JANNIKE BERGH

This article was first published in Afrikaans-only by Klyntji. The republication in herri is with kind permission of Klyntji’s editors and the author, who did the translation into English herself.

---

Bantu Continua Uhuru Consciousness (BCUC) beweeg rond in ‘n ambivalente ruimte van meesleurende ongemak. En tog is ekstase die punt van samekoms in hulle musiek, van eie bodem tot groot festival verhoë regoor Europa; van straatkonserte in Soweto tot ‘n metro-stasie in Rennes, van die Voortrekkermonument in Pretoria tot jazz festivals in Parys saam met Femi Kute en Salif Keïta. Roskilde. Glastonbury. Lockdown.

 

Bantu Continua Uhuru Consciousness (BCUC) creates and dislodges discomfort. Despite the negotiation, ecstasy is at the heart of their music – from home soil to big festival stages across Europe; from street concerts in Soweto to a metro station in Rennes; from the Voortrekker Monument in Pretoria to jazz festivals in Paris with Femi Kuti and Salif Keita. To Roskilde. Glastonbury. Lockdown.

Dit was ’n Maandagoggend elfuur by Xai-Xai in Melville wat Nkosi “Jovi” Zithulele, Kgomotso Mokone en Lehlohonolo “Hloni” Maphunye my en my pa omhels het. Dit was in Januarie 2016 wat ons hier ontmoet het om te gesels oor ’n Franse musiekfees se direkteur se wens om hulle na Frankryk te nooi. Daar was ’n opwindende eienaardigheid wat die toekoms ’n mooi glans gegee het.

We first met at Xai Xai in Melville at eleven on a Monday morning; Nkosi “Jovi” Zithulele, Kgomotso Mokoni and Lehlohonolo “Hloni” Maphunye welcomed me and my dad with open arms. It was January 2016, and we met to discuss a French music festival director’s wish to bring BCUC over to play in France. The future had an unusual glow of intangible excitement.

Dit was via ’n skelm foonoproep tydens werksure uit ’n taalskool se kantoortjie in Besançon in die ooste van Frankryk wat ek sonder om mooi te besef het met wie ek sou praat, die grote Jean-Louis Brossard aan die ander kant van die lyn gehad het. Die fees, Les Rencontres Transmusicales de Rennes, is sy geesteskind wat hy sedert 1979 bestuur; ons gesels daardie dag oor sy voorliefde vir wat vandag wemel in die sfere van die Suid-Afrikaanse musiek-ondergrond. Johannesburg, eintlik. Die fees se line-ups oor die jare getuig daarvan: BLK JKS, Tumi Mogorosi, The Brother Moves On… Hy reken dat hy nie spesifieke voorkeure het wat lande betref nie – eerder dat musiek wat ongewoon, onvergelykbaar en vernuwend is, ’n ongeskrewe voorvereiste is om sy oor te vang. Hy noem dat Suid-Afrika wel ’n ‘pays de musique’ is; ’n land waar musiek in oorvloed is en dit in die murg en been van die samelewing is.

In 2015, I was running an informal French-South African music exchange blog, Parissoweto. A clandestine phone call made in-between shifts from a language school’s attic in a town in eastern France led me to having Jean-Louis Brossard on the other line. I did not quite expect to speak to the big boss himself, having requested an interview with the Rencontres Transmusicales de Rennes festival, his brainchild which he’s directed since 1979. We chatted about his affinity for the new, sonic agitations emanating from the South African music underground – Johannesburg, to be precise. The festival’s line-ups over the years confirm this: BLK JKS, Tumi Mogorosi, The Brother Moves On … He said he wasn’t leaning towards any particular country; what interests him is music that is unusual, original and “doesn’t resemble anything else”. He referred to South Africa as a ‘pays de musique’; a country overflowing with music that grooves in the marrow of society.

Watter ander kunstenaars uit Suid-Afrika sou hy graag wou oorbring? wou ek by hom hoor. “Ek het nog nie aan volgende jaar se line-up gedink nie,” skerts hy, maar dat hy “alle ore is vir nuwe dinge uit Suid-Afrika.” Hy gooi die vraag terug na my toe en sê, “As jy my dalk in die regte rigting kan wys, luister ek baie graag.” Ek praat skynbaar sy taal toe ek vertel van BCUC (Bantu Continua Uhuru Consciousness). Hy vra vir ’n harde kopie van hulle musiek. Twee CDs met die pos gestuur en ’n maand later ontvang ek ’n e-pos terwyl ek in Suid-Afrika kuier: Jean-Louis is ín, en hy wil hê BCUC moet in Desember by sy fees kom optree.

