“Recharged”

The Soweto Gospel Power Station

Having driven round the block what felt like 6 times I finally managed to spot a vacant parking bay outside the little South African shop down the road from us in Kingston-on-Thames, UK. “Result!”  I said out loud and whipped my indicator on ferociously to mark my intention of moving into the bay and deterring any other gliding punters. Getting out of the car and seeing how close I was to the shop door I considered for a minute taking a chance and not getting a pay-n-display ticket from the machine (about a mile away!) down the road. I snapped my head round suddenly like a buck at a watering hole as I remembered the traffic wardens and how predatory they were in this area. Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there I thought slitting my eyes slightly and scanning the block. These urban predators of London’s streets could blend in with shapes, sights, sounds and smells of the city in order to gain a decent striking distance from a car that might be vulnerably parked in an unaccounted for bay. Reluctantly I stroll off down the road mumbling loudly and jangling my hand in my pocket for some change. “Like a new-born bleating wildebeest to a jackal” I say going on about the wardens, “they can hear the sound of a new parker from three bloody blocks away”

I get into the shop eventually and as usual my mood was immediately lifted at the sight of row upon row of biltong hanging up on wire above my head. To us Saffa’s living abroad, the sight and smell of these shops is almost spiritual and popping in on (at least) a weekly basis for stocks is basically an essential part of ones emotional, mental and physical well-being. Standing at the counter waiting for my stuff to be beeped in on this occasion I noticed a pile of very colourful pamphlets lying messily across the front-desk.  The Soweto Gospel Choir was in town apparently. I didn’t yet know who they were but they looked fantastically colourful and happy so I stuffed it into my back pocket, cradled my brown-packet parcel of SA goods with my other arm and headed back to the car.

“Well let’s go and we can ask your relatives if they want to come with us” said my wife Wendy when I got home and pulled out the crumpled advertisement for the Soweto Gospel Choir.
“What! My English ones Peter and Sarah? - they know nothing about bloody Soweto, or Gospel Choirs for that matter” I responded agitatedly, “No let us just go we can have them for lunch here instead” I said.
“We’ve been saying that for nine years and we’ve never done it. Let’s ask them to this show, they’ll love it” she insisted.

“If this Soweto lot slaughter a bloody chicken on stage or something you can drag my relatives out by their English ankles when they pass out” I said a bit flustered. “No I’m just not sure whether the whole African, Boom-Boom, exposed breasts thing is their scene though – we were weaned on it remember.”
“Sell-out audiences throughout their tour in the States - nominated for a second Grammy” Wendy now read the quotes forcefully from the pamphlet, “You don’t have to be a believer to be inspired – The Herald, Scotland” she continued, “You see they’ve been accepted and adored all over the world it seems not just by us Africans she said mockingly. “Just pick up the phone Dom and ask them. It’s also just down the road in Woking so we don’t have to mission into the West End now phone, go on”
“What’s wrong with a nice spot of  Sunday lunch at the Nuns Slipslop instead”? I said as a throw-away comment walking reluctantly off towards the telephone “you get a free pint of Scrumpy with every bowl of spotted dick ordered ya know” I said in my best London accent while flitting through our phone book for my relatives number.
“Exactly” said Wendy, “it’ll be something different”

I got through to them very quickly (unfortunately) and soon was in a gushing monologue about how brilliant the Soweto Gospel Choir was and began passionately reading the quotes that Wendy had just read to me about their global acclaim. These relatives were my mothers’ 1st cousins and brought up in the old England where manners, etiquette and appropriate behaviour were drilled in from birth. Spontaneity and surprises was not their thing so it wasn’t long before I was being politely asked a range of questions on the context of the event. “Soweto – didn’t they have a bit of trouble there?” was Peter’s first question. I had to do everything in my power to restrain myself from answering “Yes, but these are the ones that were banished” Instead I offered some soothing politically correct answer about transition and stuff. I was on the phone for some time ensuring all the correct and necessary details were relayed regarding the production like what time to collect, what time it started, general genre of the production, how long it goes on for, what the reviews were like, and what one wears.

