LONDON, United Kingdom – The excitement on the bus was palpable. It always is when a bus full of school boarders heads for Harare on an exeat weekend. It was an all-boys school so the fantasising about the impending weekend went beyond the stratosphere. Dimensions only those that have listened to boys talk know.
The hustle and bustle of Harare was everything we expected on a Friday afternoon. All around us were countless people and cars as the bus ground to a slow halt at the Fourth Street and Robert Mugabe car park.
Boys were making pacts that come what may, a night out on the town could not wait. It just had to be tonight! Most fantasies were pointing us in the direction of Scamps International Nite Club. All sorts of excuses and reasons to give our parents were being conjured up as to why we would not be home on the first night of the exeat weekend. If it meant that some would have to sneak out through bedroom windows, then so be it!
Uppermost in our minds was not to let the side down by not turning up for a night we all had dreamt and yearned for. Rumours were doing the rounds that Peter Johns was blazing every weekend at Scamps and by all accounts at a place where Harare’s most beautiful and glamorous girls frequented. There was enough adrenalin among us to power a jet fighter.
When we said our goodbyes and reaffirmed our commitment to meet at all costs, we all went our different ways to plot ‘Operation Break Out’. I do not recall the excuses made by all individuals, but by good fortune and immense determination later that night the school boarders were able to congregate on the pavement downstairs from Scamps.
I was wearing a white dungaree which I imagined was trendy at that time and imagined that under the ultraviolet lights, the effect would accentuate my dance moves however dismal they were.
When we eventually all filtered into the club doing our very best to look mature, we mingled amongst other patrons and ensured that none of us went thirsty. The club was filling up nicely and the anticipation of waiting for this phenomenon that is Peter Johns was rising.
The lights were always good at Scamps and the timely and effective use of the smoke machine created an atmosphere befitting of what was to come – a really proficient and charismatic DJ.
The night was in every respect better than our wildest dreams, the songs of the day in steady flow. SOS Band: ‘Just the way you like it’, ‘The Finest’. Sharon Redd: ‘I’ll never give you up’. Sylvers: ‘Come Back Love’. Atlantic Starr: ‘Curious’. And other timeless classics.
Some of the protagonists in this display of indiscipline were Vincent Musewe, Robson and Pius Matambanadzo. Also in attendance were a young Carlos Max, Keith Sharpe, Shaun Charters, Ahmed Rahman and others deemed to have come from the hood (Arcadia). All round, folks that were never ever to weary to party.
That was the first of my experiences of ‘Club Driver’ Peter Johns. The songs carefully selected to send the crowd into a frenzy.
Peter never shied away from donning his lips next to the microphone so you could hear and feel his undoubted presence. Something perhaps club DJs desperately need to emulate, for it is a part of the craft that can’t be ignored and PJ knew it.
Slowly, my own path began in the world of radio albeit with a different radio station: he on Radio 3 and myself on Radio 1. You might say not in competition, but taking on different roles at the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation all in the pursuit of entertaining. I know for sure we both loved music passionately and enjoyed it even more if we could share it.
Peter was claimed by all ethnic groupings: white, black and coloureds (mixed race). In the end, however, one grouping made sure that he was predominantly theirs and guarded him jealously and understandingly so because if he wasn’t the best, he was definitely second to none.
Peter had an intense dislike for sloppy radio. Everything had to be tight. He had exquisite timing and was masterful on the console. He was amongst a certain peer of elite broadcasters, the likes of John Matinde, Josh Makawa, and Kudzi Marudza. These gentlemen were a sight to behold on a mixing desk. Ask anyone who ever watched them at work.
Peter was sometimes mistakenly misunderstood as being arrogant. Not the case! If it was not going to be done property, he simply wouldn’t bother. If the PA sound system was not close to impeccable, you would see him walking away into the distance.
One of the most fascinating traits about PJ was his self-discipline and amazing performance stamina from gig-to-radio to gig-to-catching-the-plane to acquire more music. It was always a matter of interest if Peter had arrived back from the United Kingdom and when he would next be on the radio. People needed to know.
As being mainly teetotal, there was never any fear that he would fall short of solid performances consistently.
Joseph Hussein and I used to get together on many occasion on a Thursday night and go to Circus to partake of The Rusike Brothers and Peter Johns until the early hours of Friday morning. Joseph would drop me at Pockets Hill just in time for me to read the national 6 o’clock news! Irresponsible, but absolutely worth it!
Peter Johns has been a part of a multitude of people’s lives shaping their love and appreciation of music. He was a giant of live entertainment and radio to the extent that a great many would have been quite content to merely have a glimpse of him.
His health in his latter years and the tumult of the administration of radio services in Zimbabwe cruelly put paid to his continued growth. In truth, all broadcasting services suffered some inappropriate and disturbing interventions.
I remember when he was recovering and he seemed concerned that all his work and sacrifice might be forgotten and I said to him that people will never forget his magic. I know that I was right because I can’t imagine the number of people who have not said his name this week. I thank every one of you for reminding him of his worth this week.
It is for me divine providence that if Peter was to pass on, that he passed on a Monday when millions remember his evening Monday Mellow Madness show on Radio 3. Coincidentally, I write these memoirs on a Friday evening when for decades many were preparing to go watch and hear him play.
Since Monday, April 27, I have walked around confused hoping and praying that none of it was true.
Since Monday, when I hear a song I love, I find it difficult to fight back the tears.
Since Monday, I have sought to find the words.
Since Monday, I have been at a loss to find a way of finding the proper level and appropriate tribute. It’s not possible.
Such is the power of Peter Johns that he has stopped playing
but still you can hear him. Can’t you?
Peter, your magic is here to stay FOREVER!
Kelvin ‘Soul Supreme’ Sifelani is a UK-based Zimbabwean broadcaster who was a close friend of Peter Johns
