Bass Guitar, Lead Vocals, Percussion – Ehima Ottay
Chorus – Amoia, Bassey Black, Bayo
Congas – Friday Jumbo
Drums – Candido Obajimi, Mike Umoh (tracks: A1, A2)
Guitar, Lead Vocals, Percussion – Sam Abiloye
Keyboards – Collins
Organ – Sega Gafatchi
Tenor Saxophone – Chike Ekwe
Trumpet – Idowu Ogunbamowo
Buckle up, groove enthusiasts—this one's a bit of a wild card. Released in 1978 on the obscure Nigerian imprint Shanu Olu Records (catalog SOS 035), Freedom Anthem is credited to S. Job Organization (a cheeky contraction of the original SJOB Movement). But here's the punchline: according to Prince Bola Agbana himself—the drummer, vocalist, and spiritual heart of the original quartet—this album is basically the band's "apocryphal" third child. Born without the full core lineup (no Prince Bola on drums/vocals, no Jonnie Woode on cosmic Moog/keys), it's more like a funky cousin crashing the family reunion with session players in tow. Remaining members Spark Abiloye and Blackie Ottay pushed it out to keep the momentum going after the egalitarian dream started fraying. Think of it as the SJOB side project that forgot to invite half the band to the studio.
Still, what we get is deep, dark, and undeniably funky—a shift from the sunny, psychedelic spaciness of Friendship Train toward something moodier, more political, and tinged with reggae riddims. Influences from Black America (think emerging disco-funk edges) mix with local folk elements and afrobeat grit. No Odion Iruoje production polish here; it's rawer, like a late-night Lagos jam session that got serious about continental unity. Seven tracks across about 35-40 minutes, with the music credited collectively to "S. Job Organisation." Reissued in 2016 by PMG (Austria), it found new life among crate-diggers who love that "hidden gem" vibe.
Track-by-Track Breakdown
Side A: The Call to Arms
Oya
Opens with invoking Oya (the Yoruba goddess of winds and change—fitting for a "freedom" theme). Heavy percussion, folk-infused melodies, and a reggae-ish sway that feels like Bob Marley teleported to Benin City. It's hypnotic and earthy, blending traditional sounds with funk bass. Humorously, it's the track that says, "Change is coming... but let's dance slowly about it."
My Friend (aka "My Friend (African Reggae)") (~6:17)
The standout—a smooth, dubby reggae groover with heartfelt lyrics about friendship (ironic, given the band's splintering). Laid-back rhythms, echoing vocals, and a bassline that slinks like it's avoiding drama. This one's been YouTube gold for afro-reggae fans. Funny bit: In a band built on equality and pals, this feels like a passive-aggressive postcard: "My friend... where'd you go?"
Ayamato (~5:11)
Political fire ignites here—"Ayamato" (roughly "Stand up for your rights") is a direct call for Africans to rise against oppression. Darker funk grooves, urgent horns, and lyrics that pack more punch than the earlier albums' philosophy. It's the album's wake-up call, funky yet fierce. Chuckle-worthy: Finally, some Fela-level activism... from the chillest collective ever.
Side B: Deeper into the Darkness
Kukelu
Mid-tempo funk with intricate percussion and layered guitars. Mysterious vibes, perhaps drawing on folk tales—it's groovy but enigmatic, like the band teasing secrets. Solid jammer that keeps the energy simmering without boiling over.
Efin Ogiso
Another deep cut with possible Edo/Benin influences (Ogiso referring to ancient kings). Smoky, atmospheric funk with reggae dub echoes and swirling instrumentation. It's the moodiest track, perfect for late-night contemplation... or plotting your own mini-revolution.
Freedom Anthem
The title track—a rousing, horn-driven call to arms with anthemic choruses demanding liberty. Funky breakdowns, collective chants, and that dark edge make it empowering. Humor alert: It's like the band shouting "Freedom!" right as their own freedom (from each other) was pulling them apart.
Wombiliki
Closer with more folk-reggae fusion—"Wombiliki" incorporates local sounds into a bouncy, infectious rhythm. Lightens the mood at the end, like a tinge of hope after the heavier messages. Danceable and fun, it's the track that reminds you: even in dark funk, there's room to wiggle.
Overall Sound and Legacy
Compared to the Moog-heavy psychedelia of the proper SJOB albums, Freedom Anthem goes deeper and darker: less cosmic synths, more raw percussion, reggae/dub infusions, and overt political bite. It's still unmistakably Nigerian afro-funk—tight ensemble playing, polyrhythms for days—but feels like a transitional beast, bridging highlife roots with emerging global black sounds. Without Bola's charismatic vocals or Jonnie's spacey keys, it loses some signature sparkle, but gains grit and urgency.
With a touch of humor: This is the album where the "movement" became a splinter group, proving that too much democracy in a band is like too much pepper in jollof—exciting, but eventually someone leaves the kitchen. Prince Bola disowning it adds legendary drama: "Not a real SJOB album!" Yet, it endures as a cult favorite, reissued and praised for its "deep, dark funk" on platforms like Bandcamp and Discogs. Original pressings? Rarer than an egalitarian band that lasts forever.
Freedom Anthem might be the black sheep (or apocryphal cousin) of the SJOB family, but it's a damn funky one—darker, more political, and reggae-kissed than its predecessors. Essential for afro-funk completists chasing that raw 1978 Lagos edge. Just don't tell Prince Bola you love it more than Friendship Train... he might revoke your groove privileges!
All aboard the Friendship Train! Released in 1977 on EMI Nigeria (catalog NEMI 0273), this sophomore album from the egalitarian Nigerian afro-funk collective SJOB Movement is where they truly blast off into the stratosphere. Building on the solid foundation of their 1976 debut A Move in the Right Direction, Friendship Train cranks up the experimentation: more fluid grooves, bolder horns, and Jonnie Woode Olimmah's Moog synthesizer going full interstellar explorer mode. It's like the band took the already funky train from the first album, upgraded it with rocket boosters, and aimed it straight at a Lagos dancefloor orbiting Saturn.
Produced again by Odion Iruoje at EMI Studios in Apapa, with engineering magic from Kayode Salami and Monday Oki, this record features guest heavyweights like Ignace de Souza on trumpet, Fred Fisher on trombone, Akin Nathan on vocals, and Friday Pozo on congas. The core SJOB quartet—Prince Bola Agbana (drums, lead vocals), Jonnie Woode Olimmah (keys, Moog, vocals), Ottay "Blackie" Hima (bass, percussion), and Spark Abiloye (guitar, congas)—are locked in tighter than ever, proving their "no boss, all equals" philosophy could produce pure gold.
Clocking in at about 33 minutes across six tracks (three per side), it's concise yet expansive—songs stretch out just enough to hypnotize without derailing. The sound? Peak 1970s Nigerian afrobeat-funk hybrid: deep polyrhythms, philosophical lyrics, devastating horn stabs, and those "spaced-out Moog synthesizer sounds" that make it feel futuristic even today. Critics and reissue notes call it a "masterpiece of African music," and for once, the hype train is right on schedule.
Track-by-Track Breakdown
Side A: The Departure Lounge
Friendship Train (~6:14)
The title track chugs in with a relentless groove that's pure invitation: "Get on board the friendship train!" Prince Bola's vocals urge unity over bouncing bass, percolating percussion, and horns that punch like friendly fireworks. The Moog adds wavy, cosmic flourishes, making it feel like Gladys Knight & the Pips hijacked a UFO. Humorously, in an era of Nigerian band hierarchies, this is SJOB's manifesto—everyone's welcome, no first-class egos allowed. Instant classic opener that sets the vibe: funky, uplifting, and impossible to sit still through.
