INGE ENGELBRECHT

Ek skat ek was omtrent 8 jaar oud toe ek die eerste keer van District Six hoor. Dis toe my ouers die eerste keer die show gaan kyk het. Die musical. Ek onthou hoe ons in ons blou Chevrolet Commodore deur die strate van Paarl gery het – al singende. Ek en my boetie wat hartlik saamsing oor goed waaroor ons geen clue gehad het nie (ek kan nie onthou of my ouers ooit vir ons die storie agter die storie vertel het nie), en ek onthou hoe ons vir jare net op positiewe maniere aan hierdie musiek gedink het. Dit was net lekker songs wat ons as gesin gesing het: die Von Trapp Family Singers van Diedericksstraat, Mountain View, Paarl.

I was around eight years old when my parents first watched District Six – The Musical. I remember how animated they were after seeing the show for a second time, this time returning with an audio cassette of the soundtrack. I recall being fascinated by my parents’ buoyant reaction to this phenomenon – with my brother and I, bouncing to the beat and singing along to every track as we drove in our blue Chevrolet Commodore through the streets of Paarl. The Von Trapp Family of 8 Diedericks Street, Mountain View. It is with this memory that I accompany members of my family to a Friday night performance of the show in 2016, my first opportunity to watch the show.

Ek het weer die eerste keer regtig notisie gevat van die onderwerp van Distrik Ses toe ek eendag by die Conserve instap en ‘n reklame flyer sien van die ‘musical tribute’ getiteld Distict Six – Kanala. Ek het by myself gedink: Vaderland! Hoeveel meer kan daar nog gesê much less gesing word oor District Six?! Is dit nie nou al ‘n holruggeryde onderwerp nie? Ek praat nou hier van spesifiek die verhooginterpretasies en -uitbeeldings. Bianca la Grange is een van die gesigte op die flyer en ek dink: ok, miskien is dit ‘n nuwe storie gebaseer op ‘n ware (miskien dié keer) liefdesverhaal vanuit die Distrik. Oh, well…

Kort daarna, word ek met ‘n kaartjie vir die show gebless en soos ‘n goeie bruinkind wys ek nie die kaartjie van die hand nie (ek is dan gebless!), al is ek nie regtig lus vir die besigheid nie. Maak ok. Ten minste is dit ‘n lekker outing met my familie. Ons stap die Fugard Theatre in Kaapstad binne en my een oom let onmiddellik die décor op. Mure is beplak met posters van Athol Fugard se plays en ander musicals wat al daar vertoon is. My oom, wat ken van renovations en die klas goed, let op dat die mure ‘sommer so nevermind’ gepleister is en sê: “Weet jy, wit mense betaal ander mense om hulle huise so te maak. Ons [coloureds] sal dit nou laat regmaak sodat dit ordentlik kan lyk.” Ons bestudeer almal die mure asof ons weet waarvan hy praat, waarna ek ook my twee sent ingooi en sê: “uncle Hylton, mens noem dit ‘rustic’.” Hy kyk my ongeërg aan en gee my net ‘n droë kopknip van erkenning, maar dis asof hy eintlik wil sê: “Wat weet jy?!”

Walking into the Fugard theatre, my older uncle, who repairs run-down buildings and their interiors, remarks on the dilapidated state of the walls covered with posters of plays and films written by Athol Fugard. ‘White people pay other people to get their walls looking like this, but we (Coloureds) would fix all of this up so that it looks decent. We can’t have our homes looking afgeskeep (neglected)’, he declares. I tell him it is called rustic. After a blank stare, he gives me a dry nod. 

Die konsertgangers blyk van alle soorte te wees, ‘n mengelmoes van coloureds. Van Cape coloured, tot Boland coloured (dis nou ons), Christen, Moslem, wit, jonk, oud. Die enigste swartmense wat ek actually daar sien, is die ushers en die verskoopsmense. Huh? Regtig? Maar ok. Na koffie, samoosas en koesiestes, neem ons ons sitplekke in. Die pre-show agtergrondmusiek is musiek van die 50s en 60s Amerikaanse pop era, soos Frankie Lymon se ‘Why do girls fall in love’ en ‘The shoop-shoop song’ deur Betty Everett, en ek wonder hoekom nou juis hierdie musiek. Ek neem aan dit het een of ander konneksie met die distrik, so ek worry nie verder nie.

Audience members range from Cape Coloured to Boland Coloured (us), Christian, Muslim, white, old, young. The only black people I notice are ushers and salespeople. After coffee, samoosas and koe’siestes, we take our seats. I sit between my mother and my younger uncle: one had seen the original musical more than once, the other possibly does not even know where the district was. The pre-show background music includes hits from 1950s and 1960s American pop, such as the Frankie Lymon favourite Why Do Fools Fall in Love (1955), and The Shoop Shoop Song (1963) by Betty Everett.

Dis die eerste keer dat ek in die Fugard Teater kom. Die verhoog is klein. Ons groepie wonder hoe hulle alles op die verhoog gaan inpas, veral die gewigtige storie van Distrik Ses. Maar David Kramer (dis al naam wat ons werklik ken in die program) is mos ‘n ou hand. Hy weet sekerlik wat hy doen. So ons kan nou maar ontspan en die show geniet. Die band, wat die musiek vir die aand verskaf, is ietwat weggesteek binne ‘n stel trappe wat in ‘n halfmaan hulle omring. Heel voor op die verhoog hang ‘n gaas-tipe skerm en daarop word ‘n map van die District Six of old geprojekteer. Die skerm steek die orkes soms weg vir die gehoor wanneer nodig. Ek like nogal die effek.