Anyway once we had sealed the date it wasn’t long before I was coming down the steps of our house having showered and changed for the show.
“Are you going like that?” said Wendy as I stepped into our front room.
“No, I’m getting changed on the way in the car” I answered cleverly.
“What is it with you private school boys that whenever you go to something semi-formal you all get dressed in the same thing - chequered shirts usually blue, usually Polo, Chino trousers and brown semi-polished leather shoes? It’s like a uniform - so safe!” she said now laughing at me as I scanned myself in a mirror.
“Safe rubbish, this is bloody girl-bait stuff” I said in an attempt to defend myself from her outrageous observation.

“Put on something else – lose the Chinos and the shoes” she said still laughing but now distracted as she turned her attention to picking up children’s toys off the floor.
 “I see, lose the pants and shoes -so it’s just the shirt and jocks then – excellent, just my kind of show” I said loudly as I stomped exaggeratedly back up the stairs. My wife had spent most of her working life in the fashion industry so I was very often on the receiving end of this kind of constructive criticism  and felt I was rarely in any position to argue (sensibly anyway). “Has anyone seen my leopard print G-string?” I shout from our bedroom flinging my Chinos onto the bed in disgruntled resignation.
“Just hurry, the babysitter will be here any minute now and we can’t be late for your relatives remember” she replied.

We arrived at my relative’s house exactly an hour before the show was due to start as planned and they were already peering through their front porch windows as we pulled up. After switching on an outside light and locking the front door they were quickly (but safely) on their way down the path to our car. “Should I give them a blast here Wend?” I said smiling wickedly with my hand hovering above the hooter. “Don’t be silly now – I can see you’re getting all excited already” she said, “maybe just help them in”

 Having settled down on the backseat and tactfully checked that I had remembered to bring their tickets Peter asked, “Would anyone like a mint?” I tried to signal to Wends not to take one but it was too late. The mints these English always seem to have handy are potent things that made those XXX- plaster-of-Paris ones of ours in SA taste like communion wafers. My Gran used to have them too – especially for the car she used to say but in actual fact they were an essential checking item to all parts of life beyond ones front door - Drivers Licence, passport, money, keys and mints (frontal lobotomy strength)

Not having had an English Grandmother, Wends was unaware of what she now had in her hand and casually popped it into her mouth. Before we had got to the first traffic-light the mint was out and sitting (glowing) back up at me from a tissue in the area next to the gear –lever. With her cheeks slightly flushed she gave a quiet little “phwooor” type sound looking at me in astonishment through the corner of her watery eyes while my relatives continued to suck away on theirs vigorously. I smiled pointing discretely to the mint with an extended baby finger and said quietly, “I know, like someone’s pumped a bloody fire-hydrant up each nostril”
 “Will there be any Zulu’s?” Peter suddenly asked from the back “Sarah loves the Zulu’s, don’t you dear” he carried on gently.
“I do yes” she said rolling her mint to the side of her mouth, “and those drums and spears they have”

“No this is more of a Gospel choir” I quickly interrupt, “so I should think that they might be a little less keen on the spears”

Having become annoyed as usual with the inevitable struggle (anywhere in greater London) to find a parking space within an hour I found my mood miraculously lift as we finally walked into the lobby area of The Victoria Theatre in Woking and I heard a woman say “Het jy die kaartjies Herman?” His (Herman’s) nonchalant response while patting his jacket and then trouser pockets just about floored me. “Kaartjies, kaartjies - Mowbray, Rondebosch, Wynberg – alle kaartjies asseblief”  It was clearly a thing that he did too often because it didn’t get the slightest reaction out of his wife instead she kept her hand out towards him and looked around scanning all the other people gathering in the foyer. I wanted to say something to him or just show him I, at least, was amused but was quickly jostled on by Peter who strode forth passed the long queues towards the privilege of the “Ticket Holders” entrance. Once we were safely through the congestion there and standing in the bar area I got a chance to take in my surroundings. The bright colours were dazzling. It was not the typical look and sound of theatre goers that I had grown accustomed to in England somehow. There seemed to be a curious lack of compliance or conformity to any particular dress-code or to any model of appropriate behaviour I had expected to see in the UK theatres.  Literally, like a noisy kaleidoscope that made my eyes flicker and leap around the room trying to take it all in. There was a coppery-brown skinned lady standing two away from me with those radiant traditional African headdress things on which just made me stare. She was softly spoken and cradled a thin glass of champagne in one hand and the other gestured as she spoke quietly to her companion. In sharp contrast, my attention was then suddenly ripped away from her as a raucous explosion of bar-room laughter filled the room from the other side where a young thick-set group of battered-eared rugby-types all clutched beers and guffawed out loud. They carried on with big arm gestures, loud voices and broad smiling faces. Everyone seemed to be engaged with someone else in the room whether talking, listening, smiling, laughing or just staring. It seemed a bit of a cliché but there was energy in the room that I could only describe as an electrical charge - vibrant, colourful, infectious and buzzing.  Sarah, lifting her purse into my eye-line, then said “Are we going to have a sherry before it starts Dominic?” I suddenly remembered my duties and said “Of course, a drink. Sorry I’m standing around here in a daze. What are we having Sarah?”