Love Affair (~6:00)
Oh boy, this one's the breakout star—a devastating afro-soul-funk boogie monster that's been lighting up compilations (like Soundway's Nigeria Disco Funk Special) for years. Explosive horns blast in, the groove locks hard, and Bola croons about romantic entanglements with a wink. The synths swirl, the bass slaps, and it builds to a chorus that'll have you declaring love affairs left and right. Funny side note: If this track doesn't make you dance like you're auditioning for a 1977 Lagos nightclub, check your pulse—you might need a love affair with a doctor.
What Could It Be (~3:35)
The shortest cut here, but punchy as a quick espresso. Introspective lyrics ponder life's mysteries over a mid-tempo funk strut, with Jonnie's keys bubbling like philosophical champagne. It's the thoughtful breather between the party starters—almost like the band pausing to ask, "Wait, why are we all grooving so hard?" Charming and catchy, with horns that sneak up and steal the show.
Side B: Destination Funk Galaxy
Odiaria (~5:56)
Dipping into Yoruba vibes, this one's a hypnotic mid-tempo jammer with layered percussion and Moog effects that warp time. The groove sways like a gentle train on scenic tracks, building subtly with guitar licks and vocal harmonies. Translation vibes suggest something reflective or cautionary—perfect for contemplating life while your body moves on autopilot. Humor alert: "Odiaria" sounds like it could be a spell for endless dancing; cast it wisely, or you'll be grooving till dawn.
Let's Do It (~4:57)
Straight-up invitation to the dancefloor—no subtlety needed. Upbeat funk with urgent rhythms, call-and-esponse vocals, and horns that rally like a pep squad. It's motivational in the best way: "Let's do it!" could mean dance, love, live—whatever, just do it with groove. In SJOB's democratic spirit, this track feels like a group huddle turning into a party. Cheeky and irresistible; resistance is futile.
Halleluyah!! (~5:04)
The closer—a joyful, gospel-tinged explosion of praise with soaring vocals, triumphant horns, and percussion that celebrates like the train's arrived at paradise. The Moog adds ethereal touches, blending spiritual uplift with funky ecstasy. It's exclamatory for a reason (!!): pure catharsis. Funny thought: If church had grooves this killer in 1977 Nigeria, attendance would've skyrocketed—no collection plate needed, just dancing shoes.
Overall Sound and Legacy
Friendship Train elevates everything from the debut: grooves are more fluid, synths more adventurous (predating a lot of afro-electronic experimentation), and the collective playing shines brighter. It's afrobeat with a psychedelic funk twist—think Fela meets early Parliament-Funkadelic, but with Lagos soul and zero dictatorship. Lyrics mix love, philosophy, and positivity, avoiding heavy politics for feel-good wisdom.
With a humorous twist: While other bands had charismatic leaders barking orders, SJOB ran on friendship—and somehow produced an album this cohesive. It's like they proved communism works... but only in funk bands. Tragically short-lived experiment, but what a ride!
Rediscovered via the excellent 2017 Cultures of Soul reissue (with bonus rework of "Love Affair"), it's now a crate-digger holy grail. Originals? Forget it—prices rival a train ticket to the moon. On platforms like Rate Your Music and among afro-funk aficionados, it's hailed as superior to the debut, a true peak.
Friendship Train isn't just a move in the right direction—it's a full-speed journey to afro-funk nirvana. Spacier, funkier, and more infectious than its predecessor, it'll have you praising "Halleluyah!!" while plotting your next spin. Essential for any global groove lover. All aboard—or miss the funkiest ride of 1977!
The SJOB Movement (often stylized as SJOB Movement or simply SJOB) was a groundbreaking Nigerian afro-funk and afrobeat ensemble active primarily in the mid-to-late 1970s. Emerging from the vibrant Lagos music scene during Nigeria's post-civil war cultural renaissance, the band represented a bold experiment in musical democracy and innovation. At a time when Nigerian music was dominated by charismatic frontmen who often exploited backing musicians (referred to derisively as "band boys"), SJOB stood out as a collective of equals, sharing credits, composition, and performance duties. The band's name was an acronym derived from the first names of its core members: Sam (Spark Abiloye), Johnnie (Jonnie Woode Olimmah), Ottah (Hima Blackie Ottay), and Bola (Prince Bola Agbana).
Origins and Formation (Mid-1970s)
The roots of SJOB trace back to the backing musicians for Sonny Okosun's band Ozzidi (or Ozziddi), a popular afro-rock/highlife group in early 1970s Nigeria. Many of the SJOB members — including Prince Bola (drums, vocals), Jonnie Woode Olimmah (keyboards, vocals), Hima Blackie Ottay (bass, percussion), and Spark Abiloye (guitar, congas) — had honed their skills as session players and live performers in this setup. Frustrated by the hierarchical structure common in Nigerian bands, where lead singers like Okosun reaped most rewards while sidemen received little recognition or pay, these musicians sought a more egalitarian model.
Prince Bola Agbana, the band's de facto leader and founder, was a veteran drummer and session musician who had played in various Lagos groups since the early 1970s. Describing his approach, Bola later explained that SJOB was "more like a workshop where people could come in and out without any real commitment," allowing members to maintain side gigs while collaborating as friends. This fluid, collaborative ethos was revolutionary in a scene influenced by figures like Fela Kuti, whose Egypt 80 band exemplified strict leadership.
By around 1975–1976, the core quartet solidified, blending deep afrobeat grooves with funky rhythms, psychedelic elements, spaced-out synthesizer sounds (courtesy of Olimmah's Moog and organ work), and socially conscious lyrics. Their sound evolved from highlife and afro-rock roots into a sophisticated afro-funk style, incorporating congas, bongos, shakers, and electric guitars for a danceable yet experimental vibe.
Breakthrough and Peak Years (1976–1977)
SJOB's debut album, A Move in the Right Direction, was released in 1976 on EMI Nigeria (catalog NEMI 0160). Produced by Odion Iruoje, it became a minor sensation in Nigeria, praised for tracks like "Country Love," "You Only Live Once," "No One Cares," "Omo Oloro," and the instrumental "Stone Funk." The album showcased the band's tight ensemble playing, with shared vocals and compositions credited collectively to "SJOB Movement." It featured heavy afro-funk rhythms, philosophical lyrics about life and society, and innovative production that pushed beyond traditional highlife.
Building on this momentum, the band quickly followed up with Friendship Train in 1977 (EMI NEMI 0273). Often considered their masterpiece, this album elevated their sound with even more fluid grooves, cosmic Moog synthesizers, and infectious hooks. It solidified SJOB's reputation as innovators in "the next step in the evolution of afro rhythms," influencing the underground Lagos dancefloor scene. Tracks from this era highlighted their paradigm-shifting band economy: no single "star," just four equals driving the music forward.
During this period, SJOB toured locally, performed in Lagos clubs, and gained a cult following among fans of afro-funk. Their egalitarian structure allowed flexibility — members continued session work with other artists — but also fostered creativity, resulting in music that felt fresh and unforced.
Name Variations and the 1978 Release
SJOB was sometimes referred to simply as SJOB or SJOB Movement interchangeably on releases and promotions. The "Movement" suffix emphasized their collective, almost ideological approach to music-making.
