Johannesburg: Black Arts Brooklyn Down Under

Things are off to a splendid start here in Joburg, or Jozi, as it is affectionately called.  I’ve settled into a groove. As I was walking home yesterday in the dark of early evening from my new manicurist in Braamfontein, making my way down an unfamiliar street, I took in the sights and sounds of the evening. Most stores were closed and shuttered, except for barbershops, beauty salons, and small convenience stores on each block that I have always called ‘the corner store.’ Small groups of men collected outside of each open establishment talking loudly with each other, and with friends in parked cars. Some played with their small children. I hurried on along the bricked sidewalk in between tall buildings (many of them are small colleges and training schools). As I walked, it fully hit that I am spending the summer in Johannesburg – an African city. A city that is brimming with fun things to do, like trendy restaurants that feature live music and that stay open late. There are weekend bike and brunch events, art gallery openings, outdoor arts markets, South African movies, and I am sure as time goes along, I will hear of the city’s dance party scene. There is also jazz. Jazz is everywhere – at restaurants, special events and in concert halls. There seems to be plenty of work and opportunity for the musicians. And when you have a vibrant active music scene, creativity abounds. During my first week, I attended four jazz shows. Also, just living in a place gives one perspective, and I have learned a few things. There are particular lessons to be learned from living in a majority Black industrialized city that was previously under legal apartheid, just like the United States. The comparisons I have been able to draw in this short time shed light on the racial inequity circumstance of African Americans in the US that for me, are now only visible from across the Atlantic. Please forgive me for venting along the way. It can’t be helped.

I had an active first week. Last Tuesday, my third day in the country, I met with my friend, jazz pianist Yonela Mnana, about my project here. As usual, he offered extremely valuable and essential insights to make things go forward. I am investigating the trans-Atlantic connections between the African American and South African jazz traditions. We had to wait for the loadshedding episode at my apartment to end before he came, and I now have a relationship with heat as a kind of currency that I have never had before. I’ve always only used space heaters to supplement flimsy heating systems. Now…well…let’s just say I have a close relationship with each of them. But anyway…after our formal meeting, we went to a restaurant across the street called the Mangrove. It was here that I discovered that Joburg is Black Brooklyn Down Under.

From the perspective of someone from the United States, everything here in the Southern Hemisphere is sometimes a disorienting parallel. Down under – an upside down universe that is strangely similar except everything is backwards (to us). Winter is in our summer, fall is our spring, and Christmas is the hottest time of the year. People drive on the right side of cars, and their right turns are like our left. There are penguins at the most southern tip of the country, and it is bordered by both the Atlantic and Indian oceans. When we walked into Mangrove, I realized that Joburg is just like a Black Brooklyn back in the day. The Mangrove is a stylish space that was full of young Black professionals who were singing American pop and r+b songs to the top of their lungs in a karaoke session. We went to a larger quieter space towards the back left side of the restaurant. Everything was decorated with teal trims and Black art was on the walls. Black couples were scattered at tables and enjoying dinners. The cost of living here is not that high, but still, I was surprised when a mountain of ribs, which would have been maybe 35 to 45 dollars stateside, came in at the cost of 12 dollars per plate. Wow! (I saw a documentary about Memphis barbeque a long time ago, and one Black man said in a folksy vernacular, “I hope they have ribs in Heaven!” I must confess that when I saw that plate, his proclamation crossed my mind.)  I looked around and the whole scene reminded me of Washington Avenue in Brooklyn back in the late 1990s/early 2000s. Or Black Arts DC along the U street corridor or in Adams Morgan. It felt like home. FYI for those who might not know. All of those locales in the US that I mentioned are now gone. They are gone because of gentrification. But there is comfort for those of us who mourn those areas. Jozi is a Black Brooklyn down under here in the Southern Hemisphere. The city is full of spaces like Mangrove. 

