Original subtitles

All of the books here are related to Ethiopia,

as well as downstairs.

Look at this - this is the kind of cover.

That's super-rare stuff.

Again, by Amha Ashete.

They're all my favourites. For me, they are part of my eyes and memories.

I cherish them, I take incredible care of them.

I would never play them anymore. They're all digitised and I don't touch them.

The love of music has been in me since childhood.

Usually people buy clothing, shoes, you know -

things like that.

The first thing I bought was a record player

from an American guy who was leaving Ethiopia.

Yeah, that was Cole Porter, way back, though.

And that's how it all started.

Addis was a very flourishing city, just like a modern city.

It was very open.

We were able to buy Newsweek, and all kind of international papers.

We were able to know about musicians in others countries of the world,

who are the great musicians in Africa, in Europe and in America, as well.

You know when they play - wow - what kind of music is that?!

Then I try to catch up,

and anywhere I can find the drums I try to catch up with the rhythm they play.

The night-life was great.

People were going out, basically, 7 nights a week.

I had a part-time job at the American Mapping Mission

which gave me a chance to go to Kagnew Station.

In Kagnew Station they had an f.m. radio station.

They had the latest music, James Brown, Elvis Presley -

I was totally fascinated.

And I said to myself, if these things are released in the US

why aren't they available in Ethiopia?

I said, I have to do something,

I have to give something to these people.

My first order of LPs and 45s from the USA arrived.

Some people thought it was crazy.

But that very night I had the records coming,

maybe at around 4 o'clock in the afternoon, half the shelves were empty.

After a week the whole shelves was completely empty -

it was an empty store.

I was the first person who had a music shop -

there was no one else.

When the new music comes, you stand there,

you listen to all the new songs.

If you can't afford to buy, you stand there all day, you listen.

It was a lot of rock 'n' roll - basically, it was Elvis time.

He was so fast, he had a lot of collections,

he knows what the people wants.

In life, one thing always leads you to something else.

What I started asking myself was,

something that I'd never thought about before -

I'm selling Sudanese records, Italian records, American, of course, Indian -

but there is no Ethiopian music.

I said, what is going on here?

The Emperor was a very powerful person.

He was respected.

The security force was tough.

You could be put in jail and then be forgotten.

I found out that the Emperor had put a decree giving the right of publishing any record

to a patriotic association.

With that decree on hand,

most people were not willing to go along with me -

they were afraid.

All the musicians used to work for the government.

We were paid a small salary every month to compose music.

When they told you to perform, you had to perform.

We were treated like average workers, not like real artists.

Amha told me about an idea to make the first recording,

and he wanted me to play the music.

How come, how come I do it?

And Alemayehu said, you have to do it - this is our music -

and I know you can do it.

And he convinced me,

and, then...

I said, I will take a chance.

If this is my destiny, to go to jail -

let it be.

Amazingly, there were people interested in having a record.

And unofficially, they let us have a studio at the Ministry of Information.

Everyone pushing each other -

saxophone, trumpet, organ, drums, vocalist -

but, we made it.

I sent the tape to the company, a reel tape, a master-tape.

Then, another problem, another obstacle -

these things would come through customs, through the airport.

These are Ethiopian records written in Ethiopian,

and all those people know that you can't record Ethiopian music.

That was the final cut-off point where they could say,

oh, this is illegal, you can't bring Ethiopian music.

But amazingly, the only thing they asked me is,

if I can give them a copy.

They could've stopped everything,

they could've just burnt the whole thing and put us to jail.

The whole place, the Piazza, was jammed with people!

And people were dancing on the street, and the street was basically blocked.

This is a miracle!

It was -

it was a hit.

It was the first modern Ethiopian record.

It was rejoiced.

People were saying, these people are having the time of their life.

Alemayehu is more popular than ever,

Girma is doing well - he's wearing nice shirts, he's driving a nice car.

For about one year I was rich, though.

I was rich, though.

Amha started to work non-stop

and to produce other musicians.

From 1969 to 1975 I was able to produce about 102 singles

and about 12 or 14 LPs.

Life was great - that is how I remember it.

The Emperor was getting old.

There was tension and fear - unhappiness.

I was happy that there was going to be change.

I never thought, or I never knew

what kind of change there was going to come.

We never thought there would be total civil war.

