Still Grazing

by Hugh Masikela

  Around this time, my sister Barbara came on vacation from London to visit us. After a few weeks I began wondering when Barbara was returning to London, because she never mentioned her plans. One day Miriam dropped the bomb: “Hugh, Barbara is expecting a child very soon, and she won’t be returning to London just yet.” I was surprised because Barbara didn’t look pregnant, but nevertheless, on July 26, Miriam and I rushed Barbara to Mount Sinai Hospital in New York. I had hardly parked the car and made it to the delivery ward when Mabusha Dumisa was born. Two days later we were back in Englewood with the new master of the house—my nephew. Barbara said nothing about who Mabusha’s father was, and we were so excited over the new arrival that we didn’t ask.

  A month after the baby came along, a disagreement exploded between Miriam and Barbara, and Barbara moved in with a girlfriend of hers in Lower Manhattan. A few months later, Caiphus and Letta found an apartment in Harlem, where Bongi began to spend a lot of time because it was not far from her school. Their moving out didn’t sit well with Miriam. She enjoys being surrounded by people. She still lives with a lot of people in her house. It is her style. She enjoys cooking and caring for everybody.

  That summer Miriam and I toured Europe with our bands, playing Copenhagen’s Tivoli Gardens for a month. We also went to London for a joint BBC special. We played with Jack Jones in San Francisco, and spent a week at the Apollo Theater and a sold-out week at Hollywood’s Huntington Hartford Theater. For the first time we brought to American audiences traditional South African folk songs, gumboot dances, and our liberation songs with Letta, Caiphus, and Philemon Hou, another Sponono alumnus, joining us on the tour.

  After the bad experience with Trumpet Africaine, I was determined to establish a definitive African character in all the music that I played. I recorded my second album, which was produced by Ed Townsend for Mercury Records. It featured Morris Goldberg, Larry Willis, Jonas Gwangwa, the legendary guitarist Eric Gale, and tuba player Howard St. John. The repertoire was pure township dance band songs like “Johannesburg Hi-lite Jive,” a favorite classic, Douglas Xaba’s “Emavungwini,” The Dark City Sisters’ “Iya Hlupeka Le Ngane,” “Ntyilo Ntyilo,” and other township favorites. It was another nerve-racking experience. The record company didn’t even know that my album existed. I blew up at Mercury’s president Irving Green, who had been wining and dining me and was now suddenly unavailable after my album was released. One day I got fed up and told his secretary to tell Green I said, “Fuck him.” Not surprisingly, I was released from my contract very shortly after that. The album was not released until after I’d had my first number-one album with another label. The record suddenly appeared with a toy baby tiger on the cover, titled Grrrrrr!

  Tom Wilson, who had produced Simon and Garfunkel, Eddie Harris, Terri Thornton, and Bob Dylan at Columbia Records, became MGM Records’ first black vice-president. After my Mercury release, Wilson, who never missed any of my performances at the Village Gate, signed me to MGM. We recorded my first live album, The Americanization of Ooga-Booga, at the Village Gate, featuring the songs I had learned from Miriam and Bongi, along with compositions by Larry Willis, Caiphus, and me. The band had become very tight. The music was kicking, and the album turned out great. Tom was over the moon and had my album released right away. It began to receive major play in California and I was hopeful I was on my way to my first hit.

  One day I went to visit my friend Stewart Levine. He had just married Susan Cederwall, a dancer from Wenatchee, Washington. Stewart and Susie lived in a second-floor apartment at 58th Street and Second Avenue. During my visit with the newlyweds, Stewart and I decided to form a production company. We called it Oo-Bwana, pronounced “double-o Bwana,” a named inspired by the James Bond films. We noticed that many young musicians and record promoters we knew of or were close to were beginning to achieve success by forming independent record and production companies. So, we decided that we were talented enough to do likewise, especially because we had access to all the untapped talent of our ex-schoolmates and the people from the Sponono cast who had remained in America. Initially inspired by Stan Getz and Joao Gilberto’s collaboration on “The Girl From Ipanema” and other Brazilian music, we figured that if Stewart assumed a similar kind of persona on his saxophone and fused South African township music with American jazz, we would come up with a popular hybrid.

