Charles and the window kids

In the 1960s, famous performers used to tour from one platteland hamlet to the next. It was at a concert of the popular country singer Charles Jacobie in a Karoo dorpie that Fanie Smit learnt a true professional will remain on stage even under the most tr

Nearly 45 years ago, at an open-air concert in Los Angeles, Neil Diamond welcomed not only the 5 870 fans in the audience but also the “tree people”. He was referring to the pirate viewers who’d climbed the trees surrounding the Greek amphitheatre and obviously hadn’t paid for their “seats”.

“And you tree people out there,” he can be heard saying very clearly on a recording of the concert, “God bless you. I’ll sing it for you too.”

Every time I listen to that recording, I am once again a child in a small town in the Karoo. It was the Sixties, and no South African youngster knew of Neil Diamond back then. Before the dawn of television only one singer’s name was on everyone’s lip: Charles Jacobie, popularly known as the Singende

Beesboer (Singing Cowboy, or Cattle Farmer). To this day he is regarded by many as the father of country music in South Africa.

So it happened that Charles Jacobie visited our town! Other performers also made an appearance at our only venue, the church hall – like a strongman and his equally strong daughter, who could lift the front of a Volkswagen Beetle with her legs; a magician who could hypnotise people; and the ventriloquist Jannie de Bruin with his dummy Tommy Thompson – but to us boys

The poor little guy was struggling to keep Dikkes aloft. Just as his legs buckled and the pair crashed to the hard Karoo ground among the rocks, a stink bomb “exploded” in the hall.

Charles Jacobie was the man. Not only did he have 56 dazzling cowboy outfits his wife had made for him but he could also sing and yodel till the cows came home, with a real Colt revolver on his hip.

Weeks ahead of his arrival, the event was advertised on promotional posters stuck to poles and shop windows. You would think that every Tom, Dick and Harry would have bought tickets, but back then most families were large (there was no TV yet, see…) and the majority of women were full-time homemakers who did not earn an income. The Jouberts had nine children, the Engelbrechts could start their own rugby team, and in our home, as well as that of the dominee, the household comprised seven members. Like Dad, most of these folks were ordinary salary earners who couldn’t afford tickets for the entire family. My eldest sister was fortunate to have a boyfriend who’d invited her, and Oom Koos – who was considered uncultivated – and his two daughters were in the front of the queue to buy tickets. THE CONCERT WAS HELD on a sweltering summer night in February. Air conditioning was an unknown luxury in those years, so all the windows of the church hall had to remain wide open during any gathering. Of course, we “underprivileged” knew this all too well and converged in front of the hall earlier in the evening to secure a spot at a windowsill. Realising that we would hopelessly outnumber the available windowsills, I went even earlier than the others to position myself at the window right in front, close to the stage. By the time the rest arrived, I was settled in nicely and, after a bit of arguing and wrestling, most were able to find a spot, even though some had to stand or squat. And so we sat and stood and balanced like a bunch of chickens on a perch.

Right in front in the hall sat a few of Charles’ biggest fans in their Sunday best – from rich Tant Petru to Tannie Poppie, the spinster who operated the telephone exchange. A few rows to the back, in front of Ousus and her boyfriend, sat Oom Koos and his daughters, and those who arrived late had to be satisfied with a seat at the back of the hall next to the kitchen.

At one end of the back row sat Oom Nieklaas of the power station, who’d first had to see to it that there was enough diesel in the town’s generator, and at the other end was Mouton, the policeman, still in his uniform. The place was packed, but, as they say, you can fit a lot of tame sheep into a kraal… The concert could begin!

There was no outlet for the heat that started to build up, but the lot of us who were blocking the windows would not budge. Who’d be stupid enough to give up the free seat for which you’d worked so hard for no good reason?

Suddenly, the volume of the music rose and rose, and our cowboy appeared on stage in one of his bling outfits. To spontaneous applause, Charles tipped his black Stetson, waved and,without a word of introduction, started to sing: “For a bird in a tree will sing a melody…” He swayed from side to side, and those among us on the windowsills who knew “The Mockin’ Bird Song” by heart got so excited that we started singing and yodelling along as one.

This must have annoyed Charles, because when he had finished his hit he made a remark that was less friendly than Neil Diamond’s in Los Angeles: “Seems to me there are more people outside the hall tonight than inside,” he said, gesturing at us. Still, we held our ground. The concert had barely started, after all – only an atom bomb would have driven us from our perches! HE SANG ONE LEKKER SONG after the other, but suddenly a scuffle broke out at one of the windows when two pirate viewers got into an argument. Dikkes, who until then had been standing on his younger brother’s shoulders, wasn’t interested in letting him have a turn to watch, while the poor little guy was struggling to keep Dikkes aloft. Just as his legs buckled and the two crashed to the hard Karoo ground among the rocks, a stink bomb “exploded” in the hall, pervading the already stale air.

Oom Koos and his family got up, laughing, and escaped through the nearest side door while the rest of the concertgoers fanned their programmes to get rid of the smell. Charles must have noticed but remained professional, continuing to sing with all his heart while more and more people made their escape. By the time I, too, gave up, he was singing only for the tannies in the front row and for Ousus and her beau, who were furiously fanning their programmes under their noses.

Outside the hall a throng was gathered, speculating about who the guilty party could have been. Of course, all fingers pointed at Oom Koos and company, who had fled first. Even the gentle Tant Gesie who never spoke ill of anyone gestured in the direction of the oom’s house, and Dikkes was so cross that he vowed to let the air out of all four tyres of Oom Koos’s Ford bakkie!

That night, our old dorpie got a real live show on and off the stage, but it remained a mystery who was responsible for the stink bomb.

I don’t know whether Charles Jacobie ever sang in our town again, but that same evening Ousus broke up with her boyfriend. Only years later did she reveal that he had indeed been the one who had set off not one but two stink bombs right under Oom Koos’s chair. And that she’d had to remain there sitting next to him to prove his “innocence”.