| SENEGALESE
HIP HOP
DAKARAPPING,
Folkroots
Rap has swept every nation with a tradition of the gab,
producing locally rooted hybrids from Italy to the Indian
Ocean and beyond. But Senegal has adapted it to local
needs more than most. Katharina Lobeck hit Dakar to investigate.
Get your knees on the ground and hand a bunch of roses
to the love of your life - Mamak Hip Hop ('the hip hop
and I') is Pee Froiss' climactic declaration of devotion
to their art. "Hip hop and I, we're tied together
like shepherd and flock, like a king and his servants,
a thief and his gun, a macho and his prostitutes, a politician
and his lies, the Prophet and his disciples." Their
passionate affair with music has now lasted for more than
a decade, and finally the Dakar based trio is ready to
reap some rewards for their dedication and loyalty. Their
release F.R.O.I.S.S. (due out on French label Night &
Day in October) makes them the latest Senegalese rap band
to enter international business, focussing attention once
again on one of Africa's most vibrant hip hop nations.
Incepted in the USA in the 1970s, hip hop has swept the
planet's longitudes and latitudes like a raging storm,
inspiring youth culture and musical creation wherever
it touched. In the most remote corners of the globe, artists
have grabbed the sampled loop, twisted it to suit their
taste and imbued it with local flavour. The youth of the
global village talks, wears, lives and breathes hip hop.
The hip hop virus gripped Senegal as early as 1982, around
the same time that it reached European shores. Largely
overlooked by international media and record industries,
Senegal developed quietly, alongside South Africa, into
one of the continent's largest rap markets. Rumour has
it that it is the third largest hip hop nation world wide.
Though this bronze rank surely doesn't relate to production
and sales numbers, Senegal easily competes with other
countries in the number of groups. Dakar, the centre of
the scene, is estimated to house between 1500-2500 rap
bands. Every street has its home crew, each of them claiming
to be the guardians of the real hip hop. Only some of
them manage to record their material; the majority disintegrates
and reshapes quicker than the current fashion of sneakers
changes.
In Northern spheres, Senegal is primarily associated with
mbalax, one of West Africa's most distinctive musical
exports. A marriage of traditional Wolof percussion and
Cuban sounds, the fiery mbalax beats were the confident
voice of the young independent nation, a symbol of Senegalese
pride and optimism. The following generation was less
concerned with the construction of national identity,
but sought links to the global community. "Hip hop
does not originate in Africa, it's an American thing.
So many people ask us 'Why don't you play mbalax, hey?'
We play what is our generation, and that's hip hop",
avows veteran MC Doug-e-tee, receiving vehement agreement
from the tea drinking teenagers who have gathered at his
place for their daily music debate. Mbalax may be too
close to the Senegalese soul to ever cease its tight hold
over dance floors and airwaves, but hip hop has steadily
gnawed on its market monopoly. Since the eighties, the
scene has moved from its early breakdance era over old
school origination to new school rebellion. It has seen
flourishing and dire days, gradually carving out a solid
seat in Senegal's musical arena. 20 years on, it's surely
time to review the Senegalese hip hop chronicles.
"There are many MCs whose brains aren't boiling.
Those who sell themselves by saying that rap is dead should
only show what they have to offer. But I think that they
must have forgotten the concerts at Sacré CoeurŠ"
reminds Daddy Bibson's provocative Kronic Rap. Sacré
Coeur is one of Dakar's more prestigious high schools.
Its reputed high quality education makes it a desired
institution for many students, while steep fees limit
entry to only an affluent few. Sacré Coeur is also
the birthplace of Senegalese hip hop. Unlike its US parent,
Sene-rap did not grow from an urban underworld of street
hustlers and ghetto kids. The first MCs were well-heeled
children whose relatives travelled regularly to the States,
returning with the latest in American music and fashion.
Their precious gifts provided the backdrop for passionate
b-boying in the schoolyard, every move carefully copied
from imported movies. In order to win the weekly dance
contests at Sacré Coeur, and with it the desired
trophy of a devoted female following, dance outfits soon
spiced their shows with rhymes and shouts by spirited
MCs. And as the first rap albums began to trickle into
the country, they started to try their hand at the art
of verbalisation.
