by Asher White (@trasherwhite)
The descriptively-titled Awesome Tapes from Africa was started in 2006 as a modest, mp3-slinging blog focused on digitizing Western African cassettes—though it’s always been slightly more complicated than its name suggests (its founder is a white Brooklynite named Brian Shimkovitz; as he writes in a proactive (if mildly self-excusatory) defense of the project, the online and commercial distribution of the music allows it to travel beyond the usual routes of continental trade which are often mired in logistical difficulties). Post-colonial politics aside, the label has stayed markedly transparent in its mission: to disseminate and amplify regional music to a global audience, without alteration or adaptation. ATFA presents the work exactly as the artist intended, cover art and integrity intact. Most importantly, these particular tapes from Africa are, in fact, awesome; at best, they are utterly life-affirming.
From meditative hymns to searing jazz-funk, ATFA has released dozens of tapes from across countries and eras: 1970s Somalian disco, 1980s Ivory Coastal country-folk, 1990s Eritrean synth-pop. The now-teenage label has recently shifted its mission to accommodate for new releases in addition to reissues; in researching and contacting the artists of these found cassettes, Shimkovitz has found a network of contemporary musicians whose ongoing music demands widespread international recognition.
In honor of ATFA’s quinceanera, I’ve compiled a five album starter guide to the label. This is a combination of my personal favorites with some of the more quintessential releases on the label, in hopes of doing justice to the robust and diverse nature of the project. Awesome Tapes from Africa makes all of these albums widely available for streaming (though there’s an unparalleled joy in the beautifully-packaged physical editions which you can purchase from their website). Enjoy responsibly.
Hailu Mergia - Wede Harer Guzo
If you were there, you might remember: the kingpin of Addis Ababa’s jazz scene in the late 1970s was Hailu Mergia, a handsome, goatee’d keyboardist whose ability to repurpose standard folk tunes into rollicking, full-band workouts earned him national notoriety (including, insanely, a 10-year residency at the Addis Ababa Hilton hotel). Wede Harer Guzo, originally recorded in 1978, finds Mergia at his best and sweatiest, backed by the 8-member Dahlak band, a group slightly more rambunctious than his typical crew (the Wailas Band). By Spotify metrics, it’s the most popular ATFA release, and for good reason. Wede Harer Guzo is over an hour of hot, blissed-out jazz-funk grooves. The atmosphere is intoxicating and addictive: sweltering jams that amble around in circles, hovering and shimmering like mirages. The hazy recording and thick organ lines lend the project a slightly psychedelic edge; it sometimes sounds like if the Doors had traded their LA ennui for Ethiopian integrity.
Somewhat criminally, I’ve often seen Wede Harer Guzo reduced to background music, perhaps inside the type of restaurant that might have exposed brick walls and naked lightbulbs. This is only a testament, however, to the record’s enduring warmth and generosity. Wede Harer Guzo is total comfort food, inviting and soothing while still consistently stimulating. “Anchin Kfu Ayinkash” sounds like sinking into a hot bath. On the title track, Mergia leads a chorus along a shuffling beat and a sweet, lilting chord progression. It’s wistful, lovely, even slightly sexy. I adore this record. It’s really hard not to.
Ata Kak - Obaa Sima
Obaa Sima is nuts. It’s for jump-starting your brain at its most fried. Or for saving the party when it’s losing momentum. Or for cleaning your room. Or walking back from the grocery store. It’s pure, honest, unadulterated energy, not from concentrate.
Ata Kak is Yaw Atta-Owusu, the Ghanaian bartender / farmhand / condiment factory manager (!) who wandered from Kumasi, Ghana to rural Germany to Ontario where, at age 32, he settled to record Obaa Sima in his apartment with a few friends and his infant son. The open, eager optimism that Atta-Owusu seems to live by is in full effect on Obaa Sima. It’s an exceptionally friendly album with a wildly inclusive sound: synth-pop, rap, house, dancehall, disco are all synthesized and celebrated into an unceasingly joyous dance record. There’s a sweet electro-pop call-and-response (“Daa Nyinaa”) and a full-on hardcore Chicago-style rave (“Bome Nnwom”). Each track is buoyed by a persistent drum-machine bounce atop of which Kak layers chirpy synth stabs and belts out singsong melodies. As a rapper, he’s frequently awkward and constantly lovable; Kak favors dorky hip-hip-hop-and-ya-don’t-stop flows in his native language of Twi, but also toggles between squeaky, proto-Thugger scatting and distorted, unsteady yelps. His odd, elastic voice can sound, delightfully, like record scratching (“Yemmpa Aba”), or, unexpectedly, like Life Without Building’s Sue Tompkins (“Adagya”), or, eerily, like Jackson-5 era Michael Jackson (“Daa Nyinaa”).
