The cliché about political radicalists is that they shoot directly from the hip, but Afrodisiac cracks that myth wide open, by exhibiting a work of tremendous musical focus and occasional sonic beauty. Directed by Fela Kuti, a Nigerian musician who spearheaded the genre known as Afrobeat, the album is a blistering, but tightly orchestrated, work that lays out all the hooks onto one grand musical plate. It’s a superb album – unveiling a neat assembly of players, piecing and playing amidst a grand citadel of sound, daring listeners to journey into a pool of uncertain, albeit propulsive, musicianship that exhibited a band at their most cohesive and committed.
This isn’t to say the album wasn’t accessible, but that it simply dared listeners to rise from their sanctities and corners, to enjoy a quartet of thunderous instrumentals. ‘Alu Jon Jonki Jon’ presented all the instruments up in the mix, and the rhythms – frequently jaunty, but never at the expense of the melody in question – maps out the intentions of the musicians, collating a series of barreling hooks. ‘Eko Ile’ was even sharper, largely because it was shorter, but also because it was more brittle and bareboned. True, Kuti’s shrieks and disembodied yelps carry out most of the action, but credit must also be given to Igo Chico who performs a series of feverish and fiery brass solos that meld against the backdrop of the work. The album also boasts some of Tony Allen’s most expressive drum patterns, needling in and out of the mix with the precision of a percussionist at the peak of his groove.
‘Je’nwi Temi (Don’t Gag Me)’ is another monster: Driven by a number of hard-hitting backbeats and adrenaline, the song casts off the shackles of pop to explore a genre that was fresh and animalistic. Such was the power of the ambience, it naturally gravitated to the West, where Kuti’s music was championed by sixties luminaries Ginger Baker and Paul McCartney, before being re-explored by Damon Albarn during some of the artist’s more esoteric tenure.
Released in 1973, the album offered black artists an outlet that was expressive, yet rooted in the music that had gifted them rich culture and ancestry. And in Kuti, the 1970s had an artist who was willing to put his continent on the map. From that moment on, his music grew more interesting and arguably more visceral, but his political apotheosis – carved by his own hand – never wavered from its original goal. And in the 1980s, he demonstrated a voice that was as complete as the passages that had serviced his trajectory as a musician.
“I will make a very final statement,” Kuti confirmed. “What I think the government should do, what I think the country should do. I’m going to finish making those statements, and then I’m going back to work. I’m going to make my statement that I’m still going to run for president. The rest I can’t tell you until I say it in the open. I don’t want anyone to say I’m telephoning the CIA in secret [laughs].”
