Western African Articles

 Bikut-si music is historically rooted in the cultural traditions of the Beti people. The Beti today comprise roughly one half million people, divided into the Ewondo, Bulu, and Eton clans. Despite subtle group differences, the Beti language is the common thread that unites these groups with a common Cameroonian identity and history. The Beti have historically inhabited villages spread throughout the equatorial forest region surrounding urban Yaoundé, and further South into neighboring Equatorial Guinea.1 More recently, the Beti’s general trend has been a steady migration into Yaoundé, Cameroon’s urban and political capital, which offers greater access to modern amenities, educational opportunities, and finally better hopes at finding a job of financial means. However, to witness Beti tradition in its purist form, the surrounding villages in the countryside still offer the best alternatives.

 The Beti’s music, bikut-si, is a rootsy and brutal musical style that has evolved into one of Cameroon’s most popular forms of cultural expression. In fact, bikut-si is lately running a close race for first in popularity and has even surpassed the export-friendly makossa music of urban Douala. Yet in its ability to transform with the requirements of modernity, Bikut-si music has been able to retain much of its rich cultural and traditional heritage, refusing to abandon those elements which make up its core, thrust, and strength. It is this balance - or equilibrium - between cultural tradition and modernity which has made bikut-si music so appealing to Cameroonians, African music fans, and roots purists. Bikut-si makes for a fascinating evolutionary study, albeit one which has, until recently, been starkly overlooked by historians.

 Bikut-si is characterized by its intense and instantly recognizable 6/8 pounding rhythm. It’s a beat that grabs you, grooves you, and finally overpowers you into stomping your feet rhythmically to the beat. Once you’ve heard it, it is forever impossible to mistake bikut-si for any other Central African music style. Likewise, one does not need to look further than its name for a literal definition of bikut-si. Bi is a term used by the Beti to pluralize whatever word happens to come after it. Kut is the Beti word meaning to "hit" or "pound vigorously" a solid surface in a continuous fashion. Si is Betifor the ground - or more literally cultivable land. Put together, Bikut-si means to beat the ground continuously. Bikut-si has traditionally been used as a form of communication, culturally tying together the Beti people through performances that exhibit tradition, group pride and solidarity. Bikut-si has historically functioned at a number of levels, ranging anywhere from small group gatherings of friends and neighbors to full-fledged ceremonies such as the funeral.3 Most important have been the village community ceremonies or rituals which have traditionally defined just what it signifies to be a Beti.

 Historically, these traditional Beti ceremonies could be divided into two phases: the Ekang phase where all things imaginary or mythological are discussed, and the Bikut-si phase, where all real-world issues are brought to light.4 During such celebrations, the stringed mvet instrument (a double-sided acoustic harp with calabash amplification) is used by the Beti storytellers. The mvet functions as an oral history book, which the Beti believe was given to the storytellers by God as a vehicle to transmit knowledge to the people.5 In the Ekang phase of celebration, stories and knowledge are presented that deal with fantasy, mythology (the Beti’s Akoma Mba has traditionally been a parallel to Zeus6), and the origins of the ancient world. This Ekang phase involves hand clapping, dancing, recitations, and is traditionally an all-night affair. At various points during the sacred Ekang repertoire, balafon (njang xylophone) players break out into a more animated, impromptu, and often profane performance, signaling a shift to the Bikut-si phase were more earthly issues are discussed.7 The Bikut-si phase is traditionally very free-formed and improvised, with Beti women who dance and sing choruses to further animate the balafon music. The songs, led on by this group of Beti women, would focus on such issues as the trials and tribulations of everyday life, as well as a more imaginative repertoire of sexual taboos and fantasies which they wished to bring to light.8  The improvised and usually erotic female choruses are at the heart of the Beti’s bikut-si tradition. In the middle of such a song, "a woman would start a chorus leading to a frenzied dance or rhythmic foot-stamping, harmoniously shaking the shoulders-back- bottom-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap, in that order."9 All this was accompanied by the others women’s screams and whistles, as well as the ever-present background of lush balafon rhythms. This profane aspect is at the very heart of bikut-si’s lyrics, and one can roughly define the songs into a set of reoccurring themes. Most notorious, as already mentioned, are those lyrics dealing directly with the erotic and sexual side of living, whether it be fantasy, societal taboo, or expressed frustrations from a Beti woman to her husband. The other themes which most often reoccur deal with the trials and tribulations of everyday life, social satyr or commentary, and aspects of love.10 But it is the eroticism that is most notorious during the improvised foot-stamping sessions of traditional bikut-si music. 

 Finally, traditional bikut-si had many important functions within the Beti’s village society. One dances this proto-bikut-si when visiting friends or relatives, at weddings, and in the everyday dealings within the business community. More formal traditions included the so ritual, the mevungu ritual, the funeral, and the blood-stirring war rhythm which called fighters to arms.11 The notorious and feared so ritual is a grueling series of tests which if passed signals an adolescent boy’s passage into manhood and away from the fears of his youth. The mevungu ritual occurs when a group of women would gather together to dance away the night, the goal of which was to abstain from having sex during those hours for 9 days.12 Finally, the cry to war dance provided soldiers with an adrenaline rush as well as physically prepared them for upcoming fights of defense or conquest.13 These ceremonies represent the crux of Beti tradition as well as Bikut-si’s function in definining what makes a Beti really a Beti.

  The development of so-called modern bikut-si music owes a great deal to the urbanization phenomenon where a steady influx of villagers migrated into Yaoundé’s urban center from the surrounding forest region. This mass exodus from the countryside was done in the hopes of securing better jobs and prosperity, often times resulting in shattered dreams. It was in the 1950’s, during this urbanization trend, that Yaoundé saw a significant increase in the presence and development of the bar scene. The bar would come to serve as a weekend hangout, often catering to various ethnic groups and offering a taste of home for the ex-villager.14 During this time bars sprang up on almost every street, boasting alluring and feminine names to entice the frustrated male client. Yaoundé bars were most often created by functionaries hoping to cash in on the profitable alcohol trade associated with the growth of Cameroon’s Brasserie Industry.15 The immense number of dissatisfied immigrants helped ensure both the bar’s and the Brasserie Industry’s thriving success. Besides for just satisfying the need to relax, drink, and escape reality for a while, Yaoundé’s bar scene also functioned by giving ex-villagers a place to call home.16  In the Beti’s case, this meant offering traditional bikut-si balafon tradition in this new and urban bar setting.

