LAGOS - BRAZZAVILLE - LUMUMBASHI - KISANGANI

A Changing World

During my next tours, the repertoire is changed: part of the programme will be exclusively devoted to singing and guitar-playing. Pure coincidence, of course.

We travel throughout Africa, which is becoming increasingly urbanized. The continent of unnamed music is undergoing a transformation. In the mega-metropolis of Lagos, tam-tams have been replaced by transistor radios and televisions. I receive a letter from a young student who asks me for music scores, using the following words: "Over to you". Since that is the sort of phrasing used by television personalities, compliance is in order.
In a rather dangerous neighbourhood of the capital, I meet the saxophone player, Fela. Smiles would get the best of the armed control posts, operated either by the military or gangs (both of whose rates are remarkably similar). Unfortunately, we and our smiles were not around when someone decided to steal our car as we were listening to the artist perform.

At the door, our hands are stamped (the palm of the hand, in the case of the darkest among us). The cost of admission includes the following choice: whisky or hashish.

On stage, Fela swings back and forth, accompanied by his musicians. His wives, who are located throughout the room, highlight the beat with their rhythmic dancing..

500 Africans are seated, waiting to listen to music all night. Times sure have changed: "concerts" have clearly have now clearly become accepted by the masses in these parts. This is the place where, in vitro, western influences are most evident.

On stage, Fela sings messages which would surely induce any tribal leader to have him executed. For instance, he questions the social order. References to Thatcher and Reagan are made. There are even erotic innuendoes in the lyrics, the other novelty on the continent, since frustrations of that nature were unheard of here. Music is hybrid: there are western influences, of course, by way of the Caribbean, South America, and jazz. In essence, it's a return to roots. One occasionally sees a parabola on subjects spread by griots (wandering musicians and story tellers) which so much intrigued our ethno-musicologists. The black man who saw the white man who saw the black man. Meanwhile, in Europe, the audience are doing the exact opposite. They leave their seats to dance during concerts. The white man who saw the black man who etc....

Travelling with an opera singer, even is she happens to be your wife, isn't easy. One could even go as far as to say that their needs and requests are quite a burden to deal with. It's either too warm or too cold. The larynx has to be kept at a certain temperature, but not the air. The glottis must be lubricated, the naval cavities kept clean, the bronchi must not be congested, blah blah blah....

Singers feel as though they have been blessed with God-given talent. They can see light which is invisible to the rest of us, still lurking in our caves. The timbre of their voices is the colour of their souls. "Does one change his outlook by using different language?", Musset wondered. Western singers feel that they are shaping the very nature of their being by working on their voices. They sometimes even feel as though they are possessed, much like their African or Asian counterparts. Blocking the sphincters, raising the diaphragm, they feel, by activating the larynx, an undulation of the internal organs to which nothing is comparable, not even the joys of marriage.

This union, which was born under the sign of the song, will therefore undergo its swansong much the same way. Although I am incapable of falling out of love, I am perfectly capable of admitting defeat.

In Brazzaville, a special concert is announced- one which shall consist of a French guitarist, who happens to be passing through, performing with musicians from the capital and its vicinity. Local musicians are therefore recruited via the radio and television, of course, in addition to talking drums.

The room is packed. Several elderlies are present, some of them having brought a lute-harp, some a mvet (musical bow), and others a simple tree trunk. The moment one of them takes the stage, the audience howls with laughter. He is an old tribesman, and doesn't even know how to play the guitar. He looks ridiculous, with his retro instrument. The poor man simply doesn't fit in. The others endure the same treatment. Is this really the region where, years earlier, this funerary ceremony had revealed a new world to me, one made of tones and rhythms produced by mysterious instruments?

Nowadays, the guitar is becoming the instrument of choice- there's no point in denying it. It symbolizes the white decoys. I am not sure to be proud of my contribution to that process... At any rate, if there is to be guitar music, it should at least be up to par...

Zaire is changing as well. There, the guitar is king, and is even used to accompany the national anthem.
Anyone who tours this gigantic country needs plenty of optimism, however. Case in point, flying with Air Zaire, which has been given the dubious nickname "Air Maybe" by users; is a challenge unto itself.

From Lumumbashi, located in the south, I need to get to Kisangani, in the north. Theoretically, there are weekly flights linking those two cities. However, since the company often fails to pay its kerosene bills on time, the intervals between flights tend to greatly exceed the standard one-week period. It is therefore extremely difficult to obtain a ticket, even with a "matabish" (a bribe). And the country's former sovereign, the King of Belgium, neglected to provide for either roads or rail travel. Consequently, even with a valid reservation, one has to contend with 300 other people, during boarding, who went through the same formalities and procedures, and who have the same hopeful objectives you do. I'll need to "matabish" a bit more. However, if the plane does actually arrive and manages to take off, there will still be two stopovers, causing the entire process to start over again. One can easily imagine the predicament of the local authority figure: he sees the plane arrive, completely filled with passengers, whereas he has already made the commitment, for reasons only he knows about, to see to it that all of the VIPs are permitted to board. In order to get himself out of that jam, he makes all of the passengers get out of the plane, takes their passports, and then has "his" people board the plane first, as if by coincidence. A hundred people or so therefore find themselves in the midst of an impromptu one or two-week stay in this charming holiday resort.