Interview from 2002: Salifou Kaba from Bembeya Jazz National

While Bembeya Jazz was rehearsing to record their comeback album, "Bembeya," in May 2002, Banning Eyre had the chance to sit down with lead singer Salifou Kaba to discuss his nearly 40 years with the band. Here is their conversation.


The Interview


Why don't you start by introducing yourself?

I am Salifou Kaba, cabinet maker and musician by profession. I was born in Kankan in 1943. I went to Koranic school, French school. In the end, I was oriented towards an apprenticeship center and cabinet making. I spent four years there and I emerged as a cabinet maker. That was how I went to Beyla, two-hundred and some kilometers from Beyla to work making tables, chairs and cabinets. I had my brother there who had done his studies in Havana. He came back with lots of Cuban records. I sang along with those records. At my workshop, I sang lots of Cuban songs. [SINGS] Things like that. During my vacations, I went to Kankan to buy wood. I had studied carpentry with [Aboubacar] Demba Camara. But when I went back to Kankan, he wasn't there. I went to his family. His father was a train conductor, and he was in Mamou with Demba. Demba had abandoned carpentry and was repairing bicycles. I telephoned his father to say, "Your friend has left Beyla to find you in Kankan. Can you come to Kankan and meet with him?"

He came and found me in Kankan where I had bought my wood, and we went to Beyla together. When we got to Beyla, my diploma said that I was an engineer. On his diploma, it was written, "passable." The head of the workshop saw that I was an engineer like him and demanded proof for Demba. We [did something to the diploma] and he was hired at the same salary as me. As we had been accomplices in Kankan before arriving in Beyla, the Cuban songs I was singing, we would bring them home and sing them together. We knew them already. So there was a tourist hotel in town called Relais. Every night we found Bembeya already in place. But there were no real singers. There was a girl, Nome Djenne (?), who sang, but it was not really the thing. Everyone was singing.

Was the group already called Bembeya Jazz?

Yes, the group was already called Bembeya. But there weren't any real singers. They had called it Syli Jazz. But six months after they changed the name to Bembeya, we came.

So what year was that?

1962.

So that first record made by the American, Leo Sarkisian…

We were not on it.

B.E.: You and Demba.

No, no. We weren't there yet. After this record, we came. So as I say, everybody was singing--the drummer, the bass player. Then we came. Sekou, the guitarist, he had passed by our workshop and seen us working and singing. He asked us to come by the Relais that night. "We are going to form a little group." That night we went to the Relais at about 8:00. Sekou had his acoustic guitar. The tourists were there, eating. We introduced a song and we started to sing. As my voice was softer than Demba's, they took me. My voice was higher, more feminine--right up to the present. Demba was a tenor. But I said, "I can't come into the group if Demba doesn't come also." That's how it happened. They said, "Okay, if that's how it is. Demba will come too." That's how we started.

We started working--one month, two months. Then the wood was finished again and I took a truck and went to Kankan again to look for wood. Demba stayed behind in Beyla. As he was staying behind and he had nobody to care for, he stayed at my place. After awhile, he got bored. He wasn't being well paid, so he left for Nzerekore, and when he left there, he went on to Lola. But Bembeya had now got used to having singers. But we had left. I was in Kankan; Demba was in Nzerekore. The band was worried. They sent the drummer Mangala to Nzerekore to find Demba. But he didn't want to come. A week later, I got home to Beyla. I wrote to Demba and sent the letter with Mangala. When he saw my letter, he decided to come back, and that's how the band continued.

After that, Demba went on to become a huge star.

Yes, after that, we sang together. Bembeya started to have success at festival after festival. We went to Havana together.

Really?

In '64.

Wow, and you were such a fan of Cuban music. What was it like to go there?

We saw the Cubans and they were good. We sang in Manding, but before leaving, we had learned a song by Abelardo Barrosa. [SINGS] This song was called "El Guantanamo." We sang this song. You know that the Cuban musicians used written music. But we had nothing like that. We came, we played. And Abelardo Barrosa was astonished. He said, "Is this song known in Africa?" Demba laughed and cried. He said, "If you come to Africa, they are going to eat you alive, because everyone loves you there." Old Barosa cried also. He said that Demba was his son now.

So we stayed there for a couple of months, and afterwards, we came back to Guinea. We continued home to Beyla. At that point, we were not yet a national orchestra. We were still a Federal band. We stayed there and we kept competing in the competitions, because at that time, every year, there were competitions among the regions. Best band. Best theater group. Best football team. Even writers. They would choose the best. So in Beyla now, in the band competition, there were two runners up. There was Kébendo Jazz of Gékédougou, another Federal district, and there was Bembeya Jazz of Beyla.

Afterwards we went back to Beyla, but we were angry. We didn't want to be runners up. We want to come in first. So when we got back to Beyla, we started looking hard. We went to the griots, the old people, in the moonlight where the children sing and clap. We went and listened, and we took these things. It's like [SINGS "Akukuwe"] We took these things because they were popular. So now, at the second competition, we were first!

And Kebendo Jazz?

Second place! So that's how we got to Conakry as a national orchestra. With us, when you are national you have become truly professional. After we arrived in Conakry, we did nothing other than music. We were paid by the government and every morning, we rehearsed from 10:00 or 11:00. In the evening, everyone went to meet their friends, their girlfriends, parents. We had become professional now. But at night, starting at 9:00, there was dancing in the capital. We started at 9:00, right up until 2:00 in the morning.

Every night?

Except for Friday, because on Fridays in Guinea, there were the neighborhood meetings. People would meet to discuss the problems they were having in the neighborhood. So there was no music on Fridays. Monday also. That was the day of rest.

So that's how things went. Now Sekou told me about the death of Demba [Camara], and how it broke the spirit of the band for awhile.

Very much so! His accident happened like this. We were invited to Dakar by an association called Les Daganois. They are Peuls. Before leaving, the Minister of Youth invited us to his place. He said, "You have been invited by the Senegalese. What must we do?" He told us we must play very well. Demba listened to his words and then said, "M. Minister, we must go, but we have no instruments."

At that time, in Africa, there were no sound system rental companies. None. Every band had to travel with its own instruments. It was not like now. So Demba said, "We will go to Senegal, and present ourselves with our broken instruments. Truly, this will not make me happy."

The minister said, "Okay. The government has ordered new instruments from Italy. They will come. But as the date is close, you must go as you are. When you return, you will find the instruments waiting." He said, "Don't worry," and everyone went home. The next day, Demba came in his motorcycle. It had a sidecar. We were rehearsing at the Jardin de Guinea. Before the rehearsal, he told us, I am going to visit a woman in Coya, 50 km from Conakry. This woman had told him that Bembeya had to make a sacrifice, that there would be an accident. …. After the rehearsal, he called us together and told us this. This woman in Coya, she threw shells and said that there would be an accident, that Bembeya had to make a sacrifice. When he said that, each member of the band gave 100 francs, 100 francs each to buy kola nuts. And we prayed with them and gave them away.

After we parted, Demba took his motorcycle. In turning in front of the dancing [club], he crashed into another car. We said, "Ah! Demba was right. If we had not made this sacrifice, it would have been serious." It was two days later that we traveled to Dakar. We took the plane and we left. In the airplane, he and I were together. We had a thing when we travelled. We always took a little money of the country we were traveling to and after the plane landed, we went to the bar and had a coffee. This time, it was my turn to buy the coffee. So when we landed, I bought the coffee. Demba used to drink coffee three times a day. He loved that. I said, "Demba, I've bought the coffee," and he said, "Ah, really, I don't feel like coffee now." He had a novel with him, "The Count of Monte Cristo." Even on the plane he was reading that. So now he said, I don't feel like drinking coffee. He said he was tired and wanted to rest.

