Originally published by BY
For casual but curious collectors of eclectic sounds and global grooves,
Analog Africa might be the Holy Grail. Since being founded in Germany
by Samy Ben Redjeb in 2006, the Tunisian crate digger's deeply personal
and highly idiosyncratic imprint has birthed a steady stream of 40
peerless releases and counting—carefully curated collections of rare and
obscure analogue-era recordings which invariably act as thrilling sonic
transporters, touristic time capsules and irresistible dance-floor
fillers.
The story begins in 2000 when part-time DJ Redjeb began
working for a German airline which took him in and out of major African
transport hubs, offering the unusual opportunity to scour obscure and
forgotten vinyl records which had nearly always never been heard outside
of their target market.
An initial fascination with the music
of Zimbabwe led to a pair of loss-making debut releases dedicated to the
country's most-storied groups—The Green Arrows, and Hallelujah Chicken
Run Band—released in 2007, before circumstances took Redjeb to Cotonou,
Benin, where he uncovered a stash of thousands of records that would lay
the path for the following four releases which define the label for
years to come.
Analog Africa's first multi-artist compilation African Scream Contest -Raw & Psychedelic Afro Sounds from Benin & Togo 70s (2008) put the label on the map and in the heart of curio collectors and groove-fiends, and was followed by the seminal Legends of Benin and two complete volumes dedicated to the fabled Orchestre Poly-Rythmo de Cotonou.
Along the way listeners became accustomed to the label's distinct
coffee table-worthy cover art, filler-free taste, impeccable sequencing
and Samy's own rambling, idiomatic first-person liner notes, typically
contrasting spontaneous audio epiphanies with the arduous process of
tracking down musicians or their surviving relatives to strike a deal
for release.
Focused on the pre-digital golden age of the '70s
and '80s, subsequent releases have covered 20 countries across Africa
and South America, with standalone compilations transporting listeners
to hear the rarely catalogued music of Angola, Burkina Faso, Colombia,
Senegal, Cameroon and Somalia, amongst others. Meanwhile complete
volumes have documented mythical figures including Guinea's Amara
Touré, the Democratic Republic of the Congo's Verckys, Cape Verde's
Bitori, Colombia's Aníbal Velásquez and Cameroonian
soldier-turned-politician Hamad Kalkaba; as well as historical outfits
like Benin's Orchestre Super Borgou De Parakou and Somalia's Dur-Dur
Band. Collectively, the catalogue captures the collision of heady
innovation amid an optimistic milieu, at the moment when traditional
forms collide with new trends and technologies in often young
independent nations.
Most recently, the label's 30th non-limited release La Locura de Machuca 1975-1980
chronicles, in Redjeb's words, the "story of a crazy producer from
Colombia who did really special things." After that, he lets slip, will
be a compilation of early '80s Edo Funk tunes from Nigeria's southern
state in the thrall of pioneer Sir Victor Uwaifo. But with so many
riches already unearthed, after spending much of 2020 delving deep into
Analog Africa's existing catalogue during lockdown, this writer was more
concerned with looking backwards.
All About Jazz:
What is it that makes your ears perk up when you hear certain pieces of
music— what, for example, was it about the forgotten Somali disco tunes
featured on your recent Mogadisco compilation that you wanted to share with the world?
Samy Ben Redjeb:
Sometimes you ask yourself why you like or love this person and you
can't put your finger on it, you just like it—I don't really have my own
way of describing why I like certain music or not, it's a bit too
difficult to translate emotions into wording. You can't put a finger on
it sometimes, it just gives you a good feeling.
AAJ: Ah, but for you there's a commercial element— you also need to know that other people might feel the same.
SBR: My label was built because I started to get really
excited about Zimbabwean music—I [thought] if I like it, why wouldn't
other people? The label is basically a reflection of my own taste, and
the people who like Analog Africa are people who trust my taste. So
generally the compilations are made for myself, then hoping other people
are going to like it—there is no other way. I'm sure there are people
who go on Discogs and decide they want something because 2,000 other
people want it—but I don't function like this.
AAJ: But you must find some records that you love are less successful in the marketplace ...
