Tunde Odesola

If wishes were horses, 1975 would have been the end of King Sunny Ade’s music career. It was the year a Lagos High Court slammed KSA with a nine-month ban, forbidding him from recording music. The ban followed a dispute between KSA and the owner of two leading record labels, Take Your Choice (TYC) and African Songs Ltd, the late Chief Bolarinwa Yaqub Abioro.

The Balogun of Ipokia, Abioro, was a big fish. In fact, he was a shark, capable of swallowing KSA up, like the big fish that swallowed Jonah while he escaped to Tarshish, away from Nineveh. The Ipokia-born business mogul was in the league of the super-rich and powerful of his time. In terms of money and power, he could do and undo Sunny.

But, like a headstrong footballer seeking greener pastures despite being contracted, KSA felt the term of the contract he signed with Abioro was penned in Shylock ink. So, he broke the contract and recorded on his own label, Sunny Alade Records, which he established to break Abioro’s stranglehold. W-H-A-T!!! A furious Abioro ran to a Lagos High Court, aiming to teach KSA the lesson of his life.

Abioro had KSA by the balls, almost. In court, Abioro hung Sunny on the cross and pleaded to be given a crown of thorns, a spear and nails to finish off the crucifixion. But Justice L. J. Dosumu took pity on the defendant, granting KSA the lifeline to play in live shows and parties only, contrary to the total annihilation prayers of Abioro.

In his wisdom, Justice Dosumu ruled that as a family man, KSA needed to feed himself and his family. Therefore, for sustenance, Sunny allowed the musician to play in shows and parties.

If the court upheld the prayers of Abioro to ban KSA from recording and playing music for nine months, and to pay N1,000,000:00 in damages, such a verdict would have ruined the career of KSA, who didn’t have such money.

In court, Sunny’s lawyer and fellow Ẹ̀gin, Senior Advocate Gani Fawehinmi (God bless his soul), requested the financial records of the songs Sunny did on Abioro’s label. With the records, Fawehinmi convinced the court that Sunny was not adequately compensated for his songs, stressing that the contract was grossly exploitative.

Subsequently, the court struck out the claims of N1,000,000:00 in damages as well as the plea to ban KSA from playing music for the period of nine months left on his contract with Abioro.

The Sunny-Abioro dogfight highlights the gross inequality in artist compensation in a period when music distributors, promoters, studios and record label owners lorded it over musicians.

After observing the ban, KSA returned to the studios later in 1975 to wax “Mo Ri Sisi Meji”. In the song, which is indigenous to Lagos Island, KSA croons, “Mo rí sisí méjì níta Fájì/wọ́n n ta ṣawa/níbi yìgì, níbi wòlímọ̀/wọ́n á má jó móló/ha, móló ò wọ̀, móló ò da/móló ń dá wọ́n lẹ́hìn wọ́n á dákú pọnrọngọndọn/awá ò jò moló, móló n pawọ́n ó/mólo ń dá wọn lẹ́hìn wọ́n á dákú pọnrọngọndọn/awa ṣa ti gba pe e jo molo o/jùjú le o fa bo si o, eh eh.”

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Molo is a stringed musical instrument widely known as a lute.

Now, let’s take a look at the last sentence in the quote above, “Jùjú le o fa bo si o, eh eh”. It means: “You all will come back to Jùjú”. That statement was three things rolled into one: a prophecy, a chest-thumping boast, and a declaration of intent.
Only a genre on sure footing would declare that after all is said and done, jùjú would be the anchorage for other genres.

Come to think of it, by 1975, Fuji was a crawling baby, having been born in 1974; Highlife had become febrile after the Civil War, and Àpàlà, though alive and vibrant, had a thin voice not as sonorous as jùjú’s.

Did KSA’s prophecy come to pass? Was KSA referring to a genre or a personality when he said, “Jùjú le o fa bo si o, eh eh.” Guitar wizard and former member of KSA’s band, Bob Aladeniyi, believed the statement was a shade thrown at him. Speaking in a telephone interview with me, Aladeniyi said he introduced sax, keyboard, and drum sets to his brand of jùjú, after Abioro prised him away from Sunny’s band.