We got our baggage and left the terminal. There was a car from the embassy there to meet us. Now, as I was both a singer and the sound engineer, Sekou told me to go in that car and go to the venue to listen to the amplifiers and make sure everything is okay. I said okay and got in the car. Demba followed me with his book. I said, "Demba, stay here." He said, "No, no. You will drop me at the hotel, and then you can go on to the see where we're playing." That's how he got in.

We took the cliff road. The driver was very happy. He did not have the price of a ticket. He told us he would leave us at the hotel, go and find his girlfriend, then come and find us at the hotel and go dancing! He was happy, pumping, pumping. I saw the speedometer rising. 80, 90, right up to 110. I felt something rising in my mouth, but I could not say it. I could not tell him to slow down. So it was me, Demba and Sekou. Sekou was in front with the driver. I was in the back with Demba. Demba was to my right. So as the car reached full speed, we saw another car approaching. The chauffeur veered and then he couldn't get control of the car again. We hit the sidewalk and the car rolled. I saw the streetlights above, below, above, below. The door flew open and Demba was projected out. His head hit the sidewalk. He was curled up like that when we found him.

That is terrible. Thank you for recounting that.

When Demba was gone, we trained three singers. There was me, Nagna Mory Kouyaté and Moussa Touré. We named this trio Bazoka. Bazoka was like the guns used in the military.

So that was the vocal sound for the group after Demba died, three voices.

Voila. Trio Ambiance Bazoka.

Interesting. Demba Camara was not a griot, right? But Nagna Mory Kouyaté was.

That's right. That was the first time a griot sang in Bembeya Jazz.

But you had already done "Regard Sur le Passe" by this time.

Yes. Demba sang that. But Nagna Mory redid it after the death of Demba.

And he also did one of the songs you're recording now, "Akukuwe."

Yes. That was his song.

So this was the group that went to FESTAC in Nigeria.

Yes. In 1977. That was something. Where were staying as artists, 300 meters away, there was Fela's place. And there, with Fela, we met Bob Marley.

Naturally you knew Bob Marley's music by then.

Absoulutely.

And Fela too?

Yes, him too. I slept at Fela's place.

But was Fela's music known generally in Guinea at that point?

Of course. His music was known in Guinea. Bob Marley too. His music was also known in Guinea. So, there had been lots of festivals, but this one in Nigeria was the biggest. It was really good. All the African musicians, Europeans, Americans. It was full. Everyone was there.

So tell me about meeting Bob Marley.

There was me, the current chef d'orchestre Achken Kaba. We had a trumpeter, Sekou, the fat one. He's in business in Guinea now. He doesn't play music anymore. We went also with Barry of Khaloum Star. He was there too, but not with us. He was working with a childrens' theater, but as he was a musician, he was often with us. So we went to Fela's together. Because Fela really liked Sekou Touré. Fela in his bar had posted the photographs of African heads of state, Sekou Touré and everyone, even Idi Amin.

Oh!

[LAUGHS] Yes, even Idi Amin. Well, we can't condemn him. That's what he did. So Fela, when he came to sing at midnight, he took the microphone and he said, "There are musicians here from Guinea who are happy to come to our bar. Bembeya Jazz." And he cited the names of the musicians. And Bob Marley came and said, "I want to meet the musicians of Bembeya Jazz." We went. He spoke in English and I understood a little. We spoke in French and he understood a little. That's how we talked. He presented his wife, Rita. In the end, he left me with his wife and he went, I don't know where. I thought he had gone to [MAKES SMOKING GESTURE].

With Fela.

Voila. They went. So that made me happy to meet him. We stayed there until 7:00 in the morning.

So after that, Bembeya's success continued for awhile.

Yes. We toured Africa, a little bit everywhere.

Things got harder after the death of Sekou Touré, I understand. You had Club Bembeya, but not as much work as before, right up until the last recording in 1987. What did you do during those quiet years?

It was a bit difficult. Before the death of Sekou Touré, he explained that the government had a lot of problems. He wanted the national artists to be payed as public functionaries. He said, as there is Bembeya Jazz, Keletigui and his Tambourinis, Horoya Band, Bala et ses Baladins, you are all going to have your autonomy. Keletigui stood up and said, "M. President, we want to stay as public functionaries." But we in Bembeya, we did not. We wanted to be independent.

The president said, "Try. You must try. If it's not good, the government is for you. We are your brothers. You can come back, but first, try." They gave each group a "dancing" with some money. I think it was 60,000, for the building, to get chairs, to paint a little. The government gave us this money along with a complete set of instruments. We had to manage from there. So each group worked its corner. Club Bembeya was for us. Paillotte was for Keletigui. Jardin de Guinea was for Bala. Miniere was for Horoya Band.

But soon, this coincided with the death of Sekou [Touré]. The military rose to power. They verified everything. The musicians? They just left us like that. Up to this moment, they have just left us as we are. We have our bar. We have no instruments now. No sound system. But we have our place. So if Bembeya remains like that, we have to struggle. If not, we will just sink.

Mangala told me that the bar provides a little income for the band, but not much, I imagine.


Not much. I am still a cabinet maker. I have my workshop. I make bar decorations now.

Now, the music is starting again. This really is a new chapter for the band, isn't it?

We're counting on you now, the journalists. What counts in the world now is the media. We musicians we can play, but we are not in the media, it won't work.

We'll try! Let's talk about the songs here. Let's talk about "Sabou."

It's like I was just saying. The journalists are the cause. In Malinke, sabou is the thing that is the cause of your success. That's what we sing in "Sabou." If it weren't for that, I couldn't have done this. It was Sekouba Bambino Diabate who wrote this.

About when?

Ohhhhh… the date now…. 1982? He says in "Sabou," it was Bembeya that was the cause of my fame. I was in my village, Siguiri. It was Bembeya who brought me to the capital. If it weren't for Bembeya, I would not be known. He's telling his story. He was in the federal orchestra of Siguiri. And we took him to the capital to sing with us.

What year was that?

The date… His first song was "Telegram." After that, "Sabou." That was his second song.

Okay, let's talk about "Gbapie."

"Gbapie" is a song from the forest. We had a saxophonist who had been in Horoya Band before. A Horoya Band wasn't working much, he came to us. "I am a musician. I can't sit at home. I want to play with you." That's how he came. He told us he had a song called "Gbapie." He sang it for us and we took it. With us, when you are a national orchestra, your are obliged to sing in Pulaar, in Guerzé, in Soussou. You can go everywhere in the forest to play, so you have to be ready.

And "Gbapie" is in what language?

In Kono. That's a language of the forest.

And the saxophonist is Diagbe Traoré. When did he come to the band?

In 1987.

So what do the words of "Gbapie" say?

In a small village, as always, in the full moon, a young man has seen a beautiful girl. To have this girl, he sings this song, to charm her. "You, beautiful girl, you are perfectly formed, like a pear. When you speak, your teeth are also beautiful. You please me."

This song starts out slow and winds up with the rhythm of the forest.

There, you have the boy, after he has charmed the girl, and there is a dance. He takes the girl by the arm and he sings, "Hey mano-ye." Bam-Bam! "I want to bring you here." So in the musical arrangement now, we augment the rhythm and it becomes a popular dance.

"Bembeya International."

Bembeya left Beyla to come to Conakry [in 1966]. We had arrived in the capital. Now it was time to find clients. This song was a way of presenting ourselves, our band, to the Conakry public. "When you arrive in the capital, Bembeya Jazz greets you at the Jardin de Guinea….Horoya, liberty and fraternity!" Demba and I arranged that. [Salifou Kaba and Demba Camara. HE SAYS 1968. SEKOU BEMBEYA DIABATE SAYS 1965.] Every week, we tried to create new songs to attract the clientele. There was competition between the bands. We had to create. That's how it was.

"Akukuwe"

It was me and Nagna Mory who arranged that one.

You told me that this came from a traditional song sung in the streets.

