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Revolutionary but gangsta: hip-hop in , South

Sudiipta Shamalii Dowsett

A thesis in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

National Institute for Experimental Art Faculty of Art & Design University of New South Wales

March 2017

Abstract

The global spread of hip-hop has taken shape through the localisation of hip-hop practices. Youth all over the world have taken up a hip-hop corporeal schema. A key question of this research project is: How does hip-hop enable youth to empower local culture, language and social practice through emceeing? This thesis presents the original findings of ethnographic fieldwork conducted in from 2008 to 2013 on hip- hop in Khayelitsha, a predominantly isiXhosa-speaking on the outskirts of the city. The main element of hip-hop practiced in Khayelitsha is emceeing. The literature on hip-hop is dominated by semiotic lyrical analyses. This thesis departs from this approach and develops a phenomenological model of hip-hop to account for the intercorporeality of hip-hop’s collective capacities. Emceeing is a specific embodied mode of vocality – of ‘doing’ words with the body. My research utilised a phenomenological and decolonising methodology in order to document this vital embodied capacity of emceeing and privilege the voices of participants. My thesis describes and analyses what youth in Khayelitsha are doing with hip-hop by considering the collectivity-making capacities of live events such as cyphers, open mics, and studio jams. Such live activities develop a new way of inhabiting the space of the township, thus transforming identity, belonging and locality. Rap in Khayelitsha is either in English or in a mix of urban Xhosa, tsotsitaal and ‘deep Xhosa’ (known as spaza hip- hop). The legacies of colonising missionaries, and oppression under apartheid, continue to play out in local language ideologies, in the education system and in tensions manifest in the local hip-hop scene. Younger members of the township of Khayelitsha understand what they are doing with hip-hop as an extension of Xhosa oral traditions, particularly the art of the imbongi (praise poet). They see hip-hop as a continuation of aspects of imbongi such as improvisation, the role of the poet, the experience of flow and praising ancestors. This thesis makes a key contribution to the study of hip-hop through a nuanced analysis of how youth are using emceeing to make sense of their worlds.

i Isishwankathelo

Ukunwenwa kwe hip-hop kumhlaba wonke jikelele kubenalo nehlumelo elibangelwe kukungenelela kwe zenzo ze hip-hop ekuhlaeni. Abantu abatsha kumhlaba wonke jikelele bayithabathe njengendlela yokuphila komzimba ihip-hop. Owona mbuzo ubalulekileyo woluphando ngulo: Ingaba ihip-hop inagalelelo lini kulutsha ekubeni lubenako ukuphuhlisa inkcubeko, ulwimi kwanendlela yokuphila ekuhlaleni ngokubangoo emcee? Le thesis iveza gabalala okufunyenwe kuphando olwenziwe nqo ngokungena-ngena kuphandwa eKapa ukusukela ngo 2008 ukuya ku 2013 malunga nehip-hop eKhayelitsha, eyilokishi yabatu abantetho isiXhosa cebu kuhle kwisixeko saseKapa. Eyona ntsika yehip-hop eyenziwa eKhayelitsha kukwenza i-emceeing. Uncwadi lwehip-hop lubangelwa ikakhulu ngamagama athethwayo nathi ixesha elininzi ibezizangotshe ezichaza okuthile. Le thesis isuka kuloo mbono ke ze iphuhlise ukuqulunqwa kwehip-hop nalapho kutyunjwa indima yomzimba njengomboniso okwazi ukwenza izinto eziliqela. I-emceeing yindlela ethile yokuthetha kusetyenziswa umzimba. Uphando lwam lusebenbzisa indlela engenabo ubukoloniyayali ukuze ndifumane iikcukacha ezizizo zalenkcubeko ibaluleke kangaga kubantu bayo, kwaye ndifuna ukubeka phambili abantu behip-hop ukuze ndifumane izimvo ezingangxengwanga. I thesis yam ichaza futhi ihlalutye oko kwenziwa ngabantu abatsha ngehip-hop eKhayelitsha kwaye ijongisisa ukusebenzisana kwabo ekuqulunqweni kwemisitho afana nee cyphers, open mics ne studio jams. Lemisitho yasesidlandalaleni iveza indlela entsha yokwenza intshukumo naphina elokishini, iveza ubuwena ikwabonakalisa indawo yakho apha ekuhlaleni. I-rap yenziwa ngesiNgesi okanye ngomxube wesiXhosa saselokishini, i-tsistitaal kwenesiXhosa esintsonkothileyo (ibizwa ngokuba si – spaza). Umzila woo somishini bama koloniyali kwanalowo wengcinezelo nobandlululo usabonakala kakhulu kwiilwimi, kwezemfundo kwaye kuyabonakala nangembambano apha kwi hip-hop. Uninzi lwabantu behip-hop eKhayelitsha bayayiqonda into abayenzayo ngehip-hop ekwandiseni ukufundwa kwesiXhosa ngendlela yesiNtu, ingakumbi xa kusetyenziswa uhlobo lwe mbongi yomthonyama. Ihip-hop bayibona njengendlela yokuqhubela phambili ohlubo lukubonga olusetyenziswa ziimbongi zomthonyama ngoba abakubhalanga oko bakuthethayo futhi baqwalasela indima yembongi, amava nokutyibilika kokubetho kolwimi kubongwa izinyanya. Le thesis inegalelo kufundo lwehip-hop ngokuthi

ii kujongwe oko kwenziwa ngabantu abatsha ukuveza indlela abayibona ngayo impilo kumaxesha abaphila ngawo, konke ke oko bakuveza ngokuba ngoo emcee.

iii

For my beautiful son Malachi

I refused to let the pain of losing you be a reason for not finishing this thing. You were too light and beautiful to carry such a weight.

iv

Acknowledgements

Participants – my sincere gratitude to everyone who participated in this research and shared their stories with me. People in Cape Town hip-hop were overwhelmingly welcoming and supportive of my research.

Special thanks to people who introduced me to other artists, accompanied me to events, engaged in long discussions and collaborated on documenting hip-hop in Khayelitsha – Metabolism, Kideo, Mafiyana, Luyanda, Indigenous. I am indebted to your generosity. I am also grateful to Indigenous, Metabolism, Steel, Mashonisa, Phoenix, Kideo and Zanzolo for your thoughtful reflections and candid discussions. Big thanks to Saturn and Arsenic for the beats, and to Phumzile for the use of your recording studio!

To my Supervisors – Jennifer Biddle, for being so very, deeply understanding and supportive throughout the epic journey this has been and to Uros Cvoro – you came on board at the perfect time and helped get me through the last 18 months, thankyou. Thank you to the Anthropology Department at Macquarie University with whom I started this journey – special thanks to Greg Downey and Kalpana Ram for the initial encouragement and inspiration. I am grateful to the College of Fine Art, UNSW (now Art & Design, UNSW) for financing my fieldwork, and for two Postgraduate Research Student Support Conference Travel Fund Grants (2011 and 2013). Thank you to James G. Spady for blessing me with a scanned version of the intro to your personal copy of Tha Global Cipha when I was struggling to get a hold of your works in .

Thank you to Nick McClean for the in-depth discussions. Special thanks to Tamar Cohen for the anthropology talk and the Amazing Map and for just being awesome. Thank you to Linnet Pike for your support and encouragement. Myf and Jason, collectively you are my rock without which I surely would have been swept away. Special thanks to my mum for financial support and all the child care. Molly and Jish for your love, support and play dates. Thanks to my dad, and little brother Sariel for hanging with son, and to my brother Sam for encouraging me and helping out where you could. All the friends who have put up with my benign neglect and for the continuous encouragement and support: Atikah, Naeema, Gugu, Emma, Leona, Bloss, Sean, Shivaun, Elowyn, Alexander.

And most of all to my precious son Micah – for being a super sweet, considerate, and supportive little champion in the last few hectic months. And especially for enduring the last 3-week extension! I promise to never, ever, ever start another PhD ever.

v

Contents

Abstract ...... i Isishwankathelo ...... ii Acknowledgements ...... v List of Images ...... viii List of Figures ...... ix List of Participants ...... x Introduction ...... 1 Positionality ...... 6 Storytelling ...... 10 Background on hip-hop ...... 13 Khayelitsha and amaXhosa ...... 17 Chapter breakdown ...... 23 Chapter 1 Revolutionary but gangsta ...... 27 Hip-hop as a revolutionary reaction to rupture ...... 29 Commodification of hip-hop ...... 35 Text-centred approach ...... 37 A text/commodity approach in the literature on hip-hop in Cape Town ...... 39 Hip-hop as resistance: rap said it ...... 42 Cape Town hip-hop as resistance ...... 46 Contradiction of the inner ...... 47 Contradictions in Cape Town hip-hop ...... 48 Representation ...... 50 Fungwa Uhuru (Freedom of the Mind) ...... 52 Rap as a minor (oral) literature ...... 54 Conscientização and hip-hop ...... 57 Hip-hop’s collective context ...... 59 Conclusion ...... 62 Chapter 2 Methodology ...... 64 Ethnographic, phenomenological and decolonial approaches to hip-hop ...... 66 Methodology: phenomenological anthropology and decolonising research ...... 70 Phenomenological anthropology ...... 70 Embodiment ...... 71 Intersubjectivity ...... 75 Lived experience/immediacy ...... 76 Decolonising methodologies/anthropology/ethnography ...... 78 Methods ...... 81 Fieldwork techniques and logistics ...... 81 Positionality ...... 84 Method of writing ...... 88 Selecting ‘the field’: Khayelitsha ...... 89 Co-production of research data and ‘empowering’ participants ...... 92 Mixtape ...... 94 Fieldwork safety ...... 94 Limitations of the research ...... 95 Conclusion ...... 97 Chapter 3 Welcome to Kaltsha ...... 99

vi Welcome to Kaltsha ...... 100 Generations ...... 103 Debates in Cape Town hip-hop between generations ...... 105 Humour ...... 107 Genre ...... 110 Political rap and activism ...... 112 Uplifting message ...... 117 Umculo wezikoli – gangsta music ...... 120 Kideo’s first track: Nongqawuse ...... 124 Conclusion ...... 127 Chapter 4 Phenomenology of Hip-hop Activity ...... 129 Temporality ...... 132 Spatiality of hip-hop in the township ...... 137 Spaza hip-hop and eKasi, the ’hood, the township ...... 140 Cyphers and spontaneous improvised jams ...... 145 Collective intentionality and intercorporeality ...... 150 Open Mic ...... 155 Informal youth work ...... 159 Chapter 5 Language and Localisation ...... 166 Mimicry ...... 167 ‘Localisation’ and resistance ...... 169 Language, literacy and education in ...... 174 Language choice in Khayelitsha ...... 180 Local Tensions ...... 182 Chapter 6 Unhomeliness, locality and belonging ...... 190 Locality ...... 192 Identity and territory ...... 194 The first generation of hip-hop heads in Khayelitsha ...... 199 Post(neo)colonial condition ...... 203 Voice ...... 205 Xhosa: Tsotsitaal and deep Xhosa ...... 209 Conclusion ...... 216 Chapter 7 Xhosa culture, iimbongi and freestyle ...... 218 Some aspects of Xhosa modes of vocality ...... 219 Connecting the practice of iimbongi with emcees ...... 224 Imbongi ...... 228 Role of the poet: political commentary ...... 230 Improvisation and Freestyle ...... 233 Open platform ...... 236 Poetic forms: continuities and differences between traditional oral literature and emceeing ...... 238 The experience of ‘flow’ and divine inspiration ...... 240 Praising ancestors ...... 244 Conclusion ...... 248 Conclusion ...... 250 References ...... 263

vii List of Images

Image 1: Informal settlement, Makhaza, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) .... 19 Image 2: View from Lookout Hill, Khayelitsha, 2009, (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 20 Image 3: Manqoba performing, Sound Masters Album Launch, Lookout Hill, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 32 Image 4: Researcher at Kaltcha Kulcha park jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2009 (photo by T. Lamberis used with permission) ...... 86 Image 5: From left to right, Kideo, Shadow, van D, Mic Substance, Mashonisa, and Mxo, performing at Lookout Hill, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 109 Image 6: Phoenix, photo shoot for album cover, , Cape Town, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 122 Image 7: MC Phoenix outside his home in Site C, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 123 Image 8: MC Kideo in front of his home, Kuyasa, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 124 Image 9: Sound Masters Crew studio, Site B, Khayelitsha, 2011 (S. Dowsett) ...... 135 Image 10: A cypher with Equilibrium crew and Jargon at the centre at Kaltcha Kulcha Park Jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2009 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 149 Image 11: Backyard Crew performing at Monate Lounge, Long St, Cape Town, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 154 Image 12: Metabolism performing at Ragazzi Bar, Long St Cape Town 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 164 Image 13: Spaza shop sign, Kuyasa, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 178 Image 14: Informal shacks on the southern border of Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 183 Image 15: Two female gangs argue on the street oblivious to the sound system being set up, Site B, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 194 Image 16: MakOne painting wall in I Section during a park jam in 2009 (top) and Bazil Baxter and crew member re-painting the same wall at a park jam in 2011 (Photos by S. Dowsett) ...... 198 Image 17: Young children performing a mock cypher Kaltcha Kulcha park jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2009 (photo by T. Lamberis) ...... 199 Image 18: Undecided Crew performing at Kaltcha Kulcha Park Jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2009 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 203 Image 19: Kideo's makhulu (grandmother) and neighbours, call and response singing, Lady Frere District, , 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 219 Image 20: Brewing Umqomboti, Lady Frere, Eastern Cape, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 221 Image 21: Zanzolo and Pzho, outside Pzho's studio out the back of his home, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ...... 230

viii List of Figures

Figure 1: Map of Khayelitsha in relation to both the Cape Town Centre, and to the and Eastern Cape Provinces, 2016 (compiled by T. Cohen) ...... 89 Figure 2: Town planning map of Cape Town, 1950, cited in (UCT Libraries Digital Collections, n.d.) ...... 100

ix List of Participants

Name Year of Sex Raps in Schooling* Gener- Visits EC every year birth (language) ation** for cultural reasons*** Abstract 1980s M English n/a n/a From Queenstown Argo 1991 M isiXhosa township 2nd/3rd n/a Axo Early 1990s M isiXhosa township 2nd/3rd Y Black Vision Early 1990s M English township 2nd Moved to EC Cannon Early 1980s M English township 1st N Chura Agmaad 1989 M isiXhosa township 2nd/3rd Y Chaos 1992 M isiXhosa township 3rd Y Emage 1982 M isiXhosa township 1st Y El Nino Early 1990s M isiXhosa n/a 2nd n/a Endz Early 1980s F English n/a 1st From Durban Indigenous 1981 M n/a outside 1st N Kan 1987 F isiXhosa township 2nd n/a Kideo 1989 M isiXhosa township 2nd Y KOP 1990s M isiXhosa n/a 2nd/3rd Y Khusta 1982 M isiXhosa township 2nd N Lemzin Late 1980s M isiXhosa township 2nd Y Lyf Sentence M isiXhosa township 2nd Y Luyanda 1981 M isiXhosa township 2nd Moved to EC Madnes M isiXhosa township 2nd Y Mafiyana Early 1980s M English Model C 1st N Manqoba 1993 M isiXhosa township 2nd n/a Marco Early 1990s M isiXhosa township 2nd Y Mashonisa late-1980s M isiXhosa n/a 2nd n/a Mawethu 1982 M isiXhosa township 1st N Metabolism 1984 M English Model C 1st N Mic Substance 1992 F isiXhosa township 2nd N Mfura M isiXhosa township 2nd Y Phoenix 1986 M isiXhosa township 2nd n/a Phurah Chankura Late 1980s M isiXhosa outside 2nd n/a Pro X Late 1980s M isiXhosa township 2nd n/a Rattex Declined M isiXhosa n/a 1st n/a Rhamncwa 1979 M isiXhosa township 1st Lives in Rezevoir 1984 M isiXhosa township 2nd N Snarks Ou 1990s M isiXhosa township 2nd Y Soska 1990s M isiXhosa township 2nd n/a Steel 1983 M English Model C 1st N Stunywa Late 1980s M isiXhosa township 2nd Y Styles Early 1990s M isiXhosa township 2nd N Van de Merwe Late 1980s M isiXhosa township 2nd n/a Zanzolo 1986 M isiXhosa township 2nd Y

*Schools outside the township include Model C (ex-‘whites only’) schools and schools in neighbouring ‘coloured’ townships, or in Cape Town central **Although this is a generalisation and ‘generations’ are a somewhat loose category there have been roughly 3 phases of hip-hop in Khayelitsha: - 1st generation hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha started getting involved in hip-hop from the early 1990s until the late 1990s - 2nd generation artists were inspired by the 1st generation and started getting involved in hip-hop from around 2000 onwards - 3rd generation artists started when I began research – from 2008 onwards, that is, from the time that spaza hip-hop (rap in isiXhosa defined in more detail in Chapter Four) started ‘blowing up’ in the townships. ***This does not mean that they never go back for cultural reasons.

x Introduction

It all began one fine day in the rolling hills of Surry, just strolling All along my own way as there don’t be no hurry Just observing the street Taking in the mental projections of those stuck in concrete Thinking their exterior distractions operating so discrete All the while an interior satisfaction is becoming obsolete Yet ever more in my reaction I grow roots from my feet My deep, deep roots From which I grow new shoots Sprouting life Outing strife Fighting lies Swotting flies Hiking miles And striking lines of new direction I spread divine light as my protection… From evils of reduction to a life of destruction And tears The propagation of fears In opposition to my peers It’s an easy obstruction Of ill-tuned ears It’s a battle of those both far and near Searching from distant shores Touching closer to each of my pores And sending ripples through my hearts inner core Yet when strength wanes and breath fades I merely recall through the essence of my youth Another truth it’s the power of creation Our mother earth yes she is my inspiration So sit back and watch as my soul flourishes From my roots to my feet she feeds nourishment From my roots to my feet, my deep deep roots

When I rap this piece for people I always feel like I need to tell the story that goes with it. These lyrics territorialised the cityscape of Surry Hills, NSW, for me after I first moved to Sydney in 2003, when I wrote them. They made Sydney feel more comfortable, and they made me feel more at home in the stifling madness of the inner city. Like a child who sings in the dark (Deleuze & Guattari, 1987), I found a way to be at home despite the feeling of displacement – I found a place in the city for my deterritorialised bush-kid sensibility to make sense of. My feeling of displacement

1 found a home in hip-hop. Maybe then, for the first time, I discovered the transformative power of rap. This power was not solely based on giving texted expression, cognitive sense, to a feeling – of wording my experiences – it was a power deeply grounded in the certain kind of motility that hip-hop pulls language into – one deeply affectively structured through the body. The rhythm of this rap is a walking pace – of feet on a pavement. In writing this rap, I created my own little bubble which I could use to protect myself from the chaotic unfamiliar. The rap reoriented my relationship to a man-made space framed by concrete, and shifted my affective stance towards the city. For me, this is significant because of the profound shift it enabled in how I could walk the streets, move, feel, breathe, inhabit the city. This is what hip-hop music does for me. Emceeing1, for me, is a powerful means of transforming experience through storytelling-in-rhythm, of transforming space, of affect. The addition of timing, beat, motility adds another layer to the shift – it is no longer just a story; it is a form of sonic liberation from the ties of literal wording – words become percussive and acquire currency when their meter, form and shape fit nicely into bars, or alternatively lose meaning and purpose if they don’t feel right. The combination of the form, content and context of rap allows for differing things to come together at one time – a congruence or assemblage that is irreducible in this sense. Through the rhythm of the words, rap allows for something more than a story. Rhythm is felt – physically and mentally – at once in the pace of the rap, in the frequency and structure of rhyme, and in the patterns of the sonic quality of the content. The disjuncture between my own experience as a consumer and producer of hip- hop on one hand, and what I had read about global hip-hop on the other, provided the impetus for my research. My raps are, of course, intensely personal, as well as socially and culturally specific, grounded in habitus, body-schema and manifested in concept, in vocabulary and in mixing up the off-beat. And yet – and herein lies the crux of my research –although my experience was culturally and personally specific, it was nevertheless able to be understood and transformed by hip-hop, because hip-hop is a global form of experience and expression that clearly didn’t and doesn’t belong to me alone. If hip-hop has these kinds of effects on me, what is it doing elsewhere and to others? What is it that emceeing, as a rhythmic embodied mode of storytelling, allows?

1 In hip-hop a person who performs rap is called an MC. In this thesis I use both terms ‘MC’ and ‘emcee’. I use ‘MC’ mostly where it refers to a performer or performers and ‘emceeing’ when I use the term as a verb.

2 How does hip-hop allow for the expression of a deeply culturally formed corporeal- schema? What do the aesthetic conventions and bodily gestures of hip-hop, framed by hip-hop discourse and Hip-hop Nation Language (Alim, 2006b), enable? How can we research and write about hip-hop in a way that gets to the ‘stuff’ of experience, practice, activity, embodiment? How can we research the foot-tapping keeping words in time, the breath lapsing at the overcrowding of a line, and how a word changed shifts the meaning but keeps the flow divine? This thesis is an in-depth investigation into what a specific community of disenfranchised young people, in a particular place and time, are doing with hip-hop. What does it mean to do words with the body in a post-apartheid township of Cape Town, South Africa? What role is hip-hop playing in the lives of hip-hop artists in the place known as Khayelitsha? How does hip-hop allow: A form of creative expression, A way to process and negate emotional regression, A mode to shift the press of frustration, Protest oppression, Calm the post-traumatic stress, Suppress a request for land repossession, Redress the mess of white man’s expansion, And finally, fire up the blaze and bless up the nation?

This thesis explores how hip-hop provides ways for marginalised youth to make sense of and process the complex and multi-faceted ‘heavy situation’ they find themselves in. It explores how hip-hop serves to make sense of physical and cultural, familial and social, and geographic and emotional, displacement. This means, not just a ‘making sense’ in cognitive, rationally coherent terms but also, importantly, in the felt-ful terms of the senses and the lived experiences of the body. How can we better understand hip- hop’s potential for transforming the affective dimensions of private and public lives? What are the terms and conditions of this transformation? This thesis presents the original findings of ethnographic fieldwork conducted in Cape Town from 2008 to 2013 on hip-hop2 in Khayelitsha – a predominantly isiXhosa- speaking township on the outskirts of the ‘Mother City.’ The methodology combined phenomenology with approaches which aim to decolonise research. This was primarily an ethical decision, taken in order to account for the experience of hip-hop, to prioritise

2 There is a widely misunderstood (in the media and in academia) distinction between hip-hop and rap music. Hip-hop refers to hip-hop culture, which includes the main elements of , , breakdance, and emceeing, and is connected to live hip-hop scenes as opposed to rap music that may or may not be connected to hip-hop culture.

3 participants’ voices, and to ground the research in hip-hop artists’ own perspectives. This thesis utilises participatory reflexivity as a research method, and as a method of writing in order to render my subjectivity as the researcher, as transparent as possible. My experiences as a hip-hop artist myself who nevertheless was not a member of the society I was studying, has had important effects on the production and analysis of this research. In Khayelitsha there exists an underground, emcee-centred, hip-hop scene consisting of a number of regular live performance events. In order to unpack the complexity of this phenomenon, my thesis first analyses the intimate, street level of intercorporeal collectivity-making of live performance. It then analyses how hip-hop serves to remake township locality through embodied practice and through tensions of local language use. And finally, it analyses Xhosa cultural and historical modes of en- voicing that are enabled by emceeing. As a phenomenological ethnography of the adaptation by youth in South Africa of a global, performative, storytelling, musical practice, my research is a crucial contribution to multiple fields. The exploration of how hip-hop is taking shape in Khayelitsha requires a multidisciplinary approach. My research makes an important contribution to the established field of phenomenological anthropology (such as Biddle, 1993, 2007; Csordas, 1990, 1993; Desjarlais & Throop, 2011; Downey, 2002; Howes, 2003; Jackson, 1983, 1996, 1998; Ram, 2012, 2015; Ram & Houston, 2015; Stoller, 1989, 1995)3 by applying this approach to Xhosa-speaking hip-hop in Khayelitsha and attending to the unconscious intercorporeal aspects of emceeing. My research also contributes to the anthropology of hip-hop which dates back to early pioneering works such as Keyes (1991), Rose (1994a) and Spady and Eure (1991). However, it has only been in recent years that there has been a growing number of ethnographic accounts of hip-hop (such as Condry, 2006; Fernandes, 2011; A. K. Harrison, 2009; Ibrahim, 2014; Johnson, 2009; Maxwell, 2003; Morgan, 2009; Williams & Stroud 2010; Schloss, 2011; Smith, 2005; Turner, 2010). A small number of scholars utilise a phenomenological approach to hip-hop such as Spady’s specific approach (as eloquently outlined by Yancy, 2013), Spady and Alim (1999), Maxwell (2003), Johnson (2009) with attention to the body and the live performance context (also, Kline, 2007; Williams & Stroud, 2013). Work on affect in hip-hop and education (Ibrahim, 2003; Petchauer, 2012) and

3 Although there are many other examples of phenomenological anthropology I have listed examples here that I use later in this thesis.

4 performativity (Ibrahim, 2003; Pennycook, 2007a) is also relevant here. My research contributes directly to this literature through the application of Merleau-Ponty’s (1962, 1964) notion of corporeal-schema to my analysis of hip-hop in Khayelitsha. My research also contributes to key phenomenological ethnographies of popular music, in the field of ethnomusicology, such as Erlmann’s (1996) research on in South Africa, Berger’s (1999, 2009) notion of ‘stance’ and his research on metal, rock and jazz and Walser’s (1993) work on heavy metal; and more generally, of music in South Africa (Coplan, 2007; Erlmann, 1999; Ansell, 2004). Rap is more than music; it is an oral storytelling tradition, and it has been treated as such by writers in the USA who ground their analysis in historical oral traditions (such as Alim, 2006b; Gates, 2010; Smitherman, 2006; Spady, 2013). My thesis treats rap as a ‘verbal art’ (Bauman, 1975) and contributes to the literature on Xhosa oral traditions (Mafeje, 1967; Opland, 1998; Kaschula, 1993) and to the literature on verbal art and folklore in Africa more generally (Barber, 1987, 2007; Finnegan, 2007; Furniss & Gunner, 1995). My approach to conducting fieldwork, and my commitment to developing decolonising methods in the field contributes to the recent conversation in South African universities in 2015 regarding the decolonisation of universities, knowledge and research in South Africa that was triggered by the #RhodesMustFall and #FeesMustFall student movements. Much of this conversation is happening on the ground between students, and is given voice by lecturers4 speaking out about these issues. This thesis answers the calls of black anthropologists (Mafeje, Magubane, Nyamnjoh) in South Africa for decolonising anthropology and implements some of the methods appropriate to decolonising research. As such, I hope to contribute towards the development of culturally appropriate indigenous research protocols. This introductory chapter outlines my positionality as a researcher, writer and performer, and situates this research within both the broader context of anthropology and of social research in South Africa. This is a move towards addressing the need for decolonising research methods and knowledge production. It is necessary for framing my approach to researching hip-hop, and for a phenomenological investigation of hip- hop practice, in order to understand the experience of performance. It locates my approach to the field of hip-hop studies, and provides a loose definition of what hip-hop

4 Such as Achille Mbembe (2015) and Kelly Gillespie’s ‘open letter’ to a government Minister Pravin Gordhan (treasury) published on social media in late 2016 calling for intervention in the militarisation of campuses resulting in the violent suppression of student protests involving stun grenades and rubber bullets at the University of the Witswatersrand.

5 is in relation to its historical emergence. I conclude this chapter with a breakdown of the rest of the chapters in the thesis.

Positionality The story of my relationship to hip-hop, how I started rapping, and how I ended up going to South Africa to research hip-hop, needs to be told in order to situate my own position within the research process. The anthropologist is a tool in ethnographic research and as such they are never neutral (Denzin, 2002). I make no claims to being a detached or objective observer. On the contrary, I am deeply emotionally and sonically attached to hip-hop, and my own history imbues this thesis. Indeed, in Chapter Two, I argue specifically for the importance of being an embodied, attached, intersubjective researcher in modelling a phenomenological approach to hip-hop research. Having grown up, as it were, as a subject framed by, and accustomed to framing her experience of life through hip-hop, my very ways of doing and being in the world – what I am attentive to, what I see and how I hear – has enabled me to draw a very specific kind of story from the field. The productive effects of my insider status as a hip-hop artist, as well as the limits this status equally brings, shape this story. As an anthropology student of the post-1970’s Writing Culture debates, I am acutely aware of the importance of both positionality and reflexivity in ethnography. I am a white woman. I am a mother. I am a sister, a daughter, and a practitioner of hip- hop. I am a spoken word poet and a ‘bit of an MC.’ Growing up with a feminist mother who took me to ‘Reclaim the Street’ rallies before I started school, let me watch The Color Purple at a young age, and never shaved under her arms meant that feminism was something I learnt how to do with my body before I knew what it was in theory. I remain deeply committed to liberation from all forms of oppression. I was raised below the (Australian) poverty line by a single mother, and I grew up with two older brothers on an alternative community (multiple occupancy with twelve other families) in a very alternative, and notorious, town in the lush subtropical north-eastern part of New South Wales, Australia. These things all made me who I am, and consequently affected my interactions in the field. This thesis does not explicitly consider gender, at least not outside of or distinct from the context of how hip-hop is taking shape in Khayelitsha. It does not look at masculinity or femininity as it is portrayed in hip-hop. It doesn’t examine ‘masculinity’

6 in lyrics or ‘femininity’ in lyrics. I found hip-hop spaces in Cape Town, like most public hip-hop spaces generally, to be male dominated but definitely not exclusively male. Women have been involved in hip-hop since its beginning (see Keyes, 2000). Women were a strong force and were present as audience members and performers at every gig I went to in Khayelitsha, even if they were often outnumbered. This was very different from the hip-hop scene in Sydney I had been attending regularly from 2005, which were far more male-dominated and gender exclusive.5 In Khayelitsha, male organisers (and audiences) at open mic events uptown and in the townships were very supportive of me and of other women performing. I began fieldwork for this thesis in Cape Town and brought with me my own aesthetic preferences and biases. My history of embodied consumption and production of beats and rhymes, and my own experience of what hip-hop can do (for a white lady from the hills), had already set the stage. I also brought experience in researching hip- hop with me to the field. In 2006, for my fourth-year undergraduate major or honours thesis research (as it is called in Australia), I conducted interviews and fieldwork in the Sydney hip-hop scene, which I had been involved in for a few years. My honours thesis research focused on testimony and resistance in Indigenous hip-hop through the framework of trans-generational trauma. At that time, hip-hop workshops with Indigenous youth in urban and remote communities fostered confidence and promoted Indigenous languages and connection to culture, and as such, served as a counter-measure to at least some of the pressing issues of trans-generational trauma. I wondered what function hip-hop could serve outside of the directed attention of hip-hop workshops. How might local language and culture manifest in organic, underground hip-hop scenes? Can hip-hop in its ‘organic’ form help address the cultural destruction caused by colonisation and oppression? Does hip-hop ‘naturally’ develop critical consciousness? Reading literature on global hip-hop for the first time in 2006, I was struck by the claims about hip-hop’s inherent ‘resistance’ and how consistently the authors of this literature left out the emcee’s own perspectives and failed to ground artists within the hip-hop scene of which they were a part. Often, grand sweeping statements were made about what hip-hop was doing, without grounding such claims in the local hip-hop

5 This is not to imply that there were no female emcees in Sydney. There was one whom I eventually met up with for a freestyle session. Other female emcees like Macromantics, MC Trey, and Maya Jupiter who came out of Sydney were not involved in the underground open mic sessions that I was attending. I find Australian hip-hop much more male dominated than South African hip-hop.

7 scene, and without qualifying such claims through the emcee’s own perspectives, or through audience reception, or through its actual impact on the local scene or broader society. Claims about what hip-hop in a given country is doing are often based on a handful of lyrics from a few of the most popular artists. As rap music gained notoriety and commercial success, and as hip-hop culture was taken up by youth all over the world, literature on the topic exploded. Much of this literature focuses on rap and often conflates rap with hip-hop (see Forman 2002; Chang 2006) and it is preoccupied with a need to prove hip-hop’s ‘negative’ or ‘positive’ capacities and influences on youth based on semiotic analyses of lyrics. As such, hip- hop is often reduced to text, overshadowing its non-lyrical elements, including its aesthetic forms, collective ethos and performative context. Two major problems with such approaches, as outlined in Chapter One, are an inadequate consideration of the specific ways in which power operates, and a foregrounding of text (or linguistics) as productive of subjectivities without consideration of unconscious, pre-textual, pre- linguistic, or extra-lyrical, processes. The performance of rap, I argue in this thesis, demonstrates ways in which modes of power can be reclaimed through the body – through posture, stance, attitude and gesture, and through the en-voicing that emceeing enables. Berger (2009, p. 21) in developing a notion of ‘stance’ in phenomenological terms as the ‘affective’ and embodied ‘engagement of the subject with her object’ I seek to develop an understanding of hip-hop’s political capacities through the body. For myself, gender politics are tied to hip-hop’s transformative effects. One of the most powerful songs I have ever heard in hip-hop is ‘Mission Improbable’ by What What6 (1999). The impact of the song was far-reaching in my life and has little to do with any literal meaning of the lyrics. In this track, simple, clean, funky-as-hell beats compel the listener down a pathway directly following the MC’s narrative. Her vocals skip back and forth across the beat, speeding up, and then, casually slowing down to fall back on beat. The track is a narrative of an escape from a government abduction – of waking up to secret service men coming through the window and taking the MC on a ride – blindfolded – to an island where she has a meeting with the president. But her people show up just in time to bust her out. It is like an action movie in song form and the hero just happens to be a heroine.

6 Now known as Jean Grea. She grew up in but is the daughter of renowned South African jazz Abdulah Ibrahim of Dollar Brand, and jazz singer Sathima Bea Benjamin.

8 The power of the song for me lies in the lyrical skill of the MC. This was the first track that I had heard from a female MC that mentioned nothing of her gender and did not promote or defend herself as a female rapper. It did not argue for her recognition as a ‘dope’7 MC. There is no need to mention any of this because it is obvious to the listener. Her skill as an MC matches that of any other MC – regardless of gender – that would dare to step up.8 The President’s men try to kidnap her and bring her in, seemingly for interrogation, but the narrative ends with her crew outsmarting the secret service men and kicking them off the island. The implication is that not even the president and his top security forces can mess with the MC’s crew: ‘here’s a lesson never ever fuck with me and my crew, check it.’ This implies, as is common in hip-hop, that none can defeat her: regardless of whether it is a physical contest or a hip-hop battle, her crew will always come out on top. The impact of this track lies in the implicit, humble confidence about what happens when two men with guns wake her up. She takes a moment to check her watch for the time and to put her slippers on, before going with them. She remains calm ‘what would you do in this situation?/ No place to run in a remote location/ Kept my patience, and stuck to the tape’s advice/Knew my crew would find me with the Negro Tracking Device/ I wasn’t worried…’. Far from fearing for her life, or worrying about the likely sexual abuse, she controls her annoyance with her captors and does not become fearful or impatient. In the art of storytelling, what matters is the way we tell a story in context, or how things are done beyond the lyrics. The space that Jean Grae creates in this track is one that spoke to me as a female consumer of hip-hop and made me want to rap. I felt it was a space that I could lyrically inhabit, Comfortably with practice, With room to move In and out of a feminist praxis, Aligning embodied memories with action. If you don’t women can be strong rather than passive Assertive, confident, and sassy, rather than meek, receptive and inactive You need to check a lioness defending her cubs from the masses.

Hip-hop can be a solace for a weary feminist. It offers a somewhat socially sanctioned mode of ‘bodily comportment’ for expressing the ‘potential wildness’ (Ram, 2012) of

7 In hip-hop the term ‘dope’ means ‘awesome’. For example, the chorus of an Outkast (2000) song is, ‘Ain’t nobody dope as me/ I’m dressed so fresh and clean’ but in this case it also means looking good and stylish. 8 And engage in a battle (competition).

9 woman. Or it can externalise in stark light the dark night of misogynist patriarchy we must face ‘on the daily.’ In either case, it en-voices female-specific attitudes and orientations that cannot otherwise simply be ‘said.’

Storytelling This thesis argues that a phenomenological approach to emceeing is necessary in order to appreciate the complexities of hip-hop as an embodied transformative aesthetic. Emceeing provides an immediate experience of hip-hop in action as an embodied performative practice in context and in place. It provides access to an encounter with life forms taking shape in the contemporary world that would not otherwise be possible. The hip-hop works that this thesis documents are largely unavailable outside the live contexts in in which they were performed in a township or Cape Town. Some select recordings are disseminated via P2P (peer-to-peer) file sharing for free, or sold hand to hand. Any other form of recording or distribution is too expensive. Record deals are rare. Only a handful of video recordings and music clips, uploaded by the artists themselves, are available on YouTube. A few artists have some of their tracks on music social media sites such as Soundcloud, Myspace and Reverbnation. In Khayelitsha, Xhosa youth are utilising storytelling performance with specific purposes for their own lives and communities. In this context, the storytelling of hip- hop’s distinctive ‘self-narration’ (Yancy, 2013, p. 77) can re-define the experience of an event. It can turn the storyteller into the hero, the villain, the victim, or the innocent bystander. White and Epston (1990, p. 3) use a model of narrative therapy in their counselling work based on the principle that ‘it is the meaning that [people] attribute to events that determines their behaviour … rather than some underlying structure or dysfunction’ . They focus on the way in which social texts function through the selection of ‘facts’ considered relevant to a particular interpretation of the meaning of events ‘in striving to make sense of life’ (White & Epston, 1990, p. 10). This is akin to the anthropologist Michael Jackson’s (2006, p. 15) description of ‘storytelling as a vital human strategy for sustaining a sense of agency in the face of disempowering circumstances’. That is, it is not only what we tell, but also the act of telling that has a powerful existential effect. Storytelling is a means of having some control over events: ‘[o]ne acts instead of being acted on. Rather than being a mere creature of fate, one connives in one’s own destiny’ (Jackson, 1998, p. 123). Emceeing as a mode of

10 storytelling provides youth with a powerful tool for reordering events, for existentially contesting dominant discourses. While much has been written on counter discourses in hip-hop in general (Alim, 2006b; P. McLaren, 1997; Perry, 2004; Pulido, 2009; Rose, 1994a), and in Cape Town hip-hop in particular (Haupt, 2003, 2004b, 2008; Künzler, 2011), there has been no systematic examination of how emcee-centred hip-hip operates at an existential, embodied level in terms of its political potential. It is widely noted that hip-hop is ‘empowering’ but how? For whom is it empowering, and on whose terms? Furthermore, it is often assumed that simply producing counter-narratives has an effect on the world, and the capacity to produce counter-narratives is often un-problematically equated with agency. Coffey and Farruglia (2014) note the ambiguity of ‘agency’ in youth studies and the pressing need to clarify its parameters. Counter-discourses can make one feel powerless when they fall on deaf ears, when they fail to effect tangible change, when we fail to live up to our own principles, or when we fail to represent our own re- definitions of our subjectivities. Counter-discourses may in fact, at times, heighten the sense of a distinct lack of agency. I argue that we need to understand the affective effects of hip-hop concretely and materially. Furthermore, the notion of agency that dominates in the social sciences assumes that the individual agent is universally the focal point of action, neglecting cross- cultural perspectives (Markus & Kitayama, 2003). How does hip-hop storytelling allow youth to claim and exercise individual and collective agency? What kind of agency does this storytelling enable? Jackson (2005, pp. xxx–xxxi) suggests that agency among underprivileged populations ‘is less a matter of transcendence than endurance – less a matter of freewill than of working within the limits placed on one by birth’. How do the unconscious and sensory aspects of hip-hop as an embodied aesthetics give youth a form of agency? What are its capacities as an aesthetics of endurance? What does an analysis of movement, of voice, and of affect provide in this context? The role of aesthetics – of story, poetry, song and music in South Africa – has a long and established history in the struggle against apartheid. The history of township performance particularly, through theatre (Coplan, 1986), radio (Gqibitole, 2007), and music and song (Blacking, 1995; Coplan, 2007), demonstrates high social consciousness, activism and localised strategies for maintaining culturally distinctive ways of being, of expressing, and of making sense, that took shape outside of apartheid’s administrative gaze.

11 One aspect of hip-hop’s seminal role is its capacity to bear witness to trauma. It is a premise of this thesis that the root causes of the impoverishment and social ills affecting the historically oppressed populations of South Africa are to be found in the complex, compounded, trans-generational traumatic effects of colonisation and the racial oppression of apartheid. I use the concept of trans-generational trauma in order to politicise and historically contextualise apartheid directly, rather than pathologising or blaming the populations it affects most. This counteracts more dominant and pervasive characterisations of South African oppressed populations as personally responsible for their own circumstances. Formal testimony can itself be thought of as a form of storytelling. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) utilised first-person storytelling, and the act of witnessing was itself a form of cathartic purpose-serving that went some way towards ‘healing’ or integrating traumatic incidents for both the victims and for the nation-state (Truth and Reconciliation Commission, 1998; Ross, 2003; Krog, 1998). However, the process only recognised a narrow definition of trauma, despite various groups lobbying for a broadening the mandate of the TRC. Consequently, the TRC failed to address the ‘injustices of apartheid as a legalized system of oppression’ (Craps, 2010, p. 56) and as Mamdani (cited in Craps, 2010, p. 56) argues that in order to address the traumatic reality of apartheid the TRC would have had to ‘put centre-stage the experience of apartheid as a banal reality’. In 1987, Gillian Straker (2013) defined the experience under apartheid as one of ‘continuous traumatic stress’ but this appreciation of a more totalising, comprehensive, experience of colonialism as trauma has only recently been more widely recognised globally (Atkinson, 2002; Craps, 2010; Gagne, 1998; Robin, Chester, & Goldman, 1996). The broader project of acknowledging the traumatising life-world conditions created by colonisation, apartheid and continuing oppression, requires forms of storytelling, testifying and witnessing that can address the everyday ‘banal realities’ of their ongoing existence. While this thesis does not explicitly address the trans- generational trauma, collective trauma, or complex trauma that is evident in day-to-day township life, my research must be understood as operating within this broader framework. My research took shape amongst youth struggling to get to performances daily, nightly, without getting mugged or stabbed. They were dealing with loss and grief, with witnessing community violence, community retaliatory justice, gross economic inequality and daily racial discrimination. They were straddling the divides

12 between Christ and Qamata9, and between dominant concepts of ‘culture’ in South Africa and peoples’ own direct experiences of culture and its inequities. They experienced these divides as they lived their lives on a day-to-day basis. Hip-hop is one way of making sense of these things – again, not necessarily or always cognitive sense, but a ‘felt-ful’ sense amidst the noise and crowding din of chaos. Underground hip-hop culture in Khayelitsha is not a panacea. It addresses in specific ways only some key aspects of the complexities of racial oppression, trans- generational trauma, and ongoing traumas of township life. The legacy of colonisation and apartheid manifests in the townships in deep impoverishment, community violence, the breakdown of family and community relations, drug and alcohol abuse, gang violence and crime. The organic community work of hip-hop functions as a counter-pull to forms of trans-generational trauma and in certain ways it has the potential to be a decolonising force. This function of hip-hop can only be understood through a consideration of embodiment and intersubjectivity and requires a specific type of context to come into being – that is, an urban environment with a dense population facing historical impoverishment and oppression.

Background on hip-hop Hip-hop as it emerged in in the 1970s was a deliberate effort to overcome the rupture of the ghetto – the ongoing and irresolvable rupture of living in the destructive wake of the construction of the cross-city expressway, the rupture of neglect by city services and the state, the rupture of and colonialism – by creating a new set of creative, social, collective practices. It accepted rupture but refused to be defined by it, resisted its pull, refused to be limited by the gravity of trans-generational trauma, and instead channeled the experience of the ghetto into something that shifted that very experience of the ghetto. Appadurai (1996, p. 198) states that, ‘locality is always emergent from the practices of local subjects in specific neighbourhoods’. The radical and political aspect of hip-hop as it emerged in the Bronx in the 1970s was not that it represented ‘the local’ to the outside, to the world, or that it represented ‘the ghetto’ or the ‘voice of black America’. Rather, it radically transformed the locality of the Bronx. Out of a burnt out, crumbling, neglected, hostile situation in the South Bronx, there

9 The supreme being among the Xhosa of which the ancestors are intermediaries.

13 emerged a set of creative practices whose aesthetic is deeply grounded in the rupture of the ghetto. In the documentary From Mambo to : A South Bronx Tale (Chalfant, 2006) Bom 5, a graffiti artist and b-boy10, recalls being a gang member and going to a party hosted by , pioneer of hip-hop. He explains that they were suspicious and hesitant at first, as they thought the party was a set-up. On previous occasions, what appeared to be parties had involved gang members being locked inside and shot by rival gangs. At the party, Bambaataa stopped the music and explained that everyone was welcome and that the party was about unity and ending violence. After that ‘Bam kept it in the park… where everyone could go in there… you’re moms could go in there’ (cited in Chalfant, 2006). That is, Bambaataa deliberately kept parties outside to make them more safe, more inclusive, more public, so that everybody felt welcome and could join in. This situation contextualises Jeff Chang’s (2007, p. 65) comment that, ‘the essence of hip-hop is the cipher, born in the Bronx, where competition and community feed each other. It is here that hip-hop always returns’. The importance of key members of the early party scene in turning the tide of gangsterism is evident as Grandmaster Flash recalls in an interview: At this time, the Bronx was ruled by street gangs – , Savage Skulls, and Casanovas. These gangs would call a truce at Kool Herc's parties. Afrika Bambaataa formed the as a peaceful alternative to fighting. battles developed as a way to "diss" rivals without anyone getting hurt. “Bambaataa played a major part,” Flash says. “He took all the different cliques and transformed fighting against each other into a more positive energy. Kool Herc had his way of doing it and I had my way. If people had beef and started something, I would shut the music down. The block party thing caused peace in the neighbourhood.” (Purcell, 2009) .

Hip-hop channelled gang affiliation, rivalry, hostility into a creative outlet. It also provided an avenue, through the development of ‘crews,’11 for the sense of family that gangs had created. It took the locality of the South Bronx – the feeling, the gang collectivism and the confrontations and flipped12 it. Bom 5 claims that the South Bronx brought with it an adversarial mentality. He recalls that ‘it was like fighting’ (Chalfant, 2006) and that gang fighting and rivalry were channeled into hip-hop. Breaking and rap

10 Breakdancer, break-boy, or breaker. 11 In hip-hop a ‘crew’ is a small group of artists usually tied to place – to a specific neighbourhood – who, in any element (rap, DJ, graffiti, breaking) work together and compete in battles against other crews (see Rose, 1994a, pp. 10-11, 43). 12 To flip is a hip-hop term that can mean to flip (as in turn over or reverse) the meaning, function or use of something.

14 crews provided a positive, life-affirming, creative alternative to the pervasive gang culture and redirected the relentless frustration of the ghetto, the alienation from the city and ‘the American dream.’ This was a different way of bringing bodies together – it produced new and productive forms of collectivity. Skott-Myhre (2012, p. 41-43) argues that ‘what becomes the necessary political act’ in the war zone-like situation of the ghetto is the maintenance of ‘spaces in which dwelling can occur’, that is, ‘to refuse alienation in favour of bodies creating together’. Following the mass commodification and commercialisation of rap music (that is, its co-option by a music industry capitalising on new black cultural forms), hip-hop became detached from the live collective contexts it had emerged from. Patrick Turner (2010, p. 45), following Gwendolyn Pough argues that the reduction of hip-hop to rap music ‘serves utterly to mask the grassroots hip-hop cultural nexus and its powerfully pervasive collective ethos’. However, around the world underground hip-hop scenes maintain the tradition of regular live performance events. Underground hip-hop is synonymous with hip-hop culture as opposed to rap music. At the core of the underground is people coming together in live hip-hop scenes based on open mike sessions, emcee and b-boy/B-girl battles, and performances which are held at bars, clubs, empty allotments, parks, basketball courts, abandoned buildings, street corners or community halls. As hip-hop spread throughout the world local underground hip-hop scenes developed. Yet, these scenes – that is, what people on the ground, at the forefront of maintaining hip-hop culture, are doing, saying, thinking – are rarely mentioned in the literature. Imani Perry (2004, p. 202) argues that, ‘Underground artists are those not defined by the co-opting frame of mass cultural production, but who see as their primary frame of reference the hip-hop community’. In this thesis, I argue that it is this collective ethos that is at the heart of hip-hops’ politic. It is from the ethos of collectivity in hip-hop that I take my definition of hip-hop. Collectivity is the key to understanding what youth are doing with hip-hop in Khayelitsha. Hip-hop is difficult to define. In this thesis I treat hip-hop as an activity, as a process, not a product. While the products of hip-hop are many, this thesis writes against the tendency to limit discussions of hip-hip to an analysis of musical product or commodity. Harry Allen (2006) argues that, due to the difficulties involved, any definition of ‘real hip-hop’ will inevitably be loose. Hip-hop is most often defined in terms of four main elements – emceeing, breaking, graffiti and turntablism (with

15 knowledge often claimed as the fifth element). Yet all these elements rarely appear together in the same place at the same time. It took me a long time to appreciate what exactly the organic connection between these elements is. It wasn’t until I watched hip- hop films like Beat Street (1984) and Wildstyle (1983), and read more about the lived situation in the Bronx in the 1970s, that I began to understand how hip-hop was a productive, creative, response to rupture, and how the different elements converged at parties, and in live performances at public, collective places. Even though the elements split and rarely manifest together, hip-hop is still grounded in collective live performances, where embodied and emplaced experience and expression take unique shape. Any analysis of hip-hop must account for the primacy of hip-hop events. When hip-hop emerged, the elements ‘were united in one never-to-reappear “superforce,”’ (Allen, 2006, p. 7). The four elements emerged together ‘as a lived culture – you had to be there, you had to be in it – and it continues to grow as such all around the world every single day’ (Chang, 2006, p. xiii). In the early 1980s hip-hop music videos and films inspired the manifestation of hip-hop culture all over the world with an aspiration to represent all four elements. Although the elements split and it is rare for them all to be present in one event, something of the lived culture is carried on. Allen (2006, p. 8) reflects on a moment at the Fourth Annual Battle Sounds Turntablist Festival when he watched the highly skilled DJ Qbert from Invisibl Scratch Piklz perform: I realize I am not seeing a manifestation of “true” or “original” hip-hop – as many are wont to proclaim these days … “Turntablism” isn’t “real hip-hop” any more than, as it’s often said, “rap” – the commercialisation of MCing into 4:30 arrangements of rhymes in pop-song structure for radio play – is “hip-hop”.

Although the elements split and developed on their own there was a form of collectivity that was maintained. Allen also understood that in the performance he was watching, there was something that resembled ‘real hip-hop’– which is signified by Allen’s noting of the presence of preeminent DJs at the event ‘scattered throughout the gathering’ – that caused him to reflect that an event that would by all accounts be recognised as ‘real hip-hop’ was in fact not like the ‘original’ thing. So, what was it that signified the ‘real’? From the footage of the documentary Scratch, which filmed this performance, you can see the DJs were set up intimately close to the crowd, and on the same level. You can see the close connection with the crowd – the flow, or ‘communitas,’ to borrow

16 Turner’s (1969) term. This thesis argues that an understanding of what hip-hop does must account for, begin with, live performance culture. A core practice in hip-hop is remixing. Hip-hop is characterised by an aesthetics of disruption and refusal. It belies and transgresses borders and boundaries through the creative use of limited available resources – technology, culture, social, the physical environment – in a project of making the world anew, making selves anew, making ‘something out of nothing’. As hip-hop has taken root globally, local language, culture and music practices have become resources that hip-hop pulls into itself and ‘remixes.’ Experimentation and the creative up-cycling of technology and social praxis are inherent to a hip-hop aesthetic and mode of being. Hip-hop created an open-platform party tradition where battles (competitions) are held between dancers, emcees and DJs. Rivalry amongst graffiti writers became a reason to hone skills and a means of acquiring social status and recognition in situations where youth were expected to amount to little. This involved reinventing tradition and recasting meaning. It meant not just ‘making do’ with what is available but making different – using limited available resources to model ways of being that not only express experience but transform it. How hip-hop has been taken up outside the USA, and what people ‘do’ with it, intimately embodies and reflects localised socio-historical contexts and distinct cultural- linguistic and political frameworks. Many of these so-called new contexts are not, however, new to hip-hop’s own sensibilities. Nor are these contexts secondary to hip- hop’s transformative capacities. The ultimate question driving the research is: What are youth on the ground doing with hip-hop? This thesis argues that this question can only be answered through a phenomenological ethnographic methodology that pays close attention to, and allows careful analysis of, hip-hop as a collective activity based on live performance. I went to Cape Town to find out how local culture, social tensions, and modes of storytelling come together and are forged by hip-hop scenes. I deliberately steered clear of the more mainstream and well-known artists in Cape Town and confined my research to a township in order to explore grassroots developments in hip-hop.

Khayelitsha and amaXhosa The term ‘Xhosa’ is today used to refer collectively to what are historically a number of different groups, or chiefdoms (Kaschula, 1997b, p. 9), speaking dialects of the Nguni

17 language of isiXhosa (Zulu, Swazi, Ndebele and Sotho are the other Nguni Languages). The main isiXhosa-speaking groups (among many) are the Xhosa, the Thembu, the Mpondo and Mpondomise (Peires,1981, p. 18). There are over eight million isiXhosa speakers in South Africa with 78.8% residing in the Eastern Cape and 24.7% in the Western Cape (of which Cape Town is the capital) (Lehohla, 2012). Prior to European colonisation, the area now known as Cape Town belonged to the Goringhaiqua and Gorachoqua, Khoi groups, who used it as seasonal grazing land and for impermanent settlement (Worden, Heyningen & Bickford-Smith, 1998, p. 16). These groups and the Cochoqua Khoi group to the north of Cape Town resisted Dutch settlement and engaged in various skirmishes in the late 1600s. The major colonial wars, known as the Frontier Wars, were between the Dutch voortrekkers, or Boers, and the amaXhosa,13 and later between the British colonists and the amaXhosa, as both European groups expanded to the east coast, encroaching on amaXhosa territory from the late 1700s onwards. Missionaries settled and set to work trying to convert the amaXhosa from their ancestor religion and their belief in the supreme-being Qamata. In 1956, following military defeat and an epidemic of lung sickness amongst the cattle, a millenarian movement began with a prophecy from a young woman, Nongqawuse, which called for the slaughter of cattle and the razing of crops as a cleansing ritual after which the dead would rise and drive the British into the sea (Peires, 1989). This prophecy exacerbated the divisions between converts to Christianity and non-converts – between believers and non-believers – and contributed to a complex relationship between and their culture and the national, public discourse on culture. This was further complicated by apartheid rhetoric that couched segregation, forced relocation, and racist labour laws in terms of a warped idea of ‘cultural preservation’. Initial anthropological research on Xhosa people in urban settlements, starting with Monica Wilson’s (1936) Reaction to Conquest, focused on the idea of cultural contact and the preservation or continuity of tradition. Later, research on the ‘Xhosa in Town’ (Mayer, 1962; Pauw, 1974; Reader, 1960) documented the ‘cultural resistance’ of migrants to ‘modernity’ as well as the apparent ‘split’ between what has been termed ‘traditional’ Xhosa (also called ‘red Xhosa’ due to the red ochre they wore or amaQaba, meaning ‘red people’) and Christian Xhosa (also called ‘school’ Xhosa or amaGqoboka). Bernard Magubane (1973, p. 1706) critiqued these works for failing to

13 the prefix ‘ama-’ mean people, however it is common for youth in Khayelitsha to drop the prefixes.

18 account for class differences, for not accounting for the socio-historical context of oppression and for failing to ask such questions as, ‘What is the African’s attitude to his partially destroyed culture?’.

Image 1: Informal settlement, Makhaza, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) The anthropology of amaXhosa in the 1960s has also been criticised for reifying this apparent split between ‘school’ and ‘red’ people (Mafeje, 1971). Mafeje’s own research recognised the differences within Xhosa society but did not portray them as rigid divisions (see Wilson & Mafeje, 1963). The focus of anthropology of the Xhosa in the 1960s was also criticised at the time it was published for potentially reinforcing the rhetoric of apartheid and enabling the apartheid rulers to use cultural continuity, and cultural difference, as excuses for continuing to impose racist policies of separate cultural development (Gluckman, 1975). Some of the areas in East London where the original research was conducted were destroyed under the apartheid practice of forced relocation, but Leslie Bank (2011) recently undertook historical ethnographic research into Xhosa social identity in the surviving townships. Bank’s work reveals a complex

19 relationship between migrants and the city, and between rural and urban identities. My research reveals the diverse ways in which hip-hop manifests such historical tensions but also at times allows youth to work through them, and move beyond such binaries.

Image 2: View from Lookout Hill, Khayelitsha, 2009, (photo by S. Dowsett) Khayelitsha was established in 1983, approximately 30km from Cape Town city centre (see Figure 1 in Chapter Two), to house isiXhosa-speaking14 people forcibly relocated from other parts of Cape Town under the of 1950. Some parts of Khayelitsha consist of brick housing as can be seen in Image 2 while other parts consist of informal shacks (see Image 1) built from corrugated iron or zinc, and mostly recycled wood, windows, doors. The population according to the 2011 Census is 391,749 (Statistics South Africa, n.d.) . However, due to the fact that over half the population in Khayelitsha live in informal dwellings or ‘shacks’ the population is difficult to accurately quantify with others estimating approximately 750,000 (Graham, Giles, Krause, & Lange, 2011, p. 68). In Khayelitsha 98.62% of the population are ‘Black African’ and 90.54% of people have isiXhosa as their first language (Statistics South Africa, n.d.), and as of the 2001 Census, 60% of the population of Khayelitsha were born in the Eastern Cape (Maverick 358cc, 2006, p. 1). A large proportion of the population actively maintain cultural and familial connections with the Eastern Cape and when they die, residents of Khayelitsha are taken back to the Eastern Cape if

14 The prefix ‘isi-’ denotes language

20 possible, to be buried with their ancestors (Saverin, 2015). Deliberate underdevelopment of the Eastern Cape during the apartheid era has meant that the Eastern Cape remains the most impoverished area of South Africa, and it is severely lacking in basic infrastructure. Thus, much of the migration of people from the rural areas of the Eastern Cape to the city is undertaken to look for work. Khayelitsha has an unemployment rate of over 38% (, 2013, p. 4) with little prospect of training, further education or career opportunities, and a lack of recreational facilities result in many youth turning to gangs, crime, drugs and alcohol abuse. Many children grow up in single parent families, in abusive, violent situations, and there are high rates of sexual assault. Gangsterism is increasingly a problem, with young people getting involved in petty crime and battles using guns, knives, pangas and rocks. Tik (methamphetamine) is also increasingly a problem. These issues contribute to the negative stereotypes of Khayelitsha as rural, backward, violent, lawless and dangerous. Black youth in South Africa are depicted in the media and in public discourse as skollies, gangsters and criminals. Young people I took uptown to go to open mic sessions on were treated with suspicion when entering venues where I would be let in without question. They would have their bags thoroughly searched. Youth work has also largely centred around the idea that youth are delinquents, thugs or victims (Jeffs & Smith, 1999). In South Africa, youths have been represented as either heroes, villains (Seekings, 2006) or victims (particularly through the TRC) (Reynolds, 2005). The post-apartheid generation of ‘Born Frees’ is seen as apolitical (Mattes, 2012). Some recent research has looked at how youth themselves make sense of their world (Ramphele, 2002; Swartz, 2010) and Jeremy Seekings (2006, p. 17) identifies ‘a clear need for research on culture which goes far beyond existing research on race and identity’. In the post-apartheid era there has been a focus on youth in terms of race and identity (Dolby, 2001; Erasmus, 2001; Hurst, 2009) but it has largely been based on an understanding of identity as a mark, as a category (or series of categories), and as something to be negotiated rather than inhabited by the body. While nationally the focus has been on youth as criminals and victims, there are non-government organisations that focus on healing. The Institute for the Healing of Memories, for instance, runs history workshops in schools to make up for the lack of adequate teaching about the past, particularly with regard to race and the particularly politically violent period of the 1980s (Themba Lonzi, Youth Coordinator of Healing of Memories, pers. comm. 2008). ‘Heal the Hood’ is a hip-hop project run by the hip-hop

21 group Black Noise and spearheaded by Emile Jansen. Emile Jansen has been instrumental in maintaining the hip-hop scene in Cape Town through the annual Hip- hop Indaba which involves MC, DJ and breaking battles. Many hip-hop artists in Cape Town are involved in youth work. Another example is Shaheen Ariefdien of Prophets of da City (POC) who organised the Alkemy project through Bush Radio. Every emcee that I spoke to during the course of my research wanted to have a positive impact on the situation that youth face in Khayelitsha, whether through lyrics, organising events for youth, or mentoring younger emcees. Sometimes, this impact involved providing an escape from the realities of life through music and storytelling. Many hip-hop artists also felt that being involved in hip-hop kept them away from gangs, drugs and crime, and helped them to process their life experiences. This thesis looks at how youth in an underground hip-hop scene self-organise to produce events, and how they act as producers of knowledge, culture, music and discourse. It looks at how, through these activities, they participate in political, social and cultural life. Creative production and expression are means of political participation ‘in their own right’ rather than simply ‘vehicles for communication’ (Gaztambide- Fernandez & Matute, 2015, p. 2). As Ginwright (2010, p. 86) notes in relation to black youth activities including hip-hop, By rebuilding collective identities (racial, gendered, youth), exposing youth to critical thinking about social conditions and building activism, black youth heal by removing self-blame and act to confront pressing school and community problems.

Youth in Khayelitsha are involved in their own voluntary community work and youth work. Furthermore, cross-cultural research on resilience has revealed that community connections are an important factor in the resilience of black youth in South Africa (Theron, Theron & Malindi, 2013) . Hip-hop culture in Khayelitsha manifests as a series of low-key informal live performance events which produce community and foster collective participation. It functions as an organic form of youth work and includes sharing stories among groups of peers, and fostering a community of practice and participation. Importantly, it brings bodies together in a life-affirming feel-good activity which is most often open to the community, as events are held on the street, in empty lots, and in shacks and houses in an areas of high population density. While my research doesn’t explicitly address the role of hip-hop in psychological resilience

22 amongst youth in Khayelitsha, some of the findings might indicate that it plays a vital role. This is a key area for further investigation. How does hip-hop provide tools for addressing the complex historical and contemporary situation youth in Khayelitsha find themselves in? My thesis argues that hip-hop enables the production of a new kind of collectivity in the face of family and community breakdown. Hip-hop provides an embodied vocal modality for reworking complex and diverse relationships between space, place and belonging. Youth in Khayelitsha make sense of the broader historical issues of dislocation, cultural rupture and the impact of colonisation, apartheid and continuing oppression.

Chapter breakdown Chapter One reviews the literature on global hip-hop and Cape Town hip-hop. I outline key debates within the literature on hip-hop that centre around hip-hop’s apparent ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ content and effects which often operate along genre distinctions between ‘conscious’ and ‘gangsta’ rap, and between underground hip-hop and commercial rap. This chapter looks at how the commodification of hip-hop, the issue of representation, and the predominant text-centred approach to the study of popular culture all effect and reinforce these dichotomies. The ability of hip-hop to bring disparate forms of lyrical content together, coupled with the internal (to hip-hop) understandings of these contradictions, represents a powerful form of ‘open discourse’. I argue that hip-hop’s political potential needs to be analysed through what hip-hop as a practice allows and encourages. This is discussed in relation to Deleuze & Guattari’s (1986) concept of ‘minor literature’ which involves three key aspects: it uses vernacular language, it is political, and it is collective. Hip-hop’s political potential is also discussed in relation to Freire’s (1970) work on the development of critical consciousness through the prioritisation of life-knowledge, is discussed in terms of how this political potential can be understood. Chapter Two outlines the methodological approach and research methods used in the fieldwork. I situate my research within the expanding field of ethnographic and phenomenological studies of hip-hop in the literature. I outline key aspects of phenomenology including embodiment, intersubjectivity and lived experience with a focus on Merleau-Ponty’s (1964) notion of the ‘corporeal-schema’. Then I discuss the importance of decolonising research in the field of anthropology and how

23 phenomenology and decolonisation can be combined as a research methodology. I then outline the methods used during ethnographic fieldwork including participant observation, interviews, the coproduction of research data, the production of a mixtape and interviews. My positionality in the field is outlined, including fieldwork safety and the limitations of the research. Chapter Three begins with a brief outline of how hip-hop came to Khayelitsha after it was taken up in Cape Town’s ‘coloured’15 townships on the Cape Flats16 and later developed a new genre called spaza which is rap in isiXhosa17. and then looks at how artists today reject, disrupt and interpret genre boundaries. Debates between generations of hip-hop artists in Cape town revolve around some of the same themes in international debates about hip-hop such as representation and ‘commercial rap’ versus ‘underground hip-hop’. I discuss some of the views that hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha have with regards to genre boundaries. This chapter then describes and gives examples of some of the common themes in lyrical content in Khayelitsha. These themes include humour, political rap and activism, uplifting messages, and umculo wezikoli or ‘’. The limitations and contradictions of these themes are also discussed. This chapter then provides a detailed example of one artists’ highly political rap song. This track was negatively received by people in the community – specifically an ex-uMkhonto we Sizwe18 comrade and thus had an impact on the future of this artist’s approach to lyrics. This example demonstrates the necessity of situating lyrics within their reception and lived context. Chapter Four looks at regular live events in Khayelitsha, which include open microphone sessions, street sessions, studio jams, and album launches. This chapter makes a significant contribution to the field of hip-hop studies, and specifically to a

15 The term ‘coloured’ is still used in South Africa to refer to people of mixed racial heritage, despite it being an arbitrary racial category created under apartheid. This racial classification also includes Khoi and San descendants – indigenous peoples of the Cape Town area – who have been dispossessed of their language and culture. Some reject the term ‘coloured’ and favour the term ‘brown’. I use the term in this thesis in inverted commas to recognise its political connotations and to recognise that although many people do self-identify with this term many also do not – that is, it is an arbitrary term which remains relevant due to a common historical experience of oppression under apartheid. In this thesis I use the term ‘black’ (though, without inverted commas) to refer to all people of colour. 16 The central suburbs of Cape Town are curled around the west, east and north of . To the east of the mountain line of which Table Mountain is a part lies a vast expanse of desolate sandy flats. This is the ‘’ where the apartheid government built townships to house people forcibly removed from other areas which were rezoned as ‘whites only’. 17 The term ‘spaza’ is defined in greater detail in Chapter Four 18 uMkhonto weSizwe (MK) was the armed force of the African National Congress during the struggle against apartheid.

24 phenomenology of hip-hop (Johnson, 2009; Maxwell, 2003; Spady, 2001; Yancy, 2013), by interpreting the key hip-hop activities of emcee’s through the work of Merleau-Ponty (1962, 1964), Diprose (1994, 2002) and Berger (1999, 2009). This includes an analysis of such activities through: temporality or the historical context; the spatiality of the township and how such events are emplaced; the relationality between subjects and between subjects and objects (that is, between people and sound); and the corporeality or the centrality of the body to social life, to emceeing, and to the production of collectivity. Examples of hip-hop activities are described in detail in order to demonstrate how these events not only continuously maintain and remake a sense of ‘community’, but produce a specific kind of embodied and emplaced collectivity. In Khayelitsha hip-hop events are embedded in the everyday of the township – this is distinct from hip-hop in the city centre. These events produce a felt form of concrete collectivity grounded in bodies tuning in together in place. The work of Merleau-Ponty (1962, 1964) is used to understand the mechanics of how emceeing operates on a pre- reflective level of the body-schema and shifts both the mode of inhabiting the township and the meaning of bodies coming together. Chapter Five looks at language and localisation. The literature on global hip-hop is often framed by debates about globalisation and the homogenisation of culture. Localisation through language is thus often unproblematically celebrated as resistance. This chapter argues that the global, the local, and elsewhere may be mobilised to ‘resist’ or make claims to space for different reasons. In order to understand this in relation to language choices of hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha I outline the history of isiXhosa from the role of early missionaries, to apartheid education (the Bantu Education policy), and the current situation in South African schools in terms of language of instruction. I discuss the effects of this history on local tensions present among isiXhosa speaking people in Cape Town. This is demonstrated through discussion of an example of a heated exchange between two hip-hop artists at a public lecture which brought to light deep seated historical tensions between ‘rural’ and ‘urban’ Xhosa. Urban isiXhosa can be used to resist the ‘rural’, deep Xhosa can be used to signify the rural and thus make space for it in the city, African American English may be mobilised to resist the local. Chapter Six problematises the notion of the ‘local’ and utilises Appadurai’s (1996) concept of ‘locality’ in order to reframe the specifics of hip-hop’s relationship to space. This chapter develops a theoretical framework for understanding the relationship between identity, embodied vocality (or MC-centred hip-hop practice) and locality.

25 Practice in place shapes space and remakes locality. This chapter then describes how youth in Khayelitsha use hip-hop to work through the unhomeliness of the post-(neo- )colonial19 condition. My research found that emcees that rap in English, in urban Xhosa or tsotsitaal, or in deep Xhosa remake locality and identity through hip-hop in different ways. Chapter Seven explores connections between emceeing and Xhosa modes of vocality, of storytelling, poetry and song. The imbongi, or ‘praise poet’, among the Xhosa is unique in the Southern African oral traditions in that improvisation and spontaneity are key aspects. Many of the artists participating in my research felt that emceeing was simply a new way of doing old things. Similarities between the imbongi and the MC can be found in the role of the poet in society, freestyle, open platform, the experience of ‘flow’ and the praising of izinyanya (ancestors). Differences are found in the context of performance as well as the aesthetic qualities of vocalising such as tone of voice and rhythm. The thesis Conclusion chapter reiterates the importance of understanding hip- hop’s political potential beyond lyrical content. Hip-hop provides a different way of being in the body, of being in and of the ghetto, hood, township, eKasi. As many emcees in Khayelitsha use it to experiment with Xhosa tradition and with language. These are all crucial aspects of decolonisation. The Conclusion also discusses the importance of my research findings in light of the recent developments in South Africa, over the past two years, of the rise of a student movement calling for decolonisation. Student protests have brought the issue of the decolonisation of universities into public discussion in South Africa.