  In late November, Miriam was on tour in Europe. As a sixteen-year-old teenager, Bongi was developing an interest in boys, and I felt she needed to spend more time with her mother. I was doing my best to be a good parent, but with my professional engagements, it was difficult to give her the attention she needed. By February of 1966, Miriam had been away from home too long, and I felt that she needed to deal with my concerns about her mothering. Bongi and I boarded a plane for Stockholm, where Miriam was performing at the famous Bernes nightclub. We arrived in minus sixty-five-degree weather. Throughout our marriage, I never thought of entertaining any dalliances. I was completely loyal to Miriam and our family. And I believed that Miriam, too, was fully committed to our vows. Even during her long absence, she’d call home regularly. Our lives were so intertwined that there would never have been a moment to think of anyone else, or so it seemed.

  There was a West Side Story company playing in Stockholm. Some of the cast members would catch Miriam’s second show, and afterward we’d all hang out. One of the lead actors, who would come to Miriam’s shows, was a Latino from New York. I soon sensed that something was going on between him and my wife.

  After about a week in Sweden, I told Miriam I had to leave because of some upcoming club dates at the Village Gate—also, I was getting anxious to get Oo-Bwana off the ground. I explained I would be leaving Bongi with her. Miriam showed no interest in keeping Bongi with her in Sweden, and was very critical of my attempt to develop a production company.

  She said, “How could you try and go into the record business, when people like Belafonte have been unable to succeed at it? You recorded for his production company, and your record went nowhere. You are just wasting your time, man. You and your Stewart are just playing games.” I didn’t pursue the matter any further, but deep down I was a little hurt.

  After we agreed that she would send Bongi back to New York the following week, I asked Miriam when she thought she would be returning to the States. I told her Bongi needed her mother’s guidance on womanly matters that I could not handle. Miriam told me that after her Bernes engagement, she was first going to Paris for shopping and that she would return to America when she was good and ready. I could tell that she was trying to coax me into a confrontation. Already feeling betrayed and disappointed, I decided not to show my anger and hurt. I didn’t want to cause a scene, but my heart was sinking—I bade her farewell, feeling this was the last time we were going to be a family. And somehow I really felt sorry for Miriam.

  Edith Nozipho Grootbroom, who was also in Sweden with Miriam, working as her personal assistant and traveling companion, returned to the States with me. En route to New York, I said, “Zip, you don’t have to tell me anything, but I am more than certain Zenzi is having an affair with that Latino boy. What beats me is that she thinks I would be so naïve as not to notice. I’ve known Miriam closely for more than ten years, and in the past she would behave just like she’s been behaving this week when she would try to hide a lover from me. I always caught her, and she caught me, too, when I fucked around. But this time is different. We are married, and I’m not going to let it go by without doing something about it.”

  Nozipho was quiet for a long time, then finally sighed and said, “Hughie, I’m glad you said it. I’m not saying a word. She told me to mind my own business, and I’m staying out of this. I’m going back to New York to start my life afresh. I wish you all the luck.” Ten days later, Bongi arrived—alone! Miriam called soon after, and I gave here an ultimatum that if she didn’t return by a certain day in March, I would drop Bongi off at our lawyer’s office and walk away with my horn and the clothes
on my back. Miriam insisted she was still going to Paris and would be back when she was ready. I informed Max Cohen, our lawyer, of the situation. He tried to get me to rethink the matter and be more patient. I refused to be dissuaded. Explaining to Bongi was the most painful thing I ever had to do. “Malume [uncle] Hugh,” Bongi said, “I’m gonna miss you, but I’ll come and visit you wherever you are.” My ultimatum date arrived. There was no sign of Miriam, and she hadn’t called. I dropped Bongi off at Cohen’s office. I held back my tears until I reached the elevator. When the doors closed, I wept openly.

  I caught a cab to Susie and Stewart’s apartment. We smoked a couple of joints and listened to some Miles Davis records behind a few shots of cognac. For the next few nights I slept on Jonas’s living room couch at 310. Of course, in my determination to walk out of Miriam’s life, my pride and pain blinded any rational thinking on such matters as where I was going to live. Jonas, seeing my predicament, laughed at my lack of planning.