"At the time, we didn't really understand what hip
hop was, we didn't even know what rap was," remembers
Pee Froiss' soul voice Kool Kock 6. "It was purely
by imitation of something American that we had picked
up on recordings." In emulation of Bronx cool, they
mimicked the twang of US rappers and gave their crews
names like Supreme Black, Supreme Esprit and King &
Cool. And then, two groups emerged on the scene, whose
rivalry split the Dakar fan base into opposing camps:
Didier Awadi's King MCs and the Syndicate, headed by the
girl-giddying b-boy Doug-e-tee. Their heated battles of
the gab kept Dakar's youth on its toes for several months,
but ended as quickly as they had started. In a clever
move of reconciliation, Awadi invited Doug-e-tee to his
anniversary party. Both MCs recognised that they shared
grander ideals and proceeded to form Positive Black Soul
(PBS), the group that would spearhead the hip hop movement
of the nation.
The three letters PBS have become synonymous with Sene-rap
worldwide. The group boasts two international releases,
has collaborated with the cream of French and American
hip hop and has toured the planet several times, leading
West African rap from total obscurity to dimly-lit recognition.
It was back in the early '90s that they emerged as the
leaders of the pack with the to-date unrivalled Sene-rap
anthem Boul Fale (Don't Worry). This unbothered advice
to life became the motto of an entire generation. Your
girlfriend cheated on you? Boul Fale. No job, no money?
Boul Fale. Forget your worries and bounce. The fervent
backing of Dakar's youth brought them to the attention
of international stars, who pushed them on the road to
global success. MC Solaar invited them on his European
tour in 1992 after they nearly stole his act during his
first ever Dakar gig. An appearance on Baaba Maal's classic
album Firin' In Fouta led to a contract with Island Records
and the 1995 release of Salaam. PBS returned triumphantly
from their expeditions abroad and pumped finance back
into the scene at home. They hired Youssou N'Dour's high-powered
sound system for national concerts, and began to celebrate
their annual anniversaries in big style. Dakar's largest
concert venues, Sorano and CCF, couldn't fit the numbers
of screaming teenagers who queued for hours to attend
the star-studded events. Rap had suddenly turned from
an adolescent pastime into a musical movement. It had
become a serious career option for dedicated MCs, and
bands mushroomed all over Senegal's urban centres. Two
groups who were formed back then and have remained influential
ever since are Pee Froiss and Daara J. Both advanced Sene-rap
with their individual artistic approaches. Daara J nailed
down the formula of Rap-Ragga-Soul (one sings, one raps,
one toasts) that still characterises much Senegalese hip
hop. Pee Froiss were the first to gain credibility with
a decidedly political outlook. They were less Boul Fale
and more Black Survivors, not afraid to touch hot irons
such as the covered-up assassination of an electoral supervisor.
Kool Kock 6 was also the first to rap in Wolof, instigating
an unstoppable process of hip hop indigenisation. He remembers
that "in the beginning, people were reluctant to
listen to us because they didn't understand a word. They
came to dance, and in the middle of the show the music
stops and this clown comes along, takes the mic and talks
nonsense in some incomprehensible language. When people
started rapping in Wolof, the guys really got a feeling
for it, because the messages concerned them."
By 1996, hip hop had seriously begun to rock the throne
of Senegal's established mbalax artists. "Those were
the heydays of hip hop", remembers enthusiastic rap
supporter Jules Kane. He is taking me, in the boiling
Dakar heat, to Boulevard Charles de Gaulle, the artery
of the Quartier Gibraltar. At the main junction, Jules
stops and stretches his arms to describe a wide circle
from North to South of the avenue. "In 1997, the
RTS [Radio and Television of Senegal] organised a PBS
concert on this junction. The place was packed as far
as your eyes could see. Youssou N'Dour held a gig at the
stadium on the same night and simply couldn't draw a crowd.
The whole of Dakar assembled on this intersection, jumping
and screaming to the beats of PBS."
