I subscribe to far too many newsletters. Most remain unopened. But for some reason, I decided to open one from David Byrne (probably because Mali was in the subject line, and it is #ReadingAfrica Week). It led with a pretty simple statement, “Music is dangerous—Plato was right, the religious fundamentalists are right—music touches and rouses the emotions like nothing else.” I turned that over for a while.
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Yes, music is dangerous. It holds in all of the things we’re sometimes too afraid to say out loud. It speaks to hope, to despair, to love, to longing. It brings back sweet memories of days past and the exciting thrills of days to come.
For #ReadingAfrica Week, we spoke with writers about what they hoped readers would take away from their work, and each of them left me with something beautiful. Christian Adofo, the author of A Quick Ting on: Afrobeats (Jacaranda Books), said that he wanted people to learn and share; Lior Phillips, author of South African Popular Music (Bloomsbury), agreed, adding that learning and exploring means that you won’t miss out on “artists that will change your life.”; and Liam Brickhill, a freelance journalist and multi-disciplinary creative (including part of our own Disruption: New Short Fiction from Africa), simply said that his work “is motivated by love.”
Each of these writers brings a different experience and lens to their work, but each of them is well aware of the power of music—of all art—to create something special in the world and to be a little bit dangerous. And when talking about African music specifically, it does something that is perhaps even more special——it, as Christian notes, “aids some understanding of the truth and music as a medium is not something to be taken lightly.” African music, like African literature, isn’t one thing or one sound, but it is a movement. It is years and cultures and histories and sounds all coming from a continent that you flatten at your own risk (and loss).
Music, when it’s done really well, can be that thing that keeps you going, the thing that reminds you that hope isn’t always some abstract thing—people are hope
There’s probably nothing that illustrates that more than the playlist that each of the panelists contributed to. These songs are a mix of classics, new artists, inspirations, and surprises. These are an invitation to explore, to keep digging, to keep listening. Music, when it’s done really well, can be that thing that keeps you going, the thing that reminds you that hope isn’t always some abstract thing—people are hope. And if enough of us realize that we are what we’ve been waiting for, yeah, well, that is dangerous as hell.
–Ashawnta Jackson
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Ashawnta Jackson: Can you each start by telling me a little bit about the work you do, and how you got into music/music writing?
Christian Adofo: I started as a music journalist with a primary focus on how heritage and identity manifests creativity. I actually started via ghostwriting articles for the university newspaper for a friend and then when I left uni I started blogging in that mp3-free era.
Liam Brickhill: The first thing I should probably say is that I’m not primarily a music writer. My work involves creative storytelling across different media—writing, videography, photography, in both non-fiction and fiction for everything from video games to short films, sports journalism to short stories and screenplays.
I believe I wrote my first music review at university. I wrote about either The Parlotones or Hog Hoggidy Hog, who both played gigs at the student union, but it was 20 years ago now and I can’t quite remember. For me, writing of some sort or another is a familial tradition. Shake my family tree, and a rakish menagerie of writers and artists comes tumbling out, fingers at keyboards.
Also, my parents ran a bookshop, and then a pair of jazz/music venues (where my dad’s band, Luck St. Blues, also played), so I grew up around this sort of stuff. I was elated when Africa Is A Country allowed me to write about music for them, as part of a writing fellowship I was involved with a couple of years ago, and that got me into thinking and writing about music in a much more considered way.
Lior Phillips: Thanks for having me here! After a childhood incessantly surrounded by music in Cape Town, going to every gig that I could, getting my grubby hands on all the tapes, CDs, vinyl, rummaging through my older brother and sister’s collections (and downloading a song from the internet that took an entire weekend), I eagerly pushed to find a way to make music a part of my life. I started out working on music videos, in art direction and styling—running around the city at all hours of the day in the messiness and chaos of video production—but really wanted to stretch out as a creative and find new ways to bring underrepresented and underappreciated artists to more of the world.
