Students for Africa
Call for Papers 2015-2016
Township Jazz & Apartheid
My Uncle Guru, whose play "Colourful World" was banned by the South African
government because it satirically attacked apartheid, encouraged us as children to
read Shakespeare in order to understand the human condition. So he spun a yarn to
localize Shakespeare. "Shakespeare was born Shaka Spear in ancient Zululand, just a
few miles from us. All you kids need to know your local history and heroes. Not only
was he a warrior but a famous dramatist, story teller, and living library of Zululand's
history. His plays were sometimes comedic and sometimes tragic but always dramatic
with a commentary or question about humans on the earth. He wrote poems too but I
don't think South Africa really appreciated his depth. So he went to India, our
ancestral home, to try out his plays there. He changed his name to Shasha Peer to fit in
with the locals. The Indians liked his material but unfortunately he had to compete
against the Ramayana and Mahabharata going back thousands of years. That was too
burdensome to do -­‐-­‐ not to mention Diwali and the fireworks too. So he moved to the
Middle East where he was known as Sheik Peer. His Merchant of Venice was quite
popular there because it raised all kinds of questions about the Jews and Christians.
There, too, he was unappreciated. So his global journey took him to England -­‐-­‐-­‐ that's
why he named his theatre company the Globe, by the way. In England he was known as
Shakespeare because Smith and Jones were too common. And he was missing home.
But everything began in Zululand, just up the road." ~ Jayendran Pillay
Students for Africa: Call for Papers 2015
Township Jazz & Apartheid:
Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
Abstract:
This research looks at the relationship between Indian South Africans and Black South
Africans within the context of Township Jazz and its production and consumption
during the second half of the 20th century. The leadership displayed by South African
Indians in apartheid resistance is often overlooked when examining anti-­‐apartheid
movements. The power dynamics at play and the leadership roles that Indian South
African record producers displayed when working with Black South African musicians
marks them as "unsung heroes" of the antiapartheid movement. This research also
explores the role of Indian South African music schools as vehicles that helped
dismantle apartheid by promoting “multicultural” musical education, and the barriers
therein, as well as the historical interaction of Indians and Zulus in South Africa.
Research includes scholarly evidence of township jazz production in the cities of
Durban, Johannesburg, Cape Town, and Soweto, as well as recordings of South African
music and film from before, during, and after the end of apartheid, and interviews with
South African Indians.
Township Jazz & Apartheid: Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
While addressing parliament in 1964, South African Prime Minister P.W. Botha
shared these words endorsing South Africa’s apartheid regime: “There is no
permanent home for even a section of the Bantu in the white area of South Africa”
(Boddy-­‐Evans). Botha goes on to assert that South Africa’s destiny depends on this
essential point: “If the principle of permanent residence for the black man in the
area of the white is accepted then it is the beginning of the end of civilisation as we
know it…”(Boddy-­‐Evans). The preservation of apartheid, an Afrikaans word
translating to “separateness”, is dependent on Botha’s assertion that Blacks
coexisting with Whites would bring an end to the country ‘as we know it’.
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Interaction between apartheid government assigned racial groups both
sporadically and strategically subverted the system at its very core. Musical
interaction, intentional or coincidental, between the race categories of “Indian” and
“Black” (Zulu) South Africans especially made strides in corrupting this regime of
pure separation. Engagement between Indian South Africans and Black South
Africans, within the context of ‘township jazz’ and other protest musics worked to
dismantle apartheid and subvert its efforts to separate these socially constructed
racial groups. Sites of this interaction include recording studios, performance
venues, schools, radio stations, street corners, and both the Indian and Zulu
Township home. The continued interaction between these two racial groups of
apartheid, i.e. “Indian” and “Black”, is currently working to dismantle and correct
apartheid’s legacy, particularly in the cities of Cape Town, Durban, and
Johannesburg.
Throughout the 1980s and into the 1990s, protest efforts to dismantle apartheid
swept the globe, from international boycotts of South African goods, to marches,
police raids, riots, congressional meetings, political plotting, etc. Each of these
actions together brought an end to the apartheid regime in 1994 with the
democratic election of Nelson Mandela. These methods of resistance are often
credited as the primary and sole factors involved in ending the apartheid regime.
However, efforts often overlooked in discussions of apartheid resistance in South
Africa are that of the physical, social, and musical interaction between Indian South
Africans and Black South Africans.