 In Yaoundé, when all else hinted of colonialism and urbanization, at least the local bar could offer some culture and tradition to counteract these outside influences. Indeed, even the idea of a weekend was a colonial and thus foreign concept. But the Beti’s balafon tradition was able to transcend the seven-day-division of the week, and tie the Beti psychologically to the timelessness of their tradition.17 Thus the bars that were to thrive and remain in demand were one’s which offered this taste of home. This meant forming a regular group of musicians into an orchestra whose home was to be the Yaoundé bar. A typical orchestra would consist of 3 to 5 balafons, one bass balafon, two more balafons would play against one another, and finally other percussion instruments.18 The balafon’s unique "thonk" sound, coming from its construction of wood blocks suspended on calabashes, would allow it to function as both a harmony as well as a percussive instrument. Musicians, living in this bar environment, became notorious for heavy drinking and often times would be drunk during performance.19 This, combined with the fact that there was no formal music schools or training for balafon players in Cameroon, meant that the music lacked technique. In most cases the sound was not overly developed, and the artists knew their limits.20 Yet despite their lack of technique and training, Yaoundé’s balafon orchestras of the 1950’s stayed true to their traditions, function, and sound. An example was the Richard Band de Zoetele, which not only held tight to bikut-si’s traditional message and sound, but was also received relatively well by the public.21 The band, however, lost momentum and eventually fizzled from the scene when the call arose to modernize the orchestra’s sound.

 The Richard Band de Zoetele was unable to overcome the technical difficulties of electrifying the balafon’s sound, hence giving it modern appeal.22 Thus in its purely traditional structure, the balafon orchestra was relatively short lived, and was really only a presence during the 1950’s. Because of bikut-si’s ethnic Beti identity, the balafon orchestra was subject to stereotypes created by outsiders. To such outsiders, the bikut-si sound and lyrics came to represent all things "savage," and in many cases bikut-si was simply considered a "forest" phenomenon thus its patrons "villageoise."23 These first evolving stereotypes of bikut-si were a reflection of the clash resulting from the melding together of pure Beti cultural tradition and the colonial and religious mindset of Yaoundé’s evolving urban landscape.

  By the end of the 1950’s, bikut-si music appeared to be seriously threatened with extinction due to the demands for modernity. The traditional balafon orchestra had a veritable inability to adapt to the public’s needs. It was thus common knowledge that bikut-si’s sound was at this point stagnant, relatively uncreative, and unable to keep up with the times.24 A solution had to be found - all that could save bikut-si from imminent perish was an innovator. In Yaoundé, musicians struggled with this challenge, but their lack of technical skills, creativity, and their inability to electrify and properly record the balafon orchestra hindered all such attempts. Were it not, then, for Messi Me Nkonda Martin, now more simply known as the "father of modern bikut-si music," bikut-si would have followed it’s prescribed course into obscurity.

 Messi Martin was a talented local musician whose early love for Spanish music - especially the acoustic guitar’s prominent role in Spanish music - led him to become an ardent student of the guitar.25 It might appear strange that Spanish music would be an influential factor to a Yaoundé musician until one considers that neighboring Equatorial Guinea had Spanish language broadcasts whose short-wave signals could be picked up on a radio in Yaoundé during the 1960’s. Messi Martin’s love for Spanish guitar music was coupled by the strong African presence of the rumba, as was heard on imported records from Cuba then later reconfigured as Congolese music in neighboring Zaire. These two outside musical influences were strong factors in Messi Martin’s decision to employ the guitar in a revised form of bikut-si music. Messi Martin’s stroke of genius was in his realization that there were many strengths behind the traditional bikut-si music popularized by Richard Band de Zoetele’s balafon orchestra.26 All that was necessary was to translate this sound and message to more modern terms that would fare better in Yaoundé’s urban landscape. Since Messi Martin adored the guitar, he logically looked to it for the solution. The result, Messi figured, would be to incorporate the balafon’s sound into the electrical guitar.27 This shift from the balafon to a modern electric instrument was the link missing from bikut-si’s development, as well as the stepping stone for it’s future success and adaptability. After much experimentation, he achieved the sound he was looking for by "linking together the guitar strings with lengths of [paper] to give it a damper tone with a slight buzz."28 The result was that his electric guitar, with the proper percussive picking technique, now emitted a "clonk" or "thud" sound that mimicked the traditional balafon. Messi was thus able to imitate the sound of the balafon with his electric guitar.

 The second stroke of genius that Messi Martin had was his realization that the traditional ekang and bikut-si repertoires of the Beti community could be effectively applied to a modern form of bikut-si music.29 Messi’s mellow voice combined the traditional topics of sexual and private life, social frustrations, commentary, and his own particular blend of womanizing into his modern blend of bikut-si songs. The result was immediate public acceptance, and hits such as Bekono Nga N’Konda and Mengalla Maurice emerged. These songs, given Messi’s modern touch, received continuous airplay throughout the late 1960’s and early 1970’s.30 Messi Martin had proved that bikut-si music, given the proper boost, had the thrust to make it onto the popular music charts in Cameroon. Messi Martin named his band Los Camoroes after the giant shrimps which were sighted by Cameroon’s Portuguese colonizers. The band was a landmark in bikut-si evolution because the traditional role of the music remained while the instruments which expressed them were changed. The function of the balafon and mvet now shifted emphasis to the electric guitar, while handclaps and sanza instrumentation were shifted to the synthesizer.31 Finally, the crux of the Bikut-si rhythm - the 6/8 pounding of feet - was now allotted to the drum set and other percussive instruments. Messi Martin had in one step transformed the entire balafon orchestra to modern terms, giving a previously stagnant but rhythmically potent bikut-si new and intriguing appeal.

 The period spanning 1980 to 1985 signified the development of Cameroon’s music industry and electronic media development. The media’s rapid development during this time had a significant effecton two of Cameroon’s primary and evolving music styles: the blossoming makossa music of Douala and the undeveloped bikut-si music of Yaoundé. It was during these five years that each style staked out its territory and established its own unique identity. Due to this evolution, makossa and bikut-si would, in terms of style, clientele and image, wind up representing completely opposite ends of the spectrum. 1980 began as a landmark year for makossa music, as it saw the official development of L’Equipe Nationale de Makossa, or the National Makossa Team.32 This was a joining together of some of Douala’s premier makossa singers and stars, such as Ben Decca, Guy Lobe, Dina Bell, Grace Decca, and Ndedi Eyango into a solid artistic core of direction and leadership. The Equipe formed with the backing of the top session musicians of the time - Toto Guillaume on guitar, Aladji Touré on bass, and Ebeny Donald Wesley on drums. The new makossa team was also able to form ties to Paris that would assure greater production, technical quality, and international exposure than before.

 The reality of this event was unparalleled in makossa’s evolution because it signaled not only a more youthful and organized form of the music, but also the explosion of Cameroon’s music on the African and Paris scene. First rate musicianship produced hits which in turn allowed international touring by the artists. Makossa, taking as its influence the rumba from Cuba and Zaire, as well as disco from Europe and America, at once developed a slick and Latin-tinged image which could appeal across ethnic lines. Makossa’s success allowed it to evolve as a music representing social comfort, urban mentality, and cross-ethnic solidarity.33 This image appealed to fans at home and abroad, and ensured makossa’s national and international success, as well as its continued representation in the top night clubs. Bikut-si likewise continued to stake out its territory and reputation, although it would not see its boom in development until the second half of the decade. Where-as makossa (and later Martinique’s zouk music) became known as the chic and popular music of Cameroon, bikut-si continued to represent to some "savage" and "forest-like."34 The lack of an Equipe Nationale de Bikut-si, as well as the finances and access to the international scene, did indeed keep Yaoundé’s bikut-si artists rooted to home soil. Thus bikut-si musicians came to represent, as a stereotype, the inner-territory of Cameroon, and the lack of opportunity and travel projected a lack of drive and adventure to the music.35

 Bikut-si was also struggling more with an inability to cross ethnic and urban lines. Bikut-si’s frustrations did not stop at this level of image problems. Musicians, who remained concentrated in the Yaoundé region, continued to struggle with technical and creative advances, as well as an amelioration in terms of production, promotion, and marketing of the music. The 1982 development of the K7 (or audio cassette) hinted at new opportunities in this realm of production. Once the technology was allowed to further develop, it would offer greater portability as well as ease of production to the music.36 It would also develop a wider appeal than the LP, and give rise to a threatening scene of piratization within Cameroon. The greatest hope of the cassette’s introduction was that it would allow producers to leap-frog over the requirement to send recordings to Paris for pressing and production.37 If production could take place entirely on home territory, then so too could costs be kept down. On the recording side, bikut-si studios were still inferior to those of the makossa musicians, poor sound quality being the immediate result.38 During this period, questions still overwhelmed the answers in terms of bikut-si’s production problems. Bikut-si artists meanwhile were busy trying to develop the sound of bikut-si by experimenting with instrumentation and style. Early on predecessors to Messi Martin tried relentlessly to add something new to the bikut-si equation. Elanga Maurice added brass to his bikut-si style, while Nkondo Si Tony added electric keyboards and synthesizers as well as tried to improve the recording techniques used in traditional instrument recording.39

 The group Les Veterans were to become one of the biggest new stars on the bikut-si scene, combining a cool, almost easy listening bikut-si beat to rumba influenced guitars and brass.40 Their series of recordings received considerable attention and Les Veterans became one of bikut-si’s all-time best known orchestras. Mekongo President introduced his blend of bikut-si jazz, combining complex harmonies and arrangements. Other notable names at that time included Otheo, Titans de Sangmelima, Ange Ebogo Emerent, and Seba Georges.41 Around 1984, a new wave of musicians entered the limelight, including old-time Los Camoroes member Sala Bekono (this time on a solo career), renowned rumba guitarist Zanzibar (who would join Jean-Marie Ahanda to form Les Têtes Brulées), and a talented bassist named Atebass. This surge in musicians who were willing and able to play and advance bikut-si to their preferences meant that there was something bubbling on bikut-si’s horizon. Then in 1985, Cameroon saw the introduction of CRTV, the government run television network that became a significant landmark in the development of Cameroon’s music industry. From the moment of CRTV’s introduction and onwards, Cameroon’s music industry would never be the same.42 Television introduced a new medium over which artists could express themselves and their music, and if they were creative enough, even forge an image and hence a nation-wide identity for their group. Overnight, television shows such as Elvis Kemayo’s Tele-Podium were to air, broadcasting to a virgin public music videos that combined the makossa beat and images reflecting makossa’s bourgeoisie image.43 Initially, it was makossa that was able to transform itself from a music-only form into and audio-visual product. The immediate result was that makossa not only increased its marketability, but also introduced the concept of the musician as a spectacle and visual entertainer, popularly known as the "makossa-man."

 It was shortly after the dramatic 1985 launching of CRTV and its subsequent music video broadcasts that bikut-si finally got the break into national exposure that its musicians had been striving for. Although makossa was at a high point in popularity, it appeared that much of the initial spark and creativity was beginning to be forsaken for commercialism and repetition. Jean-Marie Ahanda, a journalist for the government newspaper Cameroon Tribune who had recently returned from an extended sejour in France, saw this reality of vast inequality between makossa and bikut-si music.44 Where-as makossa had achieved its success and was cresting on a wave of popularity that was bound to break, bikut-si music had developed out of the limelight, literally unnoticed except by those who patronized the Yaoundé bar scene. Jean-Marie realized the vast unexploited potential of bikut-si - a music that despite the public prejudices had a vitality and roots tradition lacking from the other Cameroonian music styles.45 Taking time off to visit the countryside and in effect realize the full richness of the Beti heritage, Jean-Marie was able to focus on the crux of bikut-si’s cultural strength.

 By noticing bikut-si’s previously unexplored uniqueness, as opposed to makossa music, Jean-Marie was able to determine just how bikut-si could stage a rise to public attention and acceptance. Bikut-si’s secret to success, he determined, was in the realization of its traditional strengths, and playing on such strengths in an outright attempt to challenge makossa’s musical dominance in Cameroon. Previously, bikut-si had lacked expert musicians, proper artist promotion and production. As a result, the public did not have a positive perception of bikut-si music. Jean-Marie believed that he could present a new bikut-si band that would challenge these three limitations and present bikut-si music correctly to the public in a new and revised form.46 These convictions worked, and by 1987 Les Têtes Brulées had materialized, shocking and wrecking havoc on the Cameroon Music Industry as well as the general public.47 It is safe to say that after the introduction of Les Têtes Brulées, the realities and demographics of Cameroonian music would never again be the same.

 With Les Têtes Brulées, bikut-si finally found its niche. Their instantly recognizable sound was the result of the niche was found, satisfied by quality musicians, a unique image, proper management, and a sound that was innovative and yet rooted in Beti tradition. Bikut-si had found its "New Form." Up until Les Têtes Brulées, bikut-si had been lacking a feeling of electricity and excitement. The answer, Jean-Marie believed, was in creating a bikut-si that was more electric, with greater depth and diversity, which would offer excitement to its audience. "Bikut-si rock" thus evolved as the logical solution. Previously lacking from bikut-si was a guitar-balafon sound that was creative and not repetitive. Theodore Epeme, better known as Zanzibar, was the Têtes’ creative link to a new and intense guitar sound. A Congolese rumba guitarist by trade, he was one day convinced by Jean-Marie that bikut-si music had many untapped possibilities which could be unleashed through his guitar playing.

