David Zé: "Guerrilheiro"

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My obsession with "Guerrilheiro" made the song a compelling window into Angola's struggle for independence, a topic I knew little about previously. Unfortunately, this window afforded a very narrow view: my sympathy for anti-colonial movements combined with a lack of accurate information on Angola in the '70s helped me invent a mythology that grossly oversimplified the complex nature of the fight against Portugal and the following civil war. This essay seeks to better understand the meaning of "Guerillheiro" against the background in which it was created, as well as look into the life and tragic death of a talented artist.

This, the guerrilla who spends his time in the forest
There in the forest of Mayombe
There in the zone of the East
Where it rains every day
Where there are many mosquitoes
Where the insects can not be counted
We sometimes go hungry
To free our people, this the price of revolution
- translation by paparazzoAngolano

 
Little romance lives in this stark portrait of an Angolan revolutionary. David Zé's words strip away aggrandizing slogans, listing instead the daily hardships endured by those living in resistance: boredom, hunger, isolation, malaise. The guerrillas we see are not some storied warriors waging a glorious revolution, but common men whose only asset to the struggle may be a willingness to sacrifice the comforts of home and family. An unflattering picture, perhaps, but one that is human and powerful. We never doubt the grim resolve of the narrator, even as we recognize the ultimate "price of revolution" though it goes unspoken.

While the lyrics are smeared with almost tangible grit, the music of "Guerrilheiro" is unearthly. Conjunto Merengue's rhythm section is barely present, not so much building a groove as fading into the background: the bass trudges along grimly, hardly bothering to change notes. An organ whistles a rising three chord vamp that seems to float in and out of the mix. The lazy pulse of some modest hand percussion steps all over a shy rhythm guitarist. Picking at the melody uneasily, the lead guitarist soon grows restless, bending the riff in every direction, uninterested in repeating the same pattern twice. On the microphone, Zé sings pleadingly, sounding almost as if he's worried that no one will hear him. But at last, the other men raise their weary voices to join him in a somber chorus that seems to echo across the entire nation.

David Zé, courtesy of Muzzicaltrips

Such a compelling introduction might tempt the listener to envision the singer clad in sweaty combat fatigues, rifle at his feet, strumming a beat-up guitar to a ragged crew of Angolan soldiers on a dusty savannah. In fact, that's exactly how I wanted to picture David Zé: a folk hero, part Woody Gutherie and part Che Guevara. However, as with the lyrics of "Guerrilheiro", the details of David Zé's life paint a less dramatic picture: born in 1944 in Kifangondo, a small town near Luanda, he began singing as a member of his church choir. While working as a teacher, Zé released his first single in 1966. He was a member of the People's Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA), a Marxist independence campaign, and would eventually rise to serve as the music director for "Aliança FAPLA-POVO", the group's military orchestra. His recording career stretched over 14 singles and one full length, a musical legacy that looms heavily over Angolan music to this day. A dedication to the MPLA is written explicitly into many of his songs, and while it might be poetic to place David Zé at the frontline of the struggle against Portugal, it's difficult to believe that a popular singer who traveled at the side of Augustino Neto, the first president of Angola, was also spending time in the trenches with the party's soldiers.

Augustino Neto and Fidel Castro in Cuba

While a handful of facts does little to illuminate, this bare sketch is the only biography of David Zé I could find, and considering that his homeland was a combat zone for over four decades, it almost seems generous. Following the long struggle for independence from Portugal, Angola exploded into a vicious civil war between the MPLA and two rival liberation forces: the National Liberation Front of Angola (FNLA) and the National Union for the Total Independence of Angola (UNITA). Roughly a third of Angola's population would be displaced by a conflict infamous for civilian casualties, child soldiers, and landmines. Foreign journalists viewed the country as a deathtrap, reducing outside perspective on the war to vague Associated Press blurbs and United Nations reports. Hoping to unearth the story of one man from the wreckage of an entire country is delusional. Were it not for his music, David Zé would be another forgotten name in a forgotten grave. He died on May 27, 1977, a year and a half after the MPLA declared Angola's first independence day.