Yes, but it wasn't like that. We arranged it at my place.

So should I say it's a traditional song arranged for Bembeya Jazz by Salifou Kaba and Gnagna Mory Kouyaté. Is that right?

Yes, that's right. This is a popular song sung in the moon light. The girls sing with the boys. [SINGS] A "koukou" is a type of drum made with a calabash. When you hit it, it makes a deep sound: "Kou kou." So the song says, in the moonlight, I am going to tap this drum for my friend. [SINGS] This one came after the death of Demba, when we got Mory Kouyaté and Moussa Toure. I sang this with Mory Kouyaté.

So that would be about 1974.

That's it, a year after the death of Demba.

"Lefa"

Lefa was with Demba. He wrote that. It was his wife's uncle who gave us the tune. It comes from Wassoulou. Wassoulou is shared between Mali and Guinea and Cote D'Ivoire. Demba's mother was from there. [SINGS RHYTHM] That's where the rhythm comes from, but we modernized it a little.

So what does the song say?

"Lefa" is a song sung when young girls were circumcised. In the neighborhood, every family, your neighbors, when your child had been good--she came to help you pound millet, or to help you wash clothes--the day she was circumcised, 15 days later, they take her to [Margot] to put on other clothes. Then at night, everyone came to bring a little gift.

To her.

No, to someone you like. "Lefa" is a fan. While dancing, each person put a gift into a small calabash--fabric, rice, even money and gold. She takes the fan here. We call it Lefa. "You must wave the fan. My first girl is circumcised today. There is friendship, and there is friendship. It is today that I will show that she has helped me." People gave the gifts during this song. There were lots of girls. There could be 15 girls. The one who helped you was the one you gave to. The person who created this song first sang it for the daughter of a neighbor. It was a person who had no children, but every day this girl came and washed her clothes and worked for her. So when this girl was circumcised, as she had no children, she brought gifts and sang this song. [in Malinke, for Bembeya in 1968.]

"Yelema Yelemansso"

That's in Konianke. A troubadour gave us that. He was someone who sang in the neighborhoods and small towns. We got that from him. When he sang, he sang the chief of the traditional canton who was there in the time of Samory. He sings about these people. "Where are they now?" Yelema Yelemansso. The world changes. We live in a world of changes. Youssouf Bah adapted the song to Bembeya Jazz in 1987

"Sanfaran Moussoukoro"

This is also a popular song. I sang this with Nagna Mory and Moussa in 1974. [Trio Bazoka: Salifou, Gnagna, Moussa] There is a small village called Safaran, and in this village there is a sorcerer. If you are having problems with your children, or you need a job, or your crops did not yield a good harvest, you come and he explains to you the necessary sacrifices you must make, and he gives you remedies. If you have problems, you must see Safaran Mousoukoro. Moussoukoro is an old woman. [SINGS] "Old woman of Safaran, you are right. No one must anger you. If you are angry, it is not good for us. You are our hope. We must not anger you."

So you are singing for the people of Safaran, that they must not do this.

That's right. They must not annoy her. It is not good for the village.

"Soli Wassoulou"

This is like "Lefa." There was one very impolite girl. When you greeted her, she would insult you. When she was circumcised, she even hit the old woman who did was doing that. That's what the song talks about. This is in a language of Wassoulou, but it's Malinke, the Malinke of Wassoulou. It's folklore, arranged by Bembeya Jazz. It was the mother of Demba who gave us that. I sang this with Demba. She told us that when she was a young girl, she experienced this. She and this rude girl were circumcised together. This girl had wounded the old woman. So now after 15 days, they brought the new clothes for the girls, and everyone brings the gifts. But as this girl was rude, he mother had died. Here cruel mother sang this song. The girl insulted everyone; she respected no one. So when it was time to give the gifts, the cruel mother came with her gift, singing that what this girl did was not right. It was impolite. She sings this as she gives the gift. [1968]

Thanks, Salifou. I look forward to seeing you in the United States.

And you must come to Guinea.

I will do that.

And when you come, we are going to dine on you! [LAUGHS]


afropop.org, Interview by Banning Eyre

Interview from 2002: Sekou Bembeya Diabate from Bembeya Jazz National

After the Musiques Mètisses festival in Angoulême, France, in 2002, the legendary Guinean dance band Bembeya Jazz stayed behind to rehearse and record in a nightclub called Le Nef. The band spent their days working hard there, and at night, retired to the comfort of an abbey to stay in rooms usually reserved for priests in training. This was an unusual setting for a mostly Muslim band, but it was peaceful, and it gave a journalist a rare opportunity to have a long conversation with the band's leader and founding member, Sekou Bembeya Diabate. Here is that interview.

Interview by Banning Eyre Afropop.org!!!

The interview

So, Sekou Bembeya Diabate, how did you get your start in music?

How I came into music--it's a family affair, from generation to generation, a grand Manding griot family. Traditional. From father to son. My father played the balafon and the acoustic guitar in the traditional griot style, [with the fingers] without chords, and then you put the capo on to change the key. That's it. My father [El Hadj Djeli Fode Diabaté (d. 1988)] was among the first who introduced the guitar to Guinea.

I was born 1n 1944 in Thiero, in the region of Faranah, in haut-Guinea, far from Beyla. When I was very young, I was much more interested in the guitar than in the balafon. My father wanted to send me to Koranic school when I was ten, and I said to him, "But I need a guitar." So he ordered a special guitar, a metal guitar.

A National steel guitar?

That's right. In 1954. It was very expensive at the time. That was my first personal guitar.

Wow. You were lucky.

To be sure. To be sure. Nobody in my generation had a guitar like that. It was for the big people. But my father found it, especially for me. So with that I began my autonomy.

Eric Charry writes in his book that Facelli Kante made the first guitar recordings in 1954. But you had grown up with the guitar, all your life. There was never a time when you didn't hear the guitar.

That's it. That's it. Exactly. It was in the cradle with me.

So when those recordings were made, it was nothing new for you.

Not at all. The songs he recorded I didn't hear at the time, because I was still in the village, but when I came to Conakry around 1959, I heard those recordings. But at the time, no.

When did griots first start playing guitars?

Ahhhh. A long time ago, since maybe the 1930s.

Charry says the big influx of guitars came when soldiers brought them back from Europe after World War II.

I don't know exactly, but I know that ever since the 1930s, there were guitars around. My father had one.

I love that your father not only played but got you a good guitar. So many guitarists I've interviewed started out by having their father try to stop them from playing.

Yes, that's it. But at the same time, he wanted me to go to Koranic school. He really wanted me to play music, but he also wanted me to be very strong in the Koranic spirit, and to become a griot, able to find the words to council people in the spirit of Islam--all that. That was his desire: make music, but at the same time council people in good things. That was his goal. But, as it turned out, (en fait de compte) my destiny was to go towards the modern. He wanted me to make music in the great tradition.

So did this become a problem between you?

No. No. He understood. There was no problem.

He understood that music and education could go together.

He did.

So you got the guitar in 1955, and six years later, Bembeya Jazz started. What happened during those six years?

In 1959, I was invited to Conakry by the son of a friend of my father's. He invited me to visit Conakry. So I stayed in the Bonfil neighborhood. His name was Abou Camara and he lived there. This was my first time in Conakry and I had a great time there. At the time, El Hadj Sidikiba Diabaté was already in Conakry, and a big, big artist. He was an uncle of mine, so I went to his family. Now his son, my cousin, "Papa" Diabaté, was the number one guitar player of the time. "Papa" Diabaté. He was the one who showed me my first lessons in modern guitar playing.

Before that, it was all traditional.



