Media Flaws

Sunday morning. Day 2 at the Cape Town International Jazz Festival. To be honest I’m exhausted. Press conferences and one-on-one interviews scheduled. Not many journalists around. They’re hungover. Free alcohol the night before tends to do that. I scour around for more interviews. The mood is quite sombre though. Turns out Belgian jazz great Toots Thielemans’ manager, Dirk Godts, passed away whilst his artist was on stage.

Judith Sephuma walks in on this sad moment, ready for her interview with me. She looks young and radiant. I ask her why she was so lazy-lousy on-stage. She tells me she wasn’t happy with the sound. We leave it at that. At least the audience loved her. Press conferences are cancelled for the day. I go home. Try to sleep but my phone keeps ringing. Eventually wake up and get stuck on the N1 to Cape Town. Traffic. Eventually get there. Don’t feel like drinking so I opt for wine. Check out Rachelle Ferrell. Phenomenal stage presence and vocal capabilities. Jason Moran also kills the crowd gathered in the Moses Molelekwa hall. Thereafter I check out UCT-graduate Selaelo Selota – he gyrates a lot on stage but through his music and stage presence his perverted ways are forgiven. McCoy Tyner and George Benson are on at the same time – different venues. I attend both regardless. George Benson performs his greatest hits to a packed capacity crowd. Face-to-face he looks young, but on stage you can see this man has been negotiating with time for some time now. McCoy Tyner's Trio pale in comparison to the benchmark set by Charles Lloyd's New Quartet.

Whilst walking to the next venue I bump into a long lost artist friend, Nandi Mntambo. I tell her I was with her favourite minister of arts and culture the day before. She's not too chuffed by that and vents her freedom of expression a bit. She cools down. I'm tempted to take her to the minister so they can sort out their differences and maybe the minister can tell her why exactly she walked out of her exhibition and what part of her images were derogatory. I decide against offering such. I'm no mediator. We part ways.

An announcement keeps flashing on screens “Bassline stage closed!” Too much wind and sandstorms rendered it ungovernable as crowds ran for cover. Well, at least next year there won’t be any Bassline venue because that space is going to be converted into the Desmond Tutu Peace Centre. Don’t even ask me what that’s about. There’s just going to be a peace centre. And I suppose you’ll be most welcome there if you’re having irreconcilable differences with anyone - Nandi and minister Lulu might be the first guests there? 

So the performers from the Bassline stage are moved to other stages and perform later. Bilal at the Kippies stage blows neo and non-neo soul fanatics away – his sound is really hard to define but that’s understandable considering the diverse collaborations and albums he’s worked on. TKZee start making a noise outside in the Manenberg stage – everyone goes out to bask in the nostalgia flamed kwaito-turned-to-jazz beats. It ends. Afterparties are allegedly everywhere. Try visit the Pepper Club’s bar but the bouncer pushes me away, because I’m not a guest at the hotel. I go. Arguing with bouncers is not what I studied hard for. Cubana in Greenpoint is packed to a standstill and they’re playing commercial house music. Get in. Too crowded. Go home. Not drowsy. Type this. I feel I haven’t put much effort into it but post it today anyway.

Morning kicks off with an interview with Jonathan Butler at the new Pepper Club Hotel on Loop street. Room 503 is where I set up. There's a bedroom (obviously), kitchen, lounge and Table Mountain staring down into it. Furnished with some of the best quality decor selections. It smells like fresh paint though. Oh. Sorry. Interview context is Cape Town International Jazz Festival – the 11th one.

Jonathan Butler ambles in and heads to the lounge. Can’t help noticing how his Americanese is getting stronger and stronger. We spend time discussing the view of Table Mountain. A lot of time is spent on this piece of detail actually. Terrible stuff to discuss with someone who cares not for the mountain – flatten it for all I care! But I nonetheless allow Mr Butler to savour the view. When he finally kicks out of mountain-talk he provides me with some gem anecdotes and responses. We say our goodbyes and I’m left staring at the mountain. It’s beautiful actually.

Next up is Bilal. He steps in. Looking somewhat wary of this creature called a journalist. He likes my shoes. I like them too. At first I’m tasked with one-word responses till he relaxes and sees that I have no plans to go into the politics of his divorce from his recording company. I even show him the mountain view, which mesmerizes him and induces him into relaxed mode and full sentences start coming. I end up with a great interview. That mountain is my lucky charm for the day.

Head on downstairs, perform an unofficial check-out as I hand back the hotel room card. Five hours later I’m at the Cape Town International Convention Centre (CTICC) for a now regularly sold-out Cape Town International Jazz Festival. I'm sober. And on my best behaviour to date. Catch a bit of Judith Sephuma on stage. I don’t know if it was me or what but her stage presence needed some jacking up. Turns out she wasn't entirely happy about the acoustics on stage, but the packed Kippies venue was loving her.

Now at this stage, let me declare that I am not the biggest jazz fan. I prefer soul and deep house music. And if I have to do jazz it has to be live and straight-ahead jazz with no clutter. This meant one thing - a dimly lit, red seated Rosies venue, where many were congregating for Charles Lloyd’s New Quartet featuring Jason Moran, Reuben Rogers, and Eric Harland. Now I’ve heard a bit about Jason Moran in Hip Hop circles and how he works a piano. It takes a whole lot of talent, on the part of the performer, to have me seated for an entire hour, biting my lip, clasping hand and unable to swallow saliva. Charles Lloyd et al are intense. Intense. Intense.

In another venue, Kippies, George Benson, gets geared up to pay tribute to Nat King Cole. Missed Iridium Project and Vusi Mahlasela. There are five stages. Can’t be in five venues at once. Maybe its time the Jazz Festival performances were stretched to three or four days with lesser concurrent sessions – to avoid Tete Mbambisa, Marcus Wyatt and export-locals Mikanic having to perform at the same time as the headline act – George Benson.

Anyway. Let me leave the suggestions and get on with this... next stop for me was the corporate village. I always end up there - as uncorporate as I am. Decided to go meet, greet and interview the Minister of Arts and Culture. Have a little run in with a government spokesperson who thinks I'm from Die Burger. I’m not and never will be. So we get along just fine once I’ve told him who my client is. But I wasn’t paying too much attention to this chap's political-discourse-at-the-jazz as I was disturbed by a text/sms, at 22h10, saying:

 “Eugene Terre’blanche dead? Please confirm!”

