News

Film Review: Death Metal Angola


After a fourteen-year struggle for independence, followed by a more than quarter-century long civil war, Angola is a country sunken in devastation. With healing and reconciliation still far in the distance, wounds and destruction are clearly visible throughout the landscape — a vast territory crying to awaken from a long dark night.  In this situation, a group of rock fans and musicians persist in organizing the first national rock concert, an event to be remembered in the future as a milestone in the struggle for freedom and peace.

In a country considered the “epicenter of the African hardcore music scene,” to bring together the best in Angolan death and thrash metal and melodic deathcore may seem an easy task. We discover what an odyssey it turns out to be. The site chosen for this raucous undertaking is Huambo, a place charged with symbolism: the center of the Angolan civil war for almost three decades (1975-2002), the second biggest city in the country after the capital (Luanda) and nowadays a desolate nowhere of ruins and mines fields.  Nevertheless, thanks to its central geographical position, it is envisioned as the focal point from which Angolan rock will radiate beyond its borders.

Huambo is also home to the Okutiuka Orphanage, an institution run by Sonia Ferreira and Wilker Flores, two loyal rock fans determined to bring together the best local rock bands and inspire hope and a sense of future in the Okutiuka’s 56 residents and the entire nation.  In a country with the lowest life expectancy in the world (2010: 38,48 years), a new wave of rock musicians is making a point about the immense possibilities of music in the reconstruction of a damaged country. With the advent of peace, rock has become one of the most significant weapons in a young Angolan revolution working to salvage a national identity lost through years of internecine conflicts.

Jeremy Xido’s Death Metal Angola documentary follows the concert from its preparatory stages through to its end, shining a light on the stars of the country’s vibrant hardcore underworld and reflecting, at the same time, on the changing realities and expectations of present-day Angola. Rehearsals, interviews, and shooting with the protagonists bridge the distance between the audience and an unknown chapter in the life of a forgotten region in a misrepresented continent, all the while accompanying musicians, technicians and organizers in the long and arduous quest to make the rock concert become a reality.

The organizers and musicians face obstacles at every step: failed calls to apathetic public and private institutions for help and funding, continuous blackouts, lack of good roads connecting Luanda with other cities, and so on. Almost anywhere else, these setbacks would have killed the project, but the unyielding personal engagement of the indigenous hardcore community—as well as the possibilities for communication and collaboration opened up by new technologies—manage to save the day. This becomes clear in two poignant instances: when Wilker Flores pays 2,000 dollars of his own money to save the concert and in the devotion of Yuri Almeida, technical director of a satellite telecommunications company who uses the instruments in his reach to spread the news about the concert.

Co-organizers Sonia Ferreira and Wilker Flores work hand-in-hand with members of the Association of Angolan Rock, headed by the above mentioned Yuri Almeida, to bring to Huambo the most outstanding bands from the capital and Bengela, the main port of slave trade during the colonial rule and now a fertile breeding ground for new groups. Dor Fantasma, Before Crush, Black Soul, Instinto Primario, Café Negro are all different groups with a single interest: conquering freedom of speech through musical extremism. Their music represents a cri de coeur against the brutal effects of war and at the same time reaffirms the African roots of rock.

The concert finally takes place as planned on May 21st, with a five hour delay due to technical difficulties, terrible audio and low attendance. But it is a great victory nevertheless; we see how a growing community of rock lovers has combined their forces to create a major musical event without any thought of remuneration. And yet the reward they get is priceless: looking at the astonished faces of the orphans attending the concert, a singular moment in their lives, they see that it has all been worth it, because, as Wilker says: “rock means poetry, love, song, lifestyle, joy and happiness”, all simple things that have been stolen from too many generations of Angolan children...

At Okayafrica we had the privilege of watching this piece, presently in post-production; we hope it will reach American screens soon.

Popular
Collage by Ta'Ron Joyner

I Would Rather Breathe Than Think Outside the Box

South African artists were already working for little to no pay, but the pandemic has unleashed a flood of exploitative work requests right when we need money the most.

This essay is part of OkayAfrica's SA Reframed series, featuring personal writing from some of South Africa's best young writers edited by Verashni Pillay.

On the radio the other day, I heard a small business owner of a costume design company being interviewed and asked how they have managed to:

a. Reinvent themselves during this period, and

b. Think outside the box while doing so.

Their conversation made me think about how I have not managed to wrap my head around any sort of future, or reinvention outside any kind of box—beyond the one that wraps itself around my immediate reality. When the lockdown was announced, three friends and I withdrew to a remote area where internet access was dubious and, most times, simply not available. I would need to walk a bit of a distance to locate a spot under a tree or up a mountain to be connected for thirty minutes, or so.