Voila. From '54 to '59. "Diarabi," "Makalé" things like that, traditional things. So then my father sent for me, and I went home. This was about 1960 now. So that year, or 1961, someone from Kisidougou--that's a town in the forest--came for me. They sent a delegation asking me to come there as a guitarist as soon as possible. But I spent just a short time in Kisidougou, and then I went to Kankan. The reason I left Kisidougou is a bit of a story. You know that I had been to Koranic school. Well, I was a bit of a fanatic, and I had gone into a boutique where they sold alcohol. One day, I was angry and I broke a lot of bottles.

Why did you do that?

Because I didn't like that.

It went against your traditional education.

Exactly. But when I broke all those bottles, the director came to me and he said, "Very well, this is what I want. There is a man here in Kisidougou called Papa Yaré, and he wants you to go to Kankan." I went to Kankan all alone, and it went very well. I had a lot of success for a month or two. But after some time, the Commandant of Beyla, Emile Kondé, heard about me, because I had already been making a lot of noise in Kankan. "There's a young guy here, but he's very good. He's so young. It's not possible!" Like that. So he said, "Find me this young man. I want to meet him." So they found me and took me to the place where he was staying in Kankan, and in the course of our discussion, he found that his very close friend, very close, was the younger brother of my father.

He had asked me if I knew Sirakata Diabaté, and I had said, "But Sirakata Diabaté is my father's younger brother!" He said, "Oh good." So we kept talking. Then he told me he was leaving for Beyla and had I ever been there? I said, "No, I've never gone to Beyla." Kankan already seemed far away to me; Beyla was really far. It was another 250 km into the forest. Very far! As he understood that I didn't want to go, he left. Then he went to Sirakata and he explained, "Sirakata, I'm going to give you a car especially to go and get your nephew in Kankan." And he came looking for me. When he told me we were going to Beyla, I said, "No, I'm not going."

He said to me, "Sekou, I am going to tell you. I am the young brother of your father. If you do not come with me, I am going to report this to Kankan. You know our laws. I am capable of obliging you to come.

I said, "No, it's not worth it." I prepared my things and we went to Beyla.

You were forced to go?

Obligatoirement. [LAUGHS] So when I arrived in Beyla, it was now the start of 1961. This coincided with the band's baptism, so I became a founding member of the band and the first guitarist. There weren't many guitarists at the time. And we started to work together.

So this was the beginning of Sekou Toure's great project of state support for music. Did you realize at the time what a historic thing that was?

Definitely (tout a fait). No one was used to that. Me I was in the plain tradition with my big brother, Papa. We were among the first musicians. He was in the national orchestra, which was called Syli Orchestre. So because of that, I had understood the idea of a band. In '59 and '60, I was with him often, whether he was playing in the Orchestre National or just in a bar. It was great lesson, both for me individually and the group. That served me well.



So in the beginning in Beyla, what sort of concerts did you play?

No, we didn't play concerts at the time. It was evening dances. In a big hall, because there was a big hall there. We left often to play in other towns, even in Cote D'Ivoire. We'd start around 9:00 and play right through to the morning.

And you played in competitions? Biennalles?

It was a little later that the Biennales started. Every two years, they would make a selection in each locality to find groups to perform in the capital to be among the best.

I must ask about my friend Leo Sarkisian, who arrived in Beyla just as Bembeya Jazz was starting up.

Voila. That was our first record in 1962. That was our very first record.

What did you think about this American guy showing up with recording gear?

I was astonished. It was extraordinary. It made me think, hey this music is serious. This American has come all the way here to record it. That's serious. We really have to work. It encouraged us even more. That is not an ordinary thing, that an American comes to record us. So, we really have to work. That really helped us.

Maybe Sekou Toure knew it would have that effect.

Tout a fait. Tout a fait. He really liked music. He really liked art in general. He was a man of culture, a man of art. He had a lot of respect, right to the end of his life.

Back to Bembeya. You eventually moved to Conakry. When and how did that happen?

That was later. Because we won a competition, one time, two times. After we had had lots and lots of success in the captial, Conakry, the Bureau Politic National proposed that we come to the capital. That was now in 1965. That was when we were nationalized and became a national band like Keletigui, like Bala. We were now the third group. We moved in 1966 to Conakry.
Bembeya Jazz, first album cover

Is that when you became Bembeya Jazz rather than Orchestra Beyla?

No. We were always called Bembeya Jazz, from the start, from 1961.

Where did the name Bembeya come from?

We had a meeting and said each person must propose a name. We had a friend there called Bankal (?) Traore. He was the one who said, why not just Bembeya Jazz? Since that day, we've been Bembeya Jazz. That's it. Since April 1961: Bembeya Jazz.

So looking at the members now, you were there. Mohammed Kaba was there. Mory Konde (Mangala) was there on drums. What about the singers?

There was a girl.

And Salifou was there.

Salifou was not there. He came in 1963, with Demba Camara. They came together. On that first record, he was not there.

So in the present group, we have three original members, and Salifou, who came two years later.

Yes.

So what changed for the group when you moved to Conakry in 1965?

That changed everything. We were promoted from a small town to a big capital city. That's a big promotion. We had to work hard to merit this honor. We couldn't slack off.

What was Conakry like back then?

In Conakry at that time we played every night except Sunday night. Every night. It was extraordinary. Every night until 2:00 in the morning.

La Paillote [an open air club under a big tent] was there?

Paillote. Jardin du Guinea. And later the Palmier. With all that, the town was really animated.

So how did things change over the years?

You know that in life, times change. When times change, lots of things change. When you are used to certain things and times change, peoples' behavior changes, social life changes. It's a new time. End of story.

Let's take 1980, near the end of Sekou Toure's time, and a time when the economy has become more difficult. How was the scene then?

By 1980, we weren't playing as regularly any more. We played, but not like before. There were lots of other groups by then too. In every time, with music, it's the youth who earn all the money among us. That's why I tell you that times change. The current generation of young musicians earn the money.

Right up to today.

Yes.

But in 1980, you were still pretty strong.

Yes, less strong than before, but we still played a lot.

What was the effect on music in Guinea when Sekou Toure died in 1984? Was that a big deal?

Very much so. If you were an artist, a musician, a patriot, any conscious person, the death of President Sekou Toure was a shock. Then, as I told you, times changed. Before the death of President Sekou Toure, he asked us whether we wanted to have autonomy from the government. We said that we did, that we would like to try being autonomous. So he gave each national band a bar. We had our bar, which was called Club Bembeya. This was almost in 1984; a few months later he was dead. He gave us Club Bembeya, and he even got us instruments. Bala et Ses Baladins had Jardins du Guinea. Keletigui et Ses Tambourinis had La Paillote. Horoya Band was at La Minier. He said, "If this works for you, no problem. But if it doesn't work, we will see what else we can do for you." But then he was dead.

Let's talk for a moment about Sekou Toure in general. He is a very interesting figure, but also a paradoxical one. We know, as you say, that he was a great man of culture who did things that all of Africa must thank him for. He changed the history of music. But he was also very tough. If we look at what happened to Keita Fodeba, who was his friend but who was later killed by him. How do you put all that together?

No. What I would like here is for us to talk only about the musical side. As far as the political side, I know nothing about that. We should just talk about the area of music. There, I can tell you whatever you like, but as for the political side, I have nothing to say about that.

Okay. It's interesting to me that so many African musicians have strong relationships with political leaders, but very few actually sing about politics in their songs. Even in interviews, others have declined to discuss politics with me. Would you say that by its nature, Guinean music is not political music?

Because, you know, you are with a man you respect and who has given you all of your dignity. We sing social songs. We sing songs that advise people to do good things, for themselves and for the country. We sing love songs as well. We sing songs about work. Yes. So that is our objective so that the country concerns itself with its problems. That's it.

Tell me about some of the most important songs in the history of Bembeya Jazz, in terms of the lyrics. What are the most important songs?

The first big success among the songs of Bembeya Jazz was "Dembaty Gallant," which I sang myself. It was my composition in 1964. That song was a total success in the country. Women even designed a fabric for that song.

What did the song say?