When they said, the land goes to the farmer - was fine.

When they had the property, and stuff like that was taken -

- that was fine.

When they imprisoned the Prime Minister, and stuff -

it was okay.

The minute they killed the 60 government officials

and buried them in one big hole -

- that was when I said, this is not going to be a good change.

We could only sing about the Revolution.

That totally ruined the night-life.

The final years of my record-pressing was done in Athens.

They gave me an exit visa, I went to Athens.

Then, my family sent me a telegram saying,

don't come back.

My father was put in jail,

the vocalist was put in jail.

The worst thing, they put the guy who was behind the mixer -

he was just trying to adjust the sound - he was also put in jail.

It was a week. It was 2 weeks. 3 weeks.

Than finally I said, I can't stay here, because I was not determined to stay -

I had only a limited amount of money.

So, I went to London - my sister was there.

I stayed there another month. Nothing happened, it was getting worse.

Then, eventually, I went to the States.

The government took all the shops that I had and sold them out.

I lost everything.

So, that is the end of my era in the Ethiopian music business.

I was part of a non-profit organisation in the mid-80s -

in Poitiers, France -

a pretty small city, like 100,000 people.

There was more fun in Poitiers than in Paris.

We were partying all the time, listening to great music,

meeting great musicians.

What else?

And we were in love, Francis and I.

We were very much into experimental stuff -

noise, rock from New York.

We wouldn't mind inviting artists who are famous -

money-making, or not.

We would just invite artists we loved.

They invited Sonic Youth for the first time in France.

And we were crazy about that -

that we liked that enormously.

One day we had a party among us,

and a friend of us brought an LP.

We sort of thought that we were music experts, a little bit.

We'd been listening to a lot of stuff - all kinds of things, really -

and that was absolutely different.

I think this, yes, this is the very first.

By the start it's great.

Whoa! This is fantastic!

The groove is terrible -

terrible, in the sense - gorgeous.

Okay - we never heard that before.

We made cassettes out of this LP, which we sent to friends of ours -

journalists, music reviewers.

And by the following days all of them had called us back saying,

what's that, where did you get that from?

For the first time in the story of this radio,

the audience started to telephone just to ask,

what was this title we listened 2 minutes ago, or, 10 minutes ago?

From then we had confirmation that it was unknown.

Immediately, we decided to bring Mahmoud Ahmed in.

This is an old recording and they put synthesizer, blah-blah, on it -

it's crap, I'm sorry.

The originals are great, but...

I had never been to Africa.

I knew a lot about various African music,

but nothing about Ethiopian music.

And then I landed in Addis Ababa.

Ethiopians, they don't like strangers that much.

What is it this white guy wants from us?

A big lesson started for me.

Body checks, everywhere you go.

You go to the post office - body check,

to a hotel - body check.

You could not take a walk with a photo-camera,

with a walkman, or a recorder -

you'd be suspected immediately - big problem.

The best place to talk to people was in a car,

and just driving in the city.

We were sure no police ear would be after us,

and listen to what we are doing.

I felt I was in a Stalin paradise.

During this week I've been tracing Mahmoud Ahmed.

Francis heard my music and decided to come to Ethiopia.

I told him, look I'm French, I'm coming from France

especially to invite you.

I would be very pleased to invite you to perform in France -

which was something absolutely unexpected for him.

I was very happy because, as you know,

there were a lot of good Ethiopian singers,

and I was very proud that Francis came

and asked for me personally.

He knew much better than me that it would be hell

for the administrative-political process.

They had a national sport then which was

how to leave this country.

There was a lot of ups and downs -

one day yes, the next day no.

We went in every official offices, the Ministry of Culture.

We went even into the barracks to meet the Head of Culture of the Communist Party.

If it was up to me -

of course I wanted to go.

When I left Ethiopia, I thought maybe it would happen, maybe not.

And, as a matter of fact, very quickly, I understood,

when I am back in France that this would not happen.

Of course, the recording is rotten - it's too bad, but...

for me it's proto-punk.

This is '70 or '69,

because this song was published in December '69, I think, or '70

by Led Zep.

You can write a paper about Mozart or Elvis Presley.

Everybody understands what you are talking about

because they can refer -

they know about Elvis, or Bach, or Mozart, or whatever.

But, if you write about Ethiopian music, how can you describe it?

