Writer: Bongani Madondo | Photographs: Supplied
I’m reminded of the vagaries and modulations of identity. Of identity making, too. Of the turfs, signifiers, and sounds, styles, types of walk, culinary, and songs, belief systems, and other tangibles and intangibles that, accrued, tells the stories, not only of who we are, but of who we desire to be, at any given time. The answers are always in the music.
Jazz as I type these notes, these come tumbling _black_ out of my sonic vaults, and to the fore of my head. I remember that three decades ago the American-American neosoul singer, Jill Scott released an album entitled, _Who Is Jill Scott? Words and Sounds Vol. 1_.
Its slow burn ripples through the Atlantic pond were felt from Philly to Phnom Penh. It etched her Betty Wright’esque girl-on-the block rep deep in the listeners’ hearts.
Two decades later, a South African traditional soul-stirrer from Kimberley, relaying BaChuana/Tswana and Kgalagadi/Kalahari Desert proverbs and stories of resistance, and via futuristic grooves, wrapped in a title designed to challenge both the artist and listeners to ask the perennial question many of us still struggle with: Who am I?
As with Scott, Luanga Choba’s title, _Who Is Luanga Choba_? was a play on art, faith, and love as the true determinant of the artist, and by extension, the listener’s inner identity. None of these artists play jazz. Even though true diggers know that no one really plays jazz; jazz plays us. Ditto Maxwell Baloyi.
Those outside of the tight music arena of piano masters, the world Baloyi has worked, taught, and thrived in, hiding in plain sight, will ask themselves: Who Is Maxwell Baloyi?
I can throw in all kinds of hyperbole, hyper ventilated adjectives to sell him and I would be doing him a disservice. Pianist extraordinaire and composer Maxwell Baloyi does not need hyping up. What he needs is a silent environment to truly appreciate, listen to and engage in a silent conversation with.
His album, Healing Palms demands nothing more than a Buddhism kind of quietude, and an open ear, heart and soul, genre be damned.
With Healing Palms, Baloyi weaves about the art of big chamber music piano solo recital, corner shop playfulness that defined Abdullah Ibrahim’s early District 6/Malay prayerful funk, Marabi, and what sounds like ocean waves.
The music whooshes through and washes beneath, over, sideways, threatens to submerge you, but ultimately offers an escape, therefore throws you on the shores of the great South African Songbook. Here, he is in the tradition of the prophetic tinklers of ebonies and ivories of South African sound searching for global outlets.
The elders who roamed the 1940s Doorenfontein alleyways spoke in reverence of the great Ntebejane, those in 1950s ruminated about Wilfred Sentso, of the Jazz Maniacs and of the Merry Black Birds. Those who survived the treacherous 1960s still talk breathlessly of the young Dollar Brand and of Early Mabuza. Picking up from the late 1960s Victor Ndlazilwane and his Woody Woodpeckers created a sonic dough out of shack land jive, negro blues, to usher about the kind of funk music to render a non-believer out of the women of cloth, and believers out of the fastest township knifemen.
But for a while, Rex Rabannye excepted, the tradition of piano as the king of the strings was undermined by the advent of quick fold keyboards, and later computer-generated synths.
Awkward to move, rooted and unyielding, demanding of its practitioners, it felt as if the age of piano in the evolving South African Songbook was about done.
Until Moses “Taiwa” Molelekwa appeared on the scene and, singlehandedly, rescued the entire tradition.
Two decades later the piano, as an instrument, and a sonic symbol for freedom, the sort of freedom rooted in structure, and in form, is back. In the footsteps of Zim Nqawana, out, sprang on the scene a twofer for the price of one (the _one_ being, the one, exacting, questioning but unconditional love South African music lovers give to the true masters of the art form.
It’s a single-minded love that is both hard earned and heart earned.) Both Kyle Shepherd and, Nduduzo Makhathini, have earned this proverbial love supreme. Our attention. Our souls. Our hearts.
I listened to Maxwell Baloyi’s meditative album not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time a challenge. Each time with a stealth stronger than before.
Not since Molelekwa’s slept-upon meditative sonic suite, _Darkness Pass_ has a pianist demanded so much, and promised to give so much as Baloyi does here.
Should we entrust him with our hearts? _Who the hell is this Maxwell Baloyi anyway? I met him a few years ago pre-COVID 19, at that formidable dive, Nikki’s, in Newtown, and frankly took him for a bum.
Nonetheless when this album washed up on my shores, I took my gamble and lived to tell this tale. You will have to take yours, too. And we will have a round the fire exchange, soon, soon. In any case, winter is coming.
* *Bongani Madondo is an author and former music talent scout, critic and rock ’n’ roll historian.
Maxwell Baloyi will bring Healing Palms to life on 27 February at Lit.Culture, 29 Chiswick Street, Brixton, Johannesburg, at 18:00. In a rare moment of reflection and expression, he will sit down with none other than Bongani Madondo for a conversation about the work, his journey, and whatever else is needed to uncover deeper meanings. Space is limited, and RSVPs are essential—reach out at kulani.nkuna@hotmail.com – insta: @lit_culture_books
