John Junior stepped onto the wooden stage at Dunga Hill Camp in Kisumu with the chutzpah of someone who is convinced he has tamed the monsters of music.
Two things struck me immediately, one of them was that John Junior doesn’t look like John Junior. The second thing I will tell you later.
He had on a dark, crisp Kaunda-like suit and shoes that shone so bright astronauts might mistake it for another star. His beard, dark and studiously manicured must have taken him half the morning to groom.
I expected a man with a rowdy, untucked shirt and a perspiring brow. He looked suave, a man serious about his trade. He stepped around the stage gingerly as if careful not to dirty his shoes or avoid perspiring. His voice, a beautiful voice, sored and soothed the night.
I’m not very acquainted with his music, even though I have listened to a track or two, and I was amazed at his mastery. It seemed befitting that he was performing at Dunga Hill Camp, set by the lake. A Luo prince set to be a king, performing in his hometown.
It was a magical night as all nights by the lake tend to be. The lake was still and silver on parts where the lights hit it. Across the channel, lights shimmered along the shoreline.
Dunga Hill Camp is a charming place to drink and an even more astounding place to drink and watch a musical band.
John Junior performed for three hours or so, with a few breaks in between whereupon he would disappear backstage to dab his face and perhaps sip something from a snifter.
You could see his professionalism in the coordinated attire of his band members and their musical sets. When the sound was off, he would turn and cast an admonishing stare at the source. He poured himself into his music, into the crowd while maintaining a stately distance.
The second thing that struck me was that the microphone he used, an ostentatious gold microphone, was an apt metaphor for his talent.
