There’s something about African culture through the myriad of diversity that makes great creativity. Such a wonderful shining quality. Of course this is a cliche and a gross generalisation. But do indulge with me.
This morning I read something about art saying that good art is necessarily generous. There’s a generosity in African art and culture, a rich vibrance that’s runs deep and far and maybe even beyond money. Agile, it’s often adapted, tweaked, stretched and extended from pop imports through the ages. Running back through generations and centuries. Aural traditions and story telling flow and rich rhythms are rife.
Specialist in all Styles is the title of the album of one of my favourite bands. I’m listening to them as I type from the pre-written stuff that I illegibly scribbled before breakfast in bed. They are called Orchestra Baobab. The name comes from a hair stylist poster. Their music is a rich hybrid of African rhythms, jazz and Cuban styles.
What westerners would probably laugh at and interpret as an impossibility or at least a cheeky arrogance, I think is quite literal and confident and true.
Western specialisation, following Marilyn Monroe in song, suggests a boring money making power game, albeit sung with more than a touch of occasional glamour.
The African generalisation of the term here is expressive, inclusive, fun and full of life and love.
I saw them in concert at Somerset House in the heart of London town a few years ago. It was so strange to see this exuberantly vibrant happy African band in this setting. The saxophonist was bubbling with joyful energy and could hardly contain his smile within the confines of the sterile colonial architecture.
Ok, it wasn’t quite Anikulapo at Buckingham Palace but you get the picture. To see them against this backdrop was truly surreal.
As the last note faded away it was as if the place sank into a haunted hospital and someone threw a huge bucket of disinfectant over it all.
I don’t know who had the last laugh or quite how to make sense of it all but in my memory the saxophonist’s smile endures and shines through. Somerset House remains a decaying monument to colonialism - full of security guards and overpriced, boring art exhibitions. And I don’t even know the name of the man with shining smile.
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