In 1978, a third album titled Freedom Anthem appeared on Shanu Olu Records, credited to S. Job Organization (or S. JOB Organization). This variation likely stemmed from logistical or contractual issues, as core members Johnnie Woode Olimmah and Prince Bola Agbana were absent from the sessions. Remaining members (possibly Spark Abiloye and Hima Blackie Ottay, augmented by session players) pushed forward to maintain momentum. Tracks included "Oya," "My Friend," "Ayamato," "Kukelu," "Efin Ogiso," "Freedom Anthem," and "Wombiliki," blending afrobeat with reggae influences.
However, Prince Bola has consistently described this release as "apocryphal" — not a true SJOB album, since it lacked the full core lineup. It is often discussed separately in discographies but sometimes grouped under the SJOB umbrella due to stylistic similarities and overlapping personnel.
Decline and Dissolution (Late 1978)
By late 1978, the band's experimental structure proved unsustainable. Without a dominant leader to "galvanize" the group, direction waned. Members pursued individual opportunities: Jonnie Woode rejoined Ozzidi, Prince Bola joined King Sunny Ade's band, and others took session work. The great social experiment in band equality ended, but not acrimoniously — as Bola noted, "even if you didn’t see us playing together under the name SJOB, we were still friends, and still playing together."
SJOB's brief but impactful run left a legacy in Nigerian afro-funk, influencing later reissue culture and global appreciation for 1970s African grooves.
Though active for only a few years, SJOB Movement's albums have been rediscovered and reissued in the 21st century (e.g., by Cultures of Soul, Academy LPs, and PMG/Austrian labels), introducing their music to international audiences via compilations like Nigeria Disco Funk Special. Their emphasis on collective creativity prefigured modern indie band models, and their funky, psychedelic afrobeat remains a hidden gem of 1970s Nigerian music. Prince Bola Agbana continued as a respected session drummer, embodying the enduring friendships that defined SJOB.
SJOB Movement – A Move in the Right Direction (1976)
First off, let's clear the air: the user said "1975 album," but this gem actually dropped in 1976 on EMI Nigeria (catalog NEMI 0160). Close enough—maybe the band was just fashionably late, like that friend who shows up to the party after the cake's been cut but brings the best vibes anyway. Produced by the legendary Odion Iruoje (the man behind many a Nigerian classic), A Move in the Right Direction was the debut from the egalitarian quartet known as SJOB Movement: Samuel "Spark" Abiloye Esse (guitars, congas), Jonnie Woode Olimmah (keys, Moog, vocals), Ottay "Blackie" Hima Ehima Ottah (bass, percussion), and Bolla Prince Bola Agbana (drums, lead vocals, bongos). These guys were ex-backers for Sonny Okosun's Ozzidi, tired of being "band boys" in a scene where leaders hogged the spotlight (and the cash). So they formed a collective where everyone shared credits, compositions, and the groove. Revolutionary? Absolutely. Sustainable? Well... that's another story.
This album is pure mid-1970s Lagos magic: deep afro-funk grooves laced with psychedelic Moog wizardry, fuzzy guitars, and percussion that hits like a polite but insistent knock on your hips demanding you dance. It's not as politically fiery as Fela's output—more philosophical and life-affirming—but it swings harder than a pendulum in a funk factory. Clocking in at around 40 minutes across five tracks (three on side A, two epic ones on B), it's a masterclass in letting songs breathe, jam, and evolve without overstaying their welcome... mostly.
Track-by-Track Breakdown
Side A:
Country Love (~7:30)
Kicks off with a sunny, highlife-tinged riff that feels like waking up in a Nigerian village with James Brown crashing the breakfast party. Prince Bola's vocals are warm and inviting, crooning about rural romance over bouncing bass from Ottay and Spark's tasty guitar licks. Jonnie's organ bubbles underneath like a pot of jollof rice on the simmer. It's infectious—perfect for convincing your city friends that village life has better Wi-Fi (for the soul, anyway). A solid opener that says, "We're here to make you move, not march."
No One Cares (~6:00)
Here, Jonnie takes drum duties (yes, the keyboard wizard moonlights on kit—multitasking goals), and the mood gets introspective. Lyrics lament societal indifference ("No one cares about your troubles"), but the groove is anything but down: tight funk breaks, congas popping like champagne corks, and a chorus that unites the band in harmonious complaint. Humor alert: In 1976 Nigeria, this track probably resonated like a modern tweet about traffic in Lagos—everyone nods, no one fixes it.
You Only Live Once (~5:00)
Jonnie steps up for lead vocals and tambourine, delivering a carpe diem anthem with philosophical flair. The Moog sneaks in cosmic blips, making it feel like afro-funk meets early space disco. Short and punchy compared to the others—almost like the band saying, "YOLO, so let's not drag this out." It's the motivational speaker of the album: upbeat, funky, and reminding you to dance before the power cuts out.
Side B: Where the Magic (and Jams) Really Happen
Omo Oloro (To Nje Eyin Awo) (~9:00)
Yoruba title translating roughly to something about a rich child and secrets—deep lyrics over an extended jam that's pure psychedelic afro-funk bliss. The beat configurations get complex (shoutout to Bola's drums and Ottay's bass locking in like old friends), and Jonnie's Moog goes full sci-fi, swirling and whooshing like a UFO landing in a Lagos nightclub. This is where the album reveals its "off-kilter" genius: groovy yet experimental, danceable yet trippy. If Fela had a chill cousin who smoked less weed and more synth, this would be his jam.
Stone Funk (~11:00)
The closer—an instrumental monster that's all about the title. Heavy, stoned-out (pun intended) funk with layers of percussion, fuzzy guitar riffs from Spark, and Moog effects that sound like they're beaming in from another planet. No vocals, just pure rhythm hypnosis. It's the track that makes crate-diggers weep with joy and DJs spin for 10 minutes straight. Humorously, it's called "Stone Funk," but it'll get you moving more than sitting like a stone—unless your dance moves are that stiff.
Overall Sound and Legacy
Musically, this is afro-funk at its most innovative: blending traditional Nigerian percussion (agogô, sekere, bongos) with Western funk basslines, psychedelic keys, and that rare Moog spice that predates a lot of electronic experimentation in African music. The production is crisp for the era—thanks to engineers Emmanuel Odenusi and Kayode Salami—capturing the band's live energy without polish overload. It's democratic music: no ego solos, just collective brilliance.
With a touch of humor: Imagine four guys saying, "No more being exploited band boys!" and creating an album so groovy it exploits your feet instead—forcing them to dance against their will. In a scene dominated by big personalities, SJOB was the humble co-op that delivered premium funk without the drama.
Legacy-wise, it was a "minor sensation" in Nigeria upon release, paving the way for their even spacier follow-up Friendship Train (1977). Rediscovered in the 2000s–2010s via reissues (Academy LPs, etc.), it's now hailed as a cult classic in global afrobeat/funk circles—perfect for fans of BLO, William Onyeabor, or early Funkadelic with an African twist. Rated highly on sites like Rate Your Music (~3.5/5 from aficionados) and Discogs collectors (originals fetch hundreds—don't ask about my wallet).
