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This article originally appeared on Newcity.

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The hallmark of a good band is its ability to perform in any setting at any time. Gigging at a local Occupy, the Chicago Afrobeat Project played to a sympathetic crowd, one almost expected to take in the confluence of funk, jazz and afro-stylings as the norm. If no one said anything about a post-racial America, they were thinking about it. Several months earlier, though, CAbP did a spot at the Beachland Park, a private beach club in Cleveland. Private might be too strong a word. There’s no gate, but there are fees for residents who use the park on a regular basis. It even has a clubhouse for gatherings. If one were to wander onto the narrow slice of land, which quickly drops away to some craggy shoreline, it wouldn’t be a tremendous shock to be queried by some off-duty doctor about what street the visitor called home. Good place to read a book, though. The Abbey Pub doesn’t bear much resemblance to either of those other two settings, but CAbP won’t have a difficult time being ingratiated to its audience. The band hasn’t been recording vigorously over the last three years, a 2008 EP being the last disc to hit the market. But the ensemble’s pair of full-lengths, mostly comprising extended instrumental numbers even as a couple vocals crop up, should provide more than an ample backlog to run through for the evening’s set. Animate Objects open.

The Scene: Vibes that far north are bound to be reasonably relaxed, making for a dancefloor shorn of pretense. Of course, any venue with the word pub in its name begs for a few loud-mouthed drunkards. The Abbey’s VIP treatment, counting special seating, open bar and the always important appetizers offers a reasonable alternative to rubbing elbows with the 99 percent. Just remember to store away some of those appetizers for the next day’s impending hangover. (Dave Cantor)

This article originally appeared in Bass Player magazine.

BACK IN 1991, WHEN KUNLE JUSTICE first met Fela Anikulapo Kuti, the godfather of Nigerian Afrobeat hadn’t been in a recording studio in more than two years—but at age 52, he felt he still had plenty left to say. “The music was a passion with him,” Justice says, his accent liberally tinged with a mixture of Yoruba and the Pidgin English he grew up with in Lagos, Nigeria. “And I got the passion too. That’s the reason I’m there. The music was for the people, for everybody, so Fela ask me if I was okay to join the band, and of course I said, ‘Me? No wahala—no problem.’”

The outfit was called Egypt 80, and the following year, Justice nabbed a guitar spot on Underground System, which would be Fela’s last album before his 1997 death. But the band itself wasn’t finished. Fela’s youngest son, Seun, took over, and Justice switched to keyboards (his first instrument) and eventually the bass. His sinewy, insistent, and straight-up funky lines are a key part of the driving rhythmic force behind Seun’s latest fulllength CD with Egypt 80, and the first to feature Justice alone in the bass chair.

With Afrobeat enjoying a youthful resurgence Stateside— thanks to bands like Antibalas, Budos Band, Chicago Afrobeat Project, and more—it’s refreshing to hear a veteran of the Lagos scene tear up a groove with authority. “Afrobeat rhythm is very different,” Justice explains, “because you have to know how to get the feel. When the bass starts off, you can’t just walk with the drummer. Sometimes you play with him, and sometimes you play around him. So the bass has a lot of room to move, but you must remember you are part of the house, too. Nigerian music comes and goes, but Afrobeat always stays in that groove.”

Rise was tracked in Rio de Janiero and produced in London by Brian Eno and John Reynolds, so there’s a tape-saturated fullness to the mix that harkens back to vintage Fela. But the real low-end depth comes from Justice’s raw, no-frills bass sound. Reliable gear is hard to come by in Nigeria—he’ll play through whatever he can get—but he loved the sound of the Yamaha BBT500 1×15 combo he used for the Rise sessions.

Using his thumb and two fingers, Justice adjusts his technique to fit the song, whether it needs a nimble touch (on the wickedly up-tempo and slippery “Mr. Big Thief”) or a bit more heft and crunch (on the hard-edged “Slave Masters”). Whatever the approach, he’s always right in the subtly tempo-pushing pocket that is the backbone of the best Afrobeat. “There’s no room for anything fancy. The music is raw, so the whole instrument is raw. Really, the sound comes from your hands and the way you play. For someone who has not played this music before, the best thing I can tell them is to try to use different parts of your [plucking] hand when you play the strings. You will get different sounds and tones. When you play those in a rhythm that repeats, you are starting to get to Afrobeat.”

This article originally appeared in Modern Drummer.

Tony Allen, who along with vocalist/activist Fela Kuti created one of groove music’s most glorious subgenres, Afrobeat, deserves a place on the list of the greatest funk drummers of all time. For more than forty years he has been honing a distinctive style that crackles with vitality, pulsates with rhythmic wit, and pushes audiences into dance-party ecstasy.

Allen was born in Nigeria in 1940 and began his career as a jazz drummer. He was playing the popular dance style highlife in Lagos when he auditioned for a group led by Fela, a fellow jazzer. Soon, in Fela’s band Koola Lobitos, which was later renamed Africa 70, a fresh musical form began taking shape. Fusing the relentless funk of James Brown with highlife and jazz—with Fela’s sax and empowering, antiestablishment lyrics (often sung in English) out front—this new, Western-influenced but unmistakably Third World style was dubbed Afrobeat.

“My drumming is like orchestration by itself,” Allen says. Indeed, any of his signature kit patterns features a varied landscape of rhythm that runs from mountain peaks to the bottom of the ocean. Up top is a crisply popping, dry-toned snare, played with relaxed authority and perfect (and perfectly unpredictable) placement; down below stutters a ruthlessly funky bass drum, often kicked in double strokes, that’s felt as much as heard.

Tying the two together is Allen’s hi-hat. If the bass and snare are Tony’s big guns, then the hi-hat is his secret weapon. His patterns on the hats, which were inspired by Max Roach and often make cruel demands on limb independence, can seem at odds with their kick and snare counterparts, yet everything meshes seamlessly.

After many eventful years—scintillating albums, worldwide acclaim, repeated harassment by the Nigerian government—Allen parted ways with Fela around 1980. (The singer/activist would die in 1997.) Tony then began to devote more attention to the solo career he’d begun in 1975. It can be argued that the drummer’s best work was ahead of him; his playing would grow even more interesting and sharply sculpted. And with staunch supporters such as Cream drummer Ginger Baker and art-rock producer Brian Eno, plus modern Afrobeat explorers like the New York City band Antibalas and the Chicago Afrobeat Project, Allen would see his influence continue to grow.

The twenty-first century has been good for Tony, who’s been based in Paris since the mid-’80s. Highlights include 2002’s Home Cooking, 2006’s Lagos No Shaking, 2007’s The Good, the Bad & the Queen, and 2010’s Secret Agent. The sublime tracks of Secret Agent throb with the lifeblood of Afrobeat—which is, of course, Allen’s drumming. The album contains some of Tony’s crispest rhythms and sunniest music, and every drumbeat is a master class in funk.

So, what could a fellow drummer do to achieve Allen’s effortless aura of grooviness? “Well,” Tony says, “it’s kind of difficult to analyze because it depends on the character behind the drums. If it’s a character that’s not a cool one, the same thing will happen when he handles his instrument. I’m a cool person; I’m playing my drums the way of my life, the way I behave in life. It’s very natural. If you don’t have it inside you, there’s no way to get it.”