Beneath The Rhythm, Congolese Rumba - a link to the past and the soundtrack of modern politics

 © Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

The following article appeared in the January 22nd 2022 issue of The Economist magazine [based in England] under the title: Musical History - The Beat Goes Home

Dating back to Jelly Roll Morton’s famous reference to it, from its inception, Jazz has always had a “Latin Tinge.” Among the large number of books on the subject, one of the better ones by John Storm Roberts even has it referenced in its title: The Latin Tinge: The Impact of Latin American Music on the United States [1999].

And “Latin Tinge” today is more broadly understood or characterized as the Afro-Cuban influence on Jazz; and to be accurate it’s more like influences as these take many forms.

Of course, influences on musical styles don’t just move in one direction. In the past, this syncretism might have been limited by factors to do with transportation and other logistical impediments.

But in today’s world of globalization based on rapid modes of transportation and communication, it’s not too surprising to read about Afro-Cuban influences musical influences going back to their place or origin.

Not surprisingly, too, are the political overtones associated with these musical flows. To understand these better, these are delineated in Ted Gioia’s Music: A Subversive History [2019].

“As you climb the dimly lit staircase at La Crèche nightclub in Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo, you may hear a man’s high, lilting voice drifting from the rooftop. There, above the traffic-clogged alleys of Victoire, a dense neighbourhood popular with both artists and pickpockets, couples dance to rumba music. Women sling their arms around their partners’ necks and together they move, sinuously, across the roof. The ageing men twanging guitars and playing drums wear scarves and glittery caps. A flamboyant dress sense is a prerequisite for any serious rumba musician in Congo.

In its modern form, Congolese rumba evolved in the 1940s, largely in Kinshasa. Its irresistible rhythms soon echoed across the continent and today it is one of Congo’s proudest, and noisiest, exports. Last month rumba’s status was nudged a little higher when it was added to the “intangible cultural heritage” list maintained by Unesco, the UN's cultural agency. It joins Estonian smoke saunas and Polish beekeeping on a register meant to promote “cultural diversity in the face of growing globalisation”. Listen closely, though, and beneath the sultry beat is a tale of transatlantic cultural exchange—and of art’s entanglement with politics.

In a simplistic version of its history, Congolese rumba was inspired by the Cuban kind. That is true, but so is the reverse: the origins of Latin rumba lie in central Africa. The beat was first exported to Cuba by slaves, many of whom were taken from the Kingdom of Kongo (which included part of modern Congo) from the 15th century onwards. On the island, some fashioned drums from animal skins and hollowed-out trees and began playing their traditional music.

“It was a spiritual music, a way to praise their ancestors who would then relay their prayers to God,” says Lubangi Muniania, a Congolese art historian and journalist. Enslaved people danced to it in pairs, waist to waist, so it was known as nkumba, meaning “waist” or “belly button” in Kikongo, a Congolese language. That morphed into “rumba” and, over the years, the style mingled with the Spanish sounds prevailing in Cuba. The foot-tapping rhythm was embellished with guitars, clarinets and pianos.

For centuries rumba bounced back and forth across the Atlantic. It was re-exported to Congo when Belgian colonisers set up the country’s first radio station in Kinshasa (then Leopoldville) in 1940, and began airing overseas music. The breezy, danceable Cuban tunes, with their familiar cadences, were immediate hits. Musicians in Leopoldville—and across the river in the capital of neighbouring Congo-Brazzaville—reinterpreted the genre. “The funny thing is that for the Congolese people listening to that music, it wasn’t foreign to them at all,” says Mr Muniania. “They were playing African music back to Africans, so there is no wonder they picked it up.”

A well-known haunt for rumba enthusiasts in Kinshasa today, La Crèche was a brothel before becoming a nightclub. A band was first invited in the 1980s to entertain clients on the roof after, or between, their trysts; the staircase is lined with bedrooms obscured by colourful curtains. Another rumba institution is the Un-Deux-Trois club, run by Yves Emongo Luambo, whose father, Franco Luambo, was one of the greatest-ever rumba guitarists and composers. He helped make rumba “our cultural passport”, as Mr Emongo puts it.

Dazzlingly handsome in his youth, the musician was known as “Franco de mi amor” by some female fans and “the sorcerer of the guitar” by others. His legendary band, ok Jazz (later called tpok Jazz), released an average of two new songs a week for years, totalling well over a thousand. If Franco had tumultuous relationships with women, none were as lengthy or complex as the one he had with Mobutu Sese Seko, who ruled the country for over three decades—a liaison that epitomised the nuanced role of music in Congolese politics.

Sometimes Franco criticised Mobutu. His most radical track was released in 1966, a year after Mobutu came to power. The dictator had four political opponents, including a former prime minister, publicly hanged in a square in Victoire. Franco was in the crowd and wrote a threnody to the victims. Like some of his other songs, it was hurriedly banned; all the copies on sale were confiscated.

Yet he also penned flowery paeans to the despot. By the time of the presidential election of 1984, in which Mobutu was the only candidate, faith in him had evaporated as the public watched him use their money to guzzle champagne for breakfast and charter Concorde for shopping trips to Paris. Even so, Franco released an effusive ode called “Our Candidate Mobutu”. Its refrain was “Mobutu, God sent you.”

This is an extreme example of libanga, a feature of Congolese rumba that attests to its influence. The word means “pebble” in Lingala, the language spoken in Kinshasa. Musicians throw a pebble, or give a shout-out, to wealthy patrons who reward them lucratively. Rumba tracks are peppered with references to politicians, especially ahead of elections. Libanga tends to be mercenary, not ideological, with singers inclined to mention whoever pays them. Werrason, another rumba legend, once named 110 people in a single song.

Today, Congo’s biggest rumba star is 65-year-old Koffi Olomide (pictured), who performs in sunglasses and tight trousers, as he did recently at a plush hotel in the eastern city of Goma. Mr Olomide turned up late, after everyone was supposed to have gone home due to a pandemic-related curfew. Wearing a leopard-print hat in the style of Mobutu, he called a policeman up on stage to crack jokes about flouting the rules. He might be above the law in Congo, but in France, where he lives much of the time, he was recently convicted of holding four female backing dancers in his house against their will.

The case was a blow to the singer’s fans. In Congo, though, few things are constant. Electricity and water supplies are erratic, statesmen are often corrupt and predatory. But rumba itself is reliable. It has been around, in its various forms, for centuries. It can be heard all over the vast country and is best enjoyed with a beer in hand. From the capital to a village on the banks of the Congo river, chances are you will find a bottle to sip as familiar rumba beats blare from a nearby radio.”