Didier Awadi's eyes sparkle when he is reminded of this
concert. These days, live gigs no longer happen on this
scale and the mbalax singers have reclaimed most of the
audiences the rappers had previously diverted. Once the
biggest happenings of the year, PBS anniversaries have
lost their original fire and attract only a die-hard following
of testosterone-fuelled adolescents. Last year's party
was washed away by a sudden downpour and 2002 might pass
without the traditional celebration of hip hop pride.
Cassette releases still chase each other and the passion
for the music seems undiminished - but what happened to
the once so vibrant live scene? What some see as the downfall
of the movement, others consider its germinating spark.
Jealousies, machismo and fights between opposed posses
are part of any self-respecting hip hop scene, and Dakar
makes no exception to that law. "Promoters no longer
dare putting on events. They are scared that violence
might ensue. Jealousies between crews have deepened and
some people profit from that to stir the shit at gigs,
throw stones, break equipment and provoke fights",
explains Xuman, and Kock 6 laments: "Rivalry completely
destroyed the scene. In the beginning, you'd see all the
pretty girls of Dakar at our gigs, dressed to kill. Now,
all you see is guys playing bad boy." In Senegal,
the spiralling of violence is associated with the emergence
of Rapadio, the impetuous heads of the country's New School.
After several years of underground activity they surfaced
in 1998, faces hidden behind balaclavas, set to confront
and ready to perturb. Their square imposition on the scene
blew the movement up into battling factions, knocked the
Old School out of their smug complacency and instilled
a new militant flavour into rising young groups. Their
legendary debut album Ku Weet Xam Sa Bop ('left on your
own, you'll know yourself') violently attacked all established
bands (PBS, Daara J and Pee Froiss), accusing them of
having distorted the purpose of hip hop by failing to
address society's flaws. Many groups responded just as
fiercely to the verbal onslaught, and Senegal lived its
first true period of hip hop clashes. Only Xuman refused
to take the route of rivalry and responded with the snubbingly
superior Ku Weet Xam Sa Bay ('If you're alone, you'll
know who your father is'): "If I were an American,
I would call you a motherfucker. But I'm not, so I'll
deal with you my own way. I've been here long before you.
If you're alone you will know who your father is."
Rapadio see themselves as the 'soldiers of the street'
who wrung hip hop from the hands of the well-to-do kids
and passed it to those with little means, but much to
rap about. "We gave courage to youngsters from poorer
areas. Before, people thought that in order to do rap,
you have to own a good pair of trainers and a FUBU sweater.
When we came on stage, we wore our 10000 CFA (£10)
shoes, while PBS came straight back from the States with
the latest model of Jordans, 120,000 CFA (£120)
a pair. We showed that hip hop is not about having the
right outfit or moving the right way. It's about what
you have to say."
Though many dismiss Rapadio's controversial stance as
a cheap marketing plot, their approach provoked many artists
to politicise their words. Rap became the language of
protest and rebellion, a voice for the deprived and destitute.
"African hip hop is conscious hip hop. That's our
main advantage over French and American hip hop which
has become little more than a story of bitches and bling
bling. Here it's education first," declares Xuman.
Rather than revelling in an imaginary gangster lifestyle,
Dakar's MCs deliver fierce verbal attacks against the
government and society's ills. Sometimes profound, at
others merely polemic, their discourse is fiercely political,
Afrocentric and highly moralistic. MCs see themselves
as the young revolutionaries who break taboos in a society
where the indirect solution is generally preferred to
open accusation. And that's where they knock heads with
the mbalax artists, who they continually accuse of tranquillising
the population with saccharine love lyrics and empty flattery.
"It makes me sick to wake up in the morning and find
that radio and TV have conspired to play nothing but mbalax.
Your lyrics are devoid of any message. Since my childhood
I had to listen to your vacant words," spells Rapadio's
angry rhyme. Their main man KT qualifies the onslaught:
"We don't reject mbalax, it's part of the cultural
landscape of Senegal, and most Senegalese love it. But
the mbalax singers should have profited from the success
of their music to advance people's mentality". As
Chuck D says: "You have to give something for the
mind and the feet. It's all good to dance, but sometimes
music should do more, teach us and enrich us personally."