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Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
The apartheid regime ensured the immobilization of identity and self-­‐
actualization of all ethnic groups in the nation. “The unique feature of South Africa is
that every physical space is defined by a single race category” (Hansen 7). This
structure, though no longer supported by the state, still dictates social, political, and
economic interaction between South Africans in 2015. The systematic oppression
built into the apartheid regime of separation was implemented in a pyramid-­‐esque
structure of rights and privileges with the minority, White South Africans, i.e.
Afrikaans and British Whites, at the very top, and Black South Africans, i.e. a
multitude of ethnic groups, i.e. Xhosa, Zulu, Tswana, Venda, Sotho etc., at the very
bottom. In the middle of the pyramid there were government-­‐designated
“Coloureds” and “Indians”, with minimal rights and privileges compared to Whites,
yet still ranked slightly above Africans.
The engagement between Zulu musicians and Indian South African record
producers and venue owners in particular contributed to the underpinning of anti-­‐
apartheid movements; this engagement fostered the preservation of Black identity
in South Africa. This interaction and integration within the context of music
production and consumption subverted the separation efforts of apartheid’s leaders
by not only supporting the preservation of Black identity, but also by allowing the
Indian community to engage and identify with a music and a struggle outside of
their own assigned and culturally pre-­‐defined population. Within the last three
decades of the 20th century, interaction between Indian South Africans and Black
South Africans within the context of music performance, music production, music
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Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
distribution, music consumption, music venue, and music education, worked to
dismantle apartheid and its legacy, thus ensuring the preservation of a South African
Black identity and the freedom of self-­‐actualization for the South African Indian.
There is little research on and recognition of the influence of South Asian
“Indian” musicians and producers in South Africa and even less to be found on their
interaction with Black artists in South Africa (Rabe). Rashid Vally, founder of Sun
Records, known in Arabic know as “As-­‐Shams” Records, is one of the many
overlooked South African Indians involved in this cultural interaction. Vally began
his career working in his father’s general store in Cape Town, selling a small
selection of American jazz albums in the 1960s and 1970s. Vally attended a private
school set up by the Transvaal Indian Congress to combat the impact of racial zoning
of the city under the Group Areas Act of 1950 (Temple). The freedom to attend such
a school was a rare privilege awarded to young people of color at the time. Vally
later joined his father's cafe and grocery business, the Azad Café (Temple). In
addition to groceries, the Azad Café sold Indian film music, and Vally’s father often
allowed Qawali singers to practice in the grocery store, using bags of sugar and flour
as soundproofing (Temple). Vally’s father began recording more South African
Indian artists and Qawali singers and even made occasional album releases.
Rashid Vally began to pick up his father’s trade. As journalist and music archivist
Matt Temple cites in the liner notes of one of Vally’s produced albums, “When
(Rashid Vally) wasn't delivering grocery orders by bicycle, he was working in the
store and playing the latest jazz LPs”. Vally eventually connected with an American
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music dealer and started selling imported jazz records. His father’s cafe was
renamed Kohinoor, meaning mountain of light, and later came to be known as
Kohinoor Records in Johannesburg (Temple).
Kohinoor Records made a name for itself recording some of South Africa’s best-­‐
known artists, including Abdullah Ibrahim known as “Dollar Brand”, and many
others. Vally built a name for himself as a producer and sound engineer and was
often sought out by locally popular jazz musicians (Kalamu). “The normal record
companies, your Gallo Records…what have you, were not interested in jazz per se.
They only were looking for hits, and when local artists came to me they had
complete freedom to record what they wanted”, says Vally (Matsuli). Vally wasn’t
working with these musicians because they were making money for him. Vally loved
the music and grew up with jazz and hard bop (Ansell). Vally gave his musicians
total freedom in the studio, unlike many white sound engineers and producers who
were more focused on financial profit and relevance within global ‘World Music’
markets (Meintjes, 2004).
Vally and Ibrahim’s collaboration, Underground in Africa, is named for
particularly embodying the struggle against apartheid in the 1970s. At the time of
the album release in 1973, the government was curtailing performances and
musicians were in increasing danger (Ansell 151). White-­‐run record companies
were looking for fast products and chose not to risk recording musicians who would
be unable to tour or build names for themselves with relative immediacy due to
apartheid restrictions, e.g. Dollar Brand, Todd Matshikiza, and Kippie Moeketsi, etc.
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Rashid Vally was a rare asset in combating this pressure because his relationship to
the music and the musicians themselves brought a new level of support in the
studio.