Problem is Terre’blanche was not at the Jazz so I wouldn’t have known then. George Benson walks in with his son to take pictures with some government top notchers. Whilst waiting for my turn to meet and greet, I continue on my phone trying to confirm the Terre’blanche news for a client who’d like to break the news overseas. Somehow someone in this wine-and-dine section overhears my phone conversation. It spreads like wild fire. Questions get asked. I can’t confirm. I’m just there to interview the minister, not get interviewed.  My favourite jolly government character, former Minister of Arts and Culture, Pallo Jordan steps in. At least this year he wasn’t kicking out anyone but rather telling George Benson how old he is and thereafter reminiscing about the 1950s, then walks out. Strange fellow that one. I eventually meet, greet and interview current Arts and Culture minister, Lulu Xingwana. And I’m invited to stay on if I so please. I do. And suddenly start gravitating towards the bar. From there its downhill and I still had to catch Jonathan Butler’s performance at 23h10. I try to, but it’s very packed, and I hardly doubt Butler would be hellbent on ensuring I kept my promise of watching his performance. I'll send him a picture of Table Mountain if he notices. The bar start whispering my name. I oblige. And in the process I type this out…

“Perhaps I was never really an ardent fan” was a thought that kept  gulling up repetitively as I sat through what seemed like an entire, 50 year-long lifetime of Michael Jackson’s This Is It. I couldn’t believe I was literally watching juxtaposed shots of a man rehearsing, who at times kept on saying he was “preserving” his voice – hence he couldn’t give an all out rendition of himself and kept on asking for breaks, lowered tempos to let things “simmer.”

For chrissake where is creativity when it’s most needed? 90% of that movie is Michael lugubriously sliding across the stage to the beats of his old songs, with some newly casted dancers trying to resuscitate him to his old stage presence. Perhaps it would have been more genius to capture moments in which Michael was speaking, conversing or directing others. Look I know Michael isn’t one to unravel the best film noir – but at least his past films had storylines as much as they were simply just extended music videos.

The trouble with the director, Kenny Ortega, is that he fails to realise that where Michael most engages his audience, besides the singing, is in dialogue. Michael’s voice alone reveals a certain frailty, child-likeness, perfectionist nature where music is concerned yet reflects an austere command of the English language. Plus there is something captivating about hearing Michael speak, except for when he consistently says "God Bless You" or "I Love You" to everything; hearing Michael construct sentences and articulating his inner-most ideas clearly provides a new perspective on Michael the man. My ramble can be placed into context upon listening closely to some of his lyrics in his hit songs. There are messages of an uncanny wisdom there. Gems. I’m pretty sure in and around the shooting of these rehearsals Michael had a lot to say - he might have even lost his temper, been heavily critical or just plain old Michael. But we’ll never know, that wasn’t included you see?

Song after song it kept coming. Popcorn after popcorn I counted. I even started to look out for weird unintended plots. Realised Michael was wearing the same pair of shoes throughout the rehearsals (okay, maybe it wasn’t but it was still those moccasins of yesteryear). I even noted that Ed Hardy tracksuit pants were punted for a solid 5 minutes. Guess jeans were also solidly sold. Yes, you know a docu-film is boring when such observations can be made. But popcorn after popcorn it was. Now the irony of showing these rehearsals is that they confirmed something was wrong with Michael - healthwise. Never have I ever seen his dance routines so lazily performed. It felt like routine.

I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t quite really a Michael Jackson fan. Maybe after all these years of collecting his music, mimicking his dance moves, belching out his songs as a child to entertain grown-ups; I just wasn’t really a fan. Perhaps an admirer of talent. And it took Kenny Ortega to make me realise I just don’t derive any joy in seeing heavily edited rehearsals. Perhaps a narrative contructed from parts of Michael's life, acting and a small glimpse of This Is It rehearsals would have been better. If anything makes the movie worth the R150 (price for opening morning only – 3am) it would have to be the emotive baggage of knowing that the auteur’s rehearsals were his last.

Love him or hate him, here stands the personification of viral marketing. It’s Wednesday. I’m on upper campus trying to figure out what junk food R20 can land me. Two Toyota minibuses swoosh by and come to a dead stop on the South end of campus. Out emerges yellow t-shirts, green t-shirts and a moerse big ANC Youth League banner.

Off to Beattie they go – nope - space too small.
Off to Jammie Hall they go – yep - just about right.

By then the 30 or so rented crowd has gathered enough moss to make it seem like a 1970’s protest and fill up an entire hall. Black, White, Indian and other labels converged towards Jameson Hall.

“Julius Malema is on campus!” pipes a calm, skinny, cigarette clad prima donna.
“Jesus! I have to see this!” jumped an excited probable first year. Within seconds the hall was packed.

There stood Malema on the very same spot I was twice capped on. There belched into struggle songs the 30-odd rented-crowd in the upper auditorium of the hall where my parents twice sat proudly. And then there settled that that sinking feeling; as I turned to witness the spectacle on stage, Malema:

“Even in this University, never feel like you are alone!”
 We are with you! We know your suffering! We know that forces that are opposed to our revolution, majority of them are still here!  Forces that are opposed to you having access to this University are still here!”

///APPLAUSE FROM RENTED CROWD///

“We must transform this University!
 We must change the council of this University!
 We must also change the lecturers of this University!

///APPLAUSE FROM RENTED CROWD MIXED WITH DISAGREEMENT FROM UCT LOT///

“This is a meeting of the ANC Youth League; this is not a SABC talk show; this is our meeting; and if you don’t agree with what we are saying - you are free to walk out!

///LOUD APPLAUSE AND LAUGHTER///

“If you have been sent here by Helen Zille…

///LOUD APPLAUSE///

“When your leader of a small party comes here to address you the ANC people never disrupt your meetings. You are setting a wrong precedence. And you are provoking wrong people!

