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Music Infused With Sorrow and Joy

Music, Infused With Sorrow and Joy, in Honor of Migrant Dreamers

The New York Times
By Celia W. Dugger

PHOTO: JOAO SILVA FOR THE NEW YORK TIME Hugh Masekela, 70, performing his “Songs of Migration,” a revival of the music made by migrants who moved to Johannesburg to dig for gold.
PHOTO: JOAO SILVA FOR THE NEW YORK TIME
Hugh Masekela, 70, performing his “Songs of Migration,” a revival of the music made by migrants who moved to Johannesburg to dig for gold.

JOHANNESBURG — Hugh Masekela, the legendary trumpeter, blew his horn, sang with bluesy fervor and boogied across the stage on his puffy, 70-year old knees in his “Songs of Migration,” a revival of the music made by those who came from all over southern Africa to dig for gold and search for work here in the continent’s great boom town.

And every now and then, in the midst of the performance, he stared hard at the people who filled the seats in front of him at the Market Theater, their faces illuminated in the glow of the stage lights.

Grandmothers with tear-streaked cheeks mouthed the words along with him. Middle-aged women swayed to songs that had been woven into their girlhood games. Teenagers, dragged along by the grownups, were hearing this music of a bygone era for the first time.

“Mothers, sons, daughters witnessed the truckloads of men leaving their villages,” Mr. Masekela said in his syncopated narration of the migrants’ story. “They took the little they had and off to the city they went. Side by side, these men stood at the back of the trucks, fighting hard the urge to look back.”

The dozens of songs performed by him, Sibongile Khumalo, a leading South African diva, and a small, gifted cast are part of the rich musical trove that makes up what Mr. Masekela called “Africa’s greatest literature.” The show recently finished a run here, with plans to perform at the National Arts Festival this June in Grahamstown.

It is an attempt to reclaim what apartheid suppressed — the songs that sprang up after gold was discovered here in 1886 and Africans from different nations crowded into urban slums and created new musical styles. In the most oppressive years of apartheid, ideologists of white minority rule separated not just blacks and whites, but blacks who spoke different languages from one another, even segregating state-controlled radio into stations for speakers of each language.

The show celebrates the music of migrant workers from the city’s earlier melting pot years. Gwen Ansell, a music writer and the author of “Soweto Blues,” calls it “a new and incredibly powerful framework for telling the story.”

Mr. Masekela is still haunted by the music that was everywhere during his childhood — wafting into his home as a musical group rehearsed nearby, rising in churches and school halls, and echoing across townships. When he returned to South Africa in 1990 after 30 years in exile, he said, “It wasn’t there anymore.”

As the show opened, a lanky young man in an ill-fitting suit and fedora froze in mid-stride, a suitcase tossed over his shoulder. A train whistle blew and men and women in traveling clothes grabbed battered suitcases. Soon the stage was alive with dance and song. “When people move from one part of the world to the other, they pack not only clothes, it’s baggage, it’s memories,” said James Ngcobo, 40, the show’s director.

The crowd warmly greeted the white-haired Mr. Masekela, outfitted in a purple jacket and gaudy red tie with a trumpet to his lips, as if he were a favorite aging uncle. Their applause rose as he showed he still had his dancing chops.

The songs themselves told sorrowful stories about leaving home, waiting for letters that never come, yearning for distant lovers and enduring cruel conditions in the mines. But often the music and dancing were infused with energy, joy and bawdy humor.

The crowd that packed the intimate theater for the final Sunday matinee was surely one of the most integrated, multigenerational gatherings anywhere in South Africa. The whole audience cheered when the old national flag from the apartheid years was lowered stage left and the flag of a new democratic South Africa rose stage right.

The singers made nods to the immigrant roots of white South Africans, with tender renditions of “My Yiddishe Mama” in Yiddish and “Sarie Marais,” an old love song, in Afrikaans. But the bulk of the show was in various languages — Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Pedi and Shangaan.

Sometimes it seemed there were two audiences in one, with the whites sitting blankly as blacks whooped at the jokes and responded to the music with cries of “Hallelujah!” and “Yebo!”

After the show ended with a rousing finale in Shangaan, families, old folks and young couples of every color poured into the courtyard on a warm summer afternoon, chatting about the performance.