The label Underground in Africa was released on was originally called “Sun” or
“As-­‐shams” Records. It was renamed “Mandla”, an adaptation of the word Amandla,
meaning “power”, (Ansell 152), to further tie it to the anti-­‐apartheid struggle.
However, the term had to be slightly varied from the word Amandla in order to
avoid any questions from the government (Matsuli). South African journalist Gwenn
Ansell notes, the album was rife with references to the “underground struggle” and
came out at a time when any artistic pursuit was under the eye of intense apartheid
scrutiny and musicians and producers were in increasing danger (Ansell 153). This
meant there was less money in production and called for more time and patience in
the recording studio, because there was no other outlet for this music. Creative
spaces were diminishing, and Vally’s studio became one of the few preserved places
in the country for these musicians.
Rashid Vally was recording and engineering a multicultural sound between
Blacks, Coloureds, and White musicians (Temple). Vally’s recording of Ibrahim’s
iconic song “Mannenberg” was the first track smuggled into Nelson Mandela’s jail
cell during his imprisonment, and became representative of the struggle (Rabe). The
influence and success of this ‘struggle music’ came from Vally’s willingness to take a
chance on a musician of color in a different racial subgroup of apartheid than Vally’s
own, i.e. Abdullah Ibrahim. “Mannenberg” specifically challenged apartheid. “It was
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a moment when those who had formerly had a modicum of privileges” referring to
Indians and Coloureds, “were disenfranchised from their inch-­‐above-­‐the-­‐bottom
perches” (Temple). He goes on, “but also a time when leading elements among the
coloreds (and Indians) voluntarily crossed over and identified with the plight of the
larger black community”(Temple). Vally’s privileges as Indian South African, though
limited, gave him the opportunity to enter Black and Coloured townships
surrounding Cape Town to sneak musicians into his studio. Vally would drive into
these townships at night and bus musicians into his studio just to record (Ansell).
Vally risked his own freedom, not only in recording what was censored and
forbidden music by the State, but by also physically entering these restricted areas
to record Township Jazz.
Vally and his studio served as a site of opposition against not only apartheid, but
as resistance against the advancement of internationally established white record
companies and their international audiences. Vally’s independent label preserved
the integrity of South African jazz and prevented the false preservation of the
perceived “African”-­‐ness therein, or a crafted “struggle music” sound, during this
time of heightened interest and establishment of the commercial genre “African
Music”. Ansell notes, “For everyone…the early years of the (1970s) saw a heightened
awareness of African identity and…cultural creativity that expressed it”(Ansell 151).
The Sun label, Ansell argues, was a site of creativity and was treated as a venue for
anti-­‐apartheid release. This label served as proof of South Africans making good
music “inside” the country (Ansell 153), since many were leaving the country to
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pursue music in the United State, e.g. Hugh Masekela and Miriam Makeba, and
others who were exiled. Well-­‐established record companies recognized that the
profit did not out way the risk for their own interests. These companies were
seeking perceived or globally constructed products of the assumed authentic
“African Struggle”; they weren’t looking to sell South African jazz (Matsuli). The
studio acted as a micro-­‐political space within South Africa, combined with global
pressures of competitive international markets receptive to a stylized South
‘African’ sound (Ansell). Not only were musicians collaborating under the strictures
of apartheid, they now had to cater to increasing pressures of a global market and
address their position as musicians of the Global South.
In the years between 1990 and 1994 especially, the South African studio space
served as a microcosm of late apartheid South Africa. As South African
ethnomusicologist Louise Meintjes cites, though there are power dynamics at play
between sound engineers, producers, and performers, the space is still “dynamic
and open for empowering moves and creative innovation” (Meintjes 94, 2009). This
empowerment is entirely dependent on the relationship between the three though,
and the role of the producer as mediator is critical. There is opportunity for Black
South African self-­‐actualization through music, but there is also opportunity for
corruption and sound manipulation via dishonestly of white sound engineers, as
exhibited by Gallo Records and EMI Brigadiers in particular (Dolce, S. Personal
Skype Interview. November 22, 2015).
