206 or Alcatraz."
"Oh, Bass Station closed down years and years ago," Dave says. "There was a robbery that went bad. Couple of people died, if I remember correctly. Maybe that's why it took Huron so long to make a comeback."
"We should go to Counter Rev, sometime. You'd like it," Gio interrupts.
"Sounds like hipster hell."
"Alright, you'd find it interesting, then. Anthropological."
"Turn left and pull over at the sign for His Believers," I say, indicating the billboard for the charismatic church.
"This is the stuff you should be doing," says Dave, suddenly very animated. "Why are you writing about pop bands when you could write about Zoo City from the inside?"
"But would people read it? Dogfight exposés and vice?"
"What's a dogfight?" Gio pipes up.
"Use your imagination."
"I'm seeing glitz and blood, money on the table, fur in the ring, mobsters with glamour models on their arms watching from the sidelines."
"Minus the glamour and glitz, add a heavy dose of illegal, and you've got it."
"To the death?"
"Not unless it gets really ugly. We do try to avoid the Undertow as much as possible."
"Sounds like a good night out. Maybe we should do Counter Rev and then an evening at the dogfighting."
"Or not."
But Dave won't let up. "More like insight pieces. Scenes from the street, what it's like to live here."
"It's kak, Dave. What more do you want to know?"
"Just think about it."
"So, can I walk you up?" Gio asks as we pull over.
"You probably shouldn't leave your car alone in this neighbourhood."
"It's cool, I'll stay," Dave volunteers.
"You can walk me to security. Longer than that, and I can't speak for Dave's safety."
There is a small group of men, teens really, sitting on the steps leading up to Aurum Place opposite. Spare time and beer make them dangerous. Candlelight flickers in the windows of the squatter blocks where the electricity has long since been disconnected. A thudding bass line ramps up from the chop-shop in the alley. Testing the sound system. In the distance, sirens, the occasional gunshot. Gio flinches, pretends he hasn't. We reach the security gate and I turn to say goodnight. Gio pouts.
"I don't get to come up?"
"Next time. Maybe."
"It was good seeing you."
"Like old times." This is not necessarily a good thing.
"So Counter Revolutionary? Saturday? Consider it research."
"How about tomorrow?"
"Done." He moves to kiss me. I pull my head back just enough to thwart the intention.
"What are you doing, Giovanni?"
"Uh-oh," he says. "Full Name Rebuke. That's serious stuff. You won't let me walk you up? You won't let me kiss you?"
"We broke up. In bad circumstances."
"Four years ago. Things change. People change. You have."
"And you haven't. In the slightest."
"One kiss," he says. "Quick, before I get raped and murdered by the evil zoos."
"You just don't give up." I grab his button-up shirt and press my mouth against his. His lips are warm. Surprised, it takes him a millisecond to respond, and then we are kissing like starving people intent on devouring each other, familiar and new at once. Which is right when Sloth leans forward and bites his ear. Gio yelps, and the boys on the steps pause in their banter to look.
"Jesus! Get it off! Fuck! Ow!"
"Sloth!"
Sloth lets go and hides his head behind my neck. Gio grabs at his bleeding ear and raises his fist, snarling. I angle my head so that any blow will hit me first. "You're lucky he's a herbivore," I say, calmly.
"Lucky, fuck. That fucking thing nearly fucking bit my fucking ear off. " He touches his ear, which is only nipped, and examines the smear of blood on his fingertips.
"I can tell you work with words."
"Not now, Zinzi. Ow. Fuck. Do you think I need a
tetanus shot? I'm going to have to go to the fucking ER."
"You'll be fine. Thank you. I had a wonderful evening."
"Yeah, great. No, okay, I mean it. Apart from Dr Hannibal Lecter on your back."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
As the car pulls away into the night, D'Nice separates from the group across the road and saunters over, swinging an empty lengolongola. His Vervet Monkey hugs his neck for balance.
"What's a sweet darkie girl like you doing with an umlungu like him?" D'Nice says.
"Maybe he's my long-lost husband," I snap.
"Uh-huh," D'Nice says and there is something sharp and mean behind the drunk in his eyes.
15.
CREDO August 2010
The Once and Future King?
Moja Records' hitmaker has been in hiding for almost a decade. Evan Milton pinned him down for his first one-onone interview in forever to talk teen pop, new club culture and the second coming of Odi Huron.
"I believe in second chances," Odysseus Huron says, sitting behind the mixing-desk in his analogue/digital studio, an airy bunker built into the koppie at the back of his house, which is the base of operations for Moja Records. Necessary, as the notoriously reclusive Huron hasn't set foot outside this rambling Westcliff property since 2001. He's not talking about himself, perhaps because he's already on his third or fourth go-around of chances. This is a man who has been dogged by controversy and tragedy through four decades of music-making, who has somehow managed to rise from the ashes again and again. He makes light of his past – and his recent return to prominence. "I don't think anyone walks through this industry unscathed," he muses. "The only thing you can really do is become better equipped."
Every era has its reclusive musical genius; every genre has its behind-the-scenes starmaker trailed by hints of controversy. Brian Wilson disappeared for decades before returning with Pet Sounds; James Brown always surfed a little too close to the law; and let's just say the name of the Death Row Records rap empire wasn't entirely coincidental. Closer to home, Africa's world music stars have been accused of human trafcking, embezzlement and involve ment with blood diamonds, while the Nigerian government slapped Fela Kuti with a currency smuggling rap.
Mzansi has Odysseus Huron, the multi-platinum selling producer behind No. 1 sellers like Lily Nobomvu, Detective Wolf and Moro, and the man who launched Yeoville's ill fated Bass Station nightclub – as close to a South African Shrine or CBGB as we've ever had. It used to be that Odi Huron made hits and created stars effortlessly. He's been part of South Africa's ever-evolving cultural fabric since the dark days of apartheid, right through the Rainbow Revolution and into the post-"Born Free" era. He's also the man who disappeared almost entirely from public view amidst rumours of ill health and depression after the Bass Station tragedy and Lily Nobomvu's death.
He is not an easy man to meet with or speak to. In fact, there's almost nothing easy about Odi Huron. For starters, he had to consult with a sangoma for an auspicious date to do the interview. This was followed by a credentials check to rival a visa application. Three weeks later, Odi's bodyguard/dogsbody, James, ushers me into the house and hands me a bullet-pointed list of no-go zones. "He doesn't want to talk about it," James warns. "Come in, come in, what are you, a mugger lurking in the doorway?" Huron gestures me impatiently into the lounge. He has a jokey way of putting people down, keeping them in their place.
Odi lives alone in this vast house. He orders his groceries online. Prospective artists email him their demos. For everything else, there's James.
The house has seen better days. This is no Ahmet Erte gun palace of genteel music-mogul diplomacy, but then, the man who started America's mighty Atlantic Records didn't get drafted into smuggling guns across the borders of apartheid-era South Africa for struggle activists. Odi's past has been checkered to say the least.