The stage is small. We deliberate on whether it is big enough to accommodate the important narrative of District Six. Two small, curved staircases half-enclose a six-piece band (keyboard, trumpet, saxophone, guitar, bass guitar and drums), while a black-and-white cadastral map of the area is projected onto a moveable mesh-like screen in the front centre of the stage, concealing the band from the audience when necessary.

Die show begin soos die landkaart op die skerm vervang word met ‘n swart en wit video clip van Distrik Ses net na dit vernietig is: ‘n briesie waai oor die nou verlate landskap wat stilte eggo. Die gehoor is natuurlik onmiddellik opgesweep in ‘n gevoel van nostalgie en eerbied, kontrasterend met die ligte pre-show musiek. Keyboard agtergrondmusiek stel die liedjie ‘When the South Easter Blows’ uit die oorspronklike musical bekend, en dit word deur ‘n eensame, treurende saksofoon wat die melodie speel, aangevul. Die verhoog word belig en die akteurs, nou sigbaar vir die gehoor, sing die lirieke van die liedjie. Die liedjie ontwikkel in ‘n reflektiewe andante weergawe van ‘The Heart of District Six’ en ‘n skielike versnelling in die oorspronklike vinnige ghoema-weergawe van die liedjie verander die mood in die saal van nostalgie na afwagting. Dit is effektief.

The show begins as the map on the screen is replaced by a black-and-white video clip of District Six after it had been demolished: a slight breeze blowing over the now desolate landscape, echoing silence. Immediately, the audience is enveloped in an atmosphere of nostalgia and respect, in contrast to the pre-show music. Keyboard accompaniment introduces the song When the South Easter Blows from the original musical, and is joined by a lone lamenting saxophone playing the melody. The stage lights up and the cast, now visible to the audience, sings the lyrics to the song, which develops into a reflective andante version of The Heart of District Six. A quick acceleration into the original fast ghoema version of the song changes the mood in the hall from nostalgia to anticipation.

Die skerm word gehys, wat dan die musikante en die twee stelle trappe, een aan elke kant van die band, onthul. ‘n Verteller verskyn: ‘n meisietjie, in haar tienerjare, skat ek, hou haar ouma se fotoalbum styf teen haar bors vas. Die fotoalbum en die nagedagtenisse wat daarin is, is klaarblyklik waarom die hele storie van hierdie musical tribute draai. Die meisietjie onthou hardop die stories wat haar ouma aan haar vertel het. Die ouma se perspektief word dus die narratiewe raamwerk van die musical. Die jong aktrise, wie se naam my nou ontgaan, ‘over-act’ so bietjie in die vertelling van die ouma se anekdotes. (Om die waarheid te sê put sy my bietjie uit). Maar miskien is die over-acting ‘n doelbewuste manier van toneelspel. Miskien is die meisie so gelei deur die regisseur, vir effek (coloureds like nogal ‘n over-exaggeration. Kyk nou net vir Emo Adams). Die meisietjie se oordrewe vertelling laat natuurlik die gehoor (meestal coloureds) lag (en sy irriteer my nou selfs nog meer). Die aktrisetjie, soos die res van die akteurs, praat met ‘n aksent wat tipies met coloured Engels geassosieer word, waar die woorde ‘plat’ uitgespreek en die r’e gerol word. Natuurlik praat nie almal van ons so nie, maar nou ja. Ons weet almal van die stereotipering. Moving on. Merkwaardige swart-en-wit foto’s van Distrik Ses word teen die symure van die verhoog geprojekteer, asook foto’s van die ouma. ‘n Inleidende liedjie wat deur die vertellertjie gesing word, beskryf die ouma se alledaagse lewe en ervaringe in die distrik. Met frases soos ‘let’s go back to Fairyland’, lei sy die gehoor terug na hierdie spesifieke buurt en na ‘n spesifieke tyd in Suid-Afrikaanse geskiedenis.

The screen lifts, revealing the musicians and the two staircases, one on each side of the band. A narrator appears: a girl clutching her grandmother’s photo album to her chest. The photo album and the memories it holds are presumably what this story is built around. As the girl recalls stories told to her by her grandmother, the audience encounters the district through the grandmother’s eyes. Her perspective becomes the narrative frame of the musical. The young actress slightly over-acts the retelling of the grandmother’s anecdotes. Perhaps this was deliberately directed as such for effect: the exaggerated manner of her narration induces laughter from the audience. The actress (like the rest of the cast) speaks in what is typically considered the Coloured English patois, ‘flattening’ the words and rolling the r’s. Striking black-and-white photographs from District Six are projected onto the side stage walls, including one supposedly of the grandmother. An introductory song delivered by the narrator describes the grandmother’s everyday experiences in the district. With phrases such as ‘let’s go back to Fairyland’, she leads the audience back to this specific neighbourhood and to this specific time in South African history.