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Many British and White South African sound engineers began to work in South
Africa because the job market “Overseas”, i.e. the US, was too competitive. Sound
engineers had “more control” in the studios in South Africa and oftentimes could get
work doubling as both sound engineers and producers. Put simply, there were three
key players within the recording studio: (1) the sound engineer, usually an educated
and technologically adept White man, (2) the producer, usually a multi-­‐lingual Black
South African man able to mediate and translate between performers and the sound
engineers, equipped with traditional and contemporary South African musical
literacy, and (3) the performers, nearly always Black South African men and women,
often capable but not entirely proficient in English. The 1990s brought the potential
for a “South African-­‐led African ‘renaissance’” that fueled a desire in musicians to
sound distinctly “African”. Alongside this influx of sound engineers, the early 1990s
were also a time of massive rise in Zulu nationalism within South Africa and a time
for Zulu self-­‐actualization, particularly exercised through artistic endeavors
(Meintjes, 2005).
In a recent personal interview conducted with South African Indian
ethnomusicologist Jay Pillay, he comments on the phenomenon of White record
companies producing the works of Zulu musicians stating that these producers
“were just coming in, using these songs for beats”, to paraphrase. Pillay goes on to
explain this issue employing an example of a typical mbaqanga bass line. He says,
these producers would hear this bass line in a township jive song and use it as
background music for pop songs, e.g. Paul Simon’s ‘Call Me Al’ (Dolce, S. Personal
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Skype Interview. November 22, 2015). Little did the producers realize or care
though, that these bass lines were “coded musics”, often representing linguistic
phrases through the rhythm of the bass line (Dolce, S. Personal Skype Interview.
November 22, 2015). Zulu musicians and Zulu speakers knew that these particular
grooves were more than just “beats”. They correspond to spoken phrases and terms
that bear significance within the context of their music and within the context of
social life. Pillay cites that these producers would record musicians playing certain
coded phrases with matching Zulu text mocking these white producers. The
producers, none the wiser, would continue recording and would later air the music
over Black radio stations. The imbalance between distributions of songs using the
appropriation of “beats” versus songs including the mockery within “coded” musics
forces one to examine race and power within the studio, particularly between
producer, engineer, and musician.
Meintjes argues, it is the artists themselves who possess cultural capital. They
have a “precious commodity in the domestic and world music markets” (Meintjes
88, 2005). Meintjes writes, “Even if it is Peter who engineers a sound of “Africa”,
with purely electronic means, it is the musicians who claim it as theirs by naming it
as African” (Meintjes 89, 2005). This cultural capital and understanding of more
than simply “beats” is the product that sells and gets radio play. This authentically
“African” sound is what achieves commercial success among South African
audiences.
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However, possession of this capital without the technological prowess or
business savvy opens the door for exploitation and often times prevents the self-­‐
actualization of the Zulu musician in the studio. The pre-­‐imposed divides that
manifested within the studio under the apartheid regime led to manipulation of
sound and product by sound engineers (Ansell). Inaccessibility to technology and
resources of black South African performance artists prevented direct musical self-­‐
representation.
Meintjes cites one example from her time in the studio as a point of disconnect
between engineer and musician: “Joana, a vocalist rather than an engineer, has none
of the knowledge nor the authority required to manipulate the electronic controls to
play back her voice of her own accord, let alone to further shape its timbral form”
(Meintjes 88, 2009). Joana later says “ ’Eyi, these are white people’s things!”
(Meintjes 86-­‐7, 2009)”, pointing to a MIDI clock on the top deck, “as though she
could never possess the knowledge or skill to operate the recording equipment
herself”. Joana goes on to describe the equipment saying, “This thing…it is carrying
all different types of things in it, which are going to be recorded” (Meintjes 89,
2009). Meintjes unpacks this exchange explaining that the MIDI clock does not
actually house the recording as Joana states, but rather is the “central node” for
synchronizing the digitally processed sound. Meintjes continues, “for her (Joana),
there is a whole sonic world packed into that sleek machine…it is a world to which
Joana can point but that she cannot enter herself” (Meintjes 89, 2009). This
disconnect not only prevents Joana from crafting the exact sounds she wants, but
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further leaves the door open for the foreign sound engineers to manipulate the
sound they are looking for to please their respective markets. Though this time of
Zulu nationalism prompted musicians to push for self-­‐defined and distinct
traditional sounds, they did not always have the technical capacity to execute their
visions. Meintjes cites another example in which a technologically adept Zulu
guitarist adjusts his amp to the setting he finds appropriate, but is later undermined
by a sound engineer craving what he defines as a more refined and marketable
sound, ignoring what is authentically Zulu entirely, without the consent of the
performer (Meintjes). Even musicians who were familiar with the technologically
could still be manipulated because, at the end of the day, white sound engineers
mastered the final recordings.