Before greeting, I was curious to know whether he had identified new South African acts for his festival in 2016. “I haven’t thought about it yet,” he replied, extending a friendly invitation: “But if you could point me in the right direction, I’m all ears!” I feel at home and lay down my heart about BCUC (Bantua Continua Uhuru Consciousness); their story intrigues him and he asks if I could send hard copies of their music. I sent two CDs to Rennes via the post. A month later, in South Africa, I received an email from Jean-Louis – he said he’d listened to the music and wanted to book them for Les Transmusicales in December – where they would come to be the great revelation of the festival’s 2016 edition.

Vyf jaar later gaan kuier ek by die Food Zone in Lakeview, Soweto: Mritho Luja en ’n vriend bestuur dié gesellige plek van samekoms vir vriende en gelykdenkendes waar daar ook gebraai en musiek geluister word. Dit is ook BCUC se rehearsal space en waar Jovi hoop om “wit bands van die suburbs” te nooi as deel van ’n informele uitruil-inisiatief.

Five years later, I’m back at Food Zone in Lakeview, Soweto. Mritho Luja (on marching drums) and a friend run this unassuming yet buzzing gathering spot for like-minded people. When BCUC are not rehearsing there, Food Zone serves up shisanyama and tunes, with a few tables casually laid out on the grass outside. This is also where they like to host other artists. Jovi says he hopes to invite more “white bands from the suburbs” to come play there, as part of an informal exchange.

Die gesprek loop weer lank; Jovi is ’n onuitputbare gesprekmasjien; un moulin à paroles – woordemeul – soos wat ’n Franse joernalis oor hom geskryf het. Die charismatiese voorman van die groep se uitdrukkings is so eie aan homself dat dit by tye ’n onreg is om dit na Afrikaans te vertaal; sy energie en menswees is onvergelykbaar. Dieselfde geld natuurlik vir die hele groep: daar is bloot nie iets soos BCUC elders in Suid-Afrika nie, wat nog van die wêreld.

From the onset, I knew the interview would be intense to transcribe. Jovi is a tireless conversation machine; un moulin à paroles – a wordmill – a French journalist once wrote about him. The charismatic frontman’s expressions are so uniquely his; and his energy and way of being in the world can’t be imitated. Of course, the same goes for the whole band: There is nothing like BCUC elsewhere in the country; never mind the rest of the world.

Aan sy sy sit Kgomotso. Die dierbare dog onwankelbare Kgomotso. Sy het in kerkkore groot geword. Sy sing so ongelooflik mooi, maar ten spyte van haar warm geaardheid voel dit somtyds asof sy die swaarkry van hierdie land in haar ronddra; en die wreedheid van wegkyk vóél.

Sitting next to him is Kgomotso; the endearing and unwavering Kgomotso. She grew up singing in church choirs. Kgomotso’s singing is sublime and fierce, and, just like her voice, her warm nature seems clouded by the country’s suffering, by the cruelty of looking away.

Liefde lê in melodie, spreek die bose aan, is in trans. Dít is hoe Kgomotso sing. “Suid-Afrika is smoke and mirrors. Alles gaan oor hoe dit lyk; mense het nie tyd vir diepte nie,” sê sy, effe mismoedig. 

Love lies in melody, stares evil in the eye, is in trance. This is how Kgomotso sings. “South Africa is smoke and mirrors. Everything is about how it looks; people don’t have time for depth,” she says, a bit disheartened.

BCUC, aan die ander kant, dans na niemand se pype nie. Hulle musiekstyl wat hulle Africangungungu noem, het ’n punk energie met ’n komplekse maar effektiewe samekoms van funk, jazz, gospel, hip hop – en vier ouens op ritme en bas. Die boodskap, veral, is uitdagend.

BCUC, on the other hand, are uncompromising and by their own admission “weird”. Their musical style which they’ve dubbed Africangungungu has a punk energy with a complex but effective confluence of funk, jazz, gospel, hip hop – and a four man-strong rhythm section. The message, especially, is challenging.