Teen die derde liedjie ná ‘The Heart of District Six’ is ek erg geïrriteerd. Alhoewel dit duidelik is dat die gehoor die show geniet, vind ek die musiekstyl herhalend (repetitive). Die lang, uitgerekte inleiding rem die plotontwikkeling, en die meedoënlose blydskap van die karakters se kommerlose lewens word meer as enigiets anders beklemtoon. Hoe langer die show aangaan, hoe meer gefrustreerd raak ek oor wat voor my op die verhoog afspeel: die stereotipiese uitbeelding van die bruinmens. Dit blyk egter nie of die gehoor my ongerustheid deel nie – dit is duidelik aan die gelaggery wat om my aangaan.

By the third song after ‘The Heart of District Six’, I am uncomfortable. Even though the audience clearly enjoys the entertainment, I find the musical style repetitive. The protracted introduction hinders the plot development, emphasising instead the relentless cheer of the characters’ carefree days. Further into the show, I become impatient with what I am witnessing on stage: the stereotypical portrayal of the Coloured person. The audience does not seem to share my concern, laughing on cue at every folly.

Die eerste helfte eindig met die bekende klopseliedjie It’s New Year. My ma vra op hierdie stadium of die show klaar is, en ek is geskok. Maar miskien is haar vraag nie so onredelik nie, aangesien die vrolike akteurs met hul kleurvolle klopse outfits en coon-geverfde gesigte, op pad na die jaarlikse Nuwejaarsparade, die gehoor op ‘n high gelos het. Wat egter selfs meer verontrustend is, is die feit dat my ma actually ok sou wees as dit wel die einde van die show is. Miskien het sy ook genoeg gehad van die lafheid. Sy sê niks, ek vra niks. Ek hoop en bid net dat die tweede helfte tog net meer substance sal hê, dat die storielyn tog uiteindelik sal verander, sal shift. Miskien sal die happy-go-lucky atmosfeer plek maak vir ‘n meer ernstige engagement met die werklike verhaal van Distrik Ses. Ek sê nie dat die lawwigheid nie ook deel van die storielyn van Distrik Ses is of was nie, maar dis sekerlik darem nie al wat daar aangegaan het nie? Of hoe dan nou?

The first half ends with the familiar klopse song, It’s New Year. I am taken aback by my mother’s assumption that the show is over – perhaps not unreasonable, given that the cheerful cast with their colourful klopse uniforms and coon-painted faces, on their way to the annual New Year’s Day parade, does indeed leave the audience on a high. But what is more disturbing is that my mother would have been happy with that being it. I, on the other hand, am apprehensively awaiting the second half, hoping that the storyline will finally shift. Perhaps it will exchange its happy-go-lucky atmosphere for a more serious engagement with the true story of District Six.

Die tweede helfte begin met ‘n instrumentale medley van die liedjies Klop Klop – It’s New Year, gevolg deur die Afrikaanse liedjie Ghoema vannie Kaap uit Kramer en Taliep Petersen se 2006 musical Ghoema. Dis eers teen die tweede liedjie van die tweede helfte wat daar iets genoem word oor daardie noodlottige dag in Februarie 1966: die hoofopskrif ‘DISTRICT SIX DECLARED WHITE’ word op die verhoogskerm geprojekteer, wat dan effektief deur die keyboard se onheilspellende klanke in ‘n mineurtoonsoort onderstreep word. Hierdie prentjie word dan verruil vir uittreksels op die skerm van die Immorality Act van 1927 en die Group Areas Act van 1950. Op hierdie punt van die show word ‘n amper verwagte plot-versnellende medley van liedjies van die oorspronklike musical (‘The Eleventh Hour’, ‘The Law The Law’ en ‘Galiema’) aanmekaar geflans om die gewigtigheid van die dilemma waarin ons ‘jolly’ karakters hulself nou op die verhoog bevind, uit te beeld. En hoogtyd! Die atmosfeer op die verhoog is vir ‘n wyle ernstig, maar dit verander vinnig van vrees en onsekerheid tot stil berusting. Eveline, die hoof vroulike karakter, sien die distrik nou in ‘n nuwe lig soos sy die liedjie On My Way sing. Dit wil voorkom of die liedjie ingesluit is om die haglike omstandighede waarin ons ligsinnige karakters hulself nou bevind, uit te beeld, maar, helaas. Ek is verkeerd. Dit gaan maar eintlik oor Eveline (die ouma) se begeerte om vir die talent show van die bekende Star Bioscope in te skryf. En my frustrasie is terug. Die nou bekende lughartigheid van die musiek trek die gehoor se aandag skelmpies (en tog nie so skelmpies nie) weg van die naderende werklikheid van die vernietiging van die distrik. ‘n Oënskynlike onskuldige opmerking stel lui die volgende toneel in wanneer ‘n jong, bebrilde outjie kla oor die feit dat die sensuurwet hom weerhou daarvan om ‘’n wit vrou se tette’ te sien. Die jong man se skynbare naïewe seksuele begeerte veroorsaak (natuurlik) ‘n uitbarsting in die gehoor. Die koketterige Ruth versterk onmiddellik hierdie uitbundigheid met ‘n lewendige liedjie oor haar werk as ‘n plekaanwyser by ‘n plaaslike bioskoop en haar verleiding van die manlike klante. Weer word ‘n ernstige onderwerp ligsinnig hanteer.