Though sound engineers exercise more technical control over musicians in the
studio, Meintjes argues that musicians lay claim to not only “cultural authority” as
mentioned, but a “multilingual virtuosity” (Meintjes 94, 2009). Musicians are able to
exert control over the engineer’s frequent inability to understand local languages
and essentially cut them out of the creative dialogue. Meintjes argues, “local
dynamics unsettle the conventional social and professional hierarchies of studio
practice” and can open space. South African studios were mediated by Black
producers, translating back and forth between White, English-­‐speaking sound
engineers and Black, often Zulu-­‐speaking musicians. Meintjes shares her work with
West Nkosi, a Black South African multilingual producer, calling to attention the
benefits of having a translator present in the studio. In this example, one particular
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lyric in a Zulu song needed to be lengthened in order to cut the track length. The
White English-­‐only speaking sound engineer was unable to communicate this need
and was also unable to suggest a solution. West, the producer, however, was able to
walk right up to the microphone and suggest the word “icilongo” rather than the
original word “ibell” (Meintjes 92, 2009). This interjection not only took pressure off
the engineer, who was growing in frustration toward the musicians, but also gave
the musicians some authority over shaping their own song (Meintjes 92, 2009).
Meintjes writes, “West momentarily set aside his authority as producer in order to
stand behind a microphone” thus opening the possibility for the musicians to
“renegotiate their professional positions and concerns” (Meintjes 92, 2009). The
musicians were able to take a moment to personally craft their Zulu-­‐ness and agree
or disagree with Nkosi’s judgment and suggestion on equal lingual footing. The
presence of producers and sound engineers in the South African studio space
equipped with language skills, like Nkosi and Vally, to communicate with musicians
is a necessity to preserving authentic Zulu identity through music. When the studio
space serves as a microcosm of apartheid, perpetuating race-­‐based power dynamics
and manipulation, both the product and the people are trapped in that microcosm.
The majority of Indian South Africans speak some combination of English,
Afrikaans, and either Tamil or Hindi, as well as some Zulu or Fanagalo. Fanagalo is
akin to “Spanglish” in a way and is the “lingua franca between speakers of various
languages found in South Africa”(South African Languages). It is viewed as a pidgin
or creole, and is a simplified version of Zulu-­‐related languages with adaptations of
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modern terms from English, Dutch and Afrikaans. This language skill is a crucial
advantage in interaction between Indian South Africans and Zulu South Africans
when compared with White and Black interaction.
The presence of Indians in South Africa began in 1860 with the introduction of
indentured labourers. “The year 1859 ushered in a labor crisis in Natal” creating a
shortage of workers in the sugar cane fields (Huttenback 4). The Government of
India enabled the India Act XXIII of 1860, establishing the “system of Indian
emigration to include Natal” (Huttenback 7). From the very beginnings of Indian
communities in South Africa, Indians were awarded more rights and privileges than
Africans. “The Indian labourer was not subject to the ordinary master and service
ordinance of the colony…He was guaranteed medical care, food, lodging, clothes,
and wages” and was guaranteed certain protections if superiors violated these
contracts (Huttenback, 6). Though, nearly all Indians living in South Africa today
were born there, since immigration of Indians was disallowed in 1913 (Pillay).
Resistance from the African Khoi-­‐Khoi or Hottentot ethnic group as labourers
led to the transplant of indentured servants from Malay, Java, the Malabar Coast of
India, Mozambique, and Madagascar (Coplan, 1985) when South Africa was under
the authority of the British Empire. Some slaves and indentured servants were sold
for a better price if they were skilled musicians, particularly ones who brought the
“indigenous music of the East Indies” (Coplan). The ramkie was one instrument,
similar to the guitar, brought by slaves from the Malabar Coast of India that greatly
impacted indigenous South African music. The ramkie, combined with European folk
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instruments, was later adapted into the Zulu iqgongwe and was the first instrument
to later be adapted with Euro-­‐folk sounds and African (Coplan). This initial musical
exchange between Africans, Europeans, and Indians formed the foundation for the
melting pot of South African indigenous styles and later influenced Township Jazz.
