By Fanuel Viriri
Rest in Power Jalolo
The music gods gave us Stobart Chidikano of Kanyama Karipi and then gave us Loyd Chidikano of Matida Hostel and now they have taken him away.
Drummer Loyd was a likeable guy, a talented drummer and vocalist.
Some have labelled him a session musician — yes, he did gigs for several musicians — but he belonged to one outfit: the jazz band Too Open.
I have known Jalolo — as he was fondly called — since 2009. We met at the Guest Lodge pub in Harare, where Too Open, that ambitious jazz outfit from Mutare, had set up as the resident band. They had come to the capital with nothing but instruments on their backs and a dream too big for their hometown.
We became close. He called me Mukoma. He reminded me of Biggie Tembo and Marshall Munhumumwe, hitting the drums and singing at the same time with a wide smile. It’s a rare combination.
Loyd persuaded me to become their manager. I was reluctant. My hands were full — I was Deputy Sports Editor at The Standard — and managing a band was the last complication I needed. But Loyd had that quiet persuasion, that calm that made you say yes. And of course, there was the persuasion of my wife who loved their music.
So I took it up. I do not know what he saw in me to offer me the position, maybe my sister Ropafadzo. Loyd also knew her. Loyd knew everybody in music. Ropa managed Sam Mtukudzi at that time.
Nobody in the Standard newsroom knew that I managed a band- using the company internet to type emails to pubs. Dashing out during work hours to sign contracts and collecting cash for the band. Together with my wife Eve Viriri, we became their number one fans. Wherever they played, we were there first, sometimes travelling with them in our car.
I began hunting for gigs for this Mutare jazz outfit trying to carve a name in Harare’s unforgiving night scene. In a band of big egos and loud tempers, Chidikano — nephew to Assegai Crew legend Stobart Chidikano of the timeless hit Kanyama Karipi_ — was the sober centre. The rock upon which Too Open was built. The peacemaker.
It was never easy. My deal was simple: 10 percent for every gig I sourced, that is the standard industry practice. But every pay-day brought quarrels, especially with guitarist Brian Nhanhanga. The other members — Owen Shamhu and keyboard player Mwale — did not talk much.
Many nights I almost threw in the towel. The reason I stayed? Loyd. I would even sacrifice my Toyota Caldina, packing drums, guitars and grown men inside, ferrying them from gig to gig just to keep the music alive.
On and off stage, Loyd was a study in grace. Easy-going, sober, professional. When we toured, he was our anchor. He was the drummer who kept time, and the lead vocalist whose voice — sweet, sweet, honeyed — could melt a room in seconds. He was a charmer, a ‘ladies’ man who never had to try. With a smile and that warm voice, he wormed his way into hearts. At Too Open gigs, the ladies came for Jalolo.
Yet in music circles, he was respected by all. A thorough gentleman.
A former Mutare Boys High who did A-Level at the top school, Jalolo could have chosen a different life. He was a gifted footballer, part of that fabled Mutare Boys High side that lifted the Coca-Cola trophy in 1998 with the likes of Taurai Makukutu who went on to play for AmaZulu. He was a good goalkeeper. He chose music. And music, in return, chose him.
Through Jalolo, doors opened for me too. He introduced me to Jah Prayzah at Pamuzinda when the boy was still a novice in army fatigues, eyes full of hunger. Jalolo leaned to me and whispered, “This one is going to be a hit.” Prophecy. I fondly remember that night when Too Open backed Winky D at Pamuzinda, and Jah Prayzah was just one of the backing acts. I met Mokoomba through Jalolo when I lined them up for the Harare Jazz Festival at Mushandirapamwe. I met virtually everyone in Zimbabwe music through Jalolo.
Ironically, that Festival became my last act as Too Open manager. When the money arrived, some of the band refused to honour my 10 percent. I do not know where most Zimbabwe artists get this notion that band managers are supposed to pay them their rent and buy diapers for their babies. Loyd knew the role of a manager.
I walked away from Too Open, broken. But not from Jalolo. We remained friends. We would meet at gigs, sit in a corner, and talk — about music, about life, about Harare. He knew I was a journalist and always kept me fed with showbiz news, unfiltered and honest. He had a daughter that he loved and always talked about. Loyd had a big heart and loved all musicians, calling them in their time of distress. He was the first to tell me about veteran broadcaster Admire Taderera’s ill health and visited him at his Harare home.
Then life dealt him a cruel card. A stroke. And in his own pained words, he was abandoned by the very Too Open brothers he had steadied for years. But Jalolo was not a quitter. With fellow Too Open member Owen, he picked up the pieces and founded Jolly Good Fellas. Nhanhanga kept the Too Open name, but everyone knew — the soul had left. The heartbeat was gone. Too Open has struggled right up to this day.
Jalolo loved music through and through. Not the piped, computerised stuff. He lived for live music — the real, sweaty, soulful sound of instruments talking to each other, of a drum whispering and a guitar answering.
He leaves a gaping void in the Mutare jazz lineage that flowed through Too Open into the city.
Loyd was a charmer. A ladies’ man with that Manyika accent. A drummer. A vocalist. A gentleman. A friend. Too Open was good and did mostly corporates serenading the big honchos in commerce and industry.
Go well, Jalolo. The drums have fallen silent. The stage lights have dimmed. But your sweet, sweet voice will linger on in the night air of Harare.
Rest in Power, my brother. See you on the other side.
