In February, 2004, Sean Barlow and Banning Eyre made a whirlwind tour of the Tanzanian capital, Dar Es Salaam. Almost upon their arrival at the plush, seaside Sea Cliff Hotel, they were met by guitarist and music world mover-and-shaker John Kitime who gave them a nocturnal tour of the city's musical haunts. By the time they left a few days later, they had heard live Taarab, Swahili rumba, and Musiki wa Dansi (classic Tanzanian dance band music), also visited band rehearsals, a Bongo Flava (local rap) contest, and spent time at Cloud FM, the city's most popular private radio station--many of these adventures in the company of Mr. Kitime. This most fruitful sojourn in the "city of peace" led to the Afropop Worldwide program, "On the Scene in Dar Es Salaam." What follows are images, text snapshots, and interview snippets gathered along the way.

Text by Banning Eyre. Photos by Banning Eyre and Sean Barlow

Around Town

"Drug addicts will steal anything to get their next shot," John Kitime says matter-of-factly as we roll through the dilapidated neighborhood of Magomeni. The buildings are shabby, roofed with either thatch or patched-together steel drums. "It's not safe to pass here after 10:00 at night." Happily, Magomeni is the exception in Dar these days. As we enter Buguruni, John says this formerly "rough place" has now been "tamed." Overall, Dar es Salaam is considerably safer than it was a few years back, and naturally, that has been good for its music scene. There was a time when no one would leave a car parked on the street overnight. Now the practice is common. In Kigogo, tree stumps mark the locations of small, local pubs, and people frequent them, as they do all manner of neighborhood nightspots around this sprawling, diverse city.

Whatever dangers Dar's streets may pose, they can't compare with the perils of crime-ridden Nairobi in neighboring Kenya. These two countries have always been competitive, and the sparring has not always been friendly. One dark joke goes: "In Kenya, man eats man. In Tanzania, man eats nothing." The truth is, Tanzania now has less poverty than Kenya, but old ideas die hard, and there remains a gulf of understanding between the two countries. John says they used to have derisive names for each other. The stereotype was that Kenyans are tough and direct while Tanzanians are polite and ineffectual. Why this difference in temperment? Colonial history? John says, "I don't know. We've just been lucky." In the old days, Tanzanian musicians had to go to Kenya to press vinyl LPs, but then the border was closed from 1977-83, slowing the growth and spread of Tanzanian music at a crucial time. The activity we're finding on this trip represents a long-overdue Tanzanian renaissance, part of a larger musical resurgence throughout East Africa.

The neighborhood focus of music in Dar es Salaam has intensified now that bands no longer advertise in the newspapers. That's because there is no longer one commonly read newspaper. Instead, at least 10 daily papers, many of them tabloids ever on the lookout for the salacious and scandalous, appear on newsstands morning through evening. It's not clear where to advertise, so most venues have simply stopped trying. Radio provides only limited help, so truly ambitious promoters use a truck with a loudspeaker to drive their neighborhoods promoting shows. "There are posters for big gigs," says John, "but they don't do much." There are lots of bands playing around town, but their inability to advertise effectively makes it hard for them to garner city-wide followings as did the great bands of the '70s and '80s. As a result, most clubs don't even charge a cover, which makes it difficult for bands to earn a living. A musician himself, John sees both sides of this dilemma. "You're not going to ask someone to pay for the music that he has not been paying for," he says. "On the other hand, you don't know how the band is even going to find equipment."

Somehow they do. In Kariakoo, we stumble on a taarab. Zanzibar Stars Modern Taarab, a split off band from East African Melody. This is a far cry from the elegant orchestral sounds we heard when we visited the Culture Music Club in their rehearsal space in Stonetown, Zanzibar. In this so called "modern taarab," the strongest surviving feature of the old Arab music is the female vocal style. All remnants of the Arab language are long gone, replaced by Swahili; the old rhythms are for the most part gone too, replaced by loping Congo beats and the most popular Tanzanian ngoma rhythms; and the remaining classical instruments--violin, oud, kanun, and hand drums--are disappearing in this generation. Inside the big, open club with its concrete dance floor and white tent roof rising in peaks to provide a semi-outdoor feeling, the music is disco-driving pop featuring a roller-rink organ. But the first singer is a silky-voiced, subtle, languid diva in a red evening dress that fairly glows under the fluorescent lights. Often the bass lines pump out a Congo feel that drives the groove while the organist runs an Arab scale in a darkly-tinged frolic.