Arguably, the most influential Indian presence in South Africa was that of
Mahatma Gandhi. The presence of Gandhi in South Africa from 1893-­‐1914,
established South Africa’s history of non-­‐violence, for it was there in Natal that
Gandhi developed his philosophy of Satyagraha (Huttenback, Pillay). Gandhi
originally visited South Africa practicing as a lawyer working to represent Indian
indentured servants in Natal. He ended up staying much longer than intended after
witnessing the treatment of Africans in Natal and worked defending both
populations from white labour interests. Gandhi defines Satyagraha as “soul force”
and states, “brute force had absolutely no place in the Indian movement in any
circumstance” (Gandhi 113). Gandhi states, “In Satyagraha there is not the remotest
idea of injuring the opponent…Satyagraha postulates the conquest of the adversary
by suffering in one’s own person” (Gandhi 114). This philosophy “set the tone of
resistance in South Africa” (Dolce, S. Personal Skype Interview. November 22, 2015).
Scholars and South African citizens alike place Gandhi on par with Nelson Mandela’s
influence on South Africa’s policies of non-­‐violence and forgiveness, often comparing
his development of Satyagraha to Mandela’s legacy of post-­‐apartheid Truth and
Reconciliation. This early interaction between Indian and Black South
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Africans laid the foundation for later cultural and engagement under the apartheid
regime.
Returning to musical engagement between Blacks and Indians in South Africa,
traditional and popular Zulu musics alive in the 20th century include Isicathamiya,
Mbaqanga, Marabi, and Kwela, to name a few. These genres form the foundation of
what came to be know as “Township Jive” or Township Jazz” (Ballantine). These
popular South African musics were influenced by American Jazz bands, Christian
mission bands, American swing bands, Cape Klopse, traditional Zulu genres like
Maskanda, and traditional Boere or Afrikaaner folk musics (Ballantine, Pillay). The
Group Areas Act of 1950, which called for the forced removals of all persons of color
from newly deemed “white” areas, forced some people out of the country entirely.
Musicians lost band members and venues; entire careers and dreams were
shattered. Scholar Ballantine references the Group Areas Act of 1950 a turning point
in large dance-­‐band culture, since it brought about the separation and destruction of
previously formed groups and bands. This led to the exodus of many Black
musicians, who in large part turned to the US for their musical freedom. It also led to
the formation of divisive radio stations such as SABC, airing distinctly religious or
distinctly popular jive musics only. The removals forced others to abandon popular
music altogether and stick to religious and “safe” radio stations out of fear. In spite
of this fear and fleeing though, the Group Areas Act bred an anger and passion that
fostered the growth of South African protest music. In the second half of the 20th
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century, South African popular music became a mass of multicultural genres that
then went on to be consumed internationally as songs of the struggle (Ballantine). .
Genres such as Isicathamiya were “inseparable from the history and struggles of
the Zulu-­‐speaking working class” (Ballantine). This music is innately political since
it is rooted in migrant culture that Black South Africans were forced into in the
beginnings of the apartheid regime. This music of migrant labour culture stems from
the underground, “seedy culture that Marabi and Isicathamiya fostered in shebeens,
ghettos, etc.”, i.e. a largely urban Black male centric community (Ballantine). The
establishment of shebeen culture was rooted in a concentration of workingmen
looking for an outlet at the end of a long and often demeaning workday. White
superiors would often call these grown Black working men “Boys”, “emasculating
them” while they were away from their “women folk” ((Dolce, S. Personal Skype
Interview. November 22, 2015). Shebeens served as performance venues, similar to
American dance halls, and often included drinking, singing, and dancing. Shebeens
were often owned and operated by Indian South Africans, some of whom even
brewed their own beer for these Black migrant workers (Dolce, S. Personal Skype
Interview. November 22, 2015). This more sporadic yet direct contact between
Indians and Blacks under apartheid underpinned cultural connection to these
struggle musics in their early development and popularity.
Somasundarum Pillay, father of Jay Pillay, was an Indian South African working in
Zululand with these black migrant labourers. He was “the grandchild of indentured
laborers on Natal's sugarcane fields” working as an accountant for a mining
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company in Mandini, Zululand. He too left his home and family to work with the
labourers and kept busy “teaching Indian and Zulu kinds Tamil” helping with their
homework and keeping them out of trouble. Though the differing race groups had
privileges over one another, they were each stuck in this culture of migrant labour
and had similar class restrictions. Points of interaction, e.g. Tamil language classes,
chess matches, soccer teams, and “ingoma ebusuku singing competitions” were ways
to rebuild otherwise destroyed communities. Pillay was able to “convince his white
corporate bosses to accept his plan” for the creation of soccer teams and singing
competitions, arguing this would “tackle men’s violence and rape against local black
women domestic workers”. His status as an Indian South African brought a certain
credibility among white bosses that otherwise wouldn’t have been awarded to Black
men trying to establish the same creative and physical outlets for themselves. Pillay
went on to serve on township boards furthering the development of infrastructure
for Indians and Africans, helping reshape the Indian township of Chatsworth in
particular (Dolce, S. Personal Skype Interview. November 22, 2015).
