As a young, aspiring solo artist, I will never forget that cold May evening in 2004. I was in Howick at the Forgotten Falls, and had just finished sound check. I was standing at the back of the marquee, chatting with the venue owners Kech and Pia Sanchez. Across the field appeared a silhouette walking in our direction, carrying a guitar case. As he got closer, I recognised Syd Kitchen.
“I’ve come to play for wine!” he announced, putting down his guitar to give Kech a huge bear hug.
He introduced himself to me, asked if it was okay that he play as well, and sound-checked. This was all unplanned – none of us knew he would be coming, as was so typical of Syd in those years. I was suddenly aware, however, that having someone like Syd Kitchen opening would set the standard pretty high for the featured act… which was, on this occasion, me… a 24-year-old rock star wannabe. The butterflies got a little more intense.
Syd sidled up to me at the back and, lighting up a cigarette, asked me: “So what’s your vibe? Are you from here?”
“Yes,” I replied. He didn’t hesitate:
“You laaities need to get out there and experience the world,” he said. “Get out of f****n Natal and see the world. I meet so many of you kids who think they’re the biggest thing since the f***ing Beatles, but you don’t have a f****n clue. Take your music out there.”
I loved him immediately. He had the look of a leathery traveller, and I was keen to hear his stories. On this particular night, as I imagined he always was, Kitchen was self-righteously grumpy with the status quo and yet I could tell he was really interested in the people around him. He understood the world around him. He was a free spirit par none I had ever encountered.
He performed his tunes to rapturous applause, and at the end, the Splashy Fen legend told the crowd, “Don’t go anywhere because next up is Ryan Calder. I haven’t heard his music but he seems like a very nice young man and I’m sure we’re all in for a treat.”
I’ve never forgotten that. Syd Kitchen owed me nothing, and neither did he know whether I or my music was worth mentioning. And yet he complimented me in front of everyone and encouraged them to stay. It was a mark of the man’s humanity and his kind-hearted nature. That gesture made a big impression on me.
In more recent years I met up with Syd at a gig where the roles were reversed and I was opening up for him.
Syd and I sat in the kitchen at the venue and had a long chat beforehand about music, life and God. He looked different, a far cry from the gypsy I’d met six years ago.
He spoke about Jesus, about Splashy Fen, about his travels around the world and his wife. Commenting on the the difference in age between them, he said, “I just love it. It’s so f***ing post-modern.”
That was the last exchange we had – and at his core, he was still as free and as liberal as I’d always known him. I will miss him for the time being, but I know we’ll hook up in the ever-after. Thanks for the great music and memories, Syd.
[rps]
I went to Tutorial Business College in Durban with Syd way back when. He always had that “I’m-going-to-make-a-difference” attitude and loved music. Didn’t mix much with the other students, but him and I sort of clicked. He looked much like he did now, except his hair was short. He didn’t like college and made no bones about it – ditto for I.