When I finally have a moment at the table for this note, Kujenga’s Night at the Marketplace starts playing.
My Spotify playlist is as eclectic as I am. Lots of jazz, too much pop, lots of blues, too much Nina Simone, not enough Miriam Makeba, some punk-filled Busi Mhlongo and of course filled with Zoè Modiga.
So this will read like a stream of consciousness. I hope that’s ok. I am also playing with form here as I listen to this truly excellent portal into Postcolonial Jazz on the continent so this is perhaps a meditation on form, citational practice, rhythm, repetition and writing for the internet when books continue to be unattainable because of capitalism.
In her excellent essay entitled An Ode to Zadie Smith: A Search for Feminist Clarity, Danielle Bowler quotes an excerpt from Smith’s book NW: “Natalie Blake, who told people she abhorred expensive gadgets and detested the internet, adored the phone and was helplessly, compulsively, adverbly addicted to the Internet.”
This excerpt in many ways is a reflection of my own experience with the internet, an iPhone that I thrifted which randomly locks at inopportune moments and a gadget that has become a kind of gig guide into the city.
My phone helps me to follow the latest South African musicians, zero in on their stylistic choices, their hair brands, their influences and most importantly where they will likely perform next.
What I realise as a result of Thomas M Pooley’s book entitled The Land is Sung: Zulu Performances and the Politics of Place, is that the gadget that I call my phone has turned me into a kind of ethnographer.
He writes that “ethnographers began to place themselves squarely within the narratives they told as interested observers who were constrained but also empowered by their own unique perspectives”.
As I swipe left, right, up and down on my phone, I realise that I inhabit a similar orientation as the ethnographer.
And so in an attempt to settle the ethical discomfort I have with this position, I have decided to publicly curate an edition of writing filled with musicians, writers, journalists, ethnographers and music makers and listeners to tell us more about the sounds that animate the Johannesburg landscape.
And so in an attempt to settle the ethical discomfort I have with this position, I have decided to publicly curate an edition of writing filled with musicians, writers, journalists, ethnographers and music makers and listeners to tell us more about the sounds that animate the Johannesburg landscape