Jazz Jam Session at Six Cocktails Bar, Melville Johannesburg

On Wednesday I went to a jazz show that Yonela was playing in a part of the city called Melville. It

was a jam session that both Yonela and my jazz drummer friend Siphiwe Shiburi were playing. The place was called Six Cocktails, a crowded bar full of people. When the jam session opened up, it blossomed with a few players who were playing bebop. All kinds of musicological questions came up for me during that session. Questions of improvisatory language, which I will save for a paper or the dissertation. Just know that the trans-Atlantic relationship between the two jazz traditions is much more complex than I realized, and I am going to have to get down with some serious analysis, and discussions with musicians from both cultures in order to fully explore and do justice to the topic.

On Thursday I was still trying to get housekeeping items done. I went to Newtown Mall, which is just across Nelson Mandela Bridge, to run errands.  When I arrived back home, loadshedding was in full effect, so I went to look into a gym membership at Virgin Active (branded after Virgin Records…?) not too far from the house. On the way I found a place called 1 Classie Africa Beauty Salon and Spa. Oooh! I asked about a manicure, and scheduled an appointment. I got info at the gym, and to kill time, I went to Pick n Pay, the grocery store nearby, and picked up a few things. Homemaking comforts me when I am living in new far - away places. Makes me feel secure – smile. After Pick n Pay, since things were still in dark mode, I decided to go to dinner at Mangrove. To my delight, they told me they were having a jazz show. They mentioned it on Tuesday, but I had forgotten. And what a show it was. I don’t want to use this platform to gush. The band leader is a pianist named Darlington Okofu, whose family is originally from Nigeria . His compositions were so creative. Sydney Mnisi, one of the South African tenor sax giants, was on the show. Also, Lwanda Gogwana, who is one of the great trumpet players of the younger generation. Then a vocalist named Siya Makuzeni performed. She is an incredible musician. She is a great singer. As we say in African America, she is a baad girl. She also composes and plays the trombone. Here is an excerpt from the show. Check it out.

Maya Cunningham with South African jazz expert Simon Ndlovu

 

Site of Kippie Moeketsi and the Kippie's Jazz Club

Maya Cunningham with Sydney Mavundla,
one of the great jazz trumpet players of South Africa

Friday night. I was invited by a South African jazz expert named Simon Ndlovu to the Market Theatre to hear Sydney Mavundla, one of the trumpet giants of the country. I can’t help but make comparisons to the US. It was a majority Black audience, and an all-Black band with one or two exceptions. The audience was completely engaged in all aspects of their performance. And just what I observed five years ago. Asymmetric time signatures predominated, and sometimes the audience sang along. At times they whistled, and at a high point, some of the women ululated. Wow – just like African Americans respond to music in our own cultural space. Bra Sydney introduced his beautiful Black wife and children at the end of the show.  This was a very different experience from what it would have been in the United States. There would have only been a sprinkling of Black folks in the audience, and there certainly would have been no participation. It would have been a presentation of Black music completely outside of its cultural context, and we would be hard pressed to even find Black musicians performing jazz these days. Honestly speaking, I feel relieved that the opposite is true here in South Africa. 

Sydney Mavundla in Concert at the Market Theatre, Johannesburg

Scenes from Niki's Jazz Club, Johannesburg

It was a fun evening that ended at Niki’s Jazz Club. A jazz club owned by a Black woman named Niki – which is another rarity in the US. (FYI – most jazz clubs in the US are owned by Euro-Americans). It was at Niki’s that I had my first traditional South African cuisine. Beef stew with greens and steamed bread. Soul food from any Black culture just hits one's body in a particular way with no comparison. 