It talks about a woman with her baby. Be careful. Pay attention. Don't joke around too much. Like that.



A song of daily life.

Voila. That song really interested the women. It was the first big, big success of Bembeya Jazz. Then there was "Armee Guinea," which the Voice of America played often. There was "Mami Wata." That was a popular song. The name is Anglophone, but it had been passed from generation to generation in the Koninke language, where we were. It's about the demoness of water. Mami Wata, like the English word.

The demoness of water. Like Yemanya among the Yoruba.

Voila. It's the same idea. So there was that. There was "Whisky Soda," "Super Tentemba." Then the biggest one of all was "Regard Sur le Passe." That was supreme.

That was for Samory Toure.

And it is a music that does not die.

Eric Charry writes in his book that most of the horn players in these bands came from military bands and were more familiar with European music, but the string players, especially guitarists, came from the tradition of griotism. He says that it was the mixing of these two experiences that created this music.

That's it.

And he says that the song "Regard Sure le Passe" was a very important moment in the ascendancy of tradition in popular music.

Yes, yes. "Regard Sur le Passe" is a masterpiece.

It's interesting, because you went into popular music not to avoid tradition.

No.

But to have a different musical experience.

Thank you.

But in the context of Sekou Toure's Guinea you had to bring the two things together, tradition and modernity. Were you happy with that?

Very happy. Right up to this day. I am very proud of that.

What was the competition like between these groups--Bembeya, Keletigui, Horoya?

It wasn't mean, but when you have competition--as the word suggests--you don't want to lose. If I am competing with you, I want to win. It's not mean, but it's a struggle. … No, it isn't like that. No, no, no, no. Each one of us, we talk, we greet one another. Ohhh!

It's perhaps like the competition between OK Jazz and African Jazz in Congo.

Voila. Really. It was something like that. There weren't disputes between us. We saw each other. We greeted. We competed. One would say, "I'm going to be number one." The other he would say, "It's me who is going to be number one." We would greet each other that way at the end of the day, "May the best win." Ah, yes.

What did you have to have as a band to be on top? There are so many things you can do--change the music, add new instruments, write better songs, play longer shows. What kinds of things did you do to win? For instance, when you listen now, can you say, that idea came from Bembeya Jazz?

Oh yes. Because every band had its arranger. It's true that a single person cannot do everything 100%, and what is clear is that there is one who guides. Without him, nothing can work. To me, it's clear. Is that not true? So this is why there was the difference--when you heard Bala, you knew right away that was Bala; when you heard Keletigui, you knew right away that was Keletigui; when you heard Horoya Band, you knew right away that was Horoya Band. And when you heard Bembeya Jazz, you knew that was Bembeya Jazz. That's it.

And you were the arranger there.

Tout a fait. You have followed me up to this minute.

And it was like that from the start.

That's it. Yes. God gave me the gift to have that intelligence right up to this day. I hope that while we were rehearsing there you could follow a little. I was bringing in certain modifications in preparation for the recording we are going to make.

That's the most important thing, eh? The arranger.

That's it.

And this is what Eric Charry writes, that the skill of arranging was something that was not well developed among traditional musicians.

Yes.

But arranging came on very strongly during this period of the dance bands.

That's it. Exactly. You know that when God wants to help you with something, he makes it possible. He gives you the intelligence to do it. For example, I want to tell you the story of "Regard Sur le Passé," how it came about. "Regard Sur le Passé." When the president was preparing for the human remains of the heroes who came from Gabon and Guinea--that is Almamy Samory Toure, Alpha Diallo, and Morifina Diabate--to return to be buried in Guinea now, he said that there must be music composed for this occasion. The president sent a circular to all the big groups, all the national orchestras, and even the ensemble instrumental.

What year was that?

It was… Oh! I will ask the year. I will ask Askia; he will tell you. Something like 1970. So the chef d'orchestre at that time was Hamidou Diawane. It was not Kaba. Hamidou Diawane was the first band leader. We spent almost 26 years together. Everyone of us had a meeting at La Paillote. No, pardon. It was Jardin du Guinea, because we played there at that time. We met there and we said, "What should we do?" What should we do? So we went from left to right, and me because I am a griot, I already knew. When I was young, my father had played this song for me. I said to my colleagues, "Why don't we play 'Samory?'" They said, "You know the song for Samory?" I said, "I don't know the song for Samory, but I know that the song for Samory exists, and as there is the Instrumental Ensemble here, and they are of the same generation as my father, it's sure that they will know." So they said, "You will concern yourself with that and record the song." I had a tape recorder at the time. I took my tape recorder. Salifou was with me. We went to the rehearsal fro the Instrumental Ensemble, and we recorded the song, and the text--the story--Salifou concerned himself with that.

The song is "Keme Burema," isn't it?

No, there are many songs there, historical songs.

I see. "Keme Burema" is just one of them. That's the song for the brother of Samory, right?

Voila. Exactly. For the general of the army. So that's the story of "Regard Sur le Passe." All the bands had prepared their concerts, and we presented that. I think it was in 1968, in the Presidential Palace, and when we played, "Regard Sur le Passe," everyone said, "What is that?" [LAUGHS] And we won the first prize.

So that was the first time you had real griotism in a popular band, and of course, people were astonished.

Complete astonished! Keletigui presented for Samory; Bala presented for him; Horoya band presented. But "Regard Sur le Passe" was something else again.

So after that, Manding tradition became more interesting to the dance bands like Bembeya Jazz. Is that true?

Certainly. Afterwards we had other concerts. Then later, in 1973, we said, let's change the style. Let's put on a real show, hot. We did our first one in 1973, with girls, everyone moving. That was something else also.

Now I have to ask you a sad question, about the death of your great singer, Demba Camara.

Demba. Okay, we were invited to Dakar, and we had to play that same night. So when we arrived, I had a friend who worked as a constable at the Guinean Embassy. He came to welcome us at the airport. It was he who said, "Sekou, if you want, you can use my car." I said, good. No problem. I took his car. It was a Peugeot 504. There was a chauffeur. I called Salifou. He went in front with the others, as we had to where we were going to play and set up the instruments. Then afterwards, we would go and wash up, and get ready for the soirée dansante.. Just as we were leaving, Demba got into the car. He said he was tired and he wanted to rest at the hotel. We said, no, we're not going to the hotel yet. We had to go to the venue. He said, "No, really, I'm tired. I want to go to the hotel." So we were having a little discussion there and we drove on.

I don't really know what happened. Maybe the chauffeur was driving a little too fast. On a turn, the car rolled over. And when the car rolled, the car stayed upside-down. The chauffeur, Salifou and I were all still in the car. The others were behind us in another car, following. When they arrived, they saw that Demba had been thrown out of the car. He never spoke again. And soon he died.

Wow. So then afterwards, this was a very hard time for the band.

Yes it was. It was very, very hard for us. It was Demba who had sung "Regard sur le Passe."

Let's come up to more recent times. When I visited you in Conakry in 1992, you were doing some gigs, but not with the full band. What was the state of Bembeya Jazz at this point?

The band was not broken up. In life, there are ups and downs, good moments and bad moments. So you wait. Life is like that. So we can't say that the band was broken up. Never, never. We were waiting.

The last recording before this was in 1988, right?

Yes. That's tough, eh?

But during that time, you made recordings with your wife, Djanka Diabaté, and you made a beautiful acoustic album.

Yes. Oh, you heard that? Diamond Fingers? [LAUGHS]

Oh, you bet. I wrote about it.

You have to send me that stuff for my press book. That's important!

Okay, and there's more coming. So, tell me about the revival of the group for this project. How did this happen?

