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Christine Lucia
All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN 1904303366
To Michael
Contents
Preface and Acknowledgements........................................................................... xvii
Introduction ........................................................................................................... xxi
Wings of Song
J.W. Househam ...................................................................................................... 26
African Music
Reuben Caluza........................................................................................................ 29
King Kong
Mona de Beer ......................................................................................................... 57
Reminiscences of Healdtown
Joseph Scotch Coko ............................................................................................... 66
Chris McGregor
Christopher Ballantine.......................................................................................... 129
My Story
Miriam Makeba ................................................................................................... 137
But We Sing
Alfred Temba Qabula........................................................................................... 169
Basotho Mbube
Robin Wells.......................................................................................................... 215
Indigenous Instruments
Andrew Tracey..................................................................................................... 237
Kwela
Lara Allen............................................................................................................. 266
Nazarite Hymns
Carol Muller ......................................................................................................... 284
sources, the ‘List of Sources’ at the end of the book being a composite one drawn
from all extracts (this also has the advantage of avoiding duplication). All original
formats have been standardized as far as possible (for ease of reading) but original
spellings are retained; and errors or omissions in the originals have where possible
been corrected.
Original spellings have mostly been kept in the main text too, but many aspects
of punctuation and referencing style have been standardized. Original
footnotes/endnotes are retained but all are now placed at the end of the book in
chronological sequence as endnotes. The Harvard system of referencing in the text
has been used even where footnote were used in the original, also to make the flow
of reading easier. My modifications or additions to endnotes as Editor are shown in
square brackets, and I have also added a few explanatory ones. Where original
authors did not give adequate information in their references (such as page
numbers) I have generally not made up for this. All musical examples have been
re-done in Sibelius, as originals were extremely varied in style and quality.
The labour of producing this book during the past two years was shared with
my husband Michael Blake, who not only typeset all the musical examples but also
undertook a thousand tasks on my behalf in the process of securing republication
rights. Most important, he rescued the remnants of my flagging spirit more times
than I dare remember. This book is lovingly dedicated to him.
While every possible effort has been taken to locate the copyright owners of
text, visual, or musical material used in this book, it has not been possible in all
cases. The publishers welcome any additional information in this regard.
J.J.A. van der Walt 1979 The Human Sciences Research Council;
Robin Wells 1994 Morija Museum and Archives.
The subject of this book, South African music, tells many stories. It is a work of
meta-fiction, a narration of voices constantly interrupting each other with
diversions and contradictions, vying to construct itself from the remnants of a
remote or recent past in much the same way that we as human subjects have the
tendency (as Umberto Eco once noted) to construct our lives around the narrative
conceit of the novel (1995, 131). One might argue that the stories narrated here are
not fictional but infused with tangible reality through their historical, geographical,
generic or cultural location: the story of African traditional music, for example, or
the story of Afrikaans song, marabi piano, or Zulu choralism. Perhaps, even, there
is only one subject told in many different ways according to the writer’s
perspective.
The quotations that head this Introduction tell of two such perspectives: in the
case of Afrikaner musicologist Jacques Malan writing in the late 1970s and early
1980s, South Africa was a paradise, a tabula rasa waiting for the possibilities of a
new kind of (white) critical inscription. For German-born ethnomusicologist Veit
Erlmann ten years later the country was ‘something of’ an Eldorado, provided one
was prepared to explore the byways of the (black) working-class poor. However
different, each view is underscored by an alluring notion of paradise, a notion that
comes not from the language of musicology or ethnomusicology but from the
world of fiction.
Taking this view of the world of South African music as a play of narratives, a
musical biography of a country, the first question to ask perhaps, is how does the
story begin? Whether told through academic discourses in musicology or
ethnomusicology, or related discourses of a more creative kind such as
autobiography, news feature, travel journal, lecture, poetry - all represented in this
Reader - there is a tendency to want to evoke a certain myth of origin. Such myths
have been present throughout the written history of music in South Africa, a
history that goes back to travel accounts of the fifteenth century, tales of miracle
and wonder. Since South Africa’s political changes began in 1994 however there
has been a shift towards reclaiming the more immediate past, reimagining it and
xxii
even seeming to romanticise its darkest days. The musical life of the apartheid
township of Sophiatown of the 1950s, for example, is retold repeatedly in current
films, television series and books as if this was a golden age. A slightly different
example of reinvention is the alignment of Western classical music with new
bedfellows. South Africa’s ‘First International Classical Music Festival’ (known
locally as the ICMF) was held in Johannesburg and Pretoria in 2001 to show such
alignment bringing together (according to a media release) “the widely acclaimed
English Chamber Orchestra, Xhosa-woman overtone singing, Schubert lieder [sic],
African drum-singing [and] the ever-popular Ladysmith Black Mambazo” (quoted
in Ansell 2003).
