The Nu World At Large (A Review)
By: Philippus Johan
Tags: Music, Review, Festival

I was asked to review and photograph the 2015 Cape Town Nu World Festival, so I did.

Originally posted in July 2015—but with a few amendments made.

THURSDAY

Me: Hello Facebook, I would like to attend the Nu World Music Fest by means of work. Can you provide? Facebook: Yes my brother.

FRIDAY

I’m inside an email searching for my media pass while doggedly manoeuvring through rainy-day Cape Town traffic. The first act already started two hours ago yet here I am on a rendezvous with old compatriot and Black Major’s artist representative Aaron Peters to chaperone Aero Manyelo and Skinny (Blackfoot Phoenix) and Tristan (Thris) — the Boiler Room/NTS DJs — to and from the Colosseum Hotel in Century City. I took him up on this offer because I thought it would be an interesting starting point for my festival report; truth be told, I just wanted to meet some famous people. But things are not going according to plan: Tristan and Skinny missed their flight from Joburg and the weather is getting worse. They’re late, and having only just picked up my camera equipment and car’s backseats from home, I’m late too. Rats! I thought there would be time to impress them with the smooth tunes I just so happen to have in my car — playlists that I made for them this morning — while driving to the clothing sale at Superior Goods, enjoying some free whiskey, picking up some sweet kush (the DJs want a pick-me-up) and just chewing the fat together, you know? Shoot the breeze on the wonderful/atrocious state of the music industry and whatnot.

But no, Aaron and I are now in the reception hall at the Colosseum Hotel, spread out on a shiny couch underneath a sparkling jellyfish chandelier, with Nthato (Spoek Mathambo of Fantasma), Marvin (DJ Spoko) and Aero Manyelo flanking us on either side. We’re waiting for Tristan and Skinny, who’ve gone missing. Aaron’s on the phone: “Yes? Yeah, we’re almost ready. No, the Boiler Room guys are taking a shower. We’ll be at the festival in ten minutes.” He repeats this to roughly seven different callers. Tristan finally makes his appearance, looking tired but smiling: “I think Skinny ran into the shopping mall to buy a pair of Nikes.”

Upon arrival at the festival, set inside Cape Town’s city hall, I immediately head for the food stalls. Sitting on a bench marvelling at the pale sandstone exterior of the building, I’m drinking a beer and eating stir-fried pork courtesy of Lotus Food Trucks. Through the door in front of me is the main stage; Fantasma is performing their brand of noisy rap-rock punkedelia, or whatever. The sound is messy, but then again, I’ve never understood what Fantasma wants to achieve in a live setting. As I stare, Aero appears to my left, giving me a wink and a snap of his fingers. “Happiness costs R50!” I say, lifting my bento box with a smile. He laughs and walks on. Aero is cool. I get up to have a closer look at Fantasma (Spoek is dressed in a pastel-neon overcoat) only to find the sound echoed and layered beyond comprehension. A few feet away from me, a friend is dancing with eyes closed. I sidle up next to her. She yells into my ear: “I’ve been waiting to see these guys for a million years. This venue is so beautiful..” I immediately wonder if I was being too critical of the sound. She continues: “…but how f*cking bad is this sound?” Phew. Finishing with Fantasma and about to turn away, my friend bids me farewell: “I recently discovered you can smoke rose petals and mint instead of tobacco.” She produces a tin filled with rolled cigarettes. “I lined them with THC oil that I made from scratch. Enjoy!” I pocket the joint. I’ll save it for a rainy day.

The downpour is intensifying. I venture upstairs into the tail end of Paul Waxon’s set (so far, so smooth) before making my way to the media hall, wanting to pen down some initial thoughts, including: “New addition to the festival: a mini market of clothes, jewellery and merchandise” and “Attendance is down, diversity is up” and “There’s like 3/4 less white people this year; do white people hate rain?”

Everyone seems to be on the balcony, so I join them for a cigarette. Says one greying journalist to another: “It’s good to see so many people here. It’s such a lovely festival.” She takes a deep suck on her fag, one eye drooped with satisfaction. “I’m very excited to be here.” I head back to the DJ stage where Thris is laying the beats down thick while Blackfoot Phoenix readies his side of the deck, and the floor is pumping. You need more than one pair of eyes to sidestep this crowd of merciless groovers — suddenly I’m spun around to face a man and woman holding onto each other, ready with their best “this-is-my-everything” pose. Without focusing, I take a shot, smile and turn away — straight into Louis Pienaar, keyboardist of Bateleur. Time to smoke those rose petals.

Passing the food court and upstairs bar to where last year’s DJ stage used to be, the space has now been transformed into a strange umbrella installation. I’m unsure whether the umbrellas are purely decorative or meant to keep us dry; either way they’re not very effective. Back at the main stage with my friend Lentswe and company, Simphiwe Dana creates the gravitational pull I’ve been waiting for; she has a stage presence so strong that I am transported elsewhere, thrown off course towards a warmer, drier planet (I am stoned). Jazz, Afro-Soul, “new Miriam Makeba” and “Firebrand” — sure, she’s all that, but judging by the attitude of her dancing and smiling admirers, she’s the little sister who made it big and it feels great to see that in action; to see someone perceived as 100% special and deserving it every bit.

