Van Zandt, who had parted with Bruce at the height of Springsteen's success to go out on his own, had traveled there to research his next record. Steven writes songs the way I do stories, through an investigative process. He was interested in South Africa because he had read that the apartheid system was actually modeled after America's system of Indian reservations, an issue that was his major passion. He told me that when he was in South Africa, he was most distressed by a place called Sun City, an interracial gambling resort plunked down in the middle of an impoverished rural homeland, an obscene symbol of opulence. He was interested in writing a song about it to make parallels with the plight of native Americans. I suggested turning it into a different kind of "We Are the World," a song about change not charity, freedom not famine. He loved the idea. "Sun City" was born. (In 1997, in one of those bizarre twists of history, the man who created Sun City, Sol Kerzner, came to America to build the Mohegan Sun, an Indian gambling casino.)

Springsteen biographer Dave Marsh interviewed Steven about what happened next. "Danny really inspired the thing," Steven told him. "He said, 'It's a shame you haven't started the album yet. It would be great to get something out this year.' Finally, Schechter suggested, 'Why don't you just do a single?' "

And he did. As he was writing it, I suggested that he name the names of the artists who had played Sun City in defiance of a UN-sanctioned cultural boycott. I was probably still thinking of our exposé of conservative Africanists fifteen years earlier. Steve wasn't sure that was smart but did it anyway, asking in one of the original lyrics, "Linda Ronstadt, how could you do that?" and singling out Julio Iglesias, Queen, the O Jays, Ray Charles and Rod Stewart. We soon dropped those lyrics to avoid offending other artists who worked with those we were challenging.

He came over to my loft and played the first rough mix. It was hot: part rap, part rock - very street. The song was high-energy, danceable, a gritty New York-sounding tune, in stark contrast by its angry attitude and sound to the sweet harmonies of Hollywood's more syrupy anthem for aid to Ethiopia. It was political too, teaching with every phrase:

Relocation to Phony Homelands
Separation of Families I can't understand
Twenty-three million can't vote because they're black
We're stabbing our brothers and sisters in the back.

Simple and sophisticated in the way he introduced the realities of the homelands and forced relocation, Steven pinpointed the problem in human terms as separation of families and then identified the political problem accurately as the disenfranchisement of the majority. And by calling them our brothers and sisters, he makes it a universal problem that can be challenged through personal action: "I ain't gonna play Sun City."

He went further, indicting our government:

Our government tells us we're doing all we can
Constructive engagement is Ronald Reagan's plan
Meanwhile people are dying and giving up hope
This quiet diplomacy ain't nothing but a joke.

I loved the song. It was journalism you could jam to.

Steven now demanded my involvement. "You got me into this Sun City song," he told me. "You got to help me do it by encouraging other artists to participate." I was flattered and had no choice but to agree. For years in Boston radio, I saw how music could spread the news, how rock 'n' roll was often a more powerful educator than the printed or spoken word. I thought to myself, If the news isn't covering South Africa, I'll bet stars singing about South Africa will become news. I was right. I was now in the band we called Artists United Against Apartheid.

I didn't know what I was getting myself into. Over the next several months, I held down two jobs. By day, I was a network producer; by night, often into the wee hours, I was in the recording studio or on the phone begging artists to participate. Steven refused to invite his buddy Bruce Springsteen, not wanting to take advantage of their friendship. So I did it. He was too shy to call Miles Davis so I did that too. To my delight, Miles took the call personally, responding with one question: "When do you want me over there?"

Inspired by all the musical energy, I tried my hand at my own song, which actually ended up on the album. Drummer-musician Keith LeBlanc and I came up with "Revolutionary Situation," an audio-collage set to music that took its title from the words of South Africa's then-interior chief Louis Nel condemning the "revolutionary situation." Before we were through, we had Nel cheering on the revolutionary situation to a background of yapping police dogs, sounds of mayhem and revolt in the township and angry declarations by activists like Alan Boesak, Bishop Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela's daughter Zindzi, looped with what was at that time the most recent interview with her dad, recorded in 1961. The highly produced piece was an upgraded version of techniques I'd used at WBCN, mixing reality and beats - news you could dance to. A year later I worked with Stetsasonic, a popular rap band, on "A.F.R.I.C.A," a hip hop edutainment record aimed at informing teenagers about the wars then underway in the frontline states of southern Africa. It was one of the few rap records to be packaged with background information and a study guide. I worked on both records under my nom de media guerre, the news dissector.