It somehow simultaneously all happened at once and took years of constantly trying to push into a space that was primarily male and driven by established paths. So I pushed! I started emailing the blogs and sites that I loved to read, and then was lucky enough to write for some of those outlets, writing on spec for no or little pay. (It was brutal!) About the same time I started writing a monthly (and weekly) humor column at GQ South Africa on sex and relationships. That gave me the tools to expand my creativity, test big (sometimes very silly! and insanely ridiculous!) ideas with big audiences and understand how important it is to carve out your own opinion in this world. I started to question the ideals of opinions, artistic critique, and how to balance those.
Eventually I moved continents twice, chasing new opportunities to bring the music I loved to light, to present music from outside the US/UK on equal footing, and along the way transitioning to more prominent and established publications (where editors that I loved were working). I have traveled the world photographing music festivals, moderated panels, hosted and produced my own podcast that featured interviews with legendary artists, and served as an editor for some incredible young writers. I had to stand against egregious misogyny which has a long history in music journalism/writing (and the music industry as a whole).
I consider myself blessed to have published a story about a queer, Black South African artist on the front page of the New York Times Arts section, to have written about artists of color for NPR and Pitchfork, and to have written a book for Bloomsbury Publishing’s 33 ⅓ series on the history of South African popular music, titled South African Popular Music. Throughout it all, I do my best to centre the work of artists who are telling meaningful stories, to use whatever platform I have to spotlight the people who deserve it, and to bring thrilling new art to as many people as possible.
AJ: Who are some of the writers that you’ve been inspired by?
CA: Sam Selvon, Una Marson, Simon Reynolds, Emma Warren, Olateju Adeleye.
LB: In terms of music writing: Fred Zindi, Gwen Ansell, Dan Ozzi.
LP: Lordy there are too many to name so I’m closing my eyes and typing some minds that come to my heart! Hanif Abdurraqib, Terry Gross, Laura Snapes, Craig Jenkins, Ann Powers, Brandon Stosuy, Amanda Petrusich, Danyel Smith!
AJ: What do you think is missing from music journalism? What do you think works? Where are some of the places you find new music, new writers?
CA: I think great research and insight is lacking to provide some relatable context behind the process of albums/live shows via interviews. A lot of great writing has been shielded behind a paywall and I believe if you’re a scribe your first thought should be to share first with as many people as possible. First Floor newsletter provides some great electronic music recommendations and Ian McQuaid of MOVES Recordings does great mailouts for all genres for DJ’s and writers alike that aren’t full of buzzwords. You really feel his passion for music he has been an A&R of but doesn’t shove it down your throat.
LB: I agree with Christian that the dreaded paywall means that too often, great writing remains invisible to too many. And too much of what is easily available is simply ‘content’, or thinly veiled marketing copy, and in either case almost always reflecting a click-based financial bottom line. But I suppose you could say that about almost any genre? And I’m not sure what the solution is. There is still great writing out there, but one has to work to find it, and tune out the noise. For new music, I rely on soundcloud rabbitholes, radio shows like ‘Late Junction’, straight-up luck and serendipity, and my wife, who has impeccable taste. Sometimes it’s worth going direct to the source—what artists themselves put out, or what one finds on labels like Matsuli Music or Nyaminyami Records. I’m also as interested in finding ‘new’ old music, as I am in hearing brand new music.
There is an ongoing cultural commentary which a whole nation and diaspora community can resonate with through song that speaks more loudly than a politician who may purport to tell the truth.
AJ: Totally agree, Liam. “New” old music is like a gift. There’s years, decades, centuries of music that I’ve been discovering lately. Earlier this year, I started picking music randomly (each day a random genre and year between 1954-2024), and it has been an incredible source of discovery.
LB: That sounds like fun, I’m going to try that!
LP: I love this idea, Ashawnta! Christian, I think the operative and brilliant word here is “context”. For so many years I watched journalists attempt to cover African music without providing the necessary context needed. Also, Liam’s point about the most readily available writing being driven by click-based and advertiser-driven decision-making is something I’ve lately been thinking a lot about, as well as our community’s response in the form of newsletters and patron-based content.
It’s a response that reminds me a lot of the way television transitioned in past decades from over-the-air and cable/satellite packages where “everything” was available to now having the “need” to pick your favorites from a few dozen different streaming subscriptions. Viewers/readers may be right in complaining about having to search out that kind of quality work, and writers/producers may be right to complain about having to be their own marketing team and chase down audiences on their own—but it feels like the die is cast, at least for now.