Yet this final detail of David Zé's life casts an even deeper shadow: May 27 was the date of the Nitista Uprising against the MPLA government, an event shrouded in confusion and violence. According to the MPLA, the uprising was a coup d'etat initiated by traitorous factions within the government, and led by the charismatic Nito Alves, the movement's namesake and the MPLA's Interior Minister. The Nitistas argued that their actions on May 27 were merely a popular demonstration meant to prod President Neto away from moderate policies and back to the MPLA's Marxist roots. Amid the melee fly accusations of diamond smuggling, racism, and secret deals with foreign nations. Both sides may hold a portion of the larger truth, yet one point is inarguable. The MPLA repressed the uprising with brutal force.

Nito Alves

In the wake of May 27, as many as tens of thousands were killed, though a precise number will never be counted. Those marching to the center of Luanda with the Nitistas were stopped with bullets, many fired by Cuban forces allied with the MPLA. Tanks surrounded the Sambizanga neighborhood of Luanda, home to Alves and many of his allies, while troops entered and began shooting civilians indiscriminately. In the months that followed, tens of thousands of suspected Nitistas were arrested and tried in secret courts. Those found guilty were left in unmarked graves. Amid this hysteria and violence, David Zé was killed, almost certainly at the hands of his own political party.

Cuban Soldiers Training MPLA Forces

Zé was not the only musician killed on May 27. Urbano de Castro and Artur Nunes, both famous singers, were also victims of the MPLA repression, alongside other artists and intellectuals. Some speculate that the three men must have been involved in the uprising, but the MPLA's motives could have been even more calculated. Intonations, Marissa J. Moorman's excellent book on Angolan music, opens with musician Teta Lando arguing that the three singers were killed because, "They had too much power over the people". Perhaps the MPLA felt the same way, and took advantage of the chaos on May 27 to ensure that there would be no sequel to the Nitista Uprising encouraged by the songs of the three popular musicians.

Whether guilty of collaboration with the Nitistas or innocent victims of MPLA paranoia or somewhere between those two extremes, the facts behind the execution of Zé, de Castro, and Nunes will almost certainly remain buried. In today's united Angola, the MPLA is too busy winning elections to confront the darker moments of their violent past. Furthermore, the party has no reason to do so: most Angolans remain unwilling to discuss the events of May 27, or even take part in any form of public demonstration for fear of a similar government response. The violence of the MPLA's repression has effectively silenced the nation, and this silence almost erased David Zé completely.

 "If you want a prosperous and progressive Angola, don't refuse to work and contribute."

At first read, I thought the lyrics of "Guerrilheiro" were telling a straightforward story, praising the humble virtues of the Angolans in their fight against an oppressive world power. Yet, one crucial piece of information twists that simplified interpretation: the song was released in 1975. This was months after Portugal's new leftist government had recognized the sovereignty of Angola and other former colonies. The war for independence was already over, and the ink was still wet on the Alvor Accords, the short-lived treaty establishing a coalition government between the MPLA, FNLA, and UNITA. In the last verse of the song, David Zé calls for an end to disunity, recognizing the danger of a nation divided and the consequences for those who had already sacrificed the most in the name of independence: soldiers being forced to resume their exile in the jungles, this time to fight against their countrymen. Perhaps "Guerrilheiro" was meant to remind the movement leaders of who would bear the cost for their ideological bickering, but to no avail. On November 11, 1975, the three movements celebrated their first Independence Day in separate regions. Armed violence between the three had begun months earlier.

UNITA Soldiers, with the face of leader Jonas Savimbi in the background

Exhaustion and desperation are written explicitly into the lyrics and music of "Guerrilheiro". Considering the tragedy of David Zé's death and the decades of civil war following, these emotions seem almost prophetic. But the resonance of the song comes from the past. Angola had been in resistance to the Portuguese since the slave trade, struggling to survive the occupation and escape from bondage. Zé was giving voice to an ancestral weariness that had been passed down through generations for hundreds of years. How bitter it must have felt for an ancient dream to come within reach, only to be snatched away by hands so similar to his own.

Two books were invaluable in writing this: the previously referenced Intonations, which is a wealth of information and insight, and Ryzsard Kapuściński's Another Day of Life, which provided a great deal of inspiration. "The 27 May in Angola: A View From Below", a recent article written by journalist Lara Pawson, investigates the Nitista Uprising and its chilling legacy 30 years later. I snatched the album sleeve from Radio Trincheira Firme, an amazing podcast featuring Angolan songs recorded between April 1974 and the first Indepedence Day, November 11, 1975. David Zé remains elusive, though a handful of songs are online at Youtube and a few blogs.