19 The term ‘post-colonial’ suggests that colonialism is finished.

26 Chapter 1 Revolutionary but gangsta

Hip-hop began as an embodied, revolutionary, creative, collective, life-affirming social movement. Disrupting conventions of cultural production and knowledge production and creating new forms of embodied collectivity, hip-hop was originally, at its core, a decolonising movement. It sourced innovation and creativity in cultural practices outside of an oppressive dominant culture which both violently targeted and neglected minority subjectivities. It was born out of the African American creative sensibilities of enduring oppression, of resisting, of celebrating despite, of hidden transcripts (Scott, 1990). The commodification of hip-hop in the form of music contributed to the global dissemination of hip-hop culture, but brought new dilemmas and opportunities for the artists and the movement. The main dilemma was one common to – between catering to the music industry and mass popular cultural values for financial gain or staying ‘true to oneself’ and hip-hop cultural values20. Artists now have to grapple with the representation of the culture in the media, catering to constraints of the music industry and a market detached from live hip-hop where it had historically arisen and where arguably, its source of inspiration remained. Rap became separable from the collectivity in which it was performed and for which it was initially produced (Dimitriadis, 1996). Yet this also allowed for some artists to make a living, and for the voices of marginalised youth to be broadcast beyond the local, to begin to be heard nationally and beyond. A street culture based on self-representation and creative expression became mediated to the public by the record industry. The most popular commercial rap came to superficially (mis)-represent hip-hop. This caused polarised debates within the media and in the scholarship on hip-hop. It has also been the subject of much critique from within hip-hop. These debates centre on lyrical content. Much of the large body of literature on ‘hip-hop’ is focused on semiotic lyrical analysis of rap music, and as such, takes a stance on such debates and makes claims as to what hip-hop means based on the lyrical content of a few tracks. Commentators,

20 This is represented in the global split between commercial hip-hop and underground hip-hop – where commercial artists are often seen as ‘sell-outs’ and underground artists are seen as staying ‘true’ to hip- hop. 27 music critics, academics and hip-hop heads21 have wrestled with the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’ in rap lyrics. ‘Negative’ content is often cast out or overlooked, while ‘political’ and ‘conscious’ content is often highlighted to prove that hip-hop is ‘positive’ or inherently represents resistance by default. Dichotomies of deprivation and desire in the ghetto, of love and fire in the revolution, and of affirmation and negation are not confined to hip-hop; they have long been grappled with in minority music and literature, and in the politics of revolution. This chapter briefly outlines these debates as found in the literature on hip-hop. I argue that the way to navigate these dichotomies in hip-hop analysis is through considering lyrics in their embodied, collective and socio-historical context. Hip-hop’s corporeal-schema, outlined in Chapter Two and Chapter Four, is itself an act of defiance in the face of oppression. It is confident, creative, alive, rhythmic, productive and collective. It is this embodied collectivity, which spread all over the world, that youth have taken up and used to create their own live hip-hop events. The core ethic to ‘represent’ and to ‘keep it real’ has meant that youth cultures outside the USA have inevitably had to represent their own languages, accents, musics, cultures and lived experiences. This anti-authoritarian and anti-compliant attitude, that demands localised ‘real’ content as it is determined by local terms – is built into hip-hop as an aesthetic. It is not external to its workings, and nor can this attitude be divorced from the force of hip-hop’s impacts. Hip-hop prioritised voices from the margins, even as rap music became co-opted by the music industry and sucked into the neoliberal consumer capitalist machine. It is not that hip-hop serves as a metaphor for the voice of the margins that is, hip-hop as a sign. Indeed, this is its most corruptible and commodifiable aspect. Rather, hip-hop seeks out the specific lifeworlds and lived experiences of young people, and thus, it provides a means for youth to mobilise and become empowered in specific ways. Hip-hop requires youth to speak of what they know – to produce culture from their own knowledge and experience, not simply to imitate (or passively consume) the commodified products of others. This is the revolutionary and decolonising function of hip-hop as a foundation for critical consciousness. This does not mean that critical consciousness will necessarily develop from hip-hop, but it is encouraged through key

21 Throughout this thesis I use the term ‘hip-hop head’ to refer to anyone who is a performer or supporter of hip-hop who is also knowledgeable about hip-hop – it denotes a certain commitment and enthusiasm for hip-hop beyond simply liking some of the music. It is a global term, sometimes shortened to just ‘heads’, that is used in Cape Town hip-hop and in Australia (where I am from). 28 aesthetic determinants which are built into the very fabric of its aesthetic form. Hip-hop enshrines conscientisation and collectivity, which are themselves precursors to social change. Paulo Freire (1970) recognised the importance of the relationship between lifeworlds, lived experience, words and consciousness. He also recognised, though this is understated in his work, the relationship between knowledge and the body – between doing and knowing. This chapter demonstrates why the lyrical analysis of a few artists is insufficient for understanding what hip-hop ‘does’. It demonstrates why it is problematic to reduce hip-hop to restrictive thematic categories such as positive or negative, commercial/ gangsta or conscious, and it demonstrates why it is problematic to superficially categorise lyrical content into genres. Imani Perry (2004, pp. 5–6) notes that ‘[i]deologically, hip-hop allows for open discourse. Anything might be said, or for that matter, contradicted’. Artists from Khayelitsha produce a range of lyrical content but their common participation in hip-hop activities, as outlined in the Chapter Five, is the basis of hip-hop as a social movement. I argue that the deeper power of hip-hop, which undercuts and complements lyrical content, is in its embodied forms of collectivity, its diverse narratives/lyrics, its open discourse, its active self-critique and its reflection on the representation of hip-hop as a movement. Hip-hop prioritises the life knowledge of marginalised youth – it encourages and enables youth to produce knowledge on their own terms. This fulfils one of Paulo Freire’s conditions for the development of critical consciousness. The other condition is the deliberate direction, and teaching, of critical perspectives of society. Sometimes, this second component is also present within hip-hop events in the townships and hip-hop discourses or dialogue, and key players in a hip-hop scene sometimes give expression to it. However, the ‘message’ – the directing of the listener’s attention to overtly political issues such as counter-hegemonic discourses of identity – can also fall on deaf ears. It is not the presence of ‘political’ lyrics on their own that guarantees the youth will ‘rise up’.

Hip-hop as a revolutionary reaction to rupture Hip-hop began as an aesthetic response to rupture. Rose (1994a, p. 39) argues that the defining features of hip-hop aesthetics are ‘flow, layering, and rupture’ as found in all four elements of DJing, breaking, rapping, and writing (graffiti). She also argues that

29 Interpreting these concepts theoretically, one can argue that they sustain rhythmic motion, continuity, and circularity via flow … These effects at the level of style and aesthetics suggest affirmative ways in which profound social dislocation and rupture can be managed and perhaps contested in the cultural arena. Let us imagine these hip hop principles as a blueprint for social resistance and affirmation: create sustaining narratives, accumulate them, layer, embellish, and transform them. However, be also prepared for rupture, find pleasure in it, in fact, plan on rupture (Rose, 1994a, p. 39)

This collective creative response to the material conditions of the ghetto was in itself a deeply political move – a response to trauma, and crucially, it was a move which aimed to go beyond trauma as definitive. It was a refusal to be defined by a traumatic past and present. The ‘positivity’ and politics, of hip-hop was present in its attitude, aesthetics and activity. David Toop (1984, p. 140) regards this attitude as the core that links the elements of hip-hop – the attitude of making ‘something from nothing’ (Ice-T & Baybutt, 2012). The visual wreckage that hip-hop emerged out of is conveyed in the words of BRIM (cited in Chalfant & Prigoff, 1987, p. 17), a graffiti artist who started ‘bombing’22 in the 1970s in the Bronx NY, : People will never really understand what graffiti is unless they go to New York to live surrounded by abandoned buildings and cars that are burnt and stripped and the city comes out saying graffiti is terrible, but then you look around the neighbourhood and you've got all this rubble & shit, and yet you come out of there with the attitude toward life that you can create something positive.

Jeff Chang (2005, p. 111) points out that the elements of hip-hop ‘shared a revolutionary aesthetic. They were about unleashing youth style as an expression of the soul, unmediated by corporate money, unauthorized by the powerful’. It is the ‘unmediated’ and collective aspects of hip-hop that make up its utopian past, rather than the sanitised, wholly positive, romanticised version of the past that some commentators and academics want to promote. Out of the rubble and burnt out buildings of the neglected South Bronx, hip-hop emerged as a creative response to urban decay. It issued a radical challenge to the ‘arbitrary authority of key institutions’ (Dimitriadis, 2015, p. 36) . Initially, it challenged conventions of art, dance, music and creative expression. Yet these have been normalised to some degree and aesthetically accepted in the institutions of music, dance and art, and in broader society. According to Jeff Chang (2006, p. x): Graffiti art was celebrated as a reaction to minimalism and conceptualism, an “outsider” art that correlated to postindustrial dislocation, confronted “drop-

22 ‘bombing’ is a graffiti term used to describe painting a graffiti ‘piece’. 30 dead” government with kid’s-eye creativity, and encapsulated all that was transgressive and progressive in the moment. B-boying’s radically democratic reclamation of public space and its aggressive athleticism reinvigorated modern dance. DJing brought the noise for the postmodernists’ interest in rupture, repetition, and bricolage, and MCing seemed perfectly tailored for the poststructuralists’ obsession with textuality.

Hip-hop’s radical edge became commodified. As Hegarty (2007, p. 126) argues, ‘when noise catches on, it will no longer be any sort of avant-garde’. Hip-hop was considered noise by the mainstream, until it became commodified. Hip-hop’s symbolic capital – its ‘outlaw form’ (Gilroy, 1994, p. 51), its revolutionary aesthetic, its marginal status, was marketable. The initial ‘semiotic shock’ of hip-hop’s rebellion, as Berger (2009, p. 108) argues of the tendency in popular culture more generally for signs to wear off, became a stylised sign. As Hall (1998, p. 449) points out, ‘[t]his year’s radical symbol or slogan will be neutralized into next year’s fashion; the year after, it will be the object of a profound cultural nostalgia’. Osumare (2001, p. 173) argues that hip-hop ‘becomes a global signifier for many forms of marginalization’, allowing youth all over the world to connect to hip-hop’s symbolic and lyrical meaning through its ‘connective marginalities’ in lyrics as a symbol of resistance. While this is true, it disguises the nuances of ‘resistance’ and is at risk of fetishising its marginality. Marginal folk can do mainstream things. This ties into debates about the difference between commercial hip- hop and the underground, both in Khayelitsha and worldwide (as discussed in Chapter Three). While identifying with hip-hop’s outlaw form or radical edge at the symbolic level is important, I am more interested in how individual artists do, or don’t do, this – how they make use of hip-hop for their own purposes. Furthermore, as Hall (1998, p. 449) points out, ‘[t]he meaning of a cultural symbol is given in part by the social field into which it is incorporated, the practices with which it articulates and is made to resonate’. Berger (2009, p. ix) argues for a phenomenological approach to understanding text and popular culture for ‘even when placed in social context, texts do not tell the full story … People engage with texts to make them meaningful and must actively bring them into their lived experience’. What youth do with hip-hop produces its meaning – indeed, as I argue in this thesis, it is precisely hip-hop as an activity which has maintained its deeper embodied radical mechanisms which come to the fore in the particular lifeworlds in which it is taken up. What has persisted and spread globally is the collective party tradition (see Image 3 next page, for an example of this in Khayelitsha) of hip-hop, along with the

31 aesthetic embodied ‘stance’ (Berger, 2009) applied to local contexts in different parts of the world. The official beginning of hip-hop is often dated to a specific party in 1973 that DJ Kool Herc organised, and where he started playing the break beats of records back to back (Batey, 2011). The art of the MC started as short simple shout-outs to the audience as a secondary accompaniment to the DJ (Grand Wizard Theodore in Pray, 2002). Traces of the live culture of hip-hop could be found, Greg Dimitriadis (1996) argues, in the distinct style of early rap which included an apparent absence of narrative structure, repetitive flows, and call-outs to the audience. According to Dimitriadis (1996, p. 183), ‘hip-hop’s musical discourse was at one point integrated in the context of live social interaction’.

Image 3: Manqoba performing, Sound Masters Album Launch, Lookout Hill, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) A member of the classic ‘old skool’ mid-1970s crew Double Trouble notes, ‘it was just phrases; the MC would say little phrases like, “To the Eastside, make money. To the Westside, make money”, or “To the rock, rock, rock, to the rock, rock, rock”’ (cited in Toop, 1984, p. 70). Hip-hop parties were a reaction against, and an alternative to, rife gangsterism as well as the prevailing pop culture of the time – the clubs in neighbouring areas which had strict dress codes (Wayne, 2014). Hence, DJ Kool Herc (2005, p. xi) comments that ‘hip-hop said come as you are’. Toop (1984, p. 78) argues that,

32 [a]lthough hip hop was an idealistic movement it was based on self- determination – a positive and realist attitude. This was very different from the romanticism central to disco which, though uplifting, was more likely to be fixed on an upwardly mobile good life. Hip hop was raw and its environment was seen as being uniformly tough and rough, even if some of it wasn’t.

Kool DJ Dee explains in an interview the differences between the scene and the Bronx: “Brooklyn played the whole song … and hip-hop just played the beat”. He also explained that in Brooklyn parties, it was about dressing to impress while in the Bronx … in the hip-hop party you just come as you are, off the streets … you rebelled against the establishment by not dressing up and going to a party” (Wayne, 2014).

DJ Hollywood was a prominent Harlem DJ who is credited as being a pioneer of rap and call and response phrases such as, ‘throw your hands in the air’ (Lawrence & Pore, 2009). In an article on DJ Hollywood’s contribution to hip-hop, Mark Skillz (2014) claims that ‘Harlem was on some smooth shit way before the Bronx’. This reveals the particularity of the Bronx as a context – hip-hop wasn’t supposed to be ‘smooth’; it was raw, rough, street. Hip-hop deliberately utilised rupture as an aesthetic quality. Rather than viewing the local as a marked-out place with cultural, social, linguistic borders, particular places enable and produce certain social activities. In turn, social activities allow for certain experiences of place/space. Afrika Bambaataa famously raps that hip-hop is about ‘peace, unity, love, and having fun’ in the track ‘Unity’ (1984) with James Brown. Right from hip-hop’s inception in the early 1970s, Bambaataa was instrumental in deliberately developing as a self-expressive activity and an alternative to the gangsterism of the South Bronx (Chalfant, 2006). Though rival hip-hop crews still sometimes had physically violent clashes (Chang, 2005, pp. 116, 157–158). The importance of key members of the early party scene in turning the tide of gangsterism is evident in the following recollection by Grandmaster Flash: At this time, the Bronx was ruled by street gangs – Black Spades, Savage Skulls, Ghetto Brothers and Casanovas. These gangs would call a truce at Kool Herc's parties. Afrika Bambaataa formed the Universal Zulu Nation as a peaceful alternative to fighting. Breakdancing battles developed as a way to diss rivals without anyone getting hurt. "Bambaataa played a major part," Flash says. "He took all the different cliques and transformed fighting against each other into a more positive energy. Kool Herc had his way of doing it and I had my way. If people had beef and started something, I would shut the music down. The block party thing caused peace in the neighbourhood (Purcell, 2009) .

33 Hip-hop continues to provide an alternative activity to gangsterism for youth all over the world. In Cape Town, this also true. Even before we consider lyrics, hip-hop already shifts the sociality or the habitus (Bourdieu, 1977) of the ’hood23. Despite the tendency to romanticise rap’s beginnings in hip-hop as political and socially conscious, it did not start like this. Dyson (2007, p. 64) defines conscious rap as ‘rap that is socially aware and consciously connected to historical patterns of political protest and aligned with progressive forces of social critique’. The first ‘socially conscious’ track is not without controversy and reflects the party tradition. The track by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five called ‘The Message’ is often cited as the first political track, and as the first track in the ‘reality rap’ genre (which evolved into gangsta rap). Yet the controversy surrounding its production is telling. It was written by Duke Bootee of Sugarhill Records (Salaam, 2008). Melle Mel, the main MC of the Furious Five, was reluctant to record it: There’s one famous quote by Melle Mel where he says, “No one wants to take their problems to a disco.” … Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five was a party group and hip-hop was party music. A hip-hop jam was about temporarily escaping from the harsh reality of life in the urban ghettos. Who the hell wanted to party to reality? (Salaam, 2008).

In the 1984 film Wildstyle, Double Trouble performs on stage in 1920s-style gangsta outfits holding toy guns. This predates the West Coast ‘origins’ of gangsta rap.24 ‘Gangsta’ was already a stylistic trope in hip-hop, and furthermore it was a trope in African American oral traditions dating back to the 1890s and the tale of Stagolee – a pimp who shot a man for damaging his Stetson hat (Brown, 2003). Hip-hop has been contradictory from its inception – Afrika Bambaataa, a founder and pioneer of hip-hop, was the ex-leader of the notorious Black Spades gang. As Tricia Rose (1994a, p. 24) points out, we must ‘understand these contradictions as central to hip hop’. Perry (2004, p. 6) argues that this is one of hip-hop’s strengths, and that part and parcel of the refusal to serve as the moral conscience of the nation any longer has been the development of a music that allows for a wide range of expressions and positions, even within the music of one artist… [hip-hop creates] …a space in which one can act out a number of roles and play out intense moral and psychic dilemmas on wax.

Within anthropology this ‘acting out’ has been studied in relation to spirit possession

23 ‘The Habitus of the Hood’ (Richardson & Skott-Myhre, 2012) is the title of an edited book that explores the ‘lived experience’ of the ghetto. 24 with Ice-T’s (1987) Rhyme Pays, and N.W.A.’s (1988) Straight Outta Compton, and Dr Dre’s (1992) The Chronic. Though Schoolly D from Philadelphia had recorded earlier gangsta style tracks. 34 and as a means of reclaiming a sense of agency in the face of colonial domination (Stoller, 1995). As Lipsitz (1994, p. 137) points out, ‘cultural production … enables people to rehearse identities, stances, and social relations not yet permissible in politics’. Scott (1990, p. 178) also points out that such rehearsals do not simply fulfil a need to act out but can lead to ‘actual revolt’. When rap is detached from the productive, collective, party tradition, its contradictions are more difficult to understand. As Baszile (2009, p. 16) argues the question is not, whether hip hop is good or bad, but that it in essence represents the struggle for freedom (even when acted out in negative ways) on behalf of young people who negotiate and perform self-meaning within a largely different socio-political context from previous generations.

Commodification of hip-hop The fact that ‘[m]usic is more easily commodified’ than other hip-hop elements like graffiti and breaking (Rose, 1994a, p. 58) meant that rap music became separated from hip-hop culture, and was often misconstrued as representative of hip-hop culture generally. This is the real danger of consumer capitalism and the music industry for hip-hop – the isolation of a narrow form of content from the collectivity of live hip-hop scenes. The commodification of rap separates this form of content from the self-critique that is leveled at it from within hip-hop, and separates hip-hop from its open discourse tradition. An equally dangerous threat for hip-hop however, is the individualism of the dominant culture – the separation of rap from hip-hop collectivity. Dimitriadis (1996, p. 179) notes how early recordings such as the track ‘Rapper’s Delight’ by the Sugar Hill Gang, ‘ruptured the art forms sense of continuity as a live practice known to all its ‘in-group’ members’. Dimitriadis (1996, p. 191), writing in the mid-1990s, saw this as a fatal step in the evolution of hip-hop (parallel with the popular claim by artists and commentators that ‘hip-hop is dead’) and claimed that ‘the majority of rap music is now produced in-studio and is received in solitary settings, such as jeeps, home stereos and Walkmans’. This would hold true unless one is participating in underground hip-hop scenes with regular live events and cyphers often featuring artists who have not recorded their raps or don’t have distribution deals. It is telling that the first hip-hop track, ‘Rapper’s Delight’ (1979) was made by a group, the Sugarhill Gang, with no connections in the movement. Hip-hop journalist David Toop (1984, p. 16) notes that ‘[t]he response from the hip-hop community was a

35 mixture of resentment and a desire to get in on the action’. Desire is about enjoyment but also about wanting to provide for family and to have a better life. It is not youth in ghettoes and townships who want to get rich quick that are the problem. The problem for hip-hop is that the broader (global) society values this ‘entrepreneurial’ approach, or rather, the problem is that the ‘profiteering’ spirit of capitalism actively encourages an individualistic and materialistic ethic. This is a complex situation where hip-hop lyrics can reinforce values that contribute to its own demise, and run counter to its decolonising and revolutionary potential. That is, hip-hop lyrics can promote the preeminence of the individual at the expense of the collective. While hip-hop outside of the USA has gained popularity, there is a particular type of rap music that dominates mainstream media –that which doesn’t challenge the dominant stereotypes about black folk, reinforces capitalist and patriarchal values. As Tricia Rose (cited in Cooper, 2012, para. 11) aptly breaks it down, the relentless takeover of the creative space, or as I have called it the emergence of the cultural arm of predatory capitalism, is extremely important to address. It’s enabling a cross-race, cross-class complicitness with a culture and ideology of self over all others, of domination as success. It cultivates us to support a ‘dog-eat-dog’ or ‘get-mine-against-all’ philosophy. Capitalism at its worst.

This represents a direct threat to the collective ethos of hip-hop culture. What started as a social movement – a revolutionary aesthetic – has been stripped of its revolutionary aspects – as a live practice in community – by its commodification and commercialisation. This also feeds back into hip-hop where it is practiced and maintained as a culture with regular live, open platform events. Adam Haupt (2008; 2012) examines ways in which hip-hop artists in Cape Town utilise the tools of digital media for commodity exchange, for disseminating counter-hegemonic messages and for creating social links which undercut or bypass mass media. However, this still has the potential to prioritise individual gain over the collective good. This can be seen in Khayelitsha where the social media platform Facebook has been embraced by some as an indicator of fame and status. Coupled with the post-apartheid promise of equal access to the capitalist playground and rap music’s get-rich-quick aura, this can serve to disempower people and communities. An over- inflation of the ego based on free downloads of tracks and Facebook ‘likes’ – the little fame of social media – encourages superficiality. The empowering capacity of hip-hop is unstable, as Gilbert (2008, p. 165) notes the importance of:

36 [the] potential agency of the multitude who produce popular culture even as they consume it. However, if a celebration of this popular creativity loses sight of its inherently collective dimension and becomes a mere celebration of individualised consumer sovereignty, then it has simply collapsed into complicity with neoliberal ideology.

What this means is that essentially, rap, detached from the collectivity of hip-hop culture, does not directly challenge the system which enables and reinforces the constant reissuing of dominant stereotyped representations of minorities. Rap may contest these representations, but who hears these contestations? How do they operate to change subjectivities? Control over narrative is a crucial means of individual empowerment, and of collective empowerment to the extent that this control becomes collective and to the extent that it becomes taken up or internalised by individuals – that it changes habits, behaviours and actions (as outlined below). To understand this process better, we need to link into a theory of conscientisation as developed by Freire (1970).

Text-centred approach There is a strong tendency, in much of the literature on hip-hop, to treat hip-hop as a text, and to take rap music as synonymous with hip-hop.25 Preeminent hip-hop historian Jeff Chang (2006, p. xii) notes that ‘most of the intellectual energy expended on hip-hop is taken up by rap’ despite the fact that ‘most hip-hop cultural production operates outside of this limited field, and so outside the scope of the intellectual gaze’. James Spady (cited in Yancy, 2013, p. 72) asked in 1995 in relation to hip-hop lyrics: ‘What is text without context?’. Paul Gilroy (1994, p. 52) also made a plea against this tendency: The quest for better accounts of the processes of popular cultural syncretism and their changing political resonance demands several…urgent adjustments in the way we approach the popular phenomena that are grouped together under the heading Hip hop. The first adjustment involves querying the hold that this outlaw form exerts on critical writers who see in it a quiet endorsement of their own desire that the world can be readily transformed into text – that nothing escapes the power of language.

This reduction of social life to text has dominated the study of popular culture, music and folklore. Gilbert (2004, para. 7) notes that the ‘excessive emphasis on linguistic models of cultural experience’, coupled with the (mis-)application of ‘discourse’ to

25 There is also literature that treats hip-hop as an activity, as a practice. This is referred to in later chapters. 37 pretty much everything, resulted from the shift away from structuralism due to the adoption of the Saussurean model of semiotics. This has given cultural studies the capacity ‘to discuss almost any form of social practice using a single vocabulary (the language of text and signification), and the tendency of such a semiotic approach to erase the specific sensuous differences between various types of aesthetic practice’ (Gilbert, 2004, para. 27)26. This emphasis on symbolic meaning, as interpreted by scholars through text, has lacked a focus on lived experience and consequently, it fails to ground theory in practice for, ‘semiotic analysis … allow[s] agency to be read-off from subcultural assemblages rather than explored in practice’ (Sweetman, 2013, para. 1). Stuart Hall (2005, p. 273) warns of the risk that the ‘overwhelming textualization of cultural studies’ own discourses’ will render ‘power and politics as exclusively matters of language and textuality itself’. Hall (2005, p. 270) argues that it is crucial to keep in mind ‘texts as sources of power, of textuality as a site of representation and resistance’ whilst also acknowledging that ‘critical textuality’ doesn’t ‘fully cover’ the operation of texts or politics in the world (Hall, 2005, p. 271). Spady, Lee, and Alim (1999) understood this in their collection of interviews with hip-hop artists in which language and narrative are explored through the artists’ own perspectives. In the work of Spady et al. (1999) the artists’ perspectives are intimately connected to the experience of the street and the life- world of hip-hop artists, and lyrics are understood through their sonic qualities. They argue that to understand hip-hop, you must understand that the relationship between the street and hip-hop is a ‘semiotic relationship’ (Spady & Alim, 1999, p. xi). In order to ground meaning back into lived experience, it must be recognised that hip-hop’s meaning is embedded in the experience of the street. The interpretation of lyrics and artists’ intentions must be understood through the artists’ own perspectives and experiences and their social, cultural, and even spatial contexts. This is reflected in Harris Berger’s (1999, p. xiv) phenomenological approach to music in which he argues that ‘meaning arises not from text alone, but from the culturally specific ways in which people grapple with texts and cog them into structures of lived experience’. Tia DeNora (1999, p. 34) argues for a ‘shift from a concern with what music “means” … to a concern with what it “does” in particular times and places as a dynamic material of social existence’. DeNora’s work is part of a shift, in the study

26 Though there has been an ‘affective turn’ (Clough & Halley 2007) over the last decade. 38 of music, away from sound as sign to an affective and performative consideration of music and sound (Anderson, Morton, & Revill, 2005). As Smith (cited in Erlmann, 2002, p. 44) points out, ‘Remaining detached from the communicational contract that listening implies, they may still hear cultures as if looking at them with their ears’. Thus, music, sound, noise, is treated as an object. Yet in Cape Town, hip-hop culture is primarily an activity for youth involved in live scenes.

A text/commodity approach in the literature on hip-hop in Cape Town The literature on hip-hop in Cape Town is also largely text-centred. However, hip-hop in Cape Town began in the ‘coloured’ townships in the mid-1980s with a strong focus on b-boy culture, yet this is rarely mentioned even in passing in the literature on hip-hop in Cape Town. The most-written-about crew, Prophets of Da City, include b-boy crew members and they incorporate DJing, breaking and graffiti into their shows and film clips. For example, the bumpin’ party track ‘BoomStyle’ is an innovative and funky blend of influences where Public Enemy meets lively, township, guitar riffs and the film clip displays party people (the community) coming together having fun. Yet this embodied meaning of hip-hop is often overlooked. Instead of live practices, the literature on hip-hop in Cape Town has largely focused on interpretations of lyrics with regards to identity (Khan, 2010), race and gender politics (D. Brown, 2004; Haupt, 2003b; Z. Magubane, 2006), and on discourse and understandings of social life through symbolism. This can be seen in Becker and Dastile’s (2008) article which sets up a binary between township hip-hop as political, underground and African, and middle-class hip- hop as English, Americanised and global. This is based on markers of identity through fashion, lyrical content and language. Yet one of the crews they cite in the second category, Archetypes (Becker & Dastile, 2008, p. 24), also rap in isiXhosa (MC T.O.P grew up in and Khayelitsha and raps in both isiXhosa and English (pers. comm. 2011) and they have political lyrics and social commentary. The chorus to their track ‘Black or White’ (Izwelethu, 2014, Feb 20) is: ‘black or white/after the show we 27 28 all fight/ beating the whackness out of the system till we all tight. ’ In the clip, MC Hyphen wears an African shirt which is symbolic of pan-Africanism, or could be

27 ‘Tight’ here means socially close in a good way – like good friends – or positively connected with good feeling. 28 (unreleased, researchers’ own transcription from YouTube clip). 39 interpreted simply as South African fashion. The crew 5th Floor, which is placed in the first category, are also much more globally focused and active. They have performed with a line-up of international artists and collaborated internationally. The authors also misunderstand hip-hop,29 claiming that ‘the protagonists of spaza hip-hop do not fit conventional notions of social and political activism, since they do not engage at this point in direct interventions and contemporary social movements’ (Becker & Dastile, 2008, p. 28). Hip-hop is itself a decentred, rhizomatic, new social movement, and maintaining a hip-hop scene through regular live events is a political act in itself (see Chapter Six). The politics of hip-hop also play out through the body, through intercorporeal collectivity (see Chapter Four). Further, as will be shown in Chapter Three, hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha, spaza or not, produce political lyrics and engage in overt political actions. Using the conscious versus gangsta dichotomy, or the positive versus negative dichotomy, as the main tool for analysing hip-hop runs the risk of neglecting the problem of how to reach the unreachable. A major problem with valuing only ‘articulate’ and critical discourses is that this approach fails to account for the fact that youth who need these ideas most are the ones marginalised in education systems, and thus possibly ill-equipped with the (Western) ‘intellectual’ tools needed to develop a (Western style) critique against global capitalism and analyse the effects of colonisation and apartheid on identities in ways that academics readily recognise and value, or that will satisfy the search for a sanitised ‘positive’ version of hip-hop. Swartz (2010) frames her research on youth in isiXhosa speaking townships in Cape Town in terms of the historical and ongoing traumatic effects of apartheid. Yet she found that most of the youth in her research did not frame their own life experiences in terms of apartheid, and racial and economic oppression. However, one does not need an understanding of larger historical forces to see the injustice of, for example, police brutality. This is evident in N.W.A’s (one of the original ‘gangsta rap’ crews) critique of racial oppression and the ongoing traumatic effects of slavery in the US and how this manifests in police brutality through their lyrics “Fuck tha police”. This has been recognised in literature on hip-hop through Antonio Gramsci’s concept of ‘organic intellectuals’ in relation to hip-hop

29 They also fail to acknowledge the fact that Marcus Garvey, Philippi, is a Rastafarian community dating back to 1990 and as such it should be no surprise that a music gig in Marcus Garvey would include pan- African elements and fashion influenced by Rastafari culture. They further fail to acknowledge both the deep links between Rastafari and hip-hop in Cape Town, and between Jamaica and hip-hop’s roots. It is not new nor unique that emcees from Marcus Garvey should be influenced by Rastafari. 40 discourse (for example see Abrams, 1995). Whilst this provides a recognition for intellectualism outside of Western educated, trained, and recognised intellectuals it requires a consideration of hip-hop texts within the (cultural) context of their production (and consumption) as Chinua Achebe (1995) argues in relation to African literature, in order to understand the conventions of style and language which specifically render a text meaningful to its producers and consumers. If positive and negative, conscious and gangsta, are the main values through which lyrics are assessed the cypher and the emcee battle are disregarded. The cypher and the battle are based on verbally ‘battling’ an opponent which involves talking oneself up and talking the other down – which, as Spady, Alim and Meghelli (2006, p. 11) argue should be the ‘fundamental unit of analysis in the interpretation of Hip Hop culture’. The work of Quentin Williams (Williams & Stroud, 2010, 2013) is crucial here as his ethnographic research on cyphers in Cape Town provide a linguistic analysis of such events as situated practices. William and Stroud (2010, p. 41) argue that the discursive space of the cypher allows for the exercise of agency through language and voice and as such what the text ‘means’ is deeply tied to what it allows in relation to what they term ‘multilingual citizenship’ and in terms of enregisterment – ‘where linguistic forms become indexically associated with specific social values’. That is, the cypher event creates and develops (linguistic) meaning itself. This strongly supports the argument that interpreting lyrics must be done through a consideration of the context of production and must attend to the artists’ own perspectives. That is, certain words which are considered ‘negative’ may have a different value30 in the specific spatio-linguistic context in which an emcee developed their ability to rap. Some emcees intentionally utilise certain linguistic registers to reach a section of the youth in their own township or neighbourhood (as discussed in Chapter Three, and Chapter Six). The question of hip-hop’s political potential requires a focus on hip-hop as a set of practices. Furthermore, lyrics must be understood as being sounded by the body in an embodied, collective, performance space. This opens up a space for questions such as; Can bodily practice be a mechanism for ‘decolonising the mind’ (Thiong'o, 1985)? What role can hip-hop as a whole play in the development of critical consciousness? To explore these questions, we must move beyond analysing the lyrics of a few to look at

30 This is a complex issue particularly in relation to progressive politics and terms such as ‘nigga’ and ‘bitch’ which are often present in rap lyrics (and just as often entirely absent). However, this is beyond the scope of this thesis, see Rose (2008) for a critical discussion of this problematic issue. 41 the dynamics of a hip-hop scene as a whole – we must take account of the intersecting narratives present in a hip-hop scene. Haupt (2004a, p.77) employs Hebdige’s (1979) work on subcultures to expand the analysis of hip-hop: Hip-hop, as a subculture, is … engaged in a struggle over the sign in its attempts to challenge mainstream representations of black subjects. But these challenges are not merely offered via the content of rap lyrics. Instead, the “challenge to hegemony” is displayed at the “profoundly superficial level of appearances: that is, at the level of signs” and is expressed obliquely, in style.

As Haupt points out in the above quote, hip-hop issues challenges through the sign. Haupt (2008) gives examples of sampling in music and the ‘meaning’ of sampling practices for society, for the music industry, and for musical conventions. Haupt (2008)31 argues that sampling practices and file sharing are a means of subversion and resistance to Empire. These practices are also crucial in terms of culture. Nyamnjoh (2007, p. 122) argues that Western civilisation has effectively ‘[taken] the globe hostage to a very narrow idea of culture, creativity and humanity’. As such, ways of maintaining minority cultures are crucial. My research adds to this by bringing analysis back to the body, to the immediate visceral lived experience of artist-rhythm-text collective where minority cultures may be made relevant through a globalised art form (as demonstrated in Chapter Seven). While discourse (language) is no doubt powerful in shaping experience, it is important to appreciate that Foucault defined discourse as material and corporeal, that is, as institutionalised practices and techniques of the body, not solely of language (Gilbert, 2004). A focus on language as separate from the body misses the forms, techniques, and experiences or feelings of power as it takes physical shape in embodied practices; psychological and affective stances of resistance and self-empowerment; movements and orientations; and forms of knowing and confidence. This is discussed in Chapter Four.

Hip-hop as resistance: rap said it Many hip-hop and rap artists produce powerful critiques of global, national and local political, social and historical issues. Potter (1995, p. 17) argues that, ‘[g]iven that hip-

31 He also practices such subversive tactics in the dissemination of his research through providing open access to his books Stealing Empire (2008) and Static (2012) on the internet – this is crucial in terms of decolonising research. 42 hop’s problematics of race and class take place on the level of language, I think this entire question is best addressed through an analysis of the possibility of resistance via language’. This misses the deeply embodied nature of both race and class. The proof of hip-hop’s political nature and its capacities for resistance are overwhelmingly located by scholars of hip-hop in the lyrics of rap music (for example see: Dyson, 2007; M. R. Hall, 2011; Haupt, 2004a, 2008; Marable, 2003; Mitchell, 2001), and in the use of rap lyrics to produce counter-discourses (as noted earlier in the Introduction) and ‘critical commentary’ (Duncan-Andrade, 2007, p. 30-31), and to disrupt dominant narratives of identity (McCarthy, Hudak, Miklaucic, & Saukko, 1999; P. McLaren, 1997; Perry, 2004; Pulido, 2009). Many writers have shown that conscious hip-hop artists produce political lyrics (such as Haupt, 2004b; Pégram, 2011). These artists have been found to be Gramsci’s organic intellectuals (Abrams, 1995; Hibbard, 2003; K. R. Stapleton, 1998) based on the texts they produce. Yet often, the level at which such counter- discourses operate is not made clear. Counter-discourses may function at the level of the individual, the collective or the broader dominant culture. On an individual level, they may function by spreading knowledge, educating or reinforcing preconceived beliefs. They may transform embodied relationships with dominant discourses (that is, the effects of discourse on the body) thereby affectively empowering the individual in their encounters in daily life. They may also serve to invoke a non-specified, or non-intellectualised, feeling of empowerment (a shift in orientation, opinion or affect). Desai (2010) contributes an important analysis of spoken word and rap as decolonising art forms through closer attention to personal processes involved in composing and performing. Desai (2010, p. 70) quotes Asher, identifying decolonisation as a, ‘self-reflexive processes, requiring the deconstruction of not only the colonizer and external oppressive structures, but also one’s own internalization of and participation in the same’. Hip-hop encourages self- reflection through the ethic of representing. While this is widely recognised Desai provides an important contribution by linking it with theories of decolonisation. Pennycook (2007a, p. 68–70) also offers a critical analysis of how language and identity are produced in performance through Butler’s (1997) work on performativity, where she argues that terms used to subjugate can be reclaimed and redefined or ‘the expropriability of dominant discourses for other ends’. In this way, he argues that performance, in general but specifically in relation to hip-hop, constitutes identity rather than simply expressing a prior identity. In this sense, counter-discourses in hip-hop are

43 crucial for redefining identity because they entail the performance of self-definition and counter-discourses. This is a crucial insight into the performativity of language use, particularly in relation to language choice in hip-hop, which is relevant to discussion in Chapter Five. Counter-discourses in rap lyrics may function to create collectivity through creating a way of speaking to a public (Barber, 2007) or an identified style of the ‘hip- hop speech community’ (Alim, 2006b). Bennett (2014) argues that the hip-hop speech community is not only about a shared language; it is also about the style, form and creativity of a way of speaking and rapping (because this extends beyond rapping and into everyday speech): ‘it is not only an “imagined community,” … [it] is, also, an “imagination community” as members … draw from a shared set of creative linguistic skills and values’ (cited in Morgan, 2014, pp. 68–69). Finally, counter-discourses may function on the level of the dominant culture. For example, Tunisian rapper El Général was arrested for his political song ‘Tunisia Our Country’ and his track ‘Rais Lebled’ became known as the ‘anthem of the Jasmine Revolution’ (see LeVine, 2012). Another example is the role of hip-hop in Senegalese elections (Gueye, 2013). The political impact and importance of each of these levels is different. Claims about how texts function in society as objects disconnected from their context of production must be qualified. Criticism of hip-hop via a text approach to popular culture emerged among black intellectuals and hip-hop journalists and artists themselves from at least the mid- 1990s. For example, hip-hop journalist Kevin Powell observes that following the success of The Chronic (1992), a key musically ground breaking production from Dr Dre, hip-hop had been ‘redirected, co-opted, commodified, and exploited to the point where it has become a modern day minstrel show complete with…self abhorrence of Black self’ (cited in Ogbar, 2007, p. 28). Ogbar (2007) gives examples from within hip- hop of artists’ criticism of stereotyped images of black ‘authenticity’ found in the most commercially successful forms of rap. Spike Lee’s film Bamboozled parodies the representation of in music, television, film and gangsta rap: ‘the commodification of black culture continues to centre on myopic representations of black pathos decades after Alain Locke, Wallace Thurman, and W.E.B. Du Bois debated the issue’ (Ogbar, 2007, p. 28). Civil rights era academics have accused hip-hop of minstrelsy (see Kitwana, 1994) and of being apolitical (Guy, 2004, among others). Reactions to such criticism have often included an uncritical defense of creativity in rap

44 music and references to the political roots of hip-hop culture. For example, Baszile (2009, p. 6) claims ‘subversive uses of coded language (Niggaz, Ho’s)’. For some scholars, gangsta rap represents the point at which rap music severed these roots from its idealised past (Kitwana, 1994; Lipsitz, 2007). Thus, through a focus on its lyrics, hip-hop music has often been heralded as being political and positive, and at the same time it has been criticised as being negative due to misogynist and violent lyrics in popular commercial rap music. Tricia Rose’s (2008) book The Hip Hop Wars analyses the polarised debates which are found in much writing about hip-hop, and in the internal critique of hip-hop artists themselves. In 2012 an international debate with participants from the UK and the US was organised by Versus which attempted to address the moral panic32 which seems to have always surrounded responses to hip-hop in the media (versusdebates, 2012, June 27). This debate brought together hip-hop scholars such as Michael Eric Dyson and Tricia Rose, and hip-hop heavyweights such as KRS-One and Q-Tip (A Tribe Called Quest), and Questlove of The Roots, among others as well as artists and critics from the UK. As the ‘debate’ wore on, hip-hop artists and other panellists became increasingly frustrated with the terms of the debate, which foreclosed any meaningful discussion as it was based on a fundamental misunderstanding of what hip-hop is. The question they debated was: Does hip-hop have a negative impact on society? The evidence for the affirmative case was drawn from popular commercial rap, with no understanding of what hip-hop culture entailed. However, literature which seeks to portray hip-hop as music of protest, politics and resistance also falls into this trap. Dimitriadis (1996, p. 180) notes that ‘[t]he link between protest lyrics and social resistance … is often assumed, while the body itself is often ignored or dismissed’. What hip-hop’s ‘impact on society’ is – whether on a local, national or global scale – cannot be adequately assessed by semiotic lyrical analysis alone. Hip-hop music must be understood as a systematic and coherently organised corporeality: a sonic, rhythmic, embodied form of vocality, a deeply somatic and contextualised performative mode of collectivity-making in specific spaces and at specific times.

32 Initially this moral panic concerned graffiti in New York, then ‘Fear of a Black Planet’ (from the Public Enemy album of the same name, meaning white fear of a black uprising) with the rise of hip-hop’s popularity among white teens, then concern about the violence and misogyny of some types of rap, then concern about the representation of black folk by commercial hip-hop by black intellectuals and hip-hop heads. 45 Cape Town hip-hop as resistance Cape Town hip-hop produces narratives which contest dominant discourses about, for example, ‘coloured’ identity, capitalism and apartheid. Pritchard writes about how hip- hop in Cape Town resists Americanisation (Pritchard, 2009). Haupt (2004b, p. 20) argues that ‘politically oppositional work by early hip-hop crews like Black Noise and Prophets of da City (POC) made it possible for “counterdiscourses” to be developed and thereby enrich our fledgling democracy’.33 This neglects to situate POC within the rich history of , theatre and performance culture which fostered, produced and maintained spaces for ‘counter-discourses’ under apartheid (Coplan, 1986; Erlmann, 1996a; Hirsch, 2002). An example that Haupt (2004b, p. 20) uses is POC’s voter education programme in 1993 in the lead-up to the country’s first democratic elections. Yet, Shaheen Ariefdien (2011, p. 142) (leading MC and producer of POC) himself admits that, ‘hip-hop’s influence is unable to sway elections’. The extent to which the counter-discourses of hip-hop can effect change remains unclear. What has remained unacknowledged in the analysis of POC, Black Noise and the early hip-hop scene that emerged from the ‘coloured’ areas of the Cape Flats is the political context of their communities in which they were operating. It is claimed that in 1994 the ‘coloured vote’ famously returned the National Party (the party which legislated apartheid and ruled from 1948 to 1994) to power in the Western Cape Province in the 1994 elections (Eldridge & Seekings, 1996). This fact sheds light on the significance of the involvement of these hip-hop crews in election campaigns, given the mainstream mentality that must have been present in their own neighbourhoods. In addition to the derision that they faced when trying to contribute to politics at rallies using breaking and emceeing, ‘hip-hop headz were generally dismissed as trivialising the struggle and tainting events that were thought of as serious’ (Ariefdien, 2011, p.130). Emile YX? (Black Noise) recalls; When we did our thing at mass rallies we were totally dissed as well … At some of the SRC meetings we were ridiculed. Dissed … We were there trying to do our

33 In the article Haupt discusses a few tracks by younger crews which talk about the experiences of women in a country with high rates of HIV, seemingly to demonstrate the impact POC has had on younger generations of hip-hop artists. Yet he fails to explain how the questionable gender politics in POC’s Age of Truth (Haupt, 2001) and the fact that, as Shaheen Ariefdien (leader of POC) admits that on the hip-hop radio show Head Warmers, ‘because of aesthetic dictates we often played songs that were sexist in their lyrical content’, could have opened up the space for the production of narratives which question patriarchal images of women (Afriefdien, 2011, p. 138). POC did not produce their lyrics in a vacuum; many global hip-hop artists also produce counter-discursive lyrics, along with people outside of hip-hop. Counter-discourses have been produced in South Africa in poetic form at least since the 1850s, as evidenced by the Xhosa iimbongi and Xhosa intellectuals. 46 bit in a way, you know, we knew felt comfortable, but we were vertelled [scolded] [sic] that our participation wasn’t serious and a distraction (Ariefdien, 2011, p. 130)34.

Not only were they up against apartheid, but also their own communities and ‘comrades’. Yet, as Ariefdien (2011, p. 124) notes, ‘some student leaders were incapable of relating to students who were not politicised’. This point is crucial to the focus of this thesis as the crews that both Ariefdien and Emile were key members of included breakdancing as part of performances. That is, the ability of the body, of fun to engage youth disinterested in politics is a central point of this thesis.

Contradiction of the inner Hip-hop is, as the title of a Dead Prez album (2004) suggests, Revolutionary but Gangsta (or RBG). RBG doubles as an acronym for the Black Panther flag, which is red, black and green. This points to the link between outlaw culture and revolutions. The Civil Rights Movement and the Black Panther Party recruited many gang members in the 1960s and 1970s. The African National Congress (ANC), Pan-African Congress (PAC) and Black Consciousness all made concerted efforts to harness the energy of street gangs but ultimately failed (Glaser, 2000). Hip-hop has potential for having both a ‘positive’ and a ‘negative’ impact. Its means of empowerment can also be disempowering, which reflects the potent ambiguity of a doubled impossibility that is equally imperative, and lies at the heart of what Derrida calls the ‘pharmakon’ – a figure that can be either poison or cure, or indeed, both at the same time. Derrida writes, when describing the writing in Plato’s Phaedrus, that in the pharmakon, ‘[l]anguage is no more valuable, says Plato, as a remedy than as a poison … there is no such thing as a harmless remedy. The pharmakon can never be simply beneficial’ (Derrida, 1983, p. 99). Greg Tate (1993), a respected hip-hop journalist published a spoken-word poem in Vibe Magazine entitled ‘What is Hiphop?’ to dispel ‘simpleminded conceptions of hiphop that pervade the culture from within and without’: There is no such thing as good hip-hop or bad hip-hop, progressive hip-hop or reactionary hip-hop, politically incorrect hip-hop or hip-hop with a message. It’s either hip-hop or it ain’t. Shit

34 This says more about the narrow vision of elder activists who may have failed to understand that hip- hop can be a powerful tool for education campaigns, as demonstrated by Emile YX? in his later community work in his project, Heal the Hood. 47 hip-hop is beyond good and evil, hip-hop is beyond life and death hip-hop was dead but hip-hop reanimated hip-hop does not live on YO! MTV Raps

The above lines taken from Tate’s poem allude to the contradictory lyrical content of hip-hop, as well as the parameters of common debates. Tate rejects the classification of hip-hop music based on lyrical content, and the common tendency to equate rap music with hip-hop culture. Pennycook (2007a, p. 11) acknowledges that rap is not a form which specifically induces artists to produce political or oppositional commentary: There is nothing inherently oppositional and resistant about rap: it is equally capable of being as commercialized, conformist and conservative (as well as violent, misogynest [sic] and homophobic) as many other popular cultural forms (sometimes more so).

While this may well be true of hip-hop at the level of language, it overlooks the underlying stance of rap as affectively empowering. Hip-hop as an embodied practice provides collective techniques of the body and a collective organisation of the senses. These can be tools to resist the traumatic pull of continuing oppression. Rap, as a public cultural live performance-based activity, is inherently oppositional at the level of the body collective.

Contradictions in Cape Town hip-hop Contradictions are present in Cape Town hip-hop. Zine Magubane’s (2006) article, ‘Globalization and Gangster Rap: Hip Hop and the Post-Apartheid City’ examines the impact of gangsta rap on kwaito35 and what she terms ‘South African rap’. She argues that both positive and negative tendencies in rap music have manifested in these two styles of music. This analysis reinforces the idea that rap music is either good or bad, and doesn’t move beyond this dichotomy. Haupt (2003a, p. 2) argues that, ‘a distinction needs to be made between hip-hop and its more commercial spin-off, gangsta rap’. This distinction allows him to make claims about what hip-hop does, and to classify it as a political movement based on lyrical content analysis of ‘conscious rap’. This locates hip-hop’s politics within its lyrics. This position is difficult to maintain for the conscious artists he cites such as Dead Prez, KRS-One and Immortal Technique (Haupt, 2003a, p. 3), who all reject this

35 is a South African style of music influenced by house music, township music, and dancehall. I reject the idea that it has its roots in hip-hop. 48 distinction. Immortal Technique36 (cited in ahale, 2006) states, ‘[t]he connection between Revolution and Gangsta Rap is not only unquestionable in my mind but also [true] historically speaking’. There has long been a coexistence between revolution and gangster, within African American verbal arts (such as the Stagolee ‘folktale’ cited earlier). KRS One arguably released the first ‘gangsta rap’ album, Criminally Minded (1987). At that time is was called reality rap. Rap genres are often used as a shorthand way to clarify what type of lyrics are being discussed. Haupt (2008, p. 184) explains that ‘the version of hip-hop that is largely seen as a tool for critical and socially conscious engagement is often called ‘conscious’ hip-hop’. Conscious hip-hop can be a useful category when making arguments about genre, as it is associated with a particular style of lyrics. However, it does not tell us much about hip-hop in Cape Town as a whole – as a multi-modal movement. It does not allow for a recognition of the diversity of hip-hop music’s lyrics, and of what this enables on the ground. It sidesteps the fact that gangsta rap is not only popular among white youth – as is conscious rap – or that gangsta rap is also popular among disenfranchised youth all over the world, as demonstrated by Tupac murals in the Cape Flats of Cape Town, for example. The production of counter-discourses in ‘conscious’ rap is worthy of analysis but such an analysis doesn’t tell us how effective it is in reaching young people. It does not tell us whether the lyrics impact young people in the ways which the analysis often assumes. Any impacts of counter-discourses in lyrics are also difficult to gauge unless these impacts are explored by means of audience response. Mr Fat from Cape Town hip-hop crew Brassie Vannie Kaap stated that, ‘whites are our biggest audience’ (Neate, 2003, p. 123). Katina Stapleton (1998, p. 229) cites research in the USA on the impact of conscious rap on listeners which found ‘no positive link between political rap and ethnic consciousness or ethnic solidarity among … black students’. While this claim is by no means definitive, it does point to the importance of investigating the impact of lyrics on listeners. Mr Fat explained that he tried to reach youth in the Cape Flats by using ‘gangsta slang’ (Stapleton, 1998, p. 229). Ready D from POC explains that ‘N.W.A37 came on track with “Fuck Tha Police” – and we could immediately identify with that’ (Neate, 2003, p. 131). As Immortal Technique

36 Immortal Technique is an MC from the USA who is popular in underground hip-hop and is well known in Cape Town hip-hop due to Shaheen Ariefdien regularly playing his music on Bush Radio’s hip- hop show called Headwarmas. 37 A notorious West Coast gangsta rap group that emerged in the late 1980s 49 (cited in ahale, 2006) argues, Gangsta Rap was another form of Revolutionary music– it reached the unreachable, regardless of age, race, creed or gender. It taught the un-teachable. It made me (who at the time was hustlin', robbin' and stealing) truly listen because I felt like these people who were in the streets, who I could identify with, were talking about a world I could see but never had explained to me.38

The rife gangsterism in the Cape Flats no doubt contributes to the critique and rejection of gangsta rap by researchers and some hip-hop heads alike – the pressing need for emcees to counter the glorified gangsta image associated with hip-hop in the mass media. Ready D laments that, ‘for the gang-bangers on the Flats, hip hop starts and finishes with gangsta rap’ (Neate, 2003, p. 132). My argument in this thesis is that hip-hop has more of an impact on so-called unreachable youth as an embodied and enacted activity than it does through its lyrics. It has its impact through collective, place-based practice that utilises highly stylised forms of bodily comportment (see Chapter Four and Five). Ready D recalls his reaction to the 1984 music video clip Buffalo Gals by Malcolm McLaren: ‘“They looked exactly like us”… and this was his primary reason to get into hip-hop, and the politics (which are now central to his music) came much later’ (Neate, 2003, p. 136). Hip-hop first took off in Cape Town in the ‘coloured’ areas of the Cape Flats as an activity. In a film about the early days of hip-hop in Cape Town one B-Boy, Al, recalls, basically, you had a choice you know, your choice was to dance…gangsterism was a very, very prevalent choice you know it was a very mainstream choice at that time … the aspect of joining gangs … which a lot of kids did … we found a way out … we were in gangs we were in breaking gangs, we were crews against other crews as in gangs but it was positive (cited in W. Williams 2007)

Representation The negative representation hip-hop often receives in the media contributes to the ways in which many scholars frame their arguments. In an interview, Tricia Rose relates the negative reactions to hip-hop to the negative reactions to jazz and what this does to critical analysis: ‘[t]his kind of dismissal … encourages a protective defense of black culture that retards critical analysis and perhaps the expressive forms themselves’ (cited in Cooper, 2012). Much of the literature which seeks to superficially portray hip-hop as positive, political and uplifting has stemmed from a need to represent hip-hop as

38 He does elaborate on the co-option of the gangsta image by the music industry. 50 positive to the academy to legitimise its study as a discipline, to legitimise the use of hip-hop texts in pedagogy, to counter the negativity surrounding hip-hop in the media due to a widespread equating of hip-hop with gangsta rap, commercialised rap music and music video content. Rose (2008, p. 202) notes that ‘[f]rustrated defenders of hip hop want more attention paid to the positives in hip hop’. How hip-hop is represented is also an internal concern of, and the subject of critique by, hip-hop communities, including Cape Town and Khayelitsha, as demonstrated in Chapter Three. The debates in the USA in the 1920s concerning the representation of black people in folk culture, in minstrel shows and in popular novels of the time mirror the current debates about hip-hop. Popular commercial rap music frequently presents a narrow version of black authenticity and ‘valorizes a ghettocentric sensibility’ which plays into the problematic notion – present in 1920s Harlem Renaissance debates – that ‘poverty is somehow more authentically black than being middle class [which] echoes the perspective of the larger white community that demanded the exoticized and ghettoized other’ (Ogbar, 2007, p. 25). The challenge for Black people is the burden of representation. This ‘burden of representation’, as outlined originally by Julien and Mercer (1996), is a burden that only people from marginalised, underrepresented, and/or historically misrepresented, groups must bear. The burden here is, ironically, the outcome of the ‘demand for black representation’ (Julien & Mercer, 1996, p. 196). That is, the burden is the demand for individual voices from marginalised groups to uniformly represent difference; to represent ‘authentic blackness’; to represent a homogeneous identity, and to speak positively. For, ‘if only one voice is given the “right to speak,” that voice will be heard, by the majority culture, as “speaking for” the many who are excluded or marginalized from access to the means of representation’ (Julien & Mercer, 1996, p. 198). Such a burden, Julien and Mercer (1996) argue, not only denies subjectivity, but further reinforces marginalisation. This is clear in W.E.B. Du Bois’ perspective on black representation in the 1920s as Ogbar (2007, p. 20) quotes him: Art, he noted, could not render invisible those who needed the most attention and assistance. “We have criminals and prostitutes and debased elements, just as [white people] have. When the artist paints us he has a right to paint us whole and not ignore everything which is not perfect as we would wish it to be”.

The burden of representation includes a pressing need to counter stereotyped

51 images. JanMohamed (1984, p. 296) points out that ‘the works of minority writers are linked by the imperative to negate, in various ways, the prior negation of his culture by the dominators … [which] implies an affirmative search for an alternative that is yet unarticulated’. It becomes imperative for black artists and community members to restrict their content to what is political and uplifting, to a positive representation. The only ‘acceptable’ black music (or film, or novel, or work of art) is a positive one, or a contained form of protest, not an angry one. This creates a trap where a positive image must be maintained. Yet as Rose (1994a, p. 24) argues, it is the contradictory nature of pleasure and social resistance in the popular realm that must be confronted, theorized, and understood, instead of erasing or rigidly rejecting those practices that ruin our quest for untainted politically progressive cultural expressions

One problem with being restricted to protest music is that it always necessarily comes from a place of disempowerment, and can thus only speak as a reaction against something, defined by and in the terms of the other, and never as an active force, an initiatory force, with its own defined terms of creativity. This ‘negates the celebration of Black or minority life’ (JanMohamed, 1984, p. 291). Albie Sachs’s (1991) idea of freedom requires Moving the Centre of the West as argued by Ngũgĩ wa Thiongʼo in his book of the same name (1993); that is, it requires decolonising the mind and decolonising the imagination.

Fungwa Uhuru (Freedom of the Mind) Imagination is important. Imagination is necessary in order to be able to think, to make, to move, the world differently. Albie Sachs (1991), a veteran anti-apartheid activist, argues that South Africa needs to decolonise its imagination – to free it from reactivity in order to find real creative freedom. This is not lost on Mic Substance39, an MC from Site B, Khayelitsha. In the first track on her album Fungwa Uhuru (n.d.) , she says, Hip-hop the best tool for educating young minds open and close doors for them for our future and life … It is the freedom of my mind that I’m keen to make, I spit as I wish that I’m able to make my own choices as I please it is the freedom of my mind that I see truth beyond the identity of what my eye can give sight to

39 To check footage of Mic Substance rapping see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ed-E7e_rQls 52 Mic Substance connects education to freedom of the mind and to a vision of the future. Furthermore, as Sachs (1991, p. 188) argues, ‘the power of art lies precisely in its capacity to expose contradictions and reveal hidden tensions – hence the danger of viewing it as just another missile-firing device’. This is important to consider when the focus on positivity borders on censorship of hip-hop – for hip-hop to be political, to make change, to have an impact, do all artists need to have an overtly political or positive message? Sachs (1991, p.188) notes the overwhelming focus in anti-apartheid art and literature on exposing oppression, and on overt political statements. He asks, what about love? …what are we fighting for , if not the right to express our humanity in all its forms, including our sense of fun and our capacity for love and tenderness and our appreciation of the beauty of the world…It is as though our rulers stalk every page and haunt every picture; everything is obsessed by the oppressors and the trauma they have imposed; little is about us and the new consciousness we are developing … Listen in contrast to the music of , , of Jonas Gwanga, of and you are in a universe of wit and grace and intimacy; there is invention and modulation of mood, ecstasy and sadness … we respond to it because it tells us something lovely and vivacious about ourselves, not because the lyrics are about how to win a strike or blow up a petrol dump.

This is crucial for understanding the role of aspects of hip-hop other than political lyrics in liberation from oppression. This includes, not only other forms of lyrical content, but also the role that different artists play in facilitating, for example, collectivity, even though their motivation may be apparently ‘apolitical’ and may be more focused on pleasure. As Tricia Rose (1994b, p. 71) describes it, ‘[e]merging from the intersection of lack and desire in the post-industrial city, hip-hop manages the painful contradictions of social alienation and prophetic imagination’. This is a crucial point for recognising that youth in ghettoes the world over want a way out of poverty. Often, there is an immediate concern with day-to-day survival, coupled with the need for respite from such a daily grind. As Sachs (1991) argues, expressing humanity is a vital aspect of liberation. Maintaining and exploring ways of being, thinking and doing outside of dominant culture is crucial for social change. To imagine the world differently is a key instigator of social movements and change. Kelley (2002, pp. 10–11) notes, such dreaming is often suppressed and policed not only by our enemies but by leaders of social movements themselves…Desire can be crushed by so-called revolutionary ideology…focusing only on what they think is uplifting or politically correct but never paying attention to, say, the ecstatic … [T]he most radical art is not protest art but works that take us to another place, envision

53 another way of seeing, perhaps a different way of seeing.

The kinds of effects and ‘affect’ that hip-hop enables, triggers and creates, are as important as the cognitive responses to lyrical content. Bodily and emotional responses can even overshadow the impact of the lyrics. Rap has historically triggered a negative response from music critics (Walser, 1995). Reactions to rap music reflect the judgments of European values towards art, poetry and music as Shusterman (1993, p. 5) notes, Rap music is often attacked not only for its violence but for its vileness; for the way it demeans the human image by appealing to our harsh and lower instinct. Rap, complain the critics, offends the moderation of reason and the gentility of culture with its hard beats, blasting sound, and brutal expression of sex, violence, and political anger

Gilbert (2004, para. 15) connects the white fan base of the highly political hip-hop group Public Enemy in the 1980s to the affect it created for white fans. He argues that they did not connect to the radical black power lyrics but to the feeling it created – ‘loud, fast, aggressive, offering the male participant an experience of exciting empowerment and battle-ready determination’. Public Enemy’s level of appeal is detached from its political content and intentions. Similarly, the affect created by certain kinds of music is contingent upon context, and it can have vital political effects. Despite the burden of representation and regardless of whether the message in the lyrics is lost on the audience, freedom of expression and creativity is crucial for liberation. Perry (2004, p. 42) speaks to this dilemma: While fostering progressive political consciousness in young people is of the utmost importance, the ideological reunion of the clean and the dirty, the sacred and the profane, is a watershed of the post-civil rights era, one that itself constitutes a kind of black liberation, although one beleaguered by difficulties. The refusal to concern oneself with proving decency in the face of stereotypes, racism, and white supremacy at least in part provides a psychic liberation.

Rap as a minor (oral) literature Deleuze and Guattari (1986) define a minor literature as characterised by three key factors: it involves a minor use of a major language, that is, a minor literature deviates from the standard; it is collective; and it is inherently political. Here the ‘minor’ is a philosophical term, not a numerical term meaning ‘less’ although it retains this resonance, as well as that of a ‘minor’ key to a ‘major’. It is used in opposition to the term ‘majority’, not simply ‘major’, in reference to power and dominance. The minor is 54 defined as such by its deviation from the norm or the standard as Deleuze and Guattari (1987, p. 117) argue, ‘[a] determination different from that of the constant will therefore be considered minoritarian’. They link the minor to the more common use of the term ‘minority’ which also refers to groups – such as a racial or ethnic minorities – who lack social representation in as much as they deviate from, and do not and cannot speak in the terms of the dominant language (culture, race, gender, sexuality). The ‘[m]ajority implies a state of domination’ (Deleuze & Guattari, 1987, p. 321). A key difference in the way Deleuze and Guattari (1987, p. 117) use the term ‘minor’ is that in their use it indicates a movement – a becoming different, or just ‘becoming’ for ‘[a]ll becoming is minoritarian’ – instead of a definition of a (staid) social group or fixed identity. Minor literature from Africa, from the Third World, and from minorities within Western nation states, have historically been uncritically celebrated due to a fetishisation of marginality. They have been judged according to Western literary conventions (Achebe, 1995). Such problems occur when texts are analysed outside the context of their production and in terms wholly external to the lived experience that they speak to. Abdul JanMohammed (1984, p. 298) argues that, the initial task [for minority criticism] … is to define and comprehend the rhetorical context, which is constituted not only by the political use of literary images, definition, and self-definitions of minorities in hegemonic and counter- hegemonic texts but also the economic, political, and social formations and interests that are intimately linked with the literary and critical struggles. This must be accompanied by the articulation of specific minority literary histories through the recovery of texts that have been discarded and repressed by hegemonic canons…recuperated texts have to be linked to form an alternate tradition

With regard to hip-hop, there has been much work on situating rap within African American oral traditions (Gates, 1988; Smitherman, 1997; Yancy, 2004; Kelley, 2004; Alim, 2006b). What hip-hop does with language can only be understood by historically situating it as operating from, within, and expanding, ‘that unique African American space of performative “languaging,” a space of agency, contestation, self-definition, poiesis, and hermeneutic combat’ (Yancy, 2004, p. 277). This insight has largely been neglected in analyses of hip-hop outside the USA. Connections between rap and Xhosa oral literature are explored in Chapter Seven of this thesis. Hip-hop can be understood as a minor literature. Hip-hop lends itself, gives itself, to the creation of minor (oral) literatures in the sense of all three of Deleuze and Guattari’s requirements. It prioritises the vernacular – and in doing so, it

55 deterritorialises major languages. This is what Alim (2006b) models as Hip Hop Nation Language. That is, hip-hop language is built upon and added to, remixed. Hip-hop encourages local idiom and expressions – it actively and creatively ‘talks up’ and ‘talks back’ to normative constraints and expectations of linguistic compliancy in a no uncertain celebration of non-standard forms and meanings. It re-centres stylistic, semiotic, syntactic, and grammatical conventions to a black cultural aesthetics and provides a framework for people to ‘do’ the same with any language. Hip-hop embraces and develops non-standard Englishes (Gates, 1988; Alim & Pennycook, 2007). I explore this in relation to Black English, township slang or tsotsitaal, and deep Xhosa, in Chapters Five and Six. The core values in hip-hop of ‘representing’ where you come from and ‘keepin’ it real’ (both defined in Chapter Five), encourage youth all over the world to utilise native tongues, mother tongues, vernacular and local accents, and to practice an active deterritorialisation of dominant languages. This underpins the community-focused, localised, collectivity-making that typifies the hip-hop communities taking shape globally today. Hip-hop in this sense directs artists and practitioners to cultural, ethnic and racial consciousness (the embodied ‘stuff’ of hip-hop ethics), and thus a certain ‘becoming-minor’ takes highly localised, deeply emplaced, shape in the explicitly collectivist and political terms that Deleuze and Guattari (1986) describe. While aspects of hip-hop have certainly become ‘major’ as rap has become commodified as a musical form, it has also consistently become ‘minor’ as it has spread globally and become localised through practice. The importance of hip-hip is that it creates speech communities. Alim and Pennycook (2007, p. 92) argue that in Canada, ‘through continual linguistic borrowing – these youth are carving out a place for themselves in the public (yet underground) sphere while creating a community’. This community-making capacity is a defining feature of minor literature – it ‘affirms’ a ‘community … of the always already excluded … what they will have in common is their stuttering and stammering, their failure (intentional or otherwise) to “live up” to the models offered (in fact forced upon them) by the major’ (O’Sullivan, 2005, para. 21). In underground hip-hop scenes the world over, hip-hop is found in collective contexts of practice. Hip-hop thrives in places where street culture predates its uptake, where the private spills into the public – where crowded, packed-in bodies live on top of each other – in informal shack settlements, in government housing blocks, in the projects. This defining characteristic of the production of collectivity in Khayelitsha is

56 described in detail in Chapter Four.

Conscientização and hip-hop In addition to the political nature of rap itself, as a minor literature, key aspects of hip- hop function to support the development of critical consciousness. Paulo Freire’s (1970) work has been written about in relation to hip-hop as a pedagogic form for teaching and discussing social issues (Akom, 2009; A. D. Williams, 2009; Hill, 2009; Baszile, 2009). Marcella Hall (2011), along with Akom (2009), argues that hip-hop is a form of critical pedagogy in itself. Hall (2011) argues that hip-hop began as a response to the ‘problem’ of the ghetto, of the Bronx – that is, as a response to problems of social justice. It emerged as an attempt to ‘solve’ a matrix of problems and thus resembles Freire’s ‘problem posing’ education which is focused on thinking creatively and critically rather than providing the correct answers. Hall (2011) and Akom (2009) both focus on the how hip-hop can be used in educational settings as a vital tool for developing critical consciousness. While hip-hop is an invaluable tool for working with youth because it speaks to their life-worlds, hip-hop itself needs to be considered in more depth in terms of other aspects of Freire’s work. The ethic to ‘represent’ in hip-hop also has a parallel function to one of the core aspects of Paulo Freire’s (1970) requirements for conscientização. Freire developed a model for promoting critical consciousness through adult literacy programs. Two key approaches were utilised: learning to value your own life knowledge; and recognising yourself as a producer of knowledge. Hip-hop as an implicit pedagogic form teaches both of these elements – it values the lived experience of Black youth particularly. It demonstrates how young people can value their own knowledge and become producers of knowledge, of discourse and of culture. This may not automatically always lead to conscientisation, but it is a foundational step. Freire’s work suggests another ingredient is necessary for radical pedagogy: ensuring that intentionality is directed to inequalities in society. An example of how this capacity can be developed in hip-hop can be found in the Cape Town hip-hop workshops run through Bush Radio, such as HIV Hop (Haupt, 2003b) and Alkemy (Haupt, 2004a). These hip-hop workshops, Haupt argues, were particularly effective in encouraging young community members to produce conscious and political lyrics; thus, ensuring an implicit capacity of hip-hop was realised and became more politically explicit.

57 Freire (1970, p. 45) recognises life knowledge as the means for developing critical consciousness – that is, he recognised that valuing local knowledge empowers people to see and experience themselves as creators of social life, as producers of knowledge, for '[a]lmost never do they realize that they, too, “know things” they have learned in their relations with the world and with other women and men’. The Western domination of knowledge production is perpetuated in the education systems, not only in South America but in much of Africa. In South Africa, the kinds of texts used in teaching demonstrate a marked bias towards Western knowledge, writers and expertise40. Historically, under apartheid, the Bantu education system restricted the curriculum of African schools to subjects deemed appropriate for ‘Africans’41 to learn in order to fulfill their roles as labourers and domestic workers (Christie & Collins, 1984). In the struggle against apartheid, education was seen as ‘an ideologically neutral process of acquiring knowledge and skills’ by liberals (Kallaway, 1984, p. 34 see also p. 18). In Freire’s (1970, pp. 101–102) adult education programs the words and terms used in teaching literacy must be locally specific – that is, they must come from the lifeworld of the people. This prioritises people’s own understandings of the meaning of words and re-centres knowledge, education and literacy to focus on the direct lifeworld experiences of the learners themselves. The importance of this insight, and how it is a driving aspect of hip-hop culture in South African township culture today, is discussed in Chapter Five. A specific type of teacher-student relationship is required to develop critical consciousness. A solidarity between teachers and students that recognises the life- knowledge of the students is crucial, according to Freire (1970). Hip-hop’s open platform party tradition of open microphone sessions and cyphers brings performers and audiences, amateurs and professionals together on the same level. Lipsitz (1994, p. 38) notes that for hip-hop, ‘a crucial component of its power comes from its ability to respond to the realities of the African diaspora’. When this comment was made, hip-hop had already gone global and expanded beyond the African diaspora, but Lipsitz’s comment also holds true for other oppressed and historically colonised peoples. Hip- hop provides tools that are useful for coping with oppression. It specifically values the knowledge and life experiences of marginalised oppressed peoples, values the voices of

40 Education in South Africa is discussed in greater detail in Chapter Five 41 Under apartheid ‘African’ was a racial category that included the Xhosa, the Zulu, the Sotho, the Ndebele, and other Bantu peoples. 58 the ghetto, ’hood, township, favela. In Shaull’s (1977, p. 13) introduction to the 1977 edition of Pedagogy of the Oppressed he argues that, ‘[t]he young perceive that their right to say their own word has been stolen from them, and that few things are more important than the struggle to win it back’. Hip-hop provides a powerful means of reclaiming voice, as has long been recognised (Rose 1994a). Freire’s work helps to get at the specifics of the en-voicing capacities of hip-hop, and helps to explain why it is so crucial, why it is political, and why it is empowering. In Freire’s (1970, p. 77) understanding, ‘dialogue cannot be reduced to the act of one person’s “depositing” ideas in another’. This is precisely why ‘message rap’ can fail, why conscious hip-hop can sound ‘preachy’, and why it may fail to conscientise the masses. This is relevant to my later discussion, in Chapter Three, of debates in Cape Town hip-hop between generations. These debates often focus on what some may call commercial rap, or hip-hop heads lamenting the next generation’s apparent lack of substance. Freire (1970, p. 76) would describe this as ‘an alienated and alienating “blah.” It [language] becomes an empty word, one which cannot denounce the world’. For Freire, the revolutionary transformative power of the word, of dialogue, depends on its ‘true’-ness which is reflected in the hip-hop ethic of ‘keepin’ it real’.42 Hip-hop prioritises people’s own knowledge and provides a format through which youth can recognise and experience themselves as producers of knowledge.

