FOUR CONCERTS & A FUNERAL

Vicki Erskine on what Johnny Clegg meant to her

The barrel roof of the Good Hope Centre is just ahead of us. Michael is doing a super job navigating the Cape Town traffic in his folks’s pale blue VW combi. Michael was held back after Standard 9 so he’s had his driver’s licence for a year already. The combi is packed with our group of friends from Hermanus. Michael isn’t really a friend, but he wants to be one desperately, which is why he borrowed the combi for us to go to the Johnny Clegg concert. Michael perms his hair and wears eyeliner, which we find a bit disconcerting. It is 1989 so I suspect he’s trying to look like the lead singer from Depeche Mode. I, on the other hand, am dressed like Madonna. I am in ski pants and a royal blue beret I’d bought at Pep stores with my pocket money. I am surprised that Mom let me come with the group over Sir Lowry’s Pass to the concert but I have promised to phone her from a tickey box to say we got there safely.

Michael parks the combi and we all go into the arena. I have never been in such a huge space. Johnny comes onto the stage and starts to play. I recognise

most of the songs from Good Hope radio – we don’t have Radio 5 in Hermanus yet. I clap and dance and sing along. I’m loving it and feel so grown up. A song comes on that I haven’t heard before: ‘One Man, One Vote’. This song makes me feel nervous. I felt the same when we went to see Dad last year in England. Some university students were giving out pamphlets with photos of Nelson Mandela on them. I recognised the bearded image and knew that we shouldn’t take the flyer. I told both my sisters not to, fearful of what would happen if we did. One man, one vote. I am getting the hang of the chorus but I don’t want to sing it. I don’t want anybody to see me say those words.

I’ve driven my red Citi Golf to Ellis Park stadium from Randburg. Several of us are going to the Johnny Clegg concert. We meet in the parking lot and head in. We buy beer and cider, and drink from plastic cups. We’re on the floor in the arena and it is starting to fill up with fans. I’m in my Kelso jeans from Edgars, the ones with the buttons

I know The Crossing was dedicated to his bandmate who was killed in taxi violence, but the words haunt me: ‘Take me now, don’t let go. Hold me close, I’m coming home.’

at the ankle, and my MadDog sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was a bit of a splurge but my salary has given me some financial freedom. It’s good to be in a happy crowd again. Something about the atmosphere reminds me of SA winning the 1995 Rugby World Cup last year. After watching the match on TV, we’d chugged through the traffic to Wanderers sportsgrounds, dodging pedestrians and policemen waving flags and blasting hooters. It was a good night to be South African.

Johnny comes onstage. He is kicking his legs wildly and waving his Zulu spear around. We do the dance too, on the floor of the stadium. We’re standing quite far from the stage and it is a bit difficult for me to see everything. A friend offers to lift me onto his shoulders for three songs. I choose carefully – one will definitely be ‘Great Heart’ and

I save another slot for the finale. I clamber onto Neil’s shoulders and sing with gusto: ‘I’m searching for the spirit of the great heart...’ It’s another good night to be South African.

My South African digs-mate Tom and I meet two Zimbabwean friends at the Hammersmith [now Eventim] Apollo, in London. My anklelength black coat and winter boots from Marks & Spencer make me indistinguishable from the locals as I scurry in from the cold of the Tube station. The venue is small and the tickets are sold out. We’ve just seen in the new millennium and I have been in London for four years. It was supposed to be for just

one, for a change of scenery, but my British passport has allowed me to experience ‘real life’ here, although the allure of anonymity is starting to wear thin. The endless internal debate around whether to stay in the UK or go home influences all my decisions. My position on the fence is now uncomfortable.

Walking into the arena feels like walking into a South African venue. Everybody sounds like me. The four of us have seats on the balcony.

A few months ago we were part of a bigger crowd of South African and Zimbabwean friends who went away for a bank holiday weekend to Ramsgate. We’d braaied on the Friday night and drank New World wine from Sainsbury’s and Castle Lager from the South African shop in Wimbledon. Somebody had brought CDs and a sound system and Johnny Clegg was blasting at top volume. We were all doing our best Impi impersonations, ululating and using pot handles as percussion to boost the performance, when there was a knock, knock, knock on the door. A pasty-skinned English couple greeted us. Tentatively, they shared their concern: their small children were trying to sleep. They could tell we were enjoying ourselves and they had no problem with the singing; it was the screaming they were finding difficult!

The concert at Hammersmith is about to start and the crowd is buzzing. Johnny comes onto the stage and the audience roars. From our great vantage point, we can see his hair is thinning a bit. He jumps less vigorously and the spear is gone but he is still our Johnny Clegg. We sing along. At interval I dash to the bathroom and overhear two men with East Rand accents. ‘I swear,

One man, one vote. I am getting the hang of the chorus but I don’t want to sing it. I don’t want anybody to see me say those words.

when he plays “Scatterlings” there’s going to be tears.’ The second half of the show is poignant. Johnny tells stories about home and links our history to his songs. I feel convicted. He ends with the classic, ‘The Crossing’. I know it was dedicated to his bandmate who was killed in taxi violence, but the words haunt me: ‘Take me now, don’t let go. Hold me close, I’m coming home.’

My brother, sister-inlaw and I shuffle forward in the queue outside Grand West Casino. Someone calls my name – it’s Tom, my old London digs-mate. We reminisce about that concert and I tell his group the ‘tears during “Scatterlings”’

story. They laugh. But I can’t relax yet; I have lost my ticket. I rush to the Computicket counter and show the online confirmation of payment. To my relief, the assistant issues me another ticket.

The venue has seating, except for a narrow stretch in front of the stage. Everybody is aged between 35 and 55. The Johnny Clegg generation. Johnny appears and the audience erupts. We’re on

our feet. I’m in my red Converse sneakers, the ones that say ‘I may be middle-aged but I am still in fashion’. The audience screams and stamps and claps. We hear the first few bars and don’t need an invitation. We’re his ultimate backup vocals – sharing every step of this 2017 Final Journey tour.

Johnny introduces a Zulu dance troupe from Joburg, sons of people he knew in the hostels when he was starting his career. He joins in at the end of their performance and the crowd cheers. A photographic montage on stage shows Johnny as a small boy, in his Zulu regalia with Juluka in the early days and with Savuka a decade later later. He tells his stories again. He compares the dark days when he first started performing to the dark days we face now. The audience is quiet. We know what he means. He thanks us all for coming and quips that we must be the ones who haven’t gone to Australia. The audience laughs.

He has sung all the songs we know but the show keeps going. What will the finale be? I can’t imagine anything better than what we’ve already witnessed. He starts strumming. It’s ‘Asimbonanga’. The audio visual display is up again and it shows Johnny in a zebra-print jacket. Then Mandela joins him in the frame and does his Madiba dance to the song written about him. I feel tearful. I look around at the audience and wonder if others feel as I do. We walk back to the car and drive home, remarking on what an incredible night it was. I am not sure what asimbonanga means, so at home I look it up. Literally translated, it means ‘we can’t see him’. Whenever I hear that song, I will always be reminded of that image of Mandela on that stage. The picture is faded but we CAN still see him. Thank you for that gift, Johnny.