Jazz Pianist Africa Mkhize

Especially if you are hungry. I am not exaggerating when I say that this meal was one of the best I have ever had. Bra Sydney and his pianist for the evening, the great Africa Mkhize, came into the club for the traditional post-show hanging out. Bra Africa is something else. That’s all I can say. In DC, men like him are said to be ‘wild boys.’  The expression goes like this. Someone mentions a name. The respondent gives a knowing look, flashes something between a smirk and a smile,  maybe 

Maya Cunningham with Bra Africa Mkhize and Niki Sondlo,
who owns Niki's Jazz Club

shakes his head and then says, “Yeah, so and so (the person's name), now that’s a wiiild boy!” The person who he is talking to knows exactly the behavior the other is referring to, but it goes unsaid, encapsulated in that one moniker. I have heard that saying plenty of times, and always of a man who is a bit high-strung, who might have a little mean streak, who is sometimes temperamental, is always lively and who speaks with no filter, often saying surprising and out-of-pocket things that break social norms. ‘Wild boys’ might have a tendency to become a little tipsy as an evening progresses, and are often known to be bombastic. Of course there are different varieties, but I can always spot them out. Bra Africa is definitely one. It was a fun time.

On Saturday I was out for the whole day. I had a nice manicure and pedicure (which is extremely inexpensive here). Just this simple everyday activity helped me to know how deeply the US is a raced-state. Have you noticed that different racial or ethnic groups do specific kinds of work? My manicurist was from Zimbabwe. In the US most of the nail salons are owned and operated by Asian folks. My manicurist back in Massachusetts is from Vietnam, as is every other technician at that salon. It started with African slavery. One group assigned to a specific kind of labor. One group assuming the position of the ruling class. Raced labor roles contribute to stereotypes and the assumption that someone from a particular group cannot do work that the group does not often do. What an unhealthy society. Here in South Africa, Black folks do all jobs. And they rule the country. Hurray! So anyway, all beauty needs will be covered for my remaining time here by 1 Classie Africa Beauty Salon and Spa. 

After the salon, I took an uber to a restaurant called Pata Pata that I went to my first night in Joburg back in 2017. It is in an area called Maboneng, and I was in for a surprise. Maboneng is the most vibrant Black arts area that I have ever seen. Murals were everywhere. As I got out of the taxi there were rows of artistic boutiques, shops, restaurants, and coffee bars. All Black-owned. In fact, I have not been to a non-Black-owned business since I got here 8 days ago (more on this later).

People were everywhere, snapping photos and having fun, and I took it all in. Music was pouring into the streets. I heard Bob Marley and renditions of songs by Fela Kuti. It was a Black arts street festival, but it happens every Saturday and Sunday. I had not experienced a scene like this. The Brooklyn Caribbean Day festival and Adams Morgan Day do not compare. I visited each shop…as many as I could. I found a shop called Tachena Africa. The owner, Lincoln Kamuchanyu, is from Zimbabwe, and he makes everything in the shop. What creativity! And what space for creativity! Does anything like this exist for and by Black people in the US (that is not under threat of gentrification?) I haven’t been everywhere, but I don’t think so. 

After just a little shopping, and a lot of exploring, I had a dinner of oxtails and steamed bread from Pata 
Pata. Well. South African cuisine is my new favorite. And I thought I could never love a cuisine as much as I love Senegalese food.  This is soul food for real. After dinner I made my way to a restaurant called eDikini, in a very exclusive area of Joburg called Sandton. It used to be white only during apartheid. Not anymore. eDikini is a beautiful upscale restaurant. A brother and alto sax player named Nhlanhla Mahlangu was performing there with jazz vocalist Josie Matabola. My brother-friend Siphiwe Shiburi was in drums. After two incredible sets of music, I exchanged introductions and greetings with Nhlanhla and Siphewe and took an Uber home. It was a whirlwind first week and an excellent start to my research project. 