In die lied Moya is daar ’n refrein wat Kgomotso sing wat altyd soos ’n goeie tyding weerklink:

In the song Moya, Kgomotso sings a part that resounds like golden tidings:

Yithi ugodo oluvimbe eswangweni
Impi iyozilwe nini?
(When will the war end?)

Moya (Album: Emakhosini, 2018)

Te midde die chaos van hierdie lied, skep Kgomotso ’n ewewig. ’n Mooi opname hiervan is by hierdie optrede by Gilles Peterson se Worldwide Awards in Engeland (Januarie 2018); dié welbekende wêreldmusiek-entoesias is ’n kompas vir opwindende klanke van oraloor. Hy hou ’n jaarlikse tentoonstelling, en toe hy BCUC uitgenooi het, het hy hulle onomwonde as die beste live show van die jaar verklaar.

Amid the chaos, Kgomotso instills serenity. Footage of their live performance at Gilles Peterson’s Worldwide Awards (UK, January 2018) brilliantly captures this: the famed ‘world music’ enthusiast is a true compass for compelling sounds from all corners of the world. He invited BCUC to play at his yearly music festival, and when introducing the band on stage, he emphatically declared BCUC to be “no hype, the gig of the year” for him.

Ons sit onder ’n boom en ’n hoëveldstorm woed in die verte. Die wind is ongenaakbaar. Ons praat oor hulle nuwe gewaagde song, Ramaphosisa. “It means Mr. Lies,” verduidelik Jovi. Marikana se stof het nie gaan lê nie. Die groep is veral uitgesproke oor die manier waarop transformasie ná 1994 nie werklik plaasgevind het nie; dat die armes gelos is om te sterf; dat die meerderheid van die land nie bestaansreg het nie. Jovi is agterdogtig, en verduidelik,   “We’re worried about his unbotheredness” – ’n moedswillige gebrek aan omgee. Die sentiment in die song gaan oor meer as magsmisbruik; dit gaan oor hoeveel (of hoe min) waarde daar aan mense se lewens geheg word – dit gaan verder as dit: hoe mense nie as mense gesien word nie.

We’re sitting under a tree and a highveld storm is raging in the distance. The wind is unapologetic. We’re discussing their recent, daring song, Ramaphosisa. “It means Mr Lies,” Jovi explains. The dust of Marikana will not settle. The band is especially outspoken about the way in which transformation after 1994 never truly happened; that the poor are left for dead; that the majority of the country have no right to exist. Jovi is suspicious, and explains, “We’re worried about his unbotheredness.” The song’s sentiment goes further than abuse of power – it is about how little value people’s lives hold for the ruling elite; how human beings are not seen as human beings.

Is dit moeiliker om vandag brutaal eerlik te wees? Kgomotso verduidelik dat BCUC nog nooit verander het nie, dat hulle inhoud baie mense al aanstoot gegee het. “Om teen mag te praat is in ons wese,” stel sy, ferm. Hulle klassifeer hierdie eerder as sosiale kommentaar: “Toe die lockdown gebeur het en die soldate in die strate was, het julle ouens in die voorstede dit nie ervaar nie; dinge soos hoe rof die soldate was, veral met die jeug en bejaardes. Mense het gesterf, ons het dit gevoel, ons het dit gesien. Ek kan nie maak asof ek dit nie gesien het nie.” 

Is it more difficult to be brutally honest today? Kgomotso explains that BCUC never changed, that their content offended many people in the past. “Speaking against power is in the fibre of who we are,” she asserts. They qualify this rather as social commentary than political messaging. “When the lockdown happened and the soldiers were in the streets, you guys in the suburbs did not experience that; things like how rough the soldiers were, especially with youth and the elderly. People died, we felt that, we saw that. I can’t pretend like I didn’t see that.” 

Jovi verwys na die magstelsel as ‘n “institution of eating”, wat ook goed uiteengesit word in Journey with Mr Van der Merwe, ’n lied wat handel oor ’n klein minderheid wat meeste van die land besit, maar wat hulleself nie steur aan die meerderheid wat in shacks bly nie, “Omdat ons in ‘n moderne Suid-Afrika leef, het Mr van der Merwe ook die swart elite geword.” Jovi verf met handgebare ’n prentjie van ’n gehoor vol strikdasse waarvoor hulle ’n week vantevore Ramaphosisa gespeel het: “Dit beteken dat ons op daardie dag baie mense aanstoot gegee het.”

