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They could have danced all night
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The Philadelphia Inquirer, They could have danced all night >>
When King Sunny Ade, Nigeria's musical ambassador, came to Philadelphia, the show went on and on. Joyous fans "sprayed" him with dollar bills.
The joint was jumping long before the star of the show graced the stage. When the headliner is King Sunny Ade, the royal architect of juju music, the "Minister of Enjoyment," as he's known in the motherland, even anticipation is celebratory. The waiting - the festive fellowship and posturing - is all part of the buildup or olili, Igbo for happening.
King Sunny is to Nigerians what James Brown has been to Americans. He's a showman, known worldwide as Nigeria's musical ambassador. At 58, he's still an innovator. His records have sold millions, with Afropop music that is pulsating, fresh and delectably danceable.
Once King Sunny starts he goes all night. Saturday night's concert was supposed to end at 3 a.m. "but we might go until 8," Ade warned.
Nigerians knew it. That's why many of them, transplants who live in Philly, trickled into the Legendary Blue Horizon closer to midnight than the official start time of 9 p.m., decked out in their finery. The women wore colorful Yoruban dresses made of hand-stitched African cloth and geles, Yoruba for head wraps, to match. The men looked regal in long agbadas, Yoruba for formal robes, essential attire for a night out.
"When you see us dress like this," says Aramide Aina, a Nigerian who's lived in Upper Darby for six years, "you know we're ready to dance!"
Her husband, Sunday Aina, works 12 hours a day as a cabdriver, so the only thing he wants to do during his time off is eat and sleep. It's events like these where he can hook up with his fellow cabbies in a comfortable cultural setting.
"This is the only place we can spend time with each other," says Sunday, resplendent in a white embroidered agbada.
It's 11:30 p.m. The crowd wears a groove in the dance floor as Prince Obi Osadebe opens the show with his delightful brand of highlife. But for the 800 people in the half-filled boxing palace, the anticipation for King Sunny is as palpable as the knockout punches that used to ring out here.
Not only because it's King Sunny, but because this is his first U.S. concert tour in which the audience is encouraged to take part in the traditional African custom of spraying. Listeners offer money to the performer in gratitude, while the artist serenades the giver by "praise-singing."
"You've never seen him in person?" asked Yinka Adesokan. He is one of King Sunny's tour sponsors, an Atlanta businessman and one of the Nigerian triplets who enlisted Ade to come to the United States to perform for their 40th birthday party - then sent him on a tour of major American cities. "I love his music. You will see. It is like nothing else."
First one drummer takes the stage, then another, then another, then another. They're all young, in their 20s and 30s. Like marathoners, they need endurance because drummers are the life force of King Sunny's band - they never stop.
By the time all 15 band members emerge, the audience is whipped into a kinetic frenzy. Everybody is up and moving. Even older women rush the stage when King Sunny appears. People pull out their cellphones, snapping pictures.
King Sunny, his head covered in a glittery turban, an electric guitar strapped on, is in strong voice. His infectious vocals, backed by a pair of longtime singers, add to the unrelenting musical explosion.
"If I can spray, I will spray," vows Aramide Aina, who comes armed with a wallet full of singles.
It's 1:10 a.m. before the first balled-up bill, thrown from the balcony, lands on the stage. Like paper hail, wadded-up money showers the musicians.
Up the ramp to the stage stream audience members, plastering bills onto the musicians' sweaty foreheads, onto their necks, into their agbadas. The concertgoers act with urgency, as if they're making up for something that's been missing, as if there's no guarantee they'll see King Sunny again.
A Montgomery County businessman, Olatunde Amudipe, empties all the cash in his wallet on King Sunny's head.
"It's to show how much we enjoy the music, the beauty of the music," says Amudipe, who grew up in Lagos listening to his parents' King Sunny records. "He is a legend. Our king."
Well after 2 in the morning, with the king duly feted, the party poopers among the crowd start to filter out. This will be an early evening for King Sunny; he will wind down at about 3 a.m. But as these revelers leave, they can still hear the sound of his drums pierce the predawn air.
-Annette John-Hall 03/29/05
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