Shane Cooper, born 1985, is a bassist, composer, and producer whose debut album Oscillations (2013) won Best Jazz Album at the 2014 South African Music Awards (SAMAs). As the 2013 Standard Bank Young Artist for Jazz, Cooper has performed with the likes of Louis Moholo and Afrika Mkhize. Under his electronic alias Card On Spokes, he has shared stages with Little Dragon and Daedelus, with notable features on BBC Radio and Boiler Room. He took the time to speak with BubblegumClub about the beautiful beginnings of his brilliant career.
Thembeka Heidi Sincuba: What are your earliest memories of music and how did you know that this would be your thing?
Shane Cooper: My earliest memory of music, or connecting with music, would most likely be a selection of albums on cassette tape growing up and hearing it specifically in my parents’ car. When I was very, very young, probably before school even, around the age of five or something like that. There are a few albums that had a significant impact on me then. It has something to do with the combination of being in a car, seeing things move past, and hearing music attached to that—it has some kind of cinematic feel, like a music video, if the music is right.
The two albums that stand out for me would be Graceland (1986) as well as the soundtrack to the film Blade Runner (1982). The music was by Vangelis, which is quite synth-heavy—80s synth-heavy—a very futuristic score. Now, it’s like retro-futuristic. Those two albums, for whatever reason, formed a core memory in me. I definitely heard music before that, but something about those two kind of stuck with me ever since.
To speak to the kind of experiences and musical moments that prompted me to want to pursue it, first as a hobby or just as an interest in life before it evolved into a career, would probably be seeing… I grew up in what was then Port Elizabeth, and there weren’t a lot of touring musicians coming through. I was lucky enough, when I was quite young, to see Steve Newman play. He didn’t come with Tananas, but he came on his own. I really found his guitar playing quite magical and mystical in a way, and it really grabbed me.
The most significant experience was probably seeing Carlo Mombelli & The Prisoners of Strange in Makhanda when I was still in school. That group had Siya Makuzeni and Marcus Wyatt, and witnessing that ensemble and their very unique thinking around sound and composition was profound for me. These experiences, although years apart, speak to the core of the significant seed-planting moments in my relationship with the magic and mystique of music. They eventually prompted me to pursue music as a serious undertaking.
THS: It sounds like you grew up being easily exposed to these experiences as a child?
SC: Exactly. I was fortunate to grow up in a family that had—and still has—a very strong love of music. Everyone in my family listens to what I consider really good, rich music, and a super wide range of music as well. That was definitely fertile ground for me to be exposed to music, but also to explore people’s record and CD collections from a very young age. I was allowed to touch the record collection, the CD collection, and the cassette collection, and I explored.
So, I have very early memories of getting quite obsessed with really good music from a young age. I didn’t go through a phase of listening to stuff that I look back on now and cringe at—or not cringe, but you know, stuff where I’d think, “Oh, that was the kind of thing you listen to when you’re nine or ten.” I was already listening to my older siblings’ music from the age of six and things like that. So, in a way, I was already getting into the same kind of music I listen to today.
THS: What was your education like after you had that foundation? Did it shape the way you saw the world? Did you go to music school, or did you start off maybe self-teaching?
SC: Yeah, I mean, I had some piano lessons when I was in primary school, doing classical repertoire, but I never really connected with it on an emotional level. The turning point for me was discovering guitar as an early teen and really connecting with music then. Initially, it was self-taught with a bit of guidance from one of my brothers and learning things by ear.
At the same time, my brothers and I would mess around with computer software on my dad’s computer—early stuff, basic sequencers—just for fun. In high school, I got an opportunity to join the school jazz band and learn the bass for the group. They had a bass at school I could borrow, which was great.
Initially, it was about learning through that, going through the repertoire—big band music, Earth, Wind & Fire, pop songs from the charts—a really wide range of stuff. My love for bass was immediate. Guitar was my first love, but picking up the bass took only a few days for me to become completely obsessed.
At that time, I was consumed by funk music. A lot of what I was gravitating toward on guitar was already funk-style playing, which is very linked to bass. Funk rhythm guitar and bass are both married to the drums and the pocket. Picking up the bass felt like a natural extension for me.
When you’re in your early teens, if you’re lucky enough to find something you’re good at quickly, it’s incredibly energizing. You’ve got all this free time outside of school, so for me, it became clear right away that my body resonated with the instrument. I could hear things and play them. It was very self-propelling.
Music’s all about energy, and from the moment I picked up the bass, I wanted to play for hours every day. I would come home from school and just play bass for hours. Initially, it was about learning repertoire for the school band, but I was also listening to cassettes and CDs every day, figuring out song after song.
I didn’t know the theory behind the music at the time—what made these combinations of notes and rhythms work so well. It felt like every song was its own brilliant invention. It wasn’t until years later that I understood the building blocks behind it all, like grammar in a language.
That phase of musical learning—when it’s all about discovery without theoretical understanding—is something you can’t get back once you level up with the theory. You gain knowledge, but you lose some of the sense of wonder about the unknown. I try to reconnect with that energy by playing instruments I’m not good at, finding that naïveté again.
By the time I was 15, I started working with older mentors, people in their 20s, 30s, and 40s. This was in line with the South African jazz tradition of mentorship outside of institutions. I was lucky to begin gigging in bars and restaurants at that age, earning money playing music. It was a mix of covers, jazz, and some original work.
When I finished school, I took a year to focus on gigs before moving to Cape Town to study jazz performance at UCT. Most of the learning there came through peers and working outside the institution with musicians from all over South Africa, Mozambique, and Zimbabwe. It was an incredible melting pot of different sensibilities—harmony, grooves, melodic styles—all of which broadened my understanding of music.