At the same time, the moralistic stance of some rappers
is ill at ease with the sensuality of mbalax dances. "Have
you been to our nightclubs? It's too hot what's going
on there. Those dances have become more and more outrageous,
and little girls mimic that in the streets. It's too much",
believes Manu from BMG44. Hard to believe that this should
come from the mouth of an MC. It's true that there is
little of the booty shaking, flesh baring glamour that
is part and parcel of American hip hop, but not all groups
would take their straitlaced teachings quite that far.
It would be a futile effort. Rappers simply won't quench
the Senegalese's passion for mbalax. Hip hop's political
discourse, by contrast, has sent electrifying ripples
through society. The most prominent manifestations were
Senegal's presidential elections of 2000 and the installation
of opposition candidate Abdoulaye Wade. "There would
have been no change without the youth", said a headline
in one of Dakar's leading papers. Never before had there
been such a large turnout of young voters, and their sudden
concern for party politics has been attributed unanimously
to the heated campaigns of Senegal's MCs. A few months
before the crucial date, a surge of cassettes flooded
the shops, all delivering the same message: Things have
gone wrong for long enough.
This country needs new wind.
Without having been bought by the Wade camp, a large number
of rappers decided to encourage their audiences to go
and get an identity card, register with the electoral
board and make their choice. Xuman was one of the most
avid advocates of persuading the youth to vote. "We
told them to stop complaining, to get up from their corner
and take conscience if they want this country to change.
No one is going to fight for you, and the first way to
alter things is to go and vote. If you still don't see
a change, go and strike, go and break something. But first
wake up and get on that register", he says. His song
Seumeula hummed from the ether as a soundtrack to the
elections. This year, he recorded a new version with upcoming
MC Shaka Babs. "Politicians are like machos. Full
of promises before the elections, and conveniently forgetful
once they've won you over", read the lyrics this
time. "We know that you can't change 40 years of
mismanagement in two years, but we'd like the new president
to talk less and act more", Xuman states assertively.
"We still keep a watchful eye on the politics of
our new government."
Since the frenzied activism of 2000, it has become quiet
around Dakar's live hip hop scene. Concerts are rare and
moderately attended, schools still providing the main
context for half-heartedly organised playback gigs. Even
in Dakar's pulsating nightclubs, homegrown hip hop is
conspicuously absent. Mbalax still rules most dance floors,
and once it's time for the regular hip hop round, it's
Wu Tang and Jay Z that blast from the speakers rather
than the latest Senegalese hits.
"No one wants to hear our stuff in the clubs. The
punters would leave the arena, sit back and listen to
the lyrics," sighs MC Abass. On the piste, the profundity
of the rhyme clearly backfires. PBS have come closest
to produce a club hit that doesn't provoke intense reflections
and compels couples to rub up in finest ragga style. "Xoyma
Xoyma - Show me, show me", blurts the punchy chorus.
"Girl, show me what you've got. Please open up yourŠ
ears, I've got something to tell you." But despite
its sweaty bounce, and featuring Jamaican ragga head Red
Rat, the track makes it only rarely into disco land. "The
DJs don't have confidence. They'd play any Red Rat tune
without hesitation, but refuse to put PBS on the turntable",
bemoans dancer Bay Soleil. DJs have not yet built the
confidence to unleash local brew onto the dancing crowds.
Xoyma's superior production quality is still a rare exception
on the scene. Most Senegalese recordings simply can't
compete with the slick sounds of imported CDs, and if
the beat ain't fat, the feet won't move. To ears that
are tuned to American gloss, Sene-rap cassettes are likely
to sound anything from raw to rough or unlistenable. Only
some are recorded in Dakar's better-equipped studios such
as YES, 2000 and Xippi. Young bands with few resources
knock their debuts together on tinny mics and dusty 4-tracks.
Much of hip hop's artistic interest lies in the sophistication
of production, and despite massive improvements, Senegal
is still no rival to Western temples of mixing and mastering.