Now it’s time for my reflections. As I sat in eDikini, that beautiful upscale restaurant that is owned by a Black man, I gazed at the elite Black patrons who enjoyed gourmet food, wine, the atmosphere, and 

each other. They had freedom. At a similar restaurant in the US, in that kind of exclusive area, it would not have been Black-owned. It is as simple as that and a hard truth. White patrons and servers would have looked at me and treated me as if I didn’t belong. They would have reacted to me as if I was out of my colonial place. I kept looking at the small group in a glassed - in exclusive room in the upper level. This is part of what the anti-apartheid Freedom Struggle generation sacrificed for. Winnie Mandela said that she and her comrades gave themselves completely to the movement, and ‘sacrificed self,’ as she put it. They did not pursue their individual careers. They risked all to give all of their energy to the struggle. As I sat in that restaurant I understood why. They took back the country for their children to enjoy. Those folks had good careers that paid well, and were fully enjoying the prosperity of the country. A prosperity that their forefathers paid a high price for toiling in the gold and diamond mines that made the country rich. A prosperity for which many people were arrested, tortured and killed because they were protesting the apartheid regime that made them non-citizens in their own country, and denied them the right to vote. I wonder if African America has progressed in the same way. How many Black folks own businesses, have a good education and are enjoying well paid careers? Can African Americans go to any area of the cities they live in without being seen as stepping out of their place? The answer is no. My brothers and sisters, we need to make a plan to finish achieving our freedom.

Freedom. Perhaps the answer lies in the example of Maboneng. Do you all remember how Fort Greene Brooklyn, back in the 1980s and 1990s was a flourishing, eclectic Black arts scene. Affordable real estate, in close proximity to the New York City, allowed many Black painters, jazz musicians, dancers and other artists to make a wonderful arts community. Betty Carter lived in Fort Greene. Musicians like Steve Coleman and Cassandra Wilson came out of that scene. Hallmark Afrocentric fashion landmarks like Moshood defined the area. It has all been completely gentrified. It’s gone. Adams Morgan in the 1980s into the early 2000s was an exciting cultural hub in Washington DC, with arts and music from cultures around the world. It’s gone now. Completely gentrified. U Street in DC was a Black arts scene in the late 1990s and early 2000s, especially for DC’s Black poetry movement and jazz. I used to sing at a club there called Café Nema. It is now completely gentrified with an unrecognizable landscape and the commemorative mural of Duke Ellington was unapologetically removed by the new occupiers a few years back. Young professional whites who have taken over the area. And let’s not fool ourselves. This is about numbers. An African American minority and a huge white majority that has economically benefited from the ‘white flight’ departure from urban centers in the 1960s, redlining and de facto racial segregation in their well-funded suburban school districts.  But guess what – African Americans have land and an open invitation here in Africa. We don’t have to tolerate things like gentrification and the loss of our cultural arts districts any longer. Let’s figure out a way to come here.

Being here in Africa has given me perspective about the toxic racist poison of the United States. Perspective that I did now know that I was missing. It feels good to be away from the governance of those who harbor racial hatred and who define themselves by such. And I am learning things that are only possible in an industrialized nation-state in Africa, and in its largest urban center. I have seen the demise of Black arts scenes, and Black jazz outlets, because of ongoing and seemingly inescapable de facto apartheid in the US, and I have been waiting for both of these to blossom…somewhere.   Both are here, down-under, in Johannesburg. 

First Impressions of Johannesburg

 

First impressions are rarely fair. They often are instant judgments that one makes without the benefit of past experience or context. That is why I will have to be careful with sharing my first impressions of Johannesburg. But I will have to be honest about my feelings (and writing helps me to process complicated ones). First thing. This is my second time here, but the first time was a short and exhilarating two-day whirlwind of visits to landmark sites in Soweto and jazz jam sessions. Warning – I might ramble a little bit. Disclaimer – I have to admit that I am homesick. That being said, here we go...

When I walked off of the plane and onto African land, for the fourth time, I was filled with a unique exhilaration that I have only experienced when I come to the continent that my ancestors are from.  Joy bubbled up from deep within my soul and spirit, and flowed out of my mouth with quiet laughter. Once again, everyone I saw at the airport was Black. I greeted them. Made my way through customs, baggage claim, exchanged dollars for rands, and walked through the long corridors of Oliver Tambo Airport to the exit. 

I arrived at night. And my 7 pm arrival time gave me one of my first surprises. It is very cold here at night in July. South Africa is an interesting and parallel universe to the US in many ways. I thought it was just apartheid and jazz, but it is also the weather. January is our coldest month. July is their coldest month. Our summer equinox is their winter one. I’m glad that I took seriously the almost unbelievable report that it gets into the 30s and 40s here at night. Unbelievable in part because when I was last in Southern Africa (Botswana) during the summer months of the Southern Hemisphere, January through April, it was hot. And everywhere else I’ve been in Africa has been hot, so it couldn’t be that cold, so I thought. I’m so glad I used a modicum of logic and reason when I packed my bags and listened to what I read of the South African weather report (and only a little because I still brought my super cute summer platform sandals which will be of no use at all for me while I am here). Thank the Lord I had the sense to pack one of my heavy coats, because everyone at the airport was wearing one. Some of the ladies said to me, "did they tell you that it is cold?" I put my winter coat on at the baggage claim. 

 

A truly lovely man named Ronald was my Uber driver and I enjoyed a pastor preaching an impassioned sermon in isiZulu on his car radio. When we reached the area of Johannesburg where I am staying, Braamfontein, I knew instantly I would not be going out at night. First impression. Everything in Johannesburg is extremely urban with all of the good and bad that a city has to offer. I saw a man sitting alone in front of a fire, loud youths walking in and out of small convenience stores and nightclubs that were blaring music, tall buildings, some in good condition and some not. There was trash piled up on some corners. We found our way to the street where I am staying and the head of security, Cornwall, who had been patiently waiting for my arrival, got out of his car to greet me. The security team hustled my bags inside. I could tell that Brother Ronald was worried, but I reassured him and said goodbye.

My Airbnb apartment is pretty nice. It has a black gate in front of the door, confirming my impressions of not going out at night. A gated apartment door? It was nice, but it was also freezing. The little space heater in the bedroom was doing nothing to beat back what seemed to be frigid thirty-degree air circulating throughout the abode. It was indeed that cold. It probably did not help that I was just in the 90-degree summer heat of Massachusetts. I bundled down under two down comforters and enjoyed my first sleep on the African continent since 2017.

Sometimes we wake up instantly and fully in the middle of the night. It makes me feel more secure to leave all lights on at night when I am in an unfamiliar place. Therefore, you can appreciate my total surprise when I opened my eyes and sat up to nothing but inky blackness. I downloaded a flashlight app onto my phone and went to peek through the front door gate to see if the building was affected, or if it was just my unit. It was the building and all of Braamfontein. This was my first experience with what most South Africans call ‘load shedding.’ In the US and other African countries, these are called blackouts. Apparently, there is some issue with a strike and the electric power company. I messaged Brother Cornwall, the nice gentleman who is head of security, and he gave me an update. When I told him about the heat situation, he told me he would take me to get more space heaters. We set our appointment for 10 am.

Monday the fourth of July was my first day out and about in Joburg. As Cornwall and I drove through 

Braamfontein on our way to Rosebank Mall, I saw that the area is trendy, busy, interesting, artistic, and full of life. There are several small colleges nearby and Wits University is a short walk away. Students were everywhere. My building faces Nelson Mandela Bridge and might be near water, which explains the pronounced cold. Johannesburg is a lovely city. Full of beautiful trees, flowers, and very nice homes. As we drove through the suburbs, I felt I wouldn’t mind living there. The Rosebank Mall was very fancy. I was surprised by the number of white images and models. This is not the Africa that I have previously experienced. In Ghana, all adverts feature Black people. We went to a store called Game, which is similar to Target, and I got two small space heaters (and as I am sitting in front of one while I write, I can attest that they are effective). We also went to a grocery store called Pick n Pay. I was familiar with both stores because I went to them in Botswana.

Later in the afternoon (after a nap!) I decided to walk through my new neighborhood. And, as I shared in my introduction, I experienced a few more extremely complex first impressions. In the areas of Africa where I have lived and visited, ok – only three countries, Ghana,  Botswana and Zimbabwe – the familial feeling amongst the general public is real and palpable. Everyone greets each other. Women are called mother, or 'Mma’ as in Bots, men are called father, or ‘Rra.’ It is rude not to greet. In Ghana I was called ‘sister’ and ‘daughter’ and I was claimed by many. Ghanaian women would come up to me and say, “Are you an African woman?” (I carry the voluptuous body blessings of the Continent – smile). After all, most of my DNA ancestry is West African. Because I was recognized, claimed and probably because of my long-ago captured ancestors from the region, West Africa, specifically Ghana, feels like home. I can’t say that yet for Johannesburg.  No one greeted in Braamfontein. Black folks, who looked very youthful, zipped by me and each other like it was nothing. Also, American pop music was everywhere – spilling from stores and coming through the loudspeakers in the grocery store. There is graffiti. There are no traditional African clothes to be had. My apartment building abuts a tattoo/piercing parlor and a CBD marijuana store. Huh? These particular last two are everything I dislike about NYC and Springfield, the city where I currently live. Have these elements, along with American pop music (which my jazz master mentor recently called banal) been imported wholesale from the US? The answer is yes – but I can only attest to this through my first-day experience. What I did learn from my little jaunt through the streets of my new neighborhood, which included a brief visit to a trendy women’s clothing store called LEGiT, is that South Africa writ large, and Johannesburg specifically, is an extremely complicated society and unlike any part of Africa I’ve been. People seemed a bit uncaring. I am disturbed by how the influence of the hip hop cohort seems to blanket every aspect of life here. This is not the Africa I have come to love, but it is a part of Africa I will have to try to understand. Botswana and Ghana are modern African societies much more informed and directed by tradition. It is very apparent. Here, that story is much more complicated and complex. This is a settler colonial society. Botswana and Ghana are not. [Writing Paused]

[Writing Resumed] As I was writing, my friend here in Joburg, Yonela Mnana, called me. In our conversation, he advised me to be patient with how Americanness, and this constructed and false African Americanness that has been imported here, have been received by our family here in SA. I don’t even have patience with it stateside! But he is right, and I will listen. He said they only know the commercialized, product packaged, exaggerated and even minstrelized representation of African American culture. He said that they used to have ‘white speech’ imposed upon them as a standard, but now, because of US media imperialism, many are trying to talk like “niggaz.” He also said that I need to interrogate my own positionality. He is right, and this is going to be much more complicated than understanding that I am indeed an outsider. I am an outsider with a particular lens as an African American – and I am not even a very common African American. I am an outsider, but thank God for Yonela, who has tasked himself with bringing me into the inside so I can have, in his words, an “informed experience.” This is exactly what I would say to anyone coming to research aspects of African American culture. I am getting a taste of my own medicine, and it is humbling. He also advised me to investigate the history of Johannesburg, which I will do as soon as possible. I am here for research. Time to get busy.

I am overwhelmed by how complex this society is. Thank goodness for my training as an ethnomusicologist and as an ethnographer. I am not here to analyze and understand this entire society. I could live here for years, and that would never happen. I am doing, or will start to do, “the ethnography of the particular.” There is no way to make generalizations about a nation, a people and a city that has so many dimensions. My work as an anthropologist is cut out for me. I must not try to bite off more than I can chew. I must concentrate on a small group of people. I am here to understand how a particular cohort of Black South African jazz musicians hear the music. I hope that it is possible to explore what they told me back in 2017. We’ll see. To be continued...