Some of Obaa Sima’s warped, manic energy can be chalked up to a technical error: the original masters were damaged, and the version that ATFA released is actually slightly sped up (it happens to the best of us). Still, Atta-Owusu’s vision is intact, and Obaa Sima remains as infectiously chaotic (and chaotically infectious) as it did in 1994.
Sourakata Koite - en Hollande
The original blog post for en Hollande simply reads: “perfection,” and it’s tough to try and sum it up better. Basically, it’s just some of the purest, most sublime music I’ve ever heard. Sourakata Koite plays the kora, a West African nylon-string harp with a three-octave range. en Hollande, recorded in 1984, finds him performing solo in a converted chicken coop, overdubbing and layering semi-improvised performances. Each song begins with a similar refrain (it sounds remarkably like a rock skipping across the surface of the water!) before venturing into deliberate, dynamic exploration.
The premise is simple, but en Hollande is totally transcendent. The clarity of its construction and the intensity of its music give the album an eternal, elemental quality; it can sometimes feel like watching cells divide. Patterns of melody line up, subdivide, and shift. Rhythms materialize and dissolve. Koite is plucking strings, but the physics of the music can transform depending on how you decide to hear it: at times, the kora can evoke steel drums; other times, it sounds like church bells, a piano, an electric guitar.
The arrangements of en Hollande are intricate but unfussy, the performances precise but relaxed. It’s warm, golden music, generative and restorative. There’s a perfect synchronization halfway through “Ha-Madi” that feels like the universe is locking into place. Euphoric. It’s hard for me not to lapse into embarrassing, collegiate stoner-poetry when trying to describe this album. But my experience of listening to en Hollande for the first time was one of such overwhelming awe that—and I mean this completely earnestly—I could think only of the absolute human miracle that is music.
Asnakech Worku - Asnakech
Asnakech is perhaps the most immediately challenging entry in the label’s catalog, due both to its recording quality and the music itself. Asnakech documents a rare chance encounter between Hailu Mergia (see #1) and famed singer/actress Asnakech Worku at a club in 1976. Accordingly, the recording is murky and thin, and the performances are exploratory and amorphous. Asnakech is a deeply unorthodox recording of a deeply orthodox (i.e. ancient) instrument called the krar. For reasons mysterious, the krar here is drowned in heavy reverb and delay and unleashed over a thick, swirling haze of electric organ and loping drums. It’s deep and heady, and potentially room-clearing if you’re with the wrong crowd. Most tracks spill over the 6 minute mark and are shrouded in a sticky glowing fog cut only by Worku’s sinewy, warbling voice. The effect is either fatiguing or spellbinding depending on your palette.
Determined listeners, however, are handsomely rewarded: centerpiece “Tew Begize Giba” features hot swells of Mergia’s organ, Worku’s most dextrous krar-and-voice duet, and a melody that approaches catchiness. The structurally similar “Abyotegnaw Jegna” has a steady thump and a serpentine refrain that lodges deep in the folds of your brain. Taken in full or microdosed, Asnakech is perfect for muggy late summer days and their humid nights. I listened to it every evening this summer and by August it all made perfect sense.
Plus, the psychedelic smog lifts for the final track, which finds Worku performing unaccompanied (“the guy wanted to balance the tape and he probably recorded this song with her at a separate time,” guesses Mergia in the liner notes). This performance is markedly faster, with frenetic, staccato strumming and a delicate ascending vocal line. Clarity at last. It’s an “After Hours” of sorts, and a final reminder that despite its forbidding qualities, Asnakech is a true hidden gem.
Awa Poulo - Poulo Warali
Poulo Warali was one of the first non-reissues by ATFA, and is still somewhat of an anomaly in their canon: it was released soon after it was recorded in 2016 and documents an active, ongoing music scene rather than an archival curiosity. Fittingly, Poulo Warali is a lively and urgent record, overflowing with texture and detail. It’s a concise and direct statement of purpose (it certainly feels much shorter than its 34-minute runtime), and it’s immaculately composed and recorded, with an interlocking ensemble of guitars and wood flutes panned left and right. There are colorful production flourishes throughout, like the handclaps that crop up halfway through “Poulo Hoto Ngari,” or the squealing electric guitar that lurks behind “Djara Wilam” (there’s gnarly shredding throughout, especially on the title track).
The star of Poulo Warali is Awa Poulo’s rich and lovely voice, which modulates around each melody and wraps through the songs like a silk ribbon. Listen to her weave and bob through “Djulau” (which also features a killer n’goni solo): she is as charming and exuberant as the cover image suggests! It’s worth noting that Poulo Warali is one of the few widely-available recordings of modern Peulh music from Mali, which is remarkable and troubling. While you eagerly await more recordings from Awa Poulo and the musicians in her orbit, you can play and replay Poulo Warali— it always feels new.