Music memoirs from a little while back

The local documentary club happens bi-monthly at The Queen of Hearts Coffee Shop in Harare. A group of upcoming professionals both young and older assemble and enjoy and evening of film viewing accompanied by a complementary cappuccino and if you pay an extra $5, a bowl of soup. Last night the film was on the Sound City Recording Studio in Los Angeles. A number of prominent bands had recorded hits there in its hey day and it had a state of the art mixing desk. It was an entertaining soirèe.

It did bring back memories though of my Father, and times from my childhood when my Sister and I had to sit patiently in the lobby or by the recording desk as my Father pursued his music career. I remember the mixed  bag of musicians who would wander in and out of my Father’s house and my Dad’s music room which was mostly out of bounds. Despite being a gifted musician, my Father never took time to teach my Sister or I how to play an instrument and we had to fit into his life and around his recording time. The only time he had use for us in his music was for a music video, in which my Sister and I were dressed in rags and made to sit outside a hut near the Domboshawa Area.

The music video was partly following the story of my Grandfather, and how born out of an extra-marital affair or possibly rape, he was raised by his African Mother in possibly squalid conditions. At the age of seven he set out from Penalonga along the road to Harare, in search of his Father. He slept in public toilets at night along the way but eventually located his Greek Father in the big metropolis of Harare. His Father, less than thrilled to see his illegitimate son, hastily enrolled him at a boarding school designated for coloured children. This and other disappointments and disownership made my Grandfather eventually want nothing more to do with his Father and ultimately caused him to change his surname from Zambellis to the made up name of Lannas.

The poor father-child relationship seems to have been passed down through the generations and my Father did not fulfill his obligations as a father willingly either. With his involvement in the music industry came other women who eventually replaced my Mother, and my Father dabbled in illegal substance abuse at times. His already volatile moods became more erratic and his artistic temperament could flare up with minimal provocation. The weekends we were to see him could be cancelled at a moment’s notice due to a gig taking precedence and my Sister and I had to adapt to the many women that floated in and out of my Father’s life.

People in Zim still remember my Father and his band “Talking Drum” even though it is many years now since my Father left for England. At the supermarket cashiers will sometimes look at my Spar shopping card and ask if I am any relation to my Father. On conceding to being his daughter I am then asked if he is still making music to which I invariably reply I haven’t a clue, which is the truth. A few years ago my Father reconnected with my Sister but he has extended no effort to try to contact me. In many ways I am happy it is this way but it does sting at the same time that I am not.