Tag Archives: Psychological Reflection

MRI Brain Scan: a crash-bang-bang course

It’s the 23rd. It is a positive start”, I think when the receptionist said the date. 23 is my lucky number. I completed most of the paperwork the previous week when I dropped off my oncologist’s referral letter. A few more dotted lines call for my signature. I don’t know how many MRI scans I have had; today’s might be 6th. However, the last one in March was the most important. The one labelled, “all clear”.

How do I approach a brain scan? Like everyone, I suppose I my own ways. Each person will bring specific fears, unique routine and mental preparation before facing the tunnel. Earlier today my rituals consisted of the things under my control. Having a shave, dressing in my favourite light orange and white shirt, wearing comfortable jeans, putting on my trial running shoes that make me feel grounded, a call to confirm the appointment time and leaving enough time to arrive early. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it is the ordinary and familiarity that bring comfort.

I arrive at the hospital 15 minutes early. I don’t carry anxious thoughts with me, never been a great advocate of worry. But I sense the tension in my back and shoulders. It’s not possible to ditch all the anxiety. It tends to sneak in when you are not looking. Anneén arrives before I reach the main entrance. I told her she did not have to come, but it is a great comfort to have her with me. Knowing she will wait in the reception area when it’s all done. It is oddly quiet when we slowly criss-cross through the hospital passages. Most of it was renovated recently and signs warning of wet paint still serve as decorations. “They could have done with a bit of colour” we agree. No one else waits in the reception area. The school and university holidays provide a nice change from the usual hustle and bustle.

When called, I know the drill. I leave my outer layers of safety behind and emerge from the change locker in a faded peach colour garment. A further breakdown of any aesthetic possibility comes in the form of my long black running socks sticking out from underneath. Comfort? Yes. Sexy? Definitely not! I wait for a few minutes underneath signs and arrows that directs towards different scan options. A cleaner slowly sweeps the floor area surrounding me. I feel a need to focus on something. Unfortunately the small Beavers and Butthead cartoon on the notice board is too small to make out the writing.

Luckily the bad joke requires little time as it is 8:45 and the MRI scanner waits. Lying down on the flat surface is the easy part and fairly comfortable. The radiographer knows about my previous scan experiences, so she shiftily hands me the earplugs (to reduce the noise) and place two sheets of white foamy stuff both sides of my face. She moves my head slightly to the left and gently pressed down on my chin to position my head correctly. The small rubber bubble is placed into my hand, in case I need to call for help. It provides some security, as I used it on a previous occasion when the claustrophobia got to me. Finally she covers me with a blanket for both physical and emotional warmth. All I need is music to relax, but it is not available as I am not allowed any metal (not the musical type) or earphones in the tunnel due to the strong magnetic fields.

You can open your eyes if you want to”, she says as I slide into the tunnel. “There is no way”, I replied louder in my head than in words. I made that mistake once before. I don’t like narrow spaces. I admit that I don’t like being out of control either – especially about my physical space. I can feel my elbows being slightly pushed inwards by the sides of the MRI’s tunnel. For a moment I am aware that the blanket is slightly pulled back on the sides due to inwards movement. “I am covered like corpse”. I don’t know where the thought came from, but I was ready for it. “I am here because I am alive”, I counter-argue. “I am here being I want to remain healthy and value life”. And so my process in my head starts to manage the crowded space and mechanical noise.

  • I start with thoughts. Focussing on being alive. The people who matters for me. I am doing this for them and me. What I know. For example, I had no symptoms or strange behaviour (as far as I know at least!). What is important (staying healthy)
  • Visualise memories and beautiful images. Seeing my daughters jump on the “bungee trampolines” the previous day. Looking out over the sun covered vineyards with snow covered mountain peaks behind.
  • Letting go of these images and thoughts and let them flow away like thick honey.
  • Slowing down my breathing. Being aware of my breath, rather than the lack of space around me.
  • Comparing the mechanical noises with sounds I know. I hear a large mechanical bee, a dentist drill, an electrical mosquito, a loud air-pressured drill. A hammer against a water pipe.
  • Physical sensation (such as an itch that I can scratch) indicates to me that I am alive.

