South Africa today is an empty theatre. A blank canvas. A bunch of songs still unsung. And, unless we sing these songs unless we fill this theatre, unless we do these things, this country will remain an empty and forlorn space, a desolate landscape of ruined dreams, writes Joe Kitchen.
About two weeks ago, someone challenged me.
It arrived in my email inbox in the form of an open letter which had also been sent to others and had already been published on the Litnet site. The author of the letter was someone called Irene Fischer.
Here, translated in English, is the abridged version of Irene's challenge:
In the time of apartheid, the ANC was THE resistance movement. Several poets, writers and musicians supported them, so before 1994, the spotlight was focused on all the atrocious violations of human rights. And change did come around. But now?
Where is the resistance movements now? Why is nobody demonstrating against all the injustices in the country? Why is no-one holding the ANC accountable? Where are the protest songs? Why is no-one singing about the possibility of change? Where are the songs which should remind us that we can dust off the tattered cloak of democracy?
Yes, this is my question: where are the PROTEST SONGS?
I can smell it; the potential of a revamped Voëlvry Tour ’23. I am desperate to advocate a call to guitars.
Several days to reply
It took me a day or two to reply to Irene.
Perhaps my response was too crude? Probably.
Here is a short excerpt of my reaction:
OVER MY F***CKING DEAD BODY.
The very last f***king thing we need today in South Africa is a bunch of stoned Afrikaans kids with weird names.
I agree, it was a good idea in 1989.
But as a protest movement, as a musical enterprise, it did not accomplish much. Our songs were mostly three-chord-rhythm'-n-blues efforts with lots of rhyming swearwords. The ANC hardly noticed us. We were a failure on black campuses and in shebeens. We were dysfunctional, we were high all the time, we were sexist, and we were uncouth. James was just about the only one who could read music.
We were a proper bunch of hooligans. We made Trompie en die Boksombende look like an NG Kerk youth choir.
Sure, we were f***king brave. DirkjAce deserves his own statue on Church Square.
And hell, how I miss Ralph.
Conversation over?
Having replied to Irene, I thought: "That was that. The conversation is over." She had spoken her mind, and I had spoken my mind.
But it wasn't over. She spoke her mind again.
And what she said next – I'm sure she won’t mind me quoting her so extensively – gave me lots of pause for thought. I was forced to rethink everything! Yet again!
And, much to my amazement, I felt emotionally moved by this second response from her.
This is what she wrote:
I must confess I don't know all that much about the Voëlvry Tour (in 1989 I was only six years old!). But I agree with Koos wholeheartedly, the last thing we need is a repetition of the tour of 1989. We certainly don't need another group of "stoned and sexist" white men singing songs about issues which are only relevant to white Afrikaans young people.
We could do that all over again, but it won't persuade South Africans to rebel. Not this time round. No, f***k that!
That is why I suggested a REVAMPED Voëlvry Tour – revamped, improved, rebranded. Oppikoppi vibes. Music which can speak to All South Africans. I visualise a gigantic music concert with a huge eclectic variety of artists: from Snotkop to Majozi, the Ndlovu Youth Choir, Karen Zoid, Master KG ( who inspired the Jerusalema challenge during lockdown), Black Coffee, Kahn Morbee, Tasché, Craig Lucas and Emo Adams. Inclusivity. A gathering of people, sounds and cultures like never before.
While these letters flew back and forth, I was on tour.
An empty shell
At some point, I found myself driving through the inner city of Springs. Springs, as some of you might know, was once the home town of quite a number of South African music icons, including James Phillips (Bernoldus Niemand), among others.
Springs, today, is an empty shell. There’s nothing left. I could see hardly any shops still open to business. It was all rubble and broken buildings, even worse than Bloemfontein!
The next morning, still traumatised, I woke up early in a cold sweat. I looked at my phone and realised it was still three o'clock in the morning. Unable to sleep, I forced myself to watch the entire doccie of the Voëlvry Tour (I had never managed to get more than almost halfway through it before).
Suddenly, I understood exactly where Irene was coming from.
Still somewhat fragile emotionally, I arrived at my next venue that evening: the Roodepoort theatre.
Roodepoort surprised me. It wasn't dilapidated, like Springs. The space where I was about to perform, now under almost exclusive black management, was a beautiful and charming old opera house. I realised: "This is the other side of the New South Africa".
That was when I realised that there had been no actual difference of opinion between Irene and myself. We were on the same page, after all.
We need more in South Africa than simply a super coalition of opposition parties. We need more than just one music tour.
What we really need is an entire new generation of young people. A generation of young people who are prepared to stand up, in whatever way they can, for a better Mzansi. By writing, by singing, by creating art, by participating in civil processes, by studying and by diligently applying their talents in the service of their Fatherland.
This is South Africa today: an empty theatre. A blank canvas. A bunch of songs still unsung. And, unless we sing these songs unless we fill this theatre, unless we do these things, this country will remain an empty and forlorn space, a desolate landscape of ruined dreams.
Now is the time to sing those songs. To fill these spaces. To take hands and come together.
Who will answer the call to guitars this time around?
- - Joe Kitchen is a South African musician, singer, songwriter and writer who sometimes goes by the name of Koos Kombuis, André Letoit and/or André le Roux du Toit.
*Eat your heart out, Elon Musk! Joe Kitchen's dark comedy, the micro-novel "Twitter Dawn" (published by Naledi), is set to hit the bookshelves in March!
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