a ‘system’ it refers to a system
of wage payment. Although illegal, it is still practiced in some areas of the Western Cape.
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following Saïd’s argument, as “the other”. It is thus not surprising that many jazz musicians did not

assign the cultural products of the group – such as its musical forms – with any form of seriousness.

Such negativity led to the private use of some of the musical styles, leading to a private identity; an

identity wherein jazz, regarded as the height of musical intellect, was performed in public, and

traditional musics were performed in private. This decision was informed by the public view that

traditional musics were somehow “backwards”, and public denial was thus an attempt by musicians

to distance themselves from the mixed-race parody and use jazz as a as a mode of resistance to

vanquish stereotypes.

T HE A PARTHEID S TATE

The rise of the National Party, and the introduction of the apartheid state in 1948, was thus

culturally devastating. The promulgation of the main apartheid laws, which included the Group

Areas Act of 1950 and the Separate Amenities Act of 1953, which stipulated the spaces and places

South African peoples were allowed to live and work, segregated people according to perceived

notions of culture and skin tone. The laws resulted in the breaking up of families, and the delineation

of jobs, education, pay and places to live. Indeed, the passing of these laws finally led to a series of

“forced removals”, including the two most prominent forced removals, from Sophia Town in

Johannesburg and District Six in Cape Town.

From a practical cultural perspective these laws meant that musicians of different races could no

longer perform together, and that groups, such as The Three Sounds and The Jazz Epistles, would

not only have been illegal, but would have had difficulties in finding performance places and spaces.

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Additionally, the devastation and aftermath of the Sharpeville Massacre in March 1960, wherein 69

people were killed following a peaceful protest against the passbook system, was a turning point in

the politics of the country. After Sharpeville many people went into exile, the Jazz Epistles

disbanded, and Ibrahim, together with his wife Sathima Bea Benjamin, fled to Switzerland in 1962

in self-imposed, albeit intermittent, exile (Mason, 2007; Muller, 2001).

L IVING IN E XILE , L IVING WITH E XILE

In Switzerland Benjamin introduced herself to Duke Ellington, and orchestrated a meeting between

him and her husband. Impressed by Ibrahim's musicianship, and no doubt aware of apartheid,

Ellington took Ibrahim on as a protégé of sorts. This led, a year later, to two albums recorded in

Paris. The first album, Duke Ellington presents the Dollar Brand Trio, introduced Ibrahim to the

international world. The second album, A Morning in Paris, features Benjamin as its main artist

(Mason, 2007; Muller, 2004; Muller, 2011).

Ibrahim and Benjamin did not, however, stay in Europe for long and moved to New York, where

they found themselves eking out a jazz musician’s existence. Financially it was an exacting time, yet

musically Ibrahim won scholarships to study composition and, at the height of this, deputised for

Duke Ellington in 1966 on five occasions (Mason, 2007: 28). In New York Ibrahim could immerse

himself in a world of like-minded musicians such as Pharoah Sanders, Archie Shepp and Thelonius

Monk (29).

Although Ibrahim’s compositions were still firmly placed within the North American arena, he was

living in a turbulent 1960s New York, surrounded by Black Power politics. South African saxophonist

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Morris Goldberg was also living in New York at the time, and occasionally performed with Ibrahim.

Goldberg recalls that this quest for dignity, identity and respect, this quest for “black power” led

him to examine his own roots, which in turn persuaded him to return to South Africa. Ibrahim,

Goldberg suggests, must have been similarly influenced, possibly even more strongly so, especially

since the powerful questioning of a “black identity” was probably constantly challenging him. The

combination of working with Africanists such as Pharoah Sanders, the surrounding notions of “black

power” and his intense longing for home, must have acted as catalyst for the change in his sound,

first noticed in his Carnegie Hall Recital of 1967 (29 - 30).

After this concert, The New York Times music critic, John Wilson, described Ibrahim (or Dollar Brand

as he was still then known) “as a musician who mixes a strong instinct for jazz with his native musical

heritage” (Wilson, New York Time, 4 June 1967, Quoted in Mason, 2007: 30).

Ibrahim commented, on his return to Cape Town, that in this gig he “played through District Six, up

Hanover Street, Doug Arendse’s little place in Caledon Street, the Coon Carnival, Windemere,

children’s songs, up Table Mountain, through the hills of Pondoland, my mother, father, sisters,

brothers – everything” (Ibrahim, Cape Herald, 24 August 1968 in Mason, 2007: 30). Here in this

concert, the sense of loss and the musical echoes of the past were brought forth and shown publicly

for the first time.

However, instead of being hailed as the lost-son-returned, it was a stressful period. Few

engagements were forthcoming and Cape Town audiences were unappreciative. Unable to support

his family, he was forced to return to the US, only to return, again to Cape Town in 1968 due to ill

127
health. This experience served as impetus to examine his lifestyle and his spirituality (Mason, 2007:

31).

The health-giving properties of music and musicianship were explained by David Dargie in his book

on Xhosa Music (1988). He explained that, when ill health struck Mrs Nosinoyhi Dumiso, she

examined her life and the cultural constructs in which she found herself. This analysis led her to

become a diviner (spiritual healer) who used the uhadi (a gourd bow instrument) in the divination

process (Dargie, 1988, 34). In a similar way, when Ibrahim's health deteriorated, he decided to

scrutinize his life and lifestyle. As part of this process, he analyzed his spiritual approach and

subsequently converted to Islam, changing his name accordingly. Leading on from Mrs Nosinoyhi

Dumiso’s experience – in that music is often ascribed to contain healing properties – Ibrahim now felt

that he was able to heal himself through the use of music. More importantly, he viewed himself as the

musical spokesperson and the musical healer of politically disenfranchised South Africans (Mason, 2007:

31; Titlestad, 2003).

There were many misinterpretations regarding the music he now played. His compositions became

influenced by local music, such as Moppies (Humorous songs), Goema (A Style of Carnival Music)

and Piekniek Liedjies (Picnic songs), giving focus to the musical elements that many wanted to hide.

The articles he wrote and the public statements he made also caused confusion as they wavered

between “There’s nothing out there. Everything’s here” (Mason, 2007), and at the other end of the

scale: “South African music is both insipid and inauthentic” (Mason, 2007). When literally

interpreted, these statements were widely misunderstood, and caused much bewilderment.

Indeed, there is little doubt that the jazz fraternity, who saw themselves as sophisticated middle-

class idealists, wanted little to do with Ibrahim's “return to roots” musical ideas – especially when
128
consideration is given to the constructs of identity placed on the community, as discussed earlier on

in this book.

Another point of frustration may have been that Ibrahim now saw himself as the voice of the

voiceless, not just for people of mixed-race origin, but for all voiceless South Africans. John Mason

comments that “having reinvented himself and his music, Ibrahim was now inventing a radically

innovative cultural identity, once coloured and inclusively South African, at once” (Mason, 2007:

32).

Capetonians found this perplexing. Reinventing yourself through a change of name and converting

to another religion is regarded as rejecting your cultural roots and your closest community. Even

those who were considered by the wider community as being “the other” looked askance at

Ibrahim. After all, the South African apartheid government placed all people of colour as “the other”.

Also, musicians are often placed as “the social other”, when considering the social milieu of the

musician and his status in society (Merriam, 1964: 123-144). Additionally, Ibrahim was, until his

European departure, part of the hipster group led by Vince Kolbe, who placed themselves apart

from the ordinary musicians. With this conscious change of self, identity and name, Ibrahim even

appeared to place himself outside this liberally minded group. As Vince Kolbe remarked “When

Dollar [Ibrahim] did his thing...it was quite strange”, never explaining what he meant, leaving me to

interpret the meaning(s) of his silence (Kolbe, 2008: interview with author).

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W HERE AND WHAT IS M ANENBERG … OR IS IT M ANNENBERG ?

Manenberg, rather than Mannenberg – the name was misspelt on the album - is one of the

“suburbs” or “locations” created by the apartheid government in an area called “Die Kaapse

Vlaktes” [or “the Cape flats”] as an enactment of the Groups Areas Act. It is a large geographic area

and contains many suburbs, such as Rocklands, Mitchellsplain, Maneberg and black areas such as

Gugulethu and Kayelitsha.(See Illustration 14)

From the time of the passing of the Group Areas Act in 1950, people from all areas of Cape Town

were forcibly removed to the Kaapse Vlaktes [Cape Flats]. In Cape Town the most prominent

removals came with the destruction and “bulldozing” of District Six – when every single person was

removed from the area and moved to a space that was deemed to be their “proper place in society”,

resulting in families and communities being broken up and displaced (Worden, 2009; Jeppie and

Soudien, 1990).

Forced removals ordinarily inflict devastation on communities and are a favoured topic amongst

South African sociologists – especially in view of the current land reclamation. It is exceptionally

difficult to live in an area with so little infrastructure and, during the apartheid era, constant police

surveillance caused, often brutal, disruptions to normal life. Richard Rive, in his novel, Buckingham

Palace, District Six (1986) demonstrates some of the crises of identity experienced when certain

characters were removed from District Six, their known and beloved suburb. Many people seemed

to prefer returning to a semi-bulldozed suburb, rather than to continue living in their newly built,

government-provided flats (Rive, 1986). Yet somehow people survived, spiritually and emotionally

and, despite Manenberg’s growing middle-class population, the media tend to focus on its working-

class ethics, drugs gangs and taxi wars.

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The name of the album and the piece (Mannenberg75) is thus drawn from this area (Manenberg),

and is felt to reflect the spirit and the culture of its people. The naming of the piece can be traced

back to the day it was recorded. Mason recounts that, on the day after the completion of the

recording, Morris Goldberg was on his way to go and visit his old housekeeper who lived in

Manenberg. To the question of her identity, he answered that she was a “Mrs Gladys Williams”.

Instantly the piece was baptised as “Mrs. Williams from Mannenberg” (Mason, 2007).

It was the producer Rashid Vally's decision to maintain the “Mannenberg” part of the name and

publish the album as Mannenberg - is Where It’s Happening with the title track simply entitled

Mannenberg (Mason, 2007: 35). This was a sound marketing decision.

After its release in the period stretching from 1974-1975 (in a double release, 1st by Ashams and

then Gallo), it sold more than 40,000 copies (Ibid.). This was unheard of for a jazz album.

Undoubtedly the word Mannenberg will have conjured up, for many, the memories of the forced

removals. The notion of overcoming exceptional hardships will also have conjured up a feeling of

solidarity as by-product, not just with those affected by forced removals, but also due to the

continual economic hardships and all the other outcomes of the violent and relentless apartheid

regime. This cultural acknowledgement in the naming of the tune (without even considering any of

the musical ideas) will have played a keen role in the making of both the hit song and its further

development as a political anthem.

75
A Note on the misspelling of Manenberg, the place, and Mannenberg, the album: No one has been able to ascertain
whether this was a deliberate mistake or a printer’s devil mistake. At the same time, despite many interviews, Rashid
Vally has never commented either way.

131
I LLUSTRATION 14: V IEW OF THE SOUTHERN SUBURBS AND THE C APE FLATS – WITH A RED PIN INDICATING MANENBERG /
MANNENBERG TOWARDS THE CENTRE . I LLUSTRATION BY L OUISE L ÜDERS .

F ROM 'H IT P ARADE ' TO N ATIONAL A NTHEM

In 1983 a political assembly, The United Democratic Front (UDF) was launched, with the aim of

acting as a political front for more than 600 political groups and trade unions under the leadership

of Dr Alan Boesak. Additionally, the UDF was also a movement against the government's tricameral

proposals: a parliamentary suggestion wherein limited political power was to be given to the

coloured and Indian population, entirely excluding the Black population.

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Many meetings and rallies were held - some to debate the changing political landscape and others

to form a sense of unity amongst this extended family of political movements. Many of these

meetings were attended by the Capetonian saxophonist, Basil Coetzee, who often played

Mannenberg at them. Colin Miller remarked that

With the growing resistance to Apartheid manifesting itself in increased

political mobilization, Basil Coetzee ... would often perform solo saxophone,
and then called on Paul Abrahams – the Pacific Express bassist – to
accompany him. The duo performed at the historic launch of the United
Democratic Front at Rocklands, Mitchell’s Plain in 1983. (Miller, Jazz
Rendezvous, 13 November 2007).

Considering the popularity and “Hit Parade” status of the piece, it is “largely due to these

performances by Basil Coetzee that Mannenberg became an unofficial anthem at UDF rallies. His

wailing saxophone represented a cry for freedom and the music a weapon in the struggle for

liberation” (Miller, 2007). Thus, it can be deduced that the performances themselves ultimately led

to the construction of Mannenberg as a second National Anthem.

B ACKGROUND TO THE R ECORDING .

The composition of the piece came to Ibrahim after many years of soul searching and musical

experimentation. Recorded by Rashid Vally76, who worked under various labels over a relatively

short period of time (including The Sun and As-Shams) the tune became an unexpected hit shortly

after its release. Three albums were duly recorded, including one with Kiepie Moeketsi, and, as a

result of the success of these sessions, Vally funded the recording of this fourth album with a band

76
It is commonly believed that Ibrahim approached Vally in the early 1970s, after Vally's success as a producer was
noted amongst other jazz players

133
Ibrahim formed from a group of Capetonian musicians. The recording of Mannenberg itself took

place over the course of a few weeks and even though there were additional recordings, none have,

to date, been released (Ansell, 2004; Mason, 2007).

Interestingly, on this particular album, the label appears in both English and Arabic (As-shams

meaning 'sun' in Arabic), both in language and in script, reflecting Vally and Ibrahim's religious

orientation. The front sleeve cover shows ordinary folk smiling away at the camera: poor, hard-

working and of mixed raced descent. Indeed, the woman we see on the album cover is said to be

Goldberg's old housekeeper, Mrs Gladys Williams (Mason, 2007: 35).

I LLUSTRATION 15: M RS G LADYS W ILLIAMS , M ORRIS G OLDBERGS ' PREVIOUS HOUSEKEEPER SHOWN ON THE FRONT COVER OF
THE ALBUM . I LLUSTRATION OF THE ALBUM COVER BY L OUISE L ÜDERS .

The back cover shows a young Ibrahim, a sun (the label brand mark) and mountains in the

background. The symbol of a white dove; the internationally accepted image of peace, is also

included. It could be argued that these images render the album as a quest for peace, through music
134
performed by musicians known throughout the Cape Peninsula. Therefore, and returning to

Ibrahim’s view of being the ”voice of the voiceless”, it seems to be a quest for peace for everyone:

the musicians, the oppressors, and more poignantly, a quest for peace for ordinary people whom,

it is felt, the music was aimed at.

I LLUSTRATION 16: THE BACK COVER SHOWS THE AS - SHAMS LABEL , I BRAHIM , A DOVE AND THE GOLDEN QUESTION :
“ IS THIS WHAT RASHID VALLY WANTED ?” I LLUSTRATION OF ALBUM COVER BY L OUISE L ÜDERS .

In conversation Robbie Jansen has alluded to the possibility that the other recordings were “try-

outs,” and added that "there are many recordings but the one that was published is the one that

counts" (Jansen, 2005: interview with author). A similar idea was expressed by Valmont Layne,

especially in light of the fact that, in the final position, towards the bottom right hand corner of the

album cover appears a quote by Ibrahim: "Is this what Rashid Vally wanted?" (Layne, 2004: interview

with author).

135
Jansen also added, almost guardedly, that the title track "summarised the peoples feeling at that

time...It was a state of being...A state in which you found yourself in" (Jansen, 2005: interview with

author). Valmont Layne expressed similar ideas yet in a more direct way, including that

it is politically...the most important piece...The unofficial 2nd national

anthem...and it's odd, as it has no vocals...'In a similar way Redemption Song
is to Jamaica', I asked? 'Yes perhaps', he answered. 'Similar, but not the
same' (Layne, 2004: interview with author).

From a musical point of view, Layne suggested further that it recalls the Marabi (early township jazz

style) experience or certainly gives a nod to the style, but how this was achieved, he could not say.

Vince Kolbe agreed, and, apart from reiterating the political importance of the tune, added that

perhaps it recalls "that township jive style...like the big-bands of the Queenstown area" (Layne,

2004; Kolbe, 2005: interviews with author). Ntemi Piliso expressed a similar idea:

[I]n 1975, Basil [Coetzee] and Abdullah [Ibrahim] came out with that
Manenberg [sic] thing. Then we thought, no, that big sound is coming back
now. It's got all the ingredients to form a big-band sound again...even though
Manenberg [sic] was not played by a big band...but the sound reminded
people of the big-band sound ( Ansell, 2004:153 ).

Ansell completes this thought with a statement that "It is probably stretching the definition to call

Manenerg [sic] a jive tune”, however, she doesn't offer definitions of jive, marabi or the big-band

sound (Ansell, 2004: 153).

J IVE , M ARABI & D ANCE

In all the above statements various nomenclatures have been used: respectively marabi, jive and

bigband, yet this should not be so surprising. The Hot Lips Dance Band, for instance, recorded a tune

entitled Marabi No. 2 Jive. Thus, within one piece of music the words “Jive”, “Marabi” and “Dance

band” all refer to a single stylistic idea. Gwen Ansell uses these titles interchangeably, whereas

136
Christopher Ballantine, in his book Marabi nights: early South African Jazz and Vaudeville (1993),

concluded that, since these bands were playing both Vaudeville shows and at dance events, it was

an obvious conclusion that they should also play music that, although influenced by the American

idiom, leaned more strongly towards a South African arrangement (Ballantine, 1993).

Such musical syncretism is not surprising, considering the globalising impact of colonialism. Veit

Erlman suggests that this (worldwide) “globalised” context was established after the end of the

slavery, between the 1870s and the beginning of the 20th century (Erlman, 1999: 15). Further, this

system, this cultural, musical and economic exchange represented, for many, a modernity that fed

an imaginary global belonging (Erlman, 1999; Stokes, 2004).

Clearly big-bands, used in both the American and South African models of Vaudeville-style variety

shows, had to demonstrate the instrumentation used for big-band purposes in order to qualify as

such. Thus, within the South African [township bigband] context: piano or organ, vocals, kit and a

horn section were commonly used, to which were added, according to musician availability, violin

(The Merry Blackbirds), banjo (The Jazz Revellers) or pennywhistle and concertina (The St Matthew's

College Band of 1933) (Ballantine, 1993).

Their Vaudeville and dance audiences also demanded the performance of well-known American

tunes. Bandleaders expected their musicians and dance troupe to “do their homework”. Lindi

Makhanya, interviewed by Veit Erlmann in 1987 told of troupe-leader Johannes 'Koppie' Masoleng

who "…liked us to go to musical shows. Ja, all the musical shows. We'd go there - he'd take the cast,

you know. To get an idea, you see, how we must perform" (Ballantine, 1993: 20).

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Peter Rezant, leader of The Merry Blackbirds explained that the “crowds would go mad” when they

heard a tune performed by his band, such as In the Mood shortly after, and sometimes within a day

or two, of them seeing the film or hearing the recording (Ballantine, 1993: 21).

W HAT IS M ARABI ?

Ansell suggests two possible origins for the word marabi: 1) ho raba raba, the Sesotho verb for the

sentence fragment “to fly about” and 2) Ibrahim’s impression that the term came from

"...Marabastad,... a Pretoria location [township]..." where this music was first heard (Ansell, 2004:

29). Nonetheless, many writers (Erlmann, 1990; Ballantine, 1993; Ansell, 2004) assert that this music

had something to do with illegal social events, which involved musicking and dancing. It was mainly

held in shebeens (an old Irish word meaning ‘small illegal drinking place’) where illicitly made home-

brew, especially skokiaan (strong maize beer), was sold. Musically it is hard to define what Marabi

was and I suggest that its meaning had as much to do with the cultural space in which it took place,

as with the musical content of each piece.

The instrumentation used in Marabi was primarily piano, guitar or banjo, with the addition of a

shaking tin - a tin can filled with small stones. No doubt, according to musician availability, more

instruments could have been added, bearing in mind that marabi was also played by the “big-bands”

as indicated earlier in this section.

The main compositional element of marabi compositions were their “ostinato harmonic patterns”,

stretched over four bars, with one measure for each of the following chords: I - IV - I 6/4 – V (Kubik,

1974: 23-24). Over these, melodies were superimposed. Ballantine asserts that the cyclical nature
138
of these pieces was derived from traditional African sources where repeating harmonic patterns are

fundamental (Ballantine, 1993: 26). Kubik agrees and argues that these “ostinato harmonic

patterns” are the basis of almost all neo-traditional music in Sub-Saharan Africa (Kubik, 1974: 23-

24).

The melodic construction of marabi compositions, Edward Solilo suggested, had its origins in

traditional music, which could be described as a mixture of Xhosa, Sotho, Zulu, etc. ceremonial song

(Ballantine, 1993: 26-27). In addition, melodic fractions of well-known hymns were used,

intertwined with snippets of the commercially popular tunes of the day. Other melodic influences

came from the musics of the Afrikaans speaking community - the coloured, white and Cape Malay

communities – from musics such as vastrap, tikkie-draai and ghoema (Ballantine, 1993). The

repetition of a melody or melodic fragment, “yielding eventually, perhaps, to a similar treatment of

another melody or fragment, and perhaps then still others, each melody possibly from a different

source” meant that you could play continuously “And in this manner...you could play for half an

hour without stopping" (Ballantine, 1993; Ballantine, 2012: 34 - 35).

Thus, the combination of Marabi’s musical organisation, its instrumentation, the origin and creation

of the music (Merriam, 1964) and its performance places (shebeens), helped create a cultural space

of relative freedom in the oppression ordinarily experienced – an important point in the

development of Mannenberg as an icon.

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B ACK TO M ANNENBERG , THE R ECORDING

The personnel used for the album Mannenberg reflected the “hipster space” discussed earlier.

Ibrahim, still recording under the name Dollar Brand, was joined on bass by Paul Abrahams, the

legendary Basil Coetzee, whose nom de plume Basil 'Mannenberg' Coetzee, stems from this album,

was on tenor sax; a young Robbie Jansen was on flute and alto sax and Monty Weber was on drums.

The final solo was taken by Morris Goldberg on Alto sax.

Listening to the piece you will note the unusual timbre of the piano. The pianos on which Marabi

was played would have been the iron framed pianos of the 1920s, and possibly not the best of

instruments. Vally (and Ibrahim) thus tried to recall this “honky-tonk” sound in the recording of the

piece by preparing the piano with thumb tacks (Mason, 2007:35).

Considering the musical organization of Mannenberg, its cyclical nature is clearly evident. Opening

with an ostinato bass line, its opening phrases (parent key F) reveal the first of its marabi

characteristics: an ostinato bass line that shapes the harmonic cycle for the rest of the composition.

The form (see Table 2 below) of the (head of the) piece opens with the main theme in piano, stating

the main harmonic and melodic cycle. This is repeated another four times, gradually building texture

by adding other instruments (bass and kit), or by embellishing instrumental parts, giving shape to

the rhythm-section materials. After five cycles, keeping in mind the cyclical nature of neo-African

music, the horns enter, repeating the melodic line. The main A melody is four bars long and can be

divided into two sections a and b. The B materials only appear after eight repetitions of A. This again

is divided into an a and b section. Although most b sections are copies of each other, the B (horn)

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phrases are complimented with responses in the piano. Here the producer cleverly panned the

entries of the horns left and right respectively, giving the illusion of a live performance; filling a

virtual stage with an ensemble of musicians. The solos enter at two minutes and conclude with the

final outro which contains shout outs by Ibrahim.

Looking at the time-lapse analyses below, it is possible to gain an impression of the amount of

repetition: the A section repeats eight times with only marginal variations, before the entry of the

B section and finally the solos. This clearly shows the neo-traditional77 leanings of the piece, and its

marabi allegiance.

T ABLE 2: M ANNENBERG T IME - LAPSE A NALYSES

min : secs Instruments Description

0:09 Piano First statement of A the main materials
0:17 Piano, Bass, Second statement of A with bass included
0:26 Piano, Bass, Kit Third statement of A with kit added
0:34 piano, bass , kit Fourth Statement of A with kit more confident
0:42 piano, bass, kit, Fifth Statement – a repeat of the Fourth statement.
Horns enter A in the Horns – panned left
A in the horns – panned right
A in the horns - panned left
First entry of B – Horn line – panned right.
B' in the Horns Panned left, followed by an answer in the piano panned
right
B'' in the horns, panned right, followed by an answer in the piano
panned left
B' – repeated
B'' – repeated
B – repeated twice
2.07 Solos begin

77
The term refers to neo-traditional musics from an African perspective, rather than a North American context. This
was explained by Gerhard Kubik in many of his writings, including his article Neo-traditional popular music in East Africa
since 1945 (1981) where the music remains somewhat traditional, but shows changes towards a diatonic scale,
westernized harmonic use, rhythmic approach and so forth. Also see Kubik (1974)
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 9.20 Final Solo Morris Goldberg
11.00 Return of A In the horns
Shout outs from
Ibrahim: O
Mannenberg! Julle kan
12.56
ma' New York toe gan .
Ons bly hie' in
Mannenberg

Furthermore, the use of the horns reflects, as noted earlier in this chapter, a township big-band feel.

The short repetitive phrases, as inferred above, reflects a marabi feel – but performed in a township

big-band arrangement, rather than a small piano-led trio. At the end of the piece is a short “shout

out” where, I believe, Ibrahim pokes fun at himself and all other exiles – and makes one final stand

for the power of memory and spirit of survival. He shouts: “O! Mannenberg! Julle kan ma' New York

toe gan. Ons bly hie' innie Mannenberg” [Oh! Mannenberg! You can all go to New York. We,

however, will remain here in Mannenberg]. With this he underlines the concept of staying “here”,

at home, in Mannenberg, perhaps initially against our will, but now as a way of life and a show of

strength.

T HE B ASS LINE & HARMONIC ANALYSIS

The bass line is fairly simple. (See Transcription 5) In common time, it is slightly syncopated and

rhythmically even. Its gentle tempo (112 = crotchet), and I-IV -V implications, together with the

walking quality and octave use, renders it as an emotive foundation on which the melodic lines were

super-imposed. Had the tempo being faster, reflecting, perhaps, marabi, jive or kwela, this quality

will not have been in evidence.

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T RANSCRIPTION 5: M ANNENBERG B ASS L INE . T HIS TRANSCRIPTION SHOWS THE TWO MOST BASIC IDEAS . T HROUGHOUT THE
PIECE SIMILAR SMALL VARIATIONS APPEAR .

Finally, the bass line phrase works in two bar cycles which, once the right-hand melody enters, helps

to shape the harmonic ideas suggested by the main melodic line. Occasionally, on the second

repetition of the bass line cycle, the rhythm is slightly altered, especially towards the end, giving a

greater sense of conclusion where needed.

The harmonic cycle suggested by the bass line indicates a simple movement of I-I6-IV-I6/4-V, thus

the exact Marabi harmonic typology suggested by Ballantine. The combination of the left hand and

the right hand only marginally enriches the harmonic progression thus: I – ii6 – I6 – ii6 – I6/4 – V ,

followed by the turn around phrase: I- I6- ii6-I6/4-V. (See Transcription 6).

The second main phrase (Transcription 7) suggests the following harmonic ideas: ii4/2 – IV – ii – I

6/4 – V, returning to the turn-around phrase (marked B above), repeating I- I6- IV7-I-V.

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T RANSCRIPTION 6: T HE M AIN HOOK LINE ( MARKED A) AND TURN AROUND PHRASE (M ARKED B)

These hymn-like harmonies add to Christine Lucia’s argument that Ibrahim had taken the harmonic

content of some of his compositions from the hymns he learned to play as a child (Lucia, 2005).

However, the harmonic sequence, in combination with the substantial horn section, and its

resultant timbre, points the piece musically directly towards its marabi roots.

T RANSCRIPTION 7: P HRASE 2. T URN - AROUND PHRASE

F UNK
Another musical style embedded in the sound of the tune, is funk. Relatively new during the early

70s its form and shape found appeal from the outset amongst the Cape Jazz musicians. Having been

brought to light in the mid-late 1960s under the auspices of musicians such as James Brown, Sly and

the Family Stone and George Clinton [P-Funk - Parliament-Funkadelic), funk took Cape Town by

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storm and led many of its musicians to join or form funk bands. Indeed, all of the personnel on the

album, with the exception of Ibrahim and Goldberg, were known at the time, more for their

“funkadelic” activities than their interests in jazz. Bass player Paul Abrahams, for instance, was the

band leader of Pacific Express, the Capetonian funk band who became internationally known.

This, Mason asserts, was also one of the reasons Ibrahim recruited these musicians. To allow the

music to have mass appeal it stood to reason that recruiting musicians from the most popular genre

found in Cape Town at the time was a sound decision. Not only was funk popular, but its musicians

were also well known to the general populace (Mason, 2007). Robbie Jansen noted this to me and

stated that his main influences and inspiration in respect of funk included Sly and the Family Stone,

Kool and the Gang and later, Earth, Wind and Fire (Jansen, 2005: interview with author; Jansen,

1990: interview by Colin Miller). Indeed, later albums recorded by both Jansen and Coetzee are rich

in modally based funk influences, the solos mirroring the solos found in Mannenberg.

M ELODY

Nevertheless, it is the melodic construction that is perhaps the most powerful concept to consider.

The melody of Mannenberg opens with an arpeggiated phrase, followed by a scalic resolution,

superimposed over a marabi-like harmonic ostinato (I-I6-IV-I6/4-V). This format, I propose, reflects

elements of kwela, a style of pennywhistle music dating from the 1950s that contains many melodic

similarities to marabi. West Nkosi’s piece Marabi Bell 800 (1970) reflects kwela’s melodic influence,

yet it is named to be a “marabi” and is thus an excellent demonstration of this practice. Lara Allen

proposed that the “short repetitive melodic motifs, often closely modelled on the chord tones of

the harmonic progression, are the most important and memorable components of any kwela

number…and… tends to be dominated by arpeggiated figures and scalar passages” (Allen, 2005:
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268- 269). Its ostinato harmonic progression, sometimes I-IV-V , sometimes I –V – IV, serves as a

foundation over which call-and-response melodies and solos are placed (Allen, 2005).

