The big gray Mercedes glides up to my beachfront hotel exactly at the agreed-upon hour of 8:30. I climb in and greet the driver, Joseph Shabalala, 54, the founder and leader of the South African a cappella singing group, Ladysmith Black Mambazo.
This is a date I’ve been awaiting eagerly ever since Joseph and I worked together on the Tony Award-nominated score for my play, “The Song of Jacob Zulu.” Tonight he is taking me to the African men’s choir competitions where he first came to fame. What’s more, I am going to be the judge.
On any given Saturday night in Durban, up to 150 choirs perform in nightlong competitions at fixed locales. The music they sing originated as an adaptation to apartheid.
Male Zulu migrant workers, housed away from their families in gray concrete warehouses of sorrow called hostels, entertained themselves with traditional songs and dances. The men had to take all the vocal parts, including those sung normally by women.
Gradually, a highly theatrical style evolved called isicathemiya (walking on tiptoes) or cothoza, mfana (walk softly, boy) after the fact that, indoors, the men had to stamp and sing at less than full volume, so as not to disturb neighbors or alert guards.
The first stars of the form were Solomon Linda and the Original Evening Birds, whose hit song, Mbube (Lion,) was popularized in America by Miriam Makeba and Pete Seeger as “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
We stop first at a nearby YMCA to pick up our companion for the evening, Paulus Msimango. A large, gregarious 64-year-old, elegant in a beige blazer, tie and dark pants, Msimango is publicity secretary of the South African Traditional Music Association, a group formed in 1988 to protect this music and train new practitioners.
There are now 153 registered isicathemiya groups in the Durban area, more elsewhere in Natal province and also in Johannesburg, and a number of them have recording contracts. Msimango has known Shabalala for years and is the only person I have ever heard call him “Joe.”
Both men are hungry, and though time is pressing, we choose a steakhouse with an American theme in a posh hotel on the beach front. Shabalala and Msimango are among the few blacks in the restaurant, and the oldest.
Though Ladysmith Black Mambazo have been South Africa’s most popular recording artists, the white guests and staff are impervious to Joseph. But the black waiters treat him like a star. “Ho, Mshengu!” they exclaim in delighted surprise, calling him by his clan name and pumping his hand.
We eat quickly and then dash to our car to make the beginning of the competition. In the front lobby, Paulus commandeers a black hotel security guard to lead us to the garage. We dash through corridors and go up and down stairs to reach the back entrance.
As we step onto the sidewalk, more hotel guards appear. They greet me in Zulu and pump our hands with the same three-grip shake they give Shabalala: handshake, clasp, handshake, as if to affirm that anyone who’s with Shabalala is OK with us.
This welcome delights me. In the 10 days I have been in South Africa, I have felt a deep cleavage between white and black. It is as if two rivers run in the same bed but never mix their water.
The whites I meet seem to know very little about the lives of black South Africans. Blacks know much more about whites because they work in their factories, restaurants, shops, offices-and in their homes.
An American also notices the absence of casual greetings among people, and it is something especially absent between the races. On Durban’s magnificent Golden Mile of beaches, strollers don’t acknowledge each other, and my greeting to Africans, either “Good morning” or its Zulu equivalent, “Sawubona,” most often elicits startled grins.
When I greet an older hotel worker in Zulu, he or she often brings the interaction back to familiar (safer?) ground by responding, “Yebo, baasie,” (Yeah, master.)
Now, in the company of Joseph and Paulus, I feel I have broken through a barrier. I am finally in Africa.
We drive very fast (the only way to drive that most South Africans seem to know) down a freeway heading south out of Durban. Our destination is the Glebland Hostel in the township of ‘mlazi.
The Durban townships were the sites of some of the bloodiest political fighting before the elections, but Joseph assures me we will be safe. “There is no room in music for politics,” he tells me. Somehow, I feel protected by his celebrity status.
After a 20-minute drive, we enter a large, walled-in compound. At 11 in the evening, the buildings are darkened, with few lamps. By the light of the full moon, I see grounds strewn with rubbish. The brick walls of buildings are crumbling.
Paulus estimates that 1,000 to 1,500 men live here, crowded two or four to a room. Residents are allowed to stay only if they have a job. Most are single, and the hostel permits women visitors only on weekends.
We edge Joseph’s Mercedes into a tiny parking space near a large hall and get out. The air is thick with rich, tangy smoke, redolent of burning wood and meat, of sweat, marijuana and perfume.
A throng of men and women, many decked out in jackets, ties and dresses, are trying to get into the hall. We push through crowds of well-wishers who want to greet Joseph. “Ho, Mshengu, kunjani?” (How are you?)
Inside, I count about 200 men and women seated in chairs or standing to face a bare concrete stage. I am the only white. A woman sells snacks and soft drinks from a table at the side of the stage.
A few in the audience are nodding off in their chairs; others seem drunk or drugged. I hear the clatter of empty bottles on the concrete floor. The yellow painted walls are dirty and poorly repaired, the roof is simple corrugated tin.
