THE AFRICAN SONG NEEDS TO BE SUNG

20 Jun 2020

It's 6:19am. I'm recovering from an intentional effort of self-loathing from last night. I have allowed myself to be overwhelmed by the speed of life, I am feeling like I am no more running the race; the race is running me. This is me taking a break, allowing myself to reflect in the only dance I know how to perfect, that of my hands moving in the cacophony of thoughts, such flaring beauty. The ballerina in my head wears a pen, yet here, I wage war against it.

When Nina, my friend, (also a musician, with a degree in music philosophy) who specializes in the unprofessional art of disgruntled silence at sounds that she possibly would describe aberrations of her most loved soulful artform, suggests musical content to me, I have to listen to it. It would usually follow from a feisty conversation or a reclining resentment (when I chose not to attend to it), as I can interpret from her digital signature, and in part, a pang of willful guilt. She had asked me twice if I had listened to the podcast she has sent me; I didn't want to disappoint her again.

Nina | Radiolab | WNYC Studios; the website URL title read. “Nina Simone: What she told us then, and tells us now”

You cannot replicate the instrumentals that followed in words. You only feel the warmth of your soul and be grateful.

Replicate: make an exact copy of; reproduce.

What writing attempts to do in the interpretation of sound is often to detach the unique elements of the form, in describing the feeling of the gestalt parse of the music, either in theory, emotional relevance or some type of interpretational fiefdom, whichever makes the author happy. This is the weakness of the written word, wanting, but inept at replicating the ambiance of say radio jingles, unless from the unidirectional descriptive lens of the author. The celebration of the expressive freedom of the reader is a myth, especially when juxtaposed with audio. All writing is an attempt to reproduce the world's sounds, so when "sound" itself emerges, the written word looks like an uncanny imposter.

As I listen to the words emerge from the phone, with an uncertain cadence, I notice how, when the extemporaneous randomness of words, if given a chance to prevail, communicates truth in its natural birth. Written words are, however, always manufactured. Good writing does not allow for awkward silences or unexpected gaffes. The monotony of repetition that hints at a longing are characterized as bland, how tears are stretched unevenly between unfinished words; the paradox of my current failing to write that which now I can clearly hear is the exemplification of the crudeness of this popular art form.

But writing is good for reflection. It allows you to live through the past with clarity of distant attachment. It only does that well enough in the absence of the audio. When eons are replayed in the rhythmic beauty of sound, they are relived in all their essence, except for that not captured. If reflective reimagining of words written is replaced with audio, it is not only thoughts that are heard, it is also a voice. The voice of Nina Simone, such soulfully composed anger, while can be hinted at in words, is a magic of a story that only her individual voice can perform.

As I juxtapose reading the transcript of the podcast with the human voices, the identities are lost in the script on the screen, I skip between detachment and attachment; an acquaintance and a friend, Netflix and the cinema, a persona and the person. All words are indeed sounds, and sound is more sound than words.

For long, the story of Africa has been written with quails unfastened from factory roosters far away from the Sahara. As I listen to these voices, I reckon this is it. The sound of Africa needs to voiced out by the purists who want to be sing the African song. The Change Africa Podcast is that song.

Anticipate soon...