If you ever want to gauge the popularity of an African performer, a quick observation of the number of fans "spraying," or showing monetary appreciation, will tell you all you need to know. It's an art form in itself -- placing money on the sweaty forehead of a performer dates back centuries, when kings would place cowrie shells, which served as money, on the foreheads of favored dancers, musicians, or singers. While the legendary Nigerian juju star, King Sunny Ade, is technically only a prince of his small province, his electrifying, three-and-a-half hour, non-stop performance at the Vic on Saturday night produced a flock of fans that showered him with so much money that his kingly musical status is surely undisputed.

Noted for uproarious concerts that run early into the morning, Ade is not called "Minister Of Enjoyment" for nothing. His 15-piece band descended onto to the stage one by one, decked out in aqua daishikis and building anticipation as the crowd screamed with excitement. When Ade finally appeared, sparkling in an embroidered black and silver daishiki and turban, he launched right into a swirling juju classic, riffing on his guitar with the skill that comes from three decades of experience.

"Are you enjoying yourself? This is only the beginning of the set," Ade announced after four songs. "I always start at the beginning." And so he did, calling up early-'70s classics such as "Ja Fun Mi" and "Esu Biri Ebo Mi," which whipped the crowd into a singing, dancing frenzy. A spicy hybrid of traditional Yoruba rhythms with Brazilian accents, juju music has been a popular urban dance genre since the 1920s, but it was Ade who modernized it, dropping the accordion and adding keyboards and six guitars, including the pedal steel, or Hawaiian guitar. The robust juju sound of interlocking guitar riffs and incessant talking drums accented by Ade's rich tenor vocals filled the theater, creating a riot of movement and sound.

Juju is as much about sight as it is sound and Ade and his African Beat's flamboyant dress and tightly choreographed moves thrilled the multi-cultural crowd, which featured Nigerians in sumptuous, flowing agbadas as well as Americans in jeans. Although Ade sings exclusively in Yoruba, no translation is needed for party music and the revelers filled the dance floor until it was at last, time for them to join Ade on stage.

After three voluptuous female dancers rushed the stage -- shaking the fringe accenting their ample backsides to the percolating percussion -- fans started throwing crumpled dollars onto the stage. A line formed and slowly clusters of admirers took to the stage to "spray" Ade and his band. Armed with purses and pockets brimming with dollars, they placed the bills on Ade's forehead as he sang their praises. Juju is about who will be praised the most and who will spray the most, so the average fan comes equipped with about $100 in bills. The longer you spray, the longer you are praised and the more attention you earn. Every town in Nigeria boasts a particular chant or praise song, so when a fan whispers their town and surname to a band member, they can play the appropriate beat. The speed in which the beat changes signifies the importance of the sprayer, so when the queen mother of Iperu, adorned in a glistening gold gele, took to the stage, the band immediately switched to a slower, pounding beat as she placed handfuls of bills on Ade's head.

Famous for his metaphors and double entendres, Ade greeted a trio of young women in jeans with the praise, "the freshest fish from the ocean." The eager fans sprayed for an hour-and-a-half, some leaving the stage and coming back with more money. Finally, Ade had to move away from the stage to stop them so that he could finish his show. Enthralling his fans with a dazzling show of musical precision and star quality, King Sunny Ade lived up to his well-earned title of "King Of Juju Music."

-- Rosalind Cummings-Yeates