Drums, Percussion, Lead Vocals, Backing Vocals – Benna Kemfa, Candido
Rhythm Guitar, Lead Guitar, Backing Vocals – Omega
The Mysterious Aura: Nigeria's Short-Lived 1970s Afro-Funk Enigma
Ah, Aura – or more precisely, Aura (Aspiritual Emanation) – the Nigerian band that flickered brightly in the mid-1970s Lagos scene like a disco ball in a power outage: dazzling when it worked, but gone before you could fully groove to it. Formed around 1976 under the "spiritual guidance" of the enigmatic Zee-Tei Debekeme (who penned heartfelt liner notes about "astral trips" and "sincere sweet fruit of determination"), Aura was a short-lived project that captured the wild, experimental spirit of post-civil war Nigeria. This was an era when Lagos was buzzing with Afrobeat giants like Fela Kuti, but younger musicians were blending in funk, boogie, psychedelia, and synth wizardry to create something fresh – and Aura nailed that hybrid with one album before vanishing into obscurity. Think of them as the Nigerian music scene's one-hit wonder... except they didn't even get the hit, thanks to their debut LP never getting a proper release back then. (It took until 2018 for a reissue to rescue it from crate-digger purgatory.)
The band was a supergroup of sorts, pulling together seasoned players from the fertile Lagos session scene:
Isaac Moore: The keyboard maestro on clavinet and Moog synthesizers. His wild, wailing keys are the album's secret weapon – imagine if Herbie Hancock crashed a Lagos party and decided to stay.
Omega Garbal: Rhythm and lead guitar, plus background vocals. The funky riff master who keeps things grooving without stealing the spotlight.
Casco Mayor: Bass, bongos, and more background vocals. The rhythmic glue, holding down those irresistible Afro-funk bottoms.
Benna Kemfa: Shared lead and background vocals, plus percussion vibes. A regular on the Afrodisia label and previously in the psychedelic outfit Ofo & The Black Company – bringing that raw, chant-heavy energy.
Candido Obajimi (sometimes credited as Obajimi Candido): Drums, percussion, and co-lead vocals. A veteran of Fela's Afrika 70 and Tony Allen's bands – yes, that Tony Allen, the godfather of Afrobeat drums. Candido brought the relentless polyrhythms that make your hips move involuntarily.
Aura wasn't a long-term band; it was more like a cosmic jam session that happened to get recorded. By the late '70s, the project fizzled out – probably because Nigeria's economic and political chaos (oil boom busts, military rule) made sustaining underground funk bands trickier than dodging Lagos traffic. No follow-up albums, no tours documented, just this one gem pressed on Afrodisia Records (catalog DWAPS-2003) and then... poof.
Pre- and Post-Band Adventures of the Members (As Far As the Crates Reveal)
Information on these guys is scarcer than an original pressing of their album (which goes for silly money among collectors). But here's what we know, pieced together from liner notes, reissue credits, and Afro-funk lore:
Zee-Tei Debekeme (spiritual leader/producer figure): Pre-Aura, not much is known – he emerges like a guru in 1976 with big ideas about spiritual emanations. Post-Aura? Vanished. Maybe he achieved enlightenment and ascended to a higher plane. Or just went back to a day job – Nigerian music history is full of such mysteries.
Isaac Moore: The synth sorcerer. Likely a session player in Lagos before Aura; his expressive Moog work suggests influences from American funk imports. After? Probably continued in the shadows of other projects – many keyboardists from this era bounced between bands.
Omega Garbal: Guitar slinger extraordinaire. Pre-Aura gigs unknown, but his funky style fits the '70s Lagos mold. Post-band: Likely session work; guitarists like him were in demand for highlife and Afrobeat recordings.
Casco Mayor: The percussion and bass anchor. Sounds like a stage name for maximum cool points. Pre: Probably club circuits. Post: Who knows – maybe he boogied on to disco-infused projects as Nigeria shifted styles in the '80s.
Benna Kemfa: The most traceable. Before Aura, he rocked with Ofo & The Black Company, a killer psychedelic Afro-rock band from the early '70s known for heavy fuzz and social commentary. Post-Aura: Stuck around the Afrodisia label scene, possibly contributing to other obscure gems.
Candido Obajimi: The heavyweight. Pre-Aura, he drummed for Fela Kuti's Afrika 70 (prime '70s era – think Zombie and Expensive Shit) and Tony Allen's solo ventures. That's pedigree! Post-Aura: Likely returned to session drumming; players of his caliber were staples in Lagos studios through the '80s.
In short, most members were pros dipping into this "spiritual" side project before/after stints with bigger names. Post-Aura, they melted back into Nigeria's vibrant but undocumented session world – no solo stardom, but their grooves live on in reissues.
Spiritual Conection (1976, reissued as Spiritual Connection in 2018)
Okay, let's get to the good stuff: Aura's lone album, Spiritual Conection (typo intentional – Nigerian pressings were charmingly imperfect). Recorded in 1976 but barely released (only test pressings or a tiny run existed until the 2018 remaster from the original masters), this is a deep Afro-funk/boogie masterpiece that's now a holy grail for collectors. It's eight tracks of pure 1970s Nigerian magic: dirty funk riffs, chanting vocals, wailing synths, relentless percussion, and that upbeat, hypnotic groove that makes you feel like you're at a Lagos nightclub where the power never goes out.
Track-by-track:
Spiritual Connection – The opener sets the tone: Chanted vocals over funky keys and drums. It's like a sermon delivered by James Brown after a yoga retreat. Infectious hook that pulls you in spiritually (and dance-wise).
Ayamaho – Pulsing bass, wild Moog solos, and group chants. Feels like a ritual dance – humorous lyrics (in pidgin/Yoruba vibes) about life and love. Candido's drums here are relentless; you'll boogie whether you want to or not.
Boogie On Saturday – Pure weekend anthem! Funky guitar licks and synth stabs make this a dancefloor killer. Imagine if Earth, Wind & Fire crashed Fela's Shrine – Saturday night fever, Nigerian style.
Ariya – Mid-tempo groover with call-and-response vocals. "Ariya" means party in Yoruba – and this track delivers one. Benna and Candido's vocals shine; it's joyous, almost comical in its unpretentious fun.
On My Way – Motivational funk with uplifting chants. Feels like a road trip anthem – "I'm on my way!" – complete with bongos and guitar wah-wah. Perfect for dodging okadas in traffic.
Astral Trip – The psychedelic highlight! Wailing synths take you on that promised "astral" journey. Zee-Tei's spiritual influence peaks here – it's trippy, spacey funk that predates Afro-cosmic vibes. Hilarious how seriously groovy it gets without trying too hard.
She Can Turn You Loose – Sassy, flirty number with killer bassline. Lyrics about a woman who'll set you free (or drive you crazy). Omega's guitar solos are fire; this one's pure seduction with a wink.
Movin – Closer that keeps the energy high. Group vocals urge you to "keep movin'" – fitting end to an album that's all forward momentum.
Overall verdict: This is peak 1970s Nigerian underground funk – a melting pot of Afrobeat rhythms, American boogie influences, and synth experimentation. It's raw, live-feeling (like one big jam), soulful, and endlessly danceable. No filler, just 40 minutes of joy. Why wasn't it huge? Bad timing, limited pressing, or the gods of obscurity smiling down. But the 2018 reissue (lovingly remastered) fixed that – it's now hailed as essential for fans of Fela, BLO, or Orlando Julius. Humorously, it's so good you'll wonder why Aura didn't conquer the world... but then again, in Nigeria's chaotic '70s scene, one album wonders are the norm. If you dig deep Afro grooves with a spiritual twist, this connects on every level. Highly recommended – turn it up and let it turn you loose!
