Posted on 09/05/2008
This shrine is like no other. The vivid stage lights worthy of an Elvis Presley Las Vegas act replace the dull lights of a candlelit sanctuary. Tight jumpsuits, contrasting colors and prints, vibrant makeup and fedoras adorn the faithful rather than long robes and anything resembling uniformity. No Virgins here, just the Queens, a chorus line of warrior women/wives and girlfriends/singers/dancers. The scene may not lead to any religious purification, but it is holy nonetheless as Nigeria’s answer to Bob Marley and James Brown comes forth to his pulpit where he preaches independence from government oppression and freedom through the African drum.

Showing disdain for the hypocritical ministers in Lagos, Fela Kuti reigned supreme at a musical/spiritual haven of his own creation, The Shrine. The performance center of his Kalakuta Republic compound, The Shrine is where the audience finds itself for the duration of Bill T. Jones' musical, FELA! Here, Kuti, played by the phenomenal Sahr Ngaujah, recalls stories of his travels to London for medical school (where he studied his passion for music instead), to the United States where he more fully indulged in the music of James Brown and, with the help of activist Sandra Isidore, developed the political voice he would take back to Nigeria to ignite his people.

Attitude and style drip from the production as the producers of FELA! clearly understand the only thing more appealing than a group of women dancing with reckless abandon is a group of well-dressed (or barely dressed) men owning the dance floor, unconcerned with how a man is supposed to move in a club. With as much attention given to the music as the message, the first act is a multi-sensory overdose. Emerging from the underground club scene no longer content to play the easygoing highlife and pop of his earlier band, Koola Lobitos, Kuti astounded audiences with his newly christened Nigeria 70 with its bold lyrics and brazen African and funk sound. Kuti’s politically charged voice would bring constant persecution for he and the numerous residents at his self-declared independent Kalakuta Republic. Given particular attention is the brutal 1977 raid sparked by Kuti’s hit “Zombie,” mocking the mindless allegiance of Nigerian soldiers to kill their own people. Sanctioned by dictator Olusegun Obasanjo, the attack left numerous members of the commune injured and raped, and found Kuti’s 82-year old mother thrown from a window. By the end of the siege, Kalakuta and The Shrine were in flames. At this point in his career, Fela could have gone anywhere in the world and been warmly welcomed due to his unbelievable musical gifts. Trumpeter, saxophonist, occasional keyboardist and drummer, frequent dancer and straightforward singer, the man's talents were as numerous as his records with the Africa 70. But Nigeria was not yet free from the tyranny of its government and corrupt religious leaders. As Kuti contemplates the value of continuing the fight against inequality and indignity, the audience is presented with a man on the verge, the sound of pulsing blood finally drowning out the sound of the drumbeat.

As Kuti revisits this tension throughout the concert, the uniqueness of his music becomes clear. The relentless rumble of the bass, the funky guitar, the hypnotic sing-song chanting of the Queens and Kuti's own confident voice leading the way are obvious. But when the lyrics pierce through this African orchestra, you realize there is bite to this party. "Who is the government teacher/Corruption and tradition," on "Teacher Don't Teach Me Nonsense." This is not your typical dance floor fare. Fela's ability to propel Nigeria’s problems into a global power struggle and summarize a complex system of greed and political back-scratching comes through clear and concise like the simple proclamations of love from an unexpected Kuti influence, Frank Sinatra. No matter how familiar you are with Kuti's music, it is always surprising, and often left the audience snickering, to hear the pinpoint precision behind his scathing indictments of his country's leaders.

Helping communicate the full picture, the cozy 37 Arts space uses several projection areas behind and around the stage to show various song lyrics and images of life in Nigeria. The walls are painted with faces of prominent Black leaders (Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X) and provocative words are splashed around the space. Even contemporary parallels are drawn during the powerful "Coffin Head of State," as Fela and his supporters make the government take responsibility for the deaths of the innocent, with coffins marked with the names of Sean Bell, Nixmary Brown, even pollution, as they are piled in front of Obasanjo’s residence. Jones takes advantage of the intimate surroundings, allowing the characters to march through the aisles on more than one occasion to punctuate an entrance or song.

Through all the politics, Jones' lively choreography never lets you forget you are at a concert, even providing an interactive dance lesson for the audience. There are moments, though, when the show feels caught between a dance extravaganza and a traditional one-man stage play. When the supporting cast of dancers is not needed, they are banished from the stage or stand around awkwardly awaiting the next dance number, while Fela and the musicians (live drummers and members of Brooklyn Afrobeat outfit, Antibalas, on horns) take center stage. At times, it seems as if Jones wants them to be Fela's co-stars, but more often than not, they are merely his faceless back-up squad. Save for Abena Koomson as Funmilayo and singer Sparlha Swa as Isidore, none of these characters takes real shape as significant parts of Fela's life. Swa at times looks uncomfortable amidst the fluid dance ensemble, but her voice always commands attention as the assertive Isidore, one of the only other characters sharing significant vocal time with Ngaujah’s Kuti.

Though the play does not follow Kuti to the end of his life, it ultimately leaves you with a necessarily incomplete picture of a complicated musician. Instead of fixating on his 27 wives (Kalakuta seemed to be as much a haven for Kuti’s creativity as it was his polygyny) or his AIDS-related death, FELA! sheds light on many aspects of its subject’s misunderstood personality. At one point, we see Kuti’s lighter side as Ngaujah jokes about the colonialists taking petroleum, diamonds and people from Nigeria and leaving “gonorrhea and Jesus.” FELA! casts a broad view of a man who was a leader, a lover, an idealist and for some, a martyr. But through this musical, the myth lives on.

- Candace L.


*For more on the Fela! musical, read ?uestlove's poignant post. Now if that don't convince you...