About this time a few months ago, I was sitting in the back of a San Francisco cab and discovered the driver was a native of Nigeria.
"Nigeria?" said I, "then you must know Fela."
The driver turned himself completely around, looked at me for a second and asked incredulously, "You know Fela?"
What followed was probably both the most entertaining and the most dangerous cab ride I have ever experienced. We grooved through the streets singing the broken English songs of recently deceased Afro-pop legend Fela Kuti.
The entire time, the cabbie paid hardly a modicum of interest to the road, as there were far more important things going on.
Fela Kuli, to millions of people, is far more than a musician. As trite as it may sound, Fela fought for freedom in a way that no American musician ever has, and in doing so created a totally unique music "groovier" than any other.
But let us speak of the music for a moment. Comparatively little known outside of Africa, Fela's sound is that of the largest funk band you have ever heard. Hordes of horns, saxes, guitars and a chorus of singers work together to create a groove that lasts.
I don't know about you, but ten minutes of P-Funk's "Flashlight" eventually bores me to pieces, while 23 minutes of "Just Like That" (one of the two songs on "Beasts of No Nation") flies by like a three minute Puff Daddy remix.
More importantly, Fela's music is simply more mellow and funky. Though he is neither the world's greatest sax or keyboard player, Fela's limited skills are part of his appeal. There is a certain charm to the simplistic, slightly-out-of-tune gronkyness of his Casio.
This is not to say that he cannot compose; his horn lines are amazingly complex and funkily entrancing. This is music that flows seamlessly with Maceo, Sly, JB, Zappa, Bob, Herbie or Miles. It is simply a tightly focused groove that allows minutes to fly by.
There is a natural comparison between Fela and Bob Marley, with reference to their political views and austere funkability, but, as my cab driver put it, "Bob Marley was no Fela."
Fela's music is about freedom. Songs like "Zombie" mock the mindless qualities of Nigeria's soldiers, and others, such as "Just Like That," possess the same kind of quasi-Zen poetic optimism that marks the better songs of James Brown.
It's almost amazing he was able to remain so positive. After constantly being hounded by the government and many times arrested often for militant pot-smoking Fela, in an act of Hakim Bey-like rebellion, created his own commune of musicians which he declared separate from the nation.
When the government accused him of corrupting young unmarried girls (he had at least 50 female singers), he married every member of his chorus, saying, "[Now] you can't say they're not married."
This did not stop the injustice, as his enclave was stormed anyway, Fela severely beaten, the women raped and his mother thrown from a second story window to her death.
This in no way stopped Fela, who continued to play and release albums until he died of AIDS last summer. This morbid cause for public exposure has caused a string of rereleases.
The latest re-issue, "Army Arrangement," does not live up to his previous work. It was rumored to have been released against Fela's will while he was imprisoned. It deserves little mention since Fela left us with so much and "Army Arrangement" offers so little. Make sure to stick to his older releases.
In addition to "Army Arrangement," the Dartmouth Bookstore carries only two other Fela CDs in the Africa section, "Zombie" and "Beasts of No Nation," both of which are vintage Fela.
We have all heard the sounds of James Brown, who derived much of his music from African musical ideas. Now, listen to the music of an African who listens to the Godfather of Soul.
Fifty million Africans, you know, can't be wrong.