Options like the employee-owned, subscription-supported, sports-focused publication The Defector, where like-minded music writers could join their newsletter vibes and audiences under one banner and find a bigger subscriber base and readership together would be fascinating. Ex-P4k staffers have started Hearing Things, and there’s countless Substacks I subscribe to from writers who have been laid off and that I love. (Happy to share that list to anyone interested!). I’m gutted to see so many music magazines/sites that I have written for fold into branches of venture capital consumerist lifestyle. There’s ad spend issues, sure, but cultural journalism ultimately needs its independence.
AJ: One of the reasons we started #ReadingAfrica Week was to dispel the myth that African writing is one thing, and I think the same thing can be said about African music. There’s not just one genre, but many, many genres that are all influenced by music from the continent. How do you see your work as breaking down some of the misconceptions about African music(s)?
CA: I think to show the music as not a monolith and the very rich cultures that are centuries old which have given it value overtime. It’s not something which is readily packaged and understanding lyrics, being on the continent, speaking to storytellers (that’s what most musicians are) aids some understanding of the truth and music as a medium is not something to be taken lightly.
LB: Good question! I don’t know that the breaking down of misconceptions is so much a goal of the writing, as it is a by-product of it, if I can frame it in that way. I think it all comes down to curiosity, and a kind of two-way responsibility shared between me and the reader. When it works, when it all clicks, it can be very beautiful, and everyone (myself included) comes away with better understanding.
LP: I’ve at many times in my life had to be talked down from an endless rant about the term “world music”, a label that truly infuriates me. I’ve been screaming about it since I started. If you have a category that can include both Japanese jazz and Guatemalan rap, we have a problem. Oftentimes the highlight on “African music” is a step in the right direction—an attempt at putting some sort of focus onto Black creatives that are often overlooked—but still signifies all of these artists as the “other” to audiences in other continents, and is a willful ignorance to artists who rightfully acknowledge the countless details that define their existence.
At the same time, I would never argue that African-ness is something that can be ignored or written off, that an artist coming from Africa should be deleted from any coverage of their art in favour of explaining their genre or sound. It instead needs to be a more thoughtful balance. For my book, I researched heavily into historical records and peer-reviewed academic journals, because South African music cannot escape its relationship to its tragic history. Some artists addressed the political and social more directly than others, but they all existed within those structures. I see my job as developing that understanding of the myriad genres and traditions, and figuring out how and to what extent that needs to be covered for an audience.
I got into this work because I’m a curious person who wants to learn from people with specific knowledge, to dig as deeply as possible. I have to do my best to understand where an artist is coming from, because while I adore readers who do that leg work, they won’t all do it. If I can get a reader who has never heard amapiano to care what that genre is and where it came from, and why, I’ve done my job.
AJ: I think that with most music, most art, it’s hard to separate it from its time, which means that politics is part of it. Lior and Liam, both of you cite the Sharpeville Massacre as a turning point in South Africa’s trajectory—politically, spiritually, artistically, emotionally. In your book, Christian, you introduce Afrobeats as a way for the diaspora to connect, writing that it “reflects the nuance of the Black experience.” I’d love to hear from you all about the ways that you infuse the political into your writing?
CA: Personally I felt looking at political events and how they shaped or more rather how culture endures in spite or in response to turmoil was interesting. There is an ongoing cultural commentary which a whole nation and diaspora community can resonate with through song that speaks more loudly than a politician who may purport to tell the truth. It’s freeing and I feel subconsciously it’s my duty to provide information which may have been hidden so as to give reasoning behind an artists intention.
LB: This is a slippery thing to grapple with, but I think the presence of the political is somewhat inevitable (and here I must clarify that I mean the political in the sense of an awareness of the power realities that govern people’s lives, rather than political rhetoric). If I’m to be successful as a writer, I think sometimes I just need to get out of the way of it, get out of the way of the story as the writer, or at least make sure I’m not diminishing any part of the story that is honest and true. Good writing is truth-seeking.