SBR:
Yes, But I know this before I even release it. It doesn't really matter
because it's not only about sales, it's about cultures, it's about
showing ... I always like trying to compare what I do to someone who
makes a lot of spices available for a cook —he takes a bit of this, a
bit of that—what I'm trying to do is showcase as much variety as
possible. And if possible music that hasn't really been showcased
before, it makes it more interesting. It's not a must.
Now I'm
releasing a compilation by a label from Colombia called Machuca, which
is the beginning of a style of music called champeta, which is basically
African music recorded by Colombian musicians. When they started it was
very experimental—sometimes a bit too crazy for most— and I know that
it's not going to sell as well as if I just release another Afrobeat
compilation. But for me it's more interesting to do something different
instead of something that's already been done, that I know would sell
more.
AAJ: Before you founded the label, you
hosted an African club night in Dakar, Senegal—is that what started you
digging for these wonderful forgotten records?
SBR:
At that time I was DJing in hotels and I was basically playing just the
charts, pop music, disco —and at some point I started doing African
nights but it was not that kind of music I was looking for. The music I
liked was just too raw to be played in discos. The first digging trips I
did were not to play music for people but for me to discover music that
I really loved.
AAJ: Looking back on the past 20 years digging, what was your greatest single find?
SBR:
I have to say one of the most epic moments for me was to find that
warehouse in Cotonou in Benin. That's the turning point for my label,
really. For example, Orchestre Poly-Rythmo—I think I found almost
everything they recorded in that one place. They recorded about 500
records and I think I found 450. The next two or three compilations I
did was basically based on what I found in that place. That was the
turning point for me—when I was there, going through the records, I
understood straight away. I think everyone has like one godly present in
their life and I think that was mine.
AAJ: When faced with that amount of material—how many tracks do you listen to putting together a single compilation?
SBR: Well, let's say for Angola Soundtrack [The Unique Sound Of Luanda 1968-1976] I probably listened to 1,000 songs that were diluted into 14. And for African Scream
it was even more than that—but it doesn't mean the other songs are not
so good. Sometimes I take one song out just to put another song in
because it's going to make it flow better, or if one song is too similar
to another one. Once you have the songs, putting them into the right
running order takes months.
AAJ: How many get away—how often are there tracks you can't locate, or can't afford?
SBR:
Let's say from the 500 songs I released so far, there are maybe 10
artists I didn't manage to find. If you don't find the artist, and you
don't find the producer, and he doesn't have children ... but generally
if you really, really want to find someone, you will manage.
AAJ: You often write about the negotiation process in your notes. How do you decide what to pay an artist?
SBR:
Basically what I do is go with an average pressing—generally I would
say, if all goes well I would sell maybe 5-6,000 LPs and 1,000 CDs, so
let's say that's between 6-7,000 in total. So basically I don't pay
royalties—the company who says they will pay royalties is all lies
because they don't have the manpower to calculate royalties on every
song for every artist every six months. So generally what happens is
they pay the first two royalties [checks], and then afterwards it
trickles down and you get bills where they tell you have $1.27 or $2.69
or bullshit like that. I don't believe in that, so I calculate, say I
have 7,000 units, all are sold, 15 per cent royalties [for physical
sales; or 50 per cent for digital] for the artists is say 10,000 euros—
which divided by the number of songs gives me 600 to 700 euros, so
that's what I offer. Companies don't [normally] do that because they're
basically paying all the royalties in advance that way, which is a risk.
But I prefer to do it because it gives me a better feeling that I have
been correct, and I already know that I will manage to sell this
[number], even if it doesn't sell it in a year, it will sell in two.
AAJ:
There's an element where your work goes beyond music—the research and
storytelling aspect of your curatorial process—it's history, culture,
anthropology...
SBR: Sometimes when people help
me to write liner notes—for example a professor of Colombian and
Brazilian music— I always tell them I don't want them to sound like
professors. I don't want them to be academic. I always say, write
whatever you want but also remember that the people who create the music
generally are not from that field and they need to understand whatever
you write. I would find it very strange if, for example, someone from
the north of Brazil goes through the liner notes and doesn't understand a
single word about the very music that he's involved in. I try to write
very basic—the people who read the liner notes may be Japanese, Spanish,
Italian—I try to write in my own words. I'm not an academic and I
believe that most of the people that buy our compilations are not
academics, so I try to write more like a storyteller.