There's a 12/8 Bantu number, again with the Arab keyboards and sweet, clear, vibratoless vocals from another singer, the third so far. This one gets a few people dancing, mostly ladies, and one fellow garishly dressed in white shirt and pants, "a homosexual," observes John, mildly amused by the guy's smooth moves. At the end of each tune, the bass, keys and guitar go wild with a crossfire of overheated parts that all but bury the continuing electronic beat, managed by a programmer who sits at the center of the band. John says, "I think that guy when he goes to bed must be hearing that in his head: ka-ching, ka-ching!" As we leave, a chorus of six ladies are seated behind the main singer, passing four microphones among themselves. This show would go on until 4:00 AM, but we move on to Kisutu.

Kisutu used to be an Indian neighborhood but now it's mixed. More recently, it was a center for prostitutes, with women peering from behind windows as in Amsterdam's red light district. Now, says John, that activity has moved to the Airport Road. We pass through Upanga, home of the Jolly Club, know for live music, but also, once again, for prostitutes. We cross the Salenda Bridge into Oyster Bay. The City Amassador Hotel, the Gogo Hotel. We pass the Makumbusho Village Museum, a center for Tanzania's myriad indigenous cultures, and the scene of many concerts and exhibits. John points out the home of the great singer and bandleader Remmy Ongala in Mikicheni. Remmy still lives there, although he's been sick for some years and these days, he doesn't perform or even get out much. Remmy's 1990s releases on the Real World label turned many around the world onto Tanzanian dance music, but these, like his local albums were censored here. Remmy's straight talk about corruption, AIDS and the problems of the poor were ahead of their time.

In Manzese, one of the most crowded areas of Dar, John chuckles and says, "This is the place where everything happens. Prostitutes start at 200 shillings, and they know from a mile that you're not one of them." It's a weeknight, so we're not finding a lot of live music, but at last we get lucky with some cranking Swahili rumba. In Ilala, we stumble on a spot called Max's Bar, where Extra Bongo, a young spinoff of the African Revolution Band, is holding court.

Clanging electric guitars and the snap of the snare drum fill the night air in the dimly-lit, outdoor club. On stage, a row of singers and dancers harmonize and move through synchronized moves. It's all very reminiscent of Kinshasa in the rumba-rock heyday of Zaiko Langa Langa, but now there are more people on stage, and more keyboards, the moves are a bit wilder, the guitars a bit louder and the musical arrangements more fractured, in the manner of ndombolo and other youth-oriented Congolese genres of today. Missing the Swahili lyrics, we hear the music as Congolese, but the crowd embraces it as their own, approaching the singers and dancers and joining in, blurring the line between audience and performers.

On the way back out of town, John says that the great OTTU Jazz (a band that began in 1964) plays at a converted cinema in Ilala every Sunday. There's a poster near the venue advertising upcoming shows: "African Stars, Extra Bongo, African Revolution, Assed Academia, Al Chote." John confesses to being a live music junkie. His own band, the Kilimanjaro Band, plays most Saturday nights, and given the band's elaborate stage setup, the load-in, soundcheck and performance together take up an entire day and night, but that doesn't stop John from making the scene. "A Saturday for me starts from around 11:00," he says. "I go to the soundcheck. At 5:00, I go home, have my lunch, a late lunch, and then switch off my mobile phone and my self and sleep until about 9:00. Then we go to the gig, which usually goes to about 4:00, 4:30 in the morning. Sometimes, it's even later than that. After that, I go to sleep and wake up at 11:00. The next thing will be having a bath, having lunch, and going to a gig. There's a place where you have bands playing from 12:00 in the mid day until 6:00, and then after that, I go to other bands, hopping from here to there until maybe 1:00. Tired, very, very tired because on Saturday I didn't sleep, again on Sunday I'm sleeping late and really cursing. 'Why did I sleep so late?' And usually next week I'm doing the same thing. I just can't sleep in bed thinking all those bands are playing there and I'm not enjoying the music."

On the Air

By day, we drop in on Clouds FM (88.4), probably the city's best run and most popular private radio station, with downtown offices in Investment House. The station began in 1998 with the mission of promoting local music, especially Bongo Flava. We've been hearing the complaint that since the station records, produces, and broadcasts music, it's an inside deal and the only way to get on the air is to play the game. Bongo Flava artist Mr. Nice told one newspaper during our visit that Clouds FM is a station that "kills artists." John tells us that FM stations get together and share promos. In addition to Clouds FM, there is Radio 1, East Africa Radio, Radio Tanzania, Radio Tumaini (a Catholic station), and Radio Zanzibar. Whatever complaints artists may have, we are reassured by the overall vitality of Dar's radio life. There is room for reform, maturation and diversification, but at least there's action on the air, and young artists are being heard.

