I assume the major factor in the timing of Rand Merchant Bank (RMB) staging Starlight Classics each year is climate. The Cape instalment of this outdoor musical spectacular takes place in March, just before the (mostly) predictable Easter showers signal the onset of autumn and the rainy winter that lies beyond. Joburgers have to wait until September, when the highveld spring has sprung but the summer storms are far off.
Come rain, hail, snow or heatwave, whenever RMB Starlight Classics rolls around, it seems to me perfectly timed — not so much to fit the calendar as to meet a psychological need. I’ll admit this phenomenon may be idiosyncratic: attending the unabashedly feel-good event in the midst of a personal or professional crisis has, in the past, had the effect of reassuring me that Everything Is Going To Be Okay.
The same applies, however, to the easing of collective angst. In years gone by, with the national mood sinking low, the relentlessly South Africa-positive message of Starlight Classics has insisted on a kind of upbeat patriotism. In 2026, as war rages elsewhere, distant enough that the threat to Project South Africa doesn’t feel imminent (while we brace for its economic impact), the public mood is a little more buoyant.
Sure, one could be cynical: it is in RMB’s interest for rich people to feel bullish about the country’s prospects, for positive sentiment to spur deals, partnerships and investment. And beyond the world of business, a healthy dose of scepticism about any appeal to patriotism may be advised.
Yet when I find myself moved to tears by the now-customary singing of the national anthem at the start of the Starlight Classics programme, irrationally proud of the award-winning artists and scientists and sportspeople — and cheesemakers, for crying out loud — whose achievements are flashing across the big screen while we sing, I think: I don’t care if this nation we call South Africa is, in Benedict Anderson’s memorable phrase, an “imagined community”. Damnit, I love my country.
Exceptionalism is a dangerous thing. The American version is most recognisable, though we are all at risk of falling into the trap. But after an evening at Starlight Classics, the temptation is strong; perhaps a bit of South African exceptionalism is justified.
It’s not that what we’ve got is better. Nor does the “Hulle weet nie wat ons weet nie” stuff apply. It’s just that, at Starlight Classics, it’s all so incomparably … us.
Where else, for instance, would you find a gracefully ageing white male Afrikaans rocker such as Arno Carstens collaborating with an eternally youthful black female isiXhosa troubadour such as Msaki? Here I must abandon all pretence of objectivity, because it appears I now fall into the target Starlight Classics age demographic. Between Carstens belting out Blue Eyes from the Springbok Nude Girls days, and Msaki delivering her beautiful cover of Blk Sonshine’s Born in a Taxi, the repertoire seemed tailor-made for those of us who peaked in the late 1990s. Even the astonishing violin virtuosity of Pendo Masote was applied, in a touching tribute, to the familiar sounds of the Soweto String Quartet.
Happily there were plenty of other eras, areas and arias to enjoy. Starlight Classics avoids parochialism by appealing to a range of cosmopolitan tastes, and this year’s line-up was nothing if not eclectic. Opera stars Megan Kahts and Levy Sekgapane turned with ease from Bizet and Rossini to K-pop and Meatloaf.
The comedown after Starlight Classics is severe. But don’t worry, I’ve counted: only 180 sleeps until the next instalment.
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