Welcome to the Deep Dive. We are really glad
you could join us today. If you're someone who
looks for those rare moments where, you know,
music and major historical events collide, today's
topic is a phenomenal case study. Oh, absolutely.
It's an incredible story. Yeah. So our mission
for this Deep Dive is driven by a really comprehensive
Wikipedia article. It details the history, the
creation, and the legacy of a 1974 Cape Jazz
song called Manenberg. Composed by the South
African musician Abdullah Ibrahim. Right. And
we are going to look at how a nearly 14 -minute
instrumental jazz track, and keep in mind, recorded
in a single improvised take, somehow managed
to function as an unofficial national anthem
of resistance and hope in apartheid -era South
Africa. What's fascinating here is the paradox
right at the center of this story. I mean, we
are analyzing a piece of music with absolutely
zero lyrics. None at all. There's no vocalist
providing a message. There's no explicit call
to action in the text. And crucially, no words
for a government censor to point to and ban.
Which is wild when you think about it. Right.
Yet the historical record shows this specific
piece of music managed to convey a subversive
political message that mobilized a massive demographic.
How a purely instrumental piece achieves that
level of communication, well, that's exactly
what we are going to explore. To understand the
mechanics of that communication, we need to start
with the architect of the sound himself, Abdullah
Ibrahim. Yes. He was born in Cape Town in 1934.
The source material notes that before he converted
to Islam in 1968, he was actually known professionally
as Dollar Brand. That's right. And based on the
laws of the South African government at the time,
his mixed racial heritage placed him into a very,
very specific legal category. And that legal
categorization is crucial context for you to
understand. Under the Population Registration
Act implemented by the apartheid government,
South Africans were strictly classified into
racial groups. Right. The system was incredibly
rigid. Extremely. Ibrahim was officially classified
as a colored person. This was a legal designation
for people of mixed heritage, and it dictated
literally everything, where you were legally
allowed to live, work, and travel. So his whole
world was defined by this. Yes. And that specific
heritage, along with the geographic realities
of growing up in Cape Town, it completely shaped
his musical development. So how did those geographic
realities influence the actual the actual sound
he was producing. Well, his early influences
were incredibly diverse. His mother played piano
in a church, so he was steeped in the structure
and the style of hymnal music from a young age.
Okay, church hymns. Right. But outside the church,
in the really vibrant neighborhoods of Cape Town,
he was absorbing totally different local genres.
The article specifically points to styles like
Marabi and Omokonga, and he was hearing those
right alongside imported American jazz. Okay,
let's pause there for a second. For those of
us who aren't familiar with mid - century South
African music, what exactly do those local genres
sound like? Okay, so Murabi started as a keyboard
style in the 1920s. It's heavily reliant on repeating
highly danceable chord progressions. Like party
music. Exactly. It was music meant for social
gatherings. Then you have Mbakanga, which came
a bit later. That style blends those urban jazz
structures with more rural, traditional Zulu
rhythms. Oh, I see. So Ibrahim was essentially
taking the harmonic structure of American jazz,
mixing it with the solemnity of those church
hymns, and adding the rhythmic drive. of these
local dance styles. He just merged them all together.
And he became really recognized in the jazz circles
of Cape Town and Johannesburg for that specific
fusion. The article mentions that in 1959, he
helped form a group called the Jazz Epistles.
A legendary group. Yeah, a really notable lineup.
It featured musicians like Kipi Moketsu, Hugh
Masekela, Jonas Guangwa, Johnny Goertze, and
Makai Inachoko. Okay, let's unpack this, because
the political climate they were navigating in
the late 1950s and early 1960s was... Well, it
was highly restrictive. Very much so. The Jazz
Epistles, as a collective, intentionally avoided
explicit political activity. Their stated focus
was purely on playing jazz. They just wanted
to play. Right. However, the apartheid government
maintained a stance of deep suspicion toward
jazz groups. They often viewed large mixed gatherings
centered around this music as inherently subversive.
And this general suspicion, it escalated into
direct state repression following the Sharpeville
massacre in 1960. Right. And for context for
you listening, the Sharpeville massacre was a
tragic event where South African police fired
on a crowd of people protesting past laws. The
historical record indicates 69 people were killed.
It was a turning point. Following that event,
the government declared a state of emergency.
That included severe restrictions on public gatherings.
Which means no gigs. Exactly. The pressure on
musicians became immense. The working environment
just evaporated. That led to the jazz epistles
disbanding. And by 1962, Ibrahim, like so many
other artists of his generation, went into exile.
The sources track him and his wife, the vocalist
Asama B. Benjamin. spending the 60s and 70s living
primarily in Europe and the United States. But
it wasn't disconnected from music. Not at all.
He lived in New York City, played with Duke Ellington's
band, and even studied composition at the Julliard
School of Music. And if we connect this to the
bigger picture, that time in the United States
really altered his artistic trajectory. I mean,
working with someone like Duke Ellington, it
exposed him to new ways of structuring a band.
How so? Specifically, how to allow for individual
expression within a larger cohesive unit. Furthermore,
the 1960s and 70s in the U .S. saw the rise of
the black power movement. Right. A huge cultural
shift. Yeah. And the article notes this ideological
shift had a profound impact on Ibrahim and his
collaborators. They started to view music through
the lens of cultural nationalism. Meaning what
exactly in a musical sense? It meant a conscious,
deliberate decision to reclaim their heritage
through their instruments. Instead of just playing
street American jazz, Ibrahim began intentionally
weaving more traditional African elements and
local South African rhythms back into his compositions.
He was making a statement. Exactly, a statement
about the validity and the importance of his
own culture's sound. Which sets the perfect stage
for 1974. The Wikipedia article notes he made
brief trips back to South Africa during his exile.
But the situation back home had changed dramatically,
particularly regarding a neighborhood called
District 6. Why was this specific area so pivotal
to the creation of Manenberg? District 6 was
historically a racially mixed, incredibly vibrant
neighborhood in Cape Town. It was known as a
massive hub for arts, music and culture. A real
community center. Yes. However, under the Group
Areas Act, the government declared it a whites
-only area. This initiated a brutal process of
forced removals. Tens of thousands of residents,
primarily those classified as colored, were forcibly
evicted. Their homes were literally bulldozed,
and they were relocated to barren townships on
the outskirts of the city, an area known as the
Cape Flats. The destruction of that cultural
hub directly impacted Ibrahim upon his return.
So during a visit in the early 1970s, he connected
with a producer named Rashid Valli at Valli's
record shop in Johannesburg. The shop was called
Kuhinor. Right. And they tried working together.
They did. They produced two initial albums together,
which were sort of folk -infused jazz records.
But according to the data, those first two attempts
were not financially successful. The market just
didn't respond to them. Consequently, they decided
to change their approach. So for their third
collaboration in 1974, an album titled Underground
in Africa, they pivoted their sound significantly.
They brought in new influences. They fused their
jazz foundation with rock music and South African
pop. And to execute this, Ibrahim recruited members
of a local band called Aswiety. That brought
in two prominent saxophonists, Robbie Jansen
and Basil Coetzee. And the financial return on
that album was much stronger, which led directly
to the legendary June 1974 recording session
back in Cape Town. Ibrahim tasked Quesi with
assembling a backing band. That brought Jansen
back into the studio alongside several new musicians.
And Valli was producing. Yep. Valli produced
the session on his newly established label, Ash
Shams, which is an Arabic word meaning the sun,
a name Ibrahim actually suggested. They spent
days in that Cape Town studio working through
pre -composed material. But the track that would
define the entire session, it wasn't written
down on sheet music. Here's where it gets really
interesting. the recording of mannenberg happened
in just one single take one take incredible the
article describes ibrahim sitting down at the
piano and simply starting to improvise a melody
slowly he instructed the rest of the band to
join in while he provided some basic melodic
direction the resulting 14 -minute track was
largely an exercise in collective improvisation
and that spontaneous creation needed a title
they chose Manenberg, naming it after the specific
township in the Cape Flats where many of the
displaced residents from District 6 had been
relocated. So it was a direct reference to the
forced removals. Absolutely. At the time, Basil
Quincy actually lived there. Ibrahim was explicit
about the symbolism. He stated that Manenberg
signified the forced removal of people, but more
specifically, it represented the displacement
of their music and their culture. It essentially
served as a geographic and cultural marker. Although
the article notes they almost went with a highly
specific alternative title, Mrs. Williams from
Manenberg. Oh, right, the housekeeper. Yeah,
this was a reference to Gladys Williams. She
was the former housekeeper of Morris Goldberg,
one of the saxophonists on the session. Ibrahim
actually took a photograph of her, which they
ended up using for the album cover. Using her
image grounded the record in the reality of the
people living in those townships. It wasn't abstract.
And the album release itself, titled Manenberg
is Where It's Happening, was totally unconventional
for the era. I noticed that when looking at the
discography, the physical vinyl release only
featured two tracks in total. You had Manenberg
taking up one entire side at 13 minutes and 37
seconds. A massive track. And a track called
The Pilgrim on the other side, clocking in at
12 minutes and 47 seconds. Releasing an album
with only two long -form instrumental tracks
was a massive commercial risk. I mean, radio
play alone would be difficult. But it was the
specific sound of Manenberg that captured the
audience. It features this lilting melody over
a very gentle, hypnotic groove. While listening
to it, I noticed the piano itself doesn't sound
like a standard studio grand piano. It has this
almost metallic buzzing quality to it. Did they
use a specific type of instrument for the recording?
They used a standard piano, but Ibrahim made
a physical modification to it. He actually attached
metal thumbtacks to the hammers of the piano
inside the casing. Wait, he put thumbtacks inside
the piano? Yes. So when you press a key, the
hammer strikes the string. With the thumbtack
attached, it creates this sharp metallic timber.
That's fascinating. And this wasn't just for
a cool audio effect. It was a deliberate cultural
callback. That specific metallic sound was instantly
recognizable to the local audience. the sound
of old, heavily used pianos from the traditional
Marabi dance halls. That is a brilliant tactile
detail. He literally altered the mechanics of
the instrument to force it to sound like his
heritage. The Wikipedia article breaks down the
resulting track as a highly specific fusion of
local styles. It mentions a tiki dry beat and
a Langarm saxophone melody. How do those elements
function within the song? Well, the fusion is
exactly what made it universally appealing across
different communities in South Africa. The foundation
is that Murabi groove driven by the thumbtack
piano. On top of that, you have the rhythm section
playing a beat reminiscent of Tiki Dry. And Tiki
Dry is a dance style. Yeah, it was a fast -paced
spinning dance style popular in the Cape. Then
you layer on the saxophone playing a sweeping
melody associated with longarm. What does longarm
refer to? Longarm translates to longarm. It's
a type of formal ballroom -style dance deeply
rooted in Cape culture. By incorporating the
musical phrasing of that dance style and blending
it with the jazz aesthetic and the Marabi chords,
Ibrahim created a piece of music that drew from
the cultural traditions of both the colored and
black communities. We should also definitely
highlight the saxophone performance itself. Basil
Coetzee's tenor saxophone solo on the track became
so culturally significant that he was forever
known by the nickname Menenberg. It's important
to note, though, that the song's heavy reliance
on familiar cultural touchstones did lead to
some controversy. Yes, a musician named Zaxon
Cosi pointed out that Manenberg shared significant
similarities with his own 1960 Mivokonga track
called Jackpot, and Cosi believed the melody
was lifted. How did Ibrahim respond to that?
Ibrahim defended his composition, explaining
that the piece was meant to be an affirmation
that their inherent shared culture was valid.
It was communal. As jazz pianist Malalekwa later
observed, regardless of its eventual political
weight, Manenberg was fundamentally constructed
as a dance song. And the commercial response
totally proved that people recognized it as such.
Before the official distribution even began,
Rashid Valli tested the track by playing it on
loudspeakers outside his Johannesburg record
store. Oh, great marketing tactic. It worked
perfectly. The reaction was immediate. Pedestrians
stopped in the street to listen. That resulted
in 5 ,000 copies sold in the first week alone.
And Valli's small independent label just couldn't
handle the manufacturing demand. He had to secure
a distribution deal with Gallo Records, which
was the largest record company in South Africa.
Just to keep up with sales. Right. And to put
the sales figures into historical context, an
album selling 20 ,000 copies at that time was
considered a major success. Manenberg sold 43
,000 copies in seven months. It became the most
popular jazz LP in the country's history. The
sales numbers are impressive, but the song's
trajectory into political spaces is what makes
it so unique. The source material shares a really
notable anecdote regarding Nelson Mandela. This
is a powerful story. At the time, Mandela was
imprisoned on Robben Island. This was a maximum
security political prison where authorities strictly
prohibited access to music. Yet, a lawyer managed
to smuggle a copy of the Manenberg record onto
the island. and they somehow managed to play
it over the prison's control room loudspeakers.
Ibrahim recounted in an interview that upon hearing
the music playing through the prison, Mandela's
reaction was to state, liberation is near. Wow.
It is remarkable to consider a piece of instrumental
music bypassing prison censors simply because
it lacks objectionable lyrics, yet still successfully
communicating a message of inevitable freedom
to a political prisoner. Censors look for explicit
text to ban. They struggle to identify or articulate
why a specific chord progression or a localized
dance rhythm is dangerous. But as the 1970s progressed,
the historical context shifted and the song moved
from a commercial hit to an overt political anthem.
A major turning point was the Soweto uprising
in June 1976. The historical record details that
during the Soweto uprising, Thousands of students
protested the government's mandate, introducing
Afrikanis as a medium of instruction in local
schools. The protests resulted in police firing
on the crowds of students. A horrific escalation.
Following these events, Abdullah Ibrahim and
Sathima Bey Benjamin publicly expressed their
support for the African National Congress, the
ANC, which was a banned political organization
at the time. As resistance against the apartheid
government intensified throughout the 1980s,
Manenberg was widely adopted as the unofficial
national anthem of South Africa. The musicians
who played on the original recording, Robbie
Jansen and Basil Coetzee, regularly performed
the song at political protests and rallies. Taking
the music directly to the movement. Exactly.
Jansen would often follow the instrumental performance
with speeches emphasizing cultural pride and
political mobilization. Eventually, members of
the resistance movement even began repurposing
the instrumental melody, writing and singing
their own anti -apartheid lyrics over the familiar
tune. The track's influence eventually expanded
well beyond South Africa's borders, too. It saw
international distribution. When it was released
in the United States, the title was changed to
Cape Town Fringe. It really made its mark globally.
It did. The composition was later included on
Darius Brubeck's album African Tributes. And
for those interested in the broader intersection
of music and political history, the song is also
featured heavily in the 2002 documentary film
Amandla, a revolution in four -part harmony.
Assessing the song's long -term legacy, the commentator
Lindsey Johns provided a really thoughtful analysis
in The Spectator on the 40th anniversary of the
album's release. He described the track as threnotic,
passionate, and ethereally beautiful. Threnotic,
meaning it functions like a lament or a memorial
for the dead. Precisely. It mourns the loss of
District 6. But Johns makes a critical point
regarding its dual nature. While the song is
intrinsically tied to the specific geographic
and political realities of the Cape Flats in
the 1970s, it is fundamentally driven by a life
affirming joy. Joy in the face of oppression.
Yes. He argues that this underlying joy is what
allows the music to resonate with marginalized
communities globally. It demonstrates how art
can be hyper specific to one historical moment
while maintaining universal accessibility. There
is actually a tangible, physical monument to
that specific piece of music standing in Cape
Town today. That's right. Located outside the
building that housed the original recording studios,
there is an abstract sculpture created by artists
Mark O'Donovan and Francois Venter. It consists
of seven stainless steel pipes. Those pipes are
mechanically tuned to match the exact frequencies
of the first seven notes of the Manenberg melody.
Such a cool tribute. And the installation includes
a simple instruction for pedestrians. It just
says, run a stick along these pipes to hear Manenberg.
It operates as an interactive piece of history
embedded directly into the urban environment
where it was created. I love that. So what does
this all mean? When we review the source material,
we find an instrumental track recorded in a single
take, utilizing collective improvisation, and
played on a piano modified with metal thumbtacks.
A truly unique recipe. Yet through its deliberate
synthesis of local rhythms and jazz structures,
it documented the cultural displacement of a
community, circumvented strict government censorship,
and served as a rallying cry for a major political
movement. This raises an important question,
and it is a concept for you to consider long
after this discussion ends. Manenberg functioned
as a massive, mobilizing political tool without
its creator ever recording a single word of protest.
Not one word. If instrumental jazz composition
can threaten an entrenched, powerful political
system simply by existing and affirming a community's
culture, we must ask ourselves about the media
we engage with daily. What underlying political
or cultural power exists within the purely instrumental
music, the rhythms, or the dances that you consume
on a regular basis without a second thought?
That is an excellent framework for analyzing
the art we encounter every single day. Thank
you so much for joining us as we explored the
history and impact of Manenberg. Keep analyzing
the information around you, and we will catch
you on the next deep dive.