AJ: With that said, it’s sometimes hard to thread that needle, to show that music fits on a historical timeline, but to also balance that with being an entertaining writer. How do you balance those two (sometimes opposing) needs?
CA: Interviewing as many people in person to feel their passion for an era. This was important to transport the reader who maybe a novice or well versed in a movement to bring the dancefloor energy to life. The music has that vim so why not make the writing almost serve as a warm up set before you hit the floor again.
LB: I think that the historical timeline is utterly fascinating, replete with myriad stories, when viewed at the granular, human level, and here I am once again in agreement with Christian in asserting that one understands an era through the people of that era—their thoughts, dreams, fears, loves and lives. Writing about the broad sweep of history is nowhere near as engaging as writing about the people who live through and create that history. Things are always more complicated and less clear cut than broad history suggests. And people are always interesting! Also, I try to write the sorts of things that I would like to read. If I can interest and entertain myself, hopefully the balance is right, and that translates to the reader.
AJ: And speaking of writing techniques, how do you approach music writing—using words to describe something we feel with an entirely different set of senses?
CA: I just think of unlocking all the senses. When you are fully immersed in the music during the day or night, there is a freeing weightlessness that the body allows itself to be in sync with. Maybe we don’t articulate enough in hindsight but equally at times no vocabulary can describe the spiritual nature being vulnerable on the floor or festival field.
LB: Christian has explained this poetically and succinctly. Indeed, one tries to engage all of the senses (whether writing about music, or anything else for that matter), and when it all works there’s this sort of joyful synaesthetic polysemy that happens—every word sparks a wide sensory response, in turn providing further and deeper meanings, one can ‘see’ what the writer is trying to say, but also feel it, hear it. When I’m moved by reading something, it’s like being invited into another person’s headspace, someone else’s soul. I try to do the same thing with my writing.
AJ: Do any of you have a particular writing process? Do you work with outlines? Plot chapters in a particular way?
CA: Beforehand I watch and read as much as I can. One to immerse myself fresh and another to just to listen…finding something new. Scribble onto copious amounts of scrap paper, read continuously for flow and what better word/turn of phrase will describe what others may have thought previously but haven’t been able to let it escape their heads.
LB: Before writing, I do background research, and lots of it. As much as I can get away with. To a fault, almost. I want to know as much as I can, within reason, about whatever I’m writing about. I’ll start out with a general idea about where I want a particular piece of writing to go, but quite often I actually find the real story in the act of writing it. I read as much as I can, and I often listen to music when I write.
LP: I’m on board with Christian in terms of the endless consumption as a first step—every album, book, interview. When I was starting out I would then just sit and weep until I got the courage to start writing, and then spend countless hours editing it into shape. But I’ve really focused on structuring my work so that I don’t have that much pain when it comes to structuring the results. I’ve adopted a method similar to a writers’ room for a TV show, where I literally tack notecards to a board with “scenes”, important moments and ideas I want to hit. As a visual learner, I know then that I won’t lose track of anything if I suddenly realise I have to pick one of the ideas that I thought would be at the end and move it earlier.
AJ: Christian, I love that you included a chapter on the role of dance. Liam, many of your pieces at Africa is a Country mention dance, and Lior, dance is a thread throughout your book as well. There is an element of joy that runs throughout. How important is it for you to keep that sense of joy in your writing and in keeping it in the histories of the music?
When I’m moved by reading something, it’s like being invited into another person’s headspace, someone else’s soul. I try to do the same thing with my writing.
CA: Reclaiming the narrative…I found dance or dancers I should say be interviewed as much. They are the literal and physical embodiment of storytelling whether it be in front of the camera or choreographing a sequence behind the scenes. This commutative relationship between a fan and artist is often bridged in some capacity through movement of the body. It’s not to say it’s instructive (like a TikTok dance vid) but more so being in tandem with the instrumental and lyricism to take that unaltered joy to another echelon and make you move whenever wherever.
AJ: This is such a good point, Christian. When I was writing my book, since it was about Black American musical lineage, it was impossible to write it without including some of the harsher, sadder parts of our history. But there was so much joy in the music, in the history, that it would have felt like, I don’t know…malpractice not to include it. Joy is part of our history too.