Creativity is further marred by the absence of vinyl,
one of hip hop's most crucial ingredients. Pee Froiss'
DJ Gee Bass flicks through two precious cartons of 12''
that are piled up on his bedroom floor. Most of the big
American and French acts are there, plus a few ragged
albums of Senegalese traditional and pop. "With a
bit of luck, you can find the old African stuff here in
Dakar, but there are no shops that sell hip hop vinyl.
I buy those when I'm on tour or I get friends to bring
them in", he says. Pee Froiss and PBS are the only
groups who use live DJs. In Senegal, turntable acrobatics
are not the essence of hip hop but only the icing on the
cake. Most songs are jagged concoctions of over-familiar
US loops and samples of African chart toppers.
"When I started, I didn't even know what a DJ was
supposed to do in a group," remembers Gee Bass. "I
listened to records and slowly started teaching myself.
And then I met the French DJs Cut Killer and Abdel who
came to PBS' anniversaries and showed me how to scratch."
He puts a record of Senegalese drumming on the deck and
starts mixing it with the De La Soul tune that spins on
the second plate. "That's what I want to work on,"
he says grinning, "getting those sounds to get on."
PBS and Pee Froiss have always worked their material with
a decidedly international outlook, which means striking
the right balance between African flavours and hip hop
formulae. Most Senegalese listeners are not primarily
interested in African musical idioms, nor are they deterred
by the dismal sound quality of the products. They tune
in for the message and relish the MC's bending, chopping
and stretching of the Wolof tongue. Experimenting with
African sounds can even lead to disdain by the hardcore
following. Hip hop trio Bideew Bou Bess for example were
snubbed by the local scene for picking Youssou N'Dour's
label Jololi to produce an album that sought to integrate
the two musical worlds. The group was accused of betraying
the cause of hip hop by selling out to mbalax scene and
international market at the same time.
Catering for two such different audiences is not an easy
feat. PBS have tried to solve the problem by sporting
African styles in London and American fashion in Dakar.
Foreign stages see them draped in grand boubous, always
keeping a live kora player and tama drummer on the set.
Back home, they only step on the scene in the latest Nike
and Sean John. But they are tired of having to play the
African abroad. "We are Senegalese, that's right,
but we are not only Senegalese. At the same time we are
Africans, at the same time we are human beings. We are
world citizens and hip hop is our culture", proclaims
Doug-e-tee. But the hip hop market has so far remained
closed to them, as to most other Africa based MCs. PBS
released their latest album Run Cool on Warner's East
West Records and enlisted hip hop luminaries Herb Powers
(the master of mastering) and Salaam Remi (Fugees producer)
to add the right flavour. Despite these efforts, the record
is rarely sold under hip hop. The FNAC in Paris stocks
it under reggae; in the UK it is only available in specialist
world music shops. As an African genre that tastes of
rap and reggae, Sene-rap fits uneasily in any of the established
sales categories. Its Wolof lyrics alone make it world
music in the eyes of most promoters, but large parts of
the world music audience find sampled loops topped with
incomprehensible lyrics rather hard to swallow. Such promotional
problems slim down any chances of breaking onto the international
scene.
After 20 years of feverish creation, Sene-rap still remains
primarily a regional phenomenon that serves its strongest
purpose within the local community. There's not necessarily
anything wrong with that. Most non-American forms of hip
hop do, which is perhaps a blessing to our ears. (Or would
you want, say, German rap to suddenly dominate your airwaves?
Trust me, you wouldn't.) But Senegalese MCs rely on the
global market, as the country's dire economic situation
doesn't allow them to remain on home turf. No local rapper
can live on his art comfortably. An album that trades
well may shift 20,000 cassettes - most groups sell less.
The youthful target audience doesn't have much buying
power and the pirating mafia cheats performers of a large
slice of their profits. Distribution is still largely
monopolised by mogul Tala Diagne, who runs his own duplication
factory in the backrooms of his office.
