Inhlupeko, alongside the other massive jazz hit of
the era, Winston Mankunku's Yakhal'Inkomo, sums up the South African jazz sound
and mood of the late 1960s, its bluesy inflections heralding a more hard-bop
feel of music in the decade to come. Defiantly modern, and seeking
inspiration from the "black heroes" of John Coltrane, Dexter Gordon,
Elvin Jones, Ron Carter, Johnny Hodges and Lockjaw Davis, this album envisioned
what a new South Africa might sound like.
Tete Mbambisa composed four of the six tracks on
the album. Of the two others, the title track is the work of tenorman Duku
Makasi. The other track is a standard, Love for Sale, also frequently covered
by Makasi’s contemporary, the equally important Winston ‘Mankunku’ Ngozi. Pianist
Mbambisa’s memories reveal a great deal about the environment in which the
progressive black players of the era worked. The album, recorded at the
EMI Studios in Johannesburg – “they had the best sound at that time,” recalls
Mbambisa – was the brainchild of two important jazz organisers of the era: Ray
Thabakgolo Nkwe in Johannesburg and Monde Sikutshwa in Port Elizabeth (PE).
“Ray and Monde talked about doing an album with
Duke and some other Eastern Cape musicians. After a while, they called me up
from East London to do the arrangements. People know that’s my gift: from the
time I was involved in vocal groups I have had an ear for arranging. Apart from
Inhlupeko, Duke’s tune, I selected the tunes. We were all travelling at the
time, doing shows, but there were long rehearsals for this material. We’d play,
and discuss, and then go off to a shebeen – and carry on discussing the music.
A lot of thinking went into it. I’d say probably about a month. I was
travelling with the musicians in a kombi – it was supposed to be a jazz tour
with Mankunku too, but he had another gig with Chris Schilder (Ibrahim Khalil
Shihab) in Rustenburg, so in a way it became a launch for the Inhlupeko
material.”
In fact, Mankunku was launching his second album as
leader, Spring. Music writers at the time made much of the fact that the title
track of that album was ‘stolen’ from the melody of Inhlupeko (and Makasi used
to joke with Ngozi about it) but Mbambisa feels that something different was
going on. “It was that Trane style. We were all in the same kind of place
musically at that time.” South African jazz players felt a strong
affinity with John Coltrane, who had died only a couple of years earlier. The
expressive mastery of his playing and the soulful, spiritual searching of his
mood served as both revelation and inspiration. It was the search for that
Coltrane feel that guided Mbambisa’s final choice of players.
The acknowledged affinity in creative approach –in
the words of trumpeter Johnny Mekoa: “these were our black heroes…and the music
sounded a bit like our mbaqanga here” – fed, rather than stifled originality.
In the music they created, South Africans always started from what another
trumpeter from an earlier era, the late Banzi Bangani, called “that thing that
was ours”, not only in musical idioms, but also in history and experience.
As scholar Robin Kelley has noted, both urban
Africans and urban Americans were consciously crafting “modern” music – and in
South Africa’s case, it was a modernism deliberately and defiantly set in
opposition to the narrow, backwards-looking parochialism of apartheid, where
some white universities did not even permit gender-mixed dancing until the
1970s. The sophisticated, snappily-dressed black players of South Africa’s
cities in the 1960s were not trying to ‘be like’ America; rather, they were
enacting in their performance, and reaching through their horns for what a new
South Africa might sound like. Coltrane’s searching voice was a natural
lodestone, for as Kelley has also observed: “the most powerful map of the New
World is in the imagination.”
The studio session that laid down the tracks was
far from the original liner note fable of a spontaneous blow over a bottle. As
well as the extensive rehearsal that had preceded it, it carried its own
stresses. “In those days,” Mbambisa recalls, “they used to tell you all the
time how much they were paying for an hour in the studio. So they give you
pressure: ‘Come on guys! This is costing me!” However, thanks to that extensive
preparation, the pressure wasn’t too much of a problem. Mbambisa has always
disliked an overworked feel on his recordings: “that’s why my albums catch that
live feel, even from the studio.” That was particularly important for this
session. The quality he was looking for was, he says, “connectedness. If you
can’t be connected, forget it. So I told them: Hey, guys, let’s try and do
these in one take only or we’ll lose the feel.” He says that none of the tracks
used more than two takes, and most were completed in one.
But the hurried, penny-pinching recording was also
reflected in the way the album was presented. Makasi’s name is inconsistently
presented as ‘Duke’ and “Duku’ in different places. Even the title, Inhlupeko,
appears in that form (the isiZulu spelling) on the cover and notes, but
‘Intlupheko’ (the isiXhosa form) on the disc label, suggesting a hasty process.
The word itself can be translated as ‘distress’, but like many African-language
words with their multiple poetic resonances, also as ‘inconvenience’,
‘trouble’, ‘poverty’ and more. For the artists it had all those resonances – to
whose more political implications Nkwe would certainly not have wished to draw
attention in his translation. The players were not told about the planned cover
images, nor, as Mbambisa’s story confirms, were they sent copies of the LP.
There was no advertising and no formal launch, and Mbambisa recalls that Sikutshwa
also received no communication about the release. The LP was clearly pressed in
a fairly small run, for when Mbambisa tried to buy his own copy, he could not
immediately find it in any shops.
The image conveyed by the cover also fitted well
with other cultural currents of the era. The 1960s and 1970s were dominated by
apartheid’s re-tribalisation project: a propaganda push to both the majority
population and the world that black South Africans (even those whose families
had been city-dwellers for decades) were essentially simple, rural people with
no place in the cities and no capacity for sophisticated culture. Official
patronage was given to neo-traditional sounds, particularly via the State
broadcaster, the SABC, split into narrow, tribally based stations, the purity
of whose musical contents must be verified by apartheid ‘experts’. In this
context, state censors would certainly smile more kindly on an album whose
images placed a syncretic music like jazz in a more disreputable corner.
Matsuli Music is proud to be re-presenting
this cornerstone album with restored audio on heavyweight 180g vinyl with
accompanying sleeve notes by Gwen Ansell, author of Soweto Blues – Jazz,
Popular Music and Politics in South Africa.