Kwela’s popularity was exceptional in that its listening audience was found amongst all racial groups

in Southern Africa. This, Allen suggests, was essentially a syncretism between the application of

functional harmony (I-IV-V and I-V-IV), used in a cyclical African way, supporting a melody drawn

from traditional African sources (Allen, 2005). Additionally, Louis Armstrong’s re-recording of the

Zimbabwean kwela piece, Skokian (1954), a composition by August Masarurgwa dating from 1947,

helped cement the international idea of the sound. It had also been suggested that these melodic

constructions are possibly “relics” of the indigenous groups whose music were mainly piped (and

thus melodic) and whose existence were noted in Vasco da Gama's diaries when he first arrived in

Southern Africa (Allen, 1999; Worden, 2004; Blench, 2002). Consequently, and bearing in mind the

powerful combination of traditional African melodies, and, at the time of the release of Mannenberg

in 1974, the relatively recent popularity of township jazz (marabi, kwela and jive), any melodic

construction referencing kwela will in Southern Africa, even today, be assured of recognition and

familiarity (regardless of population grouping).

Thus, in the case of Mannenberg, the first melodic phrase acts as the main hook line, and serves as

a space of recognition, accessing memory, or emotional echo location in the listener (Muller, 2005;

Muller, 2011). This helps the listener to access shared memory and acting as the key to unlock the

local sound to international audiences. This unlocking gave local musicians the confidence to push

themselves and their musical forms forward. This newfound confidence allowed many jazz

musicians to use local music (vastrap, goema, minstrelsy songs, Dutch songs and Christmas Choir

146
influences) in their performances and, compositionally, to incorporate aspects of local Capetonian

forms in new (jazz and popular music) compositions.

C ONCLUSIONS
The question in the beginning of this chapter, “Is this what Rashid Vally Wanted?” was posed by

Ibrahim, and I believe that I have, for the most part, succeeded in answering this question. Through my

analysis, it became clear that, in the writing of Mannenberg, Ibrahim did not try to sound

“Capetonian”, but used Capetonian personnel, in combination with well-known urban “township”

compositional styles. The combination of the musicians used, in the chosen musical style ensured its

appeal amongst many population groups, as a testament to Ibrahim’s quest in being the “voice for the

voiceless” (Mason, 2007).

In turn, Ibrahim’s international acclaim helped secure the widespread appeal of the piece, ensuring that

both the stylistic ideas and the personnel were placed in a national and, ultimately, international musical

space. This placement granted Cape musicians entry into a musical arena previously disallowed by the

laws of apartheid. The publication of Mannenberg thus brought about a new musical confidence,

resulting in the re-examining of self, and the musics placed forward for composition and performance.

Additionally, the added value of the piece becoming the “sound-track” to UDF meetings cemented a

concept of cultural belonging, of cultural boundaries being drawn, and reflected the function and use of

the music discussed (Blacking, 1990; Merriam, 1964; Mason, 2007; Bruinders, 2012)).

Considering the compositional forms used in early funk – short cyclical harmonic ostinatos over-laid

with rich horn arrangements, often with lead vocals and backing vocals – we may want to reconsider

the form of Mannenberg's inspiration. However, melodically and harmonically it is clear that

Mannenberg's influences are found in the harmonic use of Marabi, the horn use of township big-

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band and the melodic familiarity of kwela78. Furthermore, its popularity stemmed from the

personnel, modal solos and distinctive bass line.

Considering all the aspects of the piece: the title, the thinking behind the title, the musical concepts

and historical framework, I would argue that Ibrahim succeeded in creating a piece that was to act

as a “voice for the [coloured] voiceless” (Mason, 2007). This is reflected in the use of compositional

materials that were, on many levels, new, yet also familiar. It is also reflected in the use of a

memorable title, weighed down with cultural significance, which served as an aide-memoire for

happiness and strength in days filled with peril. More importantly, through the use of personnel,

Ibrahim helped in the validation of the importance of local [Capetonian] musicians, so that it became

something to aspire to, rather than something to be ashamed of, building identity, rather than

subtracting from it. In drawing all these elements together Ibrahim succeeded in creating a piece

that, from its old-fashioned foundations, underlines a sense of a united identity. Thus, where in

1970 Cliffie Moses had instigated, through the publication of his LP Jazz from District Six (1970), the

validation of locally produced jazz to the very people who had created it, Ibrahim had shown the

same four years later in 1974 – but on an international level.

Thus the answer to question “Is this what Rashid Vally wanted?” is clear: not only did he manage to

construct, what most musicians can only hope for, a “hit parade” tune, or even better, a “national

anthem”; he also managed to create a golden key, unlocking pride in identity, pride in cultural forms

previously ignored by all – but the poorest people of the Cape - and unheard of by the international

community.

78
Funk also contains a great deal more syncopation, in both its melodic construction and in its bass line.

148
In the next three chapters the outcomes of these albums will be looked at from three different

musical identity perspectives. The first will examine how jazz musicians have mapped themselves

through participating in carnival music. Secondly, I will explain how identities are created through

music and the Capetonian love of humour and play and, thirdly, I examine the emerging indigenous

identities.

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CHAPTER 6

"TAMATIE BREDIE OF KERRIE KOS ?":

LOCAL MUSICS AND ITS INFLUENCE ON CAPE JAZZ

F IELDWORK D IARY , 31 D ECEMBER 2001

SCENE: THE CLUB HOUSE OF THE NEW ORLEANS SANG KOOR

It's a lovely warm summer's evening. I'm in a prefab schoolroom, the clubhouse of the New Orleans
Sangkoor (New Orleans choir). Musicians and vocalists are slowly trooping in; instruments and
costumes held protectively. A few kids are hanging about, clinging shyly to their mother's arms, whilst
the older women are shifting tables, putting out soft drinks, samosas and other snacks. Slowly the
room fills with people and then with sound. Instruments are taken out and tuned. Musicians are
warming up and getting dressed. The children warm to each other and start running about. Excited
conversations dart about.

I am being introduced to everyone and am told the procedures, the rules and regulations, by several
people all at once. I can't stop smiling, can't stop talking. I'm being told to quickly learn the lyrics on
the blackboard. (Oh Yes!) I'm being shown the banner. Everyone poses for photographs. Our team
captain says something in a LOUD and OFFICIAL voice. Costumes are being checked now, dusted
down. Make-up is applied, mascots are given a showdown and a lively expectancy fills the air. The
team captain shouts something about demeanor and make-up...or is it warm-up? “What did he say?”
I ask my neighbor. Oh, It's Make-up. No one's allowed to go out of the door without make-up. IT'S
SO LOUD I CAN'T HEAR! It's New Year’s Eve in Athlone.

The team members of the New Orleans Sangkoor are as excited as I am. As a Muslim group, it will
be the first time in five years that they have been able to take part in the carnival, as it often coincides
with Ramadan, prohibiting participation. How will they fare in the competition? Oh! The tension is
unbearable.

The vocalists form a circle now. They try a few tunes, make some adjustments and then try a few
more. The guitarists join in, then a banjo, the horns, the cello bass and then the drums. A few
teenagers are walking around bearing small framedrums, looking for raw potatoes. I am puzzled.
“You can't be hungry” I say, gesturing to the now heavily laden food table. “No, not to eat”, they tell
me, “to play with, like this”. They show me how. (Ah! Mystery solved – potatoes are used as
drumsticks). Gradually, the circle becomes bigger as men, women and children join in. Kaatje, the
team leader asks us to be quiet. He intones a prayer to Allah and then gives us a team talk, about
being Muslim, public demeanor and this time: “Kanala mense, ons is n’ Moslem groep” [Stand
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together in peace, people; we're a Muslim group]. And then we slowly troop outside, singing a slow
lament about lost love in Dutch. The voorsanger's [lead singer’s] voice sets the musical tone for the
night, his karienkels [ornamentations] floats about like curlicues of smoke, signaling that Ou Jaars
Nag [New Year's Eve] has begun.

T HIS C HAPTER

In 1980 Abdullah Ibrahim published an album entitled An African Market Place. Herein he included

two tunes that could easily have been mistaken for music from Cape Town’s New Year’s Carnival.

These tunes were called Homecoming Song and An African Market Place, and the style of music it is

written in is called goema. This, of course, was not the first time this style of music was heard in

South African jazz recordings. The first we know of was that composed by Cliffie Moses and

published in his album Jazz from District Six (1970) as discussed earlier in this book.

The development of goema is bound up, entirely, with the processes of slavery and has had a long

period of development that reflects both its past and its current concert hall performances. This

chapter therefore focusses on goema and the development of the minstrelsy carnival, its musical

influences, and its social importance to the people of the Cape. I discuss some of the musical

influences and politics that have, directly and indirectly, given rise to the codification of the sound

in question. The minstrelsy carnival is viewed by many as the main musical event of the year. The

musics and musical materials used in the carnival have had a direct influence on the creation of the

Cape Jazz idiom, so much so that some jazz composers imitate the sound closely in a play for

identity. As could be seen in Chapter Four, one of the first pieces of “goema jazz” is the composition

The (Goema) Dance in 1969 by Basil Moses. Other composers such as Abdullah Ibrahim and Mac

McKenzie also used carnival music as compositional inspiration, underlining the importance of its

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identity constructs. I will therefore trace a chronological development of carnival musics to show

how it relates to the jazz compositions in question.

Minstrelsy has been in existence in Cape Town for almost 200 years, and gave rise to a carnival

called The Cape Town Minstrelsy Carnival. The reason for the existence of the carnival relates to the

end of slavery: on 1 December 1833 the end of slavery was announced in Cape Town’s Parliament.

In celebration of this announcement a group of soon-to-be-freed slaves gave an impromptu

performance that was recorded in a painting by George Duff.

A short article in The South African Commercial Advertiser of 6 December 1834 reported a similar

event the following year, underlining its importance. It states that slavery was officially abolished

on 1 December 1834 when

large bodies of apprentices, of all ages and both sexes, promenaded the
streets during the day and nights, many of them attended by a band of
amateur musicians; but their amusements were simple and interesting; their
demeanor orderly and respectful (Elphick & Shell, 1984: 71).

The word “apprentices” was of course used in reference to the fact that slaves were expected to

carry out a further four years of slavery, which was entitled “an apprenticeship”; thus true

manumitted freedom only came in 1838.

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M USICIANSHIP AND M INSTRELSY I N C APE T OWN

As we had seen in Chapter Two, the musicianship found amongst the slaves in 1834 was, to a certain

extent, the culmination of the diverse mix of musical activities found in the colony from shortly after

the arrival of the settlers. Apart from the music found amongst the indigenous groups (Khoisan

groups), many slaves were employed in dual roles with both musicianship and traditional slave-

worker duties. These slave bands were used for a host of activities, including concert and dance

events; especially when reflecting on the Cape as the “Tavern of the Seven Seas”. Thus, by the time

this celebrated performance took place, when slaves were seen to be marching through the streets

making music, it is fair to say that a strong conceptual identity of slaves as musicians were already

at play.

Academic discourse on the history of Cape Town and its musical heritage recognises the

emancipation celebrations of 1833/34 to be the starting point for the idea of a carnival. Of course,

the carnival did not emerge spontaneously, but developed over many years until it was established

as a “carnival” in 1907. For most of the 1800s the celebrations continued to take place on 1

December but, at some point, it shifted to coincide with the New Year’s celebrations and Tweede

Nuwe Jaar79 starting on the 31st December, and continuing until the evening of 2nd January. Through

this shift (December to January) a musical syncretism took place where the combination of the joy

in music-making, together with the customary Twelfth Night marches, European folk song, Muslim

New Years’ celebrations, Khoisan healing [moon] dances and American minstrelsy, merged into the

staging of the carnival (Martin, 1999).

79
Second New Year or 2 January, this was the traditional “slave holiday” day during colonial times, thus its importance
today.

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WHAT WAS MINSTRELSY?

Minstrelsy shows started in the US during the late 1700s as an anti-Bourgeois, left-thinking idea by

out-of-work musicians and developed to become, by the 1840s, extremely crude in their endeavors

at finding humor in slavery (Nowatski, 2010). Nowatski suggests that this was because many of the

early performers were Irish American, anti-British, and as a consequence of being against the British,

became anti-abolitionist (Nowatski, 2010: 10 – 12). Some typical performing ideas included

attempted imitations of slave dress, body language and speech patterns (Erlman, 1988:334;

Worden, 2004: 244). The performing characters typically included “Dandy” and “Rags”, “Bones” and

“Tambo”. Bones played the [Irish] bones and Tambo played the tambourine, the “Dandy” was a

derisive gaze at the Northern [US] Negro, often a freed slave, and “Rags” was the poor, Southern

farm slave (Erlman, 1988:334; Worden, 2002: 244).

During the 1800s several minstrelsy groups visited the Cape. The first group of minstrels that

performed in the Cape was a British group, imitating the original Christy Minstrels only a year after

they had first appeared on the New York stage in the 1840s (Erlman, 1988: 334). This group, Joe

Brown’s Band of Brothers (1848), typically used white actors to portray black men and women, their

faces blackened with cork and dressed in the performance attire of the day (Worden, 2004: 244).

Many others followed, including the Christy Minstrels themselves in August 1862 and 1865

respectively, claiming, on both occasions, to be the original troupe.

The visiting minstrels gave rise to the formation of local minstrelsy troupes and generated many

white imitators in Cape Town - such as the Amateur Darkie Serenaders and the Darkie Minstrels

(Worden, 2004: 244). However noteworthy these performance troupes and visits were, it was the
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performance pizzazz and style of Orpheus MacAdoo and the Virginia Jubilee Singers that were

seminal to the creation of the carnival. This group emerged just as the popularity of minstrelsy was

in decline and vaudeville was coming into vogue.

Orpheus MacAdoo was a vocalist and musical director who joined the Fisk University

singers in 1886 and, in a bid to salvage the university from financial ruin80, joined the Fisk Jubilee

Singers on a fundraising concert tour to England. Due to disagreements, MacAdoo parted company

with the Fisk singers and formed his own troop, The Virginia Jubilee Singers. This time they decided

to travel, not only to England, but also to Australia, New Zealand and South Africa, where they

opened their tour on 30 June 1890 at the Vaudeville Theatre in Cape Town. Their program consisted

of stock materials and the characters expected - such as Tambo and Bones but were devoid of the

earthy jokes associated with the Christie Minstrels. They enhanced the number of acts from two to

three and changed the main musical program to jubilee hymns, such as Steal Away to Jesus. Indeed,

the repertoire of this troupe was essentially religious. What made this group unique, however, was

the fact that they were university graduates, trained musicians and dancers - and that they were

black (Martin, 1999; Erlman, 1988; Ross, 1995; Worden, 2004).

Audience reaction to this group was principally based on their specific cultural experiences.

According to newspaper reviews, white audiences were astonished by these performances, yet at

the same time found it to be “of no consequence” and “irrelevant”, specifically because of its

Christian content. There was a very strong belief that a black person could not possibly understand

the complexity of Christianity (Erlman, 1990: 199).

80 Fisk University was launched to create Higher Education opportunities for black Americans, yet by the 1860s was already in
financial trouble.

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By comparison, black and coloured audiences revelled in this explosion of musical genius. Minstrelsy

provided a framework for, and gave rise to, a number of important cultural forms. Furthermore, it

was probably the first time in 250 years that there was a cultural stimulus that so strongly influenced

the then recently freed slaves, and that was not focussed on slavery, Christianity, missionary work

or schooling, but on the celebration of joy in music and in life. Shortly after MacAdoo’s appearance

in South Africa (the group stayed on-and-off for five years), one could already sense a change in

cultural products which had two important outcomes. On the one hand, there was an apparent

impact on Zulu music-making. On the other hand, the tour left a strong impression on the ex-Slave

population.

From the Zulu perspective these performances influenced their already existing traditional “group

vocal style”. As a result, black minstrelsy troops and minstrelsy competitions started appearing in

Durban by the 1870s. The Virginia Jubilee Singers changed Zulu vocal practice even further, so that

it gradually developed into mbube, a style possibly invented by Solomon Linda and the Merry Black

Birds in the 1930s. At this time, harmonisation, the number of voices and set harmonic progressions,

was codified as part of this musical idiom. This changed again to later become Isicathamiya - the

style associated with the well-known group Ladysmith Black Mambazo (Erlman, 1990: 205).

On the Cape’s mixed-race population, it had a different influence. Already adept at “musical

marches” and parades, the Cape musicians clearly enjoyed the comic skits and musical humour. In

imitation of the first minstrels that visited the country, vocal societies became part of the New Years’

156
festivities in the 1870s, so much so, that many groups formed “Sporting Clubs” or Klopse81 who

paraded the streets at New Year. Capetonians also adapted many of the minstrelsy performance

features and incorporated them into their annual “end of slavery” march, so that clothes, dress,

dances, instruments82, greasepaint, and humorous minstrelsy songs became part and parcel of the

carnival–to-follow (Martin, 1999; Howard, 1993).

In truth, shortly before the McAdoo concert tours, the first “proper” New Year’s parade was

organised by the Dantu brothers in 1887. Having formed a singing society “The Cape of Good Hope

Sports Club”, the brothers organised the group to march with Chinese lanterns on the New Years’

Eve. The Cape Argus Weekly Edition of 6 January 1888 wrote that

A Malay torchlight procession paraded the streets during the evening; but it
was a sorry turn out, consisting of about thirty torch bearers and individuals
with Chinese lanterns (The Cape Argus Weekly Edition, 6 January 1888).

From 1887 the regular carnival practices started to take shape and these gradually grew larger and

more competitive, resulting in the first true carnival competitions held in 1907.

81 “Klopse” is a bastardization of the English word 'Club'.

82 Vince Kolbe tells of troupes that “used to play bones, you know, like animals bones…”, (Kolbe, January 2005: Interview with
author).

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H OW TO P REPARE FOR A C ARNIVAL

When interviewing musicians of the Moravian Church in the village Mamre83 in 1995, many were

adamant that preparation for the carnival takes place all year around although the “real work” starts

early in November. Starting the real rehearsals at Guy Fawkes time, the first celebratory

performances take place on 24 December.

On 24 December, in the coloured and mixed areas of the city and in the small villages around Cape

Town, groups of vocalists accompanied by string bands, used to walk from house to house,

collection boxes in hand, singing Christmas Carols. Speculatively, this practice was taken from the

Twelfth Night celebrations of the Dutch. Towards the middle of the 20th century, however, many of

these vocal groups, at least in Cape Town itself, were transformed into brass choirs, with the

addition of a few guitars and banjos. Each band would have had their own rehearsal space or

“clubhouse” - often a school hall – where members are trained in solfa and traditional note reading

in readiness for the competitions ahead (authors fieldwork, 1996, 2001 – 2008; Bruinders, 2012).

On Christmas Day itself, the Christmas Choirs/Brass Choirs would meet at their clubhouse and

perform the required number of concerts as expected of them. As these Christmas Choirs are some

of the better-trained musicians in the city, they feed directly into the carnival by forming part of the

bands that accompany the Nagtroepe (Night Troupes) and the Goema Troepe (minstrelsy/carnival

bands). The Nagtroepe, also known as the Sangkore [Vocal Choirs] also add to the carnival bands.

83 Mamre is a small town, a mission station dating from the mid-1800s.

158
Thus it is possible for the same players to be involved in the Christmas Choirs, The Nag

Troepe/Sangkore and the main Minstrelsy Carnival event. Some of these players, as noted by Colin

Howard, amongst others, also form the “backbone of the dance band and jazz season” (Howard,

1994: 69; Layne, 1992; Jeppie, 1990).

T HE N AMING OF THE C ARNIVAL

Cape Town’s Carnival has been known by several names over the years. The original name is Die

Klopse Karnival, meaning the “Clubs Carnival”, referred to the “Sporting Clubs” that formed in the

1800s. Each group formed a club which rehearsed together, raised funds as a unit and had a “club

house”. Today this is also the favored name by which the carnival is known; retaining its historical

reference and attaining political correctness at the same time (Martin, 2007:2).

Other names used reflect an American influence. For instance, for many years the festival was

known as the “Coon Carnival” - a name that, no doubt, causes feelings of discomfort and unease.

Indeed, I wonder whether many South Africans, with their, in the words of Mac McKenzie ‘pidgin

English’, understood the reference. It also shows the strength of the North American nomenclatural

influence of the minstrelsy troops that visited the Cape during the 1800s (Worden, 2002). The result

of this was felt so strongly that even as recent as 2005 many team captains still referred to their

troupe members as “my coons” (Fieldwork observation by author, 2001, 2002 & 2005).

The name currently in use, “The Minstrelsy Carnival”, obviously reflects the minstrelsy influence, a

name that was forgotten during most of the latter part of the 20th century. This shows the result of

academic research carried out since the early 1990s, mainly by Colin Howard, Veit Erlman and Denis-

159
Constant Martin. Both Erlman and Howard have underlined the link between North American

Minstrelsy and the Klopse Karnival. However, it was Martin, a French anthropologist who specialises

in the analysis and description of slave-port city carnivals, who offered this view to the general

public, through the publication of his book Coon Carnival: New Year in Cape Town: Past to Present

(1999).

T HE M INSTRELSY C ARNIVAL

The Minstrelsy Carnival consists of two main events, the Nag Troepe and the main Minstrelsy

Carnival. These events are further divided to include the spectacle of the actual carnival and an

elaborate music competition. The Nag Troepe perform on New Years’ eve, marching through the

streets, from house to house where elaborate tafels (food tables) are offered to the musicians. It

starts around 8pm at night and finishes around noon the next day. The Minstrelsy Carnival starts

around noon on the 1 January and concludes on the evening of 2 January. The Nag Troepe’s

repertoire is focused on choir performances, drawing on European and American folk song, sung in

Dutch, English or Afrikaans, and is accompanied by a string or horn band. Comparatively the

Minstrelsy troupes’ music mainly consists of goema tunes, where instrumental performance is of

greater importance than vocal work. This style is regarded to be of paramount importance to Cape

music and fundamental to the development of Cape Jazz (this is elaborated on later in this chapter).

A performance troupe usually consists of a team captain, one or two mascots, a band (string or

horns) and groups of singers and dancers. Each troupe will be led by the “Team Captain”. The

mascots are usually young boys; in most cases there is one teenager, and a younger boy of around

160
eight years old. In the instance of the New Orleans Sangkoor of 2001, the senior mascot was 15

years old and the junior mascot was eight.

In the more traditional troupes, the main participants are men and teenage boys, with women and

young children joining in for the event, but not necessarily the competition that follows. Women

will ensure that the tafels (food tables) are prepared with choice delicacies such as koeksisters

(exceptionally sweet doughnuts) and samosas. Some of the women will work as tailors and ensure

the making and completion of costumes; either as tailors in their own right or as employees of the

main tailors of the carnival. The costs of the uniforms can be prohibitive as many of the participants

are drawn from the poorer workers of the city. Thus, in order to cover the various costs, such as

costumes and rehearsal space hire, fundraising is an essential part of the teamwork (Loubser, 2001:

Fieldwork discussions with participants). Some troupes will not allow women to participate in the

main event, although that is gradually changing.

The troupe I participated in, as seen in the opening epigraph to this chapter, was a Muslim group,

and thus did not allow women to participate beyond a certain point or beyond a certain age. (This

was for the very last section of the march - the last four hours). I was allowed to continue - but only

after some negotiation on my part. (I was filming the events and thus used this in the negotiation).

However many of the high school students in the city (including females) are currently being trained

as brass musicians. This has resulted in the band membership and instrumentation changing over

the last twenty years. Thus, today young women also form part of the celebrations as horn players

and many of the “string bands” of the previous years are gradually being replaced by horn bands

(Fieldwork, by author, 2005; Bruinders, 2012)). However, when women do take part, they have to
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be dressed exactly like the men; long hair tucked away under straw boaters. The vocalists and

dancers are still mainly male.

On New Year’s Eve the carnival starts with the Nagtroepe. These groups, commonly perceived to be

Muslim and of “Cape Malay” origin, are male choirs that perform throughout the night on New

Year's Eve. Moving from house to house where, in each, a tafel (a table with special foods or

delicacies) has been prepared in honour of the musicians. The group will perform to the household

and will then move on to the next house. The last but one destination leads the choir to the Bo-Kaap

(“Upper Cape”), a Muslim quarter, by tradition. Here, in front of the community hall, they will

perform to community leaders, such as shop keepers and previous choir masters, before moving

the final house, the home of their main sponsor and where the main meal has been prepared.

The troupe will dress in a uniform of “satin” track suits and will be accompanied by a string band.

The fashion of the day often dictates the style of the clothes. The string band will consist of a cello

bass, guitars, goemas (a type of drum; see discussion in section 6.10), small frame drums, usually

called “tambourines”, and horns. The more traditional troupes will include a banjo and accordion.

Certainly, some of the rhythmic properties found in this style of music, also called goema, points to

the banjo as having been part of carnival troupes for a long time. The band will accompany the

sangkoor and will also play whilst “walking” (for walking, read, “running”) from one house to the

next, to the bus, in the bus, at the next parade ground and so on.

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The carnival is strenuous, as Mac McKenzie and I discovered when joining the New Orleans Sangkoor

on 31 December 2001. Click here (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jI6Px-HEQqU) to access the short

film I made of the events84. Hiep! Hiep! Hoera! illustrates a quick (5 minutes) overview of 13 hours

with the Nag troepe (Night Troupes). A description of the filmed events can be found in Appendix

V.

The next stage of the carnival, the Klopse or Minstrelsy performances, takes place over the next few

days, starting around 1pm on 1 January, through to Tweede Nuwe Jaar [January the 2nd] , the

traditional slave holiday. For the next two months, every Saturday will be taken up by the “real”

competition, when troupes are expected to perform, usually in sports stadiums, again and again, in

full regalia to audiences across the Western Cape.

The costumes and make-up worn still reflect the minstrelsy influence. Brightly coloured suits, white

takkies (plimsolls) and traditional straw-boaters or baseball caps are worn; although many troupes,

like the “Atjas”, as the “carnival devils”, will use a variety of headdress, often wearing Devil or

Monster masks. Grease paint has replaced the use of burnt cork, yet it still reflects the influence of

19th century minstrelsy with painted faces, a white line around the edge and glitter added for effect.

Team-captains and mascots are dressed in the same colours, but with more elaborate costumes,

head-dresses and walking sticks. Troupes will often carry umbrellas and use these to accentuate

some of the music’s rhythmic concepts by quickly lifting and lowering the umbrella – as a semi-

choreographed march or dance routine, rather than as an element of the music-making (authors’

fieldwork: 2001 – 2008).

84
I have several films – however I’ve only uploaded a few of these. Please email me if you want access to the rest.

163
As noted before, the Klopse Karnival (Clubs' Carnival) is an elaborate competition. Today there are

approximately 60,000 competitors, competing in a wide variety of contests. These include the “Best

Dress”, “Best Song”, “Funniest Moppie” (Funniest Song – often enacted), and so on. Illustration 18

shows the competition criteria for the centenary celebrations in 2008.

Both the Klopse and Nagtroepe march through the city centre, following the same route. Musically,

though, only some idioms are shared between them. The main styles of music in the Klopse troupes

include mainly goema tunes, moppies and piekniek liedjies (carnival songs, humorous songs & picnic

songs). Comparatively, although the Nagtroepe uses a similar repertoire for part of their

programme, their real musical focus is on the slow, emotive laments, sung in Dutch with intricate

Arabic influenced ornamentation.

M USIC IN THE C ITY

Thus far we have seen that the way the city evolved musically was partly due to the colonial bands,

the influence of American minstrelsy in the 19th century and the availability of the American and

British jazz recordings from the 1920s and later. Additional influences that must be added here

include the exposure to radio and the film musicals of the 1930s onwards. Certainly, cinemas were,

as could be seen in Chapter Four, an important addition to music consumption. However, the city's

musical life further developed precisely because of the number of performance opportunities –

some organized as extraordinary events, and others, simply as people making music.

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These opportunities for musicking directly impacted on the development of the carnival, dance and

jazz bands, brass bands and choirs, throughout the 20th century. In turn, such musical developments

were largely influenced by the political thinking of the time, especially that which was found

amongst Cape Town’s “hipster” jazz musicians during the 1950s and 60s. In turn, their ideas of

musicianship and of self-identity, although influenced by African American thought, were of seminal

importance to the way the jazz community developed.

Jazz at this time in Cape Town was divided into three broad categories which were, musicals and

standard jazz, local (black) township jazz and an avant-garde group which, in a way, led musicians

to a new musical identity (Muller, 2008: 187). Some of these musicians and artists, as part of Vince

Kolbe's “jazz appreciation club”, spent many evenings listening to jazz recordings, discussing the

performances, and improvisations, and reading about the African American experience through the

works of W.E.B. du Bois and others (Kolbe, 2005: Interview with author).

However, despite being surrounded by local musical forms, few jazz musicians of this group would

admit to playing carnival music. It seems that such music reminded many musicians of the

segregation, poverty, class-distinctions, lack of education and opportunities available to them, both

through slave descendancy and as a result of the apartheid regime. Thus, an ironic situation

developed between some of the heavily politicised jazz musicians, and the local significance of the

carnival.

These jazz musicians, having been influenced by African American black power politics, tended to

ignore the symbolic and musically performed freedom that the carnival celebrations created for the

wider population. They regarded this communal merriment as crude and unworthy for their

attention. (This is not true of all jazz musicians of this time).

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 T ABLE 18: S OURCE : ( HTTP :// WWW . ONSETIMAGES . COM / ENGLISH / NEWSLETTER /82-024/MINSTRELS_82. HTM ,
accessed, September 2008.
1.
T HE CRITERIA FOR JUDGING THE QUALITY OF THE GROUPS , JUDGED BY SIX ADJUDICATORS ARE

Best Dress

Represented by a qualified fashion designer

• Uniformity & Neatness (includes white shirt and bow tie)

• Discipline in Arena (in line & spacing)
• Visual Impressions
• /colour Coordination and Harmony

Note: Takkies Preferred but white shoes are allowed.

2. Best Band

• Intonation
• Balance
• Variation
• Ensemble
• Rhythm
• Harmony
• Tone Colour
• General Impression

3. Best Board

Troupe and Theme Identification design. Initially made from wood. Today made of plastic, polystyrene, etc.

• Originality
• Durability (construction)
• Theme and troupe matching
• Must not be too heavy and easily to be carried

Note: Name of troupe to be incorporated on board

4. Grand March Pass

• Military precision
• Uniformity/synchronised movements
• Discipline

166
 5. Group Singing

Minimum group members of twenty-five (25)

• Annotation
• Synchronisation
• Presentation

6. Exhibition March Pass

Themed exhibition – dance sequence – ten minute presentation

• Originality
• Song/Pattern
• Gimmicks
• Movement
• General Impression

Note : Certain conditions apply within above criteria.

