This was the last day of my
journey and if nothing else happened but my experience in Suweto, as I said before,
I was satisfied. But more was soon to come. I had a great breakfast at a black
owned café in Moabeng, right around the corner from the apartment. Worked a
little. Actually I worked a lot on a grant application – the whole day in fact. Brother Mpho came to pick me up that
evening. Sintu was with him. She is a jazz musician and music teacher. We were
going to two jazz jam sessions. Interesting. The first one was at a lovely
outdoor restaurant. It was led by a 'colored' pianist. It was nice. Yes, just
nice. They played American jazz standards proficiently and well. Good training.
But I was completely bored. I had heard all of the songs before because they
were made into jazz standards by the masters. I did not think this was the South
African jazz I had come for. My model was Winston Ngozi’s Yakhal'Inkomo. It
just did not feel the same. It was
sterile.
I had a nice dinner and we left
after a short while. Then we arrived at another jam session in Sophiatown. We walked into a small wooden floored room with a blind pianist playing a very out of tune piano. I felt a little skeptical. Except that the feeling of the place was authentic. There was original art work on the walls and mismatched chairs lined in a row just in front of the band stand. Serious faced black men were sitting in them, leaning in with their heads bobbing and listening hard. This was different. This was for real. We stood towards the back (all other chairs were filled) and the musicians took a break. Then the sound of Winston Ngozi’s burnt orange timbre on the tenor sax sound filled the atmosphere. I had found the South African jazz tradition that I had come looking for. Sintu and I found seats while Brother Mpho went to get a few of his instruments. Then the music started.
I was glad that I had decided to record. Yonela
Mnana was the pianist that led the audience in singing a simple line - "Zai-re" (the previous name of the DRC.) From
that phrase, in 5/4 time, he built the most alive and swingin’ song that interwove the base vocals
with hand claps, the bass line and the jazz rhythms of the drums. It was
awesome. Yonela's song literally made me feel cleansed and invigorated. I felt washed (I am not trying to be sacrilege). I was completely swept away. It was the kind of music that makes you feel like you can do anything. I invite you to listen to the video I have included (above) because I cannot really describe the music in words. What also struck me was the difference between the vibe of these
musicians compared to the African – American jazz musicians back home – specifically
in NYC. These musicians invited everyone to participate in the music making with them. (No, 'I'm - too - cool - for - you' stand offishness). And these guys played with a different kind of creativity. Southern African culture dictated the attitude and the conduct of the players. In Botswana, South Africa and other African cultures all members of the community are family. All are welcome and all have a place. Black jazz
musicians do still form the nucleus of The Music in the US. They are still the
creative force behind the music. But the South African brothers that I saw were
just as good if not better. Many African – American male jazz musicians tend to
be…hmm… cool with their music. The jazz community is filled with machismo and their relationship with each
other is like a brotherhood. An exclusive brotherhood. Women are welcome…. to
sing. And maybe play the piano. And you better do that well. And of course you
must be an attractive women. If not then you better be a genius. I observed that the South African musicians treated Sinti like a sister when she played. They were encouraging towards her. By and large, African American male jazz musicians play for
each other. They make albums for each other. The more harmonically complicated
the better. (I am generalizing however). These musicians were different. They were open and welcoming. They were also forgiving
and encouraging of anyone who didn’t have the technical proficiency that they
themselves displayed. And they were musical. They had heart. Heart + Jazz Chops. And
that makes for the magical music that I heard that night in Johannesburg.
The next day I made my way to the airport to
catch a bus back to Gaborone. People often bus to Jo’burg to get flights to
reduce the ticket costs. This is what I did as well. This is how I got to ‘enjoy’
one last experience. Crossing a land border between countries. I have only ever
done so at an airport. All of the passengers had to get off of the bus and walk across the border. This was a long and arduous process, but after a few hours and extensive bag checks by security personnel, I was back in Gaborone. I spent my last few days visiting my church friends and doing last minute shopping. My last day was a Sunday. After a family lunch at Sister Noma's home with her husband Brighton and her three wonderful children, my dear friend took me to the airport and she saw me off, back to Washington DC.
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