In this kind of narration the entire history of orchestras, symphony concerts,
recitals, music festivals, competitions, arts councils, censored state radio and
television and the unimaginable damage of unequal education and cultural
opportunities that drove this Western hegemonic order along under grand
apartheid (and before that British colonial rule), are here erased - with the stroke of
a pen - as if they had never existed. The origins are remade and classical music
reborn with a new link forged between the classical (Schubert and the ECO), the
traditional (Xhosa-woman and African ‘drum-singing’), and the popular
(Ladysmith Black Mambazo). With such reinvention of the past, music has fallen,
to use Lacan’s term, out of the imaginary register into the symbolic. What under
Western hegemonic discourse before 1994 was just ‘music’ because it was music
of the dominant minority has, reasserting itself under the pressure of post-apartheid
South Africa, renamed itself (Classical Music) and redrawn its boundaries
(International).
Behind this recent transformation of music by the wand of classicism, however,
lie many other historical moments similarly driven by the imperative of changing
ideologies, whose complex relationships preclude the very notion of a single
narrative of South African music. The monolithic Europe-driven cultural
institutions of twentieth-century South Africa so clouded the view of this plurality
for the past 100 years that, until 1994 Western music seemed indeed to constitute a
homogenous block, supporting the Nationalist edifice both metaphorically (through
legislation) and literally (the State Theatre in Pretoria for example). Now South
African music sees itself differently, as part of a set of interlocked histories, a
patchwork of collective initiatives and individual efforts. In this optimistic view
South Africa is Eldorado: flowing with gold not only musically but also (as this
book itself shows) in terms of critical readings of that music - biographies,
autobiographies, dissertations, articles, books - telling their stories through the eyes
of composers, critics, performers, institutions of all kinds, even through the
musical lens of small towns.ii
Such a radical rethink inevitably begins to show more and more clearly that the
notion of a South African musical territory and set of practices before the first
significant European settlement in the seventeenth century, before colonialism,
xxiii
The literature in which music emerging out of such cultural polyphony is explained
or in other ways ‘read’ is enormous. Well over 1000 items are available, not
including at least twice this number in print media articles as well as hundreds of
plays, poems, short stories, travel fictions and novels in which South African music
is represented. The simplest way to make a selection from this vast aggregation of
motifs would have been to take the ‘top ten’ academic articles on South African
music from the last 15 to 20 years. I resisted this approach, however: partly
because such writing is well known in academic circles, but mainly because such a
selection would have biased the book strongly in favour of black South African
popular music and jazz, and privileged white writers. The number of pieces I
xxiv
included here, ultimately, came in at about 60, whittled down from 200, and even
those left standing were ruthlessly pruned.
Informing this process were several criteria. First, I favoured extracts that dealt
with musical material directly - whether by example, analysis, or description - so
that music would have a strong ‘presence’. This means that there are differences in
music notation and several indigenous languages used (in song texts) although in
most cases these are translated. Second, I tried to introduce as fair a distribution of
gender, age and cultural background as I could manage, given the imbalance that
exists. South African writers of colour are few in number despite the fact that the
overwhelming majority of the population is not white. Texts are nevertheless there,
and they have been included - not for the political purpose of incorporating what
Kofi Agawu has called “native discourse” (Agawu 1995, 394) - but because, as
Agawu indeed has shown, such discourse often speaks of music not discussed
elsewhere with a voice that is not dominant.
Third was the criterion of coverage. Some areas of music are far better covered
in the literature than others (indigenous music and twentieth-century popular music
for example); there is far less on African choral music and almost nothing (in
English) on Afrikaans music. Aside from studies of individual composers or
histories of towns, there is no writing on the meanings of Western classical music
in South Africa as distinct from writing published elsewhere. Taking stock of
classical music as a cultural phenomenon within a Southern African rather than
European context - and taking it right back to the seventeenth century - is a long
overdue project, but few writers have taken the ethnographic or post-colonial view
of such music that a reading like this requires. Some gold has been well mined -
the Zulu male-voice genre isicathamiya for example - while other texts only graze
the surface of their subject and may be seen as first attempts to define a field. In
making a selection there was no attempt to make up for inadequacies or
unevenness in the literature by commissioning further research.