7. General Auditing

The auditing section signs responsible for the following:

• Score sheets
• Tallying of scores
• Completion check on documents
• Insures that all teams have completed their set of duties
• Compilation of admin papers
• Compilation of reports.

However, this irony is not completely unexpected and nor is it all negative. The dichotomies

presented to people of slave origins were immense. Not only were they deemed to be second-class

citizens, they were also expected to become “good British subjects” and later on, after the formation

167
of the South African republic in 1961, “good South African Subjects”, within the realm of this second

class citizenship (Ross, 1999).

Thus, “good” in this instance is tinged with the cultural complexities presented by the slave legacy,

British imperialism and the apartheid system, in terms of modes of conduct, work ethic and

acceptable behavior. Hence, not only did subjects have to behave according to rules set out for

slaves, after 1 December 1838 (manumission) they then had to adapt to social concepts enforced

by the British, by adopting outward signs of what was deemed to be respectable, whilst at the same

time being denied identity politics and individualism (Ross, 1999: 4). These slave rules Ross suggests,

had been wholly adopted by the apartheid government and this intensified the difficulties of the

manifestation of identities sought (Ross, 1999).

Therefore, the study of the African American plight for freedom and identity found resonance

amongst these musicians, and for the first time in a long while, Capetonian musicians considered

their own cultural constructs and concepts seriously. Also, many felt confined by the cultural

prefabrications and theories of identity ascribed to people of slave descendancy, strongly influenced

by religion, skin colour (or rather skin tone), physical appearance and 19th century minstrelsy,

wherein crudeness of humour, illiteracy, linguistic abilities (creole), alcoholism and simple-

mindedness all played a role (these constructs are still commonly found within the Cape).

Additionally, some of the local musics ascribed to the people of the Cape were annexed by the

apartheid government as being the music of the white descendants of European Continental
168
extraction. And this was entirely correct, with clear evidence that melodies of Dutch, French and

German origin made their way to the Cape. However, many melodies are also traceable to English,

Irish, Scottish and American publications. Furthermore, the coloured and white Afrikaans-speaking

populations shared much of the music and many of the songs in this canon. Many of the locally

created songs were possibly mainly of slave origin and contained syncretised influences of the

parent countries.

In spite of this shared ownership, the Afrikaner movement, through its Federasie van Afrikaanse

Kultuur (Federation of Afrikaans Culture or F.A.K.) included some of these songs in its songbook, the

F.A.K. Sangbundel (F.A.K. Songbook) as a mark of one of its cultural representations. Herein the

lyrics of songs were in Afrikaans, showing culturally prescriptive ideas (what the Afrikaner

movement expected of their population) – even though publications are clearly referenced through

its publication in America, Britain and continental Europe. The only songs found in this publication

in its original language are Dutch and a few Latin (student) songs. Songs clearly of slave origin are

denied such musical ownership, with the publishers opting instead for a non-committed

“Traditional” label when it suited.

Another issue that constrained the development of the carnival was apartheid. Although organised

by a body of people approved of by the Government, including the descendants of the Dantu

brothers85, apartheid bosses decided to contain the growth of the carnival in order to maintain

political control. Secondly, belief systems as to what local (coloured) music was, became codified

85
The organisers of the first choirs

169
during the 1930s, not so much in the music ascribed to the mixed-race population, rather through

the codification of so-called Malay (of Malaysian or Javanese origin) music. The ascription of Malay

identity and Malay music took place directly through the work of the orientalist I. D. du Plessis, who,

as a poet, academic and song collector in the 1930s, became strongly influential as a government

adviser on culture.

I.D. DU P LESSIS ’ S I NFLUENCE ON C APETONIAN M USICKING

In the 1930s I.D. du Plessis, who at the time was a PhD student, came across the carnival choirs

whilst conducting research on Dutch folk song. Actually, he met Cornelius Rasdien, Franz de Jong

and their assistant (known only as ‘Sulaiman’) who were collecting the songs for performance and

publication purposes. Du Plessis, on meeting Rasdien, changed his studies to fit in with their work.

Consequently, through this association he became knowledgeable on the diverse origin of the Cape

slaves as can be seen in the first four pages of his doctorate. By page five of his thesis, however he

defined a new segregation between those whom he considered to be of Malaysian origin and those

he considered being of African extraction (du Plessis, 1936: 1 -7).

Approaches such as this should not be so surprising. When considering the influence of eugenics (at

this point in history) on the future policymakers of the country, this was simply just one of the

constructs that were followed. Edward Said highlights this and calls it the “second order of

Darwinism...that focussed on the 'scientific' validity of the division of races into advanced or

backwards, European-Aryan or Oriental-African” (Said, 2003: 206). And further, that

orientals were viewed in a framework constructed out of biological

determinism and moral-political admonishment...rarely seen or looked at,
170
 they were seen through, analysed not as citizens, or even people, but as
problems to be solved or confined...or taken over (Said, 2003:207).

Certainly, du Plessis does exactly this ‘taking over’ as suggested by Said. He describes his

understanding of the “'nature of Cape Malays” as a distinct ethnic group, hailing from the Java-Bali

region86 . He also added detailed descriptions of stature, colour, complexion, facial structure, height,

hair texture and psychological make-up; concluding that the Cape Malay is

stil en ingetoë, beleefd, goedhartig teenoor vrouens, kinders en huisdiere;

met n' neiging om langsaam te praat, en om passief en gemaksugtig te wees.
Tog kan hy in sekere omstandighede tot 'n staat van raserny vervoer word,
waardeur hy alle selfbeheer verloor en amok maak.

(Transl: is introspective, kind to women, children and animals; has a

tendency to speak slowly, is passive and insolent. In some circumstances,
when aroused he may lose all self-control and run amok.' (du Plessis, 1963:
5).

In fact, despite, as noted above, his knowledge of the perceived homogeneity of the mixed coloured

population, he forced them into separate “ethnic groups”, essentially dividing those who are Muslim

and known as Cape Malay and those who are Christian - and thereby adding yet another layer of

difficulties to the process of identity formation to those who were already experiencing stresses as

a result of the social position they found themselves in. Further, his construct of this so-called Malay

character anticipates Said's descriptions of the views and characteristics placed upon those viewed

as “the other”.

86
In truth, only a tiny percentage of the slaves came from this area. The majority or the Asian born slaves were from
Malaysia and Southern India. Other slaves were from Angola, Madagascar and Mozambique. By the time he wrote this,
the miscegenation created through the slavery and post-slavery systems will have wiped out any direct lineages or
cultural remnants. In short, he truly was ‘making it up as he went along’, changing concepts and ideas to fit in with the
political thought of the time.

171
Subsequently, problems of identity arose in analysing musical ideas. According to the current Cape

Malay Choir Board, the music that is typically Malay includes four song styles: Wedding songs,

Nederlandseliedere (Dutch songs), moppies (humorous songs) and picnic songs (similar to goema

liedjies). Two of these, the Wedding songs and Nederlandseliedere, can easily and safely be ascribed

to the Muslim population of the Cape. The wedding songs are culture, space and place-specific, are

often written in maqamat, and many are sung in Arabic. Many of the Nederlandseliedere are call

and response songs, based in maqams and minor modes, and include a voorsanger (a lead singer)

whose performance includes karienkels (ornamentations) in his vocal leadership.

Karienkels are intricate Arabic-influenced melismatic ornamentations that often incorporate ¼

tones within. Desmond Dessai asserts that truly successful voorsangers are those trained in the art

of qira'at; or reading the Qur'an87 (Dessai, 2004). The other song types, such as goema liedjies,

piekniek liedjies and moppies, belong to the wider Afrikaans-speaking population, more specifically,

the coloured and white population of the Western Cape which includes the Cape Malay (Kolbe,

2005: interview with author).

Transcriptions 8 and 9 show the stylistic differences between these two musical approaches. The

first example, January, February, March, is a song commonly performed by both the white and

coloured populations. The differences in the performances of the song (white vs coloured) will be

in the instrumentation, the accents/diction88 (only notable since the beginning of apartheid),

87 The reading of the Qur'an is set in specific maqams, and include intricate ornamentation.
88 The differences in accent between the coloured and white groups in the Cape only changed as a result of apartheid. Vince Kolbe
demonstrated through recordings done in the 1930s and 40s, that both groups had exactly the same accent. Since 1948 though,
these changed into two distinct accents (Kolbe, 2005: interview with author).

172
amount of syncopation and experiential understanding of the song. In the second example you can

see the intricacies of the ornamentation found in the song sung by The New Orleans Sangkoor in

the 2001/2002 New Year’s celebrations. This piece, as you can see, include an extraordinary number

of karienkels and as suggested by Desmond Dessai, is possibly better performed when the lead

singer has had experience in the art of reading the Qur’an (See Transcription 9).

U NDERSTANDING G OEMA

Goema is a musical style that draws its melodic and harmonic content from European and American

folk song or current popular music, with a multi-layered, polyrhythmic rhythm section. An ordinary

goema performance ensemble could be either a string band (guitars, cello bass and banjo) or a horn

band, or a combination of the two. In each case, a percussion section forms an

T RANSCRIPTION 8: T HE WELL - KNOWN SONG : J ANUARY , F EBRUARY , M ARCH , POPULARLY PERFORMED BY BOTH WHITE AND
COLOURED POPULATIONS AND WAS POSSIBLY DRAWN FROM A MERICAN POPULAR SONG OF THE 1800 S .

essential part of the band. The melodic materials are performed either vocally or by the horns. The

percussion section consists of a large number of single headed drums, the large barrel shaped

goema drums and small frame drums, called the “tambourines”. This section performs a multi-
173
layered rhythm, divided into three parts. Ordinarily, during carnival time, it is a three-part beat

divided into

1.) a continuous quaver or semi-quaver beat, accented on 1;

2.) a galloping rhythm, known as die gallop [the gallop], and

3.) a beat, similar to that of dance house or half of a son clave (see Transcription 10 a & b).

To this, other rhythmic devices are added, such as the banjo rhythm, the melodic rhythm and the

tap of umbrellas or walking sticks on the tarmac; creating a multi layered polyrhythm, thought by

Denis Martin to show a Khoisan influence (Martin, 1999: 172). Further, he explains that many

colonial harbour towns incorporate the half clave into their signature rhythmic ideas, concluding

that, during colonial times these places had a similar influx of peoples, both through the slave

populations and the commercial trades (Martin, 1999:172 -174).

174
T RANSCRIPTION 9: T HIS IS A FRACTION OF THE MAIN KARIENKEL SONG SUNG DURING THE NIGHT MARCH I PARTICIPATED IN
2001/2002. Y OU ’ LL NOTE THE UNUSUAL PHRASE STRUCTURE AND THE A MERICAN HYMN - LIKE INFLUENCE IN THE RESPONSES .
T HUS , THE MARRIAGE OF FOUR CULTURES : D UTCH LANGUAGE , ORIENTAL ORNAMENTATION AND A MERICAN HYMN - LIKE
HARRMONISATIONS I N A UNIQUE A FRICAN setting.

175
T RANSCRIPTIONS 10 A : T HE BASIC ( AND MAIN ) PERCUSSIVE R HYTHMS OF G OEMA . A DDED TO THIS WILL BE THE BANJO RHYTHM
AND THE SLIGHTLY SYNCOPATED MELODIC LINES , FORMING AN INTERESTING POLY RHYTHMIC FEEL .

This rhythm, you will notice, is the same as the rhythms used in the film of the Nag troepe group

(The New Orleans Sangkoor) in 2001/02. In the transcriptions above you will note that there is a

“basic rhythm” and an “alternative rhythm”. The top stave shows the rhythm a banjo might play

during these performances and is just one of the many small variations that are found amongst

the percussive section of goema music. The half-clave is ordinarily played by the small

176
T RANSCRIPTIONS 10 B : O NE OF THE MANY ALTERATIONS TO THE BASIC RHYTHM . H ERE , ONE OF THE LINES PLAYED ON THE GOEMA
DRUM WILL IMITATE THE BANJO RHYTHM . T HE RHYTHMS INDICATED BY THE TOP STAVE HERE WILL BE PLAYED ON THE LITTLE
TAMBOURINES , THE FASTER RHYTHMS WILL BE PLAYED ON THE BIGGER GOEMA DRUM . N OT THAT THE GOEMA WILL ONLY PLAY
THESE AS SOMETIMES AN ENTIRE PERCUSSION SECTION WILL PLAY THE MAIN SYNCOPATED BEAT .

framedrums, called “tambourines”, with the actual goema drums, the drum on which the name of

the musical style rests, elaborating and improvising throughout the performance.

Although misleadingly one might expect the goema (drum) to lead the goema rhythm; in the film

(Hiep! Hiep! Hoera!) you can see that physically and acoustically it will be impossible to perform the

faster rhythms with sufficient volume on the small framedrums. It must be remembered that these

instruments are similar, but by no means as beautifully constructed as Brazilian tamborims, the

construction and skin type helping in the production of decibels.

I NSTRUMENTS OF G OEMA

The main drum itself is known by a number of names, including ghammie, goema, ghomma and

gomma (Schilder, H, 2005: authors’ interview). In notes accompanying drawings by painter Charles

Bell in the late 1800s the instrument is referred to as a tom-tom; which Martin ascribes to Bell’s
177
misunderstanding of the word that is referred to in other literature as a gom-gom (Martin, 1999:

61). Other names are culturally set: Desmond Dessai notes that the drum is also referred to as a

dhol (Dessai, 1974).

Obviously the dhol is a drum from the Indian Subcontinent, and to call the goema a dhol makes good

sense. The dhol is one of the instruments used in Sufi (Qawwali ) music, and Sufism was the main

reason Islam spread in the Cape during the time of slavery (see Chapter Two). Furthermore, at a

time when local and “imported” musics evolved and syncretised, possibly during the 1700s, the

majority of slaves were indeed from India and Malaysia. Finally, the shape of the goema resembles

the dhol.

The illustration below demonstrates the differences and similarities between the dhol, the goema

and kendang (Javanese double headed drum). From these images it is fair to say that the goema

resembles the dhol more closely than the kendang.

The goema can vary in size, shape, colour and construction material, and, as shown in thepicture

above: a single-headed drum, with 'wine barrel' type slats along the length of the drum. It is held

underneath the left arm and played with bare hands. The drumhead, says Kaatje, musical leader of

New Orleans Sangkoor, is always made with calf's skin (Kaatje, 2002: interview with author; Dessai,

1993). Initially it was made from old wine barrels - thus it stands to reason that the shape will

resemble a wine barrel (Howard, 1994).

#terminologies #whoami #coloured #black #identity #ethnicity #southafrica #race #jazz #music #jazzpolitics #personal #abdullahibrahim #adhikari #racepolitics #earliestmusic #recorded #ancient #AMH #anatomicallymodernhuman #capetown #capedemographics #capejazz #tablemountain #salvery
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#southafricanmusicians #southafricanhistory #historicalmusicology #identitymusic #musicalidentity #identityformation #definitionofidentity #noperson #whoisanafrican #afrocentric #africanist #africanism #musicspaceplace #district6 #mannenberg #manenberg #L0d #virginiajubileeasingers
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I LLUSTRATION 19: K ENDANG , G OEMA AND D HOL . A S YOU CAN SEE , ALL OF THE DRUMS SHARE A SIMILAR SHAPE . T HE
CONSTRUCTION HOWEVER DIFFERS CONSIDERABLY ( SOME CARVED FROM SOLID PIECES OF WOOD , OTHERS BY MEANS OF
‘ SLATS ’) – AS DO THE CULTURAL SPACES THAT GAVE RISE TO THESE INSTRUMENTS IN THE FIRST PLACE . I LLUSTRATION BY L OUISE
L ÜDERS .

In the illustration below (Illustration no. 20) you can see Achmat Sabera, a maker of goema drums

for more than 30 years. You can also see goemas in various stages of completion in his workshop.

Note the cooper’s rings and the wooden slats.

Other instruments may include stringed instruments, such as banjo, guitars, and cello bass, or

horns, such as saxophone, trombone and trumpet. At times accordions are used and Vince Kolbe

recalls that during the earlier part of the 20th century many also used “bones” - thus showing an

Irish or minstrelsy89 influence (Kolbe, 2005: Interview).

89
The minstrelsy character called ‘Bones’, played ‘the bones’.
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I LLUSTRATION 20: A CHMAT S ABERA AND HALF - MADE DRUMS . I THINK THE PHOTOGRAPHER WAS S ARA G OUVEIA .
I WILL CHECK WITH HER .

M ELODIC S TRUCTURE AND F ORM OF G OEMA

The form of a goema song or picnic song is important. Divided into main A & B sections, the A section

sets out the main ideas and the B section stands in strong contrast to the A section. Van Wermelo,

Dessai and Howard (see literature review) all feel that this structure is linked to the Malayan poetic

form, the pantoen, because of the strong sense of contrast within both forms (Howard, 1994: 53).

However, as I pointed out in the literature review, these analyses are all based on the orientalist

views put forward by I.D. du Plessis. It would seem that du Plessis was so beset with the idea of Java

and Bali, that some of his poems90 were “geographically” set in the region – even though it is unlikely

that he has ever travelled there.

90 A well-known quatrain, published by du Plessis in 1941 is an example of this:

Duiwe: Bali se singende duiwe, Omsingel die maan in hul vlug, en Hang. n' Tros donkerblou druiwe , aan die hoe prieël
van die lug (du Plessis, Kwatryne, 1941). [Doves: The singing doves of Bali, surround the moon in their flight, and hang.
A bunch of dark blue grapes, attached to the high arbor of the sky.
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A pantoen or pantoum, is a complex Malaysian formal poem that, through repetition, creates the

impression of a refrain. Thus, should I write a poem with three quatrains, I would constantly repeat

certain lines and complete the poem with the first line I started with.

Thus:

Verse 1 Line 1 Line 2 Line 3 Line 4

Verse 2 Line 2 Line 5 Line 4 Line 6
Verse 3 Line 5 Line 3 Line 6 Line 1

Comparing the form of a pantoen with Daar Kom die Alibama91 (The Alibama is coming), a piece in

ABA form, the problems in du Plessis's analysis becomes evident. This piece, one of the more

popular tunes used during carnival time is loosely based around Stephen Foster's There's no Place

like Home (Howard, 1994: 54). Here the A and B sections contrast clearly in both melodic structure

and lyrical content. In the A section the lyrics read: “Daar kom die Alibama, die Alibama kom oor die

see” (Transl: There the Alibama comes, travelling across the sea). In the B section the lyrics become

a little more interesting and one is left to wonder if this was a slightly licentious remark – or simply

the use of lyrics that rhymed, thus: 'Nooi,nooi, die rietkooi, nooi, die rietkooi is gemaak, die rietkooi

is vir my gemaak , om daar op te slaap' (Transl: Madam, the straw-made bed is for me to sleep

upon). The repeat of the A section, (A') retains elements of the A section in a codetta iteration: a

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repetition of ideas, slightly developed to bring forth a sense of closure. The structure within A is a+a

and in B is a+a. Thus, it is fair to say that the simple structure of a piece of goema does not resemble

the cleverness and complexity of a pantoen. [Transcription 14]

Historically the piece dates from the time of the American Civil War, when in 1863 one of the more

notorious [southern] privateer ships, The Alabama, was captured by the [northern] Seabride, close

to Cape Town habour. As it had to come into the harbour for costly repairs, the money needed was

raised by allowing tourists aboard for a small fee. This captured the imagination of many

Capetonians, giving rise to this particular tune (van Wermelo, 1962; quoted in Howard, 1994). Over

the years that followed, the spelling changed to become “Alibama” in imitation of the Capetonian

accent.

At the same time, it is van Wermelo's melodic analysis that points to the piece possibly being based

on one of Stephen Foster's compositions. He also thought that Foster's tunes were based, not on

plantation songs or spirituals, but on minstrelsy songs (van Wermelo, 1962). In reality, however,

Foster, today considered to be the father of American popular song, was contracted specifically as

a songwriter to the Christy minstrels; therefore, his songs weren't based on minstrelsy songs, they

were the original minstrelsy songs (Emerson, 1998: 175 – 177). We can thus say that this tune (Daar

kom die Alibama) was created as something for minstrelsy and remained there, but with different

intentions. The intentions of the piece changed from being used in performances supportive of

slavery (American Blackface Minstrelsy) to being ironically used in performances that celebrate the

end of slavery (the Cape Minstrelsy Carnival).

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T RANSCRIPTION 11: D AAR K OM DIE A LIBAMA , JUST ONE OF THE MANY AMERICAN TUNES THAT MADE ITS WAY INTO THE S OUTH
A FRICAN A FRIKAANS - SPEAKING COMMUNITIES . A NOTHER WELL - KNOWN TUNE IS S ARIE M ARAIS , FROM THE A MERICAN TUNE ,
M Y S WEET E LLIE R HEE .

I NTERNATIONAL A CKNOWLEDGEMENT OF G OEMA

After the publication and success of the album Mannenberg – is where it’s happening (1974),

Abdullah Ibrahim explored a host of musics, taking him closer to the African continent. In 1980, he

finally made his breakthrough with the publication of his award-winning album, An African

Marketplace. This album, containing several directly traceable local styles of music, secured the way

forward for many Cape Jazz musicians whose sound identity are based in musics such as goema.

After all: here was a local, but internationally known musician, using stock elements of the local

sounds to record for an international audience.

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In this particular album, we find the hymn-like tune Mamma, which Christine Lucia analysed in terms

of its concepts of memory (Lucia, 2005:298). Other pieces include The Wedding, which elegantly

recalls the music used at the conclusion of a Cape wedding, and Whoza Mutana, a piece that

reminds us of the township big-band sound92. Importantly, for this case study, the African

Marketplace album also incorporates two pieces based firmly in the picnic song/goema sound;

these are The Homecoming Song and African Marketplace.

Abdullah Ibrahim’s tunes, African Marketplace and Homecoming Song, show similarities in musical

form and structure. (See Transcriptions 11 and 12) Each piece consists of A and B sections with the

B section contrasting greatly from the A section. In analysing African Marketplace, we find that each

section is structured using four phrases, thus A has been divided into a+a+b+a, and B into a+a’+a+a’’,

using instruments to resemble the sound of goema pieces at carnival time. Thus he uses a stand-up

bass (instead of a cello bass), and a kit (instead of goemas and tambourines). Additionally: there are

no lyrics or vocals. This is not surprising. Although many goema tunes and piekniek liedjies (picnic

songs) have lyrics, every so often these are performed without vocals, using harmonica or horns

instead. Homecoming Song, on the other hand, brings different concepts to mind. Where African

Market Place is a completed song, with a similar melodic construct to that of other goema tunes,

Homecoming Song, specifically it’s a section, imitates the short musical interjections or linking tunes

that are performed when, during carnival time, the musicians are tired and can’t think what else to

play at that moment. Most often these interjections are just a few chords from the horn players,

with no further thought. By adding a B

92 The pianist in the church I attended as a child certainly used this technique when dramatic spaces were called for.

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T RANSCRIPTION 12: AN A FRICAN M ARKET P LACE BY A BDULLAH I BRAHIM FROM THE SAME TITLED ALBUM OF 1980. T HE HEAD IS
DIVIDED INTO AN A SECTION ( A + A + B + A ) AND A B SECTION (A+B’+A+B’’) AND TYPIFIES THE FORM OF MANY OF THE GOEMA ,
PIEKNIEK AND OTHER CARNIVAL TUNES . 93

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T RANSCRIPTION 13: H OMECOMING S ONG BY A BDULLAH I BRAHIM , FROM HIS ALBUM A FRICAN M ARKET P LACE
(1980). T HIS SHORT SECTION IS THE A SECTION OF THE TUNE . A CTUALLY , THIS TYPE OF MUSICAL STATEMENT IS
OFTEN USED IN THE CARNIVAL BUT IT IS NOT VIEWED AS A ‘ REAL TUNE ’, BUT INSTEAD AS AN INTERJECTION OR LINKING
TUNE ; MUSIC THAT IS PLAYED WHEN THE MUSICIANS ARE TIRED AND CAN ’ T THINK WHAT ELSE TO PLAY AT THAT
MOMENT . M OST OFTEN THESE INTERJECTIONS ARE JUST A FEW CHORDS FROM THE HORN PLAYERS, WITH NO
FURTHER THOUGHT . B Y HAVING ADDED A B SECTION TO THE PIECE I BRAHIM THEN CAPTURES THIS MUSICAL SPACE
AND CREATES A PIECE OUT OF A ‘ NON PIECE ’. 94

section to the piece Ibrahim captured this musical moment, creating a piece out of a “non-piece”.

Transcription 12 shows the A section of the tune.

What is clear in both pieces is that, as stated by Lucia, Ibrahim here uses a system of memory,

whereby the past is remembered in a mythical way with the idea of looking towards the future

(Lucia, 2005:298). He is using something familiar to most Capetonians, placing it in a performance

and compositional space that contains a dream-like quality: summertime and carnival are associated

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with a time of crazy excitement, when everyone comes together as a community in excited

expectation of the celebration and the year ahead.

In Ibrahim's case, the feelings of homesickness and his re-analysis of his own identity were, by the

time these pieces were written, based deeply in the early beginnings of Africanism. This search for

identity, borne from the diasporic experience, includes questioning of the self in a variety of ways:

What do I remember from my past? What do I want to remember? Which music enables synesthetic

experiences, and helps me to remember that which I experienced, lived, took part in and

celebrated?

It is thus little wonder that Ibrahim sought to illustrate this in a celebration of homecoming: this

music is the music of freedom from slavery. The celebration was deemed important enough to be

maintained as it underlines that very essence of freedom – ironically, even under the apartheid

government.

The name and codification of the style, goema, however, was possibly only realised during du

Plessis's work with the Malay choirs. Previously it had no real name and a wide variety of styles were

accompanied by the same drum and used as songs at picnic times. Picnics were held (and are still

held) throughout the summer holiday period (mid-December to early-January), when extended

families or community groups come together to celebrate Christmas and New Year.

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Music is usually performed at this time, and thus, many of the tunes now known as goema were

originally known as picnic songs. Rhythmically, Alex van Heerden suggested that goema was strongly

influenced by vastrap, a local rural style. He also suggested that vastrap, explored in chapter seven,

was a forerunner of goema (van Heerden, 2007: personal correspondence with the author).

However, in summary, it is clear that goema’s syncopated beat, use of goema drums, I IV V harmonic

movement, form and lyrics all have their origins in a combination of colonialism, slavery and

minstrelsy.

G OEMA , I DENTITY , N ATION B UILDING AND J AZZ

Tracing and drawing a South African cultural identity is thus infused with difficulties which include

the apartheid past, influences from abroad, and influences from both the past and the present.

Contemporary notions, such as “Nation-Building,” are of seminal importance. Nation-building,

commonly understood as a deliberate attempt to create a national identity in nations that were

failing in one or more aspects of humanity, was brought for consideration to the South African public

during the 1990s and strengthened by ex-President Thabo Mbeki in his 1998 parliamentary address.

As a concept it is promoted to the South African community as a positive manner in which to build

an identity, where acceptance and understanding of all is important. Thus, it has had to be a process

of self-regulation: South Africa had to remember what it was before 1994 and has had to imagine

what it would like to be. Thus, in order to build a new identity, patterns of behaviour have had to

be identified from within, in terms of what is familiar and comforting, what is deemed to be positive,
188
what should remain, what should be disposed of, who would we like to be known as and who would

we like to be? Thus, the process includes choosing an identity and the mapping of the personal, of

the self. Considering this development, I wish to finally focus on the work of Mac McKenzie.

M AC M C K ENZIE ' S FIRST CONTRIBUTION TO G OEMA 95

Mac McKenzie is a well-known jazz musician and self-styled “composer laureate” of Cape Town.

Starting out as a bass player, he gradually reinvented himself, first as a guitarist and then as a

composer of note. McKenzie’s family, through his father, was involved in every aspect of the

carnival, including performing, directing, dancing, singing and being a well-respected team captain.

Musically trained by ear, rather than meticulous instruction, McKenzie felt music to be more suited

to his temperament, rather than architecture, which he had originally planned to follow as a career.

After parental disagreement concerning his musicianship, he left home and shared a home with

Robert Sithole, the well-known kwela player. Away from parental disapproval his musical instruction

became formalized. McKenzie met fellow jazz musician Hilton Schilder and the two became close

friends. Exposed to a variety of art forms, including poetry and fine art, they became part of “the

[musical] other” 96(McKenzie and Schilder, 2002 - 2005: Interviews by author).

McKenzie explained this experience as a learning curve, a learning cycle; concluding that

…this cycle, this curve of learning went on, and on and on…until ’94 when I
stopped reading. But it was because of this, because of my formal education

95
McKenzie’s second contribution is referred to in Chapter 9.
96
In South Africa, education and learning is, because of its relative scarcity, a rare commodity. Consequently anyone
who expands their artistic knowledge, political views and experience beyond the remits of the country, beyond that
which is expected, becomes part of a group that is often regarded as “the other”, such as Chris McGregor whom I briefly
mentioned in Chapter 1.

189
 that I became part of another group; people that listened to Jimmy Hendrix
and Bob Marley… it’s how The Genuines came about…(McKenzie, 2002
&2005: Interviews with author)

After many years of performing together, McKenzie and Hilton Schilder formed a band called The

Genuines, where they mixed jazz and blues with heavy rock. The group became popular amongst

young South Africans and consequently they were selected to become part of the ANC cultural

ensemble, performing at The Cultural Conference97 which took place in Amsterdam in December

1987. When the group disbanded, McKenzie spent time changing his instrument, from bass to

guitar, saying that

We [South Africans] have got to move on, we’ve got to search for new things,
new ideas…but I’ve got to take 20 steps back to keep up with what’s
happening here…we’ve got to take the goema and jack it up a bit,

and this is the process he calls “Nation Building” (McKenzie, 2002: interview with author).

Therefore, he takes aspects of his musical past and cultural self–identity (goema troupe music and

formalised education) and develops these, aiming, he explains, to develop this music in a similar

way to those which Brazilian composers, such as Antonio-Carlos Jobim achieved with Bossa Nova;

reworking and re-imagining the form. Thus, his album Healing Destination is an exploration of

indigenous musical ideas that include Nagtroepe tunes, traditional goema liedjies, the 1960s Latin

influence found in the Cape and contemporary reflections on the local Cape Town sound.