When I DJ, sometimes they invite me into high-society parties and I
really hate that, because the music I play is by simple people and I
identify very much with them. Obviously it's very interesting when you
find a song made for local consumption—it didn't go out of the state or
country—and then suddenly you play it in Hong Kong or New York or
Berlin, that's very interesting to see. But I also don't like that
sometimes you take music totally out of context and play it for people
who have nothing in common with the people who created that music.
AAJ:
On that note—some of your records can command two or three times the
original price on Discogs when they go out of print. How many copies do
you normally put out of a compilation, like say, your most recent, Mogadisco?
SBR:
We did 4,000 of Mogadisco first, but I think we repressed. I'm in the
process of creating; once the compilation is done, I go to the next one,
and I don't deal with sales. I don't even have access to my own bank
account. I'm employed by my own company. I have a manager, I don't want
to receive invoices, to get papers. The five employees are getting paid
and we're managing to put out music—it's like a circle, you produce, you
sell, with that money you pay your people and the next production —and
it's just a circle that basically goes around and as long as that wheel
is turning ... if somebody had told me [before], "listen you would be
able to survive from your work," I would have signed that straight away.
And that is what is happening now and I couldn't ask for more. I'm not
someone who is very interested in material things ... I'm not too
fussed.
AAJ: Except when it comes to wax...
SBR:
Yeah, I'm not even too crazy about wax, it's just that the wax is a
format where I find the music I love—but once it's digitized the vinyl
loses a bit of the importance, to me it's really about the music. The
people that say vinyl sounds so much better than digital or CD— well,
it's more about the experience of putting on a record, a vinyl is really
fragile so you care more about it, it's gatefold, you have a big
booklet—it's not about the vinyl, it's about the experience of it.
AAJ: For real? You're telling me the vinyl versions of your own records don't sound any better?
SBR:
I can play the vinyl, I can play the CD, and you will not hear a
difference. The CD can sometimes even sound better—-when you cut the
vinyl you lose a bit of the mids and highs, it's a bit more round,
depending on the record. For the Machuca , I asked my sound
engineer especially, "I want it to sound like a bunch of skeletons
playing on tins." So the mids and trebles are quite rattley. So when he
cuts the vinyl a bit of this is going to go down—so I know already the
CD is going to sound better for this particular compilation.
I love vinyl because that's where I found 90 per cent of all the music I
release, and when I want to find a song I know it's only going to be on
vinyl. But if I found good music on cassette, or on master tapes, I
would love it as much. And because in the scene I am in there are so
many people who are completely vinyl junkies, I really got turned off by
that. I don't want to become like this.
AAJ: A
lot of the most exciting African music from the golden period you
document took a heavy influence from the funk and soul sounds coming
from the US. It may have been a one-way street —at that point anyway—but
why did West African musicians especially respond so strongly to
Western trends?
SBR: James Brown
was something else, because he also had a really strong message which
really impacted Africa very strongly, especially in the late '60s and
early '70s—but if you listen to Poly-Rythmo and all these other guys it
was not just straight funk, it was not like American funk, it was really
their own creation and this is what makes it interesting. The thing
that is most interesting is when they do funk without even knowing
they're doing it, just because the rhythm section improvises it—I mean
the funk is not really a style, it's more a vibe, a rhythm, than a style
to me. So I'm pretty sure there are African musicians who never came
into contact with funk, but the way they play it is just funky because
that's what the music is dictating.
When you talk to the
musicians they tell me funk is very easy to them, it is never a
problem—Afrobeat is a bit more complicated because it's a whole
orchestra, you need brass, and not every band has that—but funk was not a
problem for any of those bands. Any kind of western music was not a
problem for any African bands.
AAJ: What instruments do you play yourself?