Massoud Kipanya, a Clouds-FM DJ, also a producer and cartoonist, gives us some background on youth music, which he sees as a powerful coming together of musical and political consciousness. Massoud's edgy, often political cartoons are widely appreciated in Dar. Check some of them out at the Bongotoons . "Kipanya is the name of my cartoon character," says Massoud. "He talks to politicians every day." And how! Coming back to radio, Massoud says, "With all the FM radio stations in Dar, you have a lot of recording studios. We have forty or so now. People even record in their houses. We're discovering new music every day. During [former president Joseph] Nyerere's era, it was very difficult. But I don't blame Nyerere. I think, maybe we weren't ready. We were still young. They were concentrating on leading the country politically, so entertainment was not so important. Now it is, and in the future it will be much better."

Most of what's being heard is Bongo Flava--local rap. One rapper we meet, Afande Sele, explains the origin of the name. "The word came from the word 'ubongo.' It means brain. It was made 'Bongo' because in Dar es Salaam you have to use your head. If you want to survive, you rely on the brain, Bongo!" Afande Sele, like many Bongo Flava artists raps and sings about the problems of the poor--hunger, disease, AIDS. He hints at politics too, but here, he says he has to check himself at times. He knows how far he can go without getting in trouble. This is as open a society as Tanzania has seen in a century, but there are limits. This may be one reason why many Bongo Flava artist restrict themselves to boasting, harmless social commentary, and that old Afropop standby--humorous romantic anecdotes.

Massoud says the themes explored by conscientious artists like Afande Sele are admirable, but the genre overall has to develop much more. "These artists, they just rap," he says. "They used to see LL Cool J rapping in English but they thought instead of rapping in English, we should put it in Swahili. That's how we got this Bongo Flava thing. Now in terms of identity, I can never say that it's ours. It's only ours because we are rapping in Swahili. But otherwise, the way they make the beat, they way they sing is like Americans do. I can never say that we have our own thing. This is American... But now, you have a lot of young artists moving from Western beats back to African. The Kora Music Awards in South Africa are having an influence this way, because when you bring your song there it needs to have African sound."

Afande Sele buys into this idea, and takes it further. "My big dream is to make afro-hip hop. I want to fuse traditional music, use my poems for something different than other artists. After that I want to be a gospel musician. I want to do hip hop as gospel. People say Bongo Flava is music for thugs. But for me, I want to change it--Bongo Flava for all! Even the pastor, I want him to know Bongo Flava is good." John Kitime says gospel music actually sells as much as Bongo Flava in Tanzania these days, but "piracy and ignorance hide the fact." John should know. He's heading up a musicians' enquiry into the problem aimed at initiating new anti-piracy measures--a long, difficult struggle.

Sean stays at Clouds FM to do more interviews and collect more Bongo Flava. He gets swept off to a Bongo Flava showcase and sees a slew of artists rehearsing for the big show. He's hoping to hook up with Tanzania's most celebrated traditional pop singer these days, the sensational Saida Karoli. Meanwhile, I head out with John to do the rounds of some local band rehearsals.

Dar by Day

As in other African cities like Harare and Kinshasa, musicians and bands in Dar typically carry on casual, daytime rehearsals in urban hotels and nightclubs. John's own band, the Kilimanjaro Band, actually have their own rehearsal space. In fact, the band has recently come into control of a recording studio funded by the Norwegian government. (How that happened is a long story, but it has resulted in quite a coup for Kilimanjaro, well deserved, as these guys are pros.) The band is all set up and ready to go when we arrive, and as soon as I set up the Afropop microphone, they break into an elaborate new song with lively, triplet handclapping, rich choral work, and a rolling funky groove. Keyboard man and bandleader Waziri Ally tells me the song combines a few traditional songs from southern Tanzania, but sets them to a 12/8 rhythm called mduara (Swahili for circle, the way the rhythm is usually danced) from the Indian Ocean coast. This band takes pride in its heavily modernized interpretations of traditional Tanzanian music. Their sound is all about reinventing roots as slick, state-of-the-art pop. But Waziri says it wasn't always so.