Jovi refers to the power system as an “institution of eating”, echoed in Journey with Mr Van der Merwe, a song about a small minority that own most of the country and who look away from the majority living in shacks. “Because we are living in a modern South Africa, Mr van der Merwe has also become the black elite.”  Jovi uses hand gestures to paint a picture of an audience full of bow-ties to whom, a week prior, they played Ramaphosisa: “That means we offended a lot of people on that day.”

BCUC se opstandigheid word verkeerd gelees as aggressie. Die opstand is positief, en hulle musiek ontstaan uit ’n plek van wrywing; dit is tasbaar in die ruisende, diep tamboerritmes van Luja, Skhumbuzo Mahlangu en Thabo “Cheex” Mangle; in virtuoos-Mosebetsi Ntsimande se soepel baskitaar; in Jovi se kryger-in-trans-krete; in Hloni se fluitjies en klokke en in Kgomotso se sang wat sweef en kloof deur die gebulder. Dit is tegelyk só mooi, só sielvol, só die moer in.

BCUC’s uprising is sometimes mistaken for aggression. The uprising is positive and their music agitated in response to this, tangible in the rousing, building drums and percussions of Luja, Skhumbuzo and Thabo ‘Cheex’; in virtuoso Mosebetsi’s supple bass guitar; in Jovi’s warrior-in-trance cries; in Hloni’s whistles, bells and chants and in Kgomotso’s song that soars through the floodgates.

Ek deel met hulle my persoonlike aanklank wat ek met hulle opstand vind, wat ek net kan beskryf as ‘positive rage’ – juis omdat dit waansinnig is om so min om te gee. Ons gesels oor ’n konsert in Lyon, waar Jovi vir die gehoor gesê het, “Daar is nie tyd om sag oor liefde te wees nie. Love hard!”

I tell them about my personal affinity for their protest which I can only describe as ‘positive rage’ – precisely because it would be sheer madness to care so little. We chat about their first show in Lyon in February 2017, where Jovi told the crowd, “There’s no time to be soft about love. Love hard!”

Jovi lag, en sê, ja, want dit is omdat hulle nie sweethearts is nie: “Ons het nie hoelahoepels op die verhoog nie. Ons dra nie Afrika-regalia nie.” Hy verwys na hoe maklik dit is om die werklikheid te vermom in ’n poskaart-beeld van Suid-Afrika. Wat hulle nader aan die hart lê, is hoe ’n Suid-Afrikaner vandag lyk: “Dit beteken hy is gefrustreerd, kwaad en desperaat: Dit is die Suid-Afrika van nóú. Dit is ons. Ons is nie Ladysmith Black Mambazo nie,” sê hy met ’n knippie humor.

“Ons sing melodieë wat klink of daar ’n storm op pad is.”

Jovi laughs, and says, “yes, because we are not sweethearts. We’re not having hoola hoops on stage. We’re not wearing African regalia.”  It’s too easy to disguise reality in a postcard image of South Africa. “We care about what the South African of now looks like. It means he is frustrated, he is angry, he is desperate,” Jovi emphasises each word in the same way he would get hyped up on stage. “That is the South African of now. We are that. We are not Ladysmith Black Mambazo,” he says with a hint of humour.

“We sing melodies that sound like a storm is coming.”

Ek wonder gereeld hoe dit vir hulle voel om voor soveel verskillende gehore te speel, met wisselende verwagtinge. Ek het hulle al kwaad gesien in Troyeville en ek het hulle al vredeliewend by Park Acoustics gesien. Ek het hulle al op hulle senuwees en bedeesd in ’n intieme teater in Pantin buite Parys gesien: daardie aand het die sittende gehoor stadig maar seker vorentoe gesluip. Eers was daar ’n skraal ou man, seker in sy sewentigs; ’n Japannese omie met ’n grys bolla. Hy het op ‘n manier gedans wat ek nog nie vantevore aanskou het nie.

I often wonder what their own experience of playing in front of so many different audiences may be; audiences that have varying expectations. I’ve seen them frustrated in Troyeville, and I’ve seen them peace-loving at Park Acoustics. I’ve seen them tread lightly in an intimate theatre in Pantin, outside of Paris; it was their first show there, also a collaboration with saxophonist Shabaka Hutchings: That night, the crowd left their seats and made their way to the front, one by one. First it was a scrawny old Japanese man in his seventies, his hair tied in a bun. He dance in a way I’ve never witnessed before.