 Through Zanzibar’s knack for the guitar, and his creative technique and innovation, he was able to push the balafon-guitar concept one step further than his competition. A true pioneer, Zanzibar chose foam rubber (from a bed mattress) and wove it in and out of the bridge of his electric guitar. This allowed him "to strike the strings with a hard percussive free stroke to produce a loud thunk sound."48 This technique provided less echo and more percussive thud, simulating a more "authentic" guitar-balafon.49 It was a more aggressive muting technique than had previously been attempted, and Zanzibar’s superb technical skills gave the group its edge over the competition in sound and uniqueness. Jean-Marie next realized tat a unique and creative image was the real solution to bikut-si’s previous commercial and economic woes. In 1987, only two years after music videos on CRTV, Cameroon’s public had become over-accustomed to the bourgeoisie, chic, and gold-studded "style" presented in makossa and zouk videos.50 The Cameroonian public was being fed outward appearances and literally nothing of musical depth and quality. Les Têtes Brulées (literally meaning burnt-out heads) was thus founded as a reaction against this popularly projected image upon bikut-si musicians and fans.

 According to Jean Marie, "I wanted to present musicians living in Cameroon, playing only bikut-si - the sort of music that people don’t want, but that the musicians decide to play anyways and succeed. When you try something your own way, and succeed [against the odds], then you are a Tete Brulée."51 The well planned image and presentation for the new group corresponded to this rejection of the slick pervading styles that were in fashion during 1987. When Les Têtes Brulées debuted their stage show on Tele-Podium that year, they immediately shocked, shattered, and reversed the values of the Cameroonian music-listening public.52 The group presented a visual spectacle to combine with their melding of Bikut-si and rock styles. With shaved heads and body painting representing scarification from traditional Beti ceremonies, the group immediately sent out a alternative message to the Makossa accustomed public. The addition of a variety of colors to the body painting implied a further ironic tinge that the Têtes had to add color to already "colored" skin.53 The group sported torn tee-shirts to represent the real economic situation of their country, rather than the elite escapist image that other musicians presented. Finally, the group wore backpacks during their performance as a homage to the Beti women who traditionally tied babies onto their backs and danced Bikut-si.54 Thus the embracing of Beti tradition as well as the economic realities of Cameroon’s masses represented an antithesis to the direction that the music industry had been headed minutes before Les Têtes Brulées had appeared on CRTV.

 It was a revolutionary moment in its most blatant form. The response to the television debut was extremely positive - within a few weeks Les Têtes Brulées had not only found a spot for Bikut-si on the Cameroon music charts, but had also displaced the previously predominant Makossa music.55 A positive, fired up roots music had been lacking from modern Cameroon’s attention, and now the void had been filled and the public was buying the concept. That year, the group toured France - another landmark as the Têtes became the first full-fledged Bikut-si group to represent the style as musical ambassadors to the international public. Journalists in Paris and surrounding French cities proclaimed the Têtes a welcome and vibrant African musical spectacle, and made Western comparisons to George Clinton’s Parliament, Paris’s Cabaret spectacles, as well as Britain’s punk scene.56 One thing the headlines seemed to miss was that Les Têtes Brulées were representing Beti tradition, albeit a slightly modernized form. However, the media attention was overly positive, and Bikut-si welcomed all the attention it was deserving of. 

 While in France, the band’s first album, Hot Heads, was recorded, representing a significant improvement for Bikut-si in recording and production quality. For once Bikut-si had a finished product that could compete with and perhaps surpass a Makossa product. Hot Heads also represented the first example of Bikut-si music on the digital CD format. Lyrically, Hot Heads shifted the theme from solely dealing with womanizing to issues of social struggle and awkwardness. "Ca Fait Mal" dealt with shattered dreams while "Za Ayi Meyi" spoke of the difficulties associated with escaping the family in order to become a musician.57 The combination of Beti, French, and English lyrics hinted at Bikut-si’s maturity and realization that it indeed now catered to an international public, rather than just one concentrated in the Yaoundé and forest region of Cameroon. Winding up the decade, the group would expand its fame and tour extensively throughout Europe, the United States, Japan, and parts of Africa. Portions of their European leg of the tour were used by acclaimed movie director Claire Denis, in the movie "Man No Run," which debuted in cinemas throughout France during 1988.

 A follow up album entitled Bikutsi Rock followed and included more complex harmonies, Jean Marie’s trumpet playing, and even songs done in a capella style. By 1992 the band had come to represent to the world a significant part of Cameroon’s cultural and musical export, resulting in the band being invited to accompany Cameroon’s soccer team to the World Cup in Italy in 1990 and the United States in 1994. Cameroon’s subsequent victories were therefore celebrated in Bikut-si style to the soccer spectators worldwide. Thus it can be said that the continuing successes of Les Têtes Brulées acts as a powerful reminder that Bikut-si, given its adaptability and the proper innovators, can be a powerful force in the music world.

 With Makossa’s upheaval and Bikut-si’s sudden commercialization, many fundamental aspects of the music underwent changes and alterations. The combination of strategic promotion and in image portrayal on behalf of Les Têtes Brulées signaled a change in the Bikut-si musician’s perception of the audience.58 Commercialism and newfound popularity meant that Bikut-si could now be heard and seen by everyone throughout Cameroon and parts of West Africa, Europe, and the United States. The Têtes’ stage show brought up the notion that a musician could visually entertain the audience while performing Bikut-si to them.59 Finally, the addition of new instruments, styles, and arrangements opened up Bikut-si to further development by other up and coming Cameroonians as well as a few foreign artists. Thus 1988 to 1993 was a growth period for Bikut-si, as artists new and old saw a resurgence and improved awareness of all aspects of the music. Artists, in general, could either follow in the Têtes’ footsteps or else try to forge a unique and in some cases critical alternative to the already popularized Bikut-si-rock. A group of twelve musicians, led by original Têtes’ bassist Atebass, formed Les Martiens in an unsuccessful attempt to mimic the Têtes’ originality and image.60 Old timers, such as Sala Bekono, saw career resurgence with a series of successful albums up through the 1990’s. Katino Ateba, in a homage to the traditional erotic aspects of Bikut-si, sang "Ascenseur: le secret de l’homme" (translated as "Lift 69"). This song was a statement that said Katino feared no man, not even the archbishop, hence her ability to sing authoritatively about a man’s sexual prowess.61 Ateba continued by inviting, and in some cases demanding, that men confront her and to thus allow her personal witness of their sexual size and ability.63

