From Jazz, Bass and Land

From Jazz, Bass and Land

From Johnny Dyani
to Commandante Hani
an era ends.
Since then it's money,
money. Money.

There on the right: - the Navy band all pomp and brass
they jita-bug
There on the left: the Shembe horn-men, poly-scalar
Wheeze-in, blast out
My friend Futshane with a bow guts the double-bass low
Wherever there is music, there is hope
The phrasing is Dyani's, from Biko's Song to an
Angolan Cry, the restless dead intone.
Faster than the wind
we are sleeping home tonight.

The bassist moves to the left and starts his tribute to Dyani
slow, controlled, promiscuous,
it hums into the eardrum, it plucks at the inside of the stomach
slow, controlled, as language fails each octave
each slide, each pluck.
You expect Moholo to rain on skins and cymbals
He is not there.
You expect Abdullah to place his left hand on the keys.
He is not there.
But from the left, taut, the guitar-man fiddles
pure maskandi, pure pele-pele, pure Madala Kunene fingers
circling on the strings, as if he left the streets
and is really talking to the stars
They meet to greet each other on every 16th pulse
Leaving the listener one breath short, a heartbeat far behind
as they are talking about some Mecca
or some spiritual den.

At that, my ethereal friend
Don Cherry gets his break on the cornet:
Crystals exploding from Timbuktu to LA
each screech or squawk shatters the peace
dragging the bass, stretching the chords to counterpoint.
This is the language between madness and rebirth
The final circus act of a tradition

Before the brink, the pianist brings it back
Yes, yes, Melvyn Peters- dreaming Coltrane
earning his dough from tourists who demand more crap-eases
the ear, upbeat-swing so low and merry, tonality returns, redeems
and Dyaniís bass responds pure cheek, pure wily nigger.

Oh no, Sazi Dlamini will not be outdone
and back from his Kunene-astral grooves 
swinging chord and yoke, shining smile and blue
the Navy band breathes back to ooze
the Shembe horns awake to breathe. The bass responds
The big band soars and quietens
Leaving the trombone man alone
To grunt and exorcise the ghosts
The ugliest horn on earth, sheer chain
and joy
it obliges: even the ugly, love.

But no, who let Ngqawana in?
No build-up but a cataract - aggressive wails
burning his lungs while squealing each three beats
to pause and scream some more at something no one sees,
at something everybody feels

The chaos calls me, can I sing?
Where do I find the pitch to say and improvise my string?
The mike is trembling, Dyani, Hani, here we go
here is the sting- the tabla, drum and cello, guide me in: 

Privatise the Sun
Copyright the Clouds
Before those others come
To steal our Rainbows