97 Organized by the Dutch Anti-Apartheid Movement (AABN)

190
CAPE TOWN AS A HEALING DESTINATION

Healing Destination, an album by McKenzie, was recorded and released by Mountain Records in

2004 and performed by McKenzie’s own band, The Goema Captains of Cape Town. The title track of

the album, Healing Destination, (Transcription 14) is stylistically based in goema in terms of its form

and rhythm. The subject matter of the piece is Cape Town itself, the mother city. Thus, the track

starts with the sound of sea surf, and McKenzie shouting in the background, imitating ordinary street

vendors’ shouts - sounds all Capetonians are familiar with. The opening of the tune also introduces

the goema rhythm and a melodic phrase that could easily be found in these traditional tunes. The

bass enters slightly later. In the C section, electronic ideas are added, and the piece plays out with

flautist Robbie Jansen and the vocalist Zolani Mahola vamping over the final chords. Thus, McKenzie

uses the traditional goema rhythmic foundation, and the ordinary I-IV-V harmonic movement found

in picnic songs and replaces the progression with a series of extended chords including minor 9ths

and minor 6ths. This then forms anticipatory suspensions that underpin the melody; sounding

sophisticated on account of the richness of the progression and use of instrumentation such as the

flute and the Rhodes. Additionally, although the piece begins acoustically, electronica is briefly

added, and concludes with the colour of Jansen & Mahola's improvisations.

The second piece in McKenzie's album, entitled Goema, Goema, reflects the tradition even more

strongly. The melody is even more closely associated with traditional goema; additionally, the

language used for the lyrics is important here: Afrikaans. Goema is usually sung in Afrikaans as is

shown in this song.

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T RANSCRIPTION 14: H EALING D ESTINATION FROM THE A LBUM H EALING D ESTINATION (2004). I N THIS PIECE ONE CAN SEE
M C K ENZIE ’ S N EO -A FRICAN LEANINGS QUITE CLEARLY : H E USES THE SHORT , REPEATED HARMONIC PHRASES AND RIFFS , NOTED
BY G ERHARD K UBIK TO BE TYPICAL OF NEO - TRADITIONAL A FRICAN MUSIC (K UBIK , QUOTED IN B ALLENTINE , 1993). 98

192
The instrumentation (Trumpet and Accordion -van Heerden, Bass & Guitar – McKenzie, Vocals -

Mahola, Piano – Schilder, Saxophone – Jansen) reflects the goema tradition more directly: it is more

common for households to own a piano or accordion than a Rhodes, thus these tunes are often

heard on piano – when at home. The improvisations heard here by van Heerden, Jansen and (Hilton)

Schilder shifts this piece even further into jazz.

Comparably Ibrahim’s’ tracks then seem slightly staid and staged whereas McKenzie’s pieces aim to

recall the excitement felt at carnival time. Furthermore, he developed the music, slowing the tempo

and placing it in the sophisticated space he imagined it to be through chord changes, improvisational

spaces, and the addition of electronica. Within these two pieces, McKenzie's use of the goema

compositional elements, such as the rhythms, bass line and melodic materials, all directly reflect a

reviewing of the enslaved past.

T RANSCRIPTION 15: G OEMA , G OEMA FROM THE A LBUM H EALING D ESTINATION (2004). H ERE M C K ENZIE RETURNS MORE
SECURELY TO THE G OEMA SOUND . H E ADDS AN INTRIGUING TRUMPET FLURRY TO THE INTRODUCTION , ADDING SOPHISTICATION
TO THE TUNE . H E ALSO ADDS A FRIKAANS LYRICS TO THE PIECE , UNDERLINING ITS CARNIVAL LINEAGE . 99

193
C ONCLUDING R EMARKS

In this chapter we have seen the creation of minstrelsy in the Cape and the development of Cape

Town’s minstrelsy carnival. We have also seen how the music of the carnival developed as a result

194
of the syncretic and diverse nature of the Cape, resulting in a music that can only be described as

African, but not African as it is popularly viewed, but African in the rethinking of Africa and its

Afrocentric positioning, as posited in Chapter Three.

We noted how minstrelsy music influenced jazz partly through developing a strong musical work

force and partly through the work of individual composers. Two of these composers, Cliffie Moses

and Abdullah Ibrahim, acknowledged the carnivals’ importance for Capetonians through the

publication of the albums Jazz from District Six (1970) and An African Market Place (1980). These

albums included many South African influenced compositions, including carnival music.

Furthermore, the titles used indicate its relationship to the African continent, rather than that of

Europe.

These ideas, in turn influenced McKenzie in the development and inclusion of the (goema) style in

his rock band (The Genuines) and the development of further tunes included in his album from 2004.

These albums, I believe, were seminal for McKenzie, Ibrahim and others in the considerations of

self-identity and in the mapping of the self. Here McKenzie celebrated his parental past, the music

of his grand-parents and that of his enslaved ancestors.

Since goema and Cape Town's Minstrelsy Carnival developed partly as a result of a performance

held in celebration to the end of slavery, notions of freedom are therefore enclosed historically

within it. Furthermore, notions of musicianship and musical milieu are addressed through the

inclusion of goema in Abdullah Ibrahim's album African Marketplace and, therefore, status is
195
awarded through the use of the musical style by an internationally known and well-respected

musician. On the other hand, McKenzie's celebration of his father's goema-captain past shows the

continuation and development of the style, especially when considering the sophistication of the

chord sequence, the improvisations and the added electronica. These musical ideas underpin

McKenzie’s own learning cycle and his own negotiation of identity. His music represents a measure

of how to build an African nation, how to bring something that is, in equal measure, associated with

slavery, freedom, poverty and non-sophistication into a musical space that is Afrocentric,

sophisticated and belongs, very much to the larger Capetonian jazz repertoire.

#terminologies #whoami #coloured #black #identity #ethnicity #southafrica #race #jazz #music #jazzpolitics #personal #abdullahibrahim #adhikari #racepolitics #earliestmusic #recorded #ancient #AMH #anatomicallymodernhuman #capetown #capedemographics #capejazz #tablemountain #salvery #slaveryatthecape #identitypolitics #robbiejansen #hiltonschilder #stevenerasmus
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#definitionofjazz #memory #memoryandidentity #music #musicalanalysis #musicology #ethnomusicology #capehistory #southafricanmusicians #southafricanhistory #historicalmusicology #identitymusic #musicalidentity #identityformation #definitionofidentity #noperson #whoisanafrican #afrocentric #africanist #africanism #musicspaceplace #district6 #mannenberg #manenberg #L0d
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196
CHAPTER 7

“P LEASE MÊRIM , KAMAAN SMILE !": P LAYFUL R ESPONSES TO THE T RAUMA OF A PARTHEID

F IELDWORK D IARY , A POEM 100 THAT MAKES ME SMILE 101102, S EPTEMBER 2000

100 Part of the poem by Adam Small 'Oppie Parara (On the Parade) written in Capetonian creole. There are many
interpretations of the poem. My own translation is at the end of the chapter.
101
The “Parade” is an area next to the colonial Castle, in front of the city hall in Cape Town. In colonial days this was the
place where the colonial guards would “parade” each morning, thus its name. Today it is used as a market, a car park or,
occasionally, a public meeting place.
102
TRANSLATION: See end of chapter

197
I NTRODUCTION TO THIS C HAPTER

In the previous chapter we saw how the main music of Cape Town’s Minstrelsy Carnival

(goema) is essential in identity building and applied by jazz musicians, young and old, to

reinforce this identity space. Yet, this is not the only idea that jazz musicians have drawn from

the carnival.

Carnivals and festivals are, by their nature, special spaces where time is transformed, and

location reinvented. These events will often transform a city, a park, a street or building into

a fantasy space where people are momentarily changed through their participation in the

event. For instance, the street might be decorated, or large marquee tents erected in a park,

immediately transforming the space. Additionally, the participants might dress in elaborate

costume, allowing themselves to transform into different characters, suitable to the space

and to the behaviour expected in the festival or carnival. Even so, just transforming a place in

this way, or dressing up in a costume does not a carnival make, and thus the central elements

that facilitates this transformation is, of course, music, dance and often, ritual. Considering

the combination of elements at a carnival (music, dance, costumes and a specified time and

space) many theorists view this as the ultimate form of “play”.

In this chapter I therefore endeavour to examine important ideas around the "unimportant".

My aim here is to discuss concepts of play, its manifestation as a carnival, and the notions of

236
identity found therein. I will explain the main theories of play and how the “greater

Capetonian” identity is based in “play”, focussing on play as it appears within the Cape

Minstrelsy Carnival, through music, trance and altered states. Finally, I aim to show how these

ideas were applied to composition by many composers, including the pieces of compositional

duo Robbie Jansen and Steven Erasmus, wherein play and trance underline concepts of

identity that is entirely Capetonian and, ultimately, African.

Although play had been studied for more than 100 years, until recently it was regarded as

“something children do” and as being “not important”. However, the Dutch theorist Johan

Huizinga changed this view when he published the book Homo Ludens: A Study in the Play

Element of Culture (1955) in the 1930s. It was translated from Dutch into English in the 1950s,

and subsequently set the standard to which further play theorists will adhere to.

“W HAT IS H APPINESS ?”

In January 2005 I was watching a group of musicians set up for a performance at the Distrix 6

Café in Cape Town. A new-ish venue, it was part café, part performance space, with local food

and terraced garden. The South Easter, the well-known Cape wind, was blowing up a storm,

as some of the musicians and I discovered when trying to go for a break on the newly

constructed rooftop garden.

237
And so, we returned indoors, ready for one final run through with a young new vocalist.

However, her powerful voice caused some delay for the engineering staff, and we were left

watching, waiting, when a hoarse voice to the right of me said: "What is happiness?" I was

slightly startled and looked askance at the direction of the voice, as it was clearly addressing

me.

It was Robbie Jansen, the legendary man of saxophone and flute. Like me, he was keeping an

eye on the activities. "Happiness?” I said, thinking really fast, "Oh I think Oh, I think, Oh, that’s

easy, the moment before the sun rises over the mountain! You know, the colours of the sky,

the light, the expectation, the freedom it promises, the... "…"No, no, no” he interrupted,

“That's joy! Ecstasy!" Then he went on: "But happiness! What is happiness? ... Is it a state of

being? Is it a constant? You know I was listening to this programme on Bush Radio and they

were discussing 'happiness' and I'm still thinking about it, ‘cause for me sitting here..." and

thus the discussion to-ed and fro-ed on ecstasy, pleasure, happiness and joy until Jansen was

called to the stage for his soundcheck. Not that we could come to agree, but that is always

good in Cape Town. Debate is what keeps the fabric together; it is the play of ideas that keep

the lines of communication open.

Around the same time, and spontaneously at that, several other people discussed similar

ideas with me. Composer Mac McKenzie spoke of the pleasure of beauty and pointed out the

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magnificent mountain view from his home, proudly showing the quaintness of the indigenous

flora in his garden. Pianist Hilton Schilder took me to his favourite beach and told me of the

family fun at picnics during the Christmas period and “skim-boarding” with his cousins when

they were teenagers.

Guitarist Errol Dyers told me of his perfect day of "cycling, practising and making green vegan

food" and simply "because I don't eat anything with eyes...except potatoes", and then roared

with laughter at his own joke. At a Boxing Day party, a group of musicians who couldn't agree

on which tune to play, decided to play three tunes at once, with much laughter and

bafflement from all around. A serious Saturday afternoon “jam session” was turned on its

head when Vince Kolbe challenged all the musicians to swop their instruments (I ended up

playing vibraphone) – whilst Vince slunk outside in the garden to laugh at his own joke. This

started me thinking: Most Capetonians would have found these experiences playful and

endearing. Most will play along, finding satirical joy in the absurd or the ordinary. Strangers

might find some of the jokes a little absurd; not understanding the inter-play of languages,

the sometimes-extravagant physical gestures, the Capetonian creole. Therefore, somewhere,

in amongst these exchanges, there is a (clearly) shared understanding of societal rules. Creole

taunts103, the understanding of the importance of the mountain, the teasing sarcasm, the

103
Another example: A few days after the event at the café, after a brooding day in the archives of the South
African Library, and on the 'forage' for lunch, I was walking down a pedestrianised street. On the way, one of a
group of semi-sober bergies [hobos], got up from his sun-induced slumber, gallantly bowed and said “Hey djy
sista, djy lyk so mooi! Come on, give us a smile!” And when sure to have my attention, continued “Have you
gorra smoke en some metjies?”[hey, you sister, you look nice! Come on, smile! Have you got a cigarette and

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jokes on vegetables and fruit - all suggest that the actors involved in these interplays

understand the rules of the games played. The extract of the poem at the beginning of this

chapter also suggests this and include many of these ideas: the creolised speech, the sarcasm,

the mild sexual innuendo, all require the reader some prior knowledge of the culture at hand,

of the culture-specific play at hand.

S EARCHING FOR A P LAYFUL I DENTITY

In my search for the weighty key points of the sense of identity that South Africans have

gained through and after colonisation, one of the fundamental ideas pointed out to me was

the sense of play found amongst Capetonians. It is thought that, in response to the two forms

of oppression - slavery and apartheid – that beset the city, many Capetonians turned to play

in order to release the tension of the resultant trauma (Reddy and Schilder, H., 2005:

conversations with the author). Consequently, Cape Town became nationally known for its

sense of subversive play, with some of it based in the use of Cape creolised speech, carnival

and the characters of the carnival such as the carnival devils, the buffoon and the exaggerated

gestures of the mascots. Further to this, puns, irony and other forms of language play is

frequently drawn upon to extract humour from emotively difficult situations; most often

based in politics, sometimes using popular culture as its vehicle - frequently highlighting the

inequalities experienced. Not that this sense of subversion and playful behaviour only

some matches?] The cheekiness of the taunt and the deliberate exaggerated use of both physical gestures and
linguistic creole made me giggle, relieving my pocket of quite a few rand (South African currency), thankful for
being pulled out of my archive induced, tunnel-visioned stupor.

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happens in Cape Town, since the very act of play permeates all of life and all carnivals. Of

course, carnivals, such as those found in Rio de Janeiro, Trinidad or New Orleans all contain

elements of subversive play through the use of characters and acts of known and unknown

[expected] “mischief” when exaggerated forms of play takes centre stage. In fact, as a

universal behaviour, play uses culture-specific enculturated behaviours as its building blocks.

These behaviours include segregates such as the intricacies of language, music and physical

gesture, in combination with knowledge of space, place, history and memory. From this

perspective I argue that subversive play is an essential aspect of the Capetonian identity.

Play, as a concept, like many of the topics that it encompasses, is most often culture-specific,

and affected by locality. From a Capetonian perspective it would mean that you have to know

the physical layout of the city and the Western Cape, be aware of the difference between

accents – urban, rural and creole. You have to know the literature that had sprung from the

society and the often exaggerated physical (horse play) displays used to underline ironic

references. An example of this is the “buffoon”, a character from the minstrelsy carnival who

shows, through a variety of dance, song and physical gestures, the complexity and ambiguity

of Capetonian play. Of course, playing the buffoon necessitates having great, in depth

knowledge of the culture at hand. Further, the exaggerated physical behaviour noted above,

is based on this character in a double play: playing the buffoon based on the ironic play of the

“buffoon”. This ambiguity is expressed through the in-between position of the creole – a mix

of accents, diction, English, local slang and Afrikaans, which is exaggerated both linguistically

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and physically. Further satire is extracted from the fact that the character may be a “drunken

buffoon”, or further “the coloured drunken buffoon”, playing on the essentialist identity

stereotype in, what Zimitri Erasmus described as being “clouded in sexualised shame and

associated with drunkenness and jollity” (Erasmus, 2001, 2 - 3).

Not that this is the only sense of play or, for that matter, a new post-apartheid sense of

humour, suddenly borne out of democracy. Cape Town already earned its name as a place for

playful behaviour, with enough drinking establishments, where much music and dancing took

place, to earn itself the moniker The Tavern of the Seven Seas by the 1700s (Worden, 2004).

Yet, this playful behaviour stood at odds with the day-to-day experiences of the enslaved

peoples of the Cape. After all, slave owners in the Cape were known for their brutalities

against slaves, indigenous populations, and sometimes, each other. Additionally, the bizarre

nature of apartheid, which disregarded human rights completely, subjected the country to a

regime of unspeakable terror that stretched from 1948 until the late 1980s. Each new

president increased the severity of apartheid, punishing anyone who dared to defy these laws

with the aspiration to create a fully white state (Worden, et al, 2004, Lewis, 1987, Ross, 1983

and 1999b).

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Culturally, as we had seen in the previous chapters, this was devastating, as the application

of the apartheid laws included the breaking up of families, communities, the delineation of

jobs, education, pay, places to live, the enforcement of the Group Areas Act of 1950 and the

subsequent forced removals (Worden, et al, 2004, Lewis, 1987, The District Six Museum

Archives and personal interviews).

With so much negativity centred on the population of the city, it is not odd to have a city-
wide identity based on play. And, if I speak of “play”, do I mean humour, or am I suggesting
that this is play in the wider sense of the word. At the same time, isn’t humour play, or at
least, doesn’t it form part of play? And further, what is this play I speak of and how can
Capetonians have such fun? Is pleasure and happiness one and the same or at least related?
What knowledge is inculcated into pleasure and specifically what social knowledge is
embedded in this idea.

W HAT IS P LAY ?

The first serious study on play was conducted by the historian Johan Huizinga (Homo Ludens:

A Study of the Play Element of Culture, 1955). Following ideas developed by Plato and Schiller,

he suggested the necessity of play for humankind. He saw play as “the direct opposite of

seriousness” and emphasised four characteristics of play, namely: 1.) It has to be pleasurable,

2.) it should serve no particular purpose, 3.) it should be spontaneous and voluntary and 4.)

it should actively involve the player (Huizinge, 1955: 5 - 27). These characteristics still

influence the study of play today.

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He also underlined “freedom” as an important attribute of play. So it should not be regarded

as a “task” or “work” - but as something that is done in your free time, and according to your

free will. Even so, play has a structure with a definite beginning and end, making it distant

from ordinary life. It's a space for “pretence”, a virtual place where make-belief is all

important. Furthermore, for something to be viewed as “play”, it should be secluded and

limited. Play begins and then “It plays itself to an end” (Huizinga, 1955: 10). Indeed, these

rules are partly responsible for setting play apart from ordinary life. It signals to the rest of

the world, or the immediate community, that this play is exclusive, that it is “something for

us, and not for others” (2 – 11).

Huizinga further suggests that the two major functions displayed by play, “as a contest for

something or as a representation of something”, is something we all understand and accept

(13). Therefore we play games “to win”, to run the fastest, jump the highest or win the best

promotion. We also play games of imagination: we enact battles of ages past, we read and

create stories, and we treat virtual spaces as reality, fully understanding that it is make-

believe.

Contemporary ideas suggest that play should include “all our feeling good or happy”. Since

our ability to experience and perceive pleasure develops from the way in which our capacity

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for affective and emotional communication develops, it is tightly bound up in understanding

and bonding with others (Katz, 2009). Playing is, afterall, one of the more interesting ways in

which we communicate.

However, considering all the different ways and contexts in which play is executed and

experienced, we will surely never be able to write down all our human games and pleasures.

Bearing in mind that it is specific to culture, context and the individual, acknowledging that it

is rule bound, and akin to “the other” in cultural analysis from a time-line perspective (a

“different” time, “not work” and “non-serious”), play becomes impossible to define.

Subsequently play contains an enormous amount of everyday knowledge; knowledge that

wavers between the nurturing of an infant through to the concepts of play that we as adults

consider to be of immense importance. Thus, football scores, religious ritual and

musicianship, to name but a few, are treated with a seriousness that belies their non-serious,

or “play”, contexts. Indeed, in some instances, the placement of religious activities within play

could be viewed as blasphemous – despite the make-believe quality of all religions. Further,

dichotomous relationships sometimes exist within play.

Let me illustrate this in the next two examples: Dancing in a Brazilian carnival is viewed as

play but dancing the same dance in a Candomblé ritual is viewed as communication with the

Orixas (Gods). Similarly, so in capoeira: the game, for it always referred to as a game that one

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plays, is exceptionally serious, showing influences of the spiritual elements of Candomblé. Yet

it is (physically) dangerous if used incorrectly and ultimately playful, showing elements of the

malandro (trickster). This character, the malandro is a Brazilian folk hero whom, despite being

slightly downtrodden, excels as a confidence charmer, a con man who outwits you at your

own game. These malandro games could be anything from tricking your opponent in the

capoeira roda (circle or ring) to making a sneaky rugby tackle or concluding a tricky business

deal (Downey, 2005; Capoeira, 2007; Lowell, 1992; author’s fieldwork, 2001 - 2015).

This ambiguous nature of play has been pointed out by many theorists and includes a study

by Brian Sutton-Smith entitled The Ambiguity of Play (2001). Herein he makes use of William

Empson's work, Seven Types of Ambiguity (1966) to help him outline the difficulties of these

contradictions, concluding that play is, in a Darwinian sense, “a facsimilization of the struggle

for survival” (Sutton-Smith, 2001: Kindle location 4414). Certainly, in cases of severe trauma

many adults will “spontaneously” turn to play. For instance, in the latter stages of the Burundi-

Rwanda war, whilst living in refugee camps, it was play that many turned to – in this instance,

learning, teaching and playing the famous Burundian Royal drums (BBC News report, 1997).

Similarly, Frantz Fanon wrote of the essentialness of play and its resultant emotional exorcism

from an Africanist perspective, explaining the importance of the commonly found dance circle

in the continuation and stability of culture. Thus, he wrote that, inside this dance circle,

There are no limits – for in reality your purpose in coming together [as
a group] is to allow the accumulated libido, the hampered aggressivity
to dissolve as in a volcanic eruption. Symbolic killings, fantastic rites,

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 imaginary mass murders – all must be brought out. The evil humours
are undammed and flow away with the din of molten lave. One step
further and you are completely possessed (Fanon, 1963: 44-45).

He argues further that even when the overall culture is subjected to infringements of human

rights, the use of traditional forms of play helps to maintain and re-create identity (45).

Similarly, and perhaps, as noted by Reddy and Schilder, because of the infringements of

human rights in South Africa, play became one of the many constructs that Capetonians have

used in their formation of identity. The writer of the poem in the beginning of this chapter,

Adam Small104, frequently satirised apartheid-related experiences through the use of

Capetonian creole as an identity-marker. Even so, discussions on play theory more frequently

concern the learning procedures found in childhood play, and ethnomusicological studies

conducted in South Africa is no exception.

Examples of this include John Blacking’s study of story-songs, published in his book, Venda

Children's Songs (1967). Here he describes the ngano or salungano (story-songs) which have

fable-like qualities, serves to impart moral guidance, and is performed as a call-and-response

between the audience and the storyteller. Ina le Roux demonstrated its delivery in a practical

demonstration during a paper delivered on salungano in 2006 (published in 2007) whereby a

104
Adam Small (1936 – 2016) was a major South African writer, who frequently used Cape creole (as in the
beginning poem) as a way in which to satirize the apartheid regime.

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playful call-and-response between the storyteller and the audience, “teased” the story out of

the storyteller. Other educational playful behaviours studied by Blacking include “play

dances”, also from Venda culture, where a young person learn new musical and dance

techniques in a playful way and is hence led towards adult dances and music (Blacking, 1967:

21 – 26, le Roux, 2007).

Consequently, it can be said that play can be extremely simple and innocent at one end of the

scale and extremely complex at the other. What we must remember is that play is always

situational and culturally specific, constructed from elements found in the culture at hand, an

idea, which alongside our current technological development, is global in nature.

James E. Combs suggested that we learn the definition of play at a very early age, discovering

through trial and error what play is and what it is not (Combs, 2000: 9). Accidental mistakes,

social faux pas and social instruction all help in this understanding, showing the infinite variety

in the categories of play. To this end Sutton-Smith suggests several categories of play,

including mind play, solitary play, formal play, informal play and celebrations or festivals, to

name but a few (Sutton-Smith, 2001, Kindle location 151 – 190).

Thus, it is true to say that there are an infinite number of activities that can be considered as

play. We may lose ourselves in the flow of the play and become enchanted and entranced by

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what we are doing, and thus enter an altered state. Through computer games, a player may

become one with virtual reality, forgetting about the outside world, creating an ambiguity

about what is real and what is not. This contradicts what we are taught from an early age

onwards, highlighting the dichotomy between “the real” and “the play”. We are shown that,

for example, that study is serious, as are correct table manners, and that these, therefore

constitute reality (Combs, 2002: 12 -15). We are also taught how to regulate our “play time”

and that our serious and playful times are allocated and controlled by social rules. These rules

include the etiquette appropriate to age, time and place; with much rule bound

remonstration should we overstep these boundaries.

Introducing playful behaviour in the wrong context may be considered frivolous and even

seen as insulting by some. In addition, play can be so pleasurable that it can lead to addiction

(playing poker, playing music, playing sport) so that players find it upsetting should the flow

of play be interrupted. It is addictive and transitive, yet not always very appropriate (Huizinga,

1955; Combs, 2002, Sutton-Smith, 2001).

C ARNIVAL , P LAY AND I DENTITY

One of the places, however, when and where play is most definitely appropriate is

participating in a carnival or festival. Huizinga suggested that, of all kinds of play, perhaps the

best examples are found in carnivals and festivals. Certainly, he refers to such festivities

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throughout his book (Homo Ludens), frequently making reference to the carefree play that is

allowed during such an event. Sutton–Smith is in agreement with this, but goes further by

suggesting that competitive play, carnivals and festivals, is possibly the best way, during peace

times, in which we maintain our identities (Sutton-Smith, 2001:101). Certainly, the rules of

carnival fit in exceptionally well within play – for a carnival IS play. Carnivals and festivals are

exclusive; attracting only those interested in that specific activity. There is an agreed time and

space within which the play takes place. Within this agreed time and space there is a freedom

to play. This freedom consists of spoken or unspoken agreements; “rules” of the play of

carnival. These will incorporate an understanding of what will happen in a carnival, where a

contest is to take place, what is allowed by the community and incorporates an agreed

amount of licence to play that is beyond the agreed play (Huizinga, 1955).

Within the idea of “a licence to play”, the concept of freedom includes a space of safety

wherein altered states or transcendentalism is allowed, and even encouraged. Certainly, in

any carnival, as I can attest, continual movement and music, the number of decibels, the

number of people, the number of hours engaged in this activity (taking part in a carnival) will

lead many to a transcendental space (authors' fieldwork experience, 2002, 2005, 2011).

Additionally, carnivals are used as a space for community bonding, for community play, for

the identity of the community to be cemented and strengthened. So much so, that, every

year, as the activities are repeated, the community is reminded of their own worth, their own

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unique qualities. This play, this community involvement and identity formation through play

– be it competitive or non-competitive – is regarded as the “ludic identity” of the group.

Sutton-Smith suggests that, since play is something that you do in the spaces of “in between

time”, when you have “time in between mundane occasions”, you maintain your identity by

adding “commentary to that identity” (Sutton-Smith, 2001: Kindle location100-103). Sutton-

Smith goes on to name several different types of ludic identities, some that are somewhat

interrelated. Thus “inverse ludic identities” (a ludic identity countering the hegemony) and

‘counter ludic identities’ (ludic identities situated in playing older forms of play) jostle for

attention in the case of Cape Town's Minstrelsy Carnival.

M INSTRELSY , T RANCE AND P LAY

As mentioned in the previous chapters: every year, from 31 December until 2 January, a

festival, or carnival is held in Cape Town, South Africa. Dating back to 1 December 1833 with

the announcement of the end of slavery, it has grown in size and changed to become the

phenomena it is today (Howard, 1991, Martin, 1999, Worden, et.al. 2004).

The carnival proper (herein I exclude the year-long preparations) is divided into two sections:

a choir competition that starts around 9 pm on 31st of December and runs throughout the

night, and the Minstrelsy competition which starts around 12 noon on 1st of January and

continues until the evening of 2nd of January. The choir competitors march from house-to-

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house, parade ground-to-parade ground, performing a range of songs drawn from the

extensive Dutch folk song repertoire. They are accompanied by a string band or horn band

that also plays contemporary chart tunes, thus portraying the carnival itself as a space of play.

Therefore, the seriousness or playfulness of the Dutch songs is interspersed with satirical

renditions of contemporary tunes.

The minstrelsy carnival also has its own set of tunes, again drawn from colonial influences and

interspersed with instrumental takes on contemporary chart tunes. They will also be

accompanied by a string or horn band, but the aim is slightly different. The marchers will

usually march through the streets of the Cape Town city bowl area, before arriving at the

Green Point Stadium that, as a result of apartheid, has become the home of the minstrelsy

competition (You can see the Green Point Stadium in the right-hand corner of Illustration 2 in

chapter 2).

The initial concept of play here then is three-fold: on the one hand there is the carnival within

this agreed time slot, and secondly, there is the idea that music is being played – music

performance, in itself, being one of the basic elements of ludic behaviours. Thirdly it is a

competition, one of the most direct ludic behaviours as explained in the discussion above.

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The characters and dress code of the carnival also lends itself to play. These characters,

although taken from the touring American minstrelsy groups from the 1800s, have changed

and taken on a life of their own. Each troop will have one or two light-footed mascots, who

excel in self-invented dance steps. Occasionally these dances are for emotive effect, and at

other times the dancers deliberately try and create a sense of energy, a sense of play, teasing

and drawing out the resultant (observer) laughter. Sometimes there will be a ‘Carnival Devil’

or two – mainly, said one of my participants “to scare the kids”. Then there is a transsexual

character, often portrayed by older men and from two perspectives: as the young woman

whose short dress, high heels, hair and make-up is visibly over done; thus, the dress is too

short, the heels too high, and so on, and the middle-aged busy body tannie (aunt105) whose

clothes are dowdy, with inadequately applied make-up and covered hair.

From a musical perspective much fun is to be had as there is a competition for the best moppie

(funny song) in two different languages. The non-vocal tunes played by the instrumentalists

are often chosen for their innate humour, such as Bobby McFerrin's Don't Worry be Happy

(1988) and Afroman's I Was Gonna Clean My Room (2000). Traditional carnival songs itself

are often beset by humour, although considering the age of some of the songs (often more

than 150 years old), the humour can be dated. Despite this the concepts of playfulness are

still understood. In some instances, participants will play with the lyrics of these songs,

105
Culturally, any older woman can be referred to as a tannie – it is seen (by some) as a non-
racial respectful reference to an older woman.