His words: “At the time, KSA was only using gángan, gòmbe, àkúbà, guitar, ṣẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀, maracas, agogo, and bongos. When I was with KSA, I had told him to introduce sax, keyboard, and drum set to jùjú, but he said no. So, when Abioro took me away from Sunny in 1975, I saw it as an opportunity to practicalise my ideas by introducing all these instruments. That was when I recorded “Gbẹ́dógbẹ́dó kan o gbẹ́ ojúgun”. That was the first time tenor sax, alto sax, manual drums, keyboard and drum sets were introduced to jùjú.

“I brought Bob Ohiri (tenor guitarist) into Sunny’s band; Sarafa Bello (bass guitarist) was already there. So, it was easy to co-opt and confide in Ohiri about my plans to form my own band. But before I returned from London, where I had gone to buy various equipment with the funds provided by Abioro, Sunny had begged Ohiri to come back. But I later convinced him, and he played the tenor guitar in my first album, “Gbẹ́dógbẹ́dó kan o gbẹ́ ojúgun”.

“For many months, Abioro lodged my band, Jùjú Rock Stars, in his Hotel Frontiere, Ipokia, Ogun State, where we rehearsed. I got the late Igo Chico Okwechime, Fela’s saxophonist, to play sax for me. Fela Anikulapo-Kuti was originally a trumpeter; it was Chico who taught him how to play sax. After many years, however, I settled with KSA, and he has been very good to me.”

But Sarafa Bello countered Aladeniyi’s claims, saying KSA was not referring to him in the song. In an interview with me, Bello, who was in Sunny’s band between 1969 and 1982, said, “KSA was not referring to anybody. The song was a Lagos Island folklore. I heard the song around the Iga Idunganran area, and I brought it to KSA. It is a song played by àgídìgbo-playing musicians for relaxation at bars.”

In “Mo Ri Sisi Meji”, Sunny predicted the dominance of jùjú 51 years ago. But so much water has since passed under the bridge. Today, jùjú is no longer the same. Why is jùjú ailing?

A scholar of African Music and Head of the Music Department, Mountain Top University, Dr Bayo Ogunyemi, said it was not only jùjú music that had suffered decline in Nigerian society, stressing that the arts in general had nosedived. Ogunyemi set his professional laser beam on the issue and submitted a surgical report.

This is his report: “Fuji is a more economical genre compared to Juju. Juju demands intensive instrumentation, particularly with its Western-influenced orchestration — keyboard, guitar, and fuller vocal arrangements — which makes it costlier to produce. In terms of performance delivery, Fuji is also less rigorous and significantly less expensive to assemble than Juju. I use the word “rigorous” here with all sense of responsibility, and not to demean Fuji. Fuji is, in fact, more homely because of its proximity to indigenous tradition. The strength of Jùjú is in its rhythm line; Fuji’s strength is in its percussion line. For example, Fuji uses the guitar and many other rhythm instruments as a show-off. But the guitar and keyboard are fundamental to jùjú. King Wasiu Ayinde (K1) can play his music without the guitar and keyboard, but jùjú musicians can’t do away with both instruments. A simple jùjú band needs lead, bass and rhythm guitars. Fuji doesn’t need all these. Jùjú needs a powerful keyboard, too. When you watch a live Fuji band, notice how many times the guitarists play the guitars or how many times their keyboardists play the keyboards. Fuji musicians buy expensive guitars and keyboards just to create a sense of belonging and portray themselves as educated and sophisticated. They don’t want to be seen as ghetto-ish.”

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Contrary to popular belief, Ogunyemi opined that the removal of the guitar from Shina Peters’ music watered down the quality of his jùjú and set the tone for artists playing Peters’ style of jùjú. In an interview with me, however, Peters said God told him to remove the guitar from his jùjú to liberalise the genre and liberate up-and-coming artists from the bondage of those holding the levers of power in jùjú.

Asserting that jùjú will not die, Ogunyemi identified some of the obstacles standing in the way of the genre. He said, “To learn and master the guitar is no mean task. It requires dedication, consistency and creativity. How many of today’s jùjú musicians can play the guitar? Also, Jùjú of yore was deep, philosophical and moralistic. Today, artists sing cheap songs. It may work for other genres, but it is not working for jùjú because the jùjú people knew and loved in the past is no longer the jùjú being played today.