Hy het soos water deur die ritmes gesypel.

He seeped through the rhythms like water.

Daarna het kinders om hom kom dans. Ek sal daardie sekonde vir ewig in my geestesoog onthou – daardie presiese oomblik wat Jovi se hart begin gloei het. Kgomotso het uit die hoek van haar oog begin glimlag terwyl sy sing en spring, en Luja-hulle se ritmes het die energie verhef: en só het BCUC een gloeiende, kloppende hart saam met die gehoor geword. Dit is op daardie oomblik wat Frankryk die groep se tweede tuiste geword het.

Then children started dancing around him. There is a second that I will forever hold in my memories: the moment Jovi’s heart started glowing; Kgomotso was smiling from the corner of her eye, singing, dancing; and the marching drums, congas and bass elevated the energy of that second BCUC became one glowing, beating heart on stage, with the audience. And so it came to be, at that instance, that France became BCUC’s second home.

“Sommige het BCUC as die beste live band in die wêreld geprys, ander het Soweto as die toekomstige middelpunt van die heelal verklaar.” Hierdie woorde is twee maande later in Frankryk se mees wydgelese kultuurtydskrif, Les Inrocks, gepubliseer. ’n Paar maande daarna het hulle in ’n venue met slegte klank voor vyftien mense in Pretoria gespeel. Die dissonansie was seer; daar is inderdaad ’n parallelle heelal en die band sou gou weer terug in Frankryk wees. 

“Some swore to have seen the best live band in the world, others declared Soweto the future capital of the universe” – two months after their first performance in France, France’s most widely read cultural magazine, Les Inrocks published these words about them two months after their first performance in France. In 2017, I returned home and went to see them play in Pretoria at a near-empty venue with bad sound. The dissonance hurt; it felt like a parallel universe indeed, and the band would soon be back in France.

Op ’n dag het ek ’n brief ontvang van ’n verlangse vriend in Besançon; ’n geharde, sekulêre pessimis wat nog altyd ’n stryd voer met homself en sukkel om rede en liefde te vereenselwig. Hierdie persoon wat ek nog nooit sien dans het nie, het vir my geskryf om te sê:  Jannike, hierdie is ’n lomp poging tot ’n e-pos, gemotiveer deur ’n absoluut verbysterende ervaring wat ek gisteraand meegemaak het: ’n kragtige konsert vol soveel vitaliteit en diepte; ’n oomblik van samesyn, van menslikheid, waar ek heeltemal nat gesweet uitgestap het, met die gevoel in my hart dat ek sopas iets ongelooflik beleef het.

One day, I received an email from a distant friend in Besançon; a hardened, secular pessimist who has always fought a battle with himself to reconcile reason and love. This person that I’ve never seen dancing, ever, wrote to me: Jannike, this is a clumsy attempt at an email; the experience of seeing BCUC last night left me absolutely dumbfounded and compelled me to write: the performance was powerful, full of vitality and depth; a moment of togetherness, of humanity, where I walked away drenched in sweat, carrying with me a feeling that I had just witnessed something incredible.

Hiérdie is BCUC: ’n groep wat speel soos wat die gees hulle lei en die gehoor saam met hulle neem: “Ons morph,” vertel Jovi. Daar is dae wat hulle bang is, wat hulle sê nou maar voor ’n gehoor wat sy eie idees van Afrika-jazz het, moet speel. “Maar ons voel die vibe, ons voel die vibe,” vertel Jovi, totdat hulle vastrapplek vind. Daar is dae wat hulle voor ’n oorwegend-wit gehoor in Pretoria moet speel, aan die voete van die Voortrekker Monument byvoorbeeld, en daarby moet aanpas: “Ons wil jou eerder die tyd van jou lewe gee, as om jou lewe te beïnvloed. Maar ons hou daarvan om deur te dring. En as ons nie deur kan dring nie, wil ons vir jou laat party soos wat jy nog nooit vantevore het nie.”