The role that Somasundarum Pillay played among Zulu migrant labourers is not a
rare one among Indian South Africans. Though “some Indian landlords would call
the Police on Isicathamiya singers in dance halls” (Erlmann 83) to avoid trouble, for
the most part, these were kindred communities, and were not looking to get one
another into trouble with the law. However it is necessary to point out this “socio-­‐
political fact of life”, i.e. “in apartheid era South Africa there were well defined and
stringently enforced racial categories. No “one drop makes you black” shenanigans
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Students for Africa: Call for Papers 2015
Township Jazz & Apartheid:
Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
going on there”, meaning, “any mixed race, or ‘coloreds’ were separated from both
the whites and the blacks” (Matsuli). The few spaces of overlap occurred in creative
outlets such as music and dance halls and sporting events. Buses were segregated;
beaches were segregated; schools were segregated; the list goes on (Dolce, S.
Personal Skype Interview. November 22, 2015). Jay Pillay recounts one vivid
memory of seeing an injured Indian man on the side of the road. He watched as a
Whites-­‐only ambulance drove by the man, ignoring him, and then recalls a Blacks-­‐
only ambulance also passing the man because he of course deserved “Indian-­‐level”
care and couldn’t be taken to a Blacks-­‐only hospital. The injured man died there on
the side of the road, caught amid the sheer lunacy of apartheid’s strictures.
In spite of this lunacy though, Pillay recalls memories of waiting at the bus stop
and hearing Black women singing, memories I too can recall from my brief time in
South Africa. To paraphrase, Pillay says, “If you knew the song, you sang along, no
matter who you were. If you didn’t know the song, you clapped or danced
along…that’s just the way it was.” Song was always bringing communities together
in South Africa, on every street corner, in every hotel lobby, down every street.
The interaction of Indian and Black South Africans that dismantled apartheid
happened in social or community spaces which in turn served as directly creative
and directly resistant spaces, e.g. from music studios, to shebeens, to hotel lobbies, to
street corners, to bus stops, to grocery stores, and to cafés. Institutions were not
always cites for interaction and engagement, but rather small, sporadic community
centers were. As major record companies were focused on international distribution
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Students for Africa: Call for Papers 2015
Township Jazz & Apartheid:
Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
of Black South African music, smaller labels and individuals focused on local
distribution. Pillay cites, record distribution was “always linked with food” in the
Indian community. Similar to Rashid Vally’s recording studio using flour and sugar
bags as soundproofing, Indian bootleggers would often sell records under the guise
of the restaurant business. It was not uncommon to purchase bootlegs of songs
from the struggle, even after this music was censored and banned by the
government, alongside an order of “samosas and bunny chow” (Dolce, S. Personal
Skype Interview. November 22, 2015).
These sites of sporadic interaction were often due to accidents in urban planning.
Sophiatown, for example, was essentially that. In 1897, the land for Sophiatown was
purchased by a White South African investor to be settled by low-­‐income Whites
who wanted a lifestyle close to an urban center, i.e. Johannesburg (Coplan). The
land was poor and infertile though, so eventually settlement was opened up
indiscriminately, creating an unintended cultural melting pot that eventually
subverted race relations across the board (Coplan). Sophiatown is notorious for
being a cultural center and musically creative capital. As Sophiatown was
developing, the influence of American jazz was strong. This compelled the creation
of a necessary African Jazz identity, around the start of the Second World War
(Coplan).