Le Grand Début: La Musica En Vérité

Gnonnas Pedro, 1943-2004

Half French and half Spanish, "La Musica En Vérité" probably doesn't have an exact translation, and I can imagine Gnonnas Pedro, the song's author, needing more than a few sentences in English to convey all the nuance and meaning written into the phrase. But when we hear him sing those words, the emotion behind "La Music En Vérité" gives some shape to its message: nostalgic, boastful, regretful. The music only amplifies these feelings. Guitars chime in urgent patterns that rise and fall. An electric organ hums its somber response to the gently chanted choruses. Halfway through its seven minutes, the song simply becomes a long coda, looping the same musical phrase until it all slowly fades away, feeling like the ending to a dimly recalled film which now exists only in scratched black and white stills. 

Plaza Goita, Manila, Philippines

Listening to old records from distant nations is an exercise in abstraction. We're removed from the musicians by time, distance, language and culture, leaving sound itself as the one detail that translates easily. While sound is the essential component of music's appeal, the missing details impart a context of creation that can be equally compelling: who the musicians are, why they're recording this song, what message they're trying to impart, etc. In the absence of context, listeners tend to invent one based on their existing knowledge of music. When we listen to music from a different country, recorded decades earlier, and sung in a language we don't understand, the context we invent is prone to distortion by our preconceived, culturally informed notions of what and why music is. Thus the challenge in listening to a song like "La Musica En Vérité" is to imagine that we are hearing music itself for the first time. Consider Exotic/Invasive as a forum to share music while also exploring the myriad structures that shape how we listen to it.

Cote D'Ivoire, Photo by Andrea Bergart

What, too grad school for you? Don't sweat it. After all, while context is a crucial detail, music's power comes from its ability to bypass the brain, and crash directly into your soul and/or ass. Below you can peep the inaugural mix comprising a dozen of my favorite gems discovered over the past few years of listening to records and rummaging through blogs. The faithful reader can expect more tunes in the future. In the meantime, our regular programming will commence soon.

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0:00:00 

"La Murga de Panama" (1972)

Papi Brandao y Su Conjunto Aires Tablenos 

Panama! 2, Soundway Records, 2009

Willie Colón's salsa classic gets destroyed by this grimy rendition. As if the accordion groans and heavy beats weren't enough, somehow Papi Brandao actually manages to turn the heat up by pulling everything back during the breakdown and letting his guitarist politely tear it up on top of the percussion. According to the lyrics, the ladies look especially good dancing to this song. Believe it. 

0:03:03 

"O Telefone Toucou Novamente" (1970)

Jorge Ben 

Força Bruta, Four Men With Beards Records, 2009

Jorge Ben strikes a slick balance between that massive clatter of weird percussion, acoustic guitar strumming and string quartet sighs. Not understanding the lyrics very well, this song gives me the image of Ben getting tipsy at a phone booth late one rainy night, trying to pour out his heart to some mulher brasileira who keeps hanging up on him. Low on change, increasingly drunk/desperate, he calls one last time and bravely reaches up into his questionable falsetto range before a fat horn section finally shows up to drive him home. 

0:06:45 

"Hwehwe Mu Na Yi Wo Mpen" (1977)

K. Frimpong & His Cubano Fiestas 

K. Frimpong & His Cubano Fiestas, Continental Records, 2011

Serious dance floor dynamite. His Cubano Fiestas waste no time building an indestructible groove, the horns come out swinging, and then take turns strutting their stuff. K. Frimpong starts burning up the track with his fiery pipes, and just when you expect everything to start cooling down, a blazin' synthesizer jumps on the scene and blows the joint sky-high. Boom. 

0:14:31

"Thiely" (1979?)

Étoile De Dakar 

Golden Afrique, Network Medien, 2005 

This slow-burning mbalax number is deadly. Restrained but insistent percussion, the melodic call and response between Youssou N'Dour and El Hadji Faye flanked by dueling space guitars, and a mournful tone that would make Dick Cheney cry. Brutally gorgeous. Can't say who this Thiely lady is, but it's a safe bet that she crushed a few hearts in her day. 