 Hits like Ateba’s signaled a return to Bikut-si’s sexual side, and the artist’s efforts to push the lyrics and the public further onwards with eroticism. Meanwhile, a Douala singer named Sissi Dipoko sang "Bikut-si Hit" which symbolically bridged the Douala-Yaoundé musical gap and proved that even Douala artists could in turn do Bikut-si numbers.64 Thus on the home front, this period was very productive and signaled a surge in creativity which would lead to Bikut-si’s most recent explosion of popularity, the Pedalé movement of 1993. On the international scene, Bikut-si saw continued growth as well, including increased representation of artists and producers in Paris and New York. This fact, and the international presence of Les Têtes Brulées, meant that foreign artists were able to take notice of the Cameroonian rhythm and in some cases create their own tributes to the Bikut-si style.

 A notable example among many was Paul Simon’s 1990 album Spirit Of The Saints, a Brazilian and Cameroonian inspired fusion which included a strong Bikut-si track entitled "Proof." This tribute by Simon is definitely pure Bikut-si rhythm, into which he melds his own personal singing style and Brazilian/Latino horn riffs. This event was most notable due to Simon’s collaboration with African producers and musicians, including Georges Seba, Martin Atangana, and Vincent Nguini.64 The product and its impressive sales demonstrated the marketability and appeal Bikut-si could have if produced under the right circumstances. At the same time, in both Paris and New York producers and session musicians such as Uta Bella, Georges Seba, Jean Luc Ponty, and Jimmy Mvondo Mvelé acted as counterbalances to the presence of Les Têtes Brulées.65 Thus by 1993 Bikut-si had been given its chance to break out into the world, both to make itself known as well as to absorb outside influences.

 By 1993 Bikut-si had proven that it could adapt to the times in order to meet the requirements of modernity. But six years is a long time for any musical style to ride on a crest of popularity and continue its momentum. Critics and fans perhaps wondered if this run of prosperity that Bikut-si had experienced could continue at the rate it was heading. By this time, Cameroonians were fast coming to the hard realization that their country was in the midst of economic decline and turmoil. Cameroon’s economic crisis, which had begun in 1986, was continuing, and there were no bright signs and little hope on the horizon. Salaries were slashed, payments were not being made, and the average Cameroonian was much worse off than a decade earlier. Times were tough, and an outlet was needed to let off the steam and frustration. Bikut-si, in a defiant leap over critics’ pessimism, took on this challenge, and in 1993 at the legendary Carrosel Club the Pedalé movement was born.66 Pedalé was the Bikut-si artist’s answer to tough times as well as a rebirth movement for the music. 1993 was signified by a dramatic number of new, youthful artists who literally exploded on the Bikut-si scene, forming what they considered to be a "nouvelle generation" of Bikut-si.67 Artists such as Zele le Bombardier, Saint-Desiré Atango, Eboue Chaleur, Pasto, Gibraltar Drakuss, Roger Bekono, and Mbarga Soukous offered new life to Bikut-si’s already legendary evolution.

 In the words of singer Bisso Solo, this new pedalé form of Bikut-si must have an "accelerated, savage, and brutal" sound, rather than the previous cool beat of Bikut-si.68 It would be something that riveted all who heard it, forcing them to gyrate and stamp their way into physical and in many cases sexual bliss. Pedalé and the subsequent explosion of artists and Bikut-si recordings, worked wonders on the public. Bars, especially the large outdoor Carrosel Club, the Parisien, the Chalet, the Eldorado, and the legendary Escalier Bar, at once saw dramatic crowds of people pouring in to hear the live, juiced up Bikut-si on Friday and Saturday nights. The action that takes place in such clubs is a sight not to miss, as dancers crush together, shaking in frenzied trances on the square dance floor, expressions of physical and drunken pleasure plastering the face. It’s the accelerated beat that does it, and as each song progresses, the realities and frustrations of the past week fade deeper and deeper into oblivion. Pedalé offers a way in which to escape from la crise economique which no other art form has previously offered the Cameroonian. A night at the Carrosel, for example, is literally "Bikut-si non-stop" as over 10 singers join the club’s orchestra for continuous music from 11pm onwards. Up until sunrise the crowd continues to grow, as fans trickle in from other dance clubs, not wanting to miss the increased excitement that the pedalé orchestra is bringing to the music. 5:00 AM signals the best artists as well as the height of an evening at the Carrosel - everyone is up and dancing, causing an ocean of empty benches as well a scattering of "33" beer bottles and whisky "condoms." The result is a swarming sea of packed bodies on the hot and sweaty dance floor, pulsating to the beat under a canopy of stars.

 It is at this point that the new pedalé dance is truly appreciated. People "pedal" their way through the blaring music, as if their arms are riding a bicycle, each revolution equaling precisely one stamp of the Bikut-si beat. The pedalé dance has adapted to the crowded dance floors so well that many regulars have begun to see philosophical insight into its meaning. Carrosel announcer MC Hotman proclaims that the pedalé can be looked at as a revolutionary message by the people against the economic and social situations that they must face during the week. As the Bikut-si dance becomes a philosophy, Hotman explains, "one can pedal away the weekend and forget that during the week the children are needy."69 It’s as if you are at the bottom of a long, never ending hill. You must keep pedaling in hopes that the end is near, because if you stop you’ll never know what’s over the horizon.

 It is in the fashion of the pedalé explosion that Bikut-si has been able to continuously adapt to the needs and challenges of modern times. By 1996, Pedalé was two times more popular than it was during 1993, at its conception.70 Today in Yaoundé, Pedalé draws the crowds, and all the clubs that have Bikut-si orchestras play it. Bikut-si now rivals Makossa within Cameroon, it has gained moments of international prestige, and it continues to offer an up-beat and rootsy music alternative to the public. Having surpassed critic’s previous expectations, where can Bikut-si now go? It’s a difficult question, especially after evaluating the gripes and complaints of modern-day Bikut-si artists regarding the continuing poor state of Cameroon’s music industry and thus that of the Bikut-si artist. By and large, Bikut-si musicians claim to be extremely hard working, hence their conviction to battle out any and all obstacles that might rock their boat in the future.71 But the reality is there are many challenges artists now face that must be tackled and overcome if Bikut-si is to continue as a primary music force in Cameroon. These challenges and complaints are the very elements which define Cameroon’s modern music industry in 1996.

