VUSI MAHLASELA
SOUTH Africa’s liberation politics are part of Vusi “The Voice” Mahlasela’s DNA. The Pretoria township Lady Selbourne was in the midst of forced removals when the folk singer was born there in 1965. But it’s the nearby political hotbed of Mamelodi where Mahlasela was raised, and where he created the acclaimed brand of musical protest poetry that landed him in trouble. By the time he was 20, Mahlasela — as soft-spoken in person as he is fiery on stage — had completed various jail stints, including time in solitary confinement.
When apartheid collapsed, Mahlasela was signed to his first record label and produced what would become an anthem for exiles, When You Come Back. He performed the song at Nelson Mandela’s 1994 presidential inauguration and has since produced 10 studio albums. Released in January, the latest — Sing for the People — celebrates his two decades in music.
He has worked on global collaborations such as Paul Simon’s Graceland and was honoured with a lifetime achievement award at last year’s SA Music Awards. Nobel laureate Nadine Gordimer said: “Vusi sings as a bird does, in total response to being alive.”
Mahlasela’s social commentary earned him an honorary doctorate from Rhodes University in May. He is set to open for his friend Dave Matthews during the rocker’s November tour to SA.
You don’t die of loneliness in Mamelodi.
There’s a strong community spirit and people look out for each other — just ask the Engen garage where my house is. That’s why I’ve lived here all my life. I ended up in solitary confinement as a teenager after a friend in our group, Ancestors of Africa, sold us out to the
police. We were singing these protest songs and were going to skip the border to join the armed struggle when we were arrested. We were minors and it was illegal to detain us, so our names weren’t written in a register. We were simply locked away in a Pretoria prison for weeks, and interrogated. Our folks had no idea where we were and went looking for us at all the local hospitals. The informant never apologised — but we forgive the situation. When I was a young man, I joined the Congress of SA Writers. Nadine Gordimer took me under her wing and paid for my music lessons. The lessons didn’t last long, however — I’d become too involved in the struggle. I came out of solitary confinement as a 16year-old with a speech impediment. I stammered, but I think singing helped heal me of that. I stayed firm because I refused to let the enemy win. When I was taken out of my cell for questioning, shouts of “amandla” from fellow prisoners — even though they were criminals — gave me courage. Some people say, “Vusi’s an angel . . . you’re a star . . .” They call me “The Voice”. I’m none of these things. I’m a firefly. I’m not going to stay forever in this world. I’ve come to burn a spark. I’m like a borrowed fire from God, and must burn with passion. My first musical memories come from my grandmother’s shebeen. It was called MmamoShweshwe in Mamelodi, a jazz haunt that attracted all kinds of characters — it was a forum for political meetings; a place where local gangsters would eat and drink, and a gathering spot for musicians singing a capella arrangements in the style of Ladysmith Black Mambazo. When I heard these artists sing, I knew I wanted to be a singer, too.
I never knew my father. I went searching for him a couple of years ago as part of the BBC documentary series, Who Do You Think You Are? I tracked him down in Swaziland, only to discover he’d passed away a short time before. I’d missed him by six months. It was heartbreaking. I looked so much like him a local woman fainted when she saw me. She thought my father had risen from the dead.
God gave us great things:
hope and love. But we don’t see this in politicians . . . There are certain individuals in this country who need to understand that they were placed in positions of power to serve the people.
I’m self-taught. I made my first instrument by suspending curtain-holder strings over a mango-atchar container. We were very creative, our little group — we were about six years old and made our own instruments. We’d jam in the afternoons and drive my neighbour crazy. He used to
I’m a firefly. I’m not going to stay forever in this world. I’ve come to burn a spark. I’m like a borrowed fire from God, and must burn with passion
call us the “pleasure invaders” because he worked night shifts and needed to sleep during the day. We liked the name so much we used it as our band name. The neighbour later bought me a real guitar.
Paul Simon is a perfectionist. He’s not the kind of guy who leaves the rehearsal stage for a lunch break — he practises until he gets it right. One day he said to me, “Where’s your guitar?” I was only meant to sing, but suddenly he wanted me to play, too. I felt shy among all these great musicians, but I showed him my Zulu
maskandi guitar anyway, and he said, “Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!” I spent much of my childhood in hospitals. I suffered from severe epilepsy until I was about 28. One day, I simply told myself to accept it, treat the condition as though it were a friend. When I did, it was like a miracle. The seizures disappeared, and I stopped taking medication. My great-great-great-greatgrandfather, Mokalanyane, was a famous inyanga. During times of drought, the boers would visit him in the Free State and he’d go up a mountain — Mpolwane. When he came down, the clouds would gather, and there’d be rain. He was the only one who dared go up the mountain. Whatever you’re thinking is like a constant prayer. So don’t disturb the vision that you hold dear. As a child I wanted to be a priest or a doctor, but I never matriculated. This dream stayed with me for many years, until someone pointed out to me that I do both these things with my music — I preach, and heal. I don’t regret who I am.