African Music News: Digging deeper into forgotten corners of global groove (2024)

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: