UNSUNG: South African Jazz Musicians Under Apartheidunsung

UNSUNG: South African Jazz Musicians under Apartheid outh African jazz under apartheid has in recent years been the subject of numerous studies. The main focus, however, has hitherto been on the musicians who went into exile. Here, for the first time, those who stayed behind are allowed to tell their stories: the stories of musicians from across the colour spectrum who helped to keep their art alive in South Africa during the years of state oppression. CHATRADARI DEVROOP &CHRIS WALTON CHATRADARI Unsung South African Jazz Musicians under Apartheid EDITORS Chatradari Devroop & Chris Walton UNSUNG: South African Jazz Musicians under Apartheid Published by SUN PReSS, an imprint of AFRICAN SUN MeDIA (Pty) Ltd., Stellenbosch 7600 www.africansunmedia.co.za www.sun-e-shop.co.za All rights reserved. Copyright © 2007 Chatradari Devroop & Chris Walton No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, photographic or mechanical means, including photocopying and recording on record, tape or laser disk, on microfilm, via the Internet, by e-mail, or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission by the publisher. First edition 2007 ISBN: 978-1-920109-66-9 e-ISBN: 978-1-920109-67-7 DOI: 10.18820/9781920109677 Set in 11/13 Sylfaen Cover design by Ilse Roelofse Typesetting by SUN MeDIA Stellenbosch SUN PReSS is an imprint of AFRICAN SUN MeDIA (Pty) Ltd. Academic, professional and reference works are published under this imprint in print and electronic format. This publication may be ordered directly from www.sun-e-shop.co.za Printed and bound by ASM/USD, Ryneveld Street, Stellenbosch, 7600. CONTENTS Acknowledgements ........................................................................................... 1 Listening to the grey scales ............................................................................... 3 Transcribing History ......................................................................................... 9 Johnny Mekoa ................................................................................................... 13 Johnny Fourie .................................................................................................... 27 Philip Tabane ..................................................................................................... 39 Robbie Jansen .................................................................................................... 45 Jasper Cook ........................................................................................................ 59 Barney Rachabane ............................................................................................. 73 Anthony (Tony) Schilder .................................................................................. 79 Tete Mbambisa .................................................................................................. 93 Noel Desmond Stockton ................................................................................... 105 Dave Galloway ................................................................................................... 119 Contributors ...................................................................................................... 127 Further Reading ................................................................................................ 133 Index .................................................................................................................. 135 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I wish to express my sincere thanks, first and foremost, to all the musicians interviewed; and also to Lionel Pillay†, Allen Kwela† (who passed away shortly before he was to be interviewed), Gary Crawford, Ingrid van Niekerk, Elizabeth Prinsloo, Lara Allen, Gwen Ansell, Toyer Arendse, Ilse Assmann, Jan, Samantha and Tony Cedras, Steve Gordon, Marcelles Raman, Nicholus Gamede and the Research Support Office at the University of Pretoria (who have supported the present project since its conception), my family, and my friend and co-editor Chris Walton. Chatradari Devroop 1 LISTENING TO THE GREY SCALES We acquired our first television set in 1976, just after the first broadcasts had begun in South Africa. It was a black-and-white one, bought for us by my grandmother with her pension money. Her justification for acquiring this new technology was the growing political violence that surrounded us. She felt sure that the broadcasts on television would not only entertain her grandchildren, but keep them off the streets and out of trouble. She was not wrong in her assumption that it would change the life of our household. For now our schedule ran as follows: homework in the afternoon, supper at six, the news on television at eight, and whatever programmes followed thereafter. Television broadcasts at the time were limited, beginning only at six in the evening on weekdays, and at three in the afternoon over weekends. The late arrival of television in South Africa was the result of a decision at the highest level of government. The apartheid régime had until then resisted its introduction on account of its supposedly ‘hypnotic’ and corrupting effect on an unsuspecting populace. Its prime opponent was Dr Albert Hertzog, Minister of Posts and Telegraphs in the 1960s, who likened this ‘miniature bioscope’ to ‘spiritual opium’. He painted a grim picture of it bringing communism, sex, murder and torture into the family home, and predicted a wave of violence among ‘the Bantu’ if they were allowed access to it.1 As it happened, TV came to South Africa at the very time of the Soweto riots, when over five hundred of our fellow citizens were slain. There was murder and torture enough on our streets, but the perpetrator was of course the same government whose censors endeavoured to keep objective reporting of it off our TV sets. My father was a bandleader, so our household was full of music of all genres – except Western art music. Tuesday and Thursday nights were band practice nights, and our entertainment at home alternated between this and watching television. The government was right in fearing that we would be ‘hypnotized’, but what actually hypnotized me were the gaps between programmes. These were usually three to five minutes long, and they were not filled by commercials but by short, pre-recorded music performances. Afrikaner folk and popular music, some Country and Western, and a large dosage of Western art 1 See Hertzog’s comments in the National Assembly of 22 May 1963 and 2 May 1967, in Debatte van die Volksraad (Hansard), 18 January – 28 June 1963, cols. 6851-6858, and 20 January – 15 June 1967, cols. 5489-5490 respectively. Elsies River: Nasionale Handelsdrukkery Beperk. 3 UNSUNG music formed the bulk of these mini-broadcasts in those years. Occasionally, however, the music performed would comprise easy-listening tunes, jazz standards, hits from musicals, and ballroom dance or Latin numbers, interspersed with the odd solo over a chorus. This was also the kind of music that I played and listened to at home. During these intermezzi, I occasionally observed a very fine jazz pianist. Sadly, though, his face was never shown; we only saw his hands. He had an exemplary technique and a fine feel for swing, combined with a comprehensive understanding of harmony and style. But we were never told who he was. All I could see, and all I can remember now, were those chubby fingers that ‘tickled’ the keys with great ease and accuracy. Some three years later, on a list of credits following one such intermezzo, the name of the pianist was revealed as being ‘Lionel Martin’. The name had a nice, Western, English, liberal ring to it, and confirmed my suspicion that he had to be from overseas, because to my knowledge no one local was capable of giving such performances. Back in the year 2000, over a cup of coffee with my music mentor, Noel Stockton, I brought up the subject of Lionel Martin, as I wanted to meet him. Noel told me that they had worked together as session musicians at the South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC). In his opinion, Martin was one of the finest jazz pianists that our country had ever produced. But not only was he thoroughly South African, born and bred here, he was in fact of Indian descent, and his real name was Lionel Pillay. ‘Lionel Martin’ was a stage name that he had been forced to adopt in order to conform to the political agenda at the SABC, where a non-white face could not be shown playing what non-white men were officially deemed incapable of. Although television was broadcast in colour, most television owners – especially the non-white ones, like us – could only afford black-and-white sets, as they were less than half the price. So the only colours on our TV were varying shades on the greyscale. ‘Lionel Martin’s’ enforced pseudonym, coupled with the greyness of his hands, created an ambiguity that suited the apartheid government’s political agenda. The whiteness of his name washed away any doubts one might have had that his hands were perhaps a little darker than they ‘should’ have been. I was now more curious than ever to meet Lionel Pillay, and even hoped I might perform with him at some stage. I certainly wanted to document his contribution to jazz in South Africa. But he had disappeared. In 2003, during a conversation with Melvin Peters – another fine South African jazz pianist of Indian descent – I learnt that he had spotted Lionel outside a fancy hotel in 4 Listening to the Grey Scales Durban. He was dressed

Load more