Standing three deep at a theatre-bar in England was to be expected but I wasn’t so aggravated about it this time. It was great to hear all the South African accents around me again. I stood just watching and listening as over-cologned men lined up at the bar jostling and commenting on anything that they thought someone might like to hear. “Barman! howzit boet, me next please – I’m dry here and I’ll need to shave again before the show starts I’ve been waiting so long” he laughed louder at his own joke than anyone else (of course) and then quickly continued. “No when you ready, when you ready my mate – just pulling your socks” and then roared once again.

I loved this keen willingness of South African’s to engage with strangers and laughed with all the others standing around him. It kicked off similar random comments from others in the queue that weren’t particularly clever or funny but it somehow added to the whole friendly spontaneous atmosphere of the occasion. I then noticed a man and his wife coming into the area clearly looking around for others. She was tarted up in tight leopard-print leggings, high-heels, fake tan, big hair and masses of make-up which seemed to suite her somehow but he was something different. He must’ve been in his mid 50’s, no taller than 5ft 7, bald in the front but compensatory longish hair at the back, large stomach (overhang) and a tremendous moustache. He had one of those Madiba shirts on but instead of a loose fitting elegant shirt that flowed and shimmered along, as with Mr Mandela, this one seemed way too long for his short stature, and way too tight for his girth. His neck was too thick to do the top button up either so it looked altogether wrong. He wore pale blue cotton trousers and those deck shoes that extremely rich guys who go yachting around the Med like to wear. The whole look was somehow immediately alarming like when a motorist accidentally drives up a one-way street in rush hour traffic and gets everyone instantly gasping. I could see the two of them stop and then catch sight of people they recognised but before they could make their way over a voice bellowed out. “Heeeey Nelson! Where you going like that boet? Did you manage to park your yacht in the front?” His voice was loud enough for everyone to hear and he roared out loud slapping his friend on the shoulder as they came up. His wife responded immediately saying “I know tell him! Tell him! I told him he looks like a bloody Maroela tree in takkies but he won’t listen – he says it’s ethnic!” The other people in their party all came round him feeling the shirt and offering further tactful observations. For most, this would be quite an awkward and embarrassing moment I felt but this guy didn’t seem even the slightest bit phased by the attention. Instead, he stood casually amongst them with smiling eyes, patted a box of (thirty) Stuyvesant poking out the top of his shirt-pocket and scanned the room taking in his surroundings like everyone else did when they arrived. What a beaut I thought and turned back to face the barman.

