HALF ART
CHRIS THURMAN: Listen to what SA should be — and hark to cold reality
It’s Thursday night at The Orbit in Braamfontein. Congregants have come from across Johannesburg, pilgrims to this sacred space in which jazz is a portal to the divine — or, for true believers, a god to be worshipped. Eyes are closed in reverence or fixed in wonder. Listeners sway and nod appreciatively, applaud, shout a liturgical response. Jazz musicians are enigmas. In one moment, they demand the spotlight of a solo; in the next, they disappear into the music, as if indistinguishable from their instruments. Fingers dance across piano keys, pluck guitar strings. Drumsticks strike cymbals in a staggered rhythm, while the thud of a bass drum keeps its own time. A trumpet trills, builds a crescendo, then recedes into the background. Tonight, the priestess who holds us in her thrall is Zoe Modiga. Actually — enough with the ecclesiastical metaphors. Modiga makes no show of piety or authority. There is no hierarchy in this church. In between belting out or gently crooning songs from he...
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