It's like a factory that has problems. The factory may not be working, but the workers are still there. We had no projects on the outside. Before that, we used to get contracts in Europe, but that stopped. When Christian Mousset met us in 1999 at the Festival at Willet (???), he proposed a project to me. He said he wanted to make a recording of Bembeya Jazz for his new label. He said, there is you and the Rail Band. First I will do the Rail Band and Djelimady, then you too will make an album with the band, and a solo album. I said, with pleasure! So when the time came, we started rehearsing. Everyone was very happy.




Christian is quite an important man in the history of this music, isn't he?

Exactly. He said, "Sekou, truly I want to do something with you because you launched the best African band, and today there are very few big African bands in the market. They've all gone off to become individual acts. So my goal now is to look at the old bands, to go back." So we have been very happy with this program. Because this is the true face of Manding music. That's very important. When you talk about the real originality and modernity of the music, it's us. That's why we're important. In whatever country we visit, we can do what we do and Guinea is there. That's what you call the culture of a country, it's true face. You and I do not resemble each other, but we have the same form. That's what makes the difference on the level of music. Everyone must have his style of music, his way of working the music, his musical identity. That's it. That's why we've always worked. Whether we earn money or we don't earn money, the real fans of this music--like you, for example--this work makes you proud. It pleases you. That's our aim at all times.

You talked about the fact that the youth have the ears of the public at all times. Looking now at the scene in Guinea, is there a chance for a new wave of popularity for Bembeya Jazz there?

But of course. People love us a lot in Conakry. They are proud of Bembeya Jazz. They feel this in African in general.

Mamadi Kouyaté, one of the newest members of the group, told me that there was a very important moment when you played at Kérouané for the 100th anniversary of Samory. Tell me about that.

Oh, yes. [LAUGHS] That was extraordinary, a fabulous moment, something I'll never forget. It was at Kérouané, it was the 100th anniversary of Almamy Samory Toure. It was a great day. His only heir was there with her daughter, Ami Toure. We performed "Regard Sur le Passe" with a few modifications.

A moment to relive history, both yours and his.

That's it. I'm going to talk to Christian about that. I think it's time to record a version of "Regard Sur le Passe" in an English version. There's a project. If you can do that, maybe with a partner, I think it will sell a lot of copies in the United States.

There's an idea.

Think about that.

But before that ceremony, you were living in Paris with Djanka for a few years, I understand, and that event brought the band back together, right?


Yes. I got the call to come back to Conakry. I left everything and I went. It was a new beginning.

Mamadi also told me what a hard time he is having organizing the band's equipment because the government doesn't do anything to support musicians as it did in the past. He seems to feel that today's government no longer understands how important music can be for the country. What do you think of all that?

I can't condemn what he says, but I also cannot condemn the government, because everyone has his idea, his way to move things along. You can't make someone do what he doesn't want to do. If we don't have the same chance with them, maybe one day, we'll find a relationship with someone else. Life is like that. You can't condemn someone because they don't do what you want them to. Is that not true?

Yes.

But, okay. You might say that I'm a fanatic, but for me, the destiny of a man is in the hands of God. That's why I don't condemn people for what they do or don't do. Christian Mousset, for example. He stayed here, but he thought about us. That's God. From all these miles away, he thought about Bembeya. That's God. If someone doesn't do something for us, there will be another. I don't condemn someone for that.

I follow you. For me, it's not about a particular country, or government, or leader. I just have the hope that African governments in general could rediscover a little of the old inspiration for the arts that Modibo Keita and Sekou Toure had. Because truly, this is a great richness that is being lost in many countries. Christian has done a lot, but why does he have so much ability? It's partly because the French government understands this and gives him money to do it. This festival couldn't exist without their support.

That's true. It's well financed.

This is a complaint I have about most African countries, not just Guinea. The great old music is not cared for.

It's not cared for. That's true. But that will change one day. Really.

Okay, let's talk about now. You are going to make your own album with Christian after this project. What's the plan? Big group? Small group?

My idea? It's a small group. I have two musical possibilities. I've already done a guitar album, as you know. Now, what I want to do is a mix of dance music styles. One part is the guitar. The other is music sung by myself. As always, three guitars, tumba, and two chorus singers.

But this won't be Bembeya Jazz.

No, it's Sekou Bembeya Diabate. You won't regret it!

I'm sure. Tell me about three guitars. Was it always that way?

All that is to improve the sound. Because we, with just one accompanist, with the evolution of the music in big halls and all that, we had to find another possibility to fill out the music. That's why I decided to take another accompanist.

When did you decide that?

Oh, it must be 20 years ago now. More than that.

I love the sound. I'm not a keyboard fan, but this way, the sound is full anyway.

That's it.

Not many groups do that. But it's good.

It's very good. It's original, and it's pleasant.

And Mamadi plays very well. He told me he was playing the solo in Bembeya while you were living in France.

Yes, yes. Exactly. You follow everything.

And the horn section is sounding great too. Let's talk about some of the songs you are recording. Tell me about "Sabou."

"Sabou" is the cause of something. For example, we can say that our arrival here is thanks to someone, Christian Mousset. That's "Sabou," the cause that makes something happen. The cause of my coming here, or of my happiness. Our sabou here is Christian Mousset.

Good. And who wrote that?

That was Sekouba [Bambino Diabate].

So in the 1980s sometime.

Yes. Because Sekouba came to the group in 1982.

Then, "Bapier."

That's a love song, but in the language of the forest. It starts in a classic style and it goes to the rhythm of the forest.

And what does the title mean?

I don't know the signification. The person who gave us that song is no longer in the band. It was Diagbe Traore.

Then "Bembeya International."

That's a composition from Demba. 1965, I think. The song talks about Bembeya, the band. The band is now national and international. From Guinea. If you come to Conakry, Bembeya is there.

Then there was another 6/8 song, "Akukuwe."

Okay, that's a social song. It comes from a circumcision ceremony. It's tradition. That was Nagna Mory Kouyate who wrote that song.

There's more of the rhythm of the forest there, eh?

There are two rhythms.

What about "Lefa."

This is like "Akoukouwe." It also comes from the circumcision ritual. Same thing. But that's a song by Aboubacar Demba. That's also very old. 1970. We can go over the others tomorrow.

That's fine. We've done a lot tonight!

Thank you, and be sure to greet all of America. Vive l'Amerique! Vive la Guinea!


Interview by Banning Eyre Afropop.org!!! THANK YOU!!!

The Story of Bembeya Jazz National

Afropop Worldwide's program, "The Story of Bembeya Jazz," packs a lot of history--musical and political--into a single hour. But of course, there's lot's more to say about this, one of the most significant bands in West Africa's modern history. This feature provides links to three of the background interviews we relied on in making this program. First is Sekou "Bembeya" Diabate, the band's star guitarist and defining personality. Then comes vocalist Salifou Kaba, who joined Bembeya in 1963. Finally, Eric Charry is the author of Mande Music (University of Chicago Press, 2000), the most extensive available English-language text on the music of the Mande people. The book contains lots of background on guitar bands like Bembeya Jazz, and this interview focuses particularly on Guinea and the political environment in which the band thrived, a subject that neither Sekou nor Salifou was particularly keen to discuss.

Another important informant for this program is Leo Sarkisian, now a legendary Voice of America host, programmer, and cultural ambassador. In the late 1950s, Leo was recruited by an Hollywood record label called Tempo International to travel and record music in far-flung locations. His work begun in Afghanistan, but soon, as African countries began to achieve independence, Tempo moved Leo to West Africa where he began his work in Ghana. In 1959, he moved to Guinea, now under the presidency of the young Sekou Toure. Leo wound up making the very first recording of what would become Bembeya Jazz. Here, in Leo's own words, is how it happened.

My boss said, "Okay, I've made arrangements with the Guinea government for you to go there." So we drove, my wife and I. From Ghana, we went up into Upper Volta, went over into the southern part of Mali and went in through Kankan, the back door. We got to the border. They looked at my passport and said, "This visa's no good." I said, "What do you mean?" Anyhow we went through this. So they said, "You'll have to go on to Conakry and let's see what the government is going to do." So they put a soldier in our jeep and we traveled together down all the way to Conakry. We went to the Defense Ministry, which was in charge of security at that time, and the Minister of Defense and Security was Fodeba Keita, who started that first Ballet Africain that came to the United States.