Hip-hop’s collective context Hip-hop is communal activity, live performance, interactive practice. It has its own style and aesthetics, and it is fundamentally a mode of operation. As noted earlier in this chapter, the importance of the corporeal-schema of hip-hip, of adopting established techniques of embodiment or the acting out of roles in a collective context must not be underestimated for, ‘individuals exploring different ways of being in collective contexts is the prelude and precursor to all important social political action’ (Dimitriadis, 1996, p. 181). The live performance aspect of hip-hop, combined with its open discourse, allows youth to act out diverse roles or to take up a different stance. Lipsitz (1994, p. 137) argues that ‘cultural production plays a vital role in nurturing and sustaining self- activity on the part of aggrieved peoples. Culture enables people to rehearse identities,

42 Though at times this ethic of ‘keepin’ it real’ is reduced to superficial posturing – see bell hooks (2004, p. 130). 59 stances, and social relations not yet permissible in politics’. Rose (1994a, p. 101) discusses rap’s function as a ‘hidden transcript’ (Scott, 1990) and argues that, rap music is a contemporary stage for the theatre of the powerless. On this stage, rappers act out inversions of status hierarchies, tell alternative stories of contact with police and the education process, and draw portraits of contact with dominant groups in which the hidden transcript inverts/subverts the public, dominant transcript.

This acting out does not always require a physical presence. Individuals listening to rap music can do so by using their imaginations and aligning themselves with the MC. However, the palpable power of hip-hop derives from its origins in public, live scenes where people can and do literally ‘act’ out distinctive forms of embodiment in front of an audience. It is the proximity of bodies, both during actual performance and off-stage (after a performance in interactions with peers and audience members), that is the source of felt power in hip-hop. To be an MC requires a certain amount of confidence and an ability to command a crowd: ‘it is not just what you say, it is where you can say it, how others react to it, and whether you have the power to command access to public space. To dismiss rappers who do not choose “political” subjects as having no politically resistive role’ (Rose, 1994a, p. 124). Haupt (2004a, p. 87) acknowledges the importance of the activity of hip-hop in passing. He reports that hip-hop parties in the late 1980s in Cape Town ‘went a long way toward constituting a creative community away from the watchful eye of the apartheid state … these sorts of activities, along with the art works by these artists went a long way in constituting new forms of publics that had not existed before’. He doesn’t situate these ‘new publics’ within township traditions of theatre and music which have a long history of enabling counter discourses to be developed. Nor are alternative (to ‘conscious rap’) genres of rap present within these spaces acknowledged. (Ariefdien, 2011)43. Haupt (2004a, p. 88) recognises how crucial the collectivity of storytelling is to hip-hop’s political potential but does not explore this further in terms of embodied interactions and limits this potential to one ‘genre’ of rap: ‘Conscious’ hip-hop has … constituted a public in which young subjects can congregate in which to make sense of the reality of post-apartheid South Africa as well as to develop key creative and critical skills in ways not afforded to them

43 Though, as I argue in this thesis, the acknowledgement of other forms of lyrical content occurring in the same spaces demonstrates hip-hop’s potential for developing critical consciousness through its ‘open discourse’ platform. 60 by the formal education system … these communities form parallel discursive arenas in which to regroup, educate themselves and formulate their interpretation of how oppressive discursive formations interpellate them.

This thesis fills this gap through an in-depth exploration of how such ‘communities form parallel discursive arenas’, and of what these arenas enable. Ginwright (2010) provides a poignant argument for recognising the establishment of youth crews, posses, and street organisations as important examples of youth ‘civic engagement’. Civic engagement can be defined as ‘the ways in which citizens participate in the life of a community in order to improve conditions for others or to help shape the community’s future’ (Adler & Goggin, 2005, p. 236). Ginwright (2010) argues for hip-hop youth affiliations to be recognised as, following Sullivan (1997), ‘undeveloped social capital’. However, she does not go into a specific discussion of hip-hop but rather, writes in general terms about youth self-organisation. Ginwright’s argument is that self-organisation is an untapped potential that the black leadership in the USA must learn to engage with. Since this time, there have been important developments and crucial engagement within the USA between the hip-hop ‘community’ and academia, educational organisations and political campaigns. In South Africa there has also been increasing involvement between academia and the hip-hop community in Cape Town – for example in the inclusion of a lecture series at the annual African Hip-hop Indaba in 2014 in Cape Town with Adam Haupt and Quentin Williams, who both write about hip-hop in the ‘coloured’ areas of the Cape Flats. Beyond this engagement between hip-hop artists and other organisations, I am interested in how hip-hop functions organically as a form of civic engagement. As discussed in Chapter Four, the way many hip-hop artists are involved in hip-hop functions as an informal kind of youth work. Dowdy (2007, pp. 75) argues that small live shows of hip-hop performances function as a form of political action which operates beyond the lyrical content of the artists: live hip hop shows that take place in small, independent clubs are powerful instances of both community outreach and community building … hip-hop artists, in conjunction with a responsive audience, create a collective agency, wherein the audience members are at least momentarily empowered to enact change, to practice subversive action, and to speak out about injustice and current political issues

61 Dowdy (2007, p. 76) further argues that ‘hip hop artists utilize alternative channels for community building and participatory political engagement’. It is my argument in this thesis that community building is a core tenet of hip-hop. The coming together for performative sessions is a core aspect of all local hip-hop scenes as they take shape globally. Or, as Dowdy (2007, p. 76) says: ‘[t]he otherwise lost experience of the political – citizens acting together in a public space with coordinated effort – is a distinctive characteristic of the hip-hop show’. This supports Ginwright’s (2010) argument for the importance of youth self-organising as a form of political engagement. In this sense, hip-hop can be understood as an organic form of community work in the terms Ginwright (2010, p. 86) models: ‘By rebuilding collective identities (racial, gendered, youth), exposing youth to critical thinking about social conditions and building activism, black youth heal by removing self-blame and act to confront pressing school and community problems’. The value that hip-hop artists and community members place on having a live, functioning hip-hop culture/scene with regular live events is absolutely central to hip- hop culture on the ground. It is a crucial difference between commercialised rap music and hip-hop as a practice-based culture. Dowdy (2007, p. 77) hints at this: ‘These shows unveil an aspect of hip-hop culture that is concerned both with collective experience and with collective – rather than individual – identity’ but he focuses on bigger one-off shows rather than regular smaller collective activity such as open mics, cyphers or studio jams which are features of underground hip-hop scenes all over the world.

Conclusion Hip-hop contains inner contradictions, good or bad, positive or negative, political or not, that commentators, hip-hop heads and academics have struggled to resolve. Such contradictions are a problem in hip-hop because of the issue of the representation of minorities in dominant culture. The significance of lyrics must be understood in the context of their production and reception. Austin’s How to Do Things with Words (1962) highlights the performative aspects of language – that saying can also be doing. In relation to rap, this underlies the assumption that issuing a challenge to dominant culture via rap lyrics unproblematically enacts that challenge automatically – uttering the words makes it so. It also underlies the assumption that apolitical words don’t ‘do’ political ‘things’. However, this script

62 needs to be flipped in order to recognise the fundamental nature of hip-hop as a social practice of how to do words with the body. When we speak, we already ‘do’ words with our bodies – through tone of voice, accent, vernacular, gesture and glance. When my body vocally issues a word to the world, it resonates sonically within my own body, and also within yours as it is received. Words embody and express the unique habitus of our bodies – gender, age, accent, dialect, vernacular, class, locality – these variables indicate the extent to which language is an embodied expression and meaning is co-generated, intersubjective and intercorporeal (as I explore further in Chapters Two and Four). Words also affect bodies: narratives have the power to affect our orientation in the world. If I tell a story in one way, I may feel empowered, proud and accomplished. Another person can tell the same story about the same event in a different way in the presence of a particular person, and suddenly I may feel deflated, embarrassed and silly, and I vow never to do ‘x’ again. This is an example of what linguists call the ‘context of situation’. Context and situation are crucial to hip-hop, as I have explored above. Hip-hop is context-driven as an aesthetics, attentive to minoritarian localised frames, terms and sensibilities. Unfortunately, in the literature on hip-hop too much attention has been paid to researcher’s interpretations of hip-hop lyrics and not enough attention has been paid to the ways in which lyrics are always contextualised, and thickly and deeply culturalised by bodies in space and time in live performative practice. The semiotic textual analysis of lyrics has dominated the literature on hip-hop, while an embodied lyrical analysis has been neglected. This chapter has outlined this issue in relation to the commodification of hip-hop and common debates about what hip-hop does. It identified a gap in the literature which demonstrates the significance of the contribution later chapters will make to the study of hip-hop.

63 Chapter 2 Methodology

To appreciate what youth are doing with hip-hop requires a methodology and fieldwork techniques that can account for hip-hop as an embodied activity, as a live performance culture, and as a collective aesthetic practice. As outlined in the previous chapter, the literature on hip-hop is often based on lyrical analysis that reduces hip-hop to text, and draws conclusions about what hip-hop does, or means, based on an interpretation of lyrics in isolation from the context of their production and performance. Furthermore, as Dimitriadis (2001) points out, often the writer or researcher’s own agenda influences the conclusions drawn from such an approach, as semiotic analyses of rap lyrics too frequently neglect the artist’s own perspectives as well as audience responses to these texts. Instead Dimitriadis (2015, p. 31–32) argues for methodologies, such as ethnography ‘that [take] seriously how young people themselves [respond] to hip hop texts’. Alim (2006a) and Chang (2006) (among others) argue that research on hip-hop must be grounded in the perspectives of hip-hop artists themselves as well as in hip-hop practices. Historically, anthropology and social research have attempted to claim objectivity and have treated people as objects of study. This aspect of anthropology has been the subject of sustained critique within the discipline and resulted in numerous forms of self-reflexive turns: from the phenomenology of the senses (Howes, 2003; Stoller, 1989) to the ‘crisis of representation’ (Denzin, 2002) and experimentations with different forms of writing and forms of en-voicing (Abu-Lughod, 1991; Stoller, 1989; Jackson, 1995). Decolonising and phenomenologically-based ethnographic approaches treat research participants as situated subjects with agency, voice and authority. This answers the concern that a number of hip-hop scholars have expressed that hip-hop can only be understood through practitioners own perspectives (Alim, 2006a; Forman, 2004; Keyes, 1991; Spady et al., 1999; Spady, 2013, p. 133). Decolonising methodologies and phenomenological anthropology both prioritise the lived experiences of participants themselves, their own forms and expressions of meaning-making, and situate participants historically, socially, spatially, experientially and bodily in concrete and localised contexts of production. The first part of this chapter provides an outline of hip-hop research that utilizes ethnography, phenomenology and decolonial approaches. A more in depth account is 64 provided of Spady’s (2001, Spady et al., 2006) methodology which covers all three of these approaches and is specifically geared towards hip-hop research – or what he terms ‘hiphopography’. The second part of this chapter outlines the methodology utilised in my research which is grounded in phenomenological anthropology and a decolonising approach. I chose to adopt a phenomenological approach as a means of data collection, analysis and writing. I utilise these methodologies as tools for exploring hip-hop as a practice-based aesthetic. This approach, I believed, would allow for the extra-lyrical, affective, aesthetic, inter-subjective aspects of hip-hop to come to the fore, while at the same time prioritising the voices and experiences of artists and community members. In phenomenological ethnography, lived expression and experience is the data-base. In other words, phenomenological ethnography studies participant’s embodied and enacted interpretations of events. Consequently, this study prioritises the sounds, movements and spaces that are crucial to hip-hop’s en-worlding capacities. Such an approach gives agency, voice, and attention to artists and community members directly, and it is therefore a key de-colonising research methodology and practice. This is a necessary step towards rectifying the historical inequities of knowledge production in the so-called ethnographic field, in which the cultural capital of research subjects has usually been taken for granted as automatically ‘belonging-to’ the expert outsider, the researcher, in the name of advancing Western knowledge. The second part of this section outlines a decolonising methodology. The research conducted for this thesis set out to utilise methods in the field in line with the broader global project of decolonising knowledge production and dissemination (Adams, 2014; Allen & Jobson, 2016; Harrison, 1991; Magubane & Feris, 1985; Nhemachena, Mlambo & Kaundjua, 2016; Nyamnjoh, 2012a; Ribeiro, 2011; Smith, 1999; Tomaselli & Dyll-Myklebust, 2015). How knowledge is produced by whom and how it is disseminated, has concrete results in terms of whose knowledge is given visibility, authority and power. Who has access to research funds and outcomes, who has the ‘authority’ to speak, who should and needs to be heard – all are crucial aspects effecting the so-called ‘data’ produced. The third section of this chapter outlines the methods used in fieldwork. In ethnographic fieldwork, the researcher is an instrument of data collection (Biddle, 2002, p. 104) and as such, cannot be absented. It is necessary in this thesis to account for my own positionality in the field. Participant observation was a key method for this

65 research, and this included my position as both practitioner and researcher, performing at open mic sessions and participating in jams. My participation in this dual role extended to a certain co-production of research data, as I myself as a white, female, outsider became actively involved through working with other artists and practitioners directly by fostering the recording and production of a mixtape and through the organising of a park jam. Artists and community members own spontaneous moves to become more involved in what was initially my fieldwork, became part of the research process in ways I had not anticipated. Finally, this chapter addresses the personal safety issues that limited as well as shaped my research.

Ethnographic, phenomenological and decolonial approaches to hip-hop Ethnographic approaches to hip-hop studies date back to Keyes’ (1991) and Rose’s (1994a) work based on participant observation. Later ethnographies of hip-hop include Schloss’ (2004) research on the practices of hip-hop producers, Smith’s (2005) ethnomusicological ethnography of an underground hip-hop scene in Washington D.C., Fernandes’ (2011) work on hip-hop in Cuba, Condry’s (2006) ethnography of hip-hop in Japan, Lashua and Fox’s (2006) ethnographic study (in the field of leisure studies) of a hip-hop project with Canadian Aboriginal youth, Kline’s (2007) critical ethnography of hip-hop in Chicago and Anthony Harrison’s (2006, 2009) ethnographic study of underground hip-hop in San Francisco. In South Africa, ethnographic approaches to the study of hip-hop in Cape Town can be found in Watkin’s (2000, 2001) research on ethnicity and identity among four ‘coloured’ hip-hop crews from Cape Town, Pritchard’s (2011) thesis on the social world of the more central Cape Town hip-hop scene, Williams and Stroud’s (2010, 2013, 2017) linguistic ethnographic analyses of cyphers in Cape Town hip-hop, and finally Ariefdien and Burgess’ (2011) discussion of their own experiences of hip-hop and participation in Cape Town hip-hop, which must be considered autoethnography owing to the fact that the writers are simultaneously anthropologists and hip hop artists and engage in self-reflexive writing. Phenomenological approaches to understanding hip-hop can only be found in the work of a few scholars, and not all of these scholars consider their works to be explicitly phenomenological. While Kline (2007) distances his own approach from phenomenology and locates it in a philosophy of aesthetics, some of his key findings nevertheless concern how hip-hop aesthetics are grounded in lived experience and the

66 body. An example from Kline (2007, p. 214), pertinent to my own research, is what he terms ‘kinetic consumption’, as he argues that hip-hop is ‘meant to be felt’. Johnson’s (2009) ethnographic thesis on b-boy cyphers offers key insights into hip-hop and embodiment, as she develops a theory of ‘kinesthetic knowledge’. Damion Scott’s (2014) (D. Scott, 2014) article offers a preliminary theoretical outline of what a phenomenology of graffiti and breakdance might reveal about the experience of hip- hop. Ibrahim (2007) focuses on affect and pedagogy in hip-hop among African students. Pennycook (2007a) provides an important analysis of the relationship between pedagogy, affect, language and identity in hip-hop. Petchauer’s (2012) research on hip- hop and students in higher education also focuses on the body, hip-hop aesthetics and affect, offering crucial insights into how students approach learning through hip-hop ‘ways of doing.’ Maxwell (2003) explicitly develops a phenomenology of hip-hop performance in the Sydney hip-hop scene of the mid 1990s, and links this to the artist’s own discourses of authenticity and practice. James G. Spady’s work co-authored with others (Spady & Eure, 1991; Spady et al., 1999; Spady et al., 2006) provides substantial volumes of transcribed interviews with well-known hip-hop artists, which represents experiences and perspectives on hip-hop in their own words. Bailey’s (2014) existential approach to understanding Black Arts and hip-hop and Yancy’s (2013) analysis of Spady’s approach to studying hip-hop, are key works in the development of a phenomenology of hip-hop. My thesis contributes to this growing field. It makes a significant contribution to the phenomenological anthropology of hip-hop through a deeper consideration of the body – specifically through utilising Merleau-Ponty’s (1962, 1964) work in developing a notion of a hip-hop ‘corporeal-schema’ to model how hip- hop is taking shape on the ground today in Khayelitsha. The question of ‘Who has the authority to speak for the other?’ is a crucial issue underpinning both the research of hip-hop and the decolonisation of anthropology. A key method for addressing this question, recognised in both fields of research practice, is a self-reflexive approach (Abu-Lughod, 1991; Biddle, 1993, 2002; F. V. Harrison, 1991, 1997). Dimitriadis (2015) argues that a self-reflexive approach is crucial to overcome the problem of the authority to speak, raised initially by Murray Forman (2004). Hip-hop ‘has in fact been a vehicle for the de-stabilization of traditional kinds of academic authority’, according to Dimitriadis (2015, p. 36). Practitioner-researchers in the field are almost unanimous in their adoption of self-reflexive methodologies in the writing on hip-hop (Ariefdien, 2011; Ariefdien & Burgess, 2011; Chang, 2006;

67 Johnson, 2009). A self-reflexive approach is also evident in feminist approaches to hip- hop (Pough, 2004; Pough, Richards, Durham & Raimist, 2007) and in ethnographies informed by debates in anthropology (Kline, 2007; Schloss, 2004). A self-reflexive approach is evident in the work of Spady (2013) and Alim (2006b). Hip-hop emerged as an explicit mode for providing voice and agency to otherwise silenced and marginalised urban youth. It challenges authority and established hierarchies of knowledge production. It prioritises local knowledge and produces local ‘experts’, encouraging youth to speak from direct experience and to share stories in a non-hierarchical, collective, live performance space. Hip-hop’s concern with agency, en-voicing and the production of localised knowledge has been clearly articulated by key hip-hop artists such as KRS-One and Afrika Bambaataa. Knowledge is widely acknowledged as being the ‘fifth element’ of hip-hop. James G. Spady – a writer, journalist and independent researcher who had been writing and publishing books on the ‘Black Arts’ since the 1970s – pioneered a methodology specifically developed for conducting research on hip-hop which was utilised in his first book on hip-hop published in 1991 entitled Nation Conscious Rap. Yet his methodology has been greatly underutilised in the literature on hip-hop and in research on hip-hop44. This methodology is called ‘hiphopography’ and is defined as follows, The hiphopography paradigm integrates the varied approaches of ethnography, biography, and social, cultural, and oral history to arrive at an emic view of Hip Hop … It is our adherence to hiphopography that obligates us to engage the cultural agents of the Hip Hop Culture-World directly, revealing rappers as critical interpreters of their own culture. We view “rappers” as “cultural critics” and “cultural theorists” whose thoughts and ideas help us to make sense of one of the most important cultural movements of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries (Spady et al., 2006, p. 28).

Although this definition of hiphopography (also defined as such in Alim, 2006b) does not explicitly claim to be informed by phenomenology or by decoloniality, these two influences are evident in multiple ways in Spady’s work. Spady’s approach to hip- hop stems from his deep historical, personal, cultural and literary understanding of the situation that hip-hop emerged out of, and this includes its links to Black Power movement and, with Alim and Meghelli, he characterises hip-hop as a ‘postcolonial

44 Despite his texts being used by a number of scholars in Germany in university courses and literature in a range of African American culture – such as music, philosophy, religion (Spady, 2013, p.129). That is, while his work has been recognised by scholars in different fields his methodology has been sorely neglected in much of the literature on hip-hop. 68 literature’ (Spady et al., 2006, p. 16). His approach is also heavily influenced by the work of Black anthropologists (Spady, 2013, p.131 & 128–129)45 whose work has been influential in the explicit development of decolonising methodologies from the early 1990s (F. V. Harrison, 2016, May 2). Furthermore, in the words of Stemmler (2013, p. 115), Spady argues that ‘Hip-Hop culture is definitely a sort of anticolonial expression … He concludes with Fanon that this is a “crucial stage in the decolonization process”’. Phenomenological aspects of Spady’s work are clear in his characterisation of hip-hop, ‘Culture is an act of being, with its own standards and definitions used by members of a human community to organize its experience. The learning process involves interpreting sensory events, categorizing the information into familiar categories, searching memory for similar experiences and ideas’ (in Spady et al., 1999, p.181). This is not simply on an intellectual level – a mental process – but is deeply embodied as is evident in his description of Jay-Z’s posture, style of walk and talk where Spady (2006, p. 45) argues, ‘Can we expect to gain a “Moment of Clarity” in our assessment of Jay-Z’s speech acts without taking into account the rules governing speech acts and communication behaviour generally in Brooklyn’s African American Community and especially in the Marcy area where Jay grew up?’. He grounds hip-hop in the ‘[m]imetic force of history’ and states that ‘[t]he sound of rap (voice quality, inflection, pauses, silences, rhythms, textures and tones) is just as important as the site/sight of rap (gestures, signals, locus and its nonverbal cues with an assortment of in- group meanings’ (Spady, 2001, pp. 14–16). Specific aspects of hiphopography that demonstrate a decolonial approach (discussed later in this chapter) are the methods of writing employed, the focus on hip-hop artist’s own experiences and perspectives, and the method of interviewing. These effectively represent a set of research protocols for undertaking highly decolonial ethical research, for as Yancy (2013, p. 72 & 68) points out, Spady’s approach is born out of an ‘ethical obligation’ and a ‘hermeneutics of respect’ on hip-hop which could be used in conjunction with locally specific research protocols (where they exist) when researching hip-hop among marginalised, oppressed and indigenous populations.

45 As well as conversations with anthropologists such as Dell Hymes, St Clair Drake, Ulf Hannerz and other scholars (Spady, 2013, p. 130). 69 Methodology: phenomenological anthropology and decolonising research

Phenomenological anthropology This section outlines key aspects of phenomenology that informed my research methodology from the field of phenomenological anthropology. Phenomenology is a philosophy originally developed by Edmund Husserl and is ‘an investigation into the structures of experience which precede connected expression in language’ (Ricoeur cited in Jackson, 1996, p. 2). Phenomenology has often mistakenly been understood in social research as simply a focus on experience (Katz & Csordas, 2003) or as the writing technique of thick description. Bernard (2006, p. 24) claims that ‘[g]ood ethnography – a narrative that describes a culture or a part of a culture – is usually good phenomenology’. Phenomenology has a specific approach to perception. It holds that the body must be considered as the instrument or locus of perception, experience and knowledge of the world. Phenomenology is ‘a methodology for gaining a sense of perspective on our perceptions’ (Ram & Houston, 2015, p. 24). As such, phenomenological anthropology also focuses on the anthropologist’s perceptions. This is a key decolonising methodology found in more self-reflexive and critical forms of anthropology, including experimental autoethnography (Biddle, 1993, 2002; Boyd, 2008), with its explicit focus on the positionality of the researcher. The focus on ‘meaning’ in phenomenology is a search, not for symbolic equivalents, but for ‘lived meaning’ (van Manen, 1990, p. 24) – for the circumstances under which a range of possible meanings and experiences come into play. In relation to hip-hop, this approach focuses attention on the details of the situation in which participants (including the researcher) practice, make use of, and understand hip-hop in terms of temporality, spatiality, relationality and corporeality. Phenomenology questions the distance and detachment upon which the Western intellectual tradition bases authority and objectivity. This distance is based upon a supposed space between mind and body, and between the subject and object. The assumption is that these are polar, binary opposites, detached from one another. However, the very nature of ethnography brings the anthropologist into direct contact with people-in-daily-life, thus providing an opportune situation for the collapse of such polarising, abstract, binaries. Jackson (1996) argues that phenomenology is vital for the anthropological endeavour because it refutes the assumed space of distance between the anthropologist and those she studies when participant observation is undertaken, that is, 70 when the body of the anthropologist is utilised as a necessary ‘tool’ for the very collection of so-called data itself. Jackson models the importance of a phenomenology of anthropology that foregrounds embodiment, intersubjectivity and the lived immediacy of experience. The task for anthropology is to maintain the essence of ‘lived immediacy’ (Jackson, 1996, p. 2, italics added) as a focal point in analysis, and in forms of writing. This insight has important implications for a more fulsome consideration of hip-hop not just as a reified object or text but as a practice or mode of inhabiting the body and in turn, enacting a world.

Embodiment The body is a central focus of phenomenological anthropology. The phenomenological concept of embodiment regards all experience as always located within a body, which is always located in the world. Weiss (1999, p. 5) argues that a phenomenological understanding of the body recognises ‘embodiment as intercorporeality … [which] … emphasize[s] that the experience of being embodied is never a private affair, but is always already mediated by our continual interactions with other human and nonhuman bodies’. A focus on the experiential body meant a shift towards prioritising how participants themselves understand their own worlds – and which senses they use to do so (see Howes, 2003). The focus on sensory knowledge recognises different ways of knowing, different ways of being a body – a crucial step in decolonising research. The turn to the senses in anthropology has entailed a deconstruction of the ‘ethnographic gaze’, in terms of critiquing the Eurocentric privileging of the sense of sight as the primary basis of perception (Stoller, 1989, p. 9; Erlmann, 2002, p. 2–3). A phenomenological approach considers the body and the senses in totality. Csordas (1990, p. 5) argues for an anthropology grounded in embodiment which positions the body as ‘the existential ground of culture’. Downey (2002) argues that perception, often assumed to be pre-cultural or a natural fact of biology, is in fact deeply cultural. He uses the examples of Stoller’s (1989) experience of the perception of sound itself as culturally-inflected. Stoller had to learn ‘how to hear’ in Songhay, that is, how to hear distinctive sounds, tones, and modes in cultural terms, before he could make ‘sense’ of his (so-called) field data or informant’s experiences. Downey’s (2002) own field experience of learning capoeira with the Grupo de Capoeira Angola Pelourinho, in Salvador, Brazil, wherein learning ‘how to hear’ (and play) the berimbau (a type of drum) was considered a crucial step in learning how to fight in the roda (ring). In both 71 cases, learning ‘how to hear’ was directly related to the requirement of a long period of physical immersion in the daily activities of the lives of others. It required the active taking-up of distinctive embodied forms of movement, posture and habit. Downey (2002, p. 43) argues that ‘listening may not simply be the endpoint of musical communication, but a mode of taking up a perceptual world’. This insight is crucial for my research which considers hip-hop to be a deeply embodied ‘mode of taking up a perceptual world’. This ‘mode of taking up’ can be understood in terms of Merleau- Ponty’s (1964) notion of the ‘corporeal schema’. The corporeal schema (also called the ‘postural schema’ and/or the ‘intentional arc’) is an organised, unconscious modality; a cultural way of doing and being a body. Being embodied is to have a corporeal schema; a set of regulated and structured rules and habitual ways for day to day inhabiting and perceiving a cultural world. A corporeal schema is defined by Merleau-Ponty (1964, p. 117) as ‘“conducts” at work in the world, as a way of grasping the natural and cultural world surrounding us’. This orientation of the body to the world – as a ‘system of behaviour that aims at the world’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1964, p. 118) – is at once learnt from and shared with the bodies of others in time and place, and as such, varies historically as well as culturally. There is no one-way of being embodied and embodiment is always cultural. According to Merleau-Ponty (1964), the corporeal schema is developed primarily through moving in the world – as the child explores her/his spatiality and develops muscle tone (through repetitive movements), balance, coordinated movements (such as grasping) – but also through unconscious mimicry of the ‘conduct’ of others. To paraphrase Biddle (1993, p. 189) we learn how to be in the world through other bodies for, as she quotes Merleau- Ponty, ‘[t]he very first of all cultural objects, and the one by which all the rest exist, is the body of the other person as the vehicle of a form of behaviour’. Biddle (1993, p. 196) provides key insights into the corporeal schema through detailing the clash of different cultural corporeal schemas during her fieldwork, revealing her own ‘anthropologists’ corporeal limits’ through the ways in which she was, and was not, able to take up Warlpiri ways of being. Following Merleau-Ponty, she argues specifically that through illness in field work, ‘you discover how very material are the terms of your corporeal schema’ (Biddle, 1993, p. 189). Merleau-Ponty (1962, pp. 103–109) uses the case of a patient who is suffering from ‘psychic blindness’ and has lost the unconscious awareness of his body’s spatiality to demonstrate the function of the corporeal schema in the ‘normal’ person as the capacity to project the body into

72 the world as ‘potential movement’. This demonstrates the ‘normally’ unconscious fusion between perception and movement at the basis of the corporeal schema as a way of inhabiting a cultural world (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, p. 111). I would like to use an example from my own experience which illustrates key aspects of the nature of the corporeal schema. This account perhaps warrants a trigger- warning for the reader, as it involves loss and grief. During fieldwork in Cape Town in mid-2009, I took maternity leave and gave birth to a son. At two months of age, my happy, chubby, seemingly healthy son suddenly passed away. The corporeal effect this loss had on me is useful in opening up a discussion of the bodily disorientation that occurs when we, for example, break our favourite cup, lose our house to a flood or in this case lose a child (and is relevant to discussion in Chapters Four and Six). To know what it is to be a mother cannot be learnt through stories. It can only be understood through direct bodily experience. The (cultural) corporeal schema of being a mother develops through what Merleau-Ponty (1964) calls an initial ‘syncretic relationship’ with an infant, which in turn, is learned through imbibing the corporeal schema of how to ‘aim’ bodily orientations towards infants from other mothers, and from others who both intentionally and unintentionally model, show, and teach us how to do ‘mothering’ ‘correctly’. The regularity of the necessity of feeding, changing, patting, rocking, soothing, gazing in wonder at, creates a habituated (all-encompassing) mode of being in the world in which one corporeal schema is shared by both mother and infant. The body of my child is the ‘anchor’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, p. 144 – ‘the body is our anchorage in a world’) of my (cultural) mother-corporeal-schema. More than habit, the infant becomes incorporated into the body of the mother – like Diprose’s (2002, p. 70) example of the car which spatially becomes an extension of the driver’s body. In becoming a mother, one’s entire being (and life-path) is reoriented towards the child – my body becomes an ‘existence towards’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, p. 101). I incorporate the infant into my body schema46 and in turn, the infant (unconsciously, pre- linguistically) incorporates and imbibes my ‘schema’ as his own in becoming an en- cultured, embodied, subject.

46 So much of the first year involves having the infant attached to your body (the frequency of which is culturally variable) and as such you manoeuvre through space accounting for the mass of the child. But more than this immediate spatiality a child becomes so much a part of one’s corporeal schema as a care giver as they are so wholly dependent on others for everything. Even when an infant is not attached physically they still require physical effort – cleaning, washing, preparing food. This is an extreme example of how our corporeal schema is thoroughly dependent on material relations with the world. 73 With the loss of my child came the problem of what to do with my mother- corporeal-schema. It no longer had any place in the world. The situation which made it relevant, useful, and shaped it, was profoundly and wholly absent. There was no longer any materiality, any relationality. Nor was there temporality (regularity of feeding, sleep disruptions, and assumed projection into the future) or spatiality in which this particular mode of being made any sense at all – the body/object/being towards which my ‘intentional arc’ had been so wholly oriented ceased to be – there was nothing to ‘aim’ at. This was an existential disorientation: a crisis of the corporeal schema. Clearly the corporeal schema is grounded in the materiality of the world, that is, in the bodies of others. It is built upon, exists by virtue of, relations with others. The loss of a loved one is not only the loss of their body (and subjectivity) but is, in a very real sense, the loss of whole chunks of one’s own corporeal schema – a loss of our being-together-in-the- world. The disorientation of the corporeal schema which occurs when links between a bodily posture and the other are severed47 represents the urgent problem of how to reconcile the schema of the body to the kinds of global disruptions to social emplacement – migration, occupation, the violence of war. An understanding of the relationship between the corporeal schema and the materiality of the world – its deep ties to the bodies of others, to objects, places, people, situations, familiar scenarios, and even soundscapes – is incredibly important for understanding how people reorient themselves following disruptions – such as moving from the bush to the city in my example in the Introduction, or moving from the rural areas to the township, the township to the city, the township to a white boarding school (as MC Metabolism experienced – discussed in Chapter Six). This also applies to the effects on the body of living under racial oppression, where one bodily or corporeal schema ‘rules’ over others. Or of living in the ‘war zone’ of the ghetto in Skott-Myhre’s words (2012, p. 40), of facing the profound disruption to culture, family life – that is, of ways of being together collectively in place – that colonisation and apartheid has had on Indigenous peoples of South Africa. Merleau-Ponty (1962, p. 142) models ‘the acquisition of habit as a rearrangement and renewal of the corporeal schema’. Skott-Myhre (2012, p. 40), in his

47 This is not always a negative thing – discarding objects can be a means of intentionally shifting habit as Biddle (1993) demonstrates in relating her fieldwork experience where being ‘tied’ to a house with all the modern conveniences was holding her back from taking up a Warlpiri way of being. 74 reading of a hip-hop music video by Dead Prez, argues that Dead Prez call for a ‘revolution of subjectivity’ and links this to Foucault’s suggestion ‘that the first political task is to undo the “habits and beliefs of one’s age” within oneself’. How hip-hop serves to engender ‘revolutionary’ habits – that is, local and collective habits specific to the politics of place-based township life world conditions and practice48 – is explored further in Chapters Four, Five, and Seven.

Intersubjectivity Jackson (1996, p. 24) notes that in Western discourse, the idea of subjectivity assumes that experience is ‘something privileged, personal, and sealed off from the world’. According to Merleau-Ponty (1964) however, subjectivity is always intersubjective, that is, it is not individual but a social, learned from, shared with, and co-enacted habitually by members of a community or culture. The experience of being a subject takes shape through learning how to be a body from the body of another. The experience of subjectivity is thus always co-created within a particular socio-cultural moment (Diprose, 2002). It emerges out of the primacy of ‘intertwining’ (Merleau-Ponty cited in Biddle, 2002, p. 103), the co-intentionality that takes shape between bodies who co- share activities and motility within a culture. Intersubjectivity is largely unconscious (Merleau-Ponty, 1962). Before an infant learns to speak he (in this instance, as an example, because I have sons) begins to move his body in particular ways that begin to contain in movement the assumption that the world will respond in particular ways. When my youngest son was a month old, I began responding to his cues (facial and/or flatulent) when he needed to wee or poo. By three months of age his body was used to the feeling of not weeing in a nappy. I would wake up in the middle of the night to an intense glare from this baby in my bed that ‘said’, ‘I need to do a wee NOW!’ This was his first sign. By five months of age he would still give me ‘the look’ during the day or night but would also squirm in his car seat and protest until I pulled the car over for a toilet stop. At three to five months he was not yet aware of me as a separate, total, existing body. Nor was he aware of his own body as separate. Rather, in this infantile period prior to the development of an independent corporeal schema, he lived in syncretic alignment with my own embodiment, as his

48 Ibrahim (2003; 2007) and Pennycook (2007a) develop Butler’s theory of performativity to understand how people utilise hip-hop to perform identity through the body. For more phenomenological interpretations of performativity see Diprose (2002). 75 primary carer. He had learnt and imbibed from the world (his own body entwined with his mother’s) a form of embodiment that responded in a certain way when he did a certain thing. It is important to understand that there is no subjectivity in and of itself without intersubjectivity. We are born enmeshed in a social world – in a state of what Merleau- Ponty calls ‘syncretic sociability’ – where there is an ‘indistinction between me and the other’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1964, p. 120). The child’s realisation that they are a distinct and separate being only develops later. The development of the corporeal schema in the child takes place through the realisation that s/he is a separate entity but also, crucially, the realisation that the other is also a separate entity with a psyche aimed at the world (Merleau-Ponty, 1964). That is, an independent corporeal schema develops through a ‘correlation between consciousness of one’s own body and perception of the other’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1964, p. 120). Our perception and experience of the world, our motility and way of being in the world, are deeply shaped by and remain materially tied to, the bodies of others who co-share our actions and interactions within a particular culture. ‘Syncretic sociability’, that is, the co-sharing of intentions, habits and motility to purposeful end, returns throughout adult life in collective experiences (as I explore further in hip hop collectivities, in Chapter 4). Phenomenology provides a means to ‘recover the sense in which experience is situated within relationships and between persons’ (Jackson, 1996, p.26, italics in original). Phenomenology rejects the method of Western scientific reason which ‘begin[s] with the isolated individual’ (Ram, 2015, p. 29) and offers ‘an alternative to subjectivity as the description of the individual cogito’ (Csordas, 2008, p. 111). Csordas (2008) argues that, as anthropologists, we must begin with an understanding of culture as located in the interaction between bodies, that is, in intercorporeality. Meaning arises through our interaction with the world, through relationships as they are lived, through bodies as they are ‘intertwined’ and co-inhabited in the world.

Lived experience/immediacy Phenomenological anthropology allows for a writing/interpretation of the lifeworlds of research participants which embodies lived experience, rather than abstract compartmentalising of experience as if it could be detached from the body. Meaning does not only lie in relationships but ‘in relationships as they are lived’ (Jackson, 1996,

76 p. 26). This is significant for anthropology as it not only leaves room for ‘those moments in social life when the customary, given, habitual, and normal is disrupted, flouted, suspended, and negated’ (Jackson, 1996, p. 22) but uses such moments to ground theory back into the multiple possibilities and complexities of lived experience – ‘that domain of everyday, immediate social existence and practical activity, with all its habituality, its crises, its vernacular and idiomatic character, its biographical particularities, its decisive events and indecisive strategies’ (Jackson, 1996, pp. 7–8). Phenomenology is based on a critique of the basis of Western ways of knowing which holds that the mind (and hence intellectual reflection) can be detached from the body (as it is lived). By contrast the basic method of phenomenology requires ‘that we attend to the everyday modalities of practical action and engagement’ (Ram, 2015, p. 32). This is important because anthropology recognises that knowledge needs to work in practice as well as in theory. This is demonstrated in the movement, in anthropology, away from accounts of culture which detail a set of rules, laws and customs that dictate and govern social life and to how people live with such rules – instances of transgression, disobedience, and conformity – that is, ‘ethnographies of the particular’ (Abu-Lughod, 1991, p. 473). A key aim of phenomenological anthropology is to maintain the essence of ‘lived immediacy’ (Jackson, 1996, p. 2, italics added) as a focal point in analysis and in writing. This is also crucial for hiphopography which recognises that ‘Hip Hop is cultural practice embedded in the lived experiences of Hip Hop conscious beings existing in a home, street, hood, city, state, country, continent, hemisphere near you’ (Spady et al., 2006, p. 29). In other words, hip-hop artists must be considered as situated subjects – living in specific ‘home, street, hood…’. Ian Maxwell’s (2003, p. 244) phenomenological descriptions of hip hop is crucial in recognising the importance of the ‘affective, embodied dimension of rhyming’ in rap. For hip-hop heads in Sydney in the 1990s, the meaning of hip-hop is deeply embedded in practice. Phenomenology offers anthropology an opening into ‘things’ themselves by recognising that meaning cannot (always) be extracted or cognitively deferred. This is key to hiphopography which argues that ‘what it … [means] to possess a Hip Hop mode of being and way of viewing the world remains lost in obscure analyses, shit that don’t even feel like Hip Hop’ (Spady et al., 2006, p. 29). Mignolo (2011) argues that the experience of the body is where decoloniality arises. It is in the disjuncture between dominant discourses of identity and subjectivity, and the lived experience of people existing within such categories of subjugation, that

77 critical slippage and transgression can occur. Yancy (2011, p. 552) also draws an explicit link between ‘Black lived experience’ constituted by ‘[b]odies that suffer, bodies in pain, lynched bodies, and mutilated bodies’ and African American philosophy. According to Mignolo (2011, p. 277), a crucial aspect of decolonial thought is a deliberate delinking from Western ideas, languages and ways of knowing, which operate through a denial of the senses (beyond the dominance of sight), and to accomplish this ‘you must be epistemically disobedient’. He urges a radical prioritisation of the embodied and emplaced practices of colonised subjects in their localised setting in localised terms: ‘[t]he basic categories of border epistemology: the bio-graphical sensing of the Black body in the Third World anchoring a politics of knowledge that is ingrained in the body and in local histories’ (Mignolo, 2011, p. 274). This highlights the relevance of phenomenology for decoloniality. The body – the senses – in context, in place, in practice, provides alternative ‘categories of thought’ outside of dominant Western epistemologies that, as Mignolo (2011) argues, have come to saturate and subjugate the minds and bodies of the colonised globally through learning European languages and paradigms in secondary education.

Decolonising methodologies/anthropology/ethnography Decolonising anthropology can be characterised as ‘a mode of anthropological enquiry geared towards social transformation and human liberation’ (F. V. Harrison, 1991, p. 8) . It recognises that the development of anthropology as a discipline took shape within the history of colonial expansion and domination, and strives to develop methodologies that reconstitute radically different kinds of relationships between knowledge and power today. A decolonial approach is based on a critique of anthropology’s embeddedness in Western epistemology, which claims detached objectivism and rationalism (Allen & Jobson, 2016, p. 132; Tomaselli & Dyll-Myklebust, 2015, p. 363). Even if ‘objectivity’ has long been critiqued within anthropological practice (Abu-Lughod, 1991, p. 468), decolonial anthropology goes further, arguing for example, as Magubane and Feris (1985, p. 100) put it, that anthropology has ‘denied the culture of the Other any validity on its own terms, and only in terms of Western rationality’. Faye Harrison (1991, p. 7) argues that ‘decolonized anthropology requires the development of “theories based on non-Western precepts and assumptions” …[and] a democratization of intellectual and theoretical authority’. The changes in anthropology over the past

78 half a century, such as in techniques of dialogic and other counter-hegemonic forms of ethnographic writing, in researcher-researched relationships in the field, and in reflections on anthropology as a discipline, have resulted from anthropology’s relationship to processes of colonisation and colonial governance (particularly fraught in countries such as South Africa). ‘Decolonising anthropology’ parallels broader changes which grew out of key insights and critiques from postcolonial scholars such as Asad (1975) and Said (1978), ‘native anthropologists’ such as Hurston (1978)49 critical race theory and the work of Black anthropologists (Drake, 1980). From South Africa specifically, scholars such as Mafeje (which began with his critique of South African anthropology embedded in his work with Wilson, 1973) and Magubane and Feris (1985)50 contributed to global thinking about decolonising anthropology. Mignolo (2011, p. 3) traces ‘decolonial thinking and doing’ to the beginning of coloniality in the 1600s, as colonial expansion has always been met with resistance. More specifically, it emerged out of the decolonising movements of Africa and Asia (Mignolo, 2011, p. 273) and the recognition that colonisation was not simply a matter of governance (which in principal, should ‘end’ once colonial powers handed the reigns back to the colonised). Colonialism was also deeply existential, an embodied matter (Fanon, 1967), of consciousness (DuBois) and of the mind and language (Thiong’o, 1985). Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o (1985) more recently, has modelled the profound devaluation of African knowledges under colonialism and extends the work of Franz Fanon in examining the ongoing, contemporary psychological and ontological impacts of colonisation. There has been a move toward developing specific decolonising methodologies for social research. This parallels the theorising of Indigenous knowledges for the first time, and what such epistemologies mean for the practice of social research. Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999, p. 198) calls for a commitment ‘to producing research knowledge that documents social injustice, that recovers subjugated knowledges, that helps create spaces for the voices of the silenced to be expressed and “listened to”, and that challenge racism, colonialism and oppression’. She aims to deconstruct the ‘Western gaze on the Other’, and to highlight the fact that many colonised populations historically have problematic relations with ‘research’ which often dehumanises its research subjects as objects.

49 Originally published in 1935 50 Faye Harrison (2016) notes the influence of Magubane and Feris in her own work on decolonising anthropology. 79 Anthropology in South Africa has a particularly fraught history due to the centrality of ideas about ‘culture’ in apartheid planning, policies and administration. Two largely separate anthropologies developed under apartheid: white liberal (English) social anthropology and Volkekunde (or anthropology). According to the literature Volkekunde was deeply implicated in apartheid (see Sharp, 1981). A post- apartheid, white liberal reconsideration of South African anthropology cast out Volkekunde from its midst. Unfortunately, however, this seems to have prevented deeper reflexive considerations about white privilege or social anthropology’s possible perpetuation of colonial power dynamics and epistemologies. Scheper-Hughes (1996, p. 344), in a reply to criticisms of her call for a ‘militant anthropology’, argues that South African anthropology, ‘suffered from the imposed isolation of the academic boycott. One reaction was a bunker mentality manifested in an obsessive self-preoccupation that nonetheless fell short of radically self-reflexive postcolonial critique’. Scheper-Hughes (1996, p. 345) noted that Mamphele Ramphele – who in 1996 became the first black woman to hold the position of vice-chancellor in a South African University (at the ) – called, in 1995, for a ‘decolonisation’ process which would ‘make a clean break with colonial England’. This adds to the critiques of anthropology of/in Africa from other South African anthropologists (such as Mafeje, 1997; Magubane & Feris, 1985). ( Yet this has still largely not been taken up as is evident in the heated reactions to Nyamnjoh’s (2012a, 2012b, 2013) calls for more reflexivity in, and critique of, South African anthropology. Botha (2010) and Tomaselli and Dyll-Myklebust (2015) employ decolonising methodologies in their anthropological research in South Africa. Nyamnjoh (2013, p. 131) issues a ‘challenge to anthropologists to indulge in co-production, reflexivity and epistemological conviviality with the perspectives of the Africans’. Mbembe (2015, p. 18) warns against ‘a particular anthropological knowledge, which is a process of knowing about Others – but a process that never fully acknowledges these Others as thinking and knowledge-producing subjects.’ Social research has predominantly meant extracting knowledge from people with little regard for the politics and unequal power relations involved, or for the ways in which research can reinforce oppression. Both phenomenological anthropology and decolonial research addresses these issues. The approach I adopt in this thesis utlises a phenomenological methodology aimed to keep Eurocentrism in check. Both phenomenological anthropology and

80 decolonising methodology informed the way I practiced more traditional methods of data collecting, including interviews and participant observation. I worked to develop flexible and improvisational techniques at the level of everyday interactions to enable ‘subtle’ but critical shifts in interactions with participants based on respect. I moved to discard as much as possible assumptions the researcher, myself, should be the centre of knowledge production. I utilised methods to recognise that everyday community members, as well as emcees and artists, are knowledge producers, and that speaking with, or rather being with them, produces new forms of knowledge. This is crucial for preventing, as far as possible, the kind of social research which reinforces oppression through the micro-level affective interactions between researcher as ‘expert’ and participant as a merely a research object. These are the approaches I actively adopted.

Methods

Fieldwork techniques and logistics My fieldwork in Cape Town was approved by the University of New South Wales Human Research Ethics Advisory (HREA) (no. 11127, and no. 072068). A reflexive approach to fieldwork techniques was adopted in compliance with the terms set by UNSW HREA as the context of my field work demanded continual reflection on the question of ethics in the context of post-colonial, post-apartheid conditions of South Africa. How best could I proceed in ways that contributed to mutually beneficial interactions with participants? How could I produce data and knowledge in ways that empowered participants’ own relationships with such knowledge/data and their own subjectivities as cultural experts? As a method of inquiry, phenomenologists continuously try to ‘bracket out’ their preconceived ideas. Max van Manen (1990, p. 29) makes a distinction between the method of ‘content analysis’ which ‘posits its criteria beforehand’ and phenomenology which is ‘discovery oriented’ and allows meaning to emerge rather than ‘constructing a predetermined set of fixed procedures, techniques and concepts that would rule-govern the research project’. In putting phenomenology into ethnographic practice, there are no specific methods that are always applicable. Rather, method ‘needs to be discovered or invented as a response to the question at hand’ (van Manen, 1990 p. 29). In line with UNSW HREA guidelines, I introduced myself as a researcher, explaining that participation was voluntary and provisional, as well as outlining the

81 purposes to which their speaking with me might be utilised. I assured that the right not to participate in the future (as well as the present) would be honoured, as well as explaining how the results of my research would be utilised. I explained to participants that I hoped my approach to research was one that might be of mutual benefit, as opposed to it being simply or solely one-sided and extractive. Many hip-hop artists saw ‘my project’ as crucial in providing original documentation of hip-hop culture in Khayelitsha. Most of the people I approached for interviews were happy to contribute. When I began to conduct field research in 2008 and 2009, most Khayelitsha hip-hop artists had extremely limited access to quality photographs of themselves to use as promotional material. I took photos for artists at events, for album covers, and for artists to use for their own promotional purposes. Where possible, I gave video footage from events to artists who had performed in them. I helped artists and community members to access hip-hop events uptown as often as I could by picking up people from Khayelitsha and dropping them back home, and by paying their admission to, for example, Hip-Hop Indaba 2008 and events at the Zula Sound Bar. For some people, such as the group Afrikana from Harare, Khayelitsha, this was the first uptown hip-hop event they had been to. In this event, I met with hip-hop performer Black Vision’s mother (his biological aunt who he calls his mother due to cultural conventions of kinship) who decided to let Black Vision attend based on the fact that I was a responsible adult and was providing safe transport. Informal semi-structured interviews were conducted with participants and were recorded with the consent of interviewees using audio or audio-visual equipment. Some interviews were spontaneous and only involved writing down responses from participants. However, informal conversations made up most interactions in the field. These overlapped with sometimes lengthy discussions and shorter follow-up questions that I would sometimes ask the next time I saw people. Interviews were conducted with the artists listed in the List of Participants (page vii of this thesis) with the exception of interviews conducted Kideo with the following participants: Rezevoir, Emage, Snarks Ou, Chaos, Terra Mos, Chumani, Furah and KOP. All artists chose to be identified by their MC names. A decolonial approach to interviews is demonstrated in both Faye Harrison (1997) and in Spady and Alim’s (such as 1999) work. Spady (2013, p. 130) describes the hiphopographic approach to interviews as ‘a non-hierarchical method that enabled interlocutors engaged in the old philosophical practice of conversation to be mutually

82 present to one another’. These interviews themselves are termed ‘discourse ciphas’ and both Spady and Alim participate in such interviews from within Hip Hop Nation Language. Faye Harrison’s (1997, p. 101) approach to decolonizing interviews as a fieldwork technique is based on Freire’s (1970) understanding of dialogue as a two-way process as opposed to the traditional research interview characterized by its ‘unidirectional [flow of information] and unequal relations of power’. While working within guidelines provided by UNSW HREA, it was possible to develop methods in which benefits to participants were also achieved, within a broader decolonising approach (most often this involved taking photographs for artists and community event promotion). I engaged active discussion and ‘dialogued’ as often as possible with participants about hip-hop practice, including sharing my own background, experiences, aesthetic preferences, and historical relationship with hip-hop. Furthermore, in my discussions about Australia, I talked about the history of colonisation, and the continuing racism and oppression of Indigenous people. I shared knowledge I had of Indigenous cultures and community, and specifically, Indigenous hip hop, information that people otherwise simply didn’t know. One participant was quite shocked to learn that prior to colonisation there were over 250 Indigenous languages. Equally shocking to this participant however (and indicative of Australian contemporary colonialism) was the fact that I was not fluent in any Indigenous languages and could only offer the few words in Bundjalung and Warlpiri that I knew. Participant observation included attendance at 23 hip-hop events in the township (including open mic sessions, park jams and performances), 15 studio recording sessions, 22 hip-hop events uptown, and 7 performances at open mic sessions. Countless hours were spent in what Geertz (1998) terms ‘deep hanging out’, also termed ‘accompaniment’. Accompaniment is itself a decolonising strategy in social research (Adams, 2014). Long term ethnographic fieldwork based on participant observation is a particularly immersive technique of ‘accompaniment’. In my fieldwork, this meant hanging out with or accompanying participants outside of hip-hop ‘events’. Ram (2015) points out the advantages of a phenomenological approach to long-term fieldwork. She argues that the openness of the corporeal schema to acquiring new habits means that the anthropologist’s body is a tool which can reveal insights about culture through the process of ‘[incorporating] new practices, new orientations and … to some extent … many elements of a new habitus’ (Ram, 2015, p. 39). This is evident in Downey’s (2002) use of his own body in his capoeira ‘apprenticeship’ and in Biddle’s

83 (1993) autoethnographic account of relearning everyday body practices such as how to sit and how to sleep. Ram (2015, p. 40) argues that phenomenology in privileging the body in fieldwork as the primary means of becoming-enculturated offers methods beyond ‘an anthropology which sees dialogue as its central method, however democratic this may seem’. Before going to South Africa, I had not been immersed in a hip-hop scene to the extent of performing and participating in cyphers. I had only performed as a spoken word poet where the audience is (largely) sitting down. My first few performances in South Africa were (also) at spoken word open mic nights such as at Zula Bar on Long St in the city centre (though this particular session had hip-hop MC’s regularly attending and performing). My first performance at a hip-hop event was at Akio and DJ Eazy’s first Kool Out session – also on Long St, but populated by hip-hop heads and hip-hop artists from Cape Town. In Sydney, I had always felt too intimidated to perform at hip-hop events which, at that time (2004-2007), were mostly battles which required skills at freestyling (which I lack). DJ Eazy made me feel so welcome that I felt comfortable and confident enough to perform a track which the audience appreciated and some people came up to me afterwards to ‘bump fists’ and show appreciation. This was the beginning of my being labeled an MC by others during fieldwork. Participating in jam sessions with other emcees was not only incredibly fun but also helped me to develop something of a hip-hop corporeal schema. That is, this was a hip hop corporeal schema distinctive to the forms and terms of Cape Town hip hop. I don’t however, proclaim to possess in full this schema nor to understand it in the same ways that a local participant would. This is because most of my life has been spent amongst people who are not only outside of hip-hop culture but indeed, outside of the life world conditions of the townships of Cape Town. My corporeal appreciation is thus partial, fragmented, and incomplete by virtue of my being also, always, an outsider.

Positionality My positionality as a foreigner, and a white, Australian, female academic and part-time MC from a working-class background in a small rural town, however, in some ways worked to my advantage. As a foreigner, I was often welcomed. A number of people, not all of whom were from the hip-hop community, told me this without any prompting from me. Occasional comments such as ‘ don’t really come into

84 the townships’ and ‘white South Africans don’t try to speak isiXhosa’ suggested a level of affinity with white people from outside of South Africa, in contrast to white South Africans. Timothy Stapleton (1993) also found this to be the case in his research in the Eastern Cape in the early 1990s. Moreover, participants in his research had experienced racism in their interactions with white South African social researchers and were wary (Stapleton, 1993, p. 331). I felt accepted by hip-hop artists (as an insider-outsider) through my working class rural background – inscribed in my body through a relaxed style of speaking, through my scruffy worn-out skate shoes, my casual style of dress, and the various rusty cars I drove in varying states of disrepair (with the occasional fancy rent-a-car), my open acceptance of makeshift living arrangements and the conditions of township life. None of these made for an alignment of my class with the class of the artists from Khayelitsha however, but it helped me in situating my experience in ways perhaps not so readily accessible to other researchers. “Uxolo, andiqondi mama, ndiyathetha isiXhosa kancinci”– (trans. sorry, I don’t understand mama, I only speak isiXhosa a little bit). For me, speaking and greeting people in isiXhosa was not hard or a great effort (though acquiring isiXhosa fluency was greatly hindered due to my living outside the township. IsiXhosa is notoriously difficult for English Anglophone speakers to learn, due to its unique click consonants represented by the letters ‘c’ (tip of the tongue behind the front teeth)51, ‘q’ (front palate click which when done correctly makes a resounding knock sound), and ‘x’ (tongue against the side of the mouth). IsiXhosa is also a tonal language. Using isiXhosa even superficially, however, was well received. A number of people commented that I spoke ‘better isiXhosa than most white South Africans’ (though I did not take this as a compliment but rather indicative of historical language ideologies of racial and class inequities under apartheid, discussed further in Chapter Five). The isiXhosa that students are taught in formerly (under apartheid) whites-only schools often amounts to little more than how to ask for a full tank of petrol – in other words, the knowledge needed to interact with isiXhosa-speaking people as labourers. My rudimentary isiXhosa was also important for interacting with family members, as most artists lived with their families. Getting in touch with artists who did not have mobile phones sometimes involved phoning a family member. There is a culture in South Africa of

51 Interestingly one of my second son’s first communicative sounds was ‘nci’ which was a click sound he started doing around one year of age after being in the field with me for five months. He used it to indicate that he wanted to be breastfed whilst also indicating with hand signals. 85 white people making very little attempt to speak local languages. Translators have often been used in South African anthropology and in some cases, translators have been used to undertake fieldwork and collect data directly, rather than the anthropologists themselves. The assumption is that the official languages of apartheid, English and Afrikaans, are the language which can and should be used still, regardless of linguistic community or ethnicity. Although learning languages is an assumed part of fieldwork in anthropology, in my case, it wasn’t possible, however, even a minor use of localised idiom turned out to have decolonising effects for my research in promoting ‘interracial’ or cross cultural interactions and attaining something of what Williams and Stroud (2013) term linguistic ‘conviviality’.

Image 4: Researcher at Kaltcha Kulcha park jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2009 (photo by T. Lamberis used with permission) Because I chose to listen to hip-hop for years before starting university, and because I love to attend live performances, I shared common ground with participants. I came to the field with my own felt understanding of hip-hop from an embodied experience and my own developed taste within hip-hop music and history. In the words of Mic Substance – a young female MC from Site B in Khayelitsha – ‘I got love of hip- 86 hop’ (Fungwa Uhuru 2009). The fact that I could easily discuss the merits of artists such as Immortal Technique, Jean Grae, The Roots, KRS One, Wu Tang Clan and Snoop Dogg in a single conversation confirmed my ‘insider status’. Shared ground was also found in my ‘status’ as a performer – though I do not explicitly identify as an MC, and nor did I introduce myself as such to potential participants. My participation in hip- hop was through performing in jams in studios or whilst ‘hanging out’, through performing at open mic sessions, and through collaborating on tracks with a few artists. The last time I ‘rocked the mic’ at a youth day event at a shebeen (informal tavern) in Kwesi Park, Khayelitsha, was the first time I felt like I truly rocked it, and a couple of people in the audience even sang along to the chorus of my track, which was a new experience for me. When I began fieldwork I was technically a youth at the age of 27. I was a young white woman conducting research in a male-dominated, black, youth subculture. I grew up with two older brothers and I was a bit of a tomboy and have always had male friendships. I attended hip-hop events in Sydney for years, and this was always a male- dominated domain. I made good friendships in the hip-hop scene in Cape Town with male and female artists. I also had friendships with women in Khayelitsha who were not involved in the hip-hop scene, and I stayed with them a few times. During most of my fieldwork, I had a (male) partner who was not involved in the research. Later, I was visibly pregnant (see Image 4), and after giving birth I sometimes brought my baby with me when I conducted interviews and met with people. That is, it was usually obvious that I had a local family. Occasionally, other people would assume that I was the girlfriend of the male hip-hop artist whom I arrived with at an event, until I explained that I was there to conduct research. The main obstacle to fieldwork that arose from my gender was a concern about safety. I didn’t feel completely safe with the idea of living in the township. It is a statistical fact that one in three women in South Africa have been raped, and this cuts across racial categories. In Khayelitsha, during informal conversations I sometimes heard stories about violence and sexual abuse. Examples include: ‘a friend was raped on her way home from the shebeen last night’; ‘my ten- year-old girl cousin was pulled in between some shacks on her way home from the shop in broad daylight but was saved by an older woman who intervened’; and ‘a neighbour has had a second child to her father’. Hip-hop events were most often during the day but also continued into the early evening. I usually left as it started to get dark. Safety

87 concerns were not only an issue for myself; they were a daily reality for hip-hop artists living or moving around Khayelitsha. Often, there were stories of being mugged on the way to an event or on the way home.

Method of writing Phenomenological anthropology, decolonial methodologies and hiphopography all have histories of formal experimentation with writing itself as a primary method of critical intervention. Writing against the tradition of the anthropologist as a detached, objective observer, Geertz (1973) advocated an interpretative and immersive approach through thick description through detailed attention to both his own and other people’s interpretations. As a mode of writing, phenomenology aspires to evoke lived immediacy. This is evident in the style of anthropologists such as Stoller (1989) and Jackson (1995) who utilise ‘narrative ethnography’ with a focus on the senses and the employment of fieldwork stories and dialogue. Phenomenological ethnographic writing often includes a self-reflexive or autoethnographic writing style (such as in Abu-Lughod, 1996; Biddle, 1993, 2002; Downey, 2002; Ram, 2012). This technique is also used as a method of decolonising research writing (such as in Botha, 2010; F. V. Harrison, 1997; Tomaselli, 2013; Biddle 1993, 2002, 2007, 2016). Ellis, Adams and Bochner (2011) argue that autoethnography ‘treats research as a political, socially-just and socially-conscious act’. It is also a useful tool for keeping white privilege in check (Boyd, 2008). My inclusion of field note stories and long quotes from participants in which everyday people are treated as expert authorities not only grounds this ethnography in the concrete lived experience of hip- hop in Khayelitsha, but it gives hip-hop artists space to speak for themselves52. It provides necessary moments of both insider and outsider perspectives so that the researchers own experiences and encounters are at once utilised as the embodied ‘tool’ they provide but are not privileged over the voice of others. As Abu-Lughod (1991, p. 476) advocates for the use of more in-depth accounts of individuals ‘showing [their] actual circumstances and detailed histories … their relationships … [and] reconstructing people’s arguments about, justifications for, and interpretations of what they and others are doing’ in order to overcome the essentialising tendencies of writing ‘about’ culture

52 Abu-Lughod (1991) suggests that ‘granting’ space for participants to ‘speak’ for themselves in ethnographic writing can be a token gesture, much like situating the positionality of the researcher can be a token gesture proving ethnographic authority to speak for the other. 88 and to lessen the ‘othering’ that remains at the centre of anthropology. This is also a key method of hiphopography as ‘[t]oo often in scholarship on Hip Hop culture, Hip Hop artists and practitioners are talked about, but very seldom are they themselves talking’ (Spady et al., 2006, p. 29). My writing however differs from that of Spady (2001, Spady et al., 1999) and Alim (2006a, 2006b) as, among other differences, I do not claim to be writing from within Hip Hop Nation Language, which these scholars who, in becoming more formal ‘insiders’ through acquiring vernacular fluency, can employ to important effect.

Figure 1: Map of Khayelitsha in relation to both the Cape Town Centre, and to the Western Cape and Eastern Cape Provinces, 2016 (compiled by T. Cohen) Selecting ‘the field’: Khayelitsha The hip-hop art of emceeing embodies place. At the beginning of a performance, or during a track, emcees often name the area, city or the town that they come from or ‘represent’ in a form such as ‘Gugulethu represent!’ or ‘shout out to Cape Town’. Khayelitsha emcees often do this by calling out their post-code ‘7784’ at the start or end of a song. ‘Straight Outta Cape Town’ t-shirts have been made to refer to American hip- hop group NWA’s Straight Outta Compton album/song (1988) . However, my decision to use the borders demarcating a municipality of Cape Town – a single township – as a ‘field site’ was not based on the widespread tendency in hip-hop to represent place, and

89 I did not expect to find that hip-hop from and in Khayelitsha would be a bounded homogenous form distinct from other areas – I expected to find artists with a diverse range of lyrical content. I considered my decision to limit the selection of participants to people from Khayelitsha as an (almost) arbitrary (Candea, 2007) demarcation of the field. Indeed, I gained access to the field through a chance encounter (see below). I wanted to find out what ‘ordinary folk’ were doing with hip-hop. This was a deliberate attempt to write against a pervasive approach of making sweeping statements about what hip-hop does, based on a single artist who has had commercial and popular success. Rather, my approach aimed to enable an investigation into the diversity of ways in which hip-hop is used to do things on the ground (as opposed to on a compact disc, in a record shop, or through the headphones of individuals). The geographic specificity of the term ‘the field’ in anthropology has been problematised. Globalisation, and the unprecedented mobility of commodities, ideas and people, have rendered previous assumptions of culture as being rooted in place, inadequate. Appadurai’s (1990) notion of ‘ethnoscapes’ accounts for the diverse network of people and things in places and for newer intersecting cultural, political, economic, class, racial and cultural subjectivities taking shape. According to Appadurai (1990, p. 297), this is ‘the landscape of persons who constitute the shifting world in which we live: tourists, immigrants, refugees, exiles, guestworkers’. In the 1990s, a critique developed of ‘the field’ in anthropological practice (Coleman & Collins, 2006; Gupta & Ferguson, 1997). Traditionally, anthropology perpetuated a bounded notion of culture as rooted in geographic place (eg. Olwig & Hastrup, 1997). Liisa Malkki’s (1995) study of the collective identity of Hutu refugees in exile, for one, entailed a critique of this pervasive idea of culture as rooted in the local, through the projects of identity-making among a displaced people (Malkki, 1995). While culture cannot be tied to a particular place, as people, information and commodities flow over geographic borders, people do relate to place in decidedly cultural, embodied and emplaced ways. Place allows for certain kinds of experience and practices if we understand ‘space as a practiced place’. The day to day repetition of bodies in practice in place, as de Certeau (1984, p. 117) argues, transforms space into place as, for example, ‘the street geometrically defined by urban planning is transformed into a space by walkers’. Hip- hop artists and activists create place in Khayelitsha in distinct ways which are contingent upon the limits of intersecting spaces already being made into place by the

90 dynamics of daily life world. Hip hop makes place in the terms of everyday town ship – for example, mamas emptying washing water into the street out of the front of a shack across the road three metres from an open mic set up with a small crowd gathered around speakers. Hip hop does not in this sense introduce radically new or variant ways of making place but rather, it takes shape alongside and in terms of (newer) forms of place-making already taking shape within the town ship. In this sense, the making of being at ‘home’ of hip-hop and particularly, its collective place-making capacities that this thesis explores, overlap in Khayelitsha, in ways that simply would not be possible in the city centre. Edward Casey (1996, pp. 24–25), informed by Heidegger, notes that, Places gather … places gather things in their midst - where "things" connote various animate and inanimate entities. Places also gather experiences and histories, even languages and thoughts. Think of what it means to go back to a place you know, finding it full of memories and expectations, old things and new things, the familiar and the strange, and much more besides…the power belongs to place itself, and it is a power of gathering.

Place inscribes itself on and in bodies. Khayelitsha is notorious within Cape Town and South Africa as a place of burning tyres and burning bodies, kids fighting with knives and pangas, paraffin (kerosene) fires, winter floods, extreme poverty and deprivation. An artist, Metanoia, once complained to me that the media always showed the worst side of Khayelitsha – photos and videos of the shacks abound while pictures of Reconstruction and Development Program housing and clean streets are rare. On the few occasions when I took a car full of hip-hop artists to a music event on Long St in the city centre, I was always allowed direct entry while the people accompanying me were meticulously searched. As Casey (1996, p. 24 italics in original) argues, ‘the living-moving body is essential to the process of emplacement: lived bodies belong to places and help to constitute them … By the same token, however, places belong to lived bodies and depend on them’. It was clear to the security guards at uptown events that these bodies ‘belonged’ to the township and were out of place in the city centre. Yet some hip-hop artists from Khayelitsha have travelled to Germany or Holland. Some spend a lot of time outside the township. Some now live in more affluent, more central suburbs of Mowbray, Observatory or Muizenberg. Many go ‘back to the Eastern Cape’ in December every year for rituals and for family. Most were born in the Eastern Cape; some were born in Cape Town.

91 However, my fieldwork was also multi-sited ethnography (Marcus, 1995). I ‘followed’ hip-hop artists from Khayelitsha to other townships, and to the city centre. I also spent time at events in the city to find out something of ‘Cape Town hip-hop’ which is made up of intersecting scenes from the townships whose nexus is the city. Khayelitsha itself is a big place with many different areas ranging from government- built three-bedroom houses with running water and flushing toilets to sprawling informal shack settlements with no adequate sanitation (see Robins, 2013, July 3 on ‘poo protests’ in Khayelitsha). I first went to Cape Town in 2008. I started going to Khayelitsha regularly in April/May 2008 and continued until June 2009. I had a break from the field when I went on maternity leave whilst still living in Cape Town in June 2009. In September 2009, when my beautiful, happy, chubby baby boy suddenly passed away, I took a leave of absence for two years. I returned to Cape Town in June 2011 for another intensive fieldwork trip from June 2011 to December 2011, followed by a final trip from May 2013 to August 2013.

Co-production of research data and ‘empowering’ participants Effective methods of co-producing research materials literally emerged (Bentz & Shapiro, 1998, p. 96) from the field. The first hip-hop activist I met in Khayelitsha was Luyanda, a young Xhosa man with short dreadlocks in his early twenties from Port Elizabeth with a strong Eastern Cape-isiXhosa accent. I was at an outdoor music event which turned out to be a short walk from his grandmother’s house where he lived in Harare, Khayelitsha. Luyanda approached me as a white foreigner to pitch his project, which involved working with local youth in Harare using hip-hop, before I ever said a word about what I was doing in Cape Town. Through Luyanda, I started going to events in Khayelitsha and Gugulethu, and visiting the house where he had local youth come to hang out, freestyle and practise their raps. A few months later I was at Luyanda’s place in Harare and MC Indigenous came by to meet me because he had heard from Luyanda about my research. Indigenous is a first-generation hip-hop artist from the older section of Khayelitsha. He was born in 1981 and went to a school outside the township. He was passionate about hip-hop and social change. He had read widely and had an incredible knowledge of hip-hop history. Indigenous then introduced me to MC Metabolism who grew up a few blocks away from him and was a few years younger.