“ We can stop Helen Zille from campaigning anywhere in South Africa. Do not provoke wrong people.You are told of our capacity!
It is us who brought down the nonsensical brutal apartheid regime!

///LOUD APPLAUSE FROM RENTED CROWD///

“We will never be defeated by any opposition in South Africa!
We want them combined – Helen Zille. The Apartheid General Bantu Holomisa. Mangosothu Buthelezi.
They will never defeat the ANC.
We have defeated you many times.

///APPLAUSE FROM RENTED CROWD///

“When we went to Polokwane you said Zuma must not be president. Zuma was elected president.Today, next week you are still arguing that Zuma must not be president of the republic! You must be realistic…

///LOUD LAUGHTER///

“…For those who have sugar diabetes and they are on the opposing side – their sugar levels will be high on the 23rd. Because the reality is we are going to win. Under Zuma we are going to make sure that we give bursaries and scholarships to many poor African people to come here. We know that in this University the fees are expensive therefore African children don’t have access… This is also a University of the ANC government! It is not different from the University of Venda. They are all under the leadership of the ANC. If you do not agree with this fact, then you’ll have to look for a private institution! This is our university.  What we do with it depends on the will of the people of South Africa!  We must change the look of this University! It must be a true reflection of a South African community…”

*whistling*

Oh, dear me. Here we go. Clogged up nostrils, sweaty nights, persistent headache, etcetera. Panic - is it Meningitis for chrissake? 'Screw it. Let’s do it' anyway. When else can one effortlessly make so much moolah in a measly lousy two days?

Friday evening I sit at the Southern Sun Waterfront hotel staring into the eyes of Marie Daulne of Zap Mama. She reminds me of Marlene Duma for some odd reason, although there's no resemblence. Marie. A bit of a Frenchy affair, coupled with the most mesmerizing beauty Belgium could ever possibly bestow South Africa with. Interview goes well.

Oops there goes Hugh Masekela… He'll be celebrating his 70th birthday on stage at 22h30 and there'll even be the whole cake-slicing and "Happy Birthday To You!" shebang during his performance... Hugh. Hugh. Dashing off to another engagement. I guess I’m that petty on his to-do list. No problem – audio from pressie conference captured. A bit long-winded but smothered with some nuggets or real gem audio clips. That’s Hugh. He can really go off at a tangent. Reminds me of a time – in 2003 – at UCT Radio when he walked in and first thing was: “I’m going to buy you guys a broom! This is filthy!” I can still remember the look of disgust he held throughout the on-air interview. Needless to say upon being conscientised on my immediate environment I quit UCT Radio. Oh, how I worry about that bastard child of Student Development Services at UCT. Maybe one day things will come right, but right now in a previous SAARF presentation they featured nowhere on teenage audience ratings. Can someone wake up? Is there anyone on that campus who actually understands the power and potential of an on-campus radio station?

Anyway. I digress. The agenda is jazz.

Having interviewed Marie I then dashed off to the event. Dear me. A friend and colleague issues me with VVIP – only god knows why certain people can be deemed as “Very Very Important Person” – but that was I on Friday. Needless to say the night was as unproductive as a rabbit experimenting with the concept of abstinence. As time wondered on in the VVIP section - the idea of “it’s lonely at the top” got personified, so I emerged inebriated like a Presbyterian pastor who’d recently dispensed the 'blood' of christ to his congregation. I make my way to witness Siphokazi on stage. Just seeing her makes me realize how busy artists are. At 6h30 on the same day I was literally on the phone with her, before she caught her flight. She’s humble and possesses an element of what we would term isiXhosana in the Eastern Cape. Love her to bits for all the wonderful responses she gave me.

Siphokazi is from Lusiskisiki – one of those to-forget places in the Eastern Cape. She did herself a favour by leaving. She’d probably be stuck in some shebeen dealing with unfounded allegations of being a village bicycle had she not moved. She moved and for all it’s worth she’s good. She even had former deputy minister of health, Nozizwe Madlala-Routledge, crooning the dance-floor. This could be a sign of aging on my part but I’ve been bumping into Madlala-Routledge on far too many occasions.

To think that an hour or so before Siphokazi performed I was sitting in the “it’s lonely at the top" room when all of a sudden I heard a shrieking “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” And then lights, boom mics emerged. It was minister of correctional services, Ngconde Balfour, having a fit over a film crew that’d invasively taken footage of him ordering Moet and Jameson. There was no Jameson. Which meant the fit would soon become a severe bout of epilsepy. I left.

Not so far, in the Department of Arts and Culture Marquee, another minister was having a seizure. Yes, Pallo Jordan was frothing when he found Bulelani Ngcuka and Saki Macozoma perched in his hospitality lounge. I don't know the exact words - but if you've ever heard one say VOETSEK to a dog - I'm sure you can imagine how Macozoma and Ngcuka scurried off. Macozoma later downplayed the incident by saying Jordan was just joking when he kicked them out. Mh-mm, so why didn't they stay on in Pallo's lounge after the joke? Funny stuff indeed.

Anyway. So I eventually ended up in Kippies arena where Freshlyground was literally killing their audience. In a good way. Zolani, the lead vocalist, better be taking the bigger slice of their cake. How else can you explain this former UCT student penning down lyrics and voicing them, now having to share royalties equally amongst their already overpopulated group? Reminds me of rabbits. Forgive me I seem to have developed this deeply profound love for rabbits for what they are and are capable of doing. Anyway I watched Freshlyground and silently wondered why she hasn’t gone solo yet – but then I guess there probably is safety in numbers. They sound better live by the by.

Having witnessed all – I then willfully proceeded to the “it’s lonely at the top" room – which before doing so I handed over my car keys to a strangely sober friend. Told him to just keep them until the next day and not under any circumstances hand them over to me. *whistling*

To listen to audio of pre-fest feature I produced follow the following link - more audio features to follow during weekends:

http://www.voanews.com/english/Africa/2009-03-31-voa20.cfm

Having pushed procrastination beyond dilatoriness, I now sit here, facing an inbox with 70-odd unread emails. I’m not going to read them. I refuse. Simply because I can only read “Please remove my name from your list!” so many times before I get bored.