"The Kilimanjaro band was born in 1973 as The Revolutions. At that time, we were playing mostly cover music--R&B, chacha, jazz. We changed our name when we had our first abroad tour. We went to UK in1989. Then we were forced to change our name to sound authentic from Tanzania. We called ourselves Kilimanjaro since the mountain is in our country, although many people think Kilimanjaro is in Kenya. We released our first album in UK that year and it had a song called 'Njenje.' This song became popular to the extent that even now, most of our fans call us Njenje. They don't call us Kilimanjaro." John and Waziri take special pride in the band's superior sound gear and the care they take to deliver excellent sound on stage, sometimes the result of as much of five hours setting up and sound checking. That's one thing you won't find many other places in Dar, or any other African city for that matter.

Next stop is the Fontanella Hotel where two veterans musicians originally from the Congo--vocalist King Kiki and guitarist/singer Ndala Kasheba--are rehearsing their band. These guys are relaxing with a mid-day beer when we show up, all but Kasheba that is, who has mostly given up drinking. Getting on in years, he finds it hard to play for six hours straight while downing beers. Jangling out tunes on his big, 12-string acoustic guitar, and musing about his 40 years playing music in Dar, Kasheba remains ever conscious of his Congolese origins. "I could have been in France or in Belgian as my fellow Congolese have been," he says. "But me, I like here. Here, I'm respected. Here, I'm doing well. Here, people love me too much."

Kasheba has been in many bands over the years. His recent work with King Kiki, also a veteran of many Dar es Salaam bands, is only the most recent chapter. But not the last. As we talk, Kasheba drops the bombshell that he--like rapper Afande Sele--is planning a move to gospel music. Kasheba isn't after a new market, or a new venue for his message. He just wants a lifestyle more befitting his advancing years. "I've played for the people always, 6-hours a night for 40 years. It's enough! I want to change the style of life but by doing music another way." Gospel musicians, he says, play evening shows that last just a couple of hours, and that sounds mighty good to Kasheba. But he's planning his moves carefully. He wants to record one more album, with new arrangements of his favorite old songs, and he wants to make a farewell tour of the Congo. "I start playing music in Congo when I was young. Now I have to finish my music by going back and playing Congo again."

Stay tuned on that one. Next we drop in on some lesser known musicians John wants to draw our attention to. One of the big surprises of the trip is a blind musician from Dodoma named Anania. We find him in his rehearsal space at the Lion Hotel. Unfortunately, the other members of his band, the Tango Band, are not yet on hand. Tango is the Swahili word for "cucumber," and also a dance, though nothing like the Argentine tango. Anania tells us about growing up in a Wagogo community in central Tanzania, learning the lustrous, deep-toned ilimba thumb piano from childhood, then moving on to keyboard and guitar as a school boy. He's been in Dar since 1987, and in recent years, he's developed an innovative fusion of tradition and modernity with the Tango Band.

Anania plays two songs for us, a rumba-like love ditty called "Valentines Day," and a traditional Wagogo song. He plays each first on ilimba and then on guitar, demonstrating his versatility. For this student of traditional African guitar styles, Anania's guitar rendition of Wagogo ilimba music comes as a revelation. Much of the magic is in his clear, sweet voice, which harmonizes with his modal guitar melodies and hovers just at the edge of overtone singing--absolutely beautiful! But even on its own, the guitar work is remarkable. Next trip to Dar, we'll be sure to spend an evening with the Tango Band.

At the Amana Vijana (youth) Center, we find two rehearsals. In an upstairs room, members of the multi-ethnic Ten Best Traditional Group are gathered under the direction of their high-spirited, charismatic leader Abdallah Chembe. John tells me that after a tour in the UK a few years back, Abdallah began to lose his eyesight. He's now completely blind, but this doesn't hold him back musically. He sits before a cluster of large drums and plays vigorously while ten or so younger musicians sing, drum, clap, and ululate. One player sits before a wooden xylophone and weaves melodies into the sound. Abdallah formed this group in 1998 with the idea of showcasing and combining traditional sounds from many of Tanzania's diverse ethnic groups. (I've heard estimates of anywhere from 70 to 120 of them!) Abdallah and the group played two great numbers for Afropop, and he's been emailing me regularly since then, keen for opportunities to bring his group to festivals in Europe and North America. If anyone reading this wants to know more, drop him a line. He'd be glad to hear from you. You can reach him via: tenbestg@yahoo.com.

