I finally feel as though I’ve seen a bit of real Joburg. The Standard Bank Jazz Festival was held in Newtown this year, right in downtown Jozi – and is an area that has previously had serious crime issues, but has been undergoing a bit of a renaissance in recent years.
Friday night, we left from the agency – JT, Thabang, and I, driven by Archie. We pulled into a parking area he’s used before, and he spoke to the attendant about guarding his car. Apparently, you can follow any one of dozens of “parking attendants” that line the streets, but unless you know what you’re doing, very often they turn out to be phony. If you pay them in advance, good luck finding them, or your car, when you return.
With over 30 minutes until showtime, we elected to grab a bite first. The restaurant we popped into was crammed with people – and they were all locals. Much better than the tourist restaurants of Sandton, that’s for sure. Our bellies, full, and 20 minutes late, we headed back to the huge marquee tent for an evening of jazz.
Apparently, a 7:30pm start is more of a vague guideline than a hard and fast rule, because the concert didn’t actually start until about 8:45. Nevertheless, the first act came on – and what an act. Freddie Jackson – who in his day was a bit of a hit, I take it. Picture a black Liberace, complete with effeminate pelvic thrusts, and squealed vocal riffs, and you’ll start to get the idea. And this guy – who was the opening act – just would not stop. He used to be a hit, and dammit, he wasn’t going to let the dream die. He sang until almost 10:30. While the crowd seemed to really be getting into it, it was far from good. It was pure cheese. If you can imagine getting stuck watching Gowan open for the Stones, and rocking out just for the pure nostalgic hilarity – that’s kind of what was happening.
After pulling 16 or so very eager young ladies on stage, and looking like he had absolutely no idea what to do with them, he thanked the audience and his God, and got off the stage.
Next up: Caiphus Semenya and Letta Mbulu – a famous husband and wife South African team. Now the crowd was really on its feet. What an awesome experience – to be part of a loud, singing, dancing, joyous crowd – in a city I’ve been trying not to fear for the past three weeks. It was one of those real moments you get every once in a while that are hard to describe, but that make you feel like you just evolved another sense, or learned something really valuable.
Anyhow, I take it that seeing these two in concert is a rare occurrence these days, and they have a slew of local hits that are very good. They’ve both gained fame in their own right – but even never having heard them before, I thought they were terrific.
At about 12:30 am the headliners came on: George Duke and Stanley Clarke. These guys were incredible. They were the stiffest black guys I’ve seen since I’ve been here (picture a black Jerry Seinfeld with a bass guitar, and Newman on the piano) – but their talent is unbelievable. Their fingers move so damn fast – it was like heavy metal jazz. The crowd stayed on its feet to the end – mostly because of the music, but I think partly because the temperature had dropped to about five degrees.
At 2 am, completely frozen, tired, but very pleased with ourselves, we headed back to the car – which was still exactly where we parked it – and headed north to the suburbs.
Friday night, we left from the agency – JT, Thabang, and I, driven by Archie. We pulled into a parking area he’s used before, and he spoke to the attendant about guarding his car. Apparently, you can follow any one of dozens of “parking attendants” that line the streets, but unless you know what you’re doing, very often they turn out to be phony. If you pay them in advance, good luck finding them, or your car, when you return.
With over 30 minutes until showtime, we elected to grab a bite first. The restaurant we popped into was crammed with people – and they were all locals. Much better than the tourist restaurants of Sandton, that’s for sure. Our bellies, full, and 20 minutes late, we headed back to the huge marquee tent for an evening of jazz.
Apparently, a 7:30pm start is more of a vague guideline than a hard and fast rule, because the concert didn’t actually start until about 8:45. Nevertheless, the first act came on – and what an act. Freddie Jackson – who in his day was a bit of a hit, I take it. Picture a black Liberace, complete with effeminate pelvic thrusts, and squealed vocal riffs, and you’ll start to get the idea. And this guy – who was the opening act – just would not stop. He used to be a hit, and dammit, he wasn’t going to let the dream die. He sang until almost 10:30. While the crowd seemed to really be getting into it, it was far from good. It was pure cheese. If you can imagine getting stuck watching Gowan open for the Stones, and rocking out just for the pure nostalgic hilarity – that’s kind of what was happening.
After pulling 16 or so very eager young ladies on stage, and looking like he had absolutely no idea what to do with them, he thanked the audience and his God, and got off the stage.
Next up: Caiphus Semenya and Letta Mbulu – a famous husband and wife South African team. Now the crowd was really on its feet. What an awesome experience – to be part of a loud, singing, dancing, joyous crowd – in a city I’ve been trying not to fear for the past three weeks. It was one of those real moments you get every once in a while that are hard to describe, but that make you feel like you just evolved another sense, or learned something really valuable.
Anyhow, I take it that seeing these two in concert is a rare occurrence these days, and they have a slew of local hits that are very good. They’ve both gained fame in their own right – but even never having heard them before, I thought they were terrific.
At about 12:30 am the headliners came on: George Duke and Stanley Clarke. These guys were incredible. They were the stiffest black guys I’ve seen since I’ve been here (picture a black Jerry Seinfeld with a bass guitar, and Newman on the piano) – but their talent is unbelievable. Their fingers move so damn fast – it was like heavy metal jazz. The crowd stayed on its feet to the end – mostly because of the music, but I think partly because the temperature had dropped to about five degrees.
At 2 am, completely frozen, tired, but very pleased with ourselves, we headed back to the car – which was still exactly where we parked it – and headed north to the suburbs.
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