Strata-East: The Jazz Label That Told the Suits to Take a Hike (And Made Beautiful Music Doing It)
In the early 1970s, when major record labels were treating jazz musicians like yesterday's newspapers—crumbling, underpaid, and often tossed aside—two sharp-dressed rebels decided enough was enough. Trumpeter Charles Tolliver and pianist Stanley Cowell, fresh off sideman gigs with legends like Max Roach and Jackie McLean, looked at the industry and thought, "Why not just do it ourselves?" Thus, in 1971, Strata-East Records was born in a Brooklyn apartment, with a logo that Tolliver reportedly doodled himself (a simple disc with "Strata-East" scrawled underneath—talk about DIY chic).
The name? A nod to Detroit's Strata collective, but with an East Coast twist. Tolliver and Cowell weren't trying to start a revolution at first; they just wanted to release their band Music Inc.'s album without some A&R guy telling them to add more "commercial" flute solos. But word spread fast in the tight-knit jazz world, and soon saxophonist Clifford Jordan showed up with a stack of tapes he'd produced (including gems that majors had shelved). Suddenly, Strata-East wasn't just a vanity project—it was a lifeline.
The Founders: Two Visionaries Who Preferred Notes Over Contracts
Charles Tolliver, the trumpet firebrand with a tone that could melt steel (or wake up a sleepy audience), and Stanley Cowell, the piano wizard who could swing from bebop fury to ethereal mbira vibes, met in 1967 and clicked instantly. By 1969, they'd formed Music Inc., a co-led quartet that toured Europe and recorded leaders dates. But back home, the jazz market was tanking—fusion was rising, rock was roaring, and pure acoustic jazz? It was getting about as much love as a tax audit.
Frustrated with paltry advances and zero creative control, they launched Strata-East with their debut album Music Inc.. The model was radical for the time (and, let's be honest, still pretty radical today): Artists funded their own recordings, kept ownership of masters and publishing, handled promotion, and gave the label just 15% for manufacturing and distribution. Musicians got 85% of sales—compare that to the 5-20% (often zero after "recoupable" advances) from big labels. It was Black empowerment in vinyl form, born from the civil rights era's spirit of self-determination.
Cowell, who sadly passed in 2020, was the thoughtful innovator—blending African rhythms, electric keys, and classical touches. Tolliver, still going strong, kept the flame alive, calling Strata-East a "monument" to his partner. Together, they released over 50 albums in the '70s, turning a shoestring operation into a beacon.
Why It Mattered Then: Freedom in a Time of Chains
The 1970s were tough for jazz. Majors like Impulse! and Blue Note were scaling back or selling out. But Strata-East said, "Fine, we'll do it better." It became the home for spiritual jazz, post-bop fire, and Afrocentric grooves—music that pulsed with Black consciousness without compromising an ounce of artistry.
Key releases? Oh, where to start:
Cecil McBee's Mutima (1974): Bass-led mysticism that feels like a journey up the Nile.
Billy Harper's Capra Black: Intense, gospel-infused tenor sax blowouts.
Clifford Jordan's Glass Bead Games: A double-LP masterpiece of modal exploration.
Pharoah Sanders' Izipho Zam (recorded '69, released '73): Shelved by Impulse!, rescued by Strata-East—pure cosmic bliss with Leon Thomas yodeling to the heavens.
And the big "hit": Gil Scott-Heron and Brian Jackson's Winter in America (1974), with the funky anthem "The Bottle." It sold hundreds of thousands, hit Billboard charts, and kept the lights on—though, true to form, most profits went to the artists. (Imagine running a label where your bestseller doesn't make you rich. Tolliver and Cowell: saints or masochists
In an era of struggle, Strata-East was empowerment incarnate. As Tolliver put it, it flipped the script on exploitation. No wonder originals now fetch hundreds (or thousands) from collectors—rarity meets reverence.
Still Schooling the Industry (With a Wink)
Fast-forward to 2025: Strata-East is back, baby. A partnership with Mack Avenue has unleashed reissues—vinyl cut all-analog, digital streams finally flowing, anthologies dropping. Over 30 titles digitized, concerts celebrating the catalog, and young guns like Kamasi Washington, Shabaka Hutchings, and Isaiah Collier citing its influence. Spiritual jazz is hotter than ever, and Strata-East is the godfather.
Tolliver chuckles about the "spiritual jazz" tag—he's cool with it, but the music was just... jazz. Free, fierce, and artist-owned. In today's streaming world, where algorithms rule and payouts stink, Strata-East's model feels prophetic. Indie labels and DIY artists owe it a debt—proof you don't need corporate overlords to make timeless art.
And the humor? Well, picture this: Two broke musicians start a label to release one album, accidentally birth a movement, drop a quasi-hit with a song about booze ("The Bottle"—ironic for "spiritual" jazz?), and end up richer in legacy than royalties. If that's not the ultimate jazz riff—improvising your way to immortality—then what is?
Strata-East didn't just survive the '70s; it outsmarted them. And today, it's still blowing the trumpet for freedom. Grab a reissue, crank it up, and toast to Tolliver, Cowell, and the rebels who said, "Our music, our rules." Cheers—or as they'd probably say, "Play on."1.5sIndepth review of Music Inc album from 1970 Music IncMusic Inc. (1971): Charles Tolliver's Big Band Blast-Off – A Deep Dive into Strata-East's Debut Firecracker
Let's clear up the timeline first: The album we're talking about—Music Inc. by Charles Tolliver's Music Inc. Big Band—was recorded on November 11, 1970, but released in 1971 as the very first LP on the fledgling Strata-East label (catalog SES-1971). It's often casually referred to as a "1970 album" because of the recording date, but hey, in jazz years, that's close enough to count as twins. This isn't the raw quartet live at Slugs' (that's a separate beast from May 1970); this is Tolliver and co-founder Stanley Cowell saying, "Let's throw a big band party to launch our indie empire!" And what a party it was.
A Quartet Dreams Big (With a Little Help From Friends)
At the core is the killer quartet: Charles Tolliver on trumpet (blazing, lyrical, and fearless), Stanley Cowell on piano (elegant yet punchy, blending hard bop with modal adventures), Cecil McBee on bass (deep, propulsive grooves), and Jimmy Hopps on drums (swinging like he's got places to be). But for this session, they supersized it with a 13-piece supporting orchestra—think four extra trumpets, four trombones (including Curtis Fuller!), four reeds/flutes (Jimmy Heath, Clifford Jordan!), and Howard Johnson's tuba/baritone for that low-end rumble.
All compositions and arrangements are by Tolliver or Cowell. Recorded in one day in NYC, produced by Tolliver and George Klabin. It's post-bop meets progressive big band: structured yet freewheeling, hard-swinging with spiritual undertones, but no fusion fluff or rock pandering. In 1970, when jazz was supposedly "dying" commercially, this was a bold middle finger to the majors.
Ruthie's Heart (Tolliver, 6:12) – Kicks off with a rollicking head that feels like a joyous sprint. Tolliver's trumpet solo is liquid fire—high notes screaming, phrases twisting like a cat on a hot tin roof. The big band accents punch in perfectly. Cowell's piano comps with bluesy bite. Humor note: If this doesn't make you tap your foot, check your pulse—you might be listening to elevator music by mistake.
Brilliant Circles (Cowell, 4:48) – A lush, contrapuntal beauty. McBee's bass glissandos ease you in, then the winds weave a web of morphing motifs around Tolliver's soaring lines. Dick Griffin's trombone and Howard Johnson's baritone add rich colors. It's like a sunset painted in sound—meditative, almost spiritual. AllMusic calls it a "study in lush counterpoint." Perfect for when you want big band sophistication without the bombast.