"Tala Diagne is Virgin Megastores, FNAC, Sony and
Warner Bros all wrapped in one", summarises Xuman
of the businessman's power. Over the last years, a few
alternative networks have become available, but Diagne
is unlikely to relinquish his iron hold on Senegal's market
easily. Add to this the lack of resources, the zeal of
some established groups to impede the success of young
upstarts, and the reluctance of promoters and DJs to push
hip hop, and you understand the hardships Dakar's rappers
face. "We have plenty of people who live hip hop,
but not enough who live off it," laughs Gee Bass
cynically. "It's not even right to speak of a hip
hop scene. All we've got is MCs." Too many MCs and
not enough mics, perhapsŠ Hip hop has grown quicker
than the structures it needs to truly thrive. "When
we first started, we never thought we'd still be doing
this in 10 years time," ponders Kock 6. "We
didn't even think of earning money with rapping, it was
purely done by passion. Maybe it has taken the business
side too long to believe that hip hop is here to stay."
But here to stay it is. 20 years after the first rhyme,
hip hop still stands strong, its shell toes glued tightly
to the streets of Dakar, ready to jump at the next life-infusing
opportunity. Kicked off by the meteoric rise of PBS, the
movement may just need the international break of a new
outfit to jump-start it all over again. If the British
Isles are still helpless at the sight of African hip hop,
France may well be ready for a new current of Sene-rap.
Congo-Senegalese Bisso Na Bisso hit gold with their 1999
release Racines (check the track on fRoots No. 14) and
Haitian born MC Kery James currently leads the French
scene with Si C'était A Refaire, an album that
celebrates his newly-found Muslim faith in thoroughly
African tones. And who knows what might happen if some
of America's serial collaborators seriously turn to the
African homeland for inspirationŠ You might want
to start taking Wolof classes now. Thanks to Jules Kane
at RapRek for his guidance around the back streets of
Dakar's hip hop movement; to Seckou Keita and Alain Teixeira
for translations; to Mammadou Konte at Africafete and
to all of Dakar's MCs.
Diaara Dieuf
Listen
to:
Daara J Xalima (BMG CDB 10592) / Daara J (BMG CDB 11352)
Pee Froiss F.R.O.I.S.S. Night & Day (out Oct 2002)
Positive Black Soul Run Cool (East West 8573 86845 2)
/ Salaam Mango (CIDMX 1114) Various (including Pee Froiss,
Positive Black Soul, BMG44) Africa Raps (Trikont US-294)
Various (including Daara J, Bideew Bou Bess) Da Hop (Jololi
7243 8488162 7)
Villagevoice, Michaelangelo Matos, Week of May 1 - 7,
2002
Well, the Senegalese, Gambian, and Malian hip-hoppers
on Africa Raps won't be getting Hot 97 airplay anytime
soon, even if Wolof or Malinka suddenly became America's
third language-it's as much a matter of production as
of mother tongue. The vocals tend to be mixed further
up front than the beats, which means even the boom-bappingest
tracks lose something in translation. (The exception is
"Jalgaty," by Dakar OGs Pee Froiss, who frequently
rhyme in English, though their name might piss on any
chance of a U.S. crossover.) The way BMG 44's "Kam"
chops up a Youssou N'Dour track, or the stab patterns
of Bibson/Kuman's "Kay Jel Ma," prove them as
much the children of DJ Premier as anything on Rawkus;
similarly, C.B.V.'s "Art. 158" could be Senegalese
g-funk, albeit with the flow rough and choppy instead
of laaaaid-back.
As a sop to hip-hop's roots in griot tradition, the comp
includes Gokh-Bi System ("In Dakar they are pretty
much unknown," the liner notes admit), and Les Escrocs,
who are backed musically and financially by Malian kora
giant Toumani Diabate. The real action, though, is in
Tata Pound's "Badala", a near-seamless merger
of circular Malian guitar riffs, relentless vocal trade-offs,
and quickstepping, dirty-south 808 beat. No coincidence
that Africa Raps' best moment is its most thorough blend
of African and American-and that the latter has a slight
edge over the former.
Worldmusic-DJ Andy Kershaw, BBC Radio3
|