Shane Cooper’s Card On Spokes project delivers anaesthesia-dipped beats from a sensitive world; try as he might to be straight dope, Shane’s musical chops shine through, and that’s a good thing: blessed is the crowd that takes these notes with good strides. Things are picking up; downstairs at the bar, caught in a conversation between my friend Lentswe and Siya (Umlilo, not performing) I toss back a shot of tequila. Next thing I know I’m directing a confusing photoshoot of Siya having a fake meltdown: “Never stop taking photos. You’re a terrible photographer. I’m your muse. Let’s do this again. You think this is original?!

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It’s late and I’m just about ready to go home, but there’s one more act I should see. Unfortunately Riky Rick has missed his flight; somewhat of a trend at this year’s fest. Thris is covering for him — a welcome change, seeing as many acts lacked transition music between sets — playing to a small but loyal crowd. One last victory lap around the venue to say my goodbyes and I’m out. On my exit, I can hear Riky Rick’s arrival on stage, with the disheartened greeting: “What’s up Nu World! Sorry I’m late. There’s not a lot of you left, but…”

SATURDAY

Slow thoughts, a sore throat and a banana. I check my phone for the time and missed calls; it’s ten in the morning, and no word from Aaron. I was supposed to continue with my chaperoning duties today, but assumed Aaron and the DJs would be too hungover to wake up in time. Turns out I was right. Foiled again, I need a rinse; it’s time to go surfing, so I dial up some friends. Later, on the drive to Muizenberg, my friend Sean notes, “The festival brings together a great bunch of people. Everybody felt friendly and forthcoming.” Smaller as the crowd did seem, I never felt trapped in a conversation. This is an important subject within festivals that is often overlooked; while there might have been snags in the act transitions and the sound (City Hall was designed to expand acoustic sound, and thus doesn’t play well with electronics) the people who attend the festival with you, who truly appreciate the sounds, makes or breaks it for everybody. The sun is out and I’m feeling refreshed. I just hope this weather lasts the night.

Native Young’s anthemic pop comes bouncing down the corridor while I wait for Sean to get his ticket. Inside the main hall, infatuated fans hang from frontman Yannick Meyer’s lips. With a wardrobe treading the line between ’60s psychedelia and your local church nativity play, this band preaches their afro-pop gospel with giddy abandon, and the crowd believes in it; for them, this magic is real. And why not? Looking like a cult-abducted Kevin Parker, dressed in a shiny headband and full-length dream coat, Meyer wields his kalimba like a bible. Closing with “Kings”, the saxophone blares over the combined chants of the band: “Kings of our universe/standing with their feet on the earth.” The crowd barely touches the ground. Compared to Friday night, this is the kind of opener Nu World Fest deserves.

After their set I head backstage to catch a word with Yannick, but blocking my path are some twenty odd American exchange students with similar, albeit loaded, intentions. “They’re so cool,” the one girl tells me, “I just wanna tell them how awesome they are. Do you know them? Oh my god no way, you’re so cool!” Stealthily I fade into the background. I need a break after that performance, and with Zuko Collective starting soon, I want to head upstairs. Nearing the DJ booth I find my feet suddenly performing a U-turn; seems that I still can’t get these babies anywhere near Balkanology music. I think I’ll wonder around for a while.

It’s halfway through the first Zuko Collective song. Lead singer Nozuko Mapoma pierces the concert hall with her heart-wrenching wail while thrashing a cowbell, and I think: Bjork, if she was from Johannesburg. Behind her I see the drummer and bassist power duo; they’re absolutely shredding it, and I think: I’d watch those two as an act by themselves. Next I’m transfixed by the vision that is Thandiwe Khoza, standing closest to where I’m taking photos from, and I think: Sho! She is beautiful. Take a step back and suddenly you realise this isn’t a single-minded band but a talented group of creatives who share Nozuko’s passion for music; she just provides the lead (and heartfelt messages between songs); that and Zweli Mthembu’s clear influence carried over from his main band and last year’s standouts — The Brother Moves On — has made me a fan.

I’m on the prowl, looking to hand out sneak-attack hugs. They don’t always work out to be as cute as I’d expect, but, as usual, an opportunity has presented itself and I cannot look the other way. Aware I’m possibly being watched by several people in the vicinity, I creep up on a fellow photographer standing nearby…

“WAAAAAA!”

“AAAAH! JOHAN!”

“WAAAAAA!”

“NOOO! WHY!?”

“Hello! Who are you taking photographs for?”