So, for me it was obvious -

you had to make the music itself available.

He was obsessed with Ethiopia and Ethiopian stuff.

We, sort of, separated,

probably we were tired of each other,

and I was certainly tired of the Ethiopian obsession.

Fortunately, I came back with a lot of documentation

- the posters, the programmes.

I didn't know if this one was big that one was small.

I bought each and every vinyl I could buy.

Suddenly, I had a lot of recordings that nobody had.

Through this I understood they had one label

releasing modern music on vinyl -

it was Amha Records.

And the owner of this label, Amha Eshete,

I understood was in exile in America.

By '86 I flew to Washington D.C.

We met at Washington D.C. Airport.

When I think about that later on, it was a strange place to meet.

He asked me about the music I had made when I was in Ethiopia,

and he said he would like to re-release them.

He was half amazed, half I-can't-believe-what's-going-on -

it was a big surprise.

I said, I'm in exile, I'm here -

most of the artists I recorded are back in Ethiopia.

And, I said if I rerelease this music, and I am here,

these people would have a bad name for me.

I don't know where some of them are.

I don't know whether they are alive, or, whatever.

So, I said, if God's willing, if I ever go back to Ethiopia,

we will then talk about it.

I understood that I could do nothing until the fall of this regime.

I was not far from the music, as such.

I had the first, full-scale Ethiopian restaurant.

He had 2 or 3 different night-clubs, as far as I understood.

The last one he had was huge, on 3 or 4 floors.

I told you he was successful.

I was the first person who broke the barrier

of a full band cross the Atlantic,

from a socialist country like Ethiopia

to the United States.

How can you expect to bring to America, from Ethiopia,

under the Derg regime,

a 10-piece band?

This is crazy.

Amha sent me the contract,

and then the Derg said, no -

you cannot go to America.

I said, why -

this is not a political group, these are musicians.

The Derg were adamant that a band from a socialist country

will not go to an imperialist state like the United States.

It took me, literally, 2 years to work it out.

And then they said, yes.

When the Derg said, yes, nobody should hear about it.

You have to go secretly, and nobody should hear,

and nobody should accompany to the airport.

We just go...

okay.

Than we went straight to the airport.

We were scared, even on the plane,

until it passes the Ethiopian border.

Then, once we passed the border we said, oh, now we are free.

I was so thrilled, though.

Oh, yeah, that was a great time.

This is a place where we can do what we want to do.

I like the newspapers - I like everything.

It finally happened.

This is something I am really proud of myself.

Our first show was in Warner Theatre.

It's one of the most popular music halls in the United States.

It was not successful.

I told the band, don't worry about the small audience -

let's just imagine that one person is a hundred -

and the hundreds are like thousands.

Let's give all we've got today.

The audience will spread the word,

and the next show will be packed.

People literally, literally cried,

because there was no live Ethiopian music at all -

completely at all. Nothing.

Some of them were crying, some of them were laughing, some couldn't believe their eyes.

They wanted to touch us, to feel us.

And then a week later,

many of those people couldn't get into the next concert -

it was sold out.

For one year we travelled the United States.

We went from state to state.

That time no flight, we were driving.

That was a big mistake for the band.

We were not doing good economically.

Amha was very tied up, he had a restaurant, and things like that.

I was inexperienced about a band working in different places.

There was political connotations,

they thought, how can Amha be able to bring this band

unless he had some backing from the government.

Some people said, these are pro-Derg, don't go to their shows.

We're not pro-Derg, we're not Derg, we are just private.

Everybody just got mad, because there is no money.

Some of us wanted to go, some of us wanted to stay there.

It was not a group thing, it was individual, I can say.

The main reason I wanted to go back

was my family, my kids -

that's why I wanted to go back.

We gave them everything that we owned.

We didn't come for this, we had that at home -

we came for a different thing.

So, Girma's idea, I don't want to take anything,

no instruments, no money.

Okay, we said. Me and Girma, we stayed.

That's how the Walias ended -

it ended in America.

When it comes to America, it's really hard to play music - very hard.

To be a professional musician is really, really hard.

You have to play part-time and do some other jobs.

Some became taxi drivers, some worked in parking places.

They got to do what they got to do to live their lives.

Girma Beyene played in the clubs for a few years,

but then he just stopped.

And I still don't know why.

Your eyes are fascinating, your hips, your legs.