The second half starts with an instrumental medley of the songs Klop Klop – It’s New Year, followed by the Afrikaans song Ghoema vannie Kaap [‘Ghoema from the Cape’], from Kramer and Petersen’s 2006 musical Ghoema. Only by the second song of the second half is that fateful date in February 196 mentioned: the headline ‘DISTRICT SIX DECLARED WHITE’ is projected onto the stage screen, effectively underscored by an ominous keyboard accompaniment in a minor key. This image is then replaced with extracts from the Immorality Act of 1927 and the Group Areas Act of 1950. At this point in the performance, a perfunctory plot-propelling medley of songs from the original musical (The Eleventh of February, The Law The Law and Galiema) attempts to convey the gravity of the dilemma the residents now face. For a fleeting moment, the atmosphere on stage is serious, but it swiftly changes from fear and uncertainty to silent acquiescence. Eveline, the main female character, now sees the district in a new light as she sings On My Way. It would have been reasonable to assume that this song reflected the dire circumstances that had befallen our insouciant characters, but, in fact, it turns out to be no more than an expression of Eveline’s desire and resolve to enter the talent show at the infamous Star Bioscope. The familiar levity of the music gently redirects the audience’s attention away from the impending destruction of the district. A seemingly innocent remark launches the next scene, when a young, bespectacled male bemoans the fact that censorship law prohibits him from seeing ‘’n wit vrou se tette’ [a white woman’s breasts]. The young man’s ostensibly naïve sexual desire summons rapturous laughter from the audience, and the coquettish Ruth immediately embraces this exuberance in a lively song about her job as an usherette at a local bioscope and her enticement of its male patrons.

Die onderwerp van die sensuurwette kom weer vlugtig ter sprake in ‘n toneel oor ‘n karakter wat nie lekker binne die onsamehangende storielyn pas nie: ‘n ou man, een van die enigste twee swart karakters in die produksie, sing hartlik oor sensuur gedurende apartheid, terwyl hy ‘n pornografiese tydskrif teen sy bors hou. In plaas daarvan dat hy oor die aakligheid van hierdie wette sing, soos ek (alleen) verwag, sing hy eerder oor die tydskrif en wonder hardop wat die man se naam is wat die voorreg het om die sterretjies op die borste van die kaal vrouens te plak. My mond hang oop. Soos verwag teen die tyd, raak die gehoor mal en lê soos hulle vir die snert lag, terwyl die kwessie van sensuur ingekrimp word tot die blote geil begeertes van ‘n ou man. Ek het bietjie hieroor nagedink en wonder, to be fair, of dit nie maar net ‘n manier is van die regisseur, of wie ook al die (stupid!) liedjie geskryf en ingesluit het om juis die absurditeit van hierdie apartheidswet uit te lig nie. Maar as dit wel die geval is, is die hele produksie ‘n voorbeeld van pastiche en ironiese ligsinnigheid. Is dit die onderliggende punt van die produksie? Is die storie van Distrik Ses te pynlik om mee te deal dat ons nou maar net joke daaroor? Bestaan daar te veel ernstige vertellings van die distrik dat ons nou maar ‘n joke daarvan maak?

Censorship laws are again briefly mentioned in a scene revolving around a character who does not quite fit into the already disjointed storyline: an old man, one of only two black characters in the production, sings heartily about censorship during apartheid, while clutching a pornographic magazine close to his chest. Instead of vocalising the privations this law engendered, he croons on about the magazine, pondering out loud the name of the man who gets to paste the concealing ‘stars on the tits’ of the nude women. As expected, this scene again draws raucous laughter from the audience, as the issue of censorship is relegated to the lustful desires of an old man. One could argue that the addition of this song is the director’s attempt at caricature, designed to highlight the absurdity of apartheid censorship law. If this is indeed the case, however, the whole production should consequently fall under the umbrella of pastiche and ironic frivolity.

Die show eindig met ‘Seven Steps of Stone’, die finale liedjie uit die oorspronklike musical, en verteenwoordigend van die nou ikoniese trappe as een van die mees herkenbare landmerke van die Distrik Ses van ouds. Hierdie liedjie, wat die luisteraar aan die struggle songs van die anti-apartheidsbeweging herinner, word deur al die akteurs gesing. Die liedjie is slim aan die heel einde van die show ingesluit om deernis vir die karakters by die gehoor te skep, en dit werk soos ‘n bom. Die show word ontvang met swaar, emosionele applous en ‘n staande ovasie van die hele gehoor. Maar nie van my nie.

The show ends with Seven Steps of Stone, the final song from the original musical, representing the now iconic steps as one of the most recognisable landmarks of the District Six of old. This song, reminiscent of the struggle songs of the anti-apartheid movement and sung by the whole cast, is shrewdly employed at the very end to arouse in the audience an instantaneous compassion for the characters, a strategy which proves successful. The show is received with heavy, emotional applause and a standing ovation from the whole audience. All except me.