92 Metabolism was a part of the well-respected Cape Town crew Writer’s Block. I pitched my research to Metabolism whose first response was ‘we can organise a park jam’ with the hip-hop collective Intellectual Seeds. This turned into a collective, collaborative project of documenting hip-hop in Khayelitsha – where I took photographs of performers during the event. In 2011, when my second son was six months old, I returned to the field. This time I contacted a few hip-hop artists whom I had seen perform in Khayelitsha to follow up on interviews. I attended a performance where Mic Substance was performing with other members under her manager, Marley Planga, an ex-school teacher who had taught some of the members of Backyard Crew and had decided to help them out by becoming their manager. The producer of Backyard Crew, Mashonisa, agreed that I could meet with him to talk about my project. It was great. We had a bit of a freestyle jam in Mashonisa’s small bedroom studio to his bass-heavy, what many would call ‘phat’ beats (‘phat’ meaning ‘great’ but in reference to beats usually denotes a certain bass heavy sound). I performed a verse. Kideo picked up the beat when I trailed off. The next Sunday, I went there again. Kideo told me he had been thinking about my project and that he would like to help me. He said that he could introduce me to people in his area and take me there. Eventually, Kideo also offered to co-conduct some interviews with people I had been struggling to meet up with. He had no formal training of any kind in social research methods. Later, he reflected on the experience and told me that he really enjoyed it as it meant he got to have conversations with other hip-hop artists that he never would have had otherwise. He noted that although he, himself, and the artists interviewed, interacted and performed at the same gigs, they never talked about what hip-hop meant to them. Thandika Mkandawire (1993, p. 135) states that historically in African people’s relations with foreign scholars, ‘the most tedious data gathering is left to Africans and the theoretical digestion and elaboration is left to “Africanists”’. What was different in my research was that I did the bulk of ‘tedious gathering’ and grounded my analysis in participants own perspectives. Interviews that were conducted with what became more like co-producers, of knowledge, as artists and community members became more self- reflexive across the research project and through my relationships over time.

93 Mixtape A mixtape is literally a mixed compilation of songs on a compact cassette tape. Initially, hip-hop music was solely recorded from live performances, and tape recordings of live performances were the only means of disseminating the music. As such, they have gained a kind of Chalice-of-the-Golden-Age-of-hip-hop type of sentimentality. In Cape Town in the 1990s, tape recordings of the hip-hop radio show Headwarmaz on Bush Radio were a popular way of gaining access to and sharing music. In hip-hop in Khayelitsha – as in much of hip-hop – artists will often release a mixtape. A mixtape in hip-hop was originally an informal cassette tape recording of a live show, later home- studio recordings of artist’s rap songs which persists in underground hip-hop as a means of introducing themselves before their full album comes out. I decided to put together a mixtape of artists from Khayelitsha as an ethically responsible means of acquiring research data, not only through the final product but through documenting the process. The Mixtape Project was a non-profit venture that was part of my commitment to collaborative and participatory research. The mixtape was a way for my research to directly support artists’ needs for recording and community-creating through self-representation. The purpose of the Mixtape Project was to bring together diverse streams of hip-hop from Khayelitsha on one album to showcase this diversity and to encourage unity and working together on a project with different artists. Though many hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha have access to shack and bedroom studios, two of the artists, Canon and Steel, had never had the opportunity to record before. This was despite the fact that Steel had been performing since 2000, had a following in the Cape Town hip-hop scene, and had been an important role model for the next generation of hip-hop artists such as the successful spaza group from Gugulethu named Driemanskap (Afrikaans for ‘three man band’). Two common means of disseminating tracks are to allow free download via file share sites on the internet, and by being played on local radio stations.

Fieldwork safety Apart from the difficulties involved in conducting research in an African township in a male-dominated subculture, my fieldwork was hampered by the issue of personal safety in Khayelitsha. Government statistics researchers are restricted by only being able to operate in Khayelitsha on weekdays and during daylight hours due to safety issues

94 (Maverick 358cc, 2006). This severely limits their data collection as they miss people who work during the week. Due to high crime levels in the township, I decided not to live there, but to commute via private transport and arrange to meet a participant who would accompany me at least until I got to know certain areas well enough to find my own way to events or people’s homes. Several times during my stays in Cape Town, violence erupted in Khayelitsha and I had to stay away until things calmed down. I was often unable to attend events at night (though most events took place during the day), due to safety and/or not being able to find a local person to accompany me. Other PhD students researching in Cape Town have also been cautious. Gary Pritchard (2011, p. 108) ‘always entered townships with a chaperone’, and chose to live in a flat in the city centre. He commented that ‘dangerous situations often made me reluctant to go into areas I was unfamiliar, with people I did not know well and could not trust’ (Pritchard, 2011, p. 110). Before leaving Australia, I had contacted Steffen Jensen after reading an article he had written about gangs in Cape Town to ask him for advice on doing research in the townships. When researching gangs in (a notorious ‘coloured’ township on the Cape Flats where there were shoot-outs in front of schools) Jensen would arrange to meet research participants outside the neighbourhood during the day, and to be accompanied at all times by someone from the area. Safety and crime also restricted the involvement of some of the participants. On several occasions, people were mugged at fist-, knife-, or gun-point when on their way to meet me, or on their way to an event. Despite the need to be cautious, in most situations people were overwhelmingly protective of me as a solo white woman which often manifest by people asking if I was okay, if I needed help, or if I was lost when I was at events or in the township, for clearly, I was out of place. Most of the time, at events and interviews, I was the only white person present, and sometimes I was one of only a handful of women in a crowd. People were overwhelmingly supportive of the research, and welcoming of my presence, and my feeling for and knowledge of hip-hop made it easy to build rapport.

Limitations of the research I did not live in ‘the field’ in Khayelitsha, I did not know the local language well, and I had an infant. These were the lived limits of my research. And yet, perhaps they were

95 also productive limits. Understanding the ways in which the lived, embodied, realities of researchers’ lives both limit and produce ‘data’ is vitally important for understanding research ‘results’. My work is not reflective of the entirety of the hip-hop scene in South Africa, or of hip-hop in the townships of Cape Town, or even of the Xhosa people in Khayelitsha. I did not interview or meet every MC in Khayelitsha. Such idealised research data would have meant dis-embodied research, that is, void of the lived reality effects of the conditions under which social research in post-apartheid, contemporary township lives takes shape. My research was circumscribed, specific; produced and influenced by the factors discussed above. This is situated research in the lived terms that Khayelitsha presents to a white, female, outsider. Even though my research is explicitly about exploring the embodied, cultural and beyond-lyrical-political aspects of hip-hop in Khayelitsha, nevertheless what youth are saying in their lyrics remains vitally important. For the purposes of the thesis however, collecting the data of lyrics proved difficult – artists often didn’t write lyrics down even when they composed them. Getting people to write their lyrics was difficult. I asked people to write lyrics down for me but I did not want to push people to do it and often got the feeling that it was too much of a hassle. Some artists were happy to comply such as Sound Masters Crew, Undecided crew, Zanzolo, Kideo, and some were written directly into my notepads during the recording of the mixtape. Getting translations also proved to be difficult. Translation is a problem experienced by other non-Xhosa speaking researchers due to differences in dialect (Stapleton, 1993, p. 332). I learnt to speak basic conversational isiXhosa. Listening to rap live, I could often make out some key words in isiXhosa and piece together the gist of the lyrics based on the English words used and asking the isiXhosa-speaking people I was with. However, my lack of fluency in isiXhosa, and the fact that township vernacular is heavily used in spaza rap, allowed me as well as forced me to focus on the sound quality, the style of beats, the vocal technique used and the social interactions in performances. It also allowed discussions of people’s broader intentions in their raps outside of a strict focus on semiotic lyrical analysis. This worked as an advantage for the phenomenological focus of my research. This is not to suggest that I didn’t focus on lyrics. MC’s in Khayelitsha also rap in English. Many spaza artists have entire verses in English. I often discussed lyrical content with artists. However, lyrical content is always embedded in the wider matrix of

96 the sonic, embodied, intercorporeal, and intersubjective qualities of the context of a rap, and it is this broader spectrum I focus on. More research would be required to understand the street language, tsotsitaal, of Khayelitsha. Getting translations of tsotsitaal lyrics proved to be particularly difficult. Asking MC’s who rap in English to translate spaza rap was dismissed (I discuss language ideologies further in Chapter Five). Getting a translator from the University of Cape Town to translate involved difficulties in understanding the use of certain, more localised, idioms, words and phrases. These difficulties were not due to a lack of skill or a failing to utilise so-called ‘proper’ language on the part of the emcees. Rather, the creative and anti-authoritarian bending and riffing of ‘standard’ language is the norm for the language of hip-hop. A couple of translations I did have done, were clearly disconnected from the artists use of eKasi53 terms and intentions, which I happened to pick up on a few of because I had heard people use such terms in everyday speech. The use of ‘deep Xhosa’ is also a specific feature of spaza rap from Khayelitsha. These conditions made any easy translation of lyrics difficult. (Language use is explored further in Chapter Five and Six). Thus, the present research did not set out to investigate language, but explicitly to understand the ways hip-hop was being used in more everyday contexts by youth and other community members (that is, I did not just investigate the way hip-hop is used by the most popular artists). I aimed to understand the value of hip-hop as a verbal and embodied art form, in ways which moved beyond strictly lyrical content. The code- mixing (isiXhosa, English, Afrikaans, Tsotsitaal) which is a marker of spaza rap, required further investigation, and forms of linguistic analysis which could yield rich results commensurate with the rich and important emergence of this new genre of hip hop. The use of ‘deep Xhosa’ required more consideration of the contexts of the history of hidden transcripts through Xhosa radio plays and theatre, songs and stories, which use idioms and double meanings to conceal political commentary (see Gqibitole, 2007).

Conclusion Decolonising and phenomenological approaches to research offer important methodologies and methods for the specific objectives of this research. In order to understand what youth are doing with hip-hop, it is crucial to prioritise their

53 Urban isiXhosa meaning township 97 perspectives and experiences, to understand the lived experiences of the situations in which they are acting – indeed, leading scholars of hip-hop advocate explicitly for this. To understand rap as a verb, as a way of being, doing and making, and not just as a genre of music, we must look to the body. The body sounds words to a beat amongst a collective of peers and a community of practice, often out in the everyday space of the street, often reciting, sometimes improvising, sometimes offbeat, then skipping back in time but always seeking flow. Adopting a decolonising approach to research enables a deeper understanding of the embodied practice of hip-hop and its deeply political capacities.

98 Chapter 3 Welcome to Kaltsha

Despite the fact that this thesis argues for a close consideration of hip-hop beyond strictly textual or lyrical dimensions, I do not dispute the importance of lyrics. The stories that youth tell through emceeing, in terms of their lyrical, semiotic and poetic attributes matter. The skill of storytelling in rap is about the choice of words. But it is also about the larger structures of the story, and the tone, the attitude, of voice imputed. The skill of effective storytelling is precisely about the ways in which it is communicated – whether it is written or spoken, and whether it is created in isolation or in the presence of others. The success of an emcee is heavily dependent on his or her performance quality, vocal technique, skill in rhyming, interaction with the crowd, and the readiness of the crowd to hear the message of the emcee. The greater message contained in the lyrics is thus crucial. However, what a given message is capable of doing in hip-hop is intimately bound up in the historical, social, cultural, embodied, and sonic context of its production and reception. The message in hip-hop is not merely a matter of words. This chapter models how aspects of ‘message’ in hip-hop are currently practiced, as well as debated, by artists in Cape Town and Khayelitsha. I then outline key themes in lyrical content, and in turn, characterise the unique genres of contemporary hip-hop currently emerging. I model analysis from the artist’s own perspective in order to develop an on-the-ground ‘feel’ for how both global influences and localised debates are taking shape within Cape Town and Xhosa township scenes. In this chapter I track both artist’s perspectives and audience responses. I begin with a brief historical account of how hip-hop developed in Khayelitsha. I then analyse differing genres of hip hop that have emerged, noting how controversial some of these are, and how they are disputed on the ground between generations of artists. Strict genre boundaries are often rejected by hip-hop artists. Thus, I model instead, some common themes54 in hip-hop in Khayelitsha, including humour, political rap, activism, and

54 Other common themes include a focus on punchlines, and a distinct theme of witchcraft (witches are known as amagqwirha). I decided not to include a discussion of witchcraft in this thesis despite the fact that many spaza emcees have tracks about witchcraft – such as Backyard Crew, Argo, Undecided Crew and Sound Masters Crew. Witchcraft is a big issue in the Xhosa townships in Cape Town (Bähre, 2002) and in the Eastern Cape and is too broad to cover here. Furthermore, there were a number of serious cases of witchcraft which involved some participants which, due to sensitivity and out of respect for people affected I have chosen not to discuss in this thesis. 99 uplifting messages. Finally, I critically examine the genre of ‘gangsta rap’ through the artists’ own understandings and audience response. The chapter ends with a description of MC Kideo’s first track, called Nongqawuse (unreleased), which compares the mid- 1800s story of a prophetess – Nongqawuse – with the corruption of the ANC and the divisions this prophecy created among Xhosa.

Figure 2: Town planning map of Cape Town, 1950, cited in (UCT Libraries Digital Collections, n.d.) Welcome to Kaltsha After years of gradually working my way deeper into the townships and piecing together stories and explanations from various artists, I felt I had a grasp on the history of how hip-hop came to Khayelitsha. Then one night in 2011, I was on Long St – Cape Town’s main entertainment strip full of bars, clubs, restaurants and cafes and I was schooled on the history of hip-hop in the isiXhosa-speaking townships in Cape Town by Korianda – a hip-hop artist from the group 5th Floor and a key organiser of hip-hop in Gugulethu (the weekly AllNYz park jam). I was attending MC Phoenix’s album launch for Umculo wezikoli (discussed in more detail below). While this was by no means the first spaza gig on Long Street – other gigs had been organised at the Purple Turtle one hundred metres or so down the street from Monate Lounge – this gig was a big step for

100 spaza hip-hop. Phoenix himself noted the significance of the fact that so many ‘cats from the ‘hood came through’. Attendance at the show was overwhelmingly made up of hip-hop enthusiasts from the isiXhosa-speaking townships of Gugulethu, Langa and Khayelitsha. The show was hosted by two members of Headwarmaz radio show, Qhama and Sabelo. Performers at the album launch were also from these townships – Korianda (Gugulethu), Kideo and Chumani Agmaad (Kuyasa, Khayelitsha), and Backyard Crew (Khayelitsha) and Illverse (Khayelitsha). There was also a performance by a dance group of four girls from Khayelitsha which incorporated aspects of hip-hop and R&B, as well as traditional-contemporary Xhosa dance. The MC Korianda55 had just performed and we were on the balcony overlooking the busy street. I was with MC Mafiana who had been filming the performances. We decided to interview Korianda and the first question I asked was, ‘what do you think of spaza coming to the city?’ This was his response; What happened is that when hip-hop arrived in Cape Town. It started like infiltration of … ahhhh your Model C56 schools … so kids that went to Bishops, Rondebosche, Wynberg Boys … they met other kids who had access to hip-hop … via other means, some of them got it from their friends abroad … remember this was the mixtape TDK era … you know what I mean, so now what happened is like over the years post ’94 … or say like up to 2000 … a few cats in the township had access to hip hop, there was no internet, right? … There was no … you know what I mean there wasn’t that much access to the music … so what happened I would say post, say, 2000 I’d say a lot of black kids started having access to hip-hop, right … and what happens then … a lot of them were not from a model C background so they … they … their medium of communication wasn’t necessarily English … right … even though they related to this music, right … so what happened is they started translating it, right, making it suit themselves … just like yo … the coloured bredrens [or brethren – a term commonly used among Rastafarians instead of ‘brothers’] in started rapping in Afrikaans, you know this was as far back as the days of P.O.C. … Prophets of the City … they used to rap in Afrikaans … so the idea of spitting in mother tongue was not new – it’s just that it came later to the township … but once it arrived with cats like um … I mean we can say Fifth Floor had a role they played but they never really focused deeply … on sort of like … you know … on strictly mother-tongue raps … it was only once cats like … the cat that really put it on the map, I’d say … is Rattex, yebo … Rattex dropped one of the first spaza albums, right? … even though before him … ok … let me correct that … the first cat to record a spaza track, that we know, was a cat called … ahhh … Sketch … jaaaa … Sketch was

55 First generation hip-hop and artist from Gugulethu. Korianda organises the weekly open mic at AllNYz in Gugulethu and is a member of well-respected Cape Town hip-hop crew Fifth Floor. 56 Model C is widely used to refer to formerly whites-only schools. In the few years before the end of apartheid the government came up with four models for whites-only schools to adopt with different degrees of privatisation and control over admissions policies. The Model C are ‘government schools that are administrated and largely funded by a governing body of parents and alumni’ (Expat Arrivals, n.d.). Though this term is no longer officially used, it remains widespread. 101 the first cat to record ‘useKapa pa’ [he raps a two lines from Sketch’s track] … that’s a legend you know … no matter whether he still raps or whatever … but the next cat to drop a album like a full-on spaza album was Rattex … ahhhh …Welcome to Kaltsha.57 That album just sparked chaos in Khayelitsha … it gave those kids confidence in themselves you know … they… they saw themselves you know not needing to live up to you know imported hip-hop … to such an extent that a lot of them are not even … four elementally orientated when it comes to hip-hop … They just rap … you know what I mean … and it helps them you know it gives them a sense of identity, it gives them like … personal pride … It gives them goals and directions you know … and the rest will follow … We will have spaza graffiti artists, we’ll have spaza DJs, you know, and spaza breakers, you know … in time … and ja so …What happened now … what I would term … the worst thing that could have happened out of this phenomenon … was that … the cats who rap in English … all of a sudden … had a problem. (interview Nov 2011)

As Korianda details, the complex issue of access to media under apartheid contributed to the fact that hip-hop was first taken up by coloured youths in Cape Town. Access to hip-hop in South Africa in the 1980s was difficult under apartheid due to cultural sanctions, censorship laws and segregated media. After the forced removals began in the 1960s and 1970s which, under the Group Areas Act (1950), re-zoned areas (see Figure 2) like (West of Wynberg on the map in Figure 2), District 6 as ‘whites only’ areas many ‘coloured’ families left the country rather than move to the desolate Cape Flats, where places like Mitchell’s Plain were established to house the forcibly displaced people. Overseas contacts enabled access to hip-hop music and other cultural commodities. MC Shaheen from P.O.C. recalls: ‘we managed to develop research and networking skills that made it possible to obtain what we felt we needed from relationships with overseas pen-pals or friends and family in exile/abroad’ (Ariefdien & Burgess, 2011, p. 222). MC/b-boy Emile YX? (2014) from Black Noise remembers, ‘people would send cassettes and people would send books’. This informal economy of hip-hop was not unique to South Africa at that time, as hip-hop was rarely broadcast ‘in the African mass media … but rather it had to be imported in the form of audio and video cassettes and vinyl records … it was literally brought over in bits and pieces by Africans traveling abroad’ (Charry, 2012, p. 4) . Under apartheid, Xhosa had fewer rights than people classified as ‘coloured’. Xhosa people were more deeply impoverished and were largely restricted from access to the city. Furthermore, the

57 ‘Kaltcha’ (also spelt ‘kaltsha’) is used by hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha as an alternative spelling for Khayelitsha. It plays on the sound of this word – when said quickly sounds like ‘culture’. The music film clip to Rattex’s song Welcome to Kaltsha can be viewed at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaPNioUrJVs 102 apartheid ideology of separate development extended to the segregation of media through the South African Broadcasting Corporation. Radio Bantu was established in1962 and presented news and programs in Indigenous languages and only played black South African music such as isicathamiya, African jazz, , and (see Hamm, 2006, p. 195). With the end of apartheid in 1994, formerly white schools were de-segregated and began accepting black students. Interacting with people outside of the township gave an initial generation of youth in Khayelitsha access to hip-hop and information about hip-hop events. This first generation of hip-hop enthusiasts and burgeoning emcees brought information back to Khayelitsha. These musicians and community members began organising their own park jams based on what they had experienced in ‘coloured’ townships. See the Table of Participants, p. vii, for a research chart synthesising the names, schooling, and performance languages, of the three generations of artists in Cape Town townships.

Generations Hip-hop lyrics and the representation of hip-hop through rap music was debated within hip-hop circles in Cape Town at the same time as artists began to collaborate with each other and participate in a common, and intersecting, hip-hop scene and to co-create hip- hop events together. The first generation58 of hip-hop heads in Cape Town came to hip- hop at the height of the anti-apartheid struggle in the 1980s. This was also a time when b-boy culture was still central to hip-hop, as seen in the music and practice of, for example, Run DMC and in the hip-hop films of the 1980s and music film clips. Ariefdien (in Ariefdien & Burgess, 2011, p. 231) of POC notes the influence of British hip-hop on their own sound: ‘[t]heir music was generally more aggressive, less conventional in melody and slightly more up-tempo, which served us well because we always had b-boys in the crew’. The second generation of hip-hop artists to emerge in Cape Town hit the local scene amid the relief of the fall of apartheid. The style that emerged from the USA at the time, was the post b-boy sound of the ‘’ of such producers as Pete Rock and DJ Premier and Dr Dre style G-. This is evident in Ariefdien and Burgess’ (2011) chapter in the book entitled Native Tongues: The African Hip-hop Reader in which they discuss generational differences in Cape Town hip-hop. Ariefdien was a

58 ‘Generation’ as a category is not without problems (see Ariefdien, 2011) and is not an absolute distinction. However, it is useful in understanding the link between the time period in which artists ‘came of age’ in hip-hop and their aesthetic preferences. 103 member of first generation crew POC and Burgess is a second-generation emcee. The chapter is structured as a dialogue between two hip-hop heads. This important piece of work addresses many of the contradictions and tensions in hip-hop as they are understood and played out on the ground in the local underground scene. The first generation lamented a perceived loss of political focus in the next generation. Ariefdien notes that many of his generation felt G-Funk represented the corporatisation of hip- hop, the disconnection of rap from the other elements of hip-hop (graffiti, b-boy, turntablism). He states that ‘G-Funk represented a loss for many of us’ (in Ariefdien and Burgess, 2011, p. 225). It is important to note that Ariefdien (2011, p. 225) also states, ‘I recall that we dissed talented local crews like Nasty Weather, mostly because they represented a G-Funk sound and also because they viewed G as short for “Gam,” a derogatory term for ’59. The first generation of hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha emerged in the 1990s and started events in the township. The Intellectual Seeds Movement (ISM) started the first park jams in Khayelitsha in I Section in 2000. The park jams were a huge success and ran once a month for a period of two years until 2001. Three of the founding members of ISM were the emcees Metabolism, Steel and Indigenous. The park jams that Intellectual Seeds organised, along with other events such as the park jams Mafiyana organised around the same time, contributed to the next generation of hip-hop heads. Rattex – a pioneer of spaza – was part of a crew called Maniac Squad, along with Steel from I Section, Khayelitsha. They organised events in 2001. Rattex reports that ‘Maniac Squad started something in around 2001 we started inviting like Ready D to play in eKasi [the township] … it went for a year’ (Rattex interview 2011). Inspired by these park jams, Korianda started the weekly AllNYz park jams in Gugulethu on Sundays in 2006. The next generation, the third in Cape Town, the second in Khayelitsha, were introduced to hip-hop through greater access to hip-hop on television and radio, but importantly through seeing people in their own townships rapping in English and in isiXhosa. This latest generation of artists to emerge from Khayelitsha in the 2000s were more deeply embedded in the sonic aesthetic of the township. While the first generation of artists in Khayelitsha found hip-hop to be a welcome alternative to the pervasive house music and kwaito of the township (discussed more in the next chapter), the next

59 The term ‘Gam’ has been reclaimed by hip-hop artists through the use of gamtaal – a vernacular form of Afrikaans developed in the ‘coloured’ townships of Cape Town. 104 generation came to hip-hop from within a township sonic sensibility – of kwaito, gospel, house. Second generation hip-hop artists from Khayelitsha, such as Metabolism, Steel and Canon, do not like spaza because of the sound of the beats. The feeling is shared by some of the younger generation of artists who refer to the 1990s boom bap style as ‘conscious beats’. There is also a perceived loss of quality that is tied up with divergent taste in beats. A more detailed definition and analysis of spaza is provided in Chapter Four, and of the different generations of practice in Khayelitsha in Chapter Six.

Debates in Cape Town hip-hop between generations The tensions between the first two generations – while certainly not absolute – are clearly expressed in a 2014 episode of Street Talk (2014, Dec 9), a Cape Town documentary series. The documentary includes a discussion between two pioneers of Cape Town hip-hop, Natasha Tafari and Emile YX? (founding member of Black Noise), and an emcee from Langa, Metabolism (Khayelitsha), and Miss Celaneous (latest generation, from /). Ironically, Natasha and Emile YX? both wear Adidas60 tracksuit jackets, while arguing that the underground is not commercial – that you can have a message and make money but still not be considered commercial if you have a message: Metabolism: When you’re underground you’re not commercially signed. When you’re commercially signed you’re commercially viable, therefore, everybody can pick up your music at Musica at Look and Listen at any other record store

Natasha: Is that message in the underground. Is that message getting out in underground? We need to get the message out of underground commercialism … isn’t it? That what you do underground for the people who’ve already converted you the underground that’s why you’re underground. We need to get on top so that you can hear what the underground is saying. This is what we need to do – the revolution.

Metabs: I hear you and I hear your point what you’re saying. We’ve been having this underground versus commercial … since forever. [agreement all round] if you’re commercially viable you’re a commercial artist whether your message is profound and deep or whether you’re just talking about Benz and girls … selling records at record stores you commercial

Natasha: When you’re getting the message out are you serious? Come on now. (StreetTalkSA, 2014, Dec 9)

60 Adidas tracksuits have been a b-boy uniform, particularly since RunDMC were sponsored by Adidas in the 1980s – for example see the song ‘My Adidas’ – and Adidas tracksuits are popular among Rastafarians due in part to Bob Marley’s popularisation of this fashion. 105 The ethical stance against the commercialisation by underground hip-hop artists can contradict the esteemed goal of financial success as an independent artist (Shusterman, 1991, p. 623). These ethical contradictions are reflected globally in debates about the underground verses commercial success, as evident in a Brazilian hip- hop artist and activist’s perspective; For Lú, her art is a vehicle for her activism. For her, hip-hop is revolution. It is consciousness. And anyone who believes that there should be or could be a relationship between the market – specifically the music industry – and hip-hop is someone who, according to Lú, has become commercialized; they cease to be relevant to the grassroots, underground, activist vision of hip-hop, even if they are commercial artists with a socially conscious message (a perspective that is quite common in hip-hop in Brazil and in much of the world) (Saunders, 2016, p. 190).

This points to the compromises some artists may choose to make living in a capitalist society, whilst disagreeing with the system. For example, the (relatively) commercially successful crew Godessa criticised Levi’s and fashion in their lyrics but subsequently accepted a sponsorship from Levi’s. Natasha Tafari is passionate about the conscious message in the underground but ironically wears products manufactured by Adidas – a multimillion dollar transnational corporation which has faced much controversy for years over appalling labour conditions in its Asian factories. Ariefdien (2011, p.144) notes this as a problem hip-hop artists in Cape Town face: many artists embark on corporate sponsorship to avoid the clutches of the major and the indie [record] labels … Companies like MTN, Sprite, Smirnoff, to name a few, have all used hip-hop artists, many of whom are considered socially conscious emcees, to promote their products.

This is the tension between individual gains and uplifting and maintaining a commitment to the hip-hop community and its anti-commercial ethos. It is a tension between pursuing a potentially lucrative record deal and ‘selling out’ to perceived market demands on the one hand, and maintaining knowledge of self and integrity on the other. It is these contradictions that can turn some youth away from ‘conscious’ messages in rap. MC Metabolism became involved with local Rastafarians but ‘didn’t like the way they treat the women’ and what he saw as their self-righteousness. He also ‘preferred alcohol to weed’. Rastafari has clearly defined gender roles based on a

106 discourse of ‘respect’61 and the emphasis on the power of words is reflected in the terms ‘queen’ and ‘sista’ to refer to women. Ariefdien notes that this ‘sharp bipolarity between “pure queen” and “filthy ho” leaves surprisingly little space for other subject positions’ (in Ariefdien & Burgess, 2011, p. 240). When hip-hop is carved into genres of ‘political’ and ‘underground’ versus ‘commercial’, or ‘conscious’ versus ‘gangsta’, it forecloses an exploration of what impact certain styles or lyrical content may have on youth on the ground, in community. It also fails to account for the creative evolution of particular artists who may change their styles over time – as the example of Ready D above shows.

Humour A common focus in spaza (rap in isiXhosa – defined in greater detail in Chapter Four) in its early days was humour and punchlines. Mashonisa, the producer and sometime vocalist/emcee for Backyard Crew explains, Spaza started out with funny lyrics you know – with Rattex and Driemanskap – you would know man if you go to a spaza show you know you gonna laugh, …funny lyrics but with a message you know, talking about stuff that is happening…Driemanskap and Rattex inspired a whole lot of people (Mashonisa interview 2011)

In a conversation between Rattex and Kideo they both discuss the shift in the focus of spaza over time. Kideo: The contents have changed … have went to like diversity … but back in the days there used to be a lot of comic, like in spaza … I used to do that shit like I was inspired by your raps most of the time. Rattex: like honestly my man like that’s how spaza started like comics … you know … then started growing up like seeing things in a different way … cos people are like listening to it … so we gotta watch what we talk about … these people that rap about serious stuff (interview 2013).

Wanda, a host on the hip-hop show Headwarmaz at Bush Radio, explains about punchlines: You will find that Cape Town has more of a focus on flow and punchlines … Whereas the Eastern Cape is more modest, ‘let’s play with our words, let’s deliver a message at the end of this song, I need someone to learn something’ (interview 2013)

61 I found that the Rastarian ethic of respectful gender roles was difficult to put into practice. In a number of Rasta families the woman’s role was housekeeping and raising the children, but they were also economically providing for their family due to a lack of income and employment opportunities for their husbands. 107 In an interview Phura aka Chankura, an emcee with Backyard Crew in 2011, explained the focus on humour and punch lines in his raps; Chankura (C): Sometimes, but you know spaza is fun, it is not the same music as … we are more creative … spaza is a fun … when we do a track you know … it’s almost like you must always try to be creative … it’s not the same as like West Coast … like overseas where they talk straight like it is like ‘I’m hustling’… so in my tracks I talk about things like, it’s money and girls and traditional stuff … money … and swag. Researcher (R): What traditional stuff? C: On that song on the first song, my solo … the one that became a hit … there is a line that says like … when you are a man ne? From the bush62 ne? When they come to take you from the bush it’s a big deal ne when the man takes you from there, they take you to the houses now (we call it umkithi) … It’s almost like it’s gonna be a big thing now … they sing a song … and that song, only man sing that song … so in that track ne I twisted everything, like when the baby is crying my mother sings that track, sings that song that men is always singing … so every man now go like, ‘what am I talking about?’ … that’s how I got attention and stuff … but I do it creatively so they all like it … it’s small stuff R: So what does that mean that you would say that? C: It doesn’t make sense … how can I put it … like it doesn’t make sense … a woman would never sing that song … never … R: But is there another meaning behind it, or is it just to mess with people? C: I don’t know some flows just come out … I don’t know … it was just playing with people’s minds ek sê63 … so I got what I wanted … I got that attention. Each man when they listen to that track they think I’m crazy, it’s like I smoked some stuff like ‘why are you rapping such stupid stuff?’ It’s like used to rap about killing his mother, raping his mother such stuff … it’s like he is on drugs you know, now what about your mother, what will she gonna do to you! You cannot rap about killing your mother and raping … so now every man in the Eastern Cape who hears that track is now wondering, they want to know now, ‘is that a boy or is he a man?’… because if you were not a man you cannot talk about that stuff, it’s serious stuff from the bush … it’s just lines you know. I twist everything like, stuff like ‘I’m holding the mic like I’m eating a chicken drumstick’. So people are like thinking I’m crazy yo! In my first track I, like … I talk about money like it’s my girlfriend, how I love money and how I treat her, how important she is and how I still want more money’.

There have also been debates on Headwarmaz Radio show’s social media page on Facebook, about punch lines that get old – they might be funny the first time you hear them but they lose their edge over time. This is reminiscent of what a hip-hop head who

62 Traditional male initiation involving circumcision is often referred to as ‘going to the bush’, or ‘when I went to the bush’. 63 ‘Cape coloured’ Afrikaans slang which means ‘I say’ but is often used to mean something akin to ‘listen up’ or ‘you know’ 108 differentiated between his taste for Driemanskap and Backyard Crew through their lyrical content told me. He says that he would never buy a CD of [Driemanskap] because I would get sick of it quickly – once you’ve heard it once that’s it, it gets boring. They are talking about their life experiences but there’s not enough creativity … but … I like Backyard because they are more creative with their lyrics and flows (Sonwabile interview 2012).

The presence of humour in rap from Khayelitsha is not surprising considering the role of humour among the Xhosa. In traditions of storytelling – oral and written – there are multiple styles of humour employed for diverse reasons, as Tessa Dowling’s research reveals: ‘Xhosa oral humour is personal and playful – at times obscene – but can also be critical’ (Dowling, 1996, p. ii). The use of humour by iimbongi as well as in everyday informal izibongo is an important aspect of Xhosa oral forms, as I explore further in Chapter Seven. Dowling (1996, p. 3) notes a number of functions of Xhosa humour including, ‘“to communicate on taboo topics”; “To subvert the social order” and “To cope with defeat and failure”’ as well as relief and entertainment, despite the difficulty of defining clear categories.

Image 5: From left to right, Kideo, Shadow, van D, Mic Substance, Mashonisa, and Mxo, performing at Lookout Hill, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett)

109 Genre Many hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha reject genre boundaries. This is due, firstly to not wanting to be limited and boxed in creatively. Secondly, it is due to rejecting divisions within hip-hop. Walser (1993, p. 27) notes that ‘[n]owhere are genre boundaries more fluid than in popular music’. Mic Substance (pictured centre Image 5) grew up moving between the Eastern Cape and Site B in Khayelitsha. She discovered hip-hop in 2005 at the age of 14, through well respected and prolific spaza hip-hop producer and MC P'zho and his then crew Lampiter Clan. She has collaborated with artists such as Lampiter Clan, Uzwi Kantu and Backyard Crew, and she has performed all over Cape Town as well as in Sweden. The photograph on the previous page (Image 5) depicts Mic Substance, who could be considered a ‘conscious emcee’, performing with Backyard Crew, who are more ‘hard core’ with some emcee’s such as Phoenix sometimes doing ‘gangsta rap’ which is translated into township slang as umculo wezikoli (‘skoli music’). She explains her perspective on genre: I don’t like to differentiate these things…I don’t like to call spaza underground, and call the other one commercial as in like … ‘’ – that’s how people call it – and it’s like American hip-hop as in gangsta hip-hop … I don’t like to analyse it like that. Hip-hop is music and music is broad, music is style music is underground, music is educational, music is entertainment whether commercial or spaza or underground or umculo buciko you see? So I don’t like to analyse … Even myself I’m doing hip-hop. I’m not doing hip-hop spaza. I’m not doing hip- hop umculo buciko. I’m not doing hip-hop commercial. I’m doing hip-hop. Cos hip-hop is a movement, hip-hop is art, hip-hop is music and music is broad (interview 2011).

MC Steel also disagreed with genre categories in hip-hop: I don’t believe that anybody is unconscious – people that are unconscious are lying in comas right now … the people that are accused of doing gangsta rap who are the most fluid people in freestyle. Gangsta rap was dubbed by the media ‘gangsta rap’ because it contained words that were harsh to the ear (interview, 2009).

For Steel the lyrical skill of an emcee cuts across such categories. He also links the development of the category of ‘gangsta rap’ to the media and public reception of hip- hop which, as outlined in Chapter Two, is highly problematic for black cultural forms. Whenever the subject of ‘conscious’ rap comes up in discussions with Metabolism, he states, ‘yeah, I’m fully conscious’, as in meaning awake, as an ironic joke. This rejection of genre distinctions, in refusing to take my question seriously, also manifested in a tendency for other artists to continuously state in talking with me that

110 they respected what other artists were doing. Most were very reluctant to criticise other artist’s styles and readily claimed that ‘it’s all hip-hop’. This is further reflected in the fact that artists in Khayelitsha draw inspiration from diverse styles and genres of hip- hop. The two most commonly cited were Eminem and Immortal Technique. Or the reluctance could have been a diplomatic strategy, given that none of the artists interviewed opted to remain anonymous and thus could potentially create friction between themselves and other artists. In Khayelitsha, the issue of genre was further complicated by the tendency for many spaza emcees to call boom bap style beats ‘conscious beats’. Such beats are laid back and leave room for vocals to be heard properly, but many spaza artists don’t like these beats because they are not hard, raw or rough enough, even if the style of rap they themselves do has plenty of conscious or political content. A sample of my field notes from 2011 during the mixtape project demonstrates the aesthetic split in beat taste between generations: MC Metabolism wants to help with organising the mixtape and getting beats together. We brainstorm a bit about who we can get to be on the mixtape. He says he heard some of uBob’s stuff and he doesn’t like it and wouldn’t want it on the mixtape because it’s not good. He says what he actually didn’t like about it was the beat, and you can tell it’s done with Fruity Loops (beat making software). I had heard other emcees referring to ‘Fruity Loops’ beats before in a way that clearly locates it outside of anything remotely considered as ‘dope.’ This makes me think he hasn’t actually listened to much spaza because most of it sounds like that. It’s all Fruity Loops. That’s the point. I get a sense of foreboding and wonder how I am going to pull this off – bring together emcees on the one tape from opposite ends of the spectrum. Another consideration is how to make the compilation flow together as a whole - it will need to sound consistent between each track. When I speak with Axo about the mixtape he tells me I can put any of his tracks on the mixtape – he doesn’t seem to think it’s an issue that these tracks have already been released – on his album or on his own mixtape. It turns out he knows Rezevoir and tells me they work well together so they can do a track together. So we decide to go to his place to see what he thinks. In the car, Axo claims that Res is not serious about his game. ‘He takes drugs and stuff’. And that ‘if he wasn’t doing that and was serious about his career in hip-hop he would be a lot further. Res is unrecognised – he is probably one of the best artists in Cape Town.’ Though Res always strikes me as one who is very seriously committed to hip-hop – not like Axo who seems to be in it for the ‘fame’, the girls, the sex, the hype, the street recognition – his ego. He straight up tells me when I ask what hip-hop has done for him – he says it has given him ‘respect, recognition, and lots of sex.’ We see Rezevoir walking in the road on the way to his place. He jumps in the car and gets a lift to his place. I run through the basics of the Mixtape Project. He asks about where the beats are coming from. I tell him that Arsenic

111 is doing some of the beats and is mastering the mixtape. He seems very impressed – he hasn’t heard his stuff but has read about him in Hype magazine. I play Arsenic’s beats for them in the car and he loves it, ‘tjoh this is nice seddie [referring to me], who is this?!’ Rezevoir asks. He tells me this is the kind of stuff he prefers to work with. A little later – maybe 30sec further into the track – he states, ‘a lot of spaza cats would really struggle to write to these beats!’ Axo agrees. They are too slow and not raw enough. A few days later I meet up with MC Kan – one of the few female emcees around. Metabolism comes with me. We meet at the engine in Bongani next to a big graff piece that Axo and Res got me to take photos of them while posing in front of it. She climbs in the back seat. She has her phone with her music on it but we can’t plug it into my car stereo so we drive to her place. Broken down dusty streets of site C with pot holes that could swallow your whole car. Big shacks this side, sandy narrow streets. She lives in a green house, we drive past a house with a very nice veggie garden and mealies up to the roof – it always surprises me that anything can grow in this sand. She gets her tracks from the house and we listen – Metabolism steps out of the car, goes to buy a cigarette and a Stoneys for me at the corner shop. He is back in the car. We listen to track one in silence. Track two comes on and I start thinking, ‘Metabs ain’t gonna like this beat!’ I am trying to recognise words, listening for the tone of her voice, her rhythm, flow. At the exact same point in the track we both look up and say, ‘that’s nice!’ Same point in the track – same point of her rapping that we came to that decision – I don’t fully understand what she is saying – Metabolism does but we both judge the aesthetics of her voice the same – There was a certain line she rapped – her voice resonant, it dips and deepens and thickens for a few words and we both dig the dynamic fluidity of her voice. Metabolism asks if she sings too, - we have just talked about this while he was gone. She told me she sings sometimes because it’s nice to have that in the track, but she doesn’t seem to feel like her voice is that great, nothing special but she will sing because it is part of the track she creates.

Political rap and activism Many hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha were involved in community work, youth work and rapped about social issues affecting youth such as teen pregnancy, tik (methamphetamine) and alcohol, poverty, crime and gangsterism. Others such as Black Vision from Kuyasa rap about the political climate in South Africa, including the hypocrisy of talking about ‘freedom’ when most blacks are still living in poverty and lack access to an . The Sound Masters Crew – a younger spaza group from Site B have been involved in Equal Education campaigns through rap lyrics and performing at political rallies. The Sound Masters Crew is highly organised. At the time of my last fieldwork they were one of the key groups in Khayelitsha in terms of events. They ran a regular open mic session on the street out the front of their studio in Site B. This had become so big that at the beginning of 2012, they had to move it to a nearby basketball court as there were regularly, over one hundred youths in attendance. 112 An example of the difficulty of placing artists into genres is the case of the MC Metabolism. Metabolism was born in 1984 and is part of the first generation of hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha. He isn’t seen as a ‘political’ artist. Yet some of his tracks have political commentary, like the laid back satirical track called ‘Proudly South African’ which calls-out the political hypocrisy of the post-apartheid rhetoric of the Rainbow Nation, corruption, continuing poverty, increasing inequality and xenophobia: Yet facilities of correction are being overpopulated So, what lessons being learned when eyes turned from guilt or fear or insult To beings of your own skin pigmentation Not to preacher or messenger, ‘Proudly South African’ Rephrase, only to outsiders with money is your access card to our facility Yet we still preach names to our neighbours and […] tik sticks and killing sprees Take time analyse your background Summarise your breakdown Why you have to get down your backyard.

He is disillusioned with politics and disillusioned with the Rasta movement due to the hypocrisy that he sees in it. This track calls-out the post-apartheid ‘non-racialism’ of the ANC because the imprisonment of black people has increased under ANC rule. South Africa is now being run for the benefit of the middle class and rich foreigners. Young black people from the townships are blamed for the nation’s problems such as increasing crime, robberies and burglaries in white suburbs: the fascination for the self so now on stealth mode on high alert while lights are out be wary of those who seek financial stability are robbing while you sleeping divide and conquer roof over head carrot still dangles form a winning political party conclusion is sorry budget doesn’t allow now we need to fund tournaments and building in suburbia, thank you and goodbye and a white lie can release you from confinement even after

According to Metabolism, the nation seeks financial stability through foreign investment, siphoning funds into middle-class pursuits such as sporting tournaments and middle-class suburbs while many people in the townships continue to live in abject poverty with no access to adequate sanitation. At the end of the track, he quietly rambles over beats such as ‘don’t drink alcohol. Alcohol is bad [laughs].’ This speaks to

113 the frequent preaching to the poor through media campaigns, health campaigns and school programs, about how ‘they’ (the poor) should fix their own lives, for example by refraining from drinking alcohol, while the government’s neoliberal economic policies continue to reinforce class and racial inequalities and oppression, and are never seen as the source of the problem. At the same time, Metabolism is making a joke about alcohol in a context of widespread social problems, including alcohol abuse, in the townships. This is also problematic due to the fact that historically, black and ‘coloured’ farm workers were paid in alcohol. Issues of alcohol abuse in the townships do not stem from poor decision-making on the part of township residents. Rather, alcohol abuse has its origins in historical (and ongoing) racial oppression and cultural disruption due to colonisation and apartheid, and deepening social and economic inequality due to current political policies. Metabolism is himself a heavy drinker. This is reflected in the names of his EP’s such as Sixpack and Backwash. Becoming too caught up in a sanitised version of ‘positivity’ and political correctness would detract from the role that he plays in maintaining hip- hop, and in mentoring and encouraging younger emcees. Positive role models are vital for youth in Khayelitsha, but a sanitised positivity won’t work for, or ‘speak to’, all youth – particularly those who might drink and party for fun. There is no easy solution to the issues underlying alcohol abuse but the reality on the ground is that many youths are difficult to reach, lack access to ‘positive’ role models, and enjoy a social drink. Metabolism has a history of organising community events such as park jams and open mic sessions in the township and uptown. He calls himself a hip-hop activist and, true to this self-assigned label, he continues to contribute to actively maintaining the hip-hop scene in ‘the ’hood’, as he would say. Uptown, he provides a platform because he wants to support up-and-coming artists but also because it is fun. He enjoys partying and this is his approach to making music – it has to be entertaining, engage the audience and be fun. But his approach to music can also involve politics and consciousness raising, when he feels the need. It is important to recognise the role that many different people play in maintaining a hip-hop scene and what this does for the township, for the youth involved, and for the youth who may not be as heavily involved but who nevertheless witness and directly benefit from such events. In the township, these events are embedded in the everyday street scene (as discussed further in the next Chapter).

114 Soundz of the South (SOS) is a hip-hop activist collective of 10 or more members based in Khayelitsha. They have been involved in international collaborations and projects such as the Afrikan Hip-hop Caravan. SOS aims [t]o use hip hop to both speak to the aspirations of poor and working class youth, and to wrest the music from the clutches of a nihilistic materialism which ignores the lived realities of South Africa's youth in the ghettos of neo-apartheid and capitalist exploitation. For the Khayelitsha collective, art and music are strictly political and music – as it did for the original generation of political emcees and street reporters – draws deeply and directly on the experiences and struggles of South Africa's working class. (Fogel, 2013, Jan 28)

SOS were involved in organising a counter festival called the Rhini64 Festival in 2011 which ran parallel to the Grahamstown National Arts Festival to protest against the social inequalities inherent in the Grahamstown festival. Another example of their activism is a public transport cypher they held on the train from central station to Khayelitsha. After my fieldwork finished this collective also began organising a monthly Rebel Sista Cypha at the Lookout in Khayelitsha which provides a platform for female spoken word poets and emcees. MC Khusta65, a member of SOS, was born in 1982 in Cape Town and lived in a few townships before moving to Khayelitsha. When I met him in 2013 he was living in a shack in an informal settlement in Makhaza. He had long dreadlocks, a round face and a welcoming smile which belied his hard-hitting reality raps and political treatises. He had been involved in youth work through various grassroots organisations at the same time as starting to emcee. He modelled himself on the gangsta rapper Tupac, only to later become a ‘conscious’ rapper involved in more radical politics, as the following lyrics attest: Abesebenzi bezama ukwenza imali yoongxomwa nkulu Saqala uqhankqalaza sadibana neembumbulu 45 people dead ezandleni zomthetho I don’t care noba bafumene igani Who gave them the right to take the people’s lives?

[Translation, by artist]: Slaving and sweating creating wealth for the bosses When we strike, we’re faced with bullets 45 people dead in the hands of the law I don’t care even if they found guns Who gave them the right to take the people’s lives?

64 Rhini is the isiXhosa name for Grahamstown 65 Sadly Khusta passed away in early 2016, may he Rest in Power. 115

His gravelly tone of voice and rap style are reminiscent of but on an updated, Mzanzi, toyi-toyi tip. This is a track in response to the Marikana massacre, which took place on 16 August 2012, when police opened fire on a crowd of striking miners. This was a turning point in post-apartheid governance, as it made it clear that the ANC was prepared to use apartheid-style tactics to suppress protesters. This was followed by widespread police brutality against students during the FeesMustFall movement in 2016. Khusta’s socialist/anarchist politics come through in his lyrics which often comment on the rights of workers and unemployment. The MC Zanzolo66, born in 1986 in Lady Frere, and in about 1999 he moved to the informal settlement of Site B, Khayelitsha. He started rapping in 2000. He mostly listens to Dead Prez, Talib Kweli, Mos Def, Common, KRS-One (all of whom have been labelled conscious rappers), and local artists like Driemanskap, Kanyi, Stritlife, Ndlulamthi, Nagoom and Backyard. He is part of a two-person emcee crew started in 2006 called Uzwi Kantu which translates as ‘voice of the nation’, or as Mashonisa translated it for me, ‘the Xhosa’s voice’ (pers. comm. 2011). Their beats are a mix of spaza style and boom bap hip-hop. Zanzolo promotes ‘deep Xhosa’ (see Chapter Six) in his lyrics and a connection to Xhosa culture. He classifies his own music as ‘toyi-toyi hip-hop’. Toyi-toyi is a Southern African style of dance which involves picking the knees up high while jogging on the spot, sometimes with arms up in the air with closed fists pumping. It is often accompanied by call and response chanting and songs. This was a common and popular form employed in anti-apartheid protests. His track Political Minds with Uzwi Kantu on the album Unendlebe uje Unetyala recorded at Backyard Studios, is indicative of his lyrical style, This is food for all you political minds It is good for the children of the African kind We need to search for the heritage we left behind It’s Identity and destiny we have to find Always prayed for the better day Planning for the getaway But they wouldn’t let us say ‘amandla mawethu’67 nomhlaba nguwe

66 Footage of Zanzolo performing at Ragazzi Bar. Long St, Cape Town 2013 can be viewed at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oOJn8SivQE The headband he is wearing during this performance is traditional Xhosa beadwork. 67 ‘Amandla! Mawethu!’ (or awethu) is a rally cry from anti-apartheid political rallies. It is usually a call and response where the speaker calls ‘Amandla!’ and the crowd responds ‘awethu.’ ‘nomhlaba nguwe’ literally means ‘the earth is you’. 116 He then goes on to rap about the history of the struggle against apartheid, the introduction of Afrikaans as the main teaching language in African schools (which triggered the famous protests of 1976), the Bantu education system, colonisation, and the introduction of the Bible and Christianity. The chorus is in English while the verses are in isiXhosa. Zanzolo struggled with the narrow definitions of culture that abound in South Africa. He viewed hip-hop as a way to express, practice, promote and teach Xhosa culture. He was a member of SOS when they organised the counter festival to the Grahamstown festival. One of their criticisms of the Grahamstown festival was that it made space for ‘traditional’ Xhosa song and dance but not for ‘contemporary’ cultural expressions. Such restricted notions of ‘culture’ as bounded are widespread in South Africa and in South African anthropology. During my affiliation at the University of Cape Town I was told by a certain head of department: ‘You won’t find culture in Khayelitsha, you have to go to the Eastern Cape for that’. I was also told that in the post-apartheid ‘new’ South Africa, people no longer identified as Xhosa, Zulu or Tswana, and that I should not label them as such. However, in my experience there was not one Xhosa person I came across during my research that did not openly self-identify as Xhosa. Even artists who rapped in English, felt their Xhosa initiation was a defining aspect of their identity. Xhosa artists such as Zanzolo, Sound Masters Crew, Mfura, Chumani, and others viewed straying from Xhosa culture – for example, by neglecting rituals (such as those appeasing the ancestors – see Chapter Seven) and/or a lack of knowledge of one’s clan names – as a central causative factor in the social problems currently facing Khayelitsha residents, such as violence, gangs, crime, drugs and a lack of respect for elders. These causative cultural factors were the background to MC Zanzolo’s lyrics, as he explained it. These were the impetus behind his emcee career. His lyrics are clearly a powerful way of articulating and promoting not a move ‘back’ to culture, but a move to find new ways of being Xhosa.

Uplifting message Audience members that I conversed with at hip-hop events in Khayelitsha explained to me that they loved spaza music because, ‘they are always encouraging us’, ‘they are coming with a positive message’, ‘they advise us on what to do’. Mic Substance stated that ‘the message’ is most important in spaza music (pers. comm. September 2011). Aluta, a young woman who sings with groups like Backyard Crew and Phumzile’s

117 Crew from Kuyasa, also informed me that she liked spaza because of the positive messages in it (pers. comm. 2011). MC Chaos explains his perspective on what is unique to spaza in Khayelitsha: ‘the things is, it’s all about the message … we are focusing on message … and how to deliver message to people’ (interview 2011). At AllNYz, MC Korianda frequently emphasised the importance of having a message in one’s lyrics whilst he moderated the open mic sessions. Examples can be seen in Mic Substance, Lemzin, Undecided Crew, Uzwi Kantu, Sound Masters Crew and Maxhoseni, among others. Furthermore, artists such as, Lemzin, Styles (Undecided Crew), Zanzolo and Steel all shared stories of fans approaching them to thank them for a specific track and how it had impacted their lives positively. Reaching other youth through their music, and encouraging them in their lives, is an important factor for many of the hip-hop artists I spoke to in Khayelitsha. MC Styles says, ‘Hip-hop is playing a big role in changing our lives’ (pers. comm. September 2011). Chumani Agmaad, who was born in 1989 and moved to Makhaza, Khayelitsha from the Eastern Cape in 1997, states that with his raps he is, ‘trying to change the world we are living in’ (interview 2013). Some examples of positive messages in lyrics include Metabolism’s track Game of Life (unreleased) where he raps, ‘Maintain focus/when all is hopeless/ search within…/So finally the melody got him/ going on (to change)/ gradually he picked up the strength/ to carry on.’ This refers to the way in which music can effect transformation. Tia DeNora’s (1999) research on music and emotion found that people use music in everyday life as a means of ‘emotional self- regulation.’ Responses from artists to a question about the impact of their music on youths’ lives are revealing. The MC Mfura was born in 1991 and lives in Site B, Khayelitsha. He has a baritone voice and is a member of a choir. He started rapping in 2005. The impact hip-hop has had on his own life is evident, as he puts it, I have changed from many thing because I grew up in a society like … I grew up with guys like involved in crime … some of the got killed from what they are doing … then there was a time … that I almost got on that … you see… robbery thing … but then it became less like … hip-hop is like an saver from a lot of things … [without hip-hop] maybe I would be in prison by now (interview 2011).

The responses he gets from the audience and his fans show that a similar impact has been transferred through his raps to others, Ja like a lot … a lot of people like from those I was growing up with, you see

118 some of them they have stopped what they were doing, you see … in the past. Now they are good people, doing some good things in life…What I want to accomplish is that people … to know … like, what my music is about and what I’m trying to say to them…and then take some points that are good for them and then use them in their future lives (Mfura 2011).

MC Emage was born in 1982. He is one of the older spaza artists who was around in the first generation hip-hop scene, from the late 1990s, and is respected by younger spaza artists, I’m an emcee. I’m someone who is supposed to motivate … I’m a motivational speaker … I stand up in front of thousands of people and perform and they … look up to me … so what am I giving to my community … it’s a feeling that I can’t put into words … there was this guy who heard my song – there’s a track called Mama … I wrote this song about my late mum … featuring Mic Substance … this guy lost him mum yebo … this guy thought he lost his mum then it’s nothing, then he did drugs and what what … after this guy listened to the song … um … he changed his mind, he went back to school … you know … and when someone comes to you and says ‘thanks, your song motivated me’ to me that’s giving back to the community … you saved some life. Hip-hop it blossoms the person in you (Emage 2011).

MC Styles is part of Undecided Crew, along with MC Test. They both live in Site B. Styles found hip-hop through local spaza artists such as Rattex and Lampiter Clan. He reflects on how his music has affected some of his fans: most of the people that I have met they appreciate what we are singing about and they say ‘you must keep on motivating us, you must keep on writing this stuff please do not change because we like the way you are … the issues you are talking about in your albums and our tracks. You are motivating us you are giving us spirit. Even when we are feeling out of the strength sometimes you … you are giving us strength, you know, by listening to your songs … by listening to you’ (Styles interview 2011).

Kideo expressed the concern that much of the message in conscious emcee’s raps is lost because they come across as preachy and boring. He later explained that he felt that conscious rap is nice to listen to at home on your headphones but people don’t want to hear it at a party: ‘There are people that write like that – don’t do this but they are boring and people don’t take it seriously’ (interview 2011). This is clearly just one artist’s opinion, as my own observations contradict this, as do other artists’ stories of fans’ reactions to their music. Yet Kideo’s opinion represents a large section of youth in Khayelitsha who either don’t like hip-hop or don’t like message rap or ‘conscious hip- hop’. At the same time, Kideo himself really likes the songs of Soundz of the South and of Jargon – a two-person emcee crew from Delft South with political, conscious and

119 party style tracks. He also expressed frustration because he had been struggling to come up with a way to use music to intervene in the violent Vura and Vata gang clashes without inflaming the situation or becoming a target himself. Here, he identifies rap as a form of (social) therapy: We do have tracks that are conscious but we haven’t recorded them or released them – cos even they are a slower beat, people are gonna think they are back in school. It would be dope to do a track about the vura and the vata but then you couldn’t walk around, because they are kids and they don’t think straight. Even us we speak like in their language – so they listen. I think it would be more listened to than the conscious cats who try to speak like our parents. Every rapper that tries to be conscious but then they try to dig deep and use words that are not used anymore. But the kids don’t understand so it’s not being real. So, we rap in language that they can understand. Kendrick Lamar does party tracks – but I think if he came through just like a conscious rapper – people would not want to listen. But I also want to have fun – I don’t want to be rapping and always feel like crying – like when I finish the rap there is silence and everyone is sad. Between our friends conscious has become something that we do to deal with stuff – to work through our own issues – it’s serious – about our lives and what we believe in – it is something that has become like a therapy’ (Kideo interview 2013)

Umculo wezikoli – gangsta music Michael Newman’s (2005) study of emcees in a creative high school in Queens found that conscious and political emcees held little appeal for the youth involved in a hip-hip pedagogy-based program. Instead, gangsta and hard core artists appeal to youth because they invoke the warrior archetype; a figure seen as necessary for survival in the ghetto and in life generally. The warrior archetype was seen as an approach to life, a stance towards the world: All the emcees expressed a high regard for artists who had thug credentials, such as Jay-Z and 50Cent. Because they had participated in violent actions. The source for the admiration of thug lifestyle was its toughness, and in particular how it represented an unwillingness to back down under pressure. Yet not one of the emcees was really thug … For Kareem, who experienced considerable poverty as a child, the teacher’s bohemianism came down to an incomprehensible decision to suffer (Newman, 2005, p. 418).

The appeal of gangsta rap reflects an outlook on life, an explanation and attitude towards the root causes of poverty, and models how to speak back and resist oppression through individual action. MC Emage explains his first encounters with the East Coast gangsta style sound: In 1996 I bought my first tape – album called muddy waters by so 1996 I started rapping … they were rapping about something that I could understand

120 … coming home from school and there’s no food … they spoken to me something I was going through … instead of someone talking about cars, money, something you can’t relate to. (Emage interview 2011)

Mfura is a spaza artist from Site B who records with Sound Masters Crew. He has conscious lyrics but was influenced by Eminem who is considered a gangsta artist: I’ve listened to songs of Eminem a lot … he’s got many songs like playing with words … and then when I saw his videos [laugh] this guy ... tjoh! … I didn’t expect to see a white guy … singing about those things in his life like where he grew up and how life was … his lyrics really inspired me, like from … for writing like … street songs … cos there’s songs that he is doing that I’m like, ‘ah I have to do this’ but then in my own way … you see … we are rapping in Xhosa … but not like changing his words like the words he is rapping and changing them into Xhosa no … come up with my own thing that will make a difference in my society (Mfura 2012).

Mic Substance responds to this negative image of hip-hop and contrasts this with how she sees spaza hip-hop: every genre does … that does have a negative impact … for example you think about house music you think about booze, ladies, clubs … each and every music does have that element … the difference … what’s unique about spaza … is that … when … hip-hop you think about gangsterism … and then little elements of education in them, with entertainment and then art as well … the main important thing of spaza is education … with entertainment (Mic Substance 2011)

In Cape Town, the launch of MC Phoenix’s album Umculo weSkoli (skoli music, or gangster music) sparked a heated discussion on the Headwarmaz Facebook discussion page. Some artists and fans argued that the title of the album would generate too much negative reaction, and that it played into the negative image of hip-hop in society and in the townships. They said that it reinforced the stereotype of eKasi (township) youth as skolis (gangsters). Others argued that hip-hop artists had a responsibility to promote a positive image of the art form. Another point made was that in order to attract funding, spaza hip-hop needed to portray a positive image of its artists and subject matter. Arguments against this view pointed out the success of the movie Tsotsi, and other violent movies, and argued that MC Phoenix’s album would be judged on the quality of the music and not its title. People who were critical of the title did admit to Phoenix’s skill as a lyricist and storyteller. Phoenix himself explains his style – his African mafia style gangster fashion can be seen in Error! Reference source not found. – as sometimes taking on the ersona of a skoli to tell a story from their perspective. That is, he performed ‘gangsta’ as

121 artistic license, as poetic metaphor, as drama, as if he was acting a character in a play. This reflects Cecil Brown’s (2003, p. 221) argument that, ‘[i]n gangsta rap, the performers are acting out the life of the criminal in an effort to dispel the criminal out of their midst, as a way to get rid of the negative energy’. This is also reflected in MC Axo’s explanation for the fact that some of his tracks are gangsta rap. He lived with his father in a notoriously dangerous area - an informal settlement called ‘Louw’ – that he explains, its gangsta! I’ve been shot at. We’ve had people come into the house and rob us with guns a few times … I’ve been shot at a few times … people got killed … as much as I wasn’t a gangsta tjoh! my friends were! So, you could say it kinda grew inside me and the only way to let it out was not to carry a gun but was to let me alter ego carry the guns, ‘cause now the beats was carrying the gun and everything on the track (interview 2011).

Image 6: Phoenix, photo shoot for album cover, Muizenberg, Cape Town, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett)

MC Phoenix (Image 6) was also influenced by his own experience of gangsterism in Site C where he lives. He explains some of the inspiration for his style: Coming from a back ground of kwaito68 even though I never did kwaito, so my style has always got that kasi [township] feel, which leads me to select that perfect beat. Before my house (shack) was rebuilt, my house was right next to a gangsta’s – they had a guy who they thought stole something – they took the globe out of a light and

68 Kwaito is a style of township music that is influenced by house, raga and to some extent rap music. 122 put one foot in water and then put the empty naked globe to his leg and tortured him the whole morning – just to find out it wasn’t him, [laughs] that guy was so happy to get out of there (interview 2013)

He explains that he always puts a twist at the end of a narrative rap to show that the skoli life never pays off: ‘If you are a thug you’re gonna get girls and money, and stuff, but at the end of the day … I always tell the consequences like you end up in a wheel chair, or dead or in jail’. A track he recorded, Mbethekise edongeni (‘hit ’em against the wall’), triggered a negative response from some people: People when they first heard that track – even my crew members were uncomfortable with it – even Mashonisa was asking me why I did that track. I said, it is a concept – it is something to get their attention then I talk about this guy who owes me money, I start with sitting down before I deal with them I choose weapons to beat this dude down – second verse I am going to get this guy but I die on the way – if you live by the gun you gonna die by the gun. I got a lot of criticism until people started to understand what I was talking about. Until I spoke on the radio’.

Image 7: MC Phoenix outside his home in Site C, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett)

More recently, in February 2017, after three Somali shop owners were shot and killed in Site C, Khayelitsha (making a total of twelve shootings in Khayelitsha in 2017 so far), Phoenix started a ‘guns down campaign’ on social media to attempt to intervene in the xenophobic violence that has been an ongoing issue in the townships.

123 Kideo’s first track: Nongqawuse In November 2011, I had decided to go back to the Eastern Cape with one of the participants of my fieldwork. This trip provided crucial insights into the connections between the rural areas of the Eastern Cape and Khayelitsha. It also afforded some deeper discussions about Kideo’s experience as an MC. The first time I heard about the first track MC Kideo (pictured in Error! Reference source not found.) ever created was on this trip to the Eastern Cape to visit his makhulu (grandmother), in a very remote rural area of Lady Frere district.

Image 8: MC Kideo in front of his home, Kuyasa, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett)

It was mid-morning and my partner had taken our one-year old for a walk. We were sitting outside his grandmother’s hut. It was a bedroom/living room with a fire depression in it and a bed off the ground with a few foam mattresses for grandchildren, the baby, Kideo’s camp cousin and Kideo. Another hut was a kitchen with a television and a spare room off one side with a double bed in it. Kideo was sitting on the front concrete step of this hut. The pale yellow-tan colour of the hut matched the yellow block lettering on the front of his bright purple t-shirt but contrasted with the vast blue sky, the red earth and the rolling grassy hills in the background. I asked him about his first track and he responded: It was like back in 2003. The year that I first met with Masho I was still in

124 Dungeon Affairs. It was my first time meeting someone who has a studio who can record in his bedroom and make beats in his bedroom. When I met him we exchanged numbers. I told him ‘nah nikka, I never rapped on any like homemade beat, I never record yet. I just wanna come through like at your house.’ Then he gave me directions. Then I went to Kwezi [Park] you know. I was excited like I even thought he wasn’t for real that he can record. That was impossible back then. ‘Cause everyone was rapping one international beats like Kanye beats, Jay-Z beats. So I went to Masho. First day I got there we went to his mum’s room. He had like a small PC, Pentium 2 PC, it was his cousin’s PC. And he had this software there Fruity Loops and Nintendo. Then he showed me that he can record. He just got the software, so he hasn’t done any track like a proper track but he knows like basic how to take voices and stuffs. And then I told him, ‘nikka ek sê can I hear your, your beats?’ I think he just played like two beats and ...ah…I went bogus like ‘tjoh! this is the shit’ he thought I was pretending or something. But there was that ah, there was that feeling like that street feeling, the hardcoreness, the rawness and like it represented me. Like it was so Khayelitsha, than…than beats from overseas or from Jo’burg. So, I told him send the beat to this recording software Then we jammed a beat. And I had lyrics and I remember I was still writing that time cos I only wrote for like a year. It actually talks about starting like from when the white man came through in SA and manipulated like nongqawuse. And at that time like I wasn’t aware much about politics. But I felt like the same thing that happened with nongqawuse happened with ANC. I don’t know how it happened but I felt like ANC was like somewhere snitchy and like sold like something’s out. That’s what I felt back then. That track like got me into trouble with few comrades from around Khayelitsha. I remember there’s was this guy called Sithembe69. Masho can tell you more about him I don’t know him. He was friends with Masho’s uncle. He had that track and wanted to confront me it sounded like he wanted to beat me up. He is a member of ANC so he didn’t like the track, like the track was selling ANC out or something. So, he looked for me and I was scared cause I thought I was gonna get beaten by this guy. But when we met we met at Masho’s place, he looked at me and asked am I really this kid who is singing this shit. They said yes but he just laughed because I was very young I was only 13. I’m one of the like…I was the only young kid in Site C at that time rapping. I was the youngest in fact. Masho, Phoenix were all older than me even the Dungeon Affair movement you know the Rastafarian movement we were in were all older than me. And at that time, I already had this name like Kideo but it wasn’t like a emcee name. When I used to meet emcees like older emcees they ask what’s my name. So, like the other cat used to call me kid, but I had a name from home Kideo, but these Rastafarians called me kid you know. And then I told them ‘no ek sê’, I said ‘let this be my mic name ’cause I’m also Kideo from my mum calls me Kideo, my aunts call me Kideo.’ And then, so I sort of like turned that name to being the youngest, to being the youngest kid starting at a young age. And then that was more like advantageous for me because everyone you know was mentoring me and lecturing me. So, the track like I think that track like made me. Because I broke the rule of being scared you know …I said something about ANC I said something about Thabo Mbeki you know something negative about Thabo Mbeki that was my own opinions. Because like growing up I was really

69 This is a pseudonym. 125 quiet. So, like when I first like met Masho I thought to myself; ‘nah this can be like my way of expressing my feelings and opinions and thoughts’ because at that time I was really quiet and no-one knew what I feel about stuff, no-one knew what I feel about girls, no-one knew what I feel about politics. So, I made this like hip- hop thing my blood form, like, to come out. And I think like Masho like his production brought like the animal in me. Now I’m known like most people think I am crazy because I can say anything like about anything like I’m not in a format of like I can only rap about AIDS or poverty, I can rap about anything that normal person can chat about in real life.

And more about his first track, ‘I was not proud about that track because I don’t like talking political stuff. But what I was trying to say with that track is that it started with Nongqawuse and ended up with certain politicians now. I was angry that time. Lies – like when you are watching news and you can see there is something suspicious going on. Like what happened – Nongqawuse was using something that the Xhosa people respect – like the prophets – but she was using that. But I thought you know it’s not my battle so I quit rapping about political stuff. It’s up to someone who researches the facts. There are people who respect the ANC so you are going to seem disrespectful.’ Kideo adds, ‘Nongqawuse was maybe bribed. In the track whatever happened with Nongqawuse it is still happening today.’ The lyrics: Yaqala ngoNongqawuse yagqibela ngoMandela Jikijela jikijela [tsotsitaal slang] manjebafuna usiqadalele [Zulu] Udaki usathenyadu kunzima ukuzthethelela mnandizozimela ndizozimisela apalamente ndizobanyela Ayikho political le yi truthful delivery Since the days I was struggling kwi-slavery So I started hip-hop freedom fighting atenali

[Translation by Kideo]: It started with Nongqawuse and ended up with Mandela Look, look, now they are trying to take us down Black community is still sitting down (complacent/not standing up for ourselves – no one is talking about what really happened) I will stand up for my rights, I’m gonna shit on the parliament This is not political it’s just a truthful delivery Since the days I was struggling kwi-slavery So I started hip-hop freedom fighting eternally.

Nongqawuse was a prophetess who in 1856 claimed that if all Xhosa-speaking people slaughtered their cattle, the dead would arise and drive the British into the sea. It is widely referred to in history books as ‘the cattle killing’ or the national suicide, and is taken as an indicator of the falsity of Xhosa beliefs and evidence of profound superstition. Yet amongst Xhosa people – and in oral history – there is an alternative account that finds that Nongqawuse was in fact, responding to British threat as an early

126 anti-colonial activist for her people: ‘[t]oday, there is hardly a Xhosa alive who does not believe that Sir George Grey was in some way responsible for Nongqawuse’s prophecies’ (Peires, 1989, p. ix). Though Peires doubts the oral history story that the prophecy was a plot by Grey, Credo Mutwa (1971, pp. 317–318) argues that the key elements of the prophecy were entirely inconsistent with Xhosa culture and were clearly based on Christian mythology and Western concepts. The reception, to this first track of Kideo’s on the prophecy, in his local ’hood was hostile. The confrontation with a comrade when he was a young emcee of 13 had had a lasting impact on his style. His track articulated deep historical issues Xhosa people are still grappling with and maybe, do not want ‘in their faces’ today in the way that rap brings. Following the controversial reception of his first track, his approach to rap changed and became more light-hearted and humorous. However, his work still deals with relevant social issues such as religion, death, safe sex, and HIV/AIDS. In our conversations, he said that he felt he needed to maintain fans if he wanted to ‘make it’ and that many fans don’t want to hear ‘conscious stuff’.