 Hence it is not the music or the artists who challenge Bikut-si’s future, but instead the infrastructure and realities of an industry that form constraints on the artists and their creativity. Pedalé singer Bisso Solo highlighted several areas in significant need of improvement, and various post-discussions with other contacts (see sources) echoed these complaints regarding today’s industry.72 Bikut-si’s fundamental problem is the lack of good and talented producers within the field. Bikut-si artists are, across the board, in need of money and thus dependent on outside producers. In today’s industry, most producers are local merchants who have limited capital and thus little interest in commitment and artist development. The problem is at once evident - the goal is to achieve a quick buck, something definitely possible when the artists is promoted for scarcely two months, and then dropped. Then where is the artist and his or her career?

 In the field of promotion, one can be in Yaoundé for six months and if lucky come across one or two large scale concert performances. The producers just aren’t interested in organizing tours for their artists. Bikut-si recording facilities are inadequate, and the resulting Cameroonian-produced cassettes are often poor quality and thus inferior to a Makossa counterpart. Finally and most disturbing, is the readily accepted system of bribery which controls the realms of radio and television airplay. To get a song on the radio, an artist must first pay 50,000 CFA in order to get a droit de radio (radio rights).73 After the rights are bought, an artist must individually go to a radio DJ, and bribe the individual according to how much air time the artist wishes to receive.74 The result is that quality doesn’t count, and money does. Likewise for music videos, where one must pay a bribe for each time a video airs.75 Because Bikut-si artists rely on their producers for financing, it is obvious that the entire issue of promotion and production is lacking and thus of critical importance if the Bikut-si artists are to see their present positions improve.

 The second area of complaints regard SOCINADA, the national society for artistic development. Typical comments regarding SOCINADA ranged from "it’s better than nothing" to "it’s a sickness within the industry." Here are the facts. Almost every artist within Cameroon is a member, and yet barely one gets what he or she was promised out of the agency. The first promise broken is the continued fight against piracy of cassettes, as each artist member pays 85 CFA per cassette in order to have a SOCINADA sticker affixed assuring authenticity. But walk down any Yaoundé street, and you will be accosted by venders with cardboard boxes full of pirated and unauthorized cassettes for half the price. At the same time, enter any "disco" in a small town and you can have cassettes recorded for you, with any combination of artists, at half price. Not only is the quality second rate, but the artist never sees even one CFA from the transaction. There is no solution except a massive crackdown on the issue, and right now SOCINADA does not have the person-power to do so.77 The second complaint is that artists seldom get payments and loans from SOCINADA, even though a percentage of each cassette produced goes into the agency. If the artist pays in, the agency must pay out as advertised. Again, there are too many artists with too many needs, and the organization’s structure as well as its documentation of payments needs to be improved if the artist is to see a better financial situation.

 Thus the areas of promotion and of artist organization are two which greatly plague the financial and career welfare of the Bikut-si artist. The music has proven with time that it can endure as well as adapt with the moment. It is now up to the Bikut-si artists to try and chisel away at the cumbersome infrastructure which binds them in place. If such changes can be made, then surely the history of Bikut-si will be bright. But if the system stays the same, then the artists, and perhaps the resulting musical output, may be jeopardized. One awaits the outcome.

THE END
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BIBLIOGRAPHY

 NOTE: AfricaSounds at www.africasounds.com is a 'must see' site: packed with articles, new release reviews, live concert listings, and even discussions of travel in Africa, AfricaSounds is an online gold mine of cultural and musical information.