Ek kyk op na die eerste vloer balkon aan my linkerkant. Ek hou twee coloured jongmans dop. Hulle lyk in hul vroeë twintigs, ‘n tweeling; een met skouerlengte, spirally hare en die ander een met wat ek aanneem is ‘n ‘number two-cut’. Hulle glimlag nie maar staan ook en klap hande, stadig. Agter hulle staan ‘n wit dame, ‘n bietjie mollig, geklee in jeans en ‘n swart-en-wit langmou top, ‘n rooi-pienk blom fascinator in haar hare. Sy staan ook, glimlag tevrede in die rigting van die verhoog. Ek dink: miskien is die tweeling te jonk om te sien wat ek gesien het; die dame kies om dit nie te sien nie. In my kop kyk sy na die akteurs op die verhoog en sê aan hulle: ‘ek sien julle…’ En aan haarself: ‘nou kan ek weer asemhaal…’

Dit is duidelik dat ek nie baie tevrede met die produksie was nie. Miskien is ek oorsensitief. Maar soos een van die konsertgangers gesê het, ‘n ‘meatier story’ het ontbreek, asook ‘the raw impact of the original’ (Thamm, 2016). Theresa Smith (2016) het die musical ‘heavy on the song and dance, [and] light on intriguing narrative or lasting emotional resonance’ gevind. Dit het definitief ‘n ‘emotional resonance’ van een of ander aard by my gelaat! Die storie van Distrik Ses is nou al telkemale in hierdie medium vertel en dis dan nie verbasend dat hierdie spesifieke weergawe ‘n tekort aan oorspronklike inhoud gehad het nie. Die geykte Distrik Ses-storielyn, gepaard met die ou liedjies, het Distric Six – Kanala estesties oortollig gelaat.

In concurrence with Theresa Smith (2016), I too found this musical ‘heavy on the song and dance, [and] light on intriguing narrative or lasting emotional resonance’. The production wants for a ‘meatier story’, to quote one audience member, and unfortunately ‘lacks the raw impact of the original’ (Thamm, 2016). Since the story of District Six has been depicted in this medium numerous times, it is not surprising that this particular rendition lacks original content. The hackneyed District Six storyline, coupled with the old songs, has rendered District Six – Kanala aesthetically redundant.

Die produksie het van liedjies van vorige Kramer/Petersen produksies, soos Kat and the Kings (1998), Ghoema, en natuurlik die oorspronklike District Six – The Musical, gebruik gemaak om, in my opinie, ‘n konneksie van familiariteit by die gehoor uit te kerf. Nostalgie. Sodoende is ‘n sentimentele konneksie by die gehoor gemaak, aangesien baie van die liedjies onmiddellik herkenbaar is. Die liedjies is egter hergebruik om in die nou gedateerde narratief te pas en dit te maak werk. Dit lyk aan die begin of die amalgamasie werk, maar dit gaan vinnig afdraand en kort voor lank begin dit geforseer en ongemaklik te voel, en voel dikwels soos ‘n lappieskombers wat sukkelend deur ‘n skinnerdun storielyn aanmekaar gehou word.

Alistair Izobell, wat die band van coloured manlike musikante deurgaans bekwaam in die begeleiding gelei het, is met reg as die ‘musical director’ aangewys, maar daar is nêrens van Petersen as die oorspronklike komponis van die materiaal melding gemaak nie. Alhoewel Petersen afwesig was in die erkennings, was hy egter sonies deurgaans teenwoordig.

Carving a link with previous Kramer/Petersen productions, the musical’s songs revisit numbers from such musicals as Kat and the Kings (1998), Ghoema, and, of course, the original District Six – The Musical.In so doing, a sentimental connection is made with the audience, as many of these songs are recognised instantly. The songs have, however, been repurposed to fit the now dated narrative. At first, this amalgamation seems to work, but it soon becomes forced and uncomfortable, often feeling like a patchwork barely held together by a gossamer storyline. Significantly, Alistair Izobell, who skilfully directs a band of Coloured male musicians in the musical’s accompaniment, is rightly named as the musical director, but Petersen is nowhere acknowledged as an original composer of any of the musical material.

Die musieknommers het duidelike tekens getoon van Petersen se kinderjare in die distrik, met ondertone van die musikale karaktertrekke van die Malay kore waarby hy self betrokke was. Tekens van die melismatiese draaie, of ‘karienkels’, wat so kenmerkend van die Malay kore is, is in die sniksang van Loukmaan Adams se karakter in ‘Lonely Girl’ gehoor, geskryf in die Amerikaanse 1950s ballade styl. ‘Blue Sky’, oorspronklik geskryf vir Ghoema, is in die Malay koor call-and-response styl geskryf. Hierdie liedjie is gesing deur ‘n aktrise wat die rol van ‘n ou Madagaskarse vrou vertolk wie na die land van haar geboorte verlang. In die liedjie is die woord ‘Blue’ melodies verleng en oor talle mate gesing, gevolg deur die res van die akteurs wat die titel voltooi deur die woord ‘Sky’ te sing. Die nommer is deur die band en Loukmaan Adams op banjo begelei, ‘n instrument wat met die Malay koortradisie geassosieer word.