In spite of these unregulated sites of community engagement between races, the
apartheid regime certainly did its best to keep racial divides strong. Venues for
political protest and artistic expression, e.g. the Pelican Landmark Hotel in Kwa-­‐Zulu
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Township Jazz & Apartheid:
Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
Natal and the Dorkay House were being pushed out (Ansell 189) under the late
apartheid regime, causing not only a loss of performance space for Blacks, but also a
loss in business venture for Indians. This divide was particularly strong within the
South African school systems. In his work, “Indian Music in the Indian School in
South Africa: The Use of Cultural Forms as a Political Tool.” from 1994
Jay Pillay unpacks the multi-­‐faceted effects of mandating “traditional” Indian music
education in Indian schools under the apartheid regime in the late 1980s. Pillay
counters the assumption that music is always a tool used for social integration. The
implementation of mandated Indian traditional music, largely North Indian Classical
music education, in Indian schools only served to further uphold the apartheid
regime. Apartheid aimed to preserve cultural segregation and enforce a singular
definition of each racial identity. Though Indians of an older generation wanted to
pass along any and all traditions in any way possible, it wasn’t worth the enforcing
of immobile identity.
Many older Indian South African parents defended the government’s choice in
favor of any preservation of Indian culture at all. One parent argued, “My son has
lost the basic Indian values which have made us strong as a community…maybe
forcing him to do Indian music will put him back on track” (Pillay 291). Other
supporting arguments for Indian music education called upon the history that had
been denied to Indians for so long in South Africa. Parents argued “what this
government offers our children today is far more than we ever had” (291). Most of
these parents were unable to attend school at all and were spat on in the streets
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Students for Africa: Call for Papers 2015
Township Jazz & Apartheid:
Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
because of their race. Some parents could not understand the students’ protest and
identification with black struggle music. Most Indian South Africans students were
identifying with radio music, i.e. largely the African pop stations and Township Jive,
and the influx of American pop and Jazz music. (291).
At the time, no African music education was allowed for Indian South Africans
(Pillay). While teaching the song “Nkosi Sikeli iAfrika”, which now serves as the
post-­‐apartheid South African national anthem, Pillay was arrested and beaten by
apartheid spies. Government spies were often sent into schools to regulate
education and make sure African musics, and most especially apartheid-­‐resistance
music was not being taught. Pillay stresses this particular “veiled threat” to the
Indian student: “You are Indian, not African. Therefore there is no cause for you to
join the black struggle” (292). Pillay asserts though, “The harsh truth of the
introduction of compulsory Indian music in Indian schools is no doubt a matter of
politics.” (291). He goes on, “The motive is to divide by means of stereotypes”,
meaning government defined ‘Indian’ music for Indians, and government censored
‘African’ music for Africans (292). This is a threat to not only Black identity, but a
direct threat to self-­‐actualization for the Indian South Africa. Pillay resisted this
regime and taught what he defined as critical to an Indian South African music
education.
Any and all resistance to these regulations within education worked to
dismantle apartheid. Everything from extreme protests in the classroom such as
Pillay’s teaching of African songs, to students and parents tuning into black radio
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Students for Africa: Call for Papers 2015
Township Jazz & Apartheid:
Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
stations in their kitchens, worked to defend this cause. The government went to
great ends to interrupt these musical exchanges, from arresting individuals to
accusing parents of communism to raiding, to murdering, to rioting on school
campuses, etc. Though the reality of it was, Indians were resonating with the black
struggle, because it was no longer, if ever, a solely Black experience.
Since the introduction of Indians to South Africa through indentured servitude,
Indians have acted as “cultural brokers” between Africans and Europeans (Dolce, S.
Personal Skype Interview. November 22, 2015). This role has been enacted through
the presence of lawyers and political leaders like Gandhi, as well as record
producers like Rashid Vally, and musicteachers like Jayendran Pillay. This role of
cultural broker is unique and calls for an adaptation of multiculturalism and
profound leadership in mediation. Apartheid as pure separation was the backbone
of South African society and has since been replaced with the philosophy of
nonracialism or mutually dependent Ubuntu, i.e. “I am because you are”. The spirit
and soul of Ubuntu is built on the bedrock of multiculturalism and cultural hybridity.
Indians serving as cultural brokers for centuries in South Africa is inherent to this
foundation. Indians helped re-­‐establish and preserve Zulu ethnic identity in South
Africa by giving space, outlets, money, and voice to their stories, thus ensuring the
preservation and re-­‐establishment of more than just Zulu identity but their own
“South African Indian” ethnic identity; moreover, this leadership ensured the
freedom of self-­‐determination for themselves within not only an African context but
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Township Jazz & Apartheid:
Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans
an overarching global context in the Indian Diaspora as well.
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Students for Africa: Call for Papers 2015
Township Jazz & Apartheid:
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