ON THE ROAD W I T H Mamadou Ly Recording Traditional Drummers in Senegal and The Gambia BY ADAM NOVICK Photos by Hall Anderson, Carl Holm, Adam Novick, & Betty Press I first saw Mamadou Ly at the Fifth Avenue Theater in Seattle. He was performing with the National Ballet of Senegal. When the Mandinka drumming started, he came out on stage by himself, playing a sabaro drum, which hung at his side. He inched forward in a gospel two-step, barely moving his hands, looking upward as though in a trance. Two younger men waddled after him, each playing a drum hung between his legs. They were bent low to the ground, but they craned their necks upward to look at Mamadou, and I could see their faces were already sweating and grimacing from the effort of keeping up with his playing. That was 1987. I didn’t know Mamadou at the time, but I would find our lives weaving together over the next ten years. My friend Carl Holm and I would study drums with him, produce a recording of his troupe in Senegal, and hire him as a cultural consultant to make other recordings in Senegal and The Gambia. But best of all, we would become friends. A MASTER RETURNS Veteran Mandinka drummer Mamadou Ly (MA-ma-doo LEE) listens to a sabaro (SA-ba-ro) drum just presented to him by a former apprentice, in The Gambia. Reprinted from DRUM! Vol. 7, No. 4 June/July 1998. ©1998 DRUM! D R U M ! 5 9 MAMADOU LY CONTINUED Meeting in Dakar. The next time I saw Mamadou Ly was in Dakar. Carl and I had been studying Mandinka drumming for a couple years in the States. We felt we were ready to study it first hand in Africa. I had learned Mamadou’s name from a Senegalese drummer who had immigrated to the States. As soon as I described Mamadou’s unusual appearance with the National Ballet, the drummer smiled and said it was Mamadou Ly. He told me Mamadou had played with the Ballet for years and was called “uncle” by generations of artists. Carl and I spent our first day in Africa tracking down Mamadou in the backstreets of Dakar. With the help of our host — Wolof drummer Mapathé (ma-PA-tay) Diop — we learned that Mamadou had just retired from the Ballet and was living in Dakar, but we had no address. Mapathé led us from one residential compound to the next, chasing a trail of rumors, trudging on foot through the sand of unpaved streets. We found Mamadou’s compound that evening. When he came to the court yard entryway, I recognized him immediately. He seemed bewildered at first. When it sunk in that we had come from the States to study with him, he was visibly moved. Speaking a strange English, he invited us into the one room he rented in the compound. We sat with him and two other retired Mandinka musicians. Like Mapathé, the two men wore traditional robes and sandals, but Mamadou wore a denim-colored shirt, matching pants, and low-cut leather boots. He reminded me of Chuck Berry. While we talked, Mamadou’s friends warmed their hands over a charcoal brazier on the floor. It was winter, and the temperature had dropped to 68°F. The Senegalese were used to heat and now felt cold. Brutal Lessons. On that trip, Carl and I knew Mamadou primarily as a teacher. We would show up at his room, and he would have us play a traditional Mandinka rhythm while he soloed. His solos flowed from him in an endlessly varying rhythmic stream of consciousness. The lessons were so brutal, part of me dreaded them. Mamadou had us playing at professional tempos, which were uncomfortably fast and left no time to think. Also, we still weren’t that familiar with the music. The parts he taught us were so syncopated, I would tend to hear 6 0 D R U M ! Village Pulse producer Carl Holm catches a lesson with Mamadou Ly at his room in Dakar. LESSON IN DAKAR the downbeat in the wrong place. Even if I heard the downbeat in the right place at first, it would want to flip back to the wrong spot. As I struggled to keep up, I remembered the two drummers who accompanied Mamadou in Seattle. I was amused to find myself in their position. I would have laughed, but I couldn’t spare the motor control. From Villager to World Citizen. We often ate an African greasy spoon near his compound. Over meals, Mamadou told us of his life. He was born in 1937 in the village of Bansang, in The Gambia. His father was chief of the region and expected Mamadou to follow in his footsteps, but Mamadou was drawn to drumming and never thought of pursuing anything else. Mamadou began touring Senegal and The Gambia at age thirteen and spent the next forty years on the road. For the first sixteen years, Mamadou led a life typical for Mandinka drummers, staying a few days in one village, then moving on to the next. During this time, several of Mamadou’s compositions became traditional. One, a variation of Lenjen — the best known Mandinka rhythm — is called Lenjen Kando, or “Lenjen with smarts.” In 1966, the Senegalese government asked Mamadou to help found the National Ballet of Senegal. Mamadou toured with the Ballet for the next twenty-five years, leading MAMADOU LY CONTINUED the Ballet’s Mandinka drum troupe. His travels took him to every country in the world but two (South Africa and North Korea) and had him playing with several generations of Senegal’s best and brightest artists. One of Mamadou’s favorite stories of his time in the States starts at a Chinese restaurant in Chicago. The waiters were ignoring him, apparently because he is black. After waiting a long time, Mamadou called to one of the waiters in a southern drawl, “Hey, boy.” A white man at another table burst out laughing. He came up to Mamadou and said he had to introduce himself to someone who could joke like that. After dinner, the man and his two daughters showed Mamadou the town, bought him a denim outfit, and saying goodbye, stuffed $200 in Mamadou’s shirt pocket. I was amazed that Mamadou appeared so comfortable in worlds so different. He had spent much of his life in hotels in developed countries, but at the restaurant near his compound, he would drink water from a publicly shared cup hanging on the wall above a large, clay water jug, and on the way out, he would wipe his mouth contentedly on a public hand towel nailed to the wall by the front door. A Trip to Warang. Carl and I got to know Mamadou better the following year, when we returned to Senegal to produce our first recordings of traditional percussion. We had been frustrated by the lack of traditional West African percussion in record stores and had decided to try to fill some of the gap ourselves. Our first priority was to record Mamadou. We taped him and his current troupe several times near Dakar. To get a more rural ambiance, we then traveled together to tape them in Warang (wa- RAHNG), a Mandinka village to the south. Mamadou used to play there before joining the National Ballet. The head woman in the village remembered him well. It was an emotional moment seeing them reunited. On the Road Again. Each trip, we became aware of more traditional styles of percussion that remained virtually unknown outside the region. We returned again to Senegal two years later, to make more recordings. This time, we hired Mamadou as a consultant. We figured he would make good company and speed up our work. We traveled with Mamadou to the heart of Mandinka land, an area that includes parts of The Gambia and Senegal’s southern province, Casamance. We had been to the region on our first trip, to study with a master Mandinka drummer in the village of Brikama. Mamadou was a human passkey. Longlost friends and relatives greeted him on the street. Even the drummer in Brikama turned out to have a connection: he had apprenticed with Mamadou. Our first trip had been brutal from the moment we arrived in Dakar’s airport terminal. We had slept on concrete floors and used outhouses I dreaded. We had argued endlessly with cab drivers. We had ridden for a day at a time wedged with six or seven people into a Peugeot 504 station wagon “bush taxi,” over dusty roads that had more potholes than pavement, with exhaust pouring in through the rear door. We had ridden for hours in the back of a Mazda pickup, crammed in with 18 other people, all woozy from the carbon monoxide collected by the canvas top. (At one stop, Carl took a place that had opened up next to the driver. Hours later, at the next stop, I asked Carl how he was doing, and he wordlessly pointed to a mesh bag of mothballs hanging from the dashboard as an air freshener.) Mamadou eased much of that. He knew to check the shocks before hiring a bush taxi. He knew we could buy extra seats to give ourselves some breathing room. At the two-acre bush-taxi stand in Dakar, he knew where to go, and when the usual crowd of frantic salesmen surrounded him, shouting at him and following him in a tight pack, he knew to ignore them, even when a stray arm struck his nose. However, I must say I was gratified that for him, too, it seemed every negotiation with a cab driver turned into a heated argument. An African tower of Babel. One of DRUMMER AT WORK In a mango orchard near his village in The Gambia, master Saikouba Badjie (SAY-kooba BA-jee) performs bougarabou (boo-GAra- boo), the traditional solo drumming style of his people, the Jola. Mamadou’s greatest assets was his ability to help us understand the complex threads of traditional music that weave through the region. Senegal alone has twenty-seven languages, and each of these languages (or “nations,” as Mamadou prefers to say) has its own musical traditions. Many of these traditions are apparently centuries old, but many of them, too, change as quickly as popular music in America and have re- D R U M ! 