Session Transcript:
Hugh Masekela
Red Bull Music Academy, Cape Town 2003

The video stream for this lecture can be watched here.

Hugh Masekela, born near Johannesburg in 1939, grew up immersed in the urban and traditional sounds of South Africa. With the music of the Xhosa, Zulu, Swazi, Khoi-san, Griqua, Sotho and Tswana peoples as inspiration, he gave his all to the piano and then the trumpet - recording the country’s first LP by an African group, with the Jazz Epistles at the age of 19. As the apartheid-era government continued to perform crimes against humanity, Hugh was able to flee South Africa for studies in London and New York. There, he was instrumental in gaining worldwide exposure for the anti-apartheid movement, while studying with folks such as Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea and Donald Byrd. A horn player and liberation song writer like none other, he has stayed adventurous toward music, befriending and recording with artists as diverse as Sly Stone, Fela Kuti, Paul Simon and Bob Marley (Hugh played on Bob’s early recordings). For several decades on the African continent, he has kept pushing, working tirelessly to create opportunities for young African musicians and creators. Yet, after all he has accomplished, Hugh will only blow his own trumpet, in the literal sense.
»I think that any artist’s best work is not originated by themselves. I think, there is some kind of spiritual, some conscious mode, you put yourself in, so as to receive - because none of us are original. The less you think that you know, the better you can receive, the more enthusiastic you can be about what you don’t know.«

RBMA: »First of all, I mentioned that you obviously covered and incorporated a really diverse range of styles in your music over the time. I’m just wondering why you were able to do that so well?«

Hugh Masekela: »Well, I got into music as a child. The first time I saw a gramophone - I don’t know, if any of you know what a gramophone is, the thing you wind up for every record - I was fascinated by this box that could bring out all this wonderful sounds, all kinds of varied sounds and I was about three-years old, when I insisted that they hold it for me, so that I can wind it up myself and put the needle on the record. So by the time I was five-years old, my parents thought that maybe my interest in music was good enough to take piano lessons. So, I got piano lessons and unfortunately for me I've been a musician ever since. This is my sixtieth year as a musician and I’m still learning. When you get affected by something you like, it’s not just the final product, I think, that should interest you. It’s how it gets there, you know? Especially today in an age, where you press a button and it’s there. I think, I was very curious and I followed music into many other things that came with it. It is for that reason that I have never been able in my head to categorise. If I hear a Chinese song from Canton and I like it, I like it because the song is nice and I don’t think, ‘It’s Chinese’. You know, if I hear something form Timbuktu, I don’t say because it comes from the Sahara desert, it’s deep or something like that.«

RBMA: »What sort of records were being played in your household? What sort of music where you being exposed to as a child?«

Hugh Masekela: »It wasn’t just my household. Everybody had a gramophone. A gramophone in those days cost 1 Pound seven and six. 1 Pound seven and six today would probably be… I don’t know how much. Ha, ha, ha! But people saved up for it. Sometimes for a year, they put a Schilling away, until they had 27 Schillings. So, two years and some change, right? But everybody had a gramophone and the records cost seven and six. They used to buy maybe two or three every month. They played them on their porches, they just played them loud. And people had radios and Saturday morning from 10 to 10.30 there was what they called the ‘Bantu program’ on the SABC. It was the only program that played African music. And the whole country put on. Like, in town the maides would have it on and their employers would conveniently have gone shopping, but the whole country would ring with that radio program. So, people followed music like sort of en masse and communally and they were obsessed with the songs and the dances that came with them. You just sort of absorbed the music as you went along. But there was like all the music from the area here. Music by the Manhattan Brothers , which is a singing quartet, by the African Ink Spots, which is a singing quartet, the Cuban Brothers, Ace Booja and the Manhattan Stars and then there was orchestras: The Jazz Maniacs, The Harlem Swingsters, Danny Pelizo and his All Star Band, singers like Dolly Rathebe and Dorothy Masuka and small groups like Zakes Nkosi, Elijah Nkwanyana and the Merry Makers. And then there was records from the States. The big bands, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey and, you know, just on and on. All the Swing bands like Louis Jordan and his Tympani Five and, of course, Louis Armstrong. (imitates Armstrong’s raspy voice) And everybody tried to like sing some of his songs. And there was Nat ‘King’ Cole, Frank Sinatra, there was The Modernaires. And then there was shots in the movies, you know? Half an hour shots, sometimes they feature one or two of the bands, sometimes with the Step Brothers or the Nicholas Brothers, who were tap dancers. And people in the townships started to emulate, to come up with their versions of that. This is where gumboot dancing came from. You know, they saw movies of people tapping together and thought, ‘We can do it with the gumboots'. But they actually wear the gumboots, so they can sweep the streets or pick up sanitations. So, it was like a really heavy musical milieu. It wasn’t just music from the records. But it was the churches. All the different churches had their different music. And then people from all, especially if you lived in an urban area like Johannesburg, people from Angola, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Malawi and the different parts of South Africa on weekends would find a corner and an open field or what and wear their plumage, you know their traditional plumage. And every weekend was like a carnival. And then we just catered street songs.«