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emphasizing the creole pronunciations and subversive meanings. This in turn, aims to

emphasize concepts of “authenticity” and the authenticity of play.

The dress code is still firmly based in minstrelsy but displays inverse ludic elements: although

straw boaters or similar hats are worn, satin suits are donned and make-up is added, the

participants are “whitened up” - rather than being “black faced”, thus taking control of an

insult and reversing its impact. No doubt, we can argue that this, in part, is the reversal of the

“racist image”, as explained by Roger Abrahams and Henry Gates Jr. in their respective works

on “signifying” and “the signifying monkey” (Abrahams, 1962; Gates, 1983)106.

Even so, Fallasi explains that

at festival time, people do something they normally do not, they

abstain from something they normally do; they carry to extreme
measures those things which are usually regulated by measure; they
invert patterns of daily social life (Fallasi, 1967: 3),

and in doing so, they enter another time and space that takes on new meanings. Here space

and place become redefined and reimagined, whilst the borders of this zone is understood to

106
“Signifying”, such as “playing the dozens”, is of course a known African American inverse ludic behaviour and
has come to academic attention through the work of Zora Neal Hurston, Roger Abrahams and Henry Louis Gates
Jr. However, it should not be regarded as the only way in which to view this type of play as examples abound
throughout the world, such as the malandragem of Brazil shows, as noted earlier in this chapter. That said,
Abrahams’ definitions of “signifying” includes many of the playful behaviours found in the Cape, such as “the
ability to talk with great innuendo”, making fun of a person or situation” and “encompasses a whole complex of
expressions and gestures” (Abrahams, 1962, quoted in Gates, 1983: 689).

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be temporary. Any carnival, such as the Cape Minstrelsy Carnival, becomes this space, a

“different” time zone where there is an abstinence from regular work hours and modes of

behaviour. Participants dress up in elaborate costumes and dance, sing or play music for

several days on end. The regularity of habits and measured behaviour is relinquished in favour

of dancing, musicking and playing with abandon. Taking into consideration that a carnival

exists in a specified time scale in terms of days, month or season, and relies on music, dance

and other playful behaviours, entering an altered state is one of the by-products of

participation. This means that the performing participant enters a time space that is

separated from what is “real”. Dorothy Noyes describes the process in a Catalan festival as a

gradual and incremental process, whereby the dances and the consistent sound of the drums

“forces” you and your friends and neighbours to dance. Over the five-day period, she writes:

…as the dances are repeated over and over, as the great drum keeps
beating "Pa-tum" into your head and the band and your neighbours
force your feet to dance, as you drink more and more and sleep less
and less, as the smoke of the firecrackers blackens your face and the
crush of bodies takes from you the control of your own movements,
the giants and the dwarves spin into one, the royal eagle becomes as
fierce as the flaming mule. You lose your everyday name and position:
no longer distinguished by them, you are a part of the sweating dark
mass. Under such conditions no signification is possible; there is
nothing apart from this sensation (Noyes, 1995: 470).

Certainly, this is the case with the Cape Town Minstrelsy Carnival. In the course of the three-

days many of the musicians will fulfil multiple roles; playing for or singing in the Malay Choirs

on New Year’s Eve, and also participate in the minstrelsy groups. As a result, the participants

become sleep-deprived and intoxicated by the continual noise, dance, songs and mass of

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people, caught up in the excitement of the moment, with many reaching an altered or

transcendental state.

A LTERED STATES AT C ARNIVAL T IME

Altered states and transcendental behaviours have been noted in much ethnomusicological

literature. These ideas were drawn together in Rouget's ground-breaking work, Music and

Trance (1985). Herein he outlined many of the ideas previously presented. However, where

in past publications these studies, such as Margaret Kartomi's study on transcendental states

in Java and Bali (Kartomi, 1973), are presented as case studies, this book explores the concept

in itself. Herein Rouget explains that trance behaviours are specific to each culture. He also

makes a distinction between ecstasy and trance, saying that each are characterised by specific

behaviours (Rouget, 1985: 9 - 12). Thus trance, in his view, is manifested when accompanied

by music and movement and reached whilst amongst other people without a “crisis of

person” [questioning of identity] (Rouget, 1985). Conversely, he wrote that ecstasy is reached

in solitude, with a clear memory of what has happened; that the participant is immobile and

in silence and that this can be accompanied by hallucinations and “a crisis of person” (Rouget,

1985).

Judith Becker, however, suggests that there is only one “altered state” and that all the

different states and nomenclature connected with trance simply denote deepening or

differing levels of behaviour. Adding that trance is universal, rather than something isolated

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by certain cultural experiences. That said, she continues by saying that cultural trancing is a

learned experience garnered through observation, imitation and finally participation (Becker,

2004).

Reflecting the strength of the Sufi influence (mentioned in Chapter One) in Cape Town, this

experience, this reaching of a transcendental state, is called “tariek”. Ordinarily in Islam,

tariek or “tariqa” means “the way” in which you search out “the ultimate truth”, reflecting a

belief that, by entering a mystical experience, you will be able to find the path to God. This

“mystical experience” is synonymous with entering an altered state. Considering the vocal

work of musicians such as Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan of Pakistan and the Whirling Dervishes found

in Turkey, one can gain an insight into the extremes that Sufi's are sometimes subjected to -

in order to enter this state. Similarly, participation in the carnival, where musical

performance, dancing and singing takes place for more than twelve hours at a stretch, where,

with each new song and dance, each new costume change, with decibels rising, forces the

participant into a new and different time zone and altered space, where, as described by

Noyes you are a part of “the sweating dark mass…where…there is nothing apart from this

sensation”, you enter an altered state (Noyes, 1995:470). This state is described in Cape Town

as “tariek”. However, in this instance, removed from its religious context, the word tariek

simply refers to the “altered state” reached as a result of participating in the carnival

(Fieldwork observations and discussions by author, 2001 and 2005)

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P LAYING J AZZ THROUGH P LAYING AT C ARNIVAL

Considering the historical placement of music, musicians and musical performances in the

Cape of Good Hope prior to the turn of the 20th century, I hope it has become clear, that all

of these have directly impacted on the development of the carnival. However, it should also

be acknowledged these musical practices have had a direct influence on the formation and

repertoire of the many dance and jazz bands during the 20th century, with jazz standards,

musicals and imported books and records impacting on the musical and political thinking.

Even so, not many Cape musicians were known to local or international audiences and thus

when Dollar Brand, by then Abdullah Ibrahim, recorded the seminal album Mannenberg, is

where it's happening in 1974; a host of new musicians came to prominence. Basil Coetzee, for

instance, became synonymous with the title track of the album and became known thereafter

as Basil 'Mannenberg' Coetzee. However, the album also introduced, amongst others, the

talented flautist and saxophonist Robbie Jansen (1949- 2010), mentioned in the beginning of

this chapter.

T HE R ISE OF R OBBIE J ANSEN

Robbie Jansen’s early musical influences reflect, not only that gleaned from his childhood

carnival knowledge but also rock and fusion bands, such as Chicago, Blood Sweat and Tears,

Ten Wheel Drive and Johnny Matthis. However, the recording opportunity represented by the

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Mannenberg album led him away from these forms of music, towards a more jazz-orientated

musicianship. This in turn led to him joining the band Onswietie [direct transl.: We don't

know], with the guitarist Russell Herman, and a long residency in Luanda, Angola followed.

Here, isolated from all that was happening South Africa, he settled into writing most of the

material for his album, Vastrap Island (Jansen, 1990: interview with Colin Miller).

Vastrap Island (Mountain Records) was thus released in 1991 and comprises of 10 tracks, with

many pieces reflecting a directly political stance. The album title, Vastrap Island, however,

reflects a sense of satirical play that most Capetonians will instantly understand; the first of

these relates to the word “island”, as in “Robben Island” and the second to the musical

meanings of vastrap.

T RACK LIST OF R OBBIE J ANSEN ’ S ALBUM ‘V ASTRAP I SLAND

Track List

1. How I’d Love to Feel Free

2. Love Song for a Forgotten People

3. Kalahari Thirst

4. Hotnotstea Party

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 5. Bokaap Kwela

6. Down in South Africa

7. Winds of Change

8. Hoyatjie Bongo

9. Umfackiso Nyagyeni

10. Da Ghomma Call

The existence and origins of vastrap (a dance and musical style) is unclear, yet ask any South

African what a vastrap might be and all, certainly all my informants, maintained that they

“know” what it is. Their acknowledgements were usually underlined with a physical response:

some bunched up their arms, moving in a slightly dance-like movement; some played with

the word itself, cocking their heads from side to side, one person spoke of a “lekker vastrap”

- meaning a “a nice dance”. All were smiling when speaking of it, suggesting its understood

sense of play. Asking them to define it however, brought slightly different results. Composer

Mac McKenzie retorted: “Vastrap? Well, that's kind of like a myth.” and the pianist, Vince

Kolbe, responded “You know now, in modern times these things are now focused on, and

people are looking through the archives”, never quite completing his statement, being

distracted with the video machine and trying to find photographs of days gone by (McKenzie,

2005; Kolbe, 2008: author's interviews).

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Directly translated, the word vastrap means to trample something until its “well trampled” or

“permanently trampled”, probably in reference to a tradition that, when cow dung floors

were being laid, a dance is held so that the floor can be trampled well. In interviews,

trumpeter Alex van Heerden (1974 – 2009) found, as I did, that many respondents, to

questions on vastrap, hinted at the joy, pleasure and abandon at these events. This was

because, in the countryside, where cow-dung floors were used until relatively recently,

entertainment, such as dances or organized musicking events are extremely rare (van

Heerden, 2006: personal correspondence with author).

An exploration of the meaning of the word vastrap on the social networking sites shows the

contemporary interpretation of the word. Here, on the one hand, a vastrap simply means “to

dance”, to “dance with conviction”, or “to dance your heart out”. Some suggest that a vastrap

could be viewed as a loose interpretation of a Scottish reel. Alex van Heerden states that:

Often a dance [event] will begin with more sedate waltzes and
popular songs, but as the evening wears on, the vastrap becomes
more prominent, and the veneer of ‘western civilization’ can wear
very thin indeed as the party goes on until the sun comes up! (van
Heerden, 2006: personal correspondence with author).

And thus, the notion of a vastrap is one of abandonment, of carefree dancing, of dancing until

sunrise. Some maintain that the vastrap has been part of the Boeremusiek orkes repertoire

possibly since the arrival of the English in the early 1800s [farmers music orchestras] - thus

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underlining the idea of a Vastrap aligned to a Scottich reel (Muller, 2007: telephone interview

with author).

B OEREMUSIEK

Boeremusiek is a musical genre most often associated with the right-wing, conservative white

Afrikaans-speaking community. At some point during the 20th century the instruments of

Boeremusiek orchestras were codified to become cello bass, guitar and concertina. Other

instruments can be used and are added according to availability. The musical styles played by

these orchestras reflect a direct European heritage, and include waltzes, mazurkas, polkas,

and vastraps. Some suggest that, in the Boeremusiek of today, a vastrap is simply another

name for a Scottish reel. Yet others feel that it is a “simple form of music”, although the

melodies could be challenging (Muller, 2007: telephone interview with author). Certainly, the

music is played by both coloured and white populations, although the view of what to play

and how to play it, might differ somewhat. The last 50 years have had a dramatic impact on

this music and in how it is viewed. For many the music has become synonymous with

apartheid (Kolbe, 2005, Layne, 2002; Mathyse, 1995, Muller, 2007: interviews with author).

Currently the word vastrap underlines the idea of carefree dancing, of dancing with abandon,

whereas boeremusiek reflects a staidness found in the old-fashioned dances included in the

genre. Thus, when Robbie Jansen called his album Vastrap Island, he was keen to portray this

element of abandon and dance, and the sense of play and freedom it brings. Calling the album

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“an island”, however, refers perhaps more directly to Huizinga's idea that play is exclusive,

that it is “surrounded by secrecy” that it is something for us and excludes others and

somewhere where we can escape to (Huizinga, 1955:11). Thus, only those who know and

understands what a vastrap is, are invited and will be able to partake in the abandon it

requires. However, there are other concepts of play also at hand, more specifically, a play

with words, and a sense of irony.

R OBBEN I SLAND

Robben Island is the infamous island where many famous prisoners were held throughout the

colonial years, up until 1994. A twenty-minute boat ride from Cape Town harbour, it can be

seen on most days from the city bowl. This island is the place where those who embarrassed

the colonisers (such as Eva/Kratoa – see Chapter Eight), those who offended the Dutch

authorities elsewhere (such as the Sufi's mentioned in Chapter Two) and those who were

deemed a threat to the apartheid state (such as Nelson Mandela) were sent.

Calling the album Vastrap Island thus points strongly to inverse ludic behaviour in this ironic

reference to this place of suffering that was already in use as a penal colony by the English in

1616, pre-dating formal Dutch Colonial occupation by 36 years (Worden, et al, 1994).

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T HE T RACK L IST

As mentioned in previously many of the tunes on the track list are politically motivated. The

tune How I'd Love to feel Free (Jansen/Khan) reflects the title of the Nina Simone tune I wish

I knew how it would feel to be free, and reflects the desire for freedom from oppression,

whereas Love song for a Forgotten People (Erasmus) and Winds of Change (Dyers), draw on

well-known political views. The track Love song for a Forgotten People portrays the tragedy

of being caught up in, and ignored by, popular political stances. Further to this, being classified

as coloured is, as noted previously, a non-classification, a de-racialised term, referring to a

people removed from ancestry and cultural belonging. In turn, the title of the composition

Winds of Change draws directly on Harold MacMillan's famous speech from 1960, when he

addressed the South African parliament regarding the political changes at that time being

acknowledged throughout Africa.

The rest of the tunes bear titles that reflect inferential knowledge regarding the country and

culture at hand. For instance, the track Kalahari Thirst refers to a geographic area divided into

three countries Botswana, Namibia and South Africa. An arid desert area, it is home to many

nomadic and previously nomadic peoples of Khoisan origin. In this piece (Kalahari Thirst) the

composer (Jansen) plays with a driving rhythm in a 6/4 time-signature (transcription 16). The

opening phrase is repeated incompletely for a 2nd time, causing phase-shifting. Both phrases

are then repeated, creating an insistent transcendental feel before the B section offers relief

from this, slightly frantic, feel. The driving rhythm, repetitive phrases and changes in texture

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in the B section aims to be an imagined interpretation of the musical concepts thought to be

found within the music of the San (Jansen, 2005: conversations with author).

However, there are two pieces on this album that directly reflect a Capetonian influence –

even before the first note is heard. These include Da Ghomma Call (See Chapter Six), referring

to the musical style ordinarily associated with the carnival, and the track that is at the centre

of this discussion, entitled Hotnotstee Party.

Indeed, the texture created here imitates the mayhem found at a carnival, when everyone is

dancing, laughing, talking and eating, against a background of musical noise and the

heightened excitement of the peak of the carnival. This foundation, driven by Erasmus’

hypnotic bass line (in 6/8) creates a foundation over which the main melodic elements (in

4/4) are stated; creating cross rhythms against the guitar, piano and saxophone lines.

I NVERSIVE L UDIC I DENTITIES & H OTNOTSTEE P ARTY

Hotnotstee Party is, on this recording107, almost eight minutes long. The form of the piece is

relatively standard, comprising of an intro, a transition A, B C B sections and solos, returning

to the head at 6 minutes 45 seconds. The timbre of the piece is musically centred on elements

107
In a live performance the piece is sometimes lengthened considerably.

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of the carnival; the introduction of the piece is a short soundscape, exploring the liveliness

and sense of fun and organized disorganization of a city at play.

T RANSCRIPTION 16: H ERE ARE THE OPENING PHRASES OF K ALAHARI T HIRST BY R OBBIE J ANSEN AND S TEVEN E RASMUS .
I N THIS PIECE THE COMPOSERS AIMED TO CREATE THE FEELING OF THE MUSIC OF THE INDIGENOUS PEOPLES , SECURING
THE MUSIC TO BE A FROCENTRIC , EVEN IF IT IS AN IMAGINED CONCEPT OF WHAT K HOISAN MUSIC SOUNDS LIKE . 108

Thus, we hear the sound of the crashing waves highlighting the city surrounded by sea; loudly

blown carnival whistles, saxophone screams, piano tremolos’, a medium-paced kit pattern,

maracas and a hypnotic ostinato bass line.

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The melodic and harmonic materials are placed firmly within, what has now become the Cape

sound: modal harmonic materials. Here the composers use Dorian & mixo-lydian modes

respectively, both on A, thus with D and G respectively as parent keys. Both piece and solos

rarely move away from these key centres – even though many jazz-improvisatory techniques

are employed in the sound elements explored.

Returning to the carnival, though, as can be imagined, with any three-day carnival, many

musicians will play in both the choir’s marches which begin on the evening of the 31st

December and continue through the night until around 12 noon the next day, 1st January. The

minstrelsy groups then continue this performance on 1st and 2nd January. Many of these

musicians will play for the choirs and then, after a short nap, wash and eat, go to the club

house to change into a new costume, and go straight out to perform for another six hours or

more, this time as a Klopse (minstrelsy) troupe member.

Such continual activity leads many into a transcendental state or a state of tariek. This also

ties into the musical state of the piece: the hypnotic bass line, the sense of confusion and

placement of timbres and sonic elements. What is perhaps more interesting about this piece

is the title: Hotnotstee Party. As you could hear from the piece, it sounds like a celebration, a

party, a place of abandonment and happiness, a place of pleasure and joy. Yet this title reflects

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T RANSCRIPTION 17: T HE PIECE H OTNOTSTEA P ARTY BY R OBBIE J ANSEN AND S TEVEN E RASMUS . T HE PIECE IS ACTUALLY
CROSS - RHYTHMIC (4/4 IN THE SAXOPHONE AGAINST THE 6/8 IN THE BASS ). H OWEVER , SOFTWARE RESTRICTIONS DID
NOT ALLOW THIS FEATURE , THUS THE BASS IS REPRESENTED IN 4/4 AS A PHASE - SHIFTED PHRASE . E VEN SO , AGAIN , THE
DRIVING RHYTHM IS ONE OF THE ELEMENTS THAT HELPS THE PIECE REFLECT THE SENSE OF PLAY AND ALTERED STATES
THE COMPOSERS WANTED TO PORTRAY .

a strongly racist name, used in the Cape as early as the 1650s, and taken from the original

word Hottentot.

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The word Hottentot was the way the Dutch referred to the local Cochaqua (Khoi) groups they

found at the Cape on their arrival in 1652. Some suggest that the term was possibly a

reference to either Khoi speech patterns, or, more likely, the Khoi and San vocalisations used

during music-making (Bloem, 1999). Certainly, this latter argument makes more sense.

Listening to a Ju'|hoan song [San group from the Kalahari desert], such as the Giraffe song

[Unesco Sound files], will make this clear. The main singer use vowel sounds to create the

melodic lines (Olivier, 2005: 251).

Olivier points out that these melodic ideas or song sets are “… based on rhythmic patterns of

the same duration (four beats), but whose internal values are different in each case. These

differences, subtle as they are, are sufficient for the Ju|’hoansi to identify the different sets”

and different songs (Olivier, 2001: 12). Moreover, as the songs frequently only utilize, what

will to a European ear sound like a melodic collection of rhythmically set vowel sounds, it is

suggested that the colonial Dutch called these Khoi groups the “Hawt en Tawters” in an

onomatopoeic reference the sound of the songs (Bloem, 1999). This ethnophaulism later

became Hottentot and was at some point shortened to “Hotnot” – a word experienced as

even more offensive than the initial idea from which it was drawn as a result of its use during

the apartheid era.

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Shockingly, the word Hottentot was still in use in 2020 (The Hottentots-Holland Mountain, for

example) and the word Hotnot became a word of slander to which all mixed-race South

Africans were ascribed - thus words of insult weighted down in meaning, and often used.

Consequently, by including the word “Hotnot” as part of the name of the tune, the composers

(Jansen and Erasmus) satirize the meaning of the composition. In the beginning of the

chapter, I illustrated how, in some instances, there is the play of irony, of satire – often using

oppositional terms to underline an idea. The suffix “tee” [tea] changes this meaning further

and gives a clue to the depth of its ironic play. In fact, the word “tea” was an often-used

substitute term for marijuana during the early to mid-20th century - as noted by Cab Calloway

in his Hepster’s Dictionary of 1939 (Calloway quoted in tcswing.com, accessed March 2013).

Calling their piece Hotnotstee Party – thus invokes an inverse ludic identity.

The name of the piece, the concept of a carnival, the ideas of hypnotism, altered states and

play then all come together: Here is a piece of Cape Jazz, playing upon the concepts of the

carnival, which many theorists confirm, is the ultimate form of play. In this instance the ideas

of play, based in Cape Jazz, include a play on words through the title, on the sonic ideas in

imitation of a coastal city at play in the introduction (horn screeches and the sound of waves

crashing) and, by using this particular driven cross-rhythmic feel, creates a sense of

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transcendentalism that, as Noyes explained, is frequently experienced during carnivals

(Noyes, 1995: 470).

Even though this piece was recorded during the closing scenes of apartheid, it was composed

in 1981, at the height of the apartheid brutalities (Author’s interview with composers Jansen

and Erasmus, January 2005). Consequently, the musicians were showing a sense of ironic play

with the apartheid bosses; jiving [playing] with them, ghai-ing [creole word for satirised play]

through the name of the piece. By using the sonic idea of the carnival, the composers [Jansen

and Erasmus] succeeded in portraying their counter ludic identities; thus, referencing an older

form of play – within which identity formation closely adheres to. By using the skeldnaam [the

name of insult] “hotnot” and the word “hotnotstee” as part of the title of the piece, Jansen

and Erasmus succeed in portraying their inversive ludic identities, thus countering the

hegemony of the apartheid state.

C ONCLUDING I DEAS

The poem at the beginning of this chapter suggests, in my view, a culture specific sense of

satire that is frequently regarded as one of the identity markers of being Capetonian.

Considering the long history of the carnival, as seen in the previous chapter, it relates directly

to slavery. Consequently, much of the play in this carnival relates to “being mixed race” that

includes an apartheid-colonized assigned identity construct - as explained by Zimitri Erasmus

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(Erasmus, 2001). Herein we find that the creolised speech patterns, exaggerated physical

gestures, the re-enactment of the carnival buffoon, and even the existence of the carnival

buffoon itself, all underline the reasons for Erasmus’s outrage. Indeed, instead of accepting

these playful behaviours as inverse and counter ludic identities, apartheid’s supporters

considered these as the “true” construct of mixed-race identities. Of course, this identity

construct, possibly more than any others mentioned in this book, reflects the prescriptive

influence of social Darwinism discussed in previous chapters. Thus, apartheid’s support of this

prescribed identity created, by default, a cultural space to react against this essentialism and,

conversely, construct inverted ludic identities. These inversions of identity can be clearly seen

both in forms of carnival participation (as black musicians - playing European folk songs,) and

in the piece presented here for analysis. In this composition we found the placement of an

ironic sense of play used to invert the trauma caused by the colonial and apartheid

experiences; transforming suffering and anger into a form of protest, disguised as joy. In

addition, the ludic behaviours, found in the carnival creates altered states amongst many

participants, and this is also evident in the composition – mainly created by the ostinato bass

line.

Finally, and considering that play is time, culture, situation and place specific, and keeping in

mind that this particular ludic identity is found, due to the population demographics of South

Africa, mainly in the hybridized, syncretised Western Cape, it can clearly be interpreted as an

Afrocentric or Africanist identity construct.

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In the next chapter, the final case study, I will discuss one of the newly emerged identities

that were noted only in the last ten - twenty years, namely ‘being Khoisan’. Taking inspiration

from the first peoples found at the Cape at the time of the first Portuguese colonial travels,

the Khoi and the San, through newly formed groups, words, legacies and symbolism, these

re-imagined ideas are embraced by 21st century descendants as spaces of remembrance and

historical legacy.

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Translation of poem:

ON THE PARADE (By Adam Small, from Guitar my Cross, 1961)

Please madam
c'mon smile
look
our little market tents are full of piled up happiness!

how can madam look so sour

shame
do you think life’s vinegar
and where does madam buy it [this vinegar]
it looks really expensive

nah, madam
now then, smile
look there
our little market tents are full of piled up happiness!

The white woman cannot laugh

she orders:
there’s nothing I want,
the coolie strictly formal

But madam, pawpaw, pawpaw and banana

an juicy grapes out the heart of Canaan
or maybe the lady would fancy a fig
see how ripe and swollen
plumped out from top to bottom

don't blush madam

we've got the leaf right here …

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CHAPTER 8
ANCESTRAL MEMORIES IN THE BEAUTY OF A WOMAN :
RECLAIMING THE SELF THROUGH INDIGENOUS MUSICAL IDENTITIES

F IELDWORK N OTES , THE T RUTH AND R ECONCILIATION C OMMISSION 109, S EPTEMBER 2005

I've just finished reading 'The Country of my Skull', Antjie Krog's famous book that

traces South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission as it unfolds in the public courtroom

and televised into living rooms across the country. I love her writing, her poetry. I love poetry.

I always have; Adam Small, Lina Spies, Sylvia Plath, Sonia Sanchez...But now this book,

harrowing, painful, beautiful. I cry beloved, deeply adored country...my rainbow people. I have

been crying a lot reading this.

Even so, I was relishing the familiarity of the setting, of landscapes, personages and

words sewn onto my soul, infused within me. I lingered over lines and phrases, meanings and

memories. Aghast at the knowledge I have gained; appalled by the knowledge of violence I

know to have always possessed.

I want to cower away, hide my eyes, creep under the duvet, close off the world...but

something stops me. I lie in bed, staring for hours at the skylight; a mobile of carved wooden

109
The Truth and Reconciliation commission was a series of public hearings at the end of the apartheid era
wherein victims, witnesses and perpetrators could talk and unravel the horrific deeds done in the name of
apartheid and amnesty granted when appropriate.

275
fish swimming by above my head. My mind wanders. I think of Harry. I think of Krotoa. Why

did no one plead for understanding for her case? Why did no one plead guilty? Why was the

entire Khoisan case left out of the equation? What's wrong with this nation? How could they

forget? I'll take heed for now, though. I'll take Krogs' advice and make something to fill the

hole that opened up inside of me. Krog herself baked a cake - but I think I’ll write something

to help us remember.

T HIS C HAPTER : E MERGING I DENTITIES

Over the last twenty years or so a group of mixed-race Cape Town jazz musicians, through the

music they compose and perform, started making claims to an identity more frequently

associated with the indigenous peoples of South Africa. The identity in question, a Khoisan

identity, refers to the two original peoples of the Western Cape [the Khoi and the San] and

often concerns discussions that include terms such as “primitive”, “first people”, “iron age”,

and the recovery of land, language and culture. Thus their [the musician’s] Khoisan claim is

intriguing. In this chapter I will discuss Khoisan identity and outline a short history of the initial

people of the Cape from the start of colonialism until present day. I will illustrate various

colonial views of the Khoisan, including notions of “primitivism” and “the wild men of Africa”;

constructed according to ideas that originated during the Enlightenment when Europeans

first encountered these groups (Hudson, 1999). The colonisation of the Cape accommodated

miscegenation between the indigenous population, the colonial administrators and the slave

population, almost completely destroying the Khoi and San civilisations as a result, leaving

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the survivors with major obstacles in identity formation. Their composite difficulties of

identity construction is thus the aggregate result of Dutch and British colonialism,

creolisation, apartheid, the cosmopolitan mix of peoples found in a harbour city such as the

Cape of Good Hope and various nineteenth century sciences such as social Darwinism and

physical anthropology. My ultimate aim is to draw attention to the newly emergent Khoisan

identity, as opposed to a Khoi identity or San identities, and demonstrate how, in the

aftermath of apartheid, one of Cape Town’s jazz musicians is reclaiming himself and his self-

identity through the use and placement of real and imagined Khoisan compositional materials

in his newly composed pieces.

!K WA TTU : T HE WATER THAT FEEDS OUR S OUL

I'm standing on a ridge, slightly below the main buildings of a farm. It is late afternoon, and

the skies are clear. It's a lovely day and to your right you can see all the way to the sea, nine

kilometres away. To the left, you can see Table Mountain and the round-edged coast line 60

kms away [Figure 22]. A couple of zebras have woken up from their heat-induced afternoon

nap and are lazily grazing. A herd of springbok are heading over to the water hole. The fields

below, once covered in fynbos110 are making a brave stance at recovering that which was once

lost.

110 Fynbos is an indigenous group of plants, essential to the health of the Cape Floral Kingdom; it “binds” the sandy soil and
can live off minimal water stocks. It includes plants such as Ericas and Proteas. There is no real translation for the word, yet
a possible direct translation is “delicate bush” - the translation showing both its leaf shapes and its response to weather
pattern changes. There are six floral kingdoms in the world. This is the only that exists entirely in one country, has an

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Only 10 years ago it was still a wheat farm – but now, thanks to the benevolence of a host of

non -governmental organisations (NGOs) from across the world, the fields have been placed

on a recovery programme. They have been cleared of “intruders”, mainly wheat and

Australian wattle,

exceptional abundance of species and is concentrated around the village where I grew up – Darling – a tiny village, around
40 miles north of Cape Town.

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F IGURE 22: T HE VIEW OF C APE T OWN FROM !K WA TTU , S AN C ULTURE F ARM . I N THE CENTRE YOU CAN SEE T ABLE
M OUNTAIN , WITH D EVIL ’ S P EAK TO THE LEFT , AND THE T WELVE A POSTLES (C AMPS B AY ) TO THE RIGHT . L OOKING
CLOSELY , YOU CAN SEE THE CLOSE PROXIMITY OF R OBBEN I SLAND AND THE BEAUTIFUL CURVE OF THE COASTLINE .
(A UTHOR ’ S PHOTOGRAPH , D ECEMBER 2012)

locally known as rooikrans (red branch), a fast-growing tree that devastated the water-poor

landscape. Local fauna and flora were reintroduced and, in amongst the newly planted fynbos,

wildlife such as springbok, kudu and zebra once again grace the land.

