TENDAYI SITHOLE

One for Dyani

my pen is not a musical instrument
it does not project sound nor does it pour the ink of scales and notes
it is a pen that is musically illiterate

in black reverberating blues
the ink as blood stain
i hear the sound of my pen shouting on this paper for you

The duo solo

One with the bass echoing the solo
            Improvised lingo
                      Call it whatever you like—hybrid, creole, mixed, entangled, multi or whatever
you like still
            It ain’t what you call it

The solo physique is formless and not amoebic
            It defies what you wanna call it
            The duo that corrupts the ear
You will hear a trio and quartet from one spectrum and to the other extreme you will hear a
septet and octet.
One with the bass is a duo solo—a mystery.

Bass dub

to give it another name of what we think it is
to regard it as you
without the bass we have no name for you
imbizo as the bass that gathers

narratives composed to be legends without myth
the sound comes and tell stories
there will be that time when stories tell themselves
special effects get creolised in the musical cords

things are not what they are known to be what was is never what is changes of sound with relative ease
the name of the bass stands out for being called imbizosenses elevated as aesthetic tastes get peppered listening practices and their doubles to multiplicity
things cannot be what they are known to be
what is not known is named and imbizo is yet to be known

Impromptu

Imagination defying convention
Convention fails dismally to command and discipline
Expectations disappointed
All ends up cheering as if hallucinating in joy
No one knows what’s next
What is next is what is happening
Rhythms of the present
The interplay of mixed feeling
Stretching the limits
That bass with its imagination of freedom
The mechanical not chemical balance of freedom and spontaneity

Four senses in sentient sound

sound of touch
                        sound of sight
                                                sound of smell
                                                                        sound of taste

on hearing the sound all senses need to be elevated
as this sound cannot be heard without a good sense of

touch
            sight
                        smell   &
                                         taste

the hearing sense as the Motenian resistant object and Wildersonian non-relation
being and sound in social death and social life

the exile in apartheid
the exile in Europe
blackness still excluded from economy of senses

what is felt is still that pain that is spoken through music
it is the feeling of freedom while not been free
senses of freedom as sounds of freedom

The flesh of sound

to touch sound, to feel it
the flesh with the stream of blood underneath
the deep anatomy of the surface, thinking of the deep surface whose depth can be reached by
sound deeply
sounding deep, the deep of deep depending on nothing ain’t deep
the chant of love running through arteries that pump blood
flesh of sound as the structure of desire fulfilled

to touch sound, to feel that fulfilled desire
sweat dripping as the result of giving life, pores opening and closing
generous offering of music through sweat and blood
the flesh of critique ain’t no feeling nihilist to reach for the sound of healing

to touch sound, to feel that healing of sound
this is not the sound of joy nor sorrow
the sound of the oppressed chanting to get healed
freedom chant against the chat of the freedom charter
the flesh of sound against the cheat of the freedom charter

to touch sound, to feel the chatting that cheats
the chat chat chat chat
the cheat cheat cheat
the sound of those who are against chat
the sound of those who are against cheat
the sound of flesh is freedom

Doing a thing or two to it

to pick it from the stage floor
massive instrument and his tiny body
           attached to it and doing a thing or two to it

a thing—hands stretched and magical fingers on four strings
two to it—fingers producing multiple sounds

a thing—body bent on it
two to it—the sound coming from the bass as if it is not a bass

it is a thing (a bass)
it is thing and there is a two to it (a double bass)
it is one as it has always been the one instrument that is a thing and its doubles

            standing upright
                        the massive instrument and his massive soul
                                    attached to music

it is the right thing to stand
standing right
standing right there
standing right there at the band stand
standing for the right to stand
the upright bass standing erect from the floor as the last standing that forever lasts

Horns

horns sharp
            pointy and hard
                        ready to pierce any surface

blood bleed
            flow and drip
                        stain on the red arid soil

cry scream
            agony and wound
                        scarred for life

horns of Feza and Pukwana
            let thy sound of horns say freedom forever

blue note of horns
            horns of blood and cry

Raw and Uncut

Nothing to do with the grotesque which invites sensational lust for gory details
Everything to do with the sublime which invites originality
Pure acoustic dimensions for the structure of sensation
Paying from the feel
No sentiment to the raw and uncut
As it is take it
The gift from sons of the soils raw and uncut from technicality
Thinking is feeling
Free jazz
Improvised sensorium and elevated senses for Mignolo’s AestheSis
No rules, edicts and strictures
Raw and uncut talent delivered purely as it is
The language of freedom
The fight for freedom in the raw and uncut language
The feeling that preaches
The deep feeling that lies deep
That is free jazz fela’s raw and uncut
Deal with it!!!

Avant-garde

The origin of rebellion
Non-conformity to boot and turning the back against the dogmatic status quo
“To hell with you”
No compromise, concession, complacency
Rebellion is what feeds the spirit and creativity
Dare to dream and be disaffected
The path is littered with thorns

The price to pay is the stick for cowards
I bite that carrot and will not watch a single dangle in front of my face
I fear nothing as a rebel
Camus’ The Rebel is in my pocket, thanks to the Penguin edition

I am bohemian proper
Avant-garde of the avant-propos is apropos
Holding the bass
My fingers and bow on it
Incantations complemented by ancestral vocals
Embracing the way it is yet to be done while doing it
Undoing the conventional and doing the undoable

What is Sk’enke if not the avant-garde?
Through and through the musical genius is that of the avant-garde
No genre bounds
The bowels of the genre dissected and externalised
Inside the bowels of the bass there is sound that is made distinct by four strings from the neck
With fingers withstanding blisters and the bow that magnetises itself to strings
It is all about that bass that goes beyond its own instrumentality
The avant-garde as the turbulent continuum of rebellion
No Cogito
I rebel, therefore, we exist!