LB: There’s this Afghan saying that I really like. I believe it’s from a poem. It translates to something like: ‘roll up your sleeves, go into the streets, and start dancing, because happiness is rare in a poor man’s life’. It speaks to the need to celebrate every little win, every small joy, every moment of happiness or beauty, because life is hard.
LP: Joy is crucial to examine. I would love to say that I could go on some sociological exploration of the history of dance and its ability to connect or communicate, but truly it just comes from one’s own personal connection to music. There have been multiple times where I was in the pit at a concert or festival to take photos and had to stop myself from just getting lost in the music (photog friends literally nudging me to get snapping because we only have three songs!). I will dance my heart out at every opportunity. It boggles my mind that there are so many people in our industry who just don’t have that pure, joyful reaction to music, whether it’s literally dancing or just dancing in their hearts. I think back about seeing the Rajasthan Express at Le Guess Who? Festival in Utrecht, the floor underneath bouncing from bodies flailing around me. There is a joyful spark to creating, even in the saddest songs, and I hope that everyone who reads my work feels that same way when they listen to the music.
AJ: For the two of you that have written books about music, was there an artist that you felt had to be included to fully tell the story of the music?
CA: For me Karen Nyame KG was essential. As a pioneering producer and black woman who defined the UK Funky sound and still to this day is really redefining electronic music over all. Sampling classic Afro Boogie and bringing that ancestral heat across the diaspora was imperative for people to learn about the discography of magic she’s created.
LP: Miriam Makeba. When I sat down to write my book, which I knew would be covering close to a century of music from an entire country, I first wrote a chapter about Mama Africa. In her music, in her politics, in her activism, in her personal life, her story sketches out the tragedies and triumphs of South Africa as a country. And searching for over a year and finally finding Sipho Mchunu in order to provide a space for him to tell his story about Juluka and that time in South Africa.
AJ: Is there an artist that you’d love to write about?
LB: He was not a musician, but I’d love to write about Zimbabwean sculptor Richard Jack at some point.
AJ: What’s the one thing you want people to take from your work?
CA: To learn something new about someone or a movement and share it with others.
LB: That it is motivated by love.
LP: Take my hand—Explore! Learn! There’s nothing wrong with a familiar favorite or a nostalgic burst, but leaning on those means ignoring artists that will change your life. Telling readers what to listen to, sure, but also help them understand the world through a relentless examination of why, when, and what.
AJ: For someone who wants to get started with African music, of any genre, where would you tell them to start?
CA: Start with the instruments including the seperewa to the kora to the mbira. Be guided by them to follow an intentional and very often foundational sound across West to Southern Africa.
LB: Start anywhere, and keep going.
LP: I’m with Christian in that I tend to start with certain instruments and guide from there. Local newspapers/zines/blogs. And then once you hear one artist or song that hits your ear right, branch off and follow down the rabbit hole. When were they around? Who else was making music at that time? There is no correct rubric for music discovery, which is why it always feels zig-zaggy and deliciously chaotic.
AJ: What are you reading now? What are you listening to?
CA: Recently finished Raving by Mackenzie Wark which I’ve sat with for a while reflecting on. Listening wise it’s been Pa Salieu’s new mixtape as I recently saw his first live show since being released with a great band. He’s charged up and ready to deliver with his Gambian heritage very much guiding his light in a refreshing and unapologetic fashion. Can you tell I’m here.for.it!
LB: The last novel I finished was this Paul Lynch book, Red Sky in Morning. I’ve been reading Jacques Vallée’s ‘Dimensions’, and a fascinating history of the Chimanimani region of Zimbabwe as part of a current writing project. This is going to sound like a plug, but I’m just being honest: I’ve been listening to an album called ‘Somepeoplenowhere’ made by Simon Michalek and my cousin Dumiso Brickhill, who is a spoken word artist. It’s brilliant.
Take my hand—Explore! Learn! There’s nothing wrong with a familiar favorite or a nostalgic burst, but leaning on those means ignoring artists that will change your life.
