Author: Kim du Toit

Back when I wurr a lad, before the Great Wetback Episode, I played in a rock band of little significance, but by various means I knew a bunch of other musicians, especially in the Johannesburg scene.

South African music, like the country itself, was hopelessly divided when it came to music.

There was kwela, which was essentially Black urban music like that of Spokes Mashiyane , which no White people listened to, and tribal music like the Qongqothwane (Click Song).  (For reference, Paul Simon’s Call Me Al  is whitebread-kwela;  the pennywhistle solos and thumping bass are characteristic of the genre — Simon added brass and such to make it more palatable to Whitey.)

Afrikaners listened to boeremusiek (Boer music), which was the equivalent of country/bluegrass, which they loved and everyone else rolled their eyes at.  (Forgive me, but here’s Hantam Opskop, which is more or less translated as “barndance”, and Blikkiesdorp., which is a mythical town in the middle of nowhere.)  It’s characterized by plentiful use of accordion and concertina, gawd help us.  I actually knew quite a few of the more-popular musicians in this gig, and what what amazed me was how good they all were at their instruments;  bandleader Flippie van Vuuren played seven instruments at maestro-level, and he wasn’t the only one.  (I have a lovely story about Flippie, but it can wait for another time.)  There was a crossover band named 4 Jacks And A Jill — oy — and here’s their signature song.

As for us Whiteys, well, there were the mainstreamers who listened to pop ballads — and you’re really going to have to forgive me for this lot:  Timothy, Lazy Life, Look Out, and others so dire that good conscience will not let me play them here.

As for the rockers:  well, most did covers of overseas hits (Trevor Rabin, later of Yes, first found fame when his group Rabbit played Tull’s Locomotive Breath, for instance).  But every so often a little gem would creep through:  Hawk’s Dark Side Of The Moon (not that one) is one example, there’s Freedom’s Children doing That Did It;  Stingray’s Better The Devil You Know is another, and Ballyhoo’s Man On The Moon.  And all-girl band Clout (Substitute) were in a class of their own, in that they became fantastically popular in Europe, especially in Germany.

When it comes to the rockers themselves, I knew almost all of them, some only to wave to, others as very close friends and a couple of times even, bandmates.  We would go to each others’ gigs (when we ourselves weren’t booked), or else go to the popular Branch Office nightclub, which stayed open till 5am.  There was a “members-only” bar off to the side, membership being confined very strictly to professional actors and musicians, and that was where we chatted and gossiped, who was playing where, which band had broken up, who was looking for work, etc.

Storytime:

Every so often we’d have a “band picnic” whereby some or all of the various bands’ members would meet on a Sunday afternoon at some spot out in the country.  We’d bring meat and beer (mostly the latter) and then we’d hang out on blankets, chatting and joking, trying to score with each others’ wives / girlfriends (musicians are scum) and generally having a good time.  Of course, there would be guitars, bongo drums and tambourines, so we’d jam and sing our favorite songs, sometime only a few guys, sometimes more than that, and a couple were gigantic — close to forty people at the picnic.

It would be no exaggeration to say that at some point, every single musician in the above rock bands had been to at least one of the picnics.  Of course, everyone could sing, harmonize and play guitar, so some of the songs were not only well-rendered, but sometimes (I thought) better than the originals.

On one such occasion, we’d just finished singing an Eagles song (with Stingray’s Dennis East blowing the doors off the lead vocal), when somebody said, “Hey:  did you hear that Joe Walsh has joined the Eagles?”

The general reaction was one of disbelief;  I mean, why would Joe join a stupid country band?  There was much head-shaking and bemusement.

Then Sandy Robbie from Circus let out a small belch, and said the immortal line:  “Man, he must owe his pusher a lot of money.”  Which resolved the issue right there.

Good times, good times…