Wow! Your heels are lemons and your cheeks are oranges.

Your hair is that of Absalom. Your breasts are like mandarins.

People who see you, fall down dead.

She was a beautiful lady.

He loved her and we heard his songs about her,

so that's why he got hurt when she got sick.

In 1984 my girl died.

I lost my soul-mate, my girlfriend.

I don't know what to say, but...

then things completely changed.

That's the reason I quit, though.

From fantasy to reality.

The first time I saw him, I met him -

I had asked around,

and people said,

yeah, he's here somewhere.

But, nobody would tell me where.

And then one friend of mine, he said, you know what,

he works at this gas station

on this street, crossing this street,

- you'll find him there.

I was refuelling my car, and went to pay,

and there was Girma Beyene -

I just couldn't believe my eyes - It was like, wow!

There was a change of government,

I came back to Ethiopia.

The main reason why I came back

from the United States after 19 years

was that memory was with me.

The friendship we had, the love we had with friends.

But when I came back it was a different story.

The socialism had changed the way people lived.

I had forgotten completely about my initial work with music -

it was my past life.

And when Francis came to Ethiopia I was surprised.

After a couple of meetings, we sort of agreed that now I'm here -

I'll keep my word,

and we can do it.

By '96 or '97 when we retrieved most of the masters of Amha Records,

I was empowered to pick up the masters.

My goodness...

Nicest day in my life.

We started from there.

By October '97, I released the very first Ethiopiques CD.

He's been working on that, for like, 20 years.

It's been a lot of work, really. And a lot of...

obstination.

I had no idea at all

how it would be received by the audience on one hand,

and music critics on the other hand.

I was in an Ethiopian restaurant

and they were playing this incredible music,

and I asked the owner who it was?

It was in a cab, a taxi in Washington

and I said, what is this, what is this?

There was James Brown in there, there was like this heavy, driving funk beats.

I was just blown away by how beautiful the music was.

And it just turned me on completely.

It was praised as one of the best releases of '97 / '98.

I told a friend of mine about them yesterday,

who didn't know about them - just yesterday -

and I said, you're gonna thank me when you hear these records,

and then you're gonna curse me -

'cos, you're gonna want all 32 volumes,

'cos every one is a different story.

This music was completely lost.

If Ethiopiques was not started by Francis - forget it -

Ethiopian music would have been doomed.

We became very famous in Europe, in Italy, in France.

We've been all over the world.

Francis introduced us to Europe,

gave us popularity and fame.

He's like a father, he's a brother, he is a friend.

I don't think anybody has done as much as Francis has done

to promote Ethiopian music.

That's the way.

I just brought the light to the top of the iceberg.

It's a musical goldmine.

Ethiopian music is a kind of missing link in the history of all the musics from Africa.

I'm glad that missing link is not missing any more.

Girma is the kind of person - you have to manage him -

like a baby.

He's not a hustler.

Other musicians, they hassle, they call, guys, let's get together -

Girma is not like that.

Girma has a very unique character.

I don't know how he got into music.

Do you see, sir? This is him.

Imagine you have been super-famous in your country,

but after it was an endless fall.

I am trying to, you know,

to make a come-back -

it's not that easy, but I'll do my best.

I'm the one who's nagging him every time, please Girma, come back.

He tells me, I have to go back to music -

please, please, he was telling me.

I can play better now.

But nobody believes you, though -

that is the problem, though.

No, I'm not really comfortable.

I think he has it in him now.

I think he has so much in his body - stuffed -

music that he wants to put out to the world.

Francis wrote me a letter.

He was talking about Ethiopian music.

And the letter was about the music revival, the Ethiopian music.

I read the thing and then I said,

what is he talking about?

How you doing?

- Ça va? - Ça va bien.

How you doing?

It's completely different, a different arrangement, though.

- I don't even know what it is. - Yeah, brand new.

I didn't know what it is.

Yebeqagnal.

- For real? - Yes, it's your song.

But different, though.

So, we're going record, right?

We'll rehearse a bit and then record.

-That's 'D', right? -Yes.

Love is a many splendored thing.

Love makes you brave.

I'm kind of scared, but, when it comes to her -

I have to obey.

No problem, though.

But no-one would touch her, though -

I swear, no-one.

I'll go first.

And, we did it.

We survived.