In a time long past, I discovered delight in the enchanting charm of maskandi music. That affection is as steady as the stars in the night sky; even today, I bask in the heady rhythms of old-school artists, transforming my car into a vibrant concert hall as I groove to their irresistible tunes.
By Themba Khumalo
Once upon a time, I was the biggest fan of maskandi music, revelling in its bewildering tunes like a kid in a candy store.
Even now, I crank up the volume in my car, jamming to the legendary Phuzekhemisi, the iconic Mfazomnyama, the unforgettable Bhekumuzi Luthuli, the ever-energetic Ihhashi Elimhlophe, and the incomparable Shwi noMtekhala, swaying like a marionette on a string.
But then, like a cruel twist in a soap opera, they decided to stop producing maskandi music that tickles my fancy. What is being churned out these days by the likes of Khuzani, Mthandeni, and other pretenders? Well, let’s say I’m not exactly their prime demographic.
The melodies sound like they were composed by a confused octopus, the beats are as relatable as a three-legged dog, and the lyrics? Don’t even get me started; I can’t find a single connection thread.
In my formative years’ sweet, innocent days, I stumbled upon a deep-seated love for the captivating sounds of the magnificent Phuzushukela, the extraordinary John Bhengu.
This iconic figure stands tall as one of the foundational geniuses of maskandi music celebrated far and wide for his trailblazing contributions that elevated him as the inaugural rural artist in South Africa to bask in the glow of fame.
His extraordinary legacy has woven an everlasting thread through the fabric of the music world, inspiring many artists, including the likes of the late Johnny Clegg, the dearly departed Busi Mhlongo, and Phuzekhemisi, to scratch the surface of his influence.
Maskandi, an enchanting genre affectionately dubbed by some as the Zulu Blues, is a heartfelt echo of the human condition, with its singers artfully narrating the chronicles of life’s little victories and heart-wrenching defeats, all while offering sharp insights into the world around them.
In its authentic form, a maskandi artist would weave a singular, expansive melody that evolves and dances in harmony with the unfolding narrative of their journey through life.
Inextricably woven into the fabric of acoustic guitar melodies, the performance of maskandi music is defined by a uniquely captivating playing style. The guitarist expertly separates the functions of the thumb and index finger; the thumb unleashes brisk, staccato bass patterns, while the index finger crafts a melodic counterpoint. Some maskandi virtuosos opt for finger picks, amplifying the impact on the strings.
Beyond the guitar’s domain, a diverse array of instruments, including violins, concertinas, mouth organs, and jaw harps, enriches the genre. In this vibrant tradition, male musicians typically lean towards the guitar, concertina, or violin, while female musicians often embrace the mouth organ or jaw harp.
Lately, my tender, music-adoring heart has taken a dramatic dive, or perhaps a spectacular plunge, into the dark depths of despair, as the radio blares out tunes that are entirely and absolutely unrecognisable as maskandi.
One cannot help but notice that maskandi music has strayed from its roots, leaving me feeling quite bereft. The offerings from Mthandeni, Khuzani and a host of other so-called maskandi musicians, seem to miss the mark entirely, lacking the depth that resonates with my spirit. They simply don’t cater to my soul’s auditory cravings.
From the melodies to the rhythms, the cultural nuances, and particularly the lyrical content, I find myself adrift and disconnected. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone in this sentiment of disconnection.
Since I derive immense solace from the extraordinary artistry of veteran maskandi musicians, I will unabashedly continue to revel in the brilliance of stars like Phuzekhemisi, renowned for his brutally honest lyrics. A few months back, he found himself in yet another tussle with the touchy-feely and overly sensitive gatekeepers at Ukhozi FM, who, in their infinite wisdom, chose to spurn his song Ipolitiki.
Ipolitiki, a biting indictment of the supposed influence wielded by the melanin-deficient elite in South Africa over black unemployment, set off a heated debate about the principles of freedom of expression and the censorship that the SABC imposes on artists.
Understanding that a musician must present the raw, unfiltered narrative rather than sugar-coat it, Phuzekhemisi reluctantly had to modify the song for radio play, yielding to the insipid suggestions of the fawning lackeys at Ukhozi FM.
Phuzekhemisi’s dogged determination to realise his artistic aspirations, even in the face of the suffocating weight of censorship, conveys a compelling message about the indispensable need to voice the narratives that are too often brushed aside. By releasing both the edited and original versions of his song, he granted his fans the liberty to make their own judgments, exposing the complex relationship between artistic expression and the unyielding constraints of broadcasting regulations.
That said, I certainly don’t want anyone to toss and turn in their beds over my decision to hold tightly to the glorious echoes of maskandi music from days gone by.
Are we clear? I have no desire for anyone to lose a wink of precious sleep over my choice to stick with the nostalgic allure of old-school maskandi music.
Feel free to clutch your Mthandeni and Khuzani as if they are the last cookies in the jar, while I luxuriate in my Phuzekhemisi and gallivant on my Ihhashi Elimhlophe like a true connoisseur of life’s finer things.