Then I would do a basic comb through my emails and respond to work or requests that were already underway pre-lockdown. I only responded to new requests that either afforded me the opportunity to earn an income or those that allowed me to be productive on my own terms.

I was tired, lowkey grateful for the global pause, and no longer interested in the overly productive, overloaded nature of my previous normal. Something about the forced halt made me realise that I was on the edge of everything—myself included. I turned down anything that required me to join the endless online festivals, zoom panel discussions, Instagram takeovers and live readings. I refused all opportunities that needed me to grapple with any sort of forced normalcy. The ones that offered data or airtime or solidarity as compensation or assumed that I had gone pro bono. I needed a moment. I needed the space and time to re-bargain with the point of it all.

The pause was both useful and scary. It brought to the surface fears and revelations about the shortfalls of our industry and how creatives are positioned within the productivity machinery and economy of South Africa, or rather all the ways we fall outside of it.

As Minister of employment and labour Thulas Nxesi mentioned in a briefing two months ago, "On the issue of freelance workers—unfortunately with the current legislation they fall outside. Maybe what we are going to do is that after this we will have to re-look at it in terms of our legislative amendments and start a debate about that." Why are there laws that have gone unchallenged? Who should be challenging them? Why are artists hearing, out loud for the first time, of convenient loopholes that render us outside of an economy that taxes us like everyone else, and consumes us and our work. Yet, in times of crisis, this same economy engages with our art and our productivity and our products, but still deems us on the margin, outside, and non-essential. If we are not assisted financially, how can we be productive, how can we acquire the resources to produce? How can we apply our minds to anything else outside of survival and scrambling to stay afloat.

Pandemics do not mean that artists have gone pro bono

When you approach an artist with the assumption that they have gone pro bono during this time, when you draft an email to request a collaboration, a commission, a participation, a productivity of any kind, please bear in mind that artists are up against an unconcerned and corrupt government that has failed to provide aid and assistance to their sector during this time.

Theatre critic Sara Holdren says "Art is hard and most of it fails—either in small ways or catastrophic ones." In South Africa, the process of making art is hard, sure, but more than that, the conditions and the context in which we make work fails us in catastrophic ways that will require more than a debate and amended legislation. It will need, for starters, a minister who cares about the arts and understands its soul and mechanisms. This pause has brought about more questions and concerns for me than inspiration to reinvent or think outside the box. I have questions about the box itself and why I feel asphyxiated and trapped by its design.

I would rather breathe than think outside of the box

This pandemic has made me question what my career, livelihood and stability have been built on; what has been propping them up all this time, and what has been allowing me to appear valued and valuable in this economy? What does and will the spectrum of value look like in a normal that has been disrupted and now sits in a near distant future that may or may not be near?

Then I find myself vacillating between hope and concern. My hope is that when the pandemic is no longer with us, artists can have a come-to-jesus conversation about what has contributed and exacerbated this attitude and disrespect toward our practice and industry, I hope we can challenge the legislations that we have been dared to challenge, I hope we can be productive in ways that serve us and make sense for our well-being, that we will be paid our worth and that our society will realize that without the artist producing, there will be no art, or music, or films, or books and things that have kept people entertained and creatively nourished during this time.

My concern is that the "free"content artists are currently creating and the free access to art or performances, will not make this realisation possible, and that this kind of access, that was already undervalued and exploited, will be irreversible. The exploitation dialogue is tiring. Being treated as non-essential is tiring and terrifying too, and while most of the world can slowly start going back to work, most artists will probably have to hang tight until 2021, maybe even 2022.

While artists deal with a hoax of an arts and culture department that is dead to us and a minister who tweets more than he does his job, in an ideal world, I wish that artists could afford to indulge uncertainty, and fear, and pause, in ways that allow them to heed the call made by Nicholas Berger in his piece The Forgotten Art of Assembly [Or, Why Theatre Makers Should Stop Making] "We must lean into this pain. We must feel the grief. We must mourn. Mourn the loss of work, the loss of jobs, the loss of money, the loss of life. Mourn the temporary loss of an art form that demands assembly. Lean into the grief. Lean in. Lean in. Lean in. We must remind ourselves that mourning is a human act, not a digital one."

Koleka Putuma is an award-winning poet, playwright and theatre director. Her bestselling debut collection of poems Collective Amnesia is in its 10th print run and her play No Easter Sunday for Queers Sunday for Queers won several awards.

get okayafrica in your inbox

popular.

Interview: Omah Lay Is Nigeria's New Young Act to W​atch

We sit down with the rising Port Harcourt-born musician to talk about his latest EP, Get Layd.