So he said, "I don't know where your company got the idea that you could come over here and start recording our music." You know, he still had that nationalistic feeling: "This is our music and these foreign companies are coming and exploiting into Africa." To their minds, it was like the old French companies and the British who would go down and make recordings for sale commercially. So they still had this distrust of foreigners. But we made friends. He said, "Let me extend your visa. At least you can visit our country while you're here and you can listen to some of our music. But I don't think you can stay here and record." So I said, "Okay." So I came into town and I got a little apartment. I just went ahead and rented an apartment. And I looked around, and there was a little office right next to the Swiss Embassy, right downtown, that was empty. And the French landlord from my apartment said, "You know, that place is empty. It doesn't cost very much. We can get you that at a low price and you can keep all your equipment there." So I rented this office, and set up all my equipment. I put on my Ghanain tapes and started editing them, just going there every day.

About three weeks later, a man showed up. He said, "I'm from the Ministry of Information, Mr Diop." He sent his car and said he would like to talk to me. This was the head of broadcasting, Alasane Diop, who later on, they killed. But anyhow, heck of a nice guy. He himself was an engineer, and he said, "I'm happy that you're here. We are now ready to work together." You see, they watched me for these three weeks and saw what I was doing. And there was a need for me, because the French had left Radio Conakry with nothing. There was only one other technician who spoke very little English--a couple of words. They had two broken-down Ampexes. That's all they had.

So first, I helped get the two Ampexes going, and they started putting some programs on the air. And then the minister said, "You know, in the mornings; you can come early, because in the morning, I have all my staff gather." This was their morning staff meeting with the Radio Director, the Program Director and all his information people. I'd go there and sit next to him and watch them do all their staff meeting every day. And they took a liking to me.

Then the minister said, "You know, we have never really done a collection. There are places that we really haven't recorded any music at all. I'm going to assign my best technician." And then he says, "There's an old man here who is a father of griots, the famous Diabate--Sidiki Diabate. He's going to be with you all the time. He knows all the musicians. He used to be a government official in most of the regions. Sidiki Diabate was the father of Papa Diabate, the guitar player. And his brother, Sekou "Docteur" Diabate is a guitar player also.

So we started going from region to region making recordings. I recorded the famous Orchestra Beyla. They were just being formed in Beyla. Sekou Diabate was there. Then they called themselves Orchestra Bembeya. But when they were first getting it together, that was in Beyla. Then we went all the way down to Nzerekore and did a lot of folk and traditional music there, and we went up in Kankan. Anyhow, we recorded all these various ivory tusk horn groups, Kisidugu, little guitar groups and all that.

And Sekou Toure took a big interest in this. And of course, after our first trip, Diabate took me and he says, "Sekou Toure is very much interested in what we're doing and he wants to help." So he gave his little plane, his aeroplane, private plane. He said, "Any time you want to go to a region, my plane is there." With a Russian pilot. Again, at that time, the Russians were actually in charge. I mean, they were running everything. But Sekou Toure used to tell me personally. "You know," he said, "It's only the American press that calls me a communist. I'm not. I'm an Africanist." And he wouldn't let the Russians go into the radio station. That was a no-no for them. He made sure. And he let me. And the Russians were going crazy again. Unbelievable, you know. Here's this American over there going traveling around in the interior of the country and everything. So I was having a ball.

And Kandia Kouyate was the lead singer, and we helped to form the first National Folkloric Orchestra. We worked together. I started teaching the singers and the musicians what microphones were all about and how to use them, where to stand and all that. And we got a couple of more technicians and showed them how to set up microphones for vocals, where to put the microphones for the instruments and the drums so that we'd get a good sound. And with Diabate, we gave a list of names of the best musicians that we had located throughout the country. Then Sekou Toure would give the order. He would bring those musicians. Wherever we found a good singer or a guitar player, he would bring them in. They got a place to live and clothes. And they had to come every day and rehearse. That was their job. They were getting paid now as musicians for the first time. So Sekou Toure actually did that for the country. But he had a very important mission also. The purpose behind all this, he said, "I want people in this country to think that they are no longer a Fula, or a Mandinka, or a Malinke, or a Sousou---They are all Guinean." He said, "We will do this with the music." And there were all these nationalistic songs. Of course, a lot of them were singing about him."

Leo eventually developed a friendly relationship with Sekou Toure. When Toure tried to stop foreign music from being played on the radio, Leo had the nerve to joke with the president that the VOA would be very happy about this because now everybody would stop listening to Radio Guinea and started listening to the Voice of America. "He just smiled," recalled Leo. He probably knew it was the truth." It was a move Toure couldn't really carry through. The radio stopped playing Western music and all the orchestras began to compose songs on their own folkloric themes. "I remember Bembeya when I went to Beyla, they were practicing a number called Wassoulou, an old Malinke hunter's song. You can feel it. It's real folkloric and yet it was arranged for an orchestra. I like it. I think it was a good move." At the same time, after he left Guinea, Leo saw what happened as Sekou Toure became more and more paranoid and violent. Looking back, he has no illusions about Toure.



He killed my best friend, Fodeba Keita. He threw Alasane Diop into jail. He said that there was a conspiracy building up against him. Now Karim Bangoura, who became minister of Information and Broadcasting after they put Alasane into jail, later became Ambassador to the United States in Washington. Now while he was in Washington, Sekou Toure thought that he was making a conspiracy against to overthrow him. So he was brought back and killed. Then there were a bunch of young intellectuals who had studied in Paris. So after Independence, a lot of these guys were given nice jobs in the government. A number of these also disappeared or were killed. This was the intelligencia. He did away with them.

He was ruthless and he knew that there were conspiracies against him. And he was a womanizer. In fact, you know what I had the nerve to tell him, and he got the biggest kick out of it. When I had my first exhibition, I had about 60 full-sized portraits of Guinean women. [Sexy stuff at that.] When he came to see the exhibit, he said, `My God, they're all women. You're getting all the beauty of the women over here. Why?' I said, `I like women like you do.' My friends from the radio station were standing there. They wouldn't dare say that to him, but they all got the biggest kick out of it. He just smiled. He trusted me so much that every year when he had the big PDG party, I used to go with the technicians and set up all the microphones for him and all the congress. He knew exactly what I was doing there every day. Anyway, while I was still there in Conakry [in 1963, the American ambassador came and he said, "I have a visitor coming who wants to meet you." And a couple of days later, he sent a messenger and said, "The ambassador will be coming here this morning to your home with a visitor." So my wife prepared a little luncheon, and there was a knock on the door. We opened the door, and there, just lighting a cigarette, was Edward R. Murrow.

Murrow was there on behalf of President Kennedy to ask Leo to join Voice of America. Another chapter in Leo's remarkable story was about to begin…


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Bembeya Jazz National - The Syliphone Years

Reviews

Bembeya Jazz was one of the first regional bands to become national exponents of the modernization of traditional indigenous African music. In time, they became legendary innovators of modern African music known all over the world. This double-CD set contains their best singles from the 1960s and '70s plus some rare music previously unavailable in any format. The Cuban influence is evident on some of the tracks, but Bembeya Jazz blended this with indigenous styles to create a unique take all their own. All of this music was recorded on Guinea's legendary Syliphone label. The sound quality is quite good given that some of the tracks are vinyl transfers since the 45 rpm master tapes have been lost. In 2001, Metoura Traore, a pioneering musician of the same period of these recordings, said, "Guinean music was the avant-garde of African music...it was like the lighthouse to music in Africa. And they said it couldn't be done -- to modernize African music." This set is a jewel in the crown in African music. ~ Mark Romano

In 1958 Guinea gained its independence from 60 years of French colonial rule. One of the first things that President Toure did was to help restore his country's historical pride and heritage through an authentic renaissance of the arts, particularly music.