Theresia Mosola, part of a contingent from the Soweto Old Age Home, hobbled into the sunlight dressed up in pearls and a jaunty beret. “It tells about the time when I was still a young lady,” she said. “I remember those days when I was still dancing.”

Some whites admitted to being frustrated by the language barrier. “As a whitey, it would have been great if I could have understood a lot of what was said,” said Katherine Booth, a 39-year-old urban planner. But Susan Ingle and Dulcie Horne, 53-year-old friends at the show for a second time, emerged elated by what Ms. Horne called the “wonderful vibe” and said that maybe they needed to learn Zulu and Xhosa.

For many older blacks, the show was a musical homecoming in a city that continues to lure new generations of migrants from across Africa. “It’s important for us not to forget where we’ve been,” said Dr. Nono Simelela, the chief executive officer of the South Africa National AIDS Council. “Remember the pain, but celebrate.”

On her third time at the show, Dr. Simelela brought along her grandchild’s baby sitter, Bokang Hlao, 30, a migrant from Lesotho separated from her own children, ages 10 and 3. Ms. Hlao said the songs were painful to her as they told “about how our children at home misses us.”

“She’s a sister,” Dr. Simelela said. “I wanted her to know she’s more to me than just a baby sitter.”

As the matinee crowd thinned, she and Ms. Hlao left holding hands.

Hugh Masekela’s 70th birthday concert

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By Tosin Sulaiman

It’s not often that Hugh Masekela is left speechless during one of his own shows. But for one moment during his 70th birthday concert at London’s Barbican Centre, the celebrated South African trumpeter appeared lost for words.

He had just finished performing the Zulu folk song ‘Nomathemba’ with the London Symphony Orchestra and its 120-voice community choir, and was clearly impressed with the singers’ exuberance and mastery of the language. “It’s hard to believe that this choir is from all parts of London,” he eventually said, delighting the audience with his attempt at a British accent.

During the rest of the show, Masekela, who turned 70 in April, had plenty to say. He began by paying tribute to the late South African singer Miriam Makeba, to whom he was briefly married, saying, “If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be standing here today.”

As he is fond of doing in his concerts, he spoke of his country’s struggle against apartheid and its peaceful transition to democracy, reminding the audience that his countrymen would be celebrating their 16th anniversary as a free nation later in the year.

He also thanked Londoners for the central role they played in resisting apartheid, from boycotting South African imports to organising protests at Trafalgar Square. “If it wasn’t for your efforts, we would not have gotten to the goalposts as soon as we did,” he said, although he quickly reassured the audience that he wasn’t running for office.

Music shaped by politics

It’s often hard to tell where Masekela’s activism ends and where his music begins because his career as a musician has been shaped by his country’s political struggles. He was given his first trumpet by the anti-apartheid priest Trevor Huddleston when he was 14 and later joined Abdullah Ibrahim’s band, the Jazz Epistles. He left South Africa in 1960 at the age of 21 following the Sharpeville Massacre, in which 69 black protesters taking part in a demonstration against the country’s pass laws were shot dead by police. Masekela went on to study at London’s Guildhall School of Music, sponsored by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin and the British jazz musician John Dankworth. He later transferred to the Manhattan School of Music with the help of Harry Belafonte and Dizzy Gillespie, and it was in New York that he married Makeba, though they were only together for two years.

Masekela lived in various African countries, including Nigeria, Ghana and Liberia, in the 1970s, playing with Fela Kuti and touring with the Ghanaian band Hedzoleh Soundz. In the mid-1980s, he joined Paul Simon’s Graceland tour and eventually returned to South Africa in 1990 after Nelson Mandela’s release from prison. After 30 years in exile, he embarked on his first solo tour of the country.

Although politics forms the backdrop to many of Masekela’s songs, the message of the concert at the Barbican, which was held on December 10, was that there was more to South Africa than conflict. The concert featured new arrangements of his work by the black British composer Jason Yarde, as well as Yarde’s own compositions.

Beautiful songs

The first song Masekela played was ‘Grazing in the Grass,’ his vibrant, feel good tune which topped the US charts in 1968 and sold 4 million copies worldwide. The arrangement for orchestra and flugelhorn had even the LSO’s conductor, Francois-Xavier Roth, grooving as he waved his baton, prompting Masekela to remark, “He can sure get down.”