RBMA: »Is it true that your inspiration to pick up the horn is quite due to Kirk Douglas?«

Hugh Masekela: »Well, I finally saw a movie when I was 13. It’s a movie called Young Man With A Horn. The story of Bix Beiderbecke, who was a great trumpet player that died about the age 29 and was from the States. He was one of the greatest improvisers and all that. So, they dramatized it, he was also a big trouble maker, but in the movie he always dances in front of the band and he has the finest, finest threads all the time and he takes all the solos and he doesn’t take shit from anybody and always gets the girl. So, we figured that this is the instrument to play…ha, ha, ha and it tend out to be the most difficult instrument. I’m still trying to learn it, now. And I never got the girl.«

RBMA: »You were also mentored by an individual called Archbishop Trevor Huddleston.«

Hugh Masekela: »It wasn’t actually mentored by Archbishop Trevor Huddleston. I don’t know if you ever heard of him? But Trevor was an anti-verwoerd, not even anti-apartheid, but anti-verwoerd. He hated verwoerd with a passion. And every time I had to go to confessions, he told me: "I got so much hate, but I am a priest, I’m not supposed to have it, so I have to go to confess all the time." He, he, he! But Huddleston was also one of the greatest activists South Africa ever had. When Bantu Education was introduced, which was inferior education for African people in this country, Huddleston convinced the archbishop of the Anglican diocese to reject it and rather close all African schools. ‘Cause in those days, all the schools were missionary schools. But Huddleston was interested in restless souls. He always wanted to know, what was driving you and like channel your energy into something positive. And finally Huddleston asked me one day: "What do you really want to do?" And I had just seen this movie and I remembered it and said: "Father, if you can just get me a trumpet, I won’t bother anybody, anymore." And he said: "Are you sure?" And I said: "I promise you!" So, he send me to Poleax, which was the music store on Eloise Street in those days, to Bob Heal, who was a Scottish bass player with the roughest broad you ever heard (impersonates Scottish accent). And he sent me with a note: "Give this poor boy a trumpet. I can only afford 15 pounds." And Bob Heal said (in Scottish accent again): "Father, must be crazy to think you can buy a trumpet for 15 pounds." But anyway, he got me second-hand trumpet and Huddleston got me a teacher, who was leader of the Johannesburg Municipal Brass Band. Everybody called him Uncle Sauda. And he came and taught me how to play the trumpet. But I was already a piano player, so it didn’t take me too long to find the mechanism; I already knew music. But when I started playing tunes, the other boys got interested and they went to ask Huddleston for instruments. And he started to buy instruments for all of them and soon we had the Huddleston Band.«

RBMA: »What was the time frame between that and the Merry Makers of Springs, which was another band you formed, right?«

Hugh Masekela: »The Merry Makers, I didn’t form. It was a trumpet player called Elijah Nkwanyna who I still try to play like. He played in Banzi’s band and the Merry Makers while I growed up. He was just a fantastic player, an amazing player, and my dream was to really be able to play Mbaqanga, which was the township music of those days kwela. He could play the trumpet and he had the biggest tone and he could sing. And when he sang, the women all used to go (in a high-pitch voice): "Ah, Elijah…" And he only played the trumpet and, "Elijah, whoooo…" He played beautiful. My parents knew the band owner, my uncle was a friend with his son, so he said: "Listen, this kid just started to play." I think I just picked up the trumpet for two years. "He will play with the band for nothing." And Elijah and his friend Banzi took me in. ‘Cause Elijah, at that time, was always playing the tenor saxophone beautifully, so they needed a third trumpet player. They had another left-handed trumpet player. And I became the third trumpet player in the Merry Makers. And that is where I cut my teeth. I was the envy of all people my age. "He is playing with the Merry Makers!" And when I went back to school, to boarding school, after the holidays, I taught the band some of the arrangements of the Merry Makers.