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It does not feel like “about 25 minutes”, but after a short silence the radiographer returns and injects my arm with contrast dye. This makes certain tissues and blood vessels show up with greater detail on the scan. I move back inside with less tension for the last 15 minutes. I allow my senses more freedom to explore the experience. Mumford and Sons are still playing “After the Storm” in my mind when I exit the scanner’s tunnel. I am set free.

2013-09-23 12.11.21_resizedIt is 3 hours later and we are sitting at the neurosurgeon’s office. I am aware of the results CD in my hand. The CD is light, but the engraved information carries a different weight. Martin greets us as he walked passed. He needs to quickly go to the ward, but will be with us on time. On his return, Martin opens the scan result on his computer. There two brains, both mine, on display. One from the March scan. The other from this morning. They look similar. Martin shows the left frontal area where the operation took place. I dark area indicates where the tumour and some brain tissue were removed. Nothing else shows up. The scan is almost identical to that done in March. I am clean. No cancer growth or tumour cells are visible.

Once more I am set free.

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The Tough Going

I love those moments when creative thoughts awake in the cortex and streams like golden liquid down neuro-pathways onto the white screen. Words that splatter out ideas, experiences and events into a synchronised line of meaningful thought. Or when the artist’s imagination draws a vision that flows in charcoal and paint onto a canvass to bring beauty into life.

But occasionally dark skies cloud the psyche and dwarf the imagination into submission. Troubled times arrive in the form of external events and dries the magic and steals the funny bones. And no, not all of these shadow times relate to brain tumours or cancer treatment. At times it is just life. Waves of “it happens” that saps the juice and suck the marrow from my fruit. Not so much Carpé Diem, more crap and damn.

It has been a rough 4 weeks. In between my car breaking down (twice), a broken tooth and attempts to replace it with a temporary implant (3 times and still not right), a drawn out winter the soaks Spring into a foggy memory and aiming to take that big grown-up jump again into the dark (called house hunting), the good times have been sidelined. Over the same period work slowed downed, adding pressure on responsibilities such as paying the tax master. It felt like sinking, drowning in the smoky skies.

Wet Winter

While holding up this grim picture, I am not bursting into sing and dance. I am actually not a great believer in positive thinking, or when the dark cloud comes rolling over the hills that you should start searching for the silver lining. When the dark clouds appear, find shelter. The storm while pass, but while it sweeping down and pouring gallons of water on the earth, curl up under a warm blanket. Stay dry, stay warm. It’s OK to cuddle up.

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Brain Surgery – 1 year on

6 August 2013

Special occasions don’t start with fireworks or with an extraordinary sunrise and awakening. Today was a grey, rainy day in the Western Cape and Boland’s wine region. Anneén left yesterday for Namibia for work, so I had to get the girls ready for school, sort the dogs out and tick-off my mental checklist of lunchboxes, reading-bags, vitamins (for them), Epilim (for me), dog food (for the 4 legged ones), umbrellas and signing the form for the nurses’ visit to school. Quite ordinary for an anniversary.

The trip to school was filled with playing “I spy” and “asking daddy hard questions”. Today’s clincher: “Why can only mommies have babies in their tummies?” (Do boys ask similar questions?), while filling the traffic cues to the local primary and secondary schools. Several cars with University students shot past, making the most of the current free parking situation in Stellenbosch. Dropping the girls off as the school bell announces the start of another day of learning. Close, but in time. All quite rushed, but precious moments as they turn around to throw themselves into a goodbye hug and run into the crowd of blue uniforms and playfulness. Ordinary does not rule our being touched by these moments.