It was a blisteringly scorching 38 degree Thursday afternoon. 3 minutes before the hour of 2pm - when an “[Events-hum-l] Subscription” email notification assumed prime position in the centre of my 14 inch decrepit screen. It read as follows:

Dear subscriber,
This is a new emailing list for the humanities faculty which will keep you informed of events you might be interested in. If you do not wish to be on this list, please say so on a return email and your name will be removed.

And that’s when all hell broke loose. Within minutes I found out that staff there and wherever were quite keen to delist. Now as these replies came barraging into my inbox methought I’d erred and started erratically searching through my mailing list for the first few informal divorce plea respondents. Nope. Not on any of my lists.

“REMOVE ME!”

“I DON’T WANT TO BE ON YOUR LIST!”

“AWAY!”

At some stage I decided to take a back seat, buy a Stoney, watch smokers smoke outside as the pop-ups of remove-mes starting marching in a royal procession manner. Each time taking centre stage of screen as I tried to get work done. Having watched smokers smoke I then figured that when you hit reply to this email it replies to all on that list. So your gripe or lack of interest in hum events is aired publicly. Now surely, if I, not the rocket scientist, spotted this trend and opted not to reply many more would have reached that conclusion as well.  Or at least after the 30th ‘REMOVE ME!’ – it should have dawned that if you hit ‘reply’ you perpetuate the cycle. Mh-mm. Speaking of which I haven’t received a new one today. It must have dawned. Now wait till hum-events sends an apology and everyone starts:

"Apology accepted!"

"It's fine!"

etcetera, etcetera...

Still remember JQ? The aged-scribe who got booted from news24 for his anti-gay sentiments? Well, Media Flaws will exhume the bugger once in a while. And here's his latest piece:

THESE DAYS there is a rather sordid "debate" which was sparked by what I consider to be the characteristic of lazy journalists everywhere, a tactic fast gaining popularity among local hacks and con¬doned by some editors.

The "debate" was occasioned by unwarranted "interest" in the spousal status of the country's two leading politicians, President Kgalema Motlanthe and Jacob Zuma, president of the ruling African National Congress.

Zuma, perennial whipping boy of South Africa's so-called "liberal" mainstream newspapers, was recently targeted as having intentions to marry "wife number 5", with lousy and uninformative "reports" claiming there was infighting between his wives about which of them would be First Lady after the elections.

Motlanthe, up to just recently labelled a "level-headed and cool thinker" by the hypocritical and lickspittle mainstream press, was turned upon in very disgusting fashion: an obvious smear linking him to the wrecking of a mansion, causing damage allegedly in the region of R500 000 though the "report" gave no evidence that he had personally had a hand in the destruction, was published.

The inescapable conclusion was that all this was done to damage the reputa¬tions of both men just before the elections.

Now we hear that Motlanthe has two extramarital liaisons, and that one of the young women may be pregnant The president is estranged from his wife. Respected former editor Raymond Louw, justifying the not-yet-proved "public interest" in Motlanthe's private life, went so far as to dredge up the 1980s case of American senator Gary Hart, who eventually withdrew his candidacy for president even though he was the leading contender.

But what Louw conveniently omitted to mention was that Hart, like former British defence minister John Profumo some 20 years earlier, bit the dust not because of their dalliances but because they had lied about the existence of the affairs. Here one could also mention that the reason American senator Edward Kennedy never had a whiff of the White House was because he never came clean about the events at Chappaquidick, leading to the drowning of Mary-Jo Kopechne, with whom he had earlier spent a considerable length of time. Kennedy only reported the matter to the police the following day, when Kopechne was already dead and beyond resuscitation. In a London court case of the 1980s we got to know about Eugene Terre-Blanche's green underpants with holes in them, and about Jani Allen's gnarled toenail and other sordid details of their alleged affair. Those stories sank Terre-Blanche, and since then he has gone from bad to worse, and now he is a non-issue.

MY STRONG suspicions are that the Zuma/Motlanthe "reports" and the mainstream
media's blazing guns are part of an unmistakable pattern which has repeated itself since Patrick Lekota and Sam Shilowa broke away from the ANC to start their own little party. The "lib¬eral" newspapers loved the idea of wrecking the "corrupt and immoral" ANC leadership. The mainstream media are now do¬ing the renegades' dirty work of rub¬bishing the two politicians: they no longer play the ball, but play the man.

Motlanthe's and Zuma's private lives are as much of "public interest" as, say, reports about the frilly lace (or lack of it) on the panties of Shilowa's wife. What I am saying is this: where it can be practically demonstrated that the politicians' marital affairs will interfere with their ability to govern the country properly then, yes, there could be a case for writing and commenting about them - not for salacious reasons and gossip.

Otherwise, private lives are just that. Surely there are still better ways to write and sell newspapers?

* Scanned-in from my crumpled up copy of the Sunday Sun (1 Feb 2009). And no I will not be subject to any copyright violation palaver as I am basing my reproduction of Qwelane's piece on a 1st Sale Doctrine principle - where the buyer can do as they please with what they've 'bought' ie I paid for my Sunday Sun :-)

Some call it the interview but from experience I have been reduced to calling it the interfew.

Interfews – whether they be for jobs, research, journalistic or random – are what I’ve always thought to be the cheat-sheets of getting to know ones subject in a short space of time. Never has there been an easier way to source information than to pick up the phone and schedule an interfew.

It’s really that easy.

But for most it isn’t.

“How come you always get the juicy bits from an interviewee?” asked a fellow scribe at a recent conference.

“I don’t know!” I replied.

Actually, I knew but was too lazy to reply. You see journalism is no longer what it used to be. These days you’ll find that journalists have egos huger (bigger) than their interviewees. Don’t be surprised if a journalist asks you “Do you know who I am!?” - it’s even worse when they’re the On-TV-Types - but that’s a story for another day.

