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Papa Noel’s Café noir
Rumba revival
Paris
02/07/2007 -
"Look! See that guy there? That’s Léon Bukasa! I made my first recording as a solo guitarist with him back in 1957. And that’s Nico Jerimidis, the first music producer in Kinshasa!" Papa Noel is lost in the mists of time, totally and utterly absorbed as he pores over the photos in the sleeve notes to a rumba compilation. The Congolese guitarist, now in his sixties, comments extensively on each image, reminiscing about old musician friends who are no longer around and waxing lyrical about the heady atmosphere of the clubs in the Congolese capital before and after independence.
"Just look at what people wore back then! They were superb! The guys are all wearing hats and ties and the women are beautifully dressed with scarves on their heads. And, of course, back in those days," laughs Papa Noel, "there was always a bottle of Primus beer within easy reach!" Other memories bring a lump to the throat, a glassy sheen to the eyes. "I’m not a pioneer myself, but I certainly got to hang out with pioneering musicians. They’re the ones who introduced me to Congolese rumba. But even before that, I’d soaked up Cuban influences." At this point, Papa Noel stands up and plucks an old family photo from its shelf, a photo depicting a miniature Papa by his mother’s side. Without saying her name, Papa points to his mother and a host of even deeper memories float to the surface.
"I remember she had this old wind-up record-player," Papa recalls, "with this big stack of records. And every morning when she got up to fry fritters for breakfast she’d go to the kitchen outdoors and put a record on to keep her company as she worked. Every morning I’d wake up to this music pouring in through the window. It was El Manisero. I don’t know why she liked that record in particular but that’s what I always woke up to. One day, when Mother was away, I wanted to find out who these people were that woke me up singing every morning. I absolutely had to see for myself. So what did I do? I’m sorry to say… I took a knife to her record-player and took it apart bit by bit to find the people inside!"
First guitar
The young boy was not only subjected to his first bitter taste of disappointment, but also punished for having destroyed the precious record-player which his curiosity had left beyond repair. But his mother, being an intelligent woman, noted her son’s interest for music and one Saturday morning she ordered him to come straight home from school instead of going down to the river with his friends to fish and swim. After lunch, she whisked her son off into town instead without saying a word about their final destination.
"So off we went into town," recounts Papa, "to the big store owned by Papadimitriou. Papadimitriou not only owned this really big music store, but he was also a record producer who worked with Franco and all the others. Anyway, we went into the store and there was this big rack of guitars above our heads. My mother said, 'See those guitars up there. Would you like one? Choose the one you want!’ So I pointed to one and Papadimitriou got it down off the rack. My mother asked how much the guitar cost and Papadimitriou said 600 francs. I actually thought the whole thing was a joke because back in those days 600 francs was an absolute fortune. Anyway, my mother got out her purse, counted out 600 francs and handed the money over to Papadimitriou and we left the store with the guitar. That’s why when I say the music I play comes from my mother I literally mean it!"
When Papa Noel made his first trip to Cuba the first thing he did after arriving in Havana was to trawl the city’s record stores on a quest to find El Manisero. "The original version with the trumpet!" he insisted wherever he went. But his quest proved in vain. That night, however, after making his weary way back to his hotel room, he heard El Manisero on the radio… "And I just sat there and wept!"
Cuba was not exactly destined to be on Papa Noel’s career path. The young guitarist started out playing with the orchestras set up by the great Congolese rumba stars: Joseph Kabasele’s African Jazz (where he replaced Dr Nico) and Franco’s TP OK Jazz where he honed his rumba skills over twelve consecutive years. When "Luambo" (Franco) died in 1989, Papa Noel left for Europe. "It really sickened me to see how the kids were fighting over his heritage, each trying to get the lion’s share."
Transatlantic crossings
A few years later, Papa Noel’s career branched out in a new direction when he was invited to go to a castle in Germany and work with a young Cuban guitarist by the name of Adan Pedroso. That night, at dinner, the pair were asked to get up and perform without having had a single rehearsal together beforehand. "When we finished the first piece, everyone sprang to their feet and started clapping", Papa recalls with a broad smile. It was at that point, he says, that he became aware of the potential for transatlantic rumba fusion and felt the initial urge to explore the respective rumba heritage of the Congo and Cuba. Adan Pedroso and Papa Noel went on to repeat their performance at a guitar festival in Bath, in the south of England. This formed the basis of the 2001 album Mosala Makasi and was soon followed by a tour.
One night, the Anglo-Iranian producer Mo Fini brought Papi Oviedo (the Cuban version of Papa Noel) along to a concert, having a hunch that if the pair teamed up together creative sparks would really fly. "When we started rehearsing together… It was like wow! wow! wow!", recalls Papa. The Congolese guitar wizard teamed up with his Cuban counterpart to record Bana Congo (Children of Congo) in Havana and the album proved to be a smash hit. The pair were to have toured material from the album together live on stage, but at the last minute Papi Oviedo pulled out to play with the Cuban star Omara Portuondo. "But you know how it is, God never sleeps," laughs Papa Noel. "We found another tres virtuoso: Coto.” And it is with Coto’s precious aid that Papa Noel has pursued the musical fusion he began on Bana Congo, mixing Congolese and Cuban rumba together into a rich and heady brew on his new album, Café noir (Black Coffee).
Bertrand Lavaine
Translation : Julie Street
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