What I aimed for, rather, was a reasonable spread of topics given that
unevenness. This involved excluding some well-known pieces and authors, which I
did with great regret, the compensation being, I hope, a wider range of both musics
and voices. Gaps in the research field are there for all to see – and there are many
challenges both empirical and theoretical for young researchers to take up. Finally,
the scholarship (but not necessarily its authors) emerges from within the present
political borders of South Africa. One exception to this general rule is the work of
Emmanuelle Olivier on the Ju|’hoansi, who live in the (Botswanan) Kalahari
(Olivier 1997). It is included mainly because it demythologises so effectively the
imaginary of nomadic ‘bushmen’ that haunts some of the earlier writing in the
book; and because the multivocal techniques she analyses relate tellingly to
contemporary studies of Xhosa music. Olivier also deals in a way most other
writers do not, with vernacular terminology and concepts.
xxv
Origin
the script for several centuries - to secondary status. A single word in any pair
operates mainly in relation to its opposite and becomes a signifier of difference,
one that contemporary music education and composition continually seek to
undermine but ultimately reinforce, locked as they are into the symbolic order of
naming.
An example of this problem is choral music, or amakwaya or makwaya
(competition) music, which originated from black mission-educated composers in
the eastern Cape and Natal. Choral works in this tradition are written in tonic solfa
notation and become scores; but such scores are not necessarily read or even
owned by those who perform them. They are scarce commodities (it takes a serious
researcher to make a substantial and diverse collection);iv few choristers are fully
literate in solfa notation,v and choral songs are often taught by rote over many
rehearsals comprising constantly shifting groups of attendees. Composers
themselves strain against the expressive, tonal and rhythmic limitations of working
in solfa notation. Unavailability of scores, even when they have been prescribed for
competitions, confirms their low status as ‘texts’.vi Yet fidelity to notes and
instructions on the ‘score’ is a criterion that adjudicators use in assessment, and the
few scores that exist are treated as classics by committees who organise the major
national competitions, forming over time a canon of musical works inscribed in the
consciousness of those involved in choralism. Furthermore, choralism is
phenomenally popular, involving almost half the country’s population (see
Mngoma 1986, 116-117).
In the midst of such ambiguity, to bring Barber into service again, it seems that
whatever state of literacy choirs uphold, they all “access texts in one way or
another” (1995, 12). Just as she cites the potential 30 million Hausa or Swahili
‘readers’ of texts, I would estimate that there are close on 20 million members of
choirs in South Africa who ‘read’ choral songs. Where does such music fit into the
oral-written paradigm? The three categories of competition songs (traditional,
Western, vernacular) have themselves changed since 1994. The ‘vernacular’ was
designed in the earlier twentieth century to cater for music written in solfa script by
composers using African-language texts, but now includes songs in Afrikaans; thus
it challenges the African-Western binary while at the same time exposing the
problematic of placing Afrikaans songs alongside African solfa pieces, in the
category ‘indigenous’.
There are many other examples where South African music defies neat
categorisation. Constantly re-narrated and re-read, the very difficulties in
conceptualising it (for this Reader) are part of its story. If presenting it as an
anthology in the way this Reader presents an ‘overview’ brings out (rather than
obscures) the underlying dichotomies, it also affords an opportunity to look at it
precisely for those differences and anomalies, as an archaeological site in which
layers of practice and meaning are encrusted together and occasionally thrown up
into strangely tilted conjunctions. This enables a view of South African music as a
xxvii
The music of South Africa has evolved by a series of migrations - from many parts
of the world over several centuries (Europe, the Malay Archipelago, south-east
Asia, the Middle East, the US, Canada and South America), and, within the
country, over several millennia. Thus its story has a number of possible ways to
‘begin’. In the search for origins South African music has been particularly well
served by Xhosa prophet Ntsikana Gaba (died c1821). His story is referred to
several times in this Reader, and always he is presented as ‘the first’ - the first
Christian convert in the eastern Cape, the first Xhosa composer, creator of the
“first Christian hymn composed and sung in Kaffirland to real native music”
(Bokwe [n.d. c1904], 28). His surviving hymns provide ample material for an
evolutionist consideration of something that lies on the border between history and
myth, to prove that “origin is there so that history can begin” (Barber 1995, 7).