0:18:35

"A La Memoria Del Muerto" (1972)

Fruko y Sus Tesos 

Colombia!, Soundway Records, 2007 

The secret weapon of Colombia's seminal label, Discos Fuentes, Fruko is straight-up taking a sledgehammer to the ivories on this track. No-nonsense percussion locks in a locomotive beat while the horns split high and low to weave a tight melody. From what I can make out of the lyrics, Fruko is simply letting you know that at his funeral, everyone better get bien borracho and cut a rug until the sun comes up. More tracks like this on the blaster, and it's a done deal.

0:22:54

"Ti Fa La Ou Te Madam" (1968?)

Anzala, Dolor, Velo 

Tumbélé!, Soundway Records, 2009 

A few goat-skin drums. Saxophone doubtlessly borrowed from one of Pointe-à-Pitre's black-tie jazz combos. A handful of singers. Amazingly, that's all it takes to summon up this unholy ruckus. Monsieur Dolor and his backup singers take turns riffing on the gorgeous vocal melody while Anzala and Velo thump out a thunderous beat. The song stomps along frantically while the saxophonist bides his time, honking gently until it's finally his turn to break into a wail.

0:28:10 

"Life's Gone Down Low" (1976)

The Lijadu Sisters 

The World Ends, Soundway Records, 2010 

So somber that it's practically a funeral march, the beat staggers forward at a heavily-stoned pace, leaving the instruments just enough slack to almost wander off. Guitars chip away at the two chords, the bass-line drops in on loan from Robbie Shakespeare, and the seasick organ punches and pulls the drums around. Unintimidated by the rickety groove, the twin Lijadu sisters hold on tight, harmonize gracefully, and reminds the listener that it's not too late. 

0:32:51

"Greetings" (1978)

Joni Haastrup 

Nigeria 70, Strut Records, 2001 

Kicking off with the dramatic call and response announcement of the king's approach to a bumpin' Lagos nightclub, His Imperial Majesty Joni Haastrup explodes through the doors with an entourage of fat horns, ethereal electric piano, and angry cricket-chirp guitars, his booming voice carried up above the crowded dance floor. A slew of different instruments sneak in through back to shine beneath the mirror balls for a hot second before the king gets back on the mic to bring that royal rumpus to a close. 

0:39:01

"It's a Vanity" (1974)

Gabo Brown and Orchestre Poly-Rhythmo 

African Scream Contest, Analog Africa, 2008 

Operating in straight funk mode, the Almighty Poly-Rhythmo arrives fully equipped with a tumbling bass line, typewriter guitar pulse, horn squawks, saucy organ grooves, and funky percussion. Soul man Gabo Brown grabs the mic to deliver the sassy crooning and smirking wag o' the finger lyrics. The band is smoldering, playing fiercely with a masterful restraint that allows Gabo plenty of room to scold the song's unlucky subject, tear up the stage and make the ladies swoon.

0:43:13

"Jab Chaye Mera Jaadu"(1980)

Asha Bhosle

Big disco beats? Check. Crashing fuzz guitars? Check. Jagged strings that swoop out of nowhere, sci-fi synth lines, and on top of all this, coy wailing courtesy of Asha-ji? Check, check, aaaaaand double-check. Hot-shot composer Rajesh Roshan crams pretty much everything that is awesome about music into this epic banger. Check out the song's big scene from the movie Lootmaar.

0:48:30

"Tey Gedyeleshem" (1973)

Alemayehu Eshete 

Ethiopian Urban Modern Music, vol. 2, L'Arome Productions, 2007 

The lo-fi Motown piano intro quickly gets obliterated by a killer drum fill, and the song kicks into a dirty jazz grind that would make The Funk Brothers tug at their collars awkwardly. Singer Alemayehu Eshete bobs and weaves on the track, twisting his voice skillfully around the piano and horn riff. While the band heats the groove to a boiling point, Eshete plays it cool, and then tears into the chorus with great vengeance and furious anger, casting out demons and knocking over white folks by the bleacherful. Good God! 

0:51:42

"La Musica En Vérité" (1979)

Gnonnas Pedro 

Legends of Benin, Analog Africa, 2009 

"Quand certains disaient que la musique ne nourrit pas son homme 

Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais depuis longtemps 

je bois toujous dans mon verre. 

Pour moi, la musique est toute ma vie." 

"When some say that music doesn't nourish man, 

my glass isn't big, 

but I'll drink from it for a long time. 

For me, music is my entire life."