Abscretions (Cowell, 6:58) – Abstract yet swinging. Cowell's tune lets the quartet stretch while the horns provide edgy accents. McBee and Hopps lock in telepathically, pushing the energy. Tolliver's solo here is inventive, dancing on the edge of avant-garde without tipping over.
Household of Saud (Tolliver, 6:38) – Political edge in the title (nod to oil empires?), but musically it's driving hard bop with fiery ensemble work. The horns roar like a protest march turned dance party.
On the Nile (Tolliver, 9:48) – The epic centerpiece. Majestic, modal, Afrocentric vibes with dramatic builds. Tolliver's trumpet evokes ancient rivers flowing through modern chaos. The big band swells are breathtaking—dramatic and majestic, as one reviewer put it. This track alone justifies the album's cult status. (Fun fact: A live quartet version appears on the Slugs' albums, but here it's orchestral grandeur.)
Departure (Tolliver, 5:00) – Closes with urgency and lift-off energy. Fast-paced, with Tolliver driving the band to a soaring finish. Feels like blasting off from Earth's troubles—fitting for an album about artistic independence.
Why It's a Masterpiece: Critical Acclaim and That Special Sauce
AllMusic's Jason Ankeny gives it 4½ stars, calling the big band "the apotheosis of Tolliver's singular creative vision." Reviewers praise the telepathic interplay, lush arrangements, and how it bridges hard bop with progressive edges. It's underappreciated (Reddit calls it "one of the most underappreciated jazz albums of all time"), yet influential—echoes in modern big bands and spiritual jazz revivals.
Humorously, imagine assembling this all-star orchestra for one session: Tolliver and Cowell probably promised pizza and artistic freedom. But seriously, it's a testament to their leadership—the supporting players shine without stealing the show, and the quartet solos burn brightest.
In the context of 1970-71: Jazz was fracturing (fusion rising, acoustic struggling), but this album screams confidence. As Strata-East's debut, it set the tone: Artist-owned, uncompromising, soulful.
Legacy Today (2025 Edition)
With Mack Avenue's partnership, this gem is remastered, streaming, and on pristine vinyl—finally easy to hear without mortgaging your house for an original. Young artists cite it; it's prophetic for indie jazz in the streaming age. If you love Woody Shaw, Freddie Hubbard big bands, or Kamasi Washington's epics, this is required listening.
Verdict: Essential. 9.5/10. It's not just an album—it's a declaration: "We got this." Tolliver's trumpet still soars, Cowell's keys sparkle, and the big band roars like it was recorded yesterday. Grab the reissue, crank "On the Nile," and let it wash over you. Just don't blame me if you start your own label afterward. Play on!
01. It's Your Thing 02. Lost Time 03. Can't Get Next To You 04. The House That Jack Built 05. Look A Py Py 06. Bossa Blue 07. Spacing Out 08. Where We Are 09. Latin Lips 10. It's Your Thing Part 2
Bass – Stan Gilbert Congas – Sturgis Griffin Jr. Drums – Mike Stowe Guitar – John Burch Producer – Jean Paul Salvatori Saxophone, Flute – Lloyd Williams Trumpet – Ralph Richardson
Spacing Out (1970): The Funkiest UFO Landing That Never Got Reported
Picture this: it’s 1970, the world is busy arguing about Vietnam, bell-bottoms, and whether Hendrix is actually from another planet. Meanwhile, in a smoky basement studio in Georgetown, Guyana, a gang of teenagers who look like they just escaped a high-school prom committee decide to record the grooviest, greasiest, most blissfully unhinged funk album you’ve never heard of. They call themselves The Invaders, slap a flying-saucer cover on it, title it Spacing Out, and then, poof, vanish into the cosmos, leaving exactly 100 copies behind. That’s not an origin story; that’s a war crime against obscurity.
Fifty-five years later, this 36-minute Guyanese holy grail (reissued by Jazzman’s Holy Grail Series in 2019) still sounds like someone spiked James Brown’s orange juice with liquid sunshine and handed the controls to a Martian who’d only ever heard “Cold Sweat” through a transistor radio on Jupiter. It is, without hyperbole, the single most joyful funk record ever cut in the Caribbean, and possibly the only one that can make you grin so hard your face files for workers’ compensation.
The band? Seven teenagers plus one slightly older ringleader named Sammy Baksh who played everything that wasn’t nailed down. The lineup is basically a funk Voltron: two drummers (because one is never enough when you’re trying to start an interplanetary riot), bass, two guitars, organ, and a horn section that sounds like it learned arrangements by watching cartoons. They recorded it live in one room, no overdubs, no second takes, no adult supervision, and somehow everything locks so tight you could set your watch to it.
Track-by-track, it’s pure sugar-rush genius:
“Spacing Out” (the title cut) kicks the door down with a drum break so nasty it should come with a health warning. Then the bass slithers in like it’s late for its own wedding, and the horns start shouting “hey!” like they just spotted free beer. Three minutes of this and you’re legally required to dance or surrender your soul.
“Look a Py Py” is the one that broke the internet when hip-hop producers discovered it decades later. It’s built on a single descending guitar lick so addictive scientists have tried bottling it as a controlled substance. The organ bubbles, the horns do call-and-response like gossiping aunties, and the whole thing feels like the musical equivalent of laughing gas.
“Girl in the Hot Pants” – yes, they really went there – is sleazy in the most wholesome possible way. Imagine a 17-year-old trying to sound like a player while his mom is in the next room. The lyrics are basically “nice legs, wow,” repeated with the confidence of someone who’s never actually spoken to a girl. It’s adorable, it’s ridiculous, and it grooves so hard your furniture will file noise complaints.
By the time you hit “Loving You Is Simple” you realize these kids weren’t just talented; they were dangerously happy. It’s a straight-up soul ballad that somehow still has two drummers treating the quiet parts like a stealth mission. And the closer, “It’s Only Love,” ends the album on a note so sweet you’ll need a dentist appointment.
The humor is baked in at every level. The band name? The Invaders. The cover? A flying saucer beaming up a palm tree. The song titles? Straight out of a 14-year-old’s diary after three Coca-Colas. Even the recording engineer (probably some poor guy named Ken) sounds like he gave up halfway through and just let the kids run the asylum.
And yet… it’s perfect. Not perfect in a Steely Dan, 47-takes way. Perfect like a Polaroid of your best summer ever: slightly blurry, colors too bright, everyone laughing too loud, and you wouldn’t change a thing.
The Invaders broke up almost immediately after this. Most of them became accountants, teachers, or (rumor has it) one guy drives a taxi in Toronto. They never knew their one-and-only album would end up changing hands for $5,000, getting bootlegged by Italian funk nerds, and eventually resurrected on thick 180g vinyl with liner notes longer than the original session.
So here’s the final verdict, delivered with a straight face: Spacing Out is the best funk album ever recorded by a bunch of Guyanese teenagers pretending to be aliens while high on teenage hormones and Fanta. It makes the Meters sound restrained, Parliament sound serious, and every other funk band on Earth sound like they’re trying too hard.
Play it loud, dance like nobody’s watching (because in 1970 Georgetown, literally nobody was), and remember: somewhere out there, seven middle-aged grandpas are quietly smiling every time some DJ in Berlin or Tokyo loses their mind to a drum break they laid down when Nixon was still president.
