TENDAYI SITHOLE

Truth

Telling it all like it is
With clarity and precision
Honourably

The bass carrying the message
It is for all to know what is happening
The pain that is lived is telling

Je ne sais quoi: a meditation

never having heard anything like that
before, now, after
ever ever never never the bass plays like that
i stretch my ears
four ears
listening with corrupted senses
excess largesse
whopping sound
tears on my cheeks
touched by the spirit of such great sonic offering
the space contracts and penetrates me
inside bursting
painting heavens with sound
theatre of the mind switched off
now the bulbs are on and the dark cave is well lit
stricken souls

aaaaaah… the “now i see” moment
i have been waiting for this moment as the moment was long awaiting
darkness that covers the light is gone
the moment of the sound that makes life
the bass now and then
the hoe that ploughs the arable music
no arid soundscape
the moment is here and it is indescribable

aaaaaah… ever never ever never
no one knows
jazz standards and sensibilities put on trial
Moholo-Moholo’s instantaneous and simultaneous NO BABY…YES BABY… as verdict of
the wretched jurists
the indefinable verdict in lighting strike of those drums
take it as it is!
it is that moment when the bass is indecipherable
it is the outlaw of the defender on trial
there comes the judge
never has anything like this being hear

nothing will ever be the same
it has never been the same
McGregorian breath and magical fingers
black and white bones producing fingers
oooooooh… squawk and stretch difference 
Pukwana’s alto sax sonic expanses
close two ears while two listen
Moyake’s avant-garde blows still stand haunting
through his tenor sax to nail the black sophisticated
colours on the canvas mast
Feza’s trumpet screaming to create the thump of silence
tuuuuuuuuu…..! the silent scream that awakens the
dead

the aaaaah moment dwelling in much confusion
dumbfounded as ever
there was never any “aha getting it thing”
what is to follow is not known in as much as what is done is not known
improvisation as difference
Deleuze difference and repetitions questioned through Fanon’s repetition without difference
no repetition no difference
all is unknown
“you ain’t gonna know me (‘coz you think you know me)”—Feza’s  compositional madness
reincarnated without repetition or difference

Banality

There is that banal thing circulating
It is a fact, a known fact
Truthful as is it maybe
It is still banal though
Banality of fact

It then goes like a dictum that Dyani is a bassist
No bass no Dyani
Banality goes like:

A bassist
A bassist
A bassist

Where is the composer, arranger, and band leader?
Where is the singer with impassioned vocals that wake ancestors from their graves?
Where is the spiritual awakener among the broken souls that are pregnant with Black
Consciousness?
Where is Dyani who we are yet to know as there is no narrative but sketches of him?

In answering, banality jumps in to passionately answer without a word to say:

Huh
Errr…
But…
In fact… uhmm
Well… ehhh
Say what????
I was actually meaning to say…
Blah blah blah… Banality blah

Banality in the face of questions
Banality is the known
What is more to be known is yet to be known
Dyani we are yet to know
Moholo-Moholo tell us something in that drum kit which detests banality as it is for
improvisation and free jazz.

Jut

the surface buries bass
underneath the surface
the life of the unseen

the bass doubles its doubleness
big big big big sound
the surface cannot hold, the bass now leads the band

Mechanics of posture

performativity of the bass and its standing
no way, the bass has to stand on stage
the body size of the wooden music

Sit
stand
hold that bass
posture conventions in motion

arm orientation and movement
left arm, right arm
being the music

design of the body and the bass
short height handing the colossal wood with so much ease
the larger instrument and the optimum posture
defying the height of the bass and still spitting beautiful music from it

tradition
situation
sensation

more body freedom
mute instrumental freedom
freedom postures

when silent tales are told
this is what the testimony of the anointed musician is
bound by the spirit more than the mechanics of the physique
the free posture that is all about the mobility of music
when the music moves and moves you
the body is music
intimate knowledge of the musical instrument
refined skill turned magic the control of the instrument defying neoliberal instrumental reason
and its death of imagination
posture is still standing in motion

pictorial wit
razor sharp precision
unconscious reflex sensory vibration
the man and bass as man in bass and bass in man

fingers rattling faster on the fingerboard
up and down on the fingerboard

mechanics of the static movement fast
kinesthetic mechanics
artistic mechanics
technics mechanics
mechanics of the sonic grooves on earth and in heaven

genre germinated for generations
generations of the genre
germination of genes
mechanical posture in genes
mechanical posture in genre
mechanical posture in generations
mechanical posture in germination

Bass blue

Narrating that blue note
Ears plugged to crystal clear vibration
The sound that is blue because it descends from the sky
settling comfortably in this wretched soul of mine

Thunder strikes by surprise where the deep blue sea heightens its waves
Sea horses becoming white as the blue turns dark—that dark of blue, the fading blue turning grey
Thunder thunder thunder…
Waves becoming tides that invade the interior
The deep blue sound that even becomes convivial with the Caribbean under the sea and Bob
Marleyian “stir it up” but with no darling as this is not John Coltranian “sentimental mood”
Blues where the bass testifies on the smooth turned rough

Hear the bass blues in delirium
Fury gone mad as the world is mad
The solo licking strings that allures the right odd chords to bring sound inward
Here is the bassist on stage moving straight to the soul of the audience
Ululating supernatural chants bringing down heaven