This is BCUC: A group guided by their music, taking their audience with them. “We morph,” Jovi says. There are days that they’re scared, that they have to play in front of an audience, who, for example, have “their own ideas about African jazz”. But, with BCUC, Jovi explains, “we feel the vibe, we feel the vibe,” until they find a foothold. There are times that they play in front of a mostly white crowd in Pretoria, at the foot of the Voortrekker Monument, for example, and have to adapt:  “We’d rather give you the time of your life, than affect your life. But we love to imprint. And if we don’t imprint we want to give you a party like you’ve never had a party.”

Volgens Kgomotso is dit ’n vorm van respek om by die gehoor se energie aan te pas en ’n fyn belans om te handhaaf – hoe die band voel, hoe die gehoor voel: “Om die gehoor te lees is ‘n baie mooi ding vir ‘n kunstenaar om te doen.”

It is a fine balance and a form of respect to adapt to the crowd’s energy, Kgomotso explains – how the band feels, how the audience feels: “Reading the room is a beautiful thing for an artist to do.”

Die boodskap bly dieselfde; die energie kan wissel in intensiteit, stemming, atmosfeer. “En kom ons wees nou eerlik,” gee Jovi toe, “ons weet wat die Voortrekker Monument beteken. Maar ons weet ook wat dit kan wees, want as mens ‘voortrekker’ moet vertaal, verwys dit na leiers, reisigers wat voor die ander reis. Ek weet nie of my Afrikaans reg is nie, maar dit is so iets. En dan word ons ook ‘voortrekkers’.” Dit is net die woord wat Afrikaans is, verduidelik hy, maar op daardie dag “speel ons vir die Suid-Afrika wat ons voor wens: Hoe ons dit oordra, is om mense saam deur die swart persoon se perspektief te neem van wat Suid-Afrika kan wees.”

The message stays the same; the energy varies in intensity, mood, atmosphere. “And let’s be honest,” Jovi concedes, “we know what the Voortrekker Monument means. But we also know what it can be, because if you would translate ‘voortrekker’, it means ‘leaders travelling in front of the others’. I don’t know if my Afrikaans is correct, but it’s something like that. And then we also become ‘voortrekkers’.” On that day, “we play for the South Africa that we wish for. How we deliver it is by dragging the people along the black person’s perspective of what South Africa can be.”

Wat is BCUC se wens vir Suid-Afrika? Sy antwoord is iewers tussen vasberadenheid en hard-op droom: “ ’n Suid-Afrika waar almal ’n goeie plek kan hê om te woon.”

What is BCUC’s wish for South Africa? His answer lies somewhere between determination and dreaming out loud: “A South Africa where everyone can have a good place to live.”

Die wind het nou so erg opgesteek dat ons in Jovi se kar moet gaan sit om die gesprek voort te sit. Die stilte is welkom. “Jy wou nog vra oor African spirituality,” herinner Jovi my.

The wind now picks up and the impending storm forces the interview to seek shelter inside Jovi’s car. The quiet is welcome. “You still wanted to ask about African spirituality,” he reminds me.

Laze laguqubala emini
(Ubusantusantu besivunguvungu)
Sangena emaweni
(Ubusantusantu besivunguvungu)
Kwanhlanga zimuka no moya
(Ubusantusantu besivunguvungu)
Ubusantusantu besivunguvungu
(Ubusantusantu besivunguvungu)

The clouds just turned into darkness during the day
(The havoc and chaos of the big wind)
We all ran into the caves
(The havoc and chaos of the big wind)
Whilst the windstorm was cleansing and getting rid of the bad energies
(The havoc and chaos of the big wind)

Isivunguvungu – BCUC, Saul Williams (Album: The Healing, 2019)

Daar is nie meer rede om hard te praat nie. Kalmer, verduidelik Jovi, “soos met die meeste van ons songs, sien ons onsself as African spirituals.” Die boodskap word omhul in tradisioneel-spirituele musiek – “liedjies deur sangomas, inheemse kerke, die Kerk van Sion, die Kerk van Shembe.” Hy verduidelik verder: “Ons omvou ons klank in tradisionele gesange sodat dit ons in die gees van daardie lied daarin kan anker.” Hierdie is die beginpunt, daarna word die musiek BCUC s’n.