She’s here as Bateleur’s photographer. We’re leaning against the stage, chatting about the festival turnout and yesterday’s awful sound, but also about matters of the heart — there’s always time for that. Nicolaas Van Reenen, the lead guitarist and vocalist of Bateleur, walks past us onstage. Jess, the photographer, and I stare at him while whispering his name loud as we can. If we catch his attention we’ll feel validated for being playful. If we’re ignored, we look stupid. “I think we look pretty stupid right now,” Jess remarks.

Bateleur are here today as veterans. I was there when they played the first World Music Festival back in 2012. This is their first show in months, and with these opening notes from Odon Human’s trumpet, I’m assured that they’ve retained their sense of wonder. Standing next to me, Nate, an American from Massachusetts, says of the band: “They sound like Sigur Ros in their quieter moments, but then I also hear…” He pauses in thought. Only a handful of bands can complete that sentence, so I venture with Explosions in the Sky. Nate agrees. “Yeah man,” he smiles, “that’s totally what it is!” But Bateleur can never be attributed to just one sound. I see them as the sum of many parts. They apply a democratic approach to their writing process so that we, the listeners, are essentially presented with six distinct personalities pretending to be one person in a big coat; Muppet Man, if you will. Yup, that’s right– Bateleur is a beautifully echoed, stylishly executed Muppet Man. It’s lovely having them back.

I’m in Bateleur’s dressing room with Louis and Nic, waiting for the others. We’re sitting on a window ledge drinking wine and smoking cigarettes, discussing and celebrating the show. I don’t think I’m supposed to be there and neither does the security guard, but Louis convinces him otherwise. I share some of my field reporting with them: one of the things I heard was that their sound was a bit “underwatery.” Nic agrees with this, saying it lacked some kick. Altogether they’re pleased though, and soon we’re joined by Ma’or (the lead festival organiser) and Thandi from Zuko Collective, both praising Bateleur’s performance. With newfound excitement in the air, we head out to shake our limbs to the Bacardi House of Spoek Vs. Spoko. They’re being announced as we enter the room, and in classic DJ Spoko style, the beat drops in with full hi-hats, no fade-ins. Welcome, friends. You’ve just reached the inside of a Fizz-Pop.

Don’t you just love it when a band knows how to utilise backup dancers that are not only present on cue, but also dominate? Dressed like an ’80s Michael Jackson undertaker, Kanda Bongo Man, hailed as the king of Kwassa Kwassa, graces the main stage with such an ensemble. As is the dance style, my hips move back and forth while my hands move to follow my hips. I’m not doing it very well; in fact, everyone seems to have mutated the kwassa into their own goofball versions. Ducking out for a quick beer run, it appears Mokoomba have succeeded Kanda Bongo Man in my absence, matching their enthusiasm to make it easy for the crowd to stick to the party. With a sincere nod to KBM, they open with an infectious highlife jam, but I have a feeling they’re looking to peak the previous vibe before moving into a new one. Indeed, abandoning all instruments, the four men jump to the front and perform an impeccable boyband dance routine. I’m seeing most of this through a camera and it feels like the MTV Base Music Awards, shaping these acts into household heroes. But as soon as they’ve peaked, they stop us in our tracks. The yellow lights fade into a soft blue. It’s time for “Masangango,” a thrilling, spectral divergent delivered by lead vocalist Mathias Muzaza, dressed in simple but effective black and white. Slowly he entrances the crowd with a sacrificial hymn. As it ends, the drums kick in, the lights turn on and the people whose eyes were closed, open them again.

As I said before, I like Aero Manyelo. He’s got this earnest vibe about him that really resonates in his music. I mean, during his set he says stuff like “Okay, I’m gonna count us down and then we gonna jump. Okay, we gonna jump… We gonna jump… We gonna jump…” eventually concluded with, “Okay let’s jump! Let’s jump!” — it’s cheesy, but it makes you like him more. This wouldn’t be the case if he played your run-of-the-mill “World Music” DJ selections, but as you might suspect, he doesn’t. Aero Manyelo, like his name, is kak fresh. He enjoys himself while he plays. He’s blurring the lines of when the festival will end; in fact I’m caught in limbo, wondering if I’ll dance here every night for the rest of the week. This is the boss level and these are its die-hard challengers. If this is Bowser’s castle, we’re all Mario; as with most endings, our princess is in another castle. Maybe we’ll find her next time.

I gave my number to a lot of foreigners tonight, promising to update them on gigs and festivals in Cape Town, like I’m suddenly so involved in the music scene after covering just one festival. If that were true, I’d feel comfortable saying the festival is still a bit too expensive and needs to tighten up its info for the casual festival goer; People still don’t know how to find their way around; A few acts didn’t play when they were supposed to, which is fine unless no prior notice is given; Nobody likes it when musicians miss their flights (we paid for those flights); Last year’s sense of tension has been lost to a vibe that’s at times overly relaxed; More so than last year, the Lightbulb Sessions seem like an afterthought — either scrap it or punt it. Surrender us to the Nu. But hey, I’m just a guy who needed a ticket. On my way downstairs, Sean is keen to crash at mine. We exit and walk the street towards my car, worn out and sweaty. I had one hell of a good time.