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The San is one of the two major indigenous groups111 of Southern Africa, and this farm is seen

by many as the headquarters of San cultural expression. For many, this space is viewed as a

centre to reclaim San identity. The disenfranchisement of indigenous Southern African

groups, and the resultant fracturing of identities, is a constant point of discussion in Southern

Africa112. In response, non-governmental organisations such as WIMSA (the Working Group

of Indigenous Minorities in Southern Africa), UBUNTU (Switzerland), and SASI (the South

African San Institute) worked together to create this San space, by purchasing the land,

creating jobs and establishing education and training schemes.

L ABELS TEND TO S TICK

Terminologies often interrogate, prescribe, add to, or subtract from concepts of identity and,

in the case of the “original people”113, this is no exception. Words that are frequently found

in discussions concerning the Khoisan people include “primitive”, “first people”, “iron age”,

“Bushman”, “Hottentot” and, more recently, “genetics studies” and “genome patents”.

Arguments over San and Khoi identities are complex, as the fight for getting their identity

111
The other group is the Khoen or Khoi-khoi. Please note that these names are umbrella terms for smaller designations
such as Griekwa and Choque (both Khoen) or Ju|tansi and !Kung - which are San groups.

112 The indigenous groups discussed have lived in and around Southern Africa for millennia. When referring to Southern
Africa, I include all the countries in the South African Development Community or SADC region. This is important since part
of the San or Khoi “family” lives as far north as Southern Tanzania.

113 Recent genetic studies indicate that the San were probably the first known AMH (Anatomically Modern Humans) who
had the capacity to think symbolically. They date back to around 144,000 years ago - thus “original people” or “first people”,
with new information showing that the carriers of the L0 mitochondrial DNA, possibly being even older (D’Ericco,
Henshilehood, et al., 2003; Brouwer, 2019).

280
back includes not only finding an acceptable terminology for them, but also the recovery of

their linguistic and land loss, and (in some instances) the presentation of arguments for their

right to live as their forefathers did.

Important to San identity is the farm called “!Kwa ttu”114i, which means “water pan”

or “watering hole” in the ancient, though extinct |Xam language (!Kwa ttu.org, 2011). In the

pre-colonial days the San was responsible for looking after the waterholes, ensuring their

longevity and stopping their overuse; thus the name of the farm (Ibid.).

The |Xam language is one of thirteen distinct San languages. Although |Xam itself is

extinct today, many of the others are still in use. The two groups, the San and the Khoe, Khoen

or Khoi are often collectively referred to as the Khoisan. This word [Khoisan] is a linguistic

construct coined in 1928 by the German anthropologist Leonard Schultze (Willet, 2007: C3.1).

In the 1930s Isaac Schapera popularised the term through various publications, after which it

gradually became a widely used term implying Khoisan cultural and linguistic attributes

(Killian, 2009: 9). This categorisation [Khoisan] includes two distinct groups: Khoi herders and

San hunter-gatherers. Further subdivisions on account of language and culture include Khoi

groups such as the Nama, Korana and Griqua, and San groups, such as the Ju|’hoansi, |Xam

and !Kung.

114 “!Kwa” means” water” and “ttu” means “hole” or “pan”. The exclamation mark in front of Kwa (!Kwa)
indicates a palatal click; one of the four “click families” in the language group. Other clicks include dental (|),
alveolar-palatal (‡), and the lateral (||) and include many variations to each, making these languages difficult to
master (Katz, 1997).

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 In spite of the current popularity of the term “Khoisan”, the word is somewhat

problematic. The main reason is that the joining of these two words lead to the popularly held

belief that the Khoi [Khoen/khoe] and the San are directly related – despite distinct linguistic

and cultural differences. Secondly, the word “San”115, which means “the gathering of all

people” in many San languages is also thought to be a shortened version of the word “sonqua”

which means “forager” or “Bushman” in a number of Khoi languages (!Kwa ttu.org, Accessed

April 2011; Killian, 2009). These meanings and associations have always been considered by

the San as forms of insult. Even so, at the inaugural meeting of WIMSA in 1996 it was decided

that “San” was to be used as the preferred term as it is regarded “safe and acceptable”

replacing the colonial label “Bushman”. The word Khoe, on the other hand, means “person”,

and Khoi-khoi means “people of people” in Khoemana, [literally: Khoi language], replacing the

colonial label “Hottentot” (Killian, 2009: 6).

A note about the Khoekhoen or Khoi-khoi: Up to now I have used the words “Khoe” and “Khoi”

inter-changeably. It is felt, however, that the word Khoi is not correct according to its phonetic

pronunciation and today the word Khoe is preferred (Killian, 2009). However, for the sake of

clarity I will use the word “Khoi” from now on, to adhere to the “Khoisan” label.

115 Translation of conjunctives: Sa = 'to gather'; Saas = 'women gather'; Saab = 'men gather'; Saan or San = 'People
gather' (www.kwattu.org)

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T HE C OMPLEXITY OF S EARCHING FOR A L OST I DENTITY

I already pointed out that “a small slave population already existed” (Chapter Two) by the

time the first slave ship arrived in the late 1650s. It is thought that these slaves (or serfs) were

probably Khoi, interned for a variety of reasons. Of these slaves Eva, or Krotoa as she was

known amongst her kin, and her uncle Harry, or Autshumato116 are the most well-known, and

illustrate some of the close communication between the first colonisers and the local

population.

Autshumato was the leader of one of the breakaway Cochoqua (Khoi) groups that

lived in the area. He worked as an interpreter, moving to Robben Island (the famous “prison

island”) in 1632 to ease his accessibility as an interpreter for passing trade ships. Shortly after

the arrival of the Dutch colonists in 1652, Krotoa, his niece, who was born around 1644, was

taken into the home of Jan van Riebeeck. Here she was brought up as a Christian, baptised

and renamed as 'Eva'. She was also educated to Dutch standards and to the height of

European etiquette. Linguistically gifted, she was used as an interpreter to speak Dutch,

Portuguese and her own Cochoqua language in negotiations between the different nations.

She was revered for her remarkable ability to move between cultures, returning to her Khoi

roots when she needed to. She married the VOC’s company doctor, Pieter van Meerhoff, with

whom she had three children. Upon the death of her husband, however, she was banished to

Robben Island and her children placed into care. Arguments for this expulsion varies from the

idea that the VOC wanted to rid themselves of the “shame” of the first known mixed marriage

116
Sometimes he is referred to as Autshomão, suggesting a Portuguese influence.

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under colonial rule, to the idea that she was an “alcoholic” and a traitor who “lived an

outrageous lifestyle”, despite having been groomed to be a bridging figure as the gifted

linguist and interpreter (Thom, 1954; Worden, 2004: 23; Bloem, 1999)117. Histories such as

these illustrate some of the historical difficulties that the Khoi, the San and their descendants

had to face in their attempt at identity construction.

Though such examples are few and far between, they indicate the various hardships

that indigenous peoples had to endure after the arrival of the colonists, who interfered with

their traditional life. Used to living as settled herders or as nomadic hunter-gatherers,

indigenous peoples had their lives thrown into chaos by the arrival of the colonists. The San

family-inherited water holes were “captured” by the colonisers for their own use. Traditional

Khoi grazing fields were used by the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie (Dutch East India

Company or VOC). Traditional hunting grounds were destroyed for crop cultivation. In

addition, the indigenous people also had to cope with an increasing number of colonists and

imported slaves. Since the VOC forbade the colonials to enslave the local population, slaves

were imported from far and wide, which, without a doubt, further disturbed the already

interrupted lifestyles of the Khoisan.

It is common knowledge that the indigenous peoples, particularly the San, were

treated with unprecedented cruelty by colonial masters who regarded them as “wild

117
Worden suggests that it was because she was “always hovering in between” these worlds, Thom suggests
that it was mainly due to alcoholism, whereas Bloem suggests that she was “set up” to hover between colonial
life and an iron-age lifestyle and that, on the death of her husband the VOC decided to rid themselves of her
services any way they could.

284
savages”. The Khoisan resistance to the colonial invasion and suppression earned both the

Khoi and the San the label of “murderers”. Their nomadic lifestyle was instrumental in the

San being called “Bosjesman” or “Bushman”. The appellation “Hottentot”, on the other hand,

as mentioned in the previous chapter, is linked to language and music, in reference to the

song and speech of the Khoi (Ferreira, 2007). This interpretation of the song/speech sounds

by first colonisers [the Dutch] led the Khoi to be called the “Hot en Totters”118, later on

shortened to “Hottentot”. The coining of the term, “Khoisan” may therefore have been an

early attempt to address these “biologically” biased classifications at least from an academic

stance, as these terms (“Hottentot” and “Bushman”) are inextricably linked to the abuse

suffered during colonial times.

Some of the cruelty the Khoisan had to endure at the hands of the colonial officials is

bound up with “scientific experimentation”. The distinctive physical attributes of the Khoisan

– particularly those of the women – attracted an unusual amount of interest. Erotic voyeurism

was presented under the disguise of scientific study. An ideal of what constituted the beauty

in European form was regarded as the norm, e.g. the statue of David by Michelangelo or the

Mona Lisa by Da Vinci. Any person outside this construct literally became an embodiment of

“the other” and was considered as outlandish or grotesque. Alan Morris explained that this

European fascination with the form, and the dissection of the remains of the Khoisan, was

simply part of day-to-day colonial practice and thinking. He analysed the situation as one

whereby the colonists were regarded as “civilised” people and “being above nature“ while

118
Also known as the “Hawt en Tawters” – See Chapter 7

285
the “primitives” in the colony were “members of the animal kingdom to be classified and

listed amongst the weird and wonderful fauna of distant lands” (Morris, 1996: 67).

Anthropomorphical and cultural studies of San and other original Cape groups were

carried out by methodologies developed by Thomas Huxley. For example, the philologist

Wilhelm Bleek and his sister-in-law Lucy Lloyd, the two most notable early researchers of San

culture, were at pains to have measurements and photographs taken of their informants

“according to Professor Huxley's directions” (Bleek & Lloyd, 1911, quoted in Deacon, 1996:

96). Using ethnography as their main methodology, Bleek and Lloyd created an unequalled

archive of San culture that include pictures, stories, vocabulary and an examination of the

linguistic structure of the |Xam language. Their informants lived with them in a garden hut in

their suburban home, yet the social Darwinist construct was so strongly imbedded into the

belief systems of the time that when, in 1909, Bleek’s daughters was asked about the |Xam

they knew as children, they described them “as gentle murderers” (Bleek & Bleek, 1909,

quoted in Hall, 1996: 159).

Certainly, the Bleek/Lloyd archive shows that the San have an immense knowledge of

the veld, the fauna and flora, and had (and have today) exceptional skills as storytellers,

dancers, artists, herbalists and trackers. However, since they were seen by the colonists as

“primitive”, they were ascribed a status that equalled that of wild animals and treated

accordingly. Hunting parties (“commandos”) were sent out to “clear large areas of San”,

destroying ancient ways of living which otherwise would have had stood the test of time

(Skotness, et. al. 1996).

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 During the 1700s, as the colonial farmers or trekboers (nomadic European/Continental

farmers) were encroaching on San land, the grazing trekboer cattle were destroying the

veldkos (field food / wild food) and commando hunting parties were decimating the fauna

such as eland and springbok. At the same time, the land was being cut up into “farms”,

destroying, as a consequence, access to ancient, inherited water holes. Thus, the essential

infrastructure of San culture was destroyed, and with it the everyday things on which the San

had been reliant for their day-to-day survival for thousands of years. Subsequently, a

ferocious war ensued between the guns of the trekboers and the poisoned arrows of the San,

with colonial commandos often returning from battle with “trophies”119 such as severed

heads of those they had massacred (Skotness, et. al. 1996).

By comparison, the colonists sought the Khoi’s cattle herding skills, and so this group

were treated quite differently from the San. Accordingly, the colonists put the Khoi higher on

the “being human” scale than the San, and they were often used as farm workers. After the

British took control of the colony for the second time in 1806, the proclamation of the Caledon

Code [also known as Hottentot Code] of 1809 decreed that every Khoi had to have a fixed

place of abode, and needed a pass, signed by their employers, to move from place to place

(Lapping, 1986: 36; Crais, 1992: 194). Thereafter Khoikhoi workers were permanently ascribed

119 Proof that these were illegally procured is that there is strong evidence to suggest that many of the heads were boiled
in order to be rid of any flesh. In these specimens there is no evidence of being buried in the ground or exhumed after a long
burial. Some heads, however, were treated as real 'trophy heads', like a stuffed animal head, the skin and hair were left
intact, the brain removed, and glass eyes inserted. Both types of specimens are found in museums, universities and private
collections throughout Europe and South Africa. There are private collections in Europe that show, not only heads, but also
flayed human skin. Thus in amongst collections of animal skins such as leopard and lion, a human, often San, skin is also
displayed (Pippa Skotness, !Kwa ttu, Trainee’s lecture, March 2011).

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to a slave owner and paid in cattle. They were not allowed to move or be transferred from

one farm to the next, which in turn made movement, freedom and 'running away' very

difficult (Ross, 1993: 132). These measures marked the beginning of the pass laws that would

later become the bane of apartheid South Africa. They were primarily put into place because

of the financial implications of slavery. It was a costly business. The announcement of the end

of the slave trade in 1806 resulted in a sudden shortage of labour in the colony. This

announcement did not mean the real end of slavery; it simply meant to put an end to the

Trans-Atlantic and Trans-Indian ocean slave trades. The Khoi were thus regarded as easy

replacements for the lack of slaves. Consequently, the indentured Khoi had no freedom since

they were not “slaves” per sé but bound to “serfdom”; tied to their employers for the rest of

their lives (Ross, 1999).

Hence, both the Khoi and San were living precariously under both the Dutch and

British colonial administrations. After much conflict, and unable to sustain their livelihoods,

many were absorbed into the farm-worker system120. Some moved northwards into the

Kalahari, joining groups or forming new groups. Others became nomadic occasional workers,

such as the Karrietjie mense121 (Small Donkey Cart People) found in the Karoo122, a large semi-

120 The farm worker system works quite differently from its European model. Because of the size of the majority
of farms, many families live on one farm. Thus, it is not unusual to find around ten families, in addition to the
owners, living in less than ideal circumstances on a farm, earning the minimum wage – around a £130 per month
in 2020.

121
The Karrietjie mense are a group of Khoisan-related nomadic workers who use, as their main form of
transport, small donkey carts.

122The Karoo is divided into two sections and is thought to mean 'Place of Great Drought'. During the Cretaceous
era, this was a dinosaur-rich swamp, and thus today a place with many palaeontological research ‘digs’. This was

288
desert area in the centre of South Africa. Most, however, were absorbed into the coloured

community. Towards the end of the 1800s, around the turn of the twentieth century, the

violence against both the San and Khoi finally subsided. By this time everything they had

known previously had been thrown into question, languages and cultures were lost and two

entire civilisations had been destroyed or changed permanently.

E MERGING I DENTITIES , R ECLAIMING I DENTITIES .

Despite academic reserve about using notions of “mixed race” together with the word

“miscegenation”, Gavin Lewis, amongst others, describes the rainbow quality of the

population of the Western Cape as being the result of just that (Lewis, 1987). For many the

use of the word “miscegenation” suggests that something “pure” has been made “impure”,

something “authentic” has been made “inauthentic”. Yet, this has been the basis of South

African politics for many years. Van den Berghe notes some of the events that lead to these

ideas. Quoting Otto Mentzel, he notes that the female slaves were seen to

…offer their bodies for a trifle; and towards evening, one can see a
string of soldiers and sailors entering the lodge where they misspend
their time until the clock strikes 9...The Company does nothing to
prevent this intercourse, since for one thing, it tends to multiply the
slave population and does away with the necessity of importing slaves
(Mentzel, 1785, quoted in van den Berghe, 1960: 69).

also the area where, during the mid-1800s, one of the more interesting 'stand-offs' took place between two San
men and a commando of trekboers. The two San men – on foot - managed to elude capture for a month against a commando
of 10 – 15 horsemen (Skotness, March 2011: Lecture at !Kwa ttu).

289
Additionally, van den Berghe sites numerous examples of enforced concubinage and

marriages between colonial men, local women and free blacks, which although allowed under

Dutch rule, still attracted ambivalent views (Ibid.). Thus, although some “miscegenation” took

place, the initial mix of cultures was mainly due to licence taken by colonists and a small

number of mixed marriages.

After the end of slavery, the mixing of peoples was more evident than during the time

of slavery. Mohammed Adhikari notes that this was simply a matter of convenience as people

naturally grouped together through similarities of experiences and poverty, especially after

1838 (Adhikari, 2005). To add to this complexity, the Khoi and San, despite having less than

ideal relations between themselves, were “grouped” together and subsequently marginalised

as a result in the coining of the word “Khoisan” in 1928.

After the formation of apartheid in 1949 the Khoisan were further disenfranchised

through being classified as “coloured”. The result of this last classification caused many of the

surviving languages and modes of living to be further negated, causing many of the surviving

San and Khoi to live at the very edge of the margins of the society. There were in 2005, for

instance, only ten Griqua speakers remaining. Even so, this classification, including the post-

slavery mixing of peoples means that many South Africans (coloured, white and black) have

Khoi and San ancestors, some directly traceable through family trees. In view of these family

connections and the “coloured” classification label, many coloured South Africans are now

290
claiming Khoisan identities, regarded by Adhikari as “Khoisan Revivalism” (Adhikari, 2005:

185).

K HOISAN R EVIVALISM

Khoisan revivalism was noted shortly after the 1994 elections through the attention drawn to

Khoisan lobbying groups via political organisation. The Khoi and San were, once again,

marginalised by the then recently elected, ANC government. Marches, political lobbying

groups, artists and academics were all drawn into this movement, aiming to attract public

support and government attention. In 1996, under the curatorship of Pippa Skotness, an

exhibition entitled MISCAST: Negotiating the presence of the Bushmen was held in Cape Town,

culminating in a publication that carries the same name. Herein the history of the Khoi and

the San, from the time of the arrival of colonists, was explored, showing the extreme brutality

to which the Khoisan was often subjected. In the same year WIMSA (the Working Group of

Indigenous Minorities in Southern Africa) was established, with regional offices in Windhoek,

Namibia. A year later, in July 1997, a conference entitled Khoisan Identities and Cultural

Heritage, was held in Cape Town, aimed at uniting all Khoi and San groups and also those who

were drawn into the coloured population during apartheid. Further political marches were

held, aimed at attracting governmental attention to the plight of the Khoi and San, given the

lack of political jurisdiction awarded to these indigenous groups.

Note that the term “indigenous rights” is often used as a synonym for “Khoisan rights”,

a description that is not altogether correct. Since, by describing the Khoi and San as being

291
“indigenous”, we immediately leave out other indigenous groups such as the Tsonga and

Venda, who, although not from the Cape Peninsula, by virtue of having lived in Southern

Africa for around 2000 years, could also be regarded as such. Even so, Adhikari further

explains that because of difficulties found in the political spectrum of South Africa, and the

resultant complications in the identity constructs found amongst the coloured population,

the only “movement that has struck a chord with the coloured community...is Khoisan

Revivalism” (Adhikari, 2005: 185). Richard Lee wrote that

recapturing histories is not simply a question of reviving old

ethnicities. It is also about acknowledging the birth of new ones –
ethnicities like those of the people in the UWC [University of the
Western Cape] coloured student body, whose roots could be traced
to not only Khoi and San, but also Dutch, Malay, Xhosa, British, and
other sources drawn from three continents (Lee, 2003:97).

Lee thus acknowledges the difficulties in this identity search, underlining the complexities

found in the creation of new identities whilst at the same time, trying to impart that claiming

a Khoisan identity is not the same as being Khoi or San. Consequently, the difficulties found

in the movement are multiple. Firstly, there is the idea that it is only a movement in the

broadest sense of the word. Secondly, many in the coloured community regard the

movement as an affectation, rather than a true claim (Kolbe, 2005: interview with author;

Adhikari, 2005: 186). Thirdly, added to this complexity, are those claiming direct San or Khoi

heritage based on language, culture and modes of living (as opposed to the mixed Khoisan

heritage). In this instance the Khoisan label is rejected and the claims by those claiming

292
Khoisan heritage are regarded as fictitious (Paolo, 2011: interview with author). Yet, as

Adhikari explains, because of the fragmentation of the coloured identity under the current

government, the claims of those with true San or Khoi heritage, and because of the mixed-

race results of apartheid, the movement became both exclusionist and rejectionist. It was

exclusionist, because those claiming Muslim or Malay origins were excluded from this claim

and rejectionist because, those claiming Khoisan heritage are directly rejecting the “coloured”

label (Adhikari, 2005:186).

This is important because although the black South Africans have lost enormously -

culture and land - through colonialism and apartheid, they were able to retain some traditions

and, very clearly, their languages. In truth, nine123 of the eleven official South African

languages are of black origin. By comparison, the coloured population, with its “deracinated

heritage”, suffers a confused state of identity, due to the mix of peoples and the history of

slavery endured (Lee, 2003; Adhikari, 2005; Schilder, H, 2011: interview with author).

Additionally, the label “coloured” is clouded by the legacy of apartheid, by being categorised

thus or being “classified” at all, is for many a humiliating experience. Consequently, many

South Africans find dignity in claiming an identity that:

1. Is easily and clearly identifiable within South African society;

2. Exists within the confines of some of the meanings associated with being coloured;

123 These 9 languages include: Zulu, Xhosa, Setwana, Sesotho, Southern Ndebele, Tsonga, Venda, Sepedi, SiSwati,

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 3. Allows the bearer of the label to “stand out” above the rest on account of the historical
placement in being included in the notion of “first people”;

4. Allows the bearer an imagined share of the revered Khoisan legacy of dancing,
storytelling and musicianship; art forms that are highly revered by the greater South
African community.

Claiming a Khoisan identity enables the claimant to become ''authentically African”.

When considering that current DNA or Human Genome studies point to the San as carrying

the oldest known lineage of the anatomically modern human [AMH] (Hayes, 2010), the weight

of the argument increases. The bearer side steps notions of being “mixed” and “unauthentic”

and rises above arguments of “not being black enough” or “not being white enough” or “not

being African enough” and ends up with a clearly defined, albeit slightly romanticised,

identity. Claiming this label legitimises the bearer to be deeply and authentically African,

Africanist and “other” all at once.

From a musician’s perspective, claiming a Khoisan identity enables the musician to

compose music using ideas that are regarded as Khoisan-influenced – be that through the use

of rhythm, melody or instrumentation. Thus, ideas loosely based on San myth and Khoi

livelihoods are garnered into the pieces, focusing on the praying mantis124 (an important

figure in San religion and storytelling), the Liesbeeck River (a small river that runs through

Cape Town and has been important to the Khoi), the clicks within the languages, the moon

124
Mantis is regarded, sometimes as god, sometimes as human and sometimes as the trickster |Kaggen.

294
and importantly, transcendentalism. One of the key elements of the San dance tradition is

the attainment of a transcendental state during a healing dance, a moon dance. Thus, the

compositions within this sub-genre are often highly emotive, aiming to lead the listeners into

an altered or transcendental state of mind.

Many of the musicians I encountered during my fieldwork emerged with strong claims

to a Khoisan identity including Pops Mohammed, Errol Dyers and Hilton Schilder. After

listening to their works, I decided to focus my analysis on two compositions by Hilton Schilder

as one can clearly see this newly emerged space.

T HE R E -B IRTH OF H ILTON S CHILDER

Born in 1959, Hilton Schilder is a multi-instrumentalist and composer who hail from one of

the Cape Peninsula's well-known musical families. The Schilder (elder) family represents some

of the best jazz players in South Africa and include Hilton’s father125, the pianist Tony Schilder

and his four uncles126. Additionally, Hilton Schilder’s father Tony married into another musical

family, the Africas. His cousin Mervyn Africa, for instance, is a well-known vocalist and pianist

on the UK jazz circuit, having performed alongside many British jazz musicians. Also, apart

from being of “half African, half European” descent, Schilder concluded that with the Africa-

Schilder alliance between his parents, one of the largest musical families in the Cape was

created. Certainly, as he recounted the story of his family's origins to me, he suggested a

125 Tony Schilder, also known as the gentleman of Cape Town’s Jazz scene, died in December 2010.

126
The pianists Tony Schilder, Ebrahim Khalil Shihab [Chris Schilder] and Richard Schilder126, the kit player Jackie
Schilder and bass player Phillip Schilder

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possible Romany lineage, via his European, Belgian ancestry and, given his mother's Khoisan

origins, that he has a legitimate claim to a Khoisan identity (Schilder, H, 2005 & 2011:

interviews with author).

Schilder’s family is steeped in musical training. His father and uncles trained

themselves by doing music correspondence courses after their mother found an

advertisement in a newspaper. Pianist Richard Schilder explained that he and his brothers

also all trained for specialist jobs, such as jewellery making, and watch repair. Additionally,

they learnt as much as they could to assist their musical education through listening sessions,

playing and practising as much as time would allow, and by attending Vince Kolbe's discussion

group (Schilder, R., 2001: interview with author).

Hilton Schilder decided early on to follow in his father’s musical footsteps. Starting his

musical life as a percussionist and drummer, he branched out into new and different

instruments, as need required. He met Mac McKenzie sometime during the 1970s through

the mutual acquaintance of the kwela player Robert Sithole. Here, in protest to the problems

of apartheid, they started reading books and listening to music that would revolutionise their

creative thinking.

In the early 1980s they formed a band called The Genuines that sported a hybrid

signature sound where they mixed jazz, funk, rock and the traditional carnival sound, often in

one track. When, for instance, listening to an excerpt of the piece Die Struggle a tune that

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refers to the anti-apartheid movement127, you can hear many of the compositional elements

that were of central importance to the Genuines’ sound. This piece opens with guitar riff in

6/8, followed by a complex, free time, fast moving funk section, played in unison, which leads

into the main body of the piece in 4 / 4 time. Here you can clearly hear the rhythmic and

melodic influence of the music of the New Year’s Carnival (Goema) sound. Through the

combination of this sound, the political subject matter of their tunes, the timely musical

timbres and techniques (e.g., use of synthesizers with complex funk lines) they shot to fame

in early 1980s South Africa. The popularity and zeitgeist of their songs was such that it was no

surprise that they were chosen to represent the country in The Netherlands in 1987, as one

of the ensembles in the ANC cultural ensemble, the “Mayibuye128 Cultural Ensemble”

(McKenzie, 2002: interview with the author; Gilbert, 2007: 26-27). On this tour, one of their

major successes was as opening artists for the rock band Living Colour, who, at the time,

worked under the auspices of Mick Jagger, and whose innovations paved the way for a new

style of rock music heard in early 1990s American groups such as Rage against the Machine

(McKenzie, 2002: interview with author).

However, instead on continuing in this vein, Schilder decided to pay heed to his

Khoisan origins, his Khoisan “calling”. Consequently, he started to look compositionally

towards a more esoteric personal mapping, perhaps similar to that of African American jazz

127
The anti-apartheid movement was colloquially known as “Die Struggle”/The Struggle.

128
Mayibuye is a Xhosa word, meaning “Return” to “to return to”. Often used in conjunction with the word
“iAfrika” it loosely means “Return to Africa”.

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intellectuals such as Ornette Coleman and Yusef Lateef. Thus I decided to choose one piece

from his album No Turning Back, entitled Email to the Ancestors (2003) and one piece, A

Khoisan Symphony129, from the album Cape Doctor (2005) - the last time he recorded with

Robbie Jansen - before he passed away in July 2010. Within these two pieces, not only does

he look to what is immediately around him (Khoisan Revivalism), but he also recounts some

of the tragedy found in the history of the Khoisan and incorporates both the far distant past

and the far distant future.

E MAIL TO THE A NCESTORS

In 1960 Ornette Coleman recorded a piece that was to change the face of jazz forever. Entitled

Free Jazz, it utilised a technique similar to Albert Ayler’s atonal “free” improvisation. Recorded

with a double quartet, it is 40-minutes long and, according to the sleeve notes, was to be an

acoustic antidote to the electronic exploits of composers such as Stockhausen and Schaeffer.

In this piece, Coleman uses two drummers, along with the other standard instruments found

in a double quartet. Yet, unlike the suggested title, the themes of the piece are not so much

“freely played music” as “loosely composed”, with several themes playing out over each other

and held together by the complex, but straight, rhythmic framework of the first drummer,

who is supported in double time by the second kit player. This gives the impression of musical

129
There seems to be a confusion regarding the ownership of this composition. Jansen neither owned up to
being its composer – yet never denied it either – in the conversations we had. Comparably, Schilder discussed
the musical ideas of the piece with me, explained that the basic structure of the composition was written by him
as a 14/15 year old in 1974 – showing how it had changed since then. I suspect this confusion comes from the
idea of ‘whose album it was on’ – rather than the true authorship claimed.

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freedom and collective improvisation rather than music that is truly played without a given

organisation and form.

Echoing Coleman's piece, Schilder's composition Email to the Ancestors then

stylistically embraces free jazz. The instrumentation is standard and includes percussion,

piano, guitar, bass, saxophone and kit. However, it also features a mouth bow - an important

Southern African instrument found in many of the indigenous groups. The composition is in

common time and opens with a fast-paced clave-like rhythm, in a regular tempo [BPM 132]

on the mouth-bow. The rhythm uses echoes the goema or carnival rhythm and, considering

the title of the piece, is one of the ways that the composer endeavours to communicate with

his ancestors. The close-miked timbre of the mouth-bow dominates the piece and opens with

a two-measure solo introduction. After this opening phrase, the piece builds texturally,

gradually adding the piano, shaker, hand claps, bass, guitar, saxophone mouthpiece, and the

unusual use of the kit (hands on the rims). The clave rhythm, in this recording, also features

momentarily in the piano, reflecting the Latin influence found in Cape Town during the 1960s,

before it reaches towards free jazz spaces. Transcription 18 shows a fraction of the piece and

underlines its sense of organized disorganisation, or free-from jazz. In actual fact, the piece

can be performed in a variety of ways, from larger ensembles to duets. The only set concept

is the use of the bow and its rhythm. Everything else is improvised (Fieldwork observation by

author, May 2011).

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TRANSCRIPTION 18 T HE OPENING SEQUENCE OF E MAIL TO THE A NCESTORS WHEREIN S CHILDER SENDS A HYPERSPACE
EMAIL TO HIS GREAT - GRAND - PARENTS , USING G OEMA AND S ON RHYTHMS ON A K HOISAN MOUTH BOW AS THE
IMPORTANT MESSAGES TO BE SENT .

