Mandisi Dyantyis and the Art of Cleansing Through Song

At the Johannesburg leg of his nationwide tour celebrating the release of his third album, Intlambululo: Ukuhlambulula, Mandisi Dyantyis sashayed across the stage as if untouched by worry, turning to each of his bandmates at intervals during the near two-hour performance as though testing their energy. He came across more like a nihilistic rockstar than a revered jazzman – full of attitude and oomph, without any of the mindless showboating that sometimes creeps into live performances. The venue, Emperor’s Palace, was packed with the loyal following he’s cultivated since his debut, Somandla, sent listeners spiraling out of their heads and deep into their feelings upon its 2018 release.

That debut, though, came relatively late. His contemporaries — Nomfundo Xaluva (now Xaluva-Dyantyis), Bokani Dyer, Thandi Ntuli, Kyle Shepherd, and even Shane Cooper — had already found their footing soon after finishing their studies at the South African College of Music at the University of Cape Town. So it’s almost unsurprising when, early in our hour-long conversation the week after the album launch, Dyantyis admits that he’s still not entirely comfortable calling himself a musician.

“There’s a lot there,” Dyantyis tells OkayAfrica from his Cape Town base. He feels more at home with the broader term artist because, as he puts it, “there’s no hiding there. 

“Even if I were to walk outside in the street, people would say, ‘Ja, no, he’s an artist.’ Sometimes we think that it’s something we can hide,” he says. “It’s in the way we think, perceive things, feel things – it’s in all of that. It’s not put on.”

Yet there are times when he’d rather not claim the title because of the weight it carries. Part of that weight lies in being a trusted interlocutor between his listeners and their Creator. His music has overt spiritual themes — he grew up in the Methodist church — but there’s a theatrical elegance to it, emboldened by a stoic love for Black people and woven through simple melodies that implant themselves and deepen with time. His entire oeuvre attempts to locate Black pain and joy within a redemptive arc that leaves hope hanging at the end, like a noose. He carries this duality — of grief and hope, of memory and renewal — into his latest body of work.

The Deliberate Flow of Intlambululo: Ukuhlambulula

At 17 tracks long, Intlambululo: Ukuhlambulula finds the artist at a crossroads, bearing his heart and asking that we truly listen. And story, he insists, is central to everything he does. “I kept coming to my office every morning and asking myself, ‘What do you want to say to the people?’”

That process helped him whittle down the 36 songs he’d written to the 17 that made the cut. The tracklist flows deliberately, each title feeding into the next to complete the story.

“‘Siyabizwa’ is a call to action. ‘Sonwabe,’ because all we want in life is to be happy. ‘Siphile,’ because I believe that the reason the vibe of humanity is fading is that we’re going through so much as individuals, we don’t have the capacity to feel. ‘Thandaza,’ because prayer is strength – it’s a pillar. Wherever you are, whatever you believe in, pray. We don’t want seasonal prayers; this country needs people to pray constantly. ‘Umthandazeli’ speaks about an intercessor. I was thinking about my great-grandmother,” Dyantyis says. “I always think of her as one of my biggest intercessors.”

“Umthandazeli” forms the emotional core of the album. It leans on collective joys and traumas, uplifts as it waltzes past a fractured history, and announces itself ceremoniously into the future. Its emotional counterpart, “Shiyiwe,” nods to the goema tradition of Cape Town and its surrounds, featuring Buddy Wells’ warm saxophone tone and what might be the most sing-along melody in the history of melodies.

Elsewhere, love rears its head. “Kudala ndizula ndifuna onje […] ndadibana nalengelosi,” ("I’ve been wandering for a long time looking for someone like this […] then I met this angel.") he sings on “Othandwa Ndim,” a nod to romantic love, while “Amyoli” concerns itself with the love we extend toward one another — a communal love. “‘Tetha amazwi amyoli kum,’” he sings, calling for gentler words, “because we live in a community that’s always criticizing, always ready to bash you and humiliate you.”

“I always try to make the guys I’m recording with understand that we’re capturing a moment in time,” he says. “For me, it’s important that we’re not necessarily in the same headspace, but that they tap into that feeling of capturing a moment. Whatever we do, we do it live. We get in the studio, we play, we get out. I don’t spend a lot of time in the studio – three days, maximum. Because once you spend too much time, you start changing things, adding things.”

He continues: “I believe in the composition so much that I always think the songs I’ve been given will speak for themselves. They don’t need me to be their shepherd; they’ll tell me what they need, they’ll tell me how they want to be treated.”

Growing up partly in New Brighton, a cultural nucleus for jazz, much like Sophiatown in Johannesburg or Langa in Cape Town, he recalls, “You’d hear stories about the musician who lived in that house. If you wanted to hear them practicing, you could just go over and sit in. At the time, you didn’t realize how fortunate you were. Every now and then, there’d be a concert, something happening. It was a rich, cultural township. You didn’t feel special; you were just part of the community. It’s only later you realize, okay, not everyone grew up like this. That realization shapes the later stages of your life.”

“Everyone’s path is different,” he adds. “I always tell young musicians we’re not all going to be young protégés. Sometimes, certain aspects of your life need to connect; they need maturity. There’s so much in music: the composition, the performance, the arrangement, the band management, the intention. These are things some of us — myself included — have to grow into.”

That maturity shows in how he moves now. He’s grown into someone unfazed by much, because he’s made the effort to understand himself and know deeply what he wants.

“There’s a maturity of mind and a spiritual and intellectual responsibility,” he reflects, “knowing that you are very small in comparison to the music – that you’re not someone to be praised, but the music is to be praised. You need to be a student, be diligent, work hard, feel more, read more, and be part of life so that what you create reflects the people you’re speaking to. You need to learn how to speak to people, not at them, because then your art becomes jarring. It should comfort and hold them, give them hope, while also speaking to the realities of today. All of that takes time.”

And all of it, he adds, is as important as having a beautiful voice. “Because a beautiful voice can sing anything, but what are you saying?”