‘Nomalizo,’ a love song, came next. Introducing the piece, the first song he heard Makeba sing as a schoolboy, Masekela said, “People always know about South Africa as a place of protest. People imagine that we don’t fall in love, but we actually do and we have beautiful love songs.”

Another romantic ballad, ‘Lizzy,’ which Masekela performed with two of his childhood friends, Sello Makhene and Sanza Loate, alternated between beautiful harmonies and a stirring flugelhorn solo by Masekela. Afterwards, he joked that the song, which was a hit in 1949, was responsible for the large number of babies born in South Africa in 1950.

A number of the pieces Masekela chose for the concert were songs of migration that told the story of South Africans who relocated to urban areas in the late 19th century following the discovery of minerals.

‘Ikhaya Lami,’ a song about homesickness, was sung with joyful abandon by the choir, whose members nearly stole the show with their gospel-like fervour, even though they did not all move to the same beat.

The biggest hit of the night, however, was the classic ‘Stimela,’ Masekela’s tale of the coal trains that carried migrant workers from southern Africa to the mines of Johannesburg. Masekela once said he couldn’t get away with a concert where he didn’t play ‘Stimela’ because everyone wanted to hear it, and in this concert he showed his ability to make the song sound new every time.

The contribution of the choir made the performance especially dramatic, while Masekela’s singing and flugelhorn solos were as angry and passionate as ever. When he spoke of the young and old African men working “sixteen hours or more a day for almost no pay,” or sitting “in their stinking, funky, filthy, flea-ridden barracks,” the audience hung on every word.

An unforgettable performance

Whistles, hisses and screams also punctuated the song as Masekela effortlessly imitated the different sounds of the train, possibly becoming the world’s first septuagenarian beatboxer. It was an unforgettable performance and at the end, the audience, who had been polite and reserved all evening, leapt to their feet.

For the last two songs, Masekela returned to the themes of struggle and protest, asking the audience to join him and the choir in singing the South African national anthem ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika,’ before ending the concert with ‘Mandela’ (Bring Him Back Home). It’s no surprise that Masekela still chooses to play the popular ode to the African National Congress leader nearly 20 years after Mandela’s release. He has said in the past that he wrote the song in the 1980s after Mandela sent him a tape from prison to wish him luck. He remembers being moved to tears by the tape, which was smuggled to him on his birthday.

Masekela could not have chosen a better song to end the celebrations at the Barbican, but it must also have been a reminder of the many birthdays he had spent away from home.

It’s not often that Hugh Masekela is left speechless during one of his own shows. But for one moment during his 70th birthday concert at London’s Barbican Centre, the celebrated South African trumpeter appeared lost for words.

He had just finished performing the Zulu folk song ‘Nomathemba’ with the London Symphony Orchestra and its 120-voice community choir, and was clearly impressed with the singers’ exuberance and mastery of the language. “It’s hard to believe that this choir is from all parts of London,” he eventually said, delighting the audience with his attempt at a British accent.

During the rest of the show, Masekela, who turned 70 in April, had plenty to say. He began by paying tribute to the late South African singer Miriam Makeba, to whom he was briefly married, saying, “If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be standing here today.”

As he is fond of doing in his concerts, he spoke of his country’s struggle against apartheid and its peaceful transition to democracy, reminding the audience that his countrymen would be celebrating their 16th anniversary as a free nation later in the year.

He also thanked Londoners for the central role they played in resisting apartheid, from boycotting South African imports to organising protests at Trafalgar Square. “If it wasn’t for your efforts, we would not have gotten to the goalposts as soon as we did,” he said, although he quickly reassured the audience that he wasn’t running for office.

Music shaped by politics

It’s often hard to tell where Masekela’s activism ends and where his music begins because his career as a musician has been shaped by his country’s political struggles. He was given his first trumpet by the anti-apartheid priest Trevor Huddleston when he was 14 and later joined Abdullah Ibrahim’s band, the Jazz Epistles. He left South Africa in 1960 at the age of 21 following the Sharpeville Massacre, in which 69 black protesters taking part in a demonstration against the country’s pass laws were shot dead by police. Masekela went on to study at London’s Guildhall School of Music, sponsored by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin and the British jazz musician John Dankworth. He later transferred to the Manhattan School of Music with the help of Harry Belafonte and Dizzy Gillespie, and it was in New York that he married Makeba, though they were only together for two years.