LP: I recently started reading Marlon James’ Moon Witch Spider King, the second book in his Dark Star Trilogy. I’m a lifelong fantasy-geek, and it’s so powerful to see a masterful writer tackle the genre from a place of African mythology and history, not to mention with such a powerful queer agenda. It’s not music journalism, but it’s inspiring in terms of recentering and reimagining African traditions. In terms of listening, my next book is a 33 ⅓ about Cher’s Believe, which has been a very different immersion compared to the endless gqom and kwaito for its predecessor!
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Playlists
Christian
Kantata-Duke
Amakye Dede-Kose Kose
HAGAN x Karen Nyame KG-Manigua’s Groove
Kokoroko-Sweeter Than
Donae’O-She Belongs To The Night (Juls Remix)
Ezra Collective-No One’s Watching Me (Instrumental)
Crazy Cousins-I See You
Kokoroko-War Dance (HAGAN remix)
Ohenba Kissi-Akoko Mmon A
Liam
Pascal Makonese – Kenge (Supa Dupa)
Dividing the Element – Kumba Kumusha
Bantu Spaceship – Mqibelo (A Prayer For The Weekend) ft. Kwela
Chikwata 263 – Rudo Chairwo
John Chibadura – Mudiwa Janet
Chiwoniso – Zvichapera
Gonora Sounds / The Busy Twist – The Journey of Life (remix)
Mr. Freddy – Cicadas Calling
Bombino – Akhar Zaman
Fokofpolisiekar – Fokofpolisiekar
Lior
Miriam Makeba – “Pata Pata”
Miriam Makeba – “Soweto Blues”
Brenda Fassie – “Vuli Ndlela”
Abdulla Ibrahim – “Mannenberg”
DJ Lag – “Raptor”
Master KG – “Jerusalema”
Nakhane – “Interloper”
Bongeziwe Mabandla – “Ndokulandela”
Tyla – “Water”
Thandiswa Maswai – Kulungile feat. Nduduzo Makhatini
Anything Lijadu Sisters
Getatchew Mekurya – “Muziqa Heywete”
Victor Uwaifo – “Guitar Boy”
Angelique Kidjo – “Agolo”
Tems – “Free Mind”
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Christian Adofo is an established writer, author and DJ from North London via Ghana. His passion for writing looks at the intersect of heritage and identity in Music and Culture across the cultural landscape. With feature articles across print, online and media such as Billboard, The Financial Times and Resident Advisor + more, Christian is an engaging and vibrant commentator acknowledging seminal figures and interviewing burgeoning talents within the African diaspora.
Liam Brickhill is a storyteller and multi-disciplinary creative whose work has been featured online, in print and on television around the world. Born in Zimbabwe, Liam is primarily a writer, but also works as a videographer, journalist, editor, photographer, event producer and project manager. He spent most of 2024 helping to script a video game for a Cape Town-based indie game studio, and is (still) working on his debut novel.
Lior Phillips is a South African-born, Chicago-based music and culture journalist, and the author of South African Popular Music (from Bloomsbury Academic’s Genre: A 33 1/3 Series). She has written for a variety of international publications, including The New York Times, The Guardian, Dazed and Confused Magazine, The Recording Academy, The Creative Independent, Variety, Billboard, Rolling Stone, Pitchfork, The Quietus, NPR, Consequence of Sound, and GQ South Africa. She is currently working on her next book for Bloomsbury Publishing, a 33 1/3 on Cher’s 1998 smash-hit album, Believe, and in addition created, produced, and hosted This Must Be the Gig, a currently-on-hiatus podcast dedicated to artists’ memories of their first gigs and passion for live music and performance.
Ashawnta Jackson is a writer and record collector living in Brooklyn writing mostly about music, culture, and history. She has written for NPR, PBS American Masters, Oxford American, Bandcamp, Wax Poetics, and Vinyl Me Please, among others. Previous lives have found her on the radio at KMHD Jazz Radio in Portland, OR and as part of the publicity team for indie publisher, Catalyst Press. She is also the author of Soul-Folk, part of Bloomsbury’s 33 1/3 Genre series, and is at work on a book on Black-owned record labels set for release in 2027 by WW Norton.