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301
 Using the fundamental of the mouthbow (D flat) creatively, it is tonicized by the initial

chord - a D flat 9 in the piano. From this point onwards, although the bow timbrally remains

to be the focal point of the composition, the harmonic layout on the piano becomes the point

of interest as it plays around in creating dissonance and the resolution of these dissonances.

In the opening phrase a Latin influence can be heard. This is heard throughout the

piece as the clave rhythms become evident. Here the rhythm is used, not on the clave or

agogo as is commonly found, but often in double time, incorporating the three-two/two-

three variations of the son clave [ or ] in

almost all instruments; alternating between the mouth bow, the piano, the bass, hand claps

and drums. The harmonic sequence plays with elements of atonality and chord clusters, yet

remains in the D flat realm, focussed throughout around a common tonic feel.

Furthermore, Schilder composed Email to the Ancestors in such a way that it can be

performed in diverse ways in a variety of settings. The piece can change according to

personnel and performance circumstances, both in the setup of the ensemble and the length

of piece, or as Schilder puts it: “the piece was work-shopped... has no set form and every time

we perform it, it is different” (Schilder, H, 2005, interview with author). In such a workshop

Schilder usually explains his intentions to his colleagues, allowing the musicians “to develop

themes and [musical] materials” that play off against one another in a musical conversation.

Relying on a democratic system, themes are included or excluded, using aural triggers to bring

the ideas together, giving life and structure to the piece (Ibid.).

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 This strict control would suggest that the composer followed, on the one hand, many

of the “rules” set out by Coleman. On the other hand, the tightness of the ensemble is a

reflection of the number of years the musicians have played together in various guises; calling

the ensemble different names depending on the leader (and thus the signature style) of the

particular set. (e.g., The Sons of Table Mountain under Robbie Jansen or The Goema Captains

of Cape Town under Mac McKenzie). In this recording, and playing under the leadership of

Schilder, the ensemble is simply called The Hilton Schilder Group. What really demonstrates

Schilder’s creativity is that fifty years after the birth of the free jazz style he manages to bring

an idea to the 21st century that is still regarded by the average listener to be “contemporary”

or “avant garde”. Relying on this style allowed the composer to create strongly emotive

music, hinting at the Capetonian sound, without relying on current forms and stumbling into

musical clichés. That said, for the composer, it is the addition of the mouth-bow that is of

central importance.

M USICAL B OWS

Bow-like instruments, such as the mouth bow, are regarded by many as the quintessential

“ancient instruments” as, in many cases, the hunting bow is used for musical performances.

Certainly, this instrument, along with notions of “first people” is often popularly thought to

be “authentic”, especially since it has a close association to the Khoisan – probably because

popular films and imagery tend to exploit this notion. The reality of Khoisan musicianship is,

however, that, in a hierarchical way, dancing beads, handclaps and vocalisations or songs are

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used more frequently. Bows are more often instruments for the individual – rather than being

used in ensemble formation. Thus the choice of Schilder‘s instrumentation is interesting as is

his choice of a specific bow.

According to Hornbostel’s classification four different types of bow are found in

Southern Africa. These are the following:

1. The ground bow, that is pressed against a resonator placed on the ground,

1. A bow with a gourd resonator,

2. A mouth-bow with a tension noose and

3. A mouth-bow that uses the oral cavity as resonator (Rycroft, 1990).

Of these four types of bows, the gourd bow is probably the best known. Popularized

throughout the world for its use in capoeira, the Brazilian art form, from a southern African

perspective, it’s known mainly for its many famous uhadi players (Xhosa gourd bow players).

However, we also find that mouth bows are quite prominently used – including Southern

Africa, Latin America and North America - such as the Appalachian Mountain bow. In southern

Africa each cultural group possess its own version of the instrument, such as the Ndebele

isikumero and Basotho mokhope.

However, Schilder explained that the gourd-bow is not used by either the Khoi or the

San, whereas the !gabus is. The !gabus was based on a hunting bow – but made of much

lighter wood to enable using it as an instrument. The one end of the bow is placed in the

mouth, the other end is held by the left hand. The string is plucked by the forefinger of the

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right-hand (Levine, 2005: 235). Other bows used as mouthbows by the Khoi and San include

an ordinary hunting bow (played with a stick), the !gora130 and the nxonxoro. (Levine, 2005)

Even so, the bow that Schilder created is not the nxonxoro, neither hunting bow, nor !gabus,

but a composite of the three.

F IGURES 23 A, B AND C ( ON THE NEXT PAGE ). T HE U HADI G OURD BOW AND THE BERIMBAU . N OTE THAT , IN
CONTRADICTION TO THE B RAZILIAN BERIMBAU , WHEN PLAYING THE SOUTHERN A FRICAN GOURD BOW THE SOUND
CHAMBER RESTS ON THE SHOULDER , WHEREAS IN THE B RAZILIAN VERSION , THE SOUND CHAMBER RESTS ON THE
STOMACH AREA . A LSO , IN THE UHADI THE GOURD IS NOT ATTACHED TO THE STRING , WHEREAS WITH THE BERIMBAU , THE
GOURD IS REMOVABLE , FITS AROUND BOTH BOW AND STRING ( ARAME ) AND PLAYS A PART IN THE WAY THE INSTRUMENT
IS HELD . I LLUSTRATIONS BY L OUISE L ÜDERS .

T HE BERIMBAU , IS PLAYED HERE BY M ESTRE V ALDIR DA S ILVA AND YOU CAN SEE THE ‘ TUNING STRING ’ ASPECT THAT
MAKES THE GOURD SOMETHING THAT IS REMOVABLE . T HERE ARE MANY REASONS FOR THIS ORGANALOGICAL CHANGE ,
WITH MOST HISTORIES FOCUSING ON THE ILLEGALITY OF THE INSTRUMENT IN B RAZIL DURING THE LATE 1800 S AND EARLY
1900 S . P HOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR .

130 It is commonly believed that knowledge of the !gora has died out completely. One academic colleague told me
that no one knows today what it may have sounded like, even though we could see its construction in the many
photographs taken by Bleek’s photographer.

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306
F IGURES 24 A AND B: A N EXAMPLE OF A M OUTH BOW , ILLUSTRATION BY L OUISE L ÜDERS . H ILTON S CHILDER P LAYING
MOUTH BOW AT THE PIANO IN 2011. P HOTOGRAPH BY THE AUTHOR . ( THIS IS A PLACE HOLDER . P LEASE BEAR WITH US )

F IGURE 25: A RTIST ’ S IMPRESSION OF A YOUNG GIRL PLAYING GROUND BOW OR EARTH BOW . F ROM THIS YOU CAN EASILY
SEE HOW THE TEA CHEST BASS MAY HAVE BEEN INVENTED – THE STRING , WEIGHTED DOWN BY A STONE OR HEAVY OBJECT
IS STRETCHED VIA A SUPPLE STICK IN THE GROUND – POSSIBLY A YOUNG SAPLING – AND BENT OR STRAIGHTENED
ACCORDING TO THE PITCH REQUIRED . I LLUSTRATION BY L OUISE L ÜDERS

Using a light wood, Schilder included the scraper notches of the nxonxoro whilst using the

playing technique of the traditional mouth-bow, including vocalisations. To his instrument

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tuning pegs were added and space for extra strings, although, as far as I know, these were not

yet been successfully used at the time of writing. However, Schilder also includes the creative

use of technology: by resting the bow directly on the microphone the sound of the bow-

fundamental is enhanced, adding to the overall sonic effect. His vocalised improvisations are

thus tonicized – even though these are not based on the rhythmic vowel sounds that we find

traditionally (see Chapter 7, Inverse Ludic identities), succeeding in creating a composition;

simultaneously using voice, rhythm, bow accompaniment and the occasional pianistic

interjection131.

The instrument thus serves as a communication device so that a connection with his ancestors

is made possible, creating a musical hypertext in its use of twenty first century technology

and its free-form composition. Further, he employs a combination of musical gestures he feels

is found in the everyday music of the Khoi and San - hand-claps, a shaker – replacing San

dancing beads and vocalizations - thus he presents a musical email to the great-grand parents

he never knew, in a musical language that would have been familiar to them. Yet, this email

also addresses his Latin musical relatives (influences), through the intermittent use of the

clave rhythm in the piano stabs and his Capetonian heritage in the pianistic use of the

harmonic progression. Discussing the use of the son clave Schilder said that “…it reminds me

of being a kid in Cape Town in the 60s. There was a lot of Latin music around…my dad and

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This is perhaps not too dissimilar in concept from the 1970s ideas by Airto Moreira, Flora Purim and Hermeto
Pascoal in pieces such as O Galho da Roseira (1971) – although the sonorities, concepts and feel are African
rather than Brazilian.

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them used to play quite a bit of Latin music at the time” (Schilder: 2005: interview with

author).

However, emails are seldom singular, and one finds that communication usually builds

up quite quickly. Thus, this is not the only piece in his opus using a mouth-bow, but it is the

first piece recorded for an album. Since this recording, a series of pieces have been written

with possibilities of a new album being created.

S ARAH B AARTMAN

Following on from his explorations of free jazz, Schilder started looking at what was of interest

and of memory within his own immediate culture. Responding to one of the most powerful

and memorable movements since the end of apartheid, that of Khoisan Revivalism, he

created the piece entitled A Khoisan Symphony. Commissioned by the government agency for

the environment, the piece was written for the launch and baptism of the marine

environmental protection vessel, aptly named “The Sarah Baartman”.

Sarah Baartman was a Khoisan woman, possibly Griqua, born near Fish River in the

Eastern Cape. She lived for a short time in Cape Town before being taken to England in 1810,

some suggest that she was kidnapped (Morris, 1996). The reason for her capture was twofold,

the first was for “scientific” study, and secondly, as an extension of this, for her to form part

of an ethnological exhibition, more commonly known as a “Human Zoo”. Jonatas Ferreira

suggests that this latter idea, her placement in a human zoo, was not unusual during the 1800s

when exhibits of human curiosities were commonplace in England. Bearded women, pygmies,

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black people, Indians, and rare fauna all formed part of these “freak shows” (Ferreira, 2010).

One of the people who saw the exhibition of Sarah Baartman was Étienne Geoffroy Saint-

Hilaire who, together with his colleague George Cuvier, decided to complete a full “scientific

study” of her body. Thus, in 1815 Baartman was taken to Paris and subjected to a multitude

of humiliating examinations and “exhibitions” before she died, alone, cold, abandoned [by

Cuvier, et.al.] and far away from home in December 1815 (Ferreira, 2010; Morris, 1996).

Alan Morris explains that, at the time, European physical anthropology, which was

partly based on the study of anatomy, was viewed as being of extreme importance. This often

involved physical examinations and dissection after death. Sarah Baartman was one of the

only people to be subjected to such an in-depth study, with much attention, certainly in the

case of the findings of Saint-Hillaire and Cuvier, focussed on her female attributes. Cuvier’s

subsequent sixteen-page essay on Baartman’s anatomy was focussed almost entirely on her

genitalia (Ferreira, 2010: 827; Morris, 1996).

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Figure 26: T HE M ALE G AZE : S ARAH B AARTMAN . T HE DATE AND PLACE OF THIS PICTURE IS UNKNOWN , HOWEVER FROM
THE DRESS CODE OF TWO OF THE MEN – BOTH WEARING KILTS - ONE CAN GUESS THAT THIS WAS DONE AT THE TIME WHEN
SHE WAS BEING DISPLAYED AT C RYSTAL P ALACE IN L ONDON . T HE PICTURE WAS DRAWN FROM W IKIPEDIA AND IS USED IN
MANY PUBLICATIONS CONCERNING B AARDMAN . T HE ARTIST IS UNKNOWN . S OURCE : PUBLIC DOMAIN .

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F IGURE 27 (A BOVE ) : T HE ARTIST , L OUISE L ÜDERS ’ S IMPRESSION OF S ARA B AARTMAN AS SHE SAW IT IN 1992 IN THE
M USÉE DE L ’H OMME IN P ARIS – HER WAX MODEL AND SKELETON . G EORGE C UVIER AND HIS COLLEAGUE É TIENNE
G EOFFROY S AINT -H ILAIRE CREATED MANY SKETCHES AND DRAWINGS OF HER . T HEY ALSO MADE FULL BODY CASTS –
FROM WHICH THE WAX MODEL IN THE ABOVE DRAWING - WAS MADE - AND PLACED HER BRAIN AND GENITALIA IN
FORMALDEHYDE . A FTER MUCH NEGOTIATION HER REMAINS WERE RETURNED TO S OUTH A FRICA IN 2002. I LLUSTRATION
BY L OUISE L ÜDERS .

Ferreira explains that these scientific studies were, even for the time, quite unusual. In this

instance he suggests that “to see” something or somebody, is to be in control. To “be seen”,

“gazed at” or “viewed” is to be destroyed. Thus, in this instance, the “seeing of Baartman”

was aimed at destroying her, her people, her race and her womanhood (Ferreira, 2010). Thus

humiliated, she became the icon of racial inferiority and black female sexuality, so much so

that even after her death in 1815, her brain and genitalia were displayed in the Musee de

l'Homme in Paris until 1985. After much negotiation between the South African authorities

and the French, her remains were returned to South Africa in 2002, when she was finally laid

to rest.

FIGURE 28: W E HAVE NO IDEA WHETHER B AARTMAN WAS MARRIED , HAD CHILDREN IN THE C APE OR HER EXACT AGE ,
BUT IT IS GUESSED THAT SHE DIED AROUND AGED 35 OR 36. W E KNOW THAT SHE WAS K HOEN /K HOI AND FROM THE
G AMTOOS R IVER AREA , BUT WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HER GIVEN REAL NAME WAS . W E KNOW THAT SHE WAS EXHIBITED
IN VARIOUS PLACES IN E NGLAND , WAS AT SOME POINT BAPTIZED IN M ANCHESTER AND WAS RAPED BY ONE OF HER
EMPLOYERS LEADING TO THE BIRTH OF A CHILD . I CAN ’ T IMAGINE HER BEING A YOUNG UNMARRIED GIRL , THUS L OUISE
CREATED THIS IMAGE OF HER , IN THE VELD , COOKING SOMETHING TRADITIONAL – PERHAPS UINTJIES 132 – AND DRESSED
HER IN A MARRIED WOMAN ’ S DECORATED APRON AND A LONG COLONIAL SKIRT , COVERING BREASTS AND BUTTOCKS .
W HAT HUMILIATION SHE MUST HAVE FELT , UNDRESSED AND EXAMINED . H OW SHE MUST HAVE MISSED HER FAMILY , THE
SCENT OF THE VELD , THE SOUND OF HER LANGUAGE . S HE DIED FIVE YEARS AFTER HER CAPTURE , PENNILESS AND
DESTITUTE IN P ARIS . I LLUSTRATION BY L OUISE L ÜDERS

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A delicacy, once eaten, never forgotten. It is the bulb of a flowering plant – but is now protected for three
reasons: as a traditional food it is coveted and now on the highly protected list as a result or over-harvesting,
loss of natural habitat and, since it looks similar to a highly poisonous plant, if confused, is fatal.

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A K HOISAN S YMPHONY

The piece was thus written for the occasion of the launch of the marine vessel entitled the

Sara Baartman. The work is 7 minutes long, in binary form; thus ABABABA as the larger

compositional framework. Thematic materials are set out in the initial A and B as the head.

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The framework is then repeated a second and third time, developing the texture and

materials, giving space for solos and embellishments before it finally returns to A.

The composition is in D and the chord progression, timbre and tempo of the A section

echoes that of many hymns used in the 1950s and 60s in Cape Town. The harmonic

progression, using extended chords and suspensions, underlines this. Furthermore, even

though a piano is used as main harmonic instrument, an organ is used for textural effect,

again trying to give the impression of a piece of sacred music. Schilder also uses a chordal

tremelo on the piano; a remnant of a pianistic technique used in church – in the absence of

an organ the tremolo piano sound filled the space and thus created the sense of 'Godliness'

and religious reverence.

This section, the A section, Schilder explains

…uses this church-style piano and is putting the past to rest,

demonstrating respect for Sara Baartman, for what she’s gone
through, demonstrating respect for all the others and what they’ve
gone through in the past. It’s almost like a prayer. Indeed, it is a prayer
(Schilder, 2005, interview with author).

Thus, a prayer for Sara Baartman, for all the people left behind, for all the people whom have

suffered and for those who are suffering.

The B section is a little faster in tempo, but no more than 90 crotchet beats per minute, and

reflects Schilder's own harmonic explorations and rich texture. The feel of the section thus

uses a Vastrap (older rural dance music) rhythm in the piano accompaniment and the

harmonic space refers, again as in section A, to its church origins. The melodic idea, after the

triplet-shaped anscrusis, strongly reflects kwela ( a penny whistle style which pre-dates

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T RANSCRIPTION 19: T HE ‘A’ SECTION OF THE K HOISAN S YMPHONY . N OTE THAT THIS SECTION IS PERFORMED WITH
GOSPEL - LIKE DIGNITY ; SLOW , THOUGHTFUL AND SLIGHTLY SWUNG .

jive) or rather jive (a form of township jazz) in its combination of the accented quaver on ‘one’

in the bar, followed by a leap of a fourth or fifth (tonic to dominant in each case) immediately

thereafter. This combination of rhythm and interval can be found in many kwela pieces and,

as had been shown by Lara Allen, was so popular a musical style that it transcended all racial

divides, and no doubt also influenced Schilder (Allen, 2005). Schilder, however, did not want

to discuss the influences, yet explained and demonstrated the main ideas of the piece when

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he wrote it as a teenager in 1974, and how it had subsequently developed. Further he felt

that we need to look at this piece emotively, as for him

…it means that even though we’ve been beaten down, even though
we’ve gone through hell, we can still dance, we can still smile, we can
still do a lot of things (Schilder, interview with author: 2005).

CONCLUDING R EMARKS

The trauma of being degraded, through colonialism and apartheid, has led many South

Africans to question their past and relate their identities to the ideas of loss. The loss of a

livelihood as a Khoi or San person, and the loss of a musical and linguistic legacy, is

understandably, devastating and confusing. On the other hand, the confusion and trauma

found amongst the South African mixed-race population regarding issues of identity, is, in my

experience, equally traumatic. As a group, those who have been classified thus have been de-

racialised, forced to ‘not know’ a past, the various heritages, and forced to forge forwards

with an ascribed identity. This ascribed identity became so ingrained during the colonial and

pre-apartheid years, that many of these prescriptions were adopted by those whom were

ascribed thus. Consequently, self-preservation through re-establishing a new self-identity –

post-apartheid - became essential.

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T RANSCRIPTION 20: T HE ‘B’ SECTION OF THE K HOISAN S YMPHONY . N OTE THAT THIS SECTION IS A LLEGRO . T HE GOSPEL -
STYLE PIANO MAKES WAY FOR A VASTRAP AND THE SAXOPHONE LINE SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN DRAWN FROM THE KWELA OR
JIVE [ TOWNSHIP JAZZ ] TRADITION .

I noted earlier that in other countries such as Brazil, Cuba and the USA with even

longer legacies of slavery (e.g. Brazil ended slavery in 1888), it is understood that the

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descendants of the slaves are of mixed heritage. These mixed heritages include African,

European, Asian and indigenous ancestries. However, despite the occasional mention of the

creolisation of these societies, common agreement has rendered the majority of the slave

descendants as “black”. Further, in each case, some of the original cultural forms from the

African continent had been preserved through continual practice and shaped into syncretised

new art forms such as Candomblé (Brazil) or Son (Cuba). From the American perspective,

many of the musical devices that currently form the basis of its popular musics, e.g. the use

of vocalisations as rhythm, scale systems, layered rhythmic devices - to name but a few – is

clearly drawn from an Afrocentric space.

Viewed from the South African perspective, however, the musical output of the South

African slave descendants is mainly found in European iterations and shows little evidence of

the many cultures from where they had been taken [Trans-Indian Ocean]. I cannot hear, for

example, apart from the isolated incidence of Arabic-influenced ornamentation, any ‘other’

Asian influences in the music of the Cape, such as scale systems or rhythmic devices.

Consequently, the musical move towards a Khoisan identity or towards, in the words of

Mohammed Adikhari, Khoisan Revivalism is of major importance (Adhikari, 2005). This

practice includes knowledge of indigenous descendant art forms such as dancing and story-

telling wherein the techniques used includes miming the movements of the characters - who

are frequently animals; rock-painting which includes the knowledge of the technologies used

and the stories told, and, as shown in the case of Hilton Schilder, music. Although Schilder

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had not yet taken on board the vocalisation-songs by the San, it is something that he was

considering at the time of writing.

Mohammed Adhikari has shown that, because of the complexity of the formation of

the identities of the people of the Western Cape, it stands to reason that many will want to

reclaim their Khoi or San identities (bid.). Moreover, many Khoi and San descendants - who

have been absorbed into the farm-labourer and working-class systems of the Peninsula -

possibly have no way of knowing whether their ancestry was Khoi or San. Thus, when wanting

to embrace this emergent identity construction in a dignified way, turning to music, amongst

the other art forms, is helpful in re-establishing the ancestral connection. Furthermore, as a

consequence of the deracinated heritage of being rendered “coloured” by the apartheid

government and being removed from the other nations from which the group was drawn

more than 300 years ago, calling oneself European, Malaysian or Madagascan, becomes

unimaginable. Consequently, claiming a Khoisan identity makes perfect sense as it truly

Africanises someone, not only by the use of the word “Khoisan”, but also through scientific

notions including “first people”, “oldest DNA” and “the first evidence of symbolic thought”

(d’Errico, Henshilewood, et.al., 2003; Schuster, Miller, et.al., 2010). This allows the bearer, as

noted earlier, to be truly African and to commit to this Afrocentric cultural stance.

However, it is not only is the identity that is newly emerging, the music is too. In

southern Africa it is not music heard frequently: Free jazz or church music, used in a way that

attempts to directly recall the Khoisan heritage as an everyday experience. Other composers

in this realm maintain similar standards as do Schilder: Thus Pops Mohammed uses audio

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soundscapes that include the speech patterns and the clicks of the Khoisan languages,

recalling the day-to-day [“traditional”] life of Khoi and San peoples in his composition Khoisan

from the album How Far Have We Come (1997). Alvin Dyers, on the other hand, uses

dreamscapes, recalling the importance of transcendental states within the Khoi and San

cultures, and the role of the Liebeeck River (the traditional Khoi herdsman river) in his piece

Lily Tripping from the album Kou Kou Wa133 (2000). These compositions, as well as Schilder’s

pieces, in its use of the imagined sonic ideas, in conjunction with historical knowledge, thus

links directly to Maultsby’s concept of Africanist thought, whereby both past and present can

be recalled and celebrated, in music and in dance (Maultsby, 2000). Hence, even though

instruments and stylistic musical ideas draw from elements of the past, the placement within

a post-apartheid jazz arena is very new.

For Hilton Schilder, recounting his imagined past creatively in this set of compositions

has allowed him an emotional identity re-birth: accounting and acknowledging his Khoisan

heritage, reliving the brutalities against him, his family and ancestors, helped him consolidate

the past with the present – and thus showing the road to a new musical future.

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This, when translated directly, means ‘chew chew truck’ or ‘chew chew wagon’. Until recently – I suspect that
in rural areas this still happens – because of the lack of shops in poorer rural and urban areas of the Western
Cape, a truck will arrive once or twice weekly to sell ‘corner shop’ items – milk, bread, etc….as well as bubble-
gum, toffees and things for kids to chew on - thus the chew chew truck.

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CHAPTER 9

CONTEMPLATING HOERIKWAGGOi: CONCLUDING THOUGHTS ON JAZZ IN THE

SHADOW OF TABLE MOUNTAIN

F INAL F IELDWORK DIARY ENTRY , M ANCHESTER , 16 N OVEMBER 2011

T HE R OYAL N ORTHERN C OLLEGE OF M USIC , M ANCHESTER

And so my search has ended as it began. An old man, dressed in black, clasped his hands in
prayer and bowed respectfully to the audience. Slightly older than my mum, he is similarly tall,
with long-fingered hands. He then gently, with exquisite taste, touches the first keys of the
piano. And, in those first notes with their sense of calm and warmth of timbre, I understand
that what I have attempted here in this dissertation, and what he is about to do, is the same.
Then quickly, and with ease, I lose myself in a sea of remembrances, in a mountain of
knowledge, tears streaming down my face. I cry silently, uncontrollably. Taken by the familiar
melodies, I drift away to the Hottentots-Holland Mountains at sunrise, the dignity of Table
Mountain, and the funny stories of snoek sellers on the way to Muizenberg. But the pianist isn’t
finished yet. Here and there he adds a karienkeli, a little tierlanteintjie (frippery), an ornament
reminiscent of the pretty little purple Mosque in Fairwaysi. He adds the mischievous twinkle of
Basil’s eyes, Vince Kolbe’s bellowing laughter, a slice of brown bread with lekkeri smoor fish
and a cup of tea in hand. He ends the concert with The Wedding, reminding of the long, slow
walk to the Bo-Kaapi after Nazeema’s wedding, and then sunset over Lion’s Head.
Abdullah Ibrahim. I have seen him perform many times, but never in a solo performance. So,
this was it. This was amazing. I eavesdrop on my fellow audience members’ in-between sets.
“Well, it’s quite bizarre”, says one fellow in the row behind me. “Just a mumble of notes and
snippets of old tunes” said another, as I made my way out to the coffee stand. “Nothing new”,
someone else added in a cultured, modulated voice, “Nothing of note, just this odd mix of tunes
and ideas. Now he’s done this before, and I just can’t quite get it”.
What's that? You don't understand? Well, can't you hear it? Can't you see? It’s a précis, a
summing up of what is and what was. That’s what he did! We’ve not joined the majority of the
world and then forgotten our history. We’ve only just started unpicking the hurts. Why
shouldn’t he say, why shouldn’t we say the same things again? Have you not paid attention?
We still suffer the traumas of those awful apartheid legislations, lingering like an unpleasant
smell. We’re making our own legacy now and it might well be different to what you expected.
It certainly is different to what we thought it might be. So, open your ears and listen, please

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just listen! Can you hear them coming? The Klopse dancing down the street, singing songs,
blowing horns! The Monday night sessions down in Ottery, The Arm Chair Lounge, The Yellow
Door; can you hear them Shouting? Cheering? Playing? Laughing? Here…In the Shadow of
the Mountain.

C ONCLUDING R EMARKS : R ESEARCH Q UESTIONS

In the beginning of this journey, I posed the question “What is Cape Jazz?”, followed by

questions surrounding its origins and history, its developments, its cultural meanings and

elements of identity that are locked within the music. At the time, I believed that these

questions would be answered mainly through the analysis of its compositional materials.

However, this idea was almost immediately rectified when, within my first fieldwork

conversations, it became clear that the most important aspect of this work should focussed

on identity and history. Through this, I discovered that, not only was my initial question

answered to an extent – but more importantly it was answered in a way that included some

of its cultural interpretations.

The second realisation came when I understood that such an approach will necessitate the

inclusion of a great deal of history in order to understand this process and the placement of

identities. This approach, based on the works of other ethnomusicologists whom have

analysed the identity constructs of the musicians they worked with, for example, E. Taylor

Atkins, Ronald Radano and Steven Feld, led to a good understanding of the meticulous

knowledge needed to comprehend these constructs of identity. For this it became clear that

various connections needed making between the histories that had been written on the

formation of the Cape (the colonial era), the post-colonial era, the apartheid era and, finally,
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the post-apartheid era. Even so, a great deal had been written on South African history,

following various political stances and thus I could, through this work, in conjunction with

archival research and fieldwork, come to some understanding of the historical instances that

had directly influenced the musicians I worked with. This led me on to the third, and more

serious problem I encountered, which was the sheer lack of research materials on Cape Jazz.

L ITERATURE R EVIEW R EVIEWED

Ordinarily one would expect that there would be a reasonably large body of works completed

in a given subject area on a given topic. However, I quickly came to realise that, apart from

the Master’s thesis by Valmont Layne and a few smaller articles that focusses on music and

lives of individual musicians, nothing substantive of a scholarly nature had been produced on

Cape Jazz as a stylistic genre. This was also noted by Christopher Ballentine and Christine Lucia

when discussing this issue. Although several studies had been completed on black South

African popular music and jazz, such as Christopher Ballentine’s study of early South African

(black) jazz, Marabi Nights: Early South African Jazz and Vaudeville(1993), David Coplan’s In

Township Tonight! South Africa's Black City Music & Theatre (2008) and the excellent The

Sound of Africa!: Making Music Zulu in a South African Studio (2003) by Louise Meintjies,

nothing of a similar ilk had been produced on Cape Jazz. Even the book by Gwen Ansell,

entitled Soweto Blues: Jazz, Popular Music & Politics in South Africa (2004) that promised to

be an overview of South African jazz and popular music, failed to address Cape Jazz in a

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meaningful way as an important stylistic space, choosing instead to build on the already

existing literature.

There are, of course, many reasons for this lack of scholarship on Cape Jazz, and I should like

to offer some possible answers to this question. One could speculate that, because of the

popularity of black musics, such as Kwela during the 1950s, many authors felt the need to give

credit where it was due. Additionally, one has to consider is that the apartheid laws and

legislations influenced the lives of the black population more negatively than any other.

Therefore, I have no doubt, that some authors felt that the way they could address this

imbalance was through the study of music; bringing to light some of the hidden musics,

musicians and musical histories. Another reason for the lack of research on these musics was

suggested to me by my field colleagues. They felt that ingrained colonial and apartheid

thought processes, that regarded these musics as a result of drunken buffoonery, was the key

to this problem - rather than the music of the well-trained, well-read musicians I had shown

them to be. This, of course points to some of the identity constructs that I noted in the

previous chapters.

My own belief is, in conjunction with the ideas suggested to me by my field colleagues, that

the main rationale for the oversight in scholarship is that the recent memory of apartheid

overshadows the fall out of the colonial era, to such as extent that, by and large, slavery and

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the colonial process was forgotten. Consequently, the musics drawn from the experiences of

slavery, Cape Jazz and other local Capetonian musics, are also overshadowed by apartheid’s

legacy. This directly affected the amount of scholarship afforded to the subject, especially

when we consider the large amount of scholarship available on the musics that is the result

of slavery in the United States, e.g. the research on jazz and hip-hop.