I just finished this book that I wrote about my life and I’m giving it all away here. (laughter) And Huddleston went to America and he met Louis Armstrong. He told Louis Armstrong about the band and Louis Armstrong sent us a trumpet – one of his own trumpets. We were in the news. In those days, African people, you never saw them on the front page in the newspaper. Mostly, we were on the crime list on page nine. (laughs ) So, for that whole year, every magazine and every book wanted us, and that brought us to the forefront. We became sort of part of the music community in this country.«

RBMA: »Tell us a little bit about getting first to London and then to New York.«

Hugh Masekela: »When Huddleston finally got me papers to get out of town, Johnny Dankworth, who was a great English jazz band leader, had been here. And he was deported, when they found out that he was married to a Jamaican woman of African blood by the name of Cleo Lane. Yehudi Menuhin also came here. Huddleston hooked up with them because at that time he was like setting up the anti-apartheid movement overseas. And they started becoming very big activists and activism organizers. And he got them to get me a letter from the Guildhall School of Music to say that they accepted me. With that, I was able to get my passport.«

RBMA: »And you got to New York also through some sponsors?«

Hugh Masekela: »When I’ve grown up, way and around Miriam Makeba, you know, we were very close. When I was in England, it was 1960 and she had really like broken out big in the States. She was on first name basis with everybody from Louis Armstrong to Duke Ellington to Ella Fitzgerald to Miles Davis. Harry Belafonte had taken her under her wing and taught her, but she was like the toast of America. But she needed some help with the music and she knew how much I hankered to get like a music education. So, she organized Belafonte and Dizzy Gillespie, John Mehegan, Miles Davis and a few other people to sponsor me. With her help also in the school, I ended up in September 1960 in the Manhattan School Of Music – with the help of all those people. I think that between Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeba, I got so much generosity that it inspired me to sort of vindicate their believe in me, you know? By the time, I was in my second year of school, I had record offers because I played on Miriam’s second album a muted trumpet on three of the songs. And they were the most played songs on that album and then word got around and I got a record contract and, of course, the rest became history as time went on.«

RBMA: »Did you consider coming back, after you graduated?«

Hugh Masekela: »Yeah, in 1963. I mean, I just was fired up, I had all the knowledge that I wanted and I was playing great and I wanted to become a teacher back in South Africa. I went as far as England. I nearly came back. Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeba, but especially Belafonte said: "With a mouth like yours, you’re not gonna get too far in South Africa now. Mandela has been sentenced to death, all your friends are leaving the country, and a lot of them are getting killed. You go in there with your kind of mouth and your kind of disposition and they gonna nail you. And nobody knows you. So, you not gonna make it and if they kill you, nobody is gonna know and after a week or two, it will be forgotten about it. But if you stay and try to make a name for yourself, and talk about your country the way you feel, you will have access to the media and you will be able to pass the word around on behalf of the sufferings of the people back there. You will be able to do it through songs, etc." And I remember I said to him:"‘How do I know I’m gonna make a name?" And he said: "Man, we can’t give you everything. We are on your side, ain’t that enough for you?" So, it’s very important for me in the rest of my life, to give back. I don’t think that I’m gonna ever be able to pay back what was done for me ’cause a lot of many, many people helped me. And if you don’t give, I guess, you don’t get.

Miles Davis pulled me aside one day and said (imitates Miles’ hoarse voice): "Listen man, let me tell you something, you wanna be a jazz musician? There is thousands of us. You just will be a statistic. But if you put some of that shit of your home into the shit your doing…" - every other word with Miles was shit - "...and you put some of the shit you doing home into the shit you’re doing now, your shit is gonna be mad and mean, you know? You gonna be bad. And then we gonna learn something from you, you know? Something we don’t know." And I said: "Are you sure?" "Yes, man, this way you gonna be just a motherfucking sideman the rest of your life."