While Petersen is absent from the acknowledgements, he maintains a sonic presence throughout. The musical numbers show clear influences from his childhood in the district, with undertones of the musical characteristics of the Malay Choirs in which he himself participated. Traces of the melismatic turns (‘karienkels’) that are so distinctive of these choirs can be heard in the crooning of Loukmaan Adams’s character as he performs Lonely Girl, written in the American 1950s ballade style. Blue Sky, originally composed for Ghoema, is sung in the Malay Choir call-and-response style. In this song, led by a female cast member who portrays an old Madagascan woman longing for the land of her birth, the word ‘Blue’ is melodically expanded and sung over several bars, followed by the cast completing the title by singing ‘Sky’. This musical number is accompanied by the band and Loukmaan Adams on the banjo, an instrument associated with the Malay choir tradition.

Dan was daar natuurlik die bekende ghoema beat. Die ghoema drom en ritme word sterk met die Cape coon carnival tradisie geassosieer, asook met Petersen se ander musicals. ‘[It is] instantly recognised by coloured audiences of all generations (Jaffer 1998, 94), en is dus verteenwoordigend van ‘n spesifieke ‘Cape coloured klank’. Hierdie assosiasie beklemtoon egter die omvang van die ghoema klank as ‘n merker van colouredness en/of coloured identiteit in die algemeen. Dit is ironies dat die musiek van Distrik Ses boorlinge soos Dollar Brand (Abdullah Ibrahim) en Basil ‘Mannenberg’ Coetzee nie in die algemeen in die ‘ghoema’ kategorie ingesluit word nie, en dus gewoonlik val buite die identifikasies van ‘die ware klank van Distrik Ses en van die Cape coloureds’. Dit wil vir my voorkom dat ons, as coloureds, ‘n ongeldige aanspraak maak op Distrik Ses as ‘the cradle of [our] culture’ (Martin 1998, 529) en dit het veroorsaak dat ons amper afgesluit is van musiekstyle wat nie direk met Distrik Ses verbind is nie. Het ons hunkering vir ‘n ‘ethnic homeland’ (Wicomb, 1998) vir ons, in ons soeke vir ons eie musikale identiteit, actually haweloos gelaat?

Then there is the familiar ghoema beat. The ghoema drum and rhythm have come to be strongly associated with the Cape coon carnival and with Petersen’s other musicals. ‘[It is] instantly recognised by coloured audiences of all generations’ (Jaffer 1998, 94), and thereby representative of a specifically ‘Cape Coloured sound’. This association, however, emphasises the extent to which the ‘ghoema sound’ has become a marker of Colouredness and/or Coloured identity at large. Ironically, the music of such District Six natives as Dollar Brand (Abdullah Ibrahim) and Basil ‘Manenberg’ Coetzee is not commonly included in the ‘ghoema’ category, and therefore usually falls outside of identifications of ‘the true sound of District Six and of the Cape Coloureds’. I postulate that, as Coloureds, our invalid claim on District Six as ‘the cradle of [our] culture’ (Martin 1998, 529) has foreclosed our identification with musical styles that do not directly reference District Six. Has our longing for an ‘ethnic homeland’ left us homeless in our pursuit of our own musical identity?

Die term ‘coloured’, of dit nou met ‘n hoofletter geskryf word of nie, het oor die jare verskeie reaksies op verskillende tye in Suid-Afrika se geskiedenis binne die bruin gemeenskap ontlok. Aangesien die term in die algemeen met die apartheidsregering se rasseklassifiseringsisteem geassosieer is, is die term deur talle as ‘n onaanvaarbare, rassistiese benaming verwerp. Dit wil voorkom dat die term vandag minder van ‘n issue is as wat dit in die verlede was (te verstane), waar my eweknieë nou nie blyk ‘n probleem daarmee te hê om ‘coloured’ genoem te word nie.

The term Coloured, whether capitalised or not, has provoked disparate reactions from the Coloured community at different times in South African history. Having generally been associated with the apartheid government’s system of racial classification, it has been rejected by many as an unacceptable, racist appellation. However, its application is much less of an issue today than it has been in the past, as my peers do not seem to have a problem with being called Coloured.

Die coloured rassebenaming is egter deurtrek met ‘n stel gepaardgaande stereotipes. Dit is alombekend dat coloured mense histories gesien is as lui, onkundig, ‘given to thriftlessness, drunkenness, illegitimacy, crime and so on’ (Van der Ross 1979, 77); ‘n groep wat ‘indolent, ne’er do well, happy-go-lucky’ (February 1981, 167) is, en wat ‘n funksionele rol binne die sfeer van, onder andere, ‘the comic syndrome’ (February 1981, 35) speel. Soos Bessie Head in haar novel The Cardinals (1993, 16) skryf:

Regrettably, the Coloured racial designation has been inscribed with a set of concomitant stereotypes. Coloured people have historically been characterised as being lazy, ignorant, ‘given to thriftlessness, drunkenness, illegitimacy, crime and so on’ (Van der Ross 1979, 77); a people who are ‘indolent, ne’er do wells, happy-go-lucky’ (February 1981, 167), and who have performed a functional role within the sphere of, among others, ‘the comic syndrome’ (February 1981, 35). As Bessie Head deploringly writes in her novel The Cardinals (1993, 16):

Every single story I’ve read … is about the happy little Coloured man and the colourful Malays. Why don’t you leave that crap to those insane, patronising White women journalists who are forever at pains to tell the Coloureds how happy they are.