Conclusion Analysing lyrics, genre and ‘message’ in their localized contexts of production and reception gives key insights into the artist’s intentions and the changing relationships of the role of rap in community life. As outlined in Chapter Two, the daily reality of poverty in the townships means that artists need to focus on making a living from their art, as much as the greater social and collective purposes of hip hop. Sometimes, for artists, this may mean pursuing commercial success beyond more community-initiated live events and performances. Despite the debates within hip-hop in Cape Town and Khayelitsha concerning genre boundaries – debates between generations, and debates between commercial and underground artists – nevertheless, a commitment to maintaining the hip-hop scene and to having a positive impact on youth, is an ethos shared by artists across a diversity of practices in townships and beyond today. It is my argument that this commitment to community is a crucial aspect of hip-hop’s ultimate power. It goes beyond genre boundaries and ‘message’ disagreements to unite an otherwise fragmented field of practice taking shape in a diversity of places. In this sense, the function of locality and community that hip hop engenders cannot be reduced solely to a physical place. Hip

127 hop does not simply emerge from the geophysical place of the township. Rather, hip hop produces a located form of emplacement; it generates community and place through a committed ethos of practice-base. The maintenance of a live hip-hop scene is crucial for giving young artists a platform to express the messages they want to communicate. It creates collectivist in so doing. Hip-hop enables capacity for youth to find their voice, to engender agency, to interact with and participate in dialogue with other artists and community members, to control their own words, envoice their own narrative. And it does so through highly collective and community-building practice. The work of artists who voluntarily organise events for free, functions to maintain the space for such publicly performed narratives and ‘message’ to emerge. This in itself is an example of Ginwright’s ‘civic engagement’, as outlined in Chapter One. The remaining Chapters of this thesis explore further aspects of the lived experience of live hip-hop – as the intercorporeal production of collectivity, the making and remaking of locality and belonging, and the connections between historical Xhosa oral traditions and hip-hop. These Chapters explore the embodied political and cultural potentialities of rap and hip hop, as well as their limits. In South Africa, hip-hop culture and its localised practice are deeply political, not unlike the greater, global underground hip-hop culture it builds upon. These Chapters focus on how hip-hop serves to maintain alternative ways of being under global neoliberal consumer capitalism in localised terms and forms.

128 Chapter 4 Phenomenology of Hip-hop Activity

To comprehend the significance of hip-hop as practice, a deeper analysis must be undertaken which looks beyond the end products of music or lyrics. As Jackson (1996, p. 32) argues regarding the importance of practice, ‘[m]eaning should not be reduced to that which can be thought or said, since meaning may exist simply in the doing and in what is manifestly accomplished by an action’. Hip-hop, I argue, is a situated action, that is, a distinctive way of being embodied through activities in place. Hip-hop in Khayelitsha is deeply embedded in the everyday life of the township, and therein lies its power – the public production of alternative modes of activity in a locality, an emplaced practice of a different way for bodies to be together that shifts the dynamics of public, embodied, space. Hip-hop’s capacities for collectivity operate beyond the level of lyrical content. It both requires and produces a specific type of context to come into being. An active hip-hop culture requires the regular participation of a collectivity of bodies. A number of key members are needed: motivated hip-hop heads with organisational and event management skills to promote and organise events, a task which includes sourcing sound equipment, electricity, and money for electricity. It also requires a community of participants and audience members. Audiences are often made up of other hip-hop artists, hip-hop heads and fans. Participation is required – not only the participation of emcees with a range of talent levels and abilities, but also the participation of audiences. The audience participates by regularly showing up to events. This often means they know the songs of artists that perform, or know them personally. The audience participates through embodied and vocal responses to the performer – sometimes singing along with a chorus, rapping along to a verse, or through call and response when they are ‘feeling it’. The hip-hop aesthetic of ‘feeling it’ (see Petchauer, 2011, 2012) is indicative of the collective and affective dimension of hip-hop. As Maxwell (2003) notes, something more is created through the interaction of bodies, the synchronising of bodily movements with a common rhythm as well as affective attunement – a mutual

129 appreciation by an embodied collective – what Victor Turner would call ‘communitas’70 (V. Turner, 1969). Jackson (2013, p. 67) argues that, ‘movement and music promote a sense of levity and openness in both body and mind, and make possible an empathic understanding of others, a fellow-feeling, which verbal and cognitive forms ordinarily inhibit’. This experience is a key factor in hip-hop scenes and is explored in detail by Maxwell (2003), Dowdy (2007) and Johnson (2009). However, it is rarely explored in the literature on hip-hop. This absence may be due to the difficulty of describing pre- or extra-linguistic, unconscious and collective experience and phenomena. If it is described in the literature, it is usually only in passing but not identified as a key aspect of hip-hop culture itself. My research however suggests that this collective affective dimension of hip hop is a key reason why hip-hop activists continue to organise and hip-hop artists continue to participate, and audiences continue to attend hip hop events. It is this collective dimension that I model in this chapter in developing a phenomenological approach to the underground emcee-centred hip-hop scene in Khayelitsha. In order to model the importance of the affective dimensions of hip hop, I consider these collective events in terms of their temporality, spatiality, corporeality and relationality. These aspects are all interlinked and must be considered through the key concept of embodiment. According to Merleau-Ponty (1962, p. 139), we encounter the world through our bodies – a body that ‘inhabits space and time’. A phenomenological approach insists upon an investigation of the ‘structure’ of a phenomenon, that is, the structuring of bodies in activity and in intention, within a material world. Berger (2009, p. xi) defines the use of ‘structure’ in phenomenology to refer to ‘the relationships between parts in experience and the ways in which awareness is shaped and organized’. Phenomenology aims to understand ‘what makes that experience possible instead of looking for what it is’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, p. xvi). For hip-hop, regular low-key live performances are the life-blood of underground scenes the world over because, as Benson Lee, the director of 2008 breakdancing documentary Planet B-Boy, argues: ‘the main essence of hip-hop is community’ (cited in Chang, 2007, p. 65), or rather, as my research suggests, the production of community and collectivity. Jeff Chang (Chang, 2007, p. 65) argues that ‘the essence of hip-hop is the cipher, born in the Bronx, where competition and community feed each other’. A

70 Turner (1969, p.96) adopts the term ‘communitas’ ‘to distinguish this modality of social relationship from an “area of living”’ which was associated with the term ‘community’. 130 cypher71 is, by technical definition, encrypted or encoded information. However, in hip- hop, a cypher refers to a circle of emcees or b-boys/b-girls engaged in competitive performance (with the intention of sharing ‘encrypted or encoded information’). Spady, Alim and Meghelli (2006, p. 11) state that ‘The Hip Hop cipha, or some variation of it (sometimes referred to as “spittin sessions” in areas of the [American] South and elsewhere), is the foundation of Hip Hop rhyming, and remains central to Hip Hop … it is the fundamental unit of analysis in the interpretation of Hip Hop culture’. It is the competition within the cypher, and who best can ‘perform knowledge’, which draws bodies in with a gravitational force. Understanding the production of collectivity through the cypher, and through jam sessions, requires a consideration of the experiences of hip-hop as a form of embodiment. What are the conditions required for the experience of collectivity within hip-hop? What is particular to hip-hop activity in Khayelitsha and how does this shape its collective capacities? In order to understand what youth are doing with hip-hop, we must turn to the body. Following Csordas (2008, p. 117), I argue for a model of hip hop as a ‘recognition of intercorporeality as a mode of collective presence in the world’. This chapter first outlines the historical development of hip-hop within the context of South African society, and the aesthetic progression of hip-hop in Cape Town, within a global perspective of hip-hop history. I then consider the physical and social context of the township of Khayelitsha. by comparing hip-hop activity in the township to hip-hop in central Cape Town. I describe the circumstances in which hip- hop activities – cyphers, spontaneous jams, open mics, and informal youth work – take place. It is in the context in which these hip-hop activities take place that needs to be described and theorised, since such practices of embodiment and relationality take shape in located place. In this way, I develop a phenomenological model of hip-hop. Hip-hop produces a sense of community in place, concretely and affectively. When collective intentionality is understood through intercorporeality rather than through cognitive explanations such as the ‘group mind’ or ‘collective consciousness’ (Durkheim, 2014), or through ‘identity’ or ‘sub-culture’ (Hebdige, 1979), the importance of the lived immediacy of hip-hop can be kept alive in analysis. The realisation, production and collective capacity of hip-hop may be fleeting and temporary, but these transformative effects are what matter most in hip-hop.

71 Various spellings of this term are used by hip-hop artists and in the literature on hip-hop. 131 Temporality This research took place over a specific time period – from 2008 to 2012. During 2009, spaza hip-hop ‘blew up’. That is, spaza hip-hop started to make a name for itself nationally and became much more popular in the isiXhosa speaking townships with many more emcees starting to do spaza hip-hop, for the first time. Spaza hip-hop is specific to Cape Town. It is a unique form of rap, combining a mix72 of mostly isiXhosa and tsotsitaal (township slang), with some words or phrases in English, Afrikaans or Zulu. Spaza was not practiced by the first generation of hip-hop artists to emerge in Khayelitsha in the early 1990’s. Most of the artists from this original generation in Khayelitsha rap in English, although some of these artists started to rap in isiXhosa in the late 1990s. This includes artists such as Sketch (widely held to be the first to rap in isiXhosa along with MC Dat from Gugulethu), T.O.P. (Archetypes), Rattex and Rhamncwa, all of whom emerged alongside emcees who rapped in English. They often had crews with members who rapped in English or in isiXhosa or in both, such as Maniac Squad, Intellectual Seeds and Foo Manchoo, and emcees such as Metabolism, Steel and Indigenous. Spaza hip-hop started to spread in the isiXhosa-speaking townships of Cape Town in the early 2000s, when it began to build momentum. Early spaza artists include Lampiter Clan and Uzwi Kantu. In July 2008, Rattex released the first spaza album Bread and Butter through a Cape Town record company, Pioneer Unit. This was followed in 2009 by Driemanskap’s Igqabhukil' Inyongo also through Pioneer Unit. Backyard Crew’s Sebenzel’ Eyadini was released independently, and so was Uzwi Kantu’s underground album Unendlebe uje unetyala (2008), during this same time. Prior to the release of these defining albums, mixtapes and singles had been released underground or via free peer-to-peer (P2P) transfers of mp3 files (see Haupt (2008) on file transfers in hip-hop in Cape Town). Spaza was a new sound, from a new generation. Pro-X from Naked Mynd explained spaza to me at an open mic session at Mlamli’s Bar in Gugulethu (an isiXhosa-speaking township closer to the city centre) one Sunday afternoon:

72 While the use of multiple languages could define spaza rap as ‘multilingual’ (Williams & Stroud, 2010), I feel this masks the fact that most spaza rap songs are mostly in isiXhosa. Some exceptions have many whole lines in English and are in fact multilingual. A rap song that was mostly in English with some isiXhosa words would not be considered spaza, though as definitions of spaza differ among emcees, for example some feel the most important aspect is the sound of the beat and the lyrical content – it is about ‘township culture’. This is discussed further in Chapter Five and Six. 132 What’s spaza music? – it is eKasi73 music. There is a difference in the sound … maybe somebody else might not notice … will just hear hip-hop … for most of us who know it … if you go to a producer like P’Zho who has been involved in spaza and all that … if you go to him and you say I want that spaza quality he knows what to do, or you say I want that kind of outgoing kind of sound he knows what to do (interview 2013)

The aesthetic cross-currents within hip-hop from Khayelitsha are in many ways unique to the township but also reflect the local evolution of hip-hop. During its inception in the US in the 1970s, hip-hop beats were based on live turntablism – initially the instrumental breaks on funk, soul and disco records were cut between tracks to produce an extended period of danceable music, and then techniques of scratching and beat juggling were developed. In the 1980s, the adoption of electronic samplers, drum machines and keyboard synthesisers by hip-hop artists to create beats through the technique of looping represented the first move away from the live turntable but preserved the aesthetic of repetition of breaks (Schloss, 2004, p. 136) . The rapid development of music technology in the 1980s and 1990s paralleled the growth in studio production (Tabron, 2015) which responded to the popularisation of hip-hop music outside of the live performance context which meant a shift away from a sonic aesthetic built for breaking (see Dimitriadis, 1996). However, advances in computer technology, internet access and the development of freeware, or in some cases pirated music software, made home studios much more accessible worldwide, and particularly, to residents of informal and impoverished shack settlements in places like Khayelitsha. The main software used by Khayelitsha producers is Fruity Loops, a system which provides a basic interface in which drum beats can be created without the use of a MIDI (Musical Instrument Digital Interface) sampler. The MIDI, which can be a keyboard or a sampler (an electronic musical instrument with pads that can be manually pressed), is used to trigger sounds of instruments provided by software which can be programmed in or run through a computer. Using a MIDI keyboard or sampler, the elements of a beat (or any sound such as a violin, horn, or voice) are manually drummed on the keys or pads and recorded, giving what is perhaps a more imperfect or sloppy character to the music. But it also keeps it human. Some argue that otherwise, the beat sounds too mechanical, too perfect. In Fruity Loops the kick, snare and high hat can be incorporated by clicking or programming rather than ‘playing’, a pattern into pre- existing beat spaces instead of composing them manually in real time.

73 eKasi means ‘township’ in isiXhosa 133 Spaza beats often have a typical synthesiser sound to them and use orchestral instrument samples. The sound of spaza beats is influenced by township house music, or kwaito,74 which also has a synthesiser sound and is typically entirely ‘computer generated’, apart from vocals (L. Allen, 2004, p. 85), though the beats are an entirely different tempo and rhythm to kwaito. The fact that at least some spaza emcees were initially kwaito singers or ‘rappers,’ or their producers also made house and kwaito music, as well as a certain form of gospel music (which has itself a similar beat to a type of township beat), accounts in part for the influence of township music on spaza beats. The reaction of 1990s hip-hop heads from Khayelitsha to the spaza sound reflects not only the fact that they came of age at a very different stage in global hip-hop – the tail end of the Golden Age75 – but also their aversion to the house music culture of the township. As suggested in the previous chapter, the generation or time-period in which artists grow-up in has an effect on their musical taste within hip-hop. These periods include: the breaking-oriented sounds of the 1970s and 1980s, the G-Funk and boom bap sounds of the 1990s, and the ‘crunk’ and ‘trap’ sound of the ‘new school’ hip-hop of the post-2000s generation (and onwards). Generational gaps in hip-hop76, while not absolute, were marked by the tensions and splits that occurred between artists of different eras, both in South Africa and in hip-hop worldwide. In South Africa, the eras included: the’80s anti-apartheid inspired ‘coloured’ breaking scene, the ’90s transition-to-democracy boom bap hip-hop music, the 2000s ‘free-generation’ crunk and township kwaito-inspired Fruity Loops beats. Each generation has felt the need to ‘school’ the next generation about hip-hop history. However, these broad categories are by no means absolute or exclusive. Each successive hip-hop generation laments the loss of quality, and the loss of knowledge about the era they came of age in (see also Ariefdien & Burgess, 2011). Hip-hop as a genre references, samples, its own historical development. This is demonstrated in hip- hop artists sampling older styles, referencing other rappers from a previous ‘era’, or collaborating with artists from previous generations (such as on The Roots (1999)

74 Kwaito is influenced mostly by township music such as Mbaqanga and Jive, European house music and dancehall. Some claim it is a type of hip-hop (Swartz 2008; Z. Magubane, 2006) but I disagree. Aside from the fact that kwaito is not linked to underground hip-hop (I have never seen kwaito performed nor heard it played at any hip-hop gig in Cape Town), kwaito is also seen as distinct from hip-hop by spaza artists who used to do kwaito. 75 The Golden Age refers to the period between the mid-1980s and the early 1990s. 76 Ariefdien and Burgess (2011) note the difficulties in defining generations. 134 album Things Fall Apart and the inclusion of the early 1980s duo Double Trouble from the Bronx, NY).

Image 9: Sound Masters Crew studio, Site B, Khayelitsha, 2011 (S. Dowsett) The production of the mixtape, undertaken by myself in conjunction with a number of keen Khayelitsha artists, brought aesthetic divisions and preferences to the fore. It illuminated generational shifts and the links between space and aesthetic. This was described in more detail in Chapter Three, but a further example from the mixtape – an attempt at a collaboration between myself and MC Kideo – highlights aesthetic differences. As an outsider, it took me a while to get a feel for the spaza sound and the qualities that made a ‘dope’ spaza track. My fieldnotes from 2011 reveal this: In Phumzile’s studio in Kuyasa, Shadow also comes to record – he is keen to record a verse on Kideo’s track. Kideo records his verse. It is a concept he came up with which reflects what he has been thinking deeply about since I first met him. In the track he is talking to God about his son Satan who is wreaking havoc on township life because he has not gone through traditional male initiation to teach him how to be a (respectful, responsible) man. As he is recording the vocals it is blowing out the top end and sounds distorted so I ask if he can do it a bit back from the mic – I’m not very experienced in recording but I’m pretty sure it’s a bad thing if it sounds so distorted during the recording. But Marley, their manager, tells me – ‘that’s just how Kideo is – that’s how he performs and 135 how he records and how he sounds’. He reckons you can just fix it later. But I don’t think so … unless that’s how you want your voice to sound. Maybe it is part of the ‘rawness’ of spaza – that people like. I record the chorus that I made up, ‘wooooah lordy, I hear your one son/been runnin’ amok all over Cape Town/ stumbling home drunk in the morning/ blood dripping from his fingers like he’s been in a brawl/ it’s long gone since you should have sent him to the bush’, but after hearing Kideo’s verse I’m not really liking the sound of my voice anymore. Marley keeps telling me I must start it off stronger because it’s sounding weak. He thinks it would match Kideo’s tone more if it was higher pitched and faster, but that’s not really my style. We re-record Kideo’s verse. He looks a bit flat after all the effort. Phumzile – the producer whose studio we are using also tells me he doesn’t think his crew can use any of the beats from the samples I got. He doesn’t think it will really represent them properly. They don’t like ‘those conscious beats’ – he would ‘prefer to use a spaza beat.’

The next day I phone Kideo to talk about the track – neither of us are feeling it though we both had been digging the concept and the lyrics. He decides to re- record it using some of Masho’s spaza beats – and I remember when we first met he told me he doesn’t use any other producers – he only uses Masho’s beats, he has always refused to work with anyone else.

Clearly, I didn’t have the right kind of voice for spaza. Nor, in fact, did I have the right kind of ‘ears’. That is, I had not yet acquired a culturally attuned sense of listening. My corporeal schema, though sensitised and oriented to hip hop generally, had not yet expanded to the localised, embodied, terms of somatic attention required by Khayelitsha-specific hip hop. I didn’t know how to hear spaza hip-hop and could not produce the vocal tones required (Stoller, 1989; Downey, 2002). I’m a hippy lady from the bush and my early experiences of music and dancing were kirtan and folk music sung by my parents while they played guitar. I felt like I didn’t have enough of a feel for the aesthetic quality that Kideo and Marley were seeking for the track – it was outside the scope of my corporeal capacities – I had not been socialised by eKasi aesthetics. But this wasn’t an issue recording a track with Metabolism using loungey-style, chilled beats (what spaza artists would call ‘conscious beats’) from Saturn and Metabolism. This loungey-style is a much more laid-back style inspired by 1990s boom bap that was formative of both my own and Metabolism’s feel for hip-hop. This chorus went down well with the emcee’s present during recording, which suggests that my inability to embody spaza aesthetics was due not to a complete lack of ability to sing, but to the fact that my hip-hop corporeal schema is attuned to 1990s hip-hop rather than the spaza hip- hop corporeal schema grounded deep in the township. What I was taught of recording in a course I took at the College of Fine Arts, University of New South Wales, in the first year of my PhD candidature, was that the

136 initial recording needs to be clear with no distortion. You can add effects afterwards to get the sound you want during the process of sound editing and producing. However, a very different approach to recording was being undertaken by spaza artists. Spaza artists were aiming intentionally to capture a raw, rugged, rough sound quality in their vocals. This is evident in most of Backyard Crew’s tracks as well as Sound Masters Crew’s music, and was mentioned by other artists and fans as a distinct quality in spaza. On another occasion Phoenix, of Backyard Crew, explained the sound of their album had an intentional ‘raw feel’ to reflect ‘life in eKasi’ – and if they were to try to make it ‘radio friendly’ they would ‘lose that hardcore sound’ (pers. comm. 2011). The aesthetics of spaza rap reflects Sutton’s (1996) findings in his research on music in Indonesia where ‘overmodulation and distortion may be premeditated effect meant to reinforce traditional aesthetic norms’ (cited in Erlmann, 2002, p. 10). It also reflects the fact that most spaza music is listened to on mobile phones, televisions, and cheap speakers and, as Phura (pers. comm. 2011) informed me, spaza is shared via mp3 often between mobile phones. That is, the ‘raw feel’ and ‘gritty’ form of the sound quality of spaza produces aesthetically a distorted and impoverished quality that emulates and embodies a guaranteed sound of the ‘failure’ of high fidelity perfection in advance, intentionally. As an aesthetic, it produces a ‘township’ sound in terms of both production and reception.

Spatiality of hip-hop in the township

Living in the ghetto It’s the survival to eat/live My brothers and sisters them that die upon the streets (In the ghetto) Running away from the beast No matter what you do you get caught out by police77 [Khusta]

‘Where is the humanity in this police brutality?’ [Zanzolo]

Chorus: I was raised in the streets by my people Everything I do, I do it for my people All the struggles are … for my people

77 In Khayelitsha youth are told by police to go home and sleep (Indigenous 2008 pers comm)

137 My people in the ghetto (Lyrics to the track, Living in the Ghetto, (Soundz of the South, 2014)

Hip-hop originated as a street culture. The ‘street’ is a key component of authenticity within hip-hop (K. McLeod, 1999). The reason for this is that ‘the street remains the loci of the Hip Hop community’ (Spady & Alim, 1999, p. xi) and as such, coming from ‘the street’ as an artist is a mark of authenticity in a double sense. First, it means the emcees literally grew up on the streets – spent a significant amount of time in the street as a dwelling space (Skott-Myhre, 2012) – and thus, they have lived cred. Second, it means they come from the hip-hop practice-base of the street. It indicates that as emcees, they have proved their skill in live battles and cyphers. That is, according to hip-hop’s terms of professional ‘street’ accreditation, they have succeeded. The street is, in this sense, both a lived reality and a literal figure for this reality – the reality of the underground, the ’hood, the ghetto, the community. To be in the streets is to be from the people, to be one of, and to remain, among the people. The epic volume Street Conscious Rap (Spady et al., 1999) is a rich archive of interviews with key hip-hop artists including some of hip-hop’s founders. In an interview with Spady (in Spady et al., 1999, p. 27), Marley Marl (of Furious Five fame, who co-wrote and rapped the famous track ‘The Message’) explains, ‘I got to stay true to my people, you know what I’m saying? I stay true to hip hop. I be in the streets, you know what I’m saying? So, I see my youth. I got to stay true to my people. I got to make music for them’ (bold type in original). Busta Rhymes explains that, ‘Hip hop is street music! It ain’t come from nobody’s house! You know what I’m saying? It’s something that we all gathered in the street to do’ (Spady et al., 1999, p. 183). The value of the street as an experience and as the locus of underground hip-hop was maintained as hip-hop culture spread to Cape Town. In a conversation in Harare, Khayelitsha Black Vision informed me that he lived in Johannesburg for a while where the hip-hop scene is much bigger, ‘tjoh! The streets are alive there!’ (pers. comm. 2008). The street manifests in the habitus of performers, as well as in their lyrics (for representation of the spatiality of the ’hood and the street in rap lyrics see Forman, 2000). As Keyes (2002, p. 6) argues, ‘[i]n hip-hop, artists bring to their performances a street culture sensibility or “attitude” and a persona that undergirds the aesthetics of style’. The affective stance and posture of the emcee embodies hip-hop’s origins in the

138 street. This is succinctly captured in Spady and Alim’s (1999, pp. ix–x) description of the lived world of North Philadelphia, You never knew [what might happen]. Had to be streetwise. Had to be alert. Cautious, Watching. Armored. Timing is everything. This is a highly sedimented ground of hiphopological activity. Whether you are grabbing the ball or the mic, you had to be quick.

In the densely populated inner city projects of the US, the street is a place of dwelling. Where the ‘private’ home space spills out literally onto the street and vice versa. There isn’t anywhere else. In a day-to-day cultural sense, the street is home. The same is true of townships in South Africa. As Spady and Alim (1999, p. xii) describe it, ‘the street is a preeminent site of being-in-one’s everydayness’.

Image 10: Street Session, Site B, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) The habitus of the street is enacted by the posture and motility of the emcee, in their use of narrative and lyrical descriptions, as well as through vernacular speech and idiom. The street is productive of hip-hop nation language (Alim, 2006b). As Run DMC’s DJ explains, ‘That's part of what makes us so good. We're aggressive. We walk with a strut. We wear our hats a certain way. We've got the feeling. Street feeling. New York feeling’ (cited in Keyes, 1991, p. 121). Spady links the ‘everydayness’ of the street to the stance in hip-hop, ‘it is imperative to exhibit a rough exterior in order to exist’ (cited in Yancy 2013 p. 71). Keyes (1991, p. 166) also argued that, ‘scholars must

139 seriously examine the cultural milieu from which it evolves – street culture – and the role this context plays in the formation of its expressiveness: its language, music, and performance’. The study of hip-hop outside the USA often lacks a detailed consideration of the spatial, geographic, social context in which a scene takes place. In urban parts of the world where there is a dense population and a street culture – where living space is extended onto the street as an everyday dwelling zone (see Image ) where in the site of a hip-hop session in the township of Khayelitsha, in the background, two people can be seen sitting, dwelling78) – hip-hop has been readily adopted as a street practice. Uptown Cape Town hip-hop events take place most often inside clubs, though an occasional cypher may occur outside. The spatial context of a hip-hop scene has a notable impact on that scene.79

Spaza hip-hop and eKasi, the ’hood, the township Hip-hop in Khayelitsha is deeply embedded in the everyday. Spaza hip-hop specifically reflects the everyday. The term spaza is commonly used in townships in South Africa to refer to an informal township shop operated out of a home. Though there are many theories amongst spaza emcees about why this term is used to refer to the multilingual hip-hop from isiXhosa-speaking townships, nobody I spoke to could give me a clear account of who had originally coined the term or what the original reason for it was. MC Phoenix feels that the term spaza hip-hop reflects the function of the spaza shop in the township, and stresses affective dimensions of collectivity, in saying that a spaza shop is where ‘you can get food even if you don’t have any money … we help each other out’ (interview 2011). Andrew Spiegel (2005) has investigated the origins and multiple uses of the term ‘spaza’ which, intentionally or not, reflect aspects of hip-hop in eKasi (the township) . Under the Bantu Homelands Citizenship Act (1970), Xhosa people were prevented from living outside their designated ‘homelands’ (the Ciskei and for the amaXhosa which is now called the Eastern Cape), unless they were migrant workers

78 This is a common sight in Khayelitsha despite the fact that it could be interpreted that the people sitting are waiting for the music to start. 79 An example can be seen in Ian Maxwell’s (2003) research on hip-hop in Sydney, where he found discourses about authenticity and ‘keepin’ it real’ abounded. I would argue that a largely white population has reasons for needing to prove its authenticity, in part because there is no generalised ‘everyday’ street culture tradition in Australia, except in more remote Indigenous communities and/or the town camps of Alice Springs or Darwin. 140 and thus deemed temporary. Cape Town was a designated Coloured Labour Preference Area (Ndegwa, Horner, & Esau, 2004) which meant isi-Xhosa speaking people were excluded unless they had a permit. Due to the absence of formal shops, an informal illegal economy developed and as such, a spaza was a ‘shop disguised as [a] home’ (Spiegel, 2005, p. 201 n27). The multiple meanings of the term seems to encompass the many aspects of spaza’s lyrical content, style and culture. Spiegel (2005, p. 201) found it referred to the trickster or to humour, political resistance, the lack of sense or to something that is not the real thing (some artists from earlier generations have lamented the lack of knowledge of the history of hip-hop among spaza artists. However, many spaza artists such as Zanzolo, Emage, Rezevoir and Point2 (Backyard Crew), had an in- depth knowledge of, and commitment to, hip-hop philosophy and history). In my field notes, I describe an explanation of spaza given in a group discussion at Mashonisa’s in 2011, with Kideo, Axo, Lam and King Jnr:

I ask Mashonisa about what spaza is and this generates a general discussion with everyone chipping in. ‘Spaza is not just about the language – it is the culture’, ‘Cape flats culture’, the ‘township lifestyle’, ‘it sounds like the area’. For example, there is a lot of crime – Kideo got mugged on his way here today and they took his phone. ‘You hear these stories in people’s raps’. Spaza is also about the inspiration for their raps – which ‘comes from the street life’.

The feel of spaza was a quality that could, even if you had possessed it by virtue of your street and township cred, nevertheless be lost. At a particular performance in 2008 some emcees in Khayelitsha felt that one particular spaza artist, Rattex, had ‘lost touch with the people’ when he had moved to a middle class area – Mowbray or Observatory. He was still performing, rhyming about his life but as this no longer reflected the everyday of the township, his music (they claimed) became difficult to relate to. This was expressed to me after a gig in Site C where DMK had received a lot more love (positive reception) from the crowd than had Rattex. I had asked why and this was the explanation I was given, though in informal conversations he was always accorded respect as a pioneer of spaza. A high-density population living in close quarters such as Khayelitsha means that the there is little distinction between private and public80 and a sense of people being everywhere all the time, high visibility, high sociality. This was made clearer to

80 This is key to Bhabha’s (1994) definition of the ‘unhomely’ and it also utilised by Erlmann (1996) specifically in relation to South Africa with regard to the system of migrant labour. 141 me when driving with MC Argo through Muizenberg, the area of Cape Town I was living in at the time. Muizenberg is known for being a mixed and vibrant community, specifically in comparison to other formerly designated White Areas of Cape Town. Yet Argo was visibly shocked at the desolate, ‘empty’ streets and even asked, ‘where are all the people?’ Hip-hop events that occur in the township in outdoor places enter into and take place in highly visible, highly social in-between private-public spaces. They are physically deeply communal.

Image 11: Steel at a Park Jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) There is a distinct difference between the context of hip-hop performances in the city and the township. One difference is that in the city centre, live performances are always staged inside, at a venue, usually a nightclub or bar. These venues are surrounded by other public spaces, such as bars, music venues and restaurants. They offer just one of the many forms of entertainment available to the consumer. In Khayelitsha, regular open mic sessions are held outside in public spaces. In Site B they are held on the street. In I Section, they are held in an open court (this was done regularly in the early 2000s but only occasionally during my fieldwork). In Kuyasa, they are held in an empty sandy field. Lookout Hill is a venue that is sometimes used for hip-hop events which is further away from homes. All of these spaces, with the 142 exception of Lookout Hill, are in the middle of densely populated residential areas of houses or shacks. They are not separated from domestic spaces by walls or barriers. Rather, they are deeply embedded within the everyday street life of the township. Adults and elders walk past or through the crowd on their way home; kids play and congregate nearby. MC Axo noted that although he was inspired by Eminem’s style, ‘we can’t rap like that. We can’t use that kind of language. What would our mothers say?!’ (interview 2011). That is, there are necessary contextual limitations placed on hip-hop in the township because of the close-up and enmeshed nature of its performances. Hip-hop events in densely populated neighbourhoods – townships, ghettoes – do not in this sense, simply spill over into the neighbourhood. They are of it and from it, inseparably. At a Park Jam in I Section, Khayelitsha, MC Steel started dancing with a mama on her way through the space who was carrying a sack of something on her head. She danced with him for a little while with the sack still on her head (see Image). At a street session in Site B, Khayelitsha, an old man who looked to be over sixty, brought what looked to be his toddler granddaughter out of a house right next to the DJ, and danced to the music. Young children play in the street or come outside when they hear the music starting, passers-by soak up (or brace themselves for) the music and the overflow of bodies from the crowd. Hip-hop sessions and performances in the city centre attract a diverse, mostly black, crowd. Open mic sessions feature artists from further afield who may rap in their mother tongues. Events in the township usually attract only local residents and Xhosa youth from other areas. Though hip-hop may provide these same tools to youth the world over, in different contexts, these tools can serve different purposes. These differences may be subtle but important. Hip-hop events in the city centre serve functions that are different to those it serves in the townships. John Blacking (1973, p. 25) argued that, [i]t is not enough to identify a characteristic musical style in its own terms and view it in relation to society … we must recognise that no musical style has its own terms; its terms are the terms of its society and culture, and of the bodies of the human beings who listen to it, and create and perform it.

Hip-hop originated within a specific urban space among a mix of African-American and Afro-Caribbean youth. The embodied space of the inner-city ghetto is deeply embedded in the style, form and language of hip-hop. As hip-hop is taken up outside this milieu, it takes on different embodied styles, sounds, aesthetic qualities, language and poetic

143 forms. In Khayelitsha the population is 96% isiXhosa speaking (Brown University, 2006, p. 11). The audiences at street-based events are usually not unknown to the performers. They often include friends, extended family, people from the neighbourhood and regular faces in the hip-hop community. The emcee speaks to a distinct demographic. He or she does not speak metaphorically or address an abstract ideal, but speaks intimately and up close to people he or she knows, as close as a metre away (or even closer in a cypher). Events outdoors in the townships speak to a public that is much broader and includes passers-by, neighbours, parents and children. Performances in the city centre are to a certain age group – over 18, and mostly young adults. Audiences in the city centre are also of mixed race, unlike those in the segregated Xhosa-speaking or ‘coloured’ townships, where the audience is mostly people from that area, or from other townships speaking the same language(s). In Cape Town where people from the townships are often multilingual, the make-up of the crowd determines the language choice of an emcee when they are introducing themselves. They are speaking either to a strictly Xhosa audience, or to a mixed-race crowd that has a common language in English. As a result, the audience belongs to a specific speech community, unlike audiences at the city centre. Language choice is complex. Many emcees in or from Khayelitsha, such as the artist Rhamncwa, compose exclusively in Xhosa81. Rhamncwa explains: ‘I wanna reach my people and tell my stories, and tell their stories. And talk about the way we live … from the little ones to the older people’ (interview 2011). Or artists may write specifically for youth in their township to encourage, motivate and uplift. Hip-hop in this sense, is (on the ground) a direct embodied linguistic encounter with others – lyrics composed in isolation are always done so with the other in mind (even if mediated through recorded tracks). For artists who perform in townships, this always-present other, the audience, and their pressing immediacy and physical proximity, can also be limiting. This raises the question of whether or not the kinds of township based ‘stylistics’ of spaza can translate to audiences beyond the context of its production. Wanda, one of the hosts on the hip-hop radio show Headwarmaz, explained to me:

81 This could be considered a problematic characterisation as Rhamncwa uses the occasional English, Afrikaans, or other slang term this reflects the incorporation of non-Xhosa words into everyday Xhosa speech. Furthermore, spaza emcees often say they compose ‘strictly in Xhosa’ this does not mean to the absolute exclusion of words from other languages but that the majority of their raps are entirely in isiXhosa. 144 I have been criticised for being overly critical about how geographically specific that spaza is … I mean that if you take it out of Cape Town, if you take it out of the township it does not receive the same kind of popularity. There have been groups that have transcended that – for example Driemanskap have taken it to the USA … I am hoping that other people will follow suit … I want it to become something that is not only South African … There are schools of thought which will say that what is done in the Eastern Cape is not spaza per se … the way that they put it is Umculo Buciko82, their focus is mostly on the language that is delivered and their content is much deeper … I have family from the Eastern Cape and whenever they come here for gatherings they always criticise our poor language, our poor Xhosa … in the urban areas there is more slang, more tsotsitaal … you could even say Cape Town [townships have] more swag, Cape Town likes to have swag, bright colours you know, crunkier beats … because we like that kind of thing … whereas in the Eastern Cape they are trying to keep it as pure as possible (pers. comm. 2011)

Cyphers and spontaneous improvised jams One of the most important practices in live hip-hop is the cypher. Many events I attended in the townships involved spontaneous cyphers. The cypher is traditionally a spontaneous street practice deeply embedded in African-American oral practices such as signifyin’ – a distinctive rhetorical form of communication in African-American vernacular discourse, the purpose of which is to remake meaning (Gates Jnr, 1988, pp. 45–49). One practice of signifyin’ is ‘playing the dozens’ which involves spontaneous, improvised banter on the streets where two or more people playfully boast and put each other down. Each person typically insults the other’s (metaphorical or real) family members through rhyme and humour (Kelley, 2004, p. 128) . This is the root of the emcee cypher which is an encoded mode of vocality – a particular configuration of bodies engaged in the production of vernacular discourse understood only by ‘insiders’. The cypher is explored in rich linguistic detail by Alim (2006b) and Williams and Stroud (2010). Alim’s (2006b) work explores the linguistic productivity of the cypher while Williams and Stroud (2010) look at the ways in which emcees assert ‘linguistic agency’ through in-depth linguistic analysis of an emcee battle at a regular hip-hop session in Kuilsriver, Cape Town. It may or may not involve a battle83 but it is both a ‘communal and competitive discourse’ (Alim, 2006b, p. 97). The implications of the

82 ‘Umculo buciko’ is hip-hop music from the Eastern Cape which is rapped in deep isiXhosa. It loosely translates as eloquent speech (buciko) music (umculo). Metanoia from Khayelitsha explained ‘they drop theses in their raps!’ (pers. comm. 2008) 83 A ‘battle’ in hip-hop is a live performance competition between two emcees, two breaking crews or b- boys/b-girls, between DJs in which the crowd cheers during performances which determines the winner. These can be formally organised or they can happen spontaneously in public places. 145 physicality of the cypher are rarely discussed in the literature on hip-hop.84 The term cypher has become a metaphor for hip-hop discourse (Spady et al., 2006; Alim, 2009). Peterson (2014, Chapter 5) outlines the cypher as follows: Ciphers are mini speech communities. They are inviting, but they are also very challenging. They have become the litmus test for modern day . Ciphers are also the initiating format for battling among emcees. The ritual of rhyming is reinforced by the physical arrangement of hip-hop bodies into a form that powerfully indicates the inside-outside dynamic that makes hip-hop culture so popular with those infatuated with counterculture. The cipher has no centre except space or possibly the voice rhyming in turn.

Cypher as a term is used as a metaphor for the underground. As MC Steel explained, when faced with the choice between the cypher and pursuing a more commercially viable music career, he ‘chose the cypher’ (pers. comm. 2008). The social norms of a cypher differ depending on place (Alim, 2006b, p. 100). Cyphers I witnessed in Cape Town often, but not always, took the form of a battle. Battles may generate antagonistic feelings, but they are a crucial aspect of building respect, street credibility, proving oneself in the underground, and is ‘seen as a linguistic training field for MCs’ (Spady et al., 2006, p. 6). Battles are generators of legacies of styles. They are also the basis of emcee ‘signatures’, and of how a certain style takes shape, from and against another, in relational difference. Battles can be remembered with fondness. An example of this fondness was demonstrated to me when interviewing the artist Zanzolo when a fellow artist Kideo was present. They both started reminiscing about a battle they had had in a cypher on the train from Cape Town (a 30km ride). The cypher had remained unresolved as Kideo had to get off at his stop. ‘It lasted all the way from Gugulethu to Site C. Tjoh! that was a nice battle!’, Zanzolo exclaimed, smiling and laughing and shaking his head even though nobody won. As Kideo said, ‘it never ended’. It lasted a long time, which attests to their lyrical skill and ability to collectively tune in, or zone out, to the flow, and this also attests to their commitment to the greater collective ethos of hip-hop. The continuous back and forth flow between the emcees is the common goal, and this is a collective responsibility. Unlike a conversation or debate, the point is not to stay on topic but to maintain the flow. That being said, there is often a reply from the next emcee if the cypher turns into

84 Porteous’s (2013) PhD thesis investigates emcee cyphers in New York from a musicological standpoint and focuses on their historical development and lyrical elements. Porteous argues that it is an inclusive, collective, marginalised, grassroots art form. However, Porteous’s thesis does not focus on an in-depth engagement with participants’ own perspectives and experiences or descriptions of actual cyphers. 146 a battle. On odd occasions an album launch was held inside a community hall.85 This was the case for Uzwi Kantu’s 2008 album launch in Site C. In these situations, a cypher would often occur during a break in performance or after the show. If the event were outdoors, it would usually occur while waiting for equipment to be set up. Outdoor events often ended as it got dark and attendees/participants would need to disperse. Moving through the townships at night on foot, particularly when in unfamiliar neighbourhoods, can be dangerous. At the centre of the cypher, there is usually at least one beat-boxer and a number of emcees. One emcee will freestyle until they lose their flow or train of thought, and another emcee will immediately pick it up and continue86. The emcee who is ready to take up the flow will signal this with a few words – or ‘verbal cues’ (Williams & Stroud, 2010) – such as “yo, yo, check it” to catch the rhythm and proceed to freestyle. Sometimes the cypher begins as a spontaneous battle between two emcees. An example of this occurred outside at the emcee Rattex’s album launch at a community hall in Site C, Khayelitsha as described in my field notes from June 2008: Later I am standing outside the front of the hall to one side near the high wire fence with Thabo and Luyanda. A young man in a green felt pixie scare-crow hat, camouflage shorts and a back pack comes up to us and starts talking to Thabo. He introduces himself to me as ‘Metanoia.’ Turns out it is this guy that Luyanda was talking about that is doing a track with Black Vision (Thabo’s emcee name). He tells me he has studied philosophy and linguistics for four years. He looks too young to me to be doing that but what he means is that he reads himself not through formal educational institutions. He tells me, ‘I do metaphysical poetry’. I’m thinking, ‘Yep, I am down with that whatever it is!’ He tells me that he listened to my track at Luyanda’s earlier. As a response to it he tells me, ‘the thing with female emcees is that they really shouldn’t try to prove themselves – It is not about proving yourself just do your thing.’ Ouch! Shut down. Though I can’t tell whether he is cuffing me on the back of the head as an introductory lesson or congratulating me on managing to break the shackles of a male dominated sport and just be myself. I decided it must be the latter as that track he heard was a very personal one that I felt was most thoroughly ‘me’. Metanoia and Thabo perform their piece for me. Metanoia’s rhymes are intricate and heavily layered with intellectual-academic type verbals in his verse. A crowd starts to gather while they are performing for me. Metanoia finishes his verse and another emcee starts freestyling. Thabo kicks in with a basic beat box. A couple more guys come over and one of them starts talking loudly

85 Venues such as community halls were difficult for youth to secure as they were expensive to hire and also they faced a negative attitude towards youth organising their own events. 86 Conventions of cyphers vary, for example, in Philadelphia (USA) the person rapping has to ‘name the next person entering the cipha, which required the participants to always be on alert’ (Spady, Alim & Meghelli, 2006, p. 7) 147 interrupting the first emcee’s flow. The first emcee eventually stops after rhyming something like, ‘even when people interrupting me.’ Another emcee joins in – more and more people gather and close the circle. This one emcee, who I later find out has been around a long time - MC X, starts challenging Black Vision and they start battling – it is getting a bit heated – the other emcee keeps touching Black Vision’s chest – and firmly pushing him with his accusatory finger. Black Vision ends up shutting him down with, ‘you’ve been rapping since the ice age…but you still can’t write…so you buy your rhymes from Shoprite’ but the emcee doesn’t accept defeat and keeps going and dissing Black Vision but sloppy and not in time nor rhyme. Then MC MPRVS (USA) steps in and spits some rhymes about ‘we shouldn’t be fighting, one love in the ghetto’, and ‘I’m teaching the children’ as there are about 8 little kids who look between the ages of 6 and 10 trying to join in and mimicking the emcees. The situation diffuses.

Perry (2004, pp. 73–74) points out that the cypher highlights the role of community in hip-hop: In a larger group the majority will become part of the composition with their bodies in motion ...This kind of artist-audience relationship is rooted in the tradition of functional art in that it stresses community and heterogeneity of individuals in the composition. It also stands as an important democratic gesture because it identifies hip hop as a collective everyperson's music…the black community’s presence within the music composition offers protection against cooptation and hierarchical commodification: anyone might emerge from the … crowd and grab the mic.

Key works emphasise the unique form of interaction and connection that cyphers instigate. Rivera (2003) offers detailed descriptions in the context of the history and role of in New York hip-hop, while Imani Kai Johnson’s (2009) PhD thesis provides a deeply engaged examination of the lived experience of hip-hop activity. Johnson considers the unseen or ‘dark matter’ in cyphers, kinaesthetic knowledge, and the ‘conversations’ between bodies in the performance context. These conversations are call and response interactions or dialogues. B-boy Alien Ness explains: ‘This is a vocabulary … With commas and periods and capitalization exclamation points and questions and all type of stuff’ (in Schloss, 2009, p. 87). Johnson (2009, p. 5) defines a cypher as an ‘act of building collectively through the back and forth exchange in the circle ... where the spectators themselves are necessarily engaged in the moment, contributing their energy through their reactions and interest’. But what is this energy that turns a circle into a cypher? What draws a crowd, pulls people into it? Johnson (2009, p. 12) uses, ‘Dark matter [as] a metaphor for the energy of a circle because that energy is also a kind of materiality that shapes what happens in cyphers and thereby shapes the reality of people’s experiences’. ‘Dark matter’ is an apt description of the

148 impact of the cypher ‘on surrounding visible matter’ which can ‘compel’ the momentum of the cypher as well as ‘compel’ audience to come closer and stay (Johnson, 2009, p. 11).

Image 10: A cypher with Equilibrium crew and Jargon at the centre at Kaltcha Kulcha Park Jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2009 (photo by S. Dowsett) The cypher is not announced; it engages immediately. It activates embodied knowledge directly. The cypher depicted in Image 10 (above) started spontaneously as equipment was being set up for a Park Jam in I Section, Khayelitsha in 2009. A few Emcees started rapping and a crowd quickly gathered with other emcees joining in (at the centre in this image is the two crews, Jargon and Equilibrium). The cypher can dissipate as quickly as it emerges. It is a collective entering into ‘flow’. Chang (2006, p. 4) argues for the importance of the cypher in hip-hop culture: ‘In the cipher, hip-hop’s vitality is reaffirmed, its participants recommit to its primacy, and the culture transforms itself’. This transformation is the perpetual urge towards innovation – towards better dance moves and fresher beats, towards maintaining the flow of a lyrical barrage (but with finesse) at the expense of an opponent – competition breeds invention. The physicality and immediacy of such practices cannot be underestimated, how quickly intersubjective forms of collective embodied vocality activate and dissipate, how fast a battle swells up and resolves is itself evident of the importance of spontaneity and improvisation as core hip-hop aesthetics. The cypher is a visceral postural exchange of

149 collective feelingful body-dialogue that builds up distinctive modes of continued, yet temporal, attention, affect and interest. It is a deeply felt and sensed embodiment of community, of collectivity, of the right and call to participate, of coming together in the push and pull of the tension between the individual (style, innovation, change) and the collective (participation in established modes of interaction).

Collective intentionality and intercorporeality An understanding of the experience of collectivity and the workings of intentionality (Merleau-Ponty, 1962) through the body can shed light on such ‘dark matter’ as the cypher. Movement to music, and collectively tuning in, operate on a largely pre- reflective level – they are based on bodily acting together. As Jackson (1983, p. 338) argues, ‘[d]ance and music move us to participate in a world beyond our accustomed roles, and to recognise ourselves as members of a community, a common body’. Specifically, hip-hop cyphers, spontaneous jams, and emcee performances involve an inter-corporeal synchrony. Even during battles, emcees remain tuned into the same rhythm. This kind of collective corporeal synchrony can be understood through what McNeill (1995, pp. 2–3) calls ‘muscular bonding’ (though he does not discuss this in relation to hip-hop) or ‘the euphoric fellow feeling that prolonged and rhythmic muscular movement arouses among nearly all participants in such exercises’. The ‘rhythmic dimension of human solidarity’ (McNeill, 1995) has been explored in psychological studies. Wiltermuth and Heath (2009, pp. 4–5) found that participants who were engaged in a synchronous activity – singing together or moving cups in time with music – were more cooperative following the activity even when the cooperation involved a potential financial loss. That is, rhythmically coordinated collective activity has the potential to foster a lasting sense of connection and solidarity. Cyphers and spontaneous jams, where a beat boxer ‘keeps the rhythm’ through making percussive sounds with her or his mouth – mimicking sounds such as scratching, bass kick and snare – or studio jams where a beat is played and emcees take turns freestyling to the beat, require a tightly focused mutual tuning-in to the beat. To follow hip-hop and understand it, requires deep and careful listening, acquired over a long period. In order to be cued-in into a live performance, unrehearsed or otherwise, the (next) emcee must recognise a break in the (current) emcee’s flow and be ready to

150 come in on time. An example of this can be seen in a spontaneous jam in Evershine studios in 2011: Kideo had taken me to Kuyasa to meet another crew. At the back of a pale peach coloured RDP house is a small tin shack about 4 metres by 2 metres. Inside the space has a dividing wall with a bed on one side and a studio consisting of a PC, a microphone, some small speakers and a desk. I asked the owner of the studio, Soska, if I could hear a beat that he has made to see what kind of style he does. Inside the small space are Kideo, Van D, Shadow, another male emcee who looks to be Shadow’s age (13), and two young women emcees I hadn’t met before. The beat kicks in and everyone shows appreciation through hand gestures, vocal approval. Van D starts rapping. We had been filming interviews with Van D and Phurah outside so I still had my camera in one hand and my ten- month-old boy on my hip. I put the baby on the bed and stood in the doorway of the studio, which was packed with the seven emcees. Van D’s verse kicks off a 15-minute jam with all seven emcees having multiple turns rapping some freestyle and some written rhymes. Van D and Kideo dominated the session but also passed the opportunity to rap at times and gestured to other emcees to have a turn. This always feels something like a game of hackey sack where everyone works together to try to keep the ball in the air for the longest time – sometimes showing off with a few tricks before passing the sack on. It finishes after everyone has had a turn and seems to have exhausted their flow. A few people clap and everyone is smiling and laughing. I had to put the camera down as some children rushed in to witness as my son had gotten off the bed and was in the doorway almost got knocked over. When I looked outside there was a small crowd of kids gathered by the door listening in and trying to see.

The production of community here occurs through physical proximity and regular, repeated, forms of congregation. Bodies coming together, coming closer, to feel, move, watch and listen together, to tune-in together, to create a particular kind of experience and produce a form of togetherness or what Victor Turner (1969, p. 132) named ‘communitas’ and defines as ‘existential or spontaneous’ and as ‘the transient personal experience of togetherness’. This ‘existential communitas’ in the hip-hop events of Khayelitsha, is a shifting, precarious collectivity and is only tenuously maintained through the regularity of live hip-hop performance – it is ethereal and fleeting. And yet, it can be counted on, produced intentionally, as a regular community-engaged, if ephemeral event, as hip-hop events are themselves repetitious and based upon iterative structures. Edith Turner (2012, p. 1) expands Victor Turner’s notion of ‘communitas’. In grappling with the difficulty of defining it, she states that it ‘can only be conveyed properly through stories. Because it is the sense felt by the plurality of people without boundaries’. The descriptor, ‘without boundaries’ refers to the joy or pleasure that can be felt in the individual losing herself in the moment, as individual boundaries are

151 merged with the collective and the subjective experience becomes intersubjective. This is what Merleau-Ponty (cited in Biddle, 2002, p. 103) calls ‘intertwining’. The dissolution of boundaries occurs where the ‘self’ merges with others and with a world. Before I unpack this ‘merging with the world’ that occurs in hip-hop, it is important to understand that the basis of embodiment is itself an orientation to the world. The phenomenological body is not bounded, isolated or individualised. It is not contained by the physiology of the skeletal system or the skin. For Merleau-Ponty, the body is social and cultural. It is open to, exchanges with, and materially shares in, the bodies that surround it, based upon the primacy of ‘syncretic sociability’ as the basis of embodiment (see Chapter 2). It leaks and loses boundaries regularly. Merleau-Ponty's (1962) elaboration of 'operative intentionality' is premised on the fact that embodiment is always directed towards the world, towards the bodies of others who share in the co- making of intention, habits and activities repeated over time – what is crudely called ‘culture’. According to Merleau-Ponty (1962, pp. 138–139) our orientation to the world is derived from the embodiment of those with whom we share day to day habits and life worlds: '[c]onsciousness is being towards the thing through the intermediary of the body…to move one's body is to aim at things through it'. In the hip-hop cypher, there is a collective embodied form of responsibility that takes shape implicitly. In a cypher, a collective mass of intention ‘aims’ towards the maintenance and build-up of the cypher – a cooperative effort at keeping the 'flow' moving. This requires a specific form of ‘somatic attention’ (Csordas, 1993) – that is, an embodied awareness of lyrics, of rhythm, and crucially, of other bodies. Kline (2007) calls this form of somatic attention in relation to hip-hop ‘kinetic consumption’. Kline (2007, p. 214) explains this term and argues that ‘hip-hop aesthetics demands that its art be consumed kinetically and also that hip-hop is consumed by constant energy and motion’. Kline (2007, p. 214) further notes that during performances the audience is expected to respond and to ‘participate kinetically’. In the specific context of the cypher, kinetic motion is not only physical and multi-sensory but intellectual, as the lyrics are followed closely (Kline, 2007, p. 214) and in fact determine the outcome of the cypher – who wins the battle. Participation in the cypher requires an openness to the directedness of other bodies. It requires synchronising with the (vocal) beatbox and complex sensory ‘listening’ to vibration, quivers, pulse and their gaps, through the feet and through the mouth, as much as through the ears, to coordinate activity with sound, in order to enact the taking-turns of rapping. As the cypher is based on freestyling it also

152 requires a hyper-attention to temporality, to the present – to incorporate aspects of the present moment into rhyme. This reflects the improvisation, as the mode of composition but is also a key mechanism for demonstrating that the lyrics are in fact freestyle and not pre-written. An example of this is evident in Kurupt’s (MC from the US) explanation of his experience in cyphers from a young age, where he developed a distinct style where he would rap the letters off an opponent’s shirt, ‘Like he’d have a shirt that says “Walk” on it. I’d break it down like the “W” is for this, the “A” is for that’ (cited in Spady et al., 2006, p. 7). ‘Directedness’, according to Merleau-Ponty (1962, p. xviii), is the ‘adoption of a definite position in relation to the situation’; that is, it requires knowing how to attune attention enough to decide to act appropriately at the right time, in time; it is a skill involving complex coordinated technique. Emcees in the cypher must be ready to pick up the flow when they feel, or perceive, that another emcee is faltering. They need to be able to feel for and feel as, an other. And yet they must feel as themselves in a particular form of somatic and cognitive coupling – what Merleau-Ponty (1964) calls ‘syncretic sociability’. The co-creation and co-production of collectivity, of a felt connectedness, requires an openness to the intentionality of others, as well as a merging with the embodied intentionality of the group. This loss of distinction between self and other occurs because the self is bodily mirrored in the other. A sense of community, of togetherness, is created through a common way of inhabiting the moment, the world. As Rosalyn Diprose (1994, p. 122) argues, ‘the ease of an encounter with another is limited by the extent to which you already have gestures in common’. The ease of an encounter is also increased when those involved share gestures and orientations. A synchronising of bodily gestures, of mirrored movements, of shared sensory experience, increases the sense of togetherness, not only because ‘we’ are all moving in the same way and visually recognise a movement in common, but also because we know the other intimately in this moment – we feel ourselves in the other because there is no temporal separation between the other’s gestures of, for example, anger, sadness, joy and excitement. We feel these emotions play across our body. The corporeal basis of shared feelings and affect are, as Diprose (1994, p. 109) explains, that ‘[w]e “understand” another if we understand the meaning of their gestures and this is only because we share a common world. Through this social world we develop habits, modes of movement and gestures which have a common meaning’.

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Image 11: Backyard Crew performing at Monate Lounge, Long St, Cape Town, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) ‘Meaning’ in this sense, is not always expressible in language. It is not solely a cognitive function. Moments of connection are felt, such as can be seen in Image 11 (above), because of a dissolution of the boundary between self and other – a dissolving of the self in the other. Maxwell (2003, p. 214) notes this ‘loss of self’ in relation to the crowd at hip-hop events. He makes sense of this loss through Bakhtin’s description of the ‘carnival crowd’ and Turner’s concept of ‘communitas.’ Although the loss of self through a euphoric connection with a crowd is common to many different situations across cultures, the carnival crowd is quite different from a hip-hop crowd. To get at the specificity of hip-hop ‘togetherness’, Berger’s (2009) work on ‘stance’ provides an insightful reworking of Husserl’s notion of intentionality and Merleau-Ponty’s notion of the corporeal schema. Berger (2009, p. 21) explains his concept of ‘stance’: ‘[i]f intentionality refers to the engagement of the subject with her object, then stance is the affective, stylistic, or valual [sic] quality of that engagement. Stance is the manner in which the person grapples with a text, performance, practice, or item of expressive culture to bring it into experience’. The ‘stance’ that people take up at a carnival, or any other event where communitas is experienced, is distinct from the ‘stance’ taken up at a hip-hop event. There is a loss of distinction between my own stance and that of the other; we are engaged in the same activity with similar feelings, intentions, the same bodily trajectory over time. A crowd at a hip-hop event collectively aims at the beat, but

154 also at the lyrics of the performer, the gestures and performative features, and in moments, at each other. A common intentionality is felt as ‘collective’ because it involves a recognition of the other in the self. This is a corporeal process, for ‘[u]nderstanding others requires more than an intellectual movement from one’s own position to theirs; it involves physical upheaval’ (Jackson, 2013, p. 11). We understand the other through our bodies – through our experiences of inhabiting a body in the world that has at its basis, the body itself. There is an inherent understanding between bodies engaged in collective intentionality.

Open Mic Open mics or open microphones are a long tradition within hip-hop. As Perry (2004, p. 5) states, the open mic is part of hip-hop’s ‘open discourse’ and is a public forum that is ‘open to beginners and all levels’. These are not elite or professionals-only forums. They enable any youths who are confident enough to perform, and they enable the sharing of stories amongst a group of peers and fans. An emcee (in this case a master of ceremonies) usually makes an announcement that emcees can come forward and put their names on a list to perform. They are called to perform according their position on the list. At more informal situations, artists more simply negotiate turns at performing. In 2008–2009 the main open mic sessions in isiXhosa-speaking townships and in the city centre87 were those that were held at AllNYz in Gugulethu on an outdoor basketball court, Heads n Raps held outside Philippi Library, and those in the city centre such as Verses at Zula Bar and Kool Out at the Waiting Room. Other events, such as occasional album launches, sometimes included an open mike at the beginnings or ends of performances. When I returned to the field in 2010, several established hip-hop artists had started regular open mic sessions in order to maintain the culture, to provide a platform for up and coming artists, and as a form of community work with youth. MC Metabolism had started a monthly open mike called Lyric District at Ragazzi Bar in the city. MC Timo had started regular Sunday open mics at Mlamli’s in Gugulethu. Another session was happening in Site B, Khayelitsha, on Friday nights. It was run by

87 There were open mic sessions in the ‘coloured’ areas of the Cape Flats but this was outside the scope of my research. 155 Sound Masters Crew. Another open mic session run by Soundz of the South and called Struggle n' Poetry had started at Lookout Hill in Khayelitsha. Open mic sessions that I attended in the Xhosa townships of Gugulethu and Khayelitsha were open platforms where any emcee could put their name on a list at the beginning of the session to perform a track. The line-up of performing emcees was arranged at the event, on the day. The skills of the performers varied. Some artists were well established in the underground scene and had a fan base. Some artists were just starting out. There was a notable level of support for all performers, even if they lacked any serious skill at rhyming and emceeing. This was in stark contrast to Aussie open mic sessions I had attended in Sydney throughout in 2006 and 2007, where in principle anyone could perform, but the audience was markedly less tolerant of performers who weren’t as skilled or were found lacking. At one session at an AllNYz park jam in Gugulethu, at the open-air basketball courts, an emcee performed a very slow-paced verse lacking in rhythm and rhyming style, and he mispronounced a few words. The verse called for unity and was a response to recent xenophobic attacks. After his performance, there were a few cheers from the audience and the emcee for the session – Korianda – stressed the importance of having a message in one’s raps. (Note that this would have been different if it was a battle – the emcee would have been ‘cut down’ by their opponent for their ‘mistakes’ or ‘weaknesses’). This incident contrasts with the perception that I encountered, among a number of emcees at events held up town or in ‘coloured’ areas in Cape Town, where people were only allowed to perform if they were ‘known to the organisers’. It is likely that sessions held in venues up town with an entry fee are under pressure to uphold a certain level of consistency and quality of performance to maintain the image of the session and to attract a (paying) audience and thus ensure the viability of the session. I had heard about Site B open mic sessions at the end of 2008 from the group Afrikana who were based in Harare. For a long time, attending the Site B open mic sessions had been an unrealisable goal to me as a white Australian mother and researcher. I had difficulty finding someone to accompany me there and I did not know exactly where it was. It was not safe for me to be driving around by myself at night. And finally, my six-month old child was in particular need of his mother between the bedtime hours of 5pm and 8pm. I had attended the Site B open mic a few times accompanied by Kideo in the late afternoons, and had conducted interviews with Styles from Undecided Crew and

156 Lemzin from Gudfellas. Sound Masters had let me use their studio space to conduct interviews with regular performers at Site B. But I had always had to leave before the performances started to breastfeed my son who was under a year old at that time. On Friday, 18 December 2011, I had been filming for a friend called Dumsa for his basketball youth project called Kulca Knights. His partner Emma had offered to let me stay at their place in I Section and leave my son Micah with them while I went out and filmed at Site B. My son’s father felt it was unsafe for me and Micah to be out at night, but agreed to the arrangement for this particular evening. Metabolism had indicated that he wanted me to record footage of himself performing his track ‘Yes, Yes’ in several different locations. We had filmed a bit in Saturn’s studio in Mowbray and at Ragazzi Bar during the Lyric District session. I had arranged to meet Kideo after going back to Muizenberg to breastfeed my 12-month old, so that he could take us to the session. An excerpt from my fieldnotes describes this event: Undecided Crew are performing when we rock up. So, I jump out and get the camera and start filming. I know the emcees performing and the people putting the session on so I know it’s fine for me to film (as I had prior permission). There are maybe thirty people in the audience in a tight semi-circle around MC Test and MC Styles, less than a metre away. They are taking up half of the road so the light traffic has to go around them. Manqoba is sitting by the laptop which is positioned on top of a milk crate on the roadside. Life Sentence is dancing/digging their performance. Styles is a really funky performer – Test seems a bit more serious, or maybe just different style. He does a bit of a ragga number also. Audience members rap along with the choruses Lemzin, Manqoba, Life Sentence, Mfura, Rhamncwa, Steel, Metabolism all perform. Introducing himself Metabolism speaks solely in isiXhosa. Directly in front of him are standing a group of eight young boys who look to be between the ages of about nine and twelve. Behind them are another thirty or so people bunched in close. When he finishes his track he says that he is from 7784 and that he has come a long way in hip-hop and that ‘we have to work hard to promote 7784.’ Each time an MC performs he emerges from the crowd and after the performance he rejoins the crowd amidst clasping hands, hugs, head nods, and words of approval and thanks. The MC also gives thanks for the love and appreciation that they receive.

My description of this street session gives a feel for the immediacy of the direct verbal, bodily and rhythmic connection amongst and between emcees and audience members. Such events are low key and informal. Usually, the ‘stage’ is on the same level as the audience; there is no hierarchical separation. This affords a more intimate connection and a sense of the event as taking place between the audience and the performers. Other members of the community – people who dwell in the space where the street session is

157 set up – sometimes join in the party. The emcee receives direct feedback from the audience. This occurs during the performance but also straight afterwards and perhaps even weeks later, when a fan may bump into a performer somewhere and give them praise for their performance. In response to the question of when he first performed in public, the MC Mfura answered, it was 2006 or 2007 in a hip-hop Park Jam session, around here in Site B … tjoh … it’s like … when you first get on the stage you are afraid of the crowd … but if you feel the people are feeling you, you must go on and on … it’s a good feeling that you get … it’s inspiring … like hip-hop cats … most of them … are real … so when you go to a real cat and spit a verse they will tell you when that verse is not actually … on the right track … then when you perform that track for the crowd like … the reaction he gets from the audience motivates him to write more (interview Nov 2011)

Witnessing the emcee perform their own lyrics, like witnessing a live musician, involves giving attention to their body; it means, not just listening but watching and feeling and sensing at a complex somatic level, including the fleeting moment described, where the emcee’s vocal delivery (lyrics or calls, or other vocal sounds) may interweave with the beats. But this is not simply watching or simply listening. The body is intimately involved in the perception of the other, as Merleau-Ponty (1962, p. 354) puts it: ‘it is precisely my body which perceives the body of another person, and discovers in that other body a miraculous prolongation of my own intentions, a familiar way of dealing with the world’. Tuning into the same intention – following the performer and witnessing her or his performance, and responding, involves bodily attunement to the stance of the performer. Of course, this only occurs where the audience member’s attention is sufficiently piqued (in Image 11 the man to the far right is clearly less involved than the women in the front). Sometimes the connection is between the audience and the performer, or it occurs when members of the audience feel connected to each other through the performance. The temporal participation and excitement of the audience drives the emcee, as well as vice versa. A ‘successful’ hip- hop performance creates a sense of connection. The physical participation of the audience creates a collective experience. Or, if it’s not a good performance, the lack of flow and lack of connection between the emcee and audience and back again, is keenly felt.

158 Informal youth work Hip-hop is utilised as a form of organic community building through informal youth work. Many artists that I encountered during my fieldwork wanted to use hip-hop to have a positive impact on the lives of local youth. They attempted to do this through: lyric writing and composition (see Chapter Three), personal connections, mentoring younger emcees, providing spaces for youth to practice performing and jamming, and fostering the next generation by maintaining a live hip-hop culture in Khayelitsha. A collective ethos (Potter, 1995, p. 115) exists as an inherent logic within live hip-hop culture. Hip-hop compels people to create events in order to have a scene to participate in and a place to perform. The generation and maintenance of the scene is crucial to artists present and future in order to foster the next generation and as a means to reconnect to the past and to global and local hip-hop history. This can be seen in the work of hip-hop artists in Cape Town who, whatever their own success, also volunteer to organise and host regular free events. Some ‘events’ are much less formal and spontaneous and can be as simple as providing a space for young adults, teenagers and children to hang out in, listen to beats, write rhymes or freestyle and jam. Hip-hop practices in the township have intentional and unintentional impacts on local youth. Youth within earshot, who may not necessarily be performers or artists, often come closer to investigate. Children are always present, watching, listening, mimicking, running to see what the fuss is about, and to listen and dance. Performance skills and hip-hop body techniques are in this way, passed on informally, not always through deliberate instruction. Often, organic grassroots forms of mimicry and intercorporeal exchange take place. More explicit or formal instruction may occur with closer interaction between experienced emcees and novices, particularly during recording sessions. Mentoring is a crucial aspect of the spread of hip-hop culture. I often witnessed its continuity during my fieldwork. However, the unintended consequences of hip-hop practices in public spaces of the densely-populated township are a crucial means by which hip-hop shifts the habitus of the township. Informal workshops held by Luyanda in Harare, Khayelitsha in 2008, demonstrate the impact of organic youth work. The following excerpt from my fieldnotes in 2008, gives an example of this: Luyanda then explained to that it is the younger crowd who are the driving force of spaza. He says, ‘It is the younger ones who are rapping with a message.’ When Luyanda first moved to Harare from Port Elizabeth and the youth started coming around to his house and hanging out the man who is the … well,

159 ‘the man’ of this little area, of the community, ‘he was telling people that the kids were coming here and smoking dagga [marijuana] and drinking and stealing things. But the other adults in the community, they know me and they know that we are doing good things and they told him he was wrong. That’s why we want people like Ali. He doesn’t give us money but he comes here with love and he strengthens our spirit. Every time he comes here he does things like work in the garden…’

‘Why did that man say those things about you?’ I ask

‘Ah, Suiia [Sudiipta] it is jealousy, people are jealous here in the location’ (‘location’ is a term used in South Africa to refer to an African township) ‘We have a new place to practice. A friend of mine he saw what we are doing and he saw that it was a sound thing so that we need the equipment. So, he said he cannot help us with money but we can use his speakers and sound equipment. I can take you there and show you. We can go now’. Some of the younger boys have arrived at Luyanda’s as well. Luyanda tells them to meet us over there. We get to the house and out the front are two guys playing dominoes. Dominoes and dice are two major activities in Khayelitsha, Luyanda informs me.

‘Molweni, unjani’ I greet them

We go inside the house – a small one bedroom brick house. It has a small sink in the corner unlike Luyanda’s house which only has a tap outside. There is a fridge and a low bench with a two-element electric stove and a pot next to it.

‘This is my home’ the proud occupant informs me, ‘wamkelekile’ [welcome]. ‘Enkosi,’ I reply and his eyes widen, which always shocks me because I’m not very fluent in isiXhosa, so it feels like undue credit. ‘Ja, she can understand some isiXhosa’ Luyanda tells the owner

‘You can come and visit here anytime’, the owner tells me with a wide smile. He works the night shift as a security guard in the city from 6pm to 6am. There is a lengthy explanation about how the microphone doesn’t work and it is difficult for them to use just one when there are more people. After a little while the other emcees turn up. I ask Thabo about the origins of Afrikana. He has only been in Cape Town since January. And he met the other members who also emcee and then they got together and became Afrikana. Zolani and Magubane have known each other forever though, and were rapping before Thabo met them. Luyanda told me earlier that before he was here Zolani used to get drunk and smoke dagga and go and rob the people coming home from work in the evenings, but he doesn’t do that anymore because they hang out at his house and practise and write lyrics. They put on their CD so they can show me the new track that Thabo and Magubane have put together. I take some photos but the light is poor inside and so my camera can’t focus properly – or maybe it’s my eyes. So, I put it away. The younger kids know the words to Afrikana’s songs and they rap along with them – for the chorus anyway. Then it is their turn. They call themselves the Flamingoes. There are five of them – with four of them rapping and one kind of

160 watching and moving to the beat a little bit. It is all in isiXhosa. The only thing I can make out is ‘viva ANC’. So, I step back outside and ask Thabo about what they are saying. They are 10 to 13 years of age. They are rapping about Hector Peterson (there is a famous image of a youth carrying a young boy who had been shot by police during the Soweto uprising of June 16, 1976 – the young boy is Hector Peterson) and how people used to sing ‘viva ANC’ even when they were sick with fever, they sang it till they rotted their liver, but now ‘we have freedom’ but what is the ANC doing?

