The stage is set, and on it a three piece band that comprises a keyboardist, a drummer and a double bassist is ready for action. A graceful artist is there too – serene, confident. The crowd is enthusiastic; many people, hopeful, waiting.
To hell with anything out there in the night; this is it! The moment we have been eagerly waiting for, the treat we call music. It's 29 October 2011, the Party People night at Zula Sound Bar and Simphiwe Dana is the serene charm on stage.
Miss Dana perches on the bar seat positioned before the microphone. Her composure is admirable; there’s alluring gravity in her demeanour. This owes something to her beauty, her confidence in her treasured voice that defies so much through music and social commentary demands. One may add that there’s a sense of enigma in that composure too; a pleasant mystery waiting to unfold. On her head, a checked hat covers her curled dreadlocks. Her face is gracefully made up, her eye shadow black and sombre. The look is akin to the pose on the cover of her third offering, Kulture Noir. There has been an association of mourning to that album cover, a sentiment that extends to the music inside too.
She starts talking as soon as she’s seated. Her tone is as gentle as she appears. She commends the ANC Youth League leader, Julius Malema, for making history with the march for economic freedom that he staged. She’s not a fan, but merely admires what he achieved through the march. A victory she says no one has ever achieved since the dawn of the new government 18 years ago. After this brief talk, the music begins; the tool through which she tackles critical issues of social discourse with admirable candidness. She pays homage to icons that came before her. “Redemption Song, Redemption Song,” she sings Bob Marley’s classic with a twist. After that she sings Mirriam Makeba’s Malaika – sorrowfully.
The first song that she performs from her compositions is Bantu Biko Street, a stunner from her sophomore album, The One Love Movement on Bantu Biko Street. The homage continues. This time it’s directed at the Black Consciousness leader, Steve Biko and PAC’s Robert Sobukwe for the selflessness they showed in their fight for the people. She says these two leaders started the course, and Mandela just highjacked it. The crowd cracks into a chuckle; there are cheers too. The tempo in the music is sombre and complimentary to the honour bestowed over the fallen heroes. The young trio manning the instruments play like matured adults. The fact that there are no backing vocalists seems to exert more pressure on them, including the leading lady of the night. But they all handle the responsibility like true professionals that they are.
The solemnity of the occasion becomes heavier: “Mongameli fundisabatwana bethu (President teach our children),” Miss Dana pleads in song while the crowd cheers on, singing along too. No one can blame them. All this has a lot to do with the ‘truth’ that’s the musician is singing about, the grace she displays so attractively. I'm in the middle of it all, but I cannot react much, physically that is. My right arm is arched across my chest so that my left one may rest on it. The palm of my left hand is stuck on the side of my face. I'm stunned, captivated by what the music has been allowed to do. Occasionally, like the many people who are shouting and screaming, raising hands and exclaiming, I throw my hands in the air too, abruptly, possessively. It’s the truth of the music that has been pushing me hard until I can only relent, willingly.
An unsettling reality I often reflect on dawns on me again as I witness the beauty of music. There are many artists out there but only a handful can claim to command the force behind the music in such a candid manner as displayed by this night. Only a few may state that their messages address the concerns of the marginalised people, especially with the sincerity needed for such expressions. And just as I reflect on this thought, Miss Dana cries after a brief interval; tears threaten to mess up her alluring look. She appears overwhelmed by the heavy message in her music too. But she's brave and fights the heavy emotions that bring her tears – the show must to go on.
She sings on, the same candidness being the solid base of her repertoire. Her convictions cannot be concealed. She's on point in undressing the ‘truth’.
There's also some dancing; African dance to be precise. It’s from Miss Dana and a few members of the audience who brave stiff joints and possibility of falling and breaking limbs. Legs are thrown into the air like the Zulu people do. Some do a traditional Sotho dance (ho kgiba). All this seems to be a celebration of a people's heritage, an expression of victory over tribulations. The show goes on, charged with every minute. Miss Dana then urges people to be more selfless, more genuine in their expressions and courses.
As the music goes on, a member of the audience appears to be unable to handle the effect of Miss Dana's singing. And so she cries. The artist uproots her from the crowd onto the stage where they embrace for a long time, while she sings mournfully. At some point I think the roof would be blown away by her voice as she reaches the peaks. But it doesn’t.
She tells the audience that they are “amaqhawe” (heroes) and they cheer on and sing even more, to a point of almost drowning the performance sound coming from the speakers, which is not strong enough for this glorious performance; an injustice! But no one cares, all that matters is the music and the chemistry achieved with the encounter.
At some point there’s a thud of a different kind of music from the stage on the ground floor, which seems to irritate the singer. She calls for the perpetual thud to be lowered, but it does not; the show below has to go on too. One can blame the new and innovative configuration of Zula Sound Bar; one venue with two stages capable of hosting concurrent shows on two different floors – but it’s disruptive as it appears.
Miss Dana carries on with the music nonetheless. The mesmerising Inkwenkwezi and other gems lead to Zandisile, which brings up the rear for her set. The crowd as expected goes wild. They sing along more and chant like soldiers trotting. She bows her head and leaves the stage after her singing, while the bass, drums and the keys see her of with verve.
I'm astounded; both my hands on the sides of my face, my palms almost moist. The power of the music keeps me rotted on my spot, while the crowd disperses for drinks and other things offered by the night. But I'm unable to move. Perhaps I'm sulky for the show that has ended.
Deon-Simphiwe Skade
Brilliant and revelatory
ReplyDelete- Malome B