Driving 45 minutes to work is more or less the norm. As is the case on my Monday and Tuesday journeys, my iPod playing the latest Kermode and Mayo’s film review podcast from BBC Radio 5 live (something I can recommend to any lovers of movies or talk about movies if, as with us, it is difficult to actually get to the cinema!). Nothing out of the norm, but the routine providing a sense of familiarity and security. Stopping at the first clinic to complete a memory assessment. Then to the hospital for a psychotherapy session at the heart unit, before arriving at our practice for two more consultations. Awareness of my anniversary is left in the car, while my focus shifts to the clinical and therapeutic tasks at hand. I am appreciating the privilege to be able to work and to be productive.

Lunch time I am rushing back home to look after our girls given that mum is doing a bit of jet-setting. My iPod’s shuffle kick-start Alanis Morrison’s “Thank You”. I am thankful that it is a year on. Should I say thank you for the brain tumour that dropped into my life in 2012? Alanis’ words resonate with me:

Alanisthank you terror
thank you disillusionment
thank you frailty
thank you consequence
thank you thank you silence

 

But no, I am not thankful that I had a brain tumour. But I know that I don’t have to fight against it (for now anyway there is nothing to fight against). Anneén and I had all of the above and I can find ways to be thankful for having these daunting experiences and what it taught us. But I am not trapped by them. I don’t have to fight. I can just take responsibility. I can look after my immune system, I can stay healthy (without overdoing it), I can run and can live life. I can love my family and friends and look after my emotional well-being. I can set challenges and we can have celebrations. Bob Dylan steps on stage after Alanis – my iPod is the coolest DJ!

In between doing the dad’s taxi service I stop off at Martin’s office. I feel a bit embarrassed about the “Thank you” – card. The options at the SPAR were limited to “field of flowers” or “laughing baby”. Flowers it was to accompany the bottle of red Tamboerskloof Syrah (no embarrassment about that choice though!). I am pretty sure he won’t allow the enjoyment to interfere with his next craniotomy, but hope he will raise a glass of the peppery and berry crimson nectar to celebrate my extraordinary-ordinary anniversary of life a year post-operation.

the moment I let go of it was the moment
I got more than I could handle
the moment I jumped off of it
was the moment I touched down

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Incidents and Random Events (For Graham)

Ashburton Dads' Football ClubIt was a first outing to the Old Vic in Ashburton. I have only recently met Richard through his wife. She was working in the same NHS trust as me and as the 6 Nations started, it seemed like the ideal place to watch a bit of rugby. Wales played. I can’t remember against whom, possibly England or France. It was the start of the 2009 season and the Welsh were hungry to retain the title they won the previous year.

Although the details are slightly blurred, somewhere during the evening, we met Eilir, Stuart and Stuart’s dad. I wish I could say that the conversations were deeply intellectual, but I must confess that by that time voices were already harsh in the attempts to stay audible over the pub’s noise in between encouraging the team of your choice. I backed the Welsh, my adopted northern hemisphere team. My choice was before finding out that Eilir and Stuart were backing the boys in red. Although thinking back, it would have been obvious given their vocal support that was fuelled on by the Otter Ale. During half-time or possibly afterwards we discussed life in Devon and how my family and I ended up in the glorious part of South-West England. It was Stuart who in his inclusive manner invited us to join their Thursday Football group. Famously among those in the know as “The Ashburton Dad’s Football Club”.

I must admit that it took some courage to take on their offer. The idea was attractive. In the world of mental health, “boy time” is often limited and my profession tends to dwell on the emotional, the intuitive and the relational. But I managed to get some “kit” and some courage. At that point I have yet not admitted that my prior football experience consisted of about 60 minutes of chasing a football. Once.  I have played rugby union. I have played cricket and tennis (both badly) and have attempted several other activities that involved round shaped objects. But more often than not, I discovered that I had the passion, while the natural talent and skill were lacking. But then, why should that come in the way of a good time!