‘Whoa!! That’s maaaaaad [meaning good]!! And they came up with that themselves?!’ I ask

‘Yeah we didn’t have anything to do with it. They just went away and wrote it and came back and showed us. We were surprised too’ Black Vision explains.

This group of children went on to form their own hip hop crew, based on the structure of Black Vision’s crew. After watching the older youths practice their rhymes and writing lyrics, they decided to try it themselves. The younger generation are engaging in a form of hip-hop pedagogy and are developing their own concepts and lyrics, even when not being directly taught by mentors (other researchers have also found this, for example Petchauer, 2012). Hip-hop recognises, appreciates and exalts innovation that take shape in this kind of way, by the younger generation. The future of the local hip- hop scene depends on the next generation getting actively involved and developing performance and event coordination skills. Developing one’s own unique style – rather than learning to repeat another artist’s songs – is an explicit value in hip-hop, which can be seen in Metabolism’s mentoring of Driemanskap (see below). When I first met Luyanda, he approached me as a foreigner and potential investor in his ‘project’. While his ‘workshops’ were often spontaneous and unstructured, their power to reach youth and change lives lies precisely in the fact that Luyanda was known to local residents through his practice. His ‘workshops’ were regularly held after school. Local youths within earshot would hear the music and the rapping, and come to see what was happening. The inclusive ethic of the workshops reflects the inclusivity of open mic sessions and means that youth who live in the area are welcome to become involved. Through mimicry, they learn the body techniques of rap. An example of this learning process is present in Keyes (1991, p. 155) interview with hip-hop artist The Real Roxanne, You've got to make the audience feel what you're saying and understand it as well…sort of like a hip hop thing in the street. The young kids relate to the hand movements when they talking you know and when they see you doing that on stage, they could really relate to that.

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In explaining the importance of the body in learning vocal technique, Thomas Csordas (2008) uses the example of a Navajo chanter who laments the use of audio recordings in the transmission of ceremonial knowledge and practice. More than the detachment of songs from their context, the chanter explains, that the way it used to be, and the way it should be, was for the person learning the songs to be sitting close enough to the chanter to see his lips move as he sang. With the invocation of moving lips, the song emanating from the bodily portal, power passing by force of breath through the gap of the lips, the apprentice focusing on the action required to bring the chant into intersubjective being, my understanding shifted ground from textuality to embodiment. It careened from context and technological medium to lived spatiality and physical proximity (Csordas, 2008, p. 117) .

In Csordas’ account, bodies learn from other bodies. Bodily techniques, and specific ‘corporeal schema’, are transmitted via the collective interaction of bodies. This is not always conscious, for the ‘constitution of the body subject through the other occurs not by conscious intervention but by mimesis and “transitivism”88; by identification with other bodies and by the imitation and projection of gestures’ (Diprose, 2002, p. 69). This can be seen at most hip-hop events in the townships. The next generation can be seen mimicking the movements, styles and postures of performers and audience, and engaging in mock-cyphers. Learning how to rap involves not only listening to emcees and (often) reciting another emcee’s lyrics (for example, see in Chapter Six MC Metabolism with Snoop, Kideo with imbongi lyrics over hip-hop beats). It also involves watching closely the mannerisms and gestures of emcees performing live, on film or in music videos and imitating these directly. This is repetition-with-a-difference, as emcees bring the corporeal schema of the hip-hop they have learned, mimicked and imbibed from others, together with their ‘own’ culturally-specific and localised elaborations. The performative stance of performing a distinctive ‘hip-hop identity’ that at once, emulates and borrows from a more global and generalised ‘hip hop corporeal schema’, combined with distinctive, culturally-unique, lyrics, music and beats, is thus achieved (see Chapter Seven for further discussion on the tradition of Xhosa iimbongi as it is taken-up by spaza hip hop). Youth from all over the world take up the distinctive hip-hop corporeal schema. A particular ‘bodily stance’ is deeply embedded in hip-hop. This does not mean however that global youth directly copy the gestures of hip-hop youth from the Bronx. Berger’s

88 Transitivism (from Bhüler) refers to identification with the body of the other as a mirror image. 162 (2009) notion of ‘stance’ is relevant here not only in relation to the comportment of the body, as in posture seen in breaking with the pose that finishes off a routine, or in the swagger of a hip-hop head, but also in relation to hip-hop lyrics, a certain attitude or ‘stance’ of the emcee is developed. Emcees have individual and unique stylised hip-hop corporeal schema. Part of the hip hop schema is precisely an openness to diversification. Among emcees, the hip-hop corporeal schema is a distinct way of inhabiting a beat – of rhythmic motility – which involves the upper torso and includes hand and arm gestures which keep the body tuned in to the pace and the rhythm of the flow. For example, the emcee Metabolism took his performative inspiration from Busta Rhymes (a well-known hip-hop artist from the US who became globally popular in the mid- 1990s). This translated, not into a direct copy of specific movements, but to an affective style – the liveliness and energy of a bodily involvement, as it combines with music – that Busta Rhymes brings. When Metabolism performs, it is difficult to capture him in photographs because of his highly mobile energetic dance moves while he raps – and often he is performing in clubs and bars where the light is dim so a slow shutter speed is often necessary. When I mentioned this to him, he informed me that other photographers had complained of the same thing. Metabolism’s style has had an impact on Driemanskap, a younger crew from Gugulethu. In an informal mentoring moment, he gave them feedback about their performance style: they needed to be more engaging with the audience. Metabolism is always adamant that anyone can rap but an emcee is an entertainer. Driemanskap performances are now high energy, both in their vocal style and in their jumping around on stage. The phenomenological self is a self constituted through embodied relations with others. In hip-hop, identity is not just made or remade through sounds or lyrics. Rather, identity takes shape through intersubjective relations between the audience and the performer, between the lyricist and an imagined audience, between a concept expressed and the musical beat, a lived experience and how this takes shape through rhythmic, rhyming, rap lyrics, between the emcee and the hip-hop ‘community’, inside and outside the performance context, and finally, between the emcee and the wider community, including family and friends. This has been acknowledged in the literature to the extent that hip-hop can give artists a meaningful social role, status and provides them membership within a group (see Rose, 1994a).

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Image 12: Metabolism performing at Ragazzi Bar, Long St Cape Town 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) What is less acknowledged is the degree to which hip-hop identity is fiercely embodied, at once individually and collectively. Hip hop is an active and visceral making of culture as it takes shape through distinctive embodied techniques in a distinctive place. Diprose (2002, p. 71) argues that, bodies are constituted and live as an interworld of potentiality given to and open to others, we have no means of “knowing” or becoming a body other than through a familiar dwelling-with others in the world … transformation of identity is effected through the other.

Hip-hop identity is tied not only to real and imagined encounters with the other but to activities, intentions, and repetitious acts by which artists and community members co-inhabit bodies within (cultural) collectivities not of individual making. How we, as cultural subjects, inhabit our bodies is a result of sedimentation; of unique ways of dwelling in places, with others, who share our manners, habits and intentions. Emceeing provides youth with a particular affective bodily ‘stance’. It makes for a mode of dwelling. When this stance is taken up by the body in place, it opens up new possibilities of being in the world. An example of this is MC Kideo (as discussed in Chapter Three) who was very shy and quiet before he started rapping. Becoming an emcee gave him confidence and transformed his personality, his ‘identity’. It transformed himself. As Keyes (1991, p. 156) found in her interviews with hip-hop artists for her PhD, 'As Sparky Dee states: You have to come hard … If you come soft,

164 you get booed off the stage; and you can't smile’. Emcees need to do more than state ‘I am’89 or ‘this is where I’m at’. They must wield power and have confidence in their intention in the presence of others who get it, who tune in. This unique form of collectivist youth agency and empowerment is what hip hop enables.

89 Though, this statement of ‘I am’ is crucial within the context of racial oppression in order to counter the denial of black subjectivities and the ‘socio-existential struggle to redefine themselves against long- standing historical racist acts of dehumanization’ (Yancy, 2011, p. 552). 165 Chapter 5 Language and Localisation

To me, hip-hop says, “come as you are.” We are a family … It’s about you and me connecting one to one. That’s why it has universal appeal. It has given young people a way to understand their world, whether they are from the suburbs, the city or wherever (Herc, 2005, p. xi).

This quote from hip-hop pioneer, DJ Kool Herc, illustrates a few key aspects of hip-hop culture that have facilitated its global spread and made it accessible and empowering for youth the world over. Hip-hop is particularly geared towards localisation. Several key aspects of hip-hop facilitate and encourage localisation: knowledge of self (or ‘keeping it real’); representing where you come from; and remixing as a fundamental aesthetic practice. These aspects encourage and promote local content and local knowledge; the sampling of diverse music and instruments; the incorporation of local languages and rap; and local dance moves. Importantly, none of these elements costs money or involves sophisticated technology or other forms of equipment. Rather, hip-hop provides creative ways of making ‘something from nothing’.90 ‘Come as you are’ signifies hip-hop’s open-platform, informal approach to practice and participation. This approach emphasises uniqueness and originality of style, while offering repeatable, learnable forms. It enshrines an ethic of representing where you’re from, where you’re at, as well as ‘keepin’ it real’. The phrase ‘keepin’ it real’ is defined by Geneva Smitherman (2006, p. 36) as meaning ‘[b]eing true to the Black Experience; also true to oneself and one’s roots’. Smitherman (2006, p. 41) defines ‘represent’, as it is used in African American English – as distinct from the Oxford English Dictionary definition – as meaning ‘[t]o exemplify or reflect your identity or the authentic style of your group or community’. Forman (2014, p. 300) also notes that in hip-hop ‘represent’ ‘typically involves the articulation of spatial affinities and place-based loyalties’. It is the hip-hop element of emceeing that has become the most deeply ‘localised’. The global spread of hip-hop has been analysed in relation to anxieties about cultural contact and change, the Americanisation of global youth and the commodification of experience. Within scholarship on hip-hop however, there has been

90 From the title of the film Something from Nothing: The Art of Rap (Ice-T & Baybutt, 2012) 166 a move to theorise the uptake of hip-hop outside the USA as a creative mixing by local agents – that is, to see hip-hop as a site of resistance. As Potter (1995, p. 10) noted twenty years ago, hip-hop’s ‘locus is simultaneously local and global’. The globalisation of hip-hop has resulted in much scholarship defending the localisation of hip-hop against accusations of mimicry and Americanisation. Scholars have defended the authenticity of localised hip-hop and argued that localisation is resistance (see Maxwell, 2003; Mitchell, 2003; Pritchard, 2009). These defences most often focus on lyrics – content, language, accent. These studies often uncritically celebrate the ‘local’ as resistance, and in doing so they mask potential local tensions or struggles that may be present in a given hip-hop scene, that may not be apparent from an analysis of lyrics alone. The understanding of the ‘local’ as singular or fixed is deeply simplistic and problematic. The question of the location, or scope, of culture is not only between the local and the global – between everywhere or ‘here’ – but also may be located elsewhere. The global, the local and the elsewhere, are mobilised by emcees in very specific ways. An emcee in Khayelitsha, for example, may rap in English to participate in the global or to resist the local, in tsotsitaal vernacular to signify Cape Town urban to ‘speak’ to township youth, or in ‘deep Xhosa’ to signify the Eastern Cape (some 1000km away), all at the same time. An understanding of the historical development of language ideologies – of the historical and continuing marginalisation of isiXhosa – is necessary in order to grasp the significance of language choices, and the significance of spaza hip-hop as a form of embodied literacy (see Chapter Four) amongst youth in Khayelitsha.

Mimicry There is a general perception that outside the USA, hip-hop is indeed an Americanising force which degrades local culture (for example see Maxwell 2003). Artists outside the USA have had to contend with accusations of mimicry. Duncan Brown (2004, p. 153) noted that the efforts of early Cape Town hip-hop artists, such as Prophets of da City, to perform at political rallies (such as in schools) in the 1980s were seen as politically ‘irrelevant’ by anti-apartheid activists at the time91 ‘particularly in its American

91 This is not to say they were politically irrelevant. They may have actually been a powerful force in engaging youth while they were waiting (often a long time as the speaker would need to be “smokkeled” (smuggled) in as Emile YX? (2014) explains of his experience) and important in maintaining attention span. 167 influences and its emphasis on expensive brand names’. Condry (2006, p. 34) points out, however, that hip-hop in other places begins as mimicry, as imitation, but develops its own specificity and characteristics. Mimesis is a human trait. Taussig (1993, p. 19) argues that ‘the ability to mime … is the capacity to Other’. As children we learn how to be in the world through subconsciously, and later, more consciously, mimicking others (Merleau-Ponty, 1964). Children also find agency in mimicry and repetition. Mimicry as a site of agency is evident in Bhabha’s (1984) work on mimicry and colonialism. According to Bhabha (1984, p. 126), ‘mimicry emerges as one of the most elusive and effective strategies of colonial power and knowledge’. The colonised mimic the colonisers, but can never be the same as the colonisers. It is this process that Bhabha seeks to subvert – to reclaim alterity, as a product of mimesis, as a productive site that disrupts the identity categories of colonial authority. Bhabha’s (1994b, p. 121) belief that ‘it is possible … to redeem the pathos of cultural confusion into a strategy of political subversion’ is based on the threat to colonial authority that mixing (hybridity) represents. In reference to Fanon’s work, Bhabha (1994b, p. 121) argues ‘the depersonalized, dislocated colonial subject can become an incalculable object, quite literally, difficult to place’ – it escapes definition. As Pennycook (2007a) argues, this is also evident in language and the development of ‘global Englishes’, or in any use by any minority of a major language, such as vernacular English spoken by , in which other ways of being are expressed through alternative, disobedient syntax, grammar, spelling and semiotics. Hip-hop encourages alliances between minoritarian youth, the significance of which can be understood through the concept of ‘subaltern cosmopolitanism’ which allows for ‘new meanings of community that can reintegrate them within transnational and transethnic communities of struggle’ (Khader, 2003, p. 63). Hip-hop artists make hip-hop their own when they start to feel comfortable and fluent in whatever art form they pick up – graffiti, rap, turntablism, breaking – that is, when it becomes incorporated into the corporeal schema. Bhabha (1994a, p. 88) states that, ‘mimicry repeats rather than re-presents’. To repeat is to duplicate – to do the same thing again. To represent is an abstraction – it embodies some ‘essence’ that captures the significance or social meaning of something but in a different form. This involves taking up the stance of hip-hop, that is, a particular bodily orientation to the world. An imitation in hip-hop is considered fake or ‘wack’. Furthermore, mimicry never produces an exact replica. It is precisely the gaps that emerged through mimicry,

168 and the centrality of ‘authenticity’ or ‘keepin’ it real’ to hip-hop – that forced youth outside the USA to use their own ‘local’ accents, language, content and styles. Initially, people outside of New York, outside of the USA, mimicked what they saw on music videos, hip-hop documentaries and films, and heard in rap music on the radio or on cassette tapes distributed via hand-to-hand exchanges. But then they started to identify with hip-hop art forms and culture – to incorporate a hip-hop way of being into their own cultural corporeal schema’s – and began to perform hip-hop and to represent. Ironically, to authentically represent hip-hop requires that youth do so in their own languages and cultures – that they talk about their own everyday life experiences in their own ways. But this is never pure – it requires a mixing of hip-hop language and markers, of representing the ‘self’ through a specific recognisable embodied performance of vocality. Within global hip-hop, there persists a mimicking of the embodied mode of vocality, of the structure of specific hip-hop discursive modes, which indicates authenticity within the universal (global hip-hop), while alterity in the form of (most basically) accent, language and content, simultaneously indicates the authenticity of the particular (the individual, local).

‘Localisation’ and resistance Scholars, and hip-hop heads themselves, often write against the idea that hip-hop is a ‘homogenising force’ of American cultural imperialism and of globalisation by focusing on the indigenisation (Mitchell, 2001, 2003, 2006) or localisation of hip-hop (Pennycook, 2003a, 2007b; Pritchard, 2009). There is now a body of literature on global hip-hop that demonstrates how global hip-hop artists represent the local (see Chapter One). Often, localisation is uncritically idealised as resistance, as a defence against the lure of the global, against cultural imperialism or the hegemony of the West (particularly the USA) (Mitchell, 2000). Bound up in many arguments about localisation is the ability of hip-hop artists outside of the USA to resist American cultural imperialism. This is often because research and writing on hip-hop is framed in terms of debates about the homogenising effects of globalisation. Local language use and local accents prove that youth resist the global hegemony of the English language and American accents in rap (Mitchell, 2001).However, this resistance to the global masks local inter- and counter-resistances. While local language use and accents mark the difference between American rap and local rap we need a more nuanced analysis of

169 what kinds of resistance or domination may be at play – what alliances are mobilised and for what purposes? Veit Erlmann (1998, p. 20) argues that scholars have too often relegated cultural aesthetic practices, in this case hip-hop, to simplistic notions of ‘anti- hegemonic resistance’. Simplistic ‘resistance’ models of hip-hop mask the complexity of language choice and the tensions between accents and languages. Pennycook (2003a) argues that local Englishes can represent the local rather than the global, and Hip-hop Nation Language English terms align an emcee with the global culture of hip-hop. Language becomes the mediator between the global and the local – not as a way to smooth over the tensions, but precisely to perform them, to act them out with agency. One attempt to redress the simplification of the term ‘local’, specifically as it takes shape in relation to the global, is through the use of the term ‘glocal.’ The term is used to problematise the assumption that the local and the global comprise a dichotomy, and the idea of globalisation as a homogenising force. The term ‘glocal’ recognises that there is a dynamic interplay between the two, and it recognises ‘the simultaneity of … the global and the local … the universal and the particular’ (Robertson, 1995, p. 30). Ian Condry (2006, p. 93) however, argues that the use of ‘glocal’ to make sense of popular culture, ‘suffer[s] from an emphasis on cultural forms rather than on the ways they are put into practice’. This assertion is based on the understanding that how youth in any location make use of hip-hop is intimately tied to the social, cultural, historical, economic, racial, class context in which it is practiced, and needs to be analysed in an embedded framework that can take account of these factors. Alim and Pennycook (2007, p. 92) use the term and argue that ‘hip-hop is always both local and global’ while recognising the complexity of the process of localisation. While this is true in the sense that hip-hop is a globalised cultural form that has been localised globally, I find this problematic because it flattens the diversity of affiliations and orientations that may occur within the one city, as is evident in Cape Town. Pennycook (2003b, pp. 526–527) teases out the complexity of the simultaneous indexing of the local and the global through language in his example of a Japanese emcee’s lyrics. However, I agree with Connell (cited in J. McLeod, 2009, p. 277) who argues that the term glocal ‘resolve[s] nothing. It is to assert both terms of a static polarity at once’92. In Cape Town there are

92 In its original sense, the term refers to the micromarketing of global products to local consumers. and thus indicating the fact that hip-hop is now a global ‘product’ which has been modified for, or This usage implies that hip-hop is now a global ‘product’ which can be modified for, or by, local ‘consumers’ and thus there is a one way flow from the global to the local. I disagree. This would seem to overlook the issue that, for example, spaza hip-hop is decidedly not global, not even national (though it is regional 170 multiple hip-hop scenes that intersect. But each involves different racial, class, language, and cultural politics with varying degrees of international interaction that cannot simply be understood within a ‘local-global-glocal’ analysis. The concept of the glocal masks the specific ways, and nuances of context, in which the ‘local,’ ‘global,’ or other places that are neither local nor global, are mobilised. Some hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha use hip-hop to resist the local; others use urban vernacular to resist the rural, or they use ‘deep’ Xhosa to emplace this language in the city. Because one’s voice unmistakably betrays the coordinates of the production of one’s body-schema over time – accent and vernacular often vary within one city – rap is intensely local in a different way to non-verbal hip-hop arts. Rap – the most written- about element of hip-hop – is decidedly less global and more intensely local than other elements. That is, as a form of vocality and a set of practices, emceeing is globalised, but specific types of rap from specific regions or localities often remain decidedly local, regional or national, but never become global. By contrast, breakdance moves or turntable tactics developed in a specific place can easily become global through international competitions where breakdancers and DJs may get ideas from each other. While breakdancers and DJs certainly develop individual styles, there is more room for an egalitarian cross-pollination of creativity. Joseph Schloss (2011) points out that the transnational flows of the non-linguistic aspects of hip-hop are integrative – there is more actual interflow in multiple directions rather than a top-down movement from the global to the local. Also, while music has ‘spread globally’, non-vocal practices of hip- hop are arguably more interactive on an international level – that is, they are global. The biggest global hip-hop competitions are breaking competitions (such as Battle of the Year) and the DMC World DJ Championships (which has been running since 1985). In the case of DJing and breaking, it is not language that connects but the training of the body to move in particular ways in response to sound. Schloss (2011) also notes the lack of direct verbal interaction between DJs at international battles due to language barriers. There can be no truly international rap battle, precisely because it would be very difficult for an audience to judge a multilingual battle. The use of ‘glocal’ to refer to the global spread of hip-hop and its localisation masks the complexity of the different

specifically between the Eastern Cape and Cape Town) but specific to Cape Town. Besides the fact that ‘local hip-hop’ is always about making one’s own ‘products’ this idea seems antithetical to hip-hop’s rhizomatic bottom-up method of globalisation. Here I am not referring to rap music – which of course is corporatised, commercialised and marketed – but to hip-hop practices and the spread of hip-hop culture which is a set of practices that are taken up in varying combinations. 171 ways in which different elements in one location may vary dramatically within the one city; they may be more or less global, more or less local, depending on the cultural, racial, historical context at hand. The term ‘glocal’ also ignores the use of ‘strategic essentialism’ (Spivak, 1987) as a strategy to resist homogenisation. ‘Strategic essentialism’ involves performing and accentuating difference and alterity. Beyond a simplistic ‘resistance to the global’ thesis, hip-hop provides ways in which the local can be appreciated, or activated, in expressive terms. One problem with the idea that local languages and accents should be celebrated as vehicles for resistance due to their ability to resist the hegemony of American accents is that it overlooks the ways in which Hip-Hop Nation Language, for black people, provides a way of speaking that resists local white Englishes and local white English-language accents. It offers a way of inhabiting English that is not white – that validates the vernacular and provides, as Alim (2006b, p. 69) argues, a ‘Black Language Space’. ‘Hip Hop Nation Language’ refers to the ‘complex coded language of hip-hop culture’ (Alim, 2007). It includes not only hip-hop vernacular speech but also the ‘discursive modes’ and language ideologies of hip-hop. It varies regionally and is deeply linked to street speech and African American speech and oral traditions (Alim, 2006b, pp.71–72). It provides the basis for hip-hop as a global speech community that is localised in different ways. It is evident in hip-hop in Cape Town and Khayelitsha through the pervasive use of words such as ‘dope’, ‘mad’, and ‘flow’, and through discursive registers specific to hip-hop such as cyphers, freestyle and battles. Hip-Hop Nation Language remains distinctly tied to African American culture but it offers youth a way of subverting the dominant local white Englishes and legitimises – by increasing the social capital – local vernacular (as opposed to African American vernacular) and minorities’ uses of major languages. The potential for Hip-Hop Nation Language to encourage the use of local vernacular can be seen in pioneering Cape Town crew POC’s use of both English and gamtaal – a ‘Cape Coloured’ dialect of Afrikaans used on the Cape Flats – as discussed by Haupt (2001, 2004a) which paved the way for a whole generation of emcees in the Cape Flats. However, language use in hip-hop is not always a conscious political choice. This is because the way we use language is developed through socialisation in a specific space and time with specific bodies – it is part of our corporeal schema – our embodied way of being in the world. For example, the habits of curling the tongue at the end of certain words, or of condensing multiple words into one syllable, are only fully conscious when someone of

172 a different accent cannot understand you.93 Crucially, hip-hop provides youth with a public performance mode of vocality that prioritises their everyday speech, that legitimates their bodily habits of languaging which are often in conflict with the standard English of the western education system. All over the world, hip-hop has fostered the creation of minor (oral) literatures. Alim (2011) calls these ‘global ill-literacies’,94 which flips the idea that languages spoken by minority youth equate to poor literacy. Alim argues that emceeing and Hip Hop Nation Language provide a rich linguistic practice which requires skill to understand and make use of, and that they function as counterhegemonic forces disrupting notions of literacy and decentring white, western Englishes. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o (1993, p. xvii) argues that to overcome the global dominance of ‘a Eurocentric bourgeois, male and racial minority’ there is a pressing need to ‘move the centre … to the real creative centre among the working people’, and a pressing need to struggle for ‘the right to name the world’ (Thiong’o, 1993, p. 3). Hip-hop provides a space for young black people to use their vernacular to play, to grow and to resist the domination of white and western Englishes. This is crucial for a decolonising project. As Frantz Fanon points out, ‘[e]very dialect is a way of thinking’ (cited in Smitherman, 1973, p. 261). Thiong’o (1985) notes the function of European languages in imposing European memory and history on African minds and intellectual work. He argues that a return to African languages is crucial to the recovery of the African historical memory. Fanon (1967, pp. 17–18) argues that ‘to speak means to be in a position to use a certain syntax, to grasp the morphology of language, but it means above all to assume a culture, to support the weight of a civilisation’. Hip-Hop Nation Language uses English but in a form that employs African American vernacular grammar, syntax and spelling. Pennycook’s (2007a) notion of ‘global Englishes’ recognises minorities make use of English to express other ways of thinking and being. Thus, African Englishes and Xhosa English are languages distinct from dominant white Englishes that contain and maintain other ways of being. Achebe expresses this where he states, ‘I feel

93 I was made keenly aware of my own Australian accent when South Africans (of every linguistic background) generally could not understand my pronunciation of butter as ‘budda’ or my condensing ‘do you want to’ into ‘djuna.’ I sTarTed to pronounce my t’s beTTer and to pronounce each individual word in ‘djuna’ so that people could understand me. My speech and accent began to change. 94 Interestingly this is also the name of a Cape Town hip-hop crew Ill Skillz, short for Ill-Literate-Skillz, who were just coming up during the fieldwork. They consists of two emcees from Gugulethu and briefly Akio or DJ ID and have a nice jazzy laid back feel to their raps and beats and sometimes perform with a band. 173 that the English language will be able to carry the weight of my African experience. But it will have to be a new English, still in full communion its ancestral home but altered to suit new African surroundings’ (cited in Thiong’o, 1985, p. 8). The importance of reorienting youth to value their own life knowledge and linguistic practices as centres of knowledge production is critical to the process of liberation and decolonisation, as outlined in Chapter One in relation to Freire’s work. This is, however, complicated by the historical relationship between apartheid education and African languages which has affected the perceived value of the isiXhosa language in the eyes of first language isiXhosa speakers themselves.

Language, literacy and education in South Africa Language, literacy and education in South Africa have always been political and cultural issues. Despite the fact that there are over eight million people in South Africa with isiXhosa as their first language (Lehohla, 2012) isiXhosa, along with other indigenous languages, remains marginalised in education, in the print media, in government administration and in the linguistic landscape of Cape Town and Khayelitsha. The reasons for this are complex and historical. How isiXhosa developed into a written language is tied up with the Christianising and ‘civilising’ objectives of missionaries in the 1800s. The first translation of the bible into isiXhosa was completed in 1859 by Reverend John Appleyard (Oosthuysen, 2013, p. 11). However, Appleyard and other missionaries at that time, ‘sought to act upon the and to develop it, realizing its potential to encode Christian meaning, without reference to indigenous practices or beliefs’ (Gilmour, 2004, p. 131). Thus, translation was intended as a one-way process. Missionaries not only preached but established schools to teach people to read and write in isiXhosa so they could read the bible (Ndletyana, 2008, p. 2). This was not just a religious matter but a radical cultural change as missionaries sought to ‘civilise the natives’. As such, ‘education’ was a central part of missionary activity. As early as 1825, ‘school people’ was a social category in use in the Eastern Cape (Hodgson, 1997, p. 77). It was used to refer to people who had learnt to read and write and had adopted Western habits, values and fashions. From the mid-19th century the British colonial administration shifted its policy from military-backed invasion to one of ‘integration,’ or more accurately, the exploitation of Africans as a source of cheap labour (Molteno, 1984). Funding for mission schools was provided on the basis

174 that education was to be a principal means of oppressing and pacifying the Xhosa (Molteno, 1984, p. 50). Sir George Grey, then Governor of the Cape Colony, said that schooling would ‘make [Africans] … useful servants, consumers of our goods, contributors to our revenue’ (cited in Lewis & Steyn, 2003, p. 104). The ‘schooling’ of the Xhosa encountered much resistance because the missions – through Western education and Christianity95 – were seen as contributing to the destruction of Xhosa culture and creating enduring divisions between ‘traditionalists’ and ‘Christian converts’ (Molteno, 1984, p. 50). In the Transkei in the 1920s there was a protest movement against mission schools, inspired by the teachings of Marcus Garvey96, and led by Elias Wellington Buthelezi.97 This movement sought to establish Xhosa control of both schools and churches. Mission schools were seen as ‘imposing alien cultural values and ideologies on African children, divorcing them from traditional beliefs and conditioning them to accept subservient positions in a European-dominated system’ (Edgar, 1984, p. 186). This movement received popular support and consequently Wellington was banned from the Transkei in 1927 (Edgar, 1984, p. 187). English had been the primary language of instruction in Xhosa schooling since the early missionary schools. In the decades preceding apartheid (which formally began in 1948), English as a language of instruction was preferred by parents and its acquisition was seen as the main reason for sending children to school (Hirson, 1981, p. 54). Prior to the Bantu Education Act (1953) the majority of black schools in South Africa were operated independently by missionaries. They were integrationist (Christie & Collins, 1984, p. 162), and taught in English (Hirson, 1981). The National Party introduced a segregated schooling system through the Bantu Education Act (1953) which brought black education, including teachers and the school curriculum, under centralised state control and implemented an education system for the purposes of producing cheap, compliant, black labour (Christie & Collins, 1984, p. 171). The new

95 At the start of the 20th century there were approximately 70,000 Xhosa children in school, most of whom only stayed for a few years (Hirson, 1981, p. 54). 96 Marcus Garvey was a Jamaica-born political leader, philosopher and advocate of black self- determination. He established the Universal Negro Improvement Association in 1914. He is considered a prophet by Rastafari, a movement which has long been present in South Africa, as he foretold the rise of a king in Africa – Haile Selassie I, born Ras Tafari Makonnen, Emperor of Ethiopia from 1930. 97 Despite the controversy surrounding Butelezi’s posing as an American doctor, or misgivings about his motives (see Vinson, 2012, pp. 103–104) the important point here is the popular support for the ideas he espoused and the establishment of 181 schools and 200 churches (Edgar, 1984, p. 187). Butelezi popularised Garveyism in the Transkei and contributed to the political opposition to white rule (Vinson, 2012, pp. 118). 175 curriculum was racist, and portrayed African culture as primitive and static, and ‘stressed obedience, communal loyalty, ethnic and national diversity, acceptance of allocated social roles, piety and identification with rural culture’ (Molteno, 1984, p. 89). The ANC responded to this with a proposed indefinite boycott as Bantu Education was seen, in the words of , as ‘a poison one could not drink even at the point of death from thirst. To accept it in any form would cause irreparable damage’ (Mandela, 2013, p. 145). The new policy also explicitly sought to reinforce the restriction of Africans to the rural areas or ‘reserves’ (later called homelands), away from urban centres. Hendrik Verwoerd, Minister of Native Affairs in 1950, stated that, Deliberate attempts will be made to keep institutions for advanced education away from the urban environment and to establish them as far as possible in the Native reserves. It is the policy of my department that education would have its roots entirely in the Native areas and the Native environment and Native community … There is no place for him in the European community above certain forms of labour (Molteno, 1984, p. 173).

Secondary and tertiary institutions were located in rural areas. These institutions, colloquially dubbed ‘bush colleges’, were designed to train administrators for the ‘self- management’ of Bantustans (Chapman, 2016, p. 38). The deliberate underfunding and underdevelopment of African schools under the Bantu Education policy resulted in the closing of schools, a chronic lack of infrastructure, the banning of alternative schools, and the banning of alternative funding (Hirson, 1981, p. 59). Schools in the rural areas of the Eastern Cape continue to suffer from this legacy. This is evident in MC Chaos’ explanation of his reason for not going back to the Eastern Cape to live, ‘I’m still in school so I’m looking for better education as you know [it’s bad] in Eastern Cape’ (interview 2011). The Bantu Education Act also legislated the use of first language instruction for the first eight years of school, after which English or Afrikaans were to be used (Roy- Campbell, 2006, p. 169). The purpose of this policy – teaching in mother-tongue - was to encourage ‘tribalism’ and discourage pan-African unity (Hirson, 1981). Indeed, a lack of popular support among African peoples for mother-tongue instruction was bound up with the political necessity, in the struggle against segregation, of unity between different racial (and linguistic) groups. These two aspects of the policy – the restriction to rural areas, and enforced mother-tongue instruction using a strictly controlled racist, oppressive curriculum and text books – tied the ‘rural’ Bantu to inferior education and contributed to negative attitudes towards instruction in mother-

176 tongues as it became associated with oppression. In 1963 when the Bantustans98 (formerly known as reserves) were granted ‘independence’ the Transkeian government reintroduced English as the medium of instruction (Hirson, 1981, p. 63). On 16 June 1976 students protested against the introduction of Afrikaans as a compulsory medium of instruction 50–50 with English. In Soweto the protests resulted in an infamous massacre in which at least 176 protesters are believed to have been killed many of them children. Afrikaans was seen as oppressive while English was seen as a necessary communication medium during the struggle against apartheid (Roy-Campbell, 2006, p. 171). With the official end of apartheid rule in 1994, the new constitution recognised eleven official languages, yet English remains the dominant language in the media and in government institutions. Among isiXhosa-speakers who have migrated to Cape Town lack of proficiency in English is a major obstacle to finding employment and accessing support from government services (Deumert, Inder & Maitra, 2005). In Khayelitsha, even though the majority of residents are first language isiXhosa speakers, most advertisements, government notices and community notices are in English, and where there are government signs written in isiXhosa, they are often incorrectly translated or use incorrect grammar (Dantile, 2015). Dowling (2012, p. 243) also found a strong tendency for official signage in Cape Town to ignore common urban isiXhosa terms in favour of standard isiXhosa terms, which are often archaic and abstract – a practice which reinforces the idea that isiXhosa is ‘static’ and ‘rural’. Furthermore, is reinforced through the use of English signage in recreational areas, and through the use of isiXhosa primarily for negative messages such as ‘warnings’ (Dowling, 2012, p. 249). Informal signs in isiXhosa-speaking townships in Cape Town also use English as a sign ‘of status, power, cosmopolitanism, modernity and affluence’ (Dowling, 2012, p. 258). The photograph below, Image 13, shows a sign for a spaza shop in Kuyasa, Khayelitsha. The two community newspapers established for isiXhosa speakers in Cape Town are also in English (Dantile, 2015, p. 2). The English language dominates the public sphere in South Africa and in Khayelitsha. This is despite the preferences of isiXhosa speakers to have print media, signage and government communication in isiXhosa (Dantile, 2015). Fluency in English is also a key indicator

98 The Native Land Act (1916) legislated reserves designated for black Africans. The Xhosa reserves were the Ciskei and Transkei, which are now part of the Eastern Cape Province. These became known under apartheid as the Xhosa ‘Bantu homelands’ or ‘Bantustans.’ 177 of economic status and employment opportunities, and English continues to be the preferred medium of instruction among black African parents. The linguistic landscape of Cape Town reinforces the status of English as a prestige language.

Image 13: Spaza shop sign, Kuyasa, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) Under the African Schools Act (1996) students technically have the right to choose the language of instruction in their education. The eleven official languages are: isiZulu (spoken as a first language by 22.7% of the population), isiXhosa (16%), Afrikaans (13.5%), English (9.6%), Sepedi (9.1%), Setswana (8%), Sesotho (7.6%), Xitsonga (4.5%), siSwati (2.6%), Tshivenda (2.4%) and isiNdebele (2.1%) (Lehohla, 2012, p. 25). However, English and Afrikaans remain the only mediums of instruction supported from Grade 4 onwards (Webb, Lafon & Pare, 2010, p. 278). This is largely due to the lack of teaching materials and resources in languages other than English and Afrikaans (Tshotsho, 2013) but it is also due to a preference for English as a medium of instruction from an early age by parents, as English is, despite the evidence from research, perceived by parents to be crucial to their children’s future prospects (Webb et al., 2010) . Education in African languages was stigmatised by the racist Bantu Education system. This is complicated by the historical neglect of isiXhosa as a language of learning and teaching. During the apartheid era, isiXhosa was shunned due

178 to its lack of technical terms99 in maths and science, but there were also restrictions on, and censorship of, Xhosa literature (Roy-Campbell, 2006, p. 170). Gerrit Brand (2011, pp. 185–186) argues that the ‘development’ of African languages must recognise the ‘specialised vocabularies’ already present, or this development risks reinforcing Western cultural dominance through what he refers to as, ‘some innocent, universal “education”’. Brand employs Gough’s argument to reject the pervasive belief that African languages lack the ‘secondary discourses’ (see also Webb, 2002, p. 26) necessary for education. He uses Xhosa speech genres of ntsomi (story) and izibongo (praise poems) as examples of ‘specialised’ discourses (cited in Brand, 2011, p. 185). Brand argues that incorporating already existing specialised discourses into education in South Africa is crucial for overcoming European cultural dominance currently being perpetuated through the use of English as a medium of instruction and the Western education system’s devaluing of Indigenous culture and knowledge. Hip-hop as a site of learning, of literacy and of creative cultural and linguistic expression is crucial, given the crisis in ex-Department of Education and Training100 schools – that is, township and rural schools. These schools already suffer from a legacy of underfunding and overcrowding. Township schools are also stretched beyond capacity due to the influx of migrants from rural areas. An estimated 10,000 migrants from the Eastern Cape settle in Khayelitsha each year (Brown University, 2006, p. 6). The switch to English as the medium of instruction from Grade 4 onwards has two main impacts. The first is that students simply don’t have time to adequately develop cognitive skills101 in their mother tongue. And second it affects the rest of their schooling. A 2003 study of Grade 6 students in the Western Cape Province (of which Cape Town is the capital) demonstrated the impact of a switch to English as the medium of instruction after Grade 3. Of the students with isiXhosa as their first language, only 1.6 per cent ‘were found to be performing at an official grade level’ (Fleisch, 2008, p. 100). A lack of fluency in English severely affects the learning capacity of isiXhosa- speaking children (Fleisch, 2008, pp. 105–108) and contributes to a chronic failure of the system to meet the needs of black students (Tshotsho, 2013, p. 40). Teachers in township and rural schools are also frequently not sufficiently fluent in English (Webb

99 Kwesi Prah argues that the development of African languages is crucial to ‘technology transfer’ 2000 and would embed new technologies in African cultures through language. (In Brand, 2011, p. 184) 100 Responsible for black education under apartheid. 101 Research suggests that mother tongue instruction is crucial for cognitive development (Webb, 2002, p. 131) 179 et al., 2010, p. 275). From 1996, codeswitching102 by teachers has been allowed in classrooms by the Department of Education (Lafon, 2009, p. 15). This is not without problems though. In a study in a school in Khayelitsha, Krause and Prinsloo (2016) found that teachers mix isiXhosa and English, heavily leaning towards isiXhosa, in an effort to make sure students understand the content of lessons. This allows students to keep up with learning content but amounts to a live oral interpretation of an English text using a form of communicating – codeswitching, which is prevalent in the township – which is not recognised as a form of literacy. Furthermore, starting in Grade 4 all exams are in English (Dyers, 2009, p. 261). Students’ answers are marked incorrect unless they write them in English, even if the answer is correctly written in isiXhosa (Krause & Prinsloo, 2016, p. 353). Despite the creativity of teachers in black schools in communicating content to students for whom the curriculum is provided in a second language, this amounts to an appalling breakdown between post-apartheid legislation and national education assessment policies. The primary languages of youth in Khayelitsha are urban Xhosa, and street slang or tsotsitaal. Urban isiXhosa differs from rural isiXhosa (Dyers, 2009). Key differences between rural isiXhosa and urban Xhosa are that urban Xhosa includes codeswitching, lexical borrowing and abbreviation. Brand (2011, p. 182) paraphrases Neville Alexander, a prominent anti-apartheid activist and key advocator of multilingualism in South Africa, in arguing that ‘languages of the masses can be turned into tools of social empowerment, rather than so-called linguistic handicaps to be overcome’. This can be applied to both ‘standard Xhosa’ or ‘deep Xhosa’ and urban isiXhosa and tsotsitaal.

Language choice in Khayelitsha Language use and language choice in hip-hop are complex and are tied to class, background, locality, and lived experience – to the body-schema. Often, the use of a particular language is less a conscious choice than a matter of comfort, fluency and socialisation. Pennycook (2007b, p.109) makes a strong argument that language choice cannot be understood ‘without an appreciation of local language ideologies’ and cites Wermuth’s (2001) work which recognises that in Holland, there are tensions between the (white) hip-hop and African American accented English (non-

102 Klerk (2006, p. 602) defines codeswitching as ‘the use of more than one variety or language in the same conversation’. This is more than just the sparse use of foreign language words as it comprises switching between languages. 180 white) hip-hop (Pennycook, 2007b, p. 102).103 The accent employed by some local black emcees is a point of contention, and the subject of debates about ‘authenticity’. Yet, it is crucial to recognise that for black youth outside the USA, African American speech is not only about ‘Americanisation’; it represents a powerful way of inhabiting English that resists local white accents and language practices. Pennycook (2007b) points out that the local is signified in different ways for different reasons depending on the context. What are often missed are the ways in which local tensions play out through relations between hip-hop heads, and how localities are produced and defined, and what the ‘local’ means in a particular context. In Khayelitsha an estimated 96% of the residents have isiXhosa as their first language (Brown University, 2006, p. 11). The first generation of hip-hop artists from Khayelitsha are also mother tongue isiXhosa speakers but went to Model C schools – ex-white schools – located outside the township, or ‘middle class’ schools also located outside the township. They predominantly rap in English due to spending most of their school time speaking English among first-language English speakers, and socialising in the hip-hop scene in the city amongst people from different linguistic backgrounds where English is a common language. They are oriented towards finding their audience in the hip-hop scene in the city they mostly listen to English global hip-hop. I met eleven of these artists, and some of them were the key organisers of early hip-hop events in Khayelitsha from 2000 onwards. Such events occurred after these youths had been involved in the hip-hop scene in the city and had attended hip-hop events in ‘coloured’ townships during the late 1990s. Because very few youths from Khayelitsha went to school outside the township, my educated guess is that there were less than thirty first-generation hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha. Some first generation artists rap in isiXhosa, and they influenced the second generation of artists to rap in their mother- tongue. The second generation of hip-hop artists to emerge in Khayelitsha often encountered hip-hop at events hosted by the first generation around the same time as they encountered global hip-hop in the media in the early 2000s. Most of these artists are spaza artists, meaning they rap in urban isiXhosa, and in Xhosa tsotsitaal (youth street slang or gangster slang), with some codeswitching into English, Afrikaans and

103 Though his use of the example of Two Up’s track, to illustrate his point about language, which ‘disses’ ‘local hip-hoppers’ (Pennycook’s term, not Two Up’s) misses the fact that it is a track about people taking up hip-hop style while not being involved in the actual culture, rather than a diss of actual hip-hop heads (defined as someone involved in hip-hop culture rather than simply consuming it. 181 occasionally Zulu, and some deep isiXhosa or ‘standard isiXhosa’. I met around forty second-generation hip-hop artists, and the main popular artists in Khayelitsha come from this cohort. They perform regularly at open mics in the isiXhosa-speaking townships, organise collective performance events, and host album launches. Most of these artists performed regularly in the township and sometimes up town, had a following of fans and were respected by other emcees. Some of these artists were less experienced or had not been rapping or performing for as long as most of the artists I spoke to. Only a handful of second generation artists rapped in English; that is, only a handful were not spaza artists, and of this handful, some collaborated with spaza artists. I estimate that at the time of my research, there were under a hundred second-generation artists in Khayelitsha, and not all of them were performing at the main regular open mic sessions.

Local Tensions There are complex and determinative racial and class tensions between Xhosa townships, between ‘urban’ and ‘rural’ amaXhosa, between ‘coloured’ and Xhosa people, and between townships and the white suburbs and city in Cape Town. Hip-hop in Cape Town is split along geographical, racial and linguistic lines. The Native Land Act (1916) essentially regulated the dispossession of black Africans from their land, and limited their right to own land to land in designated reserves – a mere 7% of the landmass of South Africa. The Natives (Urban Areas) Act (1923) required all black African men in urban areas to carry a pass, or permit, and largely confined Africans without passes to designated reserves. In 1955 Cape Town was declared a ‘Coloured Labour Preference Area’ which greatly restricted Africans from working in the city. The apartheid Bantustan policy further restricted Africans to reserves which became known as ‘Bantustans’ or Bantu homelands. The policy was couched in a rhetoric of self-determination. It legislated the forced removal of black Africans from urban areas ‘back’ to rural areas, except where they were employed by white people. The Group Areas Act (1950) legislated the (re)-zoning of urban spaces into strict racially defined areas. Racially mixed areas such as District 6 and Crossroads were bulldozed. In Crossroads, the government created tensions between two informal settlements within Crossroads which came to a head when the houses occupied by one community were burnt down (Slater, 2000, p. 40). MC Steel’s mother’s house was

182 burnt down in Crossroads, and the family moved to Khayelitsha after living in Gugulethu for a while. ‘Coloured’ people from lush, fertile areas such as Constantia were forcibly relocated to the Cape Flats areas such as Mitchell’s Plain and Grassy Park – a sandy, desolate area cut off by train lines from the white suburbs that lay closer to Table Mountain. In the 1960s and 1970s Xhosa-speaking people were forcibly moved to the designated areas of Gugulethu, Langa and Nyanga. In 1983 Khayelitsha was created to house Xhosa people removed from informal settlements. The historical racial boundaries of townships like Khayelitsha remain deeply pervasive despite the fact that such divisions are no longer enshrined by legislation. Although the urban centre of Cape Town has more of a mix of people from different backgrounds than it did in the apartheid era, it nevertheless still tends to be middle class.

Image 14: Informal shacks on the southern border of Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) The choice to listen to and participate in hip-hop in the local context is a way of carving out a space in the social hierarchy of music. In other words, the question is not just how the local youth see themselves as part of that subculture, but how they identify themselves in relation to other subcultures. The global aspect of hip-hop is mobilised in order to resist and subvert local stereotypes associated with rural areas and townships. An example can be seen in Metabolism’s crew Writer’s Block is a multiracial crew that traverses the multiple intersecting hip-hop scenes in Cape Town, thus resisting the continuing racial segregation of Cape Town’s music scenes. The park jams that

183 Metabolism and the Intellectual Seeds Movement organise always bring in artists from other areas and cities. At an open mic session at Ragazzi on Long Street, called Lyric District, which is hosted by Metabolism and Johnny Filter, I met an emcee from Khayelitsha. He raps in English because he is ‘taking this global’. He told me that he ‘respects what the spaza cats are doing’. I asked him if he ever attends the Street Session in Site B to which he laughs and quickly tells me he doesn’t ‘because they are doing different stuff there … different style’. However, the following excerpt from my 2011 field notes appears to refute this claim; I find this so interesting because when he gets on stage his other crew member is just so obviously Khayelitsha eKasi style – black shirt with gold bling lettering, their mannerisms and gestures – first he says ‘I’m gonna put on ma shades for you all’ and puts on his big sunglasses just like I’ve seen MC Phoenix and other Spaza artists do but without the commentary. Then he flosses about his Facebook page ‘yo, like the page on Facebook yo’ he says this about five times and I think it is maybe covering his nerves. Someone in the audience tells him to get on with it. Their beats are fully Spaza – synthy Fruity Loops style. Though they don’t have much to say – most of the track they are repeating ‘C.A.P.E’ and some other words. No real substance of any kind, but lots of performing on stage, lots of ‘acting hip-hop’ and ‘I’m a rapper.’ In terms of beats these guys would go down well in Site B, but I think the crowd might find their lyrics a bit wanting.

This emcee, through his affiliations with specific events and his rap in English, identifies himself as being ‘of the city’ and not Khayelitsha – not eKasi style. Yet his corporeal-schema – his fashion, gestures and vocal tone – and the phrases he used betrayed his eKasi (township) habitus. This complicates the notion of language choice. Identity and language use, ways of speaking, are tied to habituated ways of being in the world – of moving through specific spaces amongst specific other communicative subjects. Yet identity is also a matter of keeping our bodily, expressive and vocal habits in check – scanning our bodily comportment to adhere to expectations (or to our own intentions in terms of the ‘identity’ we wish to embody or project) of how to be and speak in specific spaces and with specific others. When we feel comfortable and relaxed and can ‘be ourselves’104, we don’t have to monitor our bodily and vocal habits. The emcee in the above example mobilised language in order to resist the local – but this was a resistance against deeply embodied and socialised habits. He was attempting to

104 This is not to suggest any form of permanent essence of identity, but a difference between when we are conscious of how others see us and when we are not – such as dressing for a job interview. 184 carve out a space for himself through the micro-politics of difference, but he did not quite accomplish this. Pennycook (2003b, pp. 528–529) argues that ‘English is used to perform, invent and (re)fashion identities across borders’. He also utilises Judith Butler’s notion of performativity to assert that ‘we perform who we are by (amongst other things) using varieties of language’ (Pennycook, 2003b, p. 528). However, this is a combination of intentional performativity and embodied accumulated ways of being and speaking which index our identity in different ways in different spaces. In the space of the city centre, his eKasi style, his ‘swag’, marked him and his fellow crew members as embodying the township. Some Khayelitsha artists feel there is a split between isiXhosa-speaking townships, as Lemzin explains, ja there is a tension between Gugulethu and Khayelitsha…most of them don’t want to come to Khayelitsha when we have a show but when they have a show we all go there to support … they think they are higher than Khayelitsha (Lemzin interview 2011).

MC Kan told me that people from Gugulethu used to call Khayelitsha the Eastern Cape (pers. comm. 2012). Khayelitsha is seen as much more rural that the older township of Gugulethu which is closer to the urban centre of Cape Town. This is no doubt reinforced by the fact that Khayelitsha lies at the South Eastern edge of Cape Town area with parts of it that look more ‘rural’ that ‘urban’ (see Image 14). Mashonisa’s description demonstrates this: to be honest with you ... there’s a lot of hate between Gugulethu and Khayelitsha. They refer to emcees from here as emcees from the Eastern Cape, by the way Xhosa’s from here, like city Xhosa’s and Xhosa’s from the villages are considered as … you know … they don’t know anything … they are not hip ... so they consider Khayelitsha as not hip (Mashonisa 2011 interview)

Mashonisa also describes the split between Gugulethu and Khayelitsha along linguistic lines: Khayelitsha has those emcees who like to talk about the lingo and traditional stuff ... and then there [Gugulethu] they are more into English ... like that scientific stuff, they get a lot of influence from like Masta Ace [an underground ‘conscious’ artist from the US]… with their scientific raps – it’s all about the intellect you know ... that’s what you get in Gugs [Gugulethu] … and in Khayelitsha … it’s spaza that’s just what I have to say … it’s just spaza ... people in Khayelitsha – when you go deep ... they still know the Xhosa … tjoh, they go deep in Xhosa ... there’s even a lot I don’t know ... they go deep in the language (Mashonisa interview 2011).

185 These categories are by no means exclusive. A number of emcees from Khayelitsha, such as Metanoia and Black Vision, who are both from the second generation of artists in Khayelitsha, rap in English and do the ‘scientific stuff’. The tensions present in the hip-hop scene in the isiXhosa-speaking townships reflect the broader historical tensions among amaXhosa in the city which Dyers (2009) found in research in Cape Town. According to Dyers (2009, p. 260), ‘ibharu’ is used in a derogatory manner to refer to people from the rural areas as ‘backwards’. In a lecture series at the University of Western Cape (Haupt, 2014), organised as part of Heal the Hood’s105 annual African Hip-hop Indaba, a masters student made a presentation of his research proposal on hip-hop in Cape Town ‘as a multicultural phenomenon’ and the ‘re-ownership of hip-hop in Cape Town’. The talk featured first a performance by the author, and then the playing of a track which showed the ‘political element in Cape Town hip-hop’ (a nostalgic track in English and Afrikaans about District 6) and finally the playing of a track by MC DAT, a founding member of spaza hip-hop from Gugulethu, followed by a discussion about the track. I must briefly point out, before discussing this incident, that MC DAT has been key in maintaining and promoting spaza hip-hop – particularly through the annual Kaslam Spaza Hip-hop Awards at the Baxter Theatre in Mowbray which began in 2012. All spaza artists, regardless of where they come from are supported to perform. The track begins ‘Transkei le Ciskei106 ijunkie.’ MC DAT explains the track, People may think we are speaking Xhosa … but to be honest with you we are not speaking Xhosa we are speaking slang … we call it ringas … even my father he speaks this … so ‘ublind’ [blind – the prefix “u” makes it a proper noun] … we mean the situation is like … it’s bad … ijunkie actually means someone who comes from rural areas … you know when you are a ijunkie you are high your mind is not functioning well you don’t see things clear … so someone from the villages when they are in the middle of the big city they sort of feel like they’re high because they don’t understand with the buildings and cars … so we call those people ijunkie … so the song is about how the ijunkie people would come to the big cities and become more successful than the people that were born in the cities … I mean … look at the country – in the parliament we have just them, just people from the rural areas, only it’s only them … no-one is representing us – the people from the ghettos you know in Gugulethu we been in the backyards the past 20 years they never build houses for us … but they’re building houses for people who just arrived last year…it’s not about where you are born but how you think. (MC DAT)

105 A non-profit organisation that runs hip-hop workshops in the Cape Flats founded by Emile Jansen of pioneering Cape Town hip-hop crew Black Noise. 106 Transkei and Ciskei are the former apartheid homelands where most amaXhosa were confined to or forcibly relocated to under apartheid 186

At this point Indigenous, an emcee and activist from Khayelitsha, spoke up from the back of the room. He was already standing and moved a little closer to the front of the lecture room. He said, ‘you are using a term that is very insulting to our brothers in the townships … if we look at the context of that term, idruggie, in the township it is used in a context of insulting our fellow brothers’. DAT cut in, ‘no, you don’t know what you are talking about [laughs]’. The presenter said, ‘let him finish’ Indigenous continued: I am not trying to out smarten you … but whatever we are addressing we have to be very careful … because if I’m addressing a problem of [terms used as insult] but still use that term to say amakwerekwere [a foreign visitor to town – from Xhosa meaning ‘unintelligible’] am I actually finding a solution or am I contributing to that problem that’s already there? … the song that you wrote DAT, it’s very powerful, it’s very challenging for us as Xhosa people who have come down to Cape Town from the rural areas to seek for greener pastures … we were not even allowed to work in Cape Town until the 1950s … but we were here before … but we came from our homelands in the Eastern Cape … to challenge the so-called Capetonian that’s a native to say that he sees his brother as someone who is very backward … I agree … it should be challenged but I want you to think about if my daughter at home were to hear that term idruggie would she take it in a positive manner? Or would she take it in a negative way that today, in this 20 years [since the official end of apartheid] in South Africa, we have marginalised our fellow brothers.

DAT responds by claiming that names assigned to people by others were ‘a part of our culture’. He used the examples of his own emcee name ‘DAT’ which was given to him by others, and Basotho, the name that the Xhosa gave to the Basotho ‘which means people of the mountain’. He claimed that none of this was insulting and ended by stating that he himself was called a ‘kaap nut’107 but did not find this insulting because, he said with a smile, ‘I am a kaap nut’ to which the audience clapped and laughed. This incident demonstrates why the assumption that the use of ‘local’ language is a form of resistance is problematic. MC DAT clearly distanced himself from the rural. He used urban isiXhosa, or ‘ringas,’ to resist the rural: ‘we are not speaking Xhosa we are speaking slang’.108 He indicated that he was a long-term resident of Cape Town where he said, ‘even my father speaks [ringas]’. He claimed that in parliament ‘no-one is representing us’, meaning urban amaXhosa. The perceived threat of rural migrants is

107 This is Afrikaans but is a slang term. ‘Kaap’ means Cape (as in Cape Town) and ‘nut’ means ‘utility’ as in useful, profitable or advantageous. 108 Though this could have been shorthand used to indicate to the audience that he didn’t speak ‘deep’ Xhosa. 187 indicated in his claim that urban amaXhosa are still waiting for adequate housing while recent rural migrants are getting houses despite the fact that urban amaXhosa live in Khayelitsha in a collection of sprawling informal settlements consisting of shacks built from scrap tin, wood and cardboard. The emphatic and emotionally charged response from MC Indigenous demonstrates the very real tensions between Gugulethu and Khayelitsha, as well as tensions between the new and old migrants who have come to call the city home. It is also indicative of ongoing tensions about rural-urban divisions, both imagined and actual. Indigenous outlined the historical forces at play. He pointed out that before apartheid, and during apartheid, most amaXhosa had very little choice or opportunity to leave the rural areas – they didn’t have the option to become residents of Cape Town. In this context there was nothing ‘liberatory’ about MC DAT’s use of and identification with a particular local vernacular which resists the rural, and resists the presence of the rural in the city. MC DAT used his identification with a particular language to indicate that he is more local to Cape Town than others. Adam and Moodley (1993, p. 141) argue that in Cape Town’s black townships, individualistic urban culture defines itself in sharp contrast to the ethos of the rural inhabitants and migrants, who are considered illiterate, unsophisticated country bumpkins. In the status hierarchy of the townships, the people with rural ties are often scorned as ignorant ancestor-worshippers who don’t speak English and practice a social life of tribalism and witchcraft. The denial of ethnicity and rejection of most cultural traditions by urban blacks reflect not only the government’s attempts to manipulate ethnic differences but also an arrogant predilection to associate rural customs with false consciousness.

There are longstanding divisions among the amaXhosa, as outlined in the introduction, which go back to at least the 1850s and the prophet Nongqawuse. Kideo’s track about Nongqawuse, discussed in Chapter Four, demonstrates the enduring nature of this ‘split’ but also points out the role of the violence perpetrated by the colonial administration. The split between those who believed in the prophecies and those who did not overlaid preceding tensions between ‘Red’/traditional and ‘school’/Christian which have been reified in South African anthropology through the Xhosa in Town trilogy (B. Magubane, 1973). These divisions are much more complex and do not only operate according to this binary, as pointed out by Mafeje and Wilson (1963, pp. 16–29). This is also reflected in MC DAT’s support of hip-hop from Khayelitsha as exemplified by his work organising the Kaslam event. That is, despite the tensions illustrated by the above heated exchange, they are by no means absolute divisions in hip-hop from the townships.

188 Furthermore, the point that MC Indigenous makes is particularly pertinent in the context of regular outbreaks of xenophobic violence, which have included the burning, not only of shops but also of people. Divisiveness within communities in South Africa is a very serious issue. In Khayelitsha xenophobic violence is a regular occurrence. The light-hearted reaction by the audience is troubling. These tensions (and the xenophobic violence) are due to judgements about what belongs in the city, and about what or who is local. The attitudes of more urbanised Xhosa people suggest that they feel the rural and foreign black Africans are not from ‘here,’ not adapted to ‘here,’ and don’t belong ‘here’. This is reinforced by Raditlhalo’s (2010, p. 35) argument that the post-apartheid city continues to ‘disavow the African personality’.

189 Chapter 6 Unhomeliness, locality and belonging

This chapter asks how hip-hop engenders place by tracing the experiences of a series of individual artists in Khayelitsha. Hip-hop allows for and encourages a material reworking of locality and belonging. In post-apartheid South Africa, this is crucial due to the historically restrictive control over where amaXhosa people (and all people of colour) ‘belong’, and the quest to feel at home in the city under such conditions. Hip- hop began as a conscious method for remaking locality, for transforming the ghetto sonically, aesthetically, physically and socially, and for reworking the embodied sociality of a hostile environment. The live party tradition of hip-hop provides regular coordinated events which are often held outdoors, in the street, in parks and in empty lots. These events reconfigure the relationships between bodies, space and sound (as outlined in Chapter Four). The repetition of such practices creates a habit which is intricately tied to identity. This aspect of identity – as emerging through the sedimentation of practice in place – has been neglected in hip-hop studies in favour of more semiotic understandings of identity. This chapter takes a deeper look at the relationships between place, space, identity and vocality. Broadly speaking, there are at least two different approaches to hip-hop in Khayelitsha. The first generation of hip-hop artists to emerge went to schools outside the township. This made them feel alienated from the township itself but also gave them access to hip-hop, which had not yet been taken up in Khayelitsha. Hip-hop provided a way of making sense of, and being in, the township in a new way that was different to the dominant youth cultures in the township at the time, defined sonically by kwaito, house music and gospel music. This original hip-hop generation navigated the difference spaces of the city and the Cape Flats, largely attending events in town and park jams in ‘coloured’ townships. They made both hip-hop and the township their own by organising hip-hop events in Khayelitsha. The lyrics, style and language of hip-hop also provided a way to connect their own experiences to those of youth in impoverished black urban neighbourhoods globally. The next generation of youth in Khayelitsha encountered hip-hop through the events (park jams) that the first generation organised in Khayelitsha, as well as through

190 hip-hop radio and television shows. This ‘post-apartheid’ generation, born in the 1990s, largely attended the overcrowded, underfunded, under-resourced schools in the township. This generation made hip-hop their own through spaza – rap in a mix of Xhosa, township slang and English. Members of this generation are often more connected to the Eastern Cape. That is, they have different ways of being Xhosa, with often deep and developing ties to the cultures and traditions historically associated with the Eastern Cape. While the styles of hip-hop adopted by these two generations in Khayelitsha are very different and rub up against each other, sometimes in the wrong way, they both operate as territorialising projects. Territorialising marks a space, but also expresses the body-schema, habitus and relationality with space, of the subject. It also produces locality. The anxieties that lie at the heart of attempts to theorise new post-colonial (or neo-colonial) identity formations stem, not so much from the inevitable process of contact and change but from the nature of contemporary change in its rapidity, violence and intimacy. Homi Bhabha (1994a) deploys the term ‘unhomely’ to describe alienated colonial and postcolonial (or neo-colonial) subjectivities. This term is useful for understanding the situations in which hip-hop arose and the majority of the situations in which it has been taken up around the world. The notion of the ‘unhomely’ captures the violent disruption, displacement, fragmentation and disorder wrought by colonialism (including slavery) where home and land were redefined, rezoned, relabelled and repopulated. It captures the material and existential conditions produced by colonialism. It also allows for a discussion of experiences of rupture, and of how people make sense of these experiences in terms of identity, belonging and inhabiting space. In this chapter I argue, following Erlmann’s (1996a) work on popular culture in South Africa and the unhomely, that hip-hop emerged as a distinct process of making sense of an unhomely, alienating, unsettling condition. It is a process of reworking locality and of making it anew – a new way of inhabiting the ’hood. Hip-hop developed as a conscious rejection of the legacy of transgenerational traumas caused by slavery and colonisation – a conscious rejection of the material and existential conditions produced by this legacy in the form of racial marginalisation, oppression, impoverishment, unemployment and gang violence. Through the productive capacities or strengths of community-making (as outlined in Chapter Four) and the prioritising of local knowledge and narratives, hip- hop facilitates a working-through of the experience of ‘unhomeliness’ in diverse ways. According to Bhabha (1994a) this is accomplished through the creation of a ‘third

191 space’ – a liminal, in-between, state of anti-essentialisms and strategic essentialisms, and through deploying difference to displace normative narratives and histories. This chapter will demonstrate how hip-hop in the Bronx was a particular community project of self-definition and self-expression, accomplished through a deep remixing of place. Train carriages and walls came to be viewed as canvas, pavements as dance floors and turntables as drum machines. Hip-hop reconfigured the intercorporeal effects of hostility to promote battles of creativity instead of the often deadly battles of knives and bullets. The space of the street in the South Bronx had already been claimed by youth. It was the powerful way in which hip-hop transformed this occupied space that was revolutionary. Rupture, alienation, the unhomeliness – all are reworked through remixing. From its inception, hip-hop culture was a project of territorialisation – of remaking locality and making ‘habitable the objective conditions of their existence’ (Buchanan, 1997, p.183). As far as the practices of emcees are concerned, the transformation of space and identity occurs through performative embodied vocality – through accent and language expressed through a particular structured oral tradition. The voice is a powerful tool for reworking identity and locality precisely because it lays bare its origins – class, race, culture, socialisation, neighbourhood, town, city and state.

Locality Activities in place shift the habitus of the ghetto. Practice in place also remakes locality. As cited in Chapter Two, Casey (1996, p. 24) argues that ‘places belong to lived bodies and depend on them’. Making hip-hop ‘local’ can be done in different ways in the same place or space. The local as a geophysical site or a socio-cultural category is problematic. As Erlmann (1999, p. 8) argues, ‘No “local” identity can ever be construed from grounds circumscribed purely by bounded, defined place. The formation of modern identities always already occurs in the crucible of intensely spatially interconnected worlds’. In such a globalised world, characterised by high levels of mobility and movement of people, products and technology, it becomes increasingly difficult to define the local. Given the complexity of the contemporary global world, however, as outlined in the methodology chapter, it is crucial to remember that culture cannot be tied to place or locality. People take their local culture with them when they travel (Featherstone, 1993, p. 182) and in turn, culture itself can travel without people, as the global spread of hip-hop illustrates.

192 As a socio-cultural category, the ‘local’ has long been romanticised as representing authenticity, tradition and continuity in relation to fears ‘of “modernity” ruining some essence’ (Clifford, 1988, p. 4) or ‘stripping culture away’ (Hannerz, 1987, p. 14). This is the basis of the celebration of the local as able to resist the global, as discussed in the previous chapter. Guilbault (2006) argues that there are two motivating factors in the use of the term ‘local’. Firstly, it is used as a protective move, a collective move, against the perceived threat of homogenisation or the loss of identity. Secondly, it is used as an opportunity to promote identity (the local) within the greater global system (Guilbault, 2006, p. 138) . Arjun Appadurai (1996) defines locality phenomenologically as a ‘structure of feeling’. According to Appadurai, locality is about how people relate to a specific place, and what they do to make that place functional, liveable and organised. This is deeply tied to the body as Biddle (1993, p. 189) argues, objects ‘[take] on the properties of our bodily habits’ and gives the example of a chair which becomes imbued with meaning because of what we do with it. By the same token a street may be used for more than just driving cars on – it can become a cricket field or a music venue (as demonstrated in Chapter Four and discussed below). But importantly, locality is also about the structure of feeling that such modes of relating to others and objects that enable. These modes are associated with ways of being that are specific to a particular place. They are historically contingent practices, habits, movements and social relations. According to this view, the local is a fragile thing. It changes over time. Buildings crumble and can be bulldozed; different social assemblages manifest; the landscape shifts (seasonally, yearly, historically). Appadurai (1996, p. 182) stresses the degree to which locality as a ‘structure of feeling … is produced by particular forms of intentional activity and that yields particular sorts of material effects’. He argues that practices take shape in place and conversely, that places take shape through practice. An urban residential area where the streets are not major thoroughfares may regularly have kids playing on the street, giving it a relaxed, family-friendly atmosphere for residents and visitors. On the other hand, a densely-populated slum – due to small, tightly packed housing – may be situated on a main thoroughfare but cars and people may have to slow down because kids play on the street, as it is their ‘front yard’ and ‘living room’. Practices in place shape space because ‘neighbourhoods both are contexts and at the same time require and produce contexts’ (Appadurai, 1996, p. 184). Embodied activities in place shape spaces and remake

193 localities. They also make and remake identity. This model of hip-hop as a distinctive form of emplaced and embodied activity provides a framework for understanding how youth remake locality, space and place through regular live hip-hop events in everyday spaces of the street, in empty lots, and in shack studios open to the public. This is depicted in Image 15 where the focus on the street is a ‘scuffle’ between two gangs that occurred as Sound Masters Crew were starting to set up equipment on the side of the street. By the time the performances started the young women had dispersed and the focus of the space shifted to the performances – though still dissected by cars and people passing through.

Image 15: Two female gangs argue on the street oblivious to the sound system being set up, Site B, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) Identity and territory The relationship between space and identity has been well noted in relation to hip-hop discourse (Forman, 2000, 2002) but has not been explored in terms of an embodied relationship between practice, space and place – that is, as it serves to produce and reproduce locality. Macgregor Wise (2000) makes a case for understanding how subject and identity are constituted in processes of turning place into space, and of inhabiting space. Home is not just a living space but a dwelling place within (and with) the world. In this phenomenological model, the body is not a separate bounded object; it is intimately

194 connected and tied to place through activity, and identity is deeply embodied. Or as Wise (2000, p. 302) puts it, ‘[t]he space called home is not an expression of the subject … the subject is an expression of … the process of territorialization. Territories, homes, have subject-effects’ – as outlined in Chapter Two the corporeal schema is developed through habituated ways of being in relation to objects, people, and specific configuration of object (such as a house, street, or a creek in a lush sub-tropical rainforest). Our being in place, our accumulated familiarity with a place, and our embodied repetitive experience of the qualities of that place, make it familiar and homely. In a more general sense, as argued by De Certeau (1984, p. 117), ‘[s]pace occurs as the effect produced by the operations that orient it, situate it, temporalize it, and make it function in a polyvalent unity of conflictual programs or contractual proximities’. Space is constantly changing and open to being redefined and reassigned different functions. For example, hip-hop in Khayelitsha sometimes turns the street into a music venue and impinges on the function of the street for drivers (Image ) shows the equipment being set up for a weekly session in Site B). The weekly street session in Site B takes up half the road (see Image and Image 15). Cars must slow down and drive around the crowd into the wrong lane to get past. In my experience, no cars ever honked their horns, and no drivers told people to move out of the way. On the few occasions when I was there at night, drivers just accepted these events as regular and half- expected obstacles. Practice in place determines the functional organisation of space, but it also has identity effects, as Wise (2000, p. 303) argues: our identity … is comprised of habits … it is through habits that we are brought into culture …We cultivate habits, they are encultured. Culture is a way of behaving, of territorializing. We live our cultures not only through discourse, signs and meaning, but through the movements of our bodies.

A territory is expressive. Territory is not just a piece of place but an area that has been claimed or marked – such as a bower bird’s collection of pieces of blue, or a small piece of land outside a person’s dwelling, or a sibling child’s masking tape across the floor that signifies a line their brother must not cross – and as such a territory expresses something of the being (animal, person, people) that claimed, or claims, it. Territory can be fleeting, as a subject moves through space and claims a zone as they enter and shift the ‘mood’ in a room. Coonfield (2009, p. 12) gives an example: ‘[a] mosh at a concert is both to be seized by a rhythm and to mark and possess a space in ways that

195 simultaneously express a territory and create a way of inhabiting it’. Here, the territory is marked by the actions of bodies in space – the mosh pit at a concert does not take up the entire space occupied by the audience. Typically, it is a space extending from the front of the audience as far back as people are willing to be involved in the tightly packed jumping, thrashing kind of ‘dance’ that it entails. Body movements mark the territory and its boundaries – the territory ends where people stand still or further apart. This territory expresses, and is marked by, the mood of the participants – as manifest in body movement. Entering the territory also dictates the body movement of the subject. Deleuze and Guattari (cited in Coonfield, 2009, p. 9) argue that: The expressive is primarily in relation to the possessive: expressive qualities, or matters of expression, are necessarily appropriative and constitute a having more profound than being. Not in the sense that these qualities belong to a subject, but in the sense that they delineate a territory that will belong to the subject that carries or produces them. These qualities are like signatures, but the signature, the proper name, is not the constituted mark of a subject, but the constituting mark of a domain, an abode.