“People have an enduring appreciation for good music. Jùjú will not die, even though it faces challenges. Culture does not die; it evolves in spirals. Economic realities are also weighing on Jùjú bands. It is more expensive to set up a Jùjú band than a Fuji band. In a Fuji band, the percussion section is central, which is not the case with Jùjú. Percussion instruments for Fuji can be sourced locally, unlike the more Western-oriented instrumentation of Jùjú music. Jùjú is a band thing; some of the guys singing jùjú today cannot hold a live show for two hours. The trending nature of music is also an issue. Music success today is measured by the number of streams and phone-ins. Whereas a bad song can trend while a good song may not trend for some reason. Jùjú will bounce back. Because culture is spiralling, jùjú is not likely to come back in the form it is now. There will be modifications in its comeback.”

Ogunyemi also said the pioneers and leading lights of jùjú, such as Obey and KSA, did not set out to be rich, but that fortune met them on the job. “Obey and KSA did jùjú for the love and passion of it, not primarily for riches. Another factor militating against music jùjú is how artists are deploying technology. Artists now record in their homes, then go to the studio to lay the voice. Because there is no creativity in the way they do this, monotony has crept into how they are deploying technology, but jùjú is a genre that thrives on band and live performance,” Ogunyemi explained.

Elaborating on his views in the second part of this series, Shina Peters said that the use of technology was becoming an albatross to Jùjú, lamenting that technology was killing the genre.

An enfant terrible is different from a stormy petrel; the former thrives on controversy, the latter thrives on conflict. Put him in either box, Segun Awe ranks among the most creative Nigerians who ever strummed the guitar.

Awe played the solo guitar in Obey’s band and made 26 albums with the Inter-Reformers Band. If only three people were qualified to talk about Jùjú instrumentation, Awe would be one of them. From 1973 to 1978, when he was with Obey, Awe was the powerhouse of the Inter-Reformers band’s instrumentation.

Sharing his views on the state of Jùjú, Awe said Fuji has already killed Jùjú because Fuji has incorporated the instrumentation of Jùjú, while retaining street credibility and traditional essence. Describing the Yoruba as a globally distinguished race with flair for music and dance, Awe said dancing and music were God-given resources to the Yoruba.

The founder of Afritonas Band said it was unfortunate that the inborn art of dancing and music bestowed on the Yoruba has been abused by music merchandising, which has made Jùjú lose its essence. When asked about how the situation can be redeemed, Awe said, “Western rhythm and traditional percussion scales should be harmonised to produce unique and danceable music. You can see that Fuji music goes flat when they play Western instruments such as the guitar and keyboard; this is because when you sing in Yoruba, you are naturally on a major scale, but when you introduce the keyboard or the guitar, you are on a minor scale. The lack of harmony between the two scales is easily noticeable by listeners. The case is made more pronounced and worse in Jùjú because it dwells on Western instruments.

“Jùjú musicians should not use Western instruments as flavour; those instruments are the backbone of Jùjú. Haruna Ishola and Ayinla Omowura and other Apala musicians of the time didn’t experiment with Western instruments because they knew that doing so would bastardise their music. Jùjú has to go back to its roots.

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“We also have to look at the issue of craftsmanship. How many Jùjú band leaders of today know how to play the guitar? That is like a soldier not knowing how to handle arms and ammunition. Mind you, I’m not endorsing the music currently being produced by Fuji artists. Most of it is hogwash. Just like Jùjú, Fuji is also not selling in terms of albums and discs. Both Jùjú and Fuji musicians are living on their past glories; they’re not getting money through sales. They are living on stage plays where they get money from patrons who ‘spray’ them money. If leading Jùjú and Fuji artists don’t do stage shows, hunger will kill them. But before, Jùjú and Fuji artists thrived on record sales and royalties.”