6 3 MAMADOU LY CONTINUED portedly always done so. Little or nothing has been published about some of these traditions. We often had little else to go by. At one recording session, we were disconcerted to see our contracted drum troupe arrive with a saxophone. Mamadou explained that in this particular culture, an African reed instrument has traditionally accompanied their drums, but now they often use a saxophone instead. Carl and I started to kid about it, but Mamadou got serious. He said we think the saxophone belongs to Europe and America, but in fact it now belongs to the world. Mamadou’s language skills came in handy, too. My French had gone only so far. Mamadou speaks the two most universal languages in the area — Wolof and Mandinka. From his travels, Mamadou has also picked up conversational fluency in German, Japanese, Dutch, and several other languages. Once, when it seemed none of us had a language in common with a cab driver from Sierra Leone, Mamadou talked with him in Portuguese. Looking for Kwaka Wo. Mamadou’s English evoked a creole of colonial times. When he wanted to hear our tape of a style of drumming for older women, he would say “Let I hear the old women them.” His phrases often took some decoding. A “yard master” was the head of a compound, “big pops” was Colonel Sanders, and when Mamadou said he was “hungry” with someone, he was angry with them. Once, on the road, Mamadou asked us to find “kwaka wo.” It was Ramadan, and he explained that he wanted it before dawn to prepare for his daily religious fast. Somehow we figured out he meant Quaker Oats. (We found some, but never found a working propane stove.) Slave of God. Traveling makes fasting especially hard. The Koran says that those on the road can be excused from fasting, but Mamadou was particularly devout and always kept to the routine. From daybreak to sunset, he would go without eating, drinking, and smoking. He wouldn’t even swallow his spit. In Bakau, The Gambia, our daily route forced us to walk for blocks beside a tall cement wall. The heat and humidity were excruciating. I made a point of walking in the sliver of shade next to the wall. I invited Mamadou to join me in the shade, 6 4 D R U M ! Mamadou Ly takes a moment to play the kutiriba at our first meeting in Dakar. EARLY LESSON but he refused, saying in a southern drawl, “Don’t worry about that, boy.” The point of Ramadan, he explained, was to become a slave of God. When evening came, Mamadou would break his fast on Marlboros and a cup of Chinese green tea with milk and sugar. After a day without food, the sugar, caffeine, and nicotine made him drunk and giddy. Lanterns by the River. Like most West African adults, Mamadou conserved his energy. At our recording sessions, he usually sat stonefaced, despite the storm of drumming and dancing a few feet from him. The single exception occurred at one of the recording sessions for what would become Drums of the Firdu Fula. We were taping in a sandy grove by the Gambia river. The sun had set and plunged us into a dark, moonless night. We had lit two or three kerosene lanterns and placed them in front of the drummers, but their light petered out within a yard or two. I noticed Mamadou standing just beyond the lantern light, in his sky-blue jogging suit. He had been fasting all day and was once again giddy from green tea and Marlboros. At first I didn’t realize he was dancing. He was alternately shaking his shoulders and abruptly throwing them in unexpected directions, while his feet remained fixed on the ground. For a second, I thought something was wrong. Mamadou explained that he was dancing in the style danced by wrestlers. We had been to a couple wrestling matches near Banjul, but I’d never seen dancing quite like that. MAMADOU LY CONTINUED This Must Be Secret. Our time together was not without misunderstandings. I used to tease Mamadou out of affection. One day, while we were walking in downtown Banjul, Mamadou reminded me that in Africa, you never disrespect your elders — you don’t even kid them. As we passed a display case of chickens turning on spits over gas flames, Mamadou announced, “I think when they put Adams to the fire, this must to feel like ice.” We returned to Senegal again last year, to do more taping, and we again hired Mamadou as our consultant. While we were on the road, Carl would share a room with our photographer, Hall Anderson, and I would share a room with Mamadou. I slept like I always sleep — naked — but Mamadou didn’t. I didn’t think much about it until, late in the trip, Mamadou told me he thought the Wolof were too sexually explicit in their dance. He pointed to his crotch and said, “This must to be kept secret.” I think I stopped sleeping naked for the rest of the trip. This is not to say Mamadou lacked a sense of humor. He liked to joke about the two American assistants who had bailed out of our earlier trips. One of them had panicked and wouldn’t leave the hotel the second day. We covered for him, telling Mamadou that our friend was sleeping. Mamadou said we should tell our friend that Mamadou said he was sleeping like a crocodile. The third day, when our friend had flown out of the country, Mamadou laughed and called him a “very foolish man.” The African Side of Things. Mamadou also helped introduce us to what he called “black magic.” On one trip, we arrived in Dakar to find Mamadou suffering from terrible headaches. When we returned to his compound a few days later, we found him better. He said he had seen a man who had cured him by pulling “strings” from his eyes. Speaking in a surprised tone, he said, “I did not know you can do that.” The Mandinka say their drums were first played by devils, and that the devils still haunt the drums and occasionally cause the sabaro to play itself. Mamadou says he heard his sabaro play itself once, in 1958, while he was spending the night in Toubacouta, a Mandinka village not far from Warang. To improve our playing, Mamadou 6 6 D R U M ! Saikouba Badjie’s bougarabou drumming melds with the dancing in a rising cloud of dust. IN THE TRADITION once arranged for us each to buy a leather amulet, or gris-gris (GREE-gree). Carl’s gris-gris seems to have done a lot for his playing, but then he practices a lot. Mamadou also promised to treat our hands with fire. I am relieved that he seems to have forgotten about this. Back to Bansang. Mamadou’s beliefs surfaced once again toward the end of our last trip. We had returned to the village of Bansang, where Mamadou grew up. We hoped to record some of the royal court musicians brought to Bansang by his father, the chief. Carl and I had become obsessed with recording Mamadou again. We had recorded several Mandinka drum troupes on the trip. Each time, we had asked Mamadou to sit in. But each time he had refused, giving us one reason or another. We were staying at the far end of Bansang, in a hotel by the river. One night, we heard the sound of Mandinka drumming floating toward us from the far shore. The management told us a Mandinka drum troupe was playing at an outdoor nightclub set up in the forest by another hotel in Bansang. Mamadou said that if we arranged to record that troupe, he would play with them. We visited the nightclub the next night. Through Mamadou, we learned the troupe was from Banne (ba-NEE), a village farther into the forest. Mamadou arranged for us to record the troupe, but he insisted we record them at the nightclub, not in Banne. He refused to say why. After a day of badgering, Mamadou revealed with some embarrassment that Banne was full of cannibal witches. He said they flew at night to kill and feed on people. Mamadou had traveled to every country in the world but two, yet he had never been to the village across the river from his home town. On the Cross. On the flight home from one of our trips, I had a bad reaction to one of the medications I’d been taking. It felt like I was having a bad acid trip. My thoughts deteriorated into a kaleidoscope of turning gears, and I feared that my heart would stop or that my breathing would fail. I thought about causing a scene to get help, but I couldn’t talk. Gripping the armrests and sweating, I tried to fight panic and prepared for a very long flight. Then, out of the blue, I pictured myself as one of the thieves hanging from a cross next to Jesus. But hanging in the middle wasn’t Jesus. It was Mamadou, and a peaceful feeling came over me when he turned his head to me and said in his southern drawl, “Don’t worry about that, boy.” Adam Novick is a producer with Village Pulse, a record label that specializes in West African percussion. Mamadou Ly performs on the Village Pulse recording Mandinka Drum Master (VPU-1001, villagepulse.com).