There’s no longer any reason to shout against the wind. Calmer, Jovi explains, “as with most of our songs, we see ourselves as African spirituals.” The message is cloaked in traditional-spiritual music – “songs by sangomas, indigenous churches, the Church of Zion, the Church of Shembe. Songs inspired by choirs. We infuse those so that they can anchor us into the spirit of that song.” This is the beginning point, after this the music belongs to BCUC.

Hulle filosofiese benadering is onlosmaakbaar van hulle musikale invloede. Hoe ervaar jy hierdie spiritualiteit in die daaglikse gang van die lewe? vra ek vir Kgomotso: “Jy droom oor dinge, ander tye ervaar jy déjà vu, ander tye is dit jou ouma wat jou waarsku oor iets. Drome beteken iets; ons glo dit.” Sy verduidelik verder dat Afrika-spiritualiteit teenwoordig is in elke manier waarin hulle met die wêreld omgaan; “Ja, my gesin is Christelik, maar vir my hou dit nie verband met die manier waarop ek voel wanneer ek by die huis is en die kamer na my ouma ruik nie.”

Their philosophical approach is inseparable from their musical influences. “How do you experience spirituality in the daily flow of life?” I ask Kgomotso. “You dream about things, other times you experience déjà vu, other times it’s your grandmother warning you about something. Dreams mean something; we believe it.” She goes on to explain how African spirituality is present in every way they go about their besiness in the world: “Yes, my family is Christian, but for me [it] does not connect the way I feel when I’m at home and the room smells like my grandmother.”

Jovi is bly om uiteindelik hieroor te praat. “Dit is ’n groot deel van ons musiek. Ek voel eerlikwaar dat ons voorvaders mekaar ontmoet het en bespreek het dat hulle kinders eendag sou ontmoet om te praat oor hoe ons dinge gaan oplos. Ons mag dalk voorvaders hê wat nie in die droom geglo het waarin ons vandag glo nie.”

Jovi adds, “It is a great part of our music. I honestly feel that our ancestors met each other to discuss how their children would meet one day, to discuss how we are going to solve things. We might have ancestors that didn’t believe in the dream that we are believing in today.”

Volgens hierdie denkwyse beteken sterflikheid nie die einde van die onderhandeling nie. Jovi en Kgomotso plaas voortdurend klem op hierdie lang pad wat daarmee moet aangehou word – al is die pad teen die stroom. “En as jy die drang het om te sê: ‘Fok rassisme, bra’, kan dit ook wees dat [jou voorvaders] voortbou op jou voorneme om te sê: ‘Dit het nie gewerk nie, bra; fok dit’. Jy weet, dit kan gebeur. Ons weet dit gebeur. Daardie roeping is vir ons belangriker as byvoorbeeld Ramaphosisa. Daai kak is belangriker. Ek hou van waar hierdie gesprek nou gaan.”

Following this philosophy, ‘mortality’ does not signify the end of the negotiation. Jovi and Kgomotso place great emphasis on a long road that continues – even if it means to go against the stream. “And if your urge tells you, ‘Fuck racism, bra’, it can also be [your ancestors] building on your resolve to say, ‘It didn’t work, bra; fuck it’. You know, it can happen. We know it happens. That mission for us is more important than Ramaphosisa, for example. That shit is more important,” Jovi says, emphatically. “I like where this conversation is going now.”

Nifana qamashi noyihlo nonyoko benu
Ngigweli imikhuba yabo
nginentsobotsi yabo
When you walk in the footsteps of the ones that walked before you
you will be the curse and the gift of your family tree

Insimbi – BCUC (Album: Emakhosini, 2018)

Ek noem dat die oomblikke in hulle live optredes wat my die meeste bybly, presies is wanneer hulle so ’n transendentale punt bereik. Kgomotso beaam hierdie en Jovi voeg by, “Ons het almal ons roeping, en ons glo ons roeping is deur musiek. Somtyds sien jy ’n persoon [in die gehoor] en jy voel hulle pyn en sien waardeur hulle gaan. En jy weet jy het ook al so gevoel en kan die persoon help, en dan maak die res van die show nie meer saak nie. Hierdie één persoon maak nou saak – en nou maak ons musiek om hierdie persoon te genees, of deur ‘n moeilike oomblik te lei.”