As usual, we only managed to get our drinks as the final announcements for us to take our seats were coming over the system so we had to wallop them back and joined in the flow of jabbering shuffling crowd making their way into the theatre. It was clearly a sell-out crowd and so in these tight English theatres you end up moving, waiting, moving, waiting, while filing into the respective pigeon-hole entrances. The trick is also to try and avoid tramping the back of the persons shoe off in front of you when everyone suddenly stops. The guy behind me accidentally walked into me twice but instead of pretending that it never happened (as is customary in England) he said, “Sorry man, I think my brake-pads are shot boet” and then the second time when his forehead actually bumped the back of my head he said, “Hell, I’m sorry again swaar, I can’t come right with the tailing distance over here” and patted me hard on the shoulder. We finally found our seat-row after floundering and stumbling up and down barely visible carpeted steps for awhile. I lined up at the end scanning our tickets and asked Sarah and Peter if they would like to go in first. Most of the people in our row were already seated (of course) so as we filed in they all had to stand up again for us to edge past the narrow little space between the seats. “Sorry, thanks, sorry, thanks, sorry, thanks, sorry man, thanks” I said as we passed each person on our way down the isle to our seats in the middle. We were just about there when I felt my knee jam into something hard. “Sorry man, are you ok?” I quickly said looking straight at a guy grimacing and rubbing his knee. “Eish cousin, ei-na! Don’t worry I got another knee” and laughed a bit. “I’m really sorry I didn’t see…” I tried to go on.
“Don’t worry brother, seriously – the NHS is free – even the crutches, genuine” Everyone sitting around him had a bit of a chuckle and then he went on “Just as long as I can gooi a Johnny later with the other knee I’ll be happy my cousin, honest”
I looked back smiling quizzically at him as I continued edging down the row and repeated “Gooi a Johnny?” shrugging my shoulders.
 “The White Zulu china! He shouted after me, “Johnny Clegg!!” he said and lifted both his elbows next to his ears and cocked his knee as if about to kick up into the air. “Oh, gooi a Johnny  - I’m with you now” I nodded and smiled but the lady sitting next to him in an even stronger accent now cut in “I told him it’s not that kind of show. It’s gospel dol” she said looking back at him with a concerned look on her face, “like church singing y’know - not Johnny Clegg and Zulu stuff man!!” 
I was already at my seat and I heard him say “Cousin! Just you watch. This Soweto Gospel Quartet will definitely throw a Johnny, I’m telling you brother,watch!”
“Quartet?” his wife said agonisingly, “it’s not violins and shit….”  she was soon interrupted by the sound of a (thunderous) echo- type announcement as the lights dimmed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen – please take your seats as this evening’s performance is about to begin”
I sat down quickly and leant across to Peter who had taken his seat next to me “Is everything alright?” I ask quietly
“Yes quite fine. You seem to know people here tonight” he said gesturing back down the isle to the guy we had just passed.
“No, no one actually” I said, “they make them like that in Jo’burg”

I sat back and smiled at Wendy who was folding and packing jumpers and jackets under the little seats. “You’re chuffed now aren’t you?” she said with a broad smile looking back at me. I nodded, “Like a white Zulu, my cousin”
I was having immense fun already and the curtain hadn’t even opened yet. If the truth be told, I wasn’t exactly excited about anything with the word “choir” in it and actually quite suspicious of the word “gospel” so my expectations of the show were not too high to begin with – and then it started.   
 
The sound of that first voice from the Soweto Gospel Choir hit us from behind the large closed curtain and froze everyone to their seats. It poured out and flowed over and around us like charged liquid and then soared up until every eye was riveted on the stage waiting for the curtain to lift. I swallowed and stared at the stage as everything went quiet again – if my ears could’ve pricked up like foxes’ they would’ve. I had been alerted to something unusual behind that curtain and I now needed to see. A slow pounding drum and the vocalist sang out again. The stage curtain slowly began to rise as if being lifted by her voice and then, there they were in full shot. The most colourful, bright beautiful picture I had seen on stage in a very long while. Big smiles, Big teeth, Big Sound, Big colour – I continued to stare and felt myself rise up gently in my seat.  

 The choir lifted their hands acknowledging us in the audience and beamed bright from off that stage. I wanted to wave but just smiled back and stared. The soloist let her voice fly again and I instantly felt something churning up inside and want to come out. “No, no this can’t be happening” I said harshly to myself as I felt tears suddenly arrive from nowhere like boulders at the edge of a cliff. “What’s this?” I thought to myself completely caught off-guard by my reaction as the rich familiar African sounds began to build. ”This is happy stuff and it’s only the bloody introduction” I desperately tried to persuade myself, “you can’t cry now pilluk!?”
 I knew I missed South Africa but this was ridiculous I thought and swallowed hard.