Masekela lived in various African countries, including Nigeria, Ghana and Liberia, in the 1970s, playing with Fela Kuti and touring with the Ghanaian band Hedzoleh Soundz. In the mid-1980s, he joined Paul Simon’s Graceland tour and eventually returned to South Africa in 1990 after Nelson Mandela’s release from prison. After 30 years in exile, he embarked on his first solo tour of the country.

Although politics forms the backdrop to many of Masekela’s songs, the message of the concert at the Barbican, which was held on December 10, was that there was more to South Africa than conflict. The concert featured new arrangements of his work by the black British composer Jason Yarde, as well as Yarde’s own compositions.

Beautiful songs

The first song Masekela played was ‘Grazing in the Grass,’ his vibrant, feel good tune which topped the US charts in 1968 and sold 4 million copies worldwide. The arrangement for orchestra and flugelhorn had even the LSO’s conductor, Francois-Xavier Roth, grooving as he waved his baton, prompting Masekela to remark, “He can sure get down.”

‘Nomalizo,’ a love song, came next. Introducing the piece, the first song he heard Makeba sing as a schoolboy, Masekela said, “People always know about South Africa as a place of protest. People imagine that we don’t fall in love, but we actually do and we have beautiful love songs.”

Another romantic ballad, ‘Lizzy,’ which Masekela performed with two of his childhood friends, Sello Makhene and Sanza Loate, alternated between beautiful harmonies and a stirring flugelhorn solo by Masekela. Afterwards, he joked that the song, which was a hit in 1949, was responsible for the large number of babies born in South Africa in 1950.

A number of the pieces Masekela chose for the concert were songs of migration that told the story of South Africans who relocated to urban areas in the late 19th century following the discovery of minerals.

‘Ikhaya Lami,’ a song about homesickness, was sung with joyful abandon by the choir, whose members nearly stole the show with their gospel-like fervour, even though they did not all move to the same beat.

The biggest hit of the night, however, was the classic ‘Stimela,’ Masekela’s tale of the coal trains that carried migrant workers from southern Africa to the mines of Johannesburg. Masekela once said he couldn’t get away with a concert where he didn’t play ‘Stimela’ because everyone wanted to hear it, and in this concert he showed his ability to make the song sound new every time.

The contribution of the choir made the performance especially dramatic, while Masekela’s singing and flugelhorn solos were as angry and passionate as ever. When he spoke of the young and old African men working “sixteen hours or more a day for almost no pay,” or sitting “in their stinking, funky, filthy, flea-ridden barracks,” the audience hung on every word.

An unforgettable performance

Whistles, hisses and screams also punctuated the song as Masekela effortlessly imitated the different sounds of the train, possibly becoming the world’s first septuagenarian beatboxer. It was an unforgettable performance and at the end, the audience, who had been polite and reserved all evening, leapt to their feet.

For the last two songs, Masekela returned to the themes of struggle and protest, asking the audience to join him and the choir in singing the South African national anthem ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika,’ before ending the concert with ‘Mandela’ (Bring Him Back Home). It’s no surprise that Masekela still chooses to play the popular ode to the African National Congress leader nearly 20 years after Mandela’s release. He has said in the past that he wrote the song in the 1980s after Mandela sent him a tape from prison to wish him luck. He remembers being moved to tears by the tape, which was smuggled to him on his birthday.

Masekela could not have chosen a better song to end the celebrations at the Barbican, but it must also have been a reminder of the many birthdays he had spent away from home.

Hugh Masekela birthday concert, review

Telegraph (UK)
By Ivan Hewett

PHOTO BY: GETTY
PHOTO BY: GETTY

Hugh Masekela at 70 is still magnificent, even if he now longer has oppression to fight against.

In a recent column I spoke about the difficulties of artistic creation in countries liberated from long oppression, and asked rhetorically: “Without the struggle, what can we sing about?”.

Hugh Masekela’s concert last Thursday with the London Symphony Orchestra gave the simple answer: love and life. As he reminded us, black South Africans did not spend their whole lives protesting, they sang love songs too. ’This song was a hit in 1949, and because of it there were many babies born in 1950!” he about jovially about Lizzy, a romantic ballad from the township, and hearing it we knew just why.