Cape Town at that time had a vibrant live music scene. On any given day, you could walk down Long Street and see three live bands—a jazz trio, a reggae band, a pop group—all within a few blocks. It was an amazing time for exposure to diverse music styles. That kind of scene informed everything we were doing, from forming bands to writing music.
So while I was at university, the biggest learning came from being part of that live music ecosystem—playing with different musicians every day and soaking up the diverse styles. That’s where my education really took shape.
THS: How did experiences of working with people like Zim Ngqawana contribute to your view of music or the DNA of your practice?
SC: Playing with him, but also spending time with him in between the playing, was super significant. For example, I was fortunate enough to do a few tours with him in Europe and some gigs in America. In the ensemble at that time were Nduduzo Makhathini and Ayanda Sikade. It was a huge learning experience for me that I still unpack to this day.
It was so devastating when he passed away because, in many ways, years later, after unpacking so much of that learning, I realized then that I felt really ready to play with him and contribute something even more, in a sense, after having digested so much of what was embedded in those experiences with him—within the music but also within his conversations, philosophies, and wisdom. Because I was so young then, it’s incredible.
I was fortunate to play with him. For example, we’d stay at his farm for a few days to rehearse for a tour. I remember some mornings he would start blowing the horn, and that’s how we’d wake up. Just getting out of bed, getting ready to make coffee, and he’d already be blowing his tenor saxophone. The farm had a side building that used to be a small community church, with pews and things. He’d be there blowing saxophone, and that was the call to play.
would just go through and start playing. Usually, rehearsals went like this: we’d play free, blending in compositions of his, for about five hours with very little talking. You’d be learning and preparing almost entirely aurally. No written music, not much talking about it from that lens—just listening. That’s the truest and most powerful way to learn and practice music.
A lot of institutions have forgotten that. Zim’s whole philosophy was huge, and much of what he discussed was around the problems with modern institutions—how they disconnect from these ancient ways of communicating, sharing, and imparting knowledge. Music, you know, is one of the most powerful ways to tell stories and histories of people, movements, and migrations. Embedded in music and coded into it is so much unwritten history.
For several reasons, really—one being that so many histories have been wiped out through colonial forces. Music carries these stories coded, and you can decode them into the language of the time. That’s why oral teaching in music is so important—it preserves those codes intact and doesn’t dilute them.
Zim was deeply aware of the importance of these ancient practices, which I think are so critical in these modern times. We’re in this digital paradigm that can pollute a natural state of connection, human interaction, and socialization. People are disassociated in so many ways. Sometimes I ponder these broader issues we face in the modern world, this interference we navigate.
The more I think about it, the more I realize the way forward is sometimes also the way back. Reconnecting with ancient, very human ways of engaging with music is essential. Zim was profoundly switched on to all of that. The more years pass, the clearer it becomes—like seeing in bright, graphic HD—what he was talking about. In many ways, he was ahead of his time.
We would rehearse for hours, weaving melodies and compositions from his recordings into free avant-garde sections or groovy jams. There was no terrain left unexplored. Hours would pass with moments of pause. The conversations we did have weren’t necessarily about the music at hand but more about larger concepts he was pursuing through sound. Topics about spirituality or cosmic perspectives. I wouldn’t want to paraphrase him incorrectly, but that was the general mode.
He would provide context for what he was pursuing, and he had this confidence in all of us, even though he was significantly older. It was amazing—he didn’t overexplain but threw us into the deep end. Instead of spending three weeks talking about paddling down a river, you’d talk a little, then jump in and learn while paddling. You’d deal with the rapids together. It’s a baptism by fire, but it fosters a human connection that’s imperative.
That’s built into the great traditions of improvisation in jazz. You don’t just play your part in isolation; you listen and stay 100% aware of everyone else’s contribution, spirit, and voice. It’s deeply enlivening. That’s what keeps jazz musicians in it, despite it being a challenging world without much financial reward. The spiritual level is so profoundly powerful. African audiences feel that deeply. We have some of the most responsive audiences to that level of connection, which is amazing.
The Zim experience for me is something I’ve always tried to hold onto. It’s like being given an item by a great master to take with you on your long quest. You might not know its power until the exact moment it’s needed. Somehow, Zim gave that to all of us.
There were so many young musicians involved—Nduduzo, Ayanda, Bokani Dyer, and others. What he imparted will continue to reveal itself in surprising ways. It’s similar to what I’ve experienced with someone like Carlo Mombelli. They’re very different musicians, but both tap into what I consider the divine spirit—a flow of creative energy that moves through all of us. Both did this with sincerity, untainted by the superficiality of the music industry.
Even though Zim was astute as a businessman, his musical intentions were pure. Listening to his records, there’s a depth and power in every song. Nothing feels random; everything has meaning. That’s always influenced my work, though in different ways. I try not to recreate his music because it’s sacred. But his teachings are something I try to hold onto. They probably show more in certain songs or performances. That’s when I’m tapping into that space, or at least trying to get there.
To this day, many in the SA music scene refer to Cooper as the busiest musician they know. On top of touring with Stogie T, gigging with Kyle Shepard, and recording with many other musicians, he is still releasing his own music. Spheres, a composition by Cooper featuring Bokani Dyer on piano, was released on November 8, 2024, with Cooper handling production, mixing, and conceptualisation, while mastering was done by Mike Zietsman. You better believe Cooper ain’t done yet and like us, you’d do well to continue to watch this space.
