The Labels Shaping the Image of South African Music

Bokang Ramatlapeng is walking down a Johannesburg street on a Wednesday night, wearing an elegant, overflowing lace skirt that needs at least two people to carry it — one on either side, lifting the train off De Korte Street's uneven pavement so she doesn't trip. She stops to greet the musicians, who arrived earlier and are loitering outside in the loose, unhurried way of people who know exactly how good they are. Pleasantries are exchanged; hugs, laughter.

She then enters Jozi Gold, the venue for the second night of a week-long tour — her first — celebrating the release of her debut album, Qalo, which arrived last December. The title means 'beginning' in Sesotho, and tonight in Braamfontein, at Your Weekly Touchup — the showcase of live music that has quietly become one of the city's most reliable barometers of what's next — the word is doing double duty.

Ramatlapeng walks up the stairs and through the second entrance, where people are packed shoulder to shoulder, drinks held close to their chests, conversation flowing freely. She finds her way to a private area at the back to do her make-up. More than a few heads turn as she passes; she is the focal point of the night, but the skirt is having a parallel existence, undergoing character development of its own. The anticipation in the room is thick enough to cut.

Word about the album has travelled — through previous performances, word of mouth, playlist placements, and social media. In a few moments, she'll ascend the stage and unleash her forceful presence, backed by a capable quintet — bass, drums, keys, and two horns — to enormous appreciation from everyone in attendance. People sing her songs word for word, fully immersed in the experience.

The skirt, though, never recedes. It's having its own show under the stage lights, constructing and destructing mini-worlds.

"A lot of people were shocked by the big, elaborate skirt," the musician tells OkayAfrica some two weeks after the performance. "But essentially, I've been constantly put as 'emerging' and 'newcomer,' and I was like, no, it's done. I've won a Mzantsi Jazz Award, that's it! I'm not re-emerging, I'm not coming out of the woodwork. People know me, but have been very intentional about shunning me, or pretending that I don't exist. So that skirt was me saying, hey, ke kopa le nkeng seriously (please take me seriously)."

The skirt, designed by Oracle Dynasty, made a statement that landed. "The orange goes with some of the colours on the album. I'm introducing myself as a Basotho jazz priestess. I'm done. Ha ke sa kopa hore le mpulele litsela (I'm no longer asking for permission). No, I'm here," she emphasises.

Ramatlapeng's choice of garment — the size and shape of it, the sheer real estate it claimed — was protest in action. She didn't need to say anything; the skirt was bold and loud and daring enough to speak for her.

Clothing is a statement. Done right, it can convey multiple emotions at once — grief and glamour, defiance and tenderness — sending signals without a word being uttered. South African jazz, especially over the past decade and a half, has undergone a stylistic explosion. The sharp suit, worn like proof of seriousness, has given way to looser silhouettes, garments that allow the music to breathe. Sequinned dresses have largely disappeared, and in their stead stand flowing gowns that double as sculpture and triple as manifesto: bold, bright seshoeshoe prints; ancestral adornments like beadwork; head wraps, robes, kimonos. The register at which this generation resonates is reflected in its stylistic choices.

This ecosystem did not build itself. It has been generated, in large part, by clothing labels, like Rareblaq and Urban Zulu, that understand the business of clothes, possess an immense love for the music, and are invested in the process, from the initial meeting to the point where artist and brand become inseparable.

Urban Zulu's Papy Kaluw says the label has been a movement from the get-go. "I think it was natural, it was not something [planned]. I've been a product of natural development," he says. He grew up in Durban, hanging out at the city's BAT Centre, an arts facility that served as a third space for creative talent, where he'd run into the likes of Madala Kunene. "I grew up in South Africa, but I'm not South African. The flavour of African unity was one of the core subjects, and when musicians were accompanying my journey towards [stability] as a brand, it was good. I use fashion as a tool to unite the African continent."

The DRC-born, South Africa-raised entrepreneur and creative director reflects on what has made Urban Zulu stand out over its 21 years of operation. "Our fabric was different, our style was different, and our price was different. Jozi prices are high, but coming from Durban, where prices were lower, we knew how to manufacture faster at a lower cost. People discovered that we had a dope style with affordable prices. So we gained the market's trust faster."

Kaluw speaks of a particular "genre of music" that his clothes almost soundtrack. Busi Mhlongo's Urban Zulu is the prototype: fierce, unapologetic, with a forward-facing stance that takes in the entire continent. The album's line-up mapped a corridor across the region: Brice Wassy on drums, Hilaire Penda on bass,  Jack Djeyim on electric guitar — all from Cameroon; and Senegal’s Sydney Thiam on percussion. It's a template Miriam Makeba formulated, Mhlongo perfected, and the likes of Thandiswa Mazwai and Simphiwe Dana have since carried forward. "That style of music hasn't been able to get out of what the struggle used to be, or speaking about the ills of society. We started to collaborate with musicians in that genre — jazz, fusion. We collaborated with Busi when she was alive, Madala Kunene, everyone in Durban." The clothing transcends the garment, becoming a connector: of people, paths, places.

That transcendence is a sweet spot RareBlaq founder Khuthadzo Nemutanzhela has consistently mined. Nemutanzhela comes from architecture — he designs spaces, and stages too — and he carries that training into garment development: bold silhouettes, a bright detail legible from a distance, the kind of graphic clarity you'd find on an architectural drawing. Even his material choices trace back to the discipline. "I like strong material, because most of my time is spent surrounded by concrete," he says. As a result, garments tend to lean hard rather than soft.

Nemutanzhela wants to be immersed in the entire process with the artist, crafting a distinct identity for each one under the brand — garments that become signature silhouettes, the way film costuming builds a character. Some pieces carry the images, made to be displayed as much as worn. "I want you to feel like you're part of the product once you own it," he says.

Studying other designers, Nemutanzhela noticed a disconnect between local brands and local artists — a gap he measured against Amiri, the American label he'd come to know through the artists who wear it. Closing that gap, he reasoned, benefits both parties before money even enters the conversation. "I look at them as walking billboards," he says. Rather than spend R20,000 on a billboard, he dresses an artist — an engagement whose returns, he's found, justify the outlay even when they aren't immediate.”

Urban Zulu's signature pieces have adorned the frames of artists like MiCasa, Msaki, Bongeziwe Mabandla, and Linda Sikhakhane — the latter also associated with RareBlaq, which has dressed Black Coffee, Nduduzo Makhathini, and many others.