There were lullabies too, of course, and we heard a particularly beautiful one in the shape of Thula-thula. We also heard folk-songs from other parts of Africa, and Masekela’s own signature tune Grazing in the Grass. Some of them were sung by Masekela in that gravely voice, but more often he played them in that unmistakable golden flugelhorn tone, so soft it seems to have no attack at all.

Masekela has now turned 70, but the years have hardly touched him. He stands tall and ramrod straight, and with that special African gift of being dignified and exuberantly colourful at the same time. He was surrounded by friends on the stage to bolster the singing, and after each song Masekela would name them all, in a gesture of solidarity that was as moving as the songs themselves.

Inevitably the atmosphere grew warm with nostalgia. The spirit of Miriam Makeba, the great voice of the struggle against apartheid seemed to hang in the air, and the air of relaxed benevolence was abetted by the very luxuriantly harmonised orchestral backing to the songs, arranged by Jason Yarde. At times it threatened to become just too soft-centred, but there two new orchestral pieces to give a sharp jolt of energy.

The first of them, a mini-flugelhorn concerto from Jason Yarde, had the composer’s engaging mix of tender lyricism and sudden rude shocks; the second, Andrew McCormack’s Incentive, mingled a film noir atmosphere with middle-period Stravinskian rhythmic energy, to energising effect.

But the best moment of the evening came towards the end, with Masekela’s wonderful song Stimela about the trains that carry migrant workers from their homes. He evoked the sound of the train in a piercing scream that could have been pure fun; but one couldn’t miss the implication of human tragedy underneath.

Hugh Masekela, Barbican, London

Financial Times
By David Honigmann

PHOTO BY: DAVID SINCLAIR
PHOTO BY: DAVID SINCLAIR

The veteran South African trumpeter Hugh Masekela turned 70 in April, and this concert was a belated birthday offering from the London Symphony Orchestra and its community choir. It fell into UBS’s Soundscapes season, so there were new compositions as well. The opener, “Rude Awakening”, was composed by Masekela’s arranger, the British saxophonist Jason Yarde. Floating, dreamy strings and reeds, interspersed with harp arpeggios, were ruptured by helter-skelter xylophone and panicky brass.

The other new composition Andrew McCormack’s “Incentive”, began spikily, with bows slapped on strings while the brass shrilled and shrieked: it built up energetically before backing up to its starting point.

Bagatelles aside, the main body of the concert was Masekela’s show. “Grazing In The Grass” saw him play its joyous circling riff, calling to the responses from the brass section. The flutes latched on to the riff and played it exquisitely quietly, over tuba and cowbell. Masekela smiled.

He played “Nomaliza”, which he had heard Miriam Makeba, his sometime wife, sing when she was a young starlet and he a precocious schoolboy. Yarde set it to lush Hollywood strings, with Masekela first sticking to the melody, then taking off around it while the trombones crooned.

A series of Southern African folk songs, bolstered by the community choir, were beefed up into anthems. “Nomathemba”, made popular by Ladysmith Black Mambazo, had its breathy catlike tread steamrollered into gospel triumphalism, with Masekela’s fluegelhorn fanfare bursting into life at the end.

The climax of the concert was “Stimela”, Masekela’s angry song about the steam trains that bring migrant workers from all over Southern Africa to work on the Reef. He whistled and grunted in vocalised audio documentary, interspersed with growling monologue. “Down, down, down in the belly of the earth,” he cried, his voice plunging like a mine elevator. Yarde played a plangent saxophone solo, followed by Masekela on fluegelhorn, fidgety, bitter, defiant. And then the evening finished, as it had to, with a real anthem: “Nkosi Sikelele” sung with a swing by the massed choir, better than any Happy Birthday.

These nights of exhilarating live performance are reinventing music

The Guardian
By Simon Jenkins

The last time I heard the trumpeter and singer Hugh Masekela was at a New Year’s Eve party in 1990 on the slopes of Table Mountain. Nelson Mandela had recently been released and Masekela had returned from exile.

The hot night air blew in from False Bay, and conversation crackled with nervous anticipation of the year ahead. From the windows of the Cape Dutch Menell house at Glendirk, Masekela’s mournful flugelhorn wailed across the mountainside. It was not a cry of future liberation but an echo of past sadness and oppression. It was utterly beautiful.