What this means for hip-hop is that events such as a park jams or street sessions require certain behaviours from performers and audience members. There are no mosh pits at small hip-hop events; it is only possible to have them at large venues with large audiences and they are particular to white punk, rock and heavy metal concerts. Moshing is a (white) bodily habit of configuring intercorporeal motility in relationship to the sonic quality of punk, rock and heavy metal at live concerts. Even large hip-hop concerts do not have mosh pits.109 Hip-hop requires, and produces, and is produced by, a specific type of interaction of bodies – as outlined in Chapter Four hip-hop produces, is produced by, and requires a specific corporeal schema. The centrality of the corporeal schema to identity means that the habit-inducing regularity of small hip-hop events in the township has certain effects on identity and belonging. When we territorialise a space – that is, when we produce or transform space through making claims (consciously or not) to place, we make it familiar, we make sense of it, we order it or reorder it to function in a certain way for our needs. This familiarity creates a sense of home and belonging. Wise argues, following Deleuze and Guattari (1987), for an understanding of home as territory, and as such it is an expressive act and not just a functional one (Wise, 2000, p. 298) . Deleuze and Guattari

109 Though people get packed in up the front and may jump in unison, this is nothing like the violent thrash of bodies in a real mosh pit. 196 (1987, p. 343) give an example of sound marking space and making it a territory – a process of making it familiar: A child in the dark, gripped with fear, comforts himself by singing under his breath. He walks and halts to his song. Lost, he takes shelter, or orients himself with his little song as best he can. The song is like a rough sketch of a calming and stabilizing, calm and stable, centre in the heart of chaos … Now we are at home.

The child imprints something familiar and projects it onto space to bring the chaotic strangeness of their surroundings under control. Hip-hop events in community, in the street, in the park, mark a space. However, participants at events do not just claim space as ‘theirs’, though they do this powerfully. Events also create or transform space into a territory – a kind of home – through familiarity and habit. Participants inhabit space bodily and affectively, and consequently, ‘the song begins a home, the establishment of a space of comfort’ (Wise, 2000, p. 297). The song brings this because it is familiar. Ghassan Hage (1997, p. 2) defines home as ‘an affective construct’ that is it is not a place but a feeling of place. Mary Douglas (1991, p. 289) suggests that, ‘[h]ome is always a localizable idea. Home is located in space, but it is not necessarily a fixed space … home starts by bringing some space under control’. Hip-hop creates a home through sound, through the voice, but also through the material objects which redefine an everyday space as a ‘stage’ – speakers, makeshift mixing desk, electrical wires. It generates locality through distinctive habits of occupying space in specific ways – through regular live performance jams in communities. In this way, when hip-hop becomes a regular collective practice open to the public, including children, it facilitates a way of making order out of the chaos of the ghetto, the township, the gutters or margins of the neo- colonial world of late capitalism. It provides a way of making some kind of sense out of the experience of historical oppression and colonialism, of making a home out of a particularly unhomely experience. Order emerges, or is produced, through the adoption and repetition of habits. Wise (2000, p. 303) suggests that ‘[o]ur habits are not necessarily our own. Most are created through continuous interaction with the external world’. That is, habits require maintenance – they require a space in which to perform them, in which they make sense. We take habits to new places, but this often highlights how out of place they are. For example, if one had a habit of moshing and tried to do this at a hip-hop concert the crowd would not get involved and the action would be markedly out of place. Habit organises space in meaningful ways. It makes space

197 meaningful in organised ways, through repetition. As Janz (2001, p. 395) argues, ‘[m]y subjectivity lies in the set of rhythms and repetitions I have found to be useful’.

Image 16: MakOne painting wall in I Section during a park jam in 2009 (top) and Bazil Baxter and crew member re-painting the same wall at a park jam in 2011 (Photos by S. Dowsett) The relationship between the production of space through practice, the repetition of which produces habits and subjectivity, is crucial for opening up how we think about identity. The photographs in Image 16 show the continuity over time of practices in place. We possess, or accumulate, ways of inhabiting the world. This empty lot in I Section, Khayelitsha became a space marked by hip-hop – in the crude sense of paint on a wall but also as a space where particular events happen, where particular types of bodily interaction happen (see Image 18 for another photograph of the crowd at a park jam in this same space). Wise (2000, p. 303) explains that, ‘we are who we are, not through an essence that underlies all our motions and thoughts, but through the habitual repetition of those motions and thoughts’. Hip-hop is more than just a way of youth stating ‘I am’, of negotiating their identity in a complex world; it also provides a way of being that transforms our experience of that world. Hip-hop created a new way of inhabiting and expressing the world and the rupture of the ghetto, through new habits, practices, styles – including park and street jams, rap and breaking battles. This is demonstrated in the photograph below (Image 17) where young children are engaged in

198 a mock cypher – mimicking older youth who were engaged in a real cypher a few metres away (see Image 10). Young children learn how to inhabit the township through the bodies of others.

Image 17: Young children performing a mock cypher Kaltcha Kulcha park jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2009 (photo by T. Lamberis) The first generation of hip-hop heads in Khayelitsha The important role that hip-hop played in the lives of first-generation hip-hop heads in Khayelitsha demonstrates its potential for creating a sense of belonging and home through reworking the relationships of individuals to places, and the relationships among individuals who inhabit those places. Remaking locality as a means of changing relationships to place – creating a sense of belonging – can be seen in the practices and experiences of first-generation hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha. The first generation of hip-hop heads in Khayelitsha navigated the different environments they found in the townships and in the city – between the predominantly white population of the Model C schools and the Xhosa population of eKasi. They felt alienated from the township and also had to find ways to be in the alien world of white folk. They went to school outside the township. This is how they gained access to hip-hop. Leon Mlandu, aka MC Metabolism, was born in Dimbaza in 1984 and grew up in Zwelitsha in the Eastern Cape. He went to a boarding school from a young age. He used to travel to visit Cape Town until he settled in I Section, Khayelitsha, in 1994 with his grandmother. He told me he felt like a bit of an outcast moving to Khayelitsha because he didn’t know 199 anybody, and because the feel of the township was disorienting: ‘even the smell was different … I used to love the smell of soil in the Eastern Cape … I was never used to … you know … everywhere just being sand, you know [laughs]’ (interview 2009). By the time he started high school, he had convinced his mother to let him move back in with his grandmother in I Section, Khayelitsha. Metabolism’s first introduction to hip-hop was through high school. He was walking down some stairs and someone on the second floor leaned out the window and called out ‘who wants this tape?’ Metabolism called out that he would have it and the other student threw it out the window to him. On the cassette tape was written Snoop Doggy Dogg, I used to bump that tape every time I was at home … I had this very small tape deck and … whenever my gran wasn’t home I used to just bump it loud … after. … Someone told me about a show called Head Warmers that used to play on Fridays on Bush Radio and the DJ was Big Dre and Shaheen, Shaheen is from P.O.C [pioneering Cape Town crew Prophets of da City] … and that was some other hip-hop that I hadn’t heard before … because like, at school I was used to, like … after getting into Snoop Dogg I started getting into like the Tupac’s and N.W.A … and then when I listened to the show … it was like more than that you know, the first time I heard Mos Def, the first time I heard Hieroglyphics was on bush radio, I would say … 80% of the hip-hop that I heard when I was growing up was through Bush Radio … the show was on at about 10 and that time everyone was going to bed already so id keep the volume down low and id have my tape deck on record and I used to just chill and just listen to the show … and what was cool about it was, it was never just about like the music, they used to have like heavy debates and people used to call in and share their views and that … and they used to get people interested in… For me it’s the times that I remember as hip-hop being it was about having fun and enjoying yourself … and fortunately enough for me is that I picked it up in those days in the 1990s … like listening to hip-hop now, agh man, I don’t really listen to this new-school type of hip-hop I don’t really get into that…even now [in my music] I try to get that, like, ’90s sound, you know.

For Metabolism, hip-hop provided a structure which enabled him to feel at home in a new place – a sonic, social, embodied space that made sense of disparate worlds. It helped make sense of this ghetto through stories from other ghettos. It provided him a way of being from the ’hood that made sense outside of the township, a sonic aesthetic ‘home’: Even up until today people are into like mainstream music, like house music. Back in the ’90s kwaito was pretty heavy in the ’90s … I remember like, every time there was a party … even up until today … every single party that I’ve been to in Khayelitsha has never played a single hip-hop track … and when I say hip-hop, I mean good hip-hop, not commercial music but good hip-hop … all you’ll find is house, kwaito and maybe some Beyonce … so … it’s all commercial … if cats are hip-hop heads, usually you find hip-hop heads just on

200 the side chilling ’cause we can’t dance to that house music (interview May 2009).

Metabolism’s relationship with the township is evident in some of his raps. He often introduces himself by saying, ‘I come from the land of busted drainpipes otherwise known as Khayelitsha’. This signature phrase refers to the utter lack of sanitation infrastructure in many parts of the informal settlements in the township, and to the flooding that happens when it rains in winter. In his tracks, he refers to himself ironically as a ‘malnutritioned rapper’, which is both a play on the world-aid trope that Africa is starving (and in this sense, a literal, self-conscious reference on the abject poverty of much of Khayelitsha) and a reference to the impact of his own lifestyle on his eating habits. MC Indigenous, born in 1981, grew up in H Section a few blocks from Metabolism. He explains the sense of solidarity he developed with other youth who went to schools outside the township and lived in his neighbourhood, a solidarity which was strengthened through hip-hop: the music actually at that particular time we were few young kids who were listening to that and … most of the friends that I grew up with … before even rap music put us together was because we went to schools that were outside of the township. So we had something in common that … so we understood each other and we understood each other how we were treated by the community … even I, I had a friend who didn’t even went to a multi-racial school, he went to a coloured school … that would be your middle class, you know? And this guy he was identified in the township as a bourgeois, as a Model C because they didn’t even understand that even in the inner city itself there was schools that were expensive … and they even looked at the other side of the Cape Flats – where you would find your coloured, your so called ‘coloured people’, as bourgeois schools because the system actually never actually get actually to inform young people to understand … how the society is built itself (interview March 2009).

MC Steel lived in Gugulethu until the age of seven, and then moved to New Crossroads until his mother’s house burnt down. His family moved to Khayelitsha in 1994 and he met Metabolism around that time. He felt like a ‘bit of an outcast’ when he moved to Khayelitsha because he, had a Gugulethu state of mind110 … and … there was always tension. I was in fights every day … the older guys would make us fight … we would watch karate movies and we’d come back and fight … because … Khayelitsha is more

110 In the context of Steel’s description, a ‘Gugulethu state of mind’ seems to indicate that he was more ‘of the city’ than of the Eastern Cape – he states ‘we talk very fast in Gugulethu … in Khayelitsha it was like the world just started moving in slow motion’. He contrasts his ‘mindset’ with the state of mind in Khayelitsha as indicated by the ‘tribal’ divisions between Ciskei and Transkei. 201 communal because people … and perhaps somebody would not like somebody because they are from … for example Ciskei … and then they would not like their whole offspring. Nerds like me don’t get noticed ’cause you sit in your room and write rhymes … I was a geek ’cause … [at that time] if you’re not smoking mandrax you’re like pppfffff … ’cause I was smoking weed … I was always the outcast [in the township] … it was never cool to be an emcee it was never cool to be into hip-hop … they had racial slurs they could call you ‘nigger’… and hopefully that would get to you so hard that you would quit (interview 2009).

Hip-hop provided an alternative framework, and alternative points of reference, for these artists to use to make sense of and inhabit the township. They did this, not only through isolated individual experiences, or even through African experiences of migration. Rather, hip-hop enabled youth like MC Steel to align their experiences through the ‘connective marginality’ (Osumare, 2001) of a global phenomenon – a transnational experience of unhomeliness. Hip-hop provides an existential escape from local social categories, stereotypes and the stigma associated with ‘black African’ townships, as well as the stigma associated with going to a Model C school. Hip-hop provided a particular stance towards the material and discursive space of the ghetto, ‘hood, township. This entailed both a conceptual affective stance towards discourse and a bodily stance through the physical practice of emceeing in place: in the city centre at hip-hop events and in the township during live performances at park jams that they organised themselves. Hip-hop provided a way of being in the world that was applicable both to the spaces of the city centre and that of the township – (reframed as a global ghetto space) – transforming identity and their relationships to place at the same time. The importance of hip-hop in providing youth with a sense of global belonging is crucial when there is a disrupted and alienated sense of belonging and emplacement. The post-colonial condition is one of having no place – of fitting with neither a pre- colonial archaic definition of ‘traditional’, nor with the Western ideal imposed on the colonised. Hip-hop does this through its ability to remix and to represent. Amongst the first generation of hip-hop heads, a sense of belonging through hip-hop was further solidified through the activity and practice they found with each other, and through participating in the Cape Town hip-hop scene. MC Steel went to in the city centre. He started going to hip-hop gigs in the city at a club called Angel’s with friends from high school: There were events [parties] in Khayelitsha but I was more based in the suburban areas because I had coloured and white friends … and I ended up meeting up with Scrooge [now known as MC Indigenous] and Metabs [Metabolism] … and

202 they would perform at the mall in Khayelitsha … and I was like why don’t we go up town to this club called Angels … so I took them uptown … we’d catch a train uptown … ’cause I’d always get 10 Rand a day so I’d save up and have 50 Rand by the end of the week … and I would save it for the rest of the soldiers … the end of the jam would be around 4[am] and we would wait until the first train at 5[am] and catch it back home.

Image 18: Undecided Crew performing at Kaltcha Kulcha Park Jam, I Section, Khayelitsha, 2009 (photo by S. Dowsett) Intellectual Seeds Movement (ISM) started the first park jams in Khayelitsha in I Section in 2000. The park jams were a huge success and ran once a month for two years until 2001. Three of the founding members of ISM were Metabolism, Steel and Indigenous. ISM also organised the park jam pictured in Image 18. The park jams that Intellectual Seeds organised in the early 2000s, along with other events such as the park jams Mafiyana organised in the same period, contributed to the education and development of the next generation of hip-hop heads. Inspired by these park jams Korianda started the AllNYz Park Jams which ran in Gugulethu every Sunday from 2006 and was still running when my fieldwork concluded in 2013. This created for the first time a regulated and regular event of community-making in place.

Post(neo)colonial condition Bhabha (1992, pp. 140–141) emphasises the material and existential post-(neo-)colonial conditions of alienation and dislocation in his definition of ‘unhomeliness’: ‘the

203 uncanny literary and social effects of enforced social accommodation, or historical migrations and cultural relocations’. He finds the ‘unhomely’ to be the ‘paradigmatic post-colonial experience’ (Bhabha, 1992, p. 142). He elaborates his model through an analysis of novels by the South African writer Nadine Gordimer and African-American writer Toni Morrison. He argues that these contemporary writers share a certain constitutive crisis as their subject matter: ‘in both their houses great world events erupted – Apartheid and Slavery – and their coming was turned into that particular obscurity of Art’ (Bhabha, 1992, p. 152). Bhabha makes use of both Freud and Frantz Fanon to analyse the colonial condition. It is a state of existential angst, of not belonging, of never being able to fully belong by default, while simultaneously having had home profoundly disrupted. Embodiment is decidedly spatial. As such, space is a central aspect of subjectivity and, crucially here, part of the double consciousness or double impossibility of the post- colonial (and neo-colonial) subject – an unhomeliness that is both existential and material. It is the black subject’s embodied encounter with the white other (Fanon, 1967), which creates an initial condition of unhomeliness, an unsettling – and which renders Fanon’s black subject invisible yet exposed, naked but unseen, with no interiority. It is to encounter a ‘spatiality which is not my spatiality’ (Sartre cited in Ward, 2013, p. 90) – a clash of body-schemas wherein the recoiling of the white in disgust, fascination and judgement rewrites not only the meaning of the subject, but also the subject’s existential experience. As Young (1990) argues, there is a hierarchy of bodies and people that is lived out; race and racism are expressed and experienced by embodied reactions. An example of this is evident in an incident that occurred during my fieldwork. In 2008 I took a young white English woman with me to Khayelitsha. We went to visit Luyanda in Harare. As we were talking the English woman proceeded to talk very loudly and slowly to Luyanda who had in fact just been conversing fluently in English with me in front of her. There was a marked shift in the tone, volume and pace of her voice – ignoring the proof of his fluency during his conversation with myself and falling back on preconceived ideas that he would not be able to understand her. In her bodily shift he (re)discovered his subordinate status through her assumption of his lack of intelligence or fluency. Young (1990, p.123) argues that people, ‘discover their status by means of the embodied behaviour of others: in their gestures, a certain nervousness that they exhibit, their avoidance of eye contact, the distance they keep’.

204 This hierarchy is also clear in the reaction of the city dwellers to township youth as described in Chapter Two. It is not only the encounter with the (white) Other which unsettles, alienates and brings to the fore the feeling of unhomeliness. It is also in the encounter with the (black) Other, in which, for some subjects, the problem is being deemed not black enough. Stephanie Rudwick (2008) writes about the intersection of race, class, language and identity in a Zulu township where English-speaking Zulus are called ‘coconuts’ because they are seen as white on the inside and black on the outside. This is dependent upon direct bodily encounters, involving accent, slang, language and gesture. In these encounters the bodily habitus, the body schema, gives one away. Thus, Metabolism, Steel and Indigenous spent most of their days in schools that were formerly all-white, and in which the mostly white students spoke white . They then re-entered the ’hood. Their alienation is an effect of a supposedly symbolic order of language, accent and class but the fact is, this alienation is lived and felt in direct encounters – for example, when other residents in Khayelitsha called them ‘bourgeois.’

Voice Voice is a primary modality of culture. It is the crux of intersubjectivity – the tangible link between self and other, body and culture. Voice has a dual meaning: as Elizabeth Tolbert (2001, p. 453) puts it, ‘voice as sonorous object and voice as a trope of agency, identity and social power’. Hip-hop gives voice to the marginalised, not only through its emphasis on the spoken word, on speaking out and testifying, but also through prioritising voices from the ghetto, the ’hood, the township. The sonorous quality of voice as it is embedded in the body encourages the development of mother-tongue rap. The ethic of ‘keeping it real’ resulted in people who put on American accents outside of America being called out as inauthentic – a process which has occurred at least in Australia, South Africa and Japan (Condry, 2009). DJ Rozzano recalls in an interview, When I started working at Club T-Zers in 1985/6 I was strictly into spinning hip-hop … By then we were all speaking in fake American accents and involved with an unknown culture from the Bronx … The first rap groups started emerging, a local style started developing although most were still rapping with a USA accent. With the influence of the Zulu Nation, Public Enemy and KRS 1, we started becoming more Afro-conscious. We started dropping the accents and creating our own unique style of kinda Cape Flats hip-hop (Slack, 2014)

205 The first artist to rap in isiXhosa, according to local history, was Sketch from Khayelitsha whom I met in 2008. He explained that in the 1990s, ‘when everybody else was doing that “all ma nigga’s” American thing’, he started rapping in Xhosa. This was no doubt influenced by POC’s use of English and gamtaal (‘Cape Coloured Afrikaans) that paved the way for other artists to rap in South African languages and accents. It is precisely because voice is ‘a kind of sonorous touching … a bodily secretion’ (Csordas, 2008, p. 118) and carries the weight of the corporeal-schema (slang, phrases, gestures, mannerisms), of the habitus, that enables and encourages ‘localisation’. Giulianotti (2005, p. 341) writes that for Bourdieu ‘the individual’s pattern of linguistic expression represents the aural inscriptions of that person's stratified identity, wherein the human habitus literally talks’. The localisation of hip-hop through accent and language must be understood within the politics of voice. Multiple accents within the same cultural group occur due to micro differences in geographical location, social milieu, class and even schooling. Metabolism explains the effects of his schooling on his accent: where I got my apparently ‘white accent’ I went to school at SACS [ School111] … I went there in 1994 … it was weird at first you know because at the hostel because … there was not a lot of black dudes … and I’d never been around white people much … and there was like three black guys in the boarding house … a bunch of guys tried to bully me but it didn’t really go down too well … so that’s, I think that’s how I gained my popularity … because I was just being me I wasn’t trying to be white or anything … I made a lot of friends just being myself … by the time I got to standard 6 nobody bullied me … so that’s where I went to school and that’s how I got my accent (personal communication May 2009).

His accent alienated him from the township and marked his difference from other township youth. This demonstrates a specific relationship between race, class and voice. Metabolism’s accent marked his voice, body, identity as belonging to a particular class due to the effects of his schooling. This in turn brought into question his blackness – as he had a ‘white accent’. Giulianotti (2005, p.343) argues that an ‘anthropological theorization of voice’ needs to be developed in order to account for the ‘polyphony within and across cultures’ and to better understand ‘how voices relate more specifically to the cultural politics of particular categories of social marginalization, namely those of class, ethnic and national identity’. The voice is deeply tied to identity, and also deeply ties identity. Accent and forms of expression, vocabularies and vernaculars, vary

111 SACS is the oldest high school in South Africa established in 1829 206 according to geographic location, class, race, ethnicity and mobility (between places, but also between class and race). The more contact we have with particular speech habits, accents and vocabularies, the more we adopt them, and this changes our identity. For example, when I have been reading a lot of academic writing, my speech tends to include social science terms. When talking to non-academics, I have to consciously stop myself from using such jargon. By contrast, when talking with academics I feel I have to consciously censor the vernacular speech habits I acquired growing up in a rural Australian town. Giulianotti (2005, p.343) argues that ‘we must recognize the role of voice in constructing and validating forms of self-fulfilling personhood and social identity’. The ‘self-fulfilling’ aspect of this process is due to the fact that we do pick up (both conscious and pre-reflective) speech habits that mark our identity as belonging to certain place – geographically and socially. Emceeing as a particular element in hip-hop provides a form of vocality which provides a place for, validates, encourages and expands the creative use of particular forms of speech – that is, vernacular. Vernacular belongs in hip-hop. Crucially, it also provides a black vernacular (specific to a particular race and class) to global youth of colour who may feel alienated and displaced by the continuing effects of colonisation, oppression and apartheid on accent, language and speech. The voice must be understood ‘not simply in terms of vocal significations, but rather in the relationship of such communication to the constitution of personal and social identity within relations of power and domination' (Giulianotti, 2005, p.343). Rap utilises the capacity of accent to push rhyme, rhythm and pace. It is not only pace, or the rate of speech which distinguishes rap vocality; rap is also characterised by particular accents, idioms and inflections. Different rhymes are possible, or impossible, in different accents using the same words. Voice is the first familiar thing an infant hears and utters – and this is already cultural, since the sounds babies make vary across languages. The use of voice as the primary form of responsiveness to the call of another is one of the most significant acts of social exchange. Yet in hip-hop, this capacity of the voice has been terribly neglected. The vocal delivery of a rap itself is inflected with its own beat, rhythm and flow (Rose, 1994a, p. 67). In the words of Chuck D from Public Enemy, one of the most influential groups of the 1990s, ‘When rap music came along it was poetry over a beat, but in time … they [hip-hop’s pioneers] rocked the groove’ (Dery, 2004, p. 412). Rapping utilises vocal techniques such as extending or stressing syllables, and adopting or developing particular vocal tones. These techniques can become personal signatures.

207 Vocal technique is a distinctive focus of emcee virtuosity. Whether melodic or monotonous, highly stressed or relaxed, the voice in rap becomes an instrument. The voice in rap music is a percussive instrument. In this sense, it breaks with Western conventions of how voice is used in the classical music tradition. The most obvious example of this is ‘beat-boxing’ in which beats are produced and rap songs are mimicked, through the use of the vocal chords, the lips and a hand cupped over the mouth either with or without a microphone. A particular characteristic of rap is the intimate interaction and embodiment of an emcee’s voice with the rhythm, with the beat. MC Wordsayer articulates this relationship between the voice and the beat most poignantly in his own creative process of rhyming, The music within itself contains already the melodies [sic] and [the emcee is] just bringing up the particular sounds that are within the beat … So just finding … prominent rhythms and … coming up with a counter-rhythm that’s in time or in harmony with your vocal. So using your voice, really, just as another instrument to embellish the track, musically (cited in Schloss, 2004, p. 172).

Rhyming as percussion (the building of rhythm through repetition of syllables) is made possible through the positioning of the voice as beat, as at once, percussion and instrumentation. Fundamental to the rapping voice is its relationship with the underlying repetitive beat. The voice can flow with or layer on top of the beat, and it can alternate between synchronising with the beat syncopation. The timing of vocal delivery in rap creates the movement between order and chaos as it speeds up and slows down, stutters and flows, and moves in and out of sync with the beat, following the ruptures between beats, melodies and samples, between different temporal structures within the music. Rap utilises the capacity of accent to develop rhythm and pace. Pace, accent, idiom and inflection, all of which serve to locate ‘voice’ in terms of geography, ethnicity, class, nationality and culture. For Metabolism, Steel, Indigenous and others of their generation, hip-hop and specifically Black American English, provide a way into speaking and learning English – an unavoidable aspect of schooling – that was black. I asked Metabolism what it was about hip-hop that he initially liked. He explained that it was the beats but also the sound of the lyrics: I was into English at the time, you know, because of the school that I was at, so the main reason why I paid attention to the lyrics a lot … I was still trying to be like articulate in English … and the beats as well you know … it was something completely different because out here [Khayelitsha] people aren’t into hip-hop,

208 you know like in Khayelitsha it’s your house vibe, your kwaito vibe and this was something different … I was actually enjoying the fact that I was listening to something different. That’s what I felt the most you know? Everybody’s into that garbage music that they listen to, it was like, well try this, listen to some Snoop Dogg and you’ll actually feel cool afterwards … I started writing down the lyrics and I would rap along with the track.

Xhosa: Tsotsitaal and deep Xhosa Reasons for language choices in hip-hop vary. Metabolism, Steel and Mafiana (another emcee from Khayelitsha who rhymes in English) chose to write in English for multiple reasons. One reason was that they found it more comfortable to write in English. Another was that it enabled them to participate in the wider Cape Town and global hip- hop movements. By contrast, spaza artists use local languages to reach youth in the townships. While this could be construed as a political act, it is often also a practical choice as this is the audience they perform to and live among, and they are using the same languages that they use in their daily lives: urban isiXhosa and Tsotsitaal or street slang. Some spaza artists use street slang because that is how they talk normally and it is the language they feel most comfortable using. Ntshayi of the group Stritlife explains, ‘Our music is in street slang what is now known as spaza. We represent the streets so we address the people in a manner and language they understand’ (Bell, 2012) . MC Lemzin says that, ‘it’s easy to rap in English and in Xhosa but most of the time I want to rap in Xhosa so that people around me can understand what I’m saying … I also choose to put English lines in my songs so that they [non-Xhosa speakers] can … [understand]’ (interview 2011). The group Uzwi Kantu (which means ‘the Xhosa’s voice’) state that ‘[t]he mandate of this group is to take people back to their origins and make them realise value of their culture and the importance of Xhosa language through their music’ (Mbuso, 2012). For Rhamncwa, who was part of Maniac Squad, one of the first Khayelitsha crews, said that form him, opting for isiXhosa was a conscious choice after first rapping in English. Rhamncwa prefers to rap in isiXhosa because then he can reach his ‘people’, but it is also an aesthetic choice. He explains, ‘when I put it in Xhosa it becomes like, tight’ (interview 2011). The term ‘deep Xhosa’ is used by youth in Khayelitsha to refer to ‘proper isiXhosa’ from the rural areas; as discussed in the previous chapter, it is a form of isiXhosa more likely to be spoken by recent migrants. Mashonisa informed me that he

209 learns a lot of deep Xhosa words from the lyrics of artists like Zanzolo. Deep Xhosa includes ‘idiomatic expressions like emabeleni [from the breast]’ (Dyers, 2009, p. 264). Idiomatic expressions can be seen in Sound Master’s Crew’s track about equal education: ‘This education is female cow and to it I’m the calf/ It feeds me with milk that will never rot/ go bad daily112’. Marco’s (2011) track ‘Deep Down’, from the album umTranskei ongekho Shy signifies this. The song begins with a ten-second melodic sample of an mbira (or thumb piano – strips of metal lined up and attached to a piece of wood and plucked with the thumbs). Two subtle, high hat beats signify the pending drumbeat which kicks in with the of the track – vocals, drums and a mix of sampled instruments that sound like an organ, some strings and a bass guitar. The track is claiming a space in hip-hop, and more specifically Cape Town, through the call and response trope that is a fundamental lyrical technique that embodies the collective live performance roots (and current manifestations) of hip-hop but is also a key feature of traditional Xhosa singing: Sithi [we say] deep Uthi [you say] down Sithi Cape Uthi Town Who’s the King? Holy ground Cos This is underground! … Site B113, where you at? Khayelitsha deep down

This is a fun party-style track (so fun, even, that I’ve been bumping it in my car for days here in Australia, as it brings back the feel of the township and the fun of recording and jamming, especially when I am tired but have to drive on winding, pot-holed roads to pick up my son from day care). The title of the album translates as ‘I’m from the Transkei and I’m not shy [about it].’ This is significant considering tensions between Gugulethu and Khayelitsha and more generally between rural and urban Xhosa. The use of the word ‘deep’ in the lyrics also signifies ‘deep Xhosa’. Other artists on the track include Maxhoseni (‘place of the Xhosa’) who is well known for ‘representing’ his hometown Cofimvaba in the Eastern Cape and using ‘deep

112 These lyrics were given to the researcher already translated. 113 Site B is a subsection of Khayelitsha 210 Xhosa’ in his lyrics. The track is produced by P’zho, one of the key producers of spaza, and a member of influential crew Lampiter Clan. P’zho has produced many albums and worked with many artists, such as Mic Substance, Uzwi Kantu and others. Driven by the challenge within rap to push the boundaries of language through metaphor, puns and more complex rhyme structures, some artists are turning to Xhosa literature for inspiration. MC Kan states that she reads widely in English and Xhosa for inspiration but raps in isiXhosa and urban vernacular (pers. comm. 2012). MC Lemzin was born in 1991. I asked him about what inspired him, and I expected him to cite a range of things such as life experiences, politics, other emcees, but he simply replied: ‘ah ... Xhosa novels’. In a later conversation, Lemzin explained further: ‘Yeah I read Xhosa novels sometimes … when I’m on a writer’s block … and to boost my vocab … I read Xhosa novels a lot … I think most of emcees read novels … Zanzolo reads novels’. When pushed to elaborate, MC Lemzin tells me it is the stories of life in the rural areas that inspire him, but especially the way Ncedile Saule114 uses the language. Lemzin is reading Umlimandlela – a story set in the mid-1980s about a young man who turns out to be the heir to a Xhosa throne, but is accused of murder and locked up without a fair trial or access to legal representation. It is about negotiating the multiple ways of being Xhosa in the contemporary world – the juxtaposition of ‘traditional’ life and the broader national and global world he finds himself in. He tells me that reading these novels is teaching him more about his own history than his time at school taught him. There is a widespread that there is a lack of a reading culture among isiXhosa- speakers (Kaschula, 2008, p. 117). Kaschula (2008, pp. 127–128) argues that, ‘[o]nly political intervention, coupled with a change in attitude by speakers of isiXhosa themselves, will change this scenario’. Yet, Lemzin’s claim that many spaza emcees read Xhosa novels suggests that hip-hop is encouraging youth to cultivate a reading culture. Generally, there is evidence of a shift towards English and away from Indigenous language use in South Africa, specifically in relation to Xhosa migration to Cape Town (Stanley Ridge, 2000:1). Dowling (2011, p. 3) (Dowling, 2011) argues that ‘South African languages are seen as ‘in danger of obscurity and an early death’. The fact that the national education policy continues to administer all exams in English seems to confirm this argument. Russell Kaschula (2008) notes that ‘speakers of

114 Ncedile Saule wrote his master’s thesis (1989) on the imbongi S.E.K. Mqhayi who was one of the first Xhosa novelists 211 African languages themselves are loath to read literature written in indigenous languages’ (2008 p.117). This turn to Xhosa literature among some Spaza emcee’s is also inadvertently unearthing a long line of Xhosa intellectuals grappling with the question of how to maintain a Xhosa way of being in the face immense pressure to take up a Western way of being. Ncedile Saule, author of some of the novels emcee’s such as Lemzin, Zanzolo, MC Test are reading, was heavily influenced by the ideas and creativity of S.E.K Mqhayi. Mqhayi was born in 1875 and was a prominent writer, philosopher and also praise singer to chief Ndlambe. Masilela (2010, p. 251) points to language as an important mode of resistance in the late 1800s, ‘Within the context of Mqhayi’s own creative practice, he sought to dislodge the hegemony of the English language which the Xhosa intellectuals of the 1880s had accepted as an inevitable consequence of modernity’. Anticipating Thiong'o’s arguments for language as crucial to decolonising the mind, ‘Mqhayi postulated that Language, specifically African languages, would be the instrument for the conceptualisation and development of New African modernity’ (Masilela, 2010, pp. 254–255). The turn to using Xhosa oral literature or imbongi in hip hop is explored in the next and final chapter of the thesis. With regard to emcee’s decisions to read isiXhosa novels to expand their vocabularies and for inspiration on the creative use of isiXhosa, it is important to understand some of the key aspects of isiXhosa that make it particularly useful in oral expression. IsiXhosa ‘abounds in metaphors and figures of speech’ (Calana & Holo, 2002, p. 5). IsiXhosa is a particularly adaptive, inventive, expressive and creative language. Oosthuysen (2013, p. 7) argues that verbal arts are a central aspect of amaXhosa culture and that Xhosa youth ‘acquire oratory skills and perform without any semblance of stage fright … This results in isiXhosa being “a dynamic, vibrant, virile language”’ (Pahl, 1989, p. xxxi) with great powers of expression and the ability to produce vivid descriptions of events, enhanced with sound effects supplied by ideophones’. This is demonstrated in the practices of naming among isiXhosa-speaking people where numerous iziteketiso (nicknames) (de Klerk & Bosch, 1997) and praise names (Opland, 1998, p. 90) are accumulated from childhood onwards. The practice of praising itself (discussed in the following chapter) involves acquiring a series of highly descriptive idiomatic names. An example of multiple names is MC Metabolism whose

212 full emcee name is Metabolism Baslik which is shortened to Metabs. He also has an English name, a ‘hood name’ (which his family calls him) and a Xhosa name. Another reason isiXhosa lends itself to poetic form is the extensive vocabulary, with specific descriptive words often available instead of adjectives and adverbs to convey specific qualities (Oosthuysen, 2013, p. 8). The vocabulary of isiXhosa is also adaptable. There is an estimated thirty per cent of isiXhosa words that are of Khoi origin (cited in Oosthuysen, 2013, p. 9). Extensive borrowing from the Khoi language is evident in the click sounds which are not original to isiXhosa – approximately fifteen per cent of isiXhosa words contain clicks (Herbert, 1990, p. 296). The three main clicks are represented by the letters c, x and q. When emcees rap in isiXhosa, these clicks provide an extra percussive element that adds to the aesthetic quality of a verse. According to Snyder (2002, p. 187), the use of sound in rap goes beyond a strict semantic interpretation of words and is, mostly a matter of sound dynamics – that is, a kind of music – style puts in effect what Stephen Blum calls ‘musical syntax,’ a technique for ‘‘detaching’ sounds’ from what we consider their normal functions ‘and manipulating them in altered contexts.

This aspect of rap is heightened in isiXhosa. The use of repetition generally, but of clicks in particular, in isiXhosa as a vocal technique is evident in Miriam Makeba’s song ‘Baxabene Oxamu’, and in her famous rendition of the Xhosa song ‘Qongqothwane’ which is known as a tongue twister among English-speaking South Africans. The use of clicks is skilfully exploited by MC Kideo who is widely recognised within spaza hip-hop for his creative use of alliteration and assonance – techniques which are particularly effective in isiXhosa. The grammatical rules of isiXhosa change the vowels in a sentence, depending on the context, which causes natural alliteration within the language – the ‘euphonic concord’ or ‘alliterative concord’ (Gilmour, 2004, p. 127) as a distinctive and emergent aesthetic compound present in isiXhosa that is exploited in spaza. Kideo’s verse in the track with his group Backyard Crew ‘Ukufa’ (meaning death – Kideo also calls this track iphupha) from the album Sebenzel’eyadini (2009) Ndaqumba xa ndiv’umba wokuba ziyashuba Lifikil’ithuba ngengomso ndizobhubha Ndavukwa yimfumba yevumba lethumba Ndaz’jula kwijuba ndaqubha ngeskhumba Ndiyiphupha noyphupha indihlupha indikhupha

213 [Translation]: I got sad after hearing that things are getting hot The time has arrived tomorrow I will die. I developed a sickness like a wound that erupts and festers quickly. I threw myself into drink ijuba [African beer] I swam with skin [naked] I was dreaming and dreaming it/this was bothering me and made me act crazy

He rhymes almost every word, holding a double syllable rhyme for five full lines and throws in a few multi-syllable rhymes in the last line – an astonishing alliterative achievement even for hip-hop. The term Tsotsitaal had its origins in Soweto in the 1940s and referred to urban style and slang (see Coplan, 2007; Hurst, 2009). It has often been associated with urban gangs but is spoken by the urban working class which Coplan (2007, p. 444) calls a ‘proletarian dialect’. Ellen Hurts (2009) argues that Tsotsitaal marks its difference from ‘standard’ isiXhosa in multiple ways, one of them being that, ‘speakers are primarily urban – and define themselves against the rural’ (Hurst, 2009, p. 250); that is, the slang- urban version of this language is unique to town camp life. Wanda, who hosts a hip-hop show called Headwarmaz on Bush Radio, explained to me the language difference between Cape Town and the rural areas, I have family from the Eastern Cape and whenever they come here for gatherings they always criticise our poor language, our poor Xhosa … in the urban areas there is more slang, more Tsotsitaal … you could even say Cape Town has more swag, Cape Town likes to have swag, bright colours you know, crunkier beats … because we like that kind of thing … whereas in the Eastern Cape they are trying to keep it as pure as possible (Wanda pers. comm. 2011).

The capacity of Tsotsitaal is demonstrated in a freestyle that Kideo performed in 2009 which was filmed. Subsequently, audience members requested that he perform it again. The freestyle is called ‘Uyayaz'igqe?’115 and Kideo translated it. Uyayaz'igqe means ‘do you know how to do it?’ and ‘gqe’ is a Tsotsitaal term for sex. The following line demonstrates the use of Tsotsitaal for both meaning and poetic effect: andinantshebe so slow jam s’the(chu)ngcembe [Artist’s translation]: my chin is smooth (lit I don’t have a beard) so slow jam, we’re on a slow pace – not rushing

115 This can be viewed at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLHY6VNrc-Q

214 the meaning of the term. The term sitheng(chu)ngcembe is a combination of si-the (we- move) and ngcembe (slow). Kideo explained: ‘putting these two words together – it’s not proper Xhosa – it is Khayelitsha Xhosa, not in the dictionary, it’s how you speak on the street’ (interview 2013). Kideo added the extra word ‘chu’ in the middle of this word. Chu by itself means ‘when you are on a slow pace’ (Kideo’s explanation). He added it to repeat the ‘c’ sound which is a front palate click – with the tongue behind the front top teeth – and to add an extra syllable to keep the flow of the line consistent with the rest of the verse. Another line demonstrates Kideo’s signature alliterative and rhyming technique: ngoku ndiyaku rabha rabha ndikuthi rabha ndikuthi rabha bamba bamba irubber bhabha ilove bubble ngoku iyabhabha

[Artist’s translation]: now I’m rubbing rubbing you, I’m kissing kissing you [youth say ‘rabha’ also to mean kissing] touch touch my rubber [condom] baby, now the love bubble is flying [iyabhabha means to fly]

The first use of the word ‘rabha’ demonstrates a common way of incorporating English words into isiXhosa, where a Xhosa pronunciation changes the spelling of the word, or a prefix or suffix is added to an English word (see de Klerk, 2006, p. 606). This can also be seen in the term i-rubber which adds the prefix ‘i-’ to indicate a ‘non-human entities (de Klerk, 2006, p. 608). Street slang is a part of many emcees’ everyday vocabulary, but it also expands possibilities of rhyme patterns. This is a creative and skilful freestyle that utilises terminology that youth understand and that is about safe sex116 without preaching or telling people what to do. This must be considered within the context of Kideo once pointing out to me that youth in schools, in the media, in advertising, are drilled about safe sex and HIV, but that much of this is lost on youth who can suffer from overload when being told what to do. It is impossible to predict the impact of this one track on safe-sex patterns among listeners, but the fact that Kideo is a popular and respected emcee within spaza, and he is rapping about a consensual act where he happens to be practising safe sex, mean that the track has the potential to reach youth suffering from safe sex campaign overload, a kind of HIV/AIDS awareness fatigue. The track normalises both safe and consensual sex. The importance of this must not be

116 While this track is talking about safe consensual sex there has been some controversy over Kideo’s negative views of women. Audience reception for this song would have to be considered within the broader context of the spaza hip-hop scene. 215 underestimated in the context of high rates of rape, teenage pregnancy and HIV within Khayelitsha and South Africa generally. It does this in street language, through Tsotsitaal, and speaks to ‘the unreachable’ in a way that is not preaching.

Conclusion Hip-hop provides a means of remaking locality through particular vocal performance practices in place. Vernacular speech in particular belongs in hip-hop. The significance of language choices must be understood in relation to historical and continuing language ideologies in South Africa (as outlined in Chapter Five). When we understand identity as being built on repetition, and as being intimately tied to inhabiting space and to the corporeal schema, a more nuanced analysis of the identity possibilities of hip-hop emerges. The first generation of hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha went to mostly Model C schools where they had to speak English fluently. As a result of traversing different social spaces of the formerly white schools and the townships, these artists found in hip-hop a way to be in and of the ghetto. This enabled them to make sense of their own social and physical locations in disparate worlds. For the second generation these disparate worlds were largely the rural and the urban. For both generations, hip-hop provides a medium, a ‘third space’ for working through marginality, the unhomely post-(neo-)colonial condition of disjuncture. A key aesthetic aspect of hip-hop is the remix which has been recognised as fundamentally a form of hybridity (Gilroy, 1994). Bhabha (in Rutherford 1990, p. 211) expands the concept of hybridity through his notion of third space: ‘[h]ybridity to me is the “third space” which enables other positions to emerge’. ‘Third space’ is a space of negotiating and taking up new positions outside of essentialised categories of traditional/modern, global/local and rural/urban. Ultimately, though, hybridity is the universal mixture of the given and the (re)made – the repetition of cultural and collective conventions, language, habits always produces difference. The rapid cultural and linguistic changes forced upon indigenous cultures through colonisation, slavery, apartheid and racial oppression is a sped-up process of change under pressure present in all cultures. As Bhabha (cited in Rutherford, 1990, p. 211) points out ‘all forms of culture are continually in a process of hybridity’. Bhabha’s reclaiming of hybridity as a productive space/force is a stance against essentialisms. It is, however, not a given that

216 positions produced in the third space are ‘revolutionary’, ‘progressive’, ‘political’ or ‘resistance’. Locality may be produced in different ways within the one township, city or nation- state. Language is a marker of identity. Identity is also about inhabiting space, and producing and expressing locality. Locality also marks language. Hip-hop allowed artists such as Metabolism, Steel and Indigenous to inhabit the township as ‘the ‘hood’ or ‘the ghetto’, for hip-hop ‘artists prefer to reclaim the word “ghetto” as a marker of power and identity’ (Keyes, 2002, p. 122). But for them the ghetto is also a rich medium for creative production. Hip-hop provides youth with a means of making sense of their situations – their existential and material conditions – and it enables them to find continuities between the American ghetto and the South African townships. It also provides an alternative the white English taught in school – a way of inhabiting blackness, or a black mode of inhabiting English. Hip-hop has fundamentally reframed their connection to, and experience of, Khayelitsha – stereotyped locally as the most rural of black townships, but globally as another ghetto. Hip-hop gives the space, the habitus, of the township/ghetto/favela, an alternative social currency. It adds value to the township as a ‘cool’ and creative site of production in both physical and metaphorical terms.

217 Chapter 7 Xhosa culture, iimbongi and freestyle

Music, it runs in our veins. Black people, we have songs for everything. Even shepherds have their own song. So, music runs in our veins. Even poetry, we have been doing poetry since day one … so there has to be a connection. They used to call a poet to pray …or praise for rain … So … there has to be a spiritual connection somehow (Zanzolo interview 2011)

The hip-hop practice of emceeing is not simply ‘indigenised’, as has been argued by scholars of forms of hip-hop outside the USA where aspects of the hip-hop tradition are adapted to local language and content (see Pennycook, 2003a, 2003b; Mitchell, 2003). Rather, many emcees from Khayelitsha stress that their skill at practicing hip-hop stems from preexisting cultural values and oral performative practices, particularly the practices of iimbongi. Chapter Six noted that in studies of global hip-hop, the focus has been on how hip-hop has been ‘localised’ despite accusations of Americanisation. This chapter looks at how local oral traditions – as deeply embodied modes of vocality – are adapted in hip-hop. Hip-hop never arrives in vacant or empty space. The existing conditions of vocality (linguistic, aesthetic, performative) influence how hip-hop will be adopted and the effects it may (or may not) produce. This chapter explores how pre- existing embodied vocal modalities among amaXhosa are utilised in contemporary developments. Hip-hop makes oral traditions relevant to youth life today – as a means of storytelling, as a subversive counter culture, and an expression of irreducible cultural difference. Aspects of longstanding Xhosa oral traditions such as poetry (izibongo), story (nstomi), and song (ngoma) and more general cultural conventions of performance are maintained and reframed, made sense of, made useful, through hip-hop. In various ways, hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha articulate Xhosa oral traditions, specifically those of the iimbongi117 (praise poets). Cultural understandings of the role of the voice and speaking in social, political and spiritual life affect the way that spaza emcees understand the significance of what they are doing with hip-hop. This chapter describes and explores the deeper roots on which many spaza artists’ own practices and understandings of hip-hop are grafted. The connections I explore here are ones

117 Double ‘i’ is the plural form (poets), single ‘i’ is the singular form (poet) 218 identified by artists and community members. Such connections demonstrate a strategic use of heritage, and they negotiate traditional oral forms through a global mode of expression. This chapter, as the final chapter in the thesis, works to examine what are organic models of hip-hop forms through the analytic terms and frames artist themselves are using, both explicitly and in their practice. Often emcees claim that the emcee and the imbongi are ‘the same thing’. The term imbongi is used to describe the emcee. However, this does not mean that the two roles are exactly the same, and I do not know if people outside of hip-hop would agree that what these youths are doing is the same as what an imbongi does. I assume they are not equivalent in a strict sense due to the marked differences in performative style, content and context. These two verbal art forms are very distinct in terms of vocal style, tone, rhythm and rhyme. Similarities that emcees claim are: the role of the poet, the method of composition (improvisation), the inspiration to rap, the experience of flow and the open platform context.

Image 19: Kideo's makhulu (grandmother) and neighbours, call and response singing, Lady Frere District, Eastern Cape, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) Some aspects of Xhosa modes of vocality Oral traditions among isiXhosa-speaking people are rich and highly developed. The importance of vocality is demonstrated through a number of aspects of Xhosa culture. Hansen (1981, p. 22) argues that traditional Xhosa music has words associated with it such that pieces of music played on instruments are ‘really instrumental versions of vocal songs, and therefore [have] underlying texts’. At the same time, Hansen (1981, p. 219 19) found in her research that Xhosa people claimed that, ‘singing and dancing are the same thing’ – lyrics and vocality are recognised as deeply embodied. On a trip to visit Kideo’s family home in the Eastern Cape his makhulu (grandmother – I was instructed to call her makhulu whilst visiting) wanted to show me some songs. Women started arriving from the local area and dressing up to sing to me. Image 19 on the previous page depicts Kideo’s makhulu (the woman at the centre left) and her neighbours singing songs in a call and response format which was always accompanied by small but constant movements of the hands and feet to keep the rhythm. For the Xhosa, speech is crucial to traditional religion because ‘ritual speech, is the medium linking the physical and spiritual world within the amaXhosa worldview’ (Mndende, 2002, p. iii). For amaXhosa and all Nguni peoples, the veneration of iminyanya (ancestors) who mediate between humans and the supreme being Qamata, is central to traditional religion. The iminyanya are not ‘spirits’ but are understood as ‘living amongst the people’ (Mlisa, 2009, p. 62). This is demonstrated in MC Kideo’s explanation about the problem of gangs and crime in Khayelitsha where he states that young people couldn’t do this in the Eastern Cape because ‘the ancestors are watching you there, so you have to be careful’ (pers. comm. 2011). Communication with ancestors is not confined to rituals but is constantly maintained (Mndende, 2002, p. 5), often through ubizo (calling from the ancestors), unqula (prayer), dreams (ithongo), life events, sickness, or a feeling from the umbilini (gut/intuition) (Mlisa, 2009). The religious ritual intlombe can be held for a variety of reasons including divination (Bührmann, 1981; Mlisa, 2009) and to appease the ancestors (McAllister, 1997). This is one of the main reasons spaza emcees go back to their family homes in the Eastern Cape. Every December many would leave Cape Town during the school holidays. For example, MC Chaos states that ‘each and every December I go to Eastern Cape … Kasi life, it’s not enough, I have to go back there to see my grandfathers and grandmothers. And as I’m black I believe in ancestors. And there are so many peoples there, like old people’ (interview 2011). Axo also explains, ‘I went to Eastern Cape – to do something there, you know to do some rituals and stuff.’ In 2011 MC Phoenix told me about his then upcoming solo album. He said he had a bit of trouble branching out from his hip-hop crew to do this solo album but that he had to push his music as he now had a child to support – his three-month old baby girl – and had to provide for her future. His mother suggested to him that he should go to the Eastern Cape and perform intlombe and slaughter an animal for his ancestors. His sister had been having a hard

220 time, and had performed this ritual and shortly afterwards, she had acquired a good job. He thought perhaps he needed to go to his family home in the Eastern Cape and perform a ritual (intlombe) to appease his ancestors.118

Image 20: Brewing Umqomboti, Lady Frere, Eastern Cape, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) During a major intlombe ritual, an animal is slaughtered and the bellow of the animal communicates to the ancestors. Its cry ‘tells them everything’ and ‘makes the plea [isibongozo] heard’ (Kuckertz, 1983, p. 127). The ancestors are invoked (ukunqula) through speeches which call the ancestors by praise names and clan names (iziduko), state the purpose of the ritual, and make pleas to the ancestors (McAllister, 1997, p. 289). These speeches are ‘not restricted by anybody. In the performance of nqula, for instance, one does not write or practice what is going to be said and ritual speech occurs spontaneously’ (Mndende, 2002, p. 109). The people who are present vocally ‘agree’ (ukuvumisa) with each utterance of the speech, by collectively uttering camagu (be appeased) (McAllister, 1997, p. 287–289). Another form of intlombe is the beer-drink in which the ‘“washing” (ceremonial beer-drinking) lithetha yonk-into (“tells it all”) to the ancestors’ (Kuckertz, 1983, p. 120). Traditional beer is called umqomboti (see Image 20). Umsindleko (beer-drink rituals) are only effective ‘if people attend to drink beer and ‘to give forth words’ because it is through this that the attention of the ancestors is

118 Once a man has gone through his initiation (circumcision) he can perform these rituals himself (Kideo pers. comm. 2011). 221 attracted and their blessings ensured’ (McAllister, 1990, p. 6). Umsindleko are conducted in Khayelitsha, one of which I attended in Site C in 2011. Vocality is essential in social, religious, and political life. Even in ritual speech there is no recited text as speeches follow a flexible formula (stating the reason for the ritual, making pleas, calling ancestors) and are improvised and composed during their performance. Over the course of a violent history of over two hundred years of frontier wars, missionary incursions, colonisation and apartheid, traditional Xhosa poetry has been adapted to address contemporary political and social demands and new technologies. Rather than the forces of modernisation and colonisation operating to corrupt a ‘pure’ or ‘authentic’ tradition, this use of poetry demonstrates, ‘cultural transformation … through a reorganization of the elements of a cultural practice’ (Grossberg, 1986, pp. 53–54). Izibongo is an enduring art form that has proven itself versatile and dynamic. Clifford (1988, p. 10) argues that ‘non-Western historical experiences … are hemmed in by concepts of continuous tradition and the unified self’, but it is possible to recognise cultural difference beyond this narrow bounded conception of culture, if we understand ‘that identity, considered ethnographically, must always be mixed, relational, and inventive’. Iimbongi not only responded and adapted to British colonisation, but also documented its impact, detailing the invasion of the British during the frontier wars, the impact of missionaries on Xhosa religion, and the cultural devastation the colonisers caused. The introduction of print media allowed for the adaptation of izibongo to the written word, and following defeats in the frontier wars and the Nongqawuse tragedy, there was a shift towards ‘fighting with the pen’ and deeper reflection on how to adapt to the colonisation that isiXhosa-speaking peoples faced. That is, writing provided a new platform to extend and enhance the discourse of izibongo. Verbal art forms are not just entertainment; they also provide ways of thinking through, theorising about, analysing, articulating, expressing and reflecting on social and political life. That is, oral traditions are ‘ways people act with words to formulate and interpret the world’ (Furniss & Gunner, 1995, p. 3). The characteristics of verbal art include the formal and stylistic qualities of discourse, as well as embodied performativity in context. What is particularly important, as Liz Gunner (1986) points out, is the way in which the new can be incorporated into oral performative modes. As she argues, ‘[l]ong-standing beliefs and attitudes, and new ideas, can be overlaid, and can co-exist and inter-connect in a very potent way in performed art’ (Gunner, 1986, p. 33).

222 When examining how hip-hop has been adapted in Khayelitsha, it is important to bear in mind the ability of oral performativity to take on the new. As a ‘new idea’, hip-hop intersects with, but does not conflict with, more familiar and deeply embodied modes of cultural vocality. Xhosa modes of vocality are deeply improvisational in their methods of composition and performance. Thus, essentially, freestyle – a key practice and method of composition in hip-hop (discussed below), is consistent with key methods of vocality in Xhosa culture. Hip-hop offers Xhosa youth new ways of ukubonga (praising) with new bodily configurations of performance – the structured event of the open mic session, the spontaneous cypher or battle. While the vocal tone and meter of iimbongi performances differ markedly from those of the emcee, some spaza emcees manage to incorporate aspects of iimbongi vocalisation this into the rhythm of rap. A ‘new idea’ that hip-hop has brought to Xhosa poetic forms is the specific performative context of the cypher, the battle, the open mic – events outlined in detail in Chapter Four. Hip-hop allows for the continuation of spontaneous poetic performance as a specifically Xhosa tradition, and facilitates experiences of ‘flow’ which are understood among amaXhosa as emerging from the umbilini (gut/intuition) which is implicated in the spiritual connection with the ancestors that is experienced in healing rituals. Breaking with the essentialised notion of ‘tradition’ there has been a move towards recognising contemporary forms of oral literature. As Finnegan (2007, p. 182) states, ‘[n]ewly emergent genres or forms drawing on a mix of languages or media are no longer automatically brushed aside as somehow hybrid or un-African, an untoward departure from the pure and authentic genres of the past’. New practices (in this case hip-hop) are interpreted through longstanding modes of storytelling (such as ukubonga). New ways of telling take up long-existing ways of being, for ‘[h]owever liberated they seem from older indigenous traditions, modern popular arts come from the same cultural habitus and are therefore in continuity with them’ (Barber, 1987, p. 41). Yet, not everybody will experience or consciously connect old and new art forms in the same way. We must be careful to identify exactly how such continuity may be articulated, ambiguous, or even rejected. In an interview Stuart Hall (cited in Grossberg, 1986, p. 53) explains that his use of the term ‘articulation’ refers to ‘a form of connection that can make a unity of two different elements under certain conditions. It is a linkage which is not necessarily determined, absolute and essential for all time’. The concept of articulation can account for the different ways in which emcees in Khayelitsha

223 understand what they are doing through an oral tradition which existed prior to the arrival of hip-hop. Claims about ‘continuities’ between new verbal arts and older oral traditions need to be grounded in performers’ own experiences and perspectives. A link is commonly made between the griot119 and the emcee to signify the enduring importance of verbal art. A direct link is often claimed between rap and West African oral traditions. While many aspects of African oral traditions can be found in African-American aesthetic practices (see Gates Jnr, 1988) claims about direct links between it griots and emcees in , for example, are problematic (for example see Appert, 2011). Concrete relationships between emcees and griots in West Africa tell a different story. It has been claimed that the roles and practices of traditional poets and orators such as West African griots can be likened to those of hip-hop emcee. Yet this claim often has less to do with actual griots than it has with a romanticised ideal of the (Tang, 2012). Damon Sajnani (2013, p. 157) interrogated the trope of the ‘rapper as modern griot’ and found through his research on hip-hop in Senegal that many ‘artists locate their Hip Hop authenticity in a counter hegemonic politics antithetic to their perception of griot practice’. Links between traditional poetry and hip-hop must be explored through artists’ own understandings and experiences.

Connecting the practice of iimbongi with emcees Xhosa cultural forms and ways of being persist in the rural areas of the Eastern Cape as well as in urban townships, despite radical and rapid changes to economic structures, religion, language and land. The complex relationships between Xhosa people and their culture is bound up with all kinds of mixed feelings due to the apartheid policy of ‘separate development’ which was based on a bounded notion of ‘culture’ as static, and on the rhetoric of cultural preservation (as outlined in Chapter Five). Furthermore, the ANC’s adoption of non-racialism, or ‘“post-ethnic” universalism’ (Comaroff & Comaroff, 2003, p. 449), in the struggle against apartheid effectively ‘shunned, despised and undermined’ cultural difference (Raditlhalo, 2010, p. 21). The multiculturalism of post-apartheid South Africa, espoused in the idea of the ‘Rainbow Nation’, must be understood through Bhabha’s (cited in Rutherford, 1990, p. 208) critique of this idea as based on a form of universalism ‘that paradoxically permits diversity [while] mask[ing] ethnocentric norms, values and interests’. There is an enduring ‘cultural hierarchy’ in

119 Griots are highly skilled West African poets whose range of verbal art forms is evident in their definition as ‘oral historians, praise singers, musicians, genealogists, and storytellers’ (Tang, 2012, p. 79) 224 South Africa, with whiteness at the apex (Raditlhalo, 2010, p. 21). Robins (1996) writes of his experience of academia under apartheid where assertions of cultural difference in South Africa were interpreted as ‘false consciousness’. Cultural difference was seen as divisive in a situation where unity was crucial to the liberation struggle – a perspective that prevented any recognition of ‘the emancipatory potential of cultural identities and struggles’ (Robins, 1996, p. 342). Despite this political context120, elements of culture were adapted and used as a means of resistance. This can be seen in the case of the umsindleko (beer-drinking) rituals in rural Transkei in the 1970s. These rituals were developed to reincorporate migrant workers into the community upon their return, and they are an example of how tradition has been modified to resist the destructive effects of the migrant labour system under apartheid (McAllister, 1985). This is the situation in which youth in the townships assert claims to cultural distinction and cultural continuity. Many emcees in Khayelitsha understand their practice of emceeing through the enduring Xhosa oral tradition of the imbongi. As Sahlins (cited in Rumsey, 2006, p. 48) puts it, ‘how else can the people respond to what has been inflicted on them except by devising on their own heritage, acting according to their own categories, logics, understandings?’ The embodied cultural framework through which emcees in Khayelitsha are adopting hip-hop practices represents an innovation and an experimentation with tradition (see Biddle, 2016 on experimental Indigenous art in Australia). It is important to make clear that the connections between the practice of emceeing and ukubonga (praising), between the emcee and the imbongi, vary depending on how immersed emcees are in, or how connected they feel to, Xhosa culture. MC Metabolism feels no connection between the emcee and the imbongi, except for the parallel in the commercialisation of hip-hop and what he sees as the commercialisation of iimbongi. With the African National Congress in power since 1994, iimbongi have been incorporated into praising the president. However, this has become separated from the traditional role of the iimbongi, whose ‘success was determined by … the people’ (Mafeje, 1967, p. 195) and who had the freedom to ‘decry what [was] unworthy’ (Mafeje, 1967, p. 193). The ANC now selects the imbongi to perform at important events and ensures they will not criticise the government or the president (Mohlomi, 2015). Metabolism sees a connection between how iimbongi perform for money and

120 The Black Consciousness Movement recognised the role of culture in liberation (Biko, 1988). 225 censor their art, in the case of praising the president, and the music industry’s impact on hip-hop. The lack of connection Metabolism feels is also due to the radical disjuncture in stylistic and rhythmic form between the two oral traditions. Mic Substance also felt there was a disjuncture, but still connected the two art forms: ‘imbongi I would associate it with tradition … it’s still imbongi but now there is a beat … I think it’s the same thing but now it is modern.’ Every spaza emcee I asked felt there was a connection, with many stating that the emcee and the imbongi were the same thing. Different ways of connecting the imbongi with the emcee can be seen in the following two illustrations. I asked Mawethu about this issue in a private message on the social media platform Facebook on 11 August 2015: Researcher: hey I was wanting to ask you - is there a connection between iimbongi and the hip-hop MC? What do you feel about it?

Mawethu: Yeah its samething … cause me, when I started to write in Xhosa strictly - because of that [that was] when I notice [that it’s the same thing] - at that time I was reading lot of xhosa poetry of iimbongi, I think around ’98, because of rhyme scheme. Then its where I started to do some researches even about Xhosa the way they do things and language but because of me being a Kasi boy was a challenge because of our language here in the Cape is not the same one from Eastern Cape … Thanx for asking though zharp

When Mawethu started to rap in isiXhosa he began to read izibongo for inspiration and to expand his vocabulary – ‘because of rhyme scheme’. Mawethu does not know his father and grew up in the township. He was disconnected from Xhosa culture and found out more about traditional oral forms through reading – it was a conscious decision to explore Xhosa linguistic practices. In contrast, Kideo approaches the art of being an emcee through the previous experience of performing izibongo. Kideo explains his ability to freestyle as described in my field notes from July 2011: ‘It is because I am Xhosa that I can do this. You see, being Xhosa there is a tradition of poetry, I don’t know if you have heard of it?’ Kideo asks me. ‘Imbongi?’ I ask, using the singular form. ‘Iimbongi,’ he corrects me with the plural form, ‘they don’t write, they just freestyle – it’s a feeling you get – like being hit by a train. It suddenly hits you and you get carried away with it. You get a rush.’ He started rapping in 2002 when he was 12 or 13 by reciting izibongo (poetry) over hip-hop tracks. His first audience was his little brother he would always do his raps to him first – though he passed away last year. Kideo only works with Mashonisa, and refuses to work with anybody else – he has tried to work with some other producers but it doesn’t work …When he was young his father used to play Mzwakhe Mbuli, a well-known imbongi. He would also listen to Zolani Mkiva, the Imbongi Yesizwe (poet to the nation). Kideo memorised the lyrics and when he first started rapping he would recite their poetry over beats from

226 Jay Z or whoever – just over the top of the other vocals. He never wrote them down just remembered the words from listening. Zolani Mkiva is a traditional imbongi became known as Nelson Mandela’s praise poet as he started performing poetry praising him. He performed at Nelson Mandela’s inauguration in May 1994.

Kideo’s capacities demonstrate how the deeply embodied practices of iimbongi vocality can be learned and transferred to emceeing directly. However, this requires a complete change in vocal rhythm and pace. Improvisation, as well as the Xhosa poetic forms (if not the deep metaphors)121 present in the imbongi lyrics, are important continuities between iimbongi performance and Kideo’s spaza raps. Xhosa modes of performance were an integral part of his becoming an emcee. Mzwakhe Mbuli ‘skillfully used alliteration, assonance, repetition, chants and sound patterns to move people to the rhythms of his messages. Moreover, Mzwakhe’s use of poetic devices with his deep voice served to enhance the memorization of his words’ (Lo, 2009, p. 143). Kideo is renowned within spaza hip-hop for his skill in this area, as discussed in Chapter Six. When we link this to understandings of how identity is of the body and not purely cognitive, we can see how ‘cultural identity’ is not something that can simply be read off the body but is a way of inhabiting the body. Diprose (2002, p. 63) argues for recognising the constitution of identity through embodied habit: self-identity is not … the cause of the body’s actions but an effect of the body’s performance. Identity is an effect of body performance in two senses: we attribute an identity, personality, or set of thoughts and attitudes to another on the basis of his or her actions. Second, insofar as a body acts consistently over time and according to a category or an identity proper to this body, this is an effect not of the doer behind the deed but of disciplinary production by the law … body identity is constituted through a repetition of acts, through habit formation.

Here ‘the law’ refers to social conventions, cultural norms and learned behaviour according to what is expected of the body in a certain socially located position. Kideo is claiming an innate ability to freestyle. He claims that this is based on his amaXhosa heritage, and in making this claim he is in fact performing a primary aspect of that heritage. While emcees consciously identify a connection between the emcee and

121 Though, Mzwakhe Mbuli’s poetry has been criticised ‘it simply did not fully engage the deep oral traditions of African orature that he was influenced by (R. Kozain cited in Lo, 2009, p. 109). Though this is a complex issue as Mbuli was highly political and banned under apartheid (Lo, 2009, p. 111) but the anti-racialism that spearheaded the struggle against apartheid also amounted to an anti-culturalism – ‘tradition’ became suspect. Mzwakhe ‘capture[d] the spirit of defiance of the younger generations in the anti-apartheid movement’ (Sitas cited in Lo, 2009, p. 111). Kideo’s first track was highly political (discussed in Chapter Three). 227 imbongi, this connection also comprises a deeply embodied cultural mode of being.

Imbongi Among isiXhosa-speaking people, the traditional poet or imbongi is a highly esteemed orator. The word imbongi is most often translated as ‘praise poet’. The root of the word imbongi is bonga which in the verb form, uku-bonga, means ‘[t]o praise, extol loudly and impromptu by songs or orations; to praise, magnify, laud, celebrate the deeds of a chief, or the feats of race oxen, or the valour of an army’ (Kropf, 1913, p. 42). However, Mafeje (1967, p. 194) prefers to use the term ‘bard’ to account for the fact that iimbongi not only praise but also criticise. While both men and women compose and perform praises, the official poet was historically traditionally male122 (Opland, 1995, p. 162) , reflecting a deeply gendered field of the more formalised and publicly practiced oration. While anyone in Xhosa society can ukubonga (praise/perform poetry) and compose praise poems, only esteemed poets are labelled iimbongi (Mafeje, 1967, p. 194). Praising is part of everyday social life, and praises are accumulated throughout life: ‘every man [sic] in public life earns praises, that is a sentence … or phrase which is attached to him [sic] as a result of certain actions’ (Opland, 1998, p. 60). Both the form and content of izibongo have changed and adapted over time, as has the role of iimbongi. The documentation and recounting of history became increasingly important in the 1800s in the face of colonial oppression and control over amaXhosa lives. The impacts of the frontier wars were first documented in izibongo. These accounts included not only the impacts of military successes and defeats, but also the impacts of cultural contact, missionary incursions, the forceful removal of chiefs to , and the Nongqawuse cattle killing (Jordan, 1973, p. 60). These were counter histories and counter memories to the accounts documented in official state history. Maqoma, son of Ngqika, King of the Rharhabe, was a renowned warrior, military strategist and hero (Legassick, 2010). He was imprisoned on Robben Island for twelve years after his defeat in the War of Mlanjeni in which he lost his people’s lands. On his release he was forbidden to return to his homelands (Peires, 1989, pp. 301–302). Timothy Stapleton (1993) argues that official historical accounts of Maqoma have ‘slandered’ his name and refer to him as an alcoholic. This contrasts with izibongo,

122 With some exceptions such as Nontsizi Mgqwetho, who through her written poetry in the 1920s, claimed the role of imbongi (Opland, 1995), and more recently the female Zulu imbongi Gcina Mhlophe in the 1990s and the current Xhosa imbongi Jessica Mbangeni. 228 recorded a few decades after his death, and stories and praise names passed down orally which paint a different picture of his character, such as ‘He is a black snake that crosses rivers’ which Stapleton (1993, p. 324) explains as follows: ‘Xhosa tradition often describes great chiefs as snakes and in this case Maqoma’s attacks on the colony, which involved crossing the Fish and Keiskamma rivers’. Maqoma’s descendants, and members of the Jingqi clan123, still refer to him by his official praise name, Jongumsobomvu, which translates as ‘watching the sunrise’ (Stapleton, 1993, p. 325). Colonial officials and missionaries were sometimes the subjects of izibongo. For example, ‘the Ngqika tribal bard … refers sarcastically to the “guardianship” of Charles Brownlee124 over Sandile, so choosing his words that the “guardianship” looks like the herding of a domestic animal by its master’ (Jordan, 1973, pp. 60–61). This demonstrates the ‘vision of the tribal bards themselves was broadening, and their tribes had begun to regard themselves as units of a much bigger whole than hitherto’ (Jordan, 1973, p. 81). It indicates political consciousness as it takes shape within oratory practice. Importantly, S.E.K. Mqhayi also began to compose izibongo about white people (Ndletyana, 2008, p. 57). For example his 1925 izibongo was addressed to the Prince of Wales and criticised British colonisation (Saule, 2011, p. 189). The iimbongi began to publish their own poems in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The development of isiXhosa periodicals adapted the oral form of imbongi to the written word and spearheaded an indigenous Xhosa ‘intellectualism’ (Ndletyana, 2008). IsiXhosa periodicals first appeared in 1837, and they were the first African- language publications in South Africa. What began as a missionary effort to spread the word of the Christian god through the establishment of an isiXhosa literary culture became a platform for new developments in izibongo (Opland, 1998, p. 225). At this time, readers were encouraged to write letters and participate in dialogue, even though these early publications faced tight editorial control by missionaries (Opland, 1998, pp. 230–231). It was only with the founding of the newspaper Isigidimi samaXosa in 1881 (Ndletyana, 1998, p. 2) that the Xhosa gained some editorial control. In 1884, John Tengo Jabavu founded the newspaper Imvo zabantsundu which allowed space for Xhosa writers to contribute and included ‘political content’ which ‘exploded with

123 The Jingqi are a Xhosa clan named after Maqoma’s prized bull (Soga, 1930, p. 63) 124 Charles Brownlee was Commissioner of the Ngqika (Peires, 1989). The context of this verse in unclear and could refer to Sandile’s refusal to ‘believe’ Nongqawuse’s prophecies. 229 traditional literature125 and featured historical articles including izibongo in honour of chiefs and prominent people’ (Opland, 1998, p. 240). Western style poetry began to be written and published in the late 1800s. In addition, izibongo in the traditional style was developing into a written form specifically for print. Arguably, iimbongi didn’t just adapt their style to literacy, or passively submit to it. They actively harnessed print literacy for indigenous political purposes. In 1884 Thomas Mqanda, a Peddie126 leader, criticised Jabavu for his ‘involvement with white politics’ in a poem employing the traditional metaphoric and poetic form, and as such he fulfilled the traditional function of an imbongi in a written form (Opland, 1998, p. 242). It was the influential and widely esteemed iimbongi Samuel Edward Krune Mqhayi who fused traditional and western styles of poetry. He introduced rhyme, syllabic meter and a sense of rhythm to the lines of his poetry (Ndletyana, 2008b, pp. 58–59).