One can argue that there were concrete beginnings, and inescapable historical
facts, such as the establishment of the first permanent mission station among the
Xhosa by Rev Brownlee in 1820 (Dargie 1982, 7). The building of this mission -
mud, stone, hardship, prayer - and the sudden death of Brownlee shortly afterwards
took place at a certain time and place, profoundly affecting the detail of some
everyday lives. But such bald realities do not explain music, or tell us what moved
Ntsikana and what his community of onlookers experienced. What ‘text’, for
example, did those early congregations access in Ntsikana’s chants?
There are only partial answers. The oldest account we have is by John Knox
Bokwe from the late 1870s: the version given in this Reader was published around
1904 and was intended for a readership in Victorian Britain (the publisher was the
London Missionary Society), for whom Ntsikana is domesticated as ‘ab-original’
Christian rather than - during frontier wars he was deeply involved in - as
politicised being (see Olwage 2003, 139-42). Bokwe’s myth goes thus: looking
over his cattle one morning he is excited (Bokwe calls it a ‘trance’) by the sight of
a glowing light striking his favourite ox ([n.d. c1904], 19). Returning with his
family from an umdudo or ceremonial dance a few hours later, Ntsikana passed a
stream where he unexpectedly “washed off the heathen clay from his body”, the
signature of conversion (Ibid., 19-20). The next morning Ntsikana sang a strange
new chant and told his startled relatives that “the thing that had entered within him
directed that all men should pray” (Ibid., 19-20). According to Bokwe, then,
Ntsikana’s hymn - his first utterance as a Christian convert - ‘entered’ him at night,
xxviii
having been dreamt.vii First the flash of enlightenment, then the discarding of the
past, the dream-song, and a prophecy.
This historic moment - Ntsikana’s altered state of consciousness resembling for
Bokwe St Paul on the road to Damascus - was captured very differently by
Methodist leaders in 1923, celebrating a century of success in the South African
mission fields. The origin of Ntsikana’s music lay for them not in a mystical
moment between sleeping and waking, past and future, but in a typically African
spontaneous “outburst”.
We can imagine how these first converts, rejoicing in the new and wonderful
life that had sprung up within them, would croon, in quiet and low monotones,
the message that had appealed to them, until the heart would swell and
unconsciously burst into melody and praise God. Ntsikana … has given us
such an illustration. It is just a natural outburst of feeling and joy as we should
expect from one emerging from the bondage of a cruel heathenism into the
freedom and liberty of the children of God (Househam 1923, 53).
In his recounting of the myth, Househam downgrades song (the most ardent
expression of Xhosa culture) to ‘crooning’, reiterates the litany of primitive
music’s qualities as did Wallaschek; and speaks of the great prophet Ntsikana as
illustration or mere ‘example’ of an early convert. His distancing strategy (aside
from its racial overtones) pushes the event away from the tenor of the fictional
account Bokwe wrote for the metropole, leading it towards a crude evangelistic
ethnography. Employing quite another register, David Dargie’s (1982) account
explores the musical side of this experience, as if it were not so much a religious
awakening as a great creative moment in which Ntsikana juggles old and new.
Dargie places his account in the context of performance: while Ntsikana was
dancing at the umdudo - the night before he supposedly dreamed the first of his
hymns - he “became aware that the Holy Spirit had entered him” (1982, 7). Dargie,
like Bokwe, imagines what was said and by whom, writing his account almost as
fiction. “The next day he continued to act strangely, telling people that something
had entered him … He began to sing strange chants, using the words ‘elelele
homna’” (Ibid.).
Dargie’s account also signals the focus on difference: he is fascinated by the
merging of European and African cultural traditions into what has come to be
viewed as the first South African composition (Blake 2000, 13). Here, then,
Ntsikana is not so much exemplary convert as composer articulating a new musical
expression. Concern for what is often seen as a ‘reconciliation’ between the
African and Western in compositional discourse (although it often re-inscribes
difference) places Dargie’s account at an interesting tangent alongside other writers
in this volume who have tackled the same issue, such as Bongani Mthethwa (on
Alfred Assegai Kumalo [sic]), Erlmann (on Reuben Caluza), and Stephanus Muller
xxix
(on Stefans Grové). All four writers examine the interface, or in Leon de Kock’s
apt phrase, the ‘seam’ (de Kock 2001) that holds together compositional strands in
the post-colony. The interweaving of these strands has, over time, been theorised
under various names: in the 1970s and 80s it was called syncretism, in the 90s
hybridity; in popular music or jazz discourse it might be fusion or cross-over. In
terms of Ntsikana’s music, such hybridity was extremely awkward, ‘unlikely’, as
Grant Olwage puts it, revealing (through Bokwe’s harmonisation) both Xhosa
music ‘reformed’ and Victorian hymnody ‘deformed’ - and thereby, spawning few
successors (Olwage 2003, 138). The claim for Ntsikana as compositional origin
rests on his symbolic significance, then, rather than on his music. And where the
music is claimed it is partly in error: the version of his hymn that Bokwe
transcribes as the ‘Great Hymn’ is not what is now seen as the originating Great
Hymn (transcribed by Bokwe as the ‘Round Hymn’ (Olwage 2003, 136)). The
claim rests, moreover, on two massive conceptual leaps: from what Ntsikana
actually chanted in the early nineteenth century to Bokwe’s early twentieth-century
arrangements; and again to what we choose to find original a century later.