That horn was no less beautiful on Wednesday night. At London’s Barbican the diminutive Masekela, now 68, picked up the entire London Symphony Orchestra, swirled it above his head and rammed it full of electricity. “It is not true,” he cried in delight, “that symphony orchestras can’t swing.” The concrete acres and bleak empty decks of the Barbican receded and the sandy-coloured wooden walls of the hall took on the shades of the bushveldt.

From student hostels, embassies and enclaves had emerged the capital’s African diaspora. They filled the hall, shouting, clapping, singing and weeping for their hero, Masekela. As he played the great anthem Morija-Maseru, and called out the names of Lesotho, Botswana, Swaziland, Namibia and Angola, cries of ecstatic recognition broke out from the audience. However briefly, he had brought today’s exiles home.

Masekela’s enterprise with the LSO was the brainchild of its remarkable director, Kathryn McDowell. She had not only to marry a jazz trumpeter to a symphony orchestra, which is no longer new, but also rearrange Masekela’s music for classical players, have them play with appropriate rhythm, and make use of the local St Luke’s community choir. Small wonder Masekela described the operation as “a hazardous trip” that had left him “scared stiff”.

He struck gold in his orchestral arranger, Jason Yarde, a Rastafarian Guyanan with a remarkable talent both as saxophonist and composer. In return, Masekela performed the premiere of Yarde’s concerto for trumpet and orchestra, an uplifting piece entitled All Souls Seek Joy. Yarde is a musician to watch. In his work, “world” meets jazz meets crossover to the point where such terms mean nothing. We are left with just glorious music.
Masekela, though an orthodox jazz trumpeter, embodies this phenomenon.

The son of educated parents, he learned the piano at school, but when he saw a film in which Kirk Douglas played Bix Beiderbecke he knew the trumpet was for him. “Discovered” by the anti-apartheid priest Trevor Huddleston, he was given an instrument and, still in his teens, formed the first African jazz band to record an album. After Sharpeville, Masekela left South Africa and went to London’s Guildhall school of music and then to study in Manhattan, fortunate in the patronage of such musicians as Menuhin, Dankworth, Belafonte and Gillespie. He briefly married his fellow emigre Miriam Makeba, and lived in various African countries before, on Mandela’s release in 1990, feeling able to return home.

Masekela looks like a mischievous but dignified imp. On Wednesday he stood in front of the august LSO, erect and immaculate in a black poncho, gently swaying to the rhythm in stylish contrast to the gauche jitterbugging of the young French conductor, Francois-Xavier Roth. He played old favourites Grazing in the Grass, Lizzy and Nomalizo, one of the few South African songs about love rather than oppression. “But when we do love,” remarked Masekela, “it is lethal: every song means babies.”

His signature piece remains Stimela, the Rock Island Line of the veldt. With a softly blown horn and a gravelly voice, Masekela tells of a steam train carrying migrant workers to the mines, the music elevated by Yarde into a crescendo of orchestral sound. Masekela dominated the stage, rendering the LSO little more than a backing group. He danced, swayed and strutted, imitating the migrants, the train driver, the conductor, the engine and even its whistle all in one. The audience rose from their seats and roared.

How a 68-Year-Old Horn Player Makes the Ladies Scream

Rolling Stone
By Evan Serpick

At age 68, South Africa’s Hugh Masekela is still one of the most thrilling live performers around. The flugelhorn master and bandleader has been a world-music hero since the ‘60s, when he came to L.A., recorded with The Byrds and Paul Simon, played Monterey Pop, and, in 1968, had a number-one hit with “Grazing in the Grass” — one of the only instrumental tracks to reach such heights.

Rooted in African rhythms and American jazz, Masekela has maintained a cultish following through his years and his new album, Live at the Market Theater, explains why: The clarion, confident call of his horn explodes on track after track, from celebratory songs like “Grazing” to political tracks like “Mandela.” The two-disc live set from San Francisco is an excellent introduction to Masekela’s music, lacking only the joy of seeing the spry, smiling musician create it.

To celebrate the album’s release, Masekela played a show aboard a cruise ship circling Manhattan Friday night. He wowed the ecstatic crowd on extended versions of “The Boy’s Doin’ It” and “Stimela” — a hypnotic tune about African coal miners dedicated to “working people over the world.” The South African ex-pats in the crowd in particular exploded upon seeing the aging jazzman work his considerable backside to the music, making Masekela perhaps the only 68-year-old who can inspire a dozen young South African women to scream in excitement at his every move.