So, as soon as I got my memory back again and started like zoning in, into townships and township flavored music, everybody paid attention, and I got a deal with MGM. My first successful record was called The Americanization Of Ooga Booga. Ha, ha, ha.«

RBMA: »You've been back for 13 years now? Is that correct? What is your impression of how things are now in this country?«

Hugh Masekela: »Well, from the perspective of an artist, this was a very isolated country, artistically speaking. Although, we had all the material to have been able to do these kind of things, to build this kind of institutions of information, the arts were always suspect in South Africa. For the last government, the arts were used basically to say: "How can you say, we are so bad, when we have Miriam Makeba, Abdullah Ibrahim and all those people and they can talk about us as much as they want." It wasn’t like something that was nurtured. And then the arts business… I mean, this country, for the infrastructure it has, and the audience it has, should have by now a very, very big independent entertainment industry. But it really doesn’t exist. Whatever exists is sort of not really indigenous, a wannabe, an imitation of other countries. And yet, our resources in South Africa and in Africa, but especially here, are so diverse, you know? We have such a rich history and a cross section of so much wealth and so much different kinds of people and music and sounds and so many stories. It is a country of 350 years of endless wars. It’s a country, where there was so much suffering. A very beautiful country. A country with very funny people, very generous people, who were forced because there is so much mutual admiration for each other, they were forced not to, legislatively. The damage that was done that is apartheid in other words, is that it sort of limited our adventurism into who we are, into ourselves and what we have here. It does not disturb me, but the element that I’m most obsessed with, is the element that I wish every creative person, to try and extract that. I wouldn’t call it a renaissance or a revival, but it’s not gonna be done through talking and, of course, it has to be done through funding. No revival without funding because a lot of funding was put into destroying the fabric that we were before we were forced into isolationing. Isolating ourselves from each other and also like being isolated from the world. So, a lot of funds and effort has to be put back and I think, it’s up to the youth of the future of this country to open this window because it’s one of the richest windows in this world. Because the world is very, very keen to know who we are. And we are not telling them, you know? We can tell them entertainingly. When people come here they miss the people because the people haven’t showed them who they are and they go for the animals. ‘Cause they can’t find the people, they go for the big fives. But if they knew where we were, they would come and find us. But we have to do it. So, it’s a thing that will happen. I know, I have been philosophical, but in reality that is how it is. You know, in the past we have subconsciously lost our self-esteem. We think we are not good enough. But believe me, to a great extent we are winners in almost everything we are going to try because we have a major drive and passion. We have a background that is richer than most people that come from most countries. And we have to take advantage of that. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it as far as I have.«

Participant: »I was wondering, if you could talk a little bit more about how songs come to you. That whole process of creation.«

Hugh Masekela: »I think that any artists best work, this is my crazy notion, their best work is not originated by themselves. I think, there is some kind of spiritual, some conscious mode, you put yourself in so as to receive because none of us are original. Like my grandmother said: "We didn’t come here with anything." The less you think that you know the better you can receive, the more enthusiastic can you be about what you don’t know. The most popular songs I have ever done, like Bring Back Nelson Mandela, I know I didn’t write. I was in Botswana in 1985 and Mandela wrote me from Paulsmore Prison a birthday card on April 4th. ‘Cause Winnie Mandela worked as a social worker, she did have field work under my mother in Arizona township. So, she knew us from that time. When she went to visit Mandela, she told him what I do overseas and in Botswana and what my sister was doing. And being the crazy nut that he was in corresponding with everybody, he sent me a birthday card. And it ended with, he knew all the music stuff. And he said: "Keep up the good work. Good Luck." And I’m saying: "Yeah, the guy is in jail and is encouraging me, who is outside. It’s not even generous, it’s weird." (laughter) And it made me feel so bad for him that I just started crying and I went to the piano and started singing this song word for word and it just came. I would say he sent it to me, or he opened me up for it, to be sent in. The same thing with the Coal Train. When I was four-, five-, six-years old, I lived at a coal mining town at my grandmothers cabin. I talked to the people from the mine who came there to drink, and they tell me about the conditions, like my father had been in the mines and I saw the conditions that they lived in. You know, in the hostels and all that. And then 30 years later at a party up in Woodstock, and having a great time and all of a sudden I had to rush to the piano. I get to the piano and I start singing, just as it is. My friends are going: "When did you write this song?" And I say: "Shhh, it’s coming in, so shut the fuck up!" Ha, ha, ha…«

Participant: »It’s quite an honor to have you around here, I’d like to say that. I just wanted to find out, your take on young producers doing remixes of your music. Not necessarily you, but everyone who is like from way back. So, I just wanted to know, how you feel about that us guys remixing your stuff?«

RBMA: »Fortunately, because I don’t even think it’s mine – when people say: "I love your music." I say: "It’s not even mine because my grandmother is haunting me." It’s not my music, I found it here. You know, we don’t come with nothing here. And whatever is happening to me is like supposed to happen. It’s not a bad thing. I would be worrying, if you all would beat each other with your guitars on the head. That would be bad. But if that is happening, it would be great because I, too, imitated other people. And I still try to play like Elijah Nkwanyna. Art is for sharing. If you find any artist and they use the word ‘this is my’, you know, already there is a problem there. Because there is nothing anybody can say, it’s theirs. You know, even Einstein tried to explain that with his theory of relativity, but people said he is a genius. He said: "I found it here." If you look at a group like Mafikizolo, they are doing original music of theirs, but they sound like they come from the 1940s. Their sound. But you know, with a group like that, you immediately know, it’s not their fault. They are sent. They don’t know, they’re just mediums.«

Participant: »What do you think about the late stuff Miles Davis started to do in like early '70s, this electronic stuff? Just people thought it was wack because it was too futuristic for them.«

Hugh Masekela: »All I can say is, that it was sent to him. That is all I can say.«

Participant: »But did you like it?«

Hugh Masekela: »I liked some of it. The thing is, I used to be always there when Miles played. He has played at the Village Vanguard all the time and I been there almost every day. He was complaining to me, when I started recording (imitates Davis again): "You are stealing my shit." Ha, ha, ha. Whenever I came to the club, he said: "I know, what you here for, my brother." But I followed him everywhere, you know? ‘Cause he was an amazing player. And then when he changed, his first album was [In A] Silent [Way] and then he did Bitches Brew. By then he was almost doing only concerts. Also, when he had like the Herbie Hancock trio and that quintet, his stuff was changing. He said to me: "I don’t see you much around anymore?" I said: "I’m working." He said: "You are full of shit. You are just like all the other people. You don’t like what I’m doing, but I don’t give a shit." But that was Miles Davis. And he had a bigger following when he played that stuff than ever before. Because then he became great friends with Jimi Hendrix and those people. He did some amazing stuff. Things like Jack Johnson – that album. He did some amazing things and some things that were difficult for me to understand. But I don’t dislike anything. When it doesn’t get me, I don’t play it, I don’t go listen to it.«

Participant: »Do you admire any of the young producers or musicians out there? Is there anyone, you admire doing their thing today?«

Hugh Masekela: »That I admire?«

Participant: »Yeah, production-wise.«

Hugh Masekela: »How much time do you have?«

Participant: »OK, who is one of your favorites then?«

Hugh Masekela: »It depends on the week.«

Participant: »This week!«

Hugh Masekela: »This week in my car, I am playing Zizi Congo, Salif Keita, his new album, I’m playing The Best Of Marvin Gaye. Every time, I hear his voice, I shake my head. And I’ve got Louis Armstrong with Jack Teagarden, they used to do all those duos. And I have got Mafikizolo. On their new album, I just did a duet with them about Here Come the Police. And we co-wrote the song and that is the fifth album. The sixth record I got, is Gilberto Gil’s new album, he is an old friend. But I change my records every week. Sometimes I listen to classical music, sometimes I play Eastern music. Some of my most favourite music is Gregorian chants. I mean, the harmonies! I went to Belize in Georgia and in every church 24 hours a day are Gregorian singers just singing around the clock. And the harmony and the purity of their voices is just amazing.«