The bow is now pulled from the bass and claiming its electrified sparking pure rawness of four strings
The bow put away and fingers back again striking notes
Waldronian piano comes in to blast high register “strange intrusions”
Yeah babe, it is happening live at Live at Jazz Unité

Hear the bass blue sound from the ensemble in front of your heart and soul
Hear the visual

See the sound in blue under the galaxy of stars lurking the dark night
There is always blue
the bass blue

The bass sermon

the rattling of strings from fingers of love
bow laid to rest as fingers are in motion
fingers with a soul
breathing music
dum dum dum dum

each string with its dum
feeling the music
feet bare on the soil tapping that dust to rise
dum dum dum dum

outside the policed feeling
being told how to feel
dum dum dum dum

the music going on
free feeling inside with no sideway
feeling the feel real feel

the dum of feeling
the dum session
the dum sound coming from the wooden furniture with four strings
four strings and their dum dum dum dum

Sweat

drops from my soul
freeing itself from the incarcerated body
the soul of double consciousness and its expressions
nothing is free yet
sweat is not freedom coming
sweat is still exploit labour

nothing such as the labour of love
hot is it may be
cold as it may be
drops from this body

Work and wait

Another bassist like you
it is all about working when you are among the chosen few who must hold the bass
composing
rehearsing
performing

Another bassist like you
it is all about working in order to stand out
the right note
the right tune
the right moment

Another bassist like you
it is all about working and waiting
waiting to get paid
waiting to get paid
waiting to get paid

Another bassist like you
it is all about working and getting a gig
a gig as a band leader or a sideman
being booked at the jazz festival
being booked at the joint
getting a gig—yeah, any gig to get by

Another bassist like you
it is all about working and getting the music out there, to feed hungry souls
just like you Dyani
the music of/for the people
the music that stands for life

Another bassist like you
it is still normal to work and wait
to be promised
to be lied to
to be left wanting in hope with its antonym—despair

Another bassist like you is still working and waiting
Another bassist like you is still waiting but still working
the bassist is still there waiting in despair to bring bread to the table
the music is still out there
there is no waiting in music
no pay no pay

Work and wait
Another bassist has made a clarion call
the pangs of hunger could not be suppressed
the expression of agony

Eviction order looms large
the land lord is sick and tired of the hungry musician who goes to work and comes back with no brown envelope
Another bassist is still crying the same plight
Herbie Tsoaeli’s song Work and Wait will make you dance Dyani
Work and wait

Afrikan lady

i am no longer a sideman
the sight behind a shoulder of the one in front of me
i am here, no longer obscured

standing on the front of the jazz band with the french lady as mingus bass is affectionately referred to by affirming cats
my bass is the afrikan lady—i name it now as such and it is as such
it is not a sensual doll archetype but a matriarch with a black soul made of four strings
how can a matriarch stand at the back?

being seen there at the back is no more
here is the afrikan lady in front of you
see her she is here!
dancing to command not to seduce
not your fetish sexualised object
bow to the afrikan lady
close your eyes, open them
shut up, scream
nod, chant

stomp

scandanavia here i come with my afrikan lady
bow to the new sound
distaste it at your own tastelessness
london conformism is no more
i groove what i like now
i left the french lady in london
when I make my way to london again please don’t ask me about the french lady
i am no mingus archetype
i am the afrikan man original—did fela not tell you that he was referring to me in that song?

yeah, i am not a gentle man at all
but the afrikan lady is not Fela’s lady
my afrikan lady sings the spiritual chants with the melodies that scare white feminists and their black
archetypes of mimicry
no chauvinistic-phallic-erect-rapist will stand her
those who insult, violate and abuse the afrikan lady do so to their grannies, mums, sisters, wives, girlfriends, partners and friends
ask lefifi to tell you what i did to straighten the zambian brother who was tjatjaraag wanting the afrikan lady to play while i was still warming up through prayer—yep, chesa mpama more than senyaka.
lefifi did you say he behaved like a good school boy throughout the gig?
hehehe… least he sat to bow down to the afrikan lady

she is all for brother and sisters who are dehumanized and fights coloniality throughout
pachamama mother earth mother on earth mother for earth who stands against the rape of the anti-black
world
all bow to the afrikan lady

the french lady is flat—mingus you know mos as i said it right to your giant face without fearing any knocking out of teeth or your beating
david and goliath but with no stone but words—“you are flat”

i dedicated a piece for you my brother “papa mingus” as i hold you dear.
why? even though you claimed to be king and can read music you still bowed to my afrikan lady. respect to
you always my brother in the spirit of pachamama

this is the transit in exile from london to scandanavia
dyani the 19 year old is no more
the music has grown, so says the afrikan lady
chris i am leaving london with mongezi
let the blue note breathe through the brotherhood of breath
no death there
it will still be blue note
the transit and metaphases are still blue which is the origin of the note the note in blue which defies any
monday blues
transit in exile is no loss
afrikan lady i love you more than myself to death even
the afrikan lady my bass
i live through you mother earth
berlin the end of beginning, death as birth
life is exile life at home
afrikan lady keep on