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The music made in Guinea during the first two decades after independence from France in 1958 represents some of the most sublime and influential that any West African nation has ever produced. Backed by Sékou Touré's socialist government, groups from every region of the country were encouraged to modernise their ancient musical traditions and were given the financial assistance to do so. And of all the musical riches that this policy unearthed, those of Bembeya Jazz National were the finest.

If you weren't quite convinced by the band's 2002 comeback album Bembeya, and the recent Guitar Fö from their mighty guitarist Sékou Diabaté, this 2-CD compilation really shows what all the fuss was about. It's a thorough selection of their best work for the national Syliphone label, which began releasing local music in the mid 1960s. For those already familiar with compilations like Mémoire de Aboubacar Demba Camara -at least half of which is reproduced here -the first disc, which includes many early singles previously unavailable on CD, will be a revelation.

Highlights? Pretty much the whole damn thing, though it depends on your mood, such is the variety of styles they experimented with. All the ingredients that made their music so wonderful are there on their first single "République Guinée"; the trademark off-key brass section, grooving percussion, Sékou Diabaté's exquisite guitar and the distinctively savoury vocals of Demba Camara. Apart from updating the griot songs of their largely Maninka heritage, the band revelled in outside influences.

Titles like "Sabor de Guajira", "Montuno de la Sierra" and the rumba-flavoured gem "Dagna" illustrate the passion for Cuban music which they shared with many West African musicians of their generation. Likewise, "Mami Wata" is an affectionate nod to Ghanaian highlife, and "Sou" takes a short trip to Cape Verde. The compilation brings us as far as 1976, three years after the death of Demba Camara, by which time their sound was beginning to take on a soukous flavour.

Those who are fussy about sound quality should perhaps be warned that some of the recordings are copied from vinyl rather than the original master tapes, but also that this music is about ambience, not accuracy. The only major omission is anything from the epic Regard sur le Passé, probably because as Graeme Counsel's excellent sleevenotes explain it consists of a single song spread over two sides of vinyl, and is best heard in its entirety. Otherwise, its hard to fault this superlative and long overdue re-issue, which commemorates a truly golden era in African music. If the brooding, majestic grace of Ballake doesn't give you goosebumps, you should probably see a doctor soon.

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Cuba's cultural relationship to Congo was borne of the slave trade, but its bond to Guinea was a touch more metaphysical-- the socialist dream. Dreamers-- especially those dreaming after a contradictory and untenable political system-- know the necessity of sticking together: Part of Guinea President Ahmed Sékou Touré's guard was made up of Havana's troops, and in 1965, Bembeya Jazz, Guinea's national orchestra, toured Cuba, where vocalist Aboubacar Camara supposedly brought tears to the eyes of the respected Orquesta Sensación singer Abelardo Barroso.

The Syliphone Years reissues a 2004 compilation of the same name, gathering the band's singles from the 1960s and 70s recorded for the state-run Syliphone label. Bembeya's music has plenty in common with the Congolese rumba popularized by artists like Tabu Ley Rochereau and Franco in the 50s and 60s-- Sékou Touré wanted the national orchestras in Guinea to infuse a modern, popular African sound with Guinean folk music-- but the rhythms feel more skittery, the tone more nocturnal and meandering. There's plenty of hustle, but you get the sense that the wallflower beauty of Bembeya's quieter moments would leave more dance-imperative Congolese with raised eyebrows.

Bembeya is at least partially distinguished by the electric guitar work of Sekou Diabaté, who did as much to make one rethink the possibilities of the instrument as D. Boon from the Minutemen or, well, the aforementioned Franco. All of these guitarists made a style out of musical diplomacy by tying together rhythmic elements within their band. When Diabaté peeks out, it's in predictable ways-- like Boon, who always played the same guitar solo-- but he doesn't often do so; it's as a liaison, not a soloist, that he's most effective. He's a rhythm guitarist, but-- and I said the same about the his playing on the African Virtuoses compilation-- the rhythm is all ornament and arpeggio rather than strum and jangle, here featuring trails of rudimentary echo and reverb.

The impression is like a sky littered with stars. Bembeya never let a drone loose, but the constant interweaving and syncopation of staccato horn, guitar, percussion, and the dub-like bass voids of Mamadou Camara (which warrant special mention), make a continuum of sound. And while Bembeya's music was calculated to rally the greatest number at the lowest common denominator for the socialist cup, it's still great music to dance to (especially when one's other options, save Cuba, are the near-absolute groovelessness of North Korean pop or barrel-chested Soviet choirs).

Identifying a sound or band with their place of origin-- calling them the "sound of" their home-- often serves as a fanfare for a lot of tenuous metaphors. And tenuous metaphors have their place, absolutely. But it's a stranger thing still to consider that Bembeya was the sound of Guinea because the government made them so. It's not often people pipe up on behalf of for Naval brass bands, though maybe they would if Naval brass bands weren't so darn square.

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In the late 1960s through the 1970s, Guinea’s Bembeya Jazz was one of the most important – and majestic-sounding – bands working in, and inventing as they went along, the then-new West African electrified griot style. Begun as a state-sponsored arts project for the propagation of local music under the aegis of Socialist President Sekou Toure, Bembeya nonetheless incorporated a blend of diverse flavors – including the jazz, Cuban music, and Congo-style electric guitar rumba so beloved by West Africans at the time – into a music based solidly on the griot and folk traditions of the ancient Malian Empire.

The two CD set The Syliphone Years represents Bembeya during the period of their most dynamic, creative work and greatest popularity, and gives ample evidence of what made this band so special. On classic singles and album tracks from the early ’70s, a perfect and precise interlock of percussion, electric bass, sharp horn section accents, and balafon-like supporting guitar patterns limn a riverbed so that the soloists – among them, guitarist Sekou “Diamond Fingers” Diabate, trumpeter Sekou “Le Growl” Camara, and the sublime vocalist Demba Camara – can flow along with the rippling current.

Guitarist Sekou Diabate is one of the great virtuosos of African – or any other, for that matter – electric guitar. His crystalline reverb-and-echo laden lines take flight with surprising twists and turns, summoning the essences of instruments like West African kora, balafon, or Cuban tres, tracing quicksilver Sahelian calligraphic patterns that leave the listener breathless. Singer Demba Camara’s delivery of traditionally-inspired moral parables in a dance band setting combines elegance and a tinge of vulnerability, his voice rich with the same sort of yearning, spiritual expression to be heard in Marvin Gaye’s 1971 masterpiece What’s Going On.

Demba Camara’s charismatic performances and graceful, empowered modern take on traditional culture were in some ways the heart of Bembeya Jazz, and his tragic death in a car accident in 1973 nearly destroyed the band. But after a period of mourning, Bembeya went on. The later tracks here, from 1976, reveal the band’s development of a looser-limbed approach, kick-drum driven, with increasing influences from disco and funk, Ghanaian highlife and Congolese soukous; a slower, more spacious groove for the soloists – Diamond Fingers in particular – to ripple along with, to soar above.

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Tracklist

[CD 1]
01. Republique Guinee
02. Sabor de guajira
03. Armee Guineenne
04. Dembaty galant
05. Air Guinee
06. Guinee hety horemoun
07. Montuno de la sierra
08. Waraba
09. Dagna
10. Doni doni
11. Camara mousso
12. Super tentemba
13. Mami wata
14. Alalake

[CD 2]
01. Beyla
02. Fatoumata
03. Moussogbe
04. Sou
05. N'gamokorô
06. Ballake
07. Mussofing
08. Dya dya
09. Sina mousso
10. N'temena
11. Telephone
12. Petit Sekou