Maintaining that the lack of good songs was responsible for the dearth of albums by practitioners of both Jùjú and Fuji genres, Awe stated that unhealthy rivalry among Jùjú musicians had killed the talents of many budding artists. “There are some hidden talents in the Jùjú music industry, but there is nobody to pull them up. The old ones don’t want the younger ones to grow. Music needs massive promotion, a factor that is lacking in Jùjú music. In terms of melody and message, Jùjú is far better than Fuji; however, Jùjú must go back to its pristine content and harness modern marketing dynamics to take back its lost glory,” he said.

Do you know the man who delivered a funeral oration at the graveside of Fela Anikulapo-Kuti? Do you? I will give you some hints; he is an arts scholar, musician and former Guardian newspaper editor. Do you know the name?

Well, he is Ben Tomoju. Before I am given the Tony Elumelu–Graduate Trainee treatment by social media critics for calling the great Ben T by his name, let me reveal that Boda Ben is my uncle. I know his string of endless academic and non-academic titles, but I have decided to stick with The Guardian’s rule of first-name calling. I hope The Guardian will not, like UBA, shift the goalposts in the middle of the game and come calling for my head. Na mi get by uncle, na my uncle get me.

The discerning knows that far is the distance between the nose and the head. I dare not disrespect Uncle Ben; the king is called by his first name – “Oruko la n pe oba alade”.

Referencing T. S. Eliot, Uncle Tomoloju said, “Jùjú is not facing any threat of extinction. In the creative process, innovation is always brought to bear on tradition. New forms of expression may evolve from the traditional archetype, but not the extinction of the archetype itself.” He also maintained that Yoruba music tradition is gravitating towards a kind of synthesis. According to him, African beats by KSA are a melange of original Jùjú and Afrobeats aimed at making a mark in a competitive market, while Obey’s music also richly metamorphosed over time, adding that what the younger generation of hip-hop artists play and call Afrobeats today is not the original Afrobeat. “Maybe Wizkid is the one you can say tried a bit in that direction with “Ojuelegba”,” he said.

Tomoloju, the crooner of “Song For Nigeria”, “Kakaaki Mambo”, “Oneh”, among many other songs, said the older generation of Jùjú lovers still pay heavily to have Obey and KSA at their parties because the essence of Jùjú still resided in them more than in the younger generation. Explaining the cyclic nature of life, Tomoloju said that Afrobeats was brought out of Afrobeat and Fuji was brought out of Jùjú. “It was alarming when Sikiru Ayinde Barrister introduced the drums, synthesisers, piano and other contemporary stuff. He caught the attention of the fans. General Kollington Ayinla is the best Fuji percussion musician I have ever experienced. Because of Barrister and Kollington’s success, others followed. Wasiu Ayinde broke later from Barrister’s influence and came up with Yoruba rap and chant. You can see the influences.”

However, Tomoloju proclaims, “Jùjú will not die. There would be a renovation of Jùjú, but not the kind we have experienced from the gurus. The queen of lewd lyrics, St Janet, who just passed on, played Jùjú, and she had a massive following. The dynamic motion of synthesization is still ongoing. There was the Isale Eko type of Jùjú propagated by the Wura Fadaka group, but death took them apart. Some of those playing authentic Jùjú are no longer recording, probably because of piracy, but certainly because they make big money at parties. We must also thank the aristocracy and the elite who spent big money on Jùjú musicians in those days. Harsh economic realities seem not to be favourable to record sales and nightclub patronage these days.”

NB: Dear readers,
I have the views of more experts on the topic under discussion. For reasons of house style and volume of text, I have decided to do a postscript after this publication, to ventilate the views of Juju star, Wale Thompson; renowned film producer, Pa Ola Balogun; a pioneer of one-man music band in Nigeria, Alhaji Sulaiman Adegbenro, aka Konsoligbadun; renowned gospel crooner, Evangelist Timi Orokoya; founder, Agbaletu TV Uncensored, Dele Adeyanju; and the Managing Director, Evergreen Musical Company Limited, Madam Bimbo Esho. Others are US-based music connoisseur, Mr Babatunde Kehinde; Editor, The Tabloid newspaper, Chief Tunde Busari; and foremost traditionalists, Prof Wande Abimbola, and Chief Ifayemi Elebuibon.

The conversation continues.

Thank you.

ENDS————————–ENDS