The soloist was soon accompanied by an enormous sound from the rest of the choir as they harmonised and weaved their own sounds around her lead like a giant musical tapestry. I looked around partly to see if I could make out other reactions in the audience and partly to try and compose myself a bit but the (bloody) voices and that African drum beat were wreaking havoc inside me. I took a deep breath, looked back at the stage and sat down low in my little seat so that my knees were pushing up against the backrest in front of me. The choir began moving gently together and the sound of the deep base vocalists came in adding an even fuller sound. “I’m in trouble here” I thought sliding my hands under my legs and trying to focus on retracting the tears away from the drop-zone. Maybe one of Peters’ mints will sort me out I thought.  Just then (thankfully) I noticed a girl two rows in front of us suddenly stand up and start swaying in time(sort of) to the music. The theatre was well-lit so she wasn’t going to go unnoticed for too long and she raised her arms from time to time saying “fully” and “hey”. After my dramatic reaction to those first sounds of the choir I could appreciate what she was probably going through but felt that it might still be a little premature for this kind of no-holds-barred self expression. She wore a pale green semi see-through dress that looked as if it could’ve been made out of some kind of marine plant and as she moved from side to side one of the shoulder straps kept slipping down. She didn’t seem to care much though and her elbow clumsily whipped it back up, seemingly without her knowledge, as she smiled and tried to engage people around her. I had her down as one of those earth-children types who saw it as their duty to be noticed in large gatherings - It was evident from the sleepy friendly eyes, the scruffy hair-crop, the disregard for conventional behaviour, the lack of inhibition, and the total lack of bra. I heard a voice from up behind me “That’s what we like - two shows for the price of one, cousin” and then someone nearer to me “Die slaai val uit haar toebroodjies” I was grateful for the distraction but was soon sucked back into the main act as the opening song came to a close and massive applause shot up to the roof of the theatre. The applause gave me a much needed channel of release as I joined in and clapped feverishly to try and spend some of the vibrations stirring inside me.

The second song had just the same effect on me as the first and soon I was balancing boulders on my eyelids again. “Ok, let them run “ I thought,  “just don’t wipe them, that will be a give-away”  Water sprite girl in front was still doing her bit and now seemed to have included some Asian-dance hand movements into her routine but hardly a distraction anymore for the dominant sounds and sights coming from the stage. Big, significant sounds that yanked at my guts and insisted I participate somehow. I just about managed to stay in my seat for the next few songs tapping clapping and jiggling but then, after a silence, I felt the place shake as a male soloist voice rang out and resonated like a big bell “Shoooosholoozaaa!” I was gripped by an overwhelming urge to shout back to the singer but all I could think of was Yebo!!! He sang out again, “Shooosholoza!” and I heard responses break out amongst the audience around me. “Heeeybo!” was one offering and “Here we Go!” was another and then someone yelled something that sounded like “Hupp-I-say-Pappa!” as the drum beat kicked in hard and the choir stamped and clapped together to get the familiar anthem on its way.

Bodies began popping up out of their chairs as if on springs and moving badly with the music. It seemed that many were attempting the rhythmical dance thing that Madiba does at big rallies with clenched fists and alternately raised elbows while others went for stamping hard and bums stuck out too far. There were some who looked as if they were swinging pick-axes (or some other roadwork tool) and the whole room was alive with what appeared to be involuntary movement. Now if there’s one thing that usually gets my toes curling up sharply in my shoes it’s whiteys suddenly going spontaneously black at times like these but somehow the whole thing together looked magnificent. Like some kind of strange, bubbling, colourful, poitjie-pot of expression. We responded in anyway we could to show our appreciation for the wonderful ingredients that were tumbling down from that stage. Out of our chairs and moving badly ourselves, Wendy now pointed out a guy a few rows behind us who lifted one knee up high and then the other as if hurdling over a row of consecutive hedges. The choir clapped together offering another rhythm to try and follow and more people sprang up around us. The few that did manage to stay in their seats were clapping, trying to sing along, or just continued shouting African-sounding things in encouragement. “Jambo!”. “Yeeboo!”  “Hoza!” 

Peter then leant across from his seat and said in my ear, smiling, “It’s jolly loud isn’t it?” Had I not known Peter well, this statement at a time like this could’ve easily led me to violence but I knew that there was method behind such an apparently cold-blooded criticism. I knew then that Peter, with his guarded English ways, was feeling the stirrings too. It was a typically English comment to make to prevent what us South Africans sometimes refer to as coming out of your boots - losing oneself in spontaneous self-expression. Stiff-upper-lip and all that I reminded myself and smiled back at him raised a fist in the air and responded, “Loud and proud, Peter. Loud and proud” He nodded, smiled back with his twinkling eyes and said, “Splendid” before sitting back down in his chair and continuing to tap discreetly on his knee in time to the music.