M ETHODOLOGY
Methodologically, because of this lack of research materials available, I was pleased that this

study was ethnomusicological. Participant-observation allowed me to enter into the fieldwork

space fully, becoming part of the lives of many of the musicians for extended periods of time.

This allowed me access to knowledge that was not included in the research materials

available. This is also the main reason why many of my references were marked as

“conversations with author”, rather than formal interviews, as much information were

offered when ordinary conversations were taking place. Conversely, a great deal of “acting

out”i knowledge was displayed when formal interviews were conducted.

Ingrid Monson called the fieldwork interview a “second performance” as musicians feel that

this is an important part of their own promotional work (Monson, 1996). This is also true of

Capetonian musicians in that many were keen to be interviewed specifically for promotional

purposes. In contrast to Monson’s New Yorker musicians, however, South African musicians

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had the apartheid legacy to content with. Consequently, when they were interviewed during

the time of apartheid, or even shortly after the end of apartheid, by journalists or scholars,

many of the questions posed were based in and around the inequalities that they had faced

and overcome, leading, for many, to a rhetoric that could be repeated and embellished upon

without question. By contrast, my questions centred on getting to know and understand their

compositional processes – rather than only lessons in apartheid history. This my musician

informants clearly appreciated, enjoying the musical interaction, explaining their

compositional aims, and inviting me to sing or play with them. Some composers, such as the

pianist Richard Schilder, allowed me to watch, question and observe his compositional

process. Subsequently, I sat with him whilst he was editing his pieces in readiness for a concert

due on Robben Island, asking me to change chords and make corrections as we went along.

This is, of course, a privilege that I will carry with me always. Indeed, without these close

interactions I doubt whether I will have understood the questions of identity that my field

colleagues wanted me to examine.

I DENTITIES

South African identities are complex because of the country’s colonial history, European

connections, apartheid laws, divided society and relative wealth. The apartheid laws, as we

had seen in the previous chapters, separated the population into four groups that reflected

the perceived differences between peoples, as understood by the apartheid government.

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These divisions separated the people into the colour of their skin and their perceived cultural

practices.

These types of divisions were and are abhorrent and completely artificial as some population

groups were divided, despite sharing the same cultural practices, e.g. the coloured and white

group. On the other hand, other groups, such as the Khoi and the San were included in the

coloured group, despite their vast differences in cultural display. These divisions and laws

were then ultimately responsible for the difficulties of identity that led to, as discussed by

Monique Theron and Gerrie Swart, the South African obsession with identity formation

(Theron and Swart, in Adibe, 2009). As a consequent result of apartheid’s prescribed

identities, all of the musicians I worked with, underlined, to me, the importance of their

identity placements within an African space.

I had shown in Chapter Three that, an Afrocentric or Africanist placement is that space where

Africa and its cultural notions are placed at the centre of one’s being and informs one’s

cultural practices (Maultsby, 2000; Molefe, 2007). From a musician’s perspective, Portia

Maultsby suggested that this placement can be seen in the uses of musical materials and

instruments, such as, for example, the use of extended mellismas, grunts, hollers and an

interactive performance dynamic. Furthermore, Maultsby had also stated that this Africanist

space is achieved, not only through the use of ancient cultural constructs, but also through

other newer experiences, such as slavery (Maultsby, 2000).

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With this in mind, part of what I demonstrated include how theorists, such as Molefe Asante,

accepted the concept of an Africanist or Afrocentric identities, yet questioned the notion of

“blackness”. Within this, he rejected its essentialist understanding and suggested that a wider

definition of the term is needed. Theron and Swart, on the other hand, did not question the

notion of “blackness”, but focussed their questions on the understanding of “being African”.

From a South African perspective, as in most of Africa, being black means, effectively,

speaking a Bantu language as a mother tongue. Thus the meaning of “being African” and the

“authenticity” of the Africanness of many South Africans is constantly being questioned. It is

unlikely, for instance, that one would question a Brazilian as to their South American identity

status, even if drawn from the African diaspora. Their Brazilian cultural lineage is accepted as

a given. By contrast, many question the white, mixed-race, Asian and North African (e.g.

Egyptian) citizens of Africa as to their African origins, intimating that, because they are not

drawn from the “wild man of Africa” notions set out during the Enlightenment, their

Africanness is constantly being questioned (Adibe, et.al., 2009).

This, for all of the musician informants I worked with, is a moot point. Being African, they

argued, surely means having been born and brought up in Africa, in a cultural setting that is

time, place and culture specific. The fact that their African experience happens to be situated

in Cape Town, Africa’s southern-most city, underlines their African belonging, and underlines

that fact that the music, borne from the experiences of slavery, is, as suggested by Maultsby,

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Africanist (Maultsby, 2000). Furthermore, as could be seen from the musical materials

presented, Cape Jazz developed as a result of the combination of these musics in conjunction

with European and other indigenous musical materials. Moreover, Capetonian musicians

drew further influence from black American musicians and writers whom, as influential

members of the African diaspora, influenced the musicians of the very continent from which

their ancestors had been taken. This influence was already in evidence as a result of the

visiting minstrelsy groups during the mid-1800s and continued throughout 20th century as

American musics (vinyl and film/musicals) reached South African audiences. Thus a constantly

evolving musical transfer or “crossmusical” influence is at play; each building on the reverse

influence of the other in a circular way.

The consequent identities created as a result of these diverse musical and cultural exchanges,

as I noted before, is first and foremost Africanist or Afrocentric and, secondly Capetonian and,

finally, musical, in the neo-African musics that developed at the Cape. These musics include,

amongst many others, styles such as Goema, Vastrap and Cape Jazz. Subsequently the

musicians placed, as I demonstrated in the previous chapters, their identities in the music that

they choose to perform and compose in the full knowledge of the histories that led to its

creation.

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M USICAL O RGANISATION
When considering the musical organisation of Cape Jazz, I have shown that some of the

elements used here are the aggregate results of colonisation, Europe and globalisation

processes (Africa to the Americas and back via recordings, sheet music and so forth). Many

of the rhythmic and melodic ideas are traceable to other colonised Atlantic port towns, and

some concepts are entirely African. Furthermore, the use of extended and compound

chords, “cool chords” in the words of Hilton Schilder, in a standard ABA form, in

combination with local music styles, have brought these musics into the jazz arena. At the

same time, the fact that these musics should have been used in the jazz space at all is

interesting. However, the combination of an understanding of the African-American plight,

the writings of, amongst others, South African authors such as Alex le Guma and Richard

Rive and the “pride in one self”, as expressed by Cliffie Moses, ultimately led to the musical

constructs that became Cape Jazz.

M USICAL M EANINGS
Furthermore, the meanings located in the music have been drawn, in most cases, directly

from local musics and cultural notions (e.g. Khoisan, marabi and vastrap), whilst at the same

time, reflecting American, Cuban and Brazilian influences through the use of standard jazz

techniques, rhythmic patterns, bebop and free jazz. I demonstrated that some of the

meanings imbedded in Cape music concerns ancestral memories through the notions of

slavery, the Khoisan experience and the apartheid legacy. However, Cape musics also include

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“play” as one its meaningful constructs. The vast majority of musics noted and discussed here

(e.g. Vastrap, Goema, and Langarm) all contain ludic notions; played out through the carnivals

and festivals held in the city. During these celebrations musical buffoonery and “silly dancing”

forms a central theme, resulting sometimes in reaching altered states. Thus, through musical

composition, performance and ludic identities - autonomy and dignity was found, using

materials taken from the diverse influences that helped create Cape Jazz.

In the last chapters of his book New Musical Figurations: Anthony Braxton's Critique (1993),

Ronald Radano returns to some of the points made by critics in relation to the 1970s jazz

revivalism in the US. Some of the points made reflect questions that were also posed in the

early part of the 20th century, namely “What is jazz” (Variety, December 1974). Other authors

reflected on similar ideas, concluding that jazz has, somehow, moved away. Consequently,

Joel Vance's question “Is jazz coming back” was important (Vance, Stereo Review, quoted in

Radano, 1993). Much of the discourse at this time reflected on ideas that emerged from the

influence and popularity of funk and fusion. Thus, it is not surprising that the question “What

is jazz?” should return. Furthermore, and reflecting on the definitional ideas set out earlier in

this work, it is quite clear that each time the music changes, this discussion [What is jazz] is

re-invigorated (Burns, 2001: film; Pond, 2003).

Moreover, during the 1970s the strength of the popular music movement was finally felt in

all its force. Three decades of girl groups and boy groups, Nashville and Motown, Hendrix and
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Joplin, marginalised jazz, and made way for pop’s new fascination with funk and disco. Many

jazz afficionados found the new hybrid-styles unsettling, whilst the media images of jazz,

published during the 1970s were disturbing. Styles, such as Cool “became a double edged

sign for forbidden fruits (narcotics and sex) and hip sophistication; soul jazz, the proto-

nationalist challenge to white control; free jazz, the sound of primitive, black rage” (Radano,

1993:242). With such a combination of bad publicity, hybridity and pop, it is little wonder that

the popularity of jazz was severely diminished. This downturn in the popularity of jazz in the

US also influenced the strict religious conservatism of South Africa.

However, not only did South Africa absorb these ideas from abroad, the country also suffered

culturally under the problems presented earlier: apartheid and the authorities’ dislike of jazz,

the enforced segregation of the population, which in turn enforced the segregation of

musicians, all of which were factors in limiting the development of South African music.

Furthermore, the cultural products that were allowed to enter the country were tightly

controlled, both by those exporting to South Africa, and by those importing Eumerican ideasi

– whether music, dance or drama. Thus, musicians who defied these international controls,

such as Paul Simon, Ladysmith Black Mambazo and others, were vilified by many, who did not

understand that the trade embargo caused further damage, rather than rectifying the political

problems of the time.

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Added constraints to the South African problem were that, after the Sharpville Massacre, the

country was thrown into a state of emergency that it did not managed to shake off in its

entirety until the early 1990s, with Nelson Mandela’s release in 1991 and the first free and

fair elections of 1994. One of the most devastating laws, the Group Areas Act, enforced

segregation even further causing approximately 3.5 million people, from every walk of life, to

surrender to the forced removal programme. Many people assume that segregation mainly

affected the black population of Sophiatown in Johannesburg, but that is based on the media

coverage that this specific area received. In reality, people from every walk of life were forced

to move throughout the country. Statistically, Cape Town, with its many “grey” areas, had to

move more people than in any other urban area. However, as I have shown, this also

destroyed, one of the most historically significant suburbs in the country – District Six, an area

that was comparable in size and population to Sophiatown.

A DVANCEMENT , E DUCATION & V ALIDATION

One restriction which was partly defied by the jazz fraternity was education. Because of the

restrictive legislation that had taken place throughout the 20th century with regards to the

education of all people of colour, these musicians were able to win back something of what

was lost through the learning and teaching of music. This came about through a variety of

routes, including learning through the Salvation Army, following correspondence courses,

teaching each other, being self-taught or learning through family members as part of other

organisations, such as the church or the minstrelsy carnival.

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Vince Kolbe’s jazz discussion group was, for instance, important in the education it offered to

musicians. In this relatively secluded space musicians were able to share their latest musical

ideas by demonstrating their new compositions, listen to the newest LPs and share and learn

new licks. As a reading group they concentrated on reading works by writers such as W.E.B.

du Bois, learning of ways in which segregation in the USA were being addressed, thus

underlining their experiential similarities of the very people whose music they were able to

access (Kolbe, 2005: Interview with author);

Furthermore, Cliffie Moses suggested that the creation of Cape Jazz was an entirely

community constructed process (Moses, 2013: Conversations with the author). He was, after

all, the first person to publish pieces of jazz influenced by Capetonian musics. Through this he

demonstrated that, by using local musical materials in composing jazz, local identities can be

expressed. This was met with great positivity by the rest of Cape Town’s jazz musicians.

Another musician whose influence cannot be denied in the verification of the music is

Abdullah Ibrahim. Ibrahim is after all, an internationally known pianist and composer and his

performances of Cape music, to e.g. an American audience, will certainly have been seen as

a confirmation of the validity of this musici. Consequently, with the publication of his album,

Mannenberg, is where it’s happening (1974) one can see a mediated culmination of musical

thought, that was at once a new, yet locally recognizable as a known musical sound. The

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international success of the piece then truly “authorized” and validated the publication and

the performance of local music, allowing these identities to be expressed with a sense of pride

not previously experienced.

Because of the long history of music-making amongst people in the Cape, there was possibly

also a certain expectation and acceptance amongst the apartheid bosses that musicianship

was one of few areas notbe to neglected, even though the music was proscribed. Thus,

government-vetoed tours of shows, such as those of the Golden City Dixies, were financed by

white producers and promoters. It would be naive to imagine that such promoters were

motivated by such high objectives as a reverence for music and its need for protection, rather

these tours were merely money-making opportunities. Penny whistler, Robert Sithole of the

Kwela Kids, was one such musician to be promoted in this way. He was fully aware that his

financiers had a scant understanding of musical forms and simply viewed tours as

opportunities for easy money. They had no interest in the promotion of his musicianship or

of South African culture (Sithole, 2001: interview with author).

As a consequence of these tours many musicians chose to go into exile where they

experienced intense feelings of loss. For these musicians the notions of memory of those in

exile led to their need to re-address the self and their concepts of cultural identity in a way

that made musical sense. Consequently, many musicians, such as Abdullah Ibrahim, looked

towards their own cultural musics for inspiration, rather than the musics of North America,

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and, as a result, wrote pieces that reflected these musical spaces in a bid to make home seem

closer (Lucia, 2004).

One perspective, which many leave out of the equation, is the physical distance between

Southern Africa and the cultures that created jazz during the early part of the 20th century. By

the time, in the 1920s, that Marabi (early South African jazz) was being developed in the black

townships, America was gripped in what became known as “The Jazz Age”. At the same time

Cuban musicians, who had close proximity to the US, were touring the world, recording

albums in New York and London. I do believe that the physical distance also played a role in

the developmental differences between the countries who invented Jazz and their followers

in the distant colonies. Even so, Capetonians were quick to learn, and many musicians were

caught up in the bebop and modal jazz “eras”.

LM R ADIO
A topic I have not broached is that Southern Africa should really be regarded as a region, with

relatively close-knit neighbouring countries. This was especially true when the worst

difficulties of apartheid took hold in the 1970s through to the early 1980s, effectively stopping

artistic development. Thus, musicians looked elsewhere for performance opportunities. As a

result, in 1981 the saxophonist Robbie Jansen and the guitarist Russell Herman searched out

residencies in Luanda (Angola) where much of Jansen’s album Vastrap Island was written

(Jansen, 2005: Interview with author; Schilder, H., 2011: interview with author). Shortly after
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this Herman, amongst many other South African musiciansi, left for London and Jansen

returned to Cape Town. Others went to Botswana or Zimbabwe, which was at that time on a

positive roll following independence and in the early days of Robert Mugabe’s reign.

At the same time Angola and Mozambique were involved in civil warsi, complicated and

lengthened by South African and US interference. However, what was musically significant

was that throughout the mid-part of the 20th century (1933 – 1972) most of the South African

Development Corporation countries (SADC, which is similar to the EU) bowed down to Africa’s

first commercial radio station: LM Radio (Lourenço Marques Radio). Lourenço Marques was

the name of the capital of Mozambique, now known as Maputo. It was the king of radio

stations, playing an exceptionally wide range of musics, catering for listeners across the

region. Thus, musics were played for Angolan, Mozambican and Southern African audiences,

with many programmes being conducted in English. Many of my family members thought that

LM Radio was king – as did flautist, Gary van Dyk who explained: “it was what you listened to

as a kid, you know…a lot of good music” (van Dyk, 2003: conversations with the author). The

musicians I worked with also spoke of LM Radio with fondness, explaining that this was the

station that brought “the world” to South Africa. Even so, apartheid legislation interferedi,

and thus, from 1972, the SABCi effectively ran the station according to its own remits, causing

much protest across the region ending with Frelimo (Front for Liberation of Mozambique)

closing the station in 1975i.

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M USICAL L ACUNA
Leaving the place and space we call “home” permanently, or for an extended period of time,

can have a dramatic and devastating effect on the human psyche - even if the choice to leave

is yours and yours alone to make. Apart from having to learn the daily rhythms of a “new”

culture, you might feel stranded, meaningless and lacking in identity.

Questions of identity in this instance, whether they be of self-identity or cultural identity,

could be described as “homesickness” and might well engulf you in melancholia and longing

for things familiar. Within this understanding you might say that you miss your home, your

family, your language and that which is understood to be “your culture “. More

fundamentally, you will probably say that you miss the landscapes, the views, the interactions

with those whom you know, understand and love, the regularity of the day-to-day life or the

apparent “ease” with which you conduct your daily life. Perhaps more accurately, however,

this nostalgia could be described as the depravation of the senses; the forced dispossession

of a sensuousness commonly associated with your own culture.

This lacking could encompass a variety of experiences, for instance the sound of your

language, the vistas of the landscape, the taste and texture of the food. Or perhaps it is the

particular way in which your people carry themselves in walking and in dancing, the pleasure

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with which you view those artifacts called “fine art” or the rise and fall of the melodic and

rhythmic structures of those sounds which you call music.

Imagine then the devastating impact of slavery, forced removals and exile on the individual.

What effects do these experiences have on the human psyche? How do we cope when being

forced to live in another place or culture or country against our will, in an unfamiliar cultural

landscape?

After the “indignation” of being captured as a slave, shackled, transported across the world

and sold into bondage in an unfamiliar place, one is bound to try and find ways in which to

preserve you sense of humanity and sense of dignity. Similarly, if you are forcibly removed

from your "normal" place of habitation through political circumstances, that too impacts on

your need to preserve the essence of your identity. Most frequently, very little of note can be

taken with you. You can’t carry your community, your village or your city on your back, and

so the only thing available is an individual’s capacity for the continuation of art forms, such as

music, dance, story-telling and religious practices.

As we have seen in this dissertation: in the Cape of Good Hope, during the colonial era, music

became an important art form, so much so that it was promoted, with training provided and

instruments granted. What stands at odds with this idea, however, is that the music

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performed was not a reflection of the cultural practices drawn from those enslaved, such as

was the case in countries such as Cuba and Brazil, but rather, that the music was drawn from

Europe and almost nothing survived from the Indo-Malaysian Archipelago itself, from where

more than 65% of the slaves were taken. Furthermore, of the two notable musical forms that

managed to survive all this, namely the highly ornamented Dutch songs or Nederlandseliedere

and the ravekienjo (lute), only one survived the onslaught of 20th century. Hence, as

demonstrated by Jaap Kunst, it could be argued that songs similar to the Nederlandseliedere,

had possibly existed since shortly after the Dutch colonization of Indonesia in the late 1500s

(Kunst, 1938). Thus, it is quite possible that many slaves arrived in the Cape fully trained in

the colonial musics that formed the repertoire of the orchestras that formed shortly after the

arrival of the first slaves (van der Merwe, 1997).

Even so, music making became a favourite pastime and performance genre, so much so that

the announcement of the end of slavery in 1833 was marked by a performance as were the

two actual days which marked the final end of slavery - 1 December 1834 and 1 December

1838. These performances, as we have seen, were partly responsible for the making of a

musical city, in combination with influences such as American Minstrelsy. Many people were

also drawn to both Sufism and Khoisan spiritual practices – both of which involve music, dance

and transcendental states. These syncretised practices, including the cosmopolitan mix of

peoples, brought an interesting and open-minded perspective to music-making, at least, until

apartheid was introduced, and musical development curtailed.

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J AZZ C YCLES
In the Introduction I presented a short described snippet of the run up to the main jazz festival

in Cape Town. As could be inferred from my descriptions: I was looking forward to quality

musicianship; it was an exciting life. What I didn’t and couldn’t know at the time of filming

and fieldworking in 2001, was that Cape Town was to find itself in one of the biggest

explosions of jazz since the 1950s, brought about by the subsequent freedom under the new

government. At this time there were five different music festivals. These were, in

chronological order:

• The Minstrelsy Carnival (31 Dec – 2 January),

• The Jazzathon (the first weekend of January),
• The Northsea Jazz Festival, now known as the Cape Town International Jazz Festival
(Late March/early April),
• The Jazz Winter Series (June to August), and
• The Standard Bank Jazz Festival (October).

Additionally, since Cape Town is a major tourist destination, live smooth jazz is favoured by

its upmarket restaurants and hotels on the Atlantic Seaboard. The repertoires for these

sessions consist mainly of jazz standards and easy listening. Many musicians, are, as can be

expected, scathing of these musics, although they explained that these performances were

necessary for economic reasons. Basil Moses was the only musician I worked with who spoke

fondly of these gigs, saying that “We use the Mount Nelson [session at an exclusive Five star

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hotel] to practice our new sets. The people never really listen to us, so sometimes we have a

ball” (Moses, B., 2006: Conversation with author).

To assist in musicianship for these events, the city also sported (at the beginning of my

research) several jam sessions a week. Some of these, such as the Generation Spot, the Yellow

Door, the Five Two Four and the Swingers/Razzmatazz sessions, had been running for many

years. Additionally, there were several jazz clubs, including Mannenberg’s and the Arm Chair

Lounge, with The Green Dolphin being regarded as the main performance space. To top it all,

in September 2006, the city, under the auspices of Abdullah Ibrahim, launched its own Jazz

orchestra, The Cape Town Jazz Orchestra, which was styled on the Lincoln Centre Orchestra

of New York. Additionally, the municipality added to the grandness of these occasions by

building a superb infrastructure of well- appointed concert halls which are on a par with those

found in Europe.

However, by April 2011, it was clear that this developmental cycle, instigated by the end of

apartheid and based on the musicianship of those I have discussed, have ended. This started

with the closing of the Five Two Four jam session, which had run for more than 30 years.

Some of the jazz festivals lost their sponsorship, and jazz clubs closed, ending in April 2011,

with the unexpected, and in the words of Cliffie Moses, “devastating” closure of The Green

Dolphin. Additionally, the scene had also been badly affected by the deaths of many of its

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members. This began with the death of Eddie Jooste in a car crash (a young bass player) whilst

have others succumbed to illness or years of stressful living. Indeed, only a handful of my

participants are still alive, and some are now critically ill.

N EW DEVELOPMENTS , N EW R ESEARCH

Musicianship, for the musicians whose work I’ve presented here, remains, for some, an on-

going process. Abdullah Ibrahim, as noted in the beginning of this chapter, is now playing

summaries of what was, and what he has presented in decades past. Cliffie Moses, had two

strokes, one in 2011), was involved in all matters relating to District Six. Mac McKenzie’s work

went delightfully from strength to strength [he introduced the basic Cape sound, the Goema,

to concert halls by and included strings as part of his arrangements] and then stopped

because of the lack of financial support for the project.

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I LLUSTRATION 28: M AC M C K ENZIE O RCHESTRA IN THE SABC A UDITORIUM , C APE T OWN . M AC IS SITTING ,
AND
HUNCHED OVER HIS GUITAR IN THE FOREGROUND AND A NDRE P ETERSEN IS AT THE PIANO . (I MAGE OWNERSHIP A NDRE
P ETERSEN ).

Robbie Jansen passed away in 2010 and Stephen Erasmus, although still working as a bass

player, is living a quiet life in the home of his daughter. Hilton Schilder, having completed

artist-in-residence positions in Switzerland and Germany, was diagnosed with kidney cancer

in 2010 and is currently in remission. Thus, in line with the beliefs of using music as a healing

force, he decided to explore the Khoisan sound more fully. Much of traditional Khoisan music

and dance centres on healing. Thus, the meaning of the title of the anthropological book by

Richard Katz, et al. Healing makes our Heart Happy (1997), refers to music and dance. In order

to “heal”, one has to perform music and dance, and participate in specific rituals. Thus

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Schilder composed an entire album based on this spiritualist and transcendental sound, which

my family and I were privileged to hear in a live performance in April 2011, prior to recording.

I have, however, not paid homage to any of the funk musicians or the Capetonians who are

currently the main performers and teachers and known for their virtuosic techniques and

exceptional performances. Thus, university lecturers, such as Abigail Petersen and Andrew

Lillie, may have had more educational opportunities than the group I worked with – however,

they have kept the jazz scene alive, training many of the musicians now seen to be the young

lions and lionesses of Cape Town.

Also, there was a new wave of musicians, such as the pianist Andre Petersen and saxophonist

Moreira Conchuica. Many of these musicians have had opportunities that their parents could

only dream of including learning formally as children, going to university to study jazz and

finally, making a professional career as a jazz musician. Indeed, Petersen remarked to me

once, somewhat surprised, that since graduation, “I’ve not used my PGCE” (his teaching

certificate) as he has been snapped up by various groups as a secure and talented pianist.

At the same time, the members of the group “Tribe” (one of the names used by a collective

of young musicians), which include Buddy Wells on Saxophone, Mark Fransman on piano and

Kesivan Naidoo on kit, were all writing exciting new music that challenged notions of Africa;

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building on the foundations laid down by the “ouer garde” (the old guard), fully incorporating

the “New South Africa” in its sound. This echo compositional developments in other cities,

such as Durban and Johannesburg, as analysed by Nishlyn Rammana in his PhD thesis (See

literature review).

Another change to musicianship is the gradual influx of female instrumentalists, with the

award-winning saxophonist Shannon Mowdayi leading the Capetonian pack. It must be

remembered that to be a female vocalist in South Africa is relatively straight forward,

determined by the quality of your voice, vocal fashions and so on. It is the instrument women

were expected to pursue. To be an award-winning jazz saxophonist, however, and resembling

Roland Kirk in the number of saxophones surrounding her at performances, is something

exceptional.

Fundamentally, Cape Town’s musicians have been neglected, across genres, from both

recording and research perspectives, and even though a host of research projects are

currently underway, it will be a long time before any re-examinations of ideas will emerge. I

am aware, for instance, that research on the “learning procedures” amongst Cape musicians

had been written by Lorraine Roubertie in Paris, an MPhil on the music and life of Basil

“Mannenberg” Coetzee by Milton van Wyk in Antwerp and. Thus, I believe that further, on-

going research on Cape Jazz is urgently needed.

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First of all, as noted in the paragraphs above, a core group of musicians who play mainly funk

and standard jazz, needs examining, as little is known about them. Their learning techniques,

compositional approaches, and performance prowess are all issues which should be

examined. The wonderful world of jam sessions in Cape Town is also a potential rich resource

for research. The field of compositional approaches is yet another research idea, particularly

as much of my own time is spent composing and supervising composition. Furthermore, and

perhaps more urgently, it is felt that the musics of the farms surrounding Cape Town require

collection, archiving and analysis using similar methods to those of John and Rosie Lomax.

These musics, of which little is known, effectively gave rise to some of the styles discussed,

and yet recordings are rare. If this situation is not rectified, we will eventually lose all

connection with our musical past.

Finally, after a long period of negativity and the closing of jazz clubs, a new place, The

Mahogany Rooms, opened in December 2011. Owned by the drummer Kesivan Naidoo,

amongst others, it was based on the model of Ronnie Scotts in London and aimed to forge

ahead to a more international sound – yet again this was closed in around 2016/17. That said,

there are still a host of jazz related spaces all over Cape Town – even though many have had

to close temporarily due to the Covid-19 pandemic.

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D EFINING C APE J AZZ
In conclusion I wish to return to my initial question, namely “What is Cape Jazz”? Through my

research I have found that Cape Jazz is partly a musical construct, partly an imagined construct

and partly a concrete notion. Its musical construction is, as we had seen, complex and

confusing as so many elements vie for attention. The majority of these materials have been

taken from the main musics of the Carnival, such as Goema, Malay Choir music and picnic

songs. These all have, as discovered through the preceding chapters, diverse origins and a

slavery imbedded heritage. Yet, the influence of North American Jazz, specifically the

influence of bebop cannot be denied as could be seen in the analysis of Vary-oo-Vum by

Abdullah Ibrahim and The (Goema) Dance by Cliffie Moses. In both pieces the form and the

melodic content had clearly been derived from bebop, yet it was presented in a South African

way.

Furthermore, the influence of black South African musics, such as Kwela and Township Jive,

is noteworthy. These musics, known for their melodic qualities could possibly be traced back

to, as suggested by Lara Allen, the earliest form of piped musics, and are thus ingrained in

much of the South African psyche. Even so, as these are more prominently used in the black

musics, they are often viewed as such, even though its melodic legacy can be clearly heard in

pieces such as Hotnotstea Party by Robbie Jansen and Steven Erasmus. Finally, the indigenous

musics of the Khoisan had left not only a melodic legacy, but also its influence on rhythm,

transcendentalism and instrumentation. These constructs could be seen, especially, in the

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music of Jansen, Erasmus and Hilton Schilder, as complex cross-rhythmic ideas were used to

create the illusion of transcendental states. Here they used unusual instruments, e.g. a mouth

bow, or ordinary instruments in an unusual way, e.g. using only the mouth piece of the

saxophone, in both free and standard compositional forms.

Unlike musics such as Kwela that can be sonically placed in a singular space with relative ease,

Cape Jazz cannot. There are many different sounds that is regarded as Cape Jazz, thus it stands

to reason that it is an imagined construct. This imagined space and, drawing on Benedict

Anderson’s ideas of Imagined Communities (1983), acts as an umbrella term for a host of

musics that had been drawn from all the musics available in the Cape. Yet is also a concrete

space, as this is music that is currently being used, constructed, composed and performed by

the musicians that have assisted me in this project.

In summary, Cape Jazz is then a multifarious music that has its origins in the colonial

processes. It is influenced by the musics of Europe, the indigenous Khoisan, black South

African, “Latin” and North American Jazz, resulting in a collection of sonic structures that the

musicians have used to place their compositional ideas. These placements reflect their

individual musical identities, indicated by the influences that they have chosen to display in a

musically unique Capetonian way, to make it “this” music and not “that”. In short, to make it

Cape Jazz.

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I LLUSTRATION 29: A PRIL 2011: A FTER JAMMING , AND SLEEPING IN A TENT : A BBQ BREAKFAST ON DRUMMER J ACK
M OMPL ’ S F ARM . H ILTON S CHILDER IS THE CHEF WITH THE AUTHOR AND BASS PLAYER , TONY , OVERLOOKING THE
PROCESS .

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