Game TimeI managed to find the pitch on my first venture out. It was cold and rainy – typical. I was probably one of the early arrivals. Over-eager; as always. Nervous to arrive early; as always. The first person I met was Graham. Slightly over-conscious I introduced myself and made reference to Eilir and Stuart’s invitation. It was quite easy to speak to Graham. Hearing where I was from, he referred to his early years in Swaziland and that their family spend time in the northern parts of South Africa. The next hour involved middle aged men running about on the pitch, several claims of illegal play while I tried to gain to decipher what is allowed and what not. Dave quickly pointed out (aka shouting at me) that diving tackles were not part of the game, while it became clear from Tony’s game plan that the off side rule did not apply. It was great. I was a boy again among two teams of slightly overweight and ageing boys. And that was prior to the philosophical discussion back at the Old Vic afterwards.

And so it continued. Relationships grew. Often taking the mickey was a significant component of post match discussions while we enjoyed a few Otter Ales, some warm chips supplied by Nick and Gemma at the Old Vic and while on tour to Cardiff and Bath. In between the football, ale, laughs and scheming on changing the world, there were moments of seriousness. One point of reference was Grahams’ treatment for stomach cancer a few years before. But this did not deter from pulling his leg and his brush with death.

When our family returned from England, I knew that I would miss playing football every Thursday night. Well, saying football, I mean having a roaring time and occasionally running into a few guys (apologies to Joe, Marco, Nick). And defending like hell. Thursday night football became an integral part of my routine and from the first game that left me unable to climb stairs to becoming more fit and competitive over time. I missed it and was grateful for the kind farewell wishes after my last game and well-wishes on my transfer to the “African Ankle-bitters” (!). But a year after our return I heard that Graham became ill again. The cancer returned.

As I mentioned before, the post-football banter was mostly light hearted and full of jest. But underlying was a caring whenever an ADFC member was in need of it. So with Graham’s return to treatment, it came as no surprise that the football guys were planning to run the Rotterdam Marathon in support of Graham and his fight against Cancer. I could not be left out and declared my willingness to run the SAD half-marathon and a local trail run. My training went well. I noted from the http://www.just-dump-it.com/ site that my colleagues up north were training and received information on the finishing of the marathon on the 2nd of April 2012 and how they raised 4400 UK pounds for the Rowcroft Hospice.

But Graham died. He could not go to Rotterdam with the boys and passed away on the 25th of April 2012. It was while thinking about him that I completed my half marathon in Wellington South Africa on the 1st of May 2012. It is celebrating Graham’s life tonight and raising a drink a glass of red wine while the AFDC is raising a glass to him in Ashburton. It is looking at the picture of flowers that was put on his grave today and knowing that time is precious even though we are all fragile.

This one is for you Graham. Saluté!

Graham ADFC

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The Ides of March

It had both. The incredible high was followed by the unexpected sucker punch the next day. The cliché of an emotional rollercoaster rocked me up to the top and then ran me into the ground below. Although I know that is how stories often flow, it took me a few days to recover. But let me start with a question, “Can you become friends with someone in 2 hours?

De OewerIt was a wonderful high on hearing that my MRI Brain Scan came back without any sign of tumour. The message was clear, “Live your life”. I wrote about it and received wonderful responses from friends, family and my colleagues from all over the world who read my blog or those within reach of a phone call. It was a wave of positive energy and we rejoiced. We called up the locals and celebrated at the De Oewer restaurant next to the Eerste Rivier. There was bubbly, laughter in between conversation and a feast to enjoy. Children were running, climbing, playing and flowing with the energy of innocence. It felt like the rise of a new sun that chased away the dark shadows of fear and anxiety. I felt connected to Anneén and our girls, connected to my friends and family, connected to my colleagues who unselfishly walked this road with me. The moments were golden underneath the oak leaves and besides the cool sounds of running water.

I met Gerrit once towards the end of 2012. It followed a suggestion from a colleague who knew him. His brain tumour was removed in 2007 and has been working at the Theological Faculty in Stellenbosch – my old stomping ground from the mid 1990’s. As Gerrit stopped driving, I picked him up from home, about a kilometre from ours. A breakfast at the D’ Oude Bank Bakkerij at the bottom of Kerk Straat, while we shared our stories of diagnosis, operations, survival and reprioritising our lives. Gerrit was in hospital for his craniotomy during the 2007 Rugby World Cup, mine was during the 2012 London Olympics. His tumour was hiding in his left temporal lobe, mine left frontal. We clicked. I could relate to Gerrit and his journey that started 5 years prior to mine. He came to the Cape and was given a position at the theological faculty, even though his background was in journalism and he was open up his medical status. We met for a few hours and it felt like we have been friends for much longer.

De Oude Bank BakerijWe spoke and we realised that I am 2 days older than him. Gerrit spoke about the Argus Cycle Tour he did with his son and how grateful he was for this opportunity. He spoke about his difficulties with word finding and how students will initially laugh when he tells them about this. But then he tells them again and they believe. Gerrit spoke about friends and I realised that we have met them, drank some good wine with them. Gerrit spoke about his love for his wife and sons and how he did not want his sons to worry that “this” might happen to them. Gerrit spoke and often gaps in sentences appeared, getting stuck for a specific word. But he smiled and we know it is there somewhere; it just does not come to the surface. That brokenness contributed to the truth and the integrity of present moment. There is a crack in everything; that is where the light comes in.

The day after my mile-high moment on the 13th of March, the news that broke my heart. Gerrit died two weeks before. Our GP told Anneén. A month before I made contact via SMS and Gerrit’s wife replied that he was deteriorating by the day. I was hoping that it might be due to treatment making him ill or something non-threatening. But Gerrit died. Somehow it did not upset me at first. Maybe I had to make sense of it first; logic always being my first line of defence. I send a message to Gerrit’s wife and she kindly replied, even sending best wishes to me. It was the day after, a Friday. It felt as if a heavy hand pulled my heart into the earth. I was as down as was I was elated two days before. The message of a second chance to live was followed by the messenger that death prevented my short lived friendship with Gerrit. There would be no return for the breakfast I owed him, for our broken words to again spill out of our brokenness to find meaning and truthful reflection on being human and our mortality. And I only met Gerrit once, we spoken over the phone twice. I am not his wife, his sons or his parents. I am not his longstanding friends or those who asked about his well-being at work. I was just his friend for a brief interlude. And I felt sad and lost.

Today I don’t want to celebrate the fact that I just finished my second last course of chemo or the good news about my recovery. I want to celebrate meeting Gerrit. I want to remember the brave man who smiled at his missing words and the kindness in his eyes. The love he expressed for his family and the courage to make the most of the hand he was dealt. Salute!

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Stories in late summer

I see it as an honour. I know it is my profession, but I never take for granted that people share personal and intimate stories of their lives with me. It is often under the label or description of “depression” or “anxiety” or “loss”. But as with all labels, they reflect a limited part of the surface. And people’s lives, personalities and relationships have much more depth and texture.  The stories that are weaved between these areas are filled with even more detail, emotion, memories and unconscious material. To tell their stories bring them in touch with Imagewhat happens in their lives, but also with who they are. Often the telling of their stories is a liberating experience, to be able to unburden their load or to break a weighty secret that keeps pulling them down. As Leonard Cohen once sang, “I need to tell my story said one of them so bold. I need to tell my story before I turn into gold

Often the (conscious or unconscious) request that arrives with these stories is for pain or suffering to end. And who would not want that? Especially in our western culture where fantasies of health, wealth, wellness and youth are sold on magazine covers, labels of medicine bottles, pop culture and social media? Who wants to be forever young? Well, the advertisers and those behind the fat wallets are pushing hard to make the sell to us. And within that fantasy the enemies are pain, suffering and ageing. Even on cover of my monthly Runner’s World edition, those smiling with their white teeth and their bodies embraced by the latest running gear are all seemingly in their 20’s, white and healthy. But when I line up for a race or fun run, these front cover “athletes” appear to be in the minority. And still, on public display and in the hearts of people I see in therapy, there is a wish that all problems and those threats to a positive view of life and being human can be solved. Even in my own heart that fantasy does arise.

In part I agree. Pain in its physical form should be investigated and treated.

However, suffering is an intense discomfort that we all face on our life journeys and one without a quick fix or delete button. The death of a love one, the diagnosis of a brain tumour or a friend’s cancer, the unhappiness that crept into a marital relationship over the past 10 years or the awareness that you are not happier since you got that big promotion opens the door to internal turmoil and a collapse of the card-house of positive fantasies. This often happens after you established a family, a career and settled circle of friends. But that platform of ambition and dreams can become a distraction of the realities of life. We all grow older, we all suffer losses and we all drink at the well where the water became stagnant and bitter. It does not spare us. There is no cure for life. As Scott Fitzgerald once said, “In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o’clock in the morning …” Tragedy is inevitability.

What then do we do with suffering when our distractions, cognitive strategies, helpful friends and intake of medication or alcohol do not bring relieve? How do we approach suffering that cannot be switched off? Maybe that is the point where you stop running, stop bargaining and stop self-medicating. The point where suffering is not the enemy, Wandererbut the door we need to pass through in order to learn about the life we are living and this person we are. Then suffering becomes more that just discomfort and an unwanted emotional experience (which it will remain). Then it might become about meaning, about purpose, about becoming the full complicated, eccentric, individual we are meant to be. This is something that several great leaders have embraced and through their suffering found ways of being that made them larger than life.

It is a relationship with suffering that can bring us to meaning. The knowledge that while suffering is real, so is my life and that whom we are can be expanded through this experience. When we find meaning, pleasure and connections in our hospital beds, while on medication and during the process of picking up the broken pieces. When it is possible to cry about the threat to our health and youth, while holding  onto new aspects of relationships with a partner and friends that open up. When the bereavement process reminds us of all the aspects that we loved about our grandparents, a friend or a brother. How precious are these moments in contrast to the fleeting moments of pop culture, the hard lines of fundamentalism or the fantasy that we can take away life’s pain and suffering.

February was a special month to me. I ran the Gino’s 10 km Night Race through the streets of Stellenbosch and survived! I wrote a piece called “Finding Sugarman” about the music and influence of Rodriquez in South Africa following the movie “Searching for Sugarman”, which appeared on the official Rodriquez website (http://sugarman.org/). My moment of international fame! But tomorrow a MRI Brain Scan is scheduled followed by appointments with my neurosurgeon and oncologist on Wednesday. I am grateful that I can have both, even though I wish the brain tumour never came into my life. But both aspects are part of where I am at present and through embracing both do I find parts of the essence of the journey that we call life.

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Finding Sugar Man

Unexpected questions can open up new thoughts. A new perspective can open new answers and new findings can satisfy an old thirst.

Sugar ManA question from a stranger via Facebook this morning was less existential, more specific and artistic. “How would I explain why Rodriguez’s music made such an impression in South Africa and not the rest of the world?” A nice challenging question and it reminded me of the impression that Searching for Sugar Man left on me. The documentary connected dots from earlier in my life that appeared like the unrelated songs on a mixed tape before. Until you find out who made the tape and for whom. Then you can recognise a certain theme or a hidden message.

I confess that my early life was nothing special. I cannot claim that I took a position in either the left or right growing up in a political and racially divided South Africa. I grew up without television as it only arrived in the Republic in 1976. When my parents did buy our first black and white Sony, the content was heavily regulated by the governing National Party and SABC (South African Broadcasting Corporation). In addition, due to the apartheid policies at the time and within the framework of larger boycotts against South Africa (e.g. sport, for musicians to tour South Africa), the United Kingdom and Australia introduced a boycott of their programme sales to South Africa. Therefore, most kids and teenagers my age grew up in the late 1970’s and 1980’s on a diet of local TV shows and later programmes from America such as Knight Rider, Magnum PI, Miami Vice, etc.

After 5 years of limited hours broadcasting on one channel a second channel was introduced in 1981 that broadcasted in the main African languages. However, the SABC operated within a country where all aspects of life and every South African was dominated by narratives about race and subjected to a controlling bureaucracy that was pushing for control over all aspects of life. In addition, the close relation between state and church (Dutch Reformed Church) created a dictation from both politicians and pulpits on morally acceptable behaviour, choice of music, etc. and what was approved on racial grounds. For a white middle-class small town boy, what happened outside my small protected environment was a world far away and often filled by voices and news paper pictures of what seemed like very angry black people. Given that the SABC was by large state-controlled, it provided very little time to any voice that did not fit the ruling party’s agenda or to opposition politicians. Even when a subscription based TV service arrived in 1986, the state regulated that they were not allowed to broadcast news programs.

This was the context in which I grew up. Restricted, regulated and separated. Even though my recall of growing up and life up to the early nineties are filled with happiness and plenty of laughs, these wonder years were naïve times. Only with time a political consciousness grew and a realisation that my protected life was in contrast with those living with fear, poverty and limited opportunities.

A few alternative voices crept through the cracks during those times and oftenthey arrived in guises or unexpected places. Even though local religious leaders and the state expose pop music and rock and roll as from the devil as well as a threat to all that is morally good and holy, some of these voices arrived with soundtracks. A revisit to music available and broadcasted in South Africa during the 1980’s does not inspire any great political speeches. However, a few dare to challenge. The best example was the local band Bright Blue that released the beautiful “Weeping” in 1987. Even though it contained harmony parts of Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika and referred to the “State of the Emergency” at the time, those in power seemed blissfully unaware of this. In 1999 Weeping was voted best All Time Favourite South African song and in 2000 as (South African) Song of the Century.

South Africa was also experiencing more exposure to musicians and bands from abroad, even though boycotts did not allow them to tour and perform. Queen, Erasure, Genesis, U2, Talking Heads, Blondie, A-Ha, Paul Simon and others competed with those banning anything that appeared too sexual, liberal or had references to banned chemicals. I don’t know how much influence music had on the crumbling political situation, but it provided a voice to those disgruntled with apartheid or rebellious in the face of the dominant moral imperatives.

A few musicians however provided more poetic and intelligent lyrics that verbalised alternative narratives that resonated with the youth, due to their rebelliousness, due to the mystery of the artists and as they arrived in a void that formed where critique of the system was deemed evil. The two names that immediately come to mind are (Sixto) Rodriguez and Leonard Cohen. Their music explored themes of relationships, sexuality, power and oppression that did not fit the common commercial or repressed political lines. Where South African protest songs and artists where still few, their music provided a new discourse that challenged the establishment and raised questions about justice and equality, but also had a smack of hedonism and escapism. Their brave lyrics found a waiting consciousness that hungered for alternatives, for music that would match the awakening political mind of a young white South Africa or at least found part of the vinyl or tape collections of those that loved songs like “I Wonder”, “Sugar Man” or Cohen’s “Suzanne” and “Chelsea Hotel” as part of a rite of passage into young adulthood.

When asked about his lack of success after his two albums released, Rodriquez suggested, “I was ready for the world but I don’t think the world was ready for me“. He was wrong, at the foot of Africa there was a readiness that responded. Only recently he found out about it.

PS: For those not knowing “Weeping”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeecXiqNzWA

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