I was well into the spirit of it all now and having managed to let the boulders go off my eyelids earlier I thought that that would be it but then suddenly (out of another eerie silence) came the evocative piercing sound of one of the choir girls ululating. Again it plunged savagely and instantly into my depths somewhere and choked up my breathing. An instant response from someone in the audience (who I thought must’ve been black herself and thankfully well-skilled at it) came back immediately, and then a ripple of further responses from a few others dotted around the room. I felt every last hair on my body stand up and my eyes welled-up again as the stage went quiet. Once again, tears were unavoidably tumbling and streaming – still no wiping though - she continued and let out another almighty call from her soul. I felt my nose start running too. “Great. Is there anywhere else I’m going to start randomly leaking from?” I thought slightly angrily.  A big drum soon powered up again and I took the opportunity to sniff hard so as not to be heard or have to ask Wendy for a flipping tissue.

Then a very muscular guy from the choir moved away from the others and stood on his own in the centre of the stage. His legs were staggered in a cocked stance as if about to leap over something. He raised his arms up gradually in front of his shoulders with his fingers parted and began gently stamping to the right and then to the left following the tempo of a resuming drumbeat. “Hupp-I-say-pappa!!” - Encouragement from someone in the audience again urging the dancer on.
Eyes getting wider and whiter, the dancer continued rhythmically and steadily like this until I thought the drums could not get any louder and his body looked ready to split apart and shatter in anticipation - then he unleashed it. Raising one knee he kicked fiercely up passed his ear and over his head and then snapped his foot back down into the floorboards with a bang.
The crowd roared as he smiled back at us nodding as if to say “keep watching, I haven’t even started yet” 
“Ha, haaa - What did I say!? What a boykie!! Bring that Johnny cousin, gooi him!!” a familiar voice from down our isle. I turned to look at him and his wife had one hand on his shoulder. But he was up already.  

The warrior dancing routine was spectacular and went on with kick after kick after resounding kick whipping up into the air and snapping down tirelessly onto the boards until we were all out of breath, either joining in, or just watching him. He ended up with one last kick that saw him (quite predictably) fall back on his backside on the stage and we loved it as he lay there and laughed with us. Now drenched in sweat his skin shone like gun-metal as he stood up, brushed down his arms with his hands and smiled white back at us. We stood up together to applaud him as he turned to the choir members with a heaving chest and raised a hand to acknowledge their part in the routine. They ululated back at him and we all yelled and clapped deliriously.
 “That’s him! I told you they’d gooi a Johnny” said our guy down the isle as we all began settling down in our seats again. This time he caught my eye and he pulled his elbows up next to his ears and raised a thumbs-up at me. I pointed to his knee. “Did it hold out”? I said as the applause began dying down.
“Hold out? Like new still my china - I’m going to have to get a new set of hamstrings on the way out but I can still gooi a Johnny brother – ask her” he said tapping his wife’s shoulder with one hand and wiping his soaked brow with the back of the other.

The high-voltage show lasted for about 2 hrs and managed to switch on, light up and energise every one of us in the audience as if we were a gathering of some strange electrical appliances. This wasn’t just a choir I thought, as the final curtain came down and we all screamed for more!!, this was a flipping power-station. The Soweto Gospel Power Station I thought standing up and clapping until my hands went numb.
Filing out in long queues again masses of charged-up South African Xpats poured out the exit doors and onto the cold streets of Woking, North Surrey, England, jabbering, laughing, and gesturing excitedly. I glowed and flowed with the current as we all moved in the same direction back towards the big car parks. I looked up to see a huge billboard over the road. The image was of a world-renown, semi-clad, English footballer with some or other male-grooming product he was endorsing and his advice in a caption on how to attain similar status, wealth and success that he had.
 “Your mielie, man!” I said grunting up at the large image, “I bet you’ve never gooi-ed a Johnny, pal”