CENTERSTAGE

CENTERSTAGE

TRIBAL BIBLE

FELA ANIKULAPO KUTI Felt Forum, New York November 8, 1986

by Richard Grabel

Fela Anikulapo Kuti doesn’t just talk Revolution and Power Struggle and antiauthoritarian sentiments. In Africa, such talk is enough to put your freedom on the line, and by and large, most African musicians play it safe, restricting their lyrics to universalist messages of love and peace that avoid directly criticizing those in power. But Fela takes on the bosses in every song, and even offstage he lives by his words. In the process, he gives everyone from the Nigerian government to various record companies to liberal western journalists (who sometimes think he’s sexist for keeping 27 wives) apolplexy. But Fela just keeps on.

Fela lives on the outskirts of Lagos, Nigeria with his many wives and numerous hangers-on. He smokes a lot of grass and preaches pan-Africanism and anti-colonialism. On his records, from the stage and in the press, he constantly attacks the corruption and stupidity of Nigeria’s aristocracy, beauracracy, police and military. He has spoken of running for president and titled one of his best albums Black President. He’s been busted many times—most recently for currency violations—and, in fact, this concert was delayed by an 18-month jail term. But the time served hasn’t diminished Fela in any way.

His band, Egypt 80, consists of 20 musicians, four female backup singers and six female dancers dressed in the skimpiest possible costumes of beads and tattered skirts. There is a massive horn section, loads of sweetly chiming guitars, and the heavy, satisfying thump of a multi-percussive bottom.

And there is Fela, standing at the center of it all like a ringmaster at a circus, commanding this well-drilled squad with just a glance. He does not approach this thing as “just” a concert. He is jokester, making us laugh, a politician, winning our vote, and to his band, a strict general leading an army into battle.

Tonight Fela plays only four songs in over three hours. They are “Just Like That” ( “In Nigeria,” Fela explained, “a man can be thrown into prison just like that”), “Confusion Break Bone,” “Teacher Don’t Teach Me Nonsense” and “Beast Of No Nation,” which Fela said to be the first song he’s written since getting out of prison. The songs share a pattern. Drums and bass lay down a groove, then guitars sweeten it, the horns introduce the melody. The girl’s chorus, Fela’s exploding vocal commentary, and various solos on sax, organ or bongos weave in and out of the mix, spiking, livening, cajoling. Things build to a fever pitch, then cool down. And somehow, the pattern never feels predictable, no matter how well you know what’s coming. The listener sits in delicious anticipation, and ends feeling satisfied.

And there’s lots to watch. Fela himself is a commanding presence, emanating consummate poise and dignity cut with an impish mischievousness. And when Fela takes a break there are those six African woman dancers who do everything from animal imitations to getting down on the floor and doing outrageously sexual things with their buttocks.

There’s no doubt that Fela’s alreadycommitted American fans got the message in his music, as do his African fans, for whom Fela is as much a public figure as he is a band leader. But you need not give a toss about human rights or the exploitation of the Third World by multinational corporations in order to enjoy Fela’s Africanized funk (although if you don’t give a toss about those things, what’s wrong—brain dead?). Fela is something special, a mythic Trickster, a master of grooves, an ageless imp who would be King. He shouldn’t be missed.

BLARNEY RUBBLE

THE ROQUES

Kllburn National Club, London December 4, 1986

by Cynthia Rose

In a London where drink remains the drug of choice among youth, the low-rent pubs of Kilburn (this city’s roughest Irish quarter) are legendary. But a particularly rakish ambience is attached to dancehalls like the National Club. Huge and expansively gaudy, it’s a giant, pink-andpurple wedding cake of a place—and boasts enough plaster frescoes to make you think the walls were just iced. And tonight red, gold and green tinsel is everywhere: £t nightspots like this, Christmas decor is showy unto the point of sleaze.

The National’s Irish honky-tonk aesthetic has made it a rep in the venue biz. Last week Billy Bragg headlined here, next week it’s the Jesus & Mary Chain. But tonight’s crowd? Absolutely no doubt—they’ve come to see the Pogues. Clutching the proof of their unswerving allegiance in plastic pint-size cups, scruffy, sweaty Londoners line the dancefloor wall-to-wall.

Pogues fans can be elegant (dress styles here range from leather and studs to the odd Burburry mac). But, more than anything else, Poguetry is a state of mind. In fact, you can abbreviate that further: Poguetry is a state, period. Since their earliest days as Pogue Mahone, this rowdy, rapacious outfit has been about getting pissed—and viewing modern life through the bottom of the glass. And no one has ever conveyed the sentimental, stomach-warming grandeur of hard spirits better; Poguetry live is the injection of thrilling, trilling visceral feeling into a madcap knees-up jig.

Tonight they’ve come home at last. Back from the adulation of John-John Kennedy and Matt Dillon and out of the spotlight focused on their former bassist, now Mrs. Elvis Costello: Cait O’Riordan. Back to those fans who treat every song like the chants ot a Saturday soccerground, who know every word to every verse and can’t wait to sing along. Back to being—because they are—the most magnificent British band since the Sex Pistols.

... Though, of course, they are London Irishmen, a subdivision of citizens whose proclivities are evident the moment a snaggle-toothed Shane MacGowan takes the stage amid a frenzied ovation. Bottle in one hand, cigarette occupying the other, Shane growls and coughs and— bang!—the Pogues are off. Whistling pipes and galloping drums and hoarse, raging vocals catapult the audience through two new numbers written for Alex Cox’s Western, Straight To Hell. (In this three-week wonder from the maker of Sid And Nancy, the Pogues play a bandido gang so booked on coffee they can’t hold a gunbarrel straight.)

“The Recruiting Song” delivers us back to balladry, albeit the uptempo sort, with whistleman Spider Stacey gracing the mike and Shane at one side of the stage. There he’s busy canoddling with fans (result: a large bottle of whiskey gracing his hand in time for a toast of “Today it’s Terry’s birthday!”). Hysteria from Terry’s section of the swaying, screaming audience takes us through two more new ones and “The Body Of An American.” By now, the sticks of neon over each long bar to the side of the hall look like wagon wheels to the pie-eyed fans. And where there’s room in the back, skinny lads in leather and heavy Doc Marten boots have broken into reels. Watching them jig up and down—all pointed toes and arms tucked into the small of the back—is infectious.

Everyone’s hoarse by now, with Shane the gruffest of all. “This is a shoutin’ song,” he yells—“So SHOUT ALONG IF YOU WANT!” And he’s off through another nautical ballad, a woeful heaveaway-haul-away of slavery on the waves.

Ten years on from the Pistols, the Pogues’ vision yields one hardbitten gem after another, ribald instrumental melees an winding-sheet-solemn stories of death or everyday woe. What waves it all from anarchy or self-indulgence is what makes this very moment great—a palpable, vivid love of life so noisy and reckless it turns the very air electric. The gladiatorial crowd roars approval of every note (Ewan MacColl’s “Dirty Old Town” is drowned by the thunderous response). And the band ambles off, shambling back four times for long sets of encore celebrations.

In summary: what a band! Their record company has just gone bust, their founding bassist has buggered off (O’Riordan’s place being taken this night by a nervous but determined roadie), and their .sound system provides more hindrance than help. Yet the Pogues endure as ever— generous, humorous, the hottest ticket here where they live. As panting fans pour into the road outside (where the pub continues to serve an hour past legal closing time), their faces gleam with drink and renewed emotion. It’s Poguetry in motion— and long may it rule!