Joseph, Paulus, and I are seated at the front. Paulus tells me that more white visitors come now than under apartheid, when access for whites was heavily restricted. Whites, he continues, are valued as judges, since it is presumed they will know none of the singers and be non-partisan.
Paulus has me move my chair close to the stage. The adjudicator, as I am called, must sit alone up front where no one can influence him. Paulus instructs me to mark each choir for singing, dancing and costume, and to select the top three.
There will be six choirs in this special competition, each allowed only two songs. The winner gets a cash prize.
The crowd hushes as Joseph takes the microphone to emcee. I cannot follow his rapid Zulu, but when he leads the audience in a brief sing-along, I recognize the Zulu verses of “Homeless” from Paul Simon’s “Graceland” album.
Finally, Joseph calls to me, “Mr. Judge Man, are you ready?” “Ready, Mr. Emcee,” I reply, staring intently at the empty stage ahead of me. “Choir No. 1,” he calls out. (Under competition rules, groups are identified only by number until the contest is decided.)
Joseph’s call brings no response. After several seconds, he tries again. More silence. A third time: “Woza, Choir No. 1, woza!” (Come, come!)”
Finally, I hear the shuffle of feet, and 10 young men line up against the wall. The youngest seems a mere teenager. Only after they have locked gazes with me do they climb onto the stage.
They are decked out in natty powder blue double-breasted blazers with white shirts, white pants and blue and white polka dot ties. These outfits must represent quite an investment, I think. (Earlier, at dinner, Joseph told me that each group jealously guards its signature costume, which no other group is supposed to copy.)
Choir No. 1 keeps its collective stare fixed on me as they begin to sing. I am startled by the intensity of the energy focused on me. Their sound is light and high, and the two leaders have remarkably beautiful, clear alto voices, which they weave and wind together in elegant harmony.
The audience applauds. The lyrics are simple and repetitive. The singers stand disappointingly still, and I find their dance steps and gestures uninspired. When they are done, they bow to me and file off silently.
Choir No. 2 climbs onto stage and drill me with their eyes in similar fashion. I count 17 singers, decked out in white blazers, black pants and black badges. The leader, all in black, is a stout, round-faced man. They bow, then burst into song.
Their sound is bigger, deeper and fuller than the previous group’s, the altos and tenors darting and skipping above basses and baritones that rumble and roll like heavy surf. It is oceanic, all embracing, a lullaby sung to me by my father.
My eyes fill with tears. I can’t help smiling and mouthing some of the words. The choir grins back. The audience applauds.
The lyrics praise the new South Africa, ask God to bless Africa. The leader moves with dainty, delicate steps: isicathemiya, walking on tiptoe. The voices dip softly, then slowly climb back to full volume. Suddenly, it is over.
Choir No. 3, which includes a woman, whistle to me as they get into position. The leader’s appearance is very dramatic: thin and tall, he has a long, tight-skinned, expressive face and a shaved head. On his lapel, he sports a big brass letter M.
Joseph earlier had pointed him out as a famous singer in these contests, so I am ready to be impressed. But the song is off-key, and the leader overwhelming with his rigid smile and shouting. The dancing and stage craft are extremely acrobatic, and the group ends its second song by lifting the leader high into the air.
They depart the stage with the manner of a team used to winning its matches. I am not impressed.
Three more contestants follow, and then it is time to decide. I glance at my notes and take the plunge. Choir No. 2 is my favorite, followed by No. 4. The young kids who began the competition I choose as third.
Feeling all eyes resting heavily on my back, I hop on stage to chalk my rankings onto a beaten up board. When I turn it so that the audience can read my selection, the room explodes into applause. Men and women shriek, shout and embrace.
The winning group, The Natal Try Boys, pump my hand. They take the stage for a valedictory song that celebrates God’s glory. Their girlfriends and wives, mostly heavy-set women, approach the stage and dance responsively with the men, connecting, communicating by moving.
“Halala,” they shout in Zulu. “I see you, I congratulate you!”
The gestures and steps are at once exuberant and controlled, immensely dignified. Each Natal Try Boy takes off his coat, holds it out in front of him at arm’s length and dances down the aisle out of the hall, the ladies following in train.
I look over to Joseph, who is discoursing at length to an attentive group of listeners on the strengths and weaknesses of each contestant, like an expert handicapper holding court at the end of a big horse race. Paulus and he, ever the congenial hosts, insist I have chosen well, and I let myself believe them.
Outside the hall, I gaze up at the southern sky shot through with stars in strange constellations, a sparkling tapestry of silver and black. I breathe in the wood smoke deeply.
Joseph eases the car through the milling crowd, the outstretched hands, the shouted good-byes, “Hamba kahle,” (Go well!) We wave to Paulus, who is staying to oversee the rest of the night’s contests. I feel terrific.
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Next: A visit to Zululand.