Ten out of ten flying saucers. No notes. Just beams of pure joy.
01. Ayo Ayo Nene (Blessing For The New Born Baby) 5:46
02. Sindiely (Song For The Black Beauty) 5:55
03. Kele Mubana (Overpain And Struggle To Black) 3:47
04. Kanfera (Return Of Fisher) 7:47
05. Africa (Dedication To All The People) 7:21
Alto Saxophone, Flute – Oliver Lake
Bass Guitar – Rayman Eldrige
Congas – Billy Ingram
Drums – Bobo - Charles Wesley Shaw Jr.
Guitar – Philip Wesdmoread
Piano – James Mathis
Trombone – John Evens
Trumpet – Lester Bowie
Vocals, Bass Drum – Zak Diouf
Vocals, Drum [Solo], Djembe, Written-By – Mor Thiam
Vocals, Maracas – Abdoulaye N'Gom
Recorded in St. Louis, Missouri.
Mor Thiam’s 1973 album Dini Safarrar (Drums of Fire) is a half-hour lightning bolt that still feels like it could power a small city. Recorded in St. Louis by a Senegalese master djembe player who paid for the session himself, pressed in laughably small numbers on the Rite Record Production label, and originally sold to raise money for famine relief back home, it’s the kind of record that makes collectors weep and DJs grin like lunatics. Jazzman Records finally rescued it from four-figure obscurity in 2016 with a lavish Holy Grail reissue, but even on a phone speaker it sounds like the earth cracking open and deciding to dance.
The album opens with “Ayo Ayo Nene” – a blessing for a newborn baby. That baby? Aliaune Damala Badara Akon Thiam, better known as Akon. Yes, the guy who sang “Lonely” and “Smack That” was literally welcomed into the world by Lester Bowie’s trumpet and a wall of djembes. Parental flex of the century.
From there it never lets up. “Sindiely” is a slow, swaying love song to Black beauty that feels like dusk on the Senegal River with Oliver Lake’s flute floating overhead like smoke. “Kele Mubana” (“Overpain and Struggle to Black”) is the heavy one – drums arguing with each other while voices cry out ancestral warnings; it’s the sound of colonial scars still stinging. “Kanfera” (“Return of Fisher”) is pure sprinting Afrofunk that makes your hips file a complaint with HR. The closer, “Africa,” is a wide-armed dedication to the entire continent, piano and horns swelling like a sunrise you can feel in your chest.
Musically, it’s Wolof griot tradition hijacking a Midwestern jazz loft. Thiam brought the talking-drum vocabulary of Dakar, then threw it into a room with AACM monsters (Bowie, Lake, Josef Burch on extra percussion) and St. Louis funkateers (bassist Rayman Eldridge, pianist James Mathis). The result is hypnotic, raw, and oddly welcoming – like being invited to a village ceremony where the elders suddenly break into a James Brown riff.
Context matters here, and 1973 was a brutal year. The Sahel drought was starving millions across West Africa; Thiam watched the news from Missouri and emptied his own pockets to press this record and send the money home. Meanwhile, America was choking on Watergate, the tail end of Vietnam, and the slow hangover from the Civil Rights years. Black Power slogans were turning into quiet exhaustion in a lot of cities. Against all that, Dini Safarrar is defiant joy – a reminder that you can face famine, racism, and Richard Nixon and still choose to make something that makes people move their feet and lift their heads
The Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians (AACM) didn’t just influence Mor Thiam’s Dini Safarrar – it basically adopted him the moment he rolled into St. Louis with a car full of djembes and a head full of Dakar rhythms. And the album is the smoking evidence.
By 1973 the AACM was already the most radical, self-determined Black music collective in America. Born on the South Side of Chicago in 1965 as a survival mechanism against racist club policies and indifferent record labels, it had become a mobile university of freedom: learn, create, teach, repeat – no compromises, no commercial pandering. Muhal Richard Abrams, Roscoe Mitchell, Joseph Jarman, Anthony Braxton, and the Art Ensemble of Lester Bowie were busy rewriting what jazz could be: polyrhythms from everywhere, little instruments, theater, silence, noise, ancestral memory, all fair game. And crucially, they were doing it collectively.
When Mor Thiam arrived in the Midwest around 1968–69 (first Chicago, then St. Louis), he walked straight into that force field. He wasn’t an official “card-carrying” AACM member – he was Senegalese, older than most of the firebrands, and already a griot – but the AACM ethos swallowed him whole and spat him back out glowing. The proof is in the personnel and the attitude of Dini Safarrar.
Lester Bowie shows up on trumpet, fresh from the Art Ensemble’s Paris adventures, and instead of playing avant-garde fire music he lays down these warm, almost conversational lines that wrap around the djembes like an old friend. That’s pure AACM flexibility: the same guy who squealed and snorted on Les Stances à Sophie one year earlier is now voicing Wolof blessings like he grew up in Kaolack. Oliver Lake, another AACM lifer, brings his alto and flute and does the same trick – no ego solos, just perfect placement in service of the groove and the story. Even the percussionists (Josef Burch and others) treat the session like an AACM “little instruments” workshop, except the little instruments happen to be talking drums and shakers that trace back centuries in Senegal.
Listen closely and you can hear AACM philosophy baked into every bar:
Collective improvisation over star solos – Nobody hogs the spotlight. The drums are the lead instrument, and the horns are there to testify, not to preach. That’s straight out of the Art Ensemble playbook.
Pan-African memory as creative source – Muhal and the AACM had been preaching “Great Black Music: Ancient to the Future” for years. Thiam took it literally: he brought the actual ancient (Wolof griot codes) and fused it with the future (St. Louis funk bass and electric piano). The result is the most successful on-wax marriage of traditional West African rhythm and AACM-style freedom up to that point.
Music as community ritual – AACM concerts were ceremonies. Dini Safarrar is literally a ceremony: blessings, dedications, struggle songs, celebration songs. Same spirit, different continent.
Self-determination – The AACM taught young musicians to press their own records, book their own gigs, own their own publishing. Thiam paid for the session himself and pressed the LP to feed starving people back home. That’s AACM economics translated into Wolof.
Without the AACM’s example, Dini Safarrar might have been just another “African percussion meets jazz” novelty record. Instead it became something deeper: a working model of how to honor an ancient tradition while sounding completely, defiantly new. The Chicago cats didn’t “jazz up” Thiam’s music; they recognized it as already free and simply got out of the way – or, when needed, added the exact colors that made the fire burn brighter.
In return, Thiam gave the AACM something priceless: living proof that their “ancient to the future” slogan wasn’t just theory. Here was a griot who could trace his drum language back generations, standing in a St. Louis studio making it speak fluently to 1973. The influence went both ways, but on this particular day in 1973, the AACM’s radical openness was the spark that turned Mor Thiam’s drums into fire that still hasn’t gone out.
Fifty-two years later, the legacy is ridiculous in the best way. Crate-diggers treat originals like religious relics. Young London jazz kids cite it as scripture. Akon probably still has the master tapes in a vault next to his diamond grill. Mor Thiam himself – now in his eighties, splitting time between Florida and Dakar – used the reissue money to keep building schools in Senegal. The man turned a 30-minute drum record into lifelong tuition for kids who’ll never know how hard those beats once hit in a smoky St. Louis studio.
Put it on today and it still sounds urgent, still sounds like fire that refuses to go out. And every time the opening chant of “Ayo Ayo Nene” kicks in, somewhere Akon owes his dad another thank-you text. Legend has it the reply is always the same: “Son, I already gave you the drums. Now go make the world dance.” Mission accomplished, Pops. Mission very much accomplished.
In-Depth Look at Infinite Spirit Music's Live Without Fear (1980)
Infinite Spirit Music was a short-lived but profoundly influential Chicago-based ensemble rooted in the avant-garde and spiritual jazz traditions of the late 1970s. Formed by a collective of young, like-minded musicians inspired by the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians (AACM), the group embodied the era's fusion of African diasporic rhythms, Afrocentric philosophy, and improvisational freedom. Their sole album, Live Without Fear, self-released in 1980 on pianist Soji Adebayo's Ancient Afrika label, captures a single, sun-soaked recording session that distilled their communal ethos into a timeless artifact of "peaceful spiritual jazz vibes." Recorded in just one day on May 31, 1979, at Soto Sound Studio in Evanston, Illinois, the album emerged from a spontaneous drive north from Chicago in three cars, fueled by "a day that smelled good and spoke all day sunshine." Clocking in at over 52 minutes—unusually long for a vinyl LP at the time—it unfolds across seven tracks that blend hypnotic grooves, soaring solos, and choral invocations, evoking the cosmic spirit of Sun Ra while grounding itself in earthly joy and resilience.
The album's title track, a 10-minute centerpiece, exemplifies this: it opens with a hypnotic bassline and conga pulse, building to ecstatic soprano sax flights and piano flourishes, before dissolving into unrestrained percussion. Shorter pieces like the 57-second "Soul Flower" offer breath-like interludes, while extended jams such as "Rasta" (13:50) infuse reggae rhythms with avant-garde shifts, and "Bright Tune" (13:24) layers peppy lounge-jazz arrangements over constantly evolving polyrhythms. Vocals—both male chants and female harmonies—add a ritualistic layer, turning the music into a communal prayer for unity amid material struggles. As leader Soji Ade reflected in 2018: "To 'Live Without Fear' means to live in material reality with faith… Peace on you!" The result is not abrasive experimentation but a "humble purity" that prioritizes emotional flow over technical flash, making it accessible yet deeply immersive.
Brief Notes on the Musicians Involved
The septet drew from Chicago's vibrant AACM scene, where collaboration was paramount. Many members were in their early 20s, bonded by shared aspirations for music as spiritual and community uplift. Only two remain active today; the others have passed or retired, underscoring the album's poignant snapshot of fleeting vitality. Here's a concise overview:
Soji Ade (aka Soji Adebayo)Piano, keyboards, leaderNigerian-born visionary who founded the group and label; emphasized Afrocentric spirituality. Released solo album Asase Yaa (2008); now performs with Sura Dupart and the Side Pocket Experience, focusing on community dance events.Kahil El’ZabarCongas, vocalsAACM cornerstone; prolific collaborator with David Murray, Pharoah Sanders, Archie Shepp, and his Ethnic Heritage Ensemble (still active). Former AACM chair; embodies the group's rhythmic heartbeat."Light" Henry HuffTenor & soprano saxProvided soaring, soulful leads; his solos evoke Coltrane-esque introspection. Limited discography beyond this; passed away post-recording.Mchaka UbaBassAnchored the earthy grooves; contributed to the album's bottom-up build. Retired from active performance.Ka T’ Etta AtonVocalsDelivered ethereal female harmonies, adding a nurturing, maternal warmth to tracks like "Father Spirit, Mother Love." Fate unclear; likely retired.Aye AtonPercussionEnhanced the polyrhythmic layers; tied to Chicago's free-jazz percussion tradition. Passed away.IboCongasSupported El’Zabar's rhythms; focused on indigenous influences. Retired or passed.
These players weren't household names, but their synergy—forged through late-night hangs discussing "spirituality and connecting that lifeforce to the music"—created something transcendent.
Why It's an Important Album
Live Without Fear stands as a vital document of late-1970s Chicago jazz, bridging the AACM's experimental legacy with the soulful accessibility of contemporaries like Oneness of Juju or The Pyramids. Its importance lies in several layers:
Cultural and Philosophical Depth: Emerging amid post-Civil Rights era introspection, the album channels Afrocentrism and spiritual resilience as antidotes to fear—personal, societal, and systemic. Tracks like "Father Spirit, Mother Love" chant invocations of ancestral balance, while "Rasta" nods to global Black liberation movements. As El’Zabar noted, it was about "lifting the spirit... not to be afraid, to go for what you believe in." This made it a beacon for hippie and Afrocentric communities, prioritizing "pure art" over commercial trends.
Musical Innovation: It expands jazz's roots by integrating vocals, extended percussion solos, and genre-blends (reggae, lounge, ritual chants) without alienating listeners. Unlike denser AACM works, its "spare, earthy approach" flows with joy, influencing the "spiritual jazz" revival. Critics hail it as a "bold expression of spiritual jazz, indigenous rhythms, and thoughtful Afrocentrism," every note "touched by the spirit of Sun Ra."
Rarity and Rediscovery: Privately pressed with minimal distribution (fewer than 500 copies estimated), originals fetch $1,000+ today, cementing its "holy grail" status. This obscurity amplified its mystique, turning it into a touchstone for crate-diggers and archivists.
In essence, it's important because it humanizes the avant-garde: proof that profound innovation can emerge from communal faith, not isolation.
Legacy 45 Years Later (2025)
By December 2025—marking 45 years since release—Live Without Fear endures as a rediscovered gem, its reissue by Jazzman Records' Holy Grail Series (#27) in 2019 sparking a quiet renaissance. Remastered at 45 RPM for superior sound (with liner notes from archivist Steven Emmerman), it's now globally accessible via streaming, Bandcamp, and high-res downloads (e.g., 24/96 FLAC), fulfilling Ade and El’Zabar's wish to "reveal their message of love and spiritual unity worldwide." High-fidelity editions, including Japanese paper-sleeve CDs and limited 2LP sets (1,000 copies), keep it in print, while full-album YouTube rips (e.g., from 2012) have amassed millions of views, introducing it to new generations.
Its legacy ripples through modern spiritual jazz: echoes in Makaya McCraven's beat-tape excavations, Nubya Garcia's rhythmic explorations, and labels like Gondwana or Impulse!'s archival pushes. El’Zabar's ongoing Ethnic Heritage Ensemble tours keep the flame alive, often nodding to this early work. On platforms like X (formerly Twitter), it's name-checked in 2025 listening threads alongside Sun Ra and Abbey Rader, signaling its integration into jazz canon. Yet, its true power remains anti-commercial: a reminder, in an algorithm-driven era, that music made "to communicate peace and good feelings" can outlast hype. As Bandcamp's 2020 feature put it, it's "more than" a reissue—it's a living testament to uncompromised vision, inspiring today's artists to embrace vulnerability and collective spirit. In 2025, amid global unrest, its call to "live without fear" feels more urgent than ever.
Fifteen years on, the series remains a gold standard for ethical reissues—paying artists royalties, involving them in notes, and avoiding exploitative "quick flips." It's fueled podcasts like Digging and playlists on Spotify's "Spiritual Jazz" canon, introducing these sounds to younger acts like Ezra Collective or Nubya Garcia. Amid vinyl's resurgence, Holy Grail drops still sell out instantly, proving that unearthing the obscure sustains the soul of the genre. As Short puts it, it's about "shining new light on music that was taken away." If you're diving in, start with #27—it's a perfect entry to the series' radiant ethos.