Downstairs from this rehearsal, in Amana Vijana's open-air courtyard, we find one of Dar es Salaam's most venerable old-school dance bands, OTTU Jazz. OTTU started in 1964 as a band sponsored by the Organization of Tanzanian Trade Unions. Once Nuta Jazz, then Juwata Jazz, now OTTU Jazz, the band's current 16-man lineup includes 8 original members, and they still deliver splendid Musiki wa Dansi. The sound owes a lot to Congo music, with its emphasis on intricate, multi-section arrangements for electric guitars and harmonizing vocals and brass section. But as composer and singer T.X. Moshi William tells me, OTTU has always looked to Tanzanian traditions for its rhythms and to Tanzanian reality for its Swahili lyrics. The song they're practicing when we drop interprets a rhythm from the Ngoni people of southern Tanzania. As for the lyrics, Moshi says, "It's a story about a guy who married a girl from the town, the urban area. People tell him that will be difficult and he should get a girl from the village. So he goes and gets a girl from the village, brings her to town, and she becomes even more trouble than the original girl."

Another song details a quarrel between relatives because someone has died without leaving a will. The songs offer rich, if light-hearted, insight into Dar es Salaam's social realities. And the music is sublime. Judging from this rehearsal and their current CD, Piga Ua, Talaka Utatoa, the group has lost none of its richness or power. Having seen Extra Bongo and the African Revolution Band (which we caught at the Sauti Za Busara festival in Zanzibar the week before), I can't resist asking Moshi what he thinks of the younger guitar bands. Their sound strikes me as polished, but over-hyped, and more imitative of Congo bands than, say OTTU Jazz or their peers and rivals in DDC Mlimani Park Orchestra. Moshi's answer: "The problem is that with these young musicians is they don't want to learn; they don't want to ask; they take shortcuts. They make their music and they become good guitarists, but they prefer to copy than to compose. It's a sad story, but when we die, that will be the end of it."

Moshi tells me that one of the best gigs OTTU ever played in its 40 year history was last year when they did a big joint show with Mlimani Park, known to most in Dar as Sikinde, a reference to a smooth dance associated with the band. The show was a pinnacle for both bands, but unfortunately, it won't be repeated soon. As we leave the rehearsal, John tells me that the rivalry between these two bands has gotten out of hand. Back at Clouds FM, Sean hears about a similar story unfolding among the city's most venerable taarab groups, TOT Taarab, and Muungano. The problem always seems to center around defections from one band to its competitor. Speaking of OTTU and Sikinde, John says, "Before it used to be a good musical rivalry. Now one guy has shifted from this band to the other and he has told them things that are making it more personal, more of an enemy team than a competitive rivalry. They haven't even been able to perform together as they used to do before. There was always this rivalry, but they used to be able to get on the same stage and really make money because each band has serious fans. Now they can't because it could step into a dangerous situation with the fans."

In the News

As we head back into town, John stops by a news stand to pick up a couple of afternoon tabloids. John gives me a rundown of some of the major newspapers, the government run Daily News, The Business Times and Majira, both news-oriented papers run by the same owner, The Guardian and its Swahili companion Mipashe, both run in coordination with a local television and radio conglomerate, and then a number of these bottom-feeding tabloids, including Risasi, Kasheshe, Amani, Alasiri and Uhuru. We sit drinking sodas, and he quickly surveys for news about musicians. What he finds is not pretty. One Bongo Flava artist named Dudu Baya (literally "bad insect") has beat up another rapper named Mr Nice, who was hospitalized with head and chest injuries and ordered by his doctor not to dance for four weeks. The papers are full of this. One tabloid called Amani, whose slogan is "Only God Can!!!" responds with a full front page spread of a boxing ring knockout with the two artists' faces superimposed on the fighters.

Uglier still is the ongoing scandal involving a hugely popular, Congo born singer and bandleader called Nguza Viking, formerly of Achigo Band, a group featured in Afropop's East African Renaissance program last year. Nguza has been accused of molesting young girls--paying them 200-shillings for sexual favors. Apparently his sons are implicated as well, and the accusations are flying. For the moment, the band is still performing, but legal action is pending and things don't look good at all. The tabloid papers are playing the scandal for all it's worth, but John finds it more sad than salacious. (His instincts were born out. As I write this seven months later, Nguza Viking has been convicted and sentenced to life in prison, with lesser sentences for the two sons. When it comes to child abuse, Tanzanian law is not to be trifled with, no matter who you are.)