SBR:
I don't play any instruments. When I started playing I realized I'm
only going to reach a certain level but I'm not going to become
excellent. Anything where I'm not going to be excellent, I'm not going
to do it.
AAJ: At the end of last year you released Mogadisco—Dancing Mogadishu (Somalia 1972-1991), your first compilation from a country in the Arab World; was there any reason you turned to this part of the globe now?
SBR:
There is no reason, if they were Christian I would have done it anyway,
there is really nothing to do with [religion], it's just [that] I
discovered this music five or six years ago and it takes time, it's
complicated to do a project like this. First the need to travel—if
Somalia was easy to travel to I would've already been there like 10
times, but I've been only once and it's an overwhelming experience—it
took me four years to get there, I stayed for five or six weeks and
brought back enough [digitized music] to do two or three projects, and
then I'll see if I have the courage or the will to put myself into a
situation like this again.
AAJ: What about the music of your home, Tunisia?
SBR:
For me I need one song to make me sit up and look for more, and I've
never encountered a Tunisian song that I was like, "wow, I want to
discover more of that." Despite the fact Tunisia had the most futuristic
bands, they didn't have the richest industry, and there was not so much
crossover—maybe there was but I have not had the chance to come across
it.
Also when you are born into a country you're more curious to
see what is happening in other places, areas you don't know, that makes
it a bit more interesting, the curiosity to check out if there is
something there.
AAJ: So what does attract you to a particular country?
SBR:
Just the music, there is no big difference between Benin, Somalia,
Ghana, Senegal, or whatever countries I've been to, it just sounds
different and that's why I was interested. But it's not a calculated
thing, like "now I'm going to do Islamic countries in Africa"—I've never
really thought about it, it's just "this is interesting music, let's
see if there's an opening to do something with it." I've released music
from 20 African countries and I've been to 28, I think.
AAJ:
So far you've avoided releasing music from two of the countries which
have been most heavily covered, and fetishized, by Western
labels—Nigeria and Mali—is that simply because the market's already
saturated, or all the best tunes have already been heard?
SBR:
Not really. The Malian music that has reached Europe is really the
traditional music, but produced by European musicians in most cases. But
the music from the '70s that is really, really interesting, I don't
think there's so much that has been released yet. There's a producer in
France, Syllart Records, and he basically struck deals with different
producers here and there and bought the rights to things, and every time
you release something he says, "I've got the rights to this, I've got
the rights to that," although you don't even know if it's true or not.
If it's already a bit too crowded, it's not really interesting you know.
AAJ: What's your relationship like with the other European labels releasing vintage music from Africa and around the world?
SBR :
I don't think I can say that. I tend to say I'm part of the scene, but
I'm not really in it because I don't deal with record collectors,
dealers or other labels. I don't have a bad relationship with any of
them but it's not that there is a relationship. I think everybody is
doing his own thing and we try not to step on each other's toes.
AAJ: Let's put it another way—I'm a fan of Analog Africa, I've already heard all your releases, what should I listen to next?
SBR:
My favorite label is Soundway [Records], for me they are the best. The
founder [Miles Cleret] recommended me to work with Nick Robbins who is
my mastering engineer in London. He sent me a few records for African Scream.
I know the work he's doing and that's absolutely no reason why I
shouldn't like him and respect him. Also he's a very correct guy, at
some point he knew I was working on a Ghana compilation, and he said,
"listen Samy, I'm also working on a Ghana compilation, here are the
songs I'm planning to release, let me know if there is one you are also
planning and I will remove it from my list." And I was like, okay this
guy is really cool. Not everybody would do that.
Someone else I
like a lot is the guy from Strut—he's the guy who managed to get me my
distributor in the States. One that influenced me a lot is Buddha Music
with the Éthiopiques series. And also Ellipsis Art, that went
bankrupt because they always used to do huge booklets. These are the
labels I'm really close to.
AAJ: It's been a relentless life and a seemingly endless search, do you ever get tired of it, ever think of giving it up?
SBR:
Not really, but I think I will get to 50 [releases] and 50 will be the
last one. I'm now releasing number 30 ... and I'm now 49-years old.
Originally published by BY