Dus, die produksie van nog ‘n vertelling (her-hervertelling) van die storie van Distrik Ses kwel my. Dit is ontstellend om te sien hoe hierdie stereotipes nog gepreserveer en volgehou word deur die coloured akteurs op die verhoog, onbewus dat hulle presies daai stereotipiese rolle wat onregverdiglik en verkeerdelik aan hulle toegeken is, op die verhoog uitspeel of uitbeeld – die rolle van ‘naturally funny’ of ‘supplying the comic note’ (February 1981, 36). Is die akteurs onbewus van die issues? Sekerlik nie. Of is hulle maar net onskuldige deelnemers aan rolle wat aan hulle (deur die storielyn en/of regisseur) toegeken is? Of is dit maar net ‘all in the name of art’? En die gehoor? Miskien is die issues wat ek nou noem te ernstig vir ‘n Vrydagaand terwyl mense net gekom het om te ontspan. Miskien ignoreer hulle nie die issues nie, maar is hulle genuinely onbewus daarvan? Of is dit oor coloured mense se oorweldigende emosionele verbintenis met die Distrik wat groter is as die onaangespreekte issues in hierdie hervertelling? Is ons nie moeg om ons mense so uitgebeeld te sien nie? Of is dit net ek?

Watching this production of yet another retelling of the story of District Six, I am troubled by the extent to which these stereotypes are being preserved and sustained by the Coloured actors on stage, unwittingly playing out their historically assigned roles of being ‘naturally funny’ or ‘supplying the comic note’ (February 1981, 36). Perhaps these issues have escaped the audience because of the overwhelmingly emotional attachment Coloured people feel to District Six.

Alhoewel baie coloureds nooit in Distrik Ses gewoon het nie, is hierdie verbintenis met die Distrik wat Zoe Wicomb (1998, 95) noem ‘a politics of nostalgia that sentimentalized the loss’ [of an adopted] ‘ethnic homeland’ (94). Hierdie politics of nostalgia, gepaardgaande met die uitbeelding van die Distrik as ‘n plek van colouredness, dien as ‘n ‘representation of pastness’ (Tonkin 1992, 3), ‘n tipe mitologisering van Distrik Ses wat die gemeenskap met ‘n ‘sense of self’ verskaf (Battersby 2003, 125).

Even though many of them have not lived there, this connection has developed into what Zoë Wicomb (1998, 95) calls ‘a politics of nostalgia that sentimentalized the loss’ of an adopted ‘ethnic homeland’ (Wicomb 1998, 94). This politics of nostalgia, with its concomitant depiction of the District as a location of Colouredness, serves as a ‘representation of pastness’ (Tonkin 1992, 3), a mythologising of District Six that provides ‘the community with a sense of self’ (Battersby 2003, 125).

Die coon carnival tema speel natuurlik ‘n sentrale rol in hierdie mitologiese uitbeelding. Die insluiting van hierdie tema verseker ongetwyfeld ‘n gunstige respons van die gehoor. In die antologie, Cry Rage!, berispe die Suid-Afrikaanse politiese aktivis, digter en skrywer James Matthews deelnemers aan die coon carnival (Matthews en Thomas, 1971, 51):

The coon carnival theme plays a central role in this mythologised depiction. Without exception, the inclusion of this theme ensures a favourable response from the audience. In the anthology Cry Rage!, however, South African political activist, poet and writer James Matthews reproaches participants in the coon carnival (Matthews and Thomas 1971, 51):

Coloured folks garish in coon garb
Sing and dance in the hot sun
Their faces smeared a fool’s mask
Happy New Year, my baas, a drunken shout
To whites who applaud and approve
Their annual act of debasement

Matthews se oënskynlike frustrasie is nie soseer met die coon carnival nie, maar met coloureds wat, soos die akteurs van District Six – Kanala, die vernederende rassestereotipes van hulself versterk. Soos Matthews het ek nie issues met die coon carnival nie, maar wel met die bestendiging van die idee dat dit die enigste verteenwoordiging van coloureds en/of coloured identiteit is.

Matthews’s apparent frustration is not with the coon carnival itself, but with Coloureds who, like the cast of District Six – Kanala, reinforce degrading racial stereotypes of themselves. Like Matthews, I do not take issue with the tradition of the coon carnival, but rather with the perpetuation of the idea that this is the sole representation of Coloured and/or Cape Coloured identity.

Denis-Constant Martin (1998, 529) meen dat die coons die stad op Nuwejaarsdag in besit neem. Hulle marsjeer deur areas waar hulle nie voorheen toegelaat is om te bly nie, ‘affirming thereby that they belong to the Cape – and that the Cape belongs to them – despite prejudices and laws’. Martin se romatiese beskrywing vat my terug na die einde van District Six – Kanala wanneer die akteurs op die sentimentaliteit van die gehoor speel. Volgens Martin se standaard identifiseer my afkeuring van die stereotipese uitbeelding van coloureds in die coon tradisie my as deel van die ‘coloured elite’ (1998, 530). Vir Martin (1998, 530, my italics),

Denis-Constant Martin (1998, 529) argues that the coons take possession of the city on New Year’s Day, marching through areas where they were not allowed to live, ‘affirming thereby that they belong to the Cape – and that the Cape belongs to them – despite prejudices and laws’. Martin’s romantic elucidation reminds of the ending of District Six – Kanala,where the cast plays on the sentimentality of the audience. By Martin’s standard, my disapproval of the stereotypical portrayal of Coloureds in the coon tradition identifies me as part of the ‘Coloured elite’ (1998, 530). For Martin, it should be pointed out that this elite, in considering especially the coon carnival as an overt manifestation of culture as defined by the apartheid system, was in essence denying disadvantaged members of the coloured community the opportunity to make light of their daily sufferings … an opportunity to rejoice, to have fun. … An occasion when they could demonstrate their creativity.

Is dit die enigste tipe kreatiwiteit (om onsself stupid te maak) wat aan ons coloureds toegelaat is? En wanneer gaan ons opgehou bestempel word as disadvantaged? En hoekom maak hy ‘n distinction: was ons almal nie in elk geval maar disadvantaged nie? Clarify, Mr. Martin.

Is this the only creativity afforded Coloured people? (And when will we stop being labelled disadvantaged?)

Weer surrender ons voor wat Vernon February (1981, 45) noem ‘benevolent paternalism’, weer onderdanig aan die wit man ‘who [is] forever at pains to tell the Coloureds how happy they are’ (Head 1993, 16). Maar om regverdig te wees: die wit man neem ook sy cue van die coloured in die geval, aangesien die coloured uitspattig lag wanneer hy konstant as ‘n dronklap, draler en ‘n gangster uitgebeeld word. Die wit man se medepligtigheid in die skepping van hierdie beeld in die eerste plek word sodoende verlig. So, lag maar voort, coloureds.  

Again we have acquiesced to what Vernon February (1981, 45) calls ‘benevolent paternalism’, submitting to the white man ‘who [is] forever at pains to tell the Coloureds how happy they are’ (Head 1993, 16). However, to be reasonable, the white man also takes his cue from the Coloured man in this respect, as the latter laughs ecstatically at himself incessantly portrayed as a drunk, a laggard and a gangster, while the white man’s complicity in creating this image in the first place, is quietly assuaged.

February skryf in 1981 ‘the coloured public is irritated, embarrassed and not amused’ deur die uitbeelding van die coloured (1981, 51). Maar dit blyk nie vandag die geval te wees nie. Die aanvaarding en, natuurlik, die genot wat hierdie uitbeelding by hierdie spesifieke gehoor uitlok, verbyster my en weerspreek vir February. So ek vra myself af: van watter coloured public praat February nou eintlik? Martin se coloured elite? Dan is ek in goeie company met ou Vernie.

February wrote in 1981 that, ‘the coloured public is irritated, embarrassed and not amused’ by the portrayal of the Coloured person (1981, 51). However, in 2016, this does not seem to be the case. The acceptance and, indeed, enjoyment of this depiction by this particular audience confounds me and contradicts February. So I ask myself: precisely which Coloured public does February refer to?

Ek is gebore in die jaar wat Vernie February se boek gepubliseer is. Ek is ‘n Westerse Kunsmusiek praktisyn (wat dit ookal deesdae beteken) en ek is ‘n coloured vrou met geen verbintenis tot die Kaapse musiekkultuur nie. Daarom bevraagteken ek tog my eie stem wanneer ek hierdie issues konfronteer. Diskwalifiseer my agtergrond, wat so anders is as wat in hierdie storie en so baie ander verteenwoordig word, my om hierdie vrae te vra of om die aanhoudende toepassing van hierdie suf temas uit te daag? Ek wonder wat my eweknieë oor die stereotipiese uitbeeldings te sê het. Miskien is hulle in stille ooreenstemming met my, of miskien probeer hulle net om aan en weg van die verlede te beweeg. Miskien wil hulle net hul lewens bou, post-apartheid, en op die toekoms in plaas van die verlede fokus. Maar dan, waarop bou ons presies? Hierdie stereotipe wat ons nog steeds omhul, wat werksonderhoude vooruitgaan, wat nog steeds ons bestaan in ‘n negatiewe tint kleur.

Born in the final years of apartheid, I am a Western art music educated Coloured woman, with no ties whatsoever to the Cape music culture. I therefore question my own voice in confronting these issues and doubt my place within them. Do I have the right to address, and sometimes challenge, these matters? Does my background, so different from what is represented in this story and in so many others, disqualify me from challenging the continued application of these stale themes? I wonder how my peers feel about this stereotypical portrayal. Perhaps they are in silent agreement with me, but perhaps they are simply trying to move on and away from the past, trying to build their lives post-apartheid, focussing on the future instead of the past. But then, what exactly are we building on? This stereotype still encases us; it precedes job interviews; it still colours our existence in a negative hue.

Ek besef dat ek ‘n diep begeerte het vir iets wat dalk nooit sal bestaan nie. Ek weet nie. Al wat ek weet is dat ek moeg is vir hierdie uitbeelding van die coloured. Dit is sekerlik nie die enigste storie van die coloured nie. Maar wie sal die ander stories vertel? En wat is die ander stories?

Upon reflection, I realise that I have a deep desire for something that does not and may never exist. I am tired of this portrayal. Surely this is not the only story of the Coloured people. But who will tell the other stories? Whose responsibility is it?

Laat ek maar terugdeins in die herinnering van die Von Trapp family singers van Diedericksstraat 8, Mountain View, Paarl…