We make a stop at Mamu's, Dar's best music shop and pick up a load of local CDs and cassettes. Back at Clouds-FM, Sean has scored an interview with Saida Karoli. Massoud Kipanya provides the background. "She's from the lake region of Tanzania, Bukoba. She was born in the bush, a village girl, but she has a voice and she knows how to sing and dance. When she came here, she met a producer, Mr. Muta. FM Productions. Muta said he'd try her. Then the song came out, "Maria Salome." When we played it for the first time on the air, people loved it. The beats were our own, not from West. The song is normally sung by the villagers during a celebration, but she took the original drum and modernized the sound. She's in Dar now, but she goes to Kampala and they all go mad. They understand her because her Bantu language is a similar to theirs, like cousins. She filled a stadium in Uganda--60,000 people in Kampala. The only sad story about her is that she should be very rich by African standards. She's been ripped off by the promoter and makes peanuts. But I think now she has learned."

Saida is Haya, a Bantu ethnic group on the western shore of Lake Victoria, near the borders with Rwanda and Congo. Speaking through her manager, Mr. Muta, Saida didn't discuss business, but she did provide some background on her musical career: "I started singing at the age of five. I had stopped going to school because I had no support from the parents. So after that, I had more time to deal with music. I began singing all over at weddings and ceremonies in the villages of my region. My mother, who has passed away, is the one who encouraged me to do music. She was a drummer. I play drums also. One day, I was performing in Bukoba town and one of the managers of FM Productions, the manager who does the talent search, approached me. We discussed about coming to Dar es Salaam, where the head office of FM Productions is. I stayed in a camp for sometime, where I was taught how to work in the studio. Then I went into the studio and recorded my first album, Kanichambua Kama Karanga. That was 2001."

Saida's songs often draw upon aspects of village life. One song warns girls not to believe that herbal remedies will make them successful in love. Another, called "Akatambala," tells a school yard love story. Saida explains, "A boy sees a girl at school. He tells her that after school they will have to get married. He gives her a sign of his love. He can't afford to buy a ring, so he gives a handkerchief saying that it is worth $900. It's just a normal handkerchief, but he says this to make her feel good, that she has received something big. So he says, 'I am giving you this. Keep it with you all the time. And when you are wiping your face with this, remember me. Then immediately after you finish school, you become my wife.'"

Saida's debut album showcases her dulcet, subtle, but very strong voice in simple arrangements of percussion and acoustic guitar. What it lacks in production polish, it more than makes up in charm, musicality and swing. Now Saida has a second album that includes nods to ndombolo and Bongo Flava, but continues her roots sound as well. With all the pressures of success and urban life, it is hard to say where Saida will end up, but she's definitely one to watch.

Last Rites

We end our tour of Dar with a night ride to the outskirts of town where DDC Mlimani Park Orchestra (Sikinde) are performing at the Soldiers' Club, a classic, concrete outdoor venue. When we arrive, the power is out, and they're firing up the generators in order to proceed with the show. We seize the chance to chat with singer Mwanyiro, who tells us about some of the band's newer songs. "There's 'Teddy Mwana Zanzibar'," he says. "It's about a girl called Teddy from Zanzibar. She's left Zanzibar and gone to Europe and now she doesn't want to go home to her thatched hut. So she's being told, 'Home is home. Even it it's a thatched hut and you're in Europe living in a skyscraper. Still this will be your home. So come home and see your mother.'"

Mwanyiro echoes Moshi William's sentiments about the shortcomings of the younger guitar bands. He says they are looking for "quick fame," adding, "They're not really working very hard on compositions. A band will say it can come up with six new compositions, where for example, a band like ours, in four months, we've only had three songs. But when you look at their six songs, they're just a copy of something else, patched together. There's no research. That's the problem with the younger generation." Mwanyiro says the key to a good song is the lyrics. Everything starts with a compelling theme or story. Then the challenge is to make music that doesn't just reprise Congolese music, or even the band's own older songs.

Before hitting the stage, he apologizes for the band's ancient gear, mostly from the 1970s--those Italian Ranger amplifiers found on so many bandstands in urban Africa. Sikinde is a band near and dear to the city of Dar es Salaam, so people come out. But Mwanyiro says, "If any other band had this equipment, people would run away from them." Indeed the sound is pretty rough, and the band not in its prime, but it's a sweet farewell to Dar, especially with a big crowd swaying and shimmying, right with the band every step of the way. This is the first time the Afropop team has made it to Dar, and if we could do all this on three weekdays, there's no doubt this city is on fire, musically speaking. As the saying goes, we'll be back…
























































































































Contributed by: Banning Eyre and Sean Barlow