I mention that moments from their live shows that I remember the most clearly, are precisely when a song transcends the present: Kgomotso responds that this is what BCUC means to them, and Jovi adds, “We all have our own calling, and we believe our calling is through music. Sometimes you see a person [in the crowd] and you feel their pain and see what they are going through. And you know you have also felt this way before and can help this person – then the rest of the show doesn’t matter anymore. This one person matters now, and now we are making music to heal this person, or to guide him through a difficult time.”

Ek weet al te goed waarna hulle verwys – BCUC het my al in tye van onmeetbare rou gehelp om my kop hoog te hou. “En somtyds sien jy iemand wat hulleself verskriklik geniet, en jy fokus op daardie persoon,” – die groep is deurentyd bewus van hierdie wisselende energie. Hy glimag: “Nou gaan almal van ons ‘n goeie tyd hê deur daardie persoon [se energie] te channel.”

I know all too well what they are referring to – in times of immeasurable grief, BCUC have left me feeling enriched. “And sometimes you see someone who is having the time of their life, and you focus on that person,” Jovi explains. The band are always conscious of these fluctuating energies. He smiles, “Now all of us are going to have a good time channeling that person.”

Daar is ’n voorwaarde aan BCUC: “Ons is ‘n ongemaklike groep. Dit is ongemaklik om BCUC te wees. Dit is ongemaklik om te sien dat BCUC ongemaklik op die verhoog is.” Hierdie, glo ek, is meer van toepassing op hulle plaaslike gehore. Natuurlik is dit makliker om voor vreemde gehore te speel, gee hulle toe. Miskien is hierdie ongemaklike ruimte eerder ons land s’n, en BCUC sien hulleself as deel daarvan, eerder as apart daarvan.

There is a condition to watching BCUC: “We’re an uncomfortable band. It’s uncomfortable to be BCUC. It’s uncomfortable to see BCUC be uncomfortable on stage.” This, I believe, is closer to home. “Of course it is easier to play in front of people that don’t know you,” they concede. Perhaps this site of discomfort is our country’s, rather, and BCUC see themselves as part of it, instead of apart from it.

Wat lê voor vir BCUC? Hulle gaan “opnuut aangaan” van waar hulle vantevore was. ’n Nuwe album is op pad en ’n Europese somertoer wink. Hulle het in hierdie twee jaar van tuis wees, nadat hulle dit sover as Glastonbury in 2019 gemaak het, aanhou musiek skep. Báie daarvan, sê hulle. Dit was frustrerend om so lank stil te sit, en die nuwe materiaal is eerlik daaroor. 

What lies ahead for BCUC? They are going to “continue afresh” from where they were before. A new album is on its way and a European summer/autumn tour is on the horizon [June – November 2022]. In the past two years of being grounded back home, after they made it as far as Glastonbury in 2019, they continued writing music. A lot of it, Jovi says. It was frustrating to remain still for so long, and the new material relays that.

Jovi sit en peins; hy wens steeds dat BCUC ’n gehoor in Suid-Afrika kon hê wat net daar is om bos te gaan – “to fuck shit up,” soos hy sê. “Wat is hierdie ou wat ek so baie van hou? Francois van Coke! Jy weet wanneer hy speel, trek mense hulle hemde uit voordat hy eers begin speel!” Hy wens BCUC kan dit eendag met hulle Suid-Afrikaanse gehore behaal: “Dit vat natuurlik bietjie langer, want ons bou nog vertroue. Ons is musiek is obviously nie ‘doo-bee, doo-bee-doo’ nie.”

Jovi pauses. He still wishes BCUC “can have an audience in South Africa that are just there to fuck shit up,” as he puts it. “What’s this guy that I love? Francois van Coke! You know at his gigs people start ripping their shirts off before he’s even started playing!” He hopes that BCUC will reach that with their South African audiences eventually. “It takes a bit longer, because we are still building trust. Our music is not ‘doo-bee, doo-bee-doo’.”

Die land, die gehoor, BCUC, almal is deel van ’n proses-in-wording; en hierdie groep gaan nie kortpaaie vat nie: “Ons word deur woede gedryf. Ek hou van wat jy gesê het, dat ons positiewe woede het. Aan die einde van die dag gaan gaan ons jou saam met ons neem, na ‘n plek waar die son skyn.”

South Africa, its audiences, BCUC, everyone shares in a process-of-becoming. The band are not taking any shortcuts: “We’re driven by rage. I like what you said, that we’ve got positive rage. At the end of the day we’re going to take you to where the sun shines.”