The problem lies not only with egos, but largely on the enabling technologies or the means of capturing stories, representations, etcetera. Whilst technologies converge towards being smaller and smaller – journalists are more inclined to go for the bigger and bigger cameras, microphones, etc. There is a stubbornness to accept that the emerging smaller gadgets have finally caught up quality-wise. Bigger is not always better in media. For example, let me go back to that inquisitive journalist at the conference, the main reason why I always get that extra sound bite or sincerity out of the interviewee is largely because I use equipment that warrants an “Are you serious?” look from my subjects. My microphone is no bigger than my index finger and my recorder is no bigger than my palm and the camera is half that size. And the quality? Unbelievably clear and 100% broadcast quality.

The thing about interviewees is that when you say you’re going to interview them they usually slip into interview mode and regurgitate what they told the other journalists or scribbled last night. When you come with such lesser-intimidating recording devices or inconspicuous tools – you’re interviewee somewhat relaxes. And this is when you can nail them, as they easily forget your vocation. Whereas, with bigger tools, one can’t exactly forget they’re speaking on the record - what with a 2m Tripod and 25kg camera propped in front of them – they simply can’t forget. And the responses will be as rigid as the bolts that hold up your tripod.

It’s really that easy.

Moving away from the techno side of things and into the actual interview. The biggest pitfall of any interviewer has to be the elusive foreign concept of L.I.S.T.E.N.I.N.G. Yes. You heard me right. Many a time you’ll find interviewers (journalists, researchers, etc) evading this most important component of the interview. And it all begins with an interviewer’s prep. These days many interviewers already know what they want from an interviewee – they just have to get them to say it in the manner in which they want to hear it. Quit while you’re ahead if you’re one of these. Yes, one might have or has to have interview objectives, but, but try listening to your interviewee and see how you can manipulate what they’ve said. Walking into an interview with preconceived ideas is fatal and closes all gaps for ‘news’ or the new. Just listen and follow through on whatever new news are presented. Yes, you can follow your scripted questions, but let these only serve you as a guide – the rest should all flow and feed off your interviewees responses. And this feeding off of course only works when you're asking open questions or questions that do not simply require a one-word answer.

It’s really that easy.

It’s always great finding appropriate neologisms such as Liquid Modernity, courtesy of Zygmunt Bauman. How wonderful it all sounds – fluid, non-committal, careless, care-free, spontaneous, fast-paced, obligationless – are my interpretations.
 
For purposes of this blog I’ll be dense - discard the human element of the concept - and focus on Liquid Modernity’s most basic traits such as Facebook, blogs and various emerging social networking tools, which threaten to deaden more than just Youth Culture or ‘YUC’ (Eaton, 2005), as they filter through to older generations and most worryingly to editors and senior media figures. I understand the excitement at which these technologies are embraced. I too, in 2007 in Durban, once presented an hour long paper on the liquidity of media networks – simply googling someone, checking their blog or their myspace pages for their details and even browsing through their publicly available online notes and blogs. It was exciting at the time. Getting in touch with once-perceived-as-untouchables was the compendium of the greatness of technology. However, my optimism faded as I grew aware that my earlier excitement was the very same killer of a once perceived character novelty, as one-by-one editors and leading figures became liquid idols and merely a click away from you. Before I proceed with more disadvantages I’d like to start with a positive spin-off, Barack Obama, where “Social networks and Twitter messages may have helped… but analysts agree it was the Democrat's impressive online organisation and internet fund-raising that fuelled his victory over Republican John McCain in Tuesday's election”(AFP, 2008).

Now back to the grueling negative ad hominem agenda I was pursing earlier.

I highly recommend that many editors and former editors stay clear from these liquid mediums asap – Justice Malala (ST), Ferial Hafajjee (MG), Mathatha Tsedu (CP) to name a few. The advent of the column and editor-as-columnist was fine, but editor-as-blogger is an archetypal concept of pushing luck too far. I would’ve also mentioned Wits’ Prof Anton Harber however I have realised that he has ironically erased half of his latest 2008 blog posts – the Prof was probably pre-enlightened on the consequences of mixing seniority and liquid modernity = instant discreditment. Prof Harber’s laundry or laundered blog can be found at: http://www.big.co.za/wordpress/?cat=1

I respect all editors I refer to herein however one has to wonder whether or not they have stopped to think about the effect of their sunshine-like online presence? I’ll take it one step further and let their blogs/words drive my point home:

“Did Shilowa think the ANC under the leadership of the kangaman under the shower with a bottle of baby oil in hand, the same leadership he was lambasting as unprincipled, had meant it when they said the removal of Thabo Mbeki the dictator has opened space for robust debate within the movement? Puleeze, give us a break.” – Mathatha Tsedu, City Press - http://blogs.citypress.co.za/ViewComments.aspx?mid=10&blogid=8

“…The rot set in when you were the ANC’s president… Otherwise do us all in this noble movement a favour. Shut up.You bemoan the utterances of the president of the ANC Youth League. Yes, he has outraged the country. But it is worth noting that when Archbishop Desmond Tutu took you on about the culture of intolerance that you established in the ANC, you put him down with the injunction that he has never been a member of the ANC. It is notable that in all your time in the ANC you have never been a member of the ANC Youth League or Youth Section in exile.” – Justice Malala pretending to be Jacob Zuma replying to Mbeki’s letter, ST, http://www.thetimes.co.za/Columnists/Article.aspx?id=876139

“… He is a peddler of lies and of tiny bits of gossip, usually incorrect, gleaned from coffee-shop chit-chat. That is the currency of his book on the intellectual traditions of President Mbeki, which should really be retitled Inside My Bitter Heart: A Guide to My Tortured Soul, a biography of Ronald Suresh Roberts. Many might be impressed by his turn of phrase, but you’ll soon tire of it; there is nothing beyond the bitter heart; little but inane point-scoring; personal puffery rather than a clever take on society.” – Ferial Haffajee, MG, http://www.thoughtleader.co.za/ferialhaffajee/2007/11/15/how-dare-he/

The only editor out there who remotely has a grip on how to use these liquid technologies is the Daily Dispatch’s Andrew Trench with his light social commentary and current affairs analysis. http://blogs.dispatch.co.za/trench/

But there’s still something I can’t quite put my finger on with regards to editors or newsmakers hosting ‘personal’ blogs. Oil and water combo-like I know. The moment you open your personal self up like this (via personal blogs) as an editor – your weaknesses are out there. Editors-as-bloggers provide a solid point of reference for anyone who has ever tried to discredit a news organization by pursuing the school of thought that states that you cannot as a journalist avoid your preconceived notions and socialization when trying to report on any matter – the angle you choose for a story and your wording are all derivatives of the individual’s own personal experiences and no journalist or editor is an exception to this occurance. By opening yourself up, as an editor, to become a blogger and start expressing ‘the way you see it’ you can be classified as committing career suicide.

It was a bright breezy Tuesday morning. Nhlanhla Nene, the Financial ‘Chair’person of the Portfolio Committee, had woken up early, optimistic as hell about his 8h30 live TV appearance. His wife had ironed his shirt, suit and even socks the evening before and the kids had been instructed to skip school on that day – daddy was going to be on TV. A number of cellphone calls had been made, possibly rocketing his Vodacom bill by an additional R500 or so, “Comrades tomorrow morning is the day! SABC 2! I’ll be there like a bear!” he haughtily told the listeners on the receiving end of his call.

It was as if his car was standing still as he hit 155km/h speeding past Wits university towards Auckland Park. “When am I getting there!?” as he floored the accelerator on a 60km/h zone, past the sign pointing him to Melville. At last. He was in the parking area. He’d anticipated a crowd to jeer him in to the building and maybe do a couple of autographs, but to his dismay, the SABC’s finances were not favourable to dial Rent-a-Crowd. This didn’t deter Nene as he walked past the reception towards the elevators occasionally quipping “Do you know who I am?” one liners to the security guards who were adamant he signs-in before entry.

At last, at around 8h00, Nene sat next to the presenter – they smeared a bit of Vaseline on his tshis’ kop (bald head) and powdered him up with a bit of Ponds products to lighten him up a bit. We all know cameras aren’t black-skin friendly, one has to manoeuvre the white balance and focus for eons before they can get a black person’s face right on camera, so hence all the make-up. Eventually Nene was pointed in the direction of his chair. He calmly sat and greeted the presenter. “Lights! Camera! Action! ….

Now this is how you make an internet celebrity. For all who ever wondered how they could make their marketing campaigns go viral - take cognisance of the production and dissemination process of this video. Nhlanhla Nene is now a genuine web celebrity. Congratulations!

The weather was partly cloudy, windy, gusty, sunny, drizzly – all at the same time. Seems like the Western Cape’s mini-Tsunami had attracted crowds like kangas/short skirts attract JZ on Beach Road, Seapoint on Sunday. Every one was carrying a camera, flashing away, whilst I was growing tiresome of all the sandy foam and seawater that was building up on my car as I searched for parking.

Now don’t be surprised if you see a muddy – used-to-white car pulling up next to your gleaming car at the next set of robots. I’m not prepared to wash it and I’m banking on more rains to clean it for me. It’s been a while since I last drove something that attracted so much attention – needless to say it hasn’t been the right kind of attention. Some lady early on Monday morning rolled down her window and I also did the same only to be told “Jesus Christ! Wash your car!” I didn’t reply. I wanted to. But I didn’t reply.

Now back at the beach on Sunday: I seldom sea beauty in anything nature produces, especially in Cape Town. Heck, so oblivious to nature am I that if anyone decided to flatten Table Mountain or tow away Robben Island I wouldn’t even notice nor be bothered. But goodness, Sunday’s waves, were truly beautiful and a reminder of how strong nature can be. For some warped reason I was constantly engulfed by a paranoia of what would happen if I jumped in? “The waves would smash me to smithereens!” I thought or maybe “Take me away and throw me in the pits of New Orleans!” Makes one wonder how those folks in New Orleans are coping. What do they call their tragedy again? Gustav. Last year or the year before it was Katrina? A friend tried explaining the etymology of these bad-weather names but I just can’t remember. All I’m thinking right now is that there is some meteorologist ghoul that gets kicks out of eroticising storms with names such as the “Exotic class 4 Katrina” – sounds like a classified ad for a lady of the night. Huh!? It’s a storm for Chrisssake! No need to go all maternal and paternal and bestowing names.

Anywhoo… I hear there’s more rocky weather coming for the Cape and for some conceited, probably-childhood-repressed, reason I look forward to it and am actually excited about this weather. Yes. Admit it too. You also derive some sick pleasure from seeing havoc – if you didn’t you would be reading the papers, watching the news and following these storms religiously…

The past few days have been something else. I’ve been in the Eastern Cape and just got back to the Cape this morning. Phew! A breath of fresh air from all this Cape Town nonsense and subtle racial shenanigans.

Now when travelling I tend to keep to a strict local/native media diet of wherever I am – so when in the Eastern Cape – I just stuck to the Daily Dispatch.

I see Sandile Memela and Eddie Botha are kicking up a storm as regular columnists in the Dispatch. And one really refreshing thing about their writing – although I do not subscribe to their highly polemic often utopian views – is that they write about stuff other than what we saw on the news last night. It was refreshing to say the least. And made me miss Tom Eaton’s Mail & Guardian rambles. You see I’m fatigued out by regular online and Cape print columnists who no longer have anything to write about. It seems today’s columnists are so lazy they can’t even stretch their imaginations and find it within themselves to write creatively or about something other than what we all know and saw last night. All I see in nowaday columns is news commentary. A boy slashes people – it’s adapted to a column. A new law is passed – it becomes a column. A man bites dog in the headlines – it’s definitely going to the columnist adaptors room. You see the trend? It’s highly boring and reeks of a dearth of creativity.

It’s probably the easiest thing to write about for any columnist. I could easily write or satirize Essop Pahad’s latest remarks on white people's 2010 pessimism or even muse on the non-medal-churning SA Olympic team or muse about that Krugersdorp ninja kid (God bless his soul and may he soon learn that things like Satanism or whatever are just opium of the masses – if that kid was raised an atheist none of that nonsense would have prevailed). You see there I go giving commentary to a news piece.

But the problem does not solely lie there – you see the more and more columnists revert to commenting on headline pieces day-in and day-out the more and more the news value is ‘benignarized’ – the story loses whatever grasp or integrity it had over its consumers or witnesses (I’m sorry I don’t know what readers are called these days, since they too are actively participating in the content-buliding and to a large extent determine how the writer will spew his venom). This in my terms would be a kind of devaluation of newsworthy items – where columnists exacerbate hot-off the press pieces and write them to get some response from the ‘reader’- laughter, anger or whatever. But that just kills the story and desensitizes people to the actual story as they become authors and participants in the news making process together with their lazy columnists.

Anyway. Feels good to be back in the Cape. Tom Eaton - please come back from the screen-writing business you're into these days - at first we thought you were joking and would come back. We only have Bongani Madondo - who I suspect writes whenever he feels like it and not weekly.

Now overcoming writers block is something I can really relate to. So as I sat through Gail Smith’s session on “Overcoming Writers’ Block” I was quite relieved to learn that I wasn’t the only one who often succumbs to this horrible thing and often pens down due to severe bouts of writers block.

“Perfectionists write with one eye on the audience,” says a calm Gail, as she eyes her audience, scanning us, gauging our knowledge hunger levels – to be honest we all seemed hungry to hear more on overcoming this terrible writers’ curse. As if she had the cure, she then proceeded to say, “List any resentments or anger you may have in connection with your project.” she paused, “No matter how picky or irrational, just list them.” As Smith says this I’m already overwhelmed by the thought in itself. Surely I’d never get down to actually writing down anything if I were to ever start by listing my resentments or anger. Heck that would be an article on its own. And so I listened attentively and even stuck it out until the Q & A session where writers shared ideas on how they ‘blast through writer’s block’. Hmm, I just write and write and write until somewhere in the middle of all the smoke I’ve produced there’ll be something I can lift out and present as an article. Can’t exactly sit around waiting for a writer’s block to go away now, can I?

So after Gail Smith spoke, I then stole a few minutes of her time to discuss the state of play of narrative journalism in South Africa. I wish I could write down her responses on the ‘corporatization’ of newsrooms that ‘militate’ against editors and journalists here, but those responses are reserved for my research paper...

Next up was Fred Khumalo and Mark Gevisser, who ran us through some challenges they, as nonfiction narrative writers, were battling through in their latest projects. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to spill the beans on Fred Khumalo’s latest forthcoming book and the underlying politics. So I won’t tell you Fred is having a bit of difficulty with his subject, Jacob Zuma. Yep, I won’t tell you that Fred’s primary source is refusing to co-operate and now Fred is experiencing a real-life writer’s block – forget the mental one – the source just won’t co-operate, because he “writes for the Sunday Times”. Yes indeed I won’t tell you that it’s been difficult for Fred because “Zuma thinks the Sunday Times has an anti-Zuma agenda.” I won’t say a thing.

But come now.

Isn’t that rather childish? Or maybe illiterate? It’s a book for chrissake and even if Fred didn’t work for the Sunday Times I bet you Zuma wouldn’t like the final output from Fred anyway. No-one ever likes what’s written about them, unless they’ve written it themselves about themselves. Trust me I know that for a fact. Even Mark Gevisser ran into a few tiffs here and there for having attributed President Mbeki’s present-day mannerism to a deprived childhood. In trying to psycho-analyse Mbeki, Gevisser, got a response along the lines of “Mbeki is acting [actions today are based] on the past issues [apartheid] and not because of a deprived childhood.”

I’m curious to see how far Fred Khumalo will go to regain the trust of his subject. A Zuma book would come quite handy, and would probably rake-in tons of cash especially if it goes to print before the 2009 elections. But wait, wait, Fred is Zulu… and… Jacob Zuma is… Zulu. “Would you have preferred a non-Zulu Zuma biographer?” asks a young lady from Botswana. “No. No. It’s fine.” I replied to quickly cut off this inexplicable line of thought on my behalf.

The first day comes to an end. I spend an hour or two in traffic. Get to Newtown. Have massive R60 ribs and salad at Sophiatown restaurant. Watch Manchestor United and Chelsea battling it out on a big screen projection outside … Day 1 ends …

To be continued…

Sis’ Lizeka Mda smiles as I sit and greet. Earlier I’d caught onto a conversation between editors, and managed to sneakingly introduce myself and spoke briefly about freelance journalism. As we sit going through the meal she turns and asks, “So is freelancing paying you that well?” I must admit that caught me a bit off guard as I replied, “Why?”

“Well, you said you paid your own way to be here.” She added. Memory comes back, lights on, I remember saying that but I forgot to mention that I’m not only here for the conference. I’m here to make a bit of rands and cents too. “Oh, yes.” I reply, “I mean yes I made my own way here, not yes I’m making a wad of money.” She gives me a suspicious look and I end up explaining that I’m going to produce a travel feature about Melville and Newtown (for my creative postgrad project and another story I’ll just sell to an international travel site). She nods and we speak about the lack of a features department at the City Press. A look of worry begets her as she explains the difficulty of getting and sustaining feature journalists. The conversation didn’t last as a radio journalist from Uganda took a seat next to us. We intro’ed one another and for some or the other reason I remembered I had to rush to Alexandra for some pictures and a quick story during the lunchbreak.

I devoured through my lunch. Dashed out. Hit Jan Smuts Avenue. Got lost a bit. And there it was “LONDON RD – ALEXANDRA.” As I drove in I realised this was not going to be as easy as I thought. Alexandra is massive and there was no violence or signs of police where I’d entered. “I should have waited for those other journalists who were planning to go there!” as I turn back and find my way to the conference venue.

Luckily everyone is still getting over their lunch. Not much going on except for where the smokers stand. “Darn it! Why did I quit smoking!?” If you go anywhere you are bound to network better in the smokers section. There they were apart from the rest, on the balcony, going at the most current of affairs and exchanging business cards. I apologised to my lungs and lunged into the smoke filled balcony for the sake of knowing people. That went well and off I went to the next presentation by Izak Minnaar (Head of news research at the SABC), a presentation on online resources for narrative journalism. I get a few useful web URLs. Jot them down like I am now:

Notable Narratives: http://www.nieman.harvard.edu/narrative/digest/notable/index.html

Interactive Narratives: http://www.interactivenarratives.org/classic

Flash Narratives: http://www.stories1st.org/flashstories/index.html

Stories in Sound, Word, etc: http://www.stories1st.org/

Pulitzer Winners: http://www.pulitzer.org/

And outdated online magazine for narrative: http://www.sixbillion.org/

And finally Mark Bowden’s Black Hawk Down serial narrative: http://inquirer.philly.com/packages/somalia/

Minnaar’s presentation really felt like one of those CHED Technology seminars – one useful resource after the next and they kept on coming till I couldn’t write down any more.