The myth of Ntsikana as origin owes its different inflections to historical
undercurrents that inevitably changed during the course of the 200-year span of
this volume. The dividing line between different sections of the present book mark
some of the most important moments of change in South African history: 1806-
1930s, 1940s-80s, late-1980s-mid-90s, and mid-1990s to the present. They broadly
define four projections that have been of over-arching significance in South
African political ideology: British imperialism and its aftermath in a tangle of
rapidly urbanising modernisms, the rise of Afrikaner nationalism and the
philosophy of apartheid, the often violent politics of transformation, and the post-
apartheid democracy. This does not mean, however, that the four sections are
movements of a national symphony that move inexorably forward in time without
reminiscent themes. The ideology of the colonial nineteenth century contained
many elements (romanticism and nationalism being two) that persist to the present
day; apartheid laws may have crumbled but their stifling impact on musical
development is still felt; transformation was a long and painful stage in the South
African psyche that occupied a surprisingly short span of chronological time and
still has not yet ended; and although 1994 was a new beginning, even in ‘the new
South Africa’ cultural terrain remains highly contested. The texts represented in
this book reflect changing historical and ideological imperatives in ways far more
complex than can be grasped by surveying the (chronological) list of contents, and
some examples must now be given.
In the work of some writers (such as Melveen Jackson on South-Asian music
from the 1860s to 1948) historical sensibility is very much to the fore. In others it
is an insignificant aspect of the writing - some extracts seem almost to exist in a
historical (or ideological) vacuum. Most of the writing cannot be fully understood,
however, without knowing something of the socio-political events that surrounded
xxx
it; for example Barrow’s Account of a Journey, Made in the Years 1801 and 1802
… (Barrow 1806b), Alberti’s Tribal Life & Customs of the Xhosa in 1807 …
(Alberti 1968[1815]), and Barrow’s [Travels] in Southern Africa … (1813). All
three were written during the British-Dutch war over the Cape Colony during
which, briefly: the British wrenched the Colony from Dutch control in 1795 to
prevent it falling into French hands during the Napoleonic wars,viii handed it back
to the (Dutch) Batavian Republic in 1803, seized it again after the Battle of
Blaauwberg in January 1806 and confirmed their control through the London
Convention of August 1814 (Saunders and Southey 1998, 31). Barrow was a
significant player in this tug of war. He published at least five accounts of two
visits to south-western Africa in 1797-98 and 1801-02, rewriting his narrative to
suit the expectations of readers in London and his employer, the British Admiralty.
Their appearance was timed conveniently in terms of the unfolding of political
events (1801, 1804, 1806 and 1813). His accounts of 1806 and 1813 (detailed and
shrewd observations including many references to music) lent narrative solidity to
the centre’s possession and re-possession of a distant ‘other’ (Pratt 1992, 58).
Music provided Barrow with evidence of ‘civilisation’ among the inhabitants
sufficient for their subjugation: “here a plentiful harvest is offered to the first
reapers who may present themselves” (1806b, 400). The full titles of his books
themselves speak to the imperial agenda (see List of Sources); while his changing
signature (John, John Esq, Sir John …) traces a career whose ascendancy between
1801 and 1813 was arguably due in large part to his work on ‘the colonies’.
A counterpoint to this narrative is German-born Ludwig Alberti’s popular
Tribal Life … published first in Dutch (1810) then French (1811) and German
(1815) - an English translation appeared only in 1968. Alberti’s work as a
professional soldier took him to the Cape in 1803-1806 (the Dutch period between
British rule) on the Batavian Republic rather than British side. His view of music is
as ‘other’ as Barrow’s; but it is not so much the tale as his dour telling of it, that
marks a major contrast. Not for Alberti are the literary allusions that make
Barrow’s text readable as (travel) fiction quite aside from its references to music.
Alberti manages to reduce a great Xhosa creation myth to the following bland
‘poem’: