Trying to interview Asa took all of eight months. In that time, the French-born Nigerian singer has been practically everywhere. Confident, charismatic and self-effacing, the husky-voiced woman is adored by young and old for her eclectic Afrocentric music and her intelligent commentary on musical and socio-political issues.
At one time MTV’s ambassador for South Africa, Asa, received the 2008 Prix Constantin award and the 2011 Victoires de la Musique nomination for Female Artist of the Year.
No mean feat for someone who crashed out of a talent hunt contest in her homeland a few years ago and was turned down by her local church choir.
Asa at Arts Alive, Johannesburg
“They said my voice was bad, too raspy, they just thought my voice was too low, they needed a high-pitched voice; they said I could play the tambourine,” she told FORBES AFRICA coyly.
Asa speaks the way she sings—poetically, poignantly, but to the point. I met her about 10 years ago. She was a shy, soft-spoken student struggling to find meaning, unsure of what the future held. So much has happened in a decade: the homegrown Asa (‘hawk’ in Yoruba) has transformed herself into a world-famous brand.
Singing in English, Yoruba and French, she has found her musical space as Nigeria’s most famous female singer with her unique blend of music which incorporates elements of soul, folk, reggae, funk, jazz, fuji and hip-hop.
In April, Asa took a break from her whirlwind schedule to “rest for a few days, think, write, practice in my studio and recuperate” after headlining the 2012 Africa Music Academy Awards in Lagos.
I caught up with her in her tastefully furnished Lagos home one warm Tuesday evening. Interviewing her was an interesting expedition into the mind of this no longer timid woman of soulful sounds. What follows is an edited transcript of that interview.
How would you describe your childhood?
I grew up in Festac Town and I am the only girl among three boys. Growing up was a lot of training—to become a woman, a mother, take care of the house—I took care of my three-month-old baby brother because my mum had to work. I’ve always loved music even though my father could not afford to buy us musical instruments—his priority was to send us all to school.
Was there music in the house?
Oh yes, my father had so many records. He studied cinematography, so whenever he was editing, he would use music. He had lots of records from American jazz and disco to the evergreen sounds of Ebenezer Obey, Fela Kuti, King Sunny Adé, Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Manu Dibango and Osibisa.
When did you know it would be music or nothing else for you?
I’ve always known. I was influenced by global pop culture on television. Michael Jackson was one of my early influences; so was Fela. My parents and their friends would gather in the evenings to discuss what Fela said; and Bob Marley—there was something mystical about him. I just thought to myself, ‘Hey, he looks like a leader and people are listening’.
Can you describe the transformation from dutiful daughter to musician?
One day, I think I must have been 18; I started to think about my life. I said to myself—I don’t want to do what everybody is doing; I don’t want to go to university and then marry because that was the training we had, I had spent most of my childhood training for that, you know, to become a wife.
I was old enough to go about alone, I was of age; I was just being kept in the house to clean, wash and become a wife. I couldn’t stand it anymore. It wasn’t my life, it wasn’t the future. That wasn’t what I’d dreamt about for myself.
I saw an advert on television saying: “Can you sing? Can you dance?” So I told myself that if I didn’t do this, I’d never forgive myself.
With a bit of help from my grandma, I found my way to this audition. I didn’t sing because I was very shy, I thought they were going to laugh and make fun of me as usual so I danced and I mimicked other people. That was easy for me because I had always danced. After that, people started coming up to me to ask me to dance for them, and I said, “No way, I’m not dancing for anybody. I am only going to dance for myself.”
Your career has been kind of rapid. I know it wasn’t always smooth.
Yes, I was at LASU (Lagos State University) studying Theater Arts. I was still unsure about going into music because my parents, especially my father, didn’t like the idea of me doing music full-time then. I think I understand his point of view—he was just being protective and concerned about many things. But I wanted to stay close to the music department, we shared the same faculty. So after two years of not doing anything—because we were not doing anything, there was no originality—there was too much politics, people were just showing off, and the lecturers, oh my God!
I actually met one of them yesterday. At varsity, he was terrible to me, and yesterday he came up to me and said, ‘Do you remember me?’ and I said, ‘Oh yes I do, you were my lecturer’ and he was remorseful and said to me, ‘You know, my only regret is that I didn’t see you through’.
Hmmm, he said that?
Yes. I mean, he pushed me away! He pushed me to my success. It was so frustrating, I couldn’t stand it anymore, I had to leave. And I had to find Peter King before I left. I didn’t just want to leave and do nothing. I knew I had to learn, I knew I needed to develop, I needed to learn music, so I went to Peter King’s School of Music. It was the perfect environment—tranquility, peace, away from the abuse of the city and class study.
How long did that last?
I stayed for six months. By then, my father had stopped paying my tuition fees; I needed to be on the road to start doing my thing, to start earning money… but that was good training for me.
So what happened after Peter King’s?
Well, during my time at Peter King’s, I met Yinka Davies and she was very helpful. Whenever she had concerts and had space for me, I would open for her. Gradually I started going out and became confident on stage.
You’ve had so many positive and unintended influences but who inspires you now professionally?
Angelique Kidjo. I’ve met her. I was with her in Bahrain last week. She’s just an amazing person. She’s like a mother. I always feel enriched when I meet her. Just sitting down listening to her, her experiences and what she’s been through, is so inspiring.
Right now, I listen to all kinds of music. When I want to write or record a song, I ask myself, ‘What would Fela do in these circumstances?’ or ‘What would Bob Marley do?’
How well is African music perceived internationally?
It’s a small place for African music out there. It comes bundled, under the ‘World Music’ category. I think the place where African music needs to be celebrated is in Africa.
So, what’s missing? Our musicians are celebrated more outside than on the continent. But then, we need to push these people out there. I mean, how much can the West do? They have their own baggage, their own problems. We need to develop our own economies so that we can support our own people.
The other problems limiting African music in Africa are mediocrity, logistics, planning and management. We need to work on these things. We need to encourage talent.
How do global audiences react to your music?
It’s amazing! It’s always surprising that they want us to play our stuff; they call us because they’ve heard the music. Everywhere we go we’ve been met with love, openness, it’s very flattering to see people who don’t even know what I’m singing in Yoruba, they’re not from where I come from, total strangers, it’s amazing.
I get emails from everywhere. I got one very touching one: on his deathbed, an Australian said he wanted one of my songs played at his funeral. His wife wrote me.
I was in South Africa as well and the reception was amazing.
When are you at your happiest?
Wow, that’s a hard one. I don’t know.
What are your fears?
I never want to stop doing what I love doing most, which is music.
Your music tends to be deeply entrenched in Yoruba folklore. Why do you sing in Yoruba?
Yoruba is a beautiful language.
How did you come to sing in Yoruba?
One of the mistakes my parents made was not to let us speak Yoruba at home. When I grew up, I thought it was fun at first, but then I was faced with reality—I had to go to the market, I had to bargain, and I was laughed at. I felt that a Frenchman would never leave his French! His children, of course, they had to speak French. So Yoruba was my identity. Who was I fooling? Who was I trying to satisfy?
I had to teach myself Yoruba. It wasn’t a strategy in the beginning, not even now. When I compose, it starts with the melody, the first chords that come out of me, and then the words, and if they’re Yoruba, I just go with it. If it comes out in English, it’s a different melody. I just go with the flow.