I had also taken on the job of documenting the sessions on video and producing a behind-the-scenes documentary. I invited MTV to get involved and asked a friend, Hart Perry, to film the sessions. We wanted the public to know why we were doing the record. We asked the artists to explain their involvement in their own words. They responded with passion and prescience. "Sun City's become a symbol of a society which is very oppressive and denies basic rights to the majority of its citizens," said Jackson Browne. "In a sense, Sun City is also a symbol of that society's 'right' to entertain itself in anyway that it wants to, to basically try to buy us off and to buy off world opinion." The link between entertainment and oppression had rarely been made with such clarity.

At that point we were making the record without a record company or any money behind us. Just doing it. Steve was chipping in, while producer Arthur Baker donated studio time. Manhattan Records, under the brave leadership of Bruce Lundvall, came on board, acquiring the record, enabling us to pay some of the bills. A very committed record company lawyer, the late Rick Dutka, who brought a special sensitivity and deep commitment to the cause, rounded out our team, along with Steven's assistant, the multi-talented Zöe Yanakis.

I was surprised that many of the best-known rock 'n' rollers were so publicity shy. Most of them had publicists who staged their media appearances. They weren't used to cameras poking them in the face. Bruce Springsteen at first turned down my request for an interview. But just as I was walking away from him dejected, he ran after me and agreed to say a few words for the documentary.

When Miles started improvising in the studio that day, Steven and Arthur insisted I not approach him with a camera. "It's Miles, man," Baker said. "He's erratic, idiosyncratic, explosive. Wild. Don't mess with him when he's playing." I realized that they were intimidated by his presence and his genius. They were afraid he would walk out.

"You do your thing," I told him. "I'll do mine." I barged into the booth while Davis was setting up, introduced myself and asked if we could videotape him. Through the glass I could see Steve and Arthur, heads in hands, convinced that I had blown it. Miles smiled. "Bring it on," he ordered, "bring it on." And we did, getting priceless footage in the bargain.

In all, fifty-four artists participated, many of my biggest heroes among them - Springsteen, Dylan, Miles, Jackson Browne, Nona Hendryx, Darlene Love, Bonnie Raitt, Peter Gabriel, Bono, Run-DMC and on and on. We started out to do one song and ended up with an album, with additional mixes and singles. There were 303 tracks on the single, some kind of record for a record. The job of mixing it down burned out some of the biggest names in the business. One had to be carried from the mixing board after thirty-six hours without sleep. In addition to the recordings, we produced a music video directed by Jonathan Demme with Godley and Creme, the video documentary I worked on with Hart Perry, a book, and a study guide.

At the same time, I couldn't tell ABC what I was doing on the side. They would not have approved. I knew I couldn't propose a story about Sun City either, because I had stepped over the line and become part of the story. I tried and mostly succeeded in keeping my name out of the papers and my mug out of the video. I was terrified that 20/20 would dump me if they knew what I was doing, especially if my affiliation with ABC was dragged into it, even though the network had nothing to do with the project. I worked even harder at ABC, producing more stories than many of my colleagues, so I couldn't be accused of slacking off.

"Sun City" was personally risky, but also incredibly rewarding. After five years in the networks, I came to see that independent production could be fun and fulfilling, without all the editorial restraints, layers of editorial control and pretensions of the corporate news world. The record never achieved the financial success of "We Are the World," although Oliver Tambo and the ANC's school in Tanzania was sure happy when we gave them a big check. "Sun City" was picked as record of the year by many of the most influential music critics. But only about half of American radio stations played it, many objecting to the explicit attack on President Reagan's policy of constructive engagement. Some black stations said it was too white, while many white stations considered it too black. Such segregation still exists in radio. The song was banned in South Africa. But we raised more than a million dollars for anti-apartheid projects. It premiered at the United Nations thanks to the Special Committee Against Apartheid and such conscientious UN officers as Aracelly Santana.

The battle to make the record and the film paled before the battle to get it seen. PBS refused to air our non-profit The Making of "Sun City" - even though it won the International Documentary Association's top honors, in 1986 - because the featured artists were also involved in making the film, and as a result, in their logic, were "self-promoting." (They didn't have the same problem with The Making of "Raiders of the Lost Ark," which was made as a promotional exercise by the for-profit company that produced the blockbuster film.)

"Sun City" became an anthem of the anti-apartheid movement and its campaign for sanctions, functioning like a soundtrack for the movement. It may have helped people to understand apartheid better than the plethora of news stories and TV reports. Pop stars did what politicians wouldn't and journalists couldn't: They spoke out bravely and clearly. They took a stand. By standing up, they encouraged others to stand up with them and with the people of South Africa against a universally condemned racist system. In South Africa, our Artists United inspired musician Johnny Clegg to create a similar local organization. "Sun City" also became the catalyst for the South Africa Now TV series (see Chapter 8). My journalistic interests had provoked an independent musical project that, in turn, drove me back into journalism to create a news show about a story that was not being well-reported. I went around and around and was back where I started.

© l997 Danny Schechter