Image 21: Zanzolo and Pzho, outside Pzho's studio out the back of his home, Khayelitsha, 2011 (photo by S. Dowsett) Role of the poet: political commentary The role of iimbongi in Xhosa society is an important precursor to the development of hip-hop in Khayelitsha. It is a connection that hip-hop heads in the township draw

125 There was a wide readership among the Xhosa as ‘African enrolment in government aided schools rose to 49,555 by 1887 … by 1887 more than 2000 pupils had received secondary education at Lovedale alone (Ndletyana, 2008, p. 3) 126 An isiXhosa-speaking chiefdom. 230 explicitly when they compare the role of the hip-hop emcee to the imbongi. Zanzolo (pictured on the left, with pioneering spaza producer Pzho, in Image 21, previous page) states, ‘the emcee serves the same function that the iimbongi used to – to speak up for the people – he could talk over even the king’ (interview 2011). Mafeje (1967, p. 195) argues that the imbongi’s ‘main function’ was ‘to interpret public opinion and to organize it’. Here, Zanzolo is noting that the role of the iimbongi was never simply to praise but in fact, to act more as a mediator, a de-facto adviser or ‘voice of the people’ – a distinctively collective form of attention with anti-authoritarian potential. The role that iimbongi play in Xhosa society has changed over time as societal structures and governance have changed – particularly in response to the unprecedented oppressive tactics of the apartheid state. Yet, a number of key aspects remain. Traditionally, the imbongi was attached to the chief and sang his praises (Mafeje, 1967). However, this was not the only function of the imbongi as AC Jordan (1973, pp. 59–60) explains: The “praises of the chiefs” deal primarily with the happenings in and around the tribe during the reign of a given chief, praising what is worthy and decrying what is unworthy, and even forecasting what is going to happen … the African bard is a chronicler as well as being a poet. The chief is only the centre of the praise-poem because he is the symbol of the tribe as a whole.

The root word bonga means not only to praise but also to condemn (Kunene cited in Lo, 2009, p. 66). Thus the imbongi, as Zanzolo pointed out, also had a sanctioned role as a voice of the people, and this role included voicing discontent and the imbongi ‘had the privilege of criticising the chief in his poetry with impunity’ (Opland, 1998, p. 17). That is, the role of the iimbongi was deeply political. Kaschula (1993, p. 66) argues that ‘[t]he role of the imbongi as mediator and as political and social commentator in relation to the power base of the community within which he operates had been retained over time’. This can be seen in the role of iimbongi in union movements during the apartheid era. As Gunner (1986, p. 35) documented, ‘[t]he izibongo are a unique tool in raising worker’s consciousness of their union and its role in their lives as workers. Yet they are also quite clearly an expression of a strong and old art form with its roots deep in social and political awareness’. The affective power of the imbongi is described by Nelson Title Mabunu, an imbongi to the Chief Minister of the Transkei Kaiser Matanzima, in an interview with Jeff Opland (1998, p. 24) in 1970: An imbongi could be dangerous. He could incite people. He can incite people, because in the olden days when there’s going to be a war … you would always

231 find an imbongi. That is where and when the imbongi was regarded as a very important man because he would sing praises that even those, you know, who have got, you know, water in their hearts could go out, you know, could go out fully and fight .

The power of poetry and verbal art as a weapon is recognised by both iimbongi generally and emcees in Khayelitsha. Zanzolo’s group (Uzwi Kantu, 2012) released their second album in 2012. It is entitled Iimbongi Zihlasela ngoSiba which means ‘poets who fight or attack with the pen’ (artists’ translation). Mic Substance utilises this same statement on the cover of her 2009 album Fungwa Uhuru meaning ‘freedom of the mind’. This mirrors the Christian Xhosa writer, intellectual and activist Isaac Wauchope’s 1882 poem Yilwani ngosiba or ‘fight with this pen’, published in the isiXhosa newspaper Isigidimi samaXosa (Mona, 1999, p. 58). In this poem he urged his people to continue the struggle for their rights through education and dialogue (Mona, 1999, p.58). This poem came at a time when the amaXhosa had suffered great dispossession of lands and wealth, chiefs had been incarcerated on Robben Island or murdered (such as King Hintsa) and lung disease among cattle and the cattle killing had wrought widespread devastation. The Xhosa tribes were redefining themselves, and the role of iimbongi reflected this by beginning to expand beyond the tribe and they commented on the colonial conflict and its impact on all of the tribes (Jordan, 1973, p. 81). This is evident in the lyrics of Wauchope’s poem which pleads Ngxasha, ngxasha, ngeinki, Hlala esitulweni; Ungangeni kwaHoho; Dubula ngosiba

[translation cited in Jordan 1973:] Load, load it with ink Sit in your chair; Don’t head for Hoho Fire with your pen.

Mona (1999) explains the national significance of leaving Hoho – a mountain – for the Xhosa. Hoho served as a shelter during frontier wars and as such Citashe claims it has ‘a broader identity that transcends ethnic and racial boundaries’ (Mona, 1999, p. 59). Xhosa history and literature are vitally important to MC Zanzolo. He took the name Zanzolo as his emcee name during his ‘time in the bush’ (traditional male initiation or isiko lokwaluka) as it is a praise name of King Hintsa. Hip-hop in Khayelitsha has developed in a specific way. The first hip-hop artists

232 to emerge were much more immersed in white Western culture as they were among a handful of block youth that went to formerly white schools outside the townships. They brought hip-hop back to the ‘hood. The second generation of hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha were much more immersed in Xhosa culture – partly by virtue of most of them having spent much more time in the rural areas of the Eastern Cape. As such, the art and role of the emcee is often understood through their different background of experience which is has stronger links with cultural traditions and practices. Thus, Xhosa culture is both an interpretive tool and recognised as a form of resistance which can be harnessed through hip-hop. Zanzolo was part of an activist hip-hop collective largely based in Khayelitsha, called Sounds of the South, who were part of organising a ‘counter-festival,’ called the Rhini festival. This festival runs adjacent to the Grahamstown festival and hosts free hip-hop and music events in townships near the festival. ‘Rhini’ is the isiXhosa name for Grahamstown. The counter festival aimed to disrupt the elitism of what has become the biggest arts festival in South Africa. Part of their issue with the festival is that Xhosa culture is only represented through traditional dances and songs performed by people from deep in the rural areas. There is no funding at the Grahamstown festival available to support the expression of Xhosa culture and identity through hip-hop as only strictly traditional forms are included as a superficial demonstration of ‘multiculturalism.’ This reflects the deeply ingrained strangle hold that bounded notions of ‘culture’ have in South African public discourse as well as academia.

Improvisation and Freestyle A key feature of Xhosa iimbongi in contrast with other praise poets of is their skill at improvisation - they compose the poem during the performance (Mafeje, 1963, p. 91; Kaschula, 1997a; Opland, 1998, p. 4). In the Zulu tradition of praise poetry the iimbongi memorise izibongo passed down through generations (Neser, 2011). Opland (1974) at first assumed that improvisation was a result of a declining tradition of memorised praise poem127. However, in later publications, notably his book Xhosa Poets and Poetry (1998), Opland argues that there is in fact no historical evidence that improvisation is a new phenomenon. The earliest transcriptions of Xhosa

127 Perhaps this was due to the preoccupation with the impact of print literacy on ‘oral cultures’ from the 1960s onwards – such as Walter Ong (1982) – and the argument that ‘writing cultures’ have very different practices of memory. 233 praise poems by Mpilo Walter Benson Rubusana was published in 1906, in a collection of Xhosa epic poetry and religious essays entitled Zemk’Inkomo Magwalandini (‘there goes your heritage/cattle you cowards’ – with the word iinkomo translating literally as cattle but refering to heritage). This publication was based on poems that could be readily written down formally. It thus excluded more improvisational forms of poetry because of the problem of transcribing. The process of both documenting and transcribing with a pen only (with no other means for recording other than through long hand transcription) meant that more experimental and improvisational uses of language were ironed out and/or lost in the process – not that they didn’t exist at the time (Opland, 1998, pp. 15–16). Freestyle rhyme, or improvisational rapping, is the mode of rap performed in a cypher and in a rap battle. In hip-hop history, ‘freestyle’ was originally, as explains, a rhyme that you wrote that was free of style, meaning that it’s not [on] a [particular] subject matter … it’s basically a rhyme just bragging about yourself, so it’s free of style … Off-the-top-of-the-head [rapping], we just called that “off the dome” – when you don’t write and [you] say whatever comes to mind’ (cited in Edwards, 2009, p. 182).

However, the meaning of the term evolved in the late 1980s to early 1990s into what is recognised today as strictly improvised rhyme. Mikah 9 from the Freestyle Fellowship – a group from Los Angeles – states, ‘we have redefined what freestyle is by saying that it’s improvisational rap like a jazz solo’ (cited in Edwards, 2009, p. 182). Freestyle is not just ‘like a jazz solo’ – these two art forms share deep roots in African American embodied aesthetics of musical and oral performance. A greater historical relationship links hip-hop, jazz and African American preaching. Kernfeld (1997, p. 193) notes the direct influence of the improvisatory style of African American preachers on jazz. In the film, Freestyle: The Art of Rhyme, New Orleans Jazz musician and historian, Eluard Bert II, links hip-hop freestyle directly to the improvisational style of Southern gospel preachers, Rap is just a stem, a part on the branch that comes from what we are all about. The preacher … in order to get the church … and the movement … he has to get more than just the cadence going, he has to get the rhythm going. And it’s the rhythm that signifies and identifies where he goes next and if it gets good then the preacher’s no longer speaking he’s just making sounds. Free style, where you just respond to the impulse … has to be the most spiritual, right? ‘cause you don’t have no idea what you’re going to say next … because it’s coming from something that isn’t directed. It’s so spiritual we don’t need an explanation. We

234 don’t need a book. We are musicians. We are poets’ (in Fitzgerald, 2000)

This demonstrates a continuity of aesthetic and compositional approaches to music and vocal performance. Du Bois (1903) also links African American preachers directly to African religion. Henry (2006) argues that improvisation is not only a key pan-African aesthetic but also an intellectual and philosophical method including that of Du Bois himself. While this doesn’t link directly back to specifically Xhosa methods of composition and aesthetics of verbal art forms it does make it easy for connection to be felt by spaza emcees. Mawethu feels that the emcee and the imbongi are the same due to their use of improvisation as a method of composition: For [it] is the same thing ‘cause the iimbongis are not writers they spit from the head (something like freestyles but glorify the chief, king, or hero or situation or circumstances. Yeah for me is the same - imbongi is the original MC and is just now we are modernised we live in the life of today. Yeah for me is the same thing

This is also demonstrated where certain spaza emcee’s in Khayelitsha don’t write their lyrics down but instead compose through freestyle either in the studio or memorising their lyrics for a song they want to record or recite. This made it difficult to collect lyrics. MC Kideo’s approach to composition demonstrates this issue, I asked Kideo if he could write down some of his lyrics for me but he said he won’t be able to. He doesn't write. He has tried before but can’t get past one line. He only freestyles or comes up with lyrics in his mind and records them on his phone as he freestyles. He thinks up raps at like 3 in the morning and then comes to Mashonisa the next day, ‘yo! I got a rap we got to record!’ He tells me he has to record it soon otherwise he forgets because he ‘can only freestyle’ (Fieldnotes July 2011)

Zanzolo, who strongly relates to the form of the imbongi states that: I prefer to just freestyle now, I just like to freestyle. No battles, no serious battles…I don’t feel freestyling on the mic actually. It should happen like spontaneously like in a cypher. You shouldn’t plan freestyle or it won’t come out - it has to be spontaneous (interview November 2011).

Emage also prefers to just let inspiration come to him, ‘you let it flow within you’, and often freestyles as a method of composing raps. Another example can be seen in a group discussion at Mashonisa’s studio in 2011: The other guys in the room call him ‘imbongi mthonyama’ which they translate for me as ‘indigenous/traditional freestyler’. Kideo tells me he feels more comfortable when not prepared. He relates a story of how he has been hassling El Nino from DMK [Driemanskap – a popular spaza crew from Gugulethu] to battle

235 for the past month or so and he (El Nino) has been busy preparing and keeps delaying, but Kideo just wants to battle him.

The fact that many spaza emcees freestyle is nothing unique in terms of hip-hop. What is unique, however, is that they understand this practice through Xhosa cultural forms that they have witnessed, practiced, or have been inspired by often before they encountered hip-hop.

Open platform It is important to appreciate that the distinctive improvisation and spontaneity of imbongi is according to Opland (1998), not only a capacity that belongs to the elite poets (or whatever) but a more generalised skill that Xhosa people possess. According to Opland (1998, p. 5-6), Many Xhosa speakers, especially those living in the rural areas, have the ability to compose poetry spontaneously … In the rural areas it is not uncommon to see someone stand up at a ceremony and burst into spontaneous poetry … the poets here feel themselves inspired and moved by the specific occasion, and give expression to emotion through energetic verbalisation.

The capacity of Xhosa speakers to give poetic oratory publically, creatively, spontaneously, is a major factor enabling the uptake of hip-hop in unique ways in Khayelitsha. It explains Kideo’s statement that the reason he can freestyle is ‘because’ he ‘is Xhosa.’ Kideo explained to me when we were visiting his grandmother in Lady Frere, an entirely isiXhosa-speaking rural area in the Eastern Cape, that there are many people in the village who can ‘do poetry’ but they are not all iimbongi. (There was however, an 11-year-old boy who lived near-by who was reportedly, and thus, notoriously because of his young age, considered to be an official iimbongi. In an interview with Opland, Richard Mfamana a ‘popular Xhosa composer’ explained, ‘It is a general capacity. I don’t know why, but our people have got that gift. You can just stand up and praise on the spur of the moment’ (Mfamana cited in Opland, 1998, p. 7). Open mic sessions that I attended in the Xhosa townships of both Gugulethu and Khayelitsha were open platform, that is, any emcee or intending emcee could put their name on a list at the beginning of the session to perform a track (as discussed in Chapter Four). This reflects an expectation among the Xhosa that anyone can ‘speak their piece.’ J. McLaren (2011, pp. v-vi), in his 1914 preface to the first edition of his Concise

236 Xhosa-English Dictionary, describes how the amaXhosa have been ‘developing their language and their oratorical powers at the same time in endless court cases and discussions on tribal affairs, in which everyone was expected to be able to stand up for himself or express his opinion and did so with the happy absence of self-consciousness that is characteristic of the African’. Archie Mafeje (1963) notes a unique traditional style of open-forum amongst Xhosa called inkundla, with a community and collectivist sense of involvement and right to respond through public oration. Jordan (1973, p. 106) explains that S.E.K. Mqhayi’s introduction to the art of imbongi was at such an event, ‘he used to sit spell bound, listening to inkundla orations. It was there that he first listened to izibongo’. Mafeje (1963) describes the audience reception during a visit from a Thembu Chief, Mtikrakra from the Transkei in 1961 to the community of Langa, Cape Town. This visit took place amidst growing mistrust of chieftainship, due to the co-option and corruption of chiefs by the state/government and the consequent perception of chiefs as ‘nomantshingilane (police spies)’, during this period (Mafeje, 1963, p. 89). The chief began speaking but was interrupted by an ‘uproar from the audience’ and Mafeje (1963, p. 89) notes that, ‘This would never have happened in the traditional forum (inkundla), where every man is listened to with respect, no matter how naive he may be’. The corporeal context of the cypher is also not an entirely foreign configuration of bodies. MC Steel explained his perspective: To me hip-hop is a subculture … because I already have a culture … I have to maintain my culture outside of hip-hop ... Hip-hop started in Africa because the way the elders sat and talked it was just like a cypher …and there’s also ways in which you speak and you can’t just speak if you have nothing to say (interview, 2009).

Xhosa has a particular form of collective song and dance activity called Xhentsa. Xhentsa may be organised by anyone and consists of ‘a special kind of stamping rhythmic movement with the emphasis on the vigorous pounding of the feet on the ground while slowly moving in a circle … It is a ritual dance accompanied by clapping of the hands, singing of special songs and beating of a drum’ (Bührmann, 1981, p. 188). The practice of coming together as a group in a tight circle to perform song, with close, repetitive body movements expressed in rhythm through spontaneous vocalisation has deep historical roots. Xhentsa among the Xhosa remains a contemporary practice today. It mirrors very closely the hip-hop cypher and the open mic session where the crowd gathers closely around the performer (which can be anyone from the crowd): a public

237 performance ‘staging’ where the performer is not separated by a formal stage.

Poetic forms: continuities and differences between traditional oral literature and emceeing Xhosa conventions of story (ntsomi), song (ngoma), and poetry (izibongo) all utilise a common specific method of composition which involves well known phrases, or in the case of iimbongi praise names, coupled with improvisation during performance. Scheub (1970) describes this in relation to storytelling and a ‘technique of the expansible image.’ The images or ‘core-cliché[s] (a song, chant or saying)’ (Scheub, 1970, p. 122) are regarded as being ancient and coming from the ancestors (Zenani, 1992, p. 7-8) and yet they are interpreted and elaborated on during performance and thus no two performances are of the same text (Scheub, 1970; Zenani, 1992). Dierdre Hansen (1981, p. 235) argues that, ‘certain words and phrases were always retained, these being the important, identifying phrases of the songs. These ‘fixed’ words constituted the standard texts of songs, and all other words are the result of spontaneous improvisation on the part of the singers’. With regard to the performance of izibongo, iimbongi utilize the praise names of ancestors, chiefs, or public figures specifically and repeatedly and elaborate – in narrative or descriptive form (Jordan, 1973, p. 21) ‘extend[ing these] into praise verses or praise stanzas…Names are the irreducible core of izibongo’ (Opland, 1998, p. 86-87). In spaza hip-hop an example of this hybrid form of structuring story, song, poetry can be seen in MC Axo’s track called yibethe which literally translates as ‘beat it.’ The track became very well-known in the spaza scene and was often cited on the Headwarmaz (hip-hop Radio show) Facebook page as one of the iconic spaza songs. Axo explains how fast the track was elaborated, claimed collectively, remixed and claimed again, as it became part of a greater community owned song: when I was recording this one Van de Merwe [an emcee from Backyard Crew] was in the studio and he was like ‘tjoh!, there’s no way you can write this track alone!’ So I let him put a verse. Then phoenix came and also wanted to record a track … so now there was two tracks - the original and then the remix with Van D and Phoenix. Van D took it on a flash drive but he lost it. Then the next week I heard some kids banging that beat … (interview November 2011)

After the remix was leaked (unofficially released) other emcees started asking Axo if they could also add a verse. He released seven remixes with artists such as Styles, Manqoba, Rezervoir, Test, Ma-B (from DMK), Madnes (Sound Masters Crew), Argo, 238 and others. Axo explains the process of remixing his track: What I did with it, after I did that remix cats started coming up to me ‘yo, can I also lace a verse on that track’ … no-one has ever done that in spaza - took one track then put different cats on the same track with the same beat…you know what I mean and each and every remix I had a new verse. That’s what killed everybody … it’s a gangsta joint in a way … it’s like … I’m saying ‘beat it’ as in, ‘if you come to my hood and you don’t behave right, you beat it, if you come to my hood and you disrespect me, beat it!’ You know? Cos, it has the same … you know … Like, ‘na na na na na na na na. Yibethe! Da da da da da da da da da da. Yibethe!’ (interview November 2011)

The use particularly of the rhythm of Yibethe by others – it’s capacity to be remixed by others – illustrates the potential for individual re-interpretation of a story or how collective ownership of a catchy chorus, a ‘core-cliché’ can be ‘developed, expanded, detailed’, as a method of a distinctive oral iterative performance. I witnessed this repetition-with-a-difference directly where a refrain of Kideo’s – like a chorus – has been rapped by other emcees during a freestyle session on separate occasions as a method of linking their own freestyle into the session. This capacity to riff by repetition and sampling of others, is not simply one inherent to hip-hop methods but rather, already exists in Xhosa song and oratory styles. Another example is MC Abstract, from Queenstown (in the Eastern Cape), whom I met at an open mic session organized by MC Metabolism in central Cape Town. Abstract, as demonstrated below, identifies a clear connection between emcees and the art of iimbongi. He uses the same approach to composition and improvisation, I haven’t written in years … for me I make a beat. I freestyle to it … I take the best four lines and repeat them to create the chorus for the beat … so that the mentality and the what you call it? … the substance that was supposed to come through the song when I made it sticks to it … so even when I freestyle I stick to the concept because the chorus always reminds me of what I am supposed to do.

The vocal style of iimbongi markedly differs from the fast paced deliberately rhythmic meter of rap: The imbongi’s lines display control of tone, breath and sense. The line usually starts on a high pitch and slides down to a low, often drawn-out penultimate syllable; it is uttered in one breath; and it makes sense on its own…a breath group is thus also a sense group, and it has a distinctive pattern of intonation…the imbongi may maintain his high tone over a number of successive lines that he considers a unit before dropping to his low-tone concluding formula (Opland, 1998, p. 23)

This is distinct from rap where an intimate interaction between the voice as a percussive instrument and the beat are essential. Different rhythms are employed and demonstrate

239 the skill of the emcee; rapping off beat and then falling back into sync with the beat for variation; rapping very fast such as and then slowing back to a more laid back pace as can be seen in the style of well known hip-hop artists like Busta Rhymes (mid-1990s USA hip-hop), or Andre 3000 (of Outkast – a Southern American hip-hop group that gained global commercial success in 2000); Kachula (1997a, p. 184) describes the style of iimbongi as ‘formulaic, copious, and repetitive, with no regular meter’. In ‘prewritten’ raps repetition is predominantly confined to the chorus though some artists occasionally employ repetition for particular effect. To a hip-hop ear the sound of imbongi is foreign. I asked Zanzolo if there was an aesthetic connection between izibongo and rap. He explained, Ja, the phrases that I use … the metaphors … the idioms … even the pauses that I use for instance there’s this verse that I do in Mic Substances album … it goes like this [demonstrates imbongi style] …its similar but just that I take the voice down and give it a bit of a flow … there is much alliteration … those qa qa qa’ (Zanzolo interview 2011).

However, the first song on Zanzolo’s second album ‘Unendlebe uje Unetyala’ (self- released) directly utilises the vocal conventions of iimbongi and is an izibongo. Track 1 by Vuku Vuku is an introduction to Zanzolo’s group. Uzwi Kantu, which praises MC Qalazive and Zanzolo in the traditional style of an imbongi, ‘Ahhhhhhhhhh! Zanzolo!’ There is no background music or beats, no rhyming pattern, and the rhythm is based around breaths rather than syllables and timing. This album juxtaposes the different styles highlighting the differences but also demonstrating the capacities of Xhosa youth to develop ‘new’ ways of doing ‘old’ things. While the imbongi and the emcee have many similarities and hip-hop artists claim them to be the same izibongo (poems) and rap song are decidedly not the same thing – when we detach them from the role of the artist and the embodied experience their differences are highlighted.

The experience of ‘flow’ and divine inspiration MC Mawethu claims a connection between the emcee and the imbongi through a common feeling and inspiration to perform: ‘Imbongi are born not make right? …are not introduced [ie not trained] they just come out of the blue cause they feel like that yeah fire! (pers. comm. 2015). For both iimbongi and emcees there is no formal training process – other than self-directed witnessing of, and attention to, other performers and

240 honing one’s own skill and unique style – rather they do what they do because they feel inspired. Furthermore, both emcees and iimbongi the inspiration for performance is inexplicable ‘they just come out of the blue cause they feel that yeah fire.’ In an interview with Scheub (2010, p.190) an imbongi explains ‘Even if my son wants to be an imbongi, he can’t learn to be an imbongi. It’s just – it’s a feeling! It’s a feeling’. Another imbongi, Mandisa Tele states that ‘[t]o praise is in the blood – it comes from my ancestors’ and ‘You feel something specific. But you don’t know what is being sent to you. There is something which says speak! And you speak’ (in Kaschula, 2002, p. 181) At the end of 2011, I was regularly attending an open mic session that MC Metabolism was hosting at Ragazzi Live Bar - a nightclub on Long Street on the upstairs level of a shop, ‘Home of African Art.’ After a powerful performance from an emcee called Abstract Fathom I approached him to see if we could talk about his style. MC Abstract – a particularly skilled freestyler from Queenstown (a town in the Eastern Cape which in the 1930s was known as ‘Little Jazz Town’). He elaborated on his own approach to freestyle, Abstract: I just do freestyle. It’s all about the moment and embracing it - letting it embrace you … there are many freestylers [in Queenstown] I could call it the ‘home of free styling’ … when it came to free styling. Started practicing every day, started reading books. Speak knowledge, speak substance … coming from somewhere to teach something rather than just free styling, taking words from air. Coming from somewhere, coming with a point of view. That’s how reading can help you with freestyle. Watching movies, watching documentaries, speaking with people … it is all a process of building your freestyle

Researcher: Is there a connection between imbongi and hip-hop?

Abstract: Yes, there is. Because that’s where it comes from actually. You will find there are preachers who used to preach without even opening the bible. And that’s just in recent ages like for a minute here I will take back the history of the Xhosa…because they had the knowledge so they could speak from their minds, from their understanding. Not just reading a line from the book and expecting people to feel the spirit because the spirit has to be shown through you because you are the one who is made in the image of God … With iimbongi you find imbongi mntonyama and this person will speak praises, profound praises to this … to people … kings … or let’s say the person who is being buried at that time…with no reciting from … I wouldn’t … I won’t even say mind, that is a huge understatement … from spirit. It’s all spirit. It’s all wind power. It comes through spirit and they speak through the spirit. And through freestyle you’ll learn that that is actually what you reach. You speak through spirit. And every time you think thought is the enemy of the moment … because the moment comes to you and it represents … abundant awareness, abundant energy …

241 meanwhile the thought tries to contain it and limit it … so it’s important not to think when you are free styling … keep on flowing … don’t care about rhyming … only care about making sense and actually expressing what you feel in the moment. The rhymes will come as you go … It’s heavenly. It’s unexplainable (interview Nov 2011)

This connection to ‘spirit’ as the driving force or source of inspiration for the imbongi is known as umoya (spirit) and, as the imbongi Ngcama states, ‘belongs to ithongo’ (trance/dream) (cited in Scheub, 2010, p. 190). The history of preaching in the style of the imbongi goes back to Ntsikana (1780-1821) who was the first isiXhosa-speaking Christian convert (Jordan, 1973; Booi, 2008). He was illiterate and was an igqirha (Jordan, 1973, p. 20) an imbongi, a prophet and is regarded as the first ‘Xhosa intellectual’ (Booi, 2008). Ntsikana interpreted Christianity through Xhosa concepts, forms of worship and oral performance. Nstikana praised the Christian God through composing hymns in the traditional style in which an imbongi would praise a chief or an ancestor (Kaschula, 1995, p. 67; Jordan, 1973). Preaching in the style of iimbongi continues in African churches today (Kaschula, 1995). The creative zone or state that emcees get into when performing or freestyling has been noted by many hip-hop artists and also by musicians, artists, poets, athletes more generally. Freestyle performance is a heightened state of focus. Commenting on this ‘zone’ in the documentary film Freestyle the art of rhyme (2000), Bobbitto, a Radio DJ in New York states that, ‘the ultimate in hip-hop is that fleeting moment of escape.’ This is a ‘higher state of consciousness’. It is also noted by hip-hop artists more generally, such as DJ Qbert from the Invisbl Skratch Piklz in the documentary Scratch (Pray, 2001). Many artists from Khayelitsha also note this element. MC Metabolism claims he never has any recollection of what happened during his performance because he enters another ‘zone.’ The term ‘flow’ is common in hip-hop and has been described and analysed in depth by Maxwell (2003) directly in relation to freestyle and hip-hop practice. Maxwell (2003) connects this experience to Turner’s ‘communitas’ (as discussed in Chapter Four) but also in relation to the theorisation of flow by Csikszentmilhayi. ‘Flow’ is also being used in psychological literature to refer to a heightened state of consciousness and has increasingly become the subject of research of positive psychology and in neuropsychology. ‘Flow’ in these terms is characterised by an ‘[i]ntense and focused concentration on what one is doing in the present moment,’ ‘Merging of action and

242 awareness,’ ‘Loss of reflective self-consciousness,’ ‘Distortion of temporal experience’ (Nakamura & Csikszentmihalyi, 2002, p. 90). Recent research using MRI scans to chart activity in the brain of emcees performing freestyle shows that the part of the brain that ‘censors’ speech before we speak is bypassed (Liu et al., 2012). Improvisation requires a letting go of self-censorship – and ‘losing oneself’ in the moment. Spontaneous improvisation is a particular method common to Xhosa oral performance and is associated with this feeling of ‘flow’ and is understood as stemming from a ‘divine inspiration.’ As such, this experience in hip-hop has a precursor in the complex Xhosa category of experience called ukuthwasa, Utkuthwasa is used to explain the experience of iimbongi performance as Russell Kaschula’s (1993, p. 67) elaborates on this point in his description of the imbongi Bongani Sitole, Sitole states that his ability to produce oral poetry depends entirely on circumstances. The occasion and the audience will largely determine whether or not he feels inspired to perform. When in the mood, Sitole will burst forth, declaiming poetry of whose exact content he is often unaware. He accounts for this as part of a process of ukuthwasa, movement into a higher state of emotional intensity which is also associated with Xhosa ritual and religious expression.

Ukuthwasa is a state of consciousness, or affliction, associated with the calling to become an igqirha (traditional healer/diviner) (Bührmann, 1981, p. 188). Among isiXhosa-speaking people there are two main categories of traditional healers; igqirha (diviner) predominantly women, and ixhwele (herbalist or ‘lightning doctor’) predominantly men (Hirst, 2005; Mlisa, 2009). The calling from the ancestors to become a healer is akin to the calling from the ancestors to ukubonga (to praise/perform poetry). Thwasa is also the state through which amagqirha128 communicate with ancestors (Kaschula, 1997b, p. 20). Thwasa is also ‘an overflow of powerful feeling’ in the performance of music (Norris, 2003, p. 21). Kaschula (2002, p. 183) argues that the imbongi and the igqirha often ‘experience the same feeling of thwasa’. MC Kideo’s description of how it feels to freestyle as ‘it’s like getting hit by a train’ describes a similar sense of a feeling of being possessed or taken over by forces that are not of your own making but to which you must surrender. The sensation is physical and takes shape at the level of feelings. The feelings of a heightened state of consciousness during moments of creative inspiration which take on spiritual significance is noted in Xhosa culture. Penny Norris (2003, p. 14) states that among the

128 ‘ama-’ as a prefix indicates the plural form. 243 amaXhosa, ‘the intestine [umbilini] is the place where the gods [sic] speaks us – and we hear their voices, feel their grip, and know the terror of their power in our guts’129. She also states that, ‘Perception and meaning flow from the guts … sacred rites maintain a connection to the flow of feeling from the umbelini’ (Norris, 2003, p. 15). Zanzolo interprets his feeling of being repeatedly drawn back to hip-hop through the concept of ukuthwasa in his work. He has an unrecorded rap song that utilises ukuthwasa as a metaphor but instead of being called to become an igqirha he is being called to hip-hop because he has tried to give up hip-hop but cannot escape the calling (interview 2011). Most emcees struggle to make any money at all from their art form. All the emcees in Khayelitsha were not making a living out of it. Rattex was the only signed artist (with Pioneer Unit).

Praising ancestors Music, song, speech are traditionally methods of connecting to the ancestors. As Mic Substance states, regarding the connection between hip-hop and traditional culture, ‘yes even spiritually … because music is a way of expressing yourself … music is not just something that came now … music is a way of connecting with your ancestors, connecting with god’ (interview 2011). Spaza emcees praise in their raps, a formal practice directly inherited from iimbongi. MC Chumani states, My rap is connected a lot to my religion … I can say man, I do praises, so that’s one of the connections – when I am praising yo. And when I go into Eastern Cape. So, if I want to do more [accomplish more in his life] I always praise my ancestors. Some of them [goals] I am actually achieving them … When I’m spitting lyrics I do praise them (Interview 2011)

MC Rattex, pioneer of spaza, notes the praises in raps but that they are done in a different way, ‘yeah like for example like, Driemanskap, I would say they are doing like praises but in a hip-hop way … and I would say a lot of rappers are following, like, their roots’ (interview 2013). Driemanskap are a spaza crew from Gugulethu that are the most successful spaza crew and one of the only crews signed to a label – Pioneer Unit. Their track Camagu from the album Igqabhukil' Inyongo (2009) is an example of praising in lyrics. The title of the track Camagu is a complex term that is used in ritual speech in Xhosa traditional ceremonies and has various meanings. Mlisa (2009, p. 99)

129 Though it is unclear whether by ‘gods’ she means Qamata – the Xhosa supreme being, or the ancestors. The ancestors mediate the connection between living and Qamata. 244 argues that it is something like the equivalent of Amen. Mndende (2002, p. 90) explains that the term ‘is believed to have originated in the realm of ancestors and therefore uttering it constitutes a call to the spiritual world of the ancestors’. At a point in the song by Driemanskap MC El Nino changes his vocal style to the style of an imbongi130 - his voice deepens, becomes more guttural, more emphatic and emotive. Yet he manages to stay in time whilst also maintaining the particular style of vocal stress on certain syllables typical of an imbongi’s speech pattern. This is followed by hip-hop style rap and then another verse in the imbongi style by MC Redondo, this time, in the film clip of the track dressed in traditional imbongi attire. In a conversation between MC Kideo and Madnes from Sound Masters Crew; K: as we are all aware our ancestors are into the … drums and stuff, the traditional stuff … so do they relate to your music, are they proud of you doing spaza? Don’t you think they would be more happy if you were doing what they were doing? M: nah I think, they should understand because of the generation … they hear what we say, it doesn’t matter what genre of music.

Praising in raps is an underdeveloped concept in this thesis due to a lack of specific examples of lyrics that demonstrate praising – genealogically or otherwise. This area requires more research to also investigate the perspectives of the wider isiXhosa- speaking community and iimbongi on what youth are doing with the art form – whether it is recognised and respected as ‘accurate,’ ‘authentic,’ or ‘true’ form of praising. Perhaps the most important aspect of izibongo is the praising of ancestors for when praising a chief, the ancestors are praised through reciting praise names and sometimes making up new ones. Here, it is important to appreciate that Xhosa have an expansive naming system. The way in which a chief, a clan or an individual is praised, is to praise his or her ancestors, through the poetic rendition of genealogy and the reciting of ancestor’s praise names (Opland, 1998, p. 88). Genealogical record of the clan is passed down through iziduko or clan praises. This is not simply a record, however, but is a spiritual connection to one’s ancestors. This continues to be crucial for spaza emcees in Khayelitsha as Emage and Chumani explained the relevance of clan names, your clan name represents you, who are you yebo. Who gave birth to whom, and whom gave birth to the other person, who created you? Do you get me? … or a

130 A music film clip of this track can be viewed at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WS0Dk-e2lRs El Nino switches styles at 1:10 in the track and continues for about 20 seconds. Compare this with an example of the imbongi Zolani Mkiva’s vocal style which can be viewed at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewzyqqynwQU 245 family tree you can put it that way, yebo. So … so if you don’t know that, then you don’t even know where you are from … or either where you are going (Emage 2011 interview)

If I didn’t know my clan names, I wouldn’t be praising my ancestors … that would affect me psychologically … others they are mentally disturbed because of that … eish! if I didn’t know my clan names I’d be lost even now (Chumani Agmaad 2011 interview)

Knowing one’s clan names enables praising of ancestors. And it keeps connection with traditional and collectivist mode of identity and identification, that is, prioritising identity that is kin based and collective as opposed to simply individual. Beyond providing an historical record, or creating and enabling traditional collectivist synergies, the praising of specific ancestors call them closer. Ancestors ‘are deeply involved in every aspect of their living kinfolks lives’ (Norris, 2003, p. 24). Norris (2003, pp. 25– 26) claims that: They say, “They are in me, and I know they are there when they are in me. I feel them. If they are happy with me, then I am happy with them, and I think of them always. They know that I am thinking of them. They think of me, and I know they are thinking of me.” The word think is an inadequate translation of the Xhosa – the closest might be something between our words understand, feel, know, and gnosis.

It is important to appreciate that communication with the ancestors is not restricted to the high forms of ritual and ceremonies designed to appease them (Mndende, 2002). Ancestors communicate through dreams, as Zanzolo explains, there are two different kinds of dreams, one of which is an ancestral dream which is real: ‘it is not a dream. Iphupha is a dream, but ithongo is something you have been told by the ancestors …. it’s something that is going to happen or it is something that has happened … it happens while you are sleeping but it is not a dream it is real.’ (interview 2011). As Mndende (2002, pp. 5–6) argues, ‘speaking to deceased relatives, and maintaining harmony with clan ancestors, is fundamental to the Xhosa religious life … constant communication with departed relatives brings holistic healing to their lives and their environment’. Linda Kwatsha, senior Xhosa lecturer at Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University argues that an enduring trait of the ‘imbongi yomthonyama (traditional oral poet)’ is the spiritual connection with the ancestors. Referring to poets that perform at organized events she explains, They go to the occasions ready with their performance. These are not iimbongi zomthonyama. The latter has a special relation with the ancestors and is told what

246 to say at a certain point in time. They do not attend the occasion prepared to perform - they are driven by the spirit …Today’s iimbongi zomthonyama appear on the programme. Secondly, these days, they are sometimes interrupted if they jump to convey praise singing when there is someone who is still giving a speech and asked to continue after the talk. The imbongi yomthonya who has the calling from the ancestors will never be able to continue praising because the spirit in him will be gone by then. (Kwatsha, 2012)

She points out that Opland and Kaschula missed a fundamental aspect of iimbongi which is the calling by the ancestors to praise. The iimbongi ‘appear on the programme’ which indicates that they plan to perform whereas traditionally performance is spontaneous. In the Western space of the lecture or public presentation iimbongi are prevented from performing spontaneously. This in itself indicates a fundamental misunderstanding, or worse denial, of Xhosa temporal modes of organising public speaking. This aspect of imbongi and the spiritual connection it indicates can be understood through the concept of umbilini (also spelt umbelini). Umbilini is translated as ‘intestines’ but also as ‘the inward thought, mind, purpose’ (McLaren, 2011, p. 13) or intuition (Mlisa, 2009). Umbilini has physical symptoms similar to anxiety, heart palpitations and heightened state of consciousness (Sandlana, 2014, p. 545). Mlisa (2009, p. 47) refers to Ntsikana and his calling (‘ubizo’) as ‘based more on being an imbongi…with naturally stimulated umbilini (intuition) and visions all being characteristics closely associated with ukuthwasa’131. This demonstrates a form of embodiment that cuts across and connects different temporal, cultural and linguistic events. During an intlombe (healing ritual or ‘séance’) the igqirha is called to sing by the ancestors through her umbilini (Bührmann, 1981, p. 191). She communicates with the ancestors through the umbilini – a practice specific to the Xhosa and distinct from other Nguni peoples who use bone throwing as a divining tool (Mlisa, 2009, p. 9). During the intlombe the umbilini is stimulated through song and dance (Bührmann, 1981, p. 196). An igqirha explains that, ‘With xhentsa something comes out of the body – then umbelini comes up and you do not know and you do not feel what you are doing. Then it comes down and you xhentsa like a normal person’ (Bührmann, 1981, p. 198). Hip-

131 ukuthwasa is ‘an inborn gift that manifests in afflictions and crises as a person grows’ (Mlisa, 2009, p. 6-7). It is often interpreted through western psychiatry as mental illness which continues until the person answers the call (ubizo), though it continues as ukuthwasa is ‘a calling, a process and a practice’ (Mlisa, 2009, p. 2). 247 hop artists often report this heightened state of consciousness as flow. Metabolism explained to me how he usually has no recollection of what happened during his performances (pers. comm. 2009). As Kaschula (1997, p. 177) argues: ‘The imbongi regard their ability to produce oral poetry as an inner unexplainable gift (stemming from some central inspiration point)’. The ‘inexplicable nature’ of his own gift is reflected in Mfura’s explanation in conversation with Kideo: Kideo: I hear like a lot of rhyming skill and flows in your rap Mfura: it just happens naturally when I write a song … flows come out when I listened to dope beats you see … flows just come out … (interview 2011)

Zanzolo has taken his emcee name from a praise name of the Gcaleka King Hintsa. One of the izibongo of this chief is called ‘A! Zanzolo!’ and refers to Hintsa by his praise name of Zanzolo (Rubusana cited in Opland, 1998, p. 46). I asked Zanzolo if he ever praises in his raps: I do but I have never recorded it … Not exactly as the traditional poet does, but I do. I can do that. I have done it before but I have never recorded that … but what I do it um … dingathi ndi’imbongi yosiba … khot’ izimbo zezontonyama [I promise/confirm that I am a poet with a pen … the style of my tongue (‘khota’- lick) will be of my people]. So I write in … you see the way the traditional poets does i- i- ipoetry … I write it in that way but I don’t do it in that way… ja I can say so but it’s difficult to explain but … isimbo is … indlela ndi … irap [the style is in the way/the path of rap] angayo xhawo mamel’sizo ingavaba … weimbongo umntonyam] (interview Nov 2011)

Zanzolo writes raps in the linguistic style of the imbongi but performs them in a different way – with a different rhythm – thus, a transformative hip-hop aesthetic style. Other emcees such as Madnes from Sound Masters Crew also praise their ancestors in their lyrics, claiming, ‘they hear what we say, it doesn’t matter what genre of music’ (interview Sept 2011). They argue specifically that their success as spaza hip- hop artists derive specifically from the praising of ancestors: ‘we wouldn’t be the Sound Masters Crew, would not be the same, because without the blessings that we are getting in Eastern Cape and our ancestors we would not be the Sound Masters Crew that we are today’

Conclusion Many emcees find a ‘natural’ connection between imbongi and the MC in terms of the role they play as social and political commentators. The practice of iimbongi, known as

248 ukubonga (‘praising’), and emceeing share a key performative mode – improvisation or freestyle, and spontaneous public performance. Improvisation as a method of composition during performance is common to Xhosa oral traditions of song, story, poetry and ritual speech. The spontaneous cypher or battle, in hip-hop, differs markedly in terms of spatial structure from ukubonga which occurs at community and religious events. However, the structure of the cypher is mirrored in the tight circle of a xhentsa and as such is a familiar way of configuring bodies through practice. In the urban landscape of the township – hip-hop is a new way of bringing bodies together in a familiar and ancient way – close, collective, rhythmic, with a call and response form of vocality. Another connection identified is in the experiences of both iimbongi and emcees during performance which are outside ‘ordinary’ experience as they are characterised by a feeling of transcendence, flow, or a heightened state of consciousness. This is often identified explicitly as a religious or spiritual experience. Furthermore, the content of spaza raps sometimes include praises and some emcees clearly state that they believe this is an effective means of communicating with ancestors. The emcee is an imbongi figure in Khayelitsha. This figure provides a sense of continuity with earlier anti-colonial and subversive cultural forms of expression and embodiment, while also providing a critical perspective on history and the present. In strategically fusing specific (politically charged) forms of tradition with global visibility (and the lingua franca of hip-hop), the figure becomes a cypher for alternative forms of knowledge and sociability. Hip-hop in Khayelitsha is thus deeply political. It provides a contemporary, global, cool form of collective performance practice through which key aspects of Xhosa culture find easy expression. It provides a powerful and effective means of maintaining and adapting pre-existing (and co-existing) cultural forms. Effective because youth are turning to Xhosa literature (as noted in Chapter Five), are praising ancestors, are practicing culture (such as improvised vocality), and are calling for the maintenance of cultural traditions through hip-hop. This is crucial in light of the historical suppression and restriction of cultural innovation under apartheid where ‘ethnic’/linguistic groups were kept strictly separate (except where manual labour is concerned) and were seen as static (with concerted effort to ensure they ‘remain’ static).

249

Conclusion

The underlying question of this research was: what are youth in Khayelitsha doing with hip-hop and why does it matter? How does it matter, in terms of the more unspeakable aspects of colonisation, apartheid, continuing oppression and ongoing traumatic effects? How does hip-hop itself operate as a means of accessing what cannot otherwise be said or heard, as a response to colonialism? In the Introduction, I framed the focus of my inquiry in terms of hip-hop’s embodied transformative potential. With this framework in mind, I posed the following questions in order to unpack the initial underlying question: What is it that emceeing, as an enlivening embodied mode of collective storytelling, allows? What role is hip-hop playing in the lives of hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha? How can we better understand hip-hop’s potential for transforming the affective dimensions of private and public lives in the township context? What are the terms and conditions of this transformation? How does hip-hop’s unique storytelling allow youth to claim and exercise individual and collective agency? What kind of agency does embodied storytelling enable? How do the unconscious aspects of hip-hop as a somatic aesthetic give youth a form of agency? What are its capacities as an aesthetics of resistance? What does an analysis of movement, voice, affect and of the collective, provide in this context? To demonstrate why a focus on the body – as a cultural corporeal schema and not simply a mass of muscle, tissue and organs – is useful for illuminating hip-hop’s deeper political potential, I provided a topographical account of the findings of my research. I outlined the methodology and methods used – phenomenological anthropology and decolonial research – which facilitated my inquiry into the lived experience and political potential of hip hop. So, what are youth in Khayelitsha doing with hip-hop? On the surface, hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha are having public social fun: organising regular hip-hop events such as open mics (both in the township and in the city), street sessions, park jams, album launches. They are also using the format of emceeing – both privately/publicly during composition (such as freestyle during a cypher or jam), and publicly through recordings and live performances. Hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha are using rap to

250 express experiences and share stories for political change. Many aim to have a positive impact on local youth in the township, others want to laugh about it. Rap is used to convey messages deemed important in local terms and circuits, to win rap battles in the cypher, to keep the flow going in a freestyle session, to make people feel good, to motivate youth in the township. Most events feature artists with a variety of lyrical content including ‘conscious’ rap, ‘gangsta’ rap, party rap, message rap and numerous other categories. This suggests that there is nothing inherently politically or necessarily ‘progressive’ – at the level of lyrics – about hip-hop. Hip-hop does not guarantee the development of ‘critical consciousness’ in terms of a deep concern for, and a focus on, the bigger historical and global power relations (such as white supremacy, patriarchy, neoliberal consumer capitalism) which give rise to the material conditions of the ghetto or the township. As described in Chapter One, rap was originally part of a party tradition and aimed at amusing lyrics to get the crowd involved. Hip-hop does, however, create a space of ‘open discourse’. The presence of highly political rap in the same performance space as ‘apolitical’ rap is crucial in terms of Freire’s conditions for the development of critical consciousness – attention needs to be directed towards oppressive forces and historical inequalities. As discussed in Chapter Three, gangsta rap is controversial among artists in the spaza hip-hop scene, due to concerns about how it represents spaza and its potential negative effects on listeners. However, emcees such as Phoenix and Axo, who have some gangsta tracks in their repertoire, argue that gangsta lyrical content reflects their own experiences in the township. Phoenix explains that he always states, in his gangsta style tracks, the consequences of such a lifestyle. Furthermore, as Kideo argued, many young people in the townships don’t necessarily want to listen to rap that tells them what to do. This reflects MC Immortal Technique’s arguments that gangsta rap has the potential to reach ‘the unreachable’. The potential for gangsta rap to reach youth in Khayelitsha is an area that requires more research in terms of audience reception. Such research is crucial especially with regard to tracks such as Kideo’s freestyle, discussed in Chapter Six, which includes the skilled and creative use of tsotsitaal to tell a ‘story’ about consensual safe sex but in a way that cannot be construed as ‘preaching’ and as such, holds important potential for conveying crucial messages in a context where HIV/AIDS and rape are serious social concerns. As outlined in Chapter One, the over-policing of hip-hop as a genre of music holds it to standards which most popular music seems to escape. This is due to the high

251 burden of representation that black cultural forms face – the actions of one is held to represent the many and as such, ‘must’ represent a positive image to counteract negative stereotypes. In effect, this restricts the ‘freedom’ of the imagination which some (such as Sachs, 1991; Kelley, 2002; Du Bois, cited in Ogbar, 2007) argue is crucial for decolonisation. Recognising the diverse styles of lyrical content within hip-hop, and the importance of ‘open discourse’, brings me to the question of what these have in common. As I have argued in this thesis, hip-hop possesses a particular corporeal schema – is a particular way of grasping the world. Key practices – live performance events where such diverse lyrical content is present – involve a particular configuration of bodies. In order to understand what hip-hop in Khayelitsha ‘means’, it is necessary to treat hip hop as form of ‘expressive culture’ as Berger (2009) models: to look to how people ‘grapple’ with texts, objects, spaces, rhythms, bodies, and the material conditions of the ‘hood. This line of inquiry in my research required a methodological approach which could account for the lived experience of hip-hop artists. That is, I needed to account for hip-hop as it exists – bodily, socially, culturally, sonically, linguistically, spatially, temporally – in the township. It needed to be situated within broader historical forces – colonisation, apartheid, and cultural change. My approach required a focus on the sensory and corporeal aspects of hip-hop as an embodied practice. Consequently, I combined phenomenological ethnography with a focus on decolonising research. A focus on decolonisation firmly situated issues of power and agency within the historical contexts and continuing forms of oppression that participants face, to understand hip hop acts in response to colonialism. Rather than a given set of specific methodologies, both phenomenology and decolonisation provide a framework in which to approach methods – they provided a flexible and adaptive set of methods to fit the specific needs of the research. The effects are subtle but vitally important to conducting ethical research – not in terms of simply standard protocols such as consent – but in terms of not reinforcing oppression in the so-called ‘little’ interactions between researchers and participants in cross-cultural, interracial research. This is subtle but deeply felt – it is located in the lived and continuing interactions between researcher and participant, in the ways that researchers represent – through writing and public speaking – participant’s experiences, stories, voices, theories, and perspectives. Most of the time, while I was conducting research over the past eight years, I undervalued this aspect of my research – it always felt like

252 ‘not enough’ – I kept wondering how my research would benefit participants if at all, and are the methods of decolonising research that I have used actually making any difference? Would they have any impact at all on decolonising knowledge? However, I have come to realise that micro moments of shared encounter and minor modes of attention – co-rapping with community members or tuning-in to a beat; how we as researchers, attune to others, how we enter into shared spaces of being, how we interact and sit with, move with, sing with, talk with people – are crucial, even if ‘little’, contributions to changing research habits and practices. My conduct in the field taught participants something about researcher-researched relationships (and about working class white Australian women ‘MC’s’ who grew up in the bush) as much as it taught me about hip-hop in Khayelitsha. Where these interactions were of mutual sharing – co- creating a vibe (jamming), trading stories, collaborating on tracks, enjoying a performance – they disrupted the traditional one way flow of information that is typical of social research. I was not there just absorbing, watching, taking notes, taking photographs, but actively participating, being observed, judged even, performing at open mics and participating in jam sessions, that is, I was giving something of myself. This was a mutual enjoyment and co-creation of hip-hop as an intercorporeal form of collective storytelling and music-making. An important aspect of decolonising research is about how we (researchers) interact with participants and what we do with their stories – how we represent them in text. Writing about research in a self-reflexive manner, writing about the lives of others in a way that includes their own voices, perspectives, experiences, is crucial to decolonising anthropology and in this way – through how I write – I hope my research will continue to have an effect. Phenomenological and decolonising methodologies influenced how I conducted more standard ethnography, such as extended fieldwork, participant observation, interviews, co-performing and other forms of ‘deep hanging out’. A specific phenomenological approach involves letting data ‘emerge from the field’. This approach meant that I approached hip-hop in Khayelitsha as a whole. The reason I limited my research to one township was in order to get a rich cross-section of the diversity within one place. I needed to build the relationships and familiarity required for a more intimate kind of data-gathering of a quality required to get to, and get at, what hip hop, as a culturally situated and performative event, is like as a practice-based and live event. This approach was deliberate. Rather than research one ‘type’ of hip-hop – such as ‘conscious rap’, or spaza in a wider comparative framework, across townships

253 or between township and city, I chose instead to go deeper within one practice-base as it is taking shape today. I combined this approach with decolonising methods of social research in order to find ways to empower participants to engage with the research and its knowledge production. Perhaps it was this subtle approach to interactions in the field which contributed to a number of participants taking an active role in the research – such as Metabolism deciding to organise a Park Jam to show me what hip-hop in the township was all about. This was also in part due to the belief of the artists and participants of the importance of this research. Metabolism, Luyanda, Indigenous, Kideo and Mafiyana concurred that documenting hip-hop in the townships was imperative. Consequently, collaborative methods emerged from the field such as co- producing and documenting a park jam in 2009, co-producing a mixtape in 2011, and collaborating on documenting hip-hop through film132. Participating in jams with other emcees was not something I had experienced before going to Cape Town. I had only performed at spoken word open mics in Sydney. I found hip-hop in Cape Town – in the city centre and in Khayelitsha – more accessible and more open in terms of being a woman and performing.133 Participating (to the extent outlined in Chapter Two) in jams involving around five to ten people – in studios or at events – gave me an insight into the experience of being collectively responsible for maintaining the flow of a jam session or cypher (as described and analysed in Chapter Four). This phenomenon is different from the more general feeling of connection between audience and performers at live music shows. This is a physically close, intimate, immediate form of collectively tuning-in: to rhythm, to another emcee’s flow (or rap), and to the feeling of co-creating and maintaining a form of embodied, intercorporeal, rhythmic, collective intentionality (as argued in Chapter Four). The experience, as I model in this thesis, is transformative. The power of emcee-centred hip-hop is a specific mode of embodied, rhythmic, storytelling. Rap transforms the emcee’s personal experiences of events making it an intersubjective and collective experience that gathers people in time and in-place – through rhythm and percussive sonic qualities. That is, the words of the story take on extra-percussive embodied meaning. In Khayelitsha, emcees re-telling stories in the presence of others in the

132 Methods that emerged in the field – of producing a mixtape and documenting hip-hop in Cape Town through film to create an archive with potential future use for a documentary film – depend on future funding for their completion. This is a shortcoming of the fieldwork in that these were not budgeted for during the initial pre-fieldwork planning stages. 133 This despite Khayelitsha being an otherwise ‘unsafe’ environment for women specifically. 254 unique terms that hip-hop provides, ensures a certain level of control over their own narratives and allows the restructuring of experience and event. This bodily, empowering, affect of storytelling is contingent upon receptive bodies in corporeal alignment and congruency. Rap as a particular mode of vocality demands a certain embodied affective relationship to one’s words – confidence is key. My research makes a key contribution to the study of hip-hop through my phenomenological analysis of emcee-centred hip-hop practice particularly in terms of the corporeal schema, the intercorporeal production of collectivity, and in terms of what happens when we ‘do’ words with the body. As explored in Chapter Four, hip hop in Khayelitsha is embedded in the everyday. Events are often held during the day in public places. The nature of the township – a densely populated, residential, urban space where a street culture exists – meant that small children were always watching and mimicking. Such practices in themselves are crucial in impoverished neighbourhoods, globally, where the violence and unhomeliness of historical and continuing economic and racial oppression – and legacies of colonisation, slavery, apartheid – is turned inward and manifests through gangsterism and violent crime, such as muggings at knife or gun point. From hip-hop’s beginnings, hip-hop was a conscious intervention. It was a deliberate move to restructure how bodies came together and to redefine the terms of engagement with the legacies of oppression. In the South Bronx, NY, in the early 1970s, gang warfare climaxed. Youth in the Bronx created a live performance tradition which transformed their immediate community, transformed the interactions between bodies, and redefined the ghetto as a creative, productive space. This does not mean that hip-hop overcame all negative stereotypes of the ghetto. Nor does it mean that it single-handedly wiped out gang violence. What it does mean is that it created a set of key practices which continue to provide youth with alternative ways of inhabiting and understanding the ghetto, favela, or township - as an immediate material reality and as member of a greater hip hop global society. It is through public practices such as cyphers, jams, battles, and open mics, that hip-hop transforms the affective dimensions of private and public life. The conditions for hip-hop’s capacity to transform public life in Khayelitsha are common to many impoverished neighbourhoods globally. This means that the children grow up learning how to tell their stories in public spaces, how to transform their relationship to their experiences through rap – it gives such youth a creative expressive tool for working

255 through personal frustrations and a set of practices for relating to and interacting with other bodies using only rhythm and words. Much of the literature on global hip-hop focuses on how hip-hop (a global art form) is made local. My research found that hip-hop is a powerful method for remaking localised identities. That is, hip hop actively shapes locality as a place of situated practice. Rather than simply re-presenting the local, hip hop actively remakes locality. As discussed in Chapter Six, practice in place transforms locality. Much of the literature on global hip-hop is caught up debates about the maintenance of the local in the face of globalisation as a homogenising force. This misses the fact that youth organising regular events in place, transforms both locality and identity. Hip-hop in this sense produces place, it does not simply emerge from it. Another key contribution to the field my thesis makes is how identity in hip hop is constituted through practice and the development of habit in place, rather than it being solely defined through lyrics or language. A crucial, but often ignored, effect of the ‘localisation’ of hip-hop is the transformation of identity and subjectivity through practice in place. It is often argued that youth exercise agency through hip-hop lyrics – redefining identity, countering negative stereotypes, producing counter-discourses. However, my research findings demonstrate that youth use hip-hop to exercise agency through what they do – through creating events that transform collective activity, place and affect. The events of open mic sessions provide youth with a platform to publicly share stories and participate in a different form of collectivity. This transforms their subjectivity – their relationship to, and experience of, the township – and what it means to come from and participate within a township. The relationship between emcees and space is well known as it is represented in lyrics (Forman, 2000) and crews are often defined by their location (as Rose, 1994a notes). These are facts known to any fans of hip-hop music. However, the relationship between emceeing as an embodied practice and space is less explored. Spady and Alim (1999) hint at a phenomenological dimension to this through their focus on the relationship between the street and hip-hop but don’t provide a theoretical framework through which to understand it. Through exploring emcees diverse relationships to the one place – Khayelitsha – my research has demonstrated how hip-hop is particularly useful, and the ways in which it is specifically made use of, in reworking belonging, space, and identity. The ethics of ‘representing’ and ‘keepin’ it real’ require youth to represent where they are from – through language, accent and content, as well as through ritualised, embodied,

256 performatives. Youth in Khayelitsha rework their belonging to the township in differing ways through hip-hop. Emcees, such as Metabolism, Steel and Indigenous who went to school outside the townships, have a different relationship to the township than those who went to local township schools. Spending much of their time outside the township, amongst predominantly white English-speaking students, made them feel alienated from the township, also due to the reception by people in the township. Hip-hop offered them a way of inhabiting the township that linked it to the global experience of ghetto-type situations. It offered a way of inhabiting English that wasn’t white and modelled a way to bring this back to the local context. They mobilised the global to make sense of the local. In this way, hip-hop storytelling provides youth with a format for making sense (semiotic and ‘feelingful’ sense) and of being in the township. Spaza emcees, however, use of hip-hop to make sense of the township in a different way. Many spaza emcees in Khayelitsha grew up in the rural areas of the Eastern Cape and frequently go back to visit family and perform rituals for the ancestors, that is, they are emotionally and spiritually tied to another place. However, there are tensions between ‘rural’ and ‘urban’ Xhosa-speaking people in the city, manifested in tensions between Gugulethu (seen as more urbanised) and Khayelitsha (seen as more rural). Historical restrictions of Xhosa-speaking people to the rural areas of what are now the Eastern Cape ‘reserves’ and ‘Bantustans’ under apartheid policies, means than such tensions are overlaid with deep seated stigma attached to the rural, to culture and to tradition. Spaza emcees such as Zanzolo, Marco, Sound Masters Crew and Undecided Crew use ‘deep Xhosa’ to rap about life in the rural areas and traditional culture. They utilise a form of language, and a stylistics of language posture, that draws upon as it transforms traditional modes of vocality. In this way, they are inventively utilising local traditions to remake a global art form to befit their own needs for place- making, for making home, in the city and for ties to a place that, in effect, can become localised as it becomes globalised through practice. The findings of my research problematise the assumed binary and boundary between local and global in hip-hop literature and calls into question the notion of the ‘glocal’. My research was not a project of collecting and analysing lyrics. My lack of fluency in some ways allowed me to focus on the supra-textual aspects of hip-hop. It also meant I engaged artists more deeply in their own ideas about what they are trying to do with their lyrical content, the role they see hip-hop playing in their lives, and their own theories of why hip-hop is important and what it allows them to do. An interesting

257 topic for future research would be even closer attention to spaza lyrics, particularly linguistics aspects of how emcees are using and changing language, including creating new words, such as the example in Chapter Six of Kideo’s lyrics with the term sitheng(chu)ngcembe. The lyrics that (some) artists took the time to write down for me were translated by postgraduate language student from University of Cape Town – a professional translator. There were a few words in the lyrics that he noted ‘did not make sense’ or were ‘grammatically incorrect’. Unfortunately, this was at the tail end of my research and I did not have time to re-check again with artists about their meanings of the words in question. Kideo’s explanation of the word he made up from a ‘Khayelitsha Xhosa’ word, as he described it, suggests that some of these terms may well be in use amongst youth in the townships. They equally point to certain acceptable and experimental flexibility as an aesthetic quality of spaza itself. The findings of my research suggest that hip-hop’s political potential needs to be understood through the body and through live practice in order that its transformative capacities can be brought to light. Massumi (2002, p. 6) argues, [c]onscious critique seems an unloaded weapon in the face of the relentless acting of powers of conformity on the preconscious level of the habitus’. My thesis looks below the surface of conscious critique to the political potential of the body, of the habitus, in hip-hop. Hip- hop provides youth with a way of grasping the world – a way of being in, being from and being of the ‘hood – of reconfiguring the unhomeliness and materiality of township as a ’hood, which restructures the way the black body is experienced in relation to the township (see Chapter Six). Hip-hop provides a set of key practices which involve specific ways of configuring bodies in rhythm together, in public spaces, in intercorporeal, co-creative, productions of collectivity. The regularity of such events in public spaces of the township remake the locality of the township itself. This is crucial in the context of the depiction of the township, specifically Khayelitsha, in South African media as a dangerous space of violence, of gangs, rape, HIV/AIDS, xenophobic attacks. It is also an embodied resistance to the pull of ongoing traumatic effects – such as the manifestation of many forms of violence and social problems – to the disruption of Xhosa culture, life, language, family structures that colonisation and apartheid wrought. As Foucault (cited in Skott-Myhre, 2012, p. 40; and see Chapter 2) argues, the ‘first political task is to undo the “habits and beliefs of one’s age” within oneself’. That is, the task is how to undo, resist, redress destructive habits and beliefs developed under

258 colonial occupation, violent oppression under apartheid, and the increasingly militarised suppression of protest in South Africa, with new forms and practices. Hip-hop is deeply political for, in light of Freire’s (1970) work on revolutionary pedagogy, it fundamentally values life knowledge which is a key factor of the development of critical consciousness. Lived experience, vernacular language, everyday speech, as valued knowledge and words initiate a move towards critical consciousness arising from the habitus. Language is deeply tied to the corporeal schema. It is contingent upon the people and places through which we develop language and accent. Language choice and genre stylistics (see Chapter Three) in Khayelitsha hip-hop reflects this, as my research found, emcees rap in language that is comfortable and that makes sense in the places that they live (see Chapters Five and Six). Artists who spent more time outside the township through school, through the more central Cape Town hip-hop scene, and through continued interaction in hip-hop in the city centre are more likely to rap in Black English. Artists who spent significant years growing up in the rural areas of the Eastern Cape utilise ‘deep Xhosa’ in their raps. Artists who are more closely tied to the urban use more urban Xhosa and tsotsitaal. What ties all these languages together is they are all vernacular forms – they utilise ‘disobedient’ forms that deviate from standard English. In the context of the history of language in education in South Africa and the persistence of English as a prestige language, hip-hop is crucial as it fosters, encourages, requires vernacular speech and thus supports the development of minor (oral) literatures (see Chapter One and Chapter Five). In the context of South Africa, and the negative connotations of ‘culture’, it is a radical act to embody, claim, and adapt cultural traditions such as the art and practices of iimbongi from an amaXhosa habitus. As discussed in Chapter Seven, spaza emcees in Khayelitsha are experimenting with tradition. This is taking shape in multiple ways. Many emcees in Khayelitsha feel there is a deep link between the art and practice of the imbongi and that of the emcee. Links are drawn between the role of the emcee and the imbongi, specifically, the common improvisational mode of composition between these two verbal arts, and the open platform aspect of these two traditions. Hip-hop as an embodied mode of vocality has links to Xhosa culture in other ways. This can be seen in the experience of flow and divine inspiration, in traditional rituals such as Xhentsa which involve bodies close together in rhythmic movements, and in the call and response vocals. While these are distinct from hip-hop forms such as the cypher, and operate by very different rules, they nevertheless demonstrate that the practice of

259 bringing bodies close together, rhythmically and vocally is familiar and already part of the broader Xhosa corporeal schema (at least, for Xhosa who practice such traditions). Experimentation is taking form among some emcees through praising in raps, through incorporating the tonal qualities of imbongi vocality into raps, and through claiming to be practicing the role of the imbongi through the art of emceeing, that is, as social and political commentators. This thesis is a timely contribution to debates and processes of decolonisation taking shape in South Africa over the past two years. During fieldwork, I continuously reflected on what it means to decolonise research: using a specific methodology that is adaptable to different research contexts. The core ethic is a grounding of research practice in an awareness of locally specific historical (and continuing) oppression, and how this oppression (often) is reinforced through the unequal power dynamics between researchers and participants. Therefore, along with developing research methods that are culturally sensitive, decolonising research is about interactions in the field and on the paper – it requires continuous self-reflection, awareness, and not just cultural sensitivity. For myself, as a white researcher, continuous deconstruction of my own white privilege felt necessary (Biddle, 1993, 2016; Boyd, 2008). If left unchecked, white privilege can have negative effects on participants and reinforce oppression both in the field and after, through how we (researchers) represent participants own experiences, theories and analysis through writing. The realities of the temporal and financial constraints of doctoral research, coupled with the lack of institutional support for decolonising research, means that my research may not impact the material lives of participants beyond ‘telling their story’. However, this itself provides an important contribution to the field of decolonising research methodologies in South Africa. This can be understood through events and developments in South Africa over the past two years. Two decades after the African National Congress came to power after the first democratic elections in 1994, a student movement began to develop which eventually brought the issue of decolonisation to national attention in South Africa. On March 9, 2015 a small public demonstration, ‘#RhodesMustFall,’ called for the removal of the statue of British coloniser Cecil John Rhodes from the University of Cape Town’s upper (main) campus. This movement sparked calls for the removal of colonial statues from other Universities across South Africa, and saw social media demonstrations of solidarity take shape, from students at the University of Oxford and Berkeley

260 University, including calls for the name of Rhodes University to be changed. On April 9, 2015, the statue was removed. This episode also triggered debate within the academy. While such debates are not new within the academic world, the high publicity of the situation served to highlight an urgent call for decolonisation of universities, of knowledge, of education, and of the mind; a call that was, to date in South Africa, unprecedented. In 2016, the FeesMustFall movement emerged as an explicit call for the decolonisation of universities. In late 2016, the #FeesMustFall movement shut down all of the major universities in South Africa – University of the Western Cape, University of Cape Town, the University formerly known as Rhodes, Nelson Mandela University, University of Witwatersrand and Johannesburg University. Students called for decolonising the curriculum and for free education. These protests took shape despite the deep history of the South African nation-state violent responses to peaceful protests in the past. This violence has continued in the ‘new South Africa’, with the first major event being the Marikana massacre in 2012 (see Chapter Three). The student protests were met by the militarization of campuses, with police, private security and riot squads called-in. Stun grenades and rubber bullets were fixed upon and fired on peaceful students. A building was partially burnt at the University of the Witwatersrand in late 2016, sparking public outrage at the damage to public property but largely ignored the damage to black student bodies and lives. Achille Mbembe’s (2015) consideration of the implications of the #RhodesMustFall campaign, and the more vocal and public decolonisation movement it triggered, grounds an understanding of what decolonisation might mean. He argues for forms of knowledge production through non-elite institutions and formats, for ‘classrooms without walls’; for multilingualism and specifically, for African vernaculars; for the decolonization of knowledge through non-European canons; and for the reclaiming of spaces for the ‘common, public, good’. All of these aspects of processes of decolonization are indeed, aspects of the kinds of radical potential that spaza hip hop specifically, as a uniquely South African, township form of vernacular, minoritarian, collectivist practice, as this thesis has modeled, provides. Mbembe (2015) concludes with a quote from Thiong’o arguing for the pressing need in decolonisation ‘to see ourselves clearly in relationship to ourselves and other selves in the universe’. The ‘self’ he models here, is one specifically understood in terms of relationality (Mbembe, 2015). In this sense, Mbembe echoes the work of this thesis, in an

261 appreciation of the relational and intersubjective nature of so-called individual selves. It speaks to an understanding of the African self as ‘becoming a human form rather than a thing’, as it has been treated in the history of colonialism and apartheid (Mbembe, 2015). What is urgently needed is ways to ensure this becoming continues in research practices that move to model the envoicing of subjects in ways that can amplify the vernacular terms and forms in which speaking and acting is taking shape today; to ensure relational, co-agency, forms in the production of knowledge into the future. While anthropologists in and from South Africa such as Comaroff and Comaroff, Mafeje, Magubane, Scheper-Hughes and Nyamnjoh, have long provided critiques of anthropology and called for self-reflexive approaches, these critiques have largely been ignored. A key aspect of Nyamnjoh’s (2012b, p. 146) recommendation for a decolonial South African anthropology is a transformation in how researchers write about participants, ‘Missing are the perspectives of the silent majorities with vibrant untold stories. The dominant epistemology is thus deprived. It is littered with defective accounts of voiceless communities recounted in texts without contexts’. My thesis answers this call and makes important contributions to decolonising anthropology in South Africa. I hope the way I have represented participant’s voices, experiences and life worlds in this thesis does justice to the ‘vibrant untold stories’ of hip-hop artists in Khayelitsha.

262 References

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