  Peter Davidson, a fellow South African, was living in New York. He had graduated from Lincoln University and was now studying for his economics degree at Manhattan College in Queens. He lived in a rented loft at 65 Warren Street, near Wall Street. Jonas asked Peter if he would take me in. Peter gladly agreed. I was very grateful to both of my friends. Besides my horn and the clothes on my back, all I had was an American Express credit card. And, of course, a completely broken heart. I bought two pairs of blue jeans, some T-shirts, socks, a cap, and one pair of sneakers.

  Stewart was playing with and managing Larry Elgart’s big band which recorded for Columbia at the time. Through Elgart we met Ernie Altschuler who was the head of Columbia Records. Ernie introduced us to Lee Eastman, a noted lawyer who looked after the interests of Picasso and Miró and was on the board of the Museum of Modern Art. He also had a publishing company, Cherio Music, which owned the catalog of Louis Jordan’s compositions. He agreed to represent us, incorporated Oo-Bwana, and said, “If you boys have the talent that Ernie claims you have, I will take you all the way. I’ve always wanted to be associated with something that would have the same impact on the world as the Beatles. Can you guys do it?” Of course we agreed, signed a publishing contract with Cherio, and received a substantial advance from Eastman to start recording.

  We signed a girl trio made up of Bongi and two of her schoolmates, along with Letta and the Safaris, Stewart’s instrumental group, and the Bwanas, led by Caiphus Semenya, with Philemon Hou, Ernie Mohlomi, John Sithebe, and Douglas Xaba, and some of the other former members of the musical Sponono.

  Tom Wilson introduced us to Ed Rice. At his studios in mid-Manhattan we began cutting rhythm tracks. Ed taught us the fundamentals of recording techniques. Stewart, Caiphus, Jonas, and I were the songwriters and arrangers, and Stewart was executive producer. Our rhythm section consisted of John Cartwright on bass, Eric Gale on guitar, Charlie Smalls on piano, and Herbie Lovell on drums. Jonas, Stewart, and I played all the horn parts. With fifteen hundred dollars each from Stewart and me, and the advance from Lee Eastman, Oo-Bwana Productions became a reality, and soon we were walking around with demos. Ernie loved the music, and three single 45-rpm records were released on our new label and distributed by Columbia. Letta and the Safaris received major radio play with a Jonas Gwangwa composition, “I Wanna Go Home Now.” The song entered the singles top-100 charts in both Cashbox and Billboard magazines. We were on our way.

  By the time Miriam returned from Paris, Oo-Bwana was moving at full throttle. One late March afternoon, Miriam and I met at the Russian Tea Room, next to Carnegie Hall. Our meeting was cool and short. I could tell she was seething with anger because I had called her bluff. I was past caring. She was clearly in a hurry to get out of a bad situation. We agreed that Max Cohen and I would go down to Mexico right away to arrange for a quickie divorce. Two weeks later Max and I were on a plane to El Paso, Texas, along with two of his other clients—Gail, a stunning Irish beauty, and Ingrid, a Swedish scorcher whose black psychiatrist husband had left her for a relationship with a man. We arrived in El Paso on a Friday night, and that evening, along with hundreds of other Americans soon to be divorced, we dined and danced to the tequila-and-mescal strains of the hotel’s mariachi music. I spent the weekend sleeping with Gail and then with Ingrid. We needed consolation.

  We arose early that Monday morning and took the hotel shuttles to Juarez, Mexico, where the divorce cattle-call formed. Long lines of American men and women waiting to get into the town’s divorce halls, where you sign a form before a magistrate and your lawyer, and before the ink dries you’re divorced and heading back over the border to your El Paso hotel to pick up your bags and drive to the airport to fly back to your new life, stunned, hurt, and empty inside. I wondered how all those people were feeling after being ogled by the Mexican peasants from their decrepit shacks. With their Catholic rosaries under their ponchos, they no doubt marveled at their country’s hypocrisy—a nation of Catholics opposed to divorce, raking in millions of dollars from all those immoral Americans sleeping with one another in El Paso hotels over the weekends and then crossing the border on Monday mornings to sign their marriages away without even going to confession.

  Ingrid flew back with me. She was shattered and wept all the way to New York, heartbroken and overwhelmed that her rich ex-husband had left her for another man. Ingrid stayed with Peter and me for a few days. Ten months later, after she had returned to Sweden, I received a letter from the Child Welfare Office in Malmo, Sweden. It read, “You are the father of a baby girl. You don’t have to pay any maintenance or support for this child, because Sweden looks after its children.” For almost forty years I have tried unsuccessfully to locate my daughter and her mother. I suspect they have eluded me on purpose. I would give anything to meet my daughter before I die.

  What’s amusing is that to this day Miriam swears my daughter was conceived while we were still married. A few weeks later, Jean Johnson called and said Miriam was distraught and needed to talk to me. She said Miriam’s Latino lover had turned out to be a heel, and he had done Miriam badly. Jean asked if I would consider reconciling, because Miriam really needed me. Miriam came to the phone and told me how sorry she was about our breakup. I consoled her and assured her of my friendship for life, but told her our marriage could not be rekindled.

  Miriam wrote in her autobiography that the reason our marriage didn’t work was that I was too young, naïve, and immature, and that I was jealous of her career. I was never jealous of Miriam. She was one of my greatest inspirations, both as an activist and a professional artist. If it hadn’t been for her belief in my talents and her generous assistance to get me a music education, I could never have reached the place where I am today. But I don’t know many marriages that could have survived that degree of daring infidelity. Although Miriam and I remain dear friends, and occasionally shared intimacy for many years after our breakup, I never regretted divorcing her. But I will always love her.

  10

  JOE WESTERFIELD, AN ECCENTRIC artist who lived most of the time in Hampton Beach, Virginia, with his beautiful wife, Priscilla, owned Peter’s loft apartment. Westerfield’s specialty was painting nude pictures of Priscilla along with other women entangled in erotic, orgasmic positions. One day Peter told me one of Westerfield’s fantasies was to paint a picture of me fucking his wife. At first I thought Peter was pulling my leg. But one afternoon we got a visit from Westerfield. He proposed the idea, explaining it would be an honor if I did this for him. He assured me that his wife would also be honored. I couldn’t believe my ears. I graciously turned down his request, but he insisted that I not close the book on the idea. This was my introduction to the sixties, not the actual decade, but the era marked by, among other things, wild decadence in America and global culture. And in my life in particular.

  My confidence in the recording The Americanization of Ooga Booga began to crystallize into reality. Tom Wilson called one day to tell me the album was breaking out big in Los Angeles. Around this time I
couldn’t play any gigs because I didn’t have a band. I started calling around, trying to reassemble my old band. Keeping a band together can be difficult because musicians gravitate wherever there is a steady flow of income. Larry Willis, with whom we had started my first group, was unavailable. He had gone back to Denmark to marry a woman he had met when we were playing the Tivoli Gardens. By coincidence, John Cartwright called me that evening to say that he had quit playing with Harry Belafonte, and wanted to know if I knew anyone interested in a talented bassist. I immediately roped in Cartwright, who told me about a gifted pianist who had just graduated from the New York High School of the Performing Arts. “Let’s bring Charlie on board, too,” I said. I also discovered that Henry Jenkins, our drummer on Ooga Booga, was available. In no time we had assembled a new group. This was the season for a lot of rich music in America and around the world. It was the era of Motown and Stax records, of the Impressions and Jerry Butler, of Simon and Garfunkel, the Young Rascals, the Beatles, the Stones, Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, James Brown, and Otis Redding. The music of Motown and Stax had the strongest impact on me at that time. I had become an avid collector of rhythm-and-blues albums and was slowly moving away from a jazz-based approach to something that combined more of an R&B feeling. The new white musicians like the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Tom Jones, and the Mamas and the Papas had a very heavy effect on me, too—mainly for their compositional excellence as songwriters. The compositions of that time had a universal appeal that had not been seen since the days of Strayhorn and Ellington, Cole Porter, Fats Waller, the Gershwin brothers, and Hoagy Carmichael in the 1930s and 1940s. My next album was crammed with selections from these new songwriters. The record was called Hugh Masekela’s Next Album.