As I walk out I bump into Mark Gevisser. “Hi Mark!” now Mark is one of those people who haven’t realised how celebrity-like their status has shot up ever since he wrote Thabo Mbeki: The Dream Deferred (my copy is busy gathering dust and I keep telling myself I’m going to read it).

“Hello Unathi” slyly looking at my name tag as he greeted back. A brief introduction and we’re seated in the lobby area talking about narrative journalism and how he, as a novelist, applied non-fiction narrative techniques in his latest Mbeki book. Epistemological dilemmas usually creep up as the narrator manages to present what lies inside the minds of his characters. All-knowing-narrators, often called omniscient, the ones that tell you what the character is thinking, are always confronted with the major Narrative Journalism question: “How did you know that?” or “Are you just piping it?”

Gevisser further tells me the interview process for a nonfiction narrative is much lengthier and even requires minute interrogative questions, just to get the detail right and get into the head of your character. As we conclude our chat, I hear that City Pulse editor, Gail Smith, will be presenting: “Overcoming Writers Block” …

To be continued…

… “Ewe!” he nods as he walks towards the front of the room. Now bra Zakes Mda is a big man – in all senses of the word. And in my culture, being big in all senses of the word, signifies wealth and happiness. Happy he is – and happy radiated on his face as he whipped out his latest novel – Cion – and began to read three pages. As he read – I found myself wallowing in deep thought of how true or close to reality his chosen passages were. I won’t give away too much on the book, but will rather bring my thoughts to the fore: “What on earth is a fiction writer doing, presenting, talking, reading, lecturing to journalists in a Narrative Journalism conference?” was the kind of rhetorical swish swash shwah going through my mind.

Upon finishing his read – he then proceeded to elaborate on his narrative techniques – whilst, subtly taking swipes at journalists and their writing. I guess bra Zakes inclusion at the conference was to introduce and corroborate the similarities in Narrative Journalism and Novel writing – journalism that has at times been described as journalism that reads like a novel, assumes the qualities of a novel or as the Press Ombudsman, Joe Thloloe, told me, “To me it’s journalism that tells a narrative – where you set the scene, where you’ve got characters acting in a particular set up and ultimately the story is told chronologically.” He paused… to catch a breath or think back on what he has said… and continued, “So it is like old story telling ‘once upon a time there was…’ and then you go chronologically right up to the ‘they lived happily ever after’.” Meeting ntate Joe Thloloe was an honour and something that will play a huge role in my research. Anyway, more about ntate Joe later, in the meantime let’s go back to bra Zakes Mda.

“There’s no such thing as objective!” was a line from bra Zakes that probably meant you journalists are deluded if you think there is anything such as being objective. I guess everyone has their biases one way or the other and as bra Zakes put down his book, Cion, and leaned forward as if to scold a very naughty child – he looked at all the journalists – I swear I swore that he was about to swear at us all, but instead he went to say, “There is no such thing as objectivity… each person comes with their own social background” and further explained that our individual bias depend on who we are, how we were raised and thus hence he says there can never be objectivity in light of your own personal lenses. It was true, and to reiterate this he then made an Afrikaner analogy. The Afrikaner, an oppressor, a misunderstood killer, or even a human with different world views and was raised in certain conditions to view black as evil etc – there was no attempt at actually understanding where Afrikaners were coming from. Journalist or whoever chose to subjectise them simply wrote about them as evil, but never sought to understand the devil within each of the oppressors – it’s origins, conditioning and moral grounding.

I’m sorry but the above paragraph is not to paraphrase bra Zakes but my regurgitation of how I interpreted his words.

“Umntu ngumntu nagabantu” rings in my mind and just then, bra Zakes says, “We were told as children that you are born without any humanity!” humanity is something that is acquired hence in isiXhosa when you have bestowed someone with something – they will say “Undenze umntu” (“you’ve made me a person”) and whereas the violent offenders in Alexandra can be addressed individually as, “Awungomntu!” (“you are not a person”) – I’ll stretch this definition of Awungomntu to: you have not been made a person – no one has endowed you with humanity/ubuntu and you are currently basking in your lack of humanity/ubuntu. Put aptly my mother could define such humanity-less souls as “Indlavini!” I know this because I used to get told “Unathi yeka ukuba yindlavini” (stop being a savage) whenever I went on some childhood rampage at home and started kicking out and torturing her pet-cat. Please don’t call SPCA – I reformed my ways and now love cats too.

Sorry I sidetracked – where was I? … oh yes, bra Zakes. Bra Zakes further continued to ask, “How do others endow you with humanity?” and the answer was “Through a bounty of compassion from others.” That “Undenze Umntu” remark – it still happens to this day. You give a grown-up or a person a gift or something valuable and they will tell “mntana wam you have made me a person.”

Look bra Zakes said a lot and more on matters pertaining to constructing solid narratives, although he largely works with fiction, he still admits that, narrative non-fiction would require the same writing guidelines and resembles immersion journalism (where a writer follows and gets into the life of his subject). Two points that contribute towards a good narrative are “motivation” when characterizing or when you “psychologize your characters” however bra Zakes adds that “Motivation alone is not enough” and require one to introduce “Justification” within their characterisation – which shouldn’t be a matter of good and bad but to show that, “once we understand their [character’s] part [in a narrative non-fiction piece] we see how their actions are psychologically justified” even if you do not agree with the justification, you will still see where you’re character is coming from i.e: the case of the South African oppressive Afrikaner.

Now that was a lot to digest in one session and bra Zakes did a fine job in justifying why a fiction writer was present at a Narrative Journalism conference. We then proceeded